#in fact he was never present at any significant moment in my life

[ghouldtime]

*slides into the DMS*

S O. What does social anxiety for König look like through your fantastic characterization then? 👀

(Love your Alone operator series btw. Got me on the edge of my seat with each chapter!!)

(Thank you!! 💚💚💚 I'm so glad you're enjoying :D you all have been so so sweet with it and Im over the MOON so many people have liked it)

To answer this question I'm going to have to be a biiig yapper and explain why I think of him the way I do

Going to say this to start, but I'm going with the true fact that König is indeed diagnosed with social anxiety - anything else I'm saying is based off of my personal interpretation of how he acts in game as a disclaimer

I'm also going to state that personally, the König I write is in his lower to mid 40's. Sorry not sorry, I don't see him as a young dude. Especially not when it's pretty much agreed upon that he's a colonel. So he's had a SIGNIFICANT amount of life experience, and a significant amount of time to work on himself and have introspection.

To me, it makes the most sense that he was diagnosed with social anxiety earlier on in his childhood since it was significantly more obvious when he was younger. Something that severe wasn't unnoticed by those around him because some of them did care about him. It's also stated he's suffered from severe social anxiety throughout his life so that's how I took it.

I personally go with he grew up in a more rural town in his homeland of Austria, which meant there weren't exactly others around during the first few years. "Go play with the neighbors kids" didn't really work when there weren't neighbors around. It was mainly him and his parents and an occasional relative over.

What could be brushed off as initial shyness clearly couldn't be anymore when he finally was enrolled in school.

Even on the first day when it's "introduce yourself to everyone", he fucked that up so monumentally it'll be engraved forever in his hall of shameful memories that he thinks about late at night. School was an utter nightmare, quite frankly, from moment one. The whole situation was too much, too stressful, and too different from the life he had at home. He flat out refused to get up and present in front of the class and wouldn't talk in group projects just for the fear of embarrassing himself. At that time, he was hitting all the indicators for social anxiety like they're the targets he shoots at today.

He missed out on a lot of interaction with other kids initially because of how awkward he was - and having any form of anxiety never helps in social situations. Talking to others wasn't something that came naturally and his own panic amplified it tenfold. Most times, he'd either pretend he didn't hear them, avoid them, or stray as far to the edge of the group as possible to avoid it. Unfortunately this made him an easy target because kids are RUTHLESS and turned him into even more outcast as well which only worsened it.

School always sucked for him due to that, despite the fact that he was a smart kid. No amount of smarts could save you from social persecution when you had nearly no social skills to boot. [ side note but I'm dying on the hill that he's incredibly intelligent and has a bachelors degree (at the very least)].

His parents kept him in therapy to help him manage because without it, he'd be back at square one refusing to go to school and faking a cold just to get out of it. And of course, therapy is a very important tool when it comes to healing, coping, and managing severe mental disorders. The whole reason why he doesn't show such bad anxiety anymore is because he kept the skills he learned and applies them so much that it becomes his second nature.

He's had at least 35 years of this, he's good enough to mask and to keep up his facade.

Another part of why he doesn't show it nearly as much is because he joined the military and was thrown through the wringer with it. Being bullied for so long was a major motivator for joining in the first place, as he needed something to get away from the peers who tormented him so and he needed a new life where he wasn't known as target #1. But he ALSO wanted to gain actual confidence and more certainty in himself.

Joining the military really means you're not left with such things as many choices when it comes to anxiety in social situations. You're forced into quarters with others, have to work side-by-side, do nearly everything together, so on and so forth. He knew that going in but at that point for him it was like extreme exposure therapy, the last step he needed to really put everything he learned in therapy to work.

That doesn't mean he didn't suffer or loved it. No, it was terrible, intense, and nerve-wracking. But he wouldn't have done it otherwise if he didn't want that. Being in the military didn't give him the leeway to avoid what made him anxious, it taught him to face it head on and fight.

Now that he's up there in age and has considerable more experience (and leeway with having a higher rank), the ways he expresses it [look at me finally answering the question] are more subtle.

On the field, you're likely not going to notice it. Because that's him turning the little auto pilot switch in his mind to on when he has a job. The job is his focus and everything has been so engrained in his mind that it's muscle memory. He's, quite frankly, focused on not dying and getting any job done over himself. The joking you often hear him do and taunting alike is part of how he's expressing the confidence he feels when he's in his element, when he KNOWS what he is doing.

If you look closely or approach him off the field, however, it's another story. He usually tenses or straightens himself out when people approach and will hold that until they leave (unless they're someone who he truly knows). Many assume that's a taught habit of the military, but that's only half-true. He did that before then.

Unlike when he's working, he doesn't have a guide or things he knows he has to do in a specific order to best ensure survival - no matter how much talking to other people feels like the heat of the battle, you can't (legally) solve it with a gun or throw a frag and book it out of there. There's no true guide to social interactions and that stresses him out. There's no manual, no field guide, no ten step card on how to successfully navigate them.

He knows things that are normal to say, he knows sometimes what he should say - it's just a matter of finding the phrasing and how to say them. Yet it seems like whenever someone doesn't follow his pre-programmed line of thought when it comes to their talking, his mind can shut down and go blank as he stares, trying to figure out where to go or what to say (spoiler: it usually doesn't end well).

He's usually awkward to talk to because he's running over everything in his head as he tries to think of what best to say to avoid further interactions or ones that could be more targeting to him. And, as mentioned, he lacks the average set of social skills that plenty learn in childhood because he didn't have that proper socialization. He's also still not the best at talking itself and can be blunt and to-the-point, which also doesn't usually go down well.

Not to mention, he's bad at small talk and has a terrible, sarcastic sense of humor that many can't read and it quickly turns things uncomfortable very fast because everyone takes him seriously. It never helps he usually doesn't explain himself all too well, usually leaving it as is as he secretly wishes he didn't talk at all when mortification sets in. Hurrying away with an excuse of some paperwork or something else to busy himself is his go-to after those.

When possible, he'll avoid small-talk and greatly prefers gestures instead. Someone who can appreciate his greater need for silence and a lack of talking is someone who he will greatly appreciate in turn. He's a firm believer that not all silences are uncomfortable and sometimes, it IS best not to say anything at all.

Due to his childhood too, he's not really fond of being around many people and will do his best to avoid it. Unless he has to grin and bare it, he won't. He finds his mind calmest when he can just be himself without having to worry about saying the right things to appease others or to be friendly. That way he can focus on what he wants, think how he wants, and feels how he wants without second guessing himself or having to worry about existing.

He's going to avoid most public settings when possible. Though he can now suitably manage his anxiety, they're something he passes up on. Grocery store trips are something he does maybe once a week or two, if that - stock piling so he has to go to the store less is his usual strategy. Anything he can do himself, he WILL do himself, if he doesn't have a trusted person who can do it better or can help.

Notably, he also doesn't have many friends. He's like talking to a brick wall and unless you're considerably persistent and understanding of his need for space, you won't get far. A lot of people don't have the time nor patience for it, but if you do get close to him, he does come out of his shell. He appreciates anyone who cares enough to actually get close to him and get to know him despite how awkward he can be, and will be loyal to the end because of that.

Another side effect is that he doesn't sleep well. Between the massive amounts of trauma from his job and the trauma from his childhood, he doesn't sleep well as is. But the social anxiety aspect comes into play because many nights, his mind is rerunning all the interactions he's had as he chronically overthinks them. He always wonders what he could've done, how he could've improved, and what they're thinking of him (even if they're someone he may never run into again). Its very hard for him to shut his mind off and doing such usually requires him drowning everything else and making himself not think about that, or anything, any more.

[Another side note: He's an avid reader. Reading gives him new things to think about and can help put him to sleep, especially before bed. It's a good way for him to stop thinking about whatever was nagging him and shifts his mind into thinking about other things he enjoys instead)

Basically, IN SHORT this isn't my full in-depth detailed characterization of exactly who I think he is - the reason he's not presenting it as an anxious ball of pure energy who is so uwu shy and soft is because he is incredibly well-managed with his severe social anxiety at his age and that's uh, just not him. Social anxiety doesn't mean he's a blubbering mess or will cry at the slightest inconvenience and reducing him to that or treating anyone with social anxiety like they're a child because of it does not help at alllll.

He's had extensive therapy for this, he's got his methods, he can mask very well. He's a WHOLE GROWN MAN who is responsible for not only his actions but how he manages his emotions and he knows it. But if you know him and know what to look for, you'll be able to pick it up.

(Also the sheer amount of scenarios I've seen where people think he just would... cry if you took his mask off??? Him???? HIM???? König, "I can make you talk, where are they?" the skilled PMC operator? That one? That guy? Yeah no, anyone dumb enough to do that better have signed their will prior or hopefully has an intensive love for scrubbing all the floors with a single old toothbrush. He won't tolerate people harassing or hustling him or pressing on his nerves. Sure, it reminds him of his childhood bullies, but quite frankly that behavior as grown adults trying that is RIDICULOUS, it pisses him off and immediately lowers his opinion on them.)

To whoever made it this far, I hope this made sense, I took melatonin before I got the ask so I'm in another realm right now LMAO. König is one of my favorites and was the first character I realllly really loved and I just hate seeing him done so dirty. Especially as someone with severe social anxiety myself, it irritates me when it's portrayed just so... wrong and quite frankly, in a lazy, offensive manner lacking any nuance especially in relation to the character who has it. Like just making him stutter and cry isn't all social anxiety is and there's SO much depth and things to work with despite the... actual substance as far as his bio goes

[sunofmoon]

.

[beekeeperspicnic]

Can't believe this blog has existed THIS long, and I've somehow never shared this Sherlock Holmes fanfic by PG Wodehouse. As far as I know it predates Conan Doyle publishing any stories which mention Holmes retiring to keep bees, which presents the delightful possibility that ACD discussed his future plans for Holmes with his young friend Plum, whose first reaction was to go off and write (and publish) a cute parody of it.

The Adventure of the Missing Bee

Sherlock Holmes is to retire from public life after Christmas, and take to bee-farming in the country.

"It is a little hard, my dear Watson," said Holmes, stretching his long form on the sofa, and injecting another half-pint of morphia with the little jewelled syringe which the Prince of Piedmont had insisted on presenting to him as a reward for discovering who had stolen his nice new rattle; "it is just a little hard that an exhausted, overworked private detective, coming down to the country in search of peace and quiet, should be confronted in the first week by a problem so weird, so sinister, that for the moment it seems incapable of solution."

"You refer—?" I said.

"To the singular adventure of the missing bee, as anybody but an ex-army surgeon equipped with a brain of dough would have known without my telling him."

I readily forgave him his irritability, for the loss of his bee had had a terrible effect on his nerves. It was a black business. Immediately after arriving at our cottage, Holmes had purchased from the Army and Navy Stores a fine bee. It was docile, busy, and intelligent, and soon made itself quite a pet with us. Our consternation may, therefore, be imagined when, on going to take it out for its morning run, we found the hive empty. The bee had disappeared, collar and all. A glance at its bed showed that it had not been slept in that night. On the floor of the hive was a portion of the insect's steel chain, snapped. Everything pointed to sinister violence.

Holmes' first move had been to send me into the house while he examined the ground near the hive for footsteps. His search produced no result. Except for the small, neat tracks of the bee, the ground bore no marks. The mystery seemed one of those which are destined to remain unsolved through eternity.

But Holmes was ever a man of action.

"Watson," he said to me, about a week after the incident, "the plot thickens. What does the fact that a Frenchman has taken rooms at Farmer Scroggins' suggest to you?"

"That Farmer Scroggins is anxious to learn French," I hazarded.

"Idiot!" said Holmes, scornfully. "You've got a mind like a railway bun. No. If you wish to know the true significance of that Frenchman's visit, I will tell you. But, in the first place, can you name any eminent Frenchman who is interested in bees?"

I could answer that.

"Maeterlinck," I replied. "Only he is a Belgian."

"It is immaterial. You are quite right. M. Maeterlinck was the man I had in my mind. With him bees are a craze. Watson, that Frenchman is M. Maeterlinck's agent. He and Farmer Scroggins have conspired, and stolen that bee."

"Holmes!" I said, horrified. "But M. Maeterlinck is a man of the most rigid honesty."

"Nobody, my dear Watson, is entirely honest. He may seem so, because he never meets with just that temptation which would break through his honesty. I once knew a bishop who could not keep himself from stealing pins. Every man has his price. M. Maeterlinck's is bees. Pass the morphia."

"But Farmer Scroggins!" I protested. "A bluff, hearty English yeoman of the best type."

"May not his heartiness be all bluff?" said Holmes, keenly. "You may take it from me that there is literally nothing that that man would stick at. Murder? I have seen him kill a wasp with a spade, and he looked as if he enjoyed it. Arson? He has a fire in his kitchen every day. You have only to look at the knuckle of the third finger of his left hand to see him as he is. If he is an honest man, why does he wear a made-up tie on Sundays? If he is an upright man, why does he stoop when he digs potatoes? No, Watson, nothing that you can say can convince me that Farmer Scroggins has not a black heart. The visit of this Frenchman—who, as you can see in an instant if you look at his left shoulder-blade, has not only deserted his wife and a large family, but is at this very moment carrying on a clandestine correspondence with an American widow, who lives in Kalamazoo, Mich. — convinces me that I have arrived at the true solution of the mystery. I have written a short note to Farmer Scroggins, requesting him to send back the bee and explaining that all is discovered. And that," he broke off, "is, if I mistake not, his knock. Come in."

The door opened. There was a scuffling in the passage, and in bounded our missing bee, frisking with delight. Our housekeeper followed, bearing a letter. Holmes opened it.

"Listen to this, Watson," said Holmes, in a voice of triumph.

"'Mr. Giles Scroggins sends his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, an' it's quite true, I did steal that there bee, though how Mr. Holmes found out, Mr. G. Scroggins bean't able to understand. I am flying the country as requested. Please find enclosed 1 (one) bee, and kindly acknowledge receipt to 'Your obedient servant, 'G. Scroggins.

'Enclosure.'?"

"Holmes," I whispered, awe-struck, "you are one of the most remarkable men I ever met."

He smiled, lit his hookah, seized his violin, and to the slow music of that instrument turned once more to the examination of his test tubes.

Three days later we saw the following announcement in the papers: "M. Maeterlinck, the distinguished Belgian essayist, wishes it to be known that he has given up collecting bees, and has taken instead to picture postcards."

[neteyamsilly]

i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 4

summary ;; A father protects, that's what gives him meaning. Jake Sully has failed. PART 3 | PART 5 pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; PLEASE READ AUTHOR NOTES. I explicitly said in the previous chapter I would NO LONGER BE TAKING TAG REQUESTS. You're just going to have to check my profile every now and then. I also will not be re-tagging the peeps I did in the last chapter’s replies, it’s just a lot 😭 I'm sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for your understanding! Now I present you, the long awaited angst and groveling of Jake. Enjoy! Please excuse my mistakes if you see any. Thank you so much for the lovely comments and support, I hope the angst hits the way you wanted it / was expecting HHHHH

It’ll shine better, Jake mused to himself, rotating the lumpy amber around in his fingers to better reflect the sunlight streaming in thin rays from the hands of the dense flora above, once I dip this in that polish oil. It’s not entirely unsalvageable. 

At least he hadn’t scraped too much in attempts to give it a rounder shape, the bug at its core you were gushing about to the point of waking him up at zero dark thirty was still intact. He had been summoned from his dreams to look at a cool rock. 

Jake couldn’t not gift it to you as something to be permanently worn after that.

The problem? He was ass at this. Always had been. No drop of craftsmanship in his bloodstream at all when the Na’vi were particularly fond of their ornaments and accessories, making it themselves, in fact. 

Songcords were put together from beads, bones and stones, virtuosity was a must intrinsically woven into everyday life, methodized and irreplaceable since it wasn’t as if mass production could ever be a thing in Pandora. Everything was handmade. 

Jake’s worst enemy beadwork was in their clothing, for example, even in braids — his maladroit at it may or may not be why he wore his hair in plain dreads now. 

He wasn’t an artist or a creator, his hands were more comfortable being fit around a gun or a knife than slipping effortlessly in the rhythm of weaving or the act of making. All his end results were dreadful enough to be bullied relentlessly by his kids — except for you, that is. You absolutely loved them for reasons your mother or none of your siblings could understand. 

Jake’s blundering conscience would melt at the sight of your eyes shining and the biggest smile almost splitting your head in half as if he had just handed you the world every single time he gifted you the newest of his clunky handiwork. He didn’t know why that made you the happiest. You’d been that way ever since you saw him carving and personally adding a bead to his songcord about how he got his firstborn daughter to utter her first word: dada. 

It was important to him, so, down it had gone into Jake’s life story; putting official significance to the moment he never wanted to forget in the same thread that carried the story of him becoming Toruk Makto, just beside Neteyam’s first word, which was also dadada. (Neytiri had Lo’ak’s mam, and Kiri’s perfectly articulated mommy.)

Ever since that day, you had made grabby hands at the bead all the time when he picked you up, teethed at it like a puppy trying to grab a toy, tried to rip it off to make it yours — anything, until Neytiri made you one, but no, you wanted it from dada. 

So dada started making you little trinkets. 

He didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing you never grew out of receiving gifts from your dad he himself cringed at. Jake wasn’t one to complain, not when someone in this life would feel such enough joy to purify thousands of blighted souls upon receiving his ugly personal work. It made him happy, stroked his ego to high heavens that his sweetheart was doting on dada to see the imperfect as the most fascinating. 

