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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

I’ve read a variation of soft and rough König and I’ve enjoyed both but I’d love to see your take on his character.

I can’t deny I have a preference for soft König. I think his size is a major concern, especially if his partner is on the smaller side, which leads me to believe he’d prolong the inevitable and the pining and anticipation would be off the charts on his end. But maybe his SO thinks he’s not as interested as she initially thought.

Add in the fact that he’s gone for long periods of time in which there is little or no communication and perhaps she considers moving on. The ol’ miscommunication trope if you will, with a happy ending. Thanks!

Overflow the Stars

Pairing: König x F!Reader

Synopsis: One more abandoned date night later, you're left wondering if the man you're infatuated with is really interested in you at all.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Angst, feelings of insecurity, body issues, allusions to König's past w. bullying & his anxiety, size difference, fluff, soft!König, happy ending

A/N: This is my apology to the German-speaking people out there - I think I butchered your language (feel free to correct me). I'm so sorry lmfao. But, Anon, this request was adorable to write, hope you enjoy it!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wanted to say you were surprised when he didn't show up – really, you did – but in the back of your mind, you already knew he wouldn’t. It was hard not to feel disappointed when you swirled your tiny cup of Franziskaner tensely, watching the whipped cream sink away into the concoction of dark espresso and milk; calling attention to the same feeling in your chest.

König had a strange habit as of late, and with a delicate furrow in your brow and perhaps even a smidge of sadness in your eyes, you wondered what you had done wrong. Why had he been avoiding you so…violently? While you wouldn’t have called yourself perfect by any means, nothing you had done over the course of your meetings was strange or downright embarrassing.

You admitted that the man had never been the type to run away from something, and sighed as you brought the cup to your lips and sipped. Caffeine sits on your tongue along with a bitter revelation as the rain begins to pick up in velocity outside. The small and quiet café where you’re spending your afternoon is warm and unburdened by the weather.

Do you think…he’s even interested in me anymore? The sharp thought brings a pang to your chest, fingers over the warm cup flinching back as if struck with lightning. O-or he doesn’t like being around me?

Your relationship was still new, very new, and if you were asked you would say it wasn’t even dating yet. König hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend.

But it had still been going well.

“Or so I thought,” you take a breath, watching the fog on the window as the streets of Vienna are rapidly being emptied of tourists and locals alike. Your shoulders are painfully tight.

Aggressive rainfall like this into the cold seasons was unusual, but it wasn’t like mother nature cared about the whims of anyone but herself. It’ll freeze overnight, leaving a bitter chill that puffs from breaths and a shaky few steps out the door across hardened ice. You’d probably go out – alone – for a walk in the morning to clear your head, or try, at any rate.

Lately, all you could think about was the bear of a man that was supposed to be sitting in the empty seat ahead of you. The cursed wooden chair burns your eyes; its dark wood and red cushion stab your vision over and over until you’re sure you’ll bleed tears instead of water.

He was supposed to be here.

Taking another shaky sip of your drink, one that König had recommended to you himself a few dates ago, the brief moments of warmth it brings to your bones does little to satisfy you. You doubted anything short of a hulking figure trying to stick their knees under the small table could do just that.

The giant man you called your possible future boyfriend was avoiding you, and your subconscious was breaking itself to try and understand why. As if that gracious plea had been heard above the glossiness of your eyes and the gentle hum of the café workers who shuffle about, the phone in your pocket jumps.

You don’t want to admit how fast your hand snapped to your thigh, sneaking under the layers to draw out black metal. A single link to König when he was overseas or out of sight that you were told was unwise to use. He was rarely able to answer you, but for what it was worth, he always tried to call back later.

Even if recently, it had been a brief state of events.

“I-I can’t talk right now–”

“Forgive me–”

Your lips thin.

Pulling the phone out, you immediately look at the contact, though you already know the message before you read it. The sunken whipped cream finally falls under deep chocolate-colored waves.

“Sorry, Bӓrchen, I’m stuck in the building for the day! I swear I’ll make it up to you for missing–” You don’t bother reading the rest, thumb already scrolling upward to see the numerous times other excuses have been made.

His parents were needing some help moving furniture, he was drowning in post-operation reports, or simply just too tired. You weren't stupid. But every time you had stuffed down your pride and responded cheerfully, dressed to the nines and standing in your living room while your fingers shook over the keys.

Holding back tears.

It would hurt less if he’d just tell you to your face what you were thinking. Maybe all of this was just…

Your thoughts trail off.

But that didn’t make sense – König was never malicious!

Placing down the phone, you leave him on read, feeling the pitying eyes of the baristas burning into your skin like a brand. They knew as well as you did that he wasn’t showing up.

When he calls sometime later, you shut the device off completely. Staring out the window at the dimming light, you lean your head into the glass and try not to cry as you watch couples rushing for cover from the rain; laughing and holding the other close.

The empty chair stays motionless in the corner of your eye.

—

The first time you met König, you were left gaping at the sheer size of him.

Towering over ninety percent of the other patrons in the art shop, he had looked down at the package of charcoal pencils in his large, scarred, hands. Turning them over to read the description on the back like an expert with delicate eyelashes that you’d kill for.

You yourself had been cast in his shadow quite by accident, looking along expansive shelves for a sketchbook – your friend had gotten into a watercolor phase lately, and what better to give her than a birthday present she could actually use? The only problem was that you had no idea what was considered good quality or not, but had a strange suspicion the man beside you did. But what a happy accident it all turned out to be.

König had a black surgical mask on, but the milky-white scar that ran up his right eyebrow and disappeared into his auburn hairline was still starkly visible. Expressive dark eyes blink down at his object from a surprising height. Between picking up multiple books, running your fingers over the paper and whatnot, you can’t help but stare at the pure strength the man emanates. Compared to you, he was utterly gargantuan in both mass and height. A bear and a bee, you thought with a stifled giggle.

He blatantly appeared to know more about this stuff than you did as he placed the charcoal pack down and picked up another.

“Erm,” you begin, and his head snaps down to yours immediately, head of hair falling into gentle curls near the ears. He had looked partially surprised to hear you speak to him, and his eyes had flickered around instinctually. But it was only the two of you in the aisle. “I’m sorry to bother you, Sir, but you seem to know a helluva lot more than me about art supplies.” Your voice was cautious, and you were afraid you’d seem rude for disturbing him, but all he did was stare and wait for you to finish speaking. Feet every so often shifting, or his hands twitching as if he never was able to stay still; he blinks a few times like a rabbit. “Any suggestions for watercolor?” A small laugh meets the air as you move your hand to show off the wall of possible options for paper. “I’m not much of an artist, but my friend’s birthday is coming up – thought I’d get her something she’d actually use this year. She wasn't too enthralled with the plant I got her for her twenty-third. Killed the thing in a week.”

A nervous chuckle is softly met and your face heated as his own did. There’s a moment of a clearing throat before the man nods carefully, and the sparse freckles over his forehead shift. His biceps flex.

“O-of course, Ma’am,” his accent is quite strong, and you like the guttural raspiness of his tone. “I prefer Saunders Waterford, though I don’t manage to use it often. Better, eh, was ist das Wort?” He stumbles for a moment over the proper descriptor. “Beständig. Durable.”

A tilt of his head later, and you’re beaming, picking up the large pad with careful fingers, testing the weight in your palms as one would an apple.

“Wonderful! It looks like I owe you one, eh?” Looking back up, you watch his eyes widen as you notice him blatantly staring. Face crinkling into a shy display of heat and curiosity, he slightly moves back, a large hand going to scratch at the base of his neck as his sweatshirt bunches.

Chest tight, you stick out a hand and offer your name with a smile. It was only customary, but the action was pure instinct more than thought-out. All the while restraining a shiver, his limb encompasses yours so completely and radiates a large amount of heat.

“A pleasure,” your voice wavers, but it’s not so much nervousness as it is genuine intrigue. For a man so blessed with the tall gene, he really had a considerate hold – barely squeezing your skin in fear it would break.

The action makes your chest squeeze.

“Ah, guten tag,” he utters, nodding with a firm shake, though his eyelashes caress his cheeks as his eyes rove away, “König.”

A bit awkward, isn’t he? You have to ask yourself. Not that it was a bad thing – in fact, you found the nervous tensing of his thighs to be cute, along with that red tinge that was over his pale ears. So very opposite of how you expected him to act.

That was when you noticed the dog tags, as well, though you found no purpose to say anything. But everything about this man had caught your attention as a large billboard would, and the comparison has you practically bending in laughter. He probably could be a billboard with a build like that. No doubt he’d catch a lot of attention.

You tilt your head and release his hand, nodding to König’s charcoal pencils.

“I bet you can make some killer drawings with those things, huh?” The beast twists them in his hand and turns down to stare at the supplies as if he’d forgotten they’d been there at all. “You draw often?”

“Ja,” his eyes brighten, and the crinkling of his eyes tells you that a small smile pulls at his lips. “Whenever I’m able. I,” König pauses before his shoulders move in a soft movement akin to a shrug. “I…find it calming.”

Your ribs move in reaction to an interested sound.

A bear that likes to draw.

“You’re better than me, I’d just get frustrated if something doesn’t look right.” A deep laugh echoes off the shelves before a lapsing silence settles like a bird’s wings. Overcome by a sudden urge to speak, yet having no other words to say, König’s voice meets your ears before you can find something to say.

It’s slow, the tone, bathed in hesitation and even a smidgen of armor; like the outcome of your response was already measured and taken as null compared to the giant’s own thoughts.

“I…don’t suppose I could show you some if you’d be interested.” At your widening lids, his twitching hands come up to his sides, eyes blinking rapidly as a vermilion hue blossoms like a flower over his visible skin. Dark eyes like broken obsidian pay more attention to your shoes than your face.

“N-not, eh, scheiße, I only meant I–” Watching him stutter was similar to what a high schooler would do when he was called out during an assembly. Though, your giggle makes him clear his throat and pause with a stiffening spreading to his legs. His body seems to deflate, taking your reverence for his soft inward nature as making fun or at worse, a blatant rejection. The delicate makeup of his psyche was on display, though you didn’t know. “I’m…I’m sorry, Ma’am–”

“I’d love to see your artwork, König,” you begin, pulling the watercolor pad closer to your body instinctually, cheeks hot. The man perks up, and you can see his heart hammering through his clothes when his eyes blaze with light. “How about I give you my number and I’ll text you a day I’m free and we can work something out? A local café or library sound good?”

“I…yes, that sounds wonderful.”

—

You throw your soaked coat on the hook as you shut the door, hating how the frigid rainwater had wetted your hair, though still holding it as a blessing. At least no one could see the tear tracks as you walked back to your apartment.

Kicking off heavy boots and peeling the slick layers of fabric from your chest with a sloping sound, you flick on the lights with a shaking finger and a sniffle. Wet footprints are left over the rugs and hardwood as the phantom shuffles over them, beelining to the bathroom to strip.

Your mind was preoccupied as you slipped out of heavy fabric, the pile already on the floor creating a large puddle that you threw a towel on and left as it was.

“He…he’d tell me if he didn’t like me anymore, right?” Whispering, the broken words meet air as you toss on a large shirt – the hem meeting your knees as a pair of thick sweatpants follow.

Quite the look for someone who was having an internal battle. Your friends would say you looked like you were minutes away from grabbing a tub of ice cream and sobbing over a rom-com. The quick-witted part of you confessed that the idea wasn’t even that bad if you threw in a glass of beer. Preferably the shitty kind so you could complain about it and distract yourself.

“Get it together…” You would not cry over a guy that hadn’t even asked you out officially, but with that familiar sting in the back of your eyes, you hissed that König wasn’t just any guy.

You’d really liked him, and for what it was worth, your heart would have exploded if he had asked you out.

He was kind – respectful. Utterly adorable when he was speaking so passionately about his artwork and his parents who he held on a larger-than-life pedestal. König’s heart was just as big as his body, that gorgeous, bear-like body, and…oh, you’d wished he would like you just as much as you liked him.

Before you could stop the wave of hopelessness, the tears were already dribbling down your face, and the dark apartment was echoing with the barely-there sobs that hit the walls.

—

When you hadn’t answered him in the next two hours and his calls were going to voicemail, König was hit with a train’s worth of worry. Feet tapping faster than unusual and eyes were finicky as they passed over documents.

Although his contract with KorTac wasn’t exactly like his own had been in the military, the hyper-vigilance was still ingrained bones-deep. The Austrian man held his personal relationships tightly – and if someone wasn’t answering him, the anxiety reserved for large, uncontrollable, crowds reared its ugly head. König wasn’t sure when it had happened, but you had entered that loyal group consisting of his parents and a few work friends in an incredibly small amount of time.

He really should have bit the bullet and gone out with you today, the man acknowledged as he slipped out of his office and tried once more to get in contact with you. König watched the icon of your smiling face go straight to the familiar voice that in any other circumstance, he would have wanted to listen another moment too.

“...Thanks for calling! I’m not able to speak with you right now, but go ahead and leave a message–”

“Come on, Bӓrchen.” König lightly growls, hanging up and stuffing the infernal device into his cargo pant’s side pocket.

His usually hidden face was twisted up with worry, so commonly lit with bloodlust on Ops now left in a state of unknown. It was stupid to think like this, but how could he not? In such a small amount of time, you’d made him fall for you like a bird does the sky; that thin line between falling and flying caught underwing.

That was why he’d been making excuses, you see.

You were so…good…that he’d been worried about the way he carried himself; second-guessed small actions like a hand on the small of your back in public, or a comment about how nice you looked.

Did she take that the wrong way?

Why did I tell her that?

I hope she doesn’t think that I’m rude…

You were messing with his mind with every turn, but it wasn’t even all that, either. His size also played a part. Your form was so small as it trailed beside him on walks through the city – it fit in the clutch of his arm easily.

König was just scared he might break you, he’s never had to be…gentle so often before. It was against everything he’d been taught in the last decade or so.

Pushing open the front door of the KorTac: Private Military Contractor building, the man pushes on with a frown over his scarred lips and a drawn-in expression. He hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten his surgical mask in his office, along with a jacket, and braved the volatile winds and slapping rain in a slight jog, an athletic shirt tight across his chest.

By the time he’d reached your apartment building, his hair was dark and stuck to his skin, slight puffs of breath escaping his lips and wracking shivers along his spine. König ascended the stairs in double steps, agile as his heart pounded.

Being ex-military left him with an undeniable state of readiness.

With heavy knuckles and panting breath, his hand quickly rasps against the door, and after a second of no sound, he does it again.

“Bӓrchen, it’s me. Are you there?” König’s shoulders are set, ready to batter the door down at the barest hint of something wrong. He calls your name but like a voice on the wind, there’s no answer. Not even a shadow under the barrier, a whiff of your shampoo.

Grunting, strained eyes going grim, the man’s hand encompasses the handle, arm and body going parallel to the wood. His hips tense, feet grinding over the floor as they set. But the nearly missed footsteps that his ears twitched at gives him pause.

After a few moments of intense listening, his body stone-stiff and eyes spaced out, there’s a clicking of a lock.

König moves back swiftly, hands going to rest at his sides, and when your face graces his vision, a large weight is lifted. Until he realizes that your eyes are red-rimmed. His lids go startlingly wide, fingers coming up to curl into themselves near his middle, but you speak before he does.

With a hatred for interrupting others, König keeps his lips sealed and watches with a concerned once-over and nervous lungs.

Your hand is clenched over the door frame, the muscle of your tongue licking at your lips as beads of water fall from your locks.

“What are you doing here, König?” With a voice more hoarse and dry than a desert. The man itches at the side of his hawk nose, hesitant about what he sees.

You’d never been like this before – always so happy.

“I…” He trails off quietly, seeing your eyes unwilling to meet his own. “Are you…alright?”

The Austrian’s fingers jerk when you laugh, and a surprised blink later he’s coming closer to check on you, hand almost outstretched before he sees the size difference and thinks better of it. He just taps on your cheek instead, delicately, like a hit from a flower.

“Sweet one? Please tell me what is wrong. You weren’t answering your phone.” He wants to beg for you to look at him, plead. “It made me worry for you. Why did you not respond?”

“So you want me to respond when you’re obviously bailing on me for what,” you pull back, disappearing partially behind the door. König watches with a still body as your arms go to wrap around your waist, dread creeping up his throat. “The third time? Fourth? I guess I’ve lost count.”

The man’s lips go thin, eyes crinkling as an expression of pure self-hatred takes hold. He had stupidly hoped you wouldn’t notice that. When times got tough for him in the past – whether with the schoolyard bullies or an operation on wrong, avoidance was usually his best tactic; it was one he had fallen back into time and time again without fail. But he’d never told you that.

And now he looked like a proper Arschloch.

But you’re not done yet. When you leave the door open and disappear inside the dark apartment, König follows after like a lost puppy, water still dripping from his strong chin and stuck in his stubble. Cursing himself out in his head.

“Ach, du Depp, jetzt hast du‘s getan. Die eine gute Sache ruiniert, die du hattest, oder...?" He mutters, slipping out of his boots and frantically looking after you as your form goes to the couch. König closes the front door and stays in the foyer, fingers twiddling and mouth opening and closing.

You hadn’t even looked at him yet, and you’d barely seen him without a mask on.

