#everything else is from my own harvest lmao

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?

Harvest Storms

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.

A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasn’t only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.

His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned. 

He’d known having that one-night stand wasn’t right—he should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream. 

And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment. 

“She’s yours.” His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter. 

It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panic—bone-deep worry and hatred. He couldn’t be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasn’t a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didn’t feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didn’t want. 

But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.

Yes, it could have been easy. 

Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories he’d heard…

Simon’s gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holster—slipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal. 

These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb. 

It’s one hour later that he’s done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before he’s exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the base’s hallway.

All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.

“Lt.” The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, “off to go hide in back-alleys, then?”

“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.” Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated. 

“Copy and check, Sir!” Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.

The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pockets—finding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition. 

Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it loosely—his opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.

There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.

It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive home—a tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simon’s initial purchase of it. But it wasn’t his only properly, not by a long shot. 

Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.

He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder. 

Veins tighten under his flesh.

“Kid!” Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty. 

He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floor—no groan or sly comment.

You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester man’s lips thin.

“Christ, don’t go and tell me she’s fuckin’ gone again…” Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when he’s gone was sitting with its delicate font.

Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.

“She got into a fight out of school again—black eye and bruised knuckles. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldn’t get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, I’ll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. I’m sorry. I’ll be at my home if you need me.”

Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.

This would make the fifth fight this year. 

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for you—some of which he would never be able to properly express. 

He’s not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. He’s in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair. 

Simon was never meant for this.

The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

But wasn’t he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you in—provided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong? 

Simon’s brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.

Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack. 

Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadn’t had the kind of childhood people would want—was never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights? 

He’d heard some things about teenagers. 

Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you don’t want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly. 

Simon wasn’t letting you catch a bug.

He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen. 

You hear him coming when he’s three-fourths of the way there. 

Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father. 

The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap. 

“Put it on,” he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours. 

You turn away with a growl. “Don’t want to.”

“Bloody ‘ell, just put it on,” there’s no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. “Asking to get fuckin’ sick at this rate, are you? I’m not cleanin’ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.” 

Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periods—right eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers. 

You’re acutely aware of your father’s presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy he’s back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all. 

The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else. 

“What did I tell you when I went away, eh?” The man asks you lowly when you’ve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. “Kid.”

“Don’t get into any more fights.” Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts. 

“Affirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?”

“Got into another fight.” An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s not an excuse.” Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. “When I tell you something, you listen, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. “Sure.” 

A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.

“No more fighting,” Simon grits out, “now show me.” 

“It’s not that bad—”

“Show me it.” Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your father’s gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head. 

“Happy?” You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket. 

It’s a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.

“Why?” The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.

“Why?” You glare at him, “Why the hell do you care?” 

Simon’s eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and you’re suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.

“You’re never fucking here, what’s the point in telling you anything about me?” Your father’s face is covered, but the mask is more than just physical—it’s a part of him in every sense. You don’t know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. “It wouldn’t even make a difference if you never came back! Even when you’re here it barely even matters beyond who’s dishes are in the sink.”

Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you don’t care enough right now to think about what you’re saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. “You don’t even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?” 

Simon watches and listens, stone still. It’s as if he doesn’t even breathe; his pulse doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. If you would have been able to see it, you’d have noticed the way the large man’s lips were slightly parted. 

He wasn’t averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his father—it was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way. 

What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didn’t know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals. 

He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didn’t know what you bought. 

Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, but…he didn’t know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

How could he be a father to you?

Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard. 

With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door. 

Simon doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. He’d never felt like this before.

Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time he’s standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. It’s the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise. 

Give Simon a gun and he’d be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and he’d have it sharp in seconds. 

Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and he’s suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He can’t end up like his own father.

The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.

Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand. 

Just as he’s about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.

Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.

Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didn’t know what to say…but…

God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.

Simon’s knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. There’s a shuffling of sheets and a dull, “God, just go away!” 

Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands. 

“Open up for me, yeah?” He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. “Need ‘ta talk to you.���

A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. “You? Talk?”

Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly. 

“Please.” A pin could drop. 

It’s a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before it’s twisted back with a firm hand. 

Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your father’s bare visage—only the black face paint stuck to his skin—but even more so at his plea. There were only a few times you’d actually seen him and even fewer when you’d hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver. 

He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properly—what to do and what not to do. 

It had been the first time that Simon could really say he’d been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldn’t do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadn’t cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should have…you’d done something worse.

You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simon’s gaze never left you for hours after you’d done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else. 

Tiny. Weak. Innocent.

How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when you’d begin crying for a bottle. 

In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from. 

“What?” Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries. 

“Can I come in?” 

“I don’t know—are you going to give a lecture?” You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.

“Negative, Moppet, no lecture.” He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. “Jus’ need ‘ta…” Words fail him. What did he need to do? 

Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.

“You land a hit, then?” You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.

“I…” your feet shuffle, face burning, “what?”

One of your father’s large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing. 

But…he was trying.

“A hit,” he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. “Did you get ‘em back?” 

It’s a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.

“More than one person,” you admit hesitantly. Your father’s gaze darkens but you quickly continue. “T-they look worse than me right now.”

Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. “That’ll do,” a pause, “...‘cause I can’t beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckin’ heap ‘o shit.” 

Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made him…content, you could say.

“Who said they were teenagers?” you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in. 

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No, it isn’t. Shut your bloody trap.” The air lightens to a degree you hadn’t experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears. 

“...How long are you staying?” The man hums, licking his lips. 

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

“I’m off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?” Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle. 

