#if people spent less time trying to shield him from the criticism

[fllowered]

changkyun appeared on this celebrity block list and people are making all kinds of assumptions about him….. and this is why we should have made more of an effort to address the issue instead of attempting to bury it yet again

[reunionatdawn]

My Analysis of the Best Paired Endings in 3H (Part 2: Dimitri/Byleth)

Despite the popularity of some of Dimitri's M/M ships, he seemed to be a typical heterosexual man to me. However, his straightness was actually part of what made his character so interesting, ironically. He spent his youth absorbed in masculine activities like hunting, training, and practicing with the sword.

He was willing to TRY and take Sylvain's advice to pick up girls. But he was very inexperienced with women. Chivalry definitely promotes homoromantic social bonding among men. And perhaps because of that very male-dominated culture he grew up in, he deeply yearned for a relationship with a woman.

The tagline for the game was, "Sweet memories twisted by time's cruel hand". Dimitri's feelings for his stepsister may have been only puppy love, but it was his first time emotionally connecting with a girl. It was one of his sweetest memories. That was why Edelgard's betrayal hurt him so deeply. The emotional core of AM is Byleth taking the spot in Dimitri's heart that Edelgard once held.

The developers did not want to write an entirely different script just to accommodate male Byleth. So, they just took out the Goddess Tower scene, S-Support, and paired ending. The loss of which are a huge detriment to the integrity of the story. Dimileth is just as "canon" as its counterpart Edeleth. I don't even think AM's story or Dimitri's redemption make sense unless there was a romantic connection between those two. Dimitri's Goddess Tower event even foreshadows that specific scene, proving that the moment Byleth reached out her hand was written with romantic undertones.

Byleth being female is an integral part of the story of AM. If Byleth represented the divine masculine in CF, then it follows that she represented the divine feminine in AM. She was a vessel for the soul of the goddess, but more importantly she was a human who could directly intervene in the world and support people with her own flesh and blood.

Dimileth is often criticized for being a simple "fixing the bad boy" straight girl fantasy. But it's less cliche than people give it credit for. Byleth and Dimitri are an interesting blend of masculine and feminine qualities. Byleth is a silent protagonist, but I could tell that Dimitri enjoyed her dry sarcastic sense of humor. She was not a typical healer or pegasus knight like most FE love interests, but a deadly mercenary. She was meant to be similar to Glenn, which is why Felix sees her as his rival.

She serves the role of being Dimitri's sword and shield and stood at his side and protected him during the final battle, filling the knightly role Glenn would have if he had survived (and the role Felix serves in Hopes). She was the Seiros to his Wilhelm. Dimitri is one of the very few male characters that Byleth will give her mother's ring to when she proposes. Yes, it is a woman's ring that Dimitri wears. In fact, Dimitri's whole character arc is about rediscovering and embracing the softer feminine qualities he had as a young boy.

The Professor taught Dimitri how to live. In AG, Dimitri told Shez that from the moment he was born, he never felt like his life belonged to himself. He overworked himself because it was the only way he knew how to live. After Duscur he lost everyone, including his best friend, and his life belonged to their ghosts. The only time he could imagine being happy was upon his death, having devoted his life to forming a peaceful kingdom full of joyful citizens. He yearned for someone to stand by his side and give him a reason to live for himself.

I've seen many people online criticize Dimileth because they say Dimitri already had plenty of people that he was close to in his life and his non-Byleth relationships should have played the biggest role in his redemption. But I disagree. The story made it quite clear that Dimitri's support system was totally inadequate for his emotional needs and could not have pulled him from the abyss.

He was not actually all that close to his childhood friends, even before the Tragedy of Duscur, and he did not confide in them about what he was feeling. He said Rodrigue was the only person outside the castle he was close to. Rodrigue obviously cared for him, but he had not seen Dimitri in two years prior to the academy. Dimitri and Dedue shared a very powerful bond. Losing Dedue was the cause of Dimitri’s initial descent into savagery. But Dedue still insisted on being his vassal instead of his friend and equal.

Felix was obligated to fill the role due to his bloodline, but he did not WANT to be the person Dimitri unburdened his heart to. He was constantly irritable and losing his patience in Azure Gleam. Glenn was one of the ghosts who shadowed Dimitri's every move. And Felix said that since Glenn's death, "his memory has followed me around like a shadow." He hated acting as his brother's replacement. In their AG A-Support, it seemed like he was pretending to like the idea of being the right-hand man because of how dependent Dimitri was on him. We see a direct parallel of that scene in AM where Dimitri is hallucinating in the chapel. While Felix certainly felt compassion for him, he was very eager to foist the role of confidant onto Byleth.

Without anyone to lean on, Dimitri acts pretty monstrous. For five years, he tortured and killed people brutally, as if they were not even human. He threatened to kill Randolph's friends and remove his eyeballs before killing him and we can probably assume that he actually did that sort of thing to his other victims. I related so well with Felix because I felt the exact same mix of disgust and pity towards him.

I didn't ship Dimileth because I self-inserted onto Byleth and I wanted to marry him. I just wanted Byleth to accept him. And I don't find it difficult to believe that she would. Because before she was the stand-in for the goddess, she was the Ashen Demon who cut people down with no emotion. She only began to smile when she started teaching his class. He offered his shoulder to lean on when she lost Jeralt, something the other two house leaders didn't do.

The main ideological conflict between Edelgard and Dimitri was how much they are willing to compromise and accept the unacceptable. Dimitri seemed to understand that Edelgard had legitimate issues with the Church of Seiros as well as the existing world order. But he thought that total destruction of that system would require too much sacrifice. It was an interesting moral quandary.

And honestly, there was no easy answer. In an ideal world, there would be no false religion and no such thing as nobility, period. Even most of the nobles in the cast would have been happier to just be regular people. AM certainly doesn't end in a utopia or anything (although it's less status quo than AG). It was about the characters compromising and making concessions with an inherently unjust system because perhaps taking innocent human life is wrong even if it's for a just cause.

The Crest of Blaiddyd is associated with Strength. The Strength Tarot card is the Major Arcana of inner strength. It represents mastering raw emotions in order to bring calm to yourself or a situation. Dimitri was born on the winter solstice making him a Sagittarius, which is a masculine fire sign symbolized by a centaur. The horse portion of the Sagittarius symbol is unruly, relentless, beastly, and strong. The human portion is wisdom-seeking and rational. Dimitri's character arc was about overcoming his anger and hatred and becoming the wise "Savior King" who could reach out his hand to his mortal enemy.

Byleth & Dimitri The marriage of the newly appointed Archbishop, Byleth, and Dimitri, who officially ascended to the throne of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, further delighted the people amidst the celebrations of the end of the war. Continuously seeking a better future for Fódlan, they pursued their ideals, gradually reforming the traditional political systems and the structure of the Church. They upheld their roles as leaders of the Church and the state, engaging in intense debates at times. However, when they went on long rides or hunting trips alone together, they wore not the faces of the Archbishop and the King, but those of an ordinary, loving couple.

JRPGs are known for "killing god". AM ends not with you destroying the church but becoming its leader. The people of Fódlan paid lip service to the goddess, but they actually revered Nemesis and the 10 Elites. So much so that Rhea had no choice but to refer to them as heroes and Crests as gifts from the goddess. Fódlan is a patriarchal land. Faerghus especially so.

With Fódlan unified under Faerghus, Byleth acts as the divine feminine force who will change that society from the inside out, just as she did her husband. Is rulership by a benevolent monarch and a matriarchal pope a good enough ending? Well, that's for the player to decide. But I found it to be the best ending, both for Fódlan and for Dimitri and Byleth themselves.

[likecanyoujustnot]

ACOSF- Feysand’s pov

Part 2: The reveal

A/n: do they have stoves in prythian? Idk. I’m saying they do. Also. Grovelling Rhys, I haven’t read a lot of things where they’ve had to grovel, so I hope it’s good. And nesta (😒). This is a very critical moment in the book, and in Feysand’s relationship. And I hope I did it justice.

Feyre

I was here far too late, spent too much time on this painting. Adriata, what it would look like once it was repaired. Rhys had shown me what it used to look like in his memories, the streets without rubble, with whole buildings, and happy people. Before Amarantha.

It was a small canvas to go in the baby’s- Nyx’s- nursery. A larger version leaned against the wall- a birthday gift for Tarquin.

I was finishing up the clouds in the sky when a frantic knocking sounded.

“Feyre?” It was… Varian.

Why was Varian knocking at this time of night?

I walked over to the door and opened it. He was shirtless and panting.

“What is it?” Something had happened. Fear shot through me. “Is it Rhys?”

He shook his head arm braced against the doorframe. “Nesta. She’s in Amren’s apartment. Pissed.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, I came to get you as soon as Nesta told me to get out, but she’s pissed- is that Adriata?” He looked behind me at the artwork. “It’s magnificent.”

I ignored the compliment, beckoning him to step out of the door so I could lock up.

“Come on.”

I couldn’t run, not without fearing I would hurt the baby. It was a delicate time, Madja had informed us less than two weeks ago, our most recent visit. When she had revealed the baby had wings. That it would make the labour more risky, which had caused Rhys to go pale. He’d been distant ever since.

“How did she even get down here? It’s ten thousand steps, that’s no easy feat.” We speed walked through the streets on our way to the apartment, I was grateful for Varian keeping pace with me, even though he probably wanted nothing more to run back there and protect Amren.

“I don’t know, she didn’t even seem winded.”

I reached out in my mind for Cassian.

Feyre. She’s in the city.

I know, she’s at Amren’s. Varian said she’s pissed.

Shit.

We got to the apartment and rushed up the stairs, there were shouts coming from inside.

“Stop this.” I was out of breath from running up all those stairs, but they both turned to me, Varian close behind. “Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.”

“Did Cassian tell you that?”

“No, but I can guess as much. He didn’t want to keep anything from you.” Cassian and my sister had a strange relationship, it was no secret they’d been sleeping together.

“My issue isn’t with Cassian.” She turned and glared at Amren “I trusted you to have my back”

The female glared right back, “I stopped having your back the moment you decided to use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.”

“This conversation ends now. Nesta go back to the House. Amren you…” this was her house, and I knew better than to try and order her around “you stay here.”

Nesta let out a low laugh, “You are her high lady. You don’t have to cater to her. Not when she now has less power than any of you.”

She was beginning to piss of Amren, which was dangerous territory. “Amren is my friend, and has been a member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.”

“Is it respect she offers you? Is it respect that your mate offers you?” Nesta spat.

Amren hissed at her “Don’t you say one more fucking word, Nesta Archeron.”

“What do you mean?” Rhys-.

“Have any of them told you, their respected high lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?” There was nothing in her voice but cold, no feelings. And my heart stopped.

“Shut your mouth!”

It… couldn’t be true… Rhys- he would’ve told me. “What do you mean?”

“The wings, the boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your fae body during labour, and it will kill you both.”

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. “Madja just said the labour would be risky. But the Bone Carver… the son he showed me didn’t have wings.” No no no. “Did he only show me what I wanted to see?”

“I don’t know, but I do know that your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.” Nesta turned to Amren. “Did you all vote on that too? Did you talk about her, judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your vote Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?” I could hardly hear her over the pounding of my heart. “Didn’t you question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a moody bastard for weeks? Because he knows you will die. He knows, and yet he still didn’t tell you.” Rhys. He- wouldn’t’ve. But clearly he had

I was shaking. I looked at the tattoo on my left arm, the death bargain. “If I die…” he dies too. No. “You… all of you knew this?” I looked at Amren, she was blurry through the tears.

“We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as any physical threat.”

“Rhys knew?” I was full-on crying now. It wasn’t possible. “About the threat to our lives?” Not just mine and Nyx’s, but to his as well. I looked down at the arm cradling my stomach. At our son. Who maybe I would never meet.

Amren said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.”

Yes. Rhys. Fuck. He kept this from me, he knew I would die, and he didn’t tell me.

“I hope you’re content now.” Amren was talking, in the background, I didn’t hear it, didn’t see Nesta storm out the apartment, past Varian, standing there awkwardly.

Instead I covered my face with my hands and cried, sinking to the ground.

Rhysand

I hated meeting with the palace governors. It was boring, the same old stuff. Pointless, compared to the raging in my mind.

Feyre would die. Nyx would die. And I would die.

And I could do nothing to stop it.

All my life I’d had answers to any problem that faced me. And yet now when it came to saving the most important thing in my life, I was powerless.

I knew it was wrong to keep it from her. But I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her, to take away this thing that had brought us so much joy. And it was as Amren had told me “the fear could very well harm the baby”.

I was pathetic. And a coward.

I’d known for almost two weeks now. Cassian, Azriel, Amren, Mor, Nesta, Helion, Miryam, Drakon. They all knew

They all knew before Feyre.

I walked along the Rainbow. The rainbow Feyre had so bravely defended those years ago. I walked up to one of the railings on the edge of the bridge and looked at the water.

Sunday. Sunday. I would give Helion until Sunday to get back to me with anything. Or I would tell her regardless. Yeah. I could make us dinner, we could sit on the roof. And then I would break her heart.

Two days.

I’d done all I could think of, I’d gone and visited Miryam and Drakon on Cretea, and had left defeated. I asked Mor to make discreet enquires on the continent. I’d begged Helion to help us. On my knees. On the tattoos of the mountains and stars. I would kneel for no one. No one but my mate. And for the male I hoped could save her.

It was late. Feyre was probably at the studio. I smiled. I was so happy she’d found something, something that brought her joy. She would tell me stories of the children at her studio, at what that made her laugh, made her cry, made her excited to have our own child.

At the end of each week she would come home with the painting she’d been working on, pride on her face. And the paintings themselves incredible. It was pure talent.

She’d tried to teach me how to paint . I did not have the same natural ability she did. Private lessons usually ended with me taking her on whatever surface I could, ending up covered in paint.

I smiled at the memory. Turning to the road that would take me to the studio.

Rhysand.

Amren.

Come here, now. It’s Feyre

Fear shot through me and I reached across the bond for Feyre. Being met with nothing but her shields. I pressed against her consciousness, she usually let me in. I felt myself practically thrown from her mind, and I knew something was seriously wrong.

I winnowed to the entrance of Amren’s building, barging through the doors and running up the stairs.

I heard Feyre inside.

“You called for him.” She hissed.

“Yes I did, and I do not regret it.”

I through open the door and stopped. Feyre was lying on the floor glaring at Amren before turning to me.

“You.” She hissed. I flinched.

“You knew. You knew and you didn’t tell me.” Her voice broke, my heart with it.

Fuck. I understood, she knew about the wings.

“Feyre darling.”

“No.” She stood up, taking deep breaths. “Don’t do that.”

“Feyr-”

“How could you not tell me?! And to hear it from Nesta, of all people.”

I was missing a very big part of the story. But rage overtook my rational thought. Nesta. Fucking Nesta. She had done this.

Cassian.

Yes? He sounded grim.

Get Nesta out of the city before I kill her.

I didn’t wait for his response.

I approached Feyre, slowly, carefully, this stress would not be good for the baby.

“I’m so sorry, really I am, I know there’s no excuse, but I was afraid. And I’m so so sorry-” I tried to keep my voice calm, I took her face in my hands and wiping away at the tears on her cheeks, feeling them running down my own. Amren and Varian walked out into the hall, closing the door behind them.

She took a step back and my stomach dropped.

“Feyre-”

“Not right now Rhys.” She took a deep breath. “I need to calm down, if I don’t the baby could be hurt.”

Of course. Of course she’s just been told she’ll die and she’s thinking about the baby. My heart ached.

“I’m going to the cabin.” With that she winnowed away.

I fell to my knees. Sobbing.

I didn’t hear Amren open the door. Or poke me with her foot. I didn’t hear Azriel come into the apartment. I don’t know how he knew what happened. And I didn’t care as he hauled me up, throw my arm over his shoulder and winnowed us to the river house. As he half dragged me through the hallway and put me on the couch in the office.

My eyes were open, unseeing as he peered at me, shadows darting out, brushing my face, as if to confirm I was ok.

“You fucked up man.”

“I know.” My voice was hoarse.

“Get some sleep. Figure it out in the morning. Don’t do anything irrational.”

He walked over to the door.

“Good night brother.” His voice was soft as he left.

I woke up. Head pounding. Arms, back and neck stiff. I opened my eyes and saw I was in the office. On the couch. Feyre was always telling me I shouldn’t be sle-

Feyre.

The baby’s wings.

Nesta.

I wasn’t going to kill her. As much as I hated her, I hated myself more. And killing Nesta would only serve to piss off Cassian, and deeply upset Feyre and Elain.

So I would have to deal with the consequences.

I groaned and stood up. I was grateful for Az for bringing me here and not to our room. Probably would’ve upset me more. It was bad enough, the paintings hanging on the walls she had so carefully painted, her lingering sent.

It was like I had heartburn.

The door opened and I turned. Feyre-

No. Azriel.

“You needn’t look so disappointed.” There was a slight smile on his face.

“Cassian back?”

“I don’t think he’ll be back for a few days.”

I sat back down on the couch. My brother taking the spot across from me.

“So…” he began. “You fucked up.”

“You said as much last night.” I dropped my head into my hands. Fuck. “I- I thought I could find an answer. That I could tell her once I knew how to stop her dying. I could stop her hurting the baby from stress. That I could keep that joy in her eyes. Not replacing it with fear.” I looked up at Az.

“You should tell her that.”

“I don’t think she wants to talk to me at the moment.”

“You could try. Maybe she’ll hear you out.”

We were silent for a while. Az and I were like that. We didn’t need to fill the comfortable silence with unnecessary conversation.

“I’m no better than that asshole who looked her in his house.”

“Rhys.” There was a harshness in his words. “Don’t say that. You’re so much more, better, you’re selfless and courageous. Unlike him, you didn’t do it to control Feyre.”

“But I did it out of fear.”

“He did it out of fear he could not save Feyre when it was shown she could save herself. You did it to prevent her from feeling fear. To keep her as happy as you could, Rhys, even though it ate you up inside.”

