#the object of your grief will pop up over and over and over and over and over. . .

[generic-sonic-fan]

"Why does Maria keep showing up, will game developers let Shadow move on from his backstory please," actually I would love it if she started haunting the narrative more. Shadow mentions her in cutscene dialogue and you can see how everyone else immediately tenses. Sage finds a portion of her diary and reads it out loud. Sonic starts fighting ghosts for whatever reason and surprise surprise, guess who's there,

[loucifersbitch]

tw: mcd

"I can't do this."

Buck's hands tremble as he tries to knot his tie for the fourth time. It's so stupid. He knows how to do a half Windsor. He's done this enough times, it shouldn't be an issue.

But his hands shake, and his fingers slip, and the pieces of fabric fall to his chest again.

"I can't do this!" he yells, reaching out for the nearest object and chucking it across the room.

The ceramic otter figurine shatters on impact, the sound pulling him from his anger. He sits on the bed, dropping like a puppet with its strings cut. His hands are still shaky as he rubs at his face, the burning sting behind his eyes growing stronger.

"I can't do this," he whispers, lip quivering.

He refuses to cry over this. He has to be strong, has to be there for his family, has to make sure everyone else will be okay, has to -

"Evan?" Tommy's quiet voice comes from the doorway. He doesn't move any closer, though the concerned furrow in his brow and stiff posture tell Buck all he needs to know. "Are you okay? I thought I heard something break."

Thank God for Tommy. He's been there through all of it - Bobby dying, making arrangements with the funeral home and planning the funeral, and now joining the procession as a casket bearer - and he's never wavered once.

"I can't do this," Buck says again.

It's different saying it to someone instead of talking to himself and an empty room. His chest feels cracked open, a hollow shell where his heart and lungs should be. A sob works its way from his very core through his diaphragm and out his throat, despite trying to hold it back.

"I - I can't - Tommy, I -" he tries, but speaking through the heaving sobs that have overtaken him is nearly impossible, and his head his starting to hurt, and he can't seem to get enough air suddenly, and is he having a heart attack?

Then Tommy is there in front of him, kneeling on the hardwood floor in his own dress blues so he can hold eye contact.

"Evan, hey," he says, hands moving to cradle Buck's face, "breathe, sweetheart. You need to breathe. I think you're having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me? Inhale, one, two, three, four. Good. Now hold, two, three, four. And out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."

Tommy continues directing him through the breathing exercise, slowly moving closer until Buck can rest his forehead against Tommy's.

"Good, Evan. That's good," Tommy tells him, thumbs rubbing soothingly against Buck's cheeks. "You scared me, baby."

"Sorry," Buck hiccups, trying for a small smile. "I don't know why that happened. It just suddenly -"

"Became too much?" Tommy finishes. Buck nods, and Tommy continues, "You have nothing to apologize for. This is -" he looks around as if hoping the right words will magically pop into existence, "Losing a parent is hard. Especially when you're so close."

"He wasn't my biological father," Buck says, but Tommy scoffs.

"Biology doesn't mean anything right now. Bobby was your dad. Period."

Truthfully, Buck can't argue with that. Bobby had been everything Buck had wanted and needed in a father figure when he was growing up. He nods, acquiescing.

"You've never had to process a loss like this before. He was a huge part of your life, and now he's gone. You're going to feel a lot of things about that. Grief isn't simple."

"I have to hold it in just a little longer. I can't break down during the funeral, Tommy. I have to be strong, y'know? For Athena, and May and Harry, and the rest of the 118. I need to be there for all of them."

"Evan," Tommy says seriously, "you can't be everything for everyone. If you're there for all of them, who's there for you?"

Buck opened his mouth but found he didn't have an answer. He knows, of course, that the 118 will always have his back, but they're all dealing with their own grief.

"Let me."

"Hm?" Buck hums, confused.

"Let me be there."

"Tommy, you're already going to be there."

"Let me be there for you, smartass," he says, rolling his eyes. Buck almost smiles. "You need a shoulder to lean on? I'm there. You want someone to hold your hand? How convenient that I have two. You need anything, and I'm there, okay?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," Tommy smiles. "But I want to, if you'll let me."

"You're not even my boyfriend anymore." Tommy tries to speak, but Buck continues, "And I know that you said you want to try again, but then we had that fight, and I -" he pauses, blowing out a shaky breath, "do you still want this? Us?"

"Evan, I will be whatever you need me to be today. And yes, I do want to try again, but your emotions are compromised right now. If this is an impulsive decision you're going to regret, I -"

"It's not. I promise it's not," Buck assures him. "I've thought about it pretty much every second since you walked out my door. Again," he adds. Tommy huffs in amused disbelief. "But I know what I want, Tommy. I want you."

Tommy looks at him with a gentleness that sends a pang through Buck's chest.

"Okay," he says, one side of his mouth curving up into a smirk.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Of course, Evan."

When Buck kisses him, it feels like home. It feels like healing, like hope.

"We should go soon," Tommy murmurs.

Buck hums in agreement, "I just need to get this tie right, and then I'll be ready."

"Here," Tommy offers, making quick work of the simple knot. "You look great."

"So do you," Buck says, reaching out to straighten Tommy's tie. "Ready?"

"Almost," Tommy says, moving toward the opposite side of the room. "Just need to assess the damage."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I don't know why I threw it in the first place. I was just so mad at how unfair this all is."

"Grief," Tommy shrugs, bending down to pick up the larger shards of the ceramic.

"Jee will be so mad I broke that otter. She loved that one."

"You'll just have to take her to the zoo and get another."

"Yeah," Buck says, a small smile on his face. "We will."

Tommy chuckles as he leaves the room to throw the shards in the garbage. He returns a few moments later with a broom and dustpan.

"We're back together for two seconds, and you're already planning outings for us."

"Get used to it, honey," Buck says. "This time I plan to keep you for good."

"God, I hope so."

[brittle-doughie]

I kinda just imagined what would the ancients react to Y/N's marriage ceremony

White lily, and maybe Golden cheese: *tied to a chair with multiple chains, and also locks and multiple tapes over mouth to prevent them from litteraly cursing and insulting Y/N's lover out. Maybe even a spell to hold them down.*

Pure vanilla and Hollyberry: Looks very happy for Y/N! But are incredibly upset on the inside, and might have a chance of even plotting murder.

Golden Cheese: Gritting teeth in absolute rage, looks like about to explode any second. Very clearly angry and upset.

Dark cacao: unreadable, dark expression, death glaring at Y/N's lover. Looks like about to kill Y/N's lover.

I think almost all or maybe even all will object the wedding 😭😭

This is just my take on how they would react! I wanna see your take on their reaction

Almost all, because while Pure Vanilla will be saddened that it wasn’t his hand that you’re taking, he’ll respect your decision.

Golden Cheese too. Yes, she’d be incredibly angry and hurt that your future lover was the one to pop the question to you first before she could, but Golden Cheese is used to losing the ones she loves…

It’s kinda a 50/50, she can either come to grips with the situation like PV or her grief takes over and she takes matters into her own hands

I’ll be real with White Lily this time. She’ll be way more emotional about the situation compared to PV, it’s just how she is when it comes to you. She really felt like you and her had something special considering you two and your history together. There will be tears and sorrow, but as long as you comfort her, she’ll do her best to be happy for you…even if it pains her on the inside.

Hollyberry would be drinking her sorrows away first and foremost, it helps to alleviate the emotions first.

Dark Cacao is probably the closest to being accurate, but the change is that it would be up to you to bring him down from his anger and clear his head enough to calm him.

[sixfootrod]

someone asked, so I’ll reply.

I guess I just don’t see Price in the sweet, caring ‘daddy’ way a lot of this fandom tends to do. I see it in more of a realistic standpoint. I’ll pop down some headcanons here so you get the gist of it.

- Price probably doesn’t care as much as people think he does. He stops himself from forming attachments because he sees them as weakness.

- He can be kind hearted at times. Given he has a habit of sniffing bad people out, he can see when people are struggling to. He’ll offer to help the best he can.

- from my POV, relationships wouldn’t work for him. The amount of trauma and the amount of time he spends away from home most likely wouldn’t work for him and a partner. Plus, he shares his dad’s bad temper. Arguments usually end in him walking out.

- his libido wavers. Because of stress, the time he spends working, and his mental state — he’s probably never up to doing anything. Even if he is, it’s a measly one night stand after a night out at the bar. It’s then forgotten about and buried.

- he’s blunt, and straight to the point. No petnames or anything like you lot seem to think. Sometimes he’ll go for a ‘little miss’ or ‘son’ when it comes to young’uns, but that’s about it.

- doesn’t do favourites. Hates everyone equally.

- if he does like someone, it’s born out of respect more than anything. It goes for Soap, Ghost, Gaz and los vaqueros. They’ve all gained an insane amount of respect from price.

- leaves his grief and his problems at home. He’s built walls around himself over the years to protect himself and others from his wrath when the dam inevitably bursts. He has his bad days, but Lord, it all comes out in anger.

