#thread: lost

[elalalune]

Omegaverse roommates au

[aslyran]

Visions

[autumnblooms]

“Have you missed me, good messieurs?”

[pastafossa]

"Love Leaves A Mark" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, Pure Fluff)

I've been working on this for a bit to celebrate the release of our older Born Again!Era Matt, and happily I can say this one's now done, which means I can finish up another little oneshot I have and then get back around to The Red Thread's next chapter. This is written with TRT!Reader in mind, but I also tried to write it vaguely so it's easy enough to enjoy even if you haven't read that massive saga. Also if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings for this fic: None that I know of, they're just being cute and in love as they grow old together. There ARE some vague physical changes described that are standard in aging but that feels pretty normal.

Fic Summary: You and Matt are growing older together, and you're both loving every second of it, including the physical changes that come with it.

“Did you get more toothpaste today?” you called sleepily, lifting one leg to idly scratch at your calf with your foot. You worked your toothbrush over to the other side of your mouth, wrinkling your nose at the taste. Nine years you’d been using your husband’s toothpaste and you’d never gotten used to the flavor, or lack thereof. You’d be damned if you didn’t use it regardless, though. “And Mini’s food?”

“Picked up both.” The low rumble of his voice was sleepy and distracted as it drifted out of the bedroom. Outside the little brownstone you both now called home, the snow continued to fall in thick, heavy flakes, muffling the roar of the wind and the few cars still out on the street despite the late hour and travel ban. You were grateful for that storm. In all the time you’d been with him you’d never had a problem with the Devil’s nightly rounds. Loving Matt meant loving Daredevil, too. But you still treasured evenings like these when he was able to stay in with you, your purring, cuddly husband happily playing the role of your favorite blanket. “I may have also stopped at the bookstore and gotten you something on the way home.”

You paused, shifting your gaze meaningfully toward the open bathroom doorway. You probed curiously at the psychic connection between you, a subtle attempt to discern what it was he’d picked up for you. All you got was a playful nudge back. He didn’t even have to try all that hard anymore, smoothly deflecting you with all the ease of swatting away a pillow.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His voice was an amused whisper in your mind. “You’ll have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.” 

You scrubbed faster at your teeth, grinning at his laugh in the other room. 

“I don’t know how you have any gums left considering how often you do that,” he mused as you leaned down to rinse your mouth out. You quickly shoved your toothbrush back into the penguin-shaped toothbrush holder before flipping off the light and padding out of the bathroom. 

“The benefits of genetic tampering,” you said dryly, joining him in the bedroom. He was already settled into bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, a well-worn book beneath his hand. Down atop his blanket-covered feet, a large, round black void of fur had arranged itself into a perfect circle, no head or tail to be seen. Matt tipped his head as he tracked your eager circling of the room, the barest little smirk quirking his lips. You scanned around for anything new, hunting along the walls and the bookshelves that had managed to migrate their way into the bedroom once your shared office slash library had gotten too full. Books had a tendency to breed like rabbits between you and Matt. “Where?” “Your nightstand. I figured you’d probably want to dive in.”

You darted over towards your nightstand.

“No way,” you breathed, sitting down on your side of the bed and snatching up the first of the three new hardbacks he’d placed on your nightstand. “This one—I thought it was going to take another week at least before they released it. How did you…?” “I kept checking with Hanna every time I passed by her bookstore.” He cleared his throat as you flipped open your new copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy to a random page, the much-loved scent of new paper and ink filling your nose. “Eventually she took pity on me and finally let me buy this one early with cash. Although she wasn’t sure why you wanted this one when you have so many other translations already.” 

“It’s Palma’s new translation,” you murmured distractedly, dragging your finger down the flowing lines of poetry, your eyes skimming rapidly over the page. You could already spot some of the changes. “I have the first translation he did of the Inferno, but this is the first time he’s done the entirety of the Divine Comedy, and he’s tweaked his previous translation. It’s supposed to mimic the rhyming scheme Dante created more closely. Not easy when you’re shifting it from Italian to English. Dad’s going to have kittens when he hears the Devil got me my copy before he got his.”