The Tv was on, playing some show that he’d never seen and he doubted you were watching. Your body plops to the couch with a shrieking of springs and bouncing of pillows. A small huff escapes your lips, though you speak no more.

König clears his throat again, a nasty nervous habit along with the fidgeting, as he takes a few steps forward. The finger of his right hand goes to spread through his hair, pushing the strands back like a red wave and unintentionally slicking them to his skull. The clicking of his jaw reverberates in his ears as he resets it, picking at the palate scar under his left nostril.

He opens his mouth to speak but closes it fitfully and already his face is reddening. König looks away from you for a moment, breathing before shuffling over like a guilty child would on drowned socks. He places one leg on the floor and kneels down in front of you so he can better look into your creased face.

“Bӓrchen,” he liked calling you that – little bear – because the comparison was enough to make him smile every time it passed his lips. It was such an endearing term that it became difficult to look past the blatant harm he could inflict on you if he wasn’t careful. While his size made him perfect for the field, home life was, well, let's just say he could easily force his way through a crowd. Not that he would, of course. But at any rate, that was what you were to him – a little bear. “I…I have to confess to you that I have been avoiding you, yes? That much has been,” a stiff breath is taken in. “Obvious.”

Your head turns to the side, knees brushing his own as you hold your hands in your lap. Behind König the show continues to play, spreading a silver light over the living room and the continuous droning of voices.

Not knowing whether it would be frowned upon or not, and with a steadying breath for confidence, the man loops a cold finger under your chin; bringing you back to him and finally setting your glossy eyes ahead.

He sees you blink in surprise when you find him maskless, and a faint smile flicks over his lips when your expression goes shy. Cautious like a bird.

“It was of no fault of your own, Sweetling, I ask that you believe me. I’ll try to explain the best I can, Ja? If you’ll let me, though, I know that I don’t deserve it.”

“If you don’t like me anymore, you can just say it…Stop dragging me on, please.” His heart stops, mouth still partially open before a sharp breath is sucked in. “I don’t know if I can take that anymore.” The pang in his chest hurts immensely, like taking an arrow and peeling back skin. You look at him so hopelessly, broken beyond belief as though a piece of you was being ripped out.

“W-why do you say that?” König tries to desperately stop the wetness of your tears from falling, shaking his head and cupping both of your cheeks, rubbing at the flesh in agony. “No, no, no, Dear One. That’s not what it is at all, I beg of you to listen.” In the fever, he switches between his native tongue and English, fingers shaking though not from the drenched clothes. “Meine Schöne, oh, meine Schöne. Bitte hör auf zu weinen.“

He takes quick breaths and finds in himself that he would do anything to stop you from crying – take a bullet, run a marathon, or learn to fly. Name it, any of it. Anything to wipe away the sadness that lives in your expression as if it even belonged there in the first place

“Do not cry over me, please, I-I,” König’s tongue trips over itself, but he persists, a similar burn in the back of his nose. “I…You scare me, Bӓrchen,” that gets your attention, creased eyes and a loose jaw going to give him full observation.

What?! Your expression screams.

Face on fire, the Austrian continues with intense eyes, dark obsidian awash with pure light that reflects stars. Overflowing with anxious tears that he refuses to let fall.

He can’t lose you. No, no, not you. You were the best thing to happen to him in a long time. Damn him – damn his own consciousness that’s more of a betrayer than Brutus. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go…

“...What?” Your voice wavers, nose twitching so adorably that the man is momentarily stunned.

“I am afraid of you, my Dear. Utterly and wholly.” König sucks down a breath, now the one unable to continue the stare-off. His foot shifts. “I am afraid of what you do to me. Your smile, Gott, your smile. A-and the way you speak, how you react so honestly to my paintings like you care with all of your heart.” He laughs wetly when you smile dimly, continuing as he caresses your skin. “Everything down to your very bones is like…like…” König’s words fumble, because comparing you to something earthly was impossible to him.

“Ever since I met you in that art store, I cannot string together words with any semblance of meaning when I am around you. Bӓrchen, you have entrapped my mind, and I am afraid.”

He watches you breathe in slowly, tears no longer falling, though the evidence still haunts him. The man’s chest lets go of a tightly wound knot, the anvil on the other side just narrowly missing his heart as the sweat on his brow evaporates.

“A-and,” König sighs, shaking his head and moving his hands to tightly hold your own in your lap. How could he explain the last part of this dilemma? He bluntly states, “you’re small.”

A brief moment of silence bleeds like a wound, long and slow, until a tiny snort echoes. Full-blown laughter emanates not even a second later, and he watches your body heave forward and slot itself with your nose in his shoulder. König’s blush stains all the way down his neck, but minuscule giggles also fall from him in retaliation to yours. His great arms wrap themselves around your waist, dragging you slightly closer as he breathes deeply.

Your scent pulls him under like a ship at the water, riding great waves with sea beasts under the waves guiding the vessel along its course.

“Everyone’s small compared to you.” Your mumbling in his shoulder makes his grip tighten, side-eyeing your visage as his head tilts down. “Not my fault you got every gene that made you sprout like a damn tree.”

With your lips caressing his neck, he blinks softly down at you, amused, as his breath mingles with your hair. He lets you speak, getting it all off your chest and feeling stupid for how he had been avoiding this.

“You’re afraid because you’re so big, then? That you might hurt me?”

“Ja.” Your hands circle around his shoulders, and with a sigh that leaves the man short of breath, you shimmy back and face him, fingers playing with the base of his neck; pulling at tiny hairs.

“Don’t you think being worried about that means something? And, c’mon,” you smile lightly to him, and he watches closely, fingers moving along your spine. “With how conscious you are of your body, it’s hard to imagine anything ever happening.”

Hands grasp his neck, and with a bobbing Adam’s apple, König yields to your pull, angling his head to you as your back straightens. Watching with awe; your silhouette bathed in silver light and eyes fatigued, though never more beautiful. You’re beaming.

“I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you, okay? So stop worrying about it, you big dope – and stop ditching me!” The Austrian’s dark eyes are fastly moved from one spot on your face to another, cataloging every bump and pore to memory.

He’d never been this close to you before, though he’d fantasized about it. And what you were telling him…it’s like his body deflates with relief, and a genuine, boyish, smile blossoms.

“Safe? W-with me, Bӓrchen? Oh-oh, my…” A kiss suddenly hits his forehead, and if you continued doing things like this, he was sure he’d explode. His body was vibrating with pure bashfulness; it was so odd to be complimented and doted on by someone that wasn’t his close family. For someone to reassure him of his flawed concerns.

She feels safe with me.

How could he tell you how happy that made him to hear aloud?

“Hey,” hands cup his jaw, and his spaced-out eyes snap back to you instantly, blinking away the rose-colored fog. You shake his head back and forth until he’s chuckling, like a kid again, and his grip catches your wrists to make you stop. Your breath fans over his blazing cheeks like a wind sent from Zephyrus himself, and the sticking clothes to his body matter little. “No more leaving me hanging, okay? I miss you, König. I want to be around you.”

The eyes that travel down his scarred and freckled face leave him slightly self-conscious, but as if sensing this, your lips curve. Before he could utter a grunt of surprise, your kiss had connected with the scar on his forehead, as well as the palate. Just brushing the top of his lips as his large nose poked your cheek.

“Mein Gott.” König gasps, eyes fluttering shut when you pull back and a grin slashes your face. A whisper meets the room.

“Thank you for showing me your handsome face, mein Schöner, I’ve been wondering what you looked like.” Shyly scanning his features, the redhead lets your fingers trace his flesh, shivers left in their wake, and a soft sigh.

If he opens his eyes, he’s afraid he’d start crying. So he lets you touch his scarlet flesh, nearly the same shade as his hair, though the auburn is more deep-set. Shivering every time you lay another press of your lips to a blemish; more addictive than drugs.

“You’re going to kill me,” König pleads, “but if this is punishment for causing you pain, I will gladly bear it.”

“Sly.” You smirk, pressing one more peck to his nose, and pulling back. He grumbles in his throat before his eyes peel open slowly; pupils blown wide and mouth parted. “Are you alive down there?”

“Barely. Perhaps I’ll need another kiss to tell, yes?”

“You’re horrible.” Looking at his clothes, your eyes suddenly go grim. Like you’d just noticed the state of him now that he was kneeling in front of you and struck by your beauty. “And shivering.” You huff. “Why didn’t you start by saying you were soaked to the bone, König?”

He looks to the ground, and you try to shuffle past and grab him a towel, but his arms trap you. You find yourself in a chest faster than you can blink, hands splayed over a pec that jerks as you’re lifted up.

König hears you squeak and laughs, throwing you up into a bridal-style hold easily. Laughing chest-deep, you curl under his chin and quickly comment, “what are you doing?!”

“Hush, Bӓrchen,” the man squishes you closer, “I’ll find a towel, don’t strain yourself.”

You direct him to the bathroom after he sets you on your bed, hearing the pounding of rain outside as he sneaks off.

The room smells of your shampoo, and König takes a pastel towel from the wrack after half-closing the door, slapping it to his head and violently rubbing it back and forth. Lost in his elevated thoughts and happy demeanor, the knock on the wood is almost missed. He’s just about to take off his shirt and wring it out when he blinks at the sound.

“König – I’ve got some spare clothes, but I doubt they’ll fit you well enough.” An amused twitch of his lips later, he’s opening the door to your soft face, staring down at it. Standing shyly, your eyes crease; head tilting. “Sleepover?”

The man looks at the pile of fabric and nods kindly, a lofty feeling in his bones.

“Yes, please. They’re perfect, vielen Dank.” It isn’t long before he’s coming back out, a shirt that barely fits over his wide chest and a pair of sweats clinging to his hips. But he didn’t mind.

They smelled like you, and thus, he smelled like you. König quickly found out that drawing wasn’t the only thing that could calm him.

An embarrassed smile and a sheen of giddiness never leave his face.

He slides into bed with you, and you quickly latch under his arm, limbs tangling with his own as his fingers twitch over the width of the base of your shoulder blades. An easy expulsion of air leaves him as your weight settles, back curving to the make of the mattress.

The words leave him in the delicate silence; water hitting the window and during the exploration of souls. Cheeks hot and heart hammering.

“Sei mein?” Be mine?

He feels your grin, nose nuzzling his flesh like it was the perfect pillow, and his heart speeds like a shooting star.

“Mein Herz war immer deins. Ja.” My heart was always yours. Yes.

He stays awake for a long while, listening to your breathing and staring at the ceiling, running knuckles over your spine and staying silent.

Smiling.

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mistyresolve · 1 year

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| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 1)

Word Count - 3k

Summary - Doc (y/n) is a medic at a base camp when they meet Lt. Simon “Ghost” Riley, when they meet for a second time it is because he’s been injured. During the two weeks it takes him to fully recover they develop an unspoken friendship. Simon’s next assignment is to escort a convoy across enemy lines, which would have been a walk in the park if they weren’t a part of that convoy. Even worse is when his worries and fears become real.

Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Trauma, Opioids (they’re prescribed but i just want to add this in case), Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

A/N - im working on part 2 rn but it may take a little time for me to finish and upload but im in the middle of finals and have been busy with studying so please forgive me

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The first time Ghost came through your tent he was bringing in his comrade, Soap, for medical attention. It was a gunshot to the arm but nothing detrimental. A clean shot and the bullet had gone right through.

Ghost had remained quiet and observant but answered any questions you had about the wound.

“When did this happen?”

“Half an hour ago. Give or take.”

“Any meds?”

“Shot of adrenalin.”

You had sewen up the gunshot and nursed Soap back to health. However, Mr.MacTavish had been a difficult patient and after a week you discharged him early just to get him out of your hair. On multiple occasions you caught him trying to escape, claiming he was fine and ready for combat at least once a day. Most special ops were deluded like that, most thought they were superhumans. In a way, they kind of were with the speed at which they recovered. You would never tell them that. It would just go to their head.

Your tent has since been upgraded to a deployable field hospital. With a total of 50 beds and 15 staff members.

The second time Ghost made his way your way was on a stretcher. It was a deep and disturbing stab wound to his side, and if it were even an inch deeper it would have punctured his lung. It took you the whole two weeks he needed for recovery to get the full story out of him. Apparently, it was a series of unfortunate events which resulted in a hand-to-hand scrabble. He’d dominated his opponent and came out victorious but not without injury. He’d been all on his own for hours before finally making it to Exfil. In those few hours, he lost a lot of blood and was without any sort of analgesic until he was in the helicopter on his way here. Whatever the field medic had given him for the pain was enough to completely incapacitate the beast of a man. All the same, it was doing its job and controlling the pain. Your team had to do an emergency surgery at the base camp because he wasn’t stable enough for a medivac to a major hospital.

The man was in a foul mood when he awoke the next day. He wasn’t rude and uncivilized, but he made it clear the last place he wanted to be was bedbound in a field hospital. When it was mentioned he was going to be sent back home for recovery, he downright refused.

Strangely enough, it was also the first time you saw his entire face. When he first came in you were so amped on adrenalin and stressed that you didn’t register that his mask had been removed. It was immediately established that no other personnel apart from the small 3-man team already working on him would be allowed to interact with him to ensure his identity remained confidential. It was more for their safety than his if everyone was being candid. Even in his charts any identifiers were redacted and replaced with “John Doe”.

Two days post-op he insisted he be relocated to his barracks because he “could handle his own”. You compromised and told him you’d allow it under the one condition that he lets you come and check on him at least once a day. He did, but he didn’t exactly have a choice either because you would have shown up anyway.

That was where you were right now.

You knocked and waited for a response before letting yourself in, your supplies and kit in hand. It was just after noon when you arrived. You scanned his room. It was clean, almost barren. His blinds were half open, and the window cracked to let in the cool, fresh air. The clothes he was wearing when he came wounded were still in the biohazard bag we gave him when he left. The tray of food on the desk beside his bed was left untouched, and judging by the food variety it was from breakfast.

Upon hearing your arrival Ghost had forced himself into a sitting position. His face flushed with the change of position. His dark eyes were rimmed red from a lack of sleep, and his facial hair was growing. He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants with the insignia of his old company and a plain black shirt. The shirt was loose and thin, but it did nothing to hide the muscle hiding underneath.

You rolled your eyes, blew out a breath, tossed your bag onto the bed beside him and pulled out the rolling chair at his desk to sit in front of him.

“You look like shit,” you knocked his elbow in a silent demand to lift his arm.

He grimaced but did it without complaint, “Ya, well I feel like shit.”

You lifted his shirt to get a look at the bandage underneath. There wasn’t any shadowing or blood seeping through so you gave him a quick nod before dropping the shirt, “Have you taken anything?”

He jerked his chin to the little orange bottle on his desk, “One of those.”

You picked it up to read the label, Oxycodone 10 mg OD.

“Nice, but you should be taking it with food,” you tilted your head in the direction of the untouched food. He merely shrugged, his eyes weary. His eyes turned the same golden brown of a whiskey glass in the sunlight.

You discreetly took his respiratory rate before moving on, “Any side effects? Nausea? Headache? Upset stomach?”

“Nope,” he said in exasperation. He leaned back onto his elbows, his long body stretching out across the width of the bed with his legs still hung over the side in preparation for you to change his dressings.

You gave him an unimpressed look, before pointing to the garbage bin he had at his bedside. There wasn’t anything in it but it was placed here in preparation, “If you aren’t going to be compliant I’m going to bring you back to the infirmary.”

“It came and went already. I’m fine,” he moved to lift his shirt, hinting at you to hurry up get the dressing change done and leave.

You scooted the chair closer, preparing your materials and supplies on his bedside table. When you removed the bandage and revealed the stitches you clicked your tongue, he hadn’t pulled any of them but the fact that it was still bleeding made it apparent he’d been more active than he should have been.

“How’s it lookin’ down there, Doc?” He rolled, his gaze following your movements with predatory grace. You glowered at the nickname.

You hummed, “Mhm.” and started cleansing the wound with saline before donning gloves and cleaning it more thoroughly. He hissed at the contact and you looked up, he had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. His body tensed, and his muscles taut. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. Alluring even. Especially when he was in this position, and had that look on his face.

“Are you going to survive?” You asked pulling back slightly.

“Just cold s’all.”

He made it through the rest of the dressing change without so much as a flinch. In fact, he might have fallen asleep near the end for a second. He didn’t open his eyes until you finished securing the gauze with the last piece of tape. His lids were heavy and his mouth was pulled down into a slight frown.

“You going to eat lunch?” you tugged off your gloves and threw them into the bin beside you.

He nodded sluggishly and laid back on the bed, folding his hands over his abdomen. Maybe the Oxycodone was making him drowsy, but he looked like he desperately needed rest.

“Did you sleep well last night?” You rolled back on the chair, giving him space. He shook his head. You quickly finished cleaning up any remaining supplies or trash before filling out his chart, “Maybe if you didn’t keep reopening your wound you’d be healing faster and sleep better.”

He replied with a quiet, almost boyish chuckle, “I’ve been behaving, don’t worry.”

“You’ve been nothing but extra paperwork,” you retort, tapping his leg with your foot. You stood with a snap of your notebook. “What do you want to drink with your lunch?”

“Just water,” his eyes remained closed and you made your way for the door, bringing his cold breakfast with you.

