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osamucide · 5 months ago

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⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right. He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality��the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe.

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there.

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water.

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile.

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake.

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him.

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope.

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck.

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.”

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.”

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it.

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding.

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.”

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.”

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now.

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean.

#osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #dazai fluff #with love—reid

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itsabouttimex2 · 8 months ago

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I've seen people say that Mei's samadhi fire arc was rushed, I never really thought about it that much, but I wanted to ask more LMK fans about their opinion on it. I can't stop pondering about it sometimes.

The Samadhi Fire Arc

Honestly, in my opinion? The Samadhi Fire plot is probably the least rushed arc in all of Monkie Kid.

Season Four to me is rushed because they try to squeeze in lore about the Pilgrims, MK’s heritage, Pigsy’s feelings on being an adoptive father, the Monkie Crew’s feeling on their ancestors/forebearers, the Brotherhood, the Ink Scroll, and then try to set up for Season Five while they’re at it.

Season Five to me is rushed because they try to squeeze in Xiangliu, Nüwa, and Li Jing and flesh all three out with very little time to spread between another fetch quest (this makes four in total through only five seasons) while also trying to give attention to Mei, Tang, Pigsy, Sandy, Red Son and MK while not even having a special to help take some burden off of the 100-minute crunch the writing team unfortunately has to deal with.

However…

Because the writers set up the Lady Bone Demon beforehand, she’s not given too much direct attention in this season until near the end, instead getting occasional appearances throughout by interacting with Macaque and then Wukong and to some degree infecting both with her power.

Which means that we get a full ten episodes plus a special for essentially only two things- the Samadhi Fire foremost, with the Lady Bone Demon in the background until about the special, from my recollection.

This means Mei does get her fair share of character development throughout Season Three, which you would think might allow us to see her perspective and thoughts on the world around her. We do get to see a little more of her desire to “live up” to her ancestors very early on, but it’s addressed quickly and then entirely dropped.

Like, this was a heavily Mei-centric season! We should’ve gotten some thoughts and backstory and personal views and whatnot, but the Samadhi Fire basically took full control over any narrative that could’ve allowed the story to delve deeper into, well, Mei.

But it feels kinda like Mei herself is… secondary to the power inside of her at times, where she’s very much just an unlucky and draconic vessel.

Now this wouldn’t have been such a big deal if we had gotten something beyond the already seen “Mei wants to live up to her family’s expectations without comprising her moral values and self-identity”, but, uh… they dealt with that in the first season and resolved it pretty neatly. Her conflict with Ao Guang is just retreading water in the same way, when it would’ve been nice to have a deviation of some kind.

On a more positive note, one of the best things the season gives us is learning how she’s come to view Sun Wukong in the form of a tearful rant about his actions and the impact they’ve had on her and her friends.

That only matters to her for a few minutes, unfortunately, but it’s a highlight of the season, and I wish it hadn’t been dropped so quickly.

Now, her not being allowed to interact with him or Macaque past the third season in regards to the ways they’ve continuously endangered and hurt her is a horrible letdown that severely undermines the character growth of all three, which is part of the reason I think some people call it rushed.

Mei’s possession of the Samadhi Fire is dropped until season five, so it feels ultimately unimportant. Red Son; in spite of being fundamental to Mei’s mastery of his power, gets shelved from season four the next time we see him. Sun Wukong’s recklessness and threadbare “planning” is essentially forgotten about, because the next two seasons just find new shit for people to scream at him about. All of Macaque’s… everything, really, goes entirely ignored by the characters, narrative, and story.

And obviously that’s not exactly satisfying from a watcher’s perspective, because it feels like everything just has a strangely neat bow tied onto it in spite of there being lots of messy business in the past that still needs to be addressed, but just isn’t because there’s they’ve decided to write another “the world is going to end plot” instead of taking a breath and working through existing issues instead of circumventing older ones as irrelevant.

I think people are disappointed when they look backwards that these plot points or emotional beats were dropped and left unaddressed or only resolved with a heavy dose of “secretly all alongs”. For example…

Red Son somehow tracks Mei down without any real explanation. (No biggie, probably some kind of tech or magic. Him getting there isn’t as important as what he’s doing, so it can be ignored.) He decides to train her. For some reason he's good at teaching people to control themselves, even though he was barely able to control himself in seasons prior? Off-screen character development is never exactly satisfying, at least to me.

Throughout all of this interaction, he never once expresses the slightest of desire to reclaim or recreate the Fire for himself, and is content with Mei having it. Red even openly declares that the power is “hers” at the climax of the story.

(I could get into how fans treat Red Son + Samadhi Fire ((plus pandering from the writers)) in comparison to Mei, but that’s a rant for some other time…)

With his encouragement, Mei harnesses the Samadhi Fire and helps defeat LBD! This has a lot of longstanding implications for her place in the story and her role as a parallel force to MK! How exciting!

Sike! The Samadhi Fire is fucking gone, only one mention of it in the season, where an omniscient old man inside a hell scroll tells us that it’s gone.

Sike! Mei secretly all along still has the Samadhi Fire and also secretly all along has an insecurity complex over thinking she lost it but all of this is handled in about a minute.

Red Son secretly all along wanted to learn where the Samadhi Fire came from and is trying to recreate it...? When he's seen and felt how dangerous and uncontrollable it is and home of this was established before??

So, when you build up all these things for a full season and then drop most of them the fourth and wait until the fifth to resolve them, I think it left a very jarring impact on viewers who came to view the season as “rushed”… but only in hindsight.

It’s not a flaw I would attribute until I’m on the fifth season and thinking “this should’ve been addressed in an earlier season.”

Now, personally, there are some plot points I’m not really a fan of, like, again, the “macguffin fetch quest” nature of the Samadhi Fire rings. Normally I wouldn’t mind but again, this is Monkie Kid’s third macguffin hunt in total, and we get a fourth in Season Five. (Spider Venom Cure ingredients, LBD’s Mech Building, Samadhi Fire Rings, Power Stones)

Though I think the City of Lanterns is a cute bit of worldbuilding, like with most Monkie Kid worldbuilding it’s basically “Look at this cool thing! Enjoy it now, because we’re never coming back or addressing it again!” like they did with the Team Hideout, the Cloud and the Weather Station. “Look at this cool place! Okay we’re done showcasing a potential Lego set, change the backdrop!”

Or another is Sun Wukong just being… magically immune to it once he gets possessed?

Like, the whole reason he had to set out on this fetch quest was because the Lady Bone Demon was distinctly NOT immune to it? And he also was NOT immune to it? Because the Samadhi Fire is a wildly dangerous all-consuming fire that could destroy all of existence, but apparently all it takes to be totally unaffected by it is powerful person + possession by another powerful person? But again I guess the world-building and power systems of Monkie Kid have always been patchy and thin but it’s still frustrating AUGHHH

But I personally don’t think it’s “rushed” until it’s revealed later on that actually, “There’s more to the story!” when a lot of the story we have is just kinda… left hanging.

TLDR for anyone who skipped down here: It’s only rushed in hindsight. If someone theoretically stopped watching after Season Three I don’t think it would be called “rushed”.

#Time Talks #Lego Monkie Kid #LMK #Mei #Red Son #Sun Wukong #LMK Gushing #LMK Critical #LMK Analysis #btw if you’re the same ‘macaqetter’ from character.ai #then I LOVE your bots!#if not I’m stinky and stupid ignore me #And also I’m sorry this is so disjointed!

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wlntrsldler · 1 year ago

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now i see daylight | part ii: treacherous

song: treacherous by taylor swift

series description: set after lust conquers all, jamie returns to richmond and takes accountability for treating you like shit.

warnings: language-- it's ted laso, what did ya expect?; bff!sam, touch starved jamie and reader, A LOT OF ALCOHOL, richmond himbos

pairing: jamie tartt x f! reader

word count: 2054 words

series masterlist | main masterlist

When the whistle was blown for full time, the cheers in the arena were deafening. You couldn’t hear yourself think and everything seemed to slow. You stood behind Roy, clutching your camera, as you watched the sea of red and blue storm the field. You were only snapped out of your thoughts when Will jumped on your back, hugging you from behind.

“We’re moving up!” Will screamed behind you, beaming from ear to ear. “Come on, Y/N, let’s celebrate!”

You placed your camera on one of the seats under the tent and tossed a jacket over it. You followed Will into the middle of the field where all of the coaches, players, and fans were celebrating.

“Dani Rojas you legend!” You yelled, running toward Dani. He grinned at you, picking you up by your waist to spin you around. “I am so fucking proud of you!”

“Thank you, Y/N,” he put you down, holding you by your shoulders. “You will come to the after-party, yes?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You made your rounds with all of the players. Most of them were so excited, they couldn’t say anything but, “Let’s goooooo!” Colin threw an arm around you and walked you over to Sam, who you still hadn't seen because of the chaos. When Sam saw you, he ran to you, smiling so wide you were sure his cheeks hurt.

“Y/N! Can you believe it? We are back in the Premier League!”

“I believe it. I knew you guys could do it.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” he hugged you tightly. “Are you coming to the after-party? Please tell me you will. I can pick you up.”

You tutted, “Samuel, I will be there but you are not driving tonight. You deserve to get absolutely trashed.”

“Agreed, mate.”

There was that accent again. You turned around to see Jamie, glowing under the lights. Ever since the day he cornered you in the hallway, he made do with his promise. He didn’t bother you again unless it was for work. You’ve been more courteous to him. You no longer ignored his “good mornings,” or “how are ya’s,” but you still kept your distance. However, your resolve was slowly fading. Being around him again made you remember why you were so drawn to him in the first place. With him being a different version of himself now, it increased that attraction tenfold.

Sam looked between the two of you and smirked, walking away discreetly. He’s noticed the small smiles on your face whenever Jamie would come around. You tried to hide it, but Sam knew you too well.

You turned your body to look at Jamie, shyly looking at him. Jamie met your eye, eyes twinkling in a way that you haven’t seen since the last night you shared with him. He had a boyish smile on his face. You pursed your lips, trying not to let a smile slip, but you were unsuccessful. Jamie’s eyes got brighter, which you didn’t realize was possible.

“Great job, Jam.”

Jamie let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding at the sound of his nickname leaving your lips. He bit his bottom lip, stretching his hand out for a handshake, “I appreciate it, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes and smacked his hand away. You walked toward him and pulled him into a hug. Jamie froze in your arms for a second before melting into the hug and burying his face in the crook of your neck. You didn’t realize how much you missed him until you felt his arms tighten around your torso. It was like you finally got a taste of the thing you were craving for months as if there was nothing else in the world that could’ve made this moment sweeter, better.

Your hand made its way to the back of his neck, where you cradled the back of his head, fingers softly tugging on his hair. It was muscle memory, how you used to cuddle him on his couch all those months ago. Jamie sighed into your skin, his warm breath awakening you from the trance you were under, causing you to pull away.

Both of your faces were flushed when you pulled apart. Jamie cleared his throat, looking down at his feet, before vaguely motioning somewhere as if there was something requiring his attention. You did the same, leaving to go in the opposite direction as him.

You turned around and saw Keeley with a smirk on her face, arms crossed with a knowing look. “World must be ending, I suppose?”

