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rina-writes · 2 years

Note

Hi Rina, how you doing?

First, I just wanted to say that I'm in love with your stories. I'm not even Jack's biggest fan (meaning, I didn't know much about him), but your stories are all I've been able to read for the past couple of days (and listening to his music in the process).

I know you don't take requests, and as a writer myself I totally understand your reasons. But a line in one of your stories got me thinking about a very specific scenario (I can't remember which one right now. Like I said, I read all your Jack stories in the past two days). It was something about Jack being very strict about condoms, because he was scared he'd get a girl pregnant. So I was thinking maybe a angsty to fluffly (maybe smutty) scenario where the reader finds out she's pregnant and is scared of his reaction to the news?

Please, feel free to answer even if you don't like the idea. I really really do understand your reasons for not taking requests.

Hope you have a lovely day!

Hi!! Sorry this took so long to respond. Life happened while I was editing and it took me longer to get out than I intended. Firstly, thank you for reading my stuff and saying such kind words ♥ It's always an honor when someone outside of a fandom is slowly introduced through your work.

Honestly, I say that a lot in my fics because I thought it was a really funny snippet from his GQ interview last year. However, listening to the album, I think he's let go of that a bit :P. That being said, I love the concept and I want to do a little blurb for it. I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: Fem!reader, pregnant!reader, mentions of breeding kink, references to ab-rtion, mentions of infertility, smut (pregnant sex, breast/nipple play, unprotected sex), angsty in the beginning, 18+

Miracle

Shallow breaths escaped your lips as you sat on the bathroom floor. The tile felt ice cold against your burning, sticky skin. A thin layer of sweat had settled across your body after spending hours in the room. You were surrounded by ripped cardboard boxes, folded slips of paper scrawled with instructions, and lots of toilet paper that you had scrunched up into balls to use as tissues. On the bathroom counter was a line of six pregnancy tests. The only things in the room that were perfectly straight and aligned. Each one of them slightly stuck out over the side so you could see the metal tip at the end from your crouched position on the floor. It was like they were mocking you. The image of their status was burned into your brain. You didn’t have to stand to look at them to see the result anymore. Pregnant. You were pregnant.

You balled your hands into fists as you held them at your side, afraid to touch your own body. Although you knew it was in your head, you felt like you could feel your stomach growing and something, or someone, moving inside. The thought made you nauseous and you bent over the toilet to dry heave into it. You had already thrown up everything in your stomach earlier in the day so, there was nothing left. But, the clenching of your stomach numbed the dread in your chest that could no longer be soothed by crying. It was like your body was trying to tell you that you were all out of coping mechanisms. You were also out of tests and slowly running out of time. Jack would be back any minute and you would have to tell him the news.

The thought sent a panic through you that allowed you to jump to your feet. You grabbed the paper shopping bag and shoved all of the tests and discarded boxes in there to hide the evidence. You tossed all the toilet paper into the toilet and flushed. Crunching the bag’s top to seal it, you dropped it behind the bathroom door before turning to the sink to wash your hands. You couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror. You couldn’t explain why you felt ashamed. It wasn’t like you were the only one at fault.

In the beginning of your relationship and Jack’s career, Jack was very particular about using condoms. He was terrified of either of your lives being put off course because of family planning. Then, like many high school sweethearts, you two broke up. When you two reunited a couple years later, Jack had a more lax attitude around protection. As long as you both were exclusive and you were on birth control, Jack was okay with forgoing the piece of rubber. The fact that you had a condition that made it difficult for you to get pregnant only seemed to be the icing on the cake.

But somehow, the 0.03% chance of getting pregnant was your current reality. Maybe you should run out and buy a lottery ticket with this luck. You might need a boost after your boyfriend inevitably left you.

You heard the sound of the front door opening and you became incredibly still. Your eyes darted to the shopping bag, unsure of what to do with it. You knew you had to tell Jack, but you were were terrified of losing him. Things were finally starting to get good. He was talking about going public with your relationship and having you join him on radio interviews. Urban had even let it slip that Jack was thinking of asking you to move in with him. This was an offer you welcomed because you currently lived with two roomates in a two-bedroom apartment converted into three with the help of a plexi wall.

Your world was crumbling. Now was the time you were going to need Jack the most and he was going to leave you.

“Babe?” Jack’s deep voice moved through the hotel room. As usual, when Jack visited your city, you stayed with him while he was here. It was always more luxurious than your place and Jack enjoyed having you around.

You tossed the paper bag into the shower just as Jack opened the door. His sky blue eyes were wide and then slowly narrowed as he observed the surroundings. You wondered if the room smelled disgusting: like your sweat or your vomit or your fear. You couldn’t really tell after spending over two hours in the space. Jack’s large pale hand reached out to grab you and pull you to him. He felt so wide and strong as he wrapped his arms tightly around your shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. His soft cotton clothes made you more aware of how hot and sticky you felt in comparison to the cool, dry feeling of him pressed against you. You wanted to relish in this moment, but seeing Jack made you more scared.

“Y/n, what’s wrong?” Jack asked, “You look like you’ve been crying. Did something happen?”

You shook your head quickly before you could stop yourself. Your brain searched for an excuse, any excuse. You needed to buy some time.

“I just haven’t been feeling well.” You told him.

Jack pulled back and looked at you through his long, brown lashes. “I heard you throwing up this morning. Was it something we ate last night? You had the fish, didn’t you?”

“Maybe…” You said, staring at his straight nose instead of his eyes. It was easier to lie if you didn’t make eye contact.

“Well,” Jack pulled you close to him again. “I’m back and here for the rest of the night., I can take care of you.”

You held Jack tighter, knowing that if you pulled away the smile you were trying to muster would turn into a sob again. Apparently, your tears weren’t completely done after all. They were very thrilled to make an appearance with the new audience. What’s worse was that your brain was preparing to say goodbye. It was memorizing the strong, but sweet cologne that he spritzed on each morning, the feeling of his taut muscles straining against one of his signature cotton white t-shirts, and the way his trimmed nails raked effortlessly through the hair at your temple, massaging the area because he knew it soothed you. It made this hurt so much more.

“What do you say to a bath?” Jack suggested. “I can run you a nice hot bath. I think I saw some bath salts somewhere…”

Your heart lurched into your throat. You shook your head, pulling back to meet Jack’s confused expression. He was already in motion to pull back the shower curtain so, you broke free of his grasp. Just as he pulled it back, you used your previously non-existent ninja skills to grab the bag in one motion.

“Whoa, what’s all that?” He said, referring the bulge in the bag thanks to your sloppy job of putting everything inside.

“Just some medicine I picked up at the drugstore.” You lied.

Jack quirked a brow. “Why did you put it in the tub?”

You bit your lip and half shrugged. You clutched the bag tightly to your torso as if afraid he would take it. You pushed past him, walking backwards in order to watch him as you spoke. “I forgot.”

“Y/n…” Jack turned to face you as you darted from the bathroom into the bedroom. “...why do I feel like I’m missing something.”

Jack walked closer to you as you stood on the other side of the bed. He ran a hand through his brown curls, freshly cut for a recent magazine spread, and he ruffled them slightly as though forgetting their short length.

“It’s just…” You fumbled with the words. “...sorry, I need to call my mom.”

You explained, grabbing your phone off the night stand and running with the bag. You pushed past Jack, this time forcing him to move out of the way to let you pass.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Jack asked. “Did I do something? Please talk to me…”

Jack said, trying to close the distance between you. You ran into the living room/office area as you fumbled with your phone to make the call.

“I just need a moment, Jack!” You barked back, hating the anger in your voice. You weren’t mad at him. At least, not yet. Right now, he was still your sweet, caring boyfriend. He didn’t deserve your snapping. Fear and anger were so closely linked and you knew it was the terror of losing your boyfriend that was putting you on edge.

Jack was taken aback by your tone. You never spoke to him like that. You had a stern voice, but you never yelled. He almost didn’t recognize it as your voice. It stopped Jack in his tracks and he stared at the ground. A mix of worry and embarrassment settled in his stomach. Similar to the feeling of getting scolded by a parent at school. With his eyes trained on the floor, he was staring at the carpet in front of you. You were still struggling to make the call, a sign that you were nervous.

Jack frowned as he saw the blue and white wand on the floor. He had seen enough movies to recognize it immediately, but the shock made me him walk toward it slowly in disbelief. He reached down and picked up the pregnancy test, his lips going dry. He looked at you, but your back was turned to him, holding the open paper bag, with your ear glued to your phone.

“Y/n…” Jack’s voice was low, making you turn toward him slowly.

He was staring down at the test unblinkingly. It was one of those tests that didn’t do the lines. Instead, it told you in plain English - Pregnant. No pink lines. No misconception. No confusion. Just pregnant. You looked at the bag, confused as to how one of them slipped, but then you noticed a small hole. You closed your eyes, your phone dropping from your ear.

“Jack…” You said softly, tears welding in your eyes.

Jack’s eyes were dark when they met yours again. It was like he was looking through you. It was worse than you had feared. You didn’t want to close the distance between you two, something you had grown accustom to craving these past couple of years. For the first time ever, you wanted to be far away from him.

“You’re pregnant?” Jack asked you.

You nodded. You turned the bag upside down and dumped the contents. Jack’s eyes stared at each of the items littering on the floor. Even though there was no way he could read each test from where he stood, the message was clear. You were sure. You were pregnant.

“I thought you couldn’t get pregnant.” Jack’s voice was so measured that one would think he was emotionless, but you knew it was because he was angry. “And you were on the pill.”

“Low chance.” You reminded him. “0.03% chance. I was also off the pill for a little bit two months ago because of an insurance problem. It was only a couple weeks and I was back on by the time we hooked up when you came to visit. I didn’t think…”

“You’re right, you didn’t f-cking think.” Jack said, his pink mouth tightening in frustration. “You didn’t think you could have clued me in on that before we went raw?”

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “Look I’m not the one with a breeding kink. You were the one that came back into this relationship with this sudden desire to fill me up.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Come on, Y/n! That’s dirty talk.” He threw his hands in the air. “I also call you my little slut, it doesn’t mean I actually think that.”

Your eyes brimmed with tears and sniffled to force them back. You shrugged, hugging yourself. “What do you want me to say, Jack? I’m not exactly thrilled about gaining 30+ pounds and pushing an infant out of my vagina. But, here we are.”

“So you’re keeping it then?” Jack asked, the disappointment and judgment in his voice impossible to ignore.

You were silent for a few moments. While you knew that Jack was the first person you should tell about this, you wished you had asked your mother or best friend about it beforehand. You had yet to sort out your own feelings about this and, yet, you were already on the defensive.

“Yes…maybe…I don’t know.” You frowned, staring at the ground. “I accepted the fact that I would never have children. I don’t want to regret this years from now if this turns out to be my only chance.”

Jack’s lips flattened as he processed what you were saying. He couldn’t tell you what to do with your body. Especially, not with an explanation like that. Jack did want kids one day. He did want to have them with you. But now was not a good time. He was about to embark on his largest and longest international tour to date. There were legends in the business signing up to collaborate with him on their and his next projects. There were days where Jack didn’t remember to eat. How could he take care of a child?

“This isn’t a good time for me, Y/n.” Jack told you, honestly. “I don’t think I can raise a child right now.”

Your eyes fell shut as the tears fell down your cheeks. Droplets dampened your socks as your head was still tilted forward to face the ground. You already knew this. It wasn’t supposed to hurt so hard because you were prepared for this. But somehow, it still felt like your heart was being ripped out and stomped on in front of you.

Jack took a step closer. “I’m happy to help you financially, Y/n, but I don’t think I have the ability to be good father right now.”

You looked up at Jack with wide eyes. You didn’t think Jack would be this upfront about the next steps. You at least thought he would try to make it work. You weren’t even showing yet and he was already backing out. You frowned at him, shaking your head.

“I don’t need a baby daddy right now, Jack.” Your lips trembled and you struggled to keep your voice from wavering. “I needed my boyfriend. I’m terrified, right now. Just as much, if not more, than you are. You haven’t even touched me since you found out I’m pregnant.”

Jack’s blue gaze softened as he attempted to close the distance, but you stepped back to widen it once more. His arms remained glued to his sides. He let out a sigh before biting his lip looking at you. “This is a lot right now. Maybe we should just sit down and talk for a bit.”

Jack gestured to the couch as he slowly lowered on to it. You shook your head. You needed to clear your head. Still clutching the empty bag to your torso, you slipped your phone in your pocket as you walked over to the coffee table. You grabbed your keys and marched to the door to slip on your shoes.

Jack jumped to his feet as he realized you were leaving. “Don’t do anything stupid, Y/n.”

“I already did.” You said, pulling back the door and running out.

You ran to get an elevator and jammed the close elevator door button with your thumb repeatedly. You figured Jack could be following you and wanted to ensure there was enough distance that he wouldn’t catch up. Luckily, you had driven your own car to the hotel and the valet was quick to bring it to you.

The cold air stung your skin as the wind whipped at you. The sky had turned to a bluish gray hue with thick clouds warning of rain. You wrapped your arms around your chest, feeling the shivers creating goosebumps against your skin. You had emerged only in your pajamas and sneakers. You had your keys and your phone in your possession. Oh and the empty paper bag that you had balled into your fist on the elevator ride down. You left your charger and your suitcase in the hotel room, lost in the fury of your escape. Luckily, your credit cards and ID were in your phone case so, you didn’t have to go back. Since you were driving to your parents house, you knew you would be able to get clothes, a charger, and whatever other toiletries you would need. Most importantly, you would get the sympathy that you were craving.

The valet pulled your sedan from the garage. You smiled sweetly, unable to tip, but the person didn’t seem to mind. You sat in the car and took a deep breath. You buckled your seatbelt as you glanced in your rearview mirror. You swore you could see the familiar curly brown locks darting around the lobby. Adrenaline pumped through your veins, your foot pressed the gas before your brain could process if it was really Jack. It was so quick, you wouldn’t be surprised if your car did the cartoonish smoke with skidmarks across the pavement.

There was a blanket of security that enveloped you as you slowed your car to a reasonable speed. Your car obeyed your commands. Your nose filled with the familiar scent of your air freshener. You knew where your emergency lip balm was and your trusty water bottle was half full and chilled from a night in the garage. Being in your car was something familiar in a day full of uncertainty.

Seeing how well Jack’s reaction went over, you decided to call your mother in advance to tell her what was going on. You told your phone to call “Mom” and it connected to your bluetooth as it rang.

“Hi honey!” Your mother’s voice rang into the car. “I think I missed your call earlier. I called you back, but you didn’t pick up. Everything alright?”

Tears welded in your eyes. You tried to blink them away, afraid of obscuring your vision on the highway. You were a two hour drive a way from your childhood home and it had begun to drizzle. You needed to keep a level head to get there safely. To get you and your baby there safely.

