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runnning-outof-time · 2 years

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The Reckoning | Tommy Shelby x Ghost!Reader

Request: no - part of @retromafia ‘s Supernatural Celebration

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x ghost!reader

Summary: Tommy gets visited by the love of his life on multiple occasions. Each visit helps him to cope, but the last saves his life. With it, he's finally able to come to the reckoning that she's gone.

Warnings: drinking, drug use, death, suicidal ideations, angst

Word Count: 2989

A/N: this is my first attempt at a supernatural-themed fic, so I hope it’s not cringey and makes sense. Inspiration hit me while I was listening to the song titled ‘Reckoning’ by Whiskey Myers - it’s a pretty haunting song, but if you listen to it, you’ll find that I went a sort of different direction with the fic. I also used the words from a poem titled ‘Ode to the West Wind’ by Peggy Shelley. I trust that you’ll know it from somewhere else too - it seems that Tommy was into poetry long before he claimed he was haha. Anyways, I’m sorry for babbling. A BIG congrats to @retromafia for hitting this amazing milestone - I’m so honored to be able to participate in your celebration! I hope you enjoy! :)

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR THOUGHTS & COMMENTS HELP ME WRITE!

Tommy didn't know what to do anymore. He was lost. A shell of himself. He still couldn't wrap his brain around how suddenly everything changed. One day, his wife was smiling by his side, and the next she was...gone.

She was supposed to go see her parents. They lived back in Small Heath and she liked to travel back to be in their company often. Tommy chose not to accompany her this time. He had work he had to get done; deadlines he had to meet. If only he knew at the time that that'd be the last time that she would try to coax him out of his office.

It was raining that afternoon. Tommy had gotten a driver to take (Y/N) to her parents because he didn't want her to go alone. He thought sending her with someone would be safer. But nobody could have been prepared for what happened on her way there. Visibility was limited but the driver still continued on. Due to the fog and the rain, he had little time to react to the animal that was standing in the middle of the road. In fact, the driver couldn't even identify what type of animal it was. His reaction to the roadblock was to swerve. It wasn't known at the time that they were driving close to a steep embankment. So when the driver swerved, the car rolled over the side. He managed to pull himself out of the wreckage and go off to find someone who could get help to the scene. But when he returned to the crash, he found that (Y/N) didn't make it. She was gone...just like that.

The months after her death passed by slowly for Tommy. His family tried to get him out of the house many times, but he'd turned into a recluse. When he tried to get things done, he'd just stare at the papers. It was like nothing mattered anymore. He stayed inside the confines of his home. The place, which once held so much love and life inside of it, now felt like a tomb. It served as a cruel reminder to what happened, but it was all that was left of the two of them.

Sleeping was also hard for him. He'd taken for granted the many nights where she would try to get him to come to bed with her. Of course, he wouldn't listen, and she'd go to bed upset. But that still didn't stop her from snuggling into his embrace whenever he did retire for the night. He used to love that feeling; that feeling that he'd never be able to get to experience again. No matter how hard he tried, or how tired he was, he wasn't able to get to sleep. He couldn't lay in their bed. It wasn't the same without her by his side. He wasn't able to sleep alone.

So he took to staying up all night. Him sitting in a drink and opiate induced haze was the closest thing he got to sleeping. It helped to clear his head of his misery for a moment in time; helped him to forget the fact that his wife was gone, and that she was never coming back.

It was in those early hours of the morning, sitting in a haze, that he started to notice things. Things that weren't quite natural, or explainable. At first, he thought it was from the vices he'd been using to help him cope; thought that they were making him hallucinate, but it still continued on the (few) nights he was sober.

It started with him seeing something out of the corner of his eye. Like someone was standing just out of his line of sight. Each time he tried to look and see who it might be, to see if someone was actually there, the figure would disappear. He also thought at times that he could see someone moving, but the second he'd go to focus on it, it would be gone. He tried to connect it to something rational, but could find no explanation for it.

Then smells started appearing out of nowhere. He'd be sitting at his desk in his office, trying desperately to get work done, and the scent of (Y/N)'s perfume would waft through the air. It always seemed to come at a certain time on the nights when it happened: the time of night that she used to come in and attempt to get him to come to sleep with her. The smell made him stop. It made him glance up in hopes that he'd been stuck in a dream for the last eight months and that she was coming into his office to see him, like it was any other normal night. But she wasn't there. And much like the figures he saw out of the corner of his eye, the smell would disappear as quickly as it came on.

After that came noises. The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall, the hushed whisper of what he swore was her voice. It never had any vocal tone to it, and he could never understand what she was saying, but he swore that it was her. It had to be.

One night in particular it happened to be raining really hard. Tommy was, once again, sitting in the chair behind his desk, trying to get some work done. Trying was a bit of an exaggeration. He had just been staring at a blank piece of paper for the last forty minutes. He'd glanced up at the doorway several times, each time thinking that he saw someone there, but he'd look up to see no one.

Then he heard someone walking around downstairs. He knew it to be coming from the main entry room because footsteps on the tile always echoed up the grand staircase and down the hall his office was off of. He listened to them as they continued for an unknown amount of minutes. Whoever was making them sounded like they were walking in circles.

This is where Tommy became confused. He knew for a fact that none of his staff were downstairs. He only kept a small number of workers now, and they'd gone to bed for the night...he was sure of that. So he decided to stand from his chair, downing the rest of the whisky sitting in his glass before he exited his office.

"I came back, Tommy," he heard the sweetest voice say the second he stepped into the section of the hall that overlooked the entry below. Like before, he saw something, or someone, standing below him out of the corner of his eye. But this time, when he turned to face it straight on, the person stayed. And that person was (Y/N).

Tommy's eyes widened as he realized that his wife was standing below him. "(Y/N)..." he breathed out in confusion, blinking several times after he spoke. She was still there when he stopped.

"I came all the way back here to see you, Tommy," she told him, standing as still as ever as he slowly descended the steps.

"You...you did," he stammered out. His mind was running at a million miles a minute as he tried to make sense of what was going on in front of him. Was his wife really standing in front of him?

"You never come to see me, Tommy," was the next thing that she said. She was still standing in the same spot, the only movement she was making was her whole body turning to face him as he came down the segmented staircase.

Tommy felt a pang of guilt in his heart when he heard that. He hadn't been to her grave since the funeral. He couldn't bring himself to do it. The emotions were still too raw, and he didn't want to feel them. He, instead, stayed locked up in his home, hiding from the fact that she was gone. Hiding from the truth. "I know, love. I'm so sorry," he apologized to her as he stopped on the landing of the last set of steps. He could see her more clearly now. "You...you're hurt, (Y/N)," he breathed, now noticing the scratches and bruises that adorned her face and exposed arms.

"This is what happened to me, Tommy," she told him. "It happened so fast. It was sudden. I didn't even know..."

Tears were now welling up in his eyes as he heard what she said. He wondered why she trailed off; wondered what else she was going to tell him. His mind was too jumbled at the moment to even think of what to say next. "I miss you," was all he was able to get out.

"I know," she nodded her head ever so gently.

"But you came back. You're here now," he breathed, finally taking more steps to get closer to her. He needed to feel her in his arms again. To feel the warmth she radiated.

"I have to go, Tommy," she told him just as he stepped off the final step. He was only a few feet away from her now. He could see the peaceful expression she wore. Seeing it brought him a feeling of peace like he hadn't experienced in so long.

"No...stay," he begged her, stepping closer. Just before he could stop in front of her, she dissipated into the air. He was met with nothingness before what felt like a cold wind rushed both through and around him. It encompassed him for a moment and made him fill with a sudden feeling of sadness. He couldn't hold back the tears anymore, and he dropped down to his knees as they started to fall down his cheeks. "(Y/N)..." he breathed through his sobs. She was just here a moment ago. Standing right in front of him. Seeing her made him feel peace. Now she was gone again. He was alone once more. As the feeling of cold dissipated much like the presence of her did, Tommy pulled himself back up off the ground. He then moved to the front room and got himself a drink before sitting on the couch. He fell deeper into his nightly haze and hoped that she'd visit him again...but she didn't.

It was hard to believe that an entire year had passed. That he'd lived an entire year without her. He'd seen (Y/N) several more times after that night. Each was much like the first. He'd approach her only to have her disappear the second he was in front of her. But it helped him to cope with his feelings. It helped him to hide from the fact that she was gone. Seeing her made him feel normal again; made him feel at peace. Now, he wanted to feel at peace for good.

He finally traveled to the place where her body had been laid to rest. It was a foggy day, and it couldn't have been more fitting. He was struck with sadness when he first approached her grave. This was the exact reason why he chose not to come here. It made it all too real for him. But then he remembered what he would do; that soon he would be with her. That gave him the ability to carry on. He came to a stop in front of her headstone, squinting slightly to read the inscription that was etched into the stone: (Y/N) Shelby, 1894-1924. "If winter comes, can spring be far behind?" The quote was from one of her favorite poems: 'Ode to the West Wind' by Percy Shelley. It was a rather bleak one, but she chose to focus on its last stanza, which is where this line comes from. He remembered when she first told him about it. She said that that line shows that even in the middle of the darkness of winter, you can hold onto the hope that spring would come soon. That even in the darkness that is death, you can also celebrate life.

Tommy stared at the stone for a few more minutes before he fell down beside it. On either side of his legs, he set down the two things he'd been holding. On his left sat a half-finished bottle of whisky, one of the things that helped him muster up the ability to visit her grave. On his right, a revolver. The very thing that would allow him to see her again...for good. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a drink, trying to wash away the tears with the amber liquid. It was no use. They still rolled down his cheeks when he sat the bottle back on the ground.

"I'll be with you soon, my love," he said then, speaking to the empty air around him in hopes that she was listening. He rested back against her headstone and looked up at the cloudy sky. He hated that this was the closest he was able to get to her.

He then smelt her perfume on the wind as it blew by him and it made him wonder if he was just hallucinating. If it was his mind making him think that she was there. But then he heard her voice: "you came, Tommy."

He looked straight ahead of him again, seeing a figure out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, he turned his head in hopes that it wouldn't disappear. She didn't. Several feet away to the left of him, (Y/N) was sitting on the stone bench. She was covered in the same cuts and bruises that he saw the first time she'd come to him, but she also had a peaceful expression on her face. "I came," he breathed, feeling at peace as he saw her again. The tears stopped falling as he stared at her, unable to look away, as if he was in some type of trance.

"Don't be scared," she told him then. Her sweet voice was like music to his ears. It further spurred him down the path of doing what he ultimately came here to do.

"I'm not," he shook his head, "I'm not scared. I'm just all alone," he told her, his voice shaky.

"You're not alone, Tommy. I am with you."

Hearing her say this made his heart drop. Because it wasn't true. She wasn't with him. Sure, he could feel her at times, but those moments weren't enough. He needed to be with her for good. For eternity. "I will be lying next to you soon," he told her, his right hand going to grip the handle of the revolver laying at his side.

Then he watched the look of peace leave her face. It took his feeling along with it and replaced it with sadness and a bit of fear. "You won't be. Not like that. You'll be stuck. They won't let you pass," she warned him, as if she knew what he was contemplating. "Go on, Tommy. You're not done yet. My work was finished, but you have much more to do. I'll be waiting for you when it's time but now you have to go on without me."

"What if I don't want to?" he dared to ask, his stubbornness shining through, "I can't go on without you. I can't come to terms with the truth."

"I will be with you, Tommy. I am with you. Always." The feeling of peace returned with her words. "I love you." With that, her figure disappeared, leaving Tommy alone again.

"No..." he breathed out, blinking a few times in hopes that she'd reappear. But she didn't. She was gone. "No, my love, no," he stammered out, his head dropping down. His eyes fell onto the revolver. He knew what he had to do. But he couldn't bring his hand to raise it any higher. Like it was too heavy to hold. "Please," he begged, several sobs falling from his lips then. "Please, let me."

All of a sudden, he left like was being embraced. Like two warm arms had wrapped around his body and brought him into shelter from the storm. And the feeling of peace returned. The words (Y/N) had just said echoed through his mind: "I will be with you...I am with you...always." The phrases kept repeating through his head, becoming a sort of a mantra to him. His grip on the revolver eased up. He let it fall from his hand so that he could bring both of them up to cover his face. To cover his sobs. "I will be with you...I am with you...always. Go on without me."

He came to a reckoning at that moment. The truth that he'd spent an entire year pushing away and trying to hide from was now evident. (Y/N) was gone. She wasn't coming back. But her spirit would still be with him, and he could still talk to her when he needed her comfort. He couldn't give up. Giving up would let her memory disappear, and that was the last thing he wanted. He would be her spring; would spend the rest of his life celebrating and honoring hers. So he had to continue. He had to continue for her. Until he could finally be put to rest and be beside her once more, he would go on as her memory's vessel. All of the work he would carry out would be for her. Because, in that embrace he’d just felt, she had given him the will to live.

Tagged: @alreadybroken-ts @magicalxdaydream @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @golden-hoax @elenavampire21

MASTERLIST

Read the poem, ‘Ode to the West Wind’ here

Listen to the song here:

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x ghost!reader #peaky blinders #peakyxtommy #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #Spotify

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allyouneedisbuck · 3 years

Text

the warmth of your love

summary -> there are more ways to say i love you than just i love you. you and bucky share a few.

words -> 2.2k

warnings -> pining, friends to lovers, back to my fluffy bucky roots, female!reader

notes -> i wrote a harry s. piece similar to this years ago & it’s so interesting to see how my writing has changed since then. based off of this list. items from the list are italicized!

— ➶ —

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

They’re simple words that Bucky has become accustomed to.

Steve Rogers departure has left a hole in the world and a gap in Bucky’s chest that aches. They were best friends, brothers, and Bucky wasn’t sure how to navigate this world without him.

Bucky has grown used to the pity filled eyes of the Avengers, or at least what’s left of them, and the apologetic tone of voice.

The way the words came from your mouth though was different. Your eyes full of kindness and a small smile on your face that offered comfort.

“Th..Thank you.” Bucky says quietly. The two of you have only known each other for a couple years now, but Bucky finds comfort in you more than he does people he’s known since Steve and Sam had saved him. “It means a lot.”

Your hand squeezes his right forearm gently. “If you need anything, I’m here for you.”

He knows the words hold true; That if he called, you’d be over with dinner or movies to help him. It makes Bucky feel warm in a way he hasn’t in almost a century.

“I know.” His left hand covers yours. “I appreciate it.” You both share a smile, small and private, before the moment is over.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

There’s a knock on his door that makes Bucky jump. He’s been working on his reactions, logically he knows not everybody is out to get him, but it’s something ingrained in his mind.

He’s working on being better about it, he is, but it’s almost ten at night and Bucky doesn’t really have many friends left.

His hand wraps around the hilt of his knife as he creeps towards his apartment door. There’s another knock and Bucky moves to look through the peephole.

It’s you. Covered dishes in your hand and scarf wrapped tightly around your neck. Bucky’s lips quark up at the sight, fall was starting and fall in New York was a bitter cold. His hand falls from his knife as he moves to unlock the door.

“What are you doing here?” He asks incredulously as you step inside. Bucky’s eyes find his makeshift bed on the living room floor and he shifts in embarrassment.

You gently place the glass dish on his counter and shrug your coat off. “I was in the neighborhood.” It’s an obvious lie, if the meal for two is anything to go by, but Bucky doesn’t dispute it. “Thought you might be hungry.”

You move around his kitchen like you belong there, pulling out plates and utensils. Bucky watches with his mouth parted in awe. “You didn’t have to-“

“-I wanted to.” You move over, making room for Bucky to stand beside you, and hold out a fork for him. “Now, come on. It’s a new recipe.”

Bucky holds a finger up. “Let me get you a drink. I have some wine.” He shuffles through his cabinets until he comes across a bottle of white wine, a housewarming gift from Sam.

“Now it’s a date.” You giggle and Bucky can feel his cheeks heat, not at the insinuation of it being a date but the fact that he so desperately wishes it was.

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

Bucky knows you’re not his girlfriend. It’s a painful observation he makes every time you bring something over or offer to go out. The way your hands brush but never intertwine and how you give him a hug and press a kiss to his cheek instead of his lips.

Bucky knew you weren’t his girlfriend, but he didn’t know you were dating.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Your voice is choked up and you struggle to get the words out, “I just, I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Bucky’s mind has slipped into panic mode as he jumps up from his couch. He moves around his apartment, hastily pulling on pants and socks while holding the phone to his ear and listening for any signs of pain. “Where are you?”

You sniffle. “I’m fine! I’m not hurt! Well, not physically anyway. I had a date tonight and he stood me up.” You suck in a deep breath and Bucky freezes.

A date?

“So, my pride is injured.” You joke, but Bucky’s stuck frozen in the middle of his living room with one shoe on and a broken heart.

He knows, okay, he knows you never told him you had feelings for him. That you didn’t owe him anything, but he thought maybe…

“…But physically I’m okay.” You’re still talking and Bucky is only half listening. “Can I come over? I’m, like, five blocks away. Bad Moon bar. I can walk to your place. I just need a friend.”

The word rings in Bucky’s ears, but he forces himself to speak. “Stay there. I’ll come get you.” Bucky moves to pull his second shoe on and pulls on a coat.

He hears your sigh of relief. “Thank you so much. I’ll be outside.” Bucky swallows thickly when you hang the phone up.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

You have another date. This time with a man who asked what your favorite flower is and has decided to take you out to dinner instead of a bar.

Bucky’s chest hurts, but he stays silent. He’s unwilling to break this friendship up by telling you how he feels, especially when it seems clear to him that you do not feel the same way.

“Okay! Okay!” You come barreling down your hallway and into the living room. Bucky looks up from his phone and his mouth almost falls open in shock.

You look lovely in the dress that flows to your feet. It fits around your curves and Bucky can’t stop his eyes from trailing over you in awe.