Blushing, you shoved her lightly, “Shut up.”

In true Captain fashion, Isaac rented a giant party bus for all of the players and a few special guests, including you, Keeley, Roy, and Will. The bus was taking all of you to a club in London that Isaac bought out for the night to celebrate the win and promotion. Roy, who should know better now that he was a coach, denounced his coach-ship before he stepped foot on the bus, stating that tonight he was “going to have the fucking time of my life!”

When you walked into the bus with Sam, you were hit with the sound of a club beat. Players were already a few drinks in from the bottles of beer and liquor scattered around the bus. Jan Maas was holding onto the pole, laughing as he fist-pumped to the song. Richard had a bottle of red wine in his grasp, which you later saw had a sticker on it that said “Property of Richard Montlaur.” Colin and Isaac were in the corner singing into a bottle of gin when “Hotel Room Service” by Pitbull started playing.

Sam was pulled from you by O’Brien who made him take shots. With you both being the last two the team was waiting for, the bus lightly jerked as it began its journey to London. The entire team cheered, raising bottles in the air.

You laughed as you tried to make your way around the bus, trying to find a friendly face that wasn’t too far gone. You knew all of them would regret this in the morning. You turned to your right and found Jamie and Dani sharing a bottle of tequila, laughing at something that you’d later learn was not that funny.

“Y/N!” Dani yelled when he saw you. He scooted over on the leather bench, leaving a space next to Jamie for you to occupy. “You are here!”

“I am!” You replied, shaking your head at how far gone the boys already are and you’ve barely even left Nelson Road. “How you guys feelin’?”

“Fuckin’ fantastic,” Jamie replied, taking another sip from the bottle. He handed it to you, which you took. You drank some and grimaced when the strong taste hit your tongue.

The two boys laughed as you passed the bottle to Dani. Dani stood up, holding onto the pole that Jan Maas was holding earlier, and began to make his rounds in the bus. He kept offering the bottle to anyone he saw. You couldn’t help but laugh at how they all took the bottle from Dani, despite not liking tequila.

“‘M glad you’re here.”

Your attention focused back on Jamie, who was staring up at you. His eyes were clouded, eyelids droopy. You playfully punched his shoulder, “How are you already drunk?”

Jamie furrowed his eyebrows, “You and Sam were so late. We had to get started without you lot.”

“We were thirty minutes late.”

“A lot can happen in thirty minutes.”

You snorted. It made Jamie smile. He bumped your knee with his. You looked at where your bodies touched. Your breath got stuck in your throat. You swallowed, “I guess I need to catch up.”

“Damn right,” a lopsided smirk graced his lips. He dug behind him in the ice bucket and pulled out a bottle of Clase Azul. He handed it to you, “Go on then.”

“Menace,” you replied, grabbing the bottle from him. Your fingers brushed, sending shocks throughout your entire body. “You know I can’t say no to good tequila.”

“Yeah, that’s why I bought it,” he shrugged, opening a beer. “I bought it for you. Nearly broke Bumbercatch’s arm when he tried to open it earlier.”

“Jamie, this is an expensive bottle of tequila.”

“Yeah well, Coach wouldn’t let me buy the whole team PS5s as a sorry, but he didn’t say anything about buyin’ you expensive liquor.”

You were sure that Jamie was only saying this because the alcohol was clouding his better judgment. He probably won’t remember this in the morning, or at the very least, he’d wonder whether or not this was real life or just something his mind made up. You opened the bottle and took a long swig from it.

As good as the tequila was, you still grimaced, frantically searching to find a chaser. Jamie, who remembered your drinking habits, held out a cup of Diet Coke. You downed the entire cup, sighing in relief when the taste of tequila was masked by the sugary drink. “Thanks, Jam.”

“Missed you callin’ me that,” he admitted, a look of longing on his face. “Missed you in general, to be honest. Been hell without you in my life.”

“Jamie,” you started, turning your body to him. “You’re drunk so I suggest you stop talking.”

“Am I makin’ you uncomfortable?” Jamie asked, concern on his face. He sobered for a moment, blinking back as if he was trying to figure out what he just said.

“No, no,” you assured him, placing a hand on his thigh. He tensed under your touch, letting out a shaky breath. You were really close to each other now. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. I just don’t want you to say anythin’ you’ll regret in the morning.”

“Don’t think that’ll happen,” he said, nonchalantly. He took a sip from his beer, trying not to move too much in fear that you would remove your hand from his thigh if he did. Hesitantly, he started drawing figure eights with his pointer finger on your hand that was touching him. He let out a breath when you didn’t pull away. “Been regrettin’ not saying anything to ya. Should’ve told you how I felt that night. Or any night after that, really. I was just bein’ a prick ‘cause I was hurt that Richmond let me go.”

You stayed silent. You didn’t know what to make of his words. Was he talking about the night you told him how you felt? Surely not. What does he mean by tell you how he felt?

Jamie continued, “And the thing was, I knew Richmond had no say in whether or not I was goin’ back to Man City, but it still hurt, I guess. Woke up to a text sayin’ I had to go back to Man City from my agent. Not even a text from Ted, or Keeley, or you. Thought I didn’t mean nothin’ to any of ya, so I just shut everyone out.”

“And it’s real shit of me to do, ain’t it? Especially how I treated ya. I don’t blame you for not forgiving me or giving me a second chance.” He stopped drawing on your hand. He drank from his beer again. You looked at him. He had a small and nervous smile on his face. Testing his luck, he brought a hand up to touch your face. “Shame I fucked it all up really ‘cause you’re the only person I ever actually wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Jamie–”

“Come on, party animals!” Isaac yelled from the front of the bus. Somehow the top five buttons of his shirt became undone during the drive. He slung an arm around Will, who had a tie wrapped around the circumference of his head, “Let’s get iiiiiittttttt!”

The bus erupted in hollers as players trickled out of the bus. Sam, who was giggly under the influence, found you next to Jamie. Jamie, seeing that Sam was there to walk you out of the bus, waved goodbye to you and caught up with Bumbercatch. You held the Clase Azul bottle close to your body as you threw on a fake smile, walking off the bus with Sam.

part i: don't you

part iii: daylight

#ted lasso #ted lasso oneshot #ted lasso imagines #ted lasso imagine #ted lasso series #jamie tartt #jamie tartt fanfic #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x yn #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt series #jamie tartt oneshot #frances writes #frances song fics #now i see daylight

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jadehaven · 7 months ago

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What do you think of the 'belated love epiphany' trope? They keep saying the Elrond/Galadriel kiss was 0% romantic, but he kissed her on the lips thinking she might die... it's kinda like... he slowly realized that he might feel more than platonic friendship now that Galadriel might be truly gone to him?

Omg I got a questionnnn??? Ahh 🫶💘✨ tysm!

This is great observation, let’s dive in!

(note: after writing this, just want to warn you that it’s long. straightforward, but you’re getting a full course meal, lol)

*ahem*

I could see why some might interpret it this way. However, I actually am of the belief that we are not quite there yet. I love this trope, and totally see it fitting into ROP. My interpretation is that the kiss was actually intended to be unromantic, and just a ploy. That, and a goodbye of course, but Elrond’s intentions were not to kiss her as a last minute, ‘get out all your pent up romantic feelings’ kind of thing. He didn’t mean to kiss her in a romantic way, which is partly why it’s so chaste. But also, Galadriel doesn’t realize it wasn’t romantic at first(I did a post on this a little while ago, go take a look at it and then come back). I do think though, that they both unexpectedly enjoyed it on a romantic level. Will they admit it to themselves? Probably not right away, because they have a good excuse for themselves: “it was just a ruse.”

Now despite all this, the kiss was entirely romantic. So here’s why his intentions matter— the main trope that is actually being used here is the ‘forced to kiss’ trope, which is very common between 2 protagonists who have the potential to become lovers, but will not consider the possibility because of XYZ. The trope typically involves these 2 protagonists, whether enemies or colleagues or childhood best friends, you name it, and a sticky situation (or sometimes an agreement, such as fake dating, or actors etc) where they have to kiss in order to resolve it. The trope is everywhere, and it’s the one step further than the classic ‘forced proximity’ trope. So there’s your romance lore, lol. That, on top of how the scene was shot, directed, and edited, creates this beautiful recipe that sets up expectation on the viewer’s part. Remember, we have to look at this from a showrunner’s pov, not just from the character’s pov. lf my observations are correct, the scene wasn’t written to give Galadriel a means to escape. We totally could’ve been given a badass spy-esque escape of just her. Or, if Arondir was going to show up and save her, why didn’t he just save her earlier? Nah, the scene was written to give them a means to kiss. And before anyone says “it was the only way she could escape the situation..”, know that yes, you’re correct. But who wrote her into that specific situation? Mm. Yeah. So it has to serve some larger purpose. It’s not bait, it’s not for controversy, it’s for plot.

Though the kiss was not meant to be romantic on Elrond’s part, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any romantic feelings at all. The purpose of the ‘forced to kiss’ trope is to cause an awakening. It’s to present a possibility that perhaps the protagonists have not considered before, or only vaguely considered, but now that they’ve tasted it(pun intended), their brains can’t go back. My speculation is that there are romantic feelings brewing under the surface for both Galadriel and Elrond. However, they’ve denied it as a possibility for themselves, and thus, it’s not been fully fleshed out. Now they’ve crossed a line, however. One that perhaps they wouldn’t have dared to cross unless someone literally forced them to(thank you, Adar). If there’s no romantic feelings, then they’ll just forget about it, laugh about it, cringe and move on. But if there are romantic feelings (which in this case, there’s no reason to make two characters with this much family lore kiss unless they are changing it and adding a romance arc), then it’ll come up again. They’ll have trouble seeing their “friend” as friendly as they did before. No matter what, they won’t be able to get over the fact that they’ve shared romantic intimacy. I expect we’ll see clues to this in the next season. Some common ones to look out for would be, new/different/hesitant responses to their usual touching, either held gaze or avoiding eye contact, forced proximity, outsider perspective/teasing, and being interrupted when they’re having a potential “moment.” 😀 *cue mr darcy hand flex*

Considering this is a slow burn romance arc, I do expect we’ll see your theory come into play later on. The set up of the kiss kind of gives way to this. I’m going to predict that we will see the ‘belated love epiphany’ trope eventually. They won’t give us full on acknowledgment of romantic feelings just yet, because they have 3 more seasons to flesh everything out. But it would make sense given that they’re often out in dangerous/self-sacrificial situations, for them to have a moment of realization when it’s (almost?) too late. ROP also love their parallels when it comes to characters, relationships, scenes, scripts, tropes, you name it. It wouldn’t surprise me if their confession and/or next kiss comes in the form of a parallel to their first, or something else related to earlier seasons. There’s many options to choose from that would put them in a ‘belated love epiphany’ scenario. For example, the kiss in 2x07 almost reads as the trope, but it ultimately doesn’t follow. They could parallel it by having their next kiss in a real “I’m going to loose you for good” moment. Obvs as viewers we know neither of them will die, but the characters won’t, and that’s where the trope will get to shine.

