#but if i trace it back to at least my earliest memory of this - in the grand scheme of things it’s only getting worse

[insomnia-productions]

.

[x0x0josephinex0x0]

Best part, seokjin bts, mutual pining pls 🫶🏼

A/N: ok bestie this combo……I’m in love. With you and the idea. Thanks for the request, I hope you like it!!

GN! Reader x Kim Seokjin, mentions of alcohol and drinking, drunk kiss, Christmastime?? Not proofread. Sorry!!

Your eyelids flutter open gently to a room flooded with the white-gold light of morning. Everything is as you left it last night — your head is still resting on your arms at the coffee table, your purse and coat are still on the floor, a few empty bottles of various types of alcohol are still littering the counter, and Kim Seokjin is still curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

And as you look at him -- messy black hair falling over his forehead, big eyes shut, those perfect lips parted ever so slightly in a dream -- you know that no amount of alcohol could erase last night from your memory.

Nothing had happened. Nothing ever really happened between you and Seokjin, but for the past six months, all of that nothing had started to feel awfully like something. That was the earliest you could trace back the phenomena of Seokjin being the first thought in your head when you woke up, which had started as an occasional thing and had progressed into an everyday one.

Before then, Seokjin had been just another member of your friend group, a tight-knit squad of varying careers and interests who'd all been friends since college. You'd always liked him -- he was smart and kind and funny, always willing to participate in any of the antics of other members of the group and always making sure everyone was taken care of -- but it hadn't got beyond that until Christmastime.

Specifically, the Christmas Dance Battle Challenge.

This yearly tradition was one of your absolute least favorite parts of Christmas with your friends. You were decidedly not a dancer, but you played along because you saw how happy it made your other friends. The rules were simple: on December 1st, each person draws a number, and whoever draws the same number is their partner. Each number coincides with a song, which is the song the two of you have to learn the dance for by the time of the annual Christmas Eve-Eve (two days before Christmas) party. There would be a group vote after everyone had performed, and the winning pair got a prize -- usually a gift card each and a bottle of wine -- that the rest of the group had to pitch in to buy.

So, on December 1st, you had gathered. You had drawn #2 with Seokjin, and the song had been Bite Me by New Jeans. And the two of you had met up the next day to discuss "the strategy", which was what Seokjin had called it, clueing you into something you didn't realize about him: Seokjin was competitive.

"Alright," he'd said, pacing in front of you like a general in front of his troops right before battle. "This year I have it on good authority that the prize will be a gift card to my favorite restaurant, and I have to defend my winning title from last year, so this has to be good. How confident are you?"

"Uhhh..." you'd stuttered, and Seokjin had paused in front of you to flick your forehead lightly. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Now is not the time for insecurities," he'd told you. "You hold yourself back from true greatness every year, I've watched you. But you have amazing potential. And now, I will be the one who releases this butterfly from their cocoon."

He was speaking seriously, and yet there was a way that his mouth turned up at the corners that made you realize that it was mostly an act. So you'd grinned at him hesitantly, and he'd clapped. "That's the spirit! Now, I need to know your schedule so I can put together a rehearsal timeline."

You'd practiced twice a week with Seokjin, and his positive encouragement meant that your dancing skills improved markedly during that time. And you were also enjoying getting to know Seokjin, whose goofy humor and gentle teasing eased your normally-anxious mind. He calmed you, and brought out a more energetic, less timid side of you that you didn't even know existed. Being around him was as easy as breathing. In time, you even found it within you to tease him back as you learned the moves to the dance. Things were going so well.

And then, the "dress rehearsal" on December 17th.

Only a minute in to the practice, Seokjin paused the music. "I swear I didn't mess it up, Seokjin," you growled at him, "and I know, because I made a point to flick my foot specifically like you said --"

"That's not it," he complained, stopping your words with a finger. "There's not enough passion."

“Huh?” you said.

He strode over to you, stopping well inside your personal space bubble and looking down at you. “Do you think I’m handsome?” he asked you.

Your eyes had gotten wide and you’d blushed. “You -- what?”

“Answer the question,” he’d said with a half-smile and an eyebrow raised.

“Well, of course,” you’d stammered. Because he was -- tall and broad-shouldered, confident and self-assured, with that sardonic smile and those eyes that were as sweet and warm as the caramel cinnamon syrup you liked in your coffee. You’d always known he was handsome, but it wasn’t until this moment that you’d realized just how beautiful he was. He was perfect, really.

“So, why do you act like you’re scared to touch me?” he asked you, amused.

Unbeknownst to you, Seokjin was fighting to keep his very real frustration out of his voice. Because for the past month you’d been teasing him without even realizing it. He was addicted to your secret humor, admired the way you were so thoughtful and considerate to your shared group of friends, and couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty you were. He’d been feeling this way since you’d met, secretly praying every year that you’d get partnered up for the dance competition, but only this year had the prayer been answered. And while it had been thrilling so far -- Seokjin was learning there was almost no line he wouldn’t cross to hear your laugh, especially when it was because of him -- he was also discouraged at the lack of real progress. His first concern was that if he said anything to you about his feelings, you’d be too polite to turn him down, and he hated to put you in a situation like that -- but he’d started to wonder, with all the times he caught you staring, if he might have more hope than he started with.

So it was time for him to take hold of his destiny, he supposed. When he wrapped an arm around your waist, you gasped a little, and Seokjin had to grit his teeth to keep himself from becoming a giggling mess. He pulled you gently into him. “Have you ever danced with a man before?” he asked you.

Blushing furiously, you shook your head no. He nodded, lifting one of your hands in his own. “Follow my lead,” he’d said, and with your hips touching, he waltzed you around the room.

You were surprised at how quickly you were able to relax into his arms, especially because your whole body felt tingly and electric where it met with his skin. Seokjin led you through a short waltz that had the whole room spinning treacherously around you, forcing you to look at him. His eyes seemed to swallow you whole in their warmth, and there was something unspoken and magnetic in them that threatened to overwhelm you. Finally, he slowed to a stop, but didn’t let go of you. “Feel that?” he asked in a whisper, his eyes searching your face.

You swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

He let go of you then, taking a step back. The sudden distance between the two of you left you feeling a bit cold, and you shivered. “That’s the energy we need to channel,” he said, turning away from you -- because this was the only way he knew how not to kiss you when you looked at him like that.

The rest of the practice had gone smoothly, but that was the first night you dreamed of Seokjin. And the first morning you woke up thinking of him. Little did you know, he was waking up that same morning thinking of you, too.

And you’d won the dance contest, without much of a competition. “I didn’t know you had that in you,” your friends had told you. “I mean, the chemistry?”

“Thanks,” you’d said, meeting eyes with Seokjin and blushing. “I had a really good partner.”

You’d assume things would go back to normal -- back to how they were before -- but Seokjin still texted you every day, just about different things. You ended up at his apartment a couple times without any of your other friends present, all for regular friendly activities like movies and video game nights, and he’d never made a move, always the picture of manners and thoughtfulness. And you had fun together, laughing more than you’d ever laughed with anyone. But the feelings that had awakened when he was standing so near to you had only grown, resulting in every morning being flooded with memories of him -- his smile, the smell of him, even the goofy pajamas he wore on occasion when you’d come over.

You hadn’t told him anything about this for several reasons. The main one was of course that you were friends now, and whatever else existed between you, you really enjoyed being around him. The fear that all of that would evaporate like a stray bit of smoke was 90% of the reason you stayed silent.

The other 10% was that you knew if you let yourself fall for him, there was a possibility that it wouldn’t work out, and you weren’t entirely sure how you’d survive that level of heartbreak.

So you’d let it be what it was for six whole months — from December to June, you had ached for Kim Seokjin in the same way as a carefully concealed wound. Sometimes, if you moved a certain way, it hurt worse — like during movie nights when his arm extended over the back of the sofa, but never quite around your shoulders. And sometimes it was barely there, like in late hours of the night when your quiet conversations had fizzled out and you were sitting in comfortable silence together. But still it remained, becoming clear to you at some indistinguishable moment that it wasn’t ever going to go away.

And then yesterday the call had come. “Hey,” he’d said. “What are your evening plans?”

“I’m pretty open. Why?” You hated the way your heart took off at the question, but it was hard when he phrased it in such a date-like way.

“Did you use your gift card?” he asked, referring to the one you’d both won as the prize for the dance competition.

“No, I didn’t.” You waited.

“We should go there tonight,” Seokjin recommended. “I can pick you up. Is seven okay?”

The whole day had been a terrible waiting game. The hours crawled by at a sloth’s pace, refusing to show much progress no matter how often you checked your watch. You’d gotten ready at 5, and it had somehow taken you only a half hour, so you were stuck waiting for another hour and a half before the knock finally came at your apartment door.

When you opened it, your jaw dropped. He looked like a prince in a blue suit with a crisp white shirt, his hair pushed up off his forehead. He’d held out the bouquet in his hands. “Um, hello,” he said, an endearing nervousness coloring his tone. “You look…really nice.”

You’d tucked a stray hair behind your ear with a jittery hand. “Thanks,” you’d replied. “Why the flowers?”

“Oh,” he’d said, like he’d just remembered them, although he was still holding them out to you. “They’re a thank you. For helping me win.”

“You really didn’t have to,” you said, taking them from him. “I had a lot of fun with you. And I’m glad we were able to get closer because of it.”

Was that a hint of a blush on his cheeks?

But he simply smiled, offering you his arm. “Let’s go.”

And dinner had turned into drinks, which had turned into drunk Seokjin. He was similar to regular Seokjin, just louder and less filtered, and though you were tipsy yourself, you knew better than to let him try and get home on his own. Not knowing what else to do, you’d brought him back to your place, letting him down gently onto the couch.

“Hey,” he’d said in a scolding tone as you stood up to stumble into your own bed. “Why are you leaving me?”

“It’s okay,” you told him. “You’re at my place. You’re safe.”

He’d reached up, then — and on your wobbly legs it was impossible to resist his surprisingly strong grip. You fell right into his lap, your hands finding purchase on the fabric of his shirt, and he wrapped his arms around your waist. He spent only a second looking at your stunned face through hazy eyes, admiring the tint of pink the alcohol lent to your nose and cheeks and the way your brows knit so adorably in nerves and worry, before he leaned in closer and pressed a soft, slow, entirely overwhelming kiss to your lips.

You couldn’t help it. You twisted your fingers around his shirt and returned the kiss, knowing with a pang of agony that this could be the one and only chance you had. You tried to say everything you couldn’t put into words with the kiss, caressing his face with the hand not holding his shirt and finally allowing yourself to feel all the feelings you’d been hopelessly trying to ignore that grew stronger and stronger the longer your lips were locked. The kiss cemented Seokjin firmly into his position as the first person you could ever remember loving like this.

And then he was the first to pull away. He frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to do that while drunk. Wanted it to be more…romantic. Special. But…”

“Yeah?” you’d whispered.

He’d fixed you with a bleary gaze. “If you love me, won’t you say something?”

And then he’d fallen asleep.

You watch him now — the sunlight turning his brown hair slightly auburn, the soothing rhythm of his breathing. And you know you’ll need to talk when he wakes up. But for right now, you let yourself reach across the short distance to move his waves off his face so you can see him better. “Beautiful,” you whisper.

As you let your hand drop, his hand shoots up to your wrist. “Hmm?” he hums at you, blinking awake. “What was that?”

Your heart is beating in your throat, but you know you have to ask. “What do you remember from last night?”

He closes one eye to try and focus. Then he realizes. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

“No really,” he says, sitting up. “That…shouldn’t have happened the way it did.”

And you’re not sure what he means by that, but it’s almost to the point that you don’t even care anymore. So you shake your head and take your hand in his, preparing to be the boldest you’ve ever been in your life.

“Seokjin, you should know...that when you hold me, and kiss me slowly, it’s the sweetest thing.”

His jaw drops. And you continue, “I’ve felt this way forever. And all of the time we spent together has only made it worse. Because no matter what we’re doing, you’re the best part.”

You wait for him to respond, but he seems lost for words. Finally he chokes out, “you’re the sunshine of my life.”

Your face splits into a massive grin. “You want coffee, babe?” you ask him.

“You’re the only coffee I need,” he replies, looking at you like one looks at the stars — awed and reverent and overwhelmed all at once

[comicaurora]

Sorry if this is a weird question but how long did it take for you to start making art you felt was good enough, at least at the time? I have a lot of ideas for projects I want to make but I'm slowed down by not quite being at a level I'm happy with for professional endeavours. Wondering if I should quit while I'm ahead and just hire an artist I like.

Hoo. Good question.

It's hard to keep track of, honestly. I think every artist is going to feel a degree of "this could be better" about anything they make, and if that's all you're keeping track of it can feel like no progress is being made - but in hindsight, I think "this could be better" means a lot of different things, and what it means for my work has changed over time.

One of my earliest art-related memories is having a very clear image in my head of a pencil sketch I wanted to make (a family portrait of some wizards, a mom and dad flanking a young daughter) and then being immensely frustrated that what I produced was a pale, inexpert shadow of that image. The starting point I was at was "this doesn't look right and I don't know why," and I stayed there for a long time, even as I got overall better.

The first time I remember trying and failing to emulate a specific cartoon style, it was the manga Steam Detectives - I'd mostly been exposed to newspaper comics and scientific illustration, so I had never seen that sharp-angled straight-lined manga style before. There was a liveliness to it I couldn't capture, and that frustrated me. At this point I could see what was wrong, but couldn't yet correct it - my unconfident pencil sketching wasn't going to produce the same kind of three-dimensionality and flow as the brush strokes used in the, in the same way that a traced figure can look strangely odd and off-balance because it's only mimicking the outlines. At this point I'd hit "this doesn't look right and I know why, but I'm not sure how to fix it."

At that point, practice was kind of the only solution - unconfident linework can only be improved by honing the muscle memory and confidence of the artist, which I didn't know at the time or do on purpose but ended up happening anyway, especially once I got going on the channel and was regularly doing dozens to hundreds of drawings per project.

I do remember the first time I thought "oh, that's actually better than I expected" - I had broken my clavicle and my right arm was in a sling, and my art teacher encouraged me to try drawing something with my left instead. I am very much not ambidextrous and my lines were spidery and shaky, but when I stepped back at the end, the thing I'd tried to sketch - a portrait of a regal-looking elf man - actually wasn't too bad. The muscle memory in my right hand was completely absent from my left, but apparently my basic understanding of shapes and shadows had come through and made something that got across the gist of what I wanted. That was the first time I felt "this doesn't look right, but I already knew that, and what it does do is actually pretty solid."

At some point in the process of cranking out channel illustrations, and later chibi character commissions, without even noticing I hit a baseline level of confidence in what I was doing. Certain things got easier because I was doing them a lot more. I stopped thinking about whether a facial expression was communicating exactly what I wanted it to, stopped spending long stretches of time trying to refine poses - because in those specific areas I was no longer experiencing "this doesn't look right and I don't know why." I'd draw a face, realize it could look angrier, redraw the eyes and brows to be angrier, then move on. I'd block out a pose, decide the leg didn't look right, redraw it, line it and move on. It wasn't that I was nailing everything first try, it's that I'd had enough time and practice to quickly diagnose what wasn't working and quickly try something else to correct it.

Instead, I was thinking "this doesn't look right and I don't know why" about other things. Trees, buildings, figure shading, fire, water, metal textures. I still didn't feel ready to do the comic in earnest, but I'd started doing digital illustrations of the characters and mock-up pages/covers, and I kept finding problems in the composition. It didn't look right and I didn't know why. If I didn't know why, I couldn't fix it. A lot of that process boiled down to redrawing stuff until it managed to look right, then trying to reverse-engineer what had worked about that. I'd accidentally draw the most perfect torso and try to figure out what magic combination of lines had made that work. And again, it was a slow process, almost unnoticeable from my perspective, because I just gradually stopped worrying so much about unsolvable artistic problems because the solutions had just arisen with practice and experience. The background looks wack - it's probably under-shaded, darken some corners to make it match the foreground. This texture looks off - probably needs some particle effects to help give it detail. Etc etc.

At present, I very rarely think "this doesn't look right and I don't know why." I still have moments of "this doesn't look right" - almost constantly, probably - but they aren't noteworthy because I've had enough practice improvising solutions that it turns into a brief experimental phase before I fix whatever was bugging me and move on. It doesn't mean it's perfect, it just means whatever problems or places it could be improved are either subjective choices that are fine either way, or small mistakes I don't notice at the time. The process of error-correction and bug-fixing becomes quick and painless enough that I hardly think about how I used to spend ages agonizing over something that was wrong that I couldn't make look right.

The point I eventually got to could probably be best described as "I could make this better if I wanted - do I want to do that?"

Making a comic like this, it's very important for me to consider the value of pouring too much into any one page. If I vastly overdesign anything, I'm going to need to keep up that level of design every time it shows up. If I drew every forest shot by hand-drawing every single tree I'd never get anything done. If something looks off and I know the solution would be more detailing and more texturing, sometimes I'll do that - filigree and particles and all that good sauce - but sometimes I'll just try a few things until I find a shortcut that makes it look fine to my eyes. Art can always be more polished, so that's not really a metric for completeness or ready-ness - I really do think the most helpful metric is whether you're regularly struggling because you can see something is wrong but you can't figure out what. If you consistently know what's wrong - or, more accurately and less judgmentally, what could be polished if you wanted to polish it - you're probably in a pretty good spot.

[master-sass-blast]

Down the River -The Hands that Heal, Part Fifteen.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five: Chapter One, Part Five: Chapter Two, Part Five: Chapter Three, Part Six: Chapter One, Part Six: Chapter Two, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen

Summary:

“Did your aversion to public displays of affection and planning dates end those relationships?” When you nod, Chinatsu kicks back in her seat. She stares at the city skyline for a moment, then folds her hands over her stomach. “What’s your strongest, earliest memory as it relates to your sexuality?”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.” You lean forward and brace your elbows against the table. “I’ve done trauma recovery work and spoken with patients; I know that the stronger the memory is, and the earlier in life it is, the more formative it is for how you feel and respond to things. But what keeps coming to mind doesn’t have anything to do with my relationships or sexuality!”

“Let’s investigate it anyway,” Chinatsu says. “What comes to mind?”

You can practically feel your body try to shut down. Everything goes numb; the early fall breeze doesn’t feel like it’s catching on your skin anymore. It’s almost like something inside you separates from the outer shell of your body. You swallow hard, then force yourself to speak. “It’s when I came out to my parents.”

aka talking about feelings and trauma is hard, part two.

Pairing(s): Lin Beifong x Reader.

Rating: T for emotional trauma and trauma processing, specifically focused on queer identity.

Word count: 9.2k.

“You don’t need to make a big deal out of this!”

…

You can hear birds chirping outside. The residents in the apartment next door are awake; it sounds like they’re making breakfast. You can hear the clatter of dishes and muted chatter through the adjoining wall.

There’s a crack on the ceiling of your bedroom. It’s been painted over, but the break still shows through. It looks like a river cutting through a ravine. You know every inch of that crack. You’ve stared at it on countless groggy mornings and sleepless nights.

Your alarm clock went off ten minutes ago. It’s another day at the physical therapy clinic. You need to get up so you can shower before heading off to work.

You blink when the sound of something hitting the floor –followed by light swearing–emanates through the wall. Sounds messy.

Your alarm clock went off ten minutes ago. You need to get up.

Your eyes trace over the crack in the ceiling. If you let your mind wander far enough, you can envision yourself floating down the imaginary river. You can almost feel the coolness of the water against your skin. The strength of the current beneath your body.

You need to get up.

Your body feels like lead. Despite sleeping adequately, your mind feels like it’s full of fog.

You stare up at the crack on the ceiling. You inhale deeply, then breathe out slowly.

You can feel the water dragging you under its surface.

Get up.

You force yourself to sit up. You stare at the floor for several minutes without really seeing it. Then –finally–you get up from your bed and walk to your phone. “I need to place a call to Northern Moon Physical Therapy Center.” You sag against the wall, gazing off into space while the operator places the call. Your mind drifts to nowhere, filling with the crackle of quiet static. Your body almost goes numb; it’s like you’ve been disconnected from your body, and now part of you is drifting away on some invisible current–

“Northern Moon Physical Therapy Center, how can I help you?”

You flinch, blinking rapidly, then clear your throat and identify yourself to the receptionist. “I need to call in sick today. I think I might’ve caught a bug.”

The receptionist –a sweet young woman named Li-Na–hums sympathetically. “I’ll let management know. Feel better soon.”

You thank her in a mumble of words, then hang up. Alright, at least that’s taken care of.

You’ve got a day to rest. A day to recuperate inside your apartment. A day to stay inside, by yourself, just staring off into space…

You pick up the phone and ask the operator to place another call. When the line picks up, you ask, “Hey, can I take you to lunch today?”

…

The world feels like it’s on lowered volume. Nothing sounds as clear or looks as bright. The chatter from midday shoppers is just a muddy mess. The gently swaying multicolored flags that hang up in Yangchen Plaza are distant blurs.

And I didn’t even get hungover for this, you think absently. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your blouse. What a damn shame.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

You flinch, caught off guard, then look up as Chinatsu sits down across from you. “Oh. Hi. It’s alright.”

