#I actually did have tears in my eyes which is somewhat rare for TV

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

I finally just sat down and watched the All Creatures Great and Small Christmas Special for this year, and... ouch.... my heart.... 😭😭

[sugarbooger513]

JJK Men x Insecure chubby Fem!reader

Today has been hard to think of myself positively, and I have friends who struggle with the same thing, so I thought I could indulge some people with some very loved characters reminding us that, no matter our size, we're perfect.

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Toji Fushiguro, Choso Kamo, Kento Nanami

Warnings: Insecurities, body dysphoria, Toji's gets spicy (sue me), suggestive at the end of Nanami's, tooth rotting fluff.

Satoru Gojo

- Let's be completely honest here, this man rarely feels insecure, if he ever does.

- He wouldn't be able to sympathize, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care. In fact, it makes him care a lot more.

- His comfort methods aren't for everyone either, so be prepared. He's trying, give him that.

- Humor. That's what this man knows. Iykyk, this man deflects any form of trauma with his humor.

- If he notices it isn't working, then he'll come up with something else because he loves you. That love tells him that he has to try.

"Oh sweetie pie, I'm home!" Satoru's voice carries easily through the house, but you can't seem to care at the moment. Your cheeks still feel somewhat sticky from the tears that have fallen the past thirty minutes.

"Honey bun? I said I-" His voice cuts off, and you know you're caught. The bed shifts where your boyfriend lowers himself beside you. "Y/N, why are you crying?"

"I-I don't want to talk about it, Satoru." He removes his blindfold with a small chuckle. "Did your favorite anime character die?" "No." "You sure? You tend to sob when-" "I said I don't want to talk about it."

He freezes at the way you lash out at him. Yeah, something is actually wrong.

"Love," his voice softens in a way that shows how worried he is, "is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?" You're quiet for a minute, but you eventually scoot closer to him.

"You want me to hold you?" All you manage is a nod before more tears slide down your cheeks. His long arms encase you securely against him. "I can do that as long as you need. I'm here for you, Y/N."

The two of you stay like that, you crying softly into his uniform while he runs his hand up and down your back.

Eventually, your sobs turn into small sniffles, and you finally speak. "I.. I'm sorry for snapping at your earlier, Sato." He smiles at the loving nickname. "No, baby, I'm sorry for joking around. You wanna talk about it now?"

"I just... I was thinking about.. how many girls looks so much better than I do." He scoffs. "You're kidding, right?" "Sato.." "No, I mean that. It isn't a joke. Baby, we've been through this since day one. I. Want. You."

You hide your now blushing face against his chest. "But.. I just don't understand.." "Look at me, baby." When you do, his bright blue eyes seem to shimmer. "You're the love of my life. You're gorgeous, stunning, beautiful, and every other synonym to those that I'll have to get Nanami to teach me because I will remind you everyday until it gets through your thick ass skull."

His hand comes up to rest on your chubby cheek, where he starts to wipe away the drying tears. "I. Love. You. So. Freaking. Much. Y/N." Each word is punctuated with a kiss on a different part of your face, until he eventually meets your lips.

The small giggles you let out makes him smile. "There's that beautiful laugh! Come on, why don't I pop some popcorn and we go watch whatever you want on the TV?" Your shit eating grin makes him snort a bit of laughter. "Even if it ends in a favorite character dying?"

"I don't mind having to hold you a bit longer."

Toji Fushiguro

- This is also someone I don't think can really empathize with you and your insecurities.

- However, when this man falls he falls HARD

- He will do anything in his power to make you feel better.

- Well

- Anything he can do while still seeming nonchalant about it

- Lets talk about how this man would take matters into his own hands, with his own hands, to make sure you know how loved you are. (You couldn't have expected just fluff with him, give me a break y'all.)

"Y/N," Toji kicks his shoes off carelessly at the door, "I'm home." He raises a confused eyebrow when he looks around the house. Plates from your movie night yesterday lay strewn about the coffee table, still.

'She never leaves dishes out. That's weird.'

He starts to walk around the house, worry filling his chest. It just isn't like you to leave a mess, or to not greet him at the door. There's no way someone came and did something to you, right? No one is THAT dumb, surely.

When he hears the small sniffles coming from your shared bedroom, he breathes a small sigh of relief. "Y/N? I'm coming in." He pushes the bedroom door open to see you cuddling his pillow while laying on your side.

His eyes widen at the sight of your body trembling from the small sobs. "Y/N?" He walks around the bed to kneel in front of you. "What happened?"

"N-Nothing Toji. Sorry, I-I know the house is a w-wreck." "Shut up about the damn house. I don't care. Why are you crying?"

You finally sit up, which lets him sit beside you on the bed. "I just.. Bad day." "Who do I need to stab?" "T-Toji?! You can't solve everything by stabbing!" He shrugs a bit. "You can try."

He smiles sweetly when you slap his arm. "That isn't funny." "Hmmm, but it made your cheeks flush." "Toji Fushiguro!" "Alright, alright. You wanna tell me what's wrong now?"

"I just.. looked in a mirror for too long, babe. Don't worry about-" "I'm lost. What do you mean you looked in one for too long?" You sigh, knowing he hates vague answers.

"My body is disgusting me today, Toji." He scrunches his eyebrows and leans in a bit closer to you. Your face heats up from the slight glare in his eyes.

"Looks the same to me." "Toji, I-" "Correct yourself." His already deep voice seems to drop even lower. Your entire body trembles. "S-Sir."

"Good girl. Now, let me get this straight. You don't think you're attractive." You shake your head, suddenly feeling the tears come back to your eyes. "Why not?" "J-Just.. my body.. it isn't.." "Skinny?" The word hurts your heart, but you nod, knowing he expects some sort of answer.

"So? You're exactly what I need, Y/N." You glance up to meet his loving gaze. "N-need?" "Don't play dumb. You know I need you. Now, we have to fix those insecurities."

He stands, offering his hand out to you. When you take it, he pulls you to your feet.

"Now," he groans as he lays back down on the bed, "I've had a tiring day at work. I want you to strip and come take a seat." "A-a seat?" His smirk tells you what you need to know before he elaborates. "I AM rather starved. Come on, I'm pretty impatient."

"To-Sir, I'm too.." "Heavy? Try again. You aren't getting out of this." He snaps his fingers, and the sound runs deep into your core. His eyes watch you hungrily as you start to get out of your pants.

"Now, for every one of your orgasms, I want to hear 'I'm Toji's pretty princess.' Understand?" "Y-yes sir."

You have no idea what posses you, but you finally let out you own witty comment. "You could at least take me to dinner first."

"You cheeky brat, don't worry. I have plans for your meal."

Hope you don't mind being hoarse for a while. You had to repeat just how pretty you were a number of times.

Choso Kamo

- SWEETEST MOTHER FUCKER I SWEAR

- He doesn't see a single flaw in you, honestly.

- Plus, he doesn't really understand beauty standards. All he knows is he loves every inch of you.

- Nothing goes unloved by this big ass baby.

- You crying would probably bring him to tears because he feeds off your emotion.

- But there is no doubt this man will do anything and everything to see your smile again.

- A true king who just wants his queen as happy as she makes him.

He left you for maybe an hour. Maybe. Choso just had to run and pick up a movie from Yuji.

"Angel, Yuji said that we have to-" He drops the movie the instant he sees tears in your eyes. "L-love? What happened?"

He rushes to your side and wastes no time wrapping you in his strong embrace. Your hands grip his shirt in a feeble attempt to pull him closer.

"What happened? Do you need something? A doctor?" His eyes are scanning your body for any signs of pain. His hands running gently over your back, arm, sides, but everything seems normal.

"I-I'm okay, Cho." "No, you aren't. Please, angel, don't lie to me." His own eyes start to fill with tears, but he tries to will them away. He knows he shouldn't be crying, but seeing you in any pain hurts him just as much.

"Cho, I just.. It's stupid." His large hands cup your face so you're forced to meet his eyes. "Nothing that makes you cry is stupid. Absolutely nothing, my love."

"I.. I tried to put on a hoodie of yours because I was cold." He blinks in confusion. "Was.. was it dirty?" "No I.. I stretched it out.." he tilts his head.

"Is that all?" You nod, but even more tears come to your eyes. "I just hate how big I am.. I thought you would find it cute to come home and see me in your clothes but.. I just messed them up.." He stands, suddenly walking into the kitchen. "C-Cho?"

"I bought some of your favorite ice cream. You know, the kind you always crave on your period. I figure we can cuddle and you can enjoy it while we watch a movie."

"I- I don't really want anything to eat." He smiles, still grabbing it and a spoon. "I know, but just in case. Listen," he places the carton on the table next to you, "you're gorgeous. Every part of you just screams beauty. Nothing could ever change that. Not your size, not you stretching out a stupid hoodie, not you crying, nothing."

He opens the carton, only to get a spoonful out and kneel in front of you. "Open up, angel." You do as he says and allow him to feed you the ice cream. You can't help but smile as you eat it.

His index finger wipes a few old tears from your cheeks. "There's that smile I love. Now, I think we need a movie and some cuddles. How does that sound?" You can only nod, absolutely floored by how much Choso truly loves you.

No more negative thoughts came to your mind while you laid against his chest. He even took a few times to feed you more ice cream throughout the movie.

Oh yeah, he totally bought new hoodies in a bigger size so you could wear them around the house without fear of stretching them.

Kento Nanami

- KING ENERGY

- You can't tell me this man doesn't want someone who acts as his pillow. Come on.

- That being said, Nanami knows how it is to be insecure.

- Whether it's over body insecurity or not, that can be argued either way. Still, insecurities aren't something he's ignorant about.

- On days where you can't seem to like your body, he'll do whatever you need.

- Need to be alone? No problem. Need someone to talk to you? Covered. Just need to be told you're loved? He'll tell you as many times as it takes.

- However, he can't help but be blunt. That's just who he is.

- He does it out of love for you, though. He never wants you to believe something that isn't true.

It's really hard for you and Nanami to get the same day off of work, and today was no different. Since you were the one working today, Nanami decided to take up cleaning the house and preparing dinner. He would also insist on doing the dishes, but he knew better. You never allow him to do all of the work.

He watched the clock hit five thirty and smiled. No doubt, that was your car he heard pull into the driveway. Now that you were home, he could surprise you by telling you that he managed to get the next five days off, which matched your schedule.

The front door opens, and he's quick to call out a "Welcome home, dear. Dinner will be done soon." He turns his body, preparing to catch you in his embrace as usual. However, all that happens is you call back, "Thanks, Ken."

His eyebrows furrow, and he quickly takes dinner off the stove so he can go check on you. He's not one to forget anniversaries or anything like that, so his mind is going through any possible reason you just called him Ken.

"Bad day at work, dear?" He wipes his hand on his apron as he comes around the corner. You were already sitting on the couch, eyes on your phone. "Yeah, I guess." "Okay," he sighs and sits beside you, "would you like to talk about it?" When you finally look at him, his eyes widen. Your eyes are puffy, as if you had been crying.

"Y/N.." "It's just coworker drama, Ken, don't worry too much about it." He scrunches his face. Those women you work with always pissed him off. He's noticed them staring at him whenever he brings you lunch. "Well, humor me a bit. What happened today?"

He just knows you can't resist gossiping with him after a work day. "I-I don't want to repeat it, Ken." The worried look in his eyes makes you whimper. "What?"

"I'm not used to you calling me 'Ken' at home." "Sorry, honey. It's nothing you did." He smiles softly and reaches to cup one of your cheeks in his hand. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me?" You do. God, you do because you know you'll cry again and he'll be here to hold you through it.

"They started talking about you." "Me?" "Yeah," you look at your hands, already feeling your chest tighten, "and started laughing at how you're.. settling for someone who is as big as I am.."

Nanami's soft looks suddenly turns harsh. How dare they say stuff like that? What's worse is he's sure they knew you could hear them!

"Really?" When you nod, a tear falls onto your lap. "It just.. really hurt knowing that I'm not the only one who thinks that." "Y/N.." He pulls you into a hug with a soft sigh.

"Don't think like that. Dear, if I wanted anything different than what I have now, you would know it." You sigh and cuddle into his warm embrace. "I know, but-" "But nothing, my love. I love you, only you, forever you. Do you understand?" You glance up and he places a soft kiss on your forehead.

"Yeah.. I love you too, Kento." "I have an idea." "Uh huh?" His smirk has you worried. "Well, we both have the next five days off.." "We do?!"

The excitement in your voice has him chuckling. "There's my pretty laugh. Yes, we do. I'm thinking on your first day back.. you go in with a ring on your finger."

You blink in confusion. "K-Kento, you don't-" "Oh I do. Am I the person to joke about wanting to marry you?" Your eyes start to fill, yet again, with tears. However, these tears make Nanami also tear up a bit.

"Are you... asking..?" "I have a ring just for you in my suit jacket, Y/N. Just say you'll marry me." He isn't really expecting you to jump on him, so when you do, he falls from the couch to the floor. "You know I'll marry you, Ken!"

The two of you share a long kiss, complete with tears and laughter. "Well, now that that's decided. I think we should get a head start on something." "What would that be?"

He stands before securing you in his arms bridal style. "The Prehoneymoon." "That isn't a thing, honey." He smirks before playfully smacking your ass. "For you, Mrs. Nanami, anything is possible."

@katgalle @savonline

[noorooz]

I'm back with more trash.

Just a little context: this is loosely based on this, which is au where Félix stole the Fox miraculous at some point and is somewhat of a villain, but not really. He just likes starting shit and causing problems. Oh, and he has a thing for Marinette.

He knew.

Félix knew.

He'd seen her detransform.

Marinette's heart beat fast in her chest, a sick feeling pooling into her stomach. She might actually throw up. Out of everyone who could have found out, why did it have to be him? And how had she not noticed him following her?

In her defense it had been a long day, she was tired—so tired— and she'd been in a hurry to get home, finish her homework, and go to bed. She'd been careless, only doing a general glance around the area before dropping her transformation in a empty alley way only two blocks from her home. Like she'd done a million other times before.

Only this time she'd heard someones shoe scrape against the concrete, and when she whipped her head around towards the noise she saw Félix Graham De Vanily, looking at her with wide, shocked eyes.

For a what felt like an eternity, but in reality was only about half a second, they stared at each other. And then Félix ducked back, disappearing behind the corner.

Marinette then looked at Tikki who appeared to be as horrified as she felt.

"Do something, Marinette!" The Kwami urged her.

Somehow she was able to make her legs move. She ran out of the alley and looked in the direction Félix had left from, finding that he was already some distance away. She ran after him, calling his name, and he tensed and began walking faster.

It was only after she had almost caught up with him and called his name out a second time that he abruptly stopped and turned around so fast that Marinette nearly tripped over herself trying not to run into him.

"I didn't know it was you," He blurted.

"What—" His words confused her. They were odd, not only in tone, as if he was apologizing, but also the absurdity of them. Of course he wouldn't have known. He shouldn't.

His jaw flexed and he looked away, purposely trying to avoid her gaze. "Nothing," He said.

"Look, Félix," Marinette said, inwardly wincing at how shaky her voice sounded. "We need to talk about what you saw. Somewhere more private."

The area they were in wasn't too crowded. The latest akuma attack had sent most people running for cover and the streets were still mostly empty, only a car passing by here and there and a few people walking in the distance. Plus, it was getting late. It was the time of day people usually started to head home, to have dinner with their families and watch some tv before retiring for the night.

Regardless, Marinette wasn't going to take her chances. Not after this.

But Félix was shaking his head, already making a move to leave. "I didn't see anything," He said, "I have to go. Bye."

Marinette's heart sank. He was planning on telling someone. She just knew it.

She suddenly had a flash back to Félix's first visit; there was something he'd wanted so badly that he was willing to negotiate with Hawkmoth to get it. He hadn't gotten what he wanted then but now—

Now he had valuable information, information that Hawkmoth would surely pay any price to receive.

God, he was going to tell Hawkmoth.

Marinette lurched forward, gripping Felix's arms. His eyes widened and his hands came to rest on her own arms out of reflex.

"Please," She begged him. "Please you can't—you can't say anything. Especially not to him. Do you understand how—" Her voice broke and tears filled her eyes. She couldn't believe how big of a mistake she'd made. "Please. I'll do anything. Just don't say anything."

"Marinette—"

"Please," She was crying openly now, her face pressed to his chest. "What Hawkmoth wants—it could be devastating for all of us."

Felix's hands moved from her arms to her back and he pulled her into a hug, awkwardly patting her back.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," He said. He waited until she'd calmed down slightly before pulling back.

"Hey, look at me," He said, cupping her cheeks and tilting her face upwards so she was staring him right in the eyes. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Especially not him. You have my word."

His thumb moved gently across her cheek, wiping away her tears.

She searched his face for any signs of deceit or ill-will but found none. His usual carefully constructed neutral expression was replaced with sadder one, a rare display of genuine emotion.

But Félix was nothing if not an actor. As much as she wanted to believe him, she couldn't shake her feelings of unease over the situation. But what could she do? It wasn't like she could kidnap him and lock him in a room somewhere until Hawkmoth was defeated.

Regardless, she let herself consider it very briefly before tossing out the idea.

"How do I know you won't say anything?"

"You don't," He said. "You'll just have to trust me. Unless..." His eyebrows came up. "You'd like to come home with me? You'll have to sneak in through the window, though. As much as my mother would thrilled to see I'm bringing someone home I doubt she'd be too keen on you sleeping over—"

"Okay, no," Marinette cut him off. She drew back, finally letting go of him. It took him a moment longer to do the same.

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed over her little breakdown, as justified it was.

She barely knew Félix, only having interacted with him a handful of times since he'd moved to Paris. His past wrongdoings were still fresh in her memory and since then, he'd done nothing to try to redeem himself. Of course she would be worried.

But she had no chocie but to trust him. She tried to take solace in the fact that if Félix ended up betraying that trust that Bunnyx would come from the future to fix it. Surely it was a good sign that she hadn't already shown up.

"I'm going to trust you, Félix. Please don't let me down."

He gave her a smile that looked anything but happy and brought his hand up to rest on her shoulder, giving it a light, comforting squeeze. "It's getting late," He said. "We should both get home before our parents start to worry."

She agreed.

After that they parted ways.

She took one last glance at him over her shoulder before turning the corner, to find that he had done the same.

They both looked away.

.

.

When, after a week, Hawkmoth himself did not come looking for her personally, Marinette finally allowed herself to breath. True to his word, Félix hadn't told anyone, at least as far as she knew. The days continued on as usual and nobody treated her any different than they usually did. Not even Félix, who acted as if their little confrontation hadn't happened at all. He still kept to himself at school, content with ignoring everyone, even her.

Now that she knew he really would keep his mouth shut about her secret, his distance bothered her a little. It wasn't as if she'd expected them to become friends or the like, but she thought that at the very least Félix might have questions. Or something.

The truth of the matter was that Marinette was dying to talk to someone about...all of it.