You returned with a new tray of food, this time you picked foods that would be easy on the stomach. The damn fool must have smelt it as you walked down the hall with it because before you could knock he was opening the door and stepping aside to let you in.

“Such a gentleman,” you tapped his shoulder as you passed.

He seemed to perk up at the brief contact, “As always.”

You placed his tray on the table before picking up your bag to get ready to leave for the day, “Any last request?” When you turned to face him your cheeks heated at the way he regarded you. His face softened, melting into something akin to respect. He was so expressive and you didn’t think he was aware. Perhaps it was because he had grown accustomed to the protection of his mask. You almost didn’t wait for his answer before taking your leave, making an excuse that you needed to report back. You did, but it wasn’t anything urgent, you just needed to get out of his room. Away from him. If only to remember how to breathe.

The process for the following two weeks was the same, only each day you stayed a little longer. You talked a little more. Despite his reputation, he was… normal. He was a little aloof and standoffish at times, and horribly, criminally unfunny, but he grew on you. You were slightly upset and maybe even a little scared you’d never see him again when you officially discharged him. Even worse, you were scared to see him again. Only, every time he returned from a mission he would come to pay you a visit. You might have considered calling him a friend. Might have considered wanting more from him.

Soap would sometimes occupy Simon, having made a connection with you of his own. A different type of connection, but a wholesome one. Soap had made a jest about just recruiting you as the 141’s personal field medic instead of bothering you at work every other week. Simon had shot the idea down like water on a fire, and the topic was never brought up again. He simply stated, “Never letting that happen.”

He had his reservations about you entering an active warzone, let alone going on assignments with a squad like the 141. He’s never outright said it but he developed a soft spot for you. Over the months he had unintentionally carved a hole in his chest just for you; a place where he could protect and watch over you. His fondness for you only made it all the harder when he received the 141’s next assignment. It was a regular convoy escort but he felt sick when he read your name on the list. He even went so far as to double-check the itinerary with Captain Price. Went so far as to try and get you removed from the assignment. When you learnt of what he was doing you cornered him and chewed his head off. You understood his trepidations and his actions, but both of you knew he was out of line when he tried getting you booted from the mission.

The convoy, mainly consisting of medical personnel, equipment, and supplies, would be moving right through enemy lines to get from your current base to a new one a few towns over. It would be dangerous, you weren’t naive, but you were your own person. You were simmering, but you couldn’t help the twinge of regret for yelling at him.

In the days leading up to the mission Simon had grown distant, but remained watchful of you. He kept quiet, but you could see it in the shadow of his eyes, and in the muscles between his shoulders that he had a lot to say.

There was a total of 5 medical personnel that were being transported, yourself included. You would be a vehicle with Butters, who was elected as the head medic for the new base, and your driver was going to be none other than Captain Price.

As everyone was preparing to leave and loading up the last supplies, you caught Price and Simon in a quiet conversation, you couldn’t hear their exchange but you could tell it was heated. Price rolled back on his feet, fixing Simon with a tight-lipped smile before shaking his head. With that Simon backed away from him, pointed a finger at him saying one last thing before he turned and stalked towards the vehicle he would be in, obviously unsatisfied with Prices’ response.

Butters sidled up next to you, his pack slung over his arm and offering you yours in his other hand, “There has been a slight change of plans,” he sighed, “Our voyage is now split into two days, we'll be staying overnight in a town in between. Our route hasn’t been completely cleared yet.”

You turned your attention to him, your brows furrowing, “So they want us to have a sleepover behind enemy lines?” You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

Butters shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the turn of events. Butters always seemed to keep his thoughts and feelings close to his chest, but it was clear very little invoked thoughts and emotions out of him. He enlisted when he was 18 years old; he was 32 now with a wife, 3 kids, and another on the way. There was a high probability he would be asking for leave in the next couple of months so he could be there for his next child's birth. It sucked because he was the only other medic you were close with. You’d miss him.

Butters and you jumped into the back seats of one car with Price, you’d be in the middle of the convoy, Ghost, Soap, and another medic in the other would take the rear, and Gaz and Roach would be in another vehicle at the front. There was also a total of five transport trucks. The convoy would be a giant target as we passed through, which is why the 141 was tasked with our protection.

Price explained that the ride would be slow-moving and briefed the two of you on what to expect. He instructed you both to stay alert and that there was a chance of running into a hostile.

The first couple hours were incredibly boring, but Butters alleviated some of it by tasking you with going over the manifestation of everything you guys were hauling with you. You also made conversation with Price about his last leave, he had returned home and “sat on the patio and smoked cigars” for two weeks.

The sound was louder than anything you ever experienced in your life. You didn’t even have time to scream before the force of the detonation knocked you unconscious.

It couldn’t have been longer than a couple of minutes when you finally regained consciousness. The vehicle was now completely upside down, the wheels still spinning as they faced the sky. The seatbelt was the only thing keeping you from landing face-first into shattered glass and rubble.

In front of you, Price was already pulling himself out the window and onto the street. He looked back into the cab and for you and said something.

Nothing was processing right. Not his words. Not your thoughts. Not the sight before you. Everything was foggy, as if it was a dream.

Price reached back for you, bracing you with an arm before releasing your seatbelt. Your knees cracked as they hit the roof, the glass ripping through your uniform. The pain didn’t even register. Price hauled you out with him before going back in for Butters.

Only he didn’t.

Instead, he returned with his gun. Before he could stop you, you crawled back in for Butters to get him yourself.

You froze. There was no saving him. There was almost nothing left.

He was on the same side the anti-vehicle mine went off.

You slowly backed out, shaking your head not believing your own eyes.

Price was crouched beside you, his back to the vehicle, his eyes revealed no emotion.

You looked back down the road you had just come down and the transport truck that was tailing you had stopped before entering the intersection. Beside them was the truck that Ghost and Soap were in. Ghost was jumping out, his gun drawn. Soap slid from the passenger seat to the driver's side. The medic they were escorting jumped out the back and ran for the transport truck.

It was then you noticed that Price was shooting at something down the intersection. You could see the flash as the bullets left the barrel and smell the gunpowder, but you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything.

You brushed your fingers to your ear and when you looked at them they came away red. Blood.

The sheer force of the blast ruptured your eardrums.

You watched as Ghost applied suppressing fire and sidestepped in time with the truck as Soap rolled it into the intersection.

Price looked over his shoulder at you, his mouth moving. You could see it in his eyes the moment he connected the dots and caught that you couldn’t hear he turned to Ghost. Who jerked his head towards you and met your gaze. His eyes were wide, panicked. He ditched the cover of the truck and sprinted over while Price took over the covering fire. He slid into you, his gloved finger coming up to grab the sides of your face. He was gentle but urgent as he turned your head from side to side to inspect the damage.

You caught your reflection in one of the side mirrors, and couldn't recognize the person staring back at you. Their expression cataonic. Blood leaked out their ears, down their neck, and blood dripped out of their nose. Their teeth had gone through their bottom lip from the impact of the blast.

A low ringing began as sounds started to come back to you. Then it turned into an agonizing peal like you had stuck your head in a fire alarm. Ghost didn’t give you a chance to cover your ears because he was already pulling you into his chest, pressing one ear into his chest, and covering the other with his free hand. Using his remaining hand he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

Soap pulled their truck up next to yours, making a barricade with them. He slid out, being careful to keep his head down and ready to join the fight.

Ghost started walking back towards the buildings behind, using his body to shield you from stray bullets. He smelt of gunpowder, sweat, and dust. He smelt familiar. His hard body against yours felt familiar. You felt the reverberation of his voice in his chest as he yelled something. You stumbled back with him as he moved, but he was practically carrying you at this point so you wouldn’t fall. His gun dangled at his hip. Soap was at the door to the nearest building, kicking the door open, the lock shattering.

The ringing in your ears was still present but you make out their muffled yelling as the rest of them filed in. Ghost sat you down at the far wall and behind rows of shelving units. Price and Soap guarded the entrance.

Price started talking into his radio, “Gaz! We got enemy fire coming from southwest of the fire hall. We’re down one and another has been wounded. We are fresh out of wheels, they planted fucking mines,” he yelled into his radio over the sound of oncoming and outgoing gunshots.

“We’re on our way,” Gaz’s voice replied through the Ghost radio that was attached to his shoulder.

Ghost then knelt back down in front of you and swore. His hands shook as he reached for a rectangular pack at his hip, a little red insignia printed on the front. A med-pack. He dumped its contents onto the floor, rummaging through it until he found what he was looking for.

He lifted your leg and started wrapping your thigh, but not before you saw what he was swearing at. There was a two-inch gash in your leg exposing raw flesh and muscle underneath.

“That’s not good,” you breathed. It felt like your throat was torn to shreds; as if you had inhaled the explosion itself.

“You’re fine,” he didn’t look up as he wrapped. It was tight enough that it hurt and you could feel your heartbeat crashing against the pressure. Despite that, the bandage wasn’t going to last.

You choked a laugh, “You might want to get out your, ‘I told you so’s’ while you still can,” You meant for it to come off as nonchalant but your voice quivered.

“You’re fine,” he repeated.

“I left a kit in the back seat,” You sucked in a sharp breath when he pulled the gauze one last time to tie a knot, “I don’t know if it survived though.”

Because it was right next to Butters before the mine tore through the side SUV he was on.

Before I could say another word, Ghost was moving towards the door. Requested for an update, then asked for covering fire before exiting the door. He returned moments later with the kit. When he brought it over he made sure to place it behind him so you couldn’t see the condition of it. You imagined it to be macabre.

As the adrenalin pumping through your body drained it began to tremble, cold rushing into your bones. Blood was already starting to dot the surface of the bandage.

“Powder,” You instructed Ghost. He moved fast, cutting the bandage away with the blade he pulled from its sheath at his thigh, and tearing open the packaging. It was a quick-clotting powder used to stop the bleeding.

You were no doubt in shock because you couldn’t feel the pain anymore. He rewrapped your leg; somehow, it was even tighter than before. You heard Gaz give an update over the radio, asking for more details and you could hear Price relaying the plan.

Your breaths became shallow and sedated, your strength ebbing away. You fought the urge to close your eyes in fear of never opening them again.

Ghost tapped a hand on your cheek, “Don’t be falling asleep on me, now Doc.”

You were barely able to ground out a “Sir, yes, sir,” before your chin hit the front of your chest and succumbed to the darkness pulling at you.

Part 2

Masterlist ❤︎

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #MW2 #mw2 x reader #cod ghost #cod x reader #cod fanfic #soap mctavish #captain price #MistyGhosties

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daddy-dins-girl · 6 months

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Pedro Boys "don't fuck this up"

PSA: I love our resident idiot man whore Dieter ❤️.

If you find any alignment charts you want me to do with Pedro Boys, send 'em over :)

related posts: Pedro Boys "During a Fire Emergency" Pedro Boys "Nice Argument. Unfortunately," Pedro Boys "Dad(dy) Matrix" Pedro Boys & Stabbing Pedro Boys "Lawful/Neutral/Chaotic" Pedro Boys "Feral/Sad/Angelic" Pedro Boys Respond to "I love you." Pedro Boys "Character Tropes" Pedro Boys "Gay/Depressed/Horny on Main" Pedro Boys "Dad/THOT/Bastard" Pedro Boys "bring some Coke to the party" Pedro Boys "Zombie Apocalypse Team" Pedro Boys "I Want a Baby" Pedro Boys "As Babysitters" Pedro Boys "As McDonald's Dads" Pedro Boys "in a horror movie" Pedro Boys "Cinnamon Rolls" Pedro Boys "5 Kids, 3 Chairs" Pedro Boys "Playing Monopoly"

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auroravictorium · 1 year

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high infidelity (pt. 2) (k.b.)

do i really have to chart the constellations in her eyes?

Summary: the crows arrive to help reader, and kaz finally gets his revenge. once reader is in safe hands, kaz is forced to make a decision on where to take her to heal.

Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (established relationship)

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: LOTS of blood and violence (stabbing, vague description of gutting someone), death of non-canon character(s), use of guns, shooting, lots of pain, shrapnel

Genre: angst and action

Author's Note: again, PLEASE read the warnings if you haven't! here is part two of high infidelity, told from kaz's pov :)) enjoy!

part one

Kaz marched down the final row of warehouses, his expression stormy and eyes dark with fury. His leg throbbed from all the walking, but he pressed on with a soldier's determination. He was treating this like any other job, trying as hard as he could to not let his growing panic show. But it swelled to his ankles like he was wading through the cold sea despite his attempts to ignore it. It threatened to slow his steps, and a rough wave tried to crush his chest every now and then when they found yet another empty warehouse.

Each abandoned building broke the dam holding back his emotions a little more. Kaz felt himself swimming away from the shore, plunging into the water's depths. He couldn't help but wonder if you were still in Kerch. Had the Crows come too late? Had Inej's fears of the mercenaries passing you to slavers come true?

Is she still alive? Will I find her as a corpse?

The questions, persistent and growing louder in his mind, sent a shudder down his spine that he tried to hide with his quick pace.

His sleep in the past near-week was restless. His recent nightmares hadn't contained bodies with Jordie's face. They'd all been you, beaten and bruised and twisted into odd angles. Each dream was a taunt, a condemnation of Kaz's failure thus far to find you, and a nauseating mix of every fear he'd ever had.

Kaz had to stop walking as last night's dream came to mind. You, black and blue and broken, while Kaz was powerless to stop it. His shoulder slammed into the brick wall of a building, jolting him out of his thoughts before his dream self could scream, and Kaz lowered his head as he fought against his traitorous lungs. His fingers tightened around the crow's head of his cane, letting the detailed metal grooves dig into his palm through his glove. He fought to breathe past the lump growing in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the grimy, empty avenue of warehouses.

Shit, Brekker. What is wrong with you?

It was the first time he'd admitted that to himself since Kaz Brekker emerged from the harbor ten years ago. Since then, he'd never allowed himself any moment of weakness. He couldn't; weakness was for children, people who hoped, who dared to dream of good things. His weakness killed his brother. If Kaz couldn't pull himself together, it would kill you too.

"Boss-," Jesper began, stepping beside Kaz and peering at his face. Jes opened his mouth to tell Kaz they would find her, that they had to be getting close. A finite number of warehouses sat on the street, and the Crows would find Pekka and the mercenaries if they were there. And if they weren't, they would track them down.

A loud scream echoed down the street, cutting Jesper off and making him turn his head toward the sound.

It was a scream of pure agony, the kind that made the heart feel like it might split in two, made legs feel like they may collapse, made horror choke the air from your lungs and hold it captive. It was a sound and a feeling Kaz had experienced only once, as a blade pierced your chest nine months ago.

It was a sound Kaz wished he would never have to hear again.

Kaz unhitched himself from the wall and ran toward the sound. He forgot about the pain in his leg, his panic, his worry that they'd never find you. He didn't even register Inej, Jesper, and Nina sprinting behind him, their shoes pounding against the cobbled ground. All Kaz could think about was you, your wail of agony, his desperation to get to you.

He skidded to a stop outside the warehouse, finding a set of double doors with a padlock and chains looped through the handles. "Sons of-" Kaz snarled, raising his cane as if he meant to swing it downward. It wouldn't do anything, but he didn't care. His worry had yielded to white-hot fury that muddled his mind and made him think only of the vengeance he was about to inflict. It burned beneath his skin, anger red as the blood rushing in his ears and muffling his hearing.

A hand interrupted the swing, catching the cane's head and gently pushing it down. "Move," Jesper said. He slipped between Kaz and the door as the former moved away, seething. Jes pressed his hands to the lock and warped it until it fell to the ground, deformed and useless. He ripped the chains from the handles and dropped them next to the hunk of metal before pulling his pistols from their holsters.

"What do you want us to do, Brekker?" Nina murmured, reaching out to feel for the heartbeats of those inside. One was irregular, accented by the fast, shallow breathing of panic and pain. "Four of them, and Y/N."

"I take Pekka. You three kill the mercenaries and get to Y/N." Kaz slipped a phosphorous bomb from his coat pocket and weighed it in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the door, filled with rage cold enough to freeze over the True Sea. "No mourners."

"No funerals," Jesper grunted. "Let's kill these bastards." He kicked the door open and moved inside, twirling his guns in his fingers. His eyes fought to adjust to the dim lighting, straining through the cloudy darkness, and Jesper blinked furiously to clear his vision. He spotted Y/N across the room, clearly injured and ill but alive, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he aimed his pistols at the four figures gathered around a table.

Kaz threw his smoke bomb down and made a beeline for Pekka Rollins as the air filled with smoke. Pistols fired and metal scraped against metal; the sound echoed off the warehouse walls, accented by the sound of the Crows and mercenaries launching at each other. Someone hit the ground with a loud groan that lapsed into silence; Kaz could only hope it wasn't one of his Crows or, Saints forbid, you. To make it this far, only to fail, would be his breaking point.

Kaz tackled Pekka out of his chair, barely registering the clatter of a filled gun against the stone ground as it fell from Pekka's hand. Their bodies collided against the floor, skin scraping and bones groaning from the impact; Pekka grunted and rolled, trying to shove Kaz off of him and retrieve his gun.

