#this thread is somehow very validating

[xvysarene]

𝔹𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕎𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟

Pairing: LADS Men (All 5) x Fem!Reader Prompt: The moment they realise they want to spend their whole life with you Words: ~1.3k || 200-300 per LI Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Established relationship A/N: Highly recommend giving Urban Zakapa's "Nearness is to love" a listen to capture the mood! I need to be love like this smh

[ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST]

⊱ 𝕏𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕖𝕣

Xavier has always wondered why he willingly abandons a good slumber and ignores the sting and soreness in his body just to see your face after every challenging mission.

“𝐷𝘰 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝘵 𝑚𝑒 𝘵𝘰 𝑐𝘰𝘰𝑘 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑠𝘰𝑚𝑒𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒?”

The lines of concern etched on your forehead deepen when he hasn't touched the porridge, all while swiftly checking to ensure you haven’t missed tending to any of his injuries.

He realises then, that you opening the door after the first knock, with a home-cooked meal waiting for him even before the first rays of dawn, is why he always seeks you out first.

This is the person he wants to witness a lifetime of sunrises with, the one he never wants to see weighed down by worry due to his line of work.

Words fail him, so he gathers you in his arms. Revelling in the way your body moulds perfectly against his.

“𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝘵 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝘰𝑠𝑒.”

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙,” you chide softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

The concern in your gaze tugs at something deep within him.

Xavier now understands what it is to be unconditionally loved—to be so genuinely cared for that someone would worry about his well-being above all else.

“𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝘰𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝘵𝘰 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝘰𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝘵 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝘰𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟𝑦𝘵𝑖𝑚𝑒.”

Your eyes soften. “𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑑𝘰𝑛'𝘵 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝘰𝑛 𝘵𝘰 ℎ𝘰𝑙𝑑 𝑚𝑒.”

The sensation of your fingers threading through his hair is pure heaven, and as you hold him tighter, you express that this embrace requires no further validation.

⊱ ℝ𝕒𝕗𝕒𝕪𝕖𝕝

Bathed in hues of molten gold and fiery amber, Rafayel watches you set up the dining table with his aunt and Thomas, a scene he will cherish until his very last breath.

The laughter of his favourite people mingling with the rhythmic crash of waves is music to his ears.

“𝑅𝑎𝑓, 𝑑𝘰𝑛'𝘵 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝘵 𝑠𝘵𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒,” you call out. Tucking your hair behind your ear as the salty breeze whips strands across your face.

If only he could immortalise this scene on canvas, Rafayel muses.

But he knows that a painting would never do justice to fully conveying the true essence of this beauty.

“𝛭𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝘰𝜈𝑒𝑑, 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑠𝘵𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑎 𝑚𝘰𝑚𝑒𝑛𝘵?” The quiver in his voice doesn’t go amiss by anyone’s notice as he approaches.

Thomas quirks a questioning brow, while his aunt's gaze softens, her smile somehow knowing as she glances between the two of you.

Normally, he would have a response ready as Thomas quips about the champagne warming, but not this time. 

Not when everything else other than you fades into insignificance.

Overwhelmed with emotion, he pulls you in a tight hug as soon as you both are away from prying eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“𝑇𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒,” his voice barely above a whisper, “ℎ𝘰𝑤 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓, 𝑓𝘰𝑟𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟?”

You gently draw back and hold his cheeks, adoring the crimson spreading onto his face and ears, before murmuring tenderly against his lips, “𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒.”

At that very moment, it feels as though his heart might combust.

As if every whispered longing he's ever had has come true.

⊱ ℤ𝕒𝕪𝕟𝕖

Perplexed is what Zayne always imagined he would feel—wishing to spend the rest of his life with someone is a huge commitment after all.

But now, his heart overflows with nothing but contentment and peace.

With his glasses and book perch on his lap, he attentively listens as you animatedly vent about one of your coworkers, sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed.

“...𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝘰𝑟𝑟𝑦, 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝘵 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝘰𝑛. 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝘵 𝑏𝑒 𝘵𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝘵𝘰𝑑𝑎𝑦.”

Zayne frowns, cursing himself as you mistaken his prolonged silence and composed demeanour for indifference.

Setting his stuff aside, he draws you closer, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as your arms circle around him.

“𝐿𝘰𝜈𝑒, 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝘰𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝘵𝑎𝑙𝑘. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝘵𝘰𝑝 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝘰𝑢𝑟 𝘵ℎ𝘰𝑢𝑔ℎ𝘵𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝘵ℎ 𝑚𝑒.” 

A small content sigh leaves his lips as you nestle closer to him, the warmth of your embrace seeping into his very soul.

Long fingers gently stroke your hair as you voice out concern about adding to his mounting stress with your words.

“𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “𝑌𝘰𝑢𝑟 𝜈𝘰𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝘵 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝘵 ℎ𝘰𝑚𝑒. 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟𝑦𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝘵𝘵𝑒𝑟, 𝑑𝘰𝑛'𝘵 𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟 𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝘰𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑒.”

Sometimes he wonders if he truly deserves the depth of love and understanding you provide, a treasure more valuable than any he has ever known.

He is not an easy man to love, yet you wholeheartedly embrace his complexities.

In that quiet moment, with the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtain, he knows with certainty that you occupy a space in his life that no one else can fill.

⊱ 𝕊𝕪𝕝𝕦𝕤

“𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝘰𝑙𝑢𝘵𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑓𝑓𝘰𝘰𝑛!” your voice trembles with fury as you cock your gun at him. “𝑊ℎ𝘰 𝑖𝑛 𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝘵 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝘵𝘰 𝑎 𝘵𝑟𝑎𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑦? 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑑!”

Despite having just slain dozens of degenerates and currently staring down the barrel of your gun, Sylus’s head is oddly silent.

The sight of his enemies’ blood staining your clothes, your hair tousling messily from its ponytail, and the blazing intensity in your eyes—every detail captivates him completely.

Fuck him, you’re perfect.

Exasperated by his grin, you continue calling him all the names in the book: reckless idiot, brainless fool, dumbass…

But he’s your idiot.

Sylus watches your eyes widen as he closes the distance between you, your mouth opening to protest, “𝐷𝘰𝑛’𝘵 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑘𝑖—” but before you can finish, he discards your gun aside with alarming speed, lips crashing against yours with a fervour that matches your fury.

It’s not a gentle kiss, it’s an explosion of emotions; a release of all the anger, fear, and love that has been building up.

“𝐼’𝑚 𝑠𝘰𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝘰𝑢,” he says breathlessly, resting his forehead against yours.

Strong hands pull you closer, and he smiles, sensing your fury starting to dissipate as you melt into his cocoon. “𝛢𝑠 𝑙𝘰𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒 𝑦𝘰𝑢, 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝘵, 𝑛𝘰 𝘰𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝘵𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒—𝑢𝑠—𝑑𝘰𝑤𝑛 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑦.”

When you respond to him with another creative jibe, calling him a “𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘-ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝘰𝑎𝑓”, his deep laughter booms through the room.

No one else can and will challenge him like you do, and he lives for it.

Caught in the back-and-forth of your wit and spirit, craving the spark you kindle within him with every word.

⊱ ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕓

“𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑏!”

The moment your wide smile graces your features upon spotting him down the store aisle, it robs out all the oxygen in his lungs.

Caleb has always known that this relationship is different from his past ones—the thought of seeing you in his future teasing his brain occasionally.

But when you skip to him, with excitement dancing in your eyes, it hits him that he will give everything just to witness that radiance again.

Every day for the rest of his life.

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒!” You slip your hand into his and intertwine your fingers together. “𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝘰𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝘵𝑒𝑚 𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝜈𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝘵 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝘰 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ.”

He’ll let you lead him to whichever section of the market, and he'll damn well help you get whatever you want, even if it’s questionable whether you need it or not.

Another mini planter for your succulents? Sure, he’ll even buy all of the different designs for you.

When you ask him if he’s alright, noticing his dazed expression, he straight up pulls you into his embrace and kisses the top of your head, murmuring, “𝐼 ℎ𝘰𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝘰𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝘵𝘰 𝑔𝑒𝘵 𝘵ℎ𝘰𝑠𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝘵𝑒𝑚𝑠.”

If he is misty-eyed amidst the bustling grocery store, it doesn’t concern him in the least.

You smile up at him in confusion, noticing the sentimental mood in his eyes. Standing on tiptoes, you give him a quick peck and melt in the warmth of his arms, feeling the beat of his heart against your cheek.

No other place feels as secure and comforting as being in each other’s arms.

⤷ ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST

[shanastoryteller]

this is NOT a request for u to hurry finishing up the new chapter for siat (bc people who do that are ungrateful brats) but a genuine question. Do you feel even less drawn to it right now (spn brain aside) because of what JKR has done to English politics and the lives of trans women? Because I think it would be completely understandable if you felt this was ur final straw to not finish it but I would also get the opposite of it being ‘now there’s even more reason to finish it’ I think both viewpoints are valid and have their reasonings and this is really truly not in any way meant to be a “why isn’t there a new chapter yet!!:(((“ ask I’m just curious what HP fanfic writers (especially someone as well known as you) make of this as I keep seeing posts going around of the “if u still read/write HP fanfic you’re a terf too” variety and I just…disagree with that but also see where they come from (aka helping the fandom stay relevant. But even if we all quit reading and writing fanfic, HP would still be popular and imo the dent fanfic makes isn’t that big in the fandom bc locals still love HP and most people who now read fanfic hate JKR and wouldn’t actually read her books/buy merch)

Regardless of what you decide, know your Audience is behind you,100%. Hell, you dragged most of us (me included) back into Supernatural. I’m excited for the new chapter of tgp!! 💖💖

Thank you for all your words, whatever fandom they may come in (I.e I found you years ago because of your teen wolf fic specifically embers embers but stayed through so many fandoms and even read some I know nothing about) you are a beacon of light in this world and I treasure each of your works truly and with all my heart

thank you, this is a really sweet and nice way of asking, i'm so glad you enjoy my writing <3

but honestly: nah lol

jkr is shit and so are all of her opinions. the influence she has on government sucks and i personally think it's best to avoid giving her money, but i'm not pocketwatching other people

siat, which is a very popular hp fic, is 8 years old and has 2.8 million hits

in 2023 alone, 9.6 million people visited universal studios hollywood, the home of the wizarding world of harry potter

people should engage with media in whatever manner they feel most comfortable and sparks the most joy. but the idea that fanfic is a significant contributor to the cultural zeitgeist is just stupid

siat's on the to do list, i've just been infected with spn brainworms and wbt is also on the list but i feel more compelled to work on that one than siat just because huge chunks of it are already written so it seems a little silly to drag my feet as much as i have, plus at the time it had been a year since i posted the first chapter and i was like. ok come on let's go this is getting ridiculous

it's a goal to get back into a regular update cadence with siat. i'm not tired of it, i don't hate it, i still have an outline and know we're i'm going

it's partially that we're in sort of a tricky part to write, since it's about when a bunch of threads are about to come together and i don't want to fuck it up, and also that demands for updates honest to god really do kill my motivation to work on it. it's not punishment, i'm not trying to be a bitch, but i love the story and want to love sharing it with you, but being treated like a dispenser of fic, or like i owe people something and i'm somehow being selfish or inconsiderate by having fun writing what i want to write, really honestly just kills that. i don't want to write with that in the back of my head

people ask me about siat updates a lot. i don't post anything close to all of them. and if it was just "love the story can't wait to see what happens next!" that wouldn't be a problem, that's nice, i like that people are engaged and interested in what's to come

but a litany of "when will this update?" "is this abandoned?" "what about siat :(" "i don't care about x, why aren't you working on siat?" "you haven't updated siat in a while..." "why haven't you updated siat?" just makes me feel kinda bitter. which isn't a place i want to write from

it will be updated. i probably won't write the next chapter straight through and will alternate with tgp or wbt or whatever, but it's honestly just a mix of brainworms and having a lot of fun with these blorbos and wanting to have be in the right mindset while i write

[echo-exco]

With Damians recent developments towards wanting to maybe be a doctor, I think it could be interesting to see that dynamic with reader.

Where his hands are stained with blood, yours have only helped others. Maybe youre both volunteering at the same hospital, and the patients there flock to you like a flicker of hope in the darkness. The patients of Gotham are much more wary than anywhere else, so gaining their trust feels nigh impossible. Somehow, you've done it. Like second nature, like you haven't even noticed.

Something akin to envy might first spark in him, as a natural response, before relenting his pride and trying to learn what makes her "better" at this than him. Of course he wouldnt know she was a meta, but still.

Also you can totally ignore this your wonderful fic just had my mind spiralling lol

I LOVE THAT!! THAT’S A REALLY GOOD IDEA!!

But unfortunately, I don’t think we have something like that with Damian here yet… 😔 (or maybe we do, if my inner author feels motivated enough).

(Small warning for a long reply)

Damian and healer!reader’s relationship is already quite complicated on its own (with some one-sided, inexplicable hatred).

It’s not really a surprise though, considering healer!reader tends to be pretty “neutral” with almost all the Batfam members.

To be honest, I don’t think healer!reader could actually treat people in Gotham.

She does have pretty good and experienced medical knowledge, but she depends completely on her healing powers, which not only allow her to heal someone instantly but also make her feel “alive.”

Without her powers, even though she can try to help in conventional ways, healer!reader always feels like she might fail, that something could go wrong, and that fills her with anxiety.

Healer!reader is completely dependent on her power and validates herself through it, and since she’s currently unable to use it in Gotham… well…

Besides that, healer!reader would need Bruce’s permission—or a doctor’s—just to even think about using her experienced, non-basic medical knowledge.

A better example is when I mentioned Tim in the post: like I said there, healer!reader only did small things to help him deal with his discomfort.

She doesn’t consider that she used anything that required “master-level” knowledge… she just took care of Tim the way a (family) doctor should.

BUT if somehow she were to get permission and trust to use her healing powers on the patients in a Gotham hospital…

They wouldn’t even have the chance to decide whether they could trust her or not, because healer!reader’s abilities are extremely fast for a normal being.

In an earlier reply, I explained how I imagine healer!reader’s powers work: think of it as her using threads to “fix” her patients like they were broken dolls.

That said, the pain that comes after the instant healing is horrible (though it heavily depends on how bad the patient’s condition was before healer!reader treated them).

Earning the trust of the wounded in Gotham wouldn’t even be something healer!reader consciously seeks—it would just happen.

Maybe it’s because of the calmness she radiates, or because, unlike most people, she never shows disgust, fear, or resignation when facing an injury.

However, seeing such an indifferent expression on a child’s face in such a gruesome, chaotic scene full of injured people is unsettling.

Though it’s even worse to endure the pain after being healed, isn’t it?

That’s why I think, even if Damian wanted to learn from her, I’m not sure healer!reader could really teach him how to treat people, or even how to be a good doctor.

She herself never allowed her mind to approach healing in a traditional way, because her powers and skills are her refuge, her absolute security: she never fails at healing.

But that very gift also isolates her, because in Gotham, a place full of distrust and disdain toward most metahumans, revealing her ability would be a huge risk to her life.

I also think the same about how Damian would feel toward healer!reader because of her medical skills.

He might feel a mix of admiration, frustration, and envy, especially because, without knowing she’s a meta, he would desperately try to find a logical explanation for why she can do what others find almost impossible.

Why his seemingly weak and gentle sister has absurdly good medical knowledge…

That’s NOT right, she’s supposed to be normal… so why?

She’s supposed to be safe… why?

In short, the relationship between Damian and healer!reader would be complicated if we explored that aspect.

(Who knows? Maybe in a what if? if I get enough creativity!)

Awww! Thank you so much for your sweet words at the end, dear!

I’m really happy to know you like my writing, and I’m also sorry if this response was way too long!