- most likely attends regular therapy for his PTSD and depression. By will. He’s attended since he joined.

- feels ridiculous talking about his childhood because it ‘wasn’t bad enough because so and so didn’t happen’.

- has the shortest temper. More likely to curse at inanimate objects. It’s kind of his way of venting out frustrations.

- he doesn’t go soft on anyone. Everybody gets the same treatment, whether they like it or not. And if you have a problem with him, then that’s your fault, not his. Wont change his mind at all.

per usual, inspired by the great and lovely @yeyinde

[ozzgin]

HIIII I was wondering if I could request an Inuyasha x Reader lime of the reader trying to explain to him that in the modern era people have sex for *fun* not just to have kids?? I think it’d be really silly lol!! If not that’s ok :3 take your time and take care of urself <333

—⛓️ (chain user anon)

It’s something I have considered given the amount of kids that popped up in the sequel, haha. I shall do my best, I’ve never written limes before so I’m curious to see if I can actually expand on more provocative topics. Thank you for the suggestion!

Inuyasha x Reader Headcanons

Featuring Inuyasha and a reader showing him the ways of casual intercourse. This is a lime so expect vaguely NSFW content.

You’ve been dating for months now and yet Inuyasha has barely touched you, save for the occasional kiss. Which you partly understand, you wouldn’t expect him to aggressively start groping you in front of the others, but even when you’re alone he keeps a certain distance and it confuses you greatly.

It doesn’t help that he’s a massive tsundere and getting him to talk about his feelings is a Herculean task. He’ll blush, avoid eye contact and just bark short, vague responses in hopes that you’ll stop pestering him.

You reach the point of exasperation when you ask him point blank if he’s just not attracted to you, in which case why even bother dating? His eyes widen in shock, completely taken aback by your statement. Was that what you’ve been thinking? He vehemently denies it but you don’t back down without an explanation. Finally he mumbles a barely audible reasoning. “I just don’t want any kids right now.” Now it’s your turn to stare. “Wha- How is that related to anything?”

It dawns on you that Inuyasha associates sex solely with reproduction. It’s not like he’s had any context to be provided a different view. You hold back the snicker that was about to escape your lips, as you don’t want to embarrass him any further. You find his archaic beliefs cute. Thankfully you’ve been prepared for quite some time now, so you quickly reassure him that it is, in fact, entirely possible to avoid offspring while still having fun. As you expand on your explanation you pull out the small box of condoms that you’ve been keeping in your backpack.

He doesn’t really understand the object you’re showing him so you decide that a concrete demonstration will clear up any confusion. Although you have to wrestle him onto the ground to convince him to take his clothes off. There are five stages of grief and you wonder if there’s a similar concept regarding someone too embarrassed to have sex. Refusal to undress, anger at being seen naked, bargaining to leave it for another time - and this is where it takes the turn - curiosity about giving it a try and finally, acceptance.

You don’t have to struggle too much, truth be told. Your body is the final argument and he can’t say no to the sight. Within moments he’s biting your collarbone and panting for more.

Once he gets over the initial shyness he’s almost like a dog in heat. He’ll constantly find excuses to temporarily separate from the group and have his alone time with you. He’ll insist on following you trough the well and to the store so he can proudly stand next to you when you restock on condoms. “You bet I’m the one hitting that” he thinks with a smug expression. Dear Lord, you’ve created a monster.

Though sometimes after your special time together, as you rest your head on his chest, he will lazily daydream about leaving the safety aside and actually starting a family with you. His ears twitch excitedly at the thought. And then a new idea strays away from it: can he still do it with you if you’re pregnant?

[themology]

harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”

masterlist | previous chapter

chapter 2 — portrait of a climb

You were starting to consistently ascend.

Not with the noisy spectacle that came from nepotism or art-world lineage, not through magazine covers or cocktail party features, but with intention. With an obsessive kind of precision.

Your days started to move like a blade through silk: curated, sharp, unremarkably beautiful from the outside. Studio visits, endless email threads, clipped conversations with gallery directors, grant panels, coffee you never finished. Every hour accounted for.

You weren’t climbing to be admired. You were climbing because you couldn’t bear the thought of staying still. And yet, even as you moved higher, your name was still spoken in cautious italics, always bracketed, footnoted, as if you hadn’t quite arrived.

But people noticed.

Your first few projects didn’t make waves. But they made impressions, the kind that settled in people’s minds a little longer than expected. You weren’t chasing spectacle. You were chasing sincerity, coherence, something with weight.

You wanted people to linger, not because they were dazzled, but because something about the work made them pause.

The earliest exhibit you curated was tucked in the back room of a shared gallery space. It wasn’t officially yours, you were assisting, but the lead curator let you take the reins on one room, a modest lineup of mixed media pieces from young, unknown artists exploring domestic labor and migration. You arranged them in a tight, enclosed flow, intentionally claustrophobic.

A few visitors commented on how personal the space felt, like they’d walked into someone’s memory.

You took that as a quiet win.

Later came “Threshold,” your first small solo curation, staged in a small artist-run space with a leaky ceiling and one working spotlight. It featured mostly installation work, found objects, video loops, soft sculptures sewn from old uniforms.

You spent more time handling logistics than anything creative, transporting borrowed pedestals in your friend’s car, staying past midnight to label walls with hand-cut vinyl. But you loved it.

The mess, the hustle, the quiet joy of hearing someone ask, “Who put this together?” and watching the gallerist point to you.

You were drawn to work that wasn’t flashy. That sat with the viewer slowly. You were interested in transitions, border crossings, adolescence, grief, the spaces in-between. Not everyone noticed. Some write-ups forgot to mention your name.

Some gallery emails addressed you as an assistant when you weren’t.

But the artists noticed. They thanked you. And those words stayed with you longer than the rest.

Your current projects are still modest. One involves curating a rotating wall of student photography inside a campus café.

Another, a pop-up exhibit in a defunct bakery slated for demolition, focused on spatial memory and erasure. You’re planning a collaborative zine to accompany it, with short essays and handwritten notes from the artists.

It’s not glamorous. There’s no budget.

But it matters to you.

You keep a spreadsheet of possible venues and another of themes you might explore someday, absence, noise, textile memory, digital rituals. You’re not waiting for a big break. You’re building a body of work that, over time, might speak louder than you can now.

Because you know your taste is developing. Your voice is still sharpening. But it’s there.

And one day, it’ll be unmistakable.

And now the right people were beginning to murmur.

That woman.

That curator.

She has an eye for collapse.

You didn’t come from the kind of life where people taught you how to name colors like smoke or stone or ruin or love.

No name to call back to, no quiet stream of backup funds if things went wrong. No basement filled with archived artworks from relatives, no trust fund to float you between internships.

Just you.

Just your work.

And a series of jobs that paid barely enough to cover rent, let alone frame a piece.

Sometimes you felt like an outsider, but not in the romantic way people like to frame it.

It wasn’t charming. It was logistical. You had to weigh every opportunity against how much time it would cost you, how many meals you’d skip, how much you could fake your way through another room full of people who spoke about artists like they were stock portfolios.

You’ve smiled through conversations about collectors’ summer homes while your student loan interest piled quietly in the background.

There were nights you’d walk home from install shifts with the taste of metal in your mouth, not from hunger, but from the adrenaline of trying to appear composed in front of someone who could change everything for you if they felt like it.

And they usually didn’t. Because the truth is, people notice. They notice when your blazer isn’t designer, when your shoes are scuffed, when you don’t drop names because you don’t have any to drop. You learned how to stay in rooms without shrinking.

You learned how to talk just enough to be memorable, but not so much that they’d ask where you grew up or how many jobs you worked at once.

You weren’t reckless. You couldn’t afford to be. There was no net. One mistake, one mistimed reply, one badly handled event, one late rent check, and you’d have to start over.

Others could afford to fail upward.

You had to land every jump.

But you didn’t resent them, not entirely. You just envied the quiet cushion they didn’t even realize they walked on. The way they could speak without urgency. The way their careers were structured around choices, not survival.

Still, you kept going. Not because of some noble dream. But because quitting would feel like agreeing with everyone who silently decided you wouldn’t make it anyway.

And despite it all, you knew you had taste. You had instinct. You could feel something shift in a room when you laid a piece just right, when a viewer paused a second longer than they meant to.

You knew how to build meaning from absence.

You knew how to notice.

So you made yourself undeniable. You outread, outresearched, outlasted. You stayed late.

You made enemies. You earned your taste, didn’t inherit it.

Love? That was a deferred thing. A pleasure for later. Once you had made yourself unshakable. When your name could stand without leaning against someone else’s fame or donation.

So when the messages began, you didn’t flush or preen.

You bristled.

The first came with no sender, no timestamp, just a single card slipped into your department mailbox, thick, brutalist paper stock, faintly perfumed with something sharp and chemical.

Varnish, maybe. Or money. It read: “Saw your curation of Soriani’s triptych. You have an eye for collapse. That’s rare.”

No name. No request.

