dr-futbol-blog · 6 months ago
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Our hero, Major John Sheppard is stationed at McMurdo base in Antarctica at the start of the series. We learn that he likes it there. Sheppard himself tells Teyla in Sateda (S03E04): "Well, that [having no social skills] is why I enjoyed flying choppers in the most remote part of my world before all this craziness."
This is what John Sheppard tells us but we learn that what he tells us is not always the truth and certainly not the whole truth.
The alien AI that created a hallucination from Sheppard's own subconscious in Remnants (S05E15) poses him the question: "You're either someone with a death wish or someone running away from something. So tell me: what are you running away from?" Running away to the most remote part of his world, running away to another galaxy.
In fact, he has both been banished to and self-isolated in the most remote part of his world ("You torture yourself every day, John.") due to his "black mark" acquired in Afghanistan. We are never explicitly told what this black mark was, only that it bothered Gen. O'Neill and was something that Dr. Weir could live with. We are left wondering.
While we are shown something of what happened in Afghanistan during the episode Phantoms (S03E09), through the hallucinations from Sheppard's past of him failing to save Capt. Charlie Holland, it isn't until toward the end of the series that we find out what happened through the mirror of a parallel reality in Vegas (S05E19), where alt!Rodney tells us "You were a helicopter pilot in Afghanistan but were dishonourably discharged for disobeying orders and trying to rescue a field medic trapped behind enemy lines. You were shot down – obviously survived, but unfortunately the crash killed four American soldiers along with eight civilians. You avoided jail time; the record was sealed for various political reasons."
The field medic in the Vegas-verse, one where "infinite variations of our own known reality where alternate versions of you and I play out events", is female; this revealed in a mumbled 'ur' (I didn't even catch it on first viewing even though I knew about the gender swap in advance; it might just as well have been "knew 'em") in alt!Rodney's line: "That field medic – the one you defied orders to go back and try and rescue. You knew her personally. You were... involved."
This was one of the differences between the two realities, perhaps even the most defining one of them, the point of divergence.
Vegas Sheppard dies to the tune of Johnny Cash's Solitary Man because that's what he was, a recluse (and note that the importance of Johnny Cash was underlined in the episode by Sheppard taking nothing but his poster, the same Johnny Cash poster that our Sheppard had in his quarters for all of the five years, with him once he walked away from his job; it carries weight):
I know it's been done havin' one girl who loved me Right or wrong, weak or strong Don't know that I will, but until I can find me The girl who'll stay and won't play games behind me I'll be what I am
But our Sheppard is not a Solitary Man (he has self-confessedly found something of a family in Pegasus). He's the Man in Black (in fact, he is dressed in black throughout the series even in situations where other fatigues would have made more sense; it is only in the very last episode that we see him in lighter colours):
I'd love to wear a rainbow every day And tell the world that everything's okay But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back 'Til things are brighter, I'm the man in black
We know the background. When the series begun, DADT was still in full effect, the franchise had a long-standing co-operation with the USAF, Prop 8 was still several years into the future. The non-normative sexual orientation of an All-American Action Hero was never going to be main-text. Even heterosexual romance between characters was mostly eschewed by the franchise. But damn if the subtext doesn't lay it out thick for us.
There are so many obvious parallels and comparisons in the show that I need to write them down somewhere, and while this is a day late and a dollar short, this fandom could do with some meta. So this marks the beginning of my journey through Stargate Atlantis with an eye on its bisexual protagonist.
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remnantspod · 1 month ago
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muldxr · 2 years ago
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the leftovers — 2x08
Know first who you are, and then adorn yourself accordingly.
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holisticdogpark · 2 days ago
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opening obsidian for the first time in ages because the podcast demons are Getting me
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fishpiracy · 1 month ago
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perona: what do you mean youre immune to my sadness powers.
usopp: I'm
✨Clinically Depressed ✨
this is literally just routine.
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constantvariations · 2 months ago
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Watching RWBY Chibi for the first time for this essay and I'm in absolute agony. Do people actually find this funny?
#rwde#on the 5th ep and i have been able to predict every joke so far and probs will continue to do so#cannot believe the amt of jokes that are literally just 'haha blake is a cat'#esp since the writers obviously understand that those kinds of jokes are in universe racist like WHY ARE YOU LEANING INTO THOSE JOKES THEN#you KNOW you tied black american racism to the faunus so why are you making fun of blakes identity as a faunus???#you can really tell its written by men too#the 3rd episode was viscerally uncomfortable every time jaune came on screen#that episode contained more realistic warning signs of an abusive man than anything the writers did w adam or jacque#like. hes straight up LIVID at his perception of being ignored and then destroyed weiss's scroll to preserve his dignity#probs bc he knows that any person who listened to his pathetic whimpering would file a restraining order bc he cant take a no for an answer#i hate jaune so fucking much#i remember reading in the xover comics that team jnpr was kidnapped and saying 'thank god jaune wont be in this'#technically he was but he wasnt hogging the screentime so its a win! throw that man in the garbage where he belongs!#also that bit where ruby screamed at blake that her book was filth whilst also keeping it is really disturbing#esp now that purity culture is becoming exceedingly more prominent#that has some v concerning implications for the society of remnant#if religion aint that common anymore why is ruby suddenly catholic?#'oh lighten up its a joke show' jokes need to be good and all the rwbyverse needs to be held accountable for its crimes against media#3d chibis are abominations and should be killed w fire
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dullahandyke · 6 months ago
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didnt even touch on the sandra lynn stuff int he tags of the last post bcos if i talk about her im liable to explode. get behind me, middle-aged divorced woman proficient in archery
#wasnt around for sy as it aired but ive seen the remnants of the liveblogging and its so foul#the genuine misogyny....#saw someone claim gilear was a better parent than her and i had to turn off my computer#i know we all love gilear and hes been tbh redeemed by comedy where sandra lynn doesnt get that#but like. be serious.#that tonal shift in difference of how gilear and sandra lynn are received is wicked interesting to me#and like pre-emptive disclaimer this isnt Gilear Problematic I Want Discourse. im just thinkin thoughts here#the way fy episode 1 gilear actively left his wife n daughter and calls her a demon even if he doesnt mean it that way#but then fig/emily takes an interest in him and from there hes a radically different character whos just kind of. pathetic.#im hesitant to call it flanderization because initial gilear only got like 10 minutes of screentime before wet cat gilear took the stage#but like. in ep1 both faeth parents are shown as equally flawed and on an even narrative playing field#which is then upset as fig latches onto gilear as a comedic force and hes not as much 'dad with tense relationship to daughter he disowned'#as 'guy the pcs do bits with'. esp in fy he doesnt do much but let fig live in his apartment sometimes#(and if u rlly wanna analyse u could say something abt her basically taking care of him instead of the other way around)#this then rlly impacts sandra lynn! bcos now fig has One tense parental relationship to rest all her angst on#and where gilear gets bits. sandra lynn really doesnt get much spotlight until the prison sequence#and the lack of focus on sandra lynn Is lampshaded in-universe and i like the resolution#and then u get to sy where sandra lynn gets as much spotlight as gilear but she doesnt have his comedic shield#so instead she has the dramatic spotlight and both the story and the characters are weirdly obsessed w her sex life#and yeah i know im an aro autist maybe i take cheating a bit lightly. but its in the same category as the 'zelda is mad at gorgug' shit#shes made a spectacle but because shes not gilear and society has notions about sex she gets judged for it#like something abt gilear disowning fig getting dropped while sandra lynn is scrutinised so much rlly rubs me the wrong way#she is FLAWED that is what THE JAIL EP WAS ABOUT!!!#she is TRYING arguably more than GILEAR but she doesnt have the absolution of rule of funny to fall back on#i go insane. i go insane#post not mentioning jy bcos i havent seen it. once again middle-aged divorced women proficient in archery get behind me ill protect u
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bearwriting · 11 months ago
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okay i have made false promises in the past of updates for sewn up, but the next chapter is completed and ready to go. november was an insane month, but things are finally starting to slow down so. here’s hoping.
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prodkeiji · 2 years ago
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ep 9 is a lot to process uhm
#well yang kindaaa went batshit crazy (only bc of that fucking cat whos the real antagonist all along) but im glad she still got herself tgt#ruby is obviously gonna live i think. but yea its implied but idt shes gna use cresent rose anymore 💔💔 LIKE NOOO CRESENT ROSE WAS SO OG#also what the actual fuck is going on w the fight scene like????#okay i get why neo has no reason to return anymore BUT JAUNE FALLING?#LITERALLY WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ROOSTER TEETH IS HE DEAD DONT YOU DARE KILL HIM OFF I FUCKING SWEAR#i hate that fucking cat so much bro hes so annoying i want him DEAD by next week once the final ep drops#but if he dies ... does that mean neo will die to since shes the vessel :(#as much as i hope thats not gna be the case it's a bitttt inevitable? pls let me have my delusions of neo having her redemption arc pleasee#anyways go ruby do what makes u happy 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 as much as i love cresent rose if not using her anymore is what makes u heal +#+ happy i will have no complaints do whats best for you baby 🥹 ueueue i love her sm#no but what if she just uses summers weapons to kill off that cat#and then when they go back to remnant it's back to cresent rose (im delusional)#it's very impossible looking at rubys situation now but hey one can dream yk#SPEAKING OF SUMMER I WAS VERY SURPRISED WHEN I SAW HER IN THE FIRST BIT#i wish they showed her face like cmon why is rt acting like we didnt see her face in that one season like?? 🙁 let me see the pretty mother#AGAIN WHAT THE FUCK IS RWBY V9 EP 9 it felt like some type of filler ep 💀 not that i hate it but it was kinda short to me#season finale next week better be good or else im gna be so mad like we did not just see neo getting POSSESSED all 4 a bad ending 4 the szn#on a side note: i hope we get to see the others again pls pls pls i NEED renora development 😣😣 my og childhood bffs to lovers 40k words +#+ mutual pining and slowburn romance (it took them 8 seasons to kiss)#rwby v9 spoilers#this was so long to break down damn sorry for the typos i am not redoing all of these tags just to correct them
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onlyhurtforaminute · 1 year ago
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youtube
FETID ZOMBIE-REMNANTS OF LIFE
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dr-futbol-blog · 17 days ago
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Excursus: Sheppard's attraction to siblings (actual)
So, John Sheppard seems to have a thing for siblings. Being that it is heavily implied that he is bisexual throughout the run of the show and we see him express various levels of interest in both men and women, having Sheppard express interest in a pair of siblings of opposite genders is an easy and comedic way of displaying his orientation. Despite disparaging stereotypes, bisexuality obviously does not mean that one is automatically attracted to every member of the same and/or opposite sex that one meets, and it is by no means an automatic attraction to siblings either, as siblings often have very different personalities and despite sharing some genetic material may not only look but also smell and taste very different. But narratively, in fiction, it is a fast, easy and convenient device to showcase someone's bisexual orientation.
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And the thing is, with John Sheppard this seems to happen way more often than should be statistically probable and it isn't even explained by that very likely sexual attraction that exists between people who carry the Ancient gene, as not all of the siblings he has expressed interest in carry the gene. Not all of the pairs of siblings are even actual people but are fictional characters even in-universe.