She pauses halfway into her seat. She studies you for a long moment, then slowly finishes sitting. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You swallow hard, then force yourself to nod. “I’m alright.”

Her mouth twists into a disbelieving frown –but then a waiter materializes next to your table, distracting both of you. Once your orders have been taken, she returns the full brunt of her laser-focused attention to you. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Your voice trails off as you try –and fail–to find the words to explain the mess of muck in your mind. You smile, sardonic, and laugh softly. “I mean, nothing, I guess.”

“Right,” she drawls, expression flatly unconvinced. She adjusts the collar of her tweed blazer, then arches one eyebrow at you. “So, you wanted to have lunch and talk about the weather?”

You blanch. “I –I don’t want you to think that I’m… that I’m just using you for your expertise–”

“What are friends for?” She waves one hand dismissively. “You’re buying me lunch. It’s fine. Why do you look like someone killed your dog?”

You grimace and stare down at the table. “Uh… relationship troubles, I guess.”

Chinatsu nods. “Same lady?” When you nod, she nods again. “What’s the scope of things this time?”

“I… We’re together.” You smile, but it quickly slips away. “The problem’s on my end this time. She pointed out that I’m not very affectionate in public. And that I don’t really initiate a lot of dates. It’s making her feel like I don’t want to be seen with her.”

Chinatsu drums her fingers against the tabletop. She considers, then shrugs. “Not everyone’s comfortable with PDA. And not everyone is a planner.”

“But she’s right,” you insist. Your eyes start watering, and you have to take a deep breath before you can continue. “This isn’t exactly… new to me. It’s come up in past relationships.”

“Did your aversion to public displays of affection and planning dates end those relationships?” When you nod, Chinatsu kicks back in her seat. She stares at the city skyline for a moment, then folds her hands over her stomach. “Not to be nosy, but did you ever experience an instance of sexual abuse or assault?” When you shake your head, she nods. “What’s your strongest, earliest memory as it relates to your sexuality?”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.” You lean forward and brace your elbows against the table. “I’ve done trauma recovery work and spoken with patients; I know that the stronger the memory is, and the earlier in life it is, the more formative it is for how you feel and respond to things. But what keeps coming to mind doesn’t have anything to do with my relationships or sexuality!”

“Let’s investigate it anyway,” Chinatsu says. “What comes to mind?”

You can practically feel your body try to shut down. Everything goes numb; the early fall breeze doesn’t feel like it’s catching on your skin anymore. It’s almost like something inside you separates from the outer shell of your body. You swallow hard, then force yourself to speak. “It’s when I came out to my parents.”

Chinatsu blinks, then cocks her head to one side and stares flatly at you. She paraphrases you, “‘Doesn’t have anything to do with your sexuality.’”

“Not –not like this!” you sputter. “It doesn’t have anything to do with romantic relationships or dating!”

“It’s fine.” She waves one hand dismissively. “How did they react to you coming out?”

“My mom was supportive.”

Chinatsu nods slowly. “Was your father in the picture?”

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

Your throat constricts. You shrug and look away from her. “He was himself.”

“Did he disown you?” When you shake your head, she presses further. “Did he assault you –verbally or physically?”

“Tui and La, no!” you reply with a vehement frown and shake of your head. “No –no, he would never. He’d cut off his own hands before he raised one to me –or my mother!”

“Okay, good.” Chinatsu drums her fingers against the wrought metal table top. “I’m assuming he rejected you –or, at least, made you feel rejected.”

The addendum catches you flat-footed –because, no, he didn’t reject you. Not in so many words, at least, you reflect as your chest goes tight with pain. You look down, avoiding your friend’s intense, all-seeing gaze. But we can’t always help what we feel, regardless of what actually happened.

“I heard you the first time.”

Chinatsu watches you while you struggle in silence. When it’s apparent you’re not going to offer any new information, she leans forward in her chair. “Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But, I do have a question, if that’s alright?” When you nod, she continues. “So, I’m gathering that you agree that you have an issue with being distant in relationships, especially in public settings. What do you see as the source of that anxiety?”

You frown, perplexed, and look up to meet her gaze. “Anxiety?”

“Admittedly, it’s a supposition on my part,” she concedes with a shrug. “But, from what I can gather, you aren’t coming across like you don’t enjoy physical affection at all, or that you don’t see the point of dates.” She pauses, but when you don’t answer, she adjusts her glasses and keeps going. “To me, it reads like you have an aversion to public displays of affection. Generally, aversion is driven by discomfort, distaste, or anxiety,” she explains, ticking off each item on her fingers. “Everything you’ve been telling me –in my opinion–points towards anxiety.” She lowers her hand, then studies your face before asking, “So, in your view of yourself, where do you see that anxiety coming from?”

Your face scrunches up in confusion. “What, like…” Your gaze flits across the plaza, as though you’ll find an answer written on a storefront sign. “Like trauma?”

“Could be,” Chinatsu agrees with a nod. “Or it could be a negative belief system –something that tells you whatever you’re doing is bad, or dangerous, or wrong.”

Something heavy tugs at your gut. You fold your arms over your torso to try and abate it, but it only grows heavier. More uncomfortable. You swallow hard, then shift in your seat.

“Are you okay?”

You nod without thinking about it. “Yeah. Just…” Your teeth fuss at the inside of your bottom lip. “I mean, the Water tribes aren’t necessarily the most open-minded. Queerness isn’t a bad thing, but you’re not supposed to be open about it. I guess…” You roll your shoulders to try to relax your neck (not that it works). “I guess I’m always worried about making everyone else uncomfortable… with… all of it.” You look back up at Chinatsu. “Is that enough?”

“Of course, it is.” She waves one hand dismissively. “This is about your perceptions of yourself and the world around you. Anything can be enough.”

“But –it’s not like I got attacked. Or sexually assaulted.”

“Devastation according to legal or social code really isn’t the point,” Chinatsu explains while shaking her head. She pauses when a waiter brings you both your meals, smiles and says thank you, then waits for the waiter to move out of earshot before resuming. “Trauma isn’t just about things society deems as obviously traumatic. I mean –how many patients have seen you because they hurt themselves doing mundane chores?”

“I’ll do you one better,” you fire back, grinning for the first time since you sat down. “A majority of people throw their back out by sneezing.”

“Spirits, that’s terrifying.” Chinatsu picks up her chopsticks and mixes together her noodles, steamed vegetables, and Komodo chicken. “But, the point stands: injuries aren’t only caused by catastrophic events or abuse. It’s the same with psychological trauma.”

You nod to yourself slowly. You pick up your spoon –but freeze before you stir up your Southern-style Sea Prune stew. “How do I get over this?”

Chinatsu snorts. “Not that easy. You’ve seen how long physical trauma lasts. It depends on the person, the inciting incidents, what treatments are used–”

You let out a dejected sigh. “Figures it wouldn’t be that easy.”

She pauses, then reaches across the table and places one hand on yours. “Hey.” When you look up, she offers you a reassuring smile. “It can get better, okay? I’d recommend therapy –obviously–but in lieu of that, try journaling or talking with someone you trust.” She retracts her hand, then gestures to you. “It’s evident to me that whatever’s causing all this distress is pretty deeply rooted, so doing things to filter it out should help make things clearer.”

You manage a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

…

You have five days until Lin’s supposed to stop by for dinner. Five days to process through whatever bullshit has you all clogged up about romantic relationships so that you can present it to your girlfriend in a coherent enough fashion, in hopes that she doesn’t just dump your emotionally constipated ass and find someone better.

You swallow hard, press down the churning in your stomach, then open up the journal you’d purchased after your lunch with Chinatsu. Alright. Stream of consciousness. Let’s do this. You uncap your pen and stare down at the faintly lined page.

Nothing comes.

You inhale deeply, then put the date in the top right corner of the page. Maybe that’ll help.

It doesn’t.

You spend at least five minutes staring at the empty page, trying to think of something –anything–to write. Your brain feels like it’s turned to lead. When was the last time you even thought of a full, coherent sentence? Were you ever truly capable? Well, it doesn’t matter now, seeing how your damn brain has decided to be a useless glob of shit.

You flop back against your sofa and let out a frustrated groan. How can this be hard? It’s just writing about my feelings!

Maybe it’s your memory that’s at issue here. After all, you still can’t see the connection between your father and your problems in your romantic life. To you, it just doesn’t add up.

Granted, it’s not a pleasant memory. It’s one of those recollections that you keep deeply buried, beneath countless layers of repression and denial.

God, I was so terrified, you reflect with a grim smile. I thought I was going to throw up.

Your mother was wonderfully supportive when you came out to your parents. She’d smiled warmly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and taken your face in her hands. She’d wiped the tears off your cheeks and assured you that, of course, she’d always love you no matter what.

And your father…

It’s strange, how emotion warps memories. The scene playing out in your mind’s eye switches between being in suffocating black and white, or being painfully bright, like staring directly into the sun.

The kitchen in your parents’ home feels too small. You feel like a giant crammed into a closet –like in a book you read as a child where a girl, upon being transported to a magical realm, grew twenty times her size after eating enchanted cookies.

The instinct to hunch over under the weight of your father’s indifference still holds strong today. You have to forcibly straighten up and relax your shoulders and neck.

It’s disorienting to the point of nausea –you still feel too big to fit in the room (too big to properly breathe), but under your father’s state you feel no more than an inch high. He towers over you, somehow miles away despite sitting at the table next to you.

You think that maybe he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he didn’t understand. Either way, he still hasn’t said anything, and you’re going to throw up or pass out –or both–if he keeps silent. You swallow hard, knees shaking, and tell him the news again–

You jerk out of your reverie with a grief-stricken sob. You clamp one hand over your mouth, body trembling as panic washes over you. You draw down a breath as deep as you can, then lunge for your journal and scrawl out a single sentence.

Why do I always have to make myself small?

You cap your pen, all but fling it onto your coffee table, then drop your face into your hands before bursting into tears.

…

“Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply, blink, then return your attention to Amaruq. “Yeah. Sorry. Spaced out for a minute.”

She seems none too convinced. She leans against the table in the breakroom and tucks a client folder under her arm. “Are you sure? You went ashen for a minute.” When you purse your lips, she pulls out a chair and sits down. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” You quirk your mouth to one side and shrug. “Dealing with some stuff.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you need to talk about it?”

You nearly say “no” –it’s reflexive–but stop just before you can shake your head. Maybe… maybe it would help. Amaruq grew up in the Northern Water tribe, too. She’d understand the culture.

Besides, Chinatsu told you to talk to someone about it; if you talk to Amaruq, you can actually say you’ve done that much.

“Uh…” You swallow hard, then nod. “Yeah, actually. If you’re okay with that.”

“Of course.” She sets the closed folder on the table, then sits back in her chair and folds her hands over her lap. “What’s going on?” She cocks her head to one side for a moment and studies you for a moment. Then, her eyes widen; she glances around the breakroom, then leans towards you once she’s certain there’s no one nearby. “Is it –is it the incident?”

You shake your head. “No. No, it’s not that. It’s–” You have to swallow again when nausea suddenly overtakes you; your stomach churns, and you can feel a cold sweat break out across your back and the nape of your neck. You breathe deeply through your nose, then let it out through your mouth. You flick a glance around the room to make sure no one’s within earshot –aside from Amaruq, of course–then murmur, “It’s queer stuff.”

“Oh.” Amaruq blinks a few times. Then, her brows furrow together. “Is it Lin?”

“I mean… not really?” You shrug when she motions for you to continue. “It’s… it’s more me than her.”

Amaruq nods, expression heavy with contemplation. “Okay.”

“You–” You grit your teeth when another wave of nausea crests over you. “You grew up in the tribe. You –you know how things are.”

Understanding settles over Amaruq’s features. She nods slowly, emphatically, and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Your knee bounces up and down beneath the table. You lean forward, arms braced against your stomach to try and ease the nervous tension coiled there. “I mean–” You let out a hollow, breathless laugh. “We’re lucky. We could’ve grown up in the Earth Kingdom. Or Ba Sing Se, specifically.”

“There are places where it’s worse,” Amaruq agrees with a sage nod. She purses her lips, expression strained. “But I don’t think many people really consider…” She swallows hard, tucks her tongue against the inside of her lower lip, then sighs. “They don’t think about what it’s like if you’re just expected to stay in the closet your whole life.”

It’s like someone cut the strings holding you up. You slump forward, managing to brace your chin against your palm. “Yeah.” You manage a wan smile and arch one eyebrow at her. “We won’t go to jail for it. Or be killed for it. And it seems like once those bars are cleared, the world stops caring.”

“They do,” Amaruq agrees. She stares down at the table, gaze distant, then smiles faintly. “I had the hardest adjustment when I moved here. I was so used to being… overly discreet, I guess. I was so shocked at how open everyone is here about their sexuality.”

“As a rule, yeah.” You laugh. “It’s almost like they’re being rude, right?”

“Exactly!” Amaruq’s eyes widen. “It seems so… so socially unaware!”

“It’s like you’re forcing everyone else to watch!”

“That’s how I felt!” She leans back in her seat again and smiles, equal parts nostalgic and pained. “I learned how to get past it –how to be more comfortable with being ‘out’... but, Tui and La, it was painful for a bit.”

You clench your teeth and grimace. “Yeah.” You close your eyes and breathe deep when another wave of nausea mixed with dizziness sweeps over you, then open your eyes and look at your friend once more. “How did your parents react when you came out?”

Her nostrils flare, and her lips tuck into a tight frown. “They were dismissive. I mean –they were fine with it, but they really didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t want me to be open about it.” Her jaw tightens, and her brows draw together. “My mom said that she didn’t want to have to think about it.”

Your gut clenches sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

“After coming here, I tried to explain…” She pauses, then shakes her head. “Well, I tried. They weren’t very receptive.” Her hands curl into tight balls in her lap. “We don’t talk anymore.”

You frown, saddened, and reach out to touch her forearm. “Oh, Amaruq, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” She forces herself to untense and offers you a small smile. “It is what it is. My partner and friends here have been very supportive, and I couldn’t be more grateful.” She watches you for a moment, then asks, “Have you told your parents?”

You nod.

“How did they react?”

“My mother was supportive,” you answer, smiling softly –though it slips away seconds later. “My father… he was a lot like your parents.”

Amaruq grimaces. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know–” You let out a sardonic laugh. “I never really thought about how it impacted me? But… I haven’t been back to the Northern Water tribe in years. I just… can’t.”

“I know what you mean.”

You lean back in your chair, somewhat floored by the revelation. You stare down at the tabletop for a moment, then shake your head. “Wow. I can’t…” Your voice trails off, and you swallow hard before whispering, “Wow.”

“It’s understandable,” Amaruq assures you after studying you for a moment. “I don’t think I could go back, either.” She shakes her head, lips pursed as she mulls it over, then turns her attention back to you. “I’m guessing the ‘culture shock’” –she makes air quotes with her fingers– “is causing strain between you and Lin?”

You nod. “It’s… it’s been a problem for all my romantic relationships, really. I can’t think of one that didn’t end –or at least have problems–because of it.”

“I’m sorry.” Amaruq winces sympathetically. Then, she leans over and places her hand on your upper arm. “But, if I can give some encouragement?” When you nod, she smiles. “It’s worth working through, I promise. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it in the end.”

You smile back and place your hand over hers. “Thank you.”

…

Saturday arrives without warning. It’s like you blink, and then it’s the end of the week.

Despite everything, you start panicking. You oscillate between frantically cleaning, wondering if you’re cleaning too much, and following each tick of the minute hand on the clock you keep in your kitchen until you nearly lose your fucking mind.

Three minutes until noon, and you finally stop. You force yourself to get off your couch, take a deep breath through your nose, then let it out through your mouth until the room doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore. Okay. You’re making dinner tonight. Go get ingredients.

The walk down to the outdoor market in your neighborhood does you good. The fresh air and sunshine clears your head and finishes clearing out any remaining panic.

You… might go a little overboard. You were already planning on making Northern-style Sea Prune stew, so you purchase the handful of ingredients you don’t have on hand. There’s also a good deal on whole red snapper, so you get one to share with Lin –which means getting ingredients for a marinade. You get some fresh vegetables and mushrooms for sides, too. If Lin hadn’t already told you she’d bring dessert, you’d have gotten something for that, too.

Halfway on your walk back to your apartment, and you regret not taking a cab back. Fucking hindsight, you grumble in your head as you adjust your hold on your many paper bags.

It turns out to work for the best, though (making so many dishes, not walking back, though nothing detrimental happens). Getting the stew going, prepping and marinating the fish, and preparing the vegetables and mushrooms keeps you busy for the rest of the day. Between cooking and cleaning as you go, you don’t have time to spiral into overthinking for the rest of the day.

A knock on your apartment door jolts you out of your efficient flow of work.

Your stomach drops. You catch yourself against the lip of the counter when you stagger. You close your eyes, inhale deeply through your nose, then let it out through your mouth. Relax. Everything’s going to be fine… hopefully.

Lin offers you a small smile when you open the door. She waits until you’ve closed and locked the door, then holds out a small, white paper box to you. “I stopped by The Juniper Cafe.”

“Always a good choice.” You accept the box from her, then lift the lid to peek inside –only to let out a soft, pleased gasp when you see four custard tartlets sitting inside. “You got the mango flavor!”

“You said it was your favorite.”

You grin at Lin; you feel warm all over. “That was very sweet of you.” You tuck the box in the icebox for later, then turn and hold your arms out to her. “It’s good to see you.”

Lin steps forward and accepts the offer for a hug. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Something shifts in your brain as soon as she wraps her arms around your shoulders. It’s like the final, teeny piece of the dam holding your emotions back crumbles. It ripples through your whole body; relief and grief cascade through you, warring against each other, you go nearly boneless at the same time your eyes well up with tears and your throat constricts. You draw in a shaky breath, then bury your face against her shoulder and let out a shuddering sigh.

Lin picks up on the shift immediately. She tenses, then cups the back of your neck with one hand. “Are you okay?”

You nod, then turn your head a little so she’ll hear you easier. “It’s just been a long week,” you explain, voice wavering.

Lin stays still for a moment. Then, she slides her free arm lower, around your waist, and hugs you closer. And she just… holds you.

You feel tears threaten to slip free when she kisses the top of your head. You sniff, then let yourself melt and break –just a little–in her grasp.

…

It’s a fight to keep Lin from assisting you in finishing dinner.

She balks, first, at how much you’re making. Her eyes go wide when she sees how many pans and pots are atop your stove –and again when you check the oven, revealing the baking snapper. “If I’d known you were going to this much effort–”

“Yeah, why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

“How much did you spend–”

“You’re not paying me back.” You close the oven door –the snapper’s not quite done yet–then shake your head when she crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re my girlfriend, Lin. It’s fine if I want to spoil you a bit. Besides–” you stir the pot of bubbling stew with your waterbending “–these’ll be leftovers for me in the coming week.”

She sighs, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she steps into your kitchen. “How can I help?”

“I’ve got it –you’re a guest!” you insist when Lin rolls her eyes.

“I’m your girlfriend,” she fires back, giving you a flat stare (though the corners of her mouth twitch upwards). “It’s fine if I want to help you.” When you don’t acquiesce, she simply starts doing dishes you haven’t gotten to yet.

So, clearly, your only recourse is using your waterbending to bend the water away from the dish in her hands. You giggle when she slowly turns her head and stares at you, then let the water revert to its natural course. “Sorry.”

“I doubt it.”

…

Dinner goes smoothly. The two of you set up on your sofa, kick back, and enjoy the mountain of food you made while catching each other up on your respective weeks.

You nearly choke on a mouthful of rice and vegetables when Lin tells you about a bust on a Spirit Vine dealing ring. Your eyes bug out, and you quickly swallow before clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t–” You raise your eyebrows at her. “You said ‘pounds,’ right?”

“Pounds,” Lin confirms, looking simultaneously amused and exhausted.

“Two hundred pounds,” you repeat; you can’t even wrap your head around the amount. When Lin nods, you gape. “I –what would they even use that much for?”

“There’s groups purporting various medicinal and spiritual uses for Spirit Vines,” Lin says with a sigh. “So there are corporations and private individuals trying to cash in on a new industry opportunity without having to go through proper licensing, affiliating with local unions, or paying taxes. Aside from that, there’s research that suggests that the vines could be used as a new energy source.”

“So it’s the same deal,” you surmise. “Capitalize on the resource, avoid fees or legal limitations, create a monopoly…”

Lin nods and wipes her fingers on a napkin. “And, unfortunately, there’s testing that proves the vines can be used to create weapons.”

Right. Kuvira’s giant mech used spirit vines to power the cannon. It was practically in every paper at the time. You purse your lips. “Shit.”

Lin grimaces and nods. “Yeah.” She leans back against your couch and offers you a small smile. “What happened with your work this week?”

“Nothing as exciting as what you did,” you state with a laugh.

Lin laughs along with you. “Some days, I think I’d take that.”

But dinner passes all too quickly. And because Lin insists on helping you with the clean up and putting the food away, you’re suddenly out of stall time and back in your head.

You swallow hard when your stomach churns. Maybe dinner wasn’t such a good idea, after all. You grit your teeth, then force the nausea creeping up your throat back down. I am not wasting that snapper.