“Mom,” Your voice broke despite your best attempts to keep it strong. “I’m pregnant.”

“W-What?” Your mother’s voice was breathless as if she was underwater.

“I’m going to have a baby, Mom. I’m pregnant.” You said again. The words sounded so foreign to your ears. You had to yet say the sentence out loud and it felt so much more real.

“B-But, how? I thought your ovaries --”

You nodded although she couldn’t see you. “I know, I know.” You let out a dry laugh. “0.03% chance. What a miracle.”

“I’m so happy for you, honey.” You suddenly realized your mother was crying, with happiness. “Congratulations. How has Jack taken the news?”

“Uhm, Mom? This isn’t exactly a happy occasion.” You let out a shaky breath. “I’m 24, unmarried, and secretly dating a superstar who is not interested in becoming a parent. This is not something to be celebrated.”

“Oh honey, I had you when I was 26.” She made a dismissal noise. “Jack will come around. He’s just a little scared. Everyone gets scared. But you really do have a little miracle. You should be careful though too much straining --”

“Mom, you’re not listening.” You argued. “Jack straight up told me he doesn’t want to be a father. That he will financially support me, but that’s it. We’re over.”

There was a beat of silence before your mother asked. “Did Jack say it was over?”

“No…”

“Did you say it was over?”

“No…”

“Well, then it isn’t over.”

Your mother said it so confidently you almost believed her. Until you remembered that she didn’t see Jack’s expression -- the dark blue voids that seemed to stare at you like a bug on the wall. If she saw that, she wouldn’t dare tell you that there was still a chance. With that realization, you felt your heart breaking and suddenly, you were now extremely invested in the heart growing inside of you. Maybe you would keep the baby after all.

Four months later

As you rubbed your rounded belly, you stared in the full-length mirror of your childhood bedroom. You knew moving back home was a good idea. Your mother was taking care of you much better than your roommates could. But, sitting in your room still marked with the joys of your teenage years made you feel like a cast member on 16 & Pregnant. Even with your new remote work setup, thanks to your job being understanding about your move, it still didn’t feel like the room of an adult. You were in a time capsule of your youth as you prepared to bring a new life into the world. It made you feel even less prepared and more bitter that you were doing this as a single parent.

As much as you hated that you still kept track, you knew it had been exactly four months since you last spoke to Jack. It would be unfair to make it sound like Jack didn’t try to reach out. He called you and texted you multiple times in the first few days after you left. When you didn’t respond, he mailed your stuff along with a hand-written apology. You had scanned it, disappointed to not find anything that implied he was going to be more than a financial support to his child. You threw it away immediately and sobbed until you couldn’t breathe. It was at that point that you decided that Jack meant nothing to you.

Or as close to nothing as you could feel for someone you still loved.

You walked over to your closet to put on a fresh top. Your stomach wasn’t super big, but it was obvious you were pregnant. Your breasts had swelled as well which made all your current bras uncomfortable. Since you were usually home, you had decided to no longer wear them. You chose a collared floral top that cinched above your waist. It added a bit of bust support without squeezing the top of your stomach. You put on some black leggings and then marched out of your room in your slippers.

As you walked down the steps, you could hear your mother talking to someone. The voice sounded female which meant it wasn’t your father, who should be at work right now anyway. The moment you saw the long, dark brown curly hair, your breath hitched.

You misstepped and slid down the steps, your butt hitting each one on the way down. Your mother’s footsteps thundered toward you as more timid ones quickly followed. You had a hand protectively on your stomach while the other rested on your back.

“Y/n, are you alright?” Your mother asked, with concern. “You should be careful.”

Your mother was worried that you were going to lose your “miracle baby”, as she kept calling it. Your doctor had assured you that you had a healthy pregnancy. You could continue working and engage in light exercise. But, your mother still doted on you worriedly.

“I”m okay, I just slipped.” Your eyes met the light blue eyes of the other guest in the house who stared at you sympathetically. “Good morning, Mrs. Harlow.”

“Hi, Y/n…” She said, “Sorry to intrude like this. I just--”

“I know.” You said, standing up with your mother helping you. You didn’t actually need the assistance. But you didn’t mind it. “I assume you wanted to see about the baby. Well, it’s real.”

“I can see that.” Jack’s mother commented. “You look beautiful, Y/n. Your skin is glowing.”

You smiled softly. Your best friend had teasingly told you to get on dating apps because of how radiant you looked these days. Your hair was fuller, your skin was brighter, and men at the grocery store seemed to be entranced by the extra oomph in your chest. However, you weren’t interested in anyone else right now. You just wanted to meet your baby.

“Thank you.” You smiled wider. “I feel good. We still have awhile to go.”

Jack’s mother looked at yours. Your mother gave Mrs. Harlow an encouraging nod and you frowned. You could tell something was going on, but you couldn’t predict what it could be.

“Jack is outside.” She explained, finally. “He wanted to see you, but he was afraid you wouldn’t let him in if he came alone.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. You didn’t think that Jack would ever show up. And if he was going to send a representative in first, you would have predicted Urban or Neelam before his mother. Your heart clenched knowing that it took a lot of pride for Jack to ask his mother for help. He was so self-sufficient, that he hated admitting that he was over his head. He had to pretty desperate to ask his mother for help.

You felt self-conscious, covering your stomach with your hands. Your body was very different from the last time Jack saw you. Everyone saw the beautiful changes, but there were new stretchmarks and blemishes that had appeared as well. You worried that your face looked fuller than usual and that your occasional breakouts had ruined your complexion. You knew it was stupid to be embarrassed by these things, but you couldn’t help that you were. Just as much as you couldn’t help the fact that your heart fluttered at the thought of seeing Jack again.

“He can come in.” You said, walking toward the living room. “I’ll sit on the couch.”

“Thank you, Y/n.” Jack’s mother said. She motioned to walk to the door, but turned and walked to you first. Standing in front of you, her expression hardened. “I’m so sorry about how Jack treated you. I know I can’t take it away. The hurt that you must have felt nor the betrayal. But just know that I gave him hell and still do every day since he told me. You’re a strong woman, Y/n. However you decide to move forward, know you have my full support. As your friend and the grandmother of your baby.”

Tears welled in your eyes and you sniffled loudly. “Thank you so much!” You wiped the fallen tears with the back of your hand. “Sorry, hormones. But, thank you.”

“Do not apologize, love.” Jack’s mother looked like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She walked toward the front door, slowly becoming out of your view.

You squeezed your thighs as you waited. There was a lump in your throat that seemed to get bigger when you heard heavy footsteps enter through your door. As much as you willed yourself to look straight ahead, you couldn’t help, but turn when Jack’s tall frame came into your view. His hair was a little longer than last time you saw him and his light brown beard had been shaped up recently. He was wearing one of his sweat suits, a white and blue one that you always loved him in. You knew that was on purpose. He was holding a bouquet of flowers that was comically large. It was also gorgeous.

Jack pulled his hood down as he searched for you. You stood up slowly as his eyes traced you from your head to your toes and then back up again. You shifted uncomfortably.

“Y/n, you look…”

You turned away from him. “If you say I look fat, I’ll slap you.”

Jack chuckled and walked closer to you. “I was going to say beautiful. But I think I deserve a few slaps anyway.”

You turned to look at him, not expecting the soft, sheepish stare of his clear blue eyes. They were so different from the cold, sapphire pools that you saw four months ago. Jack handed you the flowers and you accepted them, sitting back down on the couch. You were grateful that he gave you something to do with your hands. Instinct made you want to wrap you arms around him, but your heart was still too angry.

Jack sat on the couch as well, leaving the seat in the middle open so you could face each other and talk comfortably. You put the flowers there to create an actual divider between you two. There was a silence as Jack admired you. His eyes didn’t leave your stomach. You were used to it from strangers, but it felt weird to have Jack staring at you like this.

“My eyes are up here…” You joked, usually telling him something similar when he stared at your chest.

The apples of Jack’s cheeks tinted red making you laugh, despite yourself. Blushing Jack always reminded you of the first phase of your relationship -- when Jack wasn’t super famous yet outside of Kentucky and his hair was still long. He was shy when talking to girls he liked, no matter how much he tried to play it off. Nowadays, Jack had more confidence and bravado. But, the blushing boy was still buried inside of him, apparently.

“Y/n,” Jack’s voice came out hoarse and he cleared his throat. “I am so sorry. I have been such a coward these past few months.”

“No kidding.” You said, rolling your eyes as you folded your arms.

Jack hung his head as he nodded, “I was so worried about my world crashing because I wouldn’t be able to commit to you and our child. But, without you, I already feel like everything is so messed up. I told myself that once we got back together, I would never let you walk out again. To think when you needed me most, I turned my back on you makes me sick. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. So, I want to make it better.”

Tears stung your eyes and you sighed. You had dreamed of hearing these words from Jack’s lips. This was the apology you wanted in that letter all those months ago. Except, now you needed more than just kind words. Jack was great with words. His entire career was built around saying the right thing. You learned the hard way that Jack’s actions didn’t always match what he promised.

You frowned as you turned toward Jack to see him fiddling with something in his pocket. He pulled out a black,velvet box and your eyes widened. He opened it to reveal a gorgeous ring. The diamond was incredibly large and in the shape you liked. The band was the color that always looked great on your skin tone. It looked like it should be on the hand of a movie star.

Jack shifted to get down on one knee, but you put your hand on your shoulder to stop him. The tears rolled down your cheeks. Part of you was happy, but another part of you was angry.

“Don’t do this…” You said to him, “...don’t do this if you’re just trying to make an honest woman out of me. This isn’t 1932, we don’t have be married to have a child.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed deeply. “Do you really think I’m doing this out of some obligation, Y/n?” At the risk of sounding like a douche, a ring like this takes a lot longer than four months to make.”

Your mouth fell open as you felt your cheeks heat. You wiped your tears with the side of your hands and let out a small laugh as you said, “You’re right, you do sound like a douche.”

Jack’s laugh came out raspy and realized he was more nervous than you thought. He was really asking you to marry him and he was afraid you were going to say no. As he should be. But, would you?

“Well?” You asked him.

“Well, what?” He asked, confused.

“Is that all you had prepared? Over four months in the making and no speech?”

Jack’s eyes widened, but when he saw the going of humor in yours, you saw him visibly relax. Jack motioned to get down on one knee again, but you stopped him.

“For god’s sake, what now?” Jack groaned, impatiently. “I’m losing my nerve.”

You laughed. “Let’s go upstairs. I don’t want an audience.” You gestured toward the dining room that was on the other side of the hallway to the living room.

Jack turned around to see both of your mother’s doing a horrible job of pretending they weren’t watching you two. Jack shook his head and closed the box, shoving it in his pocket. He stood up and reached his hand out to help you up as well.

You took it and let Jack hold your hand as you walked up the stairs. He kept looking back at you concerned after each step.

“Is this too much for you?” He asked. “I can carry you.”

As romantic as it sounded to have Jack carry you up the stairs, you couldn’t shake the image of you two falling down the stairs like a slinky. You shook your head and smiled at him,

“This is my usual exercise.” You explained.

“You shouldn’t strain yourself.” Jack chastised you, but he didn’t push it any more.

At the top of the steps, you pointed to your bedroom and Jack walked in that direction. You had briefly forgotten that you were inviting him into your teenage bedroom until one of your many posters came into view.

“I know you like Harry Styles…” Jack commented, still squeezing your hand, “But this is a little humbling.”

You bit your lip to hide your embarrassed smile. “Humbling?”

“I’m about to propose in front of every member of One Direction” Jack squinted at one of the posters. “Wow you have a lot of posters. Several of which have Harry’s face encircled with a heart. Very humbling.”

You laughed, “Well, I hope this speech you have been preparing is better than “Little Things,” because I can’t guarantee I’ll say yes.”

Jack grinned as he got down one knee. He pretended to stop halfway through and gave you a look to check if you were going to stop him again. When you didn’t, he pulled out the ring.

“Y/n Y/l/n, you’ve been a huge part of my life over the last five years. As both a friend and a girlfriend, you have been my greatest supporter and my biggest fan. I got through some of my toughest shows thanks to you. I also was reminded to celebrate my greatest highs thanks to you. You deserve the world for everything you do for me, loved ones, and the people around you. You deserve hell of a lot more than me, but I promise to give 150% to you. You will be above everything to me.” Jack paused and smiled. “You and our family. I love you, Y/n. Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” You said, nodding rapidly.

Jack slipped the ring on your finger, a bit snug because of your pregnancy, but you didn’t care. It still looked gorgeous nonetheless. He scooped you in his arms and pressed a kiss your lips. You smiled into the peck and Jack chuckled.

“I can’t help, but feel like someone is getting between us.” Jack said, glancing down at your rounded stomach.

You laughed, “Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll feel our baby kick.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. He hesitated and you took his hand and pressed it against your stomach. He didn’t apply any pressure at first. He rubbed it delicately, resting his other hand on your lower back. You couldn’t deny that you imagined this moment for months: Jack’s warm hands on your swollen belly and aching back as he rubbed the fatigue away. After awhile there was a small kick. Jack’s eyes which had been trained on your stomach flicked to yours. You gave him a quick nod and he gasped.

“That was a kick?” Jack asked.

“Yup. A little one.” You explained. “The bigger ones tend to happen when I am going to bed. A night owl, just like Daddy.”

Jack chuckled, beaming. “Do we know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”

You shook your head. “My mother wants to do a gender reveal party, no matter how much I try to talk her out of it. She thought this would never happen so, she’s going all out. There’s a baby shower too.”

“I’ll be there.” Jack said with a finality. “I don’t care what day it is, I’ll be there. And for any appointments. And anything you want to do for our wedding--”

“Jack, Jack…” You sat down on the bed and patted the space next to you for him to sit as well. “...thank you, but you don’t have to overhaul your whole life for this. Of course, you’re going to be involved, but don’t feel pressure to do all this. I don’t mind signing the marriage papers and postponing the wedding. Besides, I had a different image of how I would look in a wedding dress.”

You stared at your stomach in the mirror. You saw Jack staring at your expression in the reflection and you tried to brighten your features. Jack hated when you got down on yourself and you didn’t want to argue about your self-image. You were sensitive enough as it was.

“You really do look beautiful, Y/n.” Jack said again. “I am happy to go at your pace. If you want to wait for the wedding, we will wait. If you want me at any appointment, just put it on my calendar and I will be there. I love you and I just want to make you happy.”

“Thank you, Jack.” You leaned in and kissed him

Jack’s eyes fluttered close as he cradled your jaw with his hand and deepened the kiss. You missed how he always tasted minty fresh and the force of his tongue against yours. Your body melted as his thumb massaged your cheek while the other hand rubbed circles into your back. You truly missed the affectionate touch of your boyfriend.