Even without looking at him, you could feel Matt’s smug satisfaction. “You should call him so I can hear him swear.” “Call him yourself if you want to rub it in.” You snorted in amusement at Matt’s neverending desire to goad your adoptive father Ciro, who admittedly had a habit of goading back. At the very least their jabs had become less hostile over the years, the two of them now closer to sparring partners than actual enemies. You leaned over to look at the other two books Matt had gotten you, your brows shooting up. “And you got me Emily Wilson’s translations of the Illiad and the Odyssey? You’re spoiling me, husband dearest.” “You said last month you were thinking about picking them both up. I figured I’d check if they were there.” There was a rustle of blankets behind you, and a slightly irritated, ‘mrrp?’, presumably as Matt adjusted his feet beneath the fuzzy black hole curled up atop them. “Consider it an early anniversary gift.” “Not that I’m not grateful, but you and I both know it’s January, dear.” You set Dante back down atop the stack of books before swiveling on the bed to face Matt. You started crawling across the mountain of blankets and silk sheets toward his grinning form. “Our anniversary is months away.” “The anniversary of our first kiss, then.” His smile only grew wider when you reached him and threw your leg over him to sit astride his waist. It was something he welcomed as he always did, his hands setting aside his book immediately in favor of you. He slid his palms warmly up and down the fleece covering your thighs, pausing here and there to knead at the muscle just because he could. It never seemed to matter that he’d touched you a thousand times before. He treated every moment like this as if it were the first. “A few hardbacks are the least you deserve.” “Lines like that make me want to marry you.” You sighed, draping your arms comfortably over his broad shoulders, lifting one hand to idly card your fingers through his dark hair. He hummed beneath your touch, tilting his head openly into the fond drag of your fingers like a big cat. “Buying a woman hardbacks? In this economy? Put a ring on me, Mr. Murdock.”

“Now Mrs. Murdock, how would your husband feel about you saying things like that?” His voice was a playful purr, words thick and glutted thanks to the drag of your nails. You were pretty sure his eyes had rolled back behind his closed eyes. “He’d, mmm, hunt me down until his dying breath if I laid so much as a finger on you. As for me, my wife is… not inclined to let me go gently.” 

“You’re goddamn right I’m not.” You sprawled out against his chest, dipping your head. He met you halfway, touching his lips to yours. You gave him a warm, lazy kiss, faint traces of copper and cinnamon passed from his smiling mouth to yours. The familiar taste of him, the softness of his skin, the sweet warmth of his breath in your mouth soothed you in a way little else could, and you drew him deep into you on a slow inhale, humming against his lips. His chest rumbled contentedly beneath you in response, his hands sliding up from your thighs to squeeze and rub affectionately your hips. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

“Never,” he murmured against your mouth, chasing after you to steal another kiss when you tried to lift your head. You ran your fingers through his hair again, sighing at the soft, playful brush of his tongue against your lips, giving it a mischievous nip of your own that made him rumble another pleased noise beneath you. His voice dropped further, all lazy warmth and possessive hunger, shades of the Devil coloring the edges like a painter’s brush. “Mm, my wife, all mine.”                                     “Your wife,” you agreed fondly. “One who’s cut people before and will happily do it again if it keeps you safe.”

“Your services are very much appreciated.”

“They should be since I fully intend to sit in a pair of rocking chairs with you one day in our old age.” You brought your hand around to scratch your fingers lightly through the coarseness of his beard, making him groan breathlessly in delight, his back arching just a little beneath you. He’d been letting his beard grow in for the past week or so. You were unsure if it was by choice or if it was simply that he’d felt too busy to take the time to shave. It had been a while since you’d last seen him with a full beard, though, a few years at least. And to your pleasant surprise, there were a few changes. Your fingers petted curiously over the small patches of silver scattered around. “I’ve even kept you alive long enough that you’ve got grey here in your beard now. That’s new.” His brows rose in surprise, his eyes fluttering open where they’d fallen closed. “Really?”

“Yup. It’s very handsome.” You stroked at the prickly grey strands before your hands slid back and up to his temples, tracing the few strands of grey there just as affectionately. His cheeks had even turned the tiniest bit pink at your praise. “Some here, too. Just a little at your temples. You gonna be my silver fox, Matt?” “I guess so. That’s what I get for letting you pet all the color out over nine years.” He heaved a great sigh beneath you as if his care sheet instructions didn’t specify he get at least ten minutes of petting each day, without which he would wilt away. “You made me look old.” “Oh please. You don’t look old. You look human.” Your fingers left his hair so you could poke him pointedly in the chest. He threw you a wounded look, all furrowed brow and big sad eyes that you weren’t falling for even a little. “Also, you gave yourself those grey hairs, thank you very much. You’re the most stressed man I’ve ever met. Half of what you put yourself through would have turned anyone else’s hair white by now.”

“Fine. I’ll admit that I may have done… a few things that were somewhat stress—” “Got a building dropped on you. Fought Nobu in tissue paper. Got shot in the head. Used a neti pot to snort some fucking rusty tap water full of amoebas and tiny shrimp—”

“That last one still really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea. One day I’m going to kiss you and taste brain shrimp, I just know it.”

