#thinking about how- with the world right now- choosing kindness in real life is it’s own rebellion as well

[shellem15]

Anyways I'm still not over my devil boys. Thinking about all the parallels between them:

Because like, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, right? Draws in and punishes people for trying to be good, trying to *help* those they care about. And whether they succeed or not is irrelevant because in the end they're damned either way. That's the lie, then, that their sacrifice would ever actually change their fate.

And its just: HELL IS LIKE THAT BECAUSE IT’S A REFLECTION OF ITS LORD AND THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED TO *HIM*. THAT’S WHAT MADE HIM REAL IN THE FIRST PLACE AND NOW HES STUCK LIKE IT FOREVER!!!

That's what happened to Asmodeus and then he did it to Vespin Chloras and Zerxus and then Zerxus tried to do it with Pike too (in tlovm). It's a never-ending cycle where the one who's burned then becomes the fire for the next person!!! UGHHH

And it all starts with that one act of good intent, that act of sacrifice! Imri throwing himself to the flames, knowing he would burn, to protect his family at the cost of himself. Luz saving him but in the end he chooses to burn anyways, this time out of hate. Zerxus selling his soul to save his son and his world, knowing that damnation would be the end result. Nydas giving him an out, killing him before dawn struck but Zerxus stubbornly, hubristically clinging to life, to his ideals and pride, anyways. Choosing to burn and losing himself entirely in the process.

(Ironically enough Vespin kind of breaks the cycle? Trying to replace a god to remove a great evil from the world and instead damning it in the process. But when given his mind back he takes this chance and stretches it as far as he can, choosing not to be the fire but to give his world a chance at survival. Doing it knowing he will be hated anyways. Learning from his mistake, humbled at the consequences of his hubris where Asmodeus and Zerxus grew proud. Burning for it anyways. I get the sense that if he was given an out he would take it, unlike the other two.)

Love becomes sacrifice becomes resentment becomes hatred. Hatred towards those they sacrificed for because why did it have to be them who burned? Why do they get to be whole while I am broken? How dare they get to have light and love and happiness while I burn in the dark. Why didn't they burn with me? If they really loved me they would burn too!

Hatred towards those who seek to help them, because how dare you pity me. I chose this, I chose to burn! I knew the costs! How dare you spit in the face of my sacrifice! Did it truly mean so little to you that you would wipe away all trace of it!? Trying to heal me, trying to fix me, trying to redeem me, I did this for you! I didn't do anything wrong!

Hatred towards their corrupter, towards their damnation because everything was fine before they came along. Before they ruined everything! It's their fault for breaking it and now I'm going to make them pay for it! It doesn't matter who I hurt because nothing else matters except making sure they regret ever touching me.

Hatred towards themselves because how could someone be so stupid as to try? Love is weakness and sacrifice is for fools and those who throw themselves to the pyre deserve to burn. I'll prove it, to anyone who thinks themselves good and noble and true. Come find out.

And how could they not become resentful, to not have their love turn to hate? It's one thing to choose to burn and another to burn *forever*. A martyr is not supposed to live through the martyrdom, they're supposed to die. Their sacrifice is meant to have an end. They never got to have an end. (Though I will say, its very interesting that Zerxus chose not to die while Asmodeus seemingly *didn't*. He was dying, and the Everlight healed him. Gave him life but took peace with her.)

And the horns too! The symbol of their damnation, of corruption. But they didn’t get it that way, the horns were protection first, before anything. A testament to their love and sacrifice scarred into their flesh, on display for all to see. But that love born of protection is forgotten, both by others and themselves. Twisted into something rotten.

(No wonder Asmodeus is so good at manipulating good. He knows how good people think because that's how he thought, once. He could be so good at being good.)

They're burning. Always. They hate the fire but also, also-- they want to burn. They choose it every time because the alternative is to sacrifice the one thing they cannot, will not--their pride. They would have to be honest to do that, wouldn't they? Honest about the hurt they've caused, honest about how broken they've become. That they do not deserve their fate (that no one does), that while they were burned once they do not need to burn forever. There is always a choice. They'd have to be honest to change and they never will because the Devil sometimes tells the truth he is never honest. He can't be. He won't let himself.

[that-one-enby-possum]

Thinking about how Charlie went from rebelling in a goth/emo way to rebelling by choosing to be kind

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong. 

None of it was a choice you should have to make. 

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give. 

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah. 

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through. 

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister��s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone. 

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people. 

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you. 

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?” 

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.” 

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you. 

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

 “You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset. 

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical. 

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle. 

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y��all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” 

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you. 

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break. 

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm. 

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people. 

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day. 

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby. 

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away. 

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach. 

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel. 

Rafe. 

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you. 

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle. 

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms. 

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face. 

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter. 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. 

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else. 

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience. 

“Put me down!” 

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate. 

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit. 

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours. 

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall. 

 "Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape. 

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much. 

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over. 

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him. 

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode. 

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

@yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog @psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[jiminrings]

four seven eight, phase 3 (3)

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: jungkook wants to fight with, for, and beside you.

alternatively, nothing will ever be the same again, and you and jungkook couldn’t be any happier.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale — complete series masterlist, from phase 1 to 3 ]

[ fluff, angst, the moral dilemma of keeping someone (read: yoongi) who was almost ur first, last, and everything in ur life despite having another person (read: jungkook) to be exactly that, yearning, full circle moments, The Vagueness n different kind of angst now that 478's a family n not jus a couple anymore, redemption :) ]

notes: thank you for locking in!!!! the og 478 fic aka phase 1 was released two years ago n now we're here can u believe . hee-hee thank u for all the love you've given and continue to have for them!! TRUSTTT that this won't be the last you'll see of them :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

In a nightmare that Jungkook’s experiencing in real time, Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi as her dad.

Jungkook knows fully that there’s a knee-jerk reaction available for practically everything. He knows it well, because the impulse that occupies him kicks in during the most important events of his life.

Your husband’s impulse, which he often confuses for instinct, is too driven to the point that even for the briefest second, all that Jungkook could feel is himself. 

He tasted blood in the roof of his mouth when you left him the first time all those years ago. He had clenched his fists so hard, he almost drew blood over the realization that you had given up on him, even if it was for the time-being.

He felt his heartbeat in his eardrums when Hwayoung’s cries first pierced into the world (and straight to his ears), all to the point that the people surrounding you thought that he suddenly fell ill.

Jungkook could and should be able to feel himself right now; right now when his only child glazes past him and calls Yoongi as her dad, and right now when he hears his name called out for someone it doesn’t and should never belong to — except Jungkook can’t even feel his fingers.

He can’t taste blood in the roof of his mouth and he can’t feel his heartbeat in his eardrums. Jungkook can’t even claw himself out of a nightmare that’s built around him yet staged by his karma alone.

“That’s not appa, Hwayoung,” you cut into the thick air, your lips set in a straight line as it takes everything in you not to scoop up Jungkook into your arms because he looks like he’s about to collapse in shock. “Yoongi’s not your dad.”

Hwayoung understands, of course. She understands it like how she always does whenever her little mistakes get rectified. The concentrated pout on her face tells you that she’s listening, hearing you loud and clear as you reiterate a fact that she seems to have forgotten.

Jungkook genuinely tweaks within his own hold, the knot in his throat unbearable as he can’t even figure out how he’s standing beside you on his own to feet. He stands beside his wife and he stands before his daughter, yet he doesn’t even know if the weight he holds in between is enough for him to stay rooted.

Jungkook is as still as a rock while he watches you correct Hwayoung on the spot. He’s immoveable as he sees his daughter’s eyes flit to him in curiosity before finally coming to realization. He’s frozen, not by his own choosing, but because neither of his impulses nor instincts kick in.

Hwayoung nods easily, and Jungkook thinks that he’s about to lose his mind if it hadn’t already been muddled three seconds prior.

In a dream Jungkook doesn’t tell anyone, he’s not as easily interchangeable with Yoongi in the same way that Hwayoung thinks apples are pears sometimes, and that blue is somehow violet.

The mornings without Hwayoung have been too long for Jungkook.

They’ve been too long since her impromptu vacation from the both of you started, dragging out endlessly to the point that he had to ask you to hold his phone so he could withhold himself from hovering above Hwayoung by asking Yoongi for updates by the minute. Mornings were too bright; too normal to be spent by you and him without a playful toddler who tries to slip her finger in whenever someone yawns. 

Jungkook’s missed his mornings with Hwayoung in between the two of you.

He missed the mornings where it’s still dark out and he’s been asleep enough for long that he could make out Hwayoung twitching in the dark as she searches for a cold pillow, before later ending up next to your stomach or next to his head. 

He longed (read: still longs perpetually) for the mornings wherein he gets to sleep in and it’s you and Hwayoung who wake him up from dreams he’s always willing to part with, because he knows that he has something infinitely better to wake up to.

“Hiii, appa,” Hwayoung drawls out, hugging his leg as Jungkook automatically pats her head with a gentle hand, the smile on his face more or less forced as he chokes out a greeting. He gets snapped out of his trance immediately, even if he isn’t sure that the sight he woke up to this morning is even worth living alongside with.

“Hi, Young-ie,” he whispers, his eyes strikingly neutral even when Hwayoung grabs his hand and swings it around lightly.

Jungkook make the mistake of looking up and he doesn’t know which is worse; your husband, for once, can’t definitively tell if you looking at him empathically should placate him or unsettle him deep into his core.

What Jungkook can tell however, is that seeing Yoongi’s sly gaze on him with the ghost of a smirk on his lips plays into the rage that he can barely hold onto, if not for the little hand that’s already silently apologized to him.

Hwayoung may not know any better at the moment, but she knows well not to ask questions when Jungkook suddenly stands up out of nowhere when he’s just agreed to play on the floor with her two seconds ago, and she knows better not to stare when you immediately agree and not interrogate him at all.

“I’m gonna step out. Need to blow off steam because otherwise, I’ll take it out on him,” Jungkook whispers to your ear, hands grimly shoved into his pockets. “I know we both saw him do the same thing, Y/N,” he laughs humorlessly, clenching his jaw tightly before he leans down to speak again, enough for Yoongi to both see and hear just how angry he is. “Go put your friend on a leash.”

.

.

.

Yoongi likes to think that it’s spite that keeps him running.

The notion of doing things out of spite is not new at all to him; as a matter of fact, he actually thinks he’s the foundation of it.

Yoongi can’t keep track of the many times that it was spite that put food on the table and pushed him to his limits to arrive at the state that he’s in now. Yoongi yearns unlike no other to the point that it ails him because longing, without any bitterness in it at all, feels pointless.

Longing with only the ambition to surrender in the end is pointless; it doesn’t push Yoongi at all to be the best in anything. It doesn’t make him feel any better because without the regret in his stomach and the resentment in his chest, he wouldn’t be reminded of his dream. 

In a dream Yoongi wants to tell everyone, he doesn’t fall short to Jungkook.

It’s a ridiculous gag dream that feels like a poorly-made skit to him. Yoongi, with all his spite, can’t believe that he only comes second to the likes of Jungkook, who hadn’t worked as hard as he did nor attempted to fight tooth and nail to be even recognized (even under your light) in the first place.

In a well-rehearsed yet trite skit that appears in Yoongi’s mind whenever he goes to sleep after drinking a little too much or waking up with the sheets a little colder than usual, he doesn’t acknowledge Jungkook to be in the same orbit as him; in his dream that’s equivalent to Jungkook’s nightmare, you and Hwayoung are within arm’s reach.

It had been spite that made Yoongi smirk at Jungkook, right after the latter’s whole worldview shattered in front of him when Hwayoung mistook him for a stranger.

It’s everything but spite that makes Yoongi keep his head up high at you, refusing to bow even just a little out of shame. You’ve dragged him to the nearest empty room and while he would’ve teased you about it for any other context, he can’t seem to do it now when you look at him in disgust, even before he gets to open his mouth.

“What was that, Yoongi?!” you fume, standing by the door as you keep your voice hushed.

It’s almost poetic for Yoongi to see because even when you’re bound to curse him out, even when the both of you are at a turning point (or whatever is left of it to change before it perishes completely), you still put Hwayoung first above all else.

“What was what?” he smiles cheekily, even if it’s apparent that it’s just for show because if anything, it’s Yoongi who knows the most about his own fallacy.

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I was playing around?” he offers weakly, shrugging his shoulders to make it seem that he doesn’t care at all about the anger you’ve reserved specifically for him; as if he’s not trying to buy time to prolong what could be the last time he’ll ever see you outside of work.

“That was nothing, Yoongi. What Hwayoung said meant nothing,” you grit, your fists balled to your sides as you try not to let your mind drift to the fact that you had confronted Yoongi first before comforting your own husband. “She’s a kid and she just got confused.”

There’s only silence between the two of you, and Yoongi wants to stay in it.

Yoongi wants to consume the dead air if it means that he won’t be backed into a corner and forced to take all the hits that Jungkook’s reality – which are his dreams— could throw to his face.

“You don’t have to tell me what I already know,” he murmurs lowly yet for some odd reason, Yoongi still refuses to bend his head.

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t feel regret at all. Out of all the times he could ever feel it, he doesn’t feel it now, even when the supposed love of his life wants to banish him out forever.

“Then why do you look happy about it?” you seethe. “Why the hell did you look happy when Hwayoung called you her dad?”

“Because I was,” Yoongi smiles so tightly, his skin buckles under the pressure — come to think of it, his eyes almost feel like they’re stinging. “Do you want me to lie?”

“It would be better if you do,” you retort without even thinking, the tremble of your bottom lip only goading Yoongi further.

Yoongi stands before you, proud yet unwilling, as he serves as the largest and longest milestone of how far you’ve come in your career with his unrequited love for you as the barometer.

“Oh,” he reacts, his face falling before his throat tightens impossibly. Yoongi keeps nodding his head madly, the pricking of tears in his eyes making him frustrated even more. “Okay. Sure. Y-you know what, let me just lie andsay that I don’t constantly think about how it could’ve been me, o-or how I don’t usually hope that Jungkook completely fucks it up because I could show you that I’ll never do you wrong in the first place!”

“Friends don’t fucking do that, Yoongi!” you clench your teeth, the devastation on your face apparent yet never equivalent to that of Yoongi who’s already nearing his limit.

“I don’t want to be just your friend!” he whispers at you, because while he thinks about Hwayoung in the living room who’s just a few steps away, he also thinks of how scared he is to admit the fact to your face no matter how high he holds his head.

“I don’t think we can’t be friends either,” you sigh breathlessly, the finality to your tone making Yoongi freeze.

Finally, he lowers his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

In an overdone skit that plays in Yoongi’s head, somebody pulls out a slate and yells for the scene to be over, because not only did the whole thing play out in just his head, it was also just a silly dream that a married man with a kid could only have.

In a well-rehearsed, trite, and critically acclaimed skit that Yoongi writes himself but could never act in, you never have to be put in a position wherein you have to put a pause to your friendship with Yoongi. 

The dependency and entanglement the both of you have with each other, no matter in what degree, only proves to be a double-edged sword that hurts you more than it could ever hurt him, and Yoongi knows he can’t ever live with that.

There needs to be distance between you and Yoongi, and he’s never hated that fact more than now, no matter how much he knows it’s needed.

Yoongi knows he’s an intruder.

He’s an intruder who frequently gets to see you at work, he’s an intruder who always gets to loathe Jungkook no matter from what angle, and he’s an intruder who occasionally gets to hold Hwayoung who isn’t his.

( ♡ ) 

The truth is, Jungkook didn’t even really think of having kids until you came along. It had been a long withstanding truth in himself, even with Sora before you, that the thought of having someone of his own flesh and blood was too heavy for him — too much.

Jungkook didn’t entertain the thought of having children until you came into his life and he had decided then and there that there’d never be too much of you for him. 

You weren’t too much for Jungkook when you were still a new couple and had asked him if he’d be open to marrying you one day, even if you were barely a year into your relationship (and your first one at that) that he was yet to have a full grasp of. 

You weren’t too much for him when you had talked his ear off when you were still a rookie, promising him sincerely that you’ll make it big and that soon enough, the both of you would live a comfortable life — provided that you were still in each other’s by that time.

You weren’t too much for the Jungkook of then, your wide-eyed boyfriend who’s a man of few words, and you’re not too much for the Jungkook of now, your husband who feels like he has far too many feelings.

The truth is, Jungkook didn’t even really think that his heart could exist outside of his chest until Hwayoung came along.

There’s this dull, agonizing pain that always squeezes on Jungkook’s chest like clockwork whenever he feels he’s letting his daughter down. There’s bitterness in failure and there’s failure, even when Hwayoung’s tiny hands don’t seek his when they’re walking side by side, or when she’s not as enthusiastic about her meals like how he had been when preparing them–

Or even when Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi for her dad.