The process of “slowly realizing they might have more than platonic feelings towards each other” will happen in season 3. It would have been nice if the kiss was done in this way, but for the sake of the story arc, it has to happen after. If it had happened during their first kiss, then we would’ve seen those slow realization tropes that I mentioned during season 2. Hint, we actually saw a couple of them, very briefly. I’ll let you go back and try to find them 🤭. Instead, we saw a different trope during season 2, which led me all the more to conclude that the kiss was written with romantic intent(not done with romantic intent; this is the showrunners perspective). The trope I’m referring to is the ‘forced negative tension’ trope (honestly idk wth it’s called sorry), where the writers purposely cause a conflict between the 2 love interests only to later on, resolve the conflict with a romantic trope. Are we following? Basically, they didn’t have to fight as much as they did. It was a deliberate choice. There’s more I could say about the undertones of their tension in season 2, but for now we’ll just keep it basic. The trope goes, that if there’s negative tension and a romantic/intimate gesture breaks the tension, then there are feelings, whether the characters are aware of them yet or not. In this case, they had negative tension right up until the kiss. It’s so intentional, because it’s still there when Galadriel says “You should’ve just kept charging, Elrond.” and when she says “Win.” It literally does not break until he touches her face and goes in to kiss her. The proof is in the pudding, my friends 😌 (ajshdh i’ve always wanted to say this stupid saying hehe).

So, hopefully this sums up everything to do with the use of tropes in Gal and El’s relationship arc. Many LOTR fans probably didn’t catch them because A) they aren’t familiar with them or B) they’re blinded by the “lore”. Understandable either way. No judging here.

At the end of the day, regardless of how much people discredit the writers and directors, recognize that this is a million dollar television series that is approved by the tolkien estate, and therefore the showrunners actually do know what the heck they’re doing. Well, when it comes to storylines. Ik they’re not perfect, but what I’m trying to say is that it’s all intentional. Season 1 was written with Season 2, and therefore was written so that Elrond and Galadriel would be set up as very close friends, then have a fallout, then end with a kiss. After considering all this, I have high hopes for future seasons and pray they don’t chicken out on what could be one of the most redeeming of Tolkien’s OG relationships ever.

Anyways, thanks for reading. I love y’all and seriously love to discuss relationships in this light, so keep ‘em coming. I think that’s enough words now though. Logging off for the night!

xo, Jade

jk here’s a meme for ya :D

ok goodnight <3

#elrondriel #elrond x galadriel #lotrrop #rings of power #galadriel x elrond #rop theory

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im-out-of-it · 4 months ago

Text

part 3 of season 3, episode 7 continued “salt in the wound”

PSA: incoming rants throughout, long list

24. he’s kinda busy clary but go on

25. yes I get she’s dying but Simon has a habit of dropping everything for clary. he just found out that his roommate is actually his girlfriends abusive ex so I would’ve I don’t know, tried to check on that first. but I’m also conflicted, because he can tell that clary is in pain. it’s just a bit conflicting because you have Simon dealing with Maia and her trauma while clary is dying

26. but also just let her die. anyone understand or realize how much better this show would be without her??????

27. I love seeing Simon get angry and upset and to see how he’s hurting. it would be extremely wild to know the person helping you is the person who caused your girlfriend the most pain

28. did someone call vampire assistance? Simon to the rescue

29. Izzy: unimpressed

30. I’m just saying that if I found out my brother came back from the dead and this girl who is supposed to be my friend has been lying to me and my brother the whole time, I would be mad. I wouldn’t just brush it off and try not to hurt her feelings. while I do get that everything is kind of super sensitive at the moment, people need to be held accountable. certain behavior is not acceptable. Clary and jace gaslighted Alec and they have been lying to everyone. oh and using the only wish they’ll get. could’ve used that for a war but no, got to use it to bring the most toxic narcissist back

31. I can’t wait until she gets arrested, also gif set of clary for this episode

32. it amazes me (also not really) that everyone tries to protect clary’s feelings and no one really gets mad at her. she uses the wish, lied about it, gaslit mainly Alec and Izzy, while everyone praised her for not using the wish, and also she doesn’t deserve to have that angelic rune

I will never be okay with how awful clary and jace are to Alec Izzy Magnus Raphael Simon etc. Alec probably pays for most of it because he’s always paying the consequences for jace and clary’s decisions. Izzy is almost deruned, Alec has almost died four times which in almost three months is fucking insane, Alec’s family reputation almost gets ruined, they lose their standing in a way, and being head of institute, like Alec pays for so much. Magnus almost died twice by jaces stupidity and it’s never addressed. everything jace and clary do is accepted but if anyone tried to call them out on it, it would seem unacceptable in their eyes

33. Clary: I had no choice, I had to, I had a gun to my head forcing me to bring Jace back (she really acts like she had no choice). I’m sure if roles were reversed I wouldn’t be giving Alec a hard time BUT Magnus isn’t insufferable and he’s the most caring person to exist (with Alec)

34. YOU LYING GASLIGHTING-

EVERYONE KNOWS THAT ALEC WOULD NEVER HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT

35. AND NO BITCH HE DOESNT MEAN JACE

36. I just wanted someone to give her shit for it. even if it was for a second instead of protecting her feelings and making clary think what she did wasn’t wrong

37. for all Alec does for her, I expect more gratitude from clary. literally Alec saves her life over and over again and she never seems grateful for it. I just wanted Izzy or someone to snap at clary. no one goes off on her that often and I needed 2x01 Alec to go off on this clary. and this is exactly how I feel when Magnus sacrifices his magic and identity just for Jace to be ungrateful

hugging parallel

38. to finish this part up, text gif

39. which is ironic and hits too close to home because what did Magnus call Alec last episode? and while Malec does communicate, it’s something they needed to keep working on. not just rushing it and stamping resolved

stopping at 40 and I’ll do more tomorrow ✨ but I really need to go get some tea and calm down lmao this episode enrages me so much

#just my stupid opinions #show alec is superior #show magnus is superior #show malec is superior #shadowhunter show is superior #putting anti cc on all my posts so book fans don’t come here hating thanks #marking this as 3x07 #treat Alec better than this #come on Alec didn’t deserve this #this man has sacrificed so much just for clary and jace to be ungrateful????#anti clary fray #anti clace #anti jace herondale

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arkhaline · 1 year ago

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My Complete Thoughts on RvB: Restoration

Major spoilers for the entire season below the cut!

I think the biggest sin of this season was not clarifying when it takes place, as it cheapened a lot of the twists by genuinely confusing me or contrasting information that we had already been given in S15-S18. Keep this in mind for the rest of the review.

Maybe the allusion to Caboose’s voice being “misremembered” was confirmation that it was in fact a simulation post-S13, but it still wasn’t super clear to me. Especially since Dylan was talking about the Reds and Blues (even though I know they met post-S10), which kinda made it feel like Restoration could be post-S18 (unless that was the point). There was just enough ambiguity that it really could have gone either way for most of the movie.

I feel like the humor was a bit off?? Maybe it was a generational gap since the show was going back to someone who hasn’t written for it in a while and is older than the current writers (case in point: he used tropes that Gen Z makes fun of a lot, e.g. he’s right behind me isn’t he). The Zoom call bit also went on WAY too long. The metacommentary about the changing attitudes toward RT also felt a bit tone deaf. In general, a lot of the trademark RvB banter just felt stale, it was the more general dialogue that was stronger (though Church telling Caboose to shut up when Simmons was talking did make me laugh).

Also, Grif was so angry all the time at the beginning?? Felt out of character and took me out of those early scenes. Maybe it was a setup for the whole discharge subplot but it just felt… off

The writing was just a bit clunky at the beginning, felt very direct and exposition-y, but that might be because they had so much to cover in so little time. It resolved itself later, anyway (except for the rapid fire ending, there was so much to unpack there).

Alright enough complaining about the general format, here are my more detailed thoughts.

Sheila!!! That is all.

I can excuse Caboose secretly speaking Spanish the whole time because there was a bit in S16 (maybe 17? can’t remember) where he understands something that Lopez said.

I initially completely missed the fact that the Meta’s color scheme was an allusion to Felix, that is so fucked up. Tucker dressed in the colors of the man he hates the most about to kill his closest friends? Jesus.

The Director being Epsilon’s therapist in the YouTube video made me laugh really hard.

Speaking of therapists, Wash was patient 619-B and I think that was the Counselor’s voice. Is the implication that he survived in this timeline?? Because he died before Epsilon fractured himself, so that much should at least be set in stone. Not really clear on that.

The “Great Destroyer” thing felt a bit retcon-y, but I can get behind it well enough.

I got so excited when 479er showed up, glad that we got confirmation that she made it out of Recovery okay. Wish we could’ve seen her and Wash (and Carolina) interact though.

I wish they had done Sarge’s death a bit differently. Kinda wish he hadn’t been all “that worked out well!” only to be stabbed, it felt very “he’s right behind me isn’t he” and made the fact that he was about to be stabbed obvious from a million miles away. There’s definitely something to be said about him sacrificing himself for a blue, and the deathbed interactions he had with the others were really good, but it kinda just felt like shock value?? Like there wasn’t enough build up to the payoff, it just kinda seemed like he decided to save Caboose last minute without any major character motivations or development behind the decision.

Which is another thing, it felt like it relied a LOT on Red vs. Blue dynamics in the beginning, and I was fucking flabbergasted when they actually left Caboose behind. The same people who broke time to save Wash would just leave Caboose to die like that? No way.

Meta!Tucker felt like it wasn’t explored enough, mostly just “no I won’t do your bidding” and “yes you will” back and forth with no real depth. However, credit where credit is due, I LOVED how this gave us a new perspective to Maine’s descent into madness. That ten-years-of-torture-in-a-few-seconds thing? So fucked up. Can you imagine being tortured by the remnants of your best friend, who have zero regard for your well-being? If they did all of that to Tucker in the short time they were together, just imagine what they did to Maine to get him to the point he was at at the end of S10/by Recollection.

Bonus points for the fact that the fragments tortured Tucker without a second thought when they themselves are a result of torture. They seemed to spare no empathy for Tucker despite having been through this themselves. Then again, I suppose they are they are copies of the original Leonard Church, who had no such qualms.

Didn’t realize that Meta!Tucker was voiced by Miles Luna (aka Felix’s voice actor) until the credits, that was an extra layer of fucked up and I loved it.

I really enjoyed Wash’s plot for the most part. I was definitely super intrigued the whole time since so much of his subplot didn’t add up from his perspective. I mean, I think he deserved something more for a send-off since most of his arc wasn’t really related to his character as a whole (besides the freelancer thing at the end). However, I still enjoyed it for what it was worth.

Additionally, if this is post-S13, I wish they’d clarified because I assumed that Wash was suffering from cerebral hypoxia and not some other injury. They kept alluding to something that happened on Chorus, but I wasn’t clear on the fact that it was a separate timeline of events. The Doc plot twist threw me off a lot more as a result.

I could tell he was gonna launch himself off the cliff and it still made me laugh hysterically.

I’m glad that the final battle was in Blood Gulch. It’s cliché, but it felt full-circle. Plus, it was the best resting place for Sarge in canon and a good set-up for a “why were we here” moment.

I knew Simmons was gonna have his arm broken but I still gasped anyway. And when the shotgun was cut in half??? Bro my jaw was on the floor, it was like when John Wick’s dog was killed (probably, I’ve never seen that movie). But the way Simmons cocked the shotgun with one hand was badass as hell, good for him.