Lin notices the shift in your mood –probably because she’s spent years as a detective and was trained to pick up on such changes, but also probably because you feel like you’re going to shit out your heart, and that’s bound to show on your face. She latches onto your shoulders like you’re about to keel over. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie. You take a deep breath, then try to squish yourself back into your body before looking up at her. You smile and look up at her without really seeing her face. “I’m fine.” You blink when she takes your wrist in one hand, then laugh when she starts counting under her breath. “I’m not going to pass out, Lin.”

“You look like it. You need to sit down.”

You let her walk you over to your couch and sit without protest. You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, then offer her a thin smile when she sits next to you. “We should…” You clear your throat, then force yourself to keep going. “We should probably talk about ‘it,’ yeah?”

It doesn’t take Lin long to catch your meaning. Her brows draw together, but then her look of confusion fades a few moments later. She purses her lips, but lets out a long breath and nods. “Only if you feel up to it.”

“I want to,” you assure her. “And –I mean, we need to. We should.” You can feel your hands getting sweaty, and you wipe them off on the legs of your pants.

After you go silent for a few moments, Lin gestures for you to continue. “You’re the one who said you wanted time to sort stuff out.”

“Yeah.” You tuck your hair behind your ears, then cover your face with your hands. “Look, just–” You draw in a shaky breath, then lift your head slightly so she can hear you clearly. “This –this is going to sound really stupid, and it’ll probably sound like I’m whining, so I’m sorry in advance, okay?”

Lin frowns and sits back against the sofa. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest, then crosses one leg over her knee. “Alright.”

You’re sweating. You can feel the clamminess on your hands, along your back, at the nape of your neck, in the pits of your knees. Your chin trembles, and you stare down at the floor as you try to think of where to even start with all of this shit. You let out a shaky breath –then jolt when Lin puts a hand on your back. You gasp, then clear your throat and look at her.

“Whatever you have to say,” she assures you, voice quiet but clear, “it’s alright.”

You swallow hard, then nod and go back to staring at the floor. “I… I don’t know. I guess –I guess it’s never really one of those things I thought about, you know?”

“Thought about what?”

“About… about how different things are here, compared to the Northern Water tribe.” You let out a shaky breath, and some of the tension in your chest chips away. You sigh –then let out a bitter laugh. “You know, any time any of us talk about it –or anyone raised in the Southern tribe–we always hear about how it’s worse in the Earth Kingdom, worse in Ba Sing Se. And it is. The laws and social attitudes towards queerness there  are worse than they’ll ever be in the Water tribes.” You pause, purse your lips, then smack one loose fist against your thigh. “But… no one understands!”

“Understands what?” Lin asks after you’ve been quiet for a few moments.

You deflate a bit, shoulders slumping, and drop your head into your hands. You groan, then rub your face to try and focus your mind. “It was so weird when I first moved here, you know.” You lower your hands from your face and offer her a hollow smile. “I mean, I knew that Republic City followed the Fire Nation’s reforms and Air Nomad philosophies towards sexuality. I knew that it was an open safe space for queer communities.” You sit back against the sofa and stare down at your lap. “I still remember the first week I was here. I’d just gotten settled in university, and I’d gone to a local market to get a few supplies –and there were two men, just walking together and holding hands! And they stopped to look at some produce, and one of the men kissed his partner on the cheek, and I couldn’t help but stare because it just… felt rude? To make such a public scene?” You sniff, then wipe away a tear that’s trailing down your cheek. “And I looked around, and literally no one but me noticed. But back home, it would’ve been such a big deal!”

“Is PDA frowned on in the Water tribes?” Lin asks with a frown.

You grimace and sigh. “For visibly queer couples, yes.”

She grimaces as well. “But not for straight-passing couples.”

“But not for straight-passing couples,” you surmise. You go quiet again, then let out a quiet, watery laugh. “You know, I never really processed… any of it. The whole rule against appearing ‘gay’ in public, against talking about it, or being open about it outside of home, or in select company just seemed so normal. And it still feels normal.”

Lin says nothing –but when you start crying harder, she reaches over and takes your hand in hers.

You sniff, then let out a choked, body-shaking sob. You rub your cheeks dry with the back of your free hand –not that it does much good, because your skin’s soaked again seconds later. “I feel so big,” you confess with a shaking gasp, “all the time. I feel like I’m always breaking out of my body. Like I’m taking up too much space. Everywhere I go –whenever someone might be able to tell I’m gay, I feel like there are thousands of eyes on me, that everyone’s just waiting for some sort of proof–” You inhale sharply, when Lin puts one arm around your shoulders, then weep a bit when she tugs you into her arms. You bury your face into her neck and cry. “I –I just d-don’t want to piss anyone off, o-or get ye-yelled at, or–”

“Easy.” Lin shushes you, then hugs you tight. She kisses your forehead, then cups the back of your neck when you whimper. “Just breathe.”

Easier said than done, but eventually, you manage. Your shoulders and chest jump as you gasp unsteadily, but slowly, surely, your body winds down. Eventually, you’re limp in her hold, hiccuping softly as tension and panic winds out of you, leaving melancholy and fatigue in its wake. Well, that was dramatic. You sniff, then grimace. And it probably didn’t explain shit. You swallow hard, then let out a tremulous sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“Well, I am. I don’t think I explained myself well.”

“You did fine,” Lin says, voice soft but firm in a way that tells you that while she cares about you and is sensitive to your mood at present, she’s not going to tolerate arguing. (Good thing for her, your sob session tired you out.) She smoothes one hand over your hair, then kisses the top of your head when you draw in a shaky breath. “I have one question, if that’s okay?”

You nod, then sniff. “Yeah, go for it.”

“Can you look at me?” She waits, then brushes a few stray locks of hair off your forehead once you lift your head. “You mentioned that you didn’t want to be yelled at.”

You frown, confused. “Yeah…”

“Has anyone ever yelled at you over this?” Lin asks, gesturing vaguely with one hand. When you drop her gaze, and your expression shifts to one of pain, the arm wrapped around your back tenses. “Who yelled at you?” she asks, voice lower, more gravelly.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, but your eyes start stinging again. “My dad did.” Your lower trembles, and you can feel your throat tensing with grief once more. “When I came out.”

Lin sucks in a breath, then pulls you against her. She hugs you tight, tucking your head beneath her chin. “I’m so sorry. He was wrong for rejecting–”

“He didn’t!” you snap –more out of anger towards yourself than her. You pull away, then lurch into a standing position and start pacing around your apartment. “That’s –that’s the thing I don’t fucking understand! He didn’t reject me! He didn’t tell me that I was wrong for being gay, or that he didn’t want me to be gay, or that he was ashamed to have a gay daughter, or any of it!” You spread your arms wide in a harsh, jerky movement. “None of that happened!”

Lin watches you, lips pulled into a worried frown. “But he yelled at you?”

“I mean…” You stall, deflating slightly. You swallow hard, fighting against a fresh wave of nausea, then shrug. “Yeah. He did.”

“Why?” When you shrug again, she purses her lips and changes tracks. “What did he say?”

You clench your jaw as anguish threatens to overtake you again. You look away and spread your arms in a short, tight movement. “He got mad when I tried to push the issue.”

Lin’s brows draw together. “I thought you said he didn’t reject you.”

“He didn’t.” You sniff, shoulders shaking as you start crying again. “He– I–” You stop, swallow hard, then take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Just start from the beginning. Get the whole thing out there. “I came out to both of my parents at the same time. My mom was supportive. She hugged me, told me she loved me–” You stop when your voice breaks, then duck your head and push forward. “And my dad –I mean, it’s not like he really reacted. He–” You gasp. Your chest feels tight. “I thought –I thought he didn’t hear me, or maybe he didn’t understand, so I told him again–”

Lin stands and steps around your coffee table.

“He told me that he heard me the first time,” you eke out between sobs as she draws you into her arms. You choke on a gasp, then cling onto the front of her shirt. “And –and that I shouldn’t shove it into anyone’s face. He told me that he heard me, and that was that, and to be done with it, and that I shouldn’t be so dramatic–”

Lin hooks her arm under your shoulder when your knees give out. She wraps one arm around your back, then squats and hooks her other arm under your knees. She carries you back to the couch, sits, then tucks a blue throw blanket you keep over the back of your sofa around you.

You’re incoherent for a while. You bury your face into her shoulder and sob; you let it all out –all your nonsensical grief, and anguish, and fear.

Lin stays quiet, but her hold on you never falters. She doesn’t complain, or fidget, or try to hurry you along in any way.

You cry until your face feels raw from your tears. Until your voice is hoarse and you’ve given yourself a headache. Until you’re on the verge of collapsing from dehydration (okay, maybe not that severe, but you feel like a dishrag that’s been wrung out until it's bone dry).

“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” you croak once you’ve caught your breath, some long while later. “It wasn’t that bad. It shouldn’t hurt so much.”

Lin’s silent for a couple beats. Then, she shifts so your head is tucked in the crook of her neck. She squeezes you against her for a moment, then brushes her lips against your forehead. “I think it’s enough.”

You sniff. Your throat goes tight. And then, you start crying again.

…

She stays the night.

“It’s your choice,” Lin says once you’ve gotten up to get some water (because even though you’re not on the verge of death, you did dehydrate yourself), “but I’d feel better knowing you’re not alone tonight.”

“I mean… you can stay if you want.” You gulp down some water, then frown. “I won’t have coffee for you in the morning.”

“I’ll live.”

You grimace into your water cup. “I don’t have any spare toiletries for you to use, or anything. I don’t know if I’d have pajamas that fit you, either.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” she says with a shrug.

“Dental hygiene is important,” you mumble into your mug.

Lin merely arches one eyebrow at you, unimpressed. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll just borrow your toothbrush.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Isn’t that gross?”

“...I’ve had my entire tongue inside your cunt.” She smirks when you spit your water back into your cup out of sheer shock. “I find it surprising that this is where you draw the line at ‘gross.’”

You laugh a little, but it fades. You go back to staring down at your half-empty glass of water. “I don’t want to be a bad hostess.”

“You made me dinner–”

“And then I cried on you for an hour and ruined your shirt.”

“It’s not. Ruined.” Lin stands, walks over to your kitchen, and places her hands on your shoulders. “Look, if it’s that important to you, I can duck back to my place and pack an overnight bag.”

“But it’s late,” you sigh with a glance at the clock. “And cold. I don’t want to make you deal with that.”

“You wouldn’t be –but fine. I’m fine with staying without an overnight bag.” She stares down at you for a moment, then softens when your exhausted, bleak expression doesn’t lift. She cups your cheek with one hand, then murmurs your name. “If you want to be alone, it’s okay. I won’t take it personally.”

You sniff, then lean into her hand. “I want you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Lin murmurs as she sweeps her thumb over the swell of your cheek.

She winds up not returning to her apartment for an overnight bag. She borrows your toothbrush. “I worked homicide as a detective,” she says when you keep fussing over her. “Arguably, this is the least gross thing I’ve seen or done in my life.” She borrows an oversized shirt of yours and a pair of shorts that she deems comfortable.

You climb into bed next to Lin after turning out the light. You let out a shaky, relieved breath when she wraps one arm around you, then lay your head against her shoulder.

You feel bad. You feel guilty. You’ve spent the better part of the evening as an emotional, spewing wreck, and now you’ve got her here overnight without basic amenities for her.

You bite the tip of your tongue before you can apologize; it seems wrong to make her console you –again–after all she’s done for you tonight. You sniff, then adjust where your hand rests on her chest so you can feel the gentle thud of her heart. “Thank you.”

Lin hugs you closer and kisses the top of your head. “Of course.”

It’s a short course to falling asleep (though you spend your remaining consciousness making a list of what you need to have on hand should your girlfriend spend the night in the future).

…

Lin wakes up before you.

You wake up face down in a pillow, starfished across the open space in your bed, tangled up in blankets like a penguinseal in a fisherman’s net. You grunt when something presses against your shoulder, then lift your head and shove your hair against your face. “Huh?”

Lin smirks. “Good morning.” She holds a steaming mug out to you. “I made tea.”

“Oh.” You struggle into a sitting position, then accept the cup with a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

The two of you sit in silence for a bit as you drag yourself out of the dregs of slumber. Once you’ve downed half the cup, you finish extricating yourself from your snarl of blankets and make your way to your living room.

The two of you have some of the mango custard tarts for breakfast. Lin uses a plate and utensils to eat hers, while you pick one up out of the box and bite straight into it.

“It’s about the authentic experience,” you argue when Lin teases you.

“What’s so authentic about eating like a heathen?” Lin quips.

You swallow, then gesture with your tartlet. “Because I feel the urge to eat them like this everytime I go to Juniper’s.”

Lin smirks and shakes her head.

It’s soft and companionable, eating custard tarts and drinking tea on your sofa in the early, autumnal morning light.

You finish off the last of your tea, then lay your head against Lin’s shoulder. “I–” You purse your lips as the urge to apologize rears its head, then swallow it. “Thank you. For last night. And everything.”

“Of course.”

You lift your head when she leans forward to set her plate, utensils, and cup on your coffee table, then settle back against her once she sits back once more. You nestle against her side, then let out a little sigh when she takes your hands in hers. “I feel like we should talk about last night.”

“Do you want to?”

You press your lips together, but nod. “I think we should. I mean –we haven’t even talked about your side of it, really. It’s… it’s important to me.”

“Okay.” Lin squeezes your hand gently, then shifts so she’s angled towards you. “Is it okay if I go first?”

“Yeah.” You nod, then look up at her. “Of course.”

She offers you a small, soft smile, then looks down at your joined hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered how growing up in the Northern Water Tribe would impact your perspective of public affection –or your own sexuality, for that matter.” She squeezes your hand gently, then lets out a soft huff. “I suppose I was more fortunate. I grew up in an accepting family and environment. There wasn’t ever an issue of public affection being ‘inappropriate’ because of my partner’s gender –or a notion that I was supposed to keep my sexuality completely to myself, or only in select circles. It was always my choice.”

“I’m glad,” you interject. You offer her a smile when she looks at you. “I’m glad you had that support.”

Lin gives you a small smile in return, then drops your gaze as she returns to contemplation. She stares down at your joined hands. Her thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand. “If I can ask… why did you keep saying that how your father responded ‘wasn’t that big of a deal?’”

“I…” You blink a few times, then swallow hard. I don’t know. You shrug. “It… it just isn’t, I guess.”

“But he yelled at you when you came out to him. How is that not a problem?” Lin frowns when you don’t respond. “Did he yell at you a lot?”

“I don’t know,” you answer with a shrug. “It didn’t seem like a lot. He wasn’t the most emotionally open person, so when he got mad, it was kind of hard to tell until it hit the breaking point.” When Lin nods, but her frown doesn’t lift, you frown up at her, concerned. “What?”

She sighs. “Look, I’ll concede that I’m not the best at this shit, but –in my opinion–he shouldn’t have yelled at you. Whatever was going on in his head, you’re his kid. You needed him.” Her voice cracks at the end, but she swallows hard and moves on quickly. “There wasn’t anything you did that warranted him yelling, as far as I can tell.”

A lump rises up in your throat. You press your lips together to try and keep the tidal wave of feelings –anguish, anger, grief–at bay. You give a tight, one shouldered shrug and let out a hollow laugh. “I appreciate that, but it’s not like you were there.”

“I wasn’t,” she agrees, nodding. “Doesn’t mean I can’t tell if something’s fucked up when I see it.”

You grimace, then shift your position on the couch. You cross your free arm over your stomach and bring your knees up against your chest. “I thought we were talking about you,” you deflect, careful to keep your voice teasing instead of accusatory.

Lin considers, then shakes her. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay, no–” You level her with a hard stare when she opens her mouth to argue. “Relationships are a two-way street, Lin. The whole reason we wound up here is because I made you feel like I don’t care about you or our relationship. Your feelings are important, regardless of my childhood bullshit.”

“Stop. That.” Lin’s upper lip curls slightly as she meets your stare. “Quit trivializing your experiences. If we’re talking about my feelings, how am I supposed to feel when you’re degrading yourself in the process? Because now I feel like I need to comfort you –and I want to–when you’ve made it clear that we’re talking about my hurt in the situation. How is that fair?”

You duck your head and purse your lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.” She squeezes your hand tenderly. “It’s just not fair.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You sniff, then let out a ragged sigh as your vision clouds over from tears. “I just… I hate that this all splashed out on you. You shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Everyone brings baggage to a relationship.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want you getting hurt!” Your voice breaks at the end, and you gasp as tears start dripping down your cheeks. “I –I didn’t ever want to hurt you!”

Lin lets go of your hand and winds her arms around your shoulders. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. People fuck up. We’re working through it. It’s okay.”

You can’t help but snort. “I think you may have missed your calling as a therapist.”

“I’d fling myself off a bridge first,” Lin replies, utterly serious, without missing a beat.

You sniff, then lay your head against her shoulder. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Of course.” She kisses the top of your head. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

You sigh, then nestle against her. You take a moment to collect yourself –catch your breath, dry your face, let the wave of emotions pass–then tap her arm. “We still need to talk about you.”

“I already said–”

“You’re not getting out of this!” you interject. You wag your index finger at her. “If I’m suffering, so are you. Start talking about your feelings, Beifong.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to –hey!” Lin grabs your hand when you start poking her in the ribs. “That’s enough, brat. Behave.”

“Not a damn day in my life.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” She chuckles when you laugh, but her body goes tense against yours soon after. “Okay, hear me out. I’ve already told you I don’t have anything to say for my part –no.” She claps one hand over your mouth when you start to protest. “You can be patient.”

You’re half tempted to lick her hand, but it’s lost in the wake of unexpected arousal. Note to self: bring this up later.

She lowers her hand once you nod. “I’m being honest,” Lin continues. “What I needed was context and clarity. Especially since I know that what you’re dealing with is trauma-based–”

“It’s not–”

“Whatever you want to fucking call it,” she sighs, slightly exasperated. “My point is that it’s not just a lack of care or effort. You’re processing through shit, and I’m okay to meet you where you’re at. Okay?”

I’m gonna fucking cry again. You mash your lips into a thin line. You can feel your eyes burning again. You smile, then nod. “Okay. Thank you.”

Lin’s expression softens. She tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Of course.”

You curl up against her for a bit, and she folds her arms around you. The two of you bask in the late morning silence –the glow of the sunlight filtering through the window, the rattle of Satomobiles outside, the soft sounds of the tenants around and above you starting their day. There’s a deep sense of peace that comes with it; it’s almost meditative.

“I want to get better,” you say after a bit. At Lin’s questioning hum, you look up at her. “I want to work on being more comfortable with relationship stuff in public. Not just for you –though you’re very important to me–but for me, too.” As much as I count, anyway. You swallow, then press on. “I just… need time.”

Lin nods, then tucks your head beneath her chin. “I have time.”

[void-wolfie]

Hiiiii me again mom ☺️

🧡 what is your sexuality?

🖤 favorite hobbies outside of your blog

💜 describe yourself in five words or less!

🧟‍♀️ scariest thing that’s happened to you

🍊 favorite season?

🍒 what is your earliest memory

🖇️ what are your favorite asks to answer

Please feel better! ❤️

heyyy kiddo!! 😊

🧡 - sexuality?

I go by queer or bi!

but in total honesty, I'm still figuring it out as I go lol

🖤 - hobbies?

I technically already answered this one, so here's just the answer from earlier lol

gaming and drawing, I'm not very good at either but who says you have to be good at your hobbies lol

i generally game by myself since most of my friends like first person shooters and those might just be my least favorite lol, and when it comes to drawing I usually just trace stuff and then put my own twist on it

💜 - describe yourself in 5 words?

funny, charming, introverted, resourceful, cunning?

(might've stolen the last two from my Hogwarts house description but it's fine lol... I ran out of adjectives that fit, don't judge me 😂)

🧟‍♀�� - scariest thing that I've experienced?

a while back, right around the time where my friends I started getting cars and driving, I was in a car accident with some friends

everyone was alright, no one was hurt (physically) but it's still one of the scariest memories I have

one second everything was... well I wouldn't say alright since I literally got dumped by my ex that morning and was miserable... but one minute we were all fine, and then next thing I know the car in front of us was stopped, every single airbag in the car had gone off and there were all kinds of gases and stuff filling the car... pretty scary

I didn't realize this till after when the firefighters were pulling our belongings from the car, but apparently we hit the car in front of us so fast my glasses flew off my face and I didn't even realize 😂

everyone was ok though, so it's alright, some slight ptsd but nothing too serious 😂

🍊 - favorite season?

either fall or winter, but I think fall wins

the color changes, the orange leaves (not that we get any where I live lol), it's not too hot or too cold, the holidays that come with it, love it all lol

🍒 - earliest memory?

my family and I used to live in this house, and I guess they wanted to redo the flooring, and my bedroom at the time has carpet

so my parents, tore out the carpet and cleaned the floors, and let their crazy, chaotic, creative 5 year old, paint and draw all over the concrete flooring 😂

I got to paint and draw and do whatever and my parents never had to worry about me ruining fancy flooring, it was a win win for everyone 😂

🖇️ - favorite asks to answer?

literally all of them!

despite being a raging introvert, I love people and I like hearing what you guys have to say!

funny, kind, unhinged, serious, I don't care, ask whatever you guys want (just please be respectful about it lol)

thanks for the asks kiddo! and go back to sleep, it's late where you are 😂

[everythingheard]

with Teddy ( @justteddyq ) ▌from here.

