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loaksky · 1 year

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— 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦

the lowdown — the one where you and neteyam are a sure thing.

the who — neteyam x fem omatikaya!reader

the word count — 2.5k

the tags & warnings — none other than possible language! this is just really sappy & self-indulgent lmao, childhood bffs2l, both parties are so in love but SCARED.

the notes — based off of this request! got a lil carried away bc i love neteyam <3

masterlist

Everyone would argue that you and Neteyam are written in the stars.

You two had been whispered about far before your coming of age, at the start of your youth when they’d notice that Neteyam was extra soft and you were extra shy. And it had been natural, really. He was the olo’eyktan’s son, and you were the sweet daughter of the olo’eyktan’s most cherished friend and dearest partner in crime.

At first Neteyam had vehemently denied it, cheeks flushing at the mere mention of your name, but after many sweet moments, you’d grown so much on him, he couldn’t hide his fondness even if he tried.

You were charming and resolved growing up, often times spending afternoons reading under the shade of leafy plants near the edge of the village. It’s the same spot Neteyam would pass on his journeys into the forest, unable to contain his smile as he sees the faint indent of where you’d lay outlined in the grass.

You were an eager learner, going through lab materials and borrowed media from Norm and Max who’d visit the village every once in a while. You’d applied a lot of what you learned to your practice, training under Mo’at, Neytiri, and your mother in the chance that one day you’d lead the clan in their spiritual endeavors.

It was one of the things that Neteyam admired most about you, your quiet drive. Your passion and your commitment to your craft. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but feed into it, into you.

He’d hound the scientists in the lab for more content for you, would come back with stacks and stacks of books that would make your cheeks warm. And he’d hand bind you journals, fashion you utensils and smash various fruits and petals to a fine paste for you to compile your findings.

There wasn’t a thing that Neteyam wouldn’t do for you, any lengths he wouldn’t travel just to see you beam up at him with that radiant smile. Neteyam could admit wholeheartedly that he was whipped.

“Thanks, Teyam,” you’d say gently, arms winding around his waist in a crushing hug. “Appreciate you.”

His breath would hitch and he’d just grin.

It didn’t help that you were so achingly beautiful, made his throat bob every time a gleam of sun would refract over your dimpled cheeks. Made his cheeks warm and his body freeze when your skin, soft and smooth, would brush his in accidental touches.

There was only one small little issue.

It was a conversation he’d try and fail to have with you multiple times over the course of your adolescence and into your young adulthood. At first, it was unspoken, he was certain it was the two of you for life, but as you trained and passed your rite, the final piece to your coming of age was fast approaching; selecting someone to spend your time with.

He was a year your senior and the rumor mill was alight with buzz. He hadn’t chosen someone on the night of his feast, had suspended the selection in favor of urging everyone that the timing wasn’t right.

This didn’t deter a number of fine women from the village taking their chances, advance after gutsy advance that would always end with the sound declaration that he was already waiting for someone.

That had only solidified the village’s theory about the two of you, that he was holding out for you, waiting until you chose him right back to claim you as his own. It was a sweet thing, most of them felt, would cast tender looks every time the two of you would interact under their watchful gazes.

But you were a creature of habit, didn’t like being under such prying eyes, yet too nice to let it be known. Neteyam knew, though. Would steer clear of curious glances, would spend whatever free time he had soaking up every moment with you in the shield of the forest.

He was a strong man with only one weakness: you.

He’d thought he made himself clear with that, thought that everyone knew that you were spoken for and it was his mighty word, but he comes to find out that there are many young men who’ve been lingering, waiting for any opportunity.

This much he notices when an especially buff warrior with a narrow waist and broad shoulders emerges from the outskirts and starts hanging around a little more often.

Ku’aro, Neteyam thinks his name is.

It had started off innocent, a small thanks for a healing session Mo’at and your mother let you lead when he hurt himself in a hunting party, but Neteyam knew better than to think that no other man would succumb to your charms.

It continued with bundles of flowers, fruits, little trinkets Ku’aro would surprise you with when Neteyam had other responsibilities he had to tend to. And it wouldn’t have bothered him as much if he’d never seen the little gifts again, but you’re too sweet for your own good, displaying them on the same ledge in your tent.

They take up room next to every one of his thoughtful gestures and the thought of sharing your attention with another man makes him prickle with envy.

But he could live with it if it made you happy, could push aside his pride and keep his irritation mum if the gift-giving was all it was. But now Ku’aro is starting to chisel into his time with you, stealing you away for walks through the forest, swims in the river.

And it makes him absolutely seethe, makes him exceptionally angry every time you emerge from the brush with Ku’aro hot on your heels. His mind races and he can’t help the sick thought of you being with someone who isn’t him seep into every crevice of his brain.

Had you two ever…kissed? You weren’t the type of girl, but things change and he’s not above admitting that he’s as jealous as they come.

“Something wrong, Teyam?” you ask, looking up from your book.

He’s sighed for the fourth time in the hour, fidgeting so uncomfortably that you’ve been rereading the same sentence for the past ten minutes because you can’t concentrate.

His tense shoulders relax when he meets your viscous gaze, lips parting because the forest is darkening with the impending eclipse and you look so soft and glowy.

He clears his throat.

“No,” he coughs. “All good.”

You don’t seem to buy it, head tilting as you inspect your friend carefully, book dog-eared and set off to the side as you shuffle nearer.

The aroma of herbs and spice, the tang of petals, surrounds him as you press a hand to his forehead, the other to his chest.

You have to feel it, the way his heart is pounding audaciously.

“Your heart’s beating fast, Teyam,” you observe. “And you’re warm.”

“S’just a little hot,” he swallows, hands circling your wrists to pry your touch away.

You lean back on your haunches, still in his grasp as you peer up at his pinched expression.

In all your years of closely orbiting the olo’eyktan’s son, you know that something weighs heavy on his mind. He bears a great burden regardless, but something is different this time around.

“We’re friends, Teyam,” you say tenderly. He could literally melt. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Of course he could, you’re the most understanding person he knows, the purest of hearts. But he doesn’t want to spook you, scare you into resignation by interrogating your budding relationship with Ku’aro.

So he treads carefully.

“Your selection feast is approaching,” he says breathily, blinking down at you.

You mull over it for a moment, a smile spreading over your full lips.

“It is,” you agree, pulling away to toy with your fingers.

A few prolonged lapses of silence pass before Neteyam continues to try and fill in the gaps.

“Have you…” He shrugs. “…thought of someone yet?”

Of course you had, you’d know it from the very beginning, no second thoughts needed. It had always been you and Neteyam since the beginning, thick as thieves.

There have been many things you’ve been uncertain of growing up, but there’s one thing that you’re sure of, and it’s that Neteyam is your end game.

“I have,” you hum simply.

He waits with bated breath, eyes unblinking.

You don’t continue and he’s opening his mouth to ask you to clarify, but the brush starts rustling and Ku’aro’s emerging.

He wants to let out the most frustrated groan of disapproval when Ku’aro’s eyes light up. Wants to grill you more but knows that he’ll have to wait who knows how long before he can get you alone to press again.

But what he doesn’t know is that the looming feast is your grand gesture, the occasion you’ve been mustering your courage for for years. You like to think it’s the least he deserves after years of his blatant displays of affection.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Ku’aro asks, holding up a woven bag of what smells like spartan fruits.

Your eyes flit to Neteyam’s and he can see the promise that lingers there as your hands squeezes his gently.

“See you soon,” you say, collecting your things before standing to your feet.

He knows you mean it, knows that you never make a promise that you can’t keep, but he can’t help the feeling of dread that coils tight in the pit of his stomach.

Ku’aro stands a little too close as you two walk through the forest, eating the spartan fruits that he’d picked before he sought you out.

“I have to ask you something,” he says, after a pregnant pause.

You turn just in time for him to nearly barrel into you, strong hands coming to right your stance. You stomach knots when you notice he’s close, eyes gentle and glowing as he gazes down at you.

“Yeah?” you peep, body tense as his fingers skim your biceps, down your forearms and clasp your hands.

You’d held hands with Neteyam countless times, had spent so much time in his space, that the touch of another isn’t lost on you, but this makes you feel queasy.

You ease away.

“I need to be courageous,” he says. “I know your selection feast is approaching and…”

You know what he’s going to say. You’ve dreaded it this entire time, hoped that village gossip and the copious amounts of time you’d spend with Neteyam would be the glaringly obvious sign that you weren’t interested in anything beyond a friendship.

“Ku’aro…” you sigh and his face falls a fraction.

He’s already pieced it together in his head.

“It really is him, huh?”

He’d known. Of course he did. No one was blind to it, just wishful thinking on his part that maybe he could get you to see someone else.

But your heart was locked up tight, an impenetrable fortress that refused to unravel for anyone but him.

“I’m sorry,” you say apologetically, then add, “you have been very kind to me, and a woman will see your great heart one day, but it can’t be me.”

His smile is sad, but he’s known it was a losing battle going in, worth a shot if anything.

His shoulders shake with a defeated laugh.

“He’s a lucky ass,” he says, extending the remaining fruits to you. “My peace offering to him. I know he’s been boiling recently.”

Your walk with Ku’aro couldn’t have been more than a hour, but Neteyam waits for what feels like an eternity. He’s lingering in the same spot you’d left him, spacing out as he paces, waiting for your arrival.

His body goes rigid when he feels a pair of arms circle around his waist from behind, but relaxes when he wafts the familiar scent of herbs and spice.

“Hi,” he whispers, voice hoarse from disuse.

He turns to face you, brushing your hair behind your shoulders to get a good look at your face. And despite wracking his brain for the latter part of the hour you were gone, he tries to get a grip on his composure.

“Have fun?” he asks, insides gooey as your face angles towards his, chin poking his chest as your eyes curve into crescents along with your smile.

“Was okay,” you tell him. “He let me bring back the rest of the fruits.”

Neteyam resists an eyeroll.

“Probably dry,” he remarks quietly and you can’t help the full laugh that leaves your lips at his snarky remark.

You wanted to put it off until the night of the feast, but you can tell there’s an internal warfare that agonizes him. You were shy, not a fool, had known that he was waiting for any concrete evidence that you’d chosen him.

And at first you thought it was obvious, could read him like one of your books. But you hadn’t realized that maybe you weren’t that easy to read, years of growing up learning how to remain composed for your potential role leaving you internalizing every feeling.

“You asked me about my selection feast…” you trail off, making him shiver when you start drawing small shapes on his spine.

“Uh huh,” he agrees shakily.

“You’re curious, huh?” you ask.

“You could say that,” he laughs, but you hear the twinge of uncertainty.

It makes a ripple of sadness work through your veins.

“Well…” you start. “I like someone. A lot.”

The flame of hope flickering in his chest dances, the smile on your face an obvious tell.

“Do you now?”

He should’ve knew never to doubt you, should’ve known with the same ferocity as the other villagers that you two truly were written in the stars.

You hum in agreement.

“You gonna tell me about him?” he bites.

You peel away from him, shy, even though you know that there isn’t a surer thing on the moon. You tilt your head, grin bashful as you clasp your hands behind your back and start pacing.

“Well, the most important thing is that he is kind,” you say, pausing to think for a moment. “And he’s strong, a great warrior and very brave.”

His chest pumps infinitesimally.

“I think he cares a lot about me,” you continue, then correct yourself, “I know he does. He is gracious and so thoughtful, never makes me second guess myself. He is my greatest supporter and makes me want to be a better person.”

Neteyam’s smile is unbridled.

“Most of all, he is my best friend,” you swallow, eyes searching his. “And while I love every person who has made me who I am today, nothing compares to how much I love him.”

His breath hitches at the words, your first official declaration.

“And it doesn’t help that he’s very, very, very handsome,” you add, standing before him.

Your eyes settle on the beadwork of his choker, too sheepish to meet his eyes as you brush non-existent debris off his shoulders.

His fingers catch yours and you look up find that tears are welling in his eyes.

“Teyam,” you coo, a watery laugh leaving your lips at that sight of the usually poised leader-in-training showing far more emotion than you’d seen in the lifetime you’ve known him.

“Don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he chuffs, head bending forward to rest on your shoulder.

You want to tease him, ask him if he’ll say it back, but you already know.

Everybody does.

taglist: @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul @amart-e , @s-u-t , @netesbby , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @ewackmn , @fanboyluvr , @neteyamoa , @itssiaaax , @girlpostingsposts

#neteyam x reader #neteyam drabble #neteyam oneshot #neteyam imagine #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam fic #neteyam #neteyam sully #avatar #avatar the way of water #avatar way of water #atwow #avatar the movie

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cthulhusstepmom · 10 months

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Evidence that Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish is not what he seems-Lt. SR:

Soap smells like rain, it took a while to put it together because it's not Soap himself that emits the odor, it just follows him. It's less potent inside and when it's sunny outdoors but if you concentrate it's always there.

He has never been observed touching a gun or grenades without gloves. Almost every other explosive he handles with no regard for his own safety gloves.

HE EATS WEIRD SHIT. While he doesn't eat much of the food on offer from the cafe, he does eat consistently when outdoors, usually plants or flowers. Things he has eaten: dandelions(edible), garlic(edible), thistle(edible but he ate it with the thorns), foxglove(toxic, showed no adverse reaction), Several unidentified flowers and berries, grass(technically edible?) Etc.

Will sometimes refuse to enter a place before abruptly going in. The data is not consistent between different buildings or locations. Further research is required.

Sharp teeth.

Groups things in nonsensical ways. He will only fill a magazine with bullets that total a multiple of 7 or 3. The same for what weights he uses in the gym. When drawing or eating he sorts by 4s. He traded his room to get #13 (right next door, coincidence?).

Cameras will not focus on him, whether photo or video he is never in focus regardless of distance or conditions.

He has never once been in medical for more than half an hour, usually much less. Even though his hands have light burns on them almost constantly.

Dogs hate him. He seems ambivalent towards them and he's never been bit that Ive seen. Cats adore him as do birds.

John MacTavish does not blush. Not for lack of trying even when genuinely flustered or hot, his skin does not flush.

Ghost sets down the small notebook with a minute sound of frustration. The evidence is all there but looking at it, what does it really say? Other than that he's an obsessive creep. A series of quirks and coincidences compiled by a paranoid son of a bitch into a fucking stalker journal. But still, Simon can't help but feel like he's right and he'd be dead a million times over if he simply disregarded his intuition. Even if it is something batshit insane.

At this point however it seems that it'll drive him mad far before it yields any answers. After scouring what little resources were comprehensible on the internet he'd started growing out his hair, intent on tying it in knots to prevent charms. Leaving him with a problem he'd not encountered since he'd first donned the mask: unruly curls and balaclavas don't mix well at all. He'd also kept a piece of stale bread in his pocket for days as he'd read it was a repellent to- and he can't even believe he's considering it-fairies. It backfired, if anything Johnny had been more attached to him and even more touchy than usual. He'd left a small deli cup full of coffee creamer outside his door overnight and found it neatly placed upside down where he'd left it with not a drop left. Ghost chalked that up to some wise guy playing a joke or an exceptionally dextrous cat and firmly shut the door on any other possibilities in his mind. His next test had been a gift of clothing mixed with complements, he'd read that both were likely to drive away any Other. It hadn't been a very extravagant gift, a new pair of gloves and a gruff "well done Johnny" but at the time it had seemed to be the final nail in the coffin as Soap had gone white as a sheet(he can do that but he can't blush???) and scurried off. A quiet dread had filled his stomach the whole day until Soap turned up at dinner, a little quieter than usual but wearing his new gloves and eating more than usual(a scoop and a half of mashed potatoes with 4 packets of butter and 2 packets of sour cream as well as a cookie. The main course of spaghetti and meatballs went untouched though Gaz snapped it up before it could truly go to waste). Though when Ghost returned to his room late that night after trudging through hours of paperwork he found a pile of tiny, aromatic, pink flowers on the floor in front of his door and on top of them a shiny metal comb. Simon's tired brain hardly stopped to think of any of the dire warnings he'd found on forum posts and folklore sites alike, crouching and tenderly retrieving the piece from its bed of flora, careful not to crush any of the tiny blooms. Well... With all the knots in his hair-purposeful and otherwise-he's going to need a sturdy comb anyway.

#fae!soap #superstitious bastard!Ghost #little does Ghost know that Scottish fairies actually favor bread instead of being repelled by it #meanwhile the whole clothing trick would have totally worked if it weren't for the fact that Soap took as a courting gesture #also the idea of Ghost leaving out two ounces of hazelnut coffee creamer and Soap just feeling his heart beating out of his chest #but he doesnt want to be presumptuous so he waits until hes got absolute confirmation that Ghost wishes to court him #and he gives him gloves...so he can touch him and not be burned by the iron #Soap is simultaneously three steps ahead and six steps behind #cod mw2 #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #fae!au #and to think i wanted to upload this to ao3 😑

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fillinforlater · 9 months

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Monday of Appreciation: Part 100

Hello everyone, Smite here!

100

Let's celebrate this big number and even bigger achievement with a massive a mount of stories that I have compiled over a bunch of weeks now. 10 in total by 9 writers including all kinds of idols (most are meta, sorrry (not sorry)).

However, first off, I want to say thank you to the interest in support this series has gathered. Thank you all very much for liking and reblogging and sometimes even commenting, it means the world to me. Most of the times, I regard this series as a big success.

I need to say it again though that this is the final regular MoA post. For 100 weeks straight I have gathered between 3 and 11 stories from our community, the only reason/motivation being: Appreciation to those that I really like and want to support. Sadly sometimes, MoA has been seen as something like an seal of approval or rather the "not-inclusion" as a seal of disapproval. This has never been the case or my intention.

With that said, MoA is not dead and will never be dead until I'm dead. New parts will randomly pop up and I will gush over another way idol X has been... written. Until then, stay awesome and feel free to go back to the older parts of this series.

These are the final 10 stories on the regular series of Monday of Appreciation:

-1-

@gangplanksorenji: Do you think you are forgiven? ft. Sakura

Reading smut like this and knowing it was written by Orenji of all people still makes my mind boggle. This is unfiltered smut, set up perfectly (especially with the homage to LSFM's latest comeback). All in all great, especially with the non-focus then back-focus on Sakura.

-2-

@coldfanbou: Culmination ft. Somi

This fic is the finale of the ultimate Somi-bimbo-self-sex-slave series. No, I'm serious, you couldn't go further if you wanted to. It also explains why OC is so hesitant to go after her. Also, NTR, but it's so over the top that it kinda flew under my radar. Somi's hotness is melting our minds, isn't it.

-3-

@lustspren: California Love ft. Soyeon, Minnie

The first time I saw these outfits, I kneeeew someone HAD to write a fic about them, either idol x idol or include an OC and oh boy, lustspren delivered. This has quite the excessive set up, all edging leading up to that hotel room scene that does it all justice. To say it with the words of Mister Smith: "That's hot."

