#like she could very easily be the same age as I am or even a bit older but then she could just as easily be like 16 or something

[icewindandboringhorror]

Lineup of all of the characters that appear long enough to need a visual representation of them in the game lol

[notanactressyayy]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭. | natasha romanoff

. ݁₊ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 . Natasha and you were the only 'constant' in each other's lives. poor you, to think you could get over her so easily.

. ݁₊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 . smut! i am not responsible for your content consumption! — making out, g!p Natasha, guided masturbation, orgasm denial, unprotected sex (p in v), choking, swearing, homesickness, fluff, reconciliation.

. ݁₊ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 . english isn't my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. been in love w Nat for a damn long time — i've been away for a while, but turns out i can't really live without her. i miss my red so much :(

Natasha Romanoff rarely had the chance to see the same face twice. She saw a lot of people throughout her life — as a spy, as a superhero, or simply as Natasha. The thing is: it was unlike she would return to a place she’s been before. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be on the run. Thus, she traveled around the whole world, and saw thousands, millions of different faces. Destiny made sure not to let her cross paths with the same individual again. It wasn’t only the diversity of people that she witnessed, though. This woman saw the world. She knew life’s ups and downs, and at some point in her life, she just got used to the idea that it would forever be like this: boring. Boring experiences, boring women, boring men, boring relationships. Nothing was ever exciting, thrilling. It felt like she was advanced in time, and the rest of the world wasn’t following her. This wasn’t a complete lie, she got her maturity at a very young age, which made her pay the price now, in adulthood. 

For a spy, the most important thing is to learn not to be caught off guard. But it seemed like life was never on Natasha’s side. And this time — it felt good. Oh, it felt so good. 

At first, she didn’t want to get high hopes. It would be just another temporary friendship to help her pass time, nothing more. However, you managed to surprise the red haired Avenger in the best way possible. When she decided to spare a little time of her life and get to know you more, it was really mind-blowing the side of herself she discovered. She never thought she could actually be.. giddy. Like a silly, hopeless romantic girl. That is what she became whenever it was time to see you. She got excited. Actually excited. She couldn’t see through you, read your emotions or body language, like she did with other people; It was a natural thing, sometimes she didn’t even mean to do that. But you, something within you, kept her at bay. Like you effortlessly turned Natasha into a normal woman. Somebody who could love. Somebody that wasn’t raised and enhanced to be a killer. Not that you went through anything like she did, but you weren’t naive. You showed her that people didn’t necessarily have to be traumatized to be aware of things, of reality, of the surroundings. And for her, you’re the most beautiful person in the whole world. Inside and out. She adored you. 

Opening up was never easy. Revealing the broken parts of herself wasn’t like having a simple chat. But patience is a virtue and thankfully, you followed that say just fine. Little by little, the secrets came out. Most of the parts you already knew — it’s not like she wasn’t a worldwide known superhero. What you mostly had to acknowledge were her feelings, the point of view of the little girl who was experiencing it all, and becoming a strong woman, with built up walls around her heart. Doing that was no problem. Natasha couldn’t be more thankful. 

She couldn’t be more infatuated. More in love.

She’d always remember that one day: in the bar with her team, and you — chattery, music, tons of drinks and laughter. Stolen glances. Stomach butterflies, wild. The moment Clint pulled Laura a little closer to himself, and Tony kissed Pepper’s cheek. How she used that as an excuse to pull you into her lap. Your breath getting labored. Eyelashes gently fluttering, to the point she could count them. Your gentle yet tight grip on her shoulders. Your goddamn eyes staring right into hers. And the part where everything would change: her own bodily reactions to all those little details about you. When you restlessly shifted on her lap, quietly gasping when something poked you through your dress. Eyes going wide at the bulge showing on her black jeans. 

From that point on, you belonged to her.

Or so, she thought.

The sex was great, but she was in conflict — she couldn't tell if the only reason for it to be that enjoyable was because you were both tipsy, almost drunk, or if it was really meant to be that way. It felt right, yes, to have you in her arms like this — naked, piles of discarded clothes laying by her bed.. the sound of your quiet snoring as you cuddled into her. It was also a relief to her. To have someone care for her, desire her, after so long, after forever. The night had been amazing. She was a mature woman anyway, wasn't she? She could sort her feelings out without messing up everything.

Wrong. By the morning, everything would change.

You stared at her as she got up and got dressed again, eyes still a little blurry from sleep, eyebrows ceasing into a small confused frown. "You're not staying?" you'd ask, sitting up and leaning against the headboard, bringing up the sheets to cover your unclothed body. "Ugh, my head hurts like hell,"

"Got things to do." she simply answered, cradling the side of your face and kissing your forehead. You could swear the look on her face was.. apologetic. She tilted her head towards the nightstand, where some aspirin and water waited for you. "Take these. I'll text you later."

"Okay.." you mumble, disoriented. As she leaves, you reach out, shoving the aspirin in your mouth and downing the pills with water. Was there something you were missing? Because all you could remember was how good her hands felt on you, the way they wrapped around you neck while she—

You shook your head, lying down again, and closing her eyes. All the fun and pleasure you had been given from the previous night was slowly vanishing and being replaced by a feeling of uncertainty and confusion. Natasha was an enigmatic person, okay, but you thought you knew her better. She had no reason to leave you just like that, especially when she had already vented about all her past experiences, flaws and failures. Nah, it was probably nothing, you were overthinking. Perhaps she indeed had something important to take care of. You closed your eyes as fatigue took over, and slept for a little bit more.

Natasha went back to her apartment — one of her apartments, and for the whole day, her thoughts ran like crazy. Her emotions were all over the place. She had just fucked her best friend, the one person she felt comfortable and at ease with. She considered her feelings carefully; this.. dinamic, between you two, had not been platonic for a considerable amount of time. But not being platonic doens't necessarily means being romantic. It could either be love, or lust. What happened the day before was carnal, once the two of you were way too much in a drunken haze to actually feel anything.

And, like always, Natasha didn't want to think about falling in love. She felt scared just by thinking about this. It was a new territory, one she wasn't willing to deep dive in. So she took her phone and deeply sighed, opening her chat with you.

"Yesterday was fun. But I need some time. I don't think this can work. Hope you're doing okay. xx"

That text just completely shattered you.

You had no idea what you did wrong. It was not like Natasha was pushing you away forever — but while being with her, the only thought running through your mind was: I wanna be with her. I wanna explore this with her. And Natasha didn't give a single sign that she thought the opposite. You felt... disappointed. With yourself and her. For hoping.

Yeah, getting involved with an ex kgb Avenger killer spy probably wasn't the best idea.

You wouldn't simply forget everything you shared together, so the easiest way here not to create a big tension was.. being fake. The two of you weren't stupid, you were aware of the unspoken feelings going on. But what happened that night should not happen again. So your friendship was what prevailed. A friendship like the start. But obviously, with a few changes. Natasha and you didn't lose touch — on the contrary, you were closer than ever. You spoke and flirted (a lot), but with one small rule, a rule that you subconsciously added to this.. situationship. No feelings involved. It would be singularly that. Friends, some casual hookups, and nothing else.

It didn't last, because that's not what you both wished, longed for.

Little by little, this turned boring again. Not that you were the boring one and she just didn't realize this before. Far from that. The thing was: Natasha and you were supressing your feelings, consequently, supressing all the thrill, the delicious tension that hanged in the air whenever she, once again, crossed paths with you. The russian wanted nothing more than just grab you and kiss you hard, pour all the emotions that she kept bottled up throughout her life into the kiss. But unfortunately, she couldn't. She had a duty to fullfil, as someone born, destined to save the world.

And with all of this, you and her settled a distance. You with your previous and trivial life, and her, saving little girls from bad guys, and bringing down cats from tall trees. It was truly shocking: one day, you lived for Natasha Romanoff. She was your everything and everything you'd ever want. In a blink of an eye, it ended. You followed your paths, like two completely different people, with different purposes.

Right person, wrong time.

Fool her, to think she could get over you that easily. Poor you, to try and put that inside of your head as well.

Sometimes, when normally doing daily tasks, you would catch yourself thinking about her — when you were going to watch TV and put your legs on the coffee table, instead of simply sitting. It was an habit of hers. Or when eating something with peanut butter. It was her favourite late night snack. When it rained. She liked to watch the rain. With somebody else's hands on you. It wasn't right. It was never right to have somebody else touch you. You were constantly thinking about your life before things with her changed — the memories brought comfort, a sense of nostalgia.. at some point, you weren't living in the present anymore. Just faking. Faking your feelings. Pretending it was okay to let her go.

This woman ruined you for everything and everyone else.

Natasha could relate to that. In a life that could be resumed in one word: a 'whirlwind' of a life, and you were her only 'constant' among all of this... she couldn't bear this anymore.

So she made an important decision.

The decision was today.

Today: she'd take you out again, praying that, if not reconciliation, she wanted at least to say everything she had to say. Because if life taught her one thing, was to make choices that she wouldn't regret in the future. And it was damn right she would regret choosing not to meet you tonight.

Sitting in the stool of the bar, in a more secluded corned, her eyes followed your figure as you approached — purse hanging on your shoulder, dress exposing your back and a little bit of your waist, eyes so awfully soft and gentle as you looked at her. It wasn't fair. A pang of guilt hit her hard. Oh, she regretted letting that go. She wanted you to be mad at her. But you were not. She shakily rises to her feet to kiss your cheek as you stand in front of her, thankfully not stumbling. Your eyes lock again, already in a trance. Just like that other day.

"How are you doing?" you ask. Natasha could cry. She missed that voice everyday. "Did I take too long? I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't worry." she swallows hard. You both sit on the stools by the countertop. When the bartender comes, the redhead dismisses him. She wanted the two of you sober for this. "I'm... so much better now that you're here, honestly. How about you?"

"Amazing." you chuckle, tilting your head to the side and watching her. She didn't change a bit. Hair braided, black jeans, leather jacket. That was your Natasha. "I didn't expect you calling me here, to be honest..—"

"Me neither." she admits, in a whisper. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, eyes involuntarily starting at your mouth. She sighs and looks into your eyes. "But I had to... I can't get you off my mind."

Her sincerity never fails to amaze you. With each second that passes, the butterflies in your tummy return, to remind you of the past — feelings and sensations resurfacing. You bite on your bottom lip and look around the bar, quickly scanning to see if there was anybody paying attention to the two of you. Maybe a few eyes here and there, which didn't linger. Everyone else was too busy minding their own business — and it's not like you'd care if someone was staring anyway. Natasha turned some heads. You felt greedy for that. You were the one having her. The only one having her.

"You live in my head rent free, Natasha." you tell her, voice having a sultry edge to it. You slowly stand, walking closer.

You take her hands and open her arms — making it possible for you to straddle her thigh. She tenses almost immediately. Her head tilts up to stare into your eyes, arms circling your waist to keep you close, where she wanted. You shake your head when you see a small frown between her eyebrows — lips pressing against that small spot, coaxing a little exhale of hers. She missed you. Everyday. Every minute. She wanted that respect and care all the time.

"What are we even doing here?" she whispers, so quietly you almost can't hear it. Her hands cup your waist and gently roam up and down your sides, palms brushing against your bare skin every now and then, all thanks to the waist slits of your dress. Your face leans closer to hers, noses bumping — the smallest of touches, making you both crave what you once had. "Why didn't I just invite you to my place right away?"

"I don't know. Why didn't you?" you raise one eyebrow, fingertips caressing her jawline. Her hands give your waist a squeeze — and you almost moan. She swore she could hear it. It replayed in her head, the beautiful sounds you made for her. She wanted to hear them again. She was going to make you sound like that again.

It wasn't just a physical thing — your body and mind craved her touch, her presence, so much that just the mere thought of being on her bed again got you soaked. She felt something wet through the rough fabric of her jeans, and that got her brain spinning. She fell for you hard. So painfully hard.

"Let's get out of here," she groans, hands firmly grabbing your thighs and lifting you up — wrapping your legs around her waist and carrying you out the pavement. Her hardness pressed right against your core — you blushed, hiding your face on her shoulder, wrapping your arms around her neck.

In a heartbeat, you were back at your house.

Your place, because it was the fastest way, when taking the cab. No words were exchanged, not yet. The aching, burning need had to be taken care of first — before properly talking. Your back hits the wall hard as Natasha pushes you against it — her body trapping you between herself and the hard surface — hands hardly, possessively holding you by the hips. Desperately, even. Making sure you wouldn't slip away from her grasp. Her lips dance with yours, tentatively, yet naturally, tongues tasting one another after what felt like centuries. She felt so good, tasted so good.

"Nat..—" you moan against her lips, having her bottom lip trapped between your teeth, then releasing it. Your forehead against hers, eyes soft and filled with desire. Your hands hold her cheeks, traveling to her jaw. Needily, you press kisses to the side of her throat, breathing shaky, heart hardly thrumming. "I never stopped thinking about you..."

"Yeah?" she hums, grabbing the hem of your dress and lifting it up, bunching the fabric by your hips. Her fingers hook around the elastic of your panties and pull them down, pooling around your feet — making you gasp, and pull away from her neck. Eyes wide open. The air hits your heat, making you needier for her.

You almost mewl.

"God, I need you." Natasha utters. She grabs you again and smashes her lips against yours once more, now with so much more passion, more need, more anxiety. Her bulge presses against your now unclothed wetness, coaxing a tiny cry of need out of you. You breathlessly pull away from her, reaching down and fumbling with the buttons of her jeans — until she stops you.

"No—"

"Quiet." she shushes, maneuvering you back, until your body hits the mattress. She climbs onto the bed and stays in a kneeling position, hungrily taking you in. Messy, needy, all for her. Sober, like she wanted planned from the first time. "That dress goes off."

Her voice is commanding, yet not harsh — and her eyes betray her a little. Her eyes are almost pleading, that it is clear how much she needs this. To have you all to herself, to show you how much she wants that. Her underwear becomes even more tight as she sees your trembling fingers, pulling the dress over your head and tossing it aside, lips parted. Just by her look, you can tell she wants the bra off, too. So you reach behind your back and grants her silent wish, breasts now exposed to her sight.

"There you are..." she moans to herself, shamelessly taking in the sight of you. You're a work of art. With her hand, she coaxes your knees open, and parts your legs. "My... you're so wet. So perfectly wet."

"You're still with a lot on.." you quietly complain, feeling hot and shy at the same time. But her gaze is enough to wipe away the confusion from your eyes. She had a plan.

"Touch yourself for me." she breathes out.

Your eyes briefly widen with the unexpectedness of this statement. You had certainly done this before — touched yourself thinking of her — but the idea of showing this, while she watched, never crossed your mind. But it wasn't an unpleasant idea. It was actually... hot. Sensual. They darken, pupils blown wide as you make yourself comfortable against the pillows, eyelids fluttering as your legs spread a little more, palm resting on your stomach, then moving down. Deliberately, it reaches your sex, a shakily sigh leaving your lips when your middle and ring finger collect some of the slick coat covering your sensitiveness, using it to slowly rub your clitoris, getting you to gasp louder.

"Natasha..." you whisper, eyes falling close, thoughts wandering.

Wandering back to the start — when you first discovered your feelings for her, then the climax, when you both got in bed due the alcohol — then the aftermath, when you needed her so much, felt so alone at night, that your fingers were the only solution. Little wet sounds echo within the room as you rub circles on yourself, applying just the right amount of pressure, that it doesn't take long for the pit in your stomach to manifest itself.

"Faster." Natasha rasps out, taking her jacket and quickly throwing it away. She pulls her tank top over her head, then undo the buttons of her jeans — leaving the bed, just so she can get rid of all the uncomfortable fabric, and climbing it again. She crawls closer to you — eyeing you as you worked on your pussy, her hands caressing your thighs, adding to the stimulation.

"Please...!" you whimper, doing as you're told — rubbing yourself faster — slipping one of your fingers inside your entrance, almost cumming, that quickly. "Please, I need you..!"

"I need you too," she moans to herself, and harshly grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. You moan loudly in protest — Natasha wouldn't tease you. Not today, when you both needed each other so much. She discards her undergarments, finally — groaning as she's set free. Your eyes lock on her hard length, which was practically hitting her abs now.

"Put it inside me." you beg, grabbing her shoulders to pull her closer. She hovers over you, bracing herself on her forearms, on each side of your body. Your fingernails gently graze her back. Natasha was feeling so much, so much more than she ever felt. Your eyes were sparkling so much, like you were crying — shimmering with the depth of your adoration for her. You grab her cheeks and press your lips to hers, in a gentle peck. Knowing her past, she didn't have to explain her reasons for what had happened. She was scared before, and you respected. "Go on. Love me."

She couldn't wait no longer. She lowers her forehead to your shoulder and places her hands on your hips — her chest against yours, as she lined herself with your hole, effortlessly pushing inside. Stretching you out, like she once did. Having the chance to hear that delicious sounds again.

"You're mine... shit," she groans, rolling into you gently, getting you used to the feeling first. You're so tight, so perfect around her. Natasha's overwhelmed. Her hands press against the base of your throat, squeezing firmly, yet leaving enough room for air. She's so hot. "That pussy is mine. You're mine. You're all mine—"

"Yes," you moan, wrapping your legs around her middle. You wouldn't take long to come tonight. Maybe she'd make you come over and over. She rocks into you, pace not too slow, not too fast. Just right. The right tempo to bring you both the pleasure and connection you so much needed. "Mhm.. fuck, Nat, missed your cock,"

"You're gonna take it over and over—" she comments — kissing your shoulder, roaming her hands up your body, her right palm cupping your breast and giving it a firm squeeze. Your head lolls back, mouth opening to allow a satisfied moan out. "I'm never fucking letting you go again,"

She accelerates, pulling almost all the way out just to slam back into you again — feeling her climax approach. She moves her mouth close to your ear and moans — her own sounds now mixing with yours.

"Natasha...! Fuck, you feel soo good," you gasp, a wave of pleasure washing over you as you get closer. She takes the hint immediately, cupping the back of your knee and pushing it up, allowing her a better angle. "Ah, gimme more,"

"My greedy girl," she groans, her head tilting back. Her cock twitches inside of you — precum already painting you white. She glanced down at where your folds swallowed her, eyes darkening impossibly more. "You're so goddamn tight... 'm not gonna last, moya krasivaya malysha,"

"Okay.. 'ts okay... Cum with me..." you beg her, tangling your fingers into her red strands of hair, pulling her down more, so her forehead rests against yours — the eye contact increasing the intimacy of the moment. She didn't know what to expect now. Didn't know what to think. Only that she had to fill you up.

"C'mon.. nhg, darling.. c'mon.. cum around me," she encourages, feeling her own legs shake as her orgasm washed over her.

She grabbed your hips hard and slammed into you — once, twice, three times, filling you up with her hot release. You squeezed your eyes shut as your body shuddered forwards, breasts pressing against her own as a long, strangled moan flowed out of you, nails digging into her back, pressing her body against yours as you finished. Your walls clenched around her cock, swallowing her more, not allowing her to pull away just that. "God.. I love you!"

Natasha blinks, not sure if she heard right. Her heart squeezes in her chest, arms wrapping around your body. Her back hits the bed and she flips you on top of her, still inside of you — but now, her member softened. The adrenaline was running wild, but you had calmed down a little bit. Just a little. Because this time, it wasn't pure sex. It was lovemaking.

Your face is buried in her chest as she brings up the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around you. She buries her face into your hair and inhales deeply, staying silent. Just to process things.

"I love you, too. So so much." she murmurs into you hair. She felt terrified to say this. But once you're someone who she already showed her scars to, it's not that bad anymore.

"You do?" you ask expectantly, feeling tired, drowsy. Natasha smiles at that. She feels her eyes burning with heavy emotion. She nods.

"Yes... I love you so much." she confirms, softly stroking her hair, brushing some strands away from your sweaty forehead. "And I want you to be mine. Will you be mine?"

"You're asking me to be your girlfriend after the sex?" you chuckle quietly, but happiness was evident in your voice. Now you could sleep at peace. The first night of rest you'd have in a long time. In the arms of the woman you cherished, worshipped.

Natasha had won now. She was so fucking relieved. All because of a phrase.

"Of course I will, you idiot."

"I'm never, ever, ever letting you go again." the room is messy, smell of sex lingering around you. But now things were sorted out. By the morning, you could have a more direct, serious conversation. For now, you'd rest together, wrapped up in each other's arms, like it was always meant to be.

[barleyo]

Build-A-Bride.

Enji Todoroki X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: i can't stop writing broken enji... he's so depressed and lonely i LOVE it ^_^ isn't he just so dreamy? all downtrodden and sad? anyways this is so half-assed, sorry!

Tags: dub-con, forced/arranged marriage (sort of), age gap, mostly plot tbh (minimal smut), brief mentions of dehumanization, breeding, creampie, p in v, size difference, language barrier

Wordcount: 1.8k

Women don't like divorcés. It's a mark of failure. It brings down one's stock value. Enji's mistakes with Rei were numerous. He knew it was for the best, that he had nothing to fight for when she had the papers mailed to him. Why would he argue with her about it? The kids had all grown up and moved out. Their assets were easily separable. She did not ask for much in the split, and even if she did Enji would have given it up without pushing back. 

He was a man defeated. What point would there be in chasing after Rei again? He did not love her; not truly, at least, and she certainly did not love him. They had been living stagnantly ever since she was released from the hospital. It would be a feat for them to even speak to each other over breakfast. Idle chat about the weather or what their adult children were doing was a rare treat. 

Enji's life had slowed significantly. No children to fill his too-big-for-one-man house and no woman to be kept company by. Work had slowed down. Younger heroes took the top spots, slowly but surely. Even his own son was predicted to soon surpass him. Old timers, or "Golden-Age Heroes", as the media titled them, were losing fame and fortune alike. No longer the hot commodity, old was out, new was in.

He expected it, really. His goal was to be the number one hero, and he was for a while. Was it his dream to remain number one? He didn't have time to think about it before he got knocked down to a measly third place in the ranks. 

He had thrown so much of himself into the hero life. It crossed his mind a few times, it all ending, but he never realized that it would come crashing down so soon. What friends he had, using the term very lightly, were less than helpful in his condition. 

None less so than Hawks, of course. That damned fool.

Keigo had been dragging Enji out to these annoyingly quaint cafés for a while now. He'd force piles of biscotti and scones onto Enji's plate while blabbing on about some new excursion of his or the other, taking up the prime hours of Enji's day in the name of socializing. 

Seldom it was that Enji left the impromptu meet-ups with anything but slight annoyance at best and utter exhaustion at worst. He could hardly pay attention to the meaningless drivel Keigo threw his way. Sometimes it was talk of the current hero ranks, which Enji immediately tuned out. Other times it was about a concert or movie Keigo was going to. 

