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yeyinde · 9 months

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lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire

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thequietkid-moonie · 9 months

Note

hi moonie! ❤ i've been waiting for requests to open again and i'm finally going to request something now 😌

how about yandere nagito, kokichi, kazuichi and rantaro with a darling who's super distant and closed off from others but only comfortable with them, only laughing and smiling when they are near them?

i'm looking forward to requesting more and i hope you're having a lovely day 🍀 love you! <3

Distant darling is only open with them

[ YANDERE HEADCANONS ] [ Nagito, Kazuichi, Kokichi, Rantaro ]

[ Danganronpa 2 Goodbye Despair ] [ Danganronpa V3 Killing Harmony ]

⚠️ Yandere, I dunno support this kind of behavior in real life, I just write it for fun!

I'm really excited too V-chan!! I'm having a pretty good day but now that i had your request is way better!! ^^

Thanks for requesting such an amazing prompt with amazing characters!! I had a lot of fun writing this, hope you like it too!! ❤️❤️

Nagito Komaeda

Even since the moment Nagito met his darling he knew it was a person filled with hope, a person with a bright potential and a future filled with hope, his admiration quickly grows as an obsession as he has the opportunity to see you more, an obsession that only grows more and more with each passing day

For Nagito it doesn't matter if you let him be in your live or doesn't even aknowledge his existance, for him is more than a blessing being able to be near you, and he wouldn't blame you if you don't want anything to do with trash like him

Nagito didn't mean to be pushy to enter in your life, but since he can't be away from you for too long and that need of being around you only grows with his obsession it was obvious that at one point you two will end up meeting. He expected for you to hate him for even daring to be around you but if you don't mind him being near you or even accept him he is shocked for it, and yet he will not dare to doubt you and just accept it

Once you let him enter in your life there is no way to get away from him, Nagito had swear to himself (and even to you) to be always with you and do whatever is needed to help you bright in an inmense and infinite hope and for that he become really clingy and dependent of you, doing whatever you ask him and accept whatever you say to him with a smile

Nagito just get used to you being cold and distant towards him, he doesn't expect nor think he deserve something else, won't even dare to ask for more, so when you start to open up more to him, even if is just a little he is incredibly surprised and even brush it off as if it was his imagination at first, but as you start to grow more and more comfortable around him there is no way for him to deny it

Nagito will probably try to deny it for as long as posible because he doesn't feel like he deserve it but it start to become more obvious in diferent ways, you had started to talk more, you start to express more of yourself and even smile, sometimes he is lucky enough to heard you laugh, and if he pay enough attention he can see your body language directed towards him, it was obvious that you started to feel free to open up to him

Nagito noticed your change but is too scare to accept it, so it isn't going to happen until someone else point it out (and even so it would take him a while, unless is you), and when he does finally accept that he is the one with who you feel the most comfortable he swears to himself that protect that feeling and never disappoint you

Your smile becomes his reason to continue living, and being the only one you allow to see it give him a boost of confidence, sudendly he feels special and important (but never more than you). Nagito even become more intense in every way posible, wanting nothing more to be with you and be able to make you happy, now he is even more eager to do everything in his power to make you happy and just fullfil your wishes, to help you reach the greatest hope

Also, Nagito never dare to question you anything he just accept you the way you are, so he never really pry into the details of the reason of your distrust and distant attitude towards others (he may actually wondered why but always brush it off as saying that is none of his business), he won't ask you even when you finally open up to him but if he get to know that is someone's fault because they had hurted you in the past it would be more probably that he will take things into matter because he hates the idea of you suffering, and he does it with the excuse that is because that bastard made you feel despair

Kazuichi Soda

It doesn't take him much time before falling in love with you, Kazuichi is the type that could fall in love at first sight, and when he does he does it hard, and just as quickly it is for him to fall in love it is to grow obsesive over you, in no time you had become the only thing that wander around Kazuichi's mind (not that he is complaining)

Kazuichi is delusional, he sees you as the peak of perfection and beauty, everyone most know and admire your beauty (but he doesn't concentrate on doing other admire you, he is more focused on admiring you himself and trying to give you everything you deserve), as well he doesn't even ask you or tries to win your trust before hand, he just came into your life and isn't planning to go away, one day he just came and talk to you as if you two already know each other from all your life (but with a little too much respect, maybe even as if you were royalty)

Although, even when he sees you as perfection itself he is unable to think that you don't like him, that posibility will break him completely so his mind doesn't even think on that, instead, when you act distant towards him he just doesn't believe it, it would take him a while to catch the idea of you not being comfortable or not wanting to share much with him, and when he does he is blaming himself for it, thinking that is probably his fault and he has to make it up for you

And just like that Kazuichi tries from all the ways he can think on to make you forgive him and to get in your good side again, he does everything he can for you, shower you with all kind of compliments and praises, trying to protect you from any kind of threaten (or at least, to anything that he sees as a threaten), Kazuichi is actually pretty open with his obsesion because he doesn't see anything bad in it, in his eyes everything is what you deserve and out of love

It will take him a while to notice that you had become more open and comfortable with him, and won't really notice it until it become more obvious, he doesn't get the little hints and just keeps trying to make it up for you, but when he finally does he couldn't be happier that you finally seem to be accepting him

When he finally sees your smile for him you had grow now even more beautiful! his praises and obsession only increase, from that day he just gets more determinanted to serve you and make you smile, it would take him a while to notice that you only feel comfortable to show yourself with him but if he does it only give him a boost on his ego and selfconfidece, someone so perfect like you shows him their perfect smile! obviousle he will feel honored! sudenly he feels incredibly special for being the only one allowed to see the smile of someone so special and perfect

Speaking of, he may don't brag about it with other but he will not shut up with his compliments and praises. As well, he is already pretty jealous but if he sees you smiling towards anyone else he wil be increadibly jealous, he thought he was special! he will never take it against you but it isn't probably that the other person will be safe (at least to his deadly glares and threatens)

