#possibly die of plague but the peace would be worth it

[fangsandfeels]

Bioware had continuity issues before...

...but with Veiguard, I feel like this time it just didn't care and was in a hurry to bury the DA world as fast as possible, so it could proceed to finishing Mass Effect off the same way.

Spoiler-y nitpicks and thoughts below

Once again, I'm all for the premise of almost none of the higher beings and deities of Thedas being kind or benevolent - and all of them turning out to be not what they seemed or were promised to be.

It fits the undergoing theme of every group in Thedas subtly believing that their true gods will come and fix everything, and every atrocity, every bloodbath, every sacrifice will be worth it. For the plot to take away that hope and expose how deep the wounds go, how absolutely wrecked this world is (and you can never un-wreck it , would have been absolutely logical and very in tune with the general tone of the series.

The Old Gods

If Archdemons contain not the souls of the Old Gods, but the key to the Evanuris mortality, why was Solas mad at the Grey Wardens for killing them? Why did Mythal/Flemeth needed to preserve the soul of an Old God? Wouldn't she, a betrayed and angry goddess, want to sever her traitors' connection to immortality? Instead, she wanted it "a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness". Something, that meant to be saved from corruption and destruction. But now Solas dismisses it by saying that Old Gods were never a thing, it has always been the Evanuris using dragons as their conduits and immortality placeholders?

Then why did you give Grey Wardens so much crap for killing these dragons, Solas?!

Yeah, we can argue that Solas was worrying about the Evanuris not being able to sustain the Veil due to losing their immortality, but he was going to bring it down anyways? So what difference would it have made anyways?

Something doesn't add up.

I think, the most logical thing would have been to leave the Old Gods as the raw magic incarnate - truly a relict from the world back when magic was everywhere. So, it would have make sense for Flemeth, Morrigan and Solas want to preserve it - despite all the destructive potential, it has always belonged to this world. It would have also explained why darkspawn need to infect the slumbering Old Gods - as ancient magical beings, they are attuned to the world, and the taint means to exploit that connection.

2. The taint and the Blight

If the taint is the product of the Titan's anger and desire for vengeance...why can Ghila'nain use it like her own personal Play-Doh? I'd imagine, the pure concentration of wrath and anger should be particularly deadly for the Evanuris - because it's directed against them, first and foremost. I don't mind the Titans being as the general source of the plague - it would explain the Deep Roads and darkspawn behavior. A twisted wish to be whole again, an unfulfilled desire to keep fighting - a constant, never-ending call to arms. It also would have been a nice callback to the state of the Mother from Awakening: she woke up only to realize and remember what has been done to her, which broke her mind and made her desperate to either die or return to that mindless state of rage and destruction. So do the Titans feel, knowing they were mutilated and plundered, broken apart, and are in too much pain to ever forgive or know peace.

If Titans were so connected to the physical world, the taint changing everything it touches would have made sense: life itself twisting and contorting into a weapon, against an attacker it can't see or find. This is truly tragic, horrifying and realistic - taint as a wound that cannot heal, that festers, and rots but never closes. It's a very accurate depiction of trauma caused by a genocidal war.

Therefore, it would have made more sense if the Evanuris were fucking terrified of the taint and the darkspawn because of how devastating it was to them and because they had no clue how to destroy it - they could only contain it and hope it works.

Maybe Ghila'nain tried to master it but barely survived and went mad, modifying her body and "perfecting" herself as a result. It would still have been possible to keep her obsessed with taint - mostly out of pure denial that something can be beyond her control as she believes herself to be the Goddess of Creation.

Also, you can still have your scarier version of more active and virulent taint - just make it change in response to the gods appearing in the physical world. Make it spread more actively, make the darkspawn go into frenzy, make it look like the new Blight is starting - but now it's as if blindly searching for something or someone. Wouldn't that be fucking creepy?

Maybe, for the first time in a long while, the South of Thedas isn't the one to take a hit - instead, the darkspawn are flocking to where the gods are.

(Of course, the question is, why the taint doesn't target the elves specifically? Because of them losing their immortality - the taint isn't exactly sentient, so it perceives them as part of physical world)

It would have posed such an interesting and controversial option for the player: to weaponize the Blight to end the gods.

3. Maker

I remember that the developers mentioned that the Maker never meant to be real. It was meant to represent the humanity's ability to believe in a symbol. But the Veilguard's "the legend about the Maker was actually about magister's breaking into the prison made by Solas and accidentally blighting all around the place" is such an underwhelming conclusion. After all, the Ashes of Andraste meant to imply that there is something. That it's not just a collective gaslighting - but something else.

I feel like they could have made so much with it:

In the context of the taint's connection to the Titans, what if Maker has always been somewhat of an emissary of the taint? It was cut off from the dwarves and locked away - but it needed a way out, right? Even subconsciously, it knew that it has to get out. It was the music that kept playing, the song that called. So, it reached out to other beings of the physical world, whispering to them and beckoning them. Andraste, due to probably being a Dream Walker or extremely sensitive to the Fade, caught a glimpse of that events, but was never able to make sense of it, which led her to fill in the gaps, which led to the creation of andrastianism. Therefore, Maker didn't leave the Golden City - once the taint was released, it fulfilled its purpose.

What if Andraste willed the Maker into existence? Since Fade is attuned to people's dreams, thoughts, and inner worlds, maybe Andraste's connection to it was so strong, it channeled her pain, her wish for justice and salvation into a figure that she believed to be the Maker? What if she was even able to perform miracles with the Maker as her avatar, turning people into believers? So, logically, when she died, the Maker stopped responding: she was no longer there to sustain him. No amount of prayers and sermons, of repressions and murders, of crusades and chats would have made the Maker return - because the only person actually capable of that was burned and killed long ago. This would have also explained why some spirits believe in Maker because they saw him in people's dreams - the Maker never existed in any other shape and it couldn't manifest completely because his image differed based on individual person's imagination and convictions.

After all, the true horror of living is realizing that nobody is control. Nobody is coming to fix things for you. There is no hope - only the consequences you are forced to live in.

[iturnlemonadeintolemons]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Doing this for the first time ever and here we go--

So, a few days ago I saw people doing something called wip wednesdays, and that looked fun, so here's mine--

It's a one-shot for my drabble series, and not edited AT ALL, so have your pinches of salt ready.

Is it really fair to have one’s life reduced to seventeen years?

It’s kind of ironic, isn't it, Caroline asks herself, to live, die, live again, and then promptly die once again promptly in the same year?

She’s sixteen, she’s seventeen, and then she’s seventeen forever.

Well, not anymore. She’s dying.

She’s almost dead.

Caroline’s favourite grandmother, her mom’s mother, had early onset Alzheimer’s since she was forty-nine. Caroline remembers visiting her at the old age home, watching her beloved grandmother pinch her cheeks and ask her mother what she and her lovely daughter were doing at a place like this.

She remembers the lucidity. A few precious moments every few months, when her grandmother would remember who she was and Caroline and her mother rushed to the home to spend those few minutes with her, celebrating the fact that she recalled them.

It always felt fake, to Caroline. Something unreal. Another effect of the disease slowly eating away at her grandmother.

Similar to the disease that’s eating away at her. She’s been hallucinating since an hour, plagued by memories, mostly of her grandmother and her parents. The period right now, the one where she’s just lying on her bed, waiting for her hallucinations and the poison from the werewolf bite to just take over her, wating to succumb to the pain because she just can't—

She can't—

That’s her lucidity.

Calling her mom is hopeless. She loves her so much, so blindly, that her mother’s spent the last hour just searching for a cure to werewolf venom, when in fact, there isn't one.

Well, not one that’s going to be given to her anytime soon, anyway.

So Caroline waits. Waits for the poison coursing through her veins to kill her without even trying. Because what's even the damn point, when she can't even have her stupid birthday in peace without dying, again.

And the hallucinations must be reaching a point where she’s nearly dead, because they’re getting more and more vivid, because there’s no way Klaus Mikaelson would be in her room.

She cracks open her eyes.

Oh.

There he is.

He’s standing at her door, looking at her as if she’s—

He doesn’t care. Whatever’s on his face, he just doesn’t care. Live or die, Caroline Forbes, Klaus Mikaelson couldn’t give a flying fuck about you. You're just a pawn in his game, something to be sacrificed. She’s a test subject to make sure the sire bond worked.

She’s nothing. And he agrees.

So she says, “Are you going to kill me?”

She hates that her possible last words sound so resigned. So weak, so pathetic, when she promised herself that at least her death would be prouder than how her life had been.

Caroline Forbes, born 1992, died 2009. She didn’t do anything worth living in those measly seventeen years that she got. Go on, Klaus, rip her head off. It isn't like she can do anything to stop you anyway.

Klaus’s eyebrows pull back, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s actually surprised. “On your birthday?”

It doesn’t shock her that he knows today’s her birthday. He could have known her social security number and she wouldn’t have been surprised. She makes no effort to show him any emotion when he continues, “Do you really think that low of me?”

She could have laughed if it weren't so pathetic. Was he kidding her? She was dying because of him and he had the audacity to ask her if she thought he was a lowlife? There had to be some amount of shame in the man, right?

Clearly not.

“Yes,” she rasps out, not bothering to keep the contempt out of her voice.

[amaryllis-sagitta]

Ancient elvhen & death

As discussions about the DATV gameplay reveal go on, it is often brought up that by establishing the Veil, Solas brought mortality onto elves - which adds a layer of depth to his "People die all the time" line. But it is worth remembering that the ancient Elvhen did not seem to be strangers to death altogether; they were only strangers to aging, which was something humans and animals did.

The narrative of "eternal Elvhenan" is a myth told by the Dalish Keepers, that emphasizes the leisure and slowness of ancient elvhen existence in contrast with that of transient humans:

Before the ages were named or numbered, our people were glorious and eternal and never-changing. Like the great oak tree, they were constant in their traditions, strong in their roots, and ever reaching for the sky. They felt no need to rush when life was endless. They worshiped their gods for months at a time. Decisions came after decades of debate, and an introduction could last for years. From time to time, our ancestors would drift into centuries-long slumber, but this was not death, for we know they wandered the Fade in dreams. (Codex: Arlathan: Part One)

This state of affairs is confirmed by some codices found in Trespasser, that hint at decisions and rituals taking many years to finalize. I don't think this narrative is entirely false; I think it describes the chiefly ancient elvhen idyll in times of peace.

What we need to remember is that ancient Elvhenan waged at least two devastating wars: one against the Titans, and the other against the Void, personified by the Forgotten Ones. There must have been a tremendous amount of senseless loss in these wars, considering that Titans could shape the earth and the Void is a universally corrupting and depleting force.

When we confront Solas in DAI Trespasser, the word "immortality" is used in a double context: one is the lack of aging, the other is the Evanuris having the magical prowess to circumvent death almost completely. It is significantly harder to kill them. Which means an average elvhen person still had to mind dying from wounds or plague.

Solas: The elven legends of immortality? All true. It was not the arrival of humans that caused them to begin aging [emphasis mine, AS]. It was me. (DAI Trespasser)

What the Quickening really introduced is senescence and the shortening of the lifespan in consecutive generations of elves. The depiction of how the Quickening took hold seems to echo ancient stories at the base of the Western culture, depicting humanity's deterioration as it left the perfect "default" state of the Golden Age/ life in Paradise: what happened to first humans in the Old Testament, and Hesiod's and Ovid's depiction of the Ages of Man. In both instances, the "default" state implied that people lived in perfect harmony with their gods (in Dragon Age this also includes Fade spirits!) and endured for a very long time in a youthful state, and that there's been a progressive shortening of life expectancy in consecutive generations - linked with some kind of a transgression on the humans' part, being respectively the Biblical Original Sin and the Olympian Gods' act of overthrowing Cronus.

It is noted in The World of Thedas that the elves first noticed the Quickening around -2850 Ancient or -1655 TE. If we assume that humans could only expand and thrive in the post-Veil reality, then the date -3100 marking their approximate arrival in Thedas would not be long after the Great Betrayal. By this estimate, it would take 300-500 years until the elves noticed something in their biology was off.

It is entirely possible that the ancient elvhen had concepts and rituals for many kinds of sudden death. The Uthenera also seems to be some concept of "lesser death" - they aren't here, they probably won't return, but the spirit is roaming. This could also imply that, for them, the post-Quickening death of the body equals the death of the soul/spirit in the person, so it's "more finite". If someone departed suddenly, the ancient elves could rationalize it as something avoidable. Or perhaps they had rituals to regenerate the body and thus revive the dead as long as the soul/spirit has not left yet.

The entire cult of Mythal being focused on sorrow and loss is a fertile ground for theory crafting that concerns mourning and precautions against the death of personality or memory.

The weight of the shock that came with the Quickening was about the inevitability of decay, and about gradually losing time. So it doesn't come as a surprise that, since things now inevitably deteriorate and the memory of elders won't serve the people as well, the effort goes into preservation of heritage. Solas seems to be partly in denial of this shift, he fixates on the thought that the deterioration can be undone if he tries hard enough.

This really hammers it home that ancient elves had an entirely different philosophy around the passage of time, that the pressure of time is something inherently terrifying to them.

[azurexsnake]

I genuinely like, die inside knowing how much Vash hates himself. How he doesn’t believe he’s worth anything. How much guilt he holds inside himself over shit he did not do. Things he didn’t want to have happen. Tried to prevent. Would have moved mountains to stop.

How he blames himself, internalizing every failure when he can’t possibly do everything he asks of himself- he’s just one person, no matter how capable. It doesn’t matter, those self-imposed short-comings only serve as nails in the coffin of his own perceived ineptitude. That ineptitude that exists as a traitor to the things he he holds dear. Every one of them, a failure to honor Rem’s memory.

He tries so, so hard to do right by everyone. To uphold and carry on what Rem instilled in him. To bring about the kind of future she believed in. One she would have been happy to help facilitate, knowing that that’s what she gave her life for. One she could smile down on and be at peace with.

But he’s still just one person, with too many burdens and a brother who intentionally, and without end, adds to the doubts that plague him. And still, Vash loves him. Because Rem loved him, too. Because he’s the only brother Vash has. Because they were always supposed to have each other. How could he betray that?

And, even if that weren’t the case, how could he ever hope to stand successfully on his own, when Knives has made sure to hammer into Vash at every opportunity that Vash will always, always be hopeless without him?

[songbird-and-her-fos]

How to join the Sarafan Part 2

Had someone, at any point, asked Sultana what she thought the hardest part of joining the Sarafan would be… the answer being  “shaving her head” wouldn’t have even crossed her mind. Vanity had been a big part of Rahabim culture; the clan of Kain’s fourth-born considered themselves one of the most beautiful clans, second only to the Razielim. She had occasionally rolled her eyes at her siblings back at the Rahabim residence when they fussed over their hair or clothing. She had considered herself above such things. Turns out she very much wasn’t, and sitting in this small room in nothing but her undergarments while a fellow Sarafan priestess carefully cut her hair as short as possible to make shaving her head easier made her want to scream. And so did the many already discarded bundles of long black hair littering the floor of the small ceremonial chamber.

She wished that the sister would at least speak to her, to somehow distract her from her sullen thoughts, but the shearing of a priestess during her initiation into the brotherhood was a sacred ritual that was to be performed in silence, to give the new sister time to pray on this step into a new life. At least that’s how it had been explained to her. 