Just a statement. Clean and quiet, like a bullet. You stared at it for a full minute before folding it into your planner, between notes and press releases.

You told yourself to forget it.

But forgetting him wasn’t going to be simple.

The donation came a week later.

Unnamed, substantial.

Enough to secure the next six months of your exhibition. The exhibition you’d pitched on adrenaline and stubbornness and risked your professional credibility for. No press announcement revealed the donor, but you knew. It was the same unnerving sensation as walking into a room and knowing someone had just left.

That trace of attention. The chill of being seen without being touched.

Then you started seeing him.

Not often. Just enough to feel inevitable. The first time was during a symposium at The Nest—industrial repurposed architecture, lecture chairs with bad lumbar support, the kind of audience who measured intellect by who could quote Foucault faster.

You were mid-panel, articulating a case for object fragmentation as political rebellion. You felt yourself on fire, words moving fast but exact, and still—somewhere in your peripheral, your rhythm stalled.

There he was. The Harry Castillo.

Standing alone near the back.

Not leaning, not distracted. Hands folded. Not even pretending to take notes.

Just watching. As if he’d been waiting to see what you’d do.

You found him by the freight elevator after the event, just as you were about to call a car. He stood in front of a piece no one cared about, a melted-wax diptych installed too low on the wall, the kind of thing interns leave out of the tour path.

“You didn’t mention this one,” he said.

You paused. “It’s not on the itinerary.”

He didn’t look away from the piece. “Or maybe you thought it aligned too closely with your thesis.”

Your throat tightened. “Do you always do this?”

“What’s that?”

“Lurk. Watch women work.” you cross your arms like he’s some kind of hindrance, you wished it was just that.

He turned to you slowly, as if deciding whether to smile or not. “Only the ones who don’t realize they’re performing.”

You didn’t flinch. But your stomach did that thing it does, hollow and hot all at once.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t follow. He just walked away like it hadn’t cost him anything to speak to you. And somehow, that restraint unnerved you more than if he’d made a move.

You threw yourself back into work. Answered emails faster. Canceled drinks. Switched your perfume to something clean and mineral.

You reigned yourself in, tried to cauterize the corners where he had somehow seeped in. But he remained like a watermark. A residue. You started to feel him before he entered the room, never early, never late, but always just as the tension in your shoulders lifted.

It wasn’t what people thought. You weren’t sleeping with him. He wasn’t flattering you. He barely spoke. But he was always near. Watching. Not with desire, but with an intent that made you feel exposed anyway.

You started catching yourself searching for him. At gallery events, at academic mixers, even at auction previews you knew he wouldn’t attend. You started dressing differently, sharper tailoring, deeper necklines, darker lipstick. Not for him. You told yourself that. But something in you wanted to command the gaze he refused to offer fully.

He finally approached you again at a temporary installation in a decommissioned train station. You were adjusting lighting angles on a mirrored kinetic sculpture, pacing with a tablet in hand. You sensed him before you saw him.

“You move like you’re always ready to vanish,” he said softly behind you.

You turned, slowly. “Maybe I am.”

He studied you, his eyes quiet and brutal. “That’s what makes you dangerous. You know how to disappear. That’s rare.”

Your throat was dry. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I go where the interesting things are,” he said.

You could have stepped back. You could have ended it.

But instead you asked, “What do you find interesting, exactly?”

His gaze dropped—quick, unreadable. Then:

“The way your voice flattens when you lie. The way your hands pause mid-gesture when you’re second-guessing yourself. The way you never look away from confrontation. You catalog everything. And yet, you hate being seen.”

The worst part wasn’t what he said. It was the unbearable stillness between his words. Like he was daring you to flinch.

You didn’t.

Later that night, back home in your apartment, you sat fully dressed on the edge of your bed, too tense to move, your phone heavy in your hand. You should’ve deleted his number, if you’d ever had it. You should’ve blocked whatever ghost he used to reach you. But you didn’t.

You’re still humming, almost buzzing. That’s the best word for it—buzzing—from the top of your scalp down to the soles of your feet. The silk blouse you peeled off still smells faintly of champagne and someone’s too-expensive cologne. You fold it carefully, like you always do, even when your brain feels like it’s made of gauze and light.

The bathroom mirror catches your eye. Your lipstick is half-worn, but your eyes—God, your eyes look alive. Electric. You lean in. Were they always this bright after a night like that?

You take your time with your skincare, fingers pressing into your cheekbones, jaw, neck. That lingering ache behind your ears from too much smiling, too many “Of course, I’d love to connect,” still pulses. The panel was a blur—names, deals, dry laughter layered over dry martinis. You held your own. More than held your own. You thrived.

You talked about art like it was blood. Like it was religion. And they listened.

The bed is cool when you sink into it. You tuck your legs beneath the sheets and exhale, but the tension doesn’t leave your body—it coils somewhere under your ribs. Something between pride and a faint, aching hunger. You should sleep, but your mind replays snippets of conversation, the way a hedge fund darling said your eye for surrealist Latin American work was “audacious,” the way someone slipped you their number with the weight of a promise.

You smell the night on your skin. You feel the weight of the room still pressing against you, like it hasn’t let go yet. Neither have you.

You’re becoming someone. And it thrills you more than you’ll admit.

Ultimately you just sat there.

Your inbox pinged once, then twice. A briefing reminder. A logistics file.

Then, another message. Short. Unsigned.

A private dinner. Saturday. Castillo Estate. Confidential list.

You will be seated beside the host. Dress code: interpret “red.”

You stared at it until your eyes blurred.

You didn’t respond. But you knew your silence was its own answer. And you knew, deep in your spine, between your legs, somewhere shameful, you were going.

Not for power.

Not for permission.

For something you couldn’t name yet.

Maybe when the party happens, there will be a glass of wine you wouldn’t drink, and a room full of people who’d wonder why the only woman Harry Castillo looked at like that… was you.

next chapter

notes…

just rewatched triple frontier for the 1000th time

please comment down below if you wish to be tagged in future chapters!

themology, 2025.

[abalidoth]

Replanting (Chapter 1)

(Chapter 2)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options. 

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment. 

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly. 

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there. 

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

[thesweetnessofspring]

A little different version of "so after" and loosely inspired by Far From the Madding Crowd. Rated M and bordering E because..."so after."

Peeta's scarred hands work in the fireplace, arranging everything for the fire. First he situates the New Year log, taken from an oak tree in the woods, in the grate and places the kindling of pine needles on top. Peeta guides he singular flame of the match onto the kindling and it catches. I lean against the armrest of the couch, watching his lips pucker as he blows on the fire. Some of my own fire, left to nothing but embers, burns low and pleasant at the thought of the way those lips press to my forehead and cheek after a nightmare. And leads me to think of the night on a beach. As the fire in the hearth builds, the orange glow shadows his face, his hair appears golden with the light.

The fire reaches a steady crackle, lighting the room with its promise of a new year bringing better days. It's been just over a year since Prim's death and those days I was lost in my grief. And yet, ever so slowly, good has come. I make it a game, thinking of the good things that have happened this past year. Most are from Peeta, who first coaxed me from my empty days into the spring air and reminded me how flowers still grow.

I wait for Peeta to join me, so that I can burrow myself in his arms, my ear over his heartbeat. Yet he stays where he is, sitting back on his heels and staring at the fire. If his hands weren't flat against his thighs, I might suspect he was having a flashback, he's so far away from me.

"Peeta?" I ask. "Come sit by me."

He still stares at the fire, not moving toward me. "Does it bother you what people are saying about us?"

"What's that?" I ask. I hadn't noticed much. But then again, I don't bother with most people these days. Peeta doesn't, either, though he will go on walks and pass by the market that's popped up during the rebuild. He hears more than I do.

"That we're living as husband and wife," Peeta says. He turns his head to peek over at me, half of his face shadowed and cautious.

"I suppose we are. In our way."

We've shared our meals, kept each other company, and held hands since he came back. When I couldn't take sleeping alone anymore, I went into Peeta's bed. I'm surprised by how comfortable it feels to admit that what we have is almost like a marriage. Not since before my father's death have I ever thought I might be someone's wife.

"They don't mean it like that," Peeta says. "They're saying I'm taking your milk without paying for the goat."

It was an old saying, talked about with judging looks. The man for taking advantage of a woman without ensuring her proper legal protection. The woman for running the risk of having a fatherless child. When he found out Peeta and I were sharing a bed again, Dr. Aurelius encouraged me to take birth control and I could think of no reason to object. So even if Peeta were taking my milk as they say, it couldn't hurt me. Not in the way I worried about so much before.

I still flush at the thought of it, of the two of us naked and touching each other, of his lips on mine and his hands on my body. I clench my legs together at the thought.

"That's stupid," I say.

Peeta's cheeks turn dark in the firelight and he avoids looking at me. "I'm only saying what everyone else says. And of course, the idea of us—like that—it's stupid."

"I said they're stupid," I say. "Not us—"

I fluster and can't say the words. Only there's the thought again, the thought of olive skin to pink skin, scar to scar, and him inside of me, all over me. Tasting him again. Would he taste the same? Or sweeter this time, after so much bitterness?