-4-

@smuttysabina: Owning Aespa: Chapter 1 ft. aespa

Exquisite! Charming, funny and utterly drenched in lewdness while also shoving absurdity in your face the entire time. This perfectly encapsulates @smuttysabina's writing style. It's blunt yet still a bit teasing and I like how the descriptiveness is subtle enough to keep you on edge. Literally.

-5-

@ggidolsmuts: Xiaoting's Shouting ft. Xiaoting

This fic has a chinese version and though I cannot speak of the quality of that version, this one definitely has it. One of the many, many great stories you can find in Ddeun's masterlist. Damn, now I can't decide if I want an obedient plaything Xiaoting or a demanding loud Xiaoting (haha, Xiaothing or Loudting (I'm so funny (right?)))

-6-

@tothosewhoyearnforit: A Million Dollars ft. Karina

Ah, the great switch life. Though you might not have a million dollars (sadge), the ability to switch around your behavior to accommodate to your partners wants and needs in the moment... man that is everything. Okay, no, someone incredible hot like Karina, now that is everything. Just like the OC in the next story, I'd pay more than a million to get Karina.

-7-

@smuttysabina: Owning Aespa: Chapter 2 ft. Karina

Oh, look! It's the second chapter to the story we already had! This time we get the bouncy girl in the shower as she bravely strikes a deal with us. Will she succeed though? You better find out yourselves (no really, this will be in the test tomorrow).

-8-

@existslikepristin: Sowon's gig ft. Sowon

Sorry, ELP, I had to put a name on this hilarious mess of a fic. Maybe it does not really deserve a name, but I'm all for it to get one. Hell, even my name is terrible (at least it does not spoil the twist). So yeah, if y'all have like 29,4 seconds on your hand, this is the stuff for you. Damn, why do I love your writing so much?

-9-

@okaylikesmomo: Chapter 4: Sauna ft. Chaewon, Kazuha, Sakura

I love how unhinged this is if you ignore all the context and previous chapters. It makes me think if my multi-chapter series' feel this crazy if one just starts in the middle. Crazy or not, sex sex sex. Although it is okay (writing) sex, neither the writing nor the sex are just 'okay'. LSFM really is that hot and makes us crave for more steamy sex sex sex. What a mess (-.-).

-10-

@iznsfw: Above the law, (under you) ft. Tzuyu

What else can I say except: IZ GOAT?! I guess so, every angle, idea, set up and kink this incredible qt has written has worked flawlessly. I rule that you are guilty of being way too fucking good at this and sentence you to write more sentences to make your sentence longer so more sentences lead to new masterpieces. Please.

Guys, that's it. With a final bow the curtains fall. Until next time. Ciao!

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fumifooms · 8 months

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Laimar crumbs

I wanted to compile all my laimar/marios crumbs to be able to look back at them whenever~ These are CRUMBS and I’m not arguing that all these moments were intended romantically, I have my shipping goggles on and picking every moment I think is meaningful and shippy for these two. I'm probably gonna have to split this in parts because it's gonna get long. Part 2 link

Content warning: spoilers for ALL of the Dungeon Meshi manga! Also blood & corpses in passing

They are so repressed aghhhh. I could go on forever about how Marcille is special to Laios because she was Falin’s first friend and was the only one to follow him into the dungeon for Falin and not the job, how from the get go they were linked by something more than work and that made him feel more comfortable with her. But my Laimar thesis is essentially: they are so sickeningly-sweet domestic and complementary. Their charm lies in their old couple "we’ll argue over what to have for dinner" familiarity with each other, having 0 filter. And also they’re funny together.

They’re so domestic… The way she touches him so fondly and easily and she helps him out of his armor 😭💕 How used is she to disrobing Laios that it's such a no-brainer action for her?

Which, touching is something she does easily without being embarrassed or deeper meaning, which is mostly due to the nature of being a healer beside her affectionate touchy-feely personality (that we can especially see when she interacts with Falin or Chilchuck), but that isn’t true at all for Laios, who we see is very awkward when it comes to touching someone.

Isn’t it so very interesting how Marcille being happy and not lonely aka her wish being fulfilled is the thing that makes Laios react here? The last thing he offers before Winged Lion goes like “it seems you’ve made up your mind~” in the next page.

I've already pointed out Marcille's smile being a special thing to Laios here but it bears being posted here again.

Laios has a "I want to learn more about Marcille face" that he does with no one else just saying.

Laios is always the one she instinctively clings to.

Imagine intimately knowing someone’s worst fear and having comforted them in a moment of pure naked weakness and that instance having had such a profound impact that it subconsciously affects them and their decision making. Laios truly was Marcille’s therapy dog. Pet the dog and fears will fly out

I am SCREAMING why is Marcille the one sitting right next to Laios?? His sister just got revived and Marcille is STILL sitting closer? She’s so right hand man coded they are so partners. I’m just saying having her sit right next to him at his right all the time is so <33 For a series like Dungeon Meshi all about eating metaphors and the importance of sharing a meal? To share that meal with her at his closest?? While Chilchuck and the rest of the party have their own lives in Laios' ideal world conjured up by the Winged Lion, besides Falin Marcille is the one shown to work in close quarters with him <3 It's his ideal world and he wants her to be there to support and help him daily, help... I’m planning to make a post on just that but for now:

They’ve been hinted to be complementary on a planning level so many times. Imagine the country they’ll make together fr!

Them both wanting to stay in the dungeon kingdom, looking like king and queen <3

Not Laios baiting Marcille with him finding her cute omfg.

Laios is the one who wordlessly takes charge of caring for sick Marcille and feeding her.

I could put the whole 96 bit of Laios being all sheepish asking Marcille to stay with him, going up to elfic authorities and telling them "Mine." with Marcille under his cape as his FIRST show of kingly authority (which could represent how Marcille is a good catalyst/motivation for Laios growing more comfortable in his shoes & role and being willing to truly chase something, instead of wandering and hiding his true self. She gives him courage). Honestly the first time I read it I was almost expecting him to propose when he dragged her into the forest holy shit. He's so cute and uncomfortable with showing affection or interest help, Marcille meanwhile the gossip romantic soul of the party being totally oblivious. More on this scene in part 2!!!!!

I ALSO could rant AGAIN about the whole Marcille is Laios’ succubus aka "most alluring form" thing but that’s a complex issue and I go in depth into it in this post

In conclusion they're soulmates both platonic and romantic no one can change my mind. They are so similar. They are so opposite. Laios flees from intimacy and she chases it. They are insecure. They kick ass. They unquestionably love each other, wether it be platonic or otherwise. They get on each other's case. They value each other's input and skills.

#dungeon meshi #laimar #marios #shipping crumbs #masterpost #fumi rambles #i do be a laimar truther but i got nothing but respect for any other shipper ofc. hi farcilles i love u guys don't kill me #some of these points i might repost separatedly bc some people highly prefer short posts. Gotta spread laimar propaganda

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valentine-writes · 8 months

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Hello!! I absolutely adore your spot HC!

I was wondering if you could write something pre-collider accident? When he was working for alchemax ^^

I would adore more content about him and reader being coworkers, maybe this is way too self indulgent, but I crave some good enemies/rivals to lovers with this man. I think the dynamic would be so fun ^^

competitive

「 tws + notes: possibly ooc, no tws, unedited, rivals to lovers (which i hope i do justice), pre-collider johnathan ohnn, reader and johnathan are petty,,, can u tell i like writing him mildly bitchy, plz forgive any conflicts w/ canon i researched but im like 99.9% sure there r still errors 」

「 gn!reader, romantic relationship <3 」

↳ ft. johnathan ohnn/the spot

author's note: ouughh i love this sooo much,,, thank u AUDHEWUFHEW o((>ω< ))o !!! im so excited to write more of pre-collider him,, ignore me as i feverishly research every bit of canon info i can get cuz i haven't been able 2 rewatch the movie yet i hope this is to ur liking! enemies to lovers is not my strong suit,, but OHOUWHUDHEWH RIVALS TO LOVERS!!! UNDERUTILIZED!!! might hafta make a part two tho,,, locked in on the rivals part,,, lovers part in progress. ok no more of my rambles

▸ ever since you had arrived at alchemax, you and johnathan just couldn't seem to get along. not a particularly useful thing, considering you both worked for the same research company where teamwork was vital though, you insisted you had no real spite for him, the second you had gotten the job, you just seemed to one-up him in every single way.

every. single. way.

▸ when given a deadline, you'd finish in half the time it took him. when completing research, you have the information compiled when he was just starting to organize his.

hell, you even succeeded in being more proficient socially. how had you made so many friends already?

▸ he had to admit you were terribly charming too– a trait he was particularly envious of– and from the few times he's seen you get coffee with one or two of the other scientists, he knew that everyone seemed to think the same

not like he was paying that much attention to you as he saw you laughing with another coworker through the cafe window. foam party? sounds boring anyways, whatever

▸ he wasn't mad because he was lonely, or saw himself as inferior to you. johnathan had friends and honestly didn't consider himself particularly bad at making them. johnathan knew he was intelligent and that with his work, he could accomplish something big.

no, this problem had nothing to do with him. it was you. besides you, all the things he worked hard for was just second nature.

how annoying.

▸ your sworn rivalry had been one-sided for the longest of time to any witnesses. grumbling under his breath while he passed you, making a great effort to speak curtly with you, and was certainly not beyond intentionally knocking his shoulder into yours when he passed the look you shot at him for doing this was enough to make him wither on the spot– unintentional joke. my bad.

but he knew you were just as competitive as he was. the way you acted just had to be intentional. some of your remarks towards him were too pointed to ignore– your smiles and your friendliness nothing more than keeping it as civil as possible in a workplace setting.

professionalism, masking a deeper intention: to outdo him.

▸ and once you had figured that your feigned innocence would no longer keep you afloat, that's when the true rivalry began. an ambition-fuelled climb to the top to be better than the other.

it manifested more childishly than you two cared to admit.

"you know, chewing on pens isn't great for your enamel." johnathan practically jumps out of his seat, your words effectively snapping him out of his completely focused state.

he grumbles, looking over at you while lowering the pen away from his mouth a habit that i have too... guys look away itz not projecting...

you only shrug your shoulders. "just saying, johnny."

"don't call me that." he retorts, trying not to roll his eyes. "are you here just to bother me with unsolicited comments about my habits and dental advice?"

you laugh and he feels his face heat up in annoyance. you and your stupid laugh. he's heard enough of it around the workplace while you chatted amongst the others. it was a sound he could live without.

"so hostile. we work together, y'know?" you grin. there's a glimmer of amusement in your eyes. you were getting on his nerves and you knew it.

"anyways, i just came to ask if you had a pen i could borrow. preferably not one with teeth marks." the last part is tacked on so briefly that johnathan didn't even have time to be offended about it before he replied.

he looks at you dead in the face. "sorry. i don't have an extra pen on me."

you glance at the completely untouched, unused, ballpoint pen on his desk and then back at him. he says nothing, staring at you silently, before you get the hint decide to go ask someone else.

▸ it gets pettier.

imagine johnathan eying up a coworker, getting all blushy and stumbling over his words around them.

and within a week, you've got their number– and he passes by the two of out in that STUPID FUCKING HIPSTER CAFE GODDAMMIT–

it's not that serious to him. he can move on from a workplace crush. he however, can't move on from the fact you swooped in before he even got a chance. you never care to bring up that on your little coffee date with that person ended up being a disaster– maybe it was for the better they stayed away from him

▸ of course, he was able to outdo you too. his biggest success?

"so," johnathan flinched away, about to walk out the glass doors of alchemax and head home for the day– only to find you with your back leaning against the frame, arms crossed. "heard you got put in charge over something pretty important."

he curses under his breath. "you can't just sneak up on people like that."

"i was literally standing here in plain sight the entire time."

"were you waiting for me or something?" he asks sarcastically. johnathan seems somewhat surprised when you don't respond, awkwardly averting your gaze from him for a moment hm. guess that's a "yes"...

"doesn't matter." you reply, shoving your hands in your pockets. "so... you're working on a portal thingy?"

"i'm one of the people overseeing it, yes." he huffs, trying to answer your questions quickly and just get the hell home. but as you figured, he had all the time in the world when it came to correcting you.

"and– the word portal is inaccurate."

you raise an eyebrow. "yeah?"

"it's a particle accelerator. you should know what that means. the goal of this project is to essentially create a passageway– a bridge, if you will– between two separate dimen–"

"so, a portal." you interrupt.

he glares at you and you swear his eye twitches.

"just wanted to know. congrats, ohnn." you say casually, before exiting out the door.

the next time he sees you, he discovers that head scientist, olivia octavius who just so happens to be fond enough of your work to hear you out when you asked her decided it would be a good idea to have you work on the project as well.

even though johnathan was still technically still ahead of you– he kicked himself for how quickly you were beginning to catch up. you flashed him a grin from your desk as you began to help out on the project– he forced one back through gritted teeth.

▸ after tirelessly working on the project together as a team still trying your very best to outdo one another he figures this feud of yours is getting nowhere.

you've both spent sleepless nights on this project you both equally cared for,, it was time to just give up and be normal coworkers. an odd conclusion for johnathan to reach as a notorious grudge holder. maybe the lack of rest was getting to him, too exhausted to even deal with you anymore. or maybe, he was satisfied where he was right now– on the verge of a huge breakthrough with him being one of the main contributors– he no longer needed the pleasure of being better than you.

"how did you even get this number?" you ask, recognizing his voice through the phone as he greeted you.

"well, funny thing actually. alchemax has all the employee information on files, so i just–"

the realization hits you. "snooped through mine to get my phone number?! you're insane!"

he's desperate to explain, just trying to get to his point without getting a headache from you. "no, no, no– wait, i didn't come to fight or anything–"

"then what do you want, johnathan? a little medal? a trophy or somethin? you're probably getting that anyways after this whole thing– so,, so– what? what is it?!" you snap.

this is the only blatant hostility you've ever shown him. both ends of the call fall silent.

"wow uh– that was a lot." he mumbles awkwardly.

"...'m sorry." the shame makes your ears burn up. it is getting childish. you can't deny it.

he blinks at his phone, before bringing it back up to his ear. "did you just apologize? have i got the right person?"

it's your turn to groan. "are you trying to get me to take it back?"

"no! no, no, no– sorry." he replies quickly, stuttering as he tries to get back on track. "i just wanted to talk...."

the words hang in the air for much longer than needed.

"just spit it out already." you inturrupt.

"we should truce." he blurts out. "you know... maybe we should calm down. start over."

johnathan pauses for a moment, waiting for a reaction from you. you give him absolutely nothing. he takes a deep breath before speaking up again.

"i just thought it'd be better this way. this is getting ridiculous. and i think we're both mature enough to move past it so–"

"no, thank you."

he falters momentarily, processing what you had just said. "i'm– i'm sorry, i think misheard you."

"no, you heard me," you repeat, your smile clear as day in your voice, "no. thank. you."

"i like what we've got going on. keeps me motivated." the sweetness in your tone makes him cringe.

"you can't be serious." he rubs the bridge of his nose, fighting off the urge to lose his mind.

"oh, but i am." you lean into your phone's mic, voice dropping to a whisper. "just give me time. i'll catch up with you eventually."

your stubborness was truly something else.

"nope. can't do this, not today, nope–"

you laugh to yourself, hearing him hang up. you secretly hoped he'd at least keep talking to you a little longer. probably just a result of being a tad sleep deprived too.

▸ the collider is almost finished. ever since the phone call, you and johnathan hadn't talked for days.

and now, there you were, at his desk.

"need a pen?" he asks, looking up at you, expecting you to bother him again.

you shake your head. "actually, i came to ask for something else. i've been thinking about what you said..."

the words catch in your throat. you stare at the ground, the humiliation of what you're about to say causing you to fidget with your hands. he's never seen you like this– timid and anxious in his presence rather than smug and confident. it's a sight that he thought would bring him joy– but he's far beyond that now. instead, he looks at you curiously, not unlike the way he observes specimens.

"go on..." he says, leaning in slightly.

you meet his gaze sheepishly. "yeah. maybe a truce doesn't sound so bad."

he smiles back, cautious but hopeful. "you mean it?"

"this isn't me surrendering." you're quick to say, though your defensiveness falls flat, only causing his smile to fade for a moment. "i'm growing bored of it. we can just move on." it's not what he had in mind– but he'll take it.

"okay. sounds... good?" he replies awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

"mhm. so, you still have my phone number, right?"

he freezes. "yes... but– um– i can just delete it from my contacts now if– if you want. that was weird of me to do. really sorry 'bout that. just wanted to talk."

"nah. keep it." you say with a slight shrug of your shoulders. he tilts his head slightly at your reaction.

"i'll text you when work's done so we can grab a coffee or somethin." there's that smile he's grown so familiar with. this time it has no undertones of aggression– something which he finds more unnerving somehow. he can't tell what you're up to.

"i– uh– what–" he stammers.

you await the rejection.

"i mean– sure... but... you want that?" he asks, his tone careful, like he expects this to just be a scheme of yours. never in a million years would he think that you'd want to actually resolve whatever conflict you had going on. much less, spend time with him outside of work.

" i mean, i just offered, didn't i?"

"right– ...so uh– after work then. okay. it's a date."

he mentally kicks himself for the last part. "i– not like– a date, date, but–"

you don't give him time to stumble over his words and make a fool of himself.

"great." you turn to leave, but glance over your shoulder before walking away. "see you later, johnny."

▸ you failed to acknowledge this earlier, and maybe he had too– but over the course of your mutual rivalry, you found that you admired him. his brain, his work, his sheer tenacity– and he admired you too.

perhaps you didn't have to be better than one another.

"here's to new beginnings." you mutter to yourself, shooting him a text while waiting at the cafe.

#atsv #across the spiderverse #UAHWIEJDKSN HEAVY WITH THE RIVALS. little less w/ the lovers part #look they're jus trying 2 b friendz rn #but trust they'll be kissin in no time 🫡‼️#atsv x reader #the spot #the spot atsv #the spot headcanons #the spot x reader #johnathan ohnn #johnathon ohnn headcanons #johnathan ohnn x reader #johnathon ohnn #johnathan ohnn headcanons #johnathon ohnn x reader #4givsies if he is ooc.... trying to figure him out little by little.....#anyways i had more fun with this than i thought i would auwhwhdj i get carried away easily

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blondiest · 3 months

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HELLO! this is the first supposedly-annual nealloblondiest "mello isn't dead" bonanza, and this rec list is my main contribution. i have not made a rec list before, and i'm sure this isn't anywhere near comprehensive, but while compiling this, i found several new-to-me fics that i loved and am excited to include! the criteria for this list are mello/near fanfictions that are set after the end of the kira case in which mello survives or comes back from the dead. i'm not listing out the tags for these fics, since i trust everyone can check that for themselves and make judgments accordingly :-)

i will be including one (1) fic of my own here, but you can also find a list of all the fics i have which fall into this category over here <3

meronia authors: if you have a fic that fits this criteria, please feel so incredibly free to reblog and add a link to it [and i will in turn reblog your version so we can all see more fics!!] i am tagging the authors whose tumblr URLs i know, but i very well may miss someone; feel free to tag them in the replies if you think they would like to see it!

without further ado, the list is below the cut!! ^_^

heaven is a place on earth with you by @neallo

rating: E | category: M/M | chapters: 1/1 | words: 1.4k

There is no blood or body of Christ, no priest and no pews, but it’s here and now that Mello finally rediscovers a long-lost sliver of faith. Hands on Near’s hips, Mello lowers his face and presses his mouth to Near’s soft abdomen. “I love you,” he murmurs, head bowed and eyes shut as if in prayer.

getting mine out of the way at the start here :-) this is a sequel to my only one, my smoking gun but can very easily be read as a standalone.

