#this song was one of the first i loved by them and its one of the songs that most shows the beatles' influence on their style
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
i have so many thoughts about the tommy song/video and theyre a jumbled mess. i wouldnt call this an analysis this is just. most of my thoughts surrounding the video and what it shows about tommy
one of the things that stuck out to me (outside of how depressing and just like. is this guy okay) is something that ive always respected tommy for because he's always stuck with it and its his like. fervent conviction in people doing things theyre passionate about. thats always been one of the things he talks about all the time!!!
when AI started appearing he was talking about death of creativity, with the internet he's always talking about how the real tragedy is the algorithm killing people's passion by driving them with views and money, and even when he talks about youtube itself, and nowadays standup, its so full of passion.
and i think thats really important because it would be extremely easy for someone like tommy, who's in the process of maturing his online image from a very loud, immature and PASSIONATE persona, to make fun of it. it would be so easy to do like so many other creators and laugh at how "cringe" it was and make a quick cash/attention grab with a funny clip of him laughing at himself. but he never has. well don't get me wrong he's laughed at himself or old videos but it's always just. good natured taking the piss out of himself, it's never this like. mocking your younger self who was so excited to do what they did only because now its "cringe".
not only is he constantly giving that advice to other people (its been years of him replying, to any kid in his chat or donations asking advice on how to be a creator etc, "just go and do it if you love it!!"), he's coherent with how he applies it to himself. he realised he was making cash grab tiktok react vids and hated it so much he just stopped uploading for a while.
i dont know i just think there's something admirable about being able to still be sincere in a time where everything especially online has to be processed through a layer of irony. and its even funnier because he's more sincere THROUGH the irony i mean he's literally going into standup.
letting yourself create something that "means" something is fucking hard especially when half the internet still sees you as a kid who screams around. except the thing is that kid DID make stuff that mattered and that meant something because he was, in his own words, having fun.
i think thats what the format of the video was about too. i mean i think it was pretty clearly not a song thats meant to be streamed, its not purely music, its also a video because tommy is also first and foremost an editor who went to film college. its also not a "comedy" song like he's made some before, because those were all intentionally created to land as many jokes and make a big buzzâ which doesnt mean they were bad! im philza is a contemporary lyrical masterpiece. but they had a specific purpose and it was to make people laugh and i think this video was completely like. opposite of what peoples expectations are of tommy. the "wow hes not a child anymore hes being matuređ€" reactions are the most obvious aspect of this (which, like, its been a while, get with the program).
i think the point of this was to make something that genuinely meant something but that was also like. as unpalatable to the algorithm and to the TommyInnit Viewer as possible. even now that he's gone into making quieter, more reflective videos, we've never had the flashing texts and the projector images and just all of that. hes always talking about how he hates the way the "youtube formula" has dictated the course of content and stolen all creativity for youtubers. its not meant to be a YouTube Video tm. its just meant to mean something to someone, and obviously process some sort of personal emotions, and i just think thats. yeah. yeah
i mean he even says so outright. "this needless, self indulgent spiral of self gratification" is pretty damn explicit. its not meant to be funny content its really a cry for help or for just. anything at all really
it was also a lot about perception, yknow the "entertainer" dilemma, "its all attention porn"... theres a layer of this point thats universal, everyone struggles with how they're perceived and i think any "artist" or "entertainer" figure can see themselves in it, but there's also a layer thats completely impermeable to most of us because it touches upon the sheer absurdity of a "youtuber". especially one of tommy's popularity. especially one who blew up so so fast so young. i honestly think its IMPOSSIBLE to process that. its about the ethics of having millions of people's time so readily available to you if you just press the right buttons to make the algorithm happy and then you've got them. im like 75% sure i remember him saying this on stream once, something like "your time is valuable" and if a fan didnt value him as an entertainer they should drop him.
and even here^ thats the saddest "lmao" ive seen in my life SORRY LOL but its really just. yeah im not gonna repeat myself it speaks for itself. perception and internet expectations and all that
one of the other images that stuck out to me was also this:
"yeah i know its too much like bo burnham but it wont be in a year though. in a year it will be like tom simons. just let me figure out what that means, ok?"
a lot of the video is about. influences and inspirations. the bo burnham references are so obvious he's poking at them, but i think he's raising a good point about the creativity that he's constantly praising. its never something that springs up on its own, its all about looking at others work and making it your own and feeding yourself with all those experiences and slowly, surely building your own way of doing things (tommyinnit "minecraft talent show" and "a tribute to dream smp" serial quackity + schlatt impersonator would know all about that) ->
and its daunting! its fucking scary to move away from that! which is also the main vibe i got from the video which, outside of his own issues with how he's perceived online, was the sort of existential dread that comes with actually creating. its one thing to preach you need to be passionate and create, its another to sit down and create something thats BY you. its a part of growing up! and we're literally seeing him do it live (well the bits that he chooses to show obviously)! thats also part of why i think tommy's so relatable to so many people is that he's so like. honest and real about what it's like to grow up, simple as that, and growing into yourself.
"this was everything to me" and using the picture of his younger self... man. theres obviously so much sadness underlying the whole thing but i think the nostalgia and melancholy in mourning being someone who was only inspired/excited by your interests and role models is universal. and obviously for tommy a lot of those influences turned out. well i think it was pretty damn clear who/what he was referring to here. ->
i don't think i need to go too in detail about that, especially cause a lot of the video was clearly a way to process his own personal emotions. especially with those next few images. i just hope he's okay and that god doubles his pain and gives it to mr beast to quote my friend bronzetomatoes. man.
of course he had to end with a funny clip about a hot anime girl and i think that kinda. sums it all up in a way. if that makes sense. at the end of the day its about the fact that he has to use humour to make the thing work when its out in the open, even when he tries not to and to be actually honest, but theres also the fact that hes literally a comedian and creating something "honest" IS through humor. its kindof a double edged sword
right well that was my jumbled mess of psychoanalysing tommyinnit i hope he is alright and all that because well that was. something
286 notes
·
View notes
Note
One of the hardest things for artists to do is feel as though they've successfully established their own unique artistic style that's identifiable from the works of other successful artists in their field.
It's absolutely normal and okay to begin your career as an artist through copying/tracing and mimicking the art of professional artists you've admired and that have helped shape the style of your imagination. That's how we learn - by copying. However.
When an artist is establishing themselves as a formal artist - as a professional or just More Than Just A Doodler - and cares about the work they're putting out a lot, having their art compared to pre-existing works by unrelated artists becomes extremely unflattering and detrimental. It can be demotivating and harmful to the health of that artist's growth and much-needed sense of confidence.
A professional artist wants to know how they're standing out. A professional artist wants to hone what makes their work absolutely and completely unique (and if you start to argue "but nobody's art is totally unique!" I will come to your house, dangle you off the roof by your ankles, and shake you until the Midjourney scrapeware falls out of your eye sockets) and continue mastering and adapting their style and its uniqueness.
Every character has a soul. Every landscape has a silent song. Every brush stroke, line, and blot of color represents something unique inside of the mind and heart of every artist. Nobody wants to be known as "the artist that draws just like [other popular artist]" unless they are plagiarizers.
An artist's style isn't just a style. It's who they are, and a veritable road map that can tell much more about that artist's life experiences, emotions, and passions are centered around than the casual viewer may fully realize. Every piece is a more refined, more crystallized (and sometimes scrunkly) offering of a window into their ideas, their hopes, their feelings, and everything that truly matters as they enrich the lives of every single person on this earth.
Saying someone's piece "escaped" from another person's work is essentially suggesting they've intentionally ripped off someone else's style. You're trying to compliment an artist by sweetly accusing them of potential plagiarism, and outright disregarding and dismissing how much they, on their own, have had to practice and study just to get to the point that they feel comfortable publishing a single piece.
If you like an artist's work enough to want to send them a nice comment, just focus on what you like about their art. Not how much their art reminds you of someone else's. It devalues the time, energy, and sacrifices an artist makes to hone their craft and muster their confidence enough to share their work. When that artist is also a professional, you're also basically saying, "Hey, you're good enough to fill in for another professional's animation team even though you've spent your entire education and career in the arts for your work to be valued for its own merits."
If all you can think to say is, "I love how your OC makes me think of another person's OCs," then maybe consider just going through that artist's blog and reblogging more of their work without comment. Especially when they've clearly established they do not like having their work compared to another artist's the first fucking time they respond.
Your Crowley escaped from Hazbin Hotel
#long post#sorry for the rant#i worked too many years with artists to not feel rage at comments like these#because it was always so fucking sad to see how disheartened it would make my old artist partner#just to have his work compared ONCE to anyone else's after we'd started working together#i'm a writer and want to chew the face off anyone that compares my writing to someone else's#like great. love to know you like the free work i put out enough to talk to me about a colleague's work you'll actually PAY FOR
361 notes
·
View notes
Text
Its been a while Jikookers, but let me tell you why...
Just a warning this post will talk about grief and death, so if you aren't in a place to want to read that right now please scroll past đ
On October 11th my world changed and I am still working out how to be in it without my best friend. I have never felt loss and pain like I do right now but I am surrounded by amazing friends and family who will help me work this shit out. My beautiful friend of 20+ years died after a very short time in Neuro ICU following a burst brain aneurysm. No warning, just walking home from lunch with a friend on the 3rd October and she collapsed in the street, she never regained consciousness and died peacefully surrounded by her siblings, children and mum 8 days later on 11th October.
It's the little things I am struggling with, the coffee dates on my days off, the messages she would send just to say 'love you' and ask how your day was, the random phone calls because she was putting off gardening or housework, the messages to say have lovely trip the day before or after you went as she always got the date wrong, but she never forgot the important dates and would spend her last pound to get you a card to celebrate.
One of the reasons for me posting on here is because I want to recognise how being part of this fandom and being a Jikooker has had a profound impact on my grieving during this time. In life some people come along and impact on your life in a way they may never understand because you can't find the right words to tell them, but even from thousands of miles away their words bring you strength and comfort, a hug in the form of a voice message. Part of me working through this shitty grieving process has been to just say what is in my head into my phone and send the message to this person, with no expectation of a reply or words of wisdom, but she has never let me down. Even if its just to say 'keep going, it will get better', she has never allowed me to feel unheard.
So @dgtn please stand up and accept your virtual hug, until I can give you one in person đ
A week ago we had a ceremony and celebration of life for my friend and it was beautiful, the sun shone, we cried, we laughed ( she loved to laugh and was always making us laugh) and I started on the next part of my grief journey, to learn to live without her but never forgetting her.
Everyday is a new day and some are harder than others, work is either a blessing of a distraction, or a curse, as my ability to deal with stress and the stupidity and pettiness of the general public is better some day then others. My work colleagues have been beyond amazing and the love and support they have given me has been beyond anything I could imagine. But I know my friend would be shouting at me to live my life now as it is too damn short and can be gone in an instant, so that is what I am doing. Next year is busy, first K-pop concert (Ateez, don't get me started on how excited I am), West end theatre show, and the icing on the cake is a trip to Niagara falls and NYC in March! Not to mention the impending BTS concert when that pesky military service is over for all our guys.
Music is an important part of my life and BTS' music has helped me massively, I have cried to it, I have sung my heart out to it, and I have sat in silence and just listened to it and taken comfort from their lyrics.
One song which has seen me do all three is Zero o clock, so what better way for me to sign off than with this...
#grief and loss#BTS#Jikook#tagging jikook because without them I likely wouldn't have this space to write#safe space for honesty#jimin hugs#music heals
86 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey rose! I hope you're doing alright! I absolutely adore your Tony stark fics!! I hope you'd write one for Steve Rogers or loki. Can you write something with any one of them where their partner (reader) is very emotional, like cries at tv shows and books, can never NOT tear up when any of them say anything romantic or meaningful. And as much as they don't want their partner to cry, they feel really appreciated. Just loads of fluff! Thank you!<3đ©”
P.s. ofc feel free to change or add anything you fell like. Appreciate it!
HAPPY TEARS
‷ STEVE G. ROGERS
áŻâ
Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader
áŻâ
Genre: romance, fluff
áŻâ
Requests status: open
áŻâ
Story type: one shot
áŻâ
Summary: You have always been the sensitive type, crying over movies and every sweet thing Steve did for you, and that's one of the reasons he loves you so much but, at the same it, it gets him worried for your possible reaction to the question that has been in his mind for sometime now.
áŻâ
Word count: 8K
áŻâ
TW(s): nothing just pure fluff and just like a few words about a passionate night
áŻâ
As always, since reader's gender isn't specified in the ask I'll write it as fem!reader because I'm a girl and it's what I'm more used to write, but if you want it to be with another gender are sure to specify it in your ask and I'll write it! <3
áŻâ
My Masterlist
áŻâ
MARVEL Holiday Special
áŻâ
MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!
áŻâ
Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)
áŻâ
MARVEL Bingo
áŻâ
English isnât my first language
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, warm and inviting. It greets you before you even open your eyes, a little luxury of the life youâve built together. Your sleepy mind pieces together the familiar sounds of Steve moving around the kitchenâthe soft clink of the coffee pot returning to its base, the gentle scrape of a plate across the counter.
Heâs making breakfast.
The thought alone tugs at your heart. After seven years together, Steve Rogers still finds a way to make every morning feel special, no matter how ordinary. You pull the blanket tighter around you and close your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of his hums blend with the noise of the city beyond the window. Itâs moments like these, the quiet ones, that remind you just how deeply youâre loved.
By the time you shuffle into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, heâs plating up pancakes. Heâs not wearing a shirt, just his gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, and his blond hair is damp and tousled like heâs already gone for a run. Itâs infuriating how good he looks, even at this hour.
âMorning, sweetheart,â he says, flashing you that boyish smile, the one that makes your stomach flip even now.
You give him a sleepy grin in return, padding toward him on bare feet. His hand automatically finds the small of your back as you lean into him, your cheek pressing against his chest. For a moment, thereâs no one else in the world but the two of you.
âYou didnât have to get up so early,â you mumble against his skin, your voice still thick with sleep.