"Not us what, Katniss?" Peeta asks quietly.

Our eyes connect and there's something burning brightly inside of me. Life. A warmth that I'd thought had long been extinguished, and yet persists despite all we've lost. What he means to me, the safety and goodness he brings to me, had never gone away. It only waited for this moment, when everything was right.

I slide from the couch and crawl to him on the floor. When I sit by his side, my back to the fire, it's just how it was at the beach. Only he hasn't even touched me yet and I'm craving him. So I lean in and kiss him, soft at first, as we brush off the last dust of distance between us, and then the kiss grows deeper and slows so we can savor it. Although I've kissed Peeta a thousand times before, and a couple made me want more, this feels like the first time. It's certainly the first time we've been able to kiss like this all on our own with no one watching. I want more, and he must, too, because our kisses build to crushing, breathless events.

At some point, I swing one leg around him so I'm on his lap and his hands are at the small of my back and I want, I need his skin on mine. So I break our kiss to pull my shirt over my head and then reach for his, too.

Once we're both topless, I cup his cheek to draw him into another kiss. His bare hand rests on my waist, then travels up to my breast. I tremble from the intensity of the feel of him there, of the way I need him more. My body seeks it, pressing down on his lap and finding him seeking me, too.

It's not enough. As much as I know we're on the right track, it's as if I'm smelling the food instead of tasting it. The motions only make me want more.

Peeta pulls back for a moment only to flip us so that I'm on my back parallel to the fire and he hovers over me, elbows holding him up. His curls cascade around his face as he peers down at me.

"Don't stop," I tell him, missing the contact more than anything.

The flames catch his eyes and he kisses all over my face and down my neck, my chest, my arms, my stomach and taking extra time where the scars run deepest, his tongue running along them. At my belly button he looks up at me and I hurriedly lift my hips up to slide off my pants. He moves back up to kiss me on the mouth, but I'm more aware of his hands gently tracing my underwear. I open my legs to his touch.

"This okay?" he asks, uncertainty in his words.

"Yes," I assure him and he moves more confidently in rubbing me over my underwear. It doesn't have that same spark as when I was on top of him, but I do like him touching me there. Then there's a place he finds and I jerk with a sharp pleasure and give a little cry.

"Right there?" he asks, going over the spot again.

"Yes!"

He swipes up and down and I whimper, biting my lip. Still, I need more. I put my hand on top of his and guide him beneath my underwear. When his fingers find my bare flesh over that spot, my whole body blazes with heat and I move my hips against his hand. Peeta's free hand cups himself, squeezing over his pants, his body shaking now. He's holding back, keeping himself hidden from me, as if we were still those kids in the arena. Me squeamish at the idea of seeing him completely naked, and him waiting for me to let him in, even though our lives depended on it. But we're not as we were before in the arena. The most obvious sign now is that I want to feel him, too.

I grab hold of him over his pants and for a second he falters where he rubs me, giving a short curse. That reaction makes me more responsive in turn. I lift my head up to kiss him and then make for his pants, first unbuttoning and then tugging them and his underwear down.

While Peeta untangles his bottoms from his prosthetic leg, I peel my damp underwear off and then we're naked together, both of us pausing to look from the other's bodies to making eye contact and swiftly looking away again. It hits us both what we're about to do, what we could do.

"We don't have to go further unless you're sure," Peeta says.

He's right. I know we could keep going the way that we have, with our easy routine and companionship for the rest of our lives. Neither of us will abandon the other. If we were going to, it would have happened long ago. Yet, even if we don't do this tonight, it's obvious we will in time. I don't think there is a single thing in the past that could have changed us coming to this point eventually.

"Come here," I say.

Peeta doesn't need telling twice. We take our time exploring each other, asking questions, trying things out. I almost feel foolish how little I know about my own body while Peeta gives more to guide me on, though he says he doesn't mind experimenting. Some things feel wonderful, others are just nice because Peeta is touching me. He takes it all in until he has me soaring from his caresses.

After Peeta asks if it's what I want and I confirm it, finally, we're joined. I'm breathless for a moment and there is a tightness that's uncomfortable at first, until I adjust to him. Peeta hovers above me, staying still, watching my face. When I make eye contact with him and nod, he begins to move. Our communication then is through our sounds of delight, quick kisses, the tilt of our bodies, quick affirmations, a cry of the other's name.

The fire dances beside us when Peeta brings a blanket over our naked skin and I'm in a haze of blissful sleep, making a pillow of his chest.

"Katniss?" he asks.

I hum to let him know I'm listening, so warm and happy the next words, said as soft and low as a baby bird's downy feather, take me by surprise.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

The question I've asked since after the berries myself, always in a muddle of confusion, comes to light like a spring morning. There is now, and for always, only one answer to give.

"Real."

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Dislocated Shoulder Whump

Warnings: dislocated shoulder, intense pain, careless/annoyed carewhumper

Heehee here's a short scene where Shadow gets to be a grumpy, reluctant carewhumper when Thomas accidentally dislocates his shoulder during a fight. How inconvenient for Shadow to be forced to help! 😂

Poor Thomas, he never catches a break.

It was too late for Thomas to dodge the soldier rushing toward him. The soldier was making a mad dash for the exit he was standing in front of, and that was the problem: he was standing in front of it.

Thomas tried to scramble out of the way, but was a hair too slow. The soldier was too desperate to escape, and couldn't care less about the human of an object in his path. He charged right through him, accidently clipping him in the shoulder on the way out, hard enough that it sent Thomas slamming into the wall behind him.

As soon as he hit the wall, there was a sickening pop, followed by a zing of sharp pain that ran through his whole right arm, and then he suddenly couldn't move it anymore.

Thomas crumpled to the floor with a gasp as pain radiated throughout his entire arm and shoulder, quickly spreading across his chest. It was an intense, overwhelming agony that overtook him, and he gritted his teeth against it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could Shadow moving nimbly around as she took down the last few soldiers in the room, before she leaned down to pick up her dagger and sheath it again. He could only hope she'd be able to help him out of whatever he'd just gotten himself into. But it hurt... so... much...

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

*Switching to Shadow POV*

Shadow heard the cry of pain, but was too busy fighting to spare the source a glance. Only when she had knocked the last man out did she look over to see Thomas twitching on the floor in pain, one shoulder sticking out at an unnatural angle.

"I… I can't move my arm!" He exclaimed, panicking. "Am I dying? I'm dying, aren't I?!"

Shadow walked over and loomed over him with arms crossed over her chest and rolled her eyes at what she thought to be his over-dramatization, before remembering that Thomas had never experienced a serious injury of any kind before, and it made her understand why he would be so terrified. From his perspective, it must literally feel like he was dying. She could hear his heart racing faster than a rabbit's with adrenaline.

She kneeled next to him with an unhurried sigh and tentatively touched his shoulder, feeling around the muscles to get an idea of how bad the dislocation was. Thomas yelped in pain, and instinctively tried to jerk away, but Shadow put her knee over his stomach and leaned her weight onto him to keep him pinned down.

"Mmhmm, that's definitely a bad one," she said in absent observation after a few moments. Shadow knew how to relocate the joint, but first needed Thomas to stop panicking. She needed his muscles to relax a little to make it easier for the joint to pop back into place... and his hyperventilating was only exacerbating the whole situation.

"Good grief, you're not dying! Pull yourself together," she snapped, exasperated. She could tell that Thomas was on the brink of passing out because of the fast, shallow breaths he was taking, which was causing the carbon dioxide in his blood to drop too low. She let out a weary sigh and put a firm hand on his chest.

"Look at me, listen to my voice. You need to calm down. Slow your breathing, okay? Take a deep breath, and let it out slowly," she instructed sternly, trying to sound reassuring, which certainly wasn't her strong suit.

"Focus on filling your lungs up as full as you can, and then let it all out, and relax. Release the tension. I'm right here to help you, kid. You don't have to keep panicking."

There was something oddly comforting about her words, even though "comforting" was probably the last thing Thomas would use to describe Shadow. Regardless, he tried to focus on her gruff voice, gradually slowing his breathing down increment by increment, feeling his racing heartbeat finally start to calm.

"Good. Now I'm going to put your shoulder back in place, all right? It’s guaranteed to hurt like crazy, but bear with me. Are you ready?" Shadow said, looming over him. She took his wrist in one hand and placed the other near his shoulder.

Thomas nodded weakly, bracing himself.

Shadow gave him a countdown. "Three, two, zero--" In a single sharp, swift motion, she suddenly jerked his arm straight forward, and a loud pop followed as the shoulder joint slid back into place.

It was cruel of her to surprise him with a fake countdown, Thomas distantly thought. He let out a strangled shriek, and had to bite his tongue hard to avoid screaming in agony.

Then, he felt gentle waves of magic flow through his arm, repairing damaged ligament and muscle tissue. It took the edge off his pain, lessening it to a dull throb. One of the many perks of having someone like Shadow as an ally. He finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relief flooding him.