For a moment in that beat of silence, Joshua wondered if he had pushed Teddy a little harder than some might be liable to think he should have. Still, regardless of the answer, he didn't regret it. Despite the fact that his words were far from soft or gently reassuring, Teddy had decided to crack that vulnerability open to him — though he was uncertain of the reason, whether because they both knew what it was to be burdened with guilt they hadn't earned since their earliest memory or something else. When a reply finally broke through the din of the saloon, noise that had almost faded into the background of his consciousness amid the close tilt of their heads and their conversation, a faint grin crept across Joshua's face. "To hell with 'em," he affirmed.

As Teddy's teary eyes lifted to meet his, he felt a strange stirring in his chest, like a single plucked guitar string. "Alright, alright. Don't get all weepy on me." Joshua lifted his hand to graze the back of his still-curled fingers against Teddy's cheek to brush away a wayward tear that had spilled over before it could reach the other man's chin. There was a second in which he was oddly compelled to use his thumb to wipe away what traces of it remained, before he returned his palm to the top of the bar instead. But everything left something behind, didn't it? And the longer you held on, the greater the endurance of its remnants. Some people eased it with something they enjoyed, or someone; that latter notion recalled to mind the manner in which Teddy had seemed to find romantic feelings for Emma Cullen absurd. What about it was so preposterous? She was beautiful, with a fire that seemed nearly alight behind her eyes. Had Teddy come to view her so much as a friend that it wasn't even noticed? A question to mull over, though his attention persisted on his companion's more recent words.

"Still stings after you let it go, but at least you're not carryin' it 'round with you. It's easier to figure out what you wanna do with both your hands free." He gave a brief nod of his head. "Even when I wonder 'bout whether all the shit I'd been told's true, I'd rather figure it out for myself than listen to someone else's voice screamin' it in my ear." Oh, Joshua hardly counted himself as a good person, but he'd be damned if he ever let anyone push him around again. Not like that. Whatever he was or had turned out to be now, he had only been a kid then; a kid who had run from a remorseless asshole just to find another one, wishing the whole time for someone to simply tell him that they were glad he existed at all. He had probably been too young when he realized that until he dropped that figurative hot pan, he would never have anything else.

Then, Joshua paused, his lips parting slightly as he considered Teddy's countenance not for the first time that night — thinking. When he spoke again, it was so quiet as to almost be under his breath. "But maybe some voices are worth listenin' to."

[adolshadow]

[Costume Contextualization] Watch me Traveler, you will be Full of my Wisdom (Nahida Trilogy – Costume)

Hello everyone, I am AdolShadow. I am a religious studies scholar currently studying at NYU who loves Genshin and writes content on Genshin's digital historiography.

This is my first time posting on Tumblr. I am hoping to translate some of my work from other platforms here. As a scholar, I am not only into studying Genshin. I also do research on Sekiro: Shadow Dies Twice, Detroit: Become Human, and many other video games. I am hoping to know other game historians and anyone who is into researching games. I want to befriend all of you and talk about games happily! Thank you all very much in advance.

In this article, I will talk about Nahida. Of course, she has a lot of information in Genshin. Therefore, I will break the sections into the costume’s contextualization, Nahida’s context as a Dendro God in the historical writings, and how Nahida fits the historical background of Sumeru.

Whether it's Raiden, Venti, or Zhongli, Hoyoverse has put a lot of effort into designing Archons. Without further ado, let's take a look at what historical background and culture were referenced in the design of Nahida's costume.

If you like the content, please like and leave a comment below. I actually have a lot of similar content on my Hoyolab channel. Please take a look. I will soon translate more content here.

Hoyolab: https://www.hoyolab.com/accountCenter/postList?id=102330380

========================= Section Break ========================

Physic of Purity

With pure white clothes and green embellishments, the appearance of Nahida reveals its freshness and purity. In the past 500 years, she has neither experienced the pain of World Tree rot nor witnessed the cruelty of the war in Khaenri'ah. Nahida is undoubtedly happy by her “ignorance” of the world. However, being imprisoned since birth also means that she has never been in contact with the real world and has never used her body to touch or feel it. Therefore, the newly born green and pure white can just reflect Nahida's pure heart and newborn vitality.

Let’s take a look at the picture in detail to find out what is worthy to discuss on Nahida’s costume:

The first thing to notice is the pattern on Nahida's cloth. This dense and characteristic pattern is derived from Persian stained glass. The decoration on Nahida's head comes from the artifacts – Deepwood Memories, but the flower of life part, Labyrinth Wayfarer has a special meaning for Nahida. Additionally, I subjectively think that the material of the Nahida bracelet is brass. The Persian craftsmanship can also be seen in the decorations of the brass on the body and feet. Last but not least, the overall green color comes from the characters of the Persian New Year – Amu Nowruz, [1].

========================= Section Break ========================

Persian Stained Glass

(Stained Glass [2])

Stained glass is the procedure of adding metallic oxides in the glass making, which gives the glass colors. Different oxides will give the glass different colors, making an appealing visual effect. The earliest stained glass can be traced back to the craftsmen in ancient Rome, but what I want to talk about here is the stained glass technology introduced to Persia in the 8th century.

In his book The Book of the Hidden Pearl, Persian craftsman Jābir ibn Ḥayyān explained the processes and materials required for making various colored glass [3]. Through this book, the stained glass of Persia is slowly shown to the public. In Sumeru, we can see its displays in various ways. Under the context of Nahida, stained glass is used to portray the beautiful space of the ult, Illusionary Heart.

In fact, the clothes of another Genshin character also displays Persian stained glass craftsmanship. She is the "young" and “beautiful” scholar, Faruzan.

========================= Section Break ========================

Heart of the Labyrinth

(Labyrinth/ Maze [4])

Labyrinth was mentioned in one of my previous articles LINK (It is in Chinese). In that article, I roughly talked about the etymology of Labyrinth, which is originally built by the early Greek, Daedalus, as a gift to the King Minos of Crete. Labyrinth is designed to constantly change, and the entrance traveler enters does not necessarily become the exit when the traveler wants to come out. Labyrinth, indeed, is an ever-changing object.

I mention the labyrinth in this article because of the artifact, Deepwood Memories. Among them, the name of the flower of life is Labyrinth Wayfarer. Through the story of the flower of life, we understand that it belonged to the first maiden to follow in the footsteps of the King of trees through the forest labyrinth. In order to guard the king's labyrinth, she must hunt and defend it all the time. In this process, she protected many children who got strayed into this labyrinth. She passed down this tale of herself and the hunt to the children when they left the labyrinth. The story of her then reached to people's ears.

Although I don't think the maiden here refers to the Goddess of Flowers, the story of the flower of life plus the maiden who follows the King of the forest do have a little too much connection at here. Well, not to discuss that, what needs to be pointed out here is that in addition to the above-mentioned characteristics of the “maze,” where people get in and get lost, “Labyrinth” beyond the sense of a maze also guides you into its center.

Lauren Artress said, "A maze is designed to make you lose your way, while a labyrinth is designed to help you find your way" [5]. Therefore, in the labyrinth of Kind of forest, visitors who enter even by accident should not be afraid. The Labyrinth designed by the King will lead visitors to the center and increase their knowledge, rather than make things difficult for them. Doesn't this coincide with the theme of the Lord of Wisdom, Nahida?

========================= Section Break ========================

Brass Artifacts

(Persian brass bowl [6])

Persia is not only superb in stained glass craftsmanship, but also in the production of metal utensils, especially silver ones. However, it should be noted here that the historical background of Sumeru is likely to be referred to the Sasanian Empire from the 3rd to the 7th centuries, in which glass craftsmanship talked above is included. However, most of the Persian brass crafts that I can find came from Ilkhanate around the 13th century, which is Persia under Mongolian control. Because the time is not lining up, I don't want to be absolute here. I think the bracelet and anklet on Nahida are brass work, but I'm not sure. (But if it is a silver craft, then it for sure aligns with Sasanian Empire)

In addition to the obvious brass-colored products on Nahida's body in Sumeru, Nilu also has some brass-colored decorations. However, it can be seen from the comparison that Nahida's bracelets obviously have more textures, which shows its exquisite craftsmanship.

Due to the invasion of Islam around the 7th century, the great Sasanian dynasty ended. The use of silverware and goldware in the Arab Empire was particularly regulated, so the Persians had to give up the use of large numbers of silverware as daily necessities. At this time, a method to replace silverware appeared, which is using the base of copperware with silver inlaid [7]. Such silver-inlaid products have many applications in Persian life, such as kettles, clocks, bowls, teapots, and bracelets [8].

========================= Section Break ========================

Nowruz

(Nowruz [9])

Persians’ New Year's day, Nowruz, falls on March 21st every year. This holiday belongs to the vast majority of Middle Eastern countries and cultures [10]. For example, my girlfriend will light candles, set up tributes, and celebrate the New Year at this time of year.

In this festival, there is a special person, his name is Baba Nowruz or Amu Nowruz. He is like Santa Claus, coming into the crowd, bringing gifts to children, and welcoming the New Year with them.

(Grandpa Nowruz [11])

Looking at his green coat, it is similar to Nahida's color pattern. Although this does not mean that there is a direct connection between them, if we bring in the concept of the "Sabzeruz Festival", it will the connection clearer.

Sabzeruz Festival, in fact, is related to the Persian New Year in multiple meanings. Sabzeh Nowruz, sprouted wheat, is one of the seven items that need to be prepared on Nowruz [12]. “Sabze” in its meaning is “green,” and “ruz” refers to “day.” Therefore, Sabzeruz Festival actually means Green Day, not really the birthday of the goddess of flowers. However, considering the birthday of the Nahida and the meaning of green as new life, the birthday of Nahida should actually refer to Nowruz, the Persian New Year. Therefore, the green color pattern of Nahida probably has a good connection with Baba Nowruz.

========================= Section Break ========================

What’s Next

After talking about the costume of Nahida, I should probably give you a teaser about what is coming next. The second part of the trilogy will be the background and textual research of Nahida, this name and its meaning.

Have you ever thought about the etymology of “Kusanali”? In fact, it comes from the Kusanali Jataka of Buddhism. What about the name, Nahida? It is actually derived from the Persian goddess “Anahita.” Hmm, what about “Rukkhadevata”? Well, that one is basically given in English, because in Hinduism, Rukkhadevata means tree spirit. Finally, “Beur,” the archon name, is our dear friend, Lesser Key of Solomon’s 72 Demon God, Beur. Wow, the name Nahida is so complicated and interesting. Don't you want to know more about the secrets inside Nahida? Stay tuned then!

PS : Thanks to my girlfriend Shah for some of the info here. She gave me a lot of inspiration and information on many art designs of Sumeru (the part with Persian culture).

========================= Section Break ========================

Reference :

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amu_Nowruz

https://mymodernmet.com/stained-glass-history/

Resources are the same as 2

https://earthandaltarmag.com/posts/qs6pevk77i0lhpqlvv8w0u23f1sbwk

The resource is the same as 4

https://elizabethappraisals.com/brass-bowl-in-style-of-ancient-metalworkers/

https://persianhandicrafts.com/blog-posts/?journal_blog_post_id=19

Resources are the same as 6

https://www.un.org/en/observances/international-nowruz-day

Resources are the same as 9

Resources are the same as 1

http://www.mypersiankitchen.com/sofreh-haft-seen-the-7-s-of-norouz-spread/

Extra : Sabze ruz Festival, Genshin Wiki, https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Sabzeruz_Festival

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Fortuna: Chapter Seven

Fortuna: Born with what seemed to be the worst luck in the world, you have managed to get into, and out of, life-threatening situations all your life. That is until the plague of 1514. You had escaped Mother Death countless times before, but not this time. Mother Death has taken a liking to you, and with your kindling relationship, you become that which historians whisper about. You are the great Fortuna, Goddess Incarnate of luck, and ruler over fortune and fate. No one could have anticipated what your ties with Death would bring you: Pain. Torture. Death. Love.

Warnings: Gore, Language (Reader Uses Spicy Spanish), Blood, Chloroform (It Takes At Least 5 Minutes Of Constant Inhalation To Work Btw).

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x ImmortalSpanish!Reader, Reader’s nickname is Fortuna. Fortuna is the Roman Goddess of personified luck and ruler over fortune and fate.

Word Count: ~2.3k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

September 1927

You were half asleep, lazily drawing random shapes with your finger along Morpheus’s collarbone. The guards in the corner didn’t spend a lot of time looking at you or Morpheus, only when either of you shifted or moved. Your little finger movements were ignored, so you often found yourself absentmindedly running your fingertips along his skin. It was a guilty pleasure of yours in your waking hours, but when you were asleep? Morpheus couldn’t keep his hands to himself, or off your body. It was probably because your touches were agonizingly pleasurable. It wasn’t that you were sexually touching him, it was that your intimate touch left him begging for more. More contact, more touch, more of you. It wasn’t enough that you were his Goddess of luck, you were his everything now, and he wanted to make you his queen. But first, you had to get out of this basement. 

At the moment, the only sounds in the basement were the quick dripping of plumbing and your soft hums. You had taken to softly singing flamenco songs from its earliest days in Spain, to pass the time. You had little care for what the guards saw or heard after eleven years of confinement and the guards had gotten used to your soft singing, even finding it beautiful to listen to. It was just another day of boredom and monotony. Until it wasn’t. Just as you were tracing your finger up a tendon in Morpheus’s neck, envious of how perfect his skin was, there was a grating of metal as iron gates were opened. It wasn’t time for a guard change… which meant that he had come for a visit. 

Your fingers froze on Morpheus’s skin as your stiffened, then your entire body started humming with nervous energy. Your mind started thinking back to what had occurred the previous year, and your vision turned red. Blood red. For a few moments, all you could see was thick blood dripping down the curved glass of your cage. It was thick and viscous, and you almost could feel the warmth of it. A warm hand pressed into your knee and you jerked in place, coming out of the memory with a strained gasp. You blinked several times, running your hand over your skin as if searching for blood that was smeared on your skin. You found none and stared at your shaking hands with a wobbling lip. 

“And how is our great Goddess and Endless doing this fine day?” Burgess asked from where he stood in front of the glass cage, observing your curled-up body ever so gracefully cradled by Dream. You had not aged a day since your summons, but Burgess had expected you not to. You were still the fiery little Spanish wretch who refused his demands and was entirely uncooperative. You barely spared the aging man a glance out of the corner of your eye. 

“No tengo nada que decirte,” (I have nothing to say to you.) You softly spoke absentmindedly, not even giving him the energy of turning your head. 

“I’m going to assume that you are either insulting me yet again or being stubborn and refusing to agree to my demands,” Burgess responded tiredly, his eyes glaring at you with distaste. You huffed at him. “Do you not want your freedom, Fortuna?” Freedom? 

“¿Libertad? No me trates con condescendencia.” (Freedom? Don’t Patronize Me.) You snap in disbelief, your fingers curling into fists. “Ofreces una jaula de oro.” (You offer a golden cage.)

“Getting testy with me already? A great show of how much of a wild woman you are, pure savagery. I could fix that, of course, all you need to do is grant me fortune and luck.”

“Que te den,” (Up yours, also known as fuck you.) Your mother was probably rolling in her grave at your curses. She had taught you better than to speak with a forked tongue, but this man, this magician, was by far the greediest you had ever come across. He was going to feel the sting of your tongue, the sear of your rage. You would make sure of it.

“All this fire and bluster I am beginning to think that I have captured a mute and a wildling.” He was goading you, and after a decade of simmering anger that only grew by the days you spent trapped, you finally snapped. Your eyes blazed golden and you ripped yourself from Morpheus’s hold to round on Burgess with the fury and might of your higher power. 

“¡No le faltes el respeto a mi estrella!” (Don't disrespect my star!) You hissed out with the rage of a thousand scorned women. Your little display of power caused the bowels of the manor to shake and groan. The guards at their station grabbed onto the table as it rattled, and Burgess even stumbled a bit. It became very apparent that he had pushed you too far. Morpheus’s hand stretched across your chest and took your far shoulder, forcing you to turn away and look at him. You wanted to seethe and smolder, even if it only put a fraction of fear in those cold blue eyes, you would be satisfied… but your silent lover pulled you away and forced you to look into his eyes. The shimmering gold faded from your irises as you were calmed from your rage and you were left with trembles of anger. 

Unfortunately, your violent reaction to Burgess’ words along with the calming influence Morpheus had on you, had not gone unnoticed. Burgess eyed the trapped pair a little more closely, Morpheus’s face being devoid of emotion as he calmed you down and yours still echoing in anger. He should have known. While Dream might not have spoke physical word, he had to be talking to you in your dreams. 

“Reeves, call the acolytes and bring me the grimoire, it is time we gave these two a little push,” Burgess spoke darkly, eyeing you. You had a sinking feeling from the look in his eyes. The mortals of the manor had moved fast, and soon you and Morpheus were surrounded by hooded figures. Burgess was holding the grimoire open and had several guards on standby. In your jumble of limbs, Morpheus gripped your hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. All you could do was squeeze back, not daring to provoke more reactions from Burgess. Your eyes warily watched Burgess, who was speaking with a few of the guards, he glanced at you and you flashed your eyes gold in warning. He only huffed out a smug smirk, then opened the grimoire. He riffled through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Then he started speaking and Morpheus went rigid beneath you. Your eyes snapped to his and you saw his jaw clenched and his eyes concentrating on something. But then it was like a hand was forcing him to the floor of the cage. You gasped in alarm, leaning over him with worry-filled eyes. 

“Morpheus?” You questioned just loud enough for him to hear you. “Mi Amor, que te estan haciendo?” (What are they doing to you?" He couldn’t respond to your question. He couldn’t, not with his body seizing up like a dead weight in water. Morpheus focused all of his energy on maintaining his grasp on your hand. As the chanting continued, you scrambled over him, your worrying deepening as you felt helpless to do anything. Placing a hand on his face your lips trembled in helplessness. You were so distracted, you didn’t even realize that the hatch behind you had been opened until hands grabbed at your body. Your first shriek was one of surprise as you were dragged backward, then you started fighting back. You kicked backward at the hands harshly pulling you from your cage, all the while desperately gripping Morpheus’s hand life your life depended on it. 

You had panic on your face, no, not panic, fear, and the look was crushing Morpheus on the inside. He tried to strengthen his grasp on your hand, but the spell being chanted only deepened his weakness, bringing further sharp stabbing pain. His eyes started glowing silver, but that color flickered, getting snuffed out. You were yanked harsher this time, hands digging into your body in a bruising grasp. 

“¡Suéltame!” (Let go!) You cried out, trying to kick harder. "¡Suéltame!" You think you managed to get one of the guards in the chin, but hands only replaced the ones that disappeared. You writhed as your fingers started slipping through Morpheus’s. Terror was now running through your veins, this was the one thing that you did not want. You did not want to be parted from your lover. Never. But there was little you could do. There were a few shouts from the guards and you were forcibly yanked from the cage you had spent nearly eleven years in. Tears burst in your eyes the moment your fingers departed from Morpheus’s. "Quítame las manos de encima!" (Take your hands off me!) Fighting against the hands on your body, you bucked and kicked and even tried biting against your captors. You took a hard strike to the face at your action and were momentarily stunned. Dragged to Burgess, the older man stared down at you triumphantly, then he sank his fingers into your long, overgrown hair and jerked you around so you were facing the cage again. You cried out from the pain and scratched at the fingers digging into your scalp. 

“I should have expected you two to get close,” Burgess mused, chuckling softly. “You’ve been speaking in her dreams,” Your eyes stared into Morpheus’s pain-filled ones, you struggled further, trying to break the grip on your hair so you could go to him. You were yanked back in place and Burgess gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.“So let’s see how you two behave when I separate you, hmm?” You glared up at him, baring your teeth bloodied by your split lip. 

“No me inclino ante la codicia del hombre,” (I bow not to the greed of man.) You spat at him, venom dripping from your mouth as your eyes glowed with golden embers. He chuckled. 

“I always get what I want, Goddess of Fortune,” You had another poisonous curse to spit out at him poised on your tongue, but you never had the chance to hiss. From behind you came a cloth that was pressed against your face, covering your mouth and nose. You jerked backward, trying to evade the noxious smell coming from the fabric. It was held strongly and you were forced to breathe through the fumes. While you inhaled the chemicals soaked into the cloth, your watery eyes stared at Morpheus still collapsed in the cage. You could see him fighting against the active spell, his muscles rigid and straining, but it was of no use. Neither of you were in any condition or shape to fight back. Minutes went by with Burgess taunting Morpheus with you in his grasp, holding you in an uncomfortable half-crumpled position. You were struggling to maintain eye contact, feeling a slow set of nausea coming on. Morpheus could see your eyelids dropping, then without warning, your body went slack and you dropped to the side unconscious. 

Burgess let you fall, not even giving your crumpled body a second look as he gazed into Morpheus’s blazing eyes with content smugness. If a man could die by a look of pure hatred, Roderick Burgess would have died right there on the spot. 

