#and understand the tragedy of him doing those things

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter eleven

chapter eleven

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werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.9k

summary: It stuttered in your brain the way your Walkman used to always fuck up while you mowed the lawn. Find Tommy—Find Tommy—Find Tommy.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, graphic description of injuries, i took liberties with tlou lore (made up some miller bros backstory as a treat), penultimate chapter alert

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tommy Miller was a man with faith in his convictions. His moral compass wasn’t set to true north, sure, but it was pretty close. He’s not a man of God, but he’s not not one, either. Christmas, Easter, and whenever he’s desperate for a favor. 

But there ain’t no such thing in this new world. It’s strange to call it so, since it’s been over fifteen years. Doesn’t seem so new anymore, but in the vast ages of the Earth, fifteen years was nothing. 

But to the poor motherfuckers living through it? Fifteen years was a hell of a long time. 

Sometimes, he dreams of another life. One with a pretty girl in a white dress, one where he stops by HEB after work for a six-pack of beer and a forty-eight-pack of diapers. 

One where he had a brother and a niece, and everything good they had built with their own hands. Their own company. And maybe even some horses. 

Sometimes, he dreams the same dreams he had before. That they hadn’t been on their own so young. That Sarah’s mom had stayed, maybe not with Joel, but in her life, so that Joel could have had time for his. A life where they hadn’t fallen into construction by necessity, but maybe still came across it by choice. 

He would have run the business so Joel could maintain a moderately successful music career. Not one where he’d be recognized on the street, because Joel would fucking hate that. 

Or would he? Hypothetical Joel, who didn’t have his life pulverized on repeat, was a stranger. 

The lives that could have-should have been never really would have been. There was always going to be tragedy, because there was never going to be a life where Dad didn’t get behind the wheel, piss-drunk, and wrap himself and Mama around a tree. There was never going to be a life where Joel hadn’t ended up with two kids before he turned 21, stumbling through single parenthood with a colicky infant and a delinquent brother-made-ward. 

Sometimes, Tommy dreams of Ethan, a scruffy, lanky kid in his unit. Of the night Ethan’s brother Charlie went down in a chopper ten miles north of base, how they saw it fall from the sky in a mass of coal-black smoke. Of the way Tommy couldn’t get his feet to move. 

Of Ethan putting the barrel of his standard issue pistol in his mouth. 

Tommy wakes from those with the taste of metal and sulfur on his tongue. 

He understood then, and he understands now. But until the day he sees it for himself, he’s not giving up. 

It doesn’t take long to realize you have no fucking idea where you are, where you’re going, or what the fuck you were thinking. 

You wonder—can’t help but wonder—if he even thought you had a chance. He knew your past. Enough sleepless nights had been passed by murmuring all your secrets, pressed together in the darkness. 

And if he didn’t, well. You know what Joel had been thinking. He’d told you as much one night. Better to starve in the woods as a free man than live as someone’s pet.

That was a nice sentiment, sure, but maybe you would have rather lived in that basement with him than die out here without him. Maybe freedom was a little overrated. 

Had he chosen that fate for you? Had he taken it into his hands to decide how you’d die?

Of course he had.

He’d chosen a free death for you, knowing it meant no one was coming back for him.

He’d chosen his nightmare to spare you from it.

You should be mad. Probably. Right? 

You should hate having the choice taken from you. You should hate that he hadn’t allowed you the dignity of choosing to die or to stay with him. 

He hadn’t allowed you to choose him. 

Of course. He was the most selfless selfish bastard you’d ever met. 

And oh, fuck, you missed him. His scowls and grumbles and tender-hearted kisses. His calloused hands cradling you, the violence that begets such gentleness. His determination not to let you be another regret.

That fucking asshole.

Goddamnit. 

There was no way you were letting him languish in that prison. His ass was getting rescued, whether he liked it or not. 

You just had to somehow live long enough to do it, which meant finding the goddamn cabin. 

It meant you needed to find Tommy. 

It stuttered in your brain the way your Walkman used to always fuck up while you mowed the lawn. Find Tommy—Find Tommy—Find Tommy.

This Tommy better be fuckin’ ready, because he’s going to have you to deal with soon. 

If you can make it until morning, that is. And the next one. Et cetera, ad infinitum. 

It wasn’t looking great, but dwelling never helped nobody, did it? 

No. 

Time to go. 

They should have killed you when they had the chance. They didn’t know the cost of letting you live, of saving their bullets.

Of course they didn’t. How could they have?

Well. Except… there had been signs. But scientists they were not, so the times he spent pacing, growling, and howling with you just across the hall had been an annoyance instead of a warning beacon. 

But now?

Well. The only thing worse than an unmated alpha is one torn from their omega. 

He told you once that he would stop at nothing to find you. Even he hadn’t known how far he would take that.

“We can’t just put him down,” Jim snaps. “We don’t have a replacement. If he’d bred her like he was supposed to—”

“He’ll get over it,” Cheryl says. “Maybe if we—”

“No. We are not wasting any more resources on a fucking omega. You were wrong, and I’m sure as hell not giving you another chance to get us all killed. It didn’t work.”

It sure fuckin’ hadn’t. And now, nothing does. The shock collar isn’t powerful enough; he fights through it. The tasers take him down, but not out. 

“So what do you suggest?” Cheryl asks with a stiff sneer and no shortage of doubt.

“Back to basics. He doesn’t want to eat or drink? Fine. Let him starve. And if he doesn’t beg, we’ll break him.”

Night settles in around your shoulders, but it makes no difference. The shadows stretch under the moon, and so do you. Luck had been on your side tonight—maybe. The doe seemed fresh, but you’re not Joel. Raw meat was raw meat to your vulnerable ecosystem, and now you’re haunted. 

Not by the deer’s spirit, but by the pervasive thought of Mad Cow Disease. 

It’s probably fine. Right? It’s not called Mad Deer Disease. Whatever. Anyway, your stomach is full, whether it wants to be or not. 

It hasn’t been long, but the time stretches anyway. Your worn limbs make sure the day drags on, atrophied as they are from being contained in a cell for years on end. You’d tried to stay active, but also, bodies kind of need food to function. 

So. Every step has a cost that you can’t quite afford. And every rustle of the wind, every bird or squirrel or critter between the miles and miles of desecrated vehicle corpses, every creak or groan of deteriorating structures has you whipping around, frantically scanning your surroundings. 

The highway has an ethereal loneliness that sprawls out endlessly ahead. There aren’t as many bodies as you’d imagined, halfway crawling out of cars or lying in the grass. It makes sense; so much time has passed, and most of the people who’d come this way in a desperate attempt to leave the city had probably turned. 

Actually, that’s a lot less comforting. But so far, you’d only seen Infected in the distance, when you could bide your time and hide until they’d wandered far enough away. 

When the sun begins to slip away, you peer inside a few cars until you find an ancient pickup, one of those ones that was ancient when the outbreak started. It’s more rust than red, but you can still pry open the hatch on the bed cap and climb in. The creak stiffens you, but nothing comes out of the growing dark to gobble you up, so you settle in for what will inevitably be a long, restless night.

The crunch of glass snaps you from your fragile slumber. The voices that follow are low, careful. Cold dread rushes to your toes and chokes off your breath. Every scuffle of feet against broken asphalt, every huffed word and subtle grunt is like a gunshot, both in volume and level of danger. 

Eventually, the footsteps fade into the distance, but sleep doesn’t come to you again.

Up on the hill, it sits like a temple. You climb closer, body pressed to the ground, crawling, soil packed under your broken nails. It has to be. You can’t be wrong.

You’re not.

Sitting up on the hill are two buildings. One large, square, with a blocky triangle top. Another smaller rectangle of brick is a few paces to the left. Around them, like a strange little Stonehenge, are concrete awnings. 

It is. It’s a rest area. 

Your hands tremble, heart pounding. There’s no way to tell from here if it’s crawling with Infected. Or worse. But there might be food, there might be water, there might be maps. 

All that stands between you and possible shelter is a rusty chain-link fence, meant to keep wayward tourists and their dogs from careening down the hill into the bramble below. It’s a problem. Of course it is. Every goddamn thing out here is a problem. A hidden danger, waiting to eat you alive or draw attention to things that will. 

Calculated risks. That’s what this was about. 

Climbing a chain-link fence wasn’t your idea of a good time in the best conditions. Climbing a worn-down, tetanus-coated, unstable one was, undeniably, a bad fucking idea. 

It buckled under your weight, not enough to bend and let you through, but enough to make it shake and rattle, to pinch and snag. Going slow made no difference on the racket. When you managed to swing a leg onto the other side, your sweater caught on the rough-cut ends of the top edge, snagging you mid-motion.

Your other foot slipped instead of notching into one of the openings, and a sharp, virulent pain erupted in the arch of your left foot. You shoved a fist in your mouth, biting down to stave off the scream, and wobbled. 

It did nothing to silence the grunt knocked from you as your back hit the ground, leaving you breathless and stunned. Fuck. Fuck! This was such a mistake. 

You stay still, frozen, listening, eyes wild as they take in the thinly wooded area. Waiting. Waiting to be seen, to be heard. Waiting to die. 

But no one comes. No raiders emerge from a hideaway, no lumbering infected answer the dinner bell. 

Fuck. You need to move. You need to drag your stupid body somewhere hidden.  

A blur of snarling, gnashing teeth. Spittle foaming in frenzy, lathering, dripping, splattering.

Pacing.

Always pacing.

He hardly rests. The thin mattress is in chunks of foam and fabric, strewn across the cell. When he does rest, it’s only on the thin blanket balled in the far corner where a cage once stood. 

Even the new moon doesn’t shed his beastly form, his hulking mass blotting out the lights in turn as he stalks.

Because that’s what it is, really. Stalking. Not pacing, for he has none of the nerves, none of the brooding, no scheming or plotting, no pondering.

He’s not planning anything. He’s waiting. Waiting for them to misstep, to take a risk, to let their frustrations falter them. He doesn’t need a plan. 

The spray paint on the doors confirms that you’re about fifteen years too late to use the bathroom. 

Don’t Dead. Open Inside. 

Was… was that a fucking joke? Was this for real? Who the fuck thought that was funny? 

Okay, you might have, in another situation. The irony of the outbreak hitting while the world was obsessed with zombie media hadn’t escaped you. It had never been your thing, though, preferring the fantastical worlds of monsters where the world didn’t end. 

Peering in the filthy glass reveals an empty, decrepit lobby. It’s positively filthy and you’re sure it smells to match. But what you don’t see is any movement. There’s nothing shambling around, nothing lurking. Of course, you don’t have a good view into the bathrooms themselves, but what you do have a view of is a vending machine. A nearly full vending machine with bottles of water and what used to be soda. 

Removing the chains from the door handles would be cumbersome, and more importantly, loud as fuck. So you creep around the building, using the brick for support as your foot throbs and burns. 

It’s distracting enough that you don’t see the arm before it snares you. Thick with bloom, the bloater has lurched out of the clouded glass window, just a slit of a thing. Its hand, bulbous with the bloat of rot, has you by the throat. Horrible, garbled sounds bubble from it as it pulls you. You stumble, head knocking hard against the rough wall but missing the sharp sill.

You panic. There’s no better, more honorable term for it. You just… panic. Struggling to balance, you beat at it with one balled-up, bloodied fist, pushing away from the wall. Sharp pain screeches up your leg, and you cry out, falling backward and out of its grasp. 

Right into a clicker. 

It’s on you in a breath, drawn by the scream you didn’t know you made. Your fists meet its tender flesh, but it feels no pain and doesn’t relent. Thrashing helps a little, but in the end, it just means that the clicker’s teeth find your forearm instead of your neck. 

You don’t bother biting back the scream, not with the racket you’ve already caused and the grunts and groans of the bloater. It’s still trying to reach you, to reclaim its dinner, but its bulk means it can’t get its shoulders through the window, and it’s too blessedly stupid to try another route. 

Grappling in the dirt results in a piece of broken concrete clutched in your other fist. With the dregs of your strength, you bring it up against the monster’s skull, again and again and again, until you’re covered in fractured bone, sticky blood, and brain matter, topped with torn bits of mushroom cap and gills. 

Its body, finally devoid of human and plant life, crushes you beneath it. When you unearth yourself, crawling out to find a better grave, the scrape of gravel in the weeping wound brings you close to unconsciousness. You drag your unwilling body away from the corpse and the clawing creature in the window, but you don’t make it very far. 

It’s like you’re a fucking video game character. Like when you’re rapidly losing, health bar depleted, and the screen goes fuzzy with red edges. The heavy breathing. The pulsating. 

You prop yourself up against the wall near the doors, every inch of you begging for mercy just out of reach. The bite throbs in time with your foot, never letting you forget. If one infection doesn’t take you, the other surely will.

The bricks’ chill seeps through your flimsy shirt, each bump and grit digging in. It’s strangely comforting in its unforgiving rigidity. This stupid fucking rest area was here before you were born and it’ll be here after you die.

Not that it’ll have to wait long to outlive you.  

You push through the impending darkness and try to dredge up any knowledge that might save you. What did the old FEDRA posters always say?

Twelve to twenty-four hours, right? Two days, tops. And you can’t even really take matters into your own hands. 

Maybe it’ll grow onto the brick. Tether you so you can’t hurt anyone. You imagine the pinks and peaches of the fungal blossoms melding with the moss and ivy already reclaiming the building. 

That’d be okay, right?

As you stare at the wall across the path, following the trails of green, something catches your eye.

Beneath the leaves is a map.

Getting to your feet takes a minute. Blood leaks from both wounds, but you pay it no mind, stumbling over to coax the plants away and uncover a faded but unmistakable outline of Massachusetts. 

A large star sticker proclaims, “You Are Here!” just off I-95. The Mansfield Rest Area. Well, at least you know where you’re going to die. Fucking Mansfield, outside the shittiest rest area, no pun intended. 

The distance you’ve traveled astounds and frustrates you. To die so fucking close to Boston…

Wait. If Boston is right there... your finger trails through the dirt and slime on the map’s laminated cover.

As predicted, there’s no marker for Picture Pond. Joel had said it was tiny, it was nothing, which was why it was safe. But another marker catches your eye, sending your heart skittering.

Wompatuck State Park.

Fuck. You’re more than halfway. Even at a lumbering crawl, you still might make it before you turn. 

You could tell Tommy. And maybe he’d spare you from your fungal fate before he goes to find Joel.

There’s no deliberation. It’ll be fucking miserable, but you have to. You have to. There’s no room to doubt. If there’s even a sliver of a chance that Tommy will be there, you will try.

For Joel.

For yourself, too, if you were willing to admit it.

There it is. A sign.

No. The sign, the gaudy bear-shaped wooden sign that heralded the promised land. The words burned in by some long-dead crafter: Picture Pond Campground - “Pretty As a Picture!”

Not the cleverest, but you’ll forgive it for the little rectangle sign tacked below. Sundries →

That’s it, then. That’s… home. 

“Wasn’t hard,” Joel said, brushing off your compliment. “Framework was there, plumbing was there, electrical was there. It already had a generator and a pump for the well.”

“That’s still impressive,” you’d insisted, hand slowly brushing up and down the line of hair from his chest to his navel. 

“You’re easily impressed, then.”

“Maybe,” you allowed. “Or you’re too humble.”

“All we did was turn a dinky little store into a safehouse. I barely touched it after I moved in.”

“Still. It’s kinda hot. You, working with your hands, making a home.”

He snorted. “That’s what gets ya all bothered? The thought of me hammerin’ in a few nails?”

“Well, I already know you’re good at pound—”

He cut you off with a groan, smothering the words with his lips, tongue not waiting for you to get with the program. 

The cabin is empty. There are canned goods in the cupboards, alongside FEDRA rations. The first aid kit is tucked behind them, and you have to make yourself pull it out first and tend to your foot. 

It’s… bad, to say the least. 

The wound weeps green, and you’re pretty sure nothing that color should be coming out of you. 

Your hands shake, head pounding. You have to… you have to… something. You need to do something. 

Oh.

Right. 

Water. 

One gauze pad gets sacrificed to keep more dirt away from the puncture as you stagger back out to find the well. It takes a long time to prime, and you nearly give up, arms trembling, when it finally drips. 

The drip turns into a trickle, which turns into a full flow. You cry almost as much as it does, filling the two pots you lugged out from the kitchen and hauling them back inside. 

The urge to stick your face under the flow and just drink burns in your ribs. But you don’t. You can’t even bathe; too many open wounds to use untreated water. 

One pot gets boiled and set aside, though you indulge in a few greedy mouthfuls. The other pot gets dragged over, still steaming, to the moth-eaten sofa. You shake the last of the salt from the little tin and stick your foot in all at once, gritting your teeth against the pain. Once you can ease your muscles to sit back, you peel open a can of green beans and drink. 

Yeah, it’s gross. But it’s water, and it’s nutrients, and you’re not wasting a thing. When you finally go to dig out actual beans, you hear it. 

A creak. A click. 

Fuck. You’d been so preoccupied with the water that you didn’t re-clear the cabin when you came back in. 

The barrel nudges the back of your head, and a smooth voice says, “Hell of a nasty wound you got there.”

You put your hands up, beans and all. “I don’t want any trouble,” you say carefully. 

“Unfortunately, honey, I think you’ve got some.”

You close your eyes, breath catching. You’re not made for this. You never were. 

You swear softly and go to answer, but something stops you—something about the voice. It’s so very unfamiliar, and yet hope spreads her warmth through your chest. 

“Tommy?” you ask, barely a breath.

The barrel nudges your head. “What’d you say?” He loses a little of the drawl in his sharpness. Just like Joel does. 

“You’re Tommy,” you say with more confidence. “I’m—Joel sent me. Please, let me explain.”

The gun pulls away from your head, and you nearly sob in relief, though you know you’re far from safe. He comes around and looks at you.

“Stay back,” you gasp.

“What?” he says.

“I’m bit, but let me—wait—” you raise your voice as he opens his mouth to speak, not allowing him to interrupt.

“Listen to me!” you yell. “Listen, and then you can shoot, but you have to find him. They have him somewhere around Middleton, Connecticut. It’ll be an old school of some sort. Brick, with a pool. Or, well, what used to be a pool. But it’s one building, multi-story.”

Tommy furrows his brow and holsters the gun, rifling around in a drawer before he comes back with a small spiral-bound notepad and pencil.

“Say all that again, sugar,” he says, his deep eyes fixed on your face.

You do. You recount anything you can remember, anything that might help him find his brother.

“And tell him I’m sorry, okay?” you add quietly, trying to catch your breath.

“Ain’t tellin’ him shit,” Tommy says, tucking the notepad into his breast pocket. “You won’t turn.”

“What?”

“Y’can’t turn. We’re immune.”

You gape at him, baffled. “It… it worked ?”

Tommy nods. “Despite the uh, side effects, yeah. It worked.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am,” he agrees, his voice almost patronizing if he didn’t look so damn genuine. “Though that foot ain’t lookin’ too good.”  

Silence settles over the room as you both struggle to process the revelations shared.

It’s strange. He and Joel could never be mistaken for twins, but there’s something about this man that feels—and smells—like home. 

“Joel really did send you, huh?” He croaks. 

You nod. 

“Jesus.” He lets himself fall back into the chair across from you and rubs his forehead as a cover for wiping his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“I gotta ask, though. He said you were just a person,” you say, the words falling softly despite every effort to cling to your lips.

“Things change,” Tommy says. There’s a furrow to his brow that reminds you strikingly of Joel. “He doesn’t know yet.”

“He’s gonna be pissed,” you muse.

“Yep,” Tommy says, sighing heavily. “But when isn’t he?”

Despite yourself, despite the situation, despite the way the air in the room is taut like a bowstring, you laugh. 

[havenisms]

𑣲 ‧₊ re : the entirety of being

does it bother you, that mercy is so difficult to understand?

𑣲 ‧₊ character : simon ghost riley 𑣲 ‧₊ fandom : call of duty 𑣲 ‧₊ notes : quote by mary oliver. repost ( again, sorry! )

prologue :

BUT THERE IS ALWAYS A WEAKNESS IN EXISTENCE, THE CHOIR WILL SING, BECAUSE THIS LIFE IS MEANT TO BE AN EVERLASTING TRAGEDY : MEANT FOR THE RECKONING , MEANT FOR THE RUINING. THERE IS ALWAYS DEATH, ALWAYS BLOOD, ALWAYS ON YOUR HANDS, ALWAYS ON THE MASK.

YOU SAY YOU ARE MADE OF CRUELTY. THAT YOU HAVE A COLD HEART. BUT THERE IS WEAKNESS IN BEING KNOWN, IN BEING LOVED, AND YOU KNOW THIS. AND YOU ALLOW IT, YOU DO.

act 01 :

the first time simon realizes he loves you is the last time he swears to see you. best to cut off ties now, make it quick and move on. forget it all.

his life is too different from yours : wartorn . gruesome . vicious. he is the knife meant for the killing : sharp . cold . cruel. the only way he belongs in the heart of another is through the blade, and he knows this.

he's lost too many people, lost those he's cared for, over and over and over again, and if he allows this, then he'll lose you, too. he will. he knows. he knows too damn well, and he fucking hates it. he understands this more than anyone in the world.

he claims he has a cold heart ; he'd like to believe that. god, he wishes it could be true. it would be so much easier, wouldn't it? wouldn't have fallen in love with you, wouldn't have to mourn for his family and friends, his comrades. wouldn't have to feel anything, just do what he was told.

it would be so much easier, that numbness. because as much as he wants to stop this, put an end to this tragedy before it festers and blooms into something terrifying, he can't.

( how very strange, he thinks, this reminder that even a ghost was once human, too. )

act 02 :

the first time simon shows his face is perhaps the most frightening of all. there is just the faintest vulnerability that comes with being known, and he tries not to acknowledge it. yes, his comrades have seen him, but not you. never you. because this is different, and he cannot describe it, cannot describe why. it is something akin to bearing one's heart : ripping it from his chest, ugly and worn but beating and beating and beating in his calloused hands, and hoping that even then, even in the vile nature of a weapon, you won't turn away.

but when you see him, you pause for a moment, brows raised just for the slightest moment before your eyes lighten up. he doesn't quite understand. he's not sure how to react to your...reaction.

you grin.

"hey, handsome."