“This shirt?” Hwayoung asks, interrupting his inner turmoil as she points to a shirt of his from high school. She has a whole drawer filled with yours and Jungkook’s old clothes for sleep shirts, the giddy smile on her face as she awaits for approval making Jungkook almost forget everything. (Read: almost)

“You can choose any shirt you want, Young-ie,” he answers, his eyes only half-lidded and just a whisper close to stinging with tears. The exhaustion in his voice is practically inseparable from the gutting feeling of his full-time work as a dad for a little more than two years, being mistaken for Yoongi’s part-time favor as a godfather for barely two weeks and then some.

Jungkook’s hands immediately twitch at his sides when Hwayoung walks towards him and stumbles for the slightest second, the brief hiccup on his heart reminding him that he’ll be attuned to her no matter what — even if his daughter mistakes him for a stranger.

He knows the shit that the elders say about letting children fall. He has the script memorized by now and he knows the annoyance that blooms in him routinely when he gets unsolicited advice. 

Jungkook knows it all, and he knows that eventually, Hwayoung would get hurt and he won’t be able to do anything about it. Just like how she can hurt him, someway and somehow along the line (maybe she’ll call Yoongi appa again), and how he won’t know what to do with himself should that time come.

Tonight isn’t the time.

“Help, appa.”

“Okay,” he obliges. “I’m here,” Jungkook utters, ironically refusing to call himself the title that he wants Hwayoung to keep only for him; not for Yoongi, not for your manager, and not for the men that constantly pine after you even when they know fully that Jungkook’s in the picture.

Your husband knows greed and he hates it, because it had been in the form of Yoongi briefly smirking when Hwayoung called him appa that time.

Jungkook knows greed and is well-acquainted, because his fist is scuffed and Yoongi’s number is blocked. 

He knows greed and whatever indomitable power that puts a brake to his rage right when it’s about to pour over, because he had punched the brick wall in the patio instead of Yoongi to blow off steam, and because he has the mind to not taunt Yoongi with a complete family picture right after you distanced yourself away from him.

“I’m sorry, Young-ie. Mama and I are sorry to put you through that, okay?” he murmurs to her ear like it’s only their little secret for them to hear, the unbridled wonder that lingers in his daughter’s eyes enough to placate him that everything’s okay between them tonight.

( ♡ ) 

To wake up in the same bed as Jungkook and Hwayoung after so long makes your heart swell.

Your heart swells, not just with pride, but with a feeling you can’t ever put a name to. You’re more than content enough to see Hwayoung cuddled up to Jungkook and the mess of their hair tangled in between, but even more, you’re filled with a strange yearning that you don’t want them to stay that way.

You want more of them in a way that you’re overwhelmed, just by thinking that they’re the closest you could ever have to feeling immortal in this life. Not everything is completely back into place like they once were, but oddly enough, neither you and Jungkook are actively trying to replicate the old times. 

“You sure you’ll do the groceries alone this time?” you ask Jungkook for the third time, also receiving his third consecutive playful eye roll as he packs Hwayoung’s bag for you.

“Yes, ma’am. Just go with the princess and look at playschools,” he hums, ruffling your daughter’s hair that you spent a good ten minutes on. “If I come with, I fear I’ll already cry just by thinking Young-ie’s growing up.”

“She is growing-…”

“Can’t hear you!” he hollers as he backs out from the driveway, the smile on his face incomparable because he woke up with the thought that you did.

Jungkook wants more of you and Hwayoung, not because he just wants to return your unspoken sentiment, but because he figures that no amount of time or space will ever be enough if it’s the both of you that hold it.

It’s nice to be back to a somewhat normal routine. With your work finished (and all that is left is for the publicity to ramp up) after having spent so much time on it, you immediately resign yourself to the fixed routine you’ve been dying to get back on.

You’ve almost forgotten just how chaotic a supposedly mundane breakfast could be for a family of three, seeing to it that Jungkook’s packed lunches had grown on you to the point that even having your own plate on the dining table felt weird.

You’ve almost forgotten just how liberating it felt to walk outside with Hwayoung (despite having to put on masks and caps on for animosity) without having to worry how much time you have left before shooting starts again, considering that your daughter doesn’t even regard you for the actress that you are.

Hwayoung pulls your hand and walks ahead of you, and you let her. She’s small and unyielding, even if she pulls you with the equivalent of a mini Jungkook’s strength.

Your daughter walks ahead of you and you don’t mind because you rarely ever get to see her in the sunlight wearing the dresses that Jungkook buys even if there aren’t any sales going on (you’re trying to get him to curb his shopping addiction), as opposed to her being bundled up in pajamas, sitting on your lap in your trailer under studio lights.

Hwayoung has the strength that only a child of yours and Jungkook’s could ever possess, because while you freeze in your tracks upon seeing a familiar face as soon as you open the glass doors to the playschool you were about to scope out, Hwayoung only looks at you and the woman in front with a smile.

“Y/N, is that you?”

“Sora,” you exhale, the surprise probably evident on your face because it takes a solid second for you to register her presence. “Hi.”

Sora’s even prettier in person (not that she was ever ugly in the first place) than the beauty she was on the picture you’ve seen of her and Jungkook, her genuine smile unmistakeable because she looks like light itself.

You get why Jungkook had fallen for her, and while there’s nothing about now to blame him for, you can’t understand either why Sora’s absolutely ecstatic to see her ex-boyfriend’s wife.

“She’s my daughter,” you belatedly add after finally moving on from being starstruck, putting a reassuring hand on Hwayoung’s back (who doesn’t need it anyway because she’s more at ease right now than you are) as you smile. “Say hi, baby.”

Sora gasps in awe, and while you appreciate her politeness in not assuming anything about Hwayoung before you introduced her yourself, the curious, baser part of you wonders if she thinks about you and what she could’ve been–

If Sora thinks about you as much as you do with her whenever she fights with her partner, or if she ever thinks about the lingering insecurity that comes with being a lover in general. 

“She’s an absolute sweetheart! She looks so much like you.”

“She does?” you beam, completely surprised at her words. You’re already surprised about Sora in general along with her unexpected enthusiasm, but you’re even more shocked at her sincere interest. “A lot of family and friends say that she looks like Jungkook more.”

“I mean they do say that soulmates will look alike at one point,” she shrugs playfully, head tilting as she waves to Hwayoung while you digest her words.

You didn’t think Jungkook’s past would be this kind no matter how much it had hurt you before.

You feel guilty for having expected a confrontation of some sort, the slight paranoia that had creeped on you before completely dissipating the longer that you look at Sora. She looks at ease and it’s contagious, the soft smile on her face extending up to her eyes when she sees your gaze lingering at the hand on her belly.

“Oh, yeah. I’m expecting,” she announces excitedly, cheerfully, as if you’re childhood friends and go to brunch every Sunday — as if you’re close enough for her to spread her joy with.

“Congrats, Sora,” you grin, extending your hand to gently hold her arm in celebration.

You had insisted again and again to yourself that Sora’s no one to you; that she’s a blip in Jungkook’s radar that lasted for years and came before you. You had let the idea of her consume you fully to the point that her kindness takes you aback.

You can’t blame Sora, and she can’t blame you either. Somewhere along Jungkook’s mosaic he’s made for himself, she lingers in there as a stray piece that fits no matter the pattern. It’s irrevocable and only natural for your husband to be an accumulation of everything and everyone he’s ever loved, and while you know that you and your daughter occupy most of it, you can’t ever erase Sora from existence.

You want to ask who’s the dad with the most inconspicuous tone you could ever possess. 

You want to ask her how she’s been and how things went with her partner during the last time that she and Jungkook had celebrated their anniversary as exes. 

You want to ask Sora about her cousin and maybe even joke about how chaos must probably run in her bloodline.

You want to ask Sora about hundreds of things and hold her accountable for the sleepless nights she’s costed you and your family, but you hold yourself back — not only because it’s the right thing to do, but because everything had already worked out in the end. Sora’s already in the past and you want her to stay there, even if you have the opportunity to get the answers you’ve only used to pray for.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N, I’m sorry. I know it’s a little too late to say it, but I really am,” she murmurs after some time of only you and her silently watching Hwayoung talk to another kid, the sincerity in her eyes evident even if she holds her head low before you.

The closure you could only ever ask for whenever your heart hurt the most, comes to you when you feel that you’re at your lightest.

( ♡ ) 

True to your word, you don’t let Jungkook attend your press conference.

There’s no point in denying that you do need Jungkook here with you, but there’s no denying either that needing him and wanting him to be here are two different things.

You’re oddly reminiscent of the time that you had been in this position, and even if the memory’s bittersweet, the rational and realistic part of your brain could only think that it’s reasonable to miss Jungkook despite barring him from here. This is your highest peak after all, and it’s only normal for you to be nervous.

It’s normal for you to be nervous despite telling the staff that you’re going to keep the wedding ring on your finger throughout the entire thing. It’s entirely reasonable for you to be jittery at the possibility of being asked about your family, no matter how far-fetched the queries could be from the actual movie at hand.

It’s only okay for you to feel that trepidation in your stomach even if everything in your life, at the moment, is at your favor.

The room’s quiet with only you and Jimin in it, and without the buffer of Hwayoung that laughs through everything that he says, the one-on-one that you have with your manager reminds you of the talk you had to have when the rumors about you and Yoongi broke out.

Jimin has more years and experiences under his belt now, but with the way he talks to you, it feels as if it’s neither of you are experienced; that the both of you are complete beginners who’d like to think that the only way to go is up, and that a tiny irregularity could instantly make everything you’ve built to collapse.

The talk about Eunsu has been a long time coming, and Jimin wants to let you know now when there’s nobody else — when you’re reminded that you have everything to both gain and lose.

“I’ve managed to put a lid on it for the meantime,” he clears his throat, looking at your reflection in the mirror as he puts on your microphone delicately. “I don’t know for how long though.”

Your gaze looks blank, almost unreadable to the untrained eye, yet Jimin knows that there’s a weight to it. Unlike all the brush-ins you’ve ever had with issues before, this is the first time that it had ever hit home and everything that ever mattered to you.

He could only imagine the weight of what it must feel like to be you; of how heavy it must be to be the one to take everything in stride.

“It’s okay, Jimin. Thank you,” you murmur, looking down on your lap as you try to fight the frown that comes with the realization that you’ve been used to having Hwayoung on it.

“Y/N,” he tuts, his tone stern yet familiar.

“Hmm?” you ask while you’re in a daze, letting yourself stare at a spot on the wall that could only hold your attention for so long. You can’t erase it as much as you can’t avoid this conversation with Jimin, and even more, you can’t avoid the eventual turbulence you’ll be subjecting your family to once everything goes public.

There’s an innate guilt that comes with being a wife and a mother, you figure. It’s your first time being both and with it comes the sense of doom; it’s not the morbid type of ruination, but rather, it’s the anxiousness that comes with knowing you don’t only have yourself to look after.

“What Eunsu did to Jungkook— to your family, even-…”

“I know,” you interrupt, nodding fervently to cut the conversation short, except Jimin doesn’t fold.

“I know you’re protecting them. I know you’re thinking about Hwayoung the most,” Jimin sighs. “But you wanting to protect them also means that you’re protecting Eunsu even if it isn’t your intention,” he murmurs, squeezing your shoulder gently. “The news coming out about her won’t be the worst thing in the world.”

The same two people that you’re protecting, one of them more innocent and clueless than the other yet just as loving, give you complacency amidst your unease.

( ♡ )

You always insisted on having a big bed.

Jungkook remembers your insistence on having a big bed when the two of you moved in together and slowly started furnishing your home before your wedding. Your preferences didn’t exactly clash his because while you mostly took care of the budget and he took care of the aesthetics, there would almost always be common ground. Almost.

Additionally, you also remember Jungkook’s gratefulness for your stubbornness towards having a big bed because realistically, he can’t ever picture himself lying down on a deluxe standard bed with a toddler between the two of you.

The maintenance for the third-biggest variation of a king-sized bed that you had pleaded him for (and even made a whole presentation about defending your case) with Hwayoung in the picture now is even more troublesome. The quest for bedsheets that are hypoallergenic, extremely soft and comfortable, have a neutral, classic, yet easily-maintainable design, and toddler-proof simultaneously seems to be never-ending.

Jungkook can’t sleep at all sometimes. Even when the airconditioning in the room is at a perfect temperature, his comforter is on his person and not on the other side of the bed by your doing, his daughter’s hair isn’t in his mouth, and his cat’s humongous built isn’t blocking his passage of air, there’s days wherein Jungkook can’t put himself to sleep.

In one way or another, it’s always the ache and worry that manifests in his chest for the next day. He keeps wondering about tomorrow’s meals and the probability of Hwayoung throwing a tantrum. He keeps wondering if there’s going to be a wild curveball that somebody will throw at you tomorrow, and how fast he can get to you should that happen.

Jungkook’s no stranger to sleepless nights. He’s used to analyzing one unfavorable context after another to scare himself into being awake so he can’t get nightmares when he eventually goes to sleep.

To wake your husband up just because you couldn’t sleep yourself is a menial task that you finally talk yourself into doing, the little shake that you give Jungkook on his shoulders enough to make him jolt awake.

“Kook, wake up.”

“What, what-…? What is it?” he darts up groggily, eyes barely adjusted to the dim light you’ve set the room to. Jungkook’s lost to why you even woke him up when Hwayoung’s out like a log, but he doesn’t question you on it — instead, he gently carries his daughter to occupy his warm spot on the bed, just so he could crawl his way to the middle to listen to you.

“Jungkook.”

“Hmm,” he hums again, sleepily propping himself up with a pillow as he tries to blink the sleep away from his eyes. Jungkook doesn’t even dare to take a peek at the alarm clock because all he knows is that you’re awake and you also want him to be, so he doesn’t complain.

Four seconds. Breathe in through your nose.

Seven seconds. Hold it.

Eight seconds. Exhale through your mouth.

“Let’s fight,” you whisper, leaning your head on Jungkook’s shoulder.

Your husband could only rub his eyes tiredly, the yawn that escapes him making his entire body shake. “Huh? Right now?” he clarifies, the sleepy pout on his lips only highlighting how wide and docile his eyes are for you at the moment.

“Come on. Let’s fight,” you half-heartedly offer, bumping your head to his.

Your husband only stays silent, putting a hand up to your forehead to check for a fever. 

Jungkook only yawns once again, his sluggishness being infectious to the point that you suppress your own by burying your face to his neck.

“Can we like, fight in the morning or something?” he tries to compromise, fully serious about a half-baked joke you woke him up for.

Jungkook’s come a long way. He’s no longer your husband who didn’t want to fight you on things for the sake of self-preservation. He’s no longer the one who avoided confrontation in fear of setting you apart from him. He’s this now, so willing to go with your every whim that if you want to have a fight with him at two in the morning, he’ll rub the sleep out of his eyes and let you rest on his shoulder if ever you were being serious.

You kiss your husband on the lips, the love-drunk smile that he gives you afterward making you snort.

Your king-sized bed is a mess. Somewhere by the end of your foot, there’s Hwayoung’s pink crayon that she insists on holding to sleep. Somewhere by the tips of Jungkook’s hair, there’s Miso’s fur kept together with his daughter’s hair clip because she didn’t want to go to sleep without putting it on him.

Jungkook, your husband who’s clad in a shirt of yours with too many holes on it because of his daughter’s safety scissors and his cat’s claws, hugs you to his chest in silence.

You think about how you can’t tell when the news about Eunsu is going to release, while Jungkook sneakily tries to uncover your sock-covered foot with his own because he lost one of his socks while sleeping and wanted to be even.

You think about how the Academy nominees are going to be revealed in a week, while your husband says out loud his grocery list for the week while randomly staring off into space every ten seconds.

You think about Hwayoung attending playschool in a matter of months, while your husband internally plays rock, paper, scissors with himself as he waits for you to gather your thoughts.

You think about you and Jungkook and whatever comes with, for, and between you while he hugs you under the dim lights.

Four seconds. Breathe in through your nose.

Seven seconds. Hold it.

Eight seconds. Exhale through your mouth.

“What if it only gets brutal from here on out, Jungkook? What do I do?” you murmur, looking up at him.

“Who says it has to be brutal?” Jungkook laughs, his voice bouncing out into the space as if you’re in a newly-built house with barely any furniture. 

Jungkook’s laughter is still joyous and loud, because even if Jungkook’s heart is a newly-built house, his happiness still reverberates the more it settles into the ground and comes closer to its roots; closer to you.

