#i like umbrella imagery right now

[apencilandpen]

your world is just about to c r a c k...

[comfortless]

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

[sulumuns-dootah]

What WHB characters would wear in the human world: Niflheim

⟡ Masterlist ⟡ 

    ༺☆༻

Bold of you to assume he'd get dressed for going out

So if he has to go outside, he'll just sleep in normal clothes and be ready to somewhat go

Oversized and comfy clothing

With the whole edgy thing, he'd absolutely love the 90's nu metal fashion (as well as the music)

    ༺☆༻

Oh look, another demon wearing a suit

But who's really complaining since they all look hot in it, right?

Whenever he's out with Belphie, he looks like a father with his angsty son

Actually, I don't think he'd change up his suit that much

    ༺☆༻

As much as I love the whole grey shirt look he's got going on I need to see Gusion in the onesie from his original design in color ^^

And yes, maybe the Gusion we have now wouldn't wear much gamer stuff, but he's just lying to himself

Tell me this man isn't partially tired from losing MLBB games because his teammates are idiots

Also thinking about it, he's giving 707 from Mystic Messenger vibes

#BringBackTheOnesie

(There's literally zero good pics of men wearing cute onesies >.>)

    ༺☆༻

Our moon boy absolutelly loves the darker academia/witchcore aesthetics

While looking up references, I found Klaus from The Umbrella Academy and his look from the ending of season 2 (or at least i think) is definitely it!

A lot of moon imagery

Another member of the looking-like-a-dilf-while-hanging-out-with-a-friend club

I can honestly see Beleth and Bathin drop Belphie and Stolas their teen and toddler off at a playground and go drinking and gambling to the bar right next to it

    ༺☆༻

This poor baby can't actually see, but his style is always on point

Same as Beleth, why make him stop wearing a suit when he looks so good in it?

Andre is, however, very picky with his fabric textures and only the finest fabric usually passes

So don't be surprised if his single suit costs more than your existence

Hell, some of his suits could cost more than Bimet's designer statement pieces

    ༺☆༻

Ooh, dramatic cape moment for a dramatic ex-king

Flashy everything so everyone can make him out in a crowd

Will always be wearing a crown on his head

Ofc all the "peasants" will look at him and look for a camera bc who dresses like that on the daily

    ༺☆༻

Why was my first thought that "thought they were giving nonbinary slay, turns out it was just a priest" twitter post?

Either way, to feed into Agares' delusions, Vassago wears a matching suit and sometimes carries the cape so it doesn't get too dirty

Sometimes even the Hades nobles can get envious over how nice his suits look

[sashi-ya]

東京 NIGHTS mini event

𝑰'𝑳𝑳 𝑩𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑰𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𓂃 ࣪˖ okkotsu yuuta x fem! reader

⤹˚ synopsis. some years have passed since the incident; he moved overseas, you stayed... however, you never forgot, and you always waited

requested by: Anon ➡ hi sash, I saw you love Yuta so can I ask for our sweet boy with a fem! reader and the prompt "meet me at Hachiko statue in 3 yeas"? thank you! tw: sfw. sweet, romantic. fluffy. based on Hachiko's and his story. there might be a second part of this story, with 18+ cont. You can tell me if you want me to post it ~ wc: 1.4k masterlist

“Meet me three years from now at the Hachiko Statue” “Shibuya? Again?”

Three years have passed, the incident left your hearts barely hanging from the tiny strings of an undeveloped love.

Waiting, day after day. Night after night.

A light rain plays a soft melody against the transparent surface of your umbrella. Your lips tremble, even if you fight for your façade to look as serious as possible. The doors of the subway station feel like the holy tori of a sanctuary; after all that happened some years ago, looking at the “to Shibuya” signs still makes you dizzy.

You watch youngsters coming back from school, other enjoying themselves as they probably get ready to visit karaoke bars tonight. And you remember that you used to be exactly the same as them… even if from the corner of your eye, creatures of many different types appeared to make you late.

This time, however, there was no creature. No curse. No ghost. But only the feeling of what once happened there. How many of you have lost much more than what you could remember…

You check your phone; no message from Okkotsu still. Will he be there? At least, is he in Tokyo at all?

You swallow and swipe the card on the ticket gate; the “beep” allows you to keep walking, but the sound of your heart beating fast covers it all. Soon enough, the subway train arrives perfectly in time, and letting other people go in first, you find a seat waiting just for you.

Once again, you check your phone. Nothing.

“He is not coming, why am I doing this? he probably forgot about me and this, and I can’t blame him…”

Sweaty palms make your phone get steam marks on its screen, but you don’t mind. Your leg bounces softly, the music in your earphones have absolutely no importance to you right now.

You close your eyes, wondering how he looks like now. Does he still have those dark beautiful circles under his eyes? The little reddish hint that always made him look as he had just stopped crying? The blackest messy hair, or maybe his narrow frame… “I just hope you haven’t forget about me, even if you don’t come”  

It takes very little for the subway to finally reach Shibuya station. Or maybe it was just you lost in time, that you didn’t notice.

As you walk up the stairs of infinite steps, you begin to feel the soft breeze of the busiest crosswalk in the world. It cools off your cheeks, already burning because Yuuta has always been your secret crush.

The rain has stopped, and there are just some pools on the ground reflecting the neon lights of the newly reconstructed Shibuya… this place used to look a lot different a few years ago.

The beat of the traffic lights sounds synchronize with your heart beating; the laughter of young people, the imagery of couples joining after work, the memories of painful and bloody happenings… everything surrounds you, turning your quivering legs a lot more weak than before.

You check your phone one last time before crossing; you need to get to the statue of Hachiko. That was your meeting point. Such a curious choice you had; Hachiko waited for his owner at the station until he died, because he knew one day he would come back…

As you cross, your eyes scan for the place. Looking at the faces of every man you could find, your disappointment grows bigger and bigger. None of them are him; none of them will be either.

You decide to wait for 10 minutes. Nothing more. Nothing less.

A few tourists stop you once you get to the statue, distracting you. They need to know their way to a certain restaurant, so you take your time to help them. But when they are finally gone, you are back to your loneliness.

“I’m going to check my phone one last time…” you think; unblocking your device. Nothing; again. “Yes, you are not coming… I hope you are fine, Yuuta” you whisper, low enough just for you to hear it.

With your head lowered, defeated, you begin to walk away. The rain has started to fall again, but you don’t even care to open your umbrella. It’s ok if your hair gets wet. It’s ok if your make up fades.

You wait at the traffic light to turn to green, you only want to hop on the station of your nightmares to go back home. Once and for all.

As the mass begins to move, and you put a foot on the street, something catches your attention.

A big bouquet of purple flowers covers the face of a tall man asking to forgive him while he opens his way through the crowd.

“Ah… lucky girl. Late but at least with such a big bouquet…” you smile, with your eyes turning a little shiny from incipient tears.

“(Name)!!” he screams, the moment that flower man reaches you. He bumps into you with the flowers, and he has yelled your name. You blink repeatedly, only looking at the hand holding the bouquet. A silver ring shines on his hand, and it makes you shiver…

There, right in the middle of Shibuya cross, under now a pouring rain, the shy face of a man sprouts from in between beautiful purple flowers.

“(Name)! My flight was delayed, but I wanted to buy you this before I came. I’m sorry, I am so happy you didn’t leave” he chimes, with a soft smile that hasn’t changed. He is a man now, stronger, taller, mature… but Yuuta is still the softest little boy you once met at the academy.

Your lower lip shakes like a leaf, and the tears start going down your cheeks. Maybe the rest won’t notice because of the rain, but Yuuta does. You can’t speak, no words come out of your mouth.

Violently crying now, you let yourself fall into his arms. The bouquet hangs from his hand to the side, while you nuzzle on the crook of his neck.

“(Name), don’t cry! I am here! are you ok?!!” he desperately asks, hugging you hard against his chest.

You sniffle and nod, inhaling his sweet perfume. Another thing that hasn’t changed a bit; his skin scent has always been the same. Even if the times you were able to enjoy it were barely twice, you can’t forget it.

“I… I thought you had forgotten” you murmur, as both walk hugging back to the sidewalk.

“Wh-what? I’ve been counting the days to see you again” he whispers, with his lips resting on the crown of your head. “How could I forget? I missed you so much”

You look up searching for his eyes, a sweet beam garnishes your face. He still has those dark circles; he still has that enchanting pouty lips. “You haven’t changed a bit, Yuta…” you whisper, allowing the warmth of his embrace to protect you from anything around.

He giggles, that pure laughter that makes you melt. “And here I thought I was getting older… you did, however, change (Name)…” he says, kissing your forehead after.

You gasp, the old Yuuta would have had a stroke before even kissing you. Or at least his cheeks would have become as red as tomatoes – to say the least.

“You look even more beautiful than before” he finishes, leaving you absolutely breathless.

You swiftly look around him; you don’t want to get killed by Rika. Once you positively check you are safe, you stretch your neck to reach for his lips.

Your mouth lingers closer to his, so close they can even touch but not quite yet. The warmth of his breath caressing your lips, yours doing the same thing to his. Maybe you just wait for him to kiss you, or maybe both want to enjoy the little previous moments of something that you’ve been waiting even before than you two met for the very first time.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, taking his hand to your cheek. The soft caress, the cold touch of the ring grazing your skin… please do…

You nod, pouting just enough to meet his crashing lips. Both closed your eyes just when your eyes could see into each other’s, just when it was time to feel rather than see…

Your first kiss, and then another, and another. And the tourists taking pictures, because what’s more beautiful than a couple joining after years right by the statue of Hachiko who waited only moved by pure love?  💖

[atamascolily]

Having examined the first half of Homura's transformation sequence (the external), I thought I'd continue with the second half (the internal). This is a very dense scene full of symbolism I don't fully understand, but I'll give it my best shot.

First up, the spool of pink thread falling through the void. This has appeared several times earlier in the film, in keeping with the whole "threads of fate" imagery, not to mention Homulilly's sewing theme and Homura's own issues with karmic destiny in general (which is inherently linked to Madoka, hence the color).

To me, the background looks like an eye, but admittedly, it's a little abstract and there could be other stuff going on here.

The thread falls past Homura as she is floating in a field of red and yellow "oil drops"

I didn't notice it until the Rebellion Production Note pointed it out but Homura literally has stars in her eyes in this shot. Cosmic!

The thread keeps spinning, but I can't tell if it's winding or unwinding at all because it moves so fast.

Note that the same circles in the background appear elsewhere in the film, most notably in the curtains of Homura's umbrella in the finale.