I sighed. “It’s still no excuse.”

“What matters is not what you’ve done, it’s how you move on from it. You’ve made the mistake, you’ve shown regret for your actions. All you can do is beg and pray to the mother she will forgive you, and never do anything like it again.” Azriel’s face was calm, collected. He smiled a bit, “and pray she doesn’t chop off your dick.”

He was quiet most of the time, but Az had a sense of humour.

“I’ll go to the cabin after breakfast.”

Az stood up, and I clapped him on the shoulder, and hugged him. He thumped my back. And we walked down to the kitchen. On the way he filled me in that Cassian had told Nesta about the weapons, that we’d voted on it, and in a fit of rage, she’d descended the ten thousand steps and had gone to Amren’s.

Az left halfway through breakfast, saying he would otherwise have to deal with a few annoyed priestesses. I was glad he and Cassian were training them. Glad at the glimmer in Az’s eyes.

I would pay a visit to them one day. See their training.

“If I’m not back in two days, come look for me.”

He grinned as he winnowed out.

Feyre.

I had a plan in my mind. And hope in my heart. A foolish, childish hope, but hope nonetheless.

I had fucked up. And I would have to live with it.

Mother help me.

Feyre

That asshole. He knew. He knew. And I heard from Nesta. Said in the most condescending way, she hadn’t done it out of the goodness of her heart, she did it to hurt me.

I walked up to the cabin and threw the door open.

Maybe I would paint the whole thing black. Burn down the house.

No.

No.

I would not let this anger, this pain, consume me. I would be strong. I would not let my child feel this.

I sat on the couch and looked around the house. It was the same as it was the last time we were here. When I had convinced Rhys to step away from the work for a few days. Safe to say work was the last thing on his mind.

I got up and looked in the cupboards, surely there would be some food. Yes. Soup and bread.

As the soup heated up I nibbled at pieces of the bread and contemplated what I would say to Rhys the next time I saw him.

He has this problem where felt he had to take the burden of all his problems himself. Cassian had said he’d been like that for as long as he could remember. Rhys felt that he could solve any difficulty that crossed him. And I knew that that’s what caused this. He couldn’t fix this problem. And it was killing him. I’d seen it in his haunted expression when he’d seen me on the floor in front of Amren.

Made worse because it was his genes that caused the wings.

But just because he had a reason didn’t make it right.

He’d show up in the morning, I knew that.

I put the soup in a bowl and sat at the table.

“Why’d you have to have wings, mmh?” I frowned at my stomach. “Couldn’t’ve just been born like your daddy, could you?”

I washed up the dishes and headed to the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me in the mirror, still covered in paint from the studio, pale, scared.

I washed the paint off my arms and face and got changed into a spare change of clothes.

The bed smelt like Rhys. I stared at the ceiling, I’d painted stars on it not that long ago, Rhys watching me with adoration on his face.

I fell asleep to that memory, hands on my stomach.

The sun was blaring through the window, I’d forgotten to close the blinds. My head pounded as I groaned and rolled out of bed. I wasn’t that far along but things had gotten harder.

I walked out of the bedroom and froze at the scene I saw.

Rhys.

Standing in the kitchen, wings out, wearing a tight black shirt, grey sweatpants and making, eggs?

The male knew I didn’t stand a chance against his cooking.

“What are you doing?”

“Omelette.” He turned to me and smiled.

So that’s how we were doing it then.

“I don’t want you here.” I crossed my arms.

“I know. That’s why I’m making you breakfast.” He flipped the omelette onto the plate and took it over to the table. “Eat.”

I remembered when I’d accepted the mating bond, put food in front of him and said that same word. Last time I’d been pissed at him too.

I slipped into the seat furthest from him and used my magic to bring the food to me. My hands were shaking as I brought the fork to my mouth.

He watched me intently. “How are you doing?”

Setting the cutlery down I replied, “Considering I’ve just been told the child I’m carrying will kill me, I’m okay.” He flinched. But I went on. “And having to hear it from my sister who probably would be happy if I did die, and only told me because she’s upset and unstable. Oh and that my mate has known for close to two weeks and not fucking told me.” My voice broke on the last word.

The chair screeched as Rhys got up and knelt in front of me.

He tucked my hair begin my ear. “I’m so fucking sorry.” I held his gaze as his hands came around mine in my lap. “Nothing I can say, nothing I can do will change what I did, and I will have to live with that. I fucked up. I thought that Miryam and Drakon would have a way.” So that’s why he’d been so haunted when he’d come back from Cretea. “Or that Helion would have something in his libraries.”

“You asked him to look the other day.”

There was pure agony in his expression as he said. “I begged him. I fell on my knees and pleaded with him to help me find a way to save you.” His gaze went to my stomach. “To save both of you.”

On his knees. On those tattoos that meant he wouldn’t kneel for anyone.

“Does he know how to save us?” My voice was barely there.

“I don’t know. I was going to give him till Sunday to get back to me. Or I was going to tell you anyway.” He looked defeated. “I’d wanted to, sweetheart, I really did. But I couldn’t take that happiness out of your eyes. I couldn’t replace it with fear, apprehension.”

We were both crying now.

“You hurt me, Rhys. You broke my trust.”

He pressed his forehead to mine. “I know, Feyre darling. And I swear I won’t do it ever again.”

“You better not.”

He smiled and kissed my forehead. “I’m so sorry. And I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you. However long it takes.” His hands went to the sides of my face, wiping away my tears. “You are the best fucking thing in my life, Feyre, my mate, my wife, my love, my best friend, the mother of my child, my high lady, and I love you, so so much.”

A choked sob escaped my mouth. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

My arms went around his neck and I burried my face in his neck. “I love you.”

And as he kissed me, and I almost forgot that we would have to go back to reality, to a world in which we would both die unless we could do something.

We lay in bed, arms and legs entangled, hair mussed and bodies sore.

“Rhys.” My voice was hoarse from screaming.

“Yes?” He smoothed back my hair.

“If… we die… who will be high lord?” The question had been on my mind since the truth had been revealed.

“Since I don’t have any children, brothers or uncles, probably a distant cousin in the Hewn City.” He paused. “We’ll have to write a few things, make sure Mor, Cass, Az and Amren are protected by the law, ensure Velaris passes into good hands and remains safe.”

“It… couldn’t be Keir could it?”

Rhys pressed a kiss to my temple. “Highly unlikely. He already has a high up position, and is very old.” He sighed. “Don’t worry about what will happen. Helion might still find something.”

“You don’t look so sure.”

He laid his head on me, right above my stomach, one hand resting on it. He remained quiet

“I don’t need you to worry about scaring me.”

There was a poignant silence and he started tracing patterns on my bare abdomen. “I’ve been around Illyrians my entire life. And I’ve never heard of there being a way to bypass the issue of a High Fae female’s pelvis not being able to pass a winged baby.”

“What does Madja think?”

He looked up at me. “She thinks that shifting… might be the best course of action.”

“But we don’t know how shifting will affect the baby.”

“Yes, but it could save you.”

“Rhys.”

He sat up. “Shifting would make sure you survive the labour.”

I sat up. “I won’t shift and doom Nyx.”

“Feyre, if there’s any way to save you, I will do it, I will put your life first. I would rather suffer the loss of our son than lose you.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “I won’t lose you, Feyre. I can’t lose you.”

I thought over it, it could save me and Rhys, and as he said, the loss of the baby would be devastating, but nothing if we died too. “As a last resort Rhys, only then will I shift.”

I knew that the pain in his eyes was reflected in mine. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.”

We wrapped our arms around each other. Whatever happened, we would face it together, as we always had.

A/n: again, it’s a very temperamental scene. And hopefully I did it well. (Though I probably made feyre a bit quick to forgive, but like Ive never really read anything with an extreme amount of grovelling so…)

Feedback appreciated

[epaily]

MORE TOTK THOUGHTS CAUSE OMFG I LOVE THIS GAME SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT:::

first things first KOHHHHHGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

when he fell into the yiga pit in the first game he fell into the depths!!!

how tf did kohga survive the fall damage

im super interested to go to the gerudo tower now and see if somethings underneath that. ive only explored a tiny bit of the depths god theyre the coolest thing ever

oh my fucking god im fighting kohga with 6 hearts and no weapons how did i get here

when i fought him in botw i had 20+ hearts and full weapon slots full of royal claymores and broadswords and thunderweapons. and a fully upgraded mastersword. oh my fucking god.

help

yiga mask outfit/armor :DDD HATE that they took over king rhoams plateau house though

AND THE COLISIUM???????????

girl.

68 koroks :')

this twink should not have a drivers liscense i cannot fucking drive

i accidently went to lurelin village and had an absolute blast clearing out all the enemies and now im starting to rebuild :D i love having good combat in this game that isnt just smashing things with a stick. i love you flurry rushes i love you stealth i love you critical hits i love you arrow head shots i love you elemental attacks i love you switching weapons midfight i love you bullet time i love you yeeting random fruits at enemies i love you smacky effects that look cool

very excited to eventually go fetch all the lurelin villagers who fled ala tarrey town residents

armor peices i have include the fierce deity boots, shock armor chest peice, royal guards tunic, DARK TUNIC :DDD hylian hood + pants + tunic, barbarian chest peice, ceces wig, yiga mask, and desert voe headpeice.

findign the dragon tears is so fun. i know i said this already but wandering the glyphs just genuinely makes me smile

i went to the forgotten temple. feels horribly incorrect. how did they get the guardians out????? this feels like the one place in the game they should still be. not alive or searchable, just acting as rocks for you to remember and ponder over

speaking of the forgotten temple. holy fuck those backrooms. absolutely stunning sad about the goddess statue but my god that map took my breath away. i know nothing wll be back there in botw but still i want to see people clip behind the goddess statue now

i spent like 2 hours running around what was left of hyrule castle on the ground trying to find my champions tunic. no dice

im not strong enough to fight lynels but they look soooooo cool i want those horns SOOOOO bad

im starting to experiment more with combining things now. both with fuse and seperate abilities. i got a wing glider to travel from no where by holding it in the air, dropping it, climbing on and using recall. i had a full inventory of mushroom spears for about 10 minutes. diy elemantal swords. giant stick boomerang. boulderang. two swords glued together boomerang. frozen boomerang which is op as fuck. i watched someone use ascend by stacking 4 shrine spheres on top of each other. why would i make a boring car when i can slap 4 fans and a rocket on a tree i knocked over. diy catapults i take 4 hearts of damage from. zonai trampolines that always set me backwards and make me take a billion hearts of damage. fire shield that should probably be giving link third degree burns. hes too powerful.

theres less people at the stables ive noticed. but not a ton out wandering the world? eyes emoji

SESAMI ON EVENTIDE LMAOOOO i also went there accidently and then ditched him after doing his quest. did he abandon his friends this time.

still no fuckign paraglider :(((((((

im hardly doing any main story yet, no zora no rito no gorons no gerudo, and i dont plan to for a while. i just want to run across the middle worlds and dick around and find koroks and find caves and do side quests exactly like i did botw. ive had a smile on my face every minute ive played the past week. im having so much fun doing nonsense.

everything is gorgeous and i am in love

[use-your-telescope]

SNIPPET TIME!

The winner in my very non-scientific poll of what snippet to post next from When Everything's Made to be Broken was “Theo shows the hell up for Loki when he needs her,” so that’s what this is.

Context: Thor nearly kicked the bucket on a mission. Loki freaked out when Thor returned in a bloody heap. Theo is now navigating the aftermath.

Chapter is connected to: June - Florence & The Machine

(This isn’t even the full scene; there’s more that follows.)

Tags: @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @thedistractedagglomeration @lokisgoodgirl @simplyholl @mochie85 @coldnique @lokixryss @gigglingtigger @cheekyscamp @loopsisloops @mischief2sarawr

The Sky Turned Black

The Emergency Department may as well have been ransacked.

It was the first time Theo experienced a code black in The SHIELD facility - when there were more patients than resources. Wrappers for supplies covered the floor, as did blood. Towels to soak up the aforementioned blood were haphazardly scattered about, as were discarded gloves and protective gear - they had such a high volume of patients that they didn’t even have time to properly dispose of their protective gear in a bin, instead tossing it on the floor so they could focus on putting on the new gear to ensure they could keep treating patients.

She would have to bake the janitorial staff a cake as a thank-you for cleaning up after such a busy day.

Glancing at the clock, Theo let out a heavy sigh.

11:37 PM.

It had been 25 hours since the jet bringing the most critical patients returned. Multiple jets followed, each with more patients who needed a level of care that couldn’t be found in other hospitals.

Somehow, they made it through with no patients dying. Dr. Cho and Dr. Harper described it as a miracle - really, it was only possible because Theo spent the entire time darting between beds, magically treating the worst of the wounds and reviving patients as needed. She had to revive three separate agents, which left her with a bloody nose and feeling like she’d been hit by a bus - a throbbing headache, sore muscles, and more nauseous than she cared to admit - but everyone lived, and that was what mattered.

Of the many patients Theo treated, the first patient - Thor - was the one she kept thinking back to. Physically speaking, the process of re-starting Thor’s heart was taxing, but not as bad as a full revival; mentally, it was one of the less pleasant moments. However, the memory that lingered was less about reviving Thor and more about Loki’s remark as she was trying to work on Thor that twisted her stomach into knots: “You act like he’s a simple Midgardian! You know nothing of how to heal the Aesir— he will die at your hand!”

It was said in the heat of the moment, but she would be lying if she said the comment didn’t sting. If it was a field agent that she didn’t know who was freaking out about their partner, that was one thing - she could shake that off, and she had plenty of times before.

But Loki?

Loki knew about her fears; he saw firsthand how much losing a patient impacted her, even if she didn’t know the patient before. And to have him question — no, not question, outright doubt — her capabilities?

Well, his words cut far deeper and were much harder to shake.

When the final patient was stabilized and transferred out of the emergency department, Theo was the only doctor who didn’t immediately change out of her scrubs and go home to sleep. Not that she wasn’t looking forward to buying herself under a mountain of blankets and sleeping for the next two days, because she was. But she couldn’t do that without taking care of something else first.

Instead of going back to her suite, Theo slipped through the halls of the hospital, making her way to Thor’s room. Unlike the emergency department, which was constantly bustling with people coming and going, the halls of the ward were almost eerily quiet. After the bustle and chaos of the last 24 hours, the quiet and relative peace was refreshing. Besides, it was probably a good thing that she didn’t see anyone as she made her way through the building - she probably looked like a mess.

Maybe she was after the reassurance that Thor was, in fact, recovering. Maybe she just needed to end the night by coming full-circle, checking on the first patient she took care of. Why she needed to check on him wasn't important, but Theo knew herself well enough to understand she wouldn’t be able to rest until she had the proof that he was alright.

The door to Thor’s room was open. Theo stopped in the entrance and leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight before her.

Thor was asleep. He already looked much better than when he first came in - probably something to do with the enhanced healing of the Aesir, but it might have also been because he was cleaned up and probably full of pain medicine. Given he was one of the first patients anyone cared for, he did have a bit of a head start on the whole recovery thing.

Someone sat in a chair beside the bed with their back to the door - between the perfectly erect posture and inky curls, it didn’t take a genius to realize Loki was the one at Thor’s side.

It was almost enough for Theo to turn on her heel and high-tail it out of there. She just stopped in to check on Thor; facing Loki was something she wasn’t sure she could handle at the moment. She was tired, and she didn’t trust herself not to say something that would make things worse.

“You need not lurk in the entrance,” Loki spoke up, not even turning around to look at Theo as he addressed her. “If you wish to enter, do so.”

Whether he knew it was Theo or not was a mystery, but he must have at least sensed someone’s presence.

Pushing away from the doorframe, Theo sighed.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.” She hesitantly stepped into the room, but stayed close to the door. If the conversation went south, she’d at least have a quick out. “I just finished working, so I thought I’d see how Thor was doing…You know, make sure he was still alive and all… Still Aesir, not a midgardian zombie or something.”

Damn her lack of filter.

A breathless puff of laughter escaped Loki, sounding almost surprised. Before Theo could turn and run, Loki twisted in his seat to face her, his eyes trailing up and down her body. His expression gave away no clues as to whether he was laughing because he found her comment amusing or because he was shocked she had the gall to speak to him like that, or anything to tell her where his mind was at.

“He remains alive and Aesir,” he finally replied, offering a tired smirk as he spoke. “Though you, darling, look a bit too close to a zombie for comfort.”

Theo rolled her eyes, but cracked a smile. She should have known something like that was coming. Beyond having bags under her bloodshot eyes and the inevitable loss of color in her skin from the revivals, Theo was almost positive her hair was a rat’s nest… But that was typical after a normal shift in the emergency department. After 24 hours straight, she could only imagine what she must have looked like.

“We just finished triaging and stabilizing everyone…” Theo shrugged, keeping her smile from Loki’s observation. “It's not for the faint of heart.”

“No, but you are nowhere near faint of heart,” Loki replied, offering a small smile. “For that, I am grateful.”

Theo nodded, uncertain of how to take his remark. She shoved her hands in her pockets, glancing around the rest of the room. Assorted bouquets of flowers and cards stood on display, covering the majority of the room’s surfaces. The whirring and beeping of monitors and machines filled the silence between them.

“Thank you for caring for my brother.” Loki’s attention returned to Thor, who still slept. “I apologize for my remarks earlier - I let my emotions overtake me. It was inappropriate for me to speak to you in such a harsh manner.”

The simple fact that she didn’t have to prompt him for the apology made it seem genuine, but it was hard to shake the underlying distrust that came from it. After all, wasn’t there something about how the things people say in the heat of the moment are what they feel deep down?

“It’s no problem,” Theo bit the inside of her cheek, glancing at Thor before returning her attention to Loki. “Sorry for my less than professional response… I uh, get a bit intense in the heat of the moment.”