[scoutofmymind]

hey loved your fics you are incredibly talented. i have a scene picture some angst reader is kinda like jo march if u watched little women and luigi is laurie in that one hill scene. basically reader prioritizes acads because of her upbringing - high achiever, academic validations, the whole package and luigi somehow is the same but he compels the reader in a magnetic way because luigi gets to be so carefree and awesome about it and turns out luigi and reader have a common thread and it's turning out rlly good but then reader is slightly scared of commitment in a relationship dare i say? because it was all acads for reader even though there were dreams of having a relationship, it all seemed abstract and unreal!! and the angst comes when luigi confesses to reader and reader reacts very defensive i suppose spitting out word vomit enumerating reasons why luigi shouldnt like her and how he's too good for her and luigi just shuts reader up by pinching their cheeks and holding them steady saying i want you all of you all that sweet stuff...this is just a thought i want to say i admire you heavily your writing is pivotal

Without Me — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, pining, best friends, purest love, summer, unrequited, lowkey gut-wrenching (sorry)

Wc: 6,843 (I could not stop writing)

Notes; Before we begin, I have to say, anon, I very much enjoyed writing this!! And thank you so much for sending me this request! ✨ there are only a couple bits of dialogue that match the hill scene, but I wanted to throw them in there!

This is lowkey a mini-fic, so enjoy!

Side note: If anything is badly edited, I will likely come back to do some cleaning up. But maybe not. Also I’ve started picking songs to include in requests wherever they may fit in. I want to mention too that backstory is something I just simply can’t leave out when it comes to angsty or emotional scenes, so I’m sorry I literally can’t shut up.

The cicadas weave their summer hymn through the gentle lap of water against stone, your body stretched across whisper-soft grass beside the reservoir.

This spot holds years of you both — echoes of skinned knees and bruised elbows soothed by cool spring water, of childhood dares and teenage secrets.

"You never swim with me anymore." Luigi's voice carries no accusation, just a quiet observation that somehow makes it worse. You can picture his expression without looking —that gentle, knowing thing that always sees too much. "All you do now is torch yourself in the sun."

Your back peels away from the grass, elbows bent to prop you up. Through his borrowed sunglasses — because of course you forgot yours back at the house, and of course he had a spare —you study him.

He's summer personified: water-darkened hair curling at his temples, shoulders golden in the early evening light, wearing a smile easy as breathing.

"I just don't want to get my hair wet, Lu." You say it with the comfortable certainty of someone who's had this exact argument a hundred times before.

"Well, don't then." His retort is quick, familiar. He moves through the water with an easy grace that somehow makes the old reservoir look more inviting than it ever has, though you'd never admit it.

Your shoulders are painted with freckles from all these summer days — chasing chickens in the fields, racing bikes into the city with him riding at your back, his presence as constant as the seasons.

"But then when I get out, I'll be cold." The words float between you like lazy dragonflies, and Luigi just shakes his head, spattering droplets that catch the light.

He pouts, but not like you do.

Where your pouts are theatrical productions, his is a quiet thing — eyebrows drawn together in thought, bottom lip pulled inward instead of jutted out dramatically. His gaze fixes downward at his feet beneath the crystal-clear water, methodically toeing one stone over, then another, like the placement of each pebble might solve some grand puzzle.

You watch him wage his silent war of reorganization, using nothing but his ten toes as construction equipment. It's such a Luigi thing to do — finding the smallest tasks to occupy himself instead of splashing around like he usually does, trying to tempt you in.

"Bet the water feels incredible," he murmurs, more to the stones than to you. His toes have created a perfect semicircle now, a tiny amphitheater beneath the surface. "Like that lemonade your mom makes — you know, the one with mint?"

You do know.

The kind she only makes when the temperature crawls past ninety, when the air feels thick enough to chew. Like today. You can almost taste it — tart and cool and perfect — which is exactly what Luigi intended with that particular comparison, the sneak.

"You're not as subtle as you think you are," you inform him, but you're already sitting up straighter, your legs beginning to tingle from staying still too long in the sun.

The grass has left impressions on your skin, tiny crosshatched patterns that Luigi always says look like secret maps, his fingers drawing lines upon them.

He doesn't look up from his underwater construction project, but one corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Never claimed to be subtle. That's your department, avoiding the water like it's personally offended you."

"The water hasn't offended me," you say, though you draw your knees up to your chest, putting another inch between you and the shoreline. "We have a mutual understanding. It stays there, and I stay here."

"Mhm." Luigi abandons his stone circle, wading a few steps deeper until the water laps at his knees, stood there in his trunks, the cobalt blue ones that hit just above his mid-thigh. "And how's that working out for you? Enjoying your dusty patch of grass while I'm out here living like a king?"

The problem is, he does look a bit regal out there, all long limbs and easy grace, like he was born for summer days and spring water.

You've known Lu since you were both gap-toothed and gangly, but sometimes — like now — he seems to have grown into himself while you weren't looking.

Yet, your own limbs still feel too long, too awkward, like you're wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit.

Meanwhile, Luigi wears summer like a second skin, all easy movements and natural grace, as if the universe decided to polish him up while leaving you in your perpetual state of stumbling through doorways.

"A king of minnows, maybe," you counter, but you're already uncurling, letting your feet stretch toward the water's edge. Not to join him, obviously. Just to... test the temperature.

"Ah," he says softly, watching your toes creep closer, his voice taking on a funny narrators tone, an accent thrown in that sounded similar to his fathers. "The snail emerges from her shell."

"Shell-less snails are just slugs," you inform him primly, but dip one toe in anyway. The water isn't as cold as you expected — it never is, but that doesn't stop you from putting on this show every single time. "And I'm neither."

"No," Luigi agrees, dropping the accent but keeping that amused lilt in his voice. "You're more like- like one of those hermit crabs. The ones that think really hard about switching shells but then just stick with the same one anyway."

You splash water at him with your foot, and he doesn't even try to dodge. "Fuck, Lu —That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."

"Is it?" He takes a few steps backward, deeper into the water, like he's laying out a trail for you to follow. "Because you're still sitting there, thinking about coming in, just like you do every time.“

Luigi could easily remember all the days spent here, in this very body of water together — the secret collection of precious gems that were really just polished river rocks, the fossil that turned out to be an old bottle cap, and that infamous river snake from an overturned stone that had you shrieking and refusing to dive under for weeks.

"Can't be thinking about doing it if I'm already doing it, Lu." You roll your eyes, your shins now lapping gently with clean, cool water. The trees droop overhead like nature's own parasol, their leaves casting dappled shadows that dance across your shoulders.

He's quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. And then. “Remember when we thought we found actual dinosaur bones here?"

"You mean the plastic fork?"

"A very convincing plastic fork."

The water feels like silk against your skin now, and you find yourself wading deeper without really meaning to. It's muscle memory, maybe — your body remembering what your mind keeps second-guessing.

"At least I wasn't the one who tried to sell it to the museum.” you remind him, the water now swirling around your waist. Each step stirs up tiny clouds of silt that disappear into the clear water.

He splashes in your direction, grinning. "We were tweleve! And Mrs. Henderson at the museum was very nice about it."

"She gave you a cookie and a lecture about scientific integrity."

"Exactly. A win-win."

You're deep enough now that you have to lift your arms to keep them dry, though you're not sure why you're bothering. Your bikini is already clinging to you, and that familiar weightless feeling is starting to take over — the one that always made you feel brave before.

"You know what your real problem is?" Luigi quips, but this time his voice is gentler. "You forgot how to play."

The words hit harder than you expect, maybe because there's no teasing in them now.

Just truth, floating there on the surface like a leaf.

"I didn't forget," you say quietly. "I just- I put it away somewhere."

The look in his eyes tells you exactly what's coming, but muscle memory kicks in before you can retreat, your arms already up in defense position as he sends a massive splash your way, the arc of water catching sunlight like scattered diamonds before it hits you full in the face.

"Luigi!" you shriek, but you're already laughing, already moving. Your soul remembers this dance even if your mind's been trying to forget it, and the water parts easily as you lunge toward him, years of practice making your movements swift and sure.

He tries to dodge, but you know all his tricks — the way he always feints left before going right, how he can't resist staying just within splashing range.

The water battle that ensues is immediate and fierce, both of you laughing and gasping, sending waves in every direction, limbs smacking into each other at times, your body trailing away from his while he charged closer.

"See?" he manages between splashes. "The Queen of minnows!”

You're about to respond when your foot slips on a smooth stone, and suddenly you're going under.

For a split second, panic flares — but then the tranquility and silence envelops you, and it feels like greeting an old friend, your eyes open underwater, seeing the filtered sunlight create shifting patterns all around you, and suddenly you remember why you used to love this so much.

When you surface, pushing wet hair from your face, Luigi is watching you with a grin, his sunglasses pushed away from his face and atop his head instead, nestled in his damp black curls. “You got your hair wet.” He gives you one last gentle splash, his grin so carved into his features it may as well be everlasting.

Luigi, the son of Marco Mangione, whose genius lay in transforming his grandfather's modest Milan carpentry shop into Mangione Artisan Living — now a name whispered in the same breath as Fendi Casa and Bottega Veneta's home collection.

When Marco married Sofia Bernardi in the 80’s, a celebrated interior designer, they moved to America, the local papers painting it as another wealthy foreigner's passing fancy — this modernist villa rising among cornfields and weathered barns.

But Marco had seen something in these hills that reminded him of Tuscany, in the calloused hands of local woodworkers that echoed his grandfather's.

The Mangione Mansion stands like a slice of northern Italy transplanted to American soil, with its stark geometries softened by groves of imported olive trees and terraced gardens.

It's a world away from your family's farmhouse, where the paint peels in honest patches and the screen door creaks a familiar welcome, yet Marco moves between these worlds with effortless grace, discussing the merits of different wood grains with your father across the fence line, or clearing out your mother's farmer's market stall of preserves, declaring each jar Perfetto, just like my Nonna's! with the same genuine warmth he uses to greet European royalty.

Luigi, who could have been pressed into private academies and dinner jackets, groomed for Ivy League legacies and country club memberships, had instead grown up alongside you in public school — though his future was cushioned by both financial security and natural brilliance.

You can't remember a time when academic excellence wasn't your north star — every assignment a stepping stone, every grade a battle in the war for your future.

Being a veterinarian wasn't just a dream, it was your escape route from the endless cycle of farm life that had worn your father's hands to calluses and bent your mother's back.

Perfect attendance since kindergarten, straight A's through AP Biology, even showing up on Senior Skip Day — just you and Lacey Williams, the would-be neurosurgeon, bent over your textbooks in an empty classroom.

Now here you both are in the water — you with your scholarship letters and student loan applications waiting at home, him with acceptance letters from Harvard and Yale gathering dust on his desk.

Two lives that should never have intersected, meeting in the middle of sun-warmed water, your shared freckles catching golden light, limbs tangling as Luigi feints another playful attack.

•

Summer buzzes by your eyeshot like a cicada in a hurry, the season winding down with cooler, longer nights and shorter, blazing hot days.

August comes barreling through like it always does, hot and sticky air clinging to your skin as you sit with Luigi upon the sloped side of the barn, a Birds Eye view of the farm, this very spot the first place the two of you had tried smoking weed, the very first time you ogled at a traumatizing porn everyone at school was talking about — this spot, worn from years of shared moments together is the very place you create some distance.

For the first time.

“I think I want my own party this year.”

The words land like a stone in still water, ripples of hurt crossing Luigi's face before he can master his expression.

For a moment, he looks eight years old again, standing in the tall grass with his first American birthday cake — the one your mom made because his parents were still learning that birthdays here meant homemade frosting, not elegant catered affairs and grand garden parties.

"Oh," he says, and it's the smallest you've ever heard his voice. "Yeah, of course. That makes sense. We’re turning twenty-two. Not eight anymore.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes, hands fidgeting with the bracelet you’d made him years and years ago — the same nervous tell he's had since childhood. "Actually, Ma’s been saying I should do something more — you know, formal this year anyway."

The lie sits between you like a third person.

Luigi, who once convinced his parents to move his elaborate garden party to your barn because you had the flu has never cared for formal anything.

You can see him rebuilding his walls, brick by careful brick, protecting himself the way he never had to with you before.

"Send me pictures though?" he adds lightly, but there's at least fifteen years of shared candles and off-key, bi-lingual singing wrapped in that request, fifteen years of your mom's chocolate cake and his ma’s tiramisu side by side on the same table.

"Luigi, it's not-" you start, then pause, because it is exactly what he thinks it is. A separation. A gentle fracture. "I just need to figure out who I am without- without being part of a matched set. Does that make sense?"

The words feel clumsy in your mouth, inadequate to explain this need that's been growing since your acceptance letter arrived.

You watch him nod too quickly, the way he does when he's processing something that hurts.

The same way he looked when Benny, one of the milking cows had passed three summers ago, or the way he looked when you told him you couldn’t go on the Mangione trip to Italy, desperately needing the vet clinic hours.

"My party's probably just going to be pizza with my study group anyway," you continue, trying to make it sound smaller than it is, even though you've already planned every detail — your first real birthday party that isn't shaped around accommodating both your worlds. "And you should do something spectacular. Twenty-two is a weird number, but you could make it your thing.“

He laughs, but it's his polite laugh, the one he uses at his father's business dinners. "Maybe I'll rent out that new rooftop place in the city," he says, playing along with this sudden pretense that the two of you haven't spent months quietly planning your joint party like every year before. "Very grown-up."

The space between you fills with unspoken memories — dual parties with increasingly ridiculous themes, the year you both got chicken pox and celebrated in quarantine together, or the year his mother hired a magician who pulled you both on stage as assistants.

Fifteen years of wishes and synchronized candle-blowing, and you’ve put an abrupt end to it, with not so much as a warning.

"You're not mad?" you ask, even though you can see he is — not angry-mad, but hurt-mad, the kind that makes his shoulders tight and his smile too careful.

He stands abruptly, brushing invisible dirt from his shorts. "Mad? Nah, come on. We're not kids anymore." The words come out just a touch too fast, too light. "Actually, I should head back. Papa wanted to discuss something about the company tonight."

It's barely seven, and Marco's in New York City until Thursday — you both know this. But Luigi's already stepping back, that practiced social smile firmly in place, the one he uses when he needs to retreat but is too polite to say so.

"Night," he calls over his shoulder once he scales the side of the barn down to the grass again, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

You watch him walk away, his usual easy stride now stiff and measured, leaving you alone with just the sound of the bullfrogs near the pond, and the chickens settling in their coops for the night.

The sunset feels colder somehow, and you wrap your arms around your knees, trying to convince yourself this is what growing up looks like as you sit there until the mosquitoes start biting, watching the space where Luigi disappeared and wondering if this is what independence is supposed to feel like — this hollow victory that tastes nothing like freedom and everything like loss.

•

The late August evening slowly begins to melt into night, the air carrying whispers of autumn though summer still reigns.

You breathe in deep — catching hints of hay being baled in distant fields, leaves just beginning their subtle shift from green to gold, and lake water evaporating off sun-warmed skin. The pontoon boat hums steadily beneath you, loaded with friends sprawled across every available surface, their laughter echoing across the darkening water.

You'd done your best to prepare them all, carefully explaining the separate celebrations to avoid awkward questions.

But Luigi's absence feels like a shadow you can't shake — in the pause after every joke, in the empty space at the boat's stern where he always sat, in the way conversations drift and fade without his easy charm to bridge them.

You're learning that some people leave gaps too precisely shaped to fill, and you catch yourself waiting for sounds that aren't coming —the full-bodied laughter that usually ricochets across the lake, the constant stream of Luigi's commentary that made even silence feel alive.

No one's standing at the boat's edge, goading others into increasingly ridiculous diving contests. The absence of these things sits heavy in your chest, like missing the last step on a familiar staircase.