Lately, though, Keigo had an interest in trying to play matchmaker for Enji. 

"You should really get out there," he said, smug little smile plastered on his cheeky face while he sipped his espresso. "You aren't getting younger."

Enji's response was the same as always, in that he was too busy and too old to be worrying about such things. "I do not have time to woo a woman like a schoolboy. I'm fine where I am," he responded with his arms resting on the café's comparably small table. 

Keigo chuckled, curling his lips upwards. "You can only spend so many nights with your right hand, Endeavor."

"Shut your damned mouth."

"If you won't let me set you up with someone," Keigo said, not taking Enji's gruff tone seriously, as usual, "there is another option."

Enji pressed his mouth closed tightly, eyes narrowing into a judgmental squint. "It had better not be online dating."

Defensive hands flew up. "No, no. You've made that pretty clear, man. I'm talking about getting, like, a mail-order bride or whatever they're called."

"You do realize how much that sounds like human trafficking, right?"

"It does not! They still do it, you know. There are websites and everything." 

Enji sighed and leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling. The idea sounded horrible. God only knew how sketchy something like that would be, and besides, how horrible were the moral implications of that? Some old bastard like himself purchasing a young girl like a farm animal. 

It wasn't completely unheard of. Plenty colleagues of his had foreign brides ordered for them. Even his own cousins had done similar things. Hell, he wasn't far off from trying it out to get the perfect quirk marriage before he found Rei. 

But now? It sounded cruel. Unnecessary. He already resented himself for how he treated his family— he didn't need to ruin the life of some other woman too.

"I am not going to order a wife," he said, voice strained, "like a spare part off of eBay. Do you not see how horrible that would look on me?"

Keigo waved his hand dismissively, unbothered. “It’s not like that. These women are looking for a chance at a better life," he explained before teasingly adding, "just like the lonely men who send for them." 

Enji stared at him, trying to decipher if he was serious. “You really think I'm desperate enough to buy some random woman?"

"Don't think of it like 'buying.' Think of it as rescuing. How will the press feel about that, hm? Imagine the headline: ‘Endeavor, the hero with a heart, saves a foreign damsel in distress by bringing her to Japan to live a new life of riches and mind-blowing sex!'"

"You disgust sometimes, you little brat."

Keigo leaned over the table, teeth flashing briefly as he spoke. "Just think about it, okay? I'll send you some links tonight." He got up and pushed his chair in with his foot. "Besides, I'm tired of being your only friend. These little 'dates' of ours are cutting majorly into my work." 

Keigo had compiled a ridiculously long list of websites and companies that specialized in international marriage deals. He had definitely committed to the bit too much or he had researched this topic heavily before presenting it to Enji via text.

Either way, Enji peered at his cell phone screen in distaste. Link after link, scrolling through the masterlist Hawks compiled, he just felt more unsure of the idea. The names of the sites left a strange feeling in his gut. 

GoldenBride, Rose Brides, Latidate. For fuck's sake, UkraineBride4You dot com? "Legitimate & Cheapest Mail Order Bride Sites! Click here for more!" 

He clicked his phone off. The light from the vibrant ads and taglines disappeared from his face as quickly as they appeared, leaving him in the dark of his bedroom. He didn't speak, he just stayed in his bed, leaning on the headboard in silence. 

He had gotten used to his house being quiet. It was never especially loud, but at least when the kids still lived at home, he could hear the sounds of life. Of Shoto's feet padding through the halls. The sound of Fuyumi's books opening and closing. Natsuo's grumbling under his breath. Proof that he had gotten them all this far— that he had done something right for them. 

No. He couldn't stay this way, living in the dark silence, figuratively and literally. He turned his phone back on and clicked the highlighted link with the least concerning name. 

Well, you were just the perfect little thing, weren't you? Young, pretty, doe-eyed, and sweet. After perusing a website that looked less criminal than he thought it would, Enji decided on you. He had to have you. 

You stood out immediately from the pages of other women. All of them were, of course, gorgeous. They would not be advertised if they weren't. You, though. There was something about you. You were small—Enji liked that—but not frail. Built for carrying children was what you were, he decided, with your soft curves and buxom build. 

Your profile did not give much away. Basic information and a little greeting. It intrigued him enough, so clearly it worked. 

The two of you chatted for a few weeks, if you could call it that. There was little getting to know each other and more plane tickets being purchased and pick up times being arranged. To say that you had him hooked was an understatement, especially considering the only tools you had to connect with him were shitty translations of your language to his from Google and emojis. 

Everything about you read as gentle. Docile. Probably the only personality Enji was equipped to deal with. He would just die if married to a combative woman. His enemies would love to see him nestled up with a loud, abrasive one with a temper to match his own. 

No, you would do quite nicely, with your limited speaking and non-provoking nature. You were the perfect escape, a blank canvas onto which he could project his hopes for a new life onto. He could start a family over again. He could fix his mistakes and move on. Maybe, just maybe, he could forgive himself.

The flood of ideas filled him each time his phone buzzed with your messages, even if they were often short and punctuated by misunderstandings and screwy sentences due to poor translations. He found himself counting the days until your plane would take off to bring you to him, to his home. He had plans for you.

Things moved quickly with your new husband. Just last week your flight landed. Then you were  saying "I do," and now he had you bent in positions unimaginable. 

He worked fast. His hands were large and rough, but God, they were efficient. Thick fingers rubbed at your clit. A thicker cock  prodded at your entrance. You wriggled beneath him a bit, eyes widening at the stretch. 

You didn't have the words to tell him you were a virgin, but you didn't have the desire to stop him either. 

"Hold still, you," he said, voice gentle in comparison to how rough his strokes were. "You've got to let it adjust." 

Even if you could understand his words, the heat burning your ears drowned out any sound completely. Fullness filled you everywhere. Like a missing piece you never knew you didn't have. 

"Ah, you still aren't broken in yet for me," he muttered to himself. He watched as your struggles to swallow him into your walls. "Virgin, yeah?"

You mumbled incoherently to yourself, feeling his words cast over your face. More or less, you understood the tone of his words and hummed in agreement, hands playing with your tits absent mindedly. 

Pain tinted moans escaped you. Enji felt good, sure, but a warmth of discomfort passed through you with every inch of him. Your mind told you yes, but your body tried to reject him. He was simply too big, and too much. 

Not that it would stop him. 

He spat on his length to ease the friction. A steady hand stayed over your clit, abusing it to the point of overstimulation. He wanted this to be pleasurable for you, but he had a goal in mind. 

The load or two he had pumped into you earlier wasn't enough. He wouldn't dare give up yet, especially not with the adrenaline rush hearing you whine gave him. 

Besides, your plane ticket was expensive. He planned on getting paid back in spades.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Against the wall

05/24/2024

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,917

Warnings: rpf, alcohol, pining, naughty thoughts, fluff

Summary: Sometimes all it takes is a room full of people to figure out you want nothing more than to be alone with that one person.

A/N: Guys, this was written in a fevered frenzy. Haven't felt the muse in months and don't know whether she did a good job, but I am so happy she is not dead.

Picture is a screen cap from this video

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you enjoy my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

She had forgotten how much she loathed being in a room full of people. Maybe it was a condition that came with age, to appreciate silence and solitude, or maybe, just maybe, it was entirely his fault. 

Her back leaning against the wall, his hand was splayed out right next to her head, supporting the weight of his body as he leant in slightly so he could focus on her voice above the noise of the bustling room. He had never been this close to her, so close she could smell the intoxication scent of his body, and in an instant the chatter was drowned out by the wild drum of her heart, which in turn made it one of the most challenging tasks she had ever had to face to string her words together into meaningful sentences. 

But it seemed she had somehow succeeded, against all odds, as he turned his head to look at her, his face so close now that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. And as if that had not been enough to clear every coherent thought from her head, he chose to turn his lips up into the most dazzling smile upon her silly joke. 

It made her dizzy, combined with the sparkle in his eyes it was an almost deadly combination, impossible to resist. It had captured her completely. He had captured her completely, occupied her every thought in a way that was bordering on concerning, for her sanity, maybe even for the idea of feminism she lived by, but even more so for the very essence of her existence. 

She had seen it all so clearly, a happy future, no one to bother her, especially no man to cause her even more worries than she already had. Just her, the path in front of her clearly mapped out. And then he had crossed her way, and it had dawned on her that what she had deemed the perfect life would seem like nothing but a cheap substitute next to a life with him. Certainly, she could still be happy without him—if she needed to. 

The problem was, she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to live a life without the sound of his laughter, without his twisted sense of humour and the way he looked at her when they were engaged in a conversation, as if there was no one else in this world, as if it was only him and her. He made her feel secure in a way no one ever had. When he entered the room, she could feel her shoulders relax, her breath going more easily and the galloping of her heart slowing in pace. And when she talked to him, it was as if she had never done anything else in her entire life. There was nothing of the usual unease or urge to appeal between them that might, under different circumstances or with a different man, lead her to a point at which she had either moulded herself into a completely different person or where everything meaningful she had wanted to say and that had been phrased so clearly in her head became lost somewhere on the way from her brain to her mouth. With him though, she could just be herself, safe in the knowledge that he would not judge or tire of her at some point. 

If only she knew with the same certainty if he felt the same. Obviously he did enjoy talking to her as well, or he wouldn’t be standing here right now, choosing to talk to her when he had a room full of people to choose from. But did he also hang on her lips like she did on his? Did he also wonder if they were just as soft as he imagined them to be? And would he like her to step closer, or pull him closer to her instead? And when her hand rested against his chest then, would she feel the same thunderous beat that drummed behind her own ribs? Would it start to flutter as soon as their lips met and refuse to fall back into its regular rhythm until their bodies lay sweaty and spent, their desire finally sated? And in their blissed out state, would he hold her? Would he pull her that impossible inch closer and press the softest of kisses to her forehead, telling her all she needed to know without uttering a single word? Would he still be there in the morning to see her tousled hair and sleep-wrinkled face and look at her with the same affection she thought to find in his gaze right now? Would he—

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” His back still turned on the intruder, he gave her the most dramatic roll of his eyes she had ever seen, making it very hard for her to hide a snicker. “Come, there is someone I need you to meet.”

She wanted to protest, wanted to do whatever it took to keep him close, but before her brain had even been able to form a protest, he was being dragged away from her, his lips forming a silent apology. 

This social engagement was tedious. The thought came as somewhat of a surprise to him. There had been a time when he had truly enjoyed this kind of event, but tonight something just was not right about this party. Well, not ‘something’ as in an unknown factor that made this party different from other parties. It was not unknown to him at all. In fact, this evening had been perfectly enjoyable up until that moment he had been so rudely separated from her. 

She was still leaning casually against that wall, the only difference being that he was too far away from her now. To be fair, any distance that exceeded an arm’s length was too far for his taste. She on the other hand did not seem to mind his absence much, as someone else had already taken his place by her side to engage her in what appeared to be a most entertaining conversation. Not one glance did she spare him, while all he could focus on was the ludicrous attempt to will himself back into his old position, close to her. So close that her breath would waft across his neck again as she spoke, the heat of her body crawling over his skin. Maybe her hand would find him by accident—or intentionally, which would be all the better. After a moment he would return the favour, finally giving in to his longing to feel the smoothness of her skin against his fingertips.

Instead all he could feel was his mouth opening as she brought the glass to her lips and took a sip of champagne. Would he be able to taste it on her tongue if she allowed him to kiss her? He almost hoped he would not be, because what he really desired to taste was her, the exquisite, singular flavour only she possessed. 

And still, that would not nearly be enough to sate his hunger. He wanted to taste all of her. Her lips, her skin, the moist heat at the apex of her thighs. He wanted her so much he could feel his mouth drying up upon the ardor of his wish, no, need for her.

What would it be like to have her? He had imagined it a thousand times over and yet there were so many questions still left unanswered. Would she voice her pleasure or enjoy in silence? Was it her wish to be the director of their passion play or did she want him to lead the way? Would his name glide over her lips in a soft moan or would she scream in ecstasy when they had finally reached the peak? Would she stay serious, caught up in desire, all the way through or would there be giggles and laughter? And what then, after they had given themselves to each other completely? Would she leave, seeing this as an experience best enjoyed once only? Or would she stay, her naked body resting against his in peaceful slumber, and allow real intimacy to begin? 

If it were his choice to make, he would know exactly what to choose. But he could not blame her if she opted for something different. Commitment was tough, and there had been times when he had thought that he, like so many others, was simply not built for it. But watching her now, he could not recall how he had ever been this blind about himself in the first place. 

It had been strange at first, that sense of belonging that always befell him when she was around, completely unexpected. But ever since he had felt it for the first time and realised its true meaning, it was as if he had discovered a law of nature, complex and yet so easy to understand, as if it had always been an inherent part of him.

Once again, the dryness he had felt earlier returned to his mouth, more demanding this time, until it had managed to push every other thought aside for a moment. Instinctively he set the glass to his lips, his eyes not once leaving her until he had lifted the bottom high enough to block his view. It had only been for the blink of an eye, but now he found himself almost choking on his final gulp when his eyes returned to find her spot against the wall empty all of a sudden.

Leaving without a goodbye was childish, she knew, but she just could not shake this nagging feeling that had befallen her out of the blue, that being in the same room with him without talking  to him or being able to at least be near him without looking as if she was running after him like a duckling was far worse than not being here at all. 

With a sigh she set down the glass on an empty table she passed on her way to the exit. What a waste, as it was almost half-full, but somehow it did not taste quite right, and so she left the rest of her drink behind, like the dream that she would ever be to him what he was to her. 

It was dark as she entered the hallway and the air felt uncomfortably cool in contrast to the air inside that had been heated by all those bodies. Their chatter was still following her now, echoing from the walls left and right. 

It must have obscured the noise of his steps, or maybe they had not made any sound at all. Otherwise she would have recognised their rhythm from a mile away. But instead, she only realised that he was there as his warm hand closed around her wrist and gently brought her to a stop. And despite the fact that she had halted her steps almost instantly, she had not expected him to be this close now as she turned, so close that she could see the startled expression of her eyes reflected in his own. So dark, so green. 

He did not utter a single word. He did not have to. She knew when his grip on her loosened and his fingers softly glided between hers. She smiled, and so did he. And then, slowly, they began to walk.

taglist:

@rosecentury

@lowkeysimpinloki

@fightmespideyboy

[antebunny]

a cuckoo in the nest

(Aka the Fae!Tim fic that I decided not to finish and thus am dumping on Tumblr)

The creature that the Unseelie Queen forces on Bruce is disguised as a human child. Worse, it resembles Bruce’s two current children. Skin on the lighter side, lighter than either of his kids, black hair, blue eyes, and a light sweater and sweatpants combination that either Dick or Jason might wear. It is quite the contrast to the wild fey flashing too-bright teeth at Bruce.

“You will welcome it into your home,” the Unseelie Queen commands. “You will treat it as you would your own son. You will do nothing to indicate that it is anything but a human boy.”

One gnarled claw curls around the creature’s shoulder. The creature’s expression remains eerily blank. Another point in favor of its otherworldliness. A normal human child would show some reaction to the Unseelie Queen’s possessive presence. This creature stays perfectly still.

“In return…” the Unseelie Queen crooks one finger of her free hand in a come here motion and a figure stumbles out of the dark trees surrounding their little clearing. 

It is Jason. Injured beyond belief, blue eyes red and weeping. Bruce’s knee jerks, but he forces himself to remain within the small summoning circle. A thin line of salt and iron protecting him from the Unseelie Queen’s unfathomable powers.  

“You get your son back.” She presents Jason to Bruce like she’s selling a prize horse at an auction. One hand on the back of his neck. “Alive and well. As he was before his death. The memory of his death will remain, but dulled. That is my bargain, Batman.”

Bruce is not fool enough to give the Unseelie Queen his real name, nor is he stupid enough to lie to her. Using his nighttime alter ego presents the perfect compromise. Batman is not his real name, nor is it a lie. So it is Batman’s black gauntlets that curl into fists as Bruce considers the Unseelie Queen’s deal. 

It is the height of stupidity to take a creature he does not know the abilities of into Wayne Manor, and pretend it is his son. Given what he knows of the Unseelie Queen, such a creature could cause unfathomable damage to his family, to Gotham. This is a bet of Bruce’s own intelligence against a fey hundreds of times older than Bruce. He could very well end up losing both of his sons this time. 

“B,” Jason sobs. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

But the alternative is to walk away from a chance to have Jason back. This is not the universe where Bruce is capable of such an act. At least with the Unseelie Queen’s bargain, Bruce has a chance to limit any potential harm. Perhaps he can even outsmart the creature and prevent all damage whatsoever. If she had asked him to kill someone, or something more direct, Bruce wouldn’t stand a chance.

Bruce uncurls his fists slowly. “I accept.”

With those two words, both the creature and Jason are invited into the circle. The creature steps forward calmly, Nike sneakers passing over the salt and iron easily. Its arms are flat by its sides, and its head comes up to Bruce’s chest. If it were human, it would be around the same age that Jason was when Bruce caught him stealing the Batmobile’s tires. A blatant attempt at emotional manipulation on the Unseelie Queen’s part. 

Jason is shoved forwards by the Unseelie Queen. He trips over his own feet, but Bruce is there to catch him this time, to gently fold him in his arms and check him over for injuries.  

“I’m getting you home,” Bruce promises. 

And if he has to bring home the Unseelie Queen’s little spy as well to make it happen, then that is a price Bruce is more than willing to pay to have his family whole again.

~

Tim finally has the chance to be part of a family again, and it is the best family he could have imagined. He can scarcely believe his luck as Mr. Wayne–Batman, for now–leads Tim and Jason (who doesn’t look so good) into the Batcave. Tim is so caught up trying not to gape in awe at everything that he misses the hushed conversation that Mr. Wayne has with his butler, and the slightly louder, much longer conversation he has with his eldest son. The original Robin is standing all of five meters away from Tim! He’s going to be Tim’s older brother!

A lifetime ago, when Tim was still fully human, with parents and the last name Drake, he’d been obsessed with Batman and Robin. Had followed them around pitch black rooftops, through the streets buzzing with neon lights and vices, just to get a glimpse of his heroes. Discovered Robin’s true identity shortly before Bruce Wayne adopted Jason Todd, and a new Robin came to roost in Gotham’s skyscrapers. 

Then Janet and Jack Drake gave their only child to the Unseelie Queen in exchange for money and power, and Tim lost his name, and his home, and his entire world. 

 “What is your name?” Mr. Wayne interrupts Tim’s memories. He looms in front of Tim in an empty Batcave. Mr. Pennyworth and both Robins are long gone. It is only Tim, in his ill-fitting human clothes, and Batman. 

Tim knew this question was coming. Mr. Wayne must think that Tim is a human child, and that asking for his name is a simple exchange of pleasantries. He cannot know that Tim is no longer fully human, and his name is no longer free to give or take, nor his own anymore. Luckily, Tim prepared a response. He does not want to lie to Batman, after all, but as much as he wishes he could trust Mr. Wayne with his name, he knows better.

“What do you want to be called?” Mr. Wayne amends, when Tim fails to answer fast enough.

Carefully, Tim purses his lips and whistles. Hoo-ooh. A sharp ho followed by a lower, longer oo sound. The call of a common cuckoo. Hoo-ooh. Hoo-ooh.

Mr. Wayne frowns in response. Tim panics briefly–did he not get the call right? He practiced so much!–and tries again, a little faster. Hoo-ooh, hoo-ooh, hoo-ooh. Please accept me. I know I’m an unwanted interloper, an imposter. Please accept me anyway.

“Do you have a name in English?” Mr. Wayne asks. He repeats the question in a few more languages. Tim recognizes the Spanish and Russian, but he’s not sure what the others are. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tim nods frantically. He swallows with difficulty, and then whispers: “Tim.” 

It is not a lie, and it is common enough that hopefully Tim can remain anonymous. He is a common cuckoo bird, after all, not even remarkable in his imposition. 

“Well, Tim,” Mr. Wayne says, voice dropping to an ominous growl, “I will uphold my end of the bargain. But do not think for a second that I can be tricked into trusting you. And if you give me even the slightest indication that you intend to hurt a member of my family in any way, I will not hesitate to take you down. Do you understand?”

Tim has not cried in years, not since his parents gave him away. But tonight a peculiar wetness pricks at the corners of his eyes as he nods. “Yes, Mr. Wayne, sir,” he says quickly. “I understand.”

It isn’t as though Mr. Wayne is wrong. Tim is an interloper, here to trick Mr. Wayne and his family into caring about Tim. All Mr. Wayne did was make it clear that he will continue to pretend that Tim is part of his family and that he will not be tricked. There’s no reason for Tim to get emotional about it. 

It’s just that Tim hoped, if just for a moment, that it wouldn’t be pretend.

The Wayne family, aside from Mr. Wayne himself, is very easily tricked. Mr. Pennyworth (“call me Alfred, Master Tim”) lets Tim follow him around even though he won’t let Tim help with chores no matter how much he insists that he can do it. Tim is fine with that, really. For now it is better to be tolerated, if not liked, than not to be tolerated at all. He has noticed that even Mr. Wayne defers to Alfred in household matters, so it is good to have the real head of household somewhat in his corner.

Most days, Tim sits on the kitchen counter while Alfred cooks, and awkwardly attempts to answer questions about his previous life. It is mixed, as far as conversations go. The questions are very stressful for Tim, who is never sure how much he should say, but smelling and eating human food after so long without it still brings tears to his eyes. 

Simmering tomato floats through the air as Alfred adds a pinch of rosemary to his soup. Tim’s mouth waters, and he swallows before talking. 

“I had a really long argument with a rosemary plant, once,” Tim recalls ruefully. “It was dumb. But I was so desperate for human food that I’d’ve said just about anything.”

The rosemary plant refused, in the end. Everyone was too scared of the Unseelie Queen to help Tim. 

Alfred stirs his pot carefully. “You had an argument…with the rosemary plant?” He clarifies neutrally. 

“Yep.” Tim’s legs swing back and forth a bit faster. “I told you, it was really dumb. I would’ve tried with the mushrooms, but they’re mean and scary, really scary. And old.”

Some of the mushrooms are even older than the Unseelie Queen, which makes them even scarier. Except that the Unseelie Queen has Tim’s name, and the mushrooms do not. 

Tim blushes all of a sudden, mindful of his audience. “I didn’t mean being old makes them scary,” he mumbles, furious at himself. He is supposed to be trying to get Alfred to like him, and instead he insults him! What is wrong with him?

