#with hindsight i think we all collectively lost our minds

[cometthespacechinchilla]

Sometimes I miss Lovestruck and then I remind myself of the Runa debacle and those rose tinted glasses sure set themselves on fire

[cybernaght]

Baldur's Gate 3

Well hello, strangers on the internet, I am here with another wall of text that has nothing to do with the actual topic of this blog. And before you ask why on Earth do I not make a free-for-all blog: last thing I need is encouragement to write more walls of texts. 

The topic of today’s Wall of Text is - shock, surprise - Baldur’s Gate 3, because it came out, and half of the internet and I have lost our collective goddamn minds. 

So, today I’ll talk about why for me, as something who thinks she is a non-gamer, but who is also an aficionado of interactive storytelling - both collaborative and not - this game is a kind of a marvel that I have not seen since I was a child.

I’m doing so in three parts. The player introduces my personal perspective and relationship with video games. The interlude talks about what on earth is interactive storytelling exactly, and where RPGs fit into that term. The game mostly sings praises to Larian’s masterpiece. 

As ever, this is a think piece with the main source being “my brain.”

The player. 

The thing is, I’m not a gamer. 

I do love video games. I play plenty of video games. It’s one of my favourite pastimes, and one of my favourite types of media. That said, I don’t believe myself to be a gamer for two reasons:

One, there is a subculture around it, and I have never been part of it, nor have I ever strived to be. It’s not that I don’t like it - it’s more that I don’t think we have the same, or even similar, values when it comes to what we seek in our gaming experience. For one, I play solo. Even in server games, I play blissfully alone, always. More importantly, I don’t pride myself on my gaming skills, because I effectively have none of those, and I’m not overly interested in developing them. When I play anything, I seek something else entirely; we’ll talk about that momentarily. For now, suffice it to say, I’m not a gamer because I say I’m not.

Two, I didn’t grow up as one. I have played a lot of old nineties/early naughties games - RPGs predominantly, but also point and clicks, and dungeon crawlers — a kind of stuff that honestly, looking in hindsight, formed a core of my interests. By the time mid-two-thousands rolled around I stopped. There are several reasons for that, but the biggest one is simply that the games outgrew the hardware I had access to. Growing up, I have never had - was never allowed to have - a console; and I have not actually had one until only five or six years ago when I was ageing out of my twenties. This massive break between gaming will be relevant later.

And, because I’m merely a person who likes video games, I have two functions for them.

Function one: a digital fidget toy. My brain frequently refuses to shush, and my hands need to do something for it to do so. This is where my deck builders are handy (Slay the Spire is my time sink of choice, but Monster Train does just as well); as are my Diablos and all their infinite clones. Those are my “in the zone” games. I am pretty okay at those through exposure by now, but being good at them is not part of the appeal because the less they need my actual mental engagement, the better. Being challenging - or me perceiving them as challenging - goes directly against what they are for me.

Function two: a vehicle for a story. The genre is immaterial. Do I like RPGs still? Doubtlessly, provided those are narrative-focused (which not all of them are). But well-written adventure games do just as well, as do indie dialogue-tree ones. And, well, this year, was absolutely wild for those, across the board. 

Star Wars Jedi Survivor learnt every mistake from its predecessor and made me excited about Star Wars for the first time in literal years with the way it put you into that world and the story it’s telling. The world-building there is fantastic, and it made me want to slow down my race for the endgame payoff and savour the atmosphere much more than the first title did. I also really appreciate a game which is effectively a Dark Souls-alike allowing you to nope out of that particular style of play from the get-go.

Failbetter Games' Mask of the Rose is an absolutely sublime dialogue-tree game, incredibly well-written, intuitive, and so narratively rich that it warranted no less than a dozen play-throughs. It has its limitations - mostly through the sin/virtue of being very indie - but the core of it is absolutely breathtaking. If you like macabre horror-comedic Eldritch Victoriana, mystery solving and date-simming, I’d recommend giving this one a go. 

And then Baldur’s Gate 3 had its console release - finally - and the world tilted on its axis.

The Interlude: three steps to interactivity (and then one step further than that)

Let’s envision a path to interactivity in games as a ladder. 

Ground zero, absence of narrative focus.

I think it is useful to distinguish between narratives that support the act of playing and the act of playing that supports the narratives. Most games come with a story; Candy Crush Saga has a story if you squint. But, quite often, the story exists around the mechanics of playing: it’s present but not really what the title is about. Diablo games have narratives, but, let’s face it, none of us were buying Diablo IV to find out what happened in Sanctuary after the titular villain was finally properly vanquished. (If any of us are buying Diablo IV these days; although that’s a whole other can of worms.)

I see Bethesda games in this category. They have narratives, but they are not about those. They are about simulation of living in a type of reality, be it high fantasy, post-apocalypse, or space exploration.

Step one, linear narrative. 

For me, a vessel for narrative is a game in which narrative is the main event, and the reason the game exists, with the engine and/or series of mechanics facilitating the consumption of said narrative. The narrative can be absolutely linear. Jedi Fallen Order and its predecessors in the platformer genre are as linear as they go: you travel from area to area, helping the story play out by engaging in predetermined events, and no one is pretending otherwise. 

Step two, false-choice narrative. 

Then, there are false-choice narratives: think of it as getting from one point to the next and then to the next, where the journey has some cosmetic or flavour variation. You can get from point A to point B via two or three different routes (physical, or conversational), but none of them actually change what happens at point B.

For an obvious example, some (but not all) of the TellTale Games’ titles exist within this step. 

Step three, true-choice narrative.

Congratulations, we have reached interactivity! So, let’s look at that in slightly broader terms.

According to Wikipedia, interactive storytelling is “a form of digital entertainment in which the storyline is not predetermined”, which essentially means an element of choice and consumer agency. 

Personally, I don’t think there is a need to limit this to digital entertainment. There is plenty of literature that I believe falls under this category, starting from Mark Z. Danielewski’s work and travelling through time and space to our friends at the indie British online magazine Voidspace.

Another obvious place for non-digital interactivity is theatre: immersive theatre specifically. If you’re not in the UK, here’s a quick run-down of things one can find under that umbrella term on our little island. Secret Cinema’s work is, strictly speaking, linear, but the variety and tangibility there can be enough to conceal that fact, and the routes you get to the outcome can be rocky enough to still have an element of choice. Punchdrunk’s promenade productions present a technically linear selection of narratives, but with a choice of which of those to follow, and so for you, the audience, the events differ from night to night. Then, there is a whole subset of game-theatre, crisis management theatre, and interactive work, which, in most general terms, gives the audience agency of playing and deciding, often with multiple possible endings at play.

If we loop back to digital media forms, however, playable films (Bandersnatch being an obvious one) exist in this realm. Quantic Dream’s interactive adventure games live here. Decent RPGs feel comfortable here too: Dragon Age series, Mass Effect, Greedfall, and Outer Worlds, just to name a few. And those are all good, don’t get me wrong. 

And yet, we can still go one step further, and shoot for the sky. 

Step four, collaborative (or generative) narrative  

The sky, to me, is a well-run table-top RPG, which does not just engage players in a story by giving them a set of specific choices, but invites players to effectively write that story together. This process is not just interactive - it’s collaborative, with mechanics and rules existing to facilitate it. It’s not just about giving players agency in the story but taking on their active input and feeding it back to them.

What I find particularly interesting in the context of video games is that technically this was the starting point for the RPG genre: taking tabletop mechanics and digitizing them. Fallout is MSPE, but make it post-apocalyptic and computerized. Baldur’s Gate is ADnD - but make it computerized. Bloodlines is quite literally Vampire: the Masquerade. Computerized, of course. 

For me, the epitome of RPGs up until, oh, let’s say just over a month ago, was Troika Games’ Arcanum: of Steamworks and Magic Obscura. This was a game that defined the genre for me; it’s a game that defined interactivity in general for me. It’s a game in which you could do just about anything, but more than that, the world around you was defined by your actions. Some companions would just leave - or never join you at all - if your actions and place in the world didn’t align with their values. Some decisions you made paid off dozens of hours later by, say, making entire areas hostile to you because you broke a law there in big ways early in your play-through. And yes, you did affect the fate of the world, but the paths there felt unique to you and you alone.

Naturally, whatever is programmed on a computer cannot have the limitless creativity that fleshy humans have when they (we) play games. And yet, the illusion of boundlessness was there, in those early days.

I think you see where this is heading. 

The game

There are many things indeed that Baldur’s Gate 3 has going for itself. The fact that it’s been openly tested for close to three years (I was there, in the early days) meant that the final product, when it was released, was as immaculate as a game could be at this point: it is, in fact, complete. This sounds like a bare minimum requirement, but we all know this is rarely cleared. Delaying it slightly for the console was also an excellent move: I love the way it runs on PS5, and I genuinely prefer the controls here than I did on my (arguably, rickety) laptop. Again, you’d think optimising the controls for the console would be a bare minimum requirement, but I, too, played Cyberpunk upon release, so…

Larian already having a very decent top-down engine with turn-based combat also works in favour of this game. It’s certainly sleeker here, but it’s recognisable as the Divinity engine, and it’s clear to me that the resources went into fine-tuning it, which means that in the last three years, this became more and more intuitive to play. And this engine is stable, which surprised me in combat that spawned 20+ hostiles. I suppose my one qualm is that they haven’t fixed the path-making AI. While companions forgetting that they can jump is only mildly inconveniencing, NPC’s complete lack of special awareness and self-preservation can be downright infuriating. I have both re-loaded encounters because the character I tried to keep alive chose to run into an opportunity attack, and just condemned people to death deciding, at some point, that if they really truly want to Misty Step right into an explosion, so be it. 

But then again, those are the only issues. In a game of this size. Upon launch. 

Speaking of the engine, I found some of the encounters hard on my first play-through, even on the easiest difficulty. As I mentioned, I’m not actually good at this. That said, I loved that on none of the occasions, did my finding it difficult have anything to do with what I did and did not have: it was not about optimising, or grinding, or shopping for gear - it was about observing the failure and developing a response to the strategy the game was using against me. While you can try to select a perfect party for every situation, equally, I found that the game didn’t force you to do that, and so, as a player, I can approach party selection as an in-world process, gravitating to the companions I wanted to have around for the kind of people they were and the relationships they have with my Tavs rather than for what kind of weaponry they carry. Is the act two boss fight punishing with a mostly melee team? Definitely. But, again, once you have figured out how to get around your limitations, it is doable. To me, that’s an excellent balance. It actually makes trying to figure strategy for any given tough encounter fun; and I’m saying it as someone who rage-quit Hades because she could not stand constant failure. 

The voice acting, mocap and animation are wonderful: you genuinely get full-bodied, nuanced performances, which… is just plain rare. The character writing, too, is spectacular, and the people you interact with feel real and unique, even if they only are here for a few scenes. Writing really shines when it comes to companions: they are humanly complex and multi-faceted, and all have a wonderful mix of love-able and hate-able in them. They are genuinely laugh-out-loud funny! They are also relatable, in that high fantasy way that takes commonplace anxiety and elevates it to proportions where it’s no longer real, and yet so very recognisable. 

Story writing made me actually scream, the first time around. I pride myself on being someone who is quite good at reading narrative clues, and yet, there were several subplots with twists that got me reeling. This only gets better on subsequent play-throughs, when you realise just how much of the meat surrounding the main “bones” of the story depends on your character, the paths you take and the options you select. The latter is particularly astounding in acts one and two, which have so much variety in them they feel limitless. 

The date-sim aspect of this game is… well, horny, in that hilarious way where every time you show a genuine interest in a character they immediately fall in love with you, provided your actions align with their worldview (which is not a given) — but role-playing always has an element of a wish-fulfilment, and I found something very joyous in thwarting (or leaning into) romantic and sexual advances of what felt like everyone in my path. Aside from that, the relationships I have seen have been well realised, each with a unique texture. 

And yet, none of the above is what makes this game such a unicorn.

Choices do. 

For me, true choices are defined not by the freedom to make them, but by the limitations they impose. When we open one door of possibility, other doors must close, and that is a risk we always take when we choose something. Taking an action - taking a leap of faith - should not feel safe. 

In this game, opening one door can lead to another one being permanently locked somewhere down the line. Chasing what you think is right might lead to death and devastation. Trying to satisfy someone with one point of view can alienate others who disagree. Quite often, it is not a game of picking the “optimal” choice, because, as in life, optimal choices are an illusion. 

This game allows you to make genuine decisions by asking yourself what difference you want to bring into the world and the lives of those fictional people you care about, and then it remembers those decisions, and pays them off. And fine, this does not happen all the time, I grant you that. I, too, feel somewhat let down by act 3 relative to early-game. The closer you get to the ending, the more you seem to be boxed into a few possible options where there would be multitude of those in act 1. But even then, the quality drop is from “so good it is actually unbelievable” to “incredibly decent”. To me, this is acceptable enough to not detract from the overall impression.

Having elements of randomness which dice-rolling introduces (and if you ask me, the very reason why dice exist in the first place in TTRPG) only enhanced this effect. Dice rolls can lock and unlock areas, they can make and unmake relationships, save and ruin scenarios. This creates a solid impression that at every step things can go awry - because they, effectively, can. Your choice here is how to approach this fate: whether to save every five minutes to try again or roll with the situation dice and your curiosity have created (pun fully intended). 

Baldur’s Gate 3 is incredible because it plucks you out of your world and does not just place you in another one - it populates that world with people for you to love and admire, and hate, and feel exasperated with, gives you situations that often don’t have a straightforward moral hardline, and then asks you “how would you like to do this?”

It does what tabletop games do. 

When I started DMing my first DnD campaign - which I decided, overachiever that I am, to home-brew from the ground up, - a friend of mine reminded me to fail upwards, always. In terms of storytelling, it’s a challenge. In terms of video games, it’s almost never done. You fail; or you succeed. Baldur’s Gate 3 lets you fail, and deal with the pieces you need to pick up.

And I know - of course I do - that it’s all programmed, so it cannot be truly generative, the way tabletop games can be. By virtue of having pathways, of course, a video game cannot do that. But it comes really damn close — it comes closer than anything I have seen since those early entries in the genre because those were made to directly emulate being in a campaign with live people. 

For a few years now I have been lamenting that they don’t do RP video games the way they used to any more. 

Well, my friends.

Turns out, Larian does.

It shoots right for the sky. 

[secretseacat]

From the Pond to the Streets

Article by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Thinking back to April 22, 1970, I remember the smell of freshly mimeographed Earth Day flyers and the feel of mud on my hands. I was a high school junior in rural upstate New York, and our small band of treehugging students prevailed on the principal to let us organize an Earth Day observance. We marched to the auditorium to give what we hoped were inspiring speeches, using science to change the mind and poetry to strengthen the heart. Words are strong tools but don't by themselves rescue species from the harms we inflict, so we also committed to practical action. After the bell rang, we began to hand-dig a pond in the woods behind school to create a refuge for salamanders. The mud was heavy, but our spirits were light with purpose. We sang as we worked. It's funny how after all these years, words and shovels are still my tools of choice as a writer and a restoration ecologist. While our tiny pond filled with water, we felt a part of something powerful—earlier, on the news we'd watched faraway cities filling with throngs of people demanding an end to oil spills and songbirds falling dead from the sky. Given today's polarized politics, it's striking that the movement was supported by disparate constituencies: rural and urban, left and right, rich and poor. The earth beneath our feet formed our political common ground. Five decades later, calls to "make every day Earth Day" predictably follow every annual tree-planting or trash-pickup event. This is good. But corporations using Earth Day as an occasion to "green their brands" while they continue exploiting our resources the other 364 days of the year? That's not good. I fear that the fierce energy of the first Earth Day has softened into a kind of green complacency—if we just recycle more and buy green products, all will be well. Or we've adopted the counternarrative that we are powerless to change the fearsome trajectory. Neither story will save us. There was a time—before we knew better—when we trusted that incremental ecological action would propel the collective shifts that we need. The problem is, we don't have time. Earth Day as usual, a polite exercise of stewardship, is wholly inadequate considering the scope and urgency of the climate emergency. On that point, the little salamander pond was a good teacher. In hindsight, it taught me to recognize that our shovels are no match for power shovels ripping open the taiga for tar sands. Our beach cleanups are a grain of sand compared with the oceanic plastic patches. Donations to conservation organizations are vital but dwarfed by the investments of fossil fuel companies that collude to wring the last dollar from the land while the earth burns. On a recent Earth Day, I spoke with a beloved student who was about to graduate and go into environmental activism. "I'm sorry," I said, "that you have to still fight these battles. I thought we would have this figured out by now." She responded, "Don't you see that this is the best possible time to be alive?" Climate chaos? Extinction crisis? I didn't get it. She looked me in the eyes and said, "We are on the precipice. When everything hangs in the balance, it matters where I stand. How wonderful to live in a time when everything that I do matters." This Earth Day, I want to join my students and millions more in the streets again, marching to show our outpouring of love for the earth, our grief for what has been lost, our defense of what remains, our defiance of corporate greed. And then we'll take up our shovels and get to practical work: digging the pond, planting the world that we want, and singing as we go.

(source)

[charles-edwin]

hey mj, i’m the previous anon (manipulative!theo). first i want to apologize. i was pretty frustrated when i wrote that and i realize in hindsight that it was pretty glib. i’m sorry for bringing my negativity to you when your blog brings me only positivity and joy.

second, i agree with everything you said. theo and akk are both afraid and insecure and they end up hurting each other because of it. what theo did — making up enchanté and asking Safia to help him make akk jealous, lying repeatedly about it when he could see it it was making akk upset — is wrong and manipulative, but 1) he admitted it was wrong and he apologized properly and 2) as you articulated so well, he did not manipulate akk into falling for him, akk’s actions and feelings have always been his own.

i actually love that both theo and akk are portrayed as flawed individuals and i don’t think the show romanticizes those flaws anymore than it did the ambassadors’ creepy behaviour. for instance, as much as we collectively swooned and lost our minds when theo said “i just wanted your attention”, it’s not shown as a grand romantic gesture, it does not justify what he did and that’s not why akk forgives him. as someone who is both insecure and something of a coward, who has hurt people with white lies that got out of hand and who pushed away someone very dear to me who thankfully loved me enough to forgive me even though i hurt her deeply, i empathize greatly with both theo and akk. sometimes you screw up in life but if you’re lucky the people who love you will forgive you.

(also your tags about people enjoying the Most Questionable Content but finding fault in this silly rom-com of a show? yes. 100% do not get it.)

on a lighter note, the whole scene with safia saying “this song is for people who are in love… like theo” and theo’s reaction hits different when you know safia was in on it all along. i bet that for a second there theo was worried safia was going to spill the beans 😆

please don’t apologize! i’ve read some comments about the show myself that got me Really frustrated so i understand that you want to share and i agree with you about most things so it felt good to let it all out of my chest.

this is indeed a positive space to talk about things i like, so i usually won’t start discourse and will focus on what makes a fandom enjoyable but sometimes i don’t mind having discussions that can help others understand the show better.

i apologize if i sounded bitter myself, it was not targeted at you!

yes. all in all, theo got addicted to finding akk’s breaking point. he got addicted to prompting akk to say how he feels, to finally kiss him and couldn’t go back from that. but akk’s feelings have always been there, as well as he’s the one who asked theo to be his boyfriend after finding out theo is enchanté.

the “i just wanted your attention” line was definitely portrayed as it was: theo’s desperate need for akk’s attention which led him to do something stupid. it was definitely not portrayed as romantic as well as akk’s insecurities weren’t portrayed as romantic because they kept hurting each other by lying and being scared.

what was portrayed as romantic was the endless love between them that finally had them being honest about their mistakes, accepting the consequences and forgiving them as well.

yes! you’re definitely right about that! and exactly, we all screw up sometimes and luckily some people will love us despite that because they know who we are at heart and know that we’re capable of doing better. that’s what forgiveness is, love and trust.

i’m glad you have people who love you like that!!!! it’s what you deserve!!!

yeahhhhhh it’s truly beyond me that some people find enchanté unforgivable 🤷🏻‍♀️

LMAOOO OH MY GOD YEAH!!! rewatching this show is going to be the most chaotic fun thing EVER knowing that theo was enchanté all along!!!!

theo definitely panicked for a moment right there thinking his cover was blown because saifa was clearly going to start singing about theo’s love for akk 🤣🤣🤣

[whoppert]

Sunna 4 (loki/reader) (stephen strange/reader)

◂previous chapter first chapter ▴

3592 words

warnings: after effects of mind-violation

AO3 Master Fic List

I'm not really sure how long I've been walking, but I can't bring myself to stop.

Loki had slipped inside my mind like he owned the place and I can still feel him in there, the remnants of his power lingering behind.

