#in the end i still don't know how to draw him

[bleuberries-and-video-games]

I can tell you this first hand, even the people who are fighting, they're doing it running ragged. Double that for anyone who's like a marginalized identity targeted explicitly by him, I know trans people who are burning the candle at both ends, myself included, to create support groups, networks of aid, any kind of shit just to keep going and to maintain any sort of equilibrium and even make ends meet. I'm very fortunate to have the job I have, I don't know if I will have it forever, as my job does kind of require or rely upon Federal and local government grants and the state of Missouri is not exactly a very kind place right now to trans people.

Not only that, but also like, I would like to explain to anyone from outside of the United States what the United States is like, because I don't think any of you understand what it's like. I think you see New York and la and maybe Austin Texas and maybe Portland oregon, or God forbid any one of the places where there's like a Disney theme park that some of y'all go to, but like those are really big economically beautiful and thriving places. That means they look picturesque, that means they look like America is fine and thriving, but I can assure you that is not the case for a number of different groups and people and places. Hell even in those places I've listed, there are issues you can see on a day-to-day basis that you wouldn't normally see just touring.

The vast majority of the United States, for the vast part of its history, has been some kind of police state with some kind of hyper regulatory body enforcing some kind of morally tied laws. From cross-dressing laws, to race mixing laws, to laws disparaging and maintaining women's oppression, to the very fact that if you didn't own land for a large part of this country's history, you didn't have any sort of power. At all. This means that you are beholden to a capitalistic class that has grown more and more powerful as time has gone on. America is not a shining City on hill and has never been a shining City on a hill, it has always been this place that has been propped up by capitalism, and always had a bunch of people that are sitting in the periphery and which makes the majority of the capital but doesn't see a dime of it. If you think that this is suddenly abnormal, that we went from voting for Obama to voting for the orange dweeb, you're a fucking idiot. You're not paying attention. You're so wrapped up in economic and social nationalism for your countries, thinking about how much better your Society is in contrast and trying desperately to figure out what went wrong™ in America that you forget fascism starts when you start drawing heavy borders and when you start thinking about us versus them. Everyone in the entire world is beholden and capable of doing fascism. I mean it fucking started in Europe for God's sake, Europe is not this enlightened Center of cultural good, for a long time it was very regressive and stifling, and it is only a recent part of History in which that has not been the case. And didn't even more recent history, you have benefited off of economic booms and trade Partnerships that have basically dissolved orders that once caused decades-long escalating conflicts that almost entirely destroyed the world. This is not an accident, this happens because of the economic powers that be, this is because of capitalism, and this is specifically because we have still not addressed the issues that plague the world.

We are trying our very best to do what we can to fight what we can and protect what we can. But when the majority of the country has been getting increasingly economically disparate, when police get more funding than schools, when the military is all over the world working with allies and toppling Nations or propping up proxy states, when all of our money goes to defense contractors or contracted Federal businesses run or cut to Pieces by private Equity firms, there's not a whole lot many people can do, and the more marginalized you are, the more Afflicted and affected by different issues in the world you are, the harder it is for you to do something. And yet I know some people who do stuff, who do fight, who fucking have to walk with a cane or crutches, who struggle to breathe or struggle to go anywhere, who don't have cars, and they still manage to go to meetings, work with organizations, and they're trying, they're God damn trying.

You see the problem is for the last 40 fucking years, the media apparatus that the United States runs, CNN and fox news, have accelerated the concept of propaganda in America from something that is a lot more decentralized and region specific, into this National Force that basically tells the world what America thinks. The issue is? Neither CNN nor Fox news, nor HLN, the Oprah Winfrey channel, cbs, abc, nbc, or Comedy Central really represent the American people and their opinions. A number of these nationally syndicated television shows and news programs have to water down a lot of perspectives, and they often dehumanize, Rob The Voice of, or just genuinely ignore very necessary issues. This is also because of the fairness doctrine, a standard that guaranteed the news would be a certain way, was abolished around the time that CNN and Fox News started taking off.

So not only were you getting watered down, oftentimes nationalized opinions, there was no alternative perspectives and there was no way to tell who thought what and why. And so pretty much the entire world and anyone who watches CNN and Fox News has just assumed that's what Americans think, when in reality we are very much skeptical and very much frustrated with what either program says, and by extension a lot of other media companies. We have watched and tried very actively to stop the monopolization of our media, but we are pretty much helpless to stop it because there's not a lot of avenues we can take especially the worse and worse things get.

You have to stop thinking of America in terms of the prosperity that is projected on television and by a bunch of places for touristic means, you have to start thinking about it in terms of the places that you don't see, you have to start thinking about it as a sort of oligarchic dictatorship that has traded hands over and over again for the last several decades to financially benefit a bunch of dick heads at the top of the hierarchy. Those same Financial dick heads go and explore the world, prop up and collaborate with different financially powerful individuals, and maintain the conflicts and oppression that run the world. Ever since the fall of the Berlin wall, and even since before that point, America has had pretty much free reign with little opposition to do a bunch of bullshit like that.

All the while a lot of it citizens suffer, a lot of them are compulsory forced to serve in the military in order to get the bare minimum amount of college, medical care, and so on, which creates a massive benefit to the military industrial complex, and by extension ships are troops all over the world to help our allies supposedly defend themselves, when in actuality all it's doing is just legitimizing and continuing the cycle of financial destruction.

What I'm trying to say is you have to stop thinking of America in terms of what you see in the media and start looking at America in terms of what you hear from people around here, and more importantly you have to talk to people who are not kissing the ass of government or posting rampant conspiracism. You have to talk to regular citizens and actually get a gauge on what it's like living in both middle and wider range America. I would love for California and New York to be the emblematic representation of america, I would love for the media and ideas you see and engage with to be true, but it's not and it can't be.

America has never been this prosperous giant, it has been a testing ground for the extent of which capitalism can be abusive and get away with it. It is always been that way. You can ask however it got to this point, and I will point to the Civil War and say it was always this way.

It was always about maintaining indentured servitude, always about maintaining disparity and destruction and oppression, and basically from the beginning America has constantly been founded by and sustained by consistent and perfect PR spins. Liberty and justice for all? Or for a bunch of guys who own land? Yes you can change it, but you don't change it by simple votes. All of the Amendments that have giving us rights and changes that have made the country supposedly better have been paid for in blood, and almost all of them have been subverted by a bunch of movements antithetical to their existence simply because a group of people didn't like being told what to do. We are trying our very goddamn best. Please know that the media lies to you, please know that our government lies to you, please know that everything you hear about us is likely some kind of fabrication meant to maintain some kind of facade to get you to believe bullshit. To make you think that we're complaining with this. To make you think that we wanted this. We didn't. Those of us who did? I guarantee you are in the minority. I know they are in the minority.

For those outside of America going "why don't you fight back" or "don't you guys know what's going on?" let me explain something to you.

We know.

There is nothing a lot of us can do right now.

We are either minorities surrounded by Trump supporters or struggling to make ends meet or (most likely) both.

These first few days are designed to exhaust us. It's the same tactic he used during his first administration. Overwhelm the media and the masses so that the more sinister things he does gets swept under the rug.

And honestly, a lot of us are checked out because we spent the last four years warning people about a second term because our lives were on the line and those we thought cared about us proved they didn't.

And now we're just trying to find some sort of semblance of happiness in this joyless world we're now living in. We fight when we can, we bring attention to what we can, but a lot of us are just fucking exhausted.

So please, cut us some slack. We've been fighting for the last eight years, we still have to fight for the next four.

Right now, survival is the only rebellion we have.

[scoutofmymind]

Momma I request a prompt inspired by a song of your choosing (: I L Y

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: mental health issues, mentions of past trauma, TorturedArtist!Reader, Empath!Luigi, Luigi says “go birds” after flipping off a woman, confused feelings, situationship, reader is just Very Confused in general, angst, eventual romance.

Wc: 5,107

I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Oh, one day, believe me

You’ll want someone who makes it easy

This has been floating around in my asks for awhile, and I wasn’t feeling practically inspired by any songs lately until Sabrina released Couldn’t Make It Any Harder and I couldn’t stop thinking about writing it.

This work was done quickly between my other ongoing Luigi projects, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or skipped backstory (you know I’m a backstory bitch) but I simply needed to get this out of my system, and remembered that an anon had asked me to write something based off of a song quite awhile ago!

Also, how could I leave you hanging on Valentine’s Day? Even if I’m posting this at 2 AM….

It's 8:30 AM at your usual coffee spot — that tiny café two blocks from Luigi's apartment where the barista always draws terrible attempts at latte art, and you’re still wearing yesterday's mascara, not because you've been crying, but because you spent the night in your studio, channeling your frustration into a new piece that's all sharp edges and bold strokes.

"I mean, we had a great time!" You're gesturing with your coffee cup, nearly spilling it. "We went to that new gallery opening, and he actually understood my rant about contemporary minimalism. Then dinner, drinks, great conversation — and now? Radio silence. Three days of nothing."

Luigi, sitting across from you, is trying not to smile at how animated you are, his laptop open beside him — he's probably got a Slack channel blowing up with messages from his dev team, but he rushed to meet you for this emergency coffee session, anyway.

The startup's dress code might be casual, but he always manages to look put-together in that effortless way that makes other tech bros look like they're not trying hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just-“ you pause, stirring your coffee aggressively, "too much, you know? Too loud, too passionate, too-"

"Stop," Luigi cuts in, closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on you again, "You're not too anything. You're exactly enough. So don’t even go there with me.” He massages his temples, “Too early for it.”

"I know that," you say firmly, because you do. "That's the thing — I like who I am. I like that I can talk about art for hours. I like that I get excited about things. I like that I feel everything so intensely. I'm not going to make myself smaller just because some guy can't handle it."

"Then don't," Luigi says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up from the foam disappearing from your cappuccino. "The right person won't want you to."

"Exactly! And you know what? If Jake can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to say it-“ you trail off, reaching for your sketchbook. You start absent-mindedly drawing on a corner of the page.

“Ugh,” Luigi’s face screws in mock disgust, “His name was Jake?”

Putting down your pen, you lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. "But then again, if I'm so great, why does this keep happening? Three first dates in two months, Lu. Three. And they all end the same way."