Years worth of hiding and lying and stress were built up inside of her and now someone finally knew. Someone other than Tikki. And as much as she loved Tikki, as much as she considered her a real friend, Marinette desperately wanted to talk to another person.

Which is why Marinette decided to approach Félix herself.

[oscopelabs]

It’s Arrested Development: How ‘High Fidelity’ Has Endured Beyond Its Cultural Sell-By Date by Vikram Murthi

It’s easy to forget now that at the beginning of 2020, before the pandemic had taken hold of our consciousness, for a brief moment, High Fidelity was back. Not only did Nick Hornby’s debut novel and Stephen Frears’ film adaptation celebrate major milestones this year — 25th and 20th anniversaries, respectively — but a TV adaptation premiered on Hulu in February. In light of all of these arbitrary signposts, multiple thinkpieces and remembrances litigated Hornby’s original text on familiar, predictable grounds. Is the novel/film’s protagonist Rob actually an asshole? (Sure.) Does Hornby uphold his character’s callous attitudes towards women? (Not really.) Hasn’t the story’s gatekeeping, anti-poptimist approach to artistic taste culturally run its course? (Probably.) Why do we need to revisit this story about this person right now? (Fair question!)

Despite reasonable objections on grounds of relevancy, enough good will for the core narrative—record store owner seeks out a series of exes to determine a pattern of behavior following a devastating breakup—apparently exists to help produce a gender-flipped streaming show featuring updated musical references and starring a decidedly not-middle-aged Zoë Kravitz. I only made it through six of ten episodes in its first (and only) season, but I was surprised by how closely the show hewed to High Fidelity’s film adaptation, to the point of re-staging numerous scenes down to character blocking and swiping large swaths of dialogue wholesale. (Similarly, the film adaptation hewed quite close to the novel, with most of the dialogue ripped straight from Hornby.) Admittedly, the series features a more diverse cast than the film, centering different experiences and broadly acknowledging some criticisms of the source material regarding its ostensibly exclusionary worldview. Nevertheless, it seemed like a self-defeating move for the show to line itself so definitively with a text that many consider hopelessly problematic, especially considering the potential to repurpose its premise as a springboard for more contemporary ideas.

High Fidelity’s endurance as both a piece of IP and a flashpoint for media discourse is mildly baffling for obvious reasons. For one thing, its cultural milieu is actually dated. Even correcting for vinyl’s recent financial resurgence, the idea of snooty record store clerks passing judgment on customer preferences has more or less gone the way of the dodo. With the Internet came the democratization of access, ensuring that the cultivation of personal taste is no longer laborious or expensive, or could even be considered particularly impressive (if it ever could have been). Secondly, as one might imagine, some of Hornby’s insights into heterosexual relationships and the differences between men and women, even presented through the flawed, self-deprecating interiority of High Fidelity’s main character, are indeed reductive. Frears’ film actually strips away the vast majority of Hornby’s weaker commentary, but the novel does include such cringeworthy bits like, “What’s the deal with foreplay?” that are best left alone.

Accounting for all of that, though, it’s remarkable how many misreadings of Hornby’s text have been accepted as conventional wisdom. It’s taken as a given by many that the novel and film earnestly preach the notion that what you like is more important than what you are like when, in fact, the narrative arc is constructed around reaching the opposite conclusion. (The last lines of the novel and film are, literally, “…I start to compile in my head a compilation tape for her, something that's full of stuff she's heard of, and full of stuff she'd play. Tonight, for the first time ever, I can sort of see how it's done.”) That’s relatively minor compared to the constant refrain that Rob’s narcissism goes uncriticized, even though the story’s thematic and emotional potency derives from what the audience perceives that Rob cannot. To put it bluntly, High Fidelity’s central irony revolves around a man who listens to music for a living being unable to hear the women in his life.

While Hornby’s prose immerses the reader in Rob’s interior monologue, providing ample room for the character to spout internal justifications of his behavior, the novel hardly obscures or conceals this conclusion. Moreover, the film makes it unavoidably explicit in numerous scenes. Rob (John Cusack) triumphantly pantomimes Rocky Balboa’s boxing routine soundtracked to Queen’s “We Are The Champions” after his ex-girlfriend Laura (Iben Hjejle) confirms she hasn’t yet slept with her new boyfriend Ray (Tim Robbins), but doesn’t hear the part where she says she prefers to sleep next to him. When Laura informs Rob that she did eventually sleep with Ray, Rob completely falls apart. In an earlier, more pointed scene, Rob goes out with his ex-girlfriend from high school (Joelle Carter) to ask why she chose to have sex with an obnoxious classmate instead of him. She venomously informs him that he actually broke up with her because she was too prudish, an abrupt, cruel bit of business we actually witness at the film’s beginning. It was in her moment of heartbroken vulnerability that she agreed to quickly sleep with someone else (“It wasn’t rape because I technically said, ‘Okay,’ but it wasn’t far off,” she sneers), which ultimately put her off sex until after college. Rob doesn’t hear this explanation or the damning portrait of his teenaged self. Instead, he’s delighted to learn that he wasn’t actually dumped.

These are evidently low character moments, one’s that are comedic in their depiction of blinkeredness but whose emotional takeaways are crystal clear, and one’s that have been written about before. My personal pick from the film, though, comes late when Rob attends Laura’s father’s funeral. He sits in the back and, in typical fashion, turns to the camera to deliver a list of songs to play at his funeral, concluding with his professed wish that “some beautiful, tearful woman would insist on ‘You’re The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me’ by Gladys Knight.” It’s a really galling, egotistical moment that still makes me wince despite having seen the movie umpteen times. Yet, it’s immediately followed by the casket being lowered to the ground as Laura’s sobs ring out in the church. In a movie defined by John Cusack’s vocal timbre, it’s one of the few times when he completely shuts up. From two-thirds down the center aisle, Frears’ camera pushes into Cusack’s face until tears in his eyes are visible, but what you really see is an appropriately guilt-ridden, ashamed expression.

However, none of this evidence carries any weight if your objection to High Fidelity is that Rob suffers no material consequences for his behavior. While Rob is frequently called out for his actions, he is never actively punished. He doesn’t, say, receive a restraining order for continually calling Laura after they’ve broken up or end up alone mending a permanent broken heart because of his past relationships. By the end, Rob and Laura get back together and Rob even starts an independent record label on the side. It’s a stretch to characterize Hornby’s High Fidelity as a redemption tale, but it is a sideways rehabilitation narrative with a happy ending that arises at least partly out of mutual exhaustion.

Those two elements—Rob’s asshole recovery and the exhausted happy ending—rarely seem to factor into High Fidelity discourse. Granted, there’s credence to the idea that, socially and culturally, people have less patience for the personality types depicted in High Fidelity, and thus are less inclined to extend them forgiveness, let alone anything resembling retribution. I suppose that’s a valid reaction, one against which I have no interest in arguing, but it’s somewhat ironic that High Fidelity has endured for reasons that have nothing to do with its conclusions regarding inflexible personal principles and the folly of escapism. Both the book and film are specifically about someone who slowly comes to terms with accepting reality rather than live in a world mediated by pop cultural fantasies whose unrealistic expectations have only caused personal suffering. It’s not unfair to characterize this as a fairly obvious epiphany, but considering we currently live in a world dominated by virtual echo chambers with an entertainment culture committed to validating arrested adolescence, it retroactively counts as “mature” and holds more weight than it otherwise should.

Near the end of High Fidelity, the book, after Rob and Laura have gotten back together in the aftermath of Laura’s father’s death, Hornby includes a chapter featuring five conversations between the couple unpacking the state of their relationship. During the third conversation, Rob and Laura fight about how she doesn’t care about music as strongly as he does, catalyzed by Rob’s objection to Laura liking both Solomon Burke and Art Garfunkel, which, in his mind, is a contradiction in terms. Laura finally admits that not only does she not really care about the difference between them, but that most people outside of his immediate circle of two don’t care about the difference, and that this mentality is indicative of a larger problem. It’s part of what keeps him stuck in his head and reluctant to commit to anything. “I’m just trying to wake you up,” she says. “I'm just trying to show you that you've lived half your life, but for all you've got to show for it you might as well be nineteen, and I'm not talking about money or property or furniture.”

I fell for High Fidelity (first the movie, then the book) as a younger man for the reasons I assume most sensitive-cum-oblivious, culturally preoccupied straight guys do: it accurately pinpoints a pattern of music consumption and organizationally anal-retentive behavior with which I’m intimately familiar. I spent the vast majority of my early years listening to and cataloguing albums, and when I arrived at college, I quickly fell in with a small group of like-minded music obsessives. We had very serious, very prolonged discussions filled with impossibly strong opinions about our favorite artists and records. Few new releases came and went without them being scrutinized by us, the unappreciated scholars of all that is righteous. List-making wasn’t in vogue, but there wasn’t a song that passed us by that we didn’t judge or size up. I was exposed to more music during this relatively short period of time than I likely will ever absorb again. Some of these times were the most engaging and fun of my life, and I still enjoy discussing and sharing music with close friends, but I’m not such a true believer to fully feel comfortable with this behavior. It’s not entirely healthy on its own and definitely alienating to others, and there comes a point when you hear yourself the way a stranger might, or maybe even catch a glimpse of someone’s eyes when you’re midst rant about some stupid album, and realize, “That’s all there is of me. There isn’t anything else.”

This is what Rob proclaims to Laura in the conversation when she tells him she was more interested in music during their courtship than she is now. It’s a patently self-pitying statement on his part that doesn’t go unchallenged by her in the moment or bear fruit in the rest of the novel. Yet, it’s this type of uncomfortably relatable sentiment that goes under-discussed. If High Fidelity will continue to have a life well after its cultural moment has passed, then it’s worth addressing what it offers on its own terms. Near the end of the book, Laura introduces Rob to another couple with whom he gets along quite well. When the evening comes to an end, she tells him to take a look at their record collection, and it’s predictably filled with artists he doesn’t care for, e.g. Billy Joel, Simply Red, Meat Loaf. “'Everybody's faith needs testing from time to time,” Laura tells him later when they’re alone. Amidst Rob’s self-loathing and sullen pettiness, Hornby argues that one should contribute in some way rather than only consume and that, at some point, it’s time to put away childish ideas in order to get the most out of life. It’s an entirely untrendy argument, one that goes against the nostalgic spirit of superhero films and reboot culture, but it doesn’t lack merit. Accepting that some values aren’t conducive to a full life, especially when it’s shared with someone else, doesn’t have to mean abandoning interests or becoming an entirely different person. It just means that letting go isn’t an admission of defeat.

It’s why I’ve always found the proposal scene in the film to be quite moving, albeit maybe not specifically romantic. It plays out similarly in both the book and the film, but the film has the added benefit of Cusack and Hjejle’s performances to amplify the vulnerability and shared understanding. Laura meets Rob for a drink in the afternoon where he sheepishly asks if she would like to get married. Laura bursts out laughing and says that he isn’t the safest bet considering he was making mixtapes for some reporter a few days prior. When asked what brought this on, Rob notes that he’s sick of thinking about love and settling down and marriage and wants to think about something else. (“I changed my mind. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I do. I will,” she sarcastically replies.) He goes on to say that he’s tired of fantasizing about other women because the fantasies have nothing to do with them and everything to do with himself and that it doesn’t exist never mind delivering on its promise. “I’m tired of it,” he says, “and I’m tired of everything else for that matter, but I don’t ever seem to get tired of you.”

This sort of anti-Jerry Maguire line would be callous if Laura didn’t basically say the same thing to him when they got back together. (“I’m too tired not to be with you.”) It’s possible to read this as an act of mutual settling, but I always thought Hornby’s point was personal growth and accepting one’s situation were intertwined. The key moment in High Fidelity, the film, comes when Laura finds Rob’s list of top five dream jobs. (In the book, Laura makes Rob compile the list.) At the bottom of the list, after such standard choices like music journalist and record producer, lies architect, a job that Rob isn’t entirely sure about anyway. (“I did put it at number five!” he insists.) Laura asks Rob the obvious question: wouldn’t you rather own your own record store than hypothetically be an architect, a job you’re not particularly enthused with anyway?

It’s Laura who convinces Rob that living the fifth-best version of your life can actually be pretty satisfying and doesn’t have to be treated like a cruel fate worse than death. Similarly, Rob and Laura both make the active decision to try to work things out instead of starting over with someone else. Laura’s apathy may have reunited them, and Rob’s apathy might have kept him from running, but it’s their shared history that keeps them together. More than the music and the romance, High Fidelity follows the necessary decisions and compromises one has to maneuver in order to grow instead of regress. “I've been letting the weather and my stomach muscles and a great chord change in a Pretenders single make up my mind for me, and I want to do it for myself,” Rob says near the end of Hornby’s novel. High Fidelity’s emotional potency lies in taking that sentiment seriously.

[tazatouille]

seeing angels

word count: 4266

warnings: none

ao3 link

summary: Bucky tries to decipher Sam's love language.

Stark’s funeral is a lot, for everyone.

Bucky does not have any fond memories of Tony, never really got the opportunity to make any if he was being honest. Their shared history was a combination of too many factors out of their own control. There was no room for comfort or redemption between them, especially with the aftermath of their fight. 

There are just some things you can't take back.

However, when Pepper moves to send the arc reactor off, Bucky feels himself starting to tear up. He isn't sure what his tears are for. The fall of a hero? What could have been?

Bucky has always been a bit of a crier, ever since he was young. During the war, it was hard to manage, especially the fallen soldiers--- fallen friends.

Sam is standing next to him, his presence strong and comforting. Bucky stares across the water, watching the current gently take the reactor away. Then he looks down at the grass under his feet, wiping his eyes.

Bucky feels a hand on his shoulder and stiffens. He turns his head to look at Sam, who gives his shoulder a firm squeeze in reply. His eyes are kind, in a way that makes Bucky relax. And then, it hits him. 

Sam is touching his shoulder.

The thing is, after Bucky was so graciously turned into a brainwashed assassin, people tended to keep their distance. It wasn’t always on purpose and honestly, he didn’t blame those people. He isn’t even sure if he would trust himself after everything he’s done.

Bucky tries not to think anything of it, when Sam’s hand stays for just a bit longer than it should. Sam pulls away, looking back at the water, but the touch still lingers. He can’t help but wonder what exactly Sam was trying to tell him. 

—

Bucky notices that Sam hasn’t stopped staring at the shield for almost an hour now, which he doesn’t blame him. He’s not sure how he’d react if he’d received something like it either. The shield itself, simple colors and simple shapes, but somehow carries a world full of complexities.

When they get “home”, Sam abandons the shield, dropping it onto the kitchen table with a hefty thud. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes past Bucky into the room he’s claimed and stays there for the rest of the day. 

They have to meet up with Sharon tomorrow morning, so Bucky hopes that Sam feels up to it so they both don’t have to be alone. He thinks about walking in and asking Sam how he’s doing, because getting the news that Steve was leaving wasn’t easy for him either. In fact, he’d rather just push all of those feelings down and try not to think about them.

Would he be overstepping if he went and knocked on his door? What would Bucky say to him? He would hate to overwhelm him even more. Bucky runs his right hand over the smooth vibranium of the— Sam’s shield. They weren’t exactly what Bucky would call close. But I’d like to be some day, he thinks, letting his mind wander to the way Sam touched his shoulder.

Maybe that’s what Sam wants too.

—

“So Steve…” Sharon trails off, trying to process what they told him. That Steve did in fact, leave to go back to the past, to Peggy. It must be weird for Sharon, considering her history. “My aunt? How does that work?”

“We have no idea.” Sam says flatly. “And I don’t want to think about it much.”

Bucky knows Steve’s decision bothers the two of them both. He’s bothered too, what with the way Steve pulled him aside, telling Bucky he was going to leave as if he was just going to the store.

“Well, my aunt was a lovely woman.” It’s supposed to be funny, but there’s no hint of playfulness behind it. “I hate to say it, but the shield is still technically government property.” Sharon explains, folding her arms on the table. “I don’t know what’s going to happen once they find out what Steve’s done.” 

There’s an unspoken implication there, which Bucky knows makes Sam feel uneasy because he starts to rip his straw wrapper bit by bit. Bucky has a strange urge to reach out and comfort Sam, but he doesn’t give in.

“They’ll take it away from me.” He states, crushing bits of paper between his fingers. 

“Something like that, yeah.” Sharon frowns, face pulling into something thoughtful. “I’ll help you as best I can, Sam.” She gives an assuring squeeze to his arm, which wills him to stop tearing up the paper. He gives a nod back to her and returns her gesture. A conversation.

“The worst you will have to do is work with them on their terms, but it might also be for the best.” She shrugs, but Bucky can tell she knows Sam hates the idea. Before the Snap, Steve, Nat and Sam were criminals to the government. It was unlikely they were just going to turn around and let Sam do whatever he wanted.

That’s because of you, Soldier. 

Bucky pushes the thought away and leans slightly closer to Sam.

—

“Hey, you wanna go on a run?” Sam asks, poking his head into Bucky’s room. It’s a rare day where Sam doesn’t have anywhere to go, Bucky assumes.  Bucky peeks over his covers to look at him. His room is somewhat trashed at the moment, stray laundry and water bottles everywhere, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“Wilson, the sun isn’t even fully out yet.”

“Perfect.” Sam insists, walking over to Bucky and poking his back. He grunts in reply, pulling the covers over his head. Bucky continues getting poked for another minute before he finally lifts himself out of bed, only to grab his other pillow and hit Sam with it. 

Bucky is not a morning person, never has been. He knows that Steve and Sam used to go on early runs, which is how they met and all, but Bucky is definitely not Steve. He appreciates some sleep. 

Sam huffs, tugging the pillow out of Bucky’s hands and clutching it. “Really, Barnes? Childish.” 

“Says the guy who won’t stop poking me to death.”

“Well, I got you up didn’t I? Come on.” Sam grabs his metal hand like it’s nothing and drags Bucky out of bed. Sometimes, Bucky forgets how strong Sam actually is, though most of it is in his thighs. 

Not the time, Bucky thinks to himself as Sam pulls him along. 

—

Bucky likes the morning jog, more than he cares to admit. It’s nice to be at pace with Sam, even if Bucky was only going half the speed he could.

As they run, Sam explains to Bucky where he’s been. It’s a lot of logistics and technicalities, Sam doesn’t exactly want to be working for SHIELD but he’s decided if it’s what he has to do, then he’ll find a way to work around it. The press is already pulling him around for publicity, everyone wants something from Sam. 

Sam is busy. Like really busy.

Sam gets dragged around for important things, like meetings or mission debriefs, but he also stars in interviews on late shows and photoshoots for magazines. Bucky wonders how much of this Steve had to do, what with maintaining a public image in the 21st century. It wasn't as simple as a couple of scripted dancing shows and fake smiles these days.

They eventually slow down near a park bench. Sam takes a minute to catch his breath before taking a seat. Bucky sits next to him, turning his attention to the sky. The sun is just starting to peak over the trees, the soft brush of cool morning air on his bare legs and the chirping of the birds. Bucky can hear Sam’s soft breathing next to him. It’s peaceful. Maybe the most comfortable he’s ever been. 