âYou were out like a light,â he says, his hand running gently up and down your spine. âFigured Iâd let you sleep in a little.â His voice is low, affectionate, and entirely too effective at making your heart melt.
When you pull back, he tips your chin up with one finger, his blue eyes scanning your face like itâs the first time heâs seen you. âCoffee?â he asks, already stepping away to grab your favorite mug from the counter.
You watch him pour the coffee, a soft smile playing on your lips. Heâs careful, deliberate, like heâs handling something precious. And you suppose, in his eyes, he is.
As he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours, sending a spark of warmth through you. The gesture is small but thoughtful, the way so many of his gestures are. Seven years, and he still makes you feel like youâre worth all the time and effort in the world.
The first sip of coffee is heavenly, and you sigh contentedly as you sink into one of the kitchen chairs. Steve sits across from you, his long legs stretching out under the table, and slides a plate of pancakes in your direction. âBanana chocolate chip,â he says. âThought you might want something sweet today.â
Your eyes go wide. âYou made these just for me?â
His laugh is soft and teasing. âWho else would I make them for?â
Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, and before you can stop it, tears start to blur your vision.
Steve freezes mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. âHey,â he says gently, already moving his chair closer to yours. âWhatâs wrong?â His hand lands lightly on your knee, his thumb stroking small circles there.
You shake your head, letting out a watery laugh. âNothingâs wrong. I justâŠâ You glance down at the pancakes, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. âYou made me pancakes.â
âYeah,â he says slowly, clearly not understanding why thatâs enough to turn you into a mess. âAnd?â
âAnd you made them the way I like them,â you sniff, wiping at your eyes. âWith the chocolate chips on top, not mixed in, because you know I like the crunch.â Your voice cracks slightly, and you look up at him, feeling ridiculous for crying over pancakes. âYouâre too good to me.â
His expression softens instantly, a mix of affection and bemusement. He moves his chair even closer, until his knees bump yours. âSweetheart,â he says, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs catching the stray tears. âItâs just pancakes.â
âNo, itâs not,â you insist, your voice a little shaky. âItâs⊠itâs that you always think of these little things. You always go out of your way to make me happy.â You gesture toward the plate, then to him. âEven after all this time, you still do stuff like this.â
For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, leaning in to press his lips softly against your forehead. âI hope you know I donât do any of this because I feel like I have to,â he murmurs. âI do it because I want to. Because seeing you happy is worth it. Every single time.â
His words are a balm, soothing the tight ache in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. âWell, congratulations,â you say, trying for levity. âYou made me cry before breakfast again.â
âAgain?â he echoes, chuckling softly. âIâm starting to think itâs my superpower.â
You canât help but laugh at that, even as you swipe at your damp cheeks. âYouâd give Tony a run for his money.â
âIâll let him know,â Steve says with a wink, sliding the plate closer to you. âNow eat your pancakes before they get cold.â
You roll your eyes, but the teasing warmth in his tone makes you reach for your fork. The first bite is everything you expectedâsoft, sweet, and rich with the perfect balance of flavors. You moan appreciatively, and Steve grins at the sound, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âGood?â he asks, resting his chin on one hand as he watches you.
âGood,â you say around a mouthful of pancake, the tension in your chest easing with every bite.
For a while, the two of you eat in companionable silence, the kind that only comes from years of knowing and loving each other. Steve tells you about his runâhow Sam gave him grief for being late to their meeting spot, how the park was unusually crowded this morningâand you listen with a soft smile, chiming in occasionally with little jokes or questions.
But even as the conversation flows, you can see the way Steve keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, like heâs still trying to puzzle you out. Heâs always been like this, endlessly patient, endlessly curious about the way your mind works.
Finally, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, studying you. âYou know,â he says thoughtfully, âI donât think Iâll ever get used to how sensitive you are.â
You pause mid-bite, your fork hovering just shy of your lips. âIs that a bad thing?â you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
âNot at all,â he says quickly, his expression earnest. âI mean it in the best way. You feel everything so deeply, and⊠I donât know. It amazes me, I guess. How you can look at something as simple as pancakes and see all the love behind it.â
Your cheeks warm at his words, and you glance down at your plate. âI donât mean to make a big deal out of things,â you mumble. âI just⊠I canât help it. When you do something sweet, it gets to me.â
He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. âI donât want you to help it,â he says, his voice soft but firm. âI love that about you. I love that you cry over movies and surprise gifts and little things like pancakes. It reminds me to slow down and appreciate those things too.â
You blink at him, your throat tightening all over again. âYou mean that?â
âEvery word,â he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. âSo, if you feel like crying over pancakes or anything else, go ahead. Iâll be here to catch the tears.â
Itâs too muchâhis words, his presence, the unshakable love in his eyes. Before you can stop yourself, youâre crying again, this time out of sheer gratitude. Steve just laughs softly and moves to your side, pulling you into his arms like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âI love you,â you whisper against his chest, your voice trembling.
âI love you too,â he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head. âMore than anything.â
Friday nights at the Tower are sacredâa time to unwind, laugh, and for Tony Stark to force his eclectic taste in movies on the rest of the Avengers. Tonight, the team has assembled in the massive home theater, complete with a state-of-the-art sound system, plush recliners, and enough snacks to sustain a small army.
Youâre curled up next to Steve on one of the oversized couches, your legs tucked beneath you and your head leaning on his shoulder. His arm is draped casually around you, and heâs absently playing with the ends of your hair as Tony prowls the front of the room, remote in hand, his enthusiasm palpable.
âLadies and gentlemen,â Tony announces, dramatically pointing the remote like itâs a scepter, âtonightâs feature presentation is the cinematic masterpiece, Titanic.â
Groans ripple through the group.
âTony, again?â Natasha asks, leaning back in her seat with a smirk. âYou have a billion-dollar movie collection, and you keep picking this one.â
âItâs called having taste, Romanoff,â Tony retorts, tossing her a packet of Red Vines. âSome of us recognize greatness when we see it. This movie has it all: romance, drama, social commentary, and the single greatest piece of floating debris in cinematic history.â
âItâs a door,â Clint says flatly.
âItâs art,â Tony snaps back, dramatically clutching his chest like heâs been wounded.
Steve chuckles under his breath, squeezing your shoulder gently. âYou okay with this one?â he asks, his voice low and warm. âWe can always sneak out and watch something else.â
You shake your head, giving him a small, teary smile. âNo, itâs fine. I just⊠Iâm probably going to cry.â
âI know,â he says softly, brushing a kiss to your temple. âItâs okay.â
The others are still bickering as the lights dim and the iconic opening notes of James Hornerâs score fill the room. You take a deep breath, already bracing yourself. Youâve seen Titanic beforeâenough times to know that youâre in for an emotional rideâbut somehow, the anticipation makes it worse.
It doesnât take long. By the time Rose boards the ship and gazes out at the ocean, your eyes are already brimming with tears. The sheer scale of the doomed ship, the haunting foreshadowingâit all hits you at once.
âUh, are you okay?â Bruce whispers from the seat next to you, looking genuinely concerned.
âYeah,â you manage, your voice thick. âI just⊠I know whatâs going to happen.â
Steve, unfazed, reaches into the bowl of popcorn and pops a kernel into his mouth. âThis is normal,â he explains casually to Bruce, his tone as calm as if he were describing the weather. âShe gets emotional during movies. Itâs just how she is.â
Bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing like heâs trying to understand. âBut⊠itâs barely started.â
âSheâs a big feeler,â Steve says with a shrug, pulling you a little closer as your sniffles grow louder.
âIs someone crying already?â Tony hisses from the front row, twisting around to squint into the dim light. When his eyes land on you, he raises an eyebrow. âWe havenât even hit the iceberg. You know that, right?â
âShe knows,â Steve replies evenly, not even looking up from the screen. He grabs a tissue from the box he always keeps nearby during movie nightsâspecifically for youâand hands it to you without missing a beat.
Tonyâs jaw drops. âYou brought tissues specifically for this?â
âOf course,â Steve says, as though itâs obvious. âIt happens every time.â
The group exchanges looks, equal parts bewildered and amused, but Steve just leans down to kiss the top of your head. âYouâre okay,â he murmurs, his voice soothing. âJust let it out.â
âWow,â Clint says, his tone dripping with mock admiration. âYouâre a braver man than I am, Rogers.â
The movie marches on, each scene tugging at your heartstrings with surgical precision. Jack and Rose meet. They fall in love. They dance in third class and spit off the back of the ship. By the time theyâre standing on the prow, their arms spread wide as the wind rushes around them, youâre openly sobbing into Steveâs chest.
âAm I supposed to do something?â Bruce whispers, looking helplessly at Steve.
âNope,â Steve replies, rubbing slow circles on your back. âJust let her cry. Sheâll feel better afterward.â
âIâm not sure thatâs how crying works,â Bruce mutters, but he stays quiet, occasionally passing you another tissue.
Tony, meanwhile, is watching you with thinly veiled amusement. âIâve gotta ask,â he says during a quieter moment, âdo you cry at every movie, or is this one just special?â
âNot every movie,â Steve says, his lips twitching into a small smile. âBut most of them. Especially the ones with tragic endings.â
âThatâs an understatement,â Natasha says dryly. âRemember Finding Nemo?â
Clint snorts. âOh, that was legendary. We werenât even five minutes in, and she was already bawling over the mom dying.â
Tony looks scandalized. âFinding Nemo? Thatâs a kidsâ movie!â
âAnd yetâŠâ Clint gestures toward you, now hiccupping softly as Jack and Rose sneak into the cargo hold for their iconic steamy scene.
âShe just feels things deeply,â Steve says, his voice laced with affection. âItâs one of the things I love about her.â
Tony groans dramatically, throwing a handful of popcorn in Steveâs direction. âYouâre making the rest of us look bad, Rogers. Stop being so disgustingly wholesome.â
âNot my fault you guys donât bring tissues for your girlfriends,â Steve shoots back, his smirk widening.
By the time the ship hits the iceberg, the mood in the room has shifted. Even Tony has gone quiet, though heâs clearly trying to maintain his composure. You, on the other hand, are a wreck. The sight of the passengers scrambling for lifeboats, the haunting wails of the violinists playing âNearer My God to Theeââitâs too much.
Your sobs reach a crescendo as Jack and Rose cling to each other in the freezing water, their breaths ragged and visible in the frigid air. Steve adjusts his hold on you, tucking your head under his chin and murmuring soft reassurances.
âIâll never let go, Jack!â Rose cries, her voice breaking.
You lose it completely, clutching at Steveâs shirt as though your own heart is breaking. Steve strokes your hair, his voice calm and steady. âItâs okay, sweetheart. Iâm here.â
Tony, meanwhile, is blinking rapidly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. âWhat?â he says defensively when Clint raises an eyebrow at him. âItâs allergies. Big-screen projectors always make my eyes water.â
Natasha snickers. âSure they do.â
As the credits roll, youâre still hiccupping softly, your face buried in Steveâs chest. He doesnât seem to mind, his hand moving in a soothing rhythm along your back.
âOkay, that was⊠intense,â Bruce says, looking around the room like heâs not sure what just happened.
âIâm pretty sure I lost three pounds in tears,â Clint adds, tossing an empty box of tissues onto the table. âDo we have a hydration station somewhere?â
Tony sniffs loudly and stands, stretching his arms overhead. âWell, folks, thatâs how you do cinema. Epic. Heartbreaking. Unforgettable.â
âAdmit it, you cried,â Natasha says, smirking at him.
âI did no such thing,â Tony replies, looking deeply offended. âUnlike some peopleâŠâ He gestures dramatically toward you, still snuggled against Steve.
âHey,â Steve says with a shrug, his tone as casual as ever. âSheâs passionate. Itâs one of the reasons I love her.â
âYouâre an actual saint,â Clint mutters, shaking his head.
You finally lift your head, your cheeks streaked with tears but your eyes shining with gratitude. âThanks for letting me cry all over you,â you say softly to Steve, your voice still wobbly.
âAnytime,â he replies, his smile warm and unwavering. âYou know Iâve got you.â
Tony groans loudly, throwing his hands in the air. âAnd this,â he says, gesturing wildly at the two of you, âis why Iâm never inviting you to movie night again. You two are too cute, and itâs ruining the vibe.â
âTony, youâre just mad because you cried,â Natasha quips.
âI did not cry!â Tony protests, his voice rising an octave.
Bruce chuckles, leaning back in his seat. âWhatever you say, Tony.â
As the group dissolves into laughter, Steve leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. âYou okay now?â he asks, his voice just for you.
You nod, your heart swelling with love for the man who always makes space for your emotions, no matter how messy they are. âI am,â you whisper. âThanks to you.â
âGood,â he murmurs, pulling you close. âBecause weâre definitely sneaking out before Tony picks another three-hour tearjerker.â
You laugh through the last of your sniffles, feeling safe and loved in his arms. As far as youâre concerned, thereâs no better way to end a movie night.
After the emotional rollercoaster of Titanic, the Avengers agree on one thing: no more movies that could make you cry. Steve, ever the supportive boyfriend, gently suggests a comedy for the next round, earning nods from everyone in the room. Even Tony, slightly miffed from being accused (rightfully) of shedding a tear during Roseâs tearful farewell to Jack, throws in his agreement.
âAlright, team,â Tony announces, striding to the movie library with a flourish. âSince apparently, Iâve been overly ambitious in my cinematic choices, Iâll keep it light. Comedy. Laughs. Penguins falling over or something. Nobody cries at penguins, right?â
âRight,â you say with an encouraging smile, though your earlier sob session has left your voice hoarse.
Steve wraps an arm around your shoulder, his lips brushing your temple. âYou sure youâre up for another movie?â
You nod enthusiastically. âIâm good. Something funny sounds perfect.â
The new movie is a slapstick comedy involving ridiculous pratfalls, a few over-the-top explosions (Tonyâs insistence), and a hilarious subplot about a cat that keeps stealing its ownerâs Wi-Fi password. Itâs everything you need to decompress from the earlier emotional onslaught, and soon the room is filled with the sound of laughter.