"You mean with guys who can't handle someone who actually has opinions?" Luigi takes a sip of his coffee, his fingers tapping absently on his closed laptop. A notification buzzes on his phone — probably his team wondering where he is — but he doesn't even glance at it.

"No, see, that's just it," you lean forward, your hands moving expressively as you talk. "They love it at first. They think it's so fascinating and refreshing that I'm 'not like other girls', or whatever." You roll your eyes at the phrase, hating the taste of the words in your mouth. "But then it's like they realize I'm actually serious. That I'm not just putting on some manic pixie dream girl act for their entertainment."

Luigi's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Heaven forbid you be a real person with actual thoughts and feelings."

"Right? And I know — I know I'm not too much," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. You start fidgeting with your rings, a habit Luigi's seen a thousand times when you're wrestling with something in your head. "But sometimes I wonder if-"

"If what?"

"If maybe I should just- you know.. tone it down? Just a little? Just at first?" The words sound wrong coming out of your mouth, and you can see from Luigi's expression that he knows it, too. "No, you're right, forget I said that. That's stupid."

"It is stupid," he agrees, but gently. His eyes catch yours across the table again, his gaze steady and genuine. "Remember that installation you did last month? The one about authenticity?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you tell that bag of bones professor who said it was 'overwhelmingly honest'?"

A smile starts to spread across your face. "I told him that was the whole damn point."

"Exactly." Luigi checks his watch and starts gathering his things — he's definitely late now. "So maybe the problem isn't that you're too overwhelming,” he pats the top of your head, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “maybe they're just underwhelming."

•

You're standing in front of your last piece, forcing a smile that feels like it's splitting your face in half, as another guest explains to you what your own art means.

Behind you, you can hear snippets of conversations that make your skin crawl.

It's a bit... aggressive, isn't it?

Not quite gallery standard... these nepo kids..

Experimental, but perhaps too experimental..

Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them behind your back. You've been doing this grim waltz for two hours — nodding, smiling, explaining yourself over and over to people who look through you rather than at you, and the gallery owner keeps shooting you these looks, these little disappointed glances that make you feel about two inches tall.

You catch Luigi's eye across the room.

He's been watching, you realize, while pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with some tech entrepreneur who probably thinks art is a good investment opportunity, and he tilts his head slightly — a question.

You shake yours — you’re not okay.

"The brushstrokes here," the current patron is saying, pointing at your most vulnerable piece, "they're rather — well, chaotic. Unorganized. Muddy. It’s strange to see. Was that intentional?"

Something inside you splinters.

"Excuse me," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady for how the room is tunneling, how your fingers begin to tingle, how your lungs have lost the ability to draw in a full breath. "I need some air."

You make it through the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the owner who starts to say something about maintaining appearances, past the front desk and around the corner to the back alley.

Then your legs give out.

You're gasping, trying to remember how breathing works, your back against the cold brick wall. The dress — that stupid yellow dress that Luigi said was his favorite — feels too tight. Everything feels too tight.

You tear at your collar, needing air, needing space, needing- "Hey." Luigi's voice, close but not too close. "I'm here."

"I can't-" you choke out. "I can't breathe, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He moves slowly into your space, hands hovering but not touching. "Look at me. Just look at me. I’m right here. It’s all good.”

You shake your head violently, sliding down the wall. "They're right. They're all right. I'm not- this- This isn't-" Each word feels like it's being ripped from your throat, bloody and raw and dishonest and horrific. They aren’t right. You know they aren’t.

"Bullshit." The sharpness in his voice makes you look up. He's crouched in front of you now, his tie completely undone, his eyes fierce. "They're not right. They're not even close to right. They're looking at fireworks and complaining about the noise. Old fuckin’ bunch’a assholes.”

A sob catches in your throat, half laugh, half cry. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"Made you look at me, though." His voice softens, his hands resting on your clammy shoulders. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

You try to match his exaggerated breathing, your hands still shaking. "I put everything into this show," you whisper after your second deep breath. "Everything."

"I know."

"And they just- they- they just-“

"I know." He shifts, sitting beside you against the wall, careful to leave space, but still your shoulders bump together. "But. Want to know what I think?"

You turn your head to look at him, makeup probably ruined, dress definitely stained from the alley ground, but you’ve already abandoned ship, you’ve waved your white flag — there’s no use in pretending you haven’t crumbled in a New York alleyway now. "What?"

"I think they're terrified of you."

That startles a real laugh out of you, “What?"

"You heard me." He's looking straight ahead, but there's something fierce in his profile. "You walked in there with your soul on full display, unapologetic and raw and real, and they don't know what to do with that. People like that, they're comfortable with art they can hang in their dining rooms and forget about.” You watch him blink, gathering the words, “Your shit doesn't let them forget. It makes them feel things they don't want to feel."

You nudge him gently, a laugh flaring your nostrils. "That's a lot better than the fireworks metaphor."

Now he does look at you, a small smile playing at his lips, his cheeks blushed crimson from the wine he’d gulped down just to make himself a bit more sociable. "Yeah, well, I've had three glasses of their overpriced wine. I'm feeling poetic."

Another laugh bubbles up, watery but real. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a moment. "I don't want to go back in there."

"So we won’t." He doesn't move, letting you lean on him, his head leaning atop yours. "Let's go get real drinks instead. You can tell me all the things you wanted to say to that guy who tried to explain color theory to you."

"God, he was the worst." You straighten up slowly, wiping at your eyes. "Did you see his socks?"

"I was trying not to."

•

You're standing at the open bar, counting the minutes until it's socially acceptable to leave, when Madison — a college friend you haven't seen in years, who always seemed to help herself to open bars beyond her means — sways over.

Her champagne sloshes dangerously close to your dress, but for some reason, you don’t step back.

"Oh my god, it really is you!" Her voice carries just a bit too loud, and you can feel a few heads turning in your direction. "I almost didn't recognize you without, you know-“ she gestures vaguely at all of you, that sick smile still on her blush pink lips. "All the paint and shit all over you.”

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping it would wash away the rising tide of anxiety in your core. "Good to see you too, Mads.”

"So,” She leans in conspiratorially, her breath smelling of booze and mid-tier champagne. “I heard about your gallery show last month. The one at The Maxwell? God, that must have been-“ She trails off, eyes wide with what looks like concern but feels like something else entirely.

Your hand tightens around your glass. "Must have been what?" Your lips tighten into a line, “It was an- an honor to have the opportunity.”

Words your father had always said to you growing up echo in the far depths of your mind; Honor and Integrity.

There’s a humility in it, in accepting such a nightmare as privilege.

"Well, I mean — I saw that article that was going around Instagram. About how you just up and left? In the middle of opening night?" She takes another sip of champagne, watching you over the rim with her big, stupid brown eyes. "Is that true? That you didn't even come back to collect your pieces? God, that's crazy!"

The word crazy hits like a slap, and you can still feel the panic from that night, the walls closing in as people whispered, pointed, discussed your work like it was a car crash they couldn't look away from and did nothing to aid.

"It's not exactly-"

"And after everything with Matt, and then Jason- ugh,” She shakes her head. "I mean, I get it. Using art as therapy. But maybe actual therapy would be — I dunno — you know, beneficial?”

"Madison-"

"I'm just worried about you," she continues, reaching for your arm and her fingers feel like serpents, coiling around your skin, suffocating you. "We all are. First the whole thing with your poor father — god, remember how he used to say you were just too-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, your brows furrowed at her like she’d backhanded you. “Don’t you fucking say another word.”

Madison almost gasps, clutching her necklace. “See? This is what I mean. All this reactionary stuff. The anger. The intensity. Have you thought about getting help? My therapist says sometimes when we've been through things-"

The garden somehow feels too small, the fairy lights too bright, the music too loud. Across the room, Luigi is trapped in conversation with the bride's uncle, but somehow he must sense something because his eyes find yours, his head tilted at you, his usual question.

Everything okay?

This time, you look away from him.

"I’m going to leave this conversation before-“

"No, wait, listen." Madison's grip on your arm tightens, slithering, sneering, hissing. Fangs, poison. “That show — people were talking about it for weeks. How raw it was. How fucking uncomfortable it made everyone. One of the pieces — the one with all the broken mirrors? Someone said it looked like a cry for help."

You can feel your pulse in your throat. "It wasn't a fucking-“

"And then you just disappeared! Like, who does that, girl? Just leaves their own show? The curator had to pack up your pieces himself. That's what the article said. Is that true?" She may as well have a microphone beneath your trembling lips, taking on the role of some cheap reporter for a local shittalking magazine.

Of course she read the article.

Everyone read the article.

The one that called your work a disturbing glimpse into a clearly troubled mind. The one that suggested your artistic breakdown was inevitable given your history of emotional instability.

It was laughable, truly, and anyone that knew you well enough had known so much to be so very far from the truth.

"I had my reasons," you manage, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself. “I had reason for leaving the way I did.”

"Obviously you did. That's what I'm saying. Maybe if you got some help, you know, dealt with all this and found ways to properly cope-“ She waves her hand vaguely again, like swatting away a pesky fly. "Then maybe you could make art that's more you know.. accessible. Enjoyable. Less-“

"Less me?" The words come out before you can stop them. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t know, Madison. You haven’t seen a single one of my shows, haven’t shown yourself at any of my gallery openings-“ your cheeks burn red hot, your glass of wine discarded and your hands balled into fists. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking pop that smirk right off your-“

"That's not what I-"

“It is exactly what you fucking-“

“No, it’s not! Look at yourself!”

"Hey!” Luigi's voice cuts through the rising panic. He's suddenly there, solid and real. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have that thing that we have to get to-“ he loops his arm around yours, and he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you, hot and quivering like a volcano deciding if it’s time to erupt just yet or not.

Madison blinks at him, her nostrils flared at the sudden interruption. It seems as though this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and was pissed the show had called curtains so quickly. "What thing?"

"That very important thing," Luigi says firmly, already guiding you away. "Great catching up. Green is not your color. Go Birds.” As he turns you both, he raises his middle finger behind your back — not because you needed defending, but because that's who Luigi is; all sharp edges and fierce loyalty, a guard dog with his teeth bared in your honor, though, you catch the gesture in a reflection, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Not because you needed saving, but because he'd always take your side, no matter the circumstances. He didn’t need to know why you were barking at this girl he’d never met before — he already knew you had good reason to do it.