“We’ll keep up.”

[lloydskywalkers]

three sword style

Or, Lloyd and his evolving relationship with what it means to choose a weapon, as supervised by Kai. listen I know Wu technically gives them all their new weapons in season 11 according to some random book referenced in the ninjago wiki (or at least Lloyd’s sword) but you know who ACTUALLY has a degree in making weapons and canonically has made a golden sword SO. My canon now. (also spot the brain rot I infected myself with in the title) 

Lloyd grows up in a world of weaponry and at the speed of light. 

There are worse ways to grow up, maybe. There are also better ones — one where kids get to grow up instead blasting into teenager-hood in the span of seconds — but Lloyd doesn’t like to complain about where he’s ended up. 

Second to the speed of light thing, though, the weapons part is pretty big. 

Weapons determine the single biggest turning point in his life, after all. It’s the Golden Weapons that make him the Green Ninja, a title that’s a lot more important than Lloyd’s ever been. It’s also that particular title that makes Lloyd the weapon, so that’s fun. Ninjago’s prophesied emergency failsafe, the Green Ninja — that’s him. 

On a nicer note, it’s the Fangblade that gets him a big brother, and proves that there’s someone out there who cares about Lloyd over some stupid weapon, so hah. 

Getting back to the point, though—

Weapons. Lloyd’s been making do without one, and he’s been making pretty good do, thank you very much. He’s got his power, and he’s got himself. That’s all the weapon Lloyd needs. 

But no one else seems to agree, and since ninety percent of the time whatever prophecy-of-doom crops up this month involves cursed weaponry of some sort, they all figure it’s a good a reason as any to stick Lloyd with a reliable weapon. 

And while wielding all the elements is one thing, wielding every kind of weapon at once would be kind of difficult, even for his dad. 

So Lloyd finally gets an actual, for-real, decision that he gets to make all by himself. 

It’s a monumentous occasion — and yes, that is a word, Nya, Lloyd knows some stuff — so if Lloyd was smart he’d treasure it and take his time. 

With that in mind, it takes all of thirty seconds for Lloyd to choose. This is only mildly insulting to some parties. 

“Fine, sure, go with the most basic pick in the world,” Jay scoffs. “Swords. Boring.”

“Sounds like you’re just jealous,” Kai shoots back.

“Jealous of swords? Please. I just thought Lloyd was a little more creative than that.”

“I like swords,” Lloyd says, at a loss. 

“Jay is only relieved that no one will one-up his nunchuck expertise, now,” Zane smiles. 

Jay sputters indignantly. “No one’s one-upping me, I’m the best there is!” 

“Uh-huh,” Cole shakes his head. “Well, if that’s what Lloyd wants, that’s the end of it.” His mouth quirks. “Means more training time for Kai, anyways.” 

“More training to be better than you,” Kai retorts. 

“Like the rest of you, Lloyd will continue to work toward mastering at least the basics of any weapon,” Sensei Wu sighs. “A ninja confined to one weapon alone—”

“Is a dead ninja,” Jay nods.

Sensei Wu cuts his eyes at him. “That is not how I was going to finish.”

“The point stands though, right?”

“The point,” Sensei Wu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is that while Lloyd will continue to train with all of you, focusing on swordsmanship will become the priority. So yes, in a way. More training for Kai.”

Lloyd rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry…?”

“Why are you sorry?” Kai beams, more proud than smug. “I finally get an official katana apprentice. We’re gonna be awesome.”

And that alone, Lloyd thinks, makes it worth all the complaining. 

“Great,” Jay throws his arms up. “Now we’re stuck with two slice ‘em dice ‘em ninjas.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Cole says. “It’s Kai, how dangerous can he be.”

“I resent that,” Kai says. “Just because you beat me once or twice—”

“Try thirteen times, and counting.”

“—it does not mean I’m not as dangerous as you,” Kai narrows his eyes. 

“Oh yeah? Wanna prove it?”

“Bring it on, rock man.”

“Not in the kitchen, for FSM’s sake—“

Whether or not Cole beats him (which he does, pretty badly, because Cole is kinda terrifying like that) Lloyd knows that to some degree, Kai is dangerous. Very dangerous, with or without his swords.

It’s hard to think of Kai like that, though. When Lloyd thinks of Kai, he thinks of warm arms wrapped tight around him in the Fire Temple. Thinks of the first hugs he’s gotten from someone other than his father that felt like home. Thinks of protection — thinks safe. Thinks family. 

He’s wanted to be like Kai for a while, now. So yeah. It’s an easy choice. 

Plus, swords are way cool.

______

Kai starts training him in Dareth’s dojo. It takes about a week for them to get banished to the roof of their apartment, which is mostly Lloyd’s fault — but Kai’s the one supposed to be teaching him, so he can take the blame this time. 

…well, maybe Lloyd’s the one who keeps losing his grip on the katana, but that’s not quite his fault, either.  

Kai is better than basically any swordsman on this side of Ninjago in years, if not all Ninjago. Lloyd knows this because Uncle Wu told him so, and because Kai wipes the floor with him the first, second, and twenty-ninth time they spar.

“The point is to keep your grip on the katana, you know,” Kai says, as Lloyd retrieves his sword from where it went flying (again). “What kind of hold it that supposed to be, butterfingers deluxe?”

“You said not to grip it too tight,” Lloyd complains. 

Kai rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause you had it in a death hold. I didn’t say, ‘let go and let it fly’.”

“I didn’t let it fly, you knocked it out of my hand!”

“Aha, so you’re admitting I won. Again.”

“N-no!” Lloyd protests. “I’m just warming up. I’ll show you this time.” 

But as Kai takes his stance again, his own katana held with a kind of grace Lloyd has zero idea how to ever accomplish, Lloyd thinks he might be a bit of a lost cause. 

It’s difficult, because every time he goes to swing his sword, his power thrums in his blood, in his hands, always ready to lash out. It’s quickly become a habit, to start every fight slinging green blasts around. Lloyd’s already grown fond of the little bell-like sounds his power makes, the steady pulse as bright green builds in his palms. 

Lloyd is the Green Ninja, after all. His power is what makes him, well, him. He’s his own best weapon — he’s the one the prophecy needs to make things right.

Kai keeps putting weapons in his hands, anyways. 

Training katanas, mostly. He got to hold the Sword of Fire once, before his dad took it. It was beautiful — Lloyd kinda gets why Kai’s so up in arms about it getting stolen.

That and the whole don’t-give-Garmadon-the-Golden-Weapons thing.

Kai seems confused that Lloyd remembers it, which is weird because the Golden Weapons are kind of a big deal, but Lloyd decides to chalk it up to all the other weirdness in his life. 

The first true katana Kai ever gives Lloyd is…not quite as cool as the Sword of Fire, and definitely not as beautiful, but in a way that Lloyd likes. 

“We’re kinda short on weapons,” Kai admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I don’t exactly have access to smithing equipment right now, which means you’re stuck with one of my old ones. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Lloyd adjusts his hands around the hilt, taking an experimental swing. “This is a great sword!”

“Yeah, okay, liar — and don’t swing it around like that, you look like you’re waving a pool noodle.” 

Kai grabs his hands, forcing Lloyd’s arms to hold steady.

“Like this, okay?” Kai says. “We’re gonna start by practicing single movements.” 

“Aw,” Lloyd visibly wilts. “More katas? I thought I was gonna get to learn some cool moves.”

“This is a cool move. If you’re good, you finish things in one hit,” Kai says. “One strike, and the fight’s over.”

“Like a headshot,” Lloyd nods.

“No,” Kai rolls his eyes. “This is not a video game. This is a real sword, and you’re going to learn to use it right.”

“And then we can do the cool moves?”

Kai narrows his eyes. “Do your katas or I’m firing you.”

Lloyd sticks his tongue out at him. “You can’t fire me. I’m the Green Ninja.”

“Yeah? I’ll demote you to Green Washer-of-Dishes for the rest of the month.”

“No! You can’t, Nya and I have a deal!” 

Jokes aside, Lloyd is sure to remind Kai, as he scrubs dishes and Kai dries them, that he does take training seriously.

He takes all his training seriously. It’s kind of his only job. 

Lloyd practices hits until his knuckles split and scab, masters high kicks with shins colored violent blues and purples, forms green starbursts in his hands until his fingers crack and bleed. 

When his palms blister from the sword hilt on top of it all, Kai makes him hold still until he’s wrapped the first-aid bandage around his hands at least five times, then shoves his old gloves on him when he starts to form calluses.

He wants to argue that he doesn’t need them, but Lloyd still wears the gloves everyday and tucks them away each night, storing them with the other few, treasured things he’s been gifted.

______

The longer he trains with swords, the more Lloyd gains calluses and nicked fingers and perpetually smells a little like cloves. 

That last part Lloyd enjoys, though he’ll never admit it. He’s not about to go and tell people he enjoys cleaning stuff, no thanks. 

But there’s something nice about helping Kai take care of the katanas, in a relaxing sort of way. The wood-smoke tang of cloves smells like home, which Lloyd treasures, because home isn’t something he’s very used to. 

Treasures is probably an understatement. Lloyd latches onto it like he’s starving. Part of it’s because this is something he gets to have with Kai, all by himself. He’s never had something like that before, either — a special thing that’s shared just with him. 

Well, maybe besides the green gi, but the Green Ninja is something that belongs to everyone. Whatever Lloyd does when he puts the green gi on is everyone’s business, since it determines the fate of the world or something like that, and it doesn’t really even feel like his. Not yet, at least. 

But sitting cross-legged in the weapons room while Kai teaches him how to clean katanas without damaging them — that belongs to Lloyd. 

He learns a lot with it too, because Kai always starts rambling about ten minutes in — not the confident, cocky way he does sometimes in front of everyone else, but in an honest way that Lloyd isn’t entirely sure he even means to be. 

“—not the best oil, but it works when you’re in a pinch. S’what my parents left behind, at the shop, so it’s good enough.”

Lloyd looks up at him, curious. He keeps quiet — Kai and Nya don’t talk much about their parents, if at all. Lloyd gets it, of course, but it makes the little tidbits they share valuable. 

“I don’t remember a lot about my parents,” Kai continues. “But I remember some things. About my dad. He was a great smith, I know that much. Could make about anything. Swords were his favorite, though.” 

Uncle Wu’s candlelight casts Kai’s eyes with a glow that makes it seem like he’s on fire himself, flickering and fading. He looks very far away, all of the sudden, and Lloyd has the urge to grab for his arm and make him stay here. 

“Guess I latched onto that,” Kai smiles ruefully, and he’s back again. “Never could reach his level, but I learned how to make an okay sword.”

Lloyd chews on his lip. He knows all about latching on to your parents — wanting to be great at the things they are.

That maybe, if you’re good enough, they’ll be proud enough to come back. 

He doesn’t think that’s a happy thing to say, though, so he tells Kai instead, “I think your swords are great.”

Kai’s lips quirk. “Uh-huh. Then you better treat them like it.”

“I do,” Lloyd protests. He gestures at the katana across his lap. “See? I did it perfect this time.”

Kai nods his head at a spot Lloyd noticeably missed. He flushes.

“Almost perfect.”

“Practice, young student,” Kai says, in a gravely voice that’s probably supposed to sound like Uncle Wu. “A thousand hours of practice for you.”

“Ugh,” Lloyd groans. “All I do is practice. Practice practice practice, and then I’m still not enou—”

He cuts off. Oops. Maybe Kai’s honestly is a little too contagious. 

Kai goes quiet, hands stilling on the katana. There’s a deep furrow between his eyes as he stares at Lloyd, in a way that makes him feel a little like a bug under a microscope. Or that Kai can see right through him, which is bad, because all Lloyd’s got in him is a bunch of tangled thoughts and worries and nothing an actual ninja should have. 

“You know,” he says, carefully. “We probably need to stock up on the good oil. I’m kinda running low.”

Lloyd knows darn well Kai has enough choji oil to get them through an apocalypse. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kai nods. “If we go now, we can probably hit the convenience store, too. Get a sugar boost before—”

“I’m in!” Lloyd shoots to his feet before he can stop himself, any protests forgotten. Training has included a healthy diet lately, so Lloyd doesn’t collapse and pass out because his blood’s eighty percent sugar — Zane’s words, not his. 

If he needs to get his blood sugar up, why can’t he just eat sugar all the time? It makes no sense. 

“Do not tell the others,” Kai hisses, as they make their way into the city. “Especially Cole, if you don’t wanna lose your sweets before you can take a bite. We’re just getting polish for katanas, as far as you know.”

“I know nothing,” Lloyd says obediently. “Hey, do you think we could use olive oil on the katanas?”

Kai’s stare could heat iron. “I’ll kill you.” 

“It was a joke! A joke, heh.”

______

For all that Lloyd’s life revolves around training to defeat anyone and everyone, the guys are still weirdly protective. Over anyone and everyone, including Lloyd himself. 

“C’mon, I can handle the cool attacks,” Lloyd complains, as Kai drags him into place.

“They’re not cool — okay, they’re kinda cool — but that’s not what we’re learning now,” Kai sighs. “You’re learning Aikido. Well, a form of it, technically. It’s focused on defending yourself, but in a way that lessens the chances of injuring your attacker.”  

Lloyd frowns. “Isn’t that counterintoo — counterintuitive?”

“Big words today,” Kai mutters. He shakes his head. “And it’s counterproductive, by the way, but — no,  because now that we’re training, half your attackers are us, and I’d like to leave practice with my arms intact.”

Lloyd grins. “So you’re admitting I’m better than you.” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Kai says pointedly.

“Don’t need to. You’ve already admitted defeat.”

“And, brat—” Lloyd yelps as Kai digs his knuckles into his hair. “Defending yourself is incredibly important.”

As they settle back into position, Kai pauses, a muscle in his jaw working. He looks as if he’s having an internal argument with himself, before finally sighing. 

“The thing about any weapon, but especially swords,” he says, correcting Lloyd’s grip on the katana. “Is that they can be used a lot of ways. But the one thing you never, ever want to forget—”

And Kai’s tone grows serious, his jaw tensing again. “Is that they can kill.”

Lloyd looks down, to the sharp edges of the blade. It suddenly feels a bit heavier, and the room just a bit darker. 

“The way we’re training you, the way we were trained, we don’t always — we try to avoid it.” Kai’s voice wavers, and for a moment, Lloyd remembers that Kai isn’t all that much older than he is. 

Well, now, especially. 

“But sometimes, it’s…you don’t really…well.” He lets out a breath. “This is a sword. It can take a life really quick, if you aren’t careful. And sometimes, you don’t get the choice to be careful or not.”

Lloyd swallows. He hasn’t thought about it much — hasn’t wanted to, but it lives in his mind like a terrible itch he can’t get rid of. 

He’s no stranger to the idea of killing someone. Darkley’s was blunt as it was cold. But as a ninja, it’s suddenly realer than it ever was in school. 

As the Green Ninja, with his destiny drawn out in front of him, it’s pretty much unavoidable. 

He’s going to kill his father, or he’s going to die. 

Kai’s hands grab tight around his shoulders. “We’re gonna do everything we can to make sure you don’t end up in that situation, okay?” He gives Lloyd a small, strained smile. “Don’t ever feel like you have to change who you are, just ‘cause you’re a ninja now.”

How do you know who I am, Lloyd wants to ask. How do you know I’m not a murderer? How do you know I’m not awful? 

Kai’s eyes are impossibly kind and far, far too knowing. 

“But,” and his tone grows serious again. “If it’s your life or theirs.” 

Lloyd feels a bit like the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room. 

“Promise me. You have to promise — you will always, always choose your own.” 

Lloyd stares back. Kai gives him a little shake.

“You promise me?”

Finally, as if moved by puppet strings, Lloyd nods. 

“I promise,” he rasps. 

Kai looks relieved, but it’s not quite in a happy way. “As long as you come back alive, that’s what matters. I don’t care what else happens — you come back alive, and we’re good.” 

“Okay,” Lloyd says. His eyes feel wet. It’s strange, someone caring so much about something like that.  

“Which is why,” Kai says, finally stepping back as his tone lightens. “You’re gonna nail that block this time. Or I’m making you polish every weapon in the dojo again.”

“Oh, no,” Lloyd stares at him in horror. “I’ve been practicing that stupid move for hours!”

“And you’ll be cleaning weapons for hours if you don’t get it.” 

“You suck,” Lloyd grumbles. “Worst teacher of all time.” 

“Uh-huh,” Kai claps him on the back, and Lloyd lets out his own sigh of relief at the lightened atmosphere. “You’re the one that picked swords, buddy.”