Even Steve, who isnât always in sync with modern humor, is chuckling at the absurd antics on screen. Youâre curled up next to him, giggling into his shoulder as a character accidentally sets his kitchen on fire trying to make toast. Across the room, Tony and Clint are reenacting a particularly ridiculous dance scene, complete with exaggerated hip thrusts.
âSee?â Tony says triumphantly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. âThis is how you do a movie night. Fun! Light! No tears.â
Natasha arches an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics. âGive it time, Stark. Weâre not done yet.â
Hours later, after the comedy has ended and a few rounds of drinks have been poured, Tony somehow stumbles upon a nature documentary titled The Journey of Life. The cover features an adorable penguin waddling across a snowy landscape, and Tony declares it âperfect background noise.â
âThis,â he slurs slightly, pointing at the screen, âis what we need. Penguins. Cute, waddling, ice-sliding penguins. No emotions. Just vibes.â
âAre we sure this is a good idea?â Bruce asks cautiously, but Tony is already pressing play, plopping down on the couch with a fresh drink in hand.
Steve looks at you, his eyebrow raised in question. âYou okay with this?â
âItâs just penguins,â you reply with a shrug, snuggling into his side. âWhatâs the worst that could happen?â
At first, itâs exactly what Tony promised. The documentary opens with breathtaking shots of snowy mountains and vast, icy plains. The narratorâs soothing British accent describes the challenges of survival in the harsh Antarctic environment as a colony of emperor penguins waddles across the frozen landscape.
âOh my god, look at them!â you exclaim, your eyes lighting up. âTheyâre so cute!â
âTheyâre ridiculous,â Tony says with a chuckle. âLike tiny, overdressed toddlers. I love them.â
Everyone relaxes, lulled by the majestic scenery and the gentle cadence of the narratorâs voice. Even Steve seems to be enjoying himself, his hand absentmindedly stroking your back as you watch the penguins slide on their bellies and huddle together for warmth.
It starts with a single penguin chickâfluffy, wide-eyed, and impossibly adorable. It stumbles away from the group, its tiny feet slipping on the ice as it struggles to keep up with its parents. The narrator explains, in heartbreakingly calm tones, that not every chick survives the journey to the feeding grounds.
âNo,â you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth as the camera zooms in on the chickâs desperate waddling. âNo, no, no. Someone help him!â
âItâs nature,â Clint says uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. âIt happens.â
âDoesnât mean we have to watch it!â Tony snaps, his earlier bravado evaporating. His face is red, and heâs gripping his whiskey glass a little too tightly.
Steve sighs, pulling you closer as your sniffles begin. âItâs just a documentary, sweetheart. Itâs the circle of life.â
âCircle of life my ass,â Tony grumbles, his voice thick. âThat chick deserves better.â
As the chick stumbles farther away, your tears begin in earnest. âHeâs lost! Heâs so little! Steve, heâs not going to make it, is he?â
Steve pats your back, his voice soft but resigned. âProbably not, sweetheart.â
âWhy are we watching this?â Tony demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Bruce. âYou shouldâve stopped me! Youâre the smart one!â
âI didnât know it was going to get sad!â Bruce protests, throwing up his hands. âItâs a documentary about penguins!â
By the time the chickâs fate is sealed (you canât even bring yourself to look as the narrator solemnly declares that itâs âa tragic but essential part of the ecosystemâ), you and Tony are both a mess. Youâre clutching Steveâs shirt, sobbing into his chest, while Tony sniffles loudly into his empty glass.
âItâs not fair,â you cry, your voice muffled. âHe was just a baby!â
âI know,â Tony says, his voice cracking. âHe didnât even get a chance! He deserved a chance!â He gestures wildly at the screen. âWhy didnât they save him? Someone couldâveââ
âItâs a documentary,â Natasha interrupts dryly, though even she looks mildly uncomfortable. âNo oneâs interfering.â
âThatâs barbaric,â Tony declares, wiping at his eyes. âIâm calling PETA.â
Steve kisses the top of your head, his hand running soothingly along your back. âYou want to stop watching?â he offers quietly.
âNo,â you hiccup, though youâre clearly still devastated. âI need to see if the others are okay.â
The documentary continues, alternating between moments of lighthearted penguin antics and devastating tragedies. Each time something sad happens, you and Tony are reduced to tears, much to the bemusement of the rest of the team.
By the end of the film, when the surviving penguins finally reach their feeding grounds and triumphantly slide into the water, you and Tony are clinging to each other like war survivors.
âThat was horrific,â Tony declares, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin. âWhoever made that documentary is a monster. I need a drink.â
âYouâve had several drinks,â Natasha points out, rolling her eyes.
âNot enough to erase that from my memory,â Tony replies dramatically. He glances at you, his expression softening slightly. âYou okay, cry queen?â
You manage a shaky smile. âI think so. That was just⊠a lot.â
Steve, ever your rock, kisses your temple and pulls you close. âI donât think weâll be watching documentaries again anytime soon,â he murmurs.
âSeconded,â Tony says, raising his glass. âTo no more emotional devastation disguised as education. Whoâs with me?â
âAgreed,â Clint says, shaking his head. âNo more penguins. Ever.â
As the team dissolves into laughter and lighthearted teasing, you snuggle deeper into Steveâs arms, feeling safe despite the emotional rollercoaster. No matter how many tears you shed â or how often Tony joins you â you know youâll always have the worldâs most patient boyfriend by your side.
The tower is unusually quiet after the emotional whirlwind of the movie night. The penguins have long since waddled off the screen, the room cleaned up from the chaos of snack wrappers and spilled drinks. Youâre asleep now, curled up on the couch with your head resting in Steveâs lap, the faint remnants of tears drying on your cheeks.
The others linger, nursing drinks or settling into the comfortable post-movie quiet. Steveâs hand moves gently over your hair, his touch instinctive and protective as he listens to the idle conversation around him.
âPoor thing,â Natasha says softly, nodding toward you. âI donât think Iâve ever seen someone cry so much over a documentary.â
âSpeak for yourself,â Clint retorts, jerking a thumb at Tony. âHe went through an entire roll of tissues.â
Tony, leaning back in his chair with his drink in hand, glares. âItâs called empathy, Barton. You wouldnât understand.â
âEmpathy,â Natasha repeats dryly, raising an eyebrow. âOr maybe whiskey?â
âA little of column A, a little of column B,â Tony mutters, waving her off. His gaze flicks toward you, then back to Steve. âYouâve got the patience of a saint, Rogers. How do you do it?â
Steve chuckles softly, looking down at you with a fondness so deep itâs almost tangible. âI love her,â he says simply, his voice quiet but steady. âShe feels everything so deeply, and yeah, that means a lot of tears, but itâs also what makes her so special. Sheâs got the biggest heart of anyone Iâve ever met.â
âAww,â Clint says, his tone mocking but not unkind. âCapâs going all gooey on us.â
Steve shakes his head with a smile, but thereâs something thoughtful in his expression, something weighing on him. He glances at the team, then back at you, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, after a momentâs hesitation, he clears his throat.
âThereâs actually something Iâve been meaning to talk to you all about,â he begins, his voice low. âI want to ask her to marry me.â
The room goes still. Natasha blinks, her eyebrows lifting slightly. Bruce, whoâs been quietly sipping his tea, looks up with a small, surprised smile. Tony leans forward, suddenly all ears.
âWell, thatâs not shocking,â Clint says, breaking the silence. âYouâve been together, what, seven years? We were wondering when you were going to pop the question.â
Steve nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. âYeah, itâs been a while. Iâve known for a long time that sheâs the one. ButâŠâ He hesitates, his eyes dropping to your sleeping form. His hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight. âIâm scared.â
âScared of what?â Bruce asks gently.
Steve lets out a soft sigh, his brow furrowing. âHer reaction. Sheâs so sensitive, and she gets overwhelmed easily. What if I ask and she has a panic attack? Or starts crying so much she canât even answer me? I just⊠I donât want to put her through that.â
Tony snorts. âYouâre worried sheâs going to cry? Newsflash, Rogers: she cries when you bring her coffee in bed. This is a proposal, man. Of course sheâs going to cry.â
âTony,â Natasha says, shooting him a warning look. âHeâs being serious.â
âI am serious,â Tony retorts. âLook, sheâs emotional, yeah, but sheâs not fragile. She loves you, Rogers. Thatâs the whole point. Sheâs not going to freak out because you ask her to marry herâwell, not in a bad way, at least.â
Steve looks unconvinced. âI know she loves me,â he says quietly. âBut I also know how overwhelming things can be for her. I donât want to put her in a position where she feels pressured or out of control.â
Natasha tilts her head, studying him with that sharp, analytical gaze of hers. âSo donât make it overwhelming,â she says simply. âYou donât have to plan some elaborate proposal. Just talk to her. Make it quiet, intimate. Something that feels safe.â
âYeah,â Bruce adds, his tone thoughtful. âSheâs not the kind of person who needs a big show, is she? Sheâd probably appreciate something small, just the two of you.â
Steve nods slowly, his mind working through their words. âYouâre right. She doesnât like big gestures. She always says the little things matter more to her.â
âExactly,â Natasha says. âSo make it one of those little things. Something simple but meaningful.â
Tony, whoâs been uncharacteristically quiet for the past minute, suddenly speaks up. âAnd if she does cry,â he says, his voice unusually soft, âitâs not because sheâs scared or upset. Itâs because she loves you so much she doesnât know how else to show it.â
The room falls silent at that, the weight of Tonyâs words settling over them. Steve looks around at his teammatesâhis familyâand lets out a breath he didnât realize he was holding.
âThanks,â he says softly. âI needed to hear that.â
âAnytime,â Natasha replies, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
The apartment is quiet, the kind of warm, serene quiet that feels like a cocoon against the bustling world outside. Itâs just the two of you tonight, the cityâs hum dimmed by the thick curtains and the steady rhythm of the life youâve built together. Dinner was simple but perfectâSteve made your favorite meal, and you couldnât stop laughing when he got flour on his nose halfway through baking the dessert. Now, the dishes are done, the candles still flicker softly on the dining table, and the scent of warm vanilla lingers in the air.
Steveâs been acting a little off all evening. Not in a bad way, but in that telltale way that youâve come to recognize over the years. Heâs quieter than usual, thoughtful, his blue eyes darting to you and away as though heâs trying to solve a puzzle in his head. Youâve asked him twice if everythingâs okay, and both times heâs smiled at you and said, âOf course,â before steering the conversation somewhere else.
Youâre curled up on the couch now, a blanket draped over your lap as you sip the last of your wine. Steve sits beside you, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. His gaze lingers on you, soft and reverent, like youâre the only thing in the world worth looking at.
âSteve,â you say, turning to him with a playful smile. âYouâre staring.â
âAm I?â he replies, though he doesnât look away. His lips curve into that small, lopsided grin you adore, and your heart does its familiar flip-flop in your chest.
âYes, you are,â you tease, nudging his leg with your foot. âWhatâs on your mind?â
For a moment, he doesnât answer. His hand moves to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle and deliberate, as though heâs memorizing the shape of you. Then he leans back slightly, his hand slipping into his pocket.
âThereâs something Iâve been wanting to talk to you about,â he says, his voice calm but carrying a weight that makes your stomach flutter.
Your brows knit together as you sit up straighter. âIs everything okay?â
âItâs more than okay,â he says softly, and thereâs a flicker of nervousness in his eyes now, a vulnerability that catches you off guard. He shifts, moving from the couch to kneel in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees.
Your heart skips. âSteveââ
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. The sight of it steals the breath from your lungs, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as tears instantly pool in your eyes.
âI know how youâre feeling right now,â Steve says gently, his voice steady despite the faint blush creeping up his neck. âAnd I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?â
You tryâreally, you doâbut the tears are already spilling over, and a choked laugh escapes you as you press your fingers to your lips. Steve smiles, his thumb brushing over your knee.
âThatâs my girl,â he murmurs, his voice soft and full of affection. He opens the box, revealing a stunningly simple yet beautiful ringâa delicate gold band with a single, glittering diamond. Itâs understated and timeless, just like him, and itâs so perfect you can barely breathe.
âY/N,â he begins, his eyes never leaving yours. âIâve loved you for seven years. From the first moment we met, I knew there was something about you, something I couldnât let go of. Youâve taught me what it means to live in the present, to love with my whole heart, and to find joy in the little things.â
Your tears are flowing freely now, and youâre shaking your head as though you canât believe whatâs happening. Steve chuckles softly, his own eyes glistening.
âYouâve stood by me through everything,â he continues. âThrough battles, through doubts, through all the times Iâve struggled to figure out where I fit in this world. Youâve always been my home, my safe place. And I canât imagine spending another day without you by my side.â
He pauses, his voice catching slightly, and for a moment, you see a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. âI know how deeply you feel things, and I know this might be overwhelming for you. But I promise, sweetheart, you donât have to say anything right away. I just need you to know how much I love you.â
He takes a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. âSo, Y/N,â he says, his voice trembling just the tiniest bit. âWill you marry me?â
The question lands like a thunderclap in your chest. Youâre crying so hard now that you can barely see him through the blur of your tears. You try to speak, to form words, but they come out in a jumble of half-sobs and gasps.
âSteveâoh my godâIââ You press your hands to your cheeks, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions coursing through you. âIâI donâtââ
Steve waits patiently, his hands still steady on your knees, his expression soft and understanding. âTake your time, sweetheart,â he says quietly.
âI love you,â you finally manage to choke out, your voice trembling. âSo much. You donât even knowâI justââ
Steve smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. âI think I have an idea,â he says softly.
You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as you try to pull yourself together. âYes,â you finally gasp, your voice breaking on the word. âYes, Steve. Of course, yes.â
His breath leaves him in a rush, and his smile widens into something radiant as he slips the ring from the box and gently slides it onto your finger. It fits perfectly, and you stare at it through your tears, your heart bursting with so much love you think you might actually explode.
âI love you,â Steve says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, your face buried in his shoulder as you sob into his shirt. He holds you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist.