“You need not apologize - your reaction was justified.” Loki nodded, still focused on his brother’s face. “I trust you with my life, and I do not doubt in the slightest that you would fight tirelessly to save any life you could. If I am entirely honest, I am not certain as to why I stated you would not be able to care for Thor, as I know better.”

The knot in Theo’s chest unraveled a bit more.

“I get it,” Theo reassured him, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Thor’s your brother. If I were in your position, I’d do the same.”

Loki covered her hand with his own, finally meeting Theo’s gaze. Red rimmed his eyes, making his seaglass green irises stand out even more than usual; between that and the disheveled hair, his distress was obvious.

“He’ll be alright,” Theo murmured, squeezing Loki’s shoulder, “And he’s lucky to have a brother who cares as much about him as you do.”

Theo caught the slightest quiver in Loki’s lip and the way his eyes briefly appeared to glisten, but she didn’t say anything. Frankly, she didn’t know what she would even say. Blood never scared her, but the second someone she knew started crying her heart would hammer in her chest and her palms would start to sweat; forget trying to carry a train of thought, much less a conversation.

“Thank you,” Loki whispered, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He tightened his grip on Theo’s hand, keeping it on his shoulder.

With a quiet sigh, Theo shifted her weight between her aching feet once more. Now that she wasn’t running all over and fueled by adrenaline, the physical effects of going at full speed for so long started to make their presence known. Still, she didn’t try to remove her hand from Loki’s shoulder; it was obvious that Loki could use the support, and he didn’t seem like he was about to ask for it.

And if her silent gesture stopped any potential tears, she could handle the aching feet that came with standing.

“You mentioned that you recently finished stabilizing the other agents. It has been over twenty four hours since they returned…” Loki’s brows drew together as he returned his attention to Theo. “Have you taken any breaks to rest, or to eat something?”

“I worked straight through.” Theo shook her head. “We had lives to save. That’s the nature of what we do; it doesn’t wait for anyone’s lunch break to finish.”

Loki frowned, but let out a hum. He removed his hand from Theo’s, the cold air in the room a crisp contrast to the warmth of his skin. He flicked his wrist, using seidr to bring one of the chairs up next to his. “You ought to take a seat - you’ve certainly earned the opportunity to rest.”

With a timid, grateful smile, Theo sat down. Immediately, she could feel her muscles relax, though the motion reminded her of how much her body ached after reviving people.

“How are the other agents?”

“Barring any complications, they’ll be alright,” Theo slouched back in the chair, arms resting on the sides as she settled in. “Recovery times will vary, but the fact we were able to save everyone is a miracle in and of itself.”

If there were complications, well… Theo lived in the building. They knew where to find her.

“That is excellent news,” Loki remarked, resting his hand atop Theo’s as it sat on the arm of the chair between them. Though Theo did her best not to acknowledge the gesture, it certainly caught her attention. “You seem truly exhausted.”

“When you’re running on adrenaline, it’s easy to go for a long time and feel totally fine,” she shrugged, “but now all the adrenaline is wearing off and I’m definitely feeling the consequences.”

“The consequences?”

“Fatigue, sore muscles, all that good stuff.” Theo softened the remark with a hint of a smile. Loki already had Thor to focus on; he didn’t need to hear Theo complain. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to working long stretches - normally my shifts are twelve hours at a time, but with this group we extended it out until everyone was cared for and even brought in extra staff from New York Presbyterian - that’s the top non-SHIELD trauma center in New York, where I used to work.”

“Seems it was quite the undertaking,” Loki murmured.

“Yeah - it was my first code black here.” She glanced at Loki, who arched an eyebrow at her as if asking to elaborate. “Code black is when you have more patients than staff and resources to treat everyone. By the time we were done it looked like a tornado came through and destroyed everything.”

With an absentminded hum, Loki nodded. He brought his attention back to Thor, who slept soundly. “Will you have time to rest and recuperate before your next shift?”

“I’m supposed to have the next two days off,” Theo answered with a shrug, “but if I’m needed I’ll be in to help.”

Loki frowned, narrowing his eyes at Theo.

“What?”

“You spend all your time caring for others,” Loki observed, “Yet caring for yourself seems to be an afterthought.”

“I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.” Theo rolled her eyes, but smiled. “I just need a nap and I’ll be good to go.”

It wasn’t entirely true - she’d probably have a headache for a few days, not to mention feel a bit queasy, but for the time being the explanation would suffice. At least on earth, Excedrin was a thing.

Though he responded with a skeptical glance, Loki didn’t push the subject. His hand still sat on hers, but he slipped his fingers between hers and squeezed.

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

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[myhaikyuuacademia]

Zemo x Reader [pt 2]

Part 1 Summary: hurt comfort, worried reader, bed sharing (no smut) Warnings: none that I can think of, Zemo gets injured by Walker throwing the shield at him lol, swearwords Notes: I just had to continue their story oml, this is so sappy and fluffy

It had been a few days since you and Zemo confronted your feelings. You’d been sneaking glances and lingering touches since then, but Bucky and Sam rarely left you a chance to do anything more. The three of them were going to Mama Donya’s funeral to try and convince Karli to stop hurting innocent people, but they had been gone for longer than you thought they would. Sam and Bucky didn’t want you with them, convinced they could handle it themselves. Zemo probably didn’t mind you staying at home either, safe from any potential danger. You grew restless. Surely, talking to Karli couldn’t take that long?

Something must have happened. The decision was made: you were going out to check on them. You didn’t think of the fact that you didn’t even know what direction they went, much less where the funeral was held. All you were thinking about was their safety. But before you could even get up, the door opened and Sam and Bucky came through the door, beat up, and carrying an unconscious Zemo. ‘‘What the hell happened?!” You stood up from the couch to give them a place to lay Zemo down. ‘‘Walker happened.’‘ Sam growled. ‘‘Jesus...’‘ you sighed, making your way over to the kitchen to grab some towels, wetting them and then going back to the couch Zemo was passed out on. You were trying your best not to show how worried you were, but still couldn’t stop yourself from caring for him. ‘‘Aw come on, really? He won’t die.‘‘ Sam remarked when he noticed you kneeling down beside Zemo. ‘‘Yeah, you could have at least brought us some too.’‘ Bucky added. You turned around to face the two guys apparently moping at the fact that you didn’t bring them a bandaid for their boo-boos. ‘‘Are you unconscious? No? Then you can take care of yourselves.’‘ Without another comment you turned back around and started taking care of the wound on Zemo’s forehead. You cleaned the already dried blood from his face, carefully, trying not to hurt him. Once you were satisfied with your work you got up to put the dirty towel away and get some bandaids and ice for his head. By now Sam and Bucky were carefully observing you, done with cleaning themselves. ‘‘You seem awfully worried about him.’‘ Sam commented, right as you placed the ice on his head. ‘‘Again, he is unconscious. Plus, don’t we need him for something? That’s the whole reason he is even out of prison. Not to mention I’m a nice person, if any of you were unconscious I’d do the same.’‘ You got up to face Sam and Bucky. ‘‘I don’t think he has any medicine. Or food. Can you go get some? I’ll babysit.’‘ Reluctantly the two men made their way to get the needed stuff. Which left you all alone with Zemo once again. A groan alerted you the fact that Zemo was waking up. You rushed over to him, kneeling down beside him once again. ‘‘Darling, what did  I miss?” His voice was rough, the accent even more prominent right now. A relieved chuckle left your mouth, if you weren’t so worried about accidentally hurting him you would be kissing him. ‘‘Walker knocked you out with his shield apparently.’‘ His hand reached up to the bag of ice, mostly melted by now. ‘‘Oh sorry, is that too cold? I can put it away.’‘ You cursed yourself for sounding so worried. He just smiled, ‘‘It’s okay. You cared for me?’‘ You smiled, ‘‘Of course.’‘ He reached out for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, before closing his eyes in pain and exhaustion again. ‘‘Thank you.’‘ With a soft expression you reached down with the hand not holding his, to gently push a strand of hair out of his face, your fingers barely ghosting over his skin, in an effort not to hurt him. You kept sitting like this for a few more minutes, silent, just being in the moment. Grateful he was okay. When Bucky and Sam came home with several crinkly plastic bags full of food and first aid kits, you  were sitting on the same couch as Zemo, who had pulled his legs closer to him to allow you some space, reading a book. Careful to keep a distance that the two avengers wouldn’t question upon their return. ‘‘Food!” You put the book down with a big grin on your face, ecxited at the prospect of something to eat. “Any ideas on what you want to cook? We brought something of pretty much everything.” Bucky directed the question at you. “What are you talking about? I’m not cooking.” You furrowed your brows. ‘‘Well Bucky here can’t cook, and I am way to exhausted, but I am totally good at cooking just saying. ” Something about Sam’s statement made you doubt that he was a good cook. “I’m a terrible cook. Why did you expect me to cook?” Before the two could do any more than make grimaces and shrug, Zemo interjected. “Not to flatter myself, but I am quite good competent when it comes to cooking.” “Yeah right, as if we’re gonna let you cook.” Sam squinted his eyes. “You’ll probably poison us or something.” You snorted. ‘‘I don’t think we have any other choice, at least a death by poison is quicker than a death by starvation.’‘ You shrugged, indifferent. You didn’t even notice at first, it was honestly a little embarassing how long it took you to realise, but you’ve practically been glued to Zemo’s side the whole day. Where he went, you went. Once you realised, you just hoped that Sam and Bucky didn’t pick up on it. Currently he was preparing the food, cutting vegetables, and you were standing on the other side of the isle, head propped up on your hands with your elbows resting on the cool surface. You were watching him intently. He smirked, not oblivious to your eyes on him and your clinginess. Standing a few feet away from you was Sam, who had been watching you critically for a few minutes now. Apparently he noticed too. ‘‘Why are you looking at him like that?” You turned around, blinking, “like what?”. “You’ve been staring at him ever since he started cooking.” He stated. Bucky joined him now, taking the few steps that had seperated them before to stand next to his colleague. You mustered your best mock confusion. “Just trying to make sure he doesn’t poison us.” You half-joked, trying to deflect. Bucky shook his head, ‘‘You’ve been following him around all day, like a lost puppy.’‘ “Not true.” You just said. “You have.” Zemo chimed in. You turned around to him, dumbfounded. ‘‘Ugh shut up.” Sam looked at the two of you quizzically. “Are you two sleeping together?” You choked on your spit. “What?!” You turned around to face him again. Bucky seemed surprised too. “Sam, I don’t think she would.” He tried mediating. “Just look at her, the way she’s been acting since we came back, tending to his wounds, following him around, staring at him - without a break -  for what must have been like 15 minutes.” Sam argued. “You know what? Maybe I’ll just sleep with him tonight, just to fuck you off.” Your words laced with venom, you looked at him defiantly, before walking past him, grabbing your shoes and phone and walking through the front door. “So you haven’t slept together?” He called after you, leaving you to slam the door in annoyance. Bucky was about to follow you when Zemo spoke up. “Just leave her be. I think she wants to be alone right now.” He turned to Sam. “No, we have not had sex.” Then he just went back to preparing the food, leaving Bucky to sigh and fall onto the couch and Sam to run a hand through his face.

You were back in time for dinner, thanks to a quick message from Zemo. Most of the time eating was spent in a tense silence. Zemo tried to lighten the mood once or twice with some jokes or funny observations he made, but to no avail. In the end you all went to bed super early to avoid the weird atmosphere. Soon you found yourself standing in front of the door to Zemo’s bedroom though. You hesitated, before softly knocking on the heavy, wooden door. A faint “come in.” made you open the door slowly, not to make any noise and startle the other inhabitants of the safehouse. You closed it behind you with just as much care. “Are you here to “fuck off Sam”, princess?” He asked, amused and clearly joking. “Yeah, totally, 100%.” you said, the sarcasm obvious. You made your way over to the bed he was currently reading in. “May I?” you gestured to the bed, asking him if you were allowed to join him. He simply nodded, before continuing to read. You climbed into bed, covering yourself with the blanket and scooted as close as possible to the baron lying next to you. Head on his shoulder, reading along with him, just enjoying being able to be this close, to touch him. He soon closed the book and put it on the nightstand next to him. Wrapping his hands around you he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. You were content, laying in his arms like this. Right now, you didn’t want to think about all the possible outcomes of this, most not having a happy ending for the two of you. Right now you just wanted to enjoy this moment. You held him, not daring to let you go, and he held you, not letting you slip away to an uncertain future. A/N: at this point this might as well just become a series,,, no promises but a part 3 might be planned as well- Taglist: @ajeff855 @heyassbutt05 @lowkey-love-loki​

[voiceless-terror]

Something to Talk About (TMA Fic)

Written for @jontim-week Day One: Rumors/Protect, warnings in tags

Rating: T

Words: 3,049

Summary: Jon and Tim deal with workplace rumors.

He’s only at the institute for six months when the rumors start.

Tim understands them, to a degree. He knows he’s liberal with his smiles and quick to charm, naturally affectionate and thinks nothing of an arm around the shoulder or a nudge to the side. Winking comes as easily as breathing. So yeah, he’s aware of how he comes off. People make assumptions, particularly in his case, as he’s been known to swing either way. It’s shitty and stereotypical, but sad to say he’s used to it.

What he doesn’t like, however, is when it involves his friends.

Tim’s friendly with most everyone, but he’s fallen into a group. When he first started, Sasha was assigned to train him and Tim’s not blind. She’s gorgeous, rivaling him in height and an even deadlier smile. She’s smart as a whip, willing to trade (occasionally hurtful) barbs and unafraid to give the bluntest of criticisms. And she’s a little strange too- she can wax poetic on the most esoteric of subjects, and wields her keyboard like a lethal weapon. Tim doesn’t want to know what she’s dug up on him. Sasha James is exactly his type...and very much not interested, despite the one night they spent together. She made it clear it wouldn’t be going any further and though it took time to get over that, he’s lucky to now count her as a friend. 

And Sasha and Jon are a package deal.

They’re an odd pair- Sasha, tall and imposing, Jon, scrawny and anything but. Jon kept to himself, barely spoke a word to Tim apart from a curt introduction, but with Sasha he shared an easy rapport. The two could spend hours debating the finer points of research methods- and if Tim was shocked by Sasha’s blatant disregard for privacy, he was even more so by Jon’s disregard for the law. Tim could spend hours listening to them snark back and forth, not getting a word in edgewise. At first glance he assumed they were dating, but when he tentatively broached the subject with Sasha, he got an almost mocking laugh. “Romance? Not my thing. And it’s very much Jon’s. We would not work out.”  

At first, Jon doesn’t seem interested in anything but work. He nods briskly at Tim as he sits across from him at his desk, occasionally answers a question or includes him on his tea run, but that’s about the extent of it. He stumbles through small talk, showing none of the easy grace and elegance of discussions with Sasha. After a few weeks, though, he opens up a bit more, allowing that deadpan humor to slip into conversations. He smiles (it’s crooked, a tiny thing but so endearing) and he lets out an occasional snort of laughter. He’s an encyclopedia of supernatural knowledge, able to practically recite his favorite passages and always eager to seek out new information. There’s nothing he enjoys more than thoroughly researching and debunking a case, and Tim can respect that. If he’s got a question on an article or a scholar, Jon’s the first one he approaches. He never asks questions, never pries. Tim appreciates that.

The two of them can make Tim genuinely laugh. Something he hasn’t done in the longest time.

They’re seen together more often than not. They’re a trio: if one’s on a case, it means the other two are as well. They’re a great team. So it’s natural that people would start to talk, make assumptions. The rumor mill is out of control; as it turns out, scholars need more than spooks to get them through the day. It starts with a few offhand comments about him and Sasha, ones that Sasha’s quick to shut down, even if there’s some truth to them. She’s never been afraid to speak her mind or come off as rude. It’s a trait Tim finds very admirable. 

But then it turns to him and Jon. 

He’s heard the snickers in the breakroom when they come in together, the arm around Jon’s shoulder mistaken for something beyond platonic familiarity. It’s not that he wouldn’t date Jon- he sees beyond Tim’s veneer, appreciates his intelligence as much as his wit, and isn’t bad looking himself. He’d consider asking him out if Jon weren’t so clearly uninterested in that sort of thing. People must mistake his blushes and stammer for a crush instead of his naturally shy and flustered demeanor. He puts up a good front for the others, scowling and snapping at most who cross his path, but he’s definitely a softie, Tim feels it in the way he leans into his side like a plant starved of sunlight. Jon needs someone in his corner that sees him too. 

So when Tim hears the mocking words in the break room, he loses it.

“Another notch on the bedpost, eh Stoker?” Marcus, the irritant from accounting with a perpetual sneer and permanently wrinkled shirt, says from his seat at the room’s sole table. “Didn’t think Sims was one to put out, but-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tim snarls, almost dropping his mug as he whirled around and stalked over to him. He’s almost surprised at the venom in the words, but the man took it a step too far. He knows those comments would be incredibly uncomfortable for Jon. And to be honest, he’s a bit pissed on his own behalf- can he not have a friend without someone assuming they’re sleeping together? 

Marcus immediately scoots back the two inches he can in his chair, attempting to hide his fear with a snide smile. It doesn’t work. “Whoa, calm down- didn’t think this was such a touchy subject for the likes of you-” 

“The fucks that supposed to mean?” He takes a step forward, reveling in Marcus’s flinch. Not such a tough guy now, eh? Tim’s not going to hurt him, no matter how much he wants to. But it’s an old wound reopened- he doesn’t need this reputation, and he doesn’t want Jon to go down with him.

“I-I-”

“I hope to god you haven’t said that around him,” he snarls, jabbing a finger in Marcus’s chest. “And you’re going to stop it with this shit before it gets round to him. We aren’t dating, we aren’t fucking. Me and Jon? Not a thing, never have been, never will be. Do you understand me?” Marcus stutters, swallowing nervously. Tim takes a step closer, leans as close as he can and narrows his eyes. “I said-”

“Yes, yes! Christ, I get it!” He puts his hands up in a placating gesture, as if trying to calm a wild animal. He’s scared. Good. “I’ll shut it, alright? Just- back the fuck up.”