( you don't see his face for months after that. you don't ask to, either, but should you ever, he would have obliged in a moment's notice. what a strange thing it is, this weakness he has for you. )

act 03 :

the first time simon kisses you, he wonders if there is a happy ending at the end of this road. you've never been one to fuss over seeing his face-- something he has learned to appreciate all too well. it's almost second nature by now, though you seldom see it. a flicker of curiosity in your eyes, then a faint smile, and that's it.

but tonight is different. tonight, in quiet reverence, your hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing that little scar on the corner of his lip. it's not something born from war, but he'll tell you it is, when in truth, it was something from childhood. but you never ask because you already understand.

you stare at him, and he cannot understand your gaze. gentle. fond.

it almost frightens him, that strange stirring in the heart.

"i love you, you know." you tell him, and your words are but a whisper, yet they're so loud that it shatters the silence in ways that he will remember forever. "i do."

he swallows hard. something tells him that he cannot, should not reciprocate the words. so he doesn't.

"i know."

you smile, lean in just the slightest bit-- almost waiting with bated breath to see if he'll pull away. he should. he should stop this, stop before this turns into something that could twist joy into grief, turn this newfound home into a burial ground. but he doesn't. so you kiss him, tender, adoring, and you let out just the softest laugh, and perhaps it's the kindest thing he's ever heard.

"yeah," you say, kissing him just once more, "i know, too."

( somewhere in that kiss, there's the reciprocation of a love found and forsaken and cherished. one day, he'll say the words. it is his silent promise to you, one you somehow manage to hear. )

act 04 :

the first time simon comes home to you, he hopes it is the first of a thousand times. it has been months since you have last seen each other, and he is tired. the weight on his shoulder is a heavy one, and the ache in his bones is a dull hollowing.

you do not ask how he is. you never do. there is always love through other means. the silence is strong, but never suffocating. you welcome him home with open arms, holding him close, fingers gently running through his hair.

a kiss to the temple, then a small hum of contentment. the passage of time is a blur nowadays, simon thinks, but he would spend forever with you like this if he could.

"...'m back, dove."

you feel him hold you a little closer, just the faintest trace of his lips against your neck.

"you are." you murmur, and there is a brutality in the relief you feel in the knowing of his return. "welcome back."

( & the heart is not always meant for the destruction, simon learns, slowly but surely. maybe there's a happy ending here, somewhere, somehow. he'll be sure to find it. he has to. )

[miquellah]

ohh yeah, ive written a bit on this before, pre-DLC, on tragedy connecting those to the FF. tho with more hindsight now i do feel it is a little more “shabriri/the FF taking advantage of those blinded by grief”

personally, i have no evidence to say he DIDN’T love anyone, but as a CHARACTER shabriri is definitely the odd one out. he is a trickster, an instigator, and the very originator of the flame’s affliction in the world itself; while it is still possible he could’ve loved someone, i do not think it probable. with his own words, the way he urges you to burn everything and bribing you with melina’s life, he definitely reads more as a villain than anything else, haha. (notably, even the name “shabriri” is that of a demon associated with blindness)

i can’t remember which of my mutuals did so, but one or two of them, i remember, made some very good points on how the flame embodies a sort of reactionary mindset. i am grieving, so i will lash out. i am grieving, and i will place the blame on others— this is particularly characterized by edgar, who enslaved the misbegotten in the first place, and whose subsequent revolt from his cruelties then took everything from him. he goes on to then become a vengeful madman, aligning himself with the flame and even going so far as to hold a shabriri grape.

but midra and the nomads, i think, share more of a similar angle with things: they were both persecuted for so long, either because of the idea they already fostered the flame or not. that resentment, then, festers with the grief and suffering in order to actualize those very fears. they seek peace through the only means left to them any longer— madness, violence, lashing out. any SUBSTANTIAL solutions to suffering requires understanding, compassion, and patience. the flame’s solutions are destructive, mercurial, impulsive.

i think the frenzied flame is mostly attached to suffering and desperation, but it just so happens that the greatest manifestations of this are borne through love. grief is because you loved.

moreover, there is definitely a distinct buddhist aspect to the flame as well; i can’t speak authoritatively on this myself, but its a common thread that “attachments” are what cause suffering. if you remove those attachments (through removing differentiation itself entirely, even), you can then remove all suffering. the frenzied lord is then sort of a “dark bodhisattva”, or a savior that damns themselves in order to lead others toward salvation, breaking free of the painful existence of samsara… albeit through omnicide.

so uh TL;DR, the frenzied flame is about the suffering through attachments, and the absolute worst ways to be rid of it all!

Opinions on Nanaya ? I can't seem to find a single descent analysis of her on the internet but your Miquella takes are so good I wanted to ask you

mannnnn nanaya is a whole can of worms entirely, and i’m not sure how conclusively i CAN say anything on her. but yeah, much like miquella, i DO prefer to approach her in good faith. and i feel the broader audience is also way too quick to approach her in worse faith

at a single glance she kind of appears like a potential DS2 nashandra parallel, but i do think that if she was, then the direct lore on her would not be nearly so vague on it. at most of her direct characterization we get this:

there is a spine of someone who was a failed frenzied lord candidate, and she “cradles it gently”. she gave midra an entreaty to “endure”, and it was a curse.

i think the way you take these facts are both HIGHLY dependent on subjectivity. was she just manipulating midra the whole time, as is the popular perception, and trying to foster the flame in him?

but also, isn’t the opposite just as likely? she probably knew someone, that she loved dearly, perhaps, who was a failed frenzied lord. that person is now dead. this does not necessarily insinuate that she caused that affliction of frenzy, but it DOES show she knows what it is

then, as someone clearly grieving that person, would it not be just as likely she WOULDN’T want midra to meet that same fate? of course the more that you endure may further foster the flame, but DOES she know that? she doesn’t tell him to give up, or to forgive, or to hate. she tells him to endure. you could ask that of someone you wish to cultivate the flame within, or you could just as easily be asking that of someone you love, to continue on despite the pain, to continue living even when you’re gone.

and doesn’t midra refusing to entertain the idea of unleashing the flame for so long, and apologizing to her when he finally does so, sound like a man who DOES know better?

a lot of people also like to bring in the idea of her having some connection to shabriri, but there’s really no evidence for that at all other than speculation. despite myself also wanting shabriri crumbs in DLC, i really see no strong evidence that he’s in any way connected, and his role AS a mysterious and instigative character could just as easily have just been complete in the base game.

so basically, unless something crazy clicks under new light later, i don’t really think we’ll get anything conclusive on nanaya at all. if anything, i think she could be another great exercise in “you see what you want to”, much like fromsoft did with the hornsent, with miquella— is she really evil and suspicious? or is that just what you WANT to see? are you just repeating what the flawed characters in-game treated her with, then?

[kylermalloy]

Sometimes I don’t think people understand the point of deterministic time travel stories.

(For the purposes of this post, a deterministic universe refers to a story in which there is only one timeline. Even if time travel exists, the characters cannot go back and change things, so to speak. In a deterministic universe, they would’ve always time-traveled, so the “changes” they attempted were already there, and nothing was altered. Think Interstellar, in which Cooper sends himself to NASA from the future.

By contrast, a branching timeline story would allow changes. Traveling through time assumes a new set of events and/or people who were not present the “first time around,” and so events can be altered, to the point of erasing established history. Think The Butterfly Effect, in which changing the smallest thing balloons out into an entire alternate reality.)

Whenever I hear people discuss a deterministic model of time travel, they seem to be under the impression that those characters are trapped by some nebulous fate or destiny, and that’s why things can’t change. The time-travel mode chosen by the author for the story has locked them into this particular set of events, they’ll posit, and no matter what the characters do, they are literally unable change it.

I couldn’t disagree more!

A deterministic timeline is a trap, to be sure—to us, the audience. The characters are free to make whatever choices they want.

I started thinking about this because of Attack on Titan, how Eren sees a glimpse of himself causing the rumbling from his father’s memories.

So many analyses will claim that’s why Eren started the rumbling later in the story—that from the moment he saw the future, he was somehow locked into that particular course of action. He was destined to kill millions whether he wanted to or not.

But…no. Eren didn’t cause the rumbling because he saw himself do it in the future. He’s not the audience looking in on his own story (not in that way, at least). He isn’t figuring out that there is only one timeline, or that he was fated to cause so much death. He doesn’t even know that he’s in a time loop where everything happens the same way every time!

No! Eren isn’t thinking about time travel physics—which are made-up anyway. Eren isn’t thinking Well I HAVE to do it, since I saw it in Dad’s memories. (Well, he probably does think that. As an excuse.)

Eren makes the choice to start the rumbling because that’s the choice he will always make regardless. That is who he is as a person. It’s a tragic flaw. It’s his character.

I’ve also been thinking about this because of Netflix’s Dark—a time-travel show I heartily recommend. It too has a single timeline, in which many characters meet older—and then younger—versions of themselves, and they pass along information bootstrap-paradox style.

The first time I watched the show, I had this passing thought—how did these characters remember exactly what their older selves said to them, so they could replicate the conversation when they were the older self?

It was a silly question, and the more I watched the show, the more I came to understand: The show is not about ~replicating~ or ~preserving~ events in the timeline. They’re not sacred, as some time-travel stories would have you believe. No, the single timeline never changes because the characters don’t change.

When Jonas, the protagonist of Dark, meets his older self, he can’t believe the shell of a man he’s become. He can’t believe himself capable of saying the things he’s saying, or doing the things he does. He’s not cataloguing the information passed to him so he can one day say it back to his younger self—that’s stupid.

I was caught in a fallacy of bootstrap paradox—how did they know what to say? Where’d those words come from? Well, where all words come from.

Older Jonas is speaking from his heart. He too had believed fervently that he would never become the person he is—but the day has arrived, and now he’s on the other side of the door. He’s saying the words while his younger self is frozen in disbelief. He’s not replicating a conversation he remembers—the words he says are the words he would say regardless. That’s what he’s always said, because that’s who he is.

This little quandary serves as a microcosm for explaining everything about deterministic time-travel. Both Eren and Jonas see themselves in the future doing horrible things. Becoming a version of themselves they would never dream of being.

As much as they tell themselves that’s not me, I would never do that, and even vow to find a way to prevent that future, they both fail in that endeavor. They both experience profound hopelessness and loss, and they eventually give in to their desires and their hopelessness and become the worst, murderous versions of themselves.

And they both, funnily enough, tell themselves and others that it was just fate. It was how things had to be. Inevitable.

This is a lie.

Eren always had the capacity for terrible violence. Jonas was always capable of manipulation and single-minded ruthlessness. Those are their character flaws. The sneak peeks they received of their futures weren’t showing them what they had to do. They made those choices of their own free will. As much as they fought against what they would become, as much as they protested that isn’t me, it was them. And they become those monsters anyway.

It’s only inevitable in the way a tragedy is inevitable.

Tragedies come about because of characters’ choices and flaws—not because the author or the timeline or fate is puppeteering them into these horrible ends. Romeo and Juliet aren’t doomed to die because the opening narration tells us they do. They’re doomed to die because they’re young and impulsive and desperate to escape the cycle of hatred their families perpetuate. It’s a tragedy because they’re scared teenagers and because the feud that drove them together, apart, and then to death was pointless.

It wasn’t inevitable. At any point, they could’ve put down the loaded gun (narratively speaking) and walked away. Romeo didn’t drink the poison because he heard the opening lines about him taking his life. Juliet didn’t watch the rest of the play and go alas, I have no choice, ‘twas foretold. O happy dagger! No! They both made those choices because of who they are as characters and the circumstances they were in.

But because we’re the audience, and we’ve been told the ending, we feel trapped in it. We’re the ones being granted a sneak peek into the future. We watch the story unfold with growing horror, because there are so many outs!

Romeo could have not killed Tybalt. Juliet could have entrusted her letter to a faster rider. They could have just not gotten married after eighteen hours. They could have spilled the secret and asked for help. This entire tragedy seems so preventable—but we’re trapped watching it happen regardless.

So when Eren says he has no choice, he’s not saying that because his vision of the future locked him into that course of action. Eren chooses to start the rumbling because that’s what Eren would do. He tells us himself—his disappointment in the outside world made him want to flatten everything and start anew.

Jonas too chooses to become the worst version of himself because he believes only he can make the world right. He has to—he feels responsible, like he doesn’t have any other choice. He wants to destroy the timeline and his family. He wants to tear it all down, because he can’t let go of the people he loved and lost.

The future does not dictate Eren’s and Jonas’s actions. Eren’s and Jonas’s characters dictate the future.

Maybe seeing themselves do it in the future helped them give permission to themselves to start something so unthinkable—but make no mistake. It was always just them.

(And I don’t say this as a condemnation of either character. We have all had those impulses. Sometimes we just want to tear it all down.)

But getting that glimpse into the future doesn’t absolve them of their choices, either. These two always had another choice. They just chose causing the apocalypse every single time.

(Well, that’s not completely true. Dark and Attack on Titan have different endings—Jonas receives new information that changes his perspective on everything. He learns the truth about the time knot, and that growth and recognition is enough to help him finally make a different choice—one that actually ends the loop. Eren could have made a different choice, too. He just doesn’t.)

Dark sums it up better than I ever could: “Man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills.” In other words: You can do whatever you want, but you cannot make yourself want to do something else. Time travel only highlights that struggle for us.

[gingermintpepper]

I know everyone knows the story of Actaeon and how he met a terrible fate by stumbling upon Artemis bathing in her forest but did you know that Actaeon was Apollo's grandson? That his father was Aristaeus, lord of the bees and the rustic arts and his mother was Autonoe, daughter of Cadmus and princess of Thebes?

Did you know he was trained by Chiron? That he was considered a hunter so skilled his talent was considered divine, that he was his parents' only child and that he was loved?

Did you know the grief that consumed the household when word of Actaeon's fate reached them? That Cadmus cut his hair, that Harmonia wept and was disconsolate and that his parents... well, Autonoe walked the length of the forest, keeping a sharp eye out for her son, but all she saw were the scattered bones of a fawn. Aristaeus too, had heard his son was torn apart and so fruitlessly, foolishly searched for the bones of a man. (There was none to be found)

Did you know that it was Actaeon's ghost, unhappy and unburied, trapped on the earth, who leaned over his sleeping father and told him of his fate? "You will not find me as you knew me, gather me as a stag." And Aristaeus immediately woke his wife and told her the truth, and together they grieved all the night long.

(Did you know that this is why Aristaeus abandons Boeotia? He could not stand the sight of it and so he went to Ceos. And there he slayed the dog-star. And there he became a healing wind. All in the name of his only son, that foolish, beloved Actaeon.)

[cowboymusings]

14x13 Lebanon and "I have a family". 14x13 Lebanon and Dean quietly defying John, defining himself outside of John and his ideals is the most important thing ever actually.

Craving more flashbacks to preseries/stanford era that are something along the line of Dean accidentally stumbling upon things that he loves or that have a profound impact on him and enjoying them, having them blow him away, only to step back and reject them. Because ultimately, at this time, he's still John Winchester's son. Craving more of Dean explicitly tired of what the job keeps him from, not just the terms of the job or the lifestyle he partakes in. More of Dean and the things he pretends don't have a profound effect on his psyche (Rhonda Hurley and the panties; the endless references he makes to queer media like his life depends on it). Which is just to say, I'm craving more 'I have a family' moments, more Dean allowing himself things he rejected to please John without guilt or shame bearing down upon him.

[blueivyy99]

Calm and Serenity (Part 4)

Sylus x Non!MC

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

tags: angst, romance, hurt and comfort, confused sylus, non-mc reader, mentions of death/dying, cursing

taglist: @fcknblsht @aboobie @nin10doo @ixloom819 @damatically @sylusgirlie7 @stellisangelicus-world @kira-loves0905 @wanderlustingcastaway @browneyedgirl22 @lumieresdreams @babygirl-panda19 @picnicinthegarden @96jnie @xxfaithlynxx @wrimaira @reni502 @lazypostfandomer @augustdxjiminx @hey-airam @vevlvtcherie @marquitas-en-verano @ma-cherie-lovely @zeskyzed @imnikki @shiorihoshino @mentaltrouble2201 @sylustoru @imaginarytheatre

note: OMG hi here's the promised update. ALSOOO BIG THANK YOU to all your reaction/comment/reblogs huhuhu im so happy reading your comments and im glad that you liked this little piece of mine. i hope you enjoy this one as well (i actually want to hide in a corner lol)

Series Masterlist

Sylus can't shake the eerie feeling that's been bugging his chest since he left you in Elysium. He knows that you're upset. He can see it in your eyes, he can feel it in his bones.

But what can he do? Miss Hunter is in danger and his body just autopilots to go to her. Does he want to? No. Not really because if he were to choose, he'd rather be beside you all the time but the bond is not letting him. Whenever he's trying to resist, the energy linkage on his wrist would constrict and a painful sensation is shooting up on his chest making it harder for him to say no to her.

It's been a pain in his ass and he didn't know what to do especially when he first met her. Past memories, past emotions, past tragedies suddenly flooded him and for a moment he faltered.

For a moment, all those feelings came back. He missed her, honestly speaking after all, she has half of his soul and finding her again in N109 Zone felt like his soul is whole again.

It was like he was in a daze. All his goals were reduced to mere thoughts and he was obligated to make a connection with her that he got too busy helping her get the aether core and making her remember everything, too busy resonating with her and he made you wait for him every day only to be given a mere fraction of his attention.

But when he's alone and he's contemplating the decisions he has been making as of late, he will be reminded of you. Of how you slowly grew quieter and your gaze was always on him, waiting and anticipating for him to initiate something that would make up for the time he's been wasting with Miss Hunter.

It did cross his mind to let you go. He understands that what he's doing is completely unfair to you, but when the thought of you leaving and potentially finding someone else crosses his mind, he almost went crazy.

He can't. He just can't.

He won't allow it.

He won't let that happen.

You're the only thing in his life that he can call his “voluntary choice". Ever since he lived all his lives, everything seemed out of control, it seemed like everything was a cycle.

Sylus, I curse your soul to never fade away. You'll always be tied to me. This is my curse. Only I can grant you true death.

Soulbound. That's him and Miss Hunter. The first few lives he lived, he can accept dying in her arms as long as it's with her. That's how powerful his love is and he doesn't mind waiting even if it takes a couple of millenia he wouldn't mind because it's her. He even put traces of her in every corner of N109 Zone, even sent Mephisto to stalk her every move when she first became a hunter. So it's safe to say that in the earlier years in this life, he did wait for her.

But then, YOU came.

Someone unexpected. Someone so pure despite the filth in this underworld. You saw him like a normal person and made him feel human. You didn't treat him like the leader of Onychinus.

You treated him as Sylus. Just Sylus. A weak, vulnerable and could-be-hurt Sylus.

In you, he found his humanity.

In you he found love and peace. For the first time in eons, there is tranquility.

He wanted to deny it at first. He can't entertain the thought of you and him together. He knows he can't have you. He can't have that luxury because he will have to let you go eventually when Miss Hunter comes to the picture, the cycle will repeat again. He will die in her arms and he will live another life only to be met with the same ending.

He had given up on anything and everything at this point, so little by little he's letting you go.

But when you came to his rescue, fighting for him even with your limited fighting experience when he was caught off guard by one of his enemies he let himself indulge in you.

Maybe this time will be different.

He let himself be under the shade of your warmth. Happy that in this life he gets to experience this. To experience a love that felt like it could last forever. A love that makes him want to live for as long as he can.

So when he made sure that Miss Hunter is alive and breathing, he is quick on his feet to leave.

“Sylus, can you stay with me for a while?" her voice begging.

And there it was again. The tug on the energy linkage in his wrist. At the mere thought of him denying her request, he can feel it tighten in his wrist that it hurts almost like his hands were going to be cut off.

The sensation in his chest is there again.

But no. He can't stay.

He won't.

“I can't," he answered not even looking back at her. “Y/N is waiting for me.”

He steadied his breathing. He needs to calm himself despite the overbearing pain.

"I will find a way to sever our connection and put an end to this curse. I want to live a life for myself not tied down to any of this destiny bullshit.”

He left after saying that. He's sure that she will understand what he meant.

If she doesn't? Then that's on her.

But for now he wants to come home to you.

To make things right. To tell you everything to ask for more time to figure things out. To tell you that he's been trying to figure out how to sever the connection that he and Miss Hunter have.

To explain that what he did to you was beyond what he can control. That he is under a curse and his choices are influenced by the repeating cycle of his lives. Clouded by the thought that there's no way out of this mess and sooner or later he will find his lifeless body in Miss Hunter's hands.

To tell you that this time he wants to fight back.

He wants to own his life again. He wants to make a decision for himself again.

Sylus respects the idea of soulmates. He even loved the idea of it before. But now it's different. Because if being soulmates with Miss Hunter means losing you, then he doesn't want it.

He will die trying as long as he's with you.

In record time, he's back in Onychinus’s base and the air feels different. It feels heavy. Something is not right.

Sylus is quick on his feet to walk (run) to your shared bedroom and you're not there. He felt a lump on his throat.

No. No.

“Sweetie? Where are you?" He called out. The mighty Sylus’s voice quivers at the end of his sentence. He roamed around the base trying to find you.

“Darling?"

In the bathroom? None.

“Little fox?"

Kitchen? It's empty.

"Baby?”

The guest room? Deafening quiet.

“Y/N?"

He searched in every corner but you're not there. He tried to call you but it seemed like your phone was off.

He called Luke and Kieran, they quickly answered his call and their words made his world crumble. “Boss! The Madame is gone. We can't find her anywhere. Elysium's owner told us she left quickly after you were gone. We searched everywhere we could but we couldn't find her.”

“Keep patrolling the area. Find her."

He dropped the call and quickly sent Mephisto to wander all around the N109 zone.

His mind is reeling back to the events that happened before he left. It can't be.

What happened? Why did you run away? Did someone take you?

Did you leave him?

No, gods please no.

You can't be gone.

No. Not now. Not when he figured out what he wanted.

“Please, come back.”

