#and also how to call solos name without yelling it

[vanityangel]

jacob finally got an "i love you" back from solo. happy valentine's day. 💘

[orphicmeliora]

ISHQ MUBARAK

PAIRING: Rafayel x Desi!Reader

SUMMARY: Amid the whirlwind of a grand Desi wedding, a wandering artist finds unexpected inspiration in you, someone who hums old songs and wears their heart like bangles. In the spaces between celebration and silence, love takes root—soft, slow, and impossibly tender.

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

NOTES: Owned up to my ethnicity with this fic, the motivation? Do it messy, do it cringe, but don't give up. Also, desi wedding galore.

You don’t remember the moment your motherland stopped feeling like home—only that it happened quietly, like the way bangles lose their shine without you noticing. 

Your phone buzzes with another voice note from your sister—her voice crackling through bad signal and laughter, layered with the chaotic clamor of a house overrun with wedding prep.

"And don’t forget to bring those gold jhumkas! The ones from Ammi’s collection? Yes, those. And for the love of everything holy, DO NOT show up in sneakers this time!"

You smile to yourself, forehead pressed to the airplane window as the clouds scatter below like torn cotton. The sun casts long fingers across your lap. You're almost home. Almost.

It's been two years since you left for your master's degree. Two years of cheap takeout, solo library marathons, homesick breakdowns, and video calls at odd hours just to see your baby cousin learning to walk or your Dadi yelling about the price of onions. But nothing—not even the rigors of academia or the pride in your independence—quite soothes the ache you feel now.

You press your palm over your heart, feeling the thrum of it. Your childhood echoing in a language your mouth still dreams in.

You don't realize you're crying until the plane begins to descend.

Not the dramatic kind—just a quiet leak from the corner of your eyes, like your heart forgot how to hold its shape and is spilling through the seams. You swipe at your cheek, pretend it’s nothing. No one notices. Everyone’s too busy adjusting tray tables and waking up their kids. Somewhere behind you, a baby shrieks. Ahead, a flight attendant hums an old song under her breath.

Below you, the land stretches like a story you used to know by heart but haven’t read in years. Dry fields. Slow rivers. Crowded rooftops and ancient roads. You inhale, and it smells like recycled cabin air, but your mind tricks you—it smells like incense and heat. Like dust and sweat and the inside of your Dadi's spice drawer.

It smells like home.

You've been gone for too long. Long enough for your tongue to wrap around a new language, for your silence to grow roots. Long enough to know what it's like to eat alone, cry alone, celebrate alone. Your degree is somewhere in your bag, folded between old receipts and melted chocolate. People will clap you on the back and say they’re proud.

But no one knows how hard it was.

How many nights you watched weddings through your screen, bangles chiming through pixelated videos, your sisters laughing in outfits you'd never worn. How often you let a Desi song play on loop just to fall asleep, the lyrics whispering in your ears like an apology.

Maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe it’s the altitude.

You didn’t mean to drift. Life just kept pulling. You forgot the names of streets you once knew like the back of your hand. You forgot how loud your family gets when they’re happy. Or angry. Or hungry. You forgot the colors.

And then—an invitation. One of your cousins is getting married. You're not even sure which one. You stopped keeping track when they all started sprouting kids and growing beards. But it’s a month-long wedding and everyone will be there. Everyone. Your siblings. The aunties who’ll definitely judge your weight and your unmarried status. The cousins who still call you by that embarrassing nickname. Your Nana. He's the one you miss the most. 

You haven’t even landed yet and already your heart feels too big for your ribs. You missed this place like you miss an ache—constant, dull, a part of you. There’s a fear too, coiled in your gut. What if you’ve changed too much? What if it’s not the same?

What if it is—and it hurts?

The plane touches down.

You reach into your bag, reapply your lipstick, and whisper a silent prayer.

Let this month stitch something back together in you.

Let it feel like home again.

The heat hits you first—thick and cloying, like a shawl draped around your shoulders the moment you step out of the car. The driveway is already full, colors blurring as cousins pour out like a flood. A kaleidoscope of voices tumbles over each other: squeals, shrieks, the holler of your Chacha shouting “Move, move! Let her breathe!” as someone tries to shove a laddu into your mouth before your suitcase has even touched the ground.

“Oye hoye! Look at her! Gori hogayi hai!”

“Do you even eat there, or just survive on air?”

"Beta, you remember me, right? I'm your mother's chachi's devar's wife."

You blink. You're not sure who to hug first. A tiny cousin is already clinging to your leg like a koala. Another one, maybe eight, is dragging your bag toward the door while telling you about how she’s getting her ears pierced next week and do you want to come?

There’s laughter from every corner. Someone’s phone is playing a song on full volume. An uncle you barely recognize is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and asking about your thesis. 

By the time you enter the house, your cheeks ache from fake smiling and your ears are ringing from the overlapping chaos of children crying, elders blessing you, and someone setting off fireworks even though it’s 3 PM on a Tuesday.

Then you see him.

Your grandfather.

Sitting in his usual chair, white shalwar kameez freshly pressed, glasses perched low on his nose, a bowl of peeled oranges in his lap like always.

“Meri beti,” he says, arms open.

You bury your face into his chest, the scent of sandalwood and old paper wrapping around you like a lullaby. The noise fades for a moment. His hands tremble slightly as they hold your shoulders, but his smile is steady.

“You’re home,” he murmurs, like it’s a truth the universe should bow to.

“I missed you, Nana.”

“I can tell. You’ve lost weight. And that glow—where is it? We’ll feed you. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkle. “You’ll be shining again in two days. Just you wait.”

You laugh, and for the first time in months, it doesn't feel hollow.

Behind you, your sisters are already arguing over which lehenga you’ll wear to the wedding. Your brothers are negotiating who gets the guest room. Your mother is shouting from the kitchen. Somewhere, a child wails about someone stealing their last gulab jamun.

The house is bursting at the seams.

And in the middle of it all, you exhale.

This—this chaos, this noise, this life—it fits into your bones in a way your quiet studio apartment never could. You’d forgotten what it was like to belong so loudly.

Nana leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Don’t tell your mother, but I saved the last gulab jamun for you. Come. Before your sisters sniff it out.”

You follow him through the courtyard, dodging small feet, a rogue football, and a chorus of voices calling your name.

In your chest, something cracks open.

Your room still smells like jasmine and old notebooks.

The bedspreads have changed, but the walls are the same—covered in faded posters, hand-painted memories, and glow-in-the-dark stars your childhood friends insisted would help you sleep. It’s chaos and comfort all at once. There’s barely space for the four of you to sit, let alone stretch, but somehow you’re all sprawled on the floor, feet tangled, arms overlapping.

“Remember when she tried to run away because Ammi wouldn’t let her buy that glittery purple sharara?” your oldest sister snorts, pointing at you with a tube of lipstick she’s stolen from your makeup bag.

“I was ten!” you protest, laughing.

“You were dramatic,” your second eldest sister smirks, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “We found you sulking behind the swing set with a granola bar like it was your last meal.”

“She still does that,” the middle sister teases, nudging your knee. “Only now it’s over men and deadlines.”

You groan, flopping back on the rug. “I regret coming home.”

“No, you don’t,” your eldest murmurs, softer now, brushing your hair out of your face. “You missed us.”

The room quiets for a beat. There’s no music, no screaming relatives, no henna fumes or wedding bells—just the sound of four hearts syncing up again after too much time apart.

You missed this. The shared language of glances. The way you don’t have to explain your silence here. How your sisters know when to pull you into a hug without asking why your voice trembles.

There are binders. Color-coded. Made by your middle sister who’s taken on the role of wedding planner with the precision of a military general.

"You're wearing yellow for the haldi, green for the mehndi, red for the shaadi, and blue for the walima. No negotiations."

“Don’t even think about escaping wedding shopping tomorrow,” the other two warn. “We’re going to that madhouse bazaar. And you are wearing yellow.”

“Why yellow?”

“Because,” they say in unison, “it makes your skin glow.”

You don’t argue.

The laughter rises again, old and new, stitched into the seams of the night.

You fall asleep to the sound of your sisters breathing next to you, lulled by the hum of belonging.

The market is loud enough to make your teeth vibrate.

Rickshaws honk like they're being punished. Street vendors chant their deals in an unholy chorus. The smell of frying pakoras, gasoline, and rose garlands drapes itself over you like a second skin. It's sticky, messy, and somehow—it’s exactly what you needed.

You haven’t walked these streets in years, but your feet still remember the way the uneven tiles make your sandals catch. The colors around you scream in every direction: turmeric yellow, chili red, emerald green, sequins that wink in the sun like mischief.

Your mother is already fifteen steps ahead, deep in bargaining mode with a vendor who looks like he hasn’t smiled since 2004. Your sisters flank you like a desi SWAT team—one arguing about blouse necklines, the other snapping photos of lehengas to send to the family group chat that currently has 472 unread messages.

Your ears ring with:

“Aunty, yeh last price hai!”

“Beta, is mein lining nahi hai toh thoda dhekhna padega…”

“No, not that dupatta! It looks like mosquito netting!”

You’re half-listening. Mostly trying not to sweat through your kurti. The dupatta keeps slipping off your shoulder. Your bangles ring with every breath. A rogue toddler grabs your hand thinking you’re his mom. You're exactly three seconds from turning around and running straight back into the AC of the car when—

Everything quiets.

Not literally. The market is still chaos incarnate. But your mind blanks for a beat—just long enough to feel like something shifted in the air.

Across the narrow, crowded street, in the shade of a peeling blue storefront, someone is watching you.

He’s sitting on a wooden stool, a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a pencil paused mid-stroke. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, collar open, dark hair messy like he ran a frustrated hand through it too many times. His skin catches the sunlight in that golden, almost unfair way.

And his eyes.

His eyes are the sea right before a storm. Quiet, searching, endless.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

His gaze is fixed, not on your face, but on your earrings. Your jhumkas—the same ones your Nani gave you when you were fifteen. They're old, oxidized gold with tiny red beads, and they swing every time you move. You feel suddenly hyper-aware of every motion, every breath, every step. Like you’re under glass.

He tilts his head, sketchpad now forgotten on his lap.

And you—you don’t look away.

You should. You should say something to your sisters, fake a call, pretend you’re not affected. But there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you, like he’s not just seeing you, but seeing through you. Like he’s been starved of color, and you just walked into his line of sight wrapped in a hundred shades of it.

A scooter zips between you, breaking the line of sight.

You gasp a little, startled, and look down—finally breaking the gaze.

Your heart is hammering. Not out of fear. But something… unspoken. Ancient. Like your soul recognized something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

Your sister bumps your shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

You glance back. He’s still there—but now, sketching. As if the moment never happened. As if you didn’t just crash into a silent kind of thunder between two strangers in the middle of a chaotic market.

You turn back to your family.

But you feel him still—like a thread tugging at your wrist.

Rafayel wasn’t supposed to be here for long. He came for pigment—something earthy, something unnameable. He thought the reds would inspire him, or maybe the deep indigo he heard came from this region. He didn’t expect... this.

He didn’t expect you.

You are standing in the middle of all this noise, holding up a sky-blue sari to the light, and laughing. There’s a smear of haldi on your wrist. A streak of kohl at the corner of your eye. You’re trying on glass bangles that catch the sun and break it into prisms.

And he cannot move.

It isn’t a thunderbolt kind of moment. It’s the kind that creeps up his spine and sets his chest aching.

It’s the way your laugh folds into the bazaar’s song and yet stands out.

It’s the way your sisters shout over one another, but you tilt your head and listen; patient and amused.

It’s the way you look radiant even when you're scolding a rogue child.

Paaon tale mere zameenein chal padi (The earth beneath my feet has started to move) 

Aisa toh kabhi hua hi nahi (This has never happened before) 

He doesn’t know the song. He doesn’t understand the lyrics playing from a rickshaw parked nearby, but the melody sticks to his skin like paint.

He hears his name being called distantly—his guide, confused, trying to tug him back toward the dyes. But he’s rooted. Drenched in the color of you.

He watches you laugh, mouth full of stories he doesn’t know yet, voice lifted in that language he hasn’t learned.

He steps back.

He’s an intruder here. A guest.

But oh, how his fingers itch to draw you—no, paint you—with every shade the sun left in this country.

You pass him without seeing him again. The crowd swallows you.

Rafayel is left standing in a pool of spilled marigold petals and longing.

And for the first time in months—his fingers twitch.

Inspiration bleeds through the haze of his block, like color finding water.

It’s three days later.

You’ve barely slept. Between pre-wedding events, endless fittings, and relatives using you as a glorified errand runner, you’re running on three hours of sleep and one aggressively sweet cup of chai. You’re back in the market—again—because your younger cousin decided she hates her mehndi outfit and apparently you’re the only one she trusts for “aesthetic guidance.”

“I swear I’ll owe you for life,” she says, fluttering her lashes.

“You already owe me for when I lied to your mom about you sneaking out to that concert,” you mutter.

You're too tired to dress up. Hair in a braid. Simple shalwar-kameez. Just your everyday silver jhumkas, because you feel weird without them now. No makeup, no pretense. You’re not here to be seen.

Which is, of course, why he finds you now.

You’re crouched by a rack of embroidered dupattas, texting your sister and regretting all your life choices, when you hear a low, thoughtful voice just behind you:

“You dropped something.”

You look up—and there he is.

Closer now. Too close, maybe. The kind of close where you can smell the faint sea-salt in his cologne and count the tiny flecks of light hidden in his dark eyes. He holds out his hand, palm up. In it is a single silver jhumka.

You feel for your ears, finding one bare. You hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching out.

His fingers brush yours as he passes it over. Not by accident.

Not subtle.

He doesn’t let go right away. Just an extra second—barely long enough to call attention to it. Long enough to make your skin burn.

You straighten, suddenly aware of how much taller he is. He’s dressed simply—white shirt, sleeves rolled again, one button casually undone at the collar—but there’s something meticulous about him. Like a man who knows exactly how to exist in a frame.

His sketchpad is slung under one arm. His eyes never leave your face.

“I saw you here a few days ago,” he says, voice calm, eyes sharp. “You were… hard to miss.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because I was yelling at a shopkeeper?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Because your earrings sounded like a song I forgot I knew.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't blink.

You break eye contact first. “That’s dangerously close to a line.”

“Wasn’t one,” he says softly. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d have quoted poetry. Or lied.”

“You’re not trying to impress me?”

“No.”

He pauses, tilts his head.

“I’m trying to remember the exact curve your bangles made when you laughed.”

You forget how to breathe.

Your cousin chooses that exact moment to shout your name from two shops down, waving a hideous magenta lehenga like it’s a victory banner. You don’t look away from him, but your mouth curls into something that’s halfway between a smirk and a smile.

“Duty calls,” you say.

He nods but doesn’t step back. “You’ll be back?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If you keep staring at my jewelry like it owes you answers.”

That smile again, this time more open. “Only if it keeps making music.”

You take a step back, heart beating far too fast for someone who just met a man whose name she still doesn’t know.

But as you turn to leave, he says, “Wait.”

You look over your shoulder.

“I’m Rafayel,” he says. “Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Things?”

“People.”

You hold his gaze.

Then, with a half-smile, you say, “Try not to forget me then.”

“I already tried,” he says quietly. “Didn’t work.”

You're sitting on the veranda with a bowl of cut mangoes, trying to ignore the sound of your cousin playing “Sheila Ki Jawani” for the seventh time this morning. The shaadi countdown has entered a new phase of intensity—someone’s having a breakdown over missing heels, someone else is sobbing about flowers, and a child just ran past you naked holding a samosa.

Typical Thursday.

Your phone buzzes. It's your sister.

come outside

RIGHT NOW

ur not going to believe this

You’re already outside, but you get up anyway, curiosity prickling down your spine.

Then you see it.

The house next door—your grandparents’ old neighbor’s bungalow that’s been empty for months—is open. Curtains drawn back. Movers bustling. A man standing at the gate, talking to your mother.

Not just any man.

Him.

Rafayel.

White shirt again. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. A small smile playing on his lips as your mom gestures wildly, no doubt trying to understand who exactly this foreign-looking man with art-supply-colored fingers is and why he’s moving in next door during a wedding.

You freeze.

He glances toward you, and his smile shifts—something quieter, softer, almost smug.

Your stomach does a flip it has no business doing.

Of course, your mother clocks the silent exchange. She calls out your name like she just uncovered a scandal.

“Come say hello! Our new neighbor just arrived! Artist banda hai, you’ll like him!”

Before you can fake a phone call or a divine intervention, your entire extended family flocks to the gate like vultures spotting free pakoras. Uncles. Aunties. Cousins. At least three toddlers. Your sister’s already live-tweeting it in the family WhatsApp group.

Someone asks if he’s married.

Someone else asks if he’s single.

Your chachi squints suspiciously. “Artist? Matlab, kya karta hai full-time?”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch. “I paint.”

“Paint? As in walls or...?”

“Canvas,” he says, deadpan. “And sometimes silence.”

Your mamu side-eyes him like he just spoke French.

A cousin snickers. “Do you also paint feelings, bhai?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “But only the unspoken ones.”

The chaos halts for one holy second as they invite him into the house. He walks in like a man accepting a dare. Hair a little too perfectly tousled, expression unreadable—but his hand brushes yours lightly as he passes.

You feel it in your wrist.

Your grandfather is already seated at the head of the room, his cane leaning beside him, newspaper folded with surgical precision.

“Artist sahib,” he says, voice low and amused. “Come. Sit. Tell us—what exactly are your intentions toward our pigment?”

Rafayel blinks. “My... intentions?”

Cousins snicker.

You groan. “He means what color you’re looking for.”

“Ah,” Rafayel says, lips twitching. “Ultramarine, if I can find it. And maybe vermilion. Something that bleeds a little.”

That shuts them up. Slightly.

Nana nods, eyes gleaming. “Good answer. Sounds expensive.”

One of your younger cousins leans in and whispers—loud enough for everyone to hear— “He looks like a drama hero. All broody and tragic.”

Another pipes up, “He’s hot. Is he rich too? Or is this a starving artist situation?”

You elbow her gently. “You all have no shame.”

“We just care about your future, sis,” she says sweetly, then looks straight at Rafayel. “Do you like chaat?”

He nods. “If it burns the roof of my mouth and makes me question my decisions, yes.”

They love him. Instantly.

Tea arrives. Biscuits. Then laddoos. Then a plate of steaming samosas. Rafayel is juggling a cup, a plate, a toddler in his lap, and three questions from three different relatives at once.

But he keeps looking at you.

Between bites, between glances, in that moment when your jhumka catches the light and you sip your chai with both hands around the cup—he watches. Not like a man who wants to undress you with his eyes. Like a man who wants to learn you like a language.

Aisa lagta hai kyun teri aankhen jaise  (Why do I feel as if your eyes) 

Aankhon mein meri reh gayi  (Have settled in my eyes)  

Nana clears his throat loudly. “You know,” he says, tone casual, “in my day, a man came home only if he meant to stay.”

The entire room goes still.

You make a strangled sound into your tea.

Rafayel’s mouth quirks. “Then I hope I’m not offending tradition. I was told there’d be snacks.”

Nana sips his chai and gives a secretive smile.

And you know you’ve lost this round. Rafayel has officially infiltrated.

It’s nearly midnight, but the house is still humming.

The elders have finally gone to bed, the kids tucked away like mismatched socks in spare rooms and floor mattresses. From the rooftop, faint laughter still drifts—your cousins playing antakshari. A fan creaks overhead as you sit cross-legged on the bed, brushing your hair out with slow, absent strokes.

The day is still clinging to you in pieces—Rafayel’s fingertips brushing yours at the doorway, his long lashes lowered as he sipped chai, the way your Nana watched him like he was trying to read a painting that kept changing under his gaze.

You try not to smile.

But then the door creaks.