“Y/n,” Jack’s voice deep and you recognized his tone immediately. “When you said you were doing light exercise on the stairs…just how much activity are you allowed?”

“Are you asking me if we can have sex, Jack?” You asked him teasingly.

Seeing his face turn red was completely worth it. Jack nodded, glancing away from you as he bit his red lips. “Yeah…”

“Yes, we can.” You said, “But we may have to figure out how we fit together with my bump in between us.”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.” Jack grinned.

You stood up and pulled down your leggings, letting them pool at your feet. You sat on the bed and kicked off your slippers and the leggings fell to the ground.. Jack helped your remove your top and his eyes widened when he saw your bare torso.

“Wow, those are new…” Jack remarked staring at your breasts.

You smiled shyly. “I…uh…haven’t found a bra to fit them quite yet.”

“I’m not surprised.” Jack bit his lip. “Do you mind if I play with them?”

“Please do…” You said in a breathy voice that would have been more embarrassing if you weren’t so needy.

Jack removed his sweatshirt and tossed it on the floor to reveal his black tank top. He had gotten a bit more toned since you last saw him and your eyes couldn’t look away his tapered waist. You licked your dry lips. He sat on the bed and motioned for you to straddle him. You did, holding on to his shoulders to steady yourself, as you pressed your knees on either side of his thighs. He pressed kisses into your neck as he gently massaged your mounds. You moaned softly, not wanting your mothers downstairs to hear you. Jack’s thumbs gently encircling your nipples didn’t help.

“Are they even more sensitive than before?” He whispered against your neck, not too far from your ear.

“Y-Yeah,” You muttered, already feeling a warmth pooling in your underwear.

“I guess I better enjoy these before little Harlow starts hogging them, huh?” Jack teased before placing one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking gently.

You covered your mouth to silence a loud moan. You could feel Jack’s facial hair tickling your breast as his tongue wrapped around your nipple. You grinded yourself gently against his hardening cock and Jack grunted before switching breasts. He used his fingers to tweak the one he was previously sucking on, to make sure your nipple stayed hard. You continued to roll your lower half against him, careful not to push your belly into his stomach.

Jack pulled back and massaged your breasts with both hands. He pressed your your tits together and buried his face in your cleavage making you giggle. His nose and beard made it tickle but his fingers still brushing against your stimulated nipples kept the pit in your core alight.

“Can I tell you something?” Jack asked, pulling back to look at you, but still massaging your breasts, “And you promise not to make fun of me?”

“I would never promise that.” You joked, “But tell me anyway.”

“Ever since you mentioned my breeding kink in our last argument, it’s kinda haunted me.” Jack sighed. “I never thought about it. No one ever said it like that either. But now, seeing you like this--”

Your mouth fell open and you saw the panic in Jack’s eyes. He was already sputtering trying to take it back, but you saw what was going on. It was too late.

“Are you even more turned on having sex with your pregnant girlfriend?”

“Pregnant fiance.” Jack corrected, meekly. “B-But, yeah…this is so hot to me.”

“Well this won’t become a habit, Jack. I’m not getting knocked up constantly just to spice things up in the bedroom.” You teased, “But after the baby is born, I’ll be happy to put on one of those pregnancy bellies if that would get your rocks off.”

Jack groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’ll even keep my old maternity clothes.” You continued to tease him. “Mhmm, I bet you like this MILF couture.”

“I’m going to lose my hard on.” Jack warned.

You pressed yourself into him, cupping your breasts in your hands over and stared Jack down. “Are you really?”

Jack’s eyes were filled with lust and you felt sexier than you had in months. You were joking with this seductive pose, but seeing how much he wanted you was a huge confidence boost. You bit your lip, continuing to give him a sultry stare.

“F-ck…” Jack shook his head. “I’m so bricked up right now. I hate you. I love you, but I hate you. F-ck you.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing here…” You joked.

Jack smirked at you. “You’re right…”

He leaned back and pulled his waist band down just enough to free himself. You stared down at his cock, unable to remember the last time you saw him this hard. He was already leaking with pre-cum and his head looked angry and red.

“I don’t have a condom.” You said.

Jack gave you a look as he stared down at your naked, rounded belly and then back at your eyes. You both chuckled. There was a lightness in the air that you hadn’t felt ina long time. Jack calmed you and you were thrilled to have him back in your life.

You raised your hips and Jack steadied you by holding onto them. You reached down and placed his tip at your entrance with one hand and twisted the crotch of you underwear to the side with the other. You sunk down on to him with a low moan. Jack grunted as he bit his lip so hard, you thought he would draw blood. You bounced on Jack lightly, trying to find a rhythm. You were worried it would take Jack a moment to adjust to your new weight, but he didn’t seem to notice. His hips lifted to meet yours effortlessly, coaxing you to come down harder and faster.

“God damn…” Jack swore under his breath. “I’m trying so hard to be quiet, princess, but you feel so good around me.”

“I missed feeling you inside me.” You confessed.

Jack reached between you two to play with your clit, making you grip his shoulders. He watched you bouncing on top of him, his eyes filled with adoration. His unwavering expression was making it hard to keep eye contact so, you closed your eyes and leaned your head back. Jack took the opportunity to suck on one of your breasts.

“If you do all of that I’m gonna come.” You groaned.

Jack let go of your breast with a pop. “It’s taking all of my willpower not to explode inside of you right now. The faster you cum, the better it is for both of us.” With that he went back to sucking on your other breast this time, taking in more of your breast in his mouth like he was actually trying to milk you.

You dug your fingernails into his shoulders as your orgasm crashed into you. You squeezed him tightly and Jack’s hands jumped to your lower back to support you. He helped you to ride through your orgasm and it wasn’t long until you felt the warm rush of his release filling you up. Jack let go of your nipple to kiss you deeply, his tongue immediately swirling yours. You swallowed each other’s moans as you held each other tightly until you both stopped shaking from pleasure.

Jack helped you lift off of him. He laid you on your back and got to work cleaning you up. He removed your underwear and got you a tissue to up the mix of your juices that settled between your folds. He got some of the baby wipes off your vanity to wipe down the thin layer of sweat that developed on your skin. He pulled on a fresh pair of underwear too.

Jack held a tub of cocoa butter over you so you could see it laying down. “Should I put this on too?”

You smiled. “I use it for my belly. It’s supposed to help the stretch marks, but honestly it just feels nice.”

Jack immediately unscrewed the top and lovingly massaged cocoa butter on your stomach and breasts. He took his time, laying soft kisses on the stretched skin. You could tell he was truly enamored with your body and not only in a lustful sense.

“You’re so beautiful…” Jack reminded you as he helped you sit up. He pecked your lips before helping you to get dressed. Once you were ready, he adjusted his own appearance in the mirror.

“Shall we go downstairs and share the good news?”

“That you have a serious breeding kink?” You teased.

“No…” Jack rolled his eyes. “That you’re going to be Mrs. Y/n Harlow.”

“Of course…” You laid back down. “After my nap.”

Jack smiled. He waited until you got comfortable before putting himself around you to snuggle you into him. Watching you sleep contently helped to lift a weight that had been on his chest.

Jack knew that this wasn’t going to be easy. He hurt you and broke your trust. He was going to have to show you he was a changed man. But seeing you laying in his arms, his future child in your stomach, he couldn’t imagine how he thought he would be able to stay away from you. Or worse, leave the chance for another man raise his child in his stead. No, you were his world and he was ready to protect you with everything he had. As a husband and a father.

#jack harlow #jack harlow blurb #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fanfic #jack harlow x reader #r-writes-fic

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itchyeye · 2 months

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Okay, on the discussion of characters, I was LITERALLY thinking earlier today of how Sasha is one of my favorite characters in TMA. (Sorry I went on a tangent but hear me out-)

Sasha. A character who we BARELY hear from in the one season she's alive in, has had such a MASSIVE impact on the entire fandom that to this DAY people still make AU's where she lives, of her relationship to multiple other characters, to what could have been or WHO she was based on a few one liners, a statement, and her final moments. After that it's the impact she had on other characters that helped us see her for who she was. We were fed some information on her (Ex. Jon thinking SASHA would have pranked him with a statement and not Tim, Gertrude wanting to make Sasha the next Archivist because she knew she would've been smart enough to see what was happening, Sasha choosing to follow Micheal who was clearly a Not Human Thing,-), but we weren't spoon fed information on who she was if that makes sense? We, through context clues and just idk, good writing on Jonny's part, were able to put together this character in our minds of who Sasha was in and out of the office and her relationship with the other characters, even though she only existed for BARELY ONE SEASON.

Cut to TMAGP, and, like you said, we're being force fed these characters and archetypes. LOOK THIS IS GWEN SHE'S SUPER SERIOUS , THIS IS ALICE SHE'S ~QUIRKY~ AND HAS A BROTHER SHE'S TAKING CARE OF (WHICH SIDE NOTE: WE DIDN'T EVEN KNOW TIM HAD A BROTHER UNTIL LATER and it's revealed to us in such a great, tragic way and shows some things about his character we hadn't noticed before, or let us explore ideas about him!) THIS IS LENA SHE'S DARK AND MYSTERIOUS MAY BE A BAD GUY WHO KNOWS WHAT'S HAPPENING OOOOH SPOOKY- And I feel nothing towards any of them. I think it's funny that so far a lot of people who don't like the series all admit that we like Gwen the most because she's the most down to earth and idk, realistically written character? But it just makes me so... Idk, it makes me laugh angrily that this new show that is so focused on these new characters so far doesn't have me liking any of them (Gwen's on thin ice-). They're being shoved in our faces way too quickly and are just thrown their entire wikipedia articles to listen to.

Like, that one comment about how Sam and Alice are exes makes me think of how when Melanie mentioned to Jon that Georgie knew him, he didn't go "OH YES MY EX GIRLFRIEND GEORGIE." He was just like, "Oh! You know Georgie huh? Hm..." and it's later we find out they dated.

SORRY THIS IS SO MUCH I JUST AHSIDOAHS dude. Like. I only like Colin and sort of Gwen and that's it. Everyone else is so annoying, and seeing that the show is BARELY focused on the statements, it's a SLOG to get through.

So sorry for such a long message ; -Z

i will say as politely as i can that the amount of attention this fandom gives a particular character is not generally indicative of their story impact BUT i fo agree that i really like the part sasha plays in the story and the way her death + replacement send huge ripples of drastic effect across all characters

and i 100% agree with the rest of this. even gwen is wearing on me because when a character is just. rude? and the only thing you know about them is that they are someone's coworker? why would i like them? why would i be sympathetic to them? i've started plenty of jobs where people are huge assholes for now reason other than already being super burnt out on the position. but it's awful to take that out on a brand new employee? so gwen is on thin ice for me as well.

but yeah i think you've contrasted very wel the way tma created its characters vs the like bullet point lists of Traits™️that tmp characters have instead

#[💌] asks and replies #protocol #anonymous

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valcaira · 1 year

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About me

Hello folks! you can call me Cyrus or Cy. I'm 20 years old and I blog about many kind of things including disability, queerness, jewishness, art, fandom and politics.

I'm transmasc bigender nonbinary butch demiboy faggot dude and use he/him pronouns. I'm also a german-belarusian ashkenazi jew and practice witchcraft.

I am vehemently kink positive and will tag posts where i'm lusting over blood, cannibalism and guts as #bloodthirst so filter out that tag if it makes you uncomfortable.

If you use Zionist as an insult, to categotize Jews into "good" and "bad", only get your sources from antizionists and refuse to listen to Jewish people who keep telling you it's a complex ideology with many facets and doesn't mean what you think it does - you are both wrong and stupid.

I also make image and video descriptions when I'm able to.

Further information under the cut:

Other Socials:

Twitter: @/sweetcarotid

Instagram: @/valcaira_art

AO3: valcaira

BYF:

My blog is a MOGAI friendly space.

I'm disabled and chronically ill. I have rheumatoid arthritis, POTS, FND with hemiparesis, a tic disorder, BPD, NPD, dpdr, psychosis and CPTSD. I'm also autistic.

In terms of political stances I consider myself left wing and a democratic socialist. Democracy is non-negotiable. I'm pro-European Union. Anti-authoritarianism. The lives and wellbeing of humans stand above all else, especially capitalism. If you're a western tankie or Russia lover don't even attempt trying to "convince" me of your ideology. I'm Belarusian. I know more than you.

If your support for minorities stops at Jewish and Romani people you might as well hurl yourself into the sun while you're at it.

I'm also an artist and have tons of OCs. If you want to talk about them and yours go ahead!

While I do allow minors to interact with my blog, I wouldn't call it strictly SFW since I make sexual jokes and make the occasional "hell yeah penis" post. I have a sideblog for hornyposting, although visit it with care as it can be very distressing to a lot of people due to it being gore centered. @bleeding-aorta

If I'm on your dni and you interact/follow me first I'm going to ignore it. I'm still open to chill with people who have different stances.

Stances:

- anti TERF, anti TIRF, anti radfem, anti bioessentialism

- pro democracy, pro european union, anti facist, anti tankie

- "narcissistic abuse" isn't a real thing and just reinforces ableism

- Transandrophobia exists

- pro mpec lesbians and gays + contradictory labels, radinclus

- professional transmed/truscum hater

- anti radqueer, anti transid

- pro para anti contact paraphile

- pro fiction. Don't harass people over what they consume in fiction. Thought crimes are not a thing and you don't automatically endorse in reality what you enjoy in fiction. Antis are free to interact but do behave please. I have horrible experiences with your group (including being sent death and rape threats).

- fuck off if you follow/support/reblog from heritageposts, brendanicus or lesbianchemicalplant. I won't tolerate tankies, NK apologists or antisemities.

- neutral on Zionism

- pro Jewish self-determination

- If you identify with the term "Asperger's" I am very likely to block you.

- attacking people for creating Harry Potter fanworks isn't helping anyone. Don't give money to JKR, enjoy your fanfic and ships. I still like reading Snarry fanfic despite not engaging with the source material anymore.

Wiccans are on thin ice.

My stance on the Israel-Palestine conflict is quite clear: Palestinians deserve their own independent state, homeland and the atrocities need to stop. Netanyahu and his Likud party is a colonizing piece of shit that needs to go. Hamas are terrorists, not "freedom fighters" and are utterly despicable. If you support Hamas in any way, shape or form stay the fuck away from me. October 7th happened and this atrocity from Hamas must not be denied. I believe in a two-state solution, as Israel deserves to exist. Jews and Palestinians are indigenous to the Levant and not a single one deserves to be hounded out of their homes. If you're ignorant about the history of Judea, Arab colonialism and the creation of Palestine by the Romans you should shut up and educate yourself. Zionism is a complicated ideology with a complicated history and I do not trust Zionist or anti-Zionist goyim. My stance on Zionism is a deeply personal thing. The atrocities and needless killing of human beings need to stop, no matter what "side" they're on. This makes me both Pro Palestine and Pro Israel. People aren't their governments. Everyone deserves to live together in peace.