______

Kai’s a hypocrite, though, and Lloyd could hate him for it, because as they slide down the snowy mountain-side, Lloyd’s body clashing against his family in ways he’d never, ever let it if he had control, he has to watch as Kai — again — chooses a life other than his own. 

Because Kai doesn’t have the experience Morro does, but he’s better with a sword, he’s better than anyone Lloyd knows, and he loses. And Lloyd’s arm drags the Sword of Sanctuary up and Kai is a stupid, stupid, stupid hypocrite—

Lloyd’s angry enough that tearing control back from Morro is easy. 

He knows a thing or two about swords himself, and Morro’s holding it wrong, anyways. 

______

Training had already taken a hit after they lose Zane, for obvious reasons. Everything had taken a hit after they lost Zane, and between the tournament and Morro and everything else Lloyd’s pointedly ignoring, it’s suddenly been ages since he’s had a proper sword lesson. 

Kai decides to make up for it by finally teaching him the fun stuff. 

“Don’t — call it that in front of Cole,” Kai grunts over the loud screech of metal on metal. His knee bends, just the slightest tell—

Lloyd falls back, dancing away from Kai’s returning strike. He knows now, just how dangerous Kai can be — he’d like to forget it, but it’d be doing him a disservice. 

Besides, Lloyd’s had his body dragged left and right over Ninjago, used as the worst kind of weapon to hurt the people he loves, and they still trust him. Being on the dangerous end of Chen’s stupid staff is nothing to being on the dangerous end of a katana Kai’s made himself, and Lloyd’s determined to hold onto the faith he’s had since that day in the volcano. 

Kai won’t hurt him. 

He’ll kick his ass in training, though, so Lloyd had better get back with the show. 

He retaliates with a feint to the right — too obvious for Kai, but enough to steal his attention for Lloyd to land a high kick to his side.

“Watch that,” Kai scolds, forced two steps backs. 

“Why?” Lloyd grins over the edge of Kai’s blade as he catches his blow dead-on. “Scared I’m gonna beat you too soon?”

Kai snorts. “You aren’t beating me at all, shortstack—”

“Not short—”

“And,” Kai’s katana moves so fast Lloyd barely manages to dodge, rolling into a somersault before surging back up to meet his backstrike. “You’re advertising your weak point.”

Lloyd frowns. “S’not a weak point.”

Kai’s katana flashes — Lloyd moves right just before he realizes it’s a feint, cursing himself — then the hilt of his katana is smacking hard against a bone in his right ankle. 

There’s a hot flash of pain as his body completely betrays him, his ankle buckling and sending him stumbling with a yelp.

Kai’s expression isn’t gloating, at least. On the downside, he has that sad kind of look that usually means he’s feeling guilty. 

“It’s not usually that bad,” he tries, even as his cheeks flare hot. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kai shakes his head. “You need to protect that. Make sure no one knows it’s a weak point but you. Putting it in reach of your opponent is a bad way to do that.” 

Lloyd grits his teeth, but he knows Kai’s right. He’ll never regret pushing himself the way he did, clambering up the tower steps on a broken ankle. The fate of Ninjago was a lot heavier on his shoulders than any thoughts of consequences. 

It still sucks, that it’ll never heal quite right. 

But it isn’t like he’s the only one with an old wound turned weak spot, he reminds himself, as he wraps his aching ankle once again. Jay’s got zig-zagging lightning scars all down his arms that ache during heavy rain. Nya can only rotate her arm so far before her shoulder goes numb, a souvenir from a broken arm. Cole’s the worst, maybe, with how he’s strained himself lifting impossibly heavy weights, fractured fingers and broken bones that throb in the cold. 

Kai’s got his own share of weaknesses, though he works hard to hide them. Lloyd’s managed to pick out most — some of them he’s helped treat himself.

He doesn’t like to think about those times, though.

“So I’ve got an idea for a move,” Kai grins at him, once Lloyd’s ankle is stable. “It’s gonna take some timing, but since I don’t have a weak spot there — you’re gonna run and launch.”

Lloyd tilts his head. “Launch off your right ankle?”

“No,” Kai rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go down for a handspring. When my legs are low, you’re gonna jump on, so when I shoot up—”

“Ooh, I go flying,” Lloyd concludes. 

“Exactly.” 

“Let’s do it! I’m gonna look so cool—”

“Okay, but we’re gonna look stupid as it gets if we don’t get the — timing, timing!” 

It takes about five tries to get it right. That’s all they agree on admitting to — the less said about the forgotten sixth and seventh tries, the better. 

But on try eight, Lloyd finally feels his left and right foot connect with Kai’s just as he hits the lowest point of the handspring — and this time, he remembers to bend his own knees and launch up, and with a sudden weightlessness, he’s flying. 

“Slash, slash, don’t forget to slash!”

 Years of training are the only reason Lloyd’s able to get his arms to obey him fast enough, the wind-up pulling on his shoulders before he sweeps the katana down, slashing out—

“Yes!” Kai’s cheer abruptly turns to a yelp as he loses his balance, crumpling to the floor. Lloyd’s already sprawled across the training mats, since landing was a whole lot harder than he’d planned for — but the training dummy is cut in half. One perfect hit. 

“Now, if we can just manage that in an actual fight, we’ll look awesome,” Kai grins.

Lloyd glances at him. “Are you gonna fall flat on your face then, too?”

Red stains his cheeks. “No,” Kai sputters. “That was — you didn’t see that.”

“Uh-huh,” Lloyd snorts. He tilts his head, considering the unfortunate training dummy. “Y’know, I bet I can manage a flip in there,” he mutters. 

Kai shrugs. “Yeah, probably.” He lips quirk up. “It’d look pretty cool. Y’know what, let’s go for it. I wanna see the look on Jay’s face when you flip down on him during sparring.”

______

It takes Kai all of ten minutes into the next fight to start regretting that one. 

“Got a runner!” Jay calls, as one of the thugs they’ve been rounding up breaks loose from where Zane’s kindly explaining the terms of surrender and Cole’s standing with his lava punch ready to show them what happens if they don’t agree. 

“I got ‘im!” Lloyd calls, darting after the masked man. 

He tugs his katana free from its sheathe, mind already racing. The time spent on his own, guarding his own back, gave Lloyd the rare opportunity to learn things in ways the guys probably would’ve had his head for.

With the lessons Kai’s drilled into him, the steady form of swordsmanship driven into his nerves, Lloyd’s found a creativity in tweaking things to match his style. 

So when the thug sprints past a number of abandoned boxes, scrabbling as he narrowly avoids stumbling on the concrete, Lloyd’s already got the perfect move in mind. 

Step, step, jump — tuck in tight, so there’s enough momentum to rotate at least twice — and bam, it’s like a wind-up toy. The more spins he gets in, the harder his landing is, disarming the guy with a perfect slash while kicking his teeth in. 

Neat and effective, in Lloyd’s opinion.

Sadly, his opinion is not shared. 

Kai sputters. “What was that?”

“Cool as heck, that’s what it was,” Lloyd grins. 

Kai is supremely unimpressed. “What did I say about wasting movements?”

Lloyd shuffles. “Don’t…do it?”

“Then why, exactly, did you feel the need to flip three — not one but three — times before striking?”

“Because,” Lloyd says. “It was cool. As heck.”

Kai pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Lloyd valiantly bites back any comments about him taking after Sensei Wu. 

“There’s a difference between adding your own flare,” he finally says. “And squandering your energy like a spinning top.”

“Squandering — spinning top—” Lloyd sputters. “Hey, I got the guy just fine, didn’t I? I didn’t squander anything.”

“And what’re you gonna do if someone wises up and snipes you mid-flip?”

“Who’s gonna snipe me, there are no snipers around, dummy—”

“There could be, hypothetically!”

“Hypothetically, please. You’re just jealous ‘cause you can only do two flips—”

“I can do sixteen if I want, I’m just smarter—”

Despite his arguments, Lloyd does resolve to try for restraint. Unfortunately, Lloyd’s also got the memory of a goldfish, so Kai should really know better. 

He just can’t help it. The next time they clash with a run-of-the-mill villain who’s stealing secret plans for bombs or whatever ridiculous thing it is that week, Lloyd finds himself on one building with the criminal on the next. 

The solution is obvious. Kai doesn’t agree. 

“FIVE FLIPS?! THAT WAS A THREE-FOOT DISTANCE!”

Lloyd carefully places the now-unconscious criminal on the rooftop, stands back up, and wisely back-flips the heck outta there. 

______

As his sword movements grow more complicated and the green power take a near-constant presence in his veins, the gentle pulse of energy as familiar as a friend, Lloyd grows stronger, too.

This kickstarts an entirely new problem, because Lloyd can’t go five steps without ruining something, it seems. 

In his defense, he doesn’t start breaking swords at a criminal rate until after Morro, so Lloyd’s gonna blame it all on him.

He stares blankly at the katana in his hands — or the remains of it, to be exact. Half the blade is somewhere across the street, where it went skidding after Lloyd’s final hit snapped it clean in two. 

Kai stares just as blankly when Lloyd wordlessly offers the pieces up. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “Maybe I went wrong with the balance, or something? This was probably just a fluke.”

He turns it over, frowning. “Wouldn’t hurt to reinforce the next one, I guess…”

Reinforcements or not, it takes the third shattered sword for Kai to wise on. 

“I’m so sorry,” Lloyd warbles tearfully, the remains of Kai’s careful metalwork cradled in his arms. “I don’t know what happened, I was just swinging it, and it went — it went—”

“It went in six different directions, apparently,” Kai mutters. 

Lloyd slumps. “It was only four this time,” he mutters. 

“I guess this is what we get for training you as well as we did,” Kai says. “Cole and his super strength, I’ll never be free of it.”

“Didn’t he beat you by tripping you flat on your face?”

“I don’t wanna hear it from you, oh cruel destroyer of my swords,” Kai scowls. 

“I didn’t mean to!” Lloyd protests. “I tried really hard this time, but the last guy had this giant bat, and I thought I could cut it in half, but I swung so hard I screwed up my strike and went…in six…different directions…”

Kai scrubs a hand over his face. He glances at Lloyd, eyes searching. 

“But you beat him?”

“Duh,” Lloyd says. The faith people have in him.

“And you didn’t get hit yourself?”

Lloyd shakes his head. “Not a scratch.” It’s not even a lie this time.

“Then I guess it was a noble sacrifice,” Kai sighs. “I can live with that.”

The katana’s sad remnants join the equally sad — and steadily growing — pile of scrap metal made by Lloyd’s awful sword skills. They have a pretty fun time melting it all down though, watching the metal bubble as Kai starts drafting the next run of layered steel he’ll shape into a katana. 

“I’m gonna be a master katana maker at this rate,” he huffs, wiping at his forehead. Lloyd, who’s hanging over the forge to watch the different colors the liquid metal makes, taps lazily at his knee with his foot. The forge flares brighter as Kai’s fire does, and he mumbles a distracted thanks. 

“A master hothead,” Lloyd says. Kai rolls his eyes. “If I ever figure out how to be a master swordsman, maybe you can take a break and figure out how to make other weapons.”

“Hey, I’m great at making other weapons.”

“Yeah, like ‘block of metal’ and ‘triangle of metal’ and ‘weird rectangle of metal’, and—”

“You’re gonna get a stick for next battle if you keep that up,” Kai growls, but his lips are twitching.

“Hypotenuse of metal,” Lloyd whispers.

“The heck, that’s not even a shape—” 

The forge grows steadily hotter as Kai works, bright sparks popping and steam hissing up in little curling wisps. It doesn’t bother Lloyd too much — ever since that day in the volcano, the press of heat is more like a second skin. He’s nowhere near as durable as Kai, of course, who could probably hop in the forge and come out with only a sunburn, but it’s enough to feel cozy instead of sweaty and dizzy. 

“Y’know, you don’t have to use a sword,” Kai says hesitantly, as he inspects a hammer. “There are a lot of other weapons that would fit your style. If you ever wanna try out a spear like Nya, that might suit you pretty well.”

“No!” Lloyd says sharply. Biting his tongue, he amends, “I’ve already been training with swords for forever. I don’t wanna change my whole style for something else.”

Kai eyes him shrewdly, but his lips finally twitch up in amusement. “If you say so,” he says. “But I swear, break my sword again and you will get a stick for your next weapon. Or chopsticks. A butter knife—”

______

Lloyd gets a new sword, of course. And another one. He might grouse and complain, but Kai doesn’t truly get angry about the swords. He does, however, get very angry over Lloyd’s total idiocy with what happens to said shattered swords. 

His first mistake is the usual one — Lloyd swings a bit too hard at a sloppy angle and there’s a high-pitched screech as the sword dies a sad death, splitting in two. 

Lloyd stares blankly at the now much-shorter katana in his hands, which is his second mistake. The delay costs him, and he scrambles to duck the thief’s vicious punch, their own sword having been knocked away in the scuffle. Their boot comes up, swinging for his head, and Lloyd springs back, landing palms-first on the floor and launching himself out of range. 

He also, unthinking, drops the broken katana — mistake number three. 

His fourth mistake is the worst one possible, because Lloyd brings his hand up to block what he’s sure will be another punch, only to get slashed by the jagged end of the katana he just dropped.

A sharp, burning pain explodes across his hand, and Lloyd stifles a shriek. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid move. 

The thief comes in for round two, Lloyd’s own snapped katana glinting in the fluorescent building lights, and Lloyd freezes. It occurs to him that he should probably just go ahead and hit the thief with an burst of green, but that’s also when Kai mows them down with a viciousness that reminds Lloyd — Kai always goes easy on him in training. 

“I had him handled,” he still protests, after the thief’s been hauled off to prison (or the hospital, possibly).

Kai ignores him, sheathing his katana and storming his way. 

He grabs Lloyd’s hand before he can protest, pulling back the torn fabric of his glove and slapping his own hood against the gash on his hand to stem the bleeding. 

“What did I say,” Kai says angrily. 

Lloyd flinches at the stinging pain in his hand, and tries to glare back. 

Kai’s having none of it. “Your sword is supposed to take the hits,” he snaps. “Not you!” 

“It did take the hit,” Lloyd finally throws back. “I just broke it, and — I was fine!”

“You hand’s bleeding all over my hood, that is not fine!”

“Then take your hood off and it won’t get blood on it!”

“My hood isn’t what I’m worried about!”

By the time Zane’s stitched Lloyd’s hand up, wincing barely kept at a minimum, Kai’s cooled down.

Somewhat. 

“It was an accident, okay?” Lloyd says, for the billionth time. “I didn’t realize he had a weapon. I wasn’t trying to sacrifice my hand, or whatever.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Cause that sounds a lot like something you’d do.”

“Coming from you, that’s somewhat hypocritical,” Zane murmurs. 

Lloyd snickers. Kai turns to Zane in utter betrayal. 

Of course, this means that Lloyd’s next lesson is how to treat sword wounds in emergency situations, in painstaking and excruciating detail. His hand stings every time he grasps the katana handle for solid week, though, so Lloyd takes equally careful notes.

______

Lloyd goes and breaks another three katanas after that. At this point, he kinda thinks Kai should just give up and let him go into battle weapon-less again. You don’t need weapons to do Spinjitzu. The green power won’t break, and Lloyd certainly won’t split into six pieces.

(He hopes.)

Kai keeps putting swords in his hands anyways. 

Lloyd could always just say no — he’s supposed to be leader or something, he can make his own decisions.

But he thinks of sparring sessions and smelling like cloves every other evening, thinks of the tiny dragons Kai still takes the time to carve into his katana handles, and throwing all that away would feel as great as sawing off his own arm. 

So he picks the katana up, does his stupid katas, and promises to do better this time.

That doesn’t magically fix things, of course. 

“How,” Kai says blankly, staring at the katana that now lies in a record eight pieces. 

“Um.” Lloyd twists his fingers together. “I definitely didn’t use it to prop open a door like you said never to do.”

Kai gives him a smile that shows exactly all of his teeth. 

“You have five seconds to run.”

______

All that training on treating sword wounds pays off. Possibly more than learning how to fight with a sword in the first place, when Kai drops in the middle of battle with a wicked slash across his lower thigh. 

“Of all the — stupid, embarrassing—”

“Shut up,” Lloyd says tightly. He’s already focusing half his energy on not throwing up at the amount of blood soaking between his fingers where they’re pressed tightly over Kai’s leg. “Stop moving, I gotta see if it — if it hit an artery.”

“It better not have,” Kai pants, wincing as Lloyd presses down harder. “If it hit an artery I’m screwed.”

“Shut up.” 

Lloyd’s heartbeat is a thunderstorm in his ears, panic welling up in his throat as Kai’s blood swims in his vision. 