He snorted. “You say that like I don’t have my own list of all the things you’ve done that have almost given me a heart attack.”

“Alright, so my list is also… a bit long.” You tilted your head, watching his eyes shift absently around. After so many years with you, he was no longer self-conscious about letting you watch his eyes this closely, much to your delight. In the low light of the bedroom, his eyes were a soft, dark brown rather than the green or grey they could shift to during the day. Beautiful as always, especially with the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lines that now seemed permanent even when he wasn’t smiling. You brushed your thumb over a few of those lines, your playful tone falling away into something more serious. “What if I like it, though? These parts of you that are getting older? Like these laugh lines.”

He furrowed his brow pitifully. “Now you’re telling me I’m wrinkly, too?”

“Oh, fuck you!” you huffed, his body shaking beneath you as he laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop deflecting, I’m serious.”

“I’m know you are, even if you’re telling me I’m a grey, grizzled, wrinkled husk.” He groaned theatrically, rolling his head back. “You should just bury me if I’m that old.”

“Not a chance. Not when I love everything I’m seeing. Like these…” 

You leaned in and planted a kiss on the laugh lines in question, feeling them grow deeper under your lips as he smiled.

“And these…”

Another kiss, this time against one of the grey patches in his beard, making him sigh. 

“...and goddamn do I love all this, too,” you murmured, sitting back so you could drag your hands hungrily down the front of him. There was no part of him you didn’t love, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little obsessed with the dark hair now edging up past his shirt collar—so much of it now that he’d finally given up on shaving his chest and let it all grow back—and the slightly thicker lines of his abdomen and hips, both of them a touch softer than they had been almost a decade ago when you’d first met him. You’d know; you’d been laying on him almost every night for most of that decade, barring a few rough patches and business trips.

“Mrs. Murdock,” he breathed in feigned shock, as if he wasn’t aware of exactly how much you enjoyed both his chest hair and the whole of his body from top to bottom, “are you insinuating something about me?” “You mean like insinuating I’m the reason you now eat regularly and aren’t so dehydrated that I can practically draw a map of your veins by sight?” You squeezed at the meat of his abdomen and hips greedily, your voice growing smug as you kneaded at him. Your touch made him chuckle and squirm beneath you, only drawing more protests from the cat trying to sleep on top of his feet. “Yes. Yes, I am. You’re welcome for the health, by the way. You’re aging like a fine wine, husband dearest. And it makes me happy.” 

His face softened at that, one hand leaving your hips to lay against your sternum. “If your heart wasn’t beating so steadily, I’d say you were just trying to flatter me,” he mused. “But… me getting older really is making you happy, isn’t it?”

“It is. I…” 

You paused for a moment, struggling to put into words what you were feeling. His hand at your hip edged up under your shirt until he could rub his thumb soothingly at your skin, content to wait while you figured out how to say what you wanted to say.

“I think it’s that… there was a time when I wasn’t sure if you’d live long enough for me to see you grow old with me.” You cupped his face in your hands, treasuring the way his eyes fell slowly closed and he leaned into your touch so openly, so easily. It had taken so much work to get him here, where he felt comfortable accepting your love and your affection, but it had been worth every ounce of effort. You traced over his laugh lines again with your thumbs before skipping down to the faint smile lines at the corners of his mouth, a mouth that pursed to kiss your thumb when you swept one over his lips. “But you did. I’m getting to see it. That’s special to me. I want to see that… that you’re still alive, that you’re living long enough for these things to happen. I want to see all these little grey hairs, and wrinkles, and the way your body has gotten a bit softer, because every little piece of you that gets older represents a moment I didn’t know if I’d get with you.”

He drew in a shaky breath before his eyes fluttered slowly open again. And in the dark of his eyes there was such a reverent joy, such a bone-deep love filling their depths that it almost took your breath away. You’d never tire of seeing it, even if you both lived for another fifty, another hundred, another thousand years, joined in this lifetime and in whatever came next. Religion had nothing on being loved fully, wholly by Matt. 

“I could say the same thing about you,” he breathed, his hand at your sternum sliding up to cradle your neck, thumb sweeping gently over the thin skin above your pulse. He pressed just a little, just enough to tug your skin back and forth. A moment later, he tugged you in until he could feather a kiss against your pulse where his thumb had been, lingering there as you nuzzled into his dark hair. “And spots like right here.”

“What’s changed there?” 