Part 5 the next day if im not busyyyy (no promises) reaction and comments are welcome 🤗

[bananzer]

If being a "Marinette stan" means I can understand that Gabriel Agreste is the reason Marinette is lying to Adrien in the first place and that she would never have done that if Gabriel had not manipulated her and that Nathalie should be the one telling Adrien the truth and not the 15 year old child and that Marinette's lies are hurting Adrien and that is awful and a tragedy and OBVIOUSLY she shouldn't have lied but that Marinette is also a victim of Gabriel and that Marinette is doing everything she does out of her deep love for Adrien and not to intentionally hurt him and that Marinette is 15 and acting 15 and that sometimes main characters have to do bad things and make mistakes to have a story and that those mistakes don't make Marinette a bad person but a good person in a very very very bad position.........

Then I guess I'm a dirty filthy Marinette stan.

[baepsays]

I'd give you everything, I just want to see you win ⸻ clan head Gojo

chapter summary ⸻ Things have been tense between you and your husband, and he is determined to resolve it, but you seem reluctant.

pairing ⸻ post Shinjuku clan leader Gojo x non-sorcerer reader

chapter warnings ⸻ angst, fluff, suggestive stuff in the hallways, gojo just trying his best, never ending yearning continues, gojo going through it, some more sad backstory, heavy tension, still slow burn, actual progress between them?

a/n: art in the header by @/RUEheree on twt.

word count: 8.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST ‖ <<PREVIOUS CHAPTER . NEXT CHAPTER>>soon!

chapter three: Pink Camellias

Gojo Satoru often wonders what kind of flowers there would have been at his funeral if he had remained dead.

Maybe the usual white wreaths of chrysanthemums, or perhaps something more grand. White dahlias, or maybe white roses? Maybe that’d be too hopeful for a funeral. Maybe even in death Gojo Satoru, the one alone honored through heaven and earth, the strongest, cannot have flowers that match his caliber, and maybe it's better to leave these things unanswered. 

Because more often than not, he wonders if there would’ve been a funeral to even begin with—because something tells him his body would have been preserved for ages to come, displayed in some glass case, or hung up on some wall. Like a war-winning sword, too rusty and worn out to use, but gallant as ever to boast and display as a threat over the enemies’ heads. 

And he wonders if that was the death he would've been satisfied with. If he would've gladly passed away, knowing there would not even have been a grave with his name on it. But then again, death does not knock at your door with options in its hands. You do not get to choose how, where, or when you were born, and neither do you get a say about these things in death. Even if you lose all your hope and will to live, death is supposedly always predetermined. Even if you are Gojo Satoru, no, maybe especially if you are Gojo Satoru, these things are simply out of his hands.

Maybe it is precisely why Gojo Satoru has not let his guard down many times in his life. Because whenever he did, he met his eventual demise.

Time and time again, he was proven right that he could not let himself be treated like any other human. Or even get treated humanely enough to begin with—that it is not possible for him to exist if it is not to aid others' peaceful existence. Even if he does not understand the better part of humanity, the majority that occupies this earth, the people for whom he relentlessly serves quietly and loses his friends. His existence signified something bigger than the deities in heaven, the ‘Gojo’ name attached to him meant more than his given name, and his powers required more acknowledgement than his identity.

He is a deeply flawed person for someone meant for greatness and divinity. 

Sometimes he thinks maybe that he wasn’t meant to be the bearer of the burden. He came to believe more in strength above virtues and all. He became someone who cannot accept his emotions, as they always turned out to be his most fatal weaknesses. The past that haunted him and the future that terrified him—how they crippled him and obstructed the path he wanted to carve out for the generations after him.

Though what truly prevented him from understanding what he stood against was himself.

No one is Gojo Satoru’s biggest enemy other than himself. No one truly cared about Gojo Satoru's failures more than himself. And no one wished more than Gojo Satoru that the world one day would finally get fed up with him enough to finally leave him alone.

And that is probably the biggest tragedy of Gojo Satoru's entire existence. The things he never understood and the things he refused to understand—those are the true reasons behind his demise. And the reasons why he never became anything more than a cautionary tale. The god who failed to gauge his opponent’s strength and met his eventual death. Truly the fate of a tragic hero is to crumble and die during the most crucial of times. Shining under the spotlight during the climax, lying lifelessly on the ground in a pool of his own blood, with a smile on his face.

So what if he could feel the ground soaking in his blood, pooling underneath him, cooling down as his consciousness slowly drifted away into some abyss he did not think he'd return from? If it meant that his loved ones got to have another shot at survival at the cost of his life depleting from his cold corpse, he would not mind that choice, again and again. 

Maybe finally, then, the world had enough of Gojo Satoru. Maybe his life was enough of a bargain, perhaps not the first time, but the second time around, it was the prize for restraint. 

But dead or alive, he will always remain the enigma, the unmatched, the strongest, and the honored one. In life or death, the biggest weapon of jujutsu society, and in the entire existence of this world, is nothing more than a myth. That only manifested once in a few centuries and eons.

When the cold winter air becomes warm, and spring starts to quickly flee, the cherry blossoms all fall off the tree. 

It is disheartening to see once full and pink trees lacking those hues. But when the ground gets covered by those fallen petals, and the air smells sweet, those trees start to sprout little leaves. The shiny little light shade of greens that pop up signifies that summer was just around the corner. Time for new beginnings to turn into age-old stories.

And yet, for one couple suffering from the great effects of misunderstandings created by their unfortunate circumstances and their poor understanding of emotions, it was misery.

To be completely honest, you have often wondered how things would have been if you had married an unkind man instead. If instead of averting his gaze from you, he looked you in the eye and told you that he could not stand you. Maybe things would have been easier that way. Maybe it would have been easier to hate him like that. It would have been predictable at least, the same age-old stories you have been watching unfold with your grandparents, your parents, and almost every lady who was unfortunate enough to have been born at the same status as you. And maybe you would have become one of them, ignored, neglected, bitter, and forgotten. It would be way easier then to keep to yourself in the boundaries that you have established for yourself in this estate, and there would not be any presence of this nagging feeling to cross them constantly. 

It’d have been easier that way to understand why Gojo Satoru looked like he was suffering through deep pains when you were anywhere near him. 

Instead, now you are left with your incomprehensible personal thoughts and actions. Why, despite all the kindness he showed you—more than what most husbands of arranged alliances have probably shown to their spouses—could you not bring yourself to be satisfied with just that? Could you not be glad that he was not at least similar to the men you have grown up around? Could you not accept that bare minimum? Have you been foolishly expecting some whirlwind romance to sweep you off your feet? 

You should not bite the hands that are feeding you. Just because for once someone has given you some respect in this society that holds you a prisoner does not mean you get to act like a fool. It is crucial you understand your place in this equation. You are a normal and weak human being, somehow tied to the strongest— Gojo Satoru, the once-in-a-lifetime myth of this jujutsu society. 

Though you must say, you never really understood the myth of Gojo Satoru. So self-sacrificial and benevolent, all for what? 

But it does not take understanding to worship a myth. You were aware of that when you gave up all your hope in the heavens above, when you saw others closing their eyes and praying for everything their hearts desired, while you stood there blinking and wondering what the point of all of this was. What was the point of asking God to pardon you from the inevitable? Things like birth, sacrifices, hatred, and death. And like these many inevitabilities, it just happened to be that you married a man who is as mythical as the gods in heaven; perhaps that is why you don't really get him. But perhaps he was a god you could finally believe in or a myth you could worship? 

But what was the point of worshiping your husband when you cannot truly love him?

And you cannot make any sense out of this bizarre relationship you have come to form with him. Not truly a husband, neither a lover, but more than an acquaintance, less than a friend. It is not that you enjoy being around him, but you get anxious when you do not see him for prolonged periods of time. You do not seek his approval, but you wish to appease him. Inevitabilities cannot be avoided, but things like love and affection can be carved out of a stone. And perhaps you have started to fool yourself into thinking that you are deserving of such a thing when you are stuck in a relationship lacking those feelings.

It is exceptionally greedy to want so much from a god, to want more and more from him when he has given up his literal life for others. So how could you ask your human husband, on par with the gods, to become the truly idealized husband you secretly always hoped for? 

Hasn't he given you enough?

“Ma’am? MA’AM!” Mia, one of the girls given the responsibility to look after your immediate needs, called you out of your daydreaming. 

“Are you alright, Gojo-san? You have been looking lost for the past couple of days.” Suki leaned down to fix your makeup while Mia continued to work on your hair. Mornings have never had such a routine for you. 

“Yes, yes, I am. Do not mind me. Also, you two should stop addressing me as Gojo-san.” Your voice dimmed out of shyness.

“But we cannot, ma’am, orders from Gojo-sama.” Mia smiled at you in the mirror and went back to fixing your hair. 

Their concern was justified. Since what happened with your husband at the lake, things have been awkward between the two of you. You have been anxiously hiding away from him, directly calling Ichiji to ask about the dinner preparations, and trying to delay your breakfast until he goes to his home office in the left wing or gets called out for meetings or work, even going as far as to have dinner earlier or later than usual by yourself with some lazy excuse. Because it was embarrassing. 

Why did you even say those things to him at the lake? Did it even matter? Even if he hated you, did that matter? Or was it the fact that he didn't deny it even once?

Instead, you've started getting bouquets of flowers from him every day. He never shows up to deliver them or hand them to you himself; it is either one of the staff or Ichiji who gets them to you. Sometimes the staff will decorate them in a pretty vase on the dining table or on the little coffee table in front of the windows by the armchair in your bedroom, and other times they’d be wrapped up neatly in some sort of decorative paper in an intricately arranged bouquet. And every time you look at those gorgeous flowers, they make you think about just how shallow this relationship is.

“Good morning, Gojo-san. Late again, huh?” The chef said, as you sat yourself at the little dining table in the corner of the kitchen, mostly used by the kitchen staff, and now you.

“Good morning, Suzuki-san, just been tired lately.” You flashed him one of your practiced fake smiles. But unfortunately, in the brief period of time he has come to know you, he got a hold on how you actually look when you smile. When you eat the dessert at the end of the meal, the way your face lights up can be easily distinguished from when you force yourself to eat cucumbers and put on this smile after swallowing them down with what looks like ease. 

“No cucumbers in the salad today.” He gave you a smile before setting it down with the rest of your breakfast. 

“Thank you very much.” You sheepishly thanked him before digging into your meal, hungry from making yourself wait to have the first meal of your day. All just to avoid running into your husband.

“So, what flower is it today?” The chef asked with his back turned towards you; he only chimed in once you were about halfway through eating your food. Even though he was busy tidying up the kitchen and putting away dishes, the nonchalance with which he asked the question had mirth in it.

His question made you think back to the lilies sitting in your room, tall, beautiful, and fragrant, in hues of pink and white. You only looked at them once in passing when Suki mentioned where she should place them. And you offhandedly told her, ‘anywhere.’ As gorgeous as they were, they meant nothing. Just a sad apology for a sad situation. Where it feels as if you both are at fault, but also not quite really. 

“Lilies.” 

“Oh, my granddaughter loves them!” 

“Would you like to take them back with you?” 

You offered him the flowers more enthusiastically after you finished the rest of your coffee, but the chef stiffened up. 

“Oh, ma’am, that is so kind of you, but I cannot do that.” Mr. Suzuki rubbed his hand dry once he was done cleaning up, and he fully turned towards you to deny your offer.

“Why not? I am sure they will stay fresh for a few days. If you are concerned that the flowers will wilt." With your dirty plates and mug, dodging Mr. Suzuki’s attempt to take them off your hands, you walked towards the sink.

“It is not that-just—” 

“You know you can speak freely with me, Suzuki-san.” You continued to wash the dirty plates as Mr. Suzuki kept fretting beside you. 

“Gojo-sama got them for you. How could I—” The chef nervously tried to explain to you. 

“Technically he gave them away to me, so now they are mine, and I can do as I please with them.” Mr. Suzuki kept staring at you, blinking away, with nothing to refute your analogy.

“I would rather they wither with someone who actually wants them.” You finally looked at him after drying your hands, with a pleading voice.

“Oh, now you are making me feel bad.” Mr. Suzuki smiled at you sympathetically. He was stuck in a dilemma. On one hand was his employer, the head of the clan, the kid he saw growing up into a fine young man, for whom he couldn't help but root. And on the other hand was you, the new madame of the estate, the timid little girl whom he has come to think of like his own granddaughter.

“If it makes you accept them, then sure.”

“I insist, please.” The way you looked at Mr. Suzuki, with your face scrunched in a little sad frown, the old man could not help but concede.

“All right.” The old man said with a long sigh. But your smile and incessant thank yous made him smile to himself when you skipped out of the kitchen, happy to have successfully negotiated something in your life for once.

Mr. Suzuki was glad to have made you happy and could already imagine how happy his granddaughter would be as well when she sees those flowers tonight when he gets back home. 

Yet he couldn't help but feel pity and a tinge of pang in his chest for your husband.

Gojo Satoru often wonders what kind of flowers there would have been at his funeral if he had remained dead.

Recently, he has been thinking about flowers more often than he used to. But for a completely different reason.

Since that night at the lake, he has been trying to come up with different ways to express how apologetic he is. Which is hard for Gojo Satoru. There haven't been many instances where he had to genuinely apologize for hurting someone's feelings. And no, it is not because he is some compassionate, empathetic soul; he just has the power, strength, and wealth to get away with anything. 

It is true that privilege makes you blind. Gojo Satoru realized that the hard way after he married you. He has unfortunately hurt you one too many times in the brief time he's known you, even before he married you. He remembers when, after you two got engaged, he asked your father to have dinner at your house. He wanted to see the place where you grew up; maybe after dinner he'd have asked you for a tour of the estate and a walk in the gardens with you after dinner—to get to know you better. 

And yet his duties didn't let him do that.

Professionally, in the context of the reformed jujutsu society, things have been better overall. Even for him, his messed-up schedule has become somewhat adequate. Now instead of three hours of sleep, he gets five whole hours! Not the hallmark of a healthy sleep routine, but that's an improvement nonetheless.

Unfortunately, on the day of the dinner, he was called away for an emergency meeting. If you asked him now, his opinion would be that it was not important enough to skip dinner with you (and your family). But sadly, even just a few months ago, Satoru wasn't the married, mature man he is currently! Still, the next day when he heard from your father that you didn't eat anything at the table, it stung. 

He told himself he'll make it up to you somehow. And yet, since he married you, he's stepped on all the wrong stones around you. 

This time around, he felt worse. It might have been because he's come to acknowledge his feelings for you. The fact that he has developed slight feelings of affection for you is astonishing. But he does need this to work out between you two, because he can't get married again. It’s all just so tedious! Yeah! That's the reason why. These are feelings similar to when you wish to permanently keep a kitten found on the side of the road, even though you planned on just fostering it.

Or maybe it was the fact that despite all his pretenses, you still managed to see through the facade he has perfected over the years. It scared him, but it made him more and more upset with himself. Not because he failed to fool you, but because everything has been so confusing for him—these feelings he has never truly felt before to this degree, and the lack of understanding he has for them, and the fact that you are getting caught up in this mess of sentiments and getting hurt by him. Unintentionally or not, he made you feel bad about yourself.

He couldn't just live with that. He couldn't just stand there and act like everything was fine. Not when you were ignoring him, avoiding being in his presence, and moving to sleep on the cramped loveseat in your bedroom when you felt like he was deep asleep—as much as your presence pained him, your absence pained him more.

But why was he even feeling all these intense feelings? He would rather not know the answer.

He just wanted to make amends with you as soon as possible. He genuinely does not fancy Ichiji showing up at his door to ask what he'd have for dinner, to relay the answer back to you—he means, the kitchen. 

Satoru wants you to ask him, personally, what he wants for dinner. To have meals with you at the dining table as usual and wake up to your sleeping face, to stare at it for forty-five minutes before getting off the bed. And if he wants things to go back to how they used to be, he needs to say his sorrys. Which he sucks at. So here he was, doing what he was best at—buying things!

And since he doesn't know you well enough, actually, he knows basically nothing about you—he does plan on changing that—except for the fact that you like staring at the trees and the flowers at the lake. Which is why he went with the flowers.

After what happened at the lake, he tried to follow you to your bedroom, but when he got there, you had already locked yourself in the bathroom. In the morning when he woke up, you were not there beside him; the bed on your side looked neat, like it wasn't slept in. He later noticed the blanket and pillows on the loveseat in his bedroom and added two and two together. So he waited at the dining table for you to join him for breakfast with a bouquet of tulips. And when you didn't show up even then, well past breakfast, he had no other choice but to leave the bouquet with someone to hand it over to you. 

Later that night, when he found those tulips arranged in a pretty glass vase on the dining table, his entire face lit up. He sat down in his chair, expecting you to join him, and when you didn't, he went to the kitchen and got to know you ate earlier before he arrived. Then when he went to your room to look for you, he found the little card, saying sorry in his handwriting—that he slipped into the bouquet—in the trashcan in his bathroom. And he understood that you, in fact, hadn't accepted either the bouquet or the apology. 

But Gojo Satoru is nothing if not persistent! Since then, he kept getting you different varieties of flowers. Telling himself that, at least one of these days, your heart will melt looking at the pretty blooms. He got sunflowers, more tulips, roses in different colors, lilies, and some varieties of hydrangeas—whatever flowers were in season or he could get with his bottomless wallet.

He’d place the flowers on your nightstand every morning, and when he'd come back home, he'd ask either Mia or Suki if there was any noticeable reaction from you. Often you’d just hand over the flowers after instructing them to place them in a sunny spot. Sometimes they'd tell him that you took some time longer to smell certain flowers, like hydrangeas and lilies, before handing them over—and he'd make a mental note to repeat those flowers on his roaster. 

But the cards with his handwritten sorrys would always end up in the trashcan of your shared bathroom.

Today, he got you an assortment of lilies, pinks and whites, some in full bloom, some still unopened buds. And he hoped that you liked them; maybe you finally smiled a little and kept the card this time. He really hoped that was the case as Ichiji pulled up in the driveway of the Gojo estate.

He kept staring at the mansion from his window. As it got closer and closer, he saw your silhouette at the main entrance. Standing there smiling, bidding goodbye to some staff as they retired for the night, including Chef Suzuki, who was the last one to bid you goodbye with a smile on his face. As he was walking away, Satoru saw a bouquet of flowers in his hands, lilies to be exact. And when he rolled down his window, he saw the same pink and white lilies in the chef's arms. Some of the buds were now partially open, and the flowers he saw blooming in the morning were upright and bigger than before. 

“ICHIJI! STEP ON IT!” Satoru leaned forward and shouted at Ichiji with urgency, making the poor man stiffen up in his seat.

“Y-yes sir!” Ichiji nervously looked back and forth between the glass in front of him and his boss in the rearview mirror as he did what he was instructed to do. 

In that instance, Satoru wished he lived somewhere smaller. An apartment, maybe. One bedroom, one living room, one bathroom, barely a kitchen, a nightmare to live in, but that's all he wished for right now. Somewhere small enough that it wouldn't take thirty minutes for his stupid car to go from the main gate to the main entrance. 

“Oh, fuck it.” 

With those last words, Gojo Satoru teleported away. 

It was almost a routine for you to bid the staff goodbye at the door; after all, they always took such great care of you. Sure, it got lonely at night when most of the people in this massive mansion were gone, but nonetheless you were glad they had loving homes to get back to after a long day of work. It made you somewhat jealous that you never had that, a home to look forward to going back to. You had at least hoped that maybe someday you'd be that home for someone to come back to. But how things are going with your husband seems like it'll stay a wishful dream.

“WAIT!” 

You couldn't help but pick up your pace, hearing Satoru’s voice suddenly speak out from behind you. Even though his legs were longer than yours, you speed-walked as fast as you could and made sure to not turn around even once. Once you took a turn down the hallway that led you into the main part of the estate from the entrance, you couldn't hear his footsteps. 

But you were forgetting there is no point in running from the lion in the lion's den. Especially if the lion can teleport.

From there on, you kept turning around to check if he was following you. Fortunately, you didn't notice his shadow or his voice. Soon enough you were in the hallway that sat between the main part and the right wing of the mansion. 

Calling this place a mansion was honestly not appropriate; the way the structures were built and how every route to one part of the mansion connected to another, the gorgeous lighting down to the lit marble floors—it was nothing less than a castle to you. Including how beautifully this hallway was built. Each hallway that separated the main part of the mansion from the left wing and the right wing was designed to look alike. There were gorgeous pillars that lined up from one end of the hallway to the other end, standing tall on each side of the marble floor that led to the right wing. On each side, between the pillars, there was just enough space to fit an intricately carved statue, or a big vase, or two people. You've only heard how the one leading to the left wing looked exactly the same. 

Whenever you're here, it makes you want to peek into the spaces between the walls and the pillars, but you never got around to doing it. That is until now.

“Got you.” 

Satoru pulled you by your wrist and dragged you with him behind the pillars. He pressed you back to one of the pillars; with both his hands on the pillar behind you, he had you caged between him and the long structure.

“Were you trying to run from me?” He raised one of his eyebrows in question, and something in his voice sounded like a challenge.

“I-I wasn't...” You tried to look away from him and turned your head to the side.

“You really want to do this right now?” He also turned his head and once again looked straight into your eyes. The blue pupils that wavered a few weeks ago to even look in your direction now looked straight into your own irises with no hesitation.

“Just how did you even get here?” Everything about this situation was frustrating. From where you were exactly standing, how close to him you were standing, how his eyes looked at you, and how they didn't even blink for at least a minute straight. 

What a strange man.

“I can teleport if you're forgetting.” His eyes followed your pupils in every direction they moved.

“Right…” You dryly swallowed, nervous about where this conversation was going.

“You're not going to ask me why I asked you to wait? Also, how rude of you to instantly start running when I asked you to wait for me?”

“It just—I just—it happened automatically.”

“Are you serious?”

He looked at you incredulously. Like you've gone and personally offended him. Which you've probably done more than one time since he sat down in front of you the very first day you two met. 

“Gojo-san?” Before Satoru could continue with reprimanding you, Mia’s voice came into both of your ears.

It was already well past 12:00 AM. Usually by now you're already in bed or at least in one of the sitting rooms reading something. It was expected that Mia would come looking for you since you asked her to draw you a bath before you could head to bed. 

“I wonder if she got lost again.” Mia mumbled to herself as she looked around the area for you. 

Each individual pillar was thick enough to hide one or two people behind it easily. So when you tried to get Mia’s attention, it came in handy for Satoru. He pressed his right hand’s palm to your mouth, and his left hand flew to your waist as he leaned in to keep sandwiched between the pillar and him.

