#✶ NOVE WRITES

[spectorgram]

the letter

theodore nott x f! reader summary: you get a letter from a secret admirer who wants to confess. your best friend is none too pleased. notes: jealous! theodore nott >>> word count: 1.4k

You would think for a magical school, Hogwarts would have better heating or some heating spell, but the Slytherin dorms are frigid as usual as winter creeps up. You fasten your robe clasps and draw it tighter around you, simultaneously trying to tug your skirt down in a futile way to heat yourself up more. Your knee-high socks only do so much and you pretty much give up on the endeavor as you climb up the stairs and head for the Great Hall. 

You’re immediately greeted by the cozy warmth of the hall, spotting your friends, all swathed in green and silver robes and knits. Theo spots you first, sliding over and nearly knocking Blaise off the bench. “Blood hell, mate,” Blaise grumbles as you approach, kicking Theo’s leg lightly. 

You slip into the space created for you, right in between Theo and Enzo. You stifle a yawn and ask, “Can someone pass the eggs and bacon?”

As Enzo reaches for both platters, Theo’s eyes zero in on your legs. “How are you not cold?”

You frown. “I am,” you reply, piling your breakfast onto your plate, “but Pansy’s demon cat apparently thought my winter tights were toys and decided to scratch them all up.”

Pansy sighs, “I’ve ordered you new ones, calm down.” 

Theo drapes his robe over your legs and you smile gratefully at him. He smiles back and your heart flips. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how beautiful he is — all dark caramel curls and long lashes that frame those devastatingly blue eyes. He’s been your best friend since you started Hogwarts and you knew you loved him at first sight. The longer you’ve known him, the more you’ve fallen for him. 

It’s a tale as old as the world itself: you’re hopelessly in love with your best friend but you value your friendship far too much to do anything to jeopardize it.

“Mail’s here,” you hear someone say down the table. You look up to the ceiling, which has been enchanted to look like a sky that’s about to break open and drop snowflakes from its clouds. Owls soar in through the openings at the top of the walls, diving down towards their intended recipients. 

“Maybe your new tights are here,” Enzo says. 

Pansy adds, “I hope so. Then you’ll stop complaining about it.”

You snort, reaching up to grab a letter dropped by your family owl. You feed her a piece of scrambled egg as she takes off back towards the owlery. You tuck your parents’ letter into the inner pocket of your robe just as another owl swoops overhead, dropping a pale blue envelope on your lap. 

“Who’s that from?” asks Pansy. 

You shrug, using your butter knife to open it up. As you do, Draco grumbles at Mattheo: “For the love of Salazar, stop hogging the pastry basket.”

You skim over the letter addressed to you. You tilt your head in confusion and Blaise asks, “What’s it say?”

Enzo peeks over your shoulder and his face breaks into a smirk. “‘Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight tonight. Signed, Your Secret Admirer.’” he reads.

“What?” Theo suddenly snatches the letter from your hand. You watch in confusion as his eyes dart back and forth. His shoulders tense and his mouth purses into a thin, hard line. 

“You doing okay there, Nott?” Matthew asks, shooting a simpering smile at his friend. Theo sends a glare back but doesn’t say anything, the letter’s paper crinkling under his grip. 

Pansy asks, “Are you going to go?”

You hesitate, surreptitiously glancing at Theo, startled to find that he’s gazing at you with an intensity you’ve never experienced. You pluck the letter from him and fold it neatly. “I think so,” you say. “I’m interested to see who it is.”

“Be sure to bring your wand,” Draco says. “Just in case.”

“Obviously,” you deadpan. The conversation shifts into whether anyone was prepared for midterms coming up. 

You fiddle with the letter in your lap. Theo’s silent for the whole conversation. 

You chew on your bottom lip as you reread the same sentence in your textbook for what feels like the hundredth time. The letter has stuck in your head the whole day. It crosses your mind that it could be a prank or a set-up — it’s not a secret that Slytherin isn’t the most popular House among your classmates — but you know you can handle yourself. You’re more worried about how Theo was acting at breakfast. He didn’t say a word the rest of the meal, not even when Enzo and Mattheo tried looping him into the conversation. He just sat there, sullen and gloomy, and his mood seemed to worsen more when you handed him his robe back and said you had to get to class.

You sigh heavily, trying to play out every possible scenario that could happen between you and the letter writer. You check the clock in the library: 11:45; you need to head over to the Astronomy Tower. 

You groan, gathering your things, sliding them into your bag, and making your way back to the Slytherin common room to drop off your things in your dorm. “Cacophony,” you supply to the portrait, which swings open to let you in.

The common room is blissfully silent when you enter, a welcome contrast to the mess of thoughts in your head. You’re about to head down the hall to your dorm when you collide against someone. You huff an apology but when you feel their hand on your shoulder, you look up to see Theo. He looks intense, eyes wide and glinting with sharp determination and his mouth still set in that frown from earlier. “Sorry, Theo,” you say. “Didn’t see you there. Where are you going at this hour?”

“I was going to find you,” he replies. 

“Oh,” you say. “Well, here I am. Sorry, I’ve got to drop this stuff off and then—”

“Head to the Astronomy Tower,” he finishes for you, “to meet your ‘secret admirer.’” 

You don’t like the way he sneers at the last part of his sentence or the way he uses air quotations. You’re about to respond when he says, “Don’t go.”

“What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats.

“Why not?”

He pauses before saying, “What if it’s someone just having a laugh?”

You bristle, hurt, and you feel your temper flare. “Is it so damn hard to believe that someone might actually have a crush on me?”

Theo laughs, razor-sharp and incredulous, as if he can’t believe that you’re saying something so outrageous, “No, it’s not.”

“Then why shouldn’t I go?”

“Because I don’t want you to!”

“For Salazar’s sake, Theo, you can’t tell me what to do!”

“I know that!”

“Then are you trying to tell me not to go?”

“Because I bloody like you!”

Your heart stutters to a stop. You can only hear the sounds of both of your labored breathing and you suddenly can’t meet his eyes, trying your best to wrap your head around the fact that your feelings are reciprocated. “How long?’ you ask softly, holding your breath.

“Since first year.”

You blink. “Really?”

He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs heavily, “Mattheo’s right; you’re so oblivious.” There’s another beat of silence and he asks, a little shyly, “How do you feel?”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “I like you too, Theo. I’ve liked you since first year as well.”

He echoes your “Really?” and it makes you giggle, “I guess we’re both oblivious.”

He joins your laughter and you let your forehead rest on his chest as your shoulders shake. When it dies down, Theo shifts you off him and lifts your chin with his forefinger, any semblance of coyness gone. You gaze into his ocean blue eyes. Salazar, you could drown in them. He offers a charming smile and he leans close, just a few centimeters away, and says, “Can I kiss you?”

Your eyelashes flutter and your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Your lips meet, fervent and desperate, years of yearning releasing like water through a broken dam. Theo hooks his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as possible. You wind your arms around his neck, fingers toying with the hair at his nape. He walks you backward, slipping his tongue into mouth as he crushes you up against the wall. He deepens the kiss and your knees go weak. 

Theo moves your bag off your shoulder and drops it on the floor. The letter that rested at the top of the pile of possessions falls out, laying forgotten on the ground.

[barbreypilled]

also like if ur going to publish derivative fiction im sorry but it has to be good. u actually have to do something interesting with it u can’t just google a bunch of tropes, make the characters do them and call it a day like at that point just do fic prompts I guarantee it will be better in the long run bc u won’t have to inevitably get cancelled for review bombing books that ppl actually had to use their brains for

[sunflowercider]

Oh!!! Corpse explosion magic! Didnt expect to see that in this novel, but it makes sense. This warlock is sneaky!!

[e-thonrudwrites]

Happy third birthday "The Old Guard"! To the inspiration you gave me for my novel, and to all the fanfic I've read of Joe and Nick, and written.

[riveluart]

There’s a graphic novel writing residency I really want to apply to but they need a writing sample and Idk if it has to be related to the project you’re planning on working on or not because if it does need to be related to the project I need to finish a few pages before the deadline on the 20th and I don’t know if I can do that with our households... situation 

[normalenjoyer-png]

abed abed abed abed abed abed abed abed abeddddddddddddd

[pctaldrunk]

me, trying not to write replies that are A MILLION YEARS LONG and failing miserably:

[martinkate]

killing you in real time btw

theres even funnier ones i havent even gotten to yet

[atthebell-moved]

me signing up for nanowrimo like that'll get me to write anything

[flurry-of-stars]

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼 -𝕴

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝒩𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝓎𝑜𝒹𝑜𝓇 𝓍 𝒜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, angst, fluff, eventual smut, multipart story. 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: “Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion–” “His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. You were already struggling.” 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6.5k or so (A/N: I know, strange to write an author AU when the characters are based on authors but here we are. I want to say Novelist AU Fyodor may have a few similar traits to IRL Dostoyevsky but he is not supposed to be a complete one-for-one in every sense of the word. They’re supposed to just be minor nods to the real Dostoyevsky.) ❤ Reblogs are appreciated ❤

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒? 𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝑒𝒹? 𝒪𝒽...𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼'𝒹 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝒯𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒸𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈.... ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵ The lake always looks mystical early in the morning at this time of year. A faint mist rolls over the mirrored surface as dancers in orange and yellow descend from their places in the comforting embrace of timber and bark. Soldiers of fading green, browns and oranges line the lake, swaying in the soft, chilly breeze. Bird song and the gentle scurrying of the forest’s dwellers is the perfect symphony to this backdrop. Yes. This was why Fyodor always sat outside to write. He felt a peace unlike anything else when he sat at his small outdoor table, the earth claiming the furniture by wrapping tendrils of green around its leg. He doesn’t mind. He never had any intentions of moving it after all. A single page sat at his hands, one hand elegantly moving across it as he writes in Russian, his mother tongue. The sound of his pen scratching against the white sheet tickles his brain pleasantly, each stroke deliberate and careful. Fyodor would only write the drafts of his novels on paper. He would never touch a keyboard. Even when conversing with his agent he would only use his phone. With his long distant friend and fellow author, he opted for letters. Technology was something Fyodor wasn’t fond of. His deep, purple eyes rise from the page, tired eyes scanning the horizon before him. He notices a few russet sparrows flying over the lake. For a moment, he even thinks he can see a fox on the other side of the lake, disappearing into the treeline. Yes. This view was far more enjoyable than some television or computer screen. He breathes deeply, taking in the rich, earthy air around him. It wouldn’t be long until this view would be painted in white, the frigid air forcing him to stay indoors far more than he would have liked to be there. The novelist was a homebody, that much was true. But he spent most of his time outdoors when he wrote his stories. Or rather, attempted to. His current novel had been giving him a bit of grief as of late. “Romance novels are popular right now!” He could still hear his agent’s voice insisting. “With the works you’re already known for, I bet the world is dying to see your take on one! Plus, if we partner with this company and make it an international release, the revenue would tie you over so you can focus on a novel you actually want to write!” Fyodor scoffs. He wouldn’t have even considered writing such a novel, were it not for the fact that his funds were looking a bit depressed as of late, due to a few recent large expenses that needed to be paid. His eyes scanned over to his wristwatch; it was still a few hours yet until his guest would arrive. Another matter his agent had been too insistent on that Fyodor had begrudgingly accepted.