You make it to the venue's back garden before your legs give out, and the fairy lights blur through tears you refuse to let fall. "Did you— fuck,” Your voice shakes as you reach to wipe away the tears before they even get the chance to glide down your cheeks. "Did you actually hear what she was saying or just see it?”

"Caught the greatest hits." His jaw is tight, his hand resting on your lower back as he hunches forward, clearly concerned but approaching all of it carefully.

You can’t help but wonder then how many times you’ll find yourselves like this — Luigi rescuing you from yet another mishap, and that alone could become a new reason to feel sorry for yourself.

And him.

"The article." You wrap your arms around yourself. "She read the fucking article."

Ironically, you had originally taken the article well.

Too well, in fact.

You'd invited them all over — Luigi, Anna, Theo — for what you called A Reading of My Professional Obituary. You'd spent all day in the kitchen, channeling your grandmother's stress-cooking legacy; bouillabaisse simmering for hours, Tarte Tatin caramelizing to golden perfection.

The good wine came out, the kind you'd been saving for a real occasion.

Perched in your chair like it was a throne, wine glass dangling from your fingers, you'd performed dramatic readings of the choicest quotes. "Sources close to the artist describe a history of emotional instability," you'd intoned, affecting a pompous art critic voice that had Luigi choking on his wine. "An unsettling collection that seemed less like art and more like a cry for help.”

The evening devolved into a tipsy game of "Guess the Snitch" — everyone taking turns suggesting increasingly ridiculous candidates for the mysterious source. "It was Gabby, in the gallery, with the emotional manipulation!" Theo had declared, wielding his bouillabaisse spoon like a gavel.

But Luigi had watched you through it all — the way your hand shook slightly when pouring wine, how your laugh got a little too loud to be genuine, and how you'd spent three hours making a perfect French dessert like your life depended on proving you weren't falling apart.

"We all did." Luigi reminds you, his voice gentle but firm. "Christ, we turned it into dinner theater. Remember how Anna did that dramatic interpretation of ' the unsettling collection'?" His hand finds your knee, squeezing. "And it was shit. Not only was it shit — it was cowardly. Didn't even have the spine to name you."

You tilt your head back, using the stars as gravity's help against the tears threatening to spill. The fairy lights from the wedding garden blur into little halos. "I know, but — these people, Lu." Your voice catches, and you hate how it betrays you. "They believe it. They're all walking around thinking I'm some unhinged artist who needs to be sedated and locked away from sharp objects." A laugh escapes, but it's wet and hollow. "God, I wish I'd understood what that article would do. I wish-"

But there's no point in wishing.

The damage was done with surgical precision.

They hadn't needed to use your name — everyone knew exactly whose exhibition had opened at Maxwell Gallery on August fifteenth.

Yours.

•

The hotel room feels smaller with each passing hour.

You've mastered a careful choreography — sliding past each other in the narrow spaces, maintaining precise distances on the king bed as you both pretend to watch some mindless cooking show. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, you slip. His hand brushes yours as you both reach for the room service menu, your feet touch under the shared blanket; each accidental contact sends you recoiling like a startled cat, though you used to fall asleep during movie nights without a second thought.

When your knee accidentally bumps his as you shift position, you jerk away so violently you nearly fall off the bed.

"Okay." Luigi mutes the TV, turning to face you. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" But you know exactly what, can feel heat creeping up your neck and it makes you want to run.

"About how we used to share my twin bed during college when you crashed at my place, but now you act like my skin is fucking toxic." His voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of hurt that makes your core ache. "Remember that road trip to Detroit? You slept on my chest the whole way back because the car heater was broken.“ he looks desperate, grasping at the last straws of you. “I feel like we hardly look each other in the eyes now.”

You stare hard at the geometric pattern on the duvet, picking at a loose thread. "Things were different then."

"Were they?" He shifts closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Or are you just scared they weren't?"

You get up abruptly, needing to put physical space between you and that question, the Chicago night spreading out beyond the window, a constellation of lights blurring through unshed tears; each one feels like a witness to this moment, to your cowardice.

"You know what changed," you say finally, arms crossed tight against your chest like armor. "After Maxwell, after the article, after everything became public consumption — I can't be that person anymore.”

"Why not?" His voice is closer now — he's moved to the edge of the bed, but he doesn't approach further. Giving you space while refusing to let you run.

Very classic Luigi.

A laugh escapes you, bitter and dry. "Because now everyone's watching. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. And you-“ You turn just enough to catch his reflection in the window, superimposed over the city lights. "You're too important to me, Lu.”

"So you'd rather just — what? Keep pretending?" There's frustration in his voice now, raw and real. "We both know that's not sustainable. Not when we used to-“ He trails off, and you recall the many countless nights on his cramped couch, your head on his chest, his heartbeat your lullaby to the most restful sleep you’d ever known.

"Maybe not," you admit quietly. "But it's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

The question almost knocks you off your feet.

Because he's right — this careful distance isn't protecting him. It's protecting you. From vulnerability. From the possibility of loss. From the terrifying reality that despite everything, despite all your jagged edges and dark corners, he's still here.

Still looking at you like you're something precious instead of precarious.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things you're afraid to say, all the ways you're afraid to need him, and even more terrified of the way he needs you.

Eventually, you turn from the window, facing him. "It can't be simple. I won't let it be." Your voice catches. "I push and I pull and I keep everyone at arm's length until they prove me right by leaving."

Luigi stands slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "You've been trying so hard to make it impossible," he says softly. "Creating distance, convincing yourself I'll give up." He takes another step closer. "But loving you has always been the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Don't." The word comes out choked, your hand pressing against his chest in hopes that he’ll back away. "Don't say that when you know how complicated — how- how difficult-"

"Difficult?" He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, stood firm but not inching any closer. "You want to talk about difficult? Try watching you date other people. Try sitting across from you at coffee shops for years and watching you cry over them. Try fucking loving you quietly through every gallery opening, every crisis,“ his brows furrow, his nostrils flare, “you don’t get to tell me what loving you is like.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for you.

"You think you're pushing me away?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands finally cradling your face, tears dampening your cheeks that blaze with warmth. "I've been yours since that first night you fell asleep on my shoulder during finals week. Everything since then — it's just been waiting."

You clench your jaw, your heart a wild thing against your ribs. This tightrope you and Luigi have been walking for years — this delicate balance of almost-but-not-quite, of maybe-someday-but-not-now — has finally frayed beneath your feet. All those careful steps, those perfectly maintained distances, those nights of pretending your skin didn't burn where he almost touched you.

They’ve led you here, to this hotel room in Chicago, where the fantasy of staying safely suspended between friendship and something more has finally given way to gravity.

And what, you wonder, has Luigi seen in you to make him want to dive deeper into your chaos?

He's already witnessed the 3 AM phone calls when your mind won't quiet, the obsessive cleaning episodes that leave your hands raw and your apartment sterile. He's held you through the tears that come without warning, weathered the anger that burns hot and fast like summer lightning.

You're no manic pixie dream girl — you're the real thing, messy and unpredictable, with a heart that bleeds all over everything it touches.

He's either a storm chaser or a fool, you think.

Some hopeless beast tamer who hasn't realized that some creatures aren't meant to be gentled, that some storms leave nothing but wreckage in their wake.

But that's the thing — to Luigi, you've never been a storm to weather or a beast to tame. He doesn't look at you like you're broken machinery in need of repair, doesn't treat your edges like something to be smoothed away.

Instead, he's spent years matching your pace, stepping back when you needed space, stepping forward when you needed anchor. And now, finally, the weight of all that careful patience has brought him here — raw and honest in this dim hotel room, asking you to either meet him in this space between what you are and what you could be, or lay him to rest.

"Touch me," he says, the words falling soft but heavy in the space between you. His eyes hold yours, steady and sure, "Or let me go.”

The city lights paint his silhouette in gold and shadow, and you realize you've never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he always maintains. Your Luigi laid bare — not the patient friend, not the steady shoulder, but a man who's finally reached the end of his endurance.

"What if we break?" The question slips from your lips, small and honest, carrying all the weight of your fears that kept you at such a distance all these years — shattering to pieces, left broken by the man you’d loved the most.

Luigi's eyes soften, and something like a smile — sad and sweet and knowing — tugs at the corner of his lips. "Then we break," he says simply, his thumbs swiping away the tears that slide down your cheeks. "But I'd rather that than spend the rest of my life whole and wondering."

His hands haven’t moved. Patient, steady Luigi, who has never pushed but never fully retreated, either. Who has somehow found this perfect middle ground between staying and going, between asking and waiting.

And maybe that's what finally does it — the realization that he's offering you both beginning and end in the same breath. That he's standing here saying yes to all of it; the possibility of breaking, of shattering, of ending up with nothing but deadly carnage between you.

That he knows exactly what he's asking for, and he's asking anyway.

Your hand moves before you can think yourself out of it again, crossing the space between you like a prayer finally answered. When you cup his face, the scrape of stubble against your palm is both foreign and achingly familiar — like a song you used to know by heart, now half-remembered.

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and you feel the slight tremor in his jaw, the way he leans into your hand like he's been starving for it.

His breath catches, shaky and soft, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. "There you are," he whispers against your palm, like he's greeting someone long lost, like you've finally come home after years away. "There you are."

His lips brush your palm once more before he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes dark with something between hope and heartache. "Tell me to pull away," he whispers, voice rough. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go. I'll understand."

But his body betrays him — the slight tremor still present in his jaw under your touch, the way he's still leaning into your hand like he can't help himself. He's offering you an exit, even now. Steady, selfless Luigi, always making sure you have a way out, even when it's killing him to do so.

And that's what breaks you finally — not his touch or his words, but this endless capacity of his to put your needs first.

To stand here offering everything he has left and the chance to walk away from it.

His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. That small sound seems to undo something in him — his control fractures, and suddenly he's pulling you down to him with a urgency that matches your own, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath your palms.

"I've thought about this," he confesses roughly, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, his thumb tracing a burning path along your hip bone. "Having you like this.”

You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he's still holding back despite everything. Even now, he's giving you the chance to set the pace, to decide how far this goes. But you're done with hesitation, done with the careful distance you've maintained for so long.

You lean down, letting your lips brush against his ear. "Show me," you whisper, and feel him shudder beneath you. "Show me how you wanted me."