“It is quite alright, dear boy,” Alfred says. “I assure you no offense was taken. Now, what is it you were saying about being desperate for human food?”

Mr. Grayson (“call me Dick, everyone else does!”) is the easiest to trick into caring about Tim. He is actually not sure what he did to pull it off. Dick stays at Wayne Manor most weekends, and the first time he comes over, before Tim has a chance to enact any of his thirty-four “Trick Robin Into Liking Me” plans, Dick asks if he wants to get ice cream. Tim accepts eagerly, and Dick smiles so brightly that Tim nearly forgets about Mr. Wayne scowling in the background. After that, Dick always makes a point to seek him out. Tim is pretty sure he makes a bumbling mess of himself every conversation, but somehow Dick keeps laughing it off and taking Tim out for another slightly reckless and exceedingly enjoyable excursion. 

Jason is a bit harder to trick. He is still healing mentally and emotionally from his death, so he’s off-duty as Robin. Since school is out for the summer, this means he spends most of his time curled up in the library. Tim once hovered behind him for hours, trying to work up the courage to start a conversation, when Jason turned and snapped what so aggressively that Tim immediately ran away. 

In general, he is surly, defensive, angry, and reluctant to accept affection from his real family, much less Tim. Eight plans to trick Jason into caring about him are complete failures that end in Tim further earning Jason’s ire. Another fourteen plans are thrown out before Tim can enact them, after the humiliation of the eight failures. 

Eventually, Tim turns to Dick for help. Dick has alluded to a rough start with Jason, which sounds fake to Tim. Dick was Robin, how could anyone not like him? But maybe he can give Tim advice. 

It is a sweltering Saturday in late July when Dick pulls away from Wayne Manor in some type of fancy car with Tim in the co-pilot seat. 

“I need advice,” Tim says nervously as Bristol’s mansions flash by. Tim did his best not to look at the Drakes’ manor. He succeeded in not looking, but he wondered whether his parents started staying in Gotham more often once Tim was gone, and the question won’t leave him alone.

“What’s up?” Dick asks easily. He lazes in the driver’s seat, two fingers on the steering wheel. It is this nonchalance which convinces Tim to go through with his question. 

Tim’s hands tap out some pattern on his forearms and elbows. “How do I get Jason to like me?”

Dick curls his right hand around the wheel and glances at Tim quickly. Tim still struggles reading expressions, so he has absolutely no idea what’s going through Dick’s mind. Maybe he’s thinking that there’s no way that Jason will ever like him. Maybe Dick doesn’t like Tim. Maybe he’s only acting like he cares about Tim because he’s so nice.

“Jason doesn’t…” Dick sighs. “Not like you. He’s just going through a lot right now. On top of the stuff with his birth mother, he also, well, you know.”

“Died,” Tim supplies.

Dick’s shoulders inch towards his ears. Veins in his forearm pop as the hand on the wheel tightens. “Yeah. So, just, give him some time, yeah?” 

But Tim doesn’t have time. He has until the end of the summer, approximately two more months. To the fae the end of summer is not a specific day, but rather a sensation. Decay on the doorsteps, rot in the wind. Hot breezes melting into simmering afternoons. The crisp crackle of a leaf underfoot. 

If he cannot trick every member of the Wayne family into loving him by the end of summer, he must return to the Unseelie Queen, this time forever. That was her bargain. This is Tim’s one chance to escape her. 

Tim looks out his window at the cold, unfeeling mansions and nods miserably. “Okay.”

Jason does not like the new kid. Everything about him is just slightly off. He walks like he’s surprised that his feet come back down. He talks like he’s describing a dream and expects everyone else to understand. He’s constantly watching Jason silently with those eerie, unblinking eyes of his. Despite living in the same house as Batman, Tim is quieter still, always popping up unannounced and thrusting a trinket or a book at Jason. 

This isn’t even getting into the part where Jason knows he died but doesn’t quite remember it and keeps having nightmares he doesn’t understand. He vaguely recalls a forest that wasn’t a forest and a hand that wasn’t a hand, curling around his shoulder. Bruce won’t stop treating Jason like glass and Dick still looks weepy sometimes, but neither will let Jason out as Robin. All three are letting Jason get away with everything except the things he actually wants to do. It’s infuriating. 

In other words, the summer is off to a great start.

“Bets on the new kid,” Jason says. He’s in the middle of making himself peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, because he is the only one that Alfred allows in the kitchen. 

Dick is draped dramatically across the counter, because according to him it’s so tragic how Jason never wants to do anything fun. Jason hit him over the head with a spatula in response. Dick whined about that, so Jason hit him even harder. 

“What are we betting on?” Dick asks.

Jason half-shrugs. “Like…he’s clearly not human. What is he?”

Dick sits up on the counter. “Yeah, he keeps talking about talking to plants.”

“And plants are always a little bigger and shinier after he leaves the room,” Jason adds.

“Maybe he’s got some relation to Ivy,” Dick suggests.

This entire conversation would not be necessary if Bruce would just cough up the answer. But he responds to every question about Tim with some variation of “hmmm” or “I cannot say.” Jason even sucked up his pride and asked Barbara, but she doesn’t know what’s up with the new kid either. Jason suspects that Bruce promised Tim he wouldn’t tell, because–

“Have you seen his reaction to food though?” Jason asks rhetorically. “It’s like he’s so shocked he’s being fed.”

And he lets that hang, because maybe it’s true, and not a joke. 

Dick scratches his chin. “And he says ‘human’ like he’s not one.” 

“Okay.” Jason sets his mixing bowl down on the counter Dick claimed as his seat. “My theory: he’s a metahuman whose parents–or guardians–or whoever was in charge of him–treated as less than human, and he made B promise not to say ‘cause he doesn’t know we ain’t shit like his parents yet.”

“I mean.” Dick scoots off the counter when Jason comes swinging with the baking tray. He attempts to help Jason spread the parchment paper until Jason glares at him. “He thinks you hate him.”

Jason freezes in the middle of scooping a handful of cookie batter into the tray. Guilt curdles, expired milk and broken egg shells, in his stomach. “I don’t.”

“I know.” 

Dick doesn’t mention the part about Jason dying, because he’s ultra sensitive to that sort of thing. Jason has debated making extra jokes about his death just to force Dick to get used to it, but he hasn’t gone through with it. He’s never seen Dick cry like he did when Jason came back. They haven’t talked about it, because Jason is allergic to big emotions and Dick is nothing but an oversized bundle of big emotions. But it lingers in the back of Jason’s mind, everytime Dick pretends that everything is fine. You mourned me. It’s so obvious, said like that. Of course he mourned Jason. But it’s not an experience Jason ever expected to live through.

Not even Jason knows how he came back to life. He suspects Bruce had something to do with it, but Bruce won’t say. The continuous silence from him is driving Jason to insanity where the Joker and dying failed. 

“Fair tidings.” Tim’s head pops up by Jason’s shoulder and he forcibly suppresses a surprised reaction. Another weird-ism of Tim’s: what sort of American kid says fair tidings? “Can I help?”

“No,” Jason snaps immediately, curling one arm around the batter bowl. 

Dick makes a noise, and Jason winces. He didn’t mean to snap at the kid. It’s just that everything about Tim sets off sirens in Jason’s head. And usually by the time Jason is ready to invite the kid in, he’s run off. 

“Fine,” Jason grunts. He shoves the bowl at Tim. “We’re making cookies.” 

 Tim stares at the bowl with owlish eyes, and Jason clamps down on the urge to yell at the kid again. 

“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says faux-casually. “I never asked. You got a last name?”

Tim’s head snaps up. “Why do you want to know?”

Jesus, he sounds one wrong word from breaking into tears. Jason exchanges a glance with Dick, who is taken aback by the uncharacteristic bout of aggression from the weird kid, and reluctantly decides to intervene. 

“It’s ‘cause we wanna get to know the baby bro better,” Jason says gruffly. “Ya know. Bondin’ and shhhh, uh, stuff.” 

Tim’s blue eyes widen into twin moons. “You want to be my big brother?”

The naked hope in his voice is really not helping with Jason’s guilt. 

“Yeah.” Jason throws down a few more lumps of cookie dough a bit more forcefully than required. “Ain’t no way B is returning you to the kid store.”

Actually, he’s only seen Bruce interact with Tim once, and it was super awkward. But he’s pretty confident that Bruce wouldn’t take in a kid if he didn’t want that kid to be his kid. 

Dick is smiling dopily, so Jason is pretty sure he said enough right words in the right order. “So?” Dick prompts. “Got a last name, baby bird?”

Tim’s hands float to his elbows and start tapping out an unknown pattern. “It’s, uh. Drake.”

“Tim Drake,” Jason tests out, and neither he nor Dick miss the way that Tim does his best impression of a wooden plank at the sound of his name. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Dunno.” Dick snaps his fingers and points at Tim. “Wait! You’re our neighbor!”

Tim gives Dick his weird blank stare, so Dick points at Jason instead. “The Drakes are our neighbors,” he explains. “The parents were always out of the country for vacation or something, but I remember they had a little kid tag along with them once or twice. What happened?”

“Bruh.” Jason shoves the tray in the oven with his bare hands, because he isn’t a wuss and he’s also not stupid enough to touch the burning hot metal with bare hands. “They supervillains or something?”

Tim shakes his head. His hands press flat against his legs. “They sold me.”

He says it so flatly that Jason exchanges another look with Dick just to make sure he heard right. But Dick’s jaw drops in outrage, so clearly they heard the same thing.

“How? When? To who?” Dick’s eyes narrow. He’s dropping into protective big brother mode. Jason has had the dubious pleasure of experiencing it first-hand a few times. “Does B know about this?”

But Tim shakes his head again. “I can’t say.”

“Are they threatening you?” Jason jumps in, pretending his tone isn’t leaning in the same big brother direction as Dick’s is. “You know B has Supes on speed-dial, right? Ain’t no one in the world who can get away with threatening you now that B’s got you.”

Tim shakes his head a third time, and Jason really has no idea if Tim actually means no or if he’s just moving his head. 

Dick and Jason exchange another worried look, but this time Jason isn’t sure what Dick is thinking. Mostly because Tim just gave them about a thousand more questions in the process of answering one. 

[cripplecharacters]

I am writing a story which includes a Deaf character. She is mostly included via text. As the main character is long distance, autistic and nonverbal. So most of their communication up until the point they meet, is text messages. When they meet, both characters use auslan to communicate.

But for the text, how could / would the Deaf character type? Like auslan translated to words directly, something like 'help I want'. Or more traditional English, like 'I want help'. Or a mixture of auslan syntax and English. Or something else.

Thanks. Oh and I am not Deaf myself. I know some auslan and am learning some more. But I am autistic and nonverbal. If any of that is important to your response.

Hi!

My answer is, it depends.

Someone who grew up with auslan as a first language and little exposure to spoken or written English is more likely to type with auslan grammar than someone who grew up speaking.

Some who grow up in Deaf households will specifically learn written English grammar as a second language from a young age. A character like this will likely type in spoken English grammar. (They may still find auslan grammar more natural!)

A character who grew up deaf but language deprived and non-speaking, who then learned sign language at an older age but still as their first or only language, would likely use auslan grammar.

A character whose first or only language is sign will likely feel most comfortable signing, even to chat. It's honestly very frustrating how long some words are when they take just a second to sign. There are plenty of ways to just send a video rather than text messaging!

I would say from my experience with Deaf people of different backgrounds, here are some common grammar markers in writing:

Spelling errors.

When fingerspelling, the first and last letters along with the general shape of the word are more important than every letter in the correct order. Same ends up happening with written words.

There's also sometimes a difficulty remembering names. Personally I remember name signs very easily (helps that they often relate to a person's appearance or personality!) but actually remembering the person's written name? Very hard!

Plurality and verb tense.

[Note: the following examples are true of ASL and I'm fairly certain auslan as well, but I don't know if they're true in every sign language.]

"I want" is signed similar to "he wants" (only difference is pronoun), and "car" is the same sign as "cars" (clarify plurality through context and descriptors).

In written English it can be a struggle to pick the correct form of a word when they're all the same in sign language!

A character who grew up in an oral environment would likely struggle less with this, though it depends on their exposure to written language.

Slang/Translation.

There aren't good translations for a lot of signs, especially slang. It may be difficult to put those into words.

Reactions especially--like how hearing people say "mhm", there are Deaf equivalents, but they can be hard to represent textually.

Another translation problem is when the sign and the written equivalent don't quite match up. For example the ASL sign "for" can be used in the question "for-for?" which is best translated as "for what?" or "what for?" but will often be written out as "for for?" because that is literally the sign.

To recap: it depends on your character's background what grammar they will use, but if they're a native signer, "perfect" English grammar isn't super likely. Of course there are exceptions to everything I've written, these are just some patterns I've observed :) [smile face]

Mod Rock

[babyangelsky]

My Favorite Expressions in Love Sea Ep. 6

Every week I think I cannot possibly be having a better time with this show than I already am and every week I'm proven wrong. I LOVE IT HERE AND I'M HAVING A GREAT TIME!

Well Mut, I suffer from this condition as well. It's called Permanent Heart Eyes and it's incurable.

This is such a universal expression. Anyone who has ever watched someone they love eat something they cooked for them and enjoy it has made this face. Food is the greatest love language of them all.

Also, very pleasantly surprised to learn that Tongrak is a leftovers girly. I didn't expect him to be and now I love him even more.

Peat really has mastered the shift from 🥺 to 🥰. He does it a lot this episode and it barely takes him a full second each time, I love it.

When I tell you I COULD. NOT. LOVE. THIS. MAN. MORE. We only see him in profile when he delivers the last part of this line but this is a delightfully murderous expression. If I don't get a scene of Mahasamut cussing Prin out I'm going to be so disappointed.

The utter shock at hearing that Mut wants to hear about Tongrak from him. The quiet disbelief. The relief. I can't show it in a screenshot but Tongrak breathes out when Mut says this and his shoulders relax. No one has ever given this man the courtesy of asking directly if they want to know something about him and allowing him to decide if he wants to share things and Mut does it so easily.

The way he marvels at Mahasamut as it sinks in that he gets a choice, that he gets to decide if and how much to tell is just... it's lovely and completely fucking heartbreaking at the same time.

And because he was actually given a choice, he had no choice but to open up. Mut has made him feel so safe and respected that opening up becomes easy.

"Even though they have a complete, loving family with a loving father."

Stab me, it would hurt less.

No expression but the vibe is "I didn't say you could hug me but also I'm going to cling to you for dear life and try to burrow inside of your chest".

This is another one of those scenes that could have its own dedicated post and for which I would hit the picture limit immediately because the expressions were phenomenal and numerous so I'm cutting myself off.

Would you look at that. Tongrak opened up and now we're cuddling and taking a nap inside of the bedroom no one has ever been allowed to enter. Phenomenal. I'm so proud of this sleepy kitten.

Quick, someone google "how to tell your buddy that you're his husband's best friend's new sugar baby" for Mut he's asking for a friend it's him he's the friend.

THE CUTE AGGRESSION IS ETERNAL AND RELENTLESS.

Fort does the scolded puppy face so well.

Well aren't WE a jealous little jellyfish, Khun Tongrak? He's so bitchy I love him so much.

Not pictured: him refusing to speak first when he talks to Connor even though he's the one who called and the 30 different emotions he goes through during that call.

I spy with my little eye TWO jealous lil jellyfish. What's a group of jellyfish called?

*looks*

A bloom. There's a bloom of pouty jealous jellyfish in this house. I do love when "fights" are for silly reasons and everyone involved knows they're being ridiculous.

Side note: I covet this wallpaper. I need it on one of my bedroom walls immediately.

Also, I would like to do my clown check in for the week and point out that Vivi has solid-colored textured pillows and patterned pillows on her couch but Tongrak chose to cuddle the patterned ones.

We finally got to meet Tongrak's niece Meena and oh but she's a darling, precocious little thing. I also look at Mahasamut like this but you have no business doing it, miss thing, you're a baby! Same goes for reading your uncle's novels I say as someone who started reading romance novels when I was about her age.

2.7 seconds apart. I timed it. I'm saying it every week at this point but Peat, I love everything you do with your face.

And I am very quickly growing to love everything Nina does with that cute little face, too. It's good for Meena to see her beloved uncle being so loved by the beautiful man living in his house.

I have so much more to say about Meena but that definitely will get its own post because it's not limited to her facial expressions. There's a lot to unpack in this scene and in the cafe scene with her and Mut.

I mean--do I even need to say anything? I can't wait to reblog every single gif I can find of this scene because it had me screaming into a pillow like Tongrak.

I'm reaaaaally starting to hate the 30 image photo limit because it truly is not enough to capture everything I love in this feast of a show. Prepare to be so sick of me because there WILL be more posts about this episode.

Also, if you'd like to be tagged in my weekly ramblings about micro-expressions, let me know! 💖

[bethanydelleman]

George Wickham isn't bad in that way (which is the best thing I can say about him)

A lot of online discussions label Wickham from Pride & Prejudice as a pedophile because both of his victims, Georgiana Darcy and Lydia Bennet, were 15/16 years old. However, I am very certain this was not Jane Austen's point, and it also papers over the big differences between Georgiana's and Lydia's cases.

(This post isn't graphic but I'll put the rest under the jump)

Firstly, Georgiana's age was about her vulnerability to manipulation, not attraction. If Georgiana was older and out, she probably would have not fallen for Wickham and agreed to run away because she would have had other competing choices and more information about the engagement and marriage process. The time is chosen because she is ignorant, under the care of someone who is willing to betray her, and Wickham wants her money. I'm pretty sure he would have gone for her fortune even if he was adverse to her appearance.

Secondly, Lydia runs away with Wickham because she is following her mother's misguided, "husband at any cost" philosophy, there is no evidence in the book that this was a premeditated plan of his. The plot to elope with Georgiana was premeditated, but from everything in the book, Wickham was running away from debt and brought Lydia along for funsies because she offered. The point of Lydia's elopement is that she was too young, too ignorant, and not well protected. Her parents made a huge error in judgment allowing her to go to a place where she might fall victim to something like this. If it wasn't Wickham, it could have easily have been someone else, like Willoughby, almost the same thing happens to Eliza Williams under nearly the same circumstances.

Thirdly, the age of consent was 14 at the time and Lydia at least was "out". So culturally, he's going for people who would be considered "women" though most people at the time also would have thought they were marrying too early. So many people in the novel say Lydia is too young. (The average age of first marriage was 23.4 (Women's History of Britian, 2005)). Also, I think Jane Austen, who rarely describes anyone in detail, going out of her way to make Lydia the tallest of the sisters and also describing Georgiana as very tall, and describing both of them as fully developed, was her making the point that this wasn't Wickham having an attraction to prepubescent girls. Not that liking barely legal girls is great, but it's more like a modern guy dating 18 year olds when he's 30, more icky than illegal.

It was about how girls who are too young are far more vulnerable to mistakes, empty promises, and manipulation.

So yeah, Wickham is the worst, but he's not that bad. This is the most I will ever say in his defence. I hold out a fond hope that he died in battle and Lydia gets a second chance at life. Or ran like the coward he is and then was court marshalled.

[henrycangelbaby]

In which: “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?”

Or

An interview gives unique insight into Pedro Pascal and his vast amount of love for his wife

I make my way through meeting the cast of HBO's unexpected hit “The Last Of Us” rather easily.

Bella Ramsey lives in a far nicer apartment in London than anything I would have been able to afford at the same age. Despite their fame and talent, they remain settled and down to earth, dressed in an outfit a little too cool for me to understand and eager to show me around their lovely apartment that is decorated in a way that I quite liked but I'm sure my baby boomer father would find offensive. I even end up meeting Ramsey's girlfriend, a fellow actor (who I admittedly had never heard of) who is equally as young and pretty as Ramsey is. They are both lovely and down to earth, a sentiment I don't often find relatable working with celebrities.

Kaitlin Denver is in her late 20s and still looks like she could be in high school. She lives in a shared house with her sister, whom she also shares a music career with. Despite the controversy surrounding her character in the show, she seems to remain completely unfazed by the backlash and threats that surround Abby Anderson. Denver merley shrugs when I ask her how she deals with it, leaving me to assume her vices when it comes to dealing with unprecedented hate.

I meet other stars of the show too. Gabriel Luna has all the southern charm of Tommy Miller and more, making me question whether he really does any acting when playing the sweeter, younger Texan brother. Isabela Merced is very beautiful in person and is also far shorter than I had imagined. What she lacks in height she makes up for in personality and charm.

Of course, when you think of the stars of The Last Of Us, there is probably someone else that comes to mind. Securing an interview with Pedro Pascal is probably one of the harder things I have had to do in recent years. It's not that Pacal is hard to come by; in fact, in recent years we haven't been able to escape him. I originally doubted that I would even be able to secure an interview with the internet's "daddy." Pascal has had a busy few years, and this one is no different. With multiple projects coming out this year, including the new season of The Last Of Us and his highly anticipated entry into the MCU as the iconic Richard Reed, it seems that everyone wants a piece of him. While all the other actors on this list do have notable careers outside of the show, the point of this interview series was to be able to interview the main cast members of the show in anticipation for the new season; however, I found that same sentiment hard to carry across when interviewing Pascal. I don't want to spoil the show for anyone, but I will just say that he won't be back next season. Whether that's due to internal conflicts or simply being too booked, we’ll never know.

I was rather ecstatic to receive a phone call from someone on his team letting me know the time and date for our interview. Like normal, I'm given an NDA to sign before receiving any personal information, such as his address (which I did require for the purpose of the interview). But everything else seems to go off without a hitch. 

I was admittedly nervous to meet him. In the best way possible, his reputation definitely proceeds him. Pascal is only ever described as kind, loving, funny, and any other positive synonyms for a massive sweetheart that you can think of. I personally have been a big fan of his work since he played forever thirsted over narcos agent Javier Paner. I know they say you shouldn't meet your idols (and trust me, I've had my fair share of heartbreaking realizations that someone I once admired is actually a piece of shit), but I had high hopes for meeting Pedro. And I am happy to report that it did not disappoint. 