Homura's pose here also mirrors that of Madoka when she becomes a concept, although notably there is only one Homura here vs. a whole host of Madokas:

Homura then bites down on her soul gem and it cracks... and there's a blink and you'll miss it shot of her intact original soul gem inside!

The circles then move about and form a line, which the thread hits and transforms into the Dark Orb:

The Rebellion Production Note has this to say about the Dark Orb in this scene:

If I'm reading this right, the first caption says, "It's like a perfume bottle", (香水ビン) and the second caption reads, "Contains pink light (Madoka)" [ピンク光まどか) with an arrow pointing to the glowing circle at the center.

So, uh, yeah, in answer to my earlier question, it sure looks like Homura does have access to the Law of Cycles (Madoka) in some capacity, because it's at the core of her reformed Soul Gem--and given the confluence between inside and outside, this is also a model for Homura's universe, as the two are no longer separate from each other.

(I mean, this could be a metaphor for how Homura's love powers the universe and not actually Madoka's powers as the Law of Cycles, but the show has always made its metaphors literal in the past, I don't know why they'd stop now.)

The wings wrapped around the orb didn't make it into the final cut, but after some deliberation, they ended up attached to the salamander that represents Homura instead, because it is a fusion between them.

If you've ever wondered why this sigil was only visible in this shot, it's because it's actually on the bottom of the orb, according to the Production Note, which is why the surface is flat and not curved.

Silverstorm79 pointed out to me that the "dark" part is a cage around the "orb" and I had to go sit down for a while because the symbolism was a little too much even for me. There was also some discussion about whether this makes them literal soulmates now, and I just.... can't even.... Everything in the Rebellion Production Book has to be taken with a grain of salt because a lot of its contents never made it into the final film, but damn if Inu Curry wasn't thinking about it here.

Madoka is also the "heart" of the universe/soul gem--all of which literally exists/was created for her sake. I wonder if this has the side effect of giving her even more karmic destiny/potential than she previously had... and if, so, what would she do with it.

There's a lot in this scene that is still opaque to me (once again I wish SHAFT had been a little less esoteric with their symbolism!!!), but Dark Orb is more complex than I had initially assumed, not to mention representative of both Homura and her new universe. This suggests that changing the universe will require personal transformation on her part; one cannot be accomplished without the other. Going to have to go back and look at the other sections on the Dark Orb in light of these new revelations and see what else I can find about it.

[vivs-fics]

Just As It Is

Bucky Barnes x Reader

College AU

No minors allowed. Read at your own discretion.

TW: Swearing, religious imagery, smoking, mention of underage drinking

Part 1

Dark clouds linger overhead, far too close for comfort. A twinge in the air and rain birds circling the sky makes unease swell in the pit of my stomach. A storm is brewing, something dark this way comes- and here I am walking down the street with no jacket, no umbrella and Bucky’s place nowhere in sight.

I quicken my pace. Shoes stomping heavily on the asphalt, desperate to outrun the impending shower- to no avail. Thunder claps, electricity crackles, the birds make their descent in the sky behind me and the floodgates of the dreaded downpour open. I feel the rain spilling through my hair, the chill crawling down my spine and soaking my clothes. I wish more than anything just to be inside, warm and in good company.

The D&D campaign tonight is one I’ve been looking forward to for weeks. Bucky let me in on a few minor details now and again. This story was meant to be his most enticing yet, described by the man himself as “a fuckin’ mind-blowing maelstrom of malice, monsters and murder.” He added that the alliteration was meant to captivate and create anticipation- fucking English majors.

I have a feeling we’ll be trekking through some haunted castle, infested by a lonesome vampire luring innocents into his clutches. I recall when the theory solidified for me, it was just a few days ago- after classes had ended for the semester. Bucky and I were meeting up on the benches on the edge of campus for our afternoon chit-chat and I convinced him to act out a snippet from the forthcoming adventure.

Bucky slinked behind me, fallen auburn leaves crunched under his boots and the chains on his pants clinked together- I held my breath as he brushed his fingers over the side of my neck. The touch was light, almost untactile- nevertheless my skin felt like it was lit ablaze. The flames spread, embers sizzled deep in my stomach, the red blaze surged through my arms, and it settled in the tips of my fingers.

Blood rushed to my ears and my heart pounded against my chest, I could feel his breath on my neck. “Are you scared, little bird? Or do the pleasures of the night entice you? Are you willing to take this journey and receive your hearts desires, or do you fear the lurking horrors may consume you before you reach the summit?” Bucky whispered. A shuddering breath escaped my lips, and I took a moment to compose myself, a shoddily concealed smile on my face, “Jamie is the whole campaign going to be voiced in that sultry, bad guy accent?”               

He beamed, “I guess you’ll have to wait and see, sweetheart. You should, however, expect to be wowed beyond your wildest dreams.” He raised his right hand and touched it to his heart, “That’s your beloved dungeon master’s guarantee.”

He sat himself down on the bench next to me, the wood creaked under his weight, and I brought my eyes up to him- I found myself lost in the vast blue of his eyes.  

God, he’s beautiful. Gazing upon the pastels of a rococo could not compare to him. The glittering of all Klimt’s work would never be able to culminate to the way he shines, my Bucky glows from the inside. The light in his eyes are millions of stars burning in the sky, had Van Gogh’s masterpiece been done today, surely Vincent would have drawn inspiration from them. The figures taken out of stone by the great Michelangelo wouldn’t amount to the statuesque beauty I see in him, skin smoother than marble and a face that could have only been carved by the divine.

 “You alright, Birdie? Somethin’ on your mind?” His voice was smoother than honey, it dripped from his lips slowly and it covered me in its splendour. I shook my head. I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t allow myself to say just how much he means to me. I couldn’t risk ruining years of friendship and muddying the dynamic we have. We’re in tandem, parallel lines that are destined to run beside each other for as long as the universe allows.

“What’s up with the ‘Birdie’ thing, Buck? Were you inspired by my beady eyes or the way I flew down from the trees to see you today?” I jested in the hope it would cover up the black hole that would in the pit of my stomach.

His eyes drifted down, and his ring-clad hand pulled a fallen leaf fragment from my sweater. Bucky shrugged, “I don’t know, it was in my dialogue for the campaign. I thought I’d run with it, it’s cute. It suits you.” He leaned back, palms flat on the dark wood of the bench. He tilted his head back and flashed me a bashful smile.

I look toward him in earnest, and he continues his ramble, “No, actually, it’s stupid. Sorry, sweetheart.”

He shook his head, the beautiful cascade of brown hair framed his face and I retorted, “No, no. I was joking Jamie, I do like it. It’s just different, is all. You had me thinking someone usurped my title of your cherished sweetheart. I was just brainstorming my plan of action- you know- setting my targets and ensuring I could retrieve the name that’s rightfully mine.”

He sat up and rubbed his hands down the length of my arms, a comforting gesture. A reassuring one. Hands caressed me like the singed spine of a book salvaged from the fires of Alexandria- as if I were a priceless artefact not to be handled precariously. “Nobody could steal that from you, Birdie. And if you catch me callin’ anyone other than you, sweetheart, know that I’ve been body snatched and you need to come save me.”

 A laugh escaped me, he knows just how to make me feel safe when I’m with him, in every capacity. Bucky wrapped himself around me, encompassing me in the warmth that melts the welts of my worries. It’ll be fine, I thought to myself. I can do this. Right?

Rain beating down on me like the mighty wrath of Zeus hauls me out of the fond memory and pushes me back into my very cold, very wet reality. In the distance I can see the living room light turn on in Bucky’s home, the exterior of it seemingly harsh and bitter but it’s filled with more love and acceptance than I’ve experienced elsewhere. The wind whistles riotously as I bang on the door, “Jamie! I’m getting hypothermia out here! Can you open the fucking door please?”

He emerges, brows furrowed, “Birdie, what are you doin’ here? The campaign isn’t for another hour,” Realising that I look like a drowned subway rat he ushers me inside, “Shit, sorry! Come on in sweetheart, uh- let’s get you dry.”

“Thank you, Jamie, truly. Really glad you didn’t decide to leave me outside to die.” I shiver out. He looks at me apologetically. Jesus those eyes. He could get away with murder with those eyes. He could glance at St. Peter at heaven’s gates and Bucky would be admonished of all his sins. He’d be allowed in and be given the best resting place Heaven has to offer without so much as a word. They’re soft, an endless Mediterranean blue- so captivating it would rival Narcissus and his reflection.

He disappears for a moment and emerges with a dry article of clothing. Bucky extends his hand to me, the soft grey fabric now within my reach.

 “Here sweetheart, fresh shirt. You can go to the bathroom and change if you want. I’d offer my room but… truth be told, it’s a mess and I’d be embarrassed if you saw how I really lived.” He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.  “I- uh- I can also grab a sweater for ya, if you’re still cold.” He adds, with a smile.

“Thanks, Buck.” A small grin graces my features, the cold that clung to me dissipates in the confines of his kindness. “My god, the Zeppelin shirt?” I clutch it to my chest and gasp dramatically. “Maybe I should walk to you in the rain more often, I don’t get this five-star treatment all the time.”

“Hush, sweetheart. You know I’d give you anything if you asked.” He retorts, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

After changing into something significantly more comfortable than the soaked fabric that clung to my skin, I return to the living room to find my knight in shining armour lighting a cigarette on the back porch. He turns to look at me and inhales, “You feelin’ better now?”

“Much,” I move to sit beside him on the battered porch swing, and tilt my body towards him, “Can I have a puff, Bucky? Light of my life, saviour of my world?” He smiles and puts the orange filter up to my lips, I breathe in. Letting the nicotine fill my lungs, I feel the menthol spread across my body, it tingles down my arms and a calm settles over me. 

“You want one for yourself sweetheart, or would you prefer to smoke half of mine like always?” He cocks his head to the side and smiles.

“I’m fine with our arrangement just the way it is, Jamie.” I shift over and place my head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of head, a familiar gesture. For him it was a sign of reassurance, as if he was saying: ‘you’re going to be okay as long as I’m here.’

“Why’d you decide to come here so early, Birdie? You miss me that much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself James, I just needed a smoke.” Taking a long drag of the cigarette, I close my eyes- happy to finally be where I needed to be.

He hums in acknowledgement. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“You want me to help you set up?” I enquire and he shakes his head.

“Nope. I got it all sorted out, you can just sit and look pretty.” He places his thumb and index finger onto my chin and squeezes, his nose scrunches up and a smile graces his face. “Although, that shouldn’t be a problem for you sweetheart.”

“Are you calling me lazy, Barnes?”

“I’m callin’ you beautiful, Birdie.” He says simply, the words roll off his tongue with no more effort than a breath.