“Knock knock,” comes the sing-song voice of your eldest sister as she slips in uninvited. “Or should I say... Rafayel Rafayel?”

You groan. “No.”

“Oh yes.” She plops down beside you, stealing the brush from your hand. “Explain to me how the world’s most expensive painter just so happens to be hanging around our living room? Looking like a Renaissance sculpture with abandonment issues?”

“He’s here for pigment,” you mutter.

She wiggles her brows. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Your second sister pokes her head in. “Are we talking about the mysterious artist who doesn’t eat sugar but somehow accepted two laddoos from Dadi?”

You chuck your pillow at her. She dodges, cackling, and climbs in beside you. “Oh, you’re blushing. This is historical.”

You bury your face in your hands.

The third walks in dramatically, arms crossed. “I just want to know if we’re getting an international jiju. I need to update my Snapchat story accordingly.”

“There is nothing going on!” you yell, tugging the dupatta over your face in mock shame.

But they know better. They’ve seen the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t look at anyone else. The way you spoke a little softer around him.

The way his gaze lingered even after you'd left the room.

“You know what he told Nana?” your eldest sister says, smirking. “That the light in our courtyard reminded him of Florence. Florence, yaar. Who talks like that?”

You mumble through your scarf, “A pretentious idiot with a brush addiction.”

The second sister hums. “A pretentious idiot who kept staring at your jhumka like it was whispering secrets.”

Your third sister nudges you, “Are you gonna kiss him or sketch him?”

You groan again. “Can I have one peaceful night in my own house?”

But when they finally leave, trailing whispers and giggles behind them, the room is too quiet again. You lie back, fingers still warm from brushing your hair, the ghost of a gaze heavy at your wrist.

The courtyard isn't special.

It’s cracked tiles, uneven shade from a too-old neem tree, and the constant whir of a dying pedestal fan set up for the caterers. But somehow, in the late afternoon light, it feels like the only place untouched by wedding chaos.

You escape here more often now. Everyone’s too busy with haldi prep, last-minute fittings, sifting through bangle boxes and earring piles. The aunts are arguing over oil brands, the cousins are choreographing dances with the passion of Broadway stars. You’re slipping away before someone hands you another gift basket to decorate.

There’s a rustle—fabric, leaves—and then him.

You don’t startle. You’re almost used to it now. His quiet arrivals. The way he steps into a space like he was always meant to be part of it.

Rafayel.

Squatting on the ground this time, surrounded by ceramic bowls—actual hand-thrown ones—filled with powders that shimmer like magic. Ground turmeric, dried marigold, beetroot, crushed hibiscus, even something that smells faintly of cardamom and ash.

He looks up but doesn’t speak.

Just watches you as you approach, the corner of his mouth twitching in recognition. His eyes flick to your anklet when it chimes faintly against the stone. His gaze lingers. Longer than polite.

You sit without asking. Without needing to.

“Are you starting a spice shop?” you ask, picking up a pinch of burnt orange powder.

“I’m making a base for coral,” he murmurs. “The kind that dries dusky, not bright.”

“And that requires... cooking ingredients?”

He dips a brush into water, adds a swirl of powder. The hue that blooms is molten. Dreamy. “Natural pigments have soul. Artificial ones lie.”

“You sound like my Nana when he talks about real ghee.”

That earns a chuckle.

Then, a quiet beat.

“You always come here after everyone else is busy,” he says. Not a question.

You shrug. “Hard to be the youngest. Loud family. I disappear and no one notices for ten minutes.”

“I notice.”

It’s soft. Not performative. Like he’s telling you he breathes. A simple fact.

You glance at him. And this time, you really look.

He’s beautiful, yes—but not in the obvious way. Not in the way your cousins whisper about, half-laughing. There’s something in the curve of his mouth when he concentrates. In the quiet reverence with which he holds pigment. In the way his knees are dusty from squatting too long and he hasn’t even noticed.

“Why do you keep showing up wherever I go?” you ask, not sharply.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I think I was always going to end up here,” he says, still mixing. “You just happened to be in the frame.”

You should roll your eyes.

Instead, your fingers tap absently at your bangles.

“That’s a line.”

He glances up. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

You want to say something back. Something clever. Instead, you reach out and swipe a finger through the coral pigment he’s just finished blending. It stains your fingertip a shade deeper than the sunset.

“Will it stay?” you ask.

“Days,” he replies. “Weeks, if it gets under your nails.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Better than henna?” he asks.

You go still.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t say how he knows.

Maybe you had mentioned it once, offhand. At the bazaar. While he handed you a tissue for your chili-stung mouth.

You hadn’t thought he was listening.

He was.

You look down at your coral-stained finger.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

You hesitate. Then:

“Henna… feels like a promise. This feels like a secret.”

He nods. “Some promises lie. But secrets—secrets always tell the truth.”

Your eyes meet. Not flirting. Not play. Just that pull again.

You rise to leave—because if you don’t now, you’ll stay, and if you stay, you’ll say something you aren’t ready for. But as you brush past him, he lifts his hand like he might reach for your wrist. Stops. Thinks better of it.

Still, you feel it.

The warmth of him. Close. A little too close.

“Next time,” he says, quietly, “tell me what color you want. I’ll make it for you.”

You pause, turning just slightly.

“And if I want a shade that doesn’t exist?”

His smile curves, slow and knowing.

“Then I’ll invent it.”

You don't remember agreeing to be the haldi handler, but somehow your arms are covered in it and your cousins are weaponizing rosewater like it’s war paint.

The inner courtyard is a riot of flowers, steel thalis, and three aunties yelling conflicting instructions. There’s singing, of course—off-key and heartfelt—and a cousin blasting Punjabi remixes from a Bluetooth speaker taped to a potted plant.

You’re wiping your hands on the edge of your dupatta when he appears.

Rafayel.

Again.

Leaning against the carved stone archway like he walked out of a Mughal painting and forgot to go back in. His sleeves are rolled up. He's wearing a kurta—pale ivory, thin enough that the shadows of his movements peek through. His gaze is easy but intent, scanning the courtyard until it finds you.

You freeze. Your cousin, of course, does not.

“Oh hello again, Sketchboy.”

You groan.

Rafayel’s lips quirk, just barely. “It’s Rafayel.”

“I know. She told me.”

You send her a glare. She ignores it.

He walks in further, cautious not to step on the wet haldi puddles. “I was looking for your grandfather,” he says, to you.

Her eyes gleam. “Nana’s upstairs. But since you’re here—do you want to help?”

He raises an eyebrow, and she thrusts a bowl of turmeric into his hands.

“You are always hovering around her,” she says with a wicked grin. “Might as well get your hands dirty.”

You open your mouth to protest—to save him—but he just nods. Calm. Graceful. Hands the same golden bowl back to you, and another box on top of it, like it’s a peace offering.

“For your bangles,” he says, eyes warm. “So they match the rest of you.”

Your cousins howl.

Another one whistles. “He’s got lines! Who gave this man lines?!”

You flee before they start chanting wedding shlokas.

He follows. But only after you’ve gone far enough that no one can see how your cheeks burn beneath your earrings.

That night, you escape to the rooftop.

The city is hushed, just the whisper of distant car horns and the soft rustle of leaves. The stars blink lazily. The fairy lights from the courtyard glow below like grounded fireflies. You breathe in silence.

And then—

You know it’s him before he speaks.

He doesn’t say your name. Just steps beside you, a safe distance away, holding two steaming cups of chai.

“Your sister cornered me,” he says mildly. “Asked if we were in love yet.”

You snort. “I hope you told her we weren’t.”

“I told her we weren’t yet.”

Your laugh catches, half a sound.

He hands you a cup. You wrap your fingers around it slowly.

The night presses close. The chai smells like cardamom and something darker—clove, maybe.

“You were looking for Nana?” you ask.

He nods, gaze distant. “I asked him about indigo. Real indigo. He told me a story about how it dyes memory, not just cloth.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said…” Rafayel turns, voice quieter, “...some colors never leave the skin. No matter how hard you scrub.”

You don’t reply.

You just drink.

The wind teases the hem of your dupatta. His shoulder is only inches from yours now, even though neither of you moved. You can feel the warmth of him in the space between.

“I remember the sound of your anklet before I saw your face,” he says, out of nowhere.

You turn your head sharply.

He’s not looking at you.

Just the city.

“But I think…” he adds, barely audible, “...I would’ve found you either way.”

And your heart does something reckless.

You shift your hand slightly. It brushes against his on the cement railing. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Neither of you say anything about it.

But you don’t let go.

The house is a riot of colors and movement.

Marigold garlands are being strung across doorways. Plates of samosas, mithai, and chai pass from hand to hand with military precision. Your eldest massi is in a standoff with the decorator over the exact shade of pink for the drapes. The children are being bribed with mango juice to stop climbing the stage pillars. Your cousin nearly sets his kurta on fire trying to light a candle.

And you’re in the center of it all—trying to fasten a stubborn anklet that refuses to cooperate with your patience or your Garara.

“Uff, I swear I’m going to cut it off,” you mutter, crouched on the low veranda step.

“Would that be considered an act of war here?”

The voice is low, amused—and far too close.

You freeze.

Looking up, you find him standing above you, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. Rafayel. Dressed simply—white kurta, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes, though—sharp as ever—are focused only on you.

He kneels slowly before you, tilting his head up. “Need help?”

You blink, heart thudding. “You know how to tie an anklet?”

“I know how to observe.” His voice drops a little. “You were pressing too hard. The clasp just needs a little patience.”

He reaches forward before you can protest. His fingers brush yours, gentle, cool.

It’s suddenly very quiet despite the chaos around you. Like the volume’s been turned down on the world just so you can hear the sound of your own pulse.

He fixes it carefully, then lets his hand linger a second longer than necessary against your ankle, his thumb grazing skin. Your breath catches.

When he finally looks up, there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something reverent.

“You wear color like it was made for you,” he murmurs. “Sound, too.”

You blink. “Sound?”

He gestures lightly. “Your anklets. Your bangles. That jhumka. You don’t just move. You announce yourself.”

You try to laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm. “Bit poetic for someone who paints with mud and beetroot juice.”

A flicker of a smirk curves his lips. “You haven’t seen what I can do with turmeric and heartbreak.”

You’re saved from replying by the sudden shriek of your sister yelling your name from the terrace. “OYE—stop flirting! We need help with the gajre!”

Rafayel’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as you groan and get up, brushing off your hands.

“I’m not flirting,” you shout back automatically, already turning away.

But you feel him watching you go.

The anklet chimes with every step, traitorous and delighted.

The courtyard is transformed.

Fairy lights drip from the trees like liquid stars. Orange and pink drapes flutter in the breeze. Someone’s playing the dhol like their life depends on it, and the beat rattles through the ground and into your ribs. Laughter crashes like waves—loud, unrestrained, warm.

This is what you missed.

Home.

Family.

And right now, the stage belongs to you and your sisters.

You’re twirling, lost in rhythm, dupatta flying behind you like fire, bangles clashing with the music. Your sisters flank you, all of you laughing, dancing in sync, every step a memory coming alive. Anklets sing with every movement. Across the crowd—near the water fountain where the elders have congregated—he stands.

Rafayel.

Wearing deep blue, like storm clouds threatening to pour. Hair swept back now. A quiet shadow among all this noise. But his gaze never wavers.

Not even for a second.

It’s not just admiration. It’s... hunger. The kind born not of lust, but of longing. His eyes drink you in like he’s found the muse he crossed oceans to chase.

And for a moment, you dare to meet his gaze mid-spin.

The world doesn’t slow—it stutters. Your breath snags. The dance fades into background noise. His lips twitch at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite a challenge.

He looks like he wants to walk straight into the fire of it all.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stands rooted, one hand curled around a cup of chai he’s forgotten, the other clenching loosely by his side like he’s holding back something urgent. Something unruly.

The music swells. You turn away, cheeks burning, heart loud.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

You shouldn’t be wondering how it would feel to rest your head against that chest, warm and steady like thunderclouds before the rain.

Tu hi tu hai joh har taraf mere (Now that you are there all around me) 

Toh tujhse pare main jaaun kahan (So where can I go far from you) 

You mouth the lyrics with the music, not realizing how they cling to you like a secret.

Later that night, when the guests begin to trickle out and the lights grow softer, you pass him by in the corridor. He’s leaning against the arch, one leg crossed over the other, gaze unreadable.

“You danced like you were trying to set something free,” he says quietly.

You pause, heart skipping.

“And did I?” you ask.

His voice is low—dangerous. “No. You caged something else instead.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But neither of you moves. The moment stretches like silk—thin, shining, threatening to snap.

Until your little cousin barrels down the hall screeching, “SWEETS!”

Rafayel glances up, chuckling. “Always the dramatics in this family.”

You smile, but it trembles a little at the edge.

Because you know it now.

This isn't just a crush.

It’s something deeper.

The smell of mehndi hangs thick in the air—earthy, sweet, nostalgic. The house is glowing with fairy lights, cushions thrown everywhere, dhol beating loud enough to shake your ribs. Cousins are dancing. Aunties are gossiping. Kids are high on sugar and unregulated enthusiasm. Everything is bright and loud and spinning.

Except you.

You sit on the edge of the steps, hands folded neatly in your lap. Bare.

Everyone else has swirls of deep brown trailing up their arms, names of lovers hidden in curls, flowers blossoming across skin like poetry. You? Nothing.

Because in the chaos—between fixing someone’s ripped lehenga, calming your crying niece, and being sent to find a charger for the henna artist’s phone—you missed your turn.

By the time you got back, the artist was packing up. Everyone else had gone back to eating, laughing, taking selfies.

No one noticed your hands were still empty.

No one asked.

You don't cry. That would be stupid. It’s just mehndi, right? You’re not the bride. You’re not even the sister of the bride. You’re just... here. The guest. The helper. The fixer. The extra set of hands.

But god, it hurts.

You slip away from the crowd, down the back path that leads toward the garden. It’s darker here. Quiet. Your bangles don’t jingle. You’ve stopped moving like music.

That’s when you hear him.

“You look like someone punched your soul.”

You turn.

Rafayel stands leaning against a tree, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small paper cup of juice. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to crowd you. He just looks.

You try to laugh it off. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you were invited again.”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “I was summoned. By your grandfather. Said there’d be sweets.”

You snort. “Of course.”

He walks forward slowly. Stops beside you, close but not too close.

You look down at your bare hands.

He sees.

“What happened?”

You shrug. “Nothing. I was just—busy.”

“With everyone else.”

You look away.

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Would you let me?”

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out—of all things—a fresh, sealed henna cone.

“I heard you say how much you wanted it. I may have… spent the last few days learning.”

You stare at the tube. Then at him. Then back.

“You what?!”

“I watched tutorials. Got a few lessons from the lady who sold me the bangles. Look, I might’ve accidentally stained my hands orange in the process, but…” he shrugs, sheepish. “I can try?”

You stare.

And then you laugh.

Loud and full and stunned. “You? Want to do my mehendi?”

“I figured…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can paint on canvas, I can paint on you.”

Just then, your cousins stumble onto the terrace. Spot the henna cone from above. Spot Rafayel.

“Oh my God, look at him! He’s going to do her mehendi?!”

“I thought he was a foreigner!”

“He’s not even Desi and he’s trying! What is this, a fanfic?”

“Bhaiya, please marry her—”

Rafayel, flustered and surrounded, gets to his feet. “Okay—I take it back, this was a terrible idea—”

You’re laughing so hard you have to lean against a pillar.

But eventually, you pull him by the wrist and escape up the back stairwell, breathless and grinning.

“I wasn’t joking,” he murmurs when you’re alone again. “I really want to do your henna.”

You look at him—at his stained fingers, at the sketchbook peeking from his bag, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most sacred canvas he’s ever seen.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it like it’s made of glass.

And begins.

You sit cross-legged on the marble balcony, the air sweet with mogra and anticipation. Somewhere behind you, your cousins are whispering by the window, spying, no doubt—but for once, you don’t care.

The moonlight falls soft on your arms as you extend your hands toward him. Your skin glows under its silver wash, and for a second, Rafayel just stares.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low. He’s already kneeling in front of you, henna cone poised delicately between long fingers.

You nod.

“Positive.”

His gaze lingers on your face—eyes searching for hesitation, for teasing. There’s none. So he exhales, rests his hand lightly under your wrist, and begins.

The first line is slow.

Tentative.

You hold your breath as the cool trail touches your skin. His touch is featherlight, reverent. The henna’s earthy scent begins to bloom between you as intricate curves unfold beneath his steady hand.

You glance at his face—and your breath catches.

He looks... different.

Focused, yes, but something else flickers there too. A sort of awe. As if your skin is sacred and this—the act of decorating it—is worship.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper, half-teasing.

He smiles faintly. “I practiced on oranges and my own leg,” he murmurs. “This is... better.”

You laugh softly. “I should hope so.”

The pattern snakes up your palm in elegant spirals. Your fingers twitch once, brushing against his wrist, and his entire body stills for a second too long.

“I didn’t expect...” he starts, then stops.

“Didn’t expect what?” you ask.

“That I’d care this much about doing it right.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t press.

The air between you grows heavier as he works. The world shrinks to nothing but the warm hush of your breath and the cool glisten of henna tracing lines over your skin.

It’s too much—too quiet, too close, too everything.

So you break it.

“Did you come really come this far just for color?” you ask, softly.

His hand pauses for a moment.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I came for inspiration. I was blocked, empty. Nothing made sense on canvas. But now...”

He glances up.

“You do.”

And there it is.

The truth, plain as stars.

Your throat tightens.

“Rafayel—”

He gently lifts your other hand. Brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “May I?”

You nod, breath caught between your ribs.

He begins again, slower this time, more deliberate. Every curve of henna—a confession he isn’t ready to say out loud.

As he draws, you realize what he’s weaving into your palm. A crescent moon, delicate and shaded, blooming from a sea of waves and lotuses—an ocean of you and him.

And hidden in the swirls of your wrist, nestled between the paisleys—

A single stroke. He signs his name, woven into the intricate design.

You don’t say anything.

Not now.

Instead, you close your eyes.

You don’t need words.

The henna speaks for you.

You wake to the scent of dried henna warm on your skin. The morning sun slices through sheer curtains, dancing over the gold trim of your pillow.

You sit up slowly.

Your hands are dry now, the patterns stained into your skin like secrets.

You lift them to the light—and stare.

You had seen it forming last night, glimpses between breathless silences and the brush of his fingers. But in the full glow of morning, it’s mesmerizing.

Waves. Lotuses. The crescent moon—so delicate it looks like a smile. Everything twined with the tiniest, near-invisible strokes of text—

His name. Hidden in the curve of your wrist. Not loud, not bold. Secret. Intimate.

You run your thumb over it. Your chest aches in a way it shouldn’t.

Outside your room, the house is already alive—laughter, clinking dishes, someone shouting about roti. But here, it’s still quiet. Still yours.

You press your palm to your cheek and smile. Just a little.

You weren’t planning to wear anything that would draw attention.

But your sisters had other plans.

Somehow, you ended up in an emerald-green lehenga and so many churiyan stacked on your arms, you feel like a walking wind chime. They curled your hair, pinned your jhumkas just right, and lined your eyes with a black liner so sharp it could cut.

“You look like heartbreak—personified,” your cousin said, snapping your picture.

You didn’t say it, but you were already holding it.

Because on your hands—woven into your skin like a soft, silent rebellion—are Rafayel’s designs.

His ocean.

His name.

You weren’t going to tell anyone. You were just going to survive the event, perform the group dance, maybe eat a gulab jamun or four, and avoid thinking too hard.

But the universe had other plans.

You walk into the courtyard.

Someone sees your hands.

And the chaos begins.

“OHHH MY GODDDD!”

Your middle sister grabs your wrist like its evidence. “Yeh kisne banaya? This is NOT the henna artist’s work.”

Your aunt peeks over her shoulder. “Arey haan, this is too modern.”

