#like why are you distancing the audience from him in this way? its never on purpose either. its just confusing

[michameinmicha]

We always talk about writing quirks like 'the blond man' and switching between names for the same character (presumably to not overuse a name, but often ending up being confusing) as fanfiction things but you do come across it in published books sometimes and its honestly so much weirder there, where you arent expecting it

[eroselless]

───────── wait for me // down to the riptide

summary: even divine favor can't save him from the price of doubt. [5.9k]

[charles leclerc x reader]

Greek!AU, orpheus and eurydice

dttr masterlist

warnings: smut, cumplay, cowgirl, death, description of death, religious/theological references (its a greek mythology story)

note: *throws fic, runs away* hehe, see you guys laterrr, bai :)

Charles had always been told he had been touched by the gods. The first time he’d sat down and brushed his fingers delicately a lyre, the melody flowed so effortlessly that even Apollo’s priests began to whisper among each other, wondering how a mortal could possess such a diving talent, one that could even challenge their god. 

Whenever he played, the air around him would still. Animals gathered and the restlessness of his fellow men would quiet. Kings sought him out for their courts, poets would beg to set their words to his melodies and aristocrats would pay millions for even a minute to hear him.

But he never cared for that, not really. Not until he laid his eyes on you. 

You were beautiful in the way soft things were beautiful: delicate but with a strength that made Charles ache just to look at you. It was as if you carried Aphrodite’s beauty in your smile, the way you seemed to light every room with your presence.You were the kind of woman that was written about, craved and yearned for. 

You were the daughter born of a high-born family, promised to Lord Damian an older man your parents had meticulously chosen for you. Wealthy and proud, his status was rivalled only by his towering ego. Your status paired with your beauty made you untouchable, promised to a man of power and ambition Though you were worlds apart, at every banquet, every court gathering you’d find your eyes lingering on Charles for just a moment too long. He would meet your eyes as he would expertly pluck at the strings of his instrument. Your eyes would be half-lidded, chin resting on your hand as if you were hypothesized. And Charles? He could feel your eyes like the warmth of the sun. It wasn’t something he could ignore, even if he wanted to. 

Your first meeting was almost accidental. You’d find him on a marble bench in the gardens late at night, taking refuge from the ongoing party, playing softly to himself under the light of the moon. Most of the guests were still enjoying the lavish reunion, conjuring the spirit of Dionysus in their wines and dancing.

You watched him momentarily from the shadows, admiring how the light flowed around him, as if the gods were watching him at that very moment. Your silk down brushed the hedge, catching on the little branches as you hesitated. 

“You play beautifully,” you call out, stepping into the moonlight. 

Charles looked up, startled momentarily, fingers faltering on the strings. For a moment, all he could do was stare. Having you so close and all to himself, he gave into the temptation. You were luminous, hair catching the silver glow of the moon only made the red carnation tucked behind your ear stand out more.  For the first time, he truly understood why the poets spoke of mortals shining brighter than stars. 

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice quiet but steady. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.”

“Would you mind if I stayed?” you asked, your voice coming out in a shy whisper. “Just for a little while.”

Charles should’ve said no. He should have packed up his lyre and left, putting distance between himself and the tragedy that was only waiting to happen. But he didn’t. He nodded, returning to a melody he’d never played before, inspired by the way you watched and the way you seemed to glow as he played on. 

Over time, you inched closer, asking him questions about himself long into the night. You sat among the stars, giggling together. He’d even placed his lyre into your hands, instructing you how to play as gently as he could. 

“I don’t think I should be here anymore,” you whisper suddenly. Your voice is low, something he can’t quite recognize dripping from it. He could see your eyes drooping, just as they did whenever he played his lyre. It was a look you saved just for him—a gaze that sent shivers down his spine and, now that you were so close, stirred a deep, undeniable heat within him. You were sitting face to face, now seated in the grass instead of the bench you’d been on at the beginning of the night. 

“Then why are you still?” he murmured back, his voice low, his lips close were enough to brush against your temple. 

“I don’t know,” you say, feeling yourself lean closer to him. 

He meets you half-way, his lips pressing against yours hesitantly. He thinks he can feel your mirrored hesitance, almost waiting for him to pull away. There’s a flutter in his belly that erupts in waves as you tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him ever closer. You’ve risen up on your knees, moving into the space between his outstretched legs. His hands caress your back, bringing your chest to his, your breast firmly pressed up against him. He licks into your mouth to glide his tongue over yours, a silent confession of how long he’s been fantasizing about this moment—since the very first time he laid eyes on you. You carried the subtle sweetness of the wine you’d been sipping all evening, while he tasted of something richer, almost intoxicating—a flavor you knew you could never tire of. His hand slips up your torso, sliding over the hills of your breast before finding home at the base of your neck. It stays there, not squeezing but almost as if to memorize the feeling of your skin under his fingers. 

You settle into his lap now, hips gently beginning to rock against his. As your hands fall down to his chest, you can almost hear Eros whispering in your ear, enticing you to give into the feeling that was burning between the two of you, to slip your hand under his tunic or to bring his hand under yours. 

It’s distant, but you hear your name called from beyond the hedge, the voice oblivious to the predicament you’re in. You agonizingly pull away from Charles, staying silent, hoping they’ll move on, but instead, they call out for you again, louder this time.

You sigh, pressing a light kiss to Charles’s lips again before telling him to meet you after the next banquet. Charles nods, blinking as if he’d been pulled out of a dream. He watches as you flatten your gown before giving him a shy wave and disappearing behind the hedges. 

It wasn’t long before you’d see him again, the excuses flowing like water. You would meet with Charles again under the protection of the night, Nyx watching overhead. You’d sneak away from the feasts just as you did that first night, everyone at court whispering how you’d simply tired of Damian’s company. No one suspected where you went instead—slipping through the darkened halls and shadowed gardens to wherever Charles was.

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆・゚

“Oh how the gods have smiled upon us,” he says one night. He has you in his arms, your gown pooled in your lap. It doesn’t stay there, his hands impatiently pulling the scrunched piece of fabric from your frame. He drags his lips down your neck while his hands are anchored on your hips, shifting them gently on his cock. 

You can only muster a weak hum, quietly agreeing with him. You’re shaking a little, your legs exhausted from the effort you’ve been putting in all night. It is almost overwhelming how deliciously he’s pressed to your walls. His moves have been small and gentle tonight, yet he could feel as your walls would tremble with every little push. Your head lulls back, hands anchored to his shoulders, opening up your chest and he can’t help but smile as he sees your chest heaving. 

He kisses at the flesh of your exposed skin, tongue licking long stripes down to your breasts, eventually pulling a pebbled nipple into his mouth. He relishes at the sound of your voice and how it whines at the feeling of his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. It makes you arch your back slightly, shifting him inside you. 

“Please,” you implore, eyes squeezing shut, begging him to do something, anything to ease the delectable ache he was causing between your legs. Charles sweetly presses his lips against the column of your neck, tilting your face back towards him. “T'es tellement belle comme ça, mon coeur,” he says warmly. No matter how many times he saw you like this, completely bare, he always had a way of turning you into a giggling mess whenever he spoke to you in French. There’s a flutter in your chest that pulls a laugh from your lips that slowly turns into a moan as he pushes you upward before dragging you back down.

He pushes his nose against yours, chasing your lips as he leans back in the bed and pushes up into your. His arm wraps around your waist to hold you steady as he pounds into you. Yesyesyes. You can feel your release nearing. There’s a flash of heat throughout your body as you feel it, a loud groan falling from your lips. Charles keeps pushing his hips, trembling as he pulls out, reaching for his cock. With one stroke, he spills onto you, painting your navel and chest in white. You’re heaving, the sounds of his moans making your center warm up again. 

You slump down to the bed together as he drags his finger through his spend that is pooled on your skin. You eye him, tongue poking out to lick your lips before taking the finger into your mouth as you giggle. He gives you a smirk before reaching for something to clean you up.

Once you’re relatively clean, he joins you back in bed, pulling your body on top of his. Your head rested in his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, his own fingers smoothing over your bare shoulder as he stared up at the ceiling. The high is dissipating, the silence makes you feel safe, cocooned in each other. You stay quiet for a while, not sure how much time passes before he speaks. 

“What’re you thinking about?” He murmurs, voice heavy with the oncoming wave of tiredness. His other hand comes up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. You tilt your head slowly to look up at him, lips curving into a soft smile. “You were right, it is as if the gods have smiled on us and allowed us this night.” Your voice is soft, as if you didn’t want the gods to hear. 

Charles chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Yet I’m worried that it's a dream that could fade with the rise of the sun,”

“If it is a dream, then let me never wake.” He says, burrowing into the bed. You reach up at his response to trace the lines of his face—his strong jaw, the lips that you were so addicted to. 

“I could spend an eternity like this,” your voice cracks a little as the voice falls from your lips. “I can’t bear the thought of a life apart.” 

He blinks slowly, eyes filling with tears as he looks at you. “There’s no distance I would not travel, no risk I would not take if it meant keeping you.” 

Your throat feels tight as he says this, tears threatening to fall from your eyes now, hot and unbidden. He presses his nose to your cheek, pressing his lips there as his thumb brushes away a stray tear that has slipped down. “I love you,” he says, voice low with his confession.

Your chest feels tight as you shudder, tears cascading down your cheeks. “I have loved you since the very first moment you looked at me and saw not just a lowly musician but a man.” You smile as you let his words sink in. You kiss him, slowly and deeply, almost cradling his face in your hand. It was as if you were trying to imbue in your kiss what words could not. “And I love you,”

Your fingers gripped onto his as you pressed your forehead to his. “What if we left this place?” You ask. “We can run away to somewhere that no one will find us and live out the rest of our days the way we want to.”

Charles stills, his brow furrowing as he searched your face. “Damian will not let you go,” he puzzles, his voice heavy with foreboding. “He won’t accept this rejection, he won't let you slip away.” 

“He doesn’t need to know,” you reply swiftly, your eyes burning with determination. “We can vanish without a trace. He will wake to an empty house, and by the time he realizes we’re gone, we’ll be halfway to the ends of the earth.”

Charles closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. “It’s not that simple. He is a man who sees defiance as an insult, and insults must be repaid. Even if he doesn’t find us, he’ll punish others in your place—think of yours. He’ll ruin them to make an example.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t back down. “And if I stay, what then?” you ask, your voice sharp with desperation. “What becomes of me? A prisoner in a marriage I did not choose, chained to a life I cannot bear? I will wither, Charles. I will fade until there is nothing left.”

“Please don’t ask me to stay,” you beg, your hand gripping his. “Don’t ask me to trade my soul for his pride. We can escape him, Charles. We can outrun the chains he would place around us.”

“And if he catches us?” Charles asks, his voice trembling with the weight of the question. “What then? What price would you pay for this freedom?”

“I would pay any price,” you whisper. “Because freedom with you, even for a day, would be worth a lifetime in his shadow.”

He stared at you, torn between hope and fear. Slowly, he pulled you close once again, pressing his forehead to yours. “You are braver than I will ever be,” he murmured. “And more reckless.”

“Then be brave with me,” you whisper, a shake in your voice. “Be reckless with me, Charles. I love you. And I will not let him take that from me.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, he simply looked at you, his hand brushing your cheek as though committing your face to memory. “I love you,” he says at last, his voice breaking. “I love you more than I ever thought I could love anything.”

“Then let’s leave,” you declare, your  eyes burning with more unshed tears. “Together.”

Charles Presses himself to you once again, arms pulling you as close as he could. When he pulls apart, his hands linger on your face, his touch soft but steady. “The next full moon,” he said finally. “We’ll go. No one will stop us.”

“No one will find us,” you correct him, a small smile breaking through your tears. “And if they do, it will already be too late.”

“Together,” he said, his voice resolute.

“Together,” you echoed, your hand curling against his chest.

The weeks go by quickly. You disappear into the night, leaving Damian to ruminate in his study. He could see you weren’t tired, something in your eyes giving it away. “She’s hiding something,” He says one day, tone as cold as the marble floors beneath his feet. Lysander stands at the foot of his desk, the servant waiting for his master to give him the orders. 

“My fiancé disappears far too often to my liking. Follow her. Watch her. And when you’ve discovered what she’s been up to, you report back to me.”

Lysander bows. “Yes, my Lord.”

It only takes a few days for Lysander to catch you. He watches you from a distance, careful not to draw attention to himself. Your movements start mostly harmless—spending hours in the gardens, wandering through the halls and finally, like clockwork every night returning to your chambers early. 

It's not until one evening that he catches you leaving your room, through the abandoned guest wing of the manor. He follows you as quietly as he can, heart thumping wildly in his chest every time he follows too closely. You arrive at a secluded area in the woods, a small cabin nestled among the trees. 

It's there when he sees him. He can see through the window as you meet Charles in a kiss, hands tangling in his hair. He can see how you hold each other as if you’re each other’s lifelines, desperate to keep afloat. He watches as you writhe under Charles’s touch, a passion igniting between you two that he hasn’t even glimpsed at between you and his Lord. It makes Lysander avert his eyes, feeling disgust as he waits in his spot. 

He doesn’t leave. Lord Damian’s orders were clear and Lysander’s curiosity was stronger than his discomfort. He lingered in the shadows, watching as Charles loses himself between your thighs and how you toss your head back with a lust filled look on your face. He can hear as you call out for Charles, and how easily the iloveyous are exchanged between you.His stomach churns with unease, he wants to leave. But he could not come back empty handed, Damian would not tolerate it. 

Soon the space quiets and he dares look in through the window. You're draped over Charles’s chest, Hypnos’s touch making you hazy. Your voices are soft as you speak and Lysander can hear every word.  

“Just a few more days,” you whisper into Charles’s skin. “The moon is just about full and we leave all of this behind.”

Charles’s fingers cart through your hair, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Are you still sure?” he asks, his voice low. “Once we leave, there’s no going back.”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” you reply, voice steady. ““He can have the titles, the wealth, all of it. I want none of it. I only want you.”

Lysander’s breath catches in his throat, his fingers twisting the fabric of his tunic. This was much more than just an affair—it was treason. He backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound as he retreated from the light of the cabin. 

His hands shake as he stands before Damian, recounting everything he’d seen. Damian’s eyes darken at every word, lip stiffening and knuckled whitening as he grips the edge of his desk. “The little bird thinks she can fly away.” he muses, his eyes drifting toward the open window overlooking the woods. A sly sneer curls his lips.“But I don’t think so.”

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆・

You’re breathless as you arrive at the clearing, cloak pulled tightly around you. You carry a satchel over your shoulder, some supplies from the garden and little things you could take from home that wouldn’t be missed. Charles is waiting for you at the edge of the forest, an almost identical satchel around hung on his shoulder. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice laced with urgency. His hand holds the back of your neck, tilting your face to look up at him. 

You nod. “I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you.”

There’s a silent adrenaline in Charles’s chest just waiting to ignite as you begin making your journey through the woods. A feeling he can’t quite shake pools in his gut, but he doesn’t know what it is. The sun has long been gone and you’re guided by the light of the moon. It’s quiet as you walk, both of you too nervous to say anything quite yet, as if any word could break you from this dream that was slowly becoming reality. 

The pit in his stomach only grows the further you walk. He doesn’t regret this, neither do you. But it is as if Fortuna has turned her back on you tonight. 

It happens in seconds, the sound of horses and shouts coming from behind you. Lord Damian. 

“RUN.” Charles urges you, tugging you deep into the forest. Caution is thrown into the wind as you run. That adrenaline is now raging in your chests. You turn into a field, the grass shrubbery as high as your knees as you run to reach the other side where you could lose Damian in the trees. You’re exposed to the air, a clear view of you from where Damian calls for you. You can hear him as he shouts. 

“My little bird, you’ve disgraced our union with your actions. It’s time to return—we’ll marry at first light, before your reputation is further stained. In time, I may find it in my heart to forgive you.”

The words send shivers down your spine. What would he do to you if he caught you? What would he do to Charles?

You’re almost to the trees when you feel your gown catch on a shrubbery, halting your run completely. You pull it away and take a few steps, only to be yanked back, caught on the branches of a fallen tree. There’s panic in your voices as you call for Charles, tugging at it desperately. You can’t think straight. Charles pulls at your gown, trying to set it free. Damian’s creeping up slowly on his house, watching you as you struggle. He’s taunting you. 

You almost don’t feel it—the sudden, sharp sting on your ankle, like a thorn pricking your skin. But then comes the second bite, a searing pain that shoots up your leg. You gasp, Charles finally pulling your gown for the branch. You watch as a viper slithers away, hissing as it disappears from your sight. 

Charles urges you again to keep running, not yet noticing the limp in your step or the blood that's begun seeping from your leg. “Charles,” you whimper as you feel your vision begin to blur. “We’re almost there,” Charles promised, his voice low but urgent. 

You’re so close to the tree line but the world spins around you as you meet his eyes. “A snake, Cha,” you gasp, your chest feeling tight. He drops to his knees next to you, hands cradling your face. His eyes wander down, finally catching the wound. There’s a terror in his eyes, an expression you’ve never seen before. You try to pull yourself up, to stand, to run with him into the trees. If you could only just make it to the trees. But you can’t. There’s a fire burning through your limps, a newfound heaviness. The trees in front of you blur into one as your vision slipped away. 

You can hear Charles pleading with you as your vision goes out. You can feel him crying over you begging you to stay. Don’t go where I can’t follow.

You try to speak, to tell him you were still there but your throat wouldn’t form the words. Gods, no. I love him. But you can’t, Thanatos is already pulling you away. 

Charles feels his heart rip from his chest as he sees the light in your eyes go out. How cruel the gods were to grant you this one chance, only to take it from you in the blink of an eye. He can feel your warmth begin to fade as his shaking hands brush your hair from your face. You’re gone but he can’t help but plead with you over and over again. 

He can almost see the shadows that grow longer over him, Damian and his men drawing close. He had to move—had to escape. But how could he leave you here, alone in the dark?

He lowers you to the ground, closing your eyes as he settles you there. You looked peaceful, so heartbreakingly beautiful. He lingered for a second, fingers reaching into his satchel to pull out a single red carnation. He’d planned to ask you to marry him that day. Now he can only give it to you here as you lie. 

He presses the flower to his lips, tears falling onto the petals before tucking it behind your ear. 

“I’ll come back for you,” he whispers, his voice raw. “I swear it. This isn’t the end.”

