#just. the way it managed to capture the raw emotion of a conversation like that

[deeppenguinstudent]

something about how Jeremy has a passion for music and ends up singing at a local club with a very attractive yet mysterious bartender that amps up his fraysexual tendencies.

something about how jeremy, who was an addict to prozac and alcohol and was drowning in the prospect of never becoming a true musician battling his addiction so he can remain sober in the face of Jean aka the bartender.

something about how Jeremy writes lyrics and lyrics about Jean, his thoughts always drifting towards the teasing glint within his eyes, and he manages to write a song that caught the eye of a producer (Cough rhemann) that by happenstance came around.

Jeremy then is propositioned to write an album, which he does, and rhemann absolutely loves it. He gets the opportunity to go on tour, but he has to leave Jean behind, which leaves him reluctant at first but Jean kisses him and promises he'll be right where he left him.

After 6 months, Jeremy comes back to the bar, but what he sees shatters his heart. he sees Jean across the table from some guy. He tries to play it down by saying it's just a friend, but as Jean leans towards him and captures his lips, Jeremy knows he can't lie to himself anymore.

His music turns fickled with jealousy. It was still met with glee from his fans, but he drank and popped pills almost every day trying to get that damned image of Jean out of his mind. Jean finds him one day, beside the bar.

He attempts to make conversation, but Jeremy is feeling bitter, and he is so hurt. Jean was the one who told him to chase his friends, Jean was the one who promised him that he'd wait for him as they kissed their goodbyes, but he had already found another man.

Jean didn't seem remorseful. He just seemed melancholy. he says to Jeremy that one day, he'd look back and realise that Jean was the one that would hold him back. He didn't want him to choose between his career and Jean because either way, they'd both be unhappy.

Jean had a partner who chose his career over him. He did encourage him, but Kevin had left him with a shattered heart and that was not a situation Jean would like to repeat again. Especially since it would hurt more coming from Jeremy.

all my songs are about you. the good, the bad, the happy, the sad. jean I can't go one day without you in my mind and it's driving me mad.

he takes Jean home, and Jean sees the scrapped paper all filled with Jean's name. It was the first draft, after all - Jeremy needed to show his raw emotion.

Idk what happens after you decide

[findingnemosworld]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐤𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐬.

• 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 ( 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐤𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬 )

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐱𝐨𝐱𝐨

( when they said angst, my wind traveled to this song)

Ryan was everything she could ask for – the kind of man that carried himself with a unique aura that captured everyone around him, she met him at her friend’s engagement party, it was odd to be drawn to someone so quickly and yet Ryan was just that good at drawing people to him, a chat here and phone calls there paved way for several dates that assured her exactly why he was the one she’d been seeking, the missing puzzle in her story.

Her friends that were yet to find someone special were envious of her, how could have stumbled upon someone so sensible and quite incredible – not only that but he was a lawyer, and an overall the kind of man that might as well be akin to a fictional character written by a woman, he shows up at her door step with a bouquet of flowers, opens the car door for her, tells her everything she needs to hear and is attentive to any and all of her needs.

And yet, late at night – she lies in bed, wide awake and thinks of him.

You see, before Ryan — there was a man that she loved so dearly and wholeheartedly, the kind of man that like Ryan, was capable of charming his way into her heart; a man so enigmatic that to this day, he still left a mark on her so deep that every night before she sleeps, she thinks of him.

That man in question being none other than, Kostas Tsimikas.

Her relationship with the aforementioned male had lasted for nearly three years, stemming from the time she attended a Liverpool match with a friend and had for some odd reason according to her friend, captured the attention of the self proclaimed ‘Greek Scouser’ — She obviously didn’t think much of it and yet, true to her friend's words.

By some form of twisted fate, Kostas shows up at her work place one day, asking to purchase a piece of clothing — and to this day, she vividly recalls how relieved he was when he saw her.

Their dates were a few and far in between due to his hectic schedule yet she still appreciated any time she managed to spend with him, the phone calls and text messages while they had helped – had definitely been one of the roots that lead to the demise of their relationship.

You see, she was practical and lived her life by the book – she’d gotten everything she wanted and was only in search of a man to settle down with, a man she truly believed she could find in Kostas, only to be rather baffled and taken back by how little Kostas cared about commitment.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, her friend had told her that there were rare examples of committed footballers that have families – and the rest were … very much the opposite, yet she refused to believe that Kostas didn’t love her enough to want a future with her, as three years were sufficiently enough for them to see whether or not they were compatible.

Only it was the case of two souls that loved each other so dearly that it became deadly.

Like any relationship, there were arguments, fights and screams that would lead to Kostas storming out of the house at 𝟐𝐚𝐦 on a rainy night, she’d spend those few minutes cursing him into the void as well as cursing her heart for becoming so dependent on him that by the time he returns, it’s rollercoaster of talking to screaming to being in each other’s arms; lips harmoniously conversing in the language of passion and sincere raw emotions.

Kostas was insane, and for some reason that’s why she loved him, because he evokes the part of her she had worked so hard to bury.

Ryan was respectful of her space and never makes her wait for so long, whenever she was upset - he'd give her a chance to be wit her own thoughts, then work his way through the issues with a sense of serenity and calmness that often made her wonder if he possessed with any kind of bad bone in his body; her parents adored Ryan, her mother heaps praises of him, and her father was glad that she had found someone he can form a familial bond with him, every now and then she'd look at him feeling a sense of comfort.

And yet in the back of her mind, she yearns for him.

Kostas lived every day as if it was his last, you'd never know what runs through his mind unless you're up close - she yearns for every day they spent together, from arguing over what to eat, to finding herself entangled in his embrace, she yearns for the days where they would escape from the city during the weekends, arguing over which playlist they would use, to laughing over ludicrous arguments to fighting back again.

Kostas was frustrating, intoxicating and complicated in the most tragic and beautiful way possible, while she would mostly complain about that and attempt to advise him not to behave so reckless at times - she couldn't help but adore that part of him, the part that chooses to vicariously live life without thinking of the consequences that might follow.

Her parents did not hate Kostas, but they adored Ryan because he was conventional, he was the all around man that women desired, he made sense .. Kostas didn't, yet his love moved her more than Ryan ever did and no amount of fake smiles and sickeningly sweet words can convince her that Ryan is the one, he's merely a compromise she chose to make in order to appease her family, in order to silence the people that still wonder when she'll have her own kids and of course silence the voices inside of her mind, achingly demanding her to call Kostas.

Her heart, while it pumped blood - was barely working despite her attempts to get it to see Ryan for who he is, within the silence of her solitude, it beats for one and one man only, Kostas Tsimikas.

All of the yearning and nostalgia wouldn't matter anymore as tomorrow, she'd surrender herself entirely to Ryan.

______________________

Her reflection in the mirror was a well rounded façade, locks of hair cascading in neatly pinned waves splayed on her back - a soft and thin layer of make up that masked the stained cheeks from crying rivers upon rivers, a stunning dress that fit her like a glove and had the most gorgeous tail in the back, and a veil which will conceal her face as she is set to walk down the aisle in a matter of two hours, there was no going back, she couldn't run away from this despite wanting to - despite wanting to run back to him, she knew that he'd never want the same things as her.

And somehow, similar to how she first met him, by some form of twisted fate - her thoughts were broken by the creaking of the door, and enter, the subject of her thoughts over the past few weeks, the man she couldn't rid herself of despite not seeing him for three years, there stood Kostas dressed in a three piece suit with his hair slicked back, with an unreadable look in his eyes.

" Kostas " His name comes out as an audible whisper, she turns to face him. " What are you doing here? " she asks, even thought the answer is quite obvious, out of the kindness of her heart laced with an unexplainable sense of recklessness, she decided to invite him to her wedding, surely believing that he'd be too busy to even attend.

He twists the key to lock the door, then takes two steps until he stood in front of her.

For what felt like hours, he allows himself to take her in; the sight of her in a wedding dress nonetheless had tugged on his heartstrings, igniting the emotions he believed he had successfully rid himself of, watering the dead flower that was once blooming with her smile, he selfishly allowed himself to believe that in this moment, she was going to marry him. " You look heavenly " he whispers, his lips curve upwards in the faintest of smiles.

" Kos, you can't be here! " She whispers, attempting to remain as composed as she can; ignoring the sound of her own heartbeat that was thudding in her ears. " I'm getting married in less than two hours and if someone sees you here, they'll get the wrong message "

Kostas chuckles then shakes his head, " Always so rational, that's the way I loved you, you knew exactly what to do and say to get me to think straight "

She inhales then exhales a deep breath before she is able to look him in the eye, " Why did you come? you could have ignored the invite "

Kostas looks away, not wanting her to see the tears threatening to escape from his eyes, he gives her a playful albeit fake smile. " I could have ignored it, but I never found the desire to do that, not when the only woman I have ever loved is going to be someone else's wife "

" Kostas you can't do this to me " She pleads with him, her voice finally betraying him. " I spent three years expecting you to see things from my perspective but you were too caught up in your own world to want those things, you knew deep down that our story would end "

Kostas nods, walking up to the window that overlooked the outdoor venue of her wedding; several guests roamed about conversing with one another. " Is it too selfish of me to ask you to reconsider now? "

She places a hand on her chest, trying her best to remain as calm and composed as she could. " Yes, because ... " she pauses for a brief moment, " I tried to escape this relationship, but Ryan is good, he's the man for me, he's ... " she heaves out a sigh, " he's the puzzle piece that I need to complete my story but - "

" But? " Kostas said, finally turning to face her with glossy eyes.

" He's not you " She states, " He won't ever be you, he won't argue with me over food, or want to take spontaneous and unplanned trips, he won't want to dance with me whenever life becomes overwhelming, and he certainly won't make me feel as if life is unpredictable, I love him " she choked back a sob, " I really do, but I don't think I could be in love with him, the way I loved you "

Kostas absorbs every single word she said, before he walks up to her to press a tender kiss to her forehead then whisper, " Σε μια άλλη ζωή, θα τα βρούμε, απλά να ξέρεις ότι θα σε αγαπώ πάντα ( In another life, we will find one another, just know that I will always love you ) " he looks at her with a sad smile, " Promise me, that you'll be happy "

" I promise " She nods, mirroring her smile.

" I'll go now " Kostas murmurs, nodding one last time before he walks out of the room, and eventually out of her life.

[newmusickarl]

Top 50 Albums of 2022

13. Two Ribbons by Let’s Eat Grandma

After their highly experimental and quite brilliant debut I, Gemini, the duo of Rosa Walton and Jenny Hollingworth had started to find their footing, delivering their exceptional sophomore album I’m All Ears in 2018 to rapturous acclaim. With dazzling tracks like Falling Into Me and epic 10-minute closer Donnie Darko, it stormed its way into numerous year-end lists, including my own Top 5 of 2018. Now whilst this one places a few spots lower down, this euphoric third record from the synth-pop outfit is possibly even better than its predecessor.

In the years between their second and third albums, life has hit the young duo (who are still incredibly only in their early 20s) quite hard. In 2019, Hollingworth tragically lost her boyfriend to a rare form of bone cancer before producer SOPHIE, who they collaborated with on their singles for I’m All Ears, also passed away in tragic circumstances just last year. The pair themselves have also been quite open about the heavy toll the period took on their friendship, with discussions of even calling the band quits and going their separate ways. Thankfully they didn’t, instead emerging this year with their most accomplished work to date.

Whilst the experimentation of their debut and sprawling epics of I’m All Ears may be missing, the duo have still managed to deliver the goods, this time in the form of a polished, profound and just utterly joyous synth-pop record. In equal parts, it is an emotional, heartbreaking meditation on death and grief, but also an uplifting celebration of life and enduring friendship. There are profound moments that will leave you with the biggest lump in your throat, and others that will have you ecstatically dancing and jumping around your front room.

Opener Happy New Year is definitely the latter, a single that was timely dropped on January 1st and has incredibly remained one of the best songs of the year ever since that very moment. With pulsating, trance-inspired synths, it is an utterly infectious party anthem about the pair’s own friendship with each other. With New Year’s Eve coming up, I am officially pushing for it to replace Auld Lang Syne this year and every year now going forward. 

Levitation is another upbeat track that continues the momentum nicely, before album highlight Watching You Go delivers the first real gut-punch. As synths whirr in the background, Hollingworth hauntingly and honestly sings of her grief in what is a really beautiful moment, with some serious emotional heft carried by her stunning vocal performance.

Following the horn-backed, shimmering majesty of single Hall of Mirrors, the buzzing guitars of Insect Loop offer another hard-hitting moment, with emotions of anger and guilt simply pouring out of the track. Sunday and Strange Conversations both also stir and dazzle, before stripped-back single and title track Two Ribbons closes proceedings. With just Hollingworth’s voice and gentle, raw guitar strums, the final song of the record is another that pulls on the heartstrings, capturing “the isolating experience of grieving, our powerlessness in the face of death, and the visceral emotions of grief.”

As much as I adore I’m All Ears, I think the strong thematic core and emotional hit of Two Ribbons leans me into thinking this is my favourite project of theirs so far. A simply stunning record that sees the young duo tackle their frustration and grief with creativity and grace – coming out the other side stronger and better than ever.

Best tracks: Happy New Year, Watching You Go, Insect Loop

Listen here

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

Documentary Filmmaking of the 1960's - Essay # 2

BY JULIA SCHNARR

Documentary filmmaking has made a huge impact on media as a whole as it is the insider that people experience on real life topics and people that they may not be exposed to in other media formats. One of these large devices that were used in Hollywood’s structure of the documentary was the up close realism that differed from the typical form of realism that brought the 60’s a special kind of storytelling arch. Referencing the Bob Dylan documentary, Don’t Look Back, there is a personal element that audiences receive in this type of storytelling that is the camera as an intimate subject involved within the world in which Bob is living. There are hardly any narrative story elements that propel an intended story forward, such as A Land Without Bread’s take on the people and its ability to shift a narrative to a distinct point of view and chosen selected story. The article mentions this about Bob Dylan’s unforced documentary through the words of S.A. Pennebaker when asked about how the director approached the film as promotional content, or allowing it its own story in its own space: “ It wasn’t clear what he wanted. I of course assumed that’s what he wanted. Why else would he ask me? My impression, although I never really talked about it with him, was that he wanted to get Dylan into the movies, perhaps the Warner Bros. or some other studio, and he thought this was a way of entering the industry. It was certainly not the kind of filmmaking that Albert thought it would be. He was just looking after Dylan. He was always very careful and attentive - and, unlike the Beatles’s manager - went everywhere with us. For Albert, Dylan was someone to be protected” (Porton 26). The attentiveness of the directors and their vision for the film also aligns with that of Jane Fonda’s documentary.

For elements relative to two films that both obtain topics surrounding celebrity realism, Jane Fonda and Bob Dylan were portrayed in very similar lights when approached with their documentaries. Something that I found strikingly similar were the dressing room scenes with Fonda and the backstage rehearsals. These types of sequences involved little to no cuts, few transitions and lots of time spent in the room with the subjects which helped create the feeling of audience involvement and spectating. Bob’s ability to hold an interview with someone who is particularly pestering him in one scene is like watching a tennis ball match between two people as they go back and forth. The conversation Jane Fonda has with her boyfriend and co-worker backstage over flowers is intimate and personal. The biggest thing about documentaries in the 60’s were that they showed real raw emotion, and there was little that felt falsified or forced by these films when capturing real people in the industry. Activism was a stronghold of this time and lots of documentary films that were made sought the role of political opinion as they featured their subjects speaking their minds without any sort of restriction, other than that of what they choose not to share on camera. In some ways, these films were more intimate than television interviews and they were so by their lack of questioning and ‘fly on the wall’ perception of their environment.

Although not mentioned in my previous statements, the black and white film choice for documentary makes it feel that much more tangible as well. Color film existed in the 60’s, though it was much more expensive to shoot on. The element of these films being in black and white creates a stapled mise en scene that carries through to the time it was filmed in.