“Wow.” He murmurs. Your eyes shift and you glance down at your hands fiddling in the front of your stomach. “You look…”

You cut him off before he can get anymore words out, “I look ridiculous! I knew it. I look far too dressed up.” You spin on your heel, but Bucky shoots up to stop you.

“No! You look…” He trails off nervously. Bucky looks at you, really looks at you, someone warm and full of light and understands what this feeling he has around you is. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Happy Birthday.” & “I made this for you.”

Bucky walks into his apartment and is immediately hit with the smell of vanilla. He can hear your voice, reading ingredients to yourself, from his entryway and smiles to himself.

“I knew there was a reason Sam kept me out all day.” Bucky laughs when you jump and drop the whisk in your hand. “What’re you doing here, sweetheart?”

Your shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “It’s your birthday!” You smile brightly as Bucky presses a greeting kiss to your cheek.

“I’ve had too many of them, no need to bring attention to it.” Bucky dips a finger in the whipped frosting in your hands and laughs when you smack it away.

“We have to celebrate!” You exclaim with an affronted look. “No ifs ands or buts! Happy birthday, Bucky!”

The bowl of frosting is dropped on the counter as you move to wrap your arms tightly around Bucky’s waist. He settles in your arms as his own come up to wrap around you.

The poems and stories talk about being in the arms of the one you love as rapid heartbeats and butterflies but all Bucky feels is calm. It’s like the worries of his day to day life just slip away when he’s with you.

It’s good, so wonderfully good to have an anchor like that. He didn’t need the butterflies that made him feel sick or the rapid heartbeat that worsened his anxiety. He just needed the warmth.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Bucky presses another kiss to the top of your head. You pull away to look up at him excitedly. “What’s that look for?”

You pull away completely and move around to pull your bag off of one of his kitchen stools. “I made this for you.” Your voice is quiet and nervous as you push a wrapped box towards him.

It’s a small book, one with no title to indicate what’s on the inside, but Bucky can tell it’s something personal from the way you’re rocking back and forth nervously on your feet.

When he opens it to the first page, tears almost spring to his eyes. His lungs burn with effort to not cry as he flips through picture after picture. Him, you and him, him with Sam and Steve and all of you together.

Each photo has a small note next to it too. Hearts and smiley faces decorate the edges. Bucky looks up at you with his mouth open in awe.

“This is… Nobody has ever done something this special for me before.” He admits quietly. “I love it.”

A sigh of relief escapes you as Bucky moves to pull you into his arms again. “Happy Birthday, Buck.” You murmur into his chest.

It’s the best birthday Bucky’s had since he was a child.

“You can tell me anything.”

You’re nervous.

It’s obvious in the way your eyes shift to Bucky before back to the sidewalk in front of you.

Your nervousness is making Bucky nervous. His fingers twitching every so often and he finds himself shifting around as if he expects something to hop out from behind one of the trees.

“Are you okay?” Bucky finally asks when he notices your hands tangled together in front of your stomach. “You’re being fidgety.”

You look up with wide, shocked eyes like you had forgotten Bucky was there entirely, too caught up in your own thoughts. “I’m okay!” You say quickly.

Bucky feels his eyes narrow and he forces you to a stop beside him with a gentle hand on your elbow. “Are you sure?”

“Yep! Just busy overthinking.” You laugh awkwardly as you glance down at the hand still wrapped around your elbow. Bucky drops it quickly, but your hand reaches out to intertwine your fingers with his. “I just… I’ve been wanting to ask you.. No. Tell you something.”

Bucky squeezes your hand gently. “You can tell me anything.” He says quietly. You look at him with wet eyes and Bucky feels himself panic. “No judgement, not from me, not ever.”

“Promise?” You ask quietly. Your voice sounds so unlike you, so nervous and uncomfortable that Bucky isn’t sure what he can do to make it better.

So he nods. “Promise. I’m the last person to judge, sweetheart.”

“I love you.”

It’s right out of those romantic comedies that Bucky pretends to dislike. The way you stand in front of him, wrapped up in a winter coat and scarf, with trembling hands and admit to Bucky how you feel.

“I’ve felt like this for a long time. A really long time now, I don’t think I could even tell you when because it just happened.” You ramble when you’re nervous, a habit Bucky thinks is adorable. “And I knew you were going through a lot, so I never said anything. I love being your friend, I do, but I had to tell you. It’s tearing me up having this secret because I hate secrets.”

Bucky says your name in an attempt to cut you off, but you don’t seem to hear him. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I-“

Your lips press shut when Bucky’s hands come up to cup your cheeks. “Will you shut up for just one second?” He asks sweetly.

You nod with wide eyes. “I feel warm around you,” Bucky starts off, “I don’t feel butterflies or sweaty palms. I used too, sometimes when you look at me a certain way I still do, but most of the time I just feel warm. I… I feel like I can breathe again. I feel calm. You make me calm.”

“What?” You ask softly. It’s obvious you’re trying to not get your hopes up as Bucky talks.

“I love you too.” Bucky says clearly. Your hand comes up to rest over his on your cheek as you press into the pressure. “You make it easy for me to breathe again.”

Bucky feels the sigh of relief you let out. “You make it easy for me too.” You say quietly, your tone much lighter than before.

“Can I kiss you?”

When you nod, Bucky can feel his entire face brighten. He’s sure there’s a nervous blush there as you tilt your head up towards him and leans to meet you halfway.

It’s just as warm as you are, the way you kiss. Slow and pushing all of your emotions into it. Your lips are cold, but Bucky’s sure his are too.

It’s everything he’s wanted with you. Despite the snowflakes beginning to fall around you and the wind nipping at his skin, all Bucky feels is warmth.

Bonus -> “Can I have this dance?”

A winter wedding seemed fitting when you had suggested it. Something small, intimate and warm. Just a few of your closest friends and family to bear witness.

You’ve been wandering around the venue for the past hour, saying hi to family and catching up with people you’ve been too busy to hang out with the past couple of months. Bucky’s sick of not having you by his side.

His arm wraps your waist from behind and he presses a kiss to your cheek, immediately cutting off what you were saying to Pepper.

A slow song starts, Bucky won’t admit until later that he told the DJ to start it once Bucky reached your side.

“Mrs. Barnes, can I have this dance?”

— ➶ —

me: has ten pieces in the drafts that need to be worked on

also me: just writes this fluffy disaster

#bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes comfort

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n1kolaiz · 3 years

Text

"You want to know what death is? I'll tell you. Death is the loss of life. Despite everything doctors like me attempt... a patient's life can still fall through our fingers. You think death lies in the apex of science? Anyone with such little regard for life will die by my hand."

Character Analysis: Yosano Akiko

Age: 25 || Ability: Thou Shalt Not Die

BSD CHAPTER CHAPTER 65-66 SPOILERS

table of contents:

1. Author counterpart.

2. Yosano's history.

3. 'Angel of Death' defined.

4. Yosano and Atsushi.

YOSANO BRAINROT!*(#&!*@#($

1. Author counterpart.

Having been given the “Sho Ho” at birth, Yosano Akiko’s counterpart—the real-life author—was known for her zealous take on both feminism and pacifism.

Side note: Once again, to avoid confusion, I will use the name Sho Ho in reference to the real-life author, and Yosano in reference to the BSD character.

Sho Ho's writings were pretty much out-of-the-ordinary in her time, and despite being suppressed by the social norms of gender hierarchy, she sought to reform society’s view on the cultural perspectives of women and their sexuality (She expressed her love for a woman in one of her poems, but many still argued on whether she identified herself as queer or not.)

"Thou Shalt Not Die," Yosano's ability, is actually named after one of Sho Ho's most famous, controversial poems. She wrote it for her brother, who was a soldier in the war between Russia and Japan (1904-1905). In her poem, she expressed her general distaste for war and how her brother was a part of it.

O my young brother, I cry for you Don't you understand you must not die! You who were born the last of all Command a special store of parents' love

Would parents place a blade in children's hands

Teaching them to murder other men Teaching them to kill and then to die? Have you so learned and grown to twenty-four?

- excerpt from Sho Ho's poem, "Kimi Shinitamou Koto Nakare"

Her words were blunt enough to inflict guilt on her brother's conscience, as she wasn't afraid to express her disapproval over how her brother took part in the typical violent bloodshed and manslaughter of war. Such opinions perturbed the authorities, and her work was eventually banned from the public for a period of time. Later on, it was used as an anti-war statement.

2. Yosano's history.

Now, as for the character in BSD, Yosano is seen to be generally strong-willed, and later on, we see that she is terrifyingly compassionately ambitious in the way she treats her patients. She treasured life itself, and hated the thought of losing a patient.

Yosano had developed her relations with Mori Ougai back in the Great War, when she was just 11 years old. Her ability was a great benefactor in saving lives. Realistically speaking, she was used for her ability to heal injured soldiers and diminish the effect of any casualty acquired.

Initially, she wasn't aware of this, until one of her close friends pointed it out by subtly accusing Mori of manipulating her to participate in the War under the close-to false pretence of 'saving lives.'

As much as her ability did save lives, it also forced soldiers to return to the frontlines and suffer injuries over and over again. The soldiers were never given the opportunity to return to their families because of her ability. This obliged them to carry on in the war without any excuse, inserting them into a vicious cycle they had no escape out of.

Metaphorically speaking, Yosano's hatred for Mori sort of mirrors Sho Ho's disdain for war and fighting, don't you think? The way Kafka materialised Yosano's past was quite interesting because he used chapters 65 and 66 to explain Yosano's dislike for Mori, reflecting how Sho Ho used her poem to explain why she condemned the idea of war and how her brother was part of it.

Before the effect of her ability was fully understood, however, every soldier praised and thanked her for what an angel she was. One of the soldiers she had befriended and gotten close to even kept a tally of the number of times she had saved him. He was the one who gifted her the butterfly hairpin she wore all the time.

The weight of the truth that her ability was a curse rather than a blessing fully dawned on her when her soldier friend ultimately committed suicide, because the fact of being indefinitely trapped in the throes of war agonised him until his spirit gave out. This drove Yosano to loathe her ability, or rather, how it was used.

In the time she participated in the War, Yosano was given the alias 'angel of death' due to the control she retained over the battlefield, but I thought that perhaps Kafka had a reason behind giving her this title, so I did my research.

3. 'Angel of Death' defined.

Side note: I wouldn't want to disrespect any culture or religion, so if my citations are inaccurate and/or disrespectful, do feel free to correct me/let me know! I did research out of pure curiosity, and I don't intend to twist the significance of any of the interpretations.

I had to grow up learning about the basics of religious stuff, so it's kind of nice to study something out of the box, and very much against my father's rigid belief system :D

ARCHANGEL ARIEL

(archangel: an angel of higher rank)

I came across the few characteristics of angels/goddesses and their roles, and the one which really caught my attention was the female archangel, Ariel, the angel of nature.

[ source ]

In Hebrew, the name Ariel means 'altar' or 'lioness of God,' and her role is to heal. In addition to that, she is also recognised as a helper to another one of the seven main archangels, Raphael, whose role is to provide physical and emotional healing, too.

She is the protecter of the environment and the animals therein, and is bestowed with the duty to oversee the order of heavenly bodies as well as earth's natural resources. She assures the sustenance of food, water, shelter, and supplies of human beings, much like how a nurse is to a patient I suppose.

In relation to Yosano, I think this part is pretty self-explanatory, or perhaps this is blown out of proportion HA, so take this as a suggestion rather than a fact, because I'd like to believe that Kafka had a reason for giving Yosano a title as such.

In the past, I've come across the angel of death only to perceive it as a female grim reaper of some sort, so it was pretty cool to find that the word 'angel' and 'death' made up a title of a someone like Ariel, one of the purest forms of humility and compassion.

GREEK GODDESS PANAKEIA

For my beloved (wannabe/or not) students of Greek mythology (much like myself, let's make a cult!), you've probably heard of Panakeia, the goddess of healing. Medicine finds most of its vital significance in Greek history, and in its mythology, Panakeia is actually known for her ability to heal any kind of sickness.

[ source ]

Her name means 'panacea,' which is actually defined as a remedy for all diseases. Terminal diseases and injuries lead to death, right? This would bring us back to Yosano's ability to nullify any injury's effects on a person, keeping them from death itself.

Now, we know that in order for Yosano's ability to work, her patient, or victim, has to be in a near-death condition in order for her treatment to take effect. This can't exactly fit into the description of resurrection, but it can be described as some sort of rebirth.

GREEK GODDESS PERSEPHONE

So another goddess which reminds me of Sho Ho/Yosano, is Persephone, the goddess of spring and rebirth. Before Hades, the god of the underworld, fell in love with Persephone to take her to live with him, Persephone lived a happy life.

Hades, with his nature of darkness and the like, was captivated by how pure Persephone was, and stole her away from her former life to live in an environment which differed sharply from her natural aura of purity.

[ source ]

Remember when Yosano's friend left a note behind before he killed himself? The note said nothing except for, "You are too righteous." Take that as you will, but figuratively speaking, you could say Mori takes the role of Hades in the story, while Yosano can be portrayed as Persephone.

Sho Ho can also be a parallel of Persephone, in that she had to adapt to the realities of war and disharmony, while Persephone had to adapt to the raw darkness of the underworld with Hades.

Sho Ho stood against society's norms and decided to reform it, making her one of the most well-known feministic pacifist in history, while Persephone managed to escape from the underworld to return to her former position, earning the title the 'Bringer of Life,' or the 'Destroyer of Death.'

Furthermore, the way Sho Ho's anti-war poem took its effect later on, reflects the way Persephone restored balance in the world after returning from the underworld.

4. Yosano and Atsushi.

chapter 66; Yosano: "It's my fault that those close to me died... Is there some place where it's okay for me to live?"

chapter 8; Atsushi: "If I have any chance of saving them all, of returning them home safely, would that mean it's okay for me to keep on living?"

I couldn't help but think of Dazai and Atsushi back when I was reading through these panels. Ranpo (my beloved), along with Fukuzawa, accepted Yosano as she was, despite how her ability was a cause of despair and misfortune.

Ranpo looked past her mistakes and the entirety of how dark her past was to welcome her into the Armed Detective Agency. Dazai, on the other hand, knew who Atsushi was and what his ability had made him do before anyone else, and still decided to provide a safe place for Atsushi to find his sense of belonging, journeying with him as he learned to use his ability properly.

For more info about Dazai and Atsushi's dynamic, you can check out the analysis I did for Dazai :D

Atsushi desired to save people to prove his right to live, while Yosano made her wish to achieve the recovery of all her patients the reason for her existence.

Others would prefer to accuse both Yosano and Atsushi of having a saviour complex, but the reason why they pursued to save people with utmost dedication, stems from the nature of what their past was like. You know the saying 'from broken to beautiful?' Yeah, it's something like that.

The way their pasts were written out gave them a desire to change, which was, I daresay, initiated by the people who took them in: Ranpo and Dazai. Their abilities were demonised because of how they were used, but once they broke from their abilities' effect over their lives, they honed their skills to control them for the right cause instead.

In a less cynical point of view, I believe both Yosano and Atsushi stood for what was right, and wanted nothing but to achieve peace and harmony in whatever way they could, even if it meant risking their own lives to save others.

So yeah, that's it for my rants today. Thank you for reading, and if you have anything to add, go ahead! I'm open to discussions ;)

#bsd #bsd atsushi #bsd yosano #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd characters #bsd analysis #literature analysis #bsd abilities #bsd anime #bsd manga #bungo stray dogs atsushi #bungou stray dogs atsushi #bungou stray dogs yosano #bsd dazai #bsd mori #bsd ranpo #character analysis #.daydreams

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fictionadventurer · 2 years

Text

Sometimes I finish a book and walk away thinking about how good it was. Other times, the primary sensation is “I’ve just wasted hours of my life on this.”

But on rare occasions, the one and only thought that consumes me is “I Must Discuss This With the Knitting Circle”.

Ladies and gentlemen, I need to talk about The Seventh Raven by David Elliott.

This is a retelling of the Grimm’s fairy tale “The Seven Ravens”. And it’s specifically that fairy tale, not just an adaptation of a “Six Swans” type of story.

It’s also in verse. And not just free verse. He uses different styles of structured poetry for each character and for the narrative voice.

My favorite part of the story was the author’s note where he discusses the thought processes behind each poem form he used.

Two of the poem forms he uses are the one used in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty” and the “Pushkin sonnet” used in Eugene Onegin! I was going nuts when I read that, because I couldn’t believe that this man HAD SOMEHOW DESIGNED THIS BOOK TO LINE UP WITH MY EXTREMELY SPECIFIC POETRY EXPERIENCES! How does that even HAPPEN???

Knowing that, I get a bit judgey with the way he messed around with the poem forms. Like, why do a Pushkin sonnet if you’re not going to use iambic tetrameter? It’s part of the form! People have managed to retain it in translations so I think you can up your game and not get lazy with the syllable count.

This is a surprisingly good adaptation of the fairy tale. I was worried that doing it in verse would make it very bland, and while of course we don’t connect to these people the same way that we would in a prose story, the chosen form does lend it a very cool dreamy, fable-like feel. And the characters all have unique voices and perspectives. It also manages to do more than just present the original fairy tale in poem form--there are innovations here that make it feel like its own story, which is one of my requirements for retellings.

It reminds me a bit of The Little Prince in the way certain characters represent certain life philosophies. Her father has a never-ending dissatisfaction with the way things are. She runs across characters who represent Despair and Materialism. (And the characters are in the original fairy tale without this symbolism, but the way he translates it to his story’s setting is interesting).

The thing that really made this Knitting Circle material was the way that the fairy tale intersected with religion. I don’t know what to think of his use of it.

