#i myself have never drawn them together which is a shame

[insecateur]

I love the implication lysandre and lusamine are besties. I also love that rose is besties with fucking maxie and Lysandre.

lusamine n lysandre should be besties she could forcibly fix him i think. also lysandre & rose is so underrated people are too afraid to let a french man and an english man work together

[pan-annigans]

Jay x Nya: best ship!!!

Zane x Pixal: they are soulmates and no one can say otherwise.

Kai x Skylor: the two of them balance each other well, plus seeing Kai get all lovey-dovey around Skylor is just cute.

Lloyd x Akita: Akita likes Lloyd for himself and isn’t interested in his status as the Green Ninja, she just might be the one person he could be with without having to worry about keeping up appearances.

Cole x Vania: they’re just great together (as lovers or as friends), their dynamic is sweet and both admire and encourage each other with just simple honest words.

hi!! thank you so much!

I'm going to post art for all of these, along with a few of my thoughts on the ships that have been sent to me. Just for funsies :)

Fun fact, I used to hate Jaya. I thought it was really forced in the canon, and Jay's really obsessive behavior that is the catalyst for all of the events in Skybound always really bothered me? But tumblr has completely turned me around on this ship. They have their moments in canon, but in fanon they're really wonderful. thanks tumblr <3

these two...... 🥺they are really good i will admit. I'm a big fan of glaciershipping myself and I tend to prefer it over pixane, but these two are so lovely to each other and i totally see the appeal. I just wish pixal wasn't so sidelined in the canon fr what were they doing with her character??? let her be around more often let her and zane be sweet together. please smh

SKYLOR ALSO HAS NOTHING TO DO MOST OF THE TIME-- honestly this show sidelines like all of its female characters so hard. but these two are great toooo theyre sweeeet 😊 i just wish skylor was used for more than cameos. i like that she's the only one that can consistently shake kai's ego it's a great dynamic

lloyd and akita!! i'm gonna be so real with you guys i forget about akita so often ;v; which is a shame... i give her the award for most sidelined female character because she existed for half a season. but she and lloyd are sweet! I don't tend to ship lloyd with anyone personally, but i do love that they meet under the circumstances of "lloyd is in a world where his name and status mean nothing so he has no pressure to perform". it's a fantastic break for him. holy shit he deserves it

im gonna be so honest with all of you um. i actually. havent seen MotM yet. i was in the middle of my rewatch, and i got up to the point i stopped, right before MotM, and then Netflix changed their watch policies. and then of course i got busy

but from what i've seen of these two in fanon they seem alright! I usually prefer them in other wlw or mlm ships because of ONE ninjago vine compliation thing i saw with the two of them as this one tiktok and i've never been able to think of them as a couple since then. But they seem like they have a lovely friendship, whether that ends up turning to romance or not!

Thank you so much for sending me an ask, this was a lot of fun and I got to draw a lot of characters that I've never drawn before! To those of you who have sent me asks and reblogs and comments on the original post, I will be working through all of them in chronological order from when I received them in my activity tab :)

[taradactyls]

You absolutely don’t have to do this, but I would love to know what the carriage ride was like on the way home after that dance <3

Oh I can write a little bit of fluff and pining!