The temperature of the air had quickly dropped and in my haste to leave, I hadn't thought to grab a jacket. The chill was enough to make me question if it was time to return home, but what if Loki was still there and my friends hadn’t returned and I was alone with him again and-

The thought is hastily pushed from my mind. I wrap my bare arms around myself, trying to keep the shivers at bay. I’ll walk until morning if I need to.

Some guy steps onto the street out of a liquor store without looking first, and I have to stop sharply to avoid banging into him. I walk around him, trying to ignore the way he leers drunkingly at me and keeping my head down, pretending I hadn't noticed that he had attempted to initiate conversation. He calls me a ‘bitch’.

AO3

I try to keep my wits about me as the people around make their way, looking for their own destinations. Even at night, there were an uncomfortable amount of people. The street was still packed even after sunset, and it hits me that it's Saturday, of course it is going to be busy.

Everything feels more vibrant than usual, overwhelmingly so, every light piercing my eyes and the noises jarring, loud and overlapping in a way that makes it nearly impossible to focus on any single one. It feels like a knock to the head. I don't think I hit my head, but it was pounding anyway. The crowd thins as I made my way onto a quieter street, which is all I can do to stop the overstimulation nausea.

Running out at night wasn't the smartest idea, but every time I think about what had happened it was a shard of ice down my spine. Why would Loki think I was trying to play Stephen? Why would he even care? He had wanted a cut, a piece of the action, but what action did he think there was going to be exactly? What was so wrong with my friendship with Stephen?

Maybe it had been a mistake to move in with Stephen. I wasn’t even sure what had inspired me to accept his offer. After that first time we had met, Stephen had started turning up every now and again at the museum to bring me a welcomed coffee and ask thoughtful questions about the exhibits. He was serious, funny, smart and had this mysterious vibe about him and when I found out he was the infamous occult scholar from that great haunted house on Bleecker Street… Well, I work in cultural anthropology. To me, the Sanctum is the same as a candy shop to a kid. The collection of artifacts is so impressive and provides so many opportunities for research. When Stephen had swept his hands through his hair and asked if I was interested in cataloging, I had jumped at the opportunity. Once they trusted me with the artifacts (especially after I had caught Stephen in the act of making magic and realized the extent of what I was being trusted with) and even now I still sometimes get lost in the Sanctum while Wong and Stephen go about their business. Despite all our differenced, we all became fast friends. The same night I'd walked in on Stephen's magic, I took him for an evening walk and revealed my own small well of power. In hindsight, of course he knew but he was still very polite about it. He wanted to help. To train me.

Once I'd popped in to visit after work and spent so long in one of the many relic rooms that I fell asleep. When I'd woken in one of the spare bedrooms, I'd had to rush to get out the door and to work, and Stephen had bristled and said '[I] should just move in if [I] planned to spend all my time there.' I remember laughing, but Wong had interjected to assure me that despite the tone of sarcasm from Stephen, the Sorcerer Supreme was serious. They’d discussed it and agreed that I would be a good fit for the place.

It had seemed so right at the time, like I had been created to live there. Utter perfection. Even Stephen had been surprised at how easily I had agreed, but I cannot describe the feeling the offer had filled me with, almost like magic. I joked with them that the biggest reason I accepted was that I didn't want to keep paying $2500 a month in rent, but I'll be damned if it wasn't the most impulsive decision I had ever made. If my friend told me… I searched my mind for a friend to use in an example, but found I couldn’t come up with the name of a single friend outside of Stephen and Wong. Do I seriously have no other friends? God, I’m such a- Not the point. If a… coworker told me that they were moving in with someone that they had only known for a couple of months, I would think that they were crazy.

Walking along the street, I am more and more aware that I cannot walk in a straight line, veering from left to right. I probably look drunk. Behind me, I hear yelling and jeering. Glancing in the direction of the noise, I am confronted with the sight of the man from the liquor store, himself drunk and trekking towards me, almost tripping over a piece of uneven pavement. I had been too distracted to notice that he was following me. Shit. I up my pace and make it around the corner, but I can still hear him calling after me. Back onto a more populated street.

Something was holding up the traffic, and I step off the sidewalk to knock on back window of the nearest free taxi.

"I need a ride," I can see the driver through the glass. He twists in his seat to look at me, shakes his head and points up at his darkened sign. I knock again, "come on dude!"

The driver sits on the horn. The sound is like a hammer to my head and I stumble away from the vehicle until I was far enough away from the car that the noise ceases. Patting my pocket I realize that my phone had been left at home with my jacket. Double shit. No Ubers then.

“Hey baby!” the drunk man slurs through the words. “You look like you could use a ride. I'll give you the ride of your life," he calls, letting out a bought of raucous laughter.

Less than twenty feet separates him from me now, and if need to I'm not sure I could defend myself from him, magically or otherwise. Stephen had taught me to fight, but that wasn’t real, how was I supposed to fight off a fully grown adult? Someone who doesn't stop when he's afraid he's hurt me? Bobbing around pedestrians, I cross the stress, but to my dismay he follows me to the other side.

Stay calm, I chant in my head. W.W.W.D? What Would Wong Do? Search frantically for any place that is open, any place I can slip into and get help or at least disappear, but the only places open look just as seedy as the drunkard. Where the fuck was I? I don’t even recognize the area.

A hand appears on my shoulder, and I jump half out of my skin, whirling around and preparing to scream or gouge at his eyes or something. To my surprise instead of the man who had followed me for three blocks, I see Stephen’s exhausted face.

I've never hugged him before. My relationship with Stephen is… subdued. Historically, he kept me at arm’s length. He seems like the type of person that holds personal space with a defensive reverence, and yet, when I throw myself into his arms he embraces me without hesitation, one hand twisting into my hair as I press my face into the spot where his neck and shoulder meet, trying to anchor my swirling head. His other hand settles on my lower back, holding me to him with a ferocious grip, that I'm sure I'm imagining.

The people around us voice their annoyance, we've caused a blockage in the middle of the walkway, but neither of us move. From over Stephen shoulder, I scan for the drunk man, but I can’t see him anywhere.

“Are you okay?” Stephen’s voice is hoarse in my ear.

“I think so,” I can’t tell if I'm the one trembling.

“Loki told me-,” the hand on my back folds into a fist around a handful of my tee shirt. He speaks through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone with him."

I don’t reply. I don’t really know what to say. I want to tell him it's not his fault, because it's not, but I'm swaying on the spot and my head is thumping,

When we detangle, his hands linger on my arms and when he feels how cold I am, his Cloak wraps itself around me. The passersby tutt at us, more concerned that we were impeding foot traffic than the sentient bit of fabric. For a moment it's like Stephen can't even process that we aren't alone, so it's a surprise when he glares at the stranger, and begrudgingly walks us to the side.

“Do you want to go home?” he asks, like he is genuinely scared I am going to say ‘no’.

“Is... he still there?”

Stephen shakes his head. “He will never be allowed back. I- I... may kill him if I see him again.”

I nod and Stephen’s intense gaze finally slides away from me. He leads me into the nearby alley, before his hands flow in that familiar smooth circular motion, and a portal opens directly in front of us, through which I can see the inside of Stephen’s office, the fireplace erupting as it senses the need for warmth. I pour myself onto the sofa, still shivering.

A sweater is tossed to me, as is the indication to put it on. Stephen mentions something about letting Wong know I am home, and then he ducks out of the room. I examine the sweater, the grey one he had been wearing earlier this evening. The Cloak slips from my shoulders, laying across my lap while I put the sweater on. It is warm and soft and it smells like Stephen.

I’m not sure when I fell asleep.

The room had dimmed during my rest and Cloak was pulled up to my chin like a blanket. Through its embrace, I swear I can feel the fabric fluttering, as though it is snoring softly. I am alone, the fire in the hearth still flickering, but much lower, maintaining a very comfortable temperature. The door is askew, letting in a stripe of light from the outside, from where I can hear two voices speaking in hushed tones.

“-are you sure that is in her best interests?” It's Wong. “That is how I have counselled you this whole time, Stephen,” a sigh, “but are you sure that now is the time? Loki has left a mental wound, and you have not slept.”

Stephen did not speak for several moments, but when he does it is too soft for me to decipher.

Wong replied, “I will rearrange the wards on the Sanctum. When I am through this house will be Asgardian proof.”

“Put extras on her room,” Stephen add tensely. “He’s left the remnants of his magic all over, I don’t want anyone going into her space without her express permission.”

I've never heard him sound like this, infuriated.

A creak of the floorboards, and then Stephen is alone.

The office door opens wider and I shut my eyes promptly, trying to keep my breathing even enough to pass for sleeping. He stops at my side for a moment, watching me 'sleep'.

A sigh from Stephen. He crouches in front of the hearth, warming his hands. I pretend to stir. Stephen looked over his shoulder at me and starts to stand, but I stop him with a gesture of my hand.

Cloak ruffles up, pooling in my lap before drifting over to the sorcerer.

I follow suit, sitting next to Stephen and pulling my knees up to my chest. “How long was I out?” I ask quietly.

“An hour. Maybe two,” he doesn’t look at me, dropping into a cross-legged position at my side. “I didn’t want to wake you, that kind of magic takes a toll.”

There it is again, quiet rage, woven through his voice and it completely disarms me.

“You look tired,” I mutter.

“I��am tired,” Stephen replies. “I haven’t slept in a month.”

"Hilarious."

"It wasn't a joke."

"Wait, you're serious?"

He nods.

“I knew I had reason to be worried about you,” a forced chuckle. “You need rest more urgently than I do.” 

There is a long silence before he replies in a haunting whisper, “something is keeping me awake." Stephen shivers despite the fire.

“Bad dreams?”

“Not usually."

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” then he adds, “but I should." For a second I think he might actually share with me, but all he says is: "eventually.”

In the flickering light of the fire, Stephen looks miserable.

“Have you considered therapy?” It was meant as a joke, something to lighten the awkward silence we're sitting through.

But Stephen doesn't speak, his trembling hands twisting in his lap into a meditative pose, eyebrows furrow. 

I can't handle the silence. “I’m pretty sure you know my whole life story - to be fair, it has been uneventful! Coming here was probably the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, speaking strictly as someone whose life flashed before her eyes tonight. It's not fair that I know next-to-nothing about you.” It's no exaggeration. Stephen had put in such an effort to get to know me since we’d met, asking me about my life, my friends and family, what activities I enjoyed and what I didn’t… Maybe the reason you don’t have other friends is because you never ask anyone about themselves. A wave of guilt and hurt mixed together washes over me, even though I know that I have tried to get to know Stephen better. He's just so private.

“You don’t regret it?” he is so still. “Coming here? Even after tonight?”

I shake my head.

From Stephen’s shoulder, Cloak reaches over to pat my arm. Stephen monitors its movements, swallowing hard, like he's deciding whether or not to send Cloak away.

“I was irresponsible tonight. I knew better than to leave you alone with Loki, I should’ve sent you to one of the other Sanctums. I should have sent him away. He created a distraction and I fell for it.” Stephen's spirit finally seemed to steady. "When I realized… I have never been so terrified.”

I don’t know what to do with him when he is in this state, my mind is at a loss. I don't want Stephen to feel bad, it's not his fault. “I’m sure you’ve faced scarier things. How many times have you saved the entire realm from certain doom? I forget, is it eleven or twelve?”

But Stephen doesn’t reply, finally turning his uninterrupting gaze towards me.

“It’s not your fault. I certainly don't hold you accountable."

“When you move here, you become a part of my commitment to protect the Sanctum. I failed to do that.”

I sigh and shrug my shoulders, “c'est la vie. If you're waiting on my forgiveness you have always had it.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know better than to forgive me.”

“Then tell me something about yourself. God, learning anything about you has been harder than pulling teeth.”

He gaped for a moment. “What do you want to know?” Stephen asked slowly, sounding out the syllables.

God, I hate being put on the spot. “I don’t know. Anything, tell me anything.”

“I used to be a doctor.”

“I knew that actually. Wong told me.”

Something brightens in his face for a flash. “I didn’t realize you two talk about me behind my back.”

I scowl at him, my nose scrunching slightly, suddenly aware of how close I had sat to him, so close that the fire illuminates the way his forehead is wrinkled in concern, the grey of his eyes almost silver and the deep purple stains under them, the curve of his mouth, his neat beard.

It takes me moment to realize Stephen was also analyzing my face, roaming over my jaw and chin and up to my cheekbone until he holds my eye contact for an extended moment.

“My middle name is Vincent,” he breaths without blinking.

I laugh, the kind of deep laugh that makes me feel like I am okay. Stephen laughs, too.

“I don’t think even Wong knows that.” He leans back, his palms on the floor behind him, but the clemency from the tension lasted only momentarily. “How are you feeling?”

I take a deep breath, “Head has a dull ache, but a little better I guess. Everything, all my senses, I mean, it's all so overwhelming.”

“Going into someone’s mind without consent is a violation. It can lead to serious injury.”

Stephen asks me to describe my symptoms in lots of detail, so I comply. Finally, I ask, "is that normal?"

"It can be. Everyone is different. We won't really be able to tell for a couple of days. You might find performing magic particularly draining." He looks me over and I know he can see my magic pulsing dully under my skin.

I tell Stephen what happened when Loki and I were alone, how he had forced his way in, how helpless I had been, the memories Loki had pulled up and the emotional and physical payment it had cost me.

Stephen scowls through my whole tale. He's fighting the urge to look for Loki, I can tell, forcing himself to stay with me, at my side. “Mind magic is… not my thing. So invasive, so many possibilities for things to go wrong, so much potential for mistake.”

“Like naming your child ‘Vincent’.”

He snorts and it makes my stomach flip over. This is what I need, the sound of his laughter in my ears. That is the only thing that warms the icy hole Loki had burrowed into me.

“Come on! Stephen Vincent. The middle two syllables are pronounced the same! That’s just a bad naming scheme.”

“Take it up with Mr. and Mrs. Strange. Do you have a middle name?”

“I…” my mind went blank. “I don’t think so, no.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow, “I think it’s time to get you to bed. Wong should be finished with the new wards by now. Unless you want a different room?”

I shake my head. “Are you going to bed? You haven’t slept in a month. Not sure how you managed to survive that."

He scratches at the back of his neck absentmindedly and rises to his feet, hand extended towards me. I take it and he pulls me to standing, his calloused fingers dragging along my skin, leaving goosebumps behind.

The rattle of Stephen’s heart against his ribs is jarring.

He’d woken to find her in his bed, their warm, naked bodies entwined while she slept, one hand slung around her waist and the other tangled in her soft hair. The sorcerer examines the marks he had left on her neck the previous night, but despite his gentle hand, she wakes, her eyes opening only briefly before snuggling in deeper to his side.

“Stephen,” she whispers, “you’re staring like you just got eyes for Christmas.”

“I am admiring my own handy work,” he says, running a hand over the small series of burst blood vessels littering her skin. “They’re so purple, very pretty. I’d give them a nine-point-five out of ten.”

“Surprised you could give yourself anything but a perfect score.”

Stephen laughs from deep in his chest. “God, you’re so beautiful. What did I do to deserve someone so funny too?”

“You make me coffee,” she murmurs against his skin.

“Your wish is my command.”

I observed the unfurling dream from a third person perspective, like some kind of voyeur. Dream-me seemed very comfortable skin-to-skin with Stephen, and watching makes me blush.

Someone speaks.

The voice is familiar, airy and light, like it was brought in on a stray breeze, but I can’t place it, and it takes me a few seconds to release it was talking to me, not dream-me, but the real me.

“He is displeased with you, you know,” whispered the voice. It did not hold any ill will toward me. “It’s taking longer than expected.”

“Who is displeased? Stephen?” I ask, unable to find the source of the voice.

A tinkling laugh, “no. Not Stephen. This is getting messier than planned. Especially with recent events. For the record, I am sorry for what it has cost you.”

So tranquil, I feel so peaceful.

“Hurry up, my dear,” said the voice. “You would not do well to have to join me in my clouded cage.”

Everything dissolves and I wake up.

My room seems utterly normal, cleansed of Loki’s energy and the sleep had left me well-rested, even if I had woken after only a few hours, but as the sunlight begins to peek through my curtains, the realization hits me like a bullet to the head.

Something is very wrong.

AO3 Master Fic List

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[winnetou-oldshatterhand]

That scene with Nscho-tschi in the bushes

So yeah, I collected and translated a few versions of that scene I wrote. For completeness’ sake: The first one is Karl May’s version, also translated by me.

Then we have a scene from my fic Das Buch, two scenes from a WIP with time loops that probably won’t make sense without context and at the end a little something about sibling banter written by someone with no siblings lol. That one is just for fun and written in about fifteen minutes max.

Original: (translated by me, from Winnetou 1 as on the Karl May website. Page ca 436)

I was already in the process of reaching out with my hand when something Winnetou said stopped me.

„Should I fetch him?“, he asked, whispering.

„No“, Nscho-tschi answered. „He will come.“

„He won't.“

„He will!“

„My sister errs. He has learnt everything very quickly; but your trace passes through the air. How is he meant to find it?“

„He will find it. My brother Winnetou has told me that Old Shatterhand is impossible to lead astray already. Why is he now claiming the opposite?“

„Because today he is facing the hardest task possible. His eye will find any trace; yours, however, is only to be found with his mind, and he hasn't learnt that yet.“

„Still, he will come, for he can do anything he wants.“

She merely whispered those words, and yet there was such confidence, such trust in her tone, I could have been proud of it

„Yes, I have never met a man who so easily learns new skills. Still, one thing remains he will never learn, and Winnetou feels deeply sorry about it.“

„What is it?“

„The wish all of us share.“

Just then I had wanted to make them aware of my presence; but Winnetou spoke of a wish, something that stopped me in my tracks. What wish would I not have loved to fulfill for those good, kind people! They had one and weren't telling me because they didn't believe I would fulfill it. Maybe now I would hear what it was. Therefore I stayed silent and listened.

„Has my brother Winnetou already talked to him about it?“ asked Nscho-tschi.

„No“, replied Winnetou.

„And Intschu tschuna, our father, hasn't either?“

„No. He wanted to tell him but I wouldn't allow it.“

„Not? Why? Nscho-tschi loves this white man deeply; she is the daughter of the supreme chieftain of the Apaches!”

„That she is, and more besides, much more. Every red warrior and every white man would be glad if my sister wanted to be his squaw, everyone but Old Shatterhand.“

„How can my brother Winnetou know this if he hasn't talked to him about it?“

„I know it anyways because I know him. He is not like other white men, he has higher wants than them. He will not take an Indian woman as squaw.“

„Has he said that?“

„No.“

„Does his heart belong to a white woman?“

„Neither.“

„You know this for sure?“

„Yes. We spoke of white women and from his words I understood that his heart hadn't spoken yet.“

„So it will speak for me!“

„My sister mustn't deceive herself! Old Shatterhand thinks and feels differently than you believe. If he chooses a squaw she must be amongst women what he is amongst men.“

„And I am not?“

„Amongst the red girls, yes; no one is equal to my beautiful sister. But what have you seen and heard? What have you learnt? You know how women live amongst our people but nothing of what white women must have learnt, must know. Old Shatterhand looks not for the glimmer of gold, nor for beauty of a face; he looks for things he will not find in a red girl.“

She lowered her head and stayed silent. So he lovingly caressed her cheek and said:

„It hurts me, breaking my good sister's heart, but Winnetou is used to always speaking the truth, even if it is a sad truth. Maybe he knows a way on which Nscho-tschi might reach the goal for which she strives.“

Upon hearing this she rapidly lifted her head and said:

„Which way is this?“

„The one leading to the cities in the East.“

„That's where I should go, you think?“

„Yes.“

„Why?“

„To learn what you must know and be capable of if Old Shatterhand is supposed to love you.“

„So I will go, and soon, very soon! Will my brother Winnetou grant me a wish?“

„Which one?“

„Talk to Intschu tschuna, our father, about this! Ask him to let me go to the cities in the East! He won't say no, he - - -“

That was all I heard, as I started crawling back silently. It felt like sin, having listened to the sibling's talk. If only they didn't notice me now! What shame for them, and even more so for me! Now, on my retreat, it was even more important to remain careful than on my approach. The slightest noise, the smallest coincidence, was enough to betray my knowledge of the beautiful Indian woman's secret. And in that case I would have to leave my red friends the very same day.

The Book: (Winnetou decides to read Winnetou 1)

Of course Charley described their last practice, the last test in detail. He had done incredibly well, many more experienced warriors would have taken longer to find the trace.

Wait a moment – Charley had attempted to sneak up on them? Winnetou vividly remembered him approaching them from the opposite side of the clearing. His brother had overheard him talking to Nscho-tschi? How could they not have noticed? Apparently he didn't have every right to criticize careless young warriors if he himself had paid that little attention.