"See? That wasn't so bad, now, was it?" Shadow smirked knowingly. She put an arm under his back and helped him slowly sit up, before effortlessly pulling him to his feet with surprising strength.

"Let's get out of here before anyone sees us, shall we?"

"Shadow... Thank you. Seriously," Thomas croaked gratefully, gently trying out his newly healed shoulder with a wince. He looked at the floor sheepishly.

Shadow shifted her weight uncomfortably at his sincere gratitude.

"Let's... just try not to ever do that again, all right?" She said tensely.

Masterlist #1 - all of my whump stories

Masterlist #2 - all stories specifically involving my OCs Shadow and Thomas

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

[ificouldhelpyouforget]

Desiderium (Bang Chan x OFC)

MASTERLIST | Part Two (Coming soon)

Summary: desiderium (noun): an ardent desire or longing; a feeling of loss or grief for something lost

A/N: This was inspired by a TikTok where Chan looking totally normal at an event, but combined with a wedding kdrama scene, totally wrecked me emotionally.

Warnings: Heartbreak, longing, language, jumps from past to present a few times, mentions of sex (no smut)

Words: 2.5k

—

It was the biggest day of her life. Friends and family gathering together to watch her make a lifelong commitment to the man she said yes to. After all the planning and preparing, she was moving into a new chapter, one where she would stand beside her love as they navigate life as one. It was all she ever wanted. And yet…

The ceremony went on without issue. No one objected to the union–not that she expected anyone to do so. They said their vows just right. Thunderous applause met them as the dj introduced them into the reception. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t. Until she saw him.

Bang Chan. Chan. Chris… Channie, she called him the most.

Of course, he was still so beautiful. He was always in her eyes. Everything about him is why she fell so hard.

“Let go, you stupid fucking–”

“Need some help?”

She looked up from where she was attempting to pull her rolling work bag off the escalator. It was the middle of the night in the airport and she was just getting back from a weekend work trip, so hearing another voice in the mostly empty area shocked her enough to jump.

The man hid a giggle behind a cough. “Sorry ‘bout that. Do you need help?”

“Yes, please. The escalator is pissing me off.”

“Bad day?” Of course, it took nothing for him to pull it off the escalator and set it on the ground.

He was cute. A black ball cap sat on his head, but she could see a mass of messy brown curls peeking out from under the brim. His eyes were warm and welcoming. His smile, so unbelievably adorable with the dimples framing his plump lips.

“Bad weekend. Work trip. Just got back and I’m dying to get some sleep. But they lost my luggage, so I’m trying to get that sorted. It’s been a mess since I landed.”

“That’s rough. I hope it doesn’t take long to find your stuff.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, thank you for helping me out.”

“No problem. It’s Chris, by the way. Or Chan. Uh, either works.”

“Maisie.” She noticed the bag hanging off his shoulder. “Leaving or coming back?”

“Coming back. Had to get back early for something. Work.” He looked over his shoulder as if checking for someone.

“Gotta love the grind. Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Chan.”

“You live in Korea? That’s why your Korean is so good.”

“Maybe I’m just good with languages,” she teased. “No, I live here. It was easier for work since a lot of clients live here, Japan, and China.”

“That’s cool.” His name was called out by a serious-looking man in all black, much like Chan. “Ah, well, gotta go. See you around?”

“Maybe! Thank you again.”

“Not a problem. Get home safe.”

“You, too.”

The crazy thing was, she saw him around. A lot. She found out he was in a k-pop group, Stray Kids. She dabbled in some music from SHINee and BTS in the past, but rarely sought out new music when work got busier. But then she started noticing Chan’s face everywhere–a concert announcement more often than not.

When she saw him again in the flesh, it was in a coffee shop on her side of town, a decent walk from the company he worked for. She pondered if it was because he was trying to get some privacy. It almost kept her from waving at him when he looked in her direction. The way his eyes lit up once he recognized her still brought a flutter to her heart. 

That was when it started.

The friendship. The hanging out. The secret dates. The phone calls. The stolen kisses. The midnight meetings. The gifts. The sex. The pure, unreal love that grew between them. They were happy. Truly. Maisie could never forget his shy smiles that turned into laughter when she showed him affection. His laughs were everything.

And there he was, hair straightened over his forehead, making him look intense, his heavy gaze matching. A smile was nowhere to be found. So many mornings she woke up to the softness of his gaze, the curls of his hair. His untamed hair he constantly complained about always enamored her. And those eyes, so dark under the shade of his bangs, but she only could remember the gentle brown of them. All of his emotions settled in those eyes, something she could still see in the romantic setting of her reception.

“They found out.”

“Who?”

Chan took his baseball cap and mask off as he walked into her apartment. “Stay. They found out about us.”

“Oh…” They told the company about their relationship. The other members knew, too, but they wanted to wait before telling fans. It was mostly out of precaution, since Chan had too many friends bullied out of healthy relationships.

“It’s already a mess. The things they’re saying about you…” Tears well up in his eyes. “It’s getting bad.”

“What do we do?”

Tears fell. “The company wants us to end it. They are worried about a boycott.”

Her heart shattered. “What? But… But… I’m not keeping you from the group! I would never come between you and your job or stays.”

“I know that.” Chan cupped her face and wiped her tears away while his fall rapidly. “The members know that, too.”

“Then why can’t we still be together?”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.” He pulled her into his chest and cried into her hair. “I don’t know what to do…”

She clutched his shirt, shedding more tears into the fabric.

They cried the rest of the night, their last night as a couple because they knew the company would keep them apart if the fan outrage resulted in a loss of revenue.

Their last night, despite the tears, was still full of laughter and kisses and love… but it eventually had to end.

Chan’s fingers trailed up and down her bare side, his eyes scanning over her face as if burning her features to memory. Her hand pressed to his warm chest to feel his heartbeat, slowed after laying still for some time.

“Is this really it for us?” she asked, the prickle of tears at the back of her eyes.

He sucked in a breath. “I don’t want it to be.”

It was quiet for a moment until she leaned in to kiss his forehead and then his lips.

“I love you, Channie. I always will.”

“I love you, too, Maisie.” His breath shook as he hugged her close. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“I wish they’d let you be happy.”

“I’m sorry this is happening and hurting you.”

She ran her pointer finger down the bridge of his nose and around the shape of his lips. She’s going to miss him so much. “And I’m sorry you’re being hurt by your fans. You don’t deserve this. No one in the public eye deserves this.”

He sighed and turned to lie on his back, welcoming her as she snuggled into his side. “I’m gonna have to leave soon.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.”

“Do you think… we can get a second chance later on?”

“Maybe, but don’t wait for me, okay? Don’t miss out on happiness because of me.”

“What if you are my happiness?”

A watery smile met her blurry gaze. “You will find it again. Even if it’s not with me.”

It wasn’t long after than when Chan left, taking a piece of her broken heart and leaving some of his behind.

It took years for her to feel like her world wasn’t crashing around her at the sight of his pictures or the sound of his voice in a song. And that was about the time she met the man she could call her husband. She loved him. A different love, but still love. It was hardly a cushion with the sad stare from the man she once thought she’d walk down the aisle to cutting right through her soul.

She had to talk to him… if he wanted to talk.

“Hey,” she said to her husband, tapping his arm to get his attention. “I need to run to the bathroom. Don’t start the toasts without me.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Be back soon.” She kissed his cheek and got up.

Her eyes went to Chan, and he was already staring. She didn’t drop her gaze until she exited the banquet hall, hoping he understood.

She stood outside the building, waiting. And waiting… and waiting.

“Dammit,” she murmured, feeling tears settle at her waterline.

Turning back to go inside, her body collided with another. As an apology started spilling from her lips, she looked up into familiar eyes. “Channie.”

He smiled. “Maisie.”

“How… How did you know about this?”

“Got an invitation. Guess you didn’t know.”

“My hus-husband must have found your contact information and sent you one. I’m sorry about that.”

“Nah. I’m happy I came.” It didn’t reach his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

There was no need to keep her short choked sob. “Thank… Thank you.”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be smiling. It’s your wedding day.”

“Oh, God, they’re going to ask questions if I come back crying.”

Chan pulled a tissue out of a pack in his pocket. “Dab. Don’t wipe. Your eyes won’t look as red.”

She takes him in, in his black suit jacket that barely hides the tan shirt under it, although it’s buttoned. “You look good. Healthy.”

“I’ve been working out and eating more of what I want. Taking care of myself.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

A cricket started chirping nearby, filling the silence between them. It felt like a countdown to possibly their last moment together.

“Are you happy?” he finally asked, face stoic.

She smiled. “Yes. A different happy.”

“Good.” Expectedly, his eyes are glassy. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Chan, it wasn’t your fault. There was nothing we could do.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t fallen for you, you never would have gone through it.”

She grabbed his hand in both of hers. The spark was still there. “You made me the happiest woman in the world. It might have been short-lived, but I don’t regret what happened because at least I had time with you. And those are some of my most precious memories.”