[technicolorxsn]

once again thinking about ddlc+ and sayori

[uomo-accattivante]

Excellent article about bringing a re-make of Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage to fruition, and the twenty-year friendship that Oscar Isaac and Jessica Chastain share:

There were days on the shoot for “Scenes From a Marriage,” a five-episode limited series that premieres Sept. 12 on HBO, when Oscar Isaac resented the crew.

The problem wasn’t the crew members themselves, he told me on a video call in March. But the work required of him and his co-star, Jessica Chastain, was so unsparingly intimate — “And difficult!” Chastain added from a neighboring Zoom window — that every time a camera operator or a makeup artist appeared, it felt like an intrusion.

On his other projects, Isaac had felt comfortably distant from the characters and their circumstances — interplanetary intrigue, rogue A.I. But “Scenes” surveys monogamy and parenthood, familiar territory. Sometimes Isaac would film a bedtime scene with his onscreen child (Lily Jane) and then go home and tuck his own child into the same model of bed as the one used onset, accessorized with the same bunny lamp, and not know exactly where art ended and life began.

“It was just a lot,” he said.

Chastain agreed, though she put it more strongly. “I mean, I cried every day for four months,” she said.

Isaac, 42, and Chastain, 44, have known each other since their days at the Juilliard School. And they have channeled two decades of friendship, admiration and a shared and obsessional devotion to craft into what Michael Ellenberg, one of the series’s executive producers, called “five hours of naked, raw performance.” (That nudity is metaphorical, mostly.)

“For me it definitely felt incredibly personal,” Chastain said on the call in the spring, about a month after filming had ended. “That’s why I don’t know if I have another one like this in me. Yeah, I can’t decide that. I can’t even talk about it without. …” She turned away from the screen. (It was one of several times during the call that I felt as if I were intruding, too.)

The original “Scenes From a Marriage,” created by Ingmar Bergman, debuted on Swedish television in 1973. Bergman’s first television series, its six episodes trace the dissolution of a middle-class marriage. Starring Liv Ullmann, Bergman’s ex, it drew on his own past relationships, though not always directly.

“When it comes to Bergman, the relationship between autobiography and fiction is extremely complicated,” said Jan Holmberg, the chief executive of the Ingmar Bergman Foundation.

A sensation in Sweden, it was seen by most of the adult population. And yes, sure, correlation does not imply causation, but after its debut, Swedish divorce were rumored to have doubled. Holmberg remembers watching a rerun as a 10-year-old.

“It was a rude awakening to adult life,” he said.

The writer and director Hagai Levi saw it as a teenager, on Israeli public television, during a stint on a kibbutz. “I was shocked,” he said. The series taught him that a television series could be radical, that it could be art. When he created “BeTipul,” the Israeli precursor to “In Treatment,” he used “Scenes” as proof of the concept “that two people can talk for an hour and it can work,” Levi said. (Strangely, “Scenes” also inspired the prime-time soap “Dallas.”)

So when Daniel Bergman, Ingmar Bergman’s youngest son, approached Levi about a remake, he was immediately interested.

But the project languished, in part because loving a show isn’t reason enough to adapt it. Divorce is common now — in Sweden, and elsewhere — and the relationship politics of the original series, in which the male character deserts his wife and young children for an academic post, haven’t aged particularly well.

Then about two years ago, Levi had a revelation. He would swap the gender roles. A woman who leaves her marriage and child in pursuit of freedom (with a very hot Israeli entrepreneur in place of a visiting professorship) might still provoke conversation and interest.

So the Marianne and Johan of the original became Mira and Jonathan, with a Boston suburb (re-created in a warehouse just north of New York City), stepping in for the Stockholm of the original. Jonathan remains an academic though Mira, a lawyer in the original, is now a businesswoman who out-earns him.

Casting began in early 2020. After Isaac met with Levi, he wrote to Chastain to tell her about the project. She wasn’t available. The producers cast Michelle Williams. But the pandemic reshuffled everyone’s schedules. When production was ready to resume, Williams was no longer free. Chastain was. “That was for me the most amazing miracle,” Levi said.

Isaac and Chastain met in the early 2000s at Juilliard. He was in his first year; she, in her third. He first saw her in a scene from a classical tragedy, slapping men in the face as Helen of Troy. He was friendly with her then-boyfriend, and they soon became friends themselves, bonding through the shared trauma of an acting curriculum designed to break its students down and then build them back up again. Isaac remembered her as “a real force of nature and solid, completely solid, with an incredible amount of integrity,” he said.

In the next window, Chastain blushed. “He was super talented,” she said. “But talented in a way that wasn’t expected, that’s challenging and pushing against constructs and ideas.” She introduced him to her manager, and they celebrated each other’s early successes and went to each other’s premieres. (A few of those photos are used in “Scenes From a Marriage” as set dressing.)

In 2013, Chastain was cast in J.C. Chandor’s “A Most Violent Year,”opposite Javier Bardem. When Bardem dropped out, Chastain campaigned for Isaac to have the role. Weeks before shooting, they began to meet, fleshing out the back story of their characters — a husband and wife trying to corner the heating oil market in 1981 New York — the details of the marriage, business, life.

It was their first time working together, and each felt a bond that went deeper than a parallel education and approach. “Something connects us that’s stronger than any ideas of character or story or any of that,” Isaac said. “There’s something else that’s more about like, a shared existence.”

Chandor noticed how they would support each other on set, and challenge each other, too, giving each other the freedom to take the characters’ relationship to dark and dangerous places. “They have this innate trust with each other,” Chandor said.

That trust eliminated the need for actorly tricks or shortcuts, in part because they know each other’s tricks too well. Their motto, Isaac said, was, “Let’s figure this [expletive] out together and see what’s the most honest thing we can do.”

Moni Yakim, Juilliard’s celebrated movement instructor, has followed their careers closely and he noted what he called the “magnetism and spiritual connection” that they suggested onscreen in the film.

“It’s a kind of chemistry,” Yakim said. “They can read each other’s mind and you as an audience, you can sense it.”

Telepathy takes work. When they knew that shooting “Scenes From a Marriage” could begin, Chastain bought a copy of “All About Us,” a guided journal for couples, and filled in her sections in character as Mira. Isaac brought it home and showed it to his wife, the filmmaker Elvira Lind.

“She was like, ‘You finally found your match,’” Isaac recalled. “’Someone that is as big of a nerd as you are.’”

The actors rehearsed, with Levi and on their own, talking their way through each long scene, helping each other through the anguished parts. When production had to halt for two weeks, they rehearsed then, too.

Watching these actors work reminded Amy Herzog, a writer and executive producer on the series, of race horses in full gallop. “These are two people who have so much training and skill,” she said. “Because it’s an athletic feat, what they were being asked to do.”

But training and skill and the “All About Us” book hadn’t really prepared them for the emotional impact of actually shooting “Scenes From a Marriage.” Both actors normally compartmentalize when they work, putting up psychic partitions between their roles and themselves. But this time, the partitions weren’t up to code.

“I knew I was in trouble the very first week,” Chastain said.

She couldn’t hide how the scripts affected her, especially from someone who knows her as well as Isaac does. “I just felt so exposed,” she said. “This to me, more than anything I’ve ever worked on, was definitely the most open I’ve ever been.”

“It felt so dangerous,” she said.

I visited the set in February (after multiple Covid-19 tests and health screenings) during a final day of filming. It was the quietest set I had ever seen: The atmosphere was subdued, reverent almost, a crew and a studio space stripped down to only what two actors would need to do the most passionate and demanding work of their careers.

Isaac didn’t know if he would watch the completed series. “It really is the first time ever, where I’ve done something where I’m totally fine never seeing this thing,” he said. “Because I’ve really lived through it. And in some ways I don’t want whatever they decide to put together to change my experience of it, which was just so intense.”

The cameras captured that intensity. Though Chastain isn’t Mira and Isaac isn’t Jonathan, each drew on personal experience — their parents’ marriages, past relationships — in ways they never had. Sometimes work on the show felt like acting, and sometimes the work wasn’t even conscious. There’s a scene in the harrowing fourth episode in which they both lie crumpled on the floor, an identical stress vein bulging in each forehead.

“It’s my go-to move, the throbbing forehead vein,” Isaac said on a follow-up video call last month. Chastain riffed on the joke: “That was our third year at Juilliard, the throb.”

By then, it had been five months since the shoot wrapped. Life had returned to something like normal. Jokes were possible again. Both of them seemed looser, more relaxed. (Isaac had already poured himself one tequila shot and was ready for another.) No one cried.

Chastain had watched the show with her husband. And Isaac, despite his initial reluctance, had watched it, too. It didn’t seem to have changed his experience.

“I’ve never done anything like it,” he said. “And I can’t imagine doing anything like it again.”

###

[aminiatureworld]

Enigmatic Feelings

Characters: Albedo, Diluc, Xiao, Zhongli, gn!reader

Word Count: 5,544

Warnings: None

Premise: Love is a potent force. And sometimes little things take on larger meanings, especially when one party is unaware of them.

In which the reader’s s/o is jealous

Author’s Note: This trope is 100% my guilty pleasure. I hope I did it justice.

I also realized while writing this that all these characters have the emotional understanding of a teaspoon, but they’re trying their best, so that’s what counts.

Albedo

Albedo was many things. A great alchemist, a man of secrets, a weapon with which one might someday bring destruction. He was even a lover, albeit an unpracticed one. But what he was not was emotional. Or so he thought.

Of course Albedo knew what jealousy was, knew the sort of stupidity that people could fall into when altogether too infatuated with their own love. But just because one knows what jealousy is does not mean one must fall prey to such things. Or so Albedo assumed.

It was the fourth day in a row that a knight had approached your door. Friedrich was his name, and he was doing a stellar job at capturing your attention, and pulling on emotions that Albedo had long told himself he didn’t contain.

Today the flower was a Windwheel Aster, swaying this way and that in the pocket of space between your two hands. You were smiling at it, or rather at Friedrich, brightly, fingers mere moments away from Friedrich as you went to claim the fourth flower this week. Though the was nothing necessarily untoward in Friedrich’s movements, and Albedo would much rather a person of integrity be attempting to woo you, even if the idea itself turned knots in his stomach; nevertheless it still left a bad taste in the alchemist’s mouth, and a worry in his heart that he was not so immune to jealousy as he’d previous assumed.

“Thank you!” You spoke to Friedrich, giving one last wave before walking back over to Albedo. “Albedo look! It’s a Windwheel Aster. It’s very nice of Friedrich to give me one, maybe I can use it, or maybe it’ll be helpful for your experiments?”

“Yes, thank you. I, I think you should keep it.”

As much as Albedo wanted to take the flower and throw it in the incinerator, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the smile on your face. No matter how dearly it cost him to see you smile down once more at the delicate red petals. And no matter how much it haunted him the rest of the day to imagine you, face framed by a smile, a bouquet of a random knight’s making in your hands.

That knight as Albedo put away the Bunsen burners and the graduated cylinders he kept his mind preoccupied by thoughts of you. Surely he had to tell you his feelings, for if not they would keep building in his chest; building and building until one day he erupted, with you in the line of fire rather than the knight who was creating this whole dilemma, perhaps even unwittingly. Though Albedo had never been in a relationship before he knew stories. Weren’t books full of those kinds of moments? Men, women, people, all of them running over one another in their misunderstanding, in their overwhelming guilt.

No, he wouldn’t turn out like that, wouldn’t let the two of you be hurt in such a way. He had to tell you. Had to make you understand how much his chest constricted when he saw you carrying the gifts of others, had to let it be known before he lost control of these emotions. After all, wasn’t that what happened with emotions? They grow and grow and one day they spill over. And Albedo never wanted these emotions to spill over. No matter the cost.

“May I tell you something?”

The sunlight was streaming through the laboratory windows, the air warm enough that Sucrose had tied up her hair during her shift. And yet Albedo felt cold, oh so cold. He was going to tell you today. He hadn’t been able to tell you three days ago, nor two days ago, nor yesterday. And now the bouquet of flowers that occupied a tiny glass on the windowsill felt quite large indeed. Today would be day eight if Friedrich showed up at lunchtime, and before that Albedo would tell you.

“Of course you can Albedo, I’m all ears!”

You turned around, a soft smile once more spreading across your face. Putting down the pencil you’d been holding you leaned back against the lab table. Albedo took in a deep breath. He could do this. He would do this. He had to do this. No matter what, today. Today, he would do this.

“I-I’m jealous.” The words hung in the air for a moment, as if not understood.

“Jealous?” You tilted your head slightly, worry making your smile slip. “Albedo, jealous of what?”

“Of Friedrich, of you and Friedrich, or rather, I mean, of Friedrich giving you flowers.” Albedo paused, words tangling in his mouth, tripping on each other in an attempt to be understood. What if this was a mistake.

“Albedo,” you shook you head softly, walking over to cup your partner’s face, “I promise that there’s nothing in it. The flowers are lovely, of course, but nothing in this world could replace or stem my love for you. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I know,” Albedo replied hurriedly, worried still that he might be misunderstood, “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, or say that I doubt you. My love, I will never doubt you. I just, I just feel so uncomfortable when he brings you flowers. It feels like, like I don’t know; it feels like I’m being poisoned, suddenly and all at once. And I don’t want it to affect the way I act towards you. So, so I wanted to tell you. You don’t have to stop, if those flowers make you happy then that’s what matters. But, but I just wanted to tell you.”

You said nothing, staring into Albedo’s eyes, gaze piercing through the alchemist. It was always that way with you. How you managed to destroy the control he thought he had, the wall he’d erected between himself and humanity. How you made him feel unsure and fallible and whole. And, just as before, now your gaze softened and you shook your head, your smile a balm for the raw unfamiliarity of putting together emotions.

“It’s okay Albedo, I’m glad you told me. Just like my emotions matter to you, I’d rather not see you unhappy. To be honest, I just never saw Friedrich’s actions in the way that he probably meant them. We all struggle with our feelings sometimes, I do just like you. Just as long as well tell each other, all will be well. Alright?”

“Yes. Thank you. I don’t know what I do without you.”

“Well you’ll never have to find out, so it doesn’t matter!”

There was no eighth flower that day, at least not one that was successfully given. Albedo supposed that he could pity Friedrich, but in reality he felt nothing but relief. The emotions that had left such a bad taste in his mouth seemed so far away now, for there was you, only you. It would only ever be you for him, and the days in which you said the same thing of him Albedo felt as if he could truly be happy, and truly acknowledge the emotions that swirled inside him, the love for you so great it spilled over into a vast ocean.

 Diluc

Diluc found most merchants loathsome, something perhaps not entirely fair considering his own status as a mover of goods.

Still, merchants in general were an unlikeable bunch. Prone to complacency and greed, this elite circle was comprised of people who thought of little than of ways to line their pockets anew. It disgusted Diluc and as he stood there, watching as a man who had enough jewelry on his body to weigh down a pack mule and a smile that made one want to run in the other direction, throw compliments and boasts your way, the winery owner was reminded about all that was wrong with the world in which he worked.

“So your goal is to attempt to find a route through which we might trade our wine in Inazuma?” You repeated the words the man had just spoken, expression skeptical. “As much as it would mean good business to begin another trade route, I believe the border restrictions will cause no little difficulty.”

“Restrictions such as those are nothing for a man like me.” The merchant smile once more and Diluc felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. “I have the ability to wave past such an issue. Indeed with the right price I believe I could expand your network to include all of the seven major lands, if you haven’t been trading internationally.”

“Thank you for your offer.” You replied, too focused on the work in front of you to notice the merchant’s roving sort of gaze. “I’ll see what Master Diluc has to say. However I warn you, as much as international exports are important for a growing trade, smuggling wine into locked countries will do little good. Especially considering what the damage could do to this winery’s reputation if such a thing was found out.”

“Don’t worry, I assure you my methods are completely secure. In fact, if you’d like to discuss it in more depth, I do believe that I may be able to enlighten you over a meal.”