âI love you too,â you whisper against his neck, your voice muffled and shaky. âSo much. I canât believe this is real.â
âItâs real,â he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. âYouâre mine, and Iâm yours. Always.â
You pull back just enough to look at him, your tears still streaming but your smile brighter than the stars. âYouâre too good to me,â you say, your voice trembling. âI donât deserve you.â
Steve shakes his head, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. âYou deserve the world, Y/N,â he says simply. âAnd Iâll spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you.â
You laugh again, a soft, breathless sound, and Steve leans in to kiss you, his lips gentle but full of promise. Itâs the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the kind of love that feels eternal.
When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, your hands cupping his face as you whisper, âI canât wait to spend the rest of my life with you.â
Steveâs smile is soft, his eyes shining with unspoken emotion. âMe neither,â he says quietly. âMe neither.â
The morning sun streams through the windows, bathing the room in a golden light that feels impossibly warm and perfect. You stir under the rumpled sheets, the fabric soft against your bare skin, and the memories of the night before come rushing back. It had started tender, Steveâs hands moving over you with a reverence that left you breathless. But the sweetness had given way to something deeper, more passionateâan expression of love so consuming that it had left you both utterly undone.
Beside you, Steve shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. âGood morning, my beautiful bride-to-be,â he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and full of affection.
Your heart clenches immediately, and before you can stop yourself, tears well up in your eyes. You press your hands to your face, a choked laugh escaping as you tryâand failâto keep it together.
âOh no,â Steve says with a chuckle, propping himself up on one elbow. âI didnât even say anything that emotional this time.â
âYou called me your bride-to-be,â you manage to say through your tears, your voice trembling with joy. âHow am I supposed to handle that, Steve?â
He laughs softly, his hand brushing over your hair as he pulls you closer. âSweetheart, if this is how youâre going to react every time I call you that, Iâm in trouble. Because I plan on saying it a lot.â
You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his chest. His skin is warm and familiar, and his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek feels like home. âIâm sorry,â you mumble. âI donât mean to cry so much. Iâm just⊠so happy.â
âI know,â he says gently, his fingers trailing soothingly down your back. âAnd I love you for it.â
After a while, your tears subside, and you lift your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are soft and full of love, and the way heâs looking at you makes your breath catch. âGood morning,â you say softly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. âMy handsome fiancĂ©.â
His grin widens at your words, and he leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet. âI like the sound of that,â he says against your lips. âFiancĂ©. And soon, husband.â
You feel your cheeks heat, your heart fluttering in your chest. âI canât believe this is real,â you say quietly, tracing a finger along his jaw. âI keep thinking Iâm going to wake up and itâll all be a dream.â
âItâs real,â Steve assures you, his tone steady and full of certainty. âYouâre mine, and Iâm yours. Nothingâs ever going to change that.â
The moment stretches between you, filled with a quiet, glowing warmth that feels too perfect to be real. But it is real, and as you lie there in his arms, you canât imagine anything more perfect.
Eventually, Steve glances at the clock and sighs. âWe should probably get up,â he says reluctantly. âThe others are going to want to know.â
You groan, burying your face in the pillow. âDo we have to tell them today? Canât we just stay here a little longer?â
Steve laughs, pulling the blanket off of you just enough to expose your shoulder. âAs much as Iâd love to keep you all to myself, theyâre going to find out eventually. Might as well tell them now before Tony starts making bets.â
You sigh dramatically but canât help smiling as you roll over to look at him. âFine,â you say, your tone mock-annoyed. âBut if I start crying again, itâs your fault.â
âIâll take full responsibility,â he promises, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
An hour later, youâre dressed and ready, though your face is still a little puffy from all the happy tears. Steve holds your hand as you step into the elevator, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your skin. You feel nervous for some reason, though you know the team will be thrilled. Itâs just that sharing something so personal, so precious, feels a little daunting.
âHey,â Steve says softly, squeezing your hand. âItâs going to be fine. They love you.â
You nod, taking a deep breath as the elevator doors slide open to reveal the common room. The Avengers are scattered around the space, Tony sprawled on the couch with a cup of coffee, Natasha and Clint engaged in what looks like a very serious game of chess, and Bruce flipping through a book at the kitchen counter. Thor is munching on a Pop-Tart, his expression as cheerful as ever, while Sam lounges in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone.
Tony is the first to notice you. âWell, well,â he says, setting his coffee down and smirking. âIf it isnât our golden couple. Whatâs with the glowing faces? Did Rogers finally tell you about his collection of antique baseball cards?â
âTony,â Natasha says without looking up from the chessboard, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. âLet them talk.â
Steve clears his throat, his hand still firmly holding yours. âActually,â he begins, glancing at you with a small, encouraging smile. âWe have some news.â
At that, everyone looks up, their interest piqued. Clint leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. âThis should be good.â
You feel your cheeks heat under their collective gaze, but Steveâs presence beside you keeps you grounded. âWeâre engaged,â you blurt out, unable to keep the words in any longer. âSteve proposed last night.â
The room erupts. Natasha and Bruce smile warmly, their congratulations genuine and heartfelt. Thor lets out a booming laugh and claps Steve on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. Sam grins, shaking his head as he mutters, âAbout time.â Clint whistles, looking impressed, while Tony raises his coffee mug in a mock toast.
âWell, Iâll be damned,â Tony says, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. âCongrats, lovebirds. I guess this means I need to start planning the bachelor party.â
Steve groans, and you laugh despite yourself, leaning into his side as the team continues to shower you with affection and teasing remarks. Itâs chaotic and overwhelming, but itâs also full of love, and as you look around the room, you realize just how lucky you are to have this family.
Later, when things have settled down, Steve pulls you aside, his hand resting lightly on your waist. âSee?â he says softly, his blue eyes twinkling. âThat wasnât so bad, was it?â
You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. âNo,â you admit. âIt wasnât bad at all.â
He leans down to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees weak. âI love you, future Mrs. Rogers,â he murmurs, and once again, you find yourself wiping away happy tears.
The day has arrived. Months of planning, fittings, tastings, and a thousand little decisions have all led to this moment, and yet, standing in the bridal suite of the church, you feel like you might burst into tears before you even set foot down the aisle.
Youâre wearing the dress you spent weeks obsessing over. It fits like a dream, a shimmering vision of white and lace that flows around you like a fairytale. Natasha, your bridesmaidâand perhaps the most patient person youâve ever metâstands beside you, hands on your shoulders, trying to keep you from falling apart.
âY/N,â she says firmly, her green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. âYouâve got to hold it together. Youâre going to ruin your makeup if you start crying now.â
âI know, I know,â you say, fanning your face with trembling hands as you try to will away the tears. âItâs just⊠everythingâs so perfect, and Iâm so happy, andâoh my god, Nat, what if I trip?â
âYouâre not going to trip,â she says, her voice calm but decisive. âYouâve practiced this. Youâre wearing sensible heels. Youâve got Tony holding onto you like a lifeline. Youâll be fine.â
At the mention of Tony, you glance toward the door, where heâs pacing just outside. Your âman of honorâ had insisted on walking you down the aisle, and though heâd tried to play it cool, you could see the emotion brimming behind his bravado. Heâd barely been able to get through the rehearsal without tearing up, and now youâre both in danger of becoming sobbing messes before the ceremony even begins.
âI saw him wiping his eyes earlier,â you say with a sniffle, a hint of a laugh breaking through. âIf he cries, Iâm done for. Iâll start sobbing right there in the aisle.â
âThen donât look at him,â Natasha advises, picking up a tissue and dabbing at the corners of your eyes. âKeep your eyes on Steve. Thatâs the goal, remember? Just make it to him without crying.â
At the mention of Steve, your chest tightens with a rush of love so overwhelming itâs almost too much to bear. You picture him standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you, his blue eyes soft and full of adoration. The thought is enough to make you inhale sharply, and Natasha quickly steps in, snapping her fingers in front of your face.
âFocus,â she says sternly. âBreathe. Youâve got this.â
You nod, taking a deep, shaky breath as you try to calm yourself. âOkay. Okay, I can do this.â
Natasha gives you a small, approving smile. âThatâs my girl.â
The door opens slightly, and Tony pokes his head in, his face immediately softening when he sees you. âWow,â he says, his voice unusually quiet. âYou look⊠wow.â
âThanks, Tony,â you say, your voice wavering. âYouâre going to make me cry.â
âDonât you dare,â Natasha warns, pointing a finger at him. âI just got her under control.â
Tony steps into the room, straightening his tie as he tries to compose himself. âOkay, okay, no crying. But seriously, Y/N, you look⊠breathtaking. Steveâs going to lose it when he sees you.â
The lump in your throat grows, and you press a hand to your mouth, willing yourself not to cry. Tony steps closer, taking your hand in his and squeezing gently. âHey,â he says softly. âYouâre going to be amazing. And if you cry, who cares? Itâs your wedding day. You get a free pass.â
You laugh through the tears threatening to spill, nodding as you squeeze his hand back. âThanks, Tony.â
He grins, his usual bravado creeping back in. âBesides, if anyoneâs going to cry, itâs me. Iâm already a wreck. Youâll have to carry me down the aisle at this rate.â
Natasha rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. âYou two are a mess,â she says, shaking her head. âCome on, itâs time.â
Tony offers his arm, and you take it, your fingers trembling slightly as you hold on. The doors to the bridal suite swing open, and you catch a glimpse of the decorated aisle, lined with flowers and softly glowing candles. The music starts, and your heart pounds in your chest as you take your first step forward.
The church is full of familiar faces, but you barely register them. Your eyes are fixed on the man standing at the end of the aisle, his gaze locked onto yours. Steve looks devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, his expression a mixture of awe and love that makes your knees weak.
As you and Tony make your way down the aisle, you hear him sniffle beside you. âDamn it,â he mutters, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. âI said I wasnât going to cry.â
You canât help but laugh softly, your own tears threatening to spill again. But Natashaâs words echo in your mind, and you keep your focus on Steve, drawing strength from the love shining in his eyes.
Finally, you reach the altar, and Tony steps back, giving your hand to Steve with a small, emotional smile. Steveâs hands are warm as they take yours, and his voice is steady as he whispers, âYouâre beautiful.â
And thatâs it. The tears spill over, and you laugh through them, shaking your head as Steve gently brushes them away with his thumbs. âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âI told myself I wasnât going to cry.â
âI donât mind,â he says softly, his voice full of affection. âI love that you feel so much. Itâs one of the things I love most about you.â
The ceremony begins, and though the tears continue to flow, theyâre tears of joy, shared by more than just you and Tony. By the time you say âI do,â the entire room feels wrapped in the warmth of the love you and Steve share, a love that shines brighter than any tears.
we need more soft fics in this sea of smut! (I like smut fics too but like...sometimes I just want something fluffy)
#amethyst arachnid#comics#marvel#marvel fanfiction#marvel x reader#movies#gaming#x reader#steve rogers fluff#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers fanfiction#steve rogers x you#steve rogers imagine#captain america#captain america x reader#captain america fanfiction#steve rogers#chris evans#chris evans x reader#chris evans x you#chris evans x female reader#chris evans x y/n#steve rogers x y/n#marvel fluff#mcu x reader#mcu fanfiction#mcu imagine
66 notes
·
View notes
Text
The constant references to Otome Dissection are really interesting. Otome Dissection is about a suicidal girl who uses her connection to another person as her life line, constantly clinging to them and depending on them until they're drained and she goes too far and ends up dying. Which fits for Monitoring Miku, right? We don't know enough about her life to say she's suicidal but her entire existence is focused on the person she loves- except the song doesn't compare her to Otome Dissection, but instead the person she loves. She wants to "save (their) dissected heart".
At first, this doesn't seem to make much sense, right? This person, who I'll called "Monitored" for convenience, wants nothing to do with her- atleast until the end. But when you start picking apart Otome Dissection's lyrics more, the way Miku views their 'relationship' starts making more sense.
All throughout Monitoring, Miku showers Monitored in praise and comfort, telling them to just show her everything they want to hide, show all their pain so she can accept and heal it. In Otome Dissection, our protagonist is hesitant to fully rely on her lover, stuck inbetween wanting to pour everything on them and wanting to hide away from them. "Both of us with our masks on, we flirted" "Yeah, there's a kid there, lost in anything and everything, shedding tears, meowing 'SOS' with their eyes only halfway open" "I don't want to go so far as to share all the things that cause me pain, I just want to run away from this love" "'I don't want to live' is what I should've said, will I ever find peace?" This helps make Miku's perspective in Monitoring alot clearer- she's not just trying to break Monitored's will down so they let her in, she's genuinely convinced they secretly want her, and is simply putting on a mask of not wanting to let her in, very literally hiding how they really feel behind the door, and she just needs to convince them to let her in. They're 'purposely' "sprinkling spices" on the two of them, and it's Miku's job to "lick away (the) spices".
In some way, she's not completely wrong. We hear Miku call Monitored constantly through the song, and since she's talking to the door while she does this, I imagine its more of some way to check they're actually there listening to her rather than wanting them to pick up. Based on the vibrating sound, she's calling their cellphone rather than landline, and she only seems to have the one phone, so why don't they ever block her? Why don't they ever do anything to get rid of her? Why do they go and listen to her everytime? Unfortunately for Miku, it's not because they're super secretly in love with her and playing a game, but as Miku makes very clear in the song, Monitored is extremely lonely. They obviously don't want to be stalked and harassed, it's clearly having a negative affect on their mental state, their vision distorting whenever Miku is around- I doubt they're literally hallucinating but rather just feeling like they're going insane from the constant monitoring. We see their vision clear up and go back to normal when Miku lets up a little at the bridge, only for the visual distortions to reach their peak when she comes back full force. When Monitored eventually gives up and lets her in, their vision is normal again, as if they've just accepted her constant presence in their life as normal. Giving up is easier than resisting someone who has no intention of stopping, and Monitored is someone usually who spends everyday alone, having no one to share their hobbies with, staying up all night until eventually crying themselves to sleep- they're unable to completely shut out the only person who gives them any sort of love and attention. Miku is very much aware of this, and this is what she preys on to break them down.