“Thank you for coming with me.” Sam tells him, elbowing his side. 

Bucky turns to him and smiles. 

—

Bucky gets up early on his own for once. He blames Sam, because always gets up at ungodly hours. Bucky thinks about going on a run, but he opts for making himself breakfast instead.  He settles on the couch with his coffee and toast, laptop nestled in his lap. Bucky likes to watch cooking videos on Youtube, call him old if you have to.

A few Bon Appetit videos later, Bucky stumbles on one of Sam’s interviews in his recommended. He places his coffee down on the coffee table and out of curiosity, clicks on the video. 

“This must all be new for you, right? Suddenly being thrown in the spotlight?” The woman asks him, leaning forward in her chair.

“Oh definitely, it’s a lot to get used to, but I think I’m managing just fine. I’ve had a lot of help along the way.” Sam replies, hand resting on his thigh. 

“Oh? Did Steve Rogers offer any tips to you when he passed the shield? Or was it a sort of “here take this” type thing?”

“Um… not really?” Sam rubs his beard. “I know that sounds terrible, but Steve and I… we met at a very weird time in our lives. We’ve been through a lot together. I feel like from the moment that I met him, we were both teaching each other. There was no point where Steve sat me down and told me, ‘This is what Captain America has to be. So here’s what you are gonna do.’ In fact, becoming Captain America never even crossed my mind until he gave the shield to me.”

“That’s certainly very—“

“You watch my interviews?” A voice asks behind him, mouth full of cereal. He can feel Sam’s face inches away from his own, leaning over his shoulder. Bucky quickly snaps his laptop shut, effectively cutting off the interviewer mid-sentence.

“No.” Bucky says stupidly, but it makes Sam laugh so maybe it was worth it. He silently curses himself for not hearing Sam go into the kitchen, feeling his face get hot.

“Don’t worry about it. Your secrets are safe with me.“ Sam pats his shoulder and joins him on the couch, flicking the TV on. He has a nice striped sweater on this morning. “I liked that one. She was a nice lady, asked good questions.”

“How do you handle it?” Bucky gets a thoughtful hum from Sam as he chews his cereal. “All of the… publicity.”

“You looking to interview me now too?” Sam cracks a smile, but continues, “Captain America… it’s probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” His smile falters. “It just means so many different things to so many different people. Good and bad. And some days it’s like— What if I’m not the Captain America people want me to be?” He sets down his bowl and rests his arms on his knees.

You are everything anyone could want. That’s what Bucky wishes he says, but he lets Sam go on. 

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “Following Steve’s footsteps is it’s own battle that I don’t think I’ll ever win. I’m just making my own path using what he gave me and hoping it’s the right one.“ He sighs, shaking his head. “There’s so much going on in this country, Bucky. I just feel like I could be doing more. Should be doing more.”

Sam’s words aren’t traveling to Bucky anymore, as if he’s having a conversation with himself. Bucky battles with the idea that he could reach out and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Would Sam understand? Understand that Bucky thinks he’s the bravest and smartest man he’s ever known? 

He thinks about it for too long. Sam returns to his cereal, the opportunity still rattling in Bucky’s mind. 

—

It comes up while Bucky is cooking dinner, something that Bucky has taken some solace in over the past few months. They both trade days where they cook, but Bucky actually enjoys it, likes trying new recipes he finds on Youtube or something. He’s stirring some fettuccine when Sam comes up behind him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Bucky furrows his eyebrows, but the look goes away as quickly as it came.

“What’s cooking?” Sam stares at him for a moment and drops his arm. He peeks into the pot. “Ah, pasta.” His eyes wander to the plate with steaming pieces of chicken on it and reaches over. Bucky slaps Sam’s hand away before he can take anything. 

“Stop that.” Bucky scolds him. “You can wait a few more minutes.” He stirs in some heavy cream and some Parmesan cheese as Sam takes a seat at the table.

“You doing okay?” Sam asks him and frankly, Bucky doesn’t really know how to answer. He can’t stop thinking about Sam, but he’s not sure how to say that without seeming weird. 

“You do this thing.” Bucky says instead, trying to pick out the right words. He puts his spoon down and turns to face him. God, he wishes that he was better at communicating. Sam looks back from the kitchen table, confused. 

“What thing?”

“Like— I don’t know. This thing.” Bucky continues, gesturing with his hands. “You do this thing where you touch my arm or my shoulder and I’m just trying to figure it out. Trying to figure out what you are saying to me.”

Sam blinks for a moment. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I—No. You don’t have to stop. I just—“ Wish I knew how to say it back.

Sam shrugs. “It’s okay, Buck. I got you. I understand.”

No, that’s— Fuck. 

“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky blurts out without thinking. “You’ve just been the only thing on my mind lately.”

Bucky realizes he’s made a mistake when the corners of Sam’s mouth curl up slightly. He turns back around to add chicken to the pot, distracting himself with stirring it in and not looking at Sam. 

There are many ways to interpret what Bucky said. At least, that’s what he tells himself. The thought of Sam knowing that Bucky likes him more than a friend, more than anything, is terrifying. 

The crackles and pops of the stove fill the awkward silence, but Bucky can feel Sam’s eyes on him. 

—

They are sitting together on the couch, watching some terrible Netflix movie they’ve just added. Bucky doesn’t care for it at all and neither does Sam, it just something they can both make fun of. It’s also something Steve probably would have liked, they teased, because Steve always had a shit taste in movies. 

Bucky can’t get drunk, so he’s mostly drinking with Sam as a comfort. Beer isn’t his first pick by all means, sometimes he doesn’t like the taste, but it’s fine to mull over for a few hours.

Sam sips his beer before saying, “Okay, so tell me why this guy is in like— every teen romance movie on here.” He gestures his bottle to the TV and frowns. “There’s gotta be more people out there than just him. He’s not even that good looking.”

“I dunno,” Bucky mumbles. “I wasn’t exactly a catch at his age either.”

Sam looks at him like he just spoke another language, eyebrow raised. “I think you forget who spent two whole years looking for you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Bucky asks, taking a swig and looking back at the TV.

“It means I’ve seen more pictures of you that I probably should.” Sam insists and then his face twists in confusion when Bucky cracks a smile. “No, not like that you idiot.” He shoves Bucky on the shoulder playfully. “I mean I’ve seen you— when you were younger. You looked… good.”

Bucky pushes the shoulder touch into the farthest part of his mind to make space for an even larger thought. “Wilson, are you saying you have a crush on me?”

“Had.” Sam says firmly, but there’s something else that makes Bucky believe otherwise. Maybe it’s the beer. “I learned about you in highschool. I saw pictures of you then too. And you know, I’m not a blind man.”

“So you had a crush on me in highschool?”

“Okay, stop that.” Bucky can see Sam getting flustered, his lips are curled in an awkward but cute smile. He watches him take another drink of his beer to hide it. Bucky lets out a loud laugh.

“Good to know that even when I’m dead, I'm still a catch.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but looks back at Bucky softly. In such a way that makes Bucky feel like melting into the couch and staying there for the rest of his life. "What did you want to do when you were younger? Before the war?" He asks, hands fidgeting with his beer.

Bucky thinks for a moment. The thing was, during the 40's, the Barnes were somewhat well off. Reckon, Bucky had to take care of his sisters on his own pretty often, but his parents had demanding jobs. He understood that, so being the oldest of four meant taking care of everything else.

"I wanted to be a writer." Bucky says, more clearly than he remembers it. It's familiar on his tongue, he thinks, and it catches Sam's attention. 

"A writer?"

"Yeah, I uh-- used to write a lot when I was younger." Bucky feels like he's talking through water. Garbled and distorted. He goes slowly as he continues, like piecing together a puzzle. "I wasn't any good at it. I think they were sci-fi mostly. My stories. I used to read them outloud to Steve when he was bedridden." Bucky sets his beer down on the coffee table. He scratches his beard. 

"Do you still write?" Sam asks carefully.

"Stories? No, not really. I still journal though. Did it during the war. It was the only thing that--" He stops there. Kept me alive. 

Bucky guesses that Sam fills in the blanks, because he scoots over ever so slightly so that their thighs touch. It's that comfort again, the warm stability that Bucky gets every time Sam touches his skin. 

"And what about you?" Bucky asks. "What did you want to do?"

A smile tugs back on Sam's lips and it's here that Bucky realizes that he is seeing a very different Sam than everyone else does.

It not that Sam isn't genuine, everything he does is honest and true. Bucky knows that. In fact, it's one of the only things he's sure of. To be vulnerable, to be open and so beautiful. Every smile, every slip of laughter or touch. Sam fills his headspace, flies circles around it until Bucky can't think anymore.

"Believe it or not, I've always wanted to be a pilot." Sam says and there's a glitter in his eye when he begins. "It's kind of dumb actually, but I used to collect these--" Sam makes a pinching motion. "--tiny model airplanes. I used to have a whole shelf of them."

"Oh, that's--"

"Stupid?"

"Adorable." Bucky assures him. "It's absolutely adorable." 

Bucky lets himself imagine a young Sam, with his toothy smile, playing with toy airplanes. Part of Bucky wonders what would have happened if Sam met the old him. The young man from the 40’s who’s words slipped so effortlessly off his tongue and swept people away so quickly. 

Luckily, Sam only knows one version of Bucky and Bucky isn’t sure if Sam would like the old him the same. 

Sam’s sweet laughter interrupts his thoughts. "I technically never got to be a pilot, but I'm happy with what I got now." He bumps their shoulders together and glances at Bucky.

Bucky's face feels hot. He’d blame it on the beer, but he knows he can’t. Thanks super serum. He looks back at Sam. 

“Well, I think I’m happy with what I got now too.” 

—

Bucky finds Captain America’s instagram when Sam tugs on his jacket one day and leans in for a picture, bright smile planted on his face. 

Bucky blinks stupidly before he realizes and grins out of reflex. He watches Sam pull his phone away and looks at their photo. He smiles. “I think I might keep this one for myself.” 

(Bucky finds out later after a quick google search that Sam did in fact, keep it.)

"Are you sure you want me here?" Bucky tugs on his jacket sleeve and watches the scurrying crew run around. One young man is jugging lattes in one hand and pastries in the other. “Not exactly sure if this is my scene.”

Sam had asked Bucky to come with him to one of his interviews, which although Bucky isn’t great with crowds, he still said yes to anyway. Who could say no to Sam?

“Is anything your scene, Barnes?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just kidding. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, you know.” He turns to Bucky with a soft expression. But I’d appreciate it if you would. 

And so Bucky stays. 

—

Bucky shifts awkwardly in his seat, right in the front row. This is the first time Bucky has ever actually watched any of Sam’s interviews live. They are usually short and sweet, but some of them have questions that really grind his gears. Bucky hopes this isn’t the case tonight, because he can’t go ruining their public image right now. 

Sam is wearing a dark blue suit, with a white shirt that’s unbuttoned slightly so you can see some of his collar bone. He looks great, as per usual. 

“Captain America, thank you for joining us tonight.” The host greets, grinning at the audience.

“Thank you. Thanks for having me.” Sam smiles back at him, but Bucky knows it’s not the same as the ones he gets. Sam leans over to shake the host’s hand, something that Bucky notices he always does at these things. 

“So, Sam, how has it been?” The host leans back in his chair. “Becoming Captain America, I mean. I see you everywhere.”

“It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure.” Sam adjusts his sleeve. “I’m grateful for it though, it’s been one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.”

Bucky frowns for a moment, tries not to focus on the times that he’s seen Sam shut down. When a mission is too hard or the public too overwhelming. When his bedroom door closes and doesn’t open till the next morning. Of course, no one here gets to see that. 

“And you’ve brought the shield with you today is what I hear?”

Sam laughs. “Yes.” He reaches behind his chair to pull it out, shining against the lights above. “Yes, I have.”

The audience around Bucky erupts into cheers and whistles, which makes him wince at first. Sometimes, things are too loud for Bucky, making his headspace feel like mush, but he gets up to clap along with them anyways, because he’s clapping for Sam. 

For Captain America.

—

The rest of the bit goes smoothly. Sam has always been good with entertaining people. Bucky meets him backstage after Sam's spot is over. He's strung up too tight, he thinks. Sam's shoulders are stiff, his arms crossed over his chest.

He carries the world on his shoulders as if he’s the only one who can do it, Bucky thinks. 

"Hey, you were great." Bucky tells him with a smile. He watches some of the tension release from Sam's body.

"You think so?' Sam replies, dropping his arms. "Man, those never get any easier."

Bucky nods. "Yeah, they loved you." But then again, who wouldn't?

"You don't need to go sweet on me, Barnes." Sam bites his lip to hold back a smile and the small curve of his mouth alone makes Bucky want to melt into a puddle. 

Before they can say anything else, someone calls out, "Mr. Wilson, a minute please?" Sam looks over his shoulder, then turns to put a hand on Bucky’s arm, giving it a firm squeeze. 

"Stay right here.” He says, almost like a plea. “Promise we'll be home soon." Sam drops his hand and hurries away, leaving Bucky’s heart beating too fast. Bucky rubs his arm over the spot where Sam’s hand was without even thinking about it. 

He watches as Sam gets flooded with a wave of people he doesn’t recognize and wonders if they know Sam like he does. Or if Sam gives the same touches to them with the same messages that Bucky tries so desperately to translate. 

Interrupting his thoughts, Sam catches Bucky’s gaze for just a moment, giving him a small smile between the movement of the crowd before turning away. 

—

When they get in their car, Bucky can't help but notice how exhausted Sam is. He's curled up against the door, head leaning on the glass as the street lights bounce off of his skin. His hand rests kindly against his thigh as he stares out the window. 

Bucky lets his mind wander as their chauffeur takes them home. Thinks about the way Sam touched his shoulder, the way he brushed their legs together or the way he held onto his arm just an hour before. It comes so naturally for Sam, the small touches. 

And so, Bucky carefully reaches over and takes Sam’s hand. Easily, Sam’s fingers curl around his, as if their hands were made to fit together. Two missing pieces that have been lost from the puzzle for far too long. 

But now, it’s complete. 

[commander-rahrah]

Hiiii I just found your blog and loved your writing. Can you do number 35? Running out in the middle of the night to get a food item they’re craving. 😍

Thank you so much for the request! Ethan x MC as per the second message!

Prompt #35: Running out in the middle of the night to get a food item they’re craving

Ship: Ethan Ramsey x fMC!Jordynne Holland

Word Count: 1050 words

Rated: C for Cutest Thing Ever Send Help 

Mentions of Pregnancy 

Prompt is from 50-item-writing-prompts which can be found here!

_______________________________________________________________________

Glancing down at his leather watch, Ethan stood by the counter quietly — waiting for his food order. He had called ahead of time — hoping he wouldn’t have to wait too long. He didn’t want Jordynne to realize that he had left.

He had snuck out to grab her favorite noodles from the Thai place a couple blocks down from his apartment. He still had enough time to get it and head back without her realizing he was gone. She had gone to have a hot bath after their failed attempt at cooking a dinner she would like.

“Sorry about the wait Dr. Ramsey,” A short man came out of a door holding a large brown bag.

“No problem Pham. If this is a winner, I’ll probably be back in a couple of days.” Ethan gave him a wave, before heading back onto the street.

Boston looked beautiful at this time of night. The roads were starting to get empty as everyone settled in for their evening, the orange lamps casting a glow on the sidewalks. He could see flickering signs of bars and pubs — places he no longer felt the need to frequent on a nightly basis.

Bouncing up the steps of his building two at a time, Ethan opened up the door to his apartment quietly. Poking his head through the door, he checked to see if Jordynne was out in the main area. Slipping inside and carefully taking off his shoes, he tiptoed towards the kitchen.

Noticing the return of his owner, his dog Jenner appeared at his side. He curiously sniffed the air — attempting to decipher whether or not he would be given any of that particular human food.

Carefully opening up cabinets, Ethan took out some plates and cutlery before arranging them silently on the coffee table. He arranged the pillows and blanket on the sofa — making sure that Jordynne’s spot was just as she liked it — before turning on the TV and flipping through the guide. He rarely used the television — but he had come to learn that it was a great stress reliever for Jordynne. She loved to watch a short, somewhat funny show whenever she had a long day at work.

Just as Ethan finished setting everything up (and shooing Jenner away from the open containers of food on the coffee table), Jordynne stepped out of their room.

She had changed into her favorite pajamas — one of Ethan’s large button-down shirts and an extremely worn pair of OSU sweatpants. Her wavy blonde hair was half up, pieces falling out and framing her face. Her green eyes crinkled with confusion as she saw Ethan and the coffee table filled with food.

“Whatcha doing?” She said with a smile, shuffling her slippered feet until she was in front of him.

He reached out and pulled her closer to him. She stood in front of him as he sat, and he looked up at her. “You didn’t like dinner.”

“That’s not your fault.” She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp a bit.

“Well, it’s kind of my fault. At least 50%.” He gave her a bright smile, before looking down at the bulge that was just starting to show in her stomach. He ran his hand over it, “You’re eating for two Rookie. The least I can do is make sure you actually like what you’re eating.”

“You’re too sweet,” She stretched down and placed her mouth on his. “It bothers me that I just ate that curry a week ago and was fine. And now just the smell of it...” She shuddered.

“Well, that’s why I threw it out in the dumpster a block down from the house.” He grabbed her hand and gently pulled her onto the couch next to him. He fluffed the pillow behind her before offering her a plate of her favorite noodles.

“What did I do to deserve you?” She said quietly, before pecking him on the cheek.

Ethan’s face flashed a brilliant pink, before he looked back over at her, “I think I should be asking you that question.”

She took a forkful of noodles and chewed on them carefully. Then she let out a moan of approval before going for a second bite, “Also, how did you know that this is exactly what I wanted?!” She asked her mouth still a little full.

“I’m the head of diagnostics. I’m a professional problem solver.” He shrugged, “And besides, I’ve been writing down everything that you have an aversion to and cravings for. I reviewed it and came to a logical conclusion.”

“You made a list?” She put down her fork, looking over at him.

“Well, yes.”

“You made a list of all the things I love to eat and hate to eat during the pregnancy.” Her pink mouth was open in surprise.

“It was the logical thing to do.” Ethan continued to swirl food onto his fork as he spoke, “As well as summaries of the doctor visits, names, recommended car seats, strollers, some townhouses in the neighborhood in case we want more space...”, His voice trailed off as he looked back up at her.

Jordynne’s green eyes were welling up — tears threatening to burst over her tan cheeks.

“Why — why are you crying?”

“Because I love you.” She put her plate back onto the coffee table and leaned into him. She nudged her face into his neck before wrapping her arms around his torso. “And I’m extremely pregnant.”

Ethan let out a husky laugh, wrapping his arms around her carefully. “I love you. And them too.” He put his hand on her small bump, “Anything — I mean anything for you two. Throwing away Indian curry, or testing out a hundred strollers, or picking up Thai or ice cream at eleven at night. Okay?”