The sound of Damian’s men grew louder, their shouts drawing nearer. Charles stood, his fists clenched, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He kisses your forehead one last time, turning and disappearing into the forest.

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆・

Charles wanders the woods aimlessly for days, his guilt weighing heavy on his chest as runs. He’s not sure where his feet are taking him—the only thing he knew was there he couldn’t let Damian’s men find him. There’s a faint pounding in his head as his breath comes in ragged gasps, legs burning as he pushes himself forward. He heaves as he ducks into an empty cavern, almost collapsing onto the ground. Tears begin to fill his eyes as catches his breath, mind filling with thoughts of you. Your face is burned into his mind, your smile, your laugh, the way you had once looked at him. And now, you are gone. 

He pulls out his lyre, wincing as he stretches to pull it from its spot slung on his shoulder. His fingers tremble as they find their home on the strings.

The first few notes are soft, trembling like the tears that streak his face. He plays, the gentle melody rising into the air like a prayer. It’s raw, unfiltered, a song born of grief, desperation and loss. The air around him seems to stop, the wind stilling, trees freezing in place. Even the stars he sits under seem to listen to him, weeping with him. 

He’s bathed in silver light that falls from the skies, slowly coalescing into two figures. One is dark and towering, his shadow stretching over the ground like an imposing shroud. The other is radiant, her eyes filling with immense kindness and sorrow. 

The woman calls his name, halting his playing. He’s never seen her before but he knows her name, Persephone, queen of the underworld. His voice is soft as her words gently echo through the air. “Your song has reached even the depths of my realm.”

“You mourn deeply,” observes Hades, his voice a deep, resonant growl. “Few mortals would dare to love so fiercely.”

Charles drops to his knees, clutching his lyre tightly as he does. “Please,” he begs, his voice broken and weak. “If my music has touched even the gods, I only ask one thing. Let me bring her back, I’ll do anything.”

Persephone tilts her head, studying him with endless, violet eyes. “You would risk everything for her?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, his voice now steady despite the tears in his eyes. “I would give my life if it meant hers could be returned.

Hades steps forward, his presence looming. “We are not so generous as to grant such a request freely,” he begins. “But your devotion… it is rare. We will grant you a chance.”

Charles’s breath catches, hope flickering to life in his chest. “What must I do?”

“You will descend to the underworld,” Persephone instructs. “There, you may plead your case for her soul. But beware, mortal. The path is perilous, and the rules are absolute.”

“If she is to follow you back,” Hades continues, his tone dark and heavy, “you must not look back at her until you both have reached the surface. Should you falter—should you give in to doubt—she will be lost to you forever.”

For you, Charles would face anything. 

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆

The path is dark, just as the goddess had promised. Charles stumbles as he enters the cavernous opening in the earth, like the mouth of a beast preparing to devour him. The air seeped out, heavy and damp, cold as it carried disembodied voices. 

The descent was steep, the darkness growing around him, growing thicker with every step. His feet carry him over a winding path of jagged stone but soon there is nothing but smooth obsidian beneath him, slick and unforgiving. His shoes slip on the stone, sliding further into the darkness. He loses himself, focusing only on the path in front of him. He can only think of you, the only thing that pushes him forward. 

His first arrives at the River Styx, the waters swirling endlessly before him. Charon, the ferryman, waits there for him. His hollow eyes watch Charles with disdain, disgusted as he sees the very alive man pleading with him. 

“I have nothing to offer you,” Charles admits, his voice hoarse. He’s thirsty but his fingers dance softly on the chords of his lyre. The notes are rich, weaving a melody of loss and longing. Charon pauses, his skeletal fingers curling back as he listens to the man. 

The ferryman’s expression softens the slightest bit and with a slow nod, he gestures for Charles to board his boat. It rocks under his weight, the journey across the waters eerily quiet, except for the steady splash of Charon’s oar. When they reach the other side, Charles slowly steps out, turning back only to bow deeply to the ferryman in thanks. 

The path takes him to the Fields of Asphodel, where he sees how the dead wander in eternal monotony. Their eyes are sunken and blank, their forms just a little more than shadows of what they had been in life. As Charles passed, many began to stir, drawing to the scuffing of his steps. 

“Play for us,” they whisper, their voice dry like the leaves of fall rustling in the wind. “Play for us and you will pass safely.” 

Though it makes Charles’s heart jump in his chest, he stops to bring the lyre up higher to play. He plays the only tune that comes to his head, the one he had played for you the night you had kissed for the first time. It begins soft as it did before, only growing sadder and he remembers why he’s playing it in the first place. The souls gather around him, their movements slow as they listen. Many weep at the song, their shadows trembling as the last note fades into the dark air. Slowly they part, allowing him to continue. 

It is not long after that that he reaches the palace of the king under the earth. Hades and Persephone wait for him, their thrones looming above him at the end of the hall. The queen looks down at him with sympathy in her eyes contrasted by her husband’s cold and unreadable gaze. 

“You have come far, mortal,” Persephone tells him, her voice soft. “And your music has touched even the dead.”

Hades leans forward, his tone as sharp as the edge of a blade. “We will grant you what you seek. She may return to the world above. But you must remember the condition: you must not look back at her until you both have reached the light of day. Should you fail, she will suffer in the fields of punishment for both of your treacheries.”

“I understand,” Charles said, his voice steady though his heart raced.

You appear just as he turns back toward the path. He hears you call his name, the warning ringing in his mind, don’t turn back. His eyes fill with tears as he feels you press your head to his face, the fabric of his tattered tunic wetting with your tears. Your fingers wrap around his wrist gently as if to tell him, I’m here. 

“I’ll follow where you lead,” you whisper. “Take me home.”

Your ascend begins, each step growing heavier than the other. The patter sounds like a faint drumming that pounds as the terrain changes and changes. Their soft scuffle of your sandals is the only sign Charles knows you’re there. But it doesn’t keep the doubts from slipping into his mind. Is this truly there? Have the gods tricked him?

You eventually reach the obsidian path, the final stretch, Charles thinks. You climb, higher and higher, Charles stopping every now and then to listen for you. 

“It’s ok,” you remind him. “I’m coming.” Though it reassures him momentarily, it soon disappears and he has to stop again. The whispers of the underground grew louder as the light at the top of the tunnel grew larger. They swirled around him, each word needling into his mind. She’s not there. You’re wasting your time. You failed her once already, why would they give her back?

His breath quickens as he doesn’t hear your steps, calling out your name. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Wait for me.” you huff and now he can hear you and your slow steps. You trudge on. His heart screamed at him to look back, even just for a moment, just to be sure. But he doesn’t, he knows he mustn't. 

The light is just ahead now, so close Charles can feel the warmth of the sun. But the silence has returned, making his chest tighten in his chest. His breath came in shallow gasps, it was too much. The urge to turn, it consumed him. He finally turns, his body trembling with the effort to resist, as if there was something begging him not to look back. He calls your name as he does, seeing you just a few feet away. 

You were there, alive and just as radiant than the moment he lost you. For a moment your eyes brighten as you meet them, but it doesn’t last long. 

The shadows surround you, wrapping around your legs and torso. 

“Charles, no!” you cry out, your eyes filling with tears. You try to push your legs to walk but with no avail, the shadows holding you in place. Your hand reaches out for his, desperate as they brush the air between you. He takes off in a sprint, lunging towards you. 

He sees the terror in your face as if to say don’t let them take me as the shadows begin to close around your face. It is the expression he saw in the moment just beyond the treeline. And he can’t bear the twisting feeling it creates in his gut. 

The last thing he sees are your eyes, tears steaming and evaporating into the shadows before there's a strong wind, pulling you away and pushing him out into the light. 

Charles awakens to the warmth of the sun as it caresses its cruel hand on his skin. It almost pains him as he opens his eyes and realizes where he’s laying. He sits up, seeing his lyre on the ground before him. Between the strings, there’s a carnation, its stem threaded there. He clutches his chest, gasping as he cries. “Gods, please!” he cries, fingers digging into the dirt beneath him. But there is no one there to hear him. 

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆

From then on, his music changes. People stop asking him to play at their parties, more asking for him to play at wakes or funerals. It still carries magic, and though people still stop and stare,  many say his songs are no longer for this world.  He plays for no one but you now, hoping the gods might take pity on him again. But they never do.

Index:

Apollo - God of the Sun, music, prophecy, healing, and the arts. Eros - Greek god of love, passion, and fertility. Hades - God of the Underworld and the dead, ruler of the realm of the departed. Persephone - Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Underworld. Daughter of Demeter. Dionysus - God of wine, revelry, and ecstasy. Thanatos - Personification of Death. Often depicted as a gentle, peaceful figure who guides souls to the afterlife rather than a force of violence or terror. Nyx- Primordial Goddess of the Night.

a/n: i genuinely have no idea how i got to almost 6k words but if you're here, I wanna say thank you so much for reading. Any feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

[bayjaruchel]

Strawberry Blond

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Pairing: Peeta Mellark/AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Late one night, you get a call. (4.7k | originally posted on ao3 | Masterlist )

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You know that your relationship can never be normal. 

Even now, when you technically should have peace of mind— and you're out of the arena, out of the Games— there's still the ugly truth that lies beneath it all. The Victor's Village is beautiful in comparison to the rest of District Twelve, but because of the reason why you earned a residence here, you're not sure if you'll ever truly enjoy it. Brick houses with plenty of room, and yet yours is still far too empty, even if you have your family to keep you company. 

Peeta lives alone in his. 

There's always smoke coming from the chimney, and he keeps most, if not all of the lights on. The only room that occasionally has its lights off is his, which is on the second floor. You've woken up in the middle of the night many times and glimpsed the shining evidence that he's still awake. It's not like you get perfect sleep yourself— but you worry, sometimes. 

You do visit him, sometimes. But you've never knocked on his door when it's nighttime. You're not entirely sure why that is; maybe it's because you're afraid of what the cool silence will bring. Maybe it's too intimate. Neither of you are strangers to intimacy, and you've definitely maintained a little of that, but … There's still a certain distance. Away from the cameras, you still struggle to discern what's real and what's not. 

The way he looks at you is certainly real. 

You don't know if you'll ever feel exactly the same way towards him. 

Sure, you do like him. A lot. He makes it easy. He's the type of guy that you could bring home to your parents. He's the type of guy that one would want to come home to every day. Of course, he's a little more reserved, and his eyes are duller, but— he's still Peeta. He's still the baker's boy. Deep down, he'll never lose what made you— and all of the Capitol— fall in love with him. 

Is it really love, though? Or is it just admiration? 

It's something that you think about a lot. You've never said those three words to him when not in front of an audience. And he knows that on those specific occasions, it wasn't real. It was just an act. Maybe when he kissed you, he wasn't acting. Maybe when he looked at you and said those lovely things to you, he wasn't acting. 

You can dream. You can hope. 

However, most of your actual dreams nowadays are just nightmares.  

No golden boy is holding you, shielding you from the awful weather. There's no bright, happy future in which everything turned out right. And there's none of those strange, albeit interesting dreams where your house is upside down and your teacher at school is telling you that somehow, you've suddenly graduated and you're being sent off to the Capitol to become one of them. 

Instead, there's just fire. 

Tonight, you dream of fire. 

Burning bodies that fall from the highest trees. You can vaguely make out who they are— there's a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, a primal guilt. Everything around you is blazing, and you know you should try and get out, but your feet are frozen, rooted to the spot. You can't move, even as the flames begin to lick around your ankles. Even if you did run, you wouldn't be able to escape. This has been a long time coming, hasn't it? 

Despite the almost blinding brightness emanating from the fire, everything else is foggy and dark. The only thing you can focus on is the corpses, the trees, and everything coming down around you. Someone shouts your name, but it's muffled like you're underwater. You fail to register it fast enough. 

A scream, crystal-clear. 

You whip around, and there it is. The evidence of your failure. You're helpless to do anything— you can only watch— more screaming, more yelling, more pleads for help— 

There is so, so much blood— 

You're awake, and the blistering heat is gone. 

Gasping, you sit up, struggling for breath. It keeps catching in your throat. Your heart's pounding at a pace that makes your head spin. Dizzy, disorienting. But it used to be worse than this. 

At least you don't wake up sobbing anymore. 

This is still awful, though. Trembling, you wrap your arms around yourself, attempting to regain control. In, out. In, out. Your lungs shudder with the effort, but you keep going. Despite the comfortable warmth of the house, there's still goosebumps prickling up and down your bare skin. Your arms. Your neck. The sheets are tangled around your waist and legs; you almost feel trapped. 

There's no point in closing the curtains, since virtually nobody is in the streets, and the other inhabitants of the Village couldn't possibly look through your windows. When you glance out of the one nearest to your bed, it's almost pitch-black outside. There are no street lamps, after all. You try to focus on the cold, empty houses to distract yourself. 

Finally, your breath slows. Your pulse calms. 

You're still shaking, faintly, but your knees don't give out when you detangle yourself from your blankets and slip out of bed. You consider that a minor victory. 

Taking care not to make too much noise, you head downstairs. The polished stone is cold underneath your feet, but it's grounding, in a way. It settles you back down to earth. For a short while, you frequently lost your way due to the sheer size of the house, but now you know the quickest route to the kitchen by heart. Even when half-asleep, you know exactly where to go. 

The light flicks on with a quiet buzz when you gently press the switch. 

Quietly, you wonder if the ultimate prize for winning the Games was running water. It's cold, as it splashes over your fingers and into the basin. There are plenty of pristine, artisan glasses and whatnot in the overhead cabinets— probably made in District One— but you always reach for the mugs you had before. The ones with a couple of cracks and dents littering their bodies— evidence of their long lifespans. 

You lean against the counter as you take a long gulp of water. It's pleasant, the feeling pooling low in your chest. 

The silence used to be unnerving, but now, you welcome it with open arms. 

You take another, smaller sip from your mug. Maybe you'll be able to sleep for another few hours. Until the sun rises, at least. Then, you can take a walk. You can wander around all you like here, provided that you don't stray too far. Regardless, you're sure nobody will be too concerned about that. Haymitch is the sole man responsible for the lax rules concerning the victors. 

You're still not sure if you like him or not. 

Slowly, you finish your drink. But, just as you're ready to set it into the sink and head back upstairs—

—the phone's ringing. 

You can hear it pretty clearly, even if it's muffled. 

Who could be calling at this hour? Furrowing your brow, you put down the mug and start heading down the hallway, towards the study. You're well aware that Haymitch tore his phone out of the wall ages ago, so it couldn't be him. Nobody from your District calls you, either. And if you get any calls from outside the District, they're usually during the daytime. Not at two-ish in the morning. The Capitol may be invasive, but they're not that invasive. They need their beauty rest, you figure.  

So, taking all of that into consideration, that only leaves— 

"Peeta?" You mutter, upon picking up the phone. 

There's a beat of silence. 

"Hello," he replies. 

It's a bit hard to tell over the line, but he sounds nearly as groggy as you. Delicately, you shut the door of the study behind you with a quiet click. Just in case. 

"Is something wrong?" You allow yourself to be a little louder, now that there's a barrier between you and the rest of the house. "Couldn't sleep?" 

"Something like that." There's a slight rustling. "I mean— nothing new, right?" Even though you know he meant it as a joke, the grim truth makes it fall flat. 

Still, you breathe out a quiet laugh. "Nothing's changed." Affixing your gaze on one of the chairs sitting around the mahogany table, you fiddle with the telephone cord. "Did you, uh— did you need something, though?" 

Peeta hesitates again. 

"I just��" He cuts himself off. "I'm sorry for calling you so late." He's entirely earnest in a way that makes you ache. "Did I wake you up?" 

He's also dodging the question, even if he is genuinely worried about your sleep schedule. 

"No, you didn't," you assert, "don't worry about that. It's fine." 

"Okay," he responds, relief palpable despite the crackly quality. 

The telephone cord is somewhat cold where it rests on your knuckles. You continue to twist it around your idle hand. 

"You still haven't answered my question, by the way."  

Peeta audibly exhales. 

"Oh." More rustling. "Yeah. I, um—" he clears his throat, "—yeah, I do need something, actually." 

That could mean a lot of things. Does he just need to talk? You know he does, sometimes. Or maybe he just needs some more flour, and is too embarrassed to admit it. He does seem like the type of guy to stress-bake in the wee hours of the morning. However, you seriously doubt that he wants anything related to that. 

"What is it?" You ask, finally. 

His next words are rushed, as if he's afraid that if he says them slowly, he'll never get them out. 

"Could you come over? I just—" it's only a momentary gap, "—don't wanna be alone right now." 

Ah. 

The thing is, you understand. You know what it's like. And there's only one possible response that you can give right now. Vividly, you can see him— the cave—  his face, shining with a cold sweat, his eyes scrunched tightly in pain— 

"Okay." You're already mentally mapping out where to go. "I'll be there in a few." 

-- 

When he opens the door, Peeta looks exhausted. 

But when he smiles at you, there's still that light in his eyes. That look he gets whenever you're around. It used to make you feel sick to your stomach, but now— now, you're not quite sure how to feel. You've been told that in comparison to him, you're rather good at keeping your feelings hidden underneath the surface. It's been necessary, after all. 

"You're here," he says after a beat, as if he expected anything else. 

"I'm here," you echo. 

Wordlessly, he steps aside to let you pass by. Somehow, although the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, his still feels different. Warmer. A little cozier. The remnants of something sweet are still floating through the air, and you glance back at him. Maybe you were right about the possibility of him making cookies— or apple turnovers. Or those little cakes. 

"Been baking?" You ask. 

"Earlier," he clarifies, shutting the door behind you. 

"Smells nice." 

Peeta lingers by your side. "Want some?" 

"If that's okay." 

"It's always been okay." He raises his eyebrows. "How many times have I told you that you don't even need to ask?" 

You shoot him a look. "Doesn't hurt to ask." 

Flawlessly, he copies your expression. "How do you know that?" 

"It's called being polite, Peeta." 

"Polite," he repeats. "Polite…" 

You let out a short sigh. 

"Just show me where they are." 

He gives you a shit-eating grin. "And there it is." 

You don't even bother trying to respond; he's already padding past you, anyway. It's a short trip to the kitchen. His is more cluttered than yours— recently-used, more lived-in. There are more dishes in the sink, more stuff on the counter. But your eyes are drawn to the two wire baking racks on the stovetop. On top of them sit around two dozen pastries. They're prettily decorated with pink, blue, and white icing, and you take some time to admire them as you join him in front of the stove. 