“Perhaps, although Master Diluc would certainly have to be there.” You smiled slightly, and Diluc wondered for a moment if you were being purposefully oblivious or simply didn’t notice the meaning behind the merchant’s words.

“I will be back tomorrow, perhaps you’ll have an answer then?”

“I’m sure I will.” You replied, smiling as the two of you shook hands. As the merchant walked out of the winery your smile morphed into a sort of smirk and you looked up towards the balcony of the second floor.

“You can come out now Diluc, I know you’re there.”

Diluc couldn’t help but smile at those words, he truly couldn’t get anything past you. Hurrying down the stairs he swept you up in his arms, sighing slightly into your neck as you tightened the embrace.

“Ever so observant, my darling.”

“I know that you’d never let a transaction or a business conversation take place without your knowledge.” There was a playfulness to your voice, coming from the knowledge that you were utterly correct. “Still, you could’ve come downstairs you know. I don’t think that anyone would need to believe that you were going through your ‘very important paperwork, and lurking around is your night job.’”

“It seemed somehow wrong to suddenly appear in front of you two and derail the conversation.” Diluc drew away and placed a soft kiss on the tip of your nose, chuckling when you immediately wrinkled it. “Especially since you were doing so well on your own.”

“Oh he’s just like the rest of them,” you sighed, “altogether a bit too full of themselves.”

“Especially in this one’s case.” Diluc said, finally letting a scowl cross his face.

“What do you mean?”

The look on your face was one of innocence and confusion, and for a moment Diluc felt his thoughts stammer, as he realized that you truly were unaware of the way that the merchant was looking at you, unaware of the manner which caused Diluc even now to continue to press his hand gently against your lower back. If you didn’t notice it, then surely Diluc was overreacting, surely there was no reason for his heart to stutter and his stomach to drop. Surely there was no reason, and surely he shouldn’t tell you.

“Nothing at all, I just didn’t like his face.” He hurried now to reply, realizing how odd his pause must’ve seemed. “Will you be accepting his proposal for a business dinner?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose it couldn’t hurt. And then it might be a good venue for the two of you to talk. Since you find him especially ghastly, I think a more public meeting might be easier.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think that invitation was meant for me.” Diluc replied, before realizing his gaffe and falling silent.

“What? What do you mean of course it’s meant for you. I mean you are the owner of the Winery. Who else would it be for?”

“For, for you my darling. Why else would he ask you in such a way?” Diluc tried to keep the acid out of his words. It wasn’t your fault after all. It wasn’t your fault that some louche was asking after you.

“But I’m not the one in charge.” You furrowed your brow. “I can’t make the final decision. And I won’t allow him to attempt to bypass getting your permission either.”

“My darling, I, I think he meant it a different way.”

“What way?”

Diluc sighed, capitulating quickly to his want to tell you. Even if it was perhaps selfish of him, he was never truly good at keeping his feelings masked away, at least in a way that didn’t result in him completely shutting down. And you meant to much to him than for Diluc to try and lie to you.

“You see, I think he was attempting to ask you on a more romantic sort of dinner.”

“What?”

Your reaction was immediate, your expression quickly turning into one of shock and then of disgust. Letting out a groan you buried your face into the front of Diluc’s coat, eliciting a short laugh from its owner.

“Why? I… I… Even if I weren’t in love with you I’d never go out to dinner with him.”

“I don’t think he would appreciate the sentiment.”

“Diluc.” You let out another groan, shaking your head as if to rid yourself of the thought. “Archons, ugh thank you for telling me. I, disgusting.”

Diluc said nothing, simply tightening the hold of his arms around you. Though your reaction was certainly justifiable he knew there was something more behind them, and he felt grateful for your consideration. Though he knew that would always have been your reaction, it didn’t stop the pressure that ha been building in his chest, the thoughts that screamed what if, what if, what if. What if there is something better than you.

“Hey, are you alright?” You voice drifted up through the fabric of Diluc coat. He smiled, relaxing his grasp around you and pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

“I will be. May I hold you a little longer?”

“Of course. You’re the only one for me, you know.”

“And you for me. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Those words, though so small, were somehow enough.

 Xiao

The new guest at the inn had been speaking to you for quite some time. That was Xiao’s first observation. The second was that you didn’t seem to mind. The third was that for some reason he suddenly felt incredibly irritated.

It was a beautiful evening, the kind that would’ve normally had you and Xiao sitting on the roof together, fingers entwined, the silence of nature cushioning the two of your from the outside world. It was a ritual, something that Xiao had come to rely on, had come to almost sanctify. Yet here he was, sitting on one of the thicker branches of the trees that dotted the outside of the Inn, trying desperately to quench the anger that bloomed in his chest as he watched you and the guest talk the minutes away.

Perhaps the worst part was that you didn’t seem to mind. Instead of pulling the conversation towards a close, you seemed perfectly content to keep talking, smiling brightly and quickly answering the questions of this uninvited guest. Normally Xiao didn’t care about , or rather didn’t keep track of, the people you spoke to. Of course you would have friends, would have people that mattered to you. Just because Xiao had disconnected himself from humanity didn’t mean that you had to. So why was he so angry?

His patience ran out when the guest reached for your hand. Sidling next to you as fast as he could Xiao peeled off his invisibility, enjoying the shock that registered across the uninvited guest’s face as he moved his hand back. Reaching to entwine his hand with yours Xiao shifted his gaze towards your face. Shock was painted into your expression, but there was also something else, a glimmer of happiness or of satisfaction. Somehow it unnerved Xiao, and he focused instead on the task at hand, whatever that task was.

“It’s getting late.”

“Oh, of course.” Turning back to the guest you smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but perhaps we’ll speak again some other time?”

“Gladly!” The man’s face lit up, before Xiao’s glaring left him scampering down the steps.

“Xiao, is something wrong?” The question was so genuine, without any sense of knowing more than you let. Unfortunately the question was also unanswerable.

“It’s late. We should go.” Xiao gestured towards the roof, hoping the reminder would flush the question out of your head.

“You’re right, I suppose it is getting late. And we wouldn’t want to waste such a wonderful evening.” You smiled. And yet somehow Xiao felt unplacated. He was happy, wasn’t he? So why, why did the question hang in the air, and why did the discontent remain?

The next day was a lazy one, as Xiao waited for you to be done with work. More than usual he missed you, and he wished that the hours would go faster, so he might be able to once more enjoy your presence, to banish the discontent that he still felt, evening after an hour spent wholly in your company.

Eventually the sun made its descent from the heavens, and Xiao pulled himself once more to the perch on the tree he’d taken the night before. Gazing down at the balcony he saw the familiar figure of the unwanted guest, and a stab of anger flashed through him. This was made all the worse by your entrance, and the fact you once more stopped to make time for this intruder.

The man was just as insufferable as before, full of jokes that Xiao didn’t understand and words that though praising of you felt somewhat hollow, almost insulting. You laughed along to these jokes, smiled at these odd compliments. And when the man asked if you might be willing to talk more over some sort of meal you merely smiled.

Xiao, however, found the whole ordeal unbearable. Why should this person be asking all these things, be prying you with words of intimacy and familiarity. Had he not arrived yesterday? Was he not an utter stranger? Confusion mixed with irritation in Xiao’s head, and he found it difficult to hold on to the stony reason he’d built up. What was going on? What was this terrible feeling of anger and want? He couldn’t understand human ways. Less could he understand why they should have any sort of effect on him.

Still he had to do something. Had to do anything. Swooping down once more Xiao began the same charade. This time, however, the man merely jumped, and for all his glaring Xiao couldn’t dislodge the guest from his place on the balcony.

“It’s late.”

“Ah it is. Are you hungry?” He asked, addressing you once more.

“I’m not at all, but Xiao’s right. It is late. If you haven’t eaten yet then perhaps you should. Smiley Yanxiao is quite strict about his rest.”

“Ah, then perhaps you’re right. Still, why not join me? You can tell me your name, and we can talk a little more about the things you do.”

“You don’t even know their name.” Xiao spat out the sentence, barely able to contain the odd sort of irritation that still spun around him. He asked you all those questions, said all those words of praise, all without knowing your name. It felt somehow dehumanizing, somehow… wrong.

“I would be glad to learn it.” The man smiled.

Xiao simply shook his head. He needed to leave. It was becoming too much again, and the last thing Xiao wanted was for a stranger to see him this way, see him unsure and confused and not a little frightened of these alien emotions. Glaring at the man one more time Xiao scooped you up. Ignoring the surprised shriek that you let out he shot up into the sky, moving towards the familiar sanctuary of Jueyen Karst, deeply grateful that the guest, whatever he could do, could never fly.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” You asked, barely giving Xiao the time to set you down onto one of Liyue’s sloping peaks before asking him the one question he couldn’t answer.

“Nothing.”

“Well it’s certainly not nothing. You’re being awfully rude to that guest, and I can’t understand why. Usually you don’t really care about those sorts of things. So something must be wrong, and I want to know what it is.”

A pause.

“Please.”

“I can’t.” It was all Xiao could say, the only thing that would truly encompass the truth, because in truth he couldn’t. He himself didn’t understand it.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“My chest hurts.”

“What?” Immediately your face shifted into one of worry, and you placed a soft hand over Xiao’s heart. Somehow the gesture was calming, and Xiao closed his eyes, enjoying the receding of the hot bands that had just been restricting him.

“My chest hurt when I saw you with that, that guest. My chest hurt and I felt angry. That’s what’s wrong. My chest hurt, but now it doesn’t; and I don’t understand it.”

There was a pause, and Xiao studied the expressions on your face, watched as they shifted from worry to confusion to caution.

“Xiao, is it possible you were jealous?”

“No.” The idea was somehow insulting.

“It’s alright to be jealous Xiao. It just means you care about someone very much. You don’t have to just dismiss it like that. I want to make sure that you’re alright, so please be honest. Is it possible you were jealous?”

Xiao let another gap form in the conversation, trying to figure out how to answer. The suggestion felt demeaning, felt as if he somehow had no control over himself, no trust of you. And yet it somehow made sense, and even as he shook his head he found himself letting out a different answer.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I know that new emotions can be frightening, can be difficult to deal with. But Xiao, I’ll always love you. It doesn’t matter who else I meet or what else happens in my life. I love you the way that a bird loves the sky. You’re a part of my life I could never lose. So even if this isn’t jealousy, even if I’m wrong, I still want to let you know. I love you.”

Xiao sighed, a smile finally gracing his lips, the pain in his chest finally melting away. What did he ever do to deserve such a person as you, he would never know. He wished he could repeat those words back to you word for word, wished that he could explain that his love for you was all encompassing, had seeped through the cracks of his existence and his life. He wished he could form together the words necessary to convey his love for you. Even if it was impossible he still wished it.

So instead he leaned over towards you. Letting out a gentle sigh he brought his lips to yours, reveling in the soft sensation of your mouth against his, reveling in the way you leaned against him, bringing you arm up to his neck, letting out a soft breath of contentment as the two of you disconnected.

You didn’t ask him anything else, and for the rest of the evening you two sat on the grass, watching the fireflies dance around you as you leaned against one another.

Perhaps Xiao didn’t yet understand the extent to which he loved you, the emotions that had now risen up, given life by the love you’d poured into the adeptus. Perhaps he didn’t understand this yet, but he knew that all would be well. For with you all that irritation seemed so far away, as if it belonged to a Xiao of yesterday. Because here and now you two were together, breathing in the same mutual contentment, the same mutual trust, the same mutual love. And that present was more important than any jealousy could be.

 Zhongli

Looking back on the matter Zhongli admitted that maybe pretending the problem didn’t exist was probably not the best solution.

It was only that you two had seemed so oddly content in talking, so, compatible, that Zhongli couldn’t help but feel a twinge of discontent, a tension that spread through his jaw and down to his stomach. He didn’t quite understand the nature of the emotion that now spread over him, but he did understand that it was connected to the bond that was now forming between you and the vendor in front of you.

“Dearest one.” He spoke softly, walking over to where you now stood.

“Oh, Zhongli!” Your face lit up as usual, and the ex-archon felt a piece of him uncoil. At least some things seemed to be unchanging, just as wonderful today as they had been the day before.

“I’ve been looking for you. I know you spoke of wanting to learn more about the nature of Cor Lapis, and the tea shop has been offering a new brew. Perhaps we could share a drink?”

“Oh that sounds lovely!” Turning around towards the vendor you smiled gently. “I’m sorry, I’ll have to try that lovely soup you were speaking of some other time.”

“Not at all!” The vendor’s smile was good natured, and Zhongli didn’t understand why he nevertheless felt a twinge of uncertainty. “I look forward to it. I hope you two have a nice day, and we’ll talk about it more later.”

Though the stall receded into the distance as the two of you turned the corner, Zhongli couldn’t help but let the moment run through his mind once more, finding it as sore to think about as a bruise might be to the touch.

“That vendor? Oh they’re new on the scene.” You smiled, taking a sip of tea.

The tea house was as calming as ever, the noises of the outside a distant song, and the hushed whispers inside adding to the intimate atmosphere. Zhongli normally loved to sit here, drinking cup after cup of tea, watching as the people came and went about their business, immersed in a small fragment of Liyue life. Now, however, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about the vendor. If he closed his eyes he could still remember their face, and the way yours was lit up while they were talking to you.

“Their name is Eli.” You continued on, oblivious to the way Zhongli’s hand tightened around his teacup. “They said that they set up shop maybe… two weeks ago? It hasn’t been a very long time, and they’re still struggling a bit. I hope that they’ll be able to get their business off the ground, who knew that street food was such a cutthroat world.”

“The city of Liyue is full of people who might make their way in the world, doing whatever they can. Perhaps it is unsurprising that competition is second nature to Liyue’s citizens.” Zhongli replied, hoping his tone wasn’t too curt. If it was you didn’t seem to mind, nodding softly in agreement.

“Speaking of Liyue and stories, perhaps you would like to tell me the story you were going to tell? I very much doubt that Cor Lapis is the blood of Morax.”

“How humans love to spin their stories.” Zhongli chuckled.

But even as he began to speak of jewels and pressure and the minerals that lay deep beneath the earth a bit of him was still preoccupied by the vendor’s easy words and your smiling face.

The next time he ran into you with the vendor the pit in his stomach had only gotten heavier. Standing a little ways away he let the conversation between the two of you flow in and out his ear, frown slipping deeper the more he heard.

“I cannot believe that your stall nearly caught fire on your first day! How unlucky.”

“Even worse that I didn’t know who to try and tell about it. If I had known you were part of the Guild then I would’ve asked you.”

“Well next time there are troubles you can just send a message to the Adventurer’s Guild. We can’t have our citizens being injured on our watch.”

“You sound like true heroes. I wish I could do the sorts of things you did. Your commissions sound fascinating! I would love to see how you go about your day some time.”

“Really it’s nothing, most days it’s quite boring really, just like any other job. Still, it’s nice to know that people have an interest in what we do.”

“Oh certainly! I find what you do very interest– ”

“My dearest one!” Zhongli called out, unable to continue listening to the conversation, feeling somewhat guilty and certainly upset. You turned slightly, smile brightening as you saw your partner.

“Zhongli! So sorry that I didn’t meet you outside your office, I must’ve lost track of the time. Eli here was telling me all about their first days at work.”

“I’m sorry that I got out late. I hope that you did not have to wait awhile.”

“Oh not at all Zhongli, like I said I’ve just been standing here. You don’t need to feel bad at all!”

“I’m glad. Perhaps now we can go?”

Zhongli attempted to smile, but it felt a lot more like a grimace. You stared at him, face the picture of confusion. Taking a step forward you glanced one more time at Eli, shrugging apologetically. Before any more words could be passed between the two of you Zhongli grabbed onto your hand. Walking quite quickly he didn’t let go until the two of you were at your apartment and he could finally breathe again.