We see very few times that Sheppard actively pursues women on the show for reasons that I'll return to with Epiphany (S02E12), but it definitely seems as though women that are attracted to Sheppard have a much easier time getting his attention if they have an attractive brother, which is interesting. Sheppard seems to maintain some level of distance to most women, seems to need to keep some kind of a barrier between himself and women again for reasons that we'll return to, but having an attractive brother appears to be a strategy that works for slipping under his defenses. It is as though he is able to extend the attraction he feels for the man to encompass their sister, the woman becoming an extension of her brother. And we see this happen more than once.
The first obvious case is with a pair of siblings close to ascension with whom Sheppard spends an inordinate amount of time with as he is closed off from the world in their community in Epiphany. It is heavily implied that Sheppard had sex with both Avrid and Teer, the latter using his brother to get close to Sheppard. Teer possesses psychic powers that allow her to see the future, and she had seen a future in which Sheppard would help her entire village ascend. She tells him that she had also foreseen them having sex.
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However, we see Sheppard express interest in her brother from the moment they meet where he does not seem to have even considered her as a potential partner before this discussion, before her seduction of him, and it is made explicit that Teer had purposefully sent her brother to find Sheppard, to get him to come to their village. She had dangled her brother like a worm on a hook in front of him to get him to come to her. There is innuendo with Sheppard asking them which one of them undressed him, with Sheppard telling Teer that he would rather Avrid was the one bringing him breakfast. They are both very attractive people and given that they both seem to possess the Ancient gene, he would likely feel a natural, easy attraction to both of them. While we don't actually see him have sex with Teer, it is made rather explicit that it happened. Him having done the same with her brother is left for subtext, but it is also heavily implied.
The most incriminating scene in this regard actually comes after we are led to believe that Sheppard and Teer have had sex. After they have hooked up, we see the villagers eating together and Sheppard is seated opposite Avrid. The way he sits, his entire attention is on the man where Teer's daughter is seated at his side and Teer is seated diagonally across from him.
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Sheppard is having a conversation with Avrid, his focus is on Avrid, it is very much as though they are sharing the table and food where the others are just there as add-ons. Now, this is after he has had sex with Teer when they should still be in the afterglow. It is both rude and dismissive for a man to choose to sit like this the morning after having sex. Quite the opposite, it is a cultural expectation that a man will bring the person they've had sex with breakfast in bed the next morning especially if they had a good experience with the woman the night before.
Sheppard liked both of them but he seemed to feel much more at ease with Avrid, and his sister knowingly took advantage of this fact.
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Not long after Sheppard meets another pair of siblings in The Tower (S02E15), both of them also possessing the Ancient gene, albeit a diminishing version of it. Sheppard seems to have sex with the sister, Mara, as she is very insistent and is looking to breed with him to be able to produce offspring with his strong version of the gene and we'll return to just how horrifying that prospect was later. However, he takes an active dislike to her brother Tavius. And yet, in spite of this, he does seem to be turned on by him.
While he did not honestly care for either one of them, he seems to have felt this attraction that exists between people in possession of the gene, and it is nowhere more apparent than as he watches the man handle his meat.
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At the end of the episode, Sheppard discusses what happened on their planet with Weir on the balcony, and he tells her that he could have gotten the girl but turned her down. Weir says that she would have thought they offered him "king" which most people are going to interpret as them offering him the position of king.
Sheppard: We got the drones, we got a few jumpers; I even got the girl. Weir: You got the girl?! Sheppard: Well, I mean I could have got the girl. I turned her down. Weir: What did you offer them in return for the drones and the jumpers? Sheppard: A supply of medicines and an IDC if they need to reach us. We also offered to help 'em come up with a new way of running things when the time comes. Weir: They didn't offer you King? Sheppard: I turned that down too.
This is purposefully ambiguously phrased. Most people are going to interpret this as them offering him the position of king, for him to rule over them even after having introduced them to the gene therapy that allows them to increase the numbers of their people carrying the gene and using Ancient technology. Certainly he has the strong version of the gene, he is the main character, after all. Obviously they would want him to be king. But given that Tavius survived the ordeal, there is no reason to assume that he would not have been made king after their father's death. It was his sister's future children that were a threat to his enthronement, and his sister was left with no children at the end of the episode. Let me also remind you of the fact that Weir knows of his interest in men. Weir thinks that Sheppard is gay-gay. She seems baffled by his boast of getting the girl because since when has he been interested in women? So she cheekily asks if they didn't offer him king. By marrying the princess he would ever have become king consort. But maybe they did offer him the king, as well.
Now, the thing is, Sheppard didn't like Tavius. No one liked Tavius, he was very unlikable by design. But at the same time, Tavius was sensual and Sheppard could not take his eyes off of him. He was a libertine, seeming to enjoy all manner of pleasures of the flesh and the way that Sheppard looked at him is how we have seen him look at McKay several times. People often interpret Sheppard as being grossed out as he watches Tavius handle his meat but that is certainly not the whole truth of the matter. Yes, it is gross but then again, everything erotic is gross in a way. Humans have evolved an ability to withstand gross things when they are turned on because the whole process of procreation, of exchanging bodily fluids with another person, is gross. It is when desire overrides grossness that you can't draw your eyes away from it.
Not liking Tavius does not mean Sheppard wasn't turned on by him. Sheppard did not seem to like his sister, either, and she basically both assaulted and coerced him into sexual congress with her, so in a sense Tavius, who turned out to be relatively innocent and seems to have continued as monarch after the murder of their father even though Sheppard attempted to foster some kind of a revolution on the planet, was actually the nicer one of the siblings. And the inhabitants of the planet had offered him king after he had turned down the girl. They really wanted Sheppard, is the thing.
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So while Sheppard likely didn't have sex with Tavius unlike he very definitely did with Avrid, he was attracted to both sets of siblings where the difference is that he liked both Avrid and Teer since they were good people and he disliked both Mara and Tavius because they were both pretty awful people. But both sets of siblings here were people with the Ancient gene, so his attraction to them may be explained by this attraction caused by the gene, this mysterious sexual pull between the Ancients and their descendants. Fine.
But then, upon his first encounter, his very first encounter with Jeannie, McKay's sister, McKay warns him not to get any ideas about her since she is married and because she is his sister. For some reason McKay seems to think that being his sister would make Jeannie not just attractive but nigh irresistible to Sheppard. Maybe it did. As far as we know, Jeannie never gets the gene therapy but she and Sheppard do seem to get along just fine. McKay certainly thought so all the way from their initial meeting to finally finding Sheppard in her quarters at the end of the episode. Obviously nothing ever did happen between them but the person who knows Sheppard the most thought that it might. Now, there are really only two reasons for McKay to feel this way and that is if he thinks his own sister is seriously hot, which is unlikely, or because he thinks that his sister resembles himself enough to make her hot to Sheppard.
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Now, while Sheppard's intention was clearly to make nice meeting the family of someone important to him for the first time (him introducing himself to family is also emphasized by the fact that he does not use his rank to introduce himself, which he usually does). But given that McKay has been observing Sheppard keenly, has witnessed his behaviour around women, even if one does not subscribe to an intimate relationship between them, McKay would know what Sheppard's behaviour is like in different contexts and by this time we have witnessed to McKay's upset over Sheppard's perceived interest in women several times.
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McKay calls Sheppard "Kirk" here, and it is an invitation for people to compare this scene with Sanctuary (S01E14) where they have the whole episode about romancing the alien priestess. It is an easy association to make, as McKay does watch Sheppard extend his hand to the woman that seems instantly smitten by him and since Sheppard's plan seems to have been to charm the socks off of her to get their hands on the Ancient weapon they believe she possesses. It also seems as though McKay does see Kirk as some kind of a space mack which is not really a fair characterization of Kirk, either.
But what McKay witnessed back then was not Sheppard's genuine interest in someone, it was a calculated and performative use of his charm in an attempt to work an angle.
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However, This was not the first time McKay had called Sheppard Kirk. And given that The Defiant One (S01E12), where McKay actually makes the connection for the first time ("What are you, Captain Kirk?") is the likeliest time for their physical relationship to have started, their first kiss to have taken place, the reference may be to this initial association between the characters instead.
While Sheppard was on his best behaviour during Sanctuary, it would have been following the events of The Defiant One that McKay would personally have witnessed what Sheppard's interest looks like, up close and personal. It is then that he would have been on the receiving end of that look.
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McKay has seen "that look" before even though Sheppard is not giving his sister "that look," he merely seems excited to be meeting someone important to McKay.
McKay thinks Sheppard is Captain Kirk not because he seduces every woman that comes into his vicinity but because he managed to seduce him, and if he can seduce McKay he can seduce anybody, as far as he is concerned. Now, while we never see any funny business going on between Sheppard and McKay's sister, it doesn't mean the potential isn't there. Jeannie certainly seemed to think Sheppard was attractive ("You're no John Sheppard!"). They have a shared interest, they love the same person. They enjoy teasing the person that they love.
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In the same episode, we are also hinted at Sheppard's potential interest in threesomes as well. Some quantum shenanigans have produced another version of McKay from an alternate universe where Sheppard and McKay's roles have been reversed; where McKay has lived Sheppard's life and Sheppard has lived McKay's life. This means that while the two McKays are genetically identical, they are more like twin brothers that have grown up apart than they are one and the same person. They look the same but they are very different, they have different personalities.
Now, the Lanteans never quite seem to figure out that the person that has appeared to them in the visage of McKay is actually Sheppard, is essentially Sheppard in McKay's body, so they think of him as just another McKay.
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And according to Sheppard, Weir has made the comment that two McKays are better than one, which seems to be a sentiment he wholeheartedly agrees with up until he notices how much having this other version is affecting McKay's self-esteem. Initially, Sheppard seems excited by this prospect. Two McKays? He most definitely had a thought about them in a threesome. That's like the first thing he thought when he saw the two of them. So if we interpret the two McKays as essential twin brothers, Sheppard's interest in siblings is not gender-specific either.
While they were not siblings, the case in Remnants (S05E15) is somewhat related to this. Sheppard had offered to fly two scientists onto the mainland, a woman and Parrish, who appears to be a gay man, seemingly with the intention of having sex with one or both of them to put a plaster on his broken heart. Now, he strikes out spectacularly by trying such moves on the woman that might have worked better on the man and while this is neither here nor there, the fact that he seemed up for it with either of them (he was explicitly planning on having sex where all three of them were supposed to sleep), it does again hint at Sheppard feeling more comfortable being with a woman when a man is involved. And what's more, it seems like Ronon was under the impression Sheppard was trying to hook up with both of them, too.
Also, while it is never mentioned, given their shared social circles it is also entirely possible his ex-wife had a brother that had been Sheppard's acquaintance once upon a time, had maybe gone to boarding school with him. It would not be strange for him to have known her brother before ever meeting her. Now, this final case is pure conjecture but there are still enough examples of this happening to at least make one curious as to what might be the root-cause of him feeling comforted by pairs of siblings. One reason may certainly be his upbringing in various homosocial environments like boarding schools, where he would have learned how to socialize with members of his own sex but had few opportunities to meet members of the other sex. In such a social environment, most of the girls he would have met would probably have been the sisters of the boys he went to school with.
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Not having any girls his age around would have made it more difficult for Sheppard to develop strategies of getting along with them, figuring out how they tick, and it would have made it more difficult for him to appreciate any differences between the genders, which we clearly see in how he treats women just the same as men even now, in both the good and the bad. But it might also be that Sheppard simply longs to have a family. His own family and probably the entire social class he came from seems to have been emotionally detached and he appears to be estranged even from his own brother. But he yearns for connection, he yearns to have a family, to build a home together with someone.