That’s why he had taken on the daunting task of making a bead for you out of the amber you’d fixated on, rasp in one hand, sitting on a thick log that cut into the little stream he and his family were spending leisurely time that day, one leg pulled to himself and one feet in the water up to his ankle. Even though he had half an ear on his four children playing around in the shallow water of the creek, all the screams and squeals of joy felt weak compared to the contained huff of amusement that escaped from his mate who had come up to Jake while he was way too engrossed in his task. 

His eyes shifted to Neytiri, watching her hop on to the log in one agile move. “Don’t laugh.”

“I am not laughing,” Neytiri said, crouching to sit, her mouth twitched upwards as she looked at the amber in his hand.

“I have eyes, Neytiri, I literally see you laughing.” His face used to burn at her openly teasing about beadmaking, but his oldest daughter’s attentions had restored his bruised confidence over the years. The slander wasn’t taken lightly these days as Jake had proudly relabeled the odd shapes of his work as a creative choice. “Right to my face.”

“You’re mistaken.” 

Jake made his jaw drop, overacting his bafflement. “Wow, gaslighting? Really?”

Neytiri hit his arm lightly. In her terms, it was light, at least. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s something you shouldn’t do to your mate.” He turned his back to her, giving a look over his shoulder. “You’re abusing me. I’m being abused.”

“Baby.”

“No amount of pet names are gonna fix my broken heart.”

“No. You are a baby. I’m insulting you.” Neytiri hadn’t even laughed, but the uplifted timbre of that sentence sure did make Jake snicker in disbelief. “If you can’t take it, maybe you should leave beading to me.”

“I would say they are fashionably off,” he defended. You carried them with delight, so why shouldn’t Jake take more pride in his work? “And you said practice makes perfect years ago, I remember the exact words—”

“Years ago. You still haven’t gotten any better at it.” Neytiri was his biggest supporter and criticizer at the same time. “And you became a part of the clan back in the day in three months Jake. Never a more unbelievable thing to me than this.” 

“I’m trying alright?” He turned back to the bead, or, vaguely bead-shaped amber, if technical terms were involved. It still had a whole adventure to embark on until it could receive the noble title of a bead. “She likes what I make, at least.”

“It’s because she’s your daughter and anything you do is out of this world. Beauty in the most unlikely places. A child’s love is pure that way.” The unexpected hypnotism of poetry in that sentence alone pulled Jake’s gaze to Neytiri’s, and for a moment, he could physically feel his heart within his ribcage being squeezed, tethering on painful, but with a joyful tinge. “She doesn’t have standards yet.”

Well, that hurt. “Damn.”

“Damm!” A pair of small and branch-thin arms wrapped around his neck from behind, and something, or rather, someone, latched onto his back. “Rahh!” 

Jake should have been suspicious of how silent it had gotten halfway into his talk with Neytiri. Turns out, you had swam underneath the log to get out of his line of sight, climbing with the stealth of a bug to come up undetected. 

Well, mark Jake down as impressed, you weren’t able to do that without being spotted until today, this was another wonderful milestone for you — you had learned impressively, taking advantage of his distraction, avoiding making noise and using water to your advantage. Neytiri must have given you some pointers. 

And now he was wondering if his mate was in on this all along, purposefully disturbing his peace so their kids could see an opening to pounce on him.  

“Oof!” Your hold on him was something he could break out of any minute with how adorably strong you were exerting yourself to make it, but he wanted to play along more than anything. Jake was acting panicked, swinging his body left and right from the waist, but really, it was just a light warm-up exercise with the easiest deadlift possible. “I’m being ambushed!”

“I got you now, Toruk Makto!” You wrapped your legs around his torso, and he felt like this was just a piggyback ride with extra steps. “Watch this, mom!”

Oh, it’s on. 

Discreetly handing Neytiri the amber, Jake stood up, bringing you up with him and fighting a smile at your clipped squeak as the height became too much too quick, causing you to cling onto him stronger. He reached behind, and within seconds, he had you in his hands, holding you from the armpits and dangling you above the stream, your kicking legs beating the air, and he cackled like a villain threatening to fling the hero from atop of a skyscraper. 

“You got me? Please.” He loosened his grip the slightest amount to give you the illusion he would let go, and you stopped struggling to scream, catching his forearms. “A measly thing like you? Conquering me? I’ll show you why I’m the king of the skies! Here I come!”

Making sure you wouldn’t get hurt, Jake threw you into the water as gently as possible, but made the angle entertaining enough so you would go flying. He wasn’t sure who’d screeched the highest, your three siblings who had you spearheading this little operation with full trust in your capabilities, or you reacting like you were falling down from an ikran midair. Either way, he was enjoying bullying his kid a bit too much. 

Emerging from the stream and shaking the water off too akin to a wet dog, your first action was to shield your siblings, open arms and whole body and all. “Nete, run! Protect Lovak and Kiri, I’ll save you!”

Jake’s evil smile looming on his kids wavered at that. 

You had problems with some letters even at the big age of eight, two vowels next to each other in one word was one of them, along with the confusion of “f” and “b”, and sometimes “p” — it made for hilarious misunderstandings Jake had to fight to be a parent about instead of busting a lung from laughing. 

One of the many unforgettable events was deemed “The Fish Incident” between Jake, Max and Norm. He had been recording Neteyam’s first catch on his own to add it to the cute memory pile he and his mate would watch in the future after all their children eventually moved out to pursue their paths. You happened to be present that time, watching intently as your big brother shot a particularly giant yellow fish, eagerly jumping down to the pond to get it and showing it to the camera with a shy, yet proud grin on his face. 

“Good job, boy!” Jake had cheered. “Say I got that fish!”

Out of the camera’s frame and making little jumps on your toes, you’d blithely yelled. “Yeah, you got that bish!” 

The rest of the footage was shaky and out of focus, the microphone hadn’t picked up any sound but Jake’s uncontrollable laughter, kicked off by an exploding snort of shock. 

You and Neteyam had no idea why, but after he’d stopped recording with tears streaming down his face, wheezing because he couldn’t stop laughing, you’d joined to laugh and play with him regardless, mirroring his excitement. 

Later though, Jake had to actively make it so you wouldn’t have to say the words kitchen and pitch (and obviously, fish) out loud, at least, in front of Neytiri. He didn’t want to abstain from having a little fun himself, so under no circumstance was she allowed to find out and correct you. And he had it going strong for a while until it slipped when he was talking about a scientist friend over at Hell’s Gate called Richard and you repeated it as “Bitchard”. The word had somehow weaseled into your English lexicon as well, and Neytiri wasn’t illiterate enough to be oblivious to what you’d merrily blurted. 

Good old days. Jake sometimes missed hearing you curse innocently. Neytiri had to take that source of joy away from him. Discouragement and warnings would be given to his kids if they knowingly cussed, of course, Kiri calling Lo’ak penis face was something he’d immediately shot down, but this was harmless, he thought. He could have let you be blissfully unaware until the day you learned the meaning of the words, or gain consciousness of the articulation errors as you grew up and naturally fix it yourself. It was only a natural part of a child’s growth.  

But he had other entertainment. The obligatory consonant you had to sometimes add to two different neighboring vowels if it was too difficult for you to pronounce, for example. Your little brother was a victim to this. Thankfully, Lo’ak wasn’t bothered to be called Lovak by his older sister, somehow thinking of it as a nickname, but Jake could bet his ass the boy would use this as infinite ammo against you once both of you were older. He would of course forget how you always protected him in play fighting like right now, of course, maybe you would remember enough to accuse him of ungratefulness, and perhaps Lo’ak would declare he didn’t recall anything such as that. 

How bittersweet of a thing it was to drift into imaginations of how his kids would be like when they grew up. Like the stinging ache Jake always got when he was confronted with the sadness of losing his children forever one day — the need to put every minute with them in a bottle, and the feeling of time slipping through his fingers, the same old melancholy each time: when it first dawned on Jake that you’d successfully sneaked up on him just now, when Neteyam had captured his first fish all on his own without assistance, when Lo’ak showed him the knife he had successfully carved by himself to get his approval, and when Kiri had tended to a scratch wound of his better than her grandmother did with precocious wisdom on her face. 

Jake was making every moment count. Just like this one. 

“Nobody is safe from me, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow your house in!” He jumped down from the log with the grace and intimidation of a leopard who had been disturbed while eating up the tree he’d dragged his meal on, splashing water everywhere. “What will you do, o’ mighty hunter?”

You loved being called mighty hunter by him, he saw the sparkle in your eyes. 

“Noooo!” Kiri cried, pulling on both Lo’ak and Neteyam’s arms huddled behind you. “He’ll get us!”

Your thought process, completely spooked by Jake, was painfully visible. But surprisingly, you yelled, “Scatter!” with the experience of a rave addict who would take a forty and smash it on the ground as the police closed in on the party grounds. And his kids ran in different directions, like a group of cockroaches when someone approached them, they all ran in different directions. 

Sloshing water all around to make it more terrifying, he got Kiri first, hauled her right over his shoulder when she made for Neytiri, thinking her mother could protect her, but no. Jake was inevitable. Lo’ak gave him a weak challenge trying to step around him, getting Jake to confuse his steps as if they were playing basketball, but this was his dad he was facing and not Spider, these tricks didn’t work on veterans, so now he was flush to Jake’s side, tail facing forward, carried like some strapless bag, it didn’t even put any strain on the man’s bicep. Neteyam was the last, hiding beneath the water level and holding his breath, but the little nose peeking out for air gave him away, and Jake had him up the other shoulder in seconds, the boy didn’t have enough time to run away even though he’d spied from underwater that Jake was coming for him. 

Three out of four. That left only his eldest daughter. 

You were nowhere to be seen. The delighted and struggling giggle-cries of the three kids in his arms and shoulders didn’t help at all to Jake taking his surroundings in with a keen ear, all senses attuned to spotting the stray. 

A rustle from above. 

“Attack him!” 

He didn’t have enough time to see just which branch of the trees cocooning the creek you had climbed on before all three in his arms turned on him, flailing around together in unison to get Jake to fall down and kneel, and it surprisingly worked, he couldn’t even recover between the blink of a time between them getting off the way and you jumping down on him. The height at which you did that knocked all air off his ribcage for a second as he tried to retain balance, and you took that chance to sit on his shoulders, your legs dangling from each one, grabbing onto two dreads on his head as if they were the tails of Toruk he once had held onto like leashes. 

Jake had to give this one to you, damn. When had you become a student of the art of strategizing? 

But, defeat was defeat. He had to play his part. “This can’t be!” He opened his arms, making it seem cartoonishly like he had been incapacitated. “I’ve been… bested?”

“That’s right!” The cockiness was dripping from you as you pulled on his dreads. “I’m Toruk Makto Makto now. The first of my name!”

Your siblings started cheering battle cries, repeating the word. 

Don’t laugh, he ordered himself. Toruk Makto Makto, what a title, oh Jesus Christ. 

“Alright, alright, you got me, mighty hunter.” 

“So I win?”

“Yes, you win.”

He was going to have two less dreads on his head if you kept pulling on them like this. “Hell yeah!” 

After hearing the declaration, his other children also joined in on the ‘Hell yeah!’ train. Jake supposed he could let this slide for now, you guys were too happy, he wouldn’t sully it. 

“You’re gonna rip my hair off, get down now.” You understood play time was over from his tone, and obeyed, hopping down his shoulders when he lowered you into the water, immediately attempting to rush to your siblings’ side to be celebrated, but Jake had something else in mind. “C’mere for a sec.”

He pulled you to the edge of the stream where water met grassy land, dipping his hand into the wet soil under your confused gaze and bringing his fingers up to trace a pattern on your face.

The reaction was instantaneous. You pulled back. “Ew, mud!”

“Hold on,” he gently warned, or rather, encouraged.

You let him continue whatever he was doing then, albeit not losing the laughable concern along the way. “What’s this?”

“Well, you’ve tamed Toruk Makto before an ikran. My mighty hunter should be painted accordingly, no?”

He pointed down and you followed it with your eyes. Seeing your reflection and the ‘V’ shape with a dot on your face in the water, you stopped yourself from touching it with the impulse control that kicked in at the last second, looking up at Jake, jumping up and down, unable to contain the energy, knowing exactly what he did just now. He’d recognized you as a prospective hunter candidate. “Thank you, dad!”

Jake could swear his insides liquidized at that. “Always, sweetheart.”

“Will you paint me like this when I finally get an ikran, too?”

“Of course I will.” He actually wanted to cup your cheeks and plant a little kiss at the adorable flat of your nose but the mud would be ruined, so he pet your braids instead. “As will your mother. It’s what family does.”

At the time, Jake didn’t have the slightest inkling that the paint would end up being your own blood. 

Neytiri’s bloody hands — your blood, his child, his child, his baby Jake’s entire day would stop at seeing one tear on her face — had been stroking your face, trying to hold on to you anywhere she could to soothe your flaming pain as you were squirming like a dying animal fighting for the next breath. His heart beating right behind his eyes in a massive pulsating headache, Jake was too desperate fighting his swelling panic with each noise that ripped from you to notice they had left the vague pattern of Iknimaya paint pattern in their wake. 

She did. 

And her following anguished, gasping shudder as her shaking hands hovered above your contorted face, tracing the air along the lines the blood had left on your face ended up hitting him right in the gut. He couldn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t let this random twisted sign sweep him into the roaring waterfall of torment, your life was on the line.  

Jake didn’t have any coherent memory of running back to the mouth of the cave from the family tent. One moment, he was back with his brain fried from thinking about Quaritch in the aftermath of an hour that had just taken twenty years from his lifespan, avoiding the inquisitive silence of his kids who hadn’t gone back to bed yet; and the other, Neytiri was screaming in the distance with terror worse than the anguish he’d heard her go through upon losing her father and her home. Jake had all but flown there, mind blank in swirling, spasming panic. 

Neytiri had told him he had a strong heart the first time they’d met. No fear. Even though Jake was aware he was being disliked strongly, this quality of his she had remarked on, honest to her soul. 

But she was wrong. 

That fearless fortress heart of his had begun to crumble the moment he learned of Neteyam’s existence. And with each and every new addition to their family, Jake had been rehabilitated on what fear truly was, like a baby learning a language. 

Losing. It was all about losing. 

He would wake up from terrorizing, choking nightmares with the sensation of his family being violently taken away from him when his children were in his arms, sleeping peacefully all along. He couldn’t stop it. It had spiraled out of control after the sky people came back, turning him into a paranoid, angry man who was ruled by fear. He worried for the safety of his family every day, obsessed over it — beneath the impenetrable iron mask of a leader his whole clan was leaning on, Jake was nothing more than a weak, emotionally crippled father who would lose it the more his children grew up to take reckless actions he made worse by the inability to govern his fear-curbed anger. He called it tough love. 

That tough love had resulted in this. Loss. Loss. Loss he had tried his damnedest to prevent. It was blood slipping through his fingers from a wound he had no way of stitching back together. 

The more he pushed to block the bullet entrance point, the more you fought Jake, making feral yowls that weakened into animalistic whimpers and throaty whines that all but ripped his heart off muscle by muscle, your hits and scratches didn’t faze him, but the noises. Eywa, the noises. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you’re in pain, I know, I know, I’ll make it go away, please hold on, c’mon.” The droplets of sweat that had formed in the matter of seconds rolled down his face. You had begun to hyperventilate from the accelerating pain because of his efforts. “C’mon sweetheart. Breathe for me, breathe for dad, okay? You gotta breathe. Breathe!”

You were unhearing, lost in the overwhelming, blinding, deafening agony he couldn’t anchor or shield you from. The grunt of desperation that escaped his sore throat rattled his carbon fiber infused bones.  

Jake didn’t have time to think. His reason had flown out the mountains to be able to force one single word to form in his mindscape. He just knew he had to stop the bleeding, propelled by concentrated instinct. You were struggling too much for him to have a solid hold on you. Everything, too slippery. Too much blood. Too fucking much. The sickening smell of iron bit at his senses. 

(Was it the liver? The spleen? Pancreas? One of the major arteries? But Na’vi biology wasn’t the same as humans. Fuck.) 

Then, you were being restrained by a third party, Neytiri was too devastated to make that reasonable decision, and in his peripheral vision, he saw it was Neteyam who had sat down on your legs, restricting your movements with incredible strength. Jake couldn’t even bark at him to go away with how much Neteyam looked in control, a rock he and Neytiri both could draw strength from. Behind him, Lo’ak was a stone statue just standing there, frozen, his eyes not leaving your bloody abdomen. 

When you let out a yelp his heart could no longer stand, he yelled, “Bring a stretcher!” to nobody in particular, out of his goddamn mind. Lo’ak jumped at it, coming back to his senses, hesitating what to do for a second before he was off to god knows where. He had to take you to Norm’s, and then a doctor—

A tiny, trembling voice he couldn’t recognize as Neteyam’s reached his ears. “Dad…” 

The boy was looking at you, blown eyes shining with unshed tears, upper set of teeth sinking in his shaky bottom lip. 

You had gone slack in his arms. 

He hadn’t even seen the moment, didn’t stop putting pressure on the wound as the dread assaulted his body. And a biting shiver went down his spine before Jake also looked down on his eldest daughter. Your eyes weren’t closed all the way, halted gaze focused on something to the side, one tear rolling down your temple. 

“Don’t do this to me.” Jake couldn’t breathe as he shook his head, he was about to lose it, about to tumble down the edge he could never climb his way up from. In denial, he didn’t lift his hands, losing all strength in his upper body and gradually collapsing forward as his forehead found yours. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, not like this. Please, not like this.”

The last thing you were looking at was the ikran you’d gotten.