Impulse by @empressofthewind

rating: M | category: M/M | chapters: 1/1 | words: 2.5k

In the span of a few weeks, Mello and Near’s rendezvous had quickly become a regular part of Near’s work day; Mello would suggest a time and place, and Near would always agree. Near was perfectly content with the arrangement, as long as his employees didn’t find out.

a sexy little post-kira workplace-romance oneshot in which mello helps near out with a case. and also gives him many hickeys ^_^ <3 the kissing scene in this makes me chewing-off-my-hands insane (highly positive)

orchid by anonymous

rating: M | category: multi | chapters: 1/1 | words: 269

mello wonders about what he's gotten himself into, sometimes.

very sweet, very short smutty ot4 fic (mello x matt, mello x near, mello x linda, with an implication that all four are dating each other).

reflection by @squidish

rating: E | category: M/M | chapters: 1/1 | words: 2.7k

Their bedroom door was open and the bed faced it. When Near closed the door, Mello raised an eyebrow. Just the one. There was a mirror on the back of the door that hadn’t been there yesterday. It was vertical, rectangular, with a simple black frame. Near looked at him with an expression so blank it could have meant literally anything. “You don’t have to,” he said, beginning to twirl his long hair, “but I’d like it if you watched.”

very intimate & adoring, yet still filthy [<- very positive] smut <3 ray imo excels beautifully at established relationship fics & captures a delicate dynamic that i'm very fond of.

Arsonist's Lullabye by TzviaAriella

rating: T | category: M/M | chapters: 1/1 | words: 3.3k

Two years after the end of the Kira case, Near and Mello pay a visit to L's grave.

i love the dynamic in this one very much; it's very contentious / antagonistic (esp at the start) but not without tenderness underneath :')

ringing... by @madmeridian

rating: T | category: M/M | chapters: 1/1 | words: 1.8k

Near receives a phone call and reflects a bit on his past.

mello and near get in touch over the phone after the end of the kira case; great dynamic here. it's a cute and charming story but without feeling de-fanged; their dialogue still has teeth to it :D

august underground by @brothercrush and @firebuggg

rating: E | category: M/M | chapters: 2/15 | words: 10.5k

Hell spits them out on a little Greek island.

was not going to include in-progress fics on this list, but had to make an exception. slowburn alternating POV story in which near drags mello out of hell. beautiful prose & a complex, compelling dynamic <3

#meronia #mellonear #mihael keehl #nate river #mello death note #near death note #death note

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vampire-meta-knight · 4 months

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Goth DIY: Altered Clothing part 1

Since some of you crafty goths were interested in seeing the clothing I've altered, I decided to compile it all in one place! I hope I can inspire your creations,give you ideas, and teach you new techniques. This will be a long post, since I've been making alterations to my clothing since high school, which also means some of these projects aren't as polished as others, since they were made when I was newer to DIY and have mistakes I've since learned from, but that's okay! Goth doesn't have to be polished and perfect, and don't let the fear of mistakes stop you from creating!

I've already done posts about the shorts and pants I've gothified, so part 1 will focus on t-shirts, camisoles, and button-up shirts. Part 2 will have sweaters, skirts, and dresses. Some alterations are as easy as adding safety pins or lace trim, and others involve more sewing. Lots of these are very beginner-friendly projects and take less than an hour. All of these items were completely plain when I got them--anything metal, lace, embroidered, or painted that you see was added by me. I'll add more about each garment in the image descriptions. As always, feel free to message me if you want better or more thorough instructions or DIY advice. I'm here to be a resource to my fellow crafters! <3

(Also, please pardon the cat hair and my hair on the clothes--I don't take perfect pictures. A couple pics are also old since those shirts are in storage so I could make room for my winter wardrobe, so you'll notice a change in backdrop and a dirty mirror.)

Let's start with t-shirts and camisoles! Use an old shirt, a thrifted shirt, a shirt from Walmart, etc.! I like to get plain unisex t-shirts from Walmart and paint on them using freezer paper stencils, bleach them, shred them, and/or add safety pins to them. The camis also came from Walmart, and I changed the necklines and added lace trim to make them cuter.

To make a sweetheart neckline on a cami, you can cut it, or you can just pinch the middle and sew it into place (I did that for all of them except the black and white one--that one ended up a little lower-cut than I meant it to, so I decided to stick with the pinching method). The lace trim I used on the black camis isn't stretchy, but still works just fine, as long as you pin it into place while you're wearing the shirt and stretch the shirt a bit as you sew to maintain stretch in those areas. Stretchy lace, like I used on the pink and red camis, works a bit better, but is harder to find. I still like pinning the lace while I'm wearing the shirt to get the placement down, but if you wear a bra, make sure you're wearing the one you plan on wearing with the shirt while placing the lace. I found it doesn't sit right with bras that fit a little differently than the one I based the placement on.

The long-sleeved Emily the Strange shirt has a neat detail, albeit a wonky one because my placement is a bit off sometimes. You'll notice two little striped triangles at the bottom. I cut slits in the shirt and added triangles of striped stretchy fabric, then sewed zippers over top of them to hide the seams and add extra detail. I also sewed the zippers on with red thread for contrast.

My button-ups are a bit more involved. I treat them like how I treat shorts--patches, lace, embroidery, pins, grommet tape, D-rings, charms, chains, oh my! The pink one is my most recent, and I'm so proud of it. All of the patches came from ToothxNail on Etsy, except the Rat King patch, which came from Katiewhittleart on Etsy. The flowers on the collar were buttons that I glued onto flat-back pins from a craft store (I used E6000 glue). Made super quick collar pins that I can remove when washing the shirt or put on something else when I want.

The orange button-up was by far the simplest. I just added lace trim to the cuffs and cropped it (it had been high-low, but I wanted to wear it tucked into a skirt and the long back was annoying me). I also added collar clips with a chain that I got at a craft fair, but that's more like styling an accessory with it than altering it, since I can just un-clip them.

The leather jacket is old and doesn't fit well, so I don't wear it anymore, but I kept it because it was my first leather jacket. Adding the sew-on studs and faux-fur trim on the neck took the longest. You'll also notice that a mouse chewed a hole in the outer shell on the pocket.

Part 2

#diy advice from your local goth #goth diy #goth clothing #goth fashion #goth #gothgoth #goth subculture #diy fashion #diy #diy tutorial #goth tutorial #crafting #sewing #mine

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pienhime · 6 months

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Ten Under-Recognized Jirai Kei Characters!

Ive been meaning to make a post on some jirai kei characters that i think are underappreciated by the overseas landmine community! Mostly i think its bc they don't wear girly kei, cybercore, or other fashions associated with us on SNS, and bc their media came out before 2020. So ive compiled a list and an explanation for why i think they're jirai! I have another list for pien kei characters who arent jirai in my opinion too. If u have any characters u think the western jirai comm sleeps on, comment/reblog and tell me who & why!

1. Celestia Ludenberg

Celestia (Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc) has screamed landmine to me for like, ever! She's wrapped up in her appearance and at first glance makes the effort to come off as regal and formal. But she frequently lets that disguise slip and shows her sadistic side at the slightest inconvenience, threatening violence and screaming in peoples faces. She's got both a superiority complex AND inferiority complex, and has an unhealthy obsession with gambling, her super high school level talent.

2. Nijimin Anazawa

Nijimin (Mahou Shoujo Site) is super popular in the japanese jirai comm, and its easy to see why. She's easily lovestruck and a borderline yandere (dependent type), murderous and hellbent on revenge, and her magical power literally revolves around manipulating others. She's a beloved idol and a symbol of cuteness, but she's a murderous magical girl? How much more jirai can you get!

3. Mayoi Ayase

Mayoi (Ensemble Stars) is a very interesting character! From his obsession with the occult to his self depreciating behavior to his obsessive and stalkerish tendencies, he's an overall offputting yet charming guy. As an idol, he has fans who have a totally different image of him than the creep (affectionate) he can be at times behind the scenes. Also, not to stereotype, but his favorite sanrio character is kuromi, whos super popular within jirai.

4. Yuri

Yuri (Dokidoki Literature Club) being a landmine seems a little self-explanatory to me. She's a yandere character who's probably the most unassuming of the cast at first. She's shy, smart, kind... and a self-harming yandere with a knife fetish who will literally kill herself if you get involved romantically or reject her.

5. Yoosung

Wow, when's the last time I thought about Mystic Messanger? No idea, but Yoosung feels pretty jirai kei to me in retrospect. In the beginning of the game, hes the adorkable self-conscious junior with an unhealthy online addiction. But, by the end, he's a self-harming yandere who refuses to let the player character go, and is willing to do whatever it takes to secure a happily ever after.

6. Kusokawa-chan

While I have an immeasurable hatred for her creator, Kusokawa-chan (Menhera-chan spin-off 4komas) is a comfort character of mine... for some reason. With a name that means "kawaii trash", her personality is probably predictable. She's human trash, a sadistic asshole with no respect for others who will insult and berate you at the drop of a hat, and turn on a dime on her fans. She tries to cover it up by putting on an exaggerated innocent act and kawaii-fying herself and her life, but she just cant stop herself from exploding on others with no remorse.

7. Azusa Mukami

Admittedly, everything I know about Diabolik Lovers is through its fandom as I've yet to cave and buy the games. But from what little I know, Azusa seems pretty jirai. He seems innocent, fragile even- but has the typical amount of yandere tendencies for the series. He has a self harm addiction, and if you peruse his route you're in for a toxic time.

8. Satou Matsuzaka

This might be cheating because she's so popular on yandere tumblr, but Satou Matsuzaka (Happy Sugar Life) is ultra jirai kei. It's no wonder she's such a popular choice of pfp on japanese jiraitwt! She's obsessed with living out a fantasy saccarine-sweet life with the object of her desire, and given her full-blown yandere nature and her lolicon status, its no doubt shes a toxic partner. She's beloved at her school and workplace for her seemingly sweet nature and cute looks, but her kindness is only for the purposes of manipulation.

9. Kosame Amagai

Again, I'm no expert on Diabolik Lovers! But based on what my friends on yandereblr tell me, this guy is definately a jirai danshi. He's a lover of all things cute, who uses his cute shota-like appearance and polite manner of speech to lure others in. In reality, hes an abusive partner in his route, and takes his anger out on others verbally. He's willing to cry, scream, and threaten over the smallest of transgressions. Of course, he's also a yandere as per series standard.

10. Momonga

Okay so this is only half-serious, but there's a reason Momonga (Chiikawa) is so beloved by jirai girls and often depicted fitting the visual jirai stereotype in fanart. She's ultra cute! But she uses her appearance and acting vulnerable and innocent to try to get away with shithead behavior. She's loud, erratic, and self-obsessed, and often cries when she doesn't get her way. She's obviously the worlds cutest little manipulator, and she knows it.

I hope you enjoyed this list! There's a list for non-landmine pien kei characters coming soon, so feel free to send me asks with recommendations! And feel free to add on to this list in reblogs and comments!

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 20 days

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Isobel, Before

On something of a whim I decided to compile, in chronological order, the flashback segments from Isobel's POV that are woven throughout Moon-chosen, Moon-guided. I was curious how they'd read, and it turns out I quite like how they do - so here they are posted as a standalone little prequelish thing, a series of windows into a developing relationship and some family drama. This includes the segment I wrote for the upcoming third chapter, so consider it a sneak peek of an update that will take me a little while longer because it decided to develop a plot or some such nonsense, you know how it is. The years are my own very rough guesses, trying to somehow work around the Spellplague while keeping it all approximately a century before the main plot of the game, so don't take them too seriously.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm Length: ~8000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence (including temporary character death) and sexual content

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1381 DR

It is an unusually warm and bright summer day for Reithwin, the relentless sun urging you to rush your errands around town and make your way home to the merciful shade. And it is upon your return there that you find the glorious Dame Aylin laying waste to an army of training dummies in the otherwise empty practice field beneath Moonrise Towers.

You steal a moment to watch and appreciate the spectacle that is her entire being in perfectly orchestrated motion, uncharacteristically free of her ever-polished armour, sleeves rolled up - a vision of ferocity, even if it is against such laughably unworthy foes.

It calls to your mind, amusingly, the poor announcer in your father's audience chamber a little over a month ago, so very unusually formal and far too visibly nervous, struggling to rattle off one too many titles.

The Valiant Dame Aylin Silverblood, Undefeated Sword of the Moonmaiden, Paladin and Daughter of Selûne. Arriving as formal Emissary of Our Lady of Silver, speaking in Her name.

She turns when she hears you clearing your throat to announce your presence, an indulgent while after your arrival. Ever so slightly out of breath, with a subtle sheen of sweat on her radiant brow, she inclines her head with respect. "Ah! Lady Isobel. I was just thinking of sending to fetch you. A request, if you please."

"Of course, Dame Aylin." Anything for the resplendent emissary, you want to add, only half-teasingly. It is frustratingly difficult not to act a smitten fool around her, and sarcasm has proved a feeble defence from her charms.

Her request, however, is nowhere near anything you might have anticipated.

"I would have you meet me in the sparring ring, if you are willing."

You blink. "I-- pardon?"

"You are no mere lord's daughter, nor are you simply the demure local healer. I can tell by your bearing you have training. Not the typical mace of the clergy, no," she hums, as if in thought, looking you up and down quite brazenly, appraisingly. "The rapier, perhaps, along with a dagger for the offhand? No, rather, the quarterstaff--"

"The spear," you cut her off. And the lofty, approving tilt of her chin is so fetching as to be insufferable. "I can protect myself, you're right. My father is an accomplished general, after all," and stiflingly overprotective to boot, but that part you bite back and keep to yourself. "It is only fitting. Besides, any devotee of Our Lady knows how important it is to be able to fend for oneself."

"Show me, then, general's daughter," she gestures to the packed-dirt training ring with a grin. "I grow quite bored of this straw-filled wicker regiment I have been pitted against."

She's got a good head and a half of height on you. Her reach outclasses yours quite overwhelmingly. She is visibly broad and strong and unshakeable as a mighty fortress. And though you do indeed have training, the martial arts were hardly your main focus - very much unlike her.

A challenge, truly, but one you cannot help but suddenly crave.

"Fine, then, I accept." A giddiness washes over you as you speak, and your head feels oddly light. The heat and humidity of the day, surely. Treading dangerous ground, Isobel.

Aylin immediately goes over to the training weapon racks to put away the blunt sword she has been using, and you follow her.

"I have trained in arms of all sorts, but I find I most favour the greatsword," she muses as she rummages, retrieving two wooden staves with padded ends, testing their weight. "The spear I must confess I have neglected somewhat, in recent times."

You smirk as she hands you a staff that has evidently passed inspection. "There is no need for excuses, Dame Aylin. When I trounce you, I assure you it will have been fair and square and well deserved."

You expect the hearty bellow of her laugh, some lively banter in return, an exclamation, Ho! Instead, she inclines her head in a respectful gesture, and does so with a surprisingly soft smile and oddly inscrutable gaze in your direction. "I would expect no less of you, my lady."

You look away hastily, wipe the sweat from your hands and put on the leather gloves from your belt. The day has been far too hot for them and the afternoon sun is still beating down fiercely, but you are not about to embarrass yourself and risk losing on the technicality of a splinter.

Then, you face each other.

Her stance and the way she holds the wooden training weapon speak of years, decades… centuries of experience, perhaps. It is hard to truly imagine, and you find you do not really know. Immortal, yes, but… well, since when? Does she have a universe of deeds and escapades on you, a hundred lives lived to the fullest, or merely the knowledge that they lie ahead of her?

When could it possibly be polite to ask such a thing?

You shake away the distraction of your thoughts, just in time to block a quick, testing blow aimed at your own weapon. A tease, really, hoping for a reaction you know well enough not to provide.

She continues with the probing attacks, none of them with any real force behind them, and you think how under normal circumstances it might be a good strategy to let your opponent waste her strength and tire herself out like this - but you know better. You have discreetly observed enough of her training sessions to know that if she is anything at all she is tireless.

But she is leaving it up to you to attempt anything other than these light provocations. So you do - you would hate to disappoint, after all.

You strike out high at her head, once, twice, then at her front leg, swift as a viper, and when she moves her weapon down to parry, you jab at her shoulder and step back in time to avoid the afterblow.

"Oh-ho! An excellent feint, perfectly executed!" The joy that lights her face even as she rolls the struck shoulder is so infectious, you can't help but laugh breathlessly, warmed by this small triumph. "I was indeed correct in my assumption - the most noble Lady Isobel is not to be underestimated. Her skills and merit extend far beyond even the lofty requirements of her duties - be they of the court or of the faith."

The next strike you attempt, flushed with both the heat of the day and the effusive praise, is met with far more resistance, and soon you are exchanging blows with vigour. She repays your shoulder blow with a tap to your hip, then tries to strike the staff from your hands in a disarm you just barely avoid with a well-timed tilt.

Your next attempt at a feint is parried at the very last moment, but you do not retreat, and so you end in a bind. She is much stronger than you, yes, but your angle is superior, and you can see her straining to stay in position, close to that ever-important centreline, and keep her balance. A bead of sweat trails down her neck to her collarbone, and it takes you a moment to realise you are following it, rapt. It takes you another moment to register she is staring at you just as raptly, even as you feel your hair sticking to your temples and realise the paint around your eyes is likely a smudged mess.

Distraction. An opening if you've ever seen one.

"Do you know, when I heard an emissary of Selûne was coming to our town, I did not expect her to have a bard's silver tongue on her." Instead of moving to disengage and putting distance between you, you draw even closer to her, until your mouth is almost at her ear. "In more ways than one, perhaps?"

Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed silver, shining. It is the oddest and most captivating blush you have ever seen, made only more so by the closeness of your study.

And of course, the moment of distraction proves sufficient for that slight shift you needed. The great oak topples with so little effort - leverage, always, the key. Her reaction is faster than you anticipated, however, and so with the force of her riposte you go down right after her. Foolish of you, really - the thought has time to rush through your mind as your sense of balance disappears - to underestimate an accomplished paladin so.

In any case, within moments, Aylin is on the ground, and you land atop her. You have enough presence of mind, somehow, despite the proximity and the warmth and the, well-- to reach for where your weapon started to roll away and press the end of it lightly against her neck. "Yield?"