Tim stares for a moment, relishing in the man’s fear, before giving Marcus a cheery grin. “Well! As long as we’re understood. See ya around!”

He turns on his heel and walks out, attempting to calm his racing pulse. Tim’s not one for confrontation, he prefers calm discussion over impulsive anger.

Sometimes, however, it gets the job done.

________

And now Jon’s avoiding him.

Well, not really. He still sits at the same desk, gives him his usual morning greeting and answers any work-related questions. But he doesn’t join in on any of their conversations, he dodges any attempt at familiarity that he used to lean into. He skips their lunches with the excuse of being too busy, and barely smiles in Tim’s direction. He didn’t realize how much he relied on that affection until it stopped. It stings.

Maybe someone said something to him, maybe the rumor got around? He’s going to kill Marcus if that’s the case, but when confronted, the man insists he shut up, and Tim’s inclined to believe him, if the ‘I’m going to shit my pants’ look he gave him was any cue. He wants to ask Jon about it, but that could make him more uncomfortable than he already is. If Jon needs space, Tim’s going to give it to him. No matter how much it hurts.

So he goes along with it, starts talking to him less and less, stamps down the urge to crack a joke or throw an arm around his shoulder. Doesn’t ask him to after work drinks. 

That doesn’t stop him from checking in on Jon every so often, leaving a protein bar on the days he works past lunch, bringing him coffee before he gets in and saying it’s from Sasha. They’re at a strange impasse, but Tim’s starting to accept the new routine.

Sasha isn’t.

“Can you two just talk?” She asks one day over shitty sandwiches in the canteen. “I can’t stand this tense atmosphere you’ve got going. What happened?”

Tim sighs, pushes away his plate and runs a hand through his hair. “There were all those rumors going about, remember? I told Marcus to fuck off, but I think Jon caught wind of something, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable-”

“Are you serious?” Sasha interrupts with a groan and a roll of her eyes. “Make him uncomfortable? Tim, I’ve never seen him happier than when he’s around you. He’s relaxed, he smiles. You don’t know how rare that is. We’ve known each other for two years, and he’s around you for six months and suddenly he can talk about something other than work.”

Tim tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the words. He couldn’t have made that much of a difference, Jon would do that with anyone, given the chance to open up. It’s not Tim’s doing. “Well, he’s the one avoiding me! I’m trying to give him space, really-”

“Space? Communicate!” Sasha slaps her hand down on the table with every syllable, startling the few others in the room. “You’re grown men, not children.”

“Communicate?” Tim snorts. “That’s rich, coming from the ice queen herself. You didn’t talk to me for a week after I made fun of that stupid show you love-”

“Time Team was an excellent programme, and I won’t be hearing any more slander.” She stood up, her chair squeaking back with the force of it, and picked up her tray to glare down at him. God, was she good at that. “Either talk to Jon, or I’ll go back to the silent treatment. And I’m great at it.”

Sasha follows through with her threat. She doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the day, studiously ignoring his questions and jokes, at one point propping a book up like a shield. It’s childish. And very effective. 

Looks like he’s going to have to talk to Jon.

______

“Did I do something wrong?” 

Jon jumps at the words, almost dropping the book in his hands. Tim’s managed to corner him in one of the more secluded areas of the library that Jon’s taken a recent liking to. Wonder why, Tim thinks with not a small amount of sarcasm.

Jon takes a step back, blinking innocently. “What?”

“You’ve been avoiding me these past couple of weeks.” Tim leans against a bookshelf, trying to seem nonchalant despite his clear nerves. He doesn’t want to seem threatening or accusatory, and Jon could very easily bolt.  “You never come to lunch, or talk with me and Sash. I just want to know if something’s wrong.”

Jon dodges his gaze as he hugs the book to his chest like a shield. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” Tim heaves a sigh; he’s going to have to be more blunt. Jon clearly wants to avoid the conversation, but he’s always responded better to clear phrasing and direct questions.

“Look, I don’t know what rumors you’ve been hearing,” Tim runs a hand through his hair nervously, carefully choosing his words. “But if I’m doing anything that makes you uncomfortable-”

“Me?” Jon lets out an incredulous laugh that gives Tim pause. “No- I - I thought I was making you uncomfortable.”

Tim stares. This was not a possibility he prepared for when practicing in front of the mirror. How could Jon think that? Was it something he said? Did? Now he’s running through their interactions, trying to pinpoint a time where he might have seemed cold or distant.

“B-Being clingy, I don’t know.” If Jon hugs that book any harder, it’s liable to break. “Getting too close, getting the wrong idea. I know you don’t like me in that way, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with those rumors. That’s not fair.”

“What?” Clingy? Now that’s a word he never thought he would hear applied to Jon.

“I heard you. W-With Marcus. In the break room.” Jon bit his lip, a habit Tim always chided him on. He controls the urge to do it now. “You seemed so mad. And I didn’t want to be the cause of any more rumors for you, so I thought it best to...well, avoid you.”

Tim squints at him in confusion. Jon thinks he’s protecting Tim. The thought is both amusing and heartwarming, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I mean- yes, I was mad about that, but I...I didn’t want you to have to hear that. I know how uncomfortable that shit makes you, and Marcus is an ass- he won’t let up until you put him in his place. Besides, I don’t care about that dick and whatever he thinks. I care about you.”

“O-Oh,” Jon mumbles, looking to the ground and shuffling his feet. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if trying to find the courage to voice his thoughts. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. “It’s j-just...you made it sound so awful.”

Tim’s face softens. “Made what sound awful?”

“...Dating me.” Oh.

“Oh, Jon.” The mumbled words tug at his heartstrings. he really didn’t think Jon cared about all of that, but the man does have feelings. Tim could see how the words would hurt, and the vehemence he said them with probably didn’t help. He takes a tentative step forward, like he’s approaching a spooked animal, but Jon accepts the hand reaches for his shoulder, still not meeting his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Anyone would be lucky to have you-”

“But not you.” 

Tim freezes and Jon shuts his eyes tightly, as if waiting for a blow that won’t ever come. He shrugs off Tim’s hand and starts to back away. “I’m sorry, forget I said anything-”

“Hang on,” Tim starts, gazing at the trembling man in front of him as a thought suddenly occurs. He doesn’t- he couldn’t- “What was that?”

“I-I-”

Tim takes a step closer. Jon doesn’t move. “Do you- did you like me?”

“Yes! No! I-I don’t know!” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, wincing as it gets stuck in his messy bun. Tim would’ve laughed if he weren’t also spiraling. “But you clearly don’t like me, and that’s fine-”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jon liked him. And Tim- Tim could’ve done something about it. “We could’ve-”

“I did!” Jon cries out, waving his book emphatically. “I asked you out and you said no! Months ago.”

Tim pauses. Huh? He runs back through as many conversations as he can remember, trying to think of any occasion where Jon might have asked him out, and comes up blank. Tim’s not that oblivious. “Okay, you’re going to have to help me out here. When exactly did this happen?”

“Back in December,” Jon says, as if talking to a child. “I told you about that new bookstore that opened near my flat.”

“..Okay.” He vaguely remembers Jon enthusing about this, but not very clearly. 

“They have a cat there, too.” Ah, now he remembers. Jon’s face always lights up when he talks about felines, and he’s seen more than a few pictures of a fat tabby on his phone. It’s adorable.

“I’m following.”

“And how they had a fairly comprehensive history section.” Another beat. Jon’s looking at Tim like he’s supposed to be getting the picture. He is not. “And the café next door. That sold the chai lattes you like.”

“I do like a latte.”

“And then you said, and I quote! “Sounds like your scene.” and turned back to your desk.” Jon crosses his arms, triumphantly. Apparently, he’s proven a point. Tim does not see this, and he’s pretty sure Jonathan Sims is the most infuriating man he’s ever met in his life. 

“Jon, there wasn’t a single question in that statement. You just monologued about a bookstore-”

“The question was implied!”

“Oh my god-” 

“And you turned around, and it seemed like you weren’t interested and I-I didn’t think I could handle if you said that to my face so I just- I dropped it, okay? It’s fine.” At this Jon loses all momentum, hunching his shoulders as if trying to disappear. He most certainly doesn’t look fine. 

And Tim’s going to change that.

“All this time,” he begins dramatically. Jon deserves a bit of theater. “All this time, we could’ve been going to bookstores, and having lattes, and-”

Jon’s head shoots up, his eyes going comically wide. “What?”

“What I’m trying to say,” Tim puts a hand on his hip, gives him the Stoker Smirk. Jon gulps. “Is the offer still on the table? Bookstore cat and all?” He watches as Jon gapes at him, suddenly fumbling with his book, as if suppressing a little stim of the hands.

“R-Really?”

“Course. Unlike some of us, I can ask a man a question.” Jon blushes even as he scowls. Tim’s looking forward to seeing more of that. “Whaddya say?”

“I-I’d like that.” He watches as Jon tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, suddenly demure. He hazards a glance up at Tim and lets out a little laugh. “I’m a bit of an idiot, aren’t I?”

“No more than I am,” Tim replies, throwing an arm around his shoulder and remembering just how right it feels to have Jon nestled against his side. He missed that. “Now, what’s the cat's name?”

“Spoons!” Jon perks up, his smile widening. “I think you’ll really like him.”

The rumor mill is gonna have a field day with this one. And for once, Tim doesn’t mind.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061116

[firelxdykatara]

Let me start by saying I've never watched Legend of Korra. like, the most I've watched was any bending scenes/fights and all the Zuko and Toph clips (admittedly, I didn't watch any of the Katara clips because..well..honestly I didn't want to see her be so meek). But I've always felt kinda...bad for liking Mako since the few posts I did read made it seem like both Korra and Asami were better off without him and I didn't want to accidentally fall into the category of sympathising with a man who didn't treat women right. Even when I watched what few clips he was in -Mako seemed a little serious but not anything bad- I thought it was just because I didn't see enough of him to see why he was so bad for Korra and Asami.

And then I read your post on Mako and how he had to do anything and everything to take care of Bolin and my heart kinda broke. I don't know if this is right, but it kinda feels like Mako is being treated a bit like Katara's being treated. Like, they both fit the sibling-turned-parental-figure roles and some of the fandom seems like they can't accept that both are still teenagers who...well, still act like teenagers. seriously, I'm gonna be mad if I ever see another 'take' about how Katara is bad for acting more teenager than mother 😤. And the parallels between the non-con kisses that their respective Avatars gave them, with both Mako and Katara shouldering the blame (though in Katara's case it's more of a "she's supposed to like it! She's the Avatar's girl uwu") . It just rubs me the wrong way how neither of them get any slack for acting less than amazing when they both spent years carrying their trauma and shielding their siblings from that same hurt.

Sorry if this is bothering you or if it doesn't make sense; I'm just kinda fed up of seeing people side with the Avatar no matter what the situation was, especially when Korra and Aang were actually in the wrong *coughnon-conkisscough*

You're not bothering me at all, don't worry!

Honestly all of this makes a ton of sense, someone who's never seen the show and only has fandom's word to go on could be excused for thinking Mako's a fuckboy who was intentionally leading the girls on rather than a kid who'd been raising his baby brother alone on the streets since he was eight years old and maybe not the best at navigating personal relationships and didn't know how to deal with the fact that he had feelings for two incredible girls at the same time. That shit's hard to deal with even when you have parents and had a happy and comfortable life and are just in high school trying to get through the day, but you throw that in the mix with 'became a parent at eight years old' and 'struggled to get enough to feed his brother, nevermind himself, while they lived on the streets' and then everything that happened during the series, and it's like, cut this kid some slack maybe????

Also the comparisons with the way the fandom treats Katara are also spot on. Obviously in Katara's case there's also an added element of racialized misogyny, because she's a dark-skinned girl and the only dark-skinned girl in the main cast, so that gets added to the fact that she was also the gaang's 'mom friend' and you get fans unironically calling her a 'bitch' for -checks notes- getting reasonably upset after being pushed to her limit and losing her cool--but in Mako's case, he actually fills the same niche in the krew that Katara did in the gaang, and he gets a lot of the same treatment, which I think winds up coming at him from the opposite side of the fence so to speak. Because he's a boy, he automatically gets the blame for anything that goes wrong with the love triangle--up to and including the avatar violating his boundaries and kissing him without his consent--because Korra and especially Asami are precious girls and could do no wrong.

And the thing is that it gets kinda complicated because Korra did also get a lot of racialized misogyny flung at her by the racist&misogynistic dudebros of the fanbase who hated that a brown girl was now the avatar, but that wound up overshadowing the very real and reasonable criticisms that can be made of her character and her behavior. Especially in Book 2, where she gets angry enough at Mako for -checks notes- doing his job and not wanting to jump to conclusions that she TRASHES HIS OFFICE!!!!! IN A FIT OF RAGE!!!!!! (which of course Mako gets blamed for and a lot of fans will frame that as Korra getting 'reasonably upset' which lol no)--and the fact that this occurs in the same season as Bolin getting trapped in an explicitly toxic and abusive relationship with a Water Tribe girl (who happens to be Korra's cousin) that is played for laughs the entire fucking time makes me think that Bryke just have very troubling ideas about how it's ok for women to treat their significant others, particularly if they happen to be men.

(Although let it not be said that they didn't write toxic relationships from the other side, Varrick spends the entire series mistreating Zhu Li and then at the end he decides he's in love with her and they get married [in a very Western ceremony, incidentally], and nothing is ever mentioned of the awful way he treated her for the entire show.)

So yeah like, it really, really bothers me that Katara and Mako share similar niches in their respective teams and both of them get a whole lot of untoward hatred for -checks notes- being teenagers and having feelings and sometimes expressing them. They both deserve so much better from their respective fanbases, and I think the biggest reason Katara has a bigger and more devoted defense squad is because atla is still pretty widely regarded as the best installment of the franchise and a lot of people just don't care to even watch lok. The bulk of the lok fanbase is anti Mako and it's hard to maintain any resilience as a fandom in the face of that lmao.

But I'm always happy to talk about how much I love him and if I can only turn the tide one anon at a time then that's ok.

[shorkbrian]

Problem

Prelude - Don’t come @ me pls I tried to be pOeTiC and artsy okay lol

Pairing - Keigo Takami X Reader

Warnings - no NSFW, religion, blood mention, nonconsensual touching.

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/4SQ0ytpTP8v1Rx8FWR22cv?si=d_i0QJowT9yF-b6rZMOKvw

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

People often don’t notice the little, gradual problems.

Cluttered desks, dishes in the sink.

The thing that stands in the corner at night.

You only noticed it after it started to move, creeping closer, sitting in your chair, bright golden eyes piercing through the dark.

His name is Keigo, he tells you, and there’s no reason to be afraid.

Of course, that doesn’t stop fear from icing over your veins, stomach twisting, hands clutching at your blankets as if they were a shield to protect you from the strange entity that had haunted your bedroom for so long. You had done so well, pretending that the shadow was nothing but a trick of the light, that there was nothing there except a chair filled with dirty clothes.

He doesn’t come any closer, crosses his legs in the chair he occupies, tilting his head as the two of you stare at each other.

His name is Keigo, and he’s an angel.

-----

The angel has been with you all your life.

He is able to recount the days you’d spent in your room, crying and begging God for something different, to take your pain away. The moments you thought you had been alone, forgotten.

The troubles you’d overcome, the faint flashes of happiness that filled your life and made you feel light and warm.  Keigo even remembered the color of your bedroom walls in your childhood home, the small scribbles you’d made in the corners, near the baseboards. How you’d get in trouble for leaving your mark on your world, be punished for taking up space.

You were too young to remember that.

But Keigo remembers.

He was there for all of it.

When you confide in him your fears, small whispered thoughts, Keigo listens.

“I feel so lonely all the time.”

“You may feel lonely, but you’re never alone. The plants in your window love you, for you give them life. Your bed welcomes you with the arms of a lover after a long day, loves to hold you in it’s embrace. The ground welcomes the steps of your feet, how you shape it’s very existence just by being present. You’re an entire ecosystem, your flesh sculpted from the earth. Your blood is brewed from rainwater, thousands of creatures live inside of you and on your skin. And of course, you have me. I am never far from you, you’re never truly alone.”

Life doesn’t seem as bad.

-----

The angel usually only appears at night, when you’re tucked in bed, fresh from a shower. You’ve come to like his visits, no longer feel trepidation when he shows up in the corner, materializing out of thin air.

He doesn’t look like what you think he should. There are no heavy wings, no  countless eyes, no sharp halo adorning his head. No white robes or silken clothes, just tattered jeans and a hoodie.

But he doesn’t look exactly human either, with his golden skin and molten eyes. His fingers are long and slender, made for music and praise. The curve of his soft lips makes it easier for him to worship, to condemn or guide his charge.  Hair that looks too soft, like liquid gold that flows from his scalp. You want to touch, but you’re afraid to ask.

You notice that the plants in your house flourish at night, when Keigo is around. The tender stalks seem to reach for his presence, follow his form greedily, as if he has a gift that he’s withholding from them. Flowers bloom and vie for his attention, and Keigo laughs, touches the petals gently and watches the blossoms burst with color and growth.

His existence as an angel is unquestioned, not when he proves to you that he knows you to a degree that you don’t even know yourself. The freckles decorating your skin, those are all from him. It’s true that they’re angel kisses, given to the people they favor, that they watch grow.

They’d dusted across your nose as a child, light and varied. Darkened as you’d gotten older, appearing on your hands and peppered over your face in no particular pattern.

It makes you blush, and at first you don’t believe him, thinking he’s playing with you. But Keigo moves to the edge of your bed, gently takes one of your hands in his own, and lifts it to his lips.

A freckle appears when they press to your skin, a dark mark pushing to the surface.

You spend the next day looking at each of your freckles in the mirror, studying the marks that mar your skin. They’re sprinkled across your shoulders, you’re collarbone, your ankles. It’s strange to think that each mark is evidence of a kiss. Why would the angel kiss you?