“The texture of your skin. How much it moves when I touch it. I like to think,” he whispered against your throat, “that your skin’s a little looser here now, more worn in, because I’ve stroked at it so much that I’ve changed you permanently. It’s a sign of just how much I’ve touched you, how many times you’ve trusted me and let me put my hands here. It’s never mattered to you how scarred those hands were, how covered in blood. You let my love leave a mark.”

He tightened his other hand against your hip next, taking hold of the curves that had changed as you’d journeyed through the years with him. “And you’re softer now, too, just like me.” From there he smoothed his hand affectionately upwards over your ribs and up past your breasts, mapping over all of the places your body had begun to show your age like his: stretchmarks and small wrinkles where once skin had been smooth and tight, scars from old battles now faded and ragged with time. The journey his hand took was made with reverence, tender and heavy with intent, his smile so very soft and almost… wondrous. “I may not be able to see you, but I can feel you growing old with me, too, sweetheart. More curves, a few wrinkles. It’s like I can feel your body sinking deeper and deeper into a life with me.”

“That’s what happens when love winds up being your gravity.” You leaned in to kiss his forehead lines. “A decade of being drawn in by you.”

“Mhm. And up here.” He shifted his hand at your throat to cup your face like you had his, his thumb tracing the corners of your eyes. “Laugh lines. Because our life’s made you laugh so much that it changed you. They weren’t there the first time I put my hands here. But they are now. Signs of how happy you are with me. And there are more every year, because you… love me enough to stay.”

“Hey, my Devil-Man,” you whispered, tilting his head up until your forehead could meet yours. He didn’t bother to hide the vulnerability in his eyes, this old wound of his. It was mostly mended now, when it came to you, but sometimes that furrowed scar inside his heart still made him ache. “Do you need me to remind you again? I’m not going anywhere, husband of mine. There’s nowhere you’ll go that I won’t follow.”

“I know.” His eyes fluttered as you stroked at his skin. His arms left your face until he could wind them tighter around you, pulling you in tight against him until his every breath became yours. That seemed to settle him some, the weight of you against his chest, especially when you dropped your head to his shoulder, nuzzling in against his neck. “That’s… that’s just it. With me, you see… moments you didn’t think you’d have because you didn’t think I’d make it. And I didn’t think I’d have this with you, either. A home, wrinkles, greying hair. Not because I didn’t think you’d live long enough, but… but because I never thought I’d find someone who could love me enough to stay this long. To love me this long. Long enough that I could feel you grow old with me.”

“Loving you has never been a chore, Matt.” You breathed in the scent of his skin, soap and the faint copper of blood, traces of cinnamon and just him. It was a scent you knew better than your own. You  lifted your hand to run your knuckles down his cheek, tracking your way through his greying beard, hoping that your touch would help your words sink in. He slid his hands up under the back of your shirt to drag his palms smoothly down your back, comforting himself with the feel of your skin as he tilted his head, listening to your heartbeat. It wasn’t because he thought you were lying, that much you knew. But he’d told you once he found the truth soothing when hearing something that might make him feel otherwise vulnerable. Something like this, this old wound of his, absolutely qualified. “And it never will be, no matter what comes at us. If you need me to remind you of that every day, I will. I’ll tell you that over and over again, until the day we die and get buried in matching coffins.”

“The same coffin,” he said quietly, tipping his head to nuzzle at your temple. “There’s a reason we took ‘Till death do we part’ out of our vows. No parting, even in death.” 

“Do they even sell double coffins? If so, I’m down.” “Even if they don’t, I’ll tell Foggy to make sure I end up in yours with you.” “I think I should end up in yours.” “Why?” “Because everyone will just assume your coffin’s extra heavy due to your goddamn audacity.” He burst out laughing beneath you, his body shaking and almost throwing you off him entirely. “I’m just saying,” you continued, trying not to grin as he choked out more laughter, “you live your life in a very particular way, man without fear. ‘Christ, why is his coffin so heavy?’ And our friends can just say, ‘well, you know, it’s Matt Murdock’ and it’ll explain everything. No one will notice me shoved in underneath you so you can lay on top of me forever.” 

“It’s a date,” he said, still huffing in amusement. A pointed paw tapped at your back before starting a walk up your spine. “Speaking of which, looks like someone’s eager to get in on the cuddling.” “Behold, offer to cuddle and both Matts will appear,” you snorted as roughly twenty pounds of scarred black cat trod his way stubbornly up and onto your shoulder, rasping out an indignant meow that sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day for the past seven years, because how dare the two of you do this without inviting him. “I’m about to be sandwiched, I think. Hello, Mini-Matt.”