“Okay.”She nodded, her eyes squinting as she blinked away the tears, “Ethan?”

He let out a quiet laugh, “You want ice cream now that I’ve brought it up, don’t you?”

She gave him huge puppy dog eyes — pouting her pink lips a little.

“Mint chocolate chip?” He asked, getting up off of the couch.

“I love you.” She called after him as he reached for the doorknob.

He paused in the doorway, looking back at her as she stroked her pregnant stomach, “I love you both.” _________________________________________________________________

If you would like to read more of my writing please feel free to check out my Open Heart fic Residency! It is about my MC Jordynne Holland x Bryce Lahela x Ethan Ramsey. Or you can read more of my previous prompts here! _______________________________________________________________________

[gallyg]

Doing the Whole 30 challenge in one post like it’s 2012 again

I like doing these in chunks and my wife is busy so this is what I will do to entertain myself.

1. Sam is so much better than Dean. Dean is a dickwad, and his character arc has never rang as true to me as Sam’s.

2. My favorite episode is hard to say, but I think it might be the season 14 finale. I don’t care what other fans say, God has always been a negligent monster in Supernatural, so I loved seeing Sam and Dean turn on him while also boldly evolving into metafiction that goes beyond comedy. Plus the Jack storyline is just heartbreaking.

3. Favorite season is probably like, 1 or 2, but atm I’m loving the Dabb era, so I’m tempted to just go ahead and say season 14 or 15. (13 was dreadful aside from Jack though)

4. Jack is the best character, SAM INCLUDED. He is the spark of heart this stale constipated shit of a show needed, and he finally forced the character dynamics to evolve somewhat for the first time in like half a decade. I love how innocent Jack is and how much trouble he has navigating the world when he’s the only creature like himself in the universe.

5. Rowena is the best female character. For a decade, it was Bela, but Rowena got the redemption arc Bela deserved. I don’t know if it’s because the fanbase has just matured past bullying every girl that gets near the Winchesters or what, but I’m glad they didn’t unceremoniously ditch Rowena like cowards.

6. All the actors do a fine enough job but Jim Beaver is clearly the one who treats it the most like a craft.

7. Are there good angels? They’ve been cannon fodder for so long, it’s hard to remember. I liked Gabriel a lot before he came back. I guess Balthazar is still a genuine treat and helps make season 6 the sloppy success that it is. I even think his death was well-earned and served the plot well, which is rare for this show. I just wish he was more of a weight on Castiel’s conscience after he’s murdered instead of being wholly forgotten until the season 13 AU.

8. Crowley ruined Supernatural for a long time. It’s hilarious that the premise of his character in season 5 was “what if a demon was genuinely helpful? why would they be?” and then they totally abandoned that idea for six years. His relationship with the Winchesters changed in a totally nonsensical way at the start of season 6, and he never really justified his place as King of Hell. It felt like he was just there to be a reason for them to fight demons for 10 years too many instead of coming up with new interesting plots.

9. Apocalypse World Michael is the only villain who I get and sympathize with. Of course he’d feel betrayed by God. Of course he’d take it out on humanity. He’s Lucifer but without the convoluted in-universe backstory that doesn’t gel with the lore you’re just supposed to assume.

10. The best Misha character is the Leviathan legion. Perfectly creates a tone of menace, sets up the conflict of the season, then explodes, which also kills Castiel and gave me a few blissful months where I thought we’d be free of the writers struggling to keep Castiel at a balanced power level without taking up too much storytelling economy (they finally got it eventually).

11. Best character intro is Castiel. Of course it is. If Supernatural ended at season 4 or 5 or even 6, we’d forever remember that intro as the moment the show fearlessly decided to become Epic.

12. Only episode of Supernatural that scared me was Hookman and just because I watched it in the dark at 3am when I was 15.

13. The best Bobby scene is, obviously, when he tearfully tells Sam that it was just the demon talking in season 5′s intro. He’s family, and he’s never cutting him out, not ever.

14. Ruby 1.0.  Katie Cassidy is a good actress who can actually make you doubt her motives and also believe she is a demon and not an actress on the set of a TV show. “You deserve hell, Dean Winchester! I wish I could be there to hear you scream!”

15. Yeah, I teared up at Swan Song.

16. Ruby is the only demon who has ever been interesting. Her appearance in the Empty kinda retconned some of her depth, but that can’t erase the great times we had, back in season 3 and 4.

17. The only ship that matters is Sam/Eileen because it’s the only couple that has genuine empathy for each other that isn’t drowning in bullshit emotional repression that got old ten years ago.

18. I love Amy Pond! This might contribute to why I don’t like Dean much, even if he was never my favorite anyway.

19. No comment.

20. Remember when Jack when to his grandma’s house looking for emotional support because he was in unprecedented distress and all he got was yelled at? Fucking christ, Jack’s whole season 14 arc fucked me up.

21. No comment. 

22. There’s some small thing I like in every season, but the whole Jeremy Carver era was dreadful and actually made me stop watching until I heard about Jack and thought he sounded like a cool character (he is)

23. 

24. I actually like the Ghostfacers webisode a lot

25. Hot take as a classic SPN fan, but season 15′s premier was astounding. You can sense the whole time as they’re dealing with the ghost apocalypse that it can’t be this easy. They’re fooling themselves if they think God will let them off with one last simple case with just one more sacrifice, because the audience wouldn’t ever be satisfied with that. We want more sacrifice, more suffering for these characters. Every issue solved before the end is promise of more nightmares. There will be peace when you are done. Not a god damn second before.

26. Nobody is as good as Jack, none of them need to come back. 

...

...

Just kidding, bring back Lisa, or Ben, preferably both, but if I must pick one, then it’s Ben. That’s Dean’s kid, even if not biologically. Dean needs to grapple with what he did, abandoning him.

27. “I used to be a psychic. I’m not anymore, at least I don’t think.” BRING BACK SAM’S POWERS HE SHOULD STILL HAVE AT LEAST SOME FROM THE DEMON BLOOD HE DRANK IN SEASON 5. 

28. “Bitch.” *eyes widen in horror as he realizes he just called a teenage girl a bitch, context be damned*

29. I do not care about Meg.

30. The best season finale is 5 or 14. It all depends on how season 15 finishes. Which finale will be sullied worse in hindsight?

[thermopylod]

SMOOCHES! Souyo, #7 "to shut them up," bonus points if Yosuke if shutting Yu up. >:D

Speechless

~1k words, gen/T rating. Enjoy :)

Yosuke had no idea how anyone could think Yu was a quiet guy. Sure, he tended to be reserved in public, picking his words carefully when he spoke at all, but behind closed doors he was an absolute chatterbox. Yosuke knew this well, as they spent the majority of their free afternoons together, in one or the other’s bedroom. Most of the time, Yosuke loved listening to Yu talk about his jobs, the cats under his carport, his fishing skills, their TV world plans, and just about anything and everything else in his life. With his friends back in the city, they’d never really spoken much. About idols and movies and the latest video games, sure, but not about stuff that really mattered. Not about their passions, their feelings, all those things that made them who they truly were.

So Yosuke liked that Yu was chatty when it was just the two of them. He really did. But right now, he wanted to find out what was going to happen next in this TV show, and Yu just would. Not. Shut. Up. Yosuke had tried ignoring him, turning away from him on the couch and towards the TV, humming the show’s theme song… but Yu was still going on about Mesopotamia or some other weird old place that they’d learned about in class that day.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could just have tuned him out, like he always did with Teddie, but Yu’s voice always had a weird hypnotic effect on him. Yosuke just couldn’t help but focus on it. He’d already missed at least two good lines, judging from the laugh track, and he was starting to wonder if it was considered improper to choke your best friend.

“So what’s really cool is that like, it was so long ago, right? But they’re actually the reason we use base 60 for timekeeping even today!”

No, Yu. That was not cool. What was cool was the main character finally—aw, damn it! Now he’d apparently missed the confession scene. That was just going too far. He turned to glare at Yu and his offending mouth, and did what seemed most logical to finally get it to stop making so much noise—leaned over, and pressed his lips to it forcefully. Can’t talk when you’re kissing.

When he drew away, it was blessedly quiet.

Too quiet, maybe, he realised when the show’s end credits started rolling ten minutes later and Yu still hadn’t made a sound. He looked at his friend to find him staring, shell-shocked, at nothing in particular, face flushed and fingers pressed to his lips.

Oh, shit.

Now that his brain wasn’t completely clouded with exasperation and annoyance, he was becoming rapidly aware that kissing someone to shut them up was very much not a logical decision. At all. He considered freaking out about it, but, well, Yu wasn’t anything to be afraid of. He wasn’t like, say, Kanji, with his hulking mass of muscles and bleached hair and leather clothes. He was just … Yu, his best friend full of contrasts and contradictions, soft and strong and smart and stupid all at once, and Yosuke couldn’t find it in himself to feel afraid of wanting to kiss him.

Because he definitely did—want to kiss him, that is. Had wanted to for a long time, now that he thought about it. Yu was kind, always took his side, never made him feel dumb or awkward—which was truly impressive, considering he’d seen his Shadow—and was very, very much attractive. Yosuke wasn’t blind, ok. His molten silver eyes were gorgeous, and those abs he saw when they changed for gym…

Yosuke stopped that train of thought before it could get any further. In any case, it was all well and good for him to be fine with kissing Yu, but that was somewhat ignoring the other half of the equation.

“Yu, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even ask you, that’s so not ok—”

Yu, though, grabbed his hand where it was curled into a fist against the couch and squeezed it, interrupting his apology. The smile on his face wasn’t one Yosuke had ever seen before; it wasn’t sharp like when he was joking around, or soft like when he looked at Nanako. Well, actually, maybe it was a little like that soft smile, but only if softness was something that could be turned up to a thousand. It was exceedingly rare for Yu to smile with his teeth showing so brightly, and Yosuke felt almost blinded.

“I don’t mind. Really,” Yu replied through his smile. “But… why now? Does Babylon get you hot?”

Yosuke made a face and drew his hand back. “No! Please, ugh. It was just… you wouldn’t stop talking and I couldn’t hear the show…”

Yosuke cringed at himself. This was one of those times Yukiko had been telling him about, wasn’t it, when you were supposed to lie for the sake of politeness. Telling someone you wanted them to shut up was rude no matter the situation, but telling your best friend, whom you’d just kissed, that you wanted them to shut up, that was on a whole other level. Yosuke cursed his eternal foot-in-mouth syndrome.

To his relief, Yu didn’t get mad but rather burst out laughing, reaching an arm around Yosuke’s shoulders to support himself as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Yosuke. I would promise to talk less, but if this is what it gets me, I’m not sure I’m too inclined to stop…”

Yosuke rolled his eyes. “Don’t talk less. I love listening to you. Just… not when we’re watching something, OK?”

No answer came, and when he looked into Yu’s eyes he saw that he was looking off into the distance again.

“Yu?”

Yu blinked and focused on Yosuke with a tender expression on his face, like he’d just seen the cutest kitten in town walk by.

“You love listening to me?”

Yosuke facepalmed. “Oh my god, partner.”

Even behind closed doors, Yu wasn’t so talkative anymore these days. His mouth was usually too busy doing other things; things like kissing Yosuke’s cheek, or his hair, or his neck, or his fingertips, or most frequently, his lips. It wasn’t any better than his endless words had been when it came to trying to watch a show, but Yosuke found that for some reason, he didn’t mind this kind of interruption at all.

[ao3 link]

[preciousghouls]

excerpt taken from my stony fic for the stony zine application!

It’s a little past two in the dead of the night, but neither Steve nor Tony dare to shut their eyes and go to sleep, still somewhat in disbelief that after everything, they still have each other. They lay together on Tony’s bed, loosely wrapped in each other to avoid applying pressure to the areas where they’re injured, but close enough to feel their partner’s warmth. In a rare moment of peace, Steve recalls a conversation from (not that) long ago.

“I do wonder, at times.”

Tony hums, plucking at a loose string of the bandage around his arm. Steve swats his hand away with a disapproving frown. “About what?”

“Like, what if there weren’t any superpowers involved.”

Tony turns back to look at him, a brow raised. But Steve can tell he’s amused. “Time travelling isn’t crazy enough, now you wanna talk about fiction-like alternative universes? Damn, Rogers. Didn’t know you were such a dreamer.”

“C’mon, Tony,” Steve pulls the man closer to him, setting his head on Tony’s shoulder and closing his eyes. It’s easy to forget the cuts and bruises over his body when he feels like this. At peace.  “Just imagine. If the world was like this from the moment we met.”

Not perfect, of course, but it is perfect, because of the people he’s met. The people he’s had the honor of meeting.

Steve feels the vibrations as Tony hum thoughtfully. “Well, the world wouldn’t be the way it is if I wasn’t who I was. Who I am. I’d say I’m pretty okay with how this universe turned out.”

“Yeah?” He thinks he understands what Tony is trying to say. There are days, really rare ones, where adrenaline is coursing through his veins and he cannot rest, his mind needing to run. Those days are when Steve allow himself to wonder, to imagine what life would’ve been like if he’d woken up in the future to learn that the war is over, he can go and live his life a free man. A common man, as common as he can be, because he’d be the weirdest thing science had ever created, and he would be fine with that.

Tony turns to look at him with those honey chocolate eyes, “Yeah. You’re here with me now, aren’t you?” And he is just so beautiful no invasion could’ve stopped Steve from leaning in for a kiss right then.

They never did tell Steve the cost that comes with war, but now he’s seen. He’s lived through it. And it’s all that experience that has brought him here. He can’t lie and say this is the best outcome, the one his optimistic self has envisioned so long ago, but he’ll take what he can get. And what he can get right now is in his arms, and Steve thinks he’s pretty damn lucky, all things considered.

-

The topic of marriage comes unexpectedly, just two weeks after the battle, as the world is still recovering from its loss. The Avengers (all six of the original team, because they sent the rest on vacation , they aren’t responsible for the beginning nor the end) are forced to ‘get their asses off the field or be put down forcibly’, and Nick Fury is really quite terrifying when he wants to be, so they listen. But things are hard when you’re a superhero - what did you do when you didn’t have a world to save?

Let’s watch a movie, Tony had suggested.

So they sit in the living area, eyes glued to the screen stretching almost 2 metres long, watching The Incredibles, because they can’t deny they’re practically a family by now (also because Steve thinks he will be able to relate to Mr. Incredible, and being Tony’s boyfriend has its advantages, but no one points that out).

“This is such a grossly domestic movie to watch,” Clint mutters fifteen minutes into the film as he shoves chips into his mouth. Nosily, lower lip pushed out in a pout. Like a petulant child. His head is on Bruce’s shoulders, the latter’s hand in his hair, and no one misses the irony of the situation.

Natasha, of course, calls him out on it. She’s sprawled out on the floor, massaging Clint’s calf that he’s spread on the coffee table, legs over Bruce’s. She simply applies more pressure to her ‘massage’, and Clint cries out.

“Nat , what the hell!”

“Shut up and enjoy the movie,” she threatens in a soft tone, a smile curving her lips, neither of which making her any less dangerous. “Or I’ll tell Laura to burn your Lord of the Ring figurine collection.”

He pales almost comically; Steve bites down on his cheeks to stop from breaking into a goofy grin, while on his lap Tony just bursts out laughing. “Jesus Barton, you look ridiculous. I hope you caught an image of that, J.”

“Of course, Sir,” the ever attentive AI answers, tone one of amusement.

“Ah, JARVIS. Ever the efficient one,” Thor praises with a smile. The camera above the TV nods in greeting.

“You’re all ganging up on me!” Clint digs his face into Bruce’s shoulder. “We have the worst team Mom ever .”

Tony takes one exact minute to stop laughing long enough to answer in a mock serious voice, “Careful there, Sonny, or you won’t be invited to our wedding and end up being known as the prodigal son."

Clint just sticks his tongue out, “Like you’d even notice me in my stealth mode. I’ll disguise myself and tell everyone about your sex life!”

“Like my sex life has ever been private,” Tony beams proudly. “But you’ll have no one to tell, because the wedding would be private. Everyone invited would know exactly how awesome we are in the bedroom.”

There’s a collection groan throughout the room and a “Christ, Tony, this is a family friendly movie, we’re lucky Parker isn’t here” from Bruce that Steve almost misses because his heart is thumping so loud, so wild he’s amazed he can still hear them at all.

“Tony,” Steve breathes, because he’s still in disbelief. “You want to get married?”

And Tony seems to get the wrong idea, he still usually does. He stiffens in Steve’s arms, already trying to squirm himself out and away from the couch. “Uh.” Then, softly, “Fuck. You don’t?” Clearing his throat, in a louder voice, “I mean, of course you don’t. That was just a scenario y’know. You don’t have to take it seriously."

“What?” That’s just ridiculous, and Steve pulls Tony into a super hug. He’s gotten better at those, hugs that make them both feel warm and content that don’t actually hurt anyone. “No! I mean, yes! I mean-- I do want to get married. To you, Tony. I want to get married to you. ”

“Oh.” Tony seems to go complete slack upon hearing that, letting himself go limp in Steve’s arms. “Thank fuck. Thought I was gonna be rejected before I could even get out the ring.”

Steve’s grin is ear splitting. “You got me a ring?”

Tony’s red down his neck, and he groans. “Fuck you, Rogers.”

“Any time, Tony.” He means it, hoping his words convey his sincerity.

Judging by the way the entire room (including Tony, though his eyes are bright) groans in unison, Steve thinks himself successful.

-

The wedding is private. There are lesser people here than Steve is used to, but then again, that was before everything went to shit. Compared to the last gathering he’s been around, this is… good. Better than good. It’s his wedding day, after all.

He’s in a suit of Tony’s colors - gold, and red. And Tony, vice versa. At least, he thinks that’s how it works. Steve hasn’t exactly been contributing or giving a say as far as aesthetics are concerned; that’s Tony’s natural element, and Steve’s more than happy to indulge his soon-to-be husband (God, his husband ).

He’s in the waiting room, being ’done up pretty’, and his palms are sweaty and gosh, why is he so nervous ? Sam laughs as he dabs at the beads on his forehead, only for more to take its place.

“Don’t worry, Steve. It’s just you and Tony, and us .”

And when it’s put that way, yeah . Yeah, Sam’s right. It’s a ceremony with just them, the team, the family. They’re here to make something that has been happening… Official. That’s what this is. He clings to that thought.

Steve smiles, squeezing Sam’s wrist once. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Anytime, pal.”

It doesn’t stop Steve from tearing up when Tony walks down the aisle, arm in Rhode’s (there’s no one else more fitting). As he’d suspected, Tony’s in his colours - red, blue, white. Not America’s colors, but his , Steven Grant Roger’s, like how he’s in Tony’s, and not Iron Man’s. Once, they’d been unable to differentiate each other from their alter-egos.

Big man in a suit of armor. Steve had said that, once.

Every special about you came out from a bottle. Tony had shot back, then.