It also adds a sense of urgency to Miku's harassment. Monitored's mental health was already bad before all the stalking due to the isolation they deal with, and Otome Dissection ends with the person she loves too drained to help her anymore, leading in her death. If Miku doesn't 'save' Monitored from themselves, she's convinced the worst could happen. Her harassment starts sexual but quickly turns into overbearing comfort, trying to convince them to just lean entirely on her instead of suffering alone. We see at the bridge she stops her constant conversations with Monitored, still waiting outside the door but for much shorter amounts of time. In Otome Dissection's words, she starts to grow "cold", having the "burning passion" pulled out of her. Since she's the one connecting her love to the song, she probably realises what's happening and that's why she goes back to harassing them even more intensely than she did before. In her eyes, she's keeping them alive, showing them that she'll always be there for them. In Monitored's eyes, she's showing them that there's no escape, that any moment of peace and sign of relenting won't last long. Eventually, Monitored is broken down and Miku gets to finally be her idol's savior.
Stream Monitoring đđ
youtube
#songberry#deco*27#vocasong#i wanna break this song down line for line but i have to go to work :< but atleast take this..................#Youtube
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
Halfway through, and it's a close race with Mei Changsu in first with 19.7%, then Zhou Zishu with 19.2%, and finally Pei Huai in third with 18%.
Tag propaganda under the cut:
Pei Huai
#see i don't think mcs is like going out of his way to eat poison#poison just happens to him more often than anyone around him would like#pei huai on the other hand has means motive and opportunity by @sinni-ok-sessi
#I also immediately went for Pei Huai#he literally does this and doesnât even have bullshit poison immunity heâs just Like That by @jianghushenighans
#polls#i chose pei hua but let's be real#it's pei hua and tang fan staring each other down and competitively doing poison shots#while a bored dong'er reads one of tang fan's wips with the bottle of antidote in one hand by @foxofninetales
#nearly voted li lianhua until i saw pei huai there#pei huai is an absolute terror in the vicinity of poison#tang fan: what have you got there? pei huai: A POISON! tang fan: NO!!!#pei huai is the spiders georg of the poison world#average person yadda yadda poison huai who lives in a cave adn drinks 10000 a dayâŠ#(ps iâm love him â€ïž) by @unfortunatelycake
#polls#pei huai#my beloved mad scientist#he does it on purpose for science no duress required#but hed probably do it in exchange for a new world veggie too#heâs just Like That by @auroramagpie
#poll#the sleuth of ming dynasty#please it's (with caveats) so good#pei huai#ok i also adore ying hecong but he won't think twice about asking you to poison yourself whereas lao pei will make you talk him into it by @a-sea-with-no-shores
#i absolutely agree with everyone saying pei huai#didn't he eat a tomato or something bc he was told it was poisonous and was disappointed it wasnât? or am i remembering that wrong by @marquisguyun
Mei Changsu
#I am forced to disagree with my esteemed colleague#on the basis that 'medicine that will give me a month of full function in return for burning out my remaining lifespan' is.#reasonably classifiable as poison. by @morkaischosen
#nirvana in fire#i mean.... he DID do that#more than once even by @acesgroupchat
#you know who I voted for#(mcs)#but maomao would get the vote has she been included#antri by @xiaojingyan-jingwang
Song Qingshi
#soooooo many strong contenders here#but i have to go with song 'i am disfiguring myself with poison on the regular' qingshi#boy is so full of poisons. he's not normal about it. he thinks he's normal about it but he's not by @noswordinourlake
Wu Xie
#there are so many poison-eaters...#but I'm choosing Wu Xie#because he gets surgery so he can inject snake venom directly into his nasal organs#no one wants him to do this#it makes them sad by @vergoftowels
Ying Hecong
#oh my god this is the hardest poll yet#the number of these who have literally eaten poison on purpose in canon....#I think I'm definitely forgetting details about pei huai based on the tags... anyway makes sense that he's winning#I picked ying hecong because I figured other people wouldn't be choosing him but he's a little freak and deserves some recognition#but truly. it's SO hard to choose here. they're all winning the 'idiot who would eat poison' award to me by @silver-grasp
Li Lianhua
#lmao#i voted li lianhua#it doesn't need an explanation#he literally ate something he was allergic to that he considered poison#because it wouldn't affect him bc of the bicha poison#but tbf most of the characters i know on this poll would#zzs definitely would#mcs would if it furthered a plot of his#i know three others by name only so i can't judge by @fire-burning-brighter
#llh literally ingests poision and knockout drugs constantly#they dont effect him but its amazing how many people you can convince when you can just hit poisions whenever#feel like he ingests at least one (at least semi-) toxic substance every plot arc by @fealiniel
Other
#my mind immediately went to Apothecary Diaries#maomao#jinshi#the apothecary diaries#but applies to MCS too i guess đ by @indelibleme
#I feel every single one of these is i_cant_read.png at the sight of a warning label#if they're in the mood#see also:#yu she and zhong wan from 'those years in quest of honor mine'#yu she in particular has never seen a toxic item that he didn't immediately stuff in his mouth while maintaining deliberate eye contact by @woolasaur
#i think it's gotta be wei wuxian#especially emphasizing the part where he does it for Science#and then spits it out by @dripping-moonlight
AITA for preventing my friend from eating POISON?
They claim that it's for science/to mess with people/it just looks so tempting!/don't ever give me an explanation, but I don't think it's wrong to ask them not to literally poison themself? However, they've told me that it's 'enrichment' and I'm a 'spoilsport'. So AITA for stopping them?
Write-ins, propaganda, and images are welcome!
87 notes
·
View notes
Text
Before I read any reviews and let what other, smarter people have to say about Wicked (part 1) cloud my thoughts, I will get some of them down:
It was better than I thought it would be in a lot of ways, and exactly what I expected in others.
The biggest issue is that the movie fundamentally does not trust its audience to be able to think for themselves and put the pieces together. All the jokes are explained. All the important plot beats are drawn out to the point where they lose momentum in their effort to make sure everyone is on the same page. Every emotional beat is its own movie, and it was to the production's detriment in almost every case.
An example of this (and a spoiler) - toward the end of "Defying Gravity," the song fully STOPS so that Elphaba can start to fall, continue to fall, oh no, she's falling, now time slows, and she catches her reflection in a window, and it's the reflection of her child self, and now she's emboldened to act on her own behalf and save herself and in doing so, save the helpless, unloved child she once was, but we didn't NEED any of that, and in my opinion it didn't ADD anything of real substance. I thought it was corny, tbh, and I say this as a lover of corniness, cheesiness, kitsch, and camp.
The sets were beautiful. When the first trailers dropped, I was very afraid that it would all be CGI. But the sets were real and they looked real and I loved them. EXCEPT FOR the random stone Jeff Goldblum Elphaba finds in a cave during "The Wizard and I." Speaking of...
It felt like Elphaba's solo songs, rather than being a driving force, slowed the movie to a halt. During the ensemble numbers, duets, and Galinda's songs, there's movement. Choreo, montage, a sense of direction. Both "The Wizard and I" and "I'm Not That Girl" spent long periods of time just sitting in one place. Maybe that's not a fair assessment; INTG is a contained music-box kind of song, and TWAI had some movement - we see Elphaba hopping over stones with some CGI frogs and eventually breaking out of the Wizard cave and running through a field to look over all of Oz at a cliff's edge. But why make a movie if you're not going to play around a little bit? She has a vision midway through the song, and we don't see it. We see a different vision of hers later, but her "vision almost like a prophecy" in TWAI is just some rippling colorful lights on a giant stone carving of Jeff Goldblum's head. Maybe there was an image in there, actually. I was too distracted by the giant Jeff Goldblum tbh. Someone had to sculpt that. Wild
All of the performances were fantastic. I went in ready to be a hater, but credit where credit is due: Ariana Grande was great as Galinda. Cynthia Erivo knocked it out of the park, too, but I was less worried about her
I have so many more thoughts but it's way past my bedtime and this post is already so long, so I'll say one last critical thing:
In the Broadway production, the costume design progresses through the play as Ozians wear more feathers and furs, as a way to show how attitudes toward Animals are shifting. I felt this was really missing in the movie. The designs were beautiful, but they were missing that additional thoughtful layer.
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
some thoughts i have about the boss themes in nine sols, not including eigong since i haven't beaten her yet. i dont know jack shit about instruments so im sorry if i got any of them wrong but im not a musician i just listen to a lot of music.
lots of little chiming sounds in the melody of goumang's theme (like bells, although maybe i'm reaching), and ominous and discordant sounds making up the background; obviously symbolizing her control over the shi brothers and her use of necromancy as a highly unnatural force. the key sounds minor, which ties into that as well. it's a very fast, intense, and ominous song. also it has no vocals! just various electronic-esque beats and melodies! and it's over quite quickly it's one of the shortest boss themes. despite goumang's presentation of survival of the fittest ideals, when it comes down to it, she's not the fittest and ends up coming across as kind of defanged if that makes sense.
the start of yanlao's theme sounds like a machine booting up. then there's the deep chanting/throat singing? which i think could represent the repository and the artefacts and all the stuff he's been pressured by others to store there if that makes sense. then there's a more traditionally vocalized interlude, which could represent yanlao himself amid the chanting voices of the repository. the theme is highly electronic in nature and, and this is just because i have some form of synesthesia, but it sounds the way the visuals of the boss fight look, all hot pinks and bright greens and blues.
the start of jiequan's theme sounds very very much like the start of another song on the soundtrack but i can't remember which one it is-- maybe one that plays in the apeman facility??? idk. but then that's interrupted by the very intense and in-your-face music, with the actual taipei men's choir doing the chanting (which is very funny to me idk why). i think that's the jie clan and its legacy that jiequan is carrying on and attempting to revive. elements of rock/electric guitar in here, forming a melody thread that kind of overlaps with the choir-- that could be jiequan himself. it kind of gives the vibe of like modernizing something ancient (the rock music mixed with the chanting? am i reaching here?? idk)
lady e's theme has a gentle piano as the "core" melody. the main singer sounds almost like she's screaming in places, but not quite-- lady e trying to hide her anguish and torment from everyone for the longest time. god shes so me. im not sure if my spotify player is just bad but it almost sounds like it glitches out at certain points too? and then there's the screaming in the background before the chorus, representing her coworkers of course. also, the sort of techno beat layered over the piano is really cool; it's like the piano is the peaceful serene part of the soulscape, and the techno part is the technological nature of it, an artificial perfect world. i love this theme so fucking much.
fuxi and nuwa's theme has only two voices the whole time, presumably "their" voices based on the other opera that we see nuwa singing (the female voice in their theme is the same as that one afaik); and how nuwa tuned out all the problems facing the empyrean district and new kunlun at large in order to indulge in her hobbies and hang out with fuxi, and how the two of them had the luxury of being able to do that, is clearly reflected in this, with their theme incorporating no other voices unlike many of the others. initially, fuxi's voice carries most of the song, with nuwa's doing backup vocals, like the first phase of the fight; but the song has almost a second phase as well, where nuwa's voice becomes the main one for a while before fuxi rejoins her. i'm sure the symbolism there is obvious. it's a very rich and layered song, there's a lot going on, lots of instruments and different cool sounds. GOD this fucking soundtrack is so well designed they put so much thought into how to make all the boss themes fit the different sols AUGH. AND AND!! when the song ends the last voice you hear is nuwa's, fuxi's ends dramatically but nuwa's carries on for a little longer. holy fuck.
ji's theme starts slow, and then a choruslike sound bursts in, sounding like a bunch of different voices overlapping each other to the point where they become the same-- the people in ji's past, probably, all the history they've lived to see, it probably blurs together after living for as long as he has. then there's a "chorus" section (though fully instrumental), with a gentle like hopeful rise and a lot of uhhhh metal percussion in the bg? idk instruments. but there's like a jangling beat and this dramatic choir-like rise and im not sure what it means honestly but it's very ji. actually the choir could be like, the core of themself and their personality, and the other beats the background noise/other people he's been? open to input on this one (and all tbh).
all i can say about eigong's theme is that it's the same as the opening and possibly somewhere in the apeman facility which is really its own symbolism
#case files#nine sols#nine sols goumang#nine sols yanlao#nine sols jiequan#nine sols lady ethereal#nine sols fuxi#nine sols nuwa#nine sols ji#music analysis#long post#lady e's and the fengs' are my favourite themes which i think you can tell by how much i wrote abt them#the fengs' theme fucks SO unreasonably hard they did not need to be doing all that
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
đȘ Hewn and Sewn đȘĄ
Iâve been thinking a lot about HĂĄmaâs death again lately and started this fic for Tolkien Horror Week. And then I both failed miserably on the timetable for that and realized that what I needed for myself was to find a way for his horrifying end (itâs there in the books, and itâs not pretty) to not be totally devoid of consolation. And so it maybe wasnât right for a Horror Week event anyway. Your mileage may vary on whether you find anything remotely consoling in it. I just love my guy, my #1, and want him to be happy. I donât know if this accomplishes what I want, but I tried.
CW: canonical character death. He met a brutal end, per Tolkien, and thatâs here, along with a fair amount of battle/war reality, incl. some blood and guts and general violence/death.
Art by @ rinthecap
**********
A body is surprisingly hard to kill.Â
The first thrust of a spear may bring a man to his knees, the second fills his mouth with blood, the third can barely be extracted again from the depths of his chest, but only the fourth brings mercy at last. Until then, the body clings to its life like a sailor adrift in an ocean storm, scrabbling after any tiny scrap of floating debris and clutching with bloodied nails and broken fingers to the last vestiges of a smashed and splintered ship that somehow hasnât yet totally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. The body finds its greatest strength at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its desperate hold on survival and rallying to endure unimaginable suffering for just a little longer â one more boot to the skull, one more arrow through the gut, one more blade in the back, one more, and one more, and one more â to see whether the bodyâs will to live can outlast the enemyâs will to kill.Â
HĂĄma knows all of this now.