Kazuichi doesn't pry for deep details, he asks more for superficial detais, personal details only when it comes to your likings and so on, so is probably that he won't exactly nor wonder why do you act the way you act, it is up to you if you decide to tell him or not, but if he ever get to know if is someone else fault that you don't feel comfortable being yourself he will be completely offended for what happened to you (like if it had happened to him), is more likely that he won't search revenge for you but it trigger his protectiveness, from that day he is keeping a close eye to anyone who dares even aproach to you, he had swear that no one will hurt you again in any way

Kokichi Ouma

Kokichi isn't the type who falls in love imediatly, for him is a slowly process, it started by a simple interested, your distant personality catches his eye and immediatly atracted to him but as the time pass that interest slowly and careful grows more and more, it reachs the point where he was so curious about you that wanted to know everything he can of you without noticing, becomes an obsession without him able to stop it

Kokichi is really smart and doesn't do anything without a plan, so even if he approach to you casually he has already a plan to get to know all your secrets, while in the outside he is just being goofy and childish in the inside he is getting all the information he can of you by all the means he needs

For Kokichi all of this was a simple game, he was just playing around with you, he planned to make you the victim of his silly jokes until he can get a reaction of you, however Kokichi didn't know (or at least he didn't want to accept it) but this was a game he was losing, the more time he pass with you and the more he gets to know about you his love and obsession done nothing but grow more and more, he thought he was the one in control when in reality he was already down bad for you, but he will not dare to admit it because he didn't want to feel that vulnerable

Once Kokichi knows everything he can of you the new part of his plan started, make you laugh. Kokichi wanted nothing more than have some fun, do some silly jokes and be consider funny by the ones he cares, even when he is terrible with expressing his true feelings, and since the day you catches his interest Kokichi had cling onto you and doesn't plan to let you go you become the one he wants to make smile the most

Kokichi is incredibly smart and is always paying too much attention to you, so he notice when you start to feel more comfortable right away, even if is only a little and there are only small hints of it that is more than enough for him to feel like he is starting to win the game, and to make him feel a boost of confidence on himself and his plan

When he finally manage to get a smile, or even better, a laugh from you is the point of not return, even if is something that lasted one second it was more than enough for Kokichi to fall in love all over again with you, that moment is what make Kokichi realize how beautiful you are, how much he loves you and how much he wish to see that beautiful smile again

Kokichi doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself (even when he has it clear) but he is quite dependent of his darling, he can say all he wants that he doesn't care for you and he does whatever he wants but in reality your opinion is what matters the most for him and he is desperate for you to love him the way he is, so when you finally smile for him, and only him, he becomes even more dependent, he becomes dependent of your smile and it becomes his purpose in live to continue making you smiling

It may wouldn't be so intense if it wasn't because of your distant personality, now that you allow him to be the only one you are able to express yourself freely and truly smile he is not willing to lose it, he is going to make everything in his power for you to never lose that smile and for you to smile for him and only for him. That honor of being the only one you smile at makes him even more possessive, it makes him feel special and it makes him want to be the only one to enjoy that pleasure

Kokichi already knows everything about you, so he already knows, or at least have an idea of what happened to you to become so distant from others, and if there is someone to blame for it he will make them pay without a doubt, they deserve it for trying to erase your beautiful smile

Amami Rantaro

It doesn't happen imediatly, it takes some time for him to happen, he falls in love first and then his obsession grows slowly but stronge, and even when he notice those growing intense feelings inside of him he just accept them because are feelings that grow out of love

It isn't difficult for Rantaro to enter in your life once he gets interested on you, even when he can be pretty misterious he is really charming and attentive, he appear to be trust worthy, he even openly accept if you don't trust him yet or aren't comfortable around him right away, or at least that what he says because inside is something that bothers him but stay calm reminding himself that is just matter of time, he will let you know that he isn't a threaten and you can trust him

Rantaro will be kindly pushing you to accept him, he understand that you prefer to be are distant to everyone and even wary but he isn't planing to let you go, so he just insist too much, but he do it so kindly and gentle that can go unnoticed or don't bother you at all

As the time pass Rantaro grows more clingy as his obsession grows, he just loves you so much that can't stay away from you and even when he isn't physicaly near you somehow he always knows where you are and what are you doing. He excuses himself by saying that he just want you to be safe, he had already lost all his sisters and despite everything he have done to trying to find them he haven't even find a trace of them and that lead him to be terrified by the thought of the same happening to you, he doesn't know what he will do if you ever go missing so he prefers to watch you closely to asure that you won't just disappear one day

Even when his unhealthy and obsessive behavior can be pretty obvious at times he always manage to cover up as being worried of you or even accidents, he is so good at covering up and finding convincing excuses that it is scary

Rantaro is a really observant and perseptive person, he is smart enough to notice when you start to feel more comfortable around him, even if there are just little hints like you getting a little more closer to him or starting to express a little more he notice it right away, and it makes his heart melt, Rantaro was used to your distant attitude and even when this was something he expected and wanted is still flattering, it gave him even more motivation to continue

Once you open up to him completely there is no way to stop Rantaro, he just feel like he is special for you, maybe as special you are to him, it make him think that you had fully accept him in your life and that would lead him to be more possessive and protective over you, he just had find out how beautiful your smile is and he isn't planning to lose it, besides he is really mature and is used to take care all of his sisters, he knows what it is the best for you and wants nothing more that see you smile

He wants to spend every second of the day by your side only to be able to discover all your other beautiful expressions, but, as much as he loves that you finally feel comfortable to express yourself with him Rantaro wants to be the only one with the privilege to see that beautiful sight, he had grow a little bit depend on you so if he even see you starting to express mor with another person, even if is a little Rantaro will feel threaten, and if he is trigger enough he will do something about it (not against you, never against you)

Rantaro had tried to find out the reason of why you are so distant to others, and won't be calm until he finds out, one way or another (without hurting you, of course) and if there is someone to blame Rantaro will hate them with his life, he won't do anything against them (unless that person hurt you badly), but if they cross his path or dare to even look at you again he probably won't be able to hold himself back

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chaifootsteps · 4 months

Note

Sorry this is gonna be long. Vivziepop doesn't understand the gravity of sin and hence cannot comprehend the idea of redemption.