Your youngest cousin squints, snatches your hand, flips it over. ���Kya likha hai yahaan…? R… A… Rafay—”

You pull your hands back. Mortified. 

“RA-FAY?” she shrieks. “WHO. IS. RA-FAY?”

You freeze. For once, you have no comeback.

Your sisters are SCREAMING. Your chachis are huddled like spies in a Netflix crime doc. One of your brothers actually drops his phone and shouts “Plot twist!!”

You try to mediate the situation, but it’s too late.

You're in the spotlight now.

“You didn’t even TELL us?”

“Is he rich?”

“Is he tall?”

“Are you in love?”

“Kya kahani hai?!”

“Show us his picture!”

“NO NO, call him HERE.”

You’re backing away when you bump straight into a very solid chest.

Rafayel.

Wearing—of course—a black kurta with the sleeves rolled up and a subtle smirk playing on his mouth like he knew this would happen. Like he planned it.

Of course he did.

The entire family goes silent.

Your chachi is fuming.

Your sister whispers, “No. Freaking. Way.”

A cousin mutters, “Ladka hot hai. You’re excused.”

And Nana?

Sitting with a cup of chai, cross-legged on the divan. Watching.

He smiles. Doesn’t say a word.

Just sips.

You, somehow, find your voice. “What are you doing here?”

Rafayel’s tone is innocent. “Nana invited me.”

Nana, not your Nana, not your grandfather. Just Nana, as if—

Your grandfather raises his cup in the air like he’s won.

The rest of your family stares. You brace yourself for questions, for teasing, for death-by-curiosity.

But Rafayel just turns to you, eyes steady, and says:

“You didn’t wash it off.”

You don’t blink. “You wrote your name on me.”

“I asked permission.”

“You did not.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

Your mouth opens. But you’re short-circuiting. The lehenga’s too tight. The night’s too loud. The mehndi is still dark.

And Rafayel, without even touching you, has you unraveling.

Your aunt whispers to your mother, “Ab inki shaadi krwani hai.”

Nana nods sagely. “Larka acha hai. Artist hai, lekin acha hai.”

You look at Rafayel. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans down, voice low, just for you. “More than you know.”

The music's gone thunderous again—bass so heavy it could realign your spine. Everyone's dancing now. A blur of color and sweat and wildly offbeat choreography.

You duck out, breath catching in your throat, heat rising in your cheeks, pulse still tripping over Rafayel’s words.

You didn’t wash it off. You didn’t stop me. He said it like a fact. Like a challenge.

You need air.

The side courtyard is quiet. Just fairy lights and the faint echo of Raataan Lambiyan bleeding through the walls. You press your back to the cool stone and try to remember how to inhale like a normal human being.

“Running away again?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like silk.

You don’t open your eyes. “I’m not running.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” he asks, footsteps soft as he approaches.

“Hiding from my family. They’re about five minutes away from planning our engagement.”

He laughs, quiet and real.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You open your eyes.

He’s standing in front of you now, too close for comfort, but not close enough to touch. That maddening in-between space where the air buzzes and you don’t know whether to step forward or step back.

You go for sarcasm, because that’s safe. “Do you always move this fast?”

He shrugs. “I don’t move fast. I move when it feels like I’ll regret standing still.”

You hate how that lands. You hate how it feels true.

He takes a half-step closer. “Why does it scare you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because you’re—we're—”

We're too different. You don't say but he realizes nonetheless. 

Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t respond.

And then—just as you’re about to turn, to leave, to end this before it spills over—

Your dupatta catches.

Snagged, pulled, stuck—right on the button of his kurta.

Classic. Cosmic. Catastrophic.

You both freeze.

His hand lifts slowly, carefully brushing over the embroidery. You feel it in your chest, not your shoulder.

“It’s delicate,” he murmurs, eyes still on the fabric. “Like you.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Don’t make that a metaphor.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He finally looks up. “I don’t need metaphors. You’re already the art.”

You exhale sharply, but you’re not smiling.

You’re bare.

No sarcasm. No shield. No exit.

“Why me?” you ask. “You could have anyone. You could walk into a gallery and have a dozen muses lined up.”

He leans in just enough that you forget how to stay still.

“I don’t want a muse,” he says. “I want a mirror.”

You go still.

Your heart has the audacity to lurch.

And then—just like that—he untangles the thread. Slow. Gentle. His fingers ghost over your shoulder as he frees you. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t press.

He steps back.

But you feel it like he touched your soul.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper again.

This time, he smiles like he agrees. “So are you.”

And with that, he leaves you standing there—wrapped in green, stained with his name, and completely unraveled.

You should’ve seen it coming.

It started with your sisters plotting by the sink. Then whispering way too obviously during dinner. You knew they were up to something—your family doesn’t whisper, they scheme.

So when the plans for the “pre-wedding cousin trip” were announced—beach day, whole squad, bride, groom, chaos—you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you?

The moment you climbed into the rental van and found Rafayel, already seated by the window, sipping Rooh Afza from a paper cup, like he belonged there.

“Kya— Why are you here?” you ask, switching languages without realizing, clutching the doorframe like it might save you.

He shrugs, deadpan. “Don't look at me like that. Your sisters practically kidnapped me. I'm a victim”

Your middle sister grins from the driver’s seat. “We needed an adult to supervise.”

Your eldest sister chimes in, “And someone hot for aesthetics.”

You stare at them.

They wink at you.

You climb in, praying the universe has a sense of mercy.

It does not.

Because Rafayel ends up beside you.

Because the van is packed.

Because fate is dramatic like that.

The beach is wild.

Desi playlists blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Cousins racing into the water, someone trying to fly a kite, the groom being bullied into a photoshoot, and your dupatta turning into a weapon in the sea breeze.

You try to fade into the background. Let the younger ones scream over one of Atif Aslam’s songs and the older ones debate biryani vs kadhai. You sit near a rocky patch, toes buried in the sand, finally breathing.

Rafayel appears like a ghost beside you.

Shoes off. Sleeves rolled up. A soft salt-touched breeze threading through his hair.

“Didn’t take you for a beach person,” you say.

“I like water,” he replies. “It never lies.”

You glance at him. “Is that how you paint?”

He nods. “Water remembers things the canvas forgets.”

You don't know what that means, but it sinks into you anyway.

“Do you swim?” he asks suddenly.

You raise a brow. “Do you?”

His smirk is dangerous. “Want to find out?”

Before you can answer, one of your cousins yells, “WE’RE DOING A SANDCASTLE CONTEST—COUPLES EDITION!”

Your sisters immediately point at you and Rafayel.

“THEY’RE A TEAM!”

You open your mouth. “We’re not—”

Too late.

You’re being handed a bucket, a mini shovel, and more pressure than a family dinner.

Rafayel just chuckles. “Let’s win.”

You glare. “I hate you.”

He leans close. “Puh-lease, you love me.”

You blink.

Then he grabs the shovel and starts building like he didn’t just drop an emotional grenade on you.

—

The tide creeps in slowly. Your team lost (your youngest cousin's “Shrek castle” won by sheer chaos points). Everyone’s packing up.

But you’re still standing at the edge of the water, ankle-deep, jeans rolled up, watching the waves.

You hear him before you see him.

“Come on,” Rafayel says, walking straight into the tide like a painting coming alive. “One dip won’t kill you.”

“You don’t have extra clothes.”

“I’ll dry.”

“Your shirt’s linen.”

He grins. “Then let it wrinkle.”

You stare.

He walks farther in.

The ocean wraps around him, warm and gold and endless.

“You’re insane,” you call.

He looks over his shoulder, hair damp now, smile soft and sure.

“Come anyway.”

And somehow—you do.

You step into the water.

And it feels like everything else—your name, your past, your aching chest—gets washed back to shore.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re already drowning.

And for the first time in weeks—you want to be.

The day of the wedding it's like there’s gold in the air.

Not just in the shimmer of embroidered sarees or the edge of the bride's red veil trailing behind her like a royal train, but in the laughter, the glint of bangles clinking like tiny bells, in the chaos of cousins running wild with stolen stage props and half-baked plans.

Music weaves through the air—old Bollywood, newer remixes, and a few chaotic mashups that only your loudest cousins know how to dance to. Your aunties are shouting across tables, bargaining over bets and rules like they're trading on the stock market.

And Rafayel?

He’s seated quietly at the edge of it all, in a crisp sherwani you still can’t believe he agreed to wear. It’s ivory, with subtle hand embroidery at the collar, and when he shifts in the golden sunlight, he glows like he belongs in an oil painting. A silent observer, sketching it all with his eyes.

But then his gaze finds you, and he forgets how to breathe.

You’re helping your niece with her bangles, bent slightly forward, the jhumkas by your ears swaying like they have their own rhythm. Your hair is pinned up in an updo. And that smile—God. You look like a moment he wants to paint into forever.

You catch him looking. He doesn’t look away.

Tera dil woh shehar hai  (Your heart is a city) 

Jis shehar me ja ke lauta na main kabhi  (A city I went to once and have never returned since) 

—

The joota chupai begins like a war. Your cousin army steals the groom’s shoes, hiding them under a sea of lehengas and fake distractions. The groom’s side retaliates. There are negotiations, ambushes, ransom demands. Rafayel watches it all unfold with mild horror and deep fascination.

“You people are intense,” he mutters when you pass him, breathless and triumphant with one stolen shoe in hand.

“We’re efficient,” you say. “You’d better watch your shoes.”

“If you want me, just ask nicely,” he retaliates.

Your breath catches at the implication—but you don’t stop walking.

—

Then comes the game.

A table is laid out with dozens of objects—glass bangles, a peacock feather, a toy gun, a spoon, a fake mustache, lipstick, a paper crown. A speaker blasts snippets of Bollywood songs and everyone rushes to pick the object that best matches the lyrics. It’s madness. It’s brilliant.

“Kala Chashma”—a cousin dives for the sunglasses.

“Bole Chudiyan”—you grab the glass bangles.

“Desi girl”—he snatches a bindi and sticks it between his brows with a flourish. The entire family howls.

Rafayel doesn’t win most rounds. But when “Ishq wala love” plays, he doesn't reach for anything. He just looks at you.

And that… is enough.

—

Later, after the crowd has dispersed for dinner and the courtyard is quieter under strings of fairy lights and the stars above, you find him sketching near the tree.

He looks up.

“You look beautiful,” he says, as if it’s a confession. “Not just tonight. Always.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Rafayel—”

“I’ve tried not to,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I told myself this is temporary. A trip. A burst of color. A muse.”

He exhales like it hurts. “But it’s not. I love you.”

The world stills. The lights flicker. A firecracker cracks in the distance.

You close your eyes.

Because you want to believe it. God, you want it.

But what happens when the trip ends? When you go back to your studies, your deadlines, your life? He’s famous, traveling the world. You're rooted in something smaller, softer, real.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper, stepping back. “We won’t survive. Not for the long run.”

And before he can speak again—before he can soften your doubt into something brave—you slip away, heart thundering.

—

Days pass. 

The wedding is over. The chaos settles into memory.

Your room is quiet. His suitcase is still in your foyer. Neither of you reach for each other.

Nana watches you mope around, pretending not to stare at your phone every ten minutes. Watches Rafayel sketch for hours but never finish a single piece.

He huffs.

“Enough,” he mutters one morning. “I didn’t survive three bypasses and a youth of British colonial nonsense to watch two idiots destroy their own love story.”

Nana’s plan starts like most historical disasters do: with the elders whispering in corners.

You should’ve been suspicious when your aunties started wearing their fancier clothes to breakfast. Or when your second cousin first removed—who usually dresses like a teenager on laundry day—showed up in a sherwani and borrowed your brother’s perfume.

You definitely should’ve noticed when your mother gave you the look. That silent, smug “don’t-ask-just-go-wear-the-red-one” look.

But you were tired, still aching from how things ended with Rafayel, still pretending not to notice how your phone stayed silent. So you let yourself be dressed, fed, ushered into a car.

“Whose wedding are we going to, again?” you finally ask.

Your brother shrugs. “Distant cousin. Friend of a cousin. Someone’s son. I don’t know.”

You narrow your eyes. “You guys don’t not know things.”

No one answers.

The venue is decorated like a fever dream. Red and gold and ivory everywhere, fountains flowing with rose petals, dhol beats rolling thunder across the marble floors.

There’s a wedding chair up front.

Two.

One of them is empty.

The other is ocuppied by you.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, turning to your sister, “if this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” she says sweetly. “It’s a plan.”

And that’s when you see him.

Rafayel. Wearing a sherwani—how many has he bought?—looking utterly bewildered and completely beautiful.

“What sort of mating ritual is this,” he asks, blinking at your grandfather, “if I may ask?”

“An intervention,” Nana says smugly, holding the sehra. “Sit down.”

—

You are mortified. Beyond mortified.

There are aunties placing flower garlands around your neck. Cousins taking selfies. Your niece is live-streaming. Nana is pretending he’s hard of hearing when you question him.

Rafayel is frozen in place, eyes darting between you and the absurdly ornate garden. “Are we… getting married?”

You pull him aside by the wrist.

“No! God, no. It’s not real. They’re messing with us.”

“Are you sure? These rituals look too real.”

“Just—ignore it.”

He looks at you for a moment too long.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he murmurs.

Your heart does a backflip.

“What?”

“If it were real.”

You forget how to breathe.

Eventually, you manage to escape the fake-wedding-ambush with your dignity mostly intact. The others cheer like a cricket match has just ended. Nana looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

But the damage is done.

Rafayel walks you to your room that night. The air is quiet again, heavy with things unsaid. The corridor is dimly lit. Soft golden sconces cast shadows against the marble, catching on your bangles as you fidget, still breathless from the mayhem.

He leans against the wall just outside your room, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He’s always been like this—wrapped in riddles, walls so carefully constructed you never thought you’d see past them.

But tonight… tonight he looks wrecked in the way only someone in love does. Beautiful and broken. Holding himself still like the wrong word might make you vanish.

You speak first. Quietly.

“I thought I was protecting myself. Maybe even protecting you.”

His gaze flickers to you. “From what?”

“From falling too deep. From making it harder when we part ways. From hoping.”

A long silence stretches between you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, and that alone makes your throat ache.

“You’re Rafayel,” you say with a hollow laugh. “The world’s darling. Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.” 

“Things?” Rafayel raises an eyebrow. 

“People,” You acquiesce. “And I’m just… me. The girl with an entire extended family who thinks you’re my groom now.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “That was chaos.”

“That was Nana.”

He laughs, finally. It’s low and warm and you’ve missed it more than you’ll ever admit.

Then his voice drops. Soft. Bare.

“Do you really think I care about any of that?”

You blink at him.

“You think I look at you and see someone ‘lesser’? I see the girl who made me forget I was lost. Who walks into a room and makes everything brighter—even when she’s holding grief in her chest like a second heart.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“You think I planned this? You think I came to this country looking for inspiration and expected you to be it?”

His voice catches. “But there you were. With anklets that sang like wind chimes. With that laugh that makes me forget my own name. I didn’t mean to stay. But I did.”

Your fingers tremble against your bangles. 

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily. “You tore through my silence like a monsoon.”

His hand lifts, slow and reverent, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“And I haven’t been able to breathe the same since.”

You swallow thickly, wanting to believe it, wanting so badly to let it all go and just fall—into him, into the soft promise of his hands and his voice and his everything.

“We live worlds apart,” you murmur.

“Then I’ll build a bridge.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No,” he says, “it never is. But you and I? We’re worth the complication.”

The air between you is charged, your hearts beating in tandem like two instruments tuned to the same storm. You step forward, and he does too, and for a moment the distance shrinks until only choice remains.

You look up at him, eyes wide and soul trembling.

“What now?”

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “we try.”

“And if we fail?”

“Then at least we did it holding on to each other.”

The salt-laced wind rushes past you as you stand at the edge of the dock, bare feet grazing warm planks, the scent of sea and paint lingering on your skin. Somewhere behind you, laughter echoes—Rafayel’s, low and lazy, like sunlight stretched across a hammock.

A seagull calls overhead.

In your hand, a half-finished sketch of a bustling spice bazaar in Marrakech. On your wrist, a silver bangle you picked up in Istanbul, etched with waves. Next to you, a weather-worn travel satchel stuffed with fabrics, pigment jars, dried flowers, postcards. Places you've seen. Places you've lived. Together.

You hear footsteps.

“You’re sketching again,” he murmurs, peering over your shoulder.

“Trying to keep up with your genius,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Please. Your mango vendor has more soul than my cathedral.”

He slips his hand into yours.

Your rings clink.

Cities blurred past. Paint on his collar, your poetry scrawled in margins, nights tangled in hotel rooms with rain drumming against old windows. Bickering in markets. Singing old Bollywood songs while doing laundry in some forgotten corner of Prague.

Once, he painted you wearing bangles and jhumkas and nothing else. You framed it in the kitchen of a houseboat you rented in Kerala.

The world doesn’t feel so wide now. Not when you’ve danced in its shadows with someone who speaks in art and sarcasm and glances that set your pulse racing.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“Where next?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

You smile. “Wherever the color is.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. “Wherever you are.”

You turn to face him. Sea spray in your hair. Love in your eyes. The kind that didn’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. Just persistence. And softness. And staying.

Somewhere, a song plays in the distance, wafting from a small celebration down the beach.

Ae mere dil mubarak ho (Congratulations to you, my heart) 

Yahi toh pyaar hai (Only this is love) 

You both freeze.

Then you laugh. Loud and bright and free.

He groans. “That song is going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

You lean into him. “It brought you to me.”

He grins, his eyes soft with something eternal.

“No. You brought me to you.”

And just like that, with the sea behind you and the whole wide world ahead—you walk forward, fingers intertwined, hearts unafraid.

TAG LIST: @datfangirl

[givetomurasomechapstick]

The League of Villains and a Baby

A/N: There isn't enough wholesome LoV x Baby Reader content. Or even any at all. I don't think I even found an x Child Reader. Also, female reader implied but you can change it around in your head if you'd like.

♪~°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°~♪

So imagine during a solo mission, Spinner goes around to the assigned alleyway and hears crying.

And it was a baby. One with (h/c) hair, big (e/c) eyes, and a (s/c) skin tone.

Yeah, Spinner definitely wouldn't be having it. 'Who would leave a child like this? What would Stain do? Oh! He'd probably take the baby under his wing.'

And that is how you got into the League of Villains base.

♪~°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°~♪

"Spinner, what is that?" Shigaraki would ask with a scowl. The League of Villains did NOT just become the League of Babysitters.

"Oh this? This is (Y/N). I named her myself after I found her." Spinner said, looking back down at the cradled sleeping baby in his arms. "Aw! She's so cute!" Toga skipped over to the baby taking out a knife at them. "Let me stab her!" With that, the gecko pushed Toga away from the baby. "Yeah, no." "Guys, this is the League of Villains, not a group of babysitters watching a 'cute' baby." Shigaraki said sarcastically with a growl, his face hidden under one of his hands he called father.

"Let's keep them! Throw her out!" Twice contradicted himself loudly, waking up baby (Y/N). Mister Compress quickly shut Twice up, rubbing on the baby's back gently. "Shush. Even if we aren't to keep her, we should at least find somewhere for her out of the base." "I don't care what happens to the child. We're getting rid of her TONIGHT." Shigaraki shouted, making (Y/N) whimper.

"TONIGHT?!" Everyone, other than Dabi, who was in his room, asked shocked of Shigaraki's lack of empathy. "Yes, tonight. Are you deaf?"

"Everyone stop yelling, your scaring her!" Compress attempted to yell over the yelling as (Y/N) began to cry. "Yeah, stop yelling and be quiet! Louder!" Twice contradicted himself again as the arguing did not stop.

So Compress swiftly took the (h/c) haired girl in his arms, without Spinner noticing, and took her into what appeared to be a hallway. The baby did not stop crying although he yelling was now muffled.