Jake didn’t feel that very ikran making its way to their side, flapping its wings, didn’t feel anything to react when a snoot reached down and ever-so-gently nudged you, like you were asleep and it was given the duty to wake you up in the morning that day. 

Your ikran nudged you once. Twice. Thrice. Each push was harsher than the other. 

You didn’t wake up. Your eyes didn’t get their light back. 

A paralyzing numbness took over Jake’s body, all his neuron ends stunted. The moon stopped spinning, time stopped moving, he ceased existing, all at the same time. 

A piercing ringing stabbed his ears, took away his hearing. He didn’t hear Neytiri scream louder than the ikran, you were ripped from his arms, and he couldn’t move to do anything about it, just staring into the distance, at nothing, bloodied palms facing upwards in his lap. 

It was Neteyam who tried to stop his wailing mother from going mad with grief, trying to get her to set down your body from her crushing embrace even though he couldn’t take his misty eyes off your body. It was Lo’ak, frantic in his run even though his panic-frozen face gave away nothing, who had rushed back with Mo’at and Kiri. It was Tuk who had thrown herself into his arms for a hug Jake wasn’t in his body to reciprocate, his seven year old child, in tears, comforting him when Jake, as the adult and the father, should have had his shit together and be the provider of comfort. 

Instead, all he could feel was the blood on his hands, one small part in his mind making him focus on that one amber with a bug inside he’d carved for you, years ago, now in your hair.

The tears didn’t come. His world was shattering all around him, but not one tear made it to the surface. 

Someone was talking to him, but Jake wasn’t there, experiencing the moment behind a thick veil of silencing glass. 

“Open her mouth, Jakesuli.”

He looked at the source of the muffled sound breaching the ringing in his ears, painfully empty and unfeeling. It was Mo’at. In her hand, a woodsprite gently floated in the air and landed before it repeated the motion again. It was as if his brains had been emptied from his skull. He didn’t understand. He didn’t see. Tuk was clinging to him, Neytiri doubled down in waves of cries in Neteyam’s arms. Jake wasn’t there. 

“Open her mouth so I can keep her spirit here longer,” Mo’at said. “Do it now. We do not have much time.”

And Jake could breathe again, his soul slinged back into his body, feeling returning to the tips of his fingers, kicking into action. 

He cradled your body from the cold ground you were lying on, bringing his shaky hand to your tightly shut jaw. Your body couldn’t have been experiencing rigor mortis, so you must have been clenching your teeth to the point of your jaw locking to fight the pain, and he was nearly blinded from the sheer strength with which he had to hold back from hugging you. But he eventually opened your jaw with a sickening pop that made him visibly grimace, and Mo’at guided the woodsprite to slip inside the cavity of your mouth.

The bioluminescent dots on your body began to flicker the moment your mouth was closed again. Jake gave a shuddering breath at the sign of life, hands unsure if he should continue to cover the wound again. 

“Eywa has allowed her to remain. For a while.”

“Oh Great Mother, thank you!” Neytiri took one of your hands, pressing it against her cheek and kissing it over and over again. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Bring her to my tent,” the Tsahik simply stated, and Jake didn’t even stop to consider how he should be taking you to the science guys, how they were probably going to say you needed a blood transfusion and surgery right after they got the necessary tests such as MRI and blood analysis out of the way. Kiri, sniffling weakly, took the crying Tuk away so Jake could carry you. He couldn’t comfort his girls the way he wanted to, couldn’t attend to Neytiri as their sons consoled her and got consoled in return in a tight hug together; he was on the move, heart about to beat out of his chest.  

He took you in his arms and clutched your unconscious and ashen blue body tightly to his chest, your head lolling in the crook of his arm, arriving to Mo’at’s tent faster than she did — and oh, how small you were compared to him, how fragile and vulnerable. The attitude made you appear bigger than you actually were, and Jake was reminded how you were still a child from how light his daughter was, like a fleeting bird. He’d forgotten. It had been forever since he last held you like this that he couldn’t bear to lay you down on the mat. If only he could hide you away within his ribcage, away from the pain and the suffering, forever.

“Everything in this world is borrowed,” she told him, an incense was burned, salves were prepared, tools he had no idea on what they were used were brought out. Plants, herbs. Jake stood there, helpless. “Even this child, Eywa has lent to you. She is borrowed from the bosom of our Great Mother, entrusted to you. Entrusted.” Your freckles were still flickering, and Tsahik’s tone, clipped. “I will converse with her. Ask if she plans to call her daughter back home today.”

Ice washed over Jake. “No, you gotta heal her, Mo’at, I can't lose m—”

“Everything in this world is borrowed. Each breath. Each heartbeat. All children. All gifts from Eywa.” Her eyes bore into him. “I can only ask.”

Neytiri pounced on him as soon as he stumbled out of the tent, beaten and spent despite not having one scratch on his body, upon Kiri’s entrance to assist her grandmother in tending to you. 

“Your fault!” He was violently pushed back, only able to take in the woman’s bloodied, wrathful face, tear tracks freshened with saltwater she couldn’t stop shedding. “This is your fault! I told you! I told you to fix this!”

Jake was aware other clan members were watching even if they weren’t out of their homes, he was Olo’eyktan, their leader, his pride would have taken this to their own tent had this been any other debate, but now, he couldn’t give a flying fuck. Bruising his back was the weight of a failed father instead of the ornamental piece of the clan leader, it was unbearable enough. She was right. There was nothing else to be said. His mate was right. 

“Mother, please,” Neteyam was right beside them in a flash, holding Neytiri back and shielding his father from her. His sunken eyes found Lo’ak and Tuk crouching at the edge of the tent, huddled together, the youngest having the crying hiccups as her older brother had an arm around her, himself looking traumatized enough. 

“Don’t, boy.” Jake put a hand on his stone-hard shoulder, moving him aside. Neteyam took one hard look at Neytiri half-circling his father in long strides, and decided it was best if he took care of his siblings instead even if he wasn’t told outright. He ushered Tuk and Lo’ak up and away, to the other side of the tent where they wouldn’t disturb their parents by staying in the field of vision. 

Jake should have been the one to take control, but Neteyam had stepped up for it — he was a kid, too, eldest child or not. What the fuck am I doing? 

In his tumultuous sorrow, every piece of the fortress Jake had put together was coming down, every decision re-evaluated, emotion overtaking what he once thought as logic. His fault. His fault. He had ruined his children, all of them. He had thought embracing the iron will of a war chief would allow him to be a strong father figure, but it had only alienated his family. 

You had died in his arms. 

Jake contained every storm in a box inside his body, Neytiri lived those storms, she was strong that way. He would take it. Her eyes were only seeing red at the moment, the grief and wrath of a wronged mother. “Yeah, it’s my fault,” he told her, something between a whisper and a sigh. His kids deserved to hear it. “I know.”

“She is dying because of you!” Jake couldn’t escape the truth by closing his eyes, but he did anyway, like an automatic body reflex against detecting something would be hitting him. He swallowed, his mouth was drier than a desert, no relief was found in the action. “My daughter! My child! Your child!” She pushed him again, hissing. Jake didn’t do anything to stop it. “All because you told her to go today—everything, everything… All because you didn’t reach out to her. She hid that.” A shiver shook her voice. “That… because of you. You! She thought you would be angry!”

Violent horror seized his heart, ears pinning back on his head, knuckles clenching so light blue they were almost white. “I would… I would never—how could I ever—?”

But it was in character, wasn’t it? Jake always getting angry over worry for his children. Going crazy because they could have gotten hurt. Fear grows into anger, worm eating away the bark of a tree into poisonous snake. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, chest rising and falling in big breaths, there was no air.  

“She said you hated her. Over and over again, she said you hated her. Not to call you because you would hate her for it, Jake!”

Bitter guilt and glacial shock rose from his stomach, choking him, his eyes looking at anywhere but Neytiri’s blazing golden eyes, to his children who sat together seemingly away from them but blatantly listening, to the tent flames were barely illuminating the shadows inside. His legs were weak. All that he had been breaching behind a wall to prioritize your safety flooded rancid to his mind. 

Jake got angry at you all the time that you’d expected it at your most vulnerable. That he would blame you, reprimand you for his enemy’s actions.

His memories were attacked by all sides. That you had gone off on your own for the Iknimaya everybody should have been there for, he should have painted your face personally for. That you have been hiding the bleeding out from the moment Jake had found you pinned down by the dead body of an avatar, from the moment you’d answered positively to the question of if you were hurt or not, with that rifle he’d thought you didn’t let go because of how the events had shaken you. He opened his mouth, a gaping fish, but no words came out, mute and voiceless. 

Hate you? Hate you? Hate his own child he would burn the whole world for?

His child. Suffering in silence when her nature was anything but silent. Afraid of her father when she was the most fearless of his kids when facing him.

You thought you weren’t loved.

“What have you done to our children? What has this family become? What are we if our children are too afraid to come to us in their darkest hours?” Neytiri was snarling, both fury and grief battling inside her, teeth gnashing so hard they could sharpen a knife. “What child does not seek her parents when she is hurt?” 

Unseeing, Jake couldn’t stand anymore, staggering towards a particularly large rock and sitting on it, he raised his hands to rub his face but stopped when he saw the blood. 

All yours. All his daughter’s who he had failed. Who had died in his arms thinking she was hated because Jake was a shit excuse of a father you couldn’t trust to say you were hurt that you would take the risk of dying so he wouldn’t find out. 

His daughter’s blood, on his hands. 

He put his elbows to his legs, crossing his wrists to lean his forehead on, yet unable to hide his shaking hands even if he managed to hide his face. Jake couldn’t comprehend any of this, crushed beneath the skyful of burning hot shame and the guilt dwarfing him — tears he couldn’t seem to shed found life in his eyes at him trying to blink away the memory of you clinging to your ikran at the flight home. You had been suffering the whole time and all he could think about was Quaritch when he should have been thinking of you.

“What child would rather hide her injury than let her father know?” It shocked his spine like lightning, and Jake visibly flinched, fists clenching and unclenching. “Explain this to me!” 

Shame. Shame. Shame. Jake was about to throw up, rocking back and forth.

He had nothing to say. Nothing could ever excuse this. He couldn’t wash away all your moments from this night, all a cursed film strip haunting his every breath accompanied by thorns that ripped apart his insides. 

“If she lives,” Neytiri said, pointing a curled hand at him, slowly, scarily calm, but shaking with mastered rage. If she lives destroyed Jake.  “We would be lucky if my mother doesn’t decide to perform Stxel’eveng as Tsahik!” 

Jake’s head shot up at the word, his arms dropping altogether and meeting his mate’s tortured stare. As Olo’eyktan, he had to be taught the traditions and ceremonies to the point of talking in his sleep from overlearning — this one was a long lost one the clan hadn’t performed for a long time, as the Omatikayan were faithful and loyal to Eywa and her teachings. 

Stxel’eveng was the shortened word for ‘Gifting of a Child’ — an adoption ceremony within Na’vi that didn’t even have the word ‘adopt’ in their vocabulary, simply because it was almost non-existent, most Na’vi didn’t even know the existence of such a tradition. If the parents were unable to care and provide for their child, mistreated on purpose or neglected them to the point of no return, they were to be publicly dishonored by the gifting of said child to another willing family. A knot would be formed between the three, one thread bound around the waist of the mother signifying the womb, one thread fastened to the queue of the father, and the final thread to the wrists of the child as if they were captive. The knot, then, would be severed by Tsahik to symbolize the dissolvement of the familial relations in Eywa’s eyes.

The biggest shame a Na’vi could bring upon their name. 

“No,” Jake muttered, his mind going blank yet again. Fuck the shame. Damn his name. He couldn’t lose you. It’s a stone in his throat he can’t swallow, whales on his tongue he can’t speak to save himself.

“Pray to Eywa it doesn’t happen. Because if I was Tsahik, I would do it.” Neytiri turned away from him, pushing the heel of her hands on her damp eyes. “I cannot bear this shame, Jake. I can barely breathe.”

He quivered like a baby leaf caught in a storm, a couple more tears rolling down his cheeks. “Neytiri…” 

“I lost my daughter today. She slipped from my fingers. I watched her die.” He lowered his head at her grief, vision swimming. “How am I a mother when I can't feel her pain? How am I worthy of being her mother when I saw my child’s pain and just sat there helpless? Why would the Great Mother ever want to send her back?” She just kept going, not having any mercy on Jake’s soul. “Where was I when she won against her ikran? Where was I when she had her first flight? Where was I to protect her from those demons?”

A father protects, that’s what gives him meaning.

Who was Jake Sully?

“Lo’ak, come back here!” 

Both of them turned just in time to see their youngest son running away from the back of the tent they’d been hiding, Neteyam following a couple steps before he stopped to look back, probably at his sister. 

“I’ll get him,” Jake said, soulless and absentminded. Neytiri didn’t respond, stalking back to Mo’at’s tent, just kneeling in front of the entrance, wrapping her hands and tail around her knees. Tuk turned the corner, scampering towards her and finding refuge in Neytiri immediately wrapping around her protectively. 

Jake wasn’t allowed to comfort his mate. 

But he could get to his children who needed it. Trust, Neytiri had said. Honesty. 

Walking up to Neteyam, he put a warm hand behind his rigid back, and felt the taut muscles relax underneath his touch, another wave of shame hitting at the inability to recall just when he had last comforted his boy. 

“Get Tuk. Go home. Rest.”

Neteyam turned to him, scandalized. “We will stay.”

“Neteyam—”

“Dad—sir, please. I can’t leave my sister.”

That sir was a splash of acid on his already weeping heart. 

It dawned on Jake that Neteyam was the one witnessing your moment of death. Death. A surge of nausea shot up from his esophagus, and he didn’t stop himself from hooking an arm around the boy, careful of using his hands not to get blood on the eldest, pulling him into a much awaited embrace. He hadn’t allowed him to be a kid.

“It’s okay, Neteyam,” he croaked. “She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Neteyam’s arms didn’t wrap around him, unfamiliar to the gesture — crumbling Jake’s already broken heart into dust, but he did shiver, fighting the tremble. He simply said, “I pray so.”

He was still trying to hold it together — for everybody’s sake. 

Jake felt the boy’s tears on his skin, and didn’t let him go when he tried to step back to wipe them, letting Neteyam cry silently as much as he wanted. He owed the boy that much, as his father. It was the least he could do. 

Jake would stitch this family back together. He had to.

Washing the blood off his hands had taken a while. Jake wasn’t let off easy, cursed by the remaining line of bloodied dirt in his nails. 

He found Lo’ak at where it all began. The mouth of the cave where your ikran was disturbing the other ones with restless chittering, reminding Jake of a wolf howling all night at the full moon. 

His youngest son was transfixed by the blood staining the ground. Just standing there, looking at it. Jake couldn’t protect him from the sight. Not anymore. He himself could barely stomach it.

“Is sister going to be taken away?” was the first thing he asked Jake, not looking at him still. 

Jake didn’t know if he meant death, or Stxel’eveng. 

“I pray not,” he told Lo’ak, honest for once. 

And like him, the boy wasn’t sentimental or emotional enough to bear his wounds to another, even to a family member, and fell silent. “It has Toruk’s colors,” he said instead, referring to your ikran’s red, orange, yellow and black patterns. Looking at the creature, Jake tried his hardest to stand up straight when he discerned all the blood coating its neck and back from the natural red color disguising it. “I wanted to fly with her.”

Pulling him into a side-hug, “I’m sorry, Lo’ak,” Jake admitted, causing him to finally break the trance he had on the blood. Speechless at his father, proud and strong, admitting he was wrong out loud and that he was being hugged when it wasn’t like his father at all to show them casual physical affection. Jake knew what must be going through his head, he would be thinking the same if his own father had ever taken responsibility for wrongdoings, as well.  “It’s my fault you didn’t get to.”

Lo’ak’s mouth was hanging low. “Dad…”

“But you will,” he said, determined and full of hope. He had to be. For his children. 

“You think so?”

“I pray so,” he quoted Neteyam. “Your sister is stubborn. She will pull through. Don’t lose faith in her.”

Lo’ak’s grip on his forearm was painful. 

“That ikran’s lost the half of its tail fins,” the boy sniffled, thickening his voice to hide the tears. “How did it get all the way here?”

It stung in Jake’s chest. The same way you’d hidden that injury. Your ikran was fueled only by the desire to get its rider to safety, it seemed. 

It would never fly again. 

Jake looked down at Lo’ak, only to be met with him avoiding his look, still concerned with hiding the tears. “Loyalty,” he said. “Devotion. Sometimes you don’t want to lose the things you love no matter what, that desperation gives you enough strength to push through any trial by fire. You would do anything. Anything.” 

And sometimes it was fear that did it, but he didn’t mention that to Lo’ak to not put salt on their family’s injury. Jake didn’t want to think about how terrified you must have been, or he would actually go insane. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of you not making it in the end. He had to keep going. He had to push forward. Be the father this family needed him to be. 

“Come on, boy,” he pulled Lo’ak gently. “Let’s go back.”

Your ikran whined at this pitifully. Jake tried not to think. He tried not to imagine what your reaction would be upon learning you would never fly together again, and had to put down this ikran that had been devoted endlessly to you if you wanted to get a new one. 

Jake didn’t think. Because if he did, he would actually go insane from the pain. 

Mo’at and Kiri emerged from the tent only in the morning, by which the whole family was cocooned in Jake’s embrace for the first time in years before the sky people had come back. They all had scrambled to get up, waiting with bated breath for one syllable of good news as Kiri slipped into Jake’s arms, one wink from falling asleep while standing. He kissed the girl’s head, soothing her, hoping this could be you eventually. He had been praying for it like a madman. 