Of course, he knew why he hadn't been paying attention. His plan had been to tell Nscho-tschi about his own feelings for Charley while they were sitting in the bushes, waiting. Telling her the true reason why he hadn't brought up her feelings for his brother. He had changed his mind at the very last second – a choice he was feeling eminently grateful for in hindsight.

Maybe his reaction to Nscho-tschi's words had been a little harsh but he had been jealous, pessimistic and his own heart had already been broken. Of course he had wanted to wish them all the best, his sister and his friend, but he hadn't known what exactly Charley wanted. His assumptions had gone towards someone just as perfect, as smart, as educated.

But back to the book. The wish he had meant, the wish he had refused to elaborate on was one his brother still hadn't fulfilled. To simply remain in the West, at Winnetou's side, with the Apaches. Of course the rest of his family had wanted Charley to stay as Nscho-tschi's husband, he himself would have preferred that didn't happen, though he'd never have said that. So his words sounded supportive, his deeds were less so. Sometimes Winnetou wished for his sister's confidence, but how could he ever hope his brother's heart would speak for him.

Maybe if he'd been less harsh, if he'd reacted differently to his sister's pain, anything but quickly suggesting education in the cities of the East, maybe his family would still be alive, maybe they'd never have met Santer.

Winnetou still felt surprised that he'd so entirely missed Charley's approach and retreat. Regardless of his heartache, you couldn't pay that little attention. Had it been an enemy both of them would have died. Still, why would Charley have felt he had to leave them over this conversation? Shame of overhearing them and still not reciprocating Nscho-tschi's feelings? That wasn't his fault, no one could control their heart.

After Nscho-tschi had asked to be allowed into the cities of the East, Winnetou had gotten lost in his thoughts. He had worried for her, considered the prejudices she would encounter, all for some vague hope. Their father hadn't been able to deny them any major wishes, not since they had lost their mother, not since he had lost the love of his life.

As of yet unpublished time travel/time loop fic 1:

Maybe it was a mistake, following the script his memories provided, but as of yet he hadn't woken up in the past again... Still, Charley didn't know if he could repeat all of his actions from back then, not identically at least. He had changed.

In spite of his twinging conscience Charley hid back behind that same bush in which he knew the siblings were hiding. It was truly remarkable that he had managed to succeed in sneaking up on Winnetou – a feat that had never been easy, neither in the past nor in the present.

„Should I fetch him?“, Winnetou asked, whispering.

„No“, answered Nscho-tschi, „He will come.“

„He won't come.“

„He will!“

„My sister errs. He has learnt quickly, astonishingly so; but your trace goes through the air itself. How is he meant to find it?“

„He will find it. My brother Winnetou told me himself, Old Shatterhand can no longer be deceived. Why is he contradicting his own words?“

„Because this is the hardest possible task. His eye may find any trace; but yours can only be found with thought. Winnetou doesn't know if his brother has learnt that already.“

Maybe it was his imagination, but Charley felt as if Winnetou had just a little bit more trust in him. Barely there, but something had changed.

„He will come, he can do anything he puts his mind to.“

Nscho-tschi whispered this, like she did back then, her voice full of trust.

„Yes, I have never known a man who is as skilled in everything he touches. There is just one thing he won't do, and Winnetou is terribly sorry about it.“

„What are you talking about?“

„The wish we all share.“

The wish to take Nscho-tschi as a wife – Charley didn't want that, true. If the wish was him staying in the West, well, he was planning on it. Last time he had desperately wanted to figure out which wish to fulfill but no one had ever told him. Would they speak of their wish now?

„Has my brother spoken to him?“, Nscho-tschi asked.

„No“, Winnetou replied.

„And Instschu tschuna, our father, has he asked?“

„No. He wanted to tell him but I refused.“

„You refused? Why? Nscho-tschi loves him, he respects our culture and knows our language; and she is the Apache chieftain's daughter!“

„She is, yes, and she is more than that. Every red warrior and every white man would be happy to have my sister as his squaw. Everyone but Old Shatterhand.“

Winnetou was right about that, unfortunate as it was, Nscho-tschi was not someone who would make him happy, regardless of her skills or beauty.

„How can my brother Winnetou know this, if he hasn't talked to him about it?“

„I know it anyways, I know him. He is not like other white people, he wants freedom. He will not marry.“

„But if his heart speaks? If it speaks for me?“

„My sister must not lie to herself! If Old Shatterhand chooses a squaw she will be amongst women as he is amongst men. He wants to travel. He won't stay.“

She lowered her head and remained silent. Seeing that he lovingly stroked her cheek and said:

„It hurts me to be breaking my sister's heart, but Winnetou will always speak the truth, even if it is not a happy one.“

Nscho-tschi paused a while longer before she suggested: „I could go to the cities in the East, learn, what Klekih-Petra meant to teach us. Learn what Old Shatterhand would want in a squaw, learn his culture as he learnt ours. Not just for him.“

„Winnetou knows Nscho-tschi wouldn't head to the East just to change for a man. She may like Old Shatterhand but what she really wants is to find a way for us to survive.“

Charley was glad to hear as much. He knew her love for him had little hope of ever being requited. She was a beautiful woman, a good friend, but once upon a time he had married a beautiful woman whom he had appreciated as a friend and as a person. Neither of them had been truly happy.

If anyone could find a way to preserve the Mescalero culture Nscho-tschi was surely one of the best candidates. But she had to die. This was his hell and there was nothing he could do.

This was everything he needed to hear so it was time to head back out of the bush and greet his friends openly.

As of yet unpublished time travel/time loop fic 2:

Those hunts and practices that once filled their first months together were fun now, not schooling. Charley proved himself over and over, proved that he knew his way around the West. Rather than painstakingly learning culture and language of the Mescaleros from Nscho-tschi he helped her teach what Klekih-Petra used to teach. He made friends with other warriors, sat with them at night to talk about the hunt for buffalo and bears. He listened to them talking about their squaws and children.

He was more part of the tribe than he had ever been in his first life.

This time when Charley got the task to find Nscho-tschi after Winnetou carried her he didn't listen in on them. He would be fine, regardless of what they were planning. If they wanted something they needed to tell him.

This time he entered the clearing openly, calling them out of the bushes straight away. Winnetou clearly showed his surprise at the speed at which they had been found, proud of the brother who had barely ever been his student as far as he remembered.

A new one with actual banter as a treat: (this is pretty much crack)

As I slowly and carefully crawled towards the bush I knew Winnetou and Nscho-tschi to be hiding in I began hearing furious whispers.

„You never let me spend time with him alone!“, Nscho-tschi was accusing her brother.

„Well I met him first! He's my blood brother, my friend first!“

„That doesn't mean you're his only friend!“

„Of course not, shut up!“

„You shut up!“

I had never witnessed the siblings quite so relaxed, even in their argument there was no malice behind their words.

„Nscho-tschi do this, Nscho-tschi do that, Nscho-tschi I don't want to play with you, Nscho-tschi ate all the berries daddy!“

„Oh shush you did eat those berries.“

„You're just jealous he wants to spend time with me too!“

She seemed to be poking his side as she was talking.

„Seriously Nscho-tschi, shush – if we keep this up Charley will find us just by hearing us talk!“

„You started it... But fine.“

And certainly, the siblings quieted down. Of course, I had already found them, not because of their noise, but they wouldn't believe that if I showed myself now.

It was strange, listening to them tease each other like I had witnessed my sisters argue about dolls and playmates, argue like I had argued with my siblings about everything and nothing at all. Winnetou had always seemed so regal, so otherworldly. He was human though, just like the rest of us.

As if on cue, Winnetou whispered a last time: „This is not going to be a Fort Tennessee situation, clear?“

Whatever he had meant with that, it was time for me to retreat.

[seokmingiggles]

on cerulean tides.

Anon requested on 201219: "Would you do an idol!Kim Namjoon one shot where the reader (non-idol) is best friends with the Maknaes and believes there's no way Namjoon would ever like her so she begins to avoid him whenever she hangs out with the Maknaes at the dorms/studio/dance practice to try to get over him and Joon picks up on it and thinks he did something wrong/is sad since he thinks he stands no chance with her until the Maknaes force them to realize they return each other's feelings? Thank you in advance!"

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x female reader

Genre: angst to fluff, idol!au, non-idol!reader, happy ending.

3.04k words

Warnings: heavy feelings of inferiority and insecurity, self-doubt, an incredibly brief mention of alcohol consumption, a dragged out metaphor about the sea.

With the ocean of uncertainty plaguing you, you've been avoiding the boy your heart yearns for, not knowing just how much your distance has been impacting him too. Alternatively, Namjoon is your beacon to guide you through the stormy feelings of self-doubt that you've been struggling with lately.

A/N: Thank you for your request! I probably made this much angstier than you intended, but I promise a fluffy ending awaits you. I hope it's okay! (I promise it’s not some pirate!au with a title like this lmao)

This one is dedicated to anyone who feels doubtful of themself. I wish that one day you will be able to see what an astonishing and beautiful being you are. All of us have insecurities about ourselves—big or small—but letting those criticisms consume you is unhealthy and prevents you from living your life to the fullest. Please reach out to talk to someone you trust if these feelings become overwhelming. Things will get better. Please take care of yourself!

•• You and Jimin laughed as you ran down the hallway, each of you with a bag of food in your arms. You could hear Taehyung and Jungkook scampering behind you, the former being noisy as he chased after you, Jungkook only had slightly more grace as he moved.

Being close with the maknae line of BTS had its perks. You could visit them in the studio if they called for you, you could have movie nights at their dorm on their off days, and above all, you could goof around to lift your spirits. You had boundaries; you knew when to leave them be during the busier periods of their schedules and how you couldn't post anything about them online. You didn't mind, though. Your friendship was more than enough.

You were a high school classmate of Jungkook's a few years back, although the two of you never spoke much during those first couple of years. It was only after his group's debut where the boy found himself in need of a tutor, and the school recommended a few to him. Yours was the only name on the list that Jungkook recognized, so it was an easy decision for him to make. Once you and your classmate graduated high school, Jungkook was no longer in need of a tutor, but he wanted to maintain your friendship as he didn't have many others he was close to in your graduating class. Slowly but surely, you also became friends with Taehyung and Jimin when visiting Jungkook over the years. Now, the four of you were practically inseparable. While the boys wouldn't tell you to your face, they all admired you because you never once treated them differently despite their status as idols, especially as their public popularity increased over time.

Jimin reached the vacant studio room before you, holding the door open to let you inside before shouting back at his friends, "You two better hurry up or else (Y/N)-ah and I will eat all the food!"

"Oh, I believe it!" Taehyung cupped his mouth as he yelled back, being pulled by the younger boy at his wrist.

Soon enough, Jungkook and Taehyung made it to the room before Jimin could lock them out. This whole ordeal began when Taehyung needed to use the bathroom after you all had entered the BigHit building. Jungkook went with him, leaving you and Jimin with the lunch he'd ordered.

"All that running from you guys worked up my appetite," you declared as you removed the assortment of containers from one of the bags.

"Well, all that chasing worked up mine," Taehyung countered, teasingly sneering at you and Jimin, the latter already breaking apart his disposable chopsticks.

The four of you began to devour your meal. The three boys were in the middle of a busy working day and invited you to join them for their lunch break. It wasn't an uncommon request; you'd see the trio at least once a week, sometimes more if their schedules cooperated.

Some playful banter with full mouths and filling tummies later, you were sitting back in your chair as you watched Jungkook finish the last of the japchae when someone knocked on the studio door.

After Jungkook managed a "Come in," with his cheeks full of noodles, it was Namjoon's head that poked through the doorway.

"I just want to remind you three that you'll be needed for our meeting in fifteen minutes," the group leader said, eyeing the now-emptied remnants of the lunch you enjoyed. "Hi, (Y/N)."

"Hi, Namjoon." You matched his monotonous tone, maintaining difficult eye contact as he shut the door behind him.

"Okay, whatever is going on between you two needs to stop," Jimin sighed out, visibly frustrated. "You used to get along so well with hyung, and now it's so awkward seeing you interact."

Taehyung sat up straighter, "I agree. You two have so much in common. It's sad to see you so distant now."

Jimin and Taehyung were right. You and Namjoon had to do a lot of scheduling together back when you were Jungkook's tutor, so he was the first one you'd gotten to know in the band, other than your former classmate. The two of you shared a similar mindset: you were both compassionate, responsible, and—arguably above all else—incredibly bad at sharing your feelings.

You wished you could determine the exact moment you began to develop feelings for Namjoon. Maybe it was something about his warm smile; maybe it was his cheery laugh. Or perhaps the way he so intently listened to what the others had to say and would consider ideas other than his own. You not once ever doubted his ability as a leader. You've known the boys since their debut, and even back then, you found Namjoon fit for his role; he's only become better at his job in the passing years.

Yet, something about him made you doubt your ability to be his equal. Part of you knew it was silly to begin avoiding Namjoon in the first place, but the other part of you couldn't bear to suffocate with those annoying butterflies swarming every time your gaze met his. Even from across a room, Namjoon had a powerful effect on you. Part of you wanted his impact on you to stop; part of you missed his closeness.

"Jungkook, you're being awfully quiet," Jimin exchanged a look with Taehyung, "Do you know something that we don't?"

Your head snapped up in Jungkook's direction, silently begging for the boy to deny their assumption.

The youngest hummed and grabbed a water bottle, twisting the cap off and taking a sip. He swished the water around in his mouth.

"Don't make me squish your cheeks to spit out that water, Jeon."

Jungkook swallowed. He glanced at you for confirmation, although instead, took in your tired appearance. He brought it upon himself to make your exhaustion stop.

"(Y/N)-ie likes Namjoon."

You sighed at hearing those words aloud. You couldn't even be mad at your friend; the only way he found out about your feelings was over some drinks one night where you were rambling about how pretty you thought Namjoon looked earlier that day. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell your crush's bandmate that you liked him.

Jimin shifted in his seat, "Okay, and...? Don't tell me you thought we didn't already know, (Y/N)-ie."

"Yeah, it was obvious when you'd become flustered around hyung!" Taehyung added, "But after you began avoiding him I figured something had changed."

You fiddled with the cap of your water bottle. "Does he know?"

"Namjoon? No, there's no way. He's about as clueless as you are when it comes to crushes." Jimin pondered then continued, "Maybe we could talk to him about it-"

"Absolutely not."

"But why not (Y/N)? It's painful for us to watch the two of you interact lately; it must be worse for you guys."

"I don't want him to know."

"That's not a good reason-"

"It's good enough for me. Now please, can we just forget about it? Don't you guys have a meeting to get to?" You felt bad for shutting down their request. After all, they were only trying to help you.

The boys began to stand, collecting the bags and containers scattered on the floor. They were visibly defeated, but they respected your plead.

Jimin stood by you before turning to the door, "Okay, if that's what you wish, we won't tell him. I do think you should, though, (Y/N). Maybe the results will be in your favour."

•

You felt numb as you were on the bus heading back to your apartment. You tried to escape from your thoughts about the boy you were so fond of, yet your mind defeatedly wandered its way back to him no matter how hard you tried. It pained you to see Namjoon's behaviour shift with yours as you began to avoid him throughout the past month. You didn't realize how severe it had become until your friends pointed it out to you. You thought the distance you created would help alleviate the pounding sensation in your chest and clammy palms associated with Namjoon's presence. You never thought that one day you'd prefer your racing heart to the emptiness you feel now.

He's too good for me, you kept convincing yourself until it was all that you believed.

He couldn't love someone like me.

You have struggled with self-compassion throughout your life thus far. Feelings of gratitude coming in inconsistent waves like the unpredictable ocean tides. You were stormier lately—lost in the sea of doubt and floundering to find stability on shore again.

Namjoon used to be your lifeboat. He taught you that appreciating oneself is necessary to become genuinely happy. He even wrote lyrics about the phenomenon. He made it sound so simple, so achievable. Yet, the theory is typically easier than the practice. Wind and rain continued to pelt down at you, thrashing the waves beneath your surface and making it difficult to breathe.

You wanted to change your mentality; you wanted to be more confident. But constantly comparing yourself to others is equivalent to drowning in the murky ocean, the depths sucking you further and further below until not a trace of sunlight remains.

You made it back to your apartment safely in one piece. You were mentally exhausted and drained at all of your overthinking. You felt the need to cry out of frustration.

"Remember to breathe when you're feeling like this. Come on, just slow, deep breaths."

Namjoon's voice resounded in your head from a few months back when you overheard him calming Taehyung down in a neighbouring room.

You missed hearing his voice.

It was an unmistakable desire. You missed the way he'd look at you with utmost attention and care when you'd speak with him. You missed the way he'd give his thoughtful advice. You missed his smile, his laughter; you missed him. You longed to be back in Namjoon's presence. He always knew what to do or say to help calm the storm. He was a lighthouse beckoning you back safely to shore.

You were getting tired of avoiding him.

But you were also getting tired.

Padding your way to your bed, you slipped into comfy loungewear and got beneath your covers. You momentarily stared up at the ceiling before closing your eyes.

"Come on, just slow, deep breaths."

•

Your ringing phone was what awoke you. It could have been minutes or hours later; you weren't sure. You reluctantly pushed yourself out of your blanketed fortress and made your way to the kitchen counter where you left the device. It was still light outside, but you could see the sun beginning to approach the horizon line.

"Hello?" You said, cursing in your head for the way your groggy voice sounded.

"Hi, (Y/N). It's been a while. Could we talk?"

You froze, being doused by the icy sea.

"Um..." you hesitated. You were caught off guard in a place that was supposed to be your retreat, by a person who was supposed to be your oasis.

"Deep breaths."

"Yeah, I-I guess we could talk."

"Great. Would it be okay if I came to you? I'm almost done here in the studio, maybe another thirty minutes before I can head out."

You were nodding your head before you verbalized your agreement.

"Okay. I'll see you soon, (Y/N)."

"See you, Namjoon."

You hung up first and set your phone back onto the kitchen counter, your elbows following shortly after so you could place your face in your hands.

You knew this was coming; Namjoon was a responsible young adult. There was no way he could have missed your change in behaviour around him as much as you wished for otherwise.

•

Thirty minutes went by faster than you wished. The sharp knock on your door startled you as you were washing some dishes in the kitchen. Cleaning when stressed wasn't an unusual habit of yours.

You hesitated, grabbing a tea towel to dry your hands before treading carefully to the door.

"Deep breaths."

You removed the chain and carefully opened the door. You knew Namjoon was waiting for you on the other side, yet your breath still hitched as your eyes wandered upwards to meet his.

"Come in," you forced from your lips and stepped to the side to let your guest past.

Namjoon thanked you as he slipped his shoes off and made his way to your sofa, declining your offer of a drink.

You joined him shortly after, keeping him more than an arms-length away.

"What's wrong, (Y/N)?"

"Deep breaths."

"Did Jimin mention anything to you?" You could tell your voice sounded weak, but you had other pressing concerns.

"Nothing elaborate. All I was told by him and Taehyung was that I should try talking to you. They didn't say why, but I think we both know."

You searched his face for any signs of dishonesty but found none. "Nothing's wrong-"

"Please," he pushed, "I'd like to think I know you well enough over the years. Something is wrong. I should have come here sooner. You know you can trust me." He even bared a small smile after his words.

It only made your heart plummet further into the depths: a watery grave with your name written on it.

"You're just..." you sighed out, already feeling tears prickling at your eyes. "You're really... just... good. I hope you know how good of a person you are, Namjoon. I don't know how else to explain it. You're a good person. No, that's an understatement. You're... it sometimes doesn't feel like you're real, you know? You're just so giving and considerate and so aware of others' wellbeing." You failed to hold back your emotions; a tear slid down your cheek. "You're good."

And proving your point, Namjoon slid closer to you on the couch so he could take your hand in his.

"Sometimes I feel so insignificant," you continued, "like I'm nobody special or that I'm not doing anything important or worthwhile; that I'm not enough. It's like I'm stuck on the bottom of the ocean. I'm not drowning, but I'm able to see the world passing by above me."

Namjoon said nothing for a moment and just absorbed your thoughts as he mindlessly brushed his thumb across the back of your hand. "There are times in everyone's' life where we all feel that way. You can only tread water for so long before you exhaust yourself and begin to sink. I've felt that way, too—stuck, insignificant. If I'm being blunt, part of my desire to change my mindset was because of you, (Y/N). When I first met you as Jungkook's tutor, you seemed so knowledgable, responsible; you had a good head on your shoulders. You were good. Part of you reminded me of myself, yet part of me also felt intimidated by you." Namjoon stopped momentarily to smile at your astonished face as you mouthed 'intimidated?'. "Yes, intimidated. I've admired you since day one. Then slowly, I realized that those feelings became more than just a simple admiration. But I held back saying anything because I didn't feel worthy of you. I let my own self-doubt get in the way."

"I'm the one not worthy of you, 'Joon."