“You can’t hang onto those anymore. You’re married, and he needs to be your priority.”

“Channie.” Both paused, hearing the nickname spoken again. “I didn’t lie when I told you I will always love you. I may love someone else, but I never stopped loving you. I’m not letting go of my memories with you.”

He cleared his throat, shook his head, his way of keep himself from crying. “You should probably go back in there. Someone might come out here and wonder why you’re with another man.”

“I don’t care… I’m not ready to not see you again for the rest of the night.”

“I’ll see you before you leave.”

“Promise?”

"Yeah. Promise.”

Except she didn’t get a chance as the toasts, the cake cutting, the dances swept her up. Then she was suddenly standing in the doorway of the banquet hall, guests lined up on either side, down to the car. It was the end, the last hurrah before her life as a married woman would truly begin.

And the man she wanted to see one last time was nowhere. How does one feel both happiness and the deepest heartbreak at once and manage not to fall apart?

“Ready?” her new husband asked, taking her hand and squeezing.

“Yeah.” She tried so hard to feel her joy of the day again.

They were walking too fast. She couldn’t find Chan in the crowd. She wouldn’t get her last goodbye.

They each hug their families waiting at the end, her eyes still seeking for him. But she received her last hug, and it was time to get in the car.

Maisie turned away. A hand on her wrist kept her from taking a step. Her teary eyes follow the hand to the man she was begging the universe to let her see one more time. Her arms wrap around his shoulders lightning fast.

“Take care of yourself, Channie. I… I love you.” Her words were a whisper.

He squeezed her tightly, glancing up to see her husband finishing his goodbyes to his family. There was no way he could say it back. If he said it, he’d whisk her away and say fuck it to the haters. But he couldn’t say it back. Not this time.

“Have a beautiful life together, yeah? Always be happy.”

“I want that for you, too.”

He smiled down at her, slowly detaching himself from the hug, from the moment. “One day.”

Before she could say anything more, her husband called out to her with a wide grin. It was time to go.

“See ya, newlywed.” Chan smiled, his eyes turning into crescents to hide the evidence of his heart breaking all over again.

“Bye, Chan.”

The space between them grew. She didn’t look back, a smile given to everyone before climbing into the vehicle. Once those doors shut, her eyes were on Chan as he stared back with a solemn look. It felt like that morning all those years ago. It took everything in her to keep from crying, as her chest ached all the same.

Chan watched the car pull away and only then could he utter his true feelings into the wind, a pathetic wish to be her husband instead. A silent cry for the cruelty of the universe to give him someone to love so deeply, only to rip her away for someone else to have. Fuck the universe. Fuck the reason it ended… Fuck love.

Maisie lets her forehead rest against the window, the sorrow trying to swallow her up again. What a cruel twist of fate.

“Hey, you okay?” Her husband reached over to take her hand.

“Yeah… Just tired.”

“We’ll get some sleep soon.” A pause. “Who was that guy you hugged? Cousin?”

“An old friend. He helped me at the airport forever ago. His job made it hard to maintain our friendship, so it surprised me to see him.”

“Are you happy he came?”

She looked at him with a little smile. “I am. It was nice to see him again.” It was the truth.

“Good. I’m glad.” He squeezed her hand. “Wanna put on some of your favorite music?”

Any excuse to keep away more questions about her mood and Chan. She sets her most played playlist on shuffle. The soft piano started and the silent tears began instantly. Chan’s soft voice started over the piano.

The world was cruel indeed.

[married-2-the-music]

K-pop Discography Deep Dives: BTS (Part TWO)

A Disclaimer: I was planning, when I first started Tumblr, to be a lurker, but then I began an office job and needed something to listen to to keep myself occupied. And then, I started going through entire K-pop groups’ repertoires, album by album, and jotting down my thoughts. And then, I stumbled into K-pop tumblr and decided, you know what, there’s at least four people on this hell site who would read in depth rants about these discographies and at least five who wouldn’t read it and then get mad because it’s kind of our job as K-pop fans. My lukewarm takes should be taken with an entire silo of salt and the knowledge that this is completely for fun and occupying my very bored, very neurodivergent brain. All this to say, for the love of god, I’m a sleep-deprived student and I don’t have time for internet hate, so don’t kill me. With that being said, enjoy!

So, my credentials: I’ve got nothing this time, folks. I’m not an Army; I’m too casual to even be a casual fan. I like most of what I’ve heard, based on friend recommendations, but I have no idea how representative of their work the songs I’ve heard are. I know the group members’ names, but barely anything about them, although I’m always open to learning more. The reason I wanted to do this deep dive is because I’ve been a k-pop fan for almost five years now and I’ve heard every opinion between “BTS is the second coming of Christ” and “BTS is responsible for the collapse of society,” and I want to make up my own mind, free of influence.

Since BTS has over 200 songs, I’m also doing short supplementals each week, both to give myself and you guys a break and to look at groups / soloists with discographies too short to need a full week (because this is gonna be a dissertation and I’ll have to separate it into two parts). So, grab your lightstick, get some ice cream, steal a fluffy dog, and settle in folks. Let’s do this.

We left off just before You Never Walk Alone, and Blood, Sweat, and Tears. I was surprised on first listen of this one, because I don’t quite know how to classify it; it’s too calm to be one of their more bombastic songs and too loud to be one of their calmer ones. I’m just not sure what to say about it, to be honest. I don’t hate it but I don’t like it either. I like the instrumental and the elegance of some of its quieter moments but as I’ve stated ad nauseum, empty, chanty choruses are one of my song pet peeves, and I just can’t get into a song with it.

So then, we have Spring Day. I also don’t know what to say about this one, for the complete opposite reason. It’s the other one of BTS’ songs in my Top 25 K-pop songs, and I admit it; I find it almost impossible to be objective when I go “aww” the second I hear the opening notes. It’s melancholy and contemplative, wistful and pained, hopeful and tragic. The lyrics are honestly beautiful and such a raw expression of grief that it’s the kind of song you need to sit with for a minute before moving on.

I, like most people, have someone I love deeply that this song reminds me of, and it always makes me appreciate life just a little more every time I give it a listen. It’s perfect, but you don’t need me to tell you that. Go take a deep breath and watch the music video for yourself.

Not Today’s opening is…not for me, and feels especially harsh after the beauty that is Spring Day. I do really enjoy the pre-chorus, although I admit that I appreciate more than like the song as a whole. But, it has so much energy and drive it’s hard not to be pulled along for the ride. For the album as a whole, I really enjoyed seeing the variety in all of the solos, and although the one I liked the best was Stigma, I enjoyed the cinematic opening and the odd vocalizing of Lie and the slightly jazzy vibe of Mama too.

I’ve mentioned that I liked Taehyung’s voice before, but I really loved it in Stigma. He goes between whispering and half-wailing so well, and his voice carries so much emotion that I found myself swept up in it too. And of course, as a queer woman myself, the plaintive apologies and constant reference to “sins” make me wince in sympathy, although I have no idea if that’s the intended meaning.

On to an odyssey of a repackage album in Love Yourself: Answer, starting with Euphoria. At first, I was worried that the chorus would be empty, but the post-chorus assuaged my worries. I like the instrumental, especially the mix of the gentle guitar and the electronic twinkling (I don’t know how else to word it). The song’s overall not my favorite of theirs but a nice breather, upbeat and wispy, and the music video definitely made me smile, so props to them!

DNA continues the wispy, upbeat guitar trend, with whistling thrown in for good measure and making a nice contrast. I love the sprawling quality of the chorus, although I wish that the slight post-chorus at the end of the song continued through the rest of it, as I think it would make it live up more to the greatness that is the pre-chorus, which I don’t quite think it does. Although, I’m aware that that’s more personal preference than anything else. I think this one is my favorite single from the album.

Idol has an interesting beat and a good message. I’m sure it’d be a great song to run or dance to, and I do understand why people like it. I found myself tapping my head during the post-chorus, which I did enjoy. It’s just not for me, with its constant rapping and such a chanty chorus. Something about it just doesn’t feel like it works, although I could see it growing on me if I gave it more listens.

Mic Drop is even more not for me, to no one’s surprise. Unlike with Idol, where I could appreciate but not like it, I didn’t enjoy any part of this one and I found it grating on my ears. Again, I acknowledge that this is due to personal pet peeves more than anything, but it bears repeating that even if I can note the talent in something, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Overall though, I quite liked this album. The trilogy (if you will) of Serendipity (I love the guitar), Singularity (Taehyung’s vocal control is impressive), and Epiphany (I’ll talk more about it in a minute) is lovely, down to the names themselves. I also enjoyed Answer: Love Myself and although the song itself isn’t my style, I appreciated the unique lyrics of Anpanman.

Epiphany is definitely my favorite, though. It starts with a soft piano and strings, then slowly builds to become a quietly powerful song about the strength that it takes to wake up every morning and keep going, even when it seems impossible. It’s a topic that is near and dear to my heart, and I don’t think enough songs address it. I love how something about it feels cyclical, just like its meaning, and Jin’s voice communicates it so honestly that I completely understand why so many people have connected to this song.