“Eywa has accepted to bestow your daughter back to you, Jakesuli,” was the only answer Mo’at had for them, no word about your physical wellbeing. “But only if she accepts as well.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“You must go speak with her. At the Tree of Souls.”

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[tabbiwritesgenshin]

failing light | various

synopsis: how would they act when you die

genre: angst

word count: 1,119

a/n: I don't have anything interesting to say but can I add how baffling it is the support my previous post got? like damn, i went from 20 notes to 253. tysm y'all omg

Collei wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, to yell, her whole world had crumbled in only a few glances, yet she couldn’t. She was struck with both fear and shock, you were her most beloved person in the entirety of Teyvat, you were the only person who had shown her any love in a long while and now..you were just..dead. She could only stare at your body for what felt like hours until she eventually lost consciousness.

Eula clutched your body with all she had, she had to make sure your last moments were ones of peace. She tried her best to contain herself, to ignore her tears, to do everything she could to look strong for you, yet, she couldn’t. She was left as a crying mess as the concept of losing the only person who loved her dawned on her mind. 

Again she had lost, again Ei had weeped, again was someone else taken from her, again, she felt hopeless, like she had lost everything she held dear. She wanted to move on, she wished to maintain strong, that’s what you desired, that’s what she promised to you..yet she couldn’t. The pain was too much, the grief overtook her. Again would she retire to her Plane of Euthymia, again would she abandon everyone, again would she despise herself.

Ganyu was afraid, she was scared, terrified of the idea of losing you. She tried everything she could yet nothing worked. The half-Qilin tried every bit of knowledge she had on medicine to try to save you, even those used only by the Adepti, if she could, she’d even give out her life for you. Perhaps it was due to the panic of losing someone again, but during her numerous attempts to extend your life, she hadn’t accepted the fact that you were truly gone.

Kujou Sara was unfortunately experienced in the concept of loss and death so when you approached her with heavy battle wounds, she knew better than to panic. Her pain and grief were incomparable to whatever suffering she had seen before in her life, yet, she kept strong. She didn’t want you to pass in fear or sadness. The moment you died it shattered whatever facade was left in her. She collapsed onto the floor, still clutching your cold body. The mighty Tengu general of the Shogunate was lost..truly destroyed.

The skies were split and thunder roared as The Raiden Shogun weeped to your lifeless body. All semblance of hope..all happiness which she had ever felt in her life vanished as her eyes gazed at the ones which had given her so much with so little in return. No longer would the Shogun hold back against humanity, she would make all who dared harm her beloved pay, none shall be spared. All will suffer for the sake of eternity so no one she held dear would fear again.

Rosaria always acted like she didn’t care, Rosaria always acted like nothing mattered to her, even when she had someone to love, someone who loved her, she still acted with this cold exterior, yet, when she was faced with the news that the most significant person in her life had died every facade she had, every coldness in her heart, they were crushed as a sense of hopelessness would crush her like a boulder. Never again would that be a facade, after you had died, after she was left alone once more, that coldness overtook her heart and no amount of warmth could heat it ever again.

The Anemo Archon Venti would hold you on his lap as you slowly passed away, even in your last moments, his love was there to comfort you. Even after you were gone, he would not leave this position, even when you were buried, even when everyone thought you had died alone, even when everyone thought you two hadn’t even spoken to eachother, he would always be present in the place of your passing. Every night, every month, every year, he would sit there for hours at a time, drinking away as he talked to himself in only praises of yourself.

The Wanderer felt different, he was the creation of a god, mortals were below him, none were equal to him, he was above every single one of those worms, yet, there was one of those so called “worms” that for a single moment, for a brief second, could make him believe he was only a human, that he could feel happy, he could feel everything those he called below him could feel. There was only one person who could make him happy, only one person who could help him forget about his betrayals yet even them suffered, even them were hunted down due to his past, even them suffered because of him. Some would say, that the Wanderer, after so long, would return to who he was, even for a single minute, would enjoy murder once more.

He knew it would happen, a karmic debt was placed on Xiao a long time ago, he knew it, he knew that those around him would suffer because of it, but even then, the mighty conqueror of demons could also fall prey to the enticing and intoxicating love he used to think he was undeserving of. His more rational side was prepared for such an occurrence, of losing his most loved one yet deep down, he knew he wasn’t, he knew the moment you were at the brink of death, he would sacrifice his own to keep you safe..but he was too late, you were dead before he could heal you, before he could save you. Never before had the Yaksha felt such deep hatred, such unfeeling rage, so much was it that when he was done with his vengeance, when he had bathed in blood in the name of love, he felt nothing but a consuming sense of hollowness.

Zhongli grasped your hand with all the softness and grace he could have. He had a rather long talk with you, reminiscing about the fond times you two had, the love you shared, the pain and the happiness you had shared. He knew it would come to this, he knew that this would happen eventually. You were a mortal, a mere human, he was an archon, a god. Once you were gone, once time finally caught up with you, he couldn’t help but to shed a tear. Once again, none who would share his memories, once again, another loved one had been hit with time. Some could say that from that day, the enigmatic consultant of the Wangsheng funeral parlor seemed more distant, more cold, even.

[diegowife]

Guts ( Millennium Falcon / Fantasia Arc)

Guts As Your Boyfriend SCENARIO

A Bit Yandere ¿

Contains MANGA SPOILERS

( REMINDER! ) This is NOT connected with the Golden Age Arc ( Part 1 ).

Part 1 : Pre-Eclipse

• During the relationship, Guts displayed a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and was not particularly talkative. Moreover, he struggled with maintaining lasting romantic connections and admitted to being less than proficient in this domain. His discomfort with ongoing intimate interaction was evident.

• You remain the most significant individual in Guts' life despite the tranquility he experienced while being in your presence.

• Demonstrating his dedication to you, physical contact emerges as the foremost and conspicuous means. Whether through gentle caresses on the head, tousling of your hair, or embracing you from behind, he conveys his affection.

• Despite this fact, when you suddenly embrace him, he may become somewhat bewildered. This could be attributed to the limited experience he had in receiving hugs or displays of affection during his childhood.

• When it comes to processing his emotions or receiving honest declarations of love, he tends to struggle and demonstrate rather unfavorable behavior.

• A favored and swift gesture of Guts is to place tender kisses upon your forehead. Whether in departure or amid a battle with an apostle, this affectionate act brings him joy. The sensation of his lips lightly caressing your warm forehead is also cherished by him.

• Despite being somewhat lacking in terms of kissing skills, he thoroughly enjoys receiving hugs. He finds them particularly necessary, especially during instances when he is actively experiencing a terrifying nightmare or being persistently pursued by a relentless entity within his dreams.

• Insecurity often plagues Guts due to the loss of his right eye and left arm. He is unable to fully perceive your majestic presence with both his eyes, nor can he embrace or cuddle you effectively without his left arm.

• “Never would I be able to cease gazing upon you if my right eye still remained with me...”

• “If there's a way where I could restore my left arm, I would gladly hug you ceaselessly throughout the day, causing you to struggle for breath.”

• In return, the way you indulging him as the little spoon brings him great delight, with little regard for his characteristics or the absence of other features.

• Furthermore, Guts took great pleasure in observing you as you compared your tiny hands to his own. He playfully mocked your stature and expressed his hopes for you to surpass him in height.

• “What a midget. Can you at least grow an inch taller than me?”

• Guts' sleep patterns are usually limited to daytime hours. His neck bore the scars of brands, haunting him with nightmares and causing him to experience PTSD, thus preventing him from obtaining decent rest at night.

• In one of his nightmares, the idea of you abandoning him fills him with revulsion. It seems as though you continuously eluded him or attempted to break free from his clutches, further intensifying his aversion.

• In the same way, his greatest fear resides in the idea of you betraying him, much like his closest companions once did. The notion of placing excessive trust in you fills him with dread, as he is haunted by the possibility of another act of betrayal.

• In his affection, he will always perceive and observe you without any apprehension towards his own well-being. Hence, he continues to regard you as reliable and unproblematic.

• “In this vast world, where thousands of humans and apostles reside, you stand out as an exception. Can I assume that you won't follow the same path as everyone else, will you?”

• When the moment arrived to present a gift, he would frequently seek Schierke and Farnese for suggestions.

• Subsequently, an inventive notion would emerge from their minds, wherein Guts would grant you a mystical stone conjured by the magical abilities of Schierke.

• Upon receiving the stone, Guts couldn't suppress his smile of admiration at witnessing your appreciation for the gift he had bestowed upon you.

• The stone's discovery, he would deceive you about it.

• “It seems that you quite enjoyed it, didn't you? I must say I am pleased about it. If only I could accumulate it further and present it to you...”

• Observing him smile is a rare occurrence, but the subtle curvature of his lips, exclusively directed towards you, instantly sparks a sensation of being uniquely valued.

• Puck, the mischievous little companion, often draws attention away from Guts, igniting feelings of envy within him. Guts' emotions are further aggravated as Puck relishes in mocking him.

• In light of Guts persistently taunting and repeatedly demanding Puck's silence, this can be perceived as an act motivated by revenge from Puck.

• “Y/n, don't waste your time talking with that little shit.”

• “Pardon me! What was that name you just referred to me as, Mr. Nuts The Madman!?” Puck raised his voice, crossed his arms, and averted his gaze.

• Guts also possess a great deal of jealousy towards the excessive concern and care that Serpico, Schierke, and Farnese exhibit towards you. They frequently inquire about your well-being and assume responsibility for your welfare during illness.

• Considering that you don't have any abilities and are just a regular human being... that Guts will protect from the bottom of his heart.

• Isidro, in a similar fashion, will express admiration towards you and persistently request Guts for permission to marry you. Consequently, Guts will proceed to discipline Isidro by subjecting him to a time-out, wherein Isidro will be securely bound to a tree and left undisturbed.

• “Guts! Are you kidding me?! Y/n, help me!!!”

• “Tch serves you right, puny little runt.”

• Furthermore, Guts is a person who tends to overanalyze situations. Whenever he witnesses you feeling upset or, in the worst-case scenario, crying, he will instinctively attribute the blame to himself.

• Your tears are a complete turn-off for him, as they evoke memories of his childhood. Essentially, every aspect of your presence resonates with his youthful past.

• Initially, his curiosity will be piqued upon witnessing you have emotionally broken as you steadfastly decline any form of communication or elucidation with him.

• When he saw tears streaming down your face...

• It will constantly trigger him.

• Perpetually shattering is his heart whenever the thought of it crosses his mind; he holds the belief that he is a disappointment to his late father.

• When witnessing his lover's tears, can the blame be placed on him?

• In the depths of his thoughts, there has been no solace bestowed upon him by anyone. Absolutely nobody. He was firmly deserted, bereft of any companionship.

• In what manner should he navigate people's emotions? It has become customary for him to observe civilians experiencing breakdowns due to the apostle's destruction of their villages.

• In due course, hesitantly drawing you nearer, he envelops you with his arms around your waist and rests his chin atop your head. Subsequently, he proceeds to wipe each tear gently and ensures no remnants are remaining.

• Guts remains indifferent to whether or not you wish to explain to him. It is of no importance to him if you choose not to share or release your emotions.

• To ease your mind, Guts will grant you a portion of a gift he presently possesses once you have settled down.

• "Don't be sad. Take a look at this jewelry that was generously bestowed upon me by Farnese. They serve as a token of appreciation for my courageous role as one of her esteemed warriors."

• After the development of the Berserker Armor, Schierke takes extra precautions to prevent Guts from approaching you in any way. Moreover, she emphasizes the importance of keeping a distance.

• In the presence of your company, Guts harbors a fear of relinquishing control over his Berserker Armor. It is a concern that at any given moment, he may impulsively obliterate you without allowing rational thought to guide his actions.

• Ordinarily, Guts would have an intense anger when an apostle approached and attempted to separate you from him. Ultimately, he would slaughter the vile creature with a single blow of his sword.

• With every moment you drift off to sleep, he is fully conscious of observing each contour of your body. Also, with utmost certainty, he would ensure your safety and prevent anyone from causing harm or separating you from his presence.

• Observing your intense shivering, Guts' left eye widened, prompting him to remove his cloak and tenderly envelop you within its comforting fabric.

• Furthermore, he longed to recline beside you and experience the comforting sensation generated by the warmth emanating from your physique.

• In his dreams, he is filled with fear that if he snuggles up to you, apostles will come after him. Consequently, he may inadvertently unleash his Berserker Armor, losing control over it. This poses a risk of unintentionally harming you while you are asleep.

• While you peacefully doze, he exhibits his capability solely in the gentle stroking of your hands.

• Without your knowledge, he will softly utter something inaudible.

• “I love you, although you can't hear my words right now...”

• “I'll be with you... for eternity.”

Thank you so much for reading !

Sorry if there are any terrible grammar mistakes. English is not my first language.

;(

[melvisik]

OFMD S2 SPOILERS

This is complete self indulgence (but then, this is Tumblr, and there is an analysis towards the bottom). Just reiterating how notable the merman scene is, both from the practical way it was done and the metaphorical significance. But first to preface with a confession: I seek out spoilers, so with the prior expectation of seeing a merman!Stede, it was fairly obvious he was going to show up at this particular moment. Honestly not sure how this could be handled without disclosure. That knowledge or lack thereof is absolutely a contributing factor on the 'cringe' element. It can seem a little cringe, mostly from the fact we got something so outlandishly unexpected at a beautifully critical moment. But Stede is a cringe person:

And besides, as far as unusual things happening at emotional scenes, last season we had this:

Here is poor Edward Teach spilling his heart out, and Stede is presenting a much different air than the situation might call for. It didn't feel inauthentic per se (that is legit moment of confusion), but the atmosphere for a scene in an emotionally charged, key-point moment of a character's story arc just felt a little off (in my opinion anyway).

But you know what? This is a comedy. And as far as the performance goes, from what we've seen so far, Rhys Darby charges into any situation with stalwart commitment and full steam ahead, no matter how cringeworthy the risk.

And that includes donning a shimmering fish tail, grabbing a trident, and swimming in a large water tank to smile at the camera.

Major props to him for that, it takes guts.

(Also, it's just frickin cool to try out a gorgeously decked out merperson tail. Lucky sunuvabitch...)

Plus, as so many others have pointed out, the metaphor is just breathtaking. It's not just about the show being a comedy and playing off the strangeness of a merman showing up, but it's about what the scene represents. Hold on now, this is gonna be a long one... During that kiss on the beach, Stede Bonnet was so much of what Edward Teach has been yearning for in his life. Yes Stede is a representation of the 'finer' things (which Ed's own mother told him he could never have), but he's also kindness, understanding, support, love... things that Edward has more than likely been denied over and over again. For instance- in this tiny moment in his dream sequence, when Ed tries out being Jeff the Innkeeper, the figure of his old captain Hornigold is all for taking it way too seriously, bringing Ed down to face the cruelties of reality.

But in these kinds of scenes, Stede plays with Ed. He is all for Blackbeard's Bar and Grill, and if someone is being a dick and not wanting to go visit the gift shop, he'll be there to give Ed encouragement.

And then there's this:

And this:

Ed vaguely reminds me of Aldonza from Man of la Mancha, which is a whole other analysis, but it's basically a character so beaten down by life that the very concepts of feeling worthy and being treated with kindness are devastating: Blows and abuse, I can take and give back again. Tenderness, I cannot bear. -"Aldonza" from Man of la Mancha. But Ed's vision of Stede seems to represent all the gentleness and sweetness Ed so desperately craves, and when Stede shows up here, he is so happy to see him. First mate 'we've-known-each-other-a-long-time' Izzy Hands flat out tells Ed that he loves him, and this is Ed's reaction:

Because, lest we forget, Izzy told him that he wanted Blackbeard, not Edward, and that Edward better watch his fucking step.

From Ed's point of view, who the hell is the harsh pirate Izzy to tell Edward that he loves him, when all he really seems to love is the persona of Blackbeard? But this is his reaction to the warm, gentle Stede Bonnet, who is supportive of the man Edward Teach and all his vulnerabilities:

Also, within the scene itself, it is so important that Stede doesn't untie the rope from around Ed's waist. Here, this lays it out beautifully:

Edited based on a post I cannot find: This is also a rebirth for Ed - surrounded by wet and darkness, going towards the light, and taking his first new breath (while This Woman's Work plays in the background, a song literally about a problematic birth as the partner feels practically helpless to do anything)...

So it's something Stede can't physically assist with. He can only give Ed support and a little guidance. In summation, as Edward plunges into the depths of despair, literally weighted down by his trauma, here comes this sweet, loving sea creature that is so different from anything he has ever known but has always wanted. Now, this could be problematic, as this season is probably going to delve more into how Ed and Stede see their roles fairly differently, with one ready to move on from the pirate life and the other ready to jump right in. Stede certainly doesn't seem to view himself as a sweet, goldfish merman, as currently he is all about being a swashbuckler.

But for now, Ed's vision met with Stede's heart-wrenching desperation...

...brilliantly highlights how much Ed and Stede mean to each other. And for this sequence, Rhys Darby learned a new skill and was fully present with Taika Waititi (MAJOR props to him also for shooting this underwater moment so frickin beautifully) in one of the most memorable scenes thus far.

Maybe his motivation for doing it was just because merpersoning is a neat thing to do, but the result really meant a lot. To see him there with Taika's Edward in an actual tail, and not just Taika reacting to a body double with a masked over face or a CGI tail that will always be fake no matter how real it looks... Mad respect, man. And thank you. P.S. Also this:

Absolutely. Personally could not be more thrilled that they used practical effects rather than CGI. It shows, OFMD team. It really shows ❤️

[lady-menrva]

PJO Meta (2 of ??)