Here's what happens after the dance scene in chapter sixteen...

~~~~~

It was a struggle for Mr Darcy to bother with civilities to anyone else for the rest of the evening. He kept finding excuses to touch Elizabeth, attempting to recover that spark when their hands pressed together as they twirled on the dance floor. Elizabeth had begun to show her tiredness, yet when he leant in to whisper in her ear “Should I summon the carriage?” She protested that she could wait a little longer.

He attended to whatever conversation his wife engaged in, loathe to leave her side. Elizabeth had always stunned him with her ease in socialising. There was no awkwardness in her manner, or struggle to know what to say. Even the most tedious of topics and… boisterous… of people gave her joy in their ridiculousness. Normally, he would retreat from such conversations entirely, for his tolerance was not as high as hers. But tonight, Mr Darcy was held in place by Elizabeth’s arch smile and quick dart of her eyes towards him whenever she needed to share her amusement at the folly of others.

His wife laughed so freely, how had he once not done justice to her beauty? She was the most radiant woman he had ever met. He was transfixed by the curve of her neck, and the way she arched her brow as she whispered some witty thing to her sister which earnt a smile from Miss Bennet. Then she returned her gaze to him and took his arm. “My mother begins to again complain of Charlotte becoming mistress of Longbourn one day; which seems as good a sign as any we should retire for the night.”

Moving her hand to the crook of his arm and covering it with his own, he said “I should think that the first sign was your yawning. And the second your proclamation of tiredness.”

She laughed again. “You are right, of course,” she smiled. “But have we not enjoyed ourselves tonight, Mr Darcy?”

The gentleman had never enjoyed a dance more, and he could not stop himself returning Elizabeth’s smile. She was so full of happiness. How he loved her. How he wished she had married him for affection and not necessity.

They gave their leave and departed Lucas Lodge. Mr Darcy handed his wife up into the curricle before joining her and taking the reins and urging the horses forward.

“I think it is safe to say we cannot continue any lessons in carriage direction, tonight,” Elizabeth said, surveying the moonless sky. “The landscape is far too obscured by darkness for me to attempt it. I shall leave it to the expert among us.”

“The roads are good, so there is no need to fear danger. I shall keep the horses at a moderate pace. Regardless,” Mr Darcy said, glancing at her, “At present, even were the moon full, I should judge you too tired to function at the best of your abilities.”

“That is true,” Elizabeth said, punctuated by a yawn. “I may have overexerted myself – but did we not enjoy ourselves tonight, Mr Darcy?” Her gentle smile up at him made colour rise to his cheeks, but the night protected him from it being noticed.

 “We did,” he whispered, thinking of how they had drawn together and spun apart during the dance.

It appeared she was doing the same. “I shall have to force you to the floor more often.” Before he could reply that force was unnecessary, Elizabeth laughed. “I think Sir William will support my endeavours, he seemed to enjoy it just as much��� That gentleman had naturally felt the urge to compliment them, after the music ended, and Elizabeth now launched into an imitation of him. “Capital dancing!” She said in a deep voice which had Mr Darcy smiling. “Some of the finest dancing I have ever seen! By my reckoning it would not put even St James’s to shame.”

“The highest compliment Sir William knows to give,” Mr Darcy replied. Despite enjoying absolute privacy in the dark countryside, he still leant in close to whisper “Do you think he mentioned the Court often enough?”

Elizabeth laughed, turning to him fully, their faces very close. “Oh, not at all,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Why, by only mentioning St James’s thrice we are in great danger of misunderstanding which place he speaks of!”

Her smile and sparkling eyes were ample reward for his boldness in drawing so close to her unnecessarily. She seemed in no hurry to distance herself, either. As another yawn overtook Elizabeth she dropped her head to Mr Darcy’s shoulder, content to rest it there.

He felt it could not be comfortable – with the bouncing of the carriage – but if Elizabeth was not complaining than he would not move. The overwhelming emotion in his breast declared that he would be happy to never move again, if that was what it took for her to remain there forever. His agitation was his alone; when he slowed the carriage before Netherfield Elizabeth did not stir, and he gently roused her into wakefulness.

She blinked at him, slightly frowning, and he waited until she gained her bearings before helping her from the carriage. Mr Darcy maintained hold of her hand, looping it through his arm as the ascended the steps of Netherfield. They spoke little before he bid her goodnight before her bedroom – which he had promised never to enter – and left her with the waiting maid.

It took Mr Darcy an uncharacteristically long time to fall asleep as his thoughts dwelt on Elizabeth’s allure and joy as they danced, and the pleasant weight of her head upon his shoulder. He missed the warmth of her resting against him.

[glareandgrowl]

you know what?! NO! I WON'T just stop there!

This has really frustrated me as a creator who puts pride and effort into the characters I create. I'm giving myself until the end of this 30 min playlist to put my thoughts together so forgive the mess it will inevitably cause.

I have seen the take many a times about Dangan games and it's characters that fans and enjoyers are upset their special guy didn't get the screentime they deserved due to whatever reason; It's understandable really. You see a character that has such potential in your eyes its a shame its all wasted away. But I have seen the idea thrown around that the lack of care for a majority of characters' deaths and roles in the story is based on the sheer number of bodies and stories to tell. With so many characters there would never be enough room to allow all of them to flourish before they die! That's just the curse of these types of stories.

I am here to tell you that is BULLSHIT! It's bullshit and I refuse to believe it!

I, for the longest time, have hated the writing of the dangan games. It has always seemed sloppy, rushed, and far too drawn out for its own good. And no, that's not because the trials can be a little funky and rough around the edges when it comes to details. Though, that does coorelate to the negativity I have towards them as a whole. No.

I full-heartedly believe what is to blame is the free-time events. In Dangan 1, it was a fun gimick. Theres a large cast of characters, it only makes sense that a select few would stick out to the player as an interesting one, with a desire to learn more about them.

Shoddy writing of THH aside, I do feel it was a bit of a bandaid on the issue of a too-large cast. If there were optional ways to spend more time with certain characters, they didn't need to spend all that valuable plot time giving them exposition and relevance! The players can find the relevance on their own!

Except... Instead of using the plot time they saved for making a better, more cohesive story, all they did was fill it with dead air, bloated trials and a clear favoritism for the few remaining survivors. (IE in THH Byakuya, Kyoko, Makoto (obv hes the mc I can't complain there.)) Instead of focusing on the group as a whole, its dynamics amongst the survivors at the time, the plot instead magnets to favorites in an attempt to make you like them more.

I know its been mentioned a million times, but the game makes it incredibly hard at times to imagine these characters as once being friends.

(I will say from what I have seen of the next two games they do remedy this at least a little bit, with the group dynamic at least being tolerable to borderline good in v3 (yes before you come for me goodbye despair was good too.))(it also does seem, imo, to be a problem specifically with THH, as the next two DO do a better job at characterization, aside from the rogue one or two "mystery" characters that are put WAY too much emphasis on. (cough cough Kokichi, Rantaro, Kyoko, Byakuya to an extent) Most of whom I don't really care for due to that specific emphasis put on them. Not that their characters are bad, the games just reaaaallly want the player to care about these guys. Which makes me not want to.

Back to individuality.

The argument of a too-large cast as the reasoning for characters being left behind in terms of narrative importance, i feel, would be easily remedied by removing free time events entirely. No more backstory exposition dumps and underwear gifts for friendship points. No more mono-mono machine. If the writers were instead FORCED to give each character their time in the limelight, if they were forced to actually give a shit about each individual personification as much as those freetime events lead you to believe, then the plot would grow to accommodate.

Half the shit in the trails is unnecessary. Half the shit in the plot is unnecessary. Half of it is pandering, or shipping bait or funny haha jokes! We're so quirky!

The plot needs to care about your characters as much as the writers do. Which should be as much as your audience does. And if it doesn't. if the plot only cares about giving the audience a reaction, or if it only cares about its surface level motivations and schemes, then all you're going to get is surface level, unmotivated, wasted potential characters.

Now. I've ragged on about dangan for a bit. Does that mean I hate the games, the stories and the characters? Hell no. Of course not. If I did, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't spend my time making fanart and writing fanfiction. I like the games. They're interesting, funny at times. The writing has its moments of sincerity. It's made me cry once or twice. I LOVE the ending to goodbye despair. I think its the best in the series by far.

I guess what I mean to say in the ending of all this, the TLDR if you will, is that the dangan games COULD have made the characters work. It could have made you believe each one was special and important to the story. If it cared enough to. It's no excuse, though.

(Also yes this is about Taka and how he was robbed. You could say the same about a fair few characters. I just spend hours a day thinking about his character anways so this is it's natural conclusion.

[inkykeiji]

What is your Alastor’s goal? Like if the reader became so broken by him would he throw them out? Is he hoping for a balance of obedience as well as disobedience? We all know he gets bored very quickly so I’m wondering what’s your thoughts on this? Where is that fine line between entertaining to boring?

ah okay so!!! beware, i kinda rambled on beneath the read more ahahaha (*ﾉωﾉ)ᵉᵉᵏ

well if i’m going to be completely honest with you, he doesn’t necessarily have an overarching ‘goal’ since i’ve only been writing little fragments of their lives together/their relationship. he has a goal in each piece, obv, and they’re all very simple of course, because more than anything i write for myself and to explore a character i really love in silly lil scenarios my mind creates ehehe. but if i had to give him a larger goal that encompasses all of the fragments, it would be companionship.

as i mentioned in this ask, he’s drawn to reader because of her extreme devotion to him without the need of a contract; how she’s willing to do anything for him, to quite literally be his obedient little pet and always stares up at him with stars of worship in her eyes, all on her own. it’s pure, it’s real, and he loves that. but just because she is unwaveringly subservient, doesn’t mean she is incompetent or unable to do things on her own + be independent. she won’t cling to him unless he wants it.

he does give her tasks to do and hobbies to take up (certain books to read, certain activities to do etc.) because his pet needs to be well-read + intelligent and all of that. she has her own errands + duties to attend to as well, so she’s more than a mindless little doll (because you’re right, he would get bored of that SO fast); it’s more just that she has to be (and is) willing to drop everything for alastor the moment he wants her to—and he is absolutely drunk off of the potent power this grants him. there are an infinite amount of scenarios he can throw her into in order to play with this extreme level of ownership and control, which means he can always find a way to keep things interesting, fresh, and fun.

i write alastor as an extreme sadist and as someone who is only aroused and able to get off on serious sadism, right? her pain (physical, mental, emotional; any kind) is what ‘turns him on’. additionally, we know that alastor is extremely shady and manipulative, and has a bit of a sick, twisted ‘playful’ side to him—with means he isn’t above playing dirty, provoking reader into misbehaving or tricking her into breaking a rule, solely so he has an excuse to punish her or otherwise hurt her. he doesn’t need an excuse, obviously, he knows she’ll ultimately let him do whatever the fuck he wants to her, but it’s more fun when she unintentionally breaks a rule, because there’s an extra layer of psychological pain there; shame and guilt for disobeying her master.

he knows she loves it too, though; she loves playing that foul little game just as much as he does, and she isn’t entirely meek either; she will speak back to him on occasion, will beg him to stop or let some snarky little remark slip (she almost does this in the piece about alastor dressing you in white) or shove at him etc, but it’s really just this messed up little cat-and-mouse routine that comes with the 100% guarantee that she’ll never escape or leave him, no matter what he puts her through or how much she pretends to push back. i mean, she’d have to have some sort of streak of vile wickedness running through her blood to be as insanely attracted to him as she is.

so, really, that’s where the line between obedience and disobedience is drawn; she may be playfully bratty back, but never to the point of actual disrespect, and never for real. she might whine a bit about him intentionally tricking her into breaking rules etc, but she’ll also play up that aspect of guilt etc because she knows he gets off on it, and she gets off on serving + pleasing him.

wHEW okay, hopefully this answers ur questions!!! thanks for taking an interest in my iteration of alastor, that’s really cool and it makes me feel so aaaah happy n warm hehehe <33

[the-dog-watch]

Whimsical, chancy, female, lunar: yaoi and yuri in the Aubrey/Maturin series

the inherent yuri of the sea and the inherent yaoi of the sailor is the most ancient queer solidarity

- twitter user caranthirs. I would link to the tweet, but their account appears to be suspended (RIP)

This essay was born from a discussion prompt asking about the relationship between yaoi and reality. In answering I was reminded of the above tweet. Tongue in cheek as it no doubt is, it’s always really resonated with me and my own personal experience with yaoi, yuri, and queerness, such as it is.

First of all, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that there’s something kind of fruity about the ocean. A great deal of boat media, which is a term that I’m using to encompass everything from Moby Dick to One Piece, from Muppet Treasure Island to the Titan submersible implosion incident of 2023, is intimately concerned with this. One thing I’ve always been intrigued by with boat media is the inherent constraint, the inherent loss of control; even in our modern day, the ocean is an unpredictable element, and to this day it has depths that are literally unfathomable to science. There’s a certain powerlessness one has to give oneself over to to board a boat, and of course there’s timeless romance, endless stories and art and music associated with the sea.

I’ve been to the ocean maybe four times in my whole life, and I’ve always lived in an area of the United States that’s about as inland as it’s possible to be on the planet Earth, but I’ve long been fascinated with boat media, though I was not always conscious why I was drawn to it. When I was growing up I had a persistent autoimmune disorder that destroyed the vision in my right eye and from a very young age I was forced to sit still for various eye exams, procedures, surgeries. Because I was so young when all this started, I never exactly rebelled against it; if I was a fish, then this near-constant constraint placed on me was the water that I swam in. I was a kid who lived in my head a lot, and my head was filled with fantasies of escape. I used to make up stories and tell them to myself before bed, a kind of self-soothing ritual that saw me off to sleep. In more difficult times in my life, especially as an adolescent, this quite literally got me through the day; I would look forward to my little bedtime story, and sometimes not.