“MMHMF!” Your voice was completely muffled by his huge hand.

“What?” He whispered close to your face; you could feel the warmth of his breath mixing in with yours. You could even feel the coolness of his hands on your mouth and through the silk of your robe. 

“Mmmf mf mmff mm!” You muffled some more in his hand, trying to get your words across to him, and hoping some of the stupid noises you were making would get to Mia's ears before anything worse than what was happening happened.

“Want me to take my hand off?” You nodded vigorously while gripping onto the wrist of his right hand, futilely trying to tear it away from you. While he just smirked at your struggle.

“So, what are you offering if I do take it off?” Satoru’s eyes were taking their time to move between your left and right eyes. The more intently he gazed into your eyes, the playful smirk on his face fell. He could feel your lips on his palm; he felt a little discomposed to be touching them, and now that he is cognizant of that, it was making his heart beat unusually fast. And he was afraid you could hear it too. But he could not just take his hand off your lips. 

“Mmhf.” You tapped his hand, trying to signal him to take it off so you could answer him. But not really; you were planning on escaping as soon as he'd take it off.

“Yeah, I could take it off, but I know very well you'd just run.” You shook your head aggressively and looked up at him with your best puppy-dog innocent eyes. And it did partially work; you best believe he was tempted to do as you asked.

“Hmm. How about you nod yes or no to my questions? When I'm done, I'll take it off.” Though you were a little nervous about what he was exactly about to ask you, still you nodded yes. He smiled for a second before furrowing his eyebrows. He looked serious, and he never really looked serious. Especially without his blindfold on, it was jarring to be this close to him and see him make such a face. 

It almost made you wish he continued to wear his blindfolds again. Which he has completely stopped wearing around you since what happened at the lake. 

“The lilies in Suzuki-san’s arms— were they the ones I gave you?” 

You stared at him dumbfounded for about two minutes or so. There was nothing wrong with what you did; you just gave them to someone who will appreciate them better instead of watching them wither away in front of your eyes. You shouldn't feel guilty about that, yet with each passing second you could see his eyes getting somber, and they looked like you had somehow hurt him again. 

With a guilty gulp, you slowly nodded yes.

“Why—I mean, I got you lilies before; did you not like them? Or just, it's this whole thing; do you want me to stop with the flowers?” Usually when your husband speaks, he speaks in precise hits and points. You don't remember him being a blabbering mess in a way that felt, for once, like he didn't intend on this. 

You nodded yes again. 

“Alright… But—just know that—I, I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know how to explain myself. I want to, but—can I ask what I can do to properly say sorry to you?” With a sigh, he looked at you expectantly as he removed his hand off your mouth.

You stared at each other in the shadows behind the pillars. You were free to run away, but you could not. You could not leave him like this; you just couldn't do that.

“Instead of flowers, I'd—uh—much rather you got me a plant. And explained things to me. And I'm sorry too. I was being too harsh.” 

“You were not, trust me.” 

“I really want to.” 

There was no lie to what you just said. You did feel sorry about how things went down and how things have been going. You want to be nicer to him because he has been so kind to you. But he seems so unfathomable and like someone in another realm above you. And you are just you. Not worthy to stand beside him, much less eat with him at the same table or someone he could share his surname with. But what's done is done, and if you must coexist, there should at least be some mutual trust. 

“Gojo-san!?” When you heard Mia’s voice echoing at the end of the hall again, you moved out from the back of the pillars, leaving him behind in that little alley of shadow. With one last look at him, you walked away. 

A plant. Of all things, a plant. 

Since he got engaged to you, then married you, to now, you've never asked him for anything. And now you asked him for a plant. No jewelry, a no to flowers as well apparently, not even books or something more expensive. But a plant. And what plant exactly? 

“Ichiji.” Satoru sighed and rolled around in his office chair again. 

“Y-yes, sir?” There has never been one day when Ichiji didn't feel like throwing up if his boss asked him some stupid question.

“What plants are good as a gift?” And Ichiji's streak remains intact, because right now he feels like throwing up. 

“I—I don't know, sir, maybe a cactus?” What kind of stupid question even is that, and how do you even answer that?

“No, absolutely not. Too prickly, no. Maybe a flowering plant?” Satoru turned in his chair to stare out of the window behind his desk.

“Maybe a rose plant?” Ichiji suggested as he looked at the stack of papers on Satoru’s desk while piling up more papers on top of them.

“NO! Why are you just suggesting plants with thorns? Just go, leave!” And this is why Ichiji feels like throwing up everything Satoru asks him some stupid question. 

If Gojo Satoru wants to get his wife a gift she will actually like this time, he needs a second opinion. Which is not from him, assistant. So he left for home early that day, early enough to catch the gardener, who mainly looks after his estate gardens. 

“Watanabe!” 

The gardener stopped shearing the bushes and turned around to look at the source of the voice. Every time Satoru screams his name and runs to him, he remembers when he was barely three, running behind him, asking about plants. And he feels a smile stretching on his lips, looking at the snowy fluff of hair rushing to get to him. 

“How are you doing today, Gojo-sama?” Mr. Watanabe smiled at him and moved slowly to put his shears down; his age is finally catching up to him.

“Later, Watanabe! Can you tell me what's a good plant to gift someone?” Satoru asked him in a hurry, like time was ticking away too fast.

“Oh, well, succulents are everyone's favorite to gift.” The gardener was perplexed at his question; that was the last thing he was expecting.

“No, no, something pretty! Flower-bearing plant. Not roses; they are thorny, and everyone keeps recommending roses.” Mr. Watanabe laughed at his whiny tone. 

“Alright, if you don't want roses… But how about something similar? Without the  thorns, of course— how about camellias?” Satoru blinked at him, hearing about the flower for the first time.

“I don't know that one; do we have one here?” 

“No, unfortunately, we do not. But you might remember them from your grandfather’s funeral. They were his favorites.” 

Satoru does remember those flowers almost vividly. The white flowers were used to decorate for his grandfather’s funeral. Ever so stoic was the old Gojo, so hearing he liked such a bright and beautiful flower made him see his dead grandfather in a new light. But it did make sense for him to like those flowers. As beautiful as those flowers are, they were just as bold and elegant, words anyone would use to describe the old Gojo clan head. Satoru always thought those were just some very full roses, but apparently not. 

“Some reason why we don't have one in our garden?” Seeing all the varieties of roses in the west part of the estate’s garden, it didn't make sense to him why something so rose-adjacent wasn't here already.

“Well, your mother didn't like them. Unlike flowers like roses, camellias drop their entire flower instead of letting go of it petal by petal.” Satoru tilted his head and thought to himself about the eccentric plant.

“Your mother didn't like that; she said it was dreadful.” Mr. Watanabe sighed as he went to clear up some of the cuttings.

“Ok, so can I ask you… Uh, could you get me one of those plants?” Suddenly Satoru felt shy in front of the gardener. The same one to whom he'd run up as a child and demand whatever flower that would catch his eye that day.

“Oh, do you want us to plant one in the garden? Surely it could be arran—”

“No.” Satoru interrupted his train of words, “I mean—as a gift. Could you get me a small one?” The gardener stopped doing whatever he was doing to look at Satoru. For a moment he forgot why Satoru came up to him asking about plants. He thought the gift must have been some sort of formality. But if he is putting this much thought into this, it could only mean one thing. 

“What color do you think the camellias should be, Gojo-sama?” Mr. Watanabe’s smile widened. 

“Does it matter?” Gojo Satoru didn't know much about flowers or plants, which is why for the last few weeks Ichiji was responsible for sourcing out the most suitable and best flowers so he could give them to you.

“It sure does! Flowers have a language of their own!” Satoru blinked cluelessly at the old man.

“Well, what is the purpose of this gift?” Even though Mr. Watanabe had an idea who this gift could be for. He may be old, but he still keeps up with the gossip that goes around the estate.

“I want to—to apologize.” Satoru meekly said everything about this situation was a new experience for everyone. 

“And who are you apologizing to?” When Satoru’s ears became redder at his question and his eyes wavered a little in nervousness, Mr. Watanabe felt it was best to not tease the man any further.

“Alright then! How about a pink Camellia plant? It'd be perfect!” With many pats on Satoru’s back, the gardener picked up his shears and walked away smiling to himself, excited to make arrangements for Satoru's request. 

Satoru didn't know flowers could mean something other than, ‘Oh pretty!’ So he was curious why Mr. Watanabe thought particularly pink Camellia flowers would be perfect to get his feelings across.

Things have been somewhat better since your husband cornered you in the hallways the other day. You two have been eating together again; you're not sleeping on the couch, but you're still not really speaking to him. So the regular calls inquiring about dinner are still going to Ichiji, and other than eating at the same table and sleeping in the same bed, nothing is really back to normal.

Like how usually on Sundays your husband is locked up in his office or hiding away from you or you're hiding away from him. But today, on this particular Sunday, Satoru is dragging you somewhere by your hand.

“Will you just tell me where we are going?” You were right behind him, and being this close to him, holding his hands, was not something you were used to. You could feel the rough calluses on his hand and the sheer size difference between yours and his hand. And it irritated you to even think that this feeling of his skin on your skin is not fading away anytime soon.

“How about I show you instead?” Even though all you could see was his back, you could hear the excitement in his voice.

“I really don't like surprises.” You mumbled to yourself as you looked around, realizing you two had already crossed the main part of the building and were well into the left wing. 

The colors of the walls, the marbles and stones on the floor, the painting on the wall, and the decorations scattered everywhere were cohesive with the rest of the mansion. It broke away the little illusion you had in your mind about the boundaries you created for yourself.

“Here we are.” 

Satoru walked through another hallway, which had large glass windows for walls. It felt like you were already outside, given how the pathway was lit with natural sunlight and overlooked everything in its surroundings. At the end of the hallway was an opaque glass door, which, when he opened, led into a room with plants. 

It was a greenhouse, with light blue tinted glass and humid, dewy air inside. There were not many plants inside, just some little seedlings and small plants that you were sure the gardeners were growing to plant in the gardens for the next season. 

“What is this…?” You could not help but be in awe of the place as you walked between the little plants on each side and a raised platform in the middle with a table on it; everything felt like it was meant to be exactly where it was. Sure, it was not the most gorgeous feature of the Gojo estate, but to you, it was just as awe-inspiring as the lake or the huge, soft couches all over the mansion. 

“Your gift!” He excitedly pulled you to one of the corners, where in a pot was a little plant, and there was a little card hanging over the edge of the pot. You looked at Satoru for approval to reach out for the card, and when his smile stretched bigger on his face, you reached out for the card. 

On the card, it was written in a somewhat messy but familiar handwriting you've been seeing for the last couple of days—‘I am still very sorry; I hope everything I'll say next will get that across to you.’

“I am sorry. I know nothing makes sense, but just know you don't cause me any pain.” Satoru said from behind you. You didn't have it in you to turn around and look at what kind of face he was making, so you kept staring at the plant in front of you.

“You're the only reason why I look forward to meals, especially dinners. I look forward to sleeping in our bed, and I don't just sleep in my office chair.” He didn't explain any further. Because he could not. He could not say why he looked like he was always in a dilemma when you were a little too close to him or why he has been so unfairly kind to you. But it was enough for now. He didn't really owe you any more than what he has given, and you could not help but feel like you've just been ungrateful to him. 

So with a knot in your throat, you put on your best smile and turned towards him to nod in acceptance of his apology. And he didn't push you to say anything more; he didn't ask why you looked like you were in so much pain, or why you couldn't look him in the eyes, or why you looked like you were on the verge of tears.

“Can I ask you something?” Satoru asked you after a few minutes of silence.

“Sure.” He noted that you didn't sound like you were about to break down into tears anymore.

“Why a plant though?” He stood beside you, staring at the side of your face while you stroked one of the leaves on the plant.

“I used to have many plants at my father's estate; I used to spend a lot of time in the gardens. I just liked taking care of them.” Your eyes lowered again. And you didn't look like you were about to cry again, but you looked somber.

“You could still do that here! I mean, we have so many plants in the gardens.” He looked genuinely excited to gesture to your surroundings with both his hands.

“Yes, but they're not mine.”

“Everything with my name on it is naturally more yours than mine.” 

You didn't know how to respond to that. But then again, that's just how things always are with your husband. He unknowingly says something too kind, too misleading, that has your tongue heavy as a stone in your mouth and your chest contorting in foreign shapes and feelings.

“Can I ask you something now?” You were clearly trying to divert the conversation, and Satoru knew that, but he didn't stop you.

“Mmhmm?”

“What kind of plant is this?” You looked at him for the answer.

“Huh? I thought you were a plant expert?” The signature Gojo Satoru smirk was back on his face, and you were surprised at yourself to feel relieved to see it.

“Oh, come onnn.” You whined and playfully pushed his side while he looked down at you with a smile. 

“I don't know.” Satoru playfully shrugged his shoulders.

“You don't know?” He shook his head from side to side, with no intention of answering you.

“Find out for yourself when it flowers.” And he walked ahead to get out of the humid glass house, with you whining from behind.

Satoru didn't know why he didn't just answer your question. Maybe because you didn't acknowledge when he said everything of his now also belongs to you. Or maybe teasing is just a natural part of his personality; that is why. Either way, it worked in his favor. In the last few days you have been talking more and more to him, trying to figure out what exactly the plant he gifted you was. You tried to compare it with the plants in the gardens, now free to roam around everywhere, with at least one of the staff trailing behind you with Satoru's orders.

“Is it Peony?” You handed him his blindfold as he put on his watch.

“Thank you. But nope.” He took it from you with a smile and walked out of the walk-in closet.

“Just tell me!” You shouted behind him while he giggled and walked away.

Satoru already told the gardeners who look after the estate gardens, specifically Mr. Watanabe, so he does not give you any answers. But you still somehow figured out it was a camellia plant. And he remembers how ecstatic you were when he finally agreed with you that it was a camellia plant. But now your concern was what color?

“S-sir, it's ma'am. Should I ask her to call back in a bit?” Ichiji held Satoru’s phone in his hand; it flashed ‘wife’ on his screen.

“No, give it to me.” Satoru took his phone from Ichiji while everyone in the room looked at him with eyes that said, ‘sigh, newlyweds.’ Suguru smirked at him from his left with a raised eyebrow. He is getting teased later.

“I’ll be back.” But that doesn't mean he's hanging up on you. You're finally calling him, actually him, and not Ichiji to ask about your regular dinner inquiries; there is no way he is hanging up on you. 

“Good afternoon to you, Gojo-san.” He said in a sing-song voice as he walked out in the hallway to pick up your call.

“You too, I was calling to ask ab—”

“Dinner, right?” 

“...Right.” He couldn't see you, but he could tell from your voice you were feeling a little nervous again.

“The usual is ok.” You hummed from the other side. He never really asked for anything particular; it always went like this, and you just chose whatever you thought he'd like the best. 

“Also can I ask again—”

“No, I am not telling you the color of the flowers. You'll see when they bloom.” You whined from the other side of the call, and he couldn't help but giggle at your response. You were really resilient, huh? 

“Asking me constantly won't give you the answer, sweets.” His voice sounded so fond; if anyone nearby heard that, there'd be gossip going around that Gojo Satoru has become a hopeless romantic since he married his wife.

“Ok, then bye.” Satoru didn't mind your tantrums; in fact, he welcomed them. He wanted you to be able to eventually talk back to him and converse with him freely, and this was a step in the right direction. With one last glance at his phone, he walked inside the room full of people staring him down. In partial disdain and partial awe from most people and teasing glances from friends, still confused that this was the same Gojo Satoru they've always known.

The rest of the day, Satoru spent half anticipating when he'd get to leave work. And half thinking about pink camellias.

Sure, Mr. Watanabe didn't tell him what they meant, but he understood why they were the perfect gift Satoru was supposed to get for you. And Satoru understood that after doing a quick research after talking to Mr. Watanabe. Anything could be given to apologize, but there should be something meaningful behind the gift other than just feeling sorry.

To say broadly, pink camellias are given to someone you admire. And at certain times, they can mean longing for someone. Someone out of your reach, someone you know, has been trying their best. It's a sign of affection, admiration, and yearning. And Satoru believes that's precisely what he felt for you.

So, Gojo Satoru often thinks of flowers when he thinks about his own death. But now he believes whenever he surely thinks about flowers, he'll be thinking of you.

NEXT CHAPTER>>soon!

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

divider by @/omi-resources. header is from watashitachi wa douka shiteiru drama. art in the header by @/RUEheree on twt.

yeah so april and may were not it.

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[starshipsofstarlord]

divine like aged wine | daryl dixon

summary. daryl begins to feel like you will get bored of him sooner or later as he is older than you, and starting to show his age. you show him just how much that doesn’t matter, and that despite the grey hairs and looming wrinkles, that you still love him (6.2k)

warnings. smut, oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, praise, slight hair pulling, insecure!daryl, older!daryl + younger!reader (reader is mid 30s, daryl is mid 50s), age gap relationship, mentions of death, angst, fluff

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The silhouette that Daryl saw in the mirror was a different man than who he had once been, he was no longer the young tracker that he was at the beginning of the outbreak. He’d aged, and there were clear staples in his appearance that made that evident. His hair was waved with its grown out length, and he carried the definition of crows feet around his eyes; his eyes that had witnessed so much misery, that had cried when he had mourned those lost.

He was bulkier, his arms held memorised muscle from his tactical efforts of taking down walkers and fighting the bad men and disastrous women that wished to cause pain in order to earn themselves power through the transpiring impact of fear. But that weight that rested either side of his torso had also brought additional huskiness to his stomach, he was no longer slender and lean like he had been when he had met you, he was a unit of the world’s making, and he was losing his appetite from looking at himself.

It would be a sin to deny the prize of food, he was aware of that, considering that in the past tense he had to survive days without consuming a meal, and you were preparing the finest dining that you could effectively make in the dim reality of the apocalypse. Years had gone by and he’d never once taken in his appearance so sullenly, but the chaos had calmed for the moment, and his thoughts were entangling in his insecure peripheral. Perhaps he could eat less, he thought to himself, understanding that there were men in better shape than him whom would risk their life to be sat at the dining table by your side.

Daryl squinted his eyes at the version of him that appeared in the bathroom mirror, the act bringing more attentive focus to the scar that ran down the left side of his face. It was on the right in the crafted glass which opposed the realistic truth, and he raised his hand to slant his fingertips against the damaged flesh. It was best for him not to turn, he was focally aware of the scars which were imbedded with cruel love upon his back’s damaged canvas. If he told himself that he was not troubled goods, he’d be lying to himself, he was imposed with the tragically acclaimed boulder of daunting tragedy casting a bland and aging shadow across his entire being.

The towel hung lowly on his wide hips, shielding the appendage that fuelled his testosterone from his own belittling view. He didn’t want to change into his everyday clothing, he’d have to discard the material that concealed half of his body and see another mound of flaws that made his heart heavier. He was lost in the time frame in which he had been discriminating his body, it had felt as though everything had been put on pause around him. But that was idly not the certified case, the soft approaching footfalls met with his ears before the door creaked to be ajar, and Daryl whipped around on the intrusion.

It was the first time that he in fact minded being interrupted following a shower by you, he’d never once flinched at your presence, and that made a light frown appear on your surprised complexion. He had been too cooped up in picking apart all the things that he did not like about his form that he had almost forgotten that you had expected him to return to you in the kitchen, and he felt surreally guilty that you had walked in on him during such a disappointing moment. “Is everything alright Daryl?” Your tone made it clear that you were concerned, and that emotion was only emphasised when he drew his gaze to the floor.

As he did so he realised that even his feet had scuffs and blisters on them, and he felt repulsed. He was attuned with the morals that he followed, but he hated the capsule of flesh that he was trapped in whilst he routinely kept somehow striving onwards. Before there had hardly been a moment where he could ponder on all the things that he despised of himself, but now there was, he realised that he had a dislike towards everything that his body had grown into. “‘m fine.” His words were not convincing, Daryl did not give you the chance however to get a conforming answer, he strode out of the bathroom, gripping his towel around himself with tight fingers as he fled from your view.

You stood there in your lonely and confusedly adjourned suffering, misunderstanding the cold attitude you had seemingly earned. All you had clambered the stairs to find Daryl was so that you could inform him that supper was ready, but he had slunk away into your bedroom, taking up the efforts of closing said door behind his retreat. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stared into the mirror, your saddened reflection gazing tiredly at you, feeling fruitless in your attempts to make the man that you loved happy. Maybe he had fallen out of love with you, you thought with solemn afflictions, knowing that if he had it would still be impossible to hate him.

The behaviour that Daryl was displaying was strange, and you felt as though you were the root for the cause, especially since he had been aiming his attention in any direction but you. With a shaky sigh you ran your hands through your hair, tidying up the frizzed strands that had moved on their own accord from the heat of the stove. Spite boiled up inside of you as you saw your first mere strand of grey, however you held it in, shaking your head softly as you realised that there were bigger problems in the current world than your own appearance. You were in your mid thirties, making you roughly twenty years more youthful than your lover.

It had never been a problem before, your age that was, it had barely come up in conversation. With a surrender towards Daryl wishing to be left alone, you trudged back down the stairs, eating your meal by yourself and enclosing the portion that you had spared for him in a tupperware container, assuming that he would venture downstairs to eat it later. But later never came, the house remained indignantly silent and still throughout the falling dusk, and you twiddled your fingers with nerves. He needed some time to mull whatever was racketing through his brain over, and you wanted to give that to him, and so you pulled a blanket onto the couch, deciding that was where you were to lay your head tonight.

Dog curled up on your midsection, and you ran a numb hand along his back, ruffing up the fur and then smoothing it down. He was nuzzled atop of you, his chin curled in the crook of your neck, gifting you with more warmth than the blanket with. The company of the loyal canine made you feel a tad better from the distantness that Daryl had treated you with, your brain mulled over the situation as you drifted out of consciousness, feeling dread for the approaching morning. You would discover the rouse that was clouding Daryl's brain, and aid him in fixing whatever was broken within it. As you closed your eyes and drifted off, you were oblivious to Daryl's presence descending down the stairs.