A soft, small hand tilted her head upwards, and she met the woman’s gaze. She gave her a careful once-over, smiled and nodded, satisfied with the result of her work. Then she motioned for Sultana to stand up, dusted any stray hairs off her clothing and then helped her dress in the attire of the Sarafan priestesses.

The rest of the ceremony was to take place in the chapel, with the inquisitors and a few more of the lower ranking Sarafan as witnesses, so this was where Sultana was brought. She would make a vow to free Nosgoth from the vampire plague, or die trying, in front of Moebius himself, and the thought of that set her teeth on edge. Moebius, of course, knew who she really was, and she knew that he knew. The only reason he hadn’t exposed her, she believed, was that nothing she would do in this time would end up really changing anything for the future she came from, so her presence was simply of no consequence to him. Still, she couldn’t help but avoid his gaze as she walked the length of the chapel before kneeling in front of him, her every muscle tense. Even the feeling of Rahab's eyes resting on her did little to soothe her this time.

“Brothers and Sisters of the Sarafan, it is on this blessed day that we welcome a new soul into our fold”, Moebius began. “A soul who has recognized how Nosgoth suffers at the hands of the undead creatures roaming the land and wishes to be a bringer of peace. But noble wishes are not enough to purify Nosgoth. Is anyone present here willing to testify to the virtues of this soul?”

Rahab stepped forth. “I, Rahab, have witnessed this woman show strength when faced with one of our adversaries, and thus deem her worthy.”

Lord Melchiah joined him. “I, Melchiah, have witnessed this woman show valor in protecting two innocent souls from a foul beast, and thus deem her worthy.”

Lord Turel also took a step forward and added:”I, Turel, have witnessed this woman show determination by not only killing the vampire that had infiltrated the fortress, but also taking it upon herself to purify its soul in sacred fire, and thus deem her worthy.”

A short silence followed, during which Sultana briefly looked to the gathered inquisitors and saw Lord Raziel roll his eyes, as if this whole ceremony was a waste of his time. Then he stepped forth as well and, in a decidedly bored tone of voice, which netted him a warning glare from Lord Turel, said:”I, Raziel, have witnessed this woman show humility by accepting the consequences of her mistakes and repenting, and thus deem her worthy.”

I would have never thought that humility was valued by the Sarafan, Sultana thought. The fact that Lord Raziel of all people apparently deemed it a virtue worth mentioning was the peak of irony.

Lord Moebius nodded and announced:”In this case, she shall have the blessing of the Circle, as well.” Now his milky eyes focused on her, which sent a shiver down her spine. “Now, speak your vows.”

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. “I, Sultana, vow to defend Nosgoth from the undead scourge. I vow to dedicate myself to the purification of Nosgoth in mind, body and soul. For as long as impure creatures roam this land, I shall forgo the pleasures of the flesh, for my flesh is henceforth steel, I am no mere person, but a weapon forged and honed to destroy all that threatens the people of Nosgoth.”

“The Circle of the Nine accepts your vows. So stand now and be reborn, Sultana of the Sarafan, warrior-priestess.”

Once she had finally left the chapel and with it the suffocating presence of Moebius behind, Sultana let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. 

“These initiation rites can be rather tiring”, Rahab said, placing a comforting hand on her back. “How are you feeling?”

She raised her hand to her freshly shaven head. “Cold.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “You’ll get used to it, if Melchiah is to be believed.”

Lord Raziel walked up to them, the usual condescending grin plastered on his face. “So, you actually made it, little maid. Congratulations. Now make sure to not get yourself killed; the funerals for fallen Sarafan are dreadfully tedious and I’d like to have to sit through as few of them as possible.”

The heartless way he spoke of his late brethren lit a spark in Sultana, and not the pleasant kind. More of the kind ignited by a fool who thought it a good idea to smoke next to a powderkeg.

So she stepped closer to him, her face a carefully curated mask of sweet innocence. “Why, thank you, Lord Raziel! I am glad to have finally almost completed my initiation!”

“Almost?”, he asked, knitting his brows in confusion.

“Yes”, she replied. “There is one last bit of baggage from my old life that I have to put behind me.” And before Lord Raziel could even react, she had punched him in the face.

He staggered back, holding his bleeding nose, and just barely managed to keep himself on his feet. “What in the name of the pillars…?!”

“That was for that slap back then”, Sultana replied with a grin. “Now we’re even, and I can fully leave my past as a maid behind me.”

He lowered his hand, showing two little rivers of blood pouring from his nostrils. “Why, you vindictive little…!”

“That’s enough!” Rahab stepped between them. “Sultana, was that really necessary?”

“It was”, she replied plainly. “As I said, now he and I are even. If there are to be any further hostilities between us, they won’t come from me.”

Lord Raziel seemed to get over his anger fairly quickly. He wiped the blood from his face and even chuckled a little. “Fine. I accept that. I would not trust someone who doesn’t settle their debts, anyway. Keep that spirit of yours, little maid. It’ll serve you well here.”

[youngestrunningleek]

The Heir of Mistmantle

yeah that’s right they have hair now

This book review, I’m looking at The Mistmantle Chronicles, Book 3: The Heir of Mistmantle, by M. I. McAllister and illustrated by Omar Rayyan. Published in 2007, It continues the story of the animals of Mistmantle.

Disclaimer: I fully believed this was the final book in the series, when I was reading it. I’m thrilled that there are two more!

And, honestly, I think it’s a huge compliment that the series can stand alone. You could stop after any of the three books I’ve read so far, and be satisfied.

This book features Mistmantle dealing with a lot of disasters– including plague, floods, and a kidnapped princess. It also features extra attention to Urchin’s friend Juniper. Watch out for more detailed spoilers ahead.

I loved this book, possibly even more than the previous ones. I’m so, so impressed with McAllister (and the illustrations by Rayyan) and the world she makes. The imagery of parties and celebrations is beautiful, and it makes you understand why this place is worth defending. We finally get to see Crispin as king, which is cool. Also, Rayyan puts human emotions onto animals without veering into uncanny valley for me.

We also get AWESOME things like Urchin doing the Dark Knight Rises jump out of a deep hole. I love stories about rodents so flipping much.

It’s also kind of revolutionary, to me, to have a children’s fantasy book where the enemy is fear. There’s no dragon to kill or evil king to dethrone. Sometimes it’s a heat wave, or it rains too much, or the water is polluted. Then, people turn to look for a villain, but there is none.

I don’t want to be too light about it, but, I really did see commonalities with COVID. Some people turn on Queen Cedar, saying she brought the plague because she’s not from Mistmantle.

There’s also a conversation with Fingal the otter that I thought was well done. He spends the first half of this book extremely excited about his new boat. Then, it’s smashed in the storm. Two older otters are trying to console him, but he puts it in perspective. He says it’s not a very big deal compared to the animals who died or lost homes. You can be upset by both, while also knowing one loss is larger. I thought it did a good job of showing all the different scales of loss.

And, uh, if you want to be a bummer… they have a lovely scene at the end where peace is restored. The monarchs have a big court. They say a general “thank you” to the healers. But no one gets a special reward (despite other characters getting wreaths and titles). Sounds familiar. Yikes.

Back to losses, yes, they do have actual losses. Two major characters die, including Juniper’s mother Damson.

I liked the writing of that part. He actually lies to his dying mother, so that he can hear her final confession. Yes, it’s relieving her of stress, but he’s also posing as the priest to do it. That’s morally ambiguous! Plus, there’s the actual confession itself, which is that his father is Husk (the villain of the first book).

We get two freaking amazing quotes afterward, from the priest Brother Fir:

“You hate yourself now because you heard Damson’s confession. If you had not done it, you would hate yourself for that instead.” Dude, that’s intense.

And after Juniper says he can’t continue, Fir says “You can’t yet, [...] but you will. Life consists of doing the impossible”.

I like both of those a lot!

Juniper later admits he wanted to die saving people from a landslide, so that he could do something good with his life. Dang, again.

But then the adults and Urchin tell him he’s worth it, and he confronts his feelings about jealousy and becoming like Husk.

There’s even a conversation with a young hedgehog about why it’s not okay to hit people. I know that sounds very basic, but it’s all so mature! Especially when a lot of fantasy stories are about how cool it would be if we could hit people.

We get a description of children playing a game where you say “find the King, find the Queen, find the heir of Mistmantle”. Then their parents hush them and basically say “that’s not appropriate right now”. That broke my heart, gently.

Going back to the paranoia, yes, the real antagonist was inside us all along. It’s fear. But even the three animals who represent the grumblings and negative sentiments are pretty sympathetic. One of them is a young hedgehog who is clearly just trying to fit in.

Also, the suspicion toward the queen is extra heartbreaking because the king and queen are missing their daughter. McAllister really shows the effect it has on the king and queen to lead through all these problems and keep up the search for their child as well. At one point Cedar reveals she’s depriving herself of sleep because she’s having nightmares. That’s such an excellent parallel with the villainous couple in book one!

About the daughter… She disappears very early on. I appreciate all of the Mistmantle books for not beating around the bush. We don’t spend a lot of time wondering where she went, either. We know an old squirrel, Linty, took her.

Linty is an interesting case. She is old, and confused, and she lost two children to the culling. I love that problems from the first book continue to be relevant. Of course a policy like that is going to leave lasting scars on the population! That trauma is why she confuses princess Catkin for her own daughter, and tries to hide her away.

I love these books, so I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Yes, if you have to ask, then it’s probably ableist.

But I do admire this book, especially one from 2007, for not saying she’s evil. There’s a good paragraph near the end about how things are never complete and never perfect, and it’s ridiculous that Husk tried to eliminate any different animals from the island. They also say near the end, “There’s always a reason for animals to behave the way they do. It may not be a good reason. It may be a very bad one, or an insane one, but there is always a reason.”

It’s really beautiful for children’s fantasy to have that message.

By the way, that quote was partly in reference to Husk. Juniper leads two friends into the deep tunnels below the island so that they can find Husk’s body and prove he’s dead, once and for all.

But even when they do that, his broken bones and shattered gems are more sad than anything. It’s a tragedy that this guy could have been a good captain, and succumbed to evil. There are a few witnesses to confirm he’s dead, but they make a point that they don’t want to turn his body into a show. Plus, they make the point that good things did come from his life, like Juniper.

Yes, it’s still a very light reading level. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not challenging my worldview in a huge way. But oh boy, I want this on more shelves. For the reading level it’s at, I think it really is approaching important themes and treating them very well. It is very good, for what it is.

To end, here are some fun lore drops: a mole uses the phrase that an idea is “stuck in their little skulls like an otter down a mole hole”. Then he slightly apologizes to an otter for the expression. I wonder if they used to fight?

There are some animals who can leave and reenter the magical mists many times. One was an otter named Lochan. There’s also a mole boogeyman called Gripthroat.

Finally… The squirrel who gave birth to Juniper is named Spindrift. I thought that was wicked funny. Even better than Fiverr the rabbit!

You can definitely tell that I am getting more and more invested in these characters. All three books so far are very consistent (right down to the problems of “huge number of characters” and “a boring early-to-mid section”). But I love an ensemble cast and I’m falling deeper in love with the world.

My personal rating: 4.5

My overall rating: 4

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary334

8/19-20/24

monday - tuesday

finished nosferatu today.

rather good! it's hard to have much to say about it, the photography is rather crazy and impressive. it's also interesting to think about orlock and his class relation, what he might symbolize, one thing that would have been lost on me had i not really thought about it for a second is just how vast the wealth gap on display in the film is, i'm used to being in this world of extremely visible capital which announces itself, but orlock really is an expression of something ancient, less about the wealth of some land owning baron, more about almost feudal anxieties, that he brings old forms of malady with him, to keep people beneath him, to prevent them from following their desires, he represents what the wealthy all wish for in some sense, the ability to turn back time for all others but themselves, to keep people trapped in their systems, and to spread that as a plague. it's insane that the movie expresses that so well, i didn't imagine that silent film would not be capable of that i suppose, it's just always surprising when anything is able to make points like that.

like i expected... ellen did die though, which is very sad. rest in peace... your eye shadow will be remembered forever. it's interesting how in the film the only way to terminate the evil is to make it forget itself, and also to sacrifice a woman to make that possible. i say interesting but really it's telling, the valuation of virginity and sinlessness, evidently sexist ofc, not that it's worth scolding the work for that or something it's just useful to note that i guess.

tomorrow, i think i'll watch 1-2 man ray shorts... and if i wish to something by lubitsch again? maybe... maybe...

today i did work on music, though only one song, but i got drums and some extra stuff down for it, plus the mastering chain figured out on that one... getting closer to the sounds i'd like. tomorrow i need to get drums down on another and get it all exported and everything.

i also wrote today!! i got something edited, i need to do another pass on that and then i wanna submit it, maybe 2 more passes actually, and then i got something new started, i think i should try to continue that tomorrow too... it feels good to write. now i'll read a little more of dennis cooper's book while listening to this, and then sleep:

it feels useful to listen to this right now... sorta gets at what i'd like to get things to sound like... as in the room sound sorta... the heat of it... that kinda thing more than idk, exact instruments??? if that makes sense... it sounds rather well produced, to me, this record/comp... i forget what it is... i need to do some stuff with toms though, definitely.

i should sleep... must sleep... cuz i'm sleepyyy,

so,

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[astaroth1357]

How Often They Worry about MC…

For those who don’t know, I have a little dog named Charlie and she is a large portion of my world. There's no need to be alarmed, my dog is fine, but there are days where I hold her and all I can think about is how much I worry about her health down the line… I suppose we often do that for the people we love, particularly the ones who may not last as long as we will. Take that as inspiration if you'd like.

Lucifer 

Near constantly. 

If you tracked his blood pressure on a grid, you'd see it start to continuously rise about when he decided they were worth having in his life.

Lucifer is the eldest sibling to a whole crew of brothers so he's no stranger to worry. He worried about his brothers when they were young, he worried about them after the Fall, and he still worries about them now (even if he's less open about it).

But a part of him knows that his brothers can handle their own, at least to varying degrees. The MC, though? He's far less sure…

They've proven rather resilient, but also headstrong and reckless. Neither of which are good things to be in a place this dangerous...

If Lucifer isn't careful, he can catch himself staring at a wall or window just wondering where they are and if they're doing alright… If he called them every time he had a passing worry, their inbox would be full by the end each week.

He holds himself back because he doesn't have the time to constantly protect them, but that doesn't stop him from sending a text once or twice a day. They better respond or he'll start (secretly) panicking.

Mammon

He forgets their mortality from time to time, but every time he remembers it hits like a ton of bricks…

Mammon is a pretty "in-the-moment" person. He doesn't spend a lot of time dwelling on the future, but whenever he does the thought of losing MC always comes back to him again and again.

Like. It's gotta happen eventually, right? They're human, humans die, hell they don't even live that long to start with!

The MC can always tell when Mammon's getting worried because he'll get uncharacteristically quiet and pace around or hover by them…

Every little injury or strenuous task will suddenly seem like too much to him as well. 

If they need to carry some boxes, he'll carry them all.

If they have to jog to class, he's carrying them. 

If they so much as get a papercut, he'll have a heart attack.

It's not very hard to get Mammon out of these funks - he really does want them to reassure him that they're okay - but he's never going to get fully over it…

Not until he can steal whatever top secret immortality formula Solomon must have used anyway… He'll get it off that bastard eventually.