They had been so wrong about each other, and so what if took a war, a snap, sacrifices, years, for them to come to this point? They have so many flaws, but so God help him, Steve will do it all again in a heartbeat.

His eyes fall to Tony’s cufflinks, and he breaks into an almost laugh through his blurring vision. Tony smirks when he sees what Steve’s noticed - the dick shaped cufflinks Tony’d sworn he’d wear. Steve’s own cufflinks are relatively PG; it’s a palette, because art has been the one consistency in his life. And even now, his heart warms that Tony understands.

Rhodes’ own eyes are misty when he passes Tony to Steve with two hard pats to their joined hands. “Take care of my best friend.”

In a choked voice, “I swear.”

“We’re not the vows yet!” Someone shouts, and there’s laughter that resounds within the small hall.

Nick Fury clears his throat, and they repeat the vows. More tears pool at the corner of his eyes when Tony looks him in the eye, and says “I do”, but the tears fall freely when they exchange rings, because the rings were melted and molded from his dog tags, with his carved ‘Tony’ and Tony’s carved ‘Steve’. They kiss, one of the softest exchanges between the two, and their family erupts in cheers.

In a voice Steve thinks is filled with awe and pride, Fury announces, “I now pronounce you husband and husband.”

They part to loud applause, pressing their noses together, breathing each other in. Tony already has a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hello, Mr. Steve Rogers-Stark.”

Steve smiles, pressing his lips against Tony’s again. “Hello, Mr. Tony Stark-Rogers.”

This is in no way an ending; the second half of their lives has barely begun.

-

The second half of their lives, as one may expect, isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. They stick with the team, reasoning it with ‘They need time to adjust. Just a little longer’ when all it’s really about is that they aren’t ready to part with all this. War has never been their choice, and the world will only ever truly be at peace when something like the Avengers need not exist, but they have found home in each others’ presence, and no one is quite willing to just let go yet.

It takes a little more than a decade before they figure a way to neutralise the effects of the Super Serum. There are risks - there’s always risks in science and experiments - but when they think about the reward and how there’s technically nothing much left to lose, they approach it light-heartedly. And maybe it’s some faraway God who takes pity on them, or maybe Tony’s just that much of a genius (Tony insists on that), but the process is smooth and the effects are immediate.

Steve will never forget Tony’s laugh when he sees the first signs of age catching up to the super soldier in the form of a single wrinkle across his forehead. It’s one of those moments Steve captures in his sketchbook when Tony’s gone to sleep and he knows he won’t be caught in the act. This particular sketchbook is a private one, something Steve hopes he can keep to himself in this world that isn’t quite his.

The team, supportive in a way only they can be, congratulate the couple. They have a party, one lasting two days and three nights, however impossible it may sound. There are no tears as Steve and Tony finally retire from the Avengers team, only smiles and laughter and warmth and love.

They move to a quiet place, off the grid, for retirement. The press do what they do best - they press , but the Avengers have also made some connections with powerful news stations, who convey their blessings and swear to keep reporters off their backs. Steve thinks that’s largely thanks to Pepper, and he thinks Tony knows that too, but that’s just one of the many things they’re content with keeping to themselves.

They adopt two dogs - Steve gets to name one and Tony the other, it’s only fair - and a baby girl. When Tony suggests to name their daughter ‘Morgan’, Steve has to turn away and hold back his tears. Tony doesn’t ask - he knows . Tony always knows. He simply stands there in silent support, because Steve always shares when he is ready to. And he will, even if that time is not now.

-

The nightmares never truly stop. Even now, albeit rarely, Tony dreams of the Chitauri, of the world’s end, of stepping into a battle 87.4% sure that it will be his end. But Steve is always there when Tony wakes, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. He will hold Tony close, remind Tony who he is, that he’s safe, they’re here and only this is real.

For Steve, well, it’s a little more complicated, seeing as he’s literally a man out of his time, his world now even. And that’s the one thing that truly haunts him. Steve’s never forgotten who he really is. He never lets himself forget that he comes from a different timeline, messed this one up (too, the darkness in his mind adds) with his good intentions, and found his way to Tony (but at what cost?). That the time he has now is stolen, that one day this will all catch up to him.

He never forgets what really happens after New York. Not Ultron, not finding out what Bucky did and keeping the truth from Tony, not the Accords, not Siberia, not the time he spent as a fugitive in Wakanda.

Not the way he felt when the burner phone had rung, the way his stomach lurched at the thought that something was wrong , and hearing Bruce on the other end, telling him that Tony and a wizard had gone to space .

He can never forget the first time he’s had his arms around Tony in two years, looking so thin, hollow, fearful . Can’t forget the hurtful words exchanged, even when (because) the Earth is already damned and there’s nothing left to lose.

The temporary truce five years later.

Tony’s lifeless eyes before Steve can make things right between them again.

“Steve.” Tony’s voice, gentle but firm. Something warm presses against his ear, then again at his neck, his forehead, over his shut lids. Tony.

“Tony?” His voice comes out small, like the sickly boy from Brooklyn who isn’t sure whether he’ll make it through the day. Steve doesn’t dare open his eyes, like he thinks once he does, he’ll find himself alone in a dark alley, and he can’t take that. But Tony is real, or so the voice coaxes, until Steve’s breathing calms.

“Tony,” Steve says again.

“I’m here, Steve,” the answer comes within a heartbeat.

Now that his mind is clearer, Steve realises the sun has long since risen, now high in the sky. They’re both still under the covers, and Tony is spooning him, chest pressed against Steve’s back. His hands clasp Tony’s, toying with his wedding ring.

“I love you.” Not thank you, or I’m sorry, because they’re way past that.

He feels Tony smile. “Good morning to you too, Winghead.”

-

One night, when Tony comes out of Morgan’s bedroom looking somewhat helpless and in awe and so full of love, Steve thinks he knows.

Brown eyes seek out the blue of his own, and Tony is all but whispering, “She told me she loved me 3000 times. My calculations -never wrong, by the way- tells me she loves you maybe 900 times, max? Wow.”

And Steve laughs, because now, he finally understands. He beckons Tony to join him and their two dogs on the couch, cradling him. “It’s not a competition, Tony.”

His husband all but snorts, sinking into Steve’s arms, absent-mindedly stroking the golden retriever’s fur. "Course it isn’t."

They both know Tony will never let any of them live that down, and Steve is more than fine with that.

[bbclesmis]

No singing allowed

Victor Hugo’s epic novel Les Misérables might be best known for its musical adaptations, but a new small-screen adaptation produced for the BBC and Masterpiece on PBS feels more like a western, as exec producer Bethan Jones and director Tom Shankland explain.

When Victor Hugo sat down to write his epic 19th century novel Les Misérables, including in it a searing indictment of the divide between rich and poor and the travails of revolutionary political movements, he was probably considering a more distinguished legacy than an often-derided musical in London’s West End.

For when one thinks about Les Misérables, it is the bathetic tones of I Dreamed a Dream and carefully choreographed dance-acting that spring to mind. And although Anne Hathaway’s rendition of I Dreamed… in the 2012 Hollywood film did give a sense of the pain and despair her character Fantine was supposed to be feeling, the fact remains that this ambitious novel is often reduced to a collection of show tunes and the diminutive appellation ‘Les Mis.’

This is one of the reasons adaptation supremo Andrew Davies (Bleak House, Pride & Prejudice, Middlemarch) has taken on the project for UK pubcaster the BBC and Masterpiece on PBS in the US, alongside producers Lookout Point and BBC Studios, which is also distributing. When discussing the adaptation a few years back at the Hay Festival, Davies called the musical a “shoddy farrago” of Hugo’s original work, adding that he hoped his take would champion the book for its depth.

“Andrew loves being contentious, that’s his thing,” says Bethan Jones, exec producer on the series for BBC Studios. “For me, you take a big book like this and you adapt it to the form you are servicing. Inevitably, the musical has to have its baddies, its goodies, its romantic interests – it has to follow that journey. It has a certain amount of hours to fill and you have to tell a musical story. A film adaptation will be a very different thing again. What we’ve got in six hours is the opportunity to dig down a little bit more into those characters than potentially shorter adaptations have time to do; to explore the relationships and themes between the characters and their particular journeys.”

Part of this sharper focus on the source material is a strict ‘no singing’ policy, with Davies pointedly declaring at Hay that his cast would not “yell great things like they do in the musical.” Jones diplomatically says the musical and the BBC series – which lands on screens in early 2019 – are “two very different, but equally valid” ways of representing the book.

Pared down, Les Misérables tells the story of prisoner Jean Valjean and his continuous battle with police inspector Javert following his release from prison for stealing bread. After further run-ins with the law, Valjean attempts to change his ways and live life as a decent man. Interspersed with his long road to redemption are stories of family, love, rebellion and commentary on the social and political class system of post-revolutionary France. Its intricate plot has spawned – beyond the aforementioned takes – more than 60 adaptations across film and television, which raises another question about the BBC’s forthcoming production – do we need another?

Jones reiterates Davies’ desire to go back to Hugo’s original text and “draw out more of the real stories, themes and characters” and the book’s timelessness as justification. “We also felt it was timely in as much as while there is still poverty, hardship and degradation in the world, books like this will still be relevant. It feels timely to be looking at a classic text that deals with a complicated period and the division of rich and poor but through the eyes of brilliant characters.”

Director Tom Shankland (The City & The City, The Missing, Ripper Street) admits he hadn’t seen a single adaptation of the book before he took the helm, and thus hopes his is a fresh perspective. “For me, it felt like an epic western,” he says. “I’ve always loved westerns. There are all these fantastic characters – the bad sheriff, the wanted man, the hunted fugitive. It was everything I loved about that genre – the adventure and emotion of that.” Simply being thrilled by the plot isn’t enough to hook a director completely, Shankland points out, but he was snagged “emotionally and thematically” by Valjean’s quest for redemption and a “simple desire to be good in a bad world.”

The BBC has assembled a premium cast for the series, with The Affair star Dominic West taking on Valjean, Selma’s David Oyelowo playing Javert, Lily Collins as destitute young mother Fantine and Adeel Akhtar and Olivia Colman as petty criminals the Thénardiers. “David absolutely felt there was something around Javert’s role as a bit of a thwarted outsider with frustrations and drive to move up in the world, as well as being this person with a real ideological commitment to the belief that people are either born wicked or good,” Shankland says. “He kept on looking and finding, in extraordinary ways, the humanity – however twisted and bitter – in Javert. By the end, I’m almost in tears for him. In my wildest dreams, I wasn’t sure we’d get to that place with a character like that. David dug so deep.

“When I watch what Dominic does to take Valjean to this unbelievably brutalised place, which is almost a wordless, inhuman place, to where he ends, he makes me believe every part of that journey.”

Davies has a knack of turning a classic literary work into a TV drama that resonates cinematically and does not seem anachronistic. In 2016, he received universal acclaim for his BBC adaptation of Leo Tolstoy’s epic historical novel War & Peace, in which he successfully brought chaotic battle scenes, aristocratic opulence and sweeping landscapes of 19th century Russia to the small screen. Furthermore, within that epic scope, Jones says Davies has a rare ability to portray relatable characters that “speak to” a contemporary audience.

“Andrew’s scripts made these characters feel modern. That was nothing to do with having them speak in a very modern way or changing their behaviour, he just found the humanity and earthiness of it,” Shankland says, recalling a scene in which Fantine and her companions urinate in a Paris park. “I thought, ‘Oh god, they’re going to pee in Les Misérables, that’s exciting.’ It was these little things that Andrew did to make these people feel real and have an immediate presence that made me think that it wouldn’t be like doing a conventional, polite period piece. We’d be doing something that had a real connection with today.”

Filming has taken the production to far-flung areas of the French-speaking parts of Europe, from southern Belgium to Sedan in the Ardennes region of north-eastern France. In Sedan, Shankland says, they found back streets acutely reminiscent of the period Hugo was writing about. Jones and Shankland both note that the filming of key scenes, such as the political uprising, where students revolt and erect barricades in the narrow streets of Paris, were inspired by contemporary riots such as those that took place in London in 2011 and in Northern Ireland during the Troubles in the 1960s.

“I wanted the images to resonate with the audience, so they’d be thinking, ‘Oh hang about, that doesn’t feel like [post-revolutionary France] even if they might have guns that are somewhat 19th century,’” Shankland says. “Actually, what happened in a street battle – the energy, fear and chaos of that – is very modern. I tried to let modern events into the imagery. In some ways, we never thought of it as a period piece.”

“It does speak to that modern world. It’s not the French revolution; it’s a small, failed skirmish. That’s the tragedy of it. It’s a group of people desperately trying to assert themselves in a situation where the state is so much bigger than them. That’s still very relevant,” Jones adds.

Considering Les Misérables’ hard-hitting topics, one might expect the series to comprise six hours of unremitting tension and misery. But Shankland is quick to reassure this isn’t the case. “For all that the story is full of these epic, intense themes, there’s so much humour in it, and not in a way that I felt was ever crowbarred in. However dark times are, there’s always room for lightness and romance. It’s just a beautifully textured piece.” And all without a songbook in sight.

(x)

[paganinpurple]

Be Careful What You Wish For - Ch 4

Will write for coffee

This chapter was commissioned by the lovely Simply_Zerah from AO3 who I would totally tag but I’m not yet 100% sure if they have the same Tumblr URL lol

Enjoy!

Adrien and Nino find themselves in an alternate timeline where Hawkmoth never attacked and so the Miraculous heroes were never chosen. Just how much has changed in this universe? And how will they find their way back?

AO3

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7

A shadow sat atop the Parisian rooftops, the Place de Vosges a less than ideal perch for one attempting to stay hidden, but Chat had never been very good at sticking to a low profile.

His baton open in front of him, he was zoomed in on the windows of the Agreste mansion, checking them one by one, vainly attempting to catch sight of the person he hadn’t seen in years. The one he desperately wanted to lay eyes upon again.

He sighed despondently as he desperately tried to merge together the picture he had in his mind’s eye of his mother -warm and sweet with such a lovely youthful face- with the one Marinette had shown him pictures and video clips of. It had been obvious to him that she would look so much older now, that was just to be expected after fourteen years. Although she had aged gracefully, the lines on her face, and the distinguished streaks of grey were still apparent. But that wasn’t what had unsettled him.

From the pictures and videos he had seen, she rarely seemed to smile anymore -or at least not the way he remembered it. In his memory there was a wonderful light to her, a glow which lit up the entire room she was in whenever she graced someone or something with her radiance. In the past, she had always shown warmth with her whole face, expelling pure joy and love when she did. Her photographs now seemed to consist solely of modelling expressions, her head held high and face blank -aloof and unattainable. The video interviews he had watched showed her smiling at reporters and other fashion icons, but the look almost had a calculated and almost wrong look to it. The sweetness seemed false and her face held none of the energy he remembered. The smile never reached her eyes.

She looked almost tired.

There was a soft thud beside him, and it was so recognisable that Chat never even took his eyes from his baton screen as he continued to cycle through the windows. “Thought I’d find you here,” said Carapace as he settled himself on the tiles below, “Any luck?”

“Nope. No sign of her or my dad,” he said with a sigh, “Though if you check out my old bedroom, you’ll see yours truly.”

Carapace’s head lifted abruptly in shock. “Really?” he asked, lifting his finger to tap the side of his goggles as he too zoomed in on the mansion windows. A few seconds of silence passed as Carapace adjusted his focus until he finally spotted the figure slumped over on his front on the white couch, having apparently dozed off while watching TV.

“Wow,” he told Chat with a sarcastic snort, “Attractive.”

One of alternate Adrien’s arms had clearly been thrown over his forehead before he rolled over onto his stomach and was currently lodged between him and the couch awkwardly. His shirt sleeve was sure to leave strange lines on his face when he finally moved. He had also managed to wiggle his knees beneath him so that his butt stuck up in the air and, of course, he was drooling, the light from the television making the moisture glisten so it stood out even from this distance.

Chat sniggered despite his dark mood. It had been unsettling at first -to spot himself- and it had only added to his list of things to freak out about internally. As it turned out, it wasn’t the same as seeing an advertisement or an interview like had often happened years ago, because he was too actively aware that this was another living version of himself. But he had to admit, Marinette was right when she told him he looked utterly ridiculous while he slept. Why did she always have to be right about the embarrassing things?

The picture on his baton screen cut out unexpectedly and a harsh ringing tone sounded on it, startling a yowl from him. It only took a second for him to calm himself, one hand on his chest to try to slow his thumping heartbeat, before he raised an eyebrow at Carapace. He recognised the number showing on the display and he knew there was only one way that number would have known how to contact his baton. “She’s always been better at getting you out of your own head than me, dude,” the other hero said with a small smile he noted was laced with sadness, before he leapt to the edge of the row of buildings in order to afford Chat some privacy.

Taking a deep breath and screwing his green eyes tight shut for a moment, he exhaled deeply before finally pressing the button to answer the incoming call. “Hello?”

“Um, Hi…Adrien?”

His chest ached horribly at her hesitance. She even sounded unsure about a simple phone conversation. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Nino said you might need to talk to someone,” she said, a hint of trepidation in her voice, “He…he seemed to think…that it should be me.” A pregnant pause followed and Chat remained silent for a moment as he considered how to talk to her. Normally he would spill out everything to Marinette -every painful and ugly thought that briefly passed through his mind, but that wasn’t what people did to someone who barely knew them. And this particular Marinette wasn’t likely to know how to deal with his rants, because she was in fact a stranger to him.

“I…miss you,” was what finally fell between the empty ends of the line.

“Well, um, I guess I get that you kind of do, even though I’m right here because actually I’m not. I mean, I might be me but I’m not your me if you know what I mean, and I guess you do ’cause that must be all you’ve had to think about since you got here. I must be so different and after all you love me-”

There was a muffled squeak as she pulled the receiver away from her face and he heard the distant remains of “Ohmygod did I really just say that?!” as she panicked. “Anyway, what I mean is,” she said, returning to her rambling, “how are you- Uh, Adrien are you okay?”

He absolutely wasn’t okay, he was far too busy trying to keep the volume of his laughter at a minimum so that he wouldn’t alert any of the Parisians in the park below to his presence. Tears began to stream down his face as he shook in utter mirth. He sobered up a little when he heard a hum of disapproval from her end of the connection but continued to break out into little giggles as he spoke.

“You’re not that different,” he told her, stopping momentarily to give a snort as he tried to repress another wave of laughter, “you still ramble when you’re flustered.”

“Oh.” She sounded a bit embarrassed and he could almost imagine the blush dusted across the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be.” Her refused to let her spiral into self-doubt right now. Not when he was finally feeling somewhat human again. “I think it’s funny when you do that. It’s…cute.”

“Oh!” Now she really sounded embarrassed.

“Honestly, I think it helped. Things are different here. But…you’re still you.”

She remained quiet and if it wasn’t for the whisper of breath his hearing detected on the other end, he would have thought she’d hung up or left.