Sure enough, Matt’s smaller clone enthusiastically rammed his head against your temple, making you grunt, before doing the same to Matt’s chin. He was already purring like an old motorcycle engine in a request to get in on what seemed like a nice, cozy cuddle pile, as if Matt would ever turn the cat down. Sure enough, Matt leaned in, planting a kiss to Mini’s big fuzzy forehead before turning and laying a much gentler kiss on yours as Mini draped himself over your shoulder, stretching one paw out to pat Matt's face. “Something tells me you don’t mind, though.”

“Not even a little.” 

[thedarknesseater]

"Bite me," Satoru tells him softly.

Suguru looks up from where he was kissing and sucking at his neck. He's not sure he heard Satoru right. "What?" He cannot keep the incredulity from creeping into his voice and he knows he's looking at Satoru with bug eyes.

"Bite me." He sounds surer this time, unbothered by Suguru's reaction.

"Why?" Suguru asks while freeing Satoru's hand from his hair and bringing his fingers up to his lips. He puts the tip of his pointer finger between his teeth and puts the tiniest bit of pressure.

Satoru chuckles at him from underneath and pulls his hand away. "Not like that, you idiot."

"Then?"

"Here," he points at the his neck and bares it for Suguru.

Suguru is still unsure of it all. "You sure?" he asks. Satoru only nods.

Suguru bends down, hovering above the place where his neck meets his shoulder and after a few seconds of deliberation, bites down on the skin. He's afraid to hurt Satoru, and also not sure if this is a good idea.

"That's it?" Satoru asks him. "Oh, come on, Suguru," he grumbles, "I want you to leave a mark. Do it hard enough so I can feel it for days after." He practically orders Suguru, and who is he to tell him no.

Suguru bites down harder this time, trying to find a balance between Satoru's wants and his want of not wanting to hurt him. He soon realises that it's an impossible line to draw because Satoru is not one to cry out in pain. Aside from the harsh breath that he draws when Suguru earnestly put pressure on his bite, he remains quiet.

He eases up to look at Satoru's neck; there's a perfect impression of his teeth in the skin. It looks painful to him but Satoru is looking at him with such blissful eyes, he's sure he has never seen him be this pleased at anything he has done to him.

[lightningbig]

sorry twilight princess will always be eating holes in my brain. constantly and forever. I cannot ever be normal about it.

it's such a haunted game. you are a dead thing going through a dead world. you are something in between. you can go back but it will never be the same. you will never be the same. you are walking, constantly, through ghosts of what came before. you are exploring places long forgotten. you are the only one on this path because there is no one else that can walk it. you were just a farm boy. you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. right place at the wrong time? wrong place at the right time? you were just supposed to deliver a sword.

[blessyouhawkeye]

i truly fucking cannot get over the image of brennan lee mulligan using the dozens of small screens surrounding him and his friends while they play dnd to play the video of him five years ago saying something integral to the campaign that they all completely missed. just the shit eating grin on his face surrounded by his own handiwork.

[stardustedknuckles]

It's looking like there's a growing divide between Campaign watchers and Tlovm watchers in terms of like. We're here for the characters. 12-episode seasons aren't. They can't be. I'm already making peace with everything we'll lose in the Mighty Nein show, and I know I will enjoy it for what it is but I also know that almost nothing that made the story so special will translate to the screen, because turning it into a show automatically means (in this day and age) that plot must be the number one priority. They've already come out and told us it's going to be different, the characters we know and love but new stories.

Because that's how this has to work. And I feel bad for campaign one lovers, because while it is certainly the easier of the two to translate to a big, overarching story, even though it's a more "traditional" high fantasy story with easier archetypal characters, the archetypes and the plot aren't what cemented most people's love for the campaign. So much of the love for critical role is stored in the interpersonal dynamics and the payoff that comes from hundreds of hours of tiny interactions that one day become cornerstones of development and even affect or dictate the plot.

There's no room for that. There's no room for Bard's Lament in a story that cannot afford to remove and replace a main character. A lot of tlovm is for people who have been here for all of campaign one. Most of it, however, isn't. It's for a new crowd. While CR may have creative control, you can bet your ass that there were months and years devoted to figuring out how to map a character-focused love of the show into a plot that hits the right beats to be viable in the show market.

And it worked. Tlovm has consistently high viewing numbers, and its popularity has brought and will continue to bring new people into the universe who have never interacted with CR previously. That's not a bad thing - imagine finishing your favorite show and discovering it has another FIVE HUNDRED HOURS of the equivalent of behind the scenes content. That's incredible for these newcomers. But man, it is in many ways a loss for us.