"Good for you for doing your own thing this year," Mia offers, wine sloshing in her solo cup as she gestures vaguely. "Must be nice not having to compromise on everything for once."

Not really, you think.

The evening settles into dinner in the back garden, strings of lights casting warm halos over familiar faces — relatives, neighbors, friends who'd trickled in as the day aged and as if on cue, the peaceful scene splinters at the sound of tires on gravel and a booming voice that makes your stomach drop.

"Where's Luigi?!"

Cousin Tony's borrowed truck sits askew on the path, driver's door still swinging open like an afterthought.

He bounds toward you, one arm clutching what's clearly a wine bottle wrapped in what looks like yesterday's newspaper, his face bright with the anticipation of seeing his favorite duo.

The sight makes something in your chest twist.

He’s always treated you both as his own blood, never drawing lines between family and chosen family.

You're crushed into a bear hug before you can dodge it, his familiar cologne mixing with engine grease as you try to breathe through compressed lungs, but he’s still calling for Luigi over your head, each shout making the other guests shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"He's somewhere in the city, Tone," you manage to wheeze out.

Your phone burns in your pocket, where Luigi's latest Instagram story sits unopened — some rooftop view you're deliberately not thinking about.

"What'da ya mean?" His grip loosens just enough for you to see his face fall, confusion creeping into his features like a slowly spreading stain.

"We're... trying something different this year," you say, words feeling clumsy as you glance over your shoulder at the laden table — a spread that still unconsciously includes all of Luigi's favorites alongside your own. The sight of his mother's recipe for stuffed shells sitting next to your grandmother's pierogies makes your throat tight.

"Well, is he at least comin' later?"

"No." The word falls between you like a stone. "He couldn't cancel his reservation without losing the booking fee, so I just told him it was fi-"

"No, no, mia cara," Tony drags his hands through his hair, face crumpling like you've just told him the world is ending. "Potrebbe essere l'ultimo!" The words tumble out in his rushed native tongue, his distress making him forget himself.

"You just said that in Italian." Your voice sounds far away, even to your own ears, like it's coming from the bottom of a well.

"Shit — It could be your last time, cuginetta." Tony's sigh seems to come from his bones as he pulls out his phone, cursing when he sees the no-service icon.

"My last time?"

Tony lifts his head slowly from his phone screen, eyes finding yours with a weight that makes your stomach drop. "What — oh, Dio — do you mean to say he has not told you?"

"Told me...?” You brace yourself, chest aching with a sudden, sharp regret for all those breakfast lessons with Luigi's nonna, her patient voice guiding you through pronunciations you'd carelessly let slip away between coffee and lunch.

"He got big'a job in the big city," Tony's hands sweep upward, as if trying to encompass the vastness of a metropolis that stretches far beyond any gesture could capture. "Saying bye-bye forever to smelly farm." His hands fall, and his expression softens into something dangerously close to pity. "Sorry.”

"Leaving? Like — he's moving there?" The words feel strange in your mouth.

You're standing in the same garden where you and Luigi once buried treasure maps at age eight, where you learned to cartwheel together at twelve, where you shared your first illegal beer at sixteen — and suddenly it all feels like archaeological evidence of something that's already gone.

"That's where zio Marco is now, making sure Princess Luigi has all the things he need there for — uh—" Tony lapses into rapid Italian, but you've already stopped listening, the rest of his words fading into white noise.

You're hung up on the present tense of it all — Luigi’s father is there now, apartment hunting, setting up a brand new life while you stand here in your shared history, surrounded by people who apparently knew more about Luigi's future than you did.

The realization hits very suddenly.

Luigi was moving away, and he spoke not a word of it to you.

Tony manages a plate of food before borrowing your landline, desperate to track down Luigi in the sprawling city and when his truck finally crunches back down the gravel path, you feel it like a physical wound — as if he's taking a piece of you with him, torn straight from your core, yet, you maintain your composure with award-winning precision, a smile fixed firmly in place as guests filter away into the darkness.

You go through the motions, accepting kisses on cheeks, graciously receiving gifts labeled with just your name - no more Dynamic Duo or Thing 1 and 2 scrawled in familiar handwriting.

You help clear the garden, stack chairs, wash dishes that held food Luigi would have fought you for the leftovers of. You kiss your father's cheek goodnight, and tell your still-bustling mother you're heading out for some stargazing.

It's not entirely a lie.

You do end up beneath the stars, though you hadn't exactly planned to collapse here by the waterfront, where the distant dock creaks its lonely song, the splash of jumping fish and the bold croaking of nearby bullfrogs barely register — sounds that would normally make you jump now feel as distant as satellite signals.

You're lost in the undertow of your thoughts, barely noticing the warm tears tracking down your neck until your t-shirt is damp with evidence of a grief you didn't know you needed to prepare for — the silence holds you, envelopes you, and you’re almost convinced you can disappear here until-

"Hey, stranger."

His voice cuts through the cricket symphony like a knife, and you freeze, tears still wet on your face.

You don't turn around — can't turn around — because you know exactly what he'll look like: silhouetted against the moons full and distant glow, wearing that stupid designer jacket he bought last month that suddenly makes too much sense.

Big City boy.

The grass whispers beneath his feet as he approaches, each step measured like he's greeting a spooked animal.

It's funny — he used to just crash down beside you, all elbows and laughter.

When did you become something he had to be careful with?

"Tone called me," he says softly, still standing. "Said he found you but couldn't find me." There's a pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Told me other things, too."

The lake laps at the shore, a steady rhythm that used to calm you both on countless nights like this.

Now it just sounds like a countdown.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Your voice sounds small against the vastness of the lake, broken and confused, betrayed and disbelieving.

"Would it have changed anything?" His words come sharp, defensive. "Would you have suddenly decided to stay?"

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" The laugh that escapes him is bitter and unfamiliar. "You want to talk about fair? I watched you apply to every college more than fifty miles away. Watched you light up talking about leaving, about getting out. Never once asking—" He cuts himself off, his gaze turning up instead at the trees that sway and rustle in the midnight air, a chill taking your spine.

"Asking what, Lu?”

"If I wanted to come with you." The words hang in the darkness between you. "If maybe I had dreams too, ones that didn't involve watching you disappear."

"I never said you couldn't-“

"What do you think I was going to do, wait around forever?" His voice cracks at the end, brittle and broken. "God, I've spent my whole life orbiting you like a personal Pluto. I don't even remember my life before you." He paces now like an agitated zoo animal behind a sheath of thin glass, just out of reach. “And yet, you expect me to stay here without you? While you go to college, make your own dreams come true?"

The moonlight catches his face as he turns, and you see something break in his expression. "I would have waited. I would have always waited, but fuck—" His hands tremble as they rake through his hair. "You've pushed and pushed and pushed me away. Every college application, every excited story about your future somewhere else, the party -“ he watches as you stand, your posture ridged and nervous, but attentive.

"Lu, please -“

"So what do I do?" His voice drops lower, trembling. "I have to think of myself too. I have to accept that we won't always be this way." He watches as you scrub your hands over your face, your unsteady legs carrying you off the dock.

The cool, damp grass beneath your feet becomes an anchor, something real in a moment that feels anything but.

He follows, his body angled toward yours like a compass finding north. "But it didn't have to be like this." His voice softens to barely above a whisper, his dress shoes crushing the grass with each step.

"Well, what exactly did you expect?" You whirl around, wiping furiously beneath your eyes, moonlight catching the tears on your cheeks that refuse to be unseen. "We were going to play in the river forever? Did you think we'd just find our way without ever trying?" The words come out harder than you mean them, sharp with the kind of anger that's really just fear in disguise.

"I- you-" Luigi's voice breaks.

His eyes are bloodshot, the bridge of his nose red from earlier tears hastily wiped away in the party bathroom. In the half-light, he looks both younger and older than your shared twenty-two years — a boy trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers, a man facing his first real loss.

"You know, maybe it might have been that easy for you, Lu." Your eyes drift to the Mangione Mansion, its windows gleaming like jewels against the dark hills, an anomaly among the endless cornfields. "You never had to lift a finger — it always just..." You gesture vaguely, bitterly. "Fell into place."

The words taste like copper in your mouth, sharper for how unfair they feel.

Because he's always shared everything.

Those lavish family dinners where his mother insisted you sit next to her, those delicate necklaces from Rome that he'd drape around your neck with careful fingers, those shopping trips where his nonna would press dresses into your arms with a conspirator's wink.

He's never once made you feel like charity.

But there are some things that can't be shared, some advantages that run deeper than generosity.

While you pieced together credits between evening classes and online courses, fighting for every inch of progress, he'd come home rolling his eyes at another Harvard letter, another Yale recruiter calling.

You take a deep breath, feeling the summer air fill your lungs, and air that smells like it always has, like corn silk and cut grass and the all-consuming night. "Did you think we'd just stay here in our bubble, Lu?" Your voice softens despite yourself. "The only place we've ever known?"

All he can do is stand there, helpless, caught between a nod and denial.

His expression crumples into something raw and pleading — such a far cry from the boy who, just last week, had painted patterns across your skin with river mud, both of you laughing until your sides hurt.

The same boy whom you could communicate with without even speaking to, who knew exactly how you took your coffee, who was born the day before you, and who could read your silences like a book he'd memorized; yet now he's looking at you like you're written in a language he never learned to speak.

"No." The word propels you forward, feet moving before your brain catches up.

His face softens into something unbearable — like watching a star collapse in slow motion, finally understanding that this isn't just another one of your theoretical late-night talks about the future.

His carefully constructed composure crumbles, leaving behind something young and scared and achingly real.

"I love you." The words fall from his lips like muscle memory, like breathing, like the thousands of times before — whispered against your hair during movies, shouted across parking lots, mumbled sleepily during long car rides. But now they land heavy between you, a weight pressing against your chest until it hurts to breathe. "I always have, and I always will—"

"No. No, Lu." Your voice cracks on his name, and your pace quickens, bare feet crushing grass beneath desperate steps.

But he matches you stride for stride.

“My life has been so intertwined with yours, when you began to pull away - I- I panicked,” He was rambling now, quick and out of breath but keeping up with you nonetheless, the two of you navigating the vast property, moon and starlight the only thing guiding your path. “I settled on what I knew would be easiest,”

“That’s the problem.” You stop again to look at him, your chest heaving. “You don’t need to settle, Lu — you’re brilliant, you’re so fucking brilliant-“ he grabs your wrists gently, taking several steps to close the gap between you.

"I have never settled on you." Luigi's voice goes rigid, cracking in the middle like ice breaking over deep water. Each word carries the weight of years — shared secrets, dreams whispered under blanket forts, and promises made in tree houses. "You have always been my first option."

You catch your breath, the familiar warmth of his hands on your wrists suddenly feeling like shackles.

Your head shakes, slow and deliberate, as you try to pull back — but his grip steadfast remains. "How would you know of the other options?" The question comes out softer than you mean it to, weighted with everything you've both been too scared to say. "Do you know yourself without me?”

"I don't want to know myself without you."

"Luigi. Please stop-“ You wrench your wrists from his loosened grip, your feet carrying you forward through the night but he follows, like an echo you can't shake, like a shadow that refuses to fade with distance.

His words tumble out faster now, chasing the shrinking space between you and home, visible through the wavering corn stalks like a lighthouse warning of rough water ahead. "I know I'm not — I know I'm not Matthew Williams, or that guy that works the stables near the Bradshaws. And I know I’m not a perfect man, but—"

You stop once again, so abruptly this time he nearly collides with you, turning to face this strange new version of Luigi — one you've never seen before, one who wears his insecurities like an ill-fitting suit.

He's brave, you'll give him that, but he's also terrified in a way that makes your chest ache.

This boy who's never had to compete for anything in his life, suddenly listing off names like entries in a contest he thinks he's losing.

"You stop that." Your finger jabs at his chest, connecting with the expensive fabric of his jacket. "You are the most-the most magnificent person I have ever met, Luigi. And you're not perfect, no-“ You swallow against the rising bile, against the irony of having to defend him to himself when you're the one walking away. "But you're honest, and you're good — a goddamn great deal too good for me."

The last part comes out like a confession, like something you've carried so long it's carved itself into your bones — the real reason you're running, the fear that someday he'll wake up and realize it too.

The night holds its breath around you, your ragged exhales mixing with his in the space between heartbeats, and the trees shiver their leaves like witnesses to your undoing, crickets falling silent as if they too understand the gravity of this moment — this closing act.

"But-“ You step into his warmth, drawn forward like a moth to flame, even now, knowing it would burn. You’re close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with fresh-cut grass and summer sweat. Close enough to see the moonlight catching in his eyelashes. Close enough to break both your hearts properly. "I can't love you the way you deserve to be loved."

The words tear themselves from your throat like barbed wire, each syllable drawing blood.

Your stomach twists inside out, acid creeping up your throat again, "I can't love you like that. I’m - I’m so, so sorry, Luigi — I just - I can’t,

His hands find your face with the reverence of a prayer, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the geography of your skin. "Listen to me," he whispers, his voice thick with desperation. "Listen."

The tenderness in his touch nearly breaks you — the way his fingers tremble against your jaw, the gentle circles he traces beneath your ears, the familiar callous on his right thumb from his tree-climbing habit.

His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath hitching, unsteady and warm against your lips.

"You've already loved me better than anyone else ever could," Luigi's voice cracks, splintering like ice in early spring. "You love me exactly as I am — not the heir, not the prodigy, not the Mangione name." His hands slide into your hair, “You have loved me even though I can’t remember to help feed the hens, but I can recite every constellation. And you’ve loved me even though I name every cull cow — even though you think it’s cruel.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the raw hope in his gaze is almost unbearable. "Please," he breathes, the word more air than sound. "Please don't decide for both of us what kind of love I deserve." His thumbs catch the tears you didn't realize were falling, smearing them across your cheeks like war paint. "Let me choose.”

“Then choose someone else!” You shake your hands at him, helpless and wishing to disappear. “I - I’m so unsure of myself - every goddamn thing I do, Luigi. I break everything, I’m useless at being a homemaker. I’m awkward, I’m a black sheep, even all the way out here.”

You aren’t made for the big city like he is.

The moonlight catches in his dark eyes, turning them to liquid as they search yours. "I don't need perfect love. I don't need textbook romance or fairy tale." His voice breaks, raw with honesty. "I just need you. But - but I can’t live like this forever" He’s speaking faster than you’ve ever heard the smooth-talking, easy going Luigi say anything.

You try to turn away, to escape the weight of his words, but his touch holds you steady — gentle but unwavering. "Luigi — let me the fuck-“

"No," he breathes, the word ghosting across your lips. "No, don't push me away because you think you're protecting me. Don't make decisions about what I can handle." His fingers thread through your hair, cradling the back of your head. "I choose this. I choose the messy parts, the broken parts, the parts you think are unlovable. I choose all of it."

I am stopping this here. Love you 💕

[scarletskiesinthepaths]

i do absolutely think Levi having some sort of sexual trauma has been built upon over the years. There’s just so many small things that point to that kind of trauma, and Bad Boy just compounds on those things.

his aversion to sleep has always been very strange to me, he doesn’t even lay down to do so and only ever gets a few hours. it could just be a general unease/feeling a lack of safety but Levi isn’t exactly an outwardly anxious person. im sure his ability to sustain himself on only a few hours of sleep has something to do with his Ackerman power, but he almost seems to have a tendency to avoid laying in beds as a whole. i’m not sure we ever see him in one (perhaps the barracks in No Regrets?) outside of his major injury towards the end.

honestly even though his obsession with cleanliness can be associated with growing up in a dirty environment like the underground (very common IRL w people who grow up in poverty or hoarding etc) something about it always raised an eyebrow to me. feeling somehow “filthy” in a way that is difficult to shake is a very common trauma response for SA victims. He’s also particular with human gore in a way he isn’t with Titan gore. to be fair Titan blood literally steams off, but idk the elaborate get up in the torture scene stick with me, why is a guy who constantly cuts down giant meat monsters full of blood and sinew suiting up with an apron and rubber gloves to punch a human?