“Zhongli, what’s the matter with you?” You asked, closing the apartment door behind you. Walking back towards Zhongli, who stood there silently, you let your hands rest lightly on his shoulders. “You can tell me you know, I can tell you’re unhappy.”

“I have a confession.” Zhongli started, feeling somehow compelled to reveal his thoughts, as if keeping them locked away would only be dangerous.

“Yes?”

“I, I did not like the way that the vendor spoke to you.”

“Eli? But they were perfectly nice.”

“I do not mean that they were rude. They were perfectly cordial. I mean, when the two of you were speaking, I, I felt uncomfortable. It was as if there was a barrier between us in that moment. I, I did not like it.”

“Oh Zhongli.” You breathed out, an indulgent smile on your face.

Reaching up you planted fleeting kisses on the archon’s face, peppering his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, touch featherlight. It was a familiar gesture, one of comfort, one used in darker nights, when shadows dotted the periphery of Zhongli’s vision.

“Zhongli, I assume you know what jealousy is?”

“I know the term and what it means. I admit I am not personally familiar with the concept.”

“Well I am, so let me tell you. What you experienced, that was jealousy, plain and simple. I know it’s very uncomfortable. Jealousy can be such a messy feeling, it sticks everywhere. But it’s also normal. So you don’t need to worry. I promise that nothing will happen, and I promise that these feelings would go away. I also promise that I love you very much, so even if you feel these emotions, you don’t have to worry.”

“How could I ever worry about you?” Zhongli murmured, wrapping his arms around you, basking in your proximity.

The apology only came in the evening, after words and kisses and love had hung long enough in the air to dull the feelings that Zhongli had been carrying around. Now he lay there next to you, chin resting gently on your head, suddenly realizing that he’d most likely acted quite rudely.

“I’m sorry I ignored Eli.”

“I’m sure they’ll understand.” You murmured. “Though I’m not actually sure what got you riled up about them.”

“You are also a bit oblivious dearest one,” Zhongli let out a soft laugh, “it seems they were quite taken with you.”

“Were they?” You asked, tone betraying your surprise. You paused for a moment, as if trying to replay your interactions. “I never noticed. To be honest, I don’t think I could ever notice, not when I have you.”

“Thank you.” Zhongli whispered, oddly overcome by the confession.

As he lay awake, carding gentle fingers through your hair and listening to the even breaths of your sleeping form he pondered just how lucky he was. Precious gems might come from pressure and earth and chance. But you were more precious than all of them. And he’d never forget that.

[misselko]

Got this idea from Dimitri’s conversation with Byleth before Fort Merceus battle with the Death Knight. Put some angst, fluff, and a pinch of smut spices into the dish and let it simmer down! At least, that’s what I want! But it turned out... different ;) Sorry not sorry

This one took me some days to write. I hope you enjoy it! Please feel free to give me some advice and ideas for my next fic! Your warm comments will be cherished very much 💕 Thankies!!

 

RECKLESS

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Mention of blood, violence, smut

Words: 3316

 

POST TIMESKIP

Empire will be the only remaining enemy and to move on to the Imperial Capital, Enbarr, capturing Fort Merceus is a must. Praised as the strongest defense with its fortified military installation  in the Empire, seizing it won’t be an easy feat.

Liberating Arianrhod, calming down Holy Kingdom of Faerghus political issues, winning over the Leicester Alliance and gained their support. Getting a lead on Lady Rhea’s location. Although things were a rough go, but thinking back on it now, Blue Lions sure has really come a long way. Things have been wonderful in these past moons that it almost feels like dream too good to be true.

You don’t know why but you can’t shake your uneasy feelings and dread. War is raging and everyone knows there is a big battle on the horizon.

“We must not falter in our assault. The Death Knight is the enemy commander in Fort Merceus. He’s an unpredictable opponent. A dangerous one. Please proceed with caution, (Y/N).”

“I will, Dimitri. No need to worry.”

“I have not come this far just to lose you here. I’m serious. Do not be reckless out there.”

“Will you save me if I’m in trouble?”

“Of course, (Y/N). You were the heart of the Blue Lions, and the same holds true for the Kingdom Army.”

You smiled at his concern and hold his hands gently.

“I will do my best as well to support you, my Dimitri.” His cheeks turned into rosy blush at your words.

 

“Whoaa!! You’re getting pretty chummy, aren’t you, Your Highness? Go get a room!” Sylvain winks and got punched HARD, dragged away by Ingrid. You make mental notes on giving her a delicious roasted meat from that famous new shop in the town later as your gratitude. Serves him right!! ...But you wouldn’t trade them for anything in this world. Everything will be alright with them. Blue Lions are your precious family. It will be fine. Everything will be fine.

---

Capturing Fort Merceus is a daunting task. Endless enemies are approaching and relentless. Felix and Sylvain are working together cut through the snipers and mages. Ingrid and Ashe are doing their best to handle the pegasi knights. Dedue, Annette, Mercedes, and Flayn makes great combo on cutting through enemy reinforcements while providing healing to everyone. Slowly but sure, you and Dimitri managed to push Death Knight on the corner. But it doesn’t make things less difficult for both of you.

 

“You dare stand between me and my pleasure?”

The beginning of it was barely a bellow that grew steadily to a deafening roar, piercing the air and shaking the ground. Areadbhar crack in deafening clash against Death Knight’s Scythe of Sariel. They raised their weapons, waving them overhead.

 

“Yes. I dare stand against you, Death Knight!!”

 

Dimitri decides to face Death Knight head on as you tried your best to keep his back safe from the Imperial soldiers assaults. Keeping a close eye on him... just in case, following from a few meters back, cover his blind spots that way, look out for any potential danger. You could see them coming around, carefully and quietly trying to find their way to Dimitri.

 

Landing sharp blows, you bring the blade down on the head of another mage. Slashing your way through numerous enemies, you start to feel fatigued. Countless enemies lying dead behind. You looked around, among the sea of red and black, a swordmaster is sneaking his way behind Dimitri, ready to ambush him.

 

But you wouldn’t let it happen!

 

You were fully offensive, rapidly swinging your sword down on the swordmaster. You were able to deflect, parry, and block most of his attacks until his foot swept across your ankles, knocking you hard to the floor. The swordmaster stood above you, ready to press his sword into your chest to end your life. Fatigue made it harder for you to evade his deadly stab completely. Sound of a weapon piercing through flesh filled your ears, followed by an intense pain in your side. He pulled it back out with a triumphant smirk on his face. Despite the searing pain, you made it in time to grab your own weapon and thrust it up to his neck, your arms shaking as you tried to counter the weight of his attack. Grimace crossing your face as he fell, blood painting the earth a sick shade of red.

 

You sat up, wincing at the searing, burning hot pain on your side. The stab wound was way too deep. Your hands trembled, desperately attempting to put pressure on the wound as heavy flow of your blood is trickling through your fingers, colors your skin and clothes. The world had turned blurry, and your body felt weak. Ignoring the excruciating pain, you rush forward to help Dimitri. He has won against the Death Knight. But in his brief reverie, the Tempest King failed to notice two opposing snipers are approaching him, expression intent to kill, aiming their arrows at his back.

 

You acted on instinct, rushing forward, sprinting to intervene. To protect him.

‘We have been through so much together and he’d been through hell and back... I want to ease his pain. Knowing he’s safe... I can be at peace.’

You thought to yourself, launching forward. You barely has energy to stand up, but you tried to muster your last remaining strength to dove in before Dimitri. The arrows managed to easily make it’s way through your armor, landing in your chest and abdomen. ‘I have no regret when it came to protecting Dimitri.’

 

Your body slammed hard on the ground, careening across the battlefield. A sharp cry pained noise escaped you; that was all it took. Dimitri stiffened at the sound. It pulled him from the high of the battlefield down to reality in an instant.

 

“(Y/N)!!!”

 

He turned; filled with horror and rage. The fires blazing around him didn’t give off any heat. The battlefield around him turned black and white. His ears were ringing as if he’d been caught in an explosion. Dimitri went after the snipers and thrust them both at their hearts. After a quick glance to make sure no more surprise attacks happen, he kneels and pulling you into his chest. You looked so small, felt so limp that it sickened him. Broken and battered with littered scars and large wound on your side. Arrows jutting out of your chest, much too close to the heart, and another one lodged deep in your abdomen.

 

Dimitri watched as the blood pooled around you. Blood... there is so much blood. Your blood.

“Goddess... what were you- MERCEDES! FLAYN!! SOMEONE...HELP!!”

 

He pulled himself up, beside you, staring at your face. You were so pale. Oh, Goddess, you were dying. Were you already dead?

“I’m sorry.” There isn’t a reason to apologize, you aren’t sorry, but it still came out like the blood that is on Dimitri’s hands now.

 

“Don’t you dare apologize to me right now,” his voice choked off in his throat feels raw with emotions, barely able to hold back the sob which demands to escape, “not when you are like this. What were you thinking, (Y/N)? You have promised me to not be reckless.” He phrased it in a question, but both know why.

 

“Y-You... haven’t seen the... swordmaster... and those snipers. Y-You...were going to die...if they attack you. I want to protect you.... and I don’t regret my decision.“

 

You opened your mouth to speak but immediately coughed, feeling globs of blood on the corners of your lips. Dimitri gripped your hand, his hold so tight that it hurt, but you wouldn’t waste your breath on telling him. You could barely see Mercedes scurried over to your side as quickly as she could, Flayn follows behind her, leaving the Death Knight behind with tears running down her cheeks.

 

“Please stay awake for me a little longer, please.”

He choked out, pulling you closer if possible as it would keep you from leaving.

 

The chaos around you went mute as your eyes grow heavy. Maybe a quick nap would suffice.

 

“No...no, no, (Y/N)!! You can’t do this to me, you can’t-! Please, (Y/N), I can’t lose you too.....”

 

You felt like you were fading, and the sounds around you faded along with your hazy consciousness. You fell asleep.

---

Every second was filled with anxiety; you’d lost so much blood. The wounds were too deep to heal completely. There was little to no possibility of survival. Not after what you’d been through.

The days turned to one week, then two...then three. The physical wounds had healed, mostly repaired and faded to scars. There was potential for things to return to normal, and you may wake up sooner rather than later.

When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in a dimly lit room, your upper body covered in bandages. The first thing you’re aware of is a dull throb radiating throughout your entire body. You were confused, and moved your head, unintentionally shifting your body and sending a wave of pain through your chest and stomach as you tried to get up. You closed your eyes tightly in response to the return of extreme pain, much worse than you had ever felt before. With much struggle, you sat on the edge of the bed shakily trying to stand up. The door creaked open and you looked up to find Dimitri peering inside.

 

”You’re awake,” he said, a look of surprise on his face. You tried to stand up and walk to him but failed, Dimitri ran in and caught you before you fell over. “I thought I was going to lose you, (Y/N),” he said, lifting you up effortlessly, settling you gently onto the bed and pulled up a chair. 

 

As cautiously as you could, you managed to sit yourself up. You kept a careful eye on the young king, noting how dark the circles under his eyes have become and how hollow his cheeks have turned. The fact that rest had eluded him for however long you were unconscious was as plain as day.

 

“You nearly died because of me. I have no right to be... you of all people shouldn’t-!” He managed to say, his voice shaking as his fingers trembled.

His head shot up to look at you, cerulean blue eyes dampened by tears that pooled in them. Your eyes were open, though weakly, looking at him and his disturbed state. You sensed his worry, but also his relief as he hovers next to your bed, engulfing you in his embrace and squeezing you against his chest for all he was worth. He was mindful of your wound, but that wasn’t enough to keep him away. No, he needed you. He needed to be beside you, to feel you, to know you were there.

 

“I’m okay, Dimitri...” You whispered, resting a hand on his chest where his heart thundered. You closed your eyes against him, relishing the feel of his tender warmth.

 

You felt how hard and rapid his heart was beating, almost deafening. Your arms wrapped around his heaving back weakly, rubbing it soothingly. He pulled you closer in response—closer, closer, closer, until every inch of you was smothered by him. Hesitant, trembling fingers graced your tightly wound bandages and you felt something warm and wet splatter onto your exposed shoulder.

 

"I could not stand to lose you,” he spoke slowly, holding your hands so tight that it hurts.

“But I fear that I may if I tell you what is on my mind.”

 

His voice was as quiet as it could be and it made you frown your eyebrows in worry. You were happy to see him alive, that was your goal when you decided to protect him from the approaching enemies. However, seeing him so distraught and afraid twisted your insides uncomfortably. The way he held your hand so desperately, afraid to let go.

 

“Dimitri.” You call him quietly, which makes him look at you with those gorgeous eyes of him.

 

You move your hand to his cheeks, caressing his soft skin, trying to bring him even the tiniest amount of comfort. Leaning to give him a soft chaste kiss on his lips. He reciprocated by open-mouthed kiss you with such fervor. There’s an undercurrent of desperation in the way Dimitri kisses you, as if this is the last moment he’ll ever feel it. It’s almost as if it pains him to be this close to you. You were alive, yet he couldn’t help but doubt it. Perhaps it was once again due to the vicious noises he still heard, though faintly. However, he was glad that they allowed him this moment of happiness.

 

“I won’t leave you, Dimitri.” You promised between ragged breath, your chest heaving.

 

“We are so close to ending this. Please, promise me you’ll stay safe. Rest, for now, my beloved.” Leaning down, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, holding your hand to his chest. “I promise, I will never let you be hurt for my sake again.” Covering you with a  blanket  and tucking you into bed to retire for the evening.

---

After your awakening, the Blue Lions and Professor began incorporating regular infirmary visits into their schedule. They showered you with kind, encouraging words and occasionally bore small gifts (flowers and snacks), always encourage you to get better soon. But your most frequent visitor of all was your beloved gentle king.

It was two weeks since you have gotten better. Mercedes promised to take care after your bandages this evening.

“Are you ready, (Y/N)?”

You met Mercedes’ warm gaze with your own. With a firm nod, you replied, “Ready as I’ll ever be, Mercedes.”

 

The healer moved closer to you, her skilled hands undoing the set of bandages for the last time. Dimitri averted his frantic eyes to the wall when the dressing loosened just enough for your breasts to peak through. A cold, unforgiving breeze whipped the newly exposed skin, jolting a shiver down your spine. Mercedes sighed, slowly traced the scars your chest and stomach.

“I’m sorry but we will never be able to remove the scars. The wounds all healed, but... the scars will never go away completely. I’m sorry (Y/N).”

 

Your eyes immediately flashed over to Dimitri’s stiffening frame.

“It’s okay. I will never regret such a thing.” You smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Do you need anything else, (Y/N)?”

“No, I’m all good, Mercedes! Thank you for your help.”

“All right, then. Annette said that she needs my help with her baking this evening. We have to finish it before midnight! Should you need anything, please feel free to call me.” Mercedes gave you last smile before excusing herself politely from your quarter.

 

“Dimitri.”

His jaw clenched tautly; his eyes crunched into a pain-stricken wince. Refusing to look at your scar, a harsh reminder of his failure.

“Look at me.”

He stilled and won’t budge to look at you.

 

“I will never regret nor blame you for this. It was my decision and if it means saving you, I’ll gladly do it again in a heartbeat. Or... perhaps.... I can understand if you find that my... scars are disgusting, appalling, even....” you whisper softly, almost inaudible. Your surroundings whizzed right past you before you were unceremoniously slammed into your bed.

“DON’T SAY SUCH THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF!!” He growled “I will not allow you to throw your life away for me. If.. If something ever happen to you.. I’ll live a life worse than death itself, (Y/N).”

 

Not a moment later did you feel something warm and soft press against your lips. His mouth moved awkwardly yet full of affection. Hands planted  on either side of your body, ridding any hope of escape from his ravishing kisses. Dimitri pressed his lips further into yours, swallowing your moans. His lips left yours to trail down around your neck, breasts, and stomach lovingly. “This wounds... I cannot lose you again, my beloved.” His body quivered.  The King kissing the scars on your cleavage and abdomen, worshiping them reverently with tender touches, almost like touching a porcelain doll. Afraid to break you with his almost inhuman power. Biting and sucking wherever his heart desired until you were covered in nothing but love bites, leaving you a panting mess.