He wiped away a remaining tear from the corner of his eye. “Thanks, Mari,” he said, and he couldn’t have held back the affection in his voice if he tried, “I’ll be back soon. I’ll see if I can pick up some peppermint hot chocolate on the way, though I might need to send Nino to get it, so I don’t get recognised.”

It was her favourite drink on chilly nights or when she was in desperate need of extra comfort of some kind and he expected her to comment on that, but she didn’t. “It’s going to be okay, Adrien,” she said, “You’re going to fix things.”

“See you soon, My Lady.” He ended the call a moment later, a hint of a blush on his face from his automatic use of the pet name he’d always used for her. She hadn’t said anything or spluttered at it, and that just made the dusting of pink across his cheeks intensify.

Just as he was moving to depart, Carapace reappeared, landing beside him once again. “Dude,” he said, shaking Chat’s shoulder as he did and pointing at the same window he had been trained on for the past few hours, “There’s something floating above Other-Adrien’s head. Take a look.”

Opening his baton again, he zoomed in on his alternate self’s sleeping form, narrowing his eyes as he tried desperately to focus on the tiny blue blur moving around him rapidly. The thing slowed for a moment to land on the golden tresses beneath it and Chat gasped.

“Is that a Kwami?” he asked.

Will write for coffee

[agrestenoir]

the spaces between us (we stitch together)

title: the spaces between us (we stitch together) pairing: inko midoriya/yagi toshinori fandom: boku no hero academia summary: yagi toshinori finds a hope with the midoriyas. 

note: christmas commission for @tehdes from your friend @mamamichine! it was such a wonderful opportunity to work on your gift and i thoroughly enjoyed it. i hope you both have a happy holidays!

It starts with a visit to the Midoriya household, which is not a visit he’d ever expect to make as Yagi Toshinori, on a warm summer afternoon. Even though he may have lost his powers and was forced into early retirement, he tries to stand as stern and strong as he’d be as the Symbol of Peace, untouchable in that fragile civilian form.

(It doesn’t work though—one look from Inko Midoriya is enough to crumble him.)

With a shaky hand, she gestures him to follow her into their modest kitchen, but Yagi isn’t sure if she’s jittery from the fact that she’s meeting a famous hero or that she’s so burdened by the decision she’s come to terms with. It’s something he could tell from the moment he first saw her: that resolved strength that burns bright in her eyes. It’s the look that comes from someone who’s steadfast in what they believe in (and he hopes, against all hopes, that she’s come to believe in UA and him.)

“I believe we already sent notice of this, but I’m here to talk about UA’s dorm system,” Yagi announces once they are all seated at the table. Beside Inko, Izuku trembles, body rigid and tense, his fingers curled into white-knuckled fists in his lap.

“Yes, about that…” Her words make his turn to ash on his tongue. “I’m against it.”

A gasp from Izuku makes Yagi’s heart throb in his chest, startling them both. “Mom!” he protests, eyes wide. “You said it was alright yesterday.”

“I thought about it, but I don’t like it.” Her gaze does not leave her hands, too afraid to face her son right now, but Yagi has spent enough time with Izuku to know what kind of breed Midoriya’s are. Inko Midoriya is a marble statue carved from glass, where even if she’s designed to break, she absolutely refuses to.

(It’s one of the qualities he adores about Izuku.)

She turns to Yagi now, imploring him to understand. “Izuku’s Quirk never appeared, but he still admired you for so long. But since his Quirk miraculously appeared, ever since he entered UA, he just keeps getting more and more beat up.”

Flashes of broken moans in the middle of a hospital room, white bandages stained red when Izuku turns the wrong way, purple mottled skin dark under the glow of hallway lighting—it all haunts Yagi’s dreams sometimes because he knows it’s his fault. (He wonders if his own Master dealt with this when he first received One For All.)

“Did you know about Izuku’s arms?” Inko asks him. “If he injures them anymore, he might lose the ability to move them.”

No, Yagi thinks, turning a pained stare towards the child as his heart aches. I didn’t.

Izuku makes a move to interrupt, but his mother shakes her head. “I saw your fight on TV the other night,” she continues. “As a regular citizen, I am very grateful for what you did. But as a parent, I was scared.” She nods towards her son. “Izuku looks up to you. If his path leads to a future filled with blood like that, then I… I…”

Yagi thinks of himself, bloody and bruised but still standing amongst the rubble in Kamino Ward, and then of Izuku, hurt but hardened in the face of Shigaraki Tomura. Sometimes, he has a hard time distinguishing one from the other—it’s why he has such high hopes for how far Izuku will go one day.

Tears burn at the front of Inko’s eyes, slipping down her cheeks, thick and slow like candlewax. “I feel like maybe staying Quirkless and happily watching heroes work would have made Izuku happier.”

“Mom!”

“Izuku, I told you I would support you, but that I wouldn’t stop worrying, right?”

Izuku trembles beside her.

“You want to go to UA, right? But… I’m sorry, Izuku. I will speak frankly.” She levels Yagi with a heavy stare, unyielding as she makes her stance. “As Izuku’s mother, I don’t have the nerves of steel I’d need to entrust my son to UA High School as it is now. It doesn’t matter how wonderful of a hero you are. When villains attacked, you couldn’t continue classes, and you couldn’t stop the students from getting seriously injured. I don’t want to let my son attend a school like that any longer.”

“Mrs. Midoriya, I—” Yagi starts to say, pushing himself to his feet. His stance may be shaky, but his expression remains resolute.

Izuku’s outcry startles them both, but it’s not surprising considering the situation they’ve suddenly found themselves in. “It’s not like that, Mom.” He grips his injured arm, eyes wild with panic. “It was my own fault that I got hurt. The teachers all told me over and over. It was me who didn’t listen.”

Inko can’t take it anymore. “If this is how it turned out, then don’t you think that’s the school’s responsibility?”

Izuku stops—stunned—like his mother has just dealt him the fatal blow, what Shigaraki never did.

“Young man,” Yagi says, sliding his hand out towards his pupil. “Let’s sit down.”

“I might be acting like a monster parent, but I’m fine being a monster. I don’t want to steal Izuku’s dream away from him. If he really wants to be a hero, then he could go to a different school.” She cocks her head, gaze softening somewhat. “There are a lot of other hero courses, right?”

Yagi knows she isn’t actually asking—Inko Midoriya already has her answer. She probably spent the better part of last night researching alternatives in preparation for today’s inevitable conversation, and while transferring mid-year might be a setback and difficult to manage, Yagi already knows he’ll do whatever he has to in order to ensure that Izuku gets everything he needs. Whether it’s a reference or bribery—Yagi will make sure that Izuku can continue to live out his dream.

For a moment, things are still and unassuming, but then Izuku breathes heavy, turns sharply on his heel, and runs away to his bedroom. Silence follows, and even though Inko tries to sound a protest, Yagi knows it’s useless. He knows it the same way he knows the sound of Izuku’s laughter, the crease between his brow when he’s caught between an analysis and solution, the way his lips tug higher on the right when he smiles. Once he’s set on a decision, it’s rare he’ll ever change it.

(Knowing Inko now, Yagi is certain Izuku gets it from her.)

With a soft sigh, she sits back down across from him, and the only sound between them is the musings deep within, lost in grief and the sober truth. Ink is resolute, and Yagi has accepted that. He has formed a single word of protest since they began this conversation—and for good reason.

Inko Midoriya is completely and utterly right.

Suddenly, there’s a loud bang as Izuku rushes back into the room with a letter clasped in his hand, edges worn from constant handling and folding, with the scrawl of a child visible across the page in bright green ink. The younger boy talks about his dreams and what it means to be a hero and how he’ll never give up on that, even if he must sacrifice UA in the process.

“Anywhere is fine,” he tells his mother, “But I will be a hero.”

And…. Yagi understands.

Once, a long time ago, he stood before Nana Shimura with the same burning passion and pleaded with her to help him become a hero—the Symbol of Peace that was so desperately needed. And that beautiful woman decided to take a chance on a gangly boy like him, and he went on to change the world for the better (at least he likes to think).

How could he deny Izuku the same opportunity?

Fumes of a lost power spark inside him, and for a single moment, he feels as powerful and strong as All Might always should be. “Mrs. Midoriya, I humbly beg of you,” he begins, slipping off his shoes and kneeling on the ground before them. “I believe that Young Izuku is the right person to succeed me, to become the next Symbol of Peace. I respect that you don’t want him at UA, but I want to stand by him and walk together with him on this path. Will you allow me to pour my all into Young Izuku? I will protect him and raise him up, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

“W-Wait a minute,” Inko stammers, reaching out a hand as if to stop him, but there’s nothing she can do.

“Please,” Yagi begs, forehead pressed against the floor and bearing his hopes and dreams—for himself and Izuku—for them both to see. “If you can’t entrust Izuku to UA High School, will you at least entrust him to me?”

Please, Yagi thinks desperately. Please let me teach him.

There’s a short pause, the span of a single heartbeat, and then Inko falls to her knees in front of him and places a steady hand on his shoulder.

It’s all the answer either of them need.

As the weeks slip by, Izuku’s enrollment into Ketsubutsu Academy High School is finalized, with much reluctance on Yagi’s part even though the younger boy receives a glowing recommendation from All Might himself. Inko sleeps soundly at night without the fear of villains and ghosts haunting her son at his new school. And though Izuku tangles between grief for the dream he lost and excitement at the new environment unraveling before him, he still takes to it with the same gusto as he always does.

To be a hero, Izuku is understanding of what the word sacrifice entails.

Yagi Toshinori starts to become a permanent fixture in the Midoriya household from the very moment Inko promised him her son. At first, it’s small training sessions at the park down the road, or long discussions after class about strategy and improvements. Inko will often come home to Yagi and Izuku pouring over hero analyses, trying to decide what would work best as Izuku redesigns his attack-style.

Soon after, he starts to appear without fanfare a few mornings during the week, sporadic at best, but still very much welcomed. There’s a soft knock just before breakfast when Inko is preparing food and Izuku is still sleeping, and she opens the door to find All Might on the other side.

Flustered, he bows deeply, stammering through his greeting, just as he always does. “Good morning, Mrs. M-Midoriya, sorry to disturb you at this early hour. I was just wondering if—”

Inko cuts him off with a warm smile, tossing the damp dishtowel over her shoulder as she steps aside. “Please, come in, Toshinori. Izuku’s still sleeping, but I just finished breakfast.”

He joins her at the table, and the two spend an hour over a cup of tea and coffee, peering over the soft wisps of smoke as they exchange quiet words. There’s nothing of consequence to discuss, just absent musings and pleasantries, more about how Izuku is adjusting to his new class and how much his friends miss him. Yagi broaches the possibility of dragging him to a small afternoon training session with class 1-A this weekend, and Inko agrees.

Eventually, a sleep-tousled Izuku comes downstairs to his mother and mentor at the table, empty cups of coffee between them, and a stack of pancakes waiting for him. He mumbles a small greeting before hopping up and burying his face into the meal, causing a bright smile to cross Inko’s face and a chuckle to shake Yagi. It’s a silver morning where gray clouds hang heavy in the sky, fat drops of rain striking window panes and soaking sidewalks, and Yagi’s plans for training disperse as time ticks on.

He’s in no rush though.

He finds these quiet mornings with the Midoriyas a great way to spend his time.

“Need help?” he asks Inko as she darts around the kitchen, apron undone and streaks of flour decorating her cheeks.

She pauses in her haste, casting him a frantic look over her shoulder. “Izuku isn’t here right now. I think he went out with his friends.”

“I wasn’t asking about Izuku,” he says with a soft smile.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and he’s swung by because it’s November and Yagi Toshinori is lonely. He knows Izuku will be out of the house and wonders if Inko could use his company or put him to work. It’s funny, Yagi thinks, because he doesn’t mind helping the Midoriyas when duty calls, beyond his job as Izuku’s mentor.

“Can you cook?” Inko finally asks and is already grabbing another apron from the drawer before he can answer. Cooking, as Yagi has learned, is Inko’s way of stress management, and Izuku has shown him a photo of the days pre-Sports Festival, where she had inadvertently cooked enough desserts to feed a small army.

Yagi shrugs half-heartedly as he puts the apron on. “I can learn,” he says to her. “Just tell me what to do.”

A few minutes later, she has him chopping up vegetables in the corner of their tiny kitchen. The two fall into a kind and honest silence, which seems to be a habit between them, but it’s a nice routine. Yagi does not mind silence, and Inko seems used to a quiet house and even quieter thoughts. Inko occupies herself with checking on the meat and rice while Yagi adjusts his hold on the knife for the twentieth time since he started.

There’s a soft patter of footsteps as Inko comes over. “You know,” she says after a while. “You really do suck at this.”

Her words startle a sharp bark of laughter from Yagi, whose shoulders are shaking too hard to even cut the vegetables anymore. Inko ends up giggling beside him as she scoots closer, grabbing the knife and nodding her head back to the stove. “I’m sure you can stir at least?” she asks, mirth dancing in her eyes.

“I must have some redeeming qualities,” he says in jest and hands the knife over to her. Her skin is warm against his, like a brush of flame that he’s wandered too close to, but still far enough to avoid the burn.

“All of your qualities are redeeming,” Inko mumbles, staring at the vegetables on the cutting board as she tries to salvage Yagi’s mess. “It’s honestly nice to see that you have some flaws.”

Across the room, Yagi blushes hard, a deep pink dusting the apples of his cheeks. “T-Thank you,” he stammers out. “Y-You’re quite amazing as well.”

Inko tosses him a bright smile over her shoulder. “You’re very kind.”

“I mean it,” he tells her, voice fervent. “Izuku is very lucky to have such a strong and brilliant mother.”

Inko is silent for a few moments, and then, “He’s lucky to have you too, Yagi.”

“Thank you,” he manages because it’s the only thing he can say. Anything else might end in stammered excuses and truths that he hasn’t even come to terms with himself.

He turns back to the stove and stirs whatever concoction they’ve been preparing for the last hour. The ghost of her hand against his makes his chest feel heavy, and he wishes—more than anything—that he could have that feeling back. He thinks hard, about Inko and Izuku, and the world turns a little bit brighter, a little bit louder, a little bit better.

He wonders if this is what love feels like.

(The truth is this: Yagi is way too far gone to ponder. He’s already fallen.)

It’s many months into this routine when Yagi decides to look at apartments closer to the Midoriya household. Sometimes, when the training sessions go long, or Inko invites him to stay for dinner, the trek home proves to be too difficult for his aching bones. While he could simply leave earlier if necessary, or relocate the training sessions to be closer to home, Yagi finds himself leaning in the opposite direction. Izuku has become commonplace in his life, to a point that his training is no longer a side job but rather the focus of everything he does.

(By now, it’s too late to change anything. Midoriya Izuku has become the central part of his life, and quite frankly, Yagi wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Izuku finds him hovering over a tablet one afternoon, glasses perched on the edge of his nose and a notepad open on the table in front of him, scowling at the prices and amenities that each complex has to offer.

Izuku flashes him a knowing smile, “Why don’t you just stay here if you need to? I’m sure Mom would let you.”

Yagi chokes and turns to face the young hero. “My boy, I couldn’t ask that of your mother—”

Izuku’s green eyes twinkle with barely hidden mirth. “I’m pretty sure she was gonna ask you anyway.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Yagi raises his head and levels the younger boy with a heavy stare. “Don’t you have homework to do? I thought your mother said something about a project for Ms. Joke’s class—”

A red flush quickly blossoms across Izuku’s face, and he stammers out an excuse before dashing back to his bedroom. The sight only makes Yagi laugh because, even though Izuku seems like an old soul sometimes, it’s nice to see that at the end of everything, he’s still the young boy he’s meant to be. The clock ticks on as late afternoon slips into evening, the sky dark and haunting at this time of day.

Inko stumbles into the room sometime later, a book tucked under her arm and steaming cups in her hands, and she pauses beside the couch he’s currently residing on. In the glow of the lamplight, her eyes are tired, face pale, no doubt from long hours at her work, but the improvement from the first time he saw her, discussing Izuku’s future as a hero and his continued enrollment at UA, is visible. Her laugh lines have grown, the dark shadows under her eyes receding, and she looks happy and healthy in the grand scheme of things.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she asks softly.

“Of course, of course.” He scoots over without a word of protest, making room for her on the couch beside him. He mumbles a short apology when he reaches across to grab the notepad, brushing her leg in the process.

Inko pays the contact no heed, choosing instead to fixate on the tablet he’d left between them. “You’re looking for a new place?”

Yagi pauses, a certain tension settling upon his shoulders. “The one I have is just next door to UA,” he tells her. “But I’m looking for something closer to here—I’ve got responsibilities in both places, after all.” He doesn’t elaborate further, and there’s really no need.

Inko hums in agreement before handing him a cup of tea that she’s brewed. He accepts it with a soft sound of gratitude, and the two settle into amicable silence with him drowning in apartment hunting and her in her book. Upstairs, they can hear Izuku rustling around, but they’ve learned not to ask questions so long as there’s no holes in the wall at the end of the night. After an hour or so, Yagi puts the tablet down with a soft sigh and takes his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.

“You look tired,” Inko says, eyes flickering across his form as he lays back languidly into the couch. He doesn’t argue because he knows he must look dead on his feet. Lately, his wounds have ached hard, his bones feeling damp and sore, and all he wants to do is curl up and forget about the world for a few moments.

But things push him to get out of bed in the morning—things like his students, and Izuku… and Inko.

They say that natural flights of the human mind are from pleasure to pleasure, or failure to failure, but Yagi Toshinori knows that it’s from hope to hope.

Izuku and Inko Midoriya are both bright spots in his.

“It’s been a long couple of weeks,” he tells her instead. “But I’m dealing.”

“You know,” she says. “It’s getting late tonight anyway, and I feel like the commute would take too much out of you right now.” She pushes herself to her feet, cup in hand and resting her book on the arm of the couch. “There’s a guest bedroom down the hall that you’re welcome to use tonight…” Her voice trails off before she starts again, biting her lip in thought. “Or… whenever you feel like it.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not,” Inko says, and her eyes are bright and her smile wide. “I’m inviting you.”

With that said, Inko turns on her heel and heads for the kitchen, leaving the stunned Yagi behind. There’s silence as the living room fades out around him, until it’s only her quiet footsteps and his wild heart. His ribs tighten their hold on his heart and tries to cage it further, but the muscle is relentless in its fury as it pounds and pounds, so hard against the bare bones that it hurts.

There’s something that’s caught him off guard, something that makes his newfound hope flare up.

(His heart breathes the word family.)

It’s March, and Yagi can’t remember the last time he went back to his apartment. Sitting on the front steps of the Midoriya house, he considers whether it’s time to sell but figures it’s a conversation he needs to sit down with Inko and have. The sun is high in the blue sky, light streaming across the green grass and Inko’s many plants. For the first time in a long while, things seem happy and healthy, and Yagi doesn’t know where to go from here.