When Kenny finds him with Kuchel’s body he’s only wearing of one of her old shirts (if i remember right) which could also be just associated with the neglect he faced as Kuchel’s health declined and she wasn’t able to keep working, but it could absolutely have much worse implications. he’s surely under-clothed for a child that age.

and speaking of Hange i think this is also a huge indicator of how important their friendship w Levi was. i think the “Levi has to knock Hange out to bathe them” lore was mostly a joke, but i absolutely believe that Hange would have a knack for working themselves into exhaustion and neglecting their personal hygiene and the fact that Levi, who is adverse to dirtiness and probably physical touch, would still be willing to help Hange take care of themselves on that level is very important to me.

idk, again there’s just so many small things that compound. i think ppl who refuse to even consider that possibility are ignoring a huge subtext in his writing.

the writing in Bad Boy reminds me a lot of an RPG character from Dragon Age called Zevran, who has a very similar backstory (prostitute mother, grew up in a brothel after she died giving birth) and SA/sex trafficking is a huge part of his writing, it’s never explicitly said but he gets incredibly close to saying it multiple times.

Absolutely, anon, I'm really glad you brought this up. I agree with you. Your observations are thoughtful and deeply grounded in the subtle, but persistent, cues throughout Levi’s characterization. There’s a strong case to be made that Levi’s childhood experiences, especially as hinted in Bad Boy, suggest sexual trauma as part of his backstory, and I agree that this thread has been quietly but consistently built over time across multiple Attack on Titan texts, including the main canon itself, Bad Boy, and the A Choice with No Regrets manga and OVA.

I’ll be honest, though; I sat on this ask for a little while. Not because I disagreed, but because I’ve grown cautious about diving back into this particular conversation, lol. I hope you're still around to read my response! There’s been pushback in the past, and it’s easy to get worn down by the defensiveness and bad-faith interpretations that inevitably come with it. But ultimately, I don’t want fear of fandom backlash to silence a valid reading of the text.

Just to be clear, I’m not saying there’s any explicit confirmation that Levi was sexually abused. What I am saying is that there is a consistent body of subtext—textual, visual, and behavioral—that makes this interpretation both plausible and worth discussing. It’s one lens among many, and it’s one that aligns with real-world trauma responses in a way that deserves thoughtful attention.

For anyone curious and looking to read more on this topic, including some of my older posts and others’ contributions, here are a few links:

To actually address your message and your points, anon:

When Kenny first discovers Levi, the imagery is haunting. Levi appears severely malnourished, neglected, and ghost-like. He’s wearing only a shirt, which not only suggests poverty but also emphasizes how profoundly vulnerable he is. While it’s never confirmed whether the shirt belonged to Kuchel, the idea that it might have is a valid and plausible headcanon. What is confirmed is that Levi is shown curled up on the floor in the same room as her decomposing body, completely alone. In the context of a brothel—where Kuchel worked as a sex worker and where strangers would have regularly entered and exited the space—Levi’s state of undress takes on more disturbing implications. We never learn who had access to that room after Kuchel’s death, nor how long Levi was left to fend for himself there. And as you pointed out, for a child that age to be so underclothed in such a setting is more than just a sign of deprivation—it casts a shadow over the kind of dangers he may have been exposed to during that time.

Now, I’m aware there’s some debate in the fandom about whether Levi and Kuchel actually lived in the brothel where she worked. Personally, I do believe they did. But even if they didn’t, Kuchel’s notoriety as "Olympia"—a well-known prostitute—means that clients familiar with her could very well have come looking. Regardless of the precise location, the threat would have remained the same.

It’s also important to consider how the Attack on Titan universe establishes the Underground as a site of rampant exploitation, especially sexual violence and trafficking. In "Chapter 6: The World that the Girl Saw", we learn that Mikasa, who lived on the surface, was nearly trafficked into sexual slavery. The traffickers planned to sell her specifically to the Underground, where such exploitation was evidently common and profitable. If that was the fate planned for a surface child, it paints a grim picture of what life must have been like for children born in the Underground. Levi wasn’t just born there—he was the son of a sex worker, raised alone in a brothel after her death. In Bad Boy, we see that even as a child, Levi was almost sold into the same system by thugs looking to profit off him. On top of that, he was well-known locally as a “whore’s son,” a stigma that would have marked him as vulnerable. Given this context, and considering how openly the narrative depicts trafficking as a real danger even for children with more protection than Levi had, it’s tragically plausible that Levi endured violations that the text never directly names. Whether or not his trauma is ever confirmed in explicit terms, the setting, circumstances, and behavioral cues all suggest that he was not spared from the kind of exploitation that was normalized in the world he grew up in.

A Choice with No Regrets further deepens this portrait of Levi. As an adult in the Underground, he’s strikingly hyper-independent, emotionally guarded, and instinctively distrustful. His stoicism goes far beyond what would be considered adaptive for someone in a harsh environment—it reads instead as the psychological armor of someone who learned, early and brutally, that vulnerability is dangerous. What’s telling is how this contrasts with Furlan and Isabel, who also grew up in the Underground but retain a more open emotional register. Levi, by contrast, keeps himself closed off—even from those he clearly cares about. Another subtle but telling detail is his relationship to sleep. As you noted, Levi rarely lays down to rest. Even after Return to Shiganshina, when he’s critically injured, we only see him in bed when he’s completely incapacitated. His irregular sleep habits suggest that rest—and the vulnerability it entails—is something he instinctively avoids. It’s also worth noting that Isayama has confirmed in interviews that Levi typically sleeps in a chair. That choice feels significant: what is it about beds, specifically, that feel unsafe to him? It’s a small detail, but one that subtly reinforces the idea that Levi's avoidance of rest is tied not just to environmental danger, but to deeper psychological trauma.

One moment from A Choice with No Regrets that I think is often overlooked—or, worse, completely misread—is the scene in the manga where Levi kills Isabel’s attacker. There’s a strong implication that the man had either raped or was planning to rape her. Isabel returns visibly shaken, and the fact that her hair was forcibly cut—while some try to minimize this—is itself a physical violation. That kind of act doesn’t happen without bodily restraint, humiliation, and intent to dehumanize. Levi’s reaction isn’t casual vengeance or impulsive rage. It’s swift, cold, and deliberate. And it stands out all the more because Levi is consistently portrayed as someone who does not enjoy killing, especially when it comes to other humans. He doesn’t take satisfaction in it, and he’s shown to feel the weight of taking lives. But in this moment, he kills with no hesitation. That’s not just about protecting Isabel; it’s also about what that kind of violation represents to him. This scene adds another layer to the subtext that Levi may have experienced sexual trauma himself. His actions suggest not just outrage on her behalf, but a deep, visceral recognition of what was done to her. When you consider his background—being raised in a brothel, growing up in a community where sexual violence was commonplace, and being personally threatened with it—his response in this scene becomes far more layered. It's not about bloodlust; it's about survival and protection.

As for his obsession with cleanliness, I completely agree that it likely stems from both his impoverished upbringing and something deeper. Like you stated, the trauma of feeling “unclean” in a psychological sense is a known marker in many survivors of sexual abuse. Levi doesn’t just value hygiene—he’s almost compulsive about it. In chapter 15, when he enters Trost HQ, his first instinct is to clean, even in the midst of military chaos. It’s a trait that speaks to more than just surface disgust; it feels ritualistic, like he’s trying to scrub away something intangible. We also know from the Smartpass AU Levi Close-up Report that part of the reason Levi cares so much about cleanliness is because he associates filth with disease. That alone demonstrates that the cleaning is a coping mechanism for something greater.

The A Choice with No Regrets OVA also contributes to this subtext in a subtle but unsettling way. In one sequence, a group of thugs corner Isabel, and after she bites one of them, he implies he wants to assault her—saying, “She’ll pay for bitin’ me. Lemme have some fun with her before we do anything else, ’kay?” Levi isn’t present for that threat, but it establishes that these men are sexual predators and underscores how normalized sexual violence is in the Underground. Shortly afterward, when Levi confronts the same group, one of the thugs touches the collar of Levi’s shirt. Levi immediately recoils and snaps, “Keep your filthy hands off me. I don’t want you smudging my shirt.” His tone is cold and sharp—disproportionately intense for such a minor touch, unless read through the lens of trauma. What’s especially notable is how Furlan quickly intervenes, almost too casually, saying, “Sorry, 'bout that. We're clean freaks here. You prob'ly shouldn't come back, but if ya do, be sure to wash your hands first.” It’s a strangely timed comment, bringing up hygiene in the middle of a tense confrontation, and it reads more like a deflection than comic relief, at least to me. Furlan’s response seems like a practiced redirection, as if he’s accustomed to covering for Levi in moments like this, aware that Levi’s aversion to touch and obsession with cleanliness may stem from something deeper. The way Levi reacts to even an incidental touch, especially from a man he clearly perceives as threatening (and was established as a sexual predator earlier), raises red flags. Within the broader context of the Underground, where exploitation is rampant and children are especially vulnerable, this interaction adds another layer to the growing subtext that Levi’s boundaries around touch aren’t just about personal preference, but about learned survival.

A common counter-argument I’ve seen is that Levi couldn’t have experienced sexual abuse because, in Bad Boy, when the thugs threaten to sell him into sexual slavery, he awakens his Ackerman powers and kills them. But I think this interpretation misreads both the mechanics of his awakening and the emotional weight of that scene. Levi doesn’t react violently when the men first threaten to traffic him. In fact, he stays relatively passive through much of the assault, even as they kick him and beat him down. What ultimately triggers his Ackerman powers isn’t the threat of trafficking alone—it’s a combination of two far more visceral elements: first, the insult to his mother (“whore’s son”), which cuts directly at the only attachment and source of comfort he’s ever known; and second, the imminent threat to his life. When the men begin slamming his head into the ground, it’s not just brutal—it would have been fatal. That moment of near-death, combined with emotional provocation, is what pushes him to awaken. This is consistent with how Ackerman power is described elsewhere in canon: it’s often activated in a life-or-death situation.

Importantly, most sexual trauma, especially in childhood, is not marked by that same level of immediate physical lethality. It’s often coercive or normalized within the environment, particularly when it occurs repeatedly over time. If Levi had experienced prior instances of sexual trauma, there’s no reason to assume his powers would have activated. The context simply wouldn’t have matched the threshold required. What Bad Boy shows us, in fact, is how long Levi endures violence without fighting back. His gentle, quiet demeanor in that scene says a lot; he’s not someone who reacts with aggression instinctively. He internalizes pain. He withdraws. And that, in itself, is a trauma response. The idea that Levi could only have been victimized if he had physically fought back or "activated" sooner misunderstands both trauma and how the Ackerman lineage functions in canon.

And yes, the way Levi interacts with Hange is one of the clearest examples of how touch and boundaries operate differently for him with people he trusts. The oft-joked “Levi knocking Hange out to bathe them” anecdote, while humorous in fandom circles, does imply a certain level of trust and care on his part that cuts directly against his usual physical avoidance and aversion to filth. If you believe Levi is touch-averse because of trauma, then the fact that he’ll tend to someone else’s body—grime, sweat, and all—speaks volumes. It reflects a profound emotional bond.

Btw, I've never played Dragon Age, but I agree that the situation with Zevran sounds similar to the situation with Levi. Isayama never explicitly states that Levi was sexually abused—but neither does he shy away from leaving the space open.

The resistance from some parts of the fandom to even consider this reading is telling. It reveals discomfort not just with the possibility of Levi being a victim, but with the idea that masculinity and vulnerability can coexist. For some, Levi must remain a stoic archetype of masculinity, not someone whose past might include being violated or exploited. But the reality is that Attack on Titan is saturated with trauma, and Levi’s trauma is one of the most underexplored and underacknowledged parts of the narrative, precisely because it’s so coded in subtext.

In short, the subtext is there. The behavioral patterns are consistent. And your instinct to read between the lines is absolutely justified. Bad Boy doesn’t explicitly confirm that Levi was sexually abused, but it significantly strengthens the already persistent implication. Acknowledging that possibility isn’t reaching—it’s a valid interpretation of the character and the narrative choices surrounding him.

Thanks for the ask, anon! I hope my answer was interesting to read.

[rekino2114]

Giving the drdt girls a plushie of themselves

A/n:a while ago a saw this post on my feed and feel down a rabbit hole of drdt plushies and HELP I NEED 8 OF EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE THEY'RE ALL SO ADORABLE!!!

Teruko tawaki

She looks at you....then at the plushie and then back at you and then genuinely freezes cause she has no idea what to say at this gesture

She may act like she doesn't care that much, but it's just because she doesn't know how to act and has very rarely received plushies, and they remind her of......some good memories. She genuinely loves the plush and as proof you have walked in on her sleeping while cuddling it multiple times

One time the plushie got cut a bit and you joked that it had the same luck as her but teruko took it seriously and started being kinda protective over the plushie cause she really doesn't want it to get hurt or destroyed (she's worried her luck will affect it)

"A-a plushie?..........n-no it's amazing i-i just......thank you......that's all....thank you so much"

Min jeung

Her brain short circuits as she blushes intensely and goes to hold the plushie like it'll explode if she doesn't handle it right

She instantly goes to research literally everything she can about plushies and how to "take care of them" how to wash them if they get dirty, how to mend them if they get cut and whatever else the last thing she wants Is for your amazing gift to get ruined

She particularly loves how you made her eyes under the hair. You always compliment her about them so it's a nice reminder of how beautiful they are to you

"Oh looks like the plushie got torn up a bit, do you want me to fix it?"

"No don't worry I've studied for exactly this, I need a needle, thread and about 15 to 30 minutes of complete focus"

"..................."