He knows that the great tales of history have left out much of the truth, that the epic songs of invincible riders who slice through enemies like a scythe through wheat are more fantasy than fact. They have left out the hard work of dealing death, the sweaty, gruesome, arduous labor of cleaving into skin and muscle, hacking through sinew and bone, splitting open hearts and stomachs and lungs. They have left out the vomit and the blood and the entrails, the slippery gore that loosens grips and unsteadies footings, sending blows wide of their marks and into places that deliver pain rather than ending it. They have left out the soul-deadening horror of looking another man in the eye and realizing the only way to end his misery is to first give him more. Â
These realities are seldom spoken of, threatening as they are to the necessary project of war. New soldiers each discover them on their own, and HĂĄma was no different. He came to the army while still hardly more than a boy, an idealist raised on stories of grand, heroic campaigns and aspiring to the honor of being one of the kingâs own guards. None but his mother had tried to warn him of the cruelties he was sure to encounter, for she knew well the gentle heart that beat in her sonâs chest. Always the first to smile, to extend a hand of welcome, to offer quiet encouragement, to assume the best even of those who had done him harm, she knew how such a heart would rebel against those inevitable cruelties. But he had so little experience of all that was vicious and foul in the world that he couldnât truly comprehend the warning, no matter how carefully he listened, and in the end her bleak, abstract prudence was no match for the vivid potency of his dreams. He kissed her farewell and went off in trusting pursuit of all that was noble and righteous, blissfully innocent of the ugly truth behind the fantasy.
It took only one battle for him to realize that the valiant and glorious contests of poetry were neither valiant nor glorious but rather panicked, messy slogs where nothing was simple, nothing was clear and nothing was as he expected it to be. The shock of it nearly got him killed, frozen fast in horror amidst a raging squall of bristling spears and glinting blades and hearing nothing but the echo of his motherâs words, suddenly so palpable and so obvious. Only the panic and the mess and the general disorder saved him from meeting his fate before he was able to rouse himself at last to the grim necessity of action and do what was expected of him. He waded into the carnage, he added to it, he turned aside from suffering that he couldnât relieve, he tried not to look at suffering that he had caused. And somehow, by the grace of BĂ©ma, he survived to see the victory, though the word itself now caught in his throat, devoid of meaning.
He cried after that battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the dayâs bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very core of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldnât yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever.Â
He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what youâre feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial â old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with skinned knees or milk stains on their upper lips â all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan had arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left HĂĄma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.
It seemed a simple reminder, a basic truth so obvious that it need not be spoken, and yet he had needed to hear it all the same. To be a guardian, using his strength and abilities to protect others, had been his earliest aspiration, and now perhaps that dream could protect his own heart as well, offering him the sense of purpose that would help to make the suffering feel worthwhile. He walked slowly from the silent field and back into the center of the village, where water was being drawn, animals fed, children minded, lives lived despite the tragedy to befall them. He rejoined his Ă©ored with a brief nod to the older soldier, and when they rode out again, he did so with the rent in his heart not healed but at least knit loosely together again, mended with stitches of duty and honor.
*****
Since that day he has killed many times, never unprovoked or with wanton disregard and never with the overpowering horror of that first battle, but also never with the clean, simple ease that he had once been led to expect. Each time he is forced to inflict pain on another, he feels it in his own limbs, and though he hates no man, he comes closest in his despair over those who fight him the hardest, who persist through blow after weary blow and refuse to yield or retreat. Do not force me to do this to you, his mind pleads silently, and sometimes, though it means the same thing, do not force me to do this to myself. In direst conditions, compelled to keep defending himself from an opponent with the white glimmer of bone shining out from mangled red flesh or with a dark, empty space where an eye had just been, he cannot keep these thoughts contained to his own head. Barely audible amidst the clash of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats and the groaning of the injured and maimed, he speaks the words aloud. I am sorry.
Many of these men linger in his memories, images of them emerging suddenly and unbidden from the depths of his mind while in the middle of doing other, more benign things. The man who stared up at him from a puddle of gore, tears streaming from eyes that were the same pale green as those of HĂĄmaâs youngest sister. The grievously wounded man who had spit in HĂĄmaâs face when offered mercy before plunging a knife into his own throat. The man who whimpered one word over and over as they grappled for control, a word HĂĄma later learned meant âpleaseâ in the tongue of the Easterlings. These memories tear at the stitches in his heart, testing their strength and threatening to sunder him anew.
One man in particular haunts his thoughts, lurking always in the shadows of his waking mind or the hazy, fragmented mirages of his dreams. Part of a company of Dunlendings who crossed the Adorn without leave, this man was a talented warrior, and had he only been taller or slightly larger of frame things might have ended differently. As it was, it took three heavy strokes of HĂĄmaâs sword to bring him down, and the battle-notched edge of HĂĄmaâs blade caught on something as he sought to pull back the final stroke. Forced to lean in close, to brace his foot by the dying manâs chest as he struggled to free his weapon from whatever barbed hook of metal or bone had trapped it, he found something he did not expect on the haggard, shivering face that was now only inches from his own â a smile, small but clear, and growing only wider as the man pulled in his last rasping breaths and the light slowly dimmed from his eyes.
The memory of that smile never truly leaves HĂĄma. It follows him everywhere, as attached to his mind as his shadow is to his feet. He sees it when he stands long, lonely hours on watch in the cold and when he sits in a crowded tavern that swelters with the heat of a hundred bodies pressed side by side. It creeps up on him in the quiet wandering of his thoughts while his hands perform some common, repetitive task, or it appears with startling suddenness in the middle of pressing matters, insisting on claiming a share of his focus with the urgency of its unknowable mystery.
He dreams up a thousand different reasons why a man would smile through such agony, somehow finding happiness in the moment of ultimate despair. Perhaps the man hated his life and was glad to be rid of it at last, or he felt honor and pride in the idea of dying for his cause, though that cause was repugnant to HĂĄma himself. Perhaps the smile was brought on by a delusion or hallucination, a vision of pleasure or comfort that shimmered with false loveliness for that Dunlendingâs eyes alone. Perhaps it wasnât even a smile but rather a spasm or tic, an arbitrary contortion of muscles masquerading as a familiar emotion and torturing HĂĄma now with a futile search for meaning in the utterly meaningless. The only man to know the answer has taken it to his hastily dug grave.Â
HĂĄma lives these years balanced on the knifeâs edge between revulsion and understanding, doubt and certainty, heart and gut. But with each battle, he learns better how to fight in a way that feels true to himself, anchored to his decency, and he learns better how to strengthen the parts of him that quail at the task, reinforcing those weak spots so that they prove all the harder to wound a second time. He patches himself with reminders of all that he fights for, and, in time, life gives him more and more to add to that armor. A beautiful wife who brings warmth and light into all of his days. A daughter who owns him, body and soul, from her first breath. Hard won respect and admiration, first from his commanders, then from the men entrusted to him, and finally from his king. He will never be a battle-hardened veteran, numb to the business of death, but he finds his way forward, refusing to let the sharp edges of those old memories and doubts carve and pare his spirit until it is shorn of all that is hopeful and joyous. Instead, he embraces the business of life, of being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a Kingâs Guard, a captain, a doorward, all of his selves linked together like the rings of his mail and bringing him just as much strength. He is happy, and he is whole.
*****
And so it is that he finds himself strangely at peace on the ride to what will prove his last battle. He has spent a lifetime preparing himself for this moment, this challenge, and he will meet it with honor. The hand of fate has landed on Helmâs Deep, an unexpected turn but one that he welcomes. He knows this place, its gate, walls and keep, unbreached by any outsider in all the long years of history. A fortress and a refuge at once, it is everything that he holds himself to be: strength and shelter, protection and not aggression. If the Rohirrim are forced to this step, with the point of a sword at their backs, there is nowhere else heâd rather make their stand, defending the inviolable.
They have been warned that this fight will be unlike any other in the lifetimes of this army. This is no skirmish over the placement of a border, no periodic flare-up of ancient, simmering tensions. This is existential, a contest that will decide whether Rohan endures a little longer or falls entirely, and among their old enemies of Dunland there will be new enemies as well, orcs of Isengard that are taller, stronger, unafraid of the sun, more desirous of blood. They drink in the joy of death like a cat laps up cream, he is told. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you. He sees the logic of this advice even as he has no plans to follow it. He has worked too hard to keep the cruelty of the world from making him cruel in turn. He will do what must be done, but he will do it as himself, from goodness, and not in imitation of those he deems wicked.
Final commands are given. ThĂ©oden sends him to hold the gate, and though he feels ill at ease to leave the king, his one and only charge, he knows it is the greater need and he goes willingly. The ragtag assortment of defenders at the gate are his charge now â cavalry riders preparing to fight from foot, farmers of the Westfold, teenage boys whose beardless faces catch the moonlight â and he assures them that it is alright to be afraid. They will face the fear together. He feels some of that fear himself, more aware than ever of his captainâs uniform that will distinguish him among the masses, drawing attention in the one place where such attention is least welcome. But he would sooner die in this symbol of all he believes in and all he has worked for than to hide in common disguise. His uniform clothes him in courage.
The fighting itself, once it begins, passes quickly, as do most things that overwhelm. There is scarcely a second to take in what is happening before itâs happened, and things grow only more chaotic as the late night stretches into earliest morning. Fear keeps him moving, because to give in to the exhaustion, to stop for even half a second of stolen rest, is to expose yourself to the heavy stroke of an axe or a sword or a pike or any of the other tools Isengard has devised to sever the loose connections that hold a manâs body together. Fear keeps him on his feet, and courage keeps him pressing forward, unwilling to give ground toward that precious gate.
He fights this battle his way. He leaves those enemies who are injured beyond the point of threat to be collected by their countrymen. He dispatches mercy to those whose injuries have already guaranteed death, bringing an early end to their suffering. He takes no action from anger, only necessity. He kills, many times over, but always as a last resort and each time with a heavy heart, for even the orcs are living creatures, once descended from elves if old tales are true.
He is not unscathed in the struggle. Bloody weals, red and shining, cut across his cheek and throat, and his left arm hangs dead now at his side, the muscles needed to raise it severed by the point of a spear. But he is undaunted and rallies, again and again, as men and boys, soldiers and herders, guards and merchants, fathers and sons, fall all around him to the seemingly endless waves of new opponents. His luck holds, until suddenly it doesnât.
The first sharp blow slides neatly into the narrow band of exposed leather near his shoulder, where a piece of his armor has been forcibly pried from his body. It slices cleanly through the layers of hide and cloth, cleanly between ribs, cleanly into the center of him. It stops him in his tracks, not from the pain, which is strangely delayed, but from the abrupt sensation that all the air has gone from his lungs, which leak uselessly now into the hollow of his chest. He is still standing, struggling to pull in delicate half breaths that each slice like a blade of their own, when the second blow lands, a sword at the knee that sends him to the ground. The third, a heavy, percussive jolt from a bludgeon, shivers the bones that donât shatter outright and leaves him sunk helplessly in the muddy grass, surrounded by a pool of blood that started out as someone elseâs but is soon more his than not.
A burst of flame to his left draws attention away as both sides rush toward the noise and light, and he is left for a moment on his own. Above him hangs the black, blank sky, the stars now blocked by clouds and haze and smoke. Beside him are an elderly man with no helmet and a split skull, eyes fixed open in unseeing horror, and a teenage boy, face gone grey and breathing shallow as the contents of his veins empty steadily from a gaping hole in his side. HĂĄma would comfort him, take his hand and bid him a swift journey to the halls of his forebears, if he could only lift an arm or force a word from his lips. But there is no strength in that arm and no air to carry the sound. He manages only to inch his hand next to the fading warmth of the boyâs fingers, and he hopes the boy will feel it and know that he is there, that they are not alone. It isnât enough, but it will have to be.Â
A burning pressure builds in his chest, pushing out against his broken ribs and mangled muscles with a force that could tear apart whatever is left of him that is still intact, and somehow, above the screaming and the thunder and the clang of weaponry, he can hear a wet, bubbling sound each time he tries to inhale, as though he is drawing breath through a sopping cloth. He wonders if he might drown, miles from any river or lake or tide except his own blood that is rising in his lungs, and he uses his last gasp of energy to weakly raise his head, eyes searching desperately for a friendly face that might be able to drag him to help. But the eyes that meet his are instead cold and cutting, and they sparkle with sharp malice when they recognize the fine armor and burnished insignia of the captain of the Kingâs Guard.Â
A voice calls in a tongue that HĂĄma cannot understand, but he needs no translator to know its meaning or that of the answering calls. Fingers are pointed in his direction. Grips are tightened around axes and knives and clubs. Lips curl into wicked smirks as many feet advance toward him, the defenseless prey whose brutal end will send a message to no less than the king of Rohan himself. No mercy will be shown to you.
The crushing realization hits him in an instant, though perhaps he should have known it all along. This is the end. There arenât enough allies left standing to save him, even if his wounds could be healed. The gate, the one object of his focus, is being torn now from its hinges, riven with deep fractures and fissures, and these men and orcs will pour through the gaping rupture just as soon as they are done with him. It will matter to none of them that he is as good as gone already, slowly choking to death on his own bile and blood, because they mean not just to kill but to destroy. They mean not to leave him in one piece, not to keep him recognizable even to those who love him best. They will take his life, but they will also take his identity, his dignity, his grace, his chance to be mourned over by those who would hold him, stroke his hair, kiss his brow, touch his cheek.Â
He turns his head again to the young man at his side, to see one last Rohirrim face, but it has gone stony and lifeless, an unmoving mask of arrested youth. HĂĄma studies this face, the soft down of a first beard, the skin unmarred by old scars or new wrinkles, and his heart trembles at the thought of all that this boy never got to do or have. A whole lifetime that was yet to be lived, with loves to be found, achievements to be celebrated, misfortunes to be endured, contentment to be earned. His death is a tragedy of lost hopes, of all that might have been had the boy been given even the twenty extra years that HĂĄma himself has had. And that is the thought that brings a sudden and utter calm to HĂĄmaâs spirit, quietly reassuring despite the looming specter of gruesome execution treading closer and closer each second.