"There there. Uh, let's say we play a game." Compress asked nervously and unsure, the baby's sobbing becoming a silent sniffling. "Much better. See?" The man took (Y/N) into his room, because I'm pretty sure if he stayed in the hallway it would disrupt Dabi.

So Compress' room was pretty unbaby-proofed. Magic trick items everywhere, but in neat piles and areas. So Compress just quickly put the baby down on the floor to get his phone to put on some Cocomelom or smth (SINFUL), but the child got curious, and crawled across the room to a bag full of Compress' magic marbles. And touched one.

Like you would think, she was compressed inside of the marble and began crying because she was scared ofc. Who wouldn't be? But Compress couldn't hear her since the marbles were soundproof.

He didn't realize until he turned around to see the (h/c) haired baby gone. But he didn't know where. So he had a quick panic attack looking everywhere in his room, practically tearing it apart, which is pretty ooc for a guy like himself.

So when he found out the baby was in one of his unguarded marbles, he quickly got her out of there, put her onto his bed, and quickly closed the bag. And went back to looking for his phone (wow, Toga must've stolen it or smth).

So then (Y/N) crawled out of his room. Somehow quietly getting off of his bed onto his floor, which is quite a jump for a baby. And slipped through the cracked open door (you get what I mean, the door isn't broken).

So she crawled through the hallway, the cold floor stinging against her knees. And she reached another door, which was also slightly open. So she peaked her head into the room to find none other than Dabi sleeping on his bed.

Ofc, that didn't stop her. And she crawled into his room quietly, babbling some things here and there. And then she heard something. A ringtone. Of course she didn't know what that is, but she followed the noise in the quite messy room to a phone.

So it had two buttons. A red one and a green one (and it was facetime, but she didn't know). So she instinctively pressed the green one.

I just imagine Hawks calling, seeing (Y/N), and being like "Oh I must have the wrong number." But the talking wakes Dabi up to see a literal baby on his phone.

Wow. Imagine waking up to THAT.

"What the-" Dabi started, squinting his eyes to see if he was seeing things or not until Hawks cut him off. "Oh, so I did get the right number! So when did you get-" and then it was Dabi's turn to cut him off "I'm not answering that." And with that, Dabi just hanged up the call and glared at the oblivious baby.

So Compress meanwhile was freaking out. Not only because he couldn't find his phone but because (Y/N) had gone missing AGAIN. First he looked through his room, and now he's interrogating the League. Although, remember that Spinner didn't know Compress took her with him. "You LOST HER?!" Spinner was about to start hyperventilating until Dabi walked into the room with an annoyed expression, holding the baby in his arms.

"Alright, who put it in my room?" He asked with a glare and everyone just shrugged. "She probably just crawled into there. I'm sure you did!" Twice yet again contradicted himself.

Toga snatched the baby out of Dabi's arms and held her upside down accidentally, she obviously didn't know how to hold a baby. "Twice is right. You thought you could steal baby (Y/N) behind our backs?" Toga growled at the black haired man, rocking the baby back in forth STILL HOLDING THEM UPSIDE DOWN.

"Why would i take that annoying piece of garbage?" Dabi replies with a snarky remark, turning around to head back into his room. "How dare you! I mean, Spinner did find her on a garbage bin." Shigaraki just nodded while Toga was wondering what would happen if she slapped the four. Compress is only included since he took her.

Dabi had already began walking out and Shigaraki had already sat back at the bar on his Nintendo Switch. Until Toga snatched it out of his hands out course. Dangling it infront of him in a almost mocking way, but her face screamed anger. And she was now holding the baby upside down with one ARM. (Y/N) Seemed to be giggling tho.

"Sometimes I wonder what would happen if you just get out of my life." "Hey! That's not nice! Besides, you're mean to baby (Y/N)." "Because no one wants a baby crawling around with a ton of serial killer villains." "He has a point!" Spinner called out from across the room, although finding the child.

"Ugh!" Toga groaned before dropping his expensive Nintendo Switch behind the bar (desk?), leading to a shattering noise. Kurogiri just looked down at the shattered switch and sighed. Although, Shigaraki was plotting murder.

Toga walked away though, Shigaraki was already on his knees behind the bar where the switch had shattered, mourning for his precious device's death. Spinner was just rubbing his back for support since he's a gamer too.

"Don't worry baby (Y/N), I'll make sure those meanies aren't mean to you." Toga pouted at the baby, still dangling the baby not on purpose from her arm. But (Y/N) seemed unfazed and just giggled at the blonde girl's words. Until Shigaraki yelled out, "Fine! We can keep the brat!" Spinner had seemed to be wiping his eyes with his hands, carefully because of his scales, Twice was just clapping before putting his thumbs upside down saying boo, but Compress had said a quiet 'yes' under his breath. "Wow I can't believe you all get so emotional over a brat."

♪~°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°~♪

[p4ranxoia]

Silly Breach (Erik) Headcanons – AU

1. Prank War King

Breach once replaced all the toothpaste at HQ with mayo. He called it “mouth protein.” Phoenix almost cried. No one could prove it was him

2. “Anger Management” Pillow

Someone gave him a stress pillow shaped like a punching bag. Instead of using it normally, he drew Sova’s face on it (lovingly), and now mock-boxes it whenever he’s frustrated. “No offense, bro, but your voice pisses me off in surround sound.”

3. Messy Cook, Legendary Results

His cooking process looks like a war crime in progress, burnt edges, spilled sauce, loud metal pans—but somehow, the food slaps. He calls it “Erik’s Explosion Casserole.” You will love it. You will also fear the aftermath.

4. Bad Dad Jokes, Worse Timing

Right after an intense firefight, Breach might turn to Skye and deadpan, “Guess they really couldn’t handle the recoil, huh?” He’s not proud. But he is consistent.

5. Can’t Whisper. Ever.

Due to his damaged hearing, he thinks he’s whispering but he’s still full volume. Stealth missions are chaos when Breach is around. “HEY, DID YOU SEE THAT GUY? I THINK HE’S GOT A GUN.” Yes, Erik. They all do.

6. Misuses Idioms

He says things like “burning the candle with two spoons” and insists he’s right. If corrected, he doubles down. “That’s how we said it in Sweden, man.”

7. Secretly Loves Sparkly Things

Erik once got his arms painted by one of the younger agents as a joke. Now he wears glitter polish unironically sometimes. Claims it helps “channel his inner rage into fabulous violence.”

8. Heavy Metal Scream Master

Erik can do the perfect heavy metal scream like, rattle-your-teeth perfect. He’s turned “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” into a deathcore anthem.

9. Soda Can Shrine

Breach has a massive soda can collection. Rare, weird, cursed, explosive, you name it. He keeps them in a glass case with LED lights like they’re ancient artifacts. Labels include things like “Pickle Lightning” and “Mystery Flavor #7.” He calls them “metallic trophies.” Anyone who tries to throw one away gets a lecture.

10. Eats Soup With a Fork Just to Assert Dominance

When asked why, he just growled, “I like the challenge.” He makes intense eye contact the entire time. The soup is cold by the end. He calls it victory.

11. Unironically Believes “Birds Aren’t Real”

He's 110% convinced they’re government drones. He swats at pigeons. He lectures Sova about “his fake friends.” Sova is so tired.

12. Once Taped a Whole Raw Fish to Yoru’s Door as a Warning

No one knows what the warning was about. Not even Breach. He just said, “He knows what he did,” and walked away in slow motion.

13. Eats Cereal With Orange Juice If There’s No Milk

When someone gags, he’s like “What? That’s just breakfast sangria.” He likes the taste. This is not a joke. He does it often. Chamber left the room crying.

14. Keeps a Jar of Screws and Calls It “Emergency Teeth”

It sits on his nightstand. No explanation. No context. Killjoy once asked if he was okay. He just whispered, “Always be prepared.”

15. Plays Guitar Solos Without a Guitar [At times, with the guitar]

Like, full-on air guitar solos with amp noises made with his mouth. Once did this for four minutes straight mid-debriefing. Brimstone let it happen. He said it was “too committed to interrupt.”

16. Screams in Latin randomly at times

No one knows where he learned it. He won’t say. He once dropped a fork and yelled “IN NOMINE CHAOS” at max volume. Brimstone needed three Advils and a nap.

17. Bites Ice Cream Like It Owes Him Money

Full, aggressive chomps. No flinch. No expression. Just eye contact with whoever’s nearby. “Weak teeth are a mindset,” he says, with bloodlust in his pupils and sprinkles on his beard.

18. Keeps a Wrench Named “Justice”

Just like his other tools, he talks to it. Sleeps with it. Swore vengeance with it once. “She’s got a righteous bite.” It’s just a regular wrench… probably.

19. Plays the Kazoo During Tactical Briefings

No warning. No rhythm. Just loud, chaotic kazoo. He says it “enhances focus.” Brimstone had to start confiscating them. He just keeps finding more.

These are most of the silly ones for now! ⁰^⁰

[oh-three]

The Librarians: TNC S1E1:

Lmao, not the Librarian playing Gregor and turning on him

Oooh, OG music

VIKRAM. That's his name. I knew I knew it.

STONE :D

An "I'm the Librarian" moment but both of the Librarians are confused.

Cassandra mention

"That's right, you didn't see the 20th century."

Ngl, Vikram's introduction scene and getting pulled into the modern world was a bit too abrupt for my tastes.

Stone calling Jenkins, confirming that the team has not broken up and that this isn't an AU, but Stone's kinda just doing his own solo project.

"The more you speak, the less I understand." Ouch?

Vikram talks to himself a lot.

Lots of people in this silly castle today. (and three of them are from the poster, hello, Librarians)

Damn, he really brought his Annex back that fast.

(I still like Jenkins' annex more)

Anddd they're fighting evil spirits already, well done.

Stone emerging out of a broom closet because it's a completely normal thing for him lol.

"I thought he was the Librarian." / "Yeah, older model." Damnnn.

Sir, that is a truck.

Something, something, the way Jake preached against using magic, but Vikram being all for it lol

Ooooh. It's kind of pretty though? (Also, why is it crying?)

And that's probably the new Guardian.

So we have Charlie, Connor, Lysa, and Vikram. Interesting crew.

Vikram waving Charlie off like Flynn trying to get rid of Eve.

The Library assigned Vikram a Guardian pretty quick. Like, what if Charlie hadn't been able to accept? Kinda wild how fast she picked up lol.

Watching Vikram's reactions to how things are modernly is kinda funny.

Ohhhh, it was lonely. That's why it was crying.

Vikram & Charlie rushing into what they thought was an army and finding a band probably should have been foreseen.

UM.

Yeah, Jake ain't joining them lmao.

"I really hate this castle." 🤣

(Christian Kane is killing it btw.)

Charlie giving Vikram a well-needed reality check.

Chaos theory? Man, didn't realize Lysa was Ian Malcolm.

Lysa trying to prove that it's all science vs Connor trying to prove magic & the Library are real lol.

Ohhhhhh, that's fucking smart though. The whatever-you-call-it playing at a band.

Drekavac. I really need to copy-paste that.

The sister reveal lmao

Stole a van and lost the scrying glass, good job team.

Lysa pointing out that they've put themselves out as bait without an actual plan otherwise lol

Connor & Lysa get along like Jake & Cassandra, and I kinda love it.

Vikram remembering that being a Librarian means using knowledge above magic >>>

No, but they really all just stood there and watched it fall over.

Stone finally made it lmfao.

No, but Jenkins really went a whipped up another magic door for the other annex at Jake's request, that's awesome.

Heheh, the magic footage is corrupted.

Vikram stepping up to claim responsibility for his fuck-up.

He gave them a time limit 😂

"…mummies have come to life at the history museum." Night at the Museum reference? Oooh. Don't mind if I do.

Not Jake immediately going back through the door and yelling at Ezekiel for something lmao. I do hope we get to see the OG team this season.

That painting is most definitely not a coincidence.

Connor recruiting himself (and Lysa being inspired by it)

Oh fuck, Gregor's not gone.

Okay, this episode wasn't that bad. The first half was kind difficult to get through, but the middle finally hooked me.

[pikachiee]

Ahem. I've decided to talk about my garbage. Feel free to not read or read, I wanna see what y'all think. But if it sucks, I know 😭.

Okay, so I'm praying you peeps know who Gretchen wieners is 😭. But she's a character in Mean girls. And due to Charlie having the same voice actress as Cady in Mean Girls the musical. It led me back to being obsessed with Gretchen ( since she's my favorite character). And I was like, huh she's kinda like lute. And that lute and Gretchen are so similar, yet so fundamentally different.

How are they similar? Well, they both are the "lieutenants" to someone with Great power and charisma. ( Funnily enough BOTH Adam and Regina have been compared to Hitler 😭) they are both somewhat unstable, and try their best being close to their leader. And without a second thought, they both without a doubt follow their orders.

And both of them have this cult-like dedication to the rules and maintaining the order. ( The plastic rules, like wearing pink on Wednesday and shit. And of course lute's dedication to killing all demons/heaven's order) they both are arrogant, due to this. Due to following their respective persons, they feel like they are above others. Because they think that Adam/Regina are above others as well.

And I realized that the biggest difference ( other than the obvious of Gretchen just being a rich highschooler, and lute being a genocidal angel) is that lute is loyal to Adam ( and heaven), while Gretchen is loyal to the hierarchy. After Adam dies, lute is quick to take him spot. ( Not in a malicious way, but simply she doesn't hesitate leading).

At the end of the movie, Gretchen is finally "free" from the Plastics. She just simply follows someone else. Both of them thrive being the obedient second, but for different reasons. Lute is genuinely good at following orders, and is a loyal individual. While Gretchen is second, because she's insecure. She often bends over backwards just to keep Regina's attention. ( And this bleeds over to everyone, such as Cady when she becomes queen bee, or Jason who is her dumbass boyfriend).

I also realized how different lute and Gretchen act, when Adam/Regina snap at them. In the last episode lute looks a bit annoyed and over it when Adam gets pissed when she voiced the obvious, she just takes his yelling but doesn't seem uncomfortable. She's not affected by his anger. While Regina yells at Gretchen, Gretchen looks scared. She's visibly shaken, and goes quiet. Not out of annoyance but out of real fear. ( I don't feel like showing pics, but if you want some, I'll show you lol)

But why?

Well... Simple.

It's all how Adam and Regina treat lute and Gretchen. Adam allows himself to have this genuine connection with lute. He lets her be his friend. They have fun, and laugh. They both hype themselves up, in their own solos.

While the musical? Both of Gretchen's solos ( other than the reprise) usually have everything to do with Regina. She calls Regina's name constantly in her solo, but never bothered to say her own name or introduce herself. Everyone says their name in the beginning but her? “ Yes Regina, no Regina”.

Someone even pointed out that all of Gretchen's humming in her solo, can point to how insecure she is. That she won't even allow herself to have a full Chorus. While lute? Well, in her solo. Her voice is strong and confident. She doesn't look back at Adam to see if she's doing ��� good.” She knows she is. Because she knows Adam.

Regina often hides in this fake smile. She would compliment someone, and laugh at them behind their back. That's after all the concept of that movie, every girl can be mean. *very* mean.

Regina constantly plays 4d Chess with everyone. She chooses her "friends" by gauging how much of a threat they are to her power. She's not friends with Gretchen, Karen or Cady, because she actually likes them. No. It's because Karen is beautiful, and Gretchen is rich. And candy? She's beautiful, and.. doesn't have this anxiety to her due to being homeschooled. She took Regina's compliment, and "agreed" that she was pretty.

But why?

WELL. I realized something, Regina and Adam are also oddly similar. ( Hear me tf out) Both of them are rather spoiled individuals ( since both of them can get anything they want, at least what's shown), they both are arrogant and petty. On top of that they both have an insecurity, Adam, being well Adam. ( Best to example was how insecure he looked when he glanced at sera in the trial) And Regina with her eating disorder ( her constant need to lose weight, and to weigh or less than 115.) AND they both have anger issues.

Adam has an easy release with them however. The exterminations. He can kill. Take out his anger and focus on that. That and he's other outlets he *could* use, like eating or having sex.

Regina?

Well.. not so clear. Yes she's mean. She can talk to people behind their back. Or even cheat on her boyfriend. But it's clear that she has no full outlet for these aggressive emotions ( until the end of the movie). Due to this, Regina can never let her guard down. Not fully. Even though she tells Gretchen all her secrets, she still doesn't fully trust Gretchen. but in a fucked up way, this is as much as she *could* trust Gretchen.

Adam doesn't seem to hide his flaws. Most of his dirty laundry seems to be out in the open. While Regina needs to hide. She needs to be in control and manipulate everyone. Adam doesn't because his sense of pride isn't something that can easily crumble. He's strong, physically, or his Battle skill. ( He was pretty good in the finale).

That and he was literally the first man. He's God's creation. Made in his own image. That's something that you can't just "lose". At least not in the same way as Regina. Regina being popular obviously had something to do with her beauty, but, well... Karen is beautiful. So is Gretchen. Regina uses her intelligence to keep all potential threats neutralized.

Karen doesn't need much. She's pretty happy on her own. So Regina doesn't touch her much. But Gretchen? Well, Gretchen can be smart when she wants to be. She has everyone's secrets after all. Gretchen is also beautiful ( well, at least now she is. The original script had her ugly lol) Gretchen can "stab" Regina.

But she doesn't. How? Well Regina makes this fucked up sense of intimacy. Regina is so much more cruel to Gretchen, for the most part she doesn't need to hide from a fake smile. Which makes Gretchen think she's special. And in a way, she is. She is Regina's second hand, she's the bearer of her secrets. And in order to take Regina down, you need to "crack" Gretchen.

While Adam? Adam genuinely trusts lute. They have fun. They laugh. Lute doesn't have to walk on eggshells around Adam, because she knows for a fact that they are real friends. And like Adam, lute has a real and effective form of release. It was easy to break Gretchen, to convince her that yes, Regina is mad at her. Because Regina always is.

Gretchen doesn't over throw her due to that, and also because Regina broke her so much. That Gretchen never once thought to lead on her own. She's shown to have a heartbroken reaction in the Walmart special ( yes I consider that canon, fight me) when her daughter said that fetch will never happen. And many people laughed at that, saying she PTSD from Regina. But, really.

She realized she's back to following. ( I am praying though that Gretchen and her daughter DO have a somewhat better relationship lol). Gretchen is shown to still talk to Karen, so it does show that she is loyal. That and while in the movie, Gretchen's boyfriend likes to make her "jealous", by going out with another girl. ( Fuck you Jason), and Gretchen never once tried to pursue another man. Even though she could. Since by all means she's the second most popular girl in school.

I'm not sure of lute *could* overthrow Adam..but tbh, she could probably land a good hit on him ( or worse) with how much he trusts her. But she won't. Even when Adam died, lute wasn't overjoyed. She was sobbing. She was quick to become the leader, not because she hated Adam, or was envious of him. But because SOMEONE needed to. Lute due to Adam was confident enough to lead. That's something Gretchen would never have.

Both Adam and Regina are sad people, that greatly broke just as sad people ( maybe even sadder). Regina broke Gretchen's self confidence, and created an anxious girl. That so easily would give up secrets that she "swore" she would never tell. While Adam groomed lute to be this loyal fanatic, that will carry out Adam's " mission" tenfold. Gretchen is terrified of Regina's rules and that's why she follows them so obediently. While lute follows Adam's rule, because she genuinely believes what he's saying.

Lute's loyalty is her damnation. And frankly, it probably will get her killed. And Gretchen's lack of loyalty is hers. Regina Created this husk of a person, that's just chasing after validation. First it was to Regina, and then to the drop of a hat it was Cady. ( And maybe her own daughter and/or husband, according to the Walmart ads)

Unintentional they both damned two girls. Lute so hell-bent on revenge and justice. That this very well will get her killed, which, I think most people would agree, is not what Adam would have wanted. While Gretchen abandoned Regina when she needed her most. Because Regina helped mold Gretchen into this validation seeking anxious girl.