Leviathan

Thinks about it so often he has to actively try not to just to get any peace…

He dodges his fears for MC like a protagonist dodges lasting consequences. Every time he feels one creeping up, he's always got a distraction waiting…

"Hey where's MC at? I hope they didn't fall into the riv-OH HEY CHECK OUT THIS NEW GAME!!"

"What are they doing over there…? That looks hard, what if they bre-WAIT DIDN'T MY FAVORITE VOICE ACTOR JUST RELEASE A NEW PODCAST???"

"What if the MC dies tomorrow and they leave me all alo-DEVIL FIGHT 200! YOU CAN'T BEAT DEVIL FIGHT 200, LET’S BREAK MY HIGH SCORE!!"

Cut him some slack, his psyche cannot handle the idea of losing them on top of everything else he grapples with every day.

If, on the rare occasion, he does let himself fall down that rabbit hole he becomes extra clingy and practically begs MC not to leave his room… like ever. He'd bubble wrap them if he could.

Anytime they get really hurt or really sick he refuses to leave their side even if it means he has to awkwardly sit on the floor. He just needs to be able to glance at them every so often to be sure they're alive… Still breathing?? Phew…

Satan

He worries, preps, rationalizes, then worries again…

For Satan, knowledge is power and every scrap of information he can learn about MC is more power he can use to keep them safe and healthy.

Yes, he will want their medical history. Yes, he's going to need a list of prescriptions. Family members too. And no, you do not get a choice.

He'll read up on as many things as he can - pawn medical journals off of witches and get magical alternatives from Solomon.

The cycle usually goes: 

1. He's lying awake at night because he just heard about some terrible bacteria that makes human's skin peel off or something.

2. He does all the research he can on this bacteria, its treatment options, best prevention methods, etc.

3. Gets right about to break out the rubber booties for MC to wear around, then realizes they have a very slim chance of catching said bacteria since it's only native to incredibly remote parts of Indonesia.

4. Feels instant relief that MC will probably not catch flesh-eating bacteria and can finally sleep again…

5. Hears of some other human medical horror from Solomon and starts to worry…

It's a vicious cycle indeed… But at least he's getting a lot of medical training. Soon enough he'll be the Devildom's version of a human vet (which I guess is just a doctor, come to think of it. 🤔)

Asmodeus 

Lives so "here-and-now" that he doesn't remember often, but when he does it's always heartbreaking…

Asmo usually tries to worry about things as little as possible. It’s bad for the skin, you know? But when the MC is involved, all of that goes out the window.

Like how a delicate blossom eventually wilts in the snow, the MC is bound to leave them in time… Usually there's supposed to be something beautiful in that kind of tragedy, but perhaps he's just too close to them to find any romance in it.

The thought of their death gives him breakouts and anytime they get hurt or sick he's the first brother to offer them comfort. Every time.

Because he doesn't feel like he's as physically strong as he brothers, he tries to make up for it by minding their health in other ways. Anything to keep his MC strong and beautiful as always!

If Asmo is in a worrying mood, then he may also compensate by trying to take the MC out to a party or some fun event. Why sit around worrying by himself when he could be making memories with them now, right?

Beelzebub

It comes in waves, mostly at night.

When your thoughts throughout the day are mostly, "I wish I wasn't so hungry," it doesn't afford you a lot of time to think about much else.

In a way, it's a good thing since he experiences a lot less stress. But those worries are still there and they mostly plague his dreams…

Beel doesn’t feel hungry when he's sleeping, so a lot of his fears will make themselves known overnight. An injured or dying MC is often in his rotation of nightmares though, of course, he'd rather it not be…

After having one of these dreams, his first instinct is to always make sure the MC is okay. If they're with him, he'll hug them and check their heartbeat. If they're somewhere else, he'll go to them or shoot a text.

He has woken up without realizing his nightmare was all a dream though, and usually it's up to Belphie or MC themselves to console him while he cries… It's so heartbreaking, sweet boy just puts a lot of pressure on himself to be sure they're safe…

When he worries, it's like they're the most beautiful and expensive China set in a room full of bulls and hammers. If he could tape them to his side, he probably would. He gets scared for them that much…

Belphegor 

More scared about it than anyone else in the House.

Despite his calm demeanor, Belphie is truly afraid of losing his loved ones beneath the surface… He's already lost one of his most dear siblings before, going through that again may just break him.

Unfortunately, he's also felt just how fragile the MC is firsthand... He's not even the strongest of his brothers, yet he was able to snuff them out so easily… Who's to say someone else won't try?

Like Beel, MC's death is a recurring nightmare for him but he can usually shake off his dreams fairly well, if not change them mid-sleep. More scary is when something is actually wrong with them or they're not feeling well.

Belphie always sets his inner laziness aside for the MC when he can. If they get sick, he'll usually be right along with his family to take care of them - even if he has to skip school to do so (not that he cares about class anyway).

When he's worrying about them, he tries to play it off at first, but soon enough they'll notice him acting overly concerned and losing sleep… Best to calm him down before he starts getting cranky.

[jaigeye]

Oh oh, how did Roon come to that honestly terrifying interpretation of the force and life? The complete trust in it's flow that everything happening is the force and our death means finding peace in it, I mean :D (hope I understood that one correctly. My bones shake a bit at the thought)

Omg thank you sm for asking!!! 😊 ❤️

Roon was raised in a small mountain village on Shili called Vuren. In Vuren, families know the signs to anticipate when a child is Force sensitive; there are cultural practices around the taking of Jedi children. 

They believe that refusing the Jedi is wrong, so most families, when they see the signs that their child is force sensitive, begin a process of distancing themselves emotionally from the child. villagers often make offerings to the child in the hope that they'll be blessed with good health, prosperity, and luck. The child is given a new surname.

The village raises the children, a shared effort of care and love, but it is distant and disconnected love. The children are revered, put on a pedestal, dressed in ceremonial clothing and expected to have poise and impress the Jedi who come to take them. they receive thorough teachings in how to be a proper representative of Shili's people. They teach their children pride, and to hold their head high.

Roon's mother Tuktee loved her daughter, and she worked the hardest out of everyone in her family to detach herself from the toddler as soon as possible, a process which was very painful and upsetting for both of them.

Roon is deeply fascinated by the Force and considers her connection to it a lifelong commitment of devotion. She is a Jedi through and through, to her very core. Plagued by visions of an untrue future as a small child, Roon believed she would die an honorable martyr's death at the hands of a Sith she defeated.

She has had every chance in her life to make close friends in the creche, or as an adult. She could have been very loved. But she actively pushed potential friends and allies away to an arms distance. If others could love her for anything more than her worth as a Jedi, it would prove something painful about her own parents and their inability to connect with her.

She has always had a hard time staying grounded; possessing Force abilities such as Farseeing and Fold Space, she is almost always somewhere very far away. Her mind is rarely in the present. How could a clone kill their Jedi with nothing but a blaster from 10 feet away? People wondered, but the truth was that she was hardly there. In Roon's mind, she was gazing at something many miles away, her mind far from the tragedy at her feet that she spoke so flippantly about.

Roon allowed her dogmatic approach to the Force and her unwavering dedication to the Force to make her cold, distant, and unattached. She could not make any deep connections with her battalion of clone troopers. What made her a charismatic, compelling leader, made her an unkind and unempathetic individual. 

Roon was a very strange little girl who became a very isolated adult. Even her Master, upon first meeting her, noted that there was something different about, and perhaps wrong with her. She was a good Jedi and a bad general; loyal, steadfast, and out of touch with those around her. 

In reality, I believe Roon really is very afraid of the Force, and is very depressed. She's deeply lonely, having spent a lifetime in a sort of self imposed isolation, and the only thing that brings her any peace is the idea that her commitment to the Force will someday pay off; that this terrifying unknowable Thing that has controlled her life will one day make sense to her, once she's no longer flesh and blood.

[andvys]

Longing (part 13)

Warnings: angst, some fluff

Pairing: Ellie Williams x reader

Author’s note: this chapter is kinda short but I still wanted to give you guys something so here you go 💕 next chapter might take a while tho, I’m not sure yet.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Ellie answered, running her hand up and down your arm. You were still laying on the couch, naked under the thin blanket. You were fully on top of her, your head on her chest.

“Is that ‘chemical burn’ a bite?” You asked looking up at her.

“Yeah, you put the pieces together huh?” She asked, looking down on you. Nodding your head, “kinda always thought this story was bullshit but I didn’t think that it could be a bite from an infected.” Tracing her tattoo.

“Do you wanna know the story?” She asked, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to Ellie.” You said, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I want to.” She said, rubbing your back softly.

“Alright.”

She began telling you about Riley, she first told you the story of their friendship and how she always had a crush on her. It was cute hearing her talk about her teenage years. Comparing them to yours, they seemed normal, your teenage years were brutal, you were forced to do things, horrible things. She told you about her and Joel, how they met and bonded over time and then she told you about what happened at the hospital, what Joel did to get her out of there and how he lied to her about it, you never knew what happened between them but now you understood.

You got why she was angry at him for keeping something like that from her but you didn’t agree with her opinion on this. You knew the fireflies, you knew what they did and you sure as hell didn’t support what they were willing to do to get a vaccine. Killing an innocent girl for a vaccine that didn’t even have a guarantee that it could work, seemed wrong to you.

Ellie looked down at, she wanted to know what was going through your head. You didn’t say anything yet and you seemed to be deep in thought, processing all the information you just got.

Looking up at her, you leaned in pecking her lips softly. “Can I be honest with you?” You asked, stroking her cheek.

“Of course.”

“You won’t agree with me on this but what Joel did.. it was right.” Furrowing her brows at you she went to say something but you didn’t let her. “There was no guarantee that it would’ve worked. My dad was a firefly.. h-he told me some of the horrible things they’ve done to people. How they experimented on them and even turned them into those things just to see if they’re new ‘cure’ would work. Ever since the outbreak, they’ve been promising people a cure and yet they always come out empty handed. You being immune, has got nothing to do with a cure, your blood might be more advanced or something, maybe there are more like you around the world and maybe in the future most people will be immune.” She seemed to process your words, not knowing what to say, she looked up at the ceiling.

“And Joel, he loved you ellie. He would’ve done anything for you. He decided that it wasn’t worth to live in a ‘better world’ knowing that you weren’t a part of it. He was okay with living in this horrible world as long as you’re alive and well I would’ve done the same thing if I was him.” She looked at you, eyes glistening with tears.

“Ellie I’d rather spent my life living in a world where there’s a possibility that I could die out there every time I go out than living in a peaceful world knowing that you don’t even get to be a part of it.” You said, wiping her tears away, you kissed her cheek. She couldn’t believe that you’d rather live in this hell with her than even thinking about the possibility of living a safe and healthy life, without her.

“I let him down.” She whispered, letting more tears fall. “And I never got the chance to forgive him.”

She was feeling guilt. You knew this ugly feeling all to well and you wouldn’t let it destroy her. She was suffering for having treated Joel bad all these years but beating herself up for it wouldn’t bring him back.

“He knows Ellie.” You whispered, hugging her. You felt her pain, you knew exactly what she was going through.

“Joel loved you like his own daughter, no matter what. He wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up like that okay?” Grabbing her face in your hands. “Don’t do this to yourself Ellie, it’s easy to lose yourself in this darkness so fight it, no matter what.” Wiping her tears away, you pressed a kiss on her cheek. “I’m here with you.”

“Thank you babe.” Hugging you close to her, she kissed her forehead. You knew what she was going through right now, you knew because you felt like that too. Ellie couldn’t forgive herself for the way she treated Joel and you couldn’t forgive yourself for saving Abby.

You always tried to do the right thing, helping wherever you could, helping whoever you could and yet you felt like you were a bad person. You saved Joel’s killer. You saved a boy you shouldn’t have saved when you were 14 years old. You always tried saving everyone and in the process of doing so, you started losing yourself.

You realized most people you saved ended up being bad and you’d have to kill them in the end. Abby would be no exception. You were going to kill her, you promised yourself that. For Joel.

You still had nightmares of Joel blaming you for his death before killing you. You knew it wasn’t real, you knew it was your mind making it up because of the guilt you were feeling. This wasn’t Joel, he would never blame you for anything, let alone kill you but it still made you feel bad. It was exhausting and you were tired all the damn time. Your mind either plagued your with nightmares or with Joel’s death, you weren’t sure how long you could keep going like that but you had to stay strong for Ellie, you acted like you were fine, you didn’t show her how weak you actually felt. You had to pull through at least until Abby was dead, you owed this to her, you owed this to Joel.

Waking up it was still dark out. Both you and Ellie fell asleep after your conversation. Looking down at her, she was fast asleep, breathing softly, her arm was around you, keeping you close to her in her sleep, you’d love to stay like that with her for a while longer but you still had to check out the rest of the theater, so you got up carefully making sure you wouldn’t wake her up. Putting your clothes on, you looked at Ellie one more time before going further inside the theater, to see what you would find.

You went up the stairs, and grabbed whatever you could find that would be useful later. You thought about last night. You weren’t sure if what you and Ellie did was right, you wanted her but you had to admit to yourself that it was an act of frustration. You were on the road for weeks, facing bad people, infected and what not, life wouldn’t let you catch a break and the minute you had time to relax you and Ellie used it to forget about everything else for a while, it helped but it wasn’t the right time. You didn’t regret it, not at all. You enjoyed every second of it and would do it again but maybe at a more appropriate time. You just hoped Ellie wouldn’t regret it.

You found an old radio and decided to try and fix it after you got the generator started. It took you a while but you finally managed to fix it. Listening in on them you found some stuff out that would definitely be useful to you. Sitting on the floor you looked at the map and then at the Polaroids, grabbing the one with Abby and the guy named Owen, you looked at it. Deep in thought you didn’t hear Ellie come inside until she said your name softly. Turning too look at her, you smiled at her. “Hey.”

“Hey babe”. Sitting down next to you. “You good?” She asked, searching for the look of regret on your face. She woke up with you gone and she feared that you changed your mind about her and felt bad for what you two did.

“I am, you?” You asked, glancing at her quickly before looking down again. Feeling a little shy under her gaze.

“Me too.” She said, nervously rubbing her neck she looked at you, blushing at the marks around your neck, it was covered with hickeys and bruises. “Listen (y/n) you don’t- you don’t regret it do you?” Her question making you snap your head to the side, to look at her.

“No! No, god no Ellie.” You said, staring into her eyes now, intertwining your fingers with hers. Hating the fact that you made her feel like you regretted having sex with her.

Breathing out, she felt relieved at your words. For a second she thought you’d go back to the way you used to be a few weeks ago. Moving closer she kissed your temple before looking down at the map.

“I see you fixed the radio.. did you hear something?” She asked, taking polaroid of Abby and Owen in her hand looking at it.

You started explaining to her what you found out and where you’d have to go today, showing her on the map while talking about the WLF’s.

“We have to find Jesse.” You said, looking at the map in worry. You had no idea where he went and you didn’t know where to start looking for him.

“Do you think we should go back to the serevena hotel?” Ellie asked, noticing the concerned look on your face.

“I.. I don’t know. He wouldn’t be there anymore I think.” You said, sighing. “I don’t know what to do, I hope he’s okay.”

“I’m worried too but I’m sure he’s fine. Tommy’s out there as well, who knows maybe they ran into each other already.” Ellie said, shrugging.