The stories differ greatly, but the one thing they’ve all had in common is they’re always about at least two characters who are trapped together, undergoing some kind of external trauma or abuse or privation, and together are trying to escape, but they never succeed. The reason for that is that the stories have no ending, by design; the “end” comes when I fall asleep. Sometimes there are self-inserts, but usually they’re about other characters, usually male characters. For a long time I didn’t exactly understand or think much about why I identified so strongly with these stories, which were sometimes original and sometimes elaborate works of fanfiction, sometimes erotic and sometimes not.

I was something of a late in life yaoi adopter; I was immersed in Western media fandom spaces and I viewed a lot of slash fandom initially with contempt, but based on what I’ve described above it’s maybe not greatly surprising that I became a big yaoi fan when I was around 19 or 20. I found it both enticing and alienating at once; I was a cis girl but I felt like I was a failure as a woman, and reading about or trying to identify with women didn’t always do it for me. There was something about viewing male as the default that was attractive; I remember as a kid, pre-internet, I would consciously look for books about male protagonists, though as an avowed feminist I felt obscurely ashamed of this.

Shame was an essential component of all of this, by the way. Both eroticized shame and the more down to earth, un-fun kind. There was always the question in the back of my mind: did I wish I was the man, or did I desire the man? There were similar questions about my attraction to women, which were even more disquieting in what they did or did not say about me: did I desire a beautiful woman, or did I want to be a beautiful woman? Shame was inextricable, and constant; shame about my nascent queerness, shame over how poorly I performed my own gender, and shame about being into all this yaoi shit in the first place. I had internet friends by this time, but I didn’t tell any of my real life friends about my online activities. I had an absolute horror of being seen as the type of straight girl (or bi girl, as I identified at the time) who fetishizes real life queer men.

Currently, I’m in the middle of reading Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin series. I fucking love it, and something about it has helped me square some of the circles involved here; discussing these books, with other fans online and with unwilling victims loving friends and family members has led me to reflect on some of the above in ways I never have before. It feels freeing in a way I never even knew I was constrained. To bring it back to the quote from the beginning, and also add a passage from the eighth novel in O’Brian’s series:

“‘With the wind as it lies, I believe we may look for them the day after tomorrow,’ said Jack. ‘But tell me, Professor, is not this a most prodigious wearisome ride you are undertaking?[...]’

'No doubt,’ said Graham, ‘but the sea is an uncertain chancy whimsical female lunar element: you advance one mile upon its surface and at the same time the whole body of water has retired a league. I prefer the honest earth, where my advance is absolute, however arduous…” - The Ionian Mission, ch.11, paragraph 50

This character, a haughty diplomat our protagonists are forced to deal with while battling it out with the French in a Grecian port, is not very important in and of himself. Unlike the two principals of the Aubrey/Maturin series, he is no seaman and has no affinity for shipboard life, and his uneasiness while onboard the ship is tinged with a misogynist mistrust of the Mediterranean itself. I prefer to take a horse, like a man, he seems to say, but you and Maturin, feel free to stay here in your gay little boat. 

(Sidenote/fun fact about Jack Aubrey: he has pretensions of being a horseman whenever he’s on land for any length of time, but he is in fact really bad with them and while riding is frequently unseated nearly but not quite as often as Stephen falls out of the fucking boat.)

That is one and this is another of the many, many ways Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin get kinda fruity with it; our two main characters are differentiated from landsmen (lubbers!) in this way throughout the series. The sea is dangerous, of course; Jack and Stephen, who face naval battles, sickness and disease, shipwrecks, storms, and volcanic eruptions on their voyages throughout the series, know this better than anyone.  As different as Jack and Stephen are, as different as two men can possibly be, what unites them is a niggling, persistent discomfort with life on land and this, coupled with their very great affection for each other, is why they choose to sail with each other over and over again. Though they came to it by different means, each of them finds that their true homes are on the sea, and with each other. 

The essential yaoi of the seaman, the essential chancy, lunar, yuri element of the sea…. There’s something about it that makes me smile. Yeah…the ocean. She’s a little gay with it. Who isn’t?

[demon-of-the-ancient-world]

There is Thunder in our Hearts (part 4)

Read on AO3

@levithestripper @grantairescurls @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics @eriexplosion @starrose17

Lagertha finds him.

Again, he hears her before he sees her. He would know her sounds anywhere.

"What are you doing?" she asks him, without coming into his line of sight.

"I," he says, "am making a handle. For a knife. For one of my boys."

"Which boy?"

He doesn't answer, only continues whittling away at the chunk of beechwood. It's the shape of a wolf's head, a strong shape. Each flick of the knife calms him. Somewhat.

"Ragnar." She's quiet now. Not angry.

His grip on the half-made handle tightens. "I am still listening."

Now she gets closer to him. When he looks up at her there are pinched lines of worry around her mouth, tired grey streaks around her eyes.

"Bjorn has returned," she says quietly. "Our son. He is unhurt."

Her words chip away at something in him, a gentler version of the knife he's using now. He lays the the project down, hands trembling. Bjorn. His eldest son. "And Floki?"

"Alive, too."

His oldest friend. His oldest son. Ragner is hit with a wave of almost giddy triumph. He's won. Again. "Did they say how it went with the Gotlanders?"

"They have agreed, for the time being, to side with us. With you."

"Good."

He keeps whittling. She doesn't need to say anything else. If he keeps his eyes locked away from her for long enough, she won't.

"The peace is a fragile one."

He shrugs.

"Ragnar," she says, softly. He keeps whittling. "Ragnar."

"What."

He hears her soft footsteps behind him, and then a hand brushes his shoulder, tightening there. "I will say it once: Athelstan may still die. I know it, you know it. Go to him. Speak to him."

Ragnar keeps whittling.

"He has asked for you. Many times."

"I can't."

His fingers grip the knife handle, hard enough that its surface digs into his skin. "I cannot face him, Lagertha. Why can no one understand that?"

She sits before him, pale brows drawn together in a frown. "You blame yourself. That does not mean he will blame you. You know how he is."

"I never said I blamed myself."

"Clearly you blame someone. And I don't think it's him."

She doesn't understand. Does she think he wants to see him, near death as he is?

"Go to him. You are being unreasonable - "

"I cannot stand the proof."

The truth explodes out of him like a sparking birch log. It sears his throat, it shames him.

Lagertha takes his hand in her own, roughened from gripping axe-hilts, from carding and spinning and weaving. Athelstan's hands are like that now, too. They weren't always. "Proof of what? Say it."

He can't look at her. His hand lifts, covers his face, and the other squeezes tight. The knife falls somewhere on the floor.

When he speaks it's hardly above a whisper. "That the gods can twist my fate too. That they can twist the fate of those I have claimed. That I am not my own god. I rule these people. I do not rule myself."

She is silent for a long time. The awful, raw thing he's just spat out lies thick between them, like a mass of blood and flesh.

"Well," she says, "I could have told you that."

He snorts out a a bitter laugh. The mass thins, slightly. "I am a man. I am not a god. And neither can I do battle with gods. There are times I forget that. I hate to admit I forget it."

But it doesn't seem to matter much now. There are other things that matter more than his pride. Even that, he cringes to admit - even to himself.

"Then you must - "

"I can't. Do not tell me what I must and must not do."

"Look at me." She takes his jaw in her hand, turning him toward her fierce face. "On this night, eight years ago, I burned our daughter's body on the beach."

He freezes in place. She has frozen him, her words have cast a frost spell.

"Look at me."

He can't not look. "You were not there."

"Don't." Something shatters the ice around him. "Do not speak to me about that - "

Her grip is like iron around his wrist. "I will speak of it as long as I have to. "Our child died. And you were not there. You went away and fucked another woman - "

Ragnar gets up. He wrenches his own hands from hers but they're still cold, icy rings about his wrists where she held him. He can't look, he can't think, all he can do is pace back and forth through the room like a goat soon to be slaughtered. She's finally done it, finally cracked away the piece of him he'd so badly tried to keep in place. How is it even after years of separation she still knows how to do that?

Somehow he ends up near a corner, forearms pressed into the wall, his head resting on his hands. He searches for thoughts but finds none, his mind a spinning whirl of cold, dark things he cannot start remembering. All he wants to do is tear something in half, or someone.

Eventually he hears Lagertha stand, make her way to the door. She doesn't come to him. "If you abandon the ones you love, they will begin to abandon you," he hears her say quietly. "Do not give yourself another night to regret."

Then the door closes, and he is alone.

****

When he walks into the room Athelstan lies in, it feels as if he's dragging his feet behind him, each step screaming not to proceed. But he does it. For you, priest, he thinks. For you, daughter.

A tallow candle stands by the bed, the only light in the otherwise shadowy room. Ragnar pulls up a stool and sits by the motionless, bedbound form.

Athelstan lies limp, breathing shallowly, but breathing. Someone has dressed him in a warm shirt, retied the bandages underneath. As Ragnar watches his head moves fitfully on the pillow, a line creasing between his brows. A small, pained sound escapes him that tears something deep in Ragnar's chest.

"Easy now," he says quietly. He dares to touch Athelstan's chest, to feel the warmth of life under his skin, the rapid little heart. Once he does, he finds it hard to move the hand away.

"You're all right now. I knew they'd take good care of you." The bandages - the ones Ragnar can see - are still clean for now. At least he doesn't have to see the blood his friend has spilled.

Rage comes over him, so quick and bright his hands shake and there's nowhere to contain it. Why had his men not listened to Athelstan? To him? Why did it have to come to this? Why were there those who supported Horrik still?

Why why why had he just not gone instead?

"Because I wanted to," he says aloud.

No, not for cowardice. He'd wanted to. Oh, by the gods he'd wanted to. But he had wanted to go to Gotland too, and to calm the outland raids Torstein had been sent to quell - and, more than anything, he wanted to be raiding with his brother across the sea, unknowing of and indifferent to all this chaos.

He had wanted so many things and couldn't have them all, so he had chosen to have none. "A king should deny himself wants in favour of his people's needs, isn't that right?" He says. "Denying yourself of pleasures - you taught me that idea, didn't you?"

Athelstan doesn't hear, doesn't speak.

"I don't know what brings you pleasure, my friend. I have tried to learn. But after all these years I still cannot understand parts of you. But I know the things that please me, and one of them is getting to kill those who have wronged me, and have done harm to those I care for. That pleases me a great deal."

Ragnar folds his trembling fingers together. The stain of blood still lingers under his nails. "You always tell me to wait. To think about my actions. To not act with impulse alone. So I waited. I thought. I didn't run off to Gotland or Guthbrand or the mountains - I stayed here. Had I gone away to fight for my people, I would leave them undefended. So I stayed, and others had died for it. How was I to win?"

Athelstan shifts in his sleep. He's facing Ragnar more now, and all Ragnar can see is the round bruise around his eye, the long still-healing cut on one cheek. Something reaches inside him and squeezes, crushing.

This is what happens, he thinks. Men who fight get hurt.

But Athelstan isn't men who fight. Athelstan is Athelstan.

His hands are tucked beneath a blanket, and Ragnar is reluctant to wake him, but he settles for laying his own hand on Athelstan's shoulder, squeezing it as tightly as he dares. He leans close, both hoping his friend can somehow hear him and hoping he cannot and won't remember a second of this when he is recovered.

"I'm sorry." he says.  "I know you can hear that."

His thumb strokes, gently as is possible, meeting bandages and feverish skin. By the gods...he's so small.

"I hurt you. You will hate me for it. You can, if you like. But you don't have to. If you want, give it to me and I swear I will hate myself enough for the both of us."

There's a small sound, something almost like a plea, that comes from the prone body. And Ragnar draws away, uncertain. He should not stay. If Athelstan wakes...

"I don't want you to die tonight," he says, so quietly. "You are not ready. I am not ready." He hides the tremor in his voice behind an uncertain smile. "Certainly the gods are not ready - not for you. You would puzzle them so much still, priest. Best you let them get used to you a little more before you join them."

Athelstan's head shifts. Very carefully, Ragnar lays his hand against his cheek, his forehead. Impatiently brushes away a few strands of ink-dark hair. "I did not mean to send you to your death," he tells him. "I never meant for that to happen. I believed...too much. Can you understand that? Can you forgive me?"

And I forgive you, he wants to say, but he can't. There is nothing for him to forgive.

He thinks of Athelstan, lying alone and bleeding into the mossy northern ground. He thinks of Gyda, who he could not save. "I'm here now," he says. He cannot be a god. Sometimes he fears he cannot even be a king. All he can be is here. "Do not let anyone let you think I've abandoned you. I never could."

The head in his hands shifts again, this time towards him. As if Athelstan wants to be closer.

"I will stay with you until the sun rises. I'm here now."

He stays right there, cradling Athelstan's head in his hand and listening to his every breath. To both their breaths, wound together. Making up for lost time.

Until the sun rises.

****

Birds.

When Athelstan begins to wake the first thing he hears is one of them, chirruping incessantly on the other side of the wall. For a moment he thinks he must be near a window, one of the narrow slices in Lindisfarne's walls that lets in the cold breath of the sea.

For a moment he lets it be true. He's slept late, perhaps he is unwell, and soon one of the brothers will see to him. There is no pain at his side, no beard on his cheeks and no scars on his hands.

He is at peace. For a moment.

But a twist in his side brings a closed sound of pain to his lips. Even so much as shifting his body is too tall of an order, so he endures. He aches in every part he can name.

Slowly, very slowly, he pries his eyes open. The first thing he notes is that he is in the same room as before, tucked away from the rest of the hall. The brief worry he had that he might have died and gone to...wherever he is fated to go, fades.

The second is that someone has dressed him in a warm wool shirt, soft against his skin - and the third is that he isn't alone in the room.

He has to blink hard several times to recognize the person sitting across from him. At first he thinks it could be Ragnar, but...

"Bjorn," he mutters.

He still wonders if he could be wrong until the figure looks up, eyes widening. "You're not dead!"

Athelstan can't help it - a small smile curves his mouth. "Neither are you. Does your mother know?"

The younger man nods enthusiastically. "I've seen her already. And my father. Floki came back unharmed as well."

He'll certainly be glad to see me alive, Athelstan thinks, drily. "And Gotland..."

Bjorn shrugs, his face darkening. "They have agreed not to wage war, that is something. But they see my father as a rival still, one they can intimidate. We will see."

Athelstan lies back, already feeling winded. But he's stronger than he was, he can feel in his bones a shaky energy already returning. The wound still aches, but not so terribly as it had. He isn't eager to move just yet.

"I heard about how your raid went...my father killed two of the men, did he tell you?"