Black Swan starts with a unique harp (?) that gives a sharp contrast to the more hard-hitting beat and electronic production layered over it. I want to like it more than I actually do, because there are so many interesting ideas in it but none of them are given time to breathe or developed enough to make the song stand out. I don’t really have an opinion in a way, because it doesn’t feel quite finished to me.

Boy With Luv surprised me with how much I actually liked it. Halsey’s voice works very well in it (though, as a fan of hers, I wish she had a little more to do) and it was a little toothless compared to other singles of theirs (and hers, for that matter), but I loved the pre-chorus. Overall, it’s fun! It’s not ending up on my Top 10 Lists but I didn’t skip it nor did I want to.

ON has a great build up and finally is one of their more EDM songs with a good payoff after it, moving like a marching band with the background drums. I quite liked this one; it marries their more ethereal and electronic style and their more harsh and dark style together in what turns out to be a great combo. I especially enjoyed the bridge and the pre-chorus, proof that I can enjoy chanting if it comes in concert with other things too.

On Map Of The Soul: 7, I liked most of the songs, including Filter, 00:00, Moon, Louder Than Bombs (especially the “louder than bombs, I sing”), and Inner Child. But, my favorite was Friends. If you’re a fan of them, you might think I’ve been harsh in my reviews, but I want to say that’s mostly because when I know what groups are capable of and they don’t strive for it, it feels like a missed opportunity. Like NCT Dream, I think that BTS’ best songs are when they let the cool facade fade away and sing (and write) from the heart, which is exactly what Friends is.

Look, I’m a sap. It’s a gently anthemic, almost sickeningly sweet song about Taehyung and Jimin’s friendship that doesn’t just wear its heart on its sleeve, but screams about it from the balcony. Of course I replayed it three times and kept going “awww” every ten seconds. I was doing work at my desk and once it got to the “you are my soulmate” part, I suddenly got the urge to text my own soulmate friend and tell her how much I love her. Which I did.

Life Goes On is understated and feels a bit more like a b-side, but it’s honestly so sweet that I like this one too. It feels like a warm hug, and I don't even mind the rap, because it’s miles ahead of the ones in calm songs from the beginning. I already knew this song too, but in context with the rest of their discography, I enjoyed it more. Having spent this review and the last going through Everests of albums, BE is almost scarily short. That being said, I did enjoy the guitar in Dis-ease, and I especially appreciated the throwback to the skits of the first few albums in Skit, a good return to form.

Alright. Enough of the hearts and flowers, I have a confession to make. I hate Dynamite. I know that I don’t have any actually valid reasons for this, because I know it’s a good song. But, as I said in the disclaimer, I’ve been a k-pop fan for almost five years now and since the time this song came out, it’s become people’s reference point for BTS, which is already wrong, and then it becomes their reference point for k-pop, which never fails to get under my skin.

It’s not BTS’ fault that so many English-speaking people see a song specifically designed to appeal to an English speaking market, and then refuse to do any effort to look beyond it, but it drives me insane nonetheless. I’m sure that if it wasn’t to that level of fame that I’d feel the same way about it that I do about Boy With Luv. My thoughts are the same for Dynamite, Butter, and Permission To Dance, so I’ll spare you the repetition.

I’m going to end not with my irrational hatred of Dynamite but with a note that I really enjoyed the song they released with their Best Of album, “Yet To Come,” although I don’t think it was a single. I won’t go into too much detail but I did think that it was very sweet and a good thing to end on.

So, overall thoughts: I’m very glad I did this. I’m glad that I took the time to make up my own mind and recognize that I was doing what I just called out all the people who assume that Dynamite is every k-pop song ever, and assuming that I wouldn’t enjoy this deep dive. I’m extremely happy to say that they proved me wrong. I can’t call myself a fan, exactly, but I can say that I respect their talents (and their humor) much more than I did before this. I always watch an interview when I’m typing up this last part, and I might even watch more than one this time. We’ll see.

My top 5 songs are, to no one’s surprise, Spring Day, Friends, Butterfly, Epiphany, and Life Goes On, with a special shout out to Paldongangsan and War Of Hormone. BTS gets a 8.5/10 from me, the same as (G)I-DLE and NCT Dream, which I definitely didn’t see coming. I enjoyed the greater part of their discography, and of the songs I didn’t like, it was usually personal preference or bias and not any fault of the songs themselves. Once we get to 9/10 and beyond, it gets firmly into the land of what are my own absolute favorite groups (like, say, Gfriend), so I can’t really rate them any higher.

I’ll see you very soon for a quick girl group supplemental and next week for a longer girl group! Tschüss!

[crisishauntline]

Today was the first in-person meeting for the queer grief group I helped organize! Two people had to cancel last minute so it was just me and two other people—the same ones who came to the first virtual meeting a couple months ago. We had a nice time walking through the cemetery and reflecting on loss and memory. I felt like I kinda clicked with one of them, E. We actually had run into each other the night before at a play and complimented each other's tattoos (both memorial pieces), without recognizing each other. Small queer world.

It was a beautiful sunny day and the magnolia trees were blooming. E (a plant witch) told us you can eat the petals. We each took a nibble and the taste was pleasant and sweet at first, but then turned bitter and soapy, like eating perfume. Then when we found a place at the top of the hill to spread out my blanket and sit, I plucked a few stalks of sour grass growing on the edge of the path and chewed them to replace the perfume taste. While we did our "show and tell" of objects that had helped us grieve, Harpo found a stick and started chewing too. That that line from "Swansea" popped into my head: "All we want to do is chew and chew and chew!"

I started thinking of the ways Joanna Newsom sings about chewing on bones in “Swansea” as well as “Sadie.” They strike an interesting contrast: One version of the image is the dead consuming the living, the other is a living thing consuming (and/or enjoying) its own life by exhuming and consuming a dead thing.

If you want to come on down Down with your bones so white Watch the freight trains pound Into the wild, wild night

How I would love to gnaw To gnaw on your bones so white And watch as the freight trains paw Paw at the wild, wild night

In “Swansea," the ghosts/ghost towns want to chew on the bones of the living. But in “Sadie” the narrator wants her beloved dog to enjoy her bone and the other ephemeral joys of living while she can.

Bury this bone to gnaw on it later; Gnawing on the telephone, and 'Till then, we pray and suspend The notion that these lives do never end

...

And I'll tell you tomorrow Sadie, go on home now And bless those who've sickened below; And bless us who've chosen so

And all that I've got And all that I need I tie in a knot And I lay at your feet And I have not forgot But a silence crept over me (So dig up your bone Exhume your pine-cone, my Sadie)

Not sure if I'm being coherent... I want to think deeper on it. But I think the latter is a little like what the show and tell was. I brought the box of trinkets and stickers that the older sister of my high school friend David made and shared with all David's friends after he died. I also showed them my memorial tattoo of the crow and oak leaf. E has a memorial tattoo as well, of a puffer fish—I'd complimented them on it last night, in fact. We enjoyed sharing the stories attached to these remnants, savoring the bitter and the sweet.

[blackjackkent]

Wellp. Gale's secret finally popped. O.O

Hector gave him another magical artifact to consume - the third such so far...and, concerningly, Gale seems to be developing a tolerance.

Given that he seems to be struggling more and more with trying to feed whatever hunger is driving the need for these objects, he came to the decision to tell Hector and the group the full truth.

About time, Hector thinks wearily.

The story Gale tells is, in brief: he was such a prodigy at magic and so connected to the Weave that Mystra herself took him as a student and eventually as a lover. In his human arrogance, unsatisfied, he desired for her to show him the deep secrets of magic and the Weave that are beyond the capacity of mortals to understand and manipulate.

Needless to say, Mystra told him to chill out, but he didn't listen.

He tells the story of the power he sought instead. "Once upon a very long time ago, a mighty lord lived in a tower. A flying tower to be precise. I'll save his history for another time, but the gist of it is that he sought to usurp the goddess of magic so that he could become a god himself. He almost managed, but not quite, and his entire empire, Netheril, came crashing down around him as he turned to stone."

The destructive force of the energy released when this lord died shattered the Weave, and magic was lost to the realms until Mystra returned and reconstructed it. Gale learned of a lost shard of the Weave that she missed, sealed away in a Netherese tome.

"What if, I thought-- what if after all this time, I could return this lost part of herself to the goddess."

Hector can already see where this is going, but he answers as if by rote, "What was the answer to that question?"

"The answer was to try. The outcome was to fail. I was certain that this deed of raw power draped in romance would convince Mystra to take me by the hand and welcome me into her hitherto forbidden domains. I was mistaken. I obtained the fabled book and took it into my study. As for what happened next..."

He pauses, crouches down and reaches out a hand, his eyes fixed on Hector's. "Here. Please your hand over my heart. Let me show you."

It feels like a strange mockery of the moment a few nights ago, in which Gale offered to show him the magic of channeling the Weave, and the warm contentment that went with it. This is also an expression of welcome into a private experience - but darkened, twisted.