“I hope so.” You whispered, grabbing the map off the floor you stuffed it in your backpack. “Should we get going?” You asked, standing up.

Ellie looked up at you, frowning slightly, she was worried about what you were going to be facing today, she didn’t want you to be in danger but she knew you sure as hell wouldn’t sit back and wait for her here.

“Yeah.” She said, getting up.

Nodding your head you turned around to go out the door but a hand pulled you back. Facing Ellie again, she pulled you closer hands on your cheeks she leaned in pressing her lips against yours softly. Sighing into the kiss you closed your eyes, kissing her back with your arms around her neck. Enjoying this moment before you’d go out into this shitty world.

Pulling away from each other, you opened your eyes, gazing into her eyes you pecked her lips once more. “Alright let’s go.” You whispered, grabbing her hand. “Yeah”. Squeezing your hand she followed you out.

You didn’t know what was going to happen today. You didn’t know what kinds of threats you’d be facing but you knew that you’d keep Ellie safe and she would keep you safe.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

you’ll never make me leave

I was feeling very whumpy after my nasty day at work, so here’s Jaskier being accidentally poisoned by, nursed back to health by, and confessed to by his idiot Witcher.

title from MCR’s “Thank You for the Venom”

thank you to @thecomfortofoldstorries for helping me out and giving me the good ideas (and also here’s some Julek content for ya)

tw: poisoning, Jaskier whump, angsty-ish but mostly just an excuse for Geralt to be real fuckin’ soft w/the bard

---

First Jaskier’s quiet fireside singing and playing slowed to a stop, his fingers slipping clumsily against Sexy’s well-tuned strings in a worrying kind of way. Geralt watched in silent confusion as Jaskier set his lute in its case and gently closed the lid. The bard’s usually bright blue eyes went glassy and glazed over. Any remaining focus in Jaskier’s gaze disappeared as he stared off at some distant point, pupils wide and unmoving. He sat like that for one minute, then two, totally unblinking. 

The worst sign of trouble came last, when the bard collapsed suddenly forward and began to shake uncontrollably atop his spread bedroll like a fish out of water. Geralt rushed to his side and dropped to his knees in the dirt, pinning Jaskier’s shoulders down so that he could assess the situation with his enhanced abilities. Already, he knew, this was very bad. 

The bard’s skin was white-hot to the touch, even through the material of his thick autumnal chemise; dangerously feverish for a delicate human like Jaskier. The Witcher tamped down his panic and tried to think as rationally as possible. It wouldn’t do Jaskier any good if he lost control now. The veins in the bard’s neck were pulsing with an odd violet tint and Geralt realized with a start that the thing ailing Jaskier was his fault entirely. 

The Witcher had only vaguely remembered the mushrooms from some book in Vesemir’s personal library. He thought they were safe for human consumption and that the poisonous hallucinogenic compounds would only affect Witchers like himself. As he knelt between Jaskier and the fire he had the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he’d probably gotten it backwards, and that he was the one who would be unaffected by ingesting them. He couldn’t test it now, though, because he needed to tend to his sick companion.  

Jaskier arched up against Geralt’s restraining hands, his slender hips and surprisingly strong shoulders twisting in some kind of panicked attempt to relieve the pain. His spine bowed and buckled in oddly timed waves as the toxins from the fungus raced through his bloodstream and pricked at his nervous system. Guilt and terror twisted in Geralt’s stomach like twin knives and he leaned down to press an apologetic kiss to the bard’s sweat-soaked brow. 

The contact was brief and burning and the Witcher’s slow-beating heart caught suddenly in his throat. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out, arms reaching and eyes searching blindly as if the Witcher wasn’t leaning over him. Wasn’t holding him tightly to keep him from getting hurt in his own frenzy. The bard released a low, shuddering moan followed by a harsh sob, begging: “Don’t leave me behind, please! I swear, Geralt, I can keep up! I can! I promise! Please!”

The Witcher had never felt such acute emotions so intensely before. The love he felt for Jaskier ached and stabbed and rippled out through him. The bard was afraid that Geralt wanted to leave him behind, which meant that somehow, in some way, the Witcher had failed to make his companion feel wanted or welcome. The truth was, the Path didn’t feel right when Jaskier was away.

“Julek,” the Witcher tried to sound as soothing as possible with his gravel-rough voice. He flinched when he heard himself and lowered his tone to a whisper, “Jaskier, I’m here. I’m not leaving you. I’ll take care of you; I’m so sorry.”

“Please,” the bard sobbed, wriggling violently in an effort to escape, “Please, no! Ger-a-a-alt! Come back!”

The Witcher’s heart cracked wide open in his chest when he heard the anguish in Jaskier’s voice. 

“Julek,” he breathed. He brushed the bard’s damp fringe away from his forehead and placed the back of one cool hand against heated skin. “I will keep you safe until you’re well again, sweet Julek, and then I’ll prove that I’m still worth all the time and effort and love you pour into me.”

“Hnn,” came Jaskier’s high whine in lieu of reply. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Geralt asserted. “I swear I won’t.”

He wouldn’t. He would die here if he had to, curled around the bard, keeping him warm on the side that the fire didn’t reach in an effort to sweat the poison out faster. He would die protecting and caring for the one person who’d always cared for and protected him. In ways Geralt was only just beginning to properly fathom. 

Eventually, after much tossing and turning, Jaskier fell into a fitful but deep sleep.

---

Geralt stayed at his side all through the night, rotating which parts of him were facing the warmth of the fire and regulating his body temperature to the best of his ability. Jaskier released sad moans and pained whimpers every once and awhile, but what frightened the Witcher most were the snippets of sleep-talk,

“I swear I can be good,” he would whisper, sounding panicked. “I promise I’ll stay far away. I won’t touch you or Roach. I won’t. I just...”

Geralt’s heart clenched in his chest. Eventually he replied, trying to ease the bard from whatever hallucinogen-induced nightmare was plaguing him. “You just what, Julek?”

“I just want to be able to be near you.”

“Why?”

A flush lit up Jaskier’s pale cheeks, staining them violet with his tainted blood. “I- don’t make me say it, Geralt. You’ll run off again and I’ll be all alone. Always alone.”

“Say it, Jaskier. You’ll never make me leave.”

A sigh. Two blue eyes opened and met Geralt’s with a semblance of awareness and understanding: “I love you, Geralt.”

The Witcher leaned forward and pressed a soft, urgent kiss to Jaskier’s overheated forehead. “I love you, too, Julek. Now rest for me. Get better.”

The struggling stopped, then, and Jaskier sank into a deep and peaceful slumber.

---

“I had a horrible dream,” Jaskier rasped, waking Geralt from his slumber. “That you’d left me at some healer’s back down the road and continued on with out me. I don’t know why I would have such a horrible dream, but I’m glad it’s over and that I’m awake.”

“I love you,” Geralt declared. The bard rolled over in his arms and stared up, shocked. 

“Come again, oh great and broody Witcher of my heart?”

“I love you, Julek.”

“Oh, Geralt!” A pair of warm lips were suddenly pressed against the Witcher’s. Geralt pulled back and glanced away, biting his lip anxiously. Jaskier’s brows furrowed cutely. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my fault you got so sick in the first place and had that horrible dream,” Geralt explained. “I’m so sorry for hurting you like that. I should have paid better attention.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jaskier replied. He burrowed closer to Geralt’s chest and pressed a kiss to his Witcher’s clavicle. “But only if you hold me a little longer. I like this.”

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbled, finally content. “Me too.”

[oligbia]

Guardian Angel

Izuku Midoriya X Guardian angel reader

Edit 7/22/21: This was previously for an event with a user I no longer would like to be associated with. I will be keeping this up because it is my work and I own it, but I am no longer associating myself with that event host

spoiler warnings: Recent manga spoilers starting from around volume 26-present events, essentially the war arc and current events.

massive trigger warnings: Death, Intrusive thoughts, suicidal thoughts. If you are struggling with these, please seek help. Your life is valuable and precious, and there are so many amazing things worth seeing in this world, I promise.

Life is very short. So short, in fact, that we rarely appreciate it while we have it. We get over 70 years of life, if we're lucky, and most of it isn't appreciated.

Izuku Midoriya knows better than anyone else in this world how precious a life is. He knows how important it is to make every moment count, to soak up every drop of emotion life has to offer. He only knows this in hindsight, of course. Because he had only 2 years with you before you died. And he didn't appreciate those 730 and some days enough.

You died because of him in some twisted away. There isn't a day he doesn't think about that. It plagues his mind in a twisted series of ideas. There was no real way he could have saved you, but he could have tried. If he could have traded your life for his, he would have in a heartbeat. You were all that was good in this world, all Midoriya did was cause problems.

If he was still at UA, he would do his morning jog to your grave to pay respects and eat breakfast with you like he used to. It was comforting, to think your spirit would be eating with him. He just missed you, really.

He just really missed you.

Of course, now nothing is normal. He isn't at UA. You would have chewed him out for dropping out. But, it was his fault you died so none of that mattered. It was his fault you and all of the class were in danger. Loosing you was the last straw. Loosing you was the thing that made Izuku Midoriya, the supposed "next number 1" become a run away hero. A vigilante. The kind of person society spits on. The kind of person you and him were supposed to protect everyone from. But, if he couldn't protect you, how could he protect anyone. He wasn't a hero, he was never supposed to be a hero anyways. He didn't deserve this fucking quirk anyways, not if he couldn't use it to save you.

He thought, maybe, just maybe, there was a way to fix it. Because, it was his fault you were dead, and you died because of the war started by All For One, and he is the one All For One is after in the end, so if he could kill All For One then he could fix it, and you could die in peace, and then all is well, he wouldn't be some stupid waste of a quirk.

But here he was, laying half dead in a street. He couldn't do it. He couldn't take down All For One. His eyes flickered shut, his body slipping in and out of consciousness. Parts of his life played over in his mind. He remembered the first time he saw All Might, playing with Kachan, when he received One for All, when he met you. God, that was comforting. There were so many good memories with you. The night you kissed him, the time you wore matching pajamas with him and his mom to watch an All Might documentary, the time you both fell asleep together in his dorm- the time he held your bleeding body as you took your final breaths, the time Iida had you pull him off your body because there was no time to grieve. There had never been time to grieve. He never would move on. Midoriya would always be stuck in denial. He would die here, never fulfilling his goal, never finding peace with your death.

And then it was white. He felt alive though, like he was in a white room. He looked around, wiggling his fingers in front of his eyes. He must have died, because this wasn't where he just was.

"You didn't die, 'zuku."

His head jolted up, knowing your voice anywhere. There you were in front of him, dressed beautifully in white.

"You just are stuck right now. But you didn't die."

"Its really you?" Midoriya scrambled to his feet, trying to run to you, but he couldn't move.

"I'm me, but I'm not real. I'm sorry."

"I miss you." tears brimmed in Midoriya's eyes. He always wondered what it would be like to see you again, what he would say. He had a whole monologue in his imagination, but in the moment he was speechless.

You smiled that same soft smile, the one that radiated more warmth than the sun could ever dream. "I miss you too, Izuku. We'll be together someday."

"Now. I want to be together now. Y/N, I can't stand living without you. I-I dont know what I'm doing anymore!"

You held his face in your hand. Your hands made his face feel warm, but you felt like nothing more than a warm breeze. "It's not your time yet. You'll find a reason to keep going without me."

Tears poured from his eyes, wetting his cheeks. "No, no, I want to die. I can't live anymore. There's no point in it. You aren't there and I'm never going to be a hero-"

"Shh, hush with all that." You brushed tears from his face. "You can't die, 'Zuku. I won't let you."

You leaned in closer to him, whispering into his ear. "I'm your guardian angel Izuku. I'm always with you, okay?"

Midoriya gasped for air, looking for the right words but falling short. You were his angel, his precious and beautiful angel.

"Keep on living, keep on saving people, okay?" You pulled back, looking into his eyes. He smiled, brushing past the last of his tears.

He nodded, "I promise."

The white walls around him started to fade, turning darker. Your glow started to dim. Midoriya grabbed at you hand in some attempt to pull you back, even if he knew it wasn't possible.

He called out your name one last time before it was black again, and he was back in a life without you. But now, he had a reason to keep going.

[kim-ruzek]

family we chose

Summary: spec fic for season nine bc that photo of paddy with painted nails Sent me. (Ft. Dad!am and cuteness)

Warnings: Cute adorableness and the possiblity you may die from how fluffy it is.

Word Count: 3.6k (lol can you believe I thought this would be 1-2k?)

Read on AO3

Notes: Paddy + painted nails + Theories = me going fucking crazy with feels.

“Adam, are you done yet?” Makayla calls to him, her voice a whine. Six year olds are not known for their patience, and Makayla is no different.

“Almost,” Adam replies as he finishes up putting away the freshly washed plates from their dinner. Makayla is old enough that she can play, happily and contently, by herself without his participation but during dinner she had asked him if they can play princesses and who was he to say no?

Especially when it helps distract her from the awkward questions she’s asking about Kim, and the clear anxiety and worry which is clearly plaguing the girl, the missing presence of her adoptive mother hanging over them both like a dark cloud.

It’s day two of Kim being in the hospital—day three, if he was to count the night Kevin and Jay found her. She had been in surgery for hours, and it had killed Adam to have to stay away, to not he at the hospital, but Kevin stayed on the phone with him and he was grateful for that.

And it was easier knowing that he was doing what Kim would want, that he was looking after her little girl, helping to preserve some normality in Makayla’s life.

When he had looked after her that night, he had just told her that Kim was busy at work, and he could see that Makayla had sensed that wasn’t just it, but for the most part she believed him. The next day was more difficult, however.

They knew that Kim is going to be okay. She has quite the recovery ahead of her, and she’s nowhere near ready to leave the hospital—she hasn’t even stayed awake for more than five minutes, and even that might be too generous. And so Adam had the task of telling Makayla this.

In his years as a cop, he’s had to do a lot of notifications and telling people that their loved ones are in the hospital but it never gets easier, and none of it could prepare him for having to tell Kim’s six year old.

It had gone better than Adam had thought, with him discovering that he’s a little better at this whole thing than he assumed he’d be. But Makayla’s worries and fears was clear; Adam having to reassure her that Kim will be coming home, and that in a few days, she’ll be able to see her.

“And,” Adam had told her with a smile, hoping to distract her. “Until then, we can have lots and lots of fun together.”

His goofy smile and his light hearted voice seemed to reassure her, as she had smiled at him them, an adorable toothy grin that somehow—even though it makes no sense to as why—reminded him of Kim.

Makayla had asked him if they could make Kim a card, to which he obviously said yes, and they had a fun evening with card, paint and glitter and Adam thought that maybe he’ll actually be able to do this. She did, however, when night came ask if she could sleep in his—Kim’s—bed and, although it sent him briefly into a panic, he immediately said yes, wanting to be able to report to Kim that he did everything right.

“Adam!” Makayla calls impatiently again and Adam laughs, shaking his head slightly.

“I’m coming,” he says, walking to her and taking a seat beside her. His bones complains about how low to the ground he has to be, but Makayla’s bright smile makes it worth it.

“Okay then, lil darlin’, how do we play princesses?” He asks her and her smile widens at her new moniker he’s given her. He called it her yesterday, right after yet another thought that Kim and her may not be blood related, or even known each other for long, but there’s already so many similarities between the two came to him.