"Please, love, nothing about that is true," the boy's voice became so tender as he brought his free hand to the side of your face. "One day, I'll show you just how incredible you are to me," he swiped his thumb to collect a stray tear, "but right now, I think you're more in need of a tissue and a hug."

A small, breathy laugh fell from your lips as you accepted the tissue Namjoon retrieved for you. After effectively wiping away your salty tears, you gladly situated yourself in his outstretched arms, being held in a tight embrace. The two of you remained like that until your breathing gradually calmed down, then you moved so you were lying against him with your back to his chest. His nose lightly nuzzled the top of your head.

"All of us have a bit of the ocean inside of us," Namjoon continued, delicately grazing his thumb around the curved corner of your eye, "it means you have the power to control the waves to some extent. The sea can be unpredictable, but so is life. It takes practice to learn to control your waves. I know you may not believe in yourself now, but please, (Y/N), believe me when I tell you that you're enough. You're more than enough."

•

Namjoon stayed with you for the rest of the evening to make sure your spirits were lifted even the slightest bit. The distance that grew between you was from a mutual error; you came to understand your similar sides to the story as you continued to talk. The whole ordeal made you realize that you're not alone in your insecurities. Even someone you suspected to be flawless had doubts of their own.

You were situated back in your bed after Namjoon had left minutes ago. He wished you a good night and pleasant dreams, topping off his adieu with a quick peck to your cheek. You relished in the feeling of your butterflies returning, no longer letting them suffocate you, instead, embracing them in their colourful magnificence.

You recalled what Namjoon said earlier to you:

"You know, what you said about the ocean, it can be beautiful too. Yes, it's scary when you're alone and trapped at the bottom beneath the waves in the dark, but the thing about the sea is that it's continuously moving and shifting. Like our lives, tides come in highs and lows and can change from day-to-day, hour-to-hour. It's unfair to assume we can always remain floating on the surface; when that happens, you can't go anywhere yourself. You need to be partially submerged to move and make choices.

Why don't we traverse this sea together? We can help guide each other until we've found our shore again."

Namjoon was your lighthouse; you were the moon guiding his tides.

••

[minttoy]

this love we share (Ch 2)

CHAPTER TWO

Summary:

She loves him and he loves her back. On the surface, it seems easy, but she knows in some dark crevice of her mind, that even though love is selfish – escaping to these mountains was selfish – it is also good.

Her source of strength. The root of his humanity.

Time will come when it will teach her to grow, too.

[Eren and Mikasa through the four years. Alternate reality from Chapter 138.]

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

----------

Eren has less than four years left to live.

It is something she has always known. The unspoken truth that follows them. Mikasa still does not know how to cope with the thought of him leaving. Every time, she is ravaged with body aches and head pains. There are days she has the cabin to herself and she’s hit with a startling clarity that she must get used to this silence. A life without him, with only memories to spare.

Desperation grips her, and she wants to tear down the calendar on their wall, or plead to the goddess to save him. She feels it like a wound bleeding. A fear she has no courage to face. A battle she’s already lost. For all the pain she’s endured in her life, this one is still unlike any other.

Mikasa begins to wonder if she shouldn’t have furnished their cabin with so many personals. Jars filled with sand and seashells they collected from the beach sitting on top of the fireplace. Flowers and leaves they’ve pressed onto parchment and framed on the wall. Baskets woven by hand occupying the corner of the room.

All of these precious mementos soon to become aching reminders.

She shakes her head, tries to shake off the sore notion, but her heart unravels with every break and every snap. There are days she feels restless and it takes everything in her not to burst and spill hot tears.

Eventually, she preserves this cabin like a keepsake and takes nothing down.

The door unlocks and interrupts her train of thought.

“I’m back!” Eren calls out as he enters their cabin and stows his shoes away.

He makes it five steps into the house and then she’s on him, arms snaked around his middle and face buried in his shoulder. The distraction is enough. He floods her senses and she seizes him like an escape, embraces this like waking from a nightmare. He is dirty and muddied after his fishing trip, but she cannot find it in herself to care.

“You’re clingy today,” he murmurs in her hair.

She only hugs him tighter. “I just missed you.”

Eren chuckles, and she feels the reverberations in his chest. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Mikasa lets him go and reaches up to wipe dirt off his cheek. For the rest of the night, she hovers. She cannot help herself – it is her nature and love language. He stopped brushing her off a long time ago anyway.

----------

She bakes a small cake for his birthday: a vanilla-flavoured concoction topped with fruit and light icing. The recipe was given to her from the wives at the market, some of whom claimed to have been watching her for a while now. They gushed at young love, and giggled when her cheeks flushed pink. She shrunk and brushed off their comments, not wanting to remind herself the truth of it all. Mikasa swears she never scurried out of the market faster.

Later, she stares at the finished cake with more apprehension than pride. All she can think is that he has three more birthdays left, three more years, three more cakes and suddenly she’s half-tempted to throw it into the trash. It will do more harm than good.

She steels herself against it, and reluctantly presents it to him when they sit for dinner.

He turns to her with a surprised gaze and she carefully gages his reaction, almost waiting for him to harden and arrive to the same realization.

It never comes, but she grows anxious anyway.

“I made it for your birthday,” she starts, because he’s not saying anything. “I’ve never baked a cake before, which is why it’s so tiny. It’s nothing fancy either, and it probably doesn’t even taste sweet.”

She doesn’t mean to minimize her efforts, but the words pour out of her mouth before she can stop them. Meanwhile Eren stares, listening to her preamble and probably picking up the nervous cues behind them.

She swallows hard and continues, “We don’t have to make a big deal out of this. I just wanted to do something special for today, but instead all I could think about was–” Suddenly she feels like crying, and she has to blink the sting out of her eyes.

There is a deafening silence. For some reason, it always comes down to this.

From the corner of her eye, she catches him slicing the cake with a fork and taking a sizeable bite. He contemplates for a short moment.

“It’s delicious,” he finally says, gazing at her with tenderness. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

He cuts another piece and holds it out for her to taste. She accepts it, and savours the soft texture and taste of vanilla bean on her tongue. She’s right: it’s hardly sweet, but she thinks she prefers it that way. With a finger, she wipes the crumbs off her lip and notices him staring.

“Do you like it then?”

He nods easily. “I do.”

With a breath of relief, they trade bites one after another until the plate is cleaned.

Afterwards, when they’re in the middle of cleaning up, she feels the warmth of his body behind her, his arms looped across her chest and his lips pressed against her temple. She relaxes into him and when one of his hands trails down to her abdomen, she wastes no more time.

She turns around and catches his lips in a bruising kiss. She can taste remnants of icing and sugar on his tongue, and asserts her desire by pulling him closer, hands roving everywhere and slipping under his shirt. All her pent-up frustration from the day disappears like smoke, and gives way to a different kind of desperation.

He welcomes her boldness and tries to keep up, dragging her cardigan from her shoulders and peppering breathy kisses along her jaw. Not one to forfeit her dominance, she palms his length, stiff and hard against her thigh. He grunts in response, and finds her lips again.

Mikasa gasps when he hoists her up with one arm, and her legs instinctively wrap around his waist. As he walks them over to their bedroom, she concedes that the rest of her chores will have to wait until morning.

They know this dance by now. They’ve woken to several mornings twisted in bedsheets and limbs tangled. Many nights he encourages her to take control, experiment and satiate her curiosities. Meanwhile, she tries to convince him she’s not made of glass.

Tonight he doesn’t hold back.

Her back hits the mattress, and she watches as he tests her entrance. She is wet enough, and his fingers slip inside her so easily that her back automatically arches to meet him. He pumps at a steady pace, and draws out the sweetest whimpers from her mouth. Even as she urges him, he doesn’t let her finish.

She aches with unfulfillment, and before she can gripe about it, he hooks his arms under her knees, pulls her legs forward and starts to fuck into her hard and desperate. Mikasa cries out, mouth wide and loud with feverish groans. The rhythm he sets barely allows her to keep up, even as her body tries to arch and move with his thrusts. Soon she gives up altogether, taking whatever pleasure she can find, soaring into delirium and moans turning into strained gasps when he repeatedly hits that spot that makes her jerk and writhe underneath him.

When she reaches her peak, she throws one arm over her face and the sounds of her voice come out like sobs. It is enough for him to follow and find his own release. They lie together in the aftermath and haze, her hands stroking his hair and his face buried between her neck and collarbone.

Later that night, she is lying next to him, head resting on his bare chest and hand over his heart. His breathing is soft and calm, but she knows he’s not sleeping.

She pats his chest lightly, “Eren?”

He grumbles out a sound, indicating he’d heard her.

She feels awful bringing it up now, but it’s plagued her mind the whole day and she knows she won’t find rest until it comes out.

“How come you… I mean, why is it that you don’t…” she bites her lip, struggles to say it even now. He strokes her back, encouraging her to go on. “Do you not grieve? About our future, I mean.”

His gaze stays on the ceiling. “Grieve?”

She sighs. “Sometimes I think I worry enough for the both of us, but maybe you just do it when I’m not looking.”

“What brought this on?” he asks.

“Your birthday,” she pipes up, a frown marring her features. “It’s not fair. Everything has already been taken from me, and even now, I am still losing. I feel it every time I think about you leaving, or the years we have left.”

Eren brushes the bangs out of her eyes. He thinks of apologizing for his numbered days, for leaving too soon, for causing her pain, but knows it will change nothing.

She buries her face in his shoulder. “Sorry for bringing it up.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says. “And I do grieve. More often than not, actually.”

She takes it back, because of course he does. She can’t even recall what made her think otherwise. Even now, there are parts of him that are still subdued. Perhaps it’s for the better.

There’s a question at the tip of her tongue, and she hesitates to ask, “How do you cope with it?”

Silence befalls them once again.

She’s about to waive the inquiry – in hindsight, it’s a loaded question to ask a dying man – but she feels his chest rumble underneath her. Not the wracked and thrashing sort of tremble that accompanies grief or sorrow. It’s light, and effortless. Mikasa anxiously peers up at him.

He’s laughing, of all things.

“Sorry…” he says, clearing his throat. “You caught me off guard.”

Mikasa shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I cope because of you,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

He exhales a slow breath. She feels it underneath, and matches her own breathing to his.

“If I really wanted, I could spend the rest of my life fretting and worrying about what’s to come, but….” His gaze is heavy, filled with something intense, significant and purposeful. It spreads to her too, and the feeling becomes tangled in her heart, forms a lump in her throat. There’s not a word for it. He lets out another breath, and the corner of his lips tug to a smile. “…I’d rather spend it with you. Mikasa, wasn’t it you who gave me that choice?”

The words flow off his tongue easier than anything that’s been said, and the stark realization of it leaves her breathless.

Her face crumples, as if something within her bursts and breaks. For once, it is not the same and familiar body ache that’s ravaged her like a sickness. It is something different entirely. All her life she wished for this: a caring pair of arms to ease her through life and all of its cruelties; someone to shelter her from reality.

She thinks of his younger self, for some reason. Rude, reckless and highly temperamental. And yet, he’s also the same person lying underneath her now. He’s grown and changed so much, and yet she loves him the same.

Mikasa makes up her mind then, to make the same choice. She shifts in bed until she’s hovering over him, foreheads pressed together. She leans forward, presses a light kiss against his mouth until he’s returning it, pulling her down and deepening it.

I choose you too.

Right now, nothing can break this peace.

----------

It sounds strange, but Mikasa has to learn how to live in the present. How to live for now, and not worry about what happens a week from today, or months down the road, or the year ahead. The learning curve is steep, but there are many reasons for it:

She is no longer in the military, and is free to reshuffle her priorities that don’t push timelines or goals.

Eren is not the same impulsive boy he once was. He will not charge towards danger with reckless abandon, and he is within her reach every day.

Mikasa is happier this way. It allows her to forget, even momentarily, and minimizes the breaks that threaten to consume her whole.

Time slips away from her, and she lets it.

Days are spent gardening, fishing, and building a life she never knew she wanted. Nights are spent in his arms, either quiet for comfort or loud with passion. The relationship they share is nothing like the one she dreamt in her youth, but it’s better in all the right ways. Eren is actually the quieter one between the two of them, and she never has to clamour for his attention. In return, she takes care of him and tells him she loves him without needing to.

This love is real, she thinks. Much like the love of their parents, and she is grateful for their example.

But the grief still lingers every now and then.

It sneaks up on her in the most blissful moments, and comes in the form of small, nagging reminders that this will not last forever. It always catches her off guard, and she has to ground herself against them.

It catches up to him too. There are times he clings onto her, or distracts himself with work, chopping more wood than they need until nightfall. On the hardest of days, he holds her steadfast and tight, or makes love to her like it’s the last time.

She knows his desperation like it’s her own.

In these moments, she wishes time would wait.

----------

But it doesn’t, of course. Time has no agency and pays no heed to her cause.

This blissful life comes to a screeching halt when a storm festers in the sky and a downpour of relentless rain hits the mountainside and reaches their cabin.

Mikasa has to cut her hunting trip short when it starts to pour. As she runs home, the deluge of water quickly turns the dirt into mud, and every step she takes threatens to suck her boots under and cause an accident. The sweltering summer heat combined with the downpour makes her struggle for breath, as if she is drowning in this rain.

She is soaked from top to bottom when she finally makes it home. When she sees him, Eren is inspecting the leaks in the roof of their house. He’s laid out buckets all over the floor to catch the droplets of rain that have seeped through, and he is so caught up in the task that he barely notices her.

As she collects herself, she realizes with shocking alarm that part of their floors are flooded, their furniture is in disarray, and all the crops they have carefully tended and grown cannot survive if this goes on. The tampered state of their home strikes like an awful robbery and still, this indifferent rain and storm continues to hammer and beat down on them. 

It draws forth memories of that fateful day. Yes, that gruesome time she’d been forced to watch her own parents struck down in front of her, pale and bleeding, and how in that instant, her world collapsed and crumbled under her feet. She thought of how nothing could hurt more.

Right now, it feels as though it is still happening. As if she never left that godforsaken cabin.

Mikasa doesn’t even notice Eren in front of her until he touches her shoulder. His face is resolute, as if he has a plan. He’s being pragmatic, but somehow it’s not helping.

“Go find shelter outside, and stay away from the rain. I’m going to reinforce the rafters, and it could take a while.”

When realization dawns on her, she grabs his wrist before he can make it out the door.

“No!” she screams, because this is quickly turning into an awful nightmare.

He turns around and gazes with confusion.

She doesn’t know how to explain to him that she doesn’t want to see his titan again. She doesn’t want him to use it. They shouldn’t have to resort to that ever again. The mere thought of Eren biting into his hand, blood spilling and becoming that humanoid beast is something she can no longer stomach, because it is the very reason his life hangs in the balance.

“We can fix this ourselves,” she pleads.

His confusion only deepens. “But we’ll get sick in the rain.”

She shakes her head. He tugs his arm away, takes one step forward, but she catches the end of his shirtsleeve. “Eren, please! You don’t need to transform! You shouldn’t have to. It’s in the past now. We’ve moved on from that–”

“Mikasa.”

She stops, because she knows she is unravelling and now his expression hinges on anger. There is a fire kindling in his eyes that aches familiar, something she has not seen in a long while. She cannot recall the last time he’d been stern with her.

He yanks his hand from her grasp, and it sharpens the ache in her heart. As if noticing, he repeats his command, albeit much gentler.

“I’ll be back. Find shelter in the meantime.”

Eventually, she curls up against a sturdy tree with branches long enough to shield her from most of the rainfall. The lightning strike signalling his transformation blends too perfectly with the rain and storm, and it makes her wince. Even now, she still cannot fathom the swirl of emotions coursing her mind and beating at her heart.

Falling back to old habits, she brings the damp red scarf up to her nose. The familiarity of the old and tattered thing has never failed to comfort her in the most trying times.

Hugging her knees tighter, she forces herself to watch his titan. A hard-hitting sight to behold, because she hasn’t seen it in two years. This dull and harrowing realization sinks and cements itself in the spaces of her heart. Time is catching up to her now.

In the distance, he re-aligns the wooden rafters of their roof and secures one of their tarps over the leaks – a temporary fix. She knows he will use his titan again to rebuild it, and a bitter sensation settles in her mouth.

It is still raining when he finishes. By the time he’s cut himself out of his titan and makes it back home, Mikasa has already swept the debris to one side and is halfway through scrubbing their floors. Her efforts come off vain and hopeless, but it is difficult to care about anything besides restoring this place back to its former state.

When he crouches beside her, she quietly asks for space. To his cocked brow, she reassures him she’s not angry with him, because she’s not.

She knows this grief very well. A part of her always knew that it would find her again and take root. No amount of distractions will get it out this time. She is mortified and distraught, but somehow it feels important. Feels necessary.

She cannot find it in herself to say it loud, only knows it deep inside of herself.

----------

It doesn’t stop raining.

Mikasa falls asleep blocking the low murmurs of thunder, and wakes to the patter of rain against their windows. Her mind goes to the garden every once in a while, wondering if any of their crops could survive this storm. When the rain loosens to a light drizzle, she takes the chance to salvage what is left and gets her answer.

Nothing.

She punches a divot into the ground, knuckles white and shaking.

They are drowned. She only finds mud, wilted leaves and dead roots. Even her plants have suffocated from this storm. She sits back on her knees and feels the rain seeping her through her hair, and soaking through scarf and cardigan. The muddy terrain below her seems to boil and bubble underneath this sweltering heat and humid rain.

The downpour worsens then. She watches the thunderhead spiralling above the mountains, gathering another storm within its grasp. She should retreat to the confines of the cabin, but instead she sinks in this rain.

Fuck.

She mulls over the pain in the heavy fog of her mind, and weeps in the confined spaces. It was inevitable; every break and every snap colliding and bursting and erupting at the seams. There is nothing to wake her from this crumbling resolve. It hits her like open floodgates, a broken dam, or a single spark of wildfire.

I’m going to lose him.

Ackerman blood pumps through her veins, fuels her with the strength of a hundred men, and yet she is powerless to protect those who matter. She curses the stars and the goddess for saddling her with such a tragic and atrocious destiny; tending a love inside her that would grow beyond measure, only so she can watch him fade and wither too soon.

I would have to give this up.

She crouches into the field, head buried in her arms. Her hands grip the dirt beneath her like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing tethering her to this earth. She screams until her lungs give out, throwing her voice into the howling winds and joining the cacophonous sound. Her mind fills with images of life without him – she’s always resisted them – and the inevitability of it all comes down like crashing waves, robbing her of air and space to breathe.

She can almost feel the comfort of his arms starting to leave her. It renders her desperate and gasping for breath. Like a fish dragged out of water, or rain drying up in the sun.

I would have to forfeit all we’ve built and grown.

She exhales with exasperation, and feels her chest heaving.

But this life is paradise. Eren is my–

“Mikasa!”

Home.

She misses the panic in his tone. She misses his voice altogether.

He is all I ever–

A jacket is laid on top of her. Strong arms wrap around her.

Wanted.

She tries to breathe in deeply, and finds the task arduous with the weight on her chest and the lump in her throat. Her hands latch onto him like an anchor in this storm, and she holds on tight. He gently caresses her back in a steady rhythm – consistent and grounded in light of this erratic storm.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Mikasa follows his motions like a musical beat.

Eventually, she finds her breath.

Somehow, her despairing soul is rocked to quiet mending.

What am I to you?

Eren takes her hands and pulls her to her feet. She grasps onto him and follows him home, knowing he will ease her out of darkness again. He is the only one to soothe her aches, quiet the noise and let everything else fade into the background. She loves him completely for it.

You are everything.

----------

Lucidness returns to her as she dries and changes out of her wet clothes. Her face is red and puffy and there is a heaviness to her gait, but she comes out of the bedroom anyway and joins him in front of the fireplace. For a while, she holds out her hands and gleans warmth from the radiating fire.

“The storm makes me restless,” she breaks silence, eyeing a few wandering embers.

He gives a hum of agreement.

She turns her head to peek at him. “I’m sorry. I promised I’d do my best not to bring this up, but…” She shakes her head, pushing herself to say it in spite of her reluctance. “…I can’t see beyond the next two years. There’s nothing there. No future, no cause... Almost as if time will stop completely. And then I find myself wondering if things would have been different had we chosen to stay behind, but it’s not as though the curse would…” Her voice trails off completely, and she rubs the sting out of her eyes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to ramble.”

He watches her, expression crinkling a little.

“It would have been the same,” he tells, just above a tired whisper.

Mikasa’s face drops and she swivels to face him, legs still tucked underneath.

“How?”

Eren swallows hard, face twisting in pain and jaw hardening. The same expression that finds him when he dreams in memories, or speaks of destruction.