Both Gretchen and lute can be shown to be loyal to the people that are truly loyal to *them*. They both are smart and beautiful and are a bit unstable. They are both obsessive towards their chosen leader, and follow their leader's orders to a tea. They follow it so strongly that even their own leaders are a bit turned off by this obsession. This obsession to be the best follower.

In another life lute could have been a Gretchen. And in the same vein, Gretchen could have been a lute.

Also I must add. That Gretchen could totally flourish in Adam's care.. Adam's genuine, and Gretchen seems to truly want a friend. Someone that would truly care for her. Gretchen needs constant validation and Adam is shown to be the type or praise his "girls".and Gretchen would have a proper outlet for her anxiety and instability. And lute would greatly suffer from Regina. Lute's pride is linked to being an angel, and exorcist angel. Without Adam, or being a literal angel. I doubt lute would still be so aggressive and confident. At least not in the same vein as she was with Adam. If Adam acted like Regina, and had this constant need to put lute in her " place". Then I have a feeling lute would have acted alot like how Gretchen would.

I noticed that everyone describes lute and Gretchen's fixation on theses ( somewhat self enforced) rules, as cult like. For all we know Gretchen is simply a mirror to a *younger* and once human lute. Lute's violent loyalty to Adam, is a much more severe form of Gretchen's desperation for validation from Regina.

My brain is fried, so I hope I did this analysis justice. Tbh I probably missed some things, but this is something that had to write lol.

[not-goldy]

Hi

I see anons in your asks every other day about who is better...JK solos or JM solos. Better to say JM solos. As those are the asks you always answer. So it looks like JM solos are the ones who want some kind of confirmation.

I am jikook biased OT7. So i follow on X app both problem free jimin and jungkook solo accounts for better charts updates.(yes they still exist,although not many). Because of that, many other solos land on my for you page. And there i always see hate (before blocking them)... without a reason hate. No reason...simple hate and name calling, down playing other's success(as we know, they both tend to keep breaking each others record, such a flex for jikook bias people.)

My point of this ask is that....you think that jimin haters (jk solos) hate jimin just because. And JK haters(jm solos) hate JK with elaborated reasons of JK being mean person along with just because?

I like your opinions , if you feel like talking about it. You look at a picture always from different angles.

Well they all trash.

Jk haters hate Jimin just because. And we all know they are homophobic as fuck too. So for me it's easy to develop a thick skin for them and just write them off as just a bunch of annoying roaches

It's the PJMs who claim they are better but also turn around to spew the most hateful homophobic rhetorics you never see coming for me

Imagine walking into a space of queer people and yelling how you expect another person whatever their sexuality is to be everything but themselves like make it make sense

They are truly truly the worst breed to walk these streets

Imagine spending your entire life preaching self acceptance encouraging people to be themselves stand in their truth but then turn around to censor another person because you'd rather he threw tea parties and play with tiny cooking utensils.

And the worst part is they've cooked up this fantasy about who Jimin is such that he in no way can exist outside their fantasies which is quite dehumanizing in itself.

Watch them gasp for air if anyone points out an obvious law in Jimin a flaw even he Jimin acknowledges

They will turn their backs on Jimin the moment they realize he is human after all perfect in his imperfections

They just give me the ick

I don't give a fuck whether Jungkook spawn out of satans left nut if I fuck with him and I fuck with him I'm gonna always fuck with him

And I accept Jimin however and whoever he feels he is. He doesn't have to be anything BUT himself for me.

If either of them get too much for me, I'll leave the same way I came. No one can force me to like them and no one can bend me to hate them. Period.

[fromthegallows]

waterparks fans love just randomly blaming waterparksdrama for literally anything possible without proof and making it out to be fact. the way you treat us is SO insane, especially with our iceberg video. if you saw our inbox when we DO talk about things we “ignore” in the video you’d realize why we do not talk about them. the second we bring ANYTHING up the amount of hate we get is disgusting. and to blatantly call our video misinformation just because you hate us and flat out TELL everyone that it is not true is so weird when our sources are CITED and 80-90% of the things in the iceberg were directly experienced by the mods of the blog.

you come to us for info but hate the info we put out! you hate us but come to consume our content and even repost things the blog makes or we (the admins) make on our solo blogs. pick a side! you all hate us SOOO much but our name never constantly leaves your mouth and we are constantly talked about. you give us the traffic to our blog. we purposely refuse to name anyone on the blog to make sure no hate is directed towards individuals yet you are perfectly fine with us being sent death threats from fans and the band themselves. it is so hypocritical of you all to just flat out say nothing can EVER be said about the band that isn’t positive because it’s somewhere he can see it but then say extremely negative (and often false) things on a place WE also see. don’t you see the issue here? 9/10 the things we get on waterparksdrama are opinions from fans you have made feel unsafe to express these things anywhere else. you’ve made being a waterparks fan miserable because these fans feel like they are less than someone else for not being entirely happy with every little thing waterparks does. you make it seem like if they don’t live and breathe waterparks they are undeserving of the title of a waterparks fan.

and this isn’t even addressing how entitled fans act on tour. between yelling at people for not following your silly little “numbering system” that is exclusive to your friend group and not entitled to be used by the venue or fans that come from other places than twitter. and the fact that some of you are so oblivious to how horrible camping for shows for hours is and ignore actual human lives and these city streets you are cluttering with whatever you leave out is exhausting. shows are supposed to be fun but it’s slowly become a fight and popularity contest every single day. you are putting yourself and others at risk all because you believe nothing is as important as that barricade spot. and yet you wonder why passing out and getting sick at shows is SO common! you’re out in heat for HOURS and not eating or drinking properly and standing for hours. no one should feel like they Need to risk their own health to get a close spot.

[roxineedstosleep]

The Clock was wrong... 9 years wrong.

So, just because I'm having a bad night, because my nebuliser is about to run out and my asthma is a bitch that won't let me have a peaceful night's sleep.

Roxi's bad nights, because of asthma, productions present (And, ironically, for reasons like that my profile name was created):

Superbat angst at its finest.

So, we know that Clark easily travels in space thanks to his speed and ability to adapt in that kind of environment. I mean, as long as he has a solo similar to ours he has no problem about his survival.

But, because most of his heroic work is on Earth, and he doesn't spend as much time away travelling and returning as Hal does, Clark forgets how spacetime is handled at different times depending on where he is.

For example: As long as he's in the Terran solar system, as Hal would call it, there are only hours from Plant to Earth; as long as he's on the nearest planets, like Mars. If he decides to go to some moon of Pluto, well, it would be one or two days; not exceeding a week.

Not to mention that Clark, like Hal, would have to have a double reljor in order to notice that he is aware of both the planet Earth's time system and that of the planet he is visiting. So aware, because on some planets the days work completely differently; either very slowly or ridiculously fast.

In the beginning he usually travels with Hal, when he doesn't know how to deal with the time system. But after a while he ends up doing it on his own, since Hal usually stays longer and doesn't return immediately to Earth, since they have different schedules.

Bruce understood that. I mean, did Clark ever interrupt him on a mission? No, not unless it was necessary for this one.

So Bruce wouldn't have any attachment to it. He'd let Clark travel when he needed to, and he'd be happy to see him when he got there; whether he was gone for hours or a month. The shortest time was 30 Earth minutes (which for Clark was 5 days) and the longest was 3 months (which had been 2 1/2 weeks).

But now, well, now with Dick having just been adopted by both of them, Bruce does feel there's a problem.

Clark is being called on a mission that, by Terran time it's going to be 6 months. And even though he wouldn't have had an opinion or batted an eyelash about it before, because it's none of his business; now there's a traumatized child, with abandonment and attachment issues who needs his father (no more than 2 years old) to be present in his life.

And Bruce knows it's selfish, but he also knows it's his right to ask Clark to reconsider all possibilities. He asks him to shorten the mission on his part, to give him days off… he doesn't want him to go and leave him alone with Dick, who is just getting back to being a happy, normal kid.

Even more so when the mission is fucking risky and anything could postpone and revalidate plans.

But Clark doesn't listen. He calls him paranoid, kisses Bruce goodbye on the lips, and kisses goodnight to little Dick, who is sleeping peacefully with a stuffed animal he gave him not long ago.

What Clark doesn't realise is that Bruce had a bad feeling, doesn't realise that his parallel clock wasn't set correctly, doesn't realise that he calculated 6 months off earth with the calendar of the other planet.

And he doesn't realise that he stayed on that planet, for 8 months on the wrong calendar.

When the mission is over, everyone is happy, celebrating over a few foreign drinks and looking up at the sky with the misty stars. All was happiness… until he goes to Hal Jordan, stunned, a few feet away from him.

"Son of a bitch" was the only thing Clark could make out, before Hal knocked him to the ground in celebration and started to whack him without giving him a chance to speak on his own "We thought you were dead, God Clark! I went to your fucking memorial service! But you're here fucking drinking alient margaritas?"

"What?"

"We looked for you for 5 months, then came a missed signal where the Man in red and blue fell to the enemies" Jordan yells at him, while still on him "Bruce kept looking for you longer, if it wasn't for your son forcing him to go to therapy a year later…. God, we gave you a symbolic burial so that Bruce and Dick could come full close the circle."

"Jordan, I was only gone 8 months" his heart began to ache at the implication.

"8 months off this planet Supes" scoffed the Lantern "It's been more than 6 years on Earth."

After that, Clark doesn't remember much. No.

He traveled at full speed, hurtling through space so fast that he even dares to say he destroyed a fucking metiorito the size of Russia in the process.

But he didn't stop, he didn't stop until he got to Earth, he didn't stop until he got to America, let alone Gotham.

Not until it reaches the grounds of the mansion, not until it crashes full force into the main entrance.

And when he realises… Oh God!

He is greeted by a, justifiably astonished, ageing Alfred. T Clark knows that man, first and foremost there will always be composure, but seeing him all that goes out the window, as he looks at him like he's looking at God himself.

A short time later a boy arrives, identical to Bruce, who looks at him in fear, and then a young boy comes running, and his Bruce… his adored Bruce.

Bruce, who looks older, who has more dark circles under his eyes, who looks more exhausted, who looks as if he has been given the worst fights… more beautiful and handsome than before.

Who now looks at him like he's come out of a fucking hallucination… like he can't believe it.

"You were dead."

And that buried him.

Because it was a scandal.

The boy was crying, unwilling to let go of the young man who kept looking at him with wild eyes. That Bruce had to be tucked in by Alfred before he collapsed on the sofa, and then he had to be sat in an armchair, as if he were a stranger.

Well, over 5 years… he was now a stranger.

Even more so when he realises, after a few deep glances, that the young man looking at him in a hostile way is no one else and no one less than Dick.

His son, who is now almost a man.

Who grew up without him, and who probably, or most likely, hates him for abandoning him in his sleep. Who hates him for leaving him alone with his father, who hates him because he made them believe that all this time they didn't care enough about him to stay with them.

And if things were worse, for him.

The new child, the son Bruce, who was adopted thanks to Bruce's new partner. Who would not be long in coming, after he probably heard the fuss he caused with his arrival.

And that said and done, through one of the doors, which Clark remembers was the aquatic entrance, enters a man, completely stocky and wet, with a large semi-blond beard and skin bronzed by the sun and the sea. He's a contained beast.

Both Dick and the new boy, who now knows his name is Jason, rush towards the man, who doesn't hesitate to protect them from his presence.

It is only when Bruce seems to react to all that is happening that the unknown man takes his son and brother upstairs, and the tension between the two of them thickens.

He discovers he's been gone for almost a decade.

That they searched for him after five earthly months without hearing from him.

That they received the signal of his supposed disappearance in an enemy camp after 8 months on Earth.

That they searched for him for a year.

That they buried him 3 years after his departure.

That Bruce had to take antidepressants that almost made him lose custody of Dick.

That Dick was never again able to regain the confidence he had after his departure. Even more so with the supposedly implicit sign of his death.

That after a couple of years of therapy and group sessions for widowers, that Bruce began to try to rebuild his life.

First by reconnecting with his son, so that they could both be happy again.

Then to heal Dick's trust issues.

And finally, 2 years after his "Death" Bruce returns to the dating world.

He meets Theodore, a former Marine turned marine biologist who, ironically, was doing job sharing with Aquaman.

They meet after a joint mission, and start chatting.

That after a year of tentative dates, they started dating… only to marry after 7 months.

After that, Jason came into Batman's life, to become Bruce's son, and then to become Theo's son as well. He never leaves Jason's or Dick's side, and even takes them on sea voyages.

All this, while his only excuse is to tell Bruce that his watch has failed. That the confinement on the other side had been for a couple of hours, and that after that he had no problems.

That all that time he could have communicated, that all that time was fine.

But nothing is fine.

And probably never will be.

[moemammon]

You are not Beyoncé but you're singing your heart out when you think you're home alone.

(Featuring the demon brothers and GN!MC)

For once, you had the house to yourself! Was this a miracle?? Were the heavens finally smiling down on you from above? Was this the result of all your good karma??? Whatever it was, you were almost certain that you were alone for once.

And what did that mean? Time for a good ol' fashion jam session. You put on your favorite tunes and set them to blast through the speaker of your D.D.D. while you danced around the house, singing your heart out. Who cared if some of your notes were flat, or if you had to drop a few pitches to hit those high notes?

Not you. You were just living your best life without a care in the world.

Until...

Lucifer

Of course the eldest would be around. Arguably the most mysterious and omnipotent brother in the house, so yeah. He's there.

He told you this morning that he’d have a meeting to attend after classes today. You thought he’d be out for a long while, but it just so happened that the meeting ended early today, much to his relief.

Not to yours though, because that means that Lucifer has front row seats to your amazing concert without your permission.

He didn't even have the courtesy to make himself known! He just waited in the kitchen, quietly preparing his coffee while your singing echoed through the halls.

You were sauntering your way to the kitchen as well, fumbling over forgotten lyrics without a care in the world, when you saw him.

Enemy spotted.

Does this mean he heard every single time your voice cracked-

Your eyes lock and Lucifer doesn't even mention what you were just doing, despite the obviously being within earshot of you.

You really start feeling the heat rising in your cheeks when he says "You seem to be in a good mood. Did something good happen to you at RAD today?"

Regardless of how you respond (or not), Lucifer turns his back to you to tidy up, and says "....I don't believe I've ever heard your singing before. You'll have to give me an encore in my office some time."

You swear you can hear the mischief in his tone....

Mammon

This seriously was unheard of. An afternoon without having mammon glued to your hip?? Hell must've frozen over or something.

Regardless, you weren't going to take this for granted! Mammon did mention something about a 'foolproof money making scheme' he had a dream about last night, so he was probably off trying to see if he could make it a reality.

Things like this usually took a huge chunk of greedy boy's afternoon, so you figured you were safe to sing as you pleased!

Besides, he probably would've texted you if he were on the way home, right?

Apparently not, because Mammon was very much home, and did not send you a text. Honestly? He forgot to. He was too busy wallowing in self pity.

How was he supposed to know that using magic to duplicate grim was illegal??

He managed to escape any real trouble and made his way back home, only to have his ears immediately blessed (or assaulted) by your singing.

He's not the type to sit around in secret until you notice him, so catch this boy marching around the house until he finds you himself. Not so quietly calling out your name the entire time, too.

Mammon caught you in the empty library singing your heart out. The acoustics were great in there! They also kinda drowned out the outside noise, so you couldn't really hear him yelling for you.

"Oh, I thought you were screamin' about a bug or something. What song is that?"

He's not shy about singing in the shower at the top of his lungs, so it's not like he's judging you?? But he's got his phone out when you spot him. The bastard is recording you...

So your knee jerk reaction is to attack

"Wh- Oi!! What're ya hitting me for?! I don't care if it's just a pillow- Hey!"

He has chosen death. Goodbye Mammon.

Leviathan

It was kind of bold of you to assume that Levi would ever be out of the house, but he DID mention something about a concert he wanted to attend..? Or some kind of book signing?

You don't really remember, and you don't have the mental strength to scroll through the sea of spam texts he's sent you today.

C'est la vie.

Since you're pretty sure you're alone, you're not taking your solo concert all around the house of lamentation, from the foyer to the west wing, up to the attic and down to the dining room.

Gotta find the perfect spot to sing this next part. It's got a really good bit with a flute, and you wanna stare longingly out of a window or something-

And it's when you pass by otaku man's room that he decides to make himself known by poking his head out. His headset is around his neck and his hair's a little tousled, hinting that he was in the middle of gaming.

You freeze. Neither of you can look the other in the eye.

It takes a while before the silence can be broken, but before you can say a word, Levi speaks.

"Y-You know... you should come to karaoke with me! Only if you want to, I mean! I didn't know you were a fan of singing, so... but you probably have other plans, right? You don't want to hang out with a gross otaku like me blah blah blah-"

You aren't sure if your brain is malfunctioning from being caught in the act, or from the word vomit spilling from everyone's favorite weeb.

Satan

Satan is a good, studious boy so you assumed he was staying after class to head to the library. He was lagging behind, so you didn't question it.

Or maybe he was planning his next prank? Lucifer did have to make an announcement tomorrow morning in front of the student body, and Satan had been awfully interested in glitter bombs lately...

Whatever the case, he wasn't home right now! Or so you thought.

You were busy switching between two different choruses AND a sick guitar riff all in one song, so there was no time to be thinking about the demon's whereabouts.

You did wonder where you left your bag at, though. You vaguely recalled dumping it at the front door, so maybe that's where it was?

Scooting your way down the hall like a music powered locomotive, you were right in the middle of imitating the sound of drums when you spotted the trembling grin plastered to Satan's face.

Hm.

Maybe you could ask Diavolo about sending you back to the human world right now.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were here, or I would've said something." Satan tells you, clearing his throat to further suppress his laughter. From the way his shoulders are shaking, he was barely holding on.

"I didn't think you were the type to like songs like that. Do you have a playlist you could recommend me? I'm interested after seeing how much you enjoy it."

That cheeky grin of his never breaks for a second, so you can't tell if he's actually asking for recommendations, or if he's watching for your reaction.

Asmo

Not a surprise that you assumed he wasn't home, since he rarely is. He's always out partying or shopping around, so you usually don't see him much around this time.

But that also means you're free to sing as loudly as you want! Look out Mariah Carey, there's a new high note singer in town.

Asmo can vouch for that! Because he can hear you. Clearly.

Okay but he's one of those people that joins in while you're singing.

Legit the moment he goes inside and recognizes your song, he's trying to serenade you from the other side of the house.

And boy do you hear him. This man can SING (as expected of a fallen angel), and he likes to sing loudly. He wants all eyes on him after all!

And maybe you'll be so smitten by his angelic voice that you'll come running into his arms and beg that he takes you right then and there!

Wishful thinking though, because that is not how you reacted. Boo...

He finds you, and wants to know what you think of his voice. "Well? My singing was beautiful, wasn't it~? I used to sing all the time up in the celestial realm! I don't mind giving you some private lessons back in my room~"

Was he implying that you needed lessons? Maybe... but he's a sweetheart about it so can you really be mad at him?

Beel

A crepe cart recently opened up for a limited time, and there was no way Beel was going to miss that. And knowing him, he wouldn't come home until there were no traces of food left in sight.

So you figured you'd have plenty of time to brush up on your sea shanties! Bold of you to assume...

Beel can inhale a billion times his weight in food in like, five minutes. What made you think he wouldn't be back home by now?

He was full for a good ten minutes (a new record!) and spent that time in his bedroom, hence why you didn't hear his usual rummaging through the kitchen for food.

Speaking of food, you were feeling kind of hungry yourself! And a little parched from all the singing, so a snack break couldn't hurt!

You slid on your socks along the hardwood floor all the way to the kitchen... where you nearly slammed into Beel. There he was, the mad lad himself.