He didn’t understand why she had been so pushy about the matter of an assistant. He had managed so far on his own. He didn’t need any help. These were his stories to tell. Sighing, Fyodor rises from his chair. He moves towards his small, cozy dwelling, his raven hair ruffled by the Autumn breeze. Perhaps a nice pot of tea would get those creative juices flowing again. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ A soft breeze teases your hair and scarf as you walk up the winding stone path, heading deeper into the heart of the forest, an eerie fog cast across the sky. The trees sway their branches in the wind as if greeting you as sunlight filters through the thick branches, showers of yellow and orange descending on your path as you walk. You see an old, rough-looking tabby cat that gives a low mewl before disappearing over the fence like an elegant shadow. You notice a few small cottages scattered around the area. One is at the top of a flight of narrow cobblestone steps. Another is nestled near some thick bushes and trees, almost devouring the structure in its natural embrace.

The thin fence lining the pathway is overgrown with thick vines and small flowers here and there, with tall trees and other flora about, creating an almost fairytale-like appearance. Everything here is quiet and still, aside from the chirps of a few insects and the whistling of birds. You clutch your orange coat closer to your body, the fabric blending in with your environment as excitement runs through every inch of your veins. This was the opportunity you had been searching for! What were the chances that you’d run into a literary agent while heading to the unemployment centre to ask for help? It was as though God himself had lifted an olive branch for you.

The agent, Vivian, had looked at you with such joy when you explained that you were looking for experience helping authors get their works published. You wanted to help however you could, whether that be as an editor, a translator or even a beta reader! You just wanted a way to step into this field finally. You had grown up with a love for books and stories. You wanted to be part of the process to get these books created. “Well, I have just the guy for you,” Vivian had replied, a small smirk on her lips as she handed you her business card with a name written on the back. The name of the novelist she had been helping for the past decade. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

You had never heard of the man before. Walking along the quiet stone path, heading towards a large archway overgrown with blossoming flowers, you wonder if he wrote under a pen name. You were so excited to meet him! Oh, but you needed to calm down and relax. Don’t make this weird! You walk through the archway, the gentle aroma of the blossoming flowers filling your senses as your eyes fall on the crystal-clear lake before you. The water was a calm, almost mystical blue, with nothing disturbing its perfect surface. It looked like it could have been the subject of an oil painting. You blink, the trance broken as you notice movement. An older gentleman sits at a small outdoor table, a small porcelain teacup in hand. You notice a few strands of grey in his otherwise dark hair, along with the dark crescent moons under his mystifying yet cold purple eyes. You wondered if they were from late nights of writing stories or brainstorming.

He looked more frail than you were expecting. Quite lithe. He reminded you of a scarecrow. He was almost swimming in the dark coat covering his shoulders, even his white scarf seemed to be looped multiple times more around his throat. You tense as his eyes flicker up, meeting yours. The teacup moves back towards the saucer, resting upon it with a soft clink. He lifts one of his hands, beckoning you closer. You come to stand before him, your heart pounding out of nervousness and excitement. This was it. The first day of the rest of your life! Things would only be looking up from here! Before you can speak, the gentleman interrupts you. His thick Russian accent sends a slight shiver down your spine, “You’re the assistant Vivian sent.” He looks you up and down slowly. You can feel the judging look in his eyes as he scans you carefully, “You have no experience in this field and yet you agreed to be my assistant. Fascinating…” You swallow, trying to calm yourself. You almost burst into excited rambles as you begin to speak in a rather rapid tone, your giddiness getting the better of you, “Y-yes sir! You see, it’s always been a dream of–” “Enough.” He says suddenly, shaking his head. Those dark eyes of his stare coldly into yours, your excited heartbeat being frozen still in your chest as he adds, “I do not wish to hear your life story. You are here to do a job. And I expect you to do it well.”

You try and speak up, “Shouldn’t we go inside–” “No. You will work out here,” he cuts you off as he reaches down to a leather bag by the side of his chair, hidden from view. He lifts it, passing it over to you as he speaks, “Within this is the first three chapters of my latest novel. I need you to proofread, edit and translate it into English by the end of the week.” You tense; the end of the week? You supposed you could handle that. What’s the most he could have done? Really? Maybe ten thousand words total? You take out the first group of papers. It looks like he’s stapled each chapter together. There’s no title page yet, so it starts straight on the prologue. One issue becomes apparent very quickly. One big, glaring issue. Fyodor’s handwriting. He had written in fluent Russian from what you could tell. But his handwriting was quite…well, it was cursive? It was hard for you to put into words. The best way you could describe it was like a doctor’s handwriting. “Excuse me, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You look up from the first page. Fyodor is gazing across the lake, sipping on his tea once more. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you continue, your tone soft and polite, “I’m having some trouble reading your handwriting. I don’t suppose you have a typed version I could reference instead?” His dark eyes slowly turn over to you. You swear you feel the cold of a hundred Winters rush through your body at once, “If you can’t translate it, then I shall call Vivian right now and inform her that sending someone illiterate does not help me in the slightest.”

‘Illiterate??’ You quietly think, feeling both offended and furious. ‘At least my writing doesn’t look like a chicken walked all over my page!’ Biting your tongue, you nod. You would make this work, just to spite this guy. ‘Just think about the end goal. Someone out there is going to love this book. You just need to focus on your goal..’ It’s a daunting task, one you weren’t sure you could achieve. But you were going to put your damnest into this job more so than ever now. ✩

Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion and anger. Vivian didn’t mention that she was sending someone like you. Had he known that, he would have called his overseas friend to go and stay with him while working on this novel that he didn’t even want to write. His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. He notices the way your brows furrow in irritation. You were already struggling. It was only a matter of time before you gave up and admitted defeat, running away from his little piece of heaven with tears in your eyes and a white flag in your hands. He liked that thought. That thought brought him peace. “You’re going to have to work faster than that,” he suddenly says, sounding very proud of himself. You don’t look up, your hands and eyes continuing to move as he adds, “Vivian wants the book by the end of the year. If you can’t handle getting three chapters done by the end of the week, you’re useless to me and any other author.” He notices your jaw clenching. He sees the way you swallow down whatever response you keep to yourself, instead replying with a soft “Yes, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” If he breaks you down enough, will you submit faster? Will that get you away from him faster? He’s silent for a long while, his gaze slowly returning to the scenic view before him. It soothes him and assures him he will soon have his space and peace returned to him. He lifts his teacup, sipping the warm liquid slowly. He just had to bide his time and wait. You would crack eventually. He would make sure of it. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

Even though Fyodor treated you coldly and barely even spoke to you, you were intrigued by his writing. It felt like his words had a grip on you, filling you with the urge, that desperate need to know what happens next. The novel was about a young man. From what you had read, he was an extremely lonely man. No matter how Fyodor wrote him, or what scenes he was in, he was always alone, even when surrounded by people. But there was one thing you wouldn’t understand. “If this is supposed to be a romance novel,” you say slowly. “Then where is the other lead? What’s this guy going to romance, himself in the mirror?” “Oh come on now, cut him some slack,” the warm voice of your best friend chimes over the phone. “This is just the first three chapters, right? He’s probably just laying down the groundwork for now. I mean..” She pauses, hesitating before adding in a teasing tone, “The main female lead in that story you read didn’t get a proper romantic interest till like, what, book four?” “Hey, you say that like I wanted her to have one!” You joke, giggling as you walk up the winding stone path on your way to Fyodor’s. It was almost week’s end and despite having a handful of paragraphs left, you were almost done translating the first three chapters. Though it wasn’t an easy task. You had learnt that Fyodor had a habit of rambling in his stories. Sometimes, this made parts more fleshed out. More interesting and intriguing to you. But you didn’t need to know the full backstory of some random man sitting by a lake if he wasn’t going to be important to the story later on. “I want to give him some advice,” you say into the phone, your voice suddenly more serious. You notice the pair of village cats nearby as you pause in place. The younger orange tabby cat attempts to play with the old tabby, the older of the pair growling as he backs away, “But is it my place to give him advice? I mean…he is the author. It’s his story. I have no right to tell him how to write it.”

You hear a hum on the other end of the line as you start moving again, approaching the familiar archway. Then, “You could always try it. But this Fyodor guy doesn’t sound like the type who would take your advice onboard. You’re still so new to this field, your ears are still green!” You chew on your inner cheek, sighing. The chances that Fyodor would listen to you were slim to none. You understood that already. It didn’t take a genius to know where you stood in his regard. But you wanted to help Fyodor make improvements to his book. You look up at the archway, a gentle breeze pushing against your back as you sigh in defeat. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how badly he chews me out.” You end the call, hiding your phone in your pocket, walking through the archway and into the lush clearing. You were already expecting to be greeted with the typical iciness from the author as you approach his table. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he greets you. His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not as frosty as you were expecting. There’s a faint hint of hibiscus in the air as the soft breeze draws the scent of his tea of the day to you. Yesterday was ginger. The day before was turmeric. He always had a fresh pot every morning when you arrived. But he never offered you a cup. Regardless, you come to sit at his table, your chair creaking faintly as you reach into your messenger bag, pulling out the last few pages of the first three chapters of his novel before speaking, “I’ve almost finished with these chapters,” you let him know, a flame of warmth in your voice. “I only have a few more paragraphs to go. Though I have to say–” You rummage around your bag, searching for your lucky pen as you continue, “--I quite enjoy your writing. It's captivating. Sometimes I feel like I’m hanging on the end of your every word–” “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Fyodor quickly interjects, deep eyes narrowing at you, the dark hoops under his eyes making him look more menacing. A shiver runs down your spine as he nods at the paper before you, “Get to work and stop wasting your time with idle chatter.”