The bowman watched your peaceful slumber without disturbing you, his weapon of standard choice draped over his shoulder with its leather strap. He felt guilty leaving the house in the night when you were asleep, but he found solace in clearing his head through the art of hunting. To be outside the walls was something that he had always favoured, and whilst this was his home and so were you, he was aware that he was in dire need to screw his head on straight. It wasn’t fair for him to take his toll of insecurity out on you, and guilt bubbled within him from his sudden exit from the bathroom previously.

He was now draped in his outdoor wear, the same damming boots slung on his feet that had given him those gnarly blisters. There was no time for rest, he thought solemnly, it would only enforce the fact that he was growing older in your mind, and that wasn’t how he wanted you to picture him. He wanted to be the lean, protective redneck that he once was, the one that you had met during the outbreak. There was a dwindling twine of sadness that harboured within him, there was no situation where he could go back into the far past, he’d been too preoccupied with searching for a future in which you would all survive that he hardly had a chance to glance backwards.

But now the calm of the storm had set, he had that opportunity, and he resented the journey that had drifted him into the arms of safety. Your arms would be the angelic wings that would console him, but admitting his insecurities would only damage the exterior that he had built up throughout the difficult years. His age was the threat that grabbed with ferocity at his throat, with each passing 365 days his body was now growing weaker, slowing down only had the capability of enforcing the democratic, virtuous stance of becoming a senior citizen.

He wished to bend down and press a featherlight kiss to the brim of your forehead before he departed, though he would be swindled with repenting guilt if he were to wake you, and so he plodded by his lonesome out the front door, Dog watching his fleeing footsteps with one eye open. The weight that pressed infinitely down onto his shoulders did not lessen as he stalked away, his eyes were withdrawn from anything that he could fixate on, he was relevantly seeking out a distraction in his mind. There was a subdued ache in his knee, and he had gotten used to the afflicting discomfort despite it making him feel eons older. He assured that the door closed with nothing more than the click of the flattened hinge, and Dog's ears pricked up from the sound, though he remained across your torso.

The sonnet of chorusing crickets rattled their legs against their emerald wings outdoors, the symphonised ruckus leading you to peel your eyes open. It was still fairly early in the morn, the dawning sunbeams casting shapes and dusty shadows across the wooden floorboards. Dog remained atop of you, groaning with a tiresome tone as you shuffled beneath him, removing yourself from the horizontal position that you had slept in so that you could simply be seated on the aged couch. You felt disdained, there was an enveloping silence in the house, and as you drifted your gaze over to the front door, you could only release a defeated sigh. Whilst the door remained in its closed state, the scarred boots that fit Daryl's feet and his companioning crossbow had vanished from their placements.

Daryl had left. Left you and your home to find the flavour of solace elsewhere, and you were conveyed with regretful sadness; you should have assured him that he was able to open up to you, followed him earnestly until you were assured that he was fine. The youngest Dixon was the man that you had heartedly fallen for, and whilst the deterrences that he had faced had impacted him, he was still the one that you loved. With shaky hands you brushed your knuckles under your eyes, refraining any tearful emotion from sloping down your face in the form of beaded salt. There was something the matter, and it was upon you in dutiful position to uncover what it was.

You remained seated, Dog beside you as you waited and waited. However your head instantaneously whipped to the side as you heard the door moan to be ajar, and watched as Daryl entered your home with the look of failure written in irritated scripture on his face. He’d been out hunting, it was clear from his attire and stance, however there was no game strung to his belt loops, it was starved from any prey. Daryl dared not glance at you, despite how besotted with you he was - he just wasn’t good enough, those words repeatedly whirled in his brain like a thorn stuck in his side. This time though, you were not going to let the silence create a divided space between the both of you, and so you stood, and crossed the entry way into the living space. Dog retreated from his seating, first going over to greet Daryl before excusing himself, no doubt going to rest on your bed in peace.

“Talk.” The command was missing the pressure that the word often enforced by it, instead your tone was as light as a feather, it brushed across his ears in a gentle caress that tickled his senses, and you hoped that it did not provoke his problem once more. You reached out with your palm, holding his jaw with sweet exasperation as you angled his irises to connect the dots with your own. “Whatever the matter is D, communicate it with me. I’m here to listen, it’s give and take in this relationship, so don’t, for the love of god, do not shut me out.” He wasn’t going to back away this time, the sigh that he released with fruitless despair stated as much. Even though he was evading direct eye contact, he licked his dry lips as he began to speak, his sentence breaking your heart into helpless smithereens.

“I’m gettin’ old, sunshine, an’ one of these days, you’re gonna get bored of me.” There was a somber cast across his blue paned irises, derived from his prevailing insecurities that gripped him suffocatingly tight. “An’ that’s alrigh’ if yer do, I get it. Jus’ wanna be with ya fer as long as I can.” The rolling pebble of emotion drifted down his waterline, despite the irony of him leaving to hunt. Perhaps it was his sorrowful minded thinking of lessening the blow on himself of the departure that would inhibit him from losing you, though his brain’s protective coping mechanisms were righteously silly, as you had not once had the intention of ever abandoning Daryl, and you never would.

“We’re all aging honey,” you proclaimed, copiously understanding that the toll in which your partner was experiencing were enhanced due to him being your elder age wise. But since the beginning of the outbreak, none of you were as youthful as you had began your walker killing journey on, and since being induced with every inkling of distasteful grievances that outlined your persons, you certainly all appeared older than your first scuff of survival. “And that is definitely not a flaw; we’ve lived through years of shit that has been thrown out of blue at us, and we are the ones who have lived through it. You are still Daryl Dixon, the man that I love and will always love. Your age does not define what you mean to me, and it never will. I have fought my ass off to remain beside you, and there is nobody, nobody else that I would rather have settled down with. We aren’t young any more, and there’s nothing wrong with that, we’ve grown older together, and I intend to grow even older with you until our last days.”

Daryl was possessed by speechlessness, his tongue felt like it was trapped by the sharp indent of a pin that held it to the bottom of his mouth, he was strongly relieved that was your point of your view on his mental qualms, though there were still some sirens springing a constant, nightmarish lullaby in his head. “Bu’-“ He felt as though his insistent problems may irritate you after your consoling speech, and he did not want to rouse the need for your forgiveness in the air. But he could not in-debt himself with remaining quiet now, not since he had opened his worrisome rambling heart up to you. “You still attracted ta me though? I’ve got all those ol’ scars, an’ I’ve got wrinkles now, an’ I ain’t as fast on my feet as I used ta be.”

“Daryl, honey.” You braced your hands on the same biceps that were often once flaunted by his torn sleeveless flannels, holding him steady as you leant your face closer, the tips of your noses tapping against each other. “None of that makes you any less beautiful to me, it shows that you have survived an eerily long time, and I cherish anything that you see as a flaw in yourself. Because to me, you don’t have any flaws, sure sometimes there’s decisions you make that I don’t agree with, but we all do things in the spur of the moment. And in no moment will I up and leave you for a singular reason, as there is nothing that you could do or have upon your flesh that could ease everything that I feel toward you.” You words were viper sharp with passion, and in the midst of your sentimental wording, your bodies had drawn against one another, in the proximity that you never took advantage of. Just being close to Daryl was a gift, there was a whim of it being the last time, and so you made sure that you made the most of it.

“I love you woman, more than I ever thought I could.” He traced the outline of your form with comforted serenity, his hands picked your own in the clasp of his unshackled wrists, as his thumbs stroked across the back of them. “An’ there ain’ nothin’ that could stop me from worshippin’ ya. Yer sweeter than those nasty berries that you and Maggie planted, an’ more peaceful than watching the river brush over itself.” His face lowered, as he nudged the hair out of your adoration filled expression, kissing you with vigorous need. You participated with as much necessity, as you breathed heavily through your nose for oxygen access. Your body was endorsed by the coursing adrenaline that travelled within your veins, your heart was palpitating uncontrollably in your chest from the premise of a sexual endeavour with the only man in the world that you were so enamoured with.

Releasing his hands, you gripped his locks, tugging at the rooted strands as Daryl cupped your waist with sensual desire. Your mouths were copiously in sync, moulded together in blissful animosity, as you devoured every inch of controllable humanity that rested in your skeletal bodies. He moaned into your mouth as you gave one last defying tug to the brunette strands attached to his scalp, before your fingers inadvertently danced with poisoned temptation upon the metal buckle of his belt. You laughed lightly as you gave yourselves a momentous breath from locking lips, as you unshackled the entrapment that encircled his waist, allowing the combination of metal and leather to fall to the ground. “Boots off too?” You enquired, and Daryl smiled, loving how well you knew him, the blisters were excruciating although he had masked the biting pain whilst you were orally entangled in arousing physicality.

“Yeah.” He smiled, his cheekbones becoming brightly prominent during the emphasis of his lips; with you he felt truly happy, more so now that he knew that you accepted him with age riddling his entirety. “Take ‘em off sunshine.” His tone was as smooth as a block of farmhouse butter, and you were attuned to the fact that he was not referring to his tattered footwear. With the tasking tips of your fingertips, you drew down the teeth of his zipper on the jeans that he wore, descending the metal partition lower until the top of his trailed abdomen was exposed, and the tough denim became looser around his waist. The coil of starving lust swirled around in your stomach as you shimmied the hugging fabric lower until his precum ebbed length sprung up from its aroused state. He needed this, and you, and whilst he often had the preference of being the giver in these situations, he was captivated with the notion of being the centre of your devoted attention.

Daryl always looked out for others, it was a loyal tendency that he hadn’t ever relinquished, and he felt proud with you being the focal point of his priorities, though it was admittedly nice for him to feel cherished by your body and mind. His hips surprisedly jolted as you wrapped your hand around the thick girth of his cock, the contact causing an array of hormones to shoot out from the core of his apocalyptic designed being. Air rasped in puffs inwards and outwards from his mouth as you stroked him, your motions being made up from slow and teasing intentions. You wanted him to feel like he was about to burst, he had to feel alive, which was the most important part of surviving as if there was no other time to breathe a last breath. The tip of his cock was a deep hue of pink like a well gardened rose petal, precum leaking from the slit at the very top.

Daryl’s arousal rarely was as apparently throbbing in the visual aspect department in comparison to the present; his length would usually already been sheathed within one of your pleasurable spots, such as your mouth or cunt. Patience was not a virtue to either one of you, however you wished to admire every inch of his ridged flesh, as its weight was balanced in perfect disposition upon your palm. The desire to taste his supple flesh was crawling down your spine in a stoking manner, causing bumps of paralleled anticipation to outline the shape of your vulnerable human skin. You were salivating, the moisture wafted around your tongue as you leant closer to Daryl’s shaft, the swelling waiting time lessening as you opened your mouth to take his length within its oral capacity.

“F-fuck.” His accented whisper was strewn ruggedly out from his lips as he bit stubbornly at his bottom one from the sensations that raptured his soul that had felt weakened by the clouding insecurities that bereaved any whisper of judgment into a contorted flaw which made him significantly lesser than he had once been. The feeling of your supple lips gliding down his length and towards the base of his wide cock made his mind become clouded from the affects of euphoria, it was a paradise of escape from the qualms that he often faced, and he was physically too weak to push your head away from his most personal area of his form. The large tip finally reached the back of your throat, and you swallowed down the instinct to gag, instead forcing your body’s primal limitations to continue applying pleasure to the man that you so wholly adored.

This was to be about him, and you found it to be your own duty to ensure it remained so, stretching your tongue out from beneath the heavenly weight of his cock to stroke farther down the parts of his shaft that you couldn’t quite accommodate to fit into your mouth. Your cheeks ached in a delightful way as your lips were stretched around his width, and you had to focus your breathing through your nostrils as there was no route for airflow to make passage through your mouthful of him. In a gentle notion, one of your hands found purchase around his balls, lightly stroking the skin to grant the man that you called your own more pleasure.

Sweat framed his brow, glistening beneath the dim lighting as it trickled upon his temples, his teeth gnawing frustratedly upon his bottom lip, peeling at the blood flushed flesh. This was the solace he needed, not the sexual advances of your warm, wet mouth, though he wasn’t to to complain about your heavenly lips, but you in your entirety, accepting and loving him as the same. It had riddled him with an anxiety that had rattled his bones throughout thinking that he was naught enough, contorting his mindset into one of wallowing in silence and submission that he never would be.

He was attained to wearing his flaws unto his sleeve, although you had finally brought silence to the insistent pacing of his mind. And though his body was tensed, it was for an alternative reason, as he fought off the inexplicable ending that his body would succumb to with a physical release. The motive to vanquish all tension from his body was upon him, barrelling through his veins in strokes of pleasure as your tongue danced over his sensitive flesh, but he relented, taking mouthfuls of air as he staved off from surrendering to emptying his seed into your mouth.

You were intoxicated by the careless sonnets that ripped out from his chest, they were almost that of a beast than a man. He was becoming feral, you could feel as much as his sack tightened, ready to spend all that lay within. But surprise chortled you as Daryl leant decisively backwards, pushing your head away from his nethers attentively, grasping lovingly at the line of your jaw. “Somethin’ wrong, honey?” You spoke now that your mouth was vacant of his length, ogling up at him with eyes that adored to take in his appearance, not only in moments like this.

Everything felt better now that you had consoled him with the assurance that you had no intentions of abandoning him in the now nor future, and he wanted to repay your kindness with his own actions, that too would bring him a simple man’s sin of gluttonous pleasure. He lightly pulled you up by your arms, bringing you closer to his height, his lips flush from the rotation of blood in his body that you had caused. “Nah.” Daryl answered, eyes trailing across each curve that shaped your figure with his heart practically in his throat. “Not a single thing, jus’ need ta be inside ya sunshine.”

It would be the most secure embrace that would ground him to his very core, a haven from all the shit that surrounded the both of you. Times like this reminded Daryl that the difference in age between the both of you in fact was not crucial, though sometimes it did numb his mind with it as a distraction. He pulled you to him, laying you delicately on the couch as though you may break, because you were fragile, but not in the literal sense he knew. There was nothing in the world that he cherished more than you, you were his slice of peace in the fucked up reality that you both endured, and he would be damned if he cracked any mental or physical attribute that your soul attained.

You resumed your battle of tongues, playfully biting his bottom lip that stirred an animosity within him, driving him forwards to clamber over your body, pressing himself closely to you, but it was still not close enough. His hands slithered downwards, pulling with uncoordinated vigour at your pants, appreciating the aid you granted him with removing them. He was consumed by his supple lust, a man hungered for the need to be connected with the woman who he loved. All that remained was your panties that concealed you from him, and he had little patience to toy with them.

And so he tore them from your hips, the cotton splitting in two from his lack of restraint, a half in each hand which he discarded on the floor, having peeled away all of the layers that kept your sex hidden from his gaze and touch. His digits could not resist in feeling the slick that had gathered upon your core, created from the image of him lost in his pleasure. It astounded him that your attraction to him could make you so drenched, practically lathered in a river of lust; even if he was aging you found him to be as beautiful as a deity, weathered by survival but still regarded among the gods. Though he didn’t see it, and you did, there was no other man remaining in the world that was like him, he was a perished breed of human that remained on the earth. A survivor, hardened by time but continually fighting for the beliefs that formed layers around his soul.

“Stop teasing Daryl. I thought you needed to be inside me.” His previous words spat desperately from your tongue, as you regarded him with an impatience to feel all of him. It was merely torturous waiting to feel every inch of him within your cunt, even as he adjusted himself, taking a grasp of his shaft and angling it to slide down to your entrance that was yearning to be stretched open by his length. He sung a groan out as he felt how much your body desired him against the tip of his cock, he wanted to bury himself within your heavenly warmth and become doused in the comfort that the tightness of you wrapped around him allowed him to surrender to.

His movement was slow yet backboned with intent as he pushed into you, breathing out a strung out breath that had built in his chest for far too long. He had felt inflicted by the consciousness of his wilting appearance the last handful of times that you had made love together, and he had hidden that voice. It had been imprisoned in the corners of his mind, and he had tried with determination to push it away but it had not yielded. But all he had required to dull the commenting thoughts that digressed his own body was you to pour your adoration onto him despite the flaws that he resented. “Fuuuuck.”

The tone of his voice was gravelly, stripped down by the raw emotion that he felt. Your nails imbedded themselves into his shoulder blades, sketching crescent moons into his clothed flesh as your head sank deeper into the seating of the couch. A moan was strangled out from your throat from the pleasure that sparked in your midsection as he pushed deeper into you, until he was filling you with his entirety. “You feel so- fuck, fucking good baby.” The praise that you bestowed upon Daryl lit him up like a flame, a depraved hunger danced behind his eyes like burning embers. From your words, he leaned back, his hands on either side of your head and pulled back, only to push straight back into your pussy, bringing both of you ample pleasure.

There was nothing that could compare to being so close to the man that raked his hips to pivot against your own, his pace building as the explosions of ecstasy transcended between your bodies like a cycled blood transfusion. Not a single thing. Each movement was an act of pristine intimacy, a link that blessed your vessels with the passion of having the ability to be so vividly close to one another. “So do you s-sunshine.” Daryl hissed out, having forgone thinking about a singular qualm that had blinded his perception of how lucky he was in this reality. He had survived this far, and not only that, but you had too, giving you the chance of a life together throughout the maelstrom like carnage that had changed the entire planet for eternity.

He felt his tongue become drowned by the gruff noises that it permitted to leave him, responding to each whimper and keen and moan that released from your parted, panting lips. His brow bone was tense with a frown put together by focus, as he stared down at your face, pride swelling in his chest as he had the knowledge that it was him giving you rolling waves of pleasure to spin uncontrollably throughout your veins. Your arousal coated him, making it far more easier to slide in and out of your succulent walls, they parted for him each time from the accustomed entry that you always granted him. He knew that he never had to worry about another man being in his position, he couldn’t imagine it, and nor could you from the blissful contortion that rested heavily and without care on your features.

“Getting close Dar.” The information was heaved out from puffs of air, your lips mindlessly moving even when words were not falling from them. Daryl too could feel the oncoming tide of his own release, it crept up on him like a hunting predator, staving off the kill until the prime opportunity presented itself. There was plenty of things that he was still not certain of in this world, but one that he was sure of was that he was going to ensure that you came first - as he always did. Daryl’s body continued to move, spinning the room out of focus for your eyes as he continued his motions, staggering his pace just a little, but not too much so that the looming of your high would not collapse and crumble.

Your legs bound themselves strictly around his waist, your teeth clenching as spots swayed in your vision, peppering the sight of the man fucking you with pixels of black and grey. He had you where he wanted you, topping over the edge of your orgasm as it transpired around you like an aura. He thought selfishly that he was pleased that no other soul had witnessed you appear so distracted, you were always on guard when out of the confines of your home, aware that the unexpected could traipse upon you at any second that it desired. “You getting there?” Too fucked out to form full sentences, you tangled your hands in his hair, and that seemed to pull the trigger within him.

The sound of your name escaped Daryl’s lips as he buried his head into the safety of your throat, spreading little kisses against your skin as his tension dissolved. Ropes of his seed spilled within you, filling your core as he remained inside, small, almost inaudible whimpers leaving him. You pressed your lips to the crown of his head as you brought your arms around him, cocooning him in the afterglow that you shared. He remained there for minutes longer, composing himself before he removed himself from your cunt, falling beside you on the couch that was too small for most, but for the both of you was as cozy as it could get. “Thank you sunshine.” Daryl murmured as he brought you closer to be resting against his body, and you stifled a chuckle at the doziness that had befallen him

“You don’t have to thank me for sex.” Your eyes rolled, but the archer shook his head of brown locks, his hand angling around you to raise your face to meet your his own, your lips meeting in a delicately languid kiss. His fingertips traced the line of your jaw, his heart swimming with leaps of love for you and only you. Daryl was a good man, he knew that he tried his best to be, however he was delirious with how you saw him. Not everyone would find him to be a diamond in a pile of cracked rocks, but here you were, always caressing his scars with care, and reminding him that he was allowed to be loved. A long, long time ago he wouldn’t have believed that he would have someone that stood by him through everything, let alone the silent battles ongoing in his mind. You had your own opinions, and you depicted them outright, always giving him time to himself when it was required, and as soon as there was a place to console him, putting yourself in it.

“Not fer tha’, for everythin’.” He thought of his life with you, and he could not have been more appreciative of it. It was never going to be perfect, you were both humans fighting to live in a world that wished to eradicate your species, but there were moments to be cherished when you were not trying to protect yourselves. Daryl wanted to kick himself for even attempting to protect himself from; it was foolish on his part, but you always managed to understand his mindset. That was one of the very many reasons as to why he loved you, and he could not voice it enough as he remained curled up with you, basking in the mortal emoting of the love that you held dearly for one another. He was aging, and he had hated it, but he despised it far less now that you had brought a light that only you could give to the natural process that was weaving through each of you, reminding him of the normality of it.

[allastoredeer]

FUCK YES!

Fuck. Yes.

@nyipi you get it. I've been enjoying the "Apology Tour" fan-art, and the Alastor versions of them (particularly StaticRadio), but as soon as I see any blame on Alastor for not reciprocating Vox's feelings, I am out.

Or with any ship in general, though I do see it the most in RadioStatic.

Now, I understand the angst of Vox falling head over heels for Alastor and all the hurt and painful feelings that come from not having those feelings reciprocated whatsoever, but as soon as it looks like the blame for the relationship falling apart is on Alastor because he didn't share Vox's feelings, I just...I can't. Nope. Nuh-uh. No thanks. Get that shit out of here.

"my problem is if it actually reflects your belief that the aro/ace character is at fault while the other half of the ship is a precious baby for catching feelings and did nothing wrong."

This right here is literally it ⬆️

It's very telling when the aro/ace character is made out to be at fault while the other half of the ship is just a poor, precious angsty baby who did nothing wrong but catch feelings for someone who's "unable" to do the same. (I have so much to say about ace-aro people being seen/drawn/written/depicted as "unable" to love, or "unable" to form deep and meaningful relationships, or "unable" to feel and understand the emotions that other people do, especially when it's worded as something they "can't" do - but that's a topic for another time!)

I rarely see people really consider the perspective & emotions of the ace/aro character on the other end of the relationship, and how much it affects them.

I mean, think about itm you have this person that you love hanging out with, they're fun, they're great to talk to, and they like being around you in turn. You have good times together and love them. You do. You love their presence. They're companionship. Your friendship means the world to you.