The story pivots around the main character’s baptism--as in the original. Yet he equates religion with magic--there’s a line where the priest says he needs water to do his “abracadabra”. It could very well just be a poetic turn of phrase. But then after the little girl survives, the priest just...leaves, saying he’s no longer needed. It seems to write off baptism as just another magic life-saving ritual. But baptism also exists in the story as something important. I don’t quite get it.

There’s still something about it that gives me an inkling that Elliot may be coming at this from a Christian perspective. Even if he’s not religious, there’s more of a sense that he understands such a perspective better than a lot of secular writers. I can’t put my finger on any one moment, but there’s just a something that resonates with my worldview, even if it isn’t perfect.

(There’s also the fact that he’s apparently written a similar novel in verse about Joan of Arc. It could indicate religious devotion, or it could just be another example of the culture repurposing her story from a secular perspective. I’m wary.)

Biggest problem with the story is the “Seventh Raven” of the title. He’s supposed to be the one we sympathize with, the emo boy who doesn’t fit in anywhere. But he just winds up being kind of annoying, not really even trying to connect with the people around him. Even after they’re saved, you would think the story would be about him learning to balance his need for freedom with his need for community and caring for the people in his life. But he just kind of lives off by himself still thinking about how different he is from everybody else. Really dropped a ball there.

As a story, it’s probably not all that great. But between the verse and the philosophy and the retelling aspects, there’s so much interesting stuff to think about and I wish I could discuss it with you guys.

Between this and Eugene Onegin, I’ve learned that I need to seek out more novel in verse.

#the seventh raven #fairy tale retellings

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foeofcolor · 3 years

Text

References to Greek Mythology in Disco Elysium

Note : I have not yet finished the game, I’ll likely make a second part, if there’s more.

Let’s look at the original title of the game.

“No truce with the furies”

The furies, Chthonic Deities Of Vengeance, in Greek Mythology relentlessly hunt down those who commit crimes.

This is seen best in the Oresteia, where the titular character Orestes is hunted down by the furies because he killed his mother after a vision from the God Apollo, who told him to seek revenge for his father’s ( Agamemnon ) murder by her hand for sacrificing one of their daughters to the Goddess Artemis.

These furies hunt him down, they follow him even to his dreams, and only he can see them. They follow him where everywhere he goes, without fail.

The furies for Harry during the game are of course, are his inability to let mysteries go, his compulsions and his mistakes. They much like the furies, follow him. Relentlessly.

Yet there is some semblance of relief.

In the original play, Orestes runs to Athens and the Goddess Athena, in order to save him from the furies, sets up the world’s first trial. She gives him a chance to redeem himself, to free himself of what haunts him.

For Harry, Martinaise is his Athens. There is no divine entity to help him just yet, but here, lacking all his memories, he has a chance to rebuild. To remorse, to restore what he destroyed. It is not complete, it is not easy, it is not immediate and yet there is a chance. There is hope to get rid of what haunts, even if not fully.

Let’s look at the actual title of the game.

“Disco Elysium”.

Elysium in Greek mythology is basically the Greek Version of heaven. Elysium falls early on the river Styx and is where all the Greek Heros and the mortals favored by the Gods.

Elysium is a place where they can live in peace and security. ( Technically there are two isles in Elysium but that’s for later )

In game, Elysium is not achieved. Things aren’t perfect. The game isn’t about the big peace, it’s about little pieces of Elysium stolen against time. It’s about the journey.

And Now, the quote at the starting of the game.

“The furies are at home in the mirror”

This one’s pretty clear! It’s from a poem by R.S. Thomas, much like the old title. This is pretty clearly referring to how Harry’s demons, or his furies are self caused.

I personally divide them into

His inability to let mysteries go

His compulsions

His mistakes

(Broad Categories, I know and I’d like to tie each one to a fury but it’s not meant to be taken that literally.)

I think the scene with mirror and the expression might be a reference to that. ( Of course, it represents other things too but again, I’m going off topic)

And Now the dream (?) with the Corpse Of The Bloated Drunk.

One of the dialogue options is “You’ve fucked/missed Elysium 3 times” or something along those lines.

Now, about the 2 isles of Elysium, they are The Islands of the Blessed and The Lethean fields of Hades/Haides.

The average Elysium dweller ends up in The Lethean fields of Hades/Haides, named after the River Lethe, which had the power to erase memories.

A lesser known fact about greek myth that a soul who reaches The Leathean fields can chose to be reborn and if a person is reborn 3 times, and everytime they reach Elysium, they’ll be taken to The Islands of the Blessed.

The implication here is that Harry had 3 chances to reach The Blessed Isles, 2 chances given to him pre-canon by his colleagues, and the one he seems to have squandered at the start of the game. The corpse is telling him “You’ve ruined your chances. You can’t get in now”

He’s wrong of course, since Harry can still get clean and fix his act, his rebirth and attempt for elysium isn’t yet over. There’s still hope.

And, That’s all I’ve encountered in my playthrough yet!

#i had to HOLD myself back from making spefic character parallels #playdes kim??? maybe i have NOT read the orestia in SO LONG and i AM not up slogging thru ancient greek lit.#and now im thinking abt the tragedy of the agammenon family.... i dont like him but go #disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harry du bois #harrier du bois #Oresteia #elysium #greek myths.#greek mythology #greek mytho #greek myths.#ALSOOOO HARRY CASSANDRA APCOPLYCASE COP AND HOW HES HIS OWN APOLLO THATS SO MUCH MORE BUT IM TIRED RNNN #personal shit tm #death #alcohol #alcoholism #drug use

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willowcrowned · 3 years

Text

Grey Apprentice AU (Installment #4)

aka Sith!Obi-Wan AU Flavor II

(Previous parts: x x x)

Qui-Gon paces the length of his and Obi-Wan's small sitting room, first once, then twice, then a third time. He looks up, expecting the usual dry comment from Obi-Wan on jedi masters’ peaceful bodies and minds, but he’s not there. Of course, that’s the problem in the first place: Obi-Wan is gone, off on a ship with a figure that felt like a maelstrom of darkness in the Force, and he’d left with a wink. The man must know something Qui-Gon doesn’t, but what it is, he can’t guess.

He turns, pausing at the entrance to Obi-Wan's room. He normally doesn’t enter without permission; it’s an invasion of Obi-Wan's privacy— privacy to which he is well entitled— but in this case...

Qui-Gon grimaces, opening the door. He won’t snoop, won’t do anything other than have a superficial look. At the very least it might calm him down to have tangible evidence of Obi-Wan's intention to return. When they’d left, he hadn’t taken the black bag he usually keeps with him, a velvet thing smaller than Qui-Gon's palm. Obi-Wan wouldn’t have left it if he thought he’d be gone for more than a week.

The room is just as Obi-Wan had left it, tidy and empty, with a plant on the desk next to a picture of his friends, a spare cloak hung up on the peg next to the door, and a blanket folded perfectly at the foot of his bed. It’s the room of a knight, not of a padawan, Qui-Gon realizes, and he has to push down the surge of pride and guilt that seems to swell up in his chest more and more often these days.

He frowns, for the first time noticing the odd pressure building in his brain. It’s a strange, blunt, thing— the marked absence of something, rather than its presence. He scans the room once more for the offending object, for the first time noticing an odd red glow from the closet. Qui-Gon pauses. He’d said he wouldn’t touch anything, but— The glow grows brighter, and he can hear the Force calling to him from it, not light, not peaceful, but not unkind. Qui-Gon sighs, and opens the closet door.

The glow is coming from the floor, within the black bag Obi-Wan had left behind. Qui-Gon looks at it, a furrow forming in his brows. It’s not Obi-Wan's habit to leave things on the floor, and the cleaning crews haven’t been in their apartments since they left. When he picks up the bag, intending to return it to its place on the shelf, a white-hot pain sears through his hand, and he drops it. The bag tumbles to the floor, and out of it falls a holocron.

It’s the last thing Qui-Gon notices before the onslaught of darkness hits him, pressing him beneath a tsunami of emotion. The fury slams into him first, not so hot as the zabrak’s had been but far, far, deeper. Qui-Gon falls to his knees without noticing, forced to sustain the mental battering of his shields. He can feel them weakening even as he clutches them tighter, being torn away bit by bit like an old house in a storm.

How is no one noticing this, Qui-Gon wonders. How come no one has come in to see what this endless wave of darkness is— this storm with no light.

The first tear in his shields happens, and he works it shore it up, plugging it with whatever he can think of: random bits of trivia, a poem, a meal he shared with Obi-Wan. Stay, he tells them, give me time. The pieces do not stay, each layer being ripped away until all that’s left was the look on Obi-Wan's face as he realized the sandwich he’d bitten into was filled with candied ants. Then, abruptly, the maelstrom stops, and Qui-Gon is left grasping for the pieces of his shields, the void around them quiet once more.

“Do forgive my intrusion,” a female voice says, dry and unapologetic as Qui-Gon struggles to get control of his breathing on the floor. “You know how it is: better safe than sorry.”

Qui-Gon falls back, resting against the wall as he tries to catch his breath. “What are you?” He says, injecting his tone with as little worry as he can manage. “What are you doing here?” What are you doing in Obi-Wan's room, he wants to add. What have you done to my padawan?

Zannah’s nose scrunches slightly, halfway between amused and disgusted. “Your shields are down, Jedi.”

“I wonder why that is,” he manages.

She shrugs. “I’m not going to apologize.”

Qui-Gon patches up his shields, weaving the skeleton of the old threads of memory into a new place, beside several strong pockets of compulsion. It won’t be enough to stop the woman if she attacks him again, but it might gain him a few seconds of reprieve. It will have to be enough.

“As for your questions,” the woman says once he’s finished, “A Sith, sleeping, Obi-Wan brought me here, and I’ve done nothing to him.”

“Nothing,” Qui-Gon repeats, disbelieving, the aftershocks of her attack still filtering through his mind.

“Yes,” the woman says. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Darth Zannah. I’d tell you to sit down, but, well...” She gestures to him collapsed on the floor.

Qui-Gon shakes his head, trying to disseminate the information. “Does he know you’re here? Does he know what he brought back?” Surely not, he thinks. Surely Obi-Wan wouldn’t have knowingly brought a Sith into the heart of the Jedi temple.

“I should hope so,” Zannah says, “given that I’ve been training him for twelve years.”

“Twelve—” Qui-Gon freezes.

“Yes,” Zannah agrees, “since Bandomeer.”

“Impossible,” Qui-Gon breathes.

“Is it?” Zannah raises an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Obi-Wan— or, no, all this time Obi-Wan must have been imitating her. Qui-Gon remembers when he picked that little habit up; it had been the months after he’d turned seventeen, just beginning to grow into his too-long limbs, still gawkish and almost awkward. Then, over the course of their mission, his gait had grown smoother, countenance more graceful, and his awkward smiles at Qui-Gon's jokes had turned into an amused raised eyebrow and half-smirk.

It had felt odd at the time, watching the maladroit child he knew turn into a clever, subtle, adult, but he knows it now as the sign of Obi-Wan growing up, leaving Qui-Gon as a student and returning to him as a friend. He remembers the white stone of the city, remembers the late spring blossoms of the sea-roses, remembers the first time Obi-Wan had turned that quizzical look on him— and feels the taste of the memory, sweet with the blossoms, turn to ash in his mouth.

“How—” Qui-Gon starts, mouth dry. “Why—”

“I offered him knowledge,” Zannah says, not unkindly, “and companionship not to be found in the constraints of Jedi.”

“Why train him?” Qui-Gon asks, clutching at proof that she has not— could not— have trained Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan is kind, and clever, and selfless, and none of the things a Sith should be. He cannot have lied so fully for so many years. He cannot. “Why not train someone else? Someone you wouldn’t have to corrupt first?”

Zannah gives him an incredulous look. “You think I’ve corrupted him? Have you forgotten Ghé’aiit so easily? That was not the behavior of one corrupted.”

Qui-Gon feels ire stir deep in his chest, at her prodding, guiding rhetoric, but the memory springs to him unbidden.

It had begun as a trade dispute. Three families, each the head of a government and of a trade sector. The Jedi had initially been brought in to facilitate negotiations; those had lasted all of two nights, ending with Obi-Wan kidnapped and in chains— a hostage for the third family. Qui-Gon hadn’t known that at the time, of course. He’d only known that Obi-Wan was gone and the place where their bond was had turned to a jagged mess of edges before it disappeared into nothingness.

He’d found Obi-Wan again, oblivious to Qui-Gon's presence, escaped and facing the Third Peer, who was holding a blaster to his sister’s head. It would have been easy, laughably easy, for Obi-Wan to let him shoot her, claim he had gotten there too late to save her, and arrested the Third Peer with little risk to himself. Instead, Obi-Wan had lain down his blaster, and braced himself for the shot.

(Later, when their bond was back and whole, Qui-Gon had blocked it off again, too overwhelmed by fear and relief not to yell at Obi-Wan. How could he yell at Obi-Wan, when he’d done exactly as a Jedi should do? But how could he not be angry, not be furious, that he had lain down his blaster and braced himself for death as if it were second nature? How can I forgive you, Qui-Gon had thought then, for almost leaving me? How will I be able to let you go when it’s time?)

“He scared me too,” Zannah says softly. “When I heard what he had done, I could barely restrain myself. Foolish, loving, Jedi, and their need to do the right thing.”

“I hope you don’t think,” Qui-Gon says, tired, “that I trust you.”

“No,” Zannah says. “You’re not a stupid man, on the whole. I hope you will trust Obi-Wan, though.”

Qui-Gon sits straight up, reminded of what had caused his agitation in the first place. “Obi-Wan. You sent him after that darksider?”

“Darth Maul,” Zannah agrees. “I wouldn’t fear, he’s not a match for Obi-Wan— merely the servant of the Sith Master.”

“You would send Obi-Wan to do another Sith’s dirty work?” Qui-Gon doesn’t hide the curl of his lip from her, meeting her gaze head-on. “I thought the masters were supposed to discard their apprentices themselves.”

“I do not,” she hisses, eyes flashing, “do that creature’s dirty work.”

“Lady Zannah—” Qui-Gon replies coldly.

“Lord, actually,” Zannah corrects, and all of a sudden the fire has left her eyes. “The title is ‘lord’ regardless of gender. A Sith Lady is a different job entirely.”

“Lord Zannah,” Qui-Gon corrects, making sure she can hear the eye-roll inherent in his tone, “Are you implying that not only are you embroiled in a rivalry with another Sith clan, but that you have, in fact, created your own?”

“We call them houses,” Zannah replies. “Mine is that of Athén. And you are correct, Obi-Wan is a part of it. We are a House of two.”

Fantastic, Qui-Gon thinks bitterly, and his patch-job must not be as good as he thinks it is because he swears he hears Zannah chuckle. He sighs. “Out of curiosity, what is the job of a Sith Lady?”

“A combination of cultural advisor, archivist, and magic user. And occasionally a consort.” Zannah smiles a wickedly sharp smile. “I much prefer being a Lord.”

Yes, Qui-Gon thinks, not caring that she can hear it. You would.

Some notes:

-Yes Zannah did name her house after her dead wife, who is in turn named after Athena, because I am a basic, basic, bitch

-Yes, I did borrow the line about Sith jobs from the Enchanted Forest Chronicles. Patricia C. Wrede I’m so sorry I’m using your work for my nonsense AUs but also those books shaped me as a human, so. Too Bad. They’re a part of my writing now.

- I included a bug-eating joke because apparently I am constantly under the compulsion to talk about people in sw eating bugs. I have no excuses

#I still need a name for this AU so if you've got suggestions hand 'em over #this is long enough to be an actual fic chapter #but it is also woefully underedited and I dislike posting unfinished things on AO3 in any case #on the offchance I do ever finish this story I may edit and post it on AO3 #star wars #star wars au #sith au #sith!obi wan #darth zannah #qui gon jinn #grey apprentice AU

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generallynerdy · 2 years

Text

I don’t know a love that doesn’t destroy (The Witcher)

AO3

Work Summary: The sorcerer grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat. “Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.” At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.

Prompt: Angstpril Day 1 - “I didn’t mean for this to happen” Word Count: 3,810 Warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death, whodunnit except it’s who’s the corpse, on-screen death, canon-typical language, angst, description of a corpse, knife wounds, blood

Author’s Note: The title is from the poem Anniversary by Diannely Antigua. Sorry about this one, gang, and for the fact that my return to fanfic is through angst. Also, uh, sorry Pearl.

It was a crisp summer morning when they hit the narrow trail. They’d been travelling for days already, but finally, they were approaching their destination. Despite the exhaustion that chilled the trio’s bones, their spirits were higher than ever. In fact, for once, Yennefer found herself enjoying Jaskier’s company.

“Ciri, dear, give us a song.”

Nevermind. She hated the bard and his stupid fucking lute.

“Don’t you dare, Cirilla,” Yennefer growled out from atop her horse.

The other was occupied by her companions, dearest Ciri at the reins and Jaskier back-to-back with her so that his hands were free to annoy Yennefer to death. If she still had her magic, she would’ve cursed him with silence before he could open his mouth. Alas, she was stuck with his endless portfolio of songs and his even more endless babbling.

Ciri giggled, which would have been endearing in any other moment. The girl put a finger on her chin, in mockingly deep thought. Finally came her rumination: “Do Toss A Coin.”

Yennefer groaned a rumbling noise as if a dragon lived in her chest. “Not again.”

“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” Jaskier said. He gave his lute a wild strum with a flourish, a dastardly, falsely genial smile on his wicked face. Without hesitation, and despite Yen’s glare, he began to sing. “When a humble bard graced a ride along…with Geralt of Rivia—”

The great sorceress rolled her eyes. “The one time we are without the oaf and all you want to do is sing his praises.”

“Good gods, Yen, you could at least pretend to miss him!” he teased.

“It’s nice, just us three,” Ciri chimed in, knocking her elbow into Jaskier pointedly. “I don’t miss his hovering.”