He was also on the way to the kitchen. Surprise surprise, right? And he managed to catch you by the shoulders before you could slide into anything.

Beel is the least phased by your singing. He just thinks it's nice that you were comfortable enough to sing so loudly! Good to see that you're enjoying yourself.

He doesn't exactly address it? Instead he moves his hand forward to place something into yours.

It's a crepe that he saved, just for you! You stare at the delicate pastry, all topped with layers of fluffy whipped cream, strawberries and blueberries, and lovingly drizzled with chocolate sauce! There's a bite taken out of the side, though-

"I tried my best to hold back, but I took a bite. Sorry..."

How can you be mad at him?? You're not even embarrassed about the singing anymore tbh. Too full of love to care 💕💕

Belphie

When,,,, was Belphie ever not home,, like,,,,

This man has never seen a classroom in his life, so it's not like you could've expected him to be at RAD.

And he wasn't usually in town?? Definitely a homebody.

But Beel wanted someone to go with him to that crepe cart, and Belphie couldn't exactly turn his dear brother down when he gave him those big baby eyes-

And since Beel wasn't home, you figured Belphie was still out, too!

Spoiler alert: you thought wrong.

Belphie was home, and now wide awake thanks to your banshee screams singing. He managed to slip away from Beel when he got too tired. He didn't really want a crepe anyway, so he decided to head back.

Only to be rudely awaken... how dare you...

He's hellbent on finding you, JUST so he can get you to shush. Please.. let him rest his weary bones...

When he does locate you, you have your back turned to him and your music on max volume, occupying yourself with grabbing your clean laundry to take back to your room.

He doesn't speak, instead choosing to watch you shimmy around to the beat of your song. And when you do a little spin, you turn right around to face him and get to witness the sheer amusement on his face.

He's NOT letting your forget about this moment. And you can't escape him either, he won't let you.

The bastard corners you just to repeatedly ask "Hey, what were you singing? I haven't heard that one in a while. Mind singing it again for me?"

"With a voice like that, I'm afraid to ask you to sing me a lullaby."

"...Just kidding. Your face is really red right now, you know?"

You feel the sudden urge to stuff him into the dryer, but you resist.

The urge grows stronger when he imitates the little dance you were doing.

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

How would one write a realistic argument?

How to Write a Realistic Argument

Everyone argues.

Whether it be with a friend, sibling, parent, or coworker—arguments usually break out whenever there’s a stark contrast in opinion over certain things, which can happen a lot.

There are a variety of different kinds of arguments involving a wide range of people with different tempers. Because of this, writing arguments can be a bit difficult, but fear not, for this post is here to help!

1. Know The Writing Style of an Argument

For a very serious argument, the characters probably won’t stop and listen to what their opponent has to say.

It’s quick, choppy, and broken—each character shoving their emotions at one another and trying to get their point across without bothering to understand the other side’s opinions.

There should be a lot of em-dashes and italicized words for emphasis, and if it’s between two people, you want as few speech tags as possible; because there’s going to be a lot of back and forth, speech tags can serve to trip up the flow of the argument rather than help them.

When you do want speech tags or if there are multiple people arguing at once here’s some examples you can use:

Roared

Screamed

Yelled

Bellowed

Barked

Hissed

Shouted

Accused

Interrupted

Growled

Snarled

Spat

Screeched

Shrilled

But you also must know that your characters won’t just be standing stock still and yelling at one another; they’re going to be moving around, so here are some things you can describe your character doing during an argument

Expression contorting

Eyes narrowing

Speaking through clenched teeth

Baring their teeth

Lips twisting (into a sneer/into a snarl)

Hands balling into fists

Trembling

Breaking things/knocking stuff over

Pointing accusingly

Shoving

Spittle flying from their mouth

Stamping their feet

Face getting hot

Vein in forehead popping

Blood roaring in their ears/heart pounding

And if you want, to build tension you can put it in a dangerous place, like at the edge of a cliff or something—so you know fully well that if one of them goes too far it may end up with the other’s accidental death.

2.Know Your Characters

The most important factors of your argument are the characters participating in it.

You should have your characters’ tempers established beforehand so you know if they’re going to be hanging back while others argue or if they’re going to be throwing hands every other chapter.

Your characters’ tempers will shape how much tension the argument causes.

An argument with someone who is usually chill and slow to anger will be a whole lot more impactful and important than an argument with someone who is a known hothead, but it wouldn’t make sense if the argument happened over something minor.

Here’s a list of some of the tempers your character can have, ranked from lowest to highest on how much tension an argument with them causes

 (Just so you know, these aren’t rigid categories; most people are usually a mix of everything!):

–Hotheaded Character–

Fights with a hothead hold the least tension. 

Hotheads will fight over anything and everything, their quick fuse making them easy to irritate and anger. Their words can hurt people who aren’t used to it, but usually bounce off of close friends who are used to it and know that the hothead usually doesn’t mean it.

Arguments with hotheads have a high chance of turning physical, because their rage explodes in bursts rather than a slow buildup (the definition of going from zero to one hundred), and in any situation, hotheads are usually the ones to throw the first punch.

 Because a hothead could get riled up about a spilled drink just as quickly as they can get riled up about a friend dying, just having a hothead getting angry during a moment of severe tension won’t bring you the umph that you’re looking for.

However, your hotheaded character can serve as an instrumental character in triggering more serious arguments, one of their mindless snide remarks going too far with a level-headed or shy character.

Examples of hotheaded characters:

Stanley Kowalski, A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

Lt. Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky, Top Gun (1986)

Anger, Inside Out (2015)

–Aloof Character–

These characters are a lot like hotheads, but the many, many fights that they pick don’t involve them getting raging, screaming mad.

They’re cold, calculating, and cutthroat, and they couldn’t care less about what you think of them.

Their anger is a lot less “loose cannon” than the hotheads’. They say what they mean and mean what they say, and it’ll take a long time to recover from the tongue-lashings these people can dish out.

The greater tension, however, comes from when the aloof characters raise their voices and start shouting—their schooled, uncaring façade fades away and they’re left truly and undeniably angered by whatever tipped the scales.

It’s not too tension-building because these characters were just bastards to begin with, but it’s still unnerving and shocking to see a normally collected character lose their cool.

Examples of aloof characters:

Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Prince Cardan, The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

Alex Stern, The Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

Sherlock Holmes, Most Media Types

Tony Stark, The Avengers

–Nonchalant Character–

These people usually don’t engage in meaningful arguments because they literally don’t care enough to bother. 

When another character tries to pick a fight, a character who is more nonchalant will sometimes roll their eyes at whatever accusation is being leveled at them rather than retorting. This can go either way, perhaps escalating the tension or diffusing it by not offering up a reply.

Kind of like with the aloof character, they don’t have any emotional attachment arguments that they start or are dragged into. They’ll argue for the sake of arguing, but they really don’t give a fuck about it. 

The part that draws the tension, however, is when the characters do give a fuck. A fight they get into turns heated, and a character’s normal devil-may-care attitude may morph into something else altogether.

Most nonchalant characters also may exhibit some hotheaded tendencies, which shows how muddles these archetypes can be.

Examples of Nonchalant Characters:

Han Solo, The Star Wars Saga

Deadpool, Deadpool (2016)

Angel Dust, The Hazbin Hotel

–Level-headed/Stoic Character–

These characters are the cool cucumbers of the group. They’re very, very, VERY slow to anger, and usually exhibit more maturity than their peers, almost never starting arguments. 

They’re the masters of diffusing arguments with a few words, and hardly ever raise their voices.

Sure, they may serve as backup to someone else and may jump to their aid with a bit of heat behind their words, but this hardly happens when the argument is their own.

Many hotheaded or aloof characters may try teasing or pushing these characters in order to act out, but it rarely works.

On the few instances that a level-headed character is angered, it is pretty serious.

Either one of the other characters poked fun at something they shouldn’t’ve—their dead parents, something they’re self-conscious about, etc.—or a member of the group makes a terrible mistake with dire consequences, and the stoic character has had enough.

This causes a lot of tension because “oh shit, the calmest person in our group just went off” and can usually signal a breakdown of the group because their strongest link is snapping.

Examples of Stoic Characters:

Geralt of Rivia, The Witcher

The Mandalorian, The Mandalorian

Spock, Star Trek

The Doctor, Doctor Who

Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mockingbird

–Timid/Shy/Quiet Character– 

An argument with a timid person causes by far the most tension out of everything, to the point where I call it “The Snap.”

Someone who is timid, shy, or quiet would rather not argue at all because they don’t have it in them to retort.

They may care a whole lot about the situation under contention, but for one reason or another they don’t want to start too much trouble. These people actively avoid conflict and usually try their best to diffuse situations before they start, whether it be by conceding, walking away, or pulling the nonchalant route and not saying anything.

However, unlike the stoic characters, they might be much more emotional; it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for a timid character to cry when being berated by the others, and they may even be outwardly livid, but they always back down in the end.

 However, they can only hold it in for so long.

 If you have a character who spends the entire book meekly accepting the verbal (or perhaps physical) harassment of other characters, you should most definitely put a “Snap” somewhere in the story, a point where the character has had enough and fights back.

 The timid character’s pent-up rage and sorrow explodes into a raging argument that will most definitely frighten the other characters.

 The tipping point may be the death of the loved one or just a simple, ordinary jab from an antagonist—the straw that broke the camel’s back.

 Unlike with the hothead’s quick bursts of anger like snap fireworks, the anger of a quiet character—much like with a stoic character—is like ten thousand pounds of dynamite with a very, very long fuse.

A quiet character will almost never have a contained argument once they’ve snapped; it will be like a category five hurricane, and God help the poor bastard that set it off.

Examples of timid/shy/quiet characters:

Carrie White, Carrie by Stephen King

Amélie Poulain,  Amélie (2001)

Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkein

3. Know The Rhythm of An Argument

An argument isn’t just 0 to 100 and then back to 0. 

The tension levels look more like a squiggly line than a single spike; the tension peaks and ebbs on various levels throughout an argument, especially if it’s a long, important one where both characters are snapping over a novel’s worth of building tension.

The argument can come in like a freight train or it can build up slowly, a character storming in after a realization or a single snide remark that snowballs into something much greater.

Then comes an accusation. Both characters brace themselves and realize that this argument isn’t just going to putter out.

More back and forth words exchanged. “I don’t like that you do this, this and this,” while the characters’ tempers flare even further, pushing them to say more extreme, hurtful things and working each other up into a rage.

A physical fight may break out between the two, throwing punches and insults.

The climax should be a huge, shocking exclamation or accusation. “I hate you!” “If you were never born, Mom would still be alive!” “This is all your fault!”

The tension ebbs. The characters stand in silence, bitter and ashamed of themselves.

They may agree on a few things, their tempers start to die down. They may come to some understandings or storm off with the tension unresolved. The argument ends.

This is the basic format of an argument; however, there are usually several levels of accusation-buildup before the eventual climax.

The whole point of an argument is that it leaves the characters’ relationships much different than they’d been before; they either understand each other much more, or they’ve become much more wary of one another.

If your characters’ relationship doesn’t change after an argument, then there was no point in writing it.

I really hope this helped! Happy Writing!

[likeshipsonthesea]

I don’t know if you take requests for nurseydex fics... but if you do the song “omg did she call him baby” by Beth McCarthy screams a heartbroken Nursey when Dex has a girlfriend

i like really can’t do genuine heartbreak but i CAN do angst that ends happy, so here’s my best shot :)

Nursey’s got a red Solo cup in one hand and a plastic champagne flute in the other and it’s sometime after three but before five and he is definitely not thinking about her or him or them together when he looks up between one sip and another to see the telltale blue hair reflecting the murky spotlights of the basement.

Nursey squints. He could be making things up--his brain is nice like that-- but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things. She’s got very distinctive hair, Dex’s--girlfriend. It’d been rather disappointing, actually, the blue hair. The whole thing had been easier to deal with when he’d been picturing some light-haired brunette going for an economics degree who smiled like a mom at soccer practice. Someone who Nursey could reasonably dislike on grounds of, like, predictability.

But no, Dex had to bring home a blue-haired physics major with a nose ring and good taste in music and the ability to out-argue Shitty while polishing off Bitty’s pie, i.e. perfect. Even Lardo couldn’t pretend like she wasn’t awesome for Nursey’s sake. Even Nursey can’t pretend like Amanda isn’t awesome for his own sake. She’s just so--so--

Nursey squints.

So-- making out with some random girl in a blouse at a frat party.

What the fuck.

Nursey is about two margaritas and three years too deep to be dealing with the emotional ramifications of catching the girlfriend of his best friend (who he’s also kind of sort of possibly maybe totally in love with) macking on some consultant for Goldman Sachs or some shit in the basement of arguably one of the worst frats at Samwell. This one doesn’t even have good music, Nursey’s only here to get drunk without the possibility of Dex calling Nursey Patrol and helping Nursey up the stairs and saying nothing about the poetry Nursey spills or the way his hands linger.

(Fuck does Nursey hate Nursey Patrol, fuck does he hate how much he loves it.)

Nursey downs the rest of the champagne flute--which was probably mostly orange juice at this point anyway-- and hands the red Solo cup to a freshman gearing himself up to talk to a cute boy a few feet away and then Nursey gets the fuck out of dodge. He manages to get a better look at the corporate recruiter Amanda is cheating on Dex with (and really, if you’re going to cheat on Dex, you’re really going to pick a chick in a blouse that probably has opinions on the stock market???) and if he hadn’t been sure before, the distinctive tattoo on Amanda’s shoulder proves that it’s really her.

(“Tattoos? Tattoos? I have tattoos.” “I know you do, Nurse.” “They’re really nice tattoos.” “I know they are, Nurse.”)

Emerging from the basement and then the frat house itself is instantly sobering. The chill from winter hasn’t quite left the air at night and Nursey wraps his arms around himself and doesn’t think about how Dex chirped him about not wearing a coat before he’d left. The frat isn’t far away from the Haus, thank god, but it is slightly farther when he turns left instead of right and then has to a backtrack a bit, but he still gets back in under ten minutes and he can still feel his hands, so overall, a win.

Attempting to get into the Haus quietly is a lost cause, given its one thousand year old floor and the fact that a ladybug could fart in the kitchen and wake up the guys in the attic. Still, Nursey gives it the good college try, which is why he’s creeping ridiculously through the living room when the light turns on suddenly and he screams, much to the amusement of Dex, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Fuck, dude, what the fuck.”

Dex just smirks in that horribly attractive way of his. “How was the Psi-U basement?”

Nursey thinks of blue hair, washed out in the lights, Amanda’s hand on that girl’s cheek, the way Dex smiles when he’s around her. “Fine,” Nursey says, swaying.

The amusement falters and Nursey wishes he could figure out a way to keep the smile on Dex’s face the way Amanda does. Dex takes a step closer. “Are you alright?”

Nursey shakes his head violently and takes a step back, a step farther away. This is the part where he says yes, yes of course Dexy-darling, I’m right as rain, what about you? This is the part where Dex rolls his eyes and loops his arm around Nursey’s waist, his warm side pressed into Nursey’s. The part where they go upstairs, where Nursey writes his best poetry that he’s too embarrassed to write down when he’s sober, where Dex tells him to sleep well and lingers outside the doorway long enough for Nursey’s breathing to slow and then the floor creaks and Nursey knows he’s gone and wishes he’d held on just a little bit longer--

“Nursey, what’s wrong?”

Nursey shakes his head again. He means to say nothing, he means to say, I’m going to bed, he means to-- “Amanda, she--”

The concern turns to alarm. Why can’t Nursey ever make it better? “Is she alright? Did you see her? Is she okay?”

Nursey shakes his head again. He can’t seem to stop doing that. “She’s fine, she--she--” He swallows, and it’s sticky, cloying, citrusy and sweet on the back of his tongue. “She--there was this girl, she-- Amanda, she--”

Dex won’t stop frowning, concern knitting his eyebrows together with three short wrinkles, and Nursey has wanted to smooth them out with his fingertips every time he sees them since sophomore year, and he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be telling Dex this while he’s drunk, shouldn’t be telling Dex this at all, but he’s Nursey’s friend first and Nursey has to believe he’d tell Dex regardless of the love thing, he must--

“She was kissing some girl. In the Psi-U basement.”

The wrinkles smooth out. The amusement returns. Nursey--he can’t make sense of it over the ringing in his ears. Why is Dex smiling? Did--did Nursey do that?

“Did she look like a lawyer?” he asks, and at Nursey’s confusion clarifies, “The girl Amanda was kissing. Did she look like a lawyer?” Nursey nods dumbly. Dex’s smile only grows. Nursey is so, so confused and also more in love than he’s ever been. “Finally. I just won fifty bucks.”

What the fuck. “What the fuck.”

Dex laughs--laughs. “The girl’s name is Tammy. She graduated last year and moved to Boston. Amanda’s been in love with her forever, and I bet her that she’d get with Tammy before I--” Flush appears high on Dex’s cheeks, the soft pink one that means embarrassment and Nursey imagines would taste like cherry pie against his lips.

Nursey is--still quite a bit drunk. He needs--clarification. “You--you bet your girlfriend that she would get with her friend at a frat party?”

Dex’s nose scrunches up in Nursey’s favorite way--the same way it does when he’s trying to write humanities essays, the reason Nursey always says yes when Dex asks for help. “Girlfriend? Did you think Amanda was my girlfriend?”

Nursey remembers the start, hearing about Amanda every other day, then every day, then it was, sorry I can’t come, I’m meeting Amanda at-- and then one day at Annie’s, a girl with blue hair and a sharp grin yelled Babe! from across the room and planted a kiss on Dex’s cheek, her hand lingering on his shoulder, sipping from his coffee cup, getting him to smile like that--

“Well, yeah.” Nursey’s head is spinning and, for the first time tonight, not from the gin. “Is she--is she not?”

“Oh God, no, she’s so fucking gay, dude.” Laughter twinkles in Dex’s eyes. Nursey is drunker than he’s been since freshmen year of high school when Shitty snuck in some of his dad’s hard liquor and the janitors found them on the roof singing Disney songs at the moon. Dex’s girlfriend is gay. Dex’s girlfriend isn’t his girlfriend. Dex is--is smiling at him like he smiles at his girlfriend who isn’t his girlfriend.

“Oh,” Nursey says, dazed, “chill.”

“Oh wow,” Dex grins, leaning into the doorframe, “I can’t believe you thought--and you thought telling me my girlfriend was cheating on me at 3am while shit-drunk was a good idea?”

Nursey says, “Hey, honesty is important, and I’m not--” He stops. He remembers something. He squints. “Wait. If you bet 50 bucks on Amanda getting with Tammy, who did Amanda bet you would get with?”

The cherry pie blush is back. Nursey takes an absent-minded step forward. The room feels so much lighter now that Dex’s girlfriend isn’t cheating on him. The distance between them feels so much sillier now that Dex doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“Ah, well.” Dex rubs at the back of his neck, all country bumpkin sheepish to ask his sweetheart to the dance, and--and--

“I’m the sweetheart,” Nursey realizes with the kind of crystal clarity only afforded by the most copious amounts of alcohol.

Dex’s eyebrows furrow, those sweet little wrinkles appearing between them, and Nursey takes two long strides forward and presses his thumb into them. Dex goes cross-eyed trying to watch, but moves his eyes to meet Nursey’s after a moment.

Nursey grins, likely a bit sloppy from the gin, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. “I’m the sweetheart,” he repeats, beaming.

Dex tries to repress the smile at his lips. “You’re not a sweetheart.”

“Yes I am,” Nursey sings, listing forwards. “You like me.”

“You’re an asshole.” Dex’s smile grows. Nursey watches its progress and sways.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” he says, tracking the pink lips as they spread, revealing teeth and--and tongue and--

“I hate that you can still say mutually exclusive when you’re this drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. See, I’ll prove it.”