‘Oh, so I can’t even compliment you?’ You quietly think, your hand wrapping around your lucky pen. You pull the gold and black ballpoint pen out, clicking it to life as you begin working, huffing and puffing in annoyance in your mind, ‘Fine then. Maybe I just won’t speak to you again. God, I hope all writers aren’t this entitled.’ You catch yourself, your fingers caressing the side of the ballpoint pen as the gold edge shines in the early sun. No…you knew all writers weren’t like Fyodor. He was a rotten apple surrounded by batches of bright, red fruit. He wasn’t going to stop you from reaching your dream. He would not stomp that flame out. A silence falls over you and Fyodor. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not quite pleasant either. It just simply is. You glance up now and then to see Fyodor sipping on his tea, his eyes always drawn to the distance. You scan his expression for a few moments, your pen stopping its movements. He doesn’t notice you looking at him as he stares almost longingly into the distance, his dark eyes shrouded with depths of emotion you struggle to comprehend. But there is one emotion there that is most obvious to you. It’s a look of deep, suffocating loneliness. He stares, as if seeing something in the distance you cannot. He is silent and still. You barely even see his chest rising and falling with his breaths as a gentle breeze tousles his raven hair, as though an invisible hand would be combing through each lock with a careful, almost affectionate touch. Then, as if returning to reality, he blinks, his gaze slowly shifting to meet yours. You stare at one another, frozen in time for just a heartbeat. There is no coldness, no scolding. Just you and him and his sad, lonely eyes. For a moment, you almost decide to ask if he’s okay. Almost.

But as quickly as you see this side of Fyodor, it disappears under frozen blinds and walls of ice. His dark eyes glare at you, hiding the emotions you saw behind a careful shield as he scolds, “Why are you wasting time staring into space? Get back to work.” You shake your head, snapping out of your trance, eyes gliding back to the paper at your hands. You don’t speak a word and merely focus on those last few paragraphs. You knew what you saw. That cold facade cracked for just a moment to reveal something more to this man than you originally thought. There was more to Fyodor than the cold wall you kept smashing again. Your pen glides across the paper, finishing the last few translated lines. You smile to yourself, placing the ballpoint pen down on the garden table before looking up at Fyodor, pride glittering in your eyes. You’d completed the first obstacle he’d put in your way, “I’m done, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” His eyes graze over your smile, the proud glimmer in your eyes, then move down towards the sheet of paper at your fingertips. He turns his body, sitting at the table properly now as he nods at you, “Let me check.” Taking the rest of the pages out of your bag, you slide each completed chapter over to him, your hands carefully caressing the top sheet before passing it over. You were hoping this would prove your value to Fyodor and get him to start treating you…well, like someone trying to help him. Like a proper translator. Like someone actually trying to get his book published. He’s silent for a long while as he flips through the translated chapters. He murmurs to himself every now and then in Russian; sometimes he sounds almost fascinated. Other times, he sounds annoyed. Then, at last, when he’s midway through the second chapter, “This is precisely why I didn’t want to do an international release. My words simply do not translate well into English.” “We could work together to find a suitable substitute for your words in English,” you suggest. The moment his dark eyes pierce into yours, you gulp. “If you wanted to. It won’t be exactly the same but I’m sure we could find a nice middle ground.”

He’s silent for a while as if thinking over your words. Then his eyes travel back to the page, murmuring, “We can try. But I assure you, you won’t be able to translate it perfectly. The English language is incapable of properly translating what I’m attempting to convey–” ‘There he goes again, acting all high and–,’ your grumpy thoughts are interrupted as a thought strikes you like a bolt from the blue. You resist the urge to gasp. Wait…was this the first proper, positive reaction you’ve gotten from Fyodor? He accepted you reaching out a hand to him? Then maybe now was your chance! You gasp a little, suddenly standing up, much to both yours and Fyodor’s surprise. He looks up at you, taken off guard as you suddenly blurt out, “Um! In that case, I had some other advice I wanted to give to! It’s in regards to that man you focus the second chapter on!” “I don’t know if he has any significance to the plot or not, but is it really necessary to have the last twenty pages focused just on his backstory?" "Because it seems like you could use these pages to develop the male lead further or even bring in the female lead! Are you intending for him to have a larger role or–” “You dare to have the audacity to lecture me on how to write my novel?” Fyodor’s cold voice cuts you off, his eyes narrowing at you dangerously. You can almost feel your voice being stolen by his anger, as he continues you glare daggers at you so sharp, that you feel that little shred of confidence and pride you’d finally gained being ripped to shreds before you. “You translate three chapters and that’s it? You’re suddenly an expert in the writing world, are you?” He scoffs, laughing at you mockingly. He tosses the translated pages onto the table, his eyes continuing to stare into your own shocked eyes. His voice grows harsher as he suddenly begins to speak in his native tongue.

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа, я хочу напомнить вам, что ваше право на собственное мнение не обязывает меня слушать этот бред. Молчание - великий талант. Мой совет вам: если у вас будут мысли, держите их при себе; в наше время умные люди молчат, а не разговаривают. Я вас здесь не нанял для авторского выступления, так что будьте любезны, работайте и не стройте из себя Александром Сергеевичем Пушкиным.” *

He stands suddenly, leaving you stunned in place, unable to find your voice. You watch in stunned horror as he storms towards his cottage, tucked and hidden within the wilderness of the trees and shrubbery. He enters it, slamming the door behind him before you can utter another word. You feel both stunned and horrified. You had no idea what he had just said to you but why did it feel like you just lost your job? ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “You should have cut him some slack.”

“Do you really think I need to hear that right now?”

“You know it wasn’t your place to criticize him like that–”

“I know…I don’t know what came over me…” You sigh heavily, sinking into the thick duvet on your bed as your heart aches within the tight confines of your chest. The sound of the city beyond your apartment blares outside. The distant siren of an ambulance. The loud yells of passerbys. A dog’s loud barks as the scent of cigarette smoke and fumes waft through your apartment window.

It wasn’t the classiest apartment, very far from it, but it was the only place you could afford right now with the allowance you were receiving from the government, along with what little savings you had left. You sigh, running a hand through your messy hair, “I genuinely didn’t mean to do it. I just got so excited. I felt like he was finally accepting me into his world…” You lower your voice, sounding more upset. “But now I’ve gone and ruined it all…not even a week in...”

You lift your other hand, holding up your gold and black ballpoint pen once more. You twirl it between your fingers, Fyodor’s harsh expression still vivid in the back of your mind. You felt like you really offended him. You hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to help. But you understood how your words had come across as hurtful. You didn’t know the story Fyodor was plotting out. You didn't know if this man was going to play a pivotal role and yet you–

You hear a loud crunch on the other end of the line, causing you to wince and yelp in surprise, your thoughts broken through instantly, “Ack! Trixie! Hold the phone away next time!” “Mrm! Sorry girl, but look-” Trixie goes silent for a few moments while she finishes chewing whatever she’s eating. Then, she speaks again, sounding quite calm as she gives you her advice, “--I think you owe him an apology. This guy is not only your senior career wise, but he’s the literal author of the book you’re translating.”

You frown as she goes on, your eyes glued to your ballpoint pen as the streetlight outside touches it, making the golden parts gleam, “What kind of things does he like? You know, besides sitting and staring at the lake all day.”

You think over Trixie’s words, eyes sparkling with the golden hue coming from your pen. Fyodor hadn’t spoken to you much these past few days since you began working as his translator. He greeted you, scolded you to start work and then sat in silence until the day’s end. Did he like anything besides staring at the lake and–

Suddenly, you sit up in your bed, and your loose, white nightgown drops over your frame, the old springs of the bed squeaking softly. That was what you could get him to apologize! You would need to get some research in tonight and wake up early to head to the store tomorrow. You were sure there was a speciality store for this type of thing on the other side of town.

Moments before you’re about to hang up, you get a second call. Your eyes widen as you read the name on the screen; Vivian. Your heart leaps into your throat. “Sorry Trix, I have to go,” you quickly say, rising from your bed to move over to your kitchen counter where your laptop was sitting, charging. “I’ll call you when I can.”

“Keep me updated on your situation with your author man!” Trixie manages to chime back before you end the call, picking up Vivian’s seconds later.

“Yes? Hello, Vivian?” You quickly answer, holding your phone with your cheek while typing into your laptop’s keyboard, searching through the specific results you had pulled up.“I’m surprised you’re still up. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; all those involved in the literary world seem to be night owls.” She chuckles, before clearing her throat.

You scroll through the results page as Fyodor’s agent keeps speaking to you, “I presume you know why I’m calling. I just got off the phone to Fyodor regarding the…incident.” The incident…

You cringe at it being referred to like that. Your heartbeat picks up as you stand up straight, a deeply apologetic tone in your voice, “I know, I know, I was in the wrong. It’s Mr. Dostoyevsky’s book and he’s free to write however he pleases. I just got a little head of myself and–!”

“Easy,” Vivian whispers soothingly. It almost feels like she’s there with you, patting your shoulder and assuring you it's okay. “Fyodor is still a tad…appalled at your behaviour, but I have managed to convince him to give you another chance due to how efficiently and well you translated his first chapters.” A gasp escapes your throat; before your hopes can get too high, she quickly adds in a tone that reminds you of a stern teacher, “But this is your last chance. He’s said if you step out of line again, you’re out.”

“No…no, I understand perfectly!” You run a hand through your messy hair, resisting the urge to jump and dance around in glee. Oh thank God, you didn’t lose this chance! Your gaze flickers back towards the laptop screen, the results still silently waiting for you. You knew you still had to apologize properly for what you had done.

“I promise, neither of you will regret this.” You begin writing down an address frantically on a sticky note, looking up the coordinates to the location on the other side of town. You click your tongue, planning everything out in your head. Yes, if you wake up earlier, you will have the time to swing by and get everything ready before visiting Fyodor tomorrow morning without being late.

Suddenly, Vivian’s voice breaks through the silence, cutting you out of your thoughts, “I shouldn’t be saying this but do me a favour, would you?” She pauses for a moment. You focus more on her as she adds, “Cut Fyodor some slack.”

“Wh-what?” Is all you manage to breathe out. Everyone keeps telling you to do that. Were you in an echo chamber? Or did everyone else just see something you couldn't? She continues, sighing heavily and you swear you hear a pen being placed down, judging from the gentle tap you hear on her side of the call.

“It isn’t my tale to tell, but I will inform you that Fyodor has been through a lot as of late.” You frown deeply as you hear this. “This is his returning novel after taking some time away from his career, so all I ask is that you show him the same patience you would want to be shown.”