Yennefer huffed a laugh. “You’re just glad he’s not here to stop you from stealing our wine. Hm?”

“And I get to hear the bawdy songs!”

The bard cackled. “Oh, you haven’t heard the truly ribald songs.”

“Even Jaskier is somewhat responsible, darling,” she said. “Geralt would kill him. He’s an idiot and reckless, but he hardly has a death wish.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

He scoffed, looking between them with a scandalised expression. “Always the butt of the joke. You know, I thought I’d get a break from it being without Geralt, but no, he’s rubbed off on both of you now! Cirilla, I truly expected better of you.”

“Grave mistake,” she chirped with a silly grin.

Yennefer spotted Jaskier’s scandalised face, his open mouth, and interrupted him before he could start rambling. “Enough, the both of you. We’re here.”

Ciri brightened significantly, while the sorceress shared a look with the bard, a disgustingly fond one.

This trip of theirs was not for Jaskier alone, though it had begun as a chance for him to perform for a crowd that wasn’t witchers at Kaer Morhen. The festival he’d pointed out in a nearby town was one Yennefer was fairly familiar with, so she decided to tag along. For herself, of course. Not to keep an eye on the bard. And when Ciri found out that they were going to a festival, a warm, flower-themed one at that, she absolutely begged to go. It didn’t take much to convince Geralt—no, just one pleading look from his girl. It took a little more to convince him to let them go alone, but eventually, they managed it.

It wasn’t that they didn’t want Geralt to go. They knew, however, that he wouldn’t enjoy the festival, nor would he be welcomed in the first place, annoyingly enough. So, Lambert and Coën, two of his closest brothers, dragged him along on a job and told him to let them bond.

Leading Ciri and Jaskier into the town, Yennefer reminisced on it fondly. Despite herself, she smiled. Lambert had called them all Geralt’s: Ciri “his girl,” Jaskier “his bard,” and Yennefer “his witch.” Her own nickname wasn’t exactly affectionate, but she knew he meant it lightly.

To think they were Geralt’s droll little group. Was there even a word for what they were to him? She couldn’t think of one.

"Yen, look!"

Her attention was drawn back into the present at Ciri's insistent hissing. The girl had their horses sidled up next to each other, close enough that she could tug on her sleeve. She pointed into the square of the town as they entered, eyes bright with wonder.

Ciri was pointing at the decor, she thought, gaze drifting over the sight.

Every inch of the market stalls and walls was covered with flowers of all colours. Purples and blues seemed to be the favourite, though, with smatterings of reds and yellows and pinks. People wore flowers around their necks, wrists, and ankles. They handed them to each other, as well, in single stems, bouquets, and even artful pieces of jewellery. It was a sight to see, the beauty of summer here. Most other villages celebrated these holidays in spring, but this environment was perfect for flowers in summer, what with their frequent rain showers. Legend had it that it was some sorcerer's fault a hundred years ago.

Yennefer probably would've thanked them if they were still alive, just for the look on Ciri's face when a girl, much younger than her, offered her a necklace of carnations for her steed.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” the young princess murmured.

She ran her fingertips over the petals, apparently in deep thought.

At her back, Jaskier sat up. “Ooh, bookshop! We should see if we can find anything for dear old Vesemir.”

“Necessities first, bard,” Yennefer chided, swinging her leg over her saddle to dismount. “Then we can spend all Geralt’s coin.”

Snickering, Ciri let Jaskier hop down before she followed him. Once they got their horses situated for the night, they took to exploring the festival. Yennefer split from the other two briefly, haggling her way through the market. Ciri found her way to her later, hiding her giggles at the annoyed vendors as they attempted to bargain with an unstoppable force.

When Jaskier reappeared, he held something out to Ciri.

“For me?” she asked, eyes wide.

He nodded encouragingly, a blinding smile on his face. “Go on, princess.”

Without further questioning, the girl ripped into the brown paper packaging like the child she was. Yennefer gave their companion a questioning look, but he only smiled and shook his head. When she looked back at their girl, she saw a dumbfounded Ciri.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, hesitant hands drifting over the gift.

It was beautiful; a curved, decorative hairpin forged of rose gold and decorated with sparkling white gems. The metal twisted like branches with leaves on the offshoots, the entire thing shaped almost like a tiara. The eye-catching part, however, was the line of three pink roses it bore. They were real flowers, enchanted to stay alive for decades. Of the three, the middle rose was the largest, but each was perfectly pristine. The jewellery was ideal for a princess, Yennefer thought. It was practically made for Ciri.

“I love it!” she cried.

Unexpectedly, she threw herself at Jaskier, tackling the bard in a vicious, witcher-trained hug. He took it with a grunt and a laugh, hugging her back the moment he could. Yennefer smiled at them both, eyes bright.

“Thank you,” Ciri whispered into his shoulder.

He petted her hair gently. “Any time, dear. Now, I think Yennefer has her eye on yet another vendor to harass. Help me make a song out of this one?”

“Only if you call Yen something wicked,” she bartered.

Said sorceress brightened, while he gave a dramatic, beleaguered groan. “If I must.”

Yennefer bore a devious smile. “That’s my cub.”

That night, Ciri and Yennefer retired to their room in the inn long before Jaskier, whose voice echoed throughout the tavern and its halls far into the night. While he belted out his songs and made all the village girls swoon, Yennefer helped Ciri undo her braids and settle in for bed. They stayed up longer than intended, a fact they would keep a secret between themselves, lest Geralt find out and never let Yen watch over Ciri again.

“I’m happy that Geralt found you and Jaskier,” Ciri said during a long silence.

Admittedly, Yennefer was somewhat dumbstruck. “Oh?”

She gave a sheepish smile, her free hand playing with her hair. “Everything that happened was…scary,” she continued, “but you’re both with us now. I like it better with you here. So does Geralt, even if he doesn’t say it. He’s happier with you two around. More, uh, complete.”

At that moment, Yen’s heart broke. She didn’t even like it around simply because she liked them, but also because Geralt was apparently all the better for their presence. The way she said it, too, with such love in her eyes, killed the sorceress right there. She almost wanted to bundle her in blankets and never let go.

Before the clock struck midnight, however, she tucked the girl into bed alone and kissed the crown of her head.

“Sleep, dearest,” she murmured, sure she was already asleep. “I’ll keep watch.”

And keep watch she did; her keen eyes drifted over their room what must have been a thousand and twelve times before Jaskier arrived. There was a sag in his shoulders but a pep in his step as he entered. The sight of Ciri’s hairpin on the nightstand made his eyes all rheumy, disgustingly enough. Yennefer greeted him with a nod, ready to turn in herself now that he was there.

“Good show?” she asked, her voice barely a breeze.

“Not as good as Kaer Morhen,” he admitted with something like longing in his words. “But good. Ciri’s alright?”

She nodded as she climbed into bed beside the girl, leaving Jaskier on his own. “No nightmares yet. I’ll wake up if she does.”

“Good.” He curled into his blankets. His speech was slurred. “That’s good.”

Yennefer huffed out a chuckle. “Goodnight, bard.”

“Goodnight, witch.”

She was very nearly asleep the second she laid down, but her mind kept her up a moment longer. We’re Geralt’s family, her traitorous thoughts decided. That was the word she was looking for earlier. We’re family.

“GERALT!”

It was a bright summer day in Kaer Morhen, a rare occurrence, when Lambert burst through the doors to the library. Vesemir and Geralt dropped their conversation in an instant, the latter getting to his feet with a hand on his sword. He knew his brother and that tone of voice meant bad news.

Lambert turned the corner, finally coming into view. “Geralt,” he said breathlessly, “it’s Yennefer. At the gate. She—”

He never did finish, what with the way Geralt ran out of the room like a bat out of hell. His feverish escape didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow witchers, many of whom followed at a somewhat slower pace. Of course, he ignored them all, gaze set on the front gate. Underneath his ragged old boots, soft grass parted for him without resistance.

It was rare for him to be home in the warm months. He was used to the crunch of snow under his feet and the biting cold of the mountain snows. This summer at home felt almost new to him after so long of being deprived of the experience, but he’d grown fond of it. It was all for Ciri, who loved Kaer Morhen dearly and needed a stable environment while she learned to use her magic. Everything those days was for Ciri. Even Lambert and Coën visited more frequently to see her. (And her alone, they’d claim. Perhaps for Jaskier’s music. Yennefer loathed the bard’s boasting when they said as much.)

The trip to the festival was for Ciri, too. But the fear in Lambert’s voice had Geralt choking on air. He knew it was a bad idea for them to go alone, without him, especially such a distance.

One of his brothers had just managed to get the gate open when he appeared, rushing through without pause. On the other side, a single horse stood. At its side was the trembling shadow of Yennefer of Vengeberg, a ghastly looking image of a once-powerful sorceress who held the reins with a deathly grip.

“Geralt,” she choked out, voice raspy, as though she’d been screaming.

Geralt was starting to hate his own name.

He took a few steps toward her but stopped at the sight of something on the horse. Someone. Almost someone.

A limp body lay across the saddle, buried under blankets.

The witcher felt his stomach leap into his throat. “Yen, what—?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she cried. Her voice trembled in a way he hadn’t heard in years, something broken and shattered in every word. “Geralt, I’m—”

When she tried to step forward, her body seemed to collapse on itself. The white-haired witcher barely caught her, holding her in his arms when she lost the strength to stand on. He wondered, absently, if she had walked the whole way here. Did she transport herself, the horse, and the…the corpse with magic?

The corpse. He couldn’t see their face. He couldn’t tell which of their companions laid dead before him; nausea crawled up his throat all of a sudden. For a moment, he almost didn’t want to know.

Was it Jaskier, his lips never to quirk up in a smile or open for a song again? Or was it Ciri, her bright eyes dead and cold?

“Geralt, I’m sorry,” Yennefer gasped. She grasped the back of his neck, desperate for something to ground her. “I’m so sorry.”

“Let them go and I won’t turn you into ashes,” the sorceress hissed.

She gathered flames in her hands. Before Sodden, it might have been an empty threat, but the sorcerer in front of her knew very well what her ash-ridden palms were capable of now. In fact, she would do it for lesser things than this, far lesser.

On the floor before him, Ciri squirmed dangerously. The skin of her cheek was unnervingly close to the blade in the other sorcerer’s hand, but she clearly didn’t care. On the ground beside her, Jaskier had been beaten to the floor for daring to open his mouth. Unfortunately, it was a situation he was all too familiar with. This time, however, his insults had been to keep the filth’s hands off Cirilla. It worked too well.

“I was sent to break you, Yennefer,” the sorcerer said. She didn’t even know his name. “I only need one alive to do that, so…pick your favourite.”

He grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat.

It was the same way he’d pulled her out of her soft bed in the inn. Yennefer barely had a second to react and even that was too long. By then, Jaskier was flying at the man with his lute and beating him over the head with it, folly as it was. With both the bard and the princess in hand, the sorcerer had Yennefer as well.

“Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.”

“Over my dead body.”

He only laughed. It was a mid-tier cackle, she thought. She’d certainly heard more villainous attempts. “Not the deal. One dies.”

At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.

“And if I don’t choose?” she questioned fiercely.

“Yen,” Jaskier hissed, receiving another swift kick to the stomach for his gall.

Ciri glanced at the bard. “Don’t you dare.”

The sorcerer rolled his eyes. “I’ll stand here as long as I have to. Or, if I get bored, I could always kill them both.”

“You wouldn’t live to make the second hit.”

“But the first, well, that one’s easy,” he mocked.

Ciri met Yennefer’s gaze. There was childlike terror in her expression, but trust as well. It was nothing like Jaskier’s determined, knowing look he gave the woman a moment after.

This was not Sodden. Making a rash, desperate decision would not have her kidnapped and without her magic. One wrong move here would lose her something far more precious and dear to her than any form of Chaos.

She clenched her fists, quenching her fire. Jaskier nodded sharply.

“The bard,” she declared, her voice sickeningly steady.

The sorcerer grinned and moved his knife away from Ciri’s throat just as her eyes went wider than plates. “Very well.”

“No! Jaskier!” the girl cried. She tried to move to him, but the sorcerer stopped her with a click of his tongue.

“If you love the girl so much, I’m sure this will hurt more.”

Despite his early words, he lunged for Ciri. She yelped. Before she or Yen could do a damn thing, Jaskier flew at the sorcerer with a furious cry. He tackled him to the ground, both of them falling. Yen blinked and the bard was horrifyingly still above their kidnapper, a muted shock on his face.

He lifted his hand, and blood dripped off his fingers.

“JASKIER!”

Her scream was drowned out by Ciri, who wailed. From deep in her chest came her Chaos and its wind, driving the room into a restless hurricane. Yennefer blocked her face with her arms, but couldn’t hold against it. Her back slammed into a wall. The shrieking of the young girl had her ears ringing and similar screams from the sorcerer indicated his were as well. Regardless, he’d been thrown off Jaskier, leaving Ciri to run to him.

The girl didn’t take a breath, shrieking her heart out as she held Jaskier with trembling hands. When she finally did stop her screams, she broke them with heaving sobs.

“Stay awake, stay awake—” she begged. Her voice was gravelly, worn from the rage and the fear and the grief. “Hold on, please, Jaskier!”

Yennefer sent a ball of magic at the other sorcerer, who had just been standing again. With a shout, the two were at it, sparks flying and Chaos going wild.

Ciri didn’t spare them a glance, desperately putting pressure on the massive wound across Jaskier’s doublet. He held her hands back, one of his own reaching up for her face. With a gentle, pale hand he caressed her cheek.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll be alright, dear, don’t cry. Shh, shh, it’s not your fault. Look at me. It wasn’t your fault, I swear.”

“He was going to kill me.” She hiccupped, tears streaming down her cheeks and turning them red. “You stopped him. Why? Why? It was supposed to be me!”

His hand grasped her shawl, the precious one from her grandmother. “No. Never, do you hear me? I would do it again, Ciri, again and—” he was cut off by his own hiss of pain.

“Brat!”

Ciri opened her mouth to scream, but a calloused hand slapped over her face, silencing her. He ripped her away from Jaskier, dragging her toward another corner, where a portal appeared with a quick flick of his hand.

Yennefer, recovering from a nasty blow, cried out. “Ciri!”

“Yennefer!” She screeched, the sound muffled as she pushed and kicked against the sorcerer’s grasp. “Yen! Jaskier! Yen—”

A woosh of magic cut her off, and then she was gone.

Yennefer howled, racing forward even though the portal was long gone. She slammed her fists against the wall, quivering with rage. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Her palms fell against the wood a moment later, defeated.

Then, she realised.

“Jaskier!” she gasped out, whirling around. She flung herself to the ground next to him. Her hands went to his shoulders, shaking him viciously. “Bard! Bard, wake up! Wake up, damn you!”

The bard moved with her, putty under her hands. She realised he wasn’t moving an inch, not even looking up at her through his dark hair. Quickly, she brushed aside the locks. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw his eyes.

They were dull now, cold and empty and wrong. His skin was still warm under her touch, as was the blood staining his fanciful clothes.

“Come on, you useless fuck, he has Ciri! We have to—” Yennefer gasped for breath, shaking her head as if to shake off the idea that he wouldn’t respond. “Get up! Get up, damn it!”

He did not move.

She pulled him close, her face in his hair. “Please, Jaskier. I’m—I’m sorry. Gods, I’m so fucking sorry, please just get up. Get up.”

In his limp, lithe fingers, he clutched a blue shawl with golden tassels.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt couldn’t bear to let go of Jaskier when he pulled him down from the horse. Vesemir had appeared, barking orders to the other witchers to deal with the horse or something like that. He could hardly hear over the cotton in his ears. Maybe, if he’d had the ability to, he would have been crying. Instead, he felt a gaping hole in his chest.

Yennefer cried enough for the both of them, her face buried in his shoulder as she avoided looking at the bard anymore.

Meanwhile, Geralt had brushed his hair out of his face and done nothing but stare.

He almost looked asleep. He was…peaceful, like those nights out under the stars with all four of them. Ciri would try to last the night with them, but she always drifted off beside Jaskier, whose lilting voice lulled her right to sleep.

More than anything, Geralt wished for this to be a nightmare. Then, he could wake up and find the three of them worrying over him, ready to coddle him into his grave. Ciri would curl up under his arm and snore into the early afternoon, utterly dead to the world. Yennefer would run her hands through his hair with gentle mutterings of comfort. Jaskier…Jaskier would tease him, the big, bad White Wolf, but he would always have a cup of something warm and a tune to hum him right back to sleep. It was silly, wanting a comfort he never needed.

“Where is she?”

Yennefer nearly jumped at his voice. She only shook her head, unable to cry anymore. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Shh, it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured, tucking her close. “It wasn’t.”

Her shoulders shook. “Ciri’s gone, Jaskier’s—and I’m here. Fuck, he still has her, fuck—Geralt, what do we do?”

“Fuck.” He grimaced, a grunt barely passing his lips. “We’ll find her, Yen. We will.”

“He’s gone,” she whispered, weaker than she’d been before. “He’s not coming back; I can’t—I can’t bring him back, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It was a crisp summer morning when they buried Jaskier.

River’s Tags: @hahaboop, @mystoragehatesme

Masterlist

#angstpril2022 #day 1 #i didn't mean for this to happen #the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #princess cirilla #geralt of rivia #the witcher fanfiction #rivika #generallynerdy #suffer :)

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kaypeace21 · 3 years

Text

Stranger things is about mental health & trauma- deal with it!

I’ve seen a lot of people claim anyone who mentioned this topic immediately be gaslit and told they’re “just crazy” and “rudely projecting their own issues on to the characters.’ Like- no you don’t have to believe my Will DID/Lonnie theory ( I could be wrong). But to claim one of the show’s central themes isn’t about mental health/trauma (screams either complete lack of lit comprehension or denial cause you have your own negative biases towards such people). So let’s just go into what’s literal text-not subtext/symbolism. Just the super blatant stuff. RIGHT IN THE SHOW!