I arrived at his home in Los Angeles ten minutes earlier than I should have. Not that I'm kept waiting, as before I can get a second knock in on the door, a young woman flings it open, smiling at me tightly. She quickly lets me in, introducing herself as Pascal's assistant, offering me tea or coffee, and ushering me to sit down on the comfy-looking couch while I wait for her boss to arrive (which she insists should not be too long). I take a moment to look around the room while I'm waiting. The room is sweet and welcoming, much like the rest of the home, which feels very well... homely (like stepping into your best friend's house and chatting with their parents at the dinner table). It's a hard feeling to describe, such a sense of nostalgia from a place that I had never been in before. It feels fitting though that a man so beloved as Pedro Pascal should have a home that feels so nice. I snoop to get a closer look at the photos that hang up on the walls and sit on cabinets. Most of them seem normal. There are a few faces I recognize within the photos; Oscar Iscac can be spotted alongside a younger-looking Pascal in one of the photos on the wall. I spot John Favro amongst a few people in a photo that looks to have been taken on the set of The Mandelorian, but apart from that, the photos seem normal. They depict family and friends in various places over various years; it appears that Pascal cherishes his relationships with loved ones above all else. 

I'm stopped in my snooping by another face in one of the photos, a face I recognize instantly, a face that has been all over the internet and tabloids for some time now. Pedro's wife. The photo is the first one in which she features prominently, sitting alongside what I can only assume to be one of her husband's sisters. It's a sweet photo, one that I can imagine Pedro was on the other side of, grinning wildly while taking. Y/N Pascal is an elusive figure that the media and her husband's fans have been trying to know better for a few years now. She is what is best described as a "normie," that is to say that she is just like you and me; that is perhaps what makes her so interesting to fans. She doesn't appear to have any ties to the industry; she isn't some big-wig producer's daughter; in fact, despite their insistence, fans have been unable to find anything on her. She has no public social media accounts, no company profiles online, and no one she went to high school with has come forward with a tik tok horror story (yet!). The couple are shrouded in mystery; no one seems to know how they met, where Y/N is from, or even the highly shrouded question of her age. She certainly appears younger than Pascal by a good few years, and I'm sure that I could find thousands of posts online speculating (or being downright nasty) about how young she is. But out of respect for the happy couple, I leave it a mystery. 

The sharp heels of the sensible shoes that Pascal's assistant is wearing suddenly come back into earshot. She warns me to be ready with my stuff as “they” will be home soon. I don't think twice about her words before hauling ass back to the couch and trying to pull myself together. It's not long before I hear the front door open. Amy (Pascal's assistant that I had only just remembered the name of) runs to the door. I walk slower behind awkwardly, not wanting to intrude (despite the fact that I had spent the last ten minutes snooping around what was essentially a stranger's house). I peek round the corner to be greeted with Pascal's broad back. He is facing away from me, talking to his assistant lowly. His assistant finishes speaking and moves past me, wishing me luck in passing. Pascal doesn't turn around to greet me yet; in fact, he drops down onto one knee to reveal to my utmost shock his wife. Neither of them pay me any mind as he begins untying her shoes for her, ever the gentleman everyone believes he is. 

It's not a second later that the man of the hour turns around to greet me. He smiles widely at me, and I find myself blushing slightly at his unwavering eye contact as he introduces himself. He only introduces himself by his first name, not something I find often when meeting famous people; they are often eager to give me the name that everyone knows and loves them by. It seems a bit of a strange phenomenon in Hollywood that has missed Pascal. His wife then steps forward to introduce herself. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to the millions of jealous fans, but Y/N Pascal is strikingly beautiful; even as I meet her in her own home with no makeup, she glows ethereally with a striking smile that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. In that moment meeting her I quickly see why Pascal holds her in such admiration.

Much to my disappointment, that is the first and last time I see her during the interview. Pedro ushers her away somewhere out of sight with a protective arm around her shoulder. I can hear him mutter to her lowly, promising to be quick. Before kissing her goodbye with an "I love you." It makes my heart ache with a longing. Much like the rest of the internet, I wish I had a man like Pedro Pascal. We chat for a while, while exploring his house, he speaks passionately about his career, which he clearly loves. He has a flame behind his eyes as he speaks about his long-winded love for the cinema. He tells me stories of his famous friends that are featured on his walls. We laugh together, and he very much reminds me of an old friend. Even though I should be interviewing him, I let him talk, rambling on about things that I didn't find important enough to put in this interview, but they certainly put a smile on my face. 

The house is beautiful; it's decorated nicely and feels authentic and homely. It's not massive, not overly obnoxious in the way many celebrity houses are; it's still big, the kind of size that screams loving family. I don't mean to make assumptions, but it almost feels like it's been brought with the idea of a growing family in mind. I complement the house easily. Pedro smiles at me. For the first time in the interview, he refers to his wife. He tells me that he hadn't cared where they lived; “anywhere is home when you are with someone that you love,” but insists that she had loved the house the moment they first saw it. "She has better taste than me,” he tells me with a loving glint in his eye. "She did a good job.” I compliment, he nods and smiles, "always thought I was biased 'cause I’m married to her, but glad to know it's not just me." I feel awfully privileged to get an insight into Pedro's fondness of his wife. It's not often that he speaks about her publicly; she gets mentioned in passing during interviews and is often spotted at events with him, safely away from the cameras, but it's clear to the general public that his marriage is a part of his life that he wishes to keep away from public scrutiny. 

Its towards the end of the interview that I do ask him about his marriage. We walk past a wedding photo that depicts him and his lovely bride squashed together on one seat, smiling widely at the camera. He doesn't say anything when he notices me peering at the photo. I ask him carefully if he thinks being a married man has changed him. He ponders for a second. "Probably,” he answers me carefully. It's not the response I had expected from him, so I quickly encourage him to go on. "I suppose it has in a way,” he continues. “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?” I smile and nod at his explanation. I understand what he is saying—such a sweet sentiment that it makes my heart warm. 

We don't speak for much longer after that; he briefly mentions a few upcoming projects, which he seems excited for. I ask him what he has planned next, after his next few big projects are done. He hesitates for a second. “Truthfully,” he says, “I plan on taking a step away for a bit.” I ask if he wants to settle down more. “Yeah, that's part of it; I mean, I’m not getting any younger.” He tells me, “Things are changing soon, and I just want to be settled with my family.” He finishes. I wonder for a moment what he is referring to when he mentions these soon changes; I don't ponder on it too long; much like a crazed fan, I have a few theories floating around in my head. 

We wrap up the interview from there; he is as polite and gracious as he has been the entire time, shaking my hand and thanking me for my time. I try to thank him for the interview and for letting me into his house, but he simply shakes his head at me, insisting it was his pleasure. He disappears soon after that, saying he has something to attend to (and speed walking in the direction that his wife disappeared to). I'm left to see myself out; I don’t snoop too much after I’m left alone. I make my way back to the front of the house, peering around as I go. I peek inside one room that appears to be in the middle of some kind of renovation or do-over. There are multiple pieces of yet-to-be put together furniture on the ground as the walls look to be in the middle of being painted a pastel purple color. 

I’m about to leave when something catches my eye—on the table by the front door, which has various bits and bobs scattered over it, but none of these catch my eye. I step closer to get a clearer view of what appears to be a small black and white photo. I quickly realize what it is: tucked beneath the wallet I had seen Pedro place down before our interview began is an ultrasound. I smile knowingly as my theory is proven correct; the Pascal family is about to be adding another member. 

Congratulations to Pedro as his wife on the upcoming addition to their family.

[nightwngz]

Hiya! May I request a Hal Jordan with a shy fem or gn reader that he wants to bring out of their shell? Can be fluff or smut, I like both :3 Thank you so much! I’m glad you love Hal as much as I do!

BLUSHING !

hal jordan x fem!reader

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀. . . fluff. A cliché because I like them. Hal bothers the reader because she blushes very often. Age gap? (9/10 years). Unrealistic and fanciful references to the operation of what is probably a military aircraft, try to ignore them to make the fantasy more enjoyable. Kisses.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁. . . no copying of my work is allowed. Free translation is allowed as long as I am credited.

𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗴𝗲. . . as I said in my other posts, English is not my first language. I have tried to make corrections with the translator, but as you all know, it is prone to making mistakes, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or if anything sounds weird.

𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲. . . I enjoyed writing this request. I was getting a bit tired of the constant smut stuff, so I wrote this as a refreshing break from that. I hope you enjoy it. <3

Throughout their lives, many people have had a friend who used to be completely shy and introverted. That person you had to speak for because they couldn't say more than two words without getting nervous. Unfortunately, you were that person, and Dick Grayson was the best friend of the Titans who rushed to your rescue when you were forced to socialize.

On a mission alongside the Justice League, you couldn't help but feel intimidated. They were all the greatest heroes in the world, the epitome of heroism that you aspired to become. In comparison, you were a rookie with little experience. Even Dick, who was almost the same age as you, often had much more experience. In this regard, you couldn't help but feel an intense sense of nervousness that wouldn't let you keep your composure.

You stayed behind Dick and Kory throughout the entire meeting, trying to blend in. You feared that at any moment you might be forced to step forward and say something, so you just stayed behind the couple until you had to return to the tower.

— Any questions about the plan? — Dick concluded, crossing his arms.

— Just one. — Said an unfamiliar voice. — Is the new recruit hiding behind you coming to say hello?

Quickly, your cheeks flushed intensely. This was what you feared: being forced to introduce yourself when all you wanted was to stay in your space behind everyone, unnoticed.

With your head down, your cheeks flushed, and your nerves on edge, you leaned forward to answer as best you could.

— H-hello.

Once the guys moved away, you could briefly see that it had been Green Lantern who had dared to ask if he could say hello. Barely had you responded to him when a bold smile spread across his face, making you feel much more flushed than before.

— Well... — Dick congratulated you quietly as he positioned himself again as a barrier, covering you. —Does anyone have any doubts about the plan?

You kept thinking about Green Lantern in the coming days, occasionally while hugging the pillow. You thought he was attractive, but his flirtatious demeanor could be intimidating, even more so than Batman's, and that's considering you had only exchanged a word with him.

When you thought about it properly, you felt overwhelmed by the questionable age difference. He could easily be up to 10 years older than you, but that couldn't stop you from being attracted to him. However, if just saying hello made you so nervous, how were you supposed to flirt with an older man? You were pathetic.

When you returned to the Watchtower to complete a mission, he stood next to you and looked you up and down. You were incredibly surprised by the height difference between the two of you.

When you noticed his presence watching you, your cheeks flushed a deep red. He just chuckled with a hint of tenderness, which made you feel even more embarrassed.

— You blush easily, don't you? — He asked you kindly. — How cute.

You couldn't answer, the words got stuck in your throat. You tried to make your cheeks stop burning, but they only grew redder. You wanted to run and hide, but you didn't have the courage, so you just stood there.

— You don't have to be ashamed, honey. I don't bite. Not all the time, of course — He joked.

A strand of hair fell across your face, obstructing your view, but you didn't notice until Hal's hand brushed it aside, tucking it behind your ear. You dared to glance at him for a second; he was too handsome to assume he was flirting instead of just being friendly.

— I…

— What did you say, honey? I can't hear you when you mumble. — He smiled at you.

Finally, you started to listen to Dick giving his speech about the mission for the Titans and the league, but you could only think about Hal. It was the only thing you could think about during the two-hour meeting.

He was incredibly outgoing compared to you. Maybe that was one of the reasons he was so attractive: his confidence, his charm, and how outgoing he was. You hadn't talked to him much, just twice, but you were drawn to his energy, and you just wanted to know what it would be like to be with someone like that, but not anyone, just him.

Your mind wandered into practically unreal romantic fantasies. Perhaps it was obvious that, due to past experiences, you had little confidence in love and that's why you hoped that he would be unique among others. However, you would hit yourself on the head with your own fist when you remembered that he probably wasn't even interested in you.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. You felt like an idiot.

Furthermore, it was most likely that once that mission was over, Hal Jordan wouldn't hear from you again until the Titans were needed again. So maybe, it was perhaps naive to think or hope to run into him somewhere outside of work. What started as shyness turned into a huge ball of limitations trying to convince you that feeling attraction was a very bad idea. However, you kept blushing three times as much as usual every time you saw him, every single time!

Your conversations between you began to flow more naturally. Hal, being the flatterer and flirt that he is, did everything he could to bring you out of your shell. In particular, he had developed an obsession with making you blush, mentioning everything from simple things like how beautiful you were when you blushed to more vulgar things, but still eliciting that feeling of attraction in you.

One day, you were fortunate enough to be completely alone in some area of the base. Since everything was located in space, you were lucky to see the stars from a better position. They looked so close that you thought you could pick them up with your fingers.

— Have you ever traveled by plane? — he asked, standing in the doorway, admiring how fascinated you were watching the stellar spectacle.

— Several times. These are some of the advantages Dick has as Batman's son.

He smiled, approaching you and extending his hand for you to take.

— Come with me.

You followed him blindly, taking his hand. It wasn't long before both of you were on land, more precisely in a city called 'Coast City', right in front of 'Ferris Aircraft', where Hal stopped and removed the ring from his finger to tuck it inside his pocket. Everything was starting to get more confusing with each step.

— Hal... — You murmured with a blush. — What does that mean? I told you, I've flown in an airplane before.

— But you’ve never flown with me.

That's his line. The most memorable phrase that anyone who has spent time with him has heard him say. It made you feel special, even though deep down you knew you weren't. But flying with him excited you so much that it didn't matter that you weren't the first to go with him.

After bribing the security guard at the entrance with the excuse, "Do it for the beautiful lady," you were both in the air. You marveled at the view of the night sky from the co-pilot's window, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins from the speed, which made you even more excited. Perhaps it was this that made you smile from ear to ear, as you had never done before. Your fingers danced to the rhythm of your companion's excitement.

— How is it possible that everything seems more exciting from up here? — You asked him, completely amused by the experience.

— How is it possible that I had to take you on a tour of the sky to make you lose your shyness?

In a hurried impulse, you grabbed Hal by the chin to turn his face towards you until you could see his eyes, and without much thought, you pressed your lips against his. It was a swift motion, but you kissed him intensely until it was necessary to let go so he could focus back on the road.

— Maybe the adrenaline is giving me the confidence to do whatever it takes — you said, but a few seconds later you blushed. — I'm not sure how long that will last.

Quickly, he moved his fingers to a bold red button in the center of the control panel labeled "Autopilot”. Then he settled into his seat, and you leaned back against the armrest. He was very close to you, watching you with those bright brown eyes you loved so much.

— Then we should make the most of every minute, right?

Your cheeks flushed as usual, which made him smile. He leaned down to your neck and kissed it with great devotion, making you tingle. Your hands ran down his back, caressing his aviator jacket, the one you once dreamed of wearing when he had the desire to lend it to you, infused with his scent.

Minutes later, he kissed your lips. He caressed them with his own, exploring you entirely, leaving no corner untested. His lips felt moist and soft, just as you had imagined they would. His minty breath slid down your throat as Hal rejoiced that your lips tasted like cherry lip gloss, delicious and addictive.

It was not only the first time you kissing inside a plane in the middle of the sky, leaning back in the co-pilot's seat, but it was also the first time you found yourself in this situation. For a moment, as his fingers pressed against your thigh, you wondered if you were doing the right thing or if you should tell him to stop and land. But honestly, everything seemed easier from up there: with Hal Jordan at your feet and a starry sky around you, it was easy to feel like you were in control.

— Have I told you how cute you are when you're not afraid of anything?

It was the first time you had gone this far with someone, but you didn't want to stop. Your blush and embarrassment wouldn't be able to defeat you this time.

[bl4ckros3s]

how I feel about gravity falls ships (pines twins edition)!:

younger pines twins:

dipper x pacifica: I love this ship so much!!! They complete each other!!! Practically canon.

mabel x pacifica: they would be the best sugar and salt couple ever!! Love this!!!

mabel x gideon: nope. Gideon is too manipulative and pushy and doesn’t match her, but I am curious about someone that would like gideon and gideon would like them back.

dipper x wendy: if dipper were the same age as wendy then obviously, but if he isn’t, then it’s a no.

dipper x bill: I literally gagged writing that. No way. Even though dipper is like ford in several, he can’t be swayed as easily as him and has a problem trusting people he’s just met. And bill would literally appear out of nowhere in his dreams. He’d call bs to that.

dipper x mabel: 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️ get the hell away from me. Ur ass don’t deserve this show😡

older pines twins edition:

ford x bill: YESSSSS. A HUNDRED PERCENT YESSSS. NO ONE WILL EVER BE ABLE TO SWAY ME INTO THINKING ANYTHING ELSE. THEY WERE TOGETHER. THEY BELONG TOGETHER. IT IS CANON.

ford x fiddleford: they would be the cutest couple ever. Forehead kisses and holding hands and talking about being nerds together. Such couple goals💕💕

stan x fiddleford: bonded over a egotistical and self centered ford who treated them badly. Can one hundred percent see this happening after ford was thrown into the portal.

stan x bill: it wouldn’t work out. They’re both con artists and can see through each other’s tricks. But that could also be something that they bond over so I kinda don’t know…..

bonus: I’m a fan of toh and gf, so stan x eda. It would be fuckin hilarious if eda was the woman that stan married in Vegas. They would definitely bond platonically now because they both got a chance to be someone’s parental figure. They’re both big softies in the heart and willing to do anything to protect their families. But just me, if I got someone as hot as eda, she won’t be able to get rid of me…. Rose x eda forever…

I felt like writing an essay because well—I’m very bored and enjoy procrastinating.

[hyunverse]

lucky number five ☆ hwang hyunjin.

pairing: hyunjin x fem! reader. tags: fluff, drabble. words: 3k words. warnings: reader is referred to with she/her, called as wife. about: the five most memorable memories you share with hyunjin. note: i haven't written in a while, so my writing's definitely a little rusty. i hope you'll like it! please reblog, and feedback is very much appreciated &lt;3 disclaimer — © 2023 hyunverse on tumblr. all rights reserved. authors works are protected under the copyright law. do not plagiarize or translate my works. tumblr is my only platform.

𝐨𝐧𝐞.

Five is Hyunjin's lucky number.

Hyunjin first met you when he was five. He had pointed out that you were wearing the same shirt as he was — and you've been attached to the hips ever since.

His first tooth fell out on the fifth day of Summer. He could recall holding the baby tooth on a tissue in one hand, looking up at his mother with puppy eyes. His mother patted him on the head and told him he had grown up. The tooth fairy gave him a single gold coin chocolate, too. Tucked it under his pillow where he placed his baby tooth. He remembers having a lisp until the tooth grew back — remembers how jealous you were that he had "grown up."

The first feeling of victory Hyunjin had ever experienced was when he won fifth place in a colouring contest. Truth be told, he could've easily won first place — but he wanted you to win over him just to see you smile, so he coloured messily. Though the trophy for first place looked glorious, he thought that the smile plastered on your face as you held a medal beat the shine on the trophy.

It was the fifth of May when you two started dating. Hyunjin remembers everything about the fated day, bit by bit. He could play each scene, each dialogue in his head like an overplayed radio song. He was merely sixteen, studying in an all boys school with little to no knowledge about dating. Boys his age didn't care about dating. They only cared about soccer and video games. While he cared about all of that too, a lot of the space in his heart was overtaken by you. Figuring out how to ask you out was tough, he had spent a lot of time pondering. He even gathered up the courage to seek advice from his friends, yet to no avail. They were barely any help. In the end, he observed television dramas and prayed for the best.

Under a cherry blossom tree, you sat on a bench. Your eyes were fixated on the sky as your legs dangled over the wooden bench. The clouds on the sky were huge, luminous — enveloping the sky the way lovers do.

"Jinnie!" Hyunjin heard you cheer as he approached you. The nonchalant look on his face immediately turned into a bright smile, his footsteps becoming more hurried.

Standing in front of you, Hyunjin was the perfect depiction of nervous. Both his hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans, front teeth nibbling onto the inside of his cheeks and the little rocks underneath his foot tumbled as he kicks on them.

Hyunjin gulped, "Hi."

You tilted your head with concern, "are you okay, Jinnie?"

The concern laced in your tone reminded him of all the reasons why he liked you so much. You cared like no other — loved as though nothing could hurt you in this world.

"I am," he replied, rubbing on the back of his neck, "I just —"

"You don't have to rush it," you tapped on the seat beside you, "sit with me. You can take your time to tell me whatever that's on your mind."

So, Hyunjin sat. His legs reached the ground unlike yours, and his eyes fixated on the stain on his sneakers. He was painfully aware of the rapid beating of his heart. The urge to tell you his feelings were bottling up quickly.

Then, it spilled.

"I like you a lot," the words were muttered before Hyunjin could stop them.

"Hm?"

"I like you," he repeated. This time, he sounded more sure, looked more sure. The raven was looking at you, blinking sanguinely.

It took a while for you to process the words, for your jaw to relax and finally respond.

The first response came in a way where you slowly turned your head towards him, blinking profusely.

You stuttered, "like me? Like like, or just friends like?"

He sighed, "like like. I like like you."

"Oh."

There it goes, the rejection. Hyunjin had expected it, but it hurt nonetheless. You were the only person Hyunjin had ever liked, his best friend since kindergarten. His feelings for you ran deep. He was merely sixteen, yes, but he was well aware of how strongly he felt for you.

You didn't expect it, but he tapped on your shoulder comfortingly, as if to say, "I know you don't like me, it's okay."

You were right.

"I know you don't like me, it's okay," he comforted, "I just wanted you to know."

"No, I do like you," you confessed.

"What?"

"Yeah," you replied, breathlessly, "was just shocked, that's all."

"Oh."

Silence blanketed the two of you as the conversation exchanged slowly seeped into your brains. Hyunjin looked like he was simply admiring the view in front of him but really, his brain was going haywire.

"No, I do like you," the words repeated in his brain over, and over. They filled his brain with dopamine, the kind of rush that even his favourite football team winning could not replicate.

The five words which will be engrained in Hyunjin's mind forever.

"I like you a lot."

The five words which will be engrained in yours.

"So..." you broke the silence, "what now?"

Hyunjin's pointer circled against the wood of the bench, itching to hold your hand, "we... you know. Date."

"Yeah. Okay."

For best friends who have known each other for years, it was abnormally quiet for the two of you.

But it was okay. Hyunjin was content with the small smile lingering on your pretty face, and your hand in his — finally in his.

𝐭𝐰𝐨.

The sound of a pan sizzling and a kettle crackling seeped into the guest bedroom, though the sound of Hyunjin and his mother's voice caught your attention the most.

You were spending the weekend at the Hwangs'. Your parents were on a company trip that weekend and didn't trust you alone so naturally, they dropped you off there. You were about to take your morning shower, a towel slung over your shoulder when their voices stopped you in your tracks.

"You really like her, Hyunjin?" his mother asked, her voice the epitome of motherly.

She truly is the stereotypical loving mother — soft, and nurturing. Lunchbox ready on the table every morning, not a single football match of Hyunjin's missed. Treated you like the daughter she never had, braided your hair by the porch as Hyunjin ran around with his beloved dog.