DISCLAIMER: This post reflects a subjective opinion and should be treated as such. If you don't wish to hear criticism regarding Rick's "diverse representation", please scroll away.

Hot Take: I don't think Nico was good queer representation, and here are my reasons for the same.

Internalized Homophobia

Let me start by saying that his internalized homophobia was well-handled in House of Hades and early Blood of Olympus.

The part of his Pov, where he recounts a tale from Plato about romantic soulmates and wonders where that leaves him, is a moving, poignant, critique of heteronormativity.

Nonetheless, it becomes hard to take his internalized homophobia seriously after it simply sublimates affer meeting Will Solace - He develops an infatuation for the latter and the rest is history.

I am not saying that he should struggle with self-acceptance for the rest of his life. I am simply suggesting that he should receive proper closure for the same. i.e, won't it be much better if he learns that homoromantic attraction is completely normal, natural and healthy? Instead, the narrative never even mentions his struggles with self-acceptance after his meeting with Will, let alone give him proper closure.

His Feelings for Percy

On a similar tangent as the aforementioned argument, Nico having feelings for percy started out as a good thing. It gave Nico's character and actions an extra layer of depth.

However, his love (yes, love) for Percy - simply disappeared to make room for Solangelo (which, with all due respect, is a subpar ship). The OoC confession did not help anything either. Nor did the fact that he got over his years-long love in a moment, somehow.

Coming Out:

I do not think this requires a great deal of explanation. Most readers unanimously agree that it's not okay to drag a severely traumatized teenager through another incredibly traumatizing event, esp. when other alternatives were present.

For eg- he chooses to come out to Hazel because he can't take the weight of his feelings any more. This could have also been an important moment for their relationship.

Lastly, outing your queer character (by forcible outing) in such a way is obviously very problematic.

Ostracization

Nico was clearly set-up to be the outcast all the way from the Son of Neptune to the House of Hades . The "He pushed everyone way" plot point did not make a concrete, tangible appearance until Blood of Olympus.

His ostracization arc is important as it is directly tied to his internalized homophobia and is significant to his presence as queer representation. Yet, by having this poorly retconned to "it was all in your head"(unsurprisingly, for solangelo), Rick did a dis-service Nico as a character and as queer rep. (The pushing everyone away schtick could have worked. Just not the way it was in canon.)

Conclusion

Since so many indispensable aspects of Nico's identity as a gay character are poorly handled, it becomes very hard to lake him seriously as good LGBTQ+ rep.

[good-to-drive]

what do you admire about each beatle?

I love this question!!! I think it's easy to experience the recognition of pain or maladaptive schemas as something like pity (or even an inherent criticism, if you're in the "nice people have nice feelings" camp), so it's good to reaffirm sometimes that people can struggle and still be admirable and that admirable people often struggle.

For the moment I want to set aside the fact that they were all immensely talented and successful because, as much as I do admire that, I think it probably goes without saying. Rather, I want to focus on what I find admirable on a personal level.

JOHN

With John, I think it's his high level of insight. Not just insightful in the normal sense -- although that's very true, too -- but insightful in the psychological sense.

“[Insight] encompasses at least three fundamental characteristics: the awareness of suffering from an illness, an understanding of the cause and source of this suffering, and an acknowledgment of the need for treatment.” via Harvard Review of Psychiatry

I know on the surface this might sound bland, but it's really, really not. It's hard to describe how significant it is to be able to say "I'm in a state of distress but I'm not going to shoot my mouth off because I know later I won't be" when you're actively reliving a childhood trauma, or "I was afraid of the fag in me" to describe his treatment of homosexual men, or "I beat my wife because I felt a need to control her," but suffice to say the average person won't achieve that level of self-insight, honesty, or emotional differentiation after years of therapy.

In a sense, insight is the ability to exist inside of a deeply distorted, deeply painful reality and realize that reality has been distorted and your perceptions cannot be trusted. It comes from a willingness to face your pain and do the horrible fucking work of untangling it, and John was so immensely dedicated to that work, even when the right methods may not have been accessible or even in existence.

I know the presentism in our perceptions of mental illness gives rise to stupid ideas like "if he really wanted to get better he would have," but the truth is it's so powerful to be faced with a severe illness that is hurting you and everyone around you and keep fighting it even when it's apparently hopeless. Most people don't do that.

PAUL

I'm having trouble finding the right word for the quality I most admire, but I think it might be "force of will."

An example would be pushing the beatles to keep going even after everyone else was starting to lose interest (we know via Ringo that we wouldn't have the last few albums without Paul), which is obviously an expression of work ethic and determination and commitment, but there's another quality there, too, that manifests in so many ways throughout his entire life. It's almost a kind of confidence, but not really, because I think we can fairly say that Paul had a lot insecurity, too.

Rather, I think it's the seed of belief necessary to pursue any creative field or ambitious project -- not so much that you always think you're going to succeed, but that part of you believes that it's possible and that you deserve it. People joke about Paul not being self-aware, but self-awareness is not a universally good thing, and part of the counterpoint to self-awareness is the ability to pursue your dreams. The courage to want things that you might never get, and to believe that you deserve them. Without that, you're not getting anywhere.

There's an expression that there's a day you're born and a day you find out why you were born, but I'd add the caveat that figuring out why you were born is meaningless unless you have the guts to do something about it. And Paul definitely had guts.

GEORGE

This is another quality that's a bit hard to describe, but I think what I'm trying to articulate is the act of reaching out to other people and creating points of connection. Or, the desire and courage to do so.

Obviously there are stories about how empathetic he was, such a good listener, compassionate, interested in other people, etc. But I think this quality also manifests in how widely and deeply loved he was by his contemporaries, how forming long-lasting friendships and then doing the work to maintain those friendships was such a defining aspect of his life. How he seemed happy to have intense relationships with others as an equal or as a student, not just as their boss or idol. He genuinely wanted to connect to people on an individual level, as peers, and to support them and be supported.

There's also a conversation to be had about how earnest he was about his beliefs, which I know some people find cringey or even didactic, but you could also argue that earnestly expressing what you believe without indirection or plausible deniability is a very sincere bid for connection. Earnestness opens you up to mockery and fault-finding, and a lot of people absolutely find it off-putting, but it's also the only real cure for isolation. And it seems clear that George did not want to be isolated, he wanted to experience sincere connections with the people and the world around him.

There's also probably a conversation to be had about humor as a bid for connection, and how his tendency to take himself lightly is more an extension of that earnestness than a counterpoint to it, but that's a discussion for another day.

RINGO

I know people often admire his level-headedness and his patience -- and it's true that he's almost superhuman in that respect -- but, to be honest, I think that may partly be an expression of Ringo's addictive personality and emotionally neglectful childhood which arguably put him in a position of being extremely distanced from his own emotions/needs. Not that I don't think it's impressive to be able to absorb nearly infinite distress, but I don't necessarily admire it.

Rather, what's more admirable to me is his capacity for change.

I always find him the most relatable, not so much because I find him similar to myself (though that's also true), but because he's such a typical Male Figure in my social context. He's a total stand-up guy who would give you the shirt off his back and then turn around and be, by his own account, absolutely horrible to his wife and children. Which is a bizarre contrast, but also a very common one, and in a way I think that perceived normalcy makes him feel almost touchable to a lot of us. Like he of all the beatles actually existed in the real world, or at least in a world that exists for us as well.

I also think the sheer normalcy of "nice guy who's not so nice to his family when he's been drinking" creates the illusion that he's not worth exploring and that's why so many people ignore him in their quest to understand the group, but that's also a conversation for another day.

What's sort of profound and incredible about him, though, isn't existing in the real world but changing his world. Moving from someone deeply familiar, close enough to touch, to someone untouchable but inspiring. What I'm saying is that he got sober after decades of heavy drinking and, apparently, has stayed sober for thirty years. Which seems to heavily imply that he likes being alive more than he likes being numb, which is a major accomplishment for anyone with an addictive personality.

It's like he started here on earth with the rest of us, and then stepped through a portal into a different reality, and ceased to be at all touchable or real but instead became aspirational, or happy. It makes it seem like that aspirational, untouchable world could become touchable to all of us, too. Like it's not our inherent nature that makes us happy, not the world we're in right now, but the capacity to change our world by changing ourselves.

[this-daydream-is-dangerous-13]

God, Blondie was ballsy putting Question…? out on an album. I’ve been noodling on it for 364+ days and I still cannot believe this one isn’t either (a) more veiled in secrecy/using secret language dialect or (b) in the vault.

From the second the song starts, there is no doubt as to its subject, with the OOTW sample. And all the details that even we fans recognize; they are undoubtedly many more only the two of them will spot.

It’s honestly as if she took the bridge to The 1

And decided: f*ck it. No more resisting temptation. Asking!

And let’s be real: she already knows the answers to these questions. That’s not the surprise. What’s shocking is the fact that she is asking them in the first place!!

There is plausible deniability built in; it could be in the past. Until we get to the bridge because she’s referencing an ongoing relationship he’s still in.

In happiness, we know that:

But this evermore track? Was written before the OW news broke (maybe even before they met). The only significant, long term romantic partner that he’d had in years, other than CR (about whom little was spoken outside the fandom and/or until they’d already broken up).

So I don’t see how this can be about anyone else:

And since Midnights was mostly written in fall 2021, he’d been with OW for a year and she with YB for nearly FIVE when writing this.

So some of it asks if he wishes he’d made different choices at critical moments. Which: obviously yes. Those questions use verbs in the past tense.

But some? Are in present tense. Questions like that “what’s that I heard? That you’re still with her…” as well as:

And this doozy, repeated a whole bunch:

Of course he does, Blondie! So nice of you to rub it in!

But besties, here is why I have been noodling on it for so long: why would she do this?

This is not I Bet You Think About Me or High Infidelity or WCS or any of the songs about sh*thead exes. This is one clearly directed to a man who—at minimum—has spent years and years kindly praising her, disclosing no secrets, and still writing glowingly about her.

She already suspects/subconsciously knows the answers to these questions. What was she planning to do if he confirmed her suspicion?!

I don’t think she had the answer to MY question, or really let herself think about it. But if she planned to do nothing other than bask in the glow of his ongoing love and desire for her (while continuing to build a life with another guy): that sucks. That would make me think less of her because that’s cruel to someone who’d never do the same.

Anyway - I still don’t know where I landed with respect to her internal motivation for writing and releasing this song. I hope she wasn’t doing it to toy with a good man—one she admitted she’d hurt in happiness—but I honestly don’t know.

[stranger-rants]

Billy hating his father is about self preservation, and I say this from personal experience. When I say hate, I mean that it presents more as indifference but it is born from a hatred for the things this person has put you through. To show any kind of affection or love for this person is to allow this person to hurt you more than they already have because inevitably they will take everything and give you nothing in return.

Maybe his father does something useful for him once in a while and maybe that makes Billy think he can trust his father to have his best interest at heart for half a second, but that's a lie. His father will betray him over and over and it is better for Billy to accept the "help" when he gets it but not let his guard down for a single moment. To maintain an emotional distance from his father is to protect himself from the impact of his abuse.

If Billy slips up and thinks things could be different, he will get hurt because his father displays no real interest in improving their relationship. His abuser is not motivated to change because he views Billy and Billy's emotions as problematic, and he has spent most of Billy's life trying to mold and manipulate Billy into being who he wants him to be. He wants Billy to be compliant. Any kindness he shows to Billy is to make him compliant.

Billy is different from his father in that he feels shame and guilt. He is reactive to situations whereas his father shows a level of control over his emotions that makes his anger and violence seem planned. He sets up his son for failure and Billy gets baited over and over because he's young and he's in fight or flight mode. His father cares about appearances whereas Billy is fighting against everything that his father stands for, conscious of it or not.

I don't buy into the narrative that everything is so cyclical that Neil had his own Neil and they're all just products of one another and that Billy is destined to be just like him if he doesn't turn things around. My own father is a product of entitlement and praise and he will always choose himself over everyone else because that is what he's experienced his entire life. Hating him protects me from disappointment, and reminds me to be better than him.

So, I am okay with Billy hating Neil - I don't think it has to manifest in wanting anything bad to directly happen to his abuser. I think it likely manifests in Billy being okay with never seeing him again. I think it manifests in Billy being okay with not thinking of Neil as his father because he doesn't act like a father should. I think it manifests in him not letting Neil into his life no matter how much Neil "changes" because those changes are not for him.

I have made significant efforts to repair my relationship with my father but while he can act like he's a different person to other people, he is still the selfish manipulative bastard who cheats on my mother and lies about his accomplishments with his inflated ego - the same person who wont admit the multiple times he had endangered my life and once almost killed me, only to say "I don't know why they won't talk to me" the very next day.

Hating my father is therapeutic to me, and I want people to understand that it doesn't mean that this hatred rules over my life or makes me miserable and I want people to understand that it doesn't mean I have any ill will towards my father. It means that I have cut myself off emotionally from this person because they don't deserve any more attention than I am willing to give and I am giving myself the permission not to care about them.

Billy should absolutely have the permission not to care about Neil. The fact that Billy does at some point try to reason with his father and placate his emotions says that a part of him still cares even if it's just to survive Neil's outbursts. But. Billy should have been given the opportunity to leave that man behind and never care about him again. Neil should have had to deal with his absence in that way, not Billy being taken from him by death.

[weepingfromacedartree]

Ten Milestones: Meeting Each Other's Friends

Chapter 3 is now live!

Warning: angst.

His grin falters. Slightly. 

“What does it say?” 

Penelope’s question comes out a little sadder than she had expected it to. While she may have argued that this whole idea is flawed from the start, a part of her is disappointed that it could be over so soon. If nothing else, arguing with Colin is usually her favourite part of these silly little games. 

“Something we never managed to cover in our twenty years of friendship?” 

“Nope,” he says, eyes still locked on the screen before him. “It’s something we’ve done many times before. With varying degrees of success.” 

Intrigue getting the best of her…

“What does it say?”

He clears his throat before reading. 

“Number Two: Meeting Each Other’s Friends. Friendships are an essential and impactful part of any person’s life. Meeting the people whom your significant other considers friends is valuable for many reasons. Not only is it a first step in merging your lives together, but it also teaches you things about your partner that you could not learn when alone together. 

After the briefest moment of silence…

“Well, I believe you’ve met my friend Eloise. So —”

“I have met plenty of your friends, all of whom are very kind and lovely people. Just as one would expect from a kind and lovely person such as yourself. Clearly Eloise — and perhaps also myself — is an outlier.” 

“Hey, that’s not —”

“I believe ‘meeting each other’s friends’ has only ever been an issue when my ‘friends’ were involved.”

Penelope bites her lip. 

“It was really just that one time.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Twelve Years Earlier: August 27th, 2011

Relationship Status: Friends

꙳

“Remind me why we’re doing this again.” 

“To act like irresponsible teenagers who love parties and socialising with their peers.” 

“That doesn’t sound like us.”

“Exactly. That’s why I said ‘act like.’”

Penelope has always been a good bullshitter. Since she was a child, she’s had an innate talent of bending the truth on a dime. It comes naturally to her; bullshit falls from her lips before she even has a chance to think it through. She never does it for fun — that filter is just built inside of her. There are certain truths that she simply can never say aloud, so her mind grew adept at talking around them. 

The truth: Colin had invited her to this party, and if there is one talent that Penelope does not possess, it is saying no to Colin Bridgerton. 

Another talent Penelope does not possess is walking into any type of social event by herself. Even at family gatherings — Featherington or Bridgerton — Penelope always finds herself clinging on to someone else. Usually Eloise. Sometimes Colin. Occasionally Prudence or Philipa — if she’s really desperate. 

Despite the fact that he invited her here, Penelope knows she won’t see much of Colin tonight. She knows this party will be filled with at least a hundred people he considers friends. She knows that she will not be able to cling onto him all night — and that she absolutely shouldn’t.

That’s how Eloise Bridgerton found herself being dragged towards her worst nightmare: a house party filled to the literal rooftop with loud, obnoxious teenagers. 

“This isn’t Skins, Pen. This is gonna suck.” 

“It’ll be fun.” Bullshit. 

“So fun!” Eloise mocks. “Why not continue the fun tomorrow and go shopping with your mother. I heard Primark is having a sale on yellow dresses.”

When Penelope forces out a sarcastic laugh, Eloise pulls her in even closer. 

“Seriously, Pen. You owe me for —”

“Let’s see how the other side lives for a little while. If it is truly tortuous, we can leave and go get chips. You know… how we usually spend our Saturday nights.”

The offer does not smooth over any of the sourness present on Eloise’s face. 

“You say that like there is something wrong with chips. There is absolutely nothing wrong with chips. Chips have never belched in my face or spilled a pint down the front of my shirt.” 

At this point, Penelope does not know whether to protest, laugh, or agree with her friend. Ultimately, she decides on the first option.

“What are you talking about? You’ve never even been to a party like this.” 

Eloise gulps. Her eyes flash wide, like she’s just been caught in a lie. 

“Well… no. But I’ve seen Skins and —”

“Oh, for god’s sake El.” 

Penelope wiggles Eloise’s phone from between her fingers. After typing in the four-digit passcode, she clicks on the little clock icon.

10:09

“What are you —”

“I’m setting a timer for 20 minutes. If you’re not having fun when the alarm goes off, we’ll leave and get chips.” 

“Fine,” Eloise grumbles, grabbing her phone back from Penelope. “You got yourself a deal, Featherington.” 

