#it might sound mean but i just want to see the resolution and move on

[veryintricaterituals]

I've seen a lot of people really mad at the 90 minute episode, and I'm here wondering if I'm not the only one who is actually relieved? I really, really, really thought we weren't going to get anything? at all?

I was fully convinced that they were going to cancel it, and that we were about to be stuck with the final 15 as our last glimpse of Good Omens. I wasn't hopeful, because the cancellation should have been one of the consequences Gaiman faced.

But I'm glad that the team fought and won us the chance for closure. Honestly I'm glad, I don't want to know what sort of season we would've gotten either with or without Gaiman, and I don't really want to know. I just want them to give us closure so that I don't have to live in a world where two of my favorite shows end with a heartbreaking confession that is never talked about ever again.

[odoraful]

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

brushing up on physical intimacy might be hard for an adeptus like xiao. however, he's willing to put in the effort for a romantic like you.

⟡ content: xiao x gn!reader; sfw; fluff; xiao is ALWAYS serious about wanting to learn more about you :') ; 1.5k words

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You froze in shock hearing what Xiao had just asked.

“Do you want to kiss?”

The words reverberated in your head. Did you need to schedule a visit with Baizhu to have your ears checked? Or did your serious-minded adeptus actually initiate wanting to kiss you? If it was any consolation, Xiao seemed an equal measure flustered by his own request.

You had just begun to unwind for the night at Wangshu Inn—Xiao pouring out tea, and you folding laundry to be put away—when he spouted the question.

Seeing your wide eyes barely blink, Xiao blurted out, “You kept talking about the opera we watched”—he cleared his throat—“and about how romantic the kiss was.”

You flushed.

The romanticist in you couldn’t help it though. At Liyue Harbour, the Yun-Han Opera Troupe had just performed a story of forbidden romance. It was a tale of two lovers who had been banished to opposite sides of the night sky. For only a single day out of a year, birds would form a bridge to help them reunite. And when they met, they shared a passionate kiss beneath the heavenly skies dotted by milky stars and galaxies. You had almost been moved to tears. Believing that Xiao was unaffected by such things, you freely chattered about it the way back to Wangshu Inn after the performance. Gushing endlessly about the magic of it all.

“It was! But, that doesn’t mean that I want to”—

You sucked in a breath, cutting yourself off.

Well, you didn’t not want to kiss Xiao. You just weren’t prepared at all for this.

“It’s just that you said it so suddenly!” you said, shaking out a blouse that matched the shade of pink that spread across your cheeks.

Affection came in many forms between the two of you—heartfelt conversations on moonlit nights, swims in Yaoguang Shoal when the weather warmed up, exchanging trinkets from one’s adventures—but neither of you had engaged in anything physical. It seemed like an invisible line not to be crossed. Shoulders side-by-side, but never touching. Hands brushing, but never holding.

You stored your small pile of clothes away, staring aimlessly into the open drawer trying to figure out a reply. He sounded so genuine in his offer, how could you turn it down? Resolute, you shut the drawer and swung around.

Betrayed by his tendency to blush easily, Xiao fought to keep a calm expression on his face. He rested his elbow on the arm rest of the wooden sofa, hand covering his mouth. His words came out muffled.

“Forget I said anything.”

No, no, don’t backtrack! you thought.

You needed to salvage this situation. Though, your mind drew a blank. Quickly, your dug around your memories and all the romantic stories you’ve read, featuring love interests timid, bold and everything in between. What was the perfect move to woo someone the fastest? A move that would be impossible to refuse?

You crossed the floor of the room with an unfaltering gait. Xiao’s eyes followed your movement, curious as to your intent.

With little hesitation, you sat on his lap.

Every hair on Xiao’s body raised. His heartrate thundered in his ears, faster than in any fight he had been in. The curve of your body against his thighs was a foreign, yet oddly comforting, sensation.

“W-what are you doing?!” he spluttered, flabbergasted.

Your boyfriend was in the most embarrassed state you had ever seen, his face as red as a jueyun chili.

“You asked if I wanted to kiss, right?” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, here’s my answer to that.”

A fuse short circuited in Xiao’s brain.

He didn’t even know where to look. At your eyes? No, they held too much bated anticipation. At your lips? Certainly not. Even staring down into his lap meant acknowledging the vulnerable position you two were in.

He couldn’t do this. He definitely couldn’t do this. Why had he even asked you in the first place? Because he could somehow act like a prince charming? Hold the back of your neck and sweep you off your feet with an expert kiss? However, beneath his panic, the temptation he felt was undeniable. Yet, time and time again, his desires were drowned out by the alarms blaring in his mind.

You laid your hands on his shoulders. The air around him sweetened, the perfume on your wrists enhanced by your closeness.

As you drew nearer to him, he was forced to look up at you. The panic stilled. All he could focus on was you. The steadiness of your breathing, and the tensing of your legs. Every little texture on your face, and each blink of your eyes.

Xiao wanted to try. Try to fulfil those romantic fantasies you spoke so fondly about. Maybe, just maybe, he could make you just as giddy and lovestruck.

The unexpected passion in his gaze was too overwhelming for you. Unable to hold eye contact with him anymore, you turned you head to the side,

Xiao knew to strike when enemies left an opening in their defences. Whilst you were the farthest from an opponent to him, it was those same instincts that pushed him to move after the perfect opportunity you gave.

Your mouth parted with surprise at his lips pressed against your cheek. Though it only lasted seconds, the softness of his kiss lingered behind, your skin tingling with elation. Outside, past the balcony of your room, the stars seemed to twinkle a magnitude brighter before he pulled away. You turned back to him, an incredulous smile plastered on your face, practically beaming.

“I-I know it wasn’t like how it was in the opera…” Xiao’s voice trailed off, hands fiddling at the fabric of the cushion beneath him.

You shook your head in strong disagreement. “I thought it was even better than the opera.”

Interlocking your fingers behind his neck, your voice filled with mirth, “I should tell Yun Jin about it so she can incorporate it into her next performance.”

“Do not tell her.”

“I’m joking! Well, only about the telling Yun Jin part that is.”

Up close, he could see exactly the way your eyes creased and your lips curved when you laughed. Had he done that? Been the one to provoke such cheeriness for you? The previous fears he had subsided, and it boldened him to ask you a question.

“Why is it—” his voice grew small—“you never ask me to do things like this with you?”

His sincerity both gladdened you, and twinged you with guilt.

“To be honest, I always assumed that you didn’t like to do these sorts of things,” you admitted, downcast.

“It is hard for me due to my… inexperience,” his face scrunched up slightly as he paused. An endearing habit of his when he let his thoughts collect itself before replying, “but if it’s for you, I’m willing to try.”

Hesitatingly, he brought a hand up to cradle of your face. His touch was feather-like, leaving a gap of mere millimetres against your skin.

“Just… don’t move so fast.”

Xiao examined your reaction, hoping that his words made sense.

“I understand,” you reassured, “I want us both to feel comfortable too, so we can take things slowly.”

Comfortable… Once again, he was conscious of your position.

He coughed, a slight awkwardness to his tone as he spoke.

“Then, does ‘taking things slowly’ involve sitting in my lap?”

“Ah!”

You almost jumped out of your skin realising the position you had put him in.

“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just something I’ve seen happen so many times in the light novels I read, and I thought I’d try to do one on you.” You were rambling at this point, spouting anything out of your system.

Hurriedly, you got up, brushing the sweat from your palms on the fabric of your pants. You sat beside him on the sofa, willing the heat away from your cheeks.

“I-I didn’t dislike it,” he said, gently. “I would prefer if you asked next time so I’m prepared.”

You nodded. The corners of Xiao’s lips twitched at your sulk. He knew well enough he should change the subject to dispel the embarrassment radiating off you.

“You spoke of light novels? What are they?”

“They’re a type of literature from Inazuma.” As you continued, your composure renewed itself. “Wanwen Bookhouse has been supplying lots of new genres recently, specifically romance,” you added, somewhat sheepishly.

He hummed with interest. “Could you… share them with me?”

“You want to read some?” You brightened at his curiosity. “But, why?”

Xiao’s expression fell into seriousness, as if calculating a decisive move in a battle.

“I want to understand your likes more.”

His words landed a direct hit to your heart, causing it to flutter. It was a different feeling to when you read your novels. It was far more intense, and infinitely more meaningful.

He smiled softly.

“These stories will be good study for me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[revasserium]

hiii i'm a new follower and i love your writing so much

ik u said no requests in ur bio but i just finished reading ur sanji fic.. so even if ur still not taking requests i'd just like to throw in an idea that u may or may not feel like using in the future, up to you (i'm requesting this with opla sanji in mind but if u wanna use it for zoro that's cool too)

k so imagine reader being invited to a friend's wedding, & being excited to go until they find out their ex is coming too (with their partner of some amt of yrs). so now reader is pressured to bring someone w/ them & ends up asking their best friend sanji bc they don't want others thinking they're still hung up on the past.

wedding dress

opla!sanji; 6,544 words, pining with a happy ending, fluff and a tad of angst, flirting, lovesick!sanji, whipped!!!!sanji, no "y/n", zeff is a whole mood, confessions, sanji-appropriate nickname usage, modern!au?

summary: you invite sanji to be your plus 1 at a wedding

a/n: im so sorry this took so long. but. better late than? never? also, there is a tiny bit of rehashing for ep 6 of the live action for sanji and zeff's relationship so... spoilers?

It’s a chilly, overcast kind of day when the call comes in. And in retrospect, Sanji thinks he should’ve known better when he’d seen your name on the caller ID. He’d hesitated, because by god if it wasn’t his New Year's Resolution to get the hell over you this year, but it’s almost December again and he still can’t help the way his heart races at the sound of your voice.

“Hey sweetheart — long time no talk!” he answers after a brief moment of contemplating his entire life, dusting his flour-covered hands on his apron.

“Hey! Sorry for calling so… out of the blue…” your voice is still as sweet as ever, and the way his stomach twists at the tinkle of your nervous laughter makes him want to kick himself. Still, he forces himself to stay calm, clearing his throat as he checks the oven — it’s almost done pre-heating.

“Now you know what I said about actin’ a stranger — just because you moved halfway across the entire world doesn’t mean we ain’t best friends anymore, right?”

It’s what you’d said when he’d been standing at the airport, three seconds from dropping to his knees and begging you not to go. But he hadn’t, because he knew how hard you’d worked for this — for this opportunity abroad, to study art in the birthplace of the Renaissance itself, in the heart of Italy.

“And… you might be able to come visit me, right?” you’d said, rocking on the balls of your feet, your eyes full of what Sanji could only call false hope — which is always, always the worst and most painful kind.

Sanji had swallowed and nodded and said something or other about Europe and fine dining, but there’s a terrible, prickling heat eating up the back of his neck and a voice that’s screaming at him to pull you to him and kiss you. He doesn’t. And he regrets it to this day.

“Ah — right… I’m actually calling because… I’ll be in the area in about a week and…”

Your voice pulls him out of his reverie and he clears his throat, hitches a smile to his face that he knows you can’t see but he’s sure you can hear.

“Oh! That’s great, darling! You’ve gotta come for a drink, I’ll whip up all your favorites — we can make a night —”

“It’s actually for a wedding.”

There are a few moments in everyone’s lives when they learn the true meaning of a thing for the very first time — elation, pride, stomach-twisting guilt, and… fear. True fear, the kind of fear that shakes the muscle from your bones and sends them tingling, threatens to overwhelm you with numbness. Fear, that pushes adrenaline through you like a drug, forces the world into a terrifying, all-consuming focus.

Sanji feels the fear coursing through him, wild and contentious at your words.

A wedding.

Your wedding? Perhaps?

He can’t bear to think of it; he’s so terrified he can barely breathe.

Then comes the moment after, the wave of everything else that the fear had washed away — confusion, anger, guilt (always guilt, for some reason), because isn’t he supposed to be happy for you? For you, the person he loves most in this entire world, to find love, to know happiness. He should. He should.

“Oh.”

Sanji sags back against the hard, metal counter. Almost mindlessly, he reaches into his pockets with shaking hands, digging around for a smoke.

Your breath is soft in his ear, too far across the phone line and a thousand miles of ocean.

“I originally wasn’t even planning on going — she’s not a very close friend — we had like one class together but —”

And within the span of a minute, Sanji also learns relief. The kind that melts the world around you into sizzling butter and champagne bubbles. The kind that makes you want to lie down on the ground and scream.

“— it was so close to your restaurant so I said yes but I didn’t know he was gonna be there and —”

You’re still talking, rambling like you do. And it takes nearly everything inside Sanji to pull himself back to the conversation.

“Sorry, love, who did you say was gonna be there?”

“My ex — you know the one —”

Sanji grimaces, flicking on his lighter with still-shaking fingers.

“Mm, yeah I do. The tall, dark-haired bastard who —”

“Yeah well — he’s gonna be there too and I just —” he hears you swallow hard and take a long, steadying breath. An unnameable something is calcifying in the depths of his stomach as he waits for you to collect yourself.

Curiosity? Why had you called like this, so suddenly, about a wedding where your ex was going to be? Concern? Were you thinking of going back to him?

But slowly, as you stutter through your next few words, the unnameable thing obtains a name — dread.

“— I just don’t think I could do it myself, y’know? And — and you were the one who got me out of it wh-when I decided to break it off with him so…”

Sanji takes a long drag of his cigarette and casts his eyes up at the high, white-slabbed ceiling of the kitchen, scored with long strips of bright, fluorescent lighting that floods the entire room in a direct, unforgiving glow.

He closes his eyes and counts to three.

“Course I’ll come with you, darlin’. It —” he wets his lips, taps off a bit of ash from his cigarette, and sucks in through his nose, clearing his throat of the words still lodged there, “— it’d be my honor.”

Relief — he hears it in your voice, and by gods he can almost see it — the way your whole face would light up, washed as if by the setting sun, your eyes wide and dark, your cheeks flushing his favorite fucking shade of pink and —

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I really owe you for this one —”

Sanji makes a valiant effort at a nonchalant chuckle; it comes out sounding like a dog with a bit of bone stuck in its throat instead.

“Nonsense — what are best friends for, anyway?”

There’s a tiny pause where Sanji can feel the words best friend scraping along the insides of his mouth, barbed and harsh, leaving his tongue feeling raw and metallic.

“You really are the best friend anyone could ask for,” your voice is soft and honest and Sanji wants nothing more than to chuck his phone into the industrial blender.

You tell him that you’ll send him the details, that you can’t wait to see him soon, that you’ve got a world and a half of catching up to do, that you’ll buy him so, so many drinks, and that you’ll come bearing presents. He laughs at the right times, makes soft noises of consent and agreement, and when finally, finally you tell him goodbye, he clicks off the phone and takes another long drag of his smoke.

And then, he whips his hand back and throws the cigarette butt into the large sink, where it tinks against the metal and sizzles sadly in the murky dishwater.

“Real sucker for punishment, aren’tcha, lil’ eggplant?”

Sanji groans, turning around to find Zeff with his arms folded, the hip to his bad leg propped against a counter.

“Will you fuck kindly off — can’t you see I’m going through a thing here?”

Zeff snorts, clunking unevenly towards him.