But Kaz was already swinging, bashing his fists down again and again against any part of Pekka he could hit. His face, his throat, his chest. His punches were sloppy, his vision blurred by bright red anger and the image of Y/N bound to a support beam on replay. Blood on her skin, bruises everywhere he could see and definitely where he couldn't. The memories she would have to live with and the nightmares that would plague her.

He could hardly see through his simmering rage, and he secured his gloved hands around Pekka's throat and squeezed. Nothing would drive his anger away like the sight of Pekka's life leaving his face, light draining from his eyes as death swept over him like a heavy cloak.

Pekka seethed and grabbed Kaz's wrists, struggling to shove them away. But his grip was iron, locked in place through the sheer force of his wrath as everything Pekka had taken from him flashed before his eyes. His money. His brother. His Crows. You.

You you you you you.

Your laugh, replaced by an agonizing scream. Your smile, replaced by a grimace of pain. Your soul, too kind for the Barrel and certainly more than Kaz deserved, cracked or even shattered by whatever the mercenaries and Pekka had done to you.

Kaz's breathing came fast and hard, his teeth gritted together as he pushed as much of his weight down onto Pekka's windpipe as he could. "You killed my brother," he snarled, watching Pekka's eyes bulge and his face redden from lack of oxygen. "You hurt my Crows. You took my love. You made me think that to care was a weakness, to let someone in was a death sentence." He dug his fingertips into Pekka's throat so violently that his arms shook with the wrath he wanted to inflict. "I've let you think you're king for too long. I've let you win. But no more."

Pekka lifted his fist and slammed it into Kaz's ribs. Kaz grunted but didn't break, even as pain sparked through his chest. He forced a smile as he leaned down to get nose-to-nose with Pekka. "You'll have to do much worse, Rollins," he breathed. "You've made me immune to your tricks, and I fear you've run out of them."

He removed a hand from Pekka's throat and brought it down on Pekka's wrist, bashing his hand back to the floor as Pekka pulled the trigger on the gun he'd barely managed to reach. The bullet shot wildly into the air, flying somewhere past Kaz and shattering a window. Cold air rushed into the warehouse, nipping at the back of Kaz's neck.

Kaz wrenched the pistol from Pekka's hand, unloaded it, and slammed the butt of it down against the older man's palm in one swift movement. Bone crunched beneath the impact with a sickening, nauseating snap, and Pekka groaned. The veins of his neck bulged against Kaz's hand, and Kaz wanted to laugh. That's the least of what I want to do, old man.

"You don't know what you're getting into, boy," Pekka wheezed, bringing his unbroken hand up to try and pull Kaz's hand from his throat. He dug his nails into the skin of Kaz's wrist in the struggle, dousing Kaz in ice-cold water that soaked his clothes and froze him to his bones.

Kaz released Pekka's throat before he could stop himself, thrown off kilter by the contact. Slimy fingers. Touching. Lifeless but trying to shove his head beneath the water. Harbor filling his lungs.

Weak. That's all Kaz felt as his vengeance stood suspended in time, replaced by the simultaneous urges to vomit or inflict so much violence that even his rising panic would cower. One touch, one unsuspecting brush of fingertips against skin, and every victory he'd reached over his past was wiped away. Your pride went undeserved, and your words of encouragement crumbled to dust.

Pekka shoved Kaz to the ground and struggled to his feet, cradling his broken hand to his chest. He lifted a hand to his throat to massage the bruising skin. His tongue swiped over his cracked lips as he looked down at Kaz, clutching his cane and breathing hard as he pushed himself back to his feet.

"A damned shame you came all this way for her," Pekka rasped, dropping his hand from his throat. He unbuttoned his disheveled vest and shrugged out of it, tossing it to the side. "Now she has to watch you die, and she won't even be able to give you a rat's burial in the Harbor."

Kaz didn't give Pekka the dignity of a response, lifting his cane and lurching toward him again. He swung, and the metal crow cut through empty space as Pekka dodged and reached for Kaz to push him back toward the wall; the cane fell from Kaz's hands and rolled a few feet away. Kaz grunted as his back collided with the wall, and his head jerked to the side as Pekka punched him. Hard.

Blood filled Kaz's mouth, and his jaw seared with pain as he probed the swelling flesh of his cheek with his tongue. Despite the pain, the promise of death written in Pekka's eyes, Kaz laughed. A mirthless, mocking sound that he couldn't bring himself to cut short, even as Pekka pulled another gun from the back of his waistband and held it to Kaz's throat. But his arm was unsteady, his hand trembling with the gun there. As if he'd never held it before.

Kaz didn't so much as flinch, meeting Pekka's murderous gaze with one of his own. "Do it," he said quietly. "If you kill me now, you might have a fighting chance of getting out of here before my Crows are done with your precious mercenaries and turn their attention to you."

His gaze settled over Pekka's shoulder, landing on Jesper and Inej, fighting the tallest and most muscular of the mercenaries. His energy was waning, and Inej was gaining the upper hand as he attempted to deflect each of her swipes at him. Jesper approached from behind, pulling his rings from his fingers and molding them into sharp little spikes that flew out of his hands and straight into the mercenaries spine.

Past Inej, Jesper, and a dead mercenary with a shot through the forehead, Nina had her hands outstretched, strangling the last mercenary as he grappled with you for control over a weapon. He seized above you, unable to move, and the interruption allowed you to secure your hold and drive the dagger up into his chest. It took all of Kaz's self-control to not let any of his relief show as you shoved the mercenary off of you and knelt beside him to pull the blade from his chest.

Pekka followed Kaz's gaze, turning to look over his shoulder.

Got you, you twisted son of a bitch.

Kaz slipped a blade from his coat and slashed it across Pekka's chest. It parted his shirt and skin easily, and a dark red stain bloomed across his front. The intent was not to kill; just to surprise, buy a chance for Kaz to throw him off long enough to pull the single bullet from the cylinder. He had the bullet in his pocket before the dagger had left Pekka's skin.

Child's play.

Pekka whirled to face Kaz, a hiss of pain whistling through his teeth, and he unclicked the safety of his gun. He pried the dagger from Kaz's hand and tossed it to the ground with a clatter; his chest heaved from anger, and he jabbed the end of the gun into Kaz's throat hard enough to force a choked cough. "You're a fool, Brekker," Pekka snarled.

"Am I?" Kaz hissed back, jerking his chin toward Pekka's dwindling number of allies. Behind him, the fight was slowing; the clashing of weapons and grunting of pain had faded as the mercenaries fell at the hands of the Crows.

The final mercenary standing collapsed at Inej's feet, a slash across his throat spraying blood across the pristine stone floor. Jesper fired one of his pistols once, striking him just below the ear and silencing his cries instantly.

The mercenary at your knees twitched as death took hold, even as you cut him open from the navel to the sternum. From a few feet away, Nina was working to regulate your blood pressure, unwilling to let you die but unwilling to take your chance at revenge away from you. She would be there to catch you when you fell, as your blood pressure suddenly dropped and you teetered unsteadily, the knife slipping from your hands.

Pekka was alone, and he knew it. He would not be walking out of the warehouse. But would he die having killed Kaz Brekker, or would he die by Kaz Brekker's hand? Would Alby be proud, or would he be ashamed of his father's name?

"I once told you the trick to survival was not to love anyone," Kaz said quietly. He leaned closer, angling his head. The moonlight caught in his pale blue eyes, washing the color from them and letting Pekka see every speck of icy rage within. Kaz's bloodied lips curled into a smile before he could stop them. "I was wrong. The trick to survival is making enemies who are too foolish to check that their gun is loaded."

Pekka pulled the trigger as if he expected Kaz to be wrong. But no bullet loosed itself, no blood splattered the walls, and no sudden darkness enveloped Kaz. It was empty, the lone bullet sitting uselessly in Kaz's coat pocket. He'd been banned from every gambling hall in Ketterdam for a reason.

"You bastard," Pekka seethed. "How did you-?"

His gun suddenly exploded in his hand, crumbling into a variety of metal chunks that thumped to the floor. Some rose upward and shot toward Pekka's face, burying themselves into his skin and eyes and anywhere they could hit. Blood streamed down his face, and Pekka stumbled back, covering his eyes as he roared in pain and anger.

Kaz turned, finding Jesper with his hand outstretched. He was gasping, looking between his palm and Pekka as he hunched over and dug his fingers into his eyes as if he could pull the metal shards from them.

What the Saints did I do? Jesper thought, staring down at his fingers as power sang beneath his skin. One moment, he was thinking about Pekka's gun jamming, the next... Kaz's cane. He blinked and ducked down to grab Kaz's cane. "Finish it," Jesper said roughly, then tossed the cane to its owner. Before he could think too hard about the look of awe in Kaz's eyes, Jes turned and rushed toward Nina and Inej as they worked to start treating you.

Kaz secured his grip on his cane and jammed the end of it into Pekka's knees, toppling him to the ground. He crouched beside him, ignoring the searing pain in his leg, and tucked his cane under his arm. "I'll do you a favor," Kaz hissed, grabbing a fistful of Pekka's hair and jerking his head back. "I won't tell your precious prince how easily you fell."

He slammed Pekka's head into the ground. His nose crunched beneath the impact, and blood sprayed across the floor. Kaz pulled his head back up as Pekka panted, and silent, unheard pleas passed his lips. He tilted his head, meeting Pekka's terrified, unseeing gaze. "I won't give him the details. I'll even be merciful and make sure he doesn't end up on the streets."

Kaz could leave Alby Rollins to starve, to risk wasting away on the streets as news spread of his father's death. The Dime Lions' fortune was finite, easily spent or misallocated without a leader. Not a drop would end up with Alby; if any did, by some act of the Saints, he would be manipulated out of it before he had the chance to escape the city.

But as Kaz stared at Pekka, at the unintelligible pleas and prayers leaving his lips, he only heard your voice. He saw your wages leaving your hands, given to the very woman who had passed your name to the Dime Lions. All so she could escape Ketterdam's unforgiving violence and return to some lover, someplace safer and more secure.

It would have cost less for you to kill Amalia.

It would cost Kaz less if he didn't make this promise to Pekka before he killed him.

A lump rose in Kaz's throat as his battle against himself raged on. He didn't owe Pekka or Alby Rollins anything, and yet... He had to be close to the age Kaz had been when Jordie died. Just nine, on the cusp of ten, still hopeful that there was good in the world. It was almost poetic how the cycle of tragedies repeated itself.

"He won't end up on the streets," Kaz repeated. But his voice sounded far away to his own ears, and he hardly registered the relief flickering across Pekka's face. He was nine years old again with the firepox ravaging his body. Between one blink and the next, he would be moved from the streets to the Reaper's Barge. Then he was fourteen, breaking his leg during a bank heist. Sixteen, trailing a girl causing chaos in the wealthy side of the city and convincing her to join the Dregs. Seventeen, he was ignoring his feelings for that girl. Eighteen, he kissed her. Nineteen, he was burning Kerch to the ground to find her and killing the man who set all this into motion, good and bad, his hate and his love.

Beneath it all was one simple truth. We both are beyond saving.

But one unfortunate boy had fallen into the mix. Nine years old, his life and his father's in Kaz's hands. The same position the father had once been in, and he had made the wrong choice. Ripped Kaz's future from him with the stroke of his pen and threatened his yet unborn son's own.

Alby Rollins has a chance.

Kaz clenched his jaw and brought Pekka's head down into the stone floor with a sharp, sickening crack. Death was simple and quick, claiming Pekka Rollins between one moment and the next. It was as if he'd never existed, but the damage within the warehouse and outside of it said otherwise.

Kaz Brekker stood up and felt nothing at all, despite what had just happened. He turned and left Pekka's body behind him, limping over to his friends huddled around you. It was only when he saw the mess of bruises and blood across your skin that he realized he wasn't breathing, and his emotions flickered back to life as he knelt beside you and turned your right arm to the sky.

Horror, when he saw the damage, your tattoo slashed in half. Concern, when he saw the blood seeping from your arm despite Inej's attempts to patch it until Nina could get to it. Fear, when he saw your eyes slipping shut, your chest slowing its intake of air.

He didn't have enough space to allow his rage back in, enough air to feed its flames. All he felt was terror and the very real truth that you could die.

"Nina, her arm," Kaz said, trying to control his breathing. His lungs were speeding up without his permission, a mass of fear setting in his windpipe and threatening to choke him. "Jesper, the coach. Take Inej. Go."

Jesper rose from where he was bandaging a shallow cut on your other wrist, likely from your bindings, and Inej followed as he ran toward the warehouse doors.

Kaz dropped his cane and ripped a piece of fabric from the inner lining of his coat to start staunching the blood flowing from your arm, trying to buy Nina time as she worked on a gash on your head that Kaz hadn't noticed. He watched your eyes slip shut, and he forgot all about bandaging your cut arm.

No. You're not allowed to die.

He grabbed your hand and squeezed it as if he could tether you here. With him. Long enough that he could free the hesitation and fear from his lungs and tell you exactly what he felt. How he blamed himself, how he was sorry, how he loved you, and how that love had consumed every cell of his body; how he breathed it in from the moment he woke up to the moment he fell asleep. How it soothed every wound, healed and fresh.

Kaz had to squeeze his eyes shut and look away as his breathing sped up from panic. I need you to live. "Nina," he rasped. He didn't know what he wanted to say to her. He only had words that he wished he could say to you. No room for anything, anyone else.

Not even Jordie's ghost, whom he was keenly aware of in the back of his mind.

"We need a place for the night. She won't make it back to Ketterdam." Nina's words were clipped, matter-of-fact as she traced her fingers down the deep cut down your forearm. A thin layer of skin knitted together to stop the bleeding, and Nina turned her attention back to the infection she could feel surging beneath your skin. "She needs water. Food. Rest."

Kaz nodded, a short dip of his chin. "Will she make it to Lij? Four hours from here if Jesper takes his time."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I hope the paths are clear."

The warehouse doors thudded open again, and Kaz glanced over his shoulder to find Inej gasping in the doorway as, behind her, Jesper sat atop the coach while the horses neighed and shook their manes in indignation. "C'mon!" Inej called. "Locals heard of a disturbance."

Kaz slid his arms underneath your shoulders and knees and carefully pulled you into his arms, letting Nina pick his cane up from a puddle of blood on the ground. The cold harbor nipped at his ankles and threatened to rise as he cradled you against his chest, occasionally glancing down at you as he limped out of the warehouse. Your head lulled backward, exposing the bruised skin of your throat, and Kaz had to look away, toward Inej as she pulled the coach door open and shielded your head with her hand as Kaz carefully lifted the both of you into the coach.

"Head just north of Lij," Kaz ordered, settling you on one of the plush coach seats and tugging his coat and vest off. He bunched up the vest beneath your head to act as a pillow and covered you up with his coat, bloodied side facing out. "No sightseeing."

Inej and Nina joined Kaz in the coach, and Nina carefully lifted your legs so she could sit at your feet and continue stabilizing you. Inej sat across from Nina and pulled her necklace from beneath her shirt, clutching it in her palm and turning her eyes to the sky. Meanwhile, Kaz sat in the spot across from your head and tried to avoid letting renewed sparks of rage consume him.

Outside the coach on the driver's bench, Jesper chewed on the inside of his cheek, turning his gaze firmly toward the horses before him instead of letting them linger on the puddles of blood he could see just beyond the warehouse doors.

Bruised, bloody, and seething, the Crows left Zierfoort, heading toward the town of Lij. None of them said a word the entire ride.

reader's pov (part 1)

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3, @statsvitenskap, @sapphiccloud, @casualladyinternet, @d34drapunzel, @noctemys, @whitejxsmine, @so6, @franzelt, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @marlene-the-witch, @thestudiouswanderer, @lyjen, @rideacowb0y, @weasleybuns, @dal-light, @mariatpwk, @dreammgc, @elysian-chaos, @breadbrobin, @poppyflower-22, @halfofagayallofaqueer, @battleraven, @amarokofficial, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @poppyflower-22, @madnessinwrighting, @ponyboys-sunsets, @circus-of-thoughts, @empresspenguin18, @mediocrestuff, @stonksman8, @alanis-altair, @thefandomplace, @alohastitch0626, @the-royal-paintbrush, @just-here-for-ff, @whos6claire, @jodiereedus22, @be-lla-vie, @despoinapav05, @arianyo, @willowpains, @geekmom3, @dark-academia-slut, @aeslenya, @directioner5life, @notjustsomeblonde, @osteopsycho, @travelingmypassion, @tiana76, @angelhxneyy, @princessatoru, @despoinapav05

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markantonys · 4 months

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i was thinking about lanfear telling rand that the word "sorry" will lose all meaning if he keeps saying it, and out of curiosity i searched all the episode transcripts to see how often rand says sorry. i found that, just looking at total instances of the word and not specific characters, there's usually 1-4 "sorry"s per episode. got to 2x08 and went "damn 13 'sorry's in this episode?? what happened here?????" and i clicked along and realized it was because of mat and the stabbening 😭😭

anyway here's a good old-fashioned Chart Of Inane And Useless WOT Data!

my statistician's notes:

i only searched for the word "sorry", so this does not capture other ways of apologizing or expressing regret/guilt

i excluded all "sorry"s said to mean "what did you say?" rather than "i'm apologizing", and all "sorry"s which i deemed insincere (liandrin had a few of those lmao, and also things like elayne jokingly saying "sorry" after egwene says her homemade moonshine is very strong - some subjectivity here about what i considered sincere or not)

i did not include minor characters or characters who only said a sincere "sorry" once

repetitive "sorry"s were counted individually, and this accounts for most of our heavy-hitters: liandrin says "sorry" 5x after giving her son that herb and mat says "sorry" 7x after stabbing rand

rand has a few double "sorry"s, but never more than 2 in one sentence/exchange. so his 14 are because he really does say "sorry" a lot! 6 times in s1 and 8 times in s2

the absolute only time moiraine says "sorry" in the entire show so far is when she's pretending to be a frightened noblewoman with the whitecloaks in 1x02. siuan has never said it. queen shit.