Am Yisrael Chai

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sugutoad · 29 days

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Matchup Trade for @averagetoyakinnie !

# s.black

ஓ๑ I was extremely tempted to pick anyone but Sirius because I have done only one other matchup of Harry Potter and I had chose him too but this man was literally so perfect for you. I’m not necessarily good at convincing others on why I chose a certain person for them but I do hope the following makes more sense to you and possibly even convince you:

ஓ๑ Sirius seems to cross almost all your checkboxes concerning your ideal type. He is absolutely a snarky individual who often goes far and beyond to tease his partner but he does have a sense of awareness of when to stop. Canonically book wise, Sirius is said to be extremely tall — which most of the fandom unfortunately ignores because they focus on the height of his actor. This isn’t really a popular headcanon but I stand on my life that Sirius has soft and chubby hands. Imagine looking at his sharp jaw, only for him to have the babiest soft cheeks. He absolutely loathes them tho. Always being there for you? Check that box for sure! Sirius supports you through thick and thin no matter what! And do not fret the slightest, dear. He visits all your sports events and absolutely spoils you with ice cream if you win or even lose. After a lost game if you are frustrated, he will take you home and sit with you to watch some of your shows. The whole concept of television doesn’t really come to him too well but he loves it. Normally I don’t look much or focus on ideal types, but when I chose him and then saw that you had included an idea type, I was even more excited to do this matchup!

ஓ๑ I understand that your mbti (ENTP) and Siruis’s mbti ( ESTP) don’t exactly go hand in hand with one another because of how similar they are but I think that is the perfect thing. You have a similar way of thinking and that allows you to know how the other person is. And arguments do happen but nothing big. It mostly consists of you scolding him for doing something stupid or bickering like an old married couple about small things (like if pineapple belongs on pizza.). But the both of you are so charming and chaotic with one another that is actually scary to Mcgonagall. Besides the similarities between your mbtis, the N and S helps you to differentiate ideas when presented information. That way, almost no information is not being used as you both have different ways to get certain information.

ஓ๑ When he first met you on the train to Hogwarts, you looked so cute to him. Awkwardly fumbling your fingers and a distant yet shy demeanour is what had charmed in the first place but was he in for a journey as he began to know more of you. This duo is a chaotic rule breaker type. But at least you try to keep him out of detention so you have your limits to ruler breaking at times. But when you have an interest, he will keep his big mouth shut for hours as you ramble on and on (he will certainly try to get himself into your interest so you both can discuss it. As much as he loves listening to you, he loves talking too.) Someone should have taken a picture of this man's face when his innocent idiot said something sexual :) For visuals, his mouth was slightly open but in a smirk and his eyes were wide opened (don’t forget the single raised eyebrow)

ஓ๑ Though it’s normally you giving him advice and comforting him, especially after a bad day with his family, sometimes it’s switched. He knows how energetic you are but he understands more of you. So when you run off your social battery, he holds you quietly, occasionally saying a joke to lift up your mood or just some sweet words.

ஓ๑ He is a growing boy, ok? He needs food. Lots of food. So you can imagine his delightment every time you bake or cook him something.

ஓ๑ Similar to you, one of his major love language is physical touch. This probably originated from the lack of affection he received as a child so now he is pretty much a clingy teddy bear! At first you thought it was cute but sometimes it is overwhelming. You would be trying to study or practise for a quidditch match, he will almost never let go. But no matter how many times he touches you, when he walks past you and your fingers brush against yours, it still makes your stomach flip with butterflies.

ஓ๑ He is actually in love with you. Like seriously (see what I did there?) The way you are a bubbly shine of light that blinded him with your upbeat smile and the beautiful way that you love almost everything, seeing the beauty in everything surrounding you. Even during Azkaban, his only possession was a small photo of you. And when he saw you again, he held you for almost eternity but for him it still wasn’t long enough. Nothing could ever make up for the 12 years he spent without you.

ஓ๑ Also what do you mean he is dead? (Delusional) Last time I checked, the both of you are married after he escaped from Azkaban and have a son named James Black.

ஓ๑ Hopefully I convinced you? This is a pairing that most people wouldn’t have seen coming so it is certainly harder to explain my reasoning behind it but I think that is what makes it so perfect.

Other Potential Matchups: Literally none because my head couldn’t think of anyone but Sirius for you.

#sazh matchups #harry potter matchups #Harry potter #matchups

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jb-nonsense · 10 months

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wait but I wanna know why Theron's your least favorite :D explanation? (positive connotation i prommy)

Well it all started as a journey. It's a long journey, for sure, of a varying opinion change over the years of playing the game, from forces inside the game and outside the game. But I am not one to post things negatively about other people's favs out in the open so readmore it is

So we begin this journey as a wide eyed newbie player just figuring out what I wanted my legacy to be with my first knight, Leeloa. A friend was playing along with me, and I really enjoyed the Doc romance because I am definitely a fan of the 'player gets played by his own game and catches feelings' trope. Well, I get to SOR and mention to friend that I think Theron's fun and she tells me to ditch Doc because she didn't like him and thought Leeloa could do better.

I ended up remaking Leeloa because I listened then did not like that course, because it just didn't fit Leeloa. So honestly, I did like him when I first started.

But then writing happens, and it felt like he...Never developed past the whole "reckless, I do things when I do them" kind of persona, especially with the betrayal. And the more I delved into information on SWTOR, it just...Bothered me. He's descended from the hero of the original games, but oh no not force sensitive, but he's a great spy so amazing.

Why?? Because he had some Jedi training because it was expected for him to be force sensitive but oh no he WASN'T what a shock...

Except that...Doesn't really track with the Jedi and, everyone hates me, but the test for the midichlorians. They would know, they wouldn't just assume because his mom was Satele.

And somehow, despite acting in the most unspy like ways, he's a great spy. I don't know why anyone would have the Grand Master of the Jedi Council's son as a spy because that is just a huge liability.

I'll admit I haven't read the extra material because I just think it's...Kind of silly to have content outside of a video game beyond, say, a short story or a short comic.

There's just a lot of his story that if you look at it closer and in the grand scheme of Star Wars, is just absolutely ridiculous and maybe, a bit more Gary Stu than Luke.

Now then, to the writing and how he was treated in expacs. (This area is a place where Lana is also on thin fuckin ice.) The absolute favoritism shown to him by the devs drove me crazy. It started to weed away at my liking him and move me more into the exasperated/tired/neutral about him. You have this whole giant alliance, but the focus being on him and Lana so much was just annoying, especially considering it was Koth who helped the Outlander escape in the beginning chapters and how he got pushed aside. It didn't narratively feel...Cohesive and just a 'Look at the Sh*n kid go!'

The nail in the coffin is how the fandom acts about how he's a golden boy, how he gets fawned over, and honestly?? I just hate liking those characters for personal reasons. It always seems like people ignore what we're given about the character and expanding on it and, instead, ignore it and write an entirely different personality with the face they think is cute. I am huge on consistency, it's my style of writing, my preferred style of reading (thanks literary analysis class in college you ruined me), so fandom just fucked me over from liking him and while he's still friends with my knight, I try my hardest to ignore fandom with him, do my best to try to enjoy him, because I do intend to run all the game romances for gif making purposes.

Also he's really written as playersexual if you play a light side character and some conversations felt awkward like the devs were expecting you to have romanced him.

#antitheron #I don't know how to tag that so it doesn't show up in tags #antitheronshan #this is literally the best way I can explain it #I think if I try to avoid people who especially have acted like he's superior to Doc or act like he's the best thing since sliced bread #I could maybe rekindle some of that enjoyment bc I damn well better for Alema's playthrough #negativity cw #cw negativity

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almost-a-class-act · 1 year

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I know Christmas fluff prompts are officially over, but I wanted to write one last little thing for one of my closest friends, @fayestardust. Sometimes Christmas is not the best and we are at the mercy of its fuckery. I hope you have a nice, cozy day of chilling with the beasts, drawing or watching movies or whatever sparks some joy. Thanks for being my pal. <3

Story: If We Can Make it Through December Fandom: Band of Brothers Pairing: Eugene Roe/Babe Heffron --

Eugene shows up on the Friday before Christmas.

Babe hadn’t known he was coming, but it also doesn’t feel entirely like a surprise. Eugene’s letters have been getting longer as the time drags on since the last time they saw one another, and getting reacclimated into regular life doesn’t feel like such an all-consuming task anymore. The loose ends at which he seems to find himself, in that little apartment in Baton Rouge, are eminently recognizable to Babe, who is pretty sure he would’ve crawled out of his skin at a family gathering already were it not for regular visits with Bill and the other Philly boys. It is loneliness in a specific key – surrounded by people, but on your own.

Babe had mentioned once in passing something that Gene had said in one of his letters, and Bill had swiveled around to demand, what, Doc actually answers when you write to him? So there is that, too.

When Babe lets him in, Eugene hunches under his jacket, too thin for the cold weather, and looks like he has very suddenly realized that he will have to account for himself. Babe decides not to make him, and pulls him into a hug before either of them can overthink it.

“Nice to see you, Gene.”

Eugene doesn’t say anything, chin hooked over Babe’s shoulder. He holds on so tightly that Babe wonders if he can breathe.

That first night, Eugene starts out camped on the living room sofa. It doesn’t last. Babe wakes up sometime after midnight with Eugene curled up against him, ice-cold toes against his shins, hands finding his way under Babe’s pajama top. He goes back to sleep almost at once, touching Babe everywhere he can. Babe stays awake for a long time, wondering how often it is that people like him get exactly what they want.

He doesn’t know if it will be enough of a stay against the dread he feels about the holidays, but maybe it doesn’t need to be. Maybe it’s enough that he doesn’t have to face it by himself.

Having Gene in the house certainly makes it easier not to think about Christmas. They play cards and listen to the radio and go for walks in the evenings, Gene in one of Babe’s jackets. The air is chill enough that they can stick close by one another and pass it off as sharing warmth. Eugene backs him into the door and kisses him when they’ve just come back inside on Christmas Eve, and for all the intimacy of holding each other over the past few nights, they haven’t done this since the last time they did it, hurried and desperate, at the end of the war.

On Christmas morning, Eugene – productive but not social when he first wakes up – blearily sets a cup of tea in front of Babe, who is sitting at the table and pulling apart yesterday’s paper. He presses his lips into Babe’s hair and then gives it a gentle tousle, a good morning in not so many words. “You want eggs?” he asks, an ordinary, mundane question he’s asked before.

Babe looks up from a photo of carolers in the paper, the spell suddenly broken, because Eugene has a family somewhere, and the two of them are sitting in his quiet, dark apartment, treating this like any other morning.

“Why did you come, Gene?”

Eugene’s brow furrows thoughtfully, and he considers his response before he delivers it. “I got your letters,” he says, as if that should be self-explanatory. “I knew you were having a hard time.” And I was having a hard time. The rest of it doesn’t need to be said; Babe has read Eugene’s letters, too.

Babe watches him. “You didn’t want to celebrate Christmas?” He needs to insist on it, for some reason – needs to get an answer.

Eugene shrugs. “I don’t really care about Christmas,” he says. “I care about you, mostly.”

Babe doesn’t have anything to say to that, floored by the enormity of what he has right here in front of him, wearing an old t-shirt with his hair stuck up straight in the back. Eugene drops a hand on his shoulder and gives it a tight squeeze before he meanders back off into the kitchen.

“I’m making eggs,” he says. “Over easy?”

Babe swallows at the familiarity. “Yeah,” he says. “Please.”

“Okay.” There’s the sound of a pan being removed from a cupboard, Eugene amiably starting his morning routine. “Eggs over easy, coming right up.”

#fanfiction #band of brothers #baberoe #roaroftheninth

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izaswritings · 1 year

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genshin impact fic - three evenings before the end

Title: three evenings before the end

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Synopsis: The fall of the storm, the fall of the nobles, and the fall of everything else— but before tragedy and before legends, there was only this: a tavern, a drink, and the friends who would shape history.

Or: Venti and his loved ones through the ages, and what remains despite it all.

AO3 link is here.

There is winter bite to the winds; there is a gentler spring, wavering and thin, barely a few blocks wide. Under the yawning arch of the tower’s main interlocking bridges, the bard settles in the shadow and plays a ditzy tune. His voice rises and falls in soft murmuring. He is not singing, not yet—just sounding it out, working on the words, fingers picking at the lyre only because the bard cannot stand silence.

The bard plays through the musical scales. The wind sprite whistles along, slightly off-beat.

“Try again, little friend,” says the bard, amused, and plucks a high note on the strings. “See? Try to match the pitch.”

He plays the notes again; the wind sprite trills in tune. This time there is harmony.

“Bravo!” says the bard, and the wind sprite spins around him, delighted by the cheer in his voice.

“For that, you get first pick. What song should I start with today, little friend?”

The wind sprite’s answer is instantaneous: Flowers in the wind! Flowers and spring and new breezes!

“A classic choice,” agrees the bard, and picks at the strings again.

The sky is gray and clouded above them; the unending storm bleeds into the streets, scouring worn stone clean and making every house groan like an old god. Ice bites through the spring-time warmth. The wind sprite clings to the bard’s cloak, and is aghast to find him shivering.

The bard is light and love and laughter on colder nights— the bard deserves to be happy and safe and warm, always. The little wind sprite holds on stubbornly. The icy winds trail off for another street, and the wind sprite breathes spring back into their little corner of the world.

The bard does not seem to notice. The notes of his lyre ring soft and true, and he sings quietly under his breath. In the silent streets his voice echoes all the louder. A young girl has paused on the street to listen; high above, an older man pushes open the windows he once locked shut, eyes closed, listening hard.

It doesn’t last— it never does. The winter returns and boots clink against the stone, stiff armor and frozen faces. The bard trails off his current song mid-note, bows low and swift to his listeners, and then tucks himself out of sight behind the foot of the bridge arch. The wind sprite trills softly in his ear, exasperated. Just when they were getting to the good part!

The storm god’s followers march on by. Frost lines the edges of their armor. One cold face is wavering; his hands, beneath the armor plating, are frostbitten and rotting. The wind sprite watches him pass, and feels its annoyance falter. After a moment of thought, it nudges the spring breeze to follow him. He is a soldier of the storm— he looks as young as the bard. The wind sprite is new to pain, but it thinks that is what it sees lurking behind the soldier boy’s stiff face.