Athelstan's stomach swoops out from under him. "He...he didn't."

Bjorn shrugs, though he looks uncomfortable. "Well. It happened. Before I returned. But they deserved it," he adds quickly. "That they would betray you when my father - when their king's honour is at stake...and you could have been killed."

"I could have been killed whether they betrayed me or not," Athelstan says.

"What they did didn't help," Bjorn says darkly. "My father gave you that position...that they could not respect it..."

"I know." Athelstan closes his eyes again, weary. The last thing he wants to think about is this, and yet it's the only thing it makes sense to think about. He has to think about it.

But Bjorn is eager to talk, eager to go over things. He is - unmaliciously, Athelstan is sure - thoughtless of the fact that his current conversation partner may not be in the best state for the talk he wants.

"He trusted them," Bjorn continues, "breaking my father's trust was never a thing that would end well for them."

Athelstan gives a noncommittal grunt, closing his eyes. He trusted me too, is all he can think. Are my own failings not breaking his trust?

"Athelstan?" says Bjorn, sounding alarmed. "Are you...still there?"

He drags his eyes back open, coming to fix them on the young man hovering near his bed. "I'm all right," he says in the most reassuring tone he can manage. "But I am weary. It is...difficult to speak to you, and I fear it will only get harder."

Bjorn nods, enthusiastic even about that. "I will go, and let you rest. My mother may come to you though...she says you need to be watched."

Of course she does. "Thank you, Bjorn."

He doesn't have the strength to do much else. His eyes fall shut and he's asleep again in seconds.

The cycle begins anew shortly after; waking to someone changing the bandages on one or more of his wounds, sipping water and healing herbs, falling asleep again. Sometimes he manages to get out a word or two in between, a question. Often he isn't awake long enough to hear the answer.

As Bjorn promised, Lagertha does show up after a time, and hovers over him with folded arms and a frown, scanning his wounds with an unflinching eye where the healing woman pulls away the bandages.

"I am better," he tells her, though the weakness in his voice isn't helping to convince her. "They've told me it's only a matter of time until I can walk again. With some help."

He adds the last part rather guiltily. In truth, despite wanting badly to rejoin the world, a part of him wishes he could remain hidden here for a little while longer. At least until he can sort out his many thoughts with a clearer head.

And he wants no one helping him. It is horribly embarrassing to need so much.

But he continues to need. Often he feels tired enough to sleep through an entire day if they'd let him, he cannot raise his right arm and he's always chilled, always thirsty. He is still working out how to tell those looking after him these things without them thinking he is complaining.

And his head aches. That he doesn't bother telling anyone.

Lagertha touches his forehead, lightly with the backs of her fingers. She sits beside him. "You are very lucky, you know," she says. "The gods have favoured you. I am sometimes alarmed at the amount of times you have escaped death."

Athelstan would have laughed, if it didn't hurt. He watches her hand, roughened from years of shield and sword-bearing, now carefully adjusting his blankets. "I hope it isn't the last time."

At his words her face only looks to be filled with a deeper sadness. "I feared it would be. Many times in the last few days I have thought your journey to Valhalla was near."

Athelstan smiles thinly. "I don't think the gods would welcome a sick man into the hall of warriors."

"They would," she says sharply. "Are these not battle wounds? And your fight continued long after your sword fell. I sat here beside you telling you not to surrender - I would know."

He doesn't remember that part.

"You scared me. I have watched friends die before." Her voice softens. "And this is not the first time I have sat with you while you battled a deadly fever."

Athelstan's heart sinks. He hadn't thought...

"Do you know what day it is?" she asks quietly, looking back at him.

What day? It takes him a moment, scrambling to count up how much time has passed since the raid - and then he remembers, and all her wanting to stay, the depth of her fear, makes sense.

Oh.

"I haven't prayed," is all he can think to say. "Normally I do - every year - and not only to my god..."

"I know." Lagertha has been thumbing his shoulder where blanket meets bandage, almost absent-mindedly. There is a heaviness in her face. "I hear you. The years when we have been in the same place, I've heard you. You ask for our gods to keep her safe. You ask them for a sign from her, that she can hear you. That she knows she is loved, that we think of her. You share your memories, and ask that the gods pass them on to her."

Warmth floods his cheeks. "I...I hope it has not insulted you. She was your child, not mine."

"It comforts me," she says. "No, I am glad someone thinks of her. She would want to hear you speak to her. She cared for you."

Athelstan doesn't cry. He is steady, as always, a great deal of hurt needed to elicit that response. But something is making it hard to speak, a hard knot forming at the back of his throat. "I did not know it was today," he manages. Any other year he would have kept track - and has.

"I did," Lagertha says quietly. "Do not worry, priest; I thought of her for both of us."

He gives a stiff nod. It's made his heart seem to fall out through his back, remembering.

"For a while I wondered if the gods were telling me and Ragnar something - that you should die when she did."

"But I didn't."

"No. No, you didn't."

Another memory. This one of his first time waking after his illness long ago, the first thing in his sight her face bent low over his. The world shining like dew, like a too-bright candle. Have I died? he'd asked, his words all running into one another.

No, you haven't, she'd answered, her face impossibly sad. He thinks he'd asked for Ragnar then too, and Lagertha said he's not here, go back to sleep.

When he'd woken next, Gyda was dead beside him.

"I prayed for her then, too," he tells Lagertha. "When I could manage it. If I could not say the prayers aloud I'd say them in my head, again and again, to as many gods as I could remember..."

The hand on his shoulder pauses. "I didn't know that," she says.

Keep her safe, he'd thought, his feverish mind in a thousand different places. Keep her safe. For me. For her mother.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

Lagertha brushes away a stray hair from his face. "It was enough. We did enough. We tried. And now she feasts with the gods."

Athelstan had wondered, at the time, whether it was because of him. That he had brought the plague on these people; he had been meant as a sacrifice and the gods were denied what they were promised. And so they had taken the lives of half the village, and left him alive to see what he had done.

Lagertha straightens. "It is the time to remember. To think of her, and to think of what comes next. But we have no room for guilt," she adds sternly, frowning at him. "That will do you no good."

He nods, feeling chided. Time to go forward, and forward.

The bedclothes rustle as she rises, and once again she adjusts them - though with his good hand he's perfectly capable of doing so himself. Her hand strokes his hair again, thumb brushing lightly over his forehead. "Sleep, priest," she says. "I think the worst is done."

Once she is gone, he shuts his eyes and rolls to his side. And prays in a whisper.

****

It's another day and a half before he can stand on his own, shaky and leaning heavily on a crutch, three before he's able to be out of bed for most of his waking hours. The arrow-pierced leg trembles badly and threatens to give out, but he's told if he rests it properly from time to time it shouldn't collapse under him. The wound in his side, which has left a tight and crooked scar, gives him a low constant ache, pulling unexpectedly at times and leaving him breathless and in pain.

And his broken arm is still in a sling. His writing arm. Of course, even the things he can do that aren't fighting are barred from him.

When he can, he ventures outside to sit on the steps of the hall, or further out into the village. The sun is too bright on his eyes, the breeze chill enough to leave him shivering after only a short time. But being somewhere other than that dark room is like breathing air anew, and he breathes it deep.

Sometimes folk he knows from the village - an elderly sail mender he greets whenever he sees him near the harbour, twin nine year old boys who admire his axes, the woman who sells onions and angelica root - will see him and come up to him, faces concerned or disbelieving. The boys tentatively ask if they can see his scar, and he's hesitant at first but when he finally pulls away his tunic their impressed comments can't help but make him smile.

The sail mender bides him sit on the dock when they talk, mentioning nothing but regarding him with concern. The onion seller passes him a bundle of herbs - ones he knows will help with pain and easy sleep - with a gentle pat on his hand as he passes her stall. An old woman he has hardly spoken to at all touches his arm and asks him how he fares.

This is how he finds out that word of his deeds, and word of his injuries, has travelled far beyond the confines of the great hall. Naturally, he finds it hard to spend any length of time outside without returning flushed with embarrassment.

Not that he isn't touched. He is, and deeply so. But in no way has he expected it.

"You are loved," Lagertha tells him one day. She insists on accompanying him on most ventures, hovering close enough to catch him should he stumble. "Don't you see how they all care for you? Even the ones you barely know?"

"I am a curiosity," he says drily, cheeks heated yet again. "An oddity. I fascinate them the way a foreign plant might."

"And you are good to people. All people. They remember that."

He doesn't think on it too hard. Doing so only makes his already aching head more painful.

On one of the rare occasions he manages to slip out unaccompanied, he limps to the yards behind the great hall, where he hopes he won't be seen. Once there he stands blinking in the sun, just breathing. He's still alive. The world is still alive.

He's still hobbling with his crutch, but makes it over to a low wall and sits, stretching his painful leg out in front of him. For the first time in a long while, he feels calm. At peace. The sky is nearing sunset, and streaked with rose-gold clouds, and smoke is rising from the hall's roof. He's at home.

The sound of movement from the hall's half open door makes him look up, and when he does he startles involuntarily. Ragnar stands just a few paces away, knife in hand.

For a long moment he stares at Athelstan, not saying a word. Then he strides up to him as if nothing could prevent him from doing so. Athelstan is momentarily envious at the sheer ease with which he moves through the world.

"Priest," he says, not looking at him but sitting down on the wall a few feet away. "I did not expect to find you here."

As he speaks, Athelstan is surprised to find his heart thudding anxiously in his chest. He's winded, close to internal panic. He has to clutch his hand in a fist to stop Ragnar from seeing it tremble. "Nor I you," he replies.

Ragnar takes out a block of dense wood, in the shape of a wolf's head. "Is that a hilt?"

His mouth twitches. "For Ubbe. He's in need of a good strong blade. I'd like to make one for each of my sons, each with a creature hiding in the hilt. A snake for Sigurd, of course, to match his eye."

Athelstan nods, the thunder beneath his ribs dimming somewhat. Maybe they don't have to talk, and instead can just - well, talk.

Ragnar whittles away, and Athelstan sits awkwardly beside him, unsure what to do or say.

"If I were to carve you a hilt, I think I would hide a pig within it."

"A pig?"

"Pigs," he gouges deep into where the wolf's eye would be, "are fiercer than they look. Because we keep them on our farms and eat them up on our tables, we forget that. But they are smart creatures, more so by far than a sheep or a cow. And they will eat anything they are given. Anything."

Ragnar frowns in concentration. "You take anything you are given. You accept and accept and accept, without judgement. Without fear. You think deeply. Have you ever seen a pig think? They do quite a bit of it. And - " he grins - "you don't look it, but you are near as stubborn as one sometimes, priest."

"I'm glad to hear it," Athelstan says drily, very unsure of whether he is being complimented or insulted.

"So. A wolf, a snake, and a pig. What other creatures have I surrounded myself with? We will see."

Athelstan nods again. Despite Ragnar being here - finally here - he feels suddenly lonely.

"Ragnar," he says in a low voice, "thank you. For bringing me back. For bringing me home."

The knife pauses, Ragnar's face unchanging. Athelstan prods onwards. "You saved my life."

The carving commences. "It was the healers who did that. And Lagertha."

"You could have left me where I was - "

"No, I could not."

His voice is sharp enough to make Athelstan hesitate. But something is replacing the anxious fluttering of his heart - a kind of warmth. He has nothing to fear from Ragnar, not his wrath and not whatever other feelings he may have.

There is no threat. None. There never was.

Daring himself, he nudges Ragnar on the arm. Playfully, in a way unlike him. Now Ragnar looks up, surprised. "You saved my life, and then you wouldn't see me. I was half dead, and you couldn't make the effort? You'd let your ex-wife do all the work?"

He says it lightly, and for the first time he feels lightly about it.

But Ragnar's face darkens. "I did see you," he says heavily, as though each word causes him pain. "I saw you. I held you. I was there."

The brief smile is wiped from Athelstan's face as he takes in Ragnar's words. "I didn't know."

Ragnar shrugs unevenly. "It was..." he waves his hand in a vague way. "You were not awake."

"I didn't know. I...thank you."

"Well. Lagertha made me do it."

The words sound so childlike that for a moment Athelstan has the bizarre desire to laugh. And Ragnar must sense it because the corners of his mouth have quirked up again.

I held you, he'd said...once again the heat of embarrassment crawls up Athelstan's neck. But more than that - gratitude.

"Ragnar," he says again, looking full at him, laying a hand more gently on his arm.

Dear friend.

Brother.

He knows not how to say all that he is thinking; I'm sorry, and forgive me, and I missed you, and thank you, and I forgive you, and let's put this all behind us. I respect you. I love you.

"Can we...can we stay here for a little while? Just...to sit. Will you stay with me?" He prays he doesn't sound desperate.

Ragnar finally looks back at him, eyes roving over the bandaged arm and the crutch and what's likely a face full of bruises. Athelstan is struck by how tired he looks. "Anything you like, priest," he says.

So they sit. It's not long at all before Ragnar puts down the carving knife and the wolf's head, and drapes an arm around Athelstan's shoulders, gently but firmly pulling him closer. And Athelstan lets out his breath, properly for the first time in days. All is right. All will be right, soon. It can be, and it will be.

The sun sets.

[game-set-canet]

can i get a domi thiem imagine where his gf loses a match and its rough on her and he cheers her up

An (un)fortunate way

Pairing: Dominic Thiem x f!reader

category: fluff, bit of sadness (i guess?)

warnings: none

Author’s Note: sorry that it took me so long to publish this imagine - life can be very hard sometimes, but i hope you like it! also: English isn’t my first language, so I’m very sorry for mistakes!

* Y/N = your name * Y/L/N = your last name

MY  M A S T E R L I S T

(not my gif! credits to the owner/creator!)

♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦ - ♦

You just lost the match.

A lump is forming in your throat as you walk to the net for the handshake.

You lost the match. Which means: no second round for you. You lost the first round of the US Open.

“Don’t you dare start crying in front of the whole crowd!”, you try to admonish yourself. Your hands are shaking, and you are barely able to speak, your "congrats! very well done" at the net is more a huff than actually pronounced.

Your match was a disaster – just like the rest of your season. But losing the first round of a slam was a new low in your negative series of tournaments.

As soon as you stepped into the tunnel your vision becomes blurred because tears start to well up in your eyes and when you realise that the camera crew behind you is turning around and leaving, you start to cry.

*** *** ***

Your team is already waiting for you. Your coach is the first to approach you, you can see that he isn’t sure what to say: “That was…unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?!”, you hiss through tears, “I played like shit! I have seen five-year-olds playing better than me!”, more and more tears are streaming down your face.