#even in s1 without the outlier of the stabbening mat is still the second highest sorry-sayer after rand. baby boys 😭😭#me: it's been an exhausting week at work and my brain is too fried to do anything but mindlessly watch youtube videos #also me: time to make WOT graphs #wot #wot on prime #the wheel of time

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lurkinglurkerwholurks · 5 months

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Book rec: The Queen's Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner

I am going to do this as calmly as I can.

You need to read this series. Please trust me and google nothing about it. All you need to know is what I am about to tell you and the rest are spoilers. You do NOT want spoilers.

The Queen's Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner is a fantasy series. It is the best series I have ever read in my entire life—not hyperbole, I'm saying it with my whole chest—and the way this woman weaves character, craft, and plot informs every single thing I have ever written ever. It is impossible not to read these books and not become a better writer, IMO.

I promised these recs would focus specifically on the things people love about the Fam, though, rather than generally flailing about good things, so let's talk about Found Family and Good Dads.

First, there is a bonanza of dads in this series—bio, adopted, informal, and manipulate-by-proximity. When you read the first book (shown above, The Thief) for the first time, you'll be inclined toward skepticism, as the POV is very teen brat with little emphasis on dadly things. Trust me. Trust me. Not only do the good dads start to stack across the series, but as you learn to tease out the (canonical!!) subtleties of behavior and affection, your first time rereading The Thief will make you shriek. Rereading the second book will make you feel like you've been stabbed in the chest. It's PHENOMENAL.

And then the Found Family vibes are OFF. THE. CHARTS. These characters, when they choose their people, choose to love so fiercely, so wholeheartedly, and so irrevocably that they go to war. They fight and kill and scheme and plot. But even more importantly, they sacrifice. They show unrelenting mercy and affection and care. My one single freely given spoiler for this series is that at so many different points, the plot could veer into a Greek tragedy, all the more brutal for its inevitability, but instead the characters choose love—gritted-teeth, pragmatic, unrelenting love—and each time the plot trajectory pivots in a way that's still utterly realistic and believable but also refreshing and good.

Also there are secret identities and so many overlapping motivations and the tension between what's good for the populace you're responsible for vs. for the precious few who hold your entire heart—

The Thief is an incredibly quick read. Pick it up, read it, and note how you feel about the different characters and their individual relationships with each other. Then read the second book and watch how it all evolves. If you're not hooked by the end of the second book, I don't even know what to tell you.

#book recs #please I am HERE talk to me ABOUT THESE BOOKS!!!!!!!#megan whalen turner #the queen's thief series #the thief

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asimplearchivist · 10 months

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𝑪𝑯. 𝑰 — 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑶𝑵 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑻𝒀.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ spider-woman of earth 928c is introduced to some unexpected visitors. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 3.1k a/n 🕷️ ⤏ don't mind me, I'm just chasing a plot bunny. ⤏ this version of the rhino is from the spectacular spider-man universe because I’m self-indulgent and that’s still one of my favorite iterations of the character. I am also adlibbing this version of the 2099-verse because I only know what the wiki told me…and it wasn’t a whole lot. 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

Let’s review all this one last time, shall we?

“Hey, Rhino! You’ll have to try a bit harder than that to catch me!”

My name is—well, you already know that, don’t you?

A furious bellow set every hair on your body on edge. You hooked your feet on the lamppost and curled around it just in time to avoid the crushed taxi launched at your direction. The loan office it embedded itself into had been vacated when the scuffle started, thank God, as had the rest of the street’s occupants. You could hear police sirens several blocks over, trying to navigate the destruction the brute beast had left in his wake. You’d been trying to tire him out in the harsh summer sunlight—just as you had a couple of years prior.

I got bitten by an enhanced radioactive spider, and for the last five years, I’ve been the one—and only—Spider-Woman.

“You’ve really got to work on your aim, O’Hirn, I don’t know what to tell you,” you chided lightly, webbing the taxi and jumping down to swing it back at him. The metal husk caught him right in the chest, managing to knock him flat on his armored ass. “You’ve gotten a bit rusty since I last saw you.”

I’m sure you know the rest—I’ve saved countless people in Nueva York and have kept it intact. (Mostly.)

“I—don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” he snarled, peeling himself out of the vehicle. “I never seen you before—d’you replace Spider-Man or somethin’?”

I lost my husband in a freak accident, I barely manage to keep my small business open, and sometimes I want for nothing more than to burn this suit and walk away from it all.

You raised a brow under your mask. “I’m afraid I’m the only resident web-slinger in this neck of the woods. Did you get your head bashed a little too hard while in the slammer?”

But I’ve learned that no matter how many times I get knocked down, shot at, blown up, stabbed, punched, kicked—you name it—I have to get up. Always.

The Rhino roared instead of opting to give a comprehensive answer to further the conversation, and you narrowly avoided getting impaled on his horn when he lunged. Latching onto the awning of the hotel across the street, you swung wide and squinted down at the mercenary as his momentum carried him directly into the rubble of the obliterated loan office.

I genuinely thought that I had seen it all: science experiments gone horribly wrong, villains of the week that would give horror writers a run for their money...weird-ass situations all around, and I’m weird.

Something…wasn’t right. Your spider sense had been ringing off the chart since he’d first galloped through the wall of your pharmacy demanding a fight—it was persistent and loud enough that it had given you a splitting headache by now. It hadn’t reacted this badly in several years, and you’d care not to think about the circumstances surrounding the last occasion.

But this…certainly took the cake.

This guy…wasn’t the Rhino you’d fought. You hadn’t even heard anything about the prison he’d been sent to being destroyed, or any of the inmates having made a miraculous escape, for that matter. He sounded different, acted different, looked different…not to mention the fact that this…imposter, or whoever he was, had a far more rudimentary armor than that of the first. It looked like a solid compound of some sort bound to his skin, rather than faulty nano-particles that had malfunctioned and locked themselves out of control at the time of its first reckless experimentation.

You’d know that better than anyone. Alchemax had been nothing but a source of perpetual pains in your ass ever since your husband died, the higher-ups far too hungry for imitation superhumans from a century prior to exercise caution or reason. They’d stop at nothing to get what they wanted, the common people they inevitably harmed be damned.

As the crumbling cinderblocks settled, you slipped down and landed lightly on the cracked sidewalk. You lamented the property damage of the entire block just as much as the fact that you were going to have to use your preferred pharmacy’s sister branch, all the way on the other side of the Hudson, and they always took days to refill your prescriptions even after you received the automated alert.

Computers. Damned with them, damned without them.

“Hey, O’Hirn?” you called into the cloud of dust slowly clearing in the mild breeze. “I don’t suppose you did my job for me and knocked yourself out, huh?”

This time, he charged without a sound. You tried to jump away with a yelp, your instincts screeching like a banshee, but his massive fist caught your ankle and slammed you down into the asphalt hard enough to crater around your frame. Winded, you only just caught his heel with both hands before he drove it directly into your chest cavity—you groaned with the strain of keeping his weight at bay, arms trembling with effort. You gasped for breath, eyes searching out his face despite the tears welling in your eyes (because damn that hurt), and twisted your wrist just enough to utilize the spinneret on the top of your wrist instead of in the bottom. The sickly sweet-smelling web nailed him right in the eye.

He stumbled back with a muffled shout, the silk having netted his entire head from the impact. You rolled out of the asphalt angel memorializing your clumsiness and away from his stomping feet, coughing and doing your best to ignore the pain lingering in your back and ribs.

“Got me there,” you wheezed, struggling to your feet. “Now I’m not going to play nice.”

“The hell is this stuff?” he shouted, finally tearing the object of offense free. “It reeks!”

“Something to help put you down for a nap,” you sighed, already threading the nearest dislodged fire hydrant. You waited in a tense crouch until he whirled on you and lowered his head to clock him in the knee.

He shook the ground when he dropped, howling while clutching the dislocated joint. Letting the hydrant loop over your head, you brought it harshly down on the opposite shoulder to incapacitate him further.

The ground swayed abruptly, and you staggered sidewise to keep from stumbling. The Rhino, despite his obvious agony, flashed you a shit-eating grin.

“Didn’t think about that, did’ya?” he goaded, before rearing his good fist back and driving it into the gaping crack in the concrete.

That entire section of the street caved into the sewer system below, and O’Hirn grabbed your ankle once more to drag you with him.

Rubble and unstable brickwork separated the pair of you, and you struggled to get your bearings even as it pinned you in place under running water (rather than actual sewage, thank God—it had taken months for the smell to leave your suit, even if the UMF had decontamination processes preprogrammed) like the odd little bug you really were.

Heart pounding, you clenched your jaw and shoved at the boulders blocking you in, fruitlessly at first—finally, finally they gave, and you surfaced with a ragged inhale.

Your entire body ached. You were going to have to deal with Alchemax soon, you really were, because your health insurance was definitely not going to cover a visit to the ER—your improved healing would still take a while to fix it, even if you were to gorge yourself like usual.

“Just be glad for no broken bones,” you muttered, peering up into the hazy sunlight streaming into the chasm Rhino had created. “Those hurt like a bitch.”

“I think I can help with that.”

You whipped around. “Oh, for the love of—”

Rhino’s fist nearly took your jaw clean off your skull with a dizzying roundhouse that sent you flying into what remained of the sewer’s wall. You collapsed on the service walk, biting your lip fiercely to keep the bubbling whimper firmly lodged in your chest. “Fuck, man, you couldn’t stand to be a gentleman, could you? That’s my good si—”

He cut off your tirade by clamping his fist around the back of your neck, dragging you into open air and glaring down his crooked nose at you.

Were you imagining things or was he…shaped differently than a normal person? Not even being a supervillain, he just…looked weird. Like, really weird.

Or…maybe it had to do with the fact that his fingers easily reached around to the front of your throat and were now squeezing hard enough to block your airway.

“I’ve about had enough of you,” he growled, grimacing as you grappled his arm in an attempt to release his grip. “You superheroes and your smart mouths. If the Big Man ever caught wind of another Spider hangin’ around, he’d blow a gasket.”

You had enough wherewithal to utilize your specialized webs once again, but even though you managed to cover his face again, he snatched your wrists and twisted them to the side to cut off the flow. He snarled and squeezed harder, though a small trickle of relief bypassed the growing panic of suffocating when he stumbled a little. His eyes were going crossed, it was working…

…but not quickly enough. You were fading fast, losing feeling in your fingers and toes, your hands and feet, your arms and legs…your heartbeat thrummed in your ears like a torn war drum, the only sound that followed the dizziness creeping into your consciousness.

Well…you supposed this was it. Definitely not the way you’d imagined going, but…your aunt would feed your cat. There were worse ways to go, certainly—you’d witnessed them firsthand. You just wish that you didn’t feel like such a failure, despite all your countless accomplishments and victories. None of it felt substantial. Not when you had failed to protect those most important to you.

Not when you’d lost your husband. Not when it should have been you.

Your body fell limp. You made one last effort to turn your head and bite the heel of the Rhino’s palm, but he only knocked the back of your head against the wall. You hardly felt it, really, only hearing your tapering pulse and the wailing ring of your spider sense.

“Fuck you,” you tried to rasp, but with no air to speak you only mouthed the words.

The Rhino had the audacity to laugh at that, glittering dark eyes eagerly watching yours steadily glaze over. He reached towards your chin, where he would find the seam of your mask.

Through darkening, blurry vision, you watched a maelstrom of crimson and gold bloom like an aurora over the Rhino’s massive shoulder, illuminating the damp maze of broken rock like neon on a rainy night. Your eyes drifted shut of their own accord as a shape sprinted forth from the vortex at breakneck speed. You hadn’t figured the afterlife would herald a six-foot bodybuilder in blue spandex, but, hey—who were you to complain about witnessing the epitome of masculinity at the time of death?

Listless, you barely recognized being dropped. You didn’t even realize the pressure had been released from your windpipe until your instincts kicked into overdrive. You inhaled so suddenly and so harshly, the burn was what startled you back into lucidity.

Sucking in precious oxygen, you propped your arms beneath your chest and lifted your impossibly heavy, throbbing head to stare in utter rapture as you witnessed what you’d accepted as a hallucination of the peak male figure proceed to kick Alexander O’Hirn’s ass into next week.

“What the hell?” you croaked, sagging into the floor.

The stranger was…lethal, really. Every punch and kick was delivered with frightening force and deadly accuracy. It wasn’t until he backflipped to avoid impalement into the sunlight that you saw the cross between a spider and skull motif caressing his rippling physique. Him then twisting his hands down and launching luminescent red threads to trip the beast mid-lunge only confused you further.

“You ready for the containment field?” called a second stranger—a woman this time—standing propped against an honest-to-God motorcycle in the mouth of the vortex.

The Rhino grabbed the webs and yanked hard. The man, to his credit, didn’t yelp as he was pulled off his feet and towards O’Hirn’s brandished horn.

You reacted before you could think.

Your web coiled around his midsection, and your braking pull slowed his momentum just enough to give him time to lift his foot and dig his heel into the Rhino’s left eye. They both careened into the heap of rubble and under the water.

You scrambled onto your feet, limping to the edge of the walk to peer into the murky depths. You were about to speak to the woman on the opposite side because you wanted to know exactly what in the actual hell that thing was, who they were, and why the hell were they both copying your design when the surface broke into a shower of droplets that speckled your suit. The man tumbled into a heap at your feet, dripping and coughing.

“I’d thank you for your help,” you panted in spite of your sore throat, “but I don’t think he’s down for the count quite yet.”

His head snapped towards you, and you saw the crimson frames surrounding the lenses of his own mask widen. He lurched upright, taking a full step away from you as though you’d tried to bite him. He towered over you easily, well over six foot (even past half?), and his musculature more than emphasized it.

“Hey, no hard feelings or anything, I appreciate the hand,” you said, raising placating palms to him. “I almost kicked the bucket back there, so I owe you—”

He whirled just as the Rhino surfaced from the deep, roaring in fury. His nose was bleeding profusely, but not from his nostrils—was that a bite mark across the bridge?

“Get back and let us handle it!” the man in the midnight suit snarled suddenly, and your heart stuttered.

Your mouth fell open as he launched himself forward, leaving gauges in the concrete where his feet had been planted. You watched, frozen and speechless, as he latched onto O’Hirn’s shoulders and spun him into a glowing red shibari presentation in less than ten seconds. The Rhino lost his footing and collapsed back into the water, though into the shallows. The woman tossed the man a device, and it bloomed into a forcefield that swallowed their fallen prey in a humming yellow cocoon.

“Oh.” You blinked, shut your mouth, and swallowed. “Wow. I need one of those.”

The stranger ignored you, stooping down and hefting the Rhino over his shoulder like he weighed a sack of potatoes.

You blinked rapidly before following his sloshing lumber across the canal. “Wait, wait a second, aren’t you going to—”

“We’ll take it from here, baby,” said the woman lightly, gesturing to the beast who had, oddly enough, fallen into a stiff stasis. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried about it,” you responded tersely, “because that is definitely not the Rhino of my world, you two are just as out of place as he is, and that looks an awful lot like a wormhole that is somehow not causing the known universe to collapse in on itself. Can I please get an explanation, since you both seem perfectly calm?”

The man growled under his breath, shaking his head, while the woman arched an appraising brow at him.

“That’s classified,” he ground out through gritted teeth, and your heart squeezed once more.

“Do either of you work for Alchemax?” you demanded hotly, skin pricking with agitation. “Because if this is another one of their freakshow experiments gone wrong, I am going to blow that place sky high, I swear—”

“We don’t work for Alchemax,” she soothed. She cast another glance at her cohort, eyes narrowing, before she refocused on you with a much kinder expression. “And we definitely have no other intention than getting this big guy back to where he belongs. We’re not your enemies.”

“Just leave it alone, Jess,” hissed the man in blue, resuming his steady pace towards the glowing, shifting maw of raw power. “We need to get back before the toxin wheres off.”

You couldn’t take that nagging feeling anymore.

“Tell me what the hell is going on!” you snapped, hoping the indignation in your voice disguised the fact that your throat was unbearably tight and a persistent sting blurred your sight. “You can’t just—”

He didn’t stop moving, didn’t even turn to face you—not really—just tilted his head to the side enough to regard you with disdain from the edge of his peripheral. You couldn’t see it, of course, nor his expression, but the disapproving drawl of his single-worded reply was enough—more than enough, and you realized that it sounded familiar. “No.”

“Wait, please!” you tried, (begged, more like, much to your chagrin—you hated it when your voice cracked), taking a step forward and trying to decide whether it was worth the risk to web him immobile after his rather impressive (and aggressive) display. “Miguel?”