When you ask him the next night he visits, Keigo pauses.

“Sometimes… there’s a hole in your soul, and that’s just the way things are. And you try to fill it with various things; songs that make your heart waltz, views that make your eyes long for more, raindrops against your skin. I’ve found the most effective way to fill it is with being with the person who makes the world seem less bad.”

How can an angel feel incomplete? “Are you not God’s perfect creation?” You ask.

Keigo sighs, and says no more.

-----

“Why is that book your favorite?” Keigo has read it before, scouring the pages to try and find pieces of you in it. He’s read all of your books, picked up every single thing you’ve ever touched, ever looked at, jealous of the way it had caught your attention.

You don’t know.

You don’t know why you love the book clutched in your hands. You just do. Keigo thinks he understands.

He’s been visiting earlier and earlier, while the sun still rests above the horizon. The angel never asks about your day, he’s there for every moment, just never visible to you.

He’s the warmth that soothes your skin when it’s cold out, when you’re afraid that your jacket won’t be enough to stave off the chill.  Keigo whispers reminders into your ear, a little tickle that helps you remember to turn in sale reports on time, or what time you’re supposed to meet with a new client.  He never gets the credit for all that he does, but that’s okay.

Your thoughts turn to him constantly, mind churning with questions. Why show himself now? Is that allowed? What is heaven like? Is God kind?

Keigo brushes these questions off, frowns when you ask them. He won’t talk about his holy father, nor his own role as a guardian angel. You learn to hold your tongue.

The angel prefers to talk with you, or sit in silence as you tend to your evening tasks. You think he might be lonely.

——-

You wake up sometimes with warmth still on your skin, more freckles dotting along your body.  But there’s already so many, the new ones go unnoticed.

Keigo is never around those days.

“Why do you not visit?” You ask him, saddened by his absence. Was it something you did wrong? Were you no longer worthy of his presence?

“I met someone that reminds me of warm toned skies. I’m afraid of what I might do to them.”

You don’t know what that means. Asking the angel to clarify results in a long silence, and you look out the window of your house to take in the stars, the clouds that try and hide them from view. You wonder if Keigo knows their names.

“I saw you in my dreams” Finally, the angel answers, golden eyes fixed on his hands folded in prayer in his lap.

“You dreamed of me?” You didn’t know angels could dream.

“At first…. Now I think of you. I..... I love you on purpose, I love you intentionally.” The confession is weighty, said slowly and quietly. Golden eyes find your own and search for acceptance.

What do you do when an angel confesses their love? 

When you stay silent, Keigo disappears.

Sleep does not come easy that night.

——-

“Nothing you humans do ever matters. All that really matters is what you do.”

He’d appeared after a time, a few weeks where you stared at the chair in the corner and saw nothing. You weren’t sure if you were glad that he was back.

Keigo was critical of your actions, hovering behind you while you tended to the plants in your home, lounging on the counter while you cooked meals, sitting near you while you read and making you nervous at his unwavering company.

“So the meaning of life is to give life meaning?” You had answered his subtle jab, and Keigo had shown you his teeth in a smile. It looked much less like a smile, more like a gesture of a puppet, a mockery of a human with too many teeth. He didn’t say whether you were right or wrong.

Safety was no longer the prevalent feeling when Keigo was around.

The angel does not have the same restraint he used to exhibit. He touches you now, unashamed of his needy nature, how he craves your humanity, fascinated by the intricacies of your life, the thoughts that run through your head.

It makes you uneasy, his hands cold as ice when they find your own. But who are you to tell an angel they are wrong?

He never misses a night spent in your presence, even when you think he does. The angel waits till you’re asleep, creeps past your defenses and indulges in human comforts.

You always murmur in your sleep when he slips into your bed, when his cold, cold vessel presses against your warm body. Keigo wonders if he could steal some of your warmth, carry it with him.

“You look perfect even when you’re half asleep and not speaking proper English. I am so in love with you, it feels like I’m floating all the time” You don’t hear his words, but he says them anyways.

-----

His residence is overbearing.

You find yourself spending more and more time away from your home, spent at work, where he doesn’t appear. Nights are spent with friends, drinking in their homes, sharing stories about romantic endeavors.

A small part of you knows that Keigo must be nearby, being your guardian angel. But he never materializes around other people.

The angel grows desperate for your company, invades any spare moment you have, while you’re using the bathroom, showering, when you’re early for a meeting and alone in the conference room.

His demeanor is casual, relaxed, but you begin to see the outline of his wings, blood red plumage displayed across his back.

Strong emotions bring out their wings, you had learned. A dropped glass had wings flashing behind Keigo as the angel was caught off guard, and you’d begged for him to show you them.

He couldn’t make them visible at will, he had explained. They only showed if an angel was experiencing strong emotions, strong feelings.

Their appearance now made you afraid.

You tried to talk to Keigo one rare night you spent at home, work out your differences and soothe his feelings towards you, the jealousy and the anger that sank deep into his being.

“I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t have feelings for you the same way you feel for me” You had confessed.

Keigo’s eyes had blazed, yellow fire flickering in the iris.

“My body forgot what it felt like to be warmth. You’re the sun that I step into, the rays that fall upon my back and warm my wings, the heat that fills my heart and spills from my lips.”

He was passionate, gripping your arms with too-hot skin, and it burned.

“Before you go to sleep at night, you water your flowers, your plants. In the light of your window I can see your body wrapped in your nightgown, and you’re indistinguishable from the blossoms.”

The pain seared deep into your bones, and you felt anger, true anger at the celestial body in front of you. Never had you asked for his affection, for his protection.

“I have thought about my love for you, and the ways I could describe it are innumerable. You’re so human and it makes me want, and I don’t know what to do with the fire burning within me. I love you-“

You’re screaming at him then, and the sky turns dark the same moment you thrash out of his burning grip. Harsh words are said, things you should’ve expressed months ago, when the angel broke your boundaries into pieces and did what he pleased.

But the courage was here now, the bravery to defy an angel, to say that it was wrong, that you didn’t want them around anymore.

The sky crackled with lightening, and Keigo’s wings filled out, full of sharp, dangerous feathers. You had wondered about the color, why they were red instead of white, but as it began to rain, the red sloughed off, dripping to the ground in thick rivulets.

His blood-red wings were colored with the spatter of the sins he’d committed. But Keigo never talked about his sins, never about heaven.

Now he did, shouting at you with his thunderous voice, telling you of the lengths he had gone to in ensuring his existence in your life. How he’d begged at the feet of God to be allowed to show himself to you, to express the desire growing inside of his traitorousus body.

How he’d been shamed, shunned.

He’d shown himself to you anyway, took each reprimand in stride. When another angel had been assigned to you after the golden one’s confession, Keigo had broken, fought with teeth and claws.

The blood of his brothers tainted his wings.

So much had been sacrificed to stand by your side.

There had been no grand plan, Keigo had seen you and knew he wasn’t like the other angels. He was different, able to feel and touch and learn.

The two of you scream at each other, you spitting hateful things, how you wish he would leave you alone.

Keigo doesn’t care, you’ve made him feel and he’s not letting that go.

Lightening strikes a tree and it erupts into flames, and the tears running down your face are hidden by the pelting rain.

You hate him, he scares you.

It’s said out loud, and the angel stops in his tracks, looking at you with emotions you can’t begin to understand.

He leaves in a rush, his wings still stained red despite the cleansing water streaming along them.

——-

Keigo leaves you alone.

Your flowers start blooming again, even without the addictive presence of a holy angel.

The freckles dotting your skin fade, and you don’t mind, you don’t miss the marks that litter your thighs, your chest, the marks you’d never allowed to be made.

Life is okay again. You can breathe.

“It’s cold again and I miss you” His voice makes you drop the glass in your hands, and it shatters against the floor.

His wings materialize for a second, red as blood, dripping.

But then the angel is waving his hand, and the shards of glass on the ground are gone, the puddle of water, his wet wings.

Keigo has something to say to you, and he wants you to listen.

“I’ve got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you. But I didn’t. And, in truth, it was maybe better that I didn’t - I say that now, though it was something I regretted bitterly for a while.” He keeps stepping closer to you, until he’s in your space, heavenly body inches from your own. He feels like marble, a chill emanating from his golden skin.

“More than anything I was relieved that in my unfamiliar wanting-to-talk state I’d stopped myself from blurting out the things on the edge of my tongue, the things I’d never said, even though it was something I knew well enough without me saying it out loud to you like this….. which is, of course, I love you”

“This won’t work, Keigo.” You explain, voice small. “We aren’t the same. I have someone out there meant for me, and it isn’t you.”

He frowns, takes your hand in his, interlaces your fingers. The angel presses a kiss to your knuckles, the same as he did the first time you met him.

“If soulmates do exist, they’re made, not found. You build a relationship with the person that makes your heart happy. I demand the labor of love so that I may make it. Craft so that I may make it art. So that I may make it mine.“

You don’t get any more say in the matter.

-----

His love is all consuming.

It grows and burns with each moment he spends with you, leeching off of your warmth.

People often don’t notice the little, gradual problems.

They don’t notice until the problem becomes unfixable.

[harcourtholmesii]

Letters of Thanks

Fandoms: MCU / Avengers

Pairings: Slight / Referenced Thor X Bruce

Warnings: - References to Violence

Words: 2954

Please don’t expect this to be perfect writing. I tried, but as much as I do love the MCU, I am not great at writing their characters.

Enjoy!

Fan mail.

 Care packages.

 Letters of gratitude.

 The penthouse floors of Stark Tower were overrun with them. After the Battle for New York, everyone and their uncle seemed keen to say their piece and write something special to the Avengers.

 Since Bruce, Thor and Steve had nowhere else to go, the general populace had come to the correct conclusion that they could send their letters to Tony Stark’s letterbox. Since his address was public knowledge and since the defeat of the Chitauri, his home had been flooded with paper and cardboard boxes.

 Sorting through it all had been a hassle.

 With Thor off-world, the secret agents off on their respective missions and Rogers having left for his tour of America, it was left up to Tony and Bruce to sort through it all. It was a momentous task, but it was a welcome distraction.

 Over time, the piles continued to grow.

 Seven piles in total.

 Tony had, by far, the largest amount of letters written to him. They created an unsteady mountain range across his personal study, threatening to topple and fall if it weren’t for Tony’s effort to read them all.

 As quickly as they grew, they shrank. Tony read through his mail quickly and with fervour. Some nights, Bruce, Pepper and Happy had been unable to convince him to sleep. Some nights, he would spend researching the person behind the letter, and send care packages of his own to those who had written him.

 Unlike the majority of the other Avengers, Tony managed himself well. Even though most of it was kind or complimentary, there were those that expressed their disdain or their upset. When it got particularly bad, Bruce could see how it all weighed down on the man. He would wave away Pepper’s worry, and Bruce’s own concerns, with his usual snarky attitude, but it was obvious to all of them that he was most affected by those he couldn’t help.

 Steve’s pile was mostly complimentary. The younger authors tended to keep their letters short, with questions about him and where he had been. How was he alive after so long? Did he know about the moon landing? Had he seen Blade Runner? Most of the letters went from serious to curious in the span of a paragraph, but Steve had been no less flattered.

 Some letters were from older veterans or soldiers who cited him as their inspiration for joining the military. There were those that mentioned how their parents or grandparents had met him those seventy years ago, and how it was a piece of family history they loved to share.

 Steve handled them well for the most part, but he rarely went out of his way to answer them all. With his new career path at SHIELD, Steve only narrowed down his responses to those he felt were ‘genuine’. Specifically, those that asked less questions about what he did or did not know about the future, and those that seemed to take the Battle for New York as a serious, potential threat.

 Much like Tony, Thor’s pile was one of the larger ones, and it grew at a rapid pace from the start. A lot of the mail he received were care packages, cardboard boxes filled with everything from chocolates to alcohol, and other tokens of affection. Thor had been astounded when he first returned to Earth; his room, as large and royal as Tony could make it, housed a mountain of parcels and parchment awaiting his notice.

 He had spent overnight opening as many as possible and reading as much as he could. Some of the language and plenty of the references used caused him a great deal of confusion, and he would seek out Bruce for help. Too many of the letters, though very sweet and thankful, contained phone numbers or an Instagram link. Bruce had caught on quickly; a good portion of these were men, women and others of all types, were hopeless romantics, seeking the God of Thunder’s attention.

 No matter the intention or the person who had written the letter, Thor tasked himself with responding to each and every one. However, at the rate the pile was growing, and with Thor’s admittance that he wasn’t much a scholar, Bruce and Tony were roped into helping him in his quest. He wrote back, and had Tony show him how Facebook, Twitter and Instagram worked so he could publish quick responses online.

 Bruce helped him with those that didn’t leave behind online addresses or phone numbers, and wrote back what Thor asked him to write. Though, before each parchment was shipped off, Thor would be sure to sign it himself.

 The fourth and fifth piles were small by comparison; the both of them for Clint and Natasha. Without any idea where else to send them, the majority of these letters were quick and to the point. Short and simple. The writers would express their gratitude, perhaps explain their reasons for sending the letter, and then end the short paragraph.

 To Clint and Natasha, these were perfect. They couldn’t easily respond to them, as much as they wished to, so they kept them close instead. Natasha filed hers away in her room at Stark Tower, and Clint had sent his away. He didn’t mention where, just that they would be safe.

 It was fair that the master assassin wanted to keep it secret.

 Then, there was the general pile for all of the Avengers team. Most of these were sent by families and young children, from crayon sketches to some baked goods. The team, especially Thor and Clint were ecstatic with these ones in particular.

 They came together to read them, as difficult as that was. They would read out a single letter to the rest; they might have a slight chuckle and smiles would light up all their faces as they heard the praise. None of the mail addressed to the Avengers was negative, as it seemed any criticism was left to the specific ‘hero’.

 The smallest pile by far, belonged to Bruce Banner. Only a few letters had been delivered that were addressed specifically to him, and unlike the others, Bruce had avoided opening them. When Natasha asked him about his letters, he would say he would ‘get around to it’, and she would leave it alone for a while, disbelieving his statement.

 Thor asked him about it the most, always curious and always keen to hear what people had to say about the ‘second strongest’ Avenger. Bruce would just smile, already a little bashful under the other’s excitable gaze and warm touches.

 ‘I haven’t read them yet.’

 ‘You should!’ Large hands would take hold of Bruce’s own and he would be spun around so the other could look at him face-to-face. ‘There is much they have to say to you, and I am sure much of it is kind.’

 Bruce would just shrug his words away, very aware that the other would only try to see the best in him. He hadn’t been around when Hulk had first destroyed New York, and what the God had witnessed on the helicarrier had been next to nothing in the amount of damage the Hulk had caused. They had been lucky.

 Unlike the rest, Tony, though encouraging, didn’t pressure him to read the letters. He knew of Bruce’s fear, and though he found a way to bring it up subtly in conversation, he never demanded the meek scientist open his mail.

 Finally, they came up with an idea.

 ‘Big mean and green.’ Where Bruce had been hovering over the coffee pot, he clicked his jaw in annoyance, and turned his tired eyes over to the lounge. His teammates were all sat on the half-circle sofa, with a small pile of recognisable letters in the middle. He swallowed thickly around the nervous lump in his throat, and tried to laugh away his worry.

 ‘What is this? An intervention?’

 ‘Sort of.’ Clint said, offering him a polite smile. It seemed Clint and Steve, in particular, were both nervous about this. Then why participate?

 ‘We just wanna help try and release some tension here.’ Tony stated, gesturing to the pile. ‘It is no surprise to us, Bruce, you can’t stand to look at this. But you don’t have the heart to throw it all away.’

 Bruce’s eyes fell to the coffee he now nursed in his hands.

 ‘We don’t want to make you uncomfortable.’ Steve chimed in. ‘But… Well, we don’t want you to run yourself into the ground because you’re scared of what people have to say.’

 ‘I’m not scared. I just know what I would see, and I do not need more confirmation that I am a monster.’

 ‘No!’ Thor’s voice bellowed, and he was standing in an instant. He was by Bruce’s side in a mere moment and gently nudging him (as gentle as Thor could manage) towards the lounge. ‘You do not understand, Banner! We believe that these are all letters of gratitude towards you, and rather than you think the worst, we want to disprove your claim.’

 ‘Yes… Well…’ Bruce’s eyes landed on the pile in front of him. He didn’t find SHIELD as frightening as he had expected when he had first met Natasha. He had not been as overcome with fear when he had first seen the Chitauri. But this small, seemingly trivial pile of notes… The words of an everyday person that he had hurt scared him more than anything.

 ‘If you don’t mind it, we came up with a simple system. Nothing too bad, we hope, but just so we might ease your fears a little.’ Tony said, reaching and digging around in the pile for a moment.

 After a bit of shuffling about, he pulled out a small, pastel pink card, showing it to Bruce.

 ‘We just want you to know that you don’t have to be worried about this. We came up with this plan-’

 ‘Tony came up with a plan.’ Natasha interrupted.

 ‘- That we will each read out one letter to you. One random letter. And we’ll all be here in case you want to take a break or if you need to just…’

 ‘Talk.’ Steve finished.

 And just like that, Clint, Steve, Natasha and Thor reached into the pile.

 Clint pulled one, exceptionally thick, envelope from the top; perfectly pristine, well-kept, with ‘Bruce Banner’ written in fine, royal blue cursive.

 Natasha dug her hand deep into the pile until she pulled her hand away with a large, but thin, green folder. On the front, it read Bruce’s name in a collage of cut-out, magazine letters.

 Steve removed a small parcel from the pile, wrapped in dirty brown paper with a green ribbon around it. There was the sound of something gently rattling against the inside as Steve moved.

 Thor pulled one letter from the pile which had a large, child’s drawing on the back. Evidently, it was of a large, green figure holding what looked like a yellow car in his hands and roaring. Bruce did not look too keen.

 It was Clint that opened his letter first and had begun to read.