The followers talk to a few on the street. “Music?” says the woman by the stall. Time and wind have withered her. Her lips curl in a sneer. “Haven’t heard it. Maybe you lot have spent too long close to the storm. There’s no musicians here. Especially not since the recent arrests.”

“Watch your tongue. It was the word of our Archon.”

“As you say.”

The soldier boy flexes his fingers unconsciously, in the very back of the formation. Some of the pain has eased from his face.

They leave, eventually. Their footsteps disappear into the howling of the storm. The bard pokes his head out only when the last echo of their marching has faded, wind sprite perched up on his hat. He meets the woman’s eyes and nods. She shakes her head at him. He smiles.

A new voice calls out the bard’s name. The bard looks up; the wind sprite twists and turns in the air, delighted. It is the archer. Her white hair braided back, her bow and arrows hidden from sight. She raises a hand to cup the wind sprite in greeting, and then says to the bard, “There you two are. I’ve been looking. Did you cause trouble again?”

“I’ve never caused trouble in my life,” says the bard.

“They’re banning music,” says the archer, unimpressed. “Mainly because you keep singing about treason.”

“That’s not trouble.”

“No? Then, stupidity.” But there is no anger in her voice—just fondness. The wind sprite rubs against her cheek. Hello, hello, hello.

The archer sighs. “Yes, yes,” she replies. “I’m happy to see you too.”

The wind sprite does another little spin, radiating delight.

The archer rolls her eyes, but she is smiling. “Have you been here all day?”

“Only for an hour or so,” the bard admits, and offers out a hand. The wind sprite zips back to him, twirling loop de loops around his fingers. The bard grins. “It’s been a quiet day. Everyone’s… getting ready.”

Flowers changing hands and secret songs carried by stray breezes. The wind sprite giggles, and flies back up to perch in the bard’s hair.

“Hm,” says the archer. “Have you seen—?”

“No.”

“If that man is drunk at the bar again, I’m throwing him out into the winds.”

The bard laughs. The archer shakes her head. They head for the tavern together, and the wind sprite sings the high note again, over and over, the beginnings of a song.

Evening casts dim shadows, but the lamps hold strong against the rising winds. The tavern, even so, is almost empty. The warrior, as the archer suspected, is deep into his cups. The knight, settled beside him, has a flush to her face that suggests she, too, has been cajoled into a drink.

“You are incorrigible,” says the archer, exasperated. The knight looks up at her voice and flushes an even deeper red at the sight of her. The archer doesn’t notice; the wind sprite does, and giggles at the sight. “That’s it. Stand up, you godless heathen. I’m throwing you out.”

The warrior grins up at her. The stars shine in his red eyes. “Flattery? This early in the night? Buy me a drink first, at least.”

“Shut up and die.”

“Attempting to toss me out of my own tavern, and now threats on my person? You know, for someone who apparently wooed a god, you aren’t very…woo-ing.”

“That is not how you use that word,” the bard says, looking torn between laughter and offense.

“Charming,” amends the warrior, grinning.

The archer reaches for a wine bottle with the air of one prepared to break it over someone’s head. The warrior snatches it from her reach, and then visibly over-balances on the stool and falls over. The archer attempts to kick him.

“Hello,” the knight says to the bard, both of them ignoring the scuffle. Her voice is as soft and as even-keeled as ever, but there’s a wobbliness to the words that has both bard and wind sprite eyeing her.

To the wind sprite, however, the knight inclines her head. It is almost a bow— how embarrassing, thinks the wind sprite, torn between puffed-up pride and bashfulness.

The wind sprite hides beneath the bard’s cape. The knight giggles.

She is new to the cage and still somewhat uncertain within their group, and she shows it, still, in her usual formal wording and stiff demeanor. The wind sprite has not heard her laugh since it first met her out there in the snow; it is a nice sound. Maybe she should drink more often.

“Hello, Venti,” says the knight. A sharp name, singsong to say— the bard’s little nickname for his little friend.

The wind sprite, because it is polite, trills a greeting in turn. Hello, fair knight.

“Gunnhildr.”

Bless you, says the wind sprite, very pleased with itself. Humans say such strange things, after all, when they sneeze.

The bard just laughs at her. The knight sighs heavily, but she is smiling now.

“One day, little wind,” she says, “I’ll have you learn my name.”

The wind sprite looks forward to her trying.

“You would be the first,” agrees the bard, grinning now. He settles beside her at the bar, legs kicking out over empty air. Behind them, the archer and warrior have fallen to squabbling: the archer, trying to steal back her chosen wine bottle weapon; the warrior, still on the floor, clutching the wine bottle to his chest like it’s his dearest treasure. The bard ignores them both with the ease of long practice. “My dear friend doesn’t even know my name, I think.”

The wind sprite does not. It announces this fact with great pride.

“See?” says the bard.

The knight just shakes her head. Her cheeks are flushed pink; her usual neatly plaited hair is flyaway and fluffy. She is wearing silver armor and the straight-backed pride of a leader— but in this bar, the edges are softened, her smile small and glowing and true. The wind sprite approves of this. It reminds it of their first meeting— the knight huddled with her family, and the brightness of her eyes at that first touch of springtime wind.

That brightness is there now in her face as she smiles back at the bard. “Did you have a good morning?” she is asking, now. “How long can you stay? I know you were hoping to meet with some of the others later…”

The bard pats her kindly on the shoulder. “My dear friend,” he says, brightly. “It is night.”

The archer snorts loudly in the background, and then immediately looks away at the wall when the bard and wind sprite turn to her. The warrior, ever the opportunist, takes this moment of distraction to wrestle back the wine bottle. He finally makes his way back onto his bar stool; the archer shoves him off it again.

The knight notices none of this. She is looking out the windows, now, and seems to realize for the first time that the red glow staining the distant storm is a sunset.

“…Ah,” says the knight.

The bard looks a little like he wants to laugh again. The wind sprite, ever shameless, is already giggling. “What were you two drinking?” the bard asks, visibly bemused, and when the knight shrugs, he turns to the warrior instead.

The warrior, lying on his back with the smug air of one who absolutely meant to fall on the floor, this was all pre-ordained, what do mean the archer pushed him, how preposterous—paws his hand by his belt and then raises a small silver flask that the wind sprite has never once seen leave his side.

“Behold!” says the warrior. “The drink of my people!”

The bard’s expression shifts, laughter fading into something quieter. The knight looks confused; the archer has gone still.

The warrior only smiles, crooked and fond. He offers up the flask as if to catch it in the light, and the bard reaches out carefully to take it. He holds it in both hands, cupped between his palms like something precious. The wind sprite alights on his fingers and sniffs at the flask; even sealed shut, it smells of something sharp and spicy, sweet with age and memory.

“You’ve been saving this,” says the bard, softly. “Are you sure?”

“If not this night, then when?” returns the warrior, sitting up at last. He leans against the back of the bar, and the stars in his eyes shine red as the sunset sky. “Tomorrow, we face the storm itself. There is no better time for it. Besides,” he adds, and grins. “My family, may they dream peacefully in the earth, would definitely approve.”

The bard watches him with knowing eyes. The wind sprite brushes past the warrior’s cheek; the warrior’s smile softens, and he lifts a hand to cup the sprite with fondness. “Please, my friends,” he says. “I am certain. Drink with me?”

“It’s quite good,” adds the knight, belatedly.

The archer breaks first; her sigh is heavy, and she settles into a bar stool with a stiff back. “If we must.”

She is sitting next to the knight. The knight flushes a deep pink and seems briefly distracted by the shine of the archer’s hair in the lamplight. The warrior and bard notice this too—the warrior winks at the knight behind the archer’s back, and smiles all the wider at the face she makes in return.

The bard watches them all with that same small smile on his face. Then he kneels down to help the warrior up to his feet, and presses the silver flask back into his hands with the same careful care he had when taking it. His eyes are shining. “You know how I feel about alcohol, my friend,” he tells the warrior. “But for you… a sip, I may partake.”

The wind sprite graciously offers to finish the bard’s glass, should he find himself unable.

“Absolutely not,” says the warrior, already heading to the back of the bar for extra glasses. “You’d clean out my whole flask. You’ll get what I give you, little troublemaker.”

The wind sprite turns to the bard. The bard is laughing. Betrayal! How could they deny a wind sprite—a dear friend— a second drink?

“You can have my glass, little wind,” says the archer, and the warrior says, “What? What? Didn’t we all just agree a drunk wind sprite is too much for any of us? Amos, please—”

The knight is laughing again, her smile hidden behind her hand. The bard kicks his feet over the stool with bright eyes. There is a Windblume tucked in the bard’s tunic pocket and Cecilias woven into his hat. The sky outside the window has gone dark, and the winds blow cold and sharp.

Tomorrow, a new dawn. Tomorrow, a tower falls. Tomorrow, the wind sprite knows, the flowers passed between shaking hands will finally bloom towards open sky.

But for now it is the night, and the light is warm, and their laughter is warmer. The warrior pours a drink, and the clink of their glasses rings like a bell. The bard plays a tune on the lyre. The archer hums along. The knight closes her eyes and listens.

The drink tastes of ginger root and thyme and honey. The sweetness lingers long after the wind sprite has finished its share. Sweet, it thinks. Sweet like sunset through the windows and springtime breezes. Sweet like this moment, fragile and thin— one last drink before the end.

The storm rattles at the windows. The bard tilts back his head and sings.

Summer evenings burn hot long after the sun has set— this Venti knows quite well. Beneath his feet the pavement still warms him; the sky has gone almost dark, and yet, he is not cold at all. What a summer, he thinks— what a year, what a time.

Still, the sun is setting, and so Venti winds up the show. Quiet songs, softer songs, fitting for the bloody cast to the evening. Once, twilights in Mondstadt were a time for song and drink—now, it is a time for wary glances. Even Venti’s usual singing spot has lost some of its charm. There used to be flowers at this square, nurtured by shade and community care, but ever since they tore the Archon statue down the plants have withered. Even in the darkness he can see them— golden brown and dead to the roots, scorched by unfamiliar sunlight.

Venti picks at his lyre and sings of growing things, of honey-sweet drink and beginnings. The crowd has thinned, but some still linger— a child, who listens with eyes wide open; a man, white-haired and sharp-eyed, his arms crossed.

Venti finishes his song and sketches a bow. The lyre vanishes somewhere between his flourish and his cape. The girl claps, and then runs off home; Venti waves goodbye at her back.

Kreuzlied waits until she is out of sight, and then approaches at last. His hands have migrated to his hips, the perfect scolding posture. Venti leans back and winks at him. “Well?” he says. “What do you think? Was my performance worth a drink?”

From Ragnvindr the comment would earn him a roll of the eyes; from Kreuzlied, all he gets is an amused look, and no answer to his question at all. “Have you been here all day?”

“Give or take a few…”

He hums. “You’re going to get sunburned.”

“I have a hat!” It’s a fair concern though; even though it was centuries ago, Venti still shudders to remember that first time. Poor innocent wind sprites—in ill-advised borrowed human forms or not—don’t deserve to be scorched so! It’s unnatural.

Kreuzlied just shakes his head. “Never mind. I did not mean to interrupt… I just wished to know if you’ve seen Vennessa.”

Venti—looking down at his hands, at the moment, if only to make sure he really hasn’t burned—grins up at him. “Ehe. Have you been looking long?”

Kreuzlied’s brow furrows. “What do you…” Venti swishes back his cape. “…Ah.”

Vennessa— dead asleep at Venti’s back, expertly hidden by the shadow of the remaining podium and the end of Venti’s cape (and, okay, a little bit of his illusion magic)—just sniffles, annoyed by the light, and turns her face away into the dirt.

“…I’ve been looking for her for hours,” says Kreuzlied, mild.

“Ehehe,” Venti replies, and then rockets himself over the empty podium and Vennessa to make his escape.

He doesn’t get far. A sleepy hand wraps in his cape and tugs him flat; Vennessa sits up, blinking slowly in the light, hiding a yawn behind her hand. Venti looks up at her, now laid flat upon the ground. Vennessa blinks back down at him.

“…Oh,” she says. “Morning.”

“It’s night,” Kreuzlied says, one octave away from a complaint.

“Mm. Apparently.”

Venti tries sneakily to tug his cape away from Vennessa��s grip. Her fingers only tighten in the fabric; she raises an eyebrow at him, and then yawns again.

“Going somewhere?”

“Apparently not,” Venti sighs, giving up. Vennessa almost smiles at the mimicry. “Betrayal! Heresy! I let you take a nap and this is the thanks I get.”

“The nap was nice,” Vennessa admits, letting go of him at last. She rolls back her shoulders and starts neatening her hair. Venti sighs again, and slings his legs back over the podium to sit beside her—too late to run, and anyway, Kreuzlied has lost the immediate-murder look, so it’s perhaps moot point.

There’s a stray twig stuck in Vennessa’s hair, out of her line of sight. Venti scoots behind her and tugs it free. Vennessa leans back her head. He laughs at her, but acquiesces—combing the leaves and dirt out with his fingers, untangling the strands with care. Her hair is always surprisingly soft, for a woman with no interest in maintaining it. He has never figured out her secret.

“Ragnvindr is waiting for us,” Kreuzlied says, watching them. Despite having been led on a wild goose chase all day, his expression has warmed to something reluctantly fond. “He says, and I am quoting— ‘if you guys are late, I’m hiding the good alcohol.’”

Vennessa’s hair is as neat as Venti can make it. He pats her shoulder. “All done.”

“Thank you,” Vennessa says, and then turns around and reaches up to straighten Venti’s hat, settled lopsided on his head.

“Hehe. Thank you!”

“We’re already late, by the way,” Kreuzlied adds, a little louder. “By several hours. If you haven’t gathered that.”

Vennessa rises to her feet. Venti hops up beside her, and then beelines for Kreuzlied’s side— his button cuff on his right sleeve is undone and the other is misaligned, as if he’d dressed in a hurry. How funny. He really had been worried, hadn’t he?

“You fret,” Venti tells him, delighted by the find, and rebuttons the sleeve cuff fighting laughter.

The tips of Kreuzlied’s ears have gone red. His face is impassive as ever. “Says you,” he says stiffly. Venti grins up at him. Kreuzlied sniffs like the noble he isn’t and looks away.

Vennessa has already reached the stairs. “Come on,” she says. “If we hurry, Venti may yet convince Ragnvindr to serve us more than water.”

“At this hour he’s more likely to serve us grape juice and call it wine,” Kreuzlied murmurs under his breath. “Such a spiteful man.”

The wind is warm and the evening is golden. The distant hills sway with gentle breezes; the windmills turn ever on and on, and the houses creak and groan like only an old city can, like a house well-lived and well-loved. There is blood in the cobblestone and hope in the air.

Venti grins at their backs and follows.