-We have El when she first appears on screen asked by Benny if her parents starved and hurt her and if that’s why she ran away. Benny then calls CPS to say El “may have been ab*sed or something.” After this Lucas says there is “seriously something wrong with her-wrong in the head. She’s probably from the NUT-HOUSE in curly county.penthurst” We also see El cannonically has PTSD-all of s1 she’ll see something benign (a cat, a coke commercial, a closet) and is triggered to see a traumatic flashback. That’s literally ptsd. There’s also hints throughout the seasons she’s developmentally behind in both language, telling time etc (neglect like El’s irl can cause an intellectual disability-analysis on El/that subject here).The real pethurst in pensylvannia (not the one in stranger things/ Curly county) closed in 1986- it was a facility for people and mostly kids with intellectual disabilities (it wasn’t technically a psych facility like the one in st)-but it was infamous for it’s abuse of these intellectually disabled patients kept there. We also have Brenner be a ab*sive psychiatrist.

- Hopper after suffering from the loss of his daughter. Is popping pills like candy, drinking and smoking constantly. He later says he used to hallucinate and forgot what was real -seeing and hearing sarah and says if he didn’t confront the pain he’d “fall down a black hole he couldn’t get out of.” NO... subtext here about what the void represents nope.

- Both mothers (Terry & Joyce) are dismissed as being mentally ill and simply grieving the loss of their kids . But both end up being right about the supernatural.

- “Terry pretends Jane is real. i mean it’s all make believe. you know the doctors all say it’s a coping mechanism.”

- While with Joyce the whole town pre s1 already questioned her mental health. Jonathan says “She used to have anxiety problems (pre s1).” And Jonathan, Hopper, and Lonnie all assume she’s hallucinating: talking to Will via lights, seeing a man without a face, saying Will’s body is fake -due to grief. Plus Lonnie mentions the fact Joyce’s aunt Darlene also used to hallucinate as a possible reason (terry’s aunt also had mental health issues mentioned in s2 by Becky). Lonnie even says everything Joyce is seeing is “all in her head.” Hopper and Jon both say she needs to sleep and accept reality and Lonnie says she needs to see a “shrink”. Hopper “i’m not saying that you’re crazy”. Joyce : “no, you are.” Joyce also says to Lonnie “Stop looking at me like that... like everyone else like i’m out of my damn mind.” Hopper also says about Joyce she’s “on the edge”. Callahan says in response , “she’s been on the edge for a while now” (referring to her mental health- even before Will’s dissappearance)”. While Lonnie says Jonathan is “feeding into her hallucinations ... you’re going to push her right over the edge.” In s2 Hopper says “ I think everyone is on edge- you, me, Will most of all. (when talking about Will’s ptsd/trauma)”

- in s1 They claim Will just “fell” over the edge of the quarry’s cliff. Later the only other queer coded character (Mike) jumps off the quarry cliff (where Will’s body was found) cause the homophobic troy forced him too jump. Troy even says earlier dead-Will is “flying with all the other fairies all happy and gay” (to Mike). And Troy says to Hopper El made Mike “fly” after jumping off the cliff. Friendship saved him from jumping off the edge metaphorically ( and he’ll prob eventually be happy and gay too).

s2/3

-Will is seeing a therapist . And we are told he has ptsd and will experience the anniversary effect, personality changes,nightmares, having episodes, etc. And things “will get worse before they get better”. Mike also asks if what Will is seeing is “real or like the doctors say all in your head?” And Will continues to see hallucinations of the mf/upsidedown that only he can see initially.

-Hopper also agrees with owens mentioning how he knew guys with ptsd . joyce : “it’s not like he’s describing a nightmare. He talks about them like they’re real.” Hopper: “Yeah, because they’re not nightmares they’re flashbacks.I think he’s right about trauma.I think everyone is on edge (bringing that s1 ref back), Me you, Will, most of all.Nothing’s gonna go back to the way that it was. But it’ll get better.In time.”

-Nancy suffers from survivor’s guilt and drunkingly says she killed Barb. Jonathan says like Nancy he has “a weight that you that carry all the time . i feel it too.” (cough depression). He also says he tries to be there for Will but says about Will “he’s not the same. maybe things can’t go back to the way they were. (mirroring Hopper’s words earlier that season)”

-Jonathan said in s1 Joyce had “anxiety issues” than Nancy says in s3 “you really are your mother’s son... you worry too much.” Then we see him look worried after the comment.

- in s2, Axel & a scientist both call El and Will “schizos” because of their powers. In s3 mrs driscoll isn’t believed about the supernatural cause she’s schizophrenic-but like Joyce/Terry was right.

- Kali saves a woman named Dottie (a british slang term for crazy) from a mental hospital and then compares herself and El to dottie. saying her non-powered gang is “Like us ...outsiders... society discarded them.” In graphitti we even see the title “obedlam” a british poem about discarding the mentally ill and leaving them homeless. El before this sees a mentally ill man screaming “we’re all dead!” Kali’s friend says to El, after this encounter they were “dead all of us” until kali “saved them here” (points to head) “and here” (points to heart). Pointing to the theme of love and friendship helping those with such issues. Similar to the cliff analogy.

-The cycle of ab*se. Max in s2 says she’s afraid of becoming like Billy (her ab*ser). We see Billy mimic his ab*ser neil and inflict pain on max. In s3 we see the roots of his behavior are linked to mimicking Neil- Neil in a flashback says about baseball “what are you scared?” “ did i raise a p*ssy for a son”. So young Billy later in a fight says to a boy “ what are you scared to fight me? fight me p*ssy. (as he beats the boy)” Deflecting his anger of his father on to someone else. In s3, We see as a kid he used to say to Neil “don’t hurt her” (his mom)-specifically after Neil backhand slaps her -but we later see possessed Billy backhand slap Max (just like neil). The resentment to his mother leaving - festered into how he views women and max negatively . And his attraction to mrs wheeler prob is linked to him subconsciously missing his mother. Max in s2 even says he can’t take it out on her mother so he does so to her instead (we even have Billy hallucinate hurting mrs wheeler).We see in s2 the cycle of abuse is there- Billy mimics Neil, and then Max mimics Billy. Billy harrasses Max and yells “SAY IT!” (mimicking Neil). Max like Billy later yells “SAY IT” and uses a bat /violence to stand up for herself against Billy- which earlier she said she was trying to combat … explaining she can be angry like Billy sometimes but she never wants to be like him (her nickname symbolizing this: aka ‘mad max’). Billy’s last dying words were an apology to Max- for becoming her neil. And we hopefully will see Max break this cycle.

- Will says his now memories (that he describes like dreams) are “growing “, “spreading “,and “killing”. While Kali says they need to face their father and (as Brenner) says El has to confront her “wound” or else it’ll “grow”, “spread” and “eventually it’ll kill her.” Kali says she used to be like El . She used to bottle her pain away and it “spread.” But she then says “I confronted my pain and I finally began to heal (from those wounds).” We also see with jonathan and nancy when describing “shared trauma” zoom in onto the scars on their hands. The wound heeled into a scar so to speak.

S2 & 3 ENDINGS

both have Hopper do a speech that delves into dealing with trauma/depression but still finding good along the way.

-s2 Hopper outside the snowball: “how are you holding up? Yeah, that feeling never goes away. It is true what they say, you know. Everyday it does get easier.”

-s3 Hopper monolouge : “ Feelings jesus. For so long, i’d forgotten what those even were. I’ve been stuck in one place,in a cave you might say , a deep dark cave (cough s2 supernatural cave). For the first time in a long time, i started to feel things again. I started to feel happy. Life... yeah sometimes it’s painful .sometimes it’s sad, and sometimes it’s suprising... happy.. And when life hurts you, because it will .remember the hurt . The hurt is good. It means you’re out of that cave.”

BUT YES- St has nothing to do with mental health/trauma, we’re just “crazy” and “projecting”. It’s not like some of ya’ll act pompous when you just have a bias and get pissy at the idea of relating to characters you “other” as “crazy” or “damaged” irl or anything (so attack people for pointing it out). Or (benefit of the doubt) you are just like.... oblivious... or just a kid who doesn’t know better XD

#stranger things #el hopper #will byers #jim hopper #joyce byers #max mayfield #billy hargrove #kali prasad #mike wheeler #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler

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jincherie · 4 years

Text

fox rain | five

• ☽ — pairing: bts x reader • ☽ — genre: crack, fluff, angst, college/uni au • ☽ — words: 9.9k+ • ☽ — rating: sfw • ☽ — warnings: stop two on the angst train express!!! not as blatant, more reading between the lines here...... have fun! • ☽ — notes: bros... it’s only downhill from here. cowa-fucking-BUNGA amirite cowboys???????!?!?

— posted; 18.09.2020

When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

— • masterpost | prev. | five | next • —

You lay in a sort of placid, bewildered shock, the kind that is sourced from confusion as opposed to an unpleasant surprise. After waking to blearily turn off your alarm before it blasted through the entirety of Dancing Lasha Tumbai, you’d unlocked your phone to find this curious set of messages from a number you haven’t saved. You’ve been lying in place for several minutes as your tired, wired brain slowly kicks into gear and attempts to debunk the mystery. After another unsuccessful few minutes of staring blankly at the screen, you’re saved from impending cranial combustion when your phone lets out a delightful little tinkle and another message hastily joins the others.

Ah, that makes so much sense now! Except it doesn’t. Actually, it kind of adds to your bewilderment. Taehyung… is texting you? You don’t think you’ve ever in your life had any correspondence with him that didn’t either take place in the presence of Jimin or under the influence of alcohol… also in the presence of Jimin, now that you think of it. You haven’t really interacted with Taehyung outside of Jimin. So it is particularly odd to wake up to a series of messages that are from him, and pertaining to such an odd topic. You’re still so tired you can’t even fathom what would warrant a text from him. Maybe you dropped something at one of your tutoring sessions and Jimin asked him to give it back to you? It would make sense, since after the rollercoaster of a ride the last week has been for him (in particular, the questionable events that took place at the hands of one Kim Seokjin but somehow ended up with Jimin and Hoseok making up? You don’t really understand it but you’re not even going to bother to try to at this point) he has ended up a little preoccupied.

Tapping the screen when your inactivity leads it to go dark, you take a moment to scrounge a response from the empty barrel bottom that is your brain. Once satisfied, you drop your phone onto your bed and flop yourself back to the position you’d been in before your own alarm woke you so rudely. Technically, you don’t have to be up and about for another hour…

With faith that your additional hour of sleep will revive your ability to think, you allow yourself to slip somewhat self-indulgently back into sleep and pass the fuck out like a woman who has spent the night trying to forget.

(Which you are, and did do, except with maybe a little less alcohol than what that sentence implied.)

X X X X

It has been almost a week since the unfortunate end to that tutoring session on Monday, and while you’ve managed to stay off social media enough that you haven’t triggered yourself by accident in the entirety of that duration, every time you come on campus it’s like for however many steps forward you took, you take double the amount backwards. University students are such gossips! Well, the jobless ones are, anyway. The students that work and study are too busy dragging themselves around campus in a stunning rendition of the undead from various media to be bothered with the latest plot twist in the resident school drama. Which is to say, there has been no twist. The population is still shamelessly up Sera’s ass in the belief that she is the author of the poem, and as has become the norm you find yourself resisting the urge to hunt the bitch down and go in for round two on her face. Surely, your self-control has earnt you the title of a saint by now.

You’re blasting some angsty shit on the way to your music history class and pretending you’re in a music video for some indie band (it’s cathartic, and you will argue that fact to your grave), when you make it a few steps past the entrance to the food court and have the absolute living daylights scared out of you. Thudding footsteps reach you through your earphones and two hands clamp on your shoulders to halt you in place and spin you around like Barbie Ballerina.

“You’re a disgrace!” It’s Seokjin who has halted you in the middle of the hallway, every bit as dramatic as you’d come to expect. “You skipped drama class? And you call yourself an acting major, PSH!”

Yanking your earphones out, you nail the tall, pink-haired idiot with a glare. Very bold of him to be approaching you after you nearly chopped off Lil’ Jinnie barely a few days ago for his bastardous antics. Perhaps he’s getting a bit big for his glittery pink rainboots.

“First of all, will you please listen to me when I tell you I’m not an acting major?” Unfortunately, when you speak your voice comes out more exasperated and less threatening than you intended. “Second of all—very bold of you to be approaching me right now. You’re lucky you escaped with your life, you meddling bastard. You want me to bite the rest of your dick off?”

“You should know by now that I take that as a compliment,” Seokjin sniffs, haughtily, ignoring the latter part of your threat. “And do you know how boring it is for me to crash your class when you’re not even there? No one threatens me like you! It’s getting harder and harder to get it up these days, you know. I need a hit of the good stuff.”

For a moment you’re simply stunned into silence, staring at him and wondering just how and why he seems to have been sent here with the sole mission of making you want to kill him and then yourself. Nothing you could think to say really is enough, so you settle on simply turning and walking away.

Of course, you forgot that no one turns their back on Kim Seokjin and gets away with it.

“YAH!”

You wince—you think he actually just broke a sound barrier, or maybe your eardrums— or both. Seokjin quickly scrambles to place himself in front of you, arms out. His eyes are wide in something you suspect he thinks is a puppy-eyed look, but actually comes across more like he’s trying not to shit himself.

“Promise me you won’t skip drama again!” Seokjin says, pointing a finger at you in borderline accusation. When he doesn’t see your expression budge, he quickly changes tactics. “If not for me, the most charming prince in the story of your life, then at least for Jungkook, that poor virgin—”

You blink, distracted for a moment by what he said. “Wait, Jungkook is in my drama class?”

“’Wait, Jungkook is in my drama class?’” Seokjin repeats in a voice a few octaves higher than your own. “Listen to you, not even knowing who is in your own class. For shame! But have no fear, since you clearly skip so much I will happily extend my generosity and take you under my wing. Tutelage fee starts at $55 with an extra $5 for every question you ask that I don’t know—”

“Do you ever actually hear yourself talk?” you ask, feeling your will to live draining out your ears. “Like, the shit that comes out of your mouth? Do you hear it? Because—wait, are you saying you would charge me for questions that you don’t know the answer to?!”

Seokjin shrugs, “It’s a little unorthodox, I know. But—”

“I would literally be bankrupt! Thousands—no, millions of dollars in debt!” You exclaim, grabbing him by his stupid big shoulders and shaking him about. “Do I look crazy to you?!”

“Oh, what, you think you can do better?!” Seokjin demands, voice wobbling from your shaking. “What’s 2x2?”

“Fucking four!” you wail, releasing him in your despair. You can’t do this, your day only just started and you are not exhausted enough to micronap while he talks like usual. “I’m leaving, don’t follow me. DELETE MY NUMBER.”

“Haha jokes on you!” you hear Seokjin holler from behind you, voice rapidly growing quieter from the speed that you’re powerwalking away. “You never gave me your number!”

You make it to class barely on time due to Seokjin acting as one of the biggest inconveniences in your life, and while you manage to push him from your brain for the duration of it, you wish you could say that is the last time you see him,

It’s probably the fact that you busted his ass being a weirdo with Jimin and Hoseok last week that has him so…. attached this week, you suspect. You’re at your third Seokjin encounter for the day and you’re honestly considering whether you should trip to the campus pharmacy and look for some pepper spray, or maybe an umbrella. Pepper spray would be more effective, but the umbrella…. You can’t argue against the satisfaction it would provide.

You’re trying to sneak your way into a library on the Arts side of campus, one you don’t usually go to, so you can study without worrying about going absolutely batshit insane in the presence of Seokjin. It was hard, but you think that you’ve finally managed to shake him. What on earth had him so determined to tail you today? Was it seriously because you skipped your own class? Nutcase.

You peek your head around the corner looking not only for Seokjin, but for another thing you had happened to notice every time you were ambushed. You have yet to determine whether the glimpse of phenomenally bright floral print right before Seokjin pounces you is causation or correlation, and it makes you a bit nervous. Cautiously, like timid forest animal, you creep around the corner and begin to make your way into the building, eyes flicking from the library door right at the end to the rest of your surroundings. The café coming up on your right tempts you greatly, but you know it is too great of a risk. Out in the open, you’d definitely be seen.

This area is almost like a courtyard, an undercover area between three separate buildings. With a looming cement and glass ceiling, though, it feels like a building of its own. The library sits nestled in the corner of the largest building, and although it isn’t very wide, it spans several floors. You plan on going to the highest one and hiding in a corner near a window.

You’re close, so close to reaching the library in fact that you’ve fallen into a false sense of security. By the time you register the sound of pounding footsteps approaching behind you, for the second time today, it’s too late.

“Ah, y/n! Wait!”

Instinctively you prepare to burst into a sprint to get away, but at the last second stop yourself. That doesn’t sound like Seokjin… that sounds like—

“Taehyung?” you ask, turning in surprise as the boy comes to a screeching halt in front of you, bending with his hands on his knees as he attempts to catch his breath.

“I’ve… been trying….” he huffs, “To talk to you…. all day….. hah…Why are you so….. good at running away?”

He looks absolutely wiped out, cheeks red and sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. You’re just beginning to feel guilty when you notice his shirt, the bright floral print that you literally don’t know anyone else bold enough to wear, and you realise he’s really not lying. Poor Taehyung, just like you he has fallen victim to—

“That Seokjin bastard,” you say, completing a quick scan of the area to make sure the mention of his name didn’t somehow summon him. “He’s been harassing me all day. I’ve had to really up my game. By the way… are you okay? Please breathe… also what did you want to talk to me about?”