She raises her hands, palms up in surrender, and nods, struck speechless for once.

You scramble rather gracelessly to your feet in all your triumph, and offer her a hand up. She accepts, then somewhat disappointingly lets go to dust herself off before you've had a chance to fully appreciate the feel of her hand in yours.

"Well!" Aylin turns the bright glint of her full attention on you, charmingly tousled still. "I see no point in struggling to prolong a losing battle. A challenge, skillfully won." She steps closer to you and inclines her head in a slight bow. "Besides, I can tell my yielding on the field of battle pleases you, and I am not one to deny a lady her pleasure."

All of it spoken with a smile, and a shockingly honest, unmasked, open, and entirely unabashed look in her eyes. Damn her.

You do your best, feebly, to catch your breath and return to something resembling calm propriety. And you fail to squash a niggling doubt. "Thank you for the bout, Dame Aylin. But… honestly now, were you holding back?"

"Only as much as is appropriate for the training ring, of course. One is never to exert one's full might in these circumstances, as you well know." She shakes her head, a small frown furrowing her brow, and you can't help but feel this is a recitation she has been made to repeat until it stuck, something she had to deliberately become aware of after getting carried away one too many times. A thought to file away for later, perhaps. "But not in the sense you doubtlessly meant, no. I would not pretend and deceive after asking a fair duel of you. Such things are beneath Dame Aylin."

The heat floods your cheeks again. Damn her phrasing.

"Ah," she clears her throat. "The day has grown too hot for martial pursuits, I fear - let us retire."

She offers you her arm, ever gallant. You allow yourself the bold indiscretion of taking it only after you have peeled off your gloves and tucked them back in your belt. You've not known Dame Aylin for a very long time, but you are well aware she is possibly the least subtle creature in all of Faerûn. The ill-concealed catch in her breath and stiffening in her shoulders as your skin meets hers is a treasured token you stow away for further contemplation.

It is a regrettably short walk to the pleasantly shaded entrance hall of Moonrise.

1382 DR

Sharran forces dare attack even here, in the shadow of your father's moonlit fortress, in the very heart of a famously devoted Selûnite region. Perhaps they heard, or tortured out of some poor soul, that their hated Moonwitch had sent an emissary.

But the emissary does not seem to be quite what they expected or prepared for.

You've heard of Dame Aylin's exploits, of some of the many glorious deeds to her name - well, to be quite honest, you've deliberately asked around for them and chased down all the tales, however ridiculous they seemed, with somewhat concerning single-mindedness. But none of them, not even the most outrageous exaggerations with all the force of poetic licence behind them, can compare to actually seeing her in the heat of battle.

It is certainly dangerous to be so distracted in the midst of a clearly planned and organised assault on your home, and it is especially egregious to keep looking up, chasing a vision as it flies somewhere high above all of you, soaring over the head of your father's statue gracing the centre of the embattled town square. But she is so utterly glorious and radiant and filled with unquestionable purpose in all that she does, and you are utterly beyond help.

"Selûne, Moonmother, in Your name!" The clear voice suddenly rings out from somewhere close by, drowning out the din of battle in your ears. You turn just in time to see a flash of silver light engulf one of the masked attackers, burnished black disks brazenly displayed on their armour, and, well, you are not the only one smitten.

But then - disaster. Three of Moonrise's most recently recruited silver-bedecked guards find themselves stumbling into a group of enemies that close a circle around them. You see one of them fall, gripped by inky-purple strands, before you can even start to intone a spell; another one loses his footing and opens himself up for a deadly blow.

Quick as lightning, Aylin rushes down and forward, pushing the stumbling guard fully out of the way. Instead of him, the cultist's scimitar finds purchase in her gut, sliding through a gap between armour-plates like butter, and another's obsidian-black axe bites into her shoulder.

The sound it makes, that Aylin makes, draws a shout from you. A bolt of moonlight dispatches the first cultist, rage and terror somehow making your aim uncanny, and you step forward to bathe the rest of his nearby comrades in deadly, burning radiance before he has even hit the ground.

After this, the battle is over as quickly as it had begun. The last of the attackers falls on her own blade rather than be captured and questioned, crying out some pitiful, ill-conceived mantra about secrets.

You find you do not care: your world, for the moment, has sunk down to the breadth of one woman lying on the trampled ground in a distressingly rapidly growing pool of silver, the guards she saved hovering around her in a mix of awe and alarm.

They let you through without hesitation - you are a cleric, after all. A healer. But as you drop to your knees at her side and attempt to assess the damage, you can tell you are too late.

Your hands fly in well-practised movements all the same.

"Do not worry, fearsome, fair Isobel," Aylin manages, breathily, barely audible, around a mouthful of blood. Her hand makes a very weak attempt at a dismissive wave, or grabbing your wrist to stop your ministrations, you cannot quite tell. Her helmet and her wings are both already gone, and the silver burning in her gaze just moments ago is a weak flicker. "I--"

Her eyes flutter closed and she falls limp beneath your hands and you--

--do not have time to even begin to comprehend what has happened before she is gasping awake again, coughing and groaning, spitting up a clot, trying to sit up.

You gape for a moment, then help her in her efforts, lean her against your chest. The weight of the armour feels like it might crush you, but moving away feels unthinkable.

"No tears, no," she mumbles, half-coherently, as you strain to understand, as a gauntleted hand reaches up to brush against your cheek clumsily. "So mundane a blow cannot… truly fell… Dame Aylin."

It is one thing to be aware of it in theory. Another thing entirely to witness it. Immortal.

There is a crowd gathered around you by now, you register faintly. People crying out prayers of praise and thanks to the Moonmaiden, for Her infinite wisdom and Her endless gifts and the indomitable daughter-champion She has blessed you all with. You feel a tug in your chest, like you should be joining in; like you would be the one leading the prayer in ordinary circumstances.

But you feel terribly far away from it all even as Aylin's breath grows more steady as she leans against you. You see her smile, still bloody, and understand only the most general sense of the reassuring platitudes she is whispering at you.

You bring her to the House of Healing with the other wounded of the battle and insist rather possessively on treating her yourself. Only afterwards do you tear yourself away from her bedside to take full stock of damage and casualties while she sleeps it off.

Your father rushes to embrace you tightly as soon as he catches sight of you from the House's grand entrance, and you let yourself cling to him for a moment. You do your best to assuage his worries, claim - lie - that you were in no real danger, insist on continuing to help here where you are most needed as he returns to his gubernatorial duties. And somehow, miraculously, he lets you go.

As you help the dutiful sisters with the worst of it, you finally manage to focus on murmuring your own prayer of thanks. It helps clear the long-clinging fog from your mind. And it helps, truly, that you count no deaths among Reithwin's faithful - the only fallen today are Shar's to claim if she deigns to do so.

Well - and then there's Aylin.

You go to check on her in the morning, after you've managed - been forced into, rather - a very brief nap.

The glorious and apparently unconquerable Dame Aylin is awake, reclining against the headboard of the only occupied bed in that wing. You don't recall requesting she receive any special treatment, and she doesn't look too pleased with being singled out as if in a place of honour - in fact, she mostly looks bored. She is frowning down at herself, plucking at loose threads hanging off of the bandages that cover most of her shoulder, chest, and abdomen - your own handiwork.

You step into the room and set down the basin of fresh water and an assortment of healing supplies with a deliberately loud clatter, jarring her out of her reverie. The moment she sees you, an expression of blatant joy dawns on her face. You try very hard not to read too much into it.

Instead, you make very standard proper-bedside-manner-dictated small talk as you peel away the gauze. The wounds are mostly healed, as you would expect from your application of any and all magic you had remaining that night, but there is a small line of gold running down towards her left side, where the blade bit in and through, and another one cupping across her shoulder. Oddly beautiful for what is presumably a scar - and highlighting the marvellous build of a finely muscled torso, pipes up a segment of your mind that has no place around a sickbed.

You wrench yourself back into professionalism and lightly press down with your fingers, following the shining gold, the freshly knit-together skin, still reddened and bruised in places. "Do you feel any pain when I do this?"

"None at all," Aylin answers resolutely, entirely back to her old self. But then- "Ah," she winces as you find a particularly sore spot, expression wry, "it would appear I spoke too soon."

You trace back up, murmuring incantations, letting the cool, healing relief flow from your fingertips.

The way she is unphased by all of this seems… uncanny. In fact, she shows more concern for you, completely untouched by the battle, than for herself. It is oddly and slightly frighteningly flattering, in retrospect, that she used her dying breath - well, this particular dying breath - to reassure you.

And it all makes much more sense now, as things slot into place. The recklessness of her fighting style, of her whole manner. The way she shrugged off blows and rushed ever forward, where the battle was thickest and fiercest.

But now you've seen she is immortal, yes, but not invulnerable, however much she might like to act like she is both. And if she pulls herself out from literal death, no matter the scope of the wounds, she does not seem to magically heal much past that - the evidence is before you now. You can already picture her merely patching herself up with her own healing magic in the middle of the fray, as if in passing, just enough to enable her to storm on. All while her enemies gape and turn tail when they realise the futility of standing against her.

"I only hope you did not worry overmuch, Lady Isobel. It is in my nature, inextricable from my being. I cannot fall, not truly. But I keep the reminders, sometimes - wrought in gold."

Then she very cordially points out a few more, as if to indulge you. Some bigger, some smaller, some thin lines, barely there, some wide and jagged. But all of them bright gold seams, seamlessly integrated into her skin.

"Why not silver?" You blurt out, then feel your face burn with embarrassment. And then a mild but growing horror as you think back to the silver staining your hands and robes as you knelt on the damp cobblestones. This is in turn chased away by an odd warmth as you recall how she murmured your name and reached for your face.

Aylin, however, guffaws joyfully, stopped short only by a sudden wince as she pulls something still tender.

"Would you believe - I do not know? It is simply how I am, how I have always been. Perhaps I shall ask my Mother to elucidate, when next we commune." Then she beams at you. "What a joy and pleasure you have proven to be, Lady Isobel. To make me consider things about myself I have never had cause nor inclination to before. A rare treasure."

You blame your lack of sleep on the ease with which she is managing to fluster you without even seeming to consciously try, so you do your best to keep your response polite and nothing more. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Dame Aylin. All of Reithwin treasures your presence and is grateful for it, especially after tonight."

She looks up at you and you meet her gaze, pausing in your ministrations. She looks disappointed, if anything, and the disappointment is shared - those are not the words you truly wish to say to her. And you cannot quite explain to yourself why you feel like a sudden distance has sprung up between you, after months of a beautifully built-up rapport, laid on the foundations of those first few shared star-struck gazes. Why this one out of all the many reminders of her divine nature has shaken you so.

As you continue reapplying bandages and keep distractedly checking in with her about the tightness, she catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "My wounds are a distant memory, for they are being tended by fair Isobel--"

There is a naked determination writ all over her face now. It brings to mind her battlefield bearing, more than anything else, but her eyes are wide and soft and almost pleading.

"Truly, I am in the best of hands." A kiss again, and she lets the hand go. It is a perfectly polite and courteous gesture. Nothing… scandalous. But there is a clear ardour to it you did not acknowledge before. Calling attention to a line you have not yet crossed, but that you have both, perhaps, been toeing for a while.

Then she moves to sit up fully, even through visible winces, and shrugs off the steadying hand you place on her shoulder.

"You are the worst patient I have ever had," you state dramatically, laughing. She merely cocks her head in response, so very winning and charming even when still covered in blood, dirt, and partially unravelled bandages. "I will go get some more fresh water so you can clean up - though we've already ruined these sheets, I fear."

But you do not move, despite your words. Your eyes have not left hers in what seems like hours, but can't have been more than a minute. There is a blatant yearning there that you know is reflected in your gaze, that you have both become utterly incapable of hiding.

"I would ask, greedily, another boon of my most gracious healer," she murmurs.

"Oh?" You lean closer, ostensibly to hear her quiet words better. "Why, Dame Aylin, after your valiant performance tonight, I might just grant it."

You are almost nose to nose when Aylin speaks up again, her throat visibly working, her entire impressive self working up the courage to leap the distance - and you find you very much want her to.

"A kiss, then. To drink but once from the lips of the incomparable Lady Isobel Thorm would soothe all that ails me, seal all my wounds."

You watched this woman take an axe to the shoulder and a sword through the belly, and only now does she sound hesitant. Nervous. Afraid, even. The smallest of trembles in that rich, regal voice.

"If… if I have misread, if I have misinterpreted your intentions, I beg your forgiveness with all possible contrition…"

Your reply is wordless as you surge forward, boon happily granted. The first of many to come.

1383 DR

The dinner is only slightly awkward, as far as these affairs have gone in the past. The most notable thing about it is that your father, it seems, has learned from last time.

Oh, Lady Arianella Bormul was lovely - the very picture of elegance and rather breathtaking grace. A crown of curls you felt a stab of envy over, a perfectly cut gown that accentuated every curve of her and every dark blush shade of her skin. Carrying herself like a queen in the dining room, but perfectly polite and amicable in the conversations you two were inevitably forced into afterwards, with intriguing flashes of a cutting wit. But you shared so very little. And she was beautiful like a work of art whose objective qualities everyone agreed upon, you included, but that just were not to your personal taste.

Now you wonder just how obvious you'd made it.

As your father shoots you pointed glances from across the table and over a strategically placed carafe of wine, you allow yourself, briefly, an entire slew of unkind thoughts. About how maybe things would be different if your mother were still here. About how much easier it would be if you had siblings, so that the entire future of Reithwin and the Thorm family and your father's heart didn't rest on your shoulders. About how selfish you truly would like to be.

Then you shove it all back down and smile at the guests around the table, and offer your opinion about the most excellent skills of your local mason's guild and their potential for expansion.

The young Lady Jana Whitburn is strategically sat right across from you, as her father and yours conduct the important conversations on venison and marble and slate trade that this visit was ostensibly arranged for. She is tall and broad and clad in a marvellously fetching brocade suit of dark green. Her mother, rather obviously focused on you since their arrival in what is clearly a tactical division of duties agreed upon in advance, talks about Jana's successes in the tournament arenas across the Coast and her pending performance in Waterdeep's Field of Triumph. She herself, in a pleasantly deep yet melodic voice, mentions being interested in jousting, as a means of keeping her riding skills sharp while she is not out and about keeping her family's lands safe. Tilts her head at you with a winning smile at the conclusion of one adventurous story or other, the sharp cut of her chiselled jaw accentuated in perfect candlelight. You smile back, and poke half-heartedly at your tasteless dessert.

Later, you take her for a walk in Reithwin's small but well-kept gardens. She very gallantly offers you her arm, and you take it. Your father and her parents beam, and you contain your sigh. But when you look up at your companion, you are slightly surprised to notice that there is something brewing behind her eyes as well.

As soon as you are out of eyesight and earshot, you stop, take your hand off her arm and turn to face her.

"My apologies, Lady Whitburn…"

She almost winces when you address her, and shakes her head as if she is trying to physically shake off the formality and the trailing remnants of the dinner atmosphere. "Jana, please, Lady Thorm."

"Jana, then," you smile your most agreeable smile, "and so I must be Isobel, no?"

"Of course, Isobel," she smiles back, but it is clearly strained, and you feel nothing so much as pity.

"Listen, Jana, I…" you hesitate, struggling to put your words into polite, inoffensive shape.

All this does is highlight the lack of Aylin, the lack of the connection and utterly natural understanding between the two of you. The ease. Even when there was supposed to be some fundamental and unbridgeable rift between you, according to your father.

"I'm afraid my father has misled you and your family - not out of any desire to harm, nor with ill intent. But, you see, I… I already have a lovely woman courting me. Well, rather further along than mere courting, I would say…"

To your surprise, Jana bursts into laughter, light and clear, and you are spared the embarrassment of elaborating further.

"Isobel, you cannot believe what a relief that is for me to hear."

You pause, a bit taken aback by the enthusiasm of her response. "Oh?"

"I'm afraid I count myself taken as well. Now, make no mistake, you are perfectly charming, and a delight in conversation. But," she waves a dismissive hand, "the heart wants what it wants and all that."

"That it does," you agree, and this time your smile is genuine. A tension you had gotten so used to seems to melt away from your shoulders, and the two of you resume your stroll among the gardener's latest offerings. "My father, well… he's a shrewd man. You and my Aylin would get along splendidly, I think."

"As would you and my Iona. She is training to be a cleric too, an acolyte of Ilmater. I swear, the realms have never seen a more patient and kind creature. Whenever I visit her at the temple I take a moment to observe her finishing her rounds - the way she all but glows with compassion is-" Jana halts both her words and her steps, slightly embarrassed, as if she has only now caught herself in her charmingly lovestruck enthusing. "Ah, but I've gone off on a tangent, haven't I?"

You cannot help but smile at the sight of someone so utterly, beautifully enamoured. It is, after all, a feeling you happily know all too well.

"Please," you gesture at a bench behind some conveniently tall rose bushes - one of your favourite spots. "Don't stop on my account. Though, of course, now I can't help but wonder… what is your family's objection to the match? If you don't mind me asking."

Jana gives a wry smile as she takes a seat. "My parents would prefer someone of much higher birth for me."

"I think mine would prefer I set my sights lower," you chuckle ruefully.

Jana's interest seems to be piqued. "Is that so? I've heard some… rumours, since our arrival. I've been wondering about, well, what kernel of truth spawned them."

"Have you, now?" You arch an eyebrow, allow a bit of bite into your tone. "You've barely been here a day - I wouldn't have taken you for a gossipmonger."

"You'll have to forgive my natural curiosity," her grin is as easily charming as it was during the dinner, but now, in the unexpectedly pleasant atmosphere of friendly understanding, you allow yourself to fully appreciate it, and to grin back. "But you must admit it's a bit unusual, Isobel. A celestial paramour… I suppose your father wants you to look lower than the very moon in the sky?"

Her dramatic gesture in the general direction of said moon earns her a giggle, which she seems to take as encouragement.

"Is it true she single-handedly took on a score of Nightcloaks and won?"

You think back over the many rousing tales of victory Aylin has shared with you, and when nothing rings a bell you realise she must be talking about the raid last spring.

"You mean here, when the Sharrans dared to attack Reithwin?" It's hard to contain your amusement at her eager nod. "Well, it wasn't exactly single-handed and there were no Nightcloaks among the Sharran forces, but I can confirm she was certainly impressive."

You decide to leave out the part about Aylin dying and coming back right before your eyes. It is something you've yet to discuss with her, more than a full year later. Something you've no idea how to bring up, and something that inspires in you feelings you cannot quite define.

Something you know you will have to confront, one day.

For now, you sit on a secluded bench and shirk familial duties with a fellow highborn daughter. The two of you trade stories for the rest of the evening, and by the end of it you feel like you've known both Jana Whitburn and Iona Bluewater for years, and find yourself rather invested in the future of their relationship. In turn, you hope to have painted a picture of an Isobel who is more than just General Thorm's daughter, and of an Aylin who is something besides her divine silver bloodline.