 What I wouldn’t do for him to always look at me like this, with those azure eyes full of contentment. They’re warmer than the embrace of a summer’s day, than the encapsulating feel of steamy water in the bathtub, than a balmy breeze whispering past me on the beach.

“Oh, uh, Buck? I got you a little something.”

“What? You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart. You should know that you bein’ here is a gift in and of itself.”

A smile makes its way on to my face, and I chuckle, “Sure, but this is something that you absolutely need,” Sifting through the contents of my bag, I find it. A small black box with a glittery red bow on the top, “Here. Open it.”

With the unveiling of the contents of the box, Bucky’s face lights up- like a Christmas tree on December 25th.                                                                 “No fuckin’ way, sweetheart.” He shakes my shoulders excitedly and promptly goes back to admiring his new possession, running his fingers over the cold metal links, “Holy shit, this is so cool. A fuckin’ chainmail pouch? Is this for my dice?”

“Yes! You can keep them all together now, I know they always end up in weird places after campaigns so I thought this could help.”

“Thank you, Birdie. This is amazing.” He laughs.

What an angelic sound- comparable only to the trumpets of heaven or the symphonies of a divine orchestra. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes, “I love it.”

I turn to face him, bending my leg up on the worn porch swing, the wood is soft under my skin, such a familiar feeling- upon which so many memories were made. Bucky moves closer to me, an indistinguishable look in his eyes. My breath halts, it feels as if my lungs were dipped in iron. My insides are hot and there’s a fluttering in my stomach. Why’s he staring at me like that? Am I melting? It feels like I’m melting. Come on, get a hold of yourself. It’s just Bucky, looking at you the way he always does.

A small smile graces his face, the edges of his lips lifting ever so slightly and the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He tilts his head to the side and places his hand on my cheek, his thumb shifting up and down so gently I almost don’t notice. I wonder if this is how people experience religious euphoria. Is this how it feels to be touched by the hand of God? Could the promise eternal peace be held within the fingers that are caressing my face? Is it possible that the divine culminated in this Adonis of a man?

An abrupt knocking at the door startles me and Bucky recoils, “Let me, uh, I- I’ll get it.”

“Bucky, open up already!” A woeful gust of wind screeches outside the door. “Jesus Christ, Barnes, I’m gonna grow old and rot before you let us in!” Sam yells, announcing his presence.

“Alright, alright! I’m comin’.” Bucky shuffles to the door, a twinge of annoyance laced in his tone. His demeanour, however, shifts when the boys come inside. He’s happy to see them, he always is. I am too, they’re some of my best friends. I won’t lie to myself though; I would have appreciated them arriving just a few minutes later- if for no reason other than quelling the sheer curiosity about what was going to happen.

“If it took you any longer, Buck, I would have assumed you were dead.” After hugging him, Steve sets down his bag and greets me, “Y/N, Hey! It’s so good to see you. We didn’t interrupt anything did we?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“No, no, Stevie- you’re all good. I missed you.” I ruffle his hair when he comes over for a hug, my actions are met with a disgruntled groan from the six-foot-three puppy of a man.

Nat pulls up behind me and I embrace her excitedly, “Nat, baby! How have you been? How’s your girl?” She slinks her arm around my neck and in return I put my arm around her waist.

“We’re alright, hon. Why? Have you reconsidered our request for a threesome?”

“Aw, Natasha don’t flatter yourself. We agreed to do it without you, obviously.” I give her a light pat on the back and turn away, going to greet Sam.

The rest of the group starts filtering in after a bit, Steve and Thor creating their usual ruckus.

“Alright sinners, are we ready for the campaign of the century?” Bucky announces, as he stands at the head of the table- a king ready to lead his troops into battle. A Greek god, blessing his subjects with the greatest gift- a myth, a legend, a story to be passed down ear-to-mouth and mouth-to-ear for generations to come. And we, his loyal subjects listening in earnest, hanging onto every vowel, every consonant as if it were our life force- sustaining us. His words igniting a bonfire to provide light and warmth as we make our way through this ominous cascade of casting spells, battling beasts and me trying not to visibly sweat because of that sultry voice Bucky is speaking in.  Anxieties fly high as the six-hour campaign draws to a close.

“Xanaphia of Excelsior, you have travelled a distance incomparable to any other, you have seen nations built and destroyed, you have brazened the path to my home- a journey no man before you had been able to conquer. A path, little bird, no man should be able to survive.” Bucky narrates, his character so carved out and precise I almost don’t recognise him.

“Luckily for me, Alaric... I am no man.” I smile up at Bucky, he reciprocates- a genuine beam shines upon my face. I knew the Lord of the Rings reference would get to him. The rest of the room melts away, the cries of Sam telling me to finish the job and Scott excitedly banging his fists on the table become nothing but distant memories. Bucky stands, in all his glory- broad shoulders block the light behind him and a halo encompasses the edges of his physique. Is he an angel, or just the devil in ambient lighting? With his eyes piercing into mine like they are, I don’t think I could bring myself to care.

“No man indeed.” A corner of his mouth turns up, a devious smirk creeps onto his face. “So, little bird. What shall it be? I am completely at your mercy. You have me on my knees.”

 Everyone perches on the edge of their seats at the final roll of the D20, the last dance between my character and the Vampire at the top the Hill approaches. To stab or to seduce, that is the question. Will I succumb to the pleasures of the night or fight my desires and kill him for my brethren, currently surrounded by ghouls? I should kiss him, right? A move to seduce could ensure that the Vampire lets the surviving members of my party go, whereas a move to kill him could result in everyone being murdered. This is purely a selfless choice.

“I’ll roll for charisma. I want to kiss you- him! Ahem- Alaric.” Heat rises in my cheeks and a pit forms in my stomach. Oh, my God.

 A hush falls over the room, the booming of the dice upon the table is all that can be heard, save for the thudding of my heart that pounds in my ears. The resin contraption stills, and Bucky leans over to inspect what the gods have decided my fate shall be.

“A… a fuckin’ nat’ twenty.” He says in bewilderment, his voice barely above a whisper. And the crowd goes wild- jests and jeers come from all around the table.

“Alaric of the Hill concedes! Your kiss has bewitched him, congratulations. He decides to let your party go on the condition that you keep him company. Will you, Xanaphia, stay with Alaric and forgo all other quests?”

“Fuck yes.” I state triumphantly, relieved as all heaven that the risk I took paid off.

Celebratory drinks are raised, and toasts are made in my honour- to Xanaphia of Excelsior, she who could warm the heart of even the most cold-blooded of creatures.

 Bucky gets the music going and Thor pours the drinks, perhaps the most dangerous of combinations. Bodies push against each other, the sounds of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me intertwine with the heavy breathing of the people in the room, dim lighting overhead makes for a danse macabre-esque sequence to play out around me. We are neither here, nor there. Dead, nor living. Could this be a man in front of me, or an angel? Deep shadows are carved under his cheekbones and his jaw is sharp under this light, threads of walnut hair are strewn across his face, moving with him to the music.

Rhythm flows through me, I lift my arms up close my eyes in sheer delight- being here with these people is all I could ask for.

Bucky is beckoned over to the kitchen and upon arrival, he laughs boisterously at something Sam says. Steve claps his shoulder and throws his head back as he always does when someone makes a stupid joke. I wonder if he knows that he lights up the room the way he does, if he has any idea of the fact that he could put the Nevada sun to shame, that all the bonfires in the world couldn’t amount to the warmth he brings to a room.

Well, perhaps this exact situation is not all I could ask for, but it will do just fine.

As the song reaches its summit Nat approaches me with an inebriated smile on her face, she reaches her hands out to me and interlocks her fingers with mine.

“Hey pretty girl, you havin’ fun?” the red head exclaims, her voice barely swimming above the music. We move together to the rhythm of the song; I sway my hips and look around the room, to find Bucky over by the counter, pouring himself another drink.

My eyes shift back to Nat, and I smile, “Of course, babe! It’s always a good time when you’re here.”

She lifts my hand and spins me before resuming our prior position. She raises a quizzical brow, “You sure, hon? Because you keep looking over in that direction.” Nat tilts her head towards Bucky. Of course she’d know. She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to people’s feelings, sniffing out the source for minor ticks in their facial muscles, every dilation of their pupils and apparently each longing stare in their direction. “Y/N, do you have something to tell me?”

I shake my head, grimacing slightly, “Don’t worry about it, babe. It’s fine.”

“No, uh-uh. Come on.” Nat takes my hand and pulls me through the room and to the restroom. She points at the clawfoot tub, “Sit. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nat, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.” I turn my gaze from her, mortified at the prospect of having to spill my feelings.

“Baby, if you like Bucky it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve suspected it for a while now.”

“How the fuck did you know? I thought I was good at hiding it, Nat.”

“Freshman year, orientation mixer. Do you remember that Y/N? Because I do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that drunk. You vomited into a flower pot- really not a good look for you, baby. Bucky showed up in that black leather jacket and you physically faltered when you saw him. I had to hold you up for the better part of five minutes because your legs, and I quote, ‘couldn’t possibly stay solid with how fucking hot he looked.’”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim and put my head in my hands, “I have to dig a hole and hide away in it forever. Nat- that’s fucking awful. You never told me!”

“I assumed you’d bring it up when you wanted to talk about it,” She shrugs, as if she hadn’t just unearthed the one dirty little skeleton I would have liked to keep buried, “And you never did, hon. But it’s been years and you’re clearly still enamoured with him, and I feel like I’m entitled to a little bit of an explanation.” She takes a seat on the cold porcelain next to me, a half-smile decorates her face.

“Okay- you’re right and I’m sorry for not telling you before. I just couldn’t- I didn’t want to make it real. You know? Because if I admitted that he’s on my mind constantly and that he’s the only person I’ve really, truly wanted for fucking years, and that he makes me feel seen and heard and cared for in a way I never thought was possible- then there was a possibility of all that going away.” An exhale escapes me, and I look away from Nat- who seems less flabbergasted at this admission than I’d expect.

She places a supportive hand on my shoulder, “Baby- you know that man loves you, right? You’re his best friend, he’d never let you go like tha-”

“I know, I know.” I interject. “He’s my best friend too- but if it ever came up that I wanted more than what we had right now and he didn’t want that, then everything would fall apart. And you know that, Nat. Everything is perfect the way it is. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize it for anything, not even for my own feelings.” It’s a lie, deep down I know there will always be a part of me yearning, wanting, needing something just out of reach.

 Perhaps it is a sacrifice I’d be willing to make. I could be the slaughtered lamb on a pyre, if it meant Bucky would be happy, if it meant he could get love and support and care from me and everyone around him, without me fucking everything up.