Arei nageishi

She freezes for a second before taking the plushie and hugging it and taking a selfie with it and calling it "mini bad bitch" You're very surprised by this as you though she'd hate something this cutesy

I feel like arei is the type to make fun of people who sleep with plushies only to actually have a plushie who she sleeps with too, that plushie instantly turned into the mini her once you gave her that

She will actually beat someone up if they say anything about how it's weird she has a plushie around or about how it looks, that plushie is just as badass as her and absolutely amazing since you made it

"Oh seriously? I..........like it...who knew a plushie version of me could be just as hot and badass and amazing as the original? Although you made it so I shouldn't be surprised"

Hu jing

Immediately goes to hug you and kiss you everywhere and says I love you like 50 times to show you her gratitude. She genuinely thinks it's the most precious and adorable thing on the planet and will treasure it forever

She goes to show it off to the rest of the class and won't take an insult or even someone ignoring her as a valid answer and if they do she will give them a stern talking to about how important it is to appreciate things that other people put effort in making while you're standing there blushing incredibly

She made a plushie of you to pay you back, and somehow it looks better than yours. When you ask, it turns out she actually likes sewing and knitting in her free time......cause of course she does

"Oh my y/n, is that me? My goodness it looks adorable. You must have worked so hard to make it, It's the most absolutely beautiful and cutest thing I've ever seen, I love you so much"

J rosales

The first time she saw it she genuinely thought there was merchandise of her now and was ready to scream and throw it away

But when you said that you actually handmade it, her opinion completely changed and she started to love it even if she might not act like it at first, she pulled her hood up to hide her blushing face while taking it

Even if she doesn't do or say anything that special about it, Just thanking you and putting it in her dorm she actually does really love it and often finds herself staring at it and thinking of you.........whatever you do just don't show it to Arturo

"H-Huh? That's......me? You made that by hand......just for me?.....I......*sighs* just thank you so much

Veronika grebenshchikova

Before you can even finish your sentence she'll tackle you into a hug and start making out with you and peppering your face in kisses while thanking you so many times, you have no idea how much she absolutely adores it, she loves plushies and she loves you so this is absolutely wonderful to her

She kinda hopes you somehow made the plushie haunted or put some kinda curse on it but will understand if it's just a normal plushie, she loves those too after all

You have found the plushie in.....positions it shouldn't be in multiple times, sometimes it's in your bed when you wake up or on a shelf just...staring at you, you have no idea if it's Veronika putting it there to spook you or if she somehow managed to haunt the plushie as both of those possibilities are likely knowing her

"Oh....my...God! Y/n! That's just absolutely adorable, ohhhhh don't tell me, is it haunted by the spirit of a dead girl who wants to kill us as revenge for her tragic past and abuse"

"...........no...I don't think so at least"

"Oh then is it a voodoo doll of me? You know I've heard you can also do some.....pretty intimate stuff with it too"

".....vero it's just a normal plushie I made"

"......oh don't worry darling that's completely fine, you know how much I love plushies and now there's one of me?! Thank you so much"

Rose lacroix

Just takes it and hugs it incredibly tightly before putting her beret on it to see how cute it is with it

She definitely made a painting of the plushie and you to thank you, she wanted to make a full-on plushie of you like you did to her but realized she actually couldn't make it so she just stuck to what she's good at and made you an amazing painting

It becomes her second favorite thing to cuddle after you. She takes a lot of naps already, and now she makes sure her plushie gets all the naps it needs too. She also just brings to cuddle between you two sometimes

"Oh y/n it's beautiful thanks, it really does look like me I love it, oh and it's super soft and comfortable too this is great"

[andorsdoll]

Ghost In The Garden || Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Summary: He was never truly yours—but he waited for you in the dark, where the silence between you felt sacred. You never asked him to stay. He never tried to pretend he could. But you’ll always remember the way he looked at you—like loving you was the quietest kind of joy he’d ever known. And Obi-Wan, long after you’re gone, still hears your voice in the places no one else does.

Word Count: 2.8k || Warnings: mutual pining, unspoken love, very brief alcohol use, slowburn(but not rly), bittersweet angst!!, etc

Author's Note: I'm truly sorry for making this man a yearner in every fic I make. I don't know any other way. Pls let me know if you enjoyed this (or didn't) at all, this type of writing isn't really my thing and also I'm just a slut for validation ok?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ . ✦ . 　. ✦ . 　. ✦ . . ✦ . 　 . ✦ . 　 . ✦ . . ✦ . 　 . ✦ . 　

You met in a moment in time that should've passed without notice.

Obi-Wan had been assigned to a neutral world in the Mid Rim for negotiation debriefs. It was just another summit, a stretch of days drawn out by procedure, long-winded meetings, and the dull, gray weight of diplomacy.

You were already there as a scholar, a translator, a diplomat’s daughter—he never quite figured out which. But what he did know, was that your voice was gentle, yet your presence was unwavering.

During the endless sessions of negotiation and strategy, when tempers rose and things got loud to the point where nobody was really hearing each other anymore, you would speak. Clear, incisive, calm. The kind of calm clarity that made people pause. Made him pause.

And though your presence wasn't loud, it was unmissable. You never fought for space, but claimed it without asking. In the way that only people worth listening do.

Somehow, by the end of every session, you always ended up right beside him. It was never deliberate. Neither of you ever moved first. And yet, there you were, always near, like the space between you both seemed to close itself. And when the halls fell quiet and the chamber emptied, you and Obi-Wan always just happened to be the last ones still there.

One night, after a particularly long session that ended in exhausted silence, you gestured to the sabacc table near the fireplace. “Come on,” you said. “I want to see if I can beat a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, the faintest smile curving behind his beard. “I’m not a gambler.”

“That’s what all gamblers say.”

He regarded you for a moment, longer than politeness allowed. Like he knew this moment would stay with him, long after it had any right to.

But without a word, he sat down across from you.

Neither of you spoke at first. But the silence between you felt full. Full in a way that settles from recognition. Like your presence had already begun to feel familiar to him, and his to you.

You promptly began to deal the cards. The sound of their shuffling the only thing between you two for a while. Obi-Wan watched your hands, and for a moment, it felt like he might speak.

Then— he did.

“Are you always this confident?” His voice was quieter than usual, almost amused.

You didn’t look up. You were too focused on arranging your cards, your fingers moving with steady precision. Like you hadn’t even noticed his question had weight. “Only when I know I’m right.”

He sat back slowly, like the weight of your words had landed somewhere unexpected. A breath eased out of him. There was no boast in your tone, no sharpness, only quiet truth. And yet—he felt disarmed all the same.

You felt the silence stretch between you, and then, just barely, your lips curved at the corner. A soft, small smile. One he’d find himself remembering when he least expected it.

The game unfolded slowly, a flicker of strategy laced with something softer, more intimate, threading between each hand.

You two hadn’t quite reached conversation yet, but it lingered near. Through passing observations, small jokes, a shared smile that grew too easily, like a secret blooming in plain sight.

Your eyes occasionally found his. Still, unreadable, but burning with something carefully hidden beneath the surface.

The game ended in a draw. 

Not that either one of you was really keeping score.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

In the days that followed, Obi-Wan found his eyes drawn to you more often than he’d like to admit. Not obviously. Not indulgently. Just—enough.

Enough to notice the way you moved through tension like it couldn’t touch you. The way you listened without performance. The way you spoke only when it mattered. And how, somehow, it always did.

There was one afternoon where someone challenged your interpretation of a treaty clause. Not cruelly, just carelessly. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t raise your voice. You just tilted your head and clarified, your tone soft but so exact it left no room for argument.

No one interrupted you after that.

And Obi-Wan, across the room, had the sudden, disorienting thought. 'She doesn’t even know'.

You didn’t know how every eye in the room had faltered, just for a second, when you’d spoken. You didn’t see how you’d taken hold of the entire conversation without ever raising your voice. And you certainly didn’t realize how lovely you looked then, standing in the windowlight, bathed in sun. All the meanwhile, he sat there, unsure of what to do with the feeling.

That evening, when the last of the diplomats were retiring for the night, he found you again. Not in a meeting. Not by chance in a hallway. But in the garden.

You were already seated in the grass when he approached. Your feet tucked neatly beneath you while the folds of your gown gathered around your knees. In your hands, a cluster of small pale blossoms—soft ivory with golden tips, delicate against your skin.  

“They’re called Miralin,” he said, as he stepped forward before crouching beside you.

You hummed in agreement. “What do they signify?” you asked intrigued, looking at him. And that's when he looked at you for the first time. Really looked.

“Local legend says they’re given between lovers. Before partings—battle, long travel, when words aren’t possible. A symbol of what's left unsaid” He continued as his hand brushed lightly across one of the open flowers in your hand.

With curiosity piqued, your fingers curled around the stem, thumb brushing gently across its edge. And Obi-Wan, couldnt help but keep looking at you like he’d only just realized how beautiful you truly were, and how still the world around him had gone.  

Your profile tilted just slightly toward the moon, and the light skimmed across your cheekbones. It almost knocked the wind out of him when he realized you were something so beautiful and close enough to touch, yet somehow still so out of reach.

And in the silence that followed, you asked, “Is it lonely? The way you live?”

You caught the slow exhale he didn’t mean to let go and the way his gaze drifted as if your question had brushed against a part of him he rarely let anyone near. Then, after a long pause—“It’s quieter than I thought it would be.”

You nodded, just barely. And when both of your fingers brushed in the grass, neither of you moved away.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The negotiation meetings faded into one another after that, the hours stretched long, and like usual, he was always there near you.

Following that night, there had been something unfinished between you, though neither of you had the courage to name it. So you didn't. And it clung to both of you like heat in the air—tangible, breathless, inevitable.

But it revealed itself in small, ordinary moments that no one else noticed: His hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary. Or the soft, stifled laughs you gave him when he leaned in during a tense meeting and murmured some dry, razor-edged comment meant just for your ears.

But mostly it was in the nights you both stayed lingering too long in the garden, under the lanterns and the scent of blooming citrus, neither of you willing to leave first.

You’d talk until the stars blurred, pretending not to notice how close your shoulders and hands were next to one another as you began to finish each other's thoughts during conversation.

When you spoke, Obi-Wan watched like he was memorizing you for now until the end of time. The way your eyes looked when you were listening intently, the way you bit your lip when you were trying not to smile, and the way your hands would move—expressive, nervous, tender—depending on what you were saying.

On another night in the garden, when the breeze was sharp and your voice was softer than usual, you unscrewed the cap of a metal flask, the scent of something sharp and bitter caught in the air between you. You passed it over to him, your fingers brushing briefly. He didn’t ask. Just nodded, drank deep, and handed it back with a faint sound at the back of his throat.

You tried to make light of it, "It won't fix galactic relations, but it might take the edge off"

And he laughed. Really laughed.

It was unguarded, rare. And you swore something gave way in your chest when you saw it.

The laughter eventually faded, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than before—full of everything you hadn’t said. So, you asked the one question that had lived in your chest the longest since knowing him. “If you could’ve chosen a different life… what would it have looked like?”

He didn’t answer, not out loud.

But in that silence, in between the stillness of your heartbeats, you had felt it. The weight of the answer he couldn’t give. The truth that lived behind every look he ever cast your way.

You.

His answer was you.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

And on the second-to-last night before his departure, you found yourselves together again. By then, it felt much less like coincidence, and more like something unspoken that both of you had long since made peace with.

Obi-Wan had been there when you stepped into the garden, standing near the edge of the courtyard, where the wind stirred through the trees and the sky had just begun to turn dark.

"You waited” you said softly, smiling.

“You always find me,” he replied, like it wasn’t something he counted on, but something he still hoped for.

And that was it for a little while. You stood beside him, arms brushing, breaths in sync. The stillness between you hummed, as it always did—with memory, with anticipation, with the ache of things understood but never spoken.

You watched the lights of the surrounding buildings flicker against the horizon while the wind curled at your sleeves, carrying the subtle perfume of the garden in bloom.

He turned to you then, slowly, like he’d been trying not to all evening. "I don’t know what I’ll do with this, when you’re not in front of me anymore.”

But for a moment, you had heard it. The faintest crack in his voice. And in the low light, he looked like something half-sacred, half-falling apart.

You didn’t say what you were actually thinking—that you wished he’d stay, that he’d choose you. Instead, you reached for his hand. Not softly, not hesitantly. Just true.

And he held it back, without hesitation. His fingers curled around yours like they belonged there, like they’d always meant to. The hours thinned and time was running out but you and Obi-Wan stood there together. Hand in hand, saying nothing, asking nothing.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The night before he left, you found each for the last time.

Not in the garden but somewhere quieter, hidden. A narrow passage tucked outside behind the council wing, carved from old stone and shadow, half-forgotten and long out of use.

The rain had started just after nightfall—light at first, then steady. It soaked through your outer cloak, beading on your sleeves, chilling the air. By the time you found him, you were already half-drenched.

He was just beyond the archway, standing in the narrow pocket of space where the path hadn’t yet met the dark. You slowed as you approached, steps reverberating on the stone. He didn’t move, but there was something different in his gaze this time—like he’d stopped trying to hide how much you meant to him

You reached for him, hand rising gently. Fingers brushing his jaw. The curve of his cheekbone. The corner of his mouth. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in with a gentle kind of surrender—like your hand had called him home.

Your trembling voice barely rose above a whisper, “You don’t have to say it."

He didn't need to. But stars, you felt it. It was there—in the way his eyes searched yours like he’d known you a thousand different ways, in a thousand different lives, and loved you quietly in every single one.

His hands found your waist, then your back, pulling you to him carefully, steady. Not possessive. Not hasty. Just sure.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes. And for a moment, there was only the sound of rain in the distance, the warmth of his hands at your waist, and the unspoken ache of what you could never keep.

But when his mouth finally found yours, it was slow and deliberate, like he needed to feel every second of it. You let out a soft gasp when you felt the warmth of his lips and the scratch of his beard against your skin.

He kept kissing you, with love and longing, his mouth parting over yours with purpose. Deepening each time like he was testing how much of you he could take before it ruined him.

His hand slid up your spine, anchoring you closer, and you melted into it without a thought. He knew then, that the loss of you was already lodged in his chest, and still, he chose to burn for it anyway.

Your fingers curled into his robe, holding him—not to keep him, but to feel him. To know this was real. To know he was real. Just this once.

And after an eternity, he finally pulled away slowly, carefully, eyes closed. The rain behind you continued to pour as you looked at him one last time.

Obi-Wan reached up and gently brushed a piece of hair from your cheek. His fingers were warm, lingering, like he was already remembering exactly how you felt beneath his hands. His hand lingered there, thumb just near your jaw.

Then it dropped.

And slowly, he pulled away—turning without a word, slipping back into the shadows, his rain-heavy cloak trailing behind him.

He didn't look back and you didn't call out for him.

Instead you stayed still, listening to the rain while your hands stayed exactly where they were, as if you might still feel him there.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

You went back to your quarters soaked through—hands still trembling, lips still burning from something that was never supposed to happen. You undressed slowly, like you were still waiting for your body to catch up with the moment.

And that’s when you found it.

Tucked carefully into the inner lining of your cloak. Hidden. Pressed there with intention. A cluster of pale blossoms—soft ivory with golden tips.

You’d seen Miralin only that once before, blooming on your first night with Obi-Wan in the garden. He’d told you then: They’re given when words aren’t possible. A symbol of what's left unsaid.

You hadn’t even ever seen him pick one. But now here it was. Slightly crushed, edges fading. Still whole. You sat with it in your fingers for a long time, staring at the petals like they might still hold the shape of his hand.

Long after it was over, you were still trying to stay inside of it. Still trying to remember what it felt like to be chosen, even for a fleeting moment in time.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

There’s a corner of the galaxy where no one says your name anymore. And still, it echoes.

Somewhere deep in the Outer Rim—on a sun-bleached stretch of Tatooine that feels farther from the galaxy than it should—Ben Kenobi stands at the edge of dusk and swears he hears a voice.

Not the Force.

Not a memory.

You.

He hasn’t seen you in years, not really. Not since the war swallowed you both and spit you out on opposite ends of survival. He doesn’t know where you are now—if you’re alive, if you’ve changed your name, if you ever think of him when everything’s quiet and no one’s looking.

And at night, in the deep hush of the desert—when the suns have long set and the wind moves low through the canyon—he sits alone in a cave, staring at nothing.

But sometimes, in the silence between breaths, you return to him. Never for real, and never in full. Just… the sound of your laugh and the memory of your touch.

If he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can still feel your fingers at his jaw—still hear the way you murmured, trembling, “You don’t have to say it.”

He never speaks your name, but it lingers anyway.

In the silence. In the wind.

In the part of him you never gave back.