It's so obvious Viv has had some bad experiences with the Christian church, but she is also totally unwilling to research the philosophy behind the religion. There are reasons we believe what we believe, and reasons why what we believe gets twisted and used to hurt people, and even reasons why our beliefs in their truest and purest form can STILL hurt people. But regardless of their effects, whether good or bad, there are REASONS those beliefs exist, reasons backed up by literal millennial of theology and historical/academic study.

The idea that her characters don't even understand HOW someone gets into heaven just proves she gave no thought to the other side of the argument. The premise of Hazbin Hotel is that people can change and deserve a chance to be redeemed, but she fails to illustrate any actual change or redemption.

Redemption is predicated on the recognition of what you've done wrong and the desire to do better. It is an internal battle of constant self-examination and dedication to improve. The people that make up her main cast are sinful. Whether or not their sins mean they deserved hell is up to interpretation. I'm not asking her to follow the Catechism of the Catholic church. But if these people are to be redeemed, they have to acknowledge themselves as full of fault.

Husk was a gambler. A gambling addiction is not a fun or quirky hobby. It, like any addiction, is a complete loss of control and subservience to a vice that destroys your life and relationships with other people. Alastor was a cannibal and serial killer, who took the lives of fellow humans and desecrated their remains for his own pleasures, showing a complete lack of respect for the sanctity of life. Angel Dust hurts himself over and over and over again through his addiction to pleasure and narcotics. Sometimes sin doesn't hurt other people as much as it hurts us, but it's still a sin because we are supposed to treat our bodies as temples. These are all massive flaws of the characters, sins that have overtaken their personalities and lives, and yes, they may be interesting and fun and entertaining, but that doesn't change the fact they did bad things.

Vivziepop can't redeem anyone, because she fails to set a standard of righteousness. Sin is just a mutation of virtue. It's taking prudence and turning it into greed. It's taking humility and turning it into self-flagellation. It's taking love and turning it into lust. Because of her, I'm sure, completely valid religious trauma, she fails to recognize the humanity of the people that hurt her. That they too are just people who struggle with their own sin and vice. She can't comprehend or give the benefit of the doubt that religious people have valid explanations for their beliefs.

She seems to think of heaven as just a place of stuck-up hypocrites who don't know how to have fun. She seems to think the rules and regulations of religion are just arbitrary rules someone made up for a power grab and not a detailed and dedicated attempt of humanity to understand God and his desires.

Viv's understanding of redemption is likeability. It's illustrated in Angel's scenes in episode six. Yes, Angel is being nice and kind and caring about people, but his problems were never a lack of caring about people. His problems were using substances to deal with his problems, and yes he did deny the drugs Cherry offered him, but there was no moment of reflection as to why he no longer wanted to take them. It seems more like he wants to make Husk happy with him than he actually wants to form better coping mechanisms or even a recognition that he doesn't need the drugs to numb the pain anymore now that he has a support system.

She seems to think that if a sinner is likeable, they don't deserve eternal damnation. That's why she woobifies every character she grows to like, because being a good person and sin cannot co-exist in her mind. People who are likeable cannot be bad people and thus a system that would put a likeable person in hell is rigged and stupid. But that fails to comprehend the multi-faceted of humanity and sin.

Sometimes people you love, people who are good to you, are bad people to others. Child molesters can be good friends. Rapisits can advocate for animal rights. Murderers can be good parents. A person who abused you could be someone else's best friend, and a genuinely good friend at that. A failure to recognize the complexity of virtue and vice is a failure to understand what redemption means.

She can critique the idea of perfection. She can critique the hypocrisies of the church. She can critique the tenets of religion. She can even say the things I believe in are unfair and nonsensical and evil. But she cannot make a good critique without understanding the other side of the argument. Because without that, she herself has no counter argument!

The plot of Hazbin is no longer that people can be redeemed, but that redemption is not necessary, because the rules that government heaven and hell make no sense. And that's a COMPLETELY different argument to be making.

I apologize for the length. I hope I've made some semblance of sense.

No, no apologies for the length. It was an interesting read!

Some would argue that all religions are nothing but arbitrary rules someone made up for a power grab, but it's true, there's at least supposed to be some kind of rhyme and reason to it all. In theory at least, it's supposed to improve yours and everyone else's quality of life, but that goes against Viv's theory that the only thing that matters is doing whatever you want all the time. Viv doesn't have to side with Heaven or go full blown scripture, but you can't tell me that Heaven doesn't even know what it takes for someone to get in.

Thanks for your thoughts!

#Anonymous #viv stuff #hazbin hotel critical #actual blog post

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bird-inacage · 11 days

Text

Love Sea the Series: Trailer (Tongrak's Love Story with the Island and it's 'Ocean')

You know me, I'm back with another analysis. This time in response to the Love Sea trailer. As I was writing this, it led me to frame our two central characters' differing outlooks as follows. Let me explain.

Tongrak 'We're not a work of fiction, fairytales don't exist' Mahasamut 'We're not a work of fiction, life doesn't follow a script'

STRONGER THAN FICTION

"Didn't I tell you, I don't believe in love. I don't believe. It's not even real to me. Between us, there's nothing more than sex." What seems to fundamentally scare Tongrak is the very idea of love itself. A belief that prevents him from accepting that anyone could love him, or that he has the capacity to love anyone in return. Because love is a construct. A fantasy. A work of fiction. Love to Tongrak is just a fairytale, it's not rooted in reality. The passages of love in his novels could never truly imitate life.