Your mind stews those words over silently as you chew the inside of your cheek. The novelist you were working with was an enigma. He was more mysterious than the deepest pits of the ocean, and more closed off than a crime scene. You only had his name. His career. And the gift of being able to read his captivating story. Well, part of it.

Just who was Fyodor exactly? And what had he gone through to make him the way he is now?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

The sky was overcast and angry as you began to make your trek towards Fyodor’s quaint cottage. You sprint along the stone path as the sky rumbles like a beast, growling as the clouds light up, warning you of the upcoming downpour that is about to begin. Clutching the bouquet you’d bought close, along with the small gift bag, you run through the archway.

The usual clear, mirror-like surface of the lake was black and menacing, nowhere near as picturesque as it had been for the entire week. No birds were singing. Branches waved violently in the strong winds that buffeted against them, sending spirals of leaves cascading around, like mini tornados of color.

You barely manage to hold onto your bouquet and gift, grimacing as you notice Fyodor isn’t sitting at the usual spot today. You look towards his cottage, the trees and shrubbery around it rustling violently against the strong gusts as well. They almost look like they’re clinging onto the cottage to keep themselves rooted. You catch a glimpse of that old tabby cat sprinting up to the door, his paws reaching up and scratching at the timber desperately and at once, it opens.

You see Fyodor, wrapped in a thicker cloak than normal along with what seems to be an old ushanka on his head, keeping his face warm. He opens the door to let the feline inside, cloak dragging on the floor behind him like a cape. Rubbing against the Russian’s legs, the tabby darts inside, away from the rough weather. But he doesn’t follow the feline; his dark eyes lift, meeting yours across the way.

He watches as the wind tousles your long hair as though playing with the elegant strands, your bright, vibrant coat of orange a stark contrast against the blackening sky but matching perfectly with the leaves falling from rustling trees around you. He sees the way your brown scarf aggressively sways in the violent breeze as the sky growls a final warning. He says nothing as he watches you. Is he waiting for you? His eyes scan you once, twice…it’s like he’s taking you in for the first time.

Like this, you look like a single glowing ember in the darkness of the world, seconds away from being snuffed out and devoured by the shadows.

Not wanting to be left out in this downpour, you sprint towards Fyodor, a loud crack echoing across the sky as it lights up, lighting striking somewhere in the distance as you pick up the pace. Without a word still, he steps aside, letting you run in just as it begins to storm. Cold droplets pour from the sky as it roars, another loud crack is heard in the distance. Rain begins to patter loudly on the roof of Fyodor's humble home, almost cleansing the land.

You hear the door close, along with a lock being turned, clicking into place. You turn to face Fyodor, noticing that the room is not illuminated by the bulbs hanging overhead but by candlelight. There are candleholders along the wall, lighting the hallway in a warm, welcoming light. Flickers of yellow dance across Fyodor’s face, his dark purple eyes practically invisible in the dark of the cottage.

Gripping the bouquet tighter, you hesitate to hand it over. Then, at last, you do, presenting the brilliant bouquet with a gentle hand. “Here,” you say softly, almost silently. “These are for you.”

You watch as his calculating eyes trace along each chosen flower; the blue hyacinths to the white orchids, to the few lilies of the Valley. He hesitates to accept them as his eyes turn back to you. He must be waiting to hear her apology out loud, “I’d like to say I’m sorry for overstepping.” The plastic around the bouquet crinkles as you grip it tighter.

“I am both your junior and not an author,” you begin, fighting back down every inch of your pride to make sure your apology comes across as genuine. “I had no right to tell you how to write your story. I’m only here to translate it into English so I’m sorry. It will not happen again.” You also present your other hand, holding the gift bag out to Fyodor. “I hope you can forgive me and we can start fresh.”

He eyes the gift bag, reaching for it first. He peers inside, hiding his surprise behind his cold eyes as he notices the variety of tea leaves you’ve purchased for him. These are all high-quality leaves from a teashop on the other side of town. Passionfruit drop. Cream black tea. Autumn spice. He looks up at you, raising a brow curiously.

You squirm under his gaze, anxiously waiting for a reply. Would he accept the apology? Would he not? It felt like time was frozen as you and Fyodor stared at one another, his deep, purple eyes peering into the very depths of your soul as if trying to see if you were truly sorry in the very pit of your heart.

Then he moves past you. You feel your heartbeat freeze in your chest and then–

“Come along. I will brew some tea while you begin work translating chapter four.”

Warmth spreads across your chest instantly, your heart fluttering in your chest, a smile breaking out on your face as you turn, following Fyodor through the candlelit hall towards what you presumed to be the kitchen, your apology bouquet in hand.

You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were both glad Fyodor had seemingly accepted your apology…and excited to read the fourth chapter of his novel. Even if he rambled on for the next forty pages and didn’t progress the plot. Your ankle boots click against the old wooden flooring as you hurry after the author.

✩ You were an enigma to Fyodor. Despite the cold walls he had placed securely around himself and the distance he had tried to keep from you, you kept coming back. Did this job really mean that much to you or were you just that desperate for money?

Or perhaps you were here for other reasons.

The kettle’s loud whistle shakes Fyodor from his web of thoughts. He takes it off the stove, bringing it over to his preferred ceramic teapot, decorated with painted pink carnations, filling it with the boiling water before moving on to inserting the mesh tea infuser, full of some of the new leaves you brought him.

As the aromatic smell of spices fills the air, he turns his thoughtful eyes to where you sit at his dining table, reading over the fourth chapter of his novel. He sees your smile behind the pages. The way your eyes gleam as you read and reread paragraphs. It even looked like you were no longer struggling to read his handwriting.

He felt warmth stirring in his heart. Fyodor had seen from reviews and heard from Vivian that his works were well-beloved, but seeing you smile and the joy in your eyes was something else entirely. It stirred something deep within his soul.

You actually did enjoy his story. You weren’t just going along with the crowd or agreeing with a friend because it was a popular piece. You were genuinely enjoying his work. He feels his heart pound for just a second before he turns away, focusing on the tea.

With slender hands, he pours the rich, orange liquid into the prepared porcelain teacups, the fragrance growing even stronger in the room. Between the sound and smell of the pouring rain and terrifying thunder and the earthy, aromatic smell of the Autumn spice tea, Fyodor felt his shoulders relaxing as he brought the two teacups over to the dining table, just in time to hear you gasp quietly.

Ah, you must’ve gotten to the part where the female lead is fleetingly introduced. For a moment, Fyodor finds himself smiling.

Dividers: @/saradika * Translation:  Dear Madam, I want to remind you that your right to your own opinion does not oblige me to listen to this nonsense. Silence is a great talent. My advice to you: if you have thoughts, keep them to yourself; Nowadays, smart people are silent, not talking. I didn’t hire you here for an author’s speech, so be kind, work and don’t pretend to be Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

[spectorgram]

FAN BEHAVIOR

characters: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake summary: batboys with a celebrity! reader content/warnings: fem! reader, fluff

DICK GRAYSON

You’re an actress who has had a meteoric rise, moving from doing small, one-off parts in TV shows to becoming a breakout star on a particularly popular series to being cast in major movie productions

Your stardom is still a little surreal to you and when you’re invited to a wayne enterprise charity gala, you contemplate not going — what business do you have being somewhere with people far more famous than you? But when you tell your agent this, she gives you a look that says you’re insane for even considering declining

You’ll forever be grateful that she urged you to do so because that’s where you meet Dick

He’s standing with Bruce Wayne, chatting with some frequent donors, dressed in a perfectly-tailored navy blue suit when he sees you out of the corner of his eye and he lights up. He approaches you first with that megawatt smile and introduces himself with an extended hand and says, “I’m a huge fan! I’ve been watching your stuff since you were in Legends of the Kingdom!” And the rest is history

Dick goes to every red carpet event you invite him to and he makes it a point to attend every private premiere screening and public opening night

He definitely shushes anyone who talks during your movies or TV shows and does not care if people think he’s obnoxious.

You’re definitely the ‘it couple’ and your faces are plastered constantly on magazine covers and two-page spreads

There are people who try to sow discord in your relationship and their go-to is either pointing out how different you are to Dick’s former girlfriends; that you’re not his type, that this isn’t going to last, etc., or that you’re not talented enough for the fame you have or to be dating Dick Grayson

It definitely gets to you and does nothing to whatever lingering imposter syndrome you harbor but Dick is such a grounding force, reminding you that it’s all just noise and that he loves you completely and unconditionally

At home, he likes to rewind your scenes in shows and movies, and it flatters you as much as it flusters you

He also likes to read through scripts with you when he can and his voices for the various other characters bring you to tears from laughter 

So many intentional and unintentional thirst trap couples pics. Like, a selfie you post one morning — Dick is shirtless and you’re in one of his old t-shirts and its sliding down your shoulder and showing your collarbone and you’re both laying on your stomachs in your shared bed, hair sleep (and sex) tousled with the morning sun making both of you look like you’re golden and glowing 

JASON TODD

You meet Jason as Red Hood first when you’re running from the paparazzi but you don’t know it’s him

They chase you down a couple of blocks before someone tugs you into an alleyway and you’re about to scream for help when you see who it is. Red Hood shields you as the paparazzi pass and when you ask him why he helped you, he simply says, “I hate the paps and you looked like you needed a hand.”

Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he walks you back to your hotel using the back alleys of Gotham. You make several attempts to strike a conversation up with him in the first few minutes of your walk but what seems to catch his interest is when you start rambling on about just finishing Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. 

You’re disappointed when you arrive at your hotel and you’re rush inside to find a pad to scribble your number on but he’s gone when you return, disappearing into the night

It’s by chance that you meet him again (unbeknownst to you), this time in his civilian identity as Jason Todd. You’re in disguise at a bookstore in Gotham when you bump into him and spill his iced coffee all over both of you, apologizing profusely and offering to buy him another drink, which he accepts. (His voice is oddly familiar to you but you can’t put your finger on why) 

You two keep in touch and start dating privately. The long-distance is difficult at times given your very different and busy schedules and Jason is pretty cagey about what he does but you both make time for each other as much as possible

He tells you that he listens to your music during his workouts and in the background while he’s doing stuff around his apartment. He hums along too.

He recommends your songs to anyone who listens, which raises suspicions in the Batfam, and it obviously doesn’t take long for them to figure out that he’s dating you but he makes them promise to keep it to themselves. 