"Um," Hyunjin muttered, silverware clinking against plate as he cut through a sausage.

You clasped your ear against the door, eager to hear more.

"You don't have to be shy with me, Hyunjin."

"I do like her," you heard him say, "a lot."

Crimson crept up your face, and you could picture his face doing the same. You could imagine the tips of his ears going red, and his mother looking at him with a grin.

"You want to marry her?" she asked jokingly.

"I do," he answered. Confidently. Surely. Absolutely no hesitation. As though it was the one sole thing he was sure of in his life.

"Oh, my Hyunjin," his mother cooed, "you're all grown up now!"

You didn't know what happened next, how their conversation continued because you were too busy stifling yourself from giggling giddily. Your back was pressed up against the door, replaying the eavesdropped dialogues in your head over and over. Overcame by excitement, you failed to notice the footsteps approaching the door.

Before you knew it, your head came in contact with the wall as the door swung open. Hyunjin stood in front of you, confused as you rubbed your forehead.

"So aggressive, and for what?" you grunted, looking up at him with a pout.

"Who told you to stand by the door like an idiot?" Hyunjin huffed. Nevertheless, he reached towards your forehead, checking for any bruises.

"You'll be okay. Next time, don't stand by the door like an idi—" he paused, "wait. Did you hear anything?"

You batted your eyelashes innocently, playing dumb.

"Hear what?"

Hyunjin sighed out of relief, ruffling your hair, "nothing you need to worry your pretty self about. Just go shower. I saved you some pancakes."

"Aw," you pecked his lips, "you're so sweet, and so caring. You must want to marry me."

He smiled, but the face soon contorted into one of annoyance.

"So you heard!"

"Heard what? The fact that you're obsessed with me and want to marry me so bad?"

"You're so annoying, y/n."

"You still want to marry me though."

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, "shut up, or I'll take it back."

He wouldn't.

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞.

Exhaustion lugged on Hyunjin as he exited the entertainment building. He's been a trainee for a couple of months now, and the burn-out was no joke. A day with you was exactly what he needed. A couple of days spent with his home, his solace — and he refused to come empty-handed.

Thus, he roamed around the park, in search of wildflowers. Anything he could get his hands on, just as long as he could form a bouquet from them. Hyunjin ducked and moved around, pulling out any flower he deemed beautiful enough. A black hair tie tied together the ensemble of florals. He wished he had managed to get his hands on some ribbons but alas, he couldn't. For now, the black hair tie on his wrist would suffice.

You arrived right when you promised you would. Clad in a pretty yellow sundress, Hyunjin swore that you came right out of a daydream. He watched you wander around in the park for a while, admiring from afar. Even with a confused expression plastered across your face, he still found you gorgeous. A part of him wished that he was simply your secret admirer, so that he could keep watching you from afar for hours. Not being able to be around you would suck though, so perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

“Y/n!” Hyunjin finally called you out, waving his hand to catch your attention, “here!” 

You whipped your head towards his direction, lips twitching into the cutest smile once you caught a glimpse of your boyfriend. 

An arrangement of colourful flowers was handed to you once you were in front of him.  You vividly remember how beautiful it was — petals of yellow, pink, and white which coincidentally matched your dress. Hyunjin on the other hand remember how you looked, the pupils of your eyes practically shining at the ensemble. 

“For me?” you asked, looking at him with big, bright, eyes.

Hyunjin nodded, “for you, of course. Flowers for a flower.”

“Oh,” was all that you could utter, overwhelmed by appreciation. You gently pet the petals, “they’re so pretty.”

“Really?” Hyunjin queried, “I don’t have any money. I wish I could buy you pretty roses and tulips, but I really cannot afford them right now. This is the best that I could do, and I’m sorry my love.”

“Don’t you dare say sorry, Hwang Hyunjin. The fact that you spent time to find these flowers means a lot to me, and makes them even more special. I love them, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He nodded, smiling sheepishly. All the worries he previously harboured immediately disappeared at your words. 

“Okay, love. Let’s go then, find more flowers and I’ll make a wreath out of them for you.”

Years later, and the flowers had long wilted away — pressed and put in a frame for display, resting on a table with vases of flowers accompanying it. 

Hyunjin never stopped gifting you flowers. 

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫.

A yellow bus drove away, leaving two figures at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere. 

The outskirts of Seoul — only ever acknowledged as a place vehicles pass by. No stores, no houses in sight, just a lonesome bus stop surrounded by greens. 

Hyunjin would’ve never stepped foot in this place if it wasn’t for you. If it wasn’t for you climbing into his window and hysterically crying, he wouldn’t have purchased tickets to the middle of nowhere. He would probably be in bed and wake up at noon. 

“I want to run away,” you told him, hours before.

“Okay,” he replied, “I’ll go with you.” 

Normally, Hyunjin wouldn’t support your attempts at rebelling against your parents. Honestly, the words, “don’t be dumb and just say sorry,” sat at the top of his tongue, but they dissolved at the sight of your mascara running down your cheeks. He knew that even if he was to disagree, you would’ve packed your bags and left anyway. He would rather follow to keep you safe.

Plus, the boy knew that the rebellion would only last a couple of hours.

“Let’s sail off without a map. Just walk and see what we’ll discover.”

“Okay.”

God knows how many of those he already said to you that day. 

You walked, hand in hand, him siding with the highway. You looked far too relaxed for someone who was running away. Hyunjin, on the other hand, was terrified. If anything were to happen to the two of you there, nobody would be there to help. His free hand dug into his pocket, tightly clutching onto a butterfly knife. 

Minutes soon turned into an hour. Two people walking soon turned into one — Hyunjin ended up carrying you on his back after seeing that you’ve blistered your feet. He nagged about your choice of footwear, but amidst the nags, he still opted to carry you anyway. Your hands rested around his neck, chin on his head as he walked aimlessly, just waiting for you to finally cave in and ask to go home. 

“Hyunjin, look!”

“Hm?”

The boy turned around, gasping at the sight which greeted his eyes. A field of flowers stretched as far as his eyes could see, green plains decorated with splotches of colourful flowers. 

Before he could say anything, you were already running towards the field, screaming in glee. He followed in pursuit, taking in the breeze and letting blades of grass sway against his legs. 

“Hurry!” 

Hurry, Hyunjin did, running towards you and lifting you off the ground. Hyunjin took advantage of the seemingly infinite space to twirl you around, and run around until the two of you turned breathless, lying on the grass to look at the sky. 

“I love this place,” you mumbled between heavy breaths, “feels like something you only see in your dreams.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up with his elbow. 

Quietly, he admired you. The tranquil expression your face held matched that of the sky. He couldn’t stop the hand reaching towards your face, calloused thumb caressing your face with the same softness of a feather. Each stroke of his thumb whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

“Thank you,” your words reeled Hyunjin out of his daze, “for coming here with me.”

His eyes on you softened. 

“You don’t have to thank me. Just be around forever,” sat at the top of Hyunjin’s tongue and dissolved. 

Instead, he pressed a kiss onto your lips.

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞.

Hyunjin asked you to marry him five years after you started dating.

It was the peak of his career. He was everywhere around the world, collecting awards and breaking records. The little boy who loved football slowly turned into a superstar. He had to bid goodbye to his quiet life, making space for all the glory the world had to offer to him. His name sat at the tip of everyone’s tongues, talk of the town — Achilles reincarnate. 

That was when he decided that he would have to marry you. For amidst all that glory, you were the only stagnant thing in his life. You continued to annoy and nag him as you always do. You continued to be the first person he thinks of when he wakes, and the last person he thinks of as he shuts his eyes. You’re always the person he has in mind as he looks for souvenirs, and when he watches old couples sitting on benches in different cities.

You, you, you. 

Always you. 

Boxes scatter around the living room, some opened and some not. It’s been a few hours since the moving truck unloaded all of the boxes. Honestly, you could’ve gotten so many things done if it weren’t for the two of you constantly procrastinating. 

“Just a five-minute break, babe,” Hyunjin whines, landing on a (still wrapped in plastic) sofa. 

You roll your eyes, “you’ve taken breaks like three times just this hour, Jinnie.”

He whines again, making grabby hands, “need my wife here right now or I’ll die.” 

The sigh which leaves your lips cannot fool him, because the slight grin on your lips gives away that you like his clinginess. You seat yourself in his arms, burying yourself in his neck. The familiar scent of fresh laundry and cologne fills your nostrils, washing away the exhaustion from the day. 

“Me, my wife, and a new house,” you hear Hyunjin mumble, “feels like a dream.”

You voice your agreement by humming. It’s when you stare at the boxes surrounding you that the reality finally sinks in. You’re married to the boy you met in kindergarten. His toothbrush will be in a cup next to yours, his mug will be in the dishwasher with yours, and your dirty laundry will be in the same machine. You’ll wake up next to him every day for what you hope will be your entire life. 

You smile at the thought, sinking yourself into Hyunjin even more. He’s holding you with one hand, the other rummaging through a box when he takes out a Polaroid, showing you it with glee.

A Polaroid of you and him under a cherry blossom tree, five years ago. 

“Isn’t this from the first day we started dating?” Hyunjin asks, blinking his eyes at you.

You tilt your head to observe the polaroid, “oh… Yes, it is, babe!”

He’s laughing, particularly at how red his face looks in the picture. 

“Oh my god, we have to recreate this picture soon, love.”

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disclaimer — © 2023 hyunverse on tumblr. all rights reserved. authors works are protected under the copyright law. do not plagiarize or translate my works. tumblr is my only platform.

[thekingofwinterblog]

The Importance of Banter: Varric Tethras

So one of the more interesting takes I've gotten on my breakdowns of Dragon Age characters is the argument that Varric in terms of character development is one of the lesser characters in the game.

He stays the same, doesn't change much from beginning to end, and while enjoyable, his inclusion doesn't add nearly as much as some of the other characters in the game, and relies way too much on the goodwill from da2 to do most of the legwork for his inclusion in the game.

Now this isn't an argument without merit, I might agree a lot with this take... If it wasn't for the inclusion of one Dragon Age's staples, and one of the aspects that Inquisition arguably does better than ether ADO or DA2.

Character Banter.

Character Banter is extremely important because it gives us an insight into how characters think, how they interact, and showcases the more subtle elements that aren't always on display in the game itself.

Compared to the rest of the Characters, Varric is a bit different in that because he was a companion in the previous game, we can see how he's changed since the previous game.

Cassandra Pentaghast

So it's not an exaggeration to say that Cassandra and Varric has what is easily the most dynamic relationahip between any of the companions, having far and away the most interactions together out of party(And thats not even including the fact that all of DA2 is technically them talking to each other.

And this is reflected in their banter as well, where the two of them go back and forth like a married couple.

The thing that most be understood about Cassandra and Varric's banter though, is the fact that Varric is way, way smarter than Cassandra, who isn't dumb, but is not a genius by any stretch, which is reflected in the Dwarf's tendency to run rings around her all the time.

Cassandra: Have you heard from any of your Kirkwall associates Varric?

Varric: You're asking me? So you don't read my letters?

Cassandra: You're no longer my prisoner, much as you like to act like it.

Varric: Yet I still get all the suspicion.

Cassandra: I am not without sympathy, especially given recent events.

Varric: Why, Seeker, I would never accuse you of having sympathy! By the way I tend to refer to my "associates" as "friends". Maybe you're not familiar with the concept.

Cassandra: (sigh)

---

Varric: You know, Seeker, for someone with your tact and charisma you assembled a... pretty good little Inquisition. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming you didn't drag them all here by force.

Cassandra: How kind of you.

Varric: I mean, you never know, you could have kidnapped Ruffles and she'd be too polite to say anything.

Cassandra: Leliana recruited Josephine. They're... friends.

Varric: So there's a rational explanation after all. Just when I thought you had layers.

---

Varric: It makes sense that Leliana did the recruiting when the Inquisition started. Not everyone can be intimidated into signing up after all.

Cassandra: I recruited Commander Cullen.

Varric: Lucky him.

Cassandra: He has made no complaints about my manners.

Varric: His last boss was a raving lunatic who turned into a statue. That's not a high bar.

All of these three bits of banter is from early in their shared chain, and illustrates their dynamic very, very well. Varric reads Cassandra like an open book, and is able to completely take control over a situation just by playing the role of the ass who is just sniping at her because he feels like it, when what he's actually doing is maneuvering the conversation so it can end on him having the last words by playing on the things Cassandra knows she cannot refute without lying.

That takes a lot of sponanous wit and an ability to think on the spot, something cassandra does not possess, but Varric has in plenty.

Of course this dynamic is only at the start as they have plenty more as the story develops. One innparticular is their relationship regarding Varric's liturature, which is one of the more entertaining side quests in the game, but it does tell us more about them in the followup banter.

Varric: Seriously? Swords and Shields? How did you find that serial? Scrape it off the bottom of a barrel in Dust Town?

Cassandra: It was research! I thought I might learn more about the Champion.

Varric: I did write a book about the Champion. You might remember it. Had your knife stuck through it last I saw.

Cassandra: I already read that one. Twice.

Here we learn how much Cassandra actually loves to read Varric's work, but more importantly we get something we rarely see in Varric. Him talking about his own failures.

Varric likes to pretend he's this amazing writer who always produce masterpieces, as he himself says to Bianca, as if he'd write about his own failures and mistakes...

And yet there is swords and shields, a book that Varric has deemed an abyssmal failure. A joke, a mediocre piece of trash not worth the paper it was printed on... And yet it has it's fans. This work that varric despises still managed to find an audience, and despite how much satisfaction he had smugly giving it to Cassandra, that still grinds his gears.

People shouldn't like his bad work. It should be forgotten in favor of his masterpieces. A very dwarven way of thinking.

Varric: I can't believe you picked the absolute worst of my books to read. Why not Hard in Hightown?

Cassandra: I have enough mysteries and investigations of my own.

Varric: What? You don't want to solve more in your spare time?

Cassandra: Then you killed my favorite character in Chapter 3, so I threw the book across the room.

Varric: Ah, a critic. Say no more.

In this one, we get Varric both genuinely questioning Cassandra, as he seems to have assumed she actually does like investigating mysteries(she does not), but also tries to nudge her over to read High in Hightown instead.

Cassandra: Varric, how could you let the Knight-Captain be framed for murder?

Varric: Well, I did spent three entire chapters setting it up.

Cassandra: But she didn't deserve it! You'd already put her through more than enough!

Varric: Look, Seeker, if you love a character, you give them pain, ruin their lives, make them suffer. Maybe even throw in a heroic death.

Cassandra: That makes no sense!

Varric: You care enough to argue. If she had a nice afternoon and took a nap, you'd stop reading.

I could deconstruct this, but basically it's just a bit of meta commentary on what makes a good story. Not only will it not be the last, but it's not even the most blatant. After all, this one could apply to other people besides Hawke.

Cassandra: What made you write about Hawke? All your other books are complete fiction.

Varric: Someone had to set the record straight about the Champion.

Cassandra: Yet your book is still full of lies.

Varric: But true ones. That's important.

Varric loves stories... But he understands what stories are at their heart. The difference between a Recounting, and a Tale. That's what history is after all, the Tales everyone passed down.

And what good tale doesn't have a bit of exaggerated bullshit?

Cassandra: Why is the second Hard in Hightown so completely different from the first?

Varric: (sigh) Because I didn't write it. Shit, did you pay actual coin for that book? One of these days, I'm going to find the duster who wrote that garbage and introduce him to my editor.

Cassandra: By "editor," do you mean your crossbow?

Varric: No, my actual editor. Best in the business. She runs half the Coterie in Kirkwall. Stickler for grammar. She once killed a man over a semicolon. I'd never print anything without her.

This one is more meta commentary, but it does have a bit more meat to it. Varric's whole spiel about his editor being super powerful in the Coterie could be the truth, it could be complete bullshit. Or it could be something in between.

That's not the important part. The important part is that he wants Cassandra to guess, to assume, to speculate, because that is far more powerful than just laying it all out could ever be.

Cole: She has to reach the other side of the hill.

Cassandra: Who does?

Cole: The Knight-Captain. But she's injured.

Varric: (sigh) Good job, Kid.

Cassandra: Is she alright? Is that how the book ends?

Varric: Not anymore.

Cassandra: Cole, what happens to her?

Cole: I don't know. The hill went away.

So here we see that Varric is one of THOSE authors. You know the kind, the ones who will rewrite an entire storyline because the big twists was leaked ahead of time.

It's not that important in the grand scheme of things, but it's interesting how through the game we see a very consistent picture of how Varric likes to write. He's a gardner variety writer, but unlike GRRM he's not the kind thst sticks to what he had in mind and sets up if the big twist is learned before it's finished.

As for His banter with Cassandra related to Hawke, it's entertaining, but not exactly that enlightening. Except for one.

If you chose in DA2 to save carver or Bethany by making them grey wardens, you get this bit when Cassandra Questions him about them.

Varric: Aveline took him off somewhere when the Calling started going nuts, but he'll tag along. He always does.

Varric: Aveline took her off somewhere when the Calling started going nuts, but she'll try to keep Hawke out of trouble.

Cassandra misses the obvious, but you probably didn't.

Varric knew about the calling from the start. Oh he didn't know the details, and he didn't know why... But he knew there was something up with the calling from the very start, and probably figured out this was the key reason from day one.

And he didn't share it. At all.

That speaks volumes of where his true loyalties lies, and it's something a lot of people miss.

Cassandra is right. Varric's heart will never truly belong to the Inquisition so long as Hawke and his Kirkwall friends exists outside of it.

There is also a turning point in their conversations, starting around the point where Varric's personal quest with Bianca happened.

Cassandra: Am I to understand your Bianca is married?

Varric: Oh, have we reached the stage where we gossip about each other's love lives?

Varric: Did you hear that, boss? Don't worry, I'll tell you whatever she says.

Cassandra: Forget I mentioned anything. It was a simple question, Varric.

Varric: There was nothing simple about it.

Varric actually blatantly questions wheter they've reached the point where they are now talking about each others love with each other. The truth is though, they actually have.

Varric: You brought up Bianca, Seeker. Does that mean I can ask about your conquests?

Cassandra: I would rather you didn't.

Varric: No tantalizing secrets to divulge?

Cassandra: None.

(If the Inquisitor is in a relationship with Cassandra)

Varric: So no one within, say, a five foot radius has caught your eye?

Inquisitor: Really? No one at all?

Cassandra: This... is not a discussion I want to have here.

Varric: (laughs) Are you blushing, Seeker? Maker, the world really is coming to an end.

Or

Inquisitor: Perhaps Cassandra—and her conquest—would rather not discuss this in public.

Varric: Spoilsport.

Or

Varric: Nothing? You do know he's standing right there...

Cassandra: I... have no conquests.

Varric: How about dalliances? Liaisons? Illicit affairs?

Cassandra: No.

Sera: Enough poking, Varric.

Varric: Is it, Buttercup? Is it?

It a rather humorous affair, but it does show that Varric at this point is comfortable prodding Cassandra's love life, figuring out how far he can push.

Which speaks for itself at how close these two have gotten at this point.

Cassandra: Very well, Varric. If you wish to know about men I have known, I will tell you.

Varric: Look, Seeker. I was only...

Cassandra: You are right. I pried first, and fair is fair. Years ago, I knew a young mage named Regalyan. He was dashing, unlike any man I'd met. He died at the Conclave.

Varric: Oh.

Cassandra: What we had was fleeting. And years had passed. Still, it saddens me to think he's gone.

Varric: I'm sorry.

Nothing to add here, just that Varric sorta gets sad when he realizes that was friendly prodding touched a very bitter and sad point from Cassandra's pain.

For which he apologizes.

Varric: Look, Seeker, I didn't mean to make you talk about your mage friend.

Cassandra: I know. I was not trying to make you speak of Bianca. If I was, you would know. I would yell, books would be stabbed.

Varric: (Chuckles.) I'll keep that in mind.

Also as the game reaches the end section, Varric and Cassandra begin to really banter in a much more friendly way.

Cassandra: I still don't understand how drakes take that hand.

Varric: ...Hmm. Maybe we should start you on Shepherd's Six.

Cassandra: Isn't that a children's game?

Varric: Yeah.

When trying to teach Cassandra card games at this point in the story, Varric has the perfect set up for a punchline like he did in the early game, but he doesn't use it, because he isn't mocking cassandra here, he's genuinely trying to teach her how to play cards.

And so he suggest starting her off with something simple, like a card game for children, cause he understands thats where she has to start at her level.

There are plenty more, but most of it is just well written, engaging or funny back and forths. But before moving on, i wanna highlight two of them.

Varric: Did you really think the Conclave had a chance of making peace, Seeker?

Cassandra: You do not?

Varric: What was the Divine's plan? Bring everyone together and hope really hard that they would all get along?

Cassandra: Most Holy did not confide her plan to me. Perhaps she thought they were tired of death and conflict.

Varric: Oh, when is that ever been true? For Templars or mages.

Cassandra: I will not mock a dead woman, Varric. She did what she could, and that is more than most.

This conversation is very important for one simple reason. It showcases how much Varric has changed since DA2. Varric used to be one of the big believers in compromise in that game. He didn't come out and say it out right, because in that game the Templar far and away were the more evil faction, and so there was way more chances for Varric to stick up for mages, but Varric really, REALLY didn't want the mages and Templars to go to war.

He had so many friends in both factions, friends he knew would die if it ever did come to true blows.

I would say that varric was probably the best example of what neutrality in such a situation should have been. Someone who is neutral because he understood thst fundamentally, both sides even at their worst, were people. Not demons, not monsters, but human beings or elves. But unlike many others who clamor for neutrality, Varric wasn't stuck up his own ass about it.

If he saw one side go over the ljne, regardless of which it was, he would not just stand by wheter it was power hungry necromantic blood mages, or Templars like Ser Alrik.

But here, he mocks the very idea of neutrality. He has completely given up on it, and he's accepted that the only solution here, is for one side or the other will have to decisively crush the opposition.

Of course he doesnt come out and say it like that, but that's the message to take away here. So long as there is a templar or mage on the field, this war will continue. He doesn't like that fact, but he has accepted it.

Cassandra: I hear reconstruction is progressing well in Kirkwall.

Varric: I know things are bad there.

Cassandra: I wasn't trying to...

Varric: You weren't trying to remind me how bad is it in Kirkwall? So you decided to talk about it?

Cassandra: About its recovery!

Varric: What you're talking about are the buildings, and even that will take years. People don't recover so easily.

Kirkwall, that is to say, the Kirkwall Varric was born in, grew up in, and spent the happiest years of his life(When he was running there with Hawke), is dead and gone, and never coming back.