“I’m not that small, Adam! I’m third tallest in my class!” Makayla had initially protested to the lil part of name.

“I know you’re not that small,” He had agreed, even though to him, she is, obviously. “But you’re lil darlin’ because you’re Kim’s daughter and Kim is darlin’.”

He had then momentarily freaked out, because he’s not sure how she feels about being called Kim’s daughter, and because he was scared that she’d think he was forgetting all about her mother, the one who raised her for six years.

But Makayla didn’t seem to mind, in fact, she seemed to beam wider at it. She made it clear that she liked Kim and her having matching monikers, and that she’s Kim’s junior—and thankfully, she didn’t ask why Kim is darlin’, as Adam had no idea how to answer that.

Makayla, now, in response to his question, jumps up and runs to her bedroom. She’s back shortly after, with a box filled with princess outfits, and bright materials, like a fluffy neon boa scarf.

“Here!” she places the box down, smiling proudly. Adam eagerly returns the smile, before fishing out a tutu out of it. He holds it up, grinning goofily at her.

“Somehow I think this won’t fit me.” He jokes and Makayla giggles.

“Of course it won’t, silly. You can use some of Kim’s clothes!” Makayla tells him.

Makayla quickly chooses what clothes she—and he—is going to wear, wrapping the neon boa scarf around his neck proudly. And then she’s going back to her bedroom, coming out with a smaller, more delicate box.

“First, we need to put on this!” She exclaims, opening the box to reveal kid makeup, nail polish and some stickers. Adam raises his eyebrow.

“Kim says we have to put it on before the clothes, so we don’t get the nail vanish on it.” Adam thinks she means varnish, her mistake making his heart constrict at the adorableness. Makayla then grabs this sheet, putting it over the rug.

“And we need to make sure we don’t mess the carpet,”

With that done, Adam peers into the box. “Okay, what colour do you want to paint my nails?”

It’s not a sentence Adam ever thought he’d say, not at this time anyway, but he doesn’t mind. Not even when Makayla’s eyes fill up with glee and mischief as she happily exclaims;

“All of them!”

Adam isn’t one who takes much photos, especially as he got older and more serious, and had less things in his life he wanted to document. But he takes lots after him and Makayla dress up, wanting to have a record of this for when Kim is properly awake.

And, if he’s honest, for himself, as—despite the love of his life being in hospital in the ICU—this is the happiest he’s been in a while. He snaps photos of not only Makayla, but himself, capturing his made up face, the tiara on his head and his multi-coloured nails.

Makayla is at school the next day, and Adam is in Kim’s hospital room. He’s showered and washed off his face, and in his clothes, obviously, but his nails are still painted. Makayla seemed to be really happy at him letting her paint his nails—saying offhandedly that her uncle never used to let her paint his nails—so he kept them. That, and because he couldn’t find the remover for it, of course.

“Hey, Kim.” Adam says softly. Kim’s not awake, still sleeping and if it wasn’t for the bruise on her face, the hospital gown, and all the wires surrounding her, Adam would think she looks so peaceful, like she’s just slumbering in her bed at home.

She’s off the ventilator, now, and Adam thinks that he’ll be able to take Makayla in to see her tomorrow, even if she’s not awake when he does, because she doesn’t seem as scary, as hit and miss and near death.

He’ll never be able to get the image of her lying attached to the ventilator, the day after they found her. Adam had dropped Makayla off at school and headed straight to the hospital. Kevin had met him outside, and warned him it wasn’t pretty, and he thought he was prepared—but nothing could ever prepare him for that.

Adam sits down next to her bed, now, lightly holding her hand in his. He’s immediately brought back to all those years ago, to when she was shot the first time, and she was in the hospital. He feels just as sick as he did then, feeling as if half of his heart is gone.

He can’t help thinking how this is the reverse of then, too. Back then, he had to hide how he felt from everyone, the only one who knew was Kim. And now, now he doesn’t have to hide it, everyone in his unit knows just how much he loves her, but Kim doesn’t—or rather, perhaps, can’t see it, for whatever reason.

He’s caught up in this thought that he doesn’t notice her stirring, her eyes opening. He only realises she’s awake when she squeezes his hand—weakly, still not strong—and his eyes look up from the spot they’ve been staring at and to her face.

Kim’s eyes are only half open, heavy lidded, but she’s awake and she’s looking at him. Currently, the only people who has gotten to see Kim, awake, is the doctor, the nurse and Kevin and Trudy. Adam knows he’s needed by Makayla, but he can’t help but feel envy, jealousy, that others got to have her see them and he hasn’t.

But now she’s awake, and she’s looking at him. There’s a smile dancing on her lips, soft and gentle but so, so Kim. His mind can’t help but go back to that first time she was shot again, and about the smile she gave him then, when she realised he was there, with her.

“Adam,” Her voice is barely there, dry and hoarse, coming out a little more than a whisper. But his heart skips a beat at hearing her say his name, and he knows he should calm himself, because Kim has made it clear that dating isn’t on the table—even if he thinks her reasons are nonsense—but he can’t because he loves her, because he nearly lost her, because he’s spent the last few days looking after her daughter and wishing she was his as well, because she’s awake and she’s looking at him and she’s saying his name.

“Hey, Kim.” He says again, managing to catch himself just in time before he accidentally slipped out a darlin’ instead. Her eyes glance down before glancing back up, her smile widening.

“I like the nails.” Her smile is playful, teasing and even though her voice is still dry, he can hear the amusement in it. Adam looks down at his hands, still around hers, and he feels oddly exposed, that it’s apparent just how desperate he is for them to be a family.

“Makayla and I played princesses.” He tells her, proudly, shrugging off any feelings of desperation and insecurity. He then pulls back from her hands, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“I took photos—if you want to see?” He offers, watching as Kim’s eyes light up. She instantly tries to move, to adjust herself so she’s sitting up more and he immediately stops her, jumping to help her instead.

Kim shifts over, encouraging him to sit down on the bed so that she can see the photos with ease. She’s been in the hospital for days, and the sterile smell clings to her, but he can still smell her, the essence that’s just Kim as she rests against him. He tries to calm his beating heart, but that’s impossible whenever Kim is around him, whenever she is on him.

Especially right now. When all he can think about is how much he loves her, and how domestic this all feels, showing her photos of her daughter, the daughter Adam’s been looking after.

Adam is showing her the photos, getting near the end of the mass he took, when he realises she’s stopped cooing. He thinks she must’ve fallen back asleep—understandable, depending everything her body has been through—but when he looks down at her, she’s still awake.

She’s not looking at the photos, but at him. There’s a softness, affection, in her expression and Adam doesn’t quite know how to read it.

“I love you.” She says then, her voice the clearest it’s been. He blinks, stunned, not expecting that to come out of her mouth.

“Kim—” He goes to say that they don’t need to talk right now, that he doesn’t need to hear this, but she continues, fixing him a look—a look that reminds him a fair bit of Trudy—telling him to be quiet.

“When I was in that warehouse, dying, all I could think about—other than Makayla—was you. I even called out to you; all I wanted was you, to have you save me. I thought I was going to die and all I could think about was how we’ve left things, how I’ve pushed you away. You’re my person, Adam. I know, now, I’m never going to want anyone else and all what I’ve been trying to convince myself about you, about us, it’s bull. I love you, and I never want to be scared that I’ll die without you knowing that ever again.”

This is everything Adam has wanted to hear for years, and exactly what he’s been desperate for ever since, right before Kim fostered Makayla, they slept together again. It’s embarrassing how many nights he’s spent lying awake, staring at his ceiling, wishing for her to say this to him but now, when it’s actually happening it, all he can do is stare, stunned, at her.

“Kim,” He says again, her name leaving his lip sounding quite like a plea. Hearing her say this, hearing her tell him this, it means more to him than he could ever describe and he doesn’t know exactly how to express that, how to express the thoughts and feelings in his mind, in his heart.

“Look, we don’t need to like. I don’t expect anything from you. I know we have stuff we need to talk about, I can’t click my fingers and make everything that’s happened between us okay. But I needed you to know this—I thought I could wait, until I’m better. But you—you let Makayla paint your nails,” It’s so much more than that one gesture, Adam can tell. He can tell from how she says the words, the way seeing his nails painted means so much to her, that it signifies something so much more important than just him having fun with her daughter. And he can tell because he knows her, knows Kim better than he even knows himself.

And he understands exactly what she means, excited what she’s feeling. When he let Makayla paint his nails, he did hope that it would show Kim that he’s taking his role seriously, taking the fact that he’s their family seriously, but that wasn’t why he let her. Adam let her because she’s an adorable child, because she’s Kim’s daughter, because she deserves to be happy. He wasn’t thinking about what he could personally gain from it, it was just something he did without much thought, something that just made sense to agree too—just because Makayla asked.

Adam can see that Kim understands that, and that’s what’s resonated with her, that’s what’s making her look at him like that, with love and adoration and utter affection, a look he hasn’t quite seen in her eyes since the day he proposed to her.

It’s the first time since Kim was pregnant and let him in that hope blooms in him; that Adam has hope that finally, finally, he’ll get his girl again.

He softly strokes his thumb against her hand, before lifting it up and giving it a gentle kiss. “I know, darlin’.” He doesn’t hesitate or hold back now, knowing that it will be received well, and Kim smiles at it.

Adam notices then that she’s looking tired, and realises that her body needs more rest. He gently puts down her hand. “Rest, now. We can talk more about this—us—when you’re better. You need to rest and recover, because I know there’s an adorable six year old who misses you very much.”

Kim smiles again and Adam’s heart warms at the sight of it. “And darlin’? I love you, too.”

She falls asleep shortly after that. Adam doesn’t particularly want her too, not ready to stop seeing her awake, to talk to her, to see her smile and hear her voice. But he’s okay with it, because she wants him and she might be asleep now, but they have all the time in the world, the rest of their lives, to be together.

A couple days later, Kim has gotten stronger and needs less wires, the bruise on her face going down and colour returning to her face. She’s still got such a long recovery ahead of her, and she still needs to be in the hospital for a few more weeks, but Adam can finally bring Makayla with him.

The six year old is very excited, waking Adam up at an unholy time in the morning, practically jumping around the place. She’s made Kim another card and several pictures—some of which includes Adam in them, which warmed his heart—and while she understands Kim can’t come home just yet, she’s still very happy she can see her.

Adam walks through the hospital to Kim’s room, Makayla on his hip—although the way she’s bouncing, squirming with barely contained excitement, it’s a miracle Adam is able to keep hold of her.

He’d have let her bound ahead, walking by herself, if it wasn’t for it being a hospital, Adam wanting to make sure she’s contained and doesn’t cause any destruction.

There are many perks to being a cop, and being able to weave through the hospital with ease just with the wave of your badge is one of them. Although, Adam’s badge isn’t around his neck, Makayla having claimed it for herself.

“Can I wear it?” She asked him that morning, when he explained to her why he was wearing it around his neck, on display. He had agreed, not only because she’s too cute to say no to, but because she’d be carried by him, which would clearly show the other adults around that he was a cop, even if she was wearing it.

“Uncle Kev!” Makayla greets Kevin enthusiastically as they approach Kim’s hospital room. Kevin’s been sitting with Kim until they arrive, and at Adam’s text that they had, he had clearly headed out, ready to greet them.

“Hey, M.” Kevin ruffles Makayla’s curls, the girl grinning as he does so. He then nods in greeting to Adam; the two men still need to have a long conversation—in which Adam knows his role will be too listen, the only words being an apology—and they won’t be totally fine until they do, but there’s an understanding between them.

“How is she?” Adam asks Kevin, discreetly asking if Kim is tired, so he can prepare Makayla for that.

“Good, getting better and better. She’s been napping all morning, so she’s ready for this little one,” Kevin ruffles Makayla’s hair again. “Now, M, Adam’s explained that Kim’s gonna need to take it slow? That it might be scary—but she’s okay, she’ll be home before you know it?”

Kevin’s years of raising his siblings is displayed in how he talks to Makayla, using a soft, but adult tone?

After Makayla nods in answer to Kevin, Adam’s walking into Kim’s hospital room, the six year old on his hip. Kim’s sitting up in her bed, ready and eager to see Makayla. A wide, happy grin overtakes her face as soon as they enter and Kim sees Makayla.

Adam puts Makayla down as soon as they cross the threshold and she wastes no time running up to Kim’s bed. She does hesitate before jumping onto the bed, taking a step back and cautiously climbing up at the end, not wanting to accidentally sit on Kim.

Adam watches this, and watched how then Kim guides Makayla into her arms, her daughter immediately snuggling into them, looking happier than she’s looked in days. The scene tugs at Adam’s heart; they really do belong together, that is clear, their bond strong and true.

“Come cuddle, Adam!” Makayla then looks back at him, smiling that grin of hers, beckoning him over enthusiastically. He hesitates, not wanting to intrude on the moment, on Kim’s reunion with her daughter, but then Kim smiles at him; a big, loving smile which invites him over.

“Kim, guess what?” Makayla turns back to Kim as he heads over. “I’m lil darlin’! And it’s not ‘cos I’m short, but 'cos I’m your daughter!”

The way this makes Kim feel is clear to Adam, her expression open. She responds to Makayla, but she catches his eye, and Adam knows exactly what she’s trying to express to him.

When he reaches her bed, Kim pats her other side, encouraging him to sit down with them. It’s a tight fit, Adam barely on the bed, but it’s nice. He lifts up his arm, wrapping it around Kim, and she leans into him, Makayla snuggling against her still.

Makayla quickly urges Adam to pass her bag to her, so that she can show Kim all the stuff she made for her. Kim’s face lights up at them, looking with awe and wonder and love but all Adam can think about is how well the three of them fit together, that they’re already like a family.

There’s so much to discuss and work out, but Adam is looking forward to what the future holds if this is even a small glimpse into what it’ll be like.

[musictelevision]

The Sun and the Moon ☯

     “Tell me the story about how the sun loved the moon so  much, he died every night to let her breathe.” 

Emotional Tether Folklore: Two people, preferably benders, who are connected through spiritual interference. They are chosen at birth by two specific spirits. Throughout life, they both will experience feelings and visions from each other. This is a rare occurrence, it only happens every 100-200 years. Together, the two are powerful. Apart, imbalance will occur.

Summary: Y/N is the older sister of Sokka and Katara. Once their mother died, she step forward and watched over her siblings, even though she was only just ten. Years later, Y/N is travelling with her siblings, helping the avatar master all four elements. During this adolescence adventure, will she discover mysteries about herself she’d never imagined? All her life she has resented and ran from the Fire Nation. Now, could she possibly connected to the Prince of the Fire Nation himself? 

A/N: I’ve really gotten into ATLA in the past few weeks, so this happened. I really couldn’t just sit back and not write a Zuko fic. This will be multiple chapters, and will have semi-slow updates. A masterlist and helpful links for a smooth reading experience will be added. I am going to try to make it as accurate as possible. I hope everyone does enjoy, feedback is always accepted!

Warnings: violence, fighting, death, sad elements, cussing, blood, gore, adult themes (later on, will be warned on what chapter if it occurs) !!

Themes:  relationship developments, self love+hatred, acceptance, forgiveness, friendships, adventure !!