You woke with a massive headache that rattled and pounded your brain to the point where you spent the first few minutes of consciousness gripping your skull and whimpering. Then you realized that the beloved skin you had grown accustomed to pressing into yours, was gone and that you were cold. Alone. You cracked your eyes open to see an unfamiliar room. A shuddering breath escaped you as you struggled to hold your eyelids open. It was clear that you were no longer in the basement, you weren’t even underground anymore. You were in a small room with an even smaller window. It was bare save for the lumpy mattress you were sprawled out. Eyes straining at the light pouring in through the window, it nearly took your breath away. When was the last time you had seen sunlight? When was the last time its warming rays kissed your skin? But you didn’t want to feel its warm hug, you didn’t want to enjoy the light. Not without Morpheus. 

No matter how hard you tried to fight against it, you couldn’t help the tears that streamed down your cheeks. What you would give to be in that cramped little ball again, held by your eternal lover. You curled in on yourself and whispered prayers to the actual Fortuna, desperate for any sort of good luck or fortune. You didn’t know long it had been since you had woken up, but the hours seemed to stretch on infinitely without Morpheus. A lock was shifted and the lone door in your new prison was creaked open. You refused to move, or take notice of whoever had decided to visit you. Staring off into space, you could vaguely see that it was Alex who had come to visit you. He held something in his hands. 

“I figured you must be cold,” The young Burgess timidly spoke to you. He placed the stacked clothes on the end of the bed and pursed his lips. “Are you alright?” The muscle beneath your left eye twitched. “Of course, you aren’t, I— I am sorry. The magus— he always gets what he wants, it would be in your best interest to do as he asks.” You couldn’t hold your tongue against the young man any longer. 

“La mona aunque se vista de seda, mona se queda,” (Although a monkey dresses itself in silk, it’s still a monkey.) You told him, your voice quiet but firm. Your eyes flickered to his and you stared him down. “I will not. You do not know what you have done, and the consequences shall be great.” Alex flinched, knowing full well that you were correct. There would be massive repercussions for your and Dream’s capture. Fate was inescapable. 

Date Published: 12/11/22

Last Edit: 12/11/22

Previous | Masterlist | Next

[themculibrary]

Oblivious!Bucky Masterlist

Adventures in dogsitting (ao3) - Call_Me_Kayyyyy (Cheeky9274), Coriesocks , Twindragons bucky/clint T, 53k

Summary: Bucky doesn’t panic. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t allow himself to panic. Not if he can help it. He can feel the first threads of it clawing at his throat now, though. He walks as fast as he can without jostling the whimpering mass of fur in his arms too much, squashing down the images of Barton bleeding out on the floor, of his lifeless body being carried away, no idea whether he or the dog are going to make it.

When Bucky finds Clint and his dog bleeding out in an alleyway, he doesn’t expect his life to become all about dog-sitting duties, instagram, and shitty daytime TV gameshows. He also doesn’t expect to get drawn into Clint’s latest drama. He really should have known better.

and here, my love, we linger (ao3) - glittercake sam/bucky M, 9k

Summary: "You're an idiot," Sam says, suddenly very serious.

Bucky swallows and brings his hand up to trace along the hem of Sam's untucked shirt.

They're looking each other dead in the eye. So so close.

Sam's eyes flick up to Bucky's, and he says, "I haven't laughed like that since… Since he—"

"Since what, Sam," Bucky pleads. He wants to know this. He wants Sam to be okay again, to be able to talk about Riley.

But Sam never talks about Riley.

An Excellent Match (ao3) - hulkling616 bucky/thor E, 1k

Summary: Bucky is convinced Thor doesn't like him but he might just be wrong about that.

but baby i'm a fool for you (ao3) - livingincolors sam/bucky T, 3k

Summary: After several attempts at getting back in the dating game, Bucky bites the bullet and asks Sam for dating advice. Chaos ensues.

(Or, Bucky and Sam are dating, and they're the last to find out about it.)

Captain America Appreciation Day (ao3) - lavenderbucky steve/bucky M, 6k

Summary: "Fine," Tony shrugs. "I'm just surprised that as Steve's boyfriend, you don't know about his big day."

Bucky pauses. "Big day?"

When Bucky is informed of the existence of Captain America Appreciation Day, a national holiday centred around celebrating his boyfriend, he's determined to give Steve the best Captain America Appreciation Day ever. Even if it doesn't actually, well, exist.

Dancing (ao3) - periwinklepromise bucky/natasha T, 1k

Summary: Bucky's in love with a lesbian.

It's fine. He'll get over Nat eventually.

For the Birthday Boy (ao3) - steeeve sam/bucky G, 3k

Summary: All things considered; Bucky is fine. At least, he should be. Birthdays are supposed to be fun, right? It should be, unless it involves Sam Wilson. Then in which case, you’re fucked.

OR This is Bucky trying to impress Sam on his birthday, and his attempt of getting Sam the best birthday present ever with the help of their friends.

Heavy Heart (ao3) - neowitcher steve/bucky G, 6k

Summary: After Bucky has a bit of a misunderstanding when meeting up with Sam for the first time in a while, he opens up his heart. Over some beers, he shares his earliest memories of Steve, and how he came to fall in love with him.

Keep on Truckin' (ao3) - Mystical_Knight_Dragon steve/bucky E, 19k

Summary: Truck driver Bucky stops during a storm to give a hitchhiker a ride to the next town. But the loneliness of the drive, and the fact that Steve has nowhere to go, means he's willing to let him stay with him as long as he needs to. After two months together, they part ways. Bucky thinks about him all the time but assumes he'll never see him again.

Excerpt:

It was quiet for a while, apart from the sounds of crickets and other night inhabitants. Even though he'd only known Bucky for a few hours, he felt safe. "Thank you," he whispered into the darkness.

The mattress squeaked as Bucky rolled over. "We should reach Chicago tomorrow evening. Are you…going to be okay?"

Steve choked back a sob. He didn't want this stranger to know he was crying. "No," he answered truthfully.

"Then stay with me for a while, until you can come up with a plan."

lost in translation (ao3) - imposterhuman bucky/tony G, 1k

Summary: bucky pines in russian about tony, sometimes to the man's face. but its fine, because tony doesn't speak russian.

right? (wrong)

My Own Floor? (ao3) - Moonlitedancer steve/bucky, clint/tony E, 9k

Summary: Steve wants Bucky. Bucky wants Steve. They both want to keep their secrets. Neither wants to talk first. Will they ever figure things out so they can be happy?

My Therapist Taught Me How to Flirt (ao3) - Cobrafantasies sam/bucky M, 8k

Summary: Bucky seeks dating advice from his therapist. Together, they navigate the world of modern dating and Bucky's gradual realization that he might be in love with Sam.

She recognizes him since Bucky's been visiting this coffee shop religiously every morning.

Today is the final step of the plan except the plan wasn't supposed to take two weeks. He was supposed to ask her out on day one but that didn't happen. Didn't quite work out the next day either or the following twelve. This is it, try fourteen and Bucky is going to ask Alice out today just as he and his therapist discussed.

Nobody thought to tell Stucky the world isn’t homophobic anyone (ao3) - madysonrose steve/bucky, peter/wade T, 805

Summary: Spider-man makes a comment about his sexuality while on patrol Steve Rogers sees this and thinks he’s saving him. Misunderstandings ensue.

Nobody knows that Bucky Barnes or Steve Rogers are out of the ice yet.

Oblivious Dumbass Bucky Barnes (ao3) - IkkeDu bucky/gamora, bucky/steve, bucky/johnny storm T, 28k

Summary: Bucky Barnes doesn't know what he feels for his new university friend, Steve Rogers. But it is not a crush!! He is his friend. A really nice friend that always goes out of his way to make Bucky feel welcome.

But what is that feeling in his chest whenever Steve is near him??

Undercurrent (ao3) - NachoDiablo steve/bucky T, 4k

Summary: Bucky might be more than a little smitten with a certain cute, blond lifeguard, but there's no way his feelings are reciprocated... right?

[inquisimer]

happy friday Mer!! for dadwc I'm thinking "i’ve got myself, i’ve got my freedom, but i’m searching for my home // cause i am hurting but not helpless, full of strength and scars" for Cullen/Neria :D

HAPPY FRIDAY JAY I come bearing some fluffy fluff for Neria and Cullen🥺🥺

wc: 1186

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

If you measured home by how long she’d spent in any given place, Kinloch Hold would take the title. Her earliest memories were the dusty corners of the library, the faded velveteen drapes in the dormitories, the lingering scent of plain laundry soap the Tranquil used to wash the robes. She spent her formative years learning every inch of that tower, from supply runs to the basement to illicit trysts atop the roof. That was where she made her first friends and mistakes, where she learned that the world could be cruel and cold—but it could also be kind.

But the Circle was never home.

Neither was Kirkwall, though it was stability after a long while on the run. Anders’ clinic, the cramped room in Lowtown, even the Hanged Man—each remarkable in that she could come and go and they would still be there whenever she returned. She’d never had that consistency, not coupled with the freedom she so treasured at least, and it was novel and exhilarating and intimidating all at once.

And then, with a few bursts of anger and words said in heat, it was gone.

For a time, home was what it had been right after her escape: a dry place to sleep, fresh running water, a family who slipped her apples and kept their lips sealed. But it didn’t last as long as it had the first time—very quickly home became reddish sails and tanned faces lined with ink and learning to tread the forest with as much care as she wanted in return.

Until that, too, was stolen away by life, by circumstance, by the twisted weaving of the Maker, the Creators, or whoever pulled the strings of fate from on high.

She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse, the hushed whispers and awestruck stares as opposed to the suspicious oversight of Templars. Which was a better reaction to something she wasn’t: reverence or fear?

She found both in Haven and she wondered, tracing the scar on her forearm between sips of watered-down ale, if this would somehow be home. Would the emotional rush of the apocalypse forge these tentative friendships and unforseen circumstances into something more?

As always, it was some of both. For Haven proper was buried under an avalanche of snow and months of tragedy and victory, sacrifice and savor had passed before she found a proper answer.

She headed north out of Skyhold, slipping over the battlements with a tether of mana that saw her safely to the snow-covered earth. The fortress wasn’t half as isolated as Solas had led them to believe—though well fortified, there were remnants of settlements lost to time and the Frostbacks within sight of even the shortest towers. The path she followed now was discreet, but one her feet knew well, leading to a cabin the scouts had found on one of their first trips around Skyhold’s exterior.

Smoke already puffed from the chimney when the structure came within sight and that alone made warmth blossom through Neria’s chest. She hugged her basket close and pulled the fluttering edges of her cloak tight around her neck until she entered the warmth of the tiny cabin.

It had been a dilapidated place when the scouts first showed it to her, but like a sculptor with their clay, she saw the potential. Whenever she could steal a moment from Leliana’s trickery or Josephine’s scheming, she would sneak away, calling the Fade to her fingers and coaxing the wood back to life, the strength back to the foundation. Eventually, she lured Cullen out here as well, some lie about strategy and defense of their home base quick to her tongue.

He’d taken to the retreat with surprisingly little convincing; perhaps it reminded him of Honnleath, or perhaps it was simply different enough from his office, far enough removed from the corpses of Haven and shadows of Orlais that he could shed the skin of the Commander and relax.

For instance, when she ducked through the cabin door, she found him with his armor off, kneeling in front of the fire, stirring a pot that bubbled with some manner of thick stew. His sleeves were cuffed up to his elbows and his eyes closed, the slightest smile betraying his pleasure at the aroma wafting up to greet him.

Neria slipped in as silently as she could manage—which was quite silently, especially when the target was someone used to enemies approaching in plate armor and heavy shields. She deposited the basket of bread on the table and pushed her hood back from her head, padding over to slide her arms around Cullen’s neck and rest her chin atop his head. He started, just slightly, but her touch was as familiar to her as the weight of his sword against his hip and he immediately relaxed into her embrace.

“On dhea,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his curls. The were loose and soft, just how she loved to see them. Perhaps she would have a word with the Ambassador—it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch to suggest that importing so much hair gel was an unnecessary burden on their budget.

“Hi,” he replied, voice low and gravelly from an odd combination of overuse and disuse. He clears his throat and tips his head back to press an inverted kiss to her lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Oh?” A teasing smile came to her lips, all too easy, as she shed the mantle of Inquisitor and embraced the lightness of this sanctuary. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Embarrassment flooded his cheeks in an instant and he abandoned the spoon in the pot to clasp at the back of his neck. He grinned sheepishly.

“Of course not, I—“

She silenced his defenses with another kiss, more insistent and firm, enough that he turned to face her properly and slid his arms around her waist to draw her close. Lost in the sensation, the smell of oakmoss and armor polish, the fire his hands stroked across her back, the comforting crackle of the fire in the hearth, she hardly noticed when he dipped her down and pulled her snugly into the cradle of his arms.

They broke apart with a gasp, each flushed more than the heat of the fire would do alone. Neria threaded her fingers through his hair; Cullen traced the shell of her ear, thumbs following the path of teal lines around her eyes and across her cheeks.

Home was not a place, she thought. It was not a Circle tower, or a rundown flat in the worst city of the Marches. It was not a hollow at the base of a tree or a bountiful bush of berries that would feed her for another night; it was not the landships of the Dalish or the worship of so much ignorance.

Home was here and now—the warmth in her heart and the safety and care and love that seeped through her like a sip of fine wine.

Home was him and finally, she was home.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Timeline of Middle-Earth

To develop a clearer sense of the sheer scale of the timelines we’re dealing with in Middle-earth’s Ages of the Sun, I thought I would put it in perspective by comparing it to real-world history. This can be done comparatively simply because the main events of The Lord of the Ring occur in 3018-3019 BC. (3020 in Middle-earth is a very good year, conspicuously unlike our 2020.)

So if we analogize T.A. 3019 to our 2019, we can get a sense in our terms of how long ago various Middle-earth events were to (mortal) characters in The Lord of the Rings. The beginning of the Third Age, for example, would line up with 1000 BC (approximately the time of Solomon). The beginning of the Second Age would be 4441 BC, and the beginning of the (much shorter) First Age a little before 5000 BC. A lot of my dates will be from the history of the Ancient Near East and Europe, simply because those are the periods of ancient history I’m most familiar with.

Using this comparison, the beginning of the Second Age and the foundation of Númenor is roughly contemporary with the earliest development of the wheel (~4500 BC, Wikipedia tells me) and the earliest forms of writing. So if you want a timescale for just how old any elf who saw the First Age was, that’s a helpful starting point (Maglor and Galadriel are, of course, much older).

The forging of the One Ring (c. S.A. 1600) corresponds to a little before the construction of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

The imperialist era of Númenor, under Tar-Ciryatan, begins at about the same time as the building of the Great Pyramid of Giza (~2500 BC) and lasts until roughly the end of the New Kingdom of Egypt (that’s the one that included Hatshepsut and Ramses II) a little before 1000 BC. That makes ancient Egypt really quite helpful for envisioning the span of Númenor’s history, except that Númenor also had about 1900 years of being non-terrible prior to that.

The Last Alliance of Elves and Men corresponds to around 1000 BC, around the tine of the start of the Chinese Zhou dynasty (for context, this is still well before Qin Shi Huang and the Terra-Cotta Army) and the time of David and Solomon in ancient Israel.

Arwen is born in the year 241 of the Third Age. This roughly corresponds to the time of the composition of the Iliad and Odyssey by Homer. So when Elrond tells Aragorn that Arwen is far, far older than him, he is, if anything, understating the point.

The breakup of Arnor into three realms occurs in T.A. 861. We have now skipped over a quite considerable period of time (past the Assyrians, Babylonians, and Alexander the Great in the ancient near east, andpast Qin Shi Huang in China) to the time of the Roman Republic and of the Han dynasty. So that gives some perspective on what Aragorn re-founding the kindom of Arnor means - the the people of, say, Bree, this is a kingdom from ancient history.

Around T.A. 1000 - corresponding to the time of the New Testament and the early Roman Empire - the Istari arrive in Middle-earth and the first hobbits come to Eriador (i.e. the land west of the Misty Mountains). However, the hobbits don’t cross the Brandywine and found the Shire until a long time later (T.A. 1600).

The centuries around T.A. 1300s-1400s see civil war in Arnor (incited by the Witch-king of Angmar) and Gondor, and in invasion of Arnor by the Witch-king. This corresponds to around A.D. 300s-400s in our time, and the fall of the Roman Empire.

The Shire is founded in T.A. 1601, corresponding to around our A.D. 600. This is roughly equivalent the time of the founding of Islam in our world. So the Shire’s got a very considerable history behind it!

The fall of the north-kingdom of Arnor to the Witch-king occurred in T.A. 1974. Also in the late 1900s of the Third Age, the Witch-king returns to Mordor; a Balrog appears in Moria and drives out the dwarves; and Thrain I founds the Kingdom Under the Mountain in Erebor. A little after (T.A. 2050) the line of the kings in Gondor ends and the time of the Stewards begins. This is equivalent, in our terms, to around the time of the Norman Conquest of England, and of Cahokia in North America. When Boromir asks his father why the Stewards of Gondor are not considered kings yet, he has a point.

In 2463, the White Council is formed; this is also around the same time that Gollum obtains the Ring. Roughly speaking, this is equivalent to the time of the Renaissance in Europe for us. Gollum had the Ring for a really freaking long time.

The arrival of the Rohirrim, and the granting of Calenardhon to them as the realm of Rohan (irrespective of its actual inhabitants) occurs in 2510 of the Third Age, or close to equivalent with the beginning of the Reformation for us.

The Bagginses, Tooks, and Brandybucks can trace their ancestry back to the years 1000s to 1100s in Shure-reckoning (2600s-2700s of the Third Age), equivalent to a family in our time being able to trace its lineage to the 1600s-1700s A.D.

Smaug’s destruction of the Kingdom under the Mountain is in T.A. 2770, shortly followed by the War of the Dwarves and Orcs when Thror (Thorin’s grandfather) is killed by an orc in Moria. In our terms, corresponding to 1770, around the time of the American Revolution. Thorin dies in T.A. 2941 (equiv. A.D. 1941), to to get a perspective on dwarf ages, Thorin’s lifespan is equivalent to someone being able to fight in both the American Revolution and World War II.

Bilbo is born in T.A. 2890, equivalent to 1890 (the Gilded Age) in our time. The Fell Winter, when wolves attack the Shire over the frozen Brandywine, happens when he is 10 years old.

Aragorn and Denethor are born at almost the same time, Denethor in T.A. 2930 and Aragorn in T.A. 2931. Huh, hadn’t realized that. How mich does Denethor resent that he’s an old man while Aragorn is still in the prime of his life. Anyway, this is around the 1930s in our terms.

The events of the Hobbit take place in T.A. 2941, equivalent to our 1941 - a happier year for Middle-earth than for us, certainly.

Frodo is born in 2968, equivalent to our 1968.

Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, and the events of The Lord of the Rings, occurs in T.A. 3001, equivalent to our 2001.

So, hopefully that gives some perspective on how long ago the various events of Middle-earth’s history would feel to the mortal - or at least, human and hobbit - characters of The Lord of the Rings. The major difference is that the existence of elves mean that both written records and living memory go back far, far further for Middle-earth than they do for us.

[missmungoe]

What’s your idea about Makino’s little ring in the cover of chapter 806?

So I’m not sure if you’re asking me what I think the ring means (in which case, see: https://archiveofourown.org/series/581281), or if this is a prompt, but I don’t think the ring is an accidental detail, and as she had a child during the timeskip, it’s not unreasonable to assume it’s a wedding ring. I have >1.6 million words written about who I hope wears the matching one, but until “that man’s” identity is confirmed, it’s just a tantalising possibility, alas!

But even if the ring doesn’t mean what I hope it does, it doesn’t need to for my imagination to make it so, and just in case this was a writing prompt, here’s a little something I’ve been tinkering with, originally in answer to a completely different prompt, but since they went well together, I combined them:

The thing with feathers, that perches in the soul // Shanks x Makino; rated M (part 1/?)

“Take it off?”

Surprise lifted her voice, her laugh small and startled, but then she’d been caught off guard by the request, made out of the blue one morning.

The sun was taking its time, rising from its slumber with a lazy stretch across her floors, a slight chill still touching the salt air where she’d thrown the windows open. A thick cover of sea mist draped heavily over the water, soft as chiffon where it crept up the shoreline to the foundations of her bar; a protective shroud veiling her little corner of the world, half-forgotten by the rest.

Shanks had been reading the paper while she got ready to open, a routine they’d created, bit by bit over the months he’d stayed, communicated in touches and gestures―the chairs taken down from the tables while she had her back turned; a cup of coffee placed by his elbow before he could request it―no words needed between them in this first, tender hour, and so she’d been startled when he’d spoken.

She considered him across the counter, the glass she’d been polishing cupped idly between her hands. The look on his face was unusually serious, which told her what he had in mind wasn’t roleplay. Not the kind she would have expected him to suggest, anyway.

Unease crept with a shiver up her back, and she had an inkling already before Shanks said, evenly, “If anyone shows up, I want you to take your ring off. And I’m not talking about Garp, although this is probably the only time he’d agree with me.”

“But I don’t want to take it off,” Makino said, tucking her fingers around the hand that wore it, as though that could somehow keep it there.

She saw his eyes going to it, before they lifted to hers, the barest furrow between his brows betraying a rare tension. “It would be safer.”

“But who’s going to make the connection? It’s not like it has ‘property of Red-Haired Shanks’ inscribed on it.”