He is never getting it back.

Which will be very important for the next companion's banter.

Blackwall

Blackwall is different than the rest of the crew in that he's utterly reliant on the Banter to have any sort of presence. He has no charisma in the actual game, but he does showcase a much more entertaining character in banter.

In regards to Varric though, his mian purpose is to showcase aspects of Varric we don't often see.

One of the most important comes very, very early into their relationship.

Blackwall: I once met a dwarf who made the best home-brewed ale.

Varric: I once met a Grey Warden who got possessed by a spirit and then blew up a Chantry and killed a hundred people. What makes people think you want to hear what others of "your kind" have done, anyway?

This is a moment that is:

1. Very uncharacteristic of Varric, who usually loves talking about other people if he gets any excuse to do so, and will be demonstrated in a very similar moment in his banter with the Iron Bull, only with a different reaction.

2. It's here to showcase Varric's hatred for Anders. Other than Sebastian, Varric misses pretty much the entire DA2 cast, his true best friends... Except for Anders.

Varric LOATHES Anders for his actions, for kickstarting the Mage Templar War and getting lots of his friends killed, but also for destroying his home and making his own worst fear come true.

Varric's biggest fear as shown in the fade is becoming his parents... And that's exactly what he has become in DAI. The depressed exile from a home city that he can never return to, and if he does, it won't be the same life they miss so dearly. Varric misses Kirkwall. He misses it's people, the Hanged man, and always thinking back on the glory days of his life.

And he misses Hawke.

All lost to him and never coming back, all thanks to Anders. Varric can never return back to that time, that place, that era, that friend group that was the highpoint of Varric's life, because the city of Champion Hawke and Varric the sidekick is as dead and gone as his parents.

The hanged man will never be the same, Hawke will never be the revered Hero they were after act 2, and every single one of the countless friends that Varric misses will not come back.

And so he hates Anders with a level of hatred he reserves for very, very few people.

The rest of Varric's starting relationship with Blackwall is about him trying to figure out what makes him tick, innitially pegging him as another Sebastian. Boring, safe, droll.

He also has more banter where he shows how depressed he actually is about Kirkwall.

Blackwall: I've been to Kirkwall. The Hanged Man, actually, probably been twenty years now. It was a dive if I remember correctly.

Varric: It's the dive. Filled with the best and worst people in the world.

Blackwall: Yes, I heard it was a haunt of yours.

Varric: Haunt? It was home.

He finally clicks with Blackwall, as they get into a shared passion nobody else in the party has. Jousting. The sport consistent of knocking people of horses with pointy sticks.

As a Free Marcher Varric has grown up with the Grand Tourney as a focal point of his identity, and loves the sport, so he and Blackwall bonds and argues over the sport, with the most notable part being their disagreements over who is the better jousting knight, where he also gives his own cents in the form of a meta commentary between who is the better protagonist, the Hero of Ferelden or Hawke.

Blackwall: You can't really think Reeve Asa is a better knight than Honorine Chastain. Her record's flawless. Four hundred jousts, never unseated. No one's ever come close to it.

Varric: Oh, she's easily the most skilled. That's a fact. It's just "scrappy" is better than "flawless." I like heroes who try their damnedest, even if they fail a lot. It's easy to be valiant when you always win and everything goes your way. There's nothing great in that.

The rather unsubtle meta message here, is comparing the protagonists of the first games.

The warden is the stronger, more skilled and more competent protagonist who ultimately always triumphed, changed the world, and became heralded far and wide as the greatest hero of her age.

Meanwhile Hawke is the scrappy underdog hero who always gets back on their feet regardless of how hard they fall, and never actually suceeds in anything. Hawke is a failure Hero who couldn't save their mother, their city, at least one of their siblings, maybe two, Ketojan, couldn't prevent the Qunari attack, and constantly failed to save the day through DA2.

Now i don't really agree with this rather simplistic reading of the Warden, but it's a good scene, because it shows that Varric is more than capable of overlooking all the work, effort and time it takes to produce a "perfect" result, as well as show that Varric has a very hard preference for underdogs, and the stories they produce.

Which leads into his reaction when Blackwall confesses his sins.

Varric: Maybe I've been too hard on you.

Blackwall: Oh, so you don't think I'm dreadful now.

Varric: Actually, I thought you were boring before. Completely different. We're all dreadful. Every one of us, fundamentally flawed in a hundred different ways. That's why we're here, isn't it? Take all the risks, so the good people stay home where it's safe. With the whole "Blackwall" thing, you told a story so compelling even you started to believe it.

Blackwall: That's much nicer than saying "You're a dirty liar.", I'll take it.

Varric: A story-teller's got to believe his own story, or no one will.

Here we can gleam a sad fact. Varric very pointedly notes "we're all dreadfull", as Us, as in, him included.

Varric doesn't really consider himself a good person anymore, if he ever did.

It's not like the Varric of Yesteryear considered hinself a saint or some knight in shining armor, but there was a sense that he was happy with himself during that game, in a way he is not in DAI.

Something has changed, and that something is guilt over unleashing the red lyrium on the world, and probably guilt over killing his own friends.

It's not really focused on as much as it should be, but Varric had plenty of friends amongst both the mages and Templars... Which meant that when Anders blew up the chantry, regardless of which side you picked, Varric was forced to kill people who genuinely mattered to him.

Hence why he's so quick to forgive Blackwall for his lies.

For the most part this generally manifests itself in regards to Red Lyrium, which he blames himself for bringing into the world. I would argue that the more subtle parts you get to see in Banter though, is far, far more interesting and better told than the stuff in the main quest.

Because despite his flaws he "takes all the risks, so the good people won't have to.", just like Varric and Hawke.

This is in large amount what Varric in Inquisition is for the most part all about. Guilt, self loathing, and wanting to be a better person.

He just masks it with his usual wit, charm and charisma.

Kinda like Blackwall, only he doesn't really have much charisma or wit to hide behind. Hence why he is so accepting of, and willing to give him another chance without question.

On a final note before we move on from Blackwall, we also get to see varric try to play matchmaker between Blackwall and Josephine which is cute, but not exactly surprising, or give us further insight into Varric's character.

Cole

Now, I'm not going to cover Cole here, not because the banter isn't interesting, or we don't learn anything, but that's all from the way we learn about the world, or Cole himself.

Varric's side of these banters can be summed up in one sentence, for pretty much every single banter.

Varric is Cole's dad.

Rinse, repeat.

Dorian

Similarily, I will not be covering the banter with dorian, not because it's bad, far from it, it's some of the most entertaining in the game, but it doesn't exactly add much beyond the fact that both Varric and Dorian love to gamble, and share witty banter.

Also nugs has some creepy ass feet. The stuff of nightmares.

The Iron Bull

Far more to be dissected, can be found in Varric's banter with the Iron Bull.

There is so much to learn from this banter, from Spy work to how the Antaam is viewed by the other Qunari and so on, but we'll focus on the stuff relating to varric, as he and bull talk about a lot of things.

Varric: You're not the first Ben-Hassrath I've run across. Hawke and I went on a caper with one named Tallis.

Iron Bull: You don't say.

Varric: She caused us no end of trouble. You wouldn't know her by any chance?

Iron Bull: Hey, one time I ran into this dwarf on the road. Short, grouchy. You think you might know him?

Varric: I'm in the Merchant Guild. Ten royals says I not only know him—he owes me money.

Iron Bull: Oh. Well... no. I don't know Tallis. Sorry.

In stark contrast to his talk with Iron bull, when not involving Anders or other people he hates, Varric loves to talk about people. To the point that in his comeback to Iron Bull, there is an invitation here for Bull to specify who this random dwarf was, because chances are, he actually might know him, and could elaborate on the guy.

Varric: How could you possibly be a spy?

Iron Bull: Well, it's a pretty easy job. I do some fighting, and drinking, and then once in a while I tell Par Vollen about it.

Varric: Heh. Where's the sneaking, the plotting, the subtle machinations?

Iron Bull: If you do that, everyone knows you're a spy. Drinking, fighting, writing notes, that's all it really takes.

Varric: Shit. You're either the worst qunari ever, or the best. I can't decide.

He also showcases great frustration with the way Iron Bull pokes holes in his Bond like spy writing, in favor of the mundane realities of Cloak and Dagger stuff.

Because for all that he prides himself on tall tales, varric does like his writing to somewhat be plausible. Its why he gets pissy at the inquisitor when he tells him how stupid so many parts of DA2 were writing wise, cause Varric wrote it how it happened, and while embelishing it, it was mostly true.

And if his spy writing isn't realistic enough that it might plausibly happen... Then it's not as good as it could be.

Iron Bull: By the way, Varric, you write some nice fight scenes.

Varric: Well, thank you. I'm surprised you think so. They're not exactly realistic.

Iron Bull: I figured that out when the good guy did a backflip while wearing a chain mail shirt.

Varric: And that didn't bother you?

Iron Bull: Back in Seheron, I fell on a guy who tried to stab me in the gut. I felt the blade chip as it went through my gut and hit my back ribs. But I was alive, and on top. I sawed through the armor on the rebel's neck, back and forth, until it went red. I don't need a book to remind me that the world is full of horrible crap.

Varric: Impossible swashbuckling it is.

Meanwhile, this bit is surprisingly layered.

First off, there is Bull's retelling and describing the way he dealt with the Vint while bing impaled as "realistic". If this was not a world with magical healing such as potions or poultices he'd had died from this incident, due to infection if nothing else. That's meant as a bit of meta irony.

But the actual meat of this, is that Varric is just letting Bull rant.

The whole "Backflip while wearing chainmail armor" is something Hawke can literarily do in DA2, Provided you are a rogue Hawke and has high enough stats. If so, when hit by a trap, Hawke will simply backflip out of the way, even if wearing chainmail armor.

It is the kind of shit that for a long was normal for Varric, and he writes it into his fight scenes(Which he has a self dig at calling them not realistic, despite having seen shit like that for himself all the time).

But he doesnt say any of that.

Instead he just lets Bull rant, get it out there how shitty he really feels, because varric knows when to talk, and when to listen, and here is a time to listen.

Varric: So, Bull. You and Dorian?

Iron Bull: Mm-hmm.

Varric: "Two worlds tearing them apart, Tevinter and Qunari, with only love to keep them together."

Dorian: I don't see how this is even remotely your business, Varric.

Iron Bull: Could you make it sound angrier? "Love" is a bit soft.

Dorian: Please stop helping the dwarf.

Varric: How about passion?

Iron Bull: Yes, that's better. Love is all starlight and gentle blushes. Passion leaves your fingers sore from clawing the sheets.

Dorian: You could at least have had the courtesy to use the bedposts.

Iron Bull: Hey, don't top from the bottom.

Varric: Passion it is, then.

Also, i wanna highlight his banter with bull, if he and dorian hook up, and if both are with him in the party. It's really the only bit of Dorian varric banter with real character meat to it, as it puts Dorian's rarely seen tsundere side on full display, and why he makes such a good match with the easy going, yet equally passionate iron bull.

Iron Bull: Hey, Varric, I was reading your stuff... Where do your bad guys come from?

Varric: Well, some of them come from Tevinter and some are Ben-Hassrath spies... but I like the stories where the villain was the man beside you the whole time. The best villains don't see themselves as evil. They're fighting for a good cause, willing to get their hands dirty.

Iron Bull: All right, that's really deep and all, but I meant where do the bad guys come from literally? The way you write it, it's like they just fall from the sky and land on top on the hero.

Varric: I like to leave some things to the reader's imagination.

Also, final bit i'll cover of these two here. It's both a meta hit of writing in that it's supposed to be about solas, but can also apply to Iron bull, and is a self depreciating dig on the single worst gameplay mechanic from DA2.

Sera

So, as with Cole and Dorian, im not covering this sequence of banter as it doesn't really reveal much about Varric as a character. Its generally just Sera trying her usual bullshit, and Varric taking the piss out of her, much to her frustration.

Im not exactly a big fan of Sera, and even here, where most of their dialogue is about Varric basicaly running rings around her, don't really makes me smile.

There is one bit of banter though, that i do want to highlight.

Sera: (sing-song) La la la la la, Sentinals are shits.

Varric: Like it or not, Buttercup, that’s where you come from.

Sera: Says the undwarfiest dwarf ever!

Varric: Fair enough. Paragons can be shits too.

So, this one i feel is extremely important, for the reason that it goes to showcase that 1. Sera doesn't understand Varric in the slightest, and 2. Really goes to showcase Sera's complete and total lack of self awareness, and just how out of touch she is, raiding other people's homes, and calling them shits for defending themselves.

But that second one i'll save for Sera's banter review.

For this one, I want to highlight how Varric, just like Dorian understands and more importantly loves the Culture he originates from. He knows how shitty dwarven culture can be, and will never avoid taking the piss out of it for all it's flaws, but he also admires it. He admires their ability to create marvels, their grit and determination that has seen them take on the Darkspawn for a hundred years and still stand, and the individuals that stood up and above the rest to serve as legends, just like Hawke and the Inquisitor.

There is a reason his hangouts in both games are decorated full of very traditional dwarven furniture. Because he wants to live in a home that looks dwarven.

Because the past is important.

It's a bit of wisdom he tries, and fails to impart to Sera, that you simply trying to pretend your roots don't exists never works. And he's right. Even though Sera never admits wrong on her own part, she fully admits she burnt out on this spiteful hatred in Tresspasser.

Solas

Solas and Varric's banter though, is far, far more interesting.

Both of them are tricksters, both value the past greatly in their own way, both understands the power of a story, both of them lie to the Inquisitor, and both would rather remain the side character than step up to take the spotlight.

And yet they are different. Opposites almost.

One of Varric's defining feature as a person is that he cares about all his friends and how those friendships transcends the chains of status, having become friends with dwarves, Qunari, kossiths, humans, elves, templars, mages, seekers, antivans, fereldens, kirkwallers, orlesians, tevinters, anders, revains, avvar, and so on.

Solas single defining feature is how he sees everyone he does not knows except for his own, very small list of what he considers countrymen, as not things, and is willing to destroy the world for them to prosper.

Varric stays out of the spotlight cause he likes being the power behind the throne. Solas does it because as the Herald's Judas, he doesn't want anyone to question the many, many questions about him further than they have to.

Varric lives in the present, but respects the past. Solas in the past, and is terrified of the present.

Which leads to some of the most interesting banter in the game.

Solas: By the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor.

Varric: Wait, you read my book?

Solas: It was in the Inquisition library. Everyone but Donnen turned out to be in disguise. Is that common?

Varric: Are we still talking about books or are you asking if everyone I know is a secret agent?

Solas: Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?

Varric: A handful, but they're the exception. Mostly they're just honoring the ancestors. It's very dull stuff. Human literature? Now there's where you'll find the tricky, clever, really deceptive types.

Solas: Curious.

Varric: Not really. Dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are.

Solas questions Varric about the to him, alien Dwarven liturature, trying to figure out what the new, "lesser" dwarves might write about when no longer part of a hivemind.

Varric gives it to him straight, but there is a deeper bit of character here.

Varric is able to explain this to Solas, because as a man who understands Dwarven culture, strengths, flaws, and weaknesses, and how it ticks, as well as undoubtedly having read a lot of dwarven literature, Varric is able to point out all it's shortcomings, or more accurately the way Human and Dwarven literature trends differentiate due to different cultural values.

Varric: You really spend most of your time in the Fade?

Solas: As much as is possible. The Fade contains a wealth of knowledge for those who know where to look.

Varric: Sure, but I don't know how you dream, let alone wander around in there.

Varric: Especially when the shit that comes out of the Fade generally seems pretty cranky.

Solas: So are humans, but we continue to interact with them... when we must.

Here Varric pries a bit into a topic he(If you took him with you in night terrors) only has experienced once before for himself, from someone who knows more about the fade and the veil than anyone.

Solas ends it on a much darker note than Varric assumes though, as what he means is, we have to tolerate them "for now."

Solas: Is it true that the entire dwarven economy relies upon lyrium?

Varric: Mostly. We've got the nug market cornered as well.

Solas: And the dwarves of Orzammar have never studied lyrium?

Varric: If they have, they certainly haven't shared anything up here. Why?

Solas: It is the source of all magic, save that which mages bring themselves.

Solas: Dwarves alone have the ability to mine it safely. I wondered if they had sought to learn more.

Varric: The folks back in Orzammar don't care much about anything but tradition.

So here we have Varric flat out bullshit Solas in several ways. He knows way more about lyrium than most, having studied red lyrium himself, and yet he does not give that information to Soals, the way he does with the Herald, showing that deep down, Varric trusts you far more than Solas, if not as much as Hawke.

He also knows that both surface and underground Dwarves have deeper knowledge of lyrium than any human, being it's the source of all the enchantments and magic, and that while they might not know it's origins, they understand how it works, and how to use it, transport it, store it, and so on.

If there is one thing Orzammar is good at, and not stuck in tradition, it's exploiting Lyrium to the hilt.

And yet he bullshits Solas about it completely. Because this is an early banter, the likely reason is simply that he does not trust him.

Which given his other important lies is not surprising.

And solas later recognizes this.

Solas: I find the fall of the dwarven lands confusing.

Varric: What's so confusing about endless darkspawn?

Solas: A great deal, although that is a different matter. Dwarves control the flow of lyrium. They could tighten their grip on it.

Varric: It's hard to get the attention of the humans when the darkspawn aren't up here messing with their stuff.

Solas: You're active in the Carta. You know your people could tug the purse strings. You could claim sovereign land on the surface, or demand help restoring the dwarven kingdom, but you don't.

Varric: You're not saying anything I haven't said myself, Chuckles. Orzammar is what it is

Solas Attacks Varric's arguments from adifferent angle here, without directly calling him a liar from the banter before, as he points out just how much power Orzammar has through it's economic might, how even if they know how to use Lyrium so effectively, they haven't been wielding that might to effecrively hammer out an anti Darkspawn coalition to crush the darkspawn in their own dens and wipe them out from the source.

Realistically, the dwarves are rhe only ones who could see it done, and yet they havent. Because before Bhelen, there was never a king willing to upend the entire system to get results.

Varric doesn't actually give his direct thoughts in this bit of banter, but it goes into future ones. Before that though, im gonna quickly cover another bit of banter.

Solas: Do you ever miss life beneath the earth? The call of the Stone?

Varric: Nah. Whatever the Stone - capital S - is, it was gone by the time my parents had me.

Solas: But... do you miss it?

Varric: How could I miss what I never had?

Varric: But say I did have that sense, that connection to the Stone. What would it cost me?

Varric: Would I lose my friends up here? Would I stop telling stories?

Varric: I like who I am. If I want to hear songs, I'll go to the tavern.

Solas: You are wiser than most.

Solas worships the past, to such a degree that he thinks being part of a hivemind under the titans, must have been better for the Dwarves, because of what it allowed them to accomplish by magic, and more importantly that it's what they used to be.

And what they used to be, must be better than what they are now, because the past is better.

Meanwhile Varric is content with the present. He never had stone sense, so why worry about it? Why dream of it, why become his parents? That would be absolutely awful, so why not embrace what you have now.

Though Solas doesn't know it, his backhanded praise here is actually even moreso than he knows.

Its backhanded by intention, because he acknowledges that varric is wiser than those who would wail about their lost glory... But as we'll see in the following banter, he regards all Dwarves, regardless of wheter they are like Varric, as lessers and fools. So varric is better... But he is still a fool.

Meanwhile, on Varric's part, it's even more backhanded than Solas intends because Varric is doing exactly what he's saying he isn't here.

Dreaming of glory days when all was simplier and he was a happier man. He's not dreaming of stone sense itself, but the sentiment is the same.

And he knows it. That's one of the saddest things about Varric in DAI. He became his parents, his worst fear, but he's very much aware of that fact.

Solas: Is there at least a movement to reunite Orzammar and Kal-Sharok?

Varric: What is it with you, Chuckles? Why do you care so much about the dwarves?

Solas: Once, in the Fade, I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed. He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars.

Varric: I can think of worse lives.

Solas: How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?

Varric: I suppose it depends on the quality of the fermented fruit juice.

Solas: So it seems.

---

Solas:: I am sorry to have bothered you with my questions about your people Varric. I see so much of this world in dreams. Humans, my own people, even qunari. Dwarves alone were lost to me, save scattered fragments of memory where some spirit cared to watch. Now I know why I see so little.

Varric: And why is that?

Solas:: Dwarves are the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood. Undirected. Whatever skill of arms it had, gone forever. Although it might twitch to give the appearance of life, it will never dream.

Varric: I'd avoid mentioning that to any Carta, Chuckles. They might not take it the right way.

---

Varric: What's with you and the doom stuff? Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?

Solas: I've no idea what you mean.

Varric: All the "fallen empire" crap you go on about. What's so great about empires anyway?

Varric: So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar is too proud to ask for help. So what? We're not Orzammar and we're not our empire.

Varric: There are tens of thousands of us living up here in the sunlight now, and it's not that bad.

Varric: Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be.

Solas: And you have no concept of what that difference cost you.

Varric: I know what it didn't cost me. I'm still here, even after all those thaigs fell.

---

Solas: You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could've been, never fighting back.

Varric: Ha, you've got it all wrong, Chuckles. This is fighting back.

Solas: How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?

Varric: In that story of yours—-the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone. You thought he gave up, right?

Solas: Yes.

Varric: But he went on living. He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone.

Varric: That's the world. Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you've got, it takes. And it's gone forever.

Varric: The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going. That's as close to beating the world as anyone gets.

Solas: Well said. Perhaps I was mistaken

This entire banter line is about Varric and Solas.

On solas part it's about his very well spoken and articulated racist opinions on the modern dwarves compared to those who came before and trying to rack his brian around them not going to the lengths he himself would have gone to save their race.

Also the fact they are no longer part of the Titan hivemind. He's really stuck on that for reasons we don't really fully understand.

However, far, far more importantly this is about Varric's entire storyline in DAI.

Varric talks about Orzammar, about the loss of the deep roads, and yet they are all still there, still fighting, still marching on, rather than laying down and dying.

That is the true strength of the Dwarven race.

The ability to keep going even after losing everything. The original dwarves lost the titans and their magic. They marched on.

The dwarven empire lost the deep roads, and all but two thaigs. They marched on.

The surface dwarves lost their caste the last remains of their magic, and their status in dwarven society. They marched on.

Varric lost kirkwall. He lost his entire friend group that was the people who he loved more than any other group of people he has ever know. He lost his home that he grew up in and loved. He lost his parents and he lost Barthrand, the only remaining family he had, and who despite it all deeply, deeply loved. He lost Bianca, a teenage infatuation he never was able to get over.