And it could simply be that observing the closeness between siblings that seems to weather the bad times as well as the good times is something that Sheppard genuinely desires, and his desire for this closeness somehow becomes misattributed into sexual desire for both siblings. As Sheppard does not believe he has anything to give to such people that he interprets as having everything (a sibling is someone that can never leave you, which is his deepest desire), he feels like the only thing he can give is his body and hence feels like he has to pursue both brother and their sister. And the fact that we see him exhibit this tendency not just with people he has met but also in fiction he consumes speaks of a deeper pathology.
Continued in Pt. 2
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diamonddaze01 · 14 days ago
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ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ♡✧
pairing: hong jisoo x gn!reader genre: fluff, friends to lovers | wc: 2.65K summary: Joshua is drunk. You know this because he keeps smiling at you. a/n: this is entirely inspired by ep.1 of nana tour where shua is drunk and is just smiling at everyone like ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ the entire time // i love this boy with my whole heart // flashbacks are in italics!!!
Joshua Hong is drunk; you can tell. 
As the fire starts to slowly die out but the raucous laughter still rings out around the beach, Joshua keeps catching your eye. And it's because he's drunk. It's not the way his nimble fingers have stopped playing intelligible chords on his trusty guitar ("her name is Susan," he had told you the first night you slept over, too drunk to make it home after a rager), nor is it the way his rap battle with Chan had stopped making sense 4 verses ago. No, you can tell Joshua is drunk because every time he looks at you, he smiles. 
It's not his normal smile, warm and reassuring. No, this smile is reserved only for you, you realize. His eyes scrunch into upside down Us and his mouth scrunches up, and he looks like an emoji, and it's possibly the most endearing thing you've ever seen. And that smile, that adorable emoji smile, is how you know two things for sure: First, Joshua Hong is drunk. And second, you're hopelessly, irrevocably in love with your best friend.
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The first time Josh smiles at you like that, he's dragging you home after one of Seungcheol's infamous parties (or you're dragging him - honestly, who knows?).
"Your house is too far," he pants, half from exertion, half from laughing too hard at heaven knows what. "You can sleep over at mine, I have extra sh-" his statement is interrupted by a burp, and the two of you dissolve into giggles all over again.
"Ew," you say, wiping tears from your eyes as you tamper down on a giggle threatening to escape you. "Joshua cooties. Jooties!"
He slips his arms through yours and drops a sloppy, drunken kiss into your hair. "Mmmm," he hums.. "Jooties. Yes." And then he smiles at you, and it feels like the world has dropped from under your feet.
It’s not the typical grin you’ve seen him flash countless times—no, this one is different. His eyes crinkle so deeply at the corners, turning into soft crescents, and his mouth curves upward in a way that makes his whole face light up. It’s the kind of smile that’s so sincere and pure, it seems to melt right into you, warm and gentle. His cheeks lift, and there’s a playfulness in his expression that feels intimate, like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.
And for the first time in two years, your heart skips a beat. Joshua Hong has never smiled at you like this before, and it’s the first time you wonder if maybe you love him.
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The dying fire pops and Soonyoung jostles against you on accident, shaking you from your reverie. Joshua had already been looking at you, and when you meet his eyes, he smiles again, and it makes your heart do somersaults in your chest.
Needing a break from Mingyu's never-ending ad-libs, you nod your head away from the group, and he stumbles his way over, the corners of his mouth still twitching upwards as you lead him to a quiet stretch of the beach.
"Where are we going?" he asks, tripping over the consonants a little.
“Just wanted some fresh air,” you reply, settling on the cool sand. Joshua flops down next to you, the remnants of laughter still bubbling in the air.
The stars twinkle above, a cosmic array that feels almost too magical to be real. Joshua gazes up, his eyes wide and shining. “Do you think… do you think the stars have feelings?” he muses, his tone dreamy and childlike.
This is the part of Shua you love the most, you realize - the boy who always has so much wonder and curiosity about the world. “Like… what do you mean?”
“I mean, they’re up there all the time, shining away. Maybe they feel lonely?” He turns to you, his expression earnest despite his earlier drunken shenanigans. “What if they just want someone to look at them?”
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The second time Joshua smiles at you like that is on a summer night, only a few weeks after Seungcheol’s party. You’re both lying on the grass outside your apartment, too tired from the long day at the beach to make it inside.
His leg is casually brushing against yours as he points out constellations.  His hand grazes yours, and you will yourself to be very, VERY still, your heart racing in your chest as you focus on the warmth radiating from him.
“Look!” he suddenly exclaims, pointing to a star twinkling especially bright in the dying summer light. “It’s the happiest star in the galaxy!”
You glance over at him, catching the way his profile is softly lit by the stars and the dim lights from your yard. He looks like a dream. You tear your gaze away, following his finger up into the sky. “Happiest star, huh?” you ask, trying to play along even though all you can think about is the heat from his skin. “Why’s that?”
Joshua turns his head toward you, and when you look back at him, you see that smile again. His eyes crinkle in the most endearing way, like they’re scrunched shut from happiness. His lips curve into a soft, easy smile that stretches across his face—completely unguarded, completely natural. His whole expression radiates warmth and affection, like it’s the kind of smile that could only exist when he’s with you, in this moment.
It’s so genuine, so full of quiet joy, that for a second, you feel like the whole world stops, and it’s just the two of you, lying under the stars.
“Because it knows how special we are,” he whispers, his voice soft and sincere. And for a brief, dangerous moment, you almost lean in and kiss him.
But you quickly look back up at the sky, heart pounding, only to notice that the star seems to be getting closer and closer. “Shua,” you say, laughing nervously, “that’s a PLANE, you idiot.”
You both burst into laughter, your bodies shaking as the absurdity of it takes over. When you finally calm down, you glance back at him, and he’s still smiling that same sweet, irresistible smile, like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It makes your chest ache, and that’s when you know you love him.
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"Y/N?"
"Hmm, Shua?" You keep your eyes fixed on the stars above, afraid that if you look at him again, that smile—the one that makes your heart twist in all the best and worst ways—might undo you completely. One more glance, and you’re not sure if you’ll kiss him, cry, or both.
"Do you think the stars want someone to look at them?" His voice is soft, words slurred just enough to remind you how much he's had to drink. His hand reaches out, fingers lacing with yours. You wonder if he can feel your pulse quicken through the skin of your wrist, but you stay perfectly still, pretending it’s nothing more than another casual touch.
“Maybe,” you whisper, your voice barely loud enough to compete with the sound of the waves. You don’t dare look at him. “Or maybe we just like talking to them because they’re the only ones we can be honest with, you know?”
Joshua hums, a low, thoughtful sound. He tightens his grip on your hand, and for a second, the space between you feels smaller than it ever has before. "Maybe..." His voice trails off, the words slow, like he’s working through the haze of alcohol. "Maybe we should tell the stars a secret."
You swallow hard, your heart thudding in your chest. There’s something fragile about this moment, something you’re both teetering on the edge of, but neither of you is willing to leap. His hand stays in yours, warm and steady, grounding you even as the uncertainty lingers in the air between you.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the faintest trace of that smile—the one you can’t quite get out of your head - and you tell the stars your secret. 
It’s quiet for a beat. Two. The waves crash against the shore, and you time your breaths to the sound of the tide. 
“Y/N?”
“Hmm?”
“What did you tell the stars?” he murmurs, voice slower now, soft and pliant. It sounds like love, you think. 
You feel a smile tugging at your lips, heart beating louder in your chest as you speak. “That’s a secret.”
Joshua shifts beside you, sand crunching softly under his weight. He doesn’t respond right away, and you can almost hear him smile. "Wanna bet it’s the same secret?"
The teasing edge in his voice catches you off guard. You turn your head, just enough to see the glint in his eyes, the lazy grin spreading across his face. “What are we betting?” you ask, almost breathless.
He leans in slightly, the smell of salt and campfire clinging to him, his voice dropping as he says, “A kiss.”
(For the record, you should have seen this coming. Sweet and doe-like as he can be, Joshua Hong is Yoon Jeonghan’s best friend)
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The third time Shua smiles at you like he loves you, it’s a rainy July afternoon and you’re swaddled in blankets in his living room. Love, Actually is queued and forgotten on the TV as you and Josh throw popcorn into each other’s mouths. 
When you miss for the 12th time in a row, Josh looks over at the movie, and then back at you, eyes sparkling with something you can’t quite place. “You know, if we keep watching these cheesy rom-coms, I might just end up believing in love at first sight,” he teases, his voice light.
You snort, nudging him playfully. “Is that so? Careful, or you might fall in love with me.”
He leans back, a grin spreading across his face, and for a moment, you can’t help but admire how carefree he looks. “Who says I’m not already?” 
You launch a pillow at his head to hide how stunned you are. “Shut up, Shua.” The room suddenly feels too hot - he’s too close to you, to the truth. 
Jeonghan picks the perfect time to walk in the door, and the moment is broken. As he and Joshua engage in yet another fight about Jeonghan’s annoying habit of not taking his wet socks off, you steal a breath and try to calm your fluttering heart. When you finally find the courage to look at Joshua again, he’s already smiling at you - soft, sweet, and full of warmth. It terrifies you and exhilarates you, and the world around you fades away. 
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Your breath hitches. For a moment, the world feels like it’s tilting, like the stars have drawn closer, hanging low enough to brush against your skin. You swallow, heart pounding, and manage to keep your voice steady. “You’re drunk.”
Joshua just shrugs, the corners of his lips quirking up like this is the funniest thing in the world. “That is a fact,” he says, still looking at you with those half-lidded, adoring eyes. “Want another?”
You glance away, the stars blurring above you, your mind racing. “Sure. Why not?” you murmur, trying to sound nonchalant, even though every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire.
He shifts closer, his arm brushing against yours. His next words fall softly between you, barely above a breath. “I love you. That’s the secret.” His eyes are warm, and for the first time tonight, the drunken haze seems to clear for just a moment. "Now pay up."
For a second, you can’t move. The waves crash softly in the distance, the laughter from the group fading into a low murmur as you process what he just said. The words hang in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once.
You find your voice, though it comes out more as a whisper. “How did you know?”
He smiles again, softer this time, his thumb brushing your hand gently. “Because you have this one smile… one that you only give me. Like I’m the only person in the world that matters.”
The air feels too thin suddenly, and you blink, your heart racing. “You have the same smile,” you manage to say, your voice breaking just a little, as if the truth has snuck up on you, too.
His grin widens, that familiar warmth spreading across his face like it always does when he’s pleased with himself. "Match made in heaven then," he murmurs. "Now pay up."
For a beat, you just stare at him, your mind blank, the weight of everything settling in slowly. Then, before you can think too much about it, you lean in. Your lips meet his, soft and tentative at first, testing the waters—but the moment he kisses you back, the rest of the world fades away.
Joshua’s hand moves to cradle your cheek, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. He tastes faintly of alcohol, but underneath it, there's something familiar, something that feels like home. The heat from his body mingles with yours, and for a moment, nothing else matters but the way he feels against you.
When you finally pull away, breathless and flushed, the world seems to settle back into place. The stars above twinkle faintly, and you’re aware of the soft crash of waves in the distance again. But Joshua’s still smiling—smiling in that way that’s reserved only for you.
“Told you it was the same secret,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
You laugh, shaking your head. “Shut up, Shua.”