We’ve all been together since freshman year, some of us before that. We’re a family. For me to toss it aside in favor of this childish crush, it would be selfish. It would be building your home and setting it on fire, pushing a boulder up a hill just to push it down the same way, it would be Icarus flying into the sun and dying a horrible, fiery death.

“Hon, I love you but you’re really fuckin’ stupid sometimes.” Nat shakes her head with a small laugh.

“Stop it, Nat. I mean it. He’s never said anything about that- us, you know in that way- and… And he was dating that girl a couple months ago- what was her name? Jo-Ann?” I retort quickly, attempting to repress the feelings that arise from her steadfast argument.

“And do you remember when that ended? Less than two days after you and that asshole you were seeing broke up.” She bumps her shoulder against mine to drive her point forward. My eyebrows knit together at that, she’s not wrong. Technically.

“We all knew that was never going to last. She was so mean and self-involved. I mean- I know I can also be those things… and there’s nothing wrong with being a little bitchy and vain but at least when I do it, it’s classy and everyone loves it.” I jest in an attempt to shift her focus away from Bucky and I, but to no avail.

“Come on, hon. We all know why it didn’t work out. The real reason why.”

“Oh yeah, Nat?” I tilt my head to the side curiously. Music bleeds through the vacant space under the door and I can hear Sam singing along to the song, loudly and off key. It makes me smile. “And what is the real reason?”

“Because she wasn’t you.” She lays it out plainly. Her shoulders shrug in an almost exaggerated display of nonchalance.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Natasha. There- there’s no way.” My voice comes out a bit more strained than anticipated and I stand up from my seat on the bathtub.

“Fine, since you clearly don’t want to listen to reason... I’ll drop it for now, but you’ve got to understand that I meant everything I said. We can all see how head over heels he is for you, baby. You just- maybe you should talk to him about it.” She follows my lead in standing up- there’s an air of finality in her voice and I know our conversation is over.

I take the quick reprieve as Nat leaves the restroom to collect my thoughts. If the alcohol in my system didn’t make the room sway slightly, the revelations that Nat unleashed on me certainly did. I rest my hands on either side of the cool, white basin and look at myself in the mirror that stands proudly on the wall. Good god, pull yourself together. An abrupt knock on the door interrupts my much-needed mirror reflection time. “Occupied!” I yell out in the general direction of the door. For fucks sake, I can’t even get a moment of silence to think.

“Sweetheart? You alright in there?” Bucky’s voice sifts through the door and caresses my ears. His tone so soft, so full of warmth and concern- it makes my heart clench in my chest.

“Yeah, just give me a second.” I smooth down my shirt that had crumpled and gathered in the worst possible way as Natasha berated me about my lack of perception and emotional intelligence while we balanced on the edge of the bathtub.

“Can I come in?” He asks, almost tentatively- or at least as tentative as James Buchanan Barnes could sound. I quickly move to unlock the door and I let him in. His hair is slightly damp from what I assume could only be vigorous beer pong playing or dancing drunkenly to the music. Either way, I’m thankful for it. It's hot.

There’s a slight dusting of red along his cheeks, it is amplified as he gives me a lazy smile. “You alright, Birdie? Do I need to be concerned as to why you’re hiding out in the bathroom when you could be dancing or singing or losing to me at beer pong?”

“In your fuckin’ dreams, Jamie. Do I have to remind you about Thor’s Halloween beer pong tournament?” I raise my eyebrows in challenge and step closer to him, my arms folded across my chest.

Bucky lets out an exaggerated scoff, “That was beginner’s luck on your side. Had to be, sweetheart.” He follows suit and takes a small step toward me.

“Beginner’s luck? Three games in a row? I don’t think so, pretty boy.”

He smiles at me, his eyes searching my face. “Pretty boy, huh? That’s new.”

“Don’t change the subject, Barnes. I could beat you blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back.” Smugness drips off my words and Bucky’s gaze darkens.

“You want to bet, little bird?” He towers over me now, arms on either side of the basin, confining me between him and the cold tile.

“Sure, why not? There’s no way you’d win anyways.” A deceptively sweet smile is plastered on my face in a challenge to him. My heart thumps loudly in my chest. I feel the blood rushing to my ears and butterflies erupt in my stomach. He’s so beautiful, it’s nearly impossible to stop myself from thinking about how much I’d like him to grab my face and kiss me.  

“State your terms, sweetheart.” He backs up and folds his arms over each other across his chest.

“One round, first one to no cups wins. We can have one redemption shot each. And when I win… Hmm…” I tap my finger against my lips in contemplation for a moment, “When I win, you have to let me drive your car.”

His eyes widen slightly, and his lips move to form a small ‘o’ shape. “Sweetheart, you- you can’t possibly be serious. I don’t even let Steve drive my car.”

“I’m deadly serious. I’ve had my eye on it for a while now, to be quite honest. I would love to drive her down to the coast… Put the top down, play some trashy pop music on the speakers…” I taunt, my voice low and melodic.

“I…” He starts, but I cut him off before he can argue.

“Unless you’re chicken, that is. You scared, Jamie? Shaking in your boots over your inevitable, devastating loss?”

“No- I mean-” He takes a breath in and lifts his hands in surrender, “Fine. Fine. If you win, you can drive the car down to the beachfront. But I’m ridin’ shotgun.”

“I expected nothing less. It’ll be fun- we’ll make a day of it.” I say with a smile, my eyes light up at that prospect.

“You don’t want to know what I get if I win?” He pivots.

“Nope. Don’t need to. Because it’ll never happen. Come on, let’s play.” I tilt my head in the direction of the door and smirk at him with as much cheek as I could muster.

Bucky grabs my hand, returning the smile. He stops for a moment and stares at me, that same indecipherable look in his eyes from earlier. Our fingers are interlaced, one continuous string moves in between him and I.

It felt as if I’d be able to hear a pin drop, despite the hustle and bustle of the party raging on outside. I move to grab the door handle and exit the restroom when I feel him pull me back towards him. He grips my hand and pulls me flush against his chest.

“Bucky, what are you d-”

“You- I-” He clenches his jaw and exhales sharply. “I just- I wanted to tell you that you look beautiful tonight. Your- uh- your outfit looks good on you.”

“You mean your shirt? You mean to tell me that your most beloved article of clothing looks good universally?” I laugh out nervously, not wanting to mention the proximity.

“No- just on you. It looks- you look fuckin’ incredible, sweetheart.” He flashes me a lopsided smile and gives my shoulders a squeeze. “You can keep it. If you want.”

“You don’t need it? I thought this was your secret weapon that you used to bend all of mankind to your devilishly handsome will?”

“I could do that with or without the shirt, believe me.” He drawls out, the cocky bastard. His smile falters the tiniest bit, unease flashes across his features. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He clenches his jaw one final time and finds my hand again.

“Let's go.” Bucky leads me out of the bathroom to the outskirts  of the party. The beer pong table is left uninhabited, red solo cups stacked messily from rounds passed.

Bucky quickly sets up the cups and I fetch the most tolerable beer I can find and start filling the cups in preparation of the battle ahead. I roll my neck and crack my knuckles before we begin- Bucky rolls his eyes at me with a laugh. “You ready, sweetheart?”

“The real question, James, is… are you ready?”

“Just play, smartass.” A cheeky smile appears on his face.

Something is wrong. Dear God, something is horrifyingly and incredibly wrong. Bucky is winning at beer pong. Never, in the history of us, had he even come close to beating me- except for tonight.

“What the fuck, Barnes? Have you been getting private beer pong lessons just for this?” I shoot and miss again. Third time in a row. I haven’t even hit the rim in the past few turns.

Could it be because Thor got too tipsy and spilled his drink all over Bucky’s little conservative long sleeve sweater and he had to go and change into one of those ridiculously stupid, sexy, (did I mention stupid? And also so, so very sexy) wife pleaser vests. His muscles are on full display- arms toned and chest rippling. Dear God. The alcohol buzzing around my system is screaming at me to bite his bicep- surely it wouldn’t be that weird, right? Just a little nibble...

No. What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get a fucking grip. Perhaps a grip on those sculpted pecs while- No. Not doing that now.

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Bucky wears the smuggest, filthiest grin on his face. “Oh, sweetheart…” He saunters over to my side of the table and picks up my last red solo cup- there is a small, orange ping pong ball floating tauntingly in the cool brown liquid. He fishes it out with his fingers it and sets it down on the table.

“Drink up.”

I flash him a glare, my eyes narrow as he brings the cup up to my lips. His eyes are trained on me as I gulp down the last of my drink.

 “Good. Now let’s discuss my prize.” He removes the cup and wipes away a stray droplet of beer that escaped out the corner of my mouth, with his thumb. Without stopping, he brings that same digit to his lips and licks it. I feel frozen, dumbstruck, and I’m quite sure I look it. My jaw hangs open slightly as I watch him. I gulp, suddenly very thirsty.

“Cocky, weren’t you? Sweetheart?” he smirks and pinches my chin lightly with his pointer finger and his thumb. He gives me a light squeeze and retreats. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, goosebumps erupt down my arms and the delicious burn of desire settles in my stomach.

“Shut up, Barnes. I don’t know which devil you gave your soul to for skills like that, but I have got to say… that seems like a pretty good deal. You're alright." I admit defeat, my shoulders rise and I hold my hands up in surrender. I smile at him cheekily as he approaches. His steps are slow, deliberate. Wrapped in confidence and assuredness.

“So, Jamie. Your prize- what’ll it be?” I ask, after a small beat of silence.

We look at each other for a moment, just a single moment. Although, it doesn't feel that way. Lifetimes could have passed us by, empires could have risen and fallen- and I would still be lost in his eyes. The deep azure pierces my very soul. He blinks and clears his throat, looking to the floor almost embarrassedly.

"Buck? You alright?" I enquire, moving closer to him.

He chuckles and nods his head slowly.

“You know my cousin, Emma? She’s uh- she’s gettin’ married next Saturday and... And I need a date.” Earnest fills his words, and an irresistible, infuriatingly beautiful smile appears on his face.

I have to resist the urge to pinch myself, because this could only be a really fucked up, steamy dream. I’m silent for a beat, trying to comprehend exactly what he said and the implications behind that.

“I mean, sweetheart, only if you want to. If you- uh- like if you’re not into that, I can just go solo.” His voice holds a slight tremble at the end of his sentence. Holy shit- is he nervous?

“No, no! I am- I’d be into that. We can definitely go together.” I reassure him. My heart pounds against my ribcage, my cheeks heat and a bright smile finds its way onto my face.