At 10:10 PM, Eloise and Penelope step foot into their first house party. 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Fife’s house smells like piss. 

There’s a lot happening in the room Colin has found himself in. There’s a lot happening in this little corner he has found himself in, surrounded by a group of his “friends” from Eton. They’re talking about the girls they’re gonna fuck at uni in the fall, meanwhile Colin can think of nothing other than the rancid smell of this room. Parties packed with hundreds of people are never going to smell nice, but this is just ridiculous. He almost wonders if the Fifes recently got a puppy and are still potty training him, but he can’t imagine that could account for such a stench. It would take at least a hundred puppies to —

“Ready for the birds up at Cambridge, Bridgerton?” Fife asks, breaking Colin from his thoughts and back into this piss-scented reality. 

“Hmm? Oh — yeah. Sure.”

“No longer interested in the ladies, Col?” his “friend” Edward chimes in. 

“For all his money and looks, he never had much luck with them in the first place, did he?” taunts his “friend” Fred. 

“Are you calling me pretty?” Colin shoots back, an insincere smile pulling at his lips. He’s been forcing it so much tonight that it’s starting to ache at the corners. “Flattered, truly.” 

Thankfully, the conversation quickly redirects to one of Fife’s embellished stories — this one about a girl he picked up at a pub earlier in the week. The commentary around it is just as mind numbingly boring as Colin has come to expect over the years. It’s just mind numbing enough for him to mentally check out of it completely, his smile fading as he glances around the rest of the room. 

It’s 10:11. The party just started, and yet the den is already packed with people. Most faces are recognizable to him, either from his time at Eton or his lifetime in Mayfair. No one in this room, though, does he have any particular interest in. His eyes scan the room thrice, searching for the one person he’s actually interested in seeing tonight. By the third attempt, he accepts defeat. 

When he turns his attention back to the group around him, he finds that Fife has already moved onto another story. This one smells of potent bullshit. Something about spending 20 minutes in a broom closet with a literature TA at Eton. 

Once again, Colin’s mind is adrift. 

Fife’s father is a member of Parliament — why does his den smell of piss? 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

10:29

Somewhere in this massive estate, Eloise’s phone is blaring an alarm, asking her whether or not she is having fun. Penelope has no idea what the answer is, because within 20 minutes of stepping foot into this party, she managed to lose her best friend in the crowd. She also failed to find Colin during that time, but that matter is not as pressing at the moment. 

She steps into the back garden, hoping her luck will turn around in the fresh air. After all, surely Eloise would rather be out here than in the crowded interior — which, frankly, smells like someone pissed on the walls before the party started. 

Unfortunately, the garden isn’t any less cramped than the halls inside. 

As she continues forward, Penelope pays special attention to where her feet land in the crowd; the last thing she wants to do is trip over a forgotten beer can or get elbowed by someone taking a shot of liquor. This sort of manoeuvring isn't anything new to Penelope. When you’re as short as she is, you need to learn how to get out of other people’s way. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is when you’re the one who ends up crushed. 

After her second loop around the garden (and about a dozen texts to Eloise), Penelope feels a prickle of anxiety run up and down her spine. She’s about to turn on her heel and look inside again, but before she can, her feet make an unusual misstep. 

She slams chest-first into someone’s backside. Someone tall. 

“Oh, hello,” he snickers, turning around to look down at her. “That’s certainly one way to get a man’s attention.”

“Sorry, I —” 

It’s Fife, she belatedly realises. 

Penelope has never actually spoken to him before. She’s seen him from afar on a few occasions, but certainly never this close. Despite them being friends since primary school, Colin never brings Fife (or any of his other school friends) around his house on Grosvenor Street. Penelope always found this odd; she’s a friend of the Bridgertons and spends more time at their home than her own. 

“I —” she starts again, but still cannot find the words to finish the sentence. She tries to conjure up something logical to say, but it’s difficult to focus on words when you’re hyper-focused on other matters. Particularly, her feet and how she can move them far away enough to get her breasts off of Fife’s abdomen. Unfortunately, the crowd behind her does not grant her the space to do so. 

Thankfully, someone else speaks before she can stutter out another mindless syllable. 

“Hey! Back off Fife.” 

It’s Colin. He positions his body between her and Fife, creating space that wasn’t there just a second ago. 

“Woah, mate! She bumped into —” Fife starts. 

“It was my fau—” Penelope starts. 

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ve heard that one before. Never your fault, is it Fife?” Colin interrupts. His tone confuses Penelope. She can’t tell if he’s teasing Fife, or legitimately wants to punch him in the face. 

“Colin. Really, it was my —” she starts again. This time, someone new cuts her off. Another guy, standing close behind Colin. 

“Do you know this chick, Bridgerton? Or do you simply enjoy saving random girls from becoming Fife’s next vict—”

“This is Penelope. My friend,” Colin cuts in, that confusing tone not letting up. Before she knows it, his arm slings around her shoulder, fingers gripping lightly into the fabric of her shirt. “Pen, this is —” With his free hand, he starts pointing to each of the men now forming a circle around them. “Edward. Fife. Louis. Michael. Fred.” 

In response to Colin’s curt introductions, each of the five men nod, smirk, and/or unblinkingly stare at Penelope’s chest. She feels a nervous blush creep up her cheeks as she says, “Lovely to me—”

“No need for flattery, Pen,” Colin cuts in again. “Even this lot is self-aware enough to know they’re all shit.” 

Michael snorts. Penelope gasps. Fife starts making a joke. Colin’s hand moves from her shoulder to her elbow, pulling her away before Fife can reach the punchline. 

Once they’re out of earshot from the group, Colin lets out an agonised groan and says, “Sorry about them. They’re —” He groans again, then drops his hand from her skin, just to run it briskly through his hair. “They’re fucking arseholes.” 

“They weren’t that ba—” 

“When did you get here by the way?” he interrupts, his usual light-hearted tone making a reappearance quickly. Almost alarmingly so. “I was looking for you.”

“You — you were?” The words slip out before she has the chance to stop them. 

Logically, such a statement shouldn’t be so surprising. They’ve been friends forever. He literally invited her to this party. But still… A part of Penelope cannot help but be surprised that Colin Bridgerton would seek her out in such a crowded group of people. 

“Of course,” he says nonchalantly. He raises his eyebrows, reminding her that he had asked a question. 

“Oh! Uh —” She looks down at her phone. 

10:43

Shit.

“About a half hour.” She lets out a quick, nervous laugh. “Have you seen El? I lost her rather quickly, it seems. And I kinda promised her that we would be gone by now if she wasn’t having any fun.” 

Colin scowls, then lifts his gaze from Penelope’s eyes to scan around the back garden. After about 15 seconds, he announces that he’s spotted her (and Penelope wonders how nice it must be to have an extra foot of height at your disposal). 

Scowl suddenly lifting…

“Well, I don’t think you need to leave quite yet.” 

Following his gaze to a bench on the other side of the garden, Penelope finally spots her best friend. She looks absolutely giddy. 

On the other side of the bench sits Theo, a boy Eloise met through an internship at Danbury’s publishing house last summer and has had a massive crush on ever since. They’re holding hands. They’re both laughing. They’re getting closer. Then, even closer. Then —

“Yeah, I don’t need to see that,” Colin grumbles from beside her. His hand wraps around her elbow once more. 

“Let’s go.” 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

“Are you sure this is… safe?” 

“Live a little, Featherington.” 

After climbing through the window himself, Colin extends his hand for Penelope to take. Begrudgingly, she takes it.

They’re sitting on the north side of the roof, facing the street. Colin pulls out the beer bottles he had stashed under his arm on the way up here, then flicks the caps off using his car keys. He hands one to her; it tastes like liquified grass, but Penelope tries not to grimace when she takes her first sip. Thankfully, Colin is looking up at the stars, so he doesn’t see her nose crinkle as the beer slides down her throat. 

“Beautiful night,” he muses, eyes turning back to her. 

She looks up, towards the moon. It’s barely a sliver in the sky. 

“Yeah. It really is.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for all that irrelevant noise in the background. 

Penelope likes the quiet. She always has. Her entire life it’s been there, taking on different shapes and useful qualities for whatever situation she finds herself in. A cover. A cushion. A comfort. With Colin, it’s a comfort. When she’s with him, she rarely feels the need to fill the quiet spaces of air between them.

Colin is typically more inclined to fill them.

“Sorry, again, about Fife. And the other dickheads.” 

“Colin, I told you. It’s —”

“‘It’s fine. They’re not that bad,’” he dramatically mimics. “Yeah I know. But speaking from the perspective of someone who actually knows them, they are shit and should be regarded as such.” 

Penelope could continue brushing all of that shit to the side, but she doesn’t. Even if bumping into Fife was her fault, she didn’t like the way he looked down at her in the moment after. She didn’t like how he didn’t step away until Colin forced him to — when he surely could have done so on his own. And she didn’t like the way all five of them looked at her when Colin introduced her — as though her tits were more interesting than anything he could have been saying. 

Instead of brushing it off, she simply asks: “If they’re such shit, why are you friends with them?” Her own tone confuses her. 

Through the corner of her eye, she watches as Colin’s lips start to drop into a grimace; he takes a swig of his beer before it can fully take shape. 

“Good question.”

He goes quiet again. When Penelope presumes that he is finished answering her question, she opens her mouth again. 

“I —”

“Maybe I’ve outgrown them.” Swig. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m shit too.”

Penelope laughs lightly, praying that tiny breath of air will help lighten Colin’s mood. 

“The former, I think.” 

“I think you give me too much credit.” 

Penelope doesn’t know how to respond to that. Her entire life, Colin has only ever existed in her mind under a golden ray of light. He’s always been the one who makes her happy. The one who can draw a smile out of her, even on her darkest day. The one who is always there for her. The one she’s always wanted more of. 

How could claiming he’s not shit be giving him too much credit? 

Penelope doesn’t know how to respond to that. So instead, she asks, “Are they also attending Cambridge?” 

“Not all of ‘em.” Swig. “Michael’s off to Edinburgh next week. Edward and Fred are both staying here for Imperial.” Swig. “Louis will be up at Cambridge with me, but he’s not so bad. When he’s away from Fife’s bad influence, at least.”

“And Fife?” she questions. “Where is he going?”

Colin groans. He looks like he’s about to raise the bottle to his lips again, but doesn’t. 

“Fife was admitted to Cambridge, but deferring a year to ‘go find himself.’ Hopefully, he finds himself at King’s College when he’s finished.”

“What’s Fife’s real name, by the way?” Penelope asks, unsure of what else to say. “Why does everyone just call him by his surname?” 

For the first time all night, Colin laughs. 

“Oh — uh. Cornelius. Cornelius Fife.” 

Despite herself, Penelope snorts. 

“Oh god, that’s bad. Perhaps even worse than ‘Penelope Featherington.’”

“What’s wrong with ‘Penelope Featherington?’” Colin asks, his tone earnest. 

“Um…” Pointing her eyes to the little sliver of moon above, Penelope silently prays that the sky is dark enough to hide the blush currently warming her cheeks. 

“A bit of a mouthful I guess. At least ‘Corn-eel-ee-us-Fife,” she punctuates each beat with one of her fingers, “is only five syllables.”

“I don’t know. I happen to quite like ‘Penelope Featherington.’”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, either. 

She should be used to this by now — existing in such close proximity to charming Colin Bridgerton. She should know his flirtatious words are just that. Words. That just because they tug at her heart does not mean there was any intention on his end to do so. She should know by now that there is — that there never will be — any intention to do so.

She should be used to this by now, but she’s not. Even now, her cheeks burn red as he unknowingly fractures what little resolve she has left. 

“You ready to leave London?” Colin asks, his voice breaking Penelope from her thoughts. 

Next week, she and Eloise are set to leave for Cheltenham to begin their Sixth Forms. Literally, she isn’t ready (there are about a million things she needs to get done before she goes). But in her heart, she is ready. She’s been ready to leave home for the past two years — ever since Colin left for Eton. 

“Oh — yeah.” She takes another sip of her beer. It still tastes like grass. “I think so.”

“It’s nice that you and El will have each other there.” He chuckles softly, turning the bottle over in his hands a few times. “With your good influence, maybe she’ll make it through an entire semester without being sent home.”

Penelope chuckles too, louder than Colin had a moment ago.

“Eloise will be fine, with or without me. She’s all talk.”

“Yeah. The ‘talk’ is exactly what I’m worried about. Also fist fighting, but at least she doesn’t have the balls to do that in the middle of class.” Swig. “Usually.”

As much as she wants to defend her best friend further, Penelope holds her tongue. He has a point. Last term, Eloise made a hobby out of backtalking their maths teacher.

“Really though,” he continues. “Leaving home is amazing, but it also kinda sucks. Having your best friend there… It’ll be good.” 

“Why does it suck?” Penelope asks, little alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind. She and Colin rarely discuss Eton in detail, but the little he does say is typically positive.

He keeps quiet for a moment, seeming to search for the answer in the stars above them. 

“It’s different for everyone. It might not suck for you at all. But for me…” Swig. “Maybe it’s just because I was so used to living with seven siblings and an overprotective mum. But going from that to Eton so suddenly…” Swig. “Felt a bit isolating at first.”

The alarm bells continue ringing. They’re a bit louder now.

“Colin, I —” 

“It gets better, obviously. You adjust. It took me a while to be comfortable living without the people I lived with all my life, but eventually I did.” Swig. “Your friends really do help with that. Hopefully you can learn from me though, and cut them off when you realise they’re all bloody arseholes.”

She waits until she’s certain that he’s finished speaking before opening her mouth to speak again. But when she does, before she can even suck in a full breath of air, he keeps going.

“Sorry, by the way. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I just thought it would have been good if someone told me that before I left for Eton. Prepared me for it, at least.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she insists. “And I appreciate your candour. Truly.”

Colin opens his mouth again, looking as though he’s about to say something else. Penelope knows she should let him talk. That she should allow him to alter the course of the conversation, if that’s what he wants. But she also can’t ignore those goddamn alarm bells ringing in her ears.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if — hypothetically — it could scare me. I just — I’m always here to listen. About anything.” 

For the briefest moment, something new passes on Colin’s face. Even with what little light is left in the sky, Penelope can tell that she’s never seen it there before. She can’t quite put a name to it, but it almost looks… desperate. And then it’s just gone. 

Turning his gaze away from her and towards the sky above, Colin shifts in his spot and — for the second time tonight — wraps his arm around Penelope’s shoulder. His fingers just barely graze the fabric of her shirt. 

“Yeah, Pen. I know.” 

She should be used to this by now. Colin is her friend. His touch is innocent, always. It doesn’t matter if her breath quickens when his body settles against hers. It doesn’t matter if her skin burns beneath his lightest touch. None of this matters to Colin — at least not in the way that it matters to her. 

She lasts about 25 seconds before squirming out of his hold. She scoots back a few inches and turns so her entire front faces him. “What’s the distance between Cheltenham and Cambridge again?” she asks, as if the exact mileage has not been burned into her brain for months. 

Colin scowls. “200 kilometres. Give or take.” 

Penelope nods. Mayfair and Eton were only 35 kilometres apart. There were times over the last two years where it felt as though Eton may as well have been located on the moon.

“Chin up, Pen,” he says, his demeanour already lightening up. “It’s the twenty-first century. We can always Skype.” 

“I know…” She raises her bottle, letting the glass rim rest against her lips. She can’t bring herself to take another sip, though. “Even then, I’ll still miss you.” 

“Well, obviously,” he says through a smirk. Penelope scoffs, hiding her own smile behind her hand. 

Charm and arrogance do tend to come hand and hand. 

“That’s —”

“I’ll miss you, too. Obviously. But that’s no reason to stay home and prevent ourselves from reaching our full potentials. We owe it to the world, Pen. We can’t possibly be that selfish.” 

In the time that it takes Penelope to think of a single sensical response to that, Colin goes to take another swig, comes up empty, then peers one eye into his bottle to confirm its lack. 

“I sup—”

“To Cheltenham.” With that, he raises his bottle towards her. 

Penelope smiles. Resisting the urge to remind him that toasting with an empty glass is bad luck, she clinks the butt of her bottle against his. Hers is still half-full. 

“To Cambridge.” 

The quiet returns. It sits between them for a while. Penelope likes it. 

She likes it all. 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

After spending an hour on the roof and beneath the stars, Colin and Penelope return to the spot where their night had started. The back garden has become less crowded, but only slightly so. She still has to look where she steps as they weave between the other bodies in the crowd. 

“Bloody hell,” Penelope curses, ducking to avoid the crushed beer can hurdling towards her head. Inadvertently, her movement causes the aluminium can to strike Colin’s shoulder instead. “Shit! Sor—”

“You okay?” he asks, pulling her into his side even closer than she already was. His hand hadn’t left hers since he helped her climb back inside through the window five minutes ago. (She spent those five minutes praying that Colin attributes her sweaty palms to nothing more than the August humidity.)

“Of course. Are you okay?”

Colin’s smile makes a reappearance as his hand gives Penelope’s a gentle squeeze. 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

Suddenly fully cognizant of just how slimy her palm has gotten with her own sweat, Penelope pulls it out of Colin’s grasp. She raises all ten of her fingers to the sky and hopes her forced smile will distract from the pink of her cheeks. 

“Fair point. Why wouldn’t you be having an amazing time at an amazing party like this?”

Colin laughs. He uses the hand that was holding hers just a second ago to run his fingers through his hair. 

“You mean the one we were just hiding from for an —” 

“Wait — Colin,” Penelope interrupts. On principle, she typically tries to avoid doing that, but alarm bells are ringing in her mind again. This time, for a different Bridgerton sibling. 