His lips didn’t even quirk, which was so jarring her own smile fell. She knew him so well, it was only rarely that he ever responded in a way she didn’t expect, but it was becoming clear to her now that whatever was on his mind, it couldn’t be smoothed over with jokes.

She took in his face, his handsome features arranged in a look she wasn’t used to seeing, a hardness about him that didn’t belong here, on her gentle shores―that belonged to a different sea, one that asked different things of him, things she couldn’t ask, and she hated it now for finding him here, and for infringing on her peace as she’d made it.

Her eyes darted to the paper, open on the counter, wondering if something in it had inspired this change, but seeing the way he looked at her, behind the counter that was the only protection she’d ever needed, Makino knew it wasn’t anything in the news, but something they’d both known had been coming for a while. Ever since he’d come back, it had waited in the wings, a silent patron she could ignore most days, too happy to pay it any mind, but there was no ignoring it now that he’d brought it up.

They’d been holding off discussing his departure, even as she’d known it was bound to catch up with them eventually. But while she’d made her peace with him leaving, knowing he’d come back, the thought of giving up the tangible reminder she had of that promise met resistance now.

She’d spent ten years hinging her hopes on nothing but her memories, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined the promise he’d made her. Now they were married, and there was more than words binding them, and even the sea had to respect these vows, spoken on the deck of his ship, no church or mortal court to give their blessing, only that bottomless cathedral, and the ancient authority that had witnessed their union.

She felt the metal of her wedding band, warmed by her fingers. Their rings had been wrought from the chain of the anchor that had first dropped in her port twelve years ago, but it wasn’t sentimental value that made her react so fiercely now, at the thought of parting with it.

She didn’t want to take it off―to pretend she hadn’t made that vow, or that the last two years hadn’t happened. The ring was a declaration of what she was, the only way she could declare it, when the world couldn’t know she existed. She refused to give that up, and to pretend she was anything less than she was, even just for show.

“It’s not like there’s any evidence tracing back to you,” Makino said, when he hadn’t spoken. “We don’t have a marriage certificate in the records that they can dig up.” Ben had been the one to marry them; an old sailor’s tradition, shamelessly borrowed with a pirate’s cheerful contempt of the law; the flowers in her hair new as snow, and the sea their something blue. Unconventional by most standards, but she couldn’t have imagined it any other way.

Shanks wasn’t budging. “It’s just safer if people believe you’re unmarried.”

“The whole village was at our wedding, Shanks. Half of them got blackout drunk, but I think they remember.” Her own memories were blurry at best, flowers crumbling under her bare feet, and laughing as he spun her, a wedding shanty that put their vows to shame, and laughter she could still feel in the bottom of her stomach.

The following hangover, though; that she remembered.

Still no smile, but then she heard how her attempted humour faltered, buckling under his seriousness. She didn’t like what it made of his face; the one she only knew as smiling.

“Not the village,” Shanks said, with a look and a pitch that said he knew she was being obstinate, and that left her breath feeling a little faint. He didn’t use that tone with her often, at least outside of more intimate settings, and she didn’t like it being invoked here, and in this way.

Shifting her weight, she squared her shoulders, all of her five feet brandished against his six and more, although even seated, it didn’t give her an advantage, but she saw the way his brow furrowed, as she said, gently firm, “I’m not taking it off.”

She didn’t know if the look on his face was affection or exasperation. “Can’t you just agree with me on this?”

“No.”

“Makino―”

“If anyone asks, I’ll just say my husband is out working the fields,” she said. “What are they going to do, go out and check? Because I can ask one of the farmers to put up a scarecrow by one of the ploughs.”

Her stubborn levity made no headway, his hardened features untouched, but she didn’t give in, her chin lifted as she stared him down across the countertop.

Then with a sigh, “You’d at least have to pick a believable lie,” Shanks relented, after enduring a full thirty seconds of her eyes. His look softened a bit. “And make it a good-looking scarecrow.”

“It could be asleep at the plough,” Makino suggested. “If we’re going for accuracy.” Her smile trembled, before it fell when he didn’t return it.

It was hard to swallow past the knot in her throat, and she heard it in her voice when she said, “I’ll tell them you’re out fishing.”

“And if they stick around and I never come in?”

“I’ll tell them I hope the sea king didn’t get you?”

This time she couldn’t even attempt a smile, and when his expression still didn’t change, she said, without teasing, “Then I’ll tell them you’re in Goa Port picking up a shipment of spirits. You’re a barkeep, but it’s hard getting orders delivered here. It’s a long way to Goa, too. You’ll be gone until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

“And if they come back and I’m still not around?”

She might have made another suggestion, but recognised from the stubborn set of his jaw that he wasn’t backing down.

His face changed then, something like regret chasing across it, there before it was gone, and she didn’t understand why before Shanks said, with a heaviness that held an almost portentous note, “Say that you’re a widow.”

She was surprised by the forcefulness of her own reaction.

“No.”

He sighed. “Makino―”

“No,” she repeated, fiercely. “I won’t.”

She saw that she wasn’t the only one surprised by her reaction. And she didn’t even know why it hit her so hard. She couldn’t claim to be particularly superstitious. Her mother had been too practical for superstition, but she’d also respected the sea; they all did here, who lived their lives beside it. It was a more pragmatic relationship than a sailor might devote himself to, which often had an air of fancy about it, but even if they didn’t read omens from the sky or pray to any gods, there was an implicit understanding among them that you didn’t challenge those forces lightly. They were thankful for fair weather and a good catch, but they didn’t invoke the Fates here, or seek to challenge them.

But the man seated across the counter from her had the authority to do that; the one who’d carved a place for himself on a sea most never lived to sail, one of few who could claim the kind of power it took to challenge that old authority.

She wasn’t like him. She knew what was owed; a debt she’d been paying for twelve years, for wanting him. She didn’t want to invoke that word, the fate that was all too common for those who gave their hearts to sailors, in case she invoked prophecy along with it.

Putting away the glass, Makino pressed her palms over the polished countertop. She saw how they shook, and the still-new gleam of her wedding ring where it circled her finger, but then she hadn’t been wearing it long enough for it to get scratches.

She didn’t want that to be their marriage, taken off when the going got tough, forever keeping its shiny new exterior. She wanted it to show signs of wear, of work, and love―of actually being a marriage, and not just when it was convenient, or safe.

“I’m your wife,” she said gently, although the fervour behind it refused to bend against her own fears. “I want to be your wife, even if I’m here and you’re not―”

The words faltered on her tongue, but then there was a reason she’d been avoiding thinking about him leaving.

Shanks’ look softened, some of the tension in his brow yielding as he said, understanding, “The ring isn’t what makes you my wife.”

“I know that,” Makino said softly. Turning her hand, she gripped his fingers. He wore his ring now, but she knew he wouldn’t take the risk when he left. But she understood that, even if part of her rebelled against doing the same. “It’s not like I don’t understand where you’re coming from. I know it’s a risk. What I’m saying is that I’m willing to take it.” To be what she was, she’d accept the danger that came with it. That was her marriage vows. Not empty platitudes about sickness and health, only the simple, unembellished truth.

Shanks said nothing, his gaze on their hands, but the look in his eyes like he wasn’t seeing a ring but a shackle, and a different kind of prophecy than the one she feared.

She decided to try a different tactic.

“If pretending is what you want me to do, I could always get someone from Dadan’s family to stand in as my husband,” Makino said, and saw him look up, the slightest tightening at the corners of his eyes betraying his otherwise unreadable expression.

Turning his hand over between her own, she traced the sword-callouses in his palm, the softer pads of her fingers catching against the rougher skin. “Magra, maybe,” she continued, and watched the barest flex of his fingers. “I’ve heard he’s quite handy. We could tell people we met when he helped me carry a keg from the storeroom.” Lifting her eyes found him watching her, but she only met his gaze calmly, as she asked him, “What do you think? Would he make me a good stand-in husband?”

His eyes held hers, her gentle challenge noted, the look in them somewhere between knowing and warning, and this time it sent an entirely different kind of shiver racing up her spine.

Undeterred, she lowered her eyes to their hands, smoothing her thumb over his knuckles, pale under his sun-darkened skin. “Maybe he could help me out around the bar. To keep up appearances.”

Flicking her eyes up to his, she went in for the kill. “He could even stay in the guest room. Just to be safe.”

His whole look darkened, and her stomach did a thrilling little flip.

“Don’t like that idea, hmm?” she asked, and tried to pretend her voice didn’t shiver, but it was hard when he was looking at her like that. “Me with someone else.” She trailed her fingertips across the back of his hand, her own so small she couldn’t even cover half of it with all her fingers splayed. “A different man in my house.” A fleeting caress to his wrist felt the tendons in his forearm, pulled taut with a strain that left her feeling suddenly short of breath, even as she said, demure, “And my pantry.”

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, wife.”

The pitch of his voice had goosebumps pebbling her flesh, his naturally deep timbre touched with a note of warning that stirred something deep within her, although she couldn’t tell which was the fiercer feeling, desire or relief, finding her cheek finally parried with something other than that hard expression that couldn’t be coaxed into yielding, no matter how gentle her touches.

“Well,” Makino said, and even teasing, the sincerity was real when she told him softly, her small hand gripping his, mapped with the evidence of his life, their marriage included, “I don’t mind a little danger.”

Then, this time without teasing, “I married you,” she said, and didn’t care that her voice trembled now. She wasn’t hiding her feelings. “And I’ll be careful, but I won’t hide what I am, or pretend that I’m something else. Or someone else’s.”

Bearing the weight of his eyes, she didn’t shy away from them, or from the truth as she spoke it.

“I’m yours,” she told him, fiercely, and felt the way his hand tightened under hers. “And if they come here and they already know about me, nothing I say or do will change their minds. The ring won’t matter. And there are things I can’t hide that easily.”

She glanced towards the crib behind the counter; the one they’d fashioned out of an old barrel of their captain’s favourite whiskey. She’d found the gesture both characteristically inappropriate and undeniably perfect, but then she’d spent her first years sleeping in a liquor crate while her mother worked. And their child wasn’t just the son of a pirate; he was the son of a barmaid, too.

She saw Shanks’ gaze going to it, and the baby sleeping within. And it was more than her lack of protection that weighed on him, she knew, but as long as he was who he was, there would be a risk in being associated with him. Even retiring wouldn’t change what he’d been. Not in the eyes of the current Fleet Admiral, anyway.

And since it wasn’t something either of them could change, she was determined to make the best of the situation, but then she was good at that.

She thought it was time to remind him just how good.

It was still a little while before they were due to open, and smiling, “You could always help me practice my ruse,” Makino suggested, and saw his brows lifting, bemusement at what she had planned easing some of the tension from his features.

Leaning across the counter, she trailed her fingers along his wrist, following the contours of his arm, and the distracting tautness of corded muscle under her fingertips, “My husband isn’t here, officer,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “It’s just me: a very lonely barmaid with a very spacious pantry.”

Her face fell when he pinched his lips, before his grin shattered his whole composure, and, “Wait,” she said, drawing back to stutter, “That sounded better in my head. What I meant was that―”

A broad hand reached around the back of her neck, pulling her in for a kiss that stole what she’d been about to say, and muffling her startled laugh, although his own was quick to follow, deep and rough where it rose from his chest, the kiss breaking when he couldn’t contain his grin.

Drawing back enough to look at her, he sighed, rough fingers slipping from her neck to tuck her hair behind her ear. “God, you’re terrible at this,” Shanks said, with such a fierce affection, her heart constricted. “Completely unconvincing.”

Balancing on her toes, the edge of the counter dug into her ribs, but the discomfort was fleeting and unimportant. Her smile trembled on her mouth, inches from his, his beard brushing her jaw as she murmured, “I know.”

Closing her eyes, she kissed him softly, her hands cupping his face, no pretence this time, only the honest truth, offered with all of herself, the only way she knew how.

He’d moved before she could react, the kiss breaking only for a second, and she’d barely had time to catch her breath when his mouth claimed hers again, his arm wrapping around her as he pushed her back towards the storeroom, and the door where it sat ajar.

They stumbled over the doorstep, fumbling between sloppy kisses, like they were in that moment younger people with less to lose, her little laughing shriek muffled against his lips when he hoisted her up onto the shelf where her ledger lay open, and she couldn’t contain her giggles even as he shushed her through grinning kisses, knowing from experience how little it took to rouse a three-month old baby but unable to help herself, something wild and reckless pushing like wings against her ribcage, refusing to stay hidden, wanting out, fearless in its desire, and its will to claim it.

They hadn’t brought a lantern, and the light hadn’t reached this far into her bar, the storeroom cool and dark and the heavy shelves keeping her spirits and secrets, the crates digging into her back as he pinned her to them.

“This is very rakish behaviour for a married woman,” Shanks rumbled, releasing her from the kiss, her breath hitching when his hand wrapped around her thigh, pushing her skirt out of the way. “Someone might mistake you for a pirate.”

Makino hummed, finding her balance on the shelf, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck as she swung her legs, her boots and stockings impishly bared, and saw how it drew his eyes, before she eased them apart, her smile small and demure, and utterly unconvincing. “Imagine that.”

His eyes held her, his features darkened by the shadows of her pantry, making his scars look more pronounced, but the look beneath was gentle as Shanks touched his brow to hers. His thumb traced the hem of her stocking, and the glimpse of bare skin beneath her skirt where he’d pushed it up.

The feeling from before seized her, that fearless thing, like wings waiting under her skin. And maybe it was easy to be brave here, within the walls of her pantry where it felt like nothing could touch them, but even knowing differently didn’t change what she felt, as Makino told him, soft, “Ask me again.”

His look changed, a sudden intensity in it that made her glad she was sitting, but she didn’t look away, accepting the full weight of the truth behind it, unfearing of what it meant to be loved like that, and by someone like him.

Bending his head, his mouth covered hers firmly, stuttering her breath with a gasp, a command behind it that left her hands shaking where she’d curled them around his neck, and if she’d had any more clever remarks prepared about stand-in husbands or navy officers, they fled her mind now as she melted.

The big hand around her thigh tightened its grip, his wedding ring digging into her skin, as though he could imprint something that couldn’t be taken off or hidden, that was written on her skin, on her soul, and if she could have formed the words, she might have told him he already had, but they were lost when his hand slid up her thigh to part her legs, finding her with a shuddering breath that she felt in the way it left him.

And this was another unspoken language they’d made, communicated in touches―her legs parting to him in welcome, and his hand pausing, his fingers already half inside her, asking; her breath hitching as she lifted herself up to kiss him deeper, her hands threading through his hair as she gave herself, a silent affirmation that told him to take―no words needed as he entered her, carefully even if it had been months since their son, but she appreciated the restraint he showed, even with all of him unravelling under her hands, that iron-clad control included.

Her legs wrapping around his waist pulled him deeper, her gasp stuttering with a faint little plea as he filled her to her limit. And if she hoped he’d leave something in her it was a private thought, begged with her breaths as she took him inside her, each thrust a little harder, the bottles stirring in their crates as the shelf creaked, a steady rhythm growing in tandem with her gasps.

Her hands left his jaw, fumbling with the front of her stays as she slipped loose the little hooks until it popped open, and he was already reaching for her, his fingers a shock of warmth where they slipped past the low cut of her blouse to cup one of her breasts, tiny in his hand, his sword-calluses rough where he caressed it, and her shivering moan was well received, from the deeper groan that left him, as Shanks slowed his pace, touching her as he took her, until the shelves were rattling.

Bending down, he kissed her chest, his lips seeking the wide valley between her breasts, her flushed skin pearling with sweat. His beard scuffed her breast as he pulled it free, and she gasped, arching against the shelf as he curled his tongue around a painfully sensitive nipple, her lips parting over his name where it left her in a whimper.

He came like that, her skirt shoved up her hips and her silk stockings slipping down her legs, spread to him where she sat, the pages of her ledger crumpled and damp beneath her; the stereotype of the lascivious tavern wench, but she embraced it now, shockingly indulgent in her own lewdness, watching him as he finished with deep, pulsing shudders, a groan leaving him that had her toes curling in her boots.

His eyes slitted open, the grey steel muted, but even then his full attention was arresting; a single look enough to dismiss everything else in the world, as though she was the only thing in it.

She watched as they swept across her, her breasts bared to the air and her thighs spread, his cock still inside her, but she didn’t squirm or try to hide, only allowed him to see.

Bending forward, Shanks kissed the parting of her hair, his breath winded as he leaned some of his weight on her. His knuckles brushed her cheek, catching the tears that had spilled over without her notice. His ring was cool against her skin; wrapping around the back of her neck, she felt how they shook.

Carding her fingers through his hair, she felt him exhale, but he didn’t let her go, just held her like that, the protective frame of his body between her and the door, hiding her from view, and nothing could have touched her there, in that moment.

His fingers trailed down the dip between her shoulder blades. Her blouse clung to her skin, the air within the storeroom damp and smelling of them, but she couldn’t even worry that someone would stumble across them, although had enough presence of mind to think that she should probably fix herself up before their first customers arrived, but was distracted by the deep chuckle that left him, and his voice where it rumbled into her skin,

“Where’s your husband now, barmaid?”

Her laugh trembled, and her arms tightened around his neck, pulling him closer and pressing her nose into the hollow of his throat. She loved him like this, freed of worry, if only for a little while. And that was her power; the only one she could claim, but it wasn’t a small thing in this age, to command peace.

And she knew how he expected her to react, because he knew her better than anyone, and never let an opportunity to make her flustered pass him by.

But she knew him, too, and like him, she knew exactly how to nudge him off balance. Which was why she said, demure as anything, “He’s ploughing his wife.”

She felt the hand on her neck pausing, the slight stiffening in him betraying his surprise, before his shoulders convulsed, as Shanks bent forward with a laugh.

The sound filled her, loud and lovely, but a softness about it that was hers, that tender, half-winded thing. She thought the whole village had to hear it, and that it would wake the baby, but she didn’t care, her own laughter helpless, hearing his, and feeling the way his arm tightened around her, which said more than any other gesture or word, even as Shanks murmured roughly, “I love you.”

Cupping his face with her hands, she pressed her forehead against his. “It will be okay,” Makino said, and didn’t care that she couldn’t make that promise; that there were other forces that wanted their say. But she wouldn’t hide from her choices, and him least of all. “You’ll see.”

Shanks said nothing, only held her, but he didn’t disagree this time, which she counted as a small victory, and it was what gave her the courage to quip, “And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them my husband can’t be held down. His heart belongs to the sea. It’s just the way things are, in this day and age.”

His eyes found hers. In the dim light, they looked darker, but she knew the look in them, and like the laugh, that was hers, too. “I thought we agreed that we were going for accuracy,” Shanks said. A tender smile curved his mouth, as he told her roughly, “And that you’re a terrible liar.”

Her grin couldn’t be contained, splitting her face, wide and without shame, and his.

The sound of the bat-wing doors swinging open reached them, followed by their first customers arriving, and her grin fell as horror widened her eyes, before she scrambled to pull her stays closed.

A voice from the bar drifted through the door―“Huh? Where’s Makino-chan?”

“That’s odd,” said another, as her mortification deepened, recognising one of her mother’s oldest patrons; a man who’d seen her toddle around in diapers. “Red-Hair’s not here, either. They’re usually open by now.”

Shanks’ grin grew, and she saw the punishment for her disobedience in the gleam in his eyes, and hissed, “Shanks, no―”

But she wasn’t quick enough, as he turned his head towards to call out, “She’s coming! Or she will be.” And before her horror could fully sink in, added brightly, “Just give me a few minutes to finish; I want to make sure she does.”

Her hands clapping over his mouth didn’t succeed in muffling his laughter, but then even her embarrassment couldn’t hold out against the grin that split his face now, which held no trace of his earlier seriousness, as he nipped and kissed her fingers until her mortification dissolved with her laughter.

When they emerged a few minutes later, after she’d blankly refused to let him get her off first (although had agreed to revisiting it after closing), it was to find their regulars waiting, knowing looks exchanged above poorly-stifled grins as she with every ounce of prim dignity she possessed asked them if they wanted their usual, all the while ignoring Shanks’ eyes following her as she made her way between the tables. Although having taken their orders, she caught the fond murmur as she made for the bar―

“Married life suits her, doesn’t it?”

“Aye, it does. Shame Em ain’t here to see it.”

Her smile ruined her prim composure, but she claimed it for herself, and kept her chin high as she walked to the bar where Shanks was waiting, leaning back against the kegs.

“What?” he asked, when she reached him, lifting up on her toes to steal a kiss; not something she usually did, shy about public displays, unlike him, and relished in his surprise at her brazenness, shaping his grin, a gentler thing than in the storeroom earlier.

Her own smile was small, as she lowered back on her heels, her head tipped back to look up at him, noting the dish-towel slung over his shoulder, a different kind of captain, with no sea underfoot, but a captain still.

“Nothing,” Makino said, before reciting, “One egg over easy, and―”

“―one sunny-side up, hash browns on the side of both, and a single serving of bacon, because old man Nakamura is watching his cholesterol.”

At her look of surprise, he only smiled, and bent his head to kiss her once, before he made for the kitchen, a grin thrown over his shoulder, leaving her staring after him, and wondering how he could have ever expected her to pretend to be the person she’d been before him.