“Hey, hey,” Kai’s hand falters, then clasps Lloyd’s own. “M’gonna be fine. Takes a lot more than a stupid leg wound to take me out.” 

“That’d be so lame,” Lloyd breathes, somewhat hysterically. He’s torn his own belt off for a tourniquet, which is step one, he thinks — hood can go around the actual wound, and if he steals Kai’s belt, then he can double reinforce it— 

“I can always cauterize,” Kai says shakily, sounding like he’d rather do anything else in the world. “It’ll be — move!”

Lloyd manages to roll them both out of the way as the assassin who nailed Kai comes in to finish the job, sword scraping sparks across the rooftop. Lloyd flashes a furious glare over his shoulder, mind racing as he holds himself in front of Kai. 

“Here.” The familiar hilt of Kai’s katana slaps against Lloyd’s open hand — the other is quick to follow suit. “Remember, double wielding — better for defense.”

Lloyd nods on instinct. He adjusts his grip on both swords, the blood on his fingers making the hilts tacky and sticky. It’s going to be a pain to clean later, a vague part of his mind notes. 

Of course Lloyd remembers dual wielding. It is better for defending, but you lose power on striking and reach — he can deal with that. Kai does. 

And it’s exactly what he needs, right now. The assassin won’t even get close to Kai.

One spin, then another. The katanas’ weight is familiar, balanced in the slightly-weird way Lloyd likes best, the way Kai makes all his swords. He finds his footing, finds the stance, and moves.

When Kai fights, he fights like the first flash of flame from a match strike — quick and bursting, fast enough it all but blinds the enemy. 

When Lloyd fights, it feels like dancing — slower to start, picking steps deliberately, building to that bursting strike faster and faster. 

It only takes one strike, after all. And Lloyd’s got two swords. 

Silver flashes across the rooftop, a piercing screech as one of his katana meets the assassin’s broader blade, forcing it back—

The assassin drops with a cry before falling silent, the shattered pieces of a katana scattered around him. 

“Saw that…one coming,” Kai moans. 

Still breathing heavily, Lloyd tries not to cringe.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, after Kai’s securely in a hospital bed and enduring Nya’s forty-five minute lecture about the many ways your arteries can kill you. 

Kai waves his hand, slightly cross-eyed and loopy from medication. “Y’know what? I wanted a new sword anyways. You saved me, so…skip the lecture and we’ll call it square?”

Lloyd lets a small smirk crawl up his face. 

“You know, I feel like there’s something very important you should keep in mind, about your weapons taking the hit, instead of you—” 

“When I get out of here, you’re toast.”

______

“I think I know where I’m going wrong,” Kai says. 

He’s spent the weekend with his father, the two of them either shut up in the forge or buzzing and forth about blacksmithing. It leaves Lloyd feeling a little weird — some mix between happy for Kai and achingly jealous, which then leaves him mostly just sad, which sucks. Lloyd sucks — it’s terrible to feel that way. Everyone was happy when Lloyd got both his parents back after that first battle, and even if he’s lost that — the least he can do is be happy for Kai and Nya. 

It ends up working out pretty great in the end, because Kai looks a little like he’s unraveled the mysteries of the universe right now. 

Half his right eyebrow is also scorched off, but Lloyd decides not to mention it for now. It’ll be funny to see the look on his face, when he notices. 

“I was talking with my dad, who’s got a lot more experience with this stuff, and he suggested something,” Kai continues. He fiddles with whatever he’s got hidden behind his back, and Lloyd has to stifle the urge to dart around him and see. 

“No more katana,” Kai says. “You’re good with ‘em, but I think we need a change-up.”

“You mean good at breaking them,” Lloyd mutters.

“If the sword breaks on you, it’s my fault,” Kai says. “I’m not exactly the world’s best blacksmith. Y’know, you should really think about getting someone else to—”

“No.” Lloyd bites his tongue immediately, aware of how bratty he sounds. 

And selfish. It’s not like Kai has tons of time to just make Lloyd swords all the time. 

As if reading his thoughts, Kai scuffs his hair. “Stop that. I like making swords.” The small edge of a smile pulls at his lips. “I worked pretty hard to become a blacksmith. So it feels kinda good, that someone appreciates the work for once.”

He shakes his head. “Anyways! Meet your new battle buddy. This is called a dao sword.” 

Lloyd stares at the curved, silvery blade Kai’s handed to him. It’s thicker than the katana he’s used to, the blade growing broader at the end before tapering off. 

“Historically, it’s better suited for quick slashing, but it’s fairly versatile,” Kai continues. 

Lloyd carefully lifts the sword, his eyes widening just a bit. 

“And heavier,” Kai grins. “Which means it’s gonna be at least a little more difficult for you to shatter.”

His hands fit easily around the handle — there’s plenty of room for a two-handed grip, and enough balance if he wants to switch back to one. 

“The guard’s a bit better with protection, and it’s got this tassel here you can wrap around your hand — yeah, like that — to help keep it steady. Or just look fancy.”

Stepping back, Lloyd adjust his hold. Normally he’d do something silly, or needlessly complicated, just to make Kai roll his eyes, but something about this one feels heavier — he doesn’t want to mess it up. He takes a single, experimental swing instead. 

“Oh,” Lloyd blinks. “It’s sharp.”

“I’d hope so. What do you think I am, a half-rate blacksmith — don’t answer that, by the way.”

Lloyd simply grins, taking a few more swings. It is heavier than the katana he’s used to, broader and chunkier — but it feels at home in his hands. 

“It’s incredible,” Lloyd says, turning back to Kai. “Thank you.”

Kai colors, just a bit. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying! I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Well, as long as it holds up, that’s good enough for me,” Kai says, rubbing the back of his head. “Wanna give it a test drive?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd says. “I bet I can do even more flips with it.”

“And stab yourself in the leg in the process, but sure, go ahead, squander my gift—”

______

Lloyd’s careful, more so than ever, with the dao sword. When they all split across Ninjago, Lloyd clings to the piece of his family and tries to remember Kai’s instructions, making sure his hands are firmly wrapped and his right ankle always stays low. 

So when it breaks on the river with Harumi, Lloyd wants to cry.

He wants to cry for a lot of other reasons, but it still hurts — another thing he cares for that Harumi’s managed to break so easily. It hurts that they all work so hard, time and again, and it always ends up shattering around them anyways. Hurts that they pour themselves out for this city again and again and it’s still not enough. 

(Hurts that he’s never, ever going to outrun that worthless little kid in the snow.)

He learns, later — he’s got much more to lose to her than just a sword. 

It hurts all the same.

But the sword’s broken and Lloyd’s on a one-way collision course with his father, and it’s much too late to turn back now. 

Lloyd enters Kryptarium Prison with nothing but himself and his power. It was enough the first time, it’s got to be enough this one as well. 

Lloyd was enough the first time — if he isn’t enough now—

If he isn’t—

______

He isn’t.

He throws himself against his father and shatters his heart with every hit. Then the rest of him goes and shatters too, ribs cracking and skin splitting as he’s battered through walls and bruised against stone. His power sparks and screams as it tries to save him, pushed to its limits.

A part of Lloyd finds it funny — he can’t even keep his power together. He wonders if he’ll snap into six pieces and fly everywhere, just like Kai’s poor katanas, with nothing left but broken pieces of Lloyd to melt down for scrap. 

Kai doesn’t find it funny in the slightest. Not the muffled voice Lloyd hears breaking as his family tries to put him back together, not the filthy embrace Lloyd gets when it’s finally over, not the multiple hour-long lectures Lloyd’s forced to sit through even three months out. 

“I don’t care how many swords you break,” he hisses, giving Lloyd a shake that’s forceful enough his teeth almost rattle. “I don’t care if you shatter a thousand. They’re supposed to protect you. You’re supposed to choose yourself. Don’t you ever, ever, put yourself out there to break again.” 

Lloyd must’ve broken a hundred promises by now. He can’t seem to do anything right, truly — not being the Green Ninja, not being a good brother, not being Garmadon’s son.

But, as he nods and makes another promise, he can try. 

For Kai, he’ll try. 

______

Things are different, after his father, but it’s the same way things are always different after their family escapes by the skin of their teeth. Each new threat leaves another lingering wound, but Lloyd likes to think it stitches them closer in the aftermath. 

With everyone’s attention so laser-focused on Lloyd after everything, it makes it easier for him to spot the others’ bad days. 

It only takes him five minutes to track down Kai this time. Lloyd carefully lowers himself cross-legged next to him on the floor, katana laid across his lap.

Kai tenses, as if preparing for another speech. 

Please. Lloyd’s methods are way sneakier — and better — these days. 

“So,” he starts, as he dips the edge of a rag in Kai’s choji oil. “I was patrolling today, and I saw like, a demon cat, I think? I mean, it was definitely a cat. It looked kind of like the one Zane used to feed when we lived at the apartment, all stripey and stuff. I was gonna try and pet it, ‘cause patrol was pretty boring and what was I supposed to do, ignore it? So I did the whole pspsps thing, and it was not a fan — and I swear, it hissed at me, and it looked just like my dad. When he's all Oni, y’know? Which is rude, cats are supposed to be comforting, not traumatic—”

Lloyd’s rambling grows more and more nonsensical as he goes, jumping from topic to topic as he works on the katana. He can feel the tension seeping out of Kai where he sits beside him though, bit by bit until Kai’s finally leaning against his shoulder. 

“Missed a spot,” he speaks up suddenly, his voice only cracking a little.

Lloyd squints at the sword. “Where?”

Kai taps a bandaged finger on the blade. 

“Oh,” Lloyd blinks. He adjusts the rag. “Thanks.”

 Kai speaks up again, after a minute, “You’ve gotten good at this.”

“Had a good teacher.”

There’s a faint snort. “Debatable.”

“With who?” Lloyd says. “I’m your number one sword student. And your only one. I win automatically.” 

“The others use swords. Sometimes.”

“Yeah, and Jay still whines every time the super special weapon-of-the-week to defeat evil ends up being a sword again,” Lloyd says. 

“S’cause Jay’s better with nunchucks. Totally different concept.”

“But he isn’t better with a sword.”

“Definitely not better than me.”

“I’m your best student,” Lloyd says. “Jay can’t be better than me. That’s illegal.”

“If the Green Ninja declares it,” Kai says, but there’s an edge of laughter in his voice, a thawing out of the numb blankness he’d worn earlier. He slumps, just a bit heavier, against Lloyd.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Kai mutters. 

“‘Kay.” Lloyd turns the sword over, squinting at his reflection. “Sometime, though?”

“If you can manage not to break anymore katanas before I finish your new weapon, maybe.”

“You guys won’t even let me out to fight,” Lloyd grouses. “It’s not as if I’ll have a chance to.”

Kai makes a huffing noise. “Maybe if you’d sit still long enough to heal—”

“I don’t wanna hear it from you,” Lloyd scowls. “Look, I know I messed up with — with her, but—”

“That’s not what this is about,” Kai says sharply. “It’s about you being okay.”

Normally, Lloyd would protest. Should protest — he doesn’t deserve to get off that easy. But Kai’s gone tense again, so he lets it go, just this once. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs anyways. 

“No, don’t. You’re doin’ good,” Kai sighs, and he sounds so very, very tired. “Just…take it easy, okay? ’Til I get your sword done.” 

“Sorry for breaking the old one, too,” Lloyd says. “I really did try to keep it safe.” 

“I’ll make you a hundred swords,” Kai says. “A thousand, if I have to. Just keep using them, okay? Swords are your weapon.”

Like Lloyd’s ever going to forget that, at this point.

______

It’s only after the Oni are more a memory and Lloyd has been subjected to an unholy amount of recuperation that Kai allows him to even see the sword he’s made this time.

It’s well worth the wait, though.

“It’s gold,” Lloyd murmurs, reverently holding the new dao blade. 

“Yeah, well,” Kai shrugs, a little bashful. “I thought you should match us, at some point.”

Lloyd has to try very hard not to pretend that doesn’t make a small, lingering part of him want to tear up.

“Is this jade?” he says instead, carefully tracing a finger over the single panel of green that decorates the blade. 

“Technically it’s jadeite, and no, you don’t wanna know where I got it,” Kai corrects. 

“I don’t care,” Lloyd says. “I love it. It’s the best sword ever. I — thank you, so much—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Kai says quickly. “You’re welcome, or whatever, just — you’ll use it, right?”

Lloyd gives him a long, flat look. 

“You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

“You are not allowed to joke about that—!”

______

The golden dao sword never breaks. 

It takes Lloyd several fights with it to stop holding back, but once he realizes this sword won’t shatter to pieces in his hands, he lets himself get creative.

And the sword holds, again and again. 

Against Aspheera’s burning soldiers, against the bitter chill of the Never Realm, against the Skull Sorcerer’s monsters in the depths of Shintaro, against the heavy weight of water and cold crystal — the dao blade holds.

Kai tells him it’s because Lloyd’s finally learned how to stop using his weapon as a glorified baseball bat. Lloyd thinks it’s because Kai knows blacksmithing for ninja better than anyone else in the world.

His powers grow, too — along with his options, which he’d really have preferred to just…avoid. 

Real fun that it wasn’t the many years of pent-up anger issues, but crippling traumatic grief, that’s the key to unlocking his shapeshifting abilities. Hilarious. 

It still stings, a bit, that no one ever bothered to tell him he was walking around with the blood of two mythical beings just chilling in his veins, Would’ve been nice to know, maybe, before he got stuck having a whole crisis about it smack in the middle of another world-ending crisis. 

Oni, dragon, Green Ninja. Like he needs another title.

In the end, it doesn’t matter much what he thinks. Everyone moves on and Lloyd is a multi-bred freak of nature, or something. 

His father thinks he should hone his Oni powers. Sensei Wu thinks he should listen to his father but also remember his dragon side. His mother thinks he should read the eight-hundred page historical brick of a book about all known history of the Oni and the dragon. He doesn’t have a clue what his great-grandparents think of him, except that a family reunion would be world-ending levels of terrible. 

Lloyd, who’s grown attached to looking like himself and happens to like being human, keeps reaching for his dao blade first. 

Swordsmanship is something he’s proud of. He’s worked hard for it, through blisters and bruises and blood. It’s something that belongs to him and Kai, something shared and freely given. Something passed onto him, something taught and earned, something treasured.

Lloyd doesn’t have a lot of things like that, so he treasures it all the more himself. 

Treasures the humanity of his family, and how lucky he is to be part of that.

Treasures the things he’s learned from them like family heirlooms he’s never had.

Treasures the fact that they’re there—

Treasures the—

______

The monastery is so quiet, Lloyd’s starting to understand how people lose their minds.

Not really. He hasn’t started talking to himself yet, so that’s a good sign, right? It doesn’t count, if you’re yelling for other people. Doesn’t count if you’re screaming curses at your stupid grandfather who let your whole world split apart and tore away the only people that were yours. 

“It doesn’t count,” he whispers to the sword in his lap. 

Lloyd stares dully at his reflection in the dao sword, marred by the splotchy wear and ugly chipping at the blade’s edges. It’s in miserable shape, worn down and neglected.

A lot like himself, maybe. 

He shudders, drawing in a breath. Sulking won’t sharpen swords. And when Kai gets back — which he will — he’ll be so disappointed that Lloyd’s gone and treated his sword like dirt. 

The smell of choji oil makes his eyes sting, but the familiar sound the rag makes across the blade soothes it. 

He’s glad he took the time to sharpen it up, too, when he visits the city. More than glad when he finds himself atop the train, his missing hood leaving him distinctly uncomfortable as he prepares to fight. 

Lloyd’s hands have warped and twisted, burst in purple and grown claws sharp enough to slice. If he can make them his own again, after that, he can make them hold steady now. 

The handle of the dao blade is worn and familiar, the fraying tassel the same bright green where it brushes the back of his hands, and Kai’s voice yells in his head as loud as ever as he swings it once—

One flip this time, he decides. One flip, one strike.

Swords are his weapon, after all. It’s important for him to remember that.  

And even if he doesn’t—

______

Lloyd’s grown up in a world of weapons, and far faster than he probably should. 

But with every sword swing, every familiar callous carved into his hand, Kai’s there to remind him that his sword is the weapon.

And Lloyd, power or no power, is just Lloyd. 

[olderthannetfic]

I was reading a fic and genuinely enjoying myself up until the author decided to make a huge deal, in their AN, about how their protagonist is bi. As in ACTUALLY bi, not that stupid "straight with one exception" trash homophobic fujoshits write. I'm a cis man. I am heterosexual with exactly one exception. I don't know why. I went through years telling myself I was just confused. I heard from my queer friends at the time that only being interested in one other man wasn't a thing, that it was actually me being confused in the other direction, hiding all my crushes and desires from myself.