There hasn’t been icy winds in Mondstadt since Decarabian— even winter, now, has eased to a softer chill. What the nobles have brought is not winter, but perhaps something close. Though it is only evening, and the sky has only just begun to bleed with the red of sunset, every shop on this street is closed; every tavern door is locked shut.

Silence is not quite winter, but it lingers the same. Stifled, still—fingers curled white knuckled, and faces turned worn from bitter storms.

Ragnvindr’s tavern is no different: the doors shut, the windows latched. They go to the back entrance, and Vennessa raps her knuckles soft on the door. There are knights about—the metal of their boots scraping at the cobble, their eyes scanning the streets—but the winds are a gossip, and Kreuzlied as paranoid as they come, and so they have made their way here unhindered.

Ragnvindr opens the door already frowning. “Late,” he announces, sharp and annoyed. “I hope you like water.”

“Fire-water?” Venti says, grinning. “Don’t mind if I—woah! Hey! Watch the cape!”

“Touch that bottle and die, useless archon,” Ragnvindr says at once. “Do you have any idea how much that cost me?” Vennessa’s smile is faint but true; Kreuzlied is laughing with his eyes. Ragnvindr only bristles further. “It’s vintage!”

“I get it, I get it!” Venti says, and swings for his wrist. “Unhand the bard already! Is this how you treat your god?”

Ragnvindr shakes him by the collar for good measure. Venti loses his patience and blasts anemo in his face.

They settle, eventually. The sky darkens and the back door is bolted securely shut; they light the lanterns in the corners, and cover every un-shuttered window with heavy curtain to hide the light. Vennessa migrates to her favorite tavern table. Venti sits himself up on the bar.

Ragnvindr serves them wine. It is sweet and smells faintly of valberries, and Venti drinks his share making sure to hide his grin behind his glass. All bark, and no bite at all.

Vennessa is practicing her writing. Kreuzlied has seated himself to face her—elbows hooked over the back of the chair, sitting backwards. It is familiar and comforting, to hear them whisper in the back. “This word?” Vennessa asks, and Kreuzlied replies, “The verb, there—see how the ends of the letters curl? It means…”

At some point they get sidetracked, as they always do. Tonight’s topic is education. Vennessa mentions offhand that her clan passes on most knowledge through stories, from elders to youth; Ragnvindr, who is drying wine glasses behind the bar counter, mentions the bards and poets of old Mond. Kreuzlied, who has perhaps taken his wine a bit too quickly, waves an empty glass and says, “No, no, you misunderstand me—I agree with you. Word of mouth is as valid a way of instruction as anything else. But when you bring power into the mix—when the laws are written down, but most of the people they pertain to can’t read them…”

“A bad contract,” Venti remarks, only half-listening. He’s thinking of a certain blockhead as he says it. Somewhat fondly. Somewhat wistful. Ah, ‘wrath of the rock!’ As funny as your name is, how useful you would be here now…

But that’s a political shitshow in the making, probably, another archon beating up a different country’s nobility. Venti sighs and downs his glass. Checks Ragnvindr is occupied. Sneaks his hand across the bar…

“It’s a goddamn scam, is what it is,” says Ragnvindr, and then pivots on his heel to smack Venti’s hand right out of the air.

“Ow!” says Venti.

“Boo-hoo,” says Ragnvindr, unsympathetic.

“In my clan, laws were more a matter of discussion,” Vennessa remarks, absently. “Not so much this… upholding of ink and paper. But I suppose that has its own pitfalls as well.”

“What we need is a balance,” Kreuzlied declares. “Ink and paper and word of mouth. Literature and song and stories. And understanding of them both. And teachers. And…and…”

“And more wine,” says Vennessa, looking down at her empty cup.

“And more wine!” Kreuzlied cries, toasting the air.

Ragnvindr rolls his eyes at them both and gets down another bottle.

But as the sky darkens, and the lamps dim, these conversations too turn to darker waters. Their voices lower and whisper as if someone is listening. Kreuzlied leans in closer, Vennessa’s voice drops to a quieter tenor. Even Ragnvindr blunts his edge. Silence, Venti thinks. Even here, even now, it is beating at the windows and howling at the door like the long-dead echo of an unyielding storm.

“The knights have almost turned on them,” Kreuzlied is saying now. “Pretty much all of my sources agree. Recent years have built up the discontent. I mean, not every knight, but—”

“Enough?”

“Enough to frighten the Lawrences, at least.”

They’ve shifted to the bar by this point of the night; Venti gives up his seat for Vennessa and sits up on the counter instead, kicking his heels beside her. Kreuzlied has been nursing the same cup of wine for the last thirty minutes, his once cheerful buzz fallen to a revolutionary’s bitterness— Ragnvindr casts him sharp looks every once in awhile like he isn’t sure whether to give Kreuzlied more wine or sneak his glass away.

“Though helpful it would be to have them fighting for our sake,” Venti remarks, leaning back on his palms on the countertop, “‘almost’ does not a rebellion make.”

It is an old conversation, a worn topic. Ragnvindr’s face pinches. “Do we even want them?” he says, voice dark with old bitterness, old guilt. “Cowards— after all this time, if they’re still fighting for those leeches, then it’s because they agree with them.”

“Oh, they’ll get their due,” Kreuzlied says. There is no anger in his voice; there is no mistaking the ice in his eyes. “But if we can use them to shift the scales…”

“If we can use them,” Vennessa remarks, softly. Venti’s restlessness must distract her, because she puts a quelling hand on his knee—Venti stops kicking and smiles apologetically back. “Venti and Ragnvindr are right. Almost… doesn’t really mean anything for us.”

“If we could just—give them a push, maybe—”

“How?”

Silence. Ragnvindr grumps at his countertops. His sword, ever close by his side, glints silver where it lies against the wall. It is ever in Ragnvindr’s line of sight; Kreuzlied is ever trying to avoid catching a glimpse of it. Venti drinks deep from his glass and thinks— of taverns, and evenings, and all the ways this could end.

The wine sits sweet on his tongue; for a moment it tastes like something sweeter. Venti spins around to sit fully on the countertop and grins. “What if—”

“Oh, archons,” says Ragnvindr, at once.

“Shush— but what if— we gave them a reason to turn?”

“Like they don’t have reason enough already?”

“A reason that matters to them,” Venti corrects. He crosses his legs and cradles his chin in his hand; his smile never falters. “Swords and shields and slavers… for such proud and noble fools, what else to change their minds than the proof that they are only tools?”

Another pause, much more considering this time. Ragnvindr’s eyes have lit up—a fellow poet, always quick on the uptake. Kreuzlied looks reluctantly intrigued.

Vennessa is already smiling. “What do you have in mind?”

Sweet drink on his tongue and silence in the air— there is no singing, these nights. They cannot risk being heard; they cannot risk being found, and there are no storm winds to drown out a skillful bard’s singsong tunes. But it feels the same, even so. The quiet warmth, nestled deep in his chest— the light, shining in their eyes.

He cannot remember them: the names of his friends. Only Gunnhildr had given it to him; only Amos, remembered by her bow. The bard had died, and the warrior refused—and Venti had not asked, besides. Names had meant little then. Names had been too much.

They are still so much—the weight to them, the promise. Barbatos, the god; Venti, the revolutionary. Names are a heavy burden, but recently Venti has become rather fond of them. Venti, the bard. Venti, the friend.

Venti, still an archon—who has, because of that, an intimate knowledge of the God of Contracts’ sharp signature.

Venti finishes the last of his wine, puts down the glass, and smiles. Vennessa, Ragnvindr, Kreuzlied— he takes in their expressions, and holds their names close, and tucks this night next to all the others. Warm as a springtime wind.

The silence weighs down their shoulders. Hope still burns in their eyes. “Ever hear of Rex Lapis?” Venti asks, and watches them usher in the end.

In the later months of autumn, when the trees turn sunset red and the rolling hills stain gold, there are at least two weeks every year when all the trees of Mondstadt’s main city seem to dump their leaves at once. They cluster in piles on the streets; they crackle and snap beneath a hundred footfalls. It is Venti’s favorite time of the season— free background music!

Master Diluc does not seem nearly as appreciative.

It is a lovely evening—the sun just starting to set, midday warmth fading into the brisk chill that make midnight fires so comforting. Venti sits outside on one of the tavern chairs and tunes his lyre; Diluc, today’s barkeep, sweeps up the leaves outside his tavern with an expression of deep irritation. If he glares any harder, Venti thinks, he’s liable to set them all on fire. What a hazard that would be!

One lyre string twangs a tad too high; Venti tightens the string and picks at it again. Across the path, the wind picks up—Diluc’s piles of leaves scatter back into the walkway, and Diluc slams down his broom to give Venti a dirty look.

“Aah, so scary!” Venti says. “Don’t blame this poor bard, please— I don’t command the breeze!”

Diluc scoffs.

“This breeze,” Venti amends. It’s a brisk wind for sure; winter is soon to come knocking. How unfortunate. It has never been Venti’s favorite season. “Besides, it adds charm!”

“So I’m wasting my time, then, is what you’re actually saying,” Diluc replies shortly.

“You said it, not me.”

He gets a click of the tongue for that comment, but a moment later Diluc sighs and rubs at his forehead, and Venti knows he agrees. This is the funniest thing about Diluc—short on words and pleasantries, but all in all he really is a mild sort.

“Whatever.” He leans the broom against the door, straightens up the chairs and tables for anyone foolish enough for a chilly drink experience, and then eyes Venti’s feet on the table pointedly. Venti sheepishly slides his heels back down to the ground.

“Hm,” says Diluc, which could mean anything. “Are you performing tonight?”

“For enough wine to keep me sated, I could be persuaded!”

“Absolutely not,” Diluc replies, at once. “I still need stock for tomorrow.”

“Boo.”

“…Three bottles. That’s as high as I’ll go.”

“Ya-hoo! I’ll take it! A pleasure doing business with you, Master Diluc.”

It’s funny, the way things change— the way things stay the same. The Angel’s Share has seen centuries, has seen rebellions and calamities and dragons corrupted: and yet Venti’s signature is still etched beneath one corner of the bar, and Ragnvindr’s habit of keeping the Flute nearby at all times has worn a permanent groove in the wall behind the counter. Ancient stone, and long-ago memories, but the laughter he hears now is present-day and filled with life.

Diluc heads inside; Venti hefts up his lyre and follows him. He likes to think he has something of an accord with Diluc: Venti sings, Diluc pays him in drink, and no mention is made of Venti’s incidental status as god and archon and ancient wind sprite. It’s not quite what Venti once had with his ancestors—but, Venti thinks, it is friendship all the same.

The bar is already halfway to full: tables filled with chattering voices, laughter all around. Venti throws himself into his usual barstool and spins to face the crowd. The usual regulars—a few unfamiliar faces. Captain Kaeya and Miss Rosaria will likely be making an appearance, then; Venti tables a few of their favorite songs in the back of his mind for when they show, and then lifts his lyre with a wave of his hand.

There is one other, in the very back of the room, who gives Venti pause. Their eyes meet. Venti blinks at him, genuinely startled, and the other doesn’t move. Just watches. Just waits.

Venti watches him back. Then he smiles, and turns away to steal a stray glass of wine from Diluc’s hand. Diluc sighs.

“Friends!” Venti announces, and throws fist and glass both into the air. Wine sloshes dangerously, but doesn’t spill. “Drink, laugh, and listen well, because I have quite the tale for you to tell…!”

It’s a rowdy night— everyone clustered inside to escape the chill, the fireplace burning warm and the drinks exchanging hands faster than even Venti can track. Venti sings and sometimes the bar sings with him, of homecomings and harvests and hearth. Someone claps him on the shoulder when the first song finishes; someone else pays for a round for all.

Venti drinks down his free ale with one swig—not his favorite drink, honestly, but who is he to say no to generosity?—and then starts on his second song. He does not look back at the other, but he keeps his eyes on that corner of the bar, all the same. This song he sings for the Angel’s Share itself— Ragnvindr’s bar, rebellion’s home, legacy and life and laughter. He sings of carving names into old wood and making drink with old friends, and even Diluc—ever removed from the mob mentality of festivity—stops to listen, something distant behind his eyes.

He pushes the first bottle of Venti’s payment across the bar when he finishes. Venti winks at him, and then pushes it back.

“No?” Diluc says, startled.

“Not in the mood for a dandelion wine, at the moment!” Venti replies, cheerful. “Though… you wouldn’t happen to have something a little sweeter, would you?”

Diluc raises his eyebrows at the name; it’s not the most popular drink, these days. But he goes and fetches the bottle all the same. Venti takes it in his hands carefully. It is precious, after all—it is something to be treated with respect.

By now the sun has left them; the sky is dark, the stars distant and shining. More wood has been added to the fire. Most of the regulars are already slurring their words. The air smells of wine and smoke.

The other is still watching. Venti turns and looks at him again. In this moment of merriment Venti is forgotten in the chaos, and so he stares at the other openly—content to be ignored, knowing no one is watching. Diluc is distracted with his patrons, and anyone else who might wonder has yet to appear.

Venti sings his third song for the stranger alone. Rebellion and bravery, freedom fought and bled for. The tower that fell, and the god that fell with it, killed by the arrows and the songs of his own people.

He sings of blue skies. He sings of that first blue sky. How blinding. How beautiful. How terrible. The ending of everything they had ever known.

The other lowers his glass to the table, and rises to his feet. Venti finishes the song with a final flourish, and hops up from the barstool. “A moment to breathe, if you please,” he tells Diluc. “Just need some fresh air…”

Diluc frowns at him, eyes scanning the bar—but the other is already gone, vanished upstairs and out of sight. Venti just smiles.

“…Don’t cause any trouble,” Diluc settles on, at last, and Venti laughs at him before scooping up his bottle and flitting off to the stairs. He makes no promises.

The upstairs is empty, but Venti had expected this, and he does little more than wave to the other patrons before heading over to the balcony. He fights to uncork the bottle as he walks—a trying task, as the cork is stuck fast, and no amount of tugging with human strength or anemo can get it loose.

He is still fighting with the bottle when he exits onto the balcony, the door nudged open with his foot. Face red and hat askew, and still, the bottle is sealed stubbornly shut.

Venti gives up. “I don’t suppose you have a bottle opener with you, do you?” he asks his companion, hopefully. “Or maybe a blade, a knife could work too…”

“Barbatos,” Dainsleif says, cooly. “I see you are the same as ever.”

“So cold!” Venti says, but then— he had expected this also, and he laughs before floating up to settle on the balcony edge. How nostalgic. He used to come here many times, with Vennessa…. But then, that was centuries ago. “I see you haven’t changed either.”

This is a loaded statement. Dainsleif’s expression shutters, and Venti glances over at him with a quiet smile, waving the bottle his way a second time.