[d0llcuries]

Hi dear! SOOOOO I would like you to write a one shot reader × neteyam! It would be like: neteyam is almost dying at sea with his siblings and everyone "accepted" that he would die and all tears BBBBBUUUut a childhood friend of his was fighting with they and she was like "NUH UH" she saves him somehow and bla bla bla Then when they came back with neteyam half alive, ronal took care of him and everything, right? Then when he REALLY WOKE UP the reader came and slapped him in the face while fighting and then hugged and kissed him. That's what I would like :)

MWAH a kiss from brazil

WHEN YOU WAKE

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: when neteyam is gravely wounded in battle, everyone braces for the worst—except his childhood love, who refuses to let him go. determined to save him, she risks everything, but when he finally wakes, her greeting is… less than gentle. love, stubbornness, and a well-deserved (?) slap.

author's note: oh my gosh,, this is so freaking epic MY SECOND REQUEST!!1!1! i love request sm oh my god they r so amazing to write i love requests please FLOOD MY ASK BOX. pls don't abhor yn for the last scene and remember that she is literally just a girl 🤓☝️(a very valid argument actually). also strap in bcuz this is a long one.

the sea was chaos around them. only moments ago, the water had raged with the violence of battle, the clash of metal and bone, but now, an eerie silence had fallen over the scene. the fighting had ceased, and in its wake, the sky people’s ships smoldered on the horizon, their fires licking at the darkening sky. the metkayina, exhausted and bloodied, had pulled back, retreating to the safety of awa'atlu to regroup, to count their wounded. but on this desolate rock, the only thing that mattered to yn was neteyam, lying still on the jagged surface, his blue skin pale, his breaths shallow.

the rhythmic ebb and flow of the ocean had turned into a dreadful, mocking soundtrack to the sight before her, as if the waves themselves were whispering the inevitable truth no one wanted to face. blood, dark and stark against his skin, seeped from the gaping wound in his chest, mixing with the salty spray of the sea. his life was spilling out onto the rock beneath him, too fast, too much.

"he is dying," neytiri’s voice trembled like a fragile thread about to snap, her face streaked with tears and grief. the mighty warrior, always so fierce and unbreakable, looked shattered as she knelt beside her eldest son, her hands shaking as they hovered above his body, unsure whether to hold him or let him go. lo'ak sat beside her, wide-eyed and motionless, as though he couldn’t believe the sight before him was real, his face etched with disbelief and horror. tsireya clutched his hand, her knuckles white, her gaze darting between lo'ak and neteyam, tears threatening to spill from her wide eyes. kiri knelt by neteyam’s side, her fingers digging into the wound, trying desperately to stem the bleeding, but it was useless. it was slipping through her fingers like sand, and with it, so was neteyam's life.

"no." yn’s voice was the only thing that cut through the quiet devastation, her words harsh and desperate, her hands trembling as she reached out, pressing them against his cooling skin. she could feel it beneath her fingertips—the rapid, weakening pulse of his heart, the uneven rise and fall of his chest. it was all too real. the warmth of his blood, sticky and thick on her palms, seeped into her bones, chilling her to the core. the weight of it settled in her chest, a cold, suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe. "he will not die."

she couldn’t let him die. the thought was unbearable, impossible to accept. she was just his childhood friend, yes—someone who had grown up alongside him, shared her secrets, her dreams, her laughter with him. someone who had chased him through the forests of the omaticaya as children, who had learned to fight with him, laugh with him, loved him. she had watched him become the warrior he was now, had loved him long before either of them had ever spoken the words aloud. they were still young, yes, but they had a future together, one that the sea itself was pulling it from her grasp. she couldn’t let it end like this. she wouldn’t.

"yn," kiri’s voice cracked, raw with the weight of her own helplessness, the defeat hanging heavy in the air. "there is nothing we can do. he—"

"do not say it!" yn’s voice lashed out like a whip, cutting through the silence, cutting through kiri’s words. she couldn’t hear it. she couldn’t let those words hang in the air like a death sentence. she couldn’t bear to hear anyone say that neteyam was gone. "there is something we can do."

her mind raced, desperate for a solution, for anything that would keep him tethered to this world. she was young, too young for something like this. the rational part of her knew that. she wasn’t a healer. she didn’t have the knowledge or the skills of a tsahik, but ronal did. ronal, the fierce tsahik of the metkayina clan, who could heal wounds with a touch, who could pull someone back from the brink of death with her chants and her herbs. yn had seen her work miracles. she had seen ronal heal wounds that should have killed, infections that should have spread. if anyone could save neteyam, it was her. but ronal was back at the clan, and neteyam was here, bleeding out on this cold, jagged rock. it would mean leaving him, and the thought of that almost brought her to her knees. how could she leave him like this, so vulnerable, so close to death? how could she turn her back on him when he needed her the most?

but if she stayed, he would die. that much she knew. if she left, there was a chance, slim though it might be. a chance was better than nothing.

"i have to go," yn said, her voice trembling but resolute, her gaze fixed on neteyam’s still face. he looked so peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping, but the blood that stained his chest, that pooled beneath him, told a different story. she turned to neytiri, her voice firm, even as her heart raced. "i have to find ronal. she can save him."

"you cannot leave him," neytiri’s voice was barely a whisper, broken by sobs, her hands clutching neteyam’s limp one as if she could anchor him to life by sheer will. her face, usually so strong and fierce, was twisted in grief, her eyes wild with the horror of watching her son slip away before her eyes. "he is dying, yn, my son is dying—"

"no!" the word exploded from yn’s throat, raw and full of fury, as if her refusal alone could change the course of fate. she couldn’t bear the sight of neytiri, of jake, of all of them huddled around neteyam, as if they had already given up. she couldn’t let them accept this as the end. "he is not dying. i will not let him die. i cannot let him die."

jake’s presence beside her felt like a heavy weight, grounding her in the reality of the moment. his hand came to rest on her shoulder, firm but not unkind, and she met his eyes, saw the shared pain, the shared hope. "you’re right," he said, his voice steady in the midst of the storm. "go. go, find ronal. we’ll stay with him."

yn gave a short nod, the knot of fear tightening in her chest, but she couldn’t afford to let it consume her. her body moved on instinct, driven by the knowledge that she was running out of time. neteyam was running out of time.

without a second glance, she turned and sprinted toward her ikran. every step felt like a battle against the panic that threatened to drown her, but she couldn’t let it. not now. the familiar weight of her ikran beneath her as she mounted it and made the bond gave her a brief moment of comfort, a second to catch her breath before she shot into the sky.

the world below her blurred as the wind whipped her hair back, stinging her cheeks, but all she could think about was neteyam lying on that rock, the life bleeding out of him. every beat of her heart was a painful reminder of how little time she had. the sea stretched out endlessly before her, a vast expanse of blue that felt more like an enemy than a lifeline. the waves that once brought her peace now felt ominous, mocking, as if they knew the battle she fought was a losing one.

she pushed her ikran harder, faster, her fingers tightening around its rein as the village of awa'atlu came into view, a shimmering oasis of safety amidst the chaos of war. her eyes scanned the shore frantically, searching for ronal among the gathering metkayina. they were preparing, regrouping, but she didn’t care. all that mattered was neteyam. she spotted ronal, her regal form unmistakable, standing at the water’s edge, directing her people with the calm authority of a leader who had seen her share of battle.

yn barely had time to think before she was landing, stumbling off her ikran in her haste, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she ran toward ronal. "ronal," she gasped, her voice thick with desperation. "neteyam... he has been shot. he is dying. please, you have to help him. please."

ronal’s sharp gaze met hers, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence between them. yn’s heart pounded in her chest, each second feeling like an eternity. she knew what she was asking was impossible—too far, too little time. but she didn’t care. ronal’s eyes narrowed, assessing yn’s desperation with a cool detachment that made yn want to scream, to shake her, to make her understand how important this was. but before yn could say anything more, ronal gave a small nod and gestured for her to follow. ronal swiftly gathered a small pouch of healing herbs, woven bandages, and a vial of bioluminescent sap from her hut—essential tools she would need to tend the boy's wounds.

"bring me to him," ronal said, her voice calm and steady, as if the world was not unraveling around them, as if there was still time, as if hope still lingered on the horizon.

yn wasted no time. without another word, she whistled for her ikran, grabbing ronal’s wrist and pulling her towards the beast. the tsahik of the metkayina was not one to be rushed, but yn didn’t care. they didn’t have the luxury of patience. they mounted, and with a swift call, her ikran leapt into the sky once more, cutting through the air in the direction of neteyam’s lifeless form.

each beat of her ikran’s wings felt like a ticking clock. the journey back to the rock felt like an eternity, the cold wind biting at her face, but yn kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, on the place where she had left neteyam. the sun had sunk lower now, the soft oranges and pinks of eclipse blending into the deep purples of night, and with it, the world around them seemed to grow darker, more foreboding. yn’s heart clenched painfully in her chest. the longer she was away, the more the fear gnawed at her, growing into something monstrous, something unbearable. was he still breathing? was his heart still beating?

when the rock finally came into view, yn’s breath caught in her throat. she could see the figures of neytiri, lo'ak, kiri, and tsireya huddled around neteyam’s body. the sight of his still form sent a sharp pain through her chest, as if a knife had been driven straight into her heart. the sight of his blood, black in the fading light, made her stomach turn.

they landed, and yn barely waited for her ikran to touch the ground before she was rushing forward, practically dragging ronal behind her. "here," she gasped, falling to her knees beside neteyam, her eyes darting to his chest, willing it to rise, to move. "please, he is still alive."

ronal dismounted with a grace that felt out of place in the urgency of the moment. she knelt beside neteyam, her sharp eyes already assessing the wound. her expression was unreadable, calm even in the face of death. she moved with a precision and certainty that yn envied, her hands immediately going to work, pressing down on the wound to stop the bleeding, muttering words, the chants of a healer.

yn knelt beside her, her hands hovering over neteyam, unsure of what to do, afraid to touch him in case it would break whatever fragile connection was keeping him tethered to this world. "will he—?" her voice broke, and she couldn’t finish the question, couldn’t say the words aloud.

ronal didn’t answer. she didn’t need to. her silence said enough. this was a battle with time. a battle they might lose.

ronal worked swiftly, her hands moving with the expertise of someone who had saved lives, who had been through wars and healed the gravest of wounds. but this was no ordinary injury. it was the work of the sky people, of their weapons, of their violence. the bullet had torn through neteyam’s chest, severing veins, shredding muscle. it was a wound not easily healed, not by herbs, not by chants.

minutes passed in agonizing silence, broken only by the soft mutters of ronal’s voice, the rustle of neytiri’s sobs in between pleadings to eywa followed by kiri's own prayer. yn’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as she watched ronal work. her fingers curled into the rock beneath her, nails digging into the stone. it was all too much, too slow, too uncertain.

but ronal didn’t falter. she continued her chants, her hands glowing with the light of eywa’s blessing, her energy focused entirely on neteyam, on keeping him here. yn watched, her breath held, as ronal placed her hands over his heart, her eyes closing, her chants growing louder, more urgent. the tension in the air was palpable, thick and heavy with the weight of hope and despair.

then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, neteyam stirred.

it was a faint movement, just a twitch of his fingers, but it was enough to send a wave of relief crashing through yn’s body. she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she stared down at him, hardly daring to believe it. his chest rose, ever so slightly, with a shallow breath. his heart, weak and faltering, continued to beat beneath ronal’s hands.

"he is not out of danger," ronal warned, her voice sharp, though her hands never stopped working. "he is still very weak. he will need time, rest. he will need the ocean’s healing."

ronal looked up, her eyes suddenly meeting jake's. "take him back to the clan."

he didn’t need to be told twice. with lo'ak and spider's help, they lifted neteyam’s still form onto his skimwing, his body limp and unresponsive, but alive. it was enough.

the next few days passed in a haze of worry and exhaustion, a blur of sleepless nights and constant vigilance. neteyam lay still, his body fighting to heal itself, his breaths shallow but steady. the air inside the marui was thick with tension—every creak of the woven shelter or shift of the tides outside felt amplified in the quiet. the others drifted in and out, checking on him, offering small comforts where they could, but it was yn who remained by his side. her body was aching with fatigue, her fingers numb from holding his hand for so long. but she stayed, watching over him, waiting, willing him to wake.

each time she closed her eyes for even a brief moment, images of him dying on that rock flashed in her mind, his blood staining the sea. the silence of the nights was the hardest; in the stillness, doubt would creep in, whispering terrible what-ifs into her ear. would he ever wake? had they been too late?

but she wouldn’t leave him. she had promised to bring him back, to see him open his eyes once more, and she would stay by his side until that moment came.

and then, one morning, it did.

the first light of dawn slipped through the cracks in the marui, casting a soft glow over his resting form. neteyam’s chest rose and fell gently, his face still pale but peaceful. yn sat beside him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. it had become a comfort, that subtle rise and fall, reminding her that he was still with them.

as the light crept further into the space, she felt a faint movement beneath her palm. her eyes snapped to his face just as his eyelids fluttered. a second later, neteyam’s eyes opened—dazed, unfocused, but alive.

yn froze. her heart leaped into her throat, her hand trembling against his chest as she stared at him, wide-eyed. for a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. it was as if time itself had stopped. her lips parted, but no words came. he was awake—after days of uncertainty and fear, here he was, his golden eyes blinking up at her in confusion.

but instead of joy, relief, or anything resembling tenderness, the only thing she felt was a sudden rush of anger—pure, hot anger that burned through the fear and worry she had carried for days.

before she could even think, her hand shot out, and with a swift motion, she slapped him across the face.

the sharp sound of the slap echoed in the marui, and neteyam winced, his face turning in shock. “what—”

“you absolute skxawng!” her voice trembled with fury as she glared at him, tears welling in her eyes. “you—you almost died, neteyam! you reckless, stubborn fool!” her hands balled into fists, her shoulders shaking with a mix of frustration and relief. “do you have any idea what you put me through?!”

neteyam blinked, still disoriented, his hand slowly reaching up to touch his stinging cheek. “i—what happened?” he rasped, his voice weak and hoarse from days of silence.

yn’s breath hitched as she looked at him, the weight of everything crashing over her all at once. her anger faltered, giving way to the overwhelming relief that he was here, that he was alive. her tears spilled over, and before she knew it, she was pulling him into a tight embrace, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “do not ever do that to me again,” she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking, “do not ever leave me.”

neteyam, though still groggy, managed to wrap his arms around her, holding her close, his heart heavy with guilt. “i am sorry,” he murmured, his voice soft as he pressed his forehead to hers, “i am so sorry, yn.”

for a long moment, they stayed like that—wrapped in each other’s arms, the soft sounds of the morning and the distant calls of the ocean filling the space around them. yn’s heart still raced, but now it was steadier, beating in time with his, as though they were finally in sync again. his presence, his warmth, was all she had wanted for days, and now that she had it, she wasn’t sure she could ever let him go.

when she finally pulled back, her fingers brushing against his face, she looked into his eyes, the anger and fear slowly fading, replaced by something softer, something raw. “do you not know how much i need you?” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

neteyam’s gaze softened, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that clung to her cheeks. “i know,” he whispered back, his voice filled with quiet regret. “i will never leave you again.”

and for the first time in days, yn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. it wasn’t a promise she could ever fully believe, not in the world they lived in, but in that moment, with him alive and safe in her arms, she would take it.

maybe iʼm overthinking things but i feel like i can smell the angry comments about yn's behaviour so before you magically morph into an unemployed twitter user consider the following argument:

yn’s behavior, while intense, isn't selfish—it’s the result of overwhelming stress and the emotional turmoil that comes with nearly losing someone she loves. at such a young age, she's thrust into an impossible situation, forced to watch the person she cares for most teeter between life and death. her emotions aren’t coming from a place of malice or impatience but from the raw fear of almost losing neteyam forever. she’s exhausted, scared, and under the immense pressure of her own feelings, so her reaction—slapping him awake before embracing him—is a release of all that pent-up anxiety.

plus as the author, i feel an obligation to honor the request for this fic. “your wish is my command” ahh.

consider this second argument:

i'm in your house (˶◜ᵕ◝˶)

[survivalove]

ATLA fandom and removing Katara’s agency and POV

Recently, I came across the following thread where OP proceeded to uplift the following ships to diminish Kataang, on the supposed basis of Katara’s agency and pov (or lack thereof).