“No, Y/N, you-”

“Stop it, Dad!”, you drop your bags on the floor and try to push past them. You don’t want to talk to them or even see them, because they would immediately start to try cheering you up, saying things like: it's not so bad, it could happen to anyone – and that’s a lie. You shake your head and give them a sad and at the same time contemptuous look: “I don’t want to hear it! It would have been lies after all…”

A hand carefully grips your right wrist and holds you back with gentle force.

You don't have to turn around to know that it is Dominic.

"Let go of me, Domi," your voice is shaking, “I want to be alone.”

He immediately shakes the head: “No, you don’t.”, he is almost whispering.

“Domi, I just need a few minutes for myself, and I don’t want to talk with anyone!”

“No talking then…but let me come with you…”, he smiles shyly at you.

“I…I just…I- I need…I don’t know what…”, a single tear runs down your cheek and you look at him desperately and helplessly, “I don’t know how to step in front of the press now.”

“Take your time. They can wait.”

Domi would never ever let anyone wait for anything. He was way too polite for that. But when you two got together he kinda sorted his priorities new and from the very beginning he has put you above everything and everyone.

You can’t help but smile a little and nod.

*** *** ***

You found an empty massage room.

You sink down the wall and sit with your legs drawn up on the cold tiles while Domi locks the door and then sits down next to you.

After some minutes of silence, you whisper: “Can you imagine how stupid I am? Like…I fucked it up. I fucked up the first round…all the preparation for nothing…”

“It’s not nothing, it’s a lea-”

“Don’t you dare saying ‘It’s a learning process’!”

Domi closed his mouth again and lowered his head in embarrassment. Instead, he grabbed your hand and gave it a light squeeze.

“I mean…I played like an amateur! Foot-fault, my first serve was nowhere to be found, more double-faults than in my entire last season, not a single solid volley and don’t get me started about the stops…”, your voice breaks and tears start running down your face. All you felt was disappointment, anger at yourself and pain. And shame.

Domi hesitates, cradles his head from one side to the other: “You…you do realise that you're making it sound worse than it actually was, right?”, he takes a deep breath and quickly continues talking, “Yes, you didn't play well but your opponent played the best match of her career so far! I think, your coach is right: it was unfortunate.”

You smile a mirthless smile: “Ah, yeah, of course…and my bad run in Cincinnati? Or during the Canada Open? Wimbledon was embarrassing and I got beaten by 7 players outside the Top 20 and 3 players outside the Top 90 this year and-”

“And you came back from a serious injury in April.”, now Dominic looks directly at you, “Yes, you had an unfortunate run during the last couple of weeks and yes, there will be one or two ugly headlines about today’s match and yes, some people will talk shit but haters gonna hate. And we both know – and everyone who understands and loves tennis knows – that you are more talented than 90 % of the whole WTA tour and that you gonna be back at your best soon…just…don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing pretty amazing…”

You stare at him and feel a knot in your throat: “Don’t do this!”

“Do what?”, Dominic frowns, apparently he had expected a different reaction from you.

There is a little smile on your lips: “Don’t try to cheer me up!”

“I’m your boyfriend! I HAVE to try to cheer you up!”, he starts laughing softly, “That and after we got back to the hotel I’ll organise you as much chocolate as you can eat, and we’ll watch your favourite movie-“

You look at him with big eyes: “But you hate that movie!”

Your boyfriend shakes his head vigorously and makes a throwing away hand gesture: “Shhh, that’s not the topic of this conversation! Sooo…we will watch your favourite movie and you will drink your favourite tea and-“

“The hotel doesn’t have Rose-Lavender Tea I already asked at the reception yesterday and-”

“And I have a little bag of it in my suitcase, so: no worries!”

You don't hear the rest of what he says, you can only think about how much you love the man next to you.

You rest your head on Domi’s shoulder and close your eyes: maybe Domi was right, and this bad run was just unfortunate and even if the rest of the season will be as bad as it is now, you know everything will be okay. Because you have the most amazing man by your side.

[hoggleswart]

ANONYMOUS  SENT      :      5,    9,    16,    17    &    24.

YOUR  FAVORITE  ORIGINAL-VERSE  OC  (OR  ONE  OF  YOUR  FAVORITES)  :

real  talk      ⸻      i  don’t  really  have  a  lot  of  original  -  verse  /  fandomless  characters,  if  any,  which  is  a  bit  shameful.  i’ve  just  kinda  always  leaned  more  towards  fandom  roleplaying  than  i  have  original  genres,  so  this  is  actually  a  super  hard  question  for  me  to  answer.  i’m  gonna  cheat  and  take  one  from  nox  instead;      ezekiel  burke.  i  just  adore  my  funky  lil  grump.  i’ve  had  so  much  fun  building  him  here  with  everyone,  and  plotting  with  him.  i  don’t  think  he’s  a  character  i  ever  would’ve  immediately  thought  up,  but  the  wanted  connection  was  right  there  and  the  rest  came  naturally.  i’m  obsessed  with  his  personality,  his  background,  his  dynamics.  i  consider  him  very  much  a  work  -  in  -  progress  at  times.  i’m  still  learning  things  about  him  myself  as  i  go,  but  everybody  here  has  been  so  good  at  helping  me  establish  him  and  i  just.  clutches  him  close.  my  guy.

A  FANDOM  CHARACTER  WHO  YOU  WOULD  REALLY  LIKE  TO  PLAY  :

dominic  toretto.  there  are  truthfully  so  many  characters  i’d  love  to  write,  and  simply  not  enough  time  to  do  so.  i  get  muse  for  somebody  new  almost  every  time  i  watch  a  new  show.  if  i  went  by  a  harry  potter  -  based  universe,  i’ve  always  been  drawn  to  the  main  guy  themselves    (  harry  )  or  lee  jordan.  i  haven’t  written  the  first  in  years,  and  i’ve  never  written  the  second,  but  i  think  about  lee  a  lot.  he’s  a  character  i  don’t  see  a  whole  lot  of,  but  i  think  he’d  actually  have  a  very  interesting  presence.  away  from  harry  potter,  i’m  currently  watching  one  tree  hill  for  the  first  time  and  entering  my  peyton  sawyer  era. 

YOUR  FAVORITE  RP  NOTP  :  

i  don’t  know  if  i’m  reading  this  question  right.  like  is  it  for  one  of  my  notps,  or  a  pairing  that’s  considered  a  popular  notp  by  the  fandom,  but  i  like  it?  favourite  notp  is  confusing  me.  my  biggest    (  i  wouldn’t  say  favourite  )    notp  in  general  is  damon    &    elena  from  the  vampire  diaries.  a  popular  fandom  notp  that  i  possibly  have  a  softspot  for  is    .  .  .    jimmy    &    fiona  from  shameless.

YOUR  FAVORITE  RP  FAMILY  RELATIONSHIP  : 

i’m  gonna  have  to  make  this  one  nox  -  related,  because  there  are  two  families  here  that  i  get  nothing  but  joy  outta  building.  the  first  is  the  burke  family  and  a  very,  very  special  shout  out  to  caro,  because  she’s  very  patiently  listened  to  me  ramble    &    ramble,  helping  me  flesh  them  out,  and  then  together  with  her  version  of  ezekiel’s  sibling?  we’ve  built  a  family  connection  that  i  hold  very  dear  to  my  heart.  the  second  is  the  weasley  family.  i  find  them  a  constant delight  to  explore,  especially    (  again  another  very  special  shout  out  to  rachel  this  time  )    him  with  ginny  or,  uniquely,  the  generation  of  weasleys  that  came  before  with  ned  and  their  other  siblings.  

YOUR  FAVORITE  RP  GENRE  : 

fandom  every  time,  especially  because  there’s  so  much  potential  to  put  your  own  headcanons  into  it  and  explore  an  avenue  you  didn’t  get  to  see  while  watching    /    reading.  i  love  taking  canon  and  saying  nope.

[desultory-novice]

Is it strange that most of my KRBAY OCs are just either alternate universe versions of Tiff/Fumu, or immortal maneating spirits or ghouls who are manifestations of negative emotions which were felt by Tiff/Fumu? Just felt like asking someone who could give a proper response and even some advice, happy early new year though!

As far as I know, Tiff/Fumu is the most interesting character to come out of KRBAY, being a main character (THE main character? "Tiff, Tiff, Tiff, she's the star of the show!") who develops a very strong relationship with Kirby and the rest of the cast. She's also got a very strong personality, that can either be very endearing to people (her sassiness, intelligence, and strong moral compass) or grating (her lecturing and jumping to conclusions.)

<More below!>

So I'd say it's no surprise to want to explore a character who already has so much going on! (The only other characters I know of who get as much love in the fandom are the space mercenary girl, because she's got a cool tragic backstory involving Meta Knight and is just someone we've never really seen in Kirby before, and the GSA because that's basically free reign to make your own Meta Knight-alike/build on the briefly glimpsed personalities of minor characters and have them go on long space fantasy adventures!)

As for the man-eating spirits born of Tiff’s negative emotions, I can't say for sure but...

I mean, I imagine she gets a lot of hate from fans too? People who found her too preachy? So if you yourself identify with her strongly, or just find her the most interesting character in KRBAY...that could be a way to channel the feelings you've seen about Tiff in RL in an expressive fiction environment? Or your own feelings about your life! I don't know all the various terms for it, but identifying with a character isn't anything to be ashamed of.

(Strictly speaking, yes, there’s things you want to be careful of when you’re really close to a fictional character. Make sure to keep your own boundaries, find joy in your own life, and try not to let opinions about that character hurt you too deeply. Be respectful of other people’s feelings and takes. Know that some things you make/think are just going to be for you alone and will never be as meaningful to those around you, etc...)

But yeah! Go for it! I've drawn stuff based on something someone else said that got me thinking. I can see how all the discourse about Tiff would inspire a variety of interesting ideas/AUs/What-Ifs. Is she as hated in world as she is by parts of the fandom? What's she going to be like when she grows up? Better? Worse? All that risking herself and getting into danger... What if she found herself truly out of her element? And maybe you just want to explore what happens when a friend finds themselves put into a situation where they're made the antagonist to their old friend group? Or CHOOSE to become one? Mwahahahahahaha...!

(Just always remember to tag appropriately!)

Frankly, even though I haven't seen enough of the anime, I kind of like Tiff myself. And it's a shame because even though the anime has its problems, and is quite different from the Kirby we know and love now, it too was made with the love and passion of many, many people who clearly cared about it deeply! 

Yet, as there's no way to merge the anime and game canons together properly (even if their could be, I have my doubts that working in a 100 episode series from the early 00s is whats best for Kirby as a game series) she and the rest of her world are probably fated to be retired to the annals of history...

...and fanworks, which you're already engaged in! Go you! (1)

Probably the only point at which it becomes too strange is when you create a story/verse where all the Tiff-alike OCs meet up with each other and begin to create whatever it was that happened with the old, mega-cursed Onceler fandom in its latermost days, where it's now "illegal to be a Tiff OC" and they're all on the run from some evil government agency...?!?  (I have NO idea myself. I only know about the Onceler stuff thanks to Youtube.) 

But I've heard that even a section of Onceler fans ended up turning their Onceler OCs into -true- original characters after all that happened. Imagine if all your creative work with Fumu ends up leading you down the path to make an original book or a comic someday! The best thing about creativity is that it really can turn into ANYTHING!

---

(1) And cameos, like how she and Bumu showed up with Anime Kirby in the 30th Anniversary Campaign!

[strititty]

Hello hope sorry I'm late for the fic writer ask I was busy this is Simon btw shhhh I'm secret now. I wanted to ask you all of them obviously but mostly numbers 37, 39, 41, and 42! if you remember obviously if not I am so sorry

hi friend :)

37. Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

oh this is an interesting question... maybe pecking order? it might be because it's the third fic in the series, or because guardiancest shippers are few and far between these days, or maybe even the vomiting tag lmao but for some reason it does not have nearly as much traction as the previous two fics, which is a shame, because i love it dearly! david going kind of completely unhinged as he tries to deal with any new feelings he may or may not be having... bro dealing with that the best way he knows how (not backing down At All)...

alternatively each heart touched but that's just my plug for everyone to go try cultist simulator, actually, i fuckin love that game. it's confusing and weird but it's FLAVORFUL and honestly that's all i want.

39. Is any aspect of your writing process inspired by other writers or people? If so, who?

OH YES. i see you, you little scamp, because now i am morally obligated to concede that my characterization of MANY characters is informed by the great fanfic writers that came before. you, for instance!! and geometrician's dualshock desertbloom is very informative of my bro characterization.

i am not super sure some of the other blogs i draw inspo from would appreciate the shout out so i'll keep that to myself, but know this: if you have written strilonde fanfiction or we have ever spoken in depth about the characters, i have probably drawn some measure of inspiration from your fics or the things we talked about, because that's how the creative spirit works!

i think that a lot of fandom in general is also often built upon the backs of old concepts and fanon. some of that has gotten torn down over time, like... god, specifically all i can think of is dave rn. like common fanon used to be that he was literally too cool for school and now it's generally accepted that actually that was a massive front and How Did Anyone Buy Into That. i think that maybe some of us have flipped a little too hard in the opposite direction and made dave like. Soft Baby-fied? but i feel that's also a very fandom thing to have happen lmao. oh to woobify your faves for fun and profit. no harm in it but i do think it's very interesting!

41. Link a fic that made you think, "Wow, I want to write like that."

you know i think the most recent experience i had like that is with your words destroyed my planet, explicitly because i want to be able to plot out and execute longfic like this person can. it's a cool fic!

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

i've gotten a few comments that have stuck with me! the one you sent me on discord made me CRY (in a good way no worries) but if we're talking purely public on ao3...

there was one comment interrogating the like. NATURE of david in my demonstuck series and how i explained it in the fic that was honestly SO interested and gave me a lot to think about.

also someone told me one of my fics made them jizz instantly or something like that which was SO FUNNY to me as an ace person who does not really write or read smut to be horny about it most of the time. why do i? i dont know. it's Interesting, i guess??? like yes!!! CHARACTERS!! smushing our barbie dolls together!!! YES!!! i am EMOTIONALLY TITILLATED

[sizeableseashell]

2024/10/10

I'm currently running on about four hours of sleep. I'm kind of in that "hyper/hyper up" version of sleep deprivation where I'm languishing in the almost high of it. The light seems so bright. My eyes feel so tired. Yet I'm awake, knowing I'll have to be at work in a few hours. Trying not to think about that. Trying to bust through assignments on my computer.

I'm writing because I want to write more. I really do want to write more. It helps me self-actualize. Unfortunately I'm also scared of writing. Like deathly scared or some shit. Not all writing. This is fine. I'm scared of the writing where I sit down and try to make something good.

What's crazy is I've done it countless times. Part of it is shame. (There's an article someone asked me to do that's been in drafts for over a year now.) Part of it is fear of success. Isolation. Alienation more specifically. This weird idea that If I do well, I'll become independent from my family and I'll be alone.

That's a big one.

Part of it is the mental strain of thinking, and creating something good.