My family was convinced I was straight. My friends were convinced I was bi for a lot of men, I just wasn't admitting it. My now husband was the only one who told me it was fine. He's gay and he had a crush on one woman, once. Exceptions happen.

So at the risk of siding with the dreaded (presumed cis, presumed het, presumed white) enemy known as women, I... actually like the whole "if it's you, it's okay" thing. I don't assume an evil fetishizer who hates queers is writing it. It never reads that way. It reads as a story, just like any other story. A way to be queer just like any other valid option. Queerness is a spectrum. Not everyone is bi in the same way or gay or lesbian or anything else. The Kinsey Scale exists for a reason.

I spent five years in and out of therapy and church trying to fix myself. Being bi in any way was too much for my family. It was "get rid of the gay or get out" territory of panic. I could have a family or I could have my feelings for him. Choosing him involved giving up everyone I had grown up with. It involved years further of "so you can admit now that you had other male crushes, right?" no matter how many times I said no until I had to cut some queer friends out of my life, too.

And I'm not "ACTUALLY bi", apparently. I'm a trashy homophobic stereotype fujoshi came up with. I'm not actually bi. Real bi men have an equal number of women and men they're into. Bi is code for 50/50 or else you're, you know. Basically fictional. Definitely doing it wrong.

Upon some digging, I found out the writer is a lesbian woman. You would think with all the shit lesbians get she'd know better. I've seen people try to tell lesbians they aren't lesbians because "oh you dated a guy once" or "uh, you had sex with a man, you can't be" and all kind of shit that makes no sense whatsoever. So for her to turn around and go, "there is a single correct way to be a bi man" is just insane. Ma'am. Ma'am. You should know that's not how queerness works! You're queer!

This has annoyed me so much that for the first time in nine years I have pulled up a Microsoft Word document and I am writing fanfic. I am going to write so much It's Okay If It's You, one-exception-only queer fanfic.

Because it's fine to be queer even if it's this way, actually. It's fine to be queer, period! There are not rigid rules to it, that's one of the biggest joys of it!

I feel so old and tired and I'm only 40. Jesus Christ. "ACTUALLY bi". Fuck. The world is broken.

--

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART IX

—we belong to you and me

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). fluff. angst. cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and depression. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: here it goes. happy reading <3

masterlist!

January 26, 2023

Los Angeles, California

The ceiling isn’t even interesting, but it’s better than everything else right now. You’ve spent too many nights staring at the same spot above you, trying not to think, trying not to feel, but the thoughts always come creeping back. Anxiety’s a funny thing—how it picks and chooses moments to make your life its playground, especially when there’s nothing left to distract you.

You think about your depression diagnosis from a year ago. It feels like a dirty word, one that sticks to the inside of your throat whenever you try to talk about it.

Shame has a way of making you feel unworthy, like there’s a crack inside you that everyone can see. And Pedro…well, he was part of that too. Not because he’d judge you; no, you know he wouldn’t. That’s what makes it worse. He’d understand, and you know it. But it was that very understanding, that softness, that made you feel even less deserving of him. It was easier to push him away, tell yourself that he was better off without you, without your darkness looming overhead.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. But knowing didn’t make it any easier. For a long time, you felt like shit. The medication and therapy helped, though. You feel better now, mostly. At least enough to move through the days without the weight of the world pressing down on your chest.

On nights like this, when the city outside your window hums with life, you find yourself longing for him. Wanting him with a kind of ache that doesn’t make sense anymore. Not after a year of silence.

Okay, not complete silence.

There were the text messages, the likes, the little online interactions that served as placeholders for the real thing. But the last time you actually heard his voice was on your birthday. He called, and it was brief. Polite. He sounded tired, maybe distant. You’d called him on his birthday, too, but he didn’t pick up. A few hours later, a text: “Sorry! Really busy over here, even on my birthday. Thanks for the birthday wishes. See you soon.”

Except “See you soon” never came. It was nothing more than etiquette.

Sarah came over a few weeks later. You were sitting on your couch, mindlessly flipping through a book, when she dropped the news. “They broke up,” she’d said, leaning against the counter like it wasn’t a bomb that just exploded in your chest. “Pedro and Julia. Months ago.”

Why didn’t he tell me?

That conversation replayed in your head for days. Maybe he hadn’t told you because you weren’t that person for him anymore. The one he turned to when things went wrong. Life just went on without him in it. The strange became familiar, and here you were, on a Saturday night, staring at nothing.

You push off the sofa, grab your phone from the coffee table, and start scrolling through social media. It’s the only thing that takes the edge off, numbing the ache for a little while. But even that was a trap because almost every post you see is about him.

Pedro was everywhere, and you couldn’t escape him.

The world had caught on to how wonderful he was, and now they all wanted a piece of him. The headlines, the photos, the fan posts—everyone seemed to wonder what it would be like to love him, to touch him. The universe was taunting you with his presence, a constant reminder of what you’d had and what you’d lost. Every time you saw his face, you felt a pang of regret, sharp and unforgiving.

February 4, 2023

New York, NY

The invitation had come a week earlier, but not from him. His sister, Lux, had sent the text. “It would be nice if you came,” she’d written, and your heart had swelled in your chest.

“I’ll try,” you’d replied, though you knew as soon as you sent it that you would go. The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to New York, staring out the window, wondering what you were doing. You hadn’t seen him in person in over a year, and you didn’t even know if he wanted to see you. What if time had passed you by? What if everything between you had faded into the background, nothing more than a memory?

The night of the show arrived, and you were a wreck. A bundle of nerves, second-guessing everything. You sat in the audience, people asking for pictures here and there, and you smiled, happily obliging. But when Pedro took the stage, your heart stopped. He was nervous during the monologue, you could tell, but he quickly settled into the rhythm.

His breathing evened out, and he was so…perfect. He talked about his family, about his mother, and you felt the lump in your throat rise when he got emotional. He was always funny in the sketches, but especially when he almost broke character to laugh. You couldn’t stop watching him.

And you hoped—no, you prayed—that maybe he’d see you through the crowd.

When the show ended, people started to disperse, and there he was, surrounded by his family, by friends, all buzzing with pride and excitement. You hung back, watching as Lux tried to get everyone lined up for a photo. “Who’s gonna take it?” someone asked, and you stepped forward before you could think twice.

“I can do it,” you said, and Lux’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh my god, you came!” She rushed over, wrapping her arms around you, and you hugged her back, feeling a sudden warmth in your chest.

Nico and Pedro’s nephews followed, pulling you into their hugs as well. For a moment, it felt like old times, like maybe things hadn’t changed at all. But then Pedro turned, his gaze catching yours, and time stopped.

You stood there, staring at each other, and the world spun and stilled all at once. His eyes lit up, soft and warm, like they always had. He looked like he wanted to say something, but neither of you moved.

Five seconds. Maybe less. But it felt like forever.

You smiled, and so did he, a quiet acknowledgment passing between you. Lux handed you her phone, and you took the picture, watching them all gather together, laughing and chatting. You could feel Pedro’s eyes on you the whole time.

After the photo, he walked over, his eyes locking onto yours again.

“How…what are you…?”

“Your sister invited me,” you replied quickly.

“Of course she did,” he said, glancing back at Lux with a smile.

“Congratulations, you were incredible,” you said, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. “I’m so happy for you.”

He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, like you were the moon and the stars. Your heart raced, and you could feel it thumping against your ribs. He smiled, a half-smile, and his voice softened. “Thank you. I think I butchered a couple of lines, but…"

“No, no,” you insisted, shaking your head. “You were perfect. It was perfect.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, his eyes doing that thing they always did when he was holding something back. But then he cleared his throat, looking flustered. “I have to go get changed and say goodbye to a few people, but come to the afterparty, okay? Oscar and Sarah will be there.”

As if you needed a reason other than him.

“Yeah, of course,” you said, trying to sound casual.

He took a step closer, his big brown eyes fixed on you. “Thank you for being here.”

You smiled, trying to keep your composure. “Always.”

And then he turned and disappeared backstage.

•••

Later, at the afterparty, you felt like a ghost, drifting between conversations. You caught up with Oscar and Sarah, the comfort of their hugs bringing unexpected tears to your eyes. It felt good, to be surrounded by people who loved you unconditionally. But you couldn’t help yourself; you kept looking for Pedro. From across the room, your eyes would meet, and the significance of everything unsaid hung between you.

Twenty minutes passed like that. Stolen glances, quiet tension. Until you saw him slip outside to the rooftop, away from the crowd.

Without thinking, you followed him.

He stood there, looking out over the city, his broad back to you, the skyline of New York glowing in the distance. For a moment, you thought about turning around, about going back inside. But then you stepped forward, standing beside him.

“This city,” you started, “is so beautiful from up here. Makes you forget about all the bad things—like the rats and the traffic.”

He laughed—that booming, wheezing kind of laugh you loved so much—and you smiled.

Pedro smiled at you—that same familiar smile that hadn’t changed in all these years. His eyebrows lifted playfully, and for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. But as you looked closer, you saw it—he had changed, and yet the essence of him remained.

His hair was longer now, curling just at the ends in a way that made you want to reach out and touch it. His beard, fuller than before, had streaks of gray decorating his jawline and his hair. The lines around his eyes had deepened, like stories waiting to be told, crinkling when he smiled, as if life had both weathered and softened him.

He turned to look at you. “Hi again.”

“Hi."

“You look good,” he said, the compliment slipping from his lips with ease.

You chuckled softly. “Thanks, so do you, Mr. Popular.”

He clicked his tongue, amused. “What can I say?”

The rooftop was hushed, only the chatter and music from the party drifting up from where you stood. The world below a distant hum, leaving just the two of you bathed in the soft glow of green and gold light from the city. The air was cool but not cold, wrapping around you both in a way that felt intimate, protective.

How Deep Is Your Love started playing, and you looked towards the party, a small smile playing on your lips. As if he could read your mind, he chuckled and said, "How fitting. What are the odds?"

For the first time in what felt like forever, you were under Pedro’s gaze—not the chaotic, feverish attention you were used to, with cameras flashing and crowds screaming your name, but something deeper. His attention had always been different. It was quiet, but focused, like a steady hand on your shoulder, grounding you without a word.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. The pull between you too strong, a tether stretched thin by years of disconnect but never broken. You felt it—the weight of all that had gone unsaid pressing against your chest. You had to say it. Now, before you lost the courage.

“I was debating whether or not to do this here,” you began, your voice low but steady, “today of all days, but I feel like the right time will never come for us, so I’ll just say it.”

Pedro’s eyes searched yours with anticipation, perhaps fear or hope, watching you with that unwavering focus that made your heart race.

In that moment, you realized, you didn't know where to start.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat. “I disappeared like that, and I know I hurt you. I was... I was dealing with so much, and I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t move. Some days were harder than others, and I felt so ashamed. So lost. So sad.”

The word sad hung between you, fragile yet heavy. You could see it in his face—how your words cut him deeply. His lips parted, and you saw the pain flicker in his eyes, the understanding that only he could offer.

“Baby,” he said, the word tender, rich with affection. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming yet calming all at once. His hand moved to your hair, fingers brushing it aside before resting gently on the side of your head. The touch was so familiar, so comforting, you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of it wash over you.

“No,” Pedro said softly, his voice breaking just a little. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not doing more. For not being there when you needed me. I’m a fucking coward.”

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. “I pushed you away because I thought… I thought you were happy with her.” Your voice cracked, but you pushed through the pain. “And before that, I pushed you away because I thought you just didn't want me. I figured it was better to let you be.”

He let out a breath, stepping even closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I got with her because I couldn’t escape you,” he confessed, the words raw and full of regret. “You were always there, in my head, in my heart. I thought if I could be with someone else, maybe… maybe I’d forget you, but I couldn’t.”

You felt the tears sting at the back of your eyes. The truth of it, the weight of his words, felt like a key turning in a lock that had long been rusted shut. You wanted to say more, to tell him everything, but before you could, Pedro’s hand slipped to your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I was afraid that you'd be the only person I ever actually wanted. And now I'm afraid that my one and only chance at happiness has passed me by.” He whispered, his voice low and intense. “And I…I think about kissing you more than I think about anything else, literally in the world. It’s my go-to thought when my mind has a minute to spare.”

You could barely breathe. The air between you felt charged, electrified by everything he was admitting, by the love you had both buried for so long. “I was so scared,” he continued, his eyes glistening. “So scared of fucking up our friendship, scared of what people might say, and scared of losing you because… I’ve never known what to do with pain, mi amor. All I’ve ever done is hide from it. But I don’t want to do that anymore.”

You reached up, covering his hand with yours.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if your touch was too much, too overwhelming. Then, slowly, he opened them again, his gaze locking onto yours with such intensity it made your heart ache. “I was such an idiot,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I thought I could live without you, but the truth is, I’ve never been able to. Not for a single day.”

You smiled, your own tears finally spilling over. “Well, that makes two of us.”

"You're my favorite person to talk to," he said, "even when we're fighting."

There was a beat, a single breath in which the world seemed to pause, and then he kissed you. It wasn’t a tentative kiss, shy, or unsure—it was everything. Every moment, every longing look, every stolen glance over the years poured into this one, perfect moment. His lips were soft but demanding, his hands slipping into your hair as he pulled you closer. You knew people could be watching from afar, but you melted into him, because nothing else mattered right now.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping for air like you'd been drowning and only just found the surface. His forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky, and in that moment, you saw it all—the vulnerability, the fear, the anger, and beneath it all, the raw, unrelenting love.

Pedro’s voice was thick with emotion as he spoke, “I hate myself for waiting this long.” His hands slid down to your shoulders, gripping them with a desperation that made your heart twist. “I watched you disappear, and I told myself it wasn’t my place. But it was. It always was.”

His eyes bore into yours, deep pools of brown that always saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen. His hands turned and pushed you slowly to the railing, and you could feel the cold biting into your back even through the thick layers of your jacket.

“I hated myself too,” you admitted, the words spilling out in a rush, messy and imperfect, but true. “I thought about you every day. And I hated myself for it because I couldn’t let go. I tried, God. I tried with everything I had to move on, but it was always you. It was always you, Pedro.”

His lips trembled, and you saw the tears in his eyes—the same tears that were stinging yours. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“We wasted so much time.”

You nodded, your own heart breaking at the realization. All the years you had spent avoiding each other, convincing yourselves it was for the best, when deep down, you knew the truth.

You had been running—both of you—from something that had always been there.

“I know,” you said softly, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the scruff on his jaw. “But we’re here now. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “I love you,” he said, the words a soft confession.

You smiled, face wet with tears, your heart finally free of the burden it had carried for so long.

“I know."

a/n: aaaahh finally!!! these idiots got it right it only took like 20 years lol.

an extra final chapter is coming very soon. i had so much fun writing this. i started writing this silly little fic right after a breakup because i was feeling lonely and it was the best way for me to not feel like that sooo i wanted to thank everyone who read, liked, reblogged or commented, it means the world to me that someone else enjoys something that takes so much of my time. love you all so much!!!

[waldau-archived]

softie — choi seungcheol | 890 words | fluff

#melonpan :c also, my need to include marriage in every other fic of mine needs to be studied.

gender neutral reader. warnings: none.

"are you sure it wasn't as bad as i thought it was?"

you stop combing through seungcheol's hair with your fingers. "yes."

"really?"

"yes."

"i mean, i broke a plate, stepped on your mom's foot and—"

"i was there."

"—swore in front of your dad."

"i know, baby."

"promise it's okay?"

"seungcheol, if you ask me that question one more time, i'm going to eat up all of your melonpan."

seungcheol tilts his head up to look at you from where he's sitting on the floor between your legs. he tries to put on his best hurt face. "what happened to cheol? or love of my life? or even...pookie?"

you laugh. "you want me to call you pookie?"

"...no. but anything's better than my name."

"no," you say, resuming combing through his hair and detangling a particularly stubborn clump. "your name is lovely, even if you insist it isn't."

"it's just so...serious. it sounds like i'm going to get scolded."

"it's you. and i like it. but tonight didn't go bad at all, baby."

the thing is, seungcheol's never met anyone's parents before. at least, not since he became an idol. you had been telling him your parents should be more worried about hosting an idol at their place for dinner but seungcheol had been stressing about it for a couple of weeks, worrying about what to wear and what to gift and how to sit, till you held him by the shoulders and very sternly told him to be himself, and nothing more.

he's done just that tonight, and he's landed himself in this predicament now.

"you're just saying that to make me feel better."

you sigh and your hands stop working in his hair again. now seungcheol can't have that, so he turns around and clings to your leg.