And he lost Hawke. Either to Anders kickstsrting the war, or to the fade.

He lost everything he loved.

And yet He. Marched. On.

Varric's story in DAI is an understated one, one that isn't really given story focus, but unlike all the rest of the attempts at telling a more subtle story with the companions, this one actually worked.

Varric's story, is about his march onwards.

He lost everything due to Anders actions, and yet here he is. Marching forward through life. He hasn't laid down and died. He's still here. He's still fighting.

He still has hope.

And so he marches on through the twilight of his life, and keeps going, even if he loses Hawke forever... He keeps going, and he makes it through his depression, and grief to make a new life for himself in Kirkwall.

A new Kirkwall, but Kirkwall nonetheless.

Solas: That crossbow is remarkable, Varric. I am surprised the dwarves have not made more of them.

Varric: The woman who made Bianca would rather that not happen. Wars are bloody enough as it is.

Varric: A crossbow that fires this far and this quickly with so little training? Every battle would be a massacre.

Solas: Indeed. I am surprised, not disappointed.

Here we get a lot of insight into Varric... But also a moment of great moral ambiguity.

Everything Varric says here is true... But it would also mean his people finally, finally being able to destroy the darkspawn for good and all. Such a tech advantage would allow them to wipe the blighted Creatures from existence with ease.

Varric is more than brilliant enough to understand this... But he chooses not to think about it, or wheter it's a good course of actions, because he is shackled to Bianca even now, even still.

Bianca wants this crossbow not to be on the market, so he doesn't put it on the market, regardless of good or bad.

Varric: Hey Chuckles, do you ever play Wicked Grace?

Solas: I'm not much of a gambler anymore.

Varric: You don't have to play for real coin, that's just for keeping score.

Solas: What do you play for?

Varric: Conversation mostly. That way I win no matter how the cards fall.

This is a followup to Varric's original introductionary short story from way back in the day.

From that one we learn that Varric doesn't actually drink anything served at the Hanged man, he just orders a wine glass or beer mug, because he knows people get nervous if you don't drink in a bar, so he crafts an illusion to aid him in his rogue life.

Vivienne

So like a number of these I'm not gonna cover them in full, as while good, and well written, and paints a very clear picture of Vivienne, they're not exactly deep character pieces for Varrix... But I do wanna cover a few.

Vivienne: Am I to understand, Varric, that you knew the apostate who destroyed Kirkwall's chantry?

Varric: Unfortunately, yes.

Vivienne: What could he possibly have hoped to accomplish with such madness?

Varric: Exactly what he got: a whole lot of innocent people killing each other.

Vivienne: I take it he's no longer on your Wintersend gift list.

Varric: Depends. Does a flaming sack of bronto dung count as a gift?

Vivienne: Only if you tie it with a silk ribbon, my dear.

More Varric hating Anders, and laying all the blame of the Mage Templar Wars and ruining his life on him.

Vivienne: Tell me, Varric, who is the protagonist of this serial?

Varric: You know, we're so far into spoiler territory right now, I think I better stop talking.

Vivienne: Come now, darling. You can tell me.

Varric: Not on your life, Iron Lady. The best way to ensure a book's nevered finish is to tell someone your entire plot.

More Varric showcasing he cannot stand spoilers coming out, and it destroys his entire ability to write.

Vivienne: You know, Varric darling, I read your Hard in Hightown.

Varric: You did? Seriously?

Vivienne: Most of the Imperial Court did. It was in fashion a few winters ago.

Varric: Just how much gold is my publisher stealing from me?

One detail i really like about Varric, is that he tries to create this image of himself as always bring in control and all that... And then he has moments like this where his regular ass publisher swindles him for a shit ton of money.

Vivienne: How many chapters will this book be, Varric dear?

Varric: Well, the first one will come out in twelve chapters.

Vivienne: The first one?

Varric: I've read enough Orlesian fictions to know you never tell a story there in fewer than three complete books. They think you're just warming up after one.

Vivienne: And what happens to the scheming duchess in the first book?

Varric: Are you asking for spoilers, Madame De Fer?

Vivienne: Hints, darling. Not spoilers.

More Varric showcasing he understands other cultures and how they write stories.

[doberbutts]

I saw your recent post about diversity in Dragon Age (and BG a little) and I want to start by saying that I agree with it 100%. Bioware does tend to have primarily white characters, and any characters of color do tend to have very limited sorts of personalities they’re allowed to have, even moreso for those who are explicitly black. I, too, would like it if they could do better.

I did notice something in it that made me curious though and I was hoping you’d be willing to elaborate further on your thoughts.

You identify both Neve and Josephine as black. Neve as “medium toned” and Josephine as “fairly light skinned” but both are used as examples of black women in your post. But then you say that Dorian is “ambiguously ‘of color’” and Lucanis “could be black with, as said, little-to-no change in [his] storyline.”

But Neve and Dorian are both from Tevinter, and while the empire is large and probably contains multiple ethnic groups, my impression from the games is that they’re from the same(ish) region and are probably the same race/ethnicity. Similarly, Josephine and Lucanis are both Antivan – if she’s a light skinned black person, shouldn’t he be considered the same?

I haven’t finished Veilguard yet. I don’t have a ton of time to play games, so I’m making my way though, but slowly. So it’s entirely possible that there’s more information that comes out about Neve and Lucanis’s background later in the game that informs what you’re saying here. If there is, just say “you need to finish the game before we can have this conversation.” But assuming there’s not, would you be willing to explain why you read the women as black and the men as not? I’m wondering if I missed something, or if it’s just different perspectives, or some other secret third option.

If you’re like, “nah, I don’t wanna spend my time answering this” no worries. Delete the ask and move on. But if you have the spoons for it, I am genuinely curious (and would be grateful) to hear your thoughts on this.

Oh no, this is totally a valid question to ask, it's just a little complicated to answer and I didn't want it to clog up the entire post which was already long enough!

First, I will note that I specifically pointed to Vivienne and Davrin as unambiguously black. I called them this because, unlike the other characters of color, there is no question of their blackness. They are black, simple as that. Neve, Zevran, Dorian, Josephine, they are more ambiguous due to their lighter skin tone and more European features, and thus could just as easily not be black. That is why I pointed out skin tone.

Second, I'd like to challenge something you've said here. Why is it unreasonable to think that someone who is from the same country or region may be a different ethnicity? Especially in a country that has a lot of movement in the types of people who circulate in and out, or that has a culture that heavily encourages that (slavery in Tevinter, the crows in Antiva)? That is actually a reason for a region to be *more* multi-ethnic, not less. I myself am from a fairly German-dominated section of the Appalachias despite the Appalachias having a huge population of the ethnic groups I am actually part of- is it so unbelievable that an afronative and Irish person might have been born in a place predominately occupied by the Amish? That I might have gone to class with Korean and Nigerian students in my cute little schoolhouse on a farm? Believable or not, that's how I grew up. So why would it be so hard to believe that two people from the same fictional country are not the same ethnicity?

But putting those two aside, I think it's best if I compare side-by-side:

Dorian is certainly believably "of color"- though I have seen people argue that he is simply intended to be very Mediterranean and others say he is supposed to be Indian or Pakistani or somewhat vaguely Middle Eastern. This is why I say he is "ambiguously of color" but not necessarily black. Neve, on the other hand, is darker than him and with less ambiguous features (and Dorian at 10 years older is also less ambiguous, tho also less convincingly black and significantly more Middle Eastern or Indian or Pakistani).

I know black girls who look just like her. I know Indian girls who do too. If we are to assume that Tevinter is full of people who look at least vaguely Indian, one has to then remember that India as a country has *several* ethnicities itself and thus it is very possible- probable even- to meet 2 people from approximately the same region of India and yet they look nothing like each other outside of a few traits we in the Western world would clock as Indian.

It's also why I called Bellara our first visibly and unambiguously Asian companion- because the others that could count as Asian such as Neve and Dorian are significantly more ambiguous.

The same is true of Lucanis and Josephine- moreso in fact than Dorian and Neve. Lucanis again could be considered somewhat Mediterranean or Middle Eastern, but Josephine? Lucanis may or may not be a man of color, though I would certainly count him as so light skinned he could potentially be white-passing if I'm supposed to read him as somewhat Spanish or Italian. Josephine is absolutely a woman of color, but what color exactly is where it is a little more difficult to determine.

This is also a fantasy world, so I'm not expecting ethnic features to match the real world 100%.

Now compare the four of them to the two I'm calling unambiguously black. While I could make the argument that Josie and Neve are mixed black, there is no need for argument for Viv or Davrin. They're both black, visibly, easily identified.

Now, the thing is with a mixed race and multi-ethnic population, if Thedas doesn't have the same reasons to keep the colors from mixing, then it is certainly possible that Dorian or Lucanis have someone as dark as Davrin in their family tree even as close as their grandparents. My father is about as dark as Davrin and while my bio sis and I are about Neve in tone, my bio sister's children range from Josie to Lucanis. Her son is fair skinned, blue-eyed, blonde haired, and if you didn't see him next to his sister and mother you would think that little boy had nothing but white in him.

But then, if Thedas does not have the same race politics as we do, then the one drop rule would never be enforced upon someone who appears white with black ancestry, and thus I would hesitate to call that person black. My nephew is white passing, but a similar person in Thedas may just be white. Or perhaps Thedas does not consider human ethnicity the way we do, and would take no notice either way. Though I do believe Viv says something about poor treatment due to her skin tone in Inquisition, but I may be mistaken if that was fandom generated or actually within the game.

All this to say- I would consider Lucanis to either be white (albeit Mediterranean) or ambiguously of color and Dorian to be of color but unsure exactly which ethnicity, but neither of them black. Josie and Neve, on the other hand, read to me as mixed black women.

[etherealising]

chapter five | we keep this love in a photograph

masterlist | ↢ previous chapter | next chapter ↣

pairing: carmen berzatto x f!reader | f!reader x the bear crew | male!oc x f!reader | carmy x claire | carmy x wingwoman!sydney |

summary: as plans are set in motion and renovations move forward, carmy finds himself entangled with the thought of you.

warning(s): guilt | grief | language | mentions of death | mentions of suicide | substance abuse | recovering addict | idiots in love | self-sabotage | insinuation of sex | semi-edited | please let me know if i missed anything

wc: 7.1k

It was 4 am, and the heat from your oven warmed the kitchen. The biscuits lined up nicely on the cooling rack, You hadn’t given much thought to the task at hand, too busy trying to remove yourself from the guilt-ridden thoughts that plagued your mind most nights.

Peach juice coated your hands, the rhythmic act of peeling them helped you to silence the foreboding thoughts fighting their way to the forefront of your brain.

The handwritten recipe card was placed strategically out of the way to not get ruined while you worked around the kitchen. You were no chef that much was obvious, but your mom taught you the art of cooking from a very young age. Instilled in you a sense of independence.

Standing in your kitchen as the night began its metamorphosis into day, you couldn’t help but reminisce about the role your mom played in your life. As a single parent, your mom was adamant about you knowing how to live life without having to depend on the goodwill of others. And even when the Berzattos entered your life, she made sure that you were never too comfortable.

You were allowed to spend as much time with the family as your heart desired, your mom wanted you to understand and enjoy human connection. But she’d always make sure you knew how easy it was for a person to walk out of your life. She liked to remind you that you couldn’t control other people’s actions, and just because you were important to someone today, didn’t mean those same feelings would transcend into tomorrow. To take a little, but never too much, to allow a certain level of comfort but always remember your role in other people’s lives is never as important as you may think.

All the peeled peaches sat atop the cutting board, awaiting the moment they would be pitted and cut into symmetrical slices.

Parents, either unknowingly or not, pass down their own beliefs and ideas to their children. Children who were essentially sponges waiting to soak up whatever knowledge and information was thrown their way. You knew this first hand, your mom’s need for independence is the same flaw that now afflicted you even into adulthood.

The independence that was so far from what you craved growing up, so drilled into you by your mother, that you instead hid behind your dependency on the Berzatto family.

That same need for independence that you had finally given in to and had almost killed you five months ago.

While your mom saw her life lessons as a teaching moment to never overstay your welcome. You easily disregarded it growing up, how could she not expect you to live in your vulnerability, to depend on people she had so easily allowed to love you and take up space in your life?

You didn’t blame your mom for allowing you to know the Berzattos but you blamed her for the part of you that would always remember her words. Always make you second guess if your actions affected people the way theirs did you.

Her words once again made an appearance when Carmy first distanced himself from you and finally made a permanent home in your head when Mikey passed away.

A shrill beep alerted you, the oven was ready. The peaches are pristinely cut, along with the previously made peach simple syrup both awaiting use.

Gingerly adding all the ingredients to your Dutch oven, you placed the lilac pot into the oven before beginning to clean up the mess you made.

You knew your mom did her best raising you with the hand she was dealt. Your father, a shadow you’d never know. Her own life experiences an excuse to protect you from the world, from yourself.

As her health deteriorated, you watched your mom's outlook on life become less skewed. But what good would that do you? The little girl you once were absorbed her constant message and stored it in the back of your mind for safekeeping, awaiting the day such a pessimistic ideal system might one day be put to use.

The timer on your oven was ticking down, the hoard of minutes left until the peach cobbler was done brought on a feeling of despair. Watching the timer dwindle minute after minute felt like a metaphor for your life at the moment.

Time was running out, and maybe that wasn’t true but you sure as hell did feel that way. The time you had left to confess your shortcomings to Richie quickly passed by. The expiration date for whatever the fuck was going on between you and Carmy fastly approaching.

You couldn’t allow these things to continue festering in your life. The weight of them exhausting you, you couldn’t keep pushing on like everything was okay like nothing had changed between any of you.

Choices you made inadvertently affected them just as much as they affected you. You didn’t want this wall between you and them anymore, and even if the wall was nonexistent to them; it was very much real to you.

You would figure things out, you had to. There was no time like the present to commit yourself to fixing the lives you had messed up.

It was easy though walking through life as if you hadn’t ruined anyone else’s. It was almost like you hadn’t, if they weren’t privy to your vices, was there any point in coming clean? Any point in apologizing to them?

Those thoughts were wrong and you knew it. You had to admit your wrongdoings to yourself, to understand why the people you loved the most in life were deserving of an apology, because if you didn’t you would constantly spend the rest of your days justifying why your actions were okay.

Justifying the fact that because you didn’t mean to overdose, that made everything you did okay. That, because you were just going through a mentally tough time in your life, turning to stimulants to aid your grief, was fine. That you were trying to forget for all the right reasons.

Reality was though, there was no right reason for the choices you had been making this whole time. And that was something you still had to come to terms with.

Closing your eyes, your head fell back, face pointed towards the kitchen ceiling. A tired sigh escaped your lips, the exhaustion of recovery taking its toll on you. Tired of standing in the kitchen and being berated by your mind you decided to begin outlining the exposè you were hoping to write on The Bear.

Busying your mind was the easiest option right now, too much unnecessary thinking put you back into the mindset that got you into this mess. Silencing any unwanted thoughts was no longer an option for you, but focusing on something else was proving to work for the time being.

You had made a colossal mistake. Who did you think you were to bring people who cooked for a living a sweet and savory cobbler? That wasn’t your initial plan when you couldn’t sleep this morning and decided to bake. But after removing the dish from your oven allowing the aromas to swim through the foundation of your house, you couldn’t bring yourself to keep it.

A dish that was introduced to you through your mom and the lineage the both of you carried. A dish that Mikey would always want for, but never expect when you did make it for him. A dish that you had spent countless times baking with Carmy by your side the two of you messing up the recipe more than once.

A dish that you once loved so much, but after your mom's death it always tasted like something was missing. And now baking it for the first time since Mikey’s passing you couldn’t even stomach the sickly sweet smell of it.

Walking through the lot to the back door, you were unsurprised to find it unlocked. Entering, you began walking through the kitchen making your way to the counter to place the pastel Dutch oven, the tote bag with vanilla ice cream you picked up on your way there following quickly after.

You weren’t sure who was already here at this time but thought it’d be a nice thing to do by offering them a bowl of the diabetes-inducing dessert. The chunky knit cardigan you were wearing was relegated to the stool next to you, the kitchen felt unusually warm, or maybe that was just your body's natural reaction to being in the restaurant.

Since Carmy had taken over the joint you couldn’t pretend you knew where anything was located. You knew Carmy to be the type of person to run a tight ship, expecting a certain standard from his co-workers.

Searching through the various storage spaces lining the kitchen, you unconsciously bobbed your head to the music singing through your headphones lost to the angelic voice streaming into your ears.

Locating a stack of clear containers you grabbed them before searching for any utensils to eat with, trying four drawers before finding and pulling out a mix of forks and spoons. Finally making your way back to the counter you began ripping the plastic from the store-bought ice cream.

The noise in the kitchen alerted Carmy, the time on his phone signifying that it must’ve been Syd. Inching toward the kitchen he stopped for a moment to check the monthly timelines that were hanging in the front. Every day was filled with a new task, it would be do or die from here on out to even think about opening in six months.

Making his way into the kitchen he stopped the body taking up space notably not Sydney. Your head bobbed up and down to whatever was playing through your headphones. The quiet hum of your voice easily met his ears in the silent kitchen.

He watched as you raised a spoon into your mouth, confused as to why you were in his kitchen this early in the morning. The closed-off kitchen setup didn’t allow him to see what's taking up your attention.

Quietly maneuvering around to get a better view of you, the sudden thought that this may have been an invasion of privacy quickly crossed his mind. He was moments away from leaving you to your own devices before he spotted the scars painted down your right arm. The deepest one tracing from the top of your tricep to your elbow.

Small cuts littered around the larger one, almost like the smaller ones were put there as accent pieces to the main scar. Carmy couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck happened to you after you left his apartment that night, looking from afar it looked as though someone had gone at you with a broken beer bottle or something.

The movement of your arm drew his attention to the reflection of light off of the tape-like bandage above your elbow. His eyes found two bears he would know fucking anywhere, the amount of times you forced him to watch that movie with you and Mikey drove him fucking insane.

Seeing you in this kitchen reminded him of when you were teenagers. It was hard to come to terms with it but he resented you for working at The Beef, resented Mikey even more for allowing you to. It wasn’t fair to you, the more he thought about it the more he realized a lot of the shit he did and felt wasn’t fair to you when you were both younger.

Carmy made his way around the counter you were working at, stopping in front of you the only thing separating the two of you was the steel slab of metal. He wasn’t sure how to get your attention, not wanting to startle you. Standing there watching you shovel what he now knew to be peach cobbler, the nutmeg and cinnamon aroma delicately caressing his nostrils.

The scent easily transported him back to all the moments the two of you spent in borrowed kitchens making this exact dessert.

You were so caught up in the music blaring through your headphones that you hadn’t realized the presence standing in front of you. You jumped spoon clanging against the table as a tattooed hand reached out for the no longer empty container housing the contents of your homemade cobbler and store-bought ice cream.

“Jesus fuck Carmen!” A hand raised to clutch at your chest, you understood how Tina felt yesterday after you snuck up on her. You quickly pulled the headphones off dropping them onto the counter, “Why the fuck are you sneaking around and shit?”

Carmy stared at you blankly, eyebrows raised before his head nodded toward the bowl he was aiming to grab. You rolled your eyes before nodding, “Sure Carmen, almost give me a heart attack in this shit hole kitchen, oh and while you’re at it don’t forget to try my peach cobbler.”

“Heard.” A small nod was sent your way before he shoveled a spoon full of the dessert into his mouth.

A scoff escaped your lips, you picked up your discarded spoon before taking another bite of the ice cream. The atmosphere between the two of you became awkward real quick, neither of you willing to break the silence, neither of you knowing what to say to break the silence.

“So uh, what’s with the cobbler?” You eyed Carmy surprised he was the first to break the silence, you shrugged distracting yourself by putting the lid back on the Dutch oven to persevere the content's warmth.

“Dunno, couldn’t sleep,” it's not like you were lying to him, but standing in his presence acting as though everything was okay made you feel guilty.

“You uh still bake when you can’t sleep?” The sigh you let out was an indication of how this small talk was the last thing you wanted to be doing.

“Obviously Carmen,” your hand shot out to gesture to the pastel pot between the two of you.

“Right…right.” The drumming of Carmy’s finger’s against the steel caused a slight irritation in you. Nodding you wiped the non-existent grime from your hand on your pants.

“Right, well I need to finish my proposal.” You walked the spoon you’d been using to the dishwashing area before joining Carmy one more time, “I’ll be in the dining area if you need anything.”

“You said uh, that you were writing about Mikey and The Beef.” You nodded, waiting for him to finish his sentence, it didn’t sound like much of a question so you weren’t sure what form of response he was expecting.

The silence stretched around the kitchen, an unwavering stare down between you two filling the air with even more tension. You expected things to be stilted between the two of you, but things felt like they were on a whole other level now.

“Well, this is for everybody,” finger quickly pointing at the treats you bought. “It’s kind of a thank you for letting me be a part of this, even if you guys don’t sign off on the article.”

“No, yeah um awesome.” The blank stare you aimed in Carmy’s direction bordered on disgust, leave it to him to make an awkward situation even more awkward, it sure was a talent of his.

You picked up your tote bag and cardigan before heading to the dining area, hoping there was still a table and chair you could occupy. If working here with Carmen meant every interaction would be like pulling teeth, you’d make sure to ignore him like the plague.

“Is that peach fucking cobbler I smell?” Richie’s voice carried through to the dining area where you had sat staring at your finished outline.

You finished a bit ago but didn’t want to chance running into Carmy while it was still just the two of you here. Hearing Richie’s voice and the slight noise as you slipped your headphones off proved that you were no longer alone with one of your oldest friends.

“Baby! Where’s Baby?” You laughed maneuvering out of your seat to head back into the kitchen, unsurprised to find Richie and the rest of the crew gathered around containers of ice cream and cobbler in their hands.

It seemed too early in the day to attack your tastebuds with such a sweet confection, but it was kind of your fault for bringing it in in the first place. You made your way to Sugar’s side with a small smile on your lips as she ate her portion.

In the month after your release, before your house was ready you stayed with Nat and Pete. Your restless energy was channeled into your mom’s dessert recipes, a way to keep your mind occupied and the only way you knew to thank the two adults who hadn’t given up on you.

Nat constantly made it obvious that she missed the constant sweets you would bake just for her.

The two of you made your way to where everyone else was gathered around, you couldn’t lie seeing the empty pot caused a sigh of relief to leave you. You weren’t sure if you could handle being ridiculed by chefs for your poor-tasting dessert.

“This don’t taste like moms baby, you do somethin’ different this time?” Richie eyed you as he raised the spoon to his mouth, it may have tasted a bit different but that didn’t deter him from finishing his serving.