You part amicably when the time comes, even promise to write to one another. Later on, the leave-takings complete, both of you having played your respective parts well enough to buy yourselves some very brief reprieve, you go to retreat to your room. Every stair you climb still seems to drop your heart that much deeper into a listless moroseness.

The air in your room is heavy and stale after the garden's freshness, so you decide to take your brooding out to your balcony. You may have won a friend today, but your father will be in a dour mood when he finds out his attempt has once again fallen through. And then how long until he plans another? Or turns to something else? No, this was simply untenable--

A gleaming Aylin alights on the balcony and pulls you into an embrace in a single, elegant movement, and it is like a moon rising to dispel the dark of a cloudy night.

The first thing you notice as you are subjected to one kiss after another is that your beloved seems to be of a rather amorous disposition. You still wear your jewels and your finest silver-blue gown, the picture-perfect lady. But with the way Aylin's hands are wandering you sense this might not be the case for very long.

You place a hand on her chest, the metal pleasantly cool against your palm, and she stops, looking at you both questioningly and with blatant yearning.

Which should be ridiculous. You were barely apart for a day! You've gone longer without seeing each other whenever Aylin flew away on some divinely ordained quest. But the feelings you read on her face are a perfect reflection of your own, and you are sick of the very thought of denying them. Instead, you throw your arms around her and draw her close once more.

"I missed you," you murmur the truth into her neck, just above the edge of her gorget, into that bit of unearthly pale skin that is always so conveniently available for you to kiss.

"I have dutifully stayed away, exactly as you bade me to," Aylin doesn't sound too disgruntled, and for that you find yourself both grateful and relieved. "But your guests are gone at long last, and so I consider my duty done."

You suppress a scowl at the bitterness that rises in you - because yes, you did pull Aylin aside and request, against the palpable wishes of every fibre of your being, that she not show herself around Moonrise today. All in the ultimately futile pursuit of appeasing your father, in a way so shallow and childish and stupidly, obviously temporary that you feel a flare of anger - disgust, even - at yourself for not standing your ground. For going along with it all in the first place. But the slight yet audible disdain Aylin puts on the word guests is too conspicuous, too intriguing, and so your curiosity trumps your rising guilt.

"Do you have something against the Whitburn family?" Surely, if there was something objectionable about them, your father wouldn't have invited them the way he did. Aylin would have warned you of anything sinister. But then, suddenly, a different, more darkly amusing flavour of thought arises. "Or do you merely not like Lady Jana Whitburn?"

Aylin huffs, tilts her head with an unconvincing nonchalance. "She seems a fine woman. A knight with several deeds to her name - in particular some courageous outings against a local Cyricist offshoot, very recently. I hear she conducted herself with utmost skill and bravery."

"You've looked into her, I see?" You ask teasingly. Aylin's frown is an entire hundred-page novel. "Aylin. Are you jealous?"

The tinge of possessiveness in the way she holds you against her chest is clear to you now. You also find you have no complaint to give.

"I cannot help but feel this latest attempted match is… rather shrewdly targeted. Do you not find it so? Why, I would near take it as a slight."

With some reluctance, you pull away the slightest bit in order to face her properly.

"Aylin, look at me," you tilt her chin up, make her meet your eyes, reaching over to smooth the thundercloud frown away from her brow. "Forget about it, about them. I would have none but you - you know this by now, I hope. Only you."

Forever, you dearly wish you could say, sometimes. Your fingers trace down her cheek and to her lips as you watch her ire pour back into fervour.

"Isobel, I swear, from the moment our eyes first met, I--"

You interrupt her with a kiss - she is too striking and too beautiful and too achingly, passionately devoted not to.

The entire situation is a problem to solve, and a mounting one. You can tell by your own rising annoyance and resentment each time the subject comes up that you cannot entertain your father's attempts at denying your relationship for much longer. But you can sense in both your and Aylin's current moods that any discussion will be anything but productive.

You break apart, but stay close enough for you to whisper against her mouth. "Why don't we stop wasting time, and instead of wallowing in misery, you take me to bed."

A different frown creases her brow now as she inclines her head towards the door you left ajar behind you. "Your bed? Here?"

You glance back as well, almost drawn in and through the imposing towers of Moonrise and all they represent.

"Yes," you reply with little hesitation. You decide then and there to be done with this farce. No more flying away to stay at Last Light, or utterly unsubtle attempts at sneaking off, slinking back before dawn only to present yourself downstairs come morning, unacknowledged but fooling nobody. There are other methods in your arsenal besides pointless subterfuge. "And tomorrow - if you wish to join us, of course - I would like to invite you to breakfast. Where you will sit at my side."

Where you belong, you swallow back, keeping your mock-proclamation formal. Where the world should and will acknowledge you belong.

Aylin's smirk reassures you she understands fully how you intend to play this. "How could I decline my lady's invitation?"

You tilt your chin up, the picture of a lady issuing a decree, even as your lips curl into a smile. "Despite any slights, intended or not, and protests from my family, it is an honour to have you here. I will see that it is better demonstrated, as it should have been from the start."

Or perhaps it would be better to say how it was at the start, before Ketheric Thorm's welcome for Selûne's emissary cooled down to an icy, formal tolerance - of course, exactly as your and Aylin's relationship blossomed, decidedly informal, regardless.

Aylin's mouth is hot on your neck as she effortlessly lifts you up and carries you inside. You feel her grin through her kisses. "I think, Isobel, you'll find the honour is all mine. And so is having you. Here or anywhere else."

You cannot help but laugh, taking her face between both your hands and peppering it with kisses in return, always delighted by her utter lack of both subtlety and hesitation.

Once Aylin plants you on the bed and herself between your thighs, she refuses to stop until your legs are jelly, your head is void of all thought, and your heels have pressed shimmery bruises into her back. Her face both glows and glistens when she rests her cheek against your stomach at long last, alight with some private amusement and sheer pride. You thread your hands through her hair and catch your breath, and bask in her presence.

So magnificent in her devotion, your angel.

You spend the night curled around each other in a too-small bed, both of you choosing to be utterly brazen.

1385 DR

You were very young when your mother died. The searing, half-understood pain of her departure had time to dull into an ache, then into a sense of absence you have grown up with, that will always be yet another part of you. You keep her final letter, and reread it less and less as the years and then decades go by. You can hear and feel her words just as well in the soft, warm moonlight that blankets Reithwin on blessed nights. It makes you feel like you can firmly grasp and hold and understand all that she tried to leave you with.

There is a distinct sense that she is proud of you. That she will see you again one day and tell you so herself. So you smile up at the Moon, the ever-changing treasured constant in your life, and bask in the pale, gentle love you receive in return.

When you lost a mother, Reithwin lost its head cleric. In the years since, it has had only interim duty-bearers. And you understood, years ago, even as you settled into a promising role in the House of Healing, that you were being looked to as the replacement.

And true - this has ever been your calling. You feel you were born for this service, sometimes, so easily does it come to you - the deeply felt devotion, the lightness of moonlight always ready at your fingertips, the sheer awareness of Her presence, of all She gives and provides and strives for. A cause so good and just and right you would barely deign to call it a choice - though a choice it is, always, freely made by you, again and again and again.

So when you reject the notion of taking up office at Reithwin - at least for the foreseeable future - and announce your plan for undertaking several pilgrimages of increasing length and complexity, it causes a stir among the clergy and a dark thundercloud to settle upon your father's brow.

The further away the locations you list as you stand before him in his study, oddly formal, the deeper his frown becomes. By the time you mention leaving Waterdeep and the House of the Moon and the settlements on the way to Neverwinter, he raises a hand to cut you off.

"I do not think this is wise, Isobel. There is need of you here. The roads are perilous--"

"I can take care of myself. You know I can, papa - you've seen to that. I have trained and prepared for this all my life." Then you smile, hopeful, and make your biggest misstep. "Besides, Aylin will be there to protect me, should the need arise--"

"Of course she will," you catch the mutter under his breath and your mouth slams shut.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and reach across the desk to lay a gentle, reassuring hand on your father's, meeting and holding his heavy gaze. "Reithwin is my home. No matter where the road takes me, no matter how far, I'll always come back. And to you as well, papa."

Reithwin, ancestral seat of your family, safe and idyllic, surely does not need you as much as the wide world; the vast, colourful, challenging variety of the realms. There is so much you can do, and offer. What good are gifts if you are not going to use them? Hoarding them, hiding away, sheltered - no, you refuse to be a waste.

"I need you here, Isobel."

There is an edge of desperation to your father's voice that makes your breath catch and your eyes burn. A pain that calls to mind, oddly, the sting of the black ink being slowly applied around your lids, a needle shaping the curl of the holy symbol down towards your cheekbones.

And there it is, perhaps - the real root of the struggle at hand.

"I can't be your little girl forever," you exhale, frustration mounting, somewhat undercut when you see the naked hurt on his face. "I can't be just that," you amend. "I have an entire life to live. My own life."

"With Aylin," he suggests darkly. Disapprovingly. "And when she carelessly discards you, a mayfly in her eyes--"

"Is that what this is truly about, again? Father," not quite papa at the moment, no, as you try so very hard to keep your calm in the face of your own rising irritation, "must we?"

"How can I not, Isobel? When she has clearly been feeding you this - this drivel."

"It has nothing to do with her!"

The doubt is writ plainly all over his face, and you bristle. Fine. If he is not ready to relinquish his chokehold over Isobel Thorm, cherished daughter, then he will have to reckon with Isobel, accomplished cleric of Selûne, and prospective Silver Lady initiate. You let go of his hand and step back, square your shoulders demonstratively, stand up ramrod straight.

"Our Lady champions and rewards self-sufficiency, agency, travel, and discovery - of ourselves, the world around us, and all in it who might need guidance or help in any way. It is mine to freely give, and I intend to do so, wherever I am needed. In Her name."

You turn and leave without waiting for your father to scrounge up a response.

It is the last conversation you have with him for a century.

It happens so very quickly, for something that would rewrite the fate of your home and all you ever loved for the next hundred years. Like a carelessly tossed pebble turning into a rockslide.

An ominous chill that barely has the time to register fully; a bark-whine from Squire, cut short; a searing pain in-- through-- your side and your chest, fading into numbness within moments, so fast that you barely choke out a desperate blood-drowned breath as blackness swarms the edges of your vision; a frantic cry of Isobel! ringing out from somewhere above or below; and then--

nothing

and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #comments welcome thoughts welcome honestly i just want to rotate these two in my head forever #i want to yell about isobel thorm constantly

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enposter · 1 year

Text

++ ENHYPEN's HYUNG LINE HAVING A CRUSH ON ANOTHER IDOL °.+*

pairing: idol!enhypen hyung line x idol!reader

warnings: none as i know of. maybe mention of getting stuck in an elevator, food mention

a/n: i didnt rlly know what to name this reaction this was the best i came up w 🥸 also im sorry hee and jays r much shorter i will make them longer next time

reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated <3

navigation.

lee heeseung — 이희승

i have a huge Huge feeling dude would Not know what to do 😭

esp if ur under hybe as well??? He would always see u in the hallways and would be so starstruck by ur beauty every single time so would you

poor baby would be too shy to start up a conversation with you and would end up longing from afar :(

BUT!!! you guys got stuck in an elevator together. while its not the most ideal situation to be in.

He!! Lee Heeseung!! had the chance to talk to you!!!!!

he was So gonna rub this in ni-ki's face bc little shit said he was never gonna balls up and start a convo 😒

and start a conversation he did

you guys ending up hitting it off and exchanged numbers <3

talking whenever and eating lunch together when you both can <3

imagine learning each others dances together :(( AFFGH

SINGING EACH OTHERS SONGS AAHHHH

the hybe family games together agshdjsjcj

after the hybe family games u guys are one of the cutest friendships in kpop and everyone loves you so much

sunghoon owes jake 10 bucks now since hee talked to you

park jongseong — 박종성

jay really just Screams friends to lovers to me it makes so much sense

you guys have been friends ever since you met at inkigayooo.

sunoo actually gave you a sandwich cause he was a huge fan of ur group wanting to be friends pleek TT

ANYWAYS,,, ur group and enha became close, seeing as you debuted around the same time and were all around the same age.

jay fell for you so easily, your humor and personality were charming, inviting. everything about you was perfect to him.

honestly you never really knew jay liked you because you thought he treated you like everybody else???

THAT IS !!!! until you heard the jakehoon talking abt it

you went complete 🚨🚨🚨 /pos maybe like 🚨😮🥰🚨

YOU NEEDED TO KNOW IF THIS WAS SERIOUS??? obviously who wouldnt need to know if jay liked them???

you never thought of him in that way. but it just felt so right when you did

you didnt wanna push so you just sat not so calmy with this newfound information until you couldnt hold it in anymore.

safe to say, you two are partners and so are happy <3

sim jaeyun — 심재윤

jakey jakey jakey jakeyyy

your group had debuted before enha and niki was a huge fan because WOW?? UR DANCING SKILLS?? out of this WORLD

niki soon introduced ur group to sunoo, sunoo introduced it to jake and jake introduced it so Everybody.

he was just so captivated by you. ur vibe everything about you was just so interesting to him.

he spent the first whole night he learnt abt ur group binging video and compilations of you.

jakey was a hardcore fanboy now

everything was fine and he was fanboying alone until you both were promoting at the same time

poor puppy was a Mess.

remember how he was looking at the wall instead of wony? yeah thats him but 2007382 worse because his ears are so red from looking at you One time.

but somehow !! someway !! he mustered up the courage to talk to you

cue kissin u by miranda cosgrove sparks fly its like electricity i might die when i forget how to breathe you get closer and theres nowhere in this world id rather be

you thought he was so cute because he was so sweet and shy talking to you. and you!! YOU!!! gave him!! your number🥰

jakey would send you dog videos any chance and if ur a cat person he'd send cute cat videos too but mostly dogs aka layla

itd be kinda hard to hangout since ur in different companies but you guys facetimed any chance you could get

AGGH i love sim jake so much i might cry

and

"baby did you know that i was a huge fan of you and ur group! :D thats why i came and talked to you"

"i know jakey" "HOW????" "riki told me"

absolute betrayal noises he'd be so dramatic goodness

park sunghoon — 박성훈

i feel like he first saw you at music bank since he was an mc

your group was promoting ur new cute concept mini album and goodness

you were just. So. Cute.

absolutely melted but kept quite composed yk how it is professional things

hoon would talk abt u all the time but would Not make a move toward actually talking to you. smh

our wonyoung and enha were actually the ones who pushed him to Say Something

so one day on ur groups last day of promoting wony gave sunghoon a stern look and Bro Booked it trying to find you

he was looking around, out of breath from running and didnt even notice that he bumped into and knocked you over

was so extremely flustered

he did help you up tho like the gentleman he is <3

apologized profusely would not stop until he literally made you push him over also 😭

you just tapped him cause ??? why would you push him over pls

you guys did not exchange numbers cause hoon was too flustered to do anything and bowed and walked into a wall away

you guys will be pushed together again one day i promise you

You just have to ask for his number next time <:]

enposter @ tumblr | 2022

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x idol reader #enhypen x reader #lee heeseung #lee heeseung x reader #park jongseong #park jay #park jay x reader #park jongseong x reader #sim jake #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jake x reader #park sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #enhypen hyung line #enhypen reactions #enhypen headcanons

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astxrwar · 3 months

Text

drops of blood [1/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 7k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Off-screen violence. Series will enter gray territory in later chapters; angsty guilt-ridden stalking, exhibitionism, consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. teehee.

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

When you’re a teenager— no, not even, when you’re a preteen, in middle school— a crew of surveyors for a Russian oil company finds a plane frozen in the Arctic. You’d just finished up the section on World War Two in history class; two weeks ago you’d been sitting in a hard-backed chair with the lights off trying not to fall asleep while watching a Netflix documentary about the life and death of Steve Rogers, the prototypical American Hero, that your teacher put on presumably to get out of having to actually teach. You had to fill out a worksheet about it. You had homework asking about the ways that national ideals of heroism have changed over time. You spent a whole class period talking about that, comparing and contrasting Captain America and Iron Man. You had to write a five-paragraph essay about whether or not you thought the American Hero archetype would even exist without Captain America’s death.

Except Captain America is not dead.

Captain America is alive.

It is 2012, and a lot of things are popular. The Hunger Games. Gangnam Style. The new Batman movie, the one with Christian Bale. A type of teenage and pre-teenage girl exists—has existed, will continue to exist— and while there was NSYNC and Backstreet Boys and whatever the fuck else in the 90s; right now there’s Twilight and One Direction and Justin Bieber.

Captain America comes out of the ice. Captain America is 6’4 and muscular and blond and blue-eyed and unfailingly kind, and then he goes on to join up with a bunch of other people—superheros— and saves the world.

The end result, the one that anyone with a brain could have seen coming a mile off, the one that gets referenced by late-night talk-show hosts and poked at in grocery-store gossip rags and sometimes said outright in interviews with the guy on national television, is that Steve Rogers— Captain America— kind of ends up rounding out the “teenage girl obsessions during the ‘10s” list.

And—

Well.

You were never big on any of that.

Your friends were, though, and so you let yourself be dragged through the onslaught of new Netflix specials and you dutifully and appropriately emoji-reacted to every Battle of New York youtube compilation and Vine edit they sent to you and you even went to the movies to watch the new remastered docudrama about the life and now the not-death of Steve Rogers, and—

You never really liked blonds, so.

His friend, though—

His friend was kind of cute.

Sergeant James Barnes. Twenty-eight, dark-haired and blue-eyed and attractive, in a charming, boyish kind of way.

Fast forward ten years. There’s some weird drama with a helicarrier and some entirely anticlimactic fight at an airport and then an alien kills half the population of the world and then they all come back again, courtesy of Iron Man’s sacrifice and your middle school history teacher one-hundred-percent predicting the future with the whole “the American Hero trope is dependent on the hero’s death” shit that you totally didn’t understand at the ripe age of twelve—

Anyway. Life happens, basically. You grow up. You’re not even friends with those girls anymore. Not uncommon. And that crush on cute little baby-faced James Buchanan Barnes lasted all of something like three months— one of those fleeting childhood infatuations you have on people who are safely unobtainable, like rock stars or fictional characters or guys who are very, very dead— after which time you never really thought about it again.

And now you’re twenty-three and working closing shifts at a coffee shop in Brooklyn while figuring out what your life trajectory is even going to be, adjusting as best you can to your fucking daily customer base having quite literally doubled in the last six months, that part of you that’d read his entire wikipedia page on a phone with an actual physical slide-out keyboard at two in the morning an entire eleven years ago so far away it feels like something even less than a memory.