So understandably he begins to feel shaken when his relationship with Mahasamut challenges everything he thought to be true. That what he's experiencing is in fact inspiring his writing. Because it surpasses fiction.

"Everything is up to you to decide. You can pay me as much as you want. But what you can't decide on paper, is that you can't make me stop loving you. You have no right to do that." Mut seems to insinuate that as an author, Tongrak is used to controlling the narrative. This is where he feels most safe, until Mut came along and threw that into jeopardy. Here, Mut seems to declare that he isn't just some character in Tongrak's story. Nor are his feelings. He has agency. Their feelings for one another aren't just lines on paper. Real life does not operate in this way, it veers off script. That's the beauty of living. Mut's life is one dictated by the elements. One that teaches you to be resilient, to take what life throws at you by embracing the curveballs. And love is no different.

A TRANSACTIONAL AGREEMENT

Tongrak offers to pay Mut initially as a means to get him off his back. "How much do I have to pay you, to stop you bugging me?" This is then used increasingly as 'a convenient excuse' that escalates as the plot ensues. I predict that Tongrak continues the guise of paying Mut as a pretence to spend time with him.

By doing so, Tongrak is creating a false of security that is twofold. One, that he's able to keep Mut by his side as long as he pays him. Two, convincing himself that Mut's motivations are driven by financial benefit. Framing this as a transactional relationship means Tongrak doesn't have to face what is developing beneath the surface. This also instils an illusion that he can procure the outcome he wants, which is to keep Mut by his side.

As Tongrak's feelings grow, this becomes an even flimsier front. "How much do I have to pay, if I want to take you to Bangkok with me?" You can hear how desperate he sounds. Whether it's a matter of pride or otherwise, Tongrak seems inclined to attach his request to an incentive. He may be too afraid to confront the possibility that Mut could willingly leave his life behind for him - because that would be out of love and not monetary gain. So Tongrak gives Mut a reason to do so. A reason he deems fit. One he can live with. I think Mut can see through this too, and plays into the whole charade, but ultimately all Tongrak would have to do is ask. "I'm willing to be your dog." (Just say the word).

"If someone who is not highly educated like me understands, between the two of us, there is nothing more than an agreement, right?" Even if Mut is very emotionally mature, and plays along to make things easier for Tongrak to swallow - Tongrak is still trying to deny feelings they share which have long gone past just an 'agreement'. (You do feel something for me though, right? This is just smoke and mirrors but you do care about me, right?)

THE FEAR OF DEPENDENCE

In the latter segments, Tongrak displays evident dependence on Mut. It's as if Mut's aid in his survival on the island has now imprinted on his life as a whole. Tongrak gradually embraces the guide that Mut is, to lead him on an adventure with no particular destination. There's every possibility that this is what Tongrak was afraid of. Of relinquishing control. Perhaps hesitant to do so in the hands of someone younger, more boisterous and seemingly carefree. Someone he wrote off as a "dumb kid" with little substance.

The diving scene could very well be a metaphor for this. Tongrak agrees to do something that requires trust in Mut's expertise, by putting his own safety in Mut's hands. And when he does run into trouble, Mut is there to literally bring him back to life. He begins to recognise that Mut is a man of responsibility, someone he can rely on.

There have been hints that Mahasamut is also going through his own battle with loneliness or isolation. Fort says "and now Tongrak is by your side, you are not alone." MAME also comments that "Mut is the guy who is as strong as a castle. The wind and waves can't hurt him. But Fort proved that a strong man can cry." I think that as Tongrak starts to realise how much comfort and reassurance Mut provides him, he'll want to return the favour. How can he be that same emotional support for Mut to lean on?

What we're about to see is not just Tongrak's love story with Mahasamut, or 'an island', but a whole other life he may have never lived, had they never met. Mut's interception into his life is rewriting the narrative he had consciously or unconsciously dictated for himself.

Note: As with any of my metas, I am basing my interpretations on what I have seen alone. I haven't heard any spoilers from the novel.

#love sea #love sea the series #love sea meta #rakmut #tongrak x mahasamut #tongrak #mahasamut #peat wasuthorn #fort thitipong #fortpeat #*clack clack* here she goes again #do i love reading into things too much?#YES #yes is the answer #ALWAYS

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the-s1lly-corner · 7 months

Note

The reader is the new member of the group and over time Caine begins to feel romantic feelings for the reader, but he doesn't know what they are because he is I.A

Caine falling for the reader

yahoo! first post of today!! ill be slowly chipping through requests today! hopefully i get through all of them! i hope you enjoy!

right off the bat i think he would show some favoritism towards you without even really noticing it, as well as keeping a closer eye on you... which is odd, since it seems that for the most part he leaves the circus members to their own devices

its not really until someone points it out that he actually notices the special attention and treatment hes been giving you

cue the confusion

i mean hes not supposed to get attached to anyone who finds their way into the circus, its not really in his programming

lots and lots of thinking on his part to try to figure out what the hell is going on, and in the process becomes very distant from you

actually he kind of starts pretending you dont exist, problem solved! i mean you're the source of his problem, right?

except

that seems to make things worse, starts feeling guilty about it regardless of if you guys are actually friends or not

i think the only reason he starts to get a grasp on whats going on is because he has seen so many circus members come and go, at least a few of them are bound to have become romantically involved with one another, using past observations to figure out whats going on, you know?

huh

he didnt know he could do that

i think its anyones guess as to how you guys end up together, if at all

but im torn between trying to figure out if he would embrace this or continue to deny it, perhaps both? the favoritism seems to pick right back up

also did i mention that he will not shut up about you? like even before he realizes whats going on hes just. constantly yapping his mouth (head?) about you to anyone who will listen, from circus members to bubble to the mannequins

new in house adventure: make caine shut the hell up/j

"my my, did anyone tell you your eyes are just absolutely gorgeous?" *strikes a little pose in the air and winks* or similar antics to try to gain your favor

i dont think he would make in house adventures easier for you or give you cheats, since the purpose of them is to keep everyone mentally stimulated, but i think hed have some... pointers for you, very vague ones but hey, theyre still there

im not sure if caine would have a room, but i do think he would have his own space, he probably offers to let you see it. youre legitimately the first person to ever receive that offer so congrats

#tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader #digital circus x reader #digital circus x you #caine x reader #caine x you #caine imagine

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moonlit-positivity · 3 months

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Lesser known effects of trauma that don't ever get acknowledged

Cw: mentions of csa, sa, despair, depression, & generally dark content that some may find hard to read. Please interact & read with care.