 

Dimitri held you in his arms, stroking your hair and mumbling whispers of ‘I’m sorry’. Bittersweet smile formed on his lips. He gazed at you, eyes lidded with desires and need, mixed with guilt and love. “(Y/N)... My beloved...” You pulled away slightly to look up at him and smiled.

“Dimitri...” You cupped his cheek in your hand, in which he immediately melted into.

“I love you, Dimitri.”

 

He blushed at your words, then it dawned on his realization. Suddenly becoming very aware of the... intimate position you were in. “Um, w-well...” As he came to his full senses he released his hands from you, as though from fire and stuttered, quickly pulling away from your panting form. He wasn’t making eye contact anymore, and you followed his gaze downwards on your body. Oh. Without the dreamlike stupor a d hazy feeling to distract you, you realized just how naked you are. Nightgown pooled beneath your waist. Feeling an onset of bashfulness, you also brought an arm up to cover as much of your chest as you could; despite what you had just done with him, the reality of the situation was catching up to you.

 

He flinched, breaking eye contact and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Ah—Urghh!!! I’m sorry, (Y/N)!! I don’t know what came over me but.. but... P-Perhaps we should... stop... before it escalates any further...” The King unclasped his furred cloak hurriedly and put it over your naked body unceremoniously, hiding his flushed crimson face in his hands again, absolutely brutalized with shame. 

 

“Er.. Be certain to rest for now. We may have undone some of your healing.” Then he said hurriedly, almost inaudibly. “When your strength returns to its fullest, we can pick up where we left off. I promise.”

 

“Fine...” You giggled, finding his attempt at being serious too adorable. The heat and passion was still very visible in his eyes, and it was obvious that anymore teasing on your end would send him over the edge.

“Thank you for this lovely evening, Dimitri.”

You pulled his hand to your lips and give each of his fingers soft kisses, gazing at him lovingly. Dimitri’s jaw and pants tightened, the poor king desperately clinging onto the last thread of sanity and reason which threatened to snap at any moment.

 

“Good night, my beloved (Y/N).” Casting one last glance at you and bashfully looking down when he caught your eye, the Blue Lions Leader left with a haste that was probably unbecoming of a gentleman, his long legs taking the steps to the second floor dormitory two at a time. He somehow,  somehow  managed to reach his room without incident or interruption, locking his door behind him, leaning back against it and covering his burning red face with his hands. His body felt like it was on fire; nerve endings alight with sensations he had long believed were dead.

 

The pit of his stomach tangled in knots when he thought of (Y/N). All he could think about was your pure unadultered love, beautiful (E/C) that is gazing at him affectionately. Goddess, he was such a sinner. It made him want to put his hands on you. All over you. Repeatedly. Savoring the taste of your lips as you moan into his mouth. Feeling your warmth and love. Unclothed. His mind is running wild. This frantic sensation in his blood, while half-forgotten, was not new. It will be another sleepless night for the poor king. And it’s all because of you.

[brewedlove]

Love Letters

Series/Fandom: Coffee Talk

Character (x reader): Freya, Lua, Baileys

Relationship to Reader: Romantic

Reader Specifications: None

Word Count: 821

Warnings: None

Requested: No

A/N: I know Lua and Baileys are canonically in a relationship. Either think of this as they’re not, make it polyamorous, or ignore it. The lack of Coffee Talk content on here makes me sad so I’ll contribute to it despite the little information to go off of from everyone but I did my best to keep them in character. If the creators of the game doesn’t want me to write about them, just let me know because.. Yeah. Once again, the Reader’s gender, sex, nationality, ethnicity, and species/race are unspecified so I think everyone should be free to read.

UPDATED A/N: If you recognize this piece on a different blog under the name @iwritesinsandsins it’s because Tumblr silenced all my posts there so I’m starting over again. (／ˍ・、)

~

Gently sliding the paper over the smooth counter, the barista dodges questions that could reveal your identity as you had requested, leaving the sender of the note anonymous. Instead, they encourage the recipient to read it, carefully observing their reaction to the love letter.

Freya

Freya thought it was a prank at first but as a writer, she can recognize genuine words and raw emotion when she sees it so she knows that the love letter is real.

She phrases her questions towards the barista in a certain way that’s meant to get them to unintentionally leak information, hoping that her skill would help her figure out the sender.

Unfortunately, the barista is all too familiar with how Freya works and not even a hint is given aside from the note itself which leads her to go into a detective mode.

Whenever she’s free, she tries to visit Coffee Talk as soon as they open and will stay until closing, analyzing and talking to each patron.

When she narrows down everyone else, her mind is certain that it’s you.

She’s pretty bold and may oh so casually mention a letter that was given to her by an anonymous writer.

Once she is able to confirm that it’s you, laughter shakes her body but she’s not laughing at you; she’s laughing because it was fun for her to try and figure out which patron did it like a detective.

Freya genuinely thinks that the love letter is sweet and compliments your writing, going into depth about the aspects that she loves about it and may nonchalantly slip in a compliment or two about you.

With a giddy grin, she’ll invite you to meet up at Coffee Talk tomorrow night - it’s a date.

Lua

The corner of Lua’s lips pulled up into a bashful smile while she reads the letter but is disappointed when the barista won’t tell her who wrote it

She can respect that, though once she learns that the writer wished for their identity to remain anonymous.

While she doesn’t push for more information, she does ask the barista to give them her thanks whenever they see them again.

Lua keeps the note safe at home in a secret little compartment and sometimes looks back on it and lets herself feel that warmth inside of her as she rereads it over and over again.

Admittedly, there’s a part of her that is nervous about the whole thing; she has a fear that her secret admirer is actually just someone toying with or making fun of her.

Though just as she has her doubts, she also carries hope in the emotions expressed in the love letters as she slowly grows to reciprocate the same feelings.

To keep her interest, you must continue to leave her letters to the point where she begins to prolong her visits at the shop in hopes to catch whoever has been sending her these sweet messages.

One night, she overheard you talking with the barista and recognized the familiar speech pattern and your choice of words before she carefully approached you and ended up being pulled into the conversation.

Lua isn’t completely sure if it was you or not but with time, she slowly confirms her suspicions and knows that it was really you that captured her heart.

Baileys

Baileys’ got a playful smile on his face once he finishes reading the note and asks the barista if they were the one that wrote it to which they deny.

When he learns that the writer wishes to keep their identity a secret, he sighs, “Guess it can’t be helped, huh?” but he’s not disappointed in the slightest.

He keeps the note in his pocket and whenever he can, he’ll pull it out to analyze the writing to see if he can recognize it as anyone that he knows.

The barista will begin to see him around the shop more often and he makes it blatantly obvious; it’s clear that he wants to find the person.

Whenever he’s there, he’ll chat up the barista or will subtly manage to slip into conversations with other patrons, trying to pull out hints from them since he naturally has a way with words.

Baileys thrives off the mystery and the barista has told you about how excited he gets upon receiving another letter despite his cool exterior.

At this point, he’s really hoping that this isn’t just someone toying with him and that these words of confession are real because now he’s fallen for this anonymous person, too.

It isn’t until he finds himself talking to you that he’s certain you’re his secret admirer and is trying to impress you with his skills and knowledge and maybe cracking a few jokes.

Baileys is obvious about his interest and will offer to help you with anything, even if it’s not in his field or he’ll invite you out somewhere next time you’re both free.

[herenortherenearnorfar]

This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes—mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

[bts-weverse-trans]

201124 Weverse Magazine ‘BE’ Comeback Interview - J-Hope

j-hope: “Even just one, single love is beautiful, but we’re getting love from all over the world” BTS BE comeback interview 2020.11.24

On April 28, j-hope streamed a Log ( ON ) video of his dance warm-up on BTS’s YouTube channel, BANGTANTV. Over the course of an hour and four minutes, he stretches out his whole body, gradually advances from small motions up to big movements, and demonstrates more of his other techniques. And he didn’t leave out his cooldown exercise, either. This has been j-hope’s life as a BTS member for the past seven years.

A whole lot happened this year. j-hope: Like I said in another interview, it’s been a roller coaster of a year. It started out with our performance at the Grammys, which was really, really, great, and then Map of the Soul: 7 came out, which was great, too, and then it plummeted. With COVID-19 happening, I did a lot of thinking, did some studying, then everyone met “Dynamite” and we had some great results. And the ride repeated. Roller coasters are scary, but you keep thinking about them even after you get off. That’s how I felt about this year: it was scary, but memorable.

One of those memorable things must be how “Dynamite” topped the Billboard Hot 100 but you never had a chance to actually go to the U.S. j-hope: So when we got first place, we couldn’t even check the charts. We were asleep. We checked when we woke up, and there we were, at the top. But then we went straight to work. (laughs) We had to film something here in Korea. It was hard to enjoy ourselves, the whole situation being what it was, but it was all right because we could still enjoy it together.

You must have had a lot on your mind, making BE during this kind of year. j-hope: I tend to think of BTS albums as being a reflection of the whole team, but this time I thought of it as putting in the stories I wanted to tell, making it my music and infusing myself into the new album while still being a BTS album. It turned out to be right at home with BTS’s color, and the whole team’s energy led to an even bigger synergy.

What made you think to go in that direction? j-hope: We started this album off by getting together and asking what kind of story we wanted to tell. The end result of that conversation was, “Well, hey, we still have to live with this situation; we can’t give up.” And from there, “Life Goes On” was born, and then we got to work on the stories we each wanted to tell. I think it sounds more raw, since we tried to capture the emotions we felt living through the pandemic.

I imagine you each had a lot of songs you wanted to include, and that your opinions were probably all a bit different. How did you compromise on the final product? j-hope: None of us made any kind of plan. We’d listen to a track and someone would ask, “Hey, anybody wanna give this a try?” and someone else would say, “Me! I’ll do it.” We just did it that way. There were clashes, too. When each person starts to speak louder, it’s hard to find a common ground. But we’ve always been good at communicating with one another, and we know when to back down or be gracious, so everything went smoothly including planning for the unit songs.

How did each of you choose your songs? You put “Dis-ease” on the album. j-hope: There’s one song where we were working in the studio and someone said, “That track wasn’t very good, was it? Jung Kook’s one before was better” and we’d switch on the spot. The song would be done recording and we talked to the label and ended up switching it out. We listened to it all together and said, “What about this?” And that’s how we decided. So then “Life Goes On” was done, and I wasn’t sure if “Dis-ease” would be on the album. We gave the seven songs from each member to Jimin, who was project manager, and he suggested we listen to them first and then get feedback from people inside the company. I think it was one of the stories each member could feel was his own.”

Where did you get the idea for the theme of “Dis-ease”? j-hope: First, I wanted to get into the mindset that this song is a sickness. When I make a song, I work on the chorus first, and then move onto the first verse. When I had only finished the chorus the song felt upbeat, but I thought the overall theme shouldn’t be too playful. That wouldn’t reflect how I felt. But while the theme of “Dis-ease” itself isn’t very light, when it fuses with the beat, it feels as if the song is trying to get over itself and stay positive. So I threw some scratching into the chorus and put in some “bbyap bbyap bbayp” and then started to think, “Aha! I’d better call this song ‘Dis-ease.’ ”

I didn’t expect you to write a song portraying your love–hate relationship with your work as a disease. A lot of people would expect you to have a positive, hopeful attitude, given your name. j-hope: I was too busy to ever give much thought about the work itself. But, as you know, that suddenly changed, and there was a lot we could no longer do. When I was working, I’d say, “Ugh, I need a break,” but then we took time off and the words, “Ugh, I want to work,” jumped out of my mouth! That’s what made me think more closely: “Why is this bothering me? I have a chance to rest—just take it. Why do I feel like I need to work under these circumstances? Is this an occupational disease?” I felt like this was a part of me that I could express at this point in time.

This is the first time in your lyrics I’ve heard how hard you push yourself to be successful. It made me wonder about the burden you felt about work over the past seven years. j-hope: Out of habit, I would say, “I’m okay; I have hope,” and keep working, but I think I was just avoiding my work-related problems rather than facing them head on. The nice thing about music is that I can say what’s on my mind, even feeling of sadness or depression, in beautiful ways.  I don’t usually express those feelings but this time I wanted to try.

It sounds like you have lots of different thoughts about work. j-hope: With my work? Well, actually, I’m not sure. Work is kind of an ugly duckling. Work gives me good energy but there’s energy you get from resting. But someone like me feels alive when they’re working, so I need to keep moving and keep doing. I feel anxious when I stop and content when I go. Every once in a while I don’t want to work, but I can’t not work.

You’re saying you and work go well together? j-hope: Exactly. It’s easier just to think simple. If you think too hard, that’s when things get difficult. Because I’m me, I can’t just keep it simple all the time, but I’m trying my hardest to do my best.

Thinking simple isn’t always so simple. j-hope: Yeah. Maybe it’s because I don’t have many problems to deal with. I feel uncertainty because of that. Uncertain about how my identity will be affected if I do encounter some great hardship.

BTS has faced a lot of hardship, though, right? j-hope: That is also true. (laughs) But the team wouldn’t have kept going if it’d just been me cheering ourselves on. We’re possible because we all think the same way. I wonder if we would’ve been able to come this far if it was just me saying, “Let’s go, guys!” That’s why I’m even more thankful to the other members.

What do those emotional changes affect your music? j-hope: I didn’t want to make an overly cheery song this time. I thought it would be best to do some softer songs about the way I was feeling this whole time, so I chose “Dis-ease” as well as “Fly to My Room.” The other members also thought, “Yeah, we’ve done a lot of bright songs, so it should be fine if we try it this way, too.” “Blue & Grey” is like that, too. I love that song.

You have a completely different voice when you rap on “Blue & Grey.” Did your rap style also change, along with your emotions? j-hope: I wanted “Blue & Grey” to sound like I was talking, actually. The tone and feel of my voice changes a lot depending on how I vocalize my rap.  I noticed that a lot this time. Namjoon actually helped me a ton. His part was after mine, so I turned to him and said, “Maybe it would sound better if I did it like this,” and tried it out. Then I used his advice and found the right sound.

How does it feel moving away from your normal style? j-hope: It’s really refreshing. I thought it wouldn’t work but I think it did after all. And I always thought this was a feel that I wanted to give it a try. For me, BE is sort of like the first step down an unfamiliar path, so there were parts that were challenging, and also parts that were a welcome change.

I think your rap in “Dis-ease” demonstrates that change well. Instead of trying to keep time in the intro, your flow just follows the story. j-hope: I made sure not to overthink anything this time. It ended up sounding natural because I just matched the rhythm of the words as they left my mouth. And it was refreshing because I haven’t done a long verse like in “Dis-ease” in forever. When we rap, there tend to be four or eight-ish lines; I thought I’d try and pack in a verse with sixteen. It also helped because the lyrics came out before many of the other things for this song.

The music makes “Dis-ease” sound upbeat, but then there’s a surprising message: “To be honest, I have this problem.” It’s like you were holding yourself back from crossing a line. j-hope: It was something like that. Shouldn't we stay on this line? Maybe that’s a disease too (laughs). I thought if j-hope leaned too much to one side people might think that’s strange, too. That’s why I tried to stick to my standards, but since I’m also human I also expressed emotions I couldn’t articulate into music.

You don’t want to try and cross that line? j-hope: I’ve thought about it, obviously. I want to, but in my life itself and in my mind, I always think if there’s a line, it shouldn’t be crossed. But I’m becoming more generous to myself about crossing lines when it comes to music.

So you haven’t crossed yet, but right now you want to say, “I have something else,” and go further. j-hope: Yes. This is maybe a time when I really need to. I’ve been lucky because I met great people, had success and reached where I am now. Now that I’m here, I always want to try new things myself and keep growing. That’s why I’m working hard and thinking about what kind of music I should make.