He moves with a swiftness that steals your breath, flipping your positions in one fluid motion. Now he's the one hovering above you, his forearm braced beside your head, other hand still at your waist.

The weight of him, the heat of him so close — it makes your head spin.

"Like this," he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just like this." He holds you like you’ll run from him — just like he’s watched you run from everything before that doesn’t run from you first.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way he's trembling slightly despite his strength. "I'm here," you whisper back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

[effetsecndaires]

— 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥!

➺ PAIRING | gyutaro shabana x fem!reader.

➺ CONTENT WARNING | a little suggestive towards the end. 0,9k words not proofread

➺ NOTE | happy valentine's day to those who don't celebrate 🧚🏻‍♀️ I wanted this to be a janitor bot at first but I didn't want to 'waste' the idea on a bot :') I'm gonna be honest with y'all, the last few months have been pretty rough. I hate everything I write, and it's only getting worse with time. Im not sure if i'll ever get out of that state of mind at this point but oh well, haha. it is what it is I guesssss

Gyutaro had never cared about Valentine's Day before he met you.

Now, he’s pretty sure it’s his favorite day of the year. Not because he likes the holiday itself—no, he still thinks it’s ridiculous how people cling to shallow gestures and empty words, acting as if love only matters once a year when it’s wrapped in ribbons and chocolate. But you? You made it different. You made it meaningful.

This year, you had insisted on celebrating, saying something about making up for all the years he never got to experience it. Gyutaro had scoffed at the idea, grumbling about how pointless it was. But deep down, a part of him—one he barely admitted to himself—had been looking forward to it for weeks. (Not that he’d ever say it out loud.)

So now here he is, lying on your futon, watching as you carefully set up a tray with all the things you’ve prepared for him. Handmade chocolates, a cup of warm tea, and a tiny wrapped gift.

“You’re spoiling me too much, y'know,” he murmurs, scratching absently at his arm. His nails dig a little too hard into his skin but he barely notices. A small, barely noticeable smirk creeps onto his lips as he tilts his head at you. “Aren’t you worried I’ll start expecting this every year?”

“Maybe that’s my plan,” you tease back, kneeling beside him. Before he can respond, you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips, the tender gesture making him freeze.

God. Why'd you have to be so goddamn perfect? He hates it. Hates how easily you manage to drive him crazy with the simplest touch. How badly he wants more. How he's already fighting his own body so that he doesn't pounce on you and take your right here and there on this futon before you even have the chance to go through with the date. He’s pathetic, isn’t he? The thought makes him dig his nails a little deeper into his palm — but before it can get to the point of drawing blood, your hand is on his wrist, gentle as always, guiding his fingers away from his skin.

“Hey. None of that, baby.” you interrupt his train of thoughts, bringing his knuckles to your lips. “No self-loathing allowed on Valentine's day, 'kay?"

Gyutaro immediately looks away and huffs, heat quickly creeping up his neck. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you so fucking much his throat tightens with the need to scream it on top of the roofs. He's not sure why the universe suddenly decided to bless him with a love like yours, but, hell. He isn't about to take it for granted.

With a slightly trembling hand, he plucks one of the chocolates from the tray in front of him and pops it into his mouth, desperately needing to shift the focus off himself.

“You made those yourself? Eh, they're not bad, I guess..." he teases, letting out a quiet hum of approval.

“Not bad?” you gasp. “I spent all evening making these, and all you’ve got for me is ‘not bad’?”

Gyutaro grins, watching the way your lips purse in mock indignation. The way you tease him so effortlessly, like he’s just a guy and not the ugly loser he knows himself to be — it makes something warm stir inside him, his dick hardening and twitching traitorously in his pants. But he ignores it, not wanting to out himself as a complete creep to the girl he loves. Instead, he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly delicate. His fingers brush against your cheek, feeling the heat of your skin beneath them.

“Yeah, alright, fine..." he rolls his eyes playfully. “They’re perfect. Just like you.”

Your eyes widen for a moment, your lips parting and closing again in shock. Then you let out a laugh, tilting your head to press a kiss to the heel of his palm. “Mhm, that’s better.”

“Hey, don’t get all cocky with me now,” His smirk widens, fingers intertwining with yours. “It’s not every day I hand out compliments, y’know. Don't get used to it.”

You squeeze his hand, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. “Well, I guess that just makes them even more special, then.”

Gyutaro doesn’t argue. The truth is, he'll probably shower you with compliments every day after that. He knows it, and he knows you do too.

His heart beats an unsteady rhythm against his ribs, but he finds he doesn’t mind. He likes this. Likes you.

When you shift closer and tug him into your arms, Gyutaro doesn't resist. He lets you guide his head to rest against your chest and exhales a long breath, his entire body relaxing when your fingers start threading through his messy, tangled hair.

A long silence settles between you then, but it isn’t uncomfortable. He tightens his grip on you, letting his fingers curl into the fabric of your clothes as if that will somehow ground him.

Gyutaro closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest as you kiss the crown of his head. For once, he doesn’t feel like a monster. He doesn’t feel like something broken. He's just... a man, held in the arms of someone who loves him. And for the first time in a long, long time, he thinks that maybe—just maybe—happiness isn’t entirely out of his reach.

[sua-alienstage]

OOC///

turns out it wasn't an hour

WIEGE ANALYSIS - SPOILERS

Be warned that this is not a theory, its just what has been saw. by me, someone who is basically blind. without further ado lets begin

First shot:

First thing we see for the most part is luka smiling at hyuna, that despite her absence and despite him ending the life of hyun-woo he still loves and adores her and the gun is sort of a mild inconvenience to him

This shot is incredibly interesting, i believe that this are all of Lukas "clones". the ones that heperu didn't see as perfect, so he killed them. and luka is staring in shock, shooken by the fact that he was so willing to end the lives of them even if they did nothing but be unperfect.

Then we see hyuna. She appears to be in a collapsed buildling and this is how she lost her leg. this isn't the first time we have saw this picture though as it was a teaser for the lyrics ( Post from VIVINOS - YouTube). I don't know where exactly this is but i fear we might not be able to know due to what happened later on in the video

it then cuts to mizi and hyuna at what i can only assume is the rebellions "headquarters" and mizi is crying, its clear she hasn't gotten over sua's death and if i'm going to be honest I don't think she will

It then cuts to sua and mizi wearing each others clothes from round one. and mizi puts suas dress over it almost as if saying "i prefer this one" or "this one suits you better" and sua looks sad and only smiles once this entire scene. she's aware of what she will do in round one and probably has done for a while. it then cuts to till spray painting but i haven't saw that of value enough to include (sos till fan's)

This scene is one of the saddest this mv, Its "snowing" and if you didn't know snow in anakt is children's ashes, which explains Hyuna's crying, as i believe this is after hyun woos death so hyun woo is snowing down then there is a small cut of luka resting his head on Hyuna's

then from 1:55 to 2:05 it looks like what i believe to be a modern au as there sua has a smart phone. and in this small scene luka and hyuna appear to have wedding rings on (thank you random tumblr person for pointing that out) then there are multiple cuts of them all being happy and alive. them singing having fun, sua comforting mizi. till drawing. they are all happy

now this shot confirms when wiege takes place. right after blink gone. mizi is crying over tills body, she couldn't save him. she tried but failed. she then (i believe) imagines up a picture of sua.

Next has a variety of misc shots of luka and hyuna the most notable being a shot of the rebellion (excluding mizi, most likely before she joined)

they are all crying over a dying member of the team, except hyuna which i think is to show off her guarded side. a side she hasn't let out to most people, only one person: luka. apart from that she is incredibly guarded to everybody

Luka then runs up to hyuna who protects him from getting shot. She saved him but sacrificed herself (wonder where we have heard that hm? ivan and sua perhaps)

she then says a speech, her final words to the world and more importantly luka.

I resented you so. I had to keep moving forward in every moment... But you were always my one and only weakness. That's why I resented you so. Luka, live with love. Embrace the pain, the frailty, and the moments so unbearably shameful. Forgive yourself... Again and again, endlessly. Because everything... begins from there.

This i'm not going to even try to analyse but its so emotional. a pure emotion to luka And speaking of emotion we see luka crying.

as she says her speech rockets fall from the sky. I dont really know why so any help would be incredibly helpful

That's all. Keeping living your free life. o7 hyuna.

Also the song slap's i'm definitely adding it to a playlist

[binomech]

I keep thinking about the simplicity and kindness with which Severance treats grief, and death. That you can express your pain in a million different ways but ultimately, what it always amounts to is: This person was alive, and I loved them, and now they aren't, and I still love them. Love is the only thing pulling us forward, even as it forces us to look back.

There's a few quotes from the show under the cut. There's not much else to this post, just like there isn't much else to someone you love dying. It hurts, and you miss them. It will always hurt a little bit, and that's okay. That's what remembering does.

Ms. Casey about Mark Scout:

Your outie can parallel park in less than 20 seconds. Your outie can roller-skate with grace. Your outie pays all of his gas and electric bills within three business days. Your outie listens to music while shaving, but not while showering. Your outie prefers two scoops of ice cream in a serving, but they must be the same flavor. Your outie once captured a butterfly.

Mark Scout about Gemma:

My wife was extraordinary. My wife was allergic to nutmeg. And when she sneezed, she always sneezed twice. My wife liked other people's dogs. My wife thought cardigans looked ridiculous. I loved all these things about her... Equally.

Dylan and Irving about Burt:

Irving: The last time I was happy was when all I knew was MDR. When I was good at my job and not trying to be happy. I'm going to leave, Dylan. Dylan: It is not leaving. So stop fucking calling it that. I know, you want... I know... Just fucking try. Irving: You're a good friend, Dylan. (...) I wanted you to know before I left. Dylan: Okay. Well, you're not. You... No. Stop it. Stop it. Listen to me. Look, I'm sorry that outie Burt has a hot husband or whatever. But he is not the point. Innie Burt is the guy you fell for, and I know because I encouraged the courtship. Irving: I... I want it to be over. I want the pain to be over. If he's gone and I'm gone... Dylan: Stop saying that. Irving: ...then somehow, we'll be together. Dylan: He wouldn't want that. Irving: How do you know? Dylan: Because I don't want that. Because I would be sad, and I would be less productive, and I'm really good at what I do here, whatever it is. And you're part of what makes me good at it. So please, do not go. Irving: Dylan... I'm your favorite perk. Dylan: Don't bring them into this. All I'm saying is, if Burt was still here, he would be telling you to stick around and figure out what the fuck this is.