He laughs softly, his voice a warm rumble in the quiet night. “Can’t help it.”
The two of you fall silent again, the world shrinking down to just the two of you, the sound of the waves, and the stars twinkling above. You find yourself staring up at the sky, your hand still in his, as if nothing needs to be said. It feels like the universe is watching, waiting, holding its breath.
After a moment, you break the silence. “You remember that night… when you told me about the happiest star in the galaxy?”
Joshua chuckles beside you. “How could I forget?” He tilts his head back, eyes scanning the sky as if searching for that same star. “I told you it was smiling for us.”
You smile at the memory. “Yeah, and then you said it knew how special we were.”
His thumb brushes over your hand, the gesture gentle, like a reminder of the words you’ve both left unsaid for so long. “I guess I always knew,” he murmurs.
You glance at him, the soft glow of starlight casting his face in shadows, but there’s a light in his eyes, something quiet and real. “Knew what?”
“That we were special,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “You and me.”
Your heart skips a beat, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. You turn back to the sky, feeling the same sense of wonder from that summer night so long ago. The stars are still shining, still twinkling like they’ve been waiting for this moment.
You let out a breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Think the happiest star is still watching us?”
Joshua smiles, and though you can’t see it fully, you can feel it—the same smile he’s always reserved just for you. “I think it’s still smiling.”
Neither of you says anything after that. The night stretches on, quiet except for the faint sound of the waves lapping at the shore. You lie there side by side, the cool sand beneath you, his hand still loosely holding yours. The sky above feels endless, full of stars that have seen nights like this before.
Somewhere in the distance, the stars twinkle, and Joshua looks over at you and smiles. 
585 notes · View notes
theonottsbxtch · 18 days ago
Note
HEAR ME OUT 🙂 charles x pianist!reader where he’s like writing/composing a new ep and his producer is like “omg you should totally do a duet with (reader) 🥰” and uh yeah just anything related to that
i can already envision a scene where charles spends most of his time in the dark alone in the studio with his piano but reader is ofc there…
go for any trope you want 🙈
MY MUSE | CL16
an: im sorry this is so long istart writing and then i can't stop. btw i want everyone to know that i was listening to that's not me by skepta and jme while writing this. completely different vibes. SEND MORE REQUESTS IM BORED HOUSESITTING FOR THREE WEEKS
wc: 7.8k
dedicated to @iamred-iamyellow & @iimplicitt
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The studio was thick with the scent of aged leather and dust, the faint glow of a single, dimmed lamp casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. Charles sat hunched over the grand piano, its black lacquer surface reflecting the soft light in fractured shards. His fingers hovered above the ivory keys, trembling with a kind of frustrated anticipation, but no sound came. The room seemed to echo with a deafening silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall—an incessant reminder of time slipping away.
He had been here for days, isolated from the outside world during the off season. The once-comforting walls, lined with shelves of dog-eared books and musical scores, now felt like the confines of a cage. His last piece had been a masterpiece—a soaring composition that had flowed from him like water, effortless and pure. It was the kind of music that haunted you long after it ended, the kind that etched itself into the soul of anyone who heard it. But now, the notes eluded him.
Charles ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and let out a low sigh. There was a pressure building in his chest, like a wound slowly tightening, pulling him apart. For the past week, he had been locked in this room, trying to capture the essence of something even greater than the last, but all he had managed to conjure was noise—fragments of half-formed melodies that crumbled before they could take shape.
He  stood abruptly, the sudden movement causing the papers on top of his piano to rustle, brittle with neglect. The room was stifling; the air was thick with the remnants of burnt-out candles and sleepless nights. He paced to the window, pulling the curtains aside to reveal the darkened Maranello streets below, slick with the remnants of a recent rain. The city outside moved on, indifferent to his struggle, its distant hum a reminder that time had no patience for his creative paralysis.
He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging it up in shallow bursts. What was missing? What had he lost in the months since his last piece? It felt like chasing shadows, reaching for something just out of grasp. Every melody he tried to shape slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, and the harder he tried to hold onto it, the faster it dissolved.
The clock struck three in the morning, the chime echoing through the stillness of the room. Another night wasted. Another night consumed by the weight of his own expectations. He turned back to the piano, his eyes heavy with fatigue but burning with a quiet, desperate need. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without something to show for the hours he’d lost.
With a sigh that felt like surrender, Charles sat back down at the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys once more. He could feel the cold beneath his skin, the way the silence seemed to press in around him. His hands shook, not with nervousness, but with exhaustion.
And then, in the quiet, a single note broke the silence.
It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t the haunting, ethereal sound he had been searching for. But it was something.
His gaze fell to the pile of sheet music he had scribbled on throughout the night. Inked lines of failed ideas, crossed out again and again. With a final resigned sigh, he stood up, the bench scraping the floor, the sound too loud in the empty space. He began to gather his things, shoving crumpled papers into his bag alongside notebooks, headphones, and his laptop. The familiar weight of them didn’t bring comfort; instead, they felt like reminders of the failure he was starting to carry with him. This was meant to be a hobby but it was haunting his every move.
As he turned to leave, keys jangling in his hand, a soft sound reached his ears—a distant, faint melody. He paused, his hand hovering over the light switch, ears straining to catch it. It was coming from down the hallway, barely perceptible at first, but unmistakable—a piano, its notes drifting through the quiet night like a whisper.
Charles hesitated for a moment, then slipped into the hallway, drawn toward the sound. He moved slowly, the dark corridor seeming endless, the music growing clearer with every step. It was beautiful—achingly so. Each note was delicate yet certain, as though whoever was playing knew exactly what they wanted to say. The melody swirled and climbed, creating something ethereal, something that made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.
He stopped outside one of the smaller practice rooms, the door slightly ajar, a soft glow of light spilling from within. The music filled the narrow hallway, surrounding him, pulling him in. He stood there for a long moment, his heart beating a little faster, a strange mix of awe and envy twisting inside him. This was what he had been trying to create—the same kind of raw emotion, the beauty that lingered long after the sound faded.
But it wasn’t his.
Charles leaned against the wall, just out of sight, listening as the music flowed through the cracks in the door. The player inside didn’t falter, didn’t stop to wrestle with the notes. It was effortless, pure. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare interrupt, afraid the spell would be broken if the other person realised they had an audience.
The melody soared, and for a brief moment, Charles closed his eyes, letting himself be swept up in it. It reminded him of why he had started this in the first place—of the nights when music had been his refuge, when it had felt like an escape, not a burden. He could feel the heaviness in his chest easing, just slightly, as the music wound its way through the silence.
But as beautiful as it was, it also stung. Whoever was playing had found what he had been searching for all this time—something he had lost.
The music came to a soft, gentle end, the final notes lingering in the air like a breath held too long. Charles stood there for a moment longer, still leaning against the doorframe, waiting for something—he didn’t know what.
When the quiet finally settled again, he stepped away from the door, not daring to break the fragile stillness with the creak of the floorboards. He glanced back one last time, his fingers curling tight around the strap of his bag. For a moment, he considered knocking, stepping inside to see the person who had played with such grace. But something held him back.
Instead, he turned and walked down the hallway, the echo of that haunting melody still playing in his head long after the door to the studio clicked shut behind him.
His following morning came in fragments—a bleary haze of sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds, the distant hum of traffic muffled by the walls of his apartment. Charles stirred, his body sluggish and heavy with the weight of too little sleep. He lay there for a long moment, eyes closed, trying to hold onto the remnants of the dream he couldn’t quite remember. But it wasn’t a dream that lingered in his mind.
It was the melody.
That same haunting, angelic piano from last night, curling through his thoughts like a whisper. He could still hear it—those delicate notes weaving together, the way the melody had seemed so effortless, so perfect. It had been circling his mind from the moment he left the studio. Now, it played softly in the background of his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.
Charles groaned, rolling out of bed and dragging himself into the shower. The hot water did little to shake the fatigue that clung to him, nor did it drown out the persistent tune echoing in his head. His mind kept returning to the small, dimly lit room where the mystery pianist had been, to the way her fingers had danced across the keys as though they had always belonged there.
He towel-dried his hair, staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, a face hollowed by days of restless nights and creative frustration. He had some sort of media training today—something important. A meeting he couldn’t afford to drift through half-awake. But even as he dressed, pulling on his usual team shirt and straightening the collar, his thoughts were elsewhere.
The city outside was awake, the streets buzzing with life as he made his way through the crisp morning air to the Ferrari HQ. His coffee sat untouched in his hand, the steam rising in lazy spirals, but he barely noticed. The melody from last night played on an endless loop in his head, the memory of it clinging to him like a ghost he couldn’t shake.
The office was a blur of familiar faces, bright smiles, and too much energy for this early in the day. Charles moved through it all, barely fully acknowledging Carlos, the world around him dull and muffled. The media manager was already waiting when he arrived, tapping impatiently on the table as Charles sat down for their first meeting.
But even as they discussed plans, upcoming shoots, and expectations for both his and Carlos’ media presence, Charles wasn’t fully there. He nodded in the right places, offered half-hearted responses, but his mind kept wandering back to that melody. The notes haunted him, pulling his focus away from everything else, as though they held the answer to something he was desperate to grasp.
“Charles, are you listening?” Carlos’ voice snapped him back to the present.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, though his eyes betrayed him. He scribbled something on the notepad in front of him, though the lines didn’t form words—just scattered shapes, like the music notes he couldn’t get out of his head.
The meetings dragged on. Through every discussion, every pitch and presentation, Charles felt the same distraction pulling him away. He couldn’t let it go. The melody. It had stirred something in him—a frustration, yes, but also a strange kind of inspiration. There was something there, something unfinished, and it gnawed at him.
By the time the last meeting ended, Charles felt hollowed out. He hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to the discussions, not really. His mind had been elsewhere the entire day, replaying those fleeting notes over and over again. It was maddening.
He needed to know. Needed to find out who had played it, and why that music—the music he hadn’t written—felt so much like it belonged to him.
Without thinking, Charles pulled out his phone and dialled his producer’s number, pacing back and forth in the hallway outside the conference room as it rang. It was late afternoon now, the sky outside tinged with fading light. He knew he should be focusing on his own work, or on getting back to the studio, but the compulsion to solve this mystery was stronger than his exhaustion.
The line clicked, and his producer’s voice crackled on the other end. “Charles, hey. What’s up?”
Charles leaned against the window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass. “I need to ask you something,” he said, his voice low, edged with impatience. “Last night, around 3 a.m., there was someone in one of the smaller studios, playing piano. Do you know who it was?”
There was a pause on the other end, the faint sound of papers shuffling. “3 a.m.? You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Charles replied, closing his eyes. The melody drifted back into his mind, as clear as if he were still sitting outside the door, listening. “It was… incredible. I couldn’t stop listening. I need to know who it was.”
Another pause, then a small chuckle from his producer. “Ah, that must’ve been the student. Yeah, she’s been coming in late at night to practise. Studies music at the university downtown. Doesn’t perform much, though—mostly keeps to herself.”
Charles’s heart skipped a beat. The name felt unfamiliar, but it already held a weight to it, like it was connected to something he hadn’t yet fully understood.
“She doesn’t perform?” he asked, brow furrowing. It seemed impossible—someone with that much talent, hiding in the shadows.
“Nah,” his producer continued, “she’s a bit under the radar. Not really into publishing or performing her work, but, man, she’s got something special. I didn’t realise you’d heard her.”