 “Dear Doctor Banner,

 You may not recall me well, but my name is Lucille Davidson. We studied together for a period in college, and I would like to consider us friends, or at the very least, acquaintances.

 You’re work in nuclear physics is astounding, and I have, for years now, have wanted to address your papers and reports of your studies.  I have never had the chance, as I had thought you dead after your disappearance.

 Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw you on the news. Well, not you exactly, but to then have it confirmed to be you in the interview following the events, I was not only relieved but I was over the moon. Hearing you would be staying with Mister Stark for the time being, I wrote to you immediately, and I do hope this has found its way.

 I wanted to just say how I am not only inspired by your work, but I wish that we could sit together for coffee and go over our theories on anti-electron collisions…”

 By this point, Clint started to look a little lost. He raised his eyes from the paper, with an apologetic expression and a half smile.

 ‘Sorry, but I can’t understand this kind of science jargon. I am not an expert on thermonuclear… anything… Whatever this person is attempting to say, it seems…’ He turned the paper over, and glanced at the other papers. ‘Yeah… They appear to have sent you a full thesis on whatever this is…’

 He passed it across to Bruce, who seemed shocked still. The coffee cup was retrieved from his hands by Tony, in case he should drop it, and placed on the coffee table. Bruce took the papers with shaking hands and read over that first part again and again, almost in disbelief. The worry in his face had lessened slightly, as he placed the essay down and looked up when Steve cleared his throat.

 ‘There isn’t, uh… There’s only a small card here, apart from the parcel. And it reads ‘to Bruce Banner and to Hulk. Thank you!” He passed the card and parcel over, so Bruce could open it.

 He did so slowly, hesitantly, with the movements of a man disarming a bomb. Once the ribbon was undone and the tape removed, the brown paper fell apart in his hands, revealing a plastic container. Through the clear plastic there was a small pile of about eight cookies, all of them, though a little smudged, decorated to look like the Hulk’s face.

 There was a chortle from Tony, and a guffaw from Thor as the God landed a hard smack to Bruce’s back. It hurt, but Bruce just smiled down at the strange but lovely gift. There was no return address or signature, which seemed a little disappointing.

 “To Mister Banner.” Tony started, a sly, cattish grin on his face. Bruce could already feel his own face going red. He raised his hands to his face in a terrible attempt to hide his embarrassment as Tony continued to read with some level of theatrical exaggeration.

 “I will admit, I’m a little embarrassed to write this, but I just needed to get my feelings down onto paper. I was working during the Battle for New York and we met very briefly. Well, you were Hulk at the time, but still… You saved my life. I was about to be killed by one of those weird, alien creatures when you crushed them beneath your fists. And I couldn’t help but salivate…” There was a muttered, embarrassed groan from Bruce as he snatched the letter out of Tony’s hand. The billionaire and the others shared a laugh as Bruce continued to read the letter.

 Indeed, it was just a little scandalous, and as flattering as it was… He quietly tucked it away in his pants pocket, not willing to discuss it at this time. That was fair, and none of the other’s held that against him.

 Natasha opened her own folder, her face brighter than Bruce had ever seen it. She showed it off like she was doing a presentation, opening the folder wide and reading it out. There were only two pages to it, the first with an image of a small building with a mural on one of its walls.

 The mural showcased the Hulk with his hands raised as if holding up the roof of the building. Beneath him, as if a shadow that stood before him, was a silhouette of Bruce doing the same pose. Beneath it, written in bright lettering with all kinds of little pictures, was the message:

 ‘To Doctor Banner and the Hulk, the heroes that saved our daycare and the children therein.’ The second page was a collage of parents and staff thanking him and the Hulk alike, with little signatures and drawings from the children.

 Natasha passed it over to him, and Bruce clutched it close, feeling himself near brought to tears.

 Thor didn’t read out the letter he had plucked out of the pile, but passed it to Bruce all the same. It was difficult to read, as it was a scribble of a child’s writing. Only the address was clearly stamped out, presumably by a parent.

 ‘Thank you Mister Hulk. You saved mommy and daddy from the monsters. I want to be a hero like you when I’m grown up. Could you teach me to be strong like you? From Markus’

 Turning the paper over to look over the image again, Bruce could now make out the scratchy faces of two people in the yellow car. At first, he thought they were screaming, but when he was able to make out the black line of a speech bubble amongst the dark blue crayon, he could read they were yelling ‘YAY!’

 ‘How cute.’ Natasha hummed.

 ‘That ought to go onto the fridge.’ Tony agreed.

 Bruce shifted in his seat, wiping beneath his glasses with his sleeve. A hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, brought his eyes up to look at the Thor.

 ‘Would Banner like some time alone? To read and look through his gifts?’

 Despite what he had read, Bruce did not ask them to leave. In fact, he snuggled deeper into the lounge as he plucked one letter from the pile. The others didn’t mind being asked to stay. In fact, to them, it was a relief to see the doctor express anything other than worry or discomfort, and a joy to watch his face break into a smile.

[fandom-necromancer]

Let your Warmth melt my Ice

You all know I like emotional destruction, right? Well strap in, because this post by the amazing @nock-and-bolt hit me right in the feels. Had to write a short to it. Also tagging @janjan-the-ninth because they said so XD Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 (Warnings: Temporary character death, grief, misunderstanding)

[Warning: Critical damage detected. Shutdown imminent.]

Nines was already on the ground by the time he had realised those bullets had indeed hit him and that there had been more enemies than anticipated as he had rushed in. He still heard the gunshots around him, the people shouting, barking orders and screaming in pain. His systems were still busy locating each position and making tactical calculations based on this information. Still prompting him to continue, to shield his friends and protect them. Apparently, his systems hadn’t caught up with the fact that he was minutes from death. True death. This body wasn’t able to function anymore and the loss of Thirium meant his hardware would run hot and eventually melt. There was no way for him to survive this.

His fingers started to spasm from wires shortcutting. His vision glitched and his analysis program darted from one detail to the next. Was there still gunfire? It was hard to concentrate, to filter sensory information and not get lost in a confusing mess of signalling. He felt how some non-vital systems began to shut off and left his mind a little less crowded, a little less confusing. Gavin, his thoughts managed to form conscious words again. Where was he? Was he safe? He tried saying the name, forming it with his voicebox but never hearing it as his auditory systems malfunctioned briefly. Next were his legs and torso, but he never regained feeling there. He was about to try again, as a face appeared in his vision.

‘Nines? Nines!’ Those words were like balm on his soul. Those special sounds only the human could speak like that, this special melody they used to create meaning. This name he had been given by the same person that meant so much to him. ‘Nines! Can you hear me? Nines?’ The android registered he was lifted up by Gavin and propped against a wall. He could see the human touch his wounds and press his hands on them as if that would help in any way. ‘Nines! Phcking asshole, say something!’ Nines tried once again to say his name, but his voicebox was already damaged, only static making it out of the small speaker. If anything, it made the human even more anxious. ‘Nines. Nines, phck!’

[Warning: Commencing Shutdown. Begin upload?]

Upload. Right. Nines knew it was likely for nothing. He was the only model ever produced and therefore unique. But still, an upload of his memories and personality matrix was something to continue living with. If what they did was living and if their programming was a soul like most humans were proclaiming, then maybe the upload could safe him. Keep him alive, even if there was no immediate body to switch to. Maybe someone valued him enough to rebuild or design anew.

Gavin certainly would.

Gavin.

[Upload started… 1%]

‘Nines, what’s going on? Your LED flickers! What- No.’ Nines managed to lift his eyes to the human’s face. He was kneeling next to him, holding him upright against the wall and trying frantically to stop the blood flow. If he had been human, it might have worked. ‘No, no, no, you are not dying! You are not!’ His face showed despair, shock, pain. All for him. All Nines had ever wanted for him was to be happy. Now he was the reason he wasn’t.

[Upload at 26%]

Nines didn’t want to see him like this. Nines wanted to see his smile again. Those green eyes sparkling in the light of the sun when they spent their break outside on the bench. He wanted to hold his human and comfort him. He wanted to be there for him. He wanted to make sure he was safe on future missions. He wanted to reach the day when he could finally tell him what he was sure Gavin never wanted to hear. He wanted to… do so many things. ‘Nines! Please. Tell me what to do! Cyberlife’s contacted, Jericho too. Help’s on the way. Hold on. Stay with me.’ There were tears on the man’s face as he swallowed and looked at him in panic. Don’t panic, Nines wanted to say. You will live, he thought. I protected you. But those words were never spoken.

[Upload at 63%]

Nines felt more and more systems shut down due to overheating and misfiring of vital sensors. It wasn’t long now, and he needed his last moments to remember. His eyes had never left Gavin’s, but now the android tried to form a smile on his face that he hoped to express everything it needed to. Hoping that it would calm down the human and be how he remembered him. As long as he still could, Nines lifted his arm and hated how it jerked back and forth and never reached its goal. His motor control was malfunctioning and the servo itself too damaged to work at full capacity. Nines’ arm hovered over his chest, reaching for Gavin’s face. Thankfully the human got the message and took his arm to help him direct it so his hand cupped his cheek.

Warm. Nines had been fascinated from the start how warm humans could be. Like they were constantly overheating and radiating their energy into the world. Those creatures couldn’t be described better in his eyes. Exhaling love with every breath and being compassionate beings always looking out for the wellbeing of others, even when the person was described as an asshole, like Gavin. Gavin cared. He was just hurt one too many times and now Nines would add to it.

[Upload at 82%]

‘Nines! Nines, stay with me.’ Nines followed a tear that was rolling down from Gavin’s cheek and stopped as it hid his hand. His robotic hand. He hadn’t realised his skin had retracted, but he was showing off his white plastic hull on his entire body by now. When had that process shut down? ‘You bastard! Stay with me! Don’t you dare phcking dying on me!’ The android felt how he lost power over his body and sacked down, but Gavin was reacting fast, catching him and holding him in his arms. The man grabbed his arm and pulled it over Nines’ chest. ‘Nines! I swear, if you die on me, I will kill you!’ Could he still do that, Nines would have laughed. Only Gavin would curse at him, threaten him in his dying seconds.

[Upload at 96% Shutdown imminent]

Nine’s vision was getting hazy, static filling it and only leaving him his area of focus: Gavin’s panicked face. He couldn’t feel the warmth of Gavin’s touch anymore, could only see and hear. ‘Nines, please. Please, I need you, you plastic prick! Don’t you dare do this to me!’

[Upload finished. Shutting down…]

Gavin lifted him to his chest and buried his face in Nines’ drenched clothes. ‘You can’t leave me, you phcking asshole! Because I… I love you.’

Nines hadn’t had any more time to process this.

[Shutdown]

-

Gavin’s day had been completely normal. It was surprising how normal his days had been lately. People around him were chatting, laughing at each other’s jokes and discussing the new shop around the corner. He was driving through a city that continued life as usual whenever he got to work or back home. Crime scenes were coming up and vanishing, cases came and went. Reports were written and evidence filed. But the chair in front of Gavin stayed empty. The terminal remained switched off.

All the little trinkets Nines had gathered on his desk and considered skilful decoration gathered dust. No one had the heart to put them away. Just as no one had thought to hire a new person. Not when there still was a chance that Nines could come back. Gavin looked down on his hands that mindlessly fidgeted with a small ring. Normally shining blue, yellow or lastly red, it was now just a dark circle in white plastic. But it was something to cling to, something to remember. Just in case. Just in case Nines didn’t come-

No. No, he had to. The android had uploaded his personality to Cyberlife as a failsafe. And although there was no body for him, Jericho had bullied the company to build a new one. With the blow Cyberlife had to take to their image, it hadn’t taken much. Gavin had hope they could make it. Maybe it was all he had. In any scenario, he had never thought for the android to die first. Almost completely bullet proof, the chance of him dying… Well, Gavin had considered it zero at this point. That was about the only reason he hadn’t said what he told the dying android long ago. Thinking they had time…

He sighed deeply, looking over to his mug and tilting it a bit to look inside. Empty. Of course. He groaned. He really didn’t want to get out of his chair. He had no motivation for anything anymore and even a trip to the breakroom could as well had been a journey around the earth. The more surprised he was as a new mug was placed next to his. Steaming and filled to the rim. Gavin looked at it, brain lagging behind. The hand that was holding the handle lingered for just a second, then retracted. Gavin’s eyes followed the movement and were directed to a white uniform. Black details at the opening and the pockets, a ridiculously high collar and then… That stupidly beautiful face.

Gavin’s throat went dry. ‘Nines?’, he croaked disbelievingly. ‘Are you… phck, are you Nines?’ The android in front of him lowered his head a bit, then nodded. ‘Yes. It’s me. Cyberlife rebuild my body and I thought to return to work as soon as possible. I left you long enough with both our-‘ He couldn’t finish, as Gavin stood up and grabbed him by the jacket to push him against the glass separating the desk from the hallway. ‘You asshole died in my arm and all you can think about is work?’ He let go of the android, swallowing his emotions. Damn, the android had just returned from the dead, he should be happy. ‘I… I’m sorry for the trauma I’ve caused you. I’m fine again. I just thought we could get back to normal?’

Gavin looked at the android and swallowed for real this time. Hell, how would dying feel like? All Gavin wanted to do is shake Nines and tell him how relieved he was and how good it was to see him again and how bad he managed living on without him and also ask how he felt about what Gavin had asked him in the very end. Because he was ready to make up excuses for that, if the android didn’t feel that way and oh would it help him if Nines felt the same…

But exactly how Gavin managed trauma like that – with his thoughts running at hundred miles an hour and his only reaction anger and brashness – Nines might need the exact opposite: Calmness and time to think and reset. He was an android after all. Maybe all that programming and logic had some use after all. Gavin nodded and instead hugged Nines’ middle. ‘It’s good to have you back, tin-can.’ The android didn’t move to return the hug but stood there rather awkwardly. ‘Thanks…’ Gavin stepped back and let go of the man. ‘Err… yeah, sure. Let’s… let’s get back to work, shall we? And if you… want to talk about what happened or… what that makes you feel… I’m right here.’ ‘Thank you’, Nines smiled and that smile almost made everything alright again.

The android moved over to his terminal, switched it on and interfaced with it, while dusting off his belongings with the other hand. Gavin too returned to his work. As if it was just another day.

-

Nines was thankful to be back. He remembered not believing it might work, but Cyberlife had harboured his soul in their servers and Jericho had actually managed to move them to build a new body for him. It felt like he had never been gone, as he stepped foot back into the precinct. He had of course been the centre of attention then, but he still managed to surprise Gavin and that was all he had needed to feel that warmth again. As the human had hugged him… It had been heaven on earth. Metaphorically. From his own experience if android heaven was a dusted Cyberlife server, then this was much better.

He had enjoyed the unexpected contact far too much, his systems overwhelmed by the sudden motions that he had actually frozen for a few moments. He was actually surprised Gavin had taken it so well. From his last memories before his deactivation, he had expected there to be more tears… more emotions. But then again, maybe Gavin had already grieved for him. It had been two weeks after all. Maybe he had just been relieved he was back and now was eager to get back to normality. Or he suppressed his emotions as usual until they weren’t too intense to handle. Either way, Nines wouldn’t start a conversation with him, not unless he initiated one first. He had caused the human his pain after all. Gavin would have to chose when was the right time.

Unfortunately, even the next day, nothing changed. Gavin had no interest in opening the talk and even seemed to avoid him. If anything, he was growing more distant, seemingly wanting to tell him something when he left for his home, but never actually speaking up. It hurt. It hurt somewhere deep inside Nines. The android was feeling so much, even looking at the human caused him software instability. But he didn’t dare to tell the man. Gavin hadn’t said something when he was in emotional turmoil because of his impending death. Surely, he would have done that if he felt something. And with how he always pulled a face at seeing publicly displayed affection, maybe he didn’t want to hear it either.

Nines loved the human. He wanted to deepen their relationship. He had died to protect Gavin and he would do so again and again, if he had to. But with how Gavin kept to himself and didn’t even acknowledge him some days, Nines really doubted that was what the human wanted.

-

Gavin was beyond disappointed. He would have been angry hadn’t that felt too much of a defeat. The android had had the audacity to die in his arms catching multiple bullets for him and then ghost him like that? Gavin had confessed his love to the plastic prick in a moment of vulnerability and now the damn android just pretended nothing had happened? “Detective”-d him at any given moment and displayed no more emotion than before their mission? Hell, if he wasn’t interested, Nines could have just said so. This was just an asshole move. And two could play that game of ignorance. It didn’t matter to Gavin that his soul was bleeding with every stumbled ‘Oh. Okay.’ from the android whenever Gavin shoved him away further. He was far too angry for it. And it only got worse during the week.

Friday finally was the day, that promised Gavin refuge. He wouldn’t have to see the android on the weekend and have time to come to terms with his contradicting feelings. Then, on Monday, he would just tell the android and be done with it. No more dancing around each other, trying to find out how the other felt and watch out for the other’s wellbeing. He decided to leave early and switched off his computer grabbing his jacket as he stood up. ‘Gavin?’ Oh hell no. If the android continued to speak with him, he would resort to violence at this point. He was hurt and confused and done, so, so done with it all. So, he just turned around and left. Only once he left the building and heard the door fall into the lock behind him, he sighed and took a deep breath of the grounding cold February air.

He shouldn’t have stopped. ‘Gavin!’ The door behind him opened and Nines stumbled out of it, coming to a halt everything but gracefully. His LED was a dark red and Gavin didn’t want to think of what that reminded him of. ‘What do you want?’, Gavin spat. ‘I want to talk with you. About what happened. I held myself back until now because I know this might have been traumatic for you and-‘ ‘Phck off! You died in my arms! You know, you are right, that might have been traumatic for me, phckhead!’ ‘I apologize for that, but-‘ ‘Oh, you apologize?’ Gavin turned around and walked right into the android’s personal space. ‘You apologize? For what exactly? Dying? Ignoring me? Disregarding that I laid out my heart in front of you and you decided to step on it?’