“You been going through that thing for the last year and a half since you chickened outta askin’ her to stay so —”

“I didn’t chicken out — I — it was her dream to go to Florence and study —”

“And what was your dream then, ey?”

Sanji bangs his palm against the counter and sighs, “It’s not like I could leave you here with —”

“With what? A thriving restaurant business that I started? A guest list out the door and round the corner —”

“I — I helped!”

Zeff rolls his eyes, “Ah sure ya did, but I never asked you to, did I?”

Sanji huffs, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stop the torrent of horrible, sad, acrid things he could say and could never mean, so he swallows them back down. When he looks up next, Zeff is still standing there, but there’s a softness around his eyes.

He opens his mouth a few times, but eventually, all he says is, “The oven’s over heatin’.”

Sanji swears and jumps up to tug open the oven door. A wave of hot air whooshes out and nearly catches him in the face. Behind him, he can hear Zeff’s dark, gravelly chuckle, and the dull clunk of his wooden leg.

“You burn the kitchen down, you pay for it.”

And then he’s gone again, leaving the door swinging behind him, and Sanji very much alone with the too-hot oven and a counter full of things he can’t really remember the recipes for anymore.

Nearly a week later, Sanji finds himself standing at the airport, rocking on the balls of his feet, nearly in the exact same place as he’d been a year and a half prior. Except this time, you’re not walking away from him. You’re walking back towards him. He wonders if there’s a name for deja-vu in reverse and comes to the realization that that’s just called… a memory.

And memory seems to work in strange ways now, images superimposing themselves on top of one another — the flicker of a film lens, the bat of an eyelash, the shadow of a smile crimping the corner of your lips. All of this, he sees in the here and now, but he sees it in the air around you too, shimmering and mirage-like — all his memories and dreams of you layered over the shape of you. Your memory like a ghost of itself, trailing behind you as you walk towards him, a shy smile on your face, your cheeks flushed from travel and the cold and —

He doesn’t let himself hope. Not this time.

“Hey!” your voice is just as bell-like as he remembers it, pitched a little higher than it usually is, probably out of nervousness. But it still feels like a kick to the guts. Sanji forces himself to smile.

“Hi, love,” he says, leaning down as you reach him, but the motion aborts halfway because — is it still appropriate to hug you like he’d always done? To press his lips to your cheek or your hairline and revel in the bright citrus of your shampoo, to soak in the butter and cream of your skin like he used to?

There’s an awkward half-second pause before you’re standing up on tip-toe and Sanji’s heart nearly drops out of his ass as you lean in. But then — your lips skim by his cheek and your arms are around him, and stupid, stupid, stupid heart — thundering in his chest like horses or hooves or fists or thumping rabbit’s feet — leaping into his throat and pattering against the base of his tongue as he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. But it’s not close enough. It’s never close enough.

He breathes and distantly, a part of him notes that you still use the same shampoo.

“Hi…” your voice is warm by his ear, a bit muffled, but he can’t help the way it makes him shiver, “It’s… so good to see you.”

He nods, not trusting his own voice to do the normal thing and, oh, you know — work.

“I’ve — I’ve missed you.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough as he nods again. He feels your arms slackening around him and a fierce, terrifying thing is flapping its wings in his stomach, screeching at him not to let you go. But he does — like he did before.

“I — I missed you too,” he says, though his voice sounds flat and scratchy and he clears his throat again.

A dozen different expressions flicker across the lovely planes of your face and finally, it settles on endeared exasperation.

“Please don’t tell me you still work through like three packs of smokes a day.”

Sanji laughs then, shaking his head as he reaches over for your luggage, “Nah — well, maybe not three but —”

You whack him softly on the arm.

“I actually tried to quit right after you left.”

“You did?”

Sanji shrugs as the pair of you start to make for the exit. He feels your gaze go slanted and shrewd.

“How long’d that last?”

He smirks, “Few hours.”

You whack him again and this time, he dodges out of the way just to bask in the bright spark of your laughter as you chase after him.

“Seriously though, you know how terrible they are for you!”

“Sure do,” he says, tugging one out of his pocket as soon as he clears the airport doors, pivoting left towards the parking garage. You have to jog to keep up with his longer strides, your breaths misting the air between you in silvery puffs.

He makes no move to light it as he helps toss your luggage into the trunk of his car, sliding into the driver’s seat. You huff as you wiggle into the passenger’s side.

“Then why —”

Sanji waits patiently for you to buckle your seatbelt before pulling out of the parking space, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting soft against the middle console. He slates you a glance.

“Cause,” he says, fixing his eyes back on the road, an easy smirk twisting his lips, “it’s a metaphor.”

You groan, sinking into the seat, “Just because you read John Green one time —”

“Oi, I’ll have you know I read his entire bibliography after you showed him to me.”

“Ugh, whatever you manic-pixie-dreamgirl-loving ass.”

“Yeah, whatever — you actual manic pixie dreamgirl.”

You smile and Sanji allows himself the brief and aching delusion that the past year and a half didn’t happen, that you never left, and that you’d never leave. That you’d always be here, warm and laughing and just within reach.

The rest of the car ride is spent in mundane conversation, in how was your flight and tell me about Florence and how’s Zeff doing these days and I wanna know about your latest dish. It’s light and easy, and Sanji lets it warm the air around him. By the time he pulls into the front of your hotel, all the unsaid words from the past year and a half have soaked through his socks and into his shoes. It sloshes out onto the pale pavement as he opens the car door.

He helps you roll your luggage up into the lobby and tells you he’ll be here at 3PM to pick you up tomorrow. The venue’s just three blocks away.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then,” you say, pursing your lips, waving as he backpedals towards the automatic doors.

“You’ve still gotta send me pictures of the dress you’re wearing — I gotta find a matching tie.”

You laugh, a bit embarrassed, “Right — and here I thought I might surprise you.”

Sanji freezes, eyes wide.

��O-oh! Er — well, you can just — just tell me what color or —” he waves vaguely, “send a picture of a corner of the dress — just so I have something to color match against —”

You nod, eyes glittering, eager once more, “Oh! That’s a good idea — I’ll do that.”

“Great,” Sanji says.

“Great!” you echo, perhaps a bit too chipper.

He gives you one last smile before turning and striding from the hotel, firing up the engine as calmly as he can, forcing himself not to turn and check if you’re still watching him through the brightly lit, sliding glass doors. He allows himself a glance through the rear-view mirror as he pulls away from the drive and his heart skips a beat when he realizes you’re still standing there, right in the middle of the lobby, fingers wrapped around the handle of your suitcase, your eyes fixed on the shadow of his retreating car.

He lights the smoke the second he turns the corner, your shadow no longer in his rear-view mirror.

That night, Sanji dreams in fits and leaps, flashing images and long, sticky streams of could-have-beens —

He dreams of your laughter in a white-tiled kitchen, of powdered sugar and eggshells cracked and leaking on an exposed wood counter, chopsticks clinking against a thick glass mixing bowl. He dreams of your voice echoing off the shower tiles as you sing off-key, the way you used to when you’d sneak into his college dorm for movie night and a midnight snack. He dreams of coffee mugs and errant rose petals and dandelion seeds blowing in the wind. He dreams of dancing with you in his arms in a darkened dorm room that morphs into a bigger room with a softer carpet, one that he’d never seen before but he knows implicitly (like bodies know) is his home — it has pictures on the walls, trinkets lining the far bookshelf, your favorite scarf draped over the back of the well-worn sofa.

In the dream, you pull your head back from where it's pillowed against his shoulder and smile up at him. He leans down to kiss you, his lips hovering half an inch from yours.

Sanji jerks awake to the sound of his alarm, fingers fumbling for his phone, groaning as he smashes the orange snooze button and flips over to bury his face back into his lumpy pillow.

“Ah… fuck.”

It’s not the first time he’s had that dream, and he knows it won’t be the last. But it’d been so real that night, real enough to make him wonder if it just might come true.

He rubs at his sleep-crusted eyes and peers blearily at all the notifications on his screen. There’s a text from you with a picture attached. He clicks it open to find a short message attached to the picture — I really did want to surprise you…

He blinks for three seconds at what looks like a blurry picture of studded black silk before he remembers —

“Send me a picture of a corner of the dress — just so I have something to color match against.”

He allows himself a laugh, swinging his feet out of bed even as he types back — you coulda just told me it was black…

He watches the three little dots appear and disappear a few times, chewing on his bottom lip, before the text appears — well there are different shades of black, right???

Sanji laughs, shaking his head.

sure there are.

A string of tongue-out emojis, followed by an equally long string of middle-finger emojis.

He spends the rest of the morning fussing over which specific black tie to wear before settling on one that he’s quite sure is the exact same shade of black as your dress (and yes, he does have quite the collection of black ties), before tugging his best suit out to press.

It shouldn’t feel so easy, slipping back into the rhythm of things, of texting and smiling and hearing your voice in his head when he reads your texts. It shouldn’t feel so easy to forget the months of radio silence and guilt, the oppressive, resonant weight of what might have been if either of you had done a single thing different that day at the airport — he wonders if he should’ve reached for your hand, he wonders if you’d ever looked back.

He hadn’t. He couldn’t let himself.

He is waiting for you in the lobby at 2:45, wearing a hole into the plush Persian carpet, collecting strained looks from the concierge who had assured him three times in the last four minutes that he’d already rung up to your room and that you’d said you were on your way.

“Wow, you’re early — sorry I took a while — I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hair and —“

Sanji lifts his head and thinks distantly that all those rom-com cliches of a guy looking up, time itself slackening, the room smearing sideways around him, the music going slow, the lighting soft — all of it is painfully, startlingly true after all.

Because there you are, walking towards him, still saying something, but he can’t make out the words anymore because time isn’t really a thing anymore, is it? He can’t focus on that and also the dark glimmer of your dress, the way the neckline skates just beneath your collarbones, barely skimming the skin there before it slips down along the slope of your shoulders in a way that makes his breath unspool inside his chest like loose threads.

And in the slanted, ethereal light of the winter afternoon, your dress looks like it’s cut from a swath of darkest midnight, moonless and scattered with stars.

You blush as Sanji attempts to pick his jaw up off the floor and hitch his lips into something resembling a smile.

“W-wow… you look…”

Your smile is shy as you press your palms against the dress, looking down, “Thanks… you don’t think it’s… too much?”

Sanji shakes his head, feeling dazed.

“No! I mean — it’s —“ his mouth is dry, drier than he ever remembers it being, and suddenly it’s very hard to swallow and Sanji isn’t even sure the muscles in his neck know how to perform the action, let alone force words out alongside it. He struggles for another few seconds, his jaw working furiously as his eyes skitter down and back up the shape of you.

“You look… perfect,” he says, finally, because the word has been ricocheting around his chest like a stray bullet and he had to let it out somehow.

“Thanks — you don’t look so bad yourself,” you say, your voice breathy in a way that makes Sanji’s stomach squeeze.

He offers you his arm, and you glide forward to take it.

He drives the three blocks to the wedding venue in a daze, his mind spinning slow and off-axis, tilted so by the gentle waft of your perfume, the lullaby of your voice as you chatter nervously about this and that and the weather, I mean, can you believe it’s gonna be an outdoor wedding in the winter? He wonders briefly why you’re so nervous, and then he’s reminded of the reason he’s even here at all — your ex will be here. Ah. Right.

“Ready?” he asks, offering you his arm again as the both of you follow the meandering stream of arriving guests toward the paved outdoor garden area where the ceremony is due to take place.

“No, but… you’re here so…” you let out a breath and for a second, Sanji almost thinks he hears the hint of an ache in your voice. An ache like an old scab picked at too many times, like unrequited love, perhaps. It’s an ache with which Sanji is so intimately familiar that he immediately tamps it down and vows not to think about it again for the rest of the night.

There are stiff-backed waiters wandering around with plates of hors d’oeuvres and thin flutes of bubbling pink champagne.

Sanji grabs two glasses and hands you one.

“Cheers, then.”

“Bottoms up,” you say, tossing back the entire flute in one.

Sanji cocks his eyebrows, grinning as he follows suit, smacking his lips.

“Alright then, I guess if that’s how you’re playin’ —”

Your laughter is light, if a little strained, but he remembers how quickly bubbly drinks tend to go to your head and makes a concerted effort to slow down. You make it all the way through the actual ceremony without bumping into your ex, though you do lean over and grab Sanji’s hand as the bride and groom exchange vows — something about love being a choice, one that they promise to make every morning of every day for the rest of their lives — and he looks over to find you misty-eyed, bottom lip caught beneath your teeth.

“Sap,” he whispers, leaning over. It earns him a choked laugh and a half-hearted elbow in the ribs, but it’s worth it to see the tension melt from your shoulders.

Sanji turns back towards the bride and groom, exchanging rings now, and unbidden comes the images of you and him standing where they are — you in a dazzling white gown, him still in a dark suit, but one perhaps of more expensive material and much better tailoring. He thinks about all the things he might promise you, wonders at what you might promise him in return —

“I promise to love and cherish you —” you might say.

“I promise to make all your favorite foods,” he might say.

“I promise not to touch your emotional support le creuset pans.”

“I promise not to make you taste all my experimental dishes —”

“Okay, but what if I want to —”

He imagines the way the crowd would titter, how the officiator would affectionately clear his throat. He imagines Zeff’s warm, well-worn laughter, rough and a little torn at the edges because he’s just as sentimental as the next guy behind all the beard and gruffness. He imagines the crowd smiling up at the pair of you, the way you’d squeeze his hands to get the both of you back on track —

He jerks out of his reverie as you tug your hand away from his to clap, and it takes him a beat to realize that everyone else is clapping and cheering too. He blinks — the bride and groom are kissing, pulling apart as the music swells around them and they link hands to walk back down the aisle.

Sanji clears his throat and hurriedly gets up to clap as well, his eyes trailing the radiant smiles on both the newlyweds’ faces. Another sharp ache sings through him but he feels your hand in his again and he can’t tell if he wants to grip you tighter or pull away. They’d both hurt just as much, wouldn’t they?

“C’mon, let’s get inside — I wanna judge the catering with you,” you whisper, your breath tickling his cheek, and he knows without having to look that you’re standing on your tiptoes, your chin almost propped on his shoulder.

He fights down a bout of shivers and smiles, “My favorite part of any formal event, honestly.”

You laugh, “I know — me too.”

So you spend the entire dinner service whispering to each other about the food —

“God, this steak is so well done I think it just might dislocate my jaw —”

“What’s in this sauce?”

Sanji chews thoughtfully before making a face, “Dunno, but it’s got oregano.”

“Oh the cake looks good though.”

“Yeah, but we both know how much sugar and butter goes into that right?”

You nudge him with an elbow, “Weird, cause I’m pretty sure happiness is also made of sugar and butter.”

“Well for me, it’s always been…” but Sanji trails off, biting his tongue. No. He can’t say that — not now. Not here.

Because for him, happiness has always just been you.

So instead, he swallows passed his own mouthful of regrets and attempts a lopsided grin. And thankfully, your attention is drawn elsewhere by a loud peal of laughter before he has to make a shitty joke about happiness being a well-lit kitchen and a gas-lit stove.