Charles was silent for a moment, processing the information. The melody. He could see it now—something just out of reach, like the missing piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realised he was trying to solve.
“You know,” his producer said, his tone shifting slightly, “you’ve been stuck for a while, Charles. Maybe you should try working with her. See what happens. It might help you find what you’re looking for.”
Charles swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The thought of it—composing with someone else, with her—made something stir inside him. Could it be the answer to breaking through this creative silence he’d been drowning in?
“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, though the decision was already forming in his mind.
As he hung up the phone, the melody returned, softer this time, but still persistent. And now, it wasn’t just haunting him—it was pulling him forward.
_________________
The studio felt different tonight, as though it had shifted in his absence. The air was cooler, the lights dimmer, casting long, quiet shadows over the floorboards. Charles stood in the hallway again, just as he had the night before, but this time his heart beat with something more than exhaustion or frustration. There was an anticipation simmering in his chest, a tension just beneath the surface.
He hadn’t come to compose tonight. Not really. He had come for the music. Her music.
The name felt strange on his lips, unfamiliar, yet full of significance. He didn’t know her, had never spoken to her, but her music had already gotten under his skin. It haunted him still, drifting through his mind in fragments even after the long day of meetings, pulling him back here.
He moved quietly down the hallway, the same path he had taken last night, his shoes barely making a sound against the worn floor. As he neared the smaller practice room, the faint sound of the piano floated toward him, delicate and clear, weaving through the quiet.
There it was again—the same effortless, angelic melody that had captivated him before. But now, listening to it a second time, Charles felt something deeper stirring. The way she played was different tonight, more intimate somehow, as if the music had softened, becoming something even more personal. He stopped outside the door, just as he had before, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes.
For a long moment, he simply listened. The notes seemed to dance in the air, spinning and intertwining, building toward something both beautiful and fragile. It was mesmerising.
But then, the music stopped. Abruptly.
Charles’s eyes snapped open, his pulse quickening in the sudden silence. Before he could move, a voice broke through the quiet, soft but teasing.
“Mama always said it’s not nice to lurk.”
His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he didn’t move, caught off guard. The door was still ajar, the light spilling into the hallway, and from inside, he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting at the piano, her back turned to him. She hadn’t looked up, but she knew. She had known he was there the whole time.
Heat crept up his neck, but before he could stammer out an apology, she spoke again.
“You coming in, or are you planning to stay out there all night?”
Her tone was light, amused even, but it was an invitation all the same. Charles hesitated for a heartbeat longer, his hand tightening around the strap of his bag. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward, pushing the door open a little wider.
The room was small and softly lit, just as he remembered, the grand piano dominating the space. She sat at it, her posture relaxed, fingers still resting lightly on the keys. She turned her head slightly as he entered, giving him the faintest glimpse of a smile.
“Sorry,” he said quietly, feeling a bit ridiculous for standing outside like that. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.” She shifted on the bench, making space beside her. “Come on, sit.”
Charles’s throat tightened, but he nodded and moved toward the piano, his steps feeling oddly tentative. He hesitated for a second when he reached her, unsure if he should really be sitting so close. The bench was narrow, and he could already feel the warmth of her presence.
She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “I don’t bite.”
With a small chuckle, he slid onto the stool beside her, the space between them barely a few inches. It was strange, this closeness—to sit here with someone he didn’t know, yet felt connected to through the music that had haunted him for days. Their shoulders brushed lightly as he settled in, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavy, loaded with expectation.
She glanced at him, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, without a word, she placed her hands back on the piano, her fingers moving over the keys with an effortless grace. The melody returned, soft and slow, and Charles felt his breath catch in his chest again. It was different this time—gentler, more deliberate, as though she was playing just for him.
The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the quiet intimacy of the music. He watched her hands move, the way her fingers danced across the keys with the kind of fluidity that only came from years of dedication. The melody wound its way through the air, filling the small space between them, and Charles found himself leaning in, just slightly, drawn to the sound and to her.
“You play like it’s the easiest thing in the world,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
She smiled, a soft, almost secretive smile. “It’s never easy,” she said, her voice low, her eyes still on the piano. “It just looks that way.”
She played a few more notes, then paused, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “What about you? You’ve been in the studio night after night. What’s haunting you?”
Charles let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. “I’ve been stuck,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. “It feels like everything I try to create falls apart. Nothing compares to what I’ve done before.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she played another soft chord, the sound hanging in the air between them.
“Music’s strange like that,” she said after a moment, her tone thoughtful. “It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s easy, other times… it slips through your fingers.”
Charles nodded, feeling the weight of her words. He had been trying so hard to force the music out, to create something that could match his last piece, but all it had done was elude him.
The girl beside him shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing his. “Here,” she said, moving her hands off the keys. “Play something.”
“What?”
“Anything,” she replied, her eyes meeting his for the first time fully. There was a challenge in them, but also an understanding. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Charles swallowed, feeling a sudden surge of nerves. But her gaze was steady, encouraging, and without thinking too much about it, he let his hands find their way to the keys. The notes that came out weren’t perfect—they were hesitant, half-formed. But they were honest. He played softly, the melody faltering at times, but it was real.
She listened, her head slightly tilted as she watched his fingers move. Then, without warning, she joined him, her hands moving gracefully beside his, adding harmonies to the melody he had started. The sound shifted, growing fuller, more complete. The music filled the room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles didn’t feel the weight of his failure pressing down on him.
Together, they played, their hands moving across the keys in tandem, creating something new. Something neither of them could have done alone.
When the last note finally faded into the quiet, Charles sat back, his heart pounding. She turned to him, her eyes soft and knowing.
“See?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s easier when you’re not alone.”
For a moment, they sat in the quiet, the echo of their shared melody lingering in the air like the last breath of a long-forgotten song. Charles stared at the keys, feeling the warmth of the music still buzzing in his fingertips. He hadn’t felt like this in weeks—maybe longer. There was something about the way she played, the way her music had melded so effortlessly with his, that made the creative block he’d been wrestling with seem almost insignificant.
He turned to look at her, realising for the first time how close they were, their shoulders still brushing lightly. Her eyes were fixed on the piano, her fingers resting gently on the keys, as though she was waiting for the next melody to arrive. Her presence, though quiet and composed, carried an intensity that matched the music she played—an unspoken understanding of the way music could consume you, take you apart, and put you back together.
“That was…” Charles began, but the words caught in his throat.
“Different?” she offered, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Yeah.” He let out another breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “It felt… easier. Like it wasn’t something I had to force.”
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Music isn’t something you’re supposed to wrestle with. It’s like water—it flows when you stop trying to hold onto it so tightly.” She shifted her hands off the keys and folded them in her lap, her eyes now fully on him. “You’ve been pushing too hard. I could hear it.”
Her words were soft, but they carried something that made Charles pause. He had been pushing—straining against the silence, desperate to capture a piece of the magic he’d once had. Every night in the studio had been a battle, and he hadn’t realised until now that the real fight was with himself.
“You’re right,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying so hard to top what I did last time that I forgot why I was doing it in the first place.”
She leaned back slightly, still watching him, her expression unreadable. “What was your last piece?” she asked, her voice curious but not probing.
Charles hesitated. The memory of his last composition—an orchestral piece that had been his most successful work to date—felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else. It had been raw, emotional, inspired by something deeply personal, but the success that followed had overshadowed the joy he’d felt when he created it. Ever since then, he’d been chasing that same feeling, trying to recreate the magic, only to fall short.
“It was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Something personal. It came easily back then. But now it feels like I’m trying to catch lightning in a bottle, and I’m just… stuck.”
She nodded, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the piano’s surface. “I get that. Sometimes the more you want something, the harder it is to find. That’s why I don’t perform much.” She smiled faintly, almost to herself. “There’s less pressure when no one’s watching.”
Charles studied her for a moment, sensing the layers beneath her calm demeanour. She spoke with such ease about the creative process, but there was an edge of vulnerability there too, a reluctance to expose too much of herself to the world.
“Why don’t you perform?” he asked, curious now. “I mean, with the way you play, you could easily—”
“Because I don’t need to,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “The music is for me. It’s not about the audience. It’s about…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s about connecting with something deeper, something that doesn’t care about applause or recognition.”
Her words hung in the air between them, and Charles found himself nodding slowly, understanding exactly what she meant. In a way, she had found a kind of freedom he had lost along the way.
“That’s why you play at night,” he said, more a statement than a question. “When no one’s around. It’s like…” He trailed off, trying to find the right analogy, “…the world doesn’t exist.”
She smiled at that, a real one this time, her eyes brightening just a little. “Exactly. It’s easier to lose yourself when there’s no one expecting anything from you.”
Charles sat back, processing her words. For so long, he had been weighed down by expectations—his own, his producer’s, the fans—and it had drained him. Maybe that was the problem. He had been writing for others, forgetting that the music had always been something he did for himself first. Something he loved.
She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, breaking his thoughts. “You know,” she said, a playful lilt in her voice, “you could try playing like no one’s watching. Even if they are.”
He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, leaning in just a bit, “you’re too worried about what people think of your music. But here”—she motioned to the piano in front of them—“there’s no audience. Just us. So why not stop thinking so much and just… play?”
Charles blinked, the simplicity of her suggestion hitting him harder than it should have. She made it sound so easy, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was supposed to be easy.
Before he could respond, she slid her fingers back onto the keys, playing a few soft chords that hummed through the air like the beginning of something new. Then she glanced sideways at him, a small, teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Come on. Share the bench again. Let’s make something together.”
A spark of excitement flared in his chest. Without another word, Charles moved closer, their knees brushing as they both settled into position, fingers poised over the keys. This time, he wasn’t overthinking it. He wasn’t wrestling with the music. He was just… there.
She started first, her melody soft and fluid, and Charles followed, instinctively matching her rhythm, letting their sounds merge and flow together. The music wasn’t perfect—it stuttered at times, shifted unexpectedly—but it was alive. It had a pulse. It breathed with them.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Charles wasn’t haunted by the silence. He wasn’t weighed down by the pressure of creating something great. He was just… playing. Creating. Feeling the music as it moved through him, through them both.
As their hands danced over the keys, weaving together something raw and beautiful, he realised something that felt both terrifying and thrilling: maybe this was what he had been missing. Not perfection. Not even recognition. Just the simple, undeniable joy of creating with someone who understood. Someone who could make the music feel real again.
When the last note faded into the quiet, Charles turned to her, his heart still racing.
“I think,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I need to stop chasing what I’ve already done and start finding something new.”
She nodded, her eyes bright and knowing. “And maybe,” she said, her voice equally quiet, “we can find it together.”
The last note lingered in the air between them, and Charles felt something warm and alive settle in his chest. The music they had made together had been unlike anything he’d played in so long—imperfect, yes, but honest. Real. The creative block that had suffocated him for weeks was finally gone, or at least, it felt that way in this fleeting moment of clarity.
She glanced at him, her smile soft but distant. She seemed different now, as though the music had taken something from her as well. Before Charles could say anything, she pushed herself up from the piano bench, her fingers lingering on the edge of the keys for just a second longer than necessary.
"I've got to go."
Her words were quiet, almost an afterthought, and they hit him with an unexpected force. She didn’t give him time to respond, to ask anything, to even say goodbye. She simply gathered her bag and moved toward the door, her steps quick and purposeful.
“Wait—” Charles started, rising halfway from the bench, but it was too late.