Felicia and Irving about Burt:

Irving: I can't... My God, he was... he was fearless! Felicia: I worked with Burt for six years. And I only ever saw him scared of one thing: He spent two hours on his hair the first time he went to visit you. Irving: Really? I should... I should show you something. I'd draw [one portrait of him] every day I couldn't see him. My numbers went down, but I didn't even care.

Dylan about Irving:

It's hard to pinpoint a favorite Irving story. For the least fun guy in the world, he was really fun. He put the "dick" in contradiction. One time, he was pissed at me for watering down the toner, so he put toner in my water cup. He stopped me before I drank it, though. He just wanted to make a point, not harm me physically. But I did accidentally take a sip of it later, 'cause I forgot he said that. He asked me for help with something near the end, and I didn't listen. And in his final moments, he would have been totally justified in telling me to suck my own fuck. But he didn't. He was awesome, and I miss him.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Barbarian Bat: Part Five

A/N: hey... hey. How y'all doing...? Don't mind me just casually, finally finishing this fic months later... what better What Happens Next for @sjmromanceweek than what happens with IPB Nessian? Anyways! Hope everyone enjoys this final part. Also, for anyone who read the OG books, yes, Elain, Azriel, and Lucien are absolutely Claire, Bek, and Ereven, and you can't change my mind ;)

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part

Nesta feels shifting behind her. It’s slow and careful, but still enough to draw her from the blissful comfort of sleep. She frowns, refusing to open her eyes, desperate to stay beneath the warm, wafting waves of her dream. But it’s the warmth that vanishes next, and Nesta whines, opening her eyes enough that she can glare sleepily at Cassian where he’s slipping out from beneath the furs.

Cassian’s smile is slow and clearly fond where it stretches across his face, and Nesta’s heart flutters at the sight of it, skipping and flipping between her ribs at the way this stupid alien of hers looks at her. At the way she’ll never get tired of the way he’s always looking at her. Like she really is his whole world.

He crouches down to her left, his touch soft as his fingers slide along her temple, through the strands of her hair. “So beautiful even when you are angry.”

There’s no stopping the way Nesta’s expression softens at his words, the heat that creeps up her neck. “Where are you going?”

“To catch us something to eat,” Cassian tells her, his fingers continuing to thread through her hair in a soothing motion. “I will not be long. Go back to sleep, my Nes.”

“But I’m cold.”

Rather than climbing back beneath the furs as he should, Cassian merely tucks them up further around Nesta’s shoulders. It draws the scowl right back to Nesta’s face, but he just chuckles in response. He straightens, moving about the small space of the cave. Nesta watches as he does, and she’s almost sad to see him tie his loincloth back on, to pull his pants back on too. He gathers and checks his weapons before finally moving the screen aside from the cave’s entrance, vanishing into the snow and the cold outside.

With a huff, Nesta rolls over, burrowing as deep as she can into the furs. It’s still not as warm as having a big, blue alien cuddled beside her so she can leech all the warmth from his body. A few days and she’s already grown comfortable with his body curled around her own, with that soft, suede like skin of his brushing against her, with his arms secured around her waist, with his heart beating in time with hers where they’re pressed together. A few days and she already feels safe and at home in this space with him, already started to crave it.

At least, it’s all quiet in the cave, her khui having finally fallen silent. She supposes that means that she and Cassian have satisfied resonance. Almost instinctively, her hand slides down to her stomach, fingers splaying across the skin there. What kind of mother would she be? Hopefully, better than her own. But there’s no denying the fear that slinks through her veins, that digs into her heart with icy fingers. The fear that she’ll be exactly the same. The fear that the apple truly doesn’t fall far from the tree.

What if she’s truly too broken, too many scars and cracks through her heart to give a child the love it needs, that it deserves? What if all she knows how to be is cold and standoffish? What if she just ends up creating another broken daughter who creates another broken daughter, stuck in a vicious cycle of Archeron women? What if the child grows to resent her?

“I have caught us hoppers.”

Nesta turns enough that she can watch Cassian step back inside the cave, his grin wide and his catch held aloft in his hands. But it doesn’t take long for that smile to slip away, those ever observant eyes of his sweeping over her.

“What is wrong?”

“I told you,” Nesta dismisses with a shrug. “It’s cold.”

She doesn’t know why she even tries. As if she’s ever been able to fool Cassian, ever been able to lie to him. As if she doesn’t expect him to see right through the words just as he’s always seen through every icy shield she tried to throw between them, always seen the truth of her since the moment they met.

With a frown, Cassian sets down the hopper in his hand. He steps back over to the furs and to Nesta, crouching down. His hand reaches toward her face, thumb dragging lightly along the space between her eyebrows, where Nesta is sure a crease must have formed.

“Tell me.”

Nesta sighs softly, sitting up and curling her knees up to her chest. “It wasn’t just my… pleasure mate back on Earth that was cruel. My mother was too. It was a different sort of cruelty, but cruelty all the same. And I…” She takes a moment to find the words, to find the courage. “What if I’m just like her?”

Cassian’s hands are gentle on her face, guiding her face to his, his expression earnest. “I know that you will not be.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I know you. I know your heart. I have seen you with your sisters, and I am so lucky to have you as my mate. To have you as the mother of our kit.”

Nesta reaches her own hand up, curling her fingers around Cassian’s and leaning her face into his touch. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

“I am very smart and very wise,” Cassian tells her, nodding his head sagely.

Nesta rolls her eyes fondly at that, but the reaction draws a smile back to Cassian’s face. He leans in and steals a kiss, Nesta’s heart skipping between her ribs at the soft gesture, at the initiative and him no longer asking permission for mouth mating. She practically melts into him, hands sliding across the muscles and hard planes of his chest, up into the dark curly strands of his hair.

She has to swallow down a whine when Cassian pulls back, watching as he stands again, moving back toward the other side of the cave. When he picks back up the hopper and begins the process of preparing it, Nesta finally pushes out of the furs, tugging back on her clothes. She moves to settle beside Cassian by the fire, accepting the piece of meat that he offers her and nibbling on it.

“We should go back to the Main Cave while the weather is fair and on our side.”

Nesta hides her frown at his words behind another bite of the hopper meat. It’s been so nice in this cave over the past few days. Once she finally stopped fighting it, stopped fighting him. Once it was truly just her and Cassian. None of the commotion of the Main Cave, none of the busybodies. Just a blissful few days only wrapped up in one another.

“Do we have to? What’s one more day?”

“You forget that Rhys ordered we return as soon as we finished at the Elder Cave, and we have not.”

Nesta had forgotten about that. It feels like so long ago, that first cave they stopped for the night in, that morning when she overheard Cassian and Azriel speaking. A lifetime ago since Azriel passed along that order from the tribe’s leader. So much has happened since then, so many things have changed.

“But perhaps you are right,” Cassian continues, a smirk tugging across his face. “We should not subject the others to your screams of pleasure just yet.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at the remark. “I hate you.”

Cassian is undeterred by her words. His arm reaches out, curling around Nesta’s waist and tugging her into his body. “But everyone will know that I have succeeded in having the most beautiful mate warming my furs. It will surely make them all jealous.”

“I very much doubt anyone will be jealous,” Nesta mutters, earning a pained sound from Cassian’s throat.

His hand finds home along her jaw, heat seeping into her skin as he draws her gaze to his. “Then they are fools. They should be jealous.”

Nesta doesn’t bother biting back her fond smile. She presses up onto her knees, giving her the height she needs to seal her mouth over Cassian’s. “Come on, you stupid alien. I’ll roll our furs.”

Nesta works on making sure everything they need is returned to their packs, while Cassian banks the fire and returns the cave to how it should be when the next hunter needs it. They step outside the cave when they’re both finished, Cassian taking both packs from Nesta’s hands without another word.

“Hey! I need my snowshoes first.”

“You do not need those,” Cassian tells her, securing both their packs across his chest and then crouching down.

Nesta sighs, crossing her arms. “What are you doing?”

“I will carry you back to the Main Cave.”

“I can walk just fine.”

“All the way back to the Main Cave?” Cassian asks, standing back up and turning to face her. He steps forward into Nesta’s space, backing her up until she hits the rock of the cave wall, his hands finding her waist and squeezing. “Perhaps we should stay another night if I have not tired you out enough.”

“Cassian!” Nesta exclaims, smacking at his arm.

She can feel heat threatening to creep up her throat and spill across her cheeks. Her insatiable and shameless alien. She shoves hard at Cassian’s chest, and he acquiesces, stepping back with a soft, easy laugh. Just that sound, the smile firmly across his face, warms Nesta from the chill around them, settles over her like her own personal blanket.

Cassian turns back around and crouches down again. This time, Nesta hooks her arms around his neck, allowing his hands to settle beneath her thighs and hoist her onto his back. Once she’s settled and secure, he starts to move. His strides are long and quick, cutting through the snow and hills around them with ease. The pace leaves the cold wind biting at Nesta’s nose and cheeks, and she buries her face against Cassian’s shoulder.

“We are here,” Cassian announces some time later, gently setting Nesta back on her feet.

For a moment, Nesta can do nothing but stare at the large opening that leads inside. Whatever peaceful bubble she and Cassian may have cast around themselves these last few days, it’s certainly shattered now. What will everyone say when they step inside? What will everyone think? She’s quite confident everyone will definitely stare, will probably judge.

Her heart stutters painfully between her ribs, twisting and turning alongside the churning in her gut. She has to swallow hard around the lump threatening to press against her throat, has to clench her fists until her nails bite into her palms.

“Are you well, Nes?” Cassian asks quietly, gentle fingers sliding along her temple, down her cheek.

Nesta’s eyes flutter closed at that touch, breathing out a quiet sigh. That touch helps center her, ground her, and when she opens her eyes again, she squares her shoulders. She captures Cassian’s hand in her own, threading their fingers together and squeezing, and then they’re stepping inside the Main Cave.

“Nesta!”

Nesta practically gets the wind knocked out of her when Feyre slams into her body, her youngest sister hugging her tightly.