You’re both at least a bottle of champagne deep when it finally happens, inevitable as a summer storm — your ex saunters up to you on the dance floor, sporting a grease-slick grin, eyeing you up and down like a piece of well-cut meat. Sanji is at the bar, grabbing more drinks and you’re catching a breath of fresh air just outside the dance hall.

“Well, well, well — look who it is.”

Sanji turns sharply at the sound of the voice, his eyes narrowing — Asshat. Fantastic. The bartender is putting the finishing touches on two custom cocktails but blinks, confused, as Sanji swipes both drinks out from the bar and casts him a hurried grin.

“Thanks mate, these look great,” Sanji raises the cocktail glasses at the bewildered bartender before hurrying off, slowing ever so slightly as he reaches you, straightening his spine and smoothing out his shoulders.

“Here, got them special-made for you,” he says, pressing the cocktail into your hand, cutting into something that Asshat is saying.

“Oh! Thanks — oh wow, this looks so good!” you beam up at him, taking a sip.

“Oh wow, didn’t know you were still hangin’ out with this guy,” Asshat says, hooking his thumbs into his belt-hoops and jutting out his chin.

You frown, pressing your lips, “Excuse me?”

Asshat scoffs, posturing, “I mean, when we broke up, it was cause o’him right? So I just thought you might’ve realized what a mistake that was and —”

Sanji barely has the time to feel offended before Asshat is gasping and stumbling back. You’d tossed the remainder of your drink straight into his face.

“What the —” Asshat sputters, his fists clenching, but quick as anything, Sanji swipes out a leg that catches him right in the shins and makes him stumble. In one fluid movement, Sanji pushes his own drink into your hand before reaching out the other arm to steady the now flailing Asshat, catching him around the shoulders.

“Whoa there! Seems like you’ve had a bit too much to drink, my friend!” he says, loud enough for the people around you to hear. He thumps Asshat on the back in a would-be kind gesture before tugging him close, still coughing, and hissing in his ear —

“Listen here, you asswipe — you’re gonna turn around and walk away and stay the fuck away from us for the rest of this wedding, you understand? I’ve got plenty more o’this for ya if you don’t, got it?”

Sanji scuffs his foot along the gravel-covered ground in a motion that could easily be mistaken as fidgeting, but you know better. And so, it seems, does Asshat, who scoffs and shoves Sanji off him with a glare, but after another second, straightens his drink-soaked jacket, turns, and stalks away.

You let out a long breath, swallowing hard.

“Hey darlin’… you alright?” Sanji turns and bends down to level his eyes with yours.

“Y-yeah — thanks — you didn’t need to —”

“Nah. Course I did — it’s why you invited me, right?” he allows himself a lopsided grin that borders on self-deprecating and you look up, eyes wide.

“No! I — that’s not —”

“It’s okay, love — I promise I’m not offended —” Sanji’s babbling, he knows he is — but he has to, because the alternative of letting you speak, of letting you confirm what he already knows to be true (that you’ve only ever seen him as a best friend, that you love him in all the ways except for the one way he wants you to, in the one way he loves you) is too much. He tucks his hands in his pockets and shrugs up his shoulders, pulling them up towards his ears like armor.

And then you lean in and kiss him, and every single word he’s ever thought of saying just to fill the silence turns to mist and mornings on his tongue. His mind turns blissfully blank and when he regains consciousness (or has he? Because isn’t this the dream he’s dreamt every waking moment of his life for the past… however many years?), he thanks every god he can name that he feels his fingers in your hair, his other hand cupping the soft curve of your jaw. He tastes your uncertainty against his lips and presses in, hoping, praying that if he just kissed you hard enough you might understand.

When you pull away, he can’t help the satisfied purr that curls up his chest at the pinkness in your cheeks and the slightly glazed-over look in your eyes.

“O-oh — sorry I —”

Sanji shakes his head, leaning in to push his forehead against yours.

“Nah, nah, nah — if you tell me that was a mistake now I might just turn around and never speak to you ever again — because don’t you dare —”

You let out a helpless laugh, shaking your head as you reach up to cover his hands with yours. It’s only then that he realizes they’d been shaking. He swallows and he thinks he can taste every single morning after for the rest of his goddamn life in the whisper of your breath.

“It — it’s not, I wasn’t —” you close your eyes and Sanji holds you still, foreheads still pressed. Distantly, Sanji is aware that people are cheering, that more drinks are being poured, that the dance floor is probably a mess. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think he’ll care about anything else ever again — why would he? Now that he’s got you.

“Shh… take your time, love… we’ve got all the time in the world.”

He feels the relief take you, and then you’re falling into him, burying your face in the lapel of his suit jacket, probably smearing it with your foundation. Vaguely, Sanji considers framing it when he gets home.

“I’m… I’m sorry it took so long — I’m sorry I didn’t — that I wasn’t…” you curl your fist into the material of his shirt and thump him lightly on the chest, even as he laughs and wraps his arms around you.

“I know, darlin’… I know.” Sanji presses his lips into your hair and can’t help a smile.

Finally. Finally.

Your hair smells like citrus shampoo.

Finally.

“I thought about you every single day,” you admit, your voice small when you finally pull back to look at him again. He thinks there might be tears in your eyes, or maybe it’s just the starlight caught in the thick night sky of your lashes.

“Did you now?” he asks, fumbling for some semblance of normalcy amidst this night of revelations.

You nod, fervently, and god he wants to kiss you again. Briefly, he wonders if he should, if he’s allowed to now. Instead, he smiles and cocks his head.

“So? What changed?” and he can’t help the tiny note of hurt out of his voice, the slightest shiver of disbelief. After all, cynicism is a hard habit to break.

Especially after so many years of practice.

You shrug, sighing, “Nothing — everything. I mean — I’d always… but then I thought — you had your career as a chef and I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with my life. But it —” you lick your lips, and Sanji nearly breaks when you tear your eyes away from his. He wants to force you back, to soak in the dark and bright of your gaze till he can see the world exactly as you see it.

“It’s always been you…” you say.

At this, Sanji does break. He tips your face towards him with a thumb and a forefinger and leans in, waiting for you to pull back, bracing for it. But you don’t — instead, you press in and close the space between you again, and again, and then again.

He wants to tell you — he needs to tell you that it’s always been you too, that there’s never been anyone else. From the moment he first laid eyes on you, he’s known, even though both of you were children back then, and neither of you had any idea what “love” actually meant. He knew then, too.

“Love…” his voice trails off, but you smile, and he knows you know, knows that you can hear it in the rawness behind his voice, in the softness of his breath, in the way it shakes.

You make to kiss him again. But your lips hover half an inch from his and you stop. Sanji sighs.

“What — why’d you stop?”

Your smile is sweet and sharp, honey glinting on a razor’s edge, and he knows that he has you. And maybe that he’s always had you and was just too blind, too terrified, to see it.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s a metaphor.”

Sanji groans, “Fuck your metaphors.”

You bat your lashes, pulling an expression of mock affront onto your face.

“Well at least wine me and dine me first —”

Sanji licks his lips, “What’dyou think I’ve been trying to do for the last ten years?”

Your breath catches.

“Oh.”

Sanji smirks and kisses you again, slowly this time, languid and deep. Unhurried. He luxuriates in the way you go soft in his arms, in the way he can feel the gentle hitch of your breath as he runs his tongue along the edges of your teeth, coaxing you towards him, closer and closer and closer.

The hardest, angriest part of him wants to swallow you whole, bite down just to hear you hiss, to taste your blood on his tongue. To make you feel even a sliver of the pain he’d felt. He tamps it back down — there’s time for that later.

Instead, he forces himself to pull back and allows himself the satisfaction of watching you chase him, pursing your own lips with a bashful look away, your cheeks dark.

“So,” Sanji takes half a step back, puffing out his chest in the best imitation of a fuckboy at a wedding party, “wanna get outta here?”

You let out a helpless laugh, falling into his side. He lets the sound ring through him like so many silver bells.

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

He chuckles, looping an arm around your middle and leaning towards your ear.

“Your place, or mine?”

You roll your eyes, “I’m pretty sure I still have a toothbrush at your place.”

Sanji hums, “You still have a whole drawer at my place.”

You smile up at him, open and happy and sincere, “Then… I guess that’s your answer then.”

[velnna]

I know you generally work fast but I'm curious on how long on average it takes for you to get out a page of ThUG? I haven't had the opportunity to read it yet (it looks SO good) but I'm making the assumption a page is the size of an average print comic style versus webtoon scroll episode length format. Also curious on what short cuts you might take to get them out faster/more efficiently. I'm currently planning a comic in a similar format and am trying to plan my process ahead.

Thank you!

I don't do whole pages in one go (I do all the thumbnails then all the lineart then all the colour) so it's hard to tell exactly how long but maybe around 3-6h per page? Which makes a chapter (25-30 ish pages) take around 150 ish hours. I definitely prefer this to the webtoon format for a number of reasons, one of which being the satisfaction you get seeing a bunch of panels come together versus having to scroll through them separately.

In terms of speed, my entire process is pretty optimised for it, both in comics and outside. I stick to an A5 format and downsize it further (I tend to work with pages at 1000px width and 300dpi) to keep myself from overworking details. If an eye closeup feels tiring to get right or loses proportion, my resolution is too high

I also use textured brushes and leave the lineart more like a clean sketch, which allows me to not only skip straight from thumbnails to it but also to skip work on backgrounds, objects and figures at a certain distance

The main point of comic work is to convey emotions, movement, etc, not to draw everything accurate all the time, and that's probably the biggest lesson I've learned over the past years. You want your art to evolve in a way that means even without a lot of shading/linework/detail the scene gets properly conveyed, imo

Aside from that, I skip work on SFX and just. Write the sounds down or sketch motion lines as basic as they get. That's a stylistic choice but it works for me. And I have a workspace + automated actions + keyboard shortcuts that are all sort of optimised to make me move as little as possible between tasks and screens etc

[literatooru]

𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

pairing: gn!reader x nanami kento

note: check out my masterlist for part 2!

“I’ve been thinking,” Nanami says suddenly.

His voice is quiet but it still manages to startle you a little. You look up from the cutting board to glance at him as you give a soft hum to indicate you’re listening.

“I could tell.” You focus back on the matter at hand, the only sound filling the kitchen being that of the knife hitting the wood. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him place the peeler on the counter and rest his hip on the edge, arms crossed over his chest and head slightly tilted to the side as he examines your face.

“You could?”

“Yeah. You keep doing the… frowning thing,” you mutter, gathering some of the carrot cubes and tossing them in a bowl before continuing with the rest. 

“The ‘frowning thing’,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say again. “You know, I’ve heard your face might get stuck like that if you keep it up.” Nanami gives a soft laugh accompanied by a shake of his head, and he sighs as his hands move up to interlock behind his neck. “Also, that’s three sighs in a row. So, tell me, Kento. What’s keeping you up at night?”

“You,” he murmurs.

Your hands don’t cease their chopping even when your head snaps up to narrow your eyes at him, a reproachful look on your face.

“Okay, I did not hear any complaints last night when we were—”

“First of all, don’t take your eyes off the knife when you’re using it,” he says just as his hand shoots down to rest on top of yours to stop its movements. “It’s dangerous. And I didn’t mean that, I meant… us. This.” He gestures at the space between your two bodies.

You jut your bottom lip out in a pout Kento thinks is the cutest thing ever, and he has the sudden urge to kiss it away. He doesn’t.

“Is that a bad thing?” you ask, your voice dropping to a whisper right when you feel the anxious knot in your stomach starting to form.

“No,” he says reassuringly. When you still refrain from looking at him, he takes a step closer and takes your chin between his index and thumb to turn your face to him. “Hey, it’s not a bad thing. Quite the opposite.”

“Well, the way you’re saying it is making me think that maybe you want to—”

“Get married?” he interrupts you. Your lips part in surprise and you blink twice, three times while gathering your thoughts. “Because that’s what I was thinking.”

Get married? Kento wants to marry you? It’s a little shocking, to be honest. Despite having dated for years, Kento and you have never talked about the future, really. At least, not that kind of future. Does he mean it? What about everything else? His job?

“You want to get married,” you say, and it comes out as more of a statement than a question.

“Yes. If… that’s what you wan too,” he replies, and there’s a little hesitance on his face. 

Nanami’s hand starts to withdraw, and your hand shoots up to clasp his wrist. He looks confused, embarrassed, and a little hurt, all in equal parts. Don’t you want the same? He was pretty sure you did. Did he read everything wrong?

“I want to. God, you have no idea of how much I want to,” you whisper with a nervous laugh. You’re totally not about to cry. Sure, this isn’t a proposal, but it’s really damn close to being one. “But what about… you know?”

“I’m quitting,” he says. Kento’s answer is simple and resolute. He understands he can’t really have both you and his current job, if anything for the sake of your peace of mind. There’s nothing more terrifying than kissing him goodbye without knowing if it’ll be the last time you see him. “I’m done with being a sorcerer. This time for good.”

Sure, being a sorcerer sucked a little less than his previous job, and at least he could help people. If Nanami has to give it up to be with you though; really be with you — he’ll do it in a heartbeat.

“Are you sure?”

He smiles and leans forward to place a tender kiss on your forehead, the warmth of his lips leaving your skin tingling even when they’re not on it anymore.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life. My future is with you.”

You laugh softly, relief flooding your body. You won’t have to worry about his safety ever again. You sigh as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, his arms automatically wrapping around your waist to pull you as close as possible.

“I love you, Nanamin,” you whisper, your warm breath tickling the skin of his neck.

Kento gives a small huff, although a smile eventually makes its way onto his face. He takes a deep breath, instantly relaxing when your scent fills his senses, and his arms tighten around your body a little more.

“I love you, angel.” He pulls back to look at you, then leans down to place a kiss on your lips, then on your cheek, and then on your nose. “I’ll do it after Shibuya. I won’t leave you alone ever again.”

[n-i-m-u-e]

aegon:*sees jace and shines* what's up nephew?! why so serious and brooding? jace:*gives aegon a thoughtful glance* it`s nothing... just reflecting on the possibility that my feelings for someone might be reciprocated aegon:*confused for a moment* recipro- ohh...well and... and what`s conclusions? jace: hard to say... i’ve been dropping him the most insanely obvious hints for like a year now and no response aegon:*tries to pretend indifference, but starting to crack* wow haha are you sure you want someone like this? i mean, his sounds pretty stupid- jace:*irritated* but hes NOT! maybe sometimes he is and quite annoying too, but he`s really smart actually. just a little dense- aegon:*doesn't look up, speaks in a quiet and sad voice* well maybe then you need to be even more obvious? like, i don’t know… “hey! i love you!” jace:*resolutely* you are absolutely right in the rest! hey, aegon, i love you! aegon:*almost crying, but still holding back somehow* yeah! just like that, champ! jace:*shakes head in disbelief* holy fucking shit- aegon: and if that flies over his head then, sorry, but he`s too dumb for you and you must move on with- jace: egg-

and what came next

[merwgue]

Azriel & Rhysand: The Self-Hating Illyrians? Let’s Talk About That…

Alright, so let's dive into something that’s been bugging me for a while: the way Azriel and Rhysand talk about Illyrians—and how it mirrors their own insecurities and self-hatred toward their own race. Now, I know we all love our brooding shadowsinger and we tolerate (thats the nicest thing i can say okay???) Rhysand, but let’s call a spade a spade. These guys are racist to themselves, and it shows in how they talk about, treat, and rule Illyria.