“It would have been by your hand instead,” he says plainly, but not without reservation. “I’ll lose myself and use the founder’s powers to start a war. Destroy the world according to her will. I push through with it knowing it’s wrong and cruel, but my actions won’t be justified. You’ll stop me because of it.”

Her entire face becomes hot all of a sudden. She just stares at her clenched fists, unsure why he sometimes speaks as though it’s still going to happen, and refusing to comprehend how she could ever –

Eren touches her shoulder, as if reading her mind.

“Mikasa. You do it to save me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ll save humanity because of it, and nobody will live in fear of titans after that.”

She’s shaking her head, eyes closed shut and nails digging into her skin. Even two years past, and she still doesn’t understand. She doubts she will ever understand. To choose between Eren and the fate of the world is too cruel of a decision to even fathom, let alone rest on her shoulders. As if the world hasn’t been unkind to her already.

She breathes with exasperation and looks at him with finality and defiance.

“I don’t want to make that choice,” she says, but then quietly, in the back of her mind, she wonders if she already did.

His expression softens a bit. “Everything changed the night you told me you loved me. It made me feel… human, because I loved you the same.”

She stiffens with the truth, face twisting and crumpling between anger, pain and confusion.

“No one ever made me feel that way. It was mine the whole time,” he continues, taking her clenched fists in his fingers and unwinding them. Her palms hurt, but she finds comfort in his hands folding over hers. She’s trembling like she’s on fire, but the calm and unchanging green of his gaze drowns out her rage.

“Escaping here was something I wanted, a choice I made with my heart. I would do it again and again, unless…”

She stares at him, unsure of the reason his voice breaks.

Eren sighs and dips his head, making certain they are seeing eye to eye.

“Mikasa, do you ever regret this?” he asks for the first time, with obvious difficulty. “I only have two years left. It will never be enough, and even now I still cause you so much pain and suffering–”

“No,” she cuts off, settling the argument once and for all. She shakes her head furiously, halting the thought before it sails. “I would do it again.”

And without thinking, she springs forward and throws her arms around his figure. Her kiss is hard and desperate. She is determined to prove every word. He returns it in full, and she cannot imagine why she would ever choose otherwise.

“I love you,” he says, even though he doesn’t need to. She feels it in everything he does.

They part only so their foreheads can press together, breaths mingling in between.

“I wish we had more time,” he murmurs softly. “That was the wish I made under the stars.”

She pulls back to memorize every line and curve of his face. “I love you too.”

It’s the only thing that needs to be said, and suddenly she is grateful for their choice.

Afterwards, she holds him tight and close to her, knowing she will do so until she is forced to let go.

----------

She loves him and he loves her back. On the surface, it seems easy, but she knows in some dark crevice of her mind, that even though this love is selfish – escaping to these mountains was selfish – it is also good.

It is clear like the blue reflective sheen of the ocean. Bright in the dark like the constellations in the night sky and the stars they wished upon. Beautiful in the midst of this world’s unending horror and cruelty.

Her source of strength. The root of his humanity.

This love is enough.

Time will come when it will teach her to grow, too.

----------

The rain stops and gives way to a brighter morning.

From her window, Mikasa spots the luminous streaks of colour in the sky, no doubt left behind by the storm, and feels as though a heavy weight has been lifted off her chest.

Eren is still sleeping beside her and quietly she extracts herself out of his embrace. She makes her way outside, where the sun warms her face and a soft breeze sweeps past her. The silence is easy and comforting. For a moment, she allows herself to bask in this delicate peace.

In the corner of her eye, she finds something in the garden. Perhaps not everything drowned in the rain.

Campanulas.

Mikasa crouches by the patch of purple-petaled flowers and traces her finger along one of them, careful not to disturb their growth. She wonders how they managed to endure the flood, even bloom as a result of it. So frail in appearance, but their roots must be deep, sturdy and strong.

Strange how this bellflower seems to follow her wherever she goes.

It grows under the wrath of the titans, and weathers the worst of storms. It is the only thing to survive the wreckage. It’s almost incredible how they managed to grow such a thing; she and Eren are so damaged themselves.

Perhaps this flower will remain. Just like the memories they’ve made.

Mikasa glances at her surroundings. The mountains in the distance, the trees circling their cabin, the river flowing downward and everything else still standing.

She sees this home they’ve built and finds pieces of him everywhere; his heart is carved in everything they’ve made, and said, and done.

When he passes on, maybe it will be enough.

----------

[straycat-writes]

i saw that you write for ikemen vampire as well, so if it's alright with you i was wondering if you could write headcanons for mozart, vincent, comte, and arthur with a depressed/suicidal s/o who's main coping mechanism is humor? like they joke abt suicide a lot + make jokes abt feeling shitty when asked since they dont wanna worry anyone much but their jokes start getting increasingly concerning bc its smth i do a lot lol,, u dont need to do this if ur not comfortable.. thx and love your work!!

anon added: wait fuck i just remembered only three characters for headcanons so just do it for mozart, vincent, and arthur. thank u!

notes: Whaaat, come on, you cannot just do my husband dirty like that, of course I’ll do all four 😆 Before we begin, since everyone experiences stuff like this differently, our experiences might not be exactly the same, so these might not be universal. In any case, I hope you feel better 🥺💕

trigger warning(s): depression, mentions of suicide, and suicidal ideation.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

He did notice the jokes each time, but at first, he didn’t necessarily feel the need to intervene.

Once was alright, he thought you might just have a different sense of humor. Twice was morbid, but he brushed it off. But thrice was downright worrying, and he was starting to suspect something might be wrong.

He observed you make increasingly dark jokes for weeks on end, and brush off anyone who tried to ask you about them, before he decided that enough was enough.

“What is wrong with you?”

It’s a blunt question, completely tactless, but only because he’s actually quite concerned and doesn’t how else to put it. Nonetheless, it catches you off-guard.

“What do you mean?”

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t play dumb with me, (y/n). Have you been spending too much time with shitty Dazai again?”

When you don’t say anything, the scowl on his face melts into a concerned frown. He wants to help, he really does, but it’s hard for someone like him to deal with such heavy feelings, whether his own or someone else’s. After all, words have never been his preferred medium of expression.

So, he decides not to use them. Instead, he envelopes you in a long, silent hug. It’s a little stiff, but when you start crying softy on his shoulder, he gives in and pulls you even closer, gently stroking your hair.

Up until then, you had no idea that the stern, ice-cold Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could ever feel so…familiarly warm and soft, with his arms around you.

“I’m not asking you to confess anything, (y/n). I’m not even asking you to tell me anything. I…actually have no idea how to fix any of this, but…Just…know that you don’t have to deal with this on your own.”

Vincent van Gogh

Out of everyone, it would probably take Vincent the least time to notice when something is wrong with you.

The morbid humor is one thing, but what really concerns him is how hollow your laugh has started to sound, and the glazed…empty look you get in your eyes when you think no one is looking.

He notices because he knows what to look for, because he has already seen too much of it, in himself.

“(Y/n), sweetheart, are you okay?”

“Hm? Yes, of course, Vincent. Why do you ask?”

“…Why do you think?”

There is a certain look in his eyes, so wistfully sad, as if mourning something he hasn’t even lost yet, and you just know that he knows. There is no use lying to him. In hindsight, you think, you should have known you could hide it from anyone except him.

When a lone tear slips down your cheek, he gently wipes it away and holds your face with both hands, looking into your eyes. To your surprise, and immense pain, his own are glistening with tears too.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“…Because it’s my problem and I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”

You realize it doesn’t make much sense now when you say it out loud, but you knew he was all too familiar with this complete and utter despair, this emptiness you felt inside of yourself, and you never wanted him to feel it again, even if it was by proxy.

But now, he stands in front of you, hands on either side of your face, and he places a chaste, gentle kiss on your forehead. He doesn’t say anything, but you realize what he means. I’m here. I understand. You’re not alone.

(note: for those who don’t know, Vincent van Gogh committed suicide at the age of thirty-seven.)

Le Comte de Saint-Germain

He is used to the residents of his mansion having…strange sense of humor and habits, honestly.

Even so, when you make a jest about killing yourself for the fifth time in a row, he can’t help but be worried. There are only two explanations, you either just have a very, very dark idea of humor, in which case there was nothing much he could do except gentle advisory, or there was indeed something very wrong.

He keeps hoping it’s not the latter, but days pass and your jokes keep getting more and more morbid, and any attempts to talk to you about the issue are only met with smooth elusiveness.

“I’m only kidding, Comte. Of course, I’m not going to throw myself off the roof. Probably.”

“…I think we need to talk, ma cherie.”

That sentence in itself is enough to scare anyone half to death, and when you have so much to hide, even more so.

The talk is long and tedious, with quite a lot of repressed emotions involved. On your part, first there is the defensive anger. Of course, there isn’t anything wrong, how dare he imply otherwise? Then there is the desperate denial, because ‘ignore the problem until it goes away’, right? Except, this problem isn’t going away on its own, and you both know that.

Finally, there is the reluctant acceptance, and a lot of crying. Throughout this, he is as calm and collected on the outside as he always is, even when you grip the front of his coat and cry in his embrace. You’re barely holding yourself together, so he needs to be your support.

But on the inside, there is a storm raging. You were supposed to be his responsibility. He was the one who brought you here, and he was just watching you wither away like this in front of his eyes? What kind of a person did that make him? Just how much of a failure is he?

“I’m so sorry for not noticing sooner, ma cherie. I have failed you.”

“Wh-what?”

“I was supposed to protect you from everything, including yourself. Evidently, I have failed at that, and my heart aches at the thought of you suffering all on your own. But I intend to rectify my fault a thousand times over.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, and without a warning, more tears spill.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Peculiar taste of humor is kind of Arthur’s brand. He enjoys his shamelessly perverted jokes, so he assumed you enjoy your dark ones.

Even so, he does get a little worried when he notices how your first instinct to almost anything is self-deprecation and jokes about killing yourself at the slightest provocation, and how you laugh a little too loud and too much when asked about any of it.

The more he notices, the more concerned he gets, and the more confused about just what to do about it.

At first, he tries to deflect your morbid jokes with some of his own, just to see how you would react. But the moment he talks of killing himself, you go pale, asking him to stop with such distress in your voice that he ends up feeling guilty.

But even after that, it doesn’t stop you from doing it yourself.

“Welp, guess I’ll just go drown in a river somewhere.”

“Ahahaha, but consider this, how about you…don’t?”

He’s always so playful, and even fickle that it almost slips your mind that he is a writer, after all, and a very observant one at that. He is intelligent and notices every little thing, even if he doesn’t show it. That includes the fact that your laugh has been sounding more and more empty lately, your smile seeming more and more like fake plastic.

So, when he confronts you about it, it takes you by surprise.

“Whatever do you mean, Arthur? I’m fine.”

“Right…Stop lying to me, (y/n).”

You frown. You should have known how hard it would be to hide anything from Arthur for too long. How long did you really think you could keep up this façade? The realization comes like a slap to the face, and it’s almost like your metaphorical mask drops. You start crying.

He is distressed at the sudden turn of events, but tries his best to console you. As he hugs you to his chest, gently rubbing soothing circles on your back, he wonders if he could have done something to help you sooner.

“Listen, sweetheart. I don’t claim to know what you’re going through, but I do know that you need help. I know I cannot just fix whatever…this is, but I can promise that I’m going to be here with you, through everything”

You laugh bitterly, “It gets ugly.”

“I don’t care.” He shakes his head, “I’m going to be here with you, whether you want me to be or not, and I promise to hold you together as you scream your throat raw trying to hold yourself together, promise to…stand by you as you save yourself. You do not have to do this alone.”

He kisses you softly, only for a moment, soft and true on the lips.

“Show me every dark and hideous, every bitter thing about your soul…and then, let me love you anyway.”

[lia-jones]

Growing Together - Chapter Seventeen - One Guest Too Many

Author's note: If you haven't read it already, I invite you to read my Halloween Ficlet: His Worst Nightmare. It has insight into what is about to happen in this chapter, and it will make it richer. I hope you like it. Enjoy!

Victor stroked his sleeping son’s curls before turning off the light. It was expected that Owen wouldn’t take long to fall asleep, he had been running around all afternoon, playing soccer with his father. With a chuckle, Victor closed Owen’s bedroom door and walked to the living room, where his wife waited for him.

He admired her from the doorframe, sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed on the upholstery as she minded her phone. For years, he had given up on his dream of building a home, resigned to a seemingly certain fate of solitude. He still couldn’t believe that this was his reality now. He was a husband and a father, he shared his bed and played soccer in the park, he had Valentine’s Day dinners and teacher-parent meetings. He was so happy that sometimes it was hard to keep his calm and collected demeanor. It was like he could burst at his seams at any moment, and laugh until he cried.

His heart jumped with joy when the love of his life turned to him, welcoming him with a warm smile.

“He’s sleeping?”

“Yes.” He smiled back. “Didn’t even stir when I went to check on him.”

He sat beside her, pulling her feet onto his lap, taking the phone from his pocket.

“Alright, let’s get this done.” He gently squeezed her toes.

“Ready when you are.” Andrea showed him her schedule on her phone.

There had been a slight change in their Sunday evening, one that was of the utmost importance. Between LFG and LCG affairs, and the duties they entailed, it was essential that they coordinate their schedules, so at least one of them could attend to Owen at all times and they had some free time on the weekends. It was a delicate dance, oftentimes almost impossible to execute, but they would always find a way.

“Alright.” He focused on his screen. “At 7 pm tomorrow, dinner with the partners from London.”

“On my schedule.” She nodded, grimacing after, as she remembered something. “Damn it, we need to find a babysitter. Do you think we could leave Bug with Goldman?”

Victor smirked. Of course he had thought of that already, who did she think he was?

“Goldman is available, I already confirmed with him. He’ll take Owen.” Victor swiped again on his phone. “Tuesday. I can pick up Owen from school and make dinner. I have nothing past 6 pm.”

“Actually, we should go shopping to get some clothes for him. We could go pick him up together and head to the mall, maybe have dinner there?”

“Didn’t you tell me you had to go to the University on Tuesday?” He checked on his phone, wondering if he had missed it.

“I had to reschedule for Friday, Olive will be away on a business trip on Tuesday.”

“You’ll have to reschedule.” Victor responded tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t be too upset.

“You’re busy?” She checked her phone.

“I am.” He nodded, preparing himself for a reaction. “And so are you. Mia invited us for dinner on Friday.”

“Ugh.” She complained, rubbing her forehead. “Why?”

“Andrea.” He tried to appease her.

“Oh please, you know she just wants to ask one of us for an interview or a photo shoot.” She removed her feet from his lap in protest. “We don’t have time for anything else, but we have for this?”

“She keeps inviting us and I keep refusing. I couldn’t say no again. Besides, if a certain someone would update her schedule when she knows she will be busy, none of this would’ve happened.” He scolded.

“Friday is still not good for me.” She glared at him.

“You were the one who agreed to a double date with them on our wedding day. I thought you wanted this. You still don’t like her?”

“I don’t not like her.” She sighed. “I just don’t like like her. But that’s not the point anyway, I can’t do it on Friday.”

Victor paused for a moment, assessing the situation. Despite what he had thought, Andrea was still having a hard time fully accepting his past, and even after marrying him, there seemed to be something that was making her jealous. That, Victor simply could not have. He had to show his wife the truth, that she was the only woman for him, and the best way to do it was to get them both together. Now, more than ever, it was important that they went.

“Ok, then.” Victor sat back with a smirk. “Since you are unavailable, you should call her and cancel. I’m sure she will understand.”

Andrea froze, staring at him, not expecting his move. Andrea could be many things, but she wasn’t impolite, and Mia would insist enough for her to say yes. She was relying on Victor to be the villain and refuse since she knew she wouldn’t be able to do it herself.

“Maybe you could do it.” She practically batted her eyelids at him. “She talked to you first.”

“Aren’t you the busy one?” He lifted a brow at her. “Don’t expect me to do your dirty work.”

“You received her invitation, not me.” She ran her hand across his chest slowly, knowing how it would affect him. “I think you-”

“Nope.” It took all his strength to resist her, as her touch was enough to cloud his judgment and make him cave. “If you are the one who can’t make it, you should be the one to tell her.”

Andrea rolled her eyes and sighed, defeated.

“Fine, we’re going then.” She sat straight on the sofa. “She’s going to make me agree anyway, may as well save me the trouble.”

“Excellent.” Victor pulled her to his lap, craving more of her. “Now that that is settled, we can spend time on other activities.”

“And for the record… Mmm.” She moaned as Victor pulled her even closer, his lips tracing her jaw. “I did not agree to go on a double date.”

“Yes, you did.” He spoke with his lips still pressed on her skin, busy tasting her. “We should have a double date.” He teased, mimicking her voice. “Ignore what Victor says about your food, we can cook together.”

“That does sound like something I would say.” Her fingers ran through his hair, sending ripples of pleasure down his spine. “Although I do not sound like that.”

“You don’t.” A wicked smile widened on his face, as he buried it in the nape of her neck. “You sound shorter.”

“I beg your pardon?!” She pulled away with a gasp.

Victor, however, knew his wife better than anyone and was quick to react. He took her in a hungry kiss, deeply and greedily, his body aching for her, his erection pressing against the fabric of his sweat pants. By the time they broke the kiss, both panting and drunken with lust, she had long forgotten what she was supposed to be upset about.

Not wasting any time, he took his love in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, ready to show her how special she was to him, ending their weekend on a perfect note.

His wife complained during the week about the mountain of emails Mia had sent her, excited about their night together. They had agreed to cook together that evening, partly to bond, partly to spite him, so they regularly traded recipes, deciding on one that could fit everyone’s taste. Unsurprisingly, Victor was on dessert duty and was asked to bring pudding.

Victor watched his wife as they took the elevator to Mia’s apartment, her eyes slightly shiny from exhaustion, yet an honest smile on her face. She had had a terrible week and somehow managed to sleep even less than him, so he figured at this point she was actually welcoming a moment of relaxation with friends, even if it was with Mia.

Naturally, Mia had to almost ruin it all the moment she opened the door. She was so excited she almost tackled Andrea to the ground with a hug, if not for Victor’s vigilant hand.

“Watch it, dummy.” He scolded. “I want to leave here with my wife in one piece, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m so sorry, Andrea.” Mia clumsily brushed his wife’s clothes with her hands. “I’m just so happy to see you here.”

Victor glanced at his son, whose eyes were wide in horror.

“You must be Owen!” She beamed at him. “My name is Mia, how are you?”

“Hi, pleased to meet you.” He quickly extended his hand to shake hers, before she got any ideas about hugging him as well. Smart boy.

“You are your father’s son, so polite!” She entered the apartment, inviting them in. “Did you bring the goods?” Mia glanced at the bags Andrea was holding.

“Don’t worry, I got your stash.” She chuckled, handing her one of the bags.

“It’s pudding, not heroin.” Victor scoffed, as he took his son’s coat off.

“It might as well have heroin, it’s so addictive.” Mia peeked inside the bag. “Come in, Gavin is in the kitchen preparing some ingredients.”

The last time he had been in Mia’s apartment was when he brought her home from the hospital, after the Blackout and the Queen’s death. He had laid her in bed, tucked her in, telling her to rest, and cooked her lunch, leaving her kitchen spotless afterwards. As he had navigated the foreign stove and cabinets, taking and putting back ingredients and utensils, he was confident they had a chance, and he would fight for it. His joy, however, had a bittersweet taste, like he had lost something significant that day, although he didn’t know what. There was a feeling of longing and sadness eating at him, one that not even the thought of finally having a relationship with Mia could fill. As usual, he had shoved it aside, like he did with most of his feelings, focusing on the present moment.

In hindsight, maybe he knew he was so tired of being lonely that he was mistaking things. Maybe he knew he didn’t love her. When she handed him the wedding invitation, it was a blow, but not as deadly as he thought it would be. And when he met his wife, in that beautiful teal dress, with that distracting peacock on her wrist, he knew right away that he had finally found out what love felt like, and he was never able to let go. Andrea needed to know that, like she knew the sun was hot - without a shadow of a doubt.

They found Gavin chopping onions at the counter, an English Springer Spaniel at his feet, keeping him company. Owen immediately became fascinated with the opportunity of making a canine friend.

“Can I pet him?” He completely ignored Gavin’s attempt to greet him.

“Yes, he is friendly.” Gavin looked at him with sweet eyes. “Scratch his ears, he likes that.”

“What’s his name?” Owen did as suggested, giggling when the dog turned his head slightly, to fully enjoy the gesture.

“Flyer.” Mia chimed in. “You know, he used to be a police dog. We took him home when he became too old to do the job.”

“He used to chase criminals?” Owen became even more excited.