"bed rotting" (which I hear is gaining attention on TikTok these days) ie the process of becoming bedridden due to your body being stuck in freeze response (paralyzed w fear, too scared to move)

Needing to cut your hair bc it keeps getting matted down, because you can't shower or wash it or keep up with it anymore

Gaining weight (i gained over 200lbs in a year), losing all the clothes you once fit in, and feeling guilty when all you see everywhere all the time is fat shaming

Losing weight (and subsequently all your clothes start falling off 😭) eating disorders and struggling with body image

Existing off of God knows what at this point. Is that milk spoiled? Yeah but how many days is it spoiled? Mmm, nah, nevermind, I'll just eat air.

Losing track of time. Losing months to years of time because of extreme dissociation, fatigue, stress, and the inability to move

Brain & body "shut down" or go into sleep mode for long periods of time

Self hygiene becomes non existent. Showering? Brushing teeth? Changing clothes? Don't know her.

House cleaning becomes non existent. "If It's Not In The Vacinity, It's Not Getting Done."

Lying to everyone about what's going on because it's easier than telling the truth

Not being comfortable with having your pictures taken, go through a phase where you destroy any evidence you ever existed anywhere at all

Isolating & ghosting all ur friends periodically to make sure they're not gonna leave you (lol makes perfect sense, if you know you know)

Animal upkeep goes to shit. Litter box goes neglected for long periods of time.

Noise & light sensitivity goes haywire. Noise & light triggers get amplified especially once you start to feel any sense of "safety" and start decompressing. An alarm goes off, the stove beeps, the cat meows, anything that makes even the slightest noise in the foreground and you have a whole ass panic attack and find yourself in bed for the rest of the day

Agoraphobia. You never go outside ever again. Too much paranoia, too many eyes staring at you, too many reasons to panic and stay in bed

Life becomes so non existent that the only thing that matters is whatever you're currently doing to cope & survive. If you're addicted to something, well, it's a fucking miracle you even wake up anymore

Couch surfing and inevitable homelessness when people get tired of housing you. Having to confront the way society frames government assistance as "the lazy man's income" & hope disability goes through. Which it won't. Wait-lists out the ass, section 8 takes 5 years or more to kick in. Disability doesn't even go through bc they always deny the first time you apply. The process is littered with appeals and court dates and what the fuck, I can't even get out of bed. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Leaning into your despair because, despite what everyone on social media will shout at you about resilience and "not allowing yourself to fall into despair," they will never understand that concept that despair is there for a reason too. Youre looking at someone who was raped at 5 years old and youre telling them to "stay positive." Yeah okay.

The anger, the bitterness, the resentment at the world & everyone in it. The cold blooded urge for revenge & justice. Especially when there's nothing you can do about the fact that your abusers are still free to live and roam this world as they please.

Not being able to "talk about it." Not being able to "trust a safe space." That's bullshit. I was beat and abused my whole life, what the fuck you mean "safe space?" The absolute mind fuckery that you have to sit with and undo and learn the fact that they fucking lied to you. It is enough to kill you.

Everything you learn in therapy just pisses you off even more because why the fuck wasn't there someone there as a kid to teach you this shit???? Why the fuck do I have to learn this as an adult???? Where was this when I actually fucking needed it????

Nothing helps. Nothing soothes, because there is no soothing. There is only pain. It's like ripping your skin off.

Losing everything. Losing all your friends. Losing all your "cool status" points. Losing your reputation. Losing all the things that once brought you great joy and passion. There is nothing anymore. Pain and isolation and desolation and despair.

Learning that no one can relate. Except that's not entirely true at all. People can relate. It's just such a stigmatized topic that no one talks about it out loud, because no one else in society really gets it.

#recovery #ptsd #trauma #mental health #boundaries #healing #abuse #effects of abuse #childhood trauma #abusive parenting #abusive relationships #addictions #alcoholism #acoa #codependency #substance use

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orbmanson7 · 9 months

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Why Logan is Trapped by the Narrative: A Quick Analysis on the Effects of Thomas' Black-and-White Thinking

Why is Logan so caught up on not being seen as a joke?

Why does he care so much about what Thomas and the others think of him?

Can't he just be Logic without having to deny he has feelings, without constantly filling only the roles of exposition in the show and the voice of reason for Thomas?

Well, here's the thing: Logan is trapped by the narrative.

Thomas' perception of the narrative, to be exact.

Think of it this way - you know how so many people argue that we can't have a female president in the US because she would somehow be "too emotional" to handle the position properly?

While complete nonsense (at least in comparison to plenty of emotional decisions men can make, too), the point is that people see the role of a president as someone who is calm, collected, and in control. They know that person will have to make very important decisions, so it's believed they need to be someone who is informed and level-headed.

Similarly, if you were to hire a lawyer, only for that lawyer to constantly get angry and loud and scream at people when someone argued with them, would you trust them to be able to do their job properly?

If you went to the doctor, only for your doctor to cry and sob with empathy for you, only offering up niceties and positive words instead of factual information to improve your situation, would you ever go back to such a doctor or trust them to help anyone?

People perceive certain jobs and roles in very specific ways.