[samstrifee]

i loathe real life men all day and then i log in here and look at pictures of the two somewhat offputtingly incestuous guys from supernatural and i am sane again..has anyone else tried this

[ljblueteak]

I was interested to see how the "Who's House's successor going to be?" conversation played out on the Chase TWOP thread as the show aired. While that thread didn't really have too many people predicting Chase as House's successor right away, the thing people said the most often early on (by at least Dec. 2005) was that Foreman was more suited to Cuddy's role, mostly because of his ambition (she's the boss!), but also a little bit due to personality. It was interesting to see the different ways people matched Foreman, Chase and Cameron to House, Cuddy or Wilson. Some categorized according to personality/role they played in the narrative, others based on ambition, and others by how they worked through diagnoses (and some mixed and matched).

To start, there was more discussion of Chase as being in the Wilson role and Cameron in the House role. In Dec. 2005, TWOP forum user Naja Nivae said that "Both [Chase and Wilson] are calm and level headed and take House's shit without flinching and both have snappy patter with him. Plus both seem to have a sort of beaten down acceptance of life and a quiet caring way of approaching people and patients." This same person said that "Cameron in a way is more like House personality wise, in that if things don't fit her views then she must get her way at all costs no matter who it hurts in the long run. She, like House, is a drama queen only about different things. House flies off the handle in anger, while she does it with sadness or caring."

Then there seemed to be a shift and more discussion turned toward Chase being set up as the "mini-House," but mostly based on similar out-of-the box thinking (looks like this especially came up after episodes like Failure to Communicate and then kept going from there).

In 2008, TWOP forums user wildebeest made the point that all "the original ducklings showed different aspects of House's character" and that they "loved the contrast between Foreman acting like House and Chase thinking like House." I've added that screenshot below, but also had to include the one where they predicted in August 2007 that Chase as an intensivist would end up in the ICU and that Wilson would have "a cancer scare."

[spoocys-glade-of-dreams]

{Starter for @badxsshottiexllie}

Ellie had been waiting for so long for her boyfriend to return. She remembers him saying that he needed to go on a mission that required him and the others. Ellie was allowed to accompany them to their safe house they would be staying in. She remembers someone breaking into the safe house, Murfy screaming for Ellie to hide, then nothing.

She could feel a blanket pulled over her, and a gentle kiss on her forehead. Had she been asleep this whole time? She woke up to see Rayman smiling down at her, staring lovingly at her while running his fingers through her hair. She was on the sofa, the same one she shared with Rayman while staying within the safe house! They were still within that same house, but it was like the raid never happened.

"Bad dream? It's okay, my beautiful Red Rose. It's over now. You're okay. We're back from collecting that intel Murfy wanted. I'll be right here with you while Mona runs the chips to Murfy.

What did you dream about?"

[hanzajesthanza]

i’ve had enough. i need to seek answers

[sparring-spirals]

Every time, every time Fearne/Laudna/Imogen introduce people to Pretty and are reminded, in quick succession:

- Pretty really IS that delightful, and there's a reason they collectively agreed to date him (beyond the panic distraction)

- They did in fact, collectively date Pretty and have to explain that to people.

- They are, collectively, no longer dating Pretty and have to explain that, because hes delightful and it was amicable!

- They are no longer dating because he broke up with them.

- By the time they get to this point of the explanation, its always consistently awkward despite there being absolutely zero bad blood anywhere.

- It's only awkward for Fearne, Imogen, and Laudna.

- They are surprised by this.

- Despite this, they will always come back and see Pretty the next time they are in the city and enthusiastically introduce any new friends to him.

- If only there was a way to avoid this awkwardness!

- Anyway this is our friend Pretty!!! Hes great. Oh he's our ex (collectively). Yes he broke up with us not the other way around-

[onaperduamedee]

Random thought the other day was about Nynaeve and the way her arc is completely different from the other young characters because her arc is one of reinvention.

Her path was already set, but the Wheel threw her a curveball and prompted her to ask more out of her life. She had a community, a job, a life set up in the Two Rivers but Moiraine stepped into her cave and suddenly Nyn had a quarter of life crisis. She didn't have to uproot her life to follow her friends, on the road, in the Tower, but she did, aware that this new start would completely shatter her life.

When you think about it, her story is the equivalent of going back to college, well after finishing college, to take up an entirely new studying path, only to keep an eye on her friends. Of course, it's not only that and there's a great deal of self-repression in her rage against Moiraine.