First off, Azriel. The man has been through some serious trauma—no one is denying that. The abuse he faced as a child at the hands of his Illyrian family was horrific. But because of that, he carries this internalized hatred towards his own people. He sees Illyrians as “brutes,” and that’s not just a throwaway comment. It’s an insight into how he views himself as an Illyrian. He’s distanced himself from his race because it’s too painful for him to reconcile with what they represent to him—his own past, his pain, his trauma. Instead of embracing his heritage and trying to heal from it, he’s rejected it entirely, which is… problematic, to say the least.

Now, let’s talk about Rhysand. Yes, he’s half Illyrian, and yet, what does he do? He rules over Illyria like a colonizer. He’s constantly talking about how brutal and savage the Illyrians are, how they need to be “controlled” and “disciplined.” Sound familiar? Rhysand’s actions in Illyria are more about projecting his own insecurities about being half Illyrian than about actually ruling fairly. He’s ashamed of his heritage and so, instead of working with the Illyrians to improve things, he enforces harsh rule, stifling them instead of helping them grow.

What’s worse is that they both act like they’re doing Illyria a favor by stepping in and being these benevolent rulers. But honestly, what they’re doing is just mirroring their internalized racism. They can’t accept their own Illyrian roots, so they enforce those insecurities onto the people. Rhysand and Azriel might think they’re “better” because they’ve moved beyond the more traditional Illyrian ways, but really, they’re just turning their backs on their own heritage. And that’s not empowerment—that’s self-hatred.

Now, let’s touch on the Elriel shippers. First of all, ship whoever you want—I’m not here to police your ships. But what I am here to say is this: erasing Azriel’s Illyrian identity to fit into a certain romantic narrative is just wrong. Part of what makes Azriel, Azriel, is his struggle with his own identity. It’s his journey of trying to reconcile the trauma of his past with the culture he comes from. There’s depth there, and it’s a storyline that needs resolution, not erasure.

Some Elriel shippers think that in his potential book (if SJM ever gives it to them), Azriel should fully distance himself from Illyria, take off his tattoos, and basically reinvent himself into a whole new character. Excuse me, but what? That’s not character growth, that’s character erasure. The Illyrian tattoos are a symbol of his heritage, his connection to his people. Sure, he has a lot of complicated feelings about Illyria because of his past, but that doesn’t mean the answer is to remove all traces of it from his life.

You can’t just “remove” your culture. It’s something you’re born into, something that shapes you, whether you like it or not. It’s tied to your ancestors, your lineage. For Azriel to fully come to terms with who he is, he has to accept that, yes, he’s Illyrian. He can’t get over that by erasing it—he has to embrace it, faults and all, and move forward. That’s what real growth would look like.

By pushing for Azriel to cut ties with Illyria entirely, some of these shippers are promoting a racist narrative, whether they realize it or not. It’s saying that Azriel can only be worthy of love or redemption if he fully removes himself from the culture that raised him. And that’s just wrong. His identity crisis is not something that should be “fixed” by wiping the slate clean. It should be something he works through, learns from, and ultimately accepts as part of himself.

In fact, if we want real character development, Azriel’s arc should focus on him embracing his Illyrian heritage, understanding that while there are negative aspects of his past, that doesn’t define all of Illyria or his future. His story shouldn’t end with him running away from his culture, but with him reclaiming it on his own terms. The Illyrian culture, with all its flaws, is still his culture, and rejecting it completely would mean rejecting a core part of who he is. Instead of distancing himself further, Azriel needs to find a way to reconcile with the Illyrian identity, maybe even becoming a figure of change within his own race. Rather than mirroring the oppressive behavior of Rhysand, who seeks to control and stifle the Illyrians, Azriel could be the bridge that finally helps Illyria evolve into something better—something that preserves the strength of its people while discarding the more harmful traditions.

Imagine an arc where Azriel not only accepts his heritage but becomes a leader for Illyrian reform, where he champions education, equality, and opportunity for both the males and the females of his race. That would be growth. That would be healing. And let’s be honest, Azriel’s character needs that kind of closure after all the trauma he’s been through. But it has to come from a place of embracing who he is, not trying to erase it.

Now, coming back to Rhysand for a second—his treatment of Illyria is a whole other can of worms. It’s easy to label him as a progressive leader because of how he treats some of his people (read: his Inner Circle), but his actions toward the Illyrians tell a different story. Rhysand rules Illyria through fear and force, much like the High Lords he claims to be better than. He keeps the Illyrians in line with brute power, allowing their wings to be clipped, their women to be oppressed, and their men to be locked into a cycle of violent traditions. And let’s not forget, he’s never really done anything to truly help the Illyrians rise above their current state. Instead, he’s more focused on maintaining control over them, making sure they don’t challenge his authority.

Rhysand’s rule in Illyria is a dictatorship, no matter how you spin it. He pretends to be “freeing” people, but what he’s actually doing is ensuring they stay under his thumb. And Azriel, who has internalized so much hatred for his own race, is complicit in this. He doesn’t push for change or reform because he’s too caught up in his own disdain for his heritage. In a way, Rhysand and Azriel’s attitudes toward Illyria are two sides of the same coin. Rhysand rules it with an iron fist, and Azriel, with his internalized racism, sees that as justified.

Let’s also not forget the dynamic between Rhysand and Azriel within the Inner Circle itself. The Night Court, while seemingly “progressive,” is built on a hierarchy that’s not so different from the oppression they claim to fight. Rhysand keeps a tight leash on his friends, and Azriel, with all his inner conflict and loyalty, falls in line. His insecurities about his heritage make him more susceptible to Rhysand’s control because, in a way, Azriel believes he’s lesser. He believes he’s damaged because of his past, and that allows Rhysand to subtly manipulate him, never pushing him to embrace his Illyrian roots, because that would threaten the order Rhysand has established.

Which brings us back to the issue with the fandom. There are fans out there who, for some reason, want Azriel to completely erase his Illyrian identity, thinking it’s part of his “growth.” But how is denying where you come from, and what shaped you, growth?

The idea that Azriel could just “remove” the Illyrian part of himself and somehow become a better character is incredibly damaging. It promotes the idea that you can (and should) sever ties with your roots if they’re painful or complicated. But that’s not how real people heal, and it’s not how characters should evolve either. If anything, Azriel should be diving deeper into his Illyrian heritage, understanding that while there’s darkness there, there’s also strength and resilience—and that’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.

In the end, what Azriel needs isn’t to “get over” being Illyrian. He needs to accept it, embrace it, and find a way to redefine what it means to him. And Rhysand, for all his posturing as a forward-thinking High Lord, needs to stop ruling Illyria with fear and suppression, and instead, actually help his people rise up. Otherwise, they’re both just perpetuating a cycle of self-hatred and control that benefits no one, least of all themselves.

Ty @shadowqueenjude for the idea pookster

[madaqueue]

Dripping in Gold | Chapter 4

synopsis: finding a job was never easy, and why even bother trying after you meet satoru gojo, a man with mysterious and exorbitant wealth, who wants nothing more than to spoil you with it? the only caveat to your little arrangement is that it can never, ever, become personal.

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader [toji fushiguro x f!reader]

themes/content: non-curse modern au, sugar daddy gojo. language, fluff, angst. kissing. 18+, MDNI

word count: 2.2k

a/n: toji jumpscare!

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

The feeling floats around in your mind as you process the implications. Gojo didn’t pay you, and you didn’t care. No, that can’t be right, because then it would mean that you were just seeing him because you…what? Like spending time with him? Have feelings for him? Fuck no.

You told yourself - and he told you - that this was just casual. This was just a way for you to make some money while you look for a job, nothing more.

But then why do you get butterflies when you see him? Why do you find yourself laughing with him like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done? Why do you count down the hours until you can see him each week?

You toss your phone across the room, landing on your bed as you stand up and pace around your apartment, trying to regain some semblance of control over your emotions. Okay, sure, seeing him is nice and all, but you could live without him if you needed to, right? The question suddenly sends a pang of dread through your stomach at the idea of not getting to be with him.

Shit.

So maybe you do like to be around him, but it’s just because of the sex, right? Against your will, images of your dates flash through your mind - the two of you sitting across from each other as he teases you for not knowing how to use chopsticks, or you wiping whipped cream off his nose after he got a bit too excited about the cake you ordered to share, or the way his arms would wrap around your waist, pulling you into a hug the moment he sees you, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

Shit, shit, shit.

It’s okay, they’re just feelings, and you can ignore them, right? You’re strong, in control, and-

Your thoughts get cut short as you hear your phone buzz, lunging to grab it just in case it might be Gojo.

When you see his name lighting up the screen you feel your cheeks blush in excitement. Your thumb moves to answer before you have a chance to think about the way your body reacted to him calling.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he purrs, his voice low over the phone.

“Hi, Satoru,” you hum, trying to ignore how giddy you are to talk to him.

“I know I just saw you yesterday, but I just can’t seem to remember what your voice sounded like when you were moaning my name. Any chance you’d be free to refresh my memory?” he flirts.

You chuckle at his cheesy attempt at a pickup line. “I am free, but you really have to start working on those lines, that was one of your worst ones yet.”

“Mmm, I dunno, they can’t possibly be that bad if they keep working,” he taunts, and you can hear his smile through the phone. “I’ll be over in 15 minutes, don’t worry about changing or anything, you know how much I love you in those pajamas of yours.”

“Okay, ‘Toru,” you laugh softly, “See you soon.”

He hangs up and you lay back onto your bed, your heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of your chest, a mix of nervousness and excitement building inside you. It wasn’t typical to get to see him twice in one week, especially back to back like this, and you still aren’t sure what to do about your possible feelings for him.

Should you tell him? You have to, right? The worst he can say is no. Sighing, you gather your thoughts.

With a new resolution, you decide you are going to tell him. Besides, it’s honestly not that hard to believe he feels the same - the way he treats you, the way he looks at you, the way he fucks you, everything about him is so soft and tender, full of adoration and kindness. Nobody just acts like that with someone they don’t care about - right?

–

Punctual as ever, you meet him downstairs exactly 15 minutes later. As you step outside of your apartment complex, the cold morning air hits your skin through the t-shirt and shorts you slept in. Looking down, you smile, realizing it’s actually Gojo’s t-shirt that currently adorns your body.

Walking towards his car, he gets out to greet you, pulling you into the warmth of his body. The scent of his cologne hangs on his sweater as you wrap your arms around him. Placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head, he shifts his gaze down to your lips before pressing his against yours as you reach up on your toes to lean into him.

“It’s good to see you,” he whispers, pulling away for a moment to rest his forehead against yours, a sweet grin on his face.

Truthfully, he always feels like he’s smiling when he’s around you - how could he not? Everything about you brings him more joy than he’s felt in his life up to this point: your laugh, the way you tease him back when he’s being an idiot, how you treat him with a kindness he’s never known before you. He adores you so much it sometimes feels like his heart might burst, especially when he gets to see you like this. Of course he loves when you get all dressed up to go out with him - especially when he gets to see you after a date, hair messy, mascara running, legs shaking after he fucks you - but this is his favorite version of you as you stand in your pajamas, tiredness still slightly evident in your eyes, with a warm casualness he never knew he craved until you.

You pull him out of his thoughts with a whisper of his name. “Before we go anywhere, I-I need to tell you something,” you follow, voice wavering.

“Of course, anything sweetheart,” he responds softly, trying to comfort you - he’s not sure what has you nervous, but he can sense it in the way you shift in his arms.

Breaking eye contact with him, you take in a breath, trying to steady yourself under the weight of your confession. “I…I think I want more.”

“More money? Absolutely princess, name your price,” he follows immediately, raising a hand up to stroke your cheek. You are worth everything to him, and he’ll give it all if it means he gets to keep seeing you.

“No, Satoru, I mean…” you trail off, shaking your head, gaze still glued to the ground, “I mean more from us. I don’t want you to pay me anymore, I just want you.”

Gojo feels like the wind just got knocked out of him, he can’t breathe as your words cloud his mind. “W-what?” he stutters.

“I have feelings for you,” you state, finally bringing your eyes up to meet his. You feel nervous tears building along your lashes as you desperately try to steady your breathing, waiting for his answer.

In a moment, you watch emotion flash across his face - his eyebrows furrow and raise, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes suddenly glassy as he struggles to keep them focused on you. He takes in a shaky breath, the only word leaving his mouth a soft, “Oh.”

Fuck. There it is. He doesn’t feel the same. You knew it, you knew he was too good to be true, you knew he would never care about you the way you care about him. You were so fucking stupid for letting yourself think this could be anything more; it’s your fault for forgetting what this whole arrangement was supposed to be. He told you it was casual, and you tried to change the rules. It’s all your fault. Fuck.

“I-” he stammers, trying to comfort you as he can see sadness building on your face. “I’m sorry. But you know that’s not how this works, sweetheart,” he whispers, afraid that if he raises his voice any louder it would crack from heartache. A tragic smile forms on his lips as he realizes that he’s about to lose the one thing he wants most.

As silence settles between you, the tears welling in your eyes start to slowly spill out. His thumb instinctively reaches out to wipe them away before you look down, brushing his hand away.

“Y-you’re right, I’m sorry, it was stupid,” you manage to softly choke out, breaking out of his grasp. “I-I have to go, sorry,” you turn around with your head down, trying to hide the tears spilling down your face.

Satoru freezes in shock as you run back into your apartment building. He wants to yell, beg, scream, cry, anything to make you turn around and come back into his arms. He wants to tell you he’ll be yours for eternity, that he’ll pull the stars down from the sky if it means you’ll be his. But he can’t; all he can do is stand there and watch you leave him. A single tear falls from his eyes and hits the concrete beneath him before he walks back into his car, alone. Inside, he suddenly feels himself break down, cries racking his body. How could he be so stupid? How could he let you go?

–

Back in your apartment, you land on your bed as your body shakes through sobs. You knew it was a bad idea to tell him, you knew it, but you did it anyway - why? Why did you have to go and throw away the best thing you had? God, you feel so stupid. All you can do is curl up and cry, holding yourself the way you wish Satoru would hold you.

You know you can’t see him again, you can’t text him, you can’t call him. You messed this up, and you have to live with the consequences of it. You don’t even care about the money or the food or the clothes; all you care about is him. And now, he’s gone, because of you.

–

A few months go by as you let yourself mourn the loss of Gojo’s presence in your life. You slowly work your way through the money you had accumulated and take the time to try and heal your broken heart. Eventually, you know you’ll have to move on, but it takes everything in you to not cry whenever you see something that reminds you of him. You’ve had to move all of the clothes he got you into the back corner of your closet, hiding the jewelry he got you because it “matched your eyes.” Every memory with him becomes painful, and you struggle to go anywhere because every place reminds you of him.

Finally, after numerous pathetic months, you get a notification from your bank: your rent payment bounced. You’ve finally run out of Gojo’s generosity, and now you’re back in the exact same place you were when you started this whole thing, only more emotionally damaged.