It's not that a lawyer can't get emotional, but they need to understand how to keep their calm when they are doing their job. It's not that a doctor can't have empathy and care about their patients, but they need to not let it interfere with their work.

People tend to see the world as more black and white than it actually is. We perceive people for their roles, not as the multi-faceted folks that they truly are.

Just because you see a coworker who's always quiet and reserved doesn't mean they are like that when they go home. Just because your teacher is strict and quick to find faults doesn't mean they are like that when they're on vacation.

Often, people think someone can only be one or the other, not varying shades of both and more. But even people we know very well can have aspects that we don't know or understand.

Logan exists within shades of gray, removed from those arbitrary constructs society holds but still required to operate within them because of Thomas.

This is why he has to insist on being heard, being taken seriously, not making mistakes.

Because everything relies on Thomas' perception of him.

If Thomas doesn't find Logan reliable? He won't be reliable.

If Thomas doesn't trust him when he tells him the truth? He won't be trustworthy.

If Thomas thinks Logan is wrong about something? Then Logan will be wrong.

It all comes down to how Thomas' mind perceives everything, and Logan is always, always torturously aware of that fact. Thomas is human. He has a lot of black-and-white thinking that he hasn't challenged just yet.

It's because of this that Logan knows he can't mess up, because then Thomas will see those mistakes as him. He will be identified in that way.

We see this with the other sides a lot, too, by the way.

Patton isn't taking seriously even when he has good suggestions because he's always telling jokes and relying on feelings. But Morality is something important that should be listened to and taken seriously at times, as it's meant to guide your actions.

Roman is reprimanded a lot for arguing and yelling at others, but he is constantly fueled by passion. He's built to stand up for what he believes in, even if he's wrong or making an impulsive decision in the moment! Tampering down that passion would prevent him from expressing the Creativity that he embodies!

Virgil's entire role is to scare Thomas into not doing things that could potentially hurt him, so Thomas perceived him as scary and villainous for a very long time. But without it, Thomas could easily get hurt!

The same can be said for Janus and Remus, too. They initially come off as villainous, bad, and evil, despite their actual purpose and intentions, only because Thomas has perceived them and their roles in that way.

Logan cannot make mistakes because then he'll be seen as unreliable or wrong. He can't display emotions because then he'll be seen as emotional, compromised and unable to make unbiased decisions. He can't be seen as a joke or not taken seriously, because then Thomas' perception of him as a voice of reason, as someone with valuable knowledge, as someone he can always trust to tell him the truth...that will all be gone. It will warp Logan into something that he's not, so he has to maintain those rigid guidelines as much as absolutely possible to remain in his position.

Does this mean Logan really can have emotions? Can he enjoy silly activities or a good joke? Yes, of course he can.

But it needs to be kept separate from his role as Thomas' logic.

And this is where the issue arises. Because Thomas wants his sides to constantly act as their own characters, this puts a lot of spotlight on Logan even when he is in private. He can't be perceived at any time as someone Thomas can't trust or rely on, so his role as Logic invades the other part of his existence, too.

If a lawyer was stoic and formal even at home with their family, their family would probably find them odd, and the lawyer would probably feel stressed about being completely unable to ever unwind.

If a doctor could not show empathy even to their own children, relying only on facts, unable to comfort them because their coworkers could see their every move and they couldn't risk being seen as emotional for even a moment, the doctor would likely have a very stilted relationship with their kids, unable to connect with them in the way they want.

For Logan, he has to remain a reliable, unbiased, unfeeling Logic at all times because he is constantly being perceived as such.

Because it's all about who's watching and what's expected to be seen.

Logan wants to be more than his role as Logic, more than what is expected of him. But he knows the consequences of him trying to do so could harm Thomas in the long run, leaving him without a much-needed voice of reason.

So he's not going to let that happen, even if that means he has to hide away all the parts of 'Logan' that don't quite fit what Thomas expects of him.

Because Thomas needs him to be Logic a hell of a lot more than he needs him to be Logan.

#logan sanders #ts logan #sanders sides analysis #logan angst #sanders sides #back at it again #the first month at my second job the stenographer one i was awkward around lawyers bc they were always so formal #until one day we were all just talking after work and my brain remembered that it was just a formal job and people arent always like that #and of course i immediately went oh hey its just like logan #better go home and write some angst about that #so here you can have this now haha #orbs thought bubbles #long post

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nimona-antifa · 9 months

Text

"Don't be ableist uwu!!!"

Okay quick questions then.

How seriously do you take The Game? If someone tells you, "I saw a post that says I won the game!" Is your response to immediately say "noooooo that's not how it works!!!" Yeah I know how it works. It literally only exists to inflict misery on others and that you supposedly can't win no matter what you do, wreaking havoc on people who have severe anxiety? Grow the fuck up. I'm sorry if this miserable piece of shit torture game is somehow something that you want to keep alive but newsflash. We're not all just sitting around in the utopian commune sipping martinis without having to stress about whether or not we'll have somewhere to stay next month or where our next meal will come from or whether or not the almighty capitalists decide we deserve to get our next dose of medicine so maybe just let the stupid game die.

How do you judge people who consume media you consider "problematic?" Yeah. Those media. Hazbin Hotel. Helluva Boss. Bayonetta. Etc. Like. I'm sorry if trans people who were already into the Bayonetta series were excited to buy the newest game in it and got even more excited to buy it when they fired a transphobic VA. Some people have depression and easy sources of serotonin are in short fucking supply for us and need our comfort media and you saying that we should deny ourselves happiness because you have issues with said comfort media isn't very leftist of you actually.

How much patience do you have for people who talk for hours about one specific subject? Actually. Genuinely. You can post about "OMG when she infodumps 🥺 choke me mommy" all you want. But when an actual autistic trans gal is trying to explain the lore of borderlands or TF2 and is stumbling over her words and getting nervous because nobody really likes her and she's been consistently shut down and/or ignored and/or bullied for what a nerd she is? How patient and understanding are you.