“How do you plan on--”

If Dex’s mouth weren’t so preoccupied, he might say that the taste on Nursey’s tongue is a good indication that he is in fact fairly tipsy, but as it is--well. He’s got other things to do.

(Amanda asserts that they tied since it happened on the same night and only pays $25. Tammy throws in five more and a condom and they call it even. Nursey kisses away Dex’s protest and pockets the condom, much to Amanda’s amusement. Turns out, she’s even cooler when she isn’t dating the love of Nursey’s life.)

[lasquadrasfuckhouse]

Hi!

What do you think about la squadra(separately) with s/o that is very childlish? Like, not a little child ofc, they can get serius when it has to be, and they talk ,like, normally (without "owo uwu" shit). They just loooove some cute things, animals etc. They also love watching cartoons, play games, and many other things likke that.

If you don't want to write it that's okay :)))

Bye bye <3

awwww i love it!!!!!

la squadra with a cutesy and playful partner 😚

risotto ✂️

he loves cute things too, he gets it. he adores how excitable and sweet you are and you absolutely count as cute things that he loves

the two of you will fawn over the neighbourhood cats together and every time you run into his office with fun shaped snacks to share cause u both love them (like gummies or cookies or chocolates) his heart goes ❤️❤️❤️❤️💕❤️💕❤️❤️💕💕💕

he appreciates that you're not afraid to get serious when the time calls for it too but seeing you without your normal attitude is so jarring and sad for him, he'll work twice as hard to fix what's wrong to see you smiling again. you're so full of love and wonder despite everything and that's so precious to him, he's protective (he knows and respects that you can handle yourself he just loves u) and would never want you to change for the wrong reasons ya kno

you absolutely balance each other out very well and you're fucking adorable to see because he's so stoic and scary and then ur this energetic sweetheart

he's not really one for cartoons or video games but he'll indulge ur interests!!! if he has the time to watch a cute movie with u (like disney) he will pay attention and give u his honest opinion

prosciutto 🚬

OPPOSITES ATTRACT HUH

honestly when you first joined the team he was an ass about it, thought it was unbecoming of an assassin to behave so childishly (the others already give him a headache) but the fact that you stood your ground actually really impressed him. you're still an adult and you're not unreasonable, you know when to take things seriously, you just have your eccentricities like everyone else in this circus and he came to appreciate your point of view and your seemingly boundless enthusiasm for nice things in life. he later expressed as much to you during his apology for being an ass.

you temper each other. he'll be your grounding force and you'll help him loosen up

he does like how ur sweet and open with your affection. if he grumbles about sharing the bed with plushies that's code for 'cuddle me instead'

he also loves bringing you to cafés that do those fancy or fun shapes in the lattes cause he loves to see your eyes light up and fawn over how 'its almost too pretty to drink!!!' it's really quite adorable how excitable u are and prosciutto is not immune to it

pesci 🎣

he very very much loves and appreciates it, you're a big comfort to him. the instant you chugged milk with him and gave him a silly grin with a milk moustache, he was in love

your sweetness and energy picks him up and when you've dropped your attitude he will take on the WHOLE WORLD to hear you laugh again. he's very protective and he's the first to jump to your defense if the others tease you or otherwise give you a hard time

he could listen to you gush for hours. he will absolutely sit and watch cartoons with u. he's not the greatest at video games but he'll try his best for u

because of his name you'll often lovingly make that cute fishy face at him with the kissy lips and ur eyes crossed and his heart explodes every time

he has somewhat of a sweet tooth, he likes things that have a light sweetness to them rather than anything super sugary. you'll share desserts and it's very cute

formaggio 🧀

he LOVES IT. he's just as fun-loving, there's never a dull moment with you two whether you're playing a dumb game you made up out of boredom, you're dancing and he's twirling you around, or ur in a pillow/tickle fight and play wrestling. you tend to get each other into trouble but you both snicker about it. two peas in a pod.

cats like you more than they like him but he can often get his pets in if the kitty is curled in ur lap and u both get giddy about it

you definitely game together. he's not as into the cartoons but he'll still watch em with you, he thinks they're cute and you're cute, but he may fall asleep during movies

he's a very grounding support when things require you to be serious, you work together hand in hand to solve the issue so u can get back to laughing

and he will do anything to hear u giggle, doesn't matter if he makes a damn fool of himself, he doesn't care. as far as he's concerned your laugh is the best sound in the world

illuso ✨

oh, he will tease you about it. probably in a way that's kind of mean when you first join, but you aren't bothered by him or concerned with his opinion. if you point out that he's the childish one for trying to get a rise out of you when you're just minding your own business, that has EVERYONE appreciating you because it's unbearably fun to see illuso taken down a notch. that has him huffing and retreating for a bit and having a think. when he comes back, he's less of an ass. as you grow closer, he apologizes.

now the only way he teases is gentle and loving and fond, because you really are quite adorable and he wouldn't have it any other way. it honestly kind of freaks him out when you get serious but he doesn't show it, he'll just place a gentle hand on your arm or your waist and work with you to resolve the issue. he's relieved when you smile again

he warms up to your plushies because they're nice cozy additions to his piles of pillows for lounging around on and they make u happy

he may keep up his aloof air when he picks up a controller with u or watches over ur shoulder like he has nothing better to do but he gets REALLY into it and competitive, or intensely supportive and backseat gaming if ur going solo

he honestly loves how sweet u are because that sort of thing doesn't really come easy to him

melone 🍈

he thinks ur absolutely adorable and makes sure u know it. he's playful too in a more relaxed sort of way so he mellows you out while still having fun

he loves to hear you gush and wants to get involved in ur passions. he's pretty good at gaming but he'll get more into admiring/analyzing the design aspect of it and same w/ cartoons, he's concerned for all the babies out there because they deserve good stories that make them think and benefit their growth and he will think out loud about how a show/movie fares in that regard after you've watched it together

he can talk a lot about animals with u too!!!! every time u grin or coo at a cute creature or Stay Very Still so a butterfly will land on u and giggle cause it tickles, his heart is doing backflips and he can't believe someone as wonderful as u exists and loves him as much as he loves you

ADULT COLOURING BOOKS!!!!! he absolutely loves to fill in the pages with u and add onto the designs outside the lines in all sorts of colours

he admires that ur not afraid to get serious when it's called for but still so sweet, he's so drawn to you and you make everyone's day better and just light up the room

ghiaccio ❄️

he also loves cute things. that includes u. but it will take him a while to admit out loud how adorable you are because he's flustered about it

forget normie relationship milestones like moving in together, the moment u both started slowly familiarizing your plushie collections to each other, swapping or gifting ones u saw and HAD to get for them or keeping two of them together because they're friends now Do Not Seperate!!!!, he knew this was Real

one of his favorite pastimes is sharing a big big cozy sweater with u, it doesn't matter if it's a bit tight with two people in it or that ur faces are squished together, he'll wrap his arms around u (if u haven't already put ur hands in the sleeves too) and cuddle u against him like a fluffy, snuggly, grumpy cat. welcome to sweater town, population u and ghiaccio

ur both very into pokemon too. you'll spend hours with ur heads bent together over ur gameboys with each other's companion games for that generation and help each other with trading and version exclusives

he's the first to yell at anyone for teasing you and he honestly gets a little freaked out when you go serious but he won't show it. he'll want to address the problem as quickly as possible tho and discreetly hug u when ur giggling again

sorbet and gelato 🔪🍦

THEY LOVE IT UR ADORABLE. they're both playful in their own ways (sorbet is more chill and dry wit sort of playful, gelato is no impulse control and hyena cackling sort of playful) and they love to have fun with u

it's also like.... the world is fucked up and they're both kinda fucked up (more than kinda), and they know you're not like an innocent baby or at all incompetent (hell, you may be kinda fucked up too, who isn't when ur an assassin) but it's just. nice to see someone else having fun and being sweet and enjoying things about life. so they are very protective of you when things get serious, they never EVER want to see you become embittered and will do absolutely anything to get you laughing again as soon as possible. which, guaranteed, they do

gelato has always had a short attention span so he knows what to do for entertainment and sorbet knows how to entertain, he may be the more patient one but they both like to mix things up and keep the surroundings interesting. they will play all sorts of games with u, video games or card games or stupid shit like beer pong or making a game of how many marshmallows u can each fit in ur mouths. you'll all go for a nice walk in the park and nothing is more relaxing for sorbet than kickin back on a bench while his rowdy babes end up tussling in the dirt. be free

of course, u and gelato also drag him into the dirt and put flowers in his hair and he would want nothing less

they'll both squish ur cheeks and lovingly tease u about how cute u are. blow a raspberry at them and they'll give u a kiss

sorbet will throw u over his shoulder and carry u around (no matter ur body type, he's strong!!!) + gelato will smatter ur face in kisses, just to hear u squeal and giggle

[astranne]

I just looked at your xiao brainrot list and cracked the hardest smile ever. I did not know i was the stone for so many things

But aaaaaaaanyways im in a brainrot mood 🙏 so! PG!Xiao making a comeback

I dont know much about Valorant, because mainly id cry if someone yelled at me but PG!Xiao would 100% get pissed if someone isn't carrying their weight in the match or trash talking on mic and STILL low on the board. Atp PG!Xiao and like two other people are carrying.

PG!Xiao in a CoD match? Id leave so fast. Immediately. I can see him being insanely good with close quarters. He probably always ranks at the leaderboard. Bro got a badge of damn honor for the amoubt of wins he has

Him in a fortnite match? He says "he doesnt take fortnite serious because of the kids and wanna go easy" till hes the last one alive and he's clenching his mouse and practically stopped breathing to focus on winning. I can, without a doubt see him always running solo natches no matter what. And he limits himself on what he buys because "its a stupid game ill delete it later" and "its a waste of money" then buys the newest pickaxe skin.

Pg!Xiao in minecraft. (The screech made me laugh) He would 100% have a hardcore world thats NEARLY on par with PhilZa's. He respects that man too much to actually showoff his building skills and calls it an insult to humanity when someone compares him to Phil. Forbid you say hes better than Phil hes immediately chewing them out.

PG!Xiao on DreamSMP? I haven't been caught up with that in like a good year honeslty, but ill use what i know. Xiao would 100% have underground tunnels connecting to important places and such. He probably knows everything that goes on, on and off streams. Bro's usually spotted in the background just watching with his stream off which makes it creepier (he claims to see how good they are at pvp and if they can even fight him). For the MCC Championship. God he treats it so casually. Hes calm and collected but each time hes first somewhere hes dying inside because he's mortified of the expectations.

Horror game? Oh my god, he collapses when Hu Tao mentions a game and tells him to stream it ("Xiao itll be funny if you scream like you that time-" "It was one time!") she drags Childe along (the fans loving named them the Ragdoll Trio because Childe practically looses his voice when he screams at a jumpscare, Hu Tao laughs so loud, and Xiao inching around every corner) and makes it worse.

PG!Xiao with his setup tho? Probably green and light blue hues? Ik. If Xiao was a faceless streamer his entire fanbase would LOVE his yaksha mask and he secretly adores it when younger fans makes him fanart. (Dont tell anyone but when they send him fanart he keeps it on a wal behind his camera/monitor so his fans wont see it and he can always feel motivated)

Also, the hater thing? Xiao's fans would absolutely without a single doubt turn from the sweetest most welcoming fans into the most rude and vile fandom on a drop of a hat. Even Xiao gets surprised when drama is brought up within the community or with another because his fans are so... a word doesnt describe how he feels when he sees them ripping apart someone for saying he cant beat a certain streamer (the tiktok comment ratio to likes is always reaching a thousand or more)

-🪶(if i spelt anything wrong my bad its 5am where i live🫶)

damn, fischl anon blessing us again-

as always, more under the cut <3

pg!xiao just hits different. just yeah-always happy he's making a comeback lmao xD

actually, i don't know much about valorant either, but i know xiao would carry his team. and yes, you are totally right- if someone is being an ass, you bet xiao will not hold back. not when his rank is at risk lmao

xiao in CoD is a monster (he's actually a monster in any game he touches but especially CoD). you bet he's actually first known for that, like the really geeky gamers just watch his CoD streams to watch him play and try and get some tips. but then they notice how he slays literally everywhere else and suddenly they are his fans <33

and i don't know much about CoD either, but you bet he's probably one of the best known players there. once you see his name pop up, you know you're fucked

xiao plays fortnite just to spite the kids <3. he will buy all skins to spite all the little brats there <3 he will be the last man standing just to spite everyone <3 and no one can convince him to stop. just- spiteful!xiao-

my days of watching minecraft streamers goes waaay back, so i don't know that many, but even i know the legend. so does xiao. and xiao looks up to this man, i can't even. all of his fans are also PhilZa fans, just because. if you stand xiao, you stan his idols too. many pray for a collab, or just the two of them playing together, but they still have to pray.

i must admit- i know just the barest scraps about DreamSMP. i don't really follow many youtubers, i don't have the time for that even tho i wish i would have. but yes- xiao is all knowing. they actually fear him, since he's so calm and just... so chill?? it doesn't help he's an absolute monster but yeah-

it's actually his fans and mods who snitch to him where everyone is. he has a team of spies (because yes he has) and they have mod roles, but are actually not mods. this helps him when he reads the full chat he always has to get his information. but sometimes it's still too fast and they just,,, spill everything in his discord server, probably whispering in vc where his enemies are. it's the best guarded secret in his fandom, you bet his fans will get feral when someone tries to spill.

RAGDOLL TRIO, RAGDOLL TRIO- yes. the one and only trio. everytime he streams with them, he always reaches super high numbers and those best of moments videos on youtube always gain millions of viewers. hu tao is super proud of that and always reposts them, while childe probably owns one of the most known fan accounts of the ragdoll trio. he just loves to edit himself <3

also, xiao is blessed with his fans. he feels so honored how they defend him but actually kind of fears them too lmao. he just prays he will never make them mad. (xiao darling, you could never-)

OKAY THAT'S IT- aaahh this was so fun?? thank you sm for sending your thoughts my dear anon <33 maybe one day i will write gamer!xiao fr. maybe when my askbox is no longer so full-

[joheunsaram]

In Plain Sight (knj)

Summary- After weeks of preparation and stress, you believed you were ready for the opening night of your restaurant. However, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of your ex waiting for you.

word count- 2k

pairing- idol!Namjoon x chef!Reader (feat. bff!Seokjin, brother!Jungkook)

rating- PG

genre- angst, exes to (maybe) lovers

warnings- none to note, Namjoon eats mincho

a.n- Happy birthday to my bae, Beezy @hobeemin​! I hope you had the best day and that this isn’t too late haha. I know you requested this for my March drabbles but I got carried away. Here’s some angst to heal your soul!

A huge shout out to @casuallyimagining​ and @missgarnet​ for beta reading! 💕

As always feedback appreciated, a reblog and a like goes a far way. Send me an ask! 💌

-

You sighed in relief as the first customers of the night started pouring in. This was it. This was what you had been working towards for the past ten years. After years of culinary school, slaving away as a sous chef and begging investors, tonight was the night that you unveiled your new restaurant.

You ran your clammy hands over your pants as you greeted your guests, the most radiant smile on your face, before checking in with the kitchen. Even before the grand opening, the fact that one of your investors was the beloved chef Baek Jong-won, had people excited about your restaurant. It had put a lot of pressure on you, but watching your head chef prepare the kitchen for the dinner rush calmed your nerves. It was comforting being in the back, the clatter of pans and shouts of commands made you feel at home.

“Checking up on me already, boss?” Seokjin asked, chuckling as he draped a towel over his shoulder. In addition to being your head chef, Seokjin was also your best friend, supporting you over the years to make your dream come true.

“Can never be too sure, what with your habit of getting distracted by your reflection,” you joked, earning a scowl and a whack from Seokjin’s towel. Pushing him back, you laughed as he yelled at you for almost killing him, his dramatics at an all time high, probably the same nerves churning through him as you.

Where the kitchen was chaotic, the front of the house was almost serene, a low rumble of conversation offset by a soft jazz playlist you had spent hours curating. Your nerves dissipated as the first orders arrived, the customers smiling and nodding at the first taste. 

Moving behind the bar, you checked on Jungkook, your younger brother and bartender. No one would have ever thought the two of you would end up working together, given the fights you had all through your childhood, the scar of one of them permanently etched on his cheekbone. 

“Did you invite him?” He asked as he shook a drink, the ice rattling obnoxiously in the metal container. 

“Who?” You asked, your nose scrunching at the aggressive way he made the drink. You swore if he broke another glass you were going to take it out of his paycheck, shared gene pool or not. 

“Namjoon,” he whispered theatrically, using his eyes to point towards the corner of the room. The sound of his name set you on edge, your heart in your throat. 

You hadn’t thought of your ex for over two years, since the night he walked out on you and you vowed to never let anyone take control of your happiness and leave you broken on a whim. However, that didn’t stop you from following your brother’s eyeline to the more secluded tables of your restaurant. 

He looked different. So different that it cracked the carefully constructed armour around you, a frown etching onto your features as you took him in. Dressed head to toe in black, you wouldn’t have noticed him if it weren’t for Jungkook.

He looked out of place, anxious, as he drummed his fingers on the menu, staring at it intently. The hood of his oversized jacket was atop his head concealing his dyed blonde hair, and his black mask was pulled low on his chin, leaving his bare face on display as if his new album wasn’t currently at number one. 

He was biting his lip, his brows scrunched together and it sent you back to two years ago, the memories flooding your brain as the ache you’d worked endlessly to ignore reared its ugly head once again. 

“We should break up,” Namjoon said, his lower lip between his teeth, as he stood in the doorway. He was still dressed in his outfit from the shoot he had returned from; a shiny silver bomber jacket adorned atop a plain black outfit, his makeup still on perfectly. It gave him an ethereal look, all flaws hidden from view as he looked at you in your striped blue pyjamas, hair up in a messy bun, face puffy from sleep. 

His words felt like you had been hit with ice water, like you were skating on a frozen river and it gave way from under you plunging you into a panicked cold that felt akin to a burn. You didn’t know how long he watched you, your face neutral after you demanded an explanation. 

“It’s not fair to you, Berry,” he said, voice soft and broken as he finally made his way to the bed. He sat as far away from you as he could and the distance seemed to stretch on for miles. You were confused by his sudden change. Just yesterday he had arrived home with smiles and cuddled into you immediately, just as he had done for the past three years, but today you were hard pressed to find that warmth, his gaze never meeting yours. 

“You don’t get to decide what’s fair to me,” you stated. “We are not breaking up.” Decision made, you slipped the cover over yourself as you reclined back into your supine position. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, almost silently but the quiet of the room gave him away, his distraught weaving itself in your skull. 

“Juniper, let’s talk about this,” you pleaded, a hand reaching to grab onto his that he shrugged off. 

“No. If we talk about this you will convince me to stay and I just can’t do this anymore.”

“What did I do?” Your voice was soft, as if you spoke any louder it would startle the seemingly broken man in front of you. 

“It’s not you, it’s me,” he spoke the cliche, his dimples making an appearance in the sad smile he gave in your direction. You didn’t understand what was happening. Namjoon was a man of many words, slinging together poetry out of thin air in seconds, inspired by the mundane. He continued, talking over your thoughts, as he explained the reasons he was hurting you, the reasons he was a bad partner. All reasons that you have never even conceived - a product of his overthinking, anxious mind. Every time you would argue, he would counter with his own failings, like how he couldn’t make it to your culinary school graduation and how his fame made him unavailable to go to whenever you needed him. 

Namjoon cried, inconsolable even when you tried to assure him that his failings were in his imagination, that you were happy, content. But he had a notoriously one-track mind, and the only conclusion he could come to was that he couldn’t bear to be with you any more. 

“Seeing you always waiting for me breaks my heart,” he whispered as he held you, your face in his hands as he smiled for your benefit. You didn’t know how to convince him otherwise, but the way he kissed you, tasting of salt and regret, you knew it would be the last time he would do so. 