Soulmate AU?/Slow Burn/Connection (Unspoken)/Zuko x F!reader

Chapter One :  Beginnings  ☯

The Southern Water Tribe Village ☽

“My love, you should go to bed,” Gran-Gran whispered across the room. Sokka and Katara cuddled together in peaceful bliss, she did not want to wake them. Their father had left earlier in the morning, it had been an eventful day to say the least. With her father left, she couldn’t shake the fact that he would never return. In some ways, you could say, they were orphans. It only brought her thoughts to one sole person: Kya. It had been a few months since the deadly attack. She could still picture the beastly man looming over her mother. 

“Where is the water bender!” He forced once more. Y/N hid behind her mother in fear. They had been inside doing chores when the ships reached shore. Y/N shut her eyes pretending she was somewhere else, maybe penguin sledding with Sokka. Anywhere but here. He became more hostile, roughly moving closer towards the two.

“Where is the water bender.” They knew where the bender was, in fact she was in the same room, hiding for dear life behind her mother. The other, hopefully still alive, was outside with her brother. 

Y/N felt paralyzed. The big man pried even more, making some blows at Kya. Y/N could feel herself starting to bubble inside, her emotions were something to be reckoned with. She’d almost destroyed the entire village over a temper tantrum years prior. Though she was much older, her bending was not under control. It grew from emotion. Y/N noticed the ice around her cracking at every blow he made, Kya did too. 

He stood tall once more, shadowing over the two. Y/N thought death would be different, that she would die of old age. She hadn’t even lived to see the northern lights. 

“Mom!” Katara ran through the door only to be taken back by the large man in their home. The fire nation solider turned towards her, fury in his cold ember eyes. He seemed like he was getting impatient.

“Just let them go,” Kya finally said desperately, “and I will give you the information you want.” 

“Mom-” Y/N pleaded. She was in shock, would her mother really turn in her own daughters? Y/N wasn’t ready to go, but if it meant saving the tribe, she’d be willing to do it. 

“You heard your mother, get out of here!” the man hissed. Tearfully she ran over to Katara, holding on to her for dear life. Being her big sister, it was her unspoken responsibility to keep Katara safe. 

“Mom I’m scared,” the younger girl cried. Their mother looked at them, and smiled. 

“Go find your dad sweetie, I’ll handle this.” Kya spoke before facing the man once more. Y/N practically dragged Katara away from their childhood home, running as fast as they could to find their father. 

“DAD,” Y/N screamed. The ice she stood on cracked under her feet, yet she couldn’t care. The imagine of her mother’s fearful look swarmed her mind, it made her feel sick.

“Mom is in trouble there is a man in our house,” Katara shouted. Y/N held her hand tightly, making sure she didn’t loose her grip. They were the last water benders in the tribe. The two were vulnerable and easy targets, but she would never let Katara know that.  

“Kya!” their father cried out as he followed them back to their home. Sokka followed close behind. 

Her mother’s dead body laid on the floor. 

She didn’t want to remember the rest. Her father left to fight for their tribe after the devastating invasion. He seemed more, cold. Y/N couldn’t help but notice just how much Kya’s death changed him. Maybe his coldness was directed towards herself. She couldn’t bring herself to ponder that thought.

“Dad isn’t coming back,” Y/N remarked. Gran-Gran paused, calculating just the right thing to say. Sokka rustled in his sleep slightly, before settling once again. 

“I can’t shake the fact that he’s going to end up just like mom. Besides I am the reason mom is dead. No wonder Dad left, he can’t even look at me.” Gran-Gran shushed Y/N quickly. Sokka and Katara did not know the reason Kya died, and Gran-Gran wanted to keep it that way. It was Hakoda’s wish.

“Come child,” she waved the young water bender out into the crisp midnight air. Y/N followed the elder eagerly. The moon, full and bright, lit the entire village. The stars shined brightly, she thought of her mother. Kya always told her the magic of the night sky, how the moon and stars worked together so gracefully. Gran-Gran stood at the edge of the water, patiently waiting for the young girl to join her side. 

“When you were born, your mother suspected you would be a bender. That was a dangerous thing to be,” she paused with a long sigh. “However, the moon spoke to your mother the night you were born. The moon was the brightest it had ever been that night, the whole village awoke from its light. The moon shinned for you, and Kya knew that.” 

Y/N smiled to herself. She’d never known this much about herself before. It still didn’t make her feel better, why was Gran-Gran telling her this anyway? It didn’t change anything, her mother was still gone and her father still hated her. 

“But,” Gran-Gran continued abruptly. “The sun rose early that morning, bright as ever. It was as if the balance had returned for a day. We thought maybe you were the avatar.” They both sat in silence pondering her last statement.

The avatar? What a joke. Y/N had begun to believe such a thing never even existed in the first place. 

“I’m sorry I’m not,” Y/N muttered keeping her eyes fixated on the moon.

“No child, that is not your destiny. Your mother knew that you would be apart of restoring balance to the world, but just not in the way. The moon spoke to her. The great spirit told her to protect you from all harm.” Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not dare let them fall. Her mother was protecting her, she knew that the day she met her end. But to protect her over some prophecy a moon spirit said? It made her blood boil. 

“Of course, you won’t be alone in this.” Gran-Gran smiled to herself, leaving Y/N only to formulate more questions.

“Why would the moon find any sort of balance in me? Why would the sun react with the moon? How will I ever find another person to help me? This is so stupid, how do I know If you’re even telling the truth?  Gran-Gran this is ridiculous. No moon spirit cares about me! If they did they wouldn’t let her die or let dad go!” 

The eldest villager didn’t answered. She knew it was impossible to know. It was the truth, but it would take Y/N years to accept that. 

“Do not dwell on the unknown, it will be revealed when the universe allows it. What you do with this information is your choice,” Gran-Gran slowly confirmed before making her way back to her respected residence. 

“Ugh,” Y/N belted. She waved her hand towards the water before her in frustration. The water reacted with her swift movement, sending a wave towards the horizon. The sadness and confusion hit her, almost like a punch to the chest. 

She chose to never speak of the information Kanna gave her. It still plagued her mind every so often, but she ignored every aspect of it. In her eyes, she was a normal southern water tribe citizen.

But in the back of her mind she knew, that was far from true.

That night at the Fire Nation Palace ☽

Ursa had done what she had to. It was for him, her son, Zuko. She had protected him his whole life, just as she was instructed to. The sun spirit made that clear to her on the day of his birth. This incident was no different, just more drastic changes would have to be made.

She quickly made her way through the palace halls, her frail body still humming with adrenaline. Killing the fire lord, what was she thinking? Leaving now would only make it clear just who did it. Was being on the run from the crupt fire nation worth saving Zuko? A million times yes. Stopping to catch her breath, her attention caught by the bright orb in the night sky. It always gave her peace of mind, the moon. 

Azulon had instructed Ozai, her husband, to kill her first born. If only Ozai hadn’t spoken in such a heartless arrogant way, this wouldn’t have happened. To kill his child? It was horrible. He would do it though, if it meant keeping his honor. Ursa questioned why Ozai was so empty and power hungry. It was an answer she’d never know.

Some servants scurried pass her, bowing in the process. Did they know? They would soon, everyone would. She had to make herself scarce before then. The paranoia was sinking in ever so quickly. It was the only way to save herself, leaving. But, Ursa couldn’t help her mind race to Zuko. 

Zuko. 

The room he occupied was dark. There the young prince laid sprawled out on the crimson-colored king sized bed. Snoring slightly, he peacefully slept. The moon light coming from the window lit his raven colored hair perfectly. It felt wrong to wake him, he looked so content. But, it had to be done. For all she knew, it could be the last time she would ever lay eyes on her son. It was a little past midnight, in the morning the whole world would know. 

She sat on the corner of the bed next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Zuko had never been a heavy sleeper, especially with Azula as a sister. Her unless torment made him keen and aware of his surroundings, a good habit. 

“Mom,” he muttered groggily. Why was she here? His mind was still fuzzy.

“Zuko,” Ursa urgently spoke. Ursa quickly grabbed him by his sides, lifting her son up to face her. He blinked a few times, trying to focus with his tired eyes. 

“Please, my love, listen to me,” this made him try to focus more. Her voice was hoarse almost like she had been crying.  

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect you,” with this statement she pulled him into a hug. The last hug. She squeezed tighter than normal, he did not question it. 

She finally pulled away after what seemed like minutes. He was such a beautiful boy, how could she leave him? Would he parish without her? Would he be taken advantage of? Only the spirits could know. Footsteps could be heard in the hall outside his chamber. 

“Remember this Zuko,” she started facing him once more. Her voice was more stern this time, like she wanted to send a message. 

“No matter how things seem to change, never forget who you are,” her voice said in a whisper tone. Ursa hoped he’d listen, and take those words to heart. It was all she could do for him. From now on, Zuko would be on his own.

The prince watched her in tired confused as she turned towards the door. He wanted to say something, question why she had come, but he couldn’t. The tiredness was overwhelming, taking over before he could object. She sadly looked back once more, before pulling her cloak over her head. 

Hastily she ventured back trough the halls, leaving swiftly without a trace. By the time the fire nation caught word of their deceased leader, she was long gone. Just a memory. Ursa’s life she once knew was far behind her.

She looked up to the two spirits in the sky. The setting moon and the rising sun. Their harmonious relationship was on display in the sky. How wonderful the colors of the night collided with the morning sun, she thought to herself. 

“Watch after him,” the woman pleaded to the two spirits that occupied the sky.

“He will make you proud.” 

[ddarker-dreams]

Malaise. Yan Fugo x Reader [Implied x Giorno]

word count: 6.3k warnings: implied sexual relations, angst later on notes: i wouldn’t say there’s super heavy yandereness going on here, but given the context i figured yandere would play out a bit differently. it’s more like slight yandere if anything ...

i.

Interacting with someone so close to your own age shouldn’t be this miserable. Bucciarati is far easier to converse with, it’s not even a close competition. He’s a pleasant conversationalist, humoring your ideas and offering valuable input. If you had it your way, you’d only be speaking to him and not… this bratty teenager who turned his nose up whenever you were around. As if your mere existence is the highest insult to his own. You’ll never forget how he looked from you to Bucciarati with a quirked eyebrow when you were introduced, the awkward encounter forever burned into your mind. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face, nose scrunching up at the current dilemma. Bucciarati had asked, more like softly nudged you, to get along better with Fugo. You’ve been trying, ever since he introduced you two that fateful day. In the back of your head, you wonder if the same task was assigned to Fugo in private. Though seeing as he’s remaining nose deep into his book, sitting as far as humanly possible from you on this couch, you doubt it. The phrase “avoid like the plague”, doesn’t even scratch the surface of Fugo’s attitude towards you. He’d sooner embrace the Bubonic Plague than you, should prior encounters be recalled.

“Was there something you needed?” 

Speak of the devil. He must’ve seen fit to grace your presence with his most sacred articulation, filling the tense air with some much-needed conversation. The words aren’t malicious on a surface level, seemingly a reasonable inquiry considering you’ve been staring at him for a solid ten minutes. It’s how his voice is strained, knuckles whitening as he grips the book tighter, which gives him away. Fugo’s too easy to read at times, the same can’t be said when it comes to dealing with him. This might be the most difficult task Bucciarati ever assigned to you. 

“Need isn’t the word I’d use,” you decide to ignore the not-so-subtle irritation on his features, pushing your strained luck as far as it can go. Linguistics aside, you put your cards on the table. “But, I was hoping to get to know you better.” 

With the ball now on his side of the court, all you can do is wait, for whatever rebuttal Fugo decides to dish out. When Bucciarati isn’t around, Fugo’s preference is to act like you’re no more than a fly on the wall. Buzzing around his head and making it impossible to focus on anything that he does in his rare downtime. Honestly, he can’t comprehend why Bucciarati felt so desperate as to pluck you from whatever hole he found you in. You don’t even hold a candle to his own intellect, taking a naive, happy-go-lucky approach to life. Sure you’re a Stand user, and while it’s not a useless Stand, Fugo couldn’t picture you making the choices necessary in a fight to stay alive. The fact you haven’t been reduced to a bloodstain on the pavement is the only thing he finds impressive about you so far.

His eyebrow twitches at your pesky insistence, face settling into a grimace. “Am I right in assuming that if I don’t humor this pitiful attempt, you’ll continue to stare at me and disrupt my otherwise peaceful evening?” 

You place a finger to your cheek, considering the proposition, before nodding your head. “It looks like you’ve got a better understanding of things than I expected.” 

Fugo lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. So be it. He’ll wait until you fall asleep to finish his book, mentally noting the page number and setting it by his side. The act of surrender takes you off guard. You were fully anticipating a snarky one-liner, or for him to disregard you in some other way. Instead, he looks at you with disinterest, arms crossed over his weird swiss cheese shirt. You learned never to mention your inner critiques of his fashion sense, as it once earned a plate of parmesan being narrowly dodged at Libecco. Scary stuff.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Fugo winces at this like he heard nails on a chalkboard, “What do you like to do? Y’know, hobbies and stuff.” 

It’s as good a start as any. Finding out a person’s interests unravels the essence of who they are, what they believe is worth their time and effort. Fugo gives your question an unexpected amount of thought, probably sensing you’ll call him out for a lackluster answer. Which you would, of course. For all his stubbornness, he’s gotten good at reading you. Maybe you should try shaking things up a bit to rattle him, keep him on the edge of his seat… 

“Honestly, you couldn’t pick something more original…? I don’t know. I read, and I can appreciate a good movie.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment, considering his words. A very safe, Fugo-like answer. It didn’t take a seasoned detective to assume Fugo liked to read, but the movie detail is a new bit of information that you will take full advantage of. He strikes you as the type to be snobby about his tastes in movies. Most likely only watching them if they’re popular with critics and saying the general population has no appreciation for the fine arts, too busy consuming braindead action flicks instead of true cinema. Not that you have any intention of voicing this conclusion to him, seeing as you’re trying to worm your way into a friendship.

Fugo snaps his fingers in front of your face, bringing you back into unfortunate reality. Maybe that statement earlier this morning about you zoning out too much holds some merit. Before he can berate you as he’s taken an apparent liking to, you speak up. “That’s good and all, but I need specifics.” 

“Care to elaborate?” 

“With pleasure,” you lean forward, waving your hands enthusiastically to emphasize your point. You get the sense that Fugo regrets asking for clarification, but neither of you are willing to back down now. “How about this. If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, which would you pick?” 

“Is this some kind of job interview?” Fugo murmurs to himself, massaging his temples. You shrug your shoulders and offer a bright smile, and he knows sarcasm isn’t gonna cut it. “It’d need to be something interesting… maybe The Silence of the Lambs.” 

He somewhat defied your expectations, not listing some obscure black and white flick filmed on a Blackberry. Maybe you jumped the gun on your initial assessment of Fugo Pannacotta, and he isn’t as grandiloquent after all. This confrontation is going better than you ever anticipated, and you almost feel guilty for selling him too short.

That is, until he sees fit to present an unnecessary addition to his previous statement. “Was that bit of English too much for you?” 

So much for that. Once an asshole, always as an asshole. Shakespeare may have said something similar, but your reimagining is far more of a pinnacle in literary achievement. You deflate back into the couch, huffing at his indignant comment. Well, might as well burst his bubble now. It may be the only bubble Fugo has that you’re capable of the aforementioned bursting, so you’re going to savor every second of it. The entire reason you’ve never mentioned this facet of yourself is that you never viewed it as imperative. Bucciarati knew, you knew, that’s all that mattered. Until Fugo decided to dig under your skin and rub salt on the wound in one fell swoop. Figures he’d do that.