“It’d just be better for my ma to think I’m seein’ someone. I know she’s gonna try pair me up with her neighbour’s daughter. Again.” His hands are dug deeply in his pockets, his Adams apple bobs as he swallows.

Realisation flashes on my face. Friends. He wants to go as friends who are pretending to be dating. Right, of course.

“Yeah, for sure. Uh- I’ve got you covered, Jamie.” My smile falters, only for a moment. His eyebrows scrunch together, concern flashing across his features. I give him a half-hearted smile.

“Alright, thanks Birdie. You’re a lifesaver.” He removes his hands from his pockets and claps them together. “You want another drink? I can make you somethin’ quick.”

“Sure, yeah. Do you still have that margarita mix? It was yummy.” I suggest, clumsily. I need to find my footing after that absolute emotional rollercoaster, so he will just have to excuse my unbecoming behavior.

People start filtering out one by one and soon, the disco lights are turned off and the soft, warm glow of the lamps fill the living room. I find myself leaning against Bucky on the worn leather couch, exhaustion weighs heavily on me, and I find my eyes flitting shut for a few moments at a time.

“Birdie? You wanna go to bed?” Bucky coos.

I grumble in response, not fully committed to giving him a proper answer.

He chuckles, it’s rich and dark and perfect. “You can take the guest bedroom if you want… Or do you want to sleep here, sweetheart?”

“Bed.” I manage to mumble, with half lidded eyes and a stifled yawn.

“Do you need me to walk you there? You good to do that, baby? Or should I carry you?” His voice is soft, full of compassion. Even drunk and exhausted, it makes my heart swell. I can’t help but smile- it’s lazy and probably not my most picture-perfect smile, but it’s there now.

“Just fucking carry me. I know you want to- you know I want you to.”

He laughs out and hops up to scoop me up from my position on the couch. His strong arms come up under me and Bucky carries me to the guest bedroom, he doesn’t even break a sweat. You’d swear he was a goddamn superhero or something.

Bucky lays me down gingerly and I shift to get comfortable as I feel the softness of the mattress beneath me. “Thank you, sweet Jamie. My sweet… sweet Jamie.” My eyes flutter shut and I nestle into the pillow.

“G’night, Birdie. Sweet dreams.”  He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. If I'd been more cognizant, perhaps I would've seen the way he smiled down at me from the side of the bed, eyes soft and full of care. Maybe I would have noticed his hesitance to leave, or the way he brought his fist up to his chest and rubbed it soothingly. Perhaps I would've picked up on the fact that his heart burned inside his chest for me, the same way mine did for him.

Hello everyone! This is the first part of my first ever series, I really hope you like it!

Please let me know what you all thought of it!

xoxo, Viv

[underratedgrapeju1ce]

I need to know your exact thought process while writing In My Restless Dreams right now🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

hope ur prepared to hear me yap LMAO

i take characterization very seriously so thats always at the forefront of my mind, i want it to feel believable even if it falls under the umbrella of an au.

giovannis a really interesting character to me, as much as i make homophobic goose jokes, his mindset is genuinely rly thought provoking. squeaks knows how to write nuanced characters, i see no reason he would stop at gio. but as of rn i can only speculate

branching off that, this fic is basically a fun way for me to study the character dynamics, esp bucky and gio and bucky and walter, but i dont want the other guys to get left in the dust, which is why i included that scene with stumbler in chapter 3. chapter 7 and 8 especially are gonna go in depth with olive, stumbler and wulf.

imagery/immersion is something i feel like i could improve at, so i try and do little practice one shots and studying my fav writers (both fanfics and normal literature)

i also wanna pace the story well so theres enough suspense to keep people reading, but not too much that its just a bunch of cliffhangers with no substance. i wanna have fun writing, but i also hold myself to a pretty high standard, for better or worse lol

i dont rly do rough drafts? i make a bulleted list of plot points, and then i just. write from there. i usually read it back the next day to fix typos and formatting and stuff. but other than that i just try and go with the flow.

all in all i wanna do the little guys justice, especially bucky, hes a rly special character to me. i have a nightmare written out that i really wanna fit into the story, as well as a pretty big plot point with gio that im still tinkering with. i'm rly glad people are vibing with it ^^

buckle up though, it gets much much worse before it gets better. :)

[codenamesazanka]

Reread, Chapter 306 to Chapter 328 (Edgy Deku Arc). How Does Deku Approach Saving Shigaraki? He Doesn't.

If the chapter number is not listed, it's because there's no significant development in the Deku Saving Shigaraki plotline (Deku being absent from chapter/chapter focus is about other things/etc).

Chapter 308:

When confronting Muscular, Deku thinks back to Shigaraki/The Crying Child - imagery is of them overlapping.

Deku does think: "But at least I want to learn what makes [Shigaraki] tick deep down."

When trying to understand Muscular (by asking him three (3) questions about his motives) fails to pan out, Deku says "Seems like this fight is inevitable," recalling his response to Nana about having the resolve to kill Shigaraki if Shigaraki is beyond saving. Then he KOs Muscular.

Chapter 309:

Gran Torino says "Don't be so rigid. Killing can be another way to save someone. Never forget that." Deku, consistent with his own wishy-washy response in Chapter 305 that doesn't take killing off the table, doesn't refute that; also takes Gran's cape as a gesture of carrying on Gran's legacy.

Chapter 310:

Deku mentions Shigaraki only in the context of a threat. "Don't have leads on [the Villains]" "With All For One's quirk transplanted into Shigaraki… he was too strong for us to bring down, even with Endeavor's and Aizawa Sensei's help."

Not Deku, but a note on Kudou - in a flashback to the immediate aftermath of the scene in Chapter 305, Kudou complains about devoting the vestiges efforts to "one who wants to 'save' our mortal enemy", except 1) Shigaraki is not their Mortal Enemy, AFO is? 2) Did Yoichi not made clear just in-universe moments ago that Shigaraki was a victim of AFO's?

Chapter 311:

Endeavor says: "It must be like Deku said... Right now, [AFO's] top priority might be hijacking Shigaraki." Heroes acknowledge that Shigaraki is AFO's possession victim.

Chapter 314

Deku learns about Nagant's backstory. He admits that he was ignorant, but now he's starting to see things clearly - that the world is in shades of gray, a blend of fear and anger. As he says this, among the memories he's thinking of, is Shigaraki's Jaku speech.

Deku also recalls a line from Shigaraki's Jaku speech - "…Swept their pain under the rug… With maggots crawling out." Then says "Which is exactly why I gotta extend a helping hand."

I do consider this Deku reaffirming his desire to save Shigaraki.

Chapter 318

Not Deku, but the vestiges talks about Deku. Nana worries about the burden she has placed on him. Banjo says Deku sees every cause as worthy. Shinomori says Deku seeks to save everyone as a true Hero. Kudou says Deku is choosing the right path.

Is this about Shigaraki? ...Maybe???

...And sadly that's actually it! After Nagant explodes, Deku is Very Angry about AFO. Then he's a one-man Villain hunting machine. Doesn't really spare a thought about Shigaraki anymore beyond "I have to stop Shigaraki and the League."

I'll allow that he's super stressed out and lonely and overwhelmed by the duty he's taken on... but any thoughts about even saving or even understanding Shigaraki or even the Crying Child has evaporated after Muscular.

It's notable that during the Uraraka Speech And Umbrellas Scene, Uraraka gets a flashback to Toga crying when she talks about everyone smiling together in the future, while Shouto and Endeavor think about Dabi as they promise to 'do this together', but Deku gets nothing. In fact I don't think he makes any mention or even thinks of Shigaraki/Crying Child until... Chapter 342.

:

Last on-page declaration of saving Shigaraki Crying Child? Chapter 305

Last solid implication of Deku wanting to save Shigaraki? Chapter 314

Last time Deku thought about Shigaraki in a context that isn't 'need to find him/stop him'? Chapter 314, when he flashbacks to Shigaraki's Jaku speech.

[As always take however much blame you think I'm unjustly putting on Deku to put on Horikoshi doing bad writing.]

[solar-halos]

i finished the umbrella academy s4. i am not amused. here are my thoughts (looong post incoming)

1. i don’t remember diego being so fucking annoying. actually that’s a lie he’s always been annoying but since he was hot i let it slide but now that he’s not treating lila right (how do u fumble a baddie THAT HARD) i think he should participate in the shut the fuck up challenge

2. “their uncle will pick them up” HUH? like obviously this timeline is different but you’re telling me lila has uncles (and parents! or someone! she was talking to some elderly couple before the party!). what does that mean for the others… were their mothers still killed in this timeline or did klaus live out his little amish dream, even if he wasn’t around to experience it? ykwim? like did they show up to this timeline and someone was like “omg where did u wander off to? i was looking all over for u!” and then it turns out it’s their sibling/uncle/whatever in that timeline and they just have to be like ah yes. i surely do know who u are

3. what they did to lila and diego was criminal!!! “she said she couldn’t get pregnant while breast feeding. but she could” dramatic ass reveal for no fucking reason. like get over yourself diego

4. ok i know they prob couldn’t get rays actor to come back but what the fuck do u mean he walked out. and how can allison afford that nice house when all she’s doing is being in commercials nobody wants. our girl has a BEAMER. also i thought they weren’t supposed to have phones or anything like that so why does allison have a vape lollll. not complaining bc that scene was funny to me but why and how

5. ughhh they were tryna set up lila and five SO BAD in the beginning. and even then they still gave off intense sibling vibes

6. ok maybe im just too american but the gun imagery was kinda not it for me. like idk i think the bit with santa claus coming out shooting at everything was supposed to be funny but idkk i think im just too sensitive bc i was like mkkk whatever not funny. also i know luther has super strength but even in s1 he still got majorly injured when that chandelier fell on him but now he’s fucking indestructible apparently?? like getting shot at and stuff?? what???