Whenever you have a concert in Gotham, which you make a point to do frequently, Jason is in the VIP box, bobbing his head and mouthing along to your songs. When it ends, he’s right there backstage with flowers and a thermos of tea for your throat

Your relationship goes public when fans capture of video of you two leaving one of your concerts together, Jason’s leather jacket draped over your shoulders

You eventually move to Gotham to be closer to him and the two of you spend every free moment either of you have together, making up for lost time. 

You still try to keep your relationship as private as possible but fans eat up any crumbs they get, including the occasional selfie of you both 

He is your biggest inspiration for songs and also your biggest help. You love bouncing ideas off of him and he likes sitting with you when you pick at your guitar strings and mumble a half-formed melody

(You eventually do find out that he’s Red Hood when he tumbles through the window of your bedroom, bleeding profusely, and you have to take his helmet off to assess the damage)

TIM DRAKE

You’ve known Tim since you were kids given that your parents ran in the same social circles

You started out as a child model in department store clothing catalogs. Tim did some shoots with you too but while his parents eventually stopped auditioning him for such jobs, you continued until the present day, and you’re now a well-known supermodel 

You two have been friends forever and the internet laps up your interactions together. There are compilations of videos and photos of the two of you at banquets and red carpet events and memes with text like “when will someone look at me like that?”

Before you two even started dating, there were articles about a supposed romance and sexual tension between you two. In interviews, you would vehemently deny anything asked about it and reiterate that you two are just good friends

At some point, however, you start seeing your childhood friend in a different light. He’s kind, brilliant, funny, attentive, and very handsome. It’s not that you didn’t know that before but it’s different now. You find yourself shying away his casual touches and suddenly conscious of your actions around him — did you laugh too loud? Is your hair in your face? Does he know how you feel? Can he tell?

You don’t want to ruin your friendship, as cliche as it sounds, so you did your best to keep your feelings under wraps, which resulted in you distancing yourself. When Tim would text to congratulate you on your latest Vogue cover or runway show, you would simply shoot a simple ‘thanks!’ text back instead of the usual ‘THANK U’ followed by five heart emojis. 

He confronts you about it one day and you’ve never really been a good liar in front of him so you tell him, bracing for a gentle rejection but instead receiving a kiss. 

You made a hard launch post with him on Instagram and received hundreds of DMs of people saying they were vindicated in believing that “friends don’t look at each other like that”

Tim is in the front row at every single runway show you have, dressed impeccably in an expensive suit. He takes pictures of you and visits you backstage with your favorite sweet treat.

After fashion shows and other events, you return to his apartment to let your hair down and put your feet up. You do your skincare routines together, sheet face mask and all, and snuggle on the couch for some TV or just to hang out and talk endlessly

You’re very active on social media with him and you two have a lot of couples posts together. When you both have time, you do Instagram lives where people watch you two make dinner together or answer some questions from viewers. A fan favorite is when you choose outfits for each other.

During a runway, you blow a kiss at Tim in the audience and the camera zooms in on his face, where he just watches you with a lovestruck expression and bright red ears — it’s in almost every video compilation that’s titled something like ‘15 minutes of Tim Drake being a simp’

[crunchietoast]

ᶜᵒᵒᵏⁱᵉˢ & ᶜᵒʷᵇᵒʸˢ| ʲ.ᵐ

Pairings: pre-outbreak Joel Miller x fem!reader

Word Count: 2883 (✨Including Bonus Scene✨)

Summary: You loved days like this. Days sitting on his couch in the dark living room of your neighbour’s house. Yes, that's right, you were spending your Saturday afternoons on your neighbour’s couch on a rainy day. But the term neighbour might be a little insensitive after all he was more than any other neighbour you have ever had.

Warnings: implied NSFW, cheesy cowboy books, Tommy being a little shit, eating; cookies and popcorn, mentions of shirtless Joel, swearing, FlirtyJoel™️, use of Y/N unfortunately, low-key cowboy kink, most likely writing errors leave meh alone :') (lemme know if there are any more <3)

You loved days like this. Days sitting on the couch in the dark living room of your neighbour’s house. Yes, that's right, you were spending your Saturday afternoons on your neighbour’s couch on a rainy day. But the term neighbour might be a little insensitive after all he was more than any other neighbour you have ever had.

Since you moved in next door, you and Joel have become very close and spend a lot of time together. You hate to be cliché, but you have grown especially fond of him, more than neighbours should, or even more the friends should. Yep, that's right you had a huge fat crush on the boy next door. But the boy next door wasn't actually a boy, in fact he was a man, a very single man that just so happened to be a loving father, and as you have recently found out, someone very cozy to share a blanket with.

You and Joel’s friendship was interesting to say the least. You two were flirty, very flirty, but you both knew the line and tiptoed on the edge; never dare crossing it. Being close with Joel was just easy, you knew what one another needed.

For example, crying at his front door, face smothered in his shoulder after a hard day. You knew he’d be there. No questions asked but the silence was loud enough. Comforting in a way.

He has made it very clear you were welcome over any time but Sarah on the other hand, uses a tactic you like to call broad-line trickery. You really couldn't say no to her puppy dog eyes when she begged you to stay over for movie night.

“C'mon Y/N! Dad doesn't cook the popcorn like you do!” she pleaded, knowing full well you and Joel made the popcorn the exact same way.

“Well if you insist,” you playfully rolled your eyes and making eye contact with Joel, acting as if it were a chore to be around the adorable curly hair girl and her absolute DILF of a dad.

Joel scoffed and rolled his eyes back as he chucked Sarah’s bedding on the couch that she insisted on having to make a blanket fort with.

“Only if you're Dad says it okay though.” You say again with a smile on your face. Sarah exclaimed in joy.

“Okay with it? Pft! Dad would make you move in if you'd let him” Sarah made sly eyes at Joel as his eyes widened before he threw a pillow at his daughter.

“Okay, that's enough! If you want Y/N to stay you better go get more blankets and pillow, hurry up or the pizzas gonna come and you’re not gonna get any…” Joel teased as he picked up the home phone from the coffee table. Sarah ran upstairs with loud thumps you and Joel chuckled quietly.

“Move in huh?” You battered your eyes.

“You shush girl, or no pizza for you either” he narrows his eyes at you.

So yes, you loved sitting on his couch on a cold rainy day more than anything. You two didn't even need to talk really, simply sitting on the couch with your legs laid on top of his lap as you read a book, his thumb gently rubbing your ankle where your sweatpants and socks don't exactly meet as he watches whatever is on the tv on a quiet volume.

Some would think you’re a couple, which in all honestly would make sense, but nope. Neither of you says anything for fear of ruining the comfortable abode you’ve made yourself. So, sitting here will have to do for now.

“When is Sarah gonna be back?” You asked glancing up from your cheesy cowboy novel.

“Why? My company not enough?” he pretended to be offended and you giggled and shook your head as your eyes rolled, “she’s gettin’ dropped off at Tommy’s tonight, she wanted to have a slumber party with her uncle apparently. Gon’ get him to tell her all bout’ his date on Tuesday” he deadpanned. You chuckled slightly at the thought of Tommy and Sarah having a ‘slumber party’, you can imagine it now, Sarah braiding his hair as he rants and swoons about the pretty girl he just went on a date with. “He better keep it PG, don’t want Sarah coming home tellin’ me all about how Uncle Tommy just got laid” he said, which only made you laugh louder, head thrown back against the arm rest of the couch.

“Now that would be hilarious” you said as you stood up from the couch, throwing the fluffy blanket and book onto the couch next to Joel as you walked to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you heard him scoff from the living room as you got a bag of popcorn out of the cabinet. “For you. I’ll be the one that has to give Sarah the talk unless you wanna give it a go Darlin'” He laughed loudly at the thought.

“I’ll leave it to you, thanks” you say sheepishly as you pressed the buttons on the microwave, then grabbing a cookie from the jar above the microwave, which are surprisingly still here. Joel and Tommy love the cookies that you and Sarah make, they never usually last a week.

A few seconds past with nothing but the sound of the popcorn popping, the TV on low volume and the heavy rain hitting the windows and roof outside. It was peaceful.

“His hands were rough, just like she imagined. Real hard-working hands must be from all horse riding and heavy lifting he’s been doing she thought to herself. Those same hands now moved down her body slowly,” You heard Joel say from the living room.

‘What in the world is he on abo-’

Your book. He’s reading your book.

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing not getting touched the way she shoul-” he continued.

“JOEL NO! PUT IT DOW-” you ran into the living room diving onto the couch scrambling to get the book from his grasp. His laughter boomed loudly as he held the book out of her reach.

“Is this what you've been readin’ all this time sweetheart? Paper porn?” Joel laughs loudly as you’re still trying to reach the book, climbing all over him in the hopes of getting it back.

“Joel! give it back, it’s not what it looks like!” you said smacking his chest with a bright red face.

“Oh baby, I think it’s exactly what it looks like, see the page was even dog eared,” his laugh only getting louder as you straddle his lap, pulling at his arm that’s in the air with the book.

“No fair Joel, give it back!” you whine as he laughs slow down.

“Alright Alright girl, calm down,” his hand comes up to grab at your wrist that’s trying to get the book. You glare at him crossing your arms with your hand, that Joel was holding, out waiting the return of your precious book. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, here’s ya porn-” you jab the side of his ribs “OW! - okay okay here’s your…literature” he said finally handing the book to you as you snatch it out of his grasp, holding it tightly against you, the glare remaining.

“Cowboys really do it for you?” Joel askes curiously.

“Shut up, didn’t your Momma ever teach you not to touch what isn't yours? Or did you just not listen, hm?” You said pulling his ear gently to add emphasise to your words. Joel grabbed at your wrist again.

“Oh no Darlin, don’t worry I listen real well.” he said smirking as your face burned.

“Dick.” you scoffed, slapping his shoulder with the book before getting off of Joel, trying to ignore the fact you realised you were sitting on him a few seconds ago. Joel just laughed.

“Yeah Yeah, now would you be an angel go get the popcorn for your handsome rugged cowboy?” Joel said reaching for the TV remote nonchalantly.

“Ughh, I hate you” you whine throwing a pillow at his head as you walk back to the kitchen placing the book on the counter, away from Joel, and emptied the popcorn from the microwave into a bowl.

“Where's the book?” Joel asked as you sat back down on the couch, your legs bent with your cold feet under his thigh in hopes of some warmth, bowl of buttery popcorn in hand.