When you were with him you paused your job search, not needing one with the excess wealth that seemed to follow him everywhere. After you stopped seeing him you gave up because you just didn’t have the energy or willpower to pretend to be happy for an hour-long interview. Now, the gravity of your poor decisions weighs on you, your chest heavy as you struggle to think of a solution.

As you lay in your bed, you pull out your laptop as the memories of how everything started flood back to you. Absentmindedly, your fingers type in the name of the same website that led you to Gojo all those months ago.

This is stupid, what am I even doing? you think to yourself as your screen once again fills with pictures of older men, this time with the notable lack of the white-haired one who originally caught your attention.

Scanning the page, your thoughts start turning in your mind. I mean, I do still need the money. And maybe it could help me get over him?

Your eyes land on a dark-haired man wearing a shirt that is clearly too tight for him. You scoff, Satoru would never wear something like that. Moving to close your laptop in defeat, the thought finally registers in your mind. Why are you still comparing everyone to Gojo?

A mix of anger at yourself and at him bubbles up inside you as you reopen your computer and click on the profile of the man you just mentally insulted. Looking closer, you notice a small scar marking the corner of his mouth as you scroll through his pictures until you find one of him shirtless.

Holy shit, he’s built.

Gojo was toned and everything, but you could still wrap your arms around him if you tried, whereas this guy looked like his arms were as thick as your torso, his chest covered in muscles. You almost find yourself drooling at him as you keep scrolling until you find his name.

Bio: “Toji. 37.”

It certainly gives you less to go off of than Gojo’s, but at least he doesn’t seem as bad as the other guys on the site. What the hell, you think as you type out a message.

You: Hi Toji ❤️

It’s simple, but hopefully your pictures are enough to get his attention. Almost immediately, a message pops up below yours.

Toji: $1000 if I’m fucking you in the next 30 minutes.

Well, at least he’s straightforward.

After a bit of back and forth to confirm his address, you grab your keys and walk out of your apartment to meet him.

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

[ayeliiss]

My two cents on MHA430 and Izuku's character

Disclaimer: this is NOT a hate post against Horikoshi and his manga. Simply, I need to lash my disappointment out somewhere and write my feelings down before I implode. I'm not trying to sound like 'ugh, I know better than them' at all, although I am aware some of my claims may give the 'why does the author think he knows so much?!' vibes, but keep in mind this is just my irrelevant opinion and it won't change anything anyway. So, please, don't come at me with 'lacking reading comprehension' or 'you're coping' (yes, I am) because I feel like fans are allowed to be upset at this ending even if you think differently! To each their own opinion, as long as it's respectful! Also, this might be unnecessarily long so, I apologize in advance.

Discussion about Izuku's character

First of all, if you're satisfied with the ending and what Izuku did/became, I'm genuinely happy for you. Truthfully, I envy you so damn much because I personally couldn't stop feeling empty and crying at night for him, and before you come at me with 'girl, he's fictional, it's okay you'll move on', yes, I know I'm a drama queen and I shouldn't be in one hell of a state for a fictional character, but I can't help it. I've grown as attached to him as I've ever grown to any character before, and there's no turning back. MHA is the first manga that ever moved me this hard and it'll forever remain a masterpiece for me, but it doesn't mean it's not flawed and should be free of criticism (always with respect for Horikoshi's work).

Funny thing is, I didn't even like Izuku when I first met him. He was the typical crybaby and too-optimistic MC I tend to dislike when I read a manga. Yet, the more I read, the more I started to understand him, the more I sympathized with him, and the more I loved him. I realized I related to him to such an outlandish extent, though I know we remain different in the way we act or think. But Izuku, even before Katsuki (and my friends know how obsessed I am with this blond lmao), became my first and greatest over-fixation and my main reason to continue reading/watching MHA. This manga changed my life; Izuku did too, and this isn't an understatement.

Just like him—and probably just like many of us—, I've endured bullying, been made fun of for being different, felt unwanted and hated, been belittled, and treated like shit for most of my teenage years. I think that's what really endeared him to me. I wanted to watch him grow, to watch him make real friends, to watch him receive the apologies and respect he deserved, to see him succeed. I wanted him to realize he was worth it and loved and, oh God, I wish he could know just how much his fans do love him.

And for 200+ chapters, I got what I wanted. Izuku got to live his dream, be around his idol who recognized him, and made new friends who admired him and wanted nothing but to be by his side. Then, the Vigilante arc happened, and everything changed. I won't dwell on the fact that, for me, this arc was the beginning of the decline of his character. It's worth noting though that it's at this precise moment that we've lost track of all his thoughts, but I'll focus on the ending, and how the way Horikoshi handled Izuku's character remains my biggest disappointment.

I sometimes joked with a friend of mine, saying, "Hori's favorite character is Katsuki and it shows so much, he even forgets he isn't his MC!" but I don't think it's much of a joke anymore.

Again, I'm very happy for those who are pleased with Izuku's closure. But, honestly, I can't grasp their process of thinking (I wish I could) because there's no way I can understand how it makes sense. It's not about him being quirkless—actually, I think this choice was cool—, it's about his obvious fucking depression.

After his initial withdrawal, there is never any resolution. He has never talked about his feelings to anyone, never opened up about all the things that bugged him, never taken it out on anyone. He just stopped having development, and never learned how to 'control his heart' (one of the biggest plots of the story, remember???). So, he continues to take everything up on his shoulders by the end of the story, and eight years later, he is feeling lonely, as he says himself:

Yes, I can read, and I know he's also saying he's happy with helping/encouraging other people. But it's literally denial. Izuku is in denial and it hurts me so much. He's alone (I'm not talking about how he's barely seen his friends, I know they didn't abandon him or anything, I'm talking about how he is feeling in general), deprived of his dream, and never got to talk about it to anyone (at least, on-screen. And if it's not shown, then it didn't happen). Even the adults around him don't see he's in pain—or, at least, don't think it's worth addressing. Aizawa can't even simply answer 'yes, you're cool' when Izuku obviously seeks praise and needs nice words after everything he's been through. He doesn't even get fans (except for two, waouh!) after saving the fucking world. He doesn't get a statue, no recognition. Katsuki leads a project for him to get a suit, but not the government? After everything he did? Why isn't he more recognized and acknowledged for his hard work? Killing him would've almost felt like a better choice lol (#it's a joke).

Even if, in the end, he gets to join his friends again and be a hero with them, he's still not opening up. How is it sane/healthy for him???? How will he even be able to maintain good relationships of any kind if there are already so many and huge miscommunication issues?

I hate this—I dislike how it's basically saying 'his feelings weren't that important!'. Izuku deserved better, a better closure. So much is missing from him; from this bitter ending, and I can't find any way to make myself feel better or to cope with it.

I am devastated, I feel empty for him, I just want someone to take him to therapy, to help him.

Some rumors have started to spread, about how 'Horikoshi has been forced to shorten his manga' but I don't believe this—MHA has been SJ's money-maker for a while. And even if it were to be true, the epilogue could've been handled differently. Hori could've focused on the most important parts (that he hasn't even shown/resolved at all) and left the irrelevant ones out (why introduce a new character if not to make us feel hopeful to see Tenko again, lol). He chose to not address the most important aspects of his story (including his MC's resolution and growth) and left us with huge plot holes. And now, we're stuck with our imagination, as usual.

I just can't with 'open endings' and 'it's left to interpretation' stuff. It's too easy to do that. I'm tired of mangakas not taking risks, rushing their own plots, and not digging deeper into their own MCs' traumas. I don't know what happened, but among the many issues left regarding this last chapter, Izuku's conclusion remains my greatest ick. I'm so sorry to say this, but Izuku didn't grow. He never learned from his mistakes and just didn't change—oh wait. Yes, he did change on one crucial aspect—his biggest trait, being obsessed with his childhood friend, totally disappeared! Maybe he started to stop caring about 'Kacchan and the others' and put himself first, to the point of forgetting the said childhood friend died twice for him, who knows? :))) (yeah, I'm especially pissed off at this lol don't mind me).

In my imagination, I see him being a pro-hero who continues to suppress his feelings and continues to act recklessly, to risk his life in the face of any danger that shows up. This is what happens when you leave it to fans' imagination, after all.

I know fanfictions exist, and I'm very happy this unclear ending motivated some writers to challenge their creativity. For me, it had the opposite effect. I'm disgusted, I am angry at Izuku and I know I'll struggle to finish my fics where he's involved because I don't want to deal with his character anymore. I'm too attached to canonical representation.

Man, I'm just devastated. I have no other words. And I'll have to live with this for the rest of my life. I feel betrayed. Shitted on. I'm dying inside and there's nothing I can do because it's over. Just like this long-ass essay, btw lol. Thank you if you're still here, thank you if you've read this! I'm pretty much open to discussion so if anyone wants to try and reassure me over some aspects or respectfully explain why I am wrong (I know I probably am, yet again those are my own feelings), please don't hesitate to do so. Also, I definitely need friends with whom I could talk about this deeper... so, my DMs are open too if you'd like to!

Much love to Izuku though; one of the best MCs I've encountered in my life, despite how he turned.

[dailynyarinder]

wakey wakey

Is someone home?

HI GUYS MOD HERE IM SO SORRY

Another quick Daily Nyarinder coming soon! Plus… a challenge? 👀

An explanation for my absence + details on an upcoming Daily Nyarinder event under the cut!!

So kinda personal bt my therapist left her practice unexpectedly so I got off my adhd and depresso meds at the same time as I was moving to another house and I just… really lost steam and haven’t had the energy to work on this project orz

i love cotl with all my heart! But my main fandom is svsss (shout out to kamkamquats on twt, this blog was inspired by their dailybingpup!! 💖) and trying to move all my shit over from twitter to bluesky so it doesn’t feed Elon Musk’s ai has also taken a lot of energy that would have been spent drawing for both cotl and svsss.

Additionally, last time I checked this blog I got some anon asks trying to pull me into fandom wank. The admin of this account is a grown adult with a spouse, a house, community protests to organize/attend, cosplays to make, a startup business to take care of; online fandoms are my comfort place and have been since I was 13, and as such I resolved years ago to stay away from fandom drama and just do what makes me happy. I’m really used to how chill and sweet svsss fandom is, so it was kinda startling to remember that younger fandoms are very drama-prone. I deleted those messages, but it still left a sour taste in my mouth whenever I came back to this blog.

As such, I’ve been on a break. And I probably will continue this hiatus until things settle on bluesky and I can spend more time on my friend’s cotl discord server to get my motivation back.

-

THAT SAID, I hope to do a little daily nyarinder art challenge for anyone who still follows this blog! Instructions and rules will be posted separately later today, but the idea is thus:

“YOU, dear reader, are just as wonderful, creative, and capable an artist as any cultist here. What do YOU want to see in Daily Nyarinder’s escapades? Pick up a craft and get creating! Use whatever you’ve got—whether it’s a fancy tablet, ibispaint on a touchscreen phone (that’s how dailynyarinder has been made so far 👀), a pen and the back of a receipt, needle and thread, hook and yarn, scrapbooking paper and scissors, a word doc and a keyboard, a camera, etc etc etc. Whatever medium brings you joy and renews your belief in our benevolent God of Death, this humble Narinder blog calls upon you to make and share a Daily Nyarinder post of your own!

Skill level doesn’t matter in the face of creativity. Whether you’re a renowned oil painter, a fanfic author, a newbie artist, or a kid who just really likes cats, all offerings are encouraged and welcome!

As for content rules, the Nyarinderverse is full of strange and unusual things; anything goes! HOWEVER, since this is a sfw blog and is followed by lots of minors, I’ll ask that if anyone participating decides to draw nsfw content, please make sure it is appropriately tagged and locked behind some sort of link—whether it’s a link to twitter, privatter, or elsewise. Any NSFW that isn’t hidden from immediate view will not be reblogged on this blog. If and when I reblog potential nsfw content, it will be tagged “NSFW” BY ME BY AS WELL so that my followers can filter it out if they need.

Any characters, ships, potential squicks or triggers, etc should be tagged appropriately.

Please know that this blog will never, EVER harass or condone/encourage harassment based on what you make, but as the mod I retain the right to not reblog works that squick me out personally. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make them; it just means they might not all appear here.

Works may be posted separately under the hashtag #DailyNyarinderChallenge or submitted to this blog!

Finally, and most importantly, HAVE FUN!”

^^^ the challenge text will be reposted with some promotional artwork later, but does this sound like it would be a fun event? Let me know what you think.

Look forward to the resolution of the current daily nyarinder arc this week! But then I’ll likely go back on break again until things settle. 💖🐈‍⬛

[lej222]

Exploring ASLFUA Through Symbolism - The Importance of Year 1999

Hello guys! :) I'm so happy for all the messages that I've received, and while many of you asked me to post theories, this one will rather be an observation about Unripe Apples, but I hope it will be interesting enough. :)

To start off, many people have noticed that the year the story takes place in, 1999, is referenced in the Korean title of After School Lessons. While it might seem insignificant at first, I firmly believe that there is a connection between what happens in the world and Miae's personal growth story. Let me explain.

The importance of 1999

1999 was a symbolic year for many reasons. It was the last year of the century, and many people celebrated the beginning of a new millenium (even if there are arguments supporting 2001 as the start of it). When something long ends, it means that something new also starts. 1999 was a transition period in the minds of many - some people believed the end of the year would sign the end of humanity, like how it was highlighted in the first chapters of the webtoon as a joke. So aside from the obvious change in years, it also had a spritual aspect - ending one part of your old life, and starting anew as a different person, also moving on. Does it sound familiar? Because this is exactly what happens to Miae in the story.

Miae is in a transition period in her life - middle school is soon ending and she has to go to high school. She meets someone from her childhood who becomes her first love. And most importantly, Miae grows as a person while meeting new people and understanding their perspectives (or so she probably will, more about this later on). As a new century starts, Miae has to say goodbye to old friends and embrace new challenges. Which, if my prediction is correct, will mark the end of the story. The end of the year will mean a stage of Miae's life also concludes, while a new chapter will start (high school, new friends, new experiences, etc.) But how is it really presented for us readers?

The world revolves around Miae - until it doesn't

While Cheol and Miae are both protagonists of the story, one could argue Miae gets the most focus in the narrative. We see most of her thoughts, her memories, her interactions with others, her family, etc. While Cheol's growth is a big part of the story, his development is nearly concluded at the end of the first part. Cheol gains confidence, friends, he becomes more expressive, he falls in love. What we can expect from him is his confrontation with the school bully and the resolution of his romance with Miae. Cheol seems immature at first, but with Miae's help he learns and matures. On the other hand, Miae seemingly becomes more immature as the story progresses. It sounds contradictory, because I've just said she was the catalyst to Cheol's growth and has helped him understand when he was wrong. But Miae's world is limited, and it becomes even more obvious as the story unfolds.