I decided to keep all their points and pictures to show a holistic analysis of the show, which they themselves fail to do.

Firstly, on the topic of loss, Kataang has multiple moments where they connect over their losses.

At first, Katara tries to tell Aang that his people may be lost by opening up about her mother, but he is obviously in denial. It is only when he sees Gyatso’s body (like Katara did when her mom passed) that he accepts the loss of his people and her comfort.

I also want to note that this is a recurring pattern of Aang struggling to accept Katara’s comfort at first, despite these shippers’ claims that he easily accepts her “coddling/mothering”.

Kataang as seen in Katara’s pov:

This is easily the most inaccurate part of the thread and shows how shippers fail to acknowledge Katara as a character unless she is with their preferred love interest.

Kataang’s relationship is framed in Katara’s point of view multiple times, especially in these episodes.

Next, Katara’s boundaries:

Once again, they exclude the frames where Katara exercises her agency — pushing him away and telling him off, removing her pov from the scene all on their own. Furthermore on the issue of being violated, what is her point of view when she’s tied to a tree, or when her grandmother is being roughed up and tossed around?

This is part of a greater issue where shippers genuinely believe the misogyny in the writing room is exclusive to a single ship and would somehow be resolved if the female character ended up with… another man.

On Katara’s grief,

Honestly, this has to be the second most dishonest and laughable part of the thread (don’t worry we’ll strike gold soon), so I’m not even going to validate it with more than these pics:

Lastly, the ship in question:

I just find the lightning pic so funny in this context like what?? Like I said earlier, Kataang is shown from Katara’s pov multiple times, but here’s more pics because when your ship has the material!

Aang has seen Katara at her worst multiple times, either stepping in, comforting her or giving her advice (just like Katara has done for him many times, unprompted I might add) because he knows her and has seen her very hostile reactions towards Jet and Hama when they tried to use her as a tool for their revenge. Mind you, this same advice her literal brother and eventually Zuko himself agree with.

Also I always found it pretty weird how Zuko (ahem the writers) set this up so that she can forgive him right after he failed to understand why she was the last one to do so in the beginning of the episode, but anyway…

Lastly, both Aang and Katara have opened to each other in incredibly significant ways. Aang opens up to Katara about the monks and why he disappeared. She is the only person to know this side of him. Meanwhile, Katara tells him about her mother and opens up her family to him, and even in the most platonic interpretations, how is that not the most significant way to open up to someone?

[d3cay1ngst4tic]

uh. i’ve got something important to say under the cut. and no, it’s not gonna be a meme LMAO.

this has been on my mind since. . months, actually. i’m gonna get straight to the point— i hope you all know that i’m sixteen. no, no. before you start asking questions as to why i suddenly made a post relating to this— it’s nothing. absolutely nothing.

i just feel like i haven’t made it clear enough LOL. buuut, it is mentioned in my pinned post as well as in the text above my ask box. i’m just—

(ooookay. pause. this is a very uncool pathetic sadge admission of a closeted stray.)

i just feel a little scared, or rather— intimidated by how delicate time can be sometimes. this goes for all of you, i don’t intend to offend you or anything— but specifically my lovely mutuals. i don’t know, guys. is every bit of love you show me really permanent? needless to say, i was pretty much a loner here on tumblr (no mutuals at ALL). mainly because my content wasn’t worthy enough (?) and that i was a minor (mdni content has jumpscared me since the past few years LMAO) — which i totally understand why i didn’t get much interaction back then. but slowly my account seemed to grow and i found myself interweaved with such sweet sticky threads like you all.

i don’t know. i just sometimes feel that i’m. . fooling you all somehow? that you might turn your backs on me the moment i mention my age? it feels a little overwhelming <- this coming from your cool guy. </3 (/j i can't not cope with humour when i'm like this.) bc i know how minors are just. shut back down here (for completely valid reasons. i’m not saying that minors should freely interact with nsfw content LOL. you get my point?) and just saying, rest assured, that i do NOT view any of your nsfw content.

so, yeah. i’m just reminding you that i’m sixteen. i’m just a little put off that it might all be taken away from me again. that’s all. c:

[wingzie]

The Definition of Jikook: Through Others Eyes

“Becca, how would you define Jikook?” In the last few months I have been asked this several times. And not by Jikookers. Since my bad experiences with offline events, I decided (in typical “me” fashion) to just throw myself out there and keep moving forward. This included joining more Twitter GC’s or Discord Servers and going to more offline events. In one of the most recent events, I lived locally and wanted to help. Therefore, I offered to escort some anxious Army from the train station to the venue.

Anyway, I was still cautious about going and, though there were a few odd moments, the event went really well overall. Something else kindled during this event that I did not expect: The desire to talk more about jikook. Before, even mentioning Jikook as a unit and not as Jimin and Jungkook was almost seen as a taboo. Especially compared to the other units that we are familiar with. Due to me no longer giving a damn and using my main twitter account, people relating to the event knew who I was and they had questions. Very interesting questions. About Jikook. About their enlistment. About the travel show. This was a pleasant surprise and it shocked me that some of these people already knew quite a lot without me telling them anything. Including some information that I thought was only in the Jikook circles. I asked one person why they didn’t talk about Jikook as much on Twitter and they said because they were scared with all the shipper fights. Which is quite valid really. If all you see whenever Jikook is mentioned is constant fighting, then you would distance yourself. It made me realise something though: 

Even if someone isn’t talking about Jikook. They are still watching and are very much aware of what is going on.

Sometimes we amplify the wrong things and we give the loudest voices to the negative comments. When I do the Live Reactions series, I will sometimes have hundreds of positive screenshots to go through and then(somehow) pick twenty-five of them for the thread. It was really interesting to see so many people talking about Jungkook going Live whenever Jimin went overseas or about the travel show. It also reminded some of moments that were sadly forgotten about.

This touches on something else too. Our traditions as a fandom have somewhat changed. With the removal of the social media awards, we no longer boost BTS’ history like we used to. Elon has also changed how we find content, with the removal of “moments” and advanced searching now being really difficult to find things. There is still hope though. With Jin’s return, it was lovely to see so many asking about Jin as a person or how Festa would work. Sharing old memories and watching Bang Bang Con together added so much value to our experiences together as a fandom.It’s something we should treasure. 

BTS have shared so much with us and it’s why I’ll forever be thankful for archive accounts. With every post or comment shared with others, we encourage them to learn more about the members or to watch content they may not have seen before. I experienced this myself when I mentioned Bon Voyage to someone who didn’t know what it was. They had only watched “In the Soop” and were excited by the concept of the members going abroad together. I hope they enjoy it!

Going back to Jikook, I have seen an increase of positive engagement surrounding them. This includes in both online and offline spaces. It makes me excited for when the travel show comes out and the conversations it will create, with so many already floating around. When I am asked how I define them myself, I try to turn it around. It doesn’t matter what I think about Jikook or how I define them. That should be obvious by my account. What matters is how others do and the respect that it holds.

[connoisseursdecomfort]

All the lies in Chapter 86, and the truth behind

Yes, I'm still screaming internally, and I don't think I will ever get over this chapter.

Endo have told us right from the beginning: this is a story about lies:

Everyone has a secret self they don't show to other people. Not even to family. Not to friends. Not to lovers. And thus the world. They hide who they are and what they want behind lies and painted smiles.

Twilight is a liar. He consciously tells so many lies in this chapter, but it's what he (and the people around him) unconsciously shows really count.

*Manga spoiler alert*

Endo masterfully blends lies and truths together in this chapter. They recognise the existence of all facades, but somehow still manage to show what reality lies beneath, i.e. the three scenes many people have discussed.

When he tries to use his infamous excuse, "for the mission", once again, even Nightfall could tell that it's not the whole truth.

What's more interesting is when the team is in the car, and the old agent asked Twilight to grab a drink with him once they got back. Twilight refused, and that's when the old agent said: クツ調子いい時だけ家庭面しやがつて in the jp version.

The slight difference is he's saying Twilight only puts on that mask of a family man when he sees fit. It of course still means that Twilight is using his family as an excuse to not grab a drink with him. Twilight then replied: その面をかぶるのが任務ですつてば. (It is my job to put on that mask.)

There is something poetic about the dialogues. There IS a pretence. There IS a mask to be put on for the mission. But Twilight's excuse has lost some of its validity because literally panels ago he's just got called out. And the old agent's tease is a common one against married men who'd avoid office gatherings "because he needs to go home and be the family man". It's a friendly banter.

They then chatted about his "fight" with Yor. There were four professional spies in the car, and none of them found it weird that he just called Yor his wife, and acted like a miserable married man worrying about his wife being angry at him. They were so normal about the situation it's as if Yor really is his wife.

It is the sense of normality that makes everything feel so real. He tried so hard to keep a distance with "his mission", but his actions and the word choices have exposed him.

He still doesn't call the Forger residence home, but he uses this word - 帰, to return. Mika made a thread about this. You only return to something or someone because at the very least part of you feel belong (I'm being ultra careful here but my soul is screaming it's because you feel at home). The place you "return" to must contain some sense of stability. He unwittingly reveals how the Forgers have become his safe place.

That's probably why once he stepped into the apartment and saw a smiling Yor, he fell to his knees. His body finally allowed himself to relax.

But that is also when his lies reappeared. He lied about his day. He lied about his wounds. And he lied about his feelings. It was Yor who opened up to him. He was lying.

While confessing to Yor in his mind.

This might be an unpopular opinion, but I don't think he's telling the truth in his mind. This doesn't mean he's consciously lying. He is trying to convince himself into "seeing the reality".

I'm going to gush so much about these two pages. Brace yourself.

I love these two pages so much, because it shows how lies can be more revealing than a spoken confession. Especially when Twilight is probably unaware of it.

Yor told him that he could rely on her. She uses the term 甘える.

甘える is to go to someone you trust when you feel scared or upset, to moan about your problems even if they sound trivial, and to ask for help for the tiniest things. It works both ways, you wanting to get attention and knowing that the person would still love you and baby you. You know you can be weak and the one you rely on would still find you to be adorable.

That's exactly what Yuri was doing. He ran to Yor crying after being beaten up. That's also what Anya did.

Yor told him that it's okay to be not perfect, and she's willing to share his burden.

He wanted to tell her so much more, but he only gave her a short answer. He just told her that she's made him feel better, but he wanted to talk to her about it. That's when he started to confess to her in his head.

On the surface, this confession shows that he's trying to deny her request. He is insisting that he has to be perfect.

Here's the tricky thing, by explaining to her why he had to be perfect, he had to admit that he's weak.

He wanted to tell her that he fucked up today and needed to be better. He wanted to show weakness. He wanted to 甘える. And his tone just further gives him away.

I will have to admit that I love how he talked to Yor in his head, especially "でもわヨルさん、オレは". He's using such a soft tone while trying to talk himself into toughening up. He went physically soft too. Fell down thrice even if he had prepped himself to get his guard up. He just couldn't do it when he's with Yor.

There are things he can't tell her, but there are more he can't admit to himself. He has wrapped himself in layers of lies, and they turned out to be more revealing than ever.

Twilight is still a huge liar in Chapter 86. I'm not sure if he's a cool liar, but he is the softest liar ever.

There are so many things I want to scream talk about. How he called Yuri "Yuri Briar" but Yor "Yor san". How he asked about Anya once he got home. How he's failed thrice trying to keep his guard up in front of Yor. How he called out to Yor when he thought Yuri had returned. But I guess it's for another day.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

A Little Much

Astarion x Evie (Ace!Tav) Masterlist

Fluff, Evie and Astarion have self worth issues, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: It’s Evie’s first ball after the fall of the Netherbrain and somehow, facing down Baldur’s Gate elites feels more terrifying.

A/N: I’m alive! I know this hasn’t been requested by anybody but sometimes you need to ride the inspiration. And reminder to please COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS I NEED VALIDATION TO LIVE!!!

Word Count: 1.7k

“What about this one?” the tailor said, his tone starting to strain. “It’s a lovely color for your complexion.”

Evie didn’t say anything, running the fabric through their fingers. It was just about the finest fabric they ever felt. A small pang of guilt twisted inside them for simply touching it, as if their calloused fingers would somehow damage the smooth threads. Carefully, they let it back down on the table next to the pile of other rejected fabrics.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Astarion said. “Cliche as it may be to say, blue truly does bring out your eyes.”

Evie shifted, the familiar anxiety they’d been experiencing for the last two hours rising in their gut.

“I’m not sure,” they said, trying to sound discerning. “Maybe something a little more…simple?”

The tailor’s lips turned into a hard line. Evie had the distinct impression that if they were not the literal hero of Baldur’s Gate, he would have kicked them out ages ago. He must really need the commission.

“Simple,” he repeated, sharply. “Very well, I’ll see what I can find.”

Without even bothering to pick up the bolt of fabric, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the backroom.

Evie let out a short breath of relief. This whole song and dance had been going on for far too long. First ball or not, there had to be a simpler way. After the next round of samples they’d say they need to think about it and leave. It may be in rough shape, but their performance dress could still do in a pinch. Maybe they could convince Astarion to spruce it up.

As if feeling their thoughts turn in his direction, Astarion moved closer leaning into their ear. “I think you’re going to drive that man to baldness.”

Evie gave what they hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Not baldness. Grayness, perhaps. His head is fairly well preserved.”

“Either way, he’s cursing your name.” He took up one of the other swatches, a dark blue patterned with silver stars, and examined it with an artful eye. “I still think you would look lovely in this. Not the whole dress, mind you, but for the bodice at least.”

They smiled a little at that. An image of a gown came easily into their mind, although not as detailed as they were sure Astarion could picture it: something grand and striking, something a princess would wear waiting for a knight to rescue them. And with that thought, the fantasy ended.

“I think it’s a bit much for my taste,” Evie said. “Might suit you though. I know you prefer red, but you truly look well in just about any color.”

They glanced over at Astarion expecting to catch him mid preen. Instead, his gaze was solely on them, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“What?”

“Do you actually want to go to this ball?” he said, suddenly.

Evie straightened in surprise. “Of course, what are you talking about?”

“I am talking about that infuriating thing you do when you technically agree to something by not disagreeing before dragging your feet at every step.”

“I don’t–.” They stopped at the side eye Astarion was giving them. It was something they were working on.

“That’s not what’s happening,” Evie corrected.

“Enlighten me then.”

They shifted their stance, suddenly feeling very hot all over. When did it get so stuffy?

“It’s just…it’s all a bit much, isn’t it?”

“The ball?”

“No. I mean, yes, a bit, but this.” They waved their hand around the shop. “He’s charging twenty gold a yard for some of this. And that’s just the fabric, let alone the labor cost. And it’s not as if I’ll ever wear it again. I mean, how many balls can I expect to attend in one lifetime?”

“So, you’d rather wear something you already own?” Astarion questioned with clear judgment in his tone.

Evie’s lips pressed into a line, their defenses rising. “It’s not as scandalous as all that.”

“Only if you want to dress like the entertainment.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged, “so long as you don’t mind being the entertainment. Or at minimum have people handing you their used cups all evening.”

Evie bit back a groan of frustration. He really didn’t understand.

“I just think it’s all rather frivolous,” they vented.

“You think fashion is frivolous?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied.”

“I didn’t–.” They stopped, taking a deep breath. This wasn’t going how they wanted it to go. They just wanted to leave and not have to think about hundreds of eyes on them whispering speculations about who they were and where they came from. They almost wished they were the entertainment. It would be more honest and they’d walk out with well earned gold in their pocket.

“Look, I know dressing well is important to you,” they said, carefully. “I know that choice is important to you, but it’s just not to me. I don’t need to make a statement outside of my performances. As soon as I’m off that stage, I am perfectly content for people to stop looking at me.”