But then, suddenly, things start to change and you feel that change. You notice the shift in the relationship. That there is something new coming into play. You notice the look in their eyes and the expressions on their face, and feel dread. Anxiousness. Uncertainty.

You start to avoid these new interactions and tells. You side-step them, because either you're wrong and they don't actually feel anything for your--you're just seeing things--or you're right, and confronting this outright can lead to so much awkwardness and embarrassment. It's a hard conversation to have, for both of you, and it's a direct line to the relationship changing, no matter which way it goes, and that's scary.

You don't reciprocate the hints they're dropping. You don't even try to. You pretend not to see it in hopes that, eventually, their new feelings will fade. You emphasize that you're friends. You try to drop you're own hints that this is a friendship and you like it this way. Sometimes, you think they see it and understand.

(And other times, you may not even notice the change in the relationship at all. You didn't pick up the hint. The signs weren't obvious. They wanted to go to a movie? Hell yeah! You love seeing movies! They want to go to dinner? Going out to eat with a friend sounds awesome. They got you something super special for your birthday? They're such a good friend and you love them so much for how much they care about you in return).

And then, suddenly, the shoe drops. It's out in the open. They're crushing on you. They're in love with you. They're attracted to you. They want to date you. They want more than you're willing to give.

And when you tell them you don't feel the same, when you tell them you still want to be friends and you mean it with you're whole heart, your heart breaks when that isn't enough for them. They start to break away. They distance themselves. They tell you that it hurts too much not to have you in the way they want, and that's why they can't bear to be around you.

And you're stuck with this feeling that you're friendship never actually mattered. That it was never enough. That the way you are and what you feel isn't enough. You're angry. They're hurting, but you're hurting too because they're not the only one who lost someone. They're not the only one who's feelings weren't reciprocated. You lost someone important to you too. You lost someone who didn't think you're relationship with them was important enough, valued enough, to keep when it didn't go the way they wanted.

They caught feelings when you didn't. They wanted more and you didn't. You didn't reciprocate, you're not obligated to, yet, somehow, it's still feels like it was your fault. It's painted as being you're fault. You're responsible for they're broken heart. You're responsible for their hurt feelings. You're responsible for the relationship falling apart.

And that's. Not. Fair.

Bringing this back to Hazbin Hotel and Alastor, and using RadioStatic as an example, you know how amazing it would be to actually dive deep into Alastor's perspective/POV of his and Vox's relationship? And I'm not talking about a mean, manipulative and cruel Alastor who noticed Vox's feelings right away and decided to play with them, and didn't actually care about Vox, he was just being a big meanie who wanted a new plaything.

No, I'm talking about an Alastor who did enjoy Vox's company. Who enjoyed talking to him. Who loved meeting him in bars, or roaming the city, or killing people and rising to power in bloodlust and mania. Who had a genuine fondness for Vox and their friendship.

Only for Vox to catch romantic and/or sexual feelings.

I imagine Alastor doesn't have a LOT of friends outside of Mimzie and Rosie (and Niffty and Husk if you want to include them - though that's WAY more complicated in Husk's case), and I imagine he has even less friends who are men.

So this friendship he developed with this other man. This true, genuine friendship where he felt comfortable and sincere, is suddenly ground to a halt. He doesn't feel what Vox feels. Nor does he want to. He likes what they have. He wants to keep it here. Romance was never in the picture, he just wants his friend.

Only for it to feel like rejection when that isn't enough for Vox. When Vox starts getting upset because he wants more, when his feelings get hurt as he realizes Alastor doesn't feel the same. Vox getting angry. He's hurt. He's embarrassed. He's been rejected and that stings.

And all of that is being funneled on Alastor all because he doesn't feel the way Vox wants him to feel. And that stings. That makes him angry and embarrassed. Maybe he's the one who feels used. Maybe he's the one who feels foolish for ever letting this relationship develop.

There are so many complex and complicated emotions that go into a relationship like this. It's so much more than "the ace-aro person doesn't love them back and now they're a sad, heartbroken little lamb who's only mistake was thinking that the ace-aro person would love them back."

We, the audience, is so often made to feel more sympathetic for the one who wanted romance and didn't get it. For the one who was "rejected" and "heart-broken," even though that is a two way street. If you think the person who wanted a romance feels more pain than the person who wanted friendship/companionship, then you need to re-evaluate your perception of love and friendship, because that's just not true.

Sorry OP, I didn't mean to hijack your post, I guess I just had a lot to say XD but yeah, very much agree with you! As soon as all the blame for a broken relationship is put on the ace-aro character, I am OUT.

I love unrequited love like mad and all the apology tour fanart but alastor ship ver. are great, i eat them up like spaghetti but if i ever see genuine critique on alastor (ace, implied aro) for not liking the other character back and putting blame on him -> it's block on sight 😊

I eat hanahaki fics for breakfast, the guilt-trippy nature in apology tour isn't my problem. if the guilt-tripping is just for a tasty narrative, i'm good,

my problem is if it actually reflects your belief that the aro/ace character is at fault while the other half of the ship is a precious baby for catching feelings and did nothing wrong.

I don't want genuine blame being put on the aro/ace character for just, not being able to give what the other wants. It sends me into a spiral of feelings i cannot explain as an aroace.

[frownyalfred]

Arkham Prince - Masterlist of Posts

I've linked the major asks below with a preview (edited for length) below, grouped by subject/theme and rough chronological order of how I received them. Additional shorter asks/clarifying questions, as well as shorter bits of commentary are at the very bottom.

The very first post:

I have been thinking about the idea of Bruce going insane without being Batman, about Batman being his coping mechanism, and that reblog that was like "he would definitely have ended up in Arkham if he didnt make Batman." Now I'm thinking of an AU where that is exactly the case, and maybe Clark expands his interest towards Gotham a bit, as much as he doesnt like heroing there, because it is the neighbor city of Metropolis. It's like his backyard. And maybe he wants to understand the problem of Gotham at the root, so he goes as Clark Kent, reporter, to interview the patients at Arkham, and there meets Bruce Wayne. Maybe falls in love. Maybe its angsty as fuck because this Bruce is 10 times less adjusted than the Bruce we're used to, but of course, equally as brilliant. (Maybe he could escape any time he wanted but thinks he would murder people if so. Maybe he doesnt trust his anger.)

Expanding Asks:

the idea of arkham patient bruce wayne has burrowed into the depths of my mind. this is SUCH a fascinating thought and changes so many things…how does the justice league fare without batman? how does alfred? i’d assume alfred is given bruce’s guardianship when he’s institutionalized, and i could even see him taking in the robins – finding and helping these children who remind him so much of his own boy, trying not to fail them as he failed bruce. how bruce himself does in arkham is so interesting to consider…is he kept on the same level of security as the real supervillains? is he moved there after Events?

Clark, realizing the League has a problem, a trap from someone like Lex they don't know how to unknot, something which requires finesse and strategy which is a little beyond them... taking that stroll (flight) down to Gotham, feeling insane himself for seeking advise here of all places... but the Arkham Prince delivers. Clark explains the situation, answers questions that he had no idea related to the issue, and Bruce hands him the solution in the span of 10 minutes, while the League had been brainstorming and going in circles over this for days...

Clark Kent and the Arkham Prince Finding Common Ground:

clark’s first attempt to interview the prince of arkham go about as well as you might expect, given that he’s a reporter with sunshine all but seeping out of his pores. the first time bruce doesn’t even talk to him, too furious at the gall of this metropolitan newshound to interrogate him for the sake of some gruesome, sensationalist op-ed obviously about the tragedy of the family wayne and the irredeemable mire of gotham to do anything more than death-glare at him for the entire length of the meeting. but clark, unsatisfyingly, doesn’t give up after that. if bruce doesn’t talk to him, he sure talks to bruce, and with each subsequent interview the questions…change. no longer trying to establish facts about bruce’s life or his crimes, not asking about his experience in arkham, not even going for the low-hanging fruit of why’d you train for years to kill those people, but seemingly random and unrelated things. he wants bruce’s opinions on emissions policies (need to be stricter and more tightly enforced, especially in gotham, jesus, there’s a reason lung cancer and asthma rates are through the roof) and lex luthor’s keynote speeches (unprintable, wiped from clark’s tape recorder in case luthor somehow finds out) and whether or not clark should buy a new suit (why bother, it won’t be any less tragic than every other polyester abomination he cruelly forces bruce to look at every time he stops by). clark slowly and stubbornly makes himself as much a part of bruce’s routine as visits with alfred and lucius and the doctors, and all the while superman is playing a high-stakes game of mental chess with the sinking suspicion that bruce wayne has already won in more ways than one bruce figures out kent is superman about three hours after the first time big blue gets namedropped during an interview. he commences with a plan that is part honeypot, part campaign of psychological warfare, and part genuine bid to get this midwestern alien who holds the safety of his city in his hands to try and give a damn like a proper gothamite would, like no one but bruce ever seems to.

Clark, whose one of his grestest fears is being constrained, treated as a threat, dissected, studied, as the alien specimen he is. He has to pretend. He had to be so careful. Every day or he won't have a life to live.

Clark asking the Arkham Prince to Consult for the JL:

i would kill to have clark-as-supes get some kind of special dispensation to bring arkham prince bruce to the jl hideout (the watchtower doesn’t to be without batman’s engineering/logistics knowhow and WE funding, at least not until bruce is more formally considered a consultant) for help on one of lex’s more convoluted and immediate threats. it’s just not possible for bruce to solve the problem in isolation without the league’s resources, so instead of bringing league missions to bruce superman has to bring bruce to the league mission. i started imagining the team’s reaction to their unwitting reliance on criminally insane mass murderer bruce wayne and then i remembered oliver exists and now i feel only sadness thinking about that particular reunion

Just wondering how regular JL universe would react to meeting this au, meeting Batman and seeing Bruce Wayne's potential Would they realize that their Bruce is limited by what he can do inside Arkham, but that this Batman is also limited by his own rules and codes. Would Ollie be crushed at what his former friend could have been, thinking maybe if he had stepped up and been a "better friend" Bruce wouldn't be in Arkham, he could of been working beside him instead. Can imagine Batman saying "I don't kill" and Bruce just smiling in what should have been the brucie smile and replying "but I do"

The crossover is so funny in regards to Supes. Like here's Arkham Prince AU Clark, terribly in love with a version of Bruce who is so unavailable to him on so many levels, aching with it every time he dares think about it, staring at Regular Universe Clark in complete and utter disbelief. (expansion of "regular JL universe" ask above)

Your take on Prince of Arkham's level of influence on JL members, at the top being of course Clark. And also: first time he is taken into the JL base, does he hack into their systems?

OMG arkham bruce and clark have gotten closer and maybe clark makes bruce promise not to kill again after bruce gets out of arkham so he can join the jl but then someone is killed and theres evidence it was bruce but bruce swears it wasnt him ( bc it wasn’t him ) but theres so much evidence that even clark is starting to doubt bruces innocence and the jl has to kick him out and hes taken back to Arkham or for interrogation and then ANGST BRUCE BEING TORTURED FOR CONFESSION BUT HE STILL SWEARS HE DIDNT DO IT until its proven that he didnt do it

@bat-chik's Harvey Dent Visits Bruce in Arkham

"We can't even claim self defense," Harvey continued. "You-" "He has cancer." Harvey blinked at the non-sequitur, "What?" Finally, the orphaned Wayne turned and faced him, face blank, unconcerned about how much more this action would add to his sentencing. Unconcerned except for the steel eyes seething yet holding back so much hurt. Harvey remembered once again, with a small pang, why he had gotten a crush on Bruce in their college days. "Nygma. He has cancer. The only way to get medical care in Arkham is by ending up in the hospital wing." Bruce moved with all the weight of the world on his shoulders and sat in the bolted chair across from his lawyer, and life long friend.

Where are the Batkids in This?

pls consider. a dick greyson who gets tossed in arkham after tracking down and torturing then killing killing his parent's murderer. tiny and lost now that what was driving him is done. a bruce wayne who hasnt been in That long yet, not long enough for people to see him as a threat rather than just an oddity, who takes one look at that angry little kid and says "oh. oh that ones mine" and spends as much time with the kid as he can. and bruce Loves gotham, thats his whole drive. but to dick, gotham is nothing but the place his world crumbled. and i think this bruce never sat with his feelings of grief either. i think he always needed a cause. and i think he saw dick having lost his cause and tries to help him find another (id like to put forth escaping as a hobby, managing to get into Any part of arkham that he pleases especially with his athleticism and small size)

It would be funny if in the Arkham Prince AU, since all the kids are in there for being um - gremlins and down with murder - that Jason in this was the pacifist?

Re: Jason being the pacifist: "I will follow you forever because you killed him." Endlessly devoted Jason my beloved. If you give him one (1) positive attention he will light himself on fire to keep you warm. I love him so much. Self destructive king.

Tim committing a crime just to end up in Arkham and study the famed insane Bruce Wayne is actually startlingly in character for him...

Clarifying Asks:

when do you see him as getting committed? was he already batman? did he already have any of his kids? if not, what *happened* to those kids who never had bruce to fight for them?

Okay, but since Bruce is the Prince of Arkham, whats stopping his kids from being in there with him?

Oh I am sooooooooo curious about what Clark thinks about Arkham Bruce having a gaggle of prison murder children.…you ever think he’s asked Dick to give Clark flowers during one of his escapes????? Or is that too corny for them.

I've seen some Arkham Prince asks and responses referring to Bruce still being rich, but would he still be?

Additional Thoughts:

i am torn between the other Inmates Hating bruce (hes the picture of those who hurt them. a rich man who is just like them but gets Way less pain for it) and adoring him

Picture this, Alfred goes to see Haly's, sees another black haired blue eyed child losing his parents at just about the same age. Another feral child with murder in his eyes.

it’s extremely important to me to consider arkham prince bruce with longer, shaggy hair and a perpetual three-day beard

The smut in the Arkham Prince AU would be INSANE.

This Arkham Prince AU has folks in a choke hold but ya'll forget one thing. The Joker and Harley Quinn.

god i am just exploding thinking about bruce and sex in the arkham prince au. there is absolutely no way he’s not accustomed to exchanging sex for favors, information, anything he wants or needs. (additional thoughts on how Clark fits into this/Superbat)

Okay hi so my main source of Arkham knowledge is the Penguin show so I’m gonna ramble a bit about factions and divides and stuff. (Sofia Falcone expansion)

continuing my thoughts on Sofia Falcone coming off your great opinions to my last ask.

There is a parallel thread between Bruce and Sofia

[hanjisungslag]

attack on titan headcanons #15

synopsis: things you argue about 😵‍💫

characters included: eren, mikasa, armin, jean, sasha, connie, reiner, annie, bertolt, levi, erwin and hange.

notes: i’ll be expanding my horizons!! & adding a new anime to my masterlist >.< also, i added a s4 ver to this? i’m not sure if it’s any good but, i just wanted to do it loll

☆ eren jaeger

pointing out the obvious here but, his yearning to kill every single titan. he constantly puts himself in danger, especially since becoming a titan himself and he is just completely blinded by his rage sometimes. you’ve all lost someone to the titans whether it’s your parents, friends or an acquaintance, there’s no need for him to be so reckless!

by the time you guys are 19, he had left. he became awfully reserved and angrier but in a scarier way, he was quieter. he was clearly severely traumatised & that caused many arguments for a multitude of reasons but before you knew it, he left without a word.

☆ mikasa ackerman

her recklessness. she’s very head strong, leaning toward a bit stubborn but most of all, she was caring of those around her. as a rookie, she may have been compared to a 100 man army but, that doesn’t mean she’s indestructible!

by the time you’re 19, a lot has gone to shit. so many people have died, eren is on a genocide mission & everyone is terrified. at any moment, either of you could die. you used to see her as reckless now, you see her as fearless and what’s the harm in trying to save the world?

☆ armin arlert

probably his lack of survival instincts. or his insecurity because yes, he’s witty AND he does have some survival skills in a intellectual sense but sometimes, he does lack it and it’s scary. his insecurity not only has an affect on him but you too. it’s really difficult to deal with and it can be draining. his insecurity links back into his survival skills too, he’s so convinced he’s a weakling that he freezes, he doesn’t try to fight. you just want him to stand on his own two feet confidently.

by the time you’re 19, you don’t argue about much. he’s grown up so much, become so much more confident & everyone knows he gets closer to becoming commander everyday.

☆ jean kirsten

i’m sorry but this man is perfect 😭. I SAID IT, I SAID IT!! when he was younger, he acted like a bit of a arrogant. sort of acted like a big, strong man but he’s not and he knows damn well he ain’t! he’s a team worker, kind, understanding and most of all strong and intelligent! he’s the full package idc idc.

by the time you’re 19… you’re still the same. you’re in a more dire situation but, jean doesn’t change. he’s still the heartfelt, strong, confident boy you met 4 years prior except he has a mullet now (😜).

☆ sasha braus

dare i say pretty much nothing…? like you guys probably barely even bicker. you’re both fairly happy, good people who are strong and can handle yourself! maybe the odd bicker about how she steals your stuff.

by the time you’re 19… gulp.

☆ connie springer

he’s very set on stuff… he’s very blinded by his own opinions and doesn’t see the bigger picture. it’s frustrating trying to explain minute details to him or asking him to see things from others perspectives etc. all because he’s so opinionated!

by the time you’re 19, after all the tragedy and heart break, he’s a lot more of an open book now. although one thing you do bicker about is him cracking jokes at the wrong time. still a major issue to this day i fear.

☆ reiner braun

aha😅 probably the fact he’s a TITAN… yeah, i’d say that was a pretty big turning point in your relationship especially because he just blurted it out?? like one minute you’re setting up cannons and the next, eren is screaming about how your boyfriend and his best friend are the fucking titans??? like?? traumatic much? before that, you didn’t argue about much. only when he put himself in danger for others because yes, it’s admirable but it’s dangerous and stupid. you don’t wanna see him hurt!

by the time you’re 19… well. you broke up. not officially just due to uh, circumstances. awks.

☆ annie leonhart

i don’t think there was necessarily anything major that you guys argued about, definitely just like little bickers about stupid things and annie would usually just close off until you both forget about it or apologised to get it over with. after the discovery of her being a titan and the killing of marco, you were absolutely heartbroken.

by the time you’re 19, you had also broken up unofficially.

☆ bertolt hoover

nothing! i’m sorry he’s just too wonderful and perfect! that was until the inevitable happened, reiner exposed the two of them on a random tuesday. overhearing this conversation, you thought reiner was delusional, bertolt tried his best to get reiner to just shut up & stop talking but next thing you knew you were forced to fight your own boyfriend. you were furious, betrayed, hurt. you tried your best to let out your feelings of anguish while fighting him but, soon he disappeared.

by the time you’re 19… uhhh

☆ levi ackerman

oh dear god um, probably the fact he’s so closed off. it was difficult for him to even get into a relationship with you in the first place but then, he doesn’t allow himself to be open with you. he’s so traumatised and terrified in losing you that he sees no point in opening up. it’s really difficult because he doesn’t really realise he’s doing it but whenever you try to bring it up, he gets defensive.

☆ erwin smith

his need for the ‘secret’. it drives you up the wall, it’s understandable yes, but it’s insane. he’s so devoted and you love that but sometimes, it’s overwhelming and a little scary. you argue about this every once in a while but especially toward the end, when they were so close to erens basement, you wanted to spend the rest of our lives together but erwin was willing to put himself and all his troops on the line for this, you thought it was selfish.

☆ hange zoë

nothing. sorry but just nothing, maybe their experiments with titans because like what the fuck that’s so dangerous? but usually, you know you can count on moblit to make sure they don’t die aha… even when they do get a bit too close to comfort to the titans it’s less of an argument and more of a “hange— jesus, can you please be careful?” while they giggle happily 😭.

[tookishcombeferre]

Phantom of the Opera: How Much Did Opera Actually Influence Erik's Understanding of the World?

So, I love monster lit. A lot of folks know this if you've been following the blog.

I'm also a huge fan of opera. Like literal opera.

And, operas are really interesting because they're kind of, stylistically, marked by a couple of different things - style, forms, and whether they're tragic or comedic. However, you don't often get like ... blends? You can. Kinda. But, generally, like Shakespearean tragedies or comedies everyone's either gonna end up dead or married.

And, that made me think about Erik.

We have no darn clue how old he was per Leroux's timeline (because he was a prodigy and a genius) when he ended up under the opera house.

So, how many social experiences did Erik really have?

How much of his entire social world was filtered through the tragedy and comedy of opera?

Part of the reason I say this is because if you look at his relationship with The Persian it takes on flares of the sort of combative nature of operetic friendship. They fight. There's drama. They're rivals. Then, they're buddies. There's no stability. It's all drama, mostly put there by Erik.

But, again. That's what he knows! It's all he knows.

Even his relationship with Christine fascinates me.

If you look at his dialogue, he wants a friend.

He wants someone to hold his arm and take walks with him because he doesn't want to be alone. He wants someone to end his solitude. He wants to keep coaching her in music. He wants her to be the prima donna of the opera.

That's all he *really* says he wants.

Yet, he says he wants to marry her.

Why?

In comedic operas, everyone gets married in the end. That's how the happily ever after *works.* It doesn't matter if that's not what he actually wants, or if that's what she wants. It only matters that that's how the plot of the opera is supposed to work. In order to have stability, in order for the tragedy to stop, the marriage has to happen.

Erik fundamentally lacks the language of friendship.

He doesn't understand what it looks like, what it's supposed to feel like, what living is like, because he has no lived experiences of his own to draw from.

So, instead, he draws from the beautiful lyrical poetry of opera. He draws from what he knows and loves most to understand the world around him because it's all he HAS.

He uses the word "wife" because it's the only word he has to understand the complex intimate feelings he has for "best friend." He uses the word "wife" because marriage is the "fix-it" in almost all operatic comedies across all forms of comedy operas whether it's a Buffa (Think Barber of Seville) or Comique (This is probably what Webber was referencing with opera the chandelier crashes in although it could also have been an Operetta, as that incorporates dance, or perhaps it may have been a form of Grand Opera set in the current period, though that is less likely. It was likely a Comique because those were often about relatable characters in the current French culture of the 19th century. But, I'm getting in the weeds.)