Except one night in April this guy walks in. He’s dark-haired and blue-eyed and wearing a leather jacket and matching gloves; he comes up to the counter and he makes startlingly unbreaking eye contact that freaks you out a teensy bit— a lot— and orders a coffee, black, and nothing else, and you stare right back kind of temporarily immune to the weirdness of it because you know him, why do you know him—

It clicks as you’re pouring the coffee into a reinforced cardboard cup and it stuns you so completely that you almost overfill it and wind up less than a second away from burning the shit out of your hand.

Sergeant James Barnes.

He looks the same, kind of, but also not at all— you sneak glances at him while you fumble for a lid, the harsher angles of his cheekbones and the wider set of his jaw, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the lines setting into his forehead and the way he doesn’t really have any of the baby fat left in his face that he had in all the photos you’d seen of him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you give him his coffee.

His smile, or his attempt at it, looks more like a grimace than anything.

You expect him to leave, then, but he doesn’t— he goes over to one of the tables in the lobby, the one by the window in the corner of the room, and he sits there and he drinks his coffee and he stares out at the street. It’s dark already; late November, almost December, the solstice approaching. It’ll be a long while before it’s still light later than 4:30.

He stays there for a long time, and the awareness of him prickles at the nape of your neck as you work, filling orders for a dwindling trickle of customers and starting the long and arduous process of cleaning up everything for close.

Sometime around 9:30 you go into the back to try to get started on dishes; the doorbell chimes when you’re about halfway through, and you grumble under your breath and rinse soap suds off of your forearms and resolve to pretend you hadn’t lost track of the hose and accidentally soaked the whole of your shirt from about the sternum down—

There’s nobody waiting at the counter when you come out, though.

And Sergeant James Barnes is gone.

You expect it to be one of those things. Everyone in New York has one of those things. They’re great party stories. One time I sat next to Denzel Washington on the subway. Michael Keaton bought a phone from me when I worked at Apple in Midtown. I ran into Steve Buscemi at this one mom-and-pop bagel place.

I served coffee to Captain America’s not-dead friend in Brooklyn.

Except next week, same day, he’s there again.

The lady in front of him is getting something stupid complicated and being annoying about it. Two pumps caramel, two pumps vanilla, two creams and two skim milk, three sugars and make sure to melt it first, if you don’t, I’ll know, Jesus Christ, make your coffee at home—

The guy who is maybe potentially Barnes laughs.

You said that out loud, apparently. Mumbled it under your breath, or something, quiet enough that the lady hadn’t heard, just shot you a suspicious look and sipped at her drink and then left without a thank-you, apparently satisfied. It’s just you and him now, your coworker off doing food prep in the back room and the lobby empty.

Somehow, he’d heard you. And he’d laughed. It was a weird sound, sharp and rough and cut short like he hadn’t meant to and like he’d tried to make himself stop; his expression is flat, and he’s not smiling, but there’s something— lighter, about it, than when you’d seen him last.

“Black coffee?” you blurt out, before he can say anything.

He blinks. He’s doing that thing again— the staring.

“Easy to remember,” you say, by way of explanation. “Simple.”

His mouth twitches at the corners, not really a smile, yet, but still— something. That lightness to his expression, impassive as it is, hasn’t faded. “Yeah, just black,” he says. “Thanks.”

You make it for him— ‘make’ is a stretch, you pour it, and that’s all, really— and he takes it back to that same spot by the window in the corner, nurses it as he looks out into the street, the sky cast that bruised purple color when the sun’s gone below the horizon but the light hasn’t faded, yet.

You try not to stare.

Same deal as the last time; he stays.

“Hey,” your coworker’s voice drifts from the back room, “You want to sweep the lobby or do the dishes?”

“Lobby,” you reply, extremely fast, thinking about last time and the hose mishap and how your shirt hadn’t dried until basically the end of your shift, but also thinking about maybe-Barnes sitting by the window and how part of you really fucking wants to know. Even if it’s not him, if it’s just some particularly uncanny lookalike, you wonder if it happens a lot. The being mistaken.

You make it through about maybe five minutes of actual lobby-sweeping before you become physically incapable of resisting your curiosity.

“I always got pretty good marks in history,” is what you tell him. Because saying “are you Seargant Barnes” seems kind of— rude.

He stiffens, and he drums his gloved fingers on the lid of his coffee cup, and he doesn’t look up or say a word.

“Your photo was in a bunch of the textbooks,” you add, twisting your grip on the broom handle, back and forth. It’s definitely him. The haircut. His face. Older, a lot less boyish, but the same eyes. “Sergeant Barnes. 107th.”

He doesn’t look at you. Speaks very deliberately. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

There’s this bright jolt of satisfaction at being right, followed pretty quickly by a pang of guilt at the thought you’d irritated him.

“Oh—um, no, definitely not, I’m sure it’s— annoying, probably, getting recognized,” you say, stumbling over the words. “I— sorry, I shouldn’t have— bothered you.”

He does look at you, then. He stares. You’d been fidgeting, still, but under the force of his gaze every muscle in your body goes tense and still, frozen solid, and nerves prickle up at the back of your neck, raising the hairs there. You have to fight back the urge to shiver.

“No,” he says. “It’s never happened before. Don’t— don’t be sorry.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your hands resume their twisting around the broom handle before you abruptly decide you do need to actually finish the chore you’d set out to do.

You tell him one last thing, before you go back to it. You’d always kind of felt weird about saying this kind of stuff; it gets touchy, particularly after Vietnam. Not really a great practice to get into, the whole “thank you for your service” schtick, because a lot of them don’t see it that way, and every war after that was even more complicated and your opinions on those are— similarly complicated. But World War 2– that was different. It wasn’t US military overreach. It was necessary. And he’d been drafted, you remembered that.

“Hey,” you say, very soft. “I just— Thanks. For— you know. Serving, when your numbers came up. It couldn’t have been easy, I mean.” you clear your throat, shift your weight, suddenly feeling very self-aware. “Coffee’s on me, next time, okay?”

Something flickers across his expression, like a ripple over the surface of a lake. Whatever it was, it’s gone before you can make sense of it.

You spend most of the week thinking he won’t come back next Friday. But he does. There’s nobody in front of him in line, this time, and like the time before your coworker is off in the back, which means it’s easy to slip him his coffee and conveniently forget to ring it out.

“Thanks,” he tells you, his voice a lot quieter. Softer, too.

You smile at him. His mouth twitches back, like maybe he’s not sure if he should return it, but wants to.

He takes the seat by the window again.

He keeps coming back. You try to make small talk but it feels stilted and awkward. It kind of makes you sad, a little bit, seeing him sitting there for hours, alone.

On your day off, in early January, you go grocery shopping.

You spend about 25$ in total and you make a split second decision to grab something out of the ordinary that’s on-sale. Dude was raised during the Great Depression, you guess he’s not the most experienced in the realm of the great big world of Weird Things You Can Purchase At The Modern Day Grocery Store. It’s meant to be a sort of peace offering, a look-I-can-be-normal-about-it, let’s-be-friends kind of deal, if he’s going to keep hanging around the coffee shop. You’re not sure if he, like— wants that, friends, or if maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to be alone, but you figure it’s worth a shot.

Part of it is that he interests you. Part of it is that your job, as much as it sucks less than a lot of other service jobs, is very mundane, very normal, often very boring, and James Buchanan Barnes being a regular customer is easily the most interesting and least boring thing that has ever happened to you at work. Or— ever, honestly.

And maybe that’s selfish, to want to talk to him for that reason, but— whatever.

On Friday, like last week, you get there and you clock in and you try to casually scan the lobby, the floor littered with straw wrappers and crumpled napkins and empty sugar packets, the tables tacky with flavored syrup and coffee stains that you’d need to clean later, chairs around them arranged haphazardly and not pushed in, and—

And in the back corner, sitting low in his seat, baseball cap tugged down and shade over his eyes and fingers drumming restlessly against the side of a paper coffee cup, is James Buchanan Barnes.

The excitement you feel, then, is not really the kind you’d expected to— the last time you’d thought about him had been middle school, and even if it’d been just that three months, you remember with startling clarity that girlish, daydreamy kind of interest, how it felt, pleasant and mild and entirely harmless. Whatever you feel right now is not like that at all. It’s sharp and it’s visceral and it’s real, not a fantasy or the result of your imagination, not directed towards some fiction of a person that functioned as a safe receptacle for the things going on inside your head, but an actual individual human being.

It’s just interest, just curiosity, what you feel— you don’t have a crush on him, it’s not like you’re still in middle school and still interested, like that, in even just the general category of person that crush had represented. And the person sitting in the lobby isn’t the person– the fiction– you’d even felt that type of way about, anyways. You don’t know him, and he’s obviously nothing like the guy memorialized in every Captain America docudrama miniseries on Netflix. No, James Buchanan Barnes is a real human being, a very different human being, one that’s a stranger to you and you think— you guess— probably just as much of a stranger to that other, safer, softer, more boyish version of himself.

You keep thinking about how he looked at you, unbroken and unwavering and eerily fucking precise, how his eyes hadn’t even move at all, focused so intently that it’d made the hairs on the back of your neck raise and goosebumps prickle across the tops of your shoulders and all the way down your arms and your gut instinct yell, loudly, there is something not right about this guy!

You’d read his Wikipedia article again. It’s been updated since; lots of shit came out since 2012. You’d heard about the Winter Soldier stuff, but reading about it in detail— it’s bad. There are probably several things that are not exactly right about him, now. That’s fine, though. The way the world is these days, there’s stuff not right about everyone.

You’re occupied with a steady and annoyingly constant stream of customers until about 8:00, making coffees and sandwiches and trading on and off with your coworker in the back room, where you’re trying to get the brunt of the stocking and dishwashing done before they leave at 8:30. You’d been fucking busy, and you’re annoyed, you got cream from the dispenser machine all up one of the sleeves of your sweater so you’d had to take it off, and there’s fucking caramel sauce stuck to the hairs on the flat of your forearm near your wrist and gluing them to your skin and that grocery bag of fruit is sitting on the back table next to your jacket and your gross sweater and your house keys and it’s staring at you. Accusingly.

Your coworker leaves.

You steal a careful glance over the coffee machines at the lobby, just checking, just to make sure that he’s still—

And he is.

Cool.

It takes you a few minutes to kind of— dredge up the guts to go talk to him, another few more for the last trickle of late-night coffee-getters to start to finally taper out, and then you do it. You gather your resolve and your nerve and whatever else, courage, too, probably, and you go out into the lobby and you stand in front of his table and you wait for him to, eventually, look up from where he’s been staring, kind of sullen-looking, out of the window.

“I looked it up,” you blurt out when he does, before you can think better of it, “Online. Apparently supply chains were really small, in like. The 30s. So people could get stuff, right, but a lot more of it was— local. You know that, obviously, but, um.”

He just looks at you. Unblinking.

“Anyway,” you say, trying to ignore the weird kind of twisty feeling of your nerves in the pit of your stomach; jesus christ, he stares, a lot, “Anyway, I had this neighbor when I was a kid, right, and he was— his family, they were refugees. Immigrants. He was learning English, but I made friends with him by using my allowance to buy things at the grocery store, like, weird things, stuff that he’d never had before. So we could— try it. For– fun. And I thought– well. There was a sale, today, so.”

You gesture to your hand; awkwardly, helplessly, god, this is weird, like ice-breakers on hard mode, if the ice were less like a frozen-over pond and more like one of those miles-deep Antarctic glaciers. A tissue-thin plastic bag, the knotted top of it held in your fist, the lone fruit inside just kind of– sitting there.

He finally blinks, and then he shifts back in his chair, and he looks at you some more, his gaze unwavering and solid and heavy like it has actual, physical weight to it, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders and forcing you into the ground. “Are you— have you been trying to make friends with me?” he says, in a tone that’s kind of incredulous and a lot disbelieving and tells you absolutely nothing about whether or not he’d actually be amenable to that.

Whatever.

Fuck it, you think, and then you lift your chin and you meet his eyes and you make yourself stare right back, stubborn and deliberately unflinching. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I have.”

His expression– it’d been flat, impassive and unreadable, but something cuts right across it for a fraction of a second when you say that, quick and sure as a knife. For that one heartbeat of a moment he looks expressive and alive– you think he might even look stricken, actually, and you wonder far too late if maybe this had been a mistake, if you’d upset him. Done something wrong.

But then it’s gone, so quickly that you think you must have imagined it.

He leans back in his chair, and he looks down at his empty coffee cup as he taps it absently against the table, like he’s thinking it over. When he looks back at you the sum of his features are wholly neutral, except for his mouth, which is quirked up at the corners, just a little– not a smile, not with the way his lips are pressed together, into a hard, unwavering line, but it doesn’t look like something bad, either. It doesn’t look negative.

“Okay,” he says. “All right, shoot.” He jerks his chin towards the bag in your hand. “What’ve you got?”

You tear the side of it with your fingernails and dump the contents on the table. “Pomegranate. Had one before?”

His mouth twitches up more, and this time it does look like a smile, the beginnings of one, like he’s repressing it. He clicks his tongue and stretches his legs out under the table and shakes his head, just a little. “Yep,” he says. “Struck out on your first try.”

“No way Mr. Great Depression is more worldly than me.” You decide you’re going to interpret that as an agreeable reaction. There’s only one chair at his table, so you drag one over from nearby, the legs making this awful grinding sound against the tile floor. “I’ve never had one, so I’m taking half. Only fair.”

You fumble in your pocket for your knife to cut into it. He stares at it, when you pull it out, and then stares at you, “What do you have that for?”

Some nameless tension inside of you unwinds at the realization that he’s not just sitting there in stone-faced silence, anymore.

“Walk home after close,” you reply with an easy shrug; the conversation no longer feels like the world’s most awkward one-person performance or like actually physically pulling teeth, and that’s— pretty cool. Feels like a victory. “I usually finish at like, eleven-thirty. Not super dangerous, or anything, but better safe than sorry.”

Barnes makes a disapproving sound— what you think is a disapproving sound— under his breath when you flick the blade open, and grabs the pomegranate from the center of the table. “Too short,” he says, jerking his chin at it in your hand, “Gonna be a pain in the ass, let me.”

The knife that he pulls from what you think must be a sheath on his boot is a straight blade without a handguard, matte black and tapered to a point and without a doubt longer than four inches. Long enough to halve the pomegranate in one clean cut, sharp enough to bite into the laminate surface of the table underneath, just a little.

“That’s definitely not street legal,” you say, mostly joking.

Barnes stares at you. It takes you a second to realize that’s— new. Relatively speaking.

“New York made anything over four inches illegal, plus butterfly knives and switchblades,” you inform him. “I think in the 50s.”

He makes some noncommittal sound of what you assume is probably distaste, and stows the knife back in his boot.

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I’m not a snitch.”

He doesn’t smile, but his expression lightens a little.

On the table, the pomegranate is split neatly in half, and the little pebbled fruits inside the open skin glint in the warm light from the overhead fixtures. Like flecks of garnet. Or drops of blood.

“Could get these in the fall, sometimes,” he says, looking down at it. “Used to pick the bits out with a sewing needle. Made it last all afternoon.”

Your brain conjures up the image of the baby-faced Barnes, maybe sitting on the curb or the front steps of a building. You wonder what the details of the memory are. You wonder if little scrawny Steve had been there, or if he’d been alone.

You don’t ask.

“I don’t have a sewing needle,” is what you do say, “But—“ your nametag is clipped to your shirt, a flat slip of plastic with a pin on the back, and you unfasten it and slide it across the table.

Behind you, the door hinges creak and the bell chimes and you sigh, long-suffering, and get to your feet with an exaggeratedly affected eye-roll.

“I’ll be back,” you tell him, “Customer.”

You go to take the order and then midway through making it the doorbell sounds again. Midway through making that, same deal. This happens, at night, a trickle of customers just fast enough to keep you working nonstop, now that you’re the only person running the store. It goes on for something like ten minutes, which irritates the shit out of you despite the fact that it is technically your job. It’s nine-thirty at night and you’ve been at work for six hours and what you want to be doing is picking this dude’s brain, not making fucking coffee and bagels.

And also because a part of you is aware that he usually leaves around now.

He’s still there, though, when you come back; on the table there’s the husk of one half of the pomegranate, this pale and washed-out color like corn silk, and a neat pile of seeds on a recycled-paper napkin. Barnes has the other half and he’s poking out little grains of red with the safety-pin end of your name tag and biting the pieces off the tip, breaking the fragile skin between his teeth. He looks— calmer. Kind of wistful.

You realize this must be the first time he’s done this since he was a child, all the way back in a Brooklyn that doesn’t look anything like this one. Living alongside different people. Walking different streets. Breathing different air.

“That’s for you,” he says, nodding at the little bits of red, the empty husk, “I thought— since you’re working.”

You blink at him, and then you smile, a small, grateful one. Something flashes in his eyes, when you do; you aren’t paying much attention to it, still thinking about him, being so out of time. How strange this all must be. How much you really did mean it when you said you wanted to be his friend.

Barnes seems to realize when he brings the pin to his mouth again that it’s attached to your nametag. “Sorry,” he says, stilted and stiff and awkward-sounding, again, “I— you probably don’t want this back, now.”

“‘S fine, you can throw it out, if you want— I have so many.”You slide back into the chair and fish out of your apron pocket a blank one that you’d grabbed from the back, not knowing he’d gone and picked all the seeds out of your half already. “I forget them in my pockets, they keep ending up in the washing machine.”

His expression relaxes, a little. He catches the kernel of fruit at the end of the pin between his teeth and bites down until there’s a burst of red in his mouth. Stabs another, works it free of the shell, the flimsy little white membrane around it wilting in on itself. You watch him do that for a minute, contemplative and silent. His mouth is red. His tongue, too, when it darts across his bottom lip. Makes you think about rocket pops from the ice cream truck in the summer. Makes you wonder if they had those, back then.

“Did all that work for nothing, huh?” he says, after a while. You startle out of your thoughts and blink at him, nonplussed; he glances down at the pile of seeds on the napkin. “Thought you wanted to try it.”

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “Oh, yeah. Duh.”

The first gem-glittering marble of fruit is softer than you’d expected and ruptures between your thumb and forefinger, staining the pads of them all red. You think about summer, as a kid, when you’d fall and scrape your hands on the asphalt hard enough that they bled. It’s almost the same color.

The second time the seed is firmer and it bursts sharp and tart and faintly sweet between your teeth. “Kind of like cranberries,” you say, taking another.

The pile is gone quickly, leaving just the napkin, the juice, like a dark wine stain. You lick your fingers clean. He’d been staring, the way he kind of always stares, but when your lips close around your thumb, he looks away.

You learn a bunch about food in the 1940s, mostly by accident.

Mangoes were a thing; they’d had some growing down in Florida, and you could get them seasonally. Pineapples used to be so rare that rich people would display the whole fruit as a centerpiece at parties and things, way back in the very early 1900s and up through the Great Depression, too; but by the time the 30s rolled around you could get the canned kind at the store. Watermelon was a thing, too, but they all had the solid, jet-black seeds you weren’t supposed to swallow; somebody’d bred those out of the commercial ones sometime after Barnes had slipped out of time.