The agonizing knowledge that, sometimes, pain is gain. Sometimes pushing myself leads to better results. Oftentimes in writing, in pushing myself to write better sentences, better rhymes, new ways of putting words together, I get better results.

I know I know. Feel the fear and do it anyways.

There's another fear though. The fear of emptiness. The fear that I'll finally do what I've always wanted to do. I'll get on stage, I'll say my piece, people will clap, then leave, and then I'll feel empty.

Who was this for? What was it for?

----

In the spirit of solutions, here are some problems that I listed:

Shame over longtime unfinished projects.

Fear of isolation after succsess.

Fear of pain that comes with growth.

Fear of emptiness after succsess.

I think that these are things I can work on. The answer might not always be in writing.

What's worse? Never finishing a project you said you would, or finishing it after a long time. Obviously never finishing it. Therefore, I should strive for the lesser of two evils and finish the thing anyway.

I think part of that fear comes from people I care about "withdrawing" when I shine bright. But then again, when I truly shine bright (which is something you don't need material success to achieve), people are drawn to me. Maybe it comes from an outdated model of what I think success is. No matter the case, I think it makes sense to cultivate meaningful relationships now. And practice vulnerability with myself and others.

This is kind of unavoidable. It's painful, but also exhilarating when you have a breakthrough. I think it's worse when I push myself for the sake of other people. "Performance" That can lead to emptiness. I think if I come from a grounded, intrinsically motivated place when I write- I can bear the pain that comes with pushing myself.

I think this can be avoided by not looking for approval in other people's eyes, and instead be focused on my own spiritual path as a creator. The only being whose perception should matter is "God" as I know them. And my own perception of myself. If I focus on the process, and the enjoyment I get from creating, emptiness after production will be mitigated.

[frannyzooey]

“Now how many times do I have to tell you there’s no good Mexican food in New York?”

I SEE YOU ❤

It was Summer; Ellie was eighteen and he was thirty-nine, and this word that he’d grown so accustomed to hearing suddenly felt like a fist squeezing around his heart. It became something new, something different. Because Joel knew that, for her, family had always meant mistrust. Had always meant loneliness. Knew that sometimes her childhood felt like a knife stuck in her throat, and on those days, she had to decide whether to leave it in and stem the blood flow, or pluck out the blade and watch everything turn red.

And then one day, years on, it seemed that she’d drawn that dagger enough times. The blood stopped, the mistrust fell away, and—Dad.

Dad to Sarah and now, finally, Dad to Ellie.

This entire section with Ellie was so sweet. As always, I am so impressed by your ability to convey, with so little words, so much context for their relationship and the ways in which he knows her. It was so endearing, their conversation.

And then that fucking dinner.

First of all, this is gorgeous and I can't stop thinking about it:

His knuckles feel tight – he wants to pull his hand back and crack them. Wants to feel the joints pop beneath his skin, let the tension slip away like a sigh.

But then this started and my eyes got wider and wider, and my face got closer and closer to the screen as my stomach literally sank:

“Walking around that hall together,” Rachel smiles. “You kept holding your arm out for me to hold, and I thought, god, maybe this is it. Maybe you actually feel the same.”

YOUR FUCKING POWER. I felt physically ill during this entire confession. My stomach bottomed out, and I felt so fucking embarrassed for Rachel that I wanted to die. You can see! How she would think that! With the familiarity of their relationship and how much time they spend together and I just -- GOD I wanted to throw myself off a cliff while reading that. His reaction to her confession was absolutely perfect too: the guilt, the shame, the nerves, him being afraid that this would change them forever. ALL THAT paired with HER recollection of the conference and the POV of Joel/Reader at the conference from the previous chapter and I just -- the delay of this perspective from Rachel was done so fucking well. The way you tell a story is incredible.

The way he couldn't stop himself either once Rachel left was...I had my hand over my mouth, marveling at how true you write emotions. He feels so bad and yet -- is immediately distracted by his want, and it's not only so realistic, but this is just as gorgeous as the prose they are constantly studying in that class:

Anything to satisfy the craving that only she seems to inspire in him.

Resolute, persistent – a probing, prodding thing that nips at his heels and thrusts him forward at a double time pace.

A hunger that follows him down the nights and down the days.

A hunger that can only ever be sated like the taking of a sacrament – on his knees, devotion in his eyes.

Unreal. UNREAL.

I also loved this section as a description of Joel - it is so painfully accurate:

Alone so long, living in a body grown accustomed to such quiet. Familiar with no touch other than that of his own rough palms. And now… the intensity of it shakes within him. The urge to sink his teeth in like a bad dog and hold, hold, hold, to consume and be consumed, and never yield to anyone who wants to take this away from him.

YOUR POWER. God, I am still sick.

I LOVE YOU ❤

a lover's pinch | six

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel and rachel have dinner. a confession is made. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, JOEL POV, sexting/nudes, joel has bad restaurant etiquette lmao, descriptions of arousal, references to past smut, the guilt and shame that sometimes go so neatly hand in hand with wanting, miller daughter cameo, mild angst, discussion of a car accident. word count: 4.8k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: just a reminder that this is set within ALP5, when joel goes to have dinner w rachel. just a short little peek into my beloved professor’s mind, and some context between j & r. hope you like it x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part six of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five.

Sunday.

“Nina thinks it’ll rain tomorrow. Overcast too, probably.”  

There’s a faint hum through the phone as she speaks. A vague buzz that crackles and pops in almost every beat of silence. Not for the first time, Joel wishes she would let him buy her a new phone.

A gust of wind whips against his face and he cringes, turning his back against the draft.

“Okay,” he replies. “That’s okay, right?”

“It’s fine,” she grumbles. “Wanted to take you to this bar, though. They do these tacos we love. Nina says it’s the best Mexican place in New York.”

“Now how many times do I have to tell you there’s no good Mexican food in New York?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joel can practically hear her rolling her eyes. He chuckles.

“What time are you coming ‘round?” Ellie asks. “I’ll be in the studio for most of the day, but we normally get home around five. Could do dinner around eight?”

Joel hesitates, and then raises his voice to be heard over the rushing wind. “I was actually thinkin’ I’d come see your studio.”

A moment of humming, crackling silence.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he continues, peering in through the window of the restaurant. He thinks he can see Rachel through the frosted glass – her mess of dark curls vaguely visible, tucked away somewhere in the corner of the space. He hears Ellie breathing through the phone as he looks. “And s’been too long since you showed your old man any of your paintings.”

“Joel,” she huffs, and it’s that smartass, pained tone that has him grinning wider than anything she’s said up until this point.

It’s few and far between lately – hearing that name coming from her mouth. Joel. Something that’s been intermittent for almost a decade, and has been steadily decreasing since she moved to New York five years ago.

Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad.

Joel for years, and then one day—Dad.

It was Summer; Ellie was eighteen and he was thirty-nine, and this word that he’d grown so accustomed to hearing suddenly felt like a fist squeezing around his heart. It became something new, something different. Because Joel knew that, for her, family had always meant mistrust. Had always meant loneliness. Knew that sometimes her childhood felt like a knife stuck in her throat, and on those days, she had to decide whether to leave it in and stem the blood flow, or pluck out the blade and watch everything turn red.

And then one day, years on, it seemed that she’d drawn that dagger enough times. The blood stopped, the mistrust fell away, and—Dad.

Dad to Sarah and now, finally, Dad to Ellie.

“Ellie,” he imitates her tone, well-versed in mirroring her attitude after so many years of practice.

A voice rears up directly behind him and Joel stiffens, glancing over his shoulder to watch a couple exit the restaurant. Coat collars dragged up to protect their necks, arms linked as they smile and start down the street. He imagines Rachel sitting inside, alone, and his smile falters. He knows he should go back in soon, but can’t quite bring himself to cut this short.

“Yeah, okay,” Ellie answers finally, and he can feel the weight that rests in those words.

The admission, but also everything that goes unsaid alongside it. A silent acknowledgement of years spent reading between the lines, trying to know each other; years of her locking her bedroom door, hiding her journals, her artbooks, her pencils. Anything to keep someone else from seeing the way she expresses herself – from understanding that she feels anything. And this yeah, okay – well, it’s as close to I love you as the two of them ever get.

Joel says, “I’ve been missin’ you, kiddo.”

And she says, “I know.”

More silence. More contemplation of how to respond, how to keep emotions level when he is not Joel in this moment, but Dad.

Plucking out the blade.

“Ten tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the address,” Ellie says after a while. “Don’t be late or I’m not showing you shit, old man.”

Heat blasts his face when he steps back inside the restaurant. He tugs his jacket off as he wanders his way toward their little corner table inside San Vecchio—old saint. A small Italian place that Rachel likes to visit whenever she’s the city, and has slowly but surely grown on him.

When he gets close enough to see the table his stomach drops, face twisting into something apologetic as he lowers himself into his chair.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, staring at their food. Brought out while he was on the phone, sitting untouched; she didn’t even pick up her fork in his absence. A shameful heat rises in his face. “I’m sorry, Rach.”

“Hon,” she just laughs him off. “It’s okay, it only just came out.”

He nods, grateful, and lets her pour him a generous glass of wine. Red. A bottle of the Carignan, please, he remembers her telling the waiter. Although, when he takes a sip, he can’t tell the difference between this and the twenty-dollar cabernet he buys once a fortnight from the grocer.

They press the lips of their glasses together and murmur soft calls of cheers and another conference done, the words all but swallowed up by the raucous sounds around them.

“How is she then?” she prompts, never able to tame her curiosity.

“Ellie?” Joel’s eyebrows jut up, and he sets his wine glass down. “Good, yeah, good. It was nice to hear her voice, I, uh, I’ve missed too many of that kid’s calls over the past few months.”

Rachel nods, and when she smiles his chest feels a little lighter, because it’s the type of smile that says it’s okay, everything is okay, you’re a good dad, you took the call. And she has always had that kind of soothing effect on him, since the day he met her all those years ago. There’s this compassion to her character; a warmth akin to that of a sister. Smarter than hell and kinder than she’s ever been given credit for.  

“Are you seeing her while you’re in town?”

“Mhm, tomorrow.”

“Well, that will be lovely,” she beams and takes a sip of her wine. Carignan stains her mouth. “Is she still with Nina?”

“She is.”

“God, that must be, what, four years they’ve been together now? That’s great, Joel.”

“I’m happy for her,” he smiles, gripping his fork. “They’re renting out this art studio together at the moment – Nina’s an artist too, did I—?”

“Yeah, you told me.”  

“Yeah, they’ve been using the space to work on some new stuff. Ellie was tellin’ me ‘bout this gallery downtown, how they’ve offered her some exhibit space. Gonna have a show down there in March.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” Rachel’s eyebrows raise, top lip quirking into a soft smirk as she twirls her fork through a mess of red pasta. “Do you think they’ll get married? Follow in Sarah and Tim’s footsteps?”

Joel can’t help but laugh at the idea. He tries to imagine Ellie and Nina in a chapel, or on a beach, or anywhere, professing their love for one another with friends and family watching on. Tries to imagine Ellie, all tattoos, messy hair, and gangly arms, tucked into a suit or a dress. The image doesn’t come easily.

“I don’t really think they’re the type,” he admits, and Rachel laughs too then.

“No,” she agrees. “I guess not.”

She asks more questions about the girls, the way she always does. Asks about Sarah’s job at the primary school, if teaching is all she thought it would be.

And something like halfway through their meal, around a mouthful of food, Rachel says, “You know I’m glad we’re here, because I need to ask you something.”

Joel’s hands still, face going slack as he meets her eye. There’s something conniving in them. Something sly in the way she smiles, baring her teeth at him. It makes his stomach twist into a tight, burning knot. What does she know?

“Okay,” he says slowly, lowering his knife.

“So,” she hums. “At the conference yesterday…”

“Yeah?” he rasps, blunt nails digging into his thigh beneath the table.

“I couldn’t ask you about it because I didn’t want anyone to overhear us, but… did you see what Professor Neilson was wearing? That blazer?”

“Jesus,” he deflates.

“Oh, come on,” she sputters, and there’s lipstick stained on her front teeth and he finds himself smiling too, relaxing.

“You’re a filthy gossip, you know that?” he raises an eyebrow.

She grins back at him. Winks and says, “Don’t act like you don’t love it, Miller.”

So, for an hour they eat, and talk, and drink. Don’t stop until their cheeks are sore from smiling and their ribs are tight and aching from laughter.  

With full bellies and rosy cheeks, they scrape their plates clean. Lips purse and pucker around final sips of wine, and then… and then Rachel reaches across the table and places her hand atop his.

And Joel has never noticed that she has sunspots across her knuckles. Never noticed that she wears a ring on her pinkie finger, one with a dark emerald stone in the middle. Never noticed the thin white scar beside the nail on her index. She squeezes his hand, the pad of a finger skimming his wrist, and he remembers how he held someone else’s wrist only hours before this. Felt her skin beneath his fingers – the frailty of the tendons and veins beneath it, swimming with life as his thumb pressed down.   

Joel feels his eye twitch. Works to keep his face relaxed, calm. And when she leaves her hand there, he laughs a little. A choked, wary sound. Turns his hand over so his knuckles are against the table and his palm is against her palm and squeezes once in return. Rachel isn’t smiling anymore.

“You okay, Rach?”

“Do you…” she pauses, mouth twisting into a shy smile as she clears her throat. Joel feels something heavy settle in his stomach. A type of dread that curdles and burns like red sky at morning. “Do you remember when Sarah was in that car accident a few years back?”

Joel swallows. Her hand feels too warm against his, her palm tacky with sweat.

“We were… we were at work, and… and Tim called you and told you she was in the hospital—”

He almost cringes at the memory. Her husband’s name flashing across his phone screen during a lecture. Stomach churning and why is Tim calling me, heart racingand Tim never calls. Remembers hearing those panicky breaths down the line and thinking Texas and Maine had never felt further apart than in that moment.

“You drove me to the airport,” he nods. His knuckles feel tight – he wants to pull his hand back and crack them. Wants to feel the joints pop beneath his skin, let the tension slip away like a sigh.

“You were so distraught,” Rachel sighs. “I’d never seen you like that. So uncomposed, so… chaotic.”

Joel huffs out an awkward laugh and tries to pull his hand back, but she squeezes harder. Keeps it in place beneath her own.

“What’s this all about?” his eyebrows furrow, face pinching into a sort of scowl. He can feel it, he can always feel it when his face does this. So unpleasant, so unwelcoming, and he knows it. Just never figured out how to stop it from happening.