“Uh yeah, a friend of mine taught me how to make this peach simple syrup. It like helps the biscuits stay moist or something. Chef talk isn’t my strong suit.”

Carmy wasted no time before looking in your direction, he was situated across from you, and no matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn’t remember ever teaching you how to make a peach simple syrup. He watched as Marcus began talking your ear off about the dessert, the two of you falling into quiet conversation as you found a connection in sweet confectionery.

It was hard to watch as you so easily integrated yourself into the crew, Syd raptly listening to yours and Marcus’ conversation as if you were some award-winning chef and not just some journalist who knew how to bake. As he stood there watching everyone in the kitchen, he couldn’t pinpoint why his thoughts surrounding you seemed so bitter, he didn’t hate you, didn’t think he ever could.

But as he focused on you more, he realized that you were a part of Mikey he never really got to know. Of course, you were Carmy’s best friend but when things between the two of you fizzled out, Mikey’s role in your life became larger, even if you were separated by states and time zones.

Carmy knew he didn’t hate you, but it was hard for him to look at you and not see the relationship he wanted with his brother. He didn’t blame you, but he resented the way it seemed so easy for Mikey to love you, to be open with you.

Catching your eye he nodded his head in the direction of the dining area curious to hear about this article you were thinking about writing and maybe learning more about how it all connected back to Mikey and The Beef.

He made his way to exit the kitchen assuming you would be following behind him. Carmy stopped before turning around, he couldn’t make this decision by himself or at least that was his excuse as he called for Sugar and Sydney to join the two of you. It was probably all for nothing though as he knew the two women were already on board.

The four of you took seats at the table, the arrangement was oddly reminiscent of the meeting yesterday, this conversation taking place at the same table. You sat lonely on one side of the table while the other three occupied the other side.

You glanced down at your laptop in front of you realizing it might be better to join the others, the graphics would have been all for nothing if they couldn’t see them. Quickly grabbing your laptop you wandered over to the three individuals before plopping it in front of them on the table, you walked to grab the closest chair scooting it next to Carmy. You were too worried about the response to your proposal to be worried about being in such close contact with Carmy.

Sitting down you tried not to let the brush of Carmy’s leg against yours bother you, adjusting yourself in your seat before clearing your throat.

“Uhh, I made a PowerPoint,” the time you spent hiding from Carmy this morning allotted you the opportunity to do so. ���It’s pretty self-explanatory, but I’ll walk you through it.”

You began clicking through the slides, the nervousness you were feeling earlier taking a backseat as you so easily settled into your element. Time flew by as you grew more passionate about the article with each slide going into even more depth than the information in the presentation did.

“The reach this article will have might just be the difference in The Bear’s success or the lot of us paying back a loan in 18 months.” The smile on your face was enough to show how excited you were at the prospect of being able to go forth with your project.

“Or you know, the food might actually play a part in The Bear’s success,” you looked in Sydney’s direction, confidence shot before noticing the small uptick at the corner of her lips.

You nodded a small chuckle leaving your lips, “I guess the food might play a part.”

Two smiles directed towards you helped to make you feel infinitely better about the whole situation, you were doing your best to disregard the figure sitting next to you. Not doing a very good job as his leg continued to brush against yours which felt like every millisecond, you didn’t want to assume he was doing it on purpose but it did disrupt your focus while explaining your presentation.

“I think it’s a great idea. We’re going to need the exposure,” your eyes shot to Nat as she began speaking. “I mean, there’s really no cons to going through with this.” The encouraging smile Nat sent you reciprocated on your lips.

When nobody spoke up Syd began nodding along, “Yeah, I-I think it’s a great idea, though my opinion may be a little biased.” Her words drifted off into a soft mumble as she realized her previous reading of your work may have influenced her answer.

The two women’s agreement seemed like all you needed, no sign of Carmy itching to chime in. The lull in conversation created an opportunity for everyone to take their respective leave and work on their tasks for the day. You gathered your laptop in your hands and moved the chair you were using back to its original spot.

Making your way to your bag and cardigan you began putting your laptop away and making sure all your belongings were in there so you didn’t leave any valuables behind. You tried to ignore the presence that stayed in the room with you, not in any mood to deal with Carmy’s hot and cold attitude.

“Why is this article so important to you?” Carmy hadn’t said a word doing your entire explanation. It would've been easy to believe he wasn’t in the room if it wasn’t for his warm leg constantly pressing against yours. His arms crossed over his chest, it was hard to pretend you didn’t know what was hiding under the knit crew neck he was wearing.

You found his eyes, the exhaustion in them a mirror to your own. For a minute it was easy to imagine the two of you were teenagers again, the urge to find a seat next to him again and pour your heart out scratching at the back of your mind.

“Can I be honest with you?” You took a glance in Carmy’s direction watching as he relaxed his arms almost like he was opening himself up to whatever you had to get off your chest.

“I uh,” a sardonic chuckle passed through your lips. “I told Mikey I’d write about him one day and…and by the time I finally made it far enough into my career he…he left us.” Carmy’s face didn’t give much away about his feelings making it a little easier to continue your train of thought.

“It's just something I need to do I guess,” you shrugged your shoulders as you faced Carmy once more. The want to be near him won over, taking a few steps to the middle of the table before leaning against it, the once large gap between the two of you now lessened.

“He uh, called me that night. I was at a screening for a friend’s documentary so I just let the call go to voicemail. Texted him after that I’d call him in the morning.” It was weird, Natalie had seen you at your lowest and you had yet to tell her the whole story behind the infamous voicemail that kept you up that night. But standing here with Carmy at this moment gave you a sense of safety you had been lacking.

“I remember waking up in the middle of the night with so many missed calls from Nat and Richie, your mom even called me once,” a humorless laugh escaped your lips, the confidence you had earlier to tell this story dwindling with each word.

“I finally answered Sug’s next call and I remember before she even said anything, I felt like this ache in my chest.” Your hand had subconsciously moved to your chest pressing against it as though you were trying to relieve a bout of heartburn. “And I just…I could feel that something was wrong and you know my first thought was you, tha-that something happened and we never got a chance to fix us.”

“But then Sugar lets out this heart-wrenching sob, like this bone-chilling cry that just like freezes your blood and I’m sitting there listening to her cry and then I’m crying and I don’t even know why yet. And it feels like…like we’ve been on the phone for hours just crying with each other before Pete calms her down enough,” the shakiness not only evident in your voice but your hand that was still resting on the table by your hip. “And it's silent for a moment but I know, the moment the first syllable passes her lips it's like I lose all of my senses and I’m just sitting up in bed, numb to what she’s saying. And it can’t be real, you know because Mikey just called me only a couple of hours ago.”

“As soon as I’m off the phone with Nat I immediately call Richie, and the first thing he says to me is ‘Baby I’m sorry’ he apologizes to me like his best friend that he probably spent his whole day with didn’t just blow his brains out.” The lump in your throat was begging to be free, something you wouldn’t allow to happen. “And Richie is sitting there fucking consoling me because I’m too goddamn selfish to take one fucking breath and make sure he is okay.”

You finally meet Carmy’s eyes again, waterline wet with the tears you won’t allow to fall. “I guess I say all of this to say I owe this article to Mikey, maybe if I had just picked up the fucking phone he’d still be here with us.”

Carmy has no idea how to respond to anything you’d just told him at a loss for words as he allows your emotions to sink into him. He gently reaches his hand out, not knowing if a comforting touch would help, but wanting to do his best to let you know he was there with you. The two of you sat in each other’s presence, the weight of your confession weighing heavy in the room. Carmy knows nothing he says will change anything, it won’t bring Mikey back and it won’t lessen your grief, so for a while, he doesn’t, the two of you sit there connected by your hands.

“Uh, I’m not sure how much Sug told you, but there are these Al-Anon meetings for uh family members of addicts and I’ve been going for a while now,” he gave your hand a small squeeze to make sure you were still listening. “It helps to understand what Mikey was going through.”

You looked down at the man below you, a blank look on your face. You gave him a soft smile as your thumb caressed his knuckles, “Yeah I uh I’ll look into it.” You had wanted to laugh, the irony of the situation not lost on you but you appreciated the help Carmy was trying to offer.

The approaching footsteps easily forced you back to your side of the table, quickly occupying yourself to look busy so you wouldn’t have to explain why you were alone with Carmy. You listened quietly as he and Syd began conversing about something that was none of your business.

“I’m just gonna hang around here before I’ve gotta be at work if that’s cool with you guys?” You looked at the two chefs more so telling rather than asking but still wanting to be polite.

Syd nodded “The more hands the better I guess.” You sent a small smile in her direction before heading to the door hoping to make yourself useful and occupy your mind from the guilty thoughts.

Avoiding Carmy’s eyes as you not going unnoticed by him, though neither of you expected the conversation to take the turn it did. He was relieved that you still felt comfortable enough with him to have a conversation of that nature.

Sydney was doing her best to focus on the chaos menu with Carmy. But with it being the first time in a space so personal to him, she couldn’t help but take in the small details around his apartment that gave a look into who he was.

It was surprising to her really, the whole apartment was bare, lackluster of any interpersonal items besides Carmy’s belongings that one would expect to see. Syd tried not to come across as nosy, or too interested in the small things her eyes did catch onto, but it was hard.

Like the group picture stuck to his fridge with a random cheap banana magnet that no one ever knew they had but it just appeared in their kitchen one day. Or the aesthetic-looking knife set that Syd would equate to something a suburban mom might have in her kitchen and not the gritty anxiety-riddled chef she was cooking with.

What really prickled her curiosity though, was a picture of the two of you strategically placed above the stove. Syd was awarded a glance as Carmy removed his closet from the oven, she couldn’t tell how recent it was from the few seconds she saw it, but it did make her question what Carmy’s idea of an ‘old acquaintance’ was.

It was probably her third pass by the stove before she was finally able to take in a clear understanding of the Polaroid. She would admit she was surprised, the content of the picture far from anything she would ever equate to Carmen Berzatto.

It was of you and Carmy. The two of you were lying next to each other, whether on a bed or the floor, Sydney couldn’t tell. One of your arms was raised, presumably holding the camera in your hand. Even though the moment was captured in time, Syd could feel the intimacy through the photo, almost making her feel too uncomfortable to even be so intrigued by it.

Syd had seen the smile gracing Carmy’s face once or twice in real-time, something he usually kept to himself. He looked happy lying there next to you, like your being there eased him. She focused on you to find you were focusing on him, your head tilted up a little, eyes gleaming full of love.

You looked at Carmy the way Syd’s dad talked about her mom. Like your entire life was destined to be entangled with Carmy’s.

As Sydney focused on the picture once more, she finally noticed the number written on the white space of the Polaroid. Her only assumption that it must’ve been yours.

Her curiosity had finally gotten the best of her. From the way you two interacted, to the Polaroid she was sure she had taken in every detail of , there was history between you and Carmy.

“Hey uh, can I ask you a question?” She moved to sit at the table where Carmy was prepping pasta. She wasn’t sure whether she should beat around the bush or just outright ask her question.

Carmy raised his head, eyes catching hers before giving a slight nod, Syd took a deep breath. She would consider her and Carmy friends, but she didn’t want him to think she was crossing some line. “Uh what’s the deal between you two,” she said your name for clarification, not yet sure if she was allowed to call you by the nickname so many others did, and not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

Carmy froze for a minute, but his recovery was so quick if Syd wasn’t paying attention she wouldn’t have caught it. “It’s just uh, you called her an acquaintance, but I don’t think anybody gets those vibes from you two,” she trailed off not wanting to make Carmy feel pressured.

“I mean you have a shrine to her above your stove.” Carmy’s head snapped up to Syd before looking at the picture above his stove, Syd’s soft laugh signifying her quip as a joke.

“Fuck off,” he chuckled along with her, the weight on his shoulder at the idea of talking about you lessening a bit. “She uh, we were best friends growing up, she lived across the street from us.”

Syd nodded her head waiting for any more details, she wasn’t normally one to pry but Carmy’s explanation sounded like such bullshit compared to the way you two acted around each other. “So you guys like never dated or anything?” Syd’s curiosity caused the question to come across as less casual than she hoped.

“No, no. Just friends,” Carmy nodded eyes still on the pasta doing his best to distract his mind from Sydney’s line of questioning.

“Did you ever like, I dunno want more with her?” Carmy stopped eyes finally meeting Syd’s, he stood there for a moment just taking in her question. Although you once admitted your desire for something more with him, he still hadn’t. And he wasn’t sure if now in his kitchen with Sydney was the right time or place to do it.

But Syd didn’t need him to verbally answer, the look in his eyes told her more than what she had even asked. The two of them were only speaking about you and the longing in Carmy’s soft blue eyes was enough for Sydney to feel like she interrupted a sudden declaration of love.

Sydney cleared her throat, averting her eyes not at all meaning to get into anything too personal. Just a bit curious about the nature of the relationship between you two. “So any ideas on how to make this chaos menu…thoughtful?”

Carmy was grateful for Syd’s diversion of topics. If she had picked up on the tension between the two of you, he was sure the rest of the crew had. And if that meant everyone was privy to the unfinished history between the two of you then neither of you were as sly as you thought.

You lost Hayden somewhere between first entering the store and him wandering off for his necessities. You didn’t mind though, he was nice enough to offer you a ride home and stop by the store as the two of you brainstormed about your respective dinners for the night.

Wandering around on your own in a store you had never been to probably wasn’t the smartest decision you made. Case in point is the fact that you were standing in the alcoholic beverage section trying to fight the urge to peruse through the variety and pick your favorite form of poison.

The sound of your name caught your attention, eyes shooting to Hayden’s impeccably dressed form. You’d be the first to admit maturity had done him good, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled up to show off his toned forearms. The top three buttons were undone, his chest giving a preview of what he had to offer.

His lips wrapped around your name again, a slight frown to his brows. He looked around the aisle before his eyes landed back on you with a small smile decorating his lips, “You okay?” You watched as he checked you over, the action irritated you a bit. Was he expecting you to go batshit crazy in the middle of the grocery store and just start hammering away at the countless bottles?

“Fine, just got distracted. I um, I just need some açaí and I’ll be good.” You gave him your best smile hoping it would reassure him, the one he returned ensured just that.

The two of you made your way to the frozen food section, meaningless small talk passing between the two of you.

“I can’t believe you still eat this shit,” you scoffed, quickly grabbing the bag of frozen açaí from the freezer. Closing the door as you made your way back to Hayden the two of you ready to make your leave.

“If I recall, you had no problem eating this in my dorm all those years ago,” the boisterous laugh that escaped Hayden caused a similar one to leave you, neither of you having brought up this topic of conversation since reuniting.

“Had to replenish all that lost stamina somehow,” your eyes widened slightly Hayden’s smirk did nothing to quell the heated feeling spreading through you.

He walked past you, grabbing your hand so you would follow behind him. “What’s got you quiet all of a sudden?” You knew he was teasing you, the tone in his voice bringing a chuckle out of you.

“Just wasn’t sure how well you remembered our college shenanigans.” The shrug of your shoulders was supposed to feign nonchalance, but the wide grin on your face proved the opposite.

The two of you had lost any rush to leave the grocery store, casually walking around hands entwined together. “To forget a girl like you would be criminal,” you faced Hayden nose scrunching up at his words a laugh bubbling out of your lips.

“Didn’t you get married?” Hayden laughed, throwing his arm around your shoulder as the two of you continued around the store aimlessly just enjoying the company of an old friend.

“You didn’t want me the way I wanted you. Had to move on at some point.” The melancholy tone in his voice caused a feeling of guilt to shoot through your heart. You nodded a sad smile gracing your lips, the squeeze on your shoulder helping to alleviate your remorse.

“Listen, Hayden, I didn’t mean to hurt you or anything,” you sighed as you moved to stand in front of him. “It just wasn’t fair of me to commit to a long-term relationship with you when my heart wasn’t in it.” He nodded a smile sent in your direction.

“No, I uh I appreciate it, wouldn’t have married Marlene if you didn’t set me straight,” you smiled happy there was a bright side to this whole situation. “Probably wouldn’t have divorced her either. Hey, should I send you my lawyer fees or.” Hayden trailed off, grin returning to his face as you laughed swatting at his bicep.

All he saw in his head was you. As dramatic as it sounds it felt like the thought of you was keeping him alive, from the way you had all but disappeared when they opened Mikey’s locker. To the photo above his stove that was seared into his brain. So preoccupied with thoughts of you he had missed the aisle he intended to go down three times.

Finding his destination Carmy made his way down the aisle, stopping as he saw you laughing with a man he didn’t recognize. His mind going back to the conversation he had earlier with Sydney, Carmy did want more with you. He wanted a lot more than what the two of you allowed to transpire all these years.

Carmy wanted a life with you, a life where he was the one making you laugh in the grocery store. Where his apartment wasn’t just filled with a, year old photograph of the two of you, but filled with your presence.

He envisioned a life with you, and he wasn’t sure why he had sabotaged every chance you had given him to make that a reality. Carmy continued his journey through the store, thoughts of you played heavily on his mind. It didn’t matter what he wanted though if he never gained the courage to tell you. There was a lot unsaid between the two of you, but you had made your feelings clear. Tried to reconcile whatever relationship the two of you still had left. And the ball was in his court, had been since your impromptu visit last year.

Even when reunited with the girl he had crushed on once upon a time, you were still at the forefront of his mind. The woman in front of him is a cruel reminder of all the ways he messed up with you.

Carmy’s thoughts ran so wild with you as he entertained Claire’s conversation, that he didn’t think twice before giving her a number that had been left on a Polaroid a year ago and now decorated the space above his stove; but not the contact book in his phone.

a/n: it’s here!!! i think this chapter is pretty tame which is kind of out of character lol. thankful to be done with this chapter so i can explore some ideas i’ve been having! thank you all so much for your love and support! please support me in whatever way feels comfortable!!! 💜

tag list: @hawkins-2000 @elliesbabygirl @allbark-no-bite @anakinswh0re3005 @rexorangecouny @thecraziestcrayon @fruitcupsworld @nishinoyahhh @lilylovelyxo @ridingthehotmessexpress @noas-ark @jadeittic @hellokittyever @luvr-bunnyy @sxgees @fandomhopped @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @kravitzwhore @chanluvr @readingwiththereids @chims-kookies @ladygrey03 @ferida-kahlo @wanderlustnightwanderer @how2besalty @armydrcamers @jointherebellion215 @jackierose902109 @blkbxrbie-esther @ajordan2020 @head-slut-in-charge @magnet-girl @thebookwormlife @sevikasblackgf @writers-hes @senassn @bunnysthngs @gabbycoady13 @randomhoex @mattmurdocksstarlight @shinebright2000 @royalestrellas @khena @kailyn-g05 @ovaqma @fire-treasure-iii @frequentnosebleeder @awatt31 @cauliflowerpatch

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

For garten of banban do a fic of the reader actually tackling tying up and gagging bittergiggle up before he can tell any jokes. She tied him up with shoelaces and used a bandana around her neck to gag him

Omg wasn't expecting a GOBB request so soon, but yay!!

Also yes this is happening ya'll I'm getting invested in this silly game again.

............

"Your Majesty, tell me..what did the-?"

"NO!!"

Before Bittergiggle could even react, you lunged and tackled him to the floor of the throne room, much to the shock of Sheriff Toadster and Queen Bouncelia. You were quick to yank off the bandana around your neck, putting it around his mouth as a makeshift gag.

He squirmed and thrashed through muffled yells, furious that you stopped him from telling his joke.

Yet somehow you were able to easily overpower him. He didn't expect any human to be this strong.

"Sheriff! I need your assistance!"

"Huh? Oh!" The toad snapped out of his stupor as you tossed several shoelaces you've gathered around the kindergarten in his direction, and he immediately knew what to do with them.

In the end, you two successfully tied up Bittergiggle in front of the still-bewildered kangaroo.

"What on earth...?"

"My apologies, your Majesty..but it's for his own good." Despite being out of breath, you stood up and smiled, patting the jester's smooth side of his head even as he kept struggling. "He was about to tell you the worst joke in existence. Figured I'd spare your gracious ears from hearing it."

"Oh? Well..I suppose you have my thanks, dear." She bowed her head in gratitude, before sitting back on her throne.

"Gotta say, I'm impressed.." Sheriff Toadster chuckled. "I haven't been able to round up this crook in ages...and yet this fine lady here did it in the blink an eye! I oughta give ya my thanks, too. You saved us all from certain doom."

"Yeah, well...I've been through enough crap already." You sighed. "And even after all this time...I'm still not any closer to finding my kid. I came here for answers and instead I got this dunce trying to kill me and keep me locked up!"

Nudging Bittergiggle with your foot, you watched as he fell onto his side, yelling dramatically despite the gag making his words unintelligible still.

All you did was scowl down at him. "Shut up. I didn't push you that hard."

"Your determination and grit is something I can admire," Queen Bouncelia remarked. "Although I am concerned for your safety, it's not my place to tell you to give up and go home. You didn't come this far to be told that."

"I appreciate your concern, my queen...but I know my kid best. They wouldn't just disappear in a place like this."

"Very well. Unfortunately, I do not have the answers you seek. I'm afraid they lie even-"

"Deeper in the facility?"

"........"

"I figured...guess the only way to go is down at this point." You then turned to Sheriff Toadster, putting your hands on your hips. "I'll help you lock the Jester up, but only if you take me to the next elevator. I'd feel much safer with you than Banban."

"As much as I appreciate that...you ain't one to order me around, missy." While physically impossible for him to frown, his eyes narrowed with a look of disdain. "Don't think you're let off the hook just yet. I'll lock you both right back up. Him for nearly killin' us all...and you for disrespectin' a-"

"You will do no such thing to her." Queen Bouncelia's voice boomed, causing him to tense and look back at her, suddenly trembling under her gaze. "They may not be connected by genome, but I see much of Opila Bird's fire in her eyes. The same instinct to protect her youth from harm. It is unwise to test a mother's love for her child."

"A-Ah...but of course, your Majesty. I shall not question the human any further." He bowed his head in obedience before turning back to you. "Alrighty. Let's go lock this bandit up only and I'll show ya to the elevator down. We may need to recruit an ally on our journey, but worry not...it shall not the that devilish fiend who claims to be your friend."

"Thank you." Nodding, you glanced at the queen with a heartfelt smile, relieved she still retained her kindness and empathy even after being abandoned.

For once there was a mascot who wasn't trying to kill or manipulate you.

So you and Sheriff Toaster eventually departed from the kingdom, dragging a kicking and screaming Bittergiggle behind you.