“I gotta just go straight for the really fucking weird stuff,” you muse, mostly to yourself. It’s late and it’s quiet in the shop and it’s raining outside, the street slick and black and reflecting the light from the lampposts. He stays later, now, leaves closer to 10:30; you’re kind of proud of that. That he seems to like you, your company. Or at least doesn’t dislike it.

“You could just ask,” he says, sounding just the slightest bit exasperated, “If I’ve had something before.”

“No,” you tell him, deeply serious, “No, that fucking ruins it, Barnes, it ruins the surprise.”

He looks at you blankly. A few seconds too late, you realize you’ve never actually said that, out loud. His name. You don’t call him Sergeant in your head anymore, it seems too formal, but James seems too intimate, and you hadn’t asked— hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted to pry— if he still thinks of himself as Bucky.

He doesn’t say anything.

Barnes it is, then.

Gooseberries used to be way more popular, all the way up into the 1920s, even though technically it was made federally illegal to grow them a few years before he was born. It was an attempt to stop the spread of this fungus that’d jump from the bushes to pine trees, killed huge swathes of them up and down the Northeast, decimated the lumber industry. He tells you his Ma used to make tarts and pies from them, in the fall when they were in-season, but eventually the farms upstate started getting shut down, and it was too expensive. The federal ban lifted in the 60s, you learn via Google, but production never really ramped back up again— they didn’t even have them at your regular grocery store, you’d had to go all the way to Trader Joe’s.

They taste kind of like green apples. He’d looked the way he did with the pomegranate, that first time, wistful and softer and like he’s remembering. It’s really the most you’ve ever seen behind whatever practiced and controlled exterior he maintains, beyond flashes of almost-smiles and eyebrow-raises and pointed looks. You want to peel that veneer off like peeling the skin from a fruit, get underneath it, get to the flesh of him; when this thought occurs to you, you bury it immediately, as deep as it will go.

“White pine blister rust,” you read aloud off of your phone, crossing the lobby to his table, coffee cup in one hand. You set it on the table for him and he reaches for it with a mumbled thanks. “That’s what it was called, the fungus-thing. According to wikipedia.”

Barnes blinks at you. He takes a long, slow sip of his coffee, even though it’s still probably a little too hot, not that it matters to him; and then he sets the cup down and frowns and says, “What the fuck is wikipedia?”

You laugh without meaning to.

The skin slips, a little, whatever’s underneath peeking out, bruised and soft and bloody, but then you blink and he’s fine. Watching you, expression light and practiced. Whole, again.

In February something happens.

Your coworker tells you before he leaves, pulls you aside in the threshold of the door to the back room to mumble, “there were some dudes out back by the garbage when I took it out before. I was getting bad vibes, I don’t know, just— be careful.”

There’d been a string of robberies through the borough, all within some convenient distance of the subway line, and the store is probably three blocks away from one of the platforms. The back door is one of those that opens only from inside the store, the other end flat and lacking a handle; you leave it propped open when you run to take the garbage out. You’re not stupid, is the thing. The guys, whoever they are— it could be nothing, but it could be that they’re waiting. Waiting for it to be just you, waiting for the door to open, waiting for the opportunity. You have a knife, but it’s a flimsy ten-dollar gas station piece of shit, mostly for intimidation and not for actual use; you’re also well aware that using knives in confrontations tends to make things worse rather than better. Bring that shit out and you’re asking to get it taken from you. Asking to have it used on you.

You could try to call the cops, but more than half of them have been requisitioned by the GRC, and you know what they’d tell you. Unfortunately at the moment we’re understaffed and can’t afford to respond to predictive calls. Please let us know if and when something illegal occurs. Practiced and perfunctory and something people joke about in your neighborhood, because there’s really nothing else any of you can do. Your coworker can’t stay, either; he can’t afford to pay the babysitter another hour, not on minimum wage.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine.”

And it is okay. You will be fine.

Barnes is there.

It’s a Wednesday, so it’s just sheer fucking luck that he’s here at all; he must be able to see it, in your face, when you come bursting through the little swinging gate-thing and out into the lobby, because his hands tighten into fists where they’re resting on the table.

“Oh my god I’m so glad you’re here,” you say, breathless and frantic and very much meaning it.

There’s a flash of something on his face that makes you think of heat lightning or splintering ice of the second right before a pomegranate seed bursts between teeth. You are not thinking enough about things that aren’t your immediate anxiety to register it.

“I need your help,” you tell him.

He grows progressively stiffer as you explain the situation, and when you’re done he says nothing, just stands up and pushes his chair in and says, real low, “I’ll go— talk to them. Don’t worry.”

The bell above the door chimes when he leaves.

You stand there at the edge of his table for what feels like some impossible amount of time, every muscle in your body wound up like a spring, jaw clenched so hard it’s starting to drive the beginnings of a headache somewhere on the top of your skull—

He comes back.

“Are you— did they—“ you break from nervously picking at your fingernails to make some vague and anxious gesture. Barnes looks fine, unscathed, cool and neutral and controlled as ever, but when he looks at you it makes something base and instinctive deep inside of you buzz with— alarm. Or— something.

“They were just— being stupid, just drunks,” he says, and maybe you’re imagining it, the thread of tension in his voice. “It’s fine. It’s all— it’s fine.”

You feel yourself visibly relax. “Oh, god, thank you so much, dealing with drunk guys is— it’s the worst.”

He flinches, when you say the first words, just a little, his eyes almost closing and the muscles around them going just briefly tense, like he’d managed to suppress most, but not all, of the instinct. “You don’t— you don’t need to thank me.”

You study him for a minute, like maybe if you look hard enough that flicker of whatever it was would come back, linger long enough for you to make sense of it.

“All right, fine, no thanks. Thanks rescinded,” you say finally, bemused. “I’m going to refill your coffee, though.”

You say it with your hand already half-outstretched, close enough that he can’t stop you even with his reflexes, and whatever entirely reactive and entirely accidental noise of triumph you make when his hand closes around empty space is— not on purpose.

His mouth twitches, the closest you’ve ever seen to an actual smile.

Something in your stomach flips.

You shove that shit down, too.

When you come back with the coffee he’s sitting back in the chair with his legs stretched out and he’s staring out the window again.

“Thanks,” he says, when you set it down.

“Oh, so you can thank me, but I can’t thank you?”

His mouth twitches again. “Yes.”

You make some entirely performative tch sound of affected annoyance as you retreat back behind the counter; you still have to take the garbage out, clear out the pastry display case, start emptying and scrubbing down the coffee pots you’re not using now that business has slowed to a crawl.

“Are you still coming Friday?” you call out to him, over the hum and hiss of the espresso machine running through the automated cleaning program, the milk foaming wands steaming in pitchers of sanitizer water, all of it loud enough that you’d never be able to hear him over it, something you realize too late, “Sorry, hold on, I should have asked before I—“

“Do you want me to?” His voice is clear and close and you startle reflexively; he’s at the counter, at the register, staring. Always staring. You thought in the beginning you’d get used to it. It’s not uncommon; those with power stare, and those without cast their eyes down and away. It’s the nature of customer service jobs in New York City. You meet a lot of powerful assholes in suits who make more money than you probably will ever handle in the entirety of your life, and they look at you and talk at you rather than to you, like you’re nothing, a rodent or an insect or something even less than that. You’ve never once flinched away from any of their stares, and never so much as felt like you wanted to, either.

James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t look at you like that at all. He doesn’t look at you like you’re lesser. He looks at you like he can see you— like he can see right through you, like you’re transparent, like everything going on in your head is out in the open, visible, vulnerable, or maybe like he just wants it to be. Like he’s looking for a door hidden somewhere in the minutiae of your expression, some way to force himself inside and pull all of your thoughts and secrets out like unraveling a spool of thread.

He doesn’t look at you like you’re not human. He looks at you like he knows, precisely, intimately, exactly how human you are, and that’s—

Kind of worse. Or maybe it isn’t. It’s definitely weird.

You realize with a start that he’d asked you a question, and you’d been silent for way too long. You tear your eyes away from him and focus on pulling all the cup lids out of the tray at the edge of the counter, sweeping the donut crumbs and sugar crystals and coffee grinds out and onto the floor.

“I mean—,” your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth and it trips over the words, the syllables, stumbling and uncertain. “Not if you have plans, I— you don’t have to.”

“I never have plans,” he scoffs, scathingly self-deprecating, and then there’s the steady rhythm of his fingers drumming against the counter and you feel it on your neck, the hairs raising there, that he’s staring at you still, “I just—since I came today, I thought maybe you wouldn’t— I don’t want to bother you.”

You freeze, stack of iced coffee lids in one hand, half-lowered back into the now-spotless tray.

You force yourself to look back up at him.

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, stressing each word, like it’s important. It is important. “You’re— I like you. We’re friends.”

That thing, from before, the almost-maybe-flinch; it happens again, and you feel your own expression do something reflexive in response, your lips part and your brow furrow in the seconds before you can school your features back to composure. Whatever he does, the control he has over his affect; you’re not very good at that.

“Besides,” you say, into the silence, eyes cast back down and focused on filling the lid tray, “I found something you’ve never tried before, this time. And since I paid for it already, you are, in fact, contractually obligated to be here.”

He laughs, the same kind of laugh, the only kind of laugh you ever get from him; the cut-short one, like he doesn’t mean to, like he’d tried to stop it.

Like he couldn’t.

Barnes leaves at about 10:45, and you bring the trash out right before he goes, just in case. You wouldn’t have seen it if it weren’t for the fact that you were still kind of nervous and had your phone in hand, shining the washed-out beam of light back-and-forth across the little fenced-in area by the dumpster, trying to keep the garbage bag at arms’ length to avoid getting some disgusting coffee sludge mixture on your shoes where it’s leaking out of the corners.

The light catches on it. It glitters, captures your attention, red against the sun-bleached gray concrete. Pomegranate seeds. Shards of garnet.

Drops of blood.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #i'm uploading all of the things to tumblr. finally.#fic; drops of blood

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spacexseven · 2 years

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(1/3) god akutagawa… he’d be so. Severe, about the whole thing, you know? from HIS perspective he’s going through a long and arduous journey of emotional turmoil that you, wretched seducer/seductress have cruelly damned him to; but for you it’s like he COMPLETELY turned on a dime. he wouldn’t really be the sweep-you-off-your-feet type, like chuuya or dazai would be in this situation. when he gets the order to get close to you for intel reasons (and the whole time he’s wondering why this is HIS job, when has he ever been known to be personable?) he might take on the persona of a newbie in your line of work or a new tenant in your apartment complex and you he’s always kinda… there. staring at you and looking mad about something. but hey! hes probably just shy, right? why not throw him a bone, you think. you live to regret this.

on akutagawa’s end, he doesnt know whether to laugh or scoff at your naivety. you really are making this MUCH too simple for him. like, come on now, discussing work over coffee? inviting him into your home? why don’t you go ahead and decapitate yourself for him while you’re at it. and what an irritating little insect you are, as well! constantly bothering him, talking to him, touching him… showing him affection, concern, genuine interest… completely ridiculous. he’s sure he doesnt dislike ANYONE as much as he does you.

OH GOD IF THEY PROTECT HIM??? FUCK!!!! he’d be SO touched. denies it, but he is!!! moved, even! after this, he gets really comfortable around you, moreso than he thinks he deserves. you’re just so. nice. he feels good when hes around you. the mission becomes more of a break from mafia life than an addition to it. he… likes you. no, he loves you. he loves you so much. if you express a similar romantic interest in him he’ll probably blow a gasket. he never thought he could feel this strongly about anyone (excluding his sister and dazai, ofc)

inevitably, you find him out. hard not to, when his end goal in this whole matter was to utterly destroy you. like you said, he leaves you no choice in the matter of coming with him. he needs you, and you need him, in his mind. he can protect you! no one else will EVER protect you or love you or WORSHIP you the way he does! you don’t need anything else but him, don’t you understand? this is for the best! youre angry, of course. you hate him, curse him, try to kill him. and akutagawa feels like his entire world is falling apart. please, please, please, you can’t hate him, anything but that. he loves you he loves you he loves you PLEASE he’ll do anything to prove it to you, ANYTHING. his life is almost entirely dedicated to earning your affection and praise from here on out, kinda like how he is with dazai. you’ll see it his way eventually…. you have to….. he wont accept anything else.

instead of compiling these together, I will be answering them separately for each character :> i'll get to the rest over the week as well, just need to focus on them individually to really flesh out the ideas :>> anything under this au thing will be tagged with #spy au 🐟 (short and effective, i hope)

cw: yandere characters, deceit, manipulation, obsessive behavior, imprisonment, stalking

akutagawa doesn't really strike anyone as the ideal person to send to infiltrate some place and charm someone for information, but he has a surprisingly useful ability to sort of...blend into the background. he knows what's expected of him, sent on to a mission like this. he's not expected to flirt or coo or wink at you until your knees buckle and you fall into his arms (though now, in retrospect, that would have been a sight he would love to see). rather, what he has to do is simply exist. exist and observe.

it sounded a lot easier in theory because nobody had said anything about you. all he was told was that you'd have the information he needed, and you were not so high-up that it was impossible to talk to you, and not so unimportant that you would be useless to listen in on. nobody said anything about that damned smile and the easygoing charm and the genuine concern that radiated off you. nobody told him that you would pat his shoulder and tell him he was doing great, buy him coffee and offer your support for anything he needed. and nobody even mentioned how kind you were, unlike anyone else he's met that worked for an 'enemy' organization.

(well, it was true that you were kind to all your subordinates, but he refused to see that. to him, it was only him that you cared about right?)

then there was the fact that he could never just 'exist' when you were around. you had an eye out for everyone—not out of paranoia or control, but concern. you noticed him hiding behind the crowd, awkwardly standing by the wall, and you'd bring him closer to everyone else. you saw him, despite him not being any use to you. he was not the ruthless murderer the port mafia wanted him to be, or whatever dazai thought him as. he wasn't a rival you were deadset on beating or a guard dog that patiently sat by your feet, ready to tear apart anyone who dared even look at you the wrong way. not that he would have minded that, if it meant he could protect you from those wandering eyes. in here, he was just another one of faceless lower-rank members, loaded with boring paperwork and forced to run after everyone else.

but to you, he was the new member under your care. you used the name he was given for the mission, you asked him if he had his lunch. you brought him some of your favorite tea to try when you learned he liked drinking tea (and he drank every drop. how could he not, when you looked so eager for his opinion on it?) he wouldn't have expected more than a nod after a job finished in the port mafia, but here, he was being celebrated like he had done something. like you cared. and that thought tormented him.

at first, he pretended to hate you for it. with the appreciation, you showed, your open nature, and your sympathy—you would be torn apart and crushed in the port mafia. such traits would only lead to your demise. he couldn't show that he appreciated it because he didn't want you to think you could keep this up, and endanger yourself. he wasn't the only one trying to infiltrate your group, he knew, and if anyone else learned about you, they would try to worm inside through you. and then what? you'd never see through them, would you? akutagawa was terrible at espionage and still, he made it this far with you, hadn't he? you didn't even consider his true intentions, even after a couple of slip-ups, that he was convinced you were truly helpless. it was deplorable.

and yet...

he wanted to receive more of your attention.

it was very embarrassing when he realized what was happening. automatically running to you after finishing any task, looking forward to your check-ins, taking on anything to try and lessen your workload...what had you done to him? sometimes, he thought of what dazai would think of him now, acting like a pathetic little lap dog, deprived of love.

what really sealed the deal was the moment you risked your life to protect his. undercover akutagawa did not have an ability. that was probably why you stepped in so quickly to move him away from harm. but something about how you grabbed and lifted him, fearlessly navigating the chaos to bring him to safety struck him. something about how easily you threw aside your life for him, how immediately you jumped into action. and after all that, when you apologized to him and swore you would never let him be hurt again...

what else was he supposed to do?

akutagawa was no fool. reckless, hardheaded, maybe. but not stupid. there was no place for that in his life. but at the moment he was at a loss for words and emotions. this overwhelming warmth, this gentle embrace, this wonderful feeling—it was all so new to him. he was used to being the one risking his life to further the port mafia, not fussed over like...like his life wasn't dispensable.

your tight hold on him, your frantic apologies, your commands for someone to come help him—akutagawa had never felt so wanted before. never felt so desperate for something before, either, except maybe dazai's recognition. funny how he could tear himself apart and stick himself back together and dazai wouldn't bat an eyelid, but one little scratch on him and you're tripping over yourself to get to him, huh?

that incident is what changes everything between you two. suddenly, akutagawa is more present, more expressive to you. he talks more (still not a lot, but he's getting there), he even lets the occasional smile slip. he brings you snacks he knows you like to eat, and he just starts being around more often. always behind you, like you held a leash that was connected to him. akutagawa was sure now, that he loved you.

the warm feeling, the nervous feeling he got around you, the way he couldn't stop looking and how he always wanted you to hold him. he loved you, so much. he knew you didn't think of him as a lover—not yet. but he didn't mind. this was fine, for now. until he settled things with the pm so you would never have to know his true mission.

what he didn't expect to happen was you finding out so soon. it all happened too fast. he got a message that he had done his job and shortly after the group you worked for was eradicated. when you were finally introduced to the port mafia, you met akutagawa as himself for the first time.

and just as he feared, you were disgusted by him.

he should have expected this, right? you had every right to be upset after you trusted him so much. that didn't mean it didn't tear him apart to see the hatred in your eyes and the way you flinched away from him. he thought you would be grateful after he convinced them to let you be with him, and not punished like your friends, but you were enraged. you screamed and punched and you looked so hurt that he wanted to fall on his knees and apologize until you accepted it. he would take any punishment as long as you stayed. and you would stay, wouldn't you? when you saw the evil that lurked outside on the streets, the terrors that awaited you. you would stay when he convinced you because he would convince you. show you that he always loved you back, and that he would protect you like you did him. nothing had changed, except his name, really! it was still him, the one you laughed with and bought tea for. it was still the him that you had held in your arms after bringing him to safety.

why couldn't you see that?

#I GOT SO TIRED AT THE LAST PART SORRY #yandere x reader #yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #yandere bsd #yandere bungo stray dogs #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere bungou stray dogs x reader #yandere bsd x reader #yandere akutagawa x reader #yandere akutagawa #akutagawa x reader #akutagawa bsd #akutagawa 🐟#ask 🐟#anon 🐟#bsd 🐟#dazai 🩹 🐟#spy au 🐟#this got sooo long im sorry

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silverloreleysfanfics · 1 year

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Real Names in “Descendants“

Here’s a rant + solution about the characters’ names in Descendants.

Who in his right mind could accept Lonnie’s name is just that? Mal makes sense for the explanation we were given, but Evie? Even assuming Ally is short for something, isn’t that’s a weird name? The books have stuff like Herkie, Lil’ Shang, Pin, Tiger Peony, Ginny Gothel and I don’t know how many more and while I get it’s about making them recognizeable as the children of certain characters, I do get it, I still think they’re bad.