"cheollie!" you say immediately, ruffling his hair. he lets go. "what, are you really that scared of what my parents think of you?"

"yes? they're your parents. and i met them for the first time yesterday. what if they tell me to stay away from their only child for the rest of my life because they didn't like my shirt yesterday?"

you fish out the television remote from behind the cushion and toss it into his lap. "show me a fancam of yours while i finish working on your hair. choose one you really like."

that doesn't sound good. why would you ignore what he said in favour of something else? unless—

"did they—"

"choi seungcheol."

that shuts him up. he scrolls through some videos on youtube and picks one he thinks looks good. you pull out a rubberband and gently tie his hair into a ponytail. seungcheol swears you have magic hands, because you've never once hurt him whenever you've volunteered to do his hair.

"done," you say, pushing him a bit forward so you can stand up.

seungcheol groans. "don't leave me alone."

"i'm just...going to get us some water?"

"i'm having a crisis here."

you giggle and sit back down, tugging at him till he climbs up and rests against your chest, both of you watching his videos of choice together. your grip on him tightens even though you don't say anything. seungcheol keeps quiet about it for exactly two and a half fancams before he twists to look at you.

you have a goofy smile on your face, and he feels kind of silly for wishing you were looking at the real life him, and not the one on the screen.

"what is it?"

"what?" you ask, looking down at him.

"you're smiling. at him."

you snort. "that's you."

"yeah, but i'm right here."

your eyes crinkle when you smile at him. seungcheol just feels like he's stepped into bright sunshine after a cold day.

"i was watching some edits of yours yesterday."

"oh. were they any good?"

"really good. but i wonder what your fans would think if they got to know you're the biggest softie in the world. none of that supposed alpha stuff here."

seungcheol pouts, but he can't keep it up for long. he's pretty much at his best when he's with you. you're the reason why he can physically feel his shoulders relax most days. you're also the reason he finds himself smiling a lot more.

"supposed?"

"well..."

seungcheol turns to bite your arm gently. you push his head away, not before pressing a kiss to it. "stop worrying so much, okay? you didn't mess up anything with my parents. do you have any idea of how much my mom liked you?"

"she...did?" 

"yeah. and my dad asked me when we're going to visit again."

seungcheol feels his worries dissipate. you don't look like you're saying it to placate him, but...

"are you..."

"...sure? cheol, my mother literally asked me when we're planning to get married. i think that's enough for surety, isn't it?"

seungcheol swears he can feel his heart beating fast enough to escape his chest. of course he'd love nothing more than marrying you one day, even if it's a long way down both of your futures.

"hm," is all he can say, settling back down against you. he doesn't mind you smiling at the version of him on the television. he's the one who's going to get to marry you, after all.

[burst-of-iridescent]

The Choice of Compassion: A Scene Analysis of Aang vs Zuko

should aang have killed ozai?

the age old question. the discourse secondary only to the infamous kat.aang vs zutara ship war. the argument that's been raging for sixteen long, long years and inspired dozens upon dozens of thinkpieces on either side.

so naturally, i'm here to add one more that no one asked for.

now, this debate keeps getting mischaracterized as The Side That Respects Pacifism vs The Side That Wants A Preteen To Commit Brutal Murder when, for the most part, i don't think anyone is really staking their life on the homicide hill. the real issue most people take with aang's arc in the finale isn't him sparing ozai, but rather the deus ex-machina mechanism through which he's able to do so. i agree with that, but i would also take it further to argue that the real problem is that aang's ending is not thematically and narratively consistent with the rest of his arc as set up in the show.

to illustrate this, let's take a look at another scene that plays with similar themes: zuko choosing to save zhao in the siege of the north.

the basics of both scenes are the same: both boys choose, against all logic and common sense, to spare someone who would never show them the same mercy. when it comes down to compassion versus violence, they choose compassion, even at risk to themselves.

but where the siege of the north differs from sozin's comet is that zuko choosing to save zhao is thematically consistent with his arc in season 1, and aligns with where it will go in seasons 2 and 3.

zuko's journey throughout the show is one of rediscovery. he has to find his way back to who he used to be, before his family and his nation warped his perception of right and wrong, and forced him into believing he had to become someone he didn't want to be. it's clear as early as the storm episode that zuko is fundamentally kind, and the person he is now is as a result of being indoctrinated in a culture that perverted violence and cruelty into honour and strength.

in trying to save zhao, the personification of the fire nation's worst qualities and most twisted teachings, zuko turns against the values he's been raised with most of his life and instead chooses to remain true to himself and what he believes is right. it's a triumphant moment because it's zuko returning to the heart of who he is, and who he's truly supposed to be.

and even though his decision may be logically unsound (why risk yourself trying to save someone who tried to kill you?) you don't see anyone complaining that zuko shouldn't have tried at all, because his choice here is a direct - even if brief - resolution to the internal conflict the show has previously established for his character. the narrative consistency of the set-up and payoff allows the audience to recognize the thematic cohesion of this moment in zuko's arc - which is what makes it so powerful and satisfying.

so, the question is: does the same apply to aang's choice not to kill ozai?

the argument supporting aang's decision is usually something as follows: "aang sparing ozai is his way of remaining true to his people and making sure they aren't forgotten. it's a powerful symbol of how he's keeping their culture and beliefs alive even though the fire nation tried to wipe them out."

now that's not a bad argument, in theory. the problem, though, is that if this is the resolution of aang's arc, it has to be a direct response to a conflict established in said arc... and remaining true to air nomad values is not a struggle the show ever set up for aang until the finale.

not once in any of the previous seasons does aang seem to be forgetting his people's ideals, or losing his identity through assimilation, or struggling to reconcile his air nomad beliefs with the ideas he's encountering in this new, changed world. there isn't a long-term, sustained arc about him being worried or concerned about air nomad culture dying out completely, or about taking on the burden of keeping it alive. in fact, the only episode that does reckon with this theme in any capacity - the northern air temple - seems to push the opposite message: that aang should move on and adapt to this changing world instead of remaining mired in the past, and protecting the culture of a people long gone.

(note: i don't like how the NAT episode handled this theme, but for the purposes of this post, we will take it as it was written.)

both zuko and aang are characters whose arcs revolve around change, but if zuko's arc is about moving back to who he truly is, then aang's arc is about moving forward. it's about going from the last airbender to the avatar - about drawing wisdom from different places, about immersing himself in the practices, beliefs and cultures of the other nations, and learning to value them as he values his own.

it's the classic want vs need: what aang wants is to be nothing more than a goofy, peaceful airbender but what he needs is to become a fully-realized avatar, the embodiment of four nations in one. and this conflict is established and re-established repeatedly over three seasons, most especially in his struggle to learn earthbending and firebending, both of which called for him to adopt new perspectives and beliefs contrary to his own.

this is why aang refusing to kill ozai feels so narratively unfulfilling, because it's the complete antithesis of what the show established for aang's narrative over three seasons. the plot point of his absolute pacifism not only comes out of left field (where was this problem when he was going to battle ozai during the eclipse?), it's also incongruous with the depiction of other air nomads in the series (both yangchen and gyatso don't seem to practice absolute pacifism) and with where aang's own arc appeared to be leading.

additionally, it also conflicts with the thematic clash that the aang vs ozai fight is supposed to represent: what was meant to be balance and harmony vs dominance and supremacy now turns into... air nomad beliefs vs fire nation beliefs, which runs contrary to the fundamental message of the entire show. not exactly what you want for the final battle between your protagonist and antagonist!

all of this is not to say that aang should have gone turbo avatar state on ozai and singlehandedly yeeted him into the spirit world. but there were a dozen other ways to handle ozai's end: give him a disney death, let aang learn energybending of his own accord and incapacitate him the way katara took down azula, or - my personal favourite - bring in the spirits in a neat parallel to the book 1 finale, and have ozai's death be a consequence of the imbalance he propagated in the world (i've always felt the avatar being the spirit bridge was a plotline that kinda got shafted in book three, and bringing back someone like koh, for instance, would've slapped).

the point is that for the resolution of aang's arc to be thematically consistent with the established narrative (the validity of this narrative, and whether it should have been different, is another point entirely, but it cannot be denied that this is what the show chose to go with), he needed to place the values and beliefs of the other nations on equal footing with his own, and win because of this willingness to draw from all nations instead of relying solely on his own.

ultimately, remaining true to his compassionate, peaceful nature is not a struggle in aang's narrative the way that it is in zuko's, which is why him choosing to spare ozai doesn't have anywhere near the emotional resonance or satisfaction of zuko reaching out to zhao. meanwhile, the conflict that does characterize aang's arc - being forced to become the avatar - never comes to a meaningful resolution the way that zuko's does. rather, it's thrown out the window in favour of a last minute plot point that robs aang of both agency and development, and destroys the thematic cohesion of his narrative for nothing.

[n0cturn4]

In every universe

1.

-"Did you know you’re my favorite part of the day?"

- "Really? And why’s that?"

- "Because when I’m with you, the world just feels… right."

2.

- "You know what I like most about you?"

- "What?"

- "Everything I never knew I was looking for."

3.

- "Why are you looking at me like that?"

- "Because I’m trying to understand how someone can be this amazing."

4.

- "When did you realize you liked me?"

- "When I realized that any place with you was where I wanted to be."

5.

- "Do you have any idea how happy you make me?"

- "I hope it’s as much as you make me."

6.

- "Promise you’ll never leave?"

- "I don’t know what’s harder… leaving you or promising to stay forever, knowing I’d never want to go."

7.

- "I love the peace you bring me."

- "And I love knowing that I’m your safe place."

8.

- "Why are you smiling like that?"

- "Because I realized that just looking at you feels like home."

9.

- "Do you think we’ll find each other in other lives?"

- "If it’s up to me, I’ll find you in every one of them."

10.

- "What do you want me to do for you?"

- "I want you to stay just the way you are. You’re already everything."

11.

- "If you could wish for anything right now, what would it be?"

- "I’d wish for one more minute with you… and then another, and another…"

12.

- "You know you make me kind of nervous, right?"

- "But is that good or bad?"

- "It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

13.

- "Tell me, what did you see in me?"

- "I saw exactly what I needed… someone who makes me want to be better."

14.

- "Why do we fit so well together?"

- "Because I’m the calm, and you’re the storm I love facing."

15.

- "Why are you so special to me?"

- "Maybe because you see me, even when I try to hide."

16.

- "Did you know I miss you even when we’re together?"

- "Why?"

- "Because I know that when the day ends, I’ll have to let you go… even if it’s just until tomorrow."

17.

- "What am I to you?"

- "You’re the one person who somehow became everything to me."

18.

- "Do I make you happy?"

- "Happy isn’t enough… you make my heart feel at peace."

19.

- "What if one day we drift apart?"

- "Then I’ll find a way to fall in love with you all over again."

20.

- "If you could change anything about me, what would it be?"

- "Nothing. Every detail about you is exactly what makes my heart race."

21.

- "Do you ever think about the day we met?"

- "All the time. It was the beginning of everything I didn’t know I was waiting for."

22.

- "If I could, I’d capture every moment with you in a jar."

- "And what would you do with it?"

- "Open it on the days when I need to feel your presence close."

23.

- "Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed you."

- "And what if you did?"

- "Then I’d choose to never wake up."

24.

- "Do you realize how bright you make my world?"

- "Then let me be your light, even in the darkest hours."

25.

- "What is it that keeps you coming back to me?"

- "It’s like the tide and the shore—I’m drawn to you endlessly, without reason or question."

26.

- "Do you ever worry that one day you’ll stop loving me?"

- "I worry that there won’t be enough lifetimes to love you as much as you deserve."

27.

- "Tell me, if you could choose one place to be, where would it be?"

- "In the space between your heartbeat and mine."

28.

- "Why do you look at me like that?"

- "Because every time I look, I see a new kind of beautiful in you."

29.

- "What’s the first thing you think of when you wake up?"

- "How lucky I am that you’re in my life… and that you’re real."

30.

- "Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you."

- "Maybe. But if you’re here, it means the universe has been kind."

31.

- "What would you do if one day I was gone?"

- "I’d search for you in every star, every breeze, every memory we made."

32.

- "Why do you love me?"

- "Because you’re the poem I could spend a lifetime writing and never finish."

33.

- "Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we’d never met?"

- "A little less bright, a little less real. You’re the reason my heart believes in magic."

34.

- "What do you see when you look at me?"

- "I see every answer to every question I never knew I had."

35.

- "Do you feel the same way I do?"

- "If love had a sound, it would be the way my heart beats whenever you’re near."

36.

- "What do you think we are?"

- "Two souls who were always meant to find each other, no matter how many lifetimes it took."

37.

- "How do you know you love me?"

- "Because even in silence, being with you feels like home."

38.

- "If love could be seen, what would ours look like?"

- "Like the ocean meeting the sky—endless, beautiful, and impossible to contain."

39.

- "Do you think you’ll ever tire of me?"

- "Only if a flower tires of blooming toward the sun."

40.

- "How do you feel when we’re apart?"

- "As if I’m waiting to breathe, holding my heart until I see you again."

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM LIFE IS STRANGE, SEASON 1 *  assorted dialogue, suggested by ismelodrama, adjust as necessary

everything is a picture waiting for be taken.

you're just jealous of me because i actually do the things you can't.

are you hiding something?

i'm sick of your disrespect. tell me the truth!

i don't want to fight with you anymore. i don't want to fight with anyone anymore.

i was eating those beans!

how the hell did you know about that photo?

always take the shot. my number one rule of photography.

you just don't listen, do you?

there's something weird going on with you.

you've only been here for three weeks and you're already causing conflict.

after this week, you are certainly not a little kid anymore.

not now. i'm contemplating shit.

are you fucking kidding me? this is major bullshit!

i didn't have all the evidence at the time.

we all make decisions we regret.

i'm not gonna make any excuses for my behavior.

i'd put stephen hawking against picasso any day.

it sucks to be dragged into the spotlight.

nobody believes me anyway.

you're exactly the kind of soldier i'd want by my side in a war.

why the hell not?

i almost asked you to hang out.

you should have asked me.

maybe we're too much alike.

i don't believe anything you say. you're full of shit.

eat a dick, [name].

i'll be in the tardis getting my delorean ready.

since you're the mysterious superhero... i'll be your faithful chauffeur and companion.

you don't know who the fuck i am or who you're messing around with.

where'd you get that? what are you doing? come on, put that thing down!

don't ever tell me what to do! i'm so sick of people trying to control me!

so you can't help me?

i told you before that i'll always believe you.

i may be a pest but... i'm a good listener.

you're the bravest person i've ever known.

for every action, there's a reaction.

i'm trying. but you have to understand my position.

i know i can be a pain in the ass... and you've always treated me like a person, not a beta nerd.

why do you want all your friends to die?

oh i see. i'm not important to you anymore.

nobody lectures me. everybody tries though.

do not analyze me! i pay people for that.

hey, that's total slander!

you don't know shit about my father, or me.

you're all fucked!

everybody hates me.

[name]... it's me. i just wanted to say i'm sorry.

i truly am sorry for being such a bastard.

you would have been cool to hang out with.

you might as well choose me.

i'm not perfect, okay?

you have talent, [name].

you don't have to push people out of your way.

thanks for admitting again that i have some talent.

do you think it's, like, fate we're not supposed to be friends?

nobody says we have to be friends.

everybody lies. no exceptions.

i came for all of you.

i'm in a nightmare and i can't wake up.

no wonder they call it a "web." nothing can ever get out.

i wish i could go back in time and erase everything.

just tell me you do have the photograph.

now shut up and listen.

i'm not a real scientist.

i was just happy just being your friend.

[name], i'm so sorry you had to go through all that.

i don't think i can concentrate on going out to the movies.

everybody pretends to care until they don't.

even angels need angels, [name].

i might be naive, but i feel their struggle.

why did you stop me from jumping?

this shit pit has taken everyone i've ever loved.

when a door closes, a window opens... or something like that.

i keep going back in time.

how could there be a more important moment in history?

thank you for trusting me.

hey... be careful out there.

what kind of friend are you?

you never understood me, or what happened to me.

i'll always be alone, thanks to you.

just in case we don't get out of this...

i'm going to make the right choices from now on.

i've been feeling like this might be actually the end of the world.

i hate to say that i'm glad to see you, but i'm glad to see you.

i wish i could stay in this moment forever... but then it wouldn't be a moment.

if that tornado came right now, i would just sit here and watch for a while.

i just feel like escaping.

i have total faith that you'll do the right thing when the time comes.

with great power comes great bullshit.

am i pushing myself too hard?

you like to hurt people, huh?

i'm glad you decided to escort me.

i know this is a bad time, but can i get one picture?

of course i believe you. you're the most amazing person i've ever met, and i'm glad you trust me.

i don't have a fucking clue what's going on.