"You've outdone yourself," you can't help but murmur. "Wow." 

At your compliment, Peeta instantly turns bashful. 

"Oh, thanks." Of course, he can't let those words sit. "It's— it's not my best work, but I—" 

His volume drops, and he pauses. 

"Well— my hands were shaking, so…"

Abruptly, you turn your attention away from the pastries. 

He notices, interrupting you before you can even open your mouth to speak. 

"I know what you're gonna ask," he says, softly. "And, yeah, I do want to talk about it. Just—" Peeta sucks in a breath. "Just not now, okay? Give it a little while." The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he gestures towards the racks. 

"Eat." 

You consider pressing the question. You consider urging him— did it happen again? Was it worse this time? It had to have been worse, considering that he wanted you over in the first place. Just thinking about it makes your stomach perform an uneasy flip. You can read Peeta. And right now, you can read the bags under his eyes. The tiredness he's trying to fight away. 

However, you don't want to push him. You don't want to break him down. Not again. 

So, you take a pastry. 

It's really, very good. 

Peeta takes one for himself, too, and you eat in silence. You know that despite your frequent approval of his various baked goods, he's still carefully watching your reaction; you make sure to look pleased, and it isn't hard at all. He seems satisfied. You're also satisfied. Once you've finished your pastry, you lick the remnants of the icing off your fingers. 

You pretend not to notice the way he stares— briefly, before forcing his gaze away. 

You pretend to ignore the way your heart skips. 

Mercifully, he breaks the awkward tension. 

 "Do you— would you want to take some home?" He asks, after swallowing. "We both know that I'm not gonna eat 'em all." 

"Oh, yeah, I'll take some," you answer. Thinking for a second, you add, "Were you going to risk bringing some to Haymitch, or—" 

He snorts. "Not this time." 

"More for me, then." 

"And your family, you mean?" 

You smile. There's no way that you're going to give up those pastries without a fight. 

"Sure. And my family."

Peeta doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he returns your smile all the same. 

-- 

He always keeps his bedroom windows open at night. 

You're not exactly sure why, but you suppose it's because he runs warm. Always. 

The duvet's soft on your bare skin, and his hands are gentle. With the way your head is positioned, if you move your ear just so, you can hear his heartbeat thumping through his chest. A steady rhythm. He's calm, and so are you. You're certain that you could fall asleep like this— if it weren't for the fact that you have other, more important priorities right now. 

When you look up at him, shifting an increment closer, he talks. 

"I thought things were getting better." His Adam's apple bobs as you watch. "I thought that— that things were gonna start improving. That I'd— " He trails off, for a second. 

"That I'd start going back to normal, I guess. But I should've known that it's… It's impossible." His gaze is focused on the ceiling. "It was hopeless to try and believe that I could just keep on going like nothing happened at all." 

You find your voice. 

"But you still tried?" 

The chuckle he lets out is completely humorless. 

"Yeah, I tried." 

He's always been optimistic— he's always trying to see the best in people. And seeing him like this makes you feel hopeless. You know what he's going through. It's essentially the same thing that you're going through. However, it's not like you can read minds. He knows the right words to say, but you don't. Even though you wish you could. Words— even though actions can speak louder than them— still mean a lot. You turn that word over in your head a couple of times. Actions. 

"What happened?" You ask, quietly. 

 A beat. 

"I let down my guard," he starts, volume barely a whisper. "I was confident in my stability. I thought that I wouldn't— break down, or anything. Because it had been a few weeks, and—" 

His eyes shut. Tightly. "God, I'm stupid." 

"You're not," you rush to interject, "don't say that." 

Peeta lets out another huff. "But it was stupid. To assume that I'd be okay, I mean. I should've— I should've expected it, at least." He quickly carries on. "Even after everything, I still let myself fall into a routine." 

I still let myself fall back into a routine, you know what he means. The bad dreams pale in comparison to the real monsters that loom over the both of you. Haymitch is a living example of what can happen; what will happen, if you don't hold on to tight control of the hypothetical reins. You ache. 

"Don't blame yourself for any of this," you murmur, "please. It's not your fault. Not in the slightest." You have to speak slowly, pace yourself. Keep yourself from everything you want to say. "Even if you tried to— I don't know, stay hyper-aware of everything— it would still come crashing down eventually." A breath. "It's inevitable, Peeta. It's always going to be here." 

"But I don't want it to be here," he chokes out, "I really, really don't!" 

You push yourself up from your previous position. His eyes are open now, wide and looking up at you. 

When you move backward and open your arms, he's on you in an instant. 

You rock back and forth, gently. You're not sure which one of you is holding onto the other tighter. Clinging would be a better word. His face is pressed firmly into your shoulder. You can feel him shaking. 

Despite everything, he won't let himself make any noise when he cries. 

You don't know how long you stay like this. It could be minutes. Hours, even. All you can feel and register is him. Peeta. He's trembling. The barely-there sensation, combined with the undeniable tightness of his arms. His hands. It's almost like he thinks that if he loosens his hold, even by just the slightest fraction, you'll suddenly disappear. 

That you'll cease to exist. 

That you'll become not real.  

When you finally draw back— slowly, tentatively, and only because he does it first— 

He sniffs, eyes red. They're not brimming with unshed tears, but they're still wet. You can't help but thumb away what little remains on his lower lids, even though you know that you probably look about the same. 

Peeta returns the gesture. 

Unlike you, though, he lingers, hand dropping to cup your cheek. 

There's a moment. 

You've done this before, of course. You've held each other. Comforted each other, brought each other back down. But since the end of the Games— since you've gotten away from the clamoring audiences desperate for a romance despite the sick circumstances— you haven't done anything more than that. 

You haven't kissed him since the end of the Games. 

But right now, you realize that you want to. More than anything. Anyone could see that Peeta wants it, too. Maybe even more than you do. 

So, when he leans in— just barely— closing the distance— 

It's practiced, at first. Familiar. Almost nostalgic. 

But then he melts, and it's suddenly something completely different.  

Peeta lets you softly maneuver him down onto the mattress, up against the pillows that are still too soft for your liking. He kisses you in the way those terrible poets describe— it's all excessively large bouquets, a clear starry night, longing looks across a crowded room, and—  

It's real. 

He gives. You take, and exchange it for everything you have in return. His hand stays on your cheek, the other behind your head, pulling you down. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. You lose yourself in the feeling. Whenever you part, it's only out of necessity, and you're soon leaning back in. You're making up for lost time— you're making up for every action you didn't mean, every word that was too sugary-sweet. 

Soon, your kisses grow deeper. And neither of you wants to stop. 

It's only when his hands are trailing down your body, down to the hem of your shirt, that you bother addressing it. Even if you want this— so, so desperately— you don't want to force anything in a situation that doesn't require it. Just kissing is nice. It's very nice. Nice enough that it takes a little while for you to regain control of your mouth. 

"Is this—" 

—and he's already speaking. Hushed, like you. 

"Please." 

It's almost embarrassing, what that single word does to you. But you barrel on. 

"It's okay?" You ask, "Just say if it's not, and I'll stop—" 

"—I just," Peeta visibly struggles with what to say for a moment, before settling on: 

"Need you," he says. "Please." 

It's more than enough, and you're in no place to deny him for much longer. You recapture his lips, welcoming his touch. His hands on your back, then your waist, then your hips again. His grip is firm, but not overly so. He would never hurt you, after all. Especially not here. Especially after what he's witnessed. 

His hands are warm and calloused on your bare skin. Strong, with all the work he's done since he was old enough to knead dough. You have to sit up in order to take off your nightshirt, and he takes the opportunity to do the same with his. You've already seen him shirtless, and at close proximity, too— but it wasn't like this. You couldn't trail over every little detail with your lips, back then. 

Peeta shivers, letting out a short giggle when you press a kiss to his stomach. He's sturdy, that's for sure. Impressive biceps, a toned chest. He's beautiful, and you tell him so. You think he blushes, but it's difficult to say for certain from your position. You're too focused on finding all the little freckles you can. 

He likes it when you kiss his neck, breath audibly hitching when you do so. 

But even though he lets you entertain yourself for a decent while, he makes sure to return the favor. He's never liked being in the spotlight for long, after all. And he wants. 

He finds all of your scars, from the arena. From before the arena, too. He maps them out, painstakingly, mimicking the way you'd kissed him all over earlier. Sensitive, he notes, when you make a small noise when his thumbs find your nipples. Soft, he observes, as his fingers slip underneath your waistband, moving lower. 

Soon, you're completely exposed, and he is too. 

Peeta pays more attention to certain parts of you— your thighs, your chest— but he doesn't skip over anything in particular. He wants to know everything; he wants to learn everything. And he's eager to learn. By the time he reaches the spot between your legs, you're already wanting for him. You've grown needy from his kisses, his caresses. You can feel him against your thigh— he's just as needy as you. 

His fingers are clumsy, at first. But they're strong, and you guide him. One, then two. Then another. His breath is loud, and he hums, biting his lower lip at your quiet moan after you tell him how to crook his fingers. You jolt when he finds your clit, paying careful attention to it while he works you open. 

At your whispered insistence, he grips himself by the base— already having put on protection— you don't care enough to ask exactly how he obtained it— and he pushes in. The groan he lets out sounds like it's been punched from his gut. 

He sets a slow, measured pace. Almost awkward at first, but he's a fast learner. He learns what angle makes you spread your legs wider for him. You wouldn't even use fucking to describe what you're doing— somehow, that word's too rough. He kisses you, nose bumping against yours. Most of your noises are muffled against his lips, but he takes them all the same. He absorbs them, and drinks them in. Drinks you in. 

"Peeta," you sigh, and he breathes your name in return, before ducking to kiss your shoulder. Your collarbone. Your neck. 

He comes first, twitching, pulsing deep within you. He stifles his whimper by tucking his face into the divot between your shoulder and your neck— but you can still feel it. You help him ride it out, until his thrusts falter, and his hips still. 

It's a few moments of limbo, in which he catches his breath. He meets your eyes. His are hazy, half-lidded. He kisses you. 

Then, he pulls out— disposes of the garbage, of course— and wastes no time in making his way down your body, to where you need him most. 

You're certain that he's never eaten anybody out before, but he's a natural. He's enthusiastic— much more so than when he was inside you. This is just for your pleasure, now. When you thread a hand through his tousled hair, he moans into you, increasing his efforts tenfold. He doesn't care for the mess— or the noise, as he laps at you. He doesn't even care for his own need to breathe. Peeta just wants to give. 

His brow is furrowed in concentration as he rapidly pulls you closer to orgasm. You can do little but take. And when you finally topple over your peak— 

"—that's so good, ah— Peeta, I'm gonna— ohh—" 

You cry out, heat rolling low in your abdomen— gathering, passing through your entire body. 

You float on blissful waves, and he licks at you through it all. For a single, brief moment, your mind is perfectly calm. 

When you relax, the warmth steadying to a hum, he notices and stops working at you. He wriggles a little, and leans forward to rest his chin on your stomach while you catch your breath. You can feel his, too, and it's hot on your skin. Peeta seems reluctant to take his eyes off you just yet. 

It's quiet, you register. You're reluctant to ruin it, but he looks pretty messy. 

"I should get you a towel or something," you say. 

He cracks a smile, his eyes softening. "Should you?" 

"Yeah." You're powerless not to return it. "But, you know, for me to get the towel, you have to get off me." 

"So demanding." 

You let out a short, offended sound. "Hey, that's just—" 

"I'm getting up." And he does. 

It doesn't take long to clean up, and the obnoxious white fluorescent lights of the bathroom don't blind you for long. Again, Peeta looks on while you wipe off his face— this close, you notice how brilliantly blue his eyes are. You notice the precise angles of his jaw. His cheek. He's probably doing the same to you— tracing the contours of your face. 

To your relief, you're back in his bed a few minutes later. He completely shuts off the lights, flicking off his bedside lamp, and then crawls under the duvet with you. You're not sure if it's creepy or weird to enjoy it, but everything here smells like him. A sort of earthy, warm scent. Even though you're both well aware of the multiple floral shampoos that the Capitol has to offer— he still retains that one thing. 

You're comfortable. You're safe. 

Peeta wraps his arms around you from behind. 

You're not sure if you should say something or not, but he does it first. 

"You'll stay?" Whispered, into the stillness. 

"Of course." Without hesitation. 

His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly. 

"Thank you," he breathes.  

The words are stuck in your throat. 

You can't bring yourself to say them, even though you know you'd mean them. Every single syllable. 

But you have time. You can tell him tomorrow, even. Or the day after that. Tonight, you didn't say it aloud, but you still told him all the same. 

You understand exactly how you feel, just before you drift off. 

You love him. 

[poweringthroughthis]

love on the beach | jeong jaehyun

desc: paired opposite each other in one of the most anticipated series this year, (name) and jaehyun struggle to see the fine line between play-pretend and real feelings.

warnings: making out

Being the latest topic of conversation in the industry has its benefits. The fans, the money, the vanity, stardom leaves no luxury in life unattainable. And trust him, (name) was beyond grateful for all that and more. But perhaps the general audience is unaware of some unavoidable downsides that actors have to face.

For one, you’re not allowed a lot of autonomy on what projects to sign when you’re a newcomer. Which explains why (name) was in his current predicament. Having to share a bed with Jaehyun.

Jeong Jaehyun, one of the most visually stunning men to ever step foot on earth. He was already an established idol in the kpop business and was recently venturing into the world of cinema, with a BL series no less. Given his natural talent for acting, angelic voice and great face card, there was no doubt he’d take the acting world by storm as well in no time.

This was even more reason for (name) to feel nervous around the man, he was way behind the singer in terms of achievements and fame. The two were in Hawaii to shoot a confession scene at a beach house and the filming ended late.

Since the production was behind schedule(owing to both males’ other commitments), the hotel they had booked for the week long stay, only had one room available for this final (extended) night. Ha, they’d have to make do.

It was not awkward, but the air was a little tense as Jaehyun set his things down. He was just as friendly and soft spoken off-screen as he was in front of the cameras. His personality made it easy for the other to loosen up around him.

By the time they were ready for bed, the awkwardness had long dissipated. Both men were in a good mood, a little drunk too. Nonetheless, the thought of sharing a bed with Jaehyun sent shivers up (name)’s spine.

(name) tried his best to maintain as much distance as he could without seeming rude. Jaehyun was facing the other way, relieving (name)’s nerves a little, though he still spent half of the night squirming in his place with unease.

Eventually, he grabbed his phone from the bedside table and squinted his eyes to check the time.

02.39 AM.

Jaehyun was lying down, his eyes shut. You could never tell what a guy like him was thinking about.

You could tell he was asleep when his breathing steadied. His face looked even more stunning in the dim light. (Name) stared at the other in wonder.

It felt weird having a guy who was not only famous, but also incredibly attractive, lying in bed next to him.

(Name) was sure his lips would taste like heaven.

And suddenly, his arms were wrapping around the observing male, pulling him close. Jaehyun whispered his name, his voice dripping with affection. (Name), startled, could feel the half-asleep male’s hot breath against his ear.

His heart was beating so loud, he was afraid Jaehyun would hear. But Jaehyun didn't seem to care, instead he continued, "(Name), I like you. I know it's wrong but I can't help myself."

A wave of heat spread across (name)’s face. Jaehyun pressed his lips to the still shocked male’s neck. His kisses were hot and wet. His skin tingled wherever Jaehyun’s mouth touched it.

(name)’s body trembled as he nibbled and sucked at his flesh. Jaehyun’s caressing hand traveled down his side, resting on his hip.

His touch was gentle and reassuring, but still, the other actor was nervous. His thoughts ran a thousand miles a second in order to not overlook the gravity of the situation. The Jeong Jaehyun, just told (name) he liked him and was currently smooching him in a hotel room in Hawaii.

He kissed (name) deeply.

His tongue pushed past (name)’s lips, exploring his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon and honey.

Jaehyun pulled away, gazing at the flushed male. One could see the sincerity in his eyes. (Name) liked him too. But this was beyond scary. Jaehyun was one of the most popular guys on the planet and here he was, professing his feelings to his male co-actor.

The situation was almost surreal.

(name) didn't know what to say, so he just leaned forward, capturing Jaehyun’s lips in a kiss. His grip on (name) tightened. He ran his fingers through the shorter’s hair, pulling him closer.

The two were lost in the moment, letting go of all inhibitions. They made out for what seemed like forever. Finally, Jaehyun pulled away, leaving them both breathless.

"I want to take you out. On a date."

The words hit (name) hard.

A date. A real, proper date.

The last time he'd gone on a date was... well, ages ago.

(name) hadn't really dated anyone since he entered the industry. Propelling his career came first, and dating had been the furthest thing from the plans.

But now?

Now he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

(Name) nodded.

"Really? Are you sure?"

(Name) gave him a small smile.

"Absolutely."

The agreeing male couldn’t help but let out a chuckle again. Jaehyun raised an inquisitive brow at the action as he explained.

“When you were stuttering while filming the confession scene today, I never thought this was the reason.” (name) exclaimed.

“And what do you think now?”

“I think my fluttered just the same on both occasions, Jaehyun.” (name) looked at the male with adoration.

Jaehyun grinned, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

[pinguwrites]

Our True Nature | Tom Buckley

Pairing -> dom!tom buckley x student!psychic!reader

Summary -> You're different, you always have been; you've know that ever since you were a little kid who made your toys float in the air. Despite your great abilities you've pursued a rather humble life, looking for others like you. Your search comes to an end when you realize that your professor's assistant, Tom Buckley — the one you've been harboring a secret crush on — is a psychic, just like you.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), dom!Tom and sub!reader, age-gap (not specified, but reader is college-aged), praise kink, slight degradation, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, um superpower play??? telekinesis play??? I don't know what that shit's called, overstimulation, mild breeding kink, tom is wild and says dirty stuff, weird magic lore I made up (you can trust me, I used to write fantasy), mild hamilton reference ig, rough sex but not much emphasis on it

Disclaimer: Red Lights characters, plots, quotes, etc. do not belong to me and belong to the rightful owner(s). This is only fanfiction and this is just for fun.

When you first saw him it was like the world around you stopped. The rain that had been pouring down like a storm the entire day ceased its brutal assault, and in that week of dull weather and gray skies, the sun finally peeked out from behind the clouds and cast a heavenly glow around his body.