I’m glad we got something resembling a Simmons character arc? I think it relied a lot on setup from previous seasons of him becoming a leader, with little to no actual development in S19 itself, but it still felt at least decently satisfying.

“Best throw ever. Of all time” made me laugh, I love a good callback. Actually, there were a lot of fun callbacks to jokes, like the irony bit. They were greatly appreciated.

Tucker getting launched by a warthog actually made me laugh really hard, I love the “shotgun as a code word” bit so much.

The Tex plot twist was SO GOOD, I totally didn’t see it coming. Much better direction to go anyway, since we already put Church to rest in S15. So glad that Caboose was able to get his moment in the spotlight and have the smartest plan of all of them. Unless it was Church’s plan, in which case I find it so sweet that he wanted to bring Tex back instead of himself (even if it did cheapen the S9 “let her go” thing a bit). I also really loved the callback where her armor turned black because of the teleporter, that was really good.

I got so excited when they started playing Round One I’ll be honest. Also, I Say Ooh?? Was not expecting that one.

In all honesty, I didn’t love the soundtrack (kinda felt stock music-y and cliché in a lot of parts, plus it didn’t have the musical style that we’ve come to expect from RvB). It was fine, but nothing to write home about. The campfire song was good too. I know about the whole thing where Trocadero wouldn’t join on unless everyone was brought back on, and now that we know that RT is shutting down, it’s possible that this was because multiple musical artists just weren’t in the budget. That said, it’s a shame that there weren’t more original songs.

I called that Carolina was gonna be Recovery (though now I think about it, why was she doing Recovery?? was it even Recovery since Charon had been shut down??? What happened to her after Chorus???? Also her talking about how her and Wash would do everything together from now on meanwhile she left him behind in some hospital?????). Anyway, the fight with her and Tex was SO fan service-y but I ate it up anyway, good for them.

Tex winning because she was a collection of the Reds and Blues’ memories and she always won against them was so, so good, something to be said about the positive nature of the memories of your friends (I mean just look at how happy they had been when recounting everything they’d been through!)

Also if just talking about someone was enough to create a functional AI, it kinda makes the whole “torturing Alpha to make more AI” thing totally pointless and retcons the entire show but. Whatever.

TEX DESERVED THIS ENDING!! I like the S9 ending in a lot of ways, it was poetic that she was finally allowed to rest after being dragged back so many times against her will, but I think it also felt incomplete because I don’t know if being put to rest was what Tex herself would actually want. There is a significant difference between not electing to bring her back again and choosing to take her out of the fight. Tex was never allowed to make her own decisions, not even in S9. This ending was entirely on her terms, which I think was fantastic.

I loved the rockslide, it reminded me a lot of the ice fight from S8 was just generally very fun.

It’s established that Tucker became the Meta because he had several AI when just two was enough to almost kill Carolina. If this isn’t the canon timeline, then why didn’t Tucker become the Meta in that one? For a reason besides “the writers didn’t think of it”.

I hope that Burnie came up with the idea for this season by reading Meta!Tucker fan fiction.

The Doc thing was so??? Why did they do a Sixth Sense. Like I think that twist would have worked a LOT better if they made it clearer when this took place (I kept flip flopping on whether this was an alternate timeline post-S13 or main timeline post-S18 up until this point, which made the whole Doc-died-on-Chorus thing feel like it came out of nowhere since, if it was post-S18, we knew that Doc survived Chorus. It also makes Epsilon’s sacrifice to get them all out of there feel a bit cheaper since they didn’t all get out of there, but maybe that suggests that S15-S18 are the main timeline).

How did Doc heal Wash’s leg?? Was it even broken in the first place??? Did they ever clarify that????

I GASPED when the Freelancers showed up. It was camp as hell and hard to take seriously but also I don’t even care. I’m glad he got some kind of goodbye, since he was always too late to do so as a Recovery agent.

Kinda funny that Wyoming wasn’t there but Florida was, and also South was there even though Wash murdered her in cold blood. Anyway.

When One showed up I felt every emotion I think

Bro where the hell was Donut? There was no good reason for him not to at least show up, maybe on the pelican with One or something. Especially since S16 and S17 were dedicated to an entire arc about how everyone should stop disrespecting Donut, like come on.

Edit: did a little research and it might be because there’s no pink armor in the game this season was filmed in? Which is so hard to believe, since Halo has so many references to RvB. I can’t believe they would just cut out the armor colors of one of the main characters and make it impossible for him to return in the way we know him, it’s messed up.

I know time was short, but I wish we had more time to explore Tucker’s feelings post-Meta. Especially since he killed Sarge, even though it definitely wasn’t his fault. There probably wasn’t enough time to get into all that, but still, he seemed remarkably fine after everything that had happened. I guess that kind of exploration is what AO3 is for lol.

I have mixed feelings about the end for Tex and Church. On one hand, Tex calling herself Allison Church was so sweet and I loved how caring she was, it reminded me of when she said goodbye to Alpha during the Freelancer saga. Also, the fact that there was finally a Church free of the memories of his predecessors felt very satisfying. However, I kind of wish that they could have just had their happily ever after and stayed in the memory unit. I understand the decision—destroying the remaining AI was really the best way to make sure Project Freelancer was put to rest forever—but I kinda feel like she and Church deserved better than simply being put down after everything they’d been through.

One final team kill for Caboose. Ow.

The animation was really, really good!! It looked much better than that plasticky look the trailer had. I didn’t love Epsilon’s animations (they felt a bit jerky and overacted), but otherwise I think they did a really great job. I especially loved how they animated the AI on Tucker’s visor, it looked cool as hell.

I think one of the things this season suffered from was the overall tonal shift in the writing. Burnie hadn’t written for, and Matt hadn’t solely directed, a season in a LONG time. We’ve come to expect more character-focused narratives that dive into the nuisances of the characters and their relationships, and we didn’t really get that here (unless you count Sarge’s deathbed confession to Grif that he was hard on him because he wanted him to be more, which still felt a bit shallow. Actually, there are lot of things which could be considered set-ups in retrospect, but their intended payoffs didn’t feel like payoffs). I think there was a consequential whiplash as compared to what we have come to expect from RvB, and while the writing style we got wasn’t inherently bad (again, I liked a lot of it), it was definitely different.

I really, really hated that Grif left at the end. That’s literally the antithesis of his S15 arc, which felt much more complete and true to the character than this one. It’s impossible not to compare these arcs because of how inherently similar they are, and because I believe the S15 arc is superior (Grif’s exhaustion was a more subtle and believable reaction than this Grif’s raw anger, and his realization of how much he relied on his team was much more powerful than this Grif just tapping out), it makes the S19 Grif arc feel poorly thought out.

Also, he wanted to be discharged, but I don’t think they worked for the UNSC or any other military organization after Chorus since they all retired, so was any of that really necessary? Maybe retirement is just a vessel, so to speak, to represent Grif leaving adventure behind him for good. Still, I liked the way S15 handled this arc a lot more.

Vale Deah. Ow.

NO GRIMMONS??? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???

The most we got was Grif leaving and asking Simmons to come with him but like. “not scared to take risks my ass”, Burnie.

Honestly, I think this season was a victim of its format. Eighty minutes isn’t a lot of time to properly send off these characters, especially when RvB as a format is based on multi-season arcs. There just wasn’t enough time to build up tension or explore the dynamics of something as extreme as Meta!Tucker in a way that would feel satisfying. That said, I think Burnie did a pretty good job fitting as many things as he did into this format. A part of me is almost glad that Grimmons wasn’t made canon? I feel like it might’ve felt rushed to give it a satisfying arc in just 80 minutes in addition to all of the other shit going on, and I think after 21 years they deserved at least a satisfying resolution. However, they did NOT deserve an ending which implied that they would never see each other again, what the fuck.

TL;DR? 7.5/10. Far from perfect, and there were a lot of creative decisions made that I heavily disagree with. However, they did a lot right, too, and it still seems heartfelt in a way that helps me overlook some of its flaws. Overall, I enjoyed this season for what it was worth. There are some qualities of S17 that I think made for a better final goodbye to these characters, and some qualities of S19 that I think made for a better goodbye (in all honesty I never finished S18, but it wasn’t really a “goodbye” season anyway). Wrapping up a 21-year-old series is very difficult, and I have a lot of respect for Burnie and the others who worked on Restoration for what they put together. Truthfully, I’m gonna pick and choose which segments of S17 and S19 are canon in my heart (S17 is still the overall canon ending for me), but I’m happy with what we got in the end.

Anyways, I’m happy to chat more in the replies, let me know your thoughts!

#red vs blue #rvb #rvb s19 #rvb restoration #RvB s19 spoilers #RvB restoration spoilers #RvB spoilers #red vs blue spoilers

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beautifulpersonpeach · 1 year ago

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in general this status quo at hybe seems like it’s untenable. I can’t really see a way in which hybe is forever bound to keep a subsidiary ceo there indefinitely, even if it’s just bc they don’t want to, and especially since the court agreed that she wants to effectively take one of its subsidiaries. at the same time I can’t see how nwjns could leave and have careers, unless they completely start from scratch and pay massively. Hybe clearly promotes nwjns (I find the accusations that they sabotage their promotions pretty laughable, at least based on pure metrics) and there’s enough proof/reasonable suspicion on hybes side that I don’t see this legal fiasco being a breach of their duties to nwjns in a way that would allow them to break their contract without massive penalties. isn’t the outcome of this pretty inevitable? Does hybe really have to wait around for mhj to make ador an “empty shell” like the kakao chats say? I really doubt it. I just don’t see this ending without mhj gone (albeit maybe they’ll have to pay her more) and nwjns staying. That this is dragging on more almost seems more harmful to the artists involved, including nwjns

p.s. I assume this is where everyone goes to the negotiating table and starts to find a fix. I assume a payout of mhj and nwjns finishing out their contract with hybe working overtime to keep them afterwards. Unless they’ve always had a solid breach of fiduciary duty claim and it’s just the set-up of mhj’s contract that required an extra step before the termination. My understanding of this injunction decision is that it doesn’t say much about the weight of the evidence for mhj’s conduct in relation to Hybe, only about her conduct in relation to ador

***

The company is irreparably damaged because of Bang Sihyuk’s desire to make an example of MHJ. Even if they manage to remove her before she leaves on her own as she intended to, the company brand is significantly harmed, as are their idols and staff. You’re right on that point and I believe I’ve said as much since this mess started.

It’s particularly unforgivable because HYBE could’ve avoided this mess entirely if they handled things differently. If this dispute stayed in the c-suite and was resolved internally, the environment wouldn’t become so toxic and none of the fallout to the groups would’ve happened. Just working to resolve the non-compete clause dispute last year would’ve rectified a major grievance of MHJ and would’ve weakened her case if she went public. That would’ve been the business case for a clean resolution, but this was not about business. It was personal. And so we got this fiasco. And it’s likely going to drag on till the end of the year.

Anyway, I disagree with you on a few points. For example:

“Hybe clearly promotes nwjns…” If we’re to base it on the metrics as you say, a very good benchmark would be to compare how NewJeans performs and is promoted relative to other HYBE groups. In most of the groups created under HYBE/BigHit, NewJeans outperforms in almost every metric. The only key differentiator is that NewJeans is the only group managed by ADOR. So it makes more sense to think ADOR, rather than HYBE, properly promotes NewJeans. Incidentally, ADOR is the only sub-label in HYBE without ex-BigHit executives.