The imposing figure went stock-still mid-step.

Your breath caught, your suddenly buoyant heart lodging itself firmly in the pit of your throat. He sagged in on himself for a moment, a deep, shaky inhale emphasizing the sheer mass of him—easily thrice your mass—and his ragged exhale was the only indication of weariness you’d observed thus far.

“It would be best,” he enunciated thickly, almost garbled, as though he spoke around a mouthful of gravel, “if you forgot about this encounter altogether, in the long run.”

All you were able to absorb in that split second before he stepped through the contorting portal and disappeared were the splashes of golden light accenting the sharp angle of his cheek and jawline, as well as the subtlest suggestion of a deeply furrowed brow beneath the glimmering material comprising his mask and suit alike—just like yours.

The other woman regarded you for a long moment, something like sympathy clear on her unguarded, unconcealed face. You opened your mouth to entreat her, likewise, desperate for answers when the former stranger had so blatantly refused explanation, but she merely shook her head slowly, reminding you of a gentle, maternal refusal. She, too, wheeled her bike into the portal and flickered out of view.

Then, inevitably, the portal itself dissipated into nothingness within the blink of an eye, as though you’d been hallucinating the entire thing. The tunnel was plunged into total darkness, save the wall of sunlight behind you.

You dropped to your knees, your chin sank into your sternum, and the particles of your mask receded so you could cradle your face in your hands. Hot, embittered tears dripped from your nose and splattered against the concrete, only the faintest suggestions of discoloration in your distorted vision.

Just like that, he was gone.

Again.

#fanfiction #reader insert #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara/reader #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderverse #fisara's codices #miguel o'hara x reader #mine #across the spiderverse #spider verse #spiderman: across the spiderverse #across the spider verse #spider man: across the spiderverse #across the spider verse spoilers #atsv

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bengiyo · 6 months

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The Sign Ep 1 Stray Thoughts

Excited for the new show from IdolFactory and excited for more gays with guns.

So we have a hostage and bomb diffusing scenario that seems to be training, given the paintball guns.

Feels like they invested in the training for the action choreography, and the camera work isn't letting them down.

These Thai shows and the presence of the sun from scene to scene, I swear.

Are they really fighting over the hostage now? This cannot be good for training purposes.

We were robbed. What is the point of the ass shots if you're just gonna pixelate it??

Okay, so Tharn did have a vision of Phaya being stabbed, and this has been going on for a while.

This big ass man is something else.

Curious that Tharn doesn't want Phaya to know.

What are they even training for that they have to go through all of this. This seems dangerous.

I know that instructor is probably glad that Chart washed out.

First we had CGI tigers in Naughty Babe, and now we got dragons and Freen as some kind of sea mystic.

All this to become a cop???

I wonder how Phaya knew the name of Freen's character.

I hope Chart doesn't actually become a cop with the way he's always acted.

I hope this Auntie stabs one of them for fucking up her restaurant.

BL and its pratfall kisses, I tell ya.

Well there's an appreciable amount of flesh in these locker room scenes.

It's probably bad to discourage future investigators from pursuing hunches.

Phaya is not worried about Tharn at all.

So invested in this tumultuous relationship with these other two.

How do we go from insane flirting in the bathroom to some camouflaged creature creeping outside??

I'm glad we established queerness in almost all of these boys before the game.

Here we go with the fucking vomit.

Oh ho, their instructor is involved in some conspiracy around this death.

Well, that was entertaining. Don't know what all the action and training is preparing us for if this is just going to be a murder mystery, but we got to see a lot of fighting and grunting from buff men. I won't complain.

#the sign #the sign the series #thai bl #bl series #Ben watches

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simply-whump · 8 months

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My Journey to You (云之羽) - Whump List

Whumpees : Gong Zi Yu played by Zhang Ling He, Gong Shang Jue played by Ryan Cheng and Gong Yuan Zhi played by Tian Jia Rui

Synopsis : The series tells the story of Yun Wei Shan, a spy longing for freedom, who infiltrates the Gong residence to complete a mission. In the eerie and treacherous Gong residence, she encounters love and friendship, embarks on a journey of self-discovery, and finds the determination to move forward. Together with the rebellious nobleman Gong Zi Yu, they grow and mature through their shared experiences. (MDL)

Genres : Romance, Wuxia, Fantasy, Mystery

Note : In Chinese dramas, my attention is usually focused on the male lead but here it was the other characters that caught my eyes! The fights were also beautiful.

Warning! Possible spoilers below!

Gong Zi Yu

Didn't like him at first but he grew on me, especially towards the end

Ep 1 : None

Ep 2 : Fighting, hit, grabbed by the neck — Called a failure, teary-eyed, upset

Ep 3 : Crying, grieving — Crying

Ep 4 : Slapped

Ep 5 : Crying

Ep 6-7 : None

Ep 8 : Crying — In an ice bath, cold

Ep 9 : In bed, sleeping, agitated, wakes up

Ep 10 : Dives into icy water, almost drowns, saved

Ep 11-14 : None

Ep 15 : Takes poison willingly, in pain, passes out — Coughing blood, in bed, looked after

Ep 16 : Worried for someone, crying

Ep 17 : None (But damn I nearly cried at the end of this episode )

Ep 18 : Crying

Ep 19 : None

Ep 20 : Crying

Ep 21 : Crying (you may think he cries a lot seeing this list but… there is a lot of sad stuff)

Ep 22 : The plot twist was so satisfying — Fighting, face scratched, hit, spitting blood, poisoned?, helped to walk, collapses — Energy transferred to him

Ep 23 : Crying — Suddenly in pain after standing up, coughing blood

Ep 24 : None (If you want a satisfying ending, don't watch the last 5 min)

Gong Shang Jue

The charisma of this man was off the charts, I was rooting for him for the whole drama

Ep 1-10 : None

Ep 11 : Teary-eyed

Ep 12 : None

Ep 13 : Crying — Worried for Yuan Zhi

Ep 14-17 : None

Ep 18 : Cool fight

Ep 19 : Cool fight (3 vs 1, so unfair) —Unconscious, blood at his mouth, concern for him —Unconscious in bed — (Flashback) Injured by Zi Yu — (Present) In a lot of pain (Too complicated to explain why)

Ep 20-22 : None

Ep 23 : Fighting, hit, spitting blood, hit again, unconscious, concern for him

Ep 24 : Teary-eyed

Gong Yuan Zhi

Great Whump! Also I loved his brotherly relationship with Shang Jue.

Ep 1-3 : None

Ep 4 : Slapped

Ep 5 : Teary-eyed

Ep 6-8 : None

Ep 9 : Fighting — Bruises on his back treated

Ep 10 : None

Ep 11 : Crying

Ep 12 : Crying — Teary-eyed

Ep 13 : Stabbed by a piece of glass in the chest, collapses, put to bed, piece of glass painfully removed from his body, in a lot of pain, bleeding from the mouth, passes out (almost killed accidentally by his beloved brother) — (Flashback) Crying — (Present) Unconscious in bed, looked after, inner energy transferred to him, wakes up briefly

Ep 14 : In bed, given medicine

Ep 15-17 : None

Ep 18 : Fighting, sword at his neck, restrained, gagged, paralysed, bites himself on purpose, bleeding, released

Ep 19 : Fighting — Treating bruises on his back — Teary-eyed

Ep 20-22 : None

Ep 23 : Fighting, hit, spitting blood, grabbing a blade with his bare hands, collapses, bleeding from the mouth, worried for Shang Jue, groaning in pain, crawling towards him, crying, screaming — (Flashback) Poisons himself to know the effect of a poison — (Present) Hit

Ep 24 : None

>> More Whump Lists

#my journey to you #whump list #asian whump #whump #crama #chinese drama #zhang ling he #ryan cheng #tian jia rui

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recurring-polynya · 9 months

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Yesterday's post about shinigami blood types (or lack thereof) reminded me about an idea I had awhile ago that shinigami had an equally woo system of assigning personality types based on reiatsu color. This is especially charming to me because of the fact that Ichigo, who hates horoscopes and such, changes reiatsu colors like seventeen times over the course of the series and I feel like the Reiatsu Color Girlies (gender neutral) would have a field day with him.

For funsies, and because it's Friday, I decided to take a stab at making one. I started with the reiatsu color chart from the Bleach wiki. I threw out all the really minor filler arc characters. This is mostly a shinigami thing, so I considered non-shinigami characters as I was thinking about the categories, but they were, like, supporting evidence. I decided that black reiatsu is not a thing people have normally, that's...you know, final form nonsense. Both Yoruichi and Soi Fon's shunko is listed as white, but I feel like shunko is just white, that's not the same as having white reiatsu and is not a personality reflection. On the other hand, when one's bankai is a different color than their normal, that's like revealing a secondary personality type, which is oddly consistent with bankai as a concept. I futzed around for a bit, and finally decided I wanted it to be color-wheel balanced, so, while the Bleach wiki uses the categories of Orange, Golden Orange, Golden Yellow, and Yellow, I just used Orange and Yellow. These are all designed as a spectrum anyway, so if someone's reiatsu is somewhere in the middle, or two-toned or something, they are considered to either have the traits of both, or to be somewhere in the middle.

Finally, keep in mind, this is in-universe hokem, so it's actually very on-brand and hilarious for someone to be grossly miscategorized.

Some notes:

From the very beginning of this project, it was hilarious to me that Matsumoto was getting thrown into the same personality archetype as Hitsugaya and both Kuchiki. In my mind, Rangiku strongly identifies as a white reiatsu person, despite the ample evidence to the contrary. No one is sure if this is a bit or not.

I took all the Arrancar off this chart, but obviously Grimmjow's is blue, and I think it's a hilarious Seireitei microaggression that he would go into the studious class overachiever with Kira and Ishida (I realize that Ishida is also not a shinigami, so to him, it's a microaggression how on-brand this is)

The pink category was such a mixed bag, and it also contained basically every girl Arrancar. I tried to come up with something that literally every one of them would make a horrified face about, a club to which absolutely no one wishes to belong.

The red category feels very solid to me and I love the collection of characters within it, except for Urahara, what is this man doing here? I feel he would be very "hmm, maybe I am a man of action" about it, which is definitely a bit, and Yoruichi has nearly murdered him over it on multiple occasions.

Has there ever been anyone with green reiatsu who wasn't absolutely insufferable over it? Certainly not anyone on this chart. (Kira is both vocally critical of the reiatsu color personality system and incandescently angry that he doesn't have green reiatsu)

#bleach worldbuilding #the spelling on the chart is not my usual b/c i copied it from the wiki and didn't feel like changing everything #i did not go to the trouble of looking up a number of characters who were Notably Missing from this chart #any after-the-fact additions will hopefully just add to the humor value #will i find some way to work this into a fanfic someday? i sure hope so!#this is just a dumb thing i made up if you disagree with it feel free to make your own

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suffersinfandom · 6 months

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A Summary of The OFMD Meta (Part II)

This is part two of an incomplete summary of A Meta-Discussion Of The Subtext by meratrishoslee (Mera) on AO3 (linked to, as the author requests). I’m trying to stay impartial and keep all of the important bits in.

This chunk includes chapters nine through fourteen, which is mostly an analysis of the entire show (stopping at the end of S2E7 because the chapters on the finale are massive, lol). The overarching thesis of this bit is this: “Ed’s the face, head/mind and body of Blackbeard, Izzy is Blackbeard’s heart/soul -- as well as the heart of the show itself.”

Other posts Part I

Chapter 9: Either Madness or Brilliance

This chapter is a screenshot-heavy analysis of OFMD season one “as seen through the lens of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl,’ with specific emphasis on what this means for Izzy Hands and his character arc.”

Izzy is compared most directly to Captain Jack Sparrow. “He often tells the truth but no one listens or believes him, because at first he seems more than a bit ridiculous. [...] But he still saves people anyway, even people he doesn’t know; that’s part of how we know he’s a good guy deep down even when he seems like a bad guy at times.” He is “the Betrayed Pirate, because, as we find out later, his crew betrayed him because they wanted something gold and shiny more than they wanted him.”

Ed is primarily compared to both Will Turner “the Tragic Young Man”) and Captain Barbossa (“the Bearded Pirate”). Stede is, of course, Elizabeth Swan (“the fancy protagonist”).

“...While our Tragic Young Man does have some (considers, then shrugs) chemistry with our fancy protagonist… the drift compatibility he has with the Betrayed Pirate is just off the charts. Sometimes they act like two parts of the same body... and the Tragic Young Man does have a habit on several occasions of throwing himself between a physical threat and a person he cares about.”

Chapter 10: The Hidden Heart

“Ed’s the face, head/mind and body of Blackbeard, Izzy is Blackbeard’s heart/soul. How do we know? Because when Izzy moves, the plot moves. When Izzy leaves, the plot stagnates or outright stalls dead. And Edward makes a fair amount of effort to keep track of Izzy, both to keep him safe and under Edward’s control.”

The chapter is an episode-by-episode walkthrough of season one with proof of Izzy-as-the-heart. Basically: everything is horny, Izzy is emotion-driven (although he hides it well, as one must when living a life filled with so much violence and abuse), and OFMD is Izzy (the heart) becoming more emotionally intelligent.

At the end of S1E4: “Ed’s just proven he doesn’t need Izzy – either to participate in his plans, or to love him. He could have let him go, right? He had Stede now. The mind has lied to its heart, convinced it to stay and keep loving and giving all this while – because it’s required to pump the blood of the myth called Blackbeard, and move the plot of the show called Our Flag Means Death.”

Ed opens his jacket for Stede (in a way he never does around Izzy) and tells him to stab him. Izzy thinks that Ed is betraying him by having sex with Stede (or by having subtextual sex with Stede). He’s wounded and angry, and that kickstarts the rest of the season.

“Why can’t/don’t Izzy and Edward fuck, textually or subtextually? Why is all the tension and longing so one sided – and if Edward’s so bothered/disgusted by Izzy’s longing for him (as some other meta writers out there on the internet have attempted to suggest with varying degrees of success), why does he permit the relationship to continue at all -- and even work to keep Izzy near him despite his attempts to leave? Well, that’s coming up in a later meta. (Hint: it's HIV/AIDS related bed death.) But it’s certainly part of the unnatural, forceful separation between the head and the heart.”

In S1E6: As Blackbeard’s heart, Izzy can’t actually kill Stede in the duel. “But he’s not admitting that defeat to himself yet so he has to go through the entire pantomime of the fight.”

“On one level, the textual level, Izzy’s trying to drive Stede from the ship and out of Edward’s life. On another subtextual level, however: the heart’s moving through the return advances of the mutual seduction way faster than the head is ready to do.”

Izzy is banished from the boat. “...If Edward had just had the capability to be honest with Izzy from the very start, they might have avoided most of the tragedy. Because really? An overwhelming amount of the things Izzy says aloud to Edward can be subtextually read as: I am trying to get you dicked down how you need to be, even if I’m not the one who can do it for or to you.”

We don’t move the plot along much in S1E7. Izzy’s gone, and the story can’t progress without him.

In S1E8, Calico Jack “is the thrown dagger that strikes the most true, and goes the farthest toward separating Ed and Stede. Forward momentum, healing, and growth all come to a dead stop here as Calico Jack does emotional manipulation on a level that Izzy could only aspire to at this stage in his evolution.” Izzy sends Jack as “a poisoned love letter” doing what it can to keep Ed safe.

On Ed and Stede’s kiss: “It’s an adolescent kiss, chaste and closed-mouthed and awkward – it’s not an erotic kiss in the slightest. Whereas everything (yearning glances, poses, swordplay, etc) with Izzy is frankly erotic as fuck and I don’t think we can blame that just on Con being Con…”

After his return to the ship, Ed doesn’t want to be Blackbeard anymore. Izzy is terrified, and he “[channels] all the fear into anger to use as a weapon to bring the mind back into compliance for the sake of their shared survival.” Getting Ed back to Blackbeard is a matter of keeping both of them AND the crew alive.

Ed doesn’t have his bare hands on Izzy when he’s choking him, but “Izzy does place his bare left hand onto Edward’s bare right as he’s being choked which, if I’m correct about the HIV/AIDS coding for him (and I’m confident in the evidence I’ll bring in the eventual extended meta conversation about it) is its own understated threat in return: what’s in me could kill you, too.”

“I’ll conclude for the moment with this: after so many rewatchings of the show, Edward flinging himself backward like a scalded cat feels excessive. It’s disgust at the mingled lust and joy and affection on Izzy’s face in the moment – and it’s so much more than that.”

More meta on Ed’s attitude towards Izzy in this scene:

Ed shifts back and forth on his feet, stepping in the tiniest little amount again. [...] why would Edward do that if he's actually afraid of Izzy? Taika's a good enough actor to have chosen to flinch away instead, to reinforce the dialogue and textual energy of the scene. When the body language doesn't match the dialogue, it's a sign that the subtext is increasingly relevant. But Taika doesn't flinch away at all during the rest of this scene. None of his body language serves up ‘terror’ to me -- all of it, when viewed with the knowledge of S2 and the lens of Izzy as HIV/AIDS-coded, serves up grief and loss.

Look at Edward's face. Look at the tears rising up in his own eyes. It’s not because precious little meow meow princess sweet as a peach Ed Teach is actually scared of Izzy, his own first mate for who knows how many years. We've seen Izzy angry at Ed in scenes before and if anything, Ed's been perplexed or even amused by it.