7. ok but that grandma loading her old timey gun while she turned to the siblings like O.O was funny i’ll give them that

8. speaking of guns wtf siblings are killing EVERYONE. like ik they started the apocalypse and everything but idek just the way they did it was so weird. like less detached/guilty and more like… triumphant? satisfied? idk but it had a different tone than even s3, i remember in s2 it was such an intense ordeal when allison made those two european brothers kill each other but this time they straight up mass murdered a bunch of ppl in a small town and were like B). like ok. like allsion mutilated that guy in front of her DAUGHTER and it was just chill. major tonal shift

9. “you just had to one up me” 1) you just killed a bunch of ppl diego!! 2) that is NOT the lila and diego i know. the real lila and diego would have started making out nasty style the moment lila killed that guy w her laser eyes. also wtf were the point of the laser eyes. she used them like twice and then that was it

10. with that being said all that affair stuff and recovery and addiction and relapse was getting so heavy. which ik is the point and the umbrella academy has always been heavy but like holy shit u GOTTA pick a struggle. is lila gonna groom five or is klaus gonna give claire trauma cos u can’t have both

11. speaking of claire… “would it help to remind u that we were just as shitty at her age” no u fucking weren’t. u could have breathed at ur british alien father wrong and he would have made u do drills until u puked. don’t play rn

12. why did they not trust the audience to pick up on the fact ben spiked their drinks. like we did not need a full on FLASHBACK. or like to be fully immersed in that scene, a tiny little flashback would have done

13. ok but why is this season so scary. like that train station made me paranoid

14. i will never forgive them for what they did to my girl lila. she used to serve CUNT

15. that british lady alien annoyed the fuck outta me

16. WHERE was pogo. and grace. they needed to find a way to bring them back. maybe they could have transported to a universe where the apocalypse happened and now the world was getting ruled by a planet of [gunshots]

17. why the fuck was diego acting like jennifer and ben weren’t linked in some way when all of s3 they alluded to the jennifer incident every other scene. i get it was supppsed to be so obvious even to someone who has ONLY watched s4 that jennifer and ben were linked so it was just a case of diego being stupid BUT that doesn’t work when it’s already been established that they all know jennifer played a part in ben’s death. hence calling it the Jennifer Incident

18. “they tried to address that in later scenes” they failed. they didn’t know how ben died, fine. but they knew jennifer had something to do w it. i’m tired of scenes that poke fun at diego for being stupid. he’s not stupid—he’s cocky

19. okay no but this season was SO gory. like. whatever they have guns this is a revolution but the guts? the intestines?? they wanted to be stranger things sooo bad

20. no but we need to talk about that. the monster thingie at the end was so stranger things and the guns and the military and everything it was like we were back in s3 (or whenever we met the russians)

21. LOL but that scene where diego finds out about five and lila was lowkey funny. this season was so meta in general

22. speaking of the holidays… i sure did love watching everyone sing christmas carols and walk around in the snow when it was hot asf in real time

23. i do like how many parallels there were to s1. like w viktor and reggie, it was very viktor and leonard in s1. and klaus getting kidnapped. although i was kinda tired of klaus getting abducted and his siblings not giving a fuck. i thought there was supposed to be growth there

24. okayyy but ben and jennifer were cute SORRY. “let’s get married” that would have worked on me. however being rude to me while i was at work WOULDNT have worked on me so maybe yall are right maybe we didn’t need a love interest this season

25. i did NOT expect them to actually drag out lila and five’s love story. other than the age gap (no matter how ur looking at it) you already knew it was gonna be bad as soon as they had their first kiss. i hate those multiple little open mouthed kisses that are literally just ALL lip and spit like that’s fucking gross if ur gonna stick ur tongue in my mouth u better do it by the third little :O we got going on there. and then five was giving boy. like literal boy. and lila is a literal goddess but a goddess that’s well into her 20s and the contrast was so sharp it rlly was giving mom and her caucasian child. i mean that bit about lila viewing it as survival vs five actually clinging onto it showed their different levels of maturity, but since it’s never specified if five is still a 50 year old man or just aging normally, his reaction rlly was such a teenage boy thing. “i’m gonna kill him” man shut the fuck up

26. ok no bc we need to talk about this. i think fives actor is my age—maybe even a little bit older—but i don’t see how anyone over the age of 18 is supposed to find him attractive. like idk it’s weird in the show but even creepier irl cos lila’s actor had to have known him when he was still a minor. why did anyone at the umbrella academy think we wanted this

27. anyway not to make this about myself but when i was writing the odesta longfic there were a lot of lore inconsistencies as we kept going bc i forgot some of the details and was too lazy to go back and read it sometimes, and i think that’s what happened this season. the most notable detail is when klaus covered his ears while everyone was shooting at each other. i was expecting some sort of vietnam flashback but like no. he was just there being normal about it, all things considered

28. “ex-squeeze me?” it wasn’t funny when klaus said it in s1. and it wasn’t funny here

29. alright i think that’s really all i wanted to say about the season tbh… like idk diego and lila starting a family made sense i guess and i know they were falling out of love (even tho they would never do that…) but i didn’t rlly feel any of the love w the kids. like even when lila stepped off the train at the last min and her daughter was banging at the glass it looked more like she was like “oh no :(“ and then just started poking at the glass. i don’t even think it matters that she didn’t fully know what was going on—if you’re a child and ur mom steps away in an unfamiliar situation, you’re gonna start to freak. especially w everything else that was going on

30. ok this is such a small thing to harp on but they abused the fuck outta that time skip font. like i don’t think they ever used it that much before now

31. now let’s get into the ending. this is how i would fix it:

we can keep jennifer. whatever. that thing they added at the very last second about her having a particle that causes the end of the world was… whatever. like i get it. they needed a way to explain the end of the world and that was the thing they used and even if it was very late to introduce such a (admittedly confusing) bombshell, at least it fits in with what we already know about this universe’s rules. magic and particles and marigold and whatever. jennifer is fine.

tbh when jennifer started feeling sick i was honestly thinking that they were gonna go the surprise pregnancy route even though they weren’t even fuckinf hinting at that i just have no media literacy. i wouldn’t have minded that tbh, like the monster transformation made more sense but imagine if we did a twilight ripoff for a second, except that jennifer and ben were both equally protective of the killer baby growing outside of jennifer’s womb (or in her womb… whatever. point is there’s a baby). i don’t think this is a good idea—if anything i think this is a shit idea. but something that’s always been so prominent in tua are the moral implications of what they’re doing, like with everyone wanting to kill harlan in s3 instead of letting the entire world die, and with everything that happened with viktor in s1. there was the whole “i can’t kill my brother” bit, sure, but everyone kinda didn’t rlly seem too enthusiastic about it.

actually the baby addition is actually a shit idea. i’m just keeping that part of the rant in bc we need SOME sort of moral dilemma that isn’t just viktor arguing w hargreeves and then his siblings dropping in later with opinions that don’t even seem that strong. everyone needs to have a strong opinion on SOME sort of moral issue that we wanna introduce—that, in a perfect world, we’d be building up to throughout the season—and then yeah whatever there can be an epic fight scene

i don’t watch/read a lot of time travel stuff, but from what i gathered, the timeline can never be restored once it’s fucked with. there has to be consequences, like with any story. and tua did address that—they tried restoring the timeline thousands of times—but i think they shot themselves in the foot there. time travel with a (somewhat) happy ending is possible—there just has to be something to lose, and it has to be something that isn’t nonnegotiable. claire was nonnegotiable, which is why i think they stayed in s3’s timeline for as long as they did

point is, i think they should have gone back to 2019. i mean i don’t think anyone really wanted them to die. i made a joke in s3’s rant that i would just give up, but lucky for me, i am not a fictional character in tua, so the fact they just die in the last five mins and we’re supposed to be ok w that makes the last three seasons pointless. like, actually pointless. what was the message here? why is the ending of the show painted as some sort of utopia just bc we got rid of the siblings? and why is five okay with that? i think him being on board w dying could have been an interesting route to take if they showed his relationship w his siblings consistently deteriorating (both on screen AND off screen) but they only rlly managed to do that with diego, and it was for something fucking stupid

ANYWAY. bring those fools back to 2019, but don’t make them totally happy. just give them something that makes them all just stay put, like how allison has claire (doesn’t matter which timeline. it could be from the fucked up timeline. i don’t think the cleanse would happen bc of that bc claire is only one person and not an entire fucking organization like tua or an assassination like jfk. so hell. might as well throw harlan and sissy in there for viktor. that makes lila and diego’s motivation really easy for staying put, cos then they have their kids. klaus is klaus and no offense to him but i think hes just gonna roll w the cards he’s dealt without trying to fight back, for better or for worse. then ben can have jennifer and since they love each other idk they just stick around. then five’s motivation for staying is that his family is alive and none of them want to leave and that’s good enough for him bc that’s why he time traveled in the first place

again… i don’t think what i came up with is any good. i just think it’s better than them all dying at the last fuckin second. i think this show relied on a lot of haha random xd humor at the beginning and they tried to keep that intact here but everything got so serious that i think them all dying rlly did seem like the only way out but.. it’s not. they could go back to the way things are as long as there were consequences. it would suck, and none of them would be as happy as they could be, but they know that’s as happy as they’re gonna get, so whatever. like, if we were gonna take the suicide route, we might as well gone the time loop route and gone back from the very beginning when five blinks back to 2019. i think that rly would have driven home the “this all would have happened anyway” point way better than them just being like guess ill die :) bc ughhh. no they wouldn’t. also they wouldn’t let lila leave bc she still had marigold in her but… what about her and diego’s kids?? they’re half marigold, and claire is a quarter, so… what’s up with that?

[raytorosaurus]

I have seen maybe half a season of TUA and didn’t read the comics so let me tell you seeing those panels where Vanya is yelling “We belong on that stage” (and in reference to herself and her taller blonde bass-playing brother) drawn in profile with literally Gerard’s haircut and outfit was a big shock to the system. I never even considered that he’d inserted elements of himself and his bandmates into TUA except for a bunch of weird edits people made comparing how much Aiden Gallagher looks like Frank but now I feel like I really need to read it.

im really looking forward to rereading all of the comics after this semester's over because i haven't done that since volume 3's run ended and i'll definitely make more coherent posts about it then but like. it's really really interesting to compare to all of gerard's other art because he is just...so distinctively him, even across different mediums and genres. tua and mcr and hesitant alien and kjna and his visual art etc etc etc like his artistic fingerprint is stamped so boldly and unapologetically all over them and that's something i really love about him. like his art, love it or hate it, is sooooo genuine always. even when he's purposely imitating other artists, he's very consciously doing it in his own voice, putting his own spin on it.

when i say tua and mcr are completely separate projects i mean it - i don't think one should only ever be discussed in relation to/in the context of the other - and, above all, tua is certainly not like...autobiographical, or a direct representation of real people/events. it's led by gerard but it has a different creative team than mcr does and that really shows as well - i definitely wanna talk ant this when i have more time but part of the reason im not sold on conweap as an album is because it's too umbrella academy - it's really evident that gerard was working on both of them at the same time, and letting one influence the other too directly. mcr's a band, not a Gerard Project, and umbrella academy is largely a duo (w gabriel bá), so they can't just be transplanted onto each other yk.