There’s a part in “Fly to My Room” where you sing, “You can change the way you think.” It’s like you were explaining the past seven years of your life. j-hope: It all depends on how you look at it. Say there’s some kind of food. You might feel lonely while eating it by yourself, but if you forget about your loneliness for a minute and think, “There is no difference in food I would be eating out (with other people) anyway,” then it’s just like eating out. So even though I was stuck feeling lonely at home, I started to think of it as another trip instead. I thought of my room as my world, and delivery food as a three-star hotel meal. As you can tell from the title, I worked on that song by thinking about the way I endured this year so far.

And why did you decide to “change the way you think?” j-hope: Because I get a lot of love. Because I’m in this position and in this place, there’s things I have to deal with, and I should do things and think things I am able to bear. I thought about that a lot and accepted it. So I thought about what I could do during these hard times, and how I could help out my friends, my team. I think I’m still going through that process, too, so everything’s an “-ing”, because I might need to know what to do later about what I can do, even if I don’t quite know it yet.

What effect does being surrounded by so much love have on you? j-hope: It’s amazing to be loved by even one person. Even just one, single love is beautiful, but we’re getting love from all over the world. And I know this isn’t something to take for granted. I’m so incredibly thankful that sometimes I feel overwhelmed just thinking, ‘Wow, how can I ever return this much love?’ I want to express that in any way possible, every moment I can, because I’m so honored to be so loved that I can’t begin to put it into words.

A little while ago, in an interview with Rolling Stone India, you said that, when you were young, you equated debuting with success. What does success mean to you now, now that you’ve had success after success? j-hope: Success … It’s a simple idea, but it can weigh on you. In all aspects of life, I think success means being satisfied with what you’re able to do.When you lose faith in your work and it starts becoming a chore, that’s when it starts to get depressing.

There are inevitably times when you can’t enjoy it. j-hope: It’s just, you know, it’s really simple. If you can’t do it now, you can always do it later. Do that, and you can put your mind at ease. And I think that’s the secret to living a long, happy life. Anything you can’t do in your 20s, you can just do in your 40s. Of course, there’s going to be stuff you should do now while you’re still (laughs) energetic. But if that’s the position you’re in right now, you just have to ride it out. Try again later if you can’t enjoy yourself now. You’ll probably feel different in the future anyway. Yeah, that was pretty much the key to my self-preservation.

Where do you find the strength to hold on like that? j-hope: From the group, it’s very clear what that is. It’s our fans. ARMY. We had to pull through, for the fans. At any time of any day, the fans come first. I keep thinking about how painful it would be for the fans if we just gloss over something or feel like giving up just because we’re having a hard time. I was 20 when we made our debut. I didn’t know much about having a social life, but the messages our fans sent were a big comfort and gave us hope. I learned a lot just by reading fan letters and understanding the kind of thoughts they had. Fans and artists really are one and the same.

That makes me think of a line from “Life Goes On”: “People say the world has changed but thankfully between you and me, nothing has changed.” j-hope: Yes, right. I thought that line expressed the feeling really well as soon as I first heard it. Yoongi wrote that. He is really good. (laughs) I think that describes our relationship with our fans.

Trans © Weverse

[confused-stars]

For the sign au Aizawa has a clue connecting Oboro to Kurogiri but it will probably confuse him more than anything. Since Oboro is supposed to be dead??? He'll probably discuss this with Present Mic then try to investigate. Maybe he'll try capturing Kurogiri for answers though that'll be hard. Or maybe he'll search for info on Kurogiri, his history and such. He won't find much unless he manages to break into one of the Doctors labs, but those are hard to find. Or are they???

fear not, for i come bearing answers

this is a bit of a timeline hopping thing since the first part is after Shigaraki was captured and the second is after the Eri rescue!!

ko-fi link (✿◡‿◡)

He finds Hizashi on the roof. That’s the first surprise.  Shouta comes up here sometimes, because he has the destructive habit of picking at old wounds until they’re bleeding and raw again, but Hizashi has always been the opposite of that. It’s not that he ever tried to pretend Oboro hadn’t existed, but he did use to pretend his loss didn’t affect him nearly as much as it actually did. Hizashi was always pushing forward where Shouta lingered on the past. Maybe that makes him a healthier person.

Shouta clears his throat as he approaches, but Hizashi gives no indication of having heard him. He’s sitting at the edge of the roof, legs dangling and arms resting on the railing as he looks out over the UA campus. The view has changed so much since they were teenagers. Since Oboro was up here with them.

There’s about a million places Shouta would rather be at the moment, but this is a conversation that needs to happen. They haven’t talked since Shouta had All Might call up his detective friend and demanded he use his quirk on Hizashi so they could be assured he wasn’t the traitor. The vindication followed by pure hollowness of Hizashi’s gaze after Tsukauchi’s nod has been haunting Shouta for weeks now. There were no words that would have repaired the broken bridge between them, so Shouta decided to give it some time. That might have been a mistake, too. Them drifting apart has always been something that hurt both of them in the process. Hizashi would have likely much rather had a big yelling match and then hugged it out. But Shouta couldn’t do that. He’s been... punishing himself, staying away from his best friend. His ‘something’. His ‘maybe’.  Because it’s Shouta’s fault that he’s hurting in the first place. Shouta’s stupid lack of trust and paranoia. He should have never, ever doubted him, even for a second. There’s a ton of excuses there. How he was injured, how he’s traumatized, how he was always only trying to protect the students. How being cautious was the logical choice. The professional choice for a hero. But none of that actually matters, does it? Hizashi is Hizashi. That should have been enough.

Either way, that’s a problem for later. He has to prioritize right now. There’s something much more pressing, and that’s forcing him to speak with Hizashi even though he still doesn’t know how to even begin repairing their relationship. Shouta has always had this tendency of ducking away from personal conflict like this. It’s much along the same vein as leaving a cat behind in the rain. It’s the easier way, when he gets overwhelmed and doesn’t know what to do. He despises that cowardly part of himself. Usually, he can push it away alright nowadays. But that’s only because he has Hizashi and Nemuri right with him.

Nemuri has firmly taken Hizashi’s side this time, though it’s not like she’s showing Shouta the cold shoulder, either. She’s just fussing over Hizashi more. Which is fine. Shouta is the one who caused the hurt, and it’s not like he enjoys her fussing. It’s probably good that they’re not talking much right now, because Nemuri... that’s going to be another painful conversation.

Shouta sits at the edge of the roof beside Hizashi and gazes out over their school grounds. It still makes him feel nostalgic to be up here. He breathes.

“How was your talk with Shigaraki?” Hizashi speaks first. Of course he does. Even if his voice is carefully blank, void of the usual emotion.

Shouta grimaces and flexes his freshly healed arm. The burns weren’t deep, but they were still painful. “... enlightening.”

Hizashi glances at him over his sunglasses. “So you found out who the traitor is?”

That was one of the questions Shouta knows All Might and Tsukauchi asked and got no answer to. He shakes his head. “But I did find out where he learned my name.”

Hizashi says nothing, waits with a raised eyebrow.

Shouta has no fucking idea how to do this. It feels like there’s a lead weight stuck in his chest. He breathes. Almost wants a cigarette even though he hasn’t smoked in nearly a decade.

He looks over towards the dorms instead of facing Hizashi any longer. “He told me Kurogiri taught him. Apparently they’ve been together for a while.”

“Kurogiri?” Hizashi repeats, “But... then we’re back to square one, aren’t we? How does he know?”

It’s nice, to hear him say ‘we’, even though of course they’re still in this together, as heroes. As teachers at this school. But ‘we’ has always meant something different to them.

‘We’ used to be a team of three or, occasionally, four.

“Shigaraki went nonverbal because of the stress of the interrogation, I think.” Shouta has never been one to dance around the point, he’s more known for being brutally honest, but this might be his limit right here. It’s like stumbling through the dark and knowing there’s a fall coming up ahead. “So... he signed.” Hizashi says nothing, allowing him to sort out his thoughts, but Shouta can feel his eyes boring into the side of his head. Is Hizashi concerned because all this hesitating isn’t like him? He should be. That still would in no way be enough to prepare him for what Shouta’s about to say.

“He spelled it out for me first. Kurogiri. But then, when he wasn’t thinking about it, he used his sign name instead.” Shouta turns to face Hizashi, slowly moving his hands in front of him. He signs, very slowly and deliberately.

Hizashi stares for a second. Then he huffs out a laugh. “That’s ridiculous, Shouta.”

Shouta raises a brow. “Is it?”

The reaction was a predictable one, of course, but Shigaraki wasn’t lying. And how else would he have known?

“He’s dead,” Hizashi insists, shaking his head again, “There’s just... no way. His quirk wasn’t even close to Kurogiri’s!”

“Wasn’t it, though?” Shouta asks quietly, tiredly. “Clouds, mist, it’s all humidity.”

“Teleportation isn’t.” Hizashi takes off his sunglasses, rubs at his eyes. “Are you hearing yourself talk? You seriously believe this?”

Shouta knows that he’s bringing his walls up because denying the possibility hurts less. It’s an old pain brought back up that they both only just started to heal from. But they need to be facing this together. If they’re still afforded that.

“Noumu are creatures created by combining multiple quirks inside a dead body and reviving them.” At least those are the bare bones of the process that Shouta understands. A lot of it is confidential. Need to know basis only. He doesn’t want the details... except now, maybe he does.

“They can’t speak or think!” Hizashi throws up his hands. “And they don’t look like that.”

Shouta’s jaw works for a moment. He looks back out over UA. “Who knows what Kurogiri looks like underneath all that mist?”

Hizashi has no answer for that, apparently, because he just pushes himself to his feet. “This is... I... I need to go. Somewhere else. Work. I have patrol. Yeah, that.”

He’s shaken enough that Shouta knows he’s not completely rejecting the possibility anymore. It’s about as much as he could have hoped for.

Shouta leans his chin on the railing and closes his eyes. “Be careful out there.” He pauses. “... and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ever doubted you.”

Hizashi laughs, and it’s a bit bitter, but not as biting as it could have been. “At this rate, me being a traitor would have been a better outcome.”

___

Their conversation bears heavily on Shouta’s mind, even two weeks later when he’s doing his usual patrol across the rooftops. It’s dangerous to let himself get distracted like this. Not his style at all.

Shirakumo does that to him.

And Hizashi, too.

He has no idea if things will get better now or not. It would be... helpful to have Hizashi at his side for this. And he knows that, as a hero, he won’t abandon Shouta when it comes to capturing a villain. But as a friend? As... someone Shouta has hurt, deeply and recently? Maybe not.

To be fair though, Shouta was always the one pushing him away before. If this is what his own medicine tastes like, then he’s surprised Hizashi stuck around this long.

“Eraserhead.” 

His capture cloth is hovering around his head even before the voice speaks up, his body tense and his mind... not as clear as he’d like it to be. But he knows the sound of these portals by now. He knows.

With one quick movement, he’s up from his perch on the corner of the roof and facing the shadowy figure that wasn’t there a moment earlier.

‘Oboro?’ he signs.

Kurogiri’s eyes flicker and narrow. “I didn’t come here for conversation.” He’s not signing, one of his hands behind his back.

Shouta doesn’t blink. He didn’t deny it, did he? Does he know? Shigaraki didn’t. Is Kurogiri able to keep secrets from him? “... but I need to talk to you.”

Against the backdrop of the night sky, it’s difficult to tell where Kurogiri starts and stops. It’s like he’s a part of the night itself.

Oboro liked the stars well enough, but he always preferred lazy afternoons in the sun. Shouta was the nocturnal one.

It’s all wrong.

There’s something that’s not even entirely human in the way Kurogiri tilts his head... if he even has a physical one underneath the mist. “There’s more pressing matters than the... tragedy of Shirakumo Oboro.” There’s a shudder going through him when he says the name, and part of Shouta wants to pounce on that.

If he’s still reacting to the name... then he must remember. And if he does... then he must be forced to help Shigaraki in some way. They already suspected something like that from his demeanor, but without being able to pin Kurogiri down for an interrogation, no one could be sure.

Shouta is, though. The most heroic boy he ever knew would never willingly become a villain.

He opens his mouth, but then Kurogiri is stepping aside, and revealing, behind him... Shouta freezes.

The child can’t be older than six, maybe seven years old. She’s wearing an adult size sweater that reaches past her knees, and her feet are bare. She’s trembling, her eyes big and red and filled with unshed tears that shine in the faint lights of the city below.

“This is Eri,” Kurogiri says.

Shouta knows. He’s been told about her, after all. He was part of an entire rescue operation that culminated in finding Chisaki near bleeding out in a room locked from the inside, and a missing girl. Now that part at least makes sense.

She was an asset. Did the League...? Would they? They’re not above kidnapping teenagers, but small children?

“We did not hurt her,” Kurogiri assures, and somehow he sounds almost affronted at the accusation that Shouta is sure doesn’t even show through the goggles hiding his eyes. “Chisaki took one of our own, so we decided it was time for his downfall. When I saw Eri...”

“You couldn’t just leave her behind,” Shouta concludes the thought. His chest hurts. If there needed to be any more proof, there it is.

Kurogiri makes a noise of affirmation. “I am a caretaker. I am not the kind of person who can leave someone in need.”

“An odd trait for a villain,” Shouta manages, then shakes himself out of it. Because he’s a hero and there’s a scared child.

Kurogiri pats Eri on the head gently and she seems to calm a bit.

Shouta takes a slow step closer, then crouches down, reaching out a hand. “Hello, Eri. My name is Eraserhead. I’m a pro hero.”

Eri looks up at Kurogiri. “... what does that mean?”

“It means -” Kurogiri’s voice is so, so gentle with her. “- that he’s going to help you and keep you safe. We’re unable to provide that kind of safety.”

“Oh.” Eri looks to the ground. “ ‘cause of what I did to the man with the burns.”

Kurogiri crouches now, too. “No. No, that was not your fault. I want you to remember that. And I do believe he will be fine, once he has calmed down a little. You did not hurt him. If anything... you may have healed him.”

Eri raises her gaze, eyes wide. “I... did? I didn’t hurt him?”

Kurogiri shakes his head. “He will be fine,” he repeats, “But your quirk is very powerful and we only managed to break the connection by using my portals in time, to create physical distance.” He stops himself, as if remembering he’s talking to a child. “... what that means is, you need to learn how to control your quirk, and with how powerful it is, Eraserhead is the only one I would trust with that.”

Ah.

Shouta feels a little dazed. This is nothing like what he experienced from Kurogiri so far, but to be fair, he only ever experienced him on a battlefield beside Shigaraki. Is Shigaraki behind this, too? Is Shigaraki giving up on such a powerful asset out of... kindness? Human decency? Or does he simply not know how deep Eri’s powers supposedly go?

“I can stop your quirk if you ever feel like it’s getting out of control,” he promises, then looks to Kurogiri. A silent question, signed slowly in the dark of night.

Kurogiri signs back after a moment. ‘No repayment needed. This is for her.’

He hesitates. ‘Children like T-O-M-U-R-A should be safe.”

Shouta takes in Eri again. Big, red eyes. Blueish white hair. A powerful quirk. Was Shigaraki to All for One what Eri was to Chisaki? It’s possible. Even if Shigaraki doesn’t seem to see it that way.

‘Understood,’ Shouta signs, ‘I’ll protect her.’

Kurogiri nods and gives Eri a little nudge. “I suppose this is goodbye, then, little bunny.”

Eri swallows and bows her head politely. “I... will you tell them all thank you?” she asks very quietly.

Kurogiri seems to smile, in a way that’s more felt than seen. “I will. Perhaps you will see us again eventually.”

Not if Shouta has anything to say about it. But Eri nods and bravely closes the distance between her and him. Shouta pushes his goggles up so she can see his eyes, and smiles at her.

Eri clutches at her sweater and does not meet his eyes. He didn’t expect her to.