He looked like an angel. Dark hair caressed by sunlight, eyes as pale blue as a glacier, and the most handsome face you’d ever seen. It was all right there, across the parking lot of the university, just waiting to be seen. A god amongst humans, a flower in a field of grass.

But then the moment passed. He walked away, without any word or acknowledgment, like he never even saw you at all. It wasn’t until later on did you realize who this man was — Tom Buckley, your new professor’s assistant.

You supposed that was when the attraction started. You tried to kid yourself and say that it was actually halfway through the year when he started offering private study sessions, or when he made it a point to greet you good morning every day, or even when he insisted you call him Tom, but you knew the truth. You had fallen for him the second you saw him but were only too ashamed to admit it.

A god amongst humans.

It was a silly phrase you used to describe him. He wasn’t a god. Not even close to one. He was nothing like you. He couldn’t see visions of the future, or make a door open and close at his whim. He was just a person, a person you had a silly, undeniable crush on. A person you could not stop staring at.

He was currently leading the lesson today, showcasing a video on how a fake psychic used tricks behind the scenes to fool her audience, but you weren’t paying attention at all. Your chin was resting in your hand, and your gaze was upon Tom like he was the only thing that mattered.

You could barely see him in the poor lighting. The best you got was a figure and a shadow on the projection, but that didn’t deter you at all. All you wanted was to observe him, the way he moved, the way he talked, the way his hands would gesture as he explained the concepts students didn’t understand.

He seemed to notice your blatant staring, because after the video ended and he turned the lights back on, his eyes locked with yours, and he did what he always did: made you stay behind after class.

“Is something wrong?” you asked. It was a routine question. When the students got up to leave you would approach his desk, feigning confusion, waiting for him to say, ‘No, nothing, I just wanted to look over the assignment with you.’

You were sure your friends thought you were dumb. Why else would you need extra help all the time? but that was a much better assumption than the idea that you were fucking Mr. Buckley, so you never bothered correcting them.

“No, nothing, I just . . . ” Tom started but then trailed off. From this distance, you could properly admire the light freckles scattered across his pale face and took a moment to save the image in your head. When he continued, your attention snapped back. “I have a couple of questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Let’s go to my office.” He looked a little nervous for some reason. The walk to his office was spent trying to deduce why. Maybe something was wrong this time.

You sat down on one of the chairs by his desk. His room was filled with all sorts of odd things, namely technology used to disprove — or prove — paranormal activity. Occasionally, this material would be showcased in class, and he and Matheson would do replicas of former encounters to demonstrate how they worked.

You always paid very close attention to those days, in case you ever need the information in the future. How to Evade Ghost Hunters 101!

“What is it? Have I really done something wrong this time?” you joked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

He laughed. A beautiful smile.

“Of course not, you’re my star student.” Your heart warmed at that. “I just wanted to test some things out with you. For the curriculum, Dr. Matheson and I were considering adding it to the course, and we want your opinion.”

You nodded. “That’s fine with me.”

“Good.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a tarot card pack.

“We want to do a lesson on how pictures and symbolism can be manipulated to fit the victim’s life,” he said, shuffling the deck. “Tarot cards are so vague and general — The Fool, for example, represents new beginnings and adventure. Is that not the foundation of everyone’s life? To explore, to be inexperienced?”

You agreed. “And how are you planning on presenting this to the class? Give out a tarot reading to everyone?”

Tom chuckled. “I just want to try it out with you, to prove it.”

He held out the cards for you to pick, but you stopped him. “Aren’t I supposed to tell you what I want to know?”

There was a brief silence, and if you looked carefully, you could see a light pink tinge glaze over his cheeks, and his breathing hitch ever so slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Don’t worry. Whatever you want to know about me,” you offered, amused at his reaction. “Tell me, what are you looking for?”

“I want to know your secrets,” he admitted. “I want to know what you’re hiding.”

“You’ll be disappointed. There’s nothing interesting about me.”

“We’ll see.”

You picked three cards and placed them down on the table. Each representative of either the past, present, or future, or at least, that’s how you were assuming he was doing the reading.

He turned the first card. It was The Star, reversed. 

“Something in the past was bothering you,” he said. “You felt hopeless, like you had no more motivation . . . Am I right in guessing it was the result of something specific?”

“Yes,” you said. Obviously, his reading wasn’t true, how could it be? he wasn’t like you, but he was definitely right about the way people manipulated the symbolism. You doubted he knew the real reason why you had been so depressed.

He flipped over the next card. The Lovers. 

He grinned. “I’m sure you can guess what this means. Are you in a relationship?”

You shook your head.

“Then it’s about a potential someone. You’ll find your complimentary, someone you can balance with — it could be platonic, or romantic, but no matter the type of relationship, they’ll be loving, and supportive.”

You looked into his eyes before returning your attention back down to the cards. Oh, how you wished it was him. 

He turned the last card.

“The Ten of Cups. Your desires will be fulfilled. You’ll be happy, whatever problems you had in the past will be resolved.”

It was silent for a moment. You expected him to ask you questions of how accurate it was, and how quickly you connected his predictions to events in your life, but he didn’t.

“Do you believe in magic?” he asked bluntly. “The supernatural? You either do or you don’t, I can’t imagine you’d be wasting your time in this class if your opinion was neutral.”

You felt like you’d been put right on the spot. You thought about the right way to answer. “I believe in it, in the sense that I’m open about what we don’t know, and am optimistic about all the possibilities.”

He all but rolled his eyes. “C’mon. That was so wordy. I want to hear the truth.”

He leaned in closer. Your faces were inches apart, and you could feel his minty breath on your face. 

“Yes,” you breathed out. “I believe in magic.”

He pulled away, satisfied. “I believe in magic, too.”

You quirked an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? Have you ever seen it in action?”

“Maybe,” he answered vaguely, a grin on his face. “Let me see your palm.”

You wanted to laugh, but you yourself was very eager to comply with his demands, not because you thought the experiments were interesting, but rather you enjoyed spending time with him, and the prospect of him touching you—even though it was only your hand—was thrilling.

Tom caressed the lines on your palms. He was distracted by it.

You weren’t sure what it was about him that made you so drawn. You didn’t believe in love at first sight, it was only something based on lust and looks, but this was more. You didn’t just like him, you found him utterly attractive, in a way that surpassed physicality.

It certainly wasn’t his personality. You thought you two were compatible in mentality, and you got along well, but he was rather boring. He wasn’t fiery nor exciting, nothing that could take you off guard or pique your curiosity. 

He was intelligent. He told you he used to study physics, something you just had to respect him for, but you didn’t know that until just recently, and it’s not like his day-to-day actions showcased his genius. 

You really didn’t know what it was, and a part of not knowing made it all the more mysterious. But it also made you feel vulnerable. In less than a year, you had become so hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with someone. He could do anything and you wouldn’t blink an eye. He had so much power over you, and he didn’t even know it.

“Can you feel it?” he asked softly, looking up at you.

You pulled your hand away, too flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He took your hand again, unrelenting. He gripped it tighter, encasing it in his warmth. It felt so nice.

“Between us,” he clarified, his voice low. He was gazing at you intently.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you like me?” he asked, his tone almost desperate. “I see you do things, impossible things. When you drop a pencil in class it floats back up to your hand, when your coffee gets too cold I see you wrap your hand around the cup and make it bubble. No one else notices, but I do. I see it.”

You froze, or rather, your mind was instantly filled with so many thoughts you couldn’t comprehend them all at once. 

You thought you were careful with your abilities because up until now, no one had caught you. Not since you were a teenager who copied off others during a test, not since you got your first car and put it on autopilot so you could sleep during a drive, not even since you were a little girl who was too lazy to tie her own braid at school. 

“T-Tom,” you stuttered. “I don’t . . .”

And what was that he said about being like him? Was he implying that he could do these things too? That after all these years of searching, you’d finally found another psychic?

Tom’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” He chuckled nervously. “I don’t know what I was saying. Just forget it.”

He cleared his throat. You still didn’t say anything. It was like someone had pressed a mute button and you couldn’t speak, no matter how badly you wanted to say something.

“You should go,” he suggested. “Thank you, for all the help.”

He stood up, and you did too, mirroring his actions. He lead you over to the exit. “Have a nice day, I look forward to seeing you in class next week.”

You turned around, not wanting to leave yet. “Tom . . .”

He was about to close the door when you stopped it with your foot, budged it open, and leapt into his arms, placing a passionate kiss on his lips.

You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know what you were thinking. All that you knew was that you wanted him. Badly. As you pushed your way back inside the room, you feared for a moment that he was going to shove you off, tell you he didn’t mean it like that, but he didn’t. He pulled you inside and lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, and sat you on top of his desk, returning the kiss with even more intensity.

“Tom,” you all but moaned. You felt confused and dazed, but with the way Tom was nibbling at your neck, sucking and licking, you could tell he wasn’t in the same boat as you. You relaxed, letting everything go. You could let him take care of this—whatever this was. Let him take care of you.

“Can I take it off?” he asked in between kisses. He tugged at your shirt, fingers hovering above the buttons.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Please, please, please—”

The buttons unbuttoned themselves. You gasped a little in surprise as your shirt was tossed to the side. That was all the confirmation you needed—Tom Buckley was just like you. 

The realization that you had finally found another was lost when he started kneading your breasts through your bra. “Such a needy girl,” he cooed. “Didn’t know she could get like that. Doesn’t want to answer my questions but needs me to please her.”

“Fuck,” you let out, surprised at the dirty talk, but pleased nonetheless. “I just want you.”

“I know you do. Staring at me like a piece of meat in class. That’s all I am to you, hmm? Just a hot teacher to fuck. You tell your little friends about me?”

“No!” You whined when his hands went underneath your bra and pinched your nipple. “Ow! I’ve never told anyone.”

“Ah, I knew you were a good girl.”

You whined again and nuzzled your head in the crook of his shoulder, not wanting him to see how flustered he was making you. 

“Pretty girl,” he murmured, unclasping your bra, watching your breasts fall out. “Beautiful girl . . . Can I suck?”

“Yes!” you said impatiently. You found it sexy that he kept asking for permission, but also annoying—he needed to get straight to the point, and stop teasing you.

He latched his lip onto your hard nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud, occasionally nipping on it. While his mouth was occupied, his hands were roaming your body, up to your face and down to as far as he could reach, which while you were sitting down, was all the way to your ankles.

He switched nipples and went to your other breast, making you release a sigh of satisfaction. He eventually let go and gave you another kiss, his tongue slipping inside.

You looked down. He was hard, subtly trying to grind himself between your legs. “Mmm,” he moaned against your lips. 

His moan was wonderful. If not for your own pleasure, you wanted to continue this just so you could elicit another sound out of him.

In a bold move, you reached down and squeezed his crotch. He let out a sound, more strangled this time, and pulled away, a string of saliva connecting you both.

He placed his hand over the hand that was palming his cock, encouraging you to keep going, with eyes shut and nose scrunched up. He then moved it to lean on your shoulders.

“Do you like it rough or vanilla?” he asked. “I can do both.”

You tried to hide your grin. “Rough.”

He knew that by saying that you didn’t want it completely that way. The actions, yes, but you still wanted to hear him praise you, to caress you, to whisper sweet things in your ear.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He picked you — handsome and strong — and laid you down on the couch. It wasn’t that large, but at least it was more comfortable than his desk, and you didn’t want to wait any longer by going to his place or yours.

“I want to let you know,” he started seriously, “that this isn’t a, uh, one-night stand. I don’t want that, not from you.”

“I don’t want that either,” you said. 

“And I don't do this often. Well, I don't do this at all. With other students, I mean. You’re the first. I don’t want you to think that I’m just, how do you say it? playing you?”

You giggled. He didn’t seem like the playboy type at all. In fact, when most men and women flirted with him, he usually got all uncomfortable and quiet, a fact that boosted your ego, as he never felt that way around you.

“This is serious for me, too. Let’s keep it a secret until this semester is over. And when I’m out of your class we can make it public, okay?”

He nodded, and leaned down to kiss you again, soft and delicate. 

“Take off your shirt,” you demanded.

He smiled at your behavior. It took a minute, because he was wearing his suit, but he managed to get it off with your help. You didn’t want to damage his clothing, it was probably on the more expensive side, and he looked so exquisite in it. 

You admired his chest. He was lean, but you could still see some faint muscles. After all, he had carried you to the couch. He was perfect. It was just what you had hoped for.

This moment didn’t feel real. How was it that you had gotten so lucky? You were here with the man of your dreams, in his arms, and you were about to make love. 

“Get on your knees.”

You did as he asked. You had done this a couple times before, so you weren’t really worried. You could even take cock all the way in, but when you saw his size, you gulped.

He guided your face to it. You licked the tip to the base to the balls, wondering how you were going to make it fit. You reasoned with yourself that if you couldn’t you could just use your hands for the rest.

That was, until he slid his cock inside your mouth and pushed it as far as he could. You controlled your gag reflex and started bobbing your head up and down, the sensation causing your eyes to tear, but not in pain. 

He wiped them away. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t say anything, not with your mouth filled. You showed your answer by sucking him, fondling his balls, looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes.

“Ohhh, you take it so well. So well.”

He pushed your head all the way down, keeping it there for a few seconds. You breathed in through your nose, trying to keep yourself under control whilst still making the experience pleasurable for him. He seemed to like it, with the way he was rolling his hips against your mouth, even though there was nothing left to fit inside. 

Then, suddenly, you felt something rubbing your clit through your pants. You tried to pull off of Tom, concerned at what it might be, when you realized it was him. He was the one doing it, making you feel this way. 

He kept your head in place, a pleased smile on his face. “Like that?”

You moaned. You couldn’t concentrate on him, not when your body was being pleasured so good. How much practice had he had with his abilities? How could he focus when you were going down on him? It was probably the age. He wasn’t that much older than you, but he was older, and surely that came with more practice. 

He pulled you off of him after a few minutes of you squirming and gagging, placing you down on the couch. He made sure your head was in a comfortable position before taking off your pants and pulling out his cock. Your pussy was still being rubbed, by whatever invisible force he was using, and it was about to make you come.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he shushed, pressing his cock at your entrance. 

“Let me make you—”

“No,” he growled. “I’m going to come inside of you. Don’t think, just let your professor handle it.”

You knew he wasn’t technically your professor. He was just the TA, but it was still sexy to hear him say that. It reminded you of your student-teacher relationship, the forbiddeness of it all. 

You came just as his cock slid in. He sighed, feeling your pussy flutter and your cream leak out on him. He looked down, taking in the view, before pulling his cock out and slamming it back in, taking you off guard. 

His pace was unrelenting. You didn’t know he could be so animalistic. He was panting and groaning in your ear, holding your body in place even though you weren’t going anywhere. He was still rubbing your clit — technically — but you didn't mind. You could take another orgasm.  Besides, you weren’t sure if he would stop even if you asked. He looked so blissed out, like he was in another world, the only thing driving him his primal instinct.

“Gonna fill you up so good,” he said, increasing the intensity of his pace. The couch was now shuffling a little, moving forward a little bit each time, but Tom didn’t seem to notice. “You need it so bad. Just want me to take care of you, yeah?”

“Yes,” you cried out, rather pathetically. It was crazy to think how submissive this man could make you. You had never been like this with any of your other partners, but with him, you felt safe, like you trust him with anything.

“I can imagine — you in class, giving me one of those eyes you always do. Fuck — the other students don’t suspect a thing, but both you and I know that I’ll have you over my desk by evening.”

The thought alone made your mind whirl.

“I should fill your panties with my cum, make you walk around in it,” he said. That shouldn’t have aroused you as much as it did. He noticed your reaction. “Oh, you enjoy hearing me say those things? Those depraved, dirty things.”

He hit that spot in you, the one that made you go crazy, and you cried out, clutching his shoulders.

“There it is,” he said, mostly to himself, as he kept ramming that spot over and over again. The added sensations made you go limp in his arms. You could feel that familiar coil in your stomach, the one that told you you were going to orgasm again.

You threw your head back, looking up at the ceiling as you came, but your peace of mind didn’t last long. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look back at him, beating that same spot again, all while continuing the assault on your clit. “Look at me, I want to see your face.”

You looked right into his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, and you could tell an orgasm was coming for him, too.

You felt a little ashamed that in such a short time he had made you come twice, and you hadn’t at all — at least, not yet — but like he said before, he didn’t want you to think, so you didn’t, and let whatever thoughts you had left bouncing around in your head leave.

“You’re wonderful,” he praised, kissing you again. He couldn’t get enough of it. Your teeth clashed briefly, but neither of your cared. He just wanted to taste you. “I can’t wait to be with you.”

With that, he came inside, filling you up to the brim with his hot seed. He kept his cock in, holding your hips in place, until he was satisfied and pulled out.

He laid on top of you on the couch, caressing the side of your cheek as you both recovered and took your breath. 

It was silent. Just the two of you, in his office. You had finally found the one. The one you were sure you were going to spend the rest of your life with, all happy and in love like a fairytale.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t think I’d ever find another,” you finally said.

“I didn’t either. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad it’s you I get to share this with.”

“Hey, what was with the cards? Were you just testing me?”

“Yeah.” He turned to face you. “I wasn’t sure if I was just seeing things. I mean, you get up so early and go to work, sometimes you just imagine a kid opening a door on its own or playing tricks with her assignments. I had to be sure.”

“So, you weren’t intending to tell my future?”

“You can’t actually do that,” he said.

“Yes you can.”

He blinked, surprised. 

“I know you said the interpretation is very broad, but it still works.”

“You can actually tell the future?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t have to be with Tarot cards only. But whatever methods, I don’t do it often, I feel like it messes with things. But sometimes I just get these images in my head, and I can’t stop it.”

It hadnt occurred to you that even though you were both psychic, your powers, or at least, the direction you went with them, were different.

“If you weren’t reading my future, what were you doing?”

“I noticed that objects imbued with magic, especially artifacts, radiated energy—a feeling, one that only I could sense. If I gave the same impression on those cards, and you happened to pick them, it would either be a huge coincidence or it would mean you were drawn to them, albeit unknowingly. It was just something to give me more confidence.”

You weren’t aware that was something a person could do. You supposed there were plenty of things you didn’t know. You were looking forward to learning from him, and teaching him as well. You were both in uncharted waters, not knowing where this would lead you both. But it was okay, as long as you had him by your side.

You did worry a little that this intense connection you felt with him was only in an otherworldly sense, that you fell for him because of this magic, but you shook the thought away. That wasn’t true. You wouldn’t let it be true. You loved him and he loved you—and that was it. Nothing more. 