“I’m going to burn it.” You say dead serious as you tug the blanket back over you, Joel shuffling under as well, munching on handful of popcorn.

“What?!” He groaned “I was really getting into it” He continued, smirking as you glared at him again.

“I’ll buy you one for your birthday.” you say still serious as you smack his arm coming to pinch at your chin affectionately.

“Na, why would you do that when we can just read it together, huh? Go on off you go, get the book” he said throwing his arm on the backrest of the couch and shooing you away with his other hand.

Bright red covers you from you neck to the tip of your ears at the thought of reading a dirty book with Joel. With him.

“Absolutely not. There is no way in hell I’m reading that book near you ever again, let alone with you!” You said throwing a piece of popcorn at him. Joel laughs.

“Don't let me ruin it for you, I’m sure you were really into it. Up to the best part of it as well” Joel replies, chuckling as you shove your face into the pillow you grabbed from behind you, groaning loudly.

“You’re such an idiot, I’m never making cookies for you again!” you threaten as your face is still shoved in the pillow.

Joel grabbed behind you knees and pulled you closer to him, so your legs laid over his lap completely, you squealed into the pillow. He put his hands on your waist where your his hoodie had rod up and started to tickle, your head shot out from the pillow and screeched bloody murder as you tried to wiggle from his gasp.

“Don’t be so mean to your cowboy, he loves eating his girls’ cookies!” he said as he continued the assault.

“Joel stop!” you squealed again between words as he just kept pulling you closer every time you managed to crawl away. “Let me go!!” you're screams began mixing with uncontrollable laughter.

“Na-uh girly, you’re not going anywhere. I will not hesitate to lasso you up!” Joel kept the cowboy joke going because he loved the reaction it got out of you. And this, for one was definitely a reaction.

You laughed harder, the joke now becoming more funny than embarrassing. Still embarrassing of course but funny too now.

“Pl-please! I-I can’t!” you screamed as tears welled at the corner of your eyes from the laughter. Joel was laughing loudly as well, showing dimple on his right cheek that you loved so much.

His fingers finally stopped moving and your laughing slowed down, you opened your eyes to Joel’s shit eating grin pasted all over his face. He was sitting on his heels now, facing you, between your thighs as your legs were over his thighs and down by his sides. His hands on the couch, either side of your hips to hold himself up.

You’re smile hurt your cheeks and the tears from laughter rolled down the side of your face. Joel was quick to wipe them away with his thumb.

“Fine I’ll make more cookies.” you say quietly, like a whisper for only him to hear.

“Promise?” Joel whispered back as his smile went gentle.

“Promise.”

The words felt like they had more meaning than they lead on. Like it wasn’t about cookies, or cowboys. Like you were promising something more than his favourite home baked goods. And it felt okay. You didn't know what it was at the moment but whatever it was, it felt okay.

“Good.” Joel concluded. “Can’t live without em’” he said as his thumb gently touched your waist again.

“Me either” you giggled.

This definitely wasn't about cookies or cowboys.

✨Bonus scene✨

WC: 846

“Yes, the bear with the blue ribbon, I got it! Just stay in the car, won’t be long girly!” Tommy called out to the car as he walked into the kitchen from the back door.

“Hi Tommy, whacha doin?” you asked him as you stood at the stove pulling out another tray of cookies, as Joel ate the rest.

“Hiya sweets, just picking up a few things for Sarah she forgot. Apparently, she can’t live without em’ for even a day,” he said as he looked around the kitchen “where is Joel at?”

“Oh, he’s in the shower, shouldn't be too long” you said as you took the oven mites off your hands, chucking them on the bench next to the stove.

“You guys been behaving?” Tommy smirked as he wiggled his eyebrows at you. You rolled your eyes at him and ignored the blush on your cheeks.

“We always do” you smiled at him with a warning eye, that if he were to ask again you would hit him with a wooden spoon. He got the idea.

“Hey Darlin’ do you have my shir-” Joel said as walked into the kitchen as soon as he saw Tommy he huffed and leaned against the counter.

Oh, you forgot to mention, shirtless as well. Since you were indeed wearing his shirt. Why you ask? Don’t.

“What are you doing here?” Joel asked Tommy bluntly.

“Hello to you too brother,” Tommy said smiling slyly at the sight of you wearing said shirt, Joel not wearing said shirt and…wait what’s that, a book on the counter? “Just picking up some stuff for Sarah, the girl really needs a bear with a blue ribbon apparently”.

“Armchair in the Living room on the right” you said as you walked into the laundry room near the kitchen, grabbing Joel a new shirt.

“Thanks” Tommy said as he walks closer to the counter with the book. Joel is so distracted to by the cookies that just came out of the oven, attempting to make it look like he’s not drooling as he stood near the stove top with the tray on top, that he doesn’t even notice Tommy looking at the book.

“’Save a horse, Ride a cowboy’?” Tommy read the cheesy book cover out loud as he picked it up.

You rushed back into the kitchen throwing the new shirt at Joel’s face as he wiped around from the stove top to get to Tommy as well.

“NO!” You both said in unison. Somehow Joel got there first and snatched the book out of his brothers’ hands. Tommy was extremely confused, it took a bit for the book title and the reaction of you both to process, but when it did, and he knew what the book was most likely about a huge smirk smeared disgustingly over his face.

“A cowboy book?” Tommy said as Joel and your faces went red. Joel fiddling with the cover of the pages.

“It’s Joel’s!” you said quickly. Joels eyes instantly went wide as he panned his head towards you. His grip on the book tightens. Tommy looked between the both of you.

“No, it’s not! Y/N, its hers she loves cowboys!!” Joel shouted whipping his head to Tommy as if he was a kid caught stealing candy. He swung his head back over to you with eyebrows furrowed and jaw swingling open. “How DARE you.” He emphasized the word dare.

“Joel it’s okay, your allowed to like what you like. Nothing to be ashamed off.” You smirked at him as you (fake) empathetically patted his shoulder. See how he likes it.

“Okayyyy…. Well, I’ll leave you to cookie making” he pointed to you, “And I’ll leave you, dear brother, to cowboy readin’” tommy said patting the shoulder of Joel. You kept in the snort of laughter as Joel once again snapped his head to his brother, glaring firmly at the younger man. Tommy nods at the both of you and walked backwards to the Livingroom to finally get the bear Sarah wanted.

“You little shit.” Joel said looking over to your sheepish smile. His eye twitched as you shrugged your shoulder and giggled guiltily.

“What? You did say you loved the book…” you said, still smiling, as you picked up the shirt you threw at Joel in the struggle and dusted it off before handing it to him with both hands.

Joel snatched the shirt and tossed the book back onto the counter, aggressively pulled the shirt over his head.

“Tommy, did you find the bear?” Joel asked keeping his glare on you.

“Uh… Yep! found it right he-” Tommy said from the Livingroom.

“Great. Get out.” Joel said firmly. Tommy got the hint and began pacing for the backdoor again.

“No! Tommy please don’t leave, here have a cooki-”

“Bye Y/N!! Goodluck!” He said as the door closed behind him. Your eyes went back to Joel’s which had yet to stop staring. Joel waited until he hears Tommy’s truck drive away.

‘Those cookies better be the best damn things I’ve ever eaten. Or you’re screwed.”

[nearer-than-the-eye]

LITTLE SAINT

listen Ahi giustizia di Dio! tante chi stipa nove travaglie e pene quant’ io viddi? e perché nostra colpa sì ne scipa?

"Ah, Justice of God, who heaps up such strange punishment and pain as I saw there? and why do our sins so waste us?" For Santino D'Antonio: John Wick's bitter ex, my most beloved villain, and whose name means sacred or little saint.

___

John Wick 2 may have come out nearly a decade ago, but being a Santino girl is a chronic condition. Cover and track list images are details from Caravaggio's Bacchus, and the epigraph is from Canto VIII of Inferno, translated by Robert and Jean Hollander.

Some extended thoughts about my process and choice of epigraph and cover under the read more!

This playlist mostly started because I was listening to "Young Caesar 2000," said to myself, wow, this would be a great Santino song, and put it alone on a new playlist. From there, for about a year, I'd throw on anything that particularly reminded me of Santino, songs that felt, not like they described him, but that they might narrate part of his inner monologue and feeling. Some John/Santino vibes starting slipping in there (almost inevitably), but I knew I wanted to keep things really closely tied to how Santino understands himself. I narrowed things down, did some ordering for the overall arc and (hopefully) smooth transitions, and here we are!

Essential to my understanding of Santino (and thus this playlist's formation) is NeverwinterThistle's Unholy Union and asuralucier's The Man You Want to Be, both of which you should absolutely run, not walk, to read.

I'll let the tracklist mostly speak for itself, but I hopefully captured Santino's arrogance and the fundamental emptiness and deep insecurity that arrogance covers. I really do think John is something real and true for Santino, in a world full of posturing, but he eventually cannot resist instrumentalizing John, just like everyone else. JW 2 is one of the JW movies most pessimistic about masculinity (if not THE most pessimistic), and the arc of this playlist would certainly be very different without Mitksi's "I'm Your Man." Which is Mitski's most pessimistic song about masculinity! So it all works out.

The title -- The fact that Santino's name means "little saint" has fascinated me since my first cursory google search that delivered this factoid, and I've always kept it in my back pocket when thinking about Santino as a character. He's always the little brother. His petulance and pettiness is so essential to his character, and it's, of course, what makes him such a great foil to John (who imagines himself as a rational actor, but has his matching streak of the petulance). Santino inherits all this splendor, and all he can do is try and claw out more and more. A petty saint, and certainly never a god.

Why Bacchus? -- Well, I was trying to get a good film still for the cover and eventually gave up, so then I went to go find something appropriately aesthetic for a playlist cover. I was going to do a Dutch Golden Age still life bc that's what I'm writing about rn and lushness (and rot) is so essential to Santino, but then I was like. this guy is Italian. SUPER Italian. Who's an Italian with dramatic shadows and lush still lifes? And thus Caravaggio. Bacchus because revelry, excess, beauty, ect....also the invitation of the painting--he's holding out the goblet to you, asking you to join him. But mostly because it's beautiful.

Why Dante? -- I KNEW this bitch had to have an epigraph from Inferno once I realized this was going to be a real playlist. I mean, speaking of pessimism! The Divine Comedy feels so crazy to read as a modern reader bc it's like. yeah all this suffering is God's perfect justice. That guy eating his own shit is part of the divine plan. Which, to me, lines up really well with my read on masculinity in the JW movies--perfect, unchangeable, and committing you to endless suffering.