The doors swinging open drew her gaze to his crew, and her smile blossomed as they greeted her, loudly and cheerfully. And there was no doubt in their minds what she was, catching their cheeky bows and tipped hats, but she didn’t shy from their reverence where it named her, and more clearly than any ring or vow.

“Hey, where’s that husband of yours?” Yasopp asked her, when she appeared at their table to take their orders. Someone had given him the baby, awake and peering up at all the faces around him. Yasopp made a face at him, and when he got a gummy little smile, asked him in a sing-song voice, “What’s his name again?”

“Keeps slipping my mind,” Ben agreed, grinning around his toothpick.

“Wait, who are we talking about?”

“Makino’s husband.”

“Oh, right! That guy.”

The others joined in, feigning forgetfulness, their laughter growing in volume, until there was nothing left of the quiet morning, dissolving like the sea mist as the sun claimed its seat in the sky.

Her playful look warned them, although her smile indulged their cheeky insubordination, knowing well just how far it was from the truth. Because she could imagine their reactions to the suggestion, however teasingly made, about a stand-in husband in their captain’s absence, endearingly protective, and not just of her. She would spare poor Magra that.

“He’s here,” Makino said, and heard in the words the fleeting truth, but didn’t care if she wouldn’t be able to say the same a month from now, or two. He’d be home again soon, with the tide. They all would.

Emerging from the kitchen, Shanks took one look at the room and stopped, a different kind of concern furrowing his brow now as every grin within turned towards him. “What did I miss?”

Coming over to where she was standing, he put the tray he was carrying on the table. The look he gave her said he had his suspicions, and that her innocent smile was fooling no one.

Then a gleam entered his eyes, and Makino knew she was in trouble even before he chirped, “Did you tell them about your plan to get a stand-in husband in my absence?”

Their grins fell, and Makino closed her eyes.

Poor Magra.

“A what?!”

.

.

.

She didn’t get a stand-in, but she didn’t take the ring off, either―a small act of rebellion, but it was the only thing she could do in opposition to the system that governed their world, and the laws that would punish her for her choices. And maybe there was a little pride there, too, but then loving him was her greatest crime, and she’d accept all charges against her, pleading guilty to whatever court would see her put on trial, mortal or otherwise. Those were her wedding vows, too; the ones she hadn’t spoken aloud to him.

Her bar saw the occasional new visitor, on their way to Goa or further still, who’d seen the lights from afar and decided to have a look, but there was only one who asked about the ring, and who didn’t bat an eye when she told him her husband was currently across the island signing off on a shipment. He’d only remarked positively on their bar, and said that no tavern in Goa Port he’d been to had been as hospitable.

(She hadn’t questioned his manners, unfailingly good, almost military-like; hadn’t looked closely enough at the set of his shoulders, that proud bearing she’d known since childhood, from the grizzled marine who’d ruffle her hair until her kerchief sat askew and who’d sneak her gifts behind her mother’s back.)

Garp would have seen through him, she would realise later, but she’d been so busy trying to keep up appearances, she’d forgotten to question if her visitor was doing the same.

She was getting ready to open―had just finished lifting the chairs off the tables and had gone into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee when she remembered it wasn’t necessary, and had instead gone to wring out the rag to wipe down the counter when she heard the bat-wing doors swinging inwards.

Ace was asleep in his crib, safe under the counter behind the curtain she’d pulled closed, and she didn’t pause at her early visitor, as emerging from the kitchen, she called out, forgetting for a moment that she was alone, the we invoked so easily, even weeks after he’d left, “I’m sorry, but we’re not open yet―”

The words cut off, as she came to a halt.

She could smell the cigar smoke from across the room, the butt smouldering like the embers in her hearth, an almost unnatural glow in its burning eye where it fastened on her like a brand.

The white coat was the first thing she noticed, but she would have recognised him even out of uniform, the straight shoulders and the flower tattoo peeking out from under his shirt, the garishly patterned kind that reminded her of Garp, but that was where their similarities ended.

He was flanked by two officers, their caps pulled low over their brows, but she recognised the one on the left, dark-haired and dimpled and refusing to meet her eyes, his hands white-knuckled around the rifle he was holding. He’d loved her cooking so much he’d asked for a fourth helping; had said it reminded him of his sister’s, who he hadn’t seen in years.

The Fleet Admiral took her in, a single sweep of his eyes across her announcing his feelings, something far more personal than simple contempt in the furrow of his brow. Judge, jury, and executioner; he’d already decided her charges, and what her punishment would be, for the choices she’d made. The only crime she’d committed, but for a man like him, it was enough.

And she’d been right. In the end, the ring hadn’t mattered.

“Arrest her.”

[fluri-above-all]

ToV Rarepair Drabble - Scars

One of the oneshot prompts I've seen lately was about scars. And I've been wanting to write Harry x Ioder again ever since @nagia36 brought up one of my old drabbles...Harry doesn't really get the attention he deserves so I wrote this to make it up to him.

Warning for suggestive themes.

Scars

Harry’s body held scars. 

The first was across the bridge of his nose and honestly…he couldn’t remember how it happened. Yeager had told him once it was from crying so much while he was a baby that the tears created the cut turned scar as they fell. This had prompted further crying from the very young blonde. 

His grandfather later pat him on the head (and whacked Yeager upside his) and proceeded to tell him even he did not know how Harry got it. When Garry's family was driven out of their hometown, he’d reunited with Harry and his mother and the mark had already marred his unconscious face. His mother had had a mental breakdown and disappeared one night, taking the secret with her. With his memories of that day unknown and lost to him, Harry eventually came to simply accept the scar as one of the earliest parts of himself. It was his “favorite” if he had to pick one. 

There were also scars that were not his favorite. They adorned his back, parts of his chest and even the side of his neck. These were from skirmishes, battles and attacks on his life. The ones on his chest weren’t visible with his clothes on, even with his shirt barely covering his torso. The scar on his neck was small, from a younger part of his life when someone had foolishly tried to take him hostage. Their plan would have worked, had they not nicked Harry in the neck and set the guilds into frenzy. It was one of the few times he had ever seen his grandfather look truly angry, “seeing red” is what he’d later come to recognize it as. 

Since that day no one has tried to kidnap or capture the young man. That incident was probably why….

It could also be from the size Harry had grown during his years of rebuilding himself as well...but he liked to think the terrors of Altosk had spooked his assailants away.

One of the scars on his back was up by his shoulder, where the tusk of a large monster had snagged him from behind and pinned him to the ground. Harry winces even now just thinking about that particular instance. 

The oddest scar of all – In Harry’s opinion anyway – was on his ankle. A blood-thirsty group of bandits had attempted – very poorly – to attack the still inexperienced Don on his trip through the desert. One of the bandits speared him in the ankle with a harpoon gun, the retraction dragged Harry several feet before Raven and the other members of Altosk dispatched the group. When the weather gets cold, he can feel the irritation in his foot from the long scarred over wound. It was his “least favorite” if he had to pick. 

Still, the young Don of 23 years took pride in his scars. They were symbols depicting an exciting (and often dangerous) life, proof that through all he had endured, he was strong. And more importantly, he was still here. He'd been stabbed in the back, attacked head on, pulled against his will, and yet, he was still standing tall. 

Harry had never been particularly close with death; none of the wounds engraved on his body were life-threatening. If anything, people would say he had Lady Luck on his side. He'd scoff at that, being a man who believed in carving his own path and not fate…

Still...

That didn’t mean he was itching to meet his maker enough to test it. As reckless as he could be he had no desire to push the limits of his life. It was something precious that had been fought for and sacrificed his whole life. And through those scars, he knew they were signs that represented those who had lost their life for him…It meant their sacrifice was not in vain. He would continue to fight. No matter what it took. 

It was his relentless and unwavering ability to never back down that made Ioder worry – he knew that. 

The first time they had made love he’d hesitated to show himself to the other blonde. Harry wondered if the young Emperor would find him grotesque with his marred skin, a dark contrast to Ioder’s pale perfection. But Ioder said nothing about them, even kissed the one across his collarbone. 

Harry didn’t want to admit it, but the tender intimacy made his pulse quicken and his body waver slightly. 

Who knew a person’s bitter scars could elicit such a sweet reaction? Certainly not Harry. He didn’t think his body could ever be so sensitive to another’s touch, especially with his scars. 

It was yet another surprise that kept Harry wrapped around the Emperor’s finger – contrary to everyone’s opinion of Ioder being swept away by Harry. It was another surprise and a secret Harry wanted to keep to himself. 

But Ioder had ways of figuring him out. 

And he was always so damn sneaky about it too...

The day was innocent enough (as always), Ioder was signing off paperwork at his desk and Harry was lying on the nearby couch. He'd come unannounced so Ioder had insisted Harry be patient and wait for him to finish. It was fairly hot outside, so even with the window open, save for the occasional breeze, it was almost unbearable. 

Except Ioder appeared perfectly fine. 

And for some reason, that irritated Harry. The Emperor wore considerably more when it came to his attire and not only that, the material was bulkier as well. 

“Aren’t you hot?!” Harry cried out, unable to take the heat of the room any longer. Just looking at Ioder made him sweat. The sudden sound of Harry’s voice must have startled Ioder, because he had blinked several times in shocked confusion. 

“Ah forget it, you’re not even paying attention are you…” Harry accused, knowing Ioder had a way of tuning everything out once ensconced in his work. 

“Don’t apologize either.” He added as he saw the gears turning in Ioder’s head. The Emperor likely realized he was not being the best of hosts at the moment. Stretching his arms above his head, Harry elicited a yawn and removed his vest. With the dark garment discarded, he already felt immensely better. 

And while he was at it, he might as well make himself comfortable. Untucking his shirt, Harry’s hands moved to pull the shirt over his head – 

“What are you doing?” Ioder questioned - eyes wide as he regarded the young Don mid shirt removal. 

“I’m taking my shirt off.” Harry answered simply. He opened his mouth to question if there was a problem but then he had to briefly consider where he was. 

Oh that’s right…people are worried about propriety here….

He lifted the shirt up and off anyways,  dropping it on the couch next to him. 

“Harry!” Ioder scolded, face a light shade of pink as he tried not to stare too intently. 

“It’s hot.” Harry regarded with a shrug. “Besides….” He turned his head to the side, a suggestive look on his face. “It’s not anything you haven’t seen before.” Harry withheld the smirk threatening to burst forth at the way Ioder’s cheeks flushed before he looked away. The young Don chuckled to himself, smug with this victory. Ioder went back to work once his face returned to a normal shade, but Harry wasn’t making things easy for him. 

Perhaps it was a low blow, distracting Ioder the way he was with his bare torso. 

And the young Emperor was certainly distracted. He stole the occasional glance as Harry sat back to lounge on the couch once more, the Don feeling quite relieved with his skin exposed. With all the sun he’d soaked up recently, his skin had tanned considerably, especially the front of his chest where he showed most of his muscled chest. 

Now Harry wasn’t a narcissist, but he couldn’t help but admit it was a pretty damn good look on him. Catching Ioder staring out the corner of his eye was all the confirmation that he needed. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Ioder’s pen as he wrote, a contented bliss took over him at how comfortable things had become with a few simple garments removed. 

In fact, he almost drifted off to sleep.

Almost.

The sound of Ioder’s chair shuffling back switched his brain back into alertness. Maybe he was taking a break? Ioder sometimes scooted the chair back to get more room to stretch. 

However he didn’t hear the groan come as it normally did when Ioder did this. Instead, he felt the presence of the young Emperor much closer to him than before. Harry opened his eyes to see what Ioder was up to when the other blonde was actually right in front of him. 

“Iod-“

Harry tried to sit up to ask what was wrong when Ioder pushed Harry’s shoulders back against the couch, the Emperor lifting his legs to straddle him. 

“It’s not nice to tease.” Ioder scolded, but it lacked the disciplinary bite it usually did when he was reprimanding the young Don. Instead it held a hint of mischief, with no short amount of lust. 

Harry had to admit – Ioder lasted much longer than he thought he would. The Don’s arms wrapped around Ioder’s waist, drawing the other man closer. “You know I have every intention of following through…” he answered, voice low and suggestive.

He stretched up to kiss Ioder but Ioder leaned down instead, placing a soft kiss on the tiny scar on the side of his neck, warm hands lightly tracing the sensitive flesh across his once injured collarbone and chest. The sudden physical contact elicited a moan Harry hadn’t even realized he was holding in. Pliant lips rested against the young Don’s ear, warm breath causing Harry to shutter as Ioder spoke. 

“Not if I don’t let you.”

The tanned blonde raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Ioder – Mr. Pacifist – able to subdue someone twice his size? He’s seen Ioder talk down people much stronger than him, but Harry? Did he really think he had an edge over him that would keep him submissive?

Ioder seemed to sense Harry’s apprehension and Harry could almost feel the smirk coming from behind his calm expression. “I notice things about you too Harry.” He kissed along Harry’s jaw, sending sparks down the Don’s spine. “I’d noticed this a while ago but…” Ioder trailed off as he kissed down the other blonde’s neck. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, finding he didn’t much mind letting the young Emperor take the reins now and then.

“But?” Harry inquired, leaning his head back to allow Ioder better access. 

Hands traveled down Harry’s sides to the dip of his hips, tracing gently over the scar along his hip bone. Harry’s eyes shot open as he bucked his waist up at Ioder’s touch, a soft gasp escaping his mouth. 

“But you really like it when I touch your scars like that.” 

If looks could kill….well…Harry could never kill Ioder, but he certainly wanted to upend him from his lap and wipe that smug expression off his face. 

“I’ll touch them all you’d like later, so be patient and wait for me to finish my work so there won’t be any distractions. Okay?” Ioder asked, lips curled up in a sickeningly innocent smile. His actions betrayed that sweet smile however, as his fingers gently traced Harry’s chest.

“You say that…but you’re not stopping…” Harry pointed out. 

Ioder’s smile turns into a bit of a smirk. “You don’t sound like you’re complaining….”

“Got nothing to complain about.” Harry smirks back, hands moving to Ioder’s waist. Before they can find purchase however, Ioder pulls back, sauntering off to his desk and leaving Harry slightly miffed.

He does take a small bit of satisfaction in the way Ioder squirms uncomfortably in his seat, face slightly flushed. 

Good, he is affected by it…

Harry settles back onto the couch, heat long forgotten as he tries to calm down his hard-on.

How could he let such a weakness become apparent? And how could Ioder use it against him like that?

And why was he strangely alright with all of it?

Those would have to be answers for another time, but for now…

He settled for simply enjoying the way his scars buzzed from Ioder's lingering touch and the anticipation of things to come once Ioder finished his work.

[stirringwinds]

If you made hetalia china, would you have gone the himaruya route and have them be 4000+ years old or make them older or younger? and would china have siblings like during the warring states period or something

hmmm interesting question! i probably wouldn’t change it much, age-wise? since 2000 BCE is usually referred to because that’s supposed to be the beginning of the Xia dynasty in traditional chinese historiography. though, i definitely headcanon that yao can’t state precisely how old he is because his earliest memories are very hazy, and sometimes that’s where the lines get blurry: ‘is this reality or a dream?’ and ‘are these really my memories or those belonging to others who came before?’ 

i like inserting this ambiguity because on one hand, we often think of Chinese civilisation as contiguous and ancient and yes there are cultural elements that we can trace back in time. but as it’s been said by various scholars: “nationalism invents nations where they did not previously exist”. and imo there is good reason for us to be critical about adhering to the traditional dynastic cycle historiography of China—as in, to what extent we should we really see all the dynasties all the way back to Xia as actually reflecting a contiguous and coherent idea of a Chinese nation existing since antiquity? so yeah, with your first question i would stick with ‘roughly 4000 years old’ but hazy memories to reflect the fluidity and question marks about what we understand ancient Chinese history to be. who exactly is yao? can he trace a neat line all the way through the dynasties and say all of this is me? i think it’s complicated, especially with those very early purported dynasties like Xia and Shang (like there’s still so much debate about whether the Xia dynasty is even a coherent thing and all) but one thing for sure is that he’s lived a lot of lives and gone by many different names. 

so as to your second question about the warring states period, i’m inclined to think he did have siblings. mainly because it was the subsequent expansion of the Qin state and the first emperor’s conquests that played a big role in constructing the concept of ‘China, the empire’. and so while the Qin conquest is often called the ‘unification of China’ today—i imagine some of the other political entities eventually absorbed might not even have understood themselves as ‘Chinese’ in any sense, or at least didn’t necessarily see themselves as part of a larger, fragmented whole even if they had some cultural overlaps (just as we see with european and north african nations after the fall of the roman empire). i kind of see hetalia sibling relationships (especially for much older nations) as often being adversarial the way familial power struggles in royal families are, so siblings could often be rivals and enemies and i’m inclined to think that was the case for yao during the warring states period.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 3

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

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Chapter 3

1996 (Three years later)

Liam got a letter in the mail that morning, another one, from New York this time. Liam didn’t know anyone in New York who would send this kind of letter. In any case, they were all from the same person, no matter the constantly changing postmark, and they all said the same hateful, frightening things.

Liam had just tossed this one into the drawer with the others when Kurt appeared out of nowhere, as only he could. Liam had done a bit of research on vampires in the three years he’d known Kurt (as much study as he could on something that was supposed to be fictional), and teleportation was not a common vampire ability. But then Kurt was not a common vampire.

“Morning,” Kurt said, dropping into a kitchen chair. He looked a bit bed-rumpled, but Liam honestly wasn’t sure whether it was because Kurt had been sleeping or because Kurt thought that humans should look bed-rumpled in the morning. “Been for your run yet?” Kurt asked.

“I was just getting ready to go.”

“Want company?”

“You’re not dressed for it,” Liam pointed out, waving a hand at Kurt’s blue jeans, and that caused Kurt to vanish again. Liam was lacing his shoes when Kurt reappeared, this time wearing athletic shorts and, crucially, no shirt. Liam’s fingers tripped over themselves and got tangled in his shoelaces like clumsy people with jump ropes.

Liam had seen Kurt without his shirt on occasionally over the last three years, most memorably when Kurt had shown Liam the scars he still carried from the earliest thing he remembered— a Bronze Age battle. There was a scar above his heart and two on his left shoulder, the marks of flint arrowheads, presumably the wounds that caused his death.

But that was not what caught Liam’s attention when Kurt was shirtless. Kurt had the build of a fighter: a slender waist, sturdy legs, broad shoulders and strong arms. His chest was smoothly muscled around the scars. Meanwhile Liam had the body of a thirty-year-old history professor who went for a run most mornings, but also had a fondness for rocky road ice cream.

Liam wasn’t sure if Kurt knew about the threatening letters. He was also not sure if Kurt knew how fervently Liam desired him. If he was aware of either, or, most importantly, felt any desire in return, he had never said. And while Liam was sorting out the shoelace mess, Kurt pulled on a shirt, so the distraction passed.

The morning was cool, with fog still gathering around the trees. While they ran, Kurt told Liam about a morning in 1914 outside of Ypres, when snow had fallen silently, covering fallen leaves and fallen soldiers alike.

Liam had learned by now that Kurt did not feel the cold. It must have been obvious during a winter campaign, when Kurt’s fingers did not stiffen with frostbite, or his toes blister with trench foot. Sometimes, Kurt had told him, his fellow soldiers thought of him as an indestructible good luck charm. Sometimes they looked on the only member of their group to emerge from a battle unscathed and called him a demon.

A countless number of Kurt’s stories ended with him holding a fellow soldier as he succumbed to injury and passed out of this world.

When they turned back onto Liam’s street, there was a blue car in Liam’s driveway that belonged to one of Liam’s students, Martina. She was standing beside the car, waving at them. Of course, she wasn’t there to see Liam.

When Liam got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, he was surprised to see Kurt in the kitchen alone, drinking the coffee that Liam kept on hand for him. Coffee and water were the only things Liam had ever seen Kurt eat or drink. “Martina didn’t stay?” Liam asked.

“No. She was just returning my jacket.” Kurt looked melancholy for a moment, a brief flash across his features before it faded back into his usual somewhat detached expression. “She met someone else. He’s moving in.”

Liam looked at him in shock. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m happy for her. She’s about to graduate anyway, so we were going to break it off.”

Martina was not the first of Liam’s students that Kurt had dated. Kurt was very good about it, really. The students he chose were from the graduate program, so all in their mid-twenties or older, and they’d all known what Kurt was. They’d chosen to be a part of his life for a while, providing him with companionship, and, though they didn’t usually state it so plainly, with blood.

“I don’t get attached,” Kurt said. “And I pick those who won’t get attached to me. I don’t have the patience for a line of angry exes. Better to be with those who will part as friends.”

“Have you ever been wrong?” Liam asked. He didn’t look at Kurt, carefully focusing on the toaster and butter dish.

“Accidentally broken someone’s heart, you mean?” Kurt asked. “Or lost my own?”

“Either.”

“Not in a long time.”

“Ah.” Liam buttered his toast with perhaps more force than was called for.

“I investigated him, though. Martina’s new boyfriend. His name is Devon.”

“Investigated,” Liam repeated. He sat down at the table opposite Kurt, accepting the cup of coffee Kurt passed to him.

“He seems like a very nice man. And he loves her.”

“So you read his mind.”