Min Heejin will leave eventually. Her contract expires in 2026 and she could leave before then if she settles on an agreement with HYBE or if some of the ongoing suits is successful, from both her end and HYBE’s. As you’ve said. NewJeans’ contracts will be up for renewal from 2026 as well and I hope they leave with her. In my opinion, HYBE has shown they cannot be trusted with their management.

#min heejin #NewJeans #ador #Hybe #kpop #bang pd

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kriz-fics · 2 years ago

Text

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Nineteen: Weeds and Duty

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 9.7K

CW: Pretty tame this chap, though there is a bit of friskiness in there. Recommended listening for YN's POV in the beach: Dancing in the Rain

“Ah, this one would be-”

“Demon’s thistle, sir.”

The Lord Alexander Rhyzkov laughs. “My daughter has taught you well.”

Eren lets forth his own chuckle. “That she has, sir.”

That dreaded day of goodfatherly bonding turns out not to be so dreadful. A huge bear of a man he may be, but the Lord Paramount of Vascalin is as gentle as a pup, and amiable as he always is.

Eren had started the day utterly sick with nerves. On the one hand, dawdling in his rooms seemed like a very viable option. He had almost done so; the thought of what his future father by marriage would say (or do) were he late killed the notion dead. Eren hastened forth, as frightened as if he were walking to the scaffold.

Like the condemned, he took inventory of his sins, especially those against the ancient House of Rhyzkov. Not many, to be sure, but he had trespassed now and again. He could’ve endeared himself better to the family in the wheelhouse when they were yet traveling. There was that incident with the newt and Lydia (she did keep the thing as a pet and laughed about it afterward, but still). Then, there was his worst sin, the worst and blackest of them all, which had everything to do with the Rhyzkovs’ beloved heir and his less-than-pure thoughts of her over the past year…

He resolved never to look the Lord of Arsechkala in the eye, then - eye contact was crucial for the reading of minds, and Eren had taken into his head that the lord of bears could somehow read his.

Funny that his first battle (which was not a battle, not in the truest sense) had not been half as petrifying as the prospect of spending time alone with his future goodfather. The absurdity of it all had sobered him. He is an anointed knight, the Falcon Knight, the Knight of Highridge, he had faced worse things. He is a man and this would not unman him. And so he went, determined to face it like the man he is.

He need not have girded up his loins so tightly, for good fortune smiled upon him. For this day, at least.

“Not all weeds are an evil, as any man of the field will tell you. Some have their uses.” Lord Alexander pulls up another bunch of fine, silvery spider weed and adds it to his already teeming basket. “Some are eaten, some are drunk, some have other, more extraordinary uses.” He considers the mass in his hamper and nods in approval. “I think I have enough for the making of one kerchief. For the sweet lady of the house.”

The utter love in the older man’s mien resonates with Eren. His own lady’s sweet smiling face fills his world. He has a gift for you (another, yet another, you can never get too much, he can never give too much), furnished by nature as well. It is no delicate scrap of gauzy spider silk but it should be no less remarkable. Or so he hopes. It will all rely on his skill; hard work has never been so crucial, not if he wants what is best for his lady.

“There’s a lesson to be had in weeds, I think,” Lord Alexander goes on, uprooting dandelions and adding them to his second basket, filled with more dandelions, clovers, and nettles. Edible weeds, fit for tea. “I shan’t lay them all out, but they’re there, if you care to think on it.”

The Month of Resting came upon them at a slow creep and with it true autumn for them as live in the South. The autumn storms blew ever more fierce each week, which heralded the closing of the ports. A serene silence fell over the city as the people took their rest from seasons’ worth of hard work. The rains drive them all within and keep them there, in any case, as though determined to let them have that much-needed respite from the slog.

Goldhaven’s sanctum is not so green as before. Browns and yellows and oranges, crimson and gold, autumn’s hues paint the sacred gardens in vast swathes. The ever-present wind is chill and cuts through cloth as a hot knife cuts through butter (for those stupid enough not to dress proper up here, anyway). The day dawned a rare one, lacking cloud and shade, and so Goldhaven’s lord sent the dire invitation at last.

“How has your stay been so far?” Lord Alexander eyes a bunch of still-blooming goldenglow thoughtfully, before adding them to his tea basket.

A clutch of raven blades catch Eren’s eye. Good for the memory, you tell him helpfully, and so he sets about taking them up. He can give them to you for your brews. “It’s been a terrific couple of months, I thank you so much for the hospitality,” he answers the lord’s erstwhile question, polite as pie.

Lord Alexander hums in approval. A comfortable silence, one of many occurring that day, falls upon knight and lord. For a long while, Eren is content to spend the time merely weeding, searching for those that can be of use to his sweet Healer. Most boys will be searching for flowers for their girls, not weeds, yet here he is. The thought is most humorous. He had given you a lifetime’s worth of blooms the past season, in any case; you are always better off with a little more variety, he likes to think.

“You grew up in part in the South, yes? Lenberg, as I recall. Is it so very different from these parts?” Lord Alexander hands him a blackberry from the nearby bush and eats one himself.

Eren murmurs thanks and pops the morsel in his mouth. It is sweet if a little tart, and succulent; the juice runs down his throat in sugary rivulets, so very tasty. “It is different, sir, but not so much that both sides are distinct from the other. Different tongue, different customs, but otherwise the same.” He smiles a little. “Now that I’ve spent time without them, I find that I can miss our holy days. The Creed’s, I mean. Not that it’s deadly dull here or anything!” he rushes to clarify before the lord can take offense. “It’s just… You don’t celebrate much. But if you do, it’s so much more… exciting.”

The lord, to Eren’s great, good fortune, does not take offense. “‘Tis true, we don’t have cause to celebrate any one god for every month of the year, and so we limit ourselves to life’s most significant occasions. But, see, we have more gods than the Creed could ever fathom. If we did as you do, we would be feasting every day forevermore to appease the Old Ones, they who are nameless and without number.”

Eren steals a look at the nearby godstone. It is the cleanest, most well-cared-for godstone he has ever seen, so much so that he can see every detail upon the proud, serene face of the featured god. How many gods does this one represent? he wonders.

“So, a knight you are now,” the Lord Alexander remarks, absently, almost to himself. He seems far away from Eren then, though he is standing not five feet away, twirling a bloom of poppy between his fingers. He catches Eren’s stare and smiles beneath his big, luxurious beard. “A title most well-earned. Not easily, I know,” the older man’s eyes linger on Eren’s face, at the slash above his left eyebrow, then flickers to his right arm, at the puckered scar concealed by his tunic’s sleeve. “It seems we are both marked by that day.” The lord rubs at the rich amber sleeve of his robe distractedly, at the right forearm that bears the mark of the northman’s blade. “But yours were more nobly begotten. It is no small feat to save the life of the Majesty himself.”

“It was my duty.” They are his own words, it is his own tongue, yet Eren hears a stranger speaking.

“Duty.” Lord Alexander seems to ponder the word. The poppy twirls in his hand, red petals spinning left, right, and back again, unceasing. The older man gathers himself, and Eren finds that he has held his breath, bracing for what his future goodfather may say. “She is your duty.”

That… is most unexpected. “Sir?” Eren frowns a little, confused.

“Her. The Lady Rhyzkova to come. She will be your calling, the heart of your service. Oh, they make you swear, to defend, to be truthful, to be loyal. To serve. But such vows these are. Who shall you defend? The weak, the helpless. To whom should you be loyal? To her, your liege. Yet, in the end, it all comes back to the king, who is above all.”

The poppy drifts from the large and lordly hand, to land lightly on the basket atop the goldenglow. Red on gold. The Rhyzkov colors inversed.

“Service is the very essence of a knight,” the lord continues his solemn speech, “but you are more than just her knight. Of knights she has aplenty, of husbands she will have only the one. Knights are loyal, obedient, dutiful, yet their vows would have them serve many, too many. A husband has only to serve one. A husband is bound only to one. For where she goes, will you go. From two now as one, your hearts forever bind.”

The words of the wedding rite. New and old both.

Eren can feel his heart beat just that bit faster as his goodfather-to-be fixes him with the most imposing look. “The weak, the helpless, the king, you have a duty to them. But next to her, what are they? Remote and far away and not immediate. She is your everyday. Your duty, you will revolve around her. So be there for her. Be there for her, Eren, as her mother is for me.”

The smile the older man gives Eren softens the austere lines of the bearded face as he goes on, “It is a heavy burden, to rule. It is tiring and oppressive, so very oppressive. And it gets lonely, up there at the seat of power. She will need you to help her bear the chains of command. Carry her, protect her, love her. We do not oft come into it, love, not our sort, but I think…” Eren fights not to look away as Lord Alexander gazes at him with so much gravity as if to lay bare the very soul of him. Her eyes. You have the lord’s eyes. You are the very image of your mother, but for those eyes. The wicker of his basket digs into his palms. “Yes, I think love is not such a hard commission, not for you.”

Loving tenderness takes the lord’s face over once more as he bends to pluck more poppies. “I would have fallen beneath the weight of my own chains had Theresia not been there with me through it all,” says Lord Alexander, so very softly. “Love her, Eren. That is all I ask, as a father who loves his daughter. Keep to that duty and I will rest content.”

Duty. She can be such a poxy bitch at times. It had never been for her sake that Eren took up the call to arms. Duty had been far from his mind when he set out to become a warrior. They are not so much strangers nowadays. He had learned the way of duty over the years, she is not so exacting a mistress as he makes her out to be, granted. Yet he is slowly coming to find that she is easier to bear with some more than others.

He can bear duty to you. “I will, sir. There’s no one else I’d sooner serve than her,” Eren Jaeger avows, with his own words and his own tongue.

The lord bends to pick up his baskets, pleased and so very content. “Nothing could please me more.” He is a big man, Alexander Rhyzkov, a veritable bear of a lord, yet his countenance at present is more redolent of a child’s stuffed bear than a living, savage one. “Of all the candidates for the hand of my daughter, you are the best of them, I see that now. I could not have asked for a better goodson.”

Warmth blooms deep within Eren at the heartening words. “I-I’m glad you think so, my lord,” he forces out and stoops to retrieve his own basket - the better to look away from the older man, he is so flattered and so, so flustered - then hurriedly snatches his hand back as he spies a centipede crawling amidst his harvested greens.

“Ah, here.” Lord Alexander strides forward with a stick he had procured from the nearby bushes and proceeds to scoop the poisonous thing up. He flicks the stick and the creature away, into the blackberry bushes; the hundred-legged thing vanishes beneath the undergrowth. “Such nasty creatures, but so vital to life’s cycle. As are so many others… Come, lad, we have weeded as much as we can, let us leave them to repopulate the area in peace. You have much still to learn. Unless my girl has been a thorough teacher, in which case you must show me the fruits of her knowledge.”

“We both have a lot to learn, sir, but she was very thorough with what she knew. I only hope to have made her a good student.” He did, when all is said and done, which comes as a great relief. It will not do for him to make such a fool of himself, or to undermine his lady’s capabilities. You will find in him a good and able servant, which is just as well. You are as fine a mistress as he can ever hope to serve.