Alright, let's really get into it. This tercet ("Ah, Justice of God, who heaps up / such strange punishment and pain as I saw there? / and why do our sins so waste us?") come early in Canto 7, as Virgil and Dante (our POV character and protagonist) leave the third circle of Hell, Gluttony, and enter the fourth circle, Avarice and Prodigality ("Why do you squander...Why do you hoard" is probably the most famous quote from this circle). If Santino was to end up anywhere, it would be in one of those two circles, so I enjoy that this is the point in the text Dante asks these two questions!

Speaking of: despite God's perfection, Dante sure loves to question what he sees in hell and then...not resolve those questions in any way. It's interesting to see that "who heaps up / such strange punishment and pain as I saw there?" is a question addressed to the "Justice of God" when. well. the Justice of God is the thing heaping up these strange punishments and pain!

Dante seems unaware of the paradox, here, which has a real resonance for me in the way Santino is just like, well, I HAVE to blow up your house, John! I HAVE to put out a hit on you after you fulfill the marker, John! But to point to the times he acted out of compassion (not calling in John's marker during his retirement) would completely undermine that logic. It says "there are some things more important than power," but if Santino acknowledged that, then he wouldn't be able kill his sister.

Dante can't walk through hell and say with his whole chest, "I don't think it should be like this, actually" and still trust and love God, so he doesn't. Santino can't believe "more power will make me more happy, our culture says so," and also consciously acknowledge that it's the culture under the Table (and his father!!! his god!!!) that has pitted him against his sister his whole life, that has instilled in him values that ultimately leave him empty. So he doesn't! And he dies trapped in that paradox.

And then that second question. "And why do our sins so waste us?" UGH. ugh. Dante. You fucking hit me hard with this one. This is the line that made me choose this tercet. There's so much to Santino, so much beauty, so much divinity--but our sins waste us. All that power is used only in pursuit of more power, and, in the end, he's destroyed by that pursuit. The first two lines of the tercet key into culture and the way we contort our selves to fit into culture, but this last line is just an exclamation of the tragedy. Why? we ask, and nobody answers.

[ghcstlly]

、 ✰   𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐄, 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃  ― « point of view »

                                      ❛ there's blood on the side of the mountain, there's writing all over the wall.  ❜

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄— ❛ sometimes the fire you founded, don't burn the way you'd expect. ❜

NOS PIORES DIAS , É DIFICIL ENCONTRAR ESPERANÇA - quando a felicidade vir , caso um dia ela venha , estaríamos prontos? quando tudo que se aprende é um tipo faminto de atenção espaçada, como se preparar para alegria ? quando não a viu jamais. quando não sabe seu gosto. ' um dia vou morar em um aparentemente ensolarado , meus amigos virando a esquina , o amor da minha vida na cozinha ' , expectativas que nos movem , por mais tolas - que possam ser.

tw: negligência parental, violência física contra criança.

a jovem maeve, que ainda não é chamada assim, agora não mais velha que oito ou nove anos, corre no lago impermeabilizado pelo gelo, mas um passo em falso - um único pedaço frágil na água congelada - , e está caindo. a sensação é congelante, queima como se o corpo estive em chamas , mas é só o liquido gélido encharcando através das roupas leves demais para aquele clima. ninguém parece notar, ela tinha certeza que a mãe estava em algum lugar próximo mas a boca enche de água, os pulmões ardendo como a pele, e está sozinha.

quando os movimentos frenéticos param, e já não consegue colocar a cabeça para fora, roubar o fôlego que mal parecia lhe pertencer - o mundo começa a desaparecer sob suas pálpebras, os olhos fechando & aceita seu destino. partir silenciosamente , depois de lutar para manter-se a tona . o mundo acaba então, em gelo. mas alguém a puxa para cima, e não imagina quem pode ter sido, pois quando volta a si está em um hospital, recuperando-se da hipotermia & a matriarca tem uma expressão entediada no rosto, traindo apenas um pouco de irritação. aquela face a assustava - tinha causado problemas, a conta do hospital seria absurda, e ela levaria a culpa. contava já com uma surra, e foi o que recebeu depois de chegarem em casa ; o frio ainda fazendo casa em seus ossos, uma nova dor nos braços vermelhos e queimados. graças a deus não ficou com cicatrizes, ouviu seyoung rezar para isso, para vários deuses , para diversos salvadores. não aceitaria uma filha - que não era bela & adorável, contanto que pudesse esconder os hematomas abaixo de blusas longas.

a criança rezou também, para que o anjo que a salvou no lago - voltasse a aparecer. contudo, suas preces foram respondidas com silêncio ; ou assim pensou.

naquela noite, sonhou pela primeira vez com o resultado de um jogo de azar & recebeu um olhar divertido do senhor yoon quando apostou o pouco que tinha guardado. ' não é muito nova para jogatina, miyeon ? ' , ele ria mas ela não retribuiu , fez com que achasse a raspadinha de número quarenta e oito no lote cinco , e ganhou trezentos dólares que tentou esconder ; quando a mãe achou, beliscou tão forte seu braço, que ela soltou um grito de dor , apenas para ser respondida com : ' cale a boca. '

tudo isso - aos oito ou nove.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 — ❛ shadows of us are still dancing. ❜

ela sonha pela primeira vez com o jardim , entre nove e dez anos - a coisa mais bela que já testemunhou. há uma menina ali, ela usa vestimentas vermelhas antigas, como se tivesse acabado de sair da guerra & suas feições perfeitas refletem curiosidade , um pouco de zombaria altiva e a garota apenas sabe - aquela é deus e veio para salvá-la.

elas sentam-se na mesa redonda, cercadas pelas flores - gardênias, prímulas, cravos & camélias - mae , que ainda não atende por esse nome, se encanta, nunca tinha visto tanta vida , a formosura do paraíso bem cuidado é um acalento a alma marcada por desprezo, o mais repulsivo tipo de descuidado. ali, não existia tempo, não precisava fingir ser qualquer coisa diferente do que era. aquele pedaço da realidade que ela apelidou de sonhar - era honesto. ' não beba o leite. ' , de repente a figura diz & beberica seu chá logo após. a menina não pede explicação, sente que não precisa, como se soubesse exatamente sobre o que ela falava. suas conversas geralmente eram assim - unilaterais, ela dizia coisas crípticas e a mais nova acenava com a cabeça em concordância.

meses depois sua mãe lhe dá leite com morangos - sabendo bem que a filha é fatalmente alérgica, e ao contrário do aviso ; ela bebe. talvez não soubesse, ou talvez quisesse deixar este mundo para viver no céu com aquela mulher que lhe contava de mistérios, falava em enigmas. quanto a mãe, talvez fosse desamor, talvez fosse falta de atenção, talvez estivesse cansada de ser responsável pela vida de alguém que não fosse ela mesma. a filha pensava que entendia - de certa forma mórbida - , seyoung foi amaldiçoada com seu nascimento. uma vez esplendidamente charmosa, e fantasticamente livre - agora tinha uma âncora, agora tinha linhas de expressão. agora tinha - um fardo.

portanto - deitada de novo no consultório de um médico, mentindo que a mãe não sabia sobre sua alergia para uma senhora de óculos grossos que diz ser do concelho tutelar ; ela entende. a mãe - queria ser liberta & ela queria a mesma coisa.

tudo isso dos nove, aos dez anos.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 — ❛ i'm coming like a storm into your town. ❜

os onze aos treze são os piores anos, e ela os batiza de ' tempos da guerra ' . os olhos de lee seyoung brilham com ganância detestável quando a filha lhe conta dos sonhos - aqueles com números & possibilidades certas, escondendo o jardim e a mulher em vermelho, tomando goles de chá doce, como se fosse seu próprio segredo.

quando ganham seu primeiro milhão, a mãe se agacha no altar improvisado da sala e reza pela noite toda . do quarto, a filha pode escutar na quietude incomum cada sussurro de ave maria & ela vota nunca repetir aquela oração. com o passar do tempo, a pessoa sem fé que lhe trouxe ao mundo, torna-se devota - devota demais - , estranhamente religiosa, e francamente insana. deus - é sua palavra favorita.

compram uma casa grande, onde a pré-adolescente é colocada no porão. ela tem coragem de dizer - lábios avermelhados como uma degenerada : ' decore como quiser. ' mas miyeon não vê um centavo daquele dinheiro, e tudo que lhe resta é aceitar a cama com um colchão duro e as cobertas finas demais. ela já sobreviveu o frio uma vez - faria de novo. como uma prisioneira , ou talvez diferente de uma da maneira irregular como era tratada, ela tinha permissão para usar o banheiro e a cozinha. porém, suas refeições eram inconscientes. lee seyoung não cozinhava, e a pequena se queimou muitas vezes, mas nas ocasiões que conseguia se arrastar da cama para comer, inventava algo que não tinha exatamente um gosto bom.

sua mãe estava fora quase todas as noites, e nessas ela se empertigava no sofá confortável, onde pensava que podia dormir - a verdade era que sentia muito sono, mas raramente conseguia se entregar a ele, fosse o estômago vazio ou a boca seca , ou então o fantasma dos cinco dedos na bochecha pois se recusou a contar seu sonho lucrativo. 'inútil, inútil, inútil,' ela repetia e a trancava naquele pedaço húmido da casa. no final, não se deixava sequer cochilar no móvel acolchoado, sabia que mais castigos seguiriam.

pouco a pouco, ela entendia menos a mãe. porque a deixar nascer , se nunca a quis ? mas ela não sabia de histórias de meninas que morrem sem cuidados médicos. mais tarde, ela volta a entender a mãe.

em um sonho - ela pergunta a deus qual seu nome & ela responde com um sorriso singelo : ' grace ' .