In some ways, Moiraine crystallized a lot of what she's afraid to want, because this isn't the path she herself chose. But following her friends was her choice, and her friends chose not to follow the life Nyn had picked as hers. To an extent she feels they are rejecting her by not following her path.

It is growing pains, even more than for the rest of the EF because this was supposed to be it. She was supposed to be done with the growing. She was supposed to be the mentor, the wisdom, the adult. Except she's not. She refuses to mourn the life she thought she had and rages again that new path calling to her. Although at that point it is the only way forward, and in a direction she doesn't want to go in because she doesn't recognise herself in the woman standing at the other end.

Yet, there are so many breathtaking views on that path: her friends, Lan, the promise of more knowledge, more understanding.

It's a terrible, infuriating, intolerable feeling to be seized with the realization that the choices she made in building herself don't fit her desires anymore, and that in order to find a life that fits she will have to cut parts of herself and regrow and let grief in for the girl she leaves behind.

Nynaeve is an incredible character and I'm excited to see what's in store for her in s3. She's a very adult relatable mess and we need more grown messy women in fiction.

[recurring-polynya]

Sorry if you have been asked this before but I was wondering is there some reason why Kubo never really showed too much regarding Rukia’s feelings towards Renji ? It’s not only her but even Gin & Ichigo with Rangiku & Orihime !! Like he gives enough so people can sense something but he doesn’t give a lot away. Is it about interpretation or he just simply doesn’t want to write romance too deeply ??

Kubo has said quite plainly that he doesn't want to put romance at the forefront. I think he's said this various times in various ways, but here's a pretty definitive quote from an interview he gave at the 2018 San Diego Comicon:

Q: Speaking of Ichigo's relationships with his friends, there seems to be a love triangle between Ichigo, Rukia, and Orihime. Do you delve more into this in later volumes? A. Tite Kubo: (laughs) I get asked about that a lot! I don't want to make Bleach into a love story because there are much more exciting things about their personalities and things that they can do instead of getting into the romance aspect of their relationships.

Kubo's answers are sometimes a little cheeky, but I don't see any reason to read this as anything other than face value. He may have had additional reasons to leave romance out of the story--it's a shounen and he didn't think that stuff would be of interest to the core of his readers, he didn't want to deal with angry ship opinions, etc, etc, but the long and short of it is the guy said "this is not a kissing story" and it's not.

Not to get too nitpicky--this was an interview, there's some degree of translation involved--but I actually find this kind of funny because while I agree that it's not a romance, I would *absolutely* classify Bleach as a love story. Bleach is about 600 love stories. It's about the love between a boy and his precious friends, the love between big brothers and little sisters, about the love between captains and lieutenants, about love that can only be expressed in battle, about love that turns poisonous and corrupts, about love that saves and purifies, about a love for the world you live in and want, with all your heart to make better. And while it's not a romance, I think it is about romantic love as well.

So, even though that's the real reason, I think it is also perfectly in-character for Rukia to act the way she does and I want to yap about it. I can tell right now this is gonna get long, so I am going to put it under a cut.

Just to get it out of the way up-front, I will briefly cover the other characters you mentioned. Both of this could easily merit their own essay, but I want to talk about Rukia, so I'm gonna keep it brief.

My interpretation on Gin and Rangiku is that they were not on romantic terms at any point of the canon timeline. My guess is that when she made it to the Academy and caught up with him again, it very quickly became obvious that he was no longer being genuine with her, and I think she cut him off. He is on a mission for revenge; she doesn't understand why he acts the way he does and distances herself from it. That being said, I (and I think many people?) find their parting scenes to be deeply, tragically romantic. I think this depends on your definition of "romantic." It never would have worked. He ruined it. If he had lived, it would change nothing. But Othello loved Desdemona, too. A story being a tragedy doesn't preclude it being a love story.

Ichigo is a teenage boy with a heart the size of three worlds. I think the amount of emotion he would like to leak out of his body is zero. I think the amount of emotion that does leak out of his body is so high that the signal-to-noise ratio makes it very difficult to discern anything meaningful. My reading of Bleach is that he does have special feelings for Orihime and that they are a slightly different flavor than he has for other people, but it's super hard to tell because he makes the same loving puppy eyes at Chad and Uryuu and Renji and Grimmjow. This guy is constantly torn between loving everyone he knows with the luminosity of a small star and trying to act too cool for school. Also, he's very young. He's still figuring this out, too.

Okay! Let's talk about Rukia!!!

The thing about Rukia is that she is really, really uncomfortable expressing affection. In the flashback scenes where she talks about how much she admired Kaien and Miyako, she's shown standing far away and looking at them from a great distance. When Byakuya compliments her bankai, she squeezes her eyes shut and has to look away.