Hector leans forward, presses his palm over the other man's chest.

The light bursts around them, the power enveloping them both - no gentle cradling of the Weave this time but the harsh texture of the tadpole's connection. Pain stabs through Hector's temple and he fights to focus as the imagery begins to flood through him.

Narrator: You feel the tadpole quiver as you realize Gale is letting you in. Into the dark. You see through Gale's eyes, staring down the corridors of a dread memory. A book, bound, then suddenly opened.

Narrator: Inside there are no pages, only a swirling mass of blackest Weave that pounces. Its teeth, its claws - it's unstoppable as it digs through and becomes part of you. And gods, is it ever-hungry...

His palm feels fused against Gale's chest. His eyes are squeezed shut. He is conscious only of the vision of that encroaching, all-consuming darkness. For a moment, he has the panicky feeling that he cannot escape the memory, that he is trapped in it, bound into it...

Dimly he can hear Karlach shouting something. The alarm in her voice seems to jar something in him, and he wrenches his eyes open.

"How are you...still alive?" he gasps out weakly, struggling for breath, to regain his sense of himself from within that mass of the other man's memories.

Gale looks up at him, still clinging to his hand as if for support, the pale glow of the Weave illuminating the lines of fear and grief on his face. "Thankfully, the moment I absorbed the fragment wasn't enough to kill me outright. It was only the beginning. This Netherese blight, this orb for lack of a better word, is balled up inside my chest. And it needs to be fed. As long as I absorb traces of the Weave from potent enough sources, it remains quiet. Were it ever to fully destabilize, however..."

With an effort, Hector steps back, pulls his hand away, breaks the connection between them. "Go on," he says, though he does not want to hear the answer.

Gale looks away. "I will...erupt. I don't know the exact magnitute of the eruption, but given my studies of Netheres magic, I'd say even a fragment as small as the one I carry..." A long, pregnant silence. "It'd level a city the size of Waterdeep."

Hector stares at him. Selune protect us...

Gale is a walking bomb.

"I trusted you," he says, his voice not so much reproachful as tired, full of this new worry and how it will add to all the others. "You should have told me."

Gale stands up slowly, not meeting his eyes. "I know. All of this - it must feel like a betrayal. Say the word, and we'll part ways."

Hector doesn't say anything for a long few moments. Of course this latest revelation is terrifying. But so was Astarion's. So was Wyll's. So, even, was Karlach's chest full of flame or Shadowheart's loyalty to Shar.

And with each of these, ultimately the answer has been clear. They are in this together, for better or for worse. And it is certainly not better for Gale to be traveling on his own than to have help in preventing this cataclysm.

And...Hector knows him a little by now. He knows in spite of this catastrophic error in judgment...he is a good man.

"We've come this far together, and we'll continue on together. That is how it will be."

He glances at the others. Karlach is nodding; her eyes reflect her own anxiety but she does not for a moment question the decision. Shadowheart looks a little more skeptical, arms crossed, watching Gale intently - but she does not interfere.

Gale's eyes widen, and then a smile breaks across his face, relief and gratitude intermixed. "That is a great relief. Oh, a great relief indeed!" He hesitates, then reaches out and takes one of Hector's hands in both of his, clutching it tightly for a moment. "You truly are a soul that steels my own. From all my new-rallied heart I thank you." He looks past Hector to their other companions. "I thank you all. I understand if you stand against me. I'm humbled if you stand with me. Either way, I will do my best not to let you down. I stand at a precipice, but if you do not give up hope, neither shall I. I'll fight. I'll resist, as long as I can."

He lets Hector's hand fall, and his smile fades, replaced by a look of determination. "Now - even I am tired of the sound of my own voice. Let us venture forth."

[miki-13]

FNDM going through the five stages of grief if/when Raven is revealed to be Ruby’s baby-daddy

@anthurak​ , since they’re the ones who got me on this theory that has only grown more plausible as time has gone on.

Denial:

-Double, triple and quadrupling down on Qrow-Is-Ruby’s-Father theories and/or headcanons.

- Start actually proposing that Tai is the father because CRWBY said so, nevermind that they dismissed that for said Qrow Baby-Daddy theories.

- Make all the fix-fics where Qrow or Tai are the actual fathers and completely ruin Raven’s character in the process/ make Raven’s character a punching bag.

- Stop watching the show altogether to keep your biases from getting further tainted by canon.

Anger:

-All the rage posts ever. Especially over how RWBY is pandering to the gays like with Bumbleby, or that it’s not well-written like Bumbleby.

- Harassing the CRWBY members for daring to do this and claiming Monty would be ashamed of them. (You are a cunt if you do so.)

- Popping into people’s message boxes over how pissed they are and claiming if you don’t agree with them, then you’re objectively the worst person ever.

- Scream at the top of your lungs towards the heavens for allowing this travesty.

Bargaining:

- Pointing out all the foreshadowing so far, as well as pointing out no one has the full story in or out of universe.

- Realize Sapphron and Terra Cotta-Arc and their son Adrian were foreshadowing for this all along.

- Putting the AU tag on the very long fanfiction you’ve already written that contains far too many of your beloved headcanons about Summer and Raven to edit.

Depression:

- Making posts at 2 AM and then deleting later about how much this affected OP. Especially over how RWBY has gone downhill from pandering to the gays, like how they did with Bumbleby. Or that it’s not well-written, like Bumbleby.

- Whining to/Being passive-aggressive towards the CRWBY members for daring to do this and claiming Monty would be ashamed of them. (Again, you are a cunt if you do this.)

- Popping into people’s message boxes to dump their feelings on them and claiming if you don’t feel the same, then you’re objectively the worst person ever.

- Curling up in your sock drawer and sleeping for days as you lament how the heavens allowed this travesty.

Acceptance:

- Start cranking out the angstiest amvs ever of these two set to Linkin Park/Skillet/ Fleurie/etc.

- All the moodboards and aesthetic boards ever.

- Slowburn 100K+ words teammates+ rivals to friends to lovers to enemies hurt/comfort hurt/no comfort fanfiction. Or drabbles of different moments between them. There is no in-between.

- All the Summer and/or Raven futanari media ever.

[lakeshor]

Steve going back to Reefer Rick’s after vol. 2 to get Eddie’s car because Wayne’s truck got swallowed up by the gate and just being… fascinated by what he finds.

The front seats are the only ones left in the van, the rest of it getting gutted—Steve assumes—to make room for Eddie’s guitar equipment. But the rest of the van is full of signs of life.

There’s a pile of blankets and pillows in the back that look very well-used, like Eddie used to sleep back here a lot. There’s multiple changes of clothes, too, all Eddie’s. So no late night backseat guests, Steve assumes. (Or at least not any who don’t already dress like Eddie)

Empty chip bags and candy wrappers are shoved into every available cup holder and door well, along with receipts from places around Hawkins and a couple from roadside stops on the route to Indianapolis. Multiple are from Thatcher tire, for car parts Steve didn’t even know existed, some are from Melvalds, for cigarettes and junk food, others are from Family Mart for more of the same. Deep in the seatback pocket he finds one from a shop Steve recognizes from Starcourt, the Orange Julius across the food court from Scoops Ahoy.

There’s a half-drunk six pack nestled in the blanket pile, empty bottles clanking together at Steve’s feet as he crouch/crawls over to the front seats.

There’s a full-to-bursting shoebox of cassettes shoved behind the passenger seat, the covers of which are variations on a theme: blood, fire, naked women, jagged symbols around illegible fonts and band names even Steve can tell are grossly misspelled. He finds a purple and green Black Sabbath tape and pockets it for no reason.

The glove box is surprisingly sparse. Vehicle registration, not expired, insurance, still valid, a thick plastic keycard embossed with the Hawkins Packaging plant logo, and an unopened pack of Lucky Strikes. Steve vaguely remembers thinking Eddie smoked Camels.

Steve sees a tape still loaded in the deck and pops it out out of curiosity—it’s Queen. Steve owns this album. It’s sitting on his turntable at home, needle queued to the familiar groove where ‘Need Your Loving Tonight’ becomes ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love.’ Steve feels his eyebrows move up to his hairline and a quiet laugh escapes him in the silent car. Eddie fucking Munson listens to Queen.

Steve replaces the tape and settles into the driver’s seat. Eddie’s windshield is cracked, the thin fissure starting somewhere near the left windshield wiper and arcing across to the passenger side roof. Just annoying enough to notice but not distracting enough to do anything about.

Steve buckles his seatbelt and fishes Wayne’s spare key out of his pocket. The belt buckle is grimy, the steering wheel has obvious dark patches where anxious hands have sat gripping the leather, and the roof near the window is stained a deep yellow from cigarette smoke. The whole van has a stale sort of smell to it, like skunky weed and liquor soaked, sun-warmed upholstery. Objectively, it’s disgusting. Steve should be grossed out.

Instead, he feels something like grief wash over him, in this van so full of Eddie, in this world so devoid of him.