Like any kid, Miae has problems that seem trivial for adults, but were probably concerns for a lot of us when we were at her age. She has to study although she hates it, likes hanging out with her friends and read comic books, wants to buy new things and falls in love. Her life is seemingly like a comic book - she feels like the protagonist, every encounter with Cheol feels fateful, and she can, even if it requires effort, befriend anyone and understand them. Like any other teenager, Miae feels like the center of her own universe and thinks the world is ending when she experiences negative feelings. It's part of growing up, and it is perfectly illustrated by the comic about the neighbours next door in the story. But growing up also means looking beyond our own limited world. While her encounters with Cheol seem like it was their destiny, many of them were created because of their families (Cheol's family moving there was probably because of their friendship, Cheol got his room because his sister wanted to tease him,etc.) Growing up means that you have to understand that not everything will go your way and not everything stays the same. Growing up means dealing with people whom you cannot understand and might not like you. And most importantly, you learn that life is not a fairy tale and conflicts do not get resolved without communication and feelings won't be understood unless you express them. Which is one of Miae's biggest weaknesses and the source of her immaturity.

Enter Seo Jisu

This is not a shipping post and I love all the characters, so please spare me before I get cancelled. Seo Jisu enters at the perfect time in the story, when Miae starts to lose her sense of boundaries as her feelings for Cheol keep growing. Although Jisu was in the story since the first chapter, Miae's limited universe did not acknowldege him even though they were classmates. She did not know his name, his reputation at school, doesn't remember him from her childhood and doesn't seem to care about him at all. But why did he enter at the perfect moment?

Like I've said, Cheol's catalyst was Miae, but Miae's world was still too small, revolving around Cheol too much. She was still insesitive in many ways and immature. Enter Jisu, Miae's catalyst for personal growth. Jisu is a challenge for Miae just like Miae was for Cheol, no surprise they mirror each other (Miae saying the same thing to Jisu as what Cheol said to Miae is the perfect example.) Miae cannot understand him, she thinks he's weird and wants him to stop following her (sounds familiar?) and makes assumptions about him without trying to talk or get to know him. And while Cheol put in effort to better his relationship with Miae, she does not do the same for Jisu. Jisu is a glitch in the system, one that was not expected and shakes her peaceful days (just like how Miae was the same for Cheol) However, Jisu's presence becomes an important learning opportunity for Miae. There's a reason why I think it was necessary to add him as a potential love interest even if there were already great candidates. And it's because Jisu is mature in ways Miae isn't. The perfect example is when he told her to stop interrupting the confession. And she thought about his words after the incident, and felt ashamed when she was talking to the girl who wanted to confess. And what would happen, let's say, if she realized Jisu was different because of his own circumstances, and not because he wanted to bully her? She knew Cheol wasn't a gangster because she knew him personally. For Miae's world to expand, she needs to make her own efforts and understand others.

The universe seems to like Miae, and interacts with her multiple times in her dreams. Miae is a precious child of the world who is loved, but needs guidance. Right now, as we approach the end of the year the story takes place in, Miae needs to mature and be ready for a new phase of her life. Whether the transition period will end with something (like her and Cheol parting ways) or start with something new (Miae and Cheol getting together at the end of 1999 and running around in circles through the majority of the year) - it doesn't matter. What matters is how she will develop as a person and what she will learn. It's beyond a simple love triangle, it's about people who inspire and help each other and learn from their mistakes. They are kids, they keep changing. The best way is to read ASLFUA as a growth story, not as a romance series, because at the end of the day what matters are the connections these kids create with each other and the memories they make.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter eight

live to rise series

eight: ashes of another life (final chapter)

series masterlist | prev chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 4.5k

summary: your journey at the arena comes to an end.

chapter warnings: CREATOR CHOSE NOT TO USE WARNINGS. This chapter contains many very dark themes. I have omitted them as they are all spoilers. Please feel free to DM me.

Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When morning comes, it brings no mercy. 

Instead, it brings the trumpet of an all hands assembly as the suns rise. 

You and Eli have both survived the night and are awakened by the sounds as the full force of the arena staff and prisoners are gathered for the second consecutive day in the arena. It’s practically unheard of. 

It turns your stomach, and a tiny, resolute part of you wonders if it will bring you death. 

But once again, you’re reminded that Gideon will not show you that kindness. 

He has something else to show you, instead. 

Eli figures it out first. “Oh, maker. Don’t look,” he hisses urgently. “Don’t watch, don’t watch.”

But you do. 

You watch as the troopers line them up. Eighteen servants. Eighteen very familiar faces. 

Stellus. Hali. Sessa. The entire barracks staff—each caretaker and attendant on their knees with their hands behind their head. 

“Don’t,” Eli whispers. 

But you have to. 

There’s no showmanship. Gideon doesn’t ignite the saber. There are no cameras and no theatrics. 

Just a standard execution. The quick, sharp chirp of blasters and the thump of bodies on the sands. 

Eighteen lost souls whose only crimes were association. For sleeping in the same room, for sharing the same meals. 

It was no loss to the facility; they’d ship in new prisoners to fill the spaces left behind. And Gideon would sleep easy knowing the threat of anyone who might have dared to conspire or be inspired by either of you had been eliminated. 

Silence fills the arena when the firing ceases. It echoes in your ears. No one dares move or speak. 

“There will be no fights today. All staff are to return to their barracks under lockdown,” a Commander announces after Gideon has swept off. “Regular schedules resume tomorrow.”

An execution and a lockdown. Your mind races. Eighteen lost souls, and no meals or medical or anything for those who survived. 

You turn to Eli to share your distress and are startled to see a dangerous smile on his face. 

“What’s wrong with you?” You hiss. 

“He’s scared,” Eli says, his voice low and rough, nothing you’ve seen before. “Much more scared than he’d be if it were just the Mandalorian’s escape. That means something is happening out there.”

The hope from his revelation is undercut when you realize everyone has left the arena. 

The weight of the full lockdown sets in. They aren’t sending a cleanup crew. 

They’re going to leave you there with the bodies. 

Eli makes you turn around after a while but it doesn’t make a difference. The vacant eyes of your friends and comrades burn worse than the darksaber’s scars. 

He slumps more and more as the day creeps forward. The pain from his leg is wearing down his resolve but he still spares energy to try and bring you comfort. 

“This wasn’t because of you,” he says. “This is on me.”

You know he means well. But you find it doesn’t matter in the end. They’re dead, and your actions, direct or indirect, led them there. 

The next morning, the arena returns to life. The corpses are removed and burned, the sands are swept, and the fights return. It’s easier to look away down here than it was from the box. Easier to just turn enough that you can’t see. 

Eli stays awake less and less as the day drags on. You wait and wait for the same to come over you, for your body to pull you gently to the depths and let the current take you. You don’t want to watch him die, too, so you pray again for mercy.

It doesn’t come, but something else does.

In the silence of the third night, you think it’s a hallucination. After the oppressive heat of the long days, the high summer sun holding neither kindness nor cruelty but just by her nature scalding your skin, bodies withering without water, she comes. 

You blink slowly, the light of the twin moons making her armor spark and glare. It’s the strangest Mandalorian armor you’ve ever seen—which doesn’t mean much, since you’ve only seen the two kits. But it’s undeniably Mandalorian. 

It doesn’t matter. You lurch back away as they cut the bars with a laser and ease the metal quietly to the ground. 

They offer a hand, and you stare at it. 

“Look, I’m here for the saber, but I promised I’d try to free you. You can go wherever you’d like. If you don’t impede my mission, I’ll give you a ride—” She stops and assesses Eli for a moment, who hasn’t woken at the commotion—“But I’ll leave without you if I have to.”

“Where’s your ship?” you say. 

“Just follow me.”

“What about the rest of his armor?” 

“We’re not risking getting captured for that,” she says, starting to walk away.

“He’d rather have the armor than the saber.”

She sighs and turns back to give you the location of her ship. “If you’re not there when I leave—“

“I know,” you say. 

It hurts like hell to get up and even more to rouse Eli and loop his arm around your neck. The chances of getting him safely there are slim, but you’re fairly sure the guards will shoot to kill if they catch you, so there’s not really a bad option. 

Either path is better than shriveling up and wasting away in the cage. 

You leave him against a wall near the exit closest to her ship, and he tries to stop you before the pain overtakes him again. Dread fills you at the thought of finding him already gone when you return, but you have to do this.

It turns out, though, that you didn’t. The New Mandalorian is already there when you reach the lounge.

“You were right,” she sighs. “It’s one or the other.”

She ends up hauling most of the armor, which is good because you hadn’t thought about how you’d manage with one hand. She also dispatches the guards you encounter without breaking a sweat. 

On the ship, you try not to act surprised when she takes her helmet off. 

“Bo-Katan Kryze,” she says with an extended hand. 

The way she says it makes you think you’re supposed to know who she is. 

“I’m going straight back, and we’ll get him healed up enough for a new assignment. But we can try to arrange transport elsewhere for you once we’ve landed,” she tells you. 

“I’m retiring,” Eli groans from where she’s secured him to a row of dropseats.

“Unlikely,” she says. 

You sit with your hands folded in your lap. It’s not really set in that you’ve made it out. You have nothing to your name but the torn rags that hang loose and limp with singed edges that scrape against your skin. 

You can’t go home. You’ll be lucky if they haven’t killed or captured your family as it is, for the sin of knowing you. 

All you ever wanted was to protect them. That’s why you had paid their tariffs instead of your own. That’s why you consigned yourself to five years of slavery, of suffering the loss of life and loved ones daily for four kriffing years. 

And you risked it all for one man. 

And yet, it feels like more. It always had. You risked it for Din, yes, but also for his son and the green Mandalorian and the woman in front of you now, who risked her life to restore his reign, and you think of the hundreds of beings that gave everything in the name of this one man . 

And you’d do it again. He had confessed one night that he didn’t find himself deserving of the loyalty sworn to him, but you see it, she sees it, everyone sees it. 

The karking Rebel Alliance sees it. 

The galaxy needs the Mandalorians. Without them, the Empire will never fall.  And the Mandalorians need their king, their leader who would have sacrificed himself a thousand times over for them to survive. 

So you clench your jaw and square your shoulders and think of how to live. 

You feel the heat of her gaze before you see it, but when you look up, the woman is unabashedly watching you with a raised eyebrow. 

She looks you over, now that she has your attention. “Shand will be glad to know you survived,” she says, almost lazily. 

“Oh?” you say, forcing down the trace of disappointment. Yes, you had assumed Din was the one who wanted you freed. But any kindness is enough. 

“Yes, she said she grew quite fond of you.”

“Hmm,” is all you can reply. Fondness was not really how you had grown to feel, though the last two days had thrown you off track. 

Before that, though, you don’t think you could feel fond of someone who would own a being like that. 

But you don’t play her game. You don’t dance around the subject. “How is he?”

“He didn’t come back for you, and you’re concerned?”

“It would have been the stupidest move in the karking galaxy, and if you all are such skilled and legendary warriors, you should understand that.”

Silence falls in the cockpit. And then she laughs. “I didn’t expect you to have any bite.”

You don’t say a thing, but you do scowl.

“Well, I didn’t. He calls you kar’talyc. ”

“So?” 

“Do you even know what it means?”

“Of course I don’t, I’m not Mandalorian.”

“That didn’t stop your little message.”

Your head snaps back to her. “You saw that? Did…”

“Did he show an uncharacteristic lack of composure when you used a secret Mandalorian code to apologize to him for being tortured on live holo? Yes.” 

She succeeds in shocking you into silence. You sit and turn it over in your head.

“It wasn’t for that. It was for breaking.”

She rolls her eyes—like, actually rolls her eyes at you while you relive the absolute worst moments of your life in your head. “Everyone breaks,” she says. You didn’t know enough for it to matter.”

You can read between the lines. You didn’t know enough to matter. To her, anyway. Your feelings aren’t hurt, though. 

“It means you’re a bleeding heart. A sap,” she says, pulling you back into the previous conversation.

You sit for a moment with the new knowledge. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you say. 

She shakes her head with a hint of a smirk. “He certainly means it as one,” she says in the way of having known someone too well for too long. 

It’s near chaos when you land but you manage to go unnoticed. Bo-Katan is talking to three different people as soon as the ramp lowers, and you direct the medic team to Eli with your good hand, hanging back in the shadows. 

The feeling of hyperspace hasn’t left your bones. You’re adrift in the great cold darkness. Your skin feels cool to the touch, even in the blistering expanse of sand and suns. 

The docking bay is makeshift. Cobbled together from sandstone that’s already cracking under the weight of the ships and scrapyard rejects. 

The ebb and flow of bodies is endless. Humanoids, aliens, and Beskar blend together and no one pays attention to the lost little girl that you feel like, now. It’s like you’re stuck on the other side of a laser gate—all the cacophony blending into an overbearing hum and the movements all blurring and crackling beyond your reach. 

In the end, you sit at the top of the ramp and just watch. Maybe Bo-Katan will come back. Maybe not. But here, you’re out of the way. 

She finds you, in the end. Shand. You suppose you’re glad for a familiar face, especially now that the twin suns are drifting toward the horizon and a strange chill has taken over the desert. Not that you noticed. You’ve been shivering all day anyway.

She doesn’t say anything at first; just leans against the post at the end of the ramp and raises an eyebrow. 

“Hi,” you say cautiously.

“C’mon,” is all she says, jerking her head behind her and turning to walk away. 

You follow her without another word between you. The throngs of bodies part for her despite her small stature, which makes it easy for you to stick close. 

You’re surprised to end up in the medbay. You open your mouth to protest, and she gives you the most reproachful look you’ve ever withered under.

“The entire galaxy watched you get fileted, and you’ve clearly got an infection,” she says.

“I don’t want to waste—”

“Fett has a bacta tank. Don’t be foolish,” she says before turning you over to an equally strict looking Aqualish who doesn’t care to hear what you have to say, either.

Din’s there, somewhere, but you don’t see him. Well. You think he’s there. They mention him in a way that sounds like he’s just down the hall or around the corner, but you don’t actually ask. 

It seems better that way. Safer. Truthfully, you have little time to think of him anyway. 

But there are signs. 

The palace, which you learn belongs to the man called Fett, is massive. And it seems to contain half of the Rebellion, including the Mandalorian survivors who have been absorbed into the movement whether they like it or not. But still, you can go through countless halls without seeing a soul. 

You get put in a room by yourself on one of the upper floors. You know they’ve been converting the lower suites into bunk rooms. That those rooms are even considered more desireable, since being underground protects them better from the heat. 

But when you question it, the tall bald man who escorted you to your room just laughs and says, “I was told you were to never be stuck underground again.” 

“I don’t even know if I’m staying,” you protest to no one when he leaves. Or you think it’s to no one, but you jump out of your skin a moment later when Shand says, “You’re staying,” from behind you.

“I don’t know…” 

“I volunteered you for the medbay but they’d be happy to have you anywhere. The kitchens, the creche, the cleaning crew. You’ve got enough skills to have your choice.” 

“You have a lot of faith in me for being the person who just poured your drinks,” you say wryly.

She snorts. “And managed a barrack and took care of an ornery Mandalorian.” 

“I don’t know,” you say again.

“Just think about it. You’ve more than earned a place here,” she says as she leaves.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long time. It’s too soft, too endless. You think if you lay in it, you’ll sink in and drown. 

So you sit and force yourself to accept the way the sheets feel beneath your palms and the mattress dips beneath your weight and how the ground grinds beneath your shoes that you wear, now, for the first time in four years. 

You thought they’d feel safer, but they’re more like a cage. 