Victor saw himself years ago, making soup in that kitchen, alone with his thoughts, and looked at his wife, watching over his son, eyes trained on him and the dog’s reaction. His heart beat faster, bringing light to a truth: the feelings of longing and loss had vanished the moment he laid eyes on Andrea. She was his destiny, he was certain of that. He came behind her, gently wrapping her hand with his, as a silent thank you

“He caught a lot of criminals in his day.” Gavin took him away from his thoughts, still talking about his pet. “He also has a good nose for drugs, that was his job for quite a while.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t let him smell my dad’s pudding.” Owen spoke in all seriousness, making them all laugh.

“Ok, we need to start dinner.” Mia turned to the boy. “Owen, would you like to watch cartoons with Flyer, while we cook dinner? Or would you rather stay here with us?”

“Can I watch cartoons, please?” Owen asked. Andrea seemed hesitant.

“Don’t worry. Flyer will take good care of him, won’t you boy?” Gavin ran his fingers through the dog’s soft brown and white coat. “And he’s just in the next room, we’ll hear him if he needs us.”

“Behave.” Victor stroked his son’s curls before he left for the living room, the dog right behind him.

“Aw, you’re a dad.” Mia cooed at Victor.

“I am.“ Victor smiled, pulling his wife to his side, his hand caressing her back. “So, I was promised a meal. Do I have to make it myself?” He teased.

“Oh no, today I will make you swallow your bitter words with my cooking abilities.” Mia lifted her chin. “You just stay there, enjoying your wine and the show.” Mia took a pan out of her cupboard, showing it to his wife. "Andrea and I will cook dinner.”

Victor had to admit, it was quite the show. A horror movie, to be exact. Some things did never change, and Mia in the kitchen was one of them. If not for his and Andrea’s watchful eye, she would’ve set the kitchen on fire at least three times. Victor was antsy on his seat, seeing her almost make all kinds of mistakes, aching to take over, but since Mia had decided he wouldn’t touch the food unless it was to eat it, he couldn’t help but sit idly watching his wife cook and stop every one of Mia’s attempts to kill them all. So much for showing her cooking prowess. At least she was wise enough to ask Andrea to participate.

“How are you still alive? Or your husband?” Victor scolded.

“Well, it’s a new recipe.” Mia pouted. “Everyone has troubles when cooking something new.”

“Just sit here and watch while Andrea does it.” Victor sighed, annoyed. “Maybe you can learn a thing or two.”

“I definitely can learn a lot.” Mia laughed nervously, taking a pen and paper to take notes. “This way is probably better.”

“Safer is what you mean.” Victor continued. “Although I have to say, if there is anyone here who can think of a way of accidentally killing someone with a pen, it’s you.”

“Come on, she was not that bad!” Andrea smiled at Mia. “In any case, be careful with my husband. I need to take him home in one piece, or they won’t give me back my deposit.”

“I should be the one concerned here!” Mia laughed, then turning to Victor. “Do you remember how we first met? You hit me with your ball! You’re the dangerous one.”

“I hit you with a ball because a certain dummy didn’t know any better than to get out of the way.” He calmly retorted.

“It was your lousy aim!” She argued. “You made me pudding the next day, remember? I still have your bowl!” Turning to the cupboard,she took something from it. “Here! My souvenir.”

Victor’s mind went back to his childhood as he saw the old bowl. He remembered his child self, always acting strong and logical, when inside he was fragile and hungry for affection. If he could travel back in time again he would go to that boy and tell him that despite what was still ahead, he would be alright.

“You kept it all this time?” His voice was hoarse with emotion.

“Of course.” Mia replied, her voice shaky.

Gavin cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. Victor raised his eyes to meet his wife’s, finding them shiny and sad. She was getting it all wrong. He was moved, yes, but not because he was reminiscing on some sweet memory. It was because he could see how far he had come, and how blessed he was now. It was not because of Mia, it was because of her.

“This has to be a record for you.” Victor changed his tone to a mocking one. “You kept something for over twenty years and didn’t break it.”

“Dinner is almost ready.” Gavin declared, probably more because he wanted to change the subject than the urgency of the food being served. “I’ll go set the table.”

“Help Andrea, I’ll go.” Mia got up from her seat, heading for the living room.

“It’s alright, I’ll help Andrea.” Victor got up from his seat.

When they were finally alone, he then turned to his wife, his arm wrapping around her waist, his hand cupping her cheek lovingly, making her face him.

“Don’t entertain silly ideas in your head.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned.

“I’m yours.” He looked into her eyes, hoping she could see the truth in his.

She stood silent for a moment, staring back at him.

“Hey, what are you people waiting for?” Mia called from the living room. “The table is set.”

After some good food and some good wine, Andrea’s light seemed to shine a little brighter, carefree, bantering and laughing.

“Did I tell you already how much I love your dog?” She smiled. “Look at him, watching over Owen. It’s adorable.” She gazed lovingly at their son, who had fallen asleep on the couch after dinner.

“Alright, who wants a final drink?” Mia spoke, bringing a tray with several liqueur bottles.

“As long as you don’t spill it on me, like you almost did with the wine.” Victor retorted.

“Please, even if I ruin your black shirt, you have hundreds of them.” Mia swatted at him.

Before Victor could argue, Andrea jumped in, all excited.

“Wait, wait! I know this one!” She raised her hand playfully. “I have been extensively educated on the subject of black shirts, I have been preparing for this moment for two years now.”

Victor remembered all the lectures he had given his wife when she said he “looked like he always wore the same shirt.” That was her chance for retaliation. He braced himself for impact.

“Apparently they all look alike but they are all different.” His wife continued. “There are many shades of black. For example, I would say this one is closer to coal than pitch black, but Victor has shirts in other tones, like jet black, onyx or raven. Also, the collars differ, there is the classic, the button down, the pinned, and my favorite, the mandarin. The fabric is also different, there is Oxford cloth, Pinpoint Oxford, Royal Oxford, among other material and finishing touches. They can also have different buttons, different cuffs, you name it. Victor has many black shirts, but I can guarantee you there aren’t two alike.”

Victor was stunned. To be honest, he never thought she had heard his explanation on the matter, she would always glare at him with half hooded eyes, like she was bored to death. But she did. Moreover, she apparently memorized it.

“Surprised?” She gave him a sly smile. “So what’s my grade, Teacher Victor?”

He couldn’t help but grin at her. Under the table, he took her hand, tracing on her palm A+.

“Wow, Victor seems impressed! That’s not a common feat!” Mia took a sip of her drink. “You are truly made for each other. I’m honestly glad everything ended well and not in bloody tragedy.”

“What do you mean, bloody tragedy?” Andrea frowned.

There was a moment of silence in the kitchen. Gavin glared at Mia.

“They need to know.” Mia turned to Gavin, in all seriousness.

“Need to know what?” Victor asked.

Another long pause. The hosting couple looked down.

“Mia.” Victor warned, starting to lose his patience.

“Ok… So… Something happened at your wedding.” Mia started. “The reason why I pulled you into the house before the reception… was because there was someone with a gun trying to hurt you.”

“Wait, what?” Andrea was stunned. “Who?”

Mia took a deep breath.

“It was Daniel, Andrea. I saw him on top of a tree, rifle in hand. He was trying to kill you.”

Andrea looked at Mia with wide eyes, the words still sinking in her. Victor, on the other hand, was livid.

“Daniel was at my wedding?” Victor snapped, enraged. “How am I only knowing of this-”

He was interrupted by a sudden movement in his peripheral vision. Andrea had doubled over, spilling the contents of her stomach all over Mia’s floor.

“Do you feel sick?” He asked his still fairly pale wife while they were driving home. “Let me know if you need me to pull over.”

“I’m fine.” She croaked. “Is Owen-”

“He’s asleep.” Victor assured her.

“Did Gavin explain how it happened, how he…” Andrea shook her head in disbelief. “How did he get in there in the first place?”

It was his fault. He was careless. He let his guard down.

“I will speak to Gavin later. Don’t be afraid, I will not let him hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid.” Andrea’s anger seeped through her voice. “I’m infuriated. I’m tired of people always thinking they can take whatever they want.” She looked Victor in the eyes, her lip quivering. “I’m sick of being bullied.”

Victor’s jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt. He was careless, he had let himself entertain with his happiness, letting his guard down. He was an idiot for believing the world would let him catch a break. And if not for Mia and Gavin, he would have paid a painful price: he would have lost what he treasured the most.

He clenched the steering wheel hard, vowing to himself never to make the same mistake again. And Daniel would be punished for all the pain that he caused, and curse the day he laid a hand on Victor’s precious Light.

[chestnut-b]

Himawari Chapter 10

“Is he happy there, Kakashi?” Sarutobi asked.

The man had looked oddly sheepish.

“Frankly, if I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t have thought we were talking about the same person.”

Then Kakashi cast his gaze down in thought. Looking up again, his eye turned into a thin crescent.

“When he’s with the children, you couldn’t tear the smile off his face even if you tried.”

Chapter 10 of a Demon Slayer AU

“Please make yourself comfortable, Hatake-dono. I’m afraid the Master was called on some urgent business, but will be returning shortly.” 

The servant bowed apologetically, and left Kakashi, who had just arrived at the Sarutobi estate, to his devices. 

The former Flame Hashira was one of the lucky few who had lived to retire, with most of his parts intact, having lost only a leg vanquishing an Upper Moon demon. After he was sure the performance of his successor and students were satisfactory, he’d taken the ridiculous salary afforded to his position, and charted what was one of the first expeditions West by ship. For all his worldliness, Sarutobi was soon dubbed ‘The Professor’.

The collection of paraphernalia and tomes from his years abroad was proudly displayed in the room he favoured for entertaining guests, and Kakashi was only too happy to browse. 

Grabbing the nearest book, curiously bound in animal hide, he found it unsurprisingly filled with words foreign to him. The illustrations; of man-bull beasts, winged men, one-eyed cyclops’, of ships rocked against cliffs, all seemed to depict epic myths and cautionary tales. 

Between its pages were several loose sheets of paper, and as soon as his eyes settled on the writings, his lips quirked into a smile.

The language, familiar. The handwriting, even more so. 

Ever the studious one...

He could easily see a younger Iruka listening intently to Sarutobi narrate these fantastical tales, enthusiastically writing these down for his own future references. Browsing through the notes, it seemed the book was about ancient mythology, of civilisations long past. 

He closed the book, not wanting to deny himself a chance to quiz the teacher about it later.

Kakashi turned his attention to a shelf along the edge of the room, lined with framed pictures. Products of one of the more fascinating curiosities Sarutobi had returned with. The first time he’d had his photo taken, it was on his last visit here together with his Father. A camera, he’d called it. 

Among the photographs one seemed to draw his attention. A grinning boy, and a young child with dark eyes, sporting the traditional doll-like hairstyle, dressed in kimono woven with wisteria motifs typically worn by the Senju girls. 

Before he could conjure any particular thoughts about it, he heard a happy giggle from the corridor. He turned to see a brown-haired toddler staring at him from the doorway. His appearance was followed by the sound of mismatched footsteps, and the child was quickly scooped up from the floor, into the arms of the person who had summoned Kakashi in the first place.

“Excuse my lateness, Kakashi, I had some troublesome things to attend to.” The master of the house called for a servant, and one came running in, taking the baby from his arms and retreating just as quickly. 

Soon, he was sitting on the tatami floor with a cup of tea before him. Sarutobi always took pleasure in the ritual, something Iruka had obviously inherited from his master. Kakashi wasn’t nearly as fond of it, but the grateful smile that usually followed his efforts was not something he disliked.

“I appreciate you taking the time for the detour.” The elder started, reaching for his pipe. “How is Oyakata-sama?” 

Still alive, for some reason. Is what he would have liked to say, but Kakashi was here on a little mission of his own, and so he reconsidered.

“His condition was not as favourable as it was on my last visit, I’m afraid. But it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen him, things might have changed.” Kakashi replied. Sarutobi’s brows furrowed unhappily.

“That is unfortunate to hear, but I suppose it is unavoidable. Tell me Kakashi, how fares that foolish student of mine?”

He’d expected a little more fondness, and a little less frustration. It only served to prick at his curiosity. 

“Iruka seems to be managing just fine.” He said jovially. “Last he wrote, he was having some fun with gunpowder.” There was a series of coughs, and the smoke made his own nose itch, but he resisted the urge to react. 

When he recovered, he flashed Kakashi a considering look, but instead of asking what he really wanted to, he grunted. 

“Trouble and him are never far apart, as usual.”

“It is as you say.” Kakashi followed, secretly hoping for him to divulge a little more.

Sarutobi directed his attention past Kakashi, towards the rock garden beyond the room, bathed in afternoon sun. The troubled look on his face erased any doubts that he was recalling something unpleasant.

“Iruka has already told you most of it, I presume.” Kakashi nodded, affirming his suspicions. There was a deep, long sigh. 

“It’s been nearly three years since he left here with Naruto, and frankly, I still get ulcers thinking about it.” 

“Then why let him go?” 

“Hmph, you think I wanted to? Of course not.” He scoffed, taking another drag of his pipe. “I thought he would have moved past it, but his reaction ended up being inexcusable. Still too impulsive, too hot-headed.” 

Kakashi thought of the person he’d come to know. On the surface; easy smiles and laughs, a warm hand. Sincere.

But then he remembered the flickers of darkness, the wildness of his gaze, barely reined in when it was directed at Kakashi one night, but completely unbridled when he’d met the demon in the cave. The teacher had known full well Kakashi was there, he could have requested help and spared himself further danger and potential injury, but chose not to. 

He’d seen many warriors in his time, and the need to prove oneself was something he’d witnessed again and again. They didn’t always survive it.

“That much I told him. I suggested he return to the Senju where his skills would be of some use, and what does he do? He proceeds to prove my point!” Sarutobi seethed, and Kakashi waited with bated breath. 

“The fool steals a horse, disappears for a month, and comes back near death with that scar on his face, and a complete map of the forest, Gods!” 

If Kakashi weren’t himself, he’d be smiling, rubbing his hands together while urging him to continue, but he figured he’d have a lot to answer for if their meeting had induced an aneurysm. 

His friend would be most unhappy, and not in the fun way.

With a cool look that belied his interest, he took a sip of tea. 

A few minutes passed, and several drags of a pipe later, the elder had calmed down, somewhat.

“So you did too good of a job, perhaps.”

It induced a regretful sigh. The man got up from his seat with practiced ease, despite the wooden prosthetic. He walked towards the shelf of photographs, and stood nearly in the same spot Kakashi had. He was even looking at the same photograph, he realised.

“This is not what his parents intended for him.” 

It was subtle, but he could feel Sarutobi’s heckles rising as he stared at the photo. 

Kakashi recalled the Senju girl in the photograph. Familiar dark eyes. His mother, perhaps? He could see the resemblance. But he quickly realised his mistake; there was no way it could be her. At that age, Sarutobi hadn’t yet acquired his camera. The boy’s grin was familiar too, and in hindsight, obviously belonged to that of a Sarutobi. So who-

“Asuma was a terrible influence.”

Ohhh.

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

“I trust you’ll make sure these reach him, Kakashi.”

“Why of course, the Hashira Delivery Service always comes through.” Kakashi murmured as he finished securing his sandals, furoshiki tied and slung across his shoulder. 

“Hmph. Make sure the demons don’t get your tongue, boy. Unlike theirs, ours don’t grow back.”

Kakashi stood to take his leave, but Sarutobi quickly retreated back into the room. He began to rummage through one of the more well hidden cabinets, and having found what he was looking for, emerged once again. 

“There is a saying in the West, you know,” 

Kakashi turned to face the man.

“Care will kill a cat.” 

“Oh, I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve always been more of a dog person.”

“I wasn’t referring only to you.”

Sarutobi continued. 

“I’d ask you to be a friend to him, Kakashi, but it seems you already are. You have my thanks.”

“None necessary, really. I happen to enjoy his company.” 

There was a laugh, and it disturbed Kakashi somewhat, to see Sarutobi smile at him so smugly. The elder held up whatever it was that he’d fished out, and Kakashi took it from his calloused hand.

Almost against his will, his gaze softened.

What could only be a younger Iruka, his features just a bit rounder, cradling a sleeping Naruto in his arms. The toddler was dressed in more clothes than he’d probably ever been in, and was obviously spent. If Kakashi wagered a guess, they’d just returned from receiving the blessings for his third year of life at the temple. 

To anyone else, it was a sweet, touching momento. A pair of mismatched brothers, on a memorable day.

To anyone who knew the story, it was...complicated.

Set in the garden during the day, implied that it’d been taken not long after the youth had learnt of Naruto’s true nature, and just over a month past the anniversary of his parents’ deaths.

Iruka’s visage still lacked the distinct scar that highlighted his eyes; the line that moved like a wave on the shore in tandem with his ever-changing expression. But unlike the smiling self that Kakashi had come to naturally associate him with, the boy in the photograph was looking upon the child’s sleeping face with an almost unreadable expression. 

Vaguely, it brought to mind the portrait of a merciful, motherly deity. 

His eyes were warm, yet burdened with melancholy.

Kakashi recalled Iruka’s confession, as he recounted everything he’d lost, and later lived for.

Looking at the scene, it made something in his chest ache.

“Are you sure about this one? Might be a bit of a downer, you know, considering everything else.” Kakashi asked cautiously.

Sarutobi did not rescind. 

“Tell that foolish son of mine, not to lose his way.”

“Which one?”

“Both, if you happen to see the other one.”

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

Sarutobi watched from the gate as Kakashi left the estate with his hound.

“Well, you might not need to worry about that. Iruka’s probably got the best sense of direction I know of.” The Hashira had said without turning back.

Yes, but tunnel vision is a fearsome thing. 

He felt a tug on the sleeve of his haori, and looked down to see Konohamaru gazing up at him. Once again, he scooped the toddler into his arms.

The boy sends you and Konohamaru his regards, sensei. 

He remembered his meeting with Jiraiya seasons prior. His former disciple had arrived with news that only added to his worry for his two former charges, along with Iruka’s specific request in writing not to divulge any of it to Kakashi.

Frankly, he did not know why he was agreeing to it at all.

Carrying his grandson back into the guest room, his gaze settled again on a single photograph, to a pair of eyes that were once free of the terrible burden of loss and guilt.

He wondered what they looked like now. 

After a newborn Naruto had been delivered to him, he’d searched everywhere for Iruka, but there wasn’t a trace left amidst the chaos and destruction. He’d spent a year thinking he’d failed Kohari, who’d been like a daughter to him, and Ikkaku’s empty scabbard, delivered by the Kakushi, loomed over his conscience like a phantom.

Then came a cold autumn day; a boy arrived at his doorstep, clothes threadbare and mangled with tears, and without so much as a pair of sandals on his feet. Almost unrecognisable, if not for the nichirin blade he carried, rusted and chipped, and a kunai hanging at his waist. 

“Now that I’ve been left behind, what should I do, Jii-ya?”

His eyes then were devastatingly hollow.

It was a memory so vivid, the bitterness was still palpable in his throat. When Iruka had accepted his proposal to stay with him as his student, he’d stopped calling him “Jii-ya”, as his mother did when she wanted to tease him.

He’d never told him, but the day they’d found out about Naruto’s immunity to the sun, Sarutobi had been ready to commit seppuku for having allowed it to go that far. If not for Hashirama’s intervention, he wasn’t sure if they’d both be alive today, with him carrying Konohamaru in his arms like he was doing now.

“Sensei, please allow me to go with Naruto!” 

Soon after, upon hearing Naruto would be sent to the Forest of Death, he had barged in, pleading desperately with his forehead glued to the ground, but he’d been staunchly, repeatedly denied. The eyes that looked at him held the same terrible hollowness, just as the day he’d learned of Naruto’s origin.

It was the look of someone who’d been once again, stripped of a reason to live.

A month passed. 

When he’d ran, stumbling, to Iruka, collapsed outside the estate near death in a slayer’s uniform that was clearly too large on him, his eyes were gilded with a fierce determination he’d not known the boy was capable of. 

They burned, just like Kohari’s had when she told him they had deserted.

“There has to be...some reason why I’m still alive, sensei. Let me stay by his side, please.”

He was utterly defeated. It was the moment he knew he’d have to let go.

“Is he happy there, Kakashi?” 

The man had looked oddly sheepish.

“Frankly, if I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t have thought we were talking about the same person.”

Then Kakashi cast his gaze down in thought. Looking up again, his eye turned into a thin crescent.

“When he’s with the children, you couldn’t tear the smile off his face even if you tried.”

That alone was worth having called the young Hashira here. 

He looked at Konohamaru, who had fallen asleep in the nook of his neck, much like in the photo he’d sent along. 

It brought back memories of a time when he’d carried Iruka like that too.

Take care of that foolish child of mine, Kakashi.