My lady, my mistress, my duty. It will seem that they all three are one and the same. If you are duty, though, you are not such a poxy bitch now, are you?

“A fountain such as this would work well, don’t you think?”

You consider Yelena’s fount, watching the water spray into air and trickle down stone. The skies above are not so gray as the pool, and don’t threaten rain. It is a good day for gardening. You had offered to replenish Healer Darya’s stores and had seized your chance when the day dawned fine and bright. You had not been long at your labors before Father happened upon you in the green (that was not so green), intending to do his own spot bit of gardening. The company is much welcome. You would’ve invited Eren had he not had the yen to spar the morning away. And it has been a while since you and your father have spoken in a more relaxed setting away from statecraft and policy.

A patch of stink bloom is flowering not a foot from you. You give the plant a wide berth, wrinkling your nose and thanking the gods that you have not stepped on those. They are the most horrid things in the garden by far; curiously (and most ironically), they also make up the stuff of the best perfumes in existence. Everything has its uses, even life’s dregs. You give your father answer at last, “Yes, a fine fountain would be a good idea. It’ll make it more the water gardens you envision, what with the river and all.”

Lord Alexander hums, though his pleasant mien is replaced almost at once with one more regretful. “Yes, I can see it now, the Sphere restored to its old glory, perhaps even better than before! Ah, I should have started years ago, when all was quieter and we could better afford to be extravagant. All those years staying at the place and not once did I see its worth. The gods only know why they sent the curse of yearning a score too late.” He sighs and picks up his pruning shears. “The Lady Zoya had the right of it. War makes misers of us all.”

“You think it will come to that?”

You are staring back into your own eyes, all of a sudden. The Rhyzkov eyes. Men are wont to say you have your mother’s look, the Dietrich look, yet your eyes are all Rhyzkov.

The Rhyzkov eyes that behold you soften. “Once, there was the sweetest little girl of six tottering about the council chambers. The flagon she carried was half her height and weighed like bricks. She was barely tall enough to see over the table but she did her duty well and ably, never was a better cupbearer ever seen in those parts. That same little girl would bring us joy of a night when she would give her little speeches at dinner. A passage from some political treatise she was too young to understand, a short poem of legends past, whatever the Herald had her recite to ease her tongue and nerves to public speech, all brought us such delight.” Melancholy wistfulness fills those Rhyzkov eyes. “It seemed like such a short time ago, those years of bliss. Now, that little girl is a woman grown.”

“Not just yet,” you are compelled to point out, smiling slightly.

Lord Alexander huffs in amusement. “A year makes no difference, it will pass us by faster than we’d all like.”

“What was war like?”

Something seems to fracture behind those Rhyzkov eyes. The sight wrenches at your heart, but you must know.

“I see you are not to be put off. Admirable in a ruler, inconvenient for the father of that ruler, when she asks the most inconvenient questions.” Father heaves a deep breath, his massive shoulders rising and falling with the action. “I was your age when red war broke out, or near enough as makes no matter. Your lady grandmother was no novice of battle, she had seen her share of transgressors over the years. All of them foreign, as it happened, Cydamae in those days had been hellbent on conquest. We hit them hard enough to scare them off, thank the gods. For this lifetime, at least.

“You will never learn battle as I have, you have been blessed in that, child. It is no easy thing, to take a life with your own hands, to see the light leave their eyes as they enter the ether, to feel their bodies giving way beneath your steel… Or, should I say, it is too easy. People should die harder than that, I remember thinking then. What life you will take will be by your word. Some say that is easier by far, but sometimes, I put that into question. Their ghosts still haunt you all the same… But it is a necessity you have to bear, for the greater good.

“I wish I could tell you more about how it is to rule through such times, but I have never had that chance. Would that your lady grandmother was here with us now. I was only ever her warrior, her soldier, taught to obey commands first and foremost. The ruling came after all was at peace. All I can do is ease the way for you and pass on her wisdom.” The look of melancholy deepens. “With things the way they are these days… Outlanders are not our greatest enemies and never have been. For as long as she has been, Lovaya has contended with enemies from within more often than those from without.”

The skies seem grayer now up above, the wind brisker, chillier. It makes the green rustle louder than before and near muffles the sound of the fountain. “Know that I do not want to see you in such times, child,” Father says, so very softly. “I only hope that this is but a passing shadow, as it has always ever been. I hope I have done well by you, in any case, come what may.”

Come what may. Your fingers wrap about your gardening shears and hold fast. “I won’t fail you, Father.” In that, I have no choice. No choice but to thrive, and succeed, for too much hung in the balance. Your city, your State, your folk.

You stiffen with surprise as Father comes close, bends, and presses his forehead lightly upon yours. For a while, you stay thus, father and daughter taking comfort from the other in this their sacred sanctuary. You close your eyes briefly and take in the beloved scent of solace, of tea and leaves and green growing things, so full of life. You wrap yourself in it, as you had your favorite childhood blanket, the one you could not do without, for without its protection, the monsters in the dark would come and take you away to the deepest hell. You feel the scratchiest of kisses upon your forehead. “You are so very young, sweet child.” Father moves away, and you are a woman grown once more. Or near enough as makes no matter.

“I suppose we had best hurry, if it’s threatening rain. What else must you gather?” Father asks as he turns to his gardening once more.

You appraise your basket, running over the list of herbs in your mind, before replying, “Dittany.”

“Dittany…” Your father beckons you over to a hedge of shrubs lining the righthand parapet of the sanctum. The distinctive gray-green leaves of the healing herb stares up at you from beneath the hedgerows.

“I never thought to see that adage come alive in you,” Father remarks as you bend to cut yourself a clutch of greens.

“What adage?” you ask vaguely, distracted by the pressing task of choosing the best specimen for use.

“The hands of a ruler are the hands of a healer.” Father brushes a gentle hand over your head. “That you shall be, I know, in more ways than one. They will love you well, when you come into your own. The Light of the South, as your grandmother was and her mother before her and all the ruling ladies of Arsechkala there ever was, back to the Queens of Sand and Sea.”

You stand, cradling your basket. The Light of the South. You smile as Father wraps a huge arm around your shoulders and guides you back into the shelter of the palace. No choice but to thrive. No choice but to succeed.

“I hear you’ve been making a Healer out of your knight as well.”

“Well, I had to get him into your good graces somehow,” you laugh, but sober up at once. “He was a very attentive student, picked up things so quickly. He’ll make a fine gardening companion.”

“That he did.” Father herds you into his greenroom so you may start drying herbs. “You can make the sanctum bloom together someday, perhaps even the Sphere, restore it to its bygone glory. Wouldn’t that be pleasant?”

You take up a seat in front of the dark wooden counter and place your basket on the tabletop. “So very pleasant.” Perhaps the both of you can make more than a garden bloom, in time. Come what may, through light and dark, it will be pleasant to have Eren by your side. It won’t be so bad, to walk in darkness with him. You can bear the darkness with him.

---

Across the sea, the sail is growing with every passing minute. Up above, the skies are growing grayer still. The wind, already brisk, forever brisk by the seashore, blows ever more fiercely.

“My lady!” Troian calls from his post by the dunes. “We should go back! The sky will break any moment!”

The ship is so close, yet so far away from the safety of your port. You must see its journey through. “It’s all right, I want to stay. Just a bit longer.”

“You’ll catch a chill if you get soaked!”

It is astonishing how irritating an otherwise heartwarming sentiment can be. “We brought drying sheets this time, didn’t we? And you are well-equipped with that rainshade of yours. We go when I say we go, and not before.”

That brings the galling bleating to an end. “...my lady. Of course, my lady, I meant no offense. Was only doing my duty, beg pardon.”

Guilt makes the frost within melt some. “Pardon granted, no offense was taken. You are only doing your duty, as you said.”

The trepidation vanishes from your sworn sword’s voice. “My thanks, my lady. You need only call whenever you’re ready.”

“Of course.” The blustering wind and the crashing waves are the only sounds to be heard for some time after.

Irritating and galling he may be at times, yet it cannot be said that Troian is a man wanting for duty. And loyalty. And so the tail becomes the shield. Father had chosen your shield well, for all its worth.

“It’s about time you have a shield of your own, my lady, the Liege of Vascalin must always be well-protected,” Lord Alexander had said, a couple of days before he left. “And I know just the man you’ll be needing.” At least he had not needed to look far for the paragon. Childish grievances aside, you cannot have asked for a better shield than Troian. Better him than some cold, aloof sword you cannot talk to; you do not think you can stand another Yelena serving you in close quarters.

A beam of light cuts a trail of white across the pewter skies toward the horizon, from the sea lamp by the docks. Having it lit had been one of your first major commands as ruling Lady. The Lodge you have had opened as well to welcome this galleas to port. A stray ship is an uncommon sight during these times and poses no small amount of risk - were they pirates - but the sail is enough to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Black it is, with the distinctive sleek lines and geometric shapes so favored by the Gleaming Islanders, picked out in silver thread. Perhaps this is the vessel of the new Kayigar ambassador, Prior Ilya had told you, they had been due to arrive some weeks ago but had yet to put in an appearance. Most like they were caught in some storm and are lost, or worse, floating down to rest at the bottom of the sea; you have all but given them up as a lost cause. It is a relief, unexpected but a relief nevertheless, to see those sails appear on the horizon. It will be wise to open the port to receive this one, you all agree. And were they pirates masquerading as ones harmless, the garrison will be more than enough to throw them back to the depths.

Were they the genuine article, though… You roll the green tear around your palm, feeling the slightly pitted but otherwise smooth finish of the glass rubbing against your skin. It will seem the Lady Rhyzkova has guests to entertain.

An eel slithers quick inside your stomach. Drumming your fingers against it brings it to heel. For the moment.

It is not a hard thing, to entertain guests. There are harder duties to be had than greeting foreign dignitaries. You are equal to the task. You must be equal to the task. You will not shame Father so.

He had left not five days past to answer the royal summons to court. At once, you were apprehensive. This is a first, a very concerning first. The Month of Resting has barely dawned yet already there are summons. Only for the Conclave, Father told you, as though that would reassure you (it does not). He had chosen not to bring the family along, citing your rest and well-being as his priority, he will have you enjoy what time you have away from the bedlam of court for as long as you can.

“Vascalin is yours, my lady,” he said during your leave-taking in the palace courtyard, looking down at you from his gray destrier huge as he was, before calling the march. And so the torch was passed.

You have gone to great lengths not to drop it. Now you find yourself juggling duty and anxiety, wondering what has happened that is so urgent that the king must needs summon his advisors to court a month early.

The Northern Matter, it must be the Northern Matter, nothing else in recent memory has plagued the realm as much as it has. The northern lords must have called their banners and are threatening war.

A cold drop of water splashes onto your forehead. From the sky, not the sea, you note, even through your distraction. You are by the surfline when next you register your surroundings. Seafoam brushes the tips of your toes, cool as ice. The sail has grown even larger.

No, that can’t be right, nothing is confirmed, there is no need to get ahead of yourself. To jump to conclusions so easily ill becomes a ruler. There is no war as yet, not until there is solid, hard evidence of the fact.