anyway I'm rambling but all this to say - tua isn't meant to be "about" mcr any more than bullets is "about" 9/11. but gerard's life was changed and shaped by his experiences in the music scene throughout his life, by dropping everything and living as a penniless artist, by becoming suddenly (in)famous, and that really shines through in tua. he says he drew inspiration from touring band life to write a dysfunctional family, and the dehumanising effects of fame and attention, and of being categorised and scrutinised on a private or public level, are huge themes - as is addiction, mental health, complicated grief.

like...i actually got into mcr through the tua comics lmaooo. i read volume 1 because of wonderful @blackmoldmp3 talking about it and immediately said oh. i need more from this dude's brain right now. and i was soooo not disappointed haha. i really am obsessed with quite a lot of the things gerard is also obsessed with as an artist. the particular themes and imagery and scenarios he's fixated on are really very consistent throughout everything he does - only the way they're discussed or portrayed does change over time. i don't rly subscribe to the idea of gleaning specifics abt artists' personal lives from their works because, beside all else, it just does them a huge disservice (that's my number one gripe with the popular talking pounts around hes alien and frank's solo work in particular; however "confessional" you wanna read art as, it's still art that was created with skill and intent.)

anyway that's way off topic dkfnfj. what i do love about this kind of thing is looking at distinct creations in the context of the rest of an artist's body of work. like...yeah, gerard's said there's a lot of mikey in klaus. has dressed similarly to vanya and the kraken and the seance at times etc etc. has compared himself to the rumor, because she's the one he relates to most. puts a lot of his familiar ideology surrounding music and performance into vanya. puts angry teenage vanya in a shitty punk band with her disillusioned teenage brother on bass, and puts a classical music prodigy in a punk band as an excellent guitarist, writing songs about killing the president etc etc. i could go on! because these things are just scattered everywhere through the comic, just like all of gerard thematic and aesthetic and ideologic fingerprints.

so what's reallyyy interesting to me is looking at umbrella academy as something gerard wrote on the road with mcr across multiple years. volume one was released while the tbp world tour was ongoing, and volume two only a few months after. the progression of parade -> tua -> conweap -> danger days is SOOOO fascinating to me, especially because one of the things that really works about danger days imo is the way it kind of shakes off some of the tua-style gritty cynicism and returns to mcr's defiant, extravagant theatricality. if you go through tua with a fine-tooth comb you'll definitely find the most direct comparisons to conweap, in terms of mcr. the way dd approaches the themes it has in common with tua is just.....so different, and so so mcr. and then you can see the at times self-referential development on those things in hesitant alien - AND THEN VOLUME 3 COMES AROUND AND LIKE. AUUUGGGGHHHHH the change and growth there is SO apparent. btw i don't mean "growth" "progression" etc in this post to mean "improving" - i just mean change and development in a neutral sense, bc it's so interesting to see it laid out there in an artist's body of work. but like. man it makes me crazeeee actually the way gerard picked tua back up....almost certainly around the same time mcr started discussing a potential reunion. and the way that foundations revisits and reconceptualises mcr's existing catalogue is paralleled in the way vol 3 of tua is, like...........like there's so much life lived there, between those things. gerard's even said he's changed his plan for the ending (if we ever see it 🥲) because he has more compassion for his own characters now and doesn't want to see them broken down for good. he says he's gotten better at listening to other people - for starters, he's a lot more conscious of his own subconscious racism/whiteness that came through at times in the original run and has expressed regret for that (namely, the entire main cast being white, with a couple of side characters being uncomfortably stereotyped).

but just like. augh. im not gonna lie man i have no idea what i've just typed im sorry it's probably so rambly bc I'm so dizzy rn and definitely am not gonna proofread it or whatever skdjfj but. I LOVE ART! I LOVE ARTISTS! I LOVE DIVING DEEP INTO AN ARTIST'S BODY OF WORK AND WATCHING THEM REINVENT THEMSELF AND/OR DOUBLE DOWN ON THEMSELF (SOMETIMES FOR BETTER, SOMETIMES FOR WORSE). obvs this fandom genuinely does have a big issue with invasive/un-self-aware parasocial behaviour but there's a difference between that and like. getting obsessed with a particular artist. that's so normal and in fact necessary to life imo. i think every artist literally has to have ppl like that i can't imagine any other way to live it's just a specific type of human connection at a distance baby. don't get me wrong tho i also wanna chew on his thigh. anyway.

my god. how did i get here what even was your question. tua. yes it's crazy. it's not for everyone for sure but it has enough of the shit that makes me crazzzzyyyyy that it got me into mcr which made me crazierrrr so. yes i can recommend. especially if ur like me and lovvvve stories that are a little bit fractured by design. that dance around big parts of the story, where there's as much significance in an absence or in a tiny background detail than there is in any dialogue or action scene. most of the criticism i see of tua is about the pacing but like. to my tastes it's a really great use of the comic medium yk? lmk if you want content warnings or something there are plenty skdjfj.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

Starting with

what happens when a black swan wakes up from dreaming of a white swan?

explodes right here right now instantly.

funny story bout this one specifically actually, iwas originally mostly neutral towards her right up until queuing her up into the tourney bracket back in like. november. i had t do a run thru of her combat dialogue and it was just "oh. what. huh?? girl??? girlie hey wait girlie hey," so its fair to say i feel Very Normal about her. but um, to sort this into some sort of something;

Design- immediate bonus points for being Creature. go girl kill. we love bird imagery in this household and she is Rocking it. the crest is fucking impossible to draw but again, it slaps. the fact that most of her body is just that inky black impossible to tell the detail between one thing and another honestly works really well for her. idunno how to explain it, but the wing claws are a Very good look. it coheres 👍 also umbrella weapon bias. she honestly just hurts to look at. compliment. sad wet bird. can i please just gently pat her with a damp towel. ithink that would help her feel a little better.

Theme- explodes right here right now instantly. black swan honestly kinda went right by me my first loop through, but getting to it again? augh. augh. auuguugughghhh. the tie between the childhood disillusionment of optimism and the vessel of an old fable hits like a truck. the core of futile dreaming in a nightmare, tied with the daughter imagery with angela....... augh. it aims and hits the mark! plain and simple and striking. black swan is honestly just generally painful as a whole, and the way it executes that is VERY clean. again, she just kinda hurts to look at. compliment. also the black feather motif...... explodes right here right now instantly.

shes honestly one that was boosted up by just. the ping-pong effect of several of us going 'wait. fuck. wait oh fuck wait shit AUGH' at each other in a circle for a while. like yea. yeahg. its hard to describe just what it is about her thats so . [motions with hands.] because you just have t. just Look at her. listen to her. look at it its on the ceiling, yknow? i love her very much. no notes peak angela 👍

[ren-144p]

Hi! Silent admirer of your RE stuff (it's been so long since I've played these games, but you've been re-inspiring me!) - so I'm curious about "Madrid, 1996" for the WIP asks? 👀

ohh god— going for the only one legitimately named and simultaneously the one most unpolished bdhdjsjkl

as of right now, “Madrid, 1996” is a series of snippets intertwined with meta about itself and records of my convos with @bennidraws (which is what started it all!!), written somewhat as a branch of my luis study project. set entirely pre-games, it follows the story of Luis and Carlos who meet, by chance, at an Umbrella conference, and in two weeks develop a particularly deep relationship. Carlos falls in love with an older man freshly out of a personality crisis, Luis falls for a repressed boy who's just discovering himself for the first time, and both of them turn each other's world upside down. contains dog imagery, yearning, cigarettes, and—on many occasions—Carlos' dog tags clinking against Luis' cross

it's rough and unpolished and not even fully planned out, branching within itself into multiple endings. but i've been chipping away at it when i'm not working on anything else and i feel like eventually something will come out of it. too much love has been put into those conversations for the fic to amount to nothing ❤️

*

“They ever give you a break, soldier boy?”

Carlos turned towards the voice, surprised to see anyone out of the building at this hour, especially in such a downpour. It belonged to the same man he had seen earlier, except the well-cut suit was nowhere to be found, now replaced by an intricately decorated leather jacket and a pair of well-worn jeans. He held a single cigarette between his teeth and a lighter in one hand, looking at him with curiosity through the hair falling into his eyes; and chuckled, clearly having noticed Carlos' persistent gaze on him.

“You look like a rabbit in headlights,” he teased, weaving the lighter between skilled fingers. It lit up with a quiet click a moment later, and Carlos took a while to admire the way the flame illuminated the man's face when he leaned into the light.

"No breaks.” He watched how his thin lips curled around a puff of smoke. “The shifts are short though.”

The stranger hummed, as if amused by the answer, and leaned back comfortably against the wall before extending a pack of cigarettes towards Carlos.

“Care for a smoke?”

*

“You should come find me later, soldier boy. When your shift is done,” the man said, throwing the butt of his cigarette on the ground. “Room 102. On the fourth floor,” he added with a wink, turning back, but Carlos' hand wrapped around his wrist before he could go.

“Who am I asking for?”

The stranger smirked, leaning in so close their noses almost touched.

“Name's Luis,” he said, a teasing note in his voice. “And who am I waiting for?”

“Carlos.”

*

and, as a bonus, a bit of the relevant note i made for this part (and for what's supposed to follow)

something about the terrifying act of inviting a stranger to your room, something about that stranger being a soldier; something about being invited to a hotel room by a man older than you, and something about the confidence with which he does it.

the way every night spent with a stranger might've been your last; the way he didn't know if he was gonna wake up the next morning, and then he did—and then they both did.

[five-and-dimes]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

I was tagged by @seiya-starsniper! 🤘

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

38 currently, but I orphaned a few in the past and am considering orphaning a couple more of my older ones, we'll see ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

220,579 - holy shit, when did that happen??

3. What fandoms do you write for?

At the moment just Sandman, although I still have some Umbrella Academy wips that I might try to go back and finish before season 4.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

lol I think just due to the nature of them being fics that have been on AO3 for a decade (which... holy shit I'm old 😂) my top five are four Teen Wolf fics and one Voltron fic

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Not really. I'll respond if someone, like, asks me something in a comment. I know I should respond more, but I often get overwhelmed and don't know what to say. So, uh... sorry everyone 😬

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hm, none of my fics have, like, angsty endings... I think the closest might be Now I Lay Me, just because it's more of a hopeful ending as opposed to explicitly happy (although I'm writing a sequel specifically so I can write the explicitly happy ending, so... that's me in a nutshell lol)

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I would definitely say Smile Like You Mean It. That one is the most fluffy happy ending for sure.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nah. The worst I ever got was way back in the beginning on some of my Teen Wolf fics I'd get those comments that were like "you should have written it THIS way-" which were annoying but nothing I'd call "hate".