“I can do another round,” he said suddenly. “You?”

You grinned and nodded. “Yeah. But this time, I want to ride you.”

He laughed and flipped you both over so that you were on top of him. “Show me how you get off, babygirl.”

Taglist:

@henrywintersdearestgirl

@shroombloom-rry

@meetmeatyourworst

@mrkdvidal1989

[thomine]

noceur - thoma

thoma x reader | 2.6k words | general audiences

miraculously surviving a near death experience should be celebrated except everyone reminds you that you came back wrong. everyone except... the person doing laundry with you late at night. [ noceur: a person who stays up late at night. ]

tags: comes back wrong trope, brief mentions of skipping meals, human resource malpractice, hinted mentions of abuse, blood and injury, near death experience, requested, not proofread

links: read on ao3 ⁎ read on sqw ⁎ author's notes ⁎ prompt list (closed)

note: this was completed during ficwip's retreat weekend! :D

.　⁺ . 　 ˚　✦　.　　+ ⁺　 　 . ✦

The moment you open your eyes, memories of the previous night flood in.

Chinju Forest was shrouded in perpetual night as always. Luminous blue flowers decorated the river as tall trees let for a spectacular show of spotted moonlight. A beautiful scenery for a run, but you were not running for leisure. Your journey to find your missing father had turned into a chase.

Hilichurls loaded their bows and aimed as you fumbled your way deep into the forest. You tripped on a root and an arrow almost landed on your hand if not for your roll to the side. Before your escape, one of the monsters smashed your femur with its bat. It should have been fatal. It should warn you to return, but the adrenaline worked too well. When you fell, that pain shot through your body like the release of a tensed string. Whiz. Something cold pierced your right shoulder.

You didn't die immediately, of course. You wouldn't let yourself. Your father was still out there. Monsters were not match with his combat prowess, but it was useless against the tricks of the forest from curious bake-danuki or powerful yokai. You had to find him because he promised to tell you about your mother when the time was right. You had to find him because he would never abandon you either.

But even when the monsters left after having their fun, you stayed still. Not a single muscle could twitch.

As you laid, choking on blood and paralyzed by pain, the full moon shone on you like a limelight. You seemed to have drawn a presence, thick and soft fur covering your eyes like a mother's kiss. Accompanying the wind's timeless melody, a voice hums a familiar lullaby…

Beastly creature, no known keeper… Head to toe of fearful features… Plagued by longing like a fever… In solitude, world so blued, full of non-believers…

You sit upright, eyes squinting from the sunset. Raising your hand to block the light—

Wait… You have full rotation on your right shoulder. You can move your leg with no pain.

And the sun… You turn your head to see that you're not in Chinju Forest. Instead, you're a few centimeters beyond the toji gate guarding the entrance. A few hundred meters in is the rock where your search took a turn for the worse. It's surprisingly clear despite the foliage.

A shout runs across the sky. It is faint, but gets louder. The voice calls your name. Soon, you hear rushing footsteps—wooden sandals on cobblestone paths—but it's only after long minutes that a face emerges from the distance. When the lady notices your figure by the gate, you see the relief in her wrinkly smile as if she's standing in front of you. If you remember right, she's the head maid.

"You were missing for 3 days! Thank the shogun the guard on patrol found you," she cries, but as she nears, her light steps morphs into stomps. "Who do you think you are? Running off into the dangerous forest by yourself and making everyone worry? Your father already caused so much trouble with his disappearance, but they say you take after him so—"

She gasps, stepping back with wide eyes full of apprehension. Her hands cover her gaping mouth.

Is there something on your face? You tap your cheeks, your mouth and nose. Nothing stands out to you. Is it your teeth? Did you eat something disgusting and it's stuck in your teeth? Why does she look at you like you have an extra limb!

But her fear vanishes as rage takes over.

"You will compensate everyone for the work you abandoned. Quick, get on your feet." She grabs your wrist while her other hand covers her nose. You try to protest that your search was supposed to only be a day's affair, you definitely didn't plan to go missing, but your vocal chords are strangely strangled. "We have a lot to do before you meet the Lord. Taking a bath being the first."

Doing laundry was not the worse fate of a Kamisato servant, but it was proving to be just that.

The stench of aged bacteria freezes you in place and you still have a few meters to reach the basket of dirty clothes. Thankfully, the Kamisato Estate can afford strong detergent, so the broad pail of soapy water you've prepared fills the room in a clinical aroma peppered with artificial flora scents. You would have complained of its pungent scent if it was not the lesser of two evils.

No one liked laundry but it was an annoyance at most before your disappearance. This new experience was seriously shaking your sense of self. It didn't help that three days after your return, you bent a metal spoon while helping in the kitchen. Just yesterday, you freaked a colleague with your "glowing eyes". The room wasn't even that dark.

You hear your name. It is not said harshly. The surprise compels you to turn your head, apprehension on high.

"Still doing laundry at this hour?" Thoma, the housekeeper and once your close friend, says.

The strong smells of the laundry room must have rendered your senses numb. Usually you'll notice someone sneaking up to you. Guess your empty stomach twisting like a child throwing a tantrum is also an issue.

"Sir Thoma," you greet, giving a quick bow. You try to hide your frown as you do. When the head maid instructed you to do laundry at night, you hoped it decreased your chances of bumping into him. Not that you had—this is the first meeting since your return—but you wanted to be cautious. So much for your efforts. "It shouldn't be strange to see someone washing clothes at the end of the day."

"End of the day?" Thoma chuckles, lightly shaking his head. "It was the end of the day a few minutes ago. I believe you should be asleep at this hour." he continued.

"Did the head maid report of my absence?"

"Surprisingly, she reported a full house."

"She must have saw me take a nap and counted me in," you say closer to a statement than a question. "Either way, you shouldn't fret over a humble servant's duties."

"Why be so formal? I know we haven't seen each other in weeks, but that wouldn't make us strangers."

He walks pass you to pick up the laundry basket. Some soiled pieces fall as he lifts it, but he effortlessly bends and places them back, uncaring for the way it grazes his clothes.

"Please, there is no need." You snatch the basket from him with both hands, pressing it against your body for extra support. You aren't at your full strength and you're not going to make a fool of yourself. "I rested well so I have enough energy to get this done."

However, the proximity send a blast of stench that threatens to burn your lungs. You can't help but free one hand to pinch your nose. The basket tilts. Thoma is the reason why nothing spills on the floor.

"See?" He's almost smug about it."I think my help is very reasonable."

With one tug, he brings the basket at an angle and the clothes drop into the pail with minimal splash. Then, he grabs a chair and a washboard to start scrubbing.

You grab another stool from the stack he took his, placing it on the other end of the pail. In the silence, or as quiet as a night with singing crickets can be, you and Thoma scrub each piece of cloth. To focus on the task, you try to narrow on his scent.

His shampoo is undoubtedly the one people of Inazuma are raving about. Lauded for its strong and lasting aroma, evident by how its mint can rival the smell of dirty laundry at this hour. Still, an earthly and musky odor lingers on him. It is the scent of other canines. It's a mix only Thoma can pull off—

Wait, so what? You dig your hands deeper into the pail of cold water, as if that can cool the warmth in your face.

20 minutes in and you start the feel the effects of hunger. Your hands are shaking. You barely scratch the cloths against the washboard, but that's better than tearing it.

Another 10 minutes and Thoma leaves to change the water. You take a nap, hoping that can help you pull through.

Briefly, you dream of tricolor dango. As you sink your teeth in the snack, you taste a hazy rendition of milk tangled with the unique sweetness from sakura blooms and snapdragons. It's Thoma's signature dango. Another bite can't hurt but you're ripped away, a rude awakening by something tapping your head—

You nearly jump at Thoma. Fear flashes across his face and for a second you're back to the incident of last week. Blood on your nails. A terrifying scream. You didn't know you held them that tightly. Ruckus and chaos before the head maid stepped in and declared a new law for you.

Your stomach grumbles. You deserve it.

After mumbling an apology, you dive into work. Now you have to avoid thinking about how you wish he wasn't here and how you smell the sweet snack from your dreams.

Finally, after an hour and a half, both of you see the bottom of the laundry basket.

"This can't be a normal day's wash," he leans back and groans, wiping his face with his upper arm. "It is making me reconsider bathing twice a day," he jokes, probably noticing your uncanny quietness.

You offer a reserved toothless smile. Some colleagues say your "fangs" make you look terrifying, and scaring Thoma again is the last thing you want.

"No wonder laundry is always done in teams," he adds.

"Sir Thoma," you slow your pace of washing, most of whatever little energy you have directed to thinking of how to phrase your concern. "Why aren't you asleep? I don't take you as a noceur with how you have to wake up at the crack of dawn. Are you here because you pity me?"

"I was on my way to the kitchen when I saw you."

"I didn't know you eat supper."

"I don't. I was going to make a meal for you."

You pause, head hanging low. Thoma was the only person you willingly avoided, and yet…

"I heard the chefs were told not to cook dinner for you, which explains why I didn't see you in the dining hall."

"For a good reason," you say as you resume washing, showing him a delicately wrung towel. "This is only possible because of the head maid's orders."

"Still, it shouldn't be the way to do things."

"So you do pity me."

He calls your name, lovingly yet firmly.

"I don't pity you. I care for you." Thoma places his hand on yours, gently lifting it out of the soapy waters. Your nails are to"I couldn't sleep properly ever since you disappeared. I'm really glad you're back."

You pull your hand away, tucking it behind your back, and look at the floor. Your sharp and odd looking nails are harder to ignore with his as a clear comparison.

It doesn’t make sense. Your colleagues are always giving excuses to the head maid to avoid working with you. What you see in the mirror is a familiar face, but everyone points at you to claim otherwise. How could Thoma look at you in the eye and say the exact opposite?

"Thoma, I don't know if the person you're searching for is in front of you."

His face is scrunched by deep thought. Anxiety squeezes your chest as you wait for his response. Despite your new senses, you still can't read minds.

"I have a few questions for you then," he starts. Your heart sinks, although you fully expect suspicions. "Your father was a guard of the Kamisato Estate, yes?"

"…Yes?"

"You have a very close relationship with him but hardly know anything about your mother."

"Yes."

"You lived and served the Kamisato clan since birth, yes?"

"More like since I was a baby."

"And you wouldn't say no to my tricolor dango, would you?"

"What?"

He dries his hands by wiping on his attire, then unwraps a square box and reveals pink, white, and green glutinous balls pack neatly in a grid. It's messy in presentation, each ball being of a different size. Some are deformed to make way for others. It can't ever pass standards to be served to the Kamisato siblings. Still, there is a waft of freshly melted sugar and you feel heat emanating from it. That's what matters to you.

"Sorry, it's a bit squashed—Don't give me that look. I know you smelled it."

"I thought I was crazy!"

He hands it over as you try not to drool. You excuse yourself to wash your hands before returning, ready to ravenously finish everything.

"I'd have you know I would be insulted that's your criteria of me as a person under normal circumstances ." You chomp on a ball, closing your eyes to indulge in it. It's better than your dream, the flavors richer than you remember it to be.

"So what makes this not a normal circumstance?"

"This is too delicious. More chewing, less talking."

"See?" This time he's smug about it. "You're still the same person I know."

He grabs the remaining clothes in the basket and dumps them in soapy water. He doesn't start immediately though, his eyes lingering on you enjoying his dish.

Is there something on your face? Maybe you have dango around your mouth. Do you look silly gobbling his food? Why does he look at you like that? Fondness in his bright green eyes pairing with a smile so genuine it makes you giddy.

You hope your erratic heartbeat is not echoing in the room like how it is in your head. The detergent is suddenly more manageable than Thoma's scent.

He finally returns to the laundry, splitting the remaining amount in half. That prompts you to share your last tricolor dango which he accepts. With his hands buried under the water, he opens his mouth for you to plop a ball. With the box emptied, you join him, able to scrub with newfound strength.

"I can cook you something tomorrow. What would you like to eat?" he asks after swallowing the sweet.

"You'll be going against the head maid's orders. I don't want to cause you trouble."

"It's more trouble to deal with a hungry and irritated you than an angry head maid."

You did almost hurt him today…

"I'll try to do the laundry earlier too," you comment when he yawns, throwing the last cloth into the pile of cleanliness. "I'll be in bed before you so you have no excuses to make midnight trips to the kitchen."

He smiles and you mirror him, teeth and all.

"Great. Then we can definitely get it done on time for a good night's sleep, right?"

You don't protest, an answer of itself. A warm fuzzy feeling tumbles in your chest at the thought of doing laundry with Thoma tomorrow.

Once everything has been cleaned and hung, you bid him goodbye.

As you pass by a window, the bright full moon catches your eye. In the distance is the canopy of Chinju Forest. You recall that terrifying night. Your eagerness to reunite with your father. The strange comforting presence just before you awoke.

The wind sings that lullaby.

The last verse creeps into your mind as a distant memory of your mother singing to you.

But the wait will not make you weaker… Dream a dream little dreamer… Soon you shall meet with your seeker

.　⁺ . 　 ˚　✦　.　　+ ⁺　 　 . ✦

additional note: as you can tell i'm not the best songwriter out there... thank you so much for requesting this! i know it's deviant from what you requested, but i hope you like it nonetheless!

[ari-the-arotistic]

So I was thinking about pirates of the Caribbean, and each characters unique moral code and way of approaching life, as one does, when I remembered a particular scene about our beloved James Norrington... the very first scene in which Jack and James meet. Now, as a long time Sparrington shipper, I adore the Sparrington fandoms adopted head canon of Jack's compass pointing directly at Jack when James is holding it as having a romantic connotation too it, but this is Disney we're talking about, and a Disney from 20 years ago at that, so it is of course just a head canon. And while it is a beloved head canon, I will always be a writer before a shipper, and what that scene says about Norrington from a writer's perspective is far too juicy not to share... So buckle up for a very long meta post about who James Norrington is as a person, and how it was set up in this scene(and later reinforced in the second and third movie). This is my first real meta post, and I'm very excited for it, so let's jump right in.

First of all, the compass scene.

As we can clearly see in the image above, since the red line that points to the object of the holder's desires is no where to be seen, its relatively easy to conclude that it's hidden from our view by the sun dial in the middle, and thusly is pointing directly at Jack. Elizabeth is off to James's right, and no one is standing behind Jack, so unless the compass was pointing at something in the far off distance that just so happened to be in Jack's general direction(unlikely) its pretty clear what(or who) the compass is pointing at. For most potc fans, this is fairly standard knowledge. But it's what this fact says about Norrington's character that I'd like to focus on. After all, what does it say about a man that a compass that shows you what you desire most is pointing at a pirate, and the very face of piracy at that, instead of your canonical love interest, when you're a Commodore of the Navy? As stated above, Sparrington shippers often point at this scene as proof that James has a bit of a pash on the ruggedly handsome pirate, or at the very least, a thing for men. But from a writer's perspective, this just simply isn't the case, and not because the writer's in this instance are the notoriously homophobic corporation we call Disney. The reason why this is so unlikely from a writing perspective is because given the context clues, we as an audience are meant to draw the conclusion that this is the first time that they meet(I have heard rumors of them meeting as children in the books, but having never read them, and focusing only on the movies, I'm not including that in this post). And since this is the first time they've met, it's highly unlikely that the compass is pointing at Jack because James has a bit of a thing for him. Even if James has heard of Jack's many exploits, he does not truly know the man behind the legend, so having romantic feelings for the pirate at this point in time just isn't believable. And even if James was a closeted gay/bi man, it's still unlikely that the compass would be pointing at Jack of all the men around the Commodore(of which there is a lot, some of whom he is incredibly close with) seeing as Jack is the poster boy of piracy, and at this point in the movie it's made abundantly clear that James vehemently detests the notion and all who practice it. If James were to be holding the compass in Jack's vicinity in later movies and it still pointed at the pirate, an argument could definitely be made that it was because he had developed feelings for Jack, but for their first meeting, it's just not realistic. So it's much more likely that the reason the compass is pointing at Jack is because of James's desire to send every pirate he meets to "a quick drop and a sudden stop" as he so eloquently put it to a young Elizabeth. This is further reinforced in the third movie when it is revealed that Beckett's desire to have Jack dead at his feet would prevent him from using the compass to find Shipwreck Cove if the pirate was not already at the aforementioned location, or, well, dead. This is again, relatively common knowledge. But like I said before, it's what this fact says about James that is the whole point of this post... and that is that James cares more about his career than anything else, even the woman he claims to love. Now for some, that statement alone might seem like a pretty obvious conclusion, but it's how this scene subtlety sets up this core aspect of Norrington's character before we even truly get to know who he is, and how it's brought to it's full height in the second movie, and the core aspect of his redemption and subsequent death in the third that I'd really like to talk about. Which brings us to the next segment of this post...

How James lost his commission to the navy...

And how he got it back

So let's start off with how James lost his commission... it's a story we all know pretty well, and one he tells to Gibbs in the scene shown above, when he plans to either join Jack's crew or get revenge on the man that(he believes) ruined his life. After Jack's escape in the first movie, James grew obsessed with capturing the pirate, so much so that he foolishly followed the Black Pearl into a hurricane, resulting in the sinking of the Dauntless, and the loss of countless lives that had been aboard the vessel. It's unclear aside from James himself who had been on the ship at the time, and who did or did not survive, but the death toll was heavy, with most, if not everyone who wasn't James, having perished in the storm. While it is not the most extreme example(which we'll get too in just a bit), this is a pretty clear example of James prioritizing his career above everything else, even reason and logic. And all just to capture a singular pirate, even at the cost of his own ship and crew, and rather ironically, the very career that he had been so desperately trying to hold onto in the first place. Which brings us to the next scene I'd like to discuss... James stealing the heart of Davy Jones. This moment is the absolute peak of this part of James's character. This is the moment where James takes his obsessive need for his career to the max. This is the moment where James truly prioritizes his career above everything else, even the woman he claims to love(and for Sparrington shippers, above the man he's reluctantly come to care about). At this point in time, when James decides to take the heart for himself to regain his old station, he's been on the Black Pearl long enough to know the full situation. That Jack is in some kind of trouble with Davy Jones, and that if Jack doesn't use the heart to bargain for his freedom, then the Kraken will hunt Jack, and subsequently the Black Pearl, down until he and everyone aboard are dead. And that includes Elizabeth. And yet, despite knowing that stealing the heart would basically mean sealing Elizabeth's death, he still decided to do so. Sure, the argument could be made that he thought Elizabeth would be able to escape somehow, but the chances of her dying at sea, or some other terrible fate befalling her before she could safely make it back to civilization would have been highly likely. Of course we as an audience know that this isn't the case, but James does not. So essentially, James was so obsessed with his career, and maintaining the image of the honorable Commodore that he didn't even truly register that he was putting Elizabeth, the woman he loves and has been trying so desperately to woo for the past two movies, in danger. And he won't fully realize the consequences of his actions until the third movie, in a deleted scene no less(I swear when I find whoever decided to delete some of the most important scenes to James's character...), when Davy Jones informs Governor Swann of his daughters untimely demise on the Black Pearl. Of course, almost immediately afterwards, Beckett retcons that statement by informing the Governor that Elizabeth was recently seen in Singapore, but for a few minutes, James has to sit with the fact that Elizabeth was dead, and it was his fault. And even after learning that she was in fact still alive, James has now finally come to the realization that if she had still been on the Black Pearl when it sank with its Captain, he would've been the one to send her to her death. And for Sparrington shippers, James has to sit with the unavoidable fact that he was the reason Jack had died(even if the pirate does come back), despite the fact that it was Elizabeth's betrayal that was the final nail in Jack's coffin, since she wouldn't have had to do that if the Kraken wasn't after them in the first place. Which brings us to the final scene I'd like to discuss...