“Fugo.” 

“[First].”

“You know English is my first language, right?” Your voice is more of a deadpan than anything, tilting your head to the side as if it is the most logical conclusion. The hypothetical cogs in Fugo’s head begin turning. There was that time you stumbled over a Naples exclusive dish, sfogliatella, Bucciarati kindly offering the proper pronunciation after you stumbled on it. Or how you have the slightest of accents, sometimes referencing pop culture that goes beyond him. He always wondered why muttering “cazzimma” to you only earned a light reprimanding from Bucciarati, and never offended you as more common insults would. He just thought you were some type of misfortune idiot. Whoops. 

Not willing to throw in the towel yet, Fugo takes a posture of defense. This is a hill he’s willing to die on, you have to be playing some kind of cheap trick. “I don’t buy it.” 

“Should I start reciting the entire Star-Spangled Banner by heart, or talk about how much I love fast food and baseball? Did you think my Stand would be a bald eagle that shot out apple pie? If that’s the case, you’re fresh outta luck. I’m living in Naples for a reason.” you respond in fluent English, flexing your hypothetical muscles. Fugo recalls his English classes from years prior to roughly translate some of your words, scowling at the realization you’ve proven him wrong. By god do you wish you had your phone with you to snap a picture, print it out, frame it in every room of this apartment, make it your lock screen, and send it to Bucciarati. 

You’ll settle for drinking in the moment instead, Fugo muttering curses underneath his breath. Much to your surprise, from this moment forward, Fugo earned just an ounce of respect for you. Not that it says a lot, seeing as the cup of [First] respect was drier than the Sahara desert until recent times. 

It’s still a step in the right direction.

ii.

Neither of you says a word.

Coming down from your individual highs, you feel how your hair sticks to the sides of your perspiring face. Your bare chest heaving with every labored breath, Fugo in a similar state of disarray next to you. Now that it’s all said and done, you’re unable to look at him out of embarrassment. Instead, you seek solace in staring at your ceiling, thoughts scrambling to rationalize the previous events. 

It all started innocent enough. The two of you had been growing closer, becoming more comfortable in each other's presence. Even Narancia, who could be notoriously poor at picking up on subtleties, could sense your connection and even pointed it out. Until Fugo told him to knock it off (in far more vulgar language), saving you the shame of saying it yourself. You felt content with the state of things with Fugo, after months of getting him to come out of his shell with you. His words were still pointed, but not full of ill will. Even when three more additions were brought to your little group, Fugo remained the person you prefer the most. It might be wishful thinking, but you think he feels the same towards you. 

Tonight had been like all the ones that came before. The two of you sitting on the couch, talking about pointless endeavors. Mista and Narancia were out at the time, leaving you all on your lonesome. For such a sizable couch, you didn’t realize how close Fugo was sitting next to you. Your thighs practically touching, occasionally brushing over one another. To combat the summer heat and mediocre air conditioning in your apartment, you were wearing short shorts and a tank top. Seeing as everyone else could walk around shirtless at their discretion, no one ever made a point to call you out on the less than modest choice. Even if they felt the itching, you’d shut them up without a second thought.

Fugo found himself focusing less on the words coming out of your mouth, and more on your glossy lips. He could smell your strawberry chapstick, the choice so tempting he found it offensive. Mixed with the chocolate gelato that you stole from Mista’s “hidden” stash, Fugo was bewitched on a level that shouldn’t be possible. Your skin, slightly glistening from the summer heat, eyes full of passion as you explained why you hated pretentious movies. At a certain point, you must’ve noticed how Fugo stopped responding to your impassioned rant. All he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss you, to feel every inch of your body.

So he did. 

It was far from suave, an amateurish clashing of teeth and tongue. You let out a surprised noise at the unexpected events but melted into it. While the kiss didn’t go as smoothly as he pictured in his head, you seemed to savor every second of it. He still remembers how eagerly you responded to his every desperate touch, how you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him even closer. The scent of your floral perfume and the sweet noises that left your lips almost made him drool, prompting him to go even further. Fugo’s brain almost shut down when you lowly whispered into his ear to come to your room, bodies soon falling onto your bed in a heated embrace. 

You feel sore, but it’s not so bad. 

Fugo’s the first to speak up after some painstaking thought, breaking the silence that’s resonated ever since he climbed off of you. “Are you… are you okay?” 

It’s so unlike him to be this unsure, not knowing what to do or say. His heart still pounds in his chest, cheeks flushed and lips bruised. Suppressed emotions came crashing down over him like a tidal wave, drowning him before he could make sense of it all. You didn’t push him away or seem offended by his advances as he’d feared you’d be. Instead, you accepted all of him. Allowing him to carry out his pent-up yearning for you, in a state of bliss by how you called his name out. 

Shameful as it may be, Fugo had envisioned this scenario in his head numerous times. He’d always hated himself for it, thinking he’s no better than a common pervert for the way he thought of you. All the ways he pictured you, in all the lascivious situations, only to see you bright and early for breakfast the next day. When you smiled and told him good morning, all he could do is look away in disgrace. Not that you ever knew about this, or that you ever needed to find out. 

You let out a carefree, light giggle at his serious inquiry. Fugo’s eyebrows scrunch together into a scowl at your sudden laughter, finally working up the courage to look at you again. Any frustration melts away like winter snow in the spring at how breathtaking you look, your skin iridescent and eyes softening. They aren’t softening just for anyone, it’s for him and him alone. Does he deserve to be the one you look at with all this adoration? And should he even bother with the self-deprecating thoughts, when losing himself with you is so much better?

“S-sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just,” you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, the skin underneath your eyes tightening from the wide smile. “I never took you for the sappy, pillow talk type.” 

Fugo’s nostrils flare, huffing without any malice at your teasing. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s doing, improvising as he goes. Everything that happened, every shared touched you shared, felt so surreal. Cheesy as it may sound, it was like a dream come true. What is there to say after a passionate encounter like that? He’s still rushing to get his bearings, hating the sensation of being this out of control. How you make his stomach erupt into a swarm of butterflies with every action, from the simple fluttering of your eyelashes to the cute way your nose scrunches up when you’re concentrating on a task. Fugo knows what this could be, in the back of his head. A quiet, hard to push down voice tells him what he’s been dreading to hear. That he’s a fool, deep in the throes of love. 

It takes a few minutes for you to calm yourself down. Fugo’s observant, much to your chagrin, having picked up on your nervous tick of laughing when you’re unsure of what to do. It’d make sense, seeing how you just slept with your teammate who frequently called you an idiot a few months ago. You prop yourself up, bedsheets covering your bare chest. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He looks away, despising how your revealed skin makes his face flush a bright red. Even without looking at you, he can picture the knowing smile on your angelic face at his embarrassment. It’s the same smile you have when Narancia tells a particularly funny joke, when Mista goes on a silly tangent about his latest concerns, when Bucciarati says you’ve done a good job, or when Abbacchio chooses to sit down next to you when everyone else is being too annoying. Most importantly, it’s how you always look at Fugo, even when he didn’t think he deserved it. 

You poke his cheek, murmuring his name. Fugo’s violet hues flicker back to you at the unprecedented action, perplexed countenance betraying his inner thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this. That the occupation you two are involved in is too dangerous to sustain a relationship, and that death is a possibility every day. It’s too late for him to nip these feelings in the bud -- that opportunity passed long ago, as he let it -- but he can’t allow it go past the point it already has.

Fugo lets out an inaudible gasp when you make yourself comfortable against his bare chest. Here he is, being torn on the inside between desire and duty, and you’re snuggling up without a care in the world. It’s the stark contrast that separates you, the same one that has him so hopelessly enamored. You have no intentions on making this easy for him, do you? He knows the answer when he sees your eyelids closing, threatening to fall asleep. 

All is comfortably quiet until he hears your muffled voice speak up. “You didn’t push me away.” 

“Huh?” 

Fugo’s own response isn't the schooled, thought-out string of words you’ve come to expect. It’s a kneejerk reaction to a confusing observation, that he’s having trouble rationalizing in his head. While never the most forthcoming with his emotions, he was essentially ravishing you like a man possessed a few minutes prior. You can’t be that dense, can you? Scratch that, the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Even if not many got to see that side of you, there are still insecurities that weigh heavily on your heart. In the same way he struggles with self-worth, you fight a similar battle. The thought tugs on his heart, lips set into a deep frown. Everyone’s got something to deal with.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fugo responds in a harsher tone than he intended. When he feels you tense against his chest, he curses himself, intentionally softening his next set of words. “But, uh, do you really want me to stay? The others might be back soon.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment at his concerns, promptly waving them off. It’s not like Narancia and Mista are capable of sneaking into your shared residence, it’s ridiculously loud when they come home. “Just a few more minutes.” 

He expected an answer like that and still has trouble relaxing. Truth be told, Fugo would prefer to lay here with you forever. To see what you look like when you sleep, to feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest in sync with his own, to kiss your forehead and whisper goodnight. In an ideal world, that’s how it would be. Reality is a lot less forgiving, and there’s too much on the line. Being this close to someone else is vulnerable, painfully so. To hurt and be hurt, the opportunity now having the room to manifest. He knows all this, and he still can’t bring himself to mention the full force of his anxieties. Would you hate him? Think he was using you and then ditching you? 

Fugo decides to be selfish, more so than usual. While there’s no way to push down all of these emotions, looking at you puts him at ease. His fingers ghost over an area on your neck he learned was sensitive, almost smiling when you lean into the touch. The way he feels with you is addicting. From your quick wit that matches his own, never being afraid to challenge his positions, it’s like he found his match. While he’s always found you begrudgingly cute, even when he was colder to you, it’s evolved into something greater. More serious and heartfelt. It’s horrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“Does this mean we’re dating?” you ask what’s been troubling you, hearing how Fugo’s heartbeat ramps up in speed. It’s a rational conclusion, seeing how comfortable you two are with one another. You don’t know if what you feel is love, not just yet, but you want to give whatever this is a shot. Fugo’s hesitation says all you need to know, though you wish it isn’t like this. 

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.” Fugo answers honestly, the words so quiet you struggle to pick them up. It’d be a lie to say you’re not disappointed, though you don’t want to push him into anything he’s not ready for. Fugo has his own emotions to work through, and the last thing you need to do is jump into a relationship and ruin everything. So you lift yourself up, looking him deep in the eyes, Fugo blinking at the abrupt movement. 

“Then I’ll wait.” 

He doesn’t notice how close to crying he’s been this entire time. The world through his view goes blurry, a lump forming in the back of his throat. Fugo takes deep breaths to steady himself, and instead of berating him, you wipe away his tears with the pad of your thumb. Whispering reassurances into his ear, combing through his tousled hair with your fingers. Fugo wipes at his eyes furiously, cursing himself for breaking down in front of you of all people. He’s overwhelmed with gratitude when you decide not to comment on it further, to save him the embarrassment. Your words echo within his head like a holy mantra, a promise that he’ll hold onto. 

If there were ever a reality where you looked down at him with disdainful eyes, he’d hate himself. 

iii.

Wandering aimlessly isn’t the worst part.

No, that’d be letting himself off too easy. It’s not the sleepless nights, tossing and turning while his stomach churns, or even the tear-stained pillowcases. When walking around Naples, all he can do is submerge himself to the shadows. There’s shame in the act of hiding, and it’s all he’s come to know. Seeing the light of day feels too good for someone like him, someone who had been abandoned by everyone he cared about and was too cowardly to prevent it. It’s a suitable punishment to wallow in his own self-pity and loneliness, cursing his entire existence for the mistakes that haunt him every day. 

It’s always a mistake to come to this café. This is your favorite café, and on days like this, all he can do is watch from afar. There are times he stares at the spot you frequent for hours, waiting to see if you decide to stop by that day or not. In a way, it’s almost better when you don’t. He doesn’t get a taste of what he’s missing out on, a forbidden fruit that he’s too ashamed to reach for. Most of the time you come here alone, with your favorite pastry and coffee, scrolling on your phone or laptop before leaving. He’s seen you meet with Mista a few times, even Trish once, but it’s mostly Giorno who accompanies you. 

Today you’re on your lonesome, speaking to someone over the phone and then hanging it up with a smile. Fugo can’t help but wonder, who is it that makes you smile like that? As he sits from afar, drowning in his anguish, it’s what plagues him the most. That used to be the smile he saw on a daily basis, the one that made him fall head over heels in love. Now he’s too afraid to approach you, in fear of what you may say, or do. Even what you wouldn’t do would hurt. Would you look at him in pity, or curse him for his cowardly actions? Condemn him for not joining you on that boat, or ignore him all together?

Is it possible… that you’ve simply forgotten all about him? It has been almost two years since the worst day of his life. While he’s caught up in the past, you’ve moved into a brighter future. He doesn’t know how he feels anymore. Surely you deserve any happiness you can get after all the suffering you went through, but the thought of you being happy without him stings. It digs talons into Fugo’s heart, ripping it out of his chest. One of these days, he tells himself, he’ll work up the strength to speak to you. Even if it’s but a moment. 

Though some part of him knows he’ll never be able to face you. Not anymore.

v.

It’s early in the afternoon. Chatter from other patrons reverberates off the tastefully decorated walls, in a restaurant that Fugo’s been to numerous times. This particular visit is different than the ones years ago. Instead of the bustling atmosphere he’d grown used to, there are only two people at the table. Where laughter and lighthearted conversations before work used to occur, there’s nothing but silence save for some polite discussion. Fugo’s throat feels persistently dry, no matter how much water he gulps down. 

Giorno sits across from him, legs folded and nursing a glass of iced tea the waiter brought seconds prior. Maintaining eye contact with the revered Don of Passione is no simple task. It’s a daunting experience, regardless of Giorno’s insistence on no formalities being necessary when interacting with one another. Fugo holds immense respect for him, otherwise, he wouldn’t be willingly sitting here right now. Still, his mouth is set in a straight line, leg bouncing underneath the table. Respect isn’t enough to snuff out the uncomfortable memories that appear up in this room, suffocating him from the inside out. 

“Is there a reason I’m here?” The words come out more forcefully than he intended, Fugo’s eyes darting around his familiar surroundings, looking for something he won’t find. Someone he won’t find. He’s grateful to Giorno for his benevolence, as speaking this way to someone who’s technically his boss isn’t advisable. Someone as sharp as Fugo knows this better than most, but he also knows Giorno. While not understanding him entirely, his actions make logical sense in the grand scheme of things. 

Being in Giorno’s position means being busy. Every second of the day has to be taken advantage of, whether it be discussing with other mafioso about recent happenings or plans, making multiple phone calls, and plenty of other headache-inducing tasks. So it doesn’t make much sense to Fugo why Giorno called him this morning, asking to meet him in person for lunch. While the two aren’t on bad terms, he doesn’t feel deserving of the specially allotted time. And in his gut, he feels there’s a hidden justification for the meeting that he’s yet to uncover. A few unpleasant theories come to mind, but they only serve to unnerve Fugo further, so he stuffs them down. 