(Total sidenote: there’s a difference between letting Edward get to be soft and gentle and vulnerable and display a range of emotions and enjoy fine things and feel tenderness and love… and completely woobifying/infantilizing a fully adult character capable of making his own choices, who happens to also be a man of color. Because frankly that second option comes across as more than a little gross to me. I hope that my writing always knows the difference and stays on the correct side, because I work to try to make sure that doesn’t happen.)

Continuing on: “We see Izzy as his “gaze travels all over Edward's face in a last caress of longing, back and forth between his lips and eyes at that close distance. Then Izzy leaves the scene immediately, before anything else can happen. Even the things he might want – especially the things he wants. Because he can’t ever let them happen, in order to keep Edward safe.”

The crew begins to chant (“it sounds almost like a heartbeat”). Ed reverting to the Kraken persona “is due to not one but two open romantic griefs and losses in close proximity,” and “the mind of Blackbeard moves on to protect itself, as it always has. Not from some fear of the crew now as I’ve seen in various lukewarm takes online… but from the possibility of ever being vulnerable again.”

Ed throws Lucius overboard. “Next he goes to hobble the dark heart, to maim and lame it, to keep it obedient and subservient again through terror and pain. He can’t kill or discard it entirely, because its emotions and bloodflow powers both Blackbeard himself and the plot of OFMD… but he can make it pay for its transgressions against him. And he certainly does… gloved in leather to protect himself from Izzy’s blood and flesh, in a scene that is overflowing with brutality couched in sexual framing.”

Jim (the killer) and Frenchie (the mender) are both mirrors of Izzy in some way.

Chapter 11: The Sacred Heart (Part 1)

“...In OFMD Season 2, Blackbeard’s heart is undergoing incredible growth and maturity through the application of terror and agonizing adversity – and by the end of it is bared and shining as the Sacred Heart of the show.”

When Izzy is the “hidden heart” in season one, he hides his pain (and a lot of people miss that said pain exists at all). “Only Izzy’s rage and jealousy is in the text; some emotional intelligence and/or sufficient media literacy to permit one to parse the show’s subtext on some level is required to understand the rest of his motivations. The lion’s share of this heart’s love that we can understand is on laser-beam narrow focus: Edward Teach, and the two-part entity of Blackbeard that this pair creates between them.”

In season two, “the Sacred Heart’s pain and fear are centered from nearly the first moment we see him in private; they overflow his previously immaculate control and are expressed almost entirely against his will. But because he’s expressing his emotions and more and more overtly protecting/shielding the crew from Blackbeard’s increasingly unhinged mind as well as all other lesser threats, his love for the crew is more obvious moment by moment also.”

Additionally, “Izzy’s rampant lust from the first season is dampened as well due to his wounds (loss of a foot/leg is often intended as symbolic loss of the genitals) so his expressions of affection to the crew are almost entirely platonic/agape love [...]. The final result is an opening of Blackbeard’s heart to the entire crew, where it accepts them all and is accepted by them in return.”

In Stede’s dream, Stede gives Izzy “a non-consensual stabbing.” He and Ed are reunited, but nothing too amorous can happen because “if the heart of the story is dead, there can be no blood pumping, no erections, and the head/mind itself will eventually die also. The bottom line is there’ll be no sexy stuff happening without it.”

In the wedding party fight, Izzy is shown placing himself between Jim and Frenchie and Ed -- protecting them from Ed. Izzy’s entire purpose without Blackbeard is protecting the crew.

Izzy is upset when Ed threatens to fire Izzy: “Izzy knows that his current position to Edward is one of scapegoat and punching bag. He’s blamed for anything that goes wrong, whether or not it’s truly in his power to prevent or fix it – and the price for every failure is another body part removed and most likely force-fed to him. If he’s not there to take that abuse… someone else will just have to take it instead.” Again, he’s protecting the crew.

Jim tells Izzy that his relationship with Ed is toxic, “and they’re right on a textual level (he’s abusing you) as well as a subtextual level: it’s often not healthy for two people to remain bound so closely into one entity (a two-part creature known as Blackbeard) but especially when one side of it has become entirely toxic and is regularly maiming the other.”

When the crew comfort Izzy, no one touches his bare skin.

Izzy returns to Ed, delivers the crew’s response, and asks Ed what Izzy is to him. “Almost every single line Izzy has in Season 2 is overflowing with subtext and this one is no different.The surface meaning is: what are we? What is our relationship? What do you truly want from me? The subtextual meaning is: have you forgotten I'm Blackbeard's heart? Have you forgotten that to kill me is to kill yourself? Don’t you understand that you do to me what you don’t have the courage to do to yourself: you kill me one inch at a time? You’re trying to make me stop loving you [...] and I can’t, because it’s a heart’s purpose to love.”

Izzy is afflicted with love. He is “quiet and sincere and utterly chaste,” until accidentally invoking Stede. Ed storms above deck and Izzy tries to rein him in.

Before he mentions Stede, Izzy is certain he’s going to die for speaking the truth, “because Blackbeard’s heart has always been the first to admit out loud what Blackbeard is feeling, long before his head will actually be brave enough to speak it.”

With Izzy out of commission, Frenchie is Ed’s next “victim.”

Jim gives Izzy one of his few skin-to-skin touches, and it’s to silence him when he’s screaming at them to kill him. Very tragic. It’s also Jim who tells Archie that Izzy is “their dick” (or their heart, since a functional heart is required for a functional dick).

Importantly, “Jim’s also an Izzy mirror, may I remind you: Jim initially didn’t want to truly join the crew either, and had something of a minor battle to be accepted for who they were.”

Ed discovers Izzy: “He strolls in slowly, standing over an unconscious and completely vulnerable Izzy Hands – and gazes down at him for a moment before the scene ends. OOooh that had my heart pounding in terror and fury on first watch!”

When Ed talks to Izzy, he’s looking directly at him (as he so rarely does). He tells Izzy that he dreamed he killed him “(When we talk about death, it’s sex. When we talk about sex, it’s death)”. Ed gives Izzy the gun.

“Parse Izzy’s expression here: that’s longing. That’s a man on his death bed looking at the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen in his life, that he thought he’d never get see again. So much so that, just before the shot cuts away, his eyes light up and he begins to smile sweetly. What is Izzy seeing? [...] Full on direct eye-contact with a fuck-me stare and the muzzle of the pistol hovering at lip level.”

In short, it’s a very horny scene.

“If Izzy’s not willing to let him die by giving a subtextual blowjob… Ed’s going to offer something else. He’s gonna let Izzy take him from behind.” But Izzy ultimately refuses after struggling with the power he has been granted over Ed.

Izzy tells Ed that he’s tired of cleaning up after him. “Side-note: I’ve seen some lukewarm takes in various spots on the internet that mean old Izzy was overstating his labor on Ed’s behalf, and I just want to remind everyone that at this point we have seen precious doe-eyed meow meow princess Edward only make even the most token of efforts to clean up his own mess exactly twice…”

Ed leaves Izzy with the pistol and the understanding that Izzy (the heart) will kill himself. Ed hears the gun fire and, thinking his heart is dead, he can admit the truth: that he loved Izzy the best he could. “Body language on the second half of that statement [best I could] suggests to me he knows he’s lying or minimizing, although I can’t pinpoint enough of the ‘why’ consciously to screencap it. He tosses it off as if it doesn’t matter, and that I can understand – in this moment, he’s only lying to himself.”

On to Ed’s final suicide attempt. Why does he tell Jim and Archie to fight to the death if he plans on killing them all anyway? “I think he is impelled to, by his current personal fixation. I think right now the mind of Blackbeard can’t see love without obsessing about destroying it. He carved off bits of his own loving heart one chunk at a time, because of it. Now that he’s been shown Jim and Archie have developing feelings for each other on his ship of death, he has to take the moment to destroy them first… Even when it gives his heart the chance to drag itself out of the pit of the grave and finish its sacrifice to stop him.”

Izzy returns during the reprise of Run From Me, “specifically the soaring siren vocals and bolero heartbeat pulse of its bridge and outro: the loyal heart is still pounding, still pumping blood to the rest of Blackbeard and the plot.”

The crew take Ed down “and Izzy, knowing what must be done to save the crew, making this final personal sacrifice on their behalf, stands by and lets them kill Blackbeard’s brain.”

Stede finds and boards the Revenge to find the crew eating a dead bird and “better than they had been under Ed’s reign of terror, but not anything close to their best.”

And then soup. “Now on the deck of the Red Flag, Izzy’s crew gets to have their soup. Notably, neither Izzy nor Lucius have any soup – yet everyone else did, even eventually Ed while down in the gravy basket, served up to him by his own former captain. So, subtextually, the bright heart and the dark heart of the show have not allowed themselves to be fed and warmed and comforted.”

When Stede starts to ask questions, Izzy responds with hostility in a bid to get Stede to focus his ire on him, once again protecting the crew.

Stede asks who stabbed up his portrait and Izzy lies. Why? Because “the tender heart protects the head too, even though it’s currently beyond being hurt. Izzy’s protecting Edward’s legacy and the memories he leaves behind in Stede: this is Izzy as Ed’s scapegoat/Sin Eater, taking Edward’s sins on his own back to leave Ed utterly blameless in Stede’s mind as much as possible.”

Izzy continues to antagonize Stede to keep Stede focused on him. He’s eventually reduced to honesty and tells Stede that Ed tortured the crew (“the pain and suffering of the crew is the highest crime in Izzy’s mind”).

With the “doggy heaven” line, Stede reveals how close he was to Ed, and “that Stede heard every bit of this betrayal and forgave it, and continued on with love for Edward – to the point of dueling Izzy, to the point of fighting to stay with him despite Calico Jack’s manipulations, and everything that arrived afterward.” He realizes Stede might love Ed as much as Izzy does.

Izzy said he could never do that. “Con chooses to shut his eyes during this terribly tender, utterly vulnerable admission. Izzy can’t bring himself look at Stede, even merely the side of Stede’s face that is currently presented most toward him, while he bares so much of his soul.”

Why does he lie? Izzy won’t betray the crew by confessing, and he wants to buy them time to get away from Zheng Yi Sao. “There’s a third possible purpose: that it’s soothing to Stede. It’s a sweet little lie, and it lets him have a little hope for a while. In fact, if Izzy can be clever and discreet while dealing with Edward’s burial, Stede might get to spend the rest of his life chasing the fantasy that Ed’s still out there somewhere… and it’s possible to live your whole life loving a dream you will never touch again.”

When the crew is imprisoned after Ed’s body is discovered, Frenchie sits on Izzy’s left (the side of the hand with no glove). “In a more general way, Izzy’s positioned himself to block the cell door. Anything that tries to come through it will have to come through him first. Additionally, he’s switched the side his crutch is on; it’s not at his left hand to be used to support himself but at his right hand to be a bludgeoning weapon.”

Stede comes down and Izzy immediately speaks, “establishing himself as the target of blame.” Izzy insists that he is the one who’s responsible for Ed’s death, and he’s willing to be Stede’s scapegoat as well.

“And last… on some intrinsic level, Izzy Hands feels like all of this horror and pain is exactly what he deserves, from start to finish – the lack of love and affectionate touch, the physical and pseudosexual abuse, the agony on all levels of existence, even a final ignominious death itself as a traitor: give me your worst.”

Stede leaves. “We get a shot of Izzy shaking his head just the tiniest amount, and tears standing unshed in his eyes. He still doesn’t have Bonnet engaging how Izzy thinks he’s should – or rather, has been primed by months of enduring abuse to expect. Without a focus to Stede’s grief and anger firmly on himself, how can Izzy ensure he can adequately protect the rest of his family?”

“To stare deeply into Izzy’s gloriously beautiful pyrrhic self-sacrifice is to be able to look fully and directly at my own, reflected.”

After the escape attempt, Stede denies Izzy any gratitude for his apology.

Chapter 12: The Sacred Heart (Part 2)

Izzy as heart continues and the analysis moves on S2E4. He is isolated and drinking, undoubtedly trying to numb the agonizing pain from his recently-amputated leg, ill-fitting prosthetic, and all of the additional bodily pain that would create. Mera suggests that, “if [they’re] right about Izzy being HIV/AIDS coded, [...] there’s every possibility that the extensive stress on his body from everything he’s endured lately (culminating in an amputated limb and a suicide attempt that at least rattled his cranium) has him experiencing an overall nerve pain called neuropathy.”

We can also infer that Izzy has “a lot of complex emotions about Edward’s return, no matter how necessary it is to the shared being of Blackbeard. If love could bring him back from the dead… why didn’t Izzy’s love manage it? Now that he’s returned from the dead… will the horrors resume? Stede and Edward have each other again… and Izzy’s on the outside once more, but now permanently damaged. Who would want him now?”

Stede comes by and does his best to be kind to Izzy, and “Izzy – suffering, isolated, terrified for a number of reasons once more, and drunk as a skunk… is asked to provide the deadlock-breaking vote on whether or not Ed should be banished.”

Izzy remains physically closed off to Stede. He’s vulnerable, and he associates captains with pain. When Stede says, “You’ve already murdered him once, seems like a pretty good payback,” Izzy visibly flinches. He’s glad that the blame is still entirely on him, but he’s still hurt. Izzy says that the rotten leg must come off, because:

Everything for Izzy right now is related to his maiming… and Edward’s toxicity was the rot that was eating the crew before Stede returned.

If Ed can be removed from the ship, a few of the worst fears in Izzy’s life will be remedied: Stede most likely won’t hurt the crew the way Edward did; Stede most likely won’t hurt Izzy the way Edward did; Edward won’t be there to hurt the crew or Izzy; and, last but not least, Izzy won’t have to watch Stede and Edward fall in love all over again – this time as a changed, maimed, damaged, and (in his own mind, at least) defective man who is now unable to leave under his own power…

Izzy is offscreen for a bit, but it’s important to note that Lucius gets hit in the head with a sandwich, much like Izzy did in season one.

“The very first time we see Izzy after Edward’s banishment… and now it’s HIS vest that’s fully undone, his collar that’s unbuttoned, and his cravat and ring loosened from its usual high, tight position on his throat. Both of these men have been armoring against each other.”

Izzy saws the legs off of the headless unicorn. “Hurting people often hurt other people… and yet, our Sacred Heart has only taken out his pain on the unfeeling, inanimate object of the figurehead.” Truly a selfless hero. “Again, everything right now is reflecting back in Izzy’s mind to his own maiming: a figurehead is supposed to protect the crew. It failed to protect the crew, therefore it didn’t do its job. The price of not doing one’s job is the loss of limbs.”

Izzy’s prosthetic fails and the rest of the crew watch him with “horror and concern,” and “they move as one unit at last, immediately to try to surround Izzy and help him back up,” but he resists and crawls away. “This is disturbing, and it’s meant to be. This is heart-wrenching, and it’s meant to be. It’s the lowest point of the Sacred Heart – to be alone in all it suffers – and the blatant evidence of that pain and sacrifice is what draws the crew together in union again.”

In the next Izzy scene, he’s drinking alone in his bed. “Now that the unicorn figurehead shares his maiming and has been ‘punished’ for not doing its job, there’s only one entity left on board that he can still permit himself to harm, to vent the poison and rot festering inside his soul.” That person? Izzy’s reflection.

“While Edward took his own pain out on anything that’d hold still long enough (mostly Izzy)… the karmic buck stops with Izzy Hands. He knows he’s wounded and toxic; he’s isolating to keep that toxicity from harming his family. [...] Izzy has seen the process of other people distributing their own damage to innocent new victims, just passing it on down the line; he has experienced it directly. He has decided he will have none of it himself. Izzy is resolved that it ends with him.”

The crew leave their gift at Izzy’s door and the attached note makes him weep. “His sobs are powerful enough that they continue to shake his whole body even as he draws himself upright again.” He calls them “cocksuckers, but “this response is intended to be subtextually read as a positive thing, indicating how touched Izzy truly is by the gesture.”

In Izzy’s next scene, he’s at the foredeck alone with his new leg. He pulls out the note and “the soundtrack sings: this world isn’t big enough to keep me away from you… from you… The song is right on two levels; even now, Blackbeard’s mind is returning to Blackbeard’s heart, courtesy of Stede… and Izzy will not ever be parted from the love of the crew.” Izzy allows himself a smile and a seagull (Buttons) goes by.

Buttons is a mirror to both Ed and Izzy. He’s weird, he has long hair, Ed wears his birdshit-covered jacket, the full moon is important to him, he’s a skilled first mate, “his mouth can be pretty poisonous, and his bites will leave permanent wounds,” and he changes a lot during the show. “Bottom line: if Ed and Izzy are two bodies that comprise one entity (Blackbeard)… Then Buttons is two entities (the Moon and the Sea)... that are united to some extent in one body.”

The Moon and the Sea change in regular and predictable ways; the Moon affects the Sea (tides), but the Sea doesn’t have the same power over the Moon. “The Sea is also the original source of all life here on Earth. The Moon is bright and remote and beautiful and sterile. It has a light side that’s always turned toward Earth due to its rotation and revolution matching up, and a dark side that we don’t often get to see (without some serious effort).” The Sea is barely explored (subtext) and the Moon is known (text).