“Have you seen Eloise anywhere? It’s been like two hours since I last talked to her. I hope she doesn’t —” 

“Yeah,” Colin interrupts — a more common occurrence on his part. He rolls his eyes. “We passed her inside. She was in queue for the loo.” 

“Oh,” she sighs, a bit confused by his sudden change in demeanour. “So she was by herself?”

Colin does not respond with words. First, his face contorts into an expression that falls somewhere between embarrassment and disgust. Then, he shakes his head. 

“Oh.”

At least one of us is getting lucky tonight. 

For a moment, the two of them stand side-by-side. Neither looks at the other. Neither knows what to do with their hands. They both listen — Penelope to the people, Colin to the music. They open their mouths at the same exact time. 

“We should go ba—” 

“Do you hear that?” 

“Hmm?” Penelope mumbles, eyebrows shooting up. She has already forgotten what it was that she was about to say.

Colin smiles at her, just as he did a hundred different times in the past hour. It’s annoying how every single one of them has made her stomach flutter.

“It’s our song.” 

Eyebrows shooting downwards in confusion, Penelope attempts to filter out the shrieks and gasps and fights and drama around them and just hear the song in question. Within seconds, she recognizes the familiar notes in the air. 

“This is not ‘our song,’” she tells him, voice definitive. 

“Sure it is.” 

Before she can get another word in, his hand is in hers again. He’s pulling her towards the other side of the garden, where the music is louder and a small group of people sway to the beat. 

“What are you doing?” She hates how shrill her voice sounds, but she doesn’t like the outcome he is pulling them towards, either. 

Dragging her forward with a tightening grip, Colin spares a glance over his shoulder. “We’re dancing,” he says, as if the answer is obvious. Or at all sensical.

“No we’re not,” Penelope insists, but only with her voice. She makes no attempt at standing her literal ground against him, her footsteps trailing closely behind his. Their intended destination is less than five feet away now. 

“Sure we are.” 

That’s the end of it; as soon as the words leave his lips, they’re on the little patch of grass that will serve as their dance floor. Colin falls into position immediately, one hand grabbing hers, the other landing delicately on her waist. Penelope is slower, but ultimately compliant. Her right hand matches his grip while her left hooks onto his shoulder. 

Their feet start moving beneath them and, at first, it’s not so bad. They’ve danced like this a few times before. (Three times, to be exact — at his cousin’s wedding, New Year’s Eve 2010, and that one time at Aubrey Hall.) With each instance, it becomes a little more natural — a little easier. A little. 

Other than the places where their hands lie, their bodies remain separate by about a foot. But god — her skin is just so hot beneath his touch. The cloth between her waist and his palm feels like it’s about to go up in smoke. 

Attempting to distract herself from his touch, Penelope tilts her chin up and asks the first question that pops into her mind. 

“Do they teach you young men how to dance at Eton?” 

“Why do you ask?” He looks down at her with a familiar smile gracing his lips. Then, he wiggles his eyebrows in that childish way that instantly takes her back to a time when his touch felt so innocent. “Have I improved since last summer?” 

In truth, Penelope can’t quite remember what point she had been trying to make. Her brain is so hazy that it’s possible she never had one to begin with. Nevertheless, she continues forward, pushing words out of her mouth too fast for her mind to stop her. 

“No… But there’s always Cambridge. Perhaps they can give you some useful pointers.” 

Unphased by her teasing, Colin leans in a bit closer, a smirk on his lips. 

“Don’t act like I’m not your favourite dance partner,” he tells her. 

With that, it becomes painfully evident to Penelope that any attempt to neutralise this situation with words will ultimately fail her. Lips disappearing into her mouth, she smiles up at Colin and gives him the faintest nod of her head. 

With her lips sealed tight, Penelope’s mind cannot help but linger on Colin’s hands — on the parts of her he holds so carefully. On her waist, separated by a fabric too thin to dampen the startling effect of his touch. On her right palm, pressed flat against his and growing damper with each passing second. On her left hand, suddenly drawn away from his shoulder so he can guide her away from him and twirl her back just as quickly. On her lower back, where his right hand settles far more firmly than it had on her waist. 

Now, their bodies aren’t so disconnected. 

Even though she can no longer use her voice to do so, Penelope feels an inherent need to protest this insane, silly, embarrassing situation. One Colin quite literally dragged her into. 

Looking up, she attempts to protest with her eyes alone. In response, all she gets is that goddamn smile of his. It’s maddening. She tilts her head into his shoulder, just to give her eyes and heart a reprieve from its most detrimental effects. 

They didn’t start dancing until nearly halfway through the song. It’s almost over now, which should make Penelope happy. She should be grateful for this fact. She should thank the universe for delaying their start, because at least that means the ending will come quicker. That she will spend less time doing something so embarrassing while surrounded by a group of her peers. That she will spend less time reminding herself that Colin is just her friend, while also being tucked into his chest and held tightly in his arms. But as the music picks up speed again, she isn’t happy or grateful. 

She’s bitter. 

She’s greedy.

Penelope Featherington may be a realist, but she’s equal parts a willing fool. She wishes this could continue on forever. 

But she can’t wish for that, can she?

You’ve danced with him like this before. This is nothing new.

He’s your friend. He’s only ever treated you like a friend.

You had one beer. Your head should not be spinning this badly.

He’ll never —

“Pen?” 

“Hmm?” 

With her head still very much spinning, Penelope lifts her cheek off his chest and looks up. Thankfully, his smile has since dropped. His face is almost neutral now. 

“Thanks for coming tonight.” 

“Oh,” she whispers, mind barely beginning to clear. “You don’t have to thank m—”

“No, I do,” Colin insists. The faintest hint of a smile reappears on his lips. “For full transparency, it was for purely selfish reasons. I would have been miserable, had I been forced to endure Fife’s bollocks stories all night.” 

Penelope laughs. It’s only half forced. 

“Oh! Are you saying you like me more than Cornelius Fife? I’m honoured. Truly.” 

Her tongue had been heavy with sarcasm, but for a moment, Penelope wonders if she should have laid it on even stronger. Colin is squinting at her like she just said something deeply offensive. 

“I —”

Before she can finish that sentence, Penelope’s mouth is muffled by the cloth of Colin’s shirt. Once again, her face is positioned against his chest and out of his view. Unlike last time, the change in position had not been her decision. 

His right arm is slung around her shoulders, pulling the two of them into a position not too different from a hug. But while Colin and Penelope have hugged plenty of times before, he has never held her quite like this. Like he’s scared she’ll slip away from him at any moment. 

“I like you more than everyone,” he belatedly answers. There isn’t a single drop of sarcasm on his tongue. 

For what little life is left of their dance, Penelope can’t summon the strength to lift her cheek from his chest. She can’t bring herself to say another word. She can’t even force herself to repeat the words in her head that have just barely allowed her to remain sane while in situations like this before. Instead, she listens intently to the music, hoping and praying that it will drown out everything else inside her. 

Look how they shine for you

Look how they shine for you

Look how they shine

“Pen!”

Before the song can reach its final note, it’s over. 

She literally jumps out of Colin’s embrace, taking several steps away from him before her mind can even register what is happening. With wide, guilty eyes, Penelope turns towards the person who had just called out for her. 

“El! It’s not —”

“Oh my god, Pen! I can’t believe I tried to weasel myself out of coming here. You will never believe what I was doing all night. Or who I was doing it wi—”

“Dear God, Eloise,” Colin grumbles rather loudly from out of view behind her. 

In a flash, Eloise’s eyes go even wider than Penelope’s. Apparently, just now realising that her older brother stands before her. 

“Colin?! When did you —” 

Cutting off her own words with a huff, Eloise rolls her eyes, then turns them back to Penelope. 

“Nevermind. Pen — let’s go get chips. I have so much to tell you about!” 

With that, Eloise wraps her fingers around Penelope’s wrist. In the split second before she gets pulled away, she looks over to Colin again. 

It takes everything in her to meet his eye. When she does, she can’t help but see longing staring back at her. She can’t help but wonder if her eyes are playing tricks on her — inventing a mirror where there isn’t one. 

“Goodnight,” she barely manages to say. Using the hand not currently being strangled in Eloise’s death grip, she gives him the most pitiful wave that has ever been waved. 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

At 12:16 AM, Penelope and Eloise step out of their first house party. To Eloise, night had been a dream. To Penelope, a brief detour into purgatory. 

As Eloise recounts her magical night with the boy she’s been obsessing over all year, Penelope tries to forget the one she shared with the boy she’s loved her entire life. She does her best to ignore the dread boiling in her stomach and simply be happy for her friend. 

“I can’t believe I ever doubted you,” Eloise exclaims, laughter light on her lips. “Tonight was fun.” 

“That’s great, El.” Penelope tries to match Eloise’s light tone, but her words practically pour from her lips and fall to the ground between them. 

Eloise squeezes her hand, still locked in the death grip from several minutes ago. Penelope doesn’t have the heart to turn her head and look her best friend in the eye. At best, she’ll see nothing. At worst, pity.

“What did y—” 

“How did you make things happen with Theo?” Penelope interrupts. On principle, she typically tries to avoid doing that. “Didn’t you say that you always chicken out when trying to push things forward with him?”

“Oh.” Eloise chuckles nervously. “I don’t know, honestly. I sort of just said ‘fuck it.’” 

“‘Fuck it?’” Penelope repeats. 

“Yeah. You’re right. I spent the entire past year pining after him like a pathetic little school girl, too scared to make anything happen. Tonight, I saw him across the garden and it just hit me. I’m leaving for Cheltenham, he’s staying in London. I might never get a chance with him again. Why not get out of my own head and just go for it?” 

Eloise laughs again. This time, she sounds victorious. 

“And it actually worked! Can you believe it?!” 

It was a rhetorical question, but Penelope cannot help but whisper, “No.” Eloise doesn’t hear her say it, launching back into her retelling of the night. 

Quickly, Penelope doesn’t hear Eloise either, very much stuck inside her own head. 

Penelope has loved Colin her entire life. She has loved him since before she knew “love” was the right word for it — for this longing that has been erected inside her soul. She has loved him long enough to know that this love wasn’t built to fade, even if it is never returned. She has loved him madly enough to pick up tricks that make things bearable — that makes the inevitable heartbreak of love easier to live in. 

Since the moment she realised it was love, she has repeated the same string of ten words back to herself whenever things get especially hard. Whenever she risks losing sight of her circumstances. 

He’ll never love you the way you want him to. 

Those ten words had saved their friendship. They made it possible for Penelope to exist in such close proximity to him as nothing more than a friend. They prevented her from wanting even more than she already did. 

But god. What if she has been wrong this entire time? What if those words — repeated back to herself even more than usual tonight — were just that. Words. 

What if she had spent so much time in her own head that she failed to see what was right in front of her? To pay attention to the words and actions that actually meant something. 

The way his fingers gripped onto her shoulder when he introduced her to his friends. 

Back off Fife.

That look in his eye when they sat on the roof together. 

I happen to quite like ‘Penelope Featherington.’

How he pulled her into him when they danced together. 

I like you more than —

“Pen!”

She stops dead in her tracks, only now realising that Eloise had stopped moments ago while her feet had kept walking. 

“Oh! Sorry, I just…” 

Eloise laughs, then strides four steps to bridge the gap between them. 

“One too many drinks tonight, Featherington?” 

“Something like that,” she mumbles. When Eloise interlocks their fingers and starts to guide them forward again, Penelope doesn’t move. 

“Speaking of which — I just realised, I really need to use the loo. I’ll run back inside. Can you wait for me here?”

With a tiny scowl pulling at her lips, Eloise reminds her that they have toilets at the chip shop.

“I know, it’s just kind of an emergency and the shop is —” 

“Yes, right — of course. You go, I’ll wait here.” 

With that, she turns on her heel and retraces her steps to the party. 

For the first time in her life, Penelope Featherington runs headfirst into a disastrous situation without a plan in sight. 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The garden is slightly less packed than it had been when Eloise dragged her out of it. Which is to say, much more crowded than Penelope would like it to be. 

She doesn’t spot him right away, but after agreeing on just how unbearable the stench inside was, Penelope can’t imagine he’s anywhere else at this party. She lifts herself onto the balls of her feet, but it gives her just as much advantage as one could expect from someone as short as her. (None.) 

She continues forward, paying special attention to where her feet land in the crowd. She flicks her eyes up, looking for his outline against the rest. She keeps her eyes pointed outwards, searching for that familiar drawl. She does an entire loop around the garden and comes up empty. Just as she begins to rethink her strategy, she hears something familiar. Not Colin’s voice, but…

“Penelope Featherington?” 

She jumps around at the sound of her own name. It had sounded far away, as if it had not been intended for her ears to take in. 

It hadn’t been. No — it had been intended for Colin, she realises once her eyes finally spot him. He’s standing with those five dickheads he had introduced her to earlier in the night.

“The way you were dancing with her looked rather… interesting” Fife continues, practically shouting in Colin’s ears. They’re both turned away from her, a few metres off, but his words cut clear through the music and all other chaos. “Are you two —”

“No. No way, mate,” Colin interrupts. Of all the things he could do next… 

He laughs.

“You sure you haven’t been keeping her from us this whole time?” His other friend cuts in — Louis, if she remembers correctly. 

“Are you mad?” Colin interrupts again, another laugh ringing into the air. “I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.” 

Another one of his friends — the Scottish one — says something else. Another joke. Penelope doesn’t hear it, though. There isn’t anything else she needs to hear. 

Those ten words repeat again and again and again in her mind.

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

They ring in her ears as tears well in her eyes and drip down her cheeks. Those tears don’t stop, nearly blinding her as she carelessly pushes past all the people who stand between her and the exit. 

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

The way he said it — how his laugh rang out just before… Like it was a joke. Not that the words themselves contained the punchline — what he said was true. 

No. She was the joke here. 

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

A fact. One she never wanted to hear, but will eventually grip onto for dear life. 

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

“I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.” Bullshit. 

It will take Colin several years to finally understand and accept the true depth of his feelings for Penelope. But even in this moment — standing amongst five fellow dickheads in Fife’s back garden — he can recognize the taste of bullshit when it falls from his own lips. 

As Fife challenges Michael to “another” pissing contest, Colin staggers off to the side of the group. He finds the nearest bottle of clear liquid and raises it to his lips; he grimaces, but only after realising that not even vodka can dispel that taste from his mouth. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single substance at this party Colin could ingest that would make what he just said taste like anything other than bullshit. Not after everything else he had done tonight. 

Not after he lurched forward to place his body between her and Fife, after that bastard bumped into her. How he placed his arm around her and wanted Fife to get the message that she was not his to take. 

Not after his eyes lingered on her chest every time she turned away from him while up on that rooftop. That he was ready to murder each one of his “friends” earlier in the night for doing the exact same thing. How his eyes had refused to comply with his brain, reminding him that Penelope is just his friend.

Not after he pulled her in close while they were dancing together. How he felt it necessary to shield her eyes from his own, fearing they would reveal how desperately he wanted her. How he wanted to hold her even closer and never let her go.

Then, she let go. And Colin went back to his “friends.” 

There is nothing in this world that could convince Colin that what he said about Penelope wasn’t wrong. But there is no short supply of substances that can make him forget he said it in the first place. 

The vodka tastes bitter; he shoots it back desperately.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Colin lets out a groan so loud that Penelope can practically feel it from where she sits on the other end of the rug.

“God, I was such a fucking dickhead.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He scoffs. “I’m being hard on my younger self because he was a dickhead.” 

“Maybe,” Penelope relents, knowing this conversation could play on loop forever if she doesn’t. “But hey — better he than you. We should be thankful that we both changed and grew out of our younger selves. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here playing your silly little game. ” 

He scoffs, again. “‘My’ silly little game? You —”

“On the other hand,” Penelope interrupts. She typically tries to avoid doing that, but she does have good reason for it. She’s just had somewhat of a revelation. “Your words that night still ring true to this day.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Colin asks, aghast. 

“Why did you suggest we play this game again?”

“Because I love y—”

“Oh right — it was because you consider the idea of dating me ‘silly’ and ‘unnecessary.’”

Colin scoffs again, although Penelope suspects that this time he’s just trying to cover up a laugh.

“From a respected, ‘honourable’ journalist such as yourself, I would not expect to be misquoted in such bad faith.” 

“Oh shush,” Penelope orders, biting back her own laugh. “What’s next?”

[okaybooner]

[Leigh is silent for a moment. It seems too obvious to point out that nobody has ever said anything like this about her before, let alone said it and meant it, and she knows that Boone doesn't tell lies or give fake compliments to earn favors. Boone believes in her... Her first instinct is to playfully insist this isn't about her, they were talking about Boone--but, well, she was the one who asked. It's odd to find herself completely at a loss lke this, knowing that what she's feeling is so much larger and warmer than any words could begin to describe. Maybe the right words do exist, she just doesn't know them--never thought she would need them. A smile always feels rehearsed, and Boone never expects her to perform normative gestures, but she knows the affection and wonder must be showing in her eyes and on her skin, and if so, Boone has to see that.]

[She has to say something, though, not just stare.]

Maybe it was destiny, and maybe it was just the right outcome of the chaos of countless choices and events and circumstances affecting one another and leading to our meeting.

[Maybe those are one and the same thing. The result is the same. It feels significant either way.]

I'm grateful for it either way. Well, I'm pretty sure it's why I'm even still here, given that you saved my life on more than one occasion, but it's more than that, of course.

I--... I still don't fully understand what makes you think I'm so special. Maybe I'm not meant to understand, and instead just know that you mean it--and I do know. I hope that I can make you happy. You make me happy.