She turned to him for a brief moment, a smile that was part mystery, part something he couldn’t quite read crossing her lips. “Don’t stop playing, tesoro (treasure)” she said softly. “You’re closer than you think.”
And then, before he could find his voice, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with an eerie finality.
Charles stood frozen for a few long moments, staring at the door. His mind raced. He didn’t have her number. He didn’t know where she lived, where she studied, or how to reach her. She had slipped away like a melody in the night, as effortlessly as she’d come into his life.
With a sigh, he sank back onto the piano bench, running his hands through his hair. The room felt strangely empty without her, the space they had shared now echoing with the silence she left behind. But something inside him had shifted. The music they’d created still hummed in his veins, and the weight of doubt that had plagued him for so long felt lighter. Almost like it was dissolving, piece by piece.
He placed his hands on the keys, the cool touch of ivory grounding him, and began to play.
At first, the melody was slow, almost tentative. It mirrored the notes they’d played together, but now it began to morph into something new, something entirely his own. As his fingers moved, the music unfolded naturally, effortlessly. It was as though every piece of frustration, every sleepless night, every failed attempt to capture the right sound was now fueling something greater. Something real.
The notes swelled and cascaded, filling the room with a rich, haunting melody that seemed to flow directly from his soul. It was raw, brimming with emotion—a reflection of everything he had felt, everything he had fought against. But now, there was no more fighting. The music came freely, weaving together in ways that felt effortless and inevitable.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Charles wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t chasing perfection or wrestling with expectations. He was simply… playing. The music poured out of him like a long-held breath, each note sharper, more vivid than the last. The emotions he had buried—frustration, longing, even joy—flooded into the sound, and it consumed him.
His hands moved faster now, the melody becoming more urgent, more intense. He didn’t know where it was going, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t about the destination. It was about this—this pure, unfiltered moment of creation.
And then, without warning, a tear slipped down his cheek.
Charles barely noticed it at first, too wrapped up in the music, but soon another tear followed. And another. He wasn’t sobbing—there was no sadness in it. Instead, it was an overwhelming sense of release, of joy, of finally breaking through. The music swelled, the room vibrating with sound, and Charles felt it wash over him. A catharsis he hadn’t known he needed.
When he hit the final chord, it echoed through the room, ringing out long after his fingers had stilled. The silence that followed was profound, heavy with the weight of everything he had just poured into the keys.
Charles sat there, hands trembling slightly, staring at the piano in disbelief. A shaky laugh escaped his throat, followed by a deep, breathless exhale. He had done it. He had finally played something worth keeping.
No—it was more than that. He had played one of the best pieces of his life.
For a long while, he just sat there, his hands resting in his lap, feeling the weight of what he had just created. Tears still clung to his lashes, but his chest felt light—lighter than it had in months. Maybe years.
He wasn’t just crying because of the music. He was crying because, for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy. 
Charles leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the piano, letting the last remnants of tension drain from him. His breath was steady now, calm. The room was bathed in a kind of quiet peace he hadn’t known in so long. He had no idea where the girl had gone, or if he’d ever see her again. But somehow, it didn’t matter.
The music was enough.
What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known—was that she hadn’t really left. Not entirely.
Outside the door, hidden in the shadows of the hallway, she stood, her back pressed against the wall. She had stopped as soon as she’d heard the first notes drift through the air, her hand hovering over the door handle but never turning it.
She had listened. Every note, every chord, every emotion Charles had poured into the piano, she had felt it too. Her heart had raced with his, her breath had caught in her throat when she’d heard the moment he broke through the wall he had been fighting against.
She smiled softly to herself, her hand finally dropping to her side as the last note of Charles’s masterpiece echoed through the studio. She had heard something in his playing tonight that she hadn’t expected. Something raw and powerful.
She turned to leave, her steps soft on the floor, leaving the sound of his triumph behind. Maybe she would come back one day, maybe not. But she knew this much—he didn’t need her anymore.
He had found his music again. And that, in itself, was enough.
As she disappeared into the night, Charles remained at the piano, still catching his breath, unaware of the quiet presence that had stayed with him until the very end.
The following days felt surreal, like a dream Charles was reluctant to wake from. After that night in the studio with the girl, his life had been interrupted by a trip to Silverstone to try out the tyres for the new season. The track buzzed with its usual energy, but no matter where he wandered, Charles’s thoughts always drifted back to her and the music they’d played together.
He had left the studio that night haunted by the memory of her delicate touch on the keys, the way their melodies had intertwined as though they’d been waiting for each other all along. He carried it with him over to England, through busy track meets and silent hotel rooms. Late at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he would close his eyes and hear her music, as if it had lodged itself permanently in his mind.
It wasn’t just the music, though. It was her—the quiet way she had smiled at him, the lightness in her voice when she teased him, the sense of understanding that had passed between them without needing to be spoken.
Now, as Charles stepped back into the familiar silence of the studio late at night right off the plane, he felt a quiet anticipation coiled tightly in his chest. The lights were dim, the air cool and still, and for a moment, it felt like time had paused. The room was empty, and there was no trace of her—no soft melody floating through the air, no sound of delicate fingers dancing across the keys.
Disappointment stirred, settling somewhere deep. He’d been hoping, perhaps foolishly, that she’d be here. That they could pick up where they’d left off. He made his way to the piano, where the polished surface glinted in the low light, as inviting as ever.
And then he saw it—a small note left on the piano bench. His pulse quickened as he unfolded it, her handwriting instantly recognizable, though scrawled in that same casual, hurried way:
"Play with your heart, tesoro."
A soft smile tugged at his lips. The simplicity of the message was so very her. It was a whisper, a reminder of what mattered. A push, gentle but certain.
Charles set the note aside and sat down on the bench, the studio eerily quiet around him. For a moment, he just sat there, the weight of the piano keys beneath his fingers, the faint memory of their music hovering in the air. Then, without thinking too much, he began to play.
The melody started slow, almost hesitant, each note like a thought he hadn’t quite formed yet. But as he played, the music unfolded into something deeper, something more intimate. It wasn’t complicated or grand—it didn’t need to be. It was soft, heartfelt, like a quiet conversation spoken in a language only they understood.
He let go of the pressure, the constant need to craft something perfect, and instead just let the music be what it was—a reflection of what he felt, of what had been buried deep inside him since he’d met her. The music filled the room, curling into the corners like a secret. And for the first time in what felt like months, he felt at peace.
As the last notes lingered in the air, a soft sound broke the quiet. Applause—light, slow, and warm.
Charles turned, startled, and there she was, standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. She was watching him, her hands clasped softly in front of her, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with something tender, something familiar. She’d been listening, perhaps the whole time.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Charles murmured, his voice softer than the room itself.
She took a few quiet steps toward him, her gaze never leaving his. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” she said gently, her smile deepening. “It was beautiful.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt suspended in a kind of stillness, the last remnants of his melody hanging between them, but no words were needed to fill the quiet. She came closer, and Charles shifted slightly on the bench, instinctively making space for her. She sat beside him, their shoulders brushing softly in the small space, the warmth of her presence settling something inside him.
“Play it again,” she whispered, her voice low, like a secret shared just between them.
He hesitated for a second, but then his fingers found their way back to the keys, this time slower, more deliberate. The music that spilled out was softer now, more intimate, as if shaped by the quiet weight of her sitting beside him. She watched as his hands moved, her gaze gentle, and as he played, the world outside seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them and the music between them.
After a few moments, her fingers joined his, their hands moving together over the keys with a quiet ease. Her touch was so light, so effortless, and the sound they created was simple yet achingly beautiful—a melody that spoke of longing and connection, of words unspoken but deeply felt. There was no rush, no urgency in the way they played, only a slow unfolding of something real and fragile.
Charles stole a glance at her, his heart tightening. There was something unspoken in the air, something that went beyond the music they shared. He could feel it in the way she leaned in ever so slightly, the way her breath seemed to sync with his, the soft, steady rhythm of their playing.
When the last note faded into the stillness, neither of them moved. They sat there, shoulders barely touching, the silence around them thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, her eyes soft, her smile quiet but full of meaning.
“You played with your heart,” she whispered, her words echoing the note she had left for him.
Charles’s throat tightened, the room suddenly feeling too small, too full of everything he hadn’t yet said. He turned toward her, his voice catching in his chest as he whispered back, “You make it easier.”
Her smile deepened, and for a moment, there was only the soft rise and fall of their breathing, the music they had created still lingering in the air around them. It felt like something had shifted between them, like a door had been opened that couldn’t easily be closed again.
And as they sat there, side by side on the piano bench, Charles realised that the silence no longer felt heavy. It felt full—of possibility, of something quiet and beautiful, waiting patiently to be discovered.
Together.
Charles’s heart raced, the air between them thick with anticipation. They sat in a charged stillness, so close their breaths seemed to mingle. The soft light of the studio flickered gently against her face, casting shadows that made her seem almost otherworldly. Her lips parted, just slightly, as if waiting for something—an unspoken invitation.
Before he could think too much about it, before doubt could creep in, Charles leaned in.
At first, it was tentative—a brush of lips so light it felt like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He kissed her softly, testing the moment, unsure if he was crossing some unseen line. But then she responded, her lips pressing back against his with the same quiet hunger he hadn’t realised was burning between them all along.
The kiss deepened, their soft breaths mingling in the quiet. A slow, intoxicating warmth spread through Charles’s chest, pulling him further in. He cupped her face gently with his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheek as their lips moved together, tentative but growing bolder with each passing second. Her hand found his, her fingers slipping between his, and she pulled him closer, as though the space between them had become unbearable.
Suddenly, the kiss wasn’t soft anymore—it became something more urgent, more passionate, the weight of everything they hadn’t said spilling over into the kiss. Charles felt his pulse quicken, his mind lost in the warmth and closeness of her. He slid his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her in deeper, their lips moving together in a rhythm that felt as natural as the music they had created moments ago.
She shifted slightly on the bench, her body pressing closer to his, and the heat between them grew. The world outside seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them in the dim, quiet studio, the echoes of their kiss the only sound. The softness of her touch, the taste of her lips—it was all intoxicating, a crescendo building within him.
Charles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he didn’t want it to stop. He could have stayed in that moment forever, lost in the intensity of her kiss, in the way her hands tangled in his hair, in the way she fit so perfectly against him.
But then, as though sensing they were both on the edge of something overwhelming, Charles pulled back just slightly, his lips still lingering close to hers, their breaths mingling in the stillness. They were both breathing harder, and for a moment, neither spoke.
Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze locking with his, wide and full of something unspoken. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and Charles had to fight the urge to pull her back into another kiss.
“Tesoro” she whispered, her voice soft and a little breathless, as though she couldn’t quite find the words.
He smiled gently, his thumb brushing over her lips before he let his hand fall away, resting on the piano between them. His heart still raced, but there was something peaceful now, something right. He hadn’t felt this in so long—this connection, this ease.
“I need to thank you, angioletto ” Charles murmured, his voice low and full of emotion.
“For what?” she asked, her eyes searching his, a quiet vulnerability in her gaze.
“For inspiring this,” he said, his words soft but heavy with meaning. “For inspiring me.” He gestured toward the piano, where the notes of their shared music still seemed to hover in the air between them. “That song we played together… I never would have found it without you.”
Her lips parted, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes shimmered with something deeper, something that mirrored what Charles was feeling.