“I can’t read minds.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Kurt looked amused. “I know. But not because I read your mind. In any case, Martina is my friend. She’s under my protection. And so are you.”

This last part was said gently, but Liam caught its meaning as overtly as he was meant to. He let out a groan and pushed away what was left of his toast. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough. The letters are mailed from around the country, but I am almost certain the sender is local. He probably travels a lot, and also has other people mail the letters without knowing what’s in them.”

“That’s what the police think. They also think they’re not serious.”

Kurt seemed immensely unimpressed by this opinion. “So did you do something that some bastard holds a grudge for? Murder his wife? Steal his parking space? Or do you think it’s because you’re gay?”

Liam’s sexuality was not something that had come up in conversation before, so Liam was a bit startled to hear it accurately described. “I have no idea,” he said. “I certainly don’t recall murdering anyone.”

“I’ve looked over the letters. No fingerprints, and I can’t find anything distinctive about the printer he uses.” When Kurt got emotional, he wore it strangely, as if he could be both agitated and unaffected at the same time. Right now his green eyes were bright and his mouth tight. His fingers curled sharply around his coffee cup, blanching white where they gripped too hard. But the rest of his body was still relaxed in the chair, stretched into the sort of lazy pretzel shape that sore legs often took after a run. Liam sometimes wondered what Kurt would be like if he stopped trying so hard to seem human.

“They’re not serious,” Liam told him.

“I’m not convinced of that. You really don’t have suspects?”

Liam shrugged. “Nobody in particular.”

“Ex-lovers?”

Liam focused on his coffee. “I haven’t had one of those for some time.”

“Family?”

“It’s just my sister and me, and we get along fine as long as she can pretend I’m not gay.”

Kurt’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup again. “This is a very intolerant period of history.”

Liam laughed, not unkindly. “It is all history to you, isn’t it? This is just another era to walk through. How odd to—”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Colleagues?”

“I’ve never had any problems. Anyway, the letters are all anti-university. Anti-technology. Unabomber-type stuff.”

“I’m not sure I trust the subject matter. Why send anti-technology missives to a history professor? It still feels personal to me. The one you got today talks about kidnapping you, Liam. That’s a very intimate threat.”

Liam groaned. “How the hell—”

“I read it while you were in the shower.” Kurt did look a little regretful, at least. “Look, I know you don’t like me being all— the way I am—”

“If I minded the vampire stuff, I’d never have agreed to work with you. What I object to is your being sneaky and intrusive on an entirely human level.”

Kurt seemed surprised, which was not a common look on him. He stared at Liam for a moment before saying, “Well, I object to being kept in the dark about your safety.”

“Kurt—”

They were interrupted by the ding noise that Liam’s computer made when he received an email. Normally Liam might ignore it, but at the moment, he welcomed the distraction.

The email was from a colleague in Germany, and as Liam read it, he forgot all about their argument. “Kurt,” he said, in an entirely different tone than the one he’d just used. Kurt was behind him in an instant, moving with that silent speed he had.

Liam traced his finger across the screen, aware that he wasn’t supposed to do that, but he hadn’t quite yet learned not to treat emails like they were pieces of paper. “Look at this. Someone found an arm bone with a flint arrowhead in the bank of the Tollense River in Germany. It’s not— it’s not a giant battle, not yet, just with one body, but it’s the right place, the right time. My colleague thinks this could be what we were looking for, and I think he’s right. Your earliest memory. Your origin. It could be Tollense.”

Kurt had knelt down so that he could read the screen more easily. When he turned his head it brought his mouth so very close to Liam’s. “You did it,” he said softly. “You found it.”

“Well, I didn’t find anything. Someone else—”

“But you put your neck on the line, theorizing about a battle in a time and place no one expected.”

“It’s not like I don’t have eye-witness evidence.”

“But no one knows that. You’ve endured a lot of controversy, trying to help me.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. I care about—” Liam cut himself off before he could say it.

Kurt seemed to hear it anyway, because he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Liam’s.

It was a light kiss only for a few seconds, until Liam made an intensely hungry noise and Kurt responded to it, bringing his hands up around Liam’s face to hold him steady. Kurt deepened the kiss, sweeping into Liam’s open mouth with his tongue.

Liam had thought about a kiss like this, thorough and overwhelming, fantasized about it, wondered if it might happen someday because Kurt would read his mind and know how much Liam wanted it. But Liam was suddenly sure in that moment that Kurt could not read minds, or at least, that he’d left Liam’s to its secrets. If he had read it, he would have known not to kiss Liam. Because unlike the students Kurt sought out, Liam was already attached, far too much, to this utterly alien man who kissed with a technique undoubtedly honed over millennia, ranging from soft to strong all in a single lick of his tongue, instinctively knowing which parts of Liam’s mouth were most sensitive, and all with a kindness Liam had never before felt.

It was the kindness that made Liam put his hands up and push Kurt gently away. Liam didn’t want kindness at that moment, didn’t want Kurt offering this kiss out of gratitude or friendship, or because Kurt knew Liam was attracted to men and would probably enjoy it. Even because he was worried about Liam’s safety. Kurt was three thousand years old, and he’d no doubt live for many thousands of years after this. Liam’s lifespan was a drop of water in the river of Kurt’s life. Kurt had said it just this morning— he would never allow himself to get attached.

After the kiss broke, Kurt looked at Liam searchingly for a moment, and then moved away.

“We should— we should visit Germany,” Liam managed to say. Kurt just nodded.

************

The battle of Tollense is a real thing! Here is the wikipedia and another article.

************

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Updates Fridays on Ao3 and DannyeChase.com (rated E), and Tumblr (rated T)

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

[saturnsummer]

baby, be with me so happily

based off that video that drove me nuts and that photo. anyways, a small excerpt i guess that i might want to include in a future bokseul fic? hm... still brewing...

enjoy as always, grammar and other mistakes by me!

summary: after bokgi witnesses something, his suspicions are confirmed when he sees it again in person. 

word count: 3181 words

excerpt title: protect.

trigger warning: abuse, slight mention of blood, minor cursing. 

"Yah, Bokgi! Are you listening?" Yebeom nudged his friend as Bokgi stirred his metal tray of rice.

“What?" Bokgi raises his head, to find his friends staring in concern. Bokgi, confused, leans back as he spoons another mouthful of rice into his mouth. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he chewed anyway. He knew if he didn’t eat, he would end up dozing off in class. And it didn’t help that he was already blacklisted for talking back to the teachers often.

"You okay? You seem pretty distracted." The older Sol asks. Bokgi shakes his head, avoiding eye contact with his noona. But he knows that amongst the six of them, he’s the worst liar. Setting his utensils down, he leans forward and darts his eyes and head around. The group gets his cue as they lean down to the table further, huddling together.

"You know Jeon Yeseul-ssi?" Bokgi asked. Yebeom cocked his eyebrow.

"What, the eye candy in my batch?" The younger Sol turns her head, staring in a cold piercing stare and swats his arm. Jiho clicks his tongue as Joon Hwi sighs.

"Yeah, she's the new transfer right? Just got in about a week ago?" Joon Hwi asks, ignoring the mutters of complaints from Yebeom.

"What's up? You like her?" The older Sol asks, a hopeful grin on her face. Bokgi swears his face flushed red, but this wasn't the time. He needed to be truthful on what he saw.

"I saw her this morning arguing with an older guy today. Some college dude. He looks kind of familiar, I just can’t remember.” Bokgi admits uncertainty in his voice as he chews on a piece of meat.

"It might just be her boyfriend, and they got into a fight." Jiho quips.

"It didn't look like it. The way he shouted and the way she shrunk back was...different. I can't put my finger on it, but it felt weird." Bokgi sighs. "Maybe I'm thinking too much about it."

The group is mostly silent as they finish their meals. Bokgi, still deep in his thoughts, can't shake the image from this morning. The way Yeseul's eyes were so full of fear and hurt when she looked up at the older guy, the way when her eyes met Bokgi's that screamed helplessness, but she only gave a small smile when Bokgi asked if she was okay. Most of the time, Bokgi would have blushed as usual whenever he caught her eyes, but that moment, he felt uncertainty and sadness.

"Bokgi, she has club activities with me today. I'll ask her about it carefully. Maybe ask if she has a boyfriend or whatever first. After all, she did create quite a buzz when she arrived." Sol says. Bokgi hides a blush and darts his eyes away to anywhere but his friends. God, Sol-noona is never gonna let me get away with my embarrassment.

"Thanks, noona."

"Oh, wait. Sejun from class 5 just sent me some gossip." Yebeom said, scrolling on his phone. "He says that some girls have asked Yeseul and confirmed she has a boyfriend. Her boyfriend is popular politician's son, Ko Yeongchang."

"Ah! The guy that went viral for all his videos online and good looks?" Joon Hwi asks as Bokgi researches his name and confirms it when a bunch of his photos pop up over his browser. Yes, this was the man that Bokgi saw with Yeseul this morning. But why does he feel like he knows Yeongchang from somewhere else too?

“We’re going to be late. Let’s go.” Jiho says, picking up his tray and the rest follow suit as they head out to clear it. They split to their respective classes, agreeing to meet after school at the entrance.

Bokgi shoves his hands in his blazer pockets as he walks back to his classroom, taking his seat at the back. He slumps his head on the table, replaying the way that Yeseul shrunk back when Yeongchang raised his voice. The way that Yeseul formed a shaky smile when Bokgi came over to ask if she was okay, and she only nodded. How he noticed the small bruise on her arm, hidden by her blazer, but said no word.

There was something more, and Bokgi was ready to find out.

-----

Yeseul sits on the toilet seat cover of the school’s bathroom as she takes off her blazer and rolls the sleeve of her blouse up. She sighs looking at the bruise that is slightly red, a hint of purple just underneath. She's glad for the blazer now, as much as she hates the rough material and the ugly colour. At least it hides away the bruises blossoming on her arms under the white shirt.

Taking an ointment from her pouch, she dabs carefully, rubbing in with care and bites her lips from hissing when it's too painful. Yeseul sighs when she rolls back her sleeves and runs a hand through her long locks. When she shuts her eyes, she can only replay the way Yeongchang's hand digging into her arm over her fresh bruise from the day before, and her foolish mistake for angering him more when she forced her arm away and shouted back. She knew better than to shout back, especially when they were in front of her school in the early morning.

"I should have never said anything about school..." Yeseul mumbles to herself as she puts her blazer back on. She opens the cubicle door, sighting a few female students reapplying their lip tints and she forces a friendly smile before heading to the last sink to wash her hands. The girls give an equally excited smile back before they rush out in hushed whispers. She catches a girl whispering about how Yeseul looks so elegant, like a sculpture brought to life.

If only they knew, Yeseul thought, as she dried her hands and stared at her lifeless eyes. She fixes a smile on her face before walking out of the washroom. Once she was out, she noticed the back of a familiar curly haired student from afar walking along the hallway alone, hands in his blazer. When he turns to walk into the classroom, Yeseul's eyes soften as she's reminded of what happened just a few hours ago.

Bokgi was someone Yeseul always noticed, even though she had been in school for just a week. She would find him hiding behind a wall and he would run away or just smile in a silly fashion before making a lame excuse to run off, no, sprint away. Yeseul also noted how Bokgi's voice could be heard from the other end of the hallway, arguing with his teacher on the reasons on why he strongly agrees with the point of having all citizens exercise their own right to express their views. Shortly after, when she ended class, he was sitting outside on the floor sulking, kicked out from class. Yeseul stifled a laugh, because for some reason, his sulking made him seem like a cute five year old that didn't manage to convince his parents that he wanted that piece of candy.

When he approached him this morning, his tie loose around his collar and asked in a soft voice if she was okay, Yeseul had wanted to say that it wasn't. Yeseul wanted to admit to him that the bruises on her arms hurt, that she was boiling with anger. But she held her tongue back. No, she wasn't angry, Yeongchang was just going through a phase and his emotions got the best of himself. No, her bruises didn't hurt. Yeongchang doesn't mean any of it, he never means to hurt her.

Yeseul takes a deep breath in as she walks back to her classroom and takes her seat. She flips through the photos she's taken with Yeongchang. A mirror selfie with his arms around her waist in his room. Them in matching outfits sharing a sweet kiss. Her in a body hugging satin ruched dress and him in a suit as they celebrated Valentines. She smiles at the sweet memories, remembering his loving touch and sweet words.

No, she doesn't regret being with Yeongchang. He doesn't mean it.

No, she loves Yeongchang, and he loves her.

Yeseul is okay.

Yeseul is not a victim.

-----

Bokgi unwraps the hand wraps around his knuckles as he pants heavily. Leaning against the locker door, he picks up his phone and replays the video. Screening through, he sighs as he notices the break in his form when he punches the punching bag and how unsteady his footwork is. He needs more practice, if he wants to improve from where he is now.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead, thankful for the hair tie that the older Sol lent him to tie his hair back for training. He grabs a fresh change of clothes before heading to the shower room, stripping off his sweaty clothes and taking a quick shower, erasing all traces of sweat. His boxing training ends the earliest, but he takes the longest to shower with the mount of curled locks he has.

When he's changed into comfortable, clean clothes, he dries his curled locks as best as he can, but he still doesn't know how to not make it look so wet. He wishes the younger Sol was here to help him with his hair, but she's probably still in debate, arguing with Jiho. (Silently, Bokgi prays that they are on the same team so that he wouldn't have to witness another cold war between the two.)

Muttering his curses, he throws the towel in his duffel and picks up his school bag and heads out the gym after waving goodbye to his coaches and club mates. He goes to the vending machine, purchasing a carton of banana milk and sits by the steps of the school's entrance, sipping on his drink.

From the corner, he notices Yeseul walking from the side and Bokgi does his best to not choke on his milk. He scrambles from the steps and runs away to the corner, behind a wall, peeking over to see Yeseul with a small smile as she walks with a few students. But her smile drops when they bump into a familiar man, hands in the pocket of his jeans, a smug smirk on his face.

Ko Yeongchang was back.

The students next to her gaped, for the first time seeing this ulzzang in person. Bokgi can't make out their words, but Yeongchang throws his head back, mouth wide open and eyes crinkled. From the way the students are looking, Bokgi suspects that he must have told them Yeseul is his girlfriend. Yeseul's face plasters a shy smile, but her eyes speak otherwise. Her eyes bore uncertainty, the same way that Bokgi remembers from this morning.

Yeongchang's arm slipped around Yeseul's back, his hand grabbing onto her arm. For a split second, Yeseul's eyes flashed pain, but it was quickly covered with her usual sparkle and light as she gave a light laugh. Bokgi's stomach churned. Something was obviously wrong, and it was enough to make him feel almost slightly nauseous.

The other students giggled as they walked away, waving to Yeseul as they scurried back to school. As soon as they were out of sight, Yeseul rips her way out of Yeongchang's arms and takes a step back, her hand instinctively going up to grab her other arm. It was enough for Bokgi to infer what was probably going on. Bokgi's anger bubbled inside as he felt the puzzle pieces falling together.

"This bastard..." Bokgi cursed through his gritted teeth. It didn't take a genius to know that Yeseul was being abused by Yeongchang. The way that she shrunk back when his hand reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear this morning. The way her eyes darted when Yeongchang held her arm in a tight fashion.

Yeseul shouts something inaudible to Yeongchang, and they exchange a few shouts. Yeseul is turning around to leave when Yeongchang grabs her bag and spins her around, hand gripping her wrist. She forcefully pulls away, but Yeongchang grabs her arm. The moment he raises his hand up is when Bokgi crushes his carton of milk and shouts. No, he can't see this. Not again.

"Yah! What do you think you are doing?" He shouts in a voice so loud and full of anger, he can't recognise it as his own. He storms over, sticky sugary milk dripping between his left hand as he clutches his carton. He reaches and Yeseul is almost surprised to see him. If Yeseul wasn't there, Bokgi would have said nothing and pummel him back.

"Bokgi-ssi..." Yeseul whispered, almost in surprise.

"Noona, are you okay?" Bokgi turns to ask Yeseul.

"Noona? What, does he know you? When did you know other guys?" Yeongchang asked, voice raised and slightly aggressive.

"That's none of your business. And what were you about to do? Hit her?" Bokgi spat back in anger. His eyes burned with fury as he challenged the taller man.

"Why are you meddling in our business? She's my girlfriend, I get to do what I want." Yeongchang scoffs back, hand grabbing back to Yeseul's arm as he pulls. This time, Yeseul is caught off guard as she hisses in pain.

"Stop!" Bokgi shouts in fury before pulling Yeongchang's hand away. Swiftly, he pushes Yeseul's hand away from the both of them.

"Why are you so concerned? What, you like her?" Yeongchang's eyes are dark and challenging as he stares down at Bokgi.

"Noona doesn't deserve to be treated by a bastard like you." Bokgi seethes with gritted teeth as his fists are balled tightly.

"What? What did you say?" Yeongchang's face contorts to one of so much fury, as he grabs onto the collar of Bokgi's shirt.

"You heard me, bastard."

And that was all it took for Yeongchang's fist to come flying across his face, knocking him to the concrete ground. Bokgi shook his head to centre himself, a hand reaching up to his face knowing a bruise will form.

"Bokgi-ssi!" Yeseul shouts in concern as she bends down, trying to help Bokgi up. But Bokgi only shrugs her concerns off.

"You know, for someone that beats people, you're kinda weak." Bokgi says, a taunting smile on his face. Yeongchang's face grows in even more fury as Bokgi stands up, dusting the dirt of his clothes.

"You—" Another punch comes, but Bokgi has enough playing victim, and he dodges the blow effortlessly. Yeongchang tries throwing an uppercut, but Bokgi is quick to block his arm and land one across his jaw. He doesn't hit hard enough for a bruise, but hard enough to hurt. Yeongchang stumbles back, almost surprised at the power of this high school rebel, but Bokgi stands tall.

Another punch comes, but Bokgi is faster to land one before Yeongchang could land his. Bokgi manages to catch Yeongchang off guard as he turns his arm backwards and pins it against his back. With every tug, Yeongchang is cursing in pain.

"One more word from you and I'll sprain your wrist. Or should I maybe crack your ribs?" Bokgi threatens. "You sick freak, beating up your girlfriend? And you have so many people looking up to you as an influencer?"

"Let go of me!" Yeongchang shouts in anger.

"You know, we have security cameras here, right? And they clearly saw you this morning and just now, raising your hand. They also caught you punching me first." Bokgi brings his lips closer to his ears. "How will that look, hm? A politician's son, on the news of beating his girlfriend?"

Yeongchang is lost, but still squirming. Bokgi slides his foot between his legs, letting him fall to the ground on his knees as Bokgi holds him in a kneeling position. From the corner of his eye, he spots Yeseul with the older Sol rubbing her back and Joon Hwi next to her with the rest of his friends.

"What-What do you want?"

"Promise you won't ever, ever touch noona like that again. If I find out on my own that she's hurt by you..." Bokgi tightens his grip on his wrist as Yeongchang grunts in pain. "Your wrist isn't the only thing that is going to be broken."

Bokgi finally lets go and steps away from Yeongchang, Joon Hwi joining Bokgi by his side.

"Get out. Now." Joon Hwi sternly barks as Yeongchang, still seething with anger, dust the dirt from his pants. He sets his eyes on Bokgi as he stares straight into the brown orbs.

"You...watch out. You'll pay." He says before turning on his heels and walking away, hands running in his hair with frustration. The group joins from behind, as Sol and Yeseul walk over to join. All of sudden, it occurred to Bokgi that Yeseul had to watch this, and he wished a deep pit swallowed him alive in that instant.

"Ah, Yeseul-noona... I'm sorry you had to watch that... I...I'm sorry." Bokgi mutters his apologies. Yeseul shakes her head slowly.

"Thank you for standing up for me. I'm sorry you had to get hurt." Yeseul says softly as Bokgi brings a hand up to his face. It's sore, and he finally tastes the slightest bit of metallic blood from the burst corner of his lips.

"Ah? This is nothing. I have it a lot worse in training." Bokgi shrugs it off. The older Sol hits him on the head lightly as Bokgi yelps.

"A lot worse in training? Do you want us to kill you before you get beaten to pulp? Take care of yourself, Min Bokgi!" Sol scolds. Yebeom passes him a wet wipe to wipe his sticky hand from the banana milk.

"You should get ice on the bruise." Yeseul says as she digs into her pockets for a small container and takes Bokgi's calloused hands before pressing it in.

"It's some ointment for bruises that I, you know..." She trails off. The older Sol just carefully places an arm around her.

"Are you going to break up with him?" Jiho asks, his head nodding in the direction of where Yeongchang left. Yeseul stayed silent as her lost eyes darted, her hand sweeping her hair away. Bokgi doesn't know where he gained the courage from, but he gently places a hand on her shoulder, careful to just let it rest.

"I'll protect you, okay?"

Yeseul looks into Bokgi's soft eyes as Bokgi gives a small smile. Even with a red bruised jaw, a burst lip, this man could still smile at her like an innocent child. Yeseul just nods, drawing a small smile out of her, as she suddenly feels a faith arise in her.

Bokgi might not have been able to protect her from the bruises then. But he will protect her heart and from the bruises now. Even if it means being beaten down countless times, he would protect her, each time.

She was worth protecting, even if she didn't feel the same.