“Are you alright? We were so worried. Vassa said you’d left and then no one could find you for days. Days!” Feyre pulls back just enough to smack Nesta in the arm. “What were you thinking?”

Nesta rubs at the spot Feyre hit, trying to find the words to say, to explain everything that happened. “We… resonated.”

It doesn’t quite cover all that transpired while Nesta was away from the Main Cave, but it does feel the most important. It does feel like it’s best to get that tidbit out of the way and over with. It has the desired effect, at least, Feyre’s eyes widening and her gaze darting over Nesta’s shoulder to where Cassian still stands.

“Is that so?” Rhysand’s cool voice cuts in to ask, the male stepping up behind his own mate. “It was resonance that kept you? How convenient.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Nesta fires back, raising an eyebrow.

But Rhysand doesn’t even acknowledge her, doesn’t even look at her, his stormy attention firmly behind Nesta, firmly on Cassian. “I made myself clear that the human females were not to be stolen away to force resonance. I made clear that the punishment would–”

“That’s not what happened,” Nesta snaps, interrupting him. “We were attacked by metlaks, and not only did Cassian almost die, but he’s the only reason either of us survived. He’s one of the best damned hunters in this tribe, and he’s definitely one of the best males on this whole damned planet. He is good and kind, and if you got your stupid head out of your big, blue ass you would know that he’d never kidnap anyone.”

“Nesta,” Feyre chastises quietly.

But Nesta doesn’t back down. She continues to glare at Rhysand, daring him to say anything, more than ready to bite back against whatever ire he may try and throw her way. But what she doesn’t expect is the way she swears Rhysand’s lips seem to twitch with the barest hint of a smile.

“Your mate is fierce,” Rhysand comments instead.

“Yes,” Cassian answers, nothing short of pride coloring his voice.

Feyre shakes her head at them both, looping her arm through Nesta’s and tugging her away and out of earshot. “I can’t believe you just told Rhys to pull his head out of his ass.”

“He deserved it. Besides, what is he going to do? I’m mated now.” The words are out before Nesta can even really think about it, but when she takes in Feyre’s expression to them, she’s quick for a change in topic, for any sort of distraction. “So, what did I miss?”

“Quite a lot actually. Especially with Elain.”

“Elain? I thought she was sharing a cave and furs with Azriel. It’s been the two of them practically since we landed here. All that was missing was resonance.”

“Well, I guess he was getting a bit frustrated that they hadn’t resonated yet, and Elain was feeling… trapped, so then Lucien offered–”

“Lucien?”

~ * * * ~

It seems like every woman in the cave is determined to talk to Nesta, determined to find out exactly what happened between her and Cassian, determined to fill her in on everything she missed, no matter how mundane. When she finally is able to escape, she finds Cassian in front of one of the storage caves along with an unimpressed looking Balthazar.

“I told you, I need more furs.”

Balthazar sighs, not moving from his place blocking the cave. “You already have furs.”

“I will not have my mate be cold,” Cassian demands, stepping forward into Balthazar’s space.

Whether he’s actually intimidated by the display or simply done with the theatrics, Nesta doesn’t know, but with a shake of his head Balthazar finally moves out of the way. Cassian makes a quiet, triumphant noise, maneuvering his large body into the small cave. When he straightens, he has a fresh roll of furs in his arms, and Nesta doesn’t bother suppressing her eye roll.

“Hello, Nes,” Cassian greets, his attention always finding exactly where she is.

“Stealing furs?” Nesta teases.

“It is not stealing.”

Nesta rolls her eyes again, but it’s fond this time. She doesn’t say anything else, following behind Cassian as he winds deeper through the cave systems. He comes to a stop in front of one of the caves, waiting expectantly for Nesta to step inside first. It certainly looks like most of the other caves; although, it’s bigger than the one she was sharing with Gwyn. Cassian has already set up furs along the far wall, and when he adds the ones in his arms on top, it certainly creates an overflowing and inviting-looking bed.

“Do you like it, my Nes?”

Nesta hums her approval, settling on the high pile of furs. “All that’s missing is a wall of books. It’s a shame you don’t have books on this planet.”

“Boo-ook?” Cassian asks, tilting his head in confusion. He joins Nesta in the furs, gently guiding her down until he can lay his head on her chest, strong arms wrapped securely around her hips and wide shoulders cradled between her thighs.

“They’re these things we had back on Earth, these stories. Sometimes they would be true, but most of the time they were made up. And people would write those stories down for others to read,” Nesta explains, her fingers carding aimlessly through the dark strands of Cassian’s hair.

“What happens in these stories?”

Nesta thinks about how best to explain. She thinks back to the book that was left on her nightstand the night that she and her sisters were taken. Thinks back to the guarded daughter and the roguish rake determined to tear down her walls as surely as he tore down her corset. Thinks back to the scene in the book where the two found themselves alone in the garden late at night.

“They’re about… books.”

Cassian chuckles, tilting his head enough that Nesta can see his wide smirk. “I understand now.”

“You understand nothing.”

“Your sweet scent tells me otherwise. I will find a way to gift you so many book, my mate. I will find a way to give you every book.”

Nesta smiles at the declaration, warmth spreading through her chest and twining around her ribs, glowing golden and strong. She sits up enough that she can frame Cassian’s face with her hands, enough that she can guide his lips to hers.

“But I hope you will accept a different gift from me for now,” Cassian tells her when they separate.

“You got me a gift?”

Cassian shifts enough that he can reach toward his abandoned pack in the corner, rooting around until he finds what he’s looking for. He keeps whatever it is covered with both his hands, and Nesta waits with bated breath, but when Cassian finally reveals the gift, a surprised laugh tears free before she can stop it.

There, in Cassian’s hand, sits a bone. A bone carved to look exactly like a dick.

Nesta has to admit it’s quite life-like, all of the ridges and veins of the sa-khui carved delicately into the bone, and she even notices the spur included at the bottom.

“Do you like it?” Cassian asks, his smile wide. “Before we resonated, I asked Emerie what courting gifts humans like. I took time to make sure it is exactly right.”

Nesta is going to kill her friend the next time she sees her. But for now, she takes the gift from Cassian’s hand, carefully setting it aside again. Cassian looks adorably confused, but she’s quick to wrap her arms around his neck, to pull him back into her. Right where he belongs. Right where she knows she belongs too. Pressed together in this cave, their hearts beating as one between them.

“I think I’d prefer the real thing.”

—

2025 tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed; bolded names mean Tumblr won’t let me tag you 🥲): @moodymelanist @sv0430 @bookstantrash @hiimheresworld @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @glowing-stick-generation @goddess-aelin @melphss @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @wolfnesta @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @that-little-red-head @kale-theteaqueen @superflurry @lady-winter-sunrise @freakingata @susanbanarchy @jsmelodies @unhealthyfanobsession @presskmewleroux @nativeswfl @livinforthetea @dying-of-wanderlust @berkskc @the-new-ribbon @underneath-the-sidras @deadandsane

[megamuscle885-blog]

I picked Bakuda/String Theory, and I'm glad people are recognizing it for the fallout that it would be. Fallout is exactly what I would call their ship. I'll type out my thoughts on the others though; Night/Fog: Tragic though undercut by their nazi affiliations, their pantomime marriage is the only thing keeping them anywhere near sanity. Assuming they don't outright murder each-other over whatever caused the divorce, they both now have to figure out how they're going to function when they no longer have anything to tether themselves to. Likely to end up living weapons in separate nazi groups, or join the S9 when Jack blows through town. Casualties would be no more than usual for parahuman nazi scum. Fog might go on a directionless killing spree as he mutely works through what little feelings he has left. Night's monster form can't physically cry while she's alone and unobserved more than usual now. Though, thinking about it, both are true for the other. This doesn't really spark much of a comment in the parahuman community, other than the increased killings.

Defiant/Dragon: Also heartbreaking, because their main draw to each-other was a relationship built on respect and vulnerability. If it were Armsmaster, he might've said something wildly misogynistic or something that made her distrust him with her AI secret, and they would've cut ties personally but maybe maintained a professional veneer. A Defiant/Dragon split means they exposed their mutual vulnerabilities and still weren't able to make it work. No casualties. The antithesis of a messy divorce, they would split from each-other and cry very privately, but stay together for the kid (Weaver). The kind of divorce where the love has died and trust/respect has left. People didn't really know about their relationship that much.

Foil/Parian: Maybe Parian realizes the power dynamic is a little skewed, with Foil abandoning everything else to be with her. Maybe the age gap comes up in a messy way. Whatever the divorce reason, the fallout isn't significant beyond them both leaving the Undersiders. They weren't really part of the team except to be for each-other. Tattletale sees it coming a mile off, but for whatever reason, she doesn't do anything to stop it. I haven't read Ward yet, so I'm not sure on the intricacies of their relationship. March might swoop in to take advantage of Foil's grief. In which case the casualties aren't even their own fault. Impact would be limited to their henchmen and associated Undersiders fans/henchmen.

Imp/Regent: Regent becomes a little more careless with his thralls. He found someone who made him feel a little more human and now she's gone. Except Imp is never actually gone. She begins to haunt him, a constant voyeur and a gaping hole where someone should be. I'm actually struggling for a divorce reason here though. His death stayed with her for years after, despite her anger at his self sacrifice. I don't think either of them would go out of their way to lash out and cause casualties. If they want each-other dead, they're both uniquely equipped to counter each-other. Brian would comfort Aisha once he sees her genuinely upset. I don't think there would even be any Heartbroken with the Undersiders if it wasn't for Imp/Regent.

Assault/Battery: We've seen what kind of man he turns into when Battery is out of Assault's life. Compared to the above, their divorce is actually a long time coming. His perceived guilt over causing her to Trigger, any lingering blame over the loss of her father, his sexual harassment, her career being reduced to ex-villain babysitting for her corrupt bosses. Again, this divorce has been a long time coming. Assault becomes reckless, vindictive, punishing. Desperate to prove himself to her, or to prove her wrong, he goes overboard on criminals and villains and might even end up kicked out of the protectorate and jailed himself. She rectifies a massive smear on her career and moves on from Brockton Bay, though jaded and untrusting of a system that rewards usefulness and punishes the principled. Merits little more than a PHO thread from their respective fans.