[hwanchaesong]

☞🍹Third Drink: A distraction is all he wanted, yet you came in like a bourbon whiskey that gave him a massive hangover. 🍸

🎧: The Weeknd - After Hours

wc: 964

genre & warnings: angst, like angst no happy ending, clubbing, drinking, hints of toxic situationship, cursing, etc etc

a/n: this is a part of The After Hours Bar series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

Jeno stirred in his sheets. The air-conditioning's blow is cold, but he's weirdly feeling hot.. or maybe his head is hot because of annoyance and longing.

He cursed and grabbed his phone on his night stand, glaring at the time and checking your shared location that you forgot to turn off.

It's fucking 2:37 am and you're still up and partying around in some bar.

Oh, he hates it, and he's about to do something about it or else he'll finally lose his sanity for good.

He stands up from his bed, grabbing a nearby hoodie that was hanging in his gaming chair and leaving his apartment without freshening himself up.

He speeds towards the bar you're at, entering it without much problem because let's be for real, he knows the bouncer in these kinds of bars. He puts every last one of his friends and family's experience with the outside world with the amount of clubbing and partying he's done for the past month.

A month without you in his life, and he's regretting it since.

He doesn't know what kind of evil spirit had possessed him when he decided to break your heart. Choosing another girl that only loves him for his money.

Taking you for granted, laughing in your face at how stupid you are for thinking that you have a chance with him. Mocking you for allowing the one night stand and the dates that followed after.

He was the biggest asshole for treating you like shit yet here he is, traversing through the sweaty and disgusting bodies of the party-goers, in a herculean journey of finding you.

His eyes scoured the vicinity of the neon lighted building, looking for your familiar figure that he desperately wants to hold in his arms.

His heart skipped a beat when he had finally spotted you, holed up in the corner of a booth and drinking a cocktail all by yourself.

He immediately trudged in your direction, stiffly standing in front of you and he felt like dying when you made eye contact with him.

You're so fucking gorgeous.

Without his functioning rationality and your impaired brain in a haywire, he impulsively dragged you out of the bar while your whirling mind took a moment to discern what was actually happening.

Snapping out of it, you harshly tug your hand back, glaring at him with storms in your eyes when you realize that you're in the middle of a dimly lit street with him.

The road is something that you have seen before, the way to your former shared house with him.

"Jeno? What the fuck?" you rubbed your wrist, skin slightly red with how tight his hold was on you a while ago.

"Y/N." he calls your name, reaching out for you but you quickly back away, "Y/N please. Let's go home, yeah?"

He's kidding right now, isn't he?

Home is nowhere near him, it once was, but when he carelessly tossed your fragile heart out of the window, he became an asylum that you didn't want to go back to again.

"Leave me alone, will you? Gosh, I-I can't do this with you." you scoffed, blurry eyes due to the alcohol but the fresh early morning breeze somehow cleared your head.

You know that you can't give in to his puppy eyes, you're not weak anymore. You are not the Y/N that he knew.

Jeno frowned, not exactly liking the way you're rejecting him.

"Y/N, don't be stubborn. Please-"

"Save your begging Jeno. You should've done that ages ago when I was naive as fuck. But that won't work now." you cut him off, having enough of his bullshit for today.

You finally had the energy to go out and have fun after a month of grieving over him. Then he appears out of nowhere to ruin your delicately glued self after you worked so hard to put your pieces back together.

"I'm so sorry Y/N, please. Will you hear me out? no alcohol in Jeno's system but it seems like he's the intoxicated one, drunk off of you and he doesn't know what to do with the conflicting emotions he's having.

He took your silence as a cue to continue his mini rant.

"I am well aware that I have been nothing but a foolish dumbass towards you but.. it's hell without you. Please, take me back again. I promise I'll be a better man. I'll take care of you, I'll love you like how you deserve to be loved."

He is basically on his knees and you couldn't help but want to slap his handsome face.

His confession is everything but fake, his words are full of sincerity.

Breathing is difficult without you around. Heck, even doing the mundane things feels like a drag whenever he wakes up in the morning without you by his side.

He did everything to forget you. Drinking all day, spending shit tons of money over useless things. But it was never adequate, nothing is able to compensate for the emptiness he's feeling ever since you left.

He needed you the most in his life.

"Jeno.." you mumbled his name, your lower lip quivering and he almost stumbled his way over to you to comfort you, but your next sentence blew out any hope in his candle.

As much as you love him, you have to choose yourself over anything else.

"I'm sorry Jeno but I can't. I will never ever return to you again. I'll borrow your words from before."

You took a deep breath, turning on your heels so he's now facing your back before ultimately slapping him with the reality he's been denying.

"Why would I settle for anything less when I deserve the best?"

taglist:

@sunghoonsgfreal @yeosayang @mystverse @shakalakaboomboo

[tarotwithavi]

What kind of lovers do you attract/ are attracting?

How to choose a pile?

Take a deep breath and gently close your eyes. Politely request your spirit guides to reveal the appropriate pile meant for you, then open your eyes. Whichever pile captures your attention is the one meant for you.

Masterlist

Paid services

Pile 1

Your energy has this amazing superpower to heal, like a magic balm for broken hearts. It's no wonder people are drawn to you like bees to honey. You're like a walking oasis of comfort for those who've had their share of love's bumps and bruises. Those you attract are the creative types, the ones who think outside the box and color outside the lines. You've got this magnetic pull for guitar-strumming, canvas-painting, poem-writing folks. You know, those artsy souls who've often danced with heartache. It's like your aura says, "Hey, bring on the creatives!" Your magnetism doesn't stop at artists. Nope, it goes all the way to the bank, you attract some deep-pocketed darlings. Money? Not an issue for them, they've got it going on. And oh boy, strength? Both mental and physical? It's like you've got this fiery aura that's a total strength magnet. And hold onto your hats because popularity is part of your package deal. You snag the ones who are well-liked, the ones everyone wants to hang around. It's like you've got this neon "cool people only" sign that shines super bright. The people you draw in might be total opposites of you. I know, wild, right? But hey, life's all about surprises.

Pile 2

So, this is my personal pile of hopeless romantics. Get ready, because the lovers you're pulling in? They're just like you. You're like a magnet for those total dreamers, the ones who see love as this magical, larger-than-life adventure. You know those who could fall in love with the idea of falling in love. Yep, that's who's knocking on your heart's door. You're also attracting a bunch of daydreamers , those people who view love through these super rosy glasses. It's like they're lost in this fairytale, and they're looking for their partner to be the co-star in their romantic movie of life. And guess what? Your energy is like a beacon for the brainiacs too. You're snagging those who are smart, logical, and always ready with a dose of sensible advice. They're a blend of both worlds. It's like they've got this epic tug-of-war between their dreamy side and their practical side, and you're right in the middle of that sweet balance. They might not be super experienced in the love department. It's like they're all about that puppy love, that innocent and genuine kind of affection. So, whether you're nodding your head like, "Yeah, that's me," or you're like, "Wait, what?" this is your magnetic vibe.

Pile 3

You've got this power to pull in super dedicated lovers. They're the ones who are all about their hustle, totally work-oriented, and maybe even more focused on their projects than on matters of the heart. But hold on tight, because you've also got a thing for those who date with marriage in mind. No casual hookups for you , it's all about those who are in it for the long haul. Now, let's talk about down-to-earth vibes. The ones you attract, They're as grounded as a sturdy oak tree. It's like they've got their feet planted firmly on the ground, which makes for a really solid connection. And speaking of connections, you're kind of a magnet for the old-school romantics. Yep, you're attracting those who've got a dash of old-fashioned love in their style. It's like they're straight out of a vintage love story. The lovers you're drawing in are all about stability and commitment. Heartbreak? Not on their agenda. These are the ones who are ready for the real deal, a relationship with a rock-solid foundation. So, if you've been worried about love's rollercoaster, fret not. Your vibe is all about that steady, unshakeable connection.

[hyperions-light]

hey I was planning another post today but instead let’s talk about how much I love that there’s not really a ‘good’ ending to the companion plotlines in Veilguard. It reminds me of Leliana and Alistair’s plotlines in DAO in that what you choose says more about the player/protagonist than anything

I just finished Isana Negat a second time, and I did the other ending and I thought it was just as good. Like, yeah, Harding does deserve to be angry! They did fucking get everything taken away from them! It’s so painful and horrific; yes you can, and should, be mad! But also Harding prioritizing her very real love for and compassion towards other people is not wrong. It’s just different! It’s just Rook’s friend/lover asking them for advice, and Rook giving it! You know, like in real life except with huge magical rock giants

And okay I’m never going to kill Illario because I think it would make Luca really sad and he has enough problems, Whoops I misremembered this, I don’t think you can kill Illario actually. I love that for Luca <3 But yk, I’m probably still not going to imprison him. but I can see it! Because the cycle has to end, right? The violence and infighting of the Crows endlessly attacking each other over power is part of what allowed the Antaam to get a foothold in Antiva, because there was like a double agent or something (if I’m remembering right from Tev Nights). Some kind of ending needs to be made to this endless violence. And I suppose it depends on how retributive Rook is, which is a great question to ask of the player (one that is asked repeatedly throughout the game). It’s not like Illario didn’t do anything, you know! He probably deserves punishment. But Rook, as they always can at various points, can be merciful, can choose absolution. Wow no, I’m glad I was wrong I love it more like this.

And oh boy, I LOVED the ending of Emmrich’s quest, don’t even get me started! Like!! I thought it was going to be ‘well obviously we HAVE to save Manfred’, but how Emmrich talks about accepting his death and his sacrifice convinced me! I was like alright man, this is a real choice! I actually did make him a lich last time (made a lot of sense from a Watcher perspective, imo) and not only was the cutscene sick as hell, but the follow-up was so funny and I got some really sad Spite dialogue which fucking wrecked me. It was great— seriously, his plotline is one of my favorites in the whole game.

And Davrin’s! I’ve already expounded at length about how much I like his quest line and how it ties into the Grey Wardens, but I really think both of his options for the griffons are so workable, because you know the Grey Wardens, especially under Antione and Evka, aren’t going to hurt those little guys again! But also the scenes with Eldrin are so endearing, and Davrin’s hope for a brighter future for them is so sweet and genuine. It’s hard to pick! It’s about Rook's perspective!

Neve's I'll admit I don't vibe with as much just because of the like 'trust the authorities' angle, but i haven't tried saving Minrathous yet and I think it would be sooooo involving as a Shadow Dragon especially. Because that's what they're fighting for, right? That better Minrathous where they CAN be sure that if they send the insane cultist lady to prison she’s going to stay there? But there’s always the practical consideration of people’s lives being at stake NOW, of Neve needing her friends safe NOW. And just killing Aelia ensures she will never be an issue again. So I can see both angles for sure

And Taash ;-; oh, Taash. I haven’t posted about them that much yet because they make me very emotional and it’s hard to organize thoughts like that. But I really love their quest, and their struggle to define themselves. And look, I know people wanted the option to tell them they could be both, but like as a person who has lived a similar experience, it really feels sometimes like the world is making you choose. It can feel like you’re not enough of either thing for anyone. And there are parts of your identity that you will have to make a choice on, and I think it’s trying to speak to that. I did the Rivaini one, and it’s like… well, they’re embracing the culture of Rivain, but it’s not like anyone is ever going to look at them and NOT see a Qunari. You can’t get away from that. What you choose to do in response is a real dilemma and I think that if you engage with the text genuinely you can see what Trick was doing. Also, there is a really great dialogue from Rook that I think gives more context to the discussion; they can say that they have been many things, and it’s important to take what works from each experience and make it part of yourself. So I don’t think Taash’s plot is trying to make them throw away any of themselves, just defining priorities. (Sorry, that got long. Feelings, opinions about that one)

And I don’t think Bellara’s is obvious, either, especially with how they involve the Nadas Dirthalen in her personal plot. This is a thing that is really emotionally and culturally significant to her, but at the same time it is part of what hurt her brother and ultimately took him away from her. She’s really preoccupied with not causing harm by her actions; she spends the whole game worried about it! And even though Rook doesn’t see the dangerous elements of the repository, that doesn’t mean they’re not there. The puzzle quest you can find in Arlathan proves that other people besides Cyrian were taken in by Anaris. And also, there’s the plot thread they briefly touched on in the last game which is that the culture the Dalish have built, that they have RIGHT NOW, is not wrong. But it’s also important to remember history, even if it’s unpleasant or could be dangerous, which is another thing you can discuss with Bellara during the game. So there’s no wrong choice! It’s just about Rook and Bellara and what’s important from their perspectives.

Anyway it was super refreshing to have these kinds of choices! It reminds me of the best character choices in DAI and DAO, especially, and I’m so happy they carried those things forward and improved on them.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

Thinking a lot about Jon’s final choice in TMA, and while I have a longer more detailed post in the works, I want to touch on it a little now.

The fact of the matter is there was no easy choice given to the characters in those final episodes. The two main ones boiled down to ending everything as it is and damning themselves and everyone else, or saving their world and damning other worlds to suffer, with no clear answer on what that even means.

Most people would make the choice that’s more ‘out of sight, out of mind’, and it’s understandable why. But for someone like Jon, that choice was never an option. It bleeds into stuff I’ve talked about with Jon before: his guilt, his need for control in his life, and also the way he copes through knowing. The knowing isn’t just an avatar thing, that isn’t how avatars work, rather it’s how he coped beforehand. When something terrified him, when he was paranoid, he desperately searched for answers.

His final choice followed a similar principle. He’s spent so long with a certain level of power and control now, able to know almost everything he pleases, and while, on some occasions, a mystery might make him happy (such as not knowing what was in Salesa’s ‘safehouse’), this isn’t that kind of mystery. This is a terrifying prospect. He doesn’t know what will happen after they release the fears. He doesn’t know who will suffer. He doesn’t know if the Fears will change and adapt to whereever they go, if they will stay beyond the veil or if they are just eventually passing on an apocalypse.

Jon, who has spent years now feeling guilty for everything, can’t handle that. He can’t handle the idea he may damn others, and he can’t handle something he doesn’t know, not when it has so many risks. Of course he chooses the option where he’s certain what would the outcome would be, even if it means ending everything, he feels it’s the right decision.

I think it would haunt him otherwise. The guilt. The inability to Know what happens beyond that veil. The idea others may suffer because of his choice.

It’s poetic that, TMA, a story all about the choices people make and the consequences of them, ends with an impossible choice, with no real right answer, no easy conclusion.

And I honestly don’t think there’s an outcome where Jon would have chosen differently. For all his changes over the course of the story in our eyes, the reality is, at the core, he’s stayed the same, and that’s part of his tragedy — seen especially in his parallels with Melanie. It’s just the person he is.

There are definitely a variety of factors at play, I just wanted to talk about these ones in particular.

[herejusttosufferalong]

Hey friends! Are we gonna address N’s SIL following JD? I mean the signs over that side of the road are getting crazy!

I think our babies (N and L) are definitely seeing other people right now!

Does this scare me off the ship? Hell no… guys we’re here rooting for them, we’re here cause we saw chemistry and connection and feelings and we think they’re soulmates and they would be the happiest with each other. Them getting to their endgame could take a little time. It’s already a slowburn, they’ve known each other for years. The press tour definitely put them in front of their feelings but it was also complicated, with the whole world watching, other people in the middle, the pressure of being friends working together. They need time to process.

Shipping shouldn’t be just about your favourite couple being “canon”! I’ll always prefer N and L over any other option cause I love their dynamic! I love how they are when they are together. They have their own little bubble of just the two of them where they fit perfectly despite their differences. They’re their own team. Idk it’s special imo. Even if they’re not the perfect typecast significant other morphed straight out their friends groups (which if you notice A and JD are).

Ofc we’re talking real life people here so I always encourage everyone to be respectful and mindful. You can’t get mad if they end up choosing other people (let’s hope just for the time being 😉) because they’re individuals with their own agency and they don’t owe us their private lives. So be kind and if some confirmation goes out in the future talk about it in safe fan spaces and just ignore it where they can see it. But then ship who you want. Root for you want. Personally I love both N and L to pieces so if it turns out they’re happy in other relationships I’ll be “good for them”. But I will never ship them with other partners. This is my WH. That connection I saw, the world saw is special to me.

I’ll be here watching things, enjoying the gossip when it’s done tastefully and respectfully, loving their friendship (cause that is 100% given and real and it’s precious) and sipping the tea while I wait for the universe to make its moves.

Remember we’re here for the endgame. Getting to the final chapter might take story than we thought.

💜

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