Taehyung straightens, eyes closed as he attempts to control his breathing. One of his hands comes to sweep the ashy hair from his face, the ends slightly damp with sweat.

“I’m fine,” he says, sounding slightly like he’s about to pass out. You prepare to take a step forward and catch him if he does, but he opens his eyes in the next second and shoots you a dopey smile. “I’m fine! Apparently just… whoo… really out of shape.”

“Your sacrifice is not in vain,” you say, smiling when he lets out a sudden laugh. Another shaky breath rakes past his lips before he straightens, eyes blinking a little wider. “Ah, right. I was looking for you because, um… you didn’t respond to my text… and I needed to ask you something that’s a little time-sensitive…”

“Your text…” you wrack your brain, sure that you remembered responding to it this morning in bed. Your mouth shifts into a wince, though, when you can recall writing a response, but not actually sending it. “Oh. I am so sorry, I’m an idiot. I was kind of half asleep when you texted, and I swear to god I typed a response but I think I fell asleep again before sending it…”

There is not a shred of accusation on Taehyung’s pleasant features, lips instead slightly curled in a smile. “That’s fine,” he chirps, rocking on the balls of his feet for a moment. “I do it all the time too. I’m just glad I caught you.”

You return his smile, before a thought that had been nagging you earlier returned and you acted on the urge to voice it. “By the way…. How did you get my number?”

Your question seems to be unexpected and, for some reason, flusters him slightly. He reaches to scratch the back of his neck, averting his gaze for a moment. “Uh, Jimin gave it to me. It was for something stupid a while ago but I never needed to use it.”

You raise your brows at what he said, but get the feeling he’s not going to elaborate. Instead, you remain quiet and wait for him to continue his thought from earlier. He shuffles on his feet, returning his gaze to your own. “Anyway, the reason I was trying to catch you all day was because I wanted to ask you something…”

“I know it’s not really any of my business, but I kind of noticed, and Jimin mentioned lightly that things haven’t been, uh…. great for you lately.” He doesn’t even give you time for that statement to sink in amongst your shock, continuing without pause despite the way his cheeks begin to flush, “And, uh, my exhibition is this Friday, and I was gonna go with Jimin but he double-booked himself with Hobi, so now I have no plus-one and I was wondering… if you wanted to go?”

When you simply stand there, dumbfounded, he clears his throat awkwardly, fiddling with the cuffs of his button-down. “To um, you know, take your mind off things… maybe… you don’t have to, of course, but I just thought I would—”

Snapping out of your stupor before he can take back the invitation, you hastily step forward and outstretch your hands. “Oh, no I would love to go! This is really—” you clear your throat, trying to ignore the light sting of your eyes “—sweet of you. I’d like to go, if it’s ok. You’re sure Jimin doesn’t mind…?”

Taehyung seems shocked, and you suspect he might have thought you would turn down the invitation from the way his eyes seem to light up. Have you really been walking around campus looking like that much of a gloomy bitch? You need to check your facial expressions when you get home this afternoon.

“He won’t mind,” he says, waving his hand excitedly. “Great, perfect—um, here is the little info sheet. I’d stay to tell you more but my class actually started a few minutes ago, so…”

“Oh!” you exclaim, taking the sheet from his hand before waving him away. “Go! Go to class! I’m sorry I made you late! Thank you for this, by the way!”

He seems slightly dazed at your enthusiastic thanks and farewell, but he shakes himself out of it and before he goes he sends you a smile that you can’t think of any other way to describe except dazzling. “It’s no problem, y/n. See you then.”

And then he’s off and you’re left standing alone in the pseudo-courtyard, clutching the exhibition pamphlet in your grip. Your eyes sting ever so slightly, and you can’t help but think how kind of sad it is that one person goes out of their way to think of you in the midst of everything you’re dealing with and you’re so touched you’re nearly driven to tears.

Hormones suck and you want a refund.

X X X X

Taehyung was right when he said that what he had to ask you was time-sensitive.

You hadn’t realised it at the time, but Friday was only a few days away— and in the midst of classes, schoolwork, and everything else, those days went fast. Before you know it, it’s Friday morning and a panicked glance at the pamphlet Taehyung had given you reveals that the exhibition opens officially around 4:30PM. That works out surprisingly well for you, considering your last class ends at three o’clock and you can easily reschedule your session with Hoseok and Jimin.

There’s a lot about the invitation you haven’t gotten to really dwell on, and that continues to be the case as the day flies before your very eyes. By the time your music theory class comes to an end and you finish scribbling down the last few lines of note from your teacher, the event is even closer than you anticipated. From your recent examination of the pamphlet, you’d found earlier that Taehyung’s exhibition is being held at a small university-sponsored gallery downtown. It shouldn’t take you too long to get there from your house, and on the way home after packing your things, you plot out the route you’re going to take. It’s about a twenty minute trip, as you discover, since there is by some stroke of luck a bus that goes straight there from a street just around the corner from your own. Taking that into account, you should have around forty minutes or so to get ready.

Considering you’re one of many poor university students populating the area, it’s not often you actually put the effort in to get dressed up. Around these parts, there is a distinct culture of sweat pants and comfortable tops and more often than not a socks-and-slides combo, something you take part in more often than you’d like to admit. Still, you feel that considering the nature of the event you’ve been invited to and what you know of Taehyung’s works, you should probably be putting in much more effort than usual.

While you might act like a slob sometimes, this isn’t actually a problem— even goblins like you can have a stash of decent clothes somewhere in their cave. Yours happen to be pushed to the back of your closet on hangers that haven’t seen the light of day in months. What can you say? University takes its toll in mysterious ways.

Standing before your closet, eyes boring into the portion that’s been held in its depths for longer than you can remember, you wonder which way you should go with your outfit. Exhibitions are fancy right? Should you dress it up? Logic says you should, but on the other hand what if you are the only one dressed up? That would be humiliating. You pause for a moment to think about the type of garb you usually see Taehyung in— you have a feeling that he will probably dress the same way tonight. Recalling his bold, avante-garde taste in fashion is about as helpful as one might imagine, but it does comfort you to know that no matter what you choose, most eyes will likely be on him anyway.

Comforted by that fact, you make up your mind and pull out a set that isn’t too over the top, and won’t make you look like a rat. Once you’ve slipped into those, you freshen up and wash your face, trying to make yourself seem a little bit more alive afterwards and not like you had an 8AM class today. You’re successful, to a degree, but you’re a little tight on time so you can’t really dwell on it. Feeling your stomach rumble as you grab your bag and key, you can only hope that this exhibition has free food.

x — x — x

“Ah, y/n! You’re here! You… you look nice.”

You were so busy staring at the large, shiny building before you that when Taehyung’s voice rings out in greeting, it startles the hell out of you. You don’t even register what he says before you’re pointing with eyes and mouth wide open, “Your exhibition is in there?!”

His expression of surprise melts into one of amusement, a laugh tumbling from deep in his throat. You don’t even notice the way his cheeks are flushed ever so slightly as he meets your gaze.

“Fancy, right?” he says, wagging his brows. “Some loaded alumnus who actually enjoyed his university experience practically donated it to them. So now they use it for, uh… for most exhibitions.”

“For the best ones, you mean,” you say, your grin widening when he scratches the back of his neck, bashful and blushing. “But yeah, damn. I was expecting it to be nice but I wasn’t expecting it to be this nice.”

Taehyung laughed again, clearing his throat. As he takes a moment to collect himself, you let your eyes scan over his form. The second you do so, you feel a foreign flutter in your stomach, heat flushing to your face. There is truly no other way to describe his choice of outfit for today except for painfully boyfriend. Perhaps on anyone else it would look a little less than presentable, but on Taehyung’s model-esque form the loose chestnut pants and an oversized leather jacket over a boldly patterned shirt work wonders. How does he look so effortless yet so…?

If you’d attempted to wear something like that you’d end up looking like the local court jester. Perhaps you should just make peace with the fact that God has favourites and Kim Taehyung is clearly one of them.

“It, um. It started a few minutes ago, shall we head in?”

Taehyung offers you his arm, a gentlemanly move that completely contrasts the boyish grin on his face. Ignoring the sudden sensations in your abdomen, you make a show of curtsey-ing before you take it, eliciting a laugh from your company as the two of you head to the entrance and the full exhibition experience begins.

As soon as you enter there is someone by the door, who seems to be at the very least taking note of how many people enter, a table with flyers and booklets beside him. Taehyung parts from you only to move over and grab a few, brandishing them as he returns with a bright grin.

“Here is all the information about the event, madame,” he says, with an extremely exaggerated air of grandeur, presenting one of the flyers with a flourish. You take it, unable to help your soft snort.

“I would have thought I had something better, what with the very artist behind the event accompanying me,” you say, grinning when you see his cheeks turn an endearing pink as he flashes a bright, boxy smile.

“True,” he returns, folding the other flyer and slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. “You can’t ask a flyer questions in real time. Anything that crosses your mind, you can ask straight to the source.”

“Oh? Then, may I enquire as to what the theme of this exhibition is?” You’re enjoying the playful air that drifts between you now, unable to rid your face of the smile currently displayed on it even if you wanted to.

Taehyung’s eyes flick to you, a lopsided smile tugging his lips to accompany the sly accent to his gaze. “Ah, a tough one right off the bat. I think telling you straight-up would be too easy. Let’s see if you can try to guess it as we walk through.”

You turn to him with an affronted look, having expected him to easily supply you with the answer. Taehyung is a little cheekier than you remember. You snap your mouth shut, cheeks heating when you notice he has offered his arm to you once more. Taking note of the other people in the room walking around in a similar manner, you slip your arm through his and try to ignore the way you feel your ears light on fire.

“Okay, you’re on,” you respond, if a few moments too late. He doesn’t comment on the delay, simply sending you a smile that you can’t quite decipher the emotion behind. You don’t get to dwell before the two of you are off, beginning on your journey through the building and starting on your tour of the exhibition.

You’d kind of always known that Taehyung was talented, considering he managed to make such a name for himself on campus in such little time with such ease. Hell, he’s well-known enough to have made it onto the list of suspects for the muse of your poem. Still, this knowledge is only compounded the further into the building you go and the more of the exhibition you see. Taehyung is truly talented, the images blown up and displayed on the wall each capturing a certain emotion that you don’t have a name for, yet is so familiar that each time you see a new one it gives you pause. Viewing his works, seeing into this part of him and witnessing this bit of his soul he has bared, you can’t help but feel a slight sense of kinship.

It’s something that rests in the space between your lungs and diaphragm, something that tickles but also something that aches. You do know this feeling, so familiar yet so out of touch and far from the tip of your mind’s tongue. You do try to guess the theme of the exhibition as you go, throwing out the occasional dumb guess to elicit a laugh— he always laughs, and it always makes you smile— but you don’t quite manage to pin it.

“The five senses,” you shoot into the dark, standing before an image that has made you stop and stare for a good five minutes now. It’s not quite black and white, and it’s not a particularly unique image— but something about the composition, something about the movement in the two hands that are so close yet so far from actually touching, speaks to that hidden part of you. The way one of the hands simply hangs, unbothered and neutral, but the other, the one slightly closer to the foreground, has fingers ever so slightly outstretched, reaching but never quite committing to the movement and the unspoken consequence of the hinted action.

Of course, you know the answer even before Taehyung says it. He laughs, hands in his pockets, “Nope, ddaeng.”

“This is hard,” you whine, without much heart behind it. The smile stays on Taehyung’s face.

“Whatever. You’re smart, I know you can guess it. It should be easy, for you.”

The compliment catches you off guard, and you have to turn away so that he doesn’t see your cheeks warm. The two of you had parted when you caught sight of the snacks table; you’d been prepared to abandon him and make a beeline over, but Taehyung had surprised you by marching over himself and coming back with a loaded plate. He’d confessed with a sheepish smile that he hadn’t had lunch, and really you were in no place to judge since you hadn’t either. By this point in your journey, though, the plate is almost empty. There’s only two tiny cupcakes left and you’re letting the rest of the things you scarfed down settle before you go in for more.

Perhaps it was a little dangerous, coming here with Taehyung. He looks so fine, even while shoving sweets in his mouth, that you spend about the same amount of time looking at him as you do at his artworks. It takes all of your willpower to tear your eyes away every time you catch yourself looking at him and admiring the truly boyfriend fit he has donned for this occasion. Every so often he will simply stand before one of his works, scrutinising it with a fresh perspective and ever-criticising eyes, and the sight of it will make something nameless and foreign well within you. You don’t quite know what to do with it, so you ignore it. Or at least, you try to.

It feels a little too similar to what you know of yearning. It leaves you confused.

You stop not long after in front of another piece, this time a combination of three images that act as separate snapshots of smaller parts of a larger image. You admire the way he has set it out, revealing not too much but just enough that the viewer gets a sense, a feeling, but isn’t confronted with the message. It allows everyone to take their own sensation from it. You like that a lot about his works— he doesn’t tell people what to feel as they view his images, but merely hints, prompts and nudges. He sets the stage and allows people to take what they need, see whichever bits draw their eye most and spell meaning from elements of their choosing. He’s talented, you find yourself marveling again, so incredibly talented.

But still, you can’t put a finger on what the theme is.

By the time you make your way completely though the exhibition, having doubled back at a few points to look again at a select few of the pictures, you’re still no closer to guessing. It has you deep in your thoughts as you stand outside, waiting for Taehyung to return from thanking one of the guests who had recognised him for coming.

“Guessed it, yet?”

You turn, pinning him with a look that you hoped didn’t look as dumb as it felt. “Leave it with me,” you say. “I’ll figure it out eventually.”

At your words, Taehyung laughs— it’s one of the full-bodied ones you’ve come to enjoy, where he throws his head back a little and shakes his hair back into place after. You have to snap yourself out of it before he catches you staring.

“I’m sure,” he says, unable to keep the cheeky grin off his face. It does slip ever so slightly though, just for a moment, as you watch a thought cross his features. “By the way…”

You tilt your head, waiting for him to continue. You feel an odd combination of at-peace, and unsettled. Holistically, this is the most at-peace and relaxed you’ve been in weeks. However, when you take a moment to tune into the inner machinations that make up your being… something in this exhibition has reached into your insides and fiddled around, moving things where they shouldn’t be and touching things that aren’t meant to be touched. It’s odd, and you acknowledge that it gives you quite a bit of cognitive dissonance. Even so, you’re calm enough that you have no trouble being patient while you wait for Taehyung to continue and say what he seems so nervous to say.

“Um, I know I initially only asked you about coming here, to the exhibition…” he begins, reaching to rub the back of his neck in what you recognise to be one of his nervous ticks. “But, I actually have these vouchers I won in a competition a while ago for a paint-and-sip session that are about to expire, and I was wondering… would you like to go? Now, I mean. Since they actually kind of expire tomorrow. Unless you’re busy, because if you are that’s—”

You decide to put him out of his flustered misery, reaching to nudge his arm. “Of course, that sounds fun! Plus, you were right the other day; I could really do with the chance to relax. Thank you, for all this. I really appreciate it.”

It takes a second for your words to register, but when they do the most blindingly bright smile spreads across his face; he’s practically beaming at you.

“Of course,” he says, with barely a moment’s hesitation. “I’m really happy you agreed to come— I’m glad you said yes to the paint-and-sip, too, because it’s one of my favourite places. Come on, let’s get going. If we get there at just the right time, we can get a really good seat, hopefully by the window.”

The journey continues, Taehyung leading you through the city while chatting easily all the while, a stunning twilight cityscape backdrop and the gentle glimmering surface of the river meandering through buildings providing the perfect scenery. If you had a little more faith in your artistic ability, you might try and paint the image you see now; Taehyung in the colours of dusk, soft and natural against the bright lights and harsh lines of the metropolitan landscape. But alas, you aren’t as talented as the man besides you, and you don’t even want to think of how it would turn out if you attempted to paint such a thing. You quickly throw the thought from your mind before it can linger and get up to more trouble than it’s worth.

“Here we are!” Taehyung’s cheer breaks you out of your stupor, bright smile directed your way once more as he stops in front of a large establishment with long strips of window and a colourfully sewn awning.

‘Brush & Bar’, the cursive, neon sign reads above the door, flickering between soft pink and peach orange. It’s an interesting aesthetic the place has going on, but when you look over and catch sight of Taehyung once more it suddenly makes sense why he likes it so much. The style of this place is very similar to some of the more outlandish things he tends to model around campus. Before your reverie lets you remain abandoned outside, you hurry to follow after the ashy-haired boy, grabbing the back of his jacket when you almost trip over the door frame. He spares a look over his shoulder to make sure you’re okay before he continues, moving towards the counter and smiling with more charm than you can personally handle at the staff member there.

It’s a woman, who you suspect is in her mid-thirties, and she is pretty enough that it takes you by surprise when she rolls her eyes heavily at Taehyung’s approach.

“You again, boy?” she asks, though it sounds more rhetorical than anything and you catch the slightest tinge of humour accenting her words and it soothes your hackles. “Don’t you ever get sick of hanging around here?”

“Nope!”

She cracks a smile, lines appearing at the edges of her eyes. “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing. We’d miss you an awful lot if you ever stopped showing up here.” Her eyes flick ever so slyly to you, and then back. “Say, is today the day you’re finally gonna make good on those vouchers you won? I know you said you were waiting for the right chance to ask that g—”

“Yes!” Taehyung cuts in loudly, eyes wide and cheeks flushing darkly. “Yes, yep! I brought the vouchers! They do expire tomorrow after all!”

The woman, Bora as you now see from her nametag, simply smiles, something sly about the action intriguing you. Taehyung clears his throat, reaching to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. “So, um… I will use them now. Is the window seat free…?”

Bora nods, a fond curve to her lips now as she rummages around behind the counter and takes the offered vouchers from Taehyung to punch holes in them. “Your favourite spot? Of course. I had a feeling you were coming, too, so I’ve already gone and set it up with some canvases and acrylics.”