James choosing a side, and paying the price

Now, before we fully delve into this scene, I'd like to take a moment to talk about James's own perception of himself, and his relationship with honor and integrity. From the very first scene in which we meet James Norrington, we are made aware that he has a strong moral compass. He firmly believes piracy is evil, and that all who partake in piracy deserve a swift end. He perceives his Commodore persona as being the paragon of honor and integrity, and the sole arbiter of justice. We can infer from the line "By remembering that I serve others, Sparrow, not just myself" that James does have honorable intentions when ridding the world of pirates, that being protecting the innocent citizens under his care, but as seen once again in the first time James and Jack meet, wherein James adamantly tries to arrest Jack despite the fact the fact that pirate had just saved Elizabeth's life, his actions to achieve that goal are not always quite as honorable as his intentions are. This is especially highlighted once again when James gave Beckett the heart of Davy Jones. James's intentions here were once again rooted in honor and integrity - he believes that the only way to keep people safe from pirates is too return to his old station, to the image of honor and integrity he had built around the title of Commodore, and the only way to return to his old station is to give Beckett the heart. But the action itself was far from honorable, seeing as James had to betray the woman he loved just to obtain the heart, and that he was now putting it into the hands of a dangerously unstable individual who planned on using it to commit mass genocide.

And now, we finally get to the scene above... Of course, it's made clear throughout his scenes in the third movie leading up to this one that James is already starting to regret giving Beckett the heart after seeing the damage being caused, but since Beckett is targeting pirates specifically(although we as an audience know that Beckett's definition of pirate is very loose) James figures that the ends justify the means, as he often does in situations regarding piracy. It is not until his reunion with Elizabeth, where he learns that Governor Swann is dead, and that Beckett lied to him about the Governor's whereabouts, that James truly realizes the enormity of his mistake. It is in this moment that James has a sudden realization that fundamentally shakes him to his core, and is the reason behind his change of heart later on. He realizes that the honorable Commodore persona that he had tried to cultivate and keep a hold of for so long had never been truly honorable at all, and that by giving Beckett the heart of Davy Jones, he had effectively tied the noose around the neck of his own honor and integrity, as well as the necks of hundreds, if not thousands of innocent people, with his own hands. And as that one vine goes, this was the moment James knew, he fucked up. Which leads to his decision to change sides in an attempt to redeem himself, and his subsequent death in the process. Of course, part of James's reason for helping Elizabeth escape was that he does care for her, but given everything I've detailed about him so far, I think it's safe to say the main reason that James decided to help Elizabeth and her crew was because he wanted to undo the damage he had done, and he had faith that Elizabeth, Will, and Jack would have some sort of plan to defeat Beckett, and stop any further damage to come from his mistake. And now, for his death scene itself... As much as I love the idea of James surviving and joining the pirates(whether at Elizabeth's side or Jack's is unimportant), I firmly believe that his death was a necessary end of this part of his character arc, and that if he were to survive he would still have to go through a major ego death for this part of his character arc to end properly. Because as Bill turner drives that wooden pike into James's gut, it's not just the physical death of his body, but also the metaphorical death of Admiral James Norrington, and the ideals that James had used to build the persona out of. So even if James survived, the Admiral would still have to meet his metaphorical end, thusly causing James to lose a core part of himself that had been guiding most his decisions so far, in the process, which would start the next part of his character arc, where he would have to deal with the loss of a key part of his personality, and rebuild himself from the ground up to finally, truly become the image of honor and integrity he had envisioned from the beginning.

And that concludes this very long post. I could probably wax enough poetics about this aspect of James's character to write a short novel, but I've said everything important to this post, and if I go on any longer, I'm likely to start repeating myself lol. Thank you for reading, and feel free to share your thoughts in the comments or a reblog! I will always love hearing more about our polished peacock <3

[romantichopelessly]

invitation to speak more about the secret good td3 in your head, if you so desire!

Ok so I sat on this ask for DAYS because I wanted to have some cohesive, great answer, but the thing about The Dreamer Trilogy that haunts me is that I can never come up with good concrete thoughts about how to fix the issues I have with it, which is why I reference the “secret good td3 in my head” because it can never fully leave my head in any real way. That being said here’s a list of some elements I would change to make my secret good td3, in no particular order.

The visionaries don’t exist. Liliana, Persifal, etc. are just psychics that keep getting visions of the end, and die for reasons other than their power. Explaining what Visionaries are and subsequently over explaining the magic system of td3 is part of what made the trilogy so confusing and ruined a lot of the magic that the TRC universe already had for me. We don’t need concrete explanations, and psychics can still fill this role. The changing age and exploding added nothing?? to the narrative?? that I can think of?? We can even keep the age gap for Carliana if we want to, just make Liliana an older psychic like Maura/Persephone/Calla. It will even add to the excellent Carmen-Mr. Gray parallels.

Lean more into the themes of the age group. TRC is a coming of age story. It’s about being 17/18. It’s about learning your inner self and getting others to see the true you. TD3 should be more about being 19/20/21. To me, TD3 at its peak is like Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 6. Which is uniquely about the horror of being in your early 20s, losing support systems, having to learn to be a full self-reliant person, grappling with what your parents did to you, and the crushing loneliness of not being around Your People anymore. TD3 has all of these themes, but I really think they need to be fleshed out more, and given proper conclusion that isn’t just “yippee everything is fine now!”

Greywaren is longer. I think almost everyone agrees that Greywaren, as a book was just too short to wrap up all the plot lines set up, and does almost none of them justice. That book needed a whole rewrite. In theory, I’m completely fine with how it opens—Ronan being in a dream coma was foreshadowed from CDTH, and is an idea that I’d actually thought of as interesting before even reading the book. Other elements of this book like Declan’s rampage, Matthew going rogue, etc are great directions for the characters, I’d just want to rework them. I could make solo posts about any of these.

The Pynch breakup either doesn’t happen, or is set up further in advance and lasts longer. Personally, I lean towards the latter. Adam and Ronan’s conflict is set up from the very beginning of CDTH, or even from Opal (Adam warring between wanting to stay with Ronan and needing to follow through with his lifelong plans, and being frustrated that Ronan never asks for anything from Adam (specifically, to stay) ((side note: perhaps Adam’s insecurity here about Ronan respecting his boundaries so thoroughly stems from both having a family that never would respect his wishes, and Gansey (Adam’s model of love, Adam’s model of everything) having to learn not to ask things like that of Adam. What does it mean that Ronan never even tries?)) AND Ronan dealing with the crushing loneliness of being left and dealing with the consequences of having a long distance bf who is more successful than him). So they needed to have an argument about this. It’s also just in character that these two would not be perfect communicators. So. My idea: In CDTH we get no Adam POVs, just Ronan’s side of the story. We see, rather than Ronan just getting upset over one missed text, that Adam begins to pull away after the murder crab incident. We the audience don’t know why, other than Ronan’s unreliable narration and insecurity. So when Adam doesn’t respond to that one text at a vital fraught time, Ronan does what he does best, shuts down, pulls away and self destructs. Then MI rolls around and we start getting Adam POVs. We learn that after the murder crabs, Adam was throwing himself into trying to fix the nightwash situation for Ronan (Adam is not in contact with Declan here, unfortunately). After visiting for Ronan’s birthday and seeing the Lace, Adam starts to have dreams/premonitions about the end of the world (no visionaries in this universe, just psychics who are/were close to dreamers getting the visions!!). So he obviously sets out to fix this alone too. He calls his best approximations to contacts in this underground world that aren’t Declan. Henry and Mr. Gray. (+ maybe also Maura & Calla) ((Also don’t worry Henry doesn’t leave the Sarchengsey trip, just advises Adam on where to start)). Now that Adam has lost contact with Ronan (he was busy and missed the message and Ronan went off the grid like in canon), he goes full throttle into trying to solve everything while managing being his perfect Harvard persona (this gets him close to a breakdown, very reminiscent to Dream Thieves). Perhaps we get to see Adam and Declan working together to acquire sweet metals and understand the underworld of magic together. He and Ronan fight the one time they get to talk over the phone, Adam because he is truly scared Ronan will be the one to end the world, Ronan because he feels like this is another person perceiving him as a failure and wanting to control/baby him (+ he hates Adam hanging with Mr Gray and Declan of all people). By the time Greywaren starts, Adam is wrung out and hurting and Ronan is dead to the world, so yeah. He doesn’t think he can spend emotional energy playing safeguard to his boyfriend’s coma corpse. And then by the end of the book they have an actual argument/discussion no “they didn’t need words” cop out.

The number of Dreamers/Dreams has to be reduced. It’s cool to say that dreams were always integrated into this world, but it creates so many plot holes it isn’t even funny. There is no way Niall could have passed off the Greywaren being a box that brings dreams to life if Dreamers were such a common occurrence. No secret can be kept that well, someone in the black market would have known, and thus Greenmantle/Mr. Gray/Laumonier/ect WOULD HAVE KNOWN !!!

Declan does not have all his character erased by suddenly loving his mommy and daddy. Seriously what the fuck was that. Declan suddenly deciding to forgive his father because actually Declan was secretly the favorite child first is INSANE. Especially after seeing that that changed because Niall and Mor WANTED TO KILL HIS BROTHER!!! The two tenants of Declan Lynch in TRC were protecting his remaining family and fucking hating that Ronan idolized Niall just because Niall loved him best. So why make Declan turn around and do the same??? Suddenly Niall wasn’t so bad because actually he let Declan be shoved into a car trunk during a shootout out of love. I hate this plot line. Family doesn’t have to be forgiven. Understood, that’s one thing. Forgiven?? Not always. Sick of it. The real takeaway from seeing those memories should have been closure to Declan’s arc of learning that dreams should be viewed as people completely.

I definitely have other points but I cannot think of them right now. And I want to post this so I will. But TD3, as you can see, makes me an insane person.

[les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques]

The Roses of Yesterday: Chapter Six

Read here

You’re ugly. If only she knew just how correct she was. Maybe then she would understand and leave him to rot as he was destined. And all he had to do was turn around and face his hungry audience. The cage had never seemed smaller as it did in that moment, and its bars were now squeezing hot, painful tears from his sunken eyes. It was either choke on them entirely and die on the spot, or preserve what was left of the meager, frivolous life he had built for himself.

Off came the mask, his long fingers immediately digging into the flimsy excuse for skin beneath them, despite his back being turned against Augustine. He remembered how she agreed to never ask him about his face, and now—let us see how much a whore’s promise is worth. Let’s see what she makes of such hideous, volatile, and honest need.

Honesty. How he hated it.

“Leave,” he hissed, digging his bare feet into the carpet, praying that he might fall through the floor. “Leave before I find a reason to make you.”

“Erik. I’m trying to understand. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Ridiculous. Almost everyone in his life meant to hurt him—or worse. Why even bother lying with kindness, if she didn’t want to hurt him? Why ask him the same agonizing question, over and over again, if she didn’t want to tear him into pieces entirely? What he wanted was as impossible as heaven, and yet he still foolishly ached for it all the same. Just as much as he wished for a life where he could simply turn around and look Augustine in the face and give of himself completely.

Fuck her niceties. Fuck your hopes. You’re a monster, and she’s offering up her cunt to you on a silver platter.

His thoughts were jumbled, as ravenous and boundless as the hashish made him feel, and for a brief moment, he contemplated fleeing the house entirely. But the floorboards shifted again, and the soft padding sound of Augustine���s feet closing the distance between them was loud enough to pierce through his tears.

And trapped between her little act of contrition and the drumming of that relentless question—what do you want, Erik? What do you want—he was forced to fight his way out like the animal he was. If she asked him one more time, he would simply go mad.

“What do I want? What do I want?” Erik ran his fingers over his cratered cheeks, summoning that monstrous and desperate part he tried so hard to hide from pleasant society. Another half-truth eked out, and—fuck—wouldn’t they would drown each other in such notions. “I want you to turn around, close your eyes, and take off that god-damned robe. That is what I want.”

(Read the rest here.)

——-

A very difficult but super fun chapter to write! But hopefully a big, emotional turning point and one that changes the moment of the story up a little bit! You’d never know it from the excerpt, but we also get some real pharoga content here that I’m mad proud of! Shocked at myself for cranking out two chapters in roughly three months, but that’s 2025 thus far. Hopefully the streak will be continued.

Biggest thanks as always to @from-aldebaran for being the best beta reader a lady could ask for and making this story the best version of itself it could be. And a second thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story so far <3

[virginmiri99]

TOMMYINNIT IS AND ALWAYS HAS BEEN THE PROBLEM.

I'm off my anti psychotics and I have a lot of catching up to do in terms of tommy hate. first of all, I cant name a more depressing person to be around than someone who consistently tries to center the sympathy on them during a conversation. theres a huge difference between sharing your story and wallowing in it. as a public figure tommy is currently pulling a 2021 RANBOO... yeah thats right tommy is RANBOO by constantly trauma dumping his feelings on his audience: depression, parents divorce, loss of creativity... at a certain point it feels like a hostage situation and he wears the diagnosis of depression like a badge. Have I watched any tommy content recently? No. and not for like 3 years, and thats because his insufferable life habits seep into everything he touches, he has become that person who makes 'I wanna die' jokes that everyone has to uncomfortably laugh at while also parroting humor from middle school. Which is just why his career at "comedy" is failing, and is only doomed to fail. What is his audience? if it WAS all middle schoolers, why do shows that cost money and spew nonsense sexual humor that no parent in their right mind would accept sitting through? if he sees his audience that supports him financially being queer young adults (lesbians) why spend much of his time acting like a nasty middle school boy that turns his aging fans against him on their private twitters? does he ever look around at his peers such as tubbo and wonder why his best friend is much more loved by the overall streaming community--why tubbo is seen as an equal to other streamers while tommy is "that kid tommyinnit?" tommy cant sit at the table with larger streamers without sticking out as "the minecraft kid" and he cant sit at the table with long run minecrafters without sticking out as "inappropriate child", he recevce so respect as a real adult or creator from either side. I truly believe ludwig still things tommy is like 16. does he not feel the imposter syndrome of digging himself into a hole of his own doing? he claims to not want to do "gen z" humor any longer but I dont see the change being put in to expand his audience past the dsmp kids the way, say, tubbo or purpled have (sorry purpled for even speaking your name in presence of the devil. and you have issues too btw. but youre being mostly fine abt them). hell, even ranboo has fought tooth and nail to break away from it (but is cringe and annoying in a different way) my only conclusion from this is that tommyinnit was never talented, funny, or special in any grand way with zero clue of his core identity and now can only live in a false existence as its all hes ever known. he sees himself as bo burnham or robbie williams but he doesnt even know who he is in the first place. which is why he has no swag. he clings to the idea of being the minecraft funnyman, the good to dreams evil, the annoying kid who scored (and lost) a hot girlfriend, but he is failing at all of those things which makes him look desperate and pathetic and using the only thing he currently has: depression. he released a book filled with tweets that only a middle schooler could make to fill up pages (a la gabbie hanna poetry) with ai art and a lack of care for genuine creativity. tommyinnit is nothing more than a washed up 20 yo at the start of his life. at this point he just needs to stop being an online figure as its painful to watch even from a distance.

post this on reddit

[confusedmothboy]

hello hello. i would love to hear your thoughts on how you think travis’s dynamic with his mother(and father) was pre-crash! and also with his mother post-crash. no pressure to answer this i’m just Thinking about it now

YESSSS the martinez family is so interesting to me and its never touched on like at all

just a disclaimer thers a lot of speculation around them that delves more into stereotypical hispanic gender roles that probably influenced their dynamic and i am listening to all of it BUT im also white as fuck so i'll be speaking from my experience that obviously. doesnt include that

all the yapping is under the cut

in the first frames, travis isnt even in the shot. coach martinez hands the bag over to javi, and the camera pans over to travis, who's standing just brooding. i think this kinda immediately hits us with "javi is the golden child" or at least the only one acknowledged in a positive manner with his parents.

when it finally does pan over to travis, he's standing pretty far from everyone, showing the audience the distance from the rest of his family he tries to keep. he could help, but doesnt. i think its interesting how coach martinez tasked his 12 year old with loading up the car instead of his 15 year old whos perfectly capable ykyk. i think this sets up a lot of the resentment we see with travis both towards his dad and towards javi. javi, for whatever reason, is already seen as more capable by their dad than travis is.

this scene is usually skipped way over because of what comes right after it, and you cant really see it in the single screenshot, but javi completely shrugs off his mom's attempt to hug him goodbye. preteen angst? maybe. mirroring coach martinez and/or travis? ohhhh most definitley.

except coach martinez knows that in certain situations, appearance mattters. javi can shy away from parental affection, travis can be off doing whatever, but a husband should kiss his wife goodbye. except she SO does not want that. people speculate dv, affairs, just a general unhappy marriage, but i think its more indicative from a narrative point that this is a traditional family. mom, dad, two brothers just a few years apart, thats like. the goal family pretty much everywhere. they are absolutely nuclear. i feel like the lack of divorce thats very needed here can imply a few things, but overall, we know that this is an appearance-heavy, traditional, "normal" household.