So I decided to compile a list of presumable actual names of the Descendants kids, VK and AK alike that anyone could feel free to use in fics.

Two little notes before anything else:

the -son/-dottir patronimics I see sometimes in fics are North European and should be used only in the right context, avoided otherwise. In Ancient Greek the correct suffix is -ides (gender neutral), so Mal wouldn’t be Hadesdottir but Hadeides; similarly, Uma would be Ursulaides, and Ursula Poseidonides and so forth. Despite that, I assume Auradon would want to conform to the habit of fixed family names that is normal in modern Europe, so they’d make everyone adopt one, like Chad Charming, or use the place of origin, like Jordan of Agrabah.

The explanation I have in-universe for some names is that there's an obsession in Auradon with precising who their famous parents/relatives/family friends could be and many kids end up with nicknames tied to that. Either this or because names have power when it comes to magic, so real names are kept secret and known only by the most trusted people, but that wouldn’t get along with how magic works in the movies, nor with the fact Ben and Mal shared their middle names like it was no big deal (but then again, Ben could have a secret third name and Mal didn’t specify her first name is short for Maleficent). The first explanation is easier.

I’ve been working on this list for quite some time. As such, if you use this as reference it’s fine, but I’d like to be told at least, even in a note to this post and given credit if you pick one of my ideas that aren’t mainstream in the fandom.

Also, I may add to/modify this post later on, but without taking into account anything made after Descendants 3.

That said, VKs first:

Mal: we’ve been said Mal is just short for Maleficent and the daughter isn’t allowed to use the full name because she “didn’t deserve it”. Abusive and terrible, yet it fits. But I don’t think Hades would agree and in myths there is a Melinoe who is an Hades’ daughter, so Mal’s full real name could be Maleficent Bertha Melinoe Hadeides or just Melinoe Bertha Hadeides.

Jay: I saw Jayden around and, nope, it doesn’t work for me. Either Jayanth or Jayad (both mean “victorious one”) sound a lot better and more fitting for the general area Aladdin is set in. But, really, this page has tons of names starting with Jay, pick one from there. (also, for a proper surname you should check Arabic onomastic, which is complicated, so just use “of the Isle” or “of Agrabah”, unless you know the subject well. I don’t think Auradonians would bother to learn anyway)

Evie: oh, dear, my poor girl, what an atrocity. It could be short for anything like Evelyn, Evangeline (but the Evil Queen would never choose such a meek name, plus it’s tied to Tiana’s story), Evanna, Evalina, Evisse, all can work, but the one I prefer is Everhilde or Everild, which would call back to the Evil Queen’s real name, Grimhilde. On this note, I suppose Genevieve could work too with the “parent-children with same intials” trend.

Carlos: I already said I find weird he has a Spanish name when Cruella is British, and unless there are some Spanish roots somewhere in the de Vil lineage, his name should have been Charles. But recently I headcanoned his father could be Bruno Madrigal, so the Spanish name could stay (in the books it’s stated his middle name is Oscar, which @dragoneyes618 reminded me was also Bruno’s first-draft name), so, Carlos Oscar de Vil-Madrigal.

Uma: it’s a Hebrew or Hindi name and a weird fit for the granddaughter of Poseidon (yes, I am one of those who agrees Ursula is one of Poseidon’s children and thinks a name meaning “little she-bear” is a tad weird for a sea being). But, after all, Ariel is a Hebrew name too, so Uma fits the Little Mermaid lore and all is well.

The three Hook siblings (Harriet, Harry and Calista Jane) have the most normal and reasonable names of the whole franchise and I won’t dare to change them. Perhaps I’d argue Harriet and Harry are fem/male variants of the same name, but, really, there is worse in the franchise (and I guess, when she made up Harriet, Melissa de la Cruz had no idea they’d later create Harry for the next movies).

Gil: his real name could be Gillaume (variant of Guillaume) or Gilbert. Personally, I prefer the latter (like Gilbert Motier de La Fayette, you know, lol). His brothers’ names, unfortunately, fit with Gaston’s narcissism, so they can stay. The canon surname is LeGume, although I’m not sure where it comes from exactly as it’s never mentioned in either movie or live action as far as I remember.

Freddie: I think Frederique Facilier sounds great and she probably hates it. I read that in a fic but I don’t remember whose, maybe @ginnyrules27 or @hannahhook7744 or @dragoneyes618, feel free to correct me if it’s none of theirs.

Celia: it’s a name in its own good, used in both French and Spanish (fitting for New Orleans’ culture), but if we want, we can consider it short for Cecilia.

Ginny Gothel: assuming Gothel (like Yzma) was able to procreate and Ginny isn’t actually Cassandra’s daughter (I haven’t seen the series though so I don’t know much about her), Ginny is still an abbreviation, usually of Ginevra/Guinevere. I can’t fathom why Gothel’s name became a surname though, I’m at loss here, unless we are supposed to read it as Ginevra Gotheldottir (Rapunzel is a germanic tale, so this kind of patronimic fits), shortened Ginny Gothel.

Dizzy: I wrecked my brain on this. Drusilla or Desdemona. That’s it, that’s the top I could come up with. Drusilla Tremaine-Westergard, in my universe, to be precise.

The only other Tremaine cousin we have a canon name for is Anthony and I think it’s a perfectly fine name. Antoine if we set the story in pseudo-France.

Hadie: Hades had few children in the myths and Zagreus was the one I liked the most, that’s my reasoning. In myths, Zagreus is Persephone’s son but here it could be anyone’s, he’d still keep the Greek patronimic, so Zagreus Hadeides.

Squeaky and Squirmy Smee: those are 100% nicknames, it can’t be otherwise. In fact, in piracy, it’s pretty normal to have nicknames and aliases that are known more than regular names, like Calico Jack, Blackbeard, Big Murph and so on. The twins likely have normal names like Sullivan and Sean or something like that. In fact, their big brother is Sammy, short for Samuel, I assume, so it pretty much supports it.

Mad Maddy: while “mad“ is a mockery/title, Maddy should be short for Magda or Magdalene, but it’s used on its own too, so it’s your pick.

LeFou Deux: stupid name, like so stupid it can’t be real. Let’s pick a normal french name, like Denis LeFou, with the mockery he acts like father, they call him Le Fou Deux aka “twice as stupid”. Kids can be cruel.

Claudine Frollo: unfortunately, it’s an actual French name, but a religious zealot would maybe give her a double name, like Marie-Claudine.

Zevon and Yzla: I don’t know what to say here, I really don’t. Yzla sounds bad, that’s all I can say (but I admit Zevon has a nice ring). I accept suggestions.

AKs:

Lil’ Shang: first thing first, in China (and other Eastern countries) surnames come before names. So Li=surname Shang=name. Cleared that up, this name makes sense only as a nickname (which I hate). If we want it to start with S and an assonance with his father’s, we could pick Sheng (victory) or Shuang (clear and bright).

Lonnie: Lanying, which, mispronunciated, became Lonnie, it would make sense if said by kids first. (Fun fact: irl Lin Lanying was the name of a scientist, there’s also a Guo Lanying who is a soprano, both great women).

Herkie: oh, don’t make me start with this. This is one of the atrocious names that are clearly rip-offs of the parent’s names and I hate that. Hercules had lots and lots of children in the myths, from Megara in particular he had four: Therimachus, Creontiades, Ophitus and Deicoon. Pick whatever you prefer, I am partial to Therimachus, too difficult for Auradonians to enunciate, they started to call him Herkie as a nickname that stuck.

Tiger Peony: I’m certain I’m not the first who thinks a name like this is, like, the epitome of disrespectful. For the same reason, I admit I know nothing of the subject and ask if someone could tell what an appropriate name for her could be.

Ally: Allison Liddel (original Alice’s surname) or Kingsley (live action surname). Or another surname if she took her father’s (I am partial to the Tim Burton movies and ship Alice and the Hatter, so Allison Hightopp, but that’s just me).

Jordan: Joodah (or Joudah) meaning “generous“ or “of high qualities“ (as far as I could find, please feel free to correct me).

Artie: don’t ask me where I took it from, but in my head his full name is Arnault Pendragon (and he isn’t Guinevere’s son as Disney’s Arthur married another woman under the advice of Merlin, but this is all my headcanon).

Pin: Pinocchio’s son. Now, in Italy it is traditional to name children after parents or grandparents (I have one uncle and 5 cousins all named after my maternal grandfather and other 4 cousins after my grandmother, to say nothing of the ones who have them as middle names), so it wouldn’t be weird BUT! we don’t have names without final vowels, especially first names, in Italian, so he’d be called Pino. Which is also short for Giuseppe (Giuseppino) and I much prefer that (if they wanted to use Geppetto’s name it would have made sense too, and that he would have been nicknamed Geppettino > Tino).

Now, for the dwarves’ sons I picked German names with the same initials:

“Doc II” Dominic;

“Hap” Harold;

“Cheerful” Klemens;

“Gesundheit”/“Gus” Gustav;

“Bash” Bastian;

“Shy” Silas;

“Crabby” Conrad;

“Sleepy jr” Simon;

“Snoozy” Samuel.

Doug and Gordon are normal names and can stay.

Ruby and Anxelin Fitzherbert: I’m not even sure from where we got those names from for Rapunzel’s daughters, I seem to recall Ruby mentioned in Wicked World, maybe? Anyway, I don’t like either name. Anxelin is the name of a wine, that’s a very strange choice, and Ruby, uh, is too generic, I guess? There are so many german names to pick from, if we want to follow the pattern of same initial as the parents! Renate, Rayna, Reinheld, Richel, Roslin, Rowena... then Engelbertha, Eda, Erika, Evonne, Edith,... Just research a bit. If we really want to keep the original ones, Anxelin could be a deformation of something like Annegret or Analise, and Ruby could stand for Ruperta or Ruomhildi, although I prefer to call them Annika (same initials as Queen Arianna, Rapunzel’s real mother) and Roslin.

Opal: daughter of Mama Odie (what is it with those super-old women having teenage kids?!) can be Opal of the Bayou, I suppose. It has a nice ring, actually, although I don’t know what tie opal stones may have with voodoo.

Bobby Hood: usually, Bobby is short for Robert, which fits the area and the pattern. Robin is, at times, short for Robert, but I don’t think it’s the case here. The surname Locksley was discarded by Robin, provided it existed in the Disneyverse, but it’s worth remembering it.

This post will possibly be corrected expanded in the future and I appreciate further discussion, as long as all parties are respectful and thoughtful.

#disney descendants #descendants #here I fixed the matter of the names #it irked me to no end #reminder that if you use this in fics I want to see it!#any of it!#long post

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darkangel1791 · 2 months

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TV Fanatic

Shadowhunters: 31 of Our Favorite Malec Moments

Rachel Foertsch at July 23, 2018 3:37 pm.

The relationship between Magnus and Alec on Shadowhunters is one of the best 'ships currently on television.

Alec is a Shadowhunter and head of the New York Institute while Magnus is the High Warlock of Brooklyn. Seeing as they're both in charge of two groups who don't particularly get along, they have the odds stacked against them in almost every way.

Despite their struggles, Alec and Magnus never let their differences keep them apart. They have proved throughout the series that their love is strong enough to overcome anything life throws at them.

Not only are they great representation for the LGBTQ community, but they also have a pure and healthy relationship that everyone can look up to. They're one of the many reasons we're all fighting so hard to #SaveShadowhunters.

It's obviously impossible to name every amazing Malec scene, but we compiled a slideshow of 31 of our favorite Malec moments below!

And don't forget you can see these moments for yourself by watching Shadowhunters online right here on TV Fanatic!

1. Their first time on 2x18 "Awake, Arise, or Be Forever Fallen"

There are so many amazing things that could be said about this scene as a whole. The music, the kissing, and Alec telling Magnus how beautiful he is officially ended us all.

2. Team work makes the dream work on 3x02 "The Powers That Be"

Anytime Malec teams up in the face of danger they always accomplish their goal. It's clear that being around each other makes them stronger.

3. Alec and Magnus' first kiss on 1x12 "Malec"

This was the iconic kiss that no one will ever forget. Alec literally walked back down the aisle of his own wedding to plant one on Magnus in front of everyone. And yes, Magnus and Alec are so epic that they actually had an episode named after them.

4. That time they turned Shadowhunters into a crime drama on 3x02 "The Powers That Be"

Somehow, Magnus and Alec are the best partners in crime and the worst. Being sneaky and subtle is not their strong suit, yet surprisingly they still managed to get the job done.

5. Malec gets domestic AF on 3x03 "What Lies Beneath"

Alec's cooking may not have been the best but thankfully Magnus was there to make some er...magical improvements. But you know what they say, a couple who cooks together stays together.

6. AU Alec pulls a Magnus on 1x10 "This World Inverted"

When Magnus and Alec first met Magnus inferred that Alec was playing hard to get. It's a good thing Magnus and otherworldly Alec both love a challenge.

7. Magnus and Alec kill us with cuteness on 3x01 "On Infernal Ground"

This scene was all kinds of adorable. Once Magnus is truthful with Alec and admits he doesn't want him to go to Idris, Alec tells him that his real dream was finding someone like Magnus. He assures Magnus that he's not going anywhere.

8. Cuddling ensues the morning after on 2x18 "Awake, Arise, or Be Forever Fallen"

Their first morning after was everything we hoped it would be and more. It's clear just how much these two love each other and what the night before meant to them.

9. Magnus being a worried boyfriend on 2x13 "Those of Demon Blood"

Seeing Magnus worry about Alec going out alone was absolutely precious. Honestly, these two couldn't act any more married if they tried.

10. Malec is here to stay on 2x08 "Love is a Devil"

We already knew that Malec was a permanent thing, but hearing Alec say the words out loud to Magnus was especially satisfying.

11. Gift giving on 2x07 "How Are Thou Fallen"

Like Magnus said, Alec is always surprising him. In just one of many examples of him being an adorable boyfriend, Alec gives Magnus an Omamori charm which is said to offer health and protection.

12. Magnus and Alec talk it out on 2x01 "This Guilty Blood"

It's impossible for couples to go through life without facing challenges. But Magnus lets Alec know that they need to work through problems together instead of getting nervous and pushing each other away.

13. Immortality angst on 3x05 "Stronger Than Heaven"

It's not that we love the angst but well...we love the angst. The fact that the basis of Magnus and Alec's fight was that they never wanted to be without each other was somehow both heartbreaking and heartwarming.

14. Alec comforts Magnus on 2x15 "A Problem of Memory"

Magnus finally opened up to Alec about what he was going through and Alec did the only thing he could. He was there for him completely.

15. True love's kiss on 2x03 "Parabatai Lost"

Things were not looking good for Alec this episode. His soul was lost alongside his parabatai's and getting Jace back was the only way to wake Alec up. Although it (sadly) didn't work, the fact that Magnus tried to kiss Alec back to life gave us all the feels.

16. Magnus and Alec's first date on 2x06 "Iron Sisters"

A first date was much needed between these two. They finally got to talk about the things that were important to each of them. Despite Alec not being at all experienced and Magnus being extremely experienced in the dating world, they showed how determined they are to make things work.

17. Malec teaches us about healthy relationships on 2x20 "Beside Still Water"

In the words of Magnus Bane quoting Alec Lightwood, relationships take effort. Magnus and Alec both understand that in order to have a healthy relationship they need to put in the work. And these two are willing to do whatever it takes.

18. Alec tells Magnus he loves him on 2x10 "By the Light of Dawn"

After Alec spent a few horrifying moments thinking that Magnus was dead, we got an epic declaration of love. Their first I love you is always going to be one of Shadowhunters' best scenes and it's impossible to watch it dry-eyed.

19. Love at first sight on 1x04 "Raising Hell"

From the moment Magnus and Alec met sparks were flying. You can tell from Alec's nervous smile and the way he can't keep his eyes off Magnus that he is crushing hard.

20. Magnus and Alec get back together on 2x20 "Beside Still Water"

When Magnus and Alec are together it almost feels like everything in the show is going to be okay. When they were apart the world was very literally falling apart around them. Alec tells Magnus that he can't live without him, and we connected with Alec on a spiritual level.

21. A magical dinner by the fire on 2x17 "A Dark Reflection"

When Alec misses their date, Magnus brings the date to him with a wave of his hand. Having a boyfriend with magic powers sure does come in handy.

22. Alec (literally) gives Magnus his strength on 1x06 "Of Men and Angels"

Even warlocks can run out of power and Magnus was fading fast. Thankfully, Alec was there to offer his own strength in whatever way he needed. Magnus was obviously surprised by Alec's inclination to help him and admitted that it's rare to find a Shadowhunter with such an open heart.

23. The aftermath of Valentine's destruction on 2x12 "You Are Not Your Own"

This entire episode was absolutely tragic. When Magnus is hurting so is Alec, and the devastation when he realized he couldn't take away Magnus' pain is agonizing. This moment may not be a happy one, but it definitely made us emotional.

24. Alec opens Magnus up to love for the first time in a century on 1x06 "Of Men and Angels"

Although Magnus had been in love with both men and women before, he closed himself off from feeling anything for anyone for almost a century. But from the moment he met Alec his heart immediately opened back up. If that's not true love than what is?

25. The heartbreaking goodbye on 3x10 "Erchomai"

This scene was a mess of emotions. Magnus couldn't stand by and do nothing while he watched someone so important to the man he loves fade away. Alec told Magnus that he needs to make it back and of course, Magnus' reply was perfect.

26. Unofficial first drinks on 1x06 "Of Men and Angels"

What Alec doesn't know in this scene is that he's sharing his first drink with the love of his life. Of course, with the way these two couldn't keep their eyes off of each other they must have had some idea.

27. Malec's photo booth pics on 2x19 "Hail and Farewell"

Magnus staring at a photo strip of him and Alec after their breakup was devasting. But we couldn't help but fawn over the fact that Magnus and Alec actually had the chance to go out and do cute couple things. Where's our flashback of the photo booth scene?

28. Magnus tries to convince Alec to call off his wedding on 1x12 "Malec"

We were right there with you Magnus. Even though Lydia was a great character, Alec was only marrying her out of duty and obligation. Magnus could see right through him and tried to get Alec to admit who he really had feelings for.

29. Hug and make up on 3x07 "Salt in the Wound"

These two still had some things to talk about, but in this moment the only thing that mattered was their love for each other. With other things taking precedence, they just had to take a moment to make sure the other knew they were sorry.

30. Handholding on 3x02 "The Powers That Be"

Alec was pretty nervous about being the only Shadowhunter in a party full of warlocks, but Magnus was quick to help calm his nerves.

31. Reconciliations on 2x13 "Those of Demon Blood"

After Alec realized he was in the wrong for asking Magnus for a piece of hair to verify his innocence, Alec assures him that he never has to prove himself. He trusts Magnus implicitly.

#malec #shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #harry shum jr #matthew daddario

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