But why else would the king call the Conclave? He won’t summon them all just for anything, not for a matter that can keep until the court returns to session. And jumping to conclusions is not all bad - it is prematurely acting on them that ruins many a good liege. You are well within your rights to assume, and consider all your options for all the possibilities open to you. As Father will do.

Eren calls your name from further down the coast. He comes to you at half a walk and half a jog. “Let’s go back, the sky’s about to come down.”

Come down it does no sooner have the words left his mouth. You shiver as the heavy drops patter against your skin like water made rock - not quite hail but close enough. Yet you make no move to return to your shield and the shelter of his rainshade. You simply watch as Eren draws closer, sodden and tousled.

The both of you had spoken of this political development in great detail the past few days. While he offered interesting insight, and no small amount of comfort, you cannot help but wish he is a bit more politically minded. Eren the Statesman is there, you can sense him, yet he lacks practice and experience in the realm of civic intrigues. While you can coax him further down that road, it will take time. You do not have time, you can’t wait for the reassurance - born of practical, pragmatic, and realistic thinking - that you need at present, much as you would love to receive it from him.

You had written Armin at once, this practical, pragmatic, and realistic friend of yours, and told him all. Well, not all. It is all well and good to speak of the Northern Matter - everyone and their mothers know of it by now. Not everyone is privy to the Conclave’s business, however. If news of their dealings are to be common knowledge, it will not come from you.

Armin had shared your concerns of further conflict yet, ultimately, you can do nothing but wait, wait and see how the tapestry will unfold, and react accordingly. That was his most practical, pragmatic, and realistic answer.

Wait. It seems that you must wait after all. The practical, pragmatic, and realistic answer, it transpired, did little to reassure you.

Eren is before you at last, soaked to the skin as you are. His dark hair is plastered to his head, fringe half-obscuring his eyes. “Look at you, you’re soaked! Why didn’t you run to Troian and his rainshade?” He stares down at you, equal parts fond and exasperated. You stare up at him, silent, merely observing. Half-obscured they may be but still you can see his eyes. They seem more gray than green, today. Gray as the skies above. Gray as the seas below. Such a drab color, you have always thought, yet in him, it isn’t so.

Slowly, the exasperation vanishes the longer he beholds you, until all there is left is soft fondness. He raises a hand and lightly presses his knuckles onto your forehead. “My lady’s in her head again,” he says, mild and quiet, before looking out to sea.

The ship is close to port, close enough for you to see each hoary line and stripe and bar that crisscross the ebon sail. It slips past the distant rocky bluffs soon after, and at last, you know they are safe.

“You’ll do fine, love.” You start as a rough and gentle hand cups your face to turn you away from the distance. “Come what may, the Lady of Vascalin will do what needs to be done. And she will do it well and perfectly.”

Thump, thump, thump.

What have you been thinking, looking to others for comfort? There he is, standing before you, as he has been all this time, saying the right things, as he has always done. What would statesmen know of giving comfort, true and honest, anyway? Eren as he is is enough. You need nothing else.

Rough and gentle fingers stroke your face, his calloused skin warm, warmer than it ought to be in this chill rain. You watch him, silent, so silent, hardly daring to breathe as he begins his tentative study of you. Rough and gentle fingers trace down your cheek, your chin. Your breath hitches in your throat as his thumb brushes the bottom of your lip, the touch light and so very faint, a wisp of a touch, hardly substantial.

More. Touch me more. I need more.

But he is moving on, lower, to your neck. What disappointment that rose within you vanishes as you feel his fingers curl about your neck, feel his thumb press against the hollow of your throat above your black pearl pendant, firm, firm as he had not been with your lips. Your heart lodges itself into your throat. You wonder if he can feel it beating, hammering, pounding beneath his hold.

It feathers across your collarbone, his thumb, in another mild caress. Watching him is the most fascinating thing. For he is as lost in you as you are in him. He runs his hand down your sodden skin as though entranced, caught in a spell of your own making. He seems detached, somehow, yet attentive at the same time as he drags his fingertips lower, lower, until they are stroking the soft swell of the tops of your breasts, partly bared by your red deep-necked vevda. The shiver that courses through you has nothing to do with rain’s chill.

Everything fades and ceases to be. The sea, the rain, the cold, they are as nothing. There is only Eren and his fingers, rough and gentle and sensual as they run down your chest, tracing the curves, sliding below the soft flesh to stroke the skin beneath.

The breath leaves your lungs entirely as he slips past the edge of your dipping neckline, stroking, caressing, feathering over the swell of your breast. The clinging fabric limits his movements and keeps his fingers firm against your flesh as he inches closer and yet closer to your nipple.

Thump, thump, thump.

Your soft intake of breath makes him stop. His eyes seek yours and hold fast, searching. Whatever he sees there makes him retreat, the heat of his fingers parting from your breast. Relief and regret contend within; you do not know which of them you want to win out.

He does not part from you entirely, that much brings you relief. His path continues down your front, across your stomach, until he comes to rest at last at your hip. His fingers curl about you and pull you close.

“We should go. We might catch a chill,” he says, in a voice so deep it sets shivers running through your body once more. But he makes no move to steer you away.

Which is just as well. The rain feels as warm and fresh as a spring shower. You aren't so cold, not anymore. What shivers wrack your frame come not from the weather. “I don’t feel cold.”

The eyes that stare down at you are so very black, those eyes that were once green. Green as the sea glass you had found earlier in the sand. Mermaid’s tears, they call them, and they come in all shades of dazzling colors. Luck brought you one to make a match for your betrothed.

Heaven’s tears cascade upon you in sheets devoid of any one particular hue. You watch as it soaks your betrothed’s face, droplets without count running down his fine features, threading through his hair and dripping, on his cheeks, his nose, his mouth.

A tear, jewel-bright, catches against his bottom lip, making the most mesmerizing sight. Your hands are moving before you quite know it. You pocket the sea’s jewel and raise your hand to give him your touch as well.

The tear slides down your forefinger to mix with the tears upon your skin. His breath is warm, his lips soft. You watch those lips purse and move to kiss your finger, slow and lingering.

You have always loved the way his eyes change color. From green, to blue, to gray, they are ever the colors of the sea. They are black now, black as the sea at midnight, filled with want and so much desire. It is with concerted effort that you draw yourself out of those depths. To drown in him will be the sweetest death yet you have a journey of your own to complete.

Your path continues past his lips, down his chin, to the hollow of his throat - the apple nestled within bobs a little as you pass, scraping your fingernail lightly against the prominence. You trace the crease of his strong chest, made visible by his vee-necked tunic, and lay a hand atop his heart.

Thump, thump, thump.

His cream tunic is near transparent now, the cloth clinging to every ridge and hard crest of his muscled torso and stressing the beauty of him. He is so warm, impossibly so, so very hale, and strong, and alive. Beneath your hand, his heart beats fast, drumming yet steady.

Black eyes draw you in once more, and this time you cannot look away. You are falling, drowning, lost in him. The lips that you had touched, so soft, so yielding, have parted. You can feel him down every inch of your body, he has pressed you up against him, his arms tight about your hips, your waist. His mouth is yielding yet the rest of him is not, you cannot break away even if you want to. And you do not. You do not, not when he is this close, and getting closer still, leaning down…

“My lady! Sir!”

The rain is icy cold again, and the wind is loud in your ears. So is your betrothed’s growl as he snaps his head up to look at the approaching guard. You swallow, your hand fisting against Eren’s shirt, and make to push away from him, despite yourself. The sane and rational within know he will not harm you (never, never), yet the deep and primal in you want to distance yourself from that terrifying visage of animal rage. If looks could kill… But he is iron and immovable, and so you have no choice but to remain within his embrace.

Eren’s mouth has closed and thinned in utter displeasure. “Fucking bloody bugger…” He squeezes your waist and sighs, the fight going out of him with the gesture. “Am I only allowed to kiss you in front of our wedding guests?” he grumbles, sounding so woebegone that your heart goes out to him even as you giggle.

You pat him gently on the chest. “Patience, love. You’ll have your taste soon or late.”

He gleams down at you, smirking a little. “I’ve never been known for my patience, love. I’ll have that taste, sooner rather than later.” He takes your hand from his chest and presses a kiss on the palm. A shock of heat spreads from your hand to the rest of you as you feel his tongue drag across your skin, wet and warm as the rain isn’t. “Sweet,” he murmurs, eyes smoldering up at you, then closes your hand around his kiss and frees you at last from his hold.

Troian comes up to you that very moment, holding the big crimson rainshade aloft and brandishing drying sheets, which you take graciously enough (Eren keeps his temper, at least, you are thankful for that much). You leave for home when you are as dry as you are like to get (which isn’t very dry at all).

The dunes are a trial to traverse with all this rain yet somehow you manage. This is where you had had your first kiss, you recall suddenly. It was yet another one of your customary trips to the beach. Mother was so occupied with the twins and the new babe, Darya, that it had been no difficult feat to stray away from your roost.

Roman had been with you, as he often was those days, being Father’s ward. What began as a simple stroll to collect shells somehow ended up becoming a game of Hawk and Chicken. It had been such a merry chase, made all the more merrier when you caught the chicken at last. Before either hawk or chicken knew it, though, they were tumbling down the dunes, you had been so enthusiastic in your role of raptor. When the world stopped spinning at last, you found that you had landed on the chicken with your mouth pressed firmly to his.

The days afterward had been nothing short of awkward yet the seeds of curiosity had taken root. You had not been able to take your mind off the kiss and the feel of a boy’s mouth on yours, so you had sought Roman out and kissed him again to see if you truly liked it some. You liked it more than some, it transpired, and so did he. The days of stolen kisses began not long after.

That is a tale you have yet to divulge to your jealous knight - you do not want Roman’s inevitable mauling to be on your conscience.

You have been writing each other as is your wont during the reprieve, as Eren will write Armin. That, too, you have not divulged, but Eren has never been interested in who you are corresponding with besides Armin; useless to give answers when no questions are asked. The Lady Meledina is getting worse, you learn from her worried yet resigned son, it is only a matter of time ‘til he ascends the Masquer’s Seat. That is the most dismal letter you have received this season.

You smile despite the gray turn of your thoughts as Eren drops his drying sheet over your head in a fit of gallantry and waves away your concerns about his well-being (what if he gets sick? He is too fit for that, apparently). The hand that holds his kiss, and a corner of your drying sheet, still burns. You flex the fingers within the damp linen. Yet another secret, stolen kiss. It seems that you are meant for stolen kisses.

Not for long. The thought buoys your steps onward and upward. You will have all the kisses you can possibly want, in full view of everyone. They cannot begrudge a young wife her husband’s kisses, after all.

Perhaps it isn’t so bad a thing, to miss that kiss. Another first had happened here, another memory is attached here, that of another kiss with another boy. You’ll have your kiss in a place all your own, a place free of another first, another memory, another boy. A place where you can have your own first and new memories with the one whom your soul…

“Oh, gods be damned.” Eren is tugging you hurriedly onward, away from the dunes as fast as he can while impatiently waving Troian over, urging him to pick up the pace so he can keep you shielded from the driving rain.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, worried and stumbling along in your knight’s trail. Should’ve worn a shorter vevda, you think for the hundredth time as you fight not to trip over your lengthy skirt. You did not come to the beach to go wading, yet you did not anticipate having to make a mad dash for home.