Another portal appears, and Shouta lifts his head. “... Kurogiri.” The villain pauses. “Contact me if you need to talk. It... can be on neutral grounds. Just a conversation.” It aches, to allow him to leave, but he has Eri to think of right now. And somehow, it would feel wrong to try to arrest him after all of this. After seeing him so gentle and caring with this traumatized child. Oboro always was good with children.

Kurogiri watches him for a long moment. Then he nods. “Take care, Shouta.” And he’s gone.

Shouta exhaled forcefully, feeling the tension seep from his body. “... come on, Eri. Let’s get you out of this cold.”

[barnesandco]

Eat the Rich: Chapter 2

Eat the Rich Masterlist

The Avengers are tasked with tracking down an elusive thief, and retrieving the grand amounts of money she has stolen. Even after capture, she turns out to be impossible to break, save for a mystifying interest in Bucky.

Written for @mermaidxatxheart​ ‘s #jamiesmadwritingbash, under the Robin Hood AU prompt.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: mentions of Bucky’s Hydra days, and a short mention of dissociation. Disaster Avengers having breakfast.

A/N: I really really really love that people are saying they like the reader bc that’s the character people envision themselves as when they insert themselves into this kind of fanfic. I hope you enjoy what more we get to see of the reader here. So enjoy, and please continue to reblog and comment -- it makes this so much fun!

I’m not doing taglists, but you can follow and turn on notifications for @ayeshaupdates​​ to be notified when I post.

Divider by the fantastically talented @whimsicalrogers​​!

The dispute that had ensued after Bucky had voiced his wish to Steve had turned to resigned acceptance by the time the first slivers of dawn had started to creep across pristine floors, and Bucky found himself victorious. It's a grim glory that accompanies him down the hall and into the cell you had been moved into for the night. There's no mode of observation for this room, save for the presently closed viewing panel in the door. It's really early, and even though he doubts that you're asleep, given the stressful circumstances, his hand pauses where it's about to knock on the door.

With Steve having left for his run with Sam, and the others asleep or inactive in some way, shape or form, he's alone in the silver hallways of this portion of the Compound. Hand still in the air, tight fist, white knuckles and lip bitten red, and then he composes himself. Stepping away, he sits down on the floor, back against the wall and knees pulled up. 

While he waits, he listens, even if all he can hear is his own heartbeat and the faint, collective chorus of the birds chirping. The sturdy walls and doors between your bed and his floor prevent any speculation on your activities, since the only monitoring permitted is that of vital signs so an alert can be raised if there is danger. He could open the panel, but that might wake you and he doesn't want that. Whether this disruption, and how it is sure to initiate the crucial dialogue he’s here for, is undesired for his sake or yours is unclear. 

His head meets the metal behind him, and the cold stings at his scalp, but Bucky stays that way. Likes the cold bite of it, on occasions such as these, when he needs the ice-crystal clarity of mind, and he knows it'll warm up soon, under his touch. Likes knowing that Hydra doesn't control him all the time, that he can feel the prickle of freezing skin without having a debilitating flashback to cryostasis is indicative of how far he's come. He's no longer the man Steve flew to New Zealand for a month after he had a hellish dissociative episode courtesy of New York's first snowfall.

The metal thaws behind him, sunlight through the thin sliver of window at the top of the wall slides higher on the door. Opalescent solar glare on silver steel, half a rainbow in his exhausted eyes, and the weight of evaporating dew in the air is what precedes a conversation that has his stomach in knots and crosses.

The digital, holographic clock strikes nine above the cell door. 

Rising to his feet, Bucky can feel every single one of his 103 years in his back, the avoirdupois of a century's lamentable events on his weary shoulders. So he does a breathing exercise before he tries the door again.

Allowing his lungs to expand to their full capacity, and then holding that breath there until his alveoli scream, before exhaling in a rush of sweet-cereal scented breath, makes him feel less stone-like. More muscle than metal, soft and pliable and open. Steve would argue that that's perilous, here, in front of a woman who's so touch-and-go, all breakneck smiles, but he's not an Avenger when he enters that room -- he's Bucky Barnes, looking for more pieces of himself, pieces that he'll never find if his eyes are shut tight against the impact.

You answer upon the second knock. "Come in." Your voice lilts to a light taunt, but it’s effect is minimized by the drowsy scratch of your voice. Opening the door after letting it recognize his irises, Bucky thinks that the same can be said about the Christmas-just-came-early spark in your eyes, when they're underlined by dark bags. You're still wearing the green hoodie.

" 'Morning," he says softly, pausing in the doorway. The cell contains a metal chair of the same style as those in the interrogation rooms, and the cot you're sitting up in, back against the wall behind you. There's a small door in one corner that he knows leads to a toilet cubicle.

"To what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure, Mr. Barnes?"

"Bucky," he blurts unthinkingly, and your eyes widen in surprise and amusement. His guard is down, and he needs to be cautious. "And you can thank yourself for being so goddamn persistent and getting on everybody’s nerves."

The smirk brought to your face is aimed at your hands, bound loosely in front of you. A more tender expression than most seen before. The long, fretful night seems to be taking its toll on you. Perhaps you’re slipping. Or perhaps you’re pretending to, his instincts warn. He sighs, clenches his hands into fists, lets his nails dig into his palm. Metal whirs, purrs, and he releases when you move both bound hands towards the chair in front of you. 

Bucky sits down, rubs his palms back and forth over his thighs, lets the grainy feel of the denim under scratch at his hands. "You know me,” he begins.

"Not nearly as well as I'd like,” you say with a grin, looking up from your hands. He glowers. 

"I'm serious."

Your smile widens. "So am I. Come a little closer. I don't bite,” you tease, and he decides to take you up on it. Gets up and sits on the cot a couple of feet away from you, folding one leg up so his foot is under his thigh and keeping the other on the floor. You’re unfazed at having your bluff called. "...Unless you want me to,” you finish, and he ignores it. 

"You kept asking for me while you were being questioned.”

“You were watching? Did you like what you see?”

The temptation to roll his eyes is strong, but he manages to hold it in check, and fixes a strong focus on you. This is important. It’s about his life. “You wanted to talk to me, so here I am. Now let’s talk.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“How about your name?”

“Oh, you’ll have to get to know me a little better if you want me to give up that secret. Try again," you urge, and he huffs. Like drawing blood from a rock. 

Every question he could ask, every query he needs an answer to is being whirled around in the chaotic storm in his head, and it's so difficult to pick out just one. “Have we met?” He decides upon, momentarily forgoing the alternatives: Who are you? Why do I feel like I know you? Why do I feel like you're important? What part of me do you hold in those bound hands of yours?

Head tilted upwards, you consider the ceiling while searching for an answer. “Briefly.” And then you pause. Bite your lip, look down, make a so-so motion with your head. “Well, I wouldn’t say met, exactly. I wreaked some havoc and you watched.” That tells me jack-shit, sweetheart.

“When?”

“February of 2013," you respond instantaneously. Good memory. That's useful. 

“So I was with Hydra," he assumes, instantly going down all the roads he might know you by. A mission, a murder, more violence, another apology. Were you partners in crime, or his target? Or were you just in the way?

“I don’t agree with that phrasing, but yes, I suppose so."

“Did we work together?” He dares to question. 

There's a change: a tangible shift in the atmosphere, like the scent of ozone in the air before a thunderstorm. The stiffening of your posture, how you sit up straighter but hunch your shoulders against some invisible attack tells him he's touching a nerve, nearing cyclone waters. It takes a moment for the mask to fall back into place over your face, before you're able to answer, with venom, repulsed. “God, no. I would never work for them.” It's the most sincere emotion he's heard from you, this disgust. It eases him to know how strongly you feel about Hydra, but he’s wary of your raw response to it.

So, he treads more kindly. Softly. On eggshells sharp and off-white, feeling his way around the balance of your temper. “Then how did we meet?”

“I was on a heist,” you say, matter-of-factly. In your tone of voice, now even and professional, it sounds like the most natural thing in the world. As though stealing from megalomaniac neo-Nazis is just another day at work.

“What kind of heist? Who sent you?” Bucky observes the way you're pulling the edges of your sleeves over your hands as much as you can with your restraints. At this question, your smile returns, and he relaxes. Can now feel his leg falling asleep under him now that he's not so tense.

“Nobody sent me. I’m a free agent. I work for myself,” you announce, chin up. 

“What were you going to steal from Hydra?” He asks, and your head turns slowly towards him, firework sparkle meeting level, cool, sky-blue, a hurricane simmering behind his irises.

“You.”

“We did not sign up for this,” Barton grumbles from his second cup of coffee -- addicts, the lot of them -- adjusting his hearing aid with a frown on his face at the turn of events. 

Sam clears his throat, setting down a half-empty glass of orange juice next to Natasha’s espresso on the table and speaks next, “That’s messed up, man, that’s really, really messed up.” This is said with a shake of his head, and Bucky, having no response to either Barton or Sam, addresses Steve.

“There’s something she’s not telling me, Rogers.” He uses the last name to revert to the days of talking shop in green tents with the gravity of impending shelling in the air. Life or death, and though the circumstances aren’t quite so acute right now, this is a grave matter, too. Steve's standing hunched over the kitchen island, arms outstretched and hands flat on the granite surface, studying the pattern like it holds all the answers. 

Bucky watches him think, but Stark, in Spider-Man PJs and the bed-head of the century, strolls into the kitchen at a leisurely pace and interrupts. “There are a lot of things she’s not telling you. Who she is, where the money is, wh--”

“She’s not telling me why," Bucky interrupts a tirade that he knows could continue forever, given the chance. “People don’t go around stealing super soldier assassins for the hell of it.”

“Maybe she’s working for someone who wanted you to work for them instead of Hydra," Peter suggests over a ridiculously large bowl of ridiculously colorful cereal at the breakfast nook.

“She doesn’t work for anyone. Says she’s a free agent."

“And you believe her?” Sam wonders. It's a genuine question, curious but not dismissive or doubtful. 

“Barnes has quite the built-in lie detector," Nat tells Sam from next to him, her yoga-pant clad legs splayed across another chair. Yeah, he’s good at telling when people are being dishonest, but there’s also the fact this woman is way too fearless, fucking crazy to be made to do anyone's bidding. No chance in Hell does she takes orders. 

Tony slumps in an orange loveseat. “Must be a Russian thing," he quips, and then breaks out into a yawn.

Bucky puts his hands on his hips and glares at all of them, by turn, sharply. "Would you let me finish?" He demands. "She couldn't tell me why she was going to steal me from Hydra, but she said she'd show me." One could hear a pin drop in this room, now, the bustle of Avengers replaced by the obviously preposterous proposition Bucky's relaying. "Just me," he adds.

"Me?" He asks, voice rising in pitch and volume, and he fights to control both, rising to his feet. "Why would you steal me?"

"Have you seen you?" You ask back, eyes scintillating, glowing with mirth. "Gorgeous hair, those eyes, and hands that I'm sure know how to treat a girl right.”

Bucky looks daggers at you, and you look back. "I'm serious."

"I thought you were Bucky,” you say innocently, and he thinks he could scream in frustration, but he drops down, kneels just beside where you sit, and holds onto the edge of the cot like it’s the end of the world he’s falling off of.

"I don't think you understand how important this is to me. You know something about me you won't say. I've been trying to put together my past so I can understand myself better and you have a piece of my history. I need to know,” he enunciates each word as if it’s his last. Needs to convey the severity of the situation, how he has been trying to rebuild himself into a new life from the scraps of the old ones. He’s aware that he’s complete as he is but he also makes choices for himself now, and he chooses to know.

You look down, and although it’s your hands that are bound, you offer a golden prayer. "Let me show you." A lifeline, something he doesn’t want to believe and doesn’t know if he can trust. Hence, the question:

"What?"

A sad shrug of your shoulders is the first answer, and it all starts to unravel from there. "I can't tell you, I really can't. It's complicated and a really long story--"

Bucky elevates himself on his knees, his fingers dig in a little tighter, and the metal of the bed begins to creak ever so slightly. "The way I see it, we have all the time in the world, darlin'," he says in a thick voice, emotion simmering at the corners of his lips.

"Darlin'?" You can’t help but ask, without any flirt this time, any teasing, just a question in a tone as surprised as he is at the slip of tongue.

Bucky decides to ignore the interruption. "So let's start at the beginning.”

Fervently, you shake your head. "I can't." At his wide-eyed disbelief, "I mean it, I can't."

"No, you can, you just won't,” he insists.

"We could have a grammar lesson if you want, or I could show you why I was going to steal the Winter Soldier."

"What do you mean show me?" Bucky asks, moving to sit on the chair again. Leaning forward, he places his hands on his thighs, looks into your eyes to pull forth the words you won’t give him.

You blink, unbudgingly. "I have to take you somewhere. It's the only way to explain."

A sharp bark of a laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head as it recedes into chuckles. Your face is now blank and expressionless, gauging how to handle this, and he gives you the first response that comes to mind. "You're full of shit."

"What happened to darlin' ?"

Meeting your eyes, he says, “You want me to let you out so you can escape. A five-year-old could see through that.” Then, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses one ankle over the other as well his arms. His hooded gaze is at a stalemate with yours, and it’s a hopeless tug of war. So this is how it ends. A night spent sleepless in vain, a few battle bruises and the tug of disappointment in his belly.

A dismal, and last-ditch sigh ripples through the air, from lips dark and worried bloody. Your eyes look overcast and you open and close your mouth repeatedly to say something, but do not voice your thoughts. Giving you the time to formulate whatever perfect sentence you’re trying to utter is torturous, but he waits. Until you stop, speechless, and he gets to his feet. Turns to the door, and then you speak from behind him, while his hand hovers over the handle.

"Let me take you, and only you, to the place you need to see, and I'll cooperate. I'll give you what I have left of the money, and I'll plead guilty in court and serve my time.” Bucky freezes. "Just come with me,” and you’re the one making requests, making pleas now. It’s inexplicable, he knows he should be looking this particular gift horse in the mouth, and he convinces himself that he will, in time, but right now, he accepts.

"Was that an innuendo?" He asks, still facing away, the question indicating a truce.

"If you want it to be," you say, and he turns around to look at you. "What do you say, Barnes, are we going on a road trip?

Hope swells somewhere in him he thought had been long abandoned for darker days and arduous nights. The same intuition that taught him to ask for this piece of himself tells him something is coming. Something that’s going to make a difference.

"Bucky. It's Bucky. And yeah, I guess we are.”

[andromedasstarship]

faceless, nameless - chapter 1

photo credit - unknown 

pairing - kylo ren x reader 

warnings - canon-typical star wars violence, depictions of pain/near death experiences, sadness, depressed reader, angst, betrayal, hospital rooms, injured reader 

summary - Poe opened his mouth a few times as if to speak, but nothing came out. After a few instances of this, you decided to address the elephant in the room. “You think Ren will come looking for me, don’t you?” 

blog rules 

a/n - the next chapter is completed as well and will be uploaded tomorrow after editing! thanks for reading :) send an ask/reply to be put on the taglist. 

masterlist // read it on ao3 here 

prologue // next chapter 

-----

the moon 

Unlike Kylo, you had never felt the need to wear a mask during your days with the First Order. Kylo had requested, near begged you to- worried you’d become too identifiable and therefore an easier target-, but your job wasn’t to intimidate. Your job was to be a diplomat and a strategist and the nicer face of Order. It was quite difficult to create the intimate bonds your job required if you weren’t able to show your face. Across the galaxy, they had many names for you- the devil’s whore, Lady Ren, concubine-, but no matter what someone called you, you arguably ended up having one of the most identifiable faces in the entire galaxy.

At the moment you weren’t sure if that was working better or worse for you. Sprawled out in the sand, in a pool of your own blood, a pair of Resistance pilots were standing over you. Their outfits were gaudy, you thought, bright orange and quite the eyesore. They were arguing about something, you were pretty sure it was whether or not they should save you. You forced yourself to focus and strained to process what they were saying. 