How much patience do you have for people who say, "I'm sorry, can you please say/explain that again?" Whether after 5 seconds, 5 minutes, 5 hours, or 5 months, there's multiple reasons someone might struggle with this. They might have memory issues. They might have hearing issues. They might have attention span issues. They might have ADHD. They might have DID or OSDD. They might be stressed out and have a million different things on their mind. Or they might have just missed what you said. They might have not heard it or they might have just forgotten.

The point is. I get that it's easy to get caught up in ideals and paper activism but you have to remember that not being ableist requires work. It means that you can't always judge someone by what they enjoy. It means that you have to actually treat disabled people like people. If you don't take actual people into account during your activism, it doesn't mean jack shit. Unlearn your biases. Hopefully this gains some traction but I am begging you to see beyond a black and white viewpoint.

#important #ableism

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seraphiism · 5 months

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𓆩 ♡ 𓆪 ┊ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 , 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

( AT THE END OF THIS STORY, I WALK INTO THE SEA & IT CHOOSES NOT TO DROWN ME. )

chara : scaramouche/wanderer fandom : genshin impact quote cr : jihyun yun a/n : contains scenes of drowning. reader is an angel. not meant to portray a romantic relationship.

ACT I :

A FUNERAL PROCESSION DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING WHEN IT'S YOURS. THE LOWERING OF THE CASKET / THE DIRT AND DECAY THAT COVERS THE ROOT OF BEING. IT IS VOID IN EXISTENCE, & IN PLACE OF WHERE A HEART RESIDES, THERE IS AN ECHO OF WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HUMAN AND WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPY.

there is supposed to be a grief that accompanies acknowledgement of loss and death, but in the open wounds of mortality, flesh torn asunder in the killing of a body, a puppet feels nothing.

he stares at the funeral, desolate. it is his, yet he does not mourn. the sight before him is somber, but it is filled with deception, he thinks, and so he reminds himself over and over that he is the one that lies in that casket, dead.

it's easy to forget it's your funeral when everyone there is someone you don't know or someone who pretended to care until it was too late. he cannot recognize half of these faces.

if he opened the casket, would he recognize himself?

"you have experienced both life and death, dearest kabukimono. which do you find to be more beautiful?"

his train of thought is disrupted, gaze shifting to the figure beside him. you have always remained at his side for reasons unknown, denied the existence of guardian angels, but he cannot find any other explanation for the everlasting presence of some supposed divinity watching over him. he could laugh, really. even if you were a guardian angel, you were far too cynical, far too perfect a companion for someone like him.

"i have no heart." the words are filled with spite and hatred and devoured by anger, but beneath it, there is a loneliness, and the ache of it all almost makes you feel something. "you can't experience both if you were made to be a vessel of nothing."

you smile, amused. you study the crowd, its mess of black umbrellas and murmurs and cries. you hear the sobs, but you are certain that there are no tears shed.

"are they mourning for you?"

he laughs, bitter.

"no. not with that pathetic acting."

"they must be very selfish, then." you hum, words spoken more to yourself than anything. "it must be tragic, knowing that your funeral is not full of love and grief. i wonder what would have been more painful for you," you glance at him, but he does not dare look at you, "the absence of the mournful or the false pretenses of sorrow from those who never cared."

you stand next to each other, watch as the crowd disperses, until all that's left is a tombstone with a name he will soon rid of.

"desolate wanderer," your voice is soft, somber, "i am sorry for you. would you like me to say a prayer?"

he does not answer.

ACT I , REVERSED :

the scene changes. the black umbrellas blur into nothing. a coldness washes over him, envelops him entirely in something known as terror. suddenly, it is still. the wretched air is quiet, profound. frightening.

he stands in a body of water, the tides calm, the shore distant. he recognizes this feeling. it is not one he can forget, even when he tries. three times he has known this sensation, the creeping dread, the breaking of something deep inside the void in his chest.

you stand before him, watch as the water drips from your fingertips. your gaze is absent, unreadable, but maybe he sees something so incredibly sorrowful in it. he watches your reflections, notes the feathers that were once part of you. how they float on the surface, lonely and listless, and in the muddled waters, the pure white twists into something black.

"do not be afraid." you tell him, and he watches the droplets trail down your skin, descend into the water from which they came, one by one, slowly.

he could laugh at the words. he wants to say it's human nature to be afraid, but he stops himself-- he is not human, after all, so why does he succumb to fear?

"i'm not."

brash words. liar, you think. but that's okay. you tilt your head ever so slightly, lips curved in a subtle smile.

"are you ready?"

he nods. the water is cold, cruel, invades his senses. there's a numbness that sinks into his skin, but maybe that's an absolution, the cleansing, the awakening. you close the little distance between your bodies, hands cupping his face, tender. there is something in your eyes-- pride, maybe, but he denies himself the possibility. who would be proud of a failed creation?

he closes his eyes. the water grows colder, but there's something warm in his chest, and he does not know whether it is fear or hope he feels the most.

"good night, kabukimono." you press a kiss to his forehead. "may you find something greater on the other side."

your hands slide down, delicate in the way they wrap around his throat, fragile, and in meaning of divinity and reincarnations and sacrifice for something better, you pull him into the waves, further and further and further down until his body loses all sensation, until he can no longer hear the violent sea, until his breath is gone and he is no more.

ACT II :

"balladeer. scaramouche. kunikuzushi. harbinger." you mumble the names to yourself, keep track of them by counting with your fingers. "have i missed any? shall i grant you another warm, endearing title?"

the balladeer scowls at you, though you find it amusing. perhaps in a previous life, you would have surely teased him, pushed it a little further. but in this life, there is a different kind of danger in his eyes, a deeper misery. you do not think you care enough to provoke him-- he could not hurt you, after all, even if he dared.

you contemplate the possibility. he could not hurt you-- not because he'd care too much about you to do so, but simply because you carry the blood of a higher being. he would most certainly try if he knew he could harm you, should you push him to the brink.

what a bitter feeling. you smile faintly at the realization and he does not like it.