He cannot see his own imminent death as a tragedy like this boyâs, for HĂĄma has lived â not as long as many men, but fully and well. He has loved and been loved. He has made himself and others proud. He has laughed and cried and grinned and gasped. He has seen great beauty, heard words of great kindness, tasted much that was sweet, felt hands of true tenderness. He has served a land he reveres, one that he knows in his heart will prevail and find a way off its knees to stand tall once again. He has joined himself to people worth dying for, people that he would weep to leave if not for the knowledge that he was more fortunate than most to have ever had such people in his life, no matter how briefly. A wife who was the love that made all the others irrelevant. A daughter who was every bit as perfect as she adoringly believed him to be. Another baby that would arrive in four monthsâ time and bring consolation and joy to its mother when sheâd need it most. They will be pained to lose him, but he trusts their strength, the kind that isnât sharp and brittle like iron but binds and flexes like thread.
Amid all the suffering of the world, he has been blessed, his fate woven together so tightly with filaments of gladness and fulfillment and favor that those things can never be sundered from him, even now at the very end. When the first axemen crowd around him at last, he doesnât feel fear or hatred or regret. He feels only gratitude for all that heâs been given. When an enemy first takes his leg at mid-thigh and then his arm at the elbow, he isnât thinking of the pain. He is thinking only of how one man could be so lucky, how he had somehow managed to claim not only his share of good in the world but many times that much. When a blade takes his ear and iron-toed boots prod where his ribs no longer provide resistance, he hears Bryttaâs sweet voice calling his name and feels HĂĄlwinĂ«âs soft cheek rested against his chest. And when the last rattling breath leaves his battered lungs, sighing softly from his bloodied lips, he looks right at the man above him and smiles.Â
#hĂĄma#my beloved#kind of dark and definitely has some blood and guts#which seems appropriate to the mood lately#but i swear i tried to find the uplift#heâs my number 1 favorite guy#and i just think heâs neat#lotr#rohirrim
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
hi!!! so sorry that it took so long to write my first fic but here!
the loveliest of weekends
gojo x yn
The light seeped in like a secret, golden and quiet, through the thin fabric of the curtains. It stretched across the floorboards, pooling in soft, rippling waves, illuminating the lazy tangle of blankets on the bed. Somewhere outside, the world went about its noisy, necessary business, but here, the air was honeyed with stillness, thick and slow.
Her arm hung loosely off the edge of the mattress, fingers brushing against a stray sock that had been kicked off sometime in the night. She stirred just enough to nestle deeper into the warmth beside her. Gojoâs chest rose and fell steadily under her cheek, the rhythm slow, hypnotic.
His hand lay on her back, weightless but steady, fingers tracing invisible shapes that never connectedâa circle, a heart, a star, something abstract he didnât even bother naming.
âYouâre awake,â she mumbled into his shirt, her voice soft and muffled, but he heard the smile in it.
âCaught me,â he replied, his tone playful but whisper-soft.
She peeked up at him, blinking against the sunlight, and Gojo swore she looked like something from a dream. Her hair was a little wild, sticking up in all directions, her eyes half-lidded with sleep, but her lips were tilted upward just slightly, and it was enough to make his heart do that stupid thing it always did when he saw her.
âIâm starving,â she whispered dramatically, though she made no move to leave the comfort of their cocoon.
Gojo raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. âAnd yet youâre still horizontal. Curious.â
She swatted his chest lazily, but he caught her hand, his long fingers curling around hers. He brought it to his lips and kissed the tip of her pinky like it was the most natural thing in the world.
âWhatâs for breakfast?â she asked, though it came out more like a whine.
âI donât know,â he replied, his grin widening. âWhat are you making me?â
That earned him another swatâthis one more deliberateâbut she was laughing now, soft giggles muffled against his shoulder. She kicked her feet under the covers, and Gojo grinned like heâd just uncovered some great treasure.
âOkay, okay,â he conceded, shifting onto his side so they were face to face. His hair was a mess, silver strands sticking out in every direction, and she reached up instinctively to smooth them down. âHow about this? You stay here and look pretty, and Iâll make pancakes.â
âDeal,â she said immediately, grinning.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. âBut only if you promise to keep smiling like that,â he added, his voice soft now, almost serious. âItâs very motivating, you know.â
Her cheeks flushed, and she hid her face against his chest, muttering something about him being âimpossibly cheesy.â He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that filled the whole room, bright and unrestrained. She couldnât help itâshe started laughing too, their giggles tangling together like the sunlight and shadows on the walls.
Finally, Gojo threw the blanket off and stood, stretching dramatically like he was preparing for the Olympics instead of making breakfast.
âIâll get started,â he said, looking back at her with a wink. âBut if you hear the smoke alarm, itâs not my fault.â
She snorted, burying her face in the pillow. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet,â he called from the doorway, âyou still love me.â
The only answer was her pillow muffling more giggles, and somewhere in the kitchen, the sound of him humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like (song).
The first thing (Y/N) noticed was the silence. Or rather, the absence of it. The faint humming from the kitchen had stopped, replaced by an eerie, foreboding stillness.
She lifted her head from the pillow, squinting toward the doorway. âGojo?â she called, her voice still heavy with sleep but tinged with suspicion.
From the kitchen, there was a sharp clatter of pans and something that sounded like a muffled âCrap.â
Her brow furrowed, but she couldnât suppress the little grin tugging at her lips. She threw the blankets off and padded to the kitchen, the wooden floor cool against her bare feet. As she rounded the corner, the scene that greeted her was almost cinematic.
Gojo stood in front of the stove, spatula in one hand, a smoking frying pan in the other. His hair stuck up in wild angles, his t-shirt slightly askew, and his expression was a perfect blend of sheepish and panicked. The smell of something burnt filled the air.
âUm,â he started, glancing over at her with a weak smile. âBreakfast is⊠coming along.â
She folded her arms, leaning against the doorway. âYou set the fire alarm off, didnât you?â
âNo!â he said quickly, then hesitated. ââŠAlmost. But I handled it. Like a pro.â
Her eyes dropped to the pan in his hand, where a blackened, pancake-shaped object sat, looking more like a hockey puck than food. She pressed a hand to her mouth, tryingâand failingânot to laugh.
âWhat is that?â she asked between giggles, pointing at the charred mess.
âThis,â he said, holding the pan like it was a masterpiece, âis art. The first pancake is always a sacrifice to the stove gods, okay? Everyone knows that.â
âOh, really?â she teased, stepping closer and peeking at the counter, which was dusted with flour and splattered with batter. A second pan sat there, slightly tilted, with more batter oozing onto the countertop. âAnd the second one? Was that for the stove gods too?â
He followed her gaze, wincing. âOkay, so there were⊠complications.â
âComplications?â she echoed, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
âTechnical difficulties. Equipment failure. User error. Whoâs to say, really?â he rambled, setting the pan down with exaggerated nonchalance.
âGojo,â she managed, wiping tears from her eyes. âYouâre hopeless.â
âAnd yet,â he said, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her waist, âyou still love me.â
She rolled her eyes but didnât pull away, her giggles still bubbling up uncontrollably. âYou canât keep saying that every time you mess something up.â
âBut itâs true!â he exclaimed, spinning her around dramatically, his grin impossibly wide. âWhat we have is unconditional, everlasting, eternal love.â
âItâs gonna be eternal if you donât burn the apartment down first,â she shot back, though she was laughing too hard to sound remotely serious.
He released her, turning back to the stove with a theatrical sigh. âFine. Sit back, relax, and let the pancake king redeem himself.â
âPancake king?â she muttered, grabbing a stool at the counter. âIs that self-proclaimed, orâŠ?â
He ignored her, pouring a new dollop of batter into the pan with the focus of a man attempting heart surgery. The batter sizzled, and for a moment, it seemed like things might actually go well. But then Gojo, ever impatient, tried flipping it too early. The half-cooked pancake folded onto itself, landing with a splat.
âCrap.â
Her laughter exploded, unrestrained and full, as she doubled over on the counter. âOh my gosh! Youâre the worst!â
Gojo turned to her, holding the spatula like a weapon of honor. âThis is slander. Defamation of character. Iâm trying to feed you, and this is how you repay me?â
âIâd rather starve!â she wheezed, wiping her eyes again.
He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. âAfter all weâve been through? After Iâve poured my blood, sweat, and batter into this meal?â
She slid off the stool, moving toward him with a wide grin. âOkay, okay, let me show you how itâs done, pancake king.â
He surrendered the spatula reluctantly, stepping aside but not before leaning down and planting a quick kiss on her cheek. âYouâve got this, sweetheart. I believe in you.â
âAnd youâre staying out of the kitchen,â she warned, shaking her head.
âFine,â he said, grabbing a burnt pancake and taking an exaggerated bite. âBut if you need me, Iâll be over here, enjoying my gourmet cuisine.â
Her laughter echoed through the kitchen as she got to work, the scent of batter and burnt pancakes mingling with the warmth of lazy love.
Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the warm, sweet aroma of perfectly golden pancakes. (Y/N) flipped the last one onto the growing stack and turned to see Gojo sprawled dramatically across the counter, his head resting on his arms.
âAre you dead?â she asked, arching an eyebrow.
âStarving,â he groaned, peeking up at her. âNeglected. Betrayed. Left to wither away while you flaunted your superior pancake skills.â
She rolled her eyes but smiled, carrying the plate over to the table. âHere, drama king. Your royal breakfast awaits.â
He perked up immediately, sliding into a chair with an eager grin. âFinally! I knew you loved me.â
As he reached for the maple syrup, (Y/N) sat across from him, resting her chin in her hand as she watched him slather butter onto the first pancake. He caught her staring and paused mid-slice.
âWhat?â he asked, cocking his head.
She shrugged, her cheeks warm. âYouâre cute when youâre excited about food.â
He blinked at her for a second before breaking into a wide, boyish grin. âYou think Iâm cute, huh?â
âDonât let it go to your head,â she muttered, stabbing her own pancake.
âItâs too late,â he teased, taking a big bite. He closed his eyes dramatically, humming like he was eating a five-star meal. âThis is amazing. Babe, youâre amazing.â
She laughed, shaking her head. âItâs just pancakes.â
âNot just pancakes,â he said, pointing at her with his fork. âThese are made with love.â
âAnd competence,â she added pointedly, smirking.
He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges in that way that always made her heart do a little flip. âFine, fine. Next time, Iâll stick to being the charming, useless taste-tester.â
âNext time, you can do the dishes,â she replied, kicking his shin lightly under the table.
âDeal,â he said easily, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand. âAnything for you.â
She felt her cheeks warm again but didnât look away. Somehow, even with his hair a mess, crumbs on his cheek, and syrup threatening to drip onto his shirt, he looked⊠perfect. Not in a polished, flawless way, but in a way that felt warm and real, like he belonged here, in these little stolen mornings that were just theirs.
They finished breakfast slowly, trading bites and teasing quips until the plates were empty, and the kitchen was quiet again. Gojo leaned back in his chair, hands resting behind his head.
âSo,â he said with a grin, âlazy Sunday nap now or lazy Sunday movie marathon?â
(Y/N) pretended to think, tapping her chin. âBoth?â
He laughed, standing and holding a hand out to her. âNow thatâs why I love you. Great taste in breakfast and weekend plans.â
She took his hand, letting him pull her up and spin her around for no reason at all other than to hear her laugh again. They left the dishes where they were, padding back to the living room and flopping onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and blankets.
The day stretched ahead, soft and slow, as golden as the sunlight spilling through the windows. And as Gojo wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, she thought there was nothing sweeter than lazy Sundays with him.
thank you and much loveđđđ
do we like???? feed back is greatly appreciated!
(taking requestsâŒïž)
#gojo satoru#jjk x yn#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#jjk#jjk x reader#jjk gojo#fluff#x yn#x reader#reader insert
47 notes
·
View notes
Note
My goal was to be off tumblr for a year but girl I just saw the most absolutely rancid take and needed to tell someone. I saw someone in a youtube comment section (I know, I know) genuinely argue that 4B is insufficiently intersectional because if men aren't having consensual sex, they'll go out and rape more, and since woc, queer women, disabled women, etc experience disproportionate rates of sexual violence, it'll be them getting raped probably, so going 4B is actually sentencing less privileged women to be raped. I genuinely think my brain is broken from that. "If you don't have sex with a man it's your fault if he rapes another woman" is one of the most insane things I've ever seen someone try to spin as leftist and that is fucking saying something. Like I could sit here and list all the reasons that's wrong but. Oh my god.
They started off their insane essay with this: "I heard a good point, and someone described this as taking a toy from a petulant child. (The toy being seggs, not women). If the child isnât made to understand why the toy was taken away, they will continue to keep saying how unfair youâre being. And they might just steal a new toy from someone else if they donât get their way." I LOVE how predatory men are children that have to be handled gently and delicately and have it explained to them with a little Blue's Clues song why they aren't getting laid, and if you don't do that you're responsible for their actions. Men are adults! Men CHOOSE to rape women! Why are we blaming women for men's actions! Why are we doing that and CALLING IT FEMINIST??? Like I thought we agreed that men don't rape due to a lack of consensual sex, they rape because they like having and exerting power over people? I thought that was like, one of the basic things we talked about in rape culture 101?
Jesus fucking Christ. I know that person sat back after writing their dissertation so satisfied with themselves for being One Of The Good Feminists, intersectional and socially aware and apologetic of their privilege, not one of those evil radfems who think men should be held responsible for their actions.
Anyways sorry for subjecting you to this but it actually broke my brain in half and I needed someone else to suffer with me.
omg first of all hey girl its been a while! good to hear from you even if itâs in this shitty scenario!
and yeah, what a rancid, yet not unexpected take. blaming women for menâs actions is like. classic misogyny. like i am a certified misandrist but even i donât believe that the majority of men will go out and rape random women just because theyâre constantly rejected. and even if they would it is NOT the duty of any woman to give a man sex that she doesnât want to give, just to protect hypothetical other women. thatâs such a shitty guilt trip. in that situation it would be a category 5 KAM moment, if giving in to sex was the only thing we could do to prevent rape.