travis gets in the car right after that, neither him nor his mother attempting to say their goodbyes. again, its hard to know whats intentional and whats just the script instructions saying [act like a moody teenager]. whatever.

travis clearly doesnt like his father, saying that coach martinez never even liked him, saying he was a shit dad, all that at his father's gravesite. lets just take a moment to acknowledge how batshit it is that coach martinez works at the same school that travis is relentlessly fucking harassed at and seemingly does nothing about it. i see him being the "getting bullied scares the weakness right out of someone" type, hence why we can assume he never tries to help his son out. he approaches coaching the same way but this isnt a coach martinez analysis this is about travis (and javi)

in these kinds of family dynamics, usually theres a "safer" parent, like you got one you cant ever talk to and then the other who you have a bit more connection with. but neither is trustworthy, because in the back of your mind there's always something nagging that "[safe parent] is still putting up with [other parent]'s behavior and doesn't try to do anything about it, even when it impacts me". because of this, i cant imagine travis having any sort of healthy dynamic with his mom either. in houses like these, sometimes its easier to blame the safe parent when they dont rush to your defense.

on javi: coach martinez obviously respects javi more. or at the very least is easier on him than on travis, most definitely because javi is the younger of the two. that's probably why coach martinez's behavior and travis's attitude dont rub of on javi as much as they could have. notice how javi's the only one that their mother tries to hug goodbye? notice how travis, being a 15 year old who's been bullied and ignored by people at school and at home, is desperate for physical affection the second nat starts to fall for him out in the wilderness? yeah. im sending brain waves over to you rn to convey what i cant exactly put into words. only when travis is out of his home and without both of his parents can he begin to deconstruct the resentment he built against javi. i also think that him being so aggressive with javi right after the crash was a form of preservation for javi's mental state. travis wanted javi to not only admit that their dad was awful (validating travis's experience), but also to protect javi and force him to build the same walls against their dad to save him from the adverse effects of oh i dunno seeing him impaled on a tree?? in travis's mind, until nat and him have that conversation, it's easier and safer to just say "nah i always hated him" and move on. theres a lot i could say about the realism in the martinez brother's dynamic but this is so long already and i have to get to school like 10 minutes ago

overall the family dynamic between these four actually drives me insane. both because we're shown so much and so little and OHHHH its delicious and awful and far too close to home

[airimafuyu]

🎡 Wonderlands x Showtime's Affect On Eachother: An Analysis(? idk) 🎡

The thought of WxS never meeting eachother makes me so sick. Cough Cough this is from twitter but I will proceed to post on tumblr because. Smiles. Let's all learn on how WxS would've been if they all never met! With Poor Explanations

Tsukasa Tenma 🌟

Tsukasa probably wouldn't have taken steps to stardom, maybe his absolute selfishness would have not improved at all? Nor remember what he was TRULY aiming for? Maybe there could've been another way, but nobody knows. But how he acted in main story definitely wasn't gonna get him anywhere.. If he didn't agree to doing shows with Emu then, he wouldn't be where he is right now.

Sure, he would pass auditions and do shows in other places, but again, he wouldn't remember why he was going to be a star, and still be the same as he was in the main story. Tsukasa wouldn't realize that the Wonder Stage would absolutely help him in the future... and had no idea this would make so much beautiful memories.

Emu Otori 🍬

With Emu, the wonder stage would probably have gone boom already, with Phennyland also getting its "improvements". She probably would've been so saddened by it, having her dead Grandpa's place be changed like this, she SWEARED to protect it :( WxS literally were the ones to help her out when she was feeling down and confused on what to do over the possible change of Phennyland. They planned out the amazing show in Wonder Magical Showtime to save Phennyland, and they did!

And so on, Emu had gotten herself friends that she would always love and do shows with. And she is thankful for everything they've done for her, for the stage, for the park.

Nene Kusanagi 🤖

Nene has changed A WHOLE LOT. She's probably a bit shy still, but she has improved on her anxiety and trauma so much. That show in middle school she forgot the lines to affected her so much she had almost given up her dream of being an actress. Tsukasa yelling at her made it all WORSE. Using a robot to perform because she didn't want to face her audience after the incident, but it just made things worse. She didn't want to do perform ever again; But after getting reassurance from Tsukasa, maybe she could take a step forward.

Actually, from the support of everyone including WxS she was able to overcome her fear, and improve from her trauma, slowly getting more confident as time passed, and improving on her singing skills too, as seen in Canary. It's also thanks to WxS she improved.

Rui & Nene's Friendship 🎈🤖

If it wasn't for them, where else would she be right now? Where else *her and Rui* could be? Would they also have fixed their friendship if it wasn't for WxS? Short answer: Probably not. Actual answer: Since in middle school they were so distanced, it was obvious that they probably wouldn't speak on High School either. Rui did talk to Nene when he found WxS for the first time, but would they talk again after Nene messed up another show? The chances are low, because Rui would still be "doing shows alone" like how he said in Middle School. And yet, Nene still wouldn't find a way to help him.

So yes, if it wasn't for WxS, Rui and Nene wouldn't have closed the distance on their friendship. Nene would have been hopeless, just playing games as she used to say and Rui still alone, still being seen as a weirdo.

(ik he's still considered a "weirdo" but. you know what i mean.)

Rui Kamishiro 🎈

Do NOT get me started on this one. Rui said it himself, that WxS is his treasure. WxS literally changed his entire life, but mentioned by him, it is especially Tsukasa that "gave him the opportunity to change", since Tsukasa was the one to get him back in the troupe and in Wonder Halloween, even brought back his confidence to make shows his own way; Between so many other things. But both Emu and Nene have certainly given him a reason, too, and you all should never forget that. Rui treasures ALL of them dearly.

If he didn't join WxS, or atleast didn't join back, he would still be doing shows all alone. Maybe he would still be like how he used to be in Middle School. All alone. And in that case he wouldn't have so many other friends other than wxs like how he has them currently.

And there's a chance he would never have been scouted for Arcland? Well if someone there finds him doing shows maybe yeah prooobably but hey. Who knows?? But other than that he definitely wouldn't have healed if he didn't meet WxS.

Conclusion:

If WxS didn't meet eachother, they all probably wouldn't be where they are right now; The futures of the members wouldn't have been as much bright, and some specific members' mental health (such as Nene & Rui) probably wouldn't have improved much.

"But Asteroid yk they can find another ways right???" I am aware, BUT. As I said, Tsukasa would need to remember why he was truly a star and not be so selfish in specific occassions.

Emu,, well nothing much happening with her except for the fact one of the things that are most important to her was turned into something else, very much saddened by it, also some people probably wouldn't help her much with that fact.

Nene as I mentioned never reaching her dream due to her trauma surrounding her.

And Rui still doing shows alone, no one stopping by to see them, like always. Yeah someone actually kind could go and reach out to him but however that would turn out, I doubt that would do much of a change for him. PERCHANCE.

Yeah. WxS definitely changed eachother for the better and all of them wouldn't be more thankful. They are eachother's light of the darkness they were all once in.

The end. Long live wxs 🎡

[peri-helia]

remade all the time, made new 1/2

A TOG drabble about New Year, and bread that has been sitting in my drafts since 2022 so I am publishing it now to give myself the fucking motivation to finish it. Also I'm procrastinating my thesis. Also on Ao3

Title from the quote:

Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; re-made all the time, made new. When it was made, they lay in each other's arms, holding love, asleep.

1100 AD

“Don’t you find that boring?”

 Nicolo glances up to see Yusuf watching him, arms folded across the room, looking at the dough Nicolo is methodically kneading for loaves, and will then leave to harden into bowls they can eat after their meals.

“I know it needs doing, but I can take over if you want to do something else for a time?” Yusuf is beautiful as he leans over by the window, the late afternoon sun kissing his cheeks, throwing interesting shadows over the muscles of his arms, the curve of his smile. But then, Yusuf is always beautiful. He says that Nicolo is a kind man, and he tries to be. But one of the best things about Yusuf is that he can’t see his own extraordinary generosity for what it is. It is immediate to him, kindness. He treats everyone he crosses paths with, with honour and respect.

And that is why Nicolo will happily take the duty of making their meals. Besides, he enjoys the rhythm of it, finding it soothing. He can do this. He doesn’t have the knack for poetry that Yusuf does, his words are fine tuned in a different way. Growing up, Nicolo’s most able weapon hadn’t been his sword against his parents’ well-meaning but constricting expectations. Or his brothers’ distance and airs. Nicolo’s best skill had been his ability to answer back. Yusuf, lovely Yusuf, says he speaks truth to power. Be that as it may, Nicolo’s words are honed to cut, not to cultivate.

 But he can do this, he can show his love through nourishment, through work. He can give it physical form in food and works, even small, regular ones. Love is its generosity, recognition as celebration. Of course he does this for Yusuf. He loves him.  

“By that logic, don’t you find telling your poetry and stories to the same audience,” Nicolo pointed a flour covered finger at himself, “boring too?”

Yusuf shrugs and then shakes his head, as if conceding the point but his gaze slips away from Nicolo’s, to somewhere on the other side of the room. 

“I thought we had trenchers for the week?” Yusuf asks after a moment, but his mouth is curling as if he’s trying to hide a smile.

 “We did” Nicolo acknowledges meekly, saying no more than he has to. He knows Yusuf too well, by now. Two can play this game as readily as they play chess or practice their blade work. They enjoy their battles of wit.

“So we need more because?” Yusuf is smiling now, those gorgeous eyes sparking like a well banked fire.

“It’s the New Year, Yusuf, should we not have new bread? Make hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes?” Nicolo asks, looking at the table rather than those beautiful eyes, sprinkling more flour over his dough. Thank providence he was able to get good rye this week. He is much more careful now. A few months ago they had died of St Anthony’s fire.

While their continued resurrections are as much a mystery as the two women of whom they both dream, vomiting and the sensation of being burned alive from eating bad bread was not something either of them were eager to repeat.

And he would not inflict harm on Yusuf again willingly for all the world.

“Ye-es” Yusuf is definitely smiling and trying not to laugh, and God but Nicolo loves him. He loves how Yusuf is kind and caring, his courage, his beautiful hands and how he puts them to such skill; to draw or defend, to mend fences or ease the burden of another. He warms the soul simply by being in the room.  How could Nicolo not love a man like that? “But we’re speaking of trenchers? For the stew I made –“

“I made”

“We made,” Yusuf continues, as smoothly as if Nicolo has never spoken at all, dancing out of the way when Nicolo reaches back to try and smack at him with a floury hand “New bread will be so soft, it’ll soak straight though and we’ll be eating off the floor instead. Unless, we don’t have the first trenchers anymore?” he asks sarcastically, the beautiful bastard.

“We do not. I gave them to Mary and Tommas, two doors down”

Some would shout or scowl at his act of charity. The young mother and her son work hard and if Nicolo can lessen their work by sharing bread, just as Yusuf fixed their door last week, then they will do it. Yusuf’s smile softens into that lovely, crinkly one that Nicolo loves best.

“You take such good care of us all, Nico”

“I will always care of you” Nicolo swears, in earnest. He can’t help it. It was a promise he had made a long time ago now,  heart kindling to match the fire Yusuf had fed when Nicolo’s back was turned. He presses as much love into the dough as he can, folds it in where it will keep Yusuf nourished and strong and resolves that he will dare to hope that the feeling might be requited.

Rome, 1583

“…so it’s the New Year, then?” Quynh asks no-one in particular, popping another olive into her mouth.

“Yes. The Pope issued a bull in February announcing it” Nicolo tells her. The loaves are still warm from the communal oven down the street as he cuts into one, hand out stretched for the olive oil.

“Just because he says”

“When in Rome, Quynh” Yusuf shrugs, that gorgeous indulgent smile playing across his face as he nods at the Coliseum soaring above in the distance out the window.

Quynh scoffs at the horrid pun and lobs an olive at him, which Yusuf catches in his mouth. He bows as Andromache and Quynh give out a little cheer each.

He turns and watches as Nicolo begins preparing their lunch and his heart is so full with love for this man, for this peace that they have found and fought for every step. For this moment. It feels as if his heart will burst, sloppy and overfull upon the well-swept floor. It’s hardly the most romantic metaphor he has ever come up with, but in fairness, he is very hungry. He slips up beside his husband – his husband – he thinks with unadulterated glee, as giddy as he was when they first promised themselves to each other, anew. All those years ago.

Anyway, he slips up to his husband, hands on his hips and gently tries to manhandle Nicolo out of the way of the food.

“You don’t have to do that” he murmurs, pressing the words above Nicolo’s collar.

“Which is precisely why I do it” Nicolo replies almost instantly, the perfect parry.

“Sweet as honey. How come I never get any of that?” Andromache observes loudly, before Yusuf can speak, watching them, teasing and light as she so often is – the jibe directed at Quynh rather than them.

And Quynh of course, picks it up immediately, as swift and cutting as she is on the field, “Because you are sweet as brine, my love”

“And just as well preserved! Get some new jokes!” and, as usual, they begin to tussle right there on floor. It’ll be over in a few minutes. They know each other’s moves too well.

Ignoring them, Yusuf worms his way round so that he is now in front of Nicolo, pressed between him and the table. He slips his hands up Nicolo’s shirt, presses to the warmed skin of his stomach and says, “Marry me”

Nicolo, as predicted, snorts at his request. But he’s smiling, too, which is always the goal anyway.

“We are already married, are we not?”

“Nico-“ Yusuf cries, dramatic and wheedling, throwing a hand over his eyes. Through his eyelashes, he can see Nicolo is fighting to supress a grin. He’s losing too.

“You can marry the same person as many times as you want” Andy adds helpfully from the floor, where Quynh is sitting on her thighs, her hands held above her head. She could break the hold any second she wanted, which probably means they’re about five seconds away from having sex right there on the floor.  

…he will take Nicolo out for lunch, he decides. They can go and see the changing skyline of the so-called ‘Eternal City’. He wonders if it will still be here in another few hundred years. If they will be here to see it. He’d like that.

“I’d like to marry you again sometime, my love” Quynh adds conversationally, throwing a smile at Yusuf and Nicolo

“We shall have a summer wedding” Andromache declares and both women cackle until Nicolo throws a wooden spoon at them. He’s already dusting his hands off, pulling Yusuf towards the door. Yusuf  hopes every New Year starts like this one. Forever and a day. Just to be sure.

The Prospect of Whitby inn, London, 1590

The bread is soft and fluffy, but it tastes like ash as Nicolo chokes it down. He bought it, for a shockingly good price from the innkeeper, a hard faced, burly man with fingers like gnarled tree roots whose eyes crinkled warmly as his strapping son poured their ale and pretty daughter brought their stew. It’s wonderfully decent, for the first inn they saw near the port as they docked. But this has gone on long enough that none of them find more joy, even in good food, anymore.

 But it is the New Year and he will not let any more of their life be taken from them. He will not let any more senseless cruelty eat into who they are. They are not just survivors, getting back up from arrows or swords to the gut or lucky musket shots to the chest. They are Yusuf’s songs and quick, clever fingers on a borrowed guitar conjuring poetry out of the most banal surroundings. They are Andromache’s unshakeable constancy and a sense of humour that is more wicked and cutting than everything she can do with an axe. They are Quynh’s quick eye, her beautiful smile and unfailing way of seeing immediately what people need.

He’d seen oranges for sale, miraculously, in the street and it had sliced him to the heart that he had gone to turn around for Quynh, who had a particular love for their sticky sweetness. And she wasn’t there. Of course. Andromache hadn’t seen them, if Quynh were with them she would have already bought a bushel. But Quynh is not here. Of course. She couldn’t – she might never – Nicolo’s eyes had stung and he had quickened his step, gently pressing a hand to Yusuf’s shoulder blade to encourage him to do the same. He had wanted to get them out of the rain and get some dinner. Hot, preferably.

Yusuf chews and swallows, but his eyes are glassy and elsewhere. Nicolo knows he is much the same. Andromache eats and drinks, insists on it, even in the darkest moments of her horror filled grief. The rain lashes down outside the inn they’ve stopped at, people scurrying through the streets and patrons cursing everytime someone lets the icy wind blast through the door.

But there’s no pleasure in it, not now. Her actions are mechanical, like turning the crank on a well. It’s just fuel to be consumed, ripping off great hanks with her teeth so that she can get back to the next stop on the Map, the next hint of where Quynh and her prison may be concealed by the ocean.

It is the New Year and Nicolo has never prayed that it will be a celebration of rebirth and renewal more than now. He prays for strength, for Quynh. For last year not to be the last time they are all together.

End of Part One.

[lurkingshan]

10 Things I Love About Ossan's Love Returns

Y’all. Y'ALL. I am stunned right now. I am verklempt. I never thought I would end up here. But here I am.

I bounced hard off the original Ossan's Love. Like, hard. I DNF'd and immediately memory holed just about everything I knew about it. But people I trust (namely @isaksbestpillow and @twig-tea) said this new series was an improvement on the original, and that I didn't have to go back and try rewatching the first series to dive into this one. So of course I, a jbl devotee, had to give it the old college try.

AND TO MY SHOCK AND AWE, I LOVE IT. This show is excellent. This is Japanese media at its absolute best, showcasing the precision in writing, directing, editing, and acting that they can reach when they are firing on all cylinders. This is the kind of comedy only a Japanese production can get right, because it requires a mastery of all these elements that you just can't get in less mature filmmaking industries. This is the best example I have ever seen of this kind of broad comedic style grounded in real stakes.

So let me tell you why this show, which is available for the international audience on Gaga (and with subs coming from Sirii, as well!), is worth your time:

This is a story about an established relationship between adult characters. Y'all know how I feel about the dearth of this we get in drama! Maki and Haruta have been long distance for four years and are moving in together to start their married life as this show begins.

The writing is unbelievably strong. Everything that happens matters, the characters always make sense, and the jokes are genuinely so fucking funny.

Kurosawa, or Chief, as I refer to him, is one of the funniest characters of all time, in any drama. The way this man had me laughing out loud in every scene! I felt like I got a workout.

This show is a feat of editing. I have been watching a string of shows recently that are getting hamstrung by bad editing, so let me tell you, it was a true pleasure to watch a drama that executes editing tricks so deftly and with such an eye toward sharpening its story and enhancing its jokes.