“Anything?” he asks, hopefully. “I’ll even give you a glass. It’s not dandelion wine, but it’s quite the classic— I think you might like it!”

Dainsleif is quiet. He really hasn’t changed at all—even the length of his hair is the same. How terrible. There is immortality, and then there is to be frozen in time… Venti, at least, has chosen his fate.

The ice in his eyes… this is unchanged, too. There are times when Venti misses those days from centuries back, when Dainsleif was just a friend’s dear companion and easily amused by a bard’s foolish ways. He doesn’t miss it for long, though. He doesn’t even miss it often. After all—even now, even after everything, Dainsleif still reaches out and takes the bottle, just as Venti knew he would.

He really is too sentimental for his own good. Venti grins at him.

Dainsleif’s hand glows blue, and the cork tears free. It’s an altogether violent action—how very Dainsleif, to make his favor into a threat. Venti just smiles all the wider, and reaches out to take the bottle back. “Your glass?”

Dainsleif glares at him. But he still holds a cup out.

Venti pours him a generous helping—fond of drink he may be, but he keeps his word—and then takes a graceful drink straight from the bottle. Next to him, Dainsleif sniffs the drink suspiciously and then tastes it. Pauses. Sips at it again, a little more thoughtfully this time.

Venti takes another swill from the bottle to hide his smile, letting the drink settle over his tongue. Ginger snap and honey sweet, with barely a hint of thyme.

“…Khaenri’ahn mead, in Mondstadt?”

Hehe. He’d been wondering if Dainsleif would notice. “Technically it’s a bit before Khaenri’ah’s time,” Venti says, cheerfully. “So Dahri’ahn honey-wine, actually! What do you think?”

“Hm,” Dainsleif says. “…The ginger is too muted. The thyme, too.”

“Time changes all things—even recipes,” Venti agrees.

Dainsleif doesn’t bother responding to this. He just stares at his cup, and drinks from it again. Cautiously, carefully, as if he has forgotten how to taste it properly.

Ah, Venti thinks. For a human coming up on his fifth century…. He really does look too young for this, sometimes.

“Is it soon?” Venti asks him.

Dainsleif looks down at the streets. He has angled himself away from the distant Archon statue and spires of the church—instead he looks at everything else. The market street, the windows lit from within, the distant cliffs and the glow from Springvale, far across the lake.

“Winter,” he says, at last.

Venti sighs heavily. “So rude,” he laments, though he isn’t really surprised. Decarabian and his icy storms, and Barbatos, who made himself a spring, who tried to thaw the ice. And then that whole mess with the Tsaritsa… Of course they would pick winter. It is salt to an old wound. “During snowball fight season?”

Dainsleif doesn’t deign to give him an answer. Venti glumly takes another drink from his bottle. He feels tired, suddenly, and a little like he has been here before: standing at the edge of a moment, of so many moments just like this one. Warm drink and winds and a whisper of violence in the air. Calamity, victory, freedom. The nights before the end.

The bottle is empty. Venti sighs, and sets it down with a hollow thud. “Time to earn my keep for the next one, I suppose,” he muses. “Maybe dandelion, this time...”

Dainsleif has only half-finished his own drink; he swallows the last of it down without savoring it. The warrior would have been aghast at the sight. “I should go.”

“Did you pay your tab?” Venti wonders.

“I’ll leave that in your hands, I think,” Dainsleif replies, and stars shimmer into an expanse, stretching out across the end of the balcony. “Consider it my payment.”

“What? What? I gave you a whole glass of mead, isn’t that payment enough?” Dainsleif is already stepping into the portal. Venti squawks. “Hey—!”

His hand reaches into empty air; the stars fizzle out, burning sharp and prickling against his skin. Venti draws back his hand with a pout.

Wine on his tongue and winter in the air. Five hundred years ago, Venti had met a traveler and their companion then, as well… before calamity shook the world. How funny. How strange. All this time, and yet—

“You haven’t changed at all, stupid Dain!” Venti shouts, tears in his eyes. His poor hand! “Come back here and pay your tab already!!”

Dainsleif does not return. Venti stomps back downstairs with an empty bottle and a terrific scowl, and throws himself back into his usual barstool with all the bristled offense of a bard who just had their main playing hand lightly seared against the stars.

“My, my, what an expression,” says Kaeya, who must have arrived in the time Venti was away. “Someone steal your wine?”

Venti rolls his head over to give Kaeya a soulful look. The tricky Knight isn’t alone; Rosaria is seated beside him, as ever. She is removed from Venti’s despair, her attention entirely focused on the glass of red she nurses with the same care and consideration she gives to stabbing people in delicate places. (With precision.)

“Look at my hand!” Venti declares, still teary-eyed, and raises the limb for consideration. “My poor hand!”

Kaeya obediently looks at it. “I see,” he says. “Sunburns. How terrible.”

Rosaria snorts into her wine glass and them immediately pretends she did not.

“It is!” Venti says, and smacks the bar counter. “How can a bard play in such—”

“Don’t hit the counter,” says Diluc, with evil eyes.

“Sorry,” says Venti, meekly, hyper-aware of the fact Diluc still has his two other bottles of wine.

Kaeya laughs and swirls his drink. His smile is small and crafty and at ease, and he tips his cup towards Venti as if toasting the air. “How unfortunate. Luckily for you, we have a healer with us tonight.”

Barbara? How unusual; so rare to see the Deaconess here at this time of night. Kaeya is looking towards a table off to the side, and Venti cranes his neck over to look. Big hat brim—oooh, Lisa—and there, across from her—

“Jean!” Venti says, so surprised he forgets to be in pain. He whips back around and stares at Kaeya with wide eyes, genuinely impressed.

“Don’t look at me,” Kaeya says, but his smile has gone distinctly smug. “I simply… suggested there was a problem only someone of her caliber could handle. That it happened to be at the Angel’s Share is only coincidence.”

And Lisa backed him up with similar vague details, and by the time Jean walked through the door and realized she was played she was too reluctant to leave—after all, think of how rude it would be, to leave without even a drink! “I see, I see,” says Venti, grinning now. “I assume the problem in question was a bottle of wine?”

“Who can say,” says Kaeya, mysteriously.

“Pretty much,” says Rosaria, matter-of-factly.

“Your hand seems to have gotten better suspiciously quick, don’t you think,” says Diluc, who isn’t subtle at all.

Bothering Jean about his injury is only going to set her mind on work again, isn’t it? Urgh. How cruel.

“Everyone is so mean to me,” Venti says, lamenting, and leans his cheek against the bar. Diluc rolls his eyes.

“As sorry as I am for your…. injury,” Kaeya says, like that wasn’t just a super obvious pause or anything, “the atmosphere isn’t the same without a song. What do you say? Fancy giving us a performance?”

Venti stares at him through half-lidded eyes—hah! Weak to compliments he may be, but he’s not blind to sir Kaeya’s hypocrisy!—but anyway, even if Kaeya likes to use Venti’s bardic talents to have very mildly illegal conversations under everyone’s nose, it’s still for a good cause. Or something. And his hand really doesn’t hurt that bad…

“I quite like the one about Amos,” Rosaria remarks, equally manipulative.

“Ahh, the archer,” Venti says, perking up, and spins on his stool again, summoning his lyre to his hand. “Hehe, you’re a lady of good taste! Hm, let’s see… I have just the one.” He picks at the strings. Something quick, he thinks, something sharp and true— just like her. He smiles.

“In old Mondstadt there lived a lady fair, with ice-sharp eyes and snow-white hair…”

He sings of a god’s forgotten lover; he sings of the making of a revolutionary. Kaeya slips away to meet with a skittish lady hiding in the corner; Jean catches him going and gives him a knowing look, and Kaeya winks back at her. Lisa lifts a hand to her mouth and laughs. Rosaria sips her drink and watches the patrons of the bar with eagle eyes. Diluc polishes wine glasses.

He thinks the archer would roll her eyes, to hear this song— he thinks she would laugh. So fanciful, she might have said— little wind, you would think me the Cryo Archon with that sort of description. And the bard would have sung a grander ballad just for her amusement, and the warrior would have teased her, and the knight would have laughed—

The taste of the warrior’s wine sits sweet on his tongue. Venti finishes his song with a high note and flourish; he bows to clapping hands. Then he whirls on Diluc. “Two bottles of dandelion wine, if you please!” he says, cheerfully. “I think I’ve earned my due.”

Diluc sighs and hands one over. Venti pops the cork with a twist of the wind and tips the bottle back. Ahhh— so refreshing! “You’re missing one,” he informs Diluc, helpfully.

Diluc lifts the last bottle— and then pulls it out of range when Venti reaches for it. “Who was that you were talking with?” he says, when Venti scowls at him.

“He was at your tavern, don’t you know?”

Diluc’s eyes narrow. “That isn’t an answer. Who is he to you?”

An old friend— an old regret? But neither answer will satisfy Diluc. How funny, Venti thinks—for all he looks Ragnvindr and the warrior’s spitting image, he reminds Venti more of Kreuzlied than of either of them.

“He reminded me of an old friend,” Venti settles on, at last. It’s not even a lie, really— he’s known Dainsleif for a long time, technically… and more to the point, the man does bring to mind Vennessa. Something about duty, something about grief…. Though Vennessa has a better sense of humor!

“…So you followed him up to the balcony?”

“So paranoid, Master Diluc,” Venti says, sing-song, and when the furrow between Diluc’s brows only deepens, Venti leans against his elbow and offers him a quieter smile. “Have a little faith. Even if there’s a storm on the horizon… Mondstadt is more than ready for it.”

Diluc blinks, as close to surprised as he ever gets; Venti takes advantage of the moment to lurch forward and snatch back his last bottle of wine. “After all,” he adds, brightly. He leans back against the bar counter and waves his bottle at the tavern—Kaeya, now seated at Lisa and Jean’s table; Rosaria, and the Knights, and Amber and Noelle eating dinner on the Good Hunter patio, and Bennett and Fischl and Mona getting into their own special kinds of trouble, and Diona mixing her drinks and Eula and Mika combing the woods and Albedo and Sucrose in their labs and little Klee running around with Razor scaring all the Mondstadt fish senseless.

“Mondstadt has all of you!”

The bard and the warrior and the archer and the knight—singing, singing, forever steadfast in the winter cold. Vennessa and Ragnvindr and Kreuzlied, plotting rebellion at these drink-stained tables, creating home with their own two hands. So much time, and so many centuries—

But in this, perhaps, the people have stayed the same.

Diluc looks at him silently, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches over the bar, and picks up a wine glass, and pours Venti’s dandelion wine into the cup. “Drink properly,” he says, and that is that.

Venti grins at him.

It is not over, of course— in truth, it hasn’t even begun. There is the whisper of calamity in the winter winds; there is a careful balance, about to crack. But Venti is not afraid. The end of one thing, after all, is the beginning of another.

Venti tunes his lyre; the bar roars with life around him. He thinks of distant friends and long-ago laughter; he thinks of Dainsleif, and Vennessa, and the bard, and so many others. He feels warm. He feels as if this moment could last forever.

The wind rattles playful at the windows. Venti tilts back his head and sings.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin fic #venti #diluc #kaeya #vennessa genshin #nameless bard #ragnvindr #amos #gunnhildr #venti genshin #barbatos #iza fanfic #gi

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alarrytale · 4 months

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We have three whole pure pop albums from One Direction that Louis collaborated in so I really don’t mind if he wants to make his pop music with rock sensibilities or shift to the opposite. I just don’t want him to do a Liam Payne and release garbage music because he thinks that’s what the general public or even 1D fans want to hear. He loved 1D so he gave his all for those albums, but it’s clear it’s not where his heart is anymore and I don’t want him to produce watered down versions if what people actually want to hear because it’s popular.

I think it’s a little entitled to expect him to cater to his old fanbase. I don’t think it hurts for him to try and stand out and trying to gain listeners out of the usual demographic. If not he’s always going to try and play catchup to Harry and Niall, a person from his own team at BMG has said as much.

Why would you not want Louis to make the music that he likes?

Hi, anons!

I've said this before. I don't think he's in a position to make the music he likes (if that's indie music and punk rock). Much like Harry can't afford to make a jazz album. Louis can make the music he likes, but he can't at the same time expect his fandom to like it, stream it or buy tickets to his tour to hear it. It's like the Robbie Williams Rudebox thing all over again. Robbie made the music he loved and fans absolutely hated it. (If you don’t get the reference, go watch his docu on Netflix). Louis is on thin ice having bg, and yelling at larries isn't something that makes us want to listen to his music at all.

If he's going even more punk rock and indie that's going to push a way current fans. That's just the way it is. There are more 1d louis fans than there are solo louis fans. He can't gain enough new fans among his new target group (male indie/punk rock fans) with the new sound to compensate for the losses. That's the way i see it. It's not entitled to expect him to cater to his biggest and most loyal group of fans. That's just the logical business move. He needs new fans for his new sound, so he needs to also cater to them. That will however also distance him from his biggest and loyal group of fans. Mostly because there is a dichotomy between the image he's projecting and who he really is. I also don't think gaining male punk rock fans will work. He will never be genuinely indie and always a multi-millionaire boybander in their eyes. So i actually think it will hurt him to try.

I agree that he needs to stand out from H and N, and i think his current sound is great. FITF is a good album. It's if he goes even more punk rock or indie i think he'll lose fans. If he had a better image, was a true professional who had incredible live shows, and didn’t lie and gaslight his fans it wouldn't be a problem. He's not in that position unfortunatly.

#you can’t make the fandom love perfect now or sibwawc #and you can’t make pop loving 1d stans love punk rock #solo louis #louis image #indie

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set-phasers-to-whump · 1 year

Text

trust

prompt: cry into chest

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

woohoo second bingo!!! this fic is pre-ship and set pretty far into UNCLE's existence. hope you enjoy it!!

His face feels hot. His throat feels like it is swelling up, trying to choke him. His eyes are stinging and his vision is blurring, so that he almost cannot see Solo crouched in front of him, keeping his distance. Afraid to get close. Illya does not blame him.

He is upset. No longer in a shaking hands and uncontrollable rage kind of way. In a fragile and foreign and humiliating kind of way.

He’d met with Oleg over lunch in a small cafe overlooking the Thames. He had made a mistake on his latest KGB mission, and mistakes, of course, are intolerable. It had been small, inconsequential, to be sure, but Illya had felt duty bound to report it nonetheless. The meeting with Oleg thus had not come as a surprise, but Illya had not been prepared for it to sting as much as it had.

Oleg had told him he was getting soft, working with the British and the American. He’d said the usual things about Illya’s father. And then he had brought up Illya’s mother, usually an off-limits topic. He had not said anything outright, but his tone of voice had left nothing unspoken. Illya had dug his fingernails into his palms until his hands were bleeding to stop himself from doing something truly suicidal.