“I wasn’t sure of the best way to deal with Purple Haze. Your Stand… you’re already aware of the potential consequences it could’ve posed, so I won’t rehash it more than necessary,” Giorno begins to offer his insight into the matter, finally revealing the true reason Fugo was called out here today. “There were a variety of methods that could’ve been used, with varying degrees of success, but I took a gamble. Ultimately, she didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Fugo feels his heart drop, jaw slackening despite his best efforts. “Who… who do you mean?” 

At this, Giorno quirks an eyebrow up. As if to wordlessly say, you know who. 

“It might not be my place to delve into your past,” Giorno continues with a serious air, contrasted by his closed-mouth smile. Fugo never knows for certain what Giorno’s plotting behind that smile, and a part of him wants to remain oblivious. “But for you to overcome it, and in turn gain total control over Purple Haze, it must be addressed.”

He can guess where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Giorno gives him a moment to consider the words, briefly glancing at his buzzing phone and then returning his attention back to Fugo. It’s a subtle change in body language, how Giorno’s shoulders stiffen just slightly as if he’s anticipating something. Fugo loosens the tie around his neck, the pair returning to tense silence. While the Don made valiant attempts in loosening him up, it only served to make Fugo more suspicious. All of his fears are confirmed when he overhears two voices from the room over, one of them sending his heart racing.

That’s… that you and Mista speaking to one another. He knows your voice better than he knows any other sound on the planet, even if it’s been years since he’s heard it up this close. Fugo still dreams of you, the way you used to stumble over certain Neapolitan lingo, or how wonderful it sounded when you graced his ears with a laugh. Now, he’s unsure of what to feel when hearing the muffled conversation between you and Mista. The sound grows closer, and with it, his dread. After rejoining Passione at Giorno’s behest, Fugo knew this reunion couldn’t be avoided. Nothing could prepare him for it. 

There’s a telltale gasp when you turn the corner, spotting the back of someone you haven’t seen since you were a teenager. Someone who you used to hold in high esteem, who practically fell off the face of the earth after betraying the old boss. While Mista had hastily given you the details on the car ride over, it still felt too surreal, like a cruel joke. There’s a lot that weighs down on your heart, like stones wrapped around your ankles, dragging you into the depths. The details Giorno gave you about Fugo’s whereabouts were purposefully vague, most likely in consideration of your past feelings. 

“Fugo…?” 

You’re by his side before he can even process it, bending down and wrapping his stiff shoulders into a warm embrace. He doesn’t reciprocate it or stop you, his thoughts not capable of rationalizing what’s going on. Fugo can’t bring himself to look up at your countenance, in fear of what he’ll see staring back at him. That you’re even hugging him means you must pity him, viewing him as a scared little boy who was too weak to do what was necessary. It’s the only explanation that makes sense to him, and why he can’t return your affections. While it’s no longer his place to desire anything from you, not after all his shortcomings, he silently prays. That there may be some part of you that still cares for him, in the same way he has loved you from afar. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come back.” you sniffle, emotions swirling and enveloping you. You lift your hand, using your finger to swipe away forming tears. That’s when Fugo sees it. It doesn’t hit him at first as one would expect. No, it’s a prickling sensation that starts from his chest and spreads throughout his body like a virus. His body feels ice cold, like a corpse clinging onto shreds of life, consumed from the inside out by sorrow. Nausea comes in waves, tempting him to flee from this heart-wrenching scene and never look back. Your hand falls back to your side, and Fugo’s eyes follow it with precision, unable to look away.

There’s a rose gold band on your ring finger. 

Of course. Looking at you here, it makes sense why this would happen. Your body has filled out, beauty like that of an angel. The ability to draw people in and befriend them like a glowing aura has always been your strong suit, it was warm enough to thaw the ice around Fugo’s heart. It’d be a fool’s prayer to beg God to keep you for himself, and still, he had tried. Now that leaves the burning question, who? Who was the person that erased himself from your mind, taking the place that was carved out specifically for him? He looks at your beaming face, searching for answers he won’t find outright. 

Your perfume is the same as it was before. Light and floral, but mixed with a hint of something new. Of someone new. It sickens him, the scent dizzying as it taunts him. Where has he smelled this before? It’s on the tip of his tongue, fizzling out before coming into fruition. The words you speak next are drowned out by Fugo’s throbbing head, too absorbed with dark thoughts to process them. He needs to know. He has to know. Fugo looks over your shoulder to Mista in search of answers, the gunslinger holding an uncharacteristically grim expression. They hold eye contact, Fugo staring at him with potent intensity. 

Give me a hint. Anything, please.

Not everyone gives Mista the credit he deserves for being observant. Fugo must’ve looked like he’d seen a ghost, Mista swallowing at the pale complexion and vacant eyes. Believing that his intentions weren’t clear enough, Fugo almost looks away. Before he gets the opportunity, Mista offers a slight inclination of the head. Fugo closes his eyes, all his strength going into holding himself together. Picking up the shards of glass that maintain his emotions, hands growing bloody in the process. It’s a subtle movement, though there’s no denying in what direction it went, as much as Fugo wished otherwise.

Towards Giorno. 

You move towards your seat, realizing Fugo must be going through a lot of emotions of his own. The last thing you need to do is suffocate him when it’s clear he’s processing the unfolding events. “I don’t know the last time you came here, but they recently added more desserts. I’m partial to the zeppole… it’s so light and fluffy.” 

Mista walks over, taking a seat next to the befuddled Fugo, and speaking up to ease the uncomfortable silence that resonates in the room. “I’m starving, haven’t had anything to eat all day. Let’s get the waiter over here.”

While he flags down a passing employee, Fugo’s eyes follow your form. The table is different than how it used to be. Abbacchio would be sipping on wine, no matter the time of day. Bucciarati wouldn’t always be sitting down for long, seeing as he had lots of work to do, but he always made time for a good meal. Narancia loved conversing with you, seeing as you had lots of knowledge of the English music he was so partial to. You always sat next to Fugo, who’d lightly reprimand Narancia for being more passionate about rap than his studies, or telling Mista to knock it off with the unappetizing conversations he loved to start. 

Now, you take the chair next to Giorno, who had pulled it out in kind when you walked over.

You said you’d wait for him, and Fugo fooled himself into believing that statement would last a lifetime. He always had regrets about not joining his team on the boat that day, too many to count. A new one has sprouted up like a weed, strangling his heart. If he had joined you, would it have been him you’d have married? Would it be him that you’d look at with that dazzling expression instead, the one that he had grown used to seeing? Now that he knows the full extent of the truth, Fugo wonders how he could have ever been so blind. Even Giorno -- who often smiled just for show -- had unmistakably lightened up as soon as you entered the room. 

This… This is Fugo’s despair.

The rest of lunch goes as smoothly as it can. He forces himself to speak when spoken to, Mista kindly filling the room with conversation to prevent any awkwardness. This can’t end fast enough. He needs to get out of here, to excuse him before he does something truly stupid. A serpent whispers temptations of evil into his ear, and he doesn’t want to tune them out. Not anymore. Now isn’t the time to pull any idiotic stunts, so he remains still as a statue. When all is said and done, Fugo can’t get up from the table to dismiss himself any faster. He pays the necessary respects to his Don, swiftly offering his goodbyes. With his back turned, he hears your voice call out to him in the darkness.

“I’ll see you later, right?” you ask in between bites of your dessert, the words meaning more for him than you. He doesn’t know. He’s not certain of anything anymore, even after making up his mind on returning to Passione. The situation has taken a turn for the worst, in a way he couldn’t stomach any longer. So for now, he’ll offer up an unconvincing response, not capable of looking back at you. 

At the reminder of all his failures.

“... Of course.” 

[tatticstudio55]

Jon and Dany – both beyond the Wall at the end?

DAY SEVEN (Sunday, August 2nd) Leadership  |  Free Choice  |  DoS: Royal Retirement / Passing the Torch

This is less meta-ish and borders more on the speculative side, but I’d like to discuss a Jon and Dany (potential) ending I’ve never seen anyone talk about before: them ending both beyond the Wall, living with the free folks/as free folks. So, basically, the ending Jon got on the show, but with Dany by his side. I would even go as far as to say that the showrunners might have considered it.

This is not by any means “my ideal” Jonerys ending. That would be Jon and Dany settling on Dragonstone with a bunch of targlings and wild dragons. I do not, alas, think this is where the story is going. I do not expect either (or both) of them on the IT either. On the other hand, an ending with them both beyond the Wall seems to me like it could work with the overall story. There is already some book evidence/foreshadowing pointing to Jon’s endgame there, notably in ASOS when he (forgive my French) “finds himself” beyond the Wall:

“On the edge of the haunted forest, where the tents had been, Jon found an oakwood stump and sat.

Ygritte wanted me to be a wildling. Stannis wants me to be the Lord of Winterfell. But what do I want? The sun crept down the sky to dip behind the Wall where it curved through the western hills. Jon watched as that towering expanse of ice took on the reds and pinks of sunset.

[…]

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger . . . he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought.

It was a long moment before he understood what was happening. When he did, he bolted to his feet. "Ghost?" He turned toward the wood, and there he came, padding silently out of the green dusk, the breath coming warm and white from his open jaws. "Ghost!" he shouted, and the direwolf broke into a run.

[…]

He had his answer then.” Jon XII, ASOS

Dany is more of a wild card, but even the show gave us SOME reasons to believe that D&D played with the idea at some point: the pregnancy bait, Dany’s comment in 7x07 about King’s Landing and how “constrictive” the Dragonpit felt, Dany’s “we could stay here a thousand years. No one would find us” line in 8x01. Most importantly, back when I was watching season 7, this is the impression I was getting (from the showrunners):

Dany is a good person at heart, but she would not make a good queen nor would she like being queen.

I do not wholly agree with this, especially if we are talking about bookDany, who would make – and is – a much better queen than she is given credit for, but it looked to me like this is where the show was going with her. Or, at least, this is the message they were trying to communicate. They were not trying to “hide” Dany’s dark turn from the audience by making her or trying to make her bad-good-bad-good-bad-good, they simply had another endgame in mind for the character. I do not want to make this about the show but had to get this out of the way.

Now onto bookDany:

A while ago, I posted a meta where I discussed a pattern in Daenerys’s story: twice she succeeded at something magical, highly dangerous and related to dragons, and twice after she ended up in a desertic environment, thirsting, starving and nearly dying from exposition. Following the rule of 3 (which is especially predominant in her arc), it will probably happen again and – since there is no Great Grass Sea in Westeros – the “desertic environment” swallowing her afterward will be the frozen lands beyond the Wall. It could mean that she will die there, but it could also mean that she will simply disappear there. Her fate could also be revealed to the reader while remaining unknown to most characters. This would fit with Dany’s current representation in the story so far: she is an enigma, a rumor; nobody really knows her whereabouts, who she is, what she is, what she wants, what she has, if she is even real.

There are numerous parallels to be drawn between Daenerys and Mance Rayder, which I covered here. I would love the irony of Dany coming to Westeros thinking she is reclaiming her family’s lands, only to settle in the only part that was never conquered by the Targaryen. There is the (disputable, ok, but) fact that the only region in all of the continent where dragons could turn up useful for tree planting would be beyond the Wall (so frozen soil can be thawed and warmed up for plants to grow there again). Martin hung a pretty riffle on the metaphorical Wall when Silverwing refused to fly across in Fire and Blood. There is this pattern of wildling women making up Jon’s romantic prospects; first a wildling “commoner” (Ygritte), then a wildling “princess” (Val), then a wildling “queen” (Dany, eventually, if this theory proves to be correct). So of course, you will ask –

If this is Martin’s intended ending, why couldn’t the d’s just go with it?

Well, because the d’s never gave Dany any incentive to go beyond the Wall, apart from a brief rescue mission back in season 7. If Dany must end up there, something has got to bring her there and the show scrapped or discarded all of it : no Lands of Always Winter, no curtain of light, no this, no that, no nothing. And once she gets there in the books, because I am quite sure she will, she will not come back. The North is Dany’s ultimate destination. No yoyoing back and forth North and South like what the show did. That was just dumb. Travel time and distances should mean something, even if you have dragons (plus, Dany’s armies would have to travel on foot, horseback or by boat, like everybody else). The closest of yoyoing we have ever gotten in asoiaf was probably with Catelyn, it spanned three books, and she never made it back North anyway.

Did the d’s consider going with that ending? They might just. The clues were certainly there (see above…) but at some point, they must have realized that it would not work with the hole they had dug themselves in.

Now about the elephant in the room

I know some people will think that Dany ending beyond the Wall does not make much sense for her story, which technically (so far) does not have much to do with the lands beyond the Wall. In a way, I agree. Some people would also find such an ending anticlimactic to her arc and a waste after everything she has learned about leadership and politics in Meereen. I also agree. On a watsonian level, an ending with, say, Dany as a queen in Westeros – I think it works. Of course, I do. Where it does not work is on a doyalist level. Dany already had her arc of becoming queen. She achieved that by the end of book 3. Then she had to learn all the nit and gritty and dirty work of ruling over the rubble of a corrupt system while trying to make the lives better for everyone. If Dany becomes queen in Westeros, the same thing will happen again. Different setting, different people, same story. Some people have criticized the underlying message of Dany’s fight against slavery as “only a preparation” for what comes next in Westeros, saying it would undermine the real value of Dany’s work in Essos. I agree. However, the same problem applies if Dany becomes queen in Westeros: then her time in Essos is reduced to a prop up, a preparation, as if ruling Essos were somewhat less important than ruling Westeros. Furthermore, I cannot imagine an ending where Dany, still in possession of significant military forces – significant enough to secure her a crown, anyway – could choose to settle in Westeros without being plagued with guilt over leaving Essos’s slaves behind. I am sorry, I just cannot.

This is also, I think, where part of the “Dany is not a peace time queen” mentality comes from. Dany will never be a peace time queen, not because she prefers war, or because she does not want peace, but because what she is trying to achieve, in these times and places, means a lifetime of war. You cannot undo and rebuild an entire system that is rotten at its core in a single lifetime (heck, even show!Tyrion said this to her, for what the show is worth now…), much less in a few years. Dany is not a peace time queen because she is not a queen that is interested in maintaining the statue quo. At least that is how her time in Meereen revealed her. Arya would not be a peace time queen either. Jon would not be a peace time king. They could never be, less they abandoned their ideals and their ethics for a more comfortable life.

Then you might say that an ending where Dany goes back to Essos works too. It does – once again, on a watsonian level. What is the problem with this on a doyalist level? It turns Dany into a deus ex machina, coming to Westeros just in time to save it, then leaving it right after, as if neither the Others, nor her had ever been there.

The two remaining options are: either she dies a queen in Westeros, most likely during the Great War, or… the queen, Daenerys Targaryen, dies, while Dany lives.

That means that all reasonable possibilities, or choices, to keep on fighting as a queen are taken from her. Maybe her forces were severely depleted during the Great War. Maybe her dragons died. Maybe both. Maybe her function, not as an individual, but as a character in a specific story called A song of ice and fire, was to destroy an old system (AND to inspire others to follow in her footsteps, ensure that her efforts were not in vain, that the first steps will not go wasted, that the work she started will be taken up by other peoples, and others after them, and others after), not to rebuild the new one. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. Frodo Baggins’ role in The Lord of the Rings was to destroy something evil. His gardener Sam was the one who planted the trees and went on to become a mayor afterward. One was a destroyer and the other was a builder, but in the end, they were both heroes.

Not to mention that Frodo did not die at the end. You could say that he went on to live beyond the Wall too.