Before Buttons turns into a bird, he tells Ed, To love the sea as she must be loved… requires change. “To love Izzy in the way that Izzy must be loved… Edward will also have to change. He’s been given his directive. We don’t see it completed during Season 2, nor will I speculate how this will manifest in Season 3. What I will say is that this show has been and remains fantastic about showing the many different and equally valid forms that love can take, and I am excited for anything that results in Izzy Hands being truly loved.”

The next episode opens on Ed’s apology. His victims are there, and Izzy? “He is off to the side and not having to deal with Edward face-on. His bare and deadly left hand is toward the captains, with its threat that continues subtextually but has never yet textually been explained.” He’s ready to defend the crew from Ed if needed.

Ed delivers his “weasel-word non-apology.” It’s no good, but “the queer writers room as well as Taika himself with his specific cultural heritage are absolutely aware of how this comes off – superficial, insincere, and absolutely infuriating – and it’s intended to come off that way. It’s fucky on purpose, and not ‘bAd wRiTiNg.’”

Izzy seems calm, but he’s clearly not buying Ed’s apology. The blocking puts Olu in a protective position in front of Izzy, and “Frenchie and Lucius [are] getting to carry a lot of Izzy’s emotions here: Frenchie [by] being entirely unconvinced/checked out and Lucius [by] being overtly acrimonious by giving the finger.”

Lucius asks Izzy if he’s fine with it (the apology); this is the first time anyone has ever asked Izzy how he feels about something. There’s some ridiculous sexual tension and Izzy, “relaxed, open and almost entirely at ease,” graces Lucius with a nickname. “In the universe of OFMD this [the cigarette thing] is definitely an oral exchange. It’s at the very least a kiss by proxy but an argument could even be made that it's even something subtextually as significant as a blowjob…”

In the next Izzy scene, he’s shirtless and training with Stede’s good candles. His breathing is labored. Why? “Previous exertion, dealing with residual pain from his new and improved prosthetic, psyching himself up and/or oxygenating his blood for the strike he’s about to make, possibly a level of arousal from the pseudosexual nature of ‘swordplay’ in this universe – subtextually, he’s half-undressed and dancing with his own ‘saber’ in the dark with some candles around for some nice ambiance…”

A behind-the-scenes still shows Izzy’s back covered in scars. (“A few people elsewhere on the internets have mentioned how Izzy’s back looks like that… and yet Edward’s back is clean enough for a full back-tat and… I’ve got feelings about that also. Gotta wonder how that happened. Gotta wonder why.”) Mera says it’s a subtextual allusion to Jesus -- Jesus who was flogged, as opposed to Judas, who was hanged.

Stede enters and cleverly addresses Ed as “Blackbeard,” in keeping with Izzy’s preferences. Stede tells Izzy that Ed claims Izzy taught him everything he knows, which Mera is “about 75-80% sure” is a lie. Stede is trying to be encouraging and provide positive feedback.

We move on to the training montage. “Izzy’s sardonic and still a bit brutal while attempting to teach fighting, rope-swinging, and target shooting… but never is he directly insulting or says anything like ‘you’ll never get it.’ He’s letting pain be a teacher to Stede also: don’t stop and ask questions, just hit. When you try to swing on a rope the wrong way, it’ll burn your hands. And when Stede’s missed shot brings a sail down, there’s no screaming insults, no degradation. Izzy’s being remarkably patient here.”

The training turns into discussion, with “Blackbeard’s Sacred Heart really starting to open up to Stede, both textually and subtextually: it’s quite a romantic heart, underneath all the leather and scars. The will to be contrary about this whole weird tangled emotional mess is starting to subside.”

The crew lines up at the rail to inspect the ship they’ve sighted. The blocking is, as ever, important; Izzy stays “as close as possible to the least experienced member of the raid: Stede Bonnet.” He “also put himself between Frenchie and whatever might be aboard waiting to meet them.”

Lucius approaches Izzy while he’s whittling on the deck. Throughout the conversation, “Izzy’s so gentle in tone and expression, as calm as a bodhisattva; he never looks away from Lucius during any difficult moment. There's no flinch to tell us that he's still in any emotional pain.”

Izzy claims that a shark took his leg; Ed has a shark tattoo on one arm. He smiles and says, “Served me right, too.” “This is Izzy again as Edward’s Sin Eater: he can put that pain and blame somewhere else, somewhere that it won’t weigh on Ed’s soul, and he does. It’s in the carving. (Its also a silent expression of his pain to match the prophecy referenced during the same relative timing beat/scene in The Last Temptation: ‘He has borne our faults; he was wounded for our transgressions -- yet he opened not his mouth.’)”

Izzy gives Lucius the shark he has been carving. “Izzy put his pain and trauma into the chunk of wood and worked at it for the entire duration of the episode when, for comparison, we don’t see Black Pete in S1 spend any time carving Lucius’s new finger. We’re given the visual textual signs that Izzy’s putting a lot of care and effort into this creation.”

During the red suit fiasco, Izzy is seen hanging out in Stede’s quarters. He’s relaxed and casual; he’s at ease with Stede.

Stede gathers the crew to put an end to the red suit situation. Izzy is behind, watching; “he feels absolutely no need whatsoever to be close to the front to interpose his body between the captain and the crew protectively. He knows that Stede won’t be violent with them at all.” Izzy is also in Stede’s eyeline so he can offer guidance.

Chapter 13: The Sacred Heart (Part 3)

The next episode is Calypso’s Birthday. “This episode has been called Izzy's swan song, and respectfully I'd like to disagree. This is when we see the Sacred Heart of OFMD most triumphant, most open, most freed, and most overtly/directly loving and loved in return.”

Ed is seen scanning the horizon and thinking about all of the awful things he’s done, beginning with his father’s death. (“Wow. Izzy shows up in there a lot. Like, disproportionately much.”) Izzy approaches, bottle in hand, immaculately dressed and styled but clearly a little drunk. Ed keeps his back to Izzy. “I think he’s staying turned away partially out of shame but also in an attempt to help Izzy feel safer during this interaction.”

Izzy absolutely didn’t mistake Ed for Roach; he’s not that drunk. He’s holding the bottle in his gloved right hand with his left closer to Ed. This is important because “as much as possible Izzy will keep his right side toward whoever he’s speaking with: it’s safer for them and also lets him access his sword easiest. So [...] right now Izzy’s walked up and chosen where to stand for this interaction: with his death-marked left hand toward Edward, empty of the bottle he’s carrying and still dangerous.” Ed trusts Izzy not to kill him; Izzy is still uneasy.

A new angle. Ed and Izzy, “the estranged partners,” are closer than they’ve been in five episodes. When Izzy calls Ed a “mopey twat,” his tone holds “mild animosity.” This is the closest he’s gotten to provoking Ed since season one.

Ed takes the bottle from Izzy (with his ungloved right hand) and drinks. Izzy is out of frame. “...For me, subtextually, it feels as if that removal of the conversational partner is intended to entirely visually replace Izzy Hands with his proxy. He’s no longer a person, for the duration of these frames: he’s the bottle itself, held in Edward’s bare grip.” It’s significant that Ed’s lips touch a place Izzy’s just were without disgust or hesitation. It’s sensual: “Ed’s taken a kiss for himself from Izzy’s bottle – and Izzy, his eyes shining with tears, fully knows it.”

Ed is yearning. Izzy is yearning, but “then does what he does with all big emotions: covers them up and vents them safely with an expletive. [...] But he carries Edward’s return kiss to his own mouth nonetheless: love you, too.” “Why is Edward willing to do something (trade saliva, even by proxy) with Izzy that Lucius reacted so strongly and negatively about, less than a full episode ago?” There was a point where we didn’t really know how HIV/AIDS spread. “Edward knows the rules about Izzy’s disease/curse. Edward knows how to stay safe; they’ve gone however long this separation has lasted without Ed ever catching it or dying from it.”

We next see Izzy when he approaches Wee John, applying makeup for his Calypso look. Izzy gives the makeup setup a “hungry,” longing look.

Izzy sings at the party. When it starts he’s not entirely at ease, as evidenced by “the stiff body language and uncomfortable rigor of Izzy’s arms out from his sides, the shy and downcast gaze trying not to look at anyone just in case someone’s laughing at him.” His look included red, gold, and wavy lines, all evoking Sacred Heart imagery.

“When he finally looks up, Izzy glances over at Edward, who does not look at all surprised to hear Izzy’s marvelous voice – and, if you want to hurt yourself today as some of us sometimes do, you can wonder how many years it's been since Edward heard it last.”

Izzy snuggles up to Wee John at the party. “Izzy’s got his right gloved hand under his left palm; he’s pressing both hands into John’s wrist but the glove’s between the naked left hand and John’s skin, keeping them separate. I think the depth of shadow under his fingers indicates they’re not making contact either.”

At the song’s climax, Izzy is off-centered in frame. Why, Mera asks, “would you put one of your three main characters so fucking off-center?” Look for the subtext. “We see Izzy’s deadly, death-marked ungloved left hand leave the shot early on… and stays out as he holds the rest of the note, as if it doesn’t belong in the same visual realm as the rest of Izzy's entire body and the concept of ‘love’. As of these last few paragraphs, I’m no longer questioning myself on the concept that Izzy's HIV-coding was completely intentional. I know for sure I’m crazy… but now I'm also 100% certain I’m not wrong.”

A cannon goes off. There’s been meta written about how “Ed always jumps in front of Stede during physical threats and Stede always destroys people who hurt Edward emotionally, which reminded me that Izzy has always been the third and quieter option: ‘figure out where the threat's going to be, put my body between it and the people I love, and always be ready to kill it -- no matter who or what the threat is.’”

After Lowe is dealt with, we see the whole crew, with “the Sacred Heart front and center, right hand toward his captains, death-marked left hand toward the threat [Ed], Frenchie and (further back) Lucius tucked safely behind him.” This pose is also very Last Supper.

Izzy sings a reprise in French. “He’s singing to the people he loves in French, which for cinema’s purposes is the language of love. I know that we have the Doylist reason for two versions of this song because Con was originally concerned he wouldn’t be able to learn the French version well enough to do it justice… but I also think it added something from the Watsonian side: this is a deeper expression of the love he displayed before.”

Elsewhere, “with his heart returned, emotionally reunited with him, and vigorously expressing the love inside it at last… Blackbeard’s head finally finds the rest of its two-part body willing and able to accommodate his new lover.” Stede and Ed kiss directly -- a mirror of Ed’s indirect kiss with Izzy earlier in the episode.

“...It’s Izzy and his singing that takes us through the credits and claims the episode almost entirely for the Sacred Heart – and at the end his family joins in with him, raucous but affectionate and wholly good-natured. Then after they’ve cheered and applauded, midway through the credits [...] the crew chants “One more song! One more song!” Izzy cheerfully answers “I’ve got one more song!” to general acclaim. … But we haven’t yet heard it during Season 2. Food for thought.”

Chapter 14: The Sacred Heart (Part 4)

“In this episode [S2E7], we will get to see Izzy as the show's Sacred Heart evince a personal yet non-sexual love to both of the show's other main characters, answering each of their needs. We also do get to see one of Izzy's flaws repeatedly reinforced: that he tends to project his emotions, self-expectations, and personal traits on other people, for better or for ill. This serves to try to prepare us for his deepest example of projection in the final episode... that is also his last act of love to Edward.”

Ed sends his Blackbeard getup to the bottom of the sea, weighed down by a cannonball (the second time a cannonball has been used to kill Blackbeard).

Back in the captain’s cabin, Izzy throws back the curtain to expose Stede and Ed. (Once again, someone says “Jesus” in response to Izzy doing something.) Izzy isn’t bitter, he’s merely reporting to his captain. He acknowledges Ed for the first time with his “well and truly docked” line. Izzy leaves.

“Couple of notes here. While yes, Izzy’s just needled both these men with his observation of their intimacy – it’s also some of the most good-natured jealousy I’ve seen him display [...]. There was no rage in his presentation as we’ve watched him evince before, not even repressed down so tightly that he would otherwise vibrate with it. But also… I think this is another of Edward’s fuckboi moments, being a bit shitty about his ex/estranged partner in an attempt to ingratiate himself more with his new one. (And it puts my hackles up that Ed treats Izzy's inability to have safe intimacy so cavalierly, but what else is new?)”

In his next scene, Izzy approaches Ed as he’s observing the fishermen. “Izzy’s returned to standing with his gloved right hand toward Edward; his bare left hand is angled to be on his sword hilt just below frame. The blocking and his posture says he’s feeling safe once more, and has forgiven Edward as much as he could be expected to.”

Izzy’s expression is somber when Ed says he feels “fucking great” about putting Blackbeard to rest. Ed fully meets Izzy’s eyes, and Izzy smiles. “This is the Sacred Heart giving such an intimate, incredible gift: loving in a way that can also let go. [...] Izzy at this time, his emotional development completed at last, can truly love Edward no matter what they are or become to each other – without requirements or demands.”

Ed pulls away and Izzy’s expression settles into grief. “The union of ‘Blackbeard’ will, Izzy thinks, dissolve and fade away. And they’ll have to find a new, healthier way to relate to each other – or maybe even leave each other completely behind, once and for all.”

Ed and Stede reunite and it quickly turn to fighting. “Astoundingly quickly, for someone who got such good dicking down just last night and was feeling strongly enough about it this morning to throw away his old life in favor of it. Or at least… he appeared to throw it away. Textually, he threw it away. And Blackbeard’s Sacred Heart, in an act of loving sacrifice, told him to listen to his feelings – no matter where they might lead.” But with Ed “disconnected from Blackbeard’s (now) more emotionally intelligent heart [...], he has only his own internal immature heart and its adolescent feelings to guide him – and he’s terrified about it.”

Stede doesn’t listen. “I’ll be 100% that bitch right here: Izzy would be fully listening, fully focused and engaged. Both of these men spin up too far in their own heads; they’ve never had to ignore their first adrenaline-soaked knee-jerk reflexive thoughts in order to coherently receive and respond to what someone else is saying/doing in an emotionally challenging moment.” Ed and Stede unconsciously use all kinds of “underhanded psychological tricks” on each other during the argument.

Izzy and Stede talk (mirroring Izzy’s talk with Ed earlier), but only after Izzy uses his own formidable (not related to Blackbeard at all) power to order Stede’s companions away. Izzy is compassionate. He tells Stede that he balances Ed out, which may be some projection on Izzy’s part.

“The sincerity here is killing me in the best possible way. Where Izzy’s previous conversation with Ed was almost sparse – they know each other so well and they’ve thrown so many words at each other across the years, they’re now down to the only ones that still matter – this one is verbose and more actively encouraging. And even here in this noisy bar that he doesn’t particularly like, he’s leaning forward to be sure he’s heard. His expression is open and caring, without a trace of sarcasm or insincerity. He remains kind on every single textual and subtextual level.” A feat, considering how tired and in pain Izzy must be by now.

Izzy tells Stede he was shot for saying he loves Ed, which is, of course, not true. “On one level it reads to me as a conflation of the idea of Stede Bonnet and love, in the mind of Blackbeard's heart. On another level it was a statement of love for Edward in the moment that was even weightier (and therefore unfortunately had more consequences) than his own love confession: you love him and I know it, so let's talk about it; let's find a healthy way to deal with it together and move forward. That's what got him shot -- the fact that Blackbeard's heart was willing (as it always has been) to admit to love far, far sooner than Blackbeard's mind was.”

Izzy puts his bare hand on Stede’s thigh (it’s fine, Stede is protected by leather pants). Izzy is seated between Stede at the direction from which any possible threat might come, right hand free to draw his sword. It’s not a perfectly defensible position.

Izzy tells Stede to get back to the ship. This is one of “many times Izzy’s been right and just… no one fucking bothered to listen to him or take him seriously.”

Stede confronts Zheng Yi Sao before Izzy can position himself to stop him. Izzy must decide to trust Stede in this; he’s smiling by the time he takes his spot at Stede’s back. Izzy realizes that Zheng Yi Sao is winding Stede up, and he’s not convinced that Stede, even with his remarkable luck, can win against her in a fight.

When Yi Sao drops Steak Knife, Izzy knows it’s best to make a run for it, “and if he wasn’t exhausted and in a fair amount of pain, he perhaps could have interceded in time and tried to broker peace. But Stede’s healthy, non-disabled, and full of vigorous venom; on this occasion he beats Izzy to the punch.”

They’re all kicked outside to brawl. Izzy is positioned between Jim and Lucius, with Frenchie on Lucius’ other side. He’s clearly exhausted and in pain. This is interesting because, “after the end of S1, Con says [Izzy[ is ‘a little bit frightened’ of Jim, and ‘confused as fuck’ about Lucius – and here, in the penultimate episode of S2, he’s being supported and upheld by both of them in an affectionate fashion.”

Zheng Yi Sao’s ships explode. “Then a cannon ball comes arching out of the night, filling the frame headed toward the left -- therefore toward Stede, Zheng, or (less likely) Roach.”

On to the next!

#ofmd #ofmd meta #but like ofmd meta summary #izzy critical #not really but it's for that crowd tbh #i hope someone gets something out of this #even when you're izzy critical #it's good to see what's going on with izzy fans #i like writing meta with a jumping-off point

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