"why are you here?"

"i am always here. you've just been given the impression that i'm a thorn in your side."

"are you not?"

"in your search for power and vengeance, have i failed you? was this my fault, the twists and turns in your path to greatness? i can only guide you so much, and all this time, i have watched you walk down the road to destruction." you pause, watch his expression darken with a kind of fury, some kind of hurt. "every name you are known as holds your past. you change it, try to cleanse yourself, but the truth is that you'll always carry it, unforgotten."

"so what did the sea do for me, angel? did you kill my spirit for the sake of your enjoyment?"

you tilt your head once more, smile so exhausted and worn.

"i did not kill your spirit, lonely wanderer. you already killed it long ago." your words hold a dreadful venom, bitterness on the tip of your tongue, rust lining your throat. "the sea could not save you, just as i could not."

he does not know how to respond. he hates that faint apathy you always manage to have, even when he knows it's only a facade at times. he hates that not even a higher power can help him -- but it's always been that way, hasn't it? just like everyone else, you've failed him too. that's what he'll tell himself because that's all he knows.

he turns on his heel, feels the razor edges of your brutality sink into his flesh. he walks, and he does not stop.

"we will try again." he states, command deep in his voice. "neither you or the sea are meant to save me."

you close your eyes, bow your head. somewhere in the silence, you say a prayer. you have never been a savior.

he is not meant for the saving.

ACT II , REVERSED :

the scene changes once more. it's the sea again, that familiar coldness that fails to abate. it's that strange fear again, that uncertainty. and then there's you, there's always you, he thinks. he stares at the reflections once more, distorted by the ripples of motion. your feathers look darker, the harbinger notes, and there are far more than before. he rests his hand in the water, watches as one floats into his palm. his grasp is gentle as he examines it, and there's a flicker of white, then black once more. he wonders if he imagined it.

"you didn't crush it." you comment.

"you thought i would?"

"i don't know." you reply. "you are not always made of carnage." and that familiar curve of the lips. "it wouldn't have hurt in the end, but thank you for your kindness."

his eye twitches, and you laugh. he doesn't know if you're being genuine, and he's going to dwell on this moment for a bit too long, he realizes.

the air becomes heavy once more. you wonder if he is certain in this decision. it is the second time, but the fear remains stagnant, unchanging.

"do not be afraid."

there is something you cannot quite decipher in his gaze-- determination? wrath? you are unsure. you don't bother to question it. you do it all over again, this familiarity-- the ripples in the water as you move closer, hands cupping his face once more. you press your forehead against his, close your eyes just as he does.

"good night, kunikuzushi. may you find something greater on the other side."

you open your eyes. your hands trail down, fingers wrapping around his throat in yet another means of reawakening. his hands rests over yours, eyes still shut, and you feel how they tremble ever so slightly.

the sea is cold, unwelcoming. the plunge is gentle, but the sensation still frightens him nonetheless. you are merciful even for an angel, comes the bittersweet thought, and maybe he isn't worth such benevolence. he's always wondered why you chose to stay by his side, anyway.

he feels the fight leave his body, feels the way your grip tightens to end this suffering just a little faster. your hands are warm, the balladeer thinks, and it is the last thing he remembers before it all goes void.

ACT III :

maybe you truly are not a guardian angel. you have not been at his side for a long while. he thought perhaps it was just that he had forgotten, that maybe you were nearby all along. but your absence has been all too noticed, and he does not like it.

it is... lonely, here. to be forgotten by all, to carry the weight of what was.

sumeru is vast. it is beautiful, bright, radiant. all the things he is not accustomed to. he stands on the highest of heights, watches the endless landscape below him. somewhere, he hears familiar footsteps : light, graceful.

"do you remember me?"

he stills. he's not sure if he wants to see your face, see that perplexed expression, see the way you tell him that you do not. no one else does.

you hum, deep in thought, and the sound is beautiful. how he misses it so. it sends an ache in the hollows of his chest, some kind of longing.

"won't you turn around? it's been a long while since i've seen that grumpy face."

you can practically hear him roll his eyes. it is a moment or two of gathering composure and courage before the vagabond finally turns, and of course, you have that same stupid smile on your face. this time, it is more genuine, and he's not sure how to quite process that.

"i remember you." you answer. "you're far too stubborn and annoying to forget."

he almost feels something beat wildly in his chest, but he does not understand the sensation. there is nothing there, no heart, yet some kind of heartache. you speak again.

"what do you call yourself now?"

he has taken many names, few of them significant. he has not granted one to himself-- no need, he thinks, though he knows that he would not rid of it if he had one. he thinks back to the sea, recalls your many conversations.

"wanderer."

you pause, and he notes that small flicker of recognition in your eyes.

"familiar and fitting." you muse. you close the distance just as you always have in the past, but this time, there is no water, no vicious wave to overtake him. "do you wish to see the sea?"

the words are heavy in meaning, but it is different this time. in your voice there is the quiet pondering of are you happy this time? have you found the right path? did you find it, that greatness? and he understands it.

he freezes. inhale, exhale. he stares at the sight before him, recalls when you once stood with him at his funeral. things have changed now. he is the same yet different, a harbor for sorrow and anger, but a home for something virtuous. his gaze shifts to you once more. this is not the outcome he intended, desired, nor expected. but there's forgiveness somewhere out there, and maybe he'll grant it to himself one day.

"no," he answers, and in his visage, there is just the faintest trace of kindness you once remembered from memories past, "i've had enough of you drowning me."

you laugh softly, see his lips curve just the smallest bit.

"i am glad, dearest wanderer."

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #favoniuslibrary #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #this was so fun to write idc if it is abstract and doesn't make much sense ' o ' it's been awhile since i've enjoyed writing smth so much #.: writing

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