When he left that night, you finally cried, mourning a relationship that he snatched away from you, before the tears turned to rage, heartbreak manifested into indignation. 

“Are you going to talk to him?” Jungkook broke you out of your reverie just before you could further relive the sorrow. 

“No. Absolutely not. He can enjoy his solo dinner,” you replied, turning on your heels to go into your office, your excitement for the night overshadowed by Namjoon’s sudden reappearance. It wasn’t bad enough that you had to see him in your restaurant but as you turned on a random playlist fate decided that you would hear him too as he talked about your break up on his new single. His sultry vocals rapped about his self loathing and need to please only to realize that he left the only person who loved him for himself. You were bitter that he had this epiphany, bitter that he was monetizing on something that was as much your heartbreak as his. 

But what Namjoon wants, Namjoon gets, and as the dinner rush ended and the crowd dwindled with last call, he was still sitting in the corner table, sequestered away from eyes as he played with his dessert. He must have known that the chocolate bon bons were inspired by him, dubbed Juniper like you had called him all those years, and extra mint added just to spite him. The same way he had named his new song Back to Berry, an homage to no one else but you. 

When he refused to leave even after Jungkook asked, you had no choice but to act civil and make your way towards him. He gasped as you unceremoniously settled in the chair in front of him, eyes widened as if he had seen a ghost. As if he had not been waiting three hours for this exact moment

“What are you doing, Namjoon?” You asked, arms folded across your chest as you glared at the face you once thought you couldn’t live without. 

“I’m eating dessert,” he answered, averting your hardened gaze to poke his fork at the food. 

“We’re closing,” you said, your hand waving to your wait staff that had started clearing tables and sweeping the floors. “And you hate mint chocolate,” you added as he took a bite. 

“It was calling my name,” he chuckled humourlessly, before he sighed pushing the plate away. He finally met your eyes then, a soft smile on his face, his dimples poking their way from his cheeks into your heart. “Congratulations. You did it.”

“Yeah. Alone.” You were bitter. He had left you, practically ghosted you for two years and now he thought it was okay to waltz back in?

“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping all pretenses as his hand reached towards you. “I’m so sorry, Berry.”

The use of his old nickname for you broke your heart and your facade as you looked at his hand placed directly in front of you on the table, a finger slowly caressing your forearm, almost out of reach. You couldn’t help the way your eyes glistened at his touch, tender and apprehensive. How could he think it was okay to come here? How could you think you wouldn’t forgive him if he asked?

In that moment all you wanted was to run back into his arms, kiss him, delve back into that chaotically beautiful brain of his, but your pride was stronger than all the apologies in the world. 

“It’s too late,” you said as you stood up, his head dropping as he retracted his hand back into his lap. “We’re closed. Goodbye, Juniper.” You gestured to the door, waiting for him to collect his bag, watching as he dropped much more money than his bill on the table before he made his way to the door. 

Turning around he looked at you, catching you staring at him with tear streaked cheeks. “I’m not going to give up, Berry”

“You never do, do you?”

“Never when it comes to you,” he said, covering his face with his mask and adjusting the hood atop his head before disappearing into the quiet street. 

That night you felt your defences weaken a little when you got a message from an unknown number. 

I forgot to tell you. I still miss you. Even after 708 days.

-

taglist: @cheesecakes-randomshitz​, @aroseforyoongi​, @awhnamjoon​, @agustdjoon​, @codeinebelle​ 

I hope you enjoyed the angst! For more fics of mine check out my masterlist

[thephantomessoftheopera]

Notes on Gaston Leroux’s “The Phantom of the Opera” - Chapter 13: “Apollo’s Lyre”

Image of the Apollo statue on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier from Wikimedia Commons

<< Previous Chapter

The chapter “Apollo’s Lyre” constitutes the basis for the “rooftop scene” between Raoul and Christine in the ALW version, but in the book, it is really all about Erik. It’s quite possibly the most important chapter in the novel because we meet our title hero face-to-face for the first time, and because Erik overhearing Christine‘s plan to escape provides a turning-point for the plot.

The symbol of Apollo's Lyre is not only present in the Apollo statue on the highest point of the rooftop (that Erik is supposedly clinging to here), but also adorns the chandelier both in the Palais Garnier and in the original production of the musical.

At the end of the preceding chapter, Raoul had vowed to take Christine away, but she is still at war with herself about the idea. She wants to leave because she is afraid, but at the same time, warns Raoul that he will probably need to force her to leave since she isn’t emotionally ready to let go:

““But if I refuse to go with you when the time comes for you to take me away, you must make me go!” [...] she spoke these words with a forcefulness that seemed to be directed against herself.”

Every time Raoul offers to take her away right then and there, Christine refuses with an excuse of why it’s not possible to leave just now. Yet she is afraid that the next time she goes to Erik, she may never leave again. Erik seems to make her feel very deeply - but too much feeling can be very terrifying, especially if it’s a wild ride on that emotional rollercoaster of ecstasy, horror, pity, despair and passion that he sends her on. It’s no wonder she rationally wants to get out before it consumes her, and yet is afraid of losing it.

While she begins telling Raoul the whole story from her perspective, they repeatedly think they hear sighs, but still remain in the same place. This is a bit odd, considering how they kept running around before, but now, Christine insists that they stay, which is a bit curious. It is possible that she thought they were safe - but considering her general unwillingness to leave, I think it is even possible that she might be subconsciously sabotaging her own escape plan.

When Christine speaks about how she first met Erik, it becomes clear that masquerading as the Angel of Music was not initially Erik‘s idea. When Christine heard Erik in her dressing-room for the first time three months ago, he sang and spoke to her like a real man, except that he had this beautiful angelic voice and was hiding in the passage behind her room, so that he could not be seen. The first person to suggest that he might indeed be the Angel of Music is Mama Valerius, who prompts Christine to ask Erik if he is the Angel her father had sent for her. Erik jumps at the opportunity presented to him and confirms that her assumption is correct, and asks if she will let him teach her. She consents, and together they make amazing progress, developing both Christine’s technique and her inspiration to hitherto unknown heights.

One day, Christine sees Raoul at the Opera, and eagerly tells Erik about it. I bet he bitterly cursed himself then for passing himself off as an Angel, leaving enough space in Christine’s heart for a real man. But his threats to leave cause her to despair and to try to ignore Raoul - also because a marriage to him would be out of her reach anyway. Now it’s Erik’s turn to whine and accuse Christine of being in love with Raoul in the same way we’ve seen Raoul do before. But just like with Raoul, she won’t have that and even challenges Erik that she will ask Raoul to accompany her to Perros. According to her, Erik’s jealous reaction made her realize that she loved Raoul. I wonder if madly jealous Raoul also made her realize that she might possibly be just a little bit in love with two very different men?

Subconsciously, she seems to kind of know already that Erik is not really an angel, because when the chandelier falls, she is half-mad with panic and terribly afraid that it may have killed “the Voice” (and it would be a bit difficult to kill a heavenly being even if you dropped a chandelier on it). She also admits that then, Raoul and Erik were both “the equal halves of her heart” (and I think they still are, beneath all the complications that have arisen in the meantime). She runs to her dressing-room because that is where she is most likely to find “the Voice”, and when she hears the sounds of Erik singing and playing the “Resurrection of Lazarus” on his violin, she follows his voice through the mirror without being able to say how exactly she disappeared through it. She suddenly finds herself being gripped by a man in a black cloak and a full-face mask and tries to fight back, but then faints. When she wakes, she is resting on the ground near a fountain, and Erik is gently tending to her, but doesn’t reply to her questions so as not to give himself away as “the Voice”. Christine recognizes César the horse, and realizes that even though she never believed in the ghost, she had heard the rumours about him stealing the horse.

Erik takes Christine to the house by the lake, first on César’s back (that’s what he needed the horse for, after all) and then in the famous boat (which is rowed in the novel). She is no longer terrified, but feels strangely peaceful - an effect which she attributes to the possibility of having been drugged, even though she admits that at the same time, she was still in full possession of her senses.

“Lake Averne”, the name of the lake under the Opera House, is a play on words as well as meaning. First, “lac averne” is almost the same as “la caverne”, which means “the cavern”. There is also a real lake named “Lago d’Averno” in Italy, and in Roman mythology, that lake is one of the entrances to the Underworld. This fits with the fact that Erik also bears characteristics of Charon, the ferryman to the Underworld, whose name can be literally translated as “with glowing eyes”. The iconic boat ride certainly resembles the passage into the Hades, which is even alluded to in the novel.

The water tank below the Palais Garnier. Image from atlasobscura.com

Let’s stay in the Underworld for a moment. “The Phantom of the Opera” can also be seen as a variation on the story of Hades and Persephone (Christine’s ship in “Love Never Dies” is not called “Persephone” for nothing). Hades, the god of the Underworld, fell in love with the young and beautiful Persephone and wanted to marry her, but as the goddess of spring, she wasn’t willing to abandon the world above and go to live in the Underworld. Therefore Hades abducted her, she finally consented to marry him and became queen of the Underworld. Due to the intervention of her infuriated mother Demeter, it was finally decided that she would divide her time between living on earth for some months every year and living in the Underworld for the rest of the time.

When they arrive, Erik sets a confused Christine down in his brightly lit drawing-room, which has been decorated with an enormous amount of golden baskets full of flowers. It is not quite clear where all the flowers come from, so I guess he bought them all for her. With a salary of 20,000 francs, he could probably afford the luxury of spending so much on flower decorations… He tells her that she is in no danger, as long as she doesn’t touch his mask. When Christine realizes that the Voice is not an angel, she starts crying. Erik then kneels down in front of her and proceeds to tell her without further ado who he is, begs her to forgive him, and lays his heart at her feet. He confesses how much he loves her, and how wrong his actions were, but that he did everything out of love for her. It seems that Erik was rather anxious to reveal the truth that he is not really the Angel of Music and end his deception, but at the same time, was waiting for an opportunity that would allow him to explain everything without the risk of her running away from him forever. Keep in mind that he took on the role of the Angel of Music for just a couple of months, not years as it is commonly assumed.

Christine then stands up to demand her freedom, and is taken aback when he actually concedes it to her, telling her that she is free to leave. But after all, she does not leave because he starts to play the harp and sing for her. The piece he is singing here is the “Canzone del Salice” from Rossini’s “Otello”, in which Desdemona laments the cruelty of love. It is often assumed that the „Otello“ Leroux is referencing here is the more famous “Otello” by Verdi, but that one didn’t premiere until 1887, while the story is definitely set before 1886. Furthermore, Rossini’s version of the “willow song” is the only one that starts with a harp solo. The song is included in the playlist, listen to it here:

https://open.spotify.com/track/25ILZhCIWIRjJVK8SqDWzn?si=U5EPiO_ySBOlIy5XvI1BGw&dl_branch=1

The next morning, Christine awakes on the couch in „her“ bedroom (aka the “Louis-Philippe room”) where Erik must have carried her after she had fallen asleep. When she can‘t get out, she suffers a fit of hysterics, although it seems that she has simply been unable to locate the door set within the wall. Erik has been out shopping for her, which is a rather cute scene when he comes back with all the boxes for her while she yells at him. He calmly tells her to get ready for lunch, and she slams the door in his face so she can take a bath in peace. She places a pair of scissors within reach so that she could kill herself if Erik “stopped behaving like an honourable man”. Her concern is understandable, being alone with the man who is madly in love with her, however it is important to note that Erik never physically forces himself on her throughout the story.

Remarkably, Erik’s house had both hot and cold running water, something that was still very rare then, which suggests that he actually lived in better hygienic conditions than most people at that time, and that he was a skilled engineer.

When she finally joins him, he tells her that she does not need to be afraid, and that all he asks for is that she will spend 5 days with him. After that, he hopes that she will come back to see “poor Erik” from time to time, shedding a few tears beneath his black mask as he speaks. He serves Christine lunch in the drawing-room, consisting of crayfish, chicken wings and Tokay wine, but he himself does again not eat or drink. From their conversation, we learn that Erik has taken on his name “by chance”, whatever that means. The meaning of the name is “sole ruler” which is quite fitting for him.

When Christine has finished eating, Erik invites her to see his room, and she doesn’t hesitate as she instinctively trusts him. Apparently Erik has a very gothic taste as far as room decorating goes, and all this also plays heavily into the death symbolism of his character. Erik sleeping in a coffin is reminiscent of vampire stories, especially because it seems to be a choice and not a necessity. There is also an organ with the score of “Don Juan Triumphant” on it, written in Erik’s customary red ink(?). Erik tells her that he started composing it 20 years ago. Christine asks him to play her something from his “Don Juan”, but Erik refuses because “some music is so formidable that it consumes everyone who approaches it”. It is quite significant that the “sing for me” motif is absent from the novel version, in contrast to the ALW version where it is very strong. Erik, in the novel, has no plans for Christine to sing any of his music. He wants her companionship and her love, and he wants to sing together with her and lose himself in their shared passion for music, but he definitely does not see her as an instrument of sorts. He did help advance her career, but not with the intention of having her perform his work.

Erik makes it clear that his own music is very different from Mozart’s „Don Giovanni“ and from “opera music” in general. “Don Juan Triumphant” can be seen as an allusion to Lord Byron’s epic poem “Don Juan” (in which, incidentally, Don Juan is sold as a slave to the sultana of Constantinople).

He sits down at the piano and starts singing the duet from “Otello” with Christine. There is of course more than one duet in “Otello”, but this one is most likely “Non arrestare il colpo/Notte per me funesta” from Act III (here: https://open.spotify.com/track/151M60b3qxzqKLDFwIVuUB?si=WX4TDWCeQVmIChqd6u7CyQ&dl_branch=1 and here: https://open.spotify.com/track/2Ep1OncGZCNR9yFevG6Pb6?si=QzG2JztuQ42MDoiVrLAaew&dl_branch=1 ) In this scene, Othello accuses Desdemona of betraying him, while she tries to convince him that she is innocent. She realizes that she has fallen victim to Iago’s plot, but Othello does not believe her and stabs her. This opera, for once, is in Italian, while most of the other pieces that appear in the “Phantom” are sung in French.  

The unmasking in the novel happens while Christine is swept up in the passion of her duet with Erik. She “stepped closer to him, attracted and fascinated, enticed by the idea of dying at the center of such passion. But before dying [she] wanted to see his face…”

It’s not like she is sneaking up to him out of pure curiosity, but rather reacting to an instinctive wish to pull away the barrier between them. The scene is even more tragic because with a normal face, the passionate mood that Christine was in would have potentially led to her kissing him. But sadly, his face is anything but normal, so Christine recoils in horror instead. Erik’s reaction to the unmasking is violent and horrific as he goes mad with rage at her, even hurting his own face with her fingernails - an expression of his self-loathing. Throughout the scene, Christine seems fixated on the horror of his face more than his behaviour, though. Ashamed of himself, Erik crawls out of the room and shuts himself up in his bedroom.

“Apollo’s Lyre” by Annie Stegg Gerard

Erik’s appearance as described in the novel is indeed bordering the realm of the fantastic and supernatural. He is so stuffed with death symbolism that it is hard to take everything literally. Christine’s description makes it rather hard to see him as “real” because he seems to look like something straight out of a nightmare.

It is important to note that Erik is not just run-of-the-mill ugly, but that he is very clearly associated with death in many ways - from sleeping in a coffin and having funeral-style decor in his room to actually looking like a „living corpse“. Erik and Christine can be seen as a literal expression of the artistic topos „death and the maiden“, which especially towards the end of the 19th century associated death very strongly with the erotic (see https://eclecticlight.co/2020/01/05/paintings-for-our-time-death-and-the-maiden/ for a very good overview of the motif). Death here is usually represented as either a skeleton or corpse, or as an angel - which is very much in line with Leroux’s Erik.

”Girl and Death” by Edvard Munch

Combined with the fact that Erik‘s music creates feelings of passion, rapture and ecstasy in Christine, it is not a big stretch to conclude that Erik is associated not only with death, but also with sexuality. The duality of sex as both a life-creating and life-threatening force was acutely perceived by the people of that period. Love and death are connected, and both are represented in Erik‘s character. ALW‘s musical adaptation recognized this strongly erotic undercurrent in the story and translated it very aptly into songs such as „Music of the night“ or „Point of no return“. The way in which Christine describes her lessons with Erik - that they “awakened an ardent, voracious, and sublime life” in her, and made her live in a “kind of ecstatic dream” can also be interpreted as her romantic awakening, with all the frightening emotional chaos attached to it.

Raoul, on the other hand, is more associated with purity and propriety - which is reflected in how he views Christine, and the standards that she must conform to in his opinion.

Before seeing Erik’s face, Christine admits that she *would* have come back, but that now, she would never return because “you don’t go back into a grave with a corpse that loves you”. Note how she switches from the first person to the impersonal “you” in this sentence - “you” might not do that, but we already know she did in fact go back more than once. And she is still able to see something of the angel in him because he does not take advantage of the situation, but leaves her alone, turning to his music again.

And then, “music has the power to abolish everything in the outside world except its sounds, which go straight to the heart”. Erik starts playing the finale of “Don Juan Triumphant” where “ugliness, lifted on the wings of love, had dared to look beauty in the face”. Through the music, Christine can glimpse into the depths of Erik’s heart and soul, feel his torment and suffering, and is overwhelmed with compassion.

Once again, she is the one to tear down the wall between them. She pushes open the door to Erik’s room and asks him to show his face, sincerely thinking that she can handle it - but it turns out, she really isn’t quite able to when there’s no music between them. But she manages to put on a brave facade and lie to him about being able to look at him without horror. She despises herself for her lies, but then she also does what she must in order to be set free. Erik takes her for walks along the shore of the underground lake, and for carriage rides to the Bois de Boulogne (that’s where they ran into Raoul in Chapter 9). After two weeks, Erik finally trusts her so much that he is willing to set her free (with conditions, of course). It’s really heartbreaking when she mentions how he dared to try to make her look at him even when he wasn’t singing, like a “timid dog”. At this point, he is in her power just as much as she is in his.

When she finally leaves, she is moved more by his tears than by his threats, and his pain is what gets her to come back in the first place: “Those sobs attached me to him more strongly than I thought when I said good-bye to him.” Part of why she is afraid to leave is that she fears it will kill him if she leaves him.

At the end of the chapter, Raoul asks the fateful question that sums up the tragedy of Erik and Christine:

“You’re afraid, but do you love me? If Erik were handsome, would you love me?” “Why tempt fate, Raoul? Why ask about things that I keep hidden at the back of my mind, like sins?”

Christine’s reply along the lines of “Don‘t ask” was cut from the de Mattos translation. It clearly evidences that Christine has conflicted feelings for Erik that go beyond only horror or pity, and that she prefers to suppress them so she doesn't have to deal with them. The statement also shows that if Erik had not been cursed with his face, then things might have looked very different for him and Christine. Attentive readers of de Mattos might nevertheless notice that her next line „If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips“ evades addressing the „what ifs“ Raoul posed, but it still makes her appear less conflicted than she really is. Christine’s heart is a pretty deep ocean of secrets, and at the back of her mind, there seem to be quite a few things that she is unwilling to admit to herself, as Raoul suspected before:

“You obviously love him, and your fear, your terror - all that is still love, of the most exciting kind! The kind you don’t admit to yourself.”

I haven‘t really counted, but this must be like the fifth time that Raoul insists on his suspicion that Christine is in love with Erik, and he just can‘t get a „no“ out of her. That “no” is given very directly though when he asks her if she hates him. She kisses Raoul to prove that she loves him, at the same time telling him that the kiss is just a one-time thing („for the first and last time“). Then “the night is torn apart”, and the last thing they see is a pair of glowing eyes looking down on them from Apollo’s lyre - which are clearly Erik’s, who has overheard the entire conversation…

Image from wikipedia

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