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

End of Chapter 10

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

Author’s Notes:

Ohh, another fun chapter to write! I can’t wait for Asuma to get in here (though it won’t be for another 2 chapters or so). I really wanted to explore the relationship between Sarutobi, Iruka and Naruto more, so I was quite satisfied with this. 

As usual, I’d love to hear what you think! Is it moving too slow? This is all very self-indulgent, I know, haha. 

See you in the next chapter!

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

Fun facts and Terminology:

Shichi-Go-San (7-5-3) Festival

In Japan, ages 7,5,3 have always been celebrated as prosperous milestones for children to have reached, even way past in the Heian period. They’re dressed up and brought to the temple to receive blessings. It falls on 15 November, and Naruto’s Birthday (and by extension, Iruka’s Parents’ death anniversary) are in October. So yeah, just over a month between them.

“Care will kill a cat.” 

The origin of the phrase “Curiousity will kill a cat”. I didn’t want to use it in that exact phrasing here (it also wasn’t recorded till 1868, which is a bit later than the setting of this story anyway) 

In this case, care = “worry” or “sorrow for others”.

I felt it fitting for both Iruka and Kakashi. :D

Jiiya - An affectionate way of referring to elderly men. Kinda like “Gramps”

Photography/Cameras - The first camera was imported into Japan in 1848 through a Dutch Port. The story takes place a few years earlier than that (more or less)

[ts1989fanatic]

Every Taylor Swift Album Ranked

We revisited each of the singer’s original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

FEATURESEvery Taylor Swift Album Ranked

We revisited each of the singer’s original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

By Slant Staff on July 6, 2021

Taylor Swift started off as a country artist at a time when the genre was both less respectful and accommodating of the voices of women than at any other point in its storied history. The singer’s first four albums barely scan as country music in a meaningful way, instead embracing her preternatural gifts for pop conventions, and her output has gotten stronger the more openly she’s embraced those skills. In the 15 years since the single “Tim McGraw” launched Swift to country stardom, she’s jettisoned the genre’s ill-fitting signifiers and overcome the limitations of her early recordings—improvements captured in her “Taylor’s Version” re-recordings of those albums as a powerful statement of artistic agency.

As Swift takes an apparent break from new music to re-record those early releases, including Fearless (Taylor’s Version) and this fall’s highly anticipated Red redux, we revisited each of her original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

9. Taylor Swift (2006)

Though she was praised for her songwriting right out of the gate, what Swift’s self-titled debut truly shows in hindsight is how diligently she’s worked to hone her craft over the years. Some of her trademarks—her gift for melody, her third-act POV reversals—were already present here, but there’s a sloppiness to the writing that she’s long since cleaned up. Whether that’s emphasizing the wrong syllables of words because she hadn’t quite mastered the meter of language (most notable on “Teardrops on My Guitar”) or mixing metaphors (on “Picture to Burn” and the otherwise catchy “Our Song”), there’s a lack of polish and editing on Taylor Swift

8. Fearless (2008)

Nearly every track on Swift’s sophomore effort, Fearless, builds to a massive pop hook. But while her grasp of song structure at this point in her career suggested an innate talent for how to develop a melody, Fearless also highlights Swift’s then-limited repertoire and lack of creativity in constructing her narratives of doe-eyed infatuations and first loves gone wrong. It’s admirable that she tries to incorporate more sophisticated elements into a few of the songs here, but dancing with or kissing someone in the rain is a default image that crops up with nearly the same distracting frequency as references to princesses, angels, and fairy tales. Fearless, however, just as strongly made the case that Swift had the goods for a long, rich career. The bridge to “Fifteen” includes a great, revealing line about a friend’s lost innocence (“And Abigail gave everything/She had to a boy/Who changed his mind/And we both cried”), while the playful melody of “Hey Stephen” captures the essence of what makes for indelible teen-pop.

7. Speak Now (2010)

Swift’s third album, Speak Now, is problematic in precisely the same ways that its predecessors are, but there isn’t a song here that isn’t an absolute wonder of technical construction. Perhaps even more impressive is Swift’s mastery of song structure. Consider how the instrumentation drops out during the last two words of the hook in “Last Kiss,” allowing the singer’s breathy vocal delivery to bear the entirety of the song’s emotional weight, or how a simple acoustic guitar figure on “Enchanted” slowly crescendos behind each repetition of the line “I was enchanted to meet you.” Unfortunately, the greater complexity and range found in Swift’s sound and in her song constructions doesn’t necessarily translate to her songwriting. Her narrators often seem to lack insight because Swift writes with the point of view that hers is the only story to be told, which makes songs like “Dear John” and “Better Than Revenge” come across as shallow and shortsighted. And though she does vary her phrasing in ways that attempt to mask her limited voice, Swift is still noticeably off-pitch at least once on every song on the album.

6. Red (2012)

Considering that Swift’s previous material was almost always better when she tossed the ill-fitting country signifiers and focused on her uncanny gift for writing pop hooks, Red was a smart, if overdue, move for the singer. The album plays as a survey course in contemporary pop, and Swift is game to try just about anything, from the uninhibited dance-pop of standout “Starlight” to the thundering heartland rock of “Holy Ground.” The tracks that work best are those on which the production is creative and modern in ways that are in service to Swift’s songwriting. The distorted vocal effects and shifts in dynamics on “I Knew You Were Trouble” heighten the sense of frustration that drives the song, and the driving rhythm section on “Holy Ground” reflects Swift’s reminiscence of a lover who “took off faster than a green light, go.” Not all of the songs here are so keenly observed—“State of Grace” and “I Almost Do” lack the specificity that’s one of Swift’s songwriting trademarks, while the title track underwhelms with its train of pedestrian similes and metaphors—but if Red is ultimately too uneven to be a truly great pop album, its highlights were career-best work for Swift at the time.

5. Lover (2019)

Swift’s seventh album, Lover, lacks a unified sonic aesthetic, ostensibly from trying to be something to everyone. The title track, whose lilting rhythm and reverb-soaked drums and vocals are reminiscent of Mazzy Star’s ‘90s gem “Fade Into You,” and the acoustic “Soon You’ll Get Better,” a tribute to Swift’s mother, hark back to the singer’s pre-pop days, while “I Think He Knows” and “False God” evoke Carly Rae Jepsen’s brand of ‘80s R&B-inflected electro-pop. When it comes to things other than boys, though, Swift has always preferred to dip her toes in rather than get soaking wet; her transformation from country teen to pop queen was, after all, a decade in the making. Less gradual was Swift’s shift from political agnostic to liberal advocate. Her once apolitical music is, on Lover, peppered with references to America’s current state of affairs, both thinly veiled (“Death by a Thousand Cuts”) and more overt (“You Need to Calm Down”). “Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince,” however, is her stock in trade, a richly painted narrative punctuated by cool synth washes and pep-rally chants, while “The Archer” is quintessential Swift: wistful, minimalist dream pop that displays her willingness to acknowledge and dismantle her own flaws, triggers, and neuroses.

4. Reputation (2017)

In the run-up to the release of her sixth album, Reputation, Swift was excoriated by fans and foes alike for too often playing the victim. The album’s lyrics only serve to bolster that perception: Swift comes off like a frazzled stay-at-home mom scolding her disobedient children on “Look What You Made Me Do” and “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.” But it’s her willingness to portray herself not as a victim, but the villain of her own story that makes Reputation such a fascinatingly thorny glimpse inside the mind of pop’s reigning princess. Swift has proven herself capable of laughing at herself, thereby defusing the criticisms often levied at her, but with Reputation she created a larger-than-life caricature of the petty, vindictive snake she’s been made out to be. By album’s end, Swift assesses her crumbling empire and tattered reputation, discovering redemption in love—only Reputation isn’t so much a rebirth as it is a retreat inward. It marks a shift from the retro-minded pop-rock of 2014’s 1989 toward a harder, more urban aesthetic, and Swift wears the stiff, clattering beats of songs like “…Ready for It?” like body armor.

3. Evermore (2020)

Evermore is at once as confident and complete a statement as Folklore. Certainly, it matters that the two albums were born of the protracted isolation of the Covid-19 pandemic and that collaborators like Bon Iver and the National’s Aaron Dessner figure prominently on both. But Evermore finds Swift digging further into her explorations of narrative voice and shifting points of view, taking bigger risks in trying to discover how the newfound breadth of her songwriting could possibly reconcile with the arc of her career. What makes Evermore an essential addition to her catalog is her willingness to tell others’ stories with the same insight and compassion with which she’s always told her own. And on this album, in particular, the stories she tells are about how her narrators’ choices impact others, often in ways that cause irreparable harm.

2. 1989 (2014)

Swift’s 1989 severed whatever vestiges of her country roots remained on 2012’s Red, replacing acoustic guitars and pedal steel with multi-layered synthscapes, drum machines, and densely packed vocal tracking. Swift, of course, got her start writing astutely observed country ballads, and these songs bolster her trademark knack for lyric-crafting with maximalist, blown-out pop production courtesy of collaborators Max Martin and Jack Antonoff. The album’s standout tracks retain the narrative detail and clever metaphor-building that distinguished Swift’s early songs, even amid the diversions wrought by the aggressive studio production on display throughout. Songs like “I Know Places” ride a reggae swagger and trap-influenced snare beats before launching into a soaring, Pat Benatar-esque chorus. It’s an effortless fusion that, like much of 1989, displays Swift’s willingness to venture outside her comfort zone without much of a safety net, and test out an array of sonic experiments that feel both retro and of the moment.

1. Folklore (2020)

Folklore is neither a culmination of Swift’s career to date nor a pivot in a new direction. She’s doing exactly what she’s always done: offering a collection of incisive, often provocative songs that incorporate authentic, first-person details and leaving others to argue over specific genre signifiers. Song for song, the album finds Swift at a new peak in her command of language. While tracks like “Cardigan” and “Invisible Strings” hinge on protracted metaphors, “Mad Woman” and “Peace” are blunt and plainspoken. In every instance, what’s noteworthy is Swift’s precision in communicating her exact intent. That she employs her long-established songwriting tropes in novel ways is truly the most significant development here. She’s mined this type of melancholy tone before, but never for the full length of an album and certainly never with such a range of perspectives. It isn’t the weight of the subject matter alone that makes Folklore feel so vital—it’s the exemplary caliber of her writing. The album finds Swift living up to all of the praise she earned for her songwriting earlier in career.

ts1989fanatic not sure I 100% agree with their ranking order and some of the snark on reputation is a little OTT but overall it’s not bad

[flyingupward]

Venice the Musical Sentence Starters

all sentences taken from the lyrics to the musical venice. feel free to change pronouns, etc.

Act I

“All I hear is ‘left, right, left, right, left, right’.”

“I am your lifeline, your forward and hindsight.”

“To tell this story is a means of resistance.”

“Many no long living for not keeping themselves hidden.”

“This story needs a voice so I will oblige.”

“Once had freedom then we lost it.”

“What’s the price of living this life?”

“Darkness fell, our freedom taken.”

“We were taught to be proud to be from here.”

“The government dissolved and a corporation crept.”

“Twenty years of occupation has taught us better.”

“Left for dead, stuck here while the wealthy fled.”

“Bombs exploded round our heads. Get some rest.”

“If we don’t demand more from our lives, how can we expect our kids to thrive?”

“Separate, we are powerless, but together, we can rise.”

“After all of these years writing to you, I’ll finally be home by your side.”

“Is this the day that we can say you paved the way?”

“Today is the day that we find out our fate.”

“Home at last, our children reunite.”

“A divided nation torn in two demands reunion.”

“I hope you let us tell you a little story exploding onto the present.”

“I am alone, my own resistance.”

“Damned if I live this life waiting on the sidelines.”

“One time fool me and it’s shame on you. Two times fool me and it’s shame on me. Three times? There’s never three times.”

“I’ll be the last man standing when the world collapses.”

“Got them thinking my heart is gold.”

“I’ll never show what I’ll do to take the last stand.”

“She’s an illusion he’s choosing.”

“Peaceful revolution is always bound to be polluted.”

“Watch me stay focused, forever unnoticed.”

“The always obedient dog by your side’s got the worst bite.”

“The dream was better than the letters that we wrote would allow.”

“Could you believe those words could make us unite?”

“Is this our shared prayer to the morning light?

“Children write and hearts explode and dreams invite us to places we’d never go.”

“Someone so convicted in her beliefs, it can be hard to see.”

“The world was at war but this country doesn’t have to be.”

“We could be decent and generous. Don’t let hate better us.”

“Two worlds collide and fill his soul with wisdom we will never know.”

“This is the ballad of mismatched brothers.”

“I feel the void I left behind.”

“Am I strong enough to hold the weight of all their souls?

“From what I know this road is golden and I know I believe in you.”

“And so we sleep, hoping that the bombs don’t drop on our streets.”

“What you don’t see is the bomb that’s ticking.”

“I am hardly in step with your emotional dance.”

“Uninvited, unfound, in this hell of a home, opportunity knocks and it’s time to go.”

“There are many different weapons in this game called war.”

“The people who couldn’t leave, they were forced to accept whatever devil knocks at your door.”

“This is no fear of death if you never get old.”

“She was dropped on the city like a renegade, never with the promise of these better days.”

“Have you ever seen something like me?”

“You best believe I’ll haunt your dreams.”

“I can see the sunrise when I close my eyes.”

“As a kid you have a dream and it seems like nothing can come between what you dream and what you’re stuck in.”

“But when the moment’s there, will you rise up with your eyes up?”

“They look at me like I looked at her.”

“My blood trembles with desire to set the world on fire.”

“I feel the dark ahead of the dawn.”

“A spark of what I used to know stands before me all aglow.”

“Seen enough I’m not that blind.”

“They say she’ll bring us hope.”

“And are we all just children playing in our parents’ clothes?”

“And when the lights come on will we find out that we’re grown?”

“I would have done anything that you asked me to.”

“Where did I misstep? Where did I lose?”

“I wanna love and be loved.”

“I have all this money for nothing ‘cause what it buys is a disguise if you never loved me.”

“I’ve been waiting on that second chance.”

“It’s the lie of romance that over time it never stands.”

“Seen enough to make me blind.”

“I’m leaning on the brink of blazing a new path.”

“I know the dawn is coming.”

“We congregate freely, free from the evil.”

“Tonight we fucking party for a brand new tomorrow.”

“I know it’s been a long and brutal road.”

“Let me propose a toast and welcome in people who for years have been suffering.”

“Holding the weight of being held down, hell bound, lifted from the ashes, we naturally yell out.”

“I’ll give it one hundred and I’ll make you proud.”

“Imma be the remedy. Nah, I’m the elegy.”

“For all the pain, never again.”

“So the city is finally our own.”

“I’ll be free in my home.”

Act II

“People are frozen, pictures of panic painted onto their poses.”

“I am beholden for this mess.”

“All the people, they are screaming. I can hear my name.”

“Time slows and I know I don’t feel the same.”

“I’m running for a reason that I can’t explain.”

“Come and disappear with no fear.”

“My brain fails to explain the pictures I’m seeing.”

“Morning sky looking dreary like a painting painted by a guy whose demise was waiting.”

“Is _______________ lying dead when I should have been next to him?”

“I wish somebody else was lying there instead of him.”

“Vanish into air, come and stare into the light.”

“You never wish war on a people.”

“The seconds of your life just slow down.”

“My stomach eats itself. I see my own face.”

“Has something already determined my fate?”

“Time gives way. Am I too late?”

“I am death personified.”

“Your mind has been chosen. The lines have been drawn.”

“Take two steps, take one breath. Just accept your own death.”

“We will never forget and we’ll see you again.”

“Where’ve you gone, old friend, lately?”

“Have you left me here waiting to grow up on my own on this road all alone?”

“I am a desert of unfulfilled memories.”

“Death calls unspoken unseen.”

“If only we hadn’t listened to ambitions that were far beyond our reach.”

“If only there was a way to take back yesterday, you’d still be here with me.”

“If only you were a second late dreaming about yesterday.”

“If only you never came for me.”

“This morning I could feel the changes: Shadows on the wall laughing as we fall.”

“All of my moments are fractured behind me.”

“The toy of a girl has shattered inside of me.”

“Why does the silence emulate violence?”

“The cold and the quiet screams in defiance.”

“If only I had listened to the voices telling me to take it slow.”

“If only I had never wanted for better.”

“If only I didn’t stay up at night and miss you.”

“If only I didn’t feel like I feel when I’m with you.”

“If only I was never lonely.”

“If only I never came.”

“If only I never fell in love with you.”

“The air is scarily silent with the feeling any moment could explode into riots.”

“PTSD of twenty years of grief flooding heavy on the minds of those who never sleep.”

“Revenge is on the minds of the masses.”

“Ashes to ashes devolves into madness.”

“Have we reached the beginning of the end of peace?”

“Have we seen the end of out collective dreams?”

“There’s nothing that lasts forever. So we’ve discovered together.”

“What was white and black is now shades of gray.”

“They sit in the eye of the storm, looking at the city as it silently swarms.”

“Tell the people we are coming, declare a revolution.”

“Now it’s time somebody bled.”

“Is this the day that we can say you paved the way?”

“Alone, awake, her mind would race into her dreams.”

“Unsure of what the balance held, the girl grew up into herself.”

“When the man had got his way, he disappeared without a trace.”

“I dreamed a dream and so it seems that little girls have fantasies.”

“We are all the play things of men in this town.”

“What you’ll find, what you’ll see is that men could care less about your fantasy.”

“With flowers in their hands but pockets full of dust, ain’t no trust in a man.”

“Why am I stuck in this lie? I should’ve known better than to trust his eyes.”

“Should’ve read the signs ‘cause all my life I’ve been left behind.”

“See I had him, no denying that this love’s worth dying.”

“I’m as foolish as I ever was.”

“I came here because I believed in his love.”

“I thought the world had changed. It’s the same as it ever was.”

“How can I explain these mistakes I’ve made.”

“I wanted to love and be loved, but instead I’ve come undone.”

“How do I tell her that she has been deceived by me?”

“Our enemies showed us no mercy and we will show none in return.”

“When we needed you most, I watched you suburb.”

“Where’s all that wisdom that we saw in you, made us fall for you.”

“Is the world so fucked you’ve already given in?”

“Crumbled are the steps of the dream I stood upon.”

“As I stand dismayed by the mess that I’ve made, let me be.”

“Here you are stuck between us and them.”

“Maybe there’s a way, maybe there’s still hope,  but I don’t recognize you.”

“Don’t understand how the same damn man who gave hope to the land can stand before us and command that we’re going back.”

“This monster is growing with every breath.”

“Here I stand, a shade of a man with peace in his hand.”

“Now that they’ve tasted your dream, they can’t go back to where we were.”

“Right in this moment, you’ll find me dreaming about yesterday.”

“The soul lingers long after you pass. That’s why we feel like we’re surrounded by our past.”

“The air drenched in a bath of memories, a constant reminder of our deathly legacy.”

“I never took a risk and I’m scared to admit that this is how I lived my life.”

“‘That’s __________________,’ they told me, ‘a princess in disguise.’”

“I wanna be great for one instant.”

“I’m gonna take a risk and maybe I can save her life.”

“I have waited all these years for your face to reappear.”

“I have waited all these years for you to see me here.”

“I don’t need an icon that’s bygone.”

“When I was little, you convinced me that I belonged, but you were wrong!”

“Inside, I feel rage, and you died in vain.”

“I’m only half your babe, the other half: disgraced.”

“You took their lives in your hands and it was wrong.”

“You led those people in their very own death song.”

“You gave up being my mother - for what?”

“I can use force like you never could.”

“From what I know, this road’s still golden and I’ll always believe in you.”

“What we’ve been through, we can’t undo.”

“I have always loved and believed in you.”

“She has never loved or believed in you.”

“I done with you and the war you provoke.”

“You would push it till it burned with no concern.”

“With you, I believed in love, but you never loved me. You only used me.”

“So why should I be stuck in this lie?”

“She certainly loved you from far away.”

“Little children, they ran away a ways away where they could be safe.”

“She believed that you could be something great, someone great.”

“We need to grow up now.”

“Stop praying for, wanting more, playing war.”

“We’re not children anymore.”

“Look at what we’ve lost, what love we’ve lost.”

“We haven’t begun to see the sun. We need to set it right.”

“Let’s start anew. It’s what she died for.”

“Now this tale of love has ended, our has just begun.”

“If we Shades have thee offended, then go out and see the sun.”

“The world in here is just a shadow. We hide in these imaginary lights.”

“The world out there is a shadow of everything that might be right.”

“Rise up, shake hands, resume our days. Because this is all a play.”

“Just make believe that makes belief.”

“Give us just one moment to shine.”

[madphantom]

Do you collect any quotes in a quote book or something similar?