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 — ❛ you can't catch me now. ❜

vamos falar sobre luz - como seu pai pronuncia ? maeve. como sua mãe a enterra ? não vá.

pensa por um minuto que está delirando, febril no sonhar & procura por deus - mas aparentemente , ele está frente a si. tomando ação contra os vis comportamentos daquela mulher - aquela mulher que nunca amou. jamais tinha pensado no lado paterno de sua vida, nunca tinha fantasiado como os dois se conheceram e não imaginava que seria ele a salvá-la. quando as punições se tornam mais severas, quando aquela pessoa que devia tomar conta de si se entrega a bebida, quando já não pode esconder os hematomas com as blusas soltas - ele entra em sua existência, voz suave e explica que para ela , há uma segunda opção.

ela se agarra a esta com as unhas e nem por um momento considera não partir.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 — ❛ something easy to forget. ❜

sua primeira estadia no acampamento é marcada por treinos e medo. não demora a ser aclamada por hipnos , e finalmente se torna sua filha, algo que a enche de orgulho. porém, quanto mais tempo se passa, maior fica seu controle sobre o poder . sua vertente sendo sonhos em probabilidade , ela vai acumulando fortuna e desavenças . a garota com os olhos marejados que chegou na colina calejada pela vida, com uma mochila de roupas que foram remendadas de novo e de novo - morria aos poucos. cada vez mais ela percebia que nascer com o sangue maldito do divino apenas significava desistir de sua vida por uma causa que sequer era sua.

ela entende a mãe de novo.

ela protege a genitora mandando dinheiro para que viva confortavelmente, tudo que ela ganha é dividido entre contas estrangeiras e fianças para tirar a mais velha da cadeia, assustada que seus golpes não parem mesmo com tudo que lhe dá. tudo que não merece.

tinha um novo nome, novas roupas, um novo apreço pela própria solidão. seria talvez - seu fim , mas ela não sabia ainda. por isso afastava os amigos e os irmãos, aqueles que lhe queriam bem e os que lhe queriam mal. ela era um mau exemplo de felicidade quando finalmente partiu, levando nada consigo além de uma nova atitude.

seria ela agora o monstro. seria ela - a deusa da ambição.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 — ❛ you thought this was the end. ❜

compra uma casa frente a praia e a enche de arte que não entende & muito pouco tem significado. abarrota o closet com roupas de marca, extravagantes e em várias cores de fúnebre & floral, sem meio termo. não sai para aproveitar o mar ou a areia, vive assombrando os corredores da mansão, e a deixa apenas para duas coisas : cuidar dos cabelos e noites de jogatina. não era muito jovem, para isto, ela se lembrava de ouvir na voz do senhor yoon e agora, finalmente podia rir.

sua vida era uma jogada desde o momento que nasceu, e ela tinha ganhado. ou assim pensou - até que os sonhos, premonições do futuro , tornaram-se turvos. até que sua sorte simplesmente desapareceu, até que a deusa lhe visitou no terraço e disse : ' se vai trazer ruina a um filho meu, trarei o mesmo a você ' .

ela quebrou as molduras com tacos de de golfe que nunca havia usado, gritando como uma mulher enlouquecida. como ela pode ? como pode brincar com seu destino desta forma ?

quando voltou ao acampamento, quase nada em seu nome, além das coisas que salvou da venda e da desgraça - voltou a ser praguejada pelo medo.

em um episódio, se escondeu no quarto, hiperventilando com as mãos sobre os ouvidos - o mundo era tão alto. sempre tinha sido alto assim?

𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 — ❛ you'll see my face in every place. ❜

o final se aproximava - ela podia sentir. em sua mente, em seus ossos, na corrente do sangue ; tudo levava a destruição. bem agora, que havia uma luz no final do túnel. uma família que aprendeu a abraçar, um garoto que parecia um sonho belo - como aquela primeira vez no jardim - , amigos que não faziam com que vacilasse ao ouvi-los. logo agora, que tinha se acostumado ao mundo outra vez.

NOS PIORES DIAS , É DIFICIL ENCONTRAR ESPERANÇA - quando a felicidade vir , caso um dia ela venha , estaríamos prontos? quando tudo que se aprende é um tipo faminto de atenção espaçada, como se preparar para alegria ? quando não a viu jamais. quando não sabe seu gosto. ' um dia vou morar em um aparentemente ensolarado , meus amigos virando a esquina , o amor da minha vida na cozinha ' , expectativas que nos movem , por mais tolas - que possam ser.

esperança podia encher seu peito - mas sua vida tinha sido uma jogada, e sentia que com aquela mão ; ia perder.

[tweetsongs]

once again i am asking people to read jwqs

i bet you thought you saw the last of me, motherfuckers *maniacal laughter increases*. that’s right, today in ‘rain’s unhinged webnovel recommendations,’ i’m here to tell you why you, yes YOU, should read jwqs.

what is jwqs?

jwqs, translated as clear and muddy loss of love, is a novel by the author Please Don’t Laugh/PDL, an author known for writing wlw webnovels such as female emperor and the eldest princess. jwqs is another one of her baihe, or wlw, novels, and is complete at 303 chapters and change in extras.

what is jwqs about?

qiyan agula, the prince of the grass plains, is the eldest daughter of the chief of a tribe living across the river from a rival kingdom. she has been raised as a boy from birth because ~politics~. when the rival kingdom massacres her people, she decides to take revenge by integrating herself as a male scholar in their country and working her way up the political ladder until she is in a position to burn it all to the ground. unfortunately for her, she does a little TOO well and is in the perfect position as an imperial scholar to be betrothed to the emperor’s favorite daughter, the youngest princess nangong jingnu.

the novel spans their decades-long relationship, including both their growing feelings towards each other, the political machinations of the court, civil instability within and around the kingdom, as well as qiyan’s road towards vengeance.

so this is a standard enemies to lovers arranged marriage story, so what?

oh my dear sweet summer child. you darling little fool lost to the winds of cliche storylines. this is no mere collection of hot tropes, this is a turducken of dramedy that will rip your still-beating heart out of your chest and cackle as it burns it in front of you. this webnovel will bury itself in your synapses until you sit up in bed at 4am Thinking about cycles of violence and the inevitable degradation of memory. while it IS a romance, it is also a dizzying political drama with a deft touch for platonic and familial relationships the likes of which i’ve rarely found in other texts.

Not only that, but to characterize jwqs as enemies to lovers is to simplify their relationship to an insulting degree- these two useless sapphics go through basically every relationship dynamic possible at some point, and most of the time at least one of them doesn’t hate the other! Their relationship is maybe best summarized by this twitter post, which makes me cackle every time.

so it’s more plot-focused than relationship-focused?

while jwqs IS largely concerned with broader issues within the kingdom and the opposing wei and grass plain factions, it would be remiss of me to say that it isn’t as concerned with its main relationship! the political drama of this novel is reflected through the evolving relationship between qiyan and jingnu, and their positions being what they are, their personal decisions and shifts in power dynamic ripple out to have significant consequences in the broader setting.

Additionally, beyond the main couple, evolving relationships and what people can come to mean to one another forms the backbone of jwqs’ themes, and each character has a complicated web of dynamics that refract into the sociopolitical situation. Rather than saying it’s more relationship or plot-focused, it’s more accurate to say that the plot and relationships of jwqs are inextricably entwined.

short answer: kind of!

okay this sounds like a bonafide tragedy, will the ending destroy my soul?

skip this one if you don’t even want a whiff of spoilers, but for those who are worried- jwqs does technically have a happy ending! it says so right in the summary!

now, to get to the more complicated answer - it depends on your tragedy threshold. this novel will spend three hundred chapters making you think ‘oh this CANNOT end well,’ and then sprinkle in moments of such sweetness that you’re forced to consider ‘but wouldn’t it be wonderful if it did?’ i truly spent the novel expecting a purely tragic ending, but instead got....kind of a bittersweet one! if you want the true happy ending you HAVE to read to the epilogue, the ending proper will only flash a few knives between its fingers before flinging them directly at your bared throat.

any caveats or trigger warnings?

yes, definitely! once again, i’m a fan of people going into a book eyes open, so here’s a list of things in the book that may turn some people off!

the book starts with a genocide, and spends much of the novel dealing with the horrific aftermath that the survivors deal with

it’s generally a pretty heavy book that doesn’t shy away from gore

there are depictions of sexual assault (not among the main characters), though the translation does warn for it!

there’s a relationship between an older and younger woman where the younger woman is in a state of dissociative mental trauma, and it is unclear whether or not she is capable of giving informed consent. this relationship is depicted as positive and grows into a consenting healthy relationship between two adults, but the beginning can be...pretty rough, since the book itself doesn’t seem to view this as a significant power imbalance/possible assault

there is an age gap between the main characters, and one of them is thirteen when they marry for political purposes. nothing happens between them until they’re in their twenties, but this premise might not be for some!

the first chapter of the translations has a more holistic list of trigger warnings, so i’d recommend reading through that first if you have any fears! this is just what stood out to me personally

anything else to sweeten the pot?

if you’re still not convinced, please have this miscellaneous list of reasons i love jwqs:

while the main characters have a tempestuous relationship, their dynamic stays incredibly sweet and loving throughout the novel. they are SO cute and kind to each other it makes me froth at the mouth

it has some of the most nuanced and subtle character writing i’ve ever seen, and depicts every character with a deftness that would’ve come out as overwrought in most other texts

the main character is a GREMLIN and EVIL, i’ve seen all you ‘where’s my evil girl mc’s’ on tumblr...this is your time

the mc is a compulsive liar to everyone including herself (hm that sounds familiar) and that makes the book incredibly funny to read when you read between the lines

the author’s notes are.....so good. this lady just loves ladies so much y’all

SO many supportive himbos

the main character can speak to horses. no there’s no magic in this world. no this isn’t a plot point. no there’s no explanation

just....watch this:

anyways please read this stupid little book about lesbians i can’t stop thinking about them and it’s ruining my life. i need someone to holler with and force me to finish this author’s other books. you can find the translated chapters here.

[charmixpower]

I'm kinda fucking obsessed with Tritannus

Like he's not even a little sorry, I love that for him

They literally ask him if he's sorry and he's like "I wish I killed you when I had the chance."

I was talking about writing evil characters and Nove said "you're either the type of person who can gut someone or your not" and I definitely think Tritannus is just one of those people

While I know statistically most serial killers come from abusive homes, that just doesn't line up with the family dynamic. Usually, yes there is a golden child and scapegoat child, but that would mean that Tressa and Ligea would also get mixed up in the abuse, and none of them show signs of being abused. It's mostly implied that Tritannus has been unstable and violent since birth, causing a divide between him and his father and sister, where his brother and mother tried to connect but couldn't

The way they interact is very "I have no clue what to do with you or your murderous tendencies. I wish it didn't have to come to this but because it did I WILL stop you." If that makes any sense

Dude is just an unrepentant murderer, vibes

Also he just goes into the Oblivion portal. He doesn't need to be forced he just goes in there. Like "Ig I reap what I sow :/// at least I got to make a bunch of people suffer"

As a concept? Tritannus is narratively really dumb, but as a character is incredibly compelling. With better execution he'd make a great lacky for someone else