She hands the vouchers back, and Taehyung slips them into the pocket of his jacket. “Paintbrushes and jars are in their usual place, and I know you don’t normally drink while you’re here but if you’d like some tonight just take your order up to Kyungsoo. Oh! And tonight’s special for snacks is tea cakes, so definitely make the most of that. There are some good ones in the display.”

At the mention of food and alcohol, your gaze had already started to wander on its own— you catch sight of the display of cakes and other sweets and feel your mouth water. Ridiculous, since you were kind of full before, but what can you say, you’re a complicated woman. Lots of layers, not unlike an onion. The thought almost makes you snort.

With a gentle nudge to your arm, Taehyung is bringing you back to the present moment and leading you over to the window, where a medium-sized table has been set up with two square canvases and a basket of paint bottles, palettes leaning to the side. Taehyung instructs you to take a seat, informing you with a smile that he’ll grab some paintbrushes and water for the two of you to use. At his suggestion, while he is gone you open up your phone and search for something to paint. Something that’s not too hard and not too easy. Because your skills are… well, they’re not nonexistent but you’re not about to go around tooting your horn in front of someone with actual art skills and talent. Apparently there is usually an image supplied for each night, but Taehyung says it’s not strict and that tonight is one of the nights where all the patrons just have free reign.

You sort of get distracted part way through the activity, eyes subconsciously seeking Taehyung’s leather jacket amongst the decently filled establishment. It’s really quite nice inside, actually; the walls and general decor are soft and neutral, with pops of colour everywhere that bring each corner and table to life. A lot of the furniture is wooden, natural and polished underneath specks of paint that decorate in layers that tell of time spent well. The lighting is soft with the exception of the bulbs stationed above each table, which are brighter and angled towards where the canvas would be. On one of the walls, the one near the bar, it is completely covered by greenery— vines that, as far as you can tell, aren’t actually fake. A soft, almost jazzy tune filters lightly through the room, complemented by the low hum of chatter and paintbrushes hitting glass. You’re incredibly impressed and, admittedly, you like this place a lot. It has the kind of vibe that just… makes you content.

“Here we go!”

You startle at the sound of Taehyung’s low register, looking over to see him placing a bundle of paintbrushes in between the two of you and a jar beside each of your canvases. He takes his seat across from you, smiling brightly. “Did you decide what you want to paint?”

You hum, turning your gaze out the window for a moment to see if it grants you any inspiration— it’s a gorgeous sight, the twilight sky broken by the outline of buildings with glimmering insides, but it doesn’t help much. You don’t know what you want to paint. Of course, there is this big, expanding feeling inside you, the urge to express it somehow filling you to your fingertips, but what do you do with it? You don’t even know its name.

“No,” you answer, reaching for one of the palettes propped up to the side. “But I’ll be okay. Maybe I’ll just see where the vibe takes me.”

The smile Taehyung gives you at that is softer than most, and he eagerly follows suit in grabbing a palette and beginning to set it up; he squirts a big dollop of white, blinking at it for a moment as though he hadn’t intended to put that much. “There are some pencils and erasers to the side there, too. I prefer the moldable one.”

You thank him for his advice, before realising as he puts his own pencil ever so lightly to canvas that he hadn’t told you the subject of his painting. “What are you going to paint?”

“A secret,” he says, leaning around the canvas to grin at you. “Since I don’t know what you’re painting. Let’s swap paintings after, though. I do want to see eventually.”

That makes you laugh, but you don’t bother pushing further. A surprise is nice every now and then, you know. So long as it’s not the kind that ruins your life as you know it indefinitely.

But you’re here to have fun and relax, so you’re not going to get into that. You’re not even going to think about it.

Taehyung clears his throat, catching your attention immediately. “Right, before we start we should probably order. Did you—”

“No need, my boy!”

Two new figures appear at the side of the table, one a youthful man on the shorter side, the other older and plumper with grey beginning to speckle through his hair. The shorter one places two drinks onto the table, colourful cocktails in a generous glass, and the older laughs before placing down two plates, each with a different kind of cake slice situated neatly in the middle.

“On the house,” the man continues, chuckling at the shocked and somewhat flustered look on Taehyung’s face. “You’ve given us a lot of business so don’t even worry about it. Plus, we heard you were finally making the most of those vouchers so… here’s a little something to start the night off well!”

“...Thanks, Mr Kang,” Taehyung finally manages, shooting them a smile that could honestly give Hoseok’s own a run for its money. “You too, Kyungsoo. Do…. do I wanna know what’s in this?”

He’s gesturing to the drinks, a somewhat fearful look on his face. The shorter man shakes his head, thick brows curved in mirth as his lips twitch into a lopsided smile. “Nope. Tastes good though, so you got nothing to worry about.”

You can’t tell whether Taehyung is relieved or concerned, and so step in to save him a moment of reprieve. “Thank you so much— this all looks amazing!”

Happily, the two men soak in your praise. “I assure you,” Mr Kang says, patting his chest proudly. “It tastes as good as it looks.”

Kyungsoo snorts, but doesn’t disagree. He gives the two of you a small smile. “Right, we should be on our way. You two enjoy yourselves, and if you want refills just come let me know.”

Taehyung nods, thanking them again, and then it’s just the two of you once more.

“Well,” he says, licking his lips and reminding you of a puppy as he stares intently at the slice of strawberry crepe cake, decorated with a generous drizzle of syrup and two fresh, sliced strawberries in a dollop of cream beside it. The other one, a coffee-caramel blend you presume from the heavenly aroma reaching your nose, looks just as good but is nowhere near as successful at capturing his attention. “I guess… let’s begin!”

Whether he meant painting or devouring the food, you end up doing a bit of both. Each mouthful of cake that enters your mouth is announced with an explosion of flavour so rich it lingers long after you’ve swallowed the mouthful down. The drinks, too, are delicious. Fruity but not too syrupy or sugary, you suspect Kyungsoo had used spirits and tempered the fruity flavour with a bit of lemon or lime.

You still aren’t really sold on what to paint, but in the meantime you end up sketching out the flowers that sit on the windowsill a little behind Taehyung. They don’t seem too complicated, and if they end up looking terrible you can just smear the canvas with paint and call it abstract. Of course, part of Taehyung’s shoulder cuts the vase off from view so he’s probably going to end up making an unwitting appearance in whatever mess turns up on your canvas.

Even though neither of you have any idea what Kyungsoo put into those drinks, you’re sure its something strong. Before long the two of you are already giggly, conversation flowing easily as you put paint to canvas and attempt to make something decent. It’s around the time the two of you are almost finishing your drinks that the conversation takes a delightful turn, which consists of Taehyung telling you about his little fluffball, Yeontan.

“Oh my god,” you say, fingers gripping the paintbrush tight as you try to pet the urge to pet a dog that isn’t even here. “He’s so cute! Look at his grumpy little eyebrows!”

Taehyung laughs, having taken a break from painting to show you his dog like a proud parent. He takes his phone back and slips it into his pocket, paint-flecked hand returning to the brush he’d abandoned. “He’s such a smart dog, but he’s also super dumb. Runs into shit all the time. And there was one time that a friend came over and brought a new camera that he hadn’t seen before—”

Taehyung has to pause recounting the story, he starts giggling so hard. It makes you erupt into laughter as well simply because of how contagious the sound is. “He got so mad, he ran in front of me with his little legs and started barking at it like he was trying to protect me. I love that little dog.”

“I love him too and I haven’t even met him,” you giggle, using your pinky (the only finger you’re sure you haven’t gotten paint on yet) to wipe under your eyes. You don’t think you let a tear slip but you’ve been laughing so much you can’t be sure.

Taehyung beams at you from around his canvas, brush held midair. “That’s exactly what Jiminie says.”

That gives you pause. “Wait— Jimin hasn’t seen your dog? But you’ve been friends for ages!”

You catch the photographer smiling as he delivers a few soft strokes to his painting, affection hidden in his tone as he responds, “Yeah, a few years. Since… the last? Second last year of high school? Maybe? It was a wild start to the friendship.”

“Wild?” you echo, intrigued.

“Yeah. What really kick-started our friendship was this one time I came over while Jimin was really upset about something. I can’t remember exactly how it happened but we ended up at some wack university event nearby. It was boring as hell, and somehow we figured the best way to be entertained would be to commit a mild crime and get away with it.”

Once more, the ashy-haired male has to pause his story to get the giggles out of his system, taking the opportunity to sip a little more of his cocktail. You do the same, not one to pass up much of any drink these days.

“Long story short, he ended up streaking across the field and earning himself a title at the university as ‘mooncheeks’ or something equally dumb and funny, earnt himself a bit of a nude legacy.”

You pause, the alcohol beginning to slow your mind just enough that it takes a little longer for you to connect the dot between his story and something you’d shoved so deep in the back of your mind years ago that you’d almost forgotten it.

“Wait—” you smack your paintbrush down, eyes wide as an accusing finger is thrown his way. “That was— he ran into me on the way back! Oh my god I almost forgot, that was you two?!”

Taehyung erupts into laughter that is an octave or two shy of being too loud, having to place a hand over his chest to brace himself. He’s nodding wordlessly, eyes pinched shut, and it’s probably the alcohol making your eyes blur but for a moment you could almost swear he’s glowing.

“Yeah,” he finally manages to articulate, wiping a stray tear or two from his eyes, sniffling. “It cheered him up, though, so I think it’s worth the potential trauma.”

That makes you laugh, another sip of your drink going down. A lot of the spirits must have settled at the bottom, because this one had a little warmth as it went down.

The night goes so easily it’s like a dream, the atmosphere and alcohol in combination with Taehyung’s company making you feel much like you did before this whole shitshow, back when it wasn’t so hard to release the tension in your shoulders or to muster a genuine smile. Taehyung happily gets you a few refills, refusing to let you pull out your card— which is probably for the best because you’re not sure where your wallet is and you’re not coordinated enough to look right now.

You’re on the further side of tipsy, teetering on the edge of pleasantly drunk where nothing makes sense but you’re still somewhat coherent, and everything is funny. Taehyung has almost dipped his paintbrushes in his drink instead of the jar a few times, resulting in a long round of laughter and sore stomachs each time. Eventually, you’d moved his drink to the other side of the canvas and he’d offered you a sheepish smile.

Surprisingly, your painting doesn’t look too bad, either. Currently it has a bit of a blurry, undefined quality to it, but in your current opinion it kind of works for it. Taehyung’s shoulder did end up making a feature and as the two of you talk you find yourself distractedly painting patterns in the ‘leather’, swirls and hearts and hell, even a few triangles. Eventually, you reach the point where you think that you really can’t do anything more to make the painting better in the time you have, so with a contented sigh you place your brush down and instead turn your attention to Taehyung.

Even as he talks to you and wobbles a little in place, he’s still so incredibly focused in his work, in every detail that meets canvas at the direction of his nimple finngertips, that you don’t think you even see his hand shaking while he paints. Which, your hand was— a lot. It’s the main factor responsible for this one squiggly flower stem in particular you can see in your painting.

As you sit there, happily listening and laughing at each anecdote Taehyung offers you about his life, you find your mind wandering a little bit. Back to the exhibition, and the works and even the way you caught him regarding them. You recognise the critical lens that he viewed them through, because it’s one you adopt yourself for your own creations. Something wells in you, an urge to reassure him in case he ever had any doubts about his own talent; you’re far too many drinks in to be in a place where you can stop yourself.

“Taehyung,” you begin softly but seriously, with minimal slur. He doesn’t stop his motions, but you see him pause for the briefest moment before humming in acknowledgement. “Taehyung, I have to tell you…”

You’re figuring out how to best word your impression of his works and his talent, but you must take longer than you thought because Taehyung lets out a soft huff, giving you a smile that you can’t quite decipher.

“Don’t worry,” he says, flicking the paintbrush back to rest the wooden stem on his knuckles. “I already know I’m not the muse. You don’t have to worry about convincing me.”

For a second, all you’re able to do is blink. Taehyung simply goes back to his painting, expression neutral and his soft hum brushing your ears beneath the soft melody floating from the speakers. You realise quickly that you don’t know what to say to that, and that the full implications of his words haven’t really sunk in yet. He must have noticed that you’d been trying to go around and convince all the suspected subjects that they aren’t the muse of the poem… you feel oddly ashamed, for some reason. Your cheeks feel hot, and not just from the alcohol flush.

“Done!”

Taehyung’s voice breaks you from your reverie, his cheery smile greeting you once more. “All finished?”

You nod, offering a smile of your own and taking the opportunity to say what you wanted to earlier. “Yep. I’m excited to see yours, you’re so incredibly talented, Tae.”

His smile turns shy at that, a bashful laugh tumbling from his lips as he does his best to clean up his area. You do the same, standing up for the first time in a while and having to reach out and stabilise yourself on the table so you don’t fall. The drinks hit you a little harder than you first thought!

“Thank you,” he finally mumbles a few moments later, collecting the brushes. “I’m excited to see yours, too.”

You let out a short laugh at that, knowing that whatever you threw onto that canvas isn’t going to be able to hold a candle to what he made.

Quicker than you can keep track of, the two of you finish tidying and then before you know it you’re saying your goodbyes to the staff and stepping outside. You shiver at the unexpected breeze that greets you, people along the other side of the street huddling together. It’s a windy night and the breeze carries a bit of a bite.

“Oh, right,” Taehyung starts in place, offering his canvas to you. “Careful, it might still be a bit wet…”

Somewhat mindlessly, you swap paintings with him, smiling brightly before your gaze is drawn to the side. By nothing but absolute chance, it passes over the line in front of a bar popular with students at your university, and you almost blink and move on before your eyes halt in familiarity. At the hands of nothing but stupid luck, there is someone you recognise over there. Yoongi stands, face indicating a loud complaint before it even leaves his mouth, and there are a few others around him that he seems to be with who are laughing as they wait in line.

Your head feels so messy, like the wind has managed to get inside your skull and fling everything about like leaves on the autumn breeze. You’re so distracted in the moment that you don’t see it as Taehyung follows the direction of your gaze, and his expression drops. When you jerk out of your reverie, it’s just in time to see his eyes flicking from your painting, to his, and then back to you.

You’re about to peek at his painting and fill the silence with a compliment, but he beats you to it. Something is different about his expression, and not just because he’s no longer under the warm light of the paint bar. The glow you’d noticed so easily earlier seems to have dimmed a bit.

“Did you figure out the theme of the exhibition?”

At his question you startle, gaze flicking to the side as you try and figure it out on instinct on the spot. You’d completely forgotten to think about it, and considering you spent about as much time looking at him as you did his works while at the exhibition, you can safely determine you’re still nowhere closer to the answer. “Ah… no.”

As though drawn like a magnet, your gaze ends up over in the direction of Yoongi for the briefest second. You struggle to tear it away.

“It’s anaxiphilia.”

Even through the inebriation slowing your thoughts, his words reach you immediately. It’s as though your heart has turned to stone and dropped straight through your chest. That unspeakable, unknown emotion wells and bubbles within you, swelling to twice, thrice its size and blocking words before they can even reach your throat. Your eyes are on Taehyung again, but his are still centred where yours had been— had he also noticed Yoongi? You didn’t know they knew each other...

“Oh,” you finally manage, swallowing down that nameless sensation. Taehyung’s gaze slowly slides back to you, dark eyes full of so much… something, you think it would take you years to unpack and familiarise yourself with it all.

For a second, the two of you stand with your gazes locked, both of you too deep in your own thoughts to do anything about it. Taehyung is the one that breaks the spell.

“Well, it’s getting late, I shouldn’t keep you out any longer… There is a bus stop here, and tons of ubers in the area…” His eyes flick away as he talks but return as he murmurs this last bit, “Thank you for coming today. I hope you had fun.”

“Of course I did,” you rush, finally finding your voice amongst the shambles in your head. “Thank you for inviting me, Tae. I really… I really needed this. Thank you.”

He nods, smiling at you, but you notice it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Please get home safe,” he says, and you nod immediately, making his gaze soften. “See you later.”

“Bye! Thank you again!” you wave, Taehyung turning quick and already a decent way down the street after his farewell. He offers a wave over his shoulder and you catch it just in time before you turn back, gaze unconsciously seeking out the familiar figure across the road. Distantly, you observe that Yoongi is no longer in line for the bar and has switched to the bubble tea place a few stores down.

Taehyung’s exhibition and it’s theme swim through your mind, a sudden impulse welling within you in response that spurs your legs into a motion. You’re about to go across the road in a sudden spurt of something like bravery, but for some indecipherable reason, you stop before you can get more than a few feet. You turn your head, gaze thrown over your shoulder, eyes seeking without an explicit goal in mind.

You catch sight of him just before he rounds the corner and disappears from view— even from the back Taehyung presents a handsome figure, but in the split-second you manage to view him, the most notable things about his retreating form is the slumped curve of his shoulders and the lowered angle of his head. He’s gone before you can blink leaving you for good this time with nothing but your messy head and the one thought that swims to the surface that says after seeing him glow in happiness for the better part of the evening, sadness doesn’t suit him much at all.

Clutching the painting, your turn back to the front and try and focus on the present for just a minute or two, like whether you’re going to catch a bus or uber it home, but each time you start a new thought it always brings you back to the odd mix of guilt swirling deep in your gut. There’s something else there, the familiar hollow pit of yearning, but for once… you can’t quite tell who it’s for.

a/n: thank u so much for reading! i really hope it was worth the wait and that you look forward the future parts as fox rain begins to slowly draw to a close!! pls let us know u liked it w a like and rb and screaming in our inboxes is always ALWAYS welcome!! thank u !! love u !! <3

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shepard-ram · 3 years

Note

Hello again this is Ender-anon with the next chapter of this story as we move on to Wilbur. p.s the poem will be at the bottom.

The most important day of your life so far.