Nines took a step back and frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘What- What do I mean?’, Gavin wheezed in disbelief. ‘Ex-phcking-cuse me? I mean that I told you I love you! You died in my arms and I thought if this was your last moment and you died for me, I could as well tell you that! Maybe made it a bit easier for you. Less hurtful. Phck, what have I been thinking? You are just a damn machine, you don’t phcking feel. Or at least not in that way. Because hell, I tell you that, let you into my heart and when you come back, you hand me a coffee and go straight back to work?’

‘Wait’, Nines said, holding up his hand. ‘Wait, Gavin. Your last words to me were: “Don’t you dare do this to me!”’ He blinked. ‘Or were they?’ Gavin clenched his jaws. ‘No, asshole they weren’t! My last words to you were that I loved you!’ ‘When was that? Right before I shut down? Was my LED still flickering?’ ‘How the hell should I know?’, Gavin asked, throwing his hands in the air. ‘You were dying in my arms; I don’t think I had more important things on my mind than your stupid mood light!’ ‘Gavin, this is important’, Nines said, stepping forwards and holding the man by the shoulders. ‘Was it less than two seconds before my body went rigid?’ Gavin shrugged. ‘Yeah, could be. Why?’

Nines let go of him and had to sit down on the stairs in front of the station. ‘Gavin, I uploaded my memory to Cyberlife as soon as I knew I would die. It recorded everything up to two seconds before my death, because it takes a bit of time to end the Upload and shut down the body. I… I might have heard it and understood it as I was dying, but I… the backup of me that I am now has no memory of you telling me that.’

Gavin stared at the android and processed what he just heard. Then he sat down next to Nines on the stairs and stared blankly ahead. ‘Phck.’ ‘Fuck indeed.’ ‘And all the time I thought you were just a work-centred prick ignoring me.’ ‘I wouldn’t have ignored it had I known it, Gavin, I’m sorry.’ Gavin rubbed his face in frustration. Phck, he just wanted this day to be over.

But Nines didn’t let him end it just yet. He cleared his throat and looked over at the human that had nearly folded in on himself. ‘Err… Do you… Do you really love me?’ Gavin lifted his head up, his fingers resting on his mouth. He looked at Nines from the corner of his eyes, only then letting his hands slap on his knees. ‘Yes, I guess’, he sighed. ‘No, yeah I do. I was so angry at you all phcking week it won’t be a heartfelt confession now, but I do love you. The way you’re just… Always there for me and care so much. Most would just pretend not to have seen me and move on. You sought me out. You are actually funny and intelligent and competent. And you are phcking hot, okay? I feel so much for you and seeing you die… I couldn’t handle it. I think the hope you would come back to me kept me going.’ There was a brief moment of silence.

‘I love you too, Gavin’, Nines answered in a whisper. ‘I can’t understand how I am the one lucky enough to got to know you when so many others had their chance before me, but I am happy fate chose me. I… I can’t express how I feel as I shouldn’t be feeling at all as an android. But I do and I wanted to tell you for so long. I just always thought you didn’t want to hear something like that…’ ‘Nines?’, the human spoke up and turned towards him. Nines followed his movement and his eyes naturally found their way to Gavin’s, who smiled. ‘Nines, this was the only thing I ever needed to hear.’

Nines blinked, but didn’t have the time to answer, as Gavin laid an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Once again, Nines froze up, but Gavin’s warmth quickly made him melt into the touch. Soon enough, he would have to think about all of this to process what he just heard, but for now…

For now, he enjoyed this.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 8: Adroit

Content Warning: Mentions of Torture School sucked. That was the conclusion Esredes came to for most of his childhood. He was never the biggest fan of many aspects of it, of sitting indoors and listening to lectures when he could be out in the world. Writing in particular was never fun. So many rules had to be drilled into him, on how sentences and grammar worked and what the proper words to use were. So many hours collectively he must have spent, pouring over dictionaries and definitions, scolded and given a bad grade if his writing did not match the expected standards. He never did quite get the hang of it. Even as an adult, he found himself back in the same loop of dictionaries always being out on his desk when he had the brilliant idea to accept a House of Lords members’ offer of being an assistant and look over and write letters and speeches and proposals for the man. Some nobles he knew could write flourishing and beautiful things with ease, but he always had to stop and get fixated on words, if this or that was spelled right or flowed correctly, only for the end result to be something he always felt resembled a noble’s writing, but if one were to observe it more carefully and pick it apart, it would come undone at the seams. At least all those failed drafts were simply put in the trash. His war journal stayed locked away in his home nowadays, not only for the particular out of the ordinary pages like the time he wrote a full page of I’m sorry, but the few times in his life he tried to write poetry lines in it on a whim. It was awful, and he regretted it the moment after he finished trying. The page was almost intelligible with crossed out words, but it read like a madman’s disjointed ramblings trying to sound pretty. How the hell did poetry work? He had no idea, and it was an embarrassment to take to his grave, or else truly no worse fate would await him. He was mediocre at mathematics. No excuse of simply being a child of less artistic disciplines- he found nothing significant for himself in pretty much any part of schooling except history. He liked reading about the past, and it took to his memory much better than equations or the different forms of the same word. Seraphiaux always did better, even when he neglected studies. There he was, the little child prodigy learning alchemy and healing at age seven with all his books, and Esredes was trying to understand semicolons at fifteen. He was going to be a healer, Esredes would be a Temple Knight- and only one of them had any progress towards it at all. His parents did not allow him to play or practice with swords or weapons of any kind. “Not until you enter training,” they said. “It’s too dangerous.”Most noble children would probably be far better off coming from two parents who did not fight in the war, who did not try to push and train them to be soldiers from an early age. Esredes was an exception to that, as he thought. Instead, he was stuck in the increasing realization that he had little talent for anything. It only made sense to him later why- a soldier could not have other talents, or else they would be distracted from their purpose and not want to fight. But he did not know yet he was one, for sure, and all he could do to escape was funnel into his little wish. It wasn’t the easiest journey to finish schooling, but he managed it. Right into training he went… and there came a breakdown soon enough. The shield. That stupid goddamn shield. He hated carrying it and no matter what he did, he could not get the hang of using it. I’m going to fail, he thought for sure. He would have to go back to his parents and accept he had no passion to pursue, and then work extremely hard every day to be good enough to be head of house, when he knew in his heart he was not enough for it. Yet it all passed as he funneled himself solely into the sword at the instruction of a superior, and once more he had something. Combat. He was right all along. Combat was his answer to everything, his shining star of purpose and ability. Day after day after day, he threw his entire body and soul into training. Nothing could match that ecstasy of true purpose and being. The day he was knighted was the best of his life. Superiors took notice of him, sometimes for the bad but more often for the good, especially as time went on. The ecstasy eventually faded as the harsher realities of battle came to be, but still in those moments of promotion and praise from the higher ups, when people spoke of his accomplishments and even, increasingly as time went on, his bouts of strategy in battle, it surged back up in a lesser form. When he was twenty two, an opportunity came to him like no other. A captured heretic who had the blood of dragons in him which his squadron had apprehended. “Let me interrogate him alone before the Inquisitors come,” Esredes asked his superior. He had done just enough questioning people in the past that he was confident an answer for his curse could be found. Alas, as he carved into the captive repeatedly and shouted at him about his affliction, he ended up empty handed. His one shot at answers had been blown in a bout of overconfidence, and questions raged on in his head. It got easier when he returned to the art of interrogation after the law no longer held him down. As he realized how important it was to get into their heads, slithering up through their ear canals with a tongue increasingly coated in silver, and pull it apart from inside. Then came civilization again, and Esredes was left constantly wondering why people kept spilling their lives’ stories and turmoils to him when they barely knew each other. Why did people constantly look at him like he had just trudged up and told them something they never realized about themselves, when he had just stated the obvious anyone could figure out from dealing with people for thirty three years? Why did he seem to calm some people down so easily just by opening his mouth- that half when he wasn’t inciting them to anger as he always did? Well, being the Keeper of Secrets was not easy, but as he left for Dravania to maintain a fragile peace as a diplomat some days, and looked over his list of clients and his near perfect record others, he smiled about it to himself in the comfort of the blue walls. Yet it was never enough. He had climbed to a Temple Commander before he fell, climbed in much less time to the top of the Disciples and then their leader, managed to pull himself out of being a wanted criminal to multiple people offering him jobs in areas he never expected to take, and yet the same internal monologue repeated. I can’t do this, he said as he tried each new job far outside of his perceived, singular combat ability. So many others could do this better than me. There would be a shining and perfectly talented Ishgardian, one who hadn’t fought in the heretic’s side of the war, who was merely open minded and far more likable, and he would finally be fired from his diplomacy job and replaced by them. Ferrant would never replace him, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t still constantly stressing that he was not meant for the work and couldn’t be enough help. And while he was no longer at a risk of firing since going independent on his side job, and he did not expect all his clients to stop showing up, it never eased that anxiety every time that he could mess it up and do everything wrong in a heartbeat, and ruin everything. But if another counselor like him ever showed up in the same circles, and just proved to be so much better than him At least he still had combat, he told himself. As stupid incompetent children fought primals, ended the war, and got all the peoples’ admiration and praise, he still had combat. As he continued to make critical errors here and there in his ventures, and get in trouble with the Inquisition for vigilantism, forced only to stick to the law enforcement of the wilderness and the expeditions his friends would not take to the system, he still had combat. Not every day anymore as he stuck to his civilian tasks, but he had it. What would a talentless soldier be without the purpose of combat? Of dying, of sacrifice, or usefulness? The disgraced Temple Knight who would never officially and legally fight for anything ever again, only forced to emulate ability in areas he was never built for? The answer found itself in bars. Former Dragoons, it was almost always Dragoons. The ones who started fights just to feel anything, screamed at and insulted people because they truly felt they had no purpose in life anymore, and refused to move on to do anything productive. Esredes sighed to himself every time when he saw them. Perhaps he was not a man of talents, but he would continue to blend in and pretend. If not only for being above making an even bigger disgrace of himself. He always hated too much attention. ----- @heartofthefury​ Seraphiaux/Ferrant

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums: one of my favourite “hidden gems” of the mid-1980s, Blancmange’s *Mange Tout* is about as extra and in-your-face as it gets, full of dense arrangements, gender-bending bombast, and musical instruments from Southern Asia.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! This time around, I’ll be taking a look at one of my favourite hidden gems from the mid-1980s, the sophomore LP of Blancmange, entitled Mange Tout.

Despite their relative obscurity today, particularly in comparison to many of their contemporaries, Blancmange weren’t total strangers to the pop charts. Their first full-length LP, 1982’s Happy Families, would yield the biggest hit of their career: “Living on the Ceiling,” which peaked at #7.

Music: “Living on the Ceiling”

While it never got to be a chart-topper, “Living on the Ceiling” is still an unforgettable track in its own ways. Perhaps its most distinctive feature is its use of the traditional Indian instruments, the sitar and tabla. While 80s synth-pop is certainly full of Orientalism, most of the references you’ll find are pointing to the Far East, and the perceived aesthetic sophistication and techno-utopian futurism of China and Japan. Aside from certain works of Bill Nelson, Blancmange were pretty much the only ones engaging with South Asian musical themes. Blancmange’s instrumentalist, Stephen Luscombe, grew up in London’s Southall neighbourhood, which had a high population of immigrants from Southern Asia, which led him to a lifelong interest in Indian music. Combined with electronics, it makes for a totally unique sound, which ends up sounding better in practice than it might in theory.

While any time White European musicians turn to alternative cultures as artistic tools, there’s a valid cause for some degree of criticism and concern, there’s also an artsy, left-field un-hipness about Blancmange, who seemingly drew from Indian music not only alone, but purely for sonic enjoyment. Unlike the exotic fantasies spun by groups like Japan, none of Blancmange’s songs seem propelled by any specific idea or ideology about India, but rather seem to tackle common pop themes of love and heartbreak against a seemingly *non sequitur* musical backdrop. While we, as listeners, might have strong associations with particular sounds, this is ultimately more cultural than innate, and there’s really no reason why a composition with Indian instruments must revolve around some theme of “Indian-ness”; it isn’t like people in India don’t also fall in love. However you feel about these influences, the role of Indian instruments is only increased on Mange Tout, where they appear on multiple tracks, including the album’s most successful single, “Don’t Tel Me.”

Music: “Don’t Tell Me”

On Mange Tout tracks like “Don’t Tell Me,” not only do the instruments return, but so do the session musicians who had performed on “Living on the Ceiling”: Deepak Khazanchi, on sitar, and Pandit Dinesh, on the percussion instruments tabla and madal. “Don’t Tell Me” is a track with a lot of pop appeal, lightweight and singable, which makes it a bit surprising that it was actually the final single released from the album. It certainly impresses me that Blancmange managed to create such bubbly and finely tuned pop, given that neither of their core members came from any formal or technical background: Luscombe had had a history in avant-garde music ensembles, and vocalist Neil Arthur became interested in music via the DIY culture of punk. Their first-ever release, the 1980 EP Irene & Mavis, sounds more like Throbbing Gristle than Culture Club, but they somehow managed to arrive at something quite sweet and palatable in the end. That said, it’s also possible for sweet to eventually become too sweet--and this line is provoked on the album’s divisive second single, “That’s Love, That It Is.”

Music: “That’s Love, That It Is”

In contrast to the lighter “Don’t Tell Me,” “That’s Love, That It Is” is utterly bombastic, with a vicious intensity. The instrumentation and production style is dense to the point of being borderline overwhelming. By this point in his life, Stephen Luscombe had recently discovered that he was gay, and his time spent in nightclubs that catered to the gay community provided another pillar of Blancmange’s signature sound: the influence of the queer disco tradition, which is almost certainly the source of this tightly-packed instrumental arrangement style. Blancmange never seem to be mentioned in the same breath as other stars of queer synth-pop like Bronski Beat, Soft Cell, and the Pet Shop Boys, presumably due to the combination of their overall obscurity and the fact that Luscombe was never the face of their band, but I see no reason not to include them in the same pantheon of camp. Speaking of queerness, it’s also worth noting how Blancmange played with gender, particularly on their cover of “The Day Before You Came.”

Music: “The Day Before You Came”

A solid eight years before Erasure’s iconic Abba-Esque, Blancmange offered their own interpretation of an ABBA classic with “The Day Before You Came.” In their hands, it’s a languid dirge, and a meditation on quotidian miseries for which the titular event seems to offer little respite. The unchanged lyrics, portraying the narrator working in an office and watching soap operas at night, are subtly feminine-coded, but the deep and unmistakably masculine voice of vocalist Neil Arthur seems to muddle those connotations. While it is a cover, I’m tempted to sort it into the same tradition as Soft Cell’s “Bedsitter” and the Pet Shop Boys’ “Left To My Own Devices,” as a work which musically elevates the everyday life of a campily self-obsessed character to the sort of melodrama the narrator perceives it to have.

I’ve spent a lot of time praising the instrumental side of their music so far, but it’s also true that Blancmange wouldn’t be Blancmange without Arthur’s contributions. The presence of his rough and untrained voice, with the added gruffness of a Northern accent, draws a line between these tracks and a typical pop production, and he sells us quite successfully on the gloomy, ominous feeling of tracks like “The Day Before You Came” and the album’s lead single, “Blind Vision.”

Music: “Blind Vision”

On the cover of Mange Tout, we find an assortment of seemingly unrelated items, which form a sort of graphic wunderkammer against a pale beige backdrop. Perhaps the best theme that could be assigned to them is that of travel--we see several means of transportation, such as a boat, a motorbike, and an airplane flying above a map, as well as items that can be taken as symbols of exotic locales, such as a North American cactus, and an elephant and Zulu nguni shield from Africa. Only the harp is clearly evocative of music itself--and this instrument won’t even be found on the album! The album’s title, “Mange Tout,” suggests that we are getting “full” Blancmange, or “all of” Blancmange. Taken together, the cover and title seem to imply that this album is stuffed to the brim, and contains a whole world of musical ideas. I would definitely agree that that’s a major motif of the album: it’s audacious, explosive, and free-wheeling. It very much feels like an album that was put together on the back of a first initial success, with a pumped-up budget and bold creative vision, and hence pulls no punches. Perhaps the most compelling feature of Mange Tout, and the primary reason I recommend this album so highly, is its unbridled enthusiasm for what it’s doing. Even in its ostensibly experimental moments, Mange Tout feels not like an album that is “trying” something, but rather one that boldly and assuredly proclaims the things it does, and embraces a kind of “more is more” maximalism.

In hindsight, it’s easy to see Mange Tout as the creative as well as commercial peak of Blancmange’s career. Their follow-up release, 1985’s Believe You Me, is far from the worst album I’ve ever heard, but it definitely doesn’t feel quite the same as the “classic” Blancmange works, adopting a more middle-of-the-road, radio-friendly synth-pop direction, with less of the South Asian influences and experimentation that really set them apart in the saturated synth-pop landscape. While not a work devoid of merit, Believe You Me was a relative commercial dud, and the duo would split soon after, chiefly citing personal and creative differences--though they did have a brief reunion in the early 2010s.

Music: “Lose Your Love”

My favourite track on Mange Tout is “All Things Are Nice,” which, alongside the neo-doo-wop “See the Train,” would be classed as one of the more experimental tracks on the album. Full of tension, “All Things Are Nice” alternates between eerily whispering vocals from Arthur, and a variety of samples from other media--which was still a relatively cutting-edge technique for the time. “All Things Are Nice” is almost certainly the most conceptual track on the album: as samples discuss world war, and Arthur whispers that “we can’t keep up with it,” the song is probably to be interpreted as a commentary on the runaway nature of technology and so-called “progress” in the modern age. The titular assertion that “all things are nice” seems to be ironic--or perhaps it embodies a sheer love of chaos and unpredictability, for their own sake, which would certainly fit the album’s mood. It also feels like it might be a sort of defense of the album itself: like I said, *Mange Tout* is serving us “all of Blancmange,” and isn’t it fun to get to have all of something? That’s everything for today--as always, thanks for listening!