“You’ve helped me more than you know,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Before you, I was stuck. I couldn’t write, couldn’t feel the music anymore. But playing with you—it’s like something clicked. You brought it back.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her smile growing, but there was a quiet tenderness in her expression, as if she understood all the things he wasn’t saying. Slowly, she leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his, and they stayed like that, breathing each other in, the world softening around them.
“I’m glad I could help,” she whispered, her voice a soft caress against his skin.
Charles closed his eyes, letting the moment settle between them, the weight of her words sinking in. He had been searching for something—chasing it endlessly, driving himself to exhaustion in its pursuit. But sitting here, with her, with the music they had created still vibrating in the air, he realised he had already found it.
It wasn’t just the music. It was her. She had become his muse in more ways than one.
He pulled back slightly to meet her gaze once more, his eyes searching hers for a long moment. And then, without another word, he kissed her again—slowly, tenderly this time. It was a kiss filled not with urgency, but with gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable.
And in that kiss, Charles knew he wasn’t just thanking her for the music. He was thanking her for being the spark that had reignited something inside him, for being the light in a place that had felt dark for so long.
When their lips finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers once more, the two of them still breathing each other in, their hearts in sync. The studio was quiet now, but it wasn’t empty. The music they had shared—the connection they had formed—lingered in the air like a promise.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Charles felt whole.
send me a message if you want to be on my perm tag list <3
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mhsdatgo · 10 months ago
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By the way, you can say you hate characters and STILL admit that they were abused or harassed. There's literally nothing wrong. Denying it or romanticizing it because of a strange kink of yours won't make your hate any less evident, trust me.
Rhaenyra was abused. She's continuously taken advantage of, and brushed away the moment she isn't needed anymore. And she experiences this first hand with her own father, who completely ruins motherhood for her when she grows up watching Aemma get impregnated and either miscarry or have the baby be stillborn or die in the cradle. If Viserys had been by her side as a supporter to her claim since the start, he wouldn't have gotten Aemma pregnant again and again in the pursuit of a male child. He wouldn't have married Alicent for the same reason. Even after, the only reason why he still stands by her side, and it's time the fandom accepts this, it's solely because of his grief and guilt, because Rhae is the only remnant of Aemma.
And there it starts. Firstly, groomed and left alone naked and alone by her uncle in a brothel. Secondly, slept with Criston Cole (although she did coerce him, that's still a literal TEENAGER) then she's married to a gay man and still approached super young by her new bodyguard and just one year later she's started giving birth to his children. (Side note: FUCK Rhaenyra x Harwin. FUCK with reverb. With hard K.)
And up to this point, most fan agree that she's had a shitty life, although I don't agree with some of her choices. (like her treatment of Criston Cole and the bastards, not because I'm some kind of bigot, but because passing bastards as trueborn in THAT precise world sets them up for failure, not being legally deserving of a thone DOES NOT mean me hating them. That's for another post.)
To top it all off, she meets her uncle again, and there starts the fanfic self insert. They have sex on a beach the day of Laena's funeral, the only one of the three wives he's ever been canonically loyal to (FUCK you writers) and fans think it's soulmates meeting again or sum shit. They subtly threaten Laenor to fake his death or actually die (that's what they were trying to do, cope harder) and marry mere days after the death of Laena.
Yes, all cute and romantic (for Dumbnyras twats) but literally, has it done anything good? For Rhaenyra or like, anyone else? It just brought Daemon closer to the line of succession. Literally. That's all the good it has done.
Fast forward to ep 10. How do I even start with this? Only Jace seems to be on Rhaenyra's side. It's clear he only obeys to Daemon out of fear and is scared to talk back to him. Meanwhile, he COMPLETELY disregards his wife's, and by his faction's loyalties, QUEEN's, orders, he ignores her wails of pain as she miscarries their daughter out of pure shock and grief for her father's death. He lashes out and chokes her on the same day and people still see him as the malewife to Rhaenyra's girlboss. They're always ready to do award-deserving mental gymnastic to justify this man.
"He was planning war because he wanted to distract himself!!!!" "He only choked Rhae because he was mad at Viserys, he'd never hurt her!!!!!!"
Fuck off. Coming from probably Rhaenyra's #1 hater. Fuck. Off. Don't say you care about her place in the view of men when you're ready to justify shit like this.
This is the same man who runs off and has an affair with a teenager, and then prefers going on and having a badass death instead of joining his wife and children who need him in King's Landing.
Do I like Rhaenyra? No. Do I think that, because of this, she's never been abused, or exploited in any way, in her life? ALSO no. My distaste for her character has NOTHING to do with Viserys, Criston, Daemon, Harwin or literally ANYONE ELSE in her life.
Alicent Hightower time, baby.
My mother, my aunt, my grandmother, my entire bloodline, my Roman Empire. And more. To anyone who thinks of her as nothing but a bitter/jealous girl, go read @feretrumdulcia 's post about this matter cuz there's literally no one I've seen that words it better. (And bub if you're reading, long live you and the way you think.)
https://www.tumblr.com/feretrumdulcia/720746371814195200/i-have-seen-quite-often-that-many-people-consider
Anyone who can read this and argue that Alicent is envious/jealous or bitter, honestly needs to take the heart shaped sunglasses off, get off tumblr and Ao3, learn what media literacy is and start learning how to possess a crumble of it. To us it makes sense to synpathize with both, because we've seen the big picture. To Alicent, Rhaenyra gave her virtue to the man that almost killed her brother, and chose to believe she did not out of trust and maybe nostalgia for her friendship and easier times, only to have her father be blamed and taken away from her as a result.
She has four kids in the span of, how much? Five, six years? Seven at best? Helaena and Aemond are NINE MONTHS APART. Viserys didn't even let her rest after she gave birth to her daughter. And I'm convinced 100% that he kept her as Idk some whore he didn't need to pay for because it's stated that he never wanted Aegon but the son he butchered Aemma for. Why keep on bedding her and forcing children on her when you'd never get what you want from her?
Throughout the series she's called bitter and downright a c*nt for this and that reason. She tries convincing Viserys that Rhae's children are CLEARLY bastards and she's setting herself and them up for failure by committing treason and putting them on the throne? Nah, power hungry, jealous, bitter. She marries Helaena to Aegon as a last resort because she's Valyrian and probably would've received proposals worse than the ones Rhaenyra made that would eventually convince Viserys to give her away? Hates her daughter, abuser, shitty mom. Rhae's sons slit her son's eye out instead of running when they had the chance and she rightfully lashes out? Nah, crazy ass, for the dungeons. She gives money and moon tea to her son's rape victim to ensure she gets a way out and isn't forced to have a baby she doesn't want? Bruh, rape apologist. She goes to Aegon and RIGHTFULLY disciplines him? Abuser. Forced to show her feet to a rancid filthy man to know where her son is? Upholds the patriarchy, hypocrite. She convinces Aegon to start fighting for her family because it's either them or the Blacks and he needs to start putting his life together and fight for them, so she crowns him and makes him King? Treason, deserves death, long live the brothel queens.
Somehow, it is ALWAYS HER FAULT. And those few that admit how wronged she was make fun of her.
CAN SHE FUCKING WIN?! Or y'all just hate her because she isn't Valyrian?
Btw almost all of these arguments are the same for Book!Alicent who I personally believe to be FAR MORE than just a bitter stepmom that hates her stepdaughter. She arguably has more reasons to start a coup against her in the books without that prophecy shit.
TLDR; It's OKAY to hate characters and admit they're abused and taken advantage of at the same time. You don't have a moral high-ground on no one because you hate or love a character instead of the other.
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forlix · 1 year ago
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𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬・l.f.
— "if you smell the same as someone, you'll have some peace of mind."
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words・1k pairing・felix x gn!reader genres・hurt/comfort, established relationship warnings・detailed descriptions of an anxiety episode
a/n・ inspired by this thing lix said in an ep of skz code and my favorite line from natsume souseki’s kokoro. i hope this can provide u with some solace; love u
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When you slip into your side of the bed, Felix feels a touch of cool air from the duvet being lifted off the mattress, but it’s quickly nullified by your body’s warm pressure against his as you tuck yourself into his side. He looks at you, shrouded in one of his old hoodies, glasses halfway down the bridge of your nose, one hand patting down the blanket around your legs and the other holding your phone to your face as you scan over a text.
This is far from the first time you’ve spent the night at his place, and even further from the first time his anxiety has made itself known beyond just its ceaseless simmering beneath his skin. Yet, it is the first time the two events have happened in simultaneity, and he finds himself wondering if he should tell you about the unmistakable tightness pulling at his ribs or the winding coil waiting to snap behind his eyes.
An answer follows as quickly as the question surfaces, though. You haven’t been dating long, but in only three days short of six months Felix has learned that he could cut his heart open over your hands and you’d still find a way not to spill a drop of his blood. That is the extent to which your love makes him feel safe, secure, sacred; the extent to which he believes in your ability to protect his soul, even when it isn’t something unseen and external bombarding his defenses but the most familiar enemy of all. One that bears his name and wears his face.
“Baby,” Felix says, and your fingers still over your screen. As does your heart, when you see his quivering lips and unblinking eyes.
Your phone falls upon the blanket with a soft thud.
Scrawled all over the lines of your face is the worry that Felix was so reluctant to cause, but the way your eyes soften as you look at him now is a perfect replica of how they did that time you took him stargazing on the roof of your apartment building, and breathing becomes marginally easier right away.
“What’s happening?” You whisper, your fingers swift but so careful as they find and slide over his wrist. “How can I help, angel?”
Shakily, blindly, Felix’s hand chases yours under the sheets, and your palms have hardly touched before you’re completing his unspoken sentence. You lace your fingers with his, their pads fluttering against the back of his hand, and this gives him the strength to utter, to plead—
“Hold me?”
Your free hand moves to graze the curve of his cheekbone, then to hold his nape. Then, with a flourish of movement that Felix hardly registers, you lift yourself to straddle his lap and tighten your arm where it curls around his neck, drawing him so gently into your embrace that he can all but evanesce against you.
Time ceases to exist. What proceeds is simply warmth: your hands and mouth pressing life back into his body with every sweep through his hair and “I’ve got you” upon his ear; his face gone in the cluster of fabric that marks the beginning of your hood, his hand pushing beneath the heavy cotton to seek out your bare back, his breaths timed to the quiet heartbeat he finds there.
The two of you spend what feels like multiple lifetimes locked together in this fashion.
It is somewhere towards the end of life number three that Felix realizes, dimly, arbitrarily, that you don’t smell like anything.
You’ve always come with something, be it the aromatic remnants of your childhood home that you’ve never quite outgrown, the fragrance you always dab behind your ears before leaving the house, or the telltale shampoo-conditioner combination you’ve been using for years. But right now, there is no discernible scent attached to your skin or your clothes; no olfactory indications of your person, your presence.
This surprises Felix so thoroughly that it seals his windpipe closed for a few seconds. It’s as if he’s lost something he never realized was precious until only after it’s slipped from his grasp, and the notion nearly sends him on a new spiral entirely, nearly undoes the progress that you’ve so tenderly helped him make since settling upon his thighs.
But then you shift, and, in a manner reminiscent of brushing thick, tangled vines out of the way to read an ancient stone plaque, Felix skims the tip of his nose over the hollow of your throat, and it is there that he finds the subtle scents of you that he thought he’d forfeited. And his next realization not only pries his lungs open again but brings a much-needed rush of oxygen back into them.