Everything was chaos, as people rushed back and forth getting everything ready for you coronation the next day, dignitaries from other countrys ariving with gifts, the kichens had to order food from abroad inorder to fully cater the event. You however were nervous for a different reasion between going over the speechs with Enciodes and practicing the holy vows you would undertake tomorrow with the current Saintess Anya Silverash ( Enciodes and Ensia's sister), the Arctic Empires delegates had yet to arrive you knew thanks to Tommys latest letter ( and hadn't that been a surprise learning that you friend was the third prince, but you had assured him that it would change nothing between you he was still Tommy to you) his brother prince Wilbur second in line to the throne would be arriving with them since Tommy father had said that Tommy couldn't go. Which is why when the Arctic Empire arrived (with so many gifts Tommy really had gone overboard you though) without the prince saying that he had gone on ahead of the main group a wave of panic sweeped through those in attendance. The wilds were dangerous for outsiders at night the beasts of the land wouldn't attack your citizens ( ancient magic prevented them from doing so a spell cast by an allie of your venerated ancestor) but a lone prince was a different deal. Jumping into action you asked the nobility in attendance the Silverash,Rostova,Schwire and Nearl to search their grounds as they were the few nobles with manors outside to capital and on the way to get your winter coat discretely ordered a hidden member of the Armourless Union to imform the three Obsidians that finding the prince was their new hightest priority and to sent everyone Platinum, the two Lapis Lazuil and to track what woodlands hadn't been searched yet. Rushing out of the capital, lanturn in hand rushed into the nearby woods, woods that you had explored as far back as you could remember, woods you knew like the back of your hand as such when you heard the wolves howling in the distance you knew the quickest route to take after all those seconds could be the difference between finding the prince or finding a corpse.

Leaping over a ridge you found yourself between a terrified Wilbur and a pack of 5 wolves both pausing with your entrance. Wilbur snaped out it first yelling " Kid get out of here, I can distract the wolves RUN" you instead turn towards the wolves and told them to leave as they do you grab the stuperfied princes hand and lead him back towards the capital where you hand him off to his countrys dignitaries while you returned to the palace to get some sleep ready for your coronation tommorow. You looked at your reflection now dressed in your ceremonial outfit based on you ancestors outfit minus the black helmet of course looking over at your soon to be ex-regent Enciodes who looked at you with pride in his eyes, after gathering your nerves you follow him knights flanking you to the second biggest building in the capital after the palace, the temple to the Karlan Goddess. Kneeling before Anya at the goddesses alter you swore to protect your people, your nation and to uphold you nations values rising after Anya placed neatherite crown upon your head. Turning to look at those in attendance you saw Enciodes with tears in his eyes, Buldrokkas'tee with his daughter Yelena holding her up so she could see and curiously prince Wilbur looking at you with a weird look in his eyes that was a strange combination of pity and longing all while clutching a piece of paper close to his chest. During the after coronation celebrations you did manage to start a conversation with him by talking about Tommy of all thinks but he was what you two had in common you both cared about him a great deal before you left you handed him a letter to give to Tommy once he got back to the empire, he staired at it for a moment before handing over the piece of paper you saw him holding earlier you looked at it to see a poem on it "Its my gift to you, as thanks for saving me" he proclaimed after reading it you saw the themes of close bonds and friendship ( at least thats how it looked to you) and as such you thanked him for such a thoughtful poem giving him a hug " I must admit I can most certainly see why my baby brother is so attached to you" and with that he turned and left with the other delegates back to the Arctic Empire.

The most important encounter of his life

Wilbur was pretty sure even before meeting this ruler that he would hate them even though he hadn't met them yet. Why you may ask? First they charm his precious baby brother into letting them call him Tommy something that he only allowed family to do but he wouldn't stop carrying that doll dressed in black claiming that it was a gift from you, then whenever post would arive he would all but tear the poor messenger apart just on the chance you sent him a letter he remembered after he sent the letter informing you of his status he was sure that that would end this farce and he would have his adorable little brothers attention again but nooo you sent a letter telling him that it didn't matter Tommy was still your friend and that reguardless of his title he you wouldn't treat him any differently and to your credit you didn't. But thats nothing compared to what he's currently going through no since Tommy is to young he has to be the representative of the royal family to your coronation (despite Tommy throwing the biggest tantrum he had ever seen), so now he's walking along a poorly constructed road with a the other delegates with the mountain of gifts that his brother has bought you using every coin he had. Tired and just completely done with this day he told the others that he would be walking on ahead and they would meet back up at the palace, that was the plan at least he thinks to himself as he runs before he had strayed from the dirt path and stumbled upon a wolf pack that was now chasing him so his day has gotten even worse great. As he hits a dead end he turns to face the wolves looking around for a way to clime up the ridge above him as the wolves closed in, only for a kid in a winter coat holding a lanturn to jump down inbetween him and the wolves startling them both thankfully he snaped out of it first and yelled at you to run he wasn't about let a kid only a few years older than his baby brother get torn apart by these wolves but instead of fleeing you gave him a reassuring smile before turning to the wolves " He is no enemy of our nation, leave now" you commaned and to his surprise they obeyed his mind going blank trying to process what he just witnessed as you lead him out of the woods. It wasn't till he was in his room in the newly built embassy that he realised he never learned his saviors name after interrorgating the delegates he learns to his suprise that his savior was the person that took his place in his brothers heart.

Maybe he misjudged you he thinks as he spends the time before your cononation collecting information about you pretending that he was merely a curious tourist and when he returned to get dressed into his formal wear he thought about what he had learned, the most dishearting information was how alone you were you had no surviving family no cousins,no siblings and no parents but you still found reasions to smile, to try you best to be the ruler you nation would need despite the fact that said nation in his humble opinion was undeserving.How he had missjudge you so much, of course his brother would try and give you family that you never had he couldn't even think of a world without his little brother, his twin or his dad but you had to endure a world where that was the norm for you, and now he though bitterly this nation would be your burden to carry alone without family to turn to for help. He of course need to thank you and in his own way apologize for his incorrect image of you, he didn't bring his guitar so a poem would have to do, perhaps he could put an offer of family in it so you knew that you wouldn't be alone, yes that sounded good. As he stood with the others of importance during you coronation he couldn't help but think how small you looked in that all black outfit dispite knowing you were older that Tommy in this moment you didn't look it to him as you made vows that in the eyes of your nation, in the eyes of your goddess would forever bind you to a nation undeserving of you, a nation that had caused you to grow up alone surrounded by advisers and (if his brothers rants were anything to go by) a schemeing regent. He truly pitied you and wanted to take you away from this back to the empire where you could be a child for once not be forced to be a ruler, Tommy would be happy if he wisked you away and he realised as they placed a neatherite crown on your head he wouldn't mind having being your big brother. To his surprise you can over to talk to him during the after party, as the subject of conersation shifted to Tommy he saw your eyes light up as you trades stories back and forth acting less like royals from different countrys and more like siblings talking about their younger brother. Its only when you press a quickly written letter into his hands and asked for him to hand it to Tommy that he remembered his poem as such he handed the poem over to you and exsplaned that it was a thank you gift for rescuing him (and for him being so wrong about you) he searched your face as you read seeing if you got his hidden message before you thanked him for it and gave him a hug , hun he could in this moment certainly see why his baby brother was so attached to them oh if the look on your face was anything to go by he just said that aloud time to leave he thinks.On the plane ride home he can't help but read the letter you wrote for his baby brother only for his eyes to widen as you ask Tommy whats its like having a big brother like Wilbur or what its like having a big brother in general but a infuriated look fills his face as you say you think your starting to see Enciodas ( the scheming regent his brain supplied )and his sisters as your big siblings as your family,oh that seals it he thinks he is going to be big brother and save you from you misguided loyaltys at least he count on Tommy to help rescue their future sibling from themself.

Wilburs poem

It's hard to put into words, what I want to say.

But I want you to know your thought of, in a very special way.

Though the distance in between us, keeps us continents apart.

There will always be a place, for our bond within my heart.

Poems are strange arn't they, two people could read the same poem but come away with comletely different ideas as to what it means... Ender-anon

Okay I might stop talking all together on this entire FICS but this- yes absolutely very good

#ask #ender anon #tw. yandere #c: wilbur #c: tommy

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kyoupann · 3 years

Note

Please do more of the writing head canons. It’s really interesting to see other people’s ideas on the topic, so if you can be bothered, I would highly appreciate more, thanks bye <3

Y’all don’t know how happy I am to talk about these headcanons, they are my babies and I love them so much :’) thanks for asking g <3

Handwriting Headcanons

Same dynamic as before, try to guess whose handwriting it is before reading and tell me how many you got right! <3

You can find the first post here (no need to check it tho)

Quick disclaimer: halfway through making my initial notes, I remembered I had one (1) single lesson of graphology in my applied linguistics class, but that was a year ago and some information might be off. I just thought it was neat to include.

Another quick disclaimer: I don’t know much about Hylian, but I like to think it has a similar stroke system to Japanese, so the pressure and accuracy of your strokes play a major role in your handwriting (among other things, ofc.) so there are some parts where I focus more on that

(First Row, from left to right)

Sky

Our first boy is mother hen! Believe it or not, he has the prettiest handwriting out of all of them! Sky: probably has nice, even elegant handwriting because Sun forced him to practice when they were little. In the end, that paid off because his handwriting is the prettiest one. There’s no pressure, but he is confident in what he writes that his lines aren’t thin. Mistakes? what is that? this boy has impeccable grammar and spelling. No mechanic errors to be found in his letters! I’d like to think that many of Hyrule’s classic/staple poems were originally written by the firt king aka sky child. Like, imagine, after a retiring from being a Person of Power (as the first ruler), Sky finds comfort in the arts: revisits his old woodcarvings and starts writing poetry about the world he still doesn’t fully understand. wowie. tldr: sky writes poetry and you can pry it from my cold dead hands.

This is what one of his letters would look like:

Next one is the one and only, our Hero of Time

2. Time

I’ll die on the “Time didn’t know how to read and write” hill. His handwriting is simple, not pretty but not messy. It has some grammar and spelling mistakes here and there. Can become unreadable if writing in a hurry, he sorts of forgets spaces between words are a thing/letters have different sizes and lowercase letters end up the same size as capital letters. I’m not saying he sometimes forgets to write articles: he just doesn’t want to. Honestly, he just has this dad-neat handwriting. He is a gentle dad and writes like a dad, if he puts too much pressure onto the paper, his handwriting become too sharp/angle-ish and ends up looking ugly. And as much as he would like to not care about it, in the end he does (:

Malon taught him how to write and it was quite the experience. At first he didn’t want to because he was ‘too old’ to learn and it was torture at first, but now look at him devouring his cowboy novels.

A chunk of his handwriting:

*sniff* such a dad quote.

3. my mansss, your 4x1 deal at Target: Four

Look, my boy is patient! He could do some nice and fancy lettering if he wanted to. He was taught that handwriting and spelling said a whole lot about him as a person, you know, like a first impression kinda thing; so he always proof reads more than twice before sending a letter. Super rare grammar mistakes.

The faster he writes, the more slant his writing becomes. Under stress/ when not sure how to write things down, run-on sentences are everywhere and his handwriting is inconsistent in general (I don’t headcanon each part of him having completely different handwriting because handwriting becomes muscle memory over time. It’s just slightly different variations of the same, like idk Vio’s handwriting is neater than Green’s and Red writes hearts instead of any dot/circle and no, I do not take constructive criticism on that, jk i do.) Adding on to each of the colours’ handwriting, I’d think Red and Green write with words slanted to the right( inclined), Vio is a mix of the opposite, so reclined and straight, and my mans blue a true neutral writes straight (kinda like Time’s).

The logic behind this is that inclined writing supposedly means honesty and need for giving (and getting) affection; reclined means, as you can probably imagine, defensiveness and repression of true feelings, but also shows great concentration; straight handwriting means self-control, observation and reflection as well as distrust and indifference. But as complete being (tm), Four just writes as in the image example which is not too straight and not too inclined, and I believe that’s a good middle for him

HOWEVER, if I’m feeling in the mood for crack, I totally accept this boy to have the ugliest, chicken scratches-looking handwriting! :’D It’s just funny to think that someone like him, who has to be precise and careful in his work, can't write neatly to save his life.

One of his letters would look like this:

Also I just LOVE how his hero titles look in this font ksksks

and that’s

(Middle row, from left to right)

4.- Mister Bunny Boy - Legend

His uncle taught him how to write. I’d call his handwriting pretty and neat at a first glance, but he presses too hard on the paper, most of the time staining the back or the following page. Sometimes will retrace some words if he doesn’t like how it looks (which only makes it messier). According to my notes, a thick or strong handwriting represents determination/commitment.

As I also headcanon him to know many languages, mechanical errors are more present than grammar ones; that is, weird capitalisation of words. Punctuation is somewhere in between; uses too many commas when he should just cut the sentence. he mixes punctuation from two languages or more in writing when too distracted (or too focused, because, well, pressure.); when he writes for himself, he has almost no problem following said language’s punctuation rules. Also, this is just polyglot culture, and I’m projecting a bit, but when he forgets a word in the language he’s writing, he just replaces it with its equivalent in another language because we don’t care about fluency, but rather functionality. in this household (more on that in my language hc, ksksks).

An example of his writing:

so powerful

4.- Mr. Wolfman, howl me a song - Twilight

I don’t have much for him because 1) I don’t think he writes a lot and 2) he is a hands-on/visual learner, I’ll die by that. He only learnt how to write because Ulli insisted it was important and he was not about to disrespect his momma; he IS That Guy, but doesn’t really write enough to have neat handwriting.

Many people seem to overlook the fact that his house is filled with books and write him as completely illiterate (which if not explored properly, ends up feeling a bit disrespectful and full of prejudice, but go off I guess; and that’s on my core Headcanons for Twi); however, he sticks to simple sentences. Knowing how to read and understanding a text is different from knowing how to write them. Like, when we would see a semicolon and understand its position in the text, but didn’t understand the nature of it. Is this clear? idk i’m sorry. So yeah, boy reads a lot, writes very little.

As for his Actual Handwriting, as opposed to Legend, his handwriting is thiccc but not because he presses into the paper; he is just that messy, he has no sense of ink-flow-control, he does what he can with what he has. To the untrained eye, his handwriting illegible letters like v, n, u are very similar; when he makes notes for himself he does it in the form of doodles or small ‘icons’. But! He reads a lot, so he rarely makes spelling mistakes (: he is your go-to guy when you don’t know how to write a word.

An example of his writing:

He keeps a journal, sue me.

3. My first born- Warrior

Okay, first off... I accept this is completely biased. I saw the idea and said “That’s True”. If you haven’t, please read Effective Communication; or The Lack of Thereof by htruona, a fic where the boys reflect on the language barriers between them. It’s incredibly funny and probably what made me start making these silly notes. So, if you’ve read that fic, you know where I’m going.

My man, Warrior, can’t fucking write. I mean, he physically can, but it’s very bad. Here’s the reason for it, tho, and it’s not his fault: Technically, he knew how to write alright but he joined the military and whatever note he had to write had to be concise or in the worst case coded. He mixes capital and lowercase letters. If we consider that he joined the military at around 15, his handwriting and grammar had yet to continue developing. Just think about how after summer break, your handwriting was always slightly worse than before because you didn’t write for an entire month. Now think what 2 years can do to that. Hmm, not cool, dude. He makes quick notes, when writing he’s all gotta go fast. he is the lighting mcqueen of writing; good for emergency messages, not ideal for love letters. His punctuation also suffered a lot, he only know full stops and commas and hardly uses them. A sentence for him is either one word or fifty without a single comma, no inbetween.

His hero title and an example of his writing.

(Bottom row, or what I like to call “fuck cursive” row)

7.- Magic man - Hyrule

I’m basic and I do agree with the popular headcanon of he not knowing how to write because well, y’all know his Hyrule. He only knows how to write his name because that’s important, same with numbers. I don’t see why would he write/read except checking the roadsigns. (he can even use this as an excuse for getting lost frequently; he thought it said something different.) But I do think that because his habitual reading consists of roadsigns, his ‘punctuation’ is weird af and places full stops/points/periods at the same level of his words and his commas/question/exclamation marks below them. Yk, creative license. Sadly, I don’t have much about my magic hands man so here’s what his writing would look like if he actually wrote a paragraph:

Man, I love Hyrule.

8.- Man, I don’t understand this boy - Wild

Cursive? ain’t nobody have the time for that. He woke up and had to save the world in his underwear while not knowing how to read nor write. He learnt during his journey and was taught by multiple people from different regions, that explains his inconsistent spelling of things and names for them. So Wild knows language variations for many items and uses them interchangeably (even if they aren’t exactly the same). Another headcanon related to writing/language skills that I’ve been thinking about is that if the shrine was able to cause amnesia, I’m sure there were other areas in the brain affected which leads us to language disorders such as agraphia and aphasia. But that’s a story for another day ksksksk

An example of his writing (after relearning)

9.- The best of sons - Wind

I don’t have much for him and that makes me sad. Look, he’s a kid, doing kid things like stabbing dudes on the head. This boy was taught cursive by his grandma, but could never do it and no one needs it anyway. His handwriting is good enough for his pirate life, Tetra is the one to handle Official stuff, he just gotta sign. Spelling and grammar mistakes abound. He is still relatively young and can correct his handwriting if he desires. But same as Wild, with how many times he’s been thrown out and hit his head, I’m starting to consider some language disorder for him as well.

An example of his writing:

aaand that’s it.

Thanks, y’all for showing interest in this silly thing uwu it was fun to finally talk about this. If you ever want to discuss ideas/headcanons(especially if they are related to language and culture), I’m your person (: I’m always happy to hear new headcanons. Feel free to add anything to this post either in a reply or in a reblog, I’d love to hear from y’all <3<3

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