“Nasty buggers nearby.”

A bloom of them has manifested not too far from the dunes, sure enough, spectral sea jellies with huge pearly white caps and long deadly stingers, floating aimlessly across the sands. “They’re only deadly when crossed, and I have no intentions of doing so, I promise you,” you tell Eren. “There’s no need to rush, surely.”

He grunts non-committally, yet does not slow.

“Just how badly did it go for you the last time you ran afoul of the nasty buggers?” you query, remembering his words from the lakeside of Shimmerwood, weeks and weeks and weeks ago now. It is not something to laugh at, you know, yet you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

“Always wondered why Armin didn’t tell you that, it was the most entertaining thing. He couldn’t stop laughing at the time, anyway.” His face pinks such a pretty shade made more conspicuous by the gray dullness of the world. “You’ll have the tale from me… someday.”

“I can always write or ask him myself, you know.”

“Argh, my lady, just-” He sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. The quick succession of expressions flitting across his face is most amusing. “It’ll be better coming from me,” he says at last, resigned. “I’ll tell you. Tonight. I’ll be your dinnertime amusement.”

You giggle and hold on to him the tighter. “On your word as a knight?”

“On my word as a knight.” Behind his exasperated resignation is no small amount of mirth.

The rain seems to be letting up some, you notice as you approach the sea gate. The guards salute you and inform you that the Kayigar ship has just docked; the customs officer is, as of this very moment, determining its legitimacy as a true diplomatic ship.

Duty and reality set in once more, yet they are not so frightening, not this time. You feel Eren’s hand squeeze yours and your soul sings. You are equal to the task, there never was any doubt about that.

---

Footsteps echo through the chamber as the steward and your guests climb the steps to the audience hall. But for that, the place is silent.

Not so, you realize. Drums are pounding in the deep, thrashing, booming loud in your ears, boom, doom, boom, doom, yet somehow, no one seems to give it any heed. It is a long while before the dawn breaks. What drums there are in the hall come from inside your chest. Still, the silence is so complete it is a wonder to you that no one can hear your private symphony.

Boom, doom, boom, doom.

Your bejeweled fingers grip the wreath of welcome on your lap, your only anchor, the only thing close at hand to keep you steady. Your true anchor is off to the side of the chamber with the rest of your little court. For the thousandth time, you wish he is up here with you. Only consorts have the right to stand on the dais with their ruling spouses, however, and it will be some time still ‘til that happy day of nuptial bliss. You must needs face your guests alone.

You suppress a sigh, clutch at the wreath just that bit tighter, and allow your eyes to flicker over to your betrothed. Not once did you feel his gaze leave you, and for that you are grateful. He has a blazing look on his face, hard almost, and filled with pride, so much pride that you feel yourself become emboldened as though you have imbibed the most potent of tonics. No tonic would be as revitalizing as that gaze, though, that you know without a doubt.

It seems such a ludicrous thing now, your trepidation. They are only guests, and no one to fear. You are equal to this task.

“My lady.” Paul Kolas the steward strides to the foot of the Golden Chair’s high dais, his usually thin voice coming loud and strong. “The High Marked and High Honorable Ambassador of the Gleaming Isles of Kayigari, Onyankopon, son of Ata Panin, of the Shavelocks,” he announces in the Diplomats’ Tongue, stumbling a little at the foreign, unfamiliar name but otherwise delivering a perfect introduction.

The Lady of Vascalin smiles most graciously and stands from her seat. “Your Honor, my lords,” you begin, mirroring your steward and speaking in kind, “I give you welcome to fair Lovaya and her beloved daughter Vascalin. In the sight of gods and men, I offer you the hospitality of our halls.” You raise the wreath, and at once, a group of servants set forth to crown your most exalted guests and offer them fare - slices of lamb and wine - to strengthen their rights to krajü.

Each man of the delegation has his head shaved clean, as only those of the black-skinned clan of Shavelocks could be. Of the seven Kayigar clans, the Shavelocks are deemed the least opulent, the simplest of the Islanders. Compared to their brethren of Goldveins and Proudmarks and all the rest of them, they eschew finery; His Honor, Onyankopon, in his robes of black and silver satin, is the very picture of quiet elegance.

“My most gracious lady, I thank you kindly for this warmest of welcomes.” His Honor dips into a deep bow and rises, smiling, his voice smooth and made more liquid by the refined inflections of the tongue of diplomacy. “We were led to believe that we would be received by Vascalin’s illustrious lord but here I see the most beautiful of women come to honor us with her beloved presence instead. Manu be praised, I did not think to bathe in the Light of the South’s radiance so soon.”

You laugh, soft and mannerly. “I thank you kindly for those loveliest of words, Your Honor. You are a credit to your trade, indeed. My lord father has received a most urgent summons, one that he must needs answer, and so he left me to rule in his stead.” Once the initial pleasantries have been spent, you go on, “We are most glad to see you well and whole, my lords. I must confess, we were most worried. The autumn storms are not known for their mercy.”

“Manu has blessed our voyage, and blessed us with the most excellent captain.” Onyankopon ushers forward a green-robed man, who bows and smiles, proud and humble both.

“A more blessed lot I have never seen.” You gesture at Paul, who strides forward at once. “You are weary, I know, from such a hard and dangerous voyage. A suite of chambers awaits you in the guest wing, where you can rest and recuperate at last. I took the liberty of having a feast prepared. They are taxing things, especially after a strenuous journey, but I hope you will honor us with your presence at table tonight.”

“Of course, my lady, we look forward to doing your excellent Lovayan fare justice.”

That is not half-bad, you think as you watch Paul escort your guests to their chambers, exulting and allowing yourself to feel some measure of pride. By the steps of the high dais stands Eren, gazing up at you with the same proud, hard, blazing look on his face that he beheld you with earlier.

You descend to meet him with a smile more genuine than any you had yet made during the audience.

That was not half-bad at all.

---

“My lady.”

You glance toward the drawn red velvet hangings of your bedchamber, surprised to hear Troian’s muffled call. Yelena is standing in front of you, fastening your sheer emerald-studded podonza to your left shoulder with a brooch of emerald, round-cut and ornamented with silver wings.

“What is it?” you answer, as Yelena finishes and steps away with a bow.

“Sir Eren’s calling. Should I send him in?”

“Ah, yes, please.” The sheer strength of your joy at the prospect of seeing your dear knight once more would have surprised you, once. Not at present, never again.

“I have come to worship at the shrine of beauty,” Eren declares, bowing an exceedingly low bow when you emerge from your bedroom.

“Oh, hush, you,” you giggle, dismissing Yelena and watching her cross the privy chamber to take her leave. Troian is standing by the entry hall a respectable distance away, keeping a close watch.

“You didn’t change,” you note, eyeing your betrothed’s ensemble, the very same he had worn for the ambassador’s audience: a gold-trimmed vevda of red-violet with sleeves that fall to his elbows, paired with a podonza of gold brocade, fastened to his left shoulder by a square-cut tourmaline brooch. The wreath that circles his dark head is plain gold. He looks very much a prince tonight, you think, dreamily.

He snorts at your words in the most un-prince-like manner. But you won’t have him any other way. “I didn’t run a cavalry charge, did I? Didn’t make a mess of myself all day, I promise you, my lady. These threads still serve.”

You lean in close and take a whiff of him. Wood, the faint scent of laundry soap and sweat, Eren. All good scents. “Still smell nice, at least.”

He smiles and looks about the room. His expression softens. “You put them up already.” He walks to a framed bunch of moon violets on the wall opposite and examines them, running a hand down the gilt mounting, lost in memory.

You move to stand next to him, sharing in his thoughts. “I can never thank you enough for these.”

“You are most welcome, my lady. You deserve every single one. The land’s beauties for the land’s beauty.”

“Perhaps you should hang up your sword and take up a pen instead. Are you sure you’re not a poet?” You laugh as he pinches your side.

“Truth, love, no poetry.” His head swings slowly about as he searches each frame. “I know that was a long time ago and we weren’t exactly… partial to each other then, but did you keep-”

“They’re in there,” you nod to your bedchamber.

Something flashes across his face, something more than memory. “I haven’t told you, have I? Zeke was the one who told me to get you flowers. Most useful bit of advice I’ve ever gotten from him,” he says with the immediate disrespect of a younger brother. You shake your head at him, cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the idea,” he shoots you a contrite look, which you pardon, waving him on, “but I saw the sense of that. Girls like flowers, don’t they? Took a quick look at the gardens, but all the flowers in bloom seemed… boring? Inadequate? Not enough? Only the winter roses stood out to me. They’re supposed to be a winter bloom but they were still there in the spring, living, fighting on until the very last cold snap.”

Still so very Eren, even with his choice of flowers. His account warms you to the very core. He put thought into his offering, though he knew you not, though he liked you not. Most boys would make do. But not him. Thank the gods I did not neglect his gift. His first gift. You suppose you have much to thank your future brother by marriage for. “Your brother’s rather romantic for someone who hates his wife.”

“I would never.”

Eren sounds a deal more serious, then, graver. You blink up at him, puzzled. “Never what?”

“Hate you. Not like he does Elva. I could never.” He turns so he can face you properly. At once, your heart begins to drum.

Thump, thump, thump.

“You are so very beautiful, my lady,” he murmurs and brings up a hand to run long, slender fingers through a loose curl, escaped from your bun. “My Lady of Rhyzkov is a woman of emerald tonight.” His eyes alight on the emerald rose that holds your tresses in place, before running slowly down your body in its opulent trappings of silver and emerald satin.

You feel that stare as if he had run his hands all over you. He almost had, that selfsame day. When he takes up a hand to kiss, you feel his mouth on your lips, your neck, your breasts.

Desire rises hot in you once more. Your bed is so close, you realize, it will be so easy to draw him in, lead him past those velvet curtains and let your lust take hold at last. Again, and again, and yet again. After all, that is what the marriage bed is for. Our marriage bed. The insight brings another shock of heat through you. You will never look at your kip the same way ever again.

“May I have the honor of leading you in tonight?” Winter sets in when he withdraws and offers you his arm. The temptation to let them all bugger themselves and eat without you and your betrothed is a strong one, yet duty’s voice is stronger still.

You sigh and take his arm. “Of course, good Sir. Back to the slog of pleasantries and politics we go.”

“You did wonderfully, love, didn’t I say? It was a good start. And a good start will lead to a good path.”

You certainly hope so.

As the feast proceeds underway, with your Eren on your left and His Honor to your right in the place of high honor, you can see the truth of your knight’s words. Everything goes smooth as glass. It isn’t a bad start at all, you feel. Not half-bad at all.

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A/N:

Duty, duty, duty. It starts for the little lady. What *is* going on in the court?

Eren hangs out with the future father-in-law (he's not so bad, heh) and reminded of his duties to you, anxiety sets in as duty starts to make itself known, and we start to see how YN will be as a lady ruling in her own right. So far, so good.

And things get that much hotter between the young lovers-not-lovers. Yet another kiss foiled, they really should stop taking it slow, yeah? And I would so love to see them kiss in the rain, nothing is more romantic...

Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten @camilo-uwu

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

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