Anyway, as soon as the world is brought to Erik, as soon as Christine recognizes his humanity, he is able to understand it.

One of my favorite, and perhaps the most important details in the Leroux text, is that Christine kisses Erik's *forehead.* She does not kiss his lips at any point in the story that I can remember?

In fact, Leroux seems to very intentionally make Erik and Christine's relationship quite asexual in nature. I never really noticed that as a young person, but I *did* very much notice it when I re-read the story as an adult. It's something I appreciate a lot about what Leroux seems to be doing and his commentary on human beings in general.

However, as soon as Christine recognizes Erik as a person, as soon as she kisses his forehead, he lets her go. He no longer wishes to marry her. It's like something is released in him, and he lets everyone he has been holding captive go. He no longer threatens to blow up the opera house and himself and everyone with it.

Christine and Raoul (who were childhood besties) run off together, and Erik dies of a broken heart.

But, if you look at his dialogue carefully, I don't think he dies because he wanted Christine romantically and didn't get to marry her. Instead, he compares her tears mingling with his to that of an angel's tears, and he goes on to talk about his *mother.* He talks about how his own mother never touched his face or kissed him. Yet, this girl looked at him, touched his face, and didn't die.

He fully expected anyone who kissed his face to die.

Yet, this perfect and pure angelic girl did not die when she kissed his forehead.

The way Erik talks in this is oddly paternal?

It's very different than the way he has spoken in past chapters of the novel.

In recognizing Erik's humanity, in bringing the world outside of operatic comedies or tragedies, Christine helped Erik make *sense* of the world, his feelings, and emotions. Marrying this girl is never what Erik really wanted.

He wanted a companion. He wanted a best friend. He wanted someone to walk with him when the world was too frightening after all the abandonment he had experienced.

And, his heart is broken knowing that he will never get to have that. He lost it in his own madness.

And, in that way, Leroux is right. We should pity Erik because if he had only been born a "normal" man he would have been a genius. But, things being what they were, he ended up lonely, confused, and broken hearted.

And, I would *love* to see an actor play Webber's Phantom in this way. Start him HUGE as though the only way he knows how to behave is in grandeur and, as the show progresses, make him more intimate. Take the energy from a 6 when we first meet him, up to a 10+ as Red Death, but then afterwards? Back down.

As he's losing it, he's softer. He's smaller. He's more intimate in his fury. He's scared.

So, at the very end, all is quiet. That final "Christine, I love you." And, he finally understands what that really means to him. So, it's just lightly sung. That exchange of rings is more pleasant. Nods are cordial. Maybe even a little hand clasp. There's understanding. It's soft. So, soft.

Even that last "It's over now, the music of the night?" So, stealthy. Don't belt. Just ... light. So light.

Like he's talking to himself and calling himself "Poor unhappy Erik."

As an autistic transmasc-nonbinary contralto. I would love to play this role. I can hit the notes enough to "pants" it in the original key too. I know. I've practiced.

So, anyway, thank you for coming to my TED-talk about why I think opera influenced Erik's understanding of relationship and how human kindness helped him to understand what he actually wanted for his real life.

[milksnake-tea]

━━ to walk amongst the living .

Jade's last words continue to haunt Sunday as he is cast from the heaven of Penacony and goes from a Family Head to a mere traveler. On his journey to fully understand the struggles of mortals, he ends up becoming companions with you, a fellow wanderer.

sunday x gn!reader

contains: post 2.3, written before 2.7, sunday is hinted to have asthma, sunday is trying his best but bro hasn't touched grass in years so he's struggling, hardcore yearning from sunday

word count: 3.1k

a/n: SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL BARKSI RIYGHGUGHU if hyv doesnt give us any crumbs on what he was doing before he runs into us again. EXPLODES

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz

“Achoo!“

The cold was starting to get annoying.

Sunday sighed, biting back his frustration as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tugged his scarf to better shield his face. It was a good thing he’d decided to bundle up before leaving Penacony; otherwise, he would’ve already died of pneumonia.

The Planet of Dreams and Festivities was the very definition of a paradise. Everything, from the colors, the sounds, and the temperature was carefully maintained to never be too much or too little.

Sunday did not have such privileges here.

He didn’t remember when the last time he saw snow was. Back home, the closest he’d seen to a natural landscape was the Moment of Oasis, where tourists lounged about on the spectacular beaches - and even then, Sunday hadn’t exactly had time to indulge in such luxuries.

His nose was no doubt red from the cold, and his thighs burned from the long hike he’d decided to torture himself with. Wind battered his hood against his face, occasionally blocking his vision or smacking him. Sunday’s wings instinctively shielded him from the incoming snow that somehow made its way past his hood. He grimaced at the feeling of the ice catching and melting on his feathers, already dreading having to clean them out.

Upon reaching a somewhat flat piece of terrain, he gave himself mercy and allowed himself to stop for a break. His halo, his main weapon against frostbite, glowed gently with a heat not unlike a fireplace as he surveyed just how far he’d traveled.

Mountains upon mountains greeted his gaze, all jagged and covered with the same multi-colored snow that was the staple of this planet. He stood among fallen aurora, and down below, he spied a cluster of bright, warm lights that stood apart from the greens, blues, and purples of the snow: the cities, where he’d first arrived here.

Zastrugi was a planet infamous for its harsh conditions, rivaled only by the recently reintroduced Jarilo-VI. Even so, the people here prided themselves on their resilience, and gladly welcomed those seeking a challenge or a death-defying thrill.

In other words, it was a cemetery of the arrogant and the ambitious, and a perfect fit for Sunday’s current goals. After all, what better way to live a mortal’s life than to endure their struggles?

Sunday looked down at himself. His legs were weak, shaking and trembling from the hike, and no doubt were only kept standing due to adrenaline. His chest burned from haggard breaths, cut again and again from each frosty inhale. His head felt light. He wanted to die.

If this wasn’t suffering, he didn’t know what was.

It was invigorating.

Never before had he felt more alive, with the frost biting at his cheeks and the pain that ransacked his body. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, fighting yet strong and resilient and surviving. A soft smile graced his pale lips as his breath fogged in the air.

How strange, he mused. To find such joy in his own suffering… Was he always this twisted?

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

Sunday turned to see you sitting on a rock nearby, snow brushed off of stone so that you could sit without wetting your pants. One of your legs is propped up as you look out at the view, your bored expression proof enough that you’d been sitting there for a while.

You were a fellow traveler he’d met sometime on his travels. Sunday still groaned whenever he remembered your first encounter; he’d gotten swept up in a sudden storm and remembered too late that 1.) he didn’t know how to swim and 2.) his wings were not waterproof. Had you not dove into the raging tide and pulled him out, he would’ve drowned for sure.

Ever since then, you’d accompanied him on his travels - or, rather, he accompanied you on yours. Sunday, with what little he knew of the world outside of Penacony, knew not what his destination was, nor where he should head off to. Your goal was a little more simple - you wanted to see all that was beautiful in the universe.

Even if that meant climbing to the tops of unreasonably steep mountains or camping out in unbearingly hot deserts.

Thankfully, you weren’t opposed to his offer (begging) to join you - on the contrary, you were thankful that he had been the one to say it because in your words, you didn’t know if he would survive if you left him alone by his lonesome.

He still didn’t know what to make of that. For his own pride, he chose to ignore it for the time being.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked, gloved fingers holding the edge of his hood as to keep both it and the snow out of his face. You shook your head, your own hooded cloak flapping in the wind as you looked back out at the view.

“Not as long as I might’ve in the past,” you joked lightly. Sunday breathed a laugh.

Back when he’d first walked alongside you, he’d fought a long and hard battle with his own stamina. It was embarrassing when he thought back on it, how many times he’d have to ask you to stop for a break or even had to be carried by you to the nearest rest stop. Sometimes he wondered why you kept him around, but of course, he never asked.

But he’d grown stronger and more resilient since then, at least, he hoped he did - if not for you, then for his pride.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Your voice was rather wistful as you spoke, a little breathless and hushed, yet clear in the crisp, scarce air. “What do you think? Was it worth it?”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday tried for a joke of his own - although, he wasn’t all joking. No matter how much he traveled, he could never get used to the feeling of his own breath scraping against his lungs as he heaved for air.

You, intuitive as ever, sighed knowingly. “Sit down. You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

Brushing aside some snow on the rock, you shifted over to make room for him. Gratefully, Sunday fought demons in order to stop his trembling legs from collapsing in from under him as he lowered himself onto the rock. That would’ve been mortifying.

His breath fogged in the air as he sighed, thankful for some rest. Around him, the snowfall was gentle and slow, and as the moonlight from Zastrugi’s two moons caught on each individual flake, ribbons of light came and passed like wisps of smoke.

An echoing click of metal caught his attention. He looked to his side and was greeted with a cloud of steam warming his face. In your hand was a small metal thermos that held what he assumed is either tea or hot water. You gestured for him to take it.

“Drink; you need to warm up before we continue. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died of hypothermia.”

Sunday breathed his gratitude as he took the thermos. Your fingers brushed slightly, but with the cold, he registered it only after it was gone, and by then it was too late to respond. Still, his heart skipped regardless, and he turned away before he dwaddled too long, thankful for the cold that had already reddened his cheeks.

He blew gently on the liquid within, and took small, careful sips as to not burn his tongue (it’d happened before, and it was humiliating). He was delightfully surprised with the subtle floral tastes of white tea, his favorite. It was obvious that it had been sweetened, and the honey added was just enough so that it satisfied his cravings.

But, as Sunday drank away, the tea warming him from the inside, he thought to himself - he never told you he liked white tea specifically, nor did he ever tell you how much sugar he preferred. How did you know?

Had you, every time you’d taken him to a local cafe or restaurant, watched and observed? Had you remembered, from the few times you’d seen him order or make a drink for himself?

His hold on the thermos faltered as fire rushed to his cheeks. In his chest, under all those layers of cloth and cloaks, a dance unfolded, his heart tip-tapping away, a steady rhythm that was both nerve-wrecking and comforting.

Sunday inhaled deeply, wings fluttering ever-so slightly, and pushed his thoughts away to focus on the tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. You only raised a brow before returning your sight to the distant city. A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you.

As Sunday gazed down upon the scene, a sharp ache in his sides and a stiffness in his legs, he wondered - was this how Robin felt, when she performed from that grand stage of hers. Sure, the aurora couldn’t compare to the lightshow that accompanied his sister’s concerts, but still - there must be some similarities. Here, at the top of this world, he felt light, as if nothing could ever touch him.

“O chosen one, who dared to exceed his bounds. Sever your wings, descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”

Lady Bonajade’s words rang in his head. Instantly a scowl twisted his features.

He’d never liked the IPC, and he wasn’t going to start now - especially not with a snake like her. He could still hear her taunting voice, that indifferent condescention presented as good-natured pity dampening his mood. There wasn’t much that could truly anger him, but it only seemed natural that it was yet another IPC Stoneheart that managed the feat.

But still, she had been right… much to his chagrin. As much as he hated to admit it, he had flown too high from the people he wished to protect. Even the Astral Express - whom he respected far more than Jade - had made it clear: Know your people before you decide what was right for them.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunday flinched. You peered at him from behind your hood, face gentle yet your brows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“Ah, I apologize.” He lowered the thermos to his lap. “I was… thinking.”

“I know,” you replied. Shifting slightly so that you could lean back on your hands, you stretched your legs out into the snow. “You do that a lot.”

With a kick, you sent the snow flying into an arch off the cliffside, creating another ripple in the aurora.

“Thinking too much in a place like this… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? Try and take a break from your brain, and just- see. Look at where you are.”

Sunday raised an abdominal wing to block the multi-colored snow from falling into his thermos. Shaking the snow off the twilight feathers, he sighed, staring into what remains of the tea.

You clicked your tongue. Snow crunched, and cloth shuffled, before the cap of the thermos blocked his view. Screwing it closed, you took the thermos from him, a twinge of annoyance tugging at Sunday as he mourned the last bits of tea still left in there.

Before Sunday could complain, however, you beat him to it.

“Don’t give me that look,” you teased lightly. “We’re almost to the top - you can finish your tea there.”

The beginnings of a pout tugged his lip, but with a reluctant sigh, Sunday abided. Pushing off of his knees, he brushed himself off.

“Very well,” he relented, but not without fixing you with a flat stare first. If you saw it, you didn’t say anything, for you had already begun your trek to the mountain’s peak.

The higher you climbed, the harsher the snow became. No matter how beautiful something was, Sunday found that he didn’t care if it was pelting him in the face with as much punch as a bullet. His hood became his shield, and he hurried to keep in pace with you.

Because unlike him, who specialized in Imaginary and Quantum manipulation, you were a master of fire. Your footprints lasted longer than his for the mere fact that you seemed to melt through the snow, and as long as Sunday kept close to you, he wouldn’t be at risk into becoming a popsicle.

But that was easier said than done. Again, you were far more traveled than he was, and as such you moved at a much faster pace despite the melting snow’s attempts at slowing you down. Sunday was already dreading the next morning - he’d have to do a full-body stretch for at least half an hour after this was all done if he wanted his legs to be functionable tomorrow.

Every now and then, you would glance back at him, as if making sure he hadn’t been swept up in an avalanche - which, if it weren’t unfortunately a valid concern, would’ve damaged his already ruined ego. And each time, Sunday would meet your gaze, and offer the tiniest of smiles before returning to his suffering.

By the time you had reached the summit, Sunday was well about to pass out. The air was thinner up here, making it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion did not make things easier. But he had done it, and surprisingly, he had kept in pace with you.

He breathed as much as he could, swallowing what little oxygen he could grasp from the top of the world. A wheeze or two ripped through his lungs. Wordlessly, you pressed his inhaler into his hand, a pat on his back to congratulate him. Sunday nodded his thanks.

Once his medication had done its magic and he no longer had to focus on the struggles of breathing properly, he realized that the world had gone silent. Snow no longer pelted at his face, and the aurora had gone dark.

And then he swept his gaze, and saw the clouds below him. Somehow, without noticing, he’d passed through them, and entered an entirely different plane of Zastrugi. Here, there was nothing but sky, and the stars - real, actual stars, not the false ones created by the snow, danced in nebulae above him.

And there was you, your cloak flapping in the wind as you gazed up at the cosmos. With so little light, he could only see your silhouette, but he has the impression that your back is turned towards him.

You are silent, as you always are when you see new sights. In moments like these, it was as if your breath had been stolen, and it is all you could do to absorb the picturesque scene before you, engraving it into your mind to store for all eternity.

Once, Sunday had expected you to take photos of your journeys, as a memento. But you never did. No, rather, you would stand there, memorizing every little detail, and then return to your temporary home to paint it instead.

And he swore, those paintings were almost always more magnificent than the places they were based on.

Sunday took one last look towards the everlasting cosmos before coming up to your side. Rather than the sky, the image he drank in was you. Your expression was soft, yet awe-struck, much like a child seeing the world for the first time. There was always a sort of melancholy in your eyes, but also a love for everything that he could drown in if you allowed him to.

You loved the world, and it was that love that he adored.

You turned to him, noticing his gaze, and for a moment, it was if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in his throat, and words died on his tongue. All he could do was look into your star-speckled gaze, all the colors of the universe casting their light onto the two of you.

What expression was he wearing, he wondered? A smile, or perhaps… something else?

But then you raised your hand, brushing it against his cheek ever so slightly, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

A smile wove onto your lips. “You had some snow left on you.”

Sunday tried not to miss your hand as it left him. His fingers trace what you had left, his gaze becoming lidded.

“Ah,” he breathed.

The corner of yours eyes crinkle, and you turned to the cliffside. Leaning over slightly, you peered over the edge, the clouds obscuring the true height of the fall. Sunday blinked.

“What are you planning…” he sighed, crossing his arms. You chuckled, turning slightly to meet his eyes.

“One way or another, we have to get down,” you pointed out. Sunday’s expression fell flat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your feet toed the edge, sending rocks and snow tumbling down. “You said you wanted to experience life as a mortal to the fullest, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that included throwing oneself off a mountain.”

You shook your head, a grin surfacing. “You’re no fun, Sunday. Don’t you have those wings of yours? What do you have to worry about?”

Sunday’s answer was immediate. “You.”

“How sweet of you,” you commented as he came to besides you. “Well, then, you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[Name], I swear upon all that is good in this world-”

He opened his eyes. You were already gone.

Sunday swore.

Midnight unfolded behind his back, clashing with his white cloak. Without so much as a second thought, he dove into the clouds headfirst, shooting through the sky like a meteor as he searched for you.

The second the fog of the clouds leave, however, he was thrust into a world of color. He fell alongside the snow, and unlike when he was on the mountain itself, he became a part of the aurora. The colors nearly blinded him, if not for the fact that he had his sights set on one thing - your falling figure, so close yet so far.

He tucked his wings as to fall faster. The second he reached you, he grabbed you, arms locking around your waist and pulling you into him, where it was safe.

“You’re a fool,” he scolded as your chest met his. You laughed, throwing your head back to return to the aurora.

“And yet, you saved me all the less.”

Sunday rolled his eyes as your legs wrapped around his waist. His wings returned to their full wingspan, catching the wind and ensuring that your fall didn’t end in a tragedy. He swerved and turned and glided, dodging peaks and keeping his sights on the city.

And all the same, you laughed, nothing short of pure glee in your voice.

And he sighed, fondness squeezing him regardless.

Yes, you were a fool.

But you were a fool he couldn’t help but love.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[noralia20]

your fics are poetry, soooo romantic and dreamy!!! hoping for jannik angst 👉👈 maybe exes who were in a secret relationship but im trusting your vision hehe thank you🙏🙏🙏

My most beautiful tragedy...

sum up : When secrets and expectations are too heavy, decisions are taken. But can you ever take it back ?

Ahhhh I loved that idea. Still French!reader au, I really like that one. She’s in med school because I just finished my first year (hardest one in France) so small tribute. Have fun !

You met in the heat of a Spanish summer — the kind of warmth that clung to your skin and made everything feel half-dream, half-dare. You weren't supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to notice.

Your father had been invited to a training camp in Valencia — one of the top sports physicians, always traveling, always surrounded by athletes with aching joints and rising dreams. You'd tagged along only because Lille had begun to feel suffocating, and Spain at least promised a little sun, a little freedom. Your weren't allowed to wander the grounds. The tennis camp had rules. Schedules. Boundaries. But you liked breaking them. And one night, barefoot and bored, you slipped away from the guest quarters and into the shadows of the clay courts.

That’s when you saw him.

A tall figure in the dark, hoodie low over his brow, bouncing a tennis ball against the court wall in steady, hypnotic thumps. You recognized him — of course you did. Jannik Sinner. La volpe. Even back then, people whispered about him like he was more comet than boy. Rising star. Future number one.

He turned, a flicker of surprise on his face.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice soft, in accented English.

You smiled. “Neither are you.”

It started like that — shared glances over protein bars and taped ankles, secret midnight walks under the orange trees behind the courts. He taught you how to serve; youtaught him how to curse in French. There was something thrilling about the quiet, about existing in each other’s lives like a secret nobody else was allowed to touch.

Nobody knew. Not you father, not his coaches. Not your friends. You kept it sacred, hidden. At first, it was for fun — that adolescent thrill of something forbidden. But months bled into years, and the secret only grew deeper, heavier. Like something precious you'd buried in the chest of your ribs.

By 2022, you were both adults, and your love had outgrown the shadows — but you never brought it into the light.

You moved through airports alone, never beside him. Watched his matches in silence, heart clenched every time his name was shouted into stadiums full of strangers. Ypur fingers itched to reach for him when he won, but you stayed in the dark, just as you'd agreed.

And he — he always called when he could. Whispered things in Italian and English, his voice hushed through hotel walls, apologizing when he couldn’t come home for weeks. "You’re my world, even if no one knows it," he used to say. And you believed him.

Until 2023.

He didn’t call that week. Not even a text. You knew something was wrong, but you waited. You always waited.

When he finally came, it wasn’t to see you. It was to end it.

You met in a quiet hotel room in Monte Carlo, just before one of his big matches. He didn’t look like yours anymore — his hair shorter, his smile dimmer. He spoke in short, clean sentences. Clinical. Controlled.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You laughed, not because it was funny, but because it felt impossible. “Do what?”

“This,” he said. “Us.” You world cracked like thin ice. “Why?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked down at his hands — those hands you used to kiss after every match. “Because it’s too complicated,” he said finally. “Because people wouldn’t understand. My family wouldn’t. The public wouldn’t.”

Your voice was hollow. “I thought that’s why we kept it secret. To protect it.” He didn’t meet your eyes. “I need to focus on my career. I have a shot now. A real one. And I can’t… I can’t afford distractions.”

“Is that what I was to you?” you asked, heart breaking open. “A distraction?”

He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no. You left before you started crying. Not that he tried to stop you.

No one ever knew you'd loved each other. Not even your father. To the world, Jannik Sinner rose like fire — steady, quiet, brilliant. A golden boy with nothing holding him back.

And you— you became a ghost in his past. A shadow he never had to name.

But you remembered.

You remembered the way he kissed your fingers when he thought you were asleep. The way he once whispered, "Vorrei l'eternità, ma non so se me lo merito." (“I want forever, but I don’t know if I deserve it.”)

You remembered being his secret, and how beautiful and lonely that made you feel.

You didn’t break in the way he expected.

Yes, there were nights where the silence screamed. Where you sat on your bedroom floor in Lyon, clutching a hoodie that still smelled faintly of clay and mint and heartbreak. But you didn’t fall apart.

You rebuilt.

You never told anyone.

Not even your roommate in Lyon, the one who knew how you liked you favourite drink and when you needed space. Not the girls in your study group, or the boy who tried to flirt with you in anatomy class.

Not your father — especially not him.

You carried Jannik like a fading scar beneath your ribcage. A quiet place no one could touch.

Piece by slow, stubborn piece, you found yourself again. Med school in Lyon was grueling, but you threw yourself into it with a kind of fury. Your hands no longer trembled. Your gaze no longer searched the crowd for someone who had made you invisible.

You didn’t watch tennis. Not anymore. So when people talked about Jannik Sinner, the new golden boy — all you did was nod vaguely. As if you barely knew who they meant.

Maybe if you forgot the curve of his jaw in candlelight, or the way he whispered your name in between two languages, the memories would finally dissolve.