In the front yard, Izuku sit with young Todoroki Shouto, trading stories of Ketsubutsu Academy and UA High School. The scene warms Yagi’s heart because in the many, many months since he’s transferred, only good things have come from it, Izuku flawlessly managing to keep his feet in both worlds, and both worlds keeping him at a close orbit.

“He seems happy,” he tells Inko, who sits beside him like always, a cup of tea and a book clasped in her hands.

She hums noncommittedly, peering at the two over the edge of her book. “He has been for a while.”

“Ketsubutsu’s been good for him.”

A soft smile tugs at the corners of Inko’s lips, but her eyes haven’t left the book. “You’re good for him too.”

Nowadays, it’s rare when Yagi isn’t found at the Midoriya household, whether it’s for Izuku’s training or an early breakfast with Inko, or as Izuku likes to call it, “family time”. Inko sighs into her story and leans back against his shoulder, head lolling in the crook of his neck, and he decides that he’d like to spend the rest of his life right here.

“Hey, Dad, could you help me show Shouto the kick style I’m working on?” Izuku calls from across the lawn. He doesn’t even stammer over the title, just letting it flow easily from his lips like habit, but it still strikes Yagi through the heart.

There’s a short pause, a single space for breath, and then Inko is poking his side. “Go on,” she tells him, still not leaving that damned book. “Your son’s calling for you.”

His heart threatens to explode, but he gets up without a single protest and starts to amble towards the children, his smile never leaving and eyes burning.

The next morning comes with Yagi baking pancakes and Inko at the table, staring at him with messy hair and wearing one of his shirts. She hums around the rim of her cup, staring at him for a long while as they wait for Izuku to join him downstairs.

“So when do you want to move in?” she asks him. “Or at least call it official?”

Yagi smiles to himself. Family, he thinks. Yes, this is my family.

[fullmetalirin]

Fullmetal Alchemist: Episode 49

This is gonna be a big one. This is the episode that raises OG from good to sublime.

Fullmetal Alchemist Episode 49: "The Other Side of the Gate"

Envy delivers Alphonse to the leader of the homunculi in the city hidden beneath Central. Edward soon discovers the city thanks to a page from Nash's diary, leading to a final confrontation with Dante. Edward also learns that Dante is planning to transfer her soul to Rosé's body using the philosopher's stone from within Alphonse. She then sends Edward through the Gate of Truth and he awakens to find himself and Hohenheim in a wartorn London.

We open with Bradley giving his gift to Selim (a toy train). Selim behaves much more like a real kid here, I feel; Brotherhood!Pride was really overacting.

Envy knows Dante is stringing everyone along, but he doesn't care – he just wants to watch the world burn.

Envy reveals that 7000 soldiers were absorbed at Liore. I thought it was 1000? Al gets upset and feels like he should have died instead.

Apparently, Dante's secret city was the "real" Philosopher's Stone lab. Ed enters by just tearing a hole open instead of using Dante's method.

So, the underground city appears to be where Dante and Hohenheim lived 400 years ago. The Tringhams speculate they used everyone in the city to make the Philosopher's Stone, which seems to contradict the flashback in 45 where the city still seemed intact after they made it.

Dante is creeping on Rose. She seems to have been put in some sort of trance.

Gluttony is upset about Lust, but Dante waves him off.

Wrath is upset about Sloth. Dante coldly tells him homunculi don't have mothers, and he can't make demands of her because he's not human.

Wrath keeps leaping at them, but Envy effortlessly knocks him aside, building his credibility as the final boss.

Izumi's strength is fading against Archer as she coughs up blood, but Ross and Brosh rescue her. Izumi asks where Ed is, and Ross reiterates her thing about adults needing to believe in children.

Dante makes Rose dance with Ed. Is Dante planning to take Ed as her husband? Ick.

Ed figures out Dante's bodyhopping pretty quickly. The deduction that Greed didn't kill her is reasonable, but the rest is a bit of a jump.

Ed throws a spear at her, and she vaporizes it in midair. Ehhh, that's wonky but she is supposed to be the ultimate alchemist. She may still have some red stone, too. Ed uses that to confirm she's Dante, as she transmutes without a circle.

Dante doesn't give an exact number of bodies, but she says it's been less than ten.

Dante confirms they used the residents of the city, as well as "the nation to the east" – that would be Xerxes, I suppose.

Dante says Hohenheim was the one who actually made the Stones.

Dante frames her actions as virtuous, saying she's keeping people away from the Stone so they don't misuse it.

Dante claims she is no longer human. She does have homunculi eyes...

And yep, she just said she wanted to bang Ed – specifically, "Hohenheim's son". Why are you so creepy, Dante. I guess this could be an extension of her general hedonism.

Ed tells Gluttony Wrath killed Lust, making him BSOD.

Dante attacks Ed with a rock snake. He dodges and cuts her bodice, revealing the rot has nearly reaches her heart. That seems… fast. It's been, what, a week? That strikes me as a bit of an inconsistency, as she was clearly in her previous body for many years. We can perhaps fanwank that she botched the transfer due to running out of Philosopher's Stone; this would also explain why she's convinced she can overcome the rot if she gets a new one.

Ed… somehow deduced this already as well. He cites equivalent exchange: this is their punishment for their evil. And now we get my favorite scene:

DANTE: Equivalent exchange? Do you still believe in that childish theory? EDWARD: It's no theory! It's the law of alchemy… no, of the whole world! You're the one who said so, aren't you? That in order to obtain anything, it requires something of equal value? DANTE: That's something that only a child would say. Like "make everything equal," or "that wouldn't be fair." However, there's no such thing as equivalent exchange. […] To gain, something of equal value must be lost… In that case, if you reverse it… if you pay a price… you are certain to obtain something, right? EDWARD: That's right. That's why people put forth an effort to pay the price. DANTE: But there's something strange about that. After all, even if you pay the same price, you can't always necessarily obtain the same thing. […] Consider the State Alchemist exam which you passed with flying colors. How many others took the test that day? Spent months, years preparing, some working much harder than you? Yet you were the only one who passed. Where was their reward? Is it their fault they lacked your natural talent?

This moment is, to me, the heart and soul of OG. How many stories have the bravery to do this? To spit on the hero's hard work and natural talent both, to destroy the comforting fantasy of a fair world? To tell the hero that he is wrong? Because he is – Dante is right. But it goes even deeper than that. There's a reason why it's the villain who propagates this lie. In the dub translation, Dante specifically says it's a lie the oppressed tell themselves – and that's key. That's key to so many of the things that are so wrong with our lives, our culture, and our world. This lie controls people. If the world is fundamentally just, then what happens to you can't possibly be anyone's fault but your own. If you're attacked by a mugger, it's because you didn't try hard enough to defend yourself. If you're dying of starvation, it's because you didn't work hard enough to provide for yourself. But if someone else gains riches and fame? Well, they must have just worked so hard for it! It's ad-hoc reasoning: you see the effect, and then you say everyone must have done something to deserve it. And if you can get the people you're subjugating to believe it too, you've won. You've created a populace who will oppress themselves for you. Those people dying of starvation and disease and brutality, they don't deserve the barest scrap of aid, and they're leeches for thinking they do. Those toddlers ICE is murdering at the border right now, they must have done something to deserve it, or their parents did, somehow. Someone, somewhere, did something that justifies everything the oppressors do, we're sure. You can cut someone's throat and tell them they deserved it, and they'll believe you.

Dante actually proceeds to demonstrate this exact example by holding Rose's baby hostage.

DANTE: And people's lives are not all equal, either. If I just clap my hands, this baby won't survive. […] And if I do it, where is the world's balance in that? Does it mean the baby was only born so that it could die?

She goes on to bring up privilege as well, pointing out some people work their whole lives and still die in poverty while others are born into luxury.

I don't think it's a coincidence that it's also the mastermind of a violently imperialist culture who's saying this, either. Just world goes hand in hand with sunk cost. If you made a mistake, you just need to keep working harder to fix it. Because you must be getting something for everything you're sacrificing, right? That's proof you need to make more sins and more sacrifices because one day, somehow, it'll all be worth it and you can undo all those mistakes. That's how Dante gets people desperate enough to make homunculi. That's how she gets people desperate enough to sacrifice thousands of people for a Philosopher's Stone. That's how she gets good people to commit genocide for her. That's why Edward has been doing all of this from the start. It's the perfect lie.

This is what changes OG from just "a good TV show" to true art, to me. It's so incredibly rare to see popular culture or even academia address these issues so brazenly and openly. This is a message we need to hear. It's far too easy, especially in a capitalistic culture, to fall into this comforting lie. And stories are some of the biggest peddlers of the just world fallacy. Stories are designed by a guiding intelligence. In stories, everything does make sense, everything does happen for a reason, justice is often served in some form or another. We need to hear that sometimes, but it's so dangerous to really believe it. It's scary to acknowledge that there is no inherent justice to the world, that effort can be wasted, that bad things can happen to good people, that there's nothing to catch you if you fall. But it's the truth, and denying that will just hurt you far more in the long run. That is the biggest reason why I respect OG so much, despite the slow pacing and the awkward setups and the somewhat rushed conclusion – that's all worth it for this. It did something very brave and it deserves commendation for that.

In terms of the specific framing, I think Dante's character can also be taken as a criticism of ivory tower elitism; not coincidentally the kind of people likely to buy into the just world fallacy. She claims that alchemy can do so much good for people, yet she has made the decision that they are not to be trusted with it – she is, of course, the only one with the wisdom and intelligence to use the power responsibly. And obviously, this is a bald-faced lie – just an excuse to hoard all the power for herself. She cloisters herself, doing everything through proxies of proxies because coming to any personal harm is unthinkable to her, yet she slaughters people like cattle for her own uses. She claims she's ascended beyond the flaws of humanity, yet she's so disgustingly greedy and hedonistic she can't wait to kill an innocent girl just so she can bang her boyfriend's teenage son. She's a warning to all of us never to think our knowledge and class makes us better than other people, never to think that it excuses us from examining our own flaws.

Now, this is, effectively, the "final boss" – there's a bit of conflict after this, but it's not really a full-on battle. Cinematically, Ed vs. Dante is objectively disappointing, yes – they exchange, like, two attacks and that's it. But as I've said before, that's not what OG is trying for in the first place. The sphere of this conflict is philosophical, not martial, and by that scale this is just as intense as Brotherhood's final battle. Dante effortlessly dismantles the philosophy Ed has lived by all his life, and the philosophy the narrative itself seemed to be telling us. In the face of this, Ed is completely unable to make any logical refutation. That is powerful. A flashy fight scene entertains you and then it's over, but this is the kind of confrontation that sticks with you. Can you prove Dante wrong? We all want to, but it's so hard. You have to come up with your own refutation, your own reason to keep on fighting in the face of this painful truth; it's on the audience to truly defeat the villain.

[tgunn64]

Favorite Villains - Bellatrix Lestrange (Harry Potter series)

Even though you’ll notice that I’ve grown my current Top 50 is mostly big bosses and lone operators, that’s not to say I don’t still have soft spots for the likes of henchmen and lower level operators. Though the rare case of a second in command overshadowing hasn’t really occurred the way it has for Bellatrix Lestrange, who I have had a really particular relationship with over the years. And that relationship has basically been fanboying over her before I even got into HP because I was widening my villainous scope for various fan projects. Her extremely gothic look and Helena Bonham Carter’s distinct charisma caught my attention really fast and she was a quick stranger favorite. I wasn’t into Harry Potter for a long time but I was not disappointed by her when I finally got around to diving into them.

It IS my understanding that the books and movies don’t have all the same context and the latter suffers for it, (and if we’re being honest I caught all the movies enough out of order on TV that some spots here and there are blurry for me) but the research I did on Bellatrix’s book-to-movie differences and chunks of text I sought out in particular really helped put her in a grander scope and get me to like her all the better. Because after all, Harry Potter is ripe with allegory and real life socio-political metaphor. Considering the Death Eaters and their hatred of muggles and ‘mudbloods’ is a clear take on supremacist groups prominent in history, I really love that Bellatrix is established to hail from the prestigious Black family, along with Narcissa, her sister. Emphasis was placed on blood purity and superiority of the wizarding kind by Bellatrix and Narcissa’s upbringings, and I kind of just love how true to life, it’s rather commonly a place of privilege that prejudice such as the Blacks’ stems from. Bellatrix married into the Lestrange family, not out of any sort of love or desire, but out of the bolstering of blood purity and a position within the Death Eaters.

Politics aside the big draw to Bellatrix is all of the fun of her being a blood crazed maniac. Despite all of the clear joy she takes in causing pain and misery, which is scary and a bit cathartic in a villain in of itself, Bellatrix is very manipulative in how she goes about scratching her urges. Possibly her most notable notch on her belt of murders was killing Sirius Black, a very dear figure to Harry, leading him to knock her off her feet in a rage. Here she takes her chance to coax Harry into embracing that rage and striking her down (Voldemort did so in the movies, but it’s my understanding Bellatrix did this all herself in the book), which shows that her peerless cruelty isn’t just for petty self indulgence. Harry’s conflict isn’t just him against Voldemort, but also the ease and temptation of doing the wrong thing with his power, which Bellatrix quite nearly edged him over. The above is especially relevant speaking to another one of the big themes of the HP saga, that being familial connections and significance. Harry basically finds new family in the form of several loved ones of many shapes and sizes, contrasting the Death Eaters, who feel almost incestuous in the circles and company they keep and marriages they break in the name of Blood Purity. A family like that may be more pure in a literal sense, but considering Bellatrix personally killed both Sirius Black and Nymphadora Tonks, all bets are off if they don’t see eye to eye. I think it’s also somewhat poetic that Bellatrix met her end messing with the wrong family at the hands of Molly Weasley. Even an interaction as small as her snapping at Draco (to Narcissa’s chagrin) speaks to Bellatrix’s twisted ideals and how little actual family means to her compared to purity of her kind.

Even the sheer gravity of her body count has to be appreciated, thematics aside. In addition to all of the above she also killed Dobby, a big ‘heart of the team’ character. She really knew how to push the right buttons, which is why I think Voldemort held her in such high regard. She was so much more than some malice junky. There’s some dispute as to the true nature of Bellatrix and Voldemort’s relationship--I consider it at least a little more than some developments in works like the Cursed Child would declaire. She was clearly more than a mere pawn to Voldemort, worth enough to him to warrant a yell of anguish upon her death. The tears that well in her eyes at his simple approval I think speak volumes of how she practically worships him as a trailblazer and symbol of the ideals she fights for. I don’t think I’d ever think of them as a couple per se, but equally so I just don’t think there’s any limit for what Bellatrix would do to please her master. Ultimately it’s true that Bellatrix isn’t the biggest villain in Harry Potter or even the biggest Death Eater, but she’s insanely memorable and relevant to its themes for a number of reasons, and certainly one to look at fondly.

[midnght-sxn]

85 Question Meme

I was tagged by @walllflxwerr

Rules: answer these 85 questions and tag 20 people

– what was your last…

1. drink: water 2. phone call: my mum 3. text message: about chibi art 4. song you listened to: brianstorm by arctic monkeys  5. time you cried: last night lol

– have you ever…

6. dated someone twice: nope 7. kissed someone and regretted it: nah 8. been cheated on: nope 9. lost someone special: to death? nope. probably did in other ways, but nothing that keeps me up at night 10. been depressed: i guess? really agree with @walllflxwerr on this. they said “not diagnosed depression, but I think anyone can experience it. It doesn’t have to be diagnosed to be experienced” 11. gotten drunk and thrown up: nope

– favourite colours

12. orange 13. anything that you would label as “cyberpunk” 14. maroon probably

– in the last year have you…

15. made new friends: yesss 16. fallen out of love: haven’t fallen in yet 17. laughed until you cried: a tear or two but don’t think that really counts 18. found out someone was talking about you: i don’t remember so probably not haha 19. met someone who has changed you: doesn’t everybody you meet change you a little bit? 20. found out who your friends are: somewhat 21. kissed someone on your facebook friends list: yeah

– general

22. how many of your facebook friends do you know irl: on a personal level? probably 60 percent-ish 23. do you have any pets: sadly (not really), no 24. do you want to change your name: nah 25. what did you do for your last birthday: i honestly don’t remember. might’ve had dinner with my parents? 26. what time did you wake up today: 10:30 27. what were you doing at midnight last night: showering 28. what is something you can’t wait for: to get new contact lenses 29. last time you saw your mother: everyyyday

30. what are you listening to right now: some dank yoga music 31. have you ever met a person named tom: holy shit i think haven’t??

32. something that’s getting on you nerves: like the fact that 행복/幸福 is most commonly translated as “happiness”

33. most visited website: ao3 34. hair colour: black 35. long or short hair: long

36. do you have a crush on someone: nothing serious 37. what do you like about yourself:  38. want any piercings: tongue maybe??  39. blood type: most likely B but i never checked 40. nicknames: Han is the only one i claim 41. relationship status: single 42. zodiac sign: aquarius/pisces  43. pronouns: she/her 44. fave tv show: goblin 45. tattoos: none 46. right or left handed: right 47. ever had surgery: nope 48. piercings: three on two ears but at least one closed theyre all closed 49. sport: played volleyball in secondary high but i like biking i guess 50. vacation: romeee (and europe in general) (but also 西雙版納) 51. trainers: anything comfortable lmao

– more general

52. eating: instant noodles (for once!) 53. drinking: water 54. about to watch: just about to finally (finally) finish teen wolf 55. waiting for: this pimple to pop

56. want: question is too vague and i am too greedy 57. get married: sure, if its right 58. career: literary agent

– which is better

59. hugs or kisses: both 60. lips or eyes: both 61. shorter or taller: shorter than me is really short so...hahaha taller i guess 62. older or younger: does it..matter lol? as long as theyre emotionally mature (enough) and not old enough to be creepy 63. nice arms or stomach: stomach i guess 64. hookup or relationship: omg both. 65. troublemaker or hesitant: hesitant with a random and rare streak of absolute recklessness

– have you ever

66. kissed a stranger: nope 67. drank hard liquor: how hard is considered hard 68. turned someone down: sort of 69. sex on first date: no. 70. broken someone’s heart: dont know 71. had your heart broken: in one way or another, nothing i didnt survive 72. been arrested: nooooo hahahah 73. cried when someone died: yes 74. fallen for a friend: no?

– do you believe in

75. yourself: isnt this a little vague? what about myself? am i a good person? will i be a successful person? will i be brave enough to overcome the obstacles in my life and keep pursuing happiness? maybe. idk. yes and no 76. miracles: maybe not like miracle miracle, but these impossible coincidences? things happening right when they need to? yes 77. love at first sight: nah, not the kind of love you should want anyway 78. santa claus: nahh im like, chinese, so like, not even as a kid 79. angels: i guess

– misc

80. eye colour: brown 81. best friend’s name: Oriana 82. favourite movie: uhhhh this one is really hard but the most recent favourite is probably call me by your name 83. favourite actor: I actually really like Domhall Gleeson hehe 84. favourite cartoon: uhhhh Brother Bear maybe?? Howl's Moving Castle?? 85. favourite teacher’s name: Ms Luc. Mad organised. One of few teachers who actually helped me improve.

thank you @walllflxwerr for tagging even tho we never interacted much! Feels like we have quite a bit in common too!