Music: “All Things Are Nice”

[flowercrown-bard]

To Rest Their Weary Wings

sort of a prequel to As Though They Were Nightingales but can be read alone

Something was changing. Geralt wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew it was there. Knew it like he had always known when the first snow would fall and drive him from Jaskier’s side for the winter. There was no snow now and it had been decades since they had spent their winters apart. So why did Geralt feel like there was something changing between them?

He wanted to stay with Jaskier for as long as he would let him. The gods knew, there was nothing he wanted more than to stay. Jaskier wanted the same. He said so often enough. With words. With the way, he would cling to Geralt’s arm and point out the shapes of the clouds or some pretty flowers along the path to make his days less grey. As if any day with Jaskier could be grey. He was colour, he was sunshine and laughter.

And he was Geralt’s. Jaskier had said so, declared it to the crowds he was singing to, sighed it in the quiet morning hours, when he woke up with Geralt’s arms around him, when the nightingale’s song was replaced by the lark’s. He said it without words, when he took Geralt’s hand and asked him once more to go to the coast with him. And Geralt told him he was Jaskier’s, when he let Jaskier wrap his arms around him from behind, as they rode Roach until finally they dismounted and felt sand beneath their feet.

Oakwood was a quiet village; it had nothing of the exuberance of Novigrad or the other bustling cities Jaskier always favoured for his performances. Neither did it have many monsters, apart from the occasional siren troubling the waters when a fishing boat drifted too far.

Oakwood was almost insignificant in how calm and ordinary it was. And yet, when Jaskier had tentatively asked Geralt to come here, there had been an unspoken weight to his words. A weight that had become heavier with every step they had taken and that had finally seemed to lift when Jaskier had stood on the seashore, breathing in the salty air with closed eyes. For a sweet moment, Jaskier had looked truly happy.

Slowly, the look had faded into calm determination. Not immediately. Not for days. But by now, it was unmistakable.

Something was changing. And this thing was Jaskier.

He was still himself, still brightening at the prospect of a story, still looking at Geralt with that gleam in his eyes, still bringing happiness to people with his tales of adventure. Still making Geralt’s chest warm with every smile he sent his way.

And yet. There was something missing. Though the way Jaskier spoke of adventure still held that wonder he had shown years ago, he had slowly pulled away from them. No longer did he insist on accompanying Geralt on his hunts. No longer was he ready to climb mountains and trudge through moors to seek the next thrill. Instead he spent the time when Geralt was fulfilling a contract performing in taverns.

Geralt could almost pretend that it was like it had been at the beginning of their acquaintance, when Jaskier had a hunger for adventure, but the memory of the elves’ knives on their throats had been fresh and sharp enough to want to watch from a safe distance. This was nothing extraordinary. Jaskier didn’t have to follow him everywhere. It was fine. More than fine, when it meant that Jaskier was safely tucked away at an inn, performing and laughing and being happy. It was all Geralt could ask for.

But even this slipped through Geralt’s fingers without him noticing, too fast to close his hand and hold onto.

More and more often, Jaskier would rather sit and watch some townsperson with a fiddle or a cheap lute. He would smile when his own songs were sung, but rarely was he the one performing. He would hum along, but he wouldn’t jump up and dance anymore. He would still spin fantastical stories that had Geralt shake his head fondly, but seldom did Jaskier write melodies for them.

Geralt had fought monsters that would frighten the most hardened of men. He had stared death in its cold eyes more times than he could count. But never had his heart sunk with a weight as it did when he asked Jaskier why he wasn’t performing anymore.

Jaskier laughed, leaning into Geralt and for a moment, Geralt could pretend he had only imagined the shift in Jaskier.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, but she is better than me,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the young woman who was giving a soaring rendition of one of Jaskier’s earlier works.

Geralt stared at him, unable to form words. Never had Jaskier listened to others sing his songs without at least three points of criticism. There were no better bards than Jaskier, everyone knew that. No one knew it better than Jaskier himself.

But at Geralt’s grunt of disagreement, Jaskier only tilted his head and patted his hand. “Don’t look at me like that, my dearest. If I were a few years younger, she would not stand a chance against me. But as it is, her fingers are quicker than mine. Her feet nimbler in a dance and she has a face people enjoy looking at.”

Geralt knitted his brows, taking Jaskier in as though seeing him for the first time. “Why would people not want to look at you?”

Jaskier was beautiful. Always has been. Even more so now, that Jaskier threw his head back laughing as though Geralt had made a joke. Geralt had been serious.

“I can’t imagine not enjoying looking at you,” Geralt tried again. It was a clumsy attempt at a compliment and despite the sincerity of the words it sounded stilted. But Jaskier’s smile softened and he gently reached for Geralt’s hand.

“I know, dear. But you love me.”

Geralt nodded, the lump in his throat dissipating. It was a relief – it always was – that Jaskier understood his sparse words for what they were supposed to mean.

Jaskier sighed and turned his head once more towards the would-be bard belting his ballads. “But you can’t deny I have changed. Look at me! My hair is almost completely grey now!”

Something pricked at Geralt’s heart. Jaskier used to be so excited about the grey streaks in his hair. “We are going to match now!” Jaskier used to say with a radiant smile, accompanied by a quick kiss that was broken when they both smiled into it. Geralt would run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, plant kisses on it and put flowers behind Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier would smile and say the colours contrasted beautifully with the grey.

“Don’t tell Yennefer, but I know I can’t hide the crow’s feet any longer,” Jaskier continued, as though the lines weren’t witnesses of years spent smiling until his eyes crinkled. “I am not like I used to be.”

“Your eyes are still blue.”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment, just looking at Geralt, thinking, searching. “Most people’s eyes become blue when they get old.” There was something in his smile that seemed not quite wrong, but…wistful. “Your eyes will stay golden. Always young.”

“I am older than you.”

Instead of answering, Jaskier turned back to the girl who was just striking up some sea shanty. Humming along, Jaskier closed his eyes and leaned against Geralt, who was unsure what else to say. What was there to say? This didn’t feel like banter or teasing. This felt heavy. Laced with hidden meaning that Geralt was unable to understand.

They didn’t talk about it anymore. Days passed by. Jaskier got to explore the town and Geralt finished the contract, helping some fishermen with their siren-problem. It was time to move on.

They didn’t.

--

“What is this place to you?” Geralt asked.

When Jaskier had asked Geralt to go to the coast with him on that mountain it had sounded like a throw away thought. Years and years had passed and Jaskier hadn’t mentioned the sea again. Not until he had asked Geralt about it a few weeks ago and Geralt had begun to realise that there was something more to it.

Something in Jaskier’s tone had made it seem like it was the most important thing to him and yet, he had not been scared of rejection. Instead, Jaskier had looked at Geralt like he was convinced that this time Geralt would come with him without hesitation. Geralt’s heart had stuttered. Despite how it had gone before, Jaskier still had trust in him, as he had had the first day they had met, when the then-young bard had had no doubt that Geralt would get them out of the elves’ captivity alive.

Geralt hadn’t been convinced he deserved such utter trust back at the edge of the world. Now, standing next to Jaskier at the edge of the sea, he would do anything in his power to make sure he did.

“Oakwood?” Jaskier lifted his eyebrows and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.” He trailed off, letting his eyes drift to where the sea gently kissed the land, as he had once called it. “But the coast reminds me of my time in Oxenfurt. It was always calming to me; safe. It is different here, though.” He blinked, as though trying to shield his eyes from the salty breeze. There was the slightest hint of hesitation in his words. “Oakwood is nothing to me yet, but I hope it could become home.”

“Home?” Geralt wasn’t sure what that emotion was that coloured his voice unbidden. It might be hope. Whatever it was, it was battling with a well-known urgency not to linger, to keep moving. Go to the next town. Find the next contract. The world might still need you.

“I won’t force you to stay with me, of course,” Jaskier said quickly, as if having read Geralt’s thought. As if he had spent most of his life getting to know Geralt and being able to read him as easily as a children’s book. “I know you are not one to stay in one place for too long.” A seabird’s cry interrupted Jaskier and he took a moment to watch it land on a dry patch of sand. “I wouldn’t keep you here. I am not that selfish to hide the world from you.” He could never be. Jaskier was his world. His home. “But …  you could be like a bird sitting down on a branch after a long flight to rest their weary wings, so when it’s time to keep on flying, they are rested for a new adventure.”

“And what about you?”

“You want me to continue with the bad metaphors?” Jaskier let out a bemused laugh. “Fine. I am a bird flying south for the winter. I know that I won’t be able to soar through the sky as I used to any longer, but I have found my south.”

Geralt scowled. He had spent enough time with Jaskier to know that it was easier for him to speak in metaphors and painted words. It didn’t make it any easier for him to understand.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly. “I meant, won’t you be alone if I ever go on a hunt again? I don’t have to do that. I can change with you.”

“Never change.” The words were almost whispered, but they held an unknown urgency. “Never for me.”

“For you, it would be worth it. I could stay with you. I don’t have to leave. This could become our home.”

“That would be beautiful.” A dreamy look settled on Jaskier’s face, smoothing the creases between his brows and giving him back his years. “We could sit together in front of a small cottage and watch the sunset. We could stroll along the shore every day and we could collect shells to decorate our home.”

Geralt’s heart clenched. It was a beautiful dream. It was a life Jaskier deserved. “I could give this to you.” He reached out, took Jaskier’s hand in his. “We could have this.”

Jaskier was quiet and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat, his words and thoughts coming faster than he could control, desperate to give this dream a shape he could hold onto. “You always told me that I should retire eventually. So why not now? Why not with you?”

“Because now I understand why you always said you wouldn’t do it.” A smile stretched Jaskier’s lips and it looked so loving, so proud. “It’s not about the monsters or some witcher code that’s been forced onto you. That I would ask you to give up in a heartbeat. But retiring would mean the same thing for you that it does for me. My songs used to make people happy. I used to make people happy. And you- “ Jaskier turned fully to face Geralt, resting his free hand on his cheek. A thumb brushed against the corner of his lips. “You are helping people. With everything you do, you help people. That is who you are and I can’t take away that from you. Stay with me, love, for as long as you can. But when you grow restless and need to go, promise me you’ll do that.”

“What about you?” Geralt repeated, leaning into the touch, pressing a soft kiss against the fingers resting against his lips. “You always said there were more places you wanted to see. It doesn’t have to end here. We don’t have to go on hunts together, but I could show you the blossoming hills of Dol Blathanna in spring or … or if you wanted to go to more festivals we could or –“

Jaskier’s hand squeezing his silenced him. “Geralt.” It sounded to tender. So undeservedly grateful. “You showed me more of the world than I had ever been able to see on my own.” A laugh escaped Jaskier. “And I believe I took you to more festivals than you would have seen in a lifetime if it wasn’t for me.”

“I didn’t mind. I would go to one again. With you. We still haven’t seen the harvest festivities of Corvo Bianco.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. Instead his eyes dropped to their joined hands.

“Jaskier?”

“You’ll have to tell me about the festival if you ever go there,” Jaskier said quietly. “But I’m afraid I can’t come with you anymore.” His lips twitched upwards in a teasing smile. “You might flatter me, saying I am still beautiful –“

“You are.”

“But I am no fool. I am getting old.”

“You can be both.”

“Naturally.” Jaskier’s lips twitched and he bumped Geralt with his shoulder playfully. “But that doesn’t change the fact that travelling has become exhausting. I can’t ride long distances and I definitely can’t walk for hours on end.” With a teasing wink he added “Even if I were to follow your oh so wise advice and buy some proper walking boots.”

“Then we will find other places to visit,” Geralt said softly. “I am sure there must be beautiful spots near-by.”

“I’d love that.” Jaskier’s eyes shone as he lifted their hands to press a kiss against Geralt’s knuckles.  “We have time to find them all.”

They had time. Not as much as Geralt wanted, but more than he thought they did when they had started travelling together. It has already been decades more than he had thought would be granted to him. Every moment with Jaskier was something precious and he would make sure that Jaskier knew.

Something had changed. Witchers didn’t plan their lives. There was nothing to plan. They went out into the world, they slayed monsters, they hoped to get coin. Nothing more to it. But here Geralt was, a witcher standing at the sea, making whispered plans of settling down with his beloved.

When Geralt would inevitably ride off to follow the path for a while and bring back stories for Jaskier, he would do so alone, as witchers were meant to be. No, not quite. Witchers were meant to be lonely. And that, Geralt would never be. He hadn’t been for a long time. How could he be lonely when he knew that someone was out there, waiting for him to return? How could he ever feel truly alone, when the man he loved would always be there with open arms and a bright smile, welcoming him home?

A wave crashed against the shore, spooking the seagull which had hacked at the sand, chasing it off into the sky. Geralt felt Jaskier sigh and lean his head against his shoulder. One day, Geralt would go out there into the wide world and the path again. But for now, he would rest.

Things would continue to change, he knew. Jaskier would continue to change. And he would be there with him, every step along the way.

[kiivg]

.This is such a belated answer, but I’m not impressed by the Grail Knight :| There’s more under the cut if you want some ramblings because I never get to talk about Vermintide on here because where’s the fandom??? :).

.I did all the challenges (apart from the 100 missions) because it’s very difficult to quickplay and get Kruber nowadays, and I play a lot with people who main Markus. And I’m a slutty slutty Saltzpyre main. Which still shocks me to this day, because I was a terrible Vicky in V1, and I only recently (a few months ago?) started playing Saltzpyre because... I actually don’t know why. And I spent a lot of time complaining about the Zealot because I couldn’t figure out a good build for him, because the advice I got was ‘build him for criticals’ which is terrible advice. But look at me now, max stacks and thrilled about it. I love him :).

.The Grail Knight is fun to play, and he’s pretty good considering you’re generally going to look like a massive arsehole if you’re the last man standing because your severe lack of gun meant everyone got grabbed and you can’t save anyone because you’re only range is about a meter radius around yourself. He’s squidgy as hell, you’re like two hits and down, and you’re fucked if you don’t have someone with good aim and long range on your team. But then again, trying to get other people to take out the specials before they’re licking out your soul by highlighting and using the social wheel is hellish in itself. Please, it’s a team game, please.

.The new weapons are alright, I hate shields entirely so, you know, but the longsword is pretty fancy with the riposte. And realistically, you’re kind of bound to having to have a shield as a second weapon if you want to be able to reliably take out Rattlings and Flamethrowers without having to backtrack and hide until they come to you. Without knockback or a dash he’s sort of really risky to use a slow weapon with too, especially if you’re crowded or staggered; it’s not like you can block and use his special either. 

.He kind of makes the Shade even more redundant though, specifically with his double special thing and a little tasty purple in his hand. Ah those were the days; the ineffable panic when a monster turned up and nobody was the Shade so you had to slog out a monster battle with a unavoidable horde rocking up once or twice. Granted that was like the beta days... And now pretty much everyone has a monster killing tactic. Which is better, I guess? Less teamwork, less kiting, more competitiveness on who can kill the boss fastest.

.The design seems out of place as well, not that I know much about Warhammer lore, but everyone else seems kind of... Ah I don’t know the word for it, but they all fit together and then the Grail Knight is all bright and shiny, even the portrait for him seems something extra. I suppose it’s meant to be like that, but it just looks like he’s the main character in the anime kind of thing, haha. Maybe that’s just because I’m wearing headgear that means Vicky has mud smudged all over his face :).

.Aside from that, the dialogue? Every time he whips out peasant I want to scream. I don’t understand why Markus, a man who deeply respects Victor, has started calling him that and has absolutely no issue with anyone else. It stresses me out so much. I hate it :). I don’t care if he drank some stinky ass pond juice, that boy needs to learn some respect. I suppose it’s fitting that I’m a Saltzpyre main and I’m salty as fuck about this :).

.It’s also the fact that Markus was a farmer, and he was a peasant, he was very poor and this new entitlement is making him act like a dick. Sure he’s fancy and he likes his coin and feathered caps, but he’s still a bloody farm boy, doesn’t matter how many gilded cups he shoves up his arse.

.Last time I was in Bretonnia, shut up, Markus.

.However, it does fit quite nicely into that classic Heir/Servant sort of trope for my own little Kruberzpyre HCs and AUs, maybe there’s some redemption in the end.

.Also he’s a heretic, sorry, Sigmar and them lot only for my boys thank you.

...

.I played a few more days after writing this and I’ve decided I don’t actually like the Grail Knight at all. He’s really not the kind of character I play, he’s slow with no range, he’s strong but there’s hardly any point in all that power if all the enemies are dead before you get there (which brings up the conundrum of, do I stick with my team to help them (risking being overwhelmed by a horde) or do I run to kill the horde before they’re even close (risking a teammate being grabbed and way too far away to save)?) and who needs that heavy of a special attack when monsters aren’t even that big of a deal anymore?.

.In comparison to the other three classes Kruber has, I’d say it’s third out of four, and the only reason he’s not fourth is because Fatshark have butchered the Huntsman so much that I can’t stand to play him, and I can remember the days where I would clock two- if not three- times as many kills as everyone else with ease, and now it’s a struggle to survive as him. Mercenary will always be the best Kruber, and the Foot Knight takes second just because he’s fun as fuck to play, even if he’s not viable for cataclysm. (Granted I can’t play Kruber or Bardin in Cataclysm lmao.).

.In essence, I’m disappointed, and I‘m worried about what the next classes are going to be for the other characters, (but I am intrigued to see how they match the Grail Knight’s boon system) and, if it’s turning into one of those games that’s kind of, not pay to win, but pay to get stronger stuff. (Eg. the weapons you receive in DLCs are marginally better than those in the base game, which, has that been sorted now? I’m still just using Vicky’s great sword.) Because though I dislike the Grail Knight, I can see why people might grasp for the boons he gets that can give health regeneration, power increases, and damage taken decreased etc. 

.TL:DR: I don’t like the Grail Knight and doing 100 missions as him is going to kill me :).