Oleg had then continued to criticize Illya’s performance, which, Illya had freely admitted, had not been his best. But everything that had needed to happen had still happened. His mistake had not cost them anything. Still, Illya had been threatened with a suspension from his active duties for the KGB and an immediate recall to Moscow for training, complete with total termination as an UNCLE agent.

He’d sworn to never make another mistake, agreed to pilfer some documents from UNCLE headquarters, and had then been dismissed as though everything was completely normal.

He’d gone to his apartment after that. At first he had simply paced around and clenched his fists, and then his downstairs neighbor had pounded on their ceiling and so he’d stopped and decided to take a cold shower.

And the shower had been broken. A thin trickle of ice-cold water had come out of the faucet with a concerning noise, and that had been all. Illya had very nearly put his fist through the shower wall.

That was how he had come to be here, sitting on the floor of Solo’s bathroom, still fully clothed, with his back to the wall and the shower that he had never made it into turned off by Solo himself, who is crouched in front of Illya looking at him as though he is some sort of wounded animal.

“Illya? Is everything okay?”

Illya finds himself unable to respond. His throat is too constricted to speak. He shakes his head to indicate that he is not going to say anything, and Solo moves a little closer.

“What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head again. The tightness has spread from his throat to his chest. It’s overwhelming. He can barely see. He has not felt this…this raw in a very long time. Like every part of him is exposed. Like every part of him is hurting.

Solo puts a hand on his knee and the point of contact burns with a pleasant warmth. “Илья,” he says in a near whisper, the name leaving his tongue with the Russian pronunciation instead of the English.

It’s this that does it. Illya shakes his head for a final time, and suddenly there are hot tears spilling down his cheeks and there are hands on his shoulders and he sags forwards and Solo catches him and now there is no space between them, no room for uncertainty or fear, and Solo pulls him close and Illya tucks his head against Solo’s chest and Solo wraps an arm around Illya’s back and tangles the fingers of his other hand in Illya’s hair, and Illya fists his hands into the fabric of Solo’s shirt and listens to his heartbeat and feels his breathing and cries.

It has been a long time since Illya has cried, and an even longer time since he has cried in front of another human being. He cannot stop the tears from falling and he does not want to let go of Solo or to push him away, but his face burns in shame regardless. He should not be doing this.

But who will ever know, besides the two of them? Who will ever know that Illya Kuryakin is vulnerable, that he is not a machine? Someone he can trust, as much as he is physically able to. Someone who will poke fun at him for all kinds of things but who would never touch something like this.

He cries against Solo’s chest until he is exhausted and his eyes itch and burn with dryness. There is a moment of absolute silence in the small bathroom, where Illya’s heart pounds and a strong, instinctual fear grips him - what if he has taken Solo’s kindness too far? What if everything in his life is about to fall away from him?

Solo puts a warm hand on the back of Illya’s neck as they both pull away from each other. “All right?”

Illya nods mutely, his fear slipping away. He does feel slightly better. Lighter. He also feels like he could fall asleep right here on the tiles.

“You look exhausted. Come on.”

Solo stands, and suddenly Illya feels very cold. And then Solo reaches his hands down and grabs Illya’s hands and warmth flows through him again as his partner helps him to his feet.

He follows Solo to the bedroom and then stops on the threshold. He cannot take over the bed, even if it does look like the most inviting thing in the world.

“Come on,” Solo says, from beside the bed.

Illya shakes his head. “It’s -” He stops, coughs to clear his throat of the scratchiness, and continues. “It’s your bed. I cannot take it from you.”

“You’re not taking it, I’m offering.”

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

Illya, now lacking an argument, acquiesces. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes off his shoes and jacket and then looks to Solo for confirmation that he is actually okay with this.

He gets a nod and a smile that is gentler than Solo’s usual smile. The bed is soft and comfortable below him. Before he can think too much more about it, he burrows himself under the covers, takes a deep breath that carries with it the smell of his partner, and shuts his eyes.

He’s on the edge of sleep when gentle fingers, feather-light, touch his cheek and smooth out his hair. If he were almost anywhere else, he’d bolt upright and smack the hand out of the way.

Instead, he falls asleep.

thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed and happy valentine's day! love you guys <3

#bad things happen bingo #the man from uncle #illya kuryakin #cry into chest #emotional whump #crying #held #comfort #my writing #i say things #also btw the squares with circles people have requested but i have plans for all the other ones as well #i had someone req one of them and luckily it was the only one i didn't have plans for yet #but pls don't request anything else bc i already know what im doing now lmao #anyway bye for now!!

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toournextadventure · 1 year

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Someone tell me why i want to make an OC for EBH? One that would be really powerful but also, and I cannot stress this enough, a healthy friend for Birb.

Why is Ice powers in my head? Why is FIRE powers in my head? Did I just unconsciously make a Todoroki out of thin air.

(We don't go down the My hero Academia route because the fandom is toxic but the story and animation is cool.)

I'm thinking up ideas for police Officer Birb and Firefighter Birb still. Help.

— 🕊️

No but that's EXACTLY what Birb needs. Just an unproblematic bestie that they can be NORMAL PEOPLE with because, no offense to the Scooby Gang, they're all a bunch of disasters. And FIRE??? Yes please

(Listen, never seen it but heard of it, is it worth the watch?)

See, I can't help with that because I just KNOW Birb would just... be such a whore if they were an officer or firefighter

#birb answers #🕊️

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dibbiedabbiedoobie · 2 years

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Cage

Another voretober prompt! Cage, this time. Do not look at me for the fandom, I also have a Pri/de & Pre/jud/ice fic laying around somewhere. Vore brain never stops, not even for classic literature. I also did try to imitate the style a little but like... i am Bad at That lmao

Word Count: 1882 Fandom: The Gre/at Gat/sby Tags: safe vore, soft vore, unwilling prey, fearplay, fatal vore (implied, past) Summary: Nick is a tiny caught and conditioned to eventually become a pliant meal. Gatsby is the giant who steals him.

Shivering, I curl inwards on myself, trying to burrow deeper into my thin, raggedy shirt. It's terribly cold in Tom's cellar now that winter has set, and the metal flooring of my cage only saps at what little warmth I have left. I crouch on my toes, trying to limit contact, but it helps little. Really, all it does is upset my ribs, which are still bruised from yesterday's "training," as Tom calls it. In actuality, it's more akin to torture. At the slightest fault -- or even lack thereof -- he likes to squeeze me until my bones feel as though they're about to snap. It's most common for him to simply take me around the chest and crack a few ribs, but he's also narrowly avoided breaking my limbs and skull. He likes to drop me, too. Never from too high, lest he lose his toy, but enough to hurt and leave me winded. My body is splattered with bruises of various colors, like a macabre sort of painting. I wish I had someone to gripe with, to share complaints and comforts, but I'm the only one left. There were twelve of us, but Tom gobbled them up as it suited his fancy, forcing me to listen as they were slowly digested alive. Those muffled screams haunt my sleep, sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. I know I'll be next, soon. As much as I seem to be Tom's favorite, I'm still only a snack to him. The thought makes me equal parts terrified and relieved; God knows I don't want to die, but at least I'll be free from the bruises, beatings, and constant anxiety. My heart leaps into my chest as the cellar door creeks open, though my body is too sore to jump. A man appears, tall and broad and clean-shaven, with short-clipped blond hair. He wears a sweater vest over a collared shirt, and neat black slacks; if he weren't about to kill me, I'd call him handsome. As it is, I whimper softly and press as far away from the cage door as I can manage. Though I know my death is inevitable, I still don't wish it to come now. Surprisingly, he falters, almost as if my own shock put him off. His face softens, and he whispers a mournful, "Oh, poor thing..." I remain pressed against the back of my cage, mindful not to ever meet his eyes (a staple of Tom's training). His voice sounds so sad, and it thoroughly confuses me. Perhaps he's upset I clearly can't put up the sort of fight he wants? Or because I don't have enough meat to be as filling a snack as he would like? He bends down to get a better look at me, and I can't help but feel like a mouse under a cat's scrutinizing eye. Trapped, waiting to see if their captor is hungry enough for this particular meal. "Jay! Where'd you go?" Tom's muffled voice calls from above, startling the man. The giant -- Jay -- bites his lip, then flips open the lock to my cage. "Sorry about this, old sport." Immediately, I grab a hold of the bars -- for as much as this place has represented captivity, it's represented safety, too. Here, I wasn't hurt or squeezed or threatened. As awful as it was, cold and uncomfortable and dark, it was safe. More safe than the hands of a giant could ever hope to be. Jay... hesitates before reaching for me. I don't understand that either, though I suppose it doesn't matter much; he's still planning to eat me, and no amount of pity will stop his stomach acids. With terrifying ease, he plucks me away and lifts me aloft. His fingers are almost too hot against my frigid skin, and I can't help a sharp yelp. "You're so cold, old sport," murmurs Jay, yet again mournful. "I'll have that fixed up in a jiffy. Just relax, alright? Trust me." He opens his maw wide, too-sharp teeth gleaming in the dim lights. He starts to lower me inside, and suddenly I find my voice. "S-Stop!" I cry, beginning to wriggle for all I'm worth. "Please! No! Let me go, please!" Of course, it does nothing to stop the giant from pushing my body onto his tongue. My heart feels like it's somehow going even faster, and I keep squirming, though to no avail. Something raw and pained bubbles in my throat, until a scream comes out. What little light there is begins to dim, and I realize he's closing his mouth, Try as I might, though, I can't get the traction on his tongue to wrench myself free, not before I'm locked in the dark behind a wall of teeth. Jay ignores me, instead tossing me about and slathering me in spit. His tongue is probing, thorough with its work, making me squirm and fight against it. He spends far less time than I expect enjoying me, though; too soon, gravity tips, and a thick glk! drags me into the hot and tight of his throat. The powerful muscles squeeze my body, press in on my chest and make it near impossible to breathe, let alone squirm. I can feel myself growing light-headed, though I suppose that's for the best, given that I'm already going to suffocate. Unfortunately, I'm still conscious when I finally squeeze into Jay's stomach. For a long moment, I simply sit, let the dizziness fade. Then, I simply sit, let reality sink in. I'm going to die here. Soon enough, acids will pour from the walls, the air will thin, and I'll die. If I still had tears left, I might cry. Instead, I pull myself into a ball and wait; there's no point squirming, not anymore. The flesh around me groans, briefly squeezing me tighter than my already snug confines before relaxing. It's already trying to digest me, I belatedly realize. And yet, it never manages to get further. The acids never come, and there's little the churning can do to break down something not already acid-softened. The air, stale though it may be, remains breathable, somehow. Frankly, I don't understand it. Why would Jay eat me, but not digest me? Was it even intentional? What is he going to do with me once he realizes I'm not turning into mush like I should be? I can hear him talking to someone, presumably Tom. He seems in a hurry to leave, no doubt because he indulged himself in the last of the other giant's stock. Perhaps in a rush to get home, take whatever medicines he needs to kick his digestion into gear. I relax, just enough to settle. There's no point in remaining stiff; I'm helpless, and we both know it. The least I can hope for is death to be swift when it comes. I find myself looking around, feeling the walls, though I know there's not really much to find. It's as dark and cramped as I'd imagined a stomach to be, though much, much softer, almost like a hammock made of plush pillows. Saliva, or whatever the fluid around me happens to be, covers every inch, including myself. It's warm as well, warm enough that it feels like a blanket rather than just the air. It's... comfortable, I realize. Far more comfortable than I think an organ meant to process food has any right to be. I startle as something presses against my side and someone rumbles, "Are you alright, old sport?" I blink. Surely, he isn't talking to me. "Old sport?" Jay tries again, and the pressure returns, probing (I realize then that it's his hand). "I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to make sure that you're alright. Hesitantly, I push my hand against one of the fleshy walls. I'm not certain what he wants from me, but he hasn't killed me yet. It would probably be in my best interests to let him know I'm alive. "Oh! There you are!" His voice brightens, though it remains soft enough that it doesn't hurt my ears. "Are you alright?" It takes a moment to find my voice. "I... I think so..." Jay's acknowledgement comes in the form of a gentle pet against my side. "I'm ever so sorry for scaring you like that, old sport. If I'd had the chance, I would've told you that you'd be safe." "Safe?" I murmur, in spite of the fact that it's long since been clear that I won't be harmed. All the same, it's difficult to believe that was intentional. "Of course, dear boy, perfectly safe. Tom had bragged about catching a few humans, so I popped down to help while he was distracted." Jay's voice goes quieter, solemn. "...Sorry I couldn't have gotten there earlier." I whine softly, mourning the loss of people I never really knew. Distant they might have been, none of them deserved to die, and much less is such an awful, painful way. "I can't let you out quite yet," Jay continues, "but I promise I will as soon as I'm home. It's not safe for you to be outside right now, not with hungry giants with intentions far less pure than mine." "What are your intentions?" I ask before I can stop myself. I still don't know why Jay seems intent on keeping me safe. Am I a pet? A snack of sorts? He went through an awful lot of trouble for me, and it makes no sense. "To give you a home, old sport," answers Jay without missing a beat. "You're just as much a sentient creature as I am, and you deserve more than to be murdered in cold blood." "Oh." Jay chuffs sadly. "I bet you expected to be a pet, didn't you? ...It's not an unfair assumption, I suppose, given your experiences. But I said I'd keep you safe, and part of that is making sure you're healthy, mentally as well as physically. Perhaps it's just me, but the idea of being owned does little to calm my mind, even if by someone benevolent." I bite my lip, hesitant. "...Really?" "I promise." Something in my chest does a little flip. The prospect of somewhere safe to stay, where I don't have to constantly watch for hungry giants or have to struggle to find food and water is so tempting.... and if Jay had meant ill, I wouldn't be alive right now. But still.... "Will I be able to leave?" I ask. "Of course. Like I said, you aren't a pet. And you don't have to stay now if you don't want to. I only ask that you take some time to recover before you leave, for your own safety." I stare into the darkness. Such open, unadulterated generosity is strange to me. Other borrowers were constantly competing; there was no such thing as sharing, there. To have it from a giant is even more unnerving. Yet here I sit, nestled whole, safe, and alive in his stomach. I should be long dead, but Jay has been nothing short of hospitable. If it's a ruse, it's one I can't see through or bring myself to mistrust. "I'll stay with you, if you don't mind." Jay gives my side a stroke. "You won't regret it, old sport. I promise."

#dibbiewrites #v.ore #v0re #safe vore #soft vore #extreme cuddling #fearplay #the gre/at gat/sby #i suppose the vorified tag would be like #the great voresby #that looks silly but i guess it works #wondering if anyone else has written unironic gat/sby vore of if i'm the first

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