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

lol I wrote actual, explicit smut for the first time a few months ago with Undisclosed Desires. My fic famously will have almost-sex before something tragic happens and gets in the way lol, and even my one smut story is still very hurt/comfort. As much as I appreciate reading smut of all kinds, I think if I ever wrote more it'd be the same h/c vibe. I'm a one trick pony.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Nah, the closest would be in my bandom phase? But I never fully understood if those counted as crossovers or not lol

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

As far as I know I have not

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yup! I can't remember which ones, but I remember approving requests to translate a couple fics.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I did once, and I had a lot of fun with the idea part, but the actual writing a coherent, publishable fic together was stressful. I love just bouncing ideas with people, expanding on topics together, yes and-ing with friends, etc., but I think fully writing a fic with another person isn't really my thing.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

lol it's hard to say I have an "all time" favorite. I tend to just have my favorite at any given moment. Obviously I'm super into Dreamling right now, but I've had tons of ships that I still love and reread stuff for.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Honestly, there's a bunch of batman wips that I started ages ago and still really like, but I just haven't been able to get into them (Sandman took over the brain real good lol)

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm good at the emotional parts- it's why I like hurt/comfort so much. I will gleefully spend half a story ripping your heart out, but then I'll work hard to give it back. I think I'm good at writing inner thoughts in a way that helps evoke whatever the character is feeling. And I think I'm good at imagery.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Well for one thing I write out of order, so if I ever do multichapter fics I have to finish the whole thing before I can post it lol 😂 Also I think I struggle with action and plot. My writing is very heavy on character introspection, and I like my fics, but if you take a step back from them not a lot really happens in them.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I personally prefer not to, just because I'm monolingual. I'll either just do the italicized words and "they said in x language" or just say "they spoke in x language" and have the pov character not know what they're saying type of stuff.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Heroes. Does anyone remember that show?

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Oof, I will reluctantly narrow it down to three lol. Now I Lay Me (I love the concept), Sloom (love me some family angst), and Recoil/Release (A Voltron fic that is currently my longest fic, and was another one that I was really proud of the concept and characterizations)

I don't know who's already been tagged, but I'll tag @gabessquishytum @cuubism @softest-punk @magnusbae and @pellaaearien

[jupiterlandings]

hi yes amazing edits <3

would you like to talk about the people imagery, the shadow, and the bottom left flowers in van helsing's?

Oh y’all know I live to talk about details.

There will be spoilers below!

First off let’s start with the flowers! The ones in the bottom left are poppies; I’ve put those in a couple of edits now. They symbolize remembrance which is a big driving force in the story & also definitely for the Professor; between losing his son (who he remembers when he sees Arthur) to his wife (presumably) going catatonic from the grief of losing their child, to SPOILERS!! losing Lucy in the end, I think it’s one of the biggest parts of his character.

So, the people! That would be The Squad! The Harkers, Jack, and Arthur are all towards the right corner while Lucy & Quincy (the shadow) are off to the right; they all fall under the “family” umbrella since the Professor both adopted them all & also GOT adopted by them.

Now Quincy is really only a shadow bc I couldn’t find any good art of cowboys but also putting him with Lucy we can see it as the two who don’t make it out of the story & also how he just wanted to live in the light Lucy represented in his life.

Hope those were good answers for you, Nonny!

[pammydawes]

Wow! Sry for the wait folks I’m at 4:31 hours left in Hell Bent and I have Thots

🛑!!!SPOILERS BELOW!!!🛑🛑

It’s been so long that tbh I’m a little fuzzy on the details of where I left off but DANG…….that trip to hell???? Everything I hoped it would be!

I absolutely loved getting so many of the main team’s POVs, I’m hoping that on the return trip we can maybe get some more!! I am so curious abt the meaning of Babbitt rabbit being threaded through all their…..dreams? Visions? Experiences? Idk it’s hell man

The insight into Turner’s background left me feeling pretty broken. Cannot personally speak to the accuracy of Bardugo’s representation of the experience of a Black detective, but I thought it was moving.

Tripp’s backstory was intriguing! I actually know how to sail so the whole thing was pretty visceral to me, I wonder if Leigh has experience with boats bc the accuracy was impressive! Also Spencer can eat shit!

Whew….hellie’s POV. That was excellent. Just hearing how much she loved Alex already had me, but it’s rly the details of their relationship that I think Bardugo hits uk? Loved hearing abt Alex from the perspective of someone who loved her, because in NH darlington was predisposed not to care for her, and 90% of the other insight she hears comes from people who are underestimating her, judging her, or trying to kill her! So I’m glad that we got a glimpse of a diff perspective. Still hurt to re-live ground zero tho

In turner, Alex, and to some degree pammie’s cases, I can understand why they meet the criteria for murder, as justified as it was in some situations. It’s a little blurrier with Tripp, though, and I think an argument could be made that Pammie didn’t really murder her victim. So that leads me to think that maybe the murder requirement to get into hell is based more on a person’s own feelings of guilt or regret rather than some objective external judgement, which I think could have some interesting implications!

LOVE that darlington’s personal hell is trying to rebuild a ruined Black Elm, I feel like that illustrates both his love and hate for the house really well!! Nice nod to Sisyphus in Greek mythology also!

FINALLY some good wheelwalker content!!! Basically crumbs but I LOVE the imagery of Alex and the blue flames. I wonder why they’re blue?? Blue fire is supposed to be the hottest after white, right???

Anselm has rly done a magnificent job of disappointing me, which is somehow still very satisfying!! Honestly if he’s the next murder victim…….my condolences to his family ig

Love how everyone basically drags themselves out of hell completely distraught, having come so close to success only to fail, and Mercy is like great job team let’s get them in the next half!!

The demons………oof. Alex reuniting with Hellie was ROUGH man. Kind of cool how as the reader, Leigh put us in hellie’s head, which meant that when you start clocking that something’s off it’s not just like “next logical plot point”, it was like actually realizing something was wrong the same way Alex did. The hellie we got a glimpse of would NEVER say those things to alex!!! And we knew that not just bc Alex told us, but bc we actually got to read it and draw those conclusions ourselves.

I would bet my entire family that my prediction abt Lionel and the praetor is correct. They were 100% in love back in their school days and now demon Lionel is gonna kill the praetor via some gruesome/emotionally manipulative manner as literary comeuppance for his misogyny!

The talismans? Excellent. Superb. Dare I say, delightful. MORE COSMO EASTER EGGS. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I cannot wait to learn what that little guy’s deal is!!

The vampire’s visit…..uh oh. My theory is that Michelle is working for him, bc I feel like I remember her having a white umbrella at some point?? It’s a toss up whether she’s being coerced or doing it for her own benefit, I really couldn’t say. Maybe he’s turning her into a vampire?? And that’s how she’s connected to the murders???

I paused halfway through the return of Eitan, which I have mixed feelings abt tbh. I still keep feeling like his storyline is kinda tacked on needlessly, but I also do think he’s a fascinating character, so we’ll see how the rest of the convo goes. It’s also just like….Alex literally killed a room full of people that WERENT actively out to get her. What is the hold up here.

Love a good Lauren tidbit!! I’m curious to see how the rooming issue resolves. I would like for them to bring her into the fold somehow, but I also feel like the direction they’re going in is that Alex and Mercy are ultimately going to leave her out for her own protection, thereby alienating her and sacrificing their friendship. That’s definitely NOT my ideal outcome, though. Ideal would be Lauren getting to join them and get some character development. What can I say, I have a soft spot for the vinyl girlies bc…..I am one.

Now, to see what eitan has to say for himself! Next you hear from me will be, gasp……the end. I can’t believe it, I’ve been waiting for this book so long and idk if I’m ready for the next wait!!! Hhhhhnnnnng ok bye

[dinitride-art]

Lighting and El and Hopper - Full Analysis (pt.56)

Everything. Is bad.

S4:E9 - Reunions (#2) 

Shadows deepening, Vecna lighting, weird cabin stuff that doesn’t look right, curtains covering windows in frame- this is a concerning scene. And it’s got the same energy as the scene we just saw with Mike and Will. Bad energy.

Very. BAD. ENERGY. So the whole room just loses saturation when we’re looking at Hopper (or Vecna, who knows at this point). And he looks a bit menacing here. 

But the saturation comes back as he walks into the room, but the blue is still behind that door. Hopper’s also joined the “I’m wearing blue and yellow” crew. So, Will’s not alone now.

Then when they hug we don’t see Hopper’s face. And that’s weird. There’s a dark ring around the shot that’s got some sinister undertones as well. It’s also similar to when Max hugged her mom but it was actually just a vision. And her mom turned into Vecna. (Also weird that Hopper doesn’t hug El with both arms at first. i didn’t catch this at first bc it looks normal to me- but did something happen to Hopper’s arm? That I don’t remember? Anyways it’s relevant later- and Hopper might be the Hand of Vecna. Or using the hand of Vecna. The imagery matters more than the lore.)

I don’t think this is like. A whole different actor (I went down that rabbit hole. And I’m, 95% sure that’s David Harbor.) But I do think somethings going on here.

There’s just a lot of contrast between these shots. When we do get to see Hopper things look mostly normal but when his face is hidden shit gets weird.

(The vignette- that’s what the dark fading camera/picture thing is called. It’s also used a lot in the Umbrella Academy’s most recent season. To add sinister undertones and dark foreshadowing to specific rooms.) The vignette lessons when we’re looking at Hopper through El’s eyes. But when we see the opening in the curtain, we also see the darkness around them.

Hopper sees El in the light, crying. And El sees Hopper smiling.

But the curtains are only partially open. 

Also- Hopper’s hat. The way it was used to hide his face/his expression is similar to Mike’s California outfit. And the visor was used at the airport and at Rink O’ Mania to hide his reactions. 

The room is half light, half dark when El and Hopper sit down. In front of a partially closed set of curtains. 

The darkness follows Hopper. 

The contrast between Hopper and El reaching out is in the light. And how El is the light. And Hopper is the dark. 

Kinda evens out here though. Bu the shadows also begin to get a bit darker behind them, so maybe not.

And again, El’s in the light, while Hopper’s in cool tones, and has Vecna lighting surrounding him. 

It’s repeated and has grouped Mike and Hopper in the darkness/related to Vecna, and Will and El in the light. (although Will also has some relation to Vecna). The cabin scene with Mike and Will is at first glance a positive thing. Vecna’s alive, sure, but Mike and Will have each others backs. Looking a bit closer, everything about that scene is ominous. It’s the same with El and Hopper’s reunion. At first we see El and Hopper, and we’re happy that El knows Hoppers alive. But then it’s clear that something is deeply wrong. 

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