And I feel like there is still a lot about you I don't know or understand, because of how complex it is to be a human being. But that doesn't scare me at all, because it's you. I know we're going to stay together, and this means we will inevitably change along the way--I'm excited to see that. It'll be you, it'll be with you.

[he seems a touch bashful] i wish i could explain it more. like you said... i'm not the best with my words. and yeah, it is frustrating. but i also haven't talked like this with anyone in.... a long time. [if ever] so...

[boone hesitates before reaching out to grasp her hand in a hold that is slightly forced in its sturdiness. that feels safer, friendlier, more polite than the gentle touch he wants to give her]

[he opens his mouth to ask a question, a stupid question, but clamps it shut at once. being raised a boy, being denied physical affection from anyone but your significant other, it fries your brain and it paralyzes you. this closeness with a friend - a female friend - is new. and confusing. and a little heartachey. but whatever it is, he wants it and needs more of it. and anyway, he is too exhausted to push her away like he does everyone else. she is so damn stubborn - an easing, prodding, matter-of-fact, kind stubbornness rarely seen - it wouldn't work regardless.]

[he can't say he's not scared the same way she can. but he's here and he's not leaving. that doesn't even present itself as an option in his mind]

[wkandaforever]

the reason it bothers me so much when people say "namor killed shuri's mom" is because that statement is built upon so many assumptions it ends up presenting a false dichotomy and almost completely ignores the characters and the messages in this film

"namor killed shuri's mom" implies that namor, aka the villain, intended to kill the queen, aka the victim. how did he do it? he threw a water bomb at her, and she drowned. end of story. but a recurring theme in this movie is that the how is never as important as the why

we've been following shuri's arc since the beginning of this film, she's going through immense grief, she lost a significant member of her family, and her mother is the only person who she has left, the only person who truly understands her. so when she loses her last pillar of support, she is enraged, and her anger is justified. we empathise with her, when she says she wants to burn the world, when she feels abandoned by her entire family in the ancestral plane, when she says "is my mother's life not worth eternal war?" we believe her when she says namor killed her mother

but we don't get to see the story through namor's perspective, all we have is bits and pieces of information about who the talokanil are based on their introduction as sirens and warriors and their history through namor's own words. but when you begin putting the pieces of the puzzle together you realise just how human the talokanil are. i've spoken before about how envious namor must be of wakanda because of the privilege they hold over talokan. and because the talokanil have faced a lot more adversity than wakanda could ever imagine, they are always prepared for war. they are not oblivious to the truth. colonisation is not a thing of the past. so they have two main motivations, and namor needs to uphold these laws by any and all means necessary: 1) protect their people and resources, and 2) remain hidden

but despite namor's underlying resentment towards wakanda, despite him having more soldiers than wakanda has blades of grass, the first thing he offers them is an alliance. he offers them trust. he shares his story, his land, his people with shuri. he offers her an explanation for his intentions, and speaks to shuri in hopes that she can understand him. and what does shuri do with this gracious offering? she tramples all over it. she betrays his trust, shatters his last ray of hope

we know that shuri tried to stop nakia, asked for her kimoyo beads, tried to save the talokanil guard till the very last moment, knew her death would be seen as an act of war. but namor doesn't see any of it. namor only knows that he failed. he lost his child. to a god, everyone of his children are equal. losing one doesn't hurt any less than losing any more. but his hope blinded him into compromising both of the two laws he was obligated to maintain. so all of the pain, the loss, the grief, and the envy he was repressing this whole time bubbles up to the surface and he thinks to himself, "is my child's life not worth eternal war?"

so namor gives up on his ideas of alliance, attacks wakanda, and intends to kill the scientist. make up for his wrongs by carrying out his initial plan. consumed by vengeance he obliterates everything blocking his path, finds the scientist, sees the queen trying to protect her, doesn't care, and attacks them both

the queen is not a victim. the queen is a saviour. when she first hears about the talokanil attacks she tries to protect shuri by trying to confine her in her lab. then she uses her entire body to shield riri, yells at her to escape but when riri doesn't, she sacrifices herself to prevent her from drowning

and what has shuri been doing this whole time apart from hiding in her lab and rejecting every one of her mother's attempts to reach out to her? she knows that war is coming yet does not prepare reinforcements for the queen. in fact the last thing she does before she loses her mother is hang up on her. but none of these actions seem evil to us. they make sense, we understand her, we get why. she was grieving

but so was namor. wasn't namor grieving too? for more than 500 years?

even killmonger, with all his rage, has the clarity to see what shuri doesn't, that the situation isn't as black and white as it seems. when shuri says "namor killed my mother", he warns shuri against dishonouring her mother by ignoring her voluntary act of sacrifice and labelling her a victim, dying at the hands of a monster, all in vain. he acknowledges queen ramonda's sacrifice, and drive's shuri to avenge her mother's wrongful death. and shuri listens to him, and continues on the cycle of violence. namor attacked wakanda? shuri attacks talokan. eye for an eye

shuri didn't intend to kill the talokanil guard and escape, she intended to come up with a peaceful resolution. namor didn't intend to kill the queen, he intended to ally with wakanda. intentions, motivations, reasons why people do what they do, all of it matters. they are what separate humans from monsters. it's easy to see someone as the hero and the other as the villain when you understand only one side. but it's never that simple, is it?

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Elrond and Gil Galad short fic

Gil Galad was stirred from his paperwork by a dagger imbedding itself into his desk. He had already started the ridiculously familiar phrase of ‘Elrond,knives, we’ve talked about this’ when he looked up at Elrond’s face and stopped. He tried to discreetly see the piece of paperwork that had been slammed onto his desk with said knife. Ah. So this was how he died.

‘What,’ Elrond’s voice was calm and pleasant sounding yet still managed to shake with rage, ‘Is this piece of bigoted bile that lies before me, and why may I ask is your seal beside it.’ He should have been expecting this he supposes. He tries to offer an explanation but is intercepted instantly by Elrond’s voice rattling off the contents of the cursed document as if he were talking about the weather. ‘It has been passed into law that for the purpose of diplomacy, any members of Lindon’s diplomatic delegation may be denied participation on any embassy based on possible offence to the customs of the people in question’. ‘That’s only a summary of it there are numerous clauses-’, but he stopped knowing it was fruitless.

‘This is an invitation to put numerous elleths and members of same sex relationships out of the job and you know it,’ he stated as if Gil Galad hadn’t said anything, accompanied by a glare that contained somehow more threat than the fact that Elrond’s hand was still resting on the hilt of the dagger. ‘ Its plausible that you might have thought you could slide it by without raising too much public awareness, you are generally capable of discretion, but the idea that you thought I wouldn’t find out about it is laughable.’ This is perfectly true. He knows that through various back channels and connections in every faction little goes on in the world that Elrond doesn’t find out about. He’d never had this work against him before, it had helped him on numerous matters before and cut down the time needed to explain things, but then he’d never tried to conceal something from him before.

‘And why would you not want me to know? I refuse to believe I could be so poor a judge of character to support a king who held this kind of prejudice so why wouldn’t you let me help you work around it?’ he looked betrayed now and made Gil Galad feel sick to his stomach. He knew how much work had been needed to get any sort of trust from the Peredhel, with good reason considering how most of his relationships with his family had gone. The idea that he could have undone that progress was terrifying. He knew lying would make the situation so much worse and so finally decided the truth was his only hope.

‘There was significant pressure from the Numenoreans on the matter. They threatened to cut of all links and we need them Elrond. We would not have won without them and you’ve told me yourself we’ll need them again.’ Elrond went very still for a moment and when he spoke his voice was slow and dangerous ‘Do you realise, how much worse that makes it’. ‘Elros,’ and there it was the word that had been left unsaid but very much present in so many conversations ‘Has been dead for over a century’. And now this conversation was in the most dangerous territory yet, ‘I am insulted that you think I am too emotionally compromised to offer council on an entire country because my brothers descendants have adopted some messed up ideologies. What did you think I was going to do when I heard hmm? Were you worried I’d fling myself off a cliff? Sail away and never come back?’. ‘You can’t plan to convince me you’ve healed from all of it. I know you better than that.’ ‘Well I thought you did! Don’t you think if I was planning to do any of those things I’d have done them by now? I’ve had a century without Elros and numerous points over my life in much worse positions than I am now and I’m still here aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere anytime soon I’d appreciate not being treated like I’m so delicate I’ll break at any moment.’

‘Your right. I’m sorry, I should never have signed it and I certainly should have concealed it from you. I broke your trust and I understand if you hate me for it.’ he reached out and took his hand looking into his herald’s eyes unflinchingly. The anger had almost evaporated leaving a weariness and pain that had been beneath all the Peredhel’s actions of late. But there was strength as well. So much strength made even more so with the pain. He felt that the eyes were looking into his very soul and seeing all of it more clearly than he himself could. Knowing Elrond he probably was.

But Elrond must have been satisfied by what he saw because he released his hand to straighten his robes and spoke ‘Good. Well I suppose we should get to work than at reversing this thing. May sway in Numenorean politics is clearly not what it used to be but it is not nothing. If we pull on the right connections I think we can devise a strategy to reverse this thing without anyone being the wiser.’

And Gil Galad breathed a sigh of relief. Why he would ever think he could manage this without Elrond he didn’t know. They fell into their old routine and in a few weeks it was as if nothing had happened. He was seriously questioning how his guards hadn’t noticed the dagger though.

[moviesessionwithmyhubby]

Everything Everywhere All Within Me

I still remember the Oscar ceremony that took place earlier this year. It was back then a topic of great discussion among those in my area, with much chatter revolving around two notable films: "Everything Everywhere all at once" and "The Whale." Naturally, the conversation revolved around the captivating and remarkable plots of the movies. Furthermore, the conversation delved into the esteemed actors and actresses who graced the screens in both of these cinematic masterpieces. What was it that made these actors so special? It wasn't just because Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan and Brendan had endured years in the shadows, but also because they once shone so brightly, brimming with potential. Like Michelle Yeoh said when she won Best Actress award for Evelyn role in “Everything everywhere all at once”:  “This is proof that dream big, and dreams do come true. And ladies, don’t let anybody tell you that you are ever past your prime. Never give up.” Or Brendan Fraser said when he won Best Actor award for Charlie role in “The Whale”: “I started in this business 30 years ago. And things, they didn’t come easily to me, but there was a facility that I didn’t appreciate at the time until it stopped.”  They are all the star of a glorious past, destined for a limitless future. Ke Huy Quan's significant part in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" when he was 12 years old should have paved the way for a successful acting career. Being crowned as Miss Malaysia in 1983 and attending the popular film "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragons" in 2000 should have opened the large door to Hollywood and Michelle Yeoh's career. Brendan was intended to be a great star for action movies in Hollywood with the smash series The Mummy. But all of this didn’t happen. Their life and career path should have been wonderful right? Given their ability, skills, determination and a good start. Starting out on the right foot, as they say, leads to a good voyage. But, I suppose, life, like a movie, has a way of delivering unexpected plot twists at any time. Some of the twists come from above, the Almighty. Some other twists are often the result of our own decisions, whether deliberate or compelled, that lead us down the unexpected road despite our best intentions. When I received a very good score in the high school entrance exams and was accepted into one of the best high schools in town, my parents and relatives all said that I would be extremely successful someday. When I passed two universities, my parents, relatives, and uncles all said that I would become somebody significant. And I, for one, believed in it. Until I got my French Linguistics bachelor's degree and didn't know what to do with it to make money or get a decent career. Or until one day I realized the career path I had diligently pursued all this while was not aligned with my true calling. It failed to ignite a sense of passion within me; instead, I found myself akin to a fish floundering in the mud, rather than reveling in the freedom of the water. There were some moments I did think that I had failed myself, and I tried to make it right via my actions, but with each decision, I felt like my life was slipping more and more off course, despite the fact that I had gotten off to a good start. Just like Evelyn in "Everything Everywhere All at Once". The central idea behind "Everything Everywhere All at Once" revolves around the notion of choices and their profound impact on one's life. What is the pivotal moment in Evelyn's life that she wishes she could have done differently? Against her father's wishes, she made the bold decision to embark on a new life in the United States alongside Waymond. Her heart was captivated by the alluring allure of the American dream, a vision that had long danced in her dreams. However, at present, Evelyn finds herself in the role of an overworked mother, tasked with the delicate balancing act of managing a struggling laundromat business while also tending to the needs of her father, Gong Gong. The weight of these responsibilities has taken its toll, resulting in heightened levels of stress and tension. And upon a profound reflection, she came to realize that the life she currently led was far from the one she had envisioned. In many of my previous articles, I wrote about the influence of my parents' expectations and societal norms on my personal development. I didn’t want to disappoint my parents, nor did I wish to fall short of societal expectations. But there is a part of me that believes, at the core of my being, I don’t want to disappoint myself the most. I believe that with each passing moment, every decision we make is a sincere endeavor towards achieving success and creating a promising future. Sometimes, the choices we make lead to triumph, while on other occasions, they steer us towards an unforeseen trajectory. And in instances where the outcome diverges greatly from our initial expectations, it is typical for us to seek solace within the protective embrace of a cocoon, which is fabriced by self-shame and self-esteem. The feeling of shame that arises when we fail ourselves and the desire to protect our self-esteem by concealing our failures from others. And we continue to reside within that cocoon which appears robust to the external eyes, yet harbors a delicate vulnerability within. Similar to the character Evelyn in the movie, she holds a deep dissatisfaction with her life and the reality she finds herself in. She regrets the decision she made to relocate to the United States, yet she remains fiercely protective of her cocoon. She doesn’t want others to perceive her choice as a grave mistake. But when her husband reveals his desire for a divorce, her cocoon begins to crumble, and she starts embarking on a journey through alternate realities where she opted to stay in China. Because for her, that is the pivot moment where everything went wrong. If she were not currently a struggling and unhappy wife in the United States, she would aspire to pursue a career as a chef, or a renowned singer, or even a skilled master of kung-fu. Like we can see in her other universes.  “You have so many goals you never finished. Dreams you never followed. You are living your worst you.” - Alpha Waymond said In that very moment, Evelyn found herself obliged to admit that her endeavors did not result in the success she had aspired to achieve. She had not made the wise choices she had anticipated, and, most dishearteningly, her life had not unfolded with the brilliance as she had thought it should be, and she let herself stuck in this unhappy version. I was also living in my own cocoon. When my husband asked whether I had any regrets, I replied I wished I hadn't studied French linguistics, that I hadn't pursued a profession as a project manager, and that I had done things differently. I occasionally imagine other possibilities, much like Evelyn did when she traveled across multi-universes and met her other selves and saw her other outcomes. You know, there are times in my life when I wish I could reset everything, I reflect on my past actions and find myself wishing for a different outcome, I consider the choices I've made and imagine alternate paths I could have taken. Just like Evelyn.

But what Evelyn and I were unaware of at that time was that when the cocoon collapses, it is not a negative occurrence. In fact, it is quite the opposite, as without the breaking of the cocoon, our beautiful butterfly wings would be unable to open and display their beauty. When Evelyn ceased her search for alternative outcomes in other universes and instead embraced her present situation along with all the choices she had made, she ultimately discovered a means to rescue her daughter Joy and restore harmony within her relationship with her husband. Or like Brenda Faser, after all of the struggling in the mud, after all of the rejection during his career path, Brenda still rose above it all and ultimately emerged victorious, earning the highly esteemed Oscar award. Or like Ke Huy Quan said when he won Best Supporting Actor for Waymond role in “Everything everywhere all at once”: “Dreams are something you have to believe in. I almost gave up on mine. To all of you out there, please keep your dreams alive.” I still wholeheartedly embrace every experience I've had, for the choices I've made that shape the very essence of my being in the present. Despite the lack of success I encountered in my career over the past six years, I have found contentment in my current pursuit as a writer and YouTuber. Although uncertain of where this path may ultimately lead, I am genuinely pleased with the direction I am heading.

But I know this is not a happy ending, not yet. Inevitably, we shall encounter challenges once more, and regrettably, we may find ourselves making wrong choices once again, leading to potential failures in our endeavors. Because  But now I have come to believe that failure is not something to be feared. If we allow fear to hinder our progress, if we are too afraid to go ahead, we will be deprived of any opportunities, whether they be opportunities for success or even opportunities for failure.

Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan, and Brendan Fraser, they possess an unwavering determination that knows no bounds. Despite experiencing numerous rejections in both their personal and professional lives, and making several choices in the hopes of paving a path to success, only to find themselves in unfavorable circumstances. They persist in their onward movement.

I believe life can be likened to a vast ocean, continuously filled with waves, while we, as individuals, are akin to the grains of sand scattered along its shores. As the rhythmic tides and surges of the ocean persists, each wave gracefully approaches the shore, caresses the soft grains of sand, and then flees, making way for the next wave to follow suit. This mesmerizing cycle continues, wave after wave, in a harmonious dance with the shoreline. As the wave gracefully approaches the shore, it delicately caresses the sand, inevitably carrying a small portion of it back into the vast expanse of the ocean. In return, it leaves behind a gentle residue of its aqueous essence, moistening the grains of sand. However, despite the countless waves from the powerful ocean, the sand remains resolute, unwavering in its steadfastness. Similar to the multitude of challenges and failures that come to us throughout our life, it is inevitable that these failures will leave a permanent imprint upon us. They extract fragments of our joy and confidence, while leaving behind remains of self-doubt and fear. However, we shall remain still, akin to the grains of sand, as the radiant sun showers its warmth upon us, causing the sand to regain its dried-out state once more.