Everything is wrong. Your hand is healed, the bones settled back like nothing happened. The cuts and bruises and raw, flayed flesh are the same as the day you were born. The bacta erased almost everything.

Your mind doesn’t seem to have been blessed by the bath. It still ticks and clicks all wrong, stuttering over things that used to be effortless. You jump and twitch and stop your breath for any reason, for no reason. 

And you can’t stand droids. 

The first time a protocol droid speaks to you, you find yourself in a storage room two floors up. You don’t know how you got there and you don’t know how long you were gone. Its voice isn’t even the same, but something in you is irrevocably broken. The astromechs are worse. The whirring of their motors doesn’t send you fleeing. 

No. You just fall apart.

It’ll get better, you tell yourself. It has to. You can’t avoid droids, but you can certainly try.

One time, when you’re pulling yourself together after an unfortunately literal run-in with a probe droid, you find yourself in the lower levels of the sprawling complex. But you’re not alone. 

There’s someone running past the door as you exit whatever empty meeting room you have found yourself in. They trip and fall just as they pass.

“Hey kiddo, you okay?” you say, crouching down to the small child.

The little green toddler pushes back up to their feet, though, looks up at you with wide brown eyes, and squeals something unintelligible. 

“Oh, I see. You’re a tough one, huh? Good. Great job.” You hold your hand out for a high five, but they just gently press their tiny palm against yours. 

“That works too,” you assure them.

“C’mon, buddy,” an exasperated, foreignly familiar voice says from behind you. “I know you don’t—”

The little one, who, as your stomach sinks, you realize must be Grogu, babbles excitedly and grabs your hand to show you his father. 

You stand and let him, though you need no introductions. 

The Mandalorian stands before you in all his silver glory. You know that Din is the armor and the armor is Din, but it’s startling to see him this way. He’s not soft or dimpled or warm, now. 

But he’s still Din. You can feel it. 

Inexplicably, you’re being dragged back by an invisible hand, your worries manifesting into something with more control over your body than your hopes. 

You take a step back, leaning your weight on your heel for another. 

“Wait,” he says through the unfamiliar crackle of the modulator.

And then he does the last thing you expect in this moment.

He takes the helmet off. 

You stand, caught in his orbit, your mouth parted just so as you take in the face of the man you thought you’d never see again, one way or another. 

You blink a few times, uncertain.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he says in a rush. “Every time I try to find you, I’m too late.”

“You’ve been trying to find me?” Your breath catches noisily in your chest, interrupting yourself. 

“I… of course,” he says, brows furrowed. 

The way he says it is so blunt, so assured, so Din that you can’t believe you ever doubted. Of course. Even if it wasn’t for the things you shared, that’s just who he was. Of course he’d want to find you, to see with his own eyes that you were alive. 

Of course. 

You’re not sure who moves first. It doesn’t matter. The embrace knocks the wind out of you after you fail to account for the solid wall of beskar between your bodies, but you barely notice. His hands, while gloved, are clutching you to him, and he’s kissing you and everything is clicking back into place and tiny hands are… tiny hands are grabbing at your tunic? 

Grogu uses the leverage of your clothes to launch himself up. Din catches him easily, unsurprised by the tiny child’s dexterity. 

It should be strange, you think. This larger-than-life man and this tiny green baby. But seeing his son in his arms completes the portrait of Din that lives in your head. It can’t be strange, could never be. 

Din looks at you with those big, sad baby bantha eyes, and his softness seeps away. “Let me get the womp rat back to the creche. Then we should talk.” 

You don’t know what to expect, but he takes you to his chambers. The door slides shut behind you, and you blink against the heavy dark of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he says sharply, suddenly, but softens. “I’m sorry. Your parents. They’re gone.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You knew, really. You hadn’t wanted to, but you knew. 

“We sent someone,” he adds quietly. “It was too late.”

“Thank you,” you say, staring out the window for a moment, taking in the way the hazy orange sunset blends with the sands. Nothing like the divide of the wind and sea. “Do you know what happened? Or… when?”

He hesitates. 

You turn to him. “I can handle it.”

He grimaces and sighs. “You don’t have to.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, and his shoulders slump.

“Troopers shot them,” he starts, hesitating to let you back out. When you say nothing, he gives in. “After the broadcast.”

It hurts more than you thought. “What are the chances—”

“I’m sorry.”

You can’t quite swallow it. “You were right. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Somehow, as always, he knows. “You would have wondered. And I didn’t want to lie to you, anyway.” He stands up and approaches you, drawing you in by your shoulders even though you don’t want to be held. 

But he knows. He always knows. And you fold, because you don’t want to, but you need to. 

And it’s easier. Easier to let him envelope you, to fill yourself with the soft slopes of his muscles and lose yourself in his musk. To forget, just for now, not for always, but for a moment. To steady yourself with having one person back from the list of the lost. 

You don’t have him, really, you know this. Can’t have him properly. Not the way you’d like. But you let him have you. 

Oh, and he does.

He has you sprawled on the chaise lounge before you register the movement, lowering you down as he kisses you, and you just following the press of his body. He doesn’t stay above you long, his mind far more focused on lifting up your skirt and helping himself to your cunt. 

He feasts and you fall. His lips and tongue taste every part of you. The difference this time is that he talks. In the stilted silence of the cell, neither of you had sweet or sultry sentiments but now, oh, now he never stops. Murmurs that fill your cunt, endearments kissed onto your clit, and growls sucked into your thighs, blossoming bruises that seep into your bones. 

You can’t hear much of it, but your breath hitches with each word you can snatch from the air. Sweet, he calls you as he speaks of his need and ache. You fall apart on his tongue when he calls you my brave girl. 

His. 

You hold onto that, rewind and replay on the lonely nights to come. Neither of you speak of it, of course, but he said it, he meant it, you heard it, you kept it. 

That night, though he doesn’t say it again, you believe it. He makes you believe it. With each kiss and caress and bite and bruise. He takes and you give and give and give. 

He doesn’t stop worshipping your cunt on his knees after you come. It’s not enough; he can’t be satiated. He drinks from you twice more before he can wait no longer, climbing above you and knocking your legs apart with his knee. He can’t be bothered to strip you of your clothes or him of his. Can’t be bothered to waste another second before he’s plunging the full length of him into your soft folds and gasping as if he’s nearly drowned. 

Maybe he has. Maybe he’s submersed himself so deeply within you that he can’t breathe. You can’t, so you’d believe it. 

He fucks into you somehow sweetly, though the pace he sets is unforgiving. His hands cradle you, though, and his lips find purchase along your neck. 

Din doesn’t say it again, doesn’t call you his , but he leaves his mark on every inch of flesh he can reach. 

He makes sure you lose yourself in two more orgasms before he pulls out to spill against your slit, rubbing the head of his cock against your puffy outer lips and clit. 

“Stay,” he pleads. 

So you do.

An hour later, you realize he hadn’t taken your clothes off not because he couldn’t be bothered, but because he was waiting for you. He was perceptive and kind as always, waiting for you to expose your scars. 

Not even the bacta could erase Gideon’s “art.” 

Din wouldn’t take that from you, wouldn’t make you, but you do it anyway. You bare yourself to him and he takes the offering with as much aplomb as you would have guessed. 

Nothing is said, but he pulls you down after, once you’ve fucked yourself full of him, to lay against his own bare body, and his fingers trace the lines with reverence.

He doesn’t say it again, but you hear it. My brave girl, his fingertips whisper. 

And you finally cry. 

When you’ve run out of tears, he holds you still, doesn’t let go just because the need is gone. 

Neither of you sleep that night. You can’t stop your hands and mouths and hearts from following the beat of each other. Like the quiet taps in the darkness of the cell, your bodies speak to one another and you can’t help but to listen, to answer the call. 

It’s nearly morning when you ask. He hadn’t wanted you to, if only because he didn’t like the answer. 

But he gives it to you anyway. 

Two days. He’ll be leaving in just two days. 

You knew he couldn’t be bound here, couldn’t be nestled in the safety of the palace while there was a war to wage. Knew he would never keep to the background, would never shy away from standing beside his people and doing what needed to be done.

He has a question of his own for you and this time, you have an answer. You couldn’t promise Shand that you’d stay, but it falls from your lips for Din like nothing. 

Where would you go anyway?

But stay, he pleads, so stay you will. Here, where he can find you. Here, where his son will be, for this is not the time for foundlings to flourish. No, there is far too much that will be lost in this final hour. And you know now that there’s not much you wouldn’t do when Din is the one to ask.

So you stay.

In the darkness of the early morning, the three of you stand in the hangar. It’s unsettlingly empty in a way that can only be intentional. Din removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm, tugging one glove off to cup your cheek in his broad palm. 

His soft lips find first your forehead and then your lips. It’s saccharine and short; a proper farewell. He hugs his son and kisses his little wrinkled head before placing him into your arms. 

The helmet goes back on, and the Mand’alor only hesitates once at the bottom of the ramp, nodding his head once. You hold his heart in your hands in every way that matters, and the two of you watch until the tiny dot of his ship disappears.

You think I remember you, so you are eternal, and hope it’s not all you’ll have left of him to hold onto. 

so long, and thanks for all the fish!

*title from "45" by Shinedown.

[jimin-bangtan]

Jimin's SGMB🌺 - The Comedy

Recently Jimin’s pre-released song, Smeraldo Garden Marching Band [SGMB], was revealed.  It is the 1st official pre-released song* from his 2nd solo album called MUSE. His first solo album was a 6-song EP called FACE. It actually had 7 songs because it had a hidden track called Letter (Dear.Army) that was never released for streaming.  It was the final song in the sequence of 7 that appears to be an intimate communication to a loved one.  MUSE is also a 7-song EP that really can be looked at as an extension of FACE.  It includes the song SGMB, which seems to be an intimate communication to a loved one - except this one is not hidden - and it can be streamed by the world.

After his debut solo album, FACE, Jimin promised a lighter album next time. FACE was about heavier topics as he reflected on a dark experience and his ultimate resolution and growth from it.  MUSE begins with Jimin expressing and showing that he is feeling happier and lighter, and he’s ready to move on to reflect on what inspires him in his life. While FACE looked at circumstances that weighed him down, MUSE seems to be looking at things that lift him up. 

The video for SGMB was colorful, happy, cute (the word I heard almost all reviewers use), and funny. Some described it as silly or childish, but that was the point.  Jimin has a great sense of humor. He and I have a similar sense of humor, so I get his jokes when they seem to pass over some. It was a delight to see him able to really show this genuine side of his personality in his work, which he has repeatedly said was a goal for him: to show more sides of himself.

From the outlandish announcer’s voice at the start, which was most undeniably Jimin, to the cute “adlibs” throughout, that were not throw away lines but were important contributions to the message, the humor was sprinkled throughout the song. “Let’s talk about us.” “Just for you” “Let’s go!” “All for you” “Yes, sir.”  And one final adlib just for fun “Take it to the bridge.” Ha!  These bits were added with funny sounding voices that made you chuckle but also made them stand out.

The comedy continued with the inclusion of the remaining actual members of the Smeraldo Garden Marching Band, who had never been in a video before (PDogg, GHSTLOOP, Evan).  The imagery showed Jimin popping bubbles, making expressive faces, operating as a relationship guru, and yanking in his reluctant collab. rapper, Loco, at the end to dance along. Unlike BTS’s Blood, Sweat, & Tears video, you were not left scratching your head then having to do a deep dive on the meaning of what you just saw. You were just left with the lyrics and what they might mean.  In spite of the playful hilarity, most people picked up that it is, in fact, a love song.

When I was first introduced to BTS’s music, in spite of not understanding much of the Korean lyrics, I enjoyed the melody, rhythms, and energy of the tunes.  Even the slow songs sounded uplifting and bright - then I began reading lyrics. One of the aspects of BTS that trapped me as a devoted fan was that they were speaking about serious topics within their exceptionally musical songs. Some of the lyrics were even dark, when the song still sounded danceable and musically light.  Again think Blood, Sweat, & Tears.

Jimin used that same playbook for SGMB, and perhaps for the entire, yet unreleased, album. It was a light and melodious song with a playful video, but he was saying something significant and important under all the fluff. Many will dismiss SGMB as a fan song or as a fun, empty song, but I feel, like many of BTS’s songs, there was more meaning beneath the surface.

Notice that the dancing was also light, and the choreography easier than what we know Jimin is capable of executing.  I feel the lyrics were so important to Jimin that he didn’t want to distract from them.  The next day everyone would have been discussing his dancing and not the meaning of the song.  Jimin wore no accessories and a plain black suit. He even used a plain, black microphone with no bedazzling gems. He seemed to not want to take anything away from listeners and viewers paying attention to the song and the symbolism in the video.

One reviewer even noticed that Jimin's voice was produced noticeably above the instrumentation. Also, Jimin sang Live for this performance video. I have not seen this done often, or at all, for a video that is introducing a song. I feel that may have been an important, significant decision Jimin made so that the first time listeners heard the words, he was actually saying them with his own voice, from his own mouth.

Fans knew Jimin had left additional music behind while he had to step away to complete his military duty.  Still, many were surprised that it was given so early in the time frame.  Due to the unwavering support of Jimin’s fans, who he adores and appreciates tremendously, Smeraldo Garden Marching Band is doing very well on the charts and with recognition.  His album is to be released July 19th, and, like his first solo album, it is highly anticipated. Jimin again defies the expectation of what genre to do, what lyrics to sing, and what direction he should go.  I can’t wait to see what other daring attempts he has in store.

MUSE July 19th.  Stream SGMB.

[whipitgod]

Under Different Circumstances.

Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

oneshot (?) - wc: 2.2k

summary: Bucky is a live figure model and Steve feels kind of like he might pass out. AU

warnings: not canon compliant, light swearing, allusions to sex, and crack-ish as usual

a/n: you guys voted for artist steve/figure model bucky in the poll so here it is!! i hope this doesn't disappoint cause i struggled a bit with how to end this one. lmk if you want me to write a pt.2 to this with their date! If you like this remember to leave a like/reblog! maybe even follow me :D! Happy reading!!

!!!!REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!!

The only phrase his mind can seem to supply him is a mortified, oh sweet merciful Jesus. The most attractive man he’s ever seen is standing naked in front of him posed like the Hercules of Farnese statue, and Steve feels like he’s going to pass out. Steve had barely looked up from where he was setting up his art materials when the man had walked in, only looking at him once the instructor had begun introducing him.

The instructor had clapped her hands together, gaining the attention of everyone in the room, “This is James,” she’d motioned to the man standing next to her, “He’s gonna be our live model today.”

The man had smiled at this, waving at all the people sitting behind easels, “Please call me Bucky, you’re all about to see me naked; I think we can move past the formalities.”

Steve thinks he’d heard a few people laugh at the comment but honestly, he's not really sure, way too focused on the man, Bucky, starting to disrobe at the instructors prompting. The blood had immediately rushed from Steve's head down to a lower part of his body making him shift awkwardly, not taking his eyes off where the man was being instructed on how to pose. 