I collect song lyrics that remind me of people! Some of my favourites:

"You don't listen to me when we talk on the phone

I only listen to you

And you don't care about me

No you don't care about them

You only care about you

Talking to you is like talking to a wall

It's pretty hard

But I'm just the girl that you buried in your backyard

So I'll be that girl that you buried in your backyard" — The Girl that you buried in your Backyard, Awfultune

"All that I ask is

Keep those empty frames

If nobody’s in them

Then no one is to blame" — Dr. Sunshine is dead, Will Wood and the Tapeworms

"I finally sat alone

Pitch black flesh and bone

Couldn't believe that you were gone" — You're somebody else, Flora Cash

"When they die they’re dying to be rebuilt

With bigger smiles like you wish they did

Hindsight is a tricky thing

So get creative" — Terry's Taxidermy, Teddy Hyde

"Face to face I greet the cast

Set in silence we begin

Companions in an empty room

I taste their victory and sin" — Phantom's Theme, Phantom of the Paradise

"And of course

I know you could have done much better

And I know

That I must have been your bad habit

Some rotten man

Nobody's savior

Your oldest friend" — Some rotten Man, The Taxpayers

"Let's say we up and left this town

And turned our future upside-down

We'll make pretend that you and me

Lived ever after, happily" — House of Gold, Twenty Øne Piløts

"Our bodies grew much faster than our minds

But together we got good at stopping time" — Dear, Maria Mena

"And nothing seems to matter any more

No one cares about the cost

Another little girl has wound up lost" — Little Girl, Paul Williams

"Attention expected wherever I walk in

Absently serving my talking

But at least you’ll catch that I matched my shirt and my socks when

Only my face can fit in my coffin" — Channel 01 Clown, Teddy Hyde

"In the past you would've been seen as the family's disgrace

Now they think you're putting on a brave face

They might fear that one day they'll wear your shoes

But you're the one who's laughing

You have nothing to lose" — Puppet Loosely Strung, The Correspondents

"My lust to win is eating me up

The game I can't win

Up against my own clock" — Inexplicable, The Correspondents

"This is a story about a girl

And she wanted to finally start a new life

But it turned out to be a tragedy" — Finally Free, Kai Danzberg

"The cause of aging's undecided

But she must be stored away

Our family's always been divided

Why cooperate today?" — Money, Maria Mena

"Walking bikes home with a scraped-knee

Sunset smudged across your brow

Warmer tears than you've

Grown used to since then

A toast to the nosebleed seats

And the big dream sequence

Where you're found

Guilty of your innocence

And gently sent right back to bed" — Well, better than the Alternative, Will Wood and the Tapeworms

"I still press your letters to my lips

And cherish them in parts of me

That savor every kiss

I couldn't face a life without your lights

But all of that was ripped apart

When you refused to fight" — Snuff, Slipknot

"It's funny how when love has gone

There's only one left holding on

Someone's always hurting for

Still longing for the other" — Just Friends, Carole Bayer Sager

"Staring at my phone

Hoping some day you'll call it

I only knew I loved you

When I watched you go" — Roundabouts, Paddy Kelly

"Afraid if I go back

She won't be waiting

Like she always was

That'll be a little heavy

It goes against my nature

And messes with my head

She wanted to go with me I know but still" — Hurtsville, Sunrise Avenue

""And if dreams can come true

What does that say about nightmares?

I'll stay awake tonight" — Cotard's Solution, Will Wood and the Tapeworms

""Everybody knows

You and I are suicide and stolen art" — Bitches broken Hearts, Billie Eilish

"I never asked when you were here

Because it seemed so crystal clear

That it was you who needed me

That was the way it had to be" — Alarm Call, The Correspondents

"I used to say, "I want to die before I'm old"

But because of you I might think twice" — We don't believe what's on TV - Twenty Øne Piløts

"You deserved better than you got

Someone's got to say it sometime

'Cause it's true

People should have told you you were awesome

Instead of taking advantage of you" — You were cool, The Mountain Goats

[windstormwielding]

Drabble: New Orders

The wounded officer assumed the Sternritter who shot him would give chase to stop his attempted escape, but his heart dropped when he felt their attention shift to the reiatsu of nearby shinigami in his stead. It sank further when he then felt his kind’s presences getting wiped out as fast as he could blink while he flash-stepped from the scene, as more innocents have paid the price of their predecessors’ hubris in wiping out the Quincy in centuries past.

Grim thoughts supposed any target in a shihakushō would’ve done if it meant culling more of their number, and though ensured he was no longer being followed, cruel terror continued to overwhelm his being with the harrowing realization that he could’ve just as easily joined the fallen mere moments ago.

Still mid-stride, he felt the frosty reiatsu of the Bankai-less 10th Division Captain and the shinigami spiritual pressure of who he assumed to be his second-in-command cutting off that Quincy’s warpath. There was relief in that the Sternritter of fire definitely would not be pursuing him anymore, but how for long could Captain Hitsugaya and Lieutenant Matsumoto put up an actual fight against these honest-to-god monsters?

If there was any opportunity to seek respite and escape from the pending horror of his own mortality getting snuffed, now was the time to do it. With the last of his shunpō and feeling no Quincy spiritual pressure in the immediate vicinity, his hand still firmly pressed against his gut to quell bleeding over seared open wounds, the soul reaper left luck to fate as he spotted an open window six stories up.

He guided his flash steps up the smaller two-story building next to it, then launched himself from its roof through the open window he spotted. Unfortunately, it was then his strength gave out to the heat of his pierced liver and torso as he staggered mid-step at last. The silver-haired shinigami crashed shoulder-first onto the floor with a pained groan as momentum caused him to slide until his back harshly met the wood of a crate.

Despite the noise his intrusion made, there were no signs of nearby Quincy encroaching on his position to finish the job. Held breath turned strained yet relieved as the 13th Division’s 4th Seat found sanctuary amidst the chaos of the Wandenreich’s second invasion. Kōtarō Ryōhei finally had time to think.

He rolled onto his back with teeth grit as he tried to keep his thoughts off of his injury. The hand against his abdomen began to glow with the relieving light of Kaidō to mend the partially cauterized perforation through his body – though he’s no expert, Kōta was glad that he thought to take up the healing arts in hindsight, but lamented that this will be a slow recovery for him. It would be one thing if he ran into somebody from the 4th Division, with two wells of reiatsu to pull from to facilitate the healing process, but having to use his own energy alone to fix up his body will take him some time.

It would only amount to a patch job, but right now that was better than nothing. Once done, it should be enough to last him until he returns to the barracks... or where the barracks last stood.

His emerald gaze sharpened to scrutinize this unfamiliar room, walls a perfect marble white with hints of ice clinging to their surface. Head turned from one side to the other as he took note of old boxes and sealed barrels. Kōta reasoned he was in a storage room of some kind – supplies gathered from the Wandenreich empire’s thousand years of hiding in the Seireitei’s shadows, perhaps.

Before he could think on his surroundings more, Kōtarō found his thoughts drifting to his superiors. What he would do for their counsel right now...

Captain Ukitake was outside of the Seireitei when the Quincy got the drop on them all yet again. Ryōhei knew his Captain had begun his own ritual to prepare for the conflict, far outside of the Sekkiseki walls and deep into the Rukon districts, but that brought no comfort when it mattered most. There was no Captain at the helm to come to their defence thanks to the Sternritter’s surprise attack. Not even Kotsubaki and Kotetsu were around right now, shadowing Ukitake as they often do to best tend to his good health and safety.

Lieutenant Kuchiki was also indisposed. Suffering mortal wounds from the first invasion that already decimated the Gotei 13, Rukia’s frail form frightened him all the more when there was nothing more the 4th Division could do. She was taken to the Soul King Palace to make a full recovery not long ago, and Ukitake assured him she would be alright, but how long would it take for her to heal up and come back? Would he really die down here before he could reunite with her again? Was back at the 4th Division the last he would ever see his friend?

Without them, there was no one else left who could come to the 13th Division’s rescue. With no Captain, Lieutenant, or 3rd Seats standing by to lead and give out orders, there was no other guidance for him to lean on.

He was alone. Marooned. Without direction... and so were the rest of his men.

“...I’m still here.”

All it took to tether the storm of panic that overtook his composure earlier was those three little words of dawning realization. They may be gone, but the 4th Seat still remained as the highest-in-command officer of their Division within the Seireitei’s walls. Captain Ukitake, Rukia, Sentarō, and Kiyone – he’s still here for his superiors, to act in their stead until they return.

“I’m... still breathing... for fuck’s sake...!”

Pushing one foot after another to crawl against the ground, he fought against the body-wracking bouts of pain streaking up his nerves urging him to lie back down and relax, all while a streak of red followed his path. He’s still here to look after his juniors, who need some direction if they have any shot of surviving this war – that’s what he’s here for, isn’t he?

“I’m... still... ALIVE!”

With spiteful determination flooding his being, and a hand pressed against the floor for support, he shuffled back some more until he managed to sit upright against one of the crates. He’s still here to protect as many from his squadron as possible, to ensure they’re not abandoned and alone.

They needed orders. That much was clear. As he wracked in his mind to strategize, he figured there was one way to reach out to them in immediacy, but he could not think of a method to execute it.

What Kōtarō would do for some powder right about now. He didn’t even have it in him to open and inspect every odd container on the off-chance the Quincy stored something he could use here. Time was of the essence, but if not ink, then...

...the 4th Seat’s eyes trailed down to his crimson-stained hands.

“That’ll work,” he huffed, nodding to no one in particular. He can finish healing himself when he’s done. His colleagues and subordinates—whoever was still standing—need him.

“Black and white net.”

Arms shot up so that his sleeves may fall. Bloody palms then clapped together to share in makeshift red ink, and his arms became his canvas to draw lines and symbols along their length, as well as runes on the floor—careful not to draw where his life force had already been smeared.

“Twenty-two bridges... sixty-six crowns and belts.”

Beads of sweat dripped from his brow as his mind focused with renewed resolve to generate the white rectangle coming aglow before his eyes.

“Footprints, distant thunder... sharp peak, engulfing land, hidden in the night... sea of clouds, blue line.”

Though stilted, his hands moved like a conductor’s guiding baton, channeling his power into roots of spirit energy encroaching from the box of white light. His mind reached out to every one of his squad who he knew survived the first wave as he mentally reached out in the direction of the 13th Division grounds.

“Form a circle... and fly through the heavens."

Before their numbers could dwindle more and more, until there wouldn’t be a division left to save, he can still try and make a difference among those who remain.

“Bakudō #77... Tenteikūra.”

Relief flooded Kōtarō’s soul as he could now clearly sense the familiar auras of the handful of seated officers lingering in the area. Among the unseated, less than half their total number from before this sickening war started still stood.

Time to do his job.

–

Attention, officers of the 13th Division. This is your 4th Seat, Kōtarō Ryōhei, speaking.

Today... is no doubt the darkest time any of us have ever faced as shinigami. War has come to our doorstep with retribution and violence the likes of which we have never seen. The Quincy intend to wipe us all out, for our forefathers attempting to do the same to them a long time ago.

This battle, though we in the present never noticed the shadow of its approach... was a long time coming for all of us.

I... I know things look bleak right now. They have the advantage in information. They have the advantage in number. They have the advantage in military tactics, in home territory, and in sheer power. There... really is no easy way to say this, but we may very well be staring down our last days... not just as individuals, but as a collective. I won’t fault any of you for feeling helpless and outmatched, or having lost the will to fight, because for a minute there... I did too-

—

A harsh grunt cut him off as pain flared in his gut. It was tempting to bring a hand back down to resume self-treatment, but he could not end the transmission now. Not yet!

—

-but... our Captain—our Division—lives by a creed, in that there are two types of fights: fights where we protect honour, and fights where we protect life. We may not fight for the honour of the Gotei 13 or the division right now... hell, I don’t know if either will still exist when this battle is over, yet... we can still—and absolutely must—fight to protect life.

We have lost too many among us already. Close allies. Loved ones. Lifelong friends in the 13th and out. But though there is no bringing htem back from the dead... they still live on through you. Their hopes, their dreams, their memories... their hearts. You die here... then that’s it, they will all die for good, along with you. If the Quincy take that from you, then there really will be no Gotei 13 left to return to-!

—

Breathing turned laboured as he felt his mouth go dry. He needed to lie down and rest. No, he needed to be seen to. But that hardly mattered to him now. He couldn’t count on the 4th Division this minute. He had to stick to what he can do and see it through to the bitter end, if that is what it will come to!

—

So... it comes down to this, in what could be our final hour: the fight to protect life—your own... and that of the soul reaper standing next to you. Until further notice... until Captain Ukitake or Lieutenant Kuchiki return to issue new orders, then follow this one single command... by any means necessary: survive.

Whether you regroup, run fast, watch your surroundings, hide, or even strike them from behind... just survive. If all else fails... then stand your ground, give the Quincy hell, and make sure their job is not an easy one.

I... I will try my hardest to return to you all, but... in the event that... this is the last you hear from me... just know that...

—

“...it’s been a privilege... and an honour... for me to have served and fought alongside you all these many years. Ryōhei out.”

The moment connection terminated, his bloodied arms slackened, but he made sure his palm fell back over his wound to pick up where he left off. In his self-imposed strain, some of the work he already put in towards healing came undone, so it was back to doing it all again from scratch. Fantastic.

As his body slid so he may lie down fully once again, bleary sights looked up to the dimly lit ceiling in worry for the immediate future. Eyelids grew heavy, and the urge to sleep grew ever tempting, but Kōtarō feared that the time he closed his eyes again would be his last if he drifted off right away. He did not want to die yet. This war had only just begun in earnest, and he would be damned if he allowed himself to be done in by a single attack.

Once he finished patching himself up, rested, and got back on his feet, then it would be time to face the Quincy properly. For now, however...

“Captain Ukitake... I... hope I did the right thing.”

[kirishibi]

Tipsy

Summary: The Big Three plays a drinking game and reader is left alone, tipsy, with her long time crush Mirio

Pairing: Togata Mirio x Reader

Warning(s): Intoxication, mentions of alcohol, hella mutual pining and fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

a/n: Requested by @hazelmoonchild. Hope you like it and thanks for the ask! This is just a lot of sweet and fluffy Mirio, which I can never get enough of, so I had a lot of fun while writing. Enjoy! :)

-kiri

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For the first time in what seemed like years, you found yourself free on the same night as your favorite trio. It was a miracle, truly. The Big Three of UA grew up to be very popular heroes and had been kept incredibly busy as a result. So, the moment you heard that your friends were all available, you insisted on hanging out. Amajiki volunteered to host a small get-together at his apartment, and soon the four of you were all piled onto a large, cat hair covered sofa in front of his TV.

After an hour of banter and catching up, a drinking game was proposed and everyone was eager to get started. The name of the game was.. well, it didn’t have a name but it went like this: Nejire found a compilation video of All Might’s greatest moments, and every time he said ‘I am here!’ everyone would take a shot. 

In hindsight, the criteria should have been stricter. 

Within half an hour you were all drunken messes. Empty shot glasses littered the coffee table, a quarter-full handle of some expensive liquor forgotten on the floor. Nejire baby-talked to one of Amajiki’s cats, gently squishing its face between her hands as she muttered nonsense. Amajiki perched himself on the arm of a chair beside her, monotonously telling her to ‘leave Mittens alone’ though he made no move to stop her.

You and Mirio sat side by side on the couch. Mirio was the least drunk due to his body mass, with you being the second-most, right behind Nejire. You leaned into Mirio’s chest, his arm wrapped around you affectionately, cautiously keeping his hand on your shoulder out of respect. Though he desperately wanted to wrap both arms around your waist and pull you closer, to pepper your forehead with kisses and brush your hair which became more and more unruly with every shot, he refrained. You two had flirted in the past and he had been crushing on you since your days at UA, but he’d always been too nervous to confess or otherwise make a move on you. It seemed that he was confident and outspoken when it came to everything except for you. He valued your friendship dearly and didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by admitting that he had fallen head-over-heels. So, he sat with an arm around your shoulders, a goofy smile on his face, and butterflies in his stomach made even more powerful by the alcohol coursing through him.

Nejire abruptly released the cat’s face and turned to the rest of you. “I want food!” She whined, vaguely gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go get some fooodd!”

Amajiki perked up at the idea, his stomach growling in response. “I- I think there’s a diner down the street that we can walk to.” His slightly slurred speech earned giggles from everyone in the room, himself included.

You, however, groaned in reluctance. You didn’t want to leave your spot resting against Mirio. His strong arm around you made you feel safe, happy, content. He was your hopeless school girl crush, and finally lying in his arms was the best feeling in the world. Food could wait, this was so much better. You tried to think up any excuse you could to stay right where you were. “I’m tiiiired and it’s cold ouuuut. Can we just make something here?” You faked a yawn, though it wasn’t fooling anyone. You were slurring your words as badly as Amajiki, and just like with him, your friends weren’t hesitant to laugh at you.

Mirio watched you for a moment as the giggles subsided before turning back to the other two. “You guys go on ahead, I’ll make sure (y/n) doesn’t get into too much trouble!” He flashed a reassuring smile toward them. Mirio had been the designated caretaker at many parties before - it was just in his nature, so no one batted an eye when he took on the role once again.

Nejire said something about you two being ‘party poopers’ while Amajiki made sure that you would be okay, giving you permission to raid his fridge and showing you where the bathroom was as if you hadn’t been to his apartment multiple times already. They slipped on their shoes and departed a few moments later with a final “Goodbye” and “Don’t break anything!” before leaving you two alone in a peaceful quiet.

You sat together for a long moment, basking in the silence and one another’s company before Mirio spoke up. “I’m glad you suggested this. I missed our group.”

You giggled, light headed from the liquor as well as your racing heart. “I missed you too, Togata.” You responded, not quite realizing that you’d singled him out. You did, however, note how his breath hitched if only for a moment, his heartbeat speeding up against your back. 

He chuckled, surprised by your forwardness though he most definitely didn’t mind. He looked back down at you as you absentmindedly watched the TV screen. His eyes wandered along your features: the curve of your nose, the (e/c) eyes he found himself constantly lost in, your normally not-so-messy hair that even in this state still somehow framed your face perfectly. “You’re so beautiful.” The comment escaped him before Mirio could stop himself. It was but a passing thought, three words that popped into his mind several times whenever the two of you were together. Tonight, however, with his filter loosened by the drinks, he said it to you directly. He froze, holding his breath, ready for a slap across the face as your eyes flicked up to meet his.

You were shocked, immediately assuming your drunken state had you hearing things, but the blush on Togata’s cheeks along with the panic in his eyes... no, he really said that. Your heart skipped a beat and a smile tugged at your lips. Words couldn’t describe the way Mirio made you feel - not just then, but always. You looked at him for a long moment knowing you needed to say something, to break the tense silence, but your gaze dropped to his lips and you moved without thinking.

You leaned in, closing your eyes and pressing a tender kiss to his lips. You didn’t know what you expected, but you hummed in delight when he kissed back and his free hand cupped your cheek. His arm dropped to your waist and held you closer, practically pulling you into his lap. After a few long, wonderful moments he pulled away. He still looked surprised when you opened your eyes, but his brows were no longer furrowed in worry, and the corners of his mouth were upturned in a soft smile. 

“I...” He closed his eyes with a sigh, trying to collect his thoughts before locking his gaze with yours once again. “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been wanting to do that.”

“Since the second half of year one for me!” You grinned.

“Oh, I’ve got you beat!” Mirio teased, moving the hand from your cheek to lace his fingers with yours.

“Oh?”

“Since the day I met you.” He raised your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it. “But I want you to know that this isn’t just the alcohol talking. I really like you, (y/n). So, the next night I’m free, please let me take you out on a real date? This is wonderful, but I want to take you to a nice dinner and make sure you know I’m serious about you… about us.”

“I would love that!” You practically tackled Mirio in a hug, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you embraced him. He wrapped his arms around your waist in response, burying his face in your neck as he held you.

The two of you caught up on life, discussed date ideas, and laughed so hard your abs ached. You lost track of time enjoying one another’s company. Eventually he laid back on the sofa, pulling you to rest on top of him with your head on his chest. He muttered sweet nothings into your ear, telling you of how he felt when he met you, how his heart raced whenever you came into the room, how he found you absolutely stunning even when you were sweaty and exhausted from practical lessons. You began dozing off as he talked about that one time you had helped him study for midterms, and how he felt like his heart would explode when you reached up to play with his hair as he tried to study from a textbook. The feeling of his fingers gently running through your hair as he spoke, accompanied by the soft ‘lub-dub’ of his heartbeat, lulled you to sleep. 

Amajiki and Nejire arrived in the apartment an hour later, finding you both passed out on the sofa. Nejire would go on to say a smug smile pulled at Mirio’s lips even in his sleep, and your soft snores made the whole scene ‘Just adorable!’. You could endure the extensive teasing you received the next day, though, because you now knew that Togata Mirio was in love with you, just as you were with him.