Not gonna tag though, since im already so late hehe

[vrepit-sals]

Title: When I’m not the only one Characters: Pidge, team Voltron, the Holt family Pairings: None Tags: space family, found family, trans girl pidge Word Count: 4055 This was my piece for @pidgevoltronzine, you can get a copy of the free zine here. This fic is available on a03 here

They're still standing in the middle of the hallway, when an indignant shout comes from far away, reverberating down the castle corridors at a much higher decibel than the late hour would warrant.

"Keith is your favourite brother? I bought you a video game!" ______

Pidge learns that blood is not a prerequisite for family.

She's sitting on the kitchen counter, sprinkling chocolate chips into a bowl while Matt stirs the mixture with a wooden spoon. They're almost done, and in half an hour she knows they'll have freshly baked peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies.

She feels grown up, being allowed to help in the kitchen with only her brother's supervision. She's wearing her brand new green dress, the one she'd spent half-an-hour spinning in that morning, trying to memorise the unfamiliar way the fabric swept across her legs.

Her mother had pulled her hair up into pigtails and smiled at her from behind a camera as she twirled, then bundled her up in her arms. She'd received a kiss on the cheek and revelled in hearing her name from her mother’s lips. She'd never felt safer.

Her favourite cookies are like the cherry on top of the cake, the celebration of something she's wanted for years and only just attained.

Her brother makes a dramatic reprimand when she eats a chocolate chip and opens his mouth wide, swooping for and missing the chip she throws.

She giggles as he bends down and pops it in his mouth anyway, citing the five second rule. She continues to watch, eagerly accepting when Matt offers her the chance to stir the bowl.

He smiles down at her as she works, and declares the cookies complete with a flourish.

It's as he's pulling out the baking paper that she realises their vital mistake.

"We forgot to add the pidge of love!" She says, ready to clamber off the counter in order to grab the mysterious ingredient that their mother adds to everything she cooks.

Matt stops and stares at her for a second before he starts to laugh.

"Yes, we definitely can't forget that!" he says, wiping away a tear before showing her how to do a sprinkling motion, adding their blessing to the mixture.

He hands her back the wooden spoon.

"Better make sure it's stirred in properly."

He grins at her and she smiles back, sweeping the spoon through the dough in the figure 8 motions their mother had taught her.

They scoop out the dough with their hands and roll it into balls between their palms. Matt hands her the spoon to lick as he leaves to ask their father to put the tray in the oven for them. He lifts her off the counter and lets her pick the TV show they watch while they wait for the cookies to be done.

It's the best birthday she's ever had.

"They look great, Pidge," Matt says when their father places the cookies on a heatproof mat, batting his children's hands away from the hot tray.

She looks at her brother and tries to raise one eyebrow the same way their mother does.

"Pidge?"

"Yeah," Matt says, ruffling her hair and laughing as she squeals, "because you're our own little 'pidge of love'. Our most important ingredient."

She smiles at him, and he grins back, a certain mischief in the quirk of his lips that she can't seem to place.

In eight years she'll be telling him she hates the nickname, a slightly embarrassing story of childhood ignorance and Matt's warped sense of humour. In ten years it'll be one of the few connections to her family and planet that she still has, and she'll hold it tight with no plan to ever let it go.

But for now her chest feels lighter than ever. A new nickname, her first dress and her favourite cookies.

Life couldn't possibly get better.

Coran looks tired.

He always does, at least to some degree. Pidge doesn’t think she's ever seen him without loss and exhaustion lingering behind his eyes.

All of them need a spa day. Sometimes it feels like the entire team is running on empty. But Coran and Allura have been fighting far longer than the paladins have. They don't have a home waiting for them when this is all over.

Sometimes Pidge can see Coran's uncertainty in the crack between his smile.

But he hides it well. He wanders over to her research as if he's been resting all day, without a care in the world. In actuality, Pidge knows he's been cleaning the castle, preparing training sessions, assisting Allura with recon and checking up on all of them and helping when he can.

She wants to tell him to go have a nap. She wants to give him something to ease the burden, even just a little.

"I found the next link in the chain," she says instead.

It's taken three days and feels like nothing. Coran still smiles like it's progress.

"Oh?" he asks. He leans forward to look at the screen over her shoulder.

"The ship Matt was on docked near the Vaekla system, and unloaded cargo before jumping into hyperspace," she says, "it's been stationed for combat ever since. The logs don't mention the prisoners, but they must have been moved around the same time as the cargo."

The one thing that seems crystal clear in all this is that the Galra value prisoners as less than worthless. They are shepherded from ship to ship in a seemingly endless chain until a more permanent prison happens to be on the ship's route.

They’re rarely listed in logs at all, and where they are there’s merely the number of prisoners and a date. She’s struggled to keep track of which group Matt is in, and the disquiet of her mind whispers that she might not even be on the right track.

"The Vaekla system, that sounds familiar," Coran says.

"It one of the biggest Galran cargo hubs on this side of the galaxy."

Coran nods and taps his finger against his chin.

"Do you know the ship they were transferred to?"

"The base has enough resources to hold prisoners for about a week at a time. I've just finished compiling a list of all the ships that went through there within a week of the prisoners arriving. I'm just about to start cross-referencing their cargo, logs and destination routes to come up with some likely candidates."

Just saying the sentence drops a weight on whatever small piece of optimism she still had going. She thinks of how little of the cross referencing can be done automatically, and the seemingly endless list of ships.

Coran just nods and pats her on the shoulder. His presence does make her feel a little better, for all that she knows he'll give her some words of encouragement before going back to his own duties.

"Well then, we'd better get started."

Coran plops down into the seat next to her and pulls up a monitor. Pidge looks at him in shock for a moment before distributing the list between them.

The time passes eons faster than it did that morning. Coran tells her a story about King Alfor and a rather forward Torian diplomat as they work, and Pidge's stomach hurts from all the laughing by the time they take a break for dinner.

The mind is such an inefficient memory storage system.

Pidge knows that she had an album of family pictures back at home. She had backups on external hard drives and CDs and physical copies stashed in just about every room.

When Matt and her Dad disappeared, she swore she would never forget them. She would never lose the family photos of them, no matter what natural disaster or piece of bad luck might strike. She knew one day she would use the photographs to find them.

She'd brought the picture of Matt with her to the Garrison and to space beyond. But she'd left the pictures of her father at home. She'd thought one photo she could pass off as coincidence, but any more would make her real identity obvious.

She'd been just paranoid enough, but in a completely unhelpful direction.

Some days she tries to picture her father's face, and she can feel her memory falter. It takes her brain minutes to construct something that resembles him, but when she tries to zoom in, to see the quirk of his cheesy grin, it blurs away to nothing.

She sees the uncanny valley whenever she tries to think hard about home.

She doesn't mean to bother Shiro on the bad days. It's not like it's a conscious thing, she'll just be getting some food goo and he'll be sitting at the table with a cup of what Coran swears sounds just like green tea. Or else she'll be training with the rest of the team, and he'll notice that the bags under her eyes have multiplied overnight.

She knows he sees what's happening, because always, without fail, he'll start talking about her family.

He never asks her about it directly, but the tales from the Kerberos mission remind her of things that have slipped her mind.

How Matt sang Lady Gaga at the top of his lungs when the world felt too heavy. Her father's habit of accidentally stealing other people's combs. The stories flesh out her family in her mind's eye, transforming them back from vague recollections into actual people.

People she can see again.

People she is going to.

Some days space seems intent to rip the past from her. To fog her memories and cloud her perspective, to block her from anything but the battles and missions and death.

But she knows that whenever she starts to forget what's important, Shiro will make sure she remembers.

Allura pulls her aside after a debriefing for another diplomatic mission. Pidge expects something to be wrong or there to be extra work to do.

Sometimes Pidge feels like she manages to accidently insult the princess every time they talk. Allura always accepts her apologies with grace, and although they've become closer over the past few months, Pidge still feels the need to hold herself back somewhat, before her tongue manages to undo all their progress.

Perhaps that's why missions and training still seem to dominate their conversations.

"What's up Allura?" she asks, already half calculating what she could accomplish for Allura before they land planetside.

"This new mission doesn't require us to wear our armour, but we will need something more formal than our regular attire. I was wondering if you'd like to borrow a dress for the occasion?"

Pidge stares at her for a moment. She's suddenly transported back to that day all those years ago. The hallway mirror, fabric whooshing around her legs and a feeling of peace she never expected to find.

Allura's face shifts with her silence.

"Of course, if you'd prefer I'm sure Coran can find you a suit-"

"No," Pidge cuts her off in her haste, "I'd love to borrow something. Thank you."

She can't keep a grin off her face. Allura returns it before leading her to her bedroom, where they spend the afternoon going through her princess-sized closet.

Allura seems to have stories about every item of clothing: tales of tall trees and impromptu play-fights that ripped holes in ball gowns; diplomatic missions to planets that may no longer exist; soft fabric for dresses worn around the castle, on days she could forgo her royal duties and just be a child.

Pidge feels a little foolish trying on dresses Allura wore when she was 10, but as soon as the fabric goes over her head she feels a sigh of relief spread through her.

The clothes she normally wears are one of the only connections to Earth she still has. But these dresses, alien as they are, remind her of another kind of home.

Allura retires to the edge of her bed and comments on each dress Pidge tries. For some she is loud and exuberant, quoting lines she's heard from the team like "walk walk fashion baby" or Altean slang that she assures is positive.

For others she can't help but laugh at the outdated buttons that apparently clash terribly by current standards and silhouettes that are unflattering in every way.

Together they create a shortlist. Then, one by one they eliminate options until a winner is found.

The dress is a deep emerald with a high neckline, finishing just below her knees. On Altea it would have been used for lunch events or as less formal day wear, but Pidge has never felt more like royalty.

The weight of the dress is comforting and familiar, and she could easily fit her bayard, along with any other useful gadgets in one of its almost-impossible-for-their-sheer-size pockets.

Allura looks at her in confusion when she discovers the pockets and promptly sticks her hands in them, twirling around with gleeful shouts of their existence.

"Of course it has pockets. What kind of dress doesn't?"

Pidge turns and stares at her with the kind of reverence that thus far has been reserved only for technology.

"Altea must have been a wonderful place."

She sees Allura smile with a far-away look in her eyes.

"Yes, it really was," she smiles at Pidge like that dress is helping keep the past alive.

Even when they're done choosing an outfit for the meeting, they continue going through the wardrobe. This time Allura joins her, pulling on gifts from diplomats of other planets and piling scarves around her neck.

Pidge laughs at the look it creates and Allura strikes a pose, prompting Pidge to do the same.

When they've finally expended every item in the closet, Allura picks up a large pile of dresses Pidge hadn't even noticed her making, and tells Pidge to lead the way back to her room.

Pidge looks at her in disbelief for a moment, but can't help the smile pulling at her lips.

"Are you sure you don't mind me wearing them?" she asks as she pushes aside the various electronics she'd stacked in the clothing-devoid closet.

"Of course, hand-me-downs are an important part of Earthen bonding," Allura grins at her, before looking slightly sheepish, "or is this like the time Lance told me that the middle finger was a sign of great admiration and respect?"

Pidge laughs at the memory, and all the healing pods Lance had to clean in punishment.

"No, that's right. Just, thank you."

Pidge isn't sure if she'll ever be able to express how much she means it. Allura just smiles at her and hefts all the dresses into her closet in one graceful motion Pidge could never hope to replicate.

Pidge is wearing one of her new dresses when she enters the lounge and gets comfy on one of the big couches. She has her laptop with her, but there's no pressing intel to translate or interpret. She fiddles with a few of her passion projects, but can't seem to focus.

Lance had greeted her when she walked in, and he's sitting on the next couch over, working on a jumper using sharpened sticks that were once part of some Altean extreme sport.

Pidge finds herself continually distracted by the soft clack of the needles.

It takes her back to when her mother would sit next to her father on the couch, knitting squares for their local charity group during family movie night. She'd always promised Pidge that she'd teach her one day.

But life was always too busy, and then Kerberos happened and family movie nights stopped. The clack of needles and any sense of life drained from their house.

She stares blankly at her laptop screen and imagines bringing her mother back a blanket, one knitted in space. She imagines knitting with her during future family movie nights. She imagines the warmth of yarn slipping through her fingers feeling like her mother's hugs.

She turns her head towards Lance and he looks up from his knitting. He grins easily at her, one eyebrow raised in an unasked question.

"Can you teach me how to knit?" she asks.

Lance lets out a happy of bark of laughter, and all but throws his needles to the side as he exclaims.

"Of course I can! You know, I am an excellent teacher."

Pidge rolls her eyes at him, but the smile that overtakes Lance's face is contagious. He ruffles her hair as he leaves to grab another pair of needles and some yarn.

Pidge's first square looks more like a dilapidated rhombus. Her second isn't much better.

But Lance just has this proud look on his face as he examines them. He weaves her tales of all the holey scarves he gave his mother for Christmas when he was small.

Pidge smiles as she casts on her third attempt.

"Hey Pidge, can I get a hand with something?"

She looks up at where Hunk is smiling at her from the entrance of the room. She'd originally come in to the lounge room to knit. The blanket she's making is almost halfway done, and she preemptively misses it whenever she works late into the night without its warmth around her shoulders.

But her laptop had sat and stared at her. Taunting her with puzzles and uncracked codes that she's never been able to resist.

Hunk's voice snaps her out of what the other's affectionately call her 'technology haze', and the laptop all but whines at her as she puts it down to follow Hunk into the hallway.

They don't seem to be following the familiar path to their joint workshop, and Pidge frowns.

"What do you need help with?"

Hunk just turns to her with a secretive grin.

"Just a little something I've been working on," he says, pausing at the end of corridor for a moment before his eyes light up in recognition and he leads them left.

Secrecy isn't like Hunk. They share information on their projects as easily as breathing, exchanging ideas with barely a need to speak. She and Hunk are the only ones on the ship to truly appreciate the intricacies of what they do, and she holds her comrade in arms in high regard.

She manages to hold her tongue for almost a minute before the curiosity gets the better of her.

"Is it problems with the real-time Galra tracker?" she asks. Hunk lets out a laugh.

"No."

"Is it time to re-scramble the communication frequencies?"

"Not for another few days."

She hums and taps a finger against her chin.

"It's not modifications to Yellow?"

"Yes."

Pidge's eyes light up and Hunk looks at her with a grin.

"It's not," he says, and picks up the pace, laughing at her grumbling.

They continue winding down the castle corridors, watching them get smaller and darker. Hunk leads her to a part of the ship she's never been before, stretching hallways of doors leading to what she assumes are guest rooms their team of seven have no use for.

Hunk seems to stop at one of them at random, but when he flicks his wrist to open the door, it asks for a passcode. As if it were the armoury, or the keeper of a great secret.

When the door opens Pidge can see a faint glow emitting from the room. She takes in the mass of contraptions taking over half the floorspace, all leading up to a projection of a familiar start-up screen.

Killbot Phantasm 1 gazes back at her.

Her eyes are fixed on the game she's spent months trying and failing to play. A grin takes over her face and she swears she starts to tear up a little.

"I was thinking maybe later I could get some help carrying it up to one of the larger common rooms," Hunk says, as she stares at the screen in a daze, "but for now do you want to try multiplayer?"

Pidge takes the offered controller and asks herself how she ever got so lucky.

"Oh it's on," she says. Hunk cheers and presses start.

Pidge is seriously considering just snuggling down and sleeping in the cold, hard metal of her chair.

Her bed feels light-years away, an insurmountable distance. Her limbs ache at the thought and her mind lies, tells her that surely if she just lets her eyes drift shut, she'll be able to muster up the energy to make the journey. Just five minutes is all she'll need.

The part of her brain that's holding the fort together, that's somehow still functioning after 12 hours piloting her lion and running through Galra battlecruisers and three days before that working around the clock to decode the intel for this stealth mission, feels like this information is somehow sketchy. But she can't gather enough evidence to refute it.

She's just starting to sink into sweet, sweet rest when someone grabs her wrists and hoists them over their shoulders. After a jostle, she can feel hands under her legs securing her in place, pressed up against someone's back.

Then, despite any effort on her part, she's moving.

Pidge musters the last of her energy to pry open her eyes. Apparently the thing scratching her nose is actually long, black hair.

"Thanks Keith," she says, some part of her feeling their slow, lumbered movements and reminding her that Keith must be almost as tired as she is.

Or maybe not, the way he pulls his arms to boost her further up his back, and the smile she can hear when he says "No problem Pidge."

Her mind marks her current situation as ‘safe’ and resumes its descent into slumber. Just as she's about to slip away, Pavlovian conditioning pulls a final phrase from her lips.

"You're my favourite brother."

Keith pauses, and Pidge sluggishly realises that there was something unusual about that statement.

She's said it a thousand times, whenever Matt would give her the remote without a fight, or team up with her in Trivial Pursuit, or when the night got late and he'd piggyback her to her room, a million worlds away but exactly like this.

Every time Matt's response was exactly the same:

"I'll call it an achievement when I'm not the only one you've got."

It looks like he may have to start doing just that.

Or not, because apparently Keith has swept the title out from under him.

And part of Pidge wants to cry, because it feels like every day her Earth family drifts further and further away. And part of her wants to laugh as she tries to imagine the look on her mother's face when she introduces her to her new uncle and sister and four new brothers. Because she has to believe that one day she'll bring her families together.

Even if her team never consider her family back.

They're still standing in the middle of the hallway, when an indignant shout comes from far away, reverberating down the castle corridors at a much higher decibel than the late hour would warrant.

"Keith is your favourite brother? I bought you a video game!"

The voice is easily identifiable as Lance's, and Pidge can imagine him in his pyjamas, half a face mask applied, his features pulled into put-on disgust.

"Yeah, well I set it up!" comes a deep voice from even further in the ship. Hunk's deep tones betray far more humour than Lance's, and Lance squawks.

"I taught you how to knit!"

"I helped you decode 20 million lines of cargo logs!"

Pidge can almost see Hunk's teasing smile and Lance's over-exaggerated hand movements.

"The point is: your favourite brother is Keith?!" Lance yells in indignation.

A laugh is ripped from of Pidge's throat, and it mingles with laughter coming from Keith before drifting back down the hallway. It's answered by two over the top declarations of future retribution sent Keith's way.

When Keith drops her off at her door, she hugs him tight as she wishes him goodnight. His cheeks are red and wet, but a smile threatens to overtake his face as he returns the hug, his arms gentle but firm around her shoulders.

Then she's in her room, kicking off her shoes but otherwise letting nothing distract her from the sweet comfort of her bed. She pulls the blankets up to her neck and lets herself snuggle into the warmth which seems to be emanating from her heart.

And perhaps it's been building up over months, but it still hits her with surprising clarity.

For the first time, the Castleship truly feels like home.