Trickster/Echidna: This divorce is hard to see because his whole deal is that he's ride or die for her even though their relationship isn't ride or die. It's very much a problem that he's so willing to do anything for her. Canonically they made an S-Class event even worse, blew up the PRT's whole global mission, led to the underwhelming performance at Behemoth which also caused the largest casualties faced in an Endbringer battle to date (not sure on the civilian casualties but New Delhi is rather populated). It's not their divorce that is messy, it's their fucking 'marriage'. So, I think a divorce, so to speak, would probably involve Noelle being cured and Trickster no longer having an excuse to do horrible things for her/to keep the Travellers together. The casualties in that event are probably limited to the Travellers, and even then, maybe just their interpersonal relationships. They can never be together again. Trickster has been called a reverse Skitter by a few essayists here, and I think nothing shows that more than how Skitter's relationships are forged in fire, but Trickster's break apart in the crucible and he holds the slag together with his bare hands.

Bitch/Skitter: Oh. Don't leave her Skitter. Please don't go. She's your ever faithful dog. She'll wait for you. She'll build a shrine for everything and everyone she's lost, and keep a beehive there for you. She's always been trying to get the world to leave her alone, but she would be happy if she was alone with you.

We already have Canon. We know why she had to go. We know the casualties. Billions died. The end of the world.

Accord/Blasto: I can't decide if their divorce or their relationship is messier. Opposites definitely do not attract as often as they are depicted in fiction, as fun as it is to pair them up. Accord is practically the opposite of Blasto in every way. I also can't decide if their breakup is as messy as people have tagged. Either Blasto sees it coming or he doesn't. Accord, once slighted and once he decides the relationship cannot continue, will have Blasto's still beating heart in his hand and his severed head mounted on the wall. Mess is not Accord's thing, after all. A clean execution will be just the thing. If Blasto sees it coming, or if he's the one to break it off (which is a lot more likely and funnier) then he's got approximately one hour to release the Morrigan and get the fuck out of the eastern seaboard.

Miss Militia/Piggot: How does the marriage even kick off here? Piggot is unlikely to date a co-worker, a subordinate or a parahuman in increasing degrees of unlikeliness and Miss Militia doesn't seem to have much going on for her outside of being a living weapon for the Protectorate. Decidedly unmessy divorce though. Piggot may be forced to resign, Miss Militia might transfer out. Neither of them are likely to cause collateral damage, and neither of them show a lack of restraint with their emotions. Sparks a little inter-office gossip, but largely from the fact that nobody knew they were dating in the first place. I don't think I've ever read a Miss Militia/Piggot ship, so I am utterly unimaginative with this one. I'll accept recommendations.

Bakuda/String Theory: Yeah. Why is anyone else on this list? We know who's going to win. It's them. Lets say that they meet in the Birdcage, that Bakuda gets put in String's wing rather than the Fairy Queen's. Lung is stopped by a coalition of Tinkers once they reason out what he's there for, and his little display of power strategy has to be rethought once the entire prison makes it clear that nobody fucks with the people who keep the TVs working. So they begin a relationship, miss Bakuda and the String Theory. The marriage and the divorce are practically the same thing. Threatening to kill each-other at the end of every conversation. They describe how they'd do it, of course. Bakuda would trap her in a single moment of time, like a bug in amber. String Theory would squash her like a bug, like a high orbital kinetic hammer striking the most arrogant, Bostonian accented nail to ever exist. You have the two most volatile lesbian Tinkers to have ever existed, both of them academics largely disrespected and ignored to the breaking point, and both have had their careers of ruling others through fear. They're even both ticking time bombs in a way, Bakuda's literal examples and String Theory's timed weapon firing. The hate sex will threaten the structural stability of the Birdcage. The makeup sex will also threaten the structural stability of the Birdcage. They would make each-other worse by combining their strengths and the fallout would lead to the destruction of an entire earth of their own once they're released from the Birdcage together. I'm actually wondering a little if Wildbow intended for Bakuda to be a narrative copy of String Theory because of how similar they are to each-other. The leaders of the respective wings (excluding String Theory) meet to discuss contingencies if they actually manage to kill each-other. Lab Rat just can't get any peace and quiet anymore, now that there's two of them. He's the third wheel in their relationship and wishes he wasn't there to hear them complain about each-other/plan to kill each-other.

Glory Girl/Gallant: Oh, so this time it's for real? Maybe they finally hit the last straw here. Maybe Amy's whole deal comes out in a messy way, and they blame each-other for their neglect. Jealous supergirl trashes rich boy's new car by kicking it across the parking lot. They made a C-tier movie about this concept I think, starring Uma Thurman and Luke Wilson. Yawn. I think it's just going to be limited to Arcadia's gossip mill about Victoria and Dean, and if he's going to be grabbed by his ankles and slammed into the side of a building like a hamster.

Brandish/Flashbang: Hilariously, I accidentally typed Brandish/Manpower while going through the list before I realized my mistake. I don't think we need to guess the reason they divorce. Isn't she a divorce lawyer too? This one is the most stereotypical divorce on the list, and they don't even split up beyond sleeping in separate beds. The 'stay together for the kids (and team)' kind of divorce that just makes his depressive states worse and her walls come up higher. Tragically, Victoria thinks it's her fault. The casualties are New Wave as a whole and potentially whatever happens once Flashbang detonates in Brandish's face. If the secret gets out, things get worse. Maybe things get better for Amy once the pretense of a nuclear family ruptures and she's able to get out from under Carol and gain some breathing room. Victoria tries to hold everyone together.

I need to do another dumb poll.

I had fun with those.

Um...

How about...

It's 420am I should probably just sleep...

Now I would like to note:

This isn't which ship you like the most. This is which would have the messiest divorce. The sort the whole cape community is talking about.

Everyone's going "did you hear what happened down in ___"

[yummyrevivalfluid]

Don't Look At Me With Those Eyes

Senku x Artist Reader Pt.3

Summary: Senku doesn't seem to understand what it means to be an Artists Muse, specifically yours. (Senku doesn't understand love)

Word Count: 1,355

Tag List: @maria-trisha @xtfhtfrj @markerelll @minimissmelody

I think that is everyone that requested to be tagged! If it didn't work please let me know so I can figure out how to fix it!

HAPPY VALETINE'S DAY!!!!

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

My muses are my love

He couldn’t stop the words chanting in his head. No matter what he did, your voice flooded his thoughts.

My muses are my love

Just the thought of you invaded his mind. He’s been lying awake for the past twenty minutes, trying to fall asleep but to no avail. Every time he found himself closing his eyes, visions of your flustered face appeared.

‘Are you thinking of me’ Senku wondered.

‘Is that what it means to be your muse?’. Was he on your mind as you were on his. He wondered if you were also in the same predicament as him…or maybe you’re drawing? Painting? Were you blowing glass? Or whatever crazy art medium you found yourself exploring…

My muses are my love…

Why did you have to plague his mind? What do you mean about your muses being your love? Why did you look so vulnerable as you said it? More importantly why HIM? Is it as Byakuya said before, “opposites attract”. Is it because he’s so different from you, you find him appealing to be your muse? What is he supposed to do with this information?

Torn and confused about what he needed to do with this newfound information, what the information even meant, and what it meant to him, Senku stepped outside to the balcony and watched the stars.

What does it mean to be an artist’s muse?

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

Something has changed, that much you were aware of. But was Senku aware? Since the day you asked him to be your tutor, something has shifted between the two of you. You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. As far as you were concerned, you treated Senku the same way you have always done…

Lost in your thoughts you didn’t catch the way Senku was staring at you from his desk. Something that he’s been catching himself doing more than he’s meant to. He’s been catching himself staring at you from his desk, in passing at the school halls, even at your home as you studied beside him.

God, I feel like a creep, Senku cringed. It wasn’t your typical space out staring, he’s been watching your expressions, studying your features, getting lost in your eyes…

Wait what!?

He wasn’t sure how long you caught him staring but you were flushed. You quickly averted his gaze and fumbled with your bag and pulled out a sketchbook. The same one he was snooping in. He watched as you begin to scribble your pencil onto the paper…your eyes were shimmering, Senku noted.

Senku was studying you again, and he wasn’t being subtle. Forgetting or ignoring the fact that you caught him just a mere seconds ago. Unfortunately for you his staring didn’t let up for the next few weeks. Every time you cross paths with him, you can see him looking at you. His eyes were softer than what you were used to seeing. His brows still furrowed slightly, but his gaze was gentle as you felt him examining you. Whatever he was doing, you let him. You just assumed he was doing some weird scientific research, and you were his victim.

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

Tutoring you had become a new routine for Senku.  After all the after-school clubs have ended, having cleaned up the lab, Senku met up with you outside of the school’s art studio. He was waiting patiently for you, resting his back against a pillar as he thought of the material, he was going to be tutoring you. After ten minutes had passed, concerned and curious about what keeps you late, he makes his way inside the studio and finds you cleaning up.

“Did you forget the concept of time, airhead?”

“Sorry for keeping you waiting!” you huffed, as you carried a can of paint back to its proper storage. “I lost track of time! I was in the zone. I got new inspiration for my muse!” you laughed.

Muse

The word that’s been haunting Senku’s mind. A word so foreign to him that he doesn’t understand what it means to be someone’s muse. What it means to be your muse.

Senku walked closer to a canvas with a big drape covering the art underneath. He’s assuming it’s yours. It must be. It was the only one out, the only one with cans of paint underneath it. Curious of what you’ve been painting, he begins to lift the edge of the drape. Before he can even process the bits of the painting he can see, he feels your touch on his wrist. He looks at you and he find himself again studying your expression. Studying the look in your eyes.

He doesn’t believe he’s seen this look before. Was it fear of what he was going to find under the drape? Are you embarrassed of what you’ve spent so long painting? Is it the feeling of vulnerability? Showcasing your muse to others but the muse itself.

“It’s not done yet…”, you said softly, almost a whisper to his ears. You watched as he let go of the drape. Hiding your painting.

Hiding your feelings from him.

“What is it?” he asked, as he continued to study you. Watching your expression turned to something he’s been seeing so often. The averted eyes, the flush to your cheeks, the slight stutter to your words. He felt the touch on his wrist fade as he watched you pick up cans of paint from the ground and begin to walk from him.

“…my muse.”