It is his bodywash that you used in the shower and his garment that you slipped into right after drying off. It is his blanket that you’re currently folded together in and his dormitory that you’ve carried a spare key to for weeks now. It's his hands and lips that dote constantly on your neck and waist and shoulders and anywhere they can reach like poppies vying for homes in cracked cement.
It’s not that you don’t smell like anything. It’s that you smell like him. 
Like us.
Felix knows well that anxiety is too fickle a creature to ever leave for good, but when this thought occurs to him he senses the foul apparition waver for once.
He starts to unravel himself from you after life number seven, and you expel your relief in the form of a sigh when you pull away and see the faint smile on your boyfriend's face; sense the stable in, out of the chest your hands rest upon.
The puff of air is quickly sucked back in, though, when Felix presses his lips to the underside of your jaw; to the point of your chin; to the apple of your cheek; and, at last, directly to yours. The kiss begins tense and unmoving, still riddled with the tonnage of his burden, but then his hand cradles your face with all the ardor of thank you, and his tears taste like the words I love you when they land on your tongue.
And it is perfect, as is he.
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© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.
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melluvsuu · 22 days ago
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“ 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 . ”
CHAPTER 01 ──── GOOD ASSISTANT ! ‹3
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characters : gojo, makima, megumi, nobara, yuji
context : you start to meet this strange lady, odd enough she takes interest in you, and this random white haired guy too. sooner or later you a 'jujutsu sorcerer' and meet sukunas vessel. twins!!
authors notes : this better blow up or im crying...
warnings : ooc, male!reader, male pronouns, reader referred as 'you', chapter takes place in ep 1 of jjk, plus extra non canon stuff, mistakes probably..
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,, 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓. 𝜚
UNKNOWN LOCATION
JANUARY 7 , 2009 04:32:18
You wake up to the cool sensation of grass beneath your fingers, soft and damp from the night air. It’s dark—so dark that you can barely make out your surroundings. A thick, inky blackness stretches out in every direction, swallowing the horizon. The sky above has doors—different shapes, sizes, and colours, each standing upright without walls or frames to support them. Some are tall and imposing, carved from dark wood with intricate patterns.
“[Name]-kun.”
You blinked, trying to process the voice. “Who is this?”
A figure stepped into view, you can’t make out the details. It’s human, or atleast looks human. Feminine body, and glowing spiral yellow eyes, “My name is Makima. I assume you're [Name]? Correct.”
You narrowed your eyes, “Yes… Where are we.?”
“My ‘domain’. Hell. There’s really nothing here but us, don’t worry about that white albino paintbrush listening in. Let’s chat!”
She sits down near your head as your body automatically seem to get closer to her lap. She rests her hands on your hair, gently stroking it.
“Let’s make a contract–binding vow, shall we? We’ll discuss this topic at a different time, but for now we can just get to know one another.”
You considered her words, the weight of the offer sinking in.“Alright.”
TOKYO METROPOLITAN CURSE TECHNICAL COLLEGE
JUNE 14, 2015 , 07:27:02
“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey~!” The white-haired, blindfolded man exclaimed, turning toward you with a playful grin.
Who is this guy? You thought, feeling the tight ropes binding you and surrounded by a chaotic mix of talismans. As your vision slowly cleared, you studied him closely—he seemed oddly familiar. Why?
“Why am I here?” You managed to ask, still trying to regain your bearings.
The blindfolded man flashed an infuriating smirk, ” Great, just what I needed…” You thought, annoyed.
“For your execution, of course!”
“My execution?”
“Yup, yours! But…”
“But?” you echoed, your confusion deepening.
You watched as he stood up, crossing his arms with a confident air. “You won’t be executed if you agree to be my assistant, [Name]-chan.”
“What—who the hell are you?” You asked, tilting your head slightly to get a better look.
“It’s me, Gojo Satoru. If you accept my offer, you can live. What do you say, hm?”
You sat in silence as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I really need a strong assistant, [Name]-chan.”
“Ugh, fine! Just don’t touch my ear, you weirdo,” you replied, instinctively leaning away from him.
“Fantastic!” he exclaimed, his excitement palpable.
YOKOHAMA , SANKEIEN GARDEN
JUNE 5, 2018 21:48:29
BANG—!
You stepped down hard on the curse’s head, the sickening crunch echoing in the stillness of the night. Disgust twisted your features as you felt the remnants of the creature’s essence ooze beneath their boot.
“Gross.” You spat. You glanced up at the sky, now draped in deep shades of indigo and very few shades of orange.. It was a beautiful scene, the upcoming stars twinkling like distant memories. You could enjoy this scene…
“[Name]-chan, look here!” Gojou shouted.
Nevermind.
“Gojo-sa—”
“Call me Satoru, silly!” he interrupted.
With a resigned sigh, you replied, “Satoru-san, why did you let me exorcize such a weakling?” They removed their black coat, using it to wipe the blood splatter from their face, feeling both exhilarated and slightly exasperated.
“Well, I like seeing you like this!” he said with a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Noticing a streak of the curse’s blood on Gojou’s cheek, You pointed at it, a playful glint in their eye. “Something wrong, [Name]-chan?”
Gojou looked at the finger pointing at his cheek, and it suddenly clicked for him—you wanted a kiss! Of course, who wouldn’t want to kiss the great Satoru Gojo? He leaned down, dramatically pressing his lips against the spot, a teasing grin on his face. “Is that what you wanted?”
Annoyance flashed in your eyes as they rolled them. “No. There was some blood on your cheek.” You wiped the blood away, their voice steady. “And we have another ‘mission’, we found Sukuna's finger.”
“Well then, let’s get going! Ooh! I also want to stop by a famous mochi restaurant on our way!” Gojo exclaimed, grabbing your wrist and leading them away with an eager tug.
As you walked toward the train station, you felt a sudden presence behind you. A familiar weight settled as someone clung their arms around their neck.
“[Name]-kun,” Came the sultry voice, dripping with irritation. You recognized it instantly—Makima, she was not pleased. “Why did that man kiss you?” She rested her head against his shoulder.
“I… didn’t expect him to do it, so shut up...” You mumbled, swatting her away with a half-hearted gesture
JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL
JUNE 5, 2018 22:02:01
“Under Jujusten Regulation, Itadori Yuji, I will exorcise you as a curse!” Megumi declared.
“Hold up, I’m fine!” Yuji replied, raising his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Besides, both of us are kinda beaten up,” he added, glancing down at his body where the tattoos—symbols of his connection to Sukuna—began to slowly fade away, like shadows dissipating at dawn.
“We should go to the hospital,” Yuji suggested, his tone shifting to one of concern.
Megumi hesitated, his mind racing, ‘I can’t tell if it’s really him or if it’s the special grade object influencing him, he thought anxiously. Damn, what should I do?’
Just then, a white-haired figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “What’s the situation?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just materialised from thin air.
“Gojo-sensei? [Name]-sama? What are you both doing here?” Megumi stammered, momentarily caught off guard.
Gojo chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes, although hidden by the blindfold, you could sense it. “Well, I heard from a little birdie that Sukuna’s finger was in the area,” he explained, his tone teasing as he reached for his phone.
He was interrupted as you snatched the device from his hands. “Plus, the higher-ups wouldn’t stop nagging about a missing special-grade object!” Gojo continued, unperturbed. “And I dragged [Name] along while I was out sightseeing. By the way, did you manage to find it?”
“Uh… I ate it,” Yuji confessed sheepishly.
A stunned silence fell over the group. “For real?” You and Gojo echoed simultaneously, eyes wide in disbelief.
“For real,” Yuji and Megumi parroted back.
Gojou strode over to Yuji, bending down to examine him closely. “Hmm, you really did merge with it?” He chuckled as he straightened up, clearly amused by the situation. “Is there anything wrong with your body?”
“Nope,” Yuji replied.
“Can you swap out with Sukuna?” You interjected.
“Sukuna?” Yuji’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Yeah, the curse you ingested,” You clarified.
“Oh, right! I think I can do that!” Yuji said, giving a thumbs up.
“Alright, give him about ten seconds, then take control back,” You instructed, offering a half-hearted smile to lighten the mood.
“But—” Yuji started, but you cut him off.
“Don’t worry; I’m the strongest,” Gojou smirked, his trademark bravado eliciting groans from both you and Megumi.
“Megumi, hold this!” Gojou tossed a bag into his hands.
“What’s this?” Megumi asked, perplexed.
“Kokufuku from Kikusuian! It’s Sendai’s specialty, and it’s absolutely delicious! I highly recommend the Zunda and Cream flavour!” Gojo exclaimed, his excitement palpable.
As Gojo continued to yap on about his trip and the delicious treats, [Name] couldn’t resist the urge to snag a piece of his Kokufuku. It was every bit as good as he’d claimed, the flavours dancing on your tongue.
“Hey! [Name]-chan, don’t eat my food! That’s really rude!” Gojo whined, eyes wide in faux betrayal.
“Hey, behind you!” Megumi shouted, you pulled him back by his collar just as a special grade cursed spirit lunged at Gojo. You instinctively tensed, knowing all too well how this would end—Gojo would emerge victorious once again because, as he liked to remind everyone, he was ‘the strongest.’
“Look, that kid is still alive after being thrown into a building,” You said sarcastically, feeling the exhaustion seeping into your bones.
“Yeah, it’s about time,” Gojou replied, as if on cue.
As if in response to Gojo's words, Yuji’s tattoos faded once more, his body slumping as Megumi let out a sigh of relief. “Colour me impressed!” Gojou exclaimed, hovering above Yuji. “You can really control it!”
“Yeah, but he’s kind of annoying,” Yuji muttered, aggressively patting his own head, “I can hear his dumb voice in my head.”
“It’s a miracle that’s all he’s doing,” Gojou remarked casually, poking Yuji’s forehead with two fingers, which caused him to immediately pass out.
“What did you do?” Megumi asked, his tone a mix of exasperation and curiosity.
“He knocked him out, Megumi-kun,” You replied, leaning back against the nearby railing, fatigue washing over you. “Can I go home, please? I’m tired.”
“Not just yet, [Name]-chan. If he isn’t possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel,” Gojou said, the seriousness of his tone cutting through the lighthearted banter.
“I have a question for you! What should we do with him?” Gojou turned to Megumi, his expression contemplative.
After a moment of thought, Megumi replied, “If he is a vessel, Jujutsu regulations demand that Itadori be executed. However, I don’t want him to die.”
“Is that a personal opinion?” Gojou raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading slightly.
“Yes. It’s a personal opinion. Please do something about it,” Megumi insisted, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
“Well, if it’s a request from a precious student, leave it to me! Now, someone carry Yuji. It seems my beloved future husband has fallen asleep!” Gojou declared with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Megumi turned to you, noticing that you had indeed succumbed to fatigue and drifted off, your head lolling to the side. You must have been really tired—or just really lazy.
“—Wait. Future husband? [Name]-san doesn’t even like you,” he deadpanned, disbelief etched across his face.
“Nuh-uh! He does! He let me kiss him before we came here,” Gojou retorted proudly, a goofy grin plastered across his face. Megumi’s frustration bubbled beneath the surface, and he couldn’t help but feel a strong urge to punch Gojou right then and there.
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additional notes : if it has mistakes idc,, uhm yeah woohoo
word count : 1.7k
dont steal or repost my stuff that makes me go crazy!
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