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
1. Whatâs your current bias line?
It has to be Chan,Hyunjin and Jeongin
2. Whoâs the one that made you Stan?
It's probably Felix
3.What song was your first?
S-class
4.Whatâs your current favorite song?
It's maybe All in or Venom
5.What members personally resembles yours the most?
For me personally it's Hyunjin and Han
6. If you had to pick a specific racha which would you choose?
Paboracha I don't think I have to explain much.
7.Whatâs one attribute of the members do you like the most? (Example: Chans dimples)
Chan: probably how he's treating the kids
Minho: His love to cats
Changbin: His laugh definitely
Hyunjin: His art its so beautiful
Jisung: him just being a big baby girl (Don't come at me!)
Felix: his beautiful freckles
Seungmin: his smile
I.N: also his laugh
8. Whatâs your favorite album?
Five star probably because it was the era I became a stay
9. Do you have any albums?
To many
10. Have you been to a concert?
Does IDAYS count? And I'm probably about to go to one next year.
11. Whoâs your favorite duo?
Jisung and Minho definitely
12. Favorite cover/solo songs:
Bangchan - Railway
13. Favorite SKZOO?
Leebit
14. If you had a day with one member what would you wanna do with them?
Maybe with Hyunjin and go to an art museum
15. Whoâs your favorite singing voice?
Dont make me choose i can't I love everyone
16. Whoâs your favorite to watch dance?
Minho and Hyunjin but I love to watch everyone.
17. Do you have a favorite SKZ Code?
To many i couldn't name one specific
18. Favorite MV?
Gods menu
19. Who do you think youâd be best friends with?
Changbin or Jisung for sure
20. Letâs feed those delusions, Who are you picking for a date and what are you doing?
Hyunjin my man! We would probably have an nice dinner and then maybe watch an movie together while cuddling.
New tag: @baby-yongbok
This was so much fun thank you for tagging me!
.·:*š đźđđ đ»đ đČđđđ đ»đđ đșđđđ š*:·.
20 Questions for my fellow Stays!
Making a little tag game because I love them and Iâm nosy tbh. I also just love interacting with yall!
1: Whatâs your current bias line?
2: Whoâs the one that made you Stan?
3: What song was your first?
4: Whatâs your current favorite song?
5: What members personally resembles yours the most?
6: If you had to pick a specific racha which would you choose?
7: Whatâs one attribute of the members do you like the most? (Example: Chans dimples)
8: Whatâs your favorite album?
9: Do you have any albums?
10: Have you been to a concert?
11: Whoâs your favorite duo?
12: Favorite cover/solo songs:
13: Favorite SKZOO?
14: If you had a day with one member what would you wanna do with them?
15: Whoâs your favorite singing voice?
16: Whoâs your favorite to watch dance?
17: Do you have a favorite SKZ Code?
18: Favorite MV?
19: Who do you think youâd be best friends with?
20: Letâs feed those delusions, Who are you picking for a date and what are you doing?
92 notes
·
View notes
Text
i just wanted to draw the ave mujica outfits .
#project sekai#pjsk#prsk#proseka#tsukasa tenma#nene kusanagi#nenekasa#<- i like them.#sorry i like mygo + avemuji but cant make fanart of anything im not Fucking Crazy about normally#had to touch it up digitally because i tried coloring a Pen Drawing in with Watercolor. in earnest.#Everything think the announcements gonna be a new unit. I think that would be hilarious and the worst possible timing#Given where everyone else's arcs are but the miku design looked cute so if its jsut a new game that would cheese me#My tag blabbering... what else ... im artfight slacking. my wrist hurts. course selection is next week. SCREAMS#please pray to God i do not have any 8am classes. PLEASE. my college commute takes over an hour. If i have to wake up at 6am i will k#Oh my God i have to go to the dentist tomorrow too please fucking helpme THEYRE GONAN FIDN AMILLION CAVITIES AND KILL ME. AAAAAHG.#Every time theres another proseka broadcast announced i get scared cause i have so many song covers i want in the game but.#I want to draw them first. So that if they Do get added to the game i cna go HEH... >:)....#Thats whyi did skeleton orchestra emnn and scissorhands rks. I want scissorhands in the game reallybad i love that song#3DMV EVEN PLEEEASE but also nothing can too miumes choreography from like a decade ago i wanna do a cosplay performanc eof it someday...#i â€ïž waacking.#actually the one i Really want to draw is ALSO nenekasa. record red save me. ILL DRAW IT OK
564 notes
·
View notes
Text
dnp + misc tumblr posts
#dnp#dan and phil#phan#phil lester#daniel howell#idk if i formatted this properly it feels messy but i have a lot of dnp pics saved on pinterest#and a lot of these little textposts started to come up and reminded me of them#i used to love these kinds of posts so hope it feels nostalgic#not as profound as poetry. but#web weaving#kind of#my posts#them <3#used tumblr web for the first time making this and its nice might start using it sometimes it gets tiring scrolling sometimes on the app#i just chose random pics but I could make another one of these or with song lyrics
350 notes
·
View notes
Text
What would a mother not do for her child What lengths would a mother not go There's a bond that exists between mother and child With no end to how strong it can grow It's a promise for life between mother and child It begins from the moment of birth.
================
She is six years old, and standing on the porch at her Auntie Aliciaâs cabin. She is six years old, and holding an old rifle in her hands, standing at the railing and pointing the nozzle at a large target a couple feet away. Thereâs a pair of old ear muffs covering her ears. Behind her is her daddy and her sister, and Auntie Alicia. She canât see them.Â
Danielle Martha Fenton is six years old, and her momma has her arms wrapped warmly around her, keeping the gun steady for her. Itâs heavy and the butt digs into her shoulder uncomfortably, and she feels nothing but determined. And nervous.Â
Her momma was teaching her and Jazzy how to shoot, and theyâre down in Arkansas to visit Auntie Alicia for her second âDivorce-iversaryâ as Auntie calls it. She keeps a hunting rifle in her gun safe for the rabbits that like to nibble on her garden. She mostly grows rhubarb, which goes untouched. But her carrots and greens and other veggies like to be tempting snacks for the game.Â
Regardless, she is six years old and learning how to shoot. Her momma and her daddy (mostly her daddy) have been banned from every shooting range outside of Amity Park in a hundred mile radius. So Auntie is the best place to learn, or so momma says.Â
Danny thinks it's just an excuse to see her sister, not that she's complaining. She loves visiting Auntie. Â
Sheâs already seen Jazzy do this, her momma told her before the muffs went on to shoot when ready. No use trying to fire when youâre not; you canât afford to miss when shooting ghosts.Â
Danny breathes out steady, just like momma taught her, and quells her trembling little fingers. She focuses down the barrel, and pulls the trigger.Â
Immediately, the recoil throws her off, the side of the gun that her cheek was resting on knocks against her skin, harsh enough to bruise if it werenât for her mommaâs steady hands holding onto her. The bang of the gun startles her more than she thought it would, and her heart leaps up and runs a jackrabbit through her chest.Â
The gun is carefully slipped out of her hands, and Danny lets it go easily, her cheek smarting in pain and her eyes wide and following up to momma. Momma turns the safety on, and with a gentle hand, pushes against her chest. Danny takes a few steps back, and slips the ear muffs off her head.Â
Mommy is smiling big at her, something that Danny canât help but replicate on her own face as her heart swells. âDid I get it, momma?â She asks, watching as she passes the gun off to Auntie Alicia, who steps over to take it.
âIâm going to go see, sweetie, but I think you did.â Momma coos, before planting both her hands on the porch railing and, in a single leap, vaults over the side and onto the grass. Sheâs dressed all comfortable for the summer heat, with her hair all tied back and in shorts and a tank top and nice boots. Dannyâs ribs swell hopefully, and she stands on her tiptoes to watch her walk over.
âIâll be hard-pressed to believe if you didnât, Martha Mae,â Auntie tells her, grinning like a cat, âthat was a damn good shot.âÂ
âMartha Mae Knightâ was Dannyâs grannyâs name. Auntie Alicia calls her that because of her middle name â and because, by her words, she has her mommaâs weird-shaped eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. The kind that could scare a hawk into singing like a robin. It was Dannyâs favorite nickname ever.
Daddy laughs brightly, the sound painful on her ears but twice as nice, and despite the distance, Momma whirls her head around to shoot Auntie a glare; âLanguage, Alicia. Not around my girls.â She warns. Her accent always comes through when theyâre around Auntie. Itâs Dannyâs favorite thing to listen to.Â
âDo you think so, auntie?â Danny says, bright-eyed and ever-optimistic. Auntie Alicia nods fiercely as Momma finally reaches the target and searches for the bullet hole. Daddy then comes up behind her, still laughing, and claps a hand onto her shoulder so hard that it makes her knees hurt.
âOf course she did!â Dad boasts, as bright as the sun and twice as warm. He shakes Danny affectionately, wobbling her on her feet and pulling her straight into his side. She goes so willingly with a burble of giggles. âSheâs got the eyes of a Fenton! And our family are darn good shots.â
Auntie eyes him up and down, her smile immediately fading off into a pressed line. âIâm sure you mean sheâs got the eyes of a Knight. You couldnât hit the broad side of a barn at twenty paces, Jack Fenton.âÂ
Jazzy holds back giggles from where sheâs standing by the door, her ear muffs in hand, and Danny watches her Daddyâs dark eyes immediately narrow. Just like Auntieâs, his smile tapers off into a frown.Â
Before he can say anything, thereâs a cheer from the yard, and they all turn to Momma clapping her hands in delight.Â
Danny immediately pricks her ears up, and wouldâve darn near rushed over to the railing if it werenât for her Daddyâs hand on her shoulder. She yells instead, excitement thrumming like a hummingbird against her ribs, âDid I hit it, momma?!âÂ
Momma beams at her with all the pride in the world, âYou sure did, Danny!â And she turns to press her finger against the target, right on the inside red ring of the battered old bag. âRight here, sweet girl!âÂ
There are cheers from all around, and Dannyâs heart bursts inside her lungs with shiny, sunshine glee. She puffs her chest out big, and smiles so wide it hurts the cheek where the gun smacked her. Her Daddy shakes again, squeezing her tight against his side in a hug that Danny happily reciprocates.Â
âWhatâd I tell you, Martha Mae?â Auntie tells with a big wink and a wide grin, the gun still gripped tight in her hands as Momma makes her way back over. âYou got a Knightâs eye.âÂ
When Momma makes it back over the railing, she hugs Danny tight and praises her shot. Danny looks her in the eyes and chases the feeling, and asks to shoot again.
#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dpxdc#cw gun#cw gun mention#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc crossover#dpxdc au#dp x dc au#martha knight au#female danny fenton#fem danny fenton#danny is martha wayne au#got a little something something written for this au. the dichotomy of the happy memory and the fact that she's being taught this to shoot#ghosts. the innocence of a child and the reality of the situation :]. as well as danny's steadily disillusion from her parents as she grows#fun fact! this memory is based off one of my own when my dad was teaching us how to shoot so we could (eventually) go hunting with him.#i was around danny's age i think. a little bit younger maybe. so a lot of this stuff -- like Maddie helping her hold it up and them#wearing earmuffs and Danny immediately getting the gun taken away after she shoots and danny herself backing up are all based off#what i could remember. albeit the only difference here is Alicia holding the gun and Jack and Jazz standing behind Danny. in my own memorie#iirc we were all supposed to stand inside when it wasnt our turn. but we also didnt have enough earmuffs for everyone to stand outside.#slaps danny's head like the roof of a car: you can fit SO much trauma in this kid. enjoy her joy while it lasts :]#smth smth the idea that the fenton parents weren't bad at first but instead became a steady decline once they got into building the portal#smth about how danny knows somewhere that they could improve because they were good before. but they aren't and she wonders#who they love more: their daughters. or ghosts? (the answer is their daughters but danny finds this out in a way she doesnt expect)#that beginning song lyric is from âafter allâ by christine ebersole btw. its danny's theme song for the au.#i thank god every day for being a daycare teacher because the word 'daddy' has been CLEANSED for mEEEEEEEEEEE
132 notes
·
View notes
Text
That feeling when he can't stand to see you that way, no matter what you do, no matter what you sayđ©đđ
#scott pilgrims precious little life#scott pilgrim vs the world#spvtw#spto#scott pilgrim#wallace wells#lisa miller#scollace#kim pine#natalie adams#envy adams#don't rlly know if I like how this turned out but oh well;;;#hope its obvious that this is based on the song âScott Pilgrimâ which the creation the comics were inspired from#the lyrics always make me think of Wallace and Lisa's feelings for Scott every time I hear it#ofc you could also relate it to Kim especially since the singers voice kind of reminds me of her#but overall the lyrics fit these two much better since Scott never truly âsaw them that wayâ despite how long they've liked him#and they always seem happier to see him compared to Kim#Im surprised tho that I havent yet seen anyone draw these two together now that their dialogue parallels have been acknowledged more lately#also tho I wish more people pointed out that they both got cucked by red heads LOL#and Kim and Envy actually do look really similar when scott first meets them#makes me wonder if Scott subconsciously went for Envy since she reminded him of Kim (which would be fitting given that you could argue that#Envy dated Scott because he reminded her of Todd. Since he and Scott are confirmed to be meant to be seen as similar to one another#so much so that even their first and last names rhyme#last thing I'll add tho is that while Wallace and Lisa are very similar even personality wise#the one big difference is that despite that whole conclusion on vol4 of Scott not cheating on Ramona with Lisa because he loves her#the writers apparently think it would be âorganically correctâ for him to have an affair with wallace LMAO#but I guess we shouldn't be surprised since Wallace and Ramona are both in the front of the official valentines art which is clearly#a deptiction of Scotts wet dream or smth (oh and you could also argue that Wallace and Lisa parallel on that art since they're both#shirtless with white socks.. which could be a reference to how lisa wears skimpy clothes for Scott and Wallace often only wears boxers#to like sexually frustrate Scott for fun or smth
386 notes
·
View notes