Astarion scoffed. “Then you’ve somehow missed the point of the evening. People are going to be looking ,whether you want them to or not. The only thing you have control over is what they see.”

Evie glanced away. He was right, of course. They had wanted to focus on the other aspects of the evening; seeing their friends again, free food, listening to music instead of playing it for once, just seeing how the other half lived. They should have known it would come with a price.

“Well then maybe it is best if I skip it.”

It was a testament to how much effort Astarion was putting into understanding that he didn’t just throw his hands up in frustration. He did, however, get in one exasperated sigh.

“What are you so afraid of them seeing?”

A mouse. A rat. A thief. Gur scum. Unclean. Unworthy. Wrong.

It must have shown on their face as Astarion touched their chin, turning them back to him.

“None of that,” he said, his tone suddenly serious.

Evie didn’t really know what to say. They just knew they couldn’t bring themselves to look directly at him.

Astarion, however, didn’t falter. “You’ve been my mirror in more ways than I’d like to admit. Do you wish to know what I see?”

“I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

His face lit up with pride. “There’s my love. Let’s start with that deceptively smart tongue disguised by a very pleasant mouth.”

“Pleasant mouth?”

“Very,” he insisted. “Now let’s see…a nose that one might describe as too long for your face, but actually proportions your features quite well when taken all together. I think it’s the little bump that does it. Good hair with some potential. You are with me after all darling. It’s hard to compete with perfection.”

“I think you’re losing the point of this exercise.”

“I’m not finished. I haven’t even gotten to those two near supernaturally blue eyes of yours. They are always so much more endearing when they’re trying to be annoyed with me.”

Evie tried to glare, they really did, but their smile gave them away.

Astarion’s own grin only widened. “And don’t even get me started on your truly lovely skin and even more enticing neck.”

“Careful my love, you’re starting to drool,” they teased.

He answered by pulling them to him, playfully nipping their neck with a growl.

“Astarion!” They laughed.

“Don’t interrupt me,” he said before moving his lips to their ear. “You’re so much more than all of them.”

Evie’s brows furrowed as they felt the air shift. His tone was softer now and all the more serious for it.

“Even before you saved everyone in this miserable city, you were worth more than any of the fools who thought they were superior because they were the ones to put coin in your purse. If the world actually judged people by the things that mattered, near everyone would question their worthiness to even speak with you. I know I do.”

They felt their heart clench, turning their head to catch their love’s eye. “Astarion…”

He gave them a half smile. “Not to worry darling, it’s only in moments. It’s comforting to remind myself that you’re not infallible. You did make the very foolish decision of choosing me after all. Besides, I’m selfish by nature. I’m not about to do something noble like let you go to find someone better.”

He left his voice light, but Evie could feel the weight of his fears. It had faded for the last few months, but still lingered. Time was the only cure for it. And Evie intended to give him as much as it took.

“I’m holding you to that,” they said.

Astarion watched them a moment, surprise flashing across his features before settling into something much more self satisfied.

Evie felt the need to say something to keep him from getting down right smug, but the kiss he placed on their lips quickly evaporated those notions. He was just as relieved to hear their words and they were to hear his.

They held each other close, even as their lips drifted apart content to stay in their own little bubble for a few moments longer.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want,” Astarion murmured, “but don’t let what other people think stop you. They’re not worth the consideration.”

Evie took a breath, finally letting his words settle. They wouldn’t be alone. Astarion would be with them, and Wyll and Karlach and Gale and Shadowheart and Lae’zel; really the only people whose opinion mattered. How could anyone make them feel small with love like that?

“Alright,” Evie conceded. “I might need to borrow your eye though. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“Gladly, so long as I don’t catch you squirming thinking about how much it’s all going to cost,” Astarion countered.

“I will…try.”

He beamed and Evie could already feel their last few coppers clinking together. They pushed it aside though. Their purse might regret it but they would not. If there was ever a reason to celebrate, the knowledge of never being alone again seemed just about the best.

[elllisaaa]

Hihi , im not really sure if it would be ur style of writing but i had a dream abt it and i thought u could write smth along those lines(i think for this fluff would be good🥹 but if u wanna add smut is fine too hehe)

Heres the prompt:

Basically most of the days you would be hanging out w ur bff beomgyu after sch, just hanging out in each other’s presence is enough. You guys wont force a conversation if its not needed n sitting in silence gives you both a peace of mind.(thise type of fs)

But one day u told him that u were going to an event with ur girl bff , where she could see her fav artist , and you being a supportive bestie decided to go with her!

Somehow thru the night things changed and you ended up with beomgyu saying these words: “ It’s always been you y/n, my eyes are only for you”

(Not rlly sure if this is how a prompt should be(if im giving too much cos this is my first prompt) but i hope it sparks interest >_<)

hiii anonie !! this definitely so damn cute, i got a little overboard with this one but i love it so much, it's so soft omgg ! this definitely such a good idea i love it, and don't worry - the longer your thoughts are, the more i'm happy !

BFF!BEOMGYU who never stops annoying you every day, be it by sending you tons of texts or by dropping by your place when he's done with his schedule. well, you always claim that he's annoying but he knows that it isn't the truth and that you're always happy to see him.

"by the way, i will not be there for our movie night tomorrow, i'm sorry." beomgyu turned to you with a judgemental look on his face. "you're letting me down !?" you rolled your eyes as you threw one of the cushions of your sofa at him. "don't be so dramatic. i'm just going to a fanmeeting with one of my friend because she didn't want to be alone."

and even if your reasons were very valid, beomgyu couldn't help but be bothered. you always spend your free time with him, and it didn't even matter if the two of you just laid in your bed in silence, watching a serie while playing stupid games on your phones. it didn't matter because what he seeked was your presence, feeling you by his side. he loved to know that he could lay his head on your lap anytime and that you would drop your phone to thread your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

but sometimes, just sometimes, he wished he could be even closer to you. the type of closeness that would allow him to feel jealous about you going to a fanmeeting of another idol. the type of closeness that would allow him to kiss you, and love you like you deserved to be loved.

a pout was visible on his face, but what was even more striking was the slighlty hurt look in his eyes. and even if your best friend was always a little drama queen whenever you cancelled plans with him or hung out with somebody else, you never took him too seriously, knowing that he just liked to yap. but today, it seemed different.

beomgyu didn't want to separate from your warm body, but he still sat up, already missing the feeling of your hands in his hair, but his heart was hurting too much to keep pretending this time. it was nothing, he was aware, and he didn't have any right being jealous or feeling like he was. but he did, and he wished you would feel the same even if it was impossible because he was him and you were yourself, and there was simply no way that you would love him like that.

"why are you taking it like that gyu ? i know it's a little late to let you know, i should've told you before but it's no big deal, yeah ? i'm free this weekend if you wanna come by after practice, i'll even cook for you if you want."

beomgyu could feel a knot forming in his throat the more you talked, realizing how wrong he was for making you feel guilty about something you weren't responsible for. but the question he was dying to ask still got out of his mouth, the words coming out almost against his will : "do you like him more than me ? do you think that he sings better ? is that why you're letting me down ?"

his shaking voice made your heart clench, and you paused the movie that was now serving as a background noise, focusing entirely on your best friend and the way he was fidgeting, not daring to look you in the eyes but he seemed more than anxious, more than sad.

"where is that coming from gyu ? i've never said that. or did i make you feel this way ?" but beomgyu shook his head no. "you didn't. it's just…" he stopped for a moment, seemingly thinking about something before he curled up on himself on your couch, gaze fixed on the frozen tv screen. "forget it, i'm just being selfish."

the entire mood had changed, but you couldn't care less - you were only very worried about your best friend. "you know you can be selfish sometimes, i don't mind. tell me what's going on, please ?" and beomgyu finally looked at you in the eyes, biting his lips as if he was still unsure about what he was going to say : "i'm making a big deal out of this because i want to be the only one you're fangirling over, okay ? i want to be the only one you find handsome, and the only one you gush to your friends about. i wanna be the only one for you because for me it has always been you y/n, my eyes are only on you."

you looked at him dumbfounded, as you clearly didn't expect a confession, especially from your best friend. but quickly, a little smile spread on your lips as you reached for beomgyu's hand. he let you do that, and he let you pull him closer to you too, your face only inches away from the other.

"you've always been the only one for me too gyu, i simply didn't think that you would feel the same because you're always surrounded by the most beautiful girls of the country, so why would you choose me ?" - "because i'm in love with you, so in love with you it hurts sometimes." your smile was matching his, and you could see his brown eyes sparkling with joy again. "i'm in love with you too, have been for so long." - "does that mean i can kiss you now ?" you chuckled but still nodded : "yes, you can."

so beomgyu kissed you, and the way his heart exploded in his ribcage was only another proof of how down bad for you he was. and he didn't want this feeling to ever stop if that meant he could wake up by your side every morning.

[sukunasweetheart]

//just me venting about sukuna haters sorry

Not me seeing so much discourse about whether sukuna is a well written villain or not... he essentially has no backstory shown as of yet and we barely know anything about him but he is still one of the most naturally interesting and compelling characters in the whole damn series bro 💀 buckle up bc its about to get lengthy (im just glazing sukuna in this post ngl so 🧎‍♀️)

so many whiny ass mfs are weeping about how he "doesn't have any personal goals or a proper reason to be a villain" when that is the whole point???? He lives on his own desires and satisfactions and does whatever he wants to, because he is capable enough to do that. Mfs want "real villains" but cant even handle sukuna 💀 ive seen too many shit ass threads and poorly articulated "critiques" on his character that dont make any valid points. If you can't even separate your personal dislike of a character from your analysis of their writing, dont even bother posting that shit please 😭😭😭 the fact that we haven't even gotten any information about his background yet and people are jumping the gun about him being "poorly written" is already saying a lot 🤨

The fact that yall are so bitter and angry about him that you can write 500+ words about how oh-so-terrible of a villain he is kinda proves that he's doing his job well tbh 💁‍♀️

What also bothers me to no END is how people compare him with villains of other series, who had compelling sob stories that made people empathise with them. Thats nice and all but why should all villains have grand ideals and be subject to feelings of empathy/sympathy from their audience?

Part of what makes sukuna so interesting is how he's not tied down by morals, rules or long term goals in life. He doesn't limit himself, which is what makes him an unpredictable character. He's completely left behind what it means to be human in many ways, and he's clearly not a character written to be empathised with. He is very purposefully inhumane and distant from everyone else, and that feeling transcends from within the series to real life as well. There is a clear lack of understanding bc most of us can't comprehend what its like to just live without being goal-oriented.

Sukuna is a true anomaly in the sense that he doesnt really fit in any kind of box within the series. He's born from man, but its clear that he separates himself from humans (and nobody else considers him human, either). He's not a cursed spirit. He hovers between life and death. The narrator referred to him as the honoured one, whilst angel referred to him as the disgraced one.

These little contradictions in his character make him all the more complicated and interesting to think about. And even recently, he's been shown to waver a little bit momentarily in the manga, questioning his own irritation at yuuji. He's capable of self reflection, and though sukuna does whatever he wants for the most part, he doesn't blindly go into things without some thought first, he's a constant thinker and analyser, and an intelligent one at that.

And honestly, he is always such a joy to watch and read, his personality is so flavourful, and the way he carries himself is very attractive. He's not afraid to get messy or of getting hurt, theres so much chaos in the way he does things and yet he also has a huge element of gracefulness to him, which shines through the poetic way he speaks. Its undeniable that sukuna simply oozes charisma...

And this isnt talked about enough but this man is genuinely so effortlessly funny (in a kind of sinister way i guess?) Like yes he is an old ass man having real beef with one FIFTEEN YEAR OLD for very little reason, he accidentally healed yuujis arm and somehow expected him to be grateful for it despite how he literally ripped his heart out afterwards, then he proceeded to sit on him after kicking him down likeeee 😭 what kind of behaviour is this sir

His facial expressions at yorozus yapping 💀 THE WAY HE COMPARED YUUJIS FACE OF DESPAIR TO THE HARIMA STATUE 😭😭😭💀😭💀💀😭 omg that was so foul but i was fucking losing it ngl

How he randomly compared gojo to a fish and started talking abt his scales... thats a very unique and descriptive comparison, isnt it? Even in the recent leaks, he was 100% ready and squaring up to a literal child talking abt "youre starting to get annoying" LIKE HELPPP 😭 HE FR SAID "fuck them kids and fuck you too"

I saw someone saying that sukuna has no passion, like are we talking about the same character....? This man is a literal jujutsu NERD 💀💀 he truly recognises talented sorcerers and the only time hes seen to be having genuine fun is when hes fighting a mf... is that not passion? This is literally sukuna when it comes to jujutsu: 🤓

Anyway im done here now, im pretty sure i missed a lot of things i couldve talked about as well but ive done enough yapping

[mikuni14]

Century of Love - Ep 2

I really liked the second episode:

again I have to praise Daou and his acting for looking like him and making me see him as a grumpy grandpa. Those furrowed eyebrows ಠ_ಠ, the way he walks, the way he hovers over people, even the way he talks, the way he gets angry - it's all so grandfatherly 😭

I like the fact that San, despite being such a constantly irritated and angry old man, has very caring and protective instincts, he never hesitates to help others, to defend them, to catch them when they fall

I'm so glad Vee finally put a limit to San's bullshit

I'm even more happy for Vee's words about waiting for an old love, reincarnation, because I think exactly the same

this series is wonderful because it constantly surprises, introduces new elements, new characters, new plots. Like this time a mysterious villain, a highly sus cousin who slanders Vee and *drum rolls*:

the fact that San has his period once a month turns into a child!! Omfg it's a 🔟 plot twist. And this child somehow LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE SAN, right down to the eyes, deadpan stare, furrowed eyebrows, and unmistakable aura of grumpiness. He also has his own mini-wardrobe and walks around at night. Legend ✨

the fact that everyone is invested in grandpa's love and sex life and the condition of his penis looool

Would a show like this avoid a pratfall kiss? NO.

the series was again very funny, I laughed many times, once I choked with laughter because I was drinking something like an idiot who should know better

I'm very happy that the series asks valid questions about destined lovers, about reincarnation, and that it's brave and innovative about it, even if San and Vee turn out to be connected by a red thread. I also like that it circles around this topic with conversations about death (Vee with his grandma in the hospital, Vee with San). I wonder if San will start to realize that he is thinking a bit too much and daydreaming about a guy he just met, which cannot be explained by his love for Wat. Because Wat is Wat and Vee is Vee. And even if he were her reincarnation, he is a completely different person. San is the same, but a reincarnated Wat in any body - unless she kept or regained (and what about the previous "owner" of that body or her old "self" in that case?) her full personality and entire memory - WOULD NOT BE HER. Also, I have always believed that a new love, a new infatuation, cannot appear until the old one dies or weakens. Therefore, San couldn't be so fixated on Vee, lusting after him, if Vee wasn't slowly starting to take Wat's place in San's heart and mind. And this cannot be explained by the fact that everyone around believes that he is the reincarnation of a woman from 100 years ago. Vee is not her, he looks COMPLETELY different from her (and the physical aspect is important) and he has no memories of her. Vee is Vee and somehow he completely dominates San's life and dreams.

And I also like the fact that the series shows how San loses control over his life, over his feelings, that he wants well but fails and hurts people, that he just wants to live with the person he loves, but the stupid world is not as simple as he wants it to be, that he is getting a lot of new, strange, contradictory information at once, that there is this beautiful boy who is messing up his life, that all this is very stressful for him, which is why he does not think clearly and what is probably worst for him: the growing panic that it was all in vain, that his love, those 100 years were wasted.

Daou is so good at this, San is literally shaking with the anxiety, stress and frustration.