That was over 5 minutes ago, and Steve has yet to do more than draw a rough outline of the pose; Steve knows the man is aware of his struggle too, the asshole had winked at him when he’d caught the blonde staring, mouth slightly agape. Steve had almost flinched at the wink, his gaze immediately shifting to the paper in front of him as his face heated. He can feel how red his face and ears are and he knows Bucky can see it; Steve’s never been the most devout religious person but, in that moment, he sends up a silent plea to whatever higher power there might be to put him out of his misery.

With more strength and determination than he honestly thought he was capable of, Steve focuses on the drawing in front of him, beginning to sketch the hard planes of the man's muscles. Good god what is this guy's workout routine? Steve’s not naive, he knows he’s an attractive guy. He’s put a lot of effort into his body and appearance in general and he knows his build is impressive, but sweet Jesus so is Bucky’s.

Is it weird if I ask him how he’s getting that much muscle definition before I try to sleep with him? The thought causes a quiet chuckle to leave him before he can stop it, the sound cutting through the silence of the room causing a few heads to turn towards him much to Steve's horror. He can feel his face getting hot and resolutely stares at the sketch in front of him; He can feel Bucky staring at him and when Steve chances a glance up from his paper he immediately meets the man’s curious gaze and quickly looks back down.

He’s got to admit, the dark-haired man is a little intimidating, not even just appearance wise. Bucky had been staring at him just about as much as he’d stared at Bucky, with his brows furrowed like he’s trying to figure Steve out. Steve would almost describe the look Bucky was giving him as being resemblant of the kind of look you give someone when they owe you money.

Steve isn’t ashamed to admit that the look is doing nothing to deter his growing attraction to the man in front of him, he’d even go as far to admit that it's making him more attractive. Steve really doesn’t want to think about what being attracted to a man that looks kind of like he wants to punch you means for him from a psychological standpoint; Whatever it means Steve is sure of one thing, and it's that the man has a serious resting bitch face, and it's really doing it for him.

Steve miraculously manages to finish the sketch, only getting sidetracked a few more times as he works. He's broken out of his focus by the sound of the instructor announcing the end of the class and he chooses not to look up when he hears the instructor tell Bucky he can go get dressed, thanking the man for coming. He packs his materials with a practiced efficiency, only stopping when he hears the sound of footsteps approaching his station

Looking up from his bag he’s met with the sight of Bucky smiling down at him, he sucks in a sharp breath as he meets the man's eyes. How is he hotter up close? Steve stares blankly at the man for a moment before standing from where he was crouched putting his stuff away, he makes note of the fact that they are almost the same height; Bucky was probably about an inch or so shorter than him but just as broad. 

The man holds out his hand for Steve to shake and he grabs it hoping that his hands aren’t sweating enough for Bucky to notice, “Hi, you must be Steve?” at Steve’s ensuing confusion he continues on, “I’m a friend of Sam’s”

Steve’s brows furrow deeper at this, “You know Sam?”

“Yeah, he’s actually the one who told me I should do this. He’s always trying to get me to step out of my comfort zone.”

Yeah, out of his comfort zone and into Steve’s apparently. Steve feels his eye twitch slightly; he’s going to kill Sam, “Oh yeah? Given that you recognized me, I assume Sam told you about me? All good things I hope.” 

Bucky gives him another smile at this that Steve can't help but return, the man's smile doing weird things to the blonde's stomach, “All good things. He honestly didn’t say much about you, just that he had a friend named Steve that took the class.”

Steve lets a breath he wasn't aware he was holding at Bucky’s response, but his relief is only short lived because apparently the man wasn't done, “He also told me that you would be the blonde one that was and i quote, ‘built like a brick shithouse’,” Bucky stops for a moment, eyes trailing up and down Steve's body before landing back on his face, a teasing smile forming on his face, “and I gotta say, he wasn’t lying.”

The man is confident, almost bordering on cocky, but Steve reasons that the confidence is justified. Most of the time Steve would say that an attitude like the one Bucky has meant that a man was overcompensating but Steve had just stared at Bucky in all his nude glory for close to an hour and he can confirm that there is no overcompensating happening here. Yeah, he looked, he’s not ashamed to admit it; it was kind of hard not to when he had to draw it. 

Steve's mouth feels dry as he chokes out a thank you and Steve’s floundering only serves to embolden Bucky, the man’s teasing grin stretching even further and a soft sound akin to a laugh leaving him. Steve manages to regain his footing a bit, he squares his shoulders and decides that two can play this game. He wants to flirt? I’ll show him flirting, I'm gonna flirt so hard it knocks him on his ass, “I wish Sam had told me about you, I would’ve loved to see you naked for the first time under different circumstances.” 

The words shock Steve a little bit as they leave him, dear god reel it in Steve. He’ll be the first to admit that he might’ve taken it a bit far, he just met the guy and he’s probably actively scaring him off. Much to Steve's delight and surprise Bucky lets out a sharp bark of laughter at the words, shaking his head slightly, a wide smile taking over his features once more.

The dark-haired man digs in his pocket, pulling out his phone and unlocking it before handing it to Steve, “I would love to explore what these ‘different circumstances’ entail,” Steve begins typing his number into the blank contact Bucky had pulled up, “But right now I have to run, I’m meeting my sister for lunch.”

Steve hands the man his phone back and he sees Bucky set the contact's name to ‘brick shithouse’ and he has to bite back the laugh that threatens to escape him at this, “Well how about you text me later and we can set something up?”

“Oh definitely,” Bucky’s eyes trail up and down Steve's body for what feels like the hundredth time before continuing, “I’d be crazy not to.”

Steve lets out a laugh that’s honestly more of a giggle that makes Bucky’s smile even wider; Steve’s never been this humiliated and turned on at the same time, it's a little bit startling.

“It was nice to meet you, Steve.” The man starts walking away before Steve can even begin to form a response, and he stands motionless watching Bucky’s retreating form.

As soon as the man is out of the room Steve is fumbling for his phone, pulling it out and immediately clicking on his best friend’s contact. The phone only rings a few times before Sam picks up, “Hey what's up ma-”

“I want you dead.” Steve cuts off the other man's greeting in a sharp tone as he picks up his bag of art supplies.

“Good afternoon to you too, I assume you met Bucky.” Steve can hear the smirk in Sam’s voice, and it makes him falter for a second.

He gathers himself after a second of silence, “Oh my god! You planned this!”

“You can’t prove that.”

“Cut the shit Sam.”

A quiet chuckle echoes through the phone, “and if I did? You kept complaining about being single and I got sick of hearing it all the time.”

“It's not right to spring this kind of thing on me! I need at least forty-eight hours to emotionally prepare for a situation like that.”

“I’m sure it was fine, you are a frustratingly attractive dude, it's kind of hard for you to scare someone off.”

Steve breathes a laugh at this, “Aw Sam, do you have something you want to confess to me?”

“Oh yeah man, I'm sorry you had to find out about my undying love for you this way.” The words come through the phone in a sarcastic deadpan that has Steve letting out a laugh that's more of a cackle than anything, “So how did it go?”

“It went good, I stared at his dick for an hour and then all but asked him to bend over.”

Steve hears Sam choke at this, and the sound of a cup being set down aggressively followed by coughing as Sam recovers from the statement. Sam takes a second to regain his composure while Steve laughs at him, “Jesus Christ man.”

I’m kidding,” a brief pause, “kind of. I did stare at his dick, and I did say that I wanted to see him naked under different circumstances.”

Sam is quiet for a moment before responding with a pained sounding, “I’m happy for you.”

Steve laughs harder at this, catching his breath slightly he pushes on, “I think we’re gonna meet up later,” he stops for a second, what can only be described as a shit-eating grin forms on his face, “Hey, do you know if Bucky’s a top or a bottom? I don’t really care either way, I just want to know what I should prepare for. He kind of gave of top vibes but I could picture him bending o-”

“I’m hanging up now.” 

Steve hears the beeping that comes when you end a call and pulls his phone away from his face, he laughs so hard his sides start to hurt, a few tears escape, and he wipes at them. As grateful as Steve is that Sam orchestrated him meeting Bucky, He’s still a little bit bitter over the lack of warning and he intends on making Sam suffer a bit. He sends a text to Sam that reads ‘Jockstrap or no jockstrap?” Sam only sends a thumbs down emoji in response and Steve fights the urge to break down into another laughing fit. 

His phone beeps with a text from an unknown number, the text reads, ‘Hey it’s the guy who’s junk you stared at for an hour, we kind of went about this backwards. Dinner tonight? I can pick you up at 7.” the phrasing of the first part making Steve’s shoulders shake with silent laughter; How romantic.

Steve stares at the text for a minute before responding, ‘7 is perfect, can’t wait!’ The message was initially typed with at least six exclamation points before Steve had thought better of it, he sent another text with his address before closing his phone and letting out a squeal that if asked about he would deny. His head snaps up at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Steve is mortified to find the instructor standing a few feet away from him with curious eyes.

Steve huffs a nervous breath, “Oh hey, didn’t see you there.”

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, I'm great.”

[saturn-sends-hugs]

ok, this has been burning a hole in my notes app and i’m just gonna send it out there:

Why (i think) the Finale was Like That:

to preface, if you liked the finale, good for you!! that’s totally valid and i’m not trying to bash that. but i know a lot of people were left wanting more, and i’m one of them. anyway, to my point:

as silly as it sounds, this show is not written for us.

we’re fans. the producers already know we’re gonna watch the show. they don’t need to convince us to give them our attention, they already have it. why waste time digging into random side characters in the larger Star Wars saga when the average person doesn’t even know who that is?

their real job is to convince outsiders to watch. to get hooked. to see an element they like, probably from the main movies, and tune in, even for one episode. if they can get them hooked with fennec or ventress or hell even rex, that’s a win for them.

the plot lines wrap up in such an unsatisfying way because honestly? they cant waste time focusing more on these characters than they have to. the people writing and designing the show might love them and want to include more meaningful resolutions, but that takes too long and costs too much money. you know what’s cheaper and will satisfy the average viewer? kill the mystery clones, cut off the “trauma hand”, and wrap it all up in a nice little “look, she’s joining the rebellion, guys!” moment because the more bland and broad the ending, the more people will understand it.

i mean, remember the Fives mention? Echo didn’t react, he didn’t even stutter, he literally moved the conversation along like they were talking about where to go for dinner like HELLO. we already know they cannot be bothered to show real important emotional scenes because that would take too much spotlight away from the whole star wars politics plot or whatever were supposed to care about. (honestly, who is watching bad batch for the og trilogy implications? woah tarkin and a couple other empire dudes are talking about project stardust definitely gimme more of that and not any meaningful connection between these characters i love)

it’s scummy, it sucks, it especially kills me that the story is basically lost to corporate greed but let’s be honest, this is Disney’s Star Wars. i could literally just leave it there. meaningful moments will always be sacrificed for shock value and character cameos because the random guy seeing an ad is only gonna watch the show if he thinks “oh cool, tarkin, i didn’t know he was in that show, maybe i should see what that’s about.”

and yes, i know, there absolutely is a ton of love and care poured into this show. i appreciate the effort that went into it. i’m just sad they didn’t have full creative freedom under Disney to give us the story we wanted.

but you know who won’t sacrifice story for money? you know who’s guaranteed to have the fans’ interests in mind? you know who does have full creative freedom and is equally pissed about bad show moments and want to do them better? FANFIC AUTHORS. Fan artists, theorists, even roleplay accounts and every other type of dedicated fandom blog is here for that shit and will reshape things however they want a million different ways because that’s the point. the show simply cannot give us what we want, but we can make it ourselves.

your support, your creativity, and your determination to give these characters what they deserve is how we can solve the problem.

i didn’t really mean to turn all “we’re all in this together” here lol but yknow what i really do mean that. i think supporting the community around you is the best option we have for truly enjoying all of this show’s potential.

tagging a few people cause i value your input!! and let’s be honest i’m probably leaving a few things out that you might be able to expand on: @the-bi-space-ace @inkstainedhandswithrings @phantom-of-the-501st

[thewebcomicsreview]

Happy 10/25, the third most important religious holiday in the Homestuck Calender, and we got a new HS2 to celebrate, focusing on one of the new kids. The new kids were one of the parts of Homestuck 2 I actually liked, so let's see how the new writers handle them! With a Jailbreak reference, apparently.

Wait, hold on, deep lore: thespiansGlamor is Harry, glutinousGymnast is Tavros. RecidicivousGainsayer and gavageCunctation are names we haven't seen before. GC fits into the AGTC DNA theme of all the screen names we've seen so far (it's Terezi's acronym), and RG doesn't. They might be random NPCs, but they might also be foreshadowing. Also, neither Rose nor Kanaya appear to be on their daughter's friendlist, unless they're under the scroll bar, but maybe that's not weird.

What, uh, what did she draw the key with, HS2? That's her blood color, but she's not bleeding.

Also, who's narrating this? This has been a question in HS2 all along, but the narration here calls attention to itself more. It's much more "Homestucky" than HS2's had been.

We even have narration describing conversation, which is something HS2 has never done and HS1 restricted to carapacians.

You suggest to Vriska that you should go the other direction. Vriska says nah this is definitely where we wanna be. She says between the two of you, you've probably got enough luck to take this whole place off the map if you really wanted. You ask her what the fuck she means by that. She says you know like with your Thief of Light powers. You tell her you don't have anything like that. She says huh, weird!

Oh FFS now I have to go look up if post-Retcon Vriska met Aranea, her own dancestor who was not a Thief of Light. That's such a weird thing for Vriska to assume, that Vrissy not only has Vriska's powers but has mastered them. Also, I wonder if this narration style, besides being a Jailbreak reference, is because the new writers aren't confident writing the HS2 characters yet? Or maybe they just don't want Vriska/Vrissy dialogues because they're kind of hard to read.

I like these expressions. I also like this continuation of Candy Lore, that all the HS1 characters see Candyland as a "fake" universe and that's part of why they fucked around so much and got so fucking weird, whereas we see here that the actual Candy Natives do not see their planet as "bootleg". The fact that the HS parents don't think of their own children as entirely "real" is actually super fucked up, but I guess Yiffy's got the main right of complaint there.

I like that Vriska, who can fly, still makes Vrissy give her a boost. What a jerk!

Vriska says now THAT sounds like some shit a REAL Vriska would say! You roll your eyes and start to leave when Vriska calls out to ask if you're going without wishing her good luck. As you start to wish her luck she cuts you off and tells you to keep it, as she already has aaaaaaaall the luck she needs. You say okay dude.

I don't know if the original HS2 writers intended for the resolution of the "Vrissy kind of idolizes Vriska" subplot to end with "Vriska's so fucking Vriska that Vrissy is disillusioned within literally minutes", but it's honestly kind of funny and I like it.

JANE: From the conversation recovered from Egbert's phone, we've learned that Roxy has been... conspiring alongside the rebels for months now. Operating a lab deep within the ruins of the Troll Memorial Meteor, she and her coconspirator Calliope are preparing some kind of super weapon they've dubbed "The Plot Point". JANE: Heretofore referred to as The Point.

This feels a little like shade.

JANE: Let’s get to The Point!!

A lot like shade.

It's a little convenient to the new team that they took over right when HS2 was starting to actually go somewhere, but regardless, that was a neat page. I got a soft laugh out of it, the plot is starting to move, and there was some decent worldbuilding.