“We were in the car,” she continues, and her eyes are so earnest now. So wide, the whites shining, her lashes darkened and fanned out around them in a way he’s never seen before. She’s wearing makeup. “And you didn’t even have a bag packed, you just wanted to get to your girl. Needed to see her with your own eyes, make sure she was okay.”

His jaw feels tight inside his head; teeth clenched painfully, digging into the gums around his molars as the memory plays in his mind.

Tim’s voice wavering, crying, she was unconscious when they pulled her out.

His hand is numb beneath Rachel’s. She’s fine, he reminds himself. Sarah’s fine, that was years ago.

“I think I knew then,” she says quietly.

“Knew what?” Joel tries to keep his voice level. Ignoring the odd feeling that twists in his chest and has his heart racing faster, so much faster than normal, faster than it has ever raced for Rachel.

“That I loved you.”

It’s almost dreamlike, the way everything seems to blur and fade around them after she says it. Or perhaps nightmarish is the right word. A sharp pain sparks between his ribs and he feels his body stiffen and then loosen all at once. Face, shoulders, hand beneath hers – everything softens. Fuck. His mouth tastes like sandpaper, tongue resting fat and gravelly against the roof of it as she stares at him.

When he doesn’t say a word, she says, “I’d always known you were so kind, so generous to the people around you. But to see the way you love? It’s… shit, Joel, I just knew.”

He’s convinced his throat is tightening.

“And I held it in all of these years, and I’m sorry for that. I was just never sure of how you felt, and you never tried anything with me, never hinted at any feelings. But after the conference yesterday...”

“The conference?” he whispers. He pictures that bench outside NYU. Remembers the nasty wind, an empty champagne flute on the ground, the side of his body going hot where it pressed against hers.

“Walking around that hall together,” Rachel smiles. “You kept holding your arm out for me to hold, and I thought, god, maybe this is it. Maybe you actually feel the same.”

Joel imagines that this must be what people describe as critical velocity. Everything that once was smooth turns turbulent. Every second, every minute, that he’s allowed himself to careen forward, wanton and reckless, on the deliciously destructive course he’s set for himself – all of it just for someone close to him to step directly into his line of fire.

And his silence is so painfully telling. He knows immediately when it’s been too long, too much quiet, too many seconds of nothing said, of no reassurances offered. The muscle in her jaw ticks, and a vertical line appears between pinched eyebrows. Confusion, surprise, hurt. Her hand pulls back, and he tucks his in his lap quickly.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, shit.”  

Joel is suddenly certain that he’s going to be sick. His hands shake beneath the table, a violent tap tap tap where they’re clasped against the inside of his thigh.

“Rachel—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Please, don’t apol—”

“I shouldn’t have said—”

“Rachel,” Joel’s voice raises, just a little, just enough to make her pause, enough for conversation at the table beside them to halt for a second. “If anythin’, I should be the one apologisin’.”

She laughs; a sad, quiet thing. Shakes her head at him.

“I guess I… somewhere in my head, I thought you knew,” Rachel says quietly. “Thought you….” The unspoken words hang in the air between them. Thought you felt the same.

And it hurts. His skin prickles at the sound of her voice; laced with pain, with rejection. Your fault, he thinks. That pain is your fault.

“Is there someone else?” she asks then, and her voice is so feeble. So small, so un-Rachel that it makes his chest feel tight. Your fault.

Joel sighs, cringes, fumbles for the right words. The words to explain something that he himself doesn’t even fully understand. Words that will make her feel better, that will put her at ease. Put him at ease.

“It’s not….” he trails off, half-prepared to lie. But then he meets her gaze. Sees the tears that have settled on her waterline and knows he can’t. Wants to hate her for asking, wants to beg her to take back the question. But in the end he just admits quietly, “I suppose there is.”

She sniffles, and when she speaks again, it almost sounds like a question.

“You never mentioned anyone.”  

“I know,” Joel nods. “I’m sorry, I think I just… it’s complicated, and it… it’s new.”

“New,” she repeats softly. “And you never… you never thought of me that way.” This time it isn’t posed like a question. There is nothing open ended about it. Instead it’s resigned; final.

The corners of her mouth are downturned, and her lower lip wobbles, a movement so miniscule that he could have missed it if his eyes weren’t trained on her face. Trying painfully to understand this situation that feels as if it has crept up on him in his sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” Joel finds himself saying again, and he thinks his eyes must be wide, unblinking, because they’re dry, and he feels panicked.  

In his mind all he can think of is every cup of coffee in her office, every borrowed book, every sly joke in the corridor at work. Comforting smiles offered at conferences, snarky notes passed back and forth during faculty meetings. His friend. One of the truest, longest, most persevering ones in his life. One so dear to his heart. The idea of all of that being no more seems almost too painful to contemplate in the middle of a restaurant, with your fault thundering in his chest.

Rachel waves a hand. Feigns nonchalance and offers a watery smile.

“I’m happy for you, Joel,” she says. He doesn’t miss the waver in her voice, nor the harsh splash of crimson humiliation that stains the skin of her face. “I am. Really.”

Except he doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know what there is to be happy for. Can only watch her face. Can only sit, and stare like a fool at the way the skin beneath her eyes tightens as she draws back tears.

“I’m—” Rachel swallows. Sucks in a huge breath and flattens her palms against the table. Her napkin, stained with soft blots of red and brown, is pressed beneath the fingers of her left hand. The one with the sunspots and the ring and the scar. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’m going to use the restroom—”

“Rach,” he tries, hand reaching across the table for—for what? Joel isn’t sure. What is there to do? To say? “What can I do?”

“It’s okay,” she stands, holds a hand out to silence him. Steps out from the behind table and squeezes past him. Her fingers brush against his arm as she goes. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I just need a second to freshen up.”

Joel watches her weave through the restaurant, shifting around tables, until her back disappears through a door at the far end of the room.

There’s a minute of painful quiet. A sort of buzzing in his ears that won’t go away. For a moment all he’s aware of is the look of disdain coming from the woman on the table to his left, and the sharp pain in his chest, and then the sounds of the restaurant come rushing back in. Cutlery scraping against plates, conversation, laughter, the sound of a bell ringing. And something buzzing, really truly buzzing this time. Something against his leg.

Joel pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries not to wince when he sees her name on the screen.

Are you enjoying your dinner?

The glance he spares over his shoulder is short, searching, looking to see if she’s coming back yet. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

Yeah, the restaurant is nice.

What are you doing? 

Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed

Something tightens in his stomach, and he knows what she’s doing, knows this game so well. The way she always manages to creep beneath his skin. Knows exactly what to say, to do, to have him hanging on her every word.

His fingers hover over the screen, contemplating a response.

Is that right? he types out, and then grimaces, backspacing quickly.  

Want some company? he types next.

“Christ,” Joel mutters under his breath, erasing that too.

Embarrassment itches across his body. And then guilt, like a tidal wave chaser rushing to cool his inflamed skin, as he notices Rachel walking back toward him. You fucking asshole.

He straightens in his seat, tucking his phone out of sight as she hovers beside the table, eyes darting between him and her empty chair. She doesn’t sit down again.

“I think,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I should probably go. Early flight to catch, you know? I need to get some rest.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

He can feel his mouth hanging open, dumbfounded, ridiculous, as his brain scavenges for something to say. Never the right words, never when he needs them. Not for her, and not for Rachel.

Rachel reaches for her purse, and he holds out a hand. “Hey, let me… I’ll cover this.”

She pauses, nods. “Thanks.”

“Course,” he says gruffly. She pulls her coat from the back of her chair, wraps it around herself and does the buttons up slowly. Her mascara is smudged. “Hey, Rach, can we… should we talk about this some more? I don’t want to—”

“Not tonight,” she interrupts sharply. “Please, Joel, I’m sorry, just…. not tonight.”

—lose you.

“Sure, okay.” His throat is tight, your fault lodged heavy against his Adam’s apple. “You need help to get a taxi?”

“I’m fine,” she places a hand lightly on his shoulder, and presses her thumb against the skin beneath his collarbone. “Get home safe, okay? We can talk in Maine.”

“In Maine,” he repeats, and the words split and sour inside his mouth. “Okay.”

He doesn’t watch her leave. Doesn’t want to have to see her retreating from him. Doesn’t want to think about if this will be the last time they get to do this.

The waiter returns and he pays the bill, hastily jotting down a generous tip, and offers the women at the table on his left a tight-lipped smile before standing up.

When he finally makes his way outside, he finds a tax idling by the curb, lights on. The driver notices Joel staring; rolls down the window and raises his eyebrows. Where to?

Joel only shakes his head a little, leans his back against the dank, cold brick wall behind him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before opening his phone, and sends two words.

Show me.

And then, when she doesn’t respond for a moment, he sends another message. Insistent now. Desperate, and even more desperate not to let it show.

I know you want to show me, sweetheart.

And when she does show him, it takes all of his might not to let this guilt consume him. Takes everything not to ruminate on how quickly he can shift from I’m sorry to Show me.

Because her skin.

So much skin.

Soft, smooth; shrouded in a robe that covers more than he’d like, and he knows how it tastes. Knows how it feels. Could press his fingers, his lips, his nose, to every part of it that he’s touched, in the exact same places, from memory alone.

It’s cold outside – windy, the beginnings of tomorrow’s storm twisting through the air. He feels it snake across his neck, curl beneath the lip of his collar, as he takes in the curve of her breast, the stiff point of her nipple, peeking out from behind white fabric. His cock stiffens in his pants.

He gazes at the softest part of her stomach, the thatch of curls that cover her mound, and wants to press his palms against the plush of her thighs. Wants to lay himself atop her, feel that skin against his again, hear her whimper and moan beneath the broad weight of him as he slips inside her. Wants to snatch her finger from her mouth and glide it inside his own. With her slick and her skin against his tongue, he’d sink his teeth in and inhale that warmth, that beating, pulsating force that he’s found himself so intoxicated by.

And to think, only hours ago, he was doing just that. Lowering himself to the ground in a public bathroom and drinking her down. Feeling the muscles in her thighs pull tight and then loose against the sides of his head. Anything to satisfy the craving that only she seems to inspire in him.

Resolute, persistent – a probing, prodding thing that nips at his heels and thrusts him forward at a double time pace.

A hunger that follows him down the nights and down the days.

A hunger that can only ever be sated like the taking of a sacrament – on his knees, devotion in his eyes.

Jesus.

Are you wet?

You know I am.

Are you touching yourself?

Joel’s jaw tightens. He holds his breath and waits. Can’t quite tell what would be worse; knowing that she’s touching herself, alone, thinking about him, or that she isn’t, that she’s waiting for him. He can feel his cock leaking against his thigh.

No.

He exhales heavily, and the faintest hint of a groan slips out with it. Fuck, pull yourself together.

Joel’s fingers float over the keyboard, and for a moment he thinks of Rachel.

Thinks that if he could only bring himself to look up, to look away from her, he might be able to see Rachel still. The back of her coat, the dark scrawl of her hair, disappearing into the night. Joel thinks of the tears in her eyes, taunting him, threatening to spill spill spill, to streak down rosy cheeks and wet the hollow of her throat. Feels something throb and crack in his chest – a painful, resounding ache that hurts so much like fear, like loss. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

And wouldn’t that be so much easier? If he were to look away, to chase his friend down the street and tell her that he was wrong, that he wants her, that it makes sense for them to be together. Wouldn’t it be easier if that were true?

But he doesn’t stop looking at her. He thinks of Pothos, of Himeros, and stares at the soft curve of her stomach, the indent of her belly button.  Looks at the way her lower lip rests below her finger and pictures it swollen, slick with a medley of her spit and his. Even notices a small mark, nestled in the crevice between her hip and the top of her thigh. A fading remnant of where his teeth had once pinched – like a tangible little footprint, whispering that he was there.

Longing and desire flame between the cracks of his ribs; a bright white heat that curls itself around your fault until he manages to shake the thought.

What was it that Kaminsky said? There was no mythology: Odysseus hanged himself. Homer drank to death and stank of mud.

And perhaps he was right; for there is no witness to this. No being over his shoulder, God or mortal, to lay their eyes upon this moment and understand that all he has ever known of love is deprivation. That fondest, blindest, weakest part of his being that has always yearned for, or perhaps grieved over, this love that once seemed so intangible and now, at last, maybe he has been deemed worthy of.

Alone so long, living in a body grown accustomed to such quiet. Familiar with no touch other than that of his own rough palms. And now… the intensity of it shakes within him. The urge to sink his teeth in like a bad dog and hold, hold, hold, to consume and be consumed, and never yield to anyone who wants to take this away from him.

No, there is no looking away from that, from her. Joel feels the noose tighten around his neck the longer he stares – a dog on the leash of its own longing, that need only sharpening with every second that dares to pass.

And Joel knows that nothing has ever been easy. Considers the idea that maybe that’s how it was supposed to be for him. And perhaps he doesn’t want easy, doesn’t want simple. No – Joel was always drawn to the flame.

Good.

Dinner finished early. Where are you?

And that flame welcomes him now in kind. The arms of a lover spread open for embrace; the address of her hotel sent directly to his phone.

Joel looks up and makes eye contact with the taxi driver again. Light still on.

Where to?

**the Kaminsky mentioned in this is Ilya Kaminsky, and the quote is from Dancing in Odessa.

thank you for reading! x

[inthiseternalmoment]

A cashier (maybe?) flirted with me today and I’m trying to understand my heart

Revisiting my belief of romantic love never happening for me and whatever else my encounters with men the past few days has brought up in me

10/2/2023

Walked along the river walk to enjoy the last few warm days of the year and went to go get boba on the way back. The cashier struck up a conversation with me by asking about my watch and I thought he was kind of cute so I enjoyed going along with it.

I don’t know if he was into me or not, but internally I was feeling excited physically at the prospect 🥴

He even offered to give me a free drink the next time I came in (I was with Aprille so I wasn’t sure if he meant for us or just me, but it was still nice either way). It was through a stutter, and I took it as his possible nerves maybe? It was adorable either way, because I know I still get nervous around handsome guys (at my big age, yes). And I’m not going to be ashamed of that.

This interaction coming so close after meeting new people (with one of them physically catching my eye) has got me wondering where I am with all of this. If I actually met someone who was truly into me, how would that go for me?