Ukitake comments at how remarkably "open" he finds her to be with Orihime, even though what they are actually doing is training. You want to see a love confession? Here's Rukia's love confession to Orihime from We Do (Knot) Always Love You (Renji is here, too):

Feeling a little shy and fidgety, Rukia hesitated a few times as she replied to Orihime. "Th-that's because, Inoue I consider you……my……b-best girl-friend! So therefore……I thought…I should tell you first……" She spoke as her last few words became a little mumbled. "……your face is redder than the time I asked you to marry me ya know." "Sh-shut up!!"

A thing I really like about this though, is that while it is portrayed as something that sometimes holds Rukia back in her relationships, it's not portrayed as some sort of fatal flaw. She's a private person, and that's ok. This isn't a quality we often get to see female characters have. If this were a romance story, maybe we'd have to see her overcome this, but it's not! It's an action story and Rukia is a cool and stoic character, which is exactly how she wants to be!

I'm always pounding my shoe on the table over this, but I really, genuinely think that a significant chunk of Renji's character/personality design was specifically to be Rukia's love interest, which I think is based as Hell of him. He's good-looking, he's cool, he's devoted to her, he's powerful along the rules of the worldbuilding, but not in a way that overshadows her. And he meets her where she is.

The scene where Renji carries Rukia down the 8,000 flights of Soukyoku Hill stairs is, in my opinion, the most romantic scene in all of literature. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Rukia is so upset about being rescued, she is cannot stand the fact that anyone cares about her, or worse, that they would risk themselves for her. It's so clear that Renji understands this, and in the gentlest possible terms, asks her to accept his (and Ichigo's) help, as if she has any say in it at this point. He doesn't even make eye contact as he very obliquely says Let us care about you.

This causes Rukia, the most repressed woman in the universe, to hunch in on herself so that he can't see her cry and then he tells her to shut up. I am making little graspy hands at my computer as I write this. This is so good. Imagine. Imagine someone understanding you so well that they would spare you from your own emotions in this way. I am going insane.

This is not a Hallmark Christmas movie. This is a love story for those of us who struggle to connect with others.

I want to kind of hop out and say that I think there's a certain kind of person (me), who gets interested in romances almost exclusively from stories that have little-to-no romantic content. This is not an accident. For me, this is how I like it. I want to read about characters who save the world and I want them to be very business-up-front about it. I mean, yeah, I wouldn't mind if they kissed on screen once, but I don't need it. I have an imagination for that. I have fanfiction for that. I literally want them to do it on their own time. You know what's romantic to me? Meaningful looks. Backing each other up. Fighting in synch. Matching outfits. This is romance to me, and I think Rukia might actually agree with me.

This isn't to say that this is all of Rukia and Renji's relationship. I think they have talked about feelings, I think they've probably held hands and kissed or whatever, but where and when and how it happened is their own business. I think Renji probably wouldn't have minded getting one on-panel smooch, but this feels exactly how I think Rukia would want her relationship portrayed: We looked very cool and then, several years later, we were married.

Oh, and they also very much did get the horniest panels in all of Bleach, which, weirdly enough, I think Rukia would also approve of.

[thethreefaes]

The storm had come out of nowhere. The day had started out lovely and clear. Cold, yes. But Lyra had gotten good and bundling up and keeping herself warm. With clear skies the fae had wanted to gather more of the medical plants and medicinal herbs so she could work with Gothi.

She’d left Altair sunning by the house and headed out. It wasn’t suppose to be a long trip. She had learned the forests around Berk well. Knew where to go to get the specific plants. She was well into the midst of the forest when the clouds rolled in. The wind picking up and causing her cloak to whip around her. The cold air like knives across any bare skin.

Then the snow came. Lyra tried to head back towards Berk but the blizzard had quickly gotten rid of any visibility. The snow and freezing wind was quick to drain what little magic she had. The fae couldn’t even shadow step. Lyra clutched at a tree and shivered. She… she had to find shelter.

Back in Berk Altair was becoming agitated. The humans were battening down their homes as the wind picked up. The Vikings knowing what was to come. When the snow hit, the dragon had waited too long. Her rider was not home and was in danger. Altair struggled to scent the air. While the freezing temp did not bother her like other dragons, the wind and snow still affected her senses.

The only scent she could get was of her rider’s kin. The chief and alpha. So Altair trudged through the blizzard to their hut. Scratching at his door and hissing.

@dragonmasterhiccup (closed starter)