“This is Kylo Ren’s girl, do you understand that? Kylo Ren’s girl. We touch her and we die.” The blonde haired one was saying. 

“Do you see Ren around anywhere? Or anyone from the First Order?” That came out of the one with dark curly hair. He was undeniably attractive, you thought. “If we save her, maybe we’ll have a bargaining chip” 

“That or he’s gonna think we kidnapped her and shot her and then he’s going to blow us all up!” Good point, blondie, a little off given the circumstance, but he didn’t know that. 

They didn’t even try talking to you, good guy optimism or not, the faraway look in your eyes and your labored breathing told them it wasn’t worth it. 

Eventually, you felt them pick you up and start carrying you somewhere, presumably their ship. The dark haired one had won the conversation with his whole ‘we’re the good guys’ mantra. Not that you were complaining, you didn’t necessarily want to die. When they dropped you on a table and started working at getting your wound cleaned you decided it was safe to let your mind go to sleep. You’d thank them in the morning if you woke up. 

----

You did, wake up, but it was days later and you were in a rather nondescript, too bright, makeshift hospital room. Never one for dramatics, you didn’t try pulling out your IV or ripping bandages off or jumping out of your hospital bed. You just laid there and made a list in your mind of what happened; it was the first time since being shot that you had a true moment to think. 

Kylo had come to you in the morning and told you he was taking you on a surprise trip to a nearby planet that had a beach. 

You and Kylo laid on the beach for hours, he was rather distant, but that wasn’t cause for concern. 

He kissed you like he was never going to kiss you again. 

You felt a blaster shot rip through you and immediately assumed you were under attack. 

Kylo was holding the blaster.

Kylo laid you down on the sand and left without looking back.

You laid there for..., you weren’t sure how long. 

Resistance pilots saved you. 

And now you were at...? 

You took a better look at your surroundings. Too white walls, little in terms of supplie- especially in comparison to the splendor you were accustomed to-, scratchy sheets, no windows and one single metal door. You were undoubtedly in shock, still unable to process the extent of your injury, how close you’d been to death and especially the part about Kylo. There was also the IV taped snugly to your arm, you could only imagine they were pumping you full of various drugs and pain meds; they probably did it to keep you sluggish for when you woke up and not to help keep your emotions at bay, but you appreciated it nonetheless. 

The drugs made it difficult to keep track of time, but you assumed it had been just under an hour when Pretty Pilot walked into the room. He must’ve not expected you to be awake, judging by how wide his eyes got when they met yours. 

You decided to be the one to break the silence. “Hello.” 

At that the pretty pilot fully entered the room, letting the door shut with a bang behind him. “Hello.” 

“Am I allowed to ask for your name?” You asked. 

“Poe. Poe Dameron.” 

“I’m assuming you know my name already then?” You asked, shuffling in your bed to get a better look at him. 

“Everyone knows your name.” Poe replied, walking further into the room. He pulled out a chair that had been next to your bed and sat down, looking up at you. “How are you feeling? You were out for nearly a standard week.” 

You couldn’t help the laugh that came out of you; or the painful moan that followed after the movement sent a sharp pain up your spine. “I feel like I got shot.” 

Pretty Pilot Poe grinned at that too. “Guess I should’ve seen that coming huh?” His face got a tad bit more serious and he continued, “do you know where you are?” 

“With the Resistance I assume?” 

He answered with a nod and leaned back in his chair. It was clear he was unsure how to proceed with the conversation, your years as a diplomat had taught you well in interpreting body language. This must’ve been uncharted territory for both of you. The First Order rarely took prisoners alive and the ones they did were never alive for long, nor did you have much involvement in their time with the Order. To your knowledge, the Resistance had never captured anyone of importance, not even a lowly officer or trooper. You briefly wondered what it was like when Poe and the blonde one carted you into the Resistance- ship, base, you weren’t really sure-, and plopped your dying body into the med bay. 

Poe opened his mouth a few times as if to speak, but nothing came out. After a few instances of this, you decided to address the elephant in the room. “You think Ren will come looking for me, don’t you?” 

Poe’s face morphed into a form of shock, but you could tell he was glad you had breached the subject of Ren. “We know he will.” 

“No. No he won’t,” you started, rolling your head to the other side so you were looking away from him, “Ren’s the one who shot me and left me-” 

Poe gasped loudly, effectively cutting you off. You rolled your head back to face him and couldn’t help the little smile that formed when you saw his more than bewildered face. At least one of you was processing the betrayal. 

“If your people are smart, you won’t attempt to contact him or the Order and tell them that I’m alive.” You said quietly, giving him the most serious look you could muster. 

Poe’s mouth was still opening and closing, a bit like a fish, but he managed to shake a nod your way. After a few moments of silence that were getting close to uncomfortable, he shot out of his seat. “I need to, um, tell my team. I’ll be back later.” He was out the door before you could formulate a response. 

So, it’d been a standard week since Kylo- you weren’t quite ready to swallow that truth yet. It’d been a standard week since you’d last been on Starkiller. You wondered if any of your friends missed you. Not that you had a ton on base, but over the years you’d grown quite close with Phasma and as much as Kylo hated it, you and Hux got along very well and worked wonderfully as a team. 

The longer you were awake the more aware you became of the pain. And, kriff, was it bad. Your muscles were sore, the sand had rubbed the back of your arms and legs raw, and every time you breathed you felt a sharp pain originate from the general area of your blaster wound. 

When the door opened again- your guess was two hours later-, you watched an elderly woman walk in, Pretty Pilot right behind her. When your eyes met with the woman’s, you knew exactly who she was; she had the same eyes as Him. You’d also definitely seen her from Resistance intel the First Order had intercepted, but Kylo hated a tangible reminder of his past so those photos were never up long. 

General Organa took the seat Poe had been in before, Poe himself leaning up against the wall behind her. 

“So, Poe tells me Ben did this to you.” General Organa said, breaking the silence. 

“He hates that name,” you said, feeling the slightest amount of guilt at how the woman’s face turned down at that, “but yes, he did. I don’t have the answers you want.” 

General Organa reached a hand out, gently covering yours, and gave you the type of look only a mom could give. For the next hour or so, her and Poe bounced random questions off of you while graciously answering all the ones you had. At some point, food had even arrived for the three of you; a wholly ‘good guy’ gesture, even though you couldn’t stomach more than a few bites. 

Before the General and Pretty Pilot left, she gave you a very simple ultimatum. The Resistance would allow you to stay as long as it took for you to heal and they would aid the process. When you were healthy again, you could either join them or be blindfolded and dumped on a completely random, hopefully inhabitable, planet in the Outer Rim. The only reason the majority of the council had agreed to take you in, was due to your intimate relationship with First Order happenings and plans; hell, you’d created most of them yourself and the ones that weren’t personally designed by you, still had to be approved by you. She didn’t expect an answer right then, which you were grateful for, but you all knew the deadline wouldn’t be too far out. 

----

For the entirety of your stay, three standard weeks to be exact, Pretty Pilot would come into your room at least once, for hours at a time, and talk to you about anything. The first few days were pretty awkward, you had most certainly personally killed some of his comrades at least once, but you were both quite the conversationalists and his ‘good guy’ charm came equipped with second chances. You learned you were both fiercely competitive when it came to card games. A bit too competitive, seeing as one game got you so worked up you pulled a stitch or two, elongating your healing process. 

Poe even tried to help you process your grief. He talked you into speaking to the designated Resistance therapist, who you were certain was just the person who gave the best advice and not an actual licensed professional; it didn’t matter much to you. She was a kind older woman, who sat across from you for 30 minutes a day, talking about this and that and ‘how are you really feeling today miss’ and ‘it’s okay to feel your emotions’ and other therapeutic nonsense. You had a feeling that these people thought you were incapable of feelings, not a horribly misplaced assumption, given your prior occupation, but it’s not like you were heartless. You weren’t- heartless-, you were just avoiding the reality of your situation for as long as possible. Some days, you felt like you weren’t even in your own body, just a soul looking in. 

When the dam finally broke on day 13 of your hospital stay. The betrayal of having Kylo, the man you loved, turn his gun on you and leave you for dead quite literally brought you to your knees. It had gotten so bad- a mix of screaming and full blown sobs, you’d even thrown up at one point-, that one of the nurses had to medically knock you out. Even when you were able to refrain from crying each time you opened your mouth, you couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that had made home in your bones. 

In all honesty, you probably weren’t the most reliable narrator in terms of your recovery period. Half the time you were either drugged out of your mind or stuck in a deep depression. Kylo’s betrayal had made you desperate for someone or something to accept you; a newfound fear of abandonment and worthlessness.  

In the end, you made the deal with General Organa. You made it explicitly clear you would never outright hand them First Order battle plans or ship layouts- couldn’t handle the way it would make you feel like a traitor, couldn’t handle the idea you could be the reason one of your friends was killed-, but if they were on the right track about something you’d assist them. Saying yes left more questions to be answered and various topics to be addressed; you had made a brief list of them when making your decision. 

Would you be able to stomach becoming a Resistance soldier who would be asked to kill First Order soldiers?

You couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, so you’d have to change your appearance. 

How would they inform the rest of the Resistance of your presence, at the moment only a handful of high level officials were aware. 

The ones who know, understandably, didn’t trust you at all. 

Joining the Resistance, in the way that you were, would be the furthest thing from easy. Good thing you were never one to shy away from a challenge.

-----

a/n - wow!!!!! i cant explain how excited i am for this story. thank you so much for your kind words and support so far. my heart is more than full. comments/replies/reblogs/likes always appreciated :) 

taglist - @egguuuu​ @sunflowersandotherthings​ @clarizuliani10​ @kylorendrip​

no permission is given to copy or republish my writing on any other platform or account. if you see this story outside of my blog or my ao3 it is stolen work. i do not own nor claim to own star wars or any of the character involved in it. 

[saintxly]

September (02-21)

[ Favorites and fixations for the second week of September ‘21. ]

This week is all about tenderness and a conscious appreciation for the world at its most gentle and benign.

(stills from March Comes in Like a Lion, 1991)

BOOK/s:

Bluets by Maggie Nelson

Nelson makes the most delectable and profound connections between the color blue and a variety of emotions, experiences, and seemingly random anecdotes. I remember feeling dumbfounded (in a good way) at the different stories and allegories she was able to tell through a single color. Ultimately, it attempts to examine a palpable sense of loss and emptiness. It’s an incredibly sad read but the prose is heart wrenchingly beautiful.

A Bigger Message: Conversations with David Hockney by Martin Gayford

Hockney is such a warm character. Just from reading this, I can tell he always has something interesting to say. I think his strongest quality is his powers of observation which in turn provides him the ability to tell it exactly like it is. His personal ruminations on art, photography, technology, and nature have a distinct wisdom to them and they’ve made me realize how limited the way I choose to see things truly is.

MUSIC:

Mood Ring by Lorde

Lorde is the last person I expected to satirize wellness culture but also; of course she would. It’s a cheeky number juxtaposed with the more pensive themes explored in the rest of the album. Nevertheless, Mood Ring proves that this Lorde, one now disillusioned by the limelight, has achieved a more grounded type of self-consciousness that aims to reconnect oneself with nature and reality. In other words: a quarter-life crisis.

Blue World by John Coltrane

The album of the same name is composed of unreleased tracks by the quartet from over 50 years ago for a French-Canadian movie. Somehow, this provides it with an even more mystical quality. This is probably one of Coltrane’s more melodic works though it’s nothing short of fierce and masterful. I would also have to say there’s something relaxed and self-assured about the way he plays here as well. I listen to Blue World (the track) the most when I’m on the road and they seem to make everything appear as a sort of quiet montage. I know people tend to be critical of Blue World since it lacks that distinct intensity but I enjoyed it. It feels as if I am witnessing his musicality at its most raw. I read somewhere that the album sounds unburdened, like they had nothing to prove and that really sums it up best.

MOVIE/s:

March Comes in Like a Lion (1991)

Despite the absurd and overwhelmingly taboo circumstances of the characters’ relationship (spoiler: it involves incest) there is a tender sort of intimacy between them and the spaces they inhabit. Obviously, something is terribly wrong and everyone besides the brother is aware of this—including us. Here, the fragility of memory is at odds with the endurance of fantasy. Haven’t we all done the most ridiculous things in the name of love? Unfortunately, just like the dreamy streets of 1990s Japan and the people they encounter within them, everything is simply waiting to collapse. It’s a pretty surreal film yet it still manages to capture the most gentle aspects of  longing, loneliness, desire, and despair without resorting to fetishization.

[cobertaddict]

11, 15, 32, 39 for the song ask

Thank ya Anon! 💕

11. A song that reminds you of your best friend

It's honestly a sad song, but there's a reason behind it. It's Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens.

This is probably going to be sad & sound depressing so I'm going to give a bit of a trigger warning.

TW: death, grief, lost of a loved one

During my sophomore year in high school, my best friend's mom passed away in a tragic and heartbreaking way. I can not describe in words how much sadness I felt for him and his family for her sudden death, I just wanted to take his pain away but I couldn't. I always thought of my friend whenever I heard that song because of the lyrics. Fast forward a few years to our spring break during freshman year in college, my friend tells me he wants to go to see his mom's grave alone and asks me if I want to join him. I told him I'll go if he wants me to, I didn't want to intrude on such a very private moment for him. But he kept asking me and assuring me it wasn't a problem at all. It didn't hit me til later that I think he really wanted me to go because he needed someone there for him. When we visited his mom's grave we talked about everything and nothing, and most of all we cried together. At one point, he took out his ear buds and we started listening to music on his phone together. I asked him if he ever heard of the song Fourth of July, to which he responded he hasn't. I played it to him and explained the lyrical meaning behind it. He liked the song and related a lot to it. Now it's one of his favs & he listens to it when having difficulty coping with the lost of his mother. Even though visiting his mother's grave was a sad and sorrowful day, it somehow made our friendship stronger. Our friendship was already strong prior to our visit, but seeing each other in such a vulnerable state made our friendship unbreakable. Now whenever I hear that song I always think of him and his mother. May she rest in peace.

15. A song that makes you want to fall in love

Dancing in the Moonlight by Alt-J (a cover song)

This song makes me want to slow dance with the love of my life... who ever that may be in the future

32. A song that you think has an important message

Hmm... I can't decide between two songs so I'll put both, sorry for cheating a bit

Neon Gravestones- Twenty One Pilots **TW: discussion of suicide**

Very meaningful message, that's all I'm gonna say about this song so you can interpret it how you'll like

Take Me to Church- Hozier

Very important message regarding sexuality. As a person who was baptized through the Catholic church, I agree (and relate) with its meaning, you should never be ashamed for embracing your sexuality and sexual orientation. And for that reason, we stan Hozier in this house 🙌😅

39. Your favorite instrumental (no lyrics/singing) song

Again, this is difficult because I have so many! But I somehow managed to put one 😅

Hope (Xavier's Theme) from X-Men: Days of Future Past soundtrack- John Ottman

This song right here is what kicked off my love & appreciation for movies' music scores/ soundtracks. Fun fact about me, I'm a huge X-Men fan. I could talk more about my love for the superhero group, but that's a conversation for a different day 😅. I remember seeing X-Men: Days of Future Past in theaters and enjoying it so much, despite it not following the comic storyline 😬. Like every Marvel fan, I stayed for the after credits, and which this song was playing. I just fell in love with it and had such a emotional connection with it. It just fascinated me so much that not a single word or lyric is uttered, but I somehow felt so much raw emotion in the song; a sense of vulnerability & sorrow, but also the battle to hold on to hope and be resilient, and finally there's contentment in the end. It really captures Professor X's character development in the movie very well I would say. With that being said, this instrumental piece has a special place in my heart and can never get old no matter how many times I listen to it :)

Thank you again anon for the ask! Here's some cobert cuteness for ya