Even just this little bit of an interaction was a lot for me to handle, I found myself immediately aroused and I haven’t felt that in a while. It was distracting me the entire way home and I don’t know fully what I’m feeling.

It’s almost like this sense of “don’t feel down if a handsome man you meet doesn’t return the feelings, because there’s something more for you in every moment if you realize it.”

I’m reflecting on this as I write.

One thing that sticks out is that the first man was mixed asian and the man today seemed full asian and I wonder if there is a significance there? With my track record being only white men, I got excited these last few days at the prospect of having romantic/intimate experiences with men of color. I have always found them attractive but the opportunity never fully arose and I had my own things to process about my relationship with my own ethnicity.

I’m reflecting now to the time back when I was dating…which is now 4 years ago? That’s a long time to go without any romantic intimacy whatsoever.

So to have a tiny taste of that the past few days has been strange. It’s a little as if I’m back in my college self? The one who dated and was having so many new and different experiences with romance?

And it’s not like I want to get my hopes up, but I saw an intuitive on TikTok talking about how this month could see romantic soulmates coming together. I don’t know. I’ve heard that many many many times before and things didn’t really pan out that way, so I wonder why this would be any different?

…

We’re watching Fruits Basket again for the first time since my awakening. I’ve been crying almost every episode this time, which is a huge departure from how I responded to it the first time.

I bring this up because I want to channel the main character as I process whatever these last few almost romantic have meant to me.

I want to be in gratitude that I can feel physical attraction in this way still. That this part of me wasn’t lost from years of inactivity or neglect.

I think part of me even had a shame or annoyance with it, because I continually viewed it as a nuisance for years.

In a way, I wished for a while that I could just “turn off” my interest in men altogether. I thought that it would make my life easier, because it was so difficult to be drawn to so many men whenever I was out and not have anything “happen.”

I think in that way, I believe that I will never truly experience real love with a man.

The psychic in edgewater even saw I had this belief. The same one who encouraged me to start this journal.

Why do I think this?

…

I think it started young. Looking back, I was always drawn to my male friends in a way that was different to the way I was drawn to female friends. And then when sexual feelings began in adolescence, I think I started to pull into myself.

I knew I was different. I knew I needed to be hidden somehow, because the world that was around me didn’t seem to have space for my confusing feelings.

It might have been then that I started forming this idea that my feelings towards guys would never be reciprocated. I had already began locking part of myself away.

I thought maybe in college that was completely unlocked, because I started to see that my belief wasn’t true. Guys did like me back (at least some of them), and I shared many beautiful experiences with them.

So why is this still coming up?

At least some of them.

What does that mean? Was it that all guys I was interested in needed to reciprocate? No. Maybe it was that the ones I was interested in as people in my social sphere (acquaintances or new friends) were not interested (like back in college when I told guys I was interested and got politely declined).

Maybe there is something there with the idea that my feelings/romance could only be relegated to dating apps, because I bought into the notion that “the world isn’t made for me so these apps are crucial if we want to have these experiences.”

I don’t want to believe that anymore. I actually don’t. So maybe this is some residual hanging around from back in college. I looked at that time with so much love for what it did for my sad gay heart. I finally had gay experiences and that was life changing! But I haven’t had any since then, and I’m still applying my spiritual understandings to any leftover beliefs from that time.

I think I’m onto something about experiencing romance from people I meet and befriend organically as opposed to meeting through a dating app where the intention is just that.

I think I want the experience of befriending people with shared interests – and having one of those friendships expand into a mutual romantic relationship.

…

The cashier today actually had someone (who left before we arrived) leave a note saying “ur cute” and their phone number on a piece of paper. I was processing that happening at the same time I was finding myself interested in talking to him. What is the synchronicity here?

I don’t know that I’ve fully gotten to the bottom of this tonight, but I am still a little shaken from the past few days and what they have done for my (maybe not sad but something else?) gay heart. In some ways my gay heart is a little sad, but my healing has helped mend that in some ways.

And in terms of my life moving forward, it’s not like I have to choose between untethering and romantic love.

I believe they’re the same thing.

[lilyblackdrawside]

I deduced through an interface clue that I’ve unlocked every tank class, so here are my opinions on them. I’m going to freestyle translate the class names since I don’t want to look at wikis or whatever before I beat the game. They’re listed in order of acquisition.

Zephyr: Fun to play, many buttons, doesn’t do anything though. It’s the baseline for evade tanks. I haven’t actually played it in forever, but have good memories of it. It doesn’t contribute anything in the way of Break-chains or anything, but it’s good at holding aggro and has above-average Aether Defense, which is nice.

Mighty Guard: Slow. Slooooow... Baseline for blockers. Feels like you never hit anything, its Topple is very delayed, every art is very delayed, everything feels like it has a much longer cooldown than other classes. It’s not all that fun. But I did just uncap its level and I’m using it again. I’m slowly getting a taste for it. Instead of mostly using fusion-arts, it feels better to chain regular arts together with this one. This leads to me pretty much just spamming assorted Agnus arts though, so is that really a point in its favour? Aggro is always a struggle and if it’s meant to be a support-tank then it doesn’t feel good at it. It does have a very good tank-aura and transfers a nice aoe for fusion moves. Just don’t use it without fusion or you’re locked into a five minute animation.

Nopon-Guardian: I guess this goes here, since I got it third. Does a great job at being dodgy. Strangely has higher phys def than arts def, atypical for dodge-types. For a while I thought it was pretty op, because you get a lot of free arts-charging just by dodging and existing near allies. You can use arts that cause you to auto-dodge during their animation, which will recharge your other arts and you can have auto-dodge arts in several slots so in certain fights you become pretty much untouchable. Has a transferrable Break move, which is pretty nice. When I came back to it after uncapping its levels, I had a lot of fun with it once more. Watching for enemy animations and special arts so you can actively dodge them via auto-dodge arts feels good. The other tanks don’t give me this sense of active damage prevention as much. There’s also this whole gimmick where you have to die to get the most out of your performance, but once you have it at a high enough level you only have to die twice to get it stacked, and with the moves I’m using it just ups the damage of the special art and gives boost to charge rate. Both are nice, but not something I’ll kill myself over.

Guard-Commander: I like Zeon so much. He’s such a good guy and I wish him only the best. He’s earnest and always gives it his all. Such a shame that I didn’t get much out of his class for a long time. Similarly to Lanz’ class, I had trouble getting aggro. This time it was for a lack of any kind of aggro-multiplier! It didn’t help that for the longest time there just weren’t any transferrable moves that helped with this issue, but over time I got more tools to work with and now I think it’s really good! Aggro aside, this one’s actually really good as a backup-tank due to its aura. It’s the classic cover thing, where attacks aimed at low-health allies in range will be moved to you instead. This pairs really well with dodge tanks, since you can then safely make use of stuff that boosts performance at low health. Looking back, I noticed that the main problem with this class had been that without its Awakening buff it's not able to do much on its own, but to get that buff you need to use its special art, but to charge it you need to have aggro, but to get aggro you need the buff. This class gets better in drawn-out engagements, because the special art is really good. Once you do have aggro, it charges very quickly, especially against multiple enemies, and its effect is just wonderful. Just no good for quick fights, that’s all really and needed more cross-class arts than I had when I unlocked it.

Ashera’s Class: This one is a made-up word in German and I have no idea what they could have possibly named it in English. When I saw this one I was so hyped, because of Ashera’s plentiful scenes with Eunie and it’s so stylish, but in practice it just didn’t perform well. The main draw is that for a tank it deals pretty good damage and it has a global aggro-increase via a talent, but I found it tough to keep aggro. Aggro-generation is something I can work around, but I also found that this class just doesn’t give much survivability. Now, this makes sense, given who Ashera is, but it just isn’t practical. However consider this: Blossom Dance. I hope it’ll go better once I uncap it and have another go.

Lost-Vanguard: Made an immediate good impression. It has quick-charging attacks, good aoe-aggro and it’s an Agnus class, which gives it very good cross-class arts options. Not that Agnus classes have bad arts, they just don’t transfer the good stuff. Really tanky, very reliable, just needs some extra hit gear. I don’t have much to say about this one, but I don’t like it much. It’s a style issue. It directly competes with Zeon’s class in that matter, since they’re both shield-users, but you just can’t beat Zeon. He’s too cool. I much prefer his sleek weapon design over Monica’s stuff.

I forgot about Soulhacker. It can technically be a tank, but I've never used it as such. In fact, I haven't actively used it at all so far. I'm just pushing that duty onto other party members until I have a good selection of stuff and the moves are upgraded (which did recently happen) and until Eunie's done with the regular tanking classes. Looking at it, it could be decent. There are a few moves with increased aggro, it has a bunch of interesting defensive talents too, but I'll have to play it to see.

Ranking:

Guard-Commander

Nopon-Guardian

Ashera’s Class (I’ll make it work out I swear and then it’ll be No.2)

Zephyr

Mighty Guard

Lost-Vanguard

[justcleodora]

...

"Mother says I am disappointing the God's," was what Cleodora wanted to say. Her voice would have sounded small, and her shoulders would have drawn together as though she could shield herself from simply the God's condemning eyes. Cleodora did not say this however, it would be a while before she admitted her core concerns about her connection to the land and the gift of foresight.

Tajhana was right, Cleodoras mother was always insisting she saw two paths for her daughter. One was a path of escalating selfishness and disconnect from her gift, her gods and even her family. The other path was one where Cleodora was as clear sighted as her names sake, and an important member of the family. Both paths sounded extreme in Cleodoras mind, two extreme opposites that made the Nymph wonder if her mother was simply trying to manipulate her unruly daughter.

Cleodora, instead, pouted her lips, as a soft line formed between her brows. She was uncomfortable, to say the least. The nymph adored making a good impression, stunning people with her good looks or with something devilish she might have proclaimed. But this, discussing the gift she felt in her heart she simply had no talent for, and being confronted about it by this beauty... it was wholly cruel, and Cleodora resented her dear mother for it.

Still the sound of the teahouse perked her up. Cleodora knew exactly which tea house Tajhana referred to, some of her siblings enjoyed the haven, and Cleodora had avoided it for the same reason she was unhappy with this conversation; it seemed to shine the burning suns eye on her flaws. It would however be an opportunity, work wise at least.

"You want me to train under you at the tea house?" The Nymph asked, unable to help herself. She imagined the looks of jealousy off her sisters and Cleodora couldn't help but smile at the thought. Her mother would be entirely too proud, though which was off putting... she considered Tajhanas gentle prodding.

Ultimately she had little talent and would fail and bomb, the humiliation would be twicefold because then someone outside of her huge family would know. Cleodora had a sinking feeling that her heart couldn't take that kind of defeat. On the other hand, Tajhana had a reputation, a grand one and Celodora envisioned the respect and acceptance she might acquire from being associated with the seer. She could picture herself walking behind Tajhana in a public space. Cleodora would look regal and composed, humble and dignified standing behind the seer, she could almost hear the excited gossiping around them. The nymphs heart skipped several beats, the perfect tableaux of beauty and power in her imagination almost knocking her back.

"What do you think you should do with me once I prove myself useless?" Cleodora asked, an eyebrow raising as she imagined Tajhana's heavy sigh of defeat, a single glum shake of the head towards Cleodora's mother, and the entire family then hurriedly ushering the disgraced nymph from the teahouse. Never to return again. Cleodora decided then and there, that the catastrophe would quite positively kill her. She would fall into a catatonic sleep and never wake up again. She had no other choice, what was she to do, show her face around town, around her family? For shame.

"It's one thing to walk away from the gift, and another to have the gift be ever so slightly out of reach..." Cleodora confided in the stranger, assuming Tajhana would have understood what she couldn't say out loud. While the confession came out easily, it was not one Cleodora had shared with anyone besides a single sibling when she was little. Instinctively, Cleodora sucked in her lower lip and bit down hard on the plump skin, hard enough to bruise.

There was a moment where pink seemed to flash over Cleodora's eyes that Tajhana only just caught, curious if it was perhaps something instinctual and emotional, or if it was indeed some sort of foresight coming to the surface in reaction to seeing Tajhana's own so prominently displayed. It was certainly curious and Tajhana intended to see if she could draw it out again eventually, as Cleodora's eyes did shift back to blue quickly.

"Why would a God do such a thing?" Tajhana responded, because while the various Gods that gave gifts or purpose to people could be benevolent for the most part, in Tajhana's in experience, they were disinterested and selfish, their own emotions weighing more heavily on them than that of those who believed in them, or held some connection to them. "Why would a God care about you specifically? Why would they care what gifts you've attained unless it benefitted them?" she continued, glancing at the store as Cleodora suggested she was made for manual labour.

Eventually as Cleodora continued on her mother her eyes came back to the nymph. "Perhaps your mother cares more than a God, and desires your visions clearer so you are as strong as you have the potential to be?" Tajhana mused, allowing her eyes to close, the fold of her lid lingering for a moment before eventually it was as though it was not there at all. "Perhaps if she has a sight of her own she knows you are not a lost cause, and that your potential is far greater than the 'giggly nymphs' around her," she continued. "All things you would know the answers too if you were willing to practice with me."

Tajhana adjusted the fabric that draped over her form, feeling it slowly shift off her shoulder, but continued her thoughts. "You need not practice with me, if you truly feel you are hopeless, but the Teahouse is still a place of relaxation and freedom from judgement," she insisted, a softness to her words that were perhaps more pleading than her other statements. In the end she could only push people so much, but she could always hope they still desired an exploration of self, even if it was just conversationally. "No one person is one thing that they have ever done or experienced. You could simply enjoy a warm drink with someone kind."