And maybe if no one else knew… then none of it had ever existed.

But life — in all its chaos and absurd timing — had other plans. Six months passed like that. You didn’t speak his name, even in your head. Until Carlos.

Carlos Alcaraz was a thunderstorm in human form. Everyone knew it — the energy, the chaos, the kind of joy that seemed to radiate even through a TV screen. You had known him from the sidelines of Jannik’s world. The loud one. The rival. The one who made crowds chant and girls scream. The one your ex always eyed with a kind of quiet, respectful wariness.

You hadn’t expected him. It always starts like that afterall. Not in a sun-soaked café in Nice. Not with that kind of smile — the kind that came with heat and history.

But now, Carlos looked at you like you were the sun and he was done orbiting anyone else. He recognized you instantly. You weren’t sure whether that surprised you or not.

“Eres la hija del médico, ¿verdad?” ("You're the doctor's daughter, right?") he said, with a crooked grin and far too much mischief for one afternoon. "You’re the girl who disappeared."

You rolled your eyes. “And you’re the boy who never learned to stop flirting.”

He laughed — loud, warm, unashamed. The kind of laugh Jannik never allowed himself to have much in public.

He didn’t flirt that day. He talked. About nothing and everything. About back home. About how hard it was to find friends who didn’t want something. About how he hated suits and ties and events where people spoke only to be heard.

You were wary. You had every right to be. But Carlos kept showing up —never pushed.

And he was persistent.

Not in a way that overwhelmed, but in a way that made you laugh when you hadn’t meant to. He texted you memes at 2 a.m., sent you pastries after your night shifts, even memorized your class schedule just to call while you walked home.

He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer. Didn’t touch the wound while he never knew the reason it existed.

Carlos was loud — in his affections, in his joy. Where Jannik had whispered, Carlos shouted. Where Jannik hid you like a secret, Carlos made you his anthem. He gave you the world just for you to look at him.

And slowly, painfully, you let him in.

He was everything Jannik wasn’t. Not better. Just… different.

Carlos was loud in every way. Laughed with his whole chest. Took pictures of you at the worst moments and made them his phone background. He posted you after a few months. Because he communicated, because he trusted you and this relationship. And when the press caught on, expecting some tabloid-style scandal from tennis’s golden playboy, they got something else instead.

They got a man whose smile softened when he looked at you.

A man who took you to Ibiza, yes — but who never once left you behind. A man who kissed your forehead on live streams and carried your shoes when you got tired. A man who even started to learn your language when he still had trouble with English sometimes. Who never made you feel like a secret.

He held your hand in airports.

He called you mi cielo in interviews.

And maybe — just maybe — you were beginning to believe that love didn’t have to be hidden to be real.

The day you passed your sixth-year med exams, Lyon was bursting with early summer heat. You stood on your balcony, tired and proud, champagne glass in hand, the city pulsing softly around you.

And that was the day Jannik became number one.

You saw the headline by accident — "Jannik Sinner, the New World No. 1" — and for a moment, your breath caught.

You stared at the screen, at his name. His photo. His triumph. You imagined the weight of the trophy in his hands, the roar of the crowd, the shine of everything he ever wanted coming true.

He did it.

Without you.

You raised your glass to the sky, as if to toast the past — to that quiet, hidden boy who once kissed you behind tennis courts and told you you were everything, even when he was too afraid to say it out loud.

“Félicitations,” (“Congratulations,”) you whispered, to no one.

And then you turned your phone face-down, walked back inside, and into Carlos's arms — where you belonged now.

He had everything.

The number one ranking. The trophies. The endorsement deals. The legacy.

Everything he’d ever told himself he wanted.

And yet.

Sometimes, in hotel rooms that were too quiet, too clean, he would lie awake and feel like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

The cameras followed him now like shadows, constant and glaring. He was the headline. The golden boy. The pride of Italy. And still, some days, he woke up and felt... hollow.

The dream was real. He had climbed the mountain, conquered the court, made history — but he had lost the only thing that made it all feel worth it.

He had lost you.

At first, he told himself it had been necessary. Strategic. Necessary sacrifices, right? That’s what everyone said. Focus, discipline, control. And you— you had been everything but that. You were laughter at midnight, warmth in a hotel bed, a voice that made him forget the match he lost. You made him feel, and for so long he’d convinced himself that feelings were distractions. That needing someone made him weak.

But you had never been his weakness. You had been his home.

And when he let you go, he told himself you'd wait. Or maybe you'd fade. Either way, he’d be fine.

But then came Carlos.

He saw the pictures first — the ones from Madrid, Ibiza, Roland-Garros. The internet couldn’t get enough of it: Carlos Alcaraz and the mystery girl who tamed him. The one who made the golden boy of Spain settle down.

Jannik clicked through them, quietly. He tried to feel nothing. But the look in your eyes — that soft, glowing warmth you once gave to him — it was there again.

Only now, it wasn’t his.

You looked happy. Radiant. You didn’t need to hide anymore. You weren't in the shadows, waiting for phone calls at midnight. You were front-row now, your smile splashed across timelines and headlines. Carlos held your hand like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like he never would.

It made Jannik sick — not out of bitterness, but out of guilt. Out of grief.

Because he remembered your silence after he ended it. How you didn’t fight, didn’t beg. You just... left. And he had convinced himself that meant you didn’t care as much. But maybe it had always meant the opposite — that you loved him enough to let him go.

Anna came after. Blonde. Elegant. Photogenic.

A “match,” people called them. Publicly perfect.

But Jannik always felt like he was wearing someone else’s suit. Something too tight, too glossy. He smiled on red carpets, posed for campaigns, stood beside someone who looked like a partner but never felt like one. Anna loved the spotlight. She thrived in it.

And him? He just wanted to escape it some days.

He tried to drown in work. The gym. Practice. Tournament after tournament. Until tennis was the only voice in his life.

But the quiet always came back.

And in that quiet, he missed you.

The engagement news came in early January, 2025.

He almost missed it — buried in travel, training, fake smiles. But it started as whispers in locker rooms, then headlines on social media: a diamond ring on your hand, shining under Spanish sky.

At first, he brushed it off. Another rumor. People liked to make things up.

But then came the official post. A photo of your hand — the same hand he once kissed at dawn — now wrapped in Carlos’s, ring glittering like a promise. And soon it came into his mail.

Engagement party of Y/N M/N L/N and Carlos Alcaraz Garfia

Set for June 2025, between Grand Slam commitments

The words blurred for a moment. He set the card down. Picked it up again. Read it twice more, just to be sure.

And there you were — not a blurry photo this time, not a passing rumor. No, you were smiling. Laughing. On the official post, avideo showed you twirling in a garden in Valencia, your ring flashing as Carlos kissed your cheek.

And then it hit him.

He thought it would pass. That you and Carlos were a phase. A fling. He thought the fire between them would die out — the way so many short-lived romances do.

But it didn’t.

It bloomed.

And now, you were marrying him.

You were going to marry Carlos — the boy Jannik used to beat on the court, and now the man who had everything Jannik had thrown away. And he had to watch it happen.

Late May, Paris

Six months passed like a blur — joyful, exhausting, sun-drenched and stormy in the ways only a life on the move can be.

You followed Carlos through a whirlwind season, hopping from one city to the next, his hand always finding yours in airports, press rooms, hotel elevators. He held you like a compass — like he needed your calm to steady his storm. And you gave it freely, because he never asked you to be less, or more, or someone you weren’t.

And together, you planned a wedding.

Simple, small. Spanish countryside during december. Olive trees. White linen. A family meal under the stars. You didn’t want extravagance — just honesty. And Carlos, bless his heart, gave it to you in spades. His mother helped with the venue. His father insisted on the music. His cousins would all be there, loud and dancing before the sun even set.

It was going to be perfect.

And then, he mentioned inviting a few tennis friends. "Not too many," he promised, scrolling through names on his phone. "Just the ones who matter."

You hadn’t thought about it.

Hadn’t realized the possibility until it was too late.

Because of course Jannik would be on that list. Carlos liked him — respected him. Called him “mi rival favorito.” Jannik had congratulated him publicly when you got engaged. Of course Carlos wouldn’t see any reason not to invite him.

Because he didn’t know.

No one did.

Not about the summer nights in Spain. The years hidden behind closed doors. The way you once stitched your life around Jannik’s without anyone ever knowing. You never told Carlos, not because you were hiding — but because it didn’t belong in your now. It was part of another life. One you buried gently, and hoped would stay quiet.

But the ghost of it still breathed sometimes.

That night in Paris, a chill ran through the open window, soft with spring. Roland-Garros roared in the background of the city. Carlos had just come back from another win. He was shirtless, warm against your side in bed, his hand resting loosely over your stomach.

He looked at you like he always did — full of unshakable belief. And then he asked, voice low in the quiet dark:

“Estás segura?” (“Are you sure?”)

You turned toward him, blinking slowly. “About what?”

He hesitated, then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “About us. About the wedding. About everything. You’ve been quiet lately.”

It wasn’t suspicion. It was love, laced with concern. Carlos never needed reassurances for himself — he needed to know you felt safe. You inhaled deeply, then nodded, forehead pressing to his. “Yes. I’m sure.”

And you were.

Because Jannik had once loved you in secret. Carlos loved you out loud. Because Jannik left to chase gold. Carlos stayed and built a home. And because even now, with the past rising like fog in the corners of your thoughts, you knew one thing clearly:

This was where you were supposed to be.

“I don’t doubt you,” you whispered. “I just… want to do this right. It matters to me. You matter.”

Carlos smiled, slow and certain. “Then we’ll do it right. Together.” And you kissed him, long and deep, anchoring yourself to the truth you’d chosen. Even if ghosts walked the aisle too.

Even if one pair of green eyes watched from the crowd, wondering what might have been.

Roland-Garros Final, June 2025

It was the kind of day that smelled like history.

Roland-Garros was buzzing — the sun high, the crowd tense, Paris holding its breath. The men's final was everything the world had hoped for: Jannik Sinner versus Carlos Alcaraz. Titans. Rivals. Fire and ice. One chasing his crown, the other determined to keep it.

And you — you were in the stands, trying not to crumble.

Your sunglasses shielded more than your eyes. They were your armor, a barrier between you and a world that didn’t know. Didn’t know you had kissed both men. Had loved one and lost him. Had built a life with the other.

Carlos’s family surrounded you, already giddy with nerves. His mother clasped your hand, whispering in rapid Spanish when the rallies got too intense. His father clenched his fists beside you like he was trying to will the ball across the net.

You clapped. You cheered. You smiled.

But behind your glasses, your gaze kept drifting — to the figure on the other side of the court, lean and composed, red hair tousled with sweat, blue eyes sharp with focus.

Jannik looked… empty.

At first, he had the upper hand. The first two sets had been his. He played like a man possessed — efficient, distant, almost cruel in his precision. Carlos fought, of course. He always did. But Jannik had been on another level.

Until he wasn’t.

You felt it before it happened. A shift in the atmosphere. Like something inside Jannik cracked.

And Carlos rose.

Set three. Set four. The crowd screamed. Carlos grinned through the chaos, wild and radiant. You were on your feet half the time, heart pounding so loud it blocked out the commentary. Jannik's serve wavered. His shoulders stiffened. His eyes darkened.

Set five was war.

You forgot to breathe. And still they played. Until finally, after 5 hours and 29 minutes, it was over.

And Carlos… Carlos won. He collapsed to his back, hands to his face. And then he was up — running, breathless, laughing. Straight to you.

He jumped through the steps guiding him to the stands. Found you like a beacon. Wrapped you in his arms and lifted you off your feet, spinning you in front of the cameras, the world, and the future.

You laughed and sobbed into his shoulder, holding him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. And in that moment — in the haze of the Paris sun and roaring applause — it was all true.

He had won. Not just the title. But everything. Even you.

While he sat still on the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders, clay sticking to his calves, blood rushing in his ears.

He had lost. Not just the match. It wasn’t even about the trophy anymore.

Carlos had beaten him before — it wasn’t new. But this? This was different. Because somewhere between the fourth set and the end of his world, Jannik had realized he wasn’t playing for points.

He had been playing for you. You were the last piece. The last thing he had ever loved without strategy, without calculation. The one thing that made the world slow down instead of spin faster.

And you were in the arms of the man who just shattered him.

He glanced over — once — and saw you wrapped in Carlos’s embrace, laughing through tears, your hand brushing his hair as he kissed your forehead. You looked like home. But not his. Not anymore.

He turned away quickly, gripping the towel like it might ground him. His heart thudded painfully — not with adrenaline, but with loss. The kind that lingers long after the press conferences are over and the cameras stop flashing.

He had given up everything for this sport. Sacrificed privacy. Joy. Love. And now?

Carlos had the girl and the title.

Jannik had clay on his shoes and ghosts in his throat.

For a long time, he didn’t move. Just stared into the void, feeling something final settle in his chest. Not bitterness. Not even anger. Just… regret.

That night, after the stadium cleared, you found a quiet corner backstage. Carlos was still celebrating with his team, his smile electric, infectious.

You stepped out into the corridor and saw Jannik, walking toward the exit alone. He paused when he saw you. Neither of you spoke. The silence was thick. Familiar. Heavy with all the words left unsaid over the years. His eyes searched yours — not pleading, not apologizing. Just… remembering.

You gave him a small smile. Soft. Kind. And then you whispered, “You played beautifully.” He nodded once. Voice rough: “So did he.”

That's all you had to say. And you walked away.

June 11th, 2025 — Paris

Engagement Party

The room was everything Paris promised at night — timeless, warm, and touched with gold.

It sat high in a Haussmannian building, its balconies open to let in the breeze. Inside, lights glowed soft and honey-colored. Laughter bubbled through the air, mixed with clinking glasses and the low hum of music that felt more like background to something much bigger: love, celebrated loudly and without hesitation.

You stood by Carlos, hand resting lightly on his arm as people drifted past — family, old friends, a few faces from the tour. Everyone had something to say, a compliment to offer, a toast to give. You passed around canapés with a smile so effortless it seemed carved from light, your cream dress dancing gently around your legs as you moved.

Carlos couldn’t stop looking at you — everyone could see that. He reached for your hand between conversations, pressed soft kisses to your hair, whispered something in your ear that made you throw your head back in laughter

You didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching you from across the room.

But Jannik did.

He stood near the wall, just out of the crowd’s rhythm, a shadow of a man caught between past and present.

You didn’t see him when he entered. You were mid-conversation with your grandmother, glowing from the inside out. He saw the way you curled slightly toward Carlos when he leaned in to greet your cousin. He saw how your fingers brushed his back when you passed him a flute of champagne. Every gesture subtle, intimate, natural — like you’d been doing it your whole life.

And for a moment, Jannik hated himself.

Because he had known that version of you first.

The quiet intimacy.

The soft glances.

The language of fingertips and silence.

He had known every crevice of your soul — your fears, your dreams, the way you used to close your eyes when the Spanish sun set too fast. He had held you in secret like a treasure he wasn’t brave enough to claim.

And now here you were. Shining. Loved. Belonging.

To someone else.

To him.

Jannik's hand clenched around the stem of the champagne coupe he hadn’t touched. He only snapped out of it when Anna appeared beside him in a flash of red, the shimmer of her gown catching the light like a mirror. She offered the glass with a flirtatious tilt of her head.

“You’re brooding again,” she teased lightly, her voice dripping with effortless glamour. “Smile. People are watching.”

He took the glass without meeting her gaze, pasting on a half-smile that felt like glass in his mouth. “Ovviamente.” ("Of course")

She was already turning away, laughing at something someone said about her dress, soaking in the attention like it was a drug. She didn’t notice he wasn’t drinking. She never asked if he was okay.

He didn’t care. Not really.

Because across the room, you laughed again. Threw your head back again. Let Carlos pull you closer with his hand at your waist, again.

And Jannik stared.

At you.

The future Mrs. Alcaraz.

After all the smiles, the kisses on cheeks, the congratulations that blurred into one, you slipped away quietly.

Your fingers pushed past the linen curtain, revealing a stone balcony bathed in moonlight. The summer air kissed your skin, and for the first time that evening, your chest exhaled fully. You stepped out, heels clicking softly against the aged stone, and leaned onto the railing, gazing out over the city. The balcony was narrow and elegant, stone railing carved with age and care. The night stretched beyond you — the rooftops of Paris lit in a haze of golden windows and blue twilight. From here, the city hummed like a living thing.

Paris looked like it was holding its breath. Cars passed slowly beneath, lights flickered from distant windows, and the air buzzed with quiet life.

You glanced down at your hand.

The diamond shimmered, catching the light. A promise, a future, a life you chose and that chose you back. You smiled. And then—

“Congratulazioni.” ("Congratulations.")

His voice sliced through the silence. Low. Cautious. Familiar. You froze. Your spine straightened as if against a cold wind. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to see him standing there, only steps away — him. Jannik.

Jannik stepped up beside you, but kept his distance — almost two meters away, like the space between you had been measured in guilt. His hands were in the pockets of his suit pants, his tie slightly loose like he’d been tugging at it all night.

Your heart didn’t flutter. It clenched. “Thanks,” you said curtly, your voice steady despite the pounding in your ears.

He shifted awkwardly, hands in the pockets of his slacks, gaze flicking between the skyline and the back of your head. “It’s… really nice out here.”

You didn’t answer. He tried again.

"You look…" he began, but the words fumbled. "Happy. You look happy."

You stayed silent, eyes locked on the skyline.

"I didn’t expect… I mean, I didn’t know you'd—"

"Get engaged?" you cut in flatly. "That tends to happen when people fall in love."

The silence between you was taut. Painful. The noise from inside became muffled behind the glass. Out here, there were no photographers. No spectators. Just ghosts.

“Have you been back to Spain lately?”

Still silence. He exhaled a short, bitter laugh. “God, I sound stupid.” You closed your eyes. “Then stop talking.” That quieted him. For a moment. Then something inside him cracked.

“I can’t believe it.” Your jaw tightened.

“I mean—this... all of this. You. Him. The ring. I—it can’t be real. I didn’t think—I didn’t know.” You turned to face him now, your back no longer a shield. “What didn’t you know, Jannik?”

His eyes were frantic, chest rising fast. “That you were it, the one. That leaving you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I thought it was for the best. That you’d hold me back. That we’d outgrow each other. That it wouldn’t last. But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong—”

“Jannik—”

“Please.” His voice cracked. “Please don’t marry him. Don’t do this. Not yet. Not to me.”

Your hands gripped the stone railing until your knuckles paled. He took a step closer, voice breaking with every syllable. “I’ll end things with Anna. I’ll go public. I’ll tell the world everything. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of our lives—just let me be in it. You can hold what I did against me for the rest of our lives, I don't care, just be mine. Just… let it be me.”

You stared at him. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. And then— You laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was unbelievable.

“Let you be in it?” Your voice sharpened. “Where were you when I cried myself to sleep for months, Jannik?” He blinked, stunned. “You disappeared without a fight. Without a word. Just walked away like we had been nothing. Like I was a mistake you couldn’t afford.” He tried to speak, but you stepped forward. “I gave you everything. And you left me alone to pretend it never happened. You made me erase you.” Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, but they didn’t fall.

“I rebuilt my life from ashes. I swallowed every sob, every memory, every ‘what if,’ and turned it into silence. Because you made sure no one would ever know what we had. And now? Now you think you can beg for it back like it’s yours to take?”

“I—” he rasped. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know I’d—”

“That’s the thing,” you snapped. “You never knew. You just left.”

His voice cracked, you had never seen the Fox crack. At least not in such a messy way. He looked at the city of love for a moment, then deep into your eyes, the lights reflecting into his welled up tears. "Why him ?" You could only shalke your head. "I could never fall so low and make a guy fall for me to spite you... It happened, that's it. I fell in love, hard. Because he was there to catch me. And I see everyday that it was never a choice, he wasn't the option, he is the one. In the way he loves me, in the way he shows it, in the way he respects me and my family, in the way I hear him butcher up some French but get it right when he thinks I'm not watching. Because he fought for it, where you left."

He looked at you then. Really looked. And for the first time in years, you let it show. Everything. And he saw it. The lack of love in your eyes. The emptiness where his reflection used to live. “Per favore, non sposarlo…” ("Please don’t marry him…") Your eyes burned. But your heart didn’t move.

It didn’t ache. It didn’t crack. It just… stood still.

“I’m not walking away from anything, Jannik,” you said gently. “You did. And now I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

He looked at you like the sky had fallen. “I don’t hate you,” you added. “But I also don’t love you anymore.” He looked at you then. Really looked. And for the first time in years, you let it show. Everything. And he saw it. The lack of love in your eyes. The emptiness where his reflection used to live. It hit him like a gut punch.

And before he could speak again, you whispered, low and cutting: “If you have even an ounce of respect for what we once shared… don’t come to the wedding.”

The silence between you stretched, cold and final.

Then, just like that—

“Ah, voilà!”

Carlos’s voice rang out as he stepped onto the balcony, beaming. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, the other slipping naturally around your waist.

“There you are, mi amor. I thought you had vanished.”

His eyes found Jannik and lit up. “Hey! Good to see you, man. Do you guys know each other ? ” Jannik forced a tight smile. “Yeah… you too. Um...” Jannik glanced at you and you took it where he ended. "We met long ago, in Spain, my father was the responsible physio of the camps." Your fiancé nodded, surprised but satisfied with the answer. "Oh, ok. Well I appologize for interupting the reunion but I have to steal her."

Carlos turned to you, dropping to French as he kissed your temple. “Viens, chérie, je viens te chercher pour les toasts. Tout le monde t'attend, mon amour.” (“Come on, darling, I'll get you for toast. Everyone's waiting for you, my love.”), he said slowly with that spanish accent that made it all warmer.

You nodded, lips twitching into something that resembled a smile — tight, composed. You looked back at Jannik one last time. Your eyes softened, not with pity, not with love — but with goodbye.

“Have a good night,” you said simply.

And with that, you slipped back into the warmth of the party, Carlos guiding you gently, the future pulling you forward.

And Jannik? He stood alone on that balcony. The city lights didn’t feel romantic anymore. Just distant.

Game. Set. Match.

And this time, he knew it was truly over. You would always be the one that slipped through his fingers like the sand of a sandcastle that didn't resist the sun. Beautiful and tragic. His most beautiful tragedy.