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

Muse…

Muse…

Muse…

Muse…

Muse…

Never has a word frustrated him this much. Seeing the word? The paper suddenly crumbled under his hand. Hearing the word has his eye twitching. A simple four-letter word is haunting him. Teasing him for not understanding. Frustrated that you don’t seem to know the effect the word has on him. Not aware of the feeling he gets when you throw the word around. Not understanding that uneasy feeling in his stomach that seems to get amplified every time he studies you.

“I don’t understand this….” You groaned. You dropped the pencil in your hand as you laid sprawled on your bedroom floor. You waited for Senku’s response. Waited for him to tell you off. You waited for him to call you an airhead. You waited and yet nothing. You turned to look at him and found his eyes already looking back at you. “Senku…”

“Hmm?” he hummed back. His eyes never leave yours.

“Umm…is there a reason why you’ve been…staring...” you asked nervously, unsure what to do under his gaze. You watched as his gaze hardened. Not being able to handle anymore, you finally break away, retreating your eyes to the white ceiling.

“It’s a bad habit.” He replied, as he crawled to the space beside you and laid beside you. You both laid in silence, enjoying the presence of the other. You closed your eyes and listened to Senku’s breathing, until that feeling came back again.

“you’re staring again, aren’t you?” you asked quietly. You were afraid to open your eyes, you don’t think you can handle him being so close to you, his eyes on you…

“Yeah….my eyes bother you that much?” he teased, taking joy as he heard your breath hitch.

“It…flusters me…” you whined, “so stop looking at me with those eyes…”

“What eyes?” he questioned. Has he been staring at you in another way he wasn’t aware? He gets up from beside and crawls over you, he ignores your gasp and looks down at you. Staring at you, studying you, your expressions, your noises. His body hovered over you, his arms caging you in, leaving you nowhere to look at but him. “These eyes?”

He waited for your response, his eyes flickered between your betraying eyes, exposing your vulnerability, and your lips, waiting for your words. Instead, you raise your hand to his face, your fingertips slightly brushing his lips as you cover his eyes with your palm. He feels your body pressed against him as you sit up on your elbows, he can feel the heat radiating off your body. You lean to his ear and whisper, “yeah, those eyes.”

----

A/N: So I'm thinking of breaking away from my original plan of doing only 4 parts to this series. I'm not sure how many parts there will be...I'm also thinking of rewriting the 1st chapter, sort of build more of the frenemies relationship.

Anywayssss can yall guess the song inspo? Theres two! One based on the title and one named dropped. Would you guys be interested in a song playlist for this series?

Mini spoiler for the series?!?! Theres a lyric I want to include in a future part, angst approaching!! Hehehehe

I, I loved you and I still do

Just wanted passion from you

Just wanted what I gave you

I waited and waited

-The Greatest Billie Eilish

....requests open?

[kaiserouo]

i run out of ideas for cayde

[lotus-pear]

mourning black and the death of ideals

[thegaissilent]

"...good night, dearest." Her words are soft, so at least some love is left after how bad everything just went.

She makes her way to the office, though she doesn't really have anything to do. So, when she sits by the desk, she fetches her sketchbook, grabbing a pencil and not really thinking when she starts drawing, letting her emotions guide her.

Firstly, there's a poppy field, but it doesn't look as beautiful and well taken care of as it once did. The flowers are wrecked, petals scattered around the grass. And in the middle of that, there's a single girl in a big gown, she's got curly hair, but you can't really see her face. She holds one of the poppies in her hand and it is the one that looks the most wrecked. Not a single petal visible anymore.

A few tears drop on the drawing as she works on it and she's so focused on what she's doing that she only hears someone knocking on the door when they seem to try it for the second time. For a moment, she wonders if it might be Elphie and her eyes light up a little.

"Come in."

It's almost hard to hide her disappointment when Fiyero is the one to enter the office. Because, of course. Why would it be Elphie? She had made her cry. She had hurt her.

"Glinda? Is everything alright? It's pretty late."

Glinda shakes her head, forcing a smile.

"Yes, darling, of course. Just... Artistic inspiration!" She laughs. It's not real.

"Of course." Fiyero nods. "Well... Perhaps... You should finish it tomorrow? It's way past midnight."

"What?" She frowns. "What time is it?"

"...2 am."

Her eyes widen in surprise. Time usually passed without her noticing when she was drawing, but even so, she must have been there for at least 3 hours now.

Everything starts coming back, then, and her stomach growls, and her bladder complains and she yawns.

"I am... So sorry, dear. I'll be there shortly..."

Why is he still awake, though? It's not like they actually wait for each other to fall asleep every night.

"Why aren't you in bed yet?"

"...it's been hard to sleep."

She nods. Indeed, lately, Fiyero has been having a hard time to sleep and Glinda isn't sure of what is happening, but she's heard of the Gale Force getting a lot more violent to "maintain order".

In all honesty, Glinda has avoided the subject. And perhaps that doesn't make her the best of partners, she should be taking care of him somewhere, but thinking of what the Wizard has been doing, how worse things things have been getting makes it almost unbearable to wake up in the morning.

"Of course... I'm sorry, dear." He nods.

"Don't take too long, okay?"

She nods and he leaves, making his way back to their room. And Glinda doesn't take too long. She decides to fetch something to eat first, then makes her way to the bathroom before she heads for the room, where she finds her fiance laying on the bed, a little shrunk with the blanket over him. He looks so scared it's disturbing.

She swallows, changing to her nightgown and letting her hair loose, brushing it before she sits by the edge of the bed and breathes a couple of times, her fingers clenching in itself. Fiyero shakes behind her and she lets a tear drop.

How much longer can they take this? And was Elphaba coming here really a good choice? Wouldn't she end up just as broken as the two of them were now?

She almost feels like running to her room right away and telling her to go. To leave and never look back, before this goddamn palace sucks on all of her light as it did Fiyero's.

Glinda still has a light. She has to be the light. As it is her job to bring people hope, to keep them cheerful even in times as dark as these. It doesn't matter how fake this light is, the citizens of Oz count on her to keep it going.

But, Lurline, does it weight.

She lies on the bed at last, back to Fiyero, but it doesn't take long for her to turn and spoon him. For he is warm and she has something to cling onto.

It should be enough. It used to be enough, but knowing Elphaba is right in the next room, Glinda misses her terribly. She misses having her strong green arms wrapped around her. She misses being young and melting in those arms, knowing that as far as they could lie down together like that every night, everything would be fine.

They would always be fine.

...they would never be fine again, would they?

for: @halfofozsfavouriteteam

Being Glinda, the Good is, above everything else, tiring.

She can't even pinpoint what is the most tiring part of it. If it's the fact she has to perform way more than she did her entire life, if it's the fact the work never ends and she barely has time to stop and relax. Or if it's simply because she feels stuck in a loop and there is no way out.

Her entire life is made out of lies now. Having to listen to those rumors about her best friend and not being able to say anything against them, smiling and waving to the crowd while they stare at her like she's some sort of savior.

Getting married to Fiyero so she can finally stop thinking about her.

She is tired. She is so tired. And yet she can't stop it. She doesn't know how to. Because despite it all, despite the fact that this is wrong and repulsive, she can't help herself. She can't help the small amount of satisfaction that she gets when people are praising her. When she's celebrated, applauded.

It doesn't compare to real love, of course. It never will.

But it fills her up somehow. It's all that she's had for the last years and if she keeps trying, she knows she can pretend that they truly love her.

Plus, she's still trying to make moves to actually take down the Wizard. To destroy this awful, terrible system from inside. So maybe, one day, she will be able to clean Elphaba's name. And have her friend back beside her.

(Does she actually believe she can do that still, though? Or did that naiveté die with Galinda?)

Either way, her entire life is absurdly tiring and as soon as she reaches the Emerald Palace in her bubble, exhausted from a very long day, she only wants to soak in her bathtub, and then lie on her bed.

But instead, she's called by the Wizard and grunts at that as she makes her way to the room where he keeps the goddamn machine. Everyday, Glinda wishes she could set that thing on fire.

As soon as she walks past the door, she freezes, though.

Green skin. Black clothes. Dark hair with microbraids.

Elphie.

"Elphie!" She exclaims, throwing herself on her friend to hug her tight. "What... What are you doing here?"

[buttercupshands]

thought about this thing for a while

it was extremely interesting to just analyze myself and get like a tier list in my head

[sysig]

Growing closer than expected (Patreon)

[untalentedace]

I should really have added a filter to the first to have made it seem like a thought / flashback.

A REDRAWWW of that scene I love

but anyway, wanted to do this before episode 19 arrives tomorrow. Wanted to render and full colour it, but not enough time for that. Therefore, shabby rough versions. especially the end.

Here's the unclipped version: (ignore that aborted window to the right)

[kugamoogle]

Happy belated Collections Day! Hoping more new fans means more people will end up going just as insane over these two as I have

Mostly off topic ramble about AAI and Badd in the tags!

[sealrock]

febhyurary, day 8: crystal

30th sun of the 2nd astral moon, 1568

elaine tatlonghari's field report #19 "it is the nineteenth day of our excursion deep within the eastern region of the twelveswood, and before now we have uncovered naught but the standard fare of dirt, rock, and peculiar vegetation samples. just when it seemed our luck, and our studium funds, were running out, my fellows from the excavation team stumbled upon something rather curious: a shimmering yellow stone—nay, 'stone' is not what I would call this, more like a crystal. no bigger than my hand, I find its weight strangely leaden cradled within my palm. upon further inspection, it's not like any crystal I have seen. to be so perfectly smooth without so much as a scratch, complete with jagged edges sharp enough to puncture skin. whereupon hitting a light source, the crystal takes on an almost translucent appearance. it appears to have a pattern etched on its surface, but I do not yet know its meaning. my associate haeljarr believes it to be some sort of star map for an ancient civilization that once inhabited this corner of the twelveswood, before the time of the amdapori; could it be a representation of an age-old constellation? I'm not so easily convinced; to have lay under the dust and grime of crushing rubble for such a long stretch of time with nary a sign of age to show for it... haeljarr was always fond of his lofty summations. it is my belief that this crystal is of our age, perhaps dropped by another archaeologist somewhere out there. we will not know for sure until further studies are done. nevertheless, we shall continue our excavation on the 'morrow in hope we uncover more crystals like this. if they're anything like allagan tomestones, this discovery should hold some worthwhile knowledge."