It has excellent female side characters. We have Chizu, my favorite lady bestie who is here to whip Haruta into shape at all times, and Chuoko, an actual archer who also has her own little romance going, and Haruta's mom, an unbothered legend who just wants to eat her food and get to her dates with her boyfriend.

There's a mystery! Next door to Haruta and Maki are two creepy mfers (brothers?) who are Up To Something. Or not! I don't know but I’ll find out!

We are getting an actual dialogue about gay marriage. Haruta and Maki consider themselves married, but have no legally binding contract and have not yet had a wedding, and they talk about this and their feelings about it often as they are negotiating their lives together.

We may have some aroace rep happening?? This is still pending but my radar is pinging hard for Takegawa to join the incredibly shortlist of explicitly aro and/or ace characters in bl.

DID I MENTION THIS SHOW IS FUCKING HILARIOUS. I cannot overstate the number of times this drama had me straight cackling in three short episodes. I had to get up and do some laps to walk it off.

The show is extremely well paced and I trust it not to waste my time. No small thing in these bl streets! The odd episode order (9) and tight pacing of each of the first three episodes tells me the creators of this show know exactly what they are doing and how much time they need to execute their vision.

This show is airing live for the next six weeks and I strongly encourage you to watch it and come join the fun with us!

[rat-rosemary]

Hiiiii

I truly do not understand dreams end goal here.

You could say its to finally speak his truth. witch is valid, however the way hes doing it makes little sense.

He knows the court of public opinon likes tommy now, Tumblr, twt, tiktok everywhere has been majorirty taking tommys side, even youtube witch dream gets more views on is fucking with tommys video alot more, hell tubbo got more viewers then dream last night that never happens.

you could say its like the the debunk video, however nobody knew amanda, nobody truly cared about amanda they cared about dream being a pedo, dream could easily debunk hes not a pedo, thats a claim with a yes or no answer.

This is youtuber vs youtuber, both make claims but none are legal in nature, its strickly who people like more, and dream loses all of these.

He used to win them, john swan and that speedrunner dude he demolished, but ever since gumball people side against him in every case if they vaguely know who the other person is. Hell dream have evidence and mfs still dont care. still say gumball won easily.

instead of going back and worth and LOSING. (Cause thats what hes doing, i know that zendaya tweet but zendaya has a career off internet in movies and popculture, so her twt audience is little while dreams audience is all online)

Why dosent he post his experinec with tommy on reddit? Where all his diehard fans are? one big long video airing it out. Hell post in on youtube and TURN YOUR PHONE OFF. Back and forths allow u more oppurtunities to lose and ignores your goal of telling your side. He wont sway people who hate him. Three hours of stream and everyone just thinks hes cringe. He needs to focus on what matters and who matters. If he truly feels like youtubers are being manipukated by tommy he needs to dm them personally. (I dont think tubbos being manipulates i think thats twin. U dont turn on twin)

Hi! This is a more of an opinion thing then a "Hey what did Dream say" thing, but let's go

Okay so let's start with this. As a veteran Dream Stan who has been here since 2020, people did not accept a yes or no answer. Because he said no immediately

Even after the truth dropped, even after all the people involved publicly admitted to lying, people will still constantly call Dream a pedophile. If you want an example, you can go on Twitter, find the picture Dream posted of a minecraft world with a huge render distance, and look at the qrts.

For your sake I would actually tell you to not do that. But yeah it's the same joke over and over and over again.

As a side note, it is super fucked up if no one care about Amanda. First of all, she is a terrible person and you should support her victims. Second. What the fuck does it mean if no one cared about the person who would be the victim? That they didn't care for the person being groomed, just the person they could call a pedophile?

That's a smear campaign. Literally.

The rules for Dream have been that he is assumed guilty and must create evidence for every single moment of his life to prove himself innocent.

Like sit with me here. Cantu assaulted Dream and screamed slurs at him and the Uber driver. Cantu could have gone to jail for that. Dream could have sued him for assault and defamation or even a hate crime. There is something wrong here with the way Dream is treated

*cough* also as a veteran Dream stan, reddit is not where the die hard fans are. My god, dwt2 feels like a dranti space painted with bright green. *cough*

Tommy is to Dream, and I'm being dramatic and overly simplificatig this to explain a point, an emotionally abusive ex basically.

Dream is not doing this to try and make himself be the good guy, he could never do that. He survived his smear campaign as well as he could, considering the plan for it from it's starts at Kiwi Farms was to make him kill himself.

He's doing this because this is a pattern of behavior he saw when he was Tommy's friend, and that he doesn't want turned to other people. Because he knows it sucks.

The point was never to be a hero, it is that no one ever fucking stepped up when it was Dream, and he is not going to let the same thing happen to someone else

Augh. Oh that was bad. I think they're gonna kill me with hammers for this

On a side note. First, I don't think Tommy's and Tubbo's and the British group friendship is abusive, but as an outsiders I don't think it, or their relationship to their audiences and views, is healthy.

Manipulation is hard to explain or pin down, because manipulation is basically communication, and that's what humans do all the time. So I don't think that is the most useful thing ever for this conversation /nm

[storyowls]

The first half of my trade with the wonderful @crownedinmarigolds! Featuring the Toreador Antitribu, Valeria Arendsen. Thank you so much for doing this trade with me!

Like all WoD stories, VtM is meant for audiences of 18 years or older. Valeria is a monster, and acts as such.

Villainous Thing by Shayfer James

Valeria steps down from her old camper, cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

It doesn’t really do anything for her, of course, but she doesn’t really care. For now she leaves it unlit, standing in her campsite. She’s been here for a while now, as long as the camp grounds will let her. And the right amount of money makes that a long time.

Looking out over the campgrounds, she ponders. Summer’s winding down, fall is coming, and winter after. This place won’t be open all year, too far north for that. She considers following the snow birds, wondering if she could find an almost empty campground further south. Part of her considers going north, putting the camper away for a while.

She finally lights her cigarette, and she wonders.

Valeria turns her head at the sound of somebody coming. Another kindred, James, who she randomly met during late spring. The two of them never spoke about sects; they were in no-man’s land, after all. Why waste time with that when you had to spend every night in the small, nearby town? If anything, a silent, temporary truce works best.

The werewolves in the woods don’t care about who they align with anyway.

Turning her head, she blows the smoke in the other direction. He stands next to her, silently watching her. She flicks the ashes into the extremely unused fire pit, silent as well. They don’t talk a whole lot, which is fine by her. The look on his face, however, suggests this won’t be a quiet night.

“What is it?”

“Any plans for when the grounds shut down?” He’s being vague about it, letting her answer with almost no detail. “Or you a girl who lets the wind take her anywhere?”

She lets out a laugh, dry and short. James’ face doesn’t show it, but he understands why the kine feel uneasy about her. Even her laugh conveys that something is different about her. Odd, unwelcoming.

Predator like.

There’s no response right away. He watches as she stares off into the distance, as though thinking of how to respond. Smoke from her cigarette blows away with the wind, adding to the mysterious silence. After a moment her eyes glance to him.

“I go with the wind.” That’s a lie, she never does. Not after leaving Miami. She knows she can’t go back there, not yet anyway. Maybe in a few decades enough of the old heads will be dead. A new bishop, if she decides to believe in that again.

She’s not sure how to feel about Caine, though.

“And you?”

James laughs, it sounds pleasant, “Same here, go with the wind.” That is the truth, though she doesn’t know it.

“Ready to go into town?” Valeria’s way of moving the conversation along. Away from the topic, from her thoughts.

“I should be ready soon, feel free to head off without me.” He turns his head to the woods, “I have some...things to take care of.”

“I better see you within the hour, or I’m breaking into your camper.” She earns a laugh for that, but she’s not joking. Putting the cigarette out, she heads towards her car, “I mean it, James. Within the hour.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll see you at the bar.” He watches as she slips into the old pick up truck, powerful still despite its age. Waving as she drives off, he then turns and goes into the woods to do his task.

Gangrels have their habits, after all.

The town by the campground is exactly the type one expects this far from a city; one intersection, handful of shops. A couple gas stations, two churches, one bar. Surrounding the town are several family owned farms. It’s a miracle that the intersection has a stop light, the towns folk tell you.

Perfect place to hide out for a kindred.

One would expect that to be easier in a city, which is somewhat true. However the cities tend to have their sects, their rulers and rule keepers. This small town, like many, has nobody. No man’s land, just like Valeria’s temporary home. But unlike the campsite, she’s protected from the werewolves here.

Stay here all night, rush back just before dawn. Rinse, repeat. Over and over again, until she moves on to someplace new. Been doing it for years at this point, like an internal clock ticking away. As she pulls into the bar’s parking lot, she looks out at it, and thinks. Maybe it’s time to move back to a city, it’s been long enough.

But what one?

She sits in her car, thinking it over before hearing a car pull up into the spot next to hers. Turning her head, she sees James. Ah, her threat stuck. Watching him get out of the car, she sees the look on his face. Her eyes settle on it, the shaken look in his eyes.

Well, hell.

She opens the driver’s side door just enough for him to lean in. He holds a letter out, and she takes it. Looking it over, she listens as he collects himself.

“So, now what?”

It’s from somebody claiming to know what the two of them are, and where they are. It clearly states they have a set time to get the hell out of town. A tight time line, of course. And, if they don’t comply, this...group, person, whatever, will come and kill them during the day.

Now what indeed.

“Typically, I don’t take these sorts of threats seriously. I normally laugh them off, but it is time to go anyway.” Valeria folds the letter up, calm. “There’s only so much time we could stay, correct?”

“Correct.” The way she seems so calm really just adds to the eeriness she gives off. “You know where to go, though?”

“Maybe, you?” She watches as he thinks it over, clearly wondering what he should tell her.

“...I’m going back to Michigan.” She never considered Michigan. “Plenty of, well, choices up there. Different sects. Maybe Grand Rapids, if they’ll take me.”

“Grand Rapids, hm?” She thinks it over, head tilting. “We shouldn’t discuss this here. Eat, and then we find an empty parking lot.”

“Deal. See you there.” He waits for her to get out and close her door before heading inside, hungry.

Most stay out of Valeria’s way, uneasy. They can’t pin-point why, most never will, but they just know. Even with the more comforting James around, they stay away. Some, however, are too intrigued to stay away.

Who says you need honey to get a fly?

The two meet later, sitting in the parking lot of the currently closed grocery store. James is currently drawing a line from where they are up to Grand Rapids, Michigan on a physical map. Valeria is silent, watching him.

“Oh, right. The city is in Camarilla control.” He says that so matter of factly. “If you’re not cool with that, I’d suggest staying away.”

“I couldn’t care less.” She lights a cigarette, holding it as the smoke wafts in the wind. “Let’s just say I’ve been blowing in the wind so damn long that I’m not picky.”

“Ah, good choice. You’ll probably have to do a task to get full access to the city, but...if I go in first, that might work in your favor.”

“You’ve been before?”

“Yes, I have.” He sits on the hood of his car, arms crossing over his chest. “I’ve been gone for a little bit for Masquerade reasons, with the promise I can come back if Jules is still in power.”

“Hm, interesting.” She looks at the clock on her phone. “Well, we should probably get back, get our shit ready to go. Peel out of here as soon as possible tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He gets up, handing her the map. “I’ll still lead you up there, but just in case…”

“Yes. Just in case.”

Here’s hoping it won’t come to that.

Several nights later they pull up to the checkpoint. Valeria notes as a guard dashes away, seemingly to go call somebody. The old abandoned warehouse somehow straddles both the city of Grand Rapids and the town of Wyoming; the former being Camarilla, and the other being mostly for the Anarchs.

Soon she notices somebody come out to James’ window, and they talk through it. She watches as the stranger turns towards her, walking over silently. Rolling down the window, she feels shock as the stranger reaches in and unlocks the truck’s door before yanking it open.

“Out, with me. Now.”

She thinks about it for less than a second but she does as told. Another person walks up, sliding into her truck to take it somewhere. They hand her the purse from the passenger’s seat.

“You’re lucky he spoke for you. Let’s go.” The stranger walks off and Valeria follows, knowing not to fuck around. Yes, she’s scary, and powerful...but she’s no longer in no man’s land. She follows through the checkpoint, to a different car. The person with her motions for her to get in the back, and she does as told.

“I’m Sheriff De Young,” the stranger states as they get in the front. “Welcome to Grand Rapids.”

Welcome to Grand Rapids, indeed.

The prince turns towards her, silent for a moment. The sheriff told her on the way there the ground rules for the place, double checked her for weapons. And now she’s in the prince’s office, sitting in a chair at her desk.

Juliana walks over to her, looking her up and down. After a few, drawn out, creepy moments, she speaks.

“Clan?”

“Toreador, ma’am.”

“Ah, so you’ll be Kate’s problem.” She laughs, heartily. “Always nice to have another rose in the bunch. If you make it in, that is. I take it you’re new to the Camarilla?”

“Yes.” No use lying. “I’ve been solo for a couple of decades.”

“And before?”

“Sabbat. Down in Miami.”

“Ah, I see.” Juliana walks to the other side of her chair, silent again. “I think I have a task that’s more of a long term goal, if you would be interested.” She leans in, whispering it to her.

A grin spreads across Valeria’s face, “Prince Nowak, I’d be honored to do that.”

Oh, this is going to be a fun place to live.

Half an hour later, the sheriff returns, handing Valeria her keys.

“Your camper’s parked in a gated lot, with the prince’s permission. After you find a place to be long term, we can give you a list of very dedicated places to park it.”

“Absolutely perfect, thank you sheriff.”

“Boss,” Juliana’s assistant, Rabia, is standing in the open office doors, “Your Siren and guest are here.”

“Excellent, send them in.”

And in a moment that she’ll remember for the read of her undeath, Valeria turns to see her new coworker.

Body Talk by Starbenders

Valeria gets into her truck, grinning.

Oh, this is going to be fun. Her new coworker, Wayne, gives off the air of a man who is fancy. But oh, she senses the darker tones beneath that facade of his. The way his eyes linger, watching. The others probably notice, but maybe they don’t. But the way he looks at her, as if he knows what she truly is.

Nobody born into the Camarilla would ever understand.

She gives him a little wave before taking off. Jules, the prince, has assigned her the task of introducing herself to a few folks. Wayne seems to have his own plans for the night, and she’ll leave him to those. Turning to his car, she gives him a wave before taking off.

It’s been a while since she’s seen a shadow.

Pulling into the parking lot, Valeria notices instantly the building used to be a church. The exterior bricks are stained a dark gray, and any accent pieces are made from a fake, white marble. As she parks, she notices somebody instantly turn and go outside upon seeing her. Sorting through the envelopes Jules gave her, she finds the appropriate one and gets out.

She ensures the car is locked and heads inside.

The interior sports a dark, gray carpet and walls covered with black wall paper and various posters in frames. The old pews are painted black, with the cushioning on them covered in dark gray fabric. They’re strewn about, with mismatching tables and chairs scattered everywhere. The lighting is dimmed, giving a more eerie feeling to the place.

Valeria notices the woman standing in the middle of the room who is watching her closely. It almost gives her a creepy feeling, but she remembers what the feeling is. What it feels like, how it encases her. She’s missed it for so long, and it’s back again.

She does not fear this woman, and she does not fear her.

“I am Janelle, and you are?” Janelle watches as she walks over to her. The new woman holds the envelope out, and she takes it.

“Valeria, Jules sent me.” She watches as the shadow pulls the paper inside out, reading it. “She made a point to tell me to introduce myself to a few important people.”

“I see.” She folds the paper up, smiling at her. She smiles in return, and everybody else in the building instantly feels creeped out. “I look forward to working with you Valeria, but for now…”

“Of course, it was great meeting you.” She turns and walks out, feeling the shadows watching her. Making it to her truck, Valeria slips in and takes off for her next stop.

It’s nice to know the shadows again.

It has to be a club, huh?

Valeria glowers at the Succubus through her windshield. Kine meander around, coming and going. She already has to readjust to kindred games, and now she finds out her fellow Toreador claim domain in a damn club!

“Fucking damn it.” She grumbles, climbing out of her truck. Triple checking that it’s locked before walking to the line. Pulling out the business card that Jules told her to show, the bouncer motions her forward. He looks it over, quickly and knowingly. He nods her inside and she goes in.

She grins at the disappointed sounds of the mortals in the line.

Finding the bouncer at the stairs for the VIP area, she flashes the card. He instantly pulls the rope to the side, and she goes upstairs. The music from below thumps beneath her, almost making her feel like her heart is beating again. Maybe she could get used to the club life after all.

“Well now, who is this?” Somebody on a black leather couch sits up, smirking at her. Their eyes are mostly obscured behind red, heart shaped sunglasses. “Are you one of mine?”

“Valeria Arendsen, Jules sent me.” She holds the envelope out to them, silent as they open it and read the paper inside.

“I see...I’m Kate, your primogen. No need for titles outside of official stuff. This fine lady beside me is Tamela, speak with her if you need new clothes. Finest stylist in this city.”

“Sounds fantastic, though I take it I might be waiting for an appointment?” She’s met with laughter.

“I can fit you in on Monday.” Tamela passes her a business card. “Don’t let me down by not showing up.”

“You got it.” Kate motions for Valeria to sit, and she does as told. The three of them begin to talk, getting to know each other.

And she begins to feel less upset about being in a club.

A few hours later, Valeria drives up to the gate of her temporary home in the city. Her time at the Succubus was great, she even got her first meal in the Toreador hunting grounds. It was nice, fresh...lively.

The guard takes the letter before motioning her to go through. She drives into the small, abandoned factory. Everything has been emptied out aside from a picnic table in the middle of the space. Parked not far from it is her camper, and she notices a power supply sitting outside it. On one wall is a room that she guesses holds a shower for her.

Not a bad place to start out.

The first thing she decides to do is take her toiletries to the side room. Inside is a full bathroom with a half wall on one side. She peeks around it, seeing a vanity, chair, and a couple of clothing racks. Nice, room for her new wardrobe. After exploring she puts the toiletries on the ledge in the walk in shower. She makes note of the towel racks and provided towels.

She’ll have to find a laundry mat in the area to keep things clean.

Going back out, she takes her ash tray and puts it on the picnic table. Lighting a cigarette just for, she sits with a book and starts to read. Now that she’s in a city again, she’ll have to find some new hobbies. Maybe rent a house with space crafting...ahaha, that makes her feel old to say. But she is old, at the end of the day. Her ears pick up on the sound of rain outside, and she smiles.

Here’s to her new life in Grand Rapids, may it be bloody.