“Change of heart?” You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins. 

Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing up—letting your father’s large frame enter. 

He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didn’t know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.

He’d really fucked up.

“C’mere,” Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, “lemme take a proper look at it.” His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly. 

Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns. 

Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.

“Won’t die,” is all he can say, voice hard and strained. “Lucky you, eh?” You scoff and his hands leave—there wasn’t much he could do. “Moppet.”

Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. You’re momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence. 

“Give me your word.” Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. “No more of this. You’re gonna end up gettin’ hurt—badly—you got that?” 

“They were calling soldiers cannon fodder.” You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. “That they weren’t even good enough for bullets.” 

Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles. 

Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calm—the side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly. 

It was you. His daughter. Innocent.

The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen. 

Simon can’t even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did know—it was that he didn’t want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. You’re placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.

You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, “Go to sleep. It’s late out,” and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.

Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lips—genuine and warm like a weighted blanket. 

“How long are you gonna be there?” You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.

He doesn’t turn around. 

“All night. Need ‘ta get this shite done for my boss.” You don’t know why, but you feel like he’s lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. “Sleep, Kid. We’ll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.” 

Of course, he’d noticed that, too. 

“Dad?” You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. It’s a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest you’ve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely. 

“What is it?” 

“Goodnight.” Simon’s hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesn’t say anything until you’re fast asleep behind him—when he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin. 

Into your skin, he whispers, “...Goodnight, my little Moppet.”

Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.

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[bigalockwood]

August and Rousseau

I’ve outed myself as the #resident horse expert (thanks @youngroyalsconfession for the title I’m genuinely elated bc I’ve never gotten my own online moniker lmao) and I think it’s time that I contributed some more unasked for and useless horse knowledge to the YR discussion. This has been sitting in my drafts for ages and since I don’t see myself finding any time to research this further in the next few weeks, I thought I might as well post it before season 3 drops. Plenty of posts have been made about how the August-Rousseau situation could play out, and I don’t want to talk about those theories today, because I have anything to add right now.

As has been pointed out many times, horses are expensive, at least in western, industrialized countries. They used to be a necessity for most people, because they were a mode of transport, used to harvest food etc. This is still true in many parts of the world, but not Western and Northern Europe. There, horses have become a luxury, and are usually notoriously expensive, especially if you can’t keep them on your own grounds and produce your own hay. And even then- vet bills are painful to look at, and there are plenty of other costs, too. So, August most definitely won’t be able to pay for the monthly expenses that come with having a horse, at least not if he gets no financial aid by the court or doesn’t sell some of his assets. And even then, I’m not sure what they would say when they learn that they are financing a horse of all things (especially since August has zero interest in or knowledge of horses). In the following you can find a rough overview of just how expensive owning a horse is. Keep in mind, these numbers are generalized. I’m not from Sweden, but another European country, and even if I were, prices fluctuate a lot depending on the success of harvest, proximity to large cities, services offered by the stable, etc.… But maybe it can give those of you less familiar with horses a better idea of just how fucked August actually is.

Stable: this variable is already very hard to judge. You can find fairly cheap barns, but you usually have to do at least part of the work yourself, too (just imagine August mucking out Rousseau’s stall lmao). Feed is often included in the price, doesn’t cover any special needs, though (hay is included, but anything else you have to buy yourself). However, Hillerska is a prestigious school. They have a groom (our beloved Marcus) to take care of everything the owners don’t want to do (mucking out, feeding, taking horses out to the pastures and then back inside). You can find yourself with anywhere between 200- 600 Euros per month, depending on the services offered. Knowing what we do about Hillerska, you can expect the cost to be at the higher end.

The farrier should come every six to eight weeks and, again, costs depend on what work needs to be done. It can be anywhere between 50 Euro (bare hoof, only need to be trimmed) to close to 200 Euro (horse shoes for all four hooves). As long as Rousseau isn’t being exercised he’ll most likely only need a trim. 

Insurance depends greatly on your horse and its value (it’s hinted that he is valuable in the show) but generally costs between 50 to 150 Euro per month where I’m from.

Vet costs (assuming your horse is healthy and you only need to get the recommended vaccinations and check-up’s as well as anthelmintics) will usually be around 400 Euros a year and can go way up, depending on whether your horse has any special needs. Rousseau seems to be healthy, so we’ll assume he only needs the bare minimum.

Based on what he definitely needs to buy/pay for, the annual cost would be somewhere between 3400 and 12.400 Euro. Which is a super rough estimate and doesn’t even cover any extra expenses (Rousseau most certainly doesn’t only eat hay but also other feed specifically for sport horses). A horse can easily cost up to 21.400 Euro per year. August saves some money because he doesn’t take any training sessions and thus doesn’t need to pay for a trainer. He could also lend Rousseau to the school and let other students ride him; a deal like that would reduce how much he needs to pay for the monthly care of Rousseau.

But either way: August has to pay between 295 and 1800 Euro per month. If he wasn’t struggling financially, he probably wouldn’t even notice such a “small” expense. As it is, he can’t even pay his own tuition. There’s no way he’ll be able to pay for a horse.

(Would also like to, again, state that this is extremely generalized; I just wanted to highlight how much a horse usually costs).

[ostrichmonkey-games]

Everything I see from Dark Confluence looks sick, and you should use this as an excuse to talk more about it

I don't think I've actually talked a ton about what Dark Confluence is going to be like as a completed game, so I'll take this as an excuse to do so lmao.

So, I like the souls-borne "series" a ton. But my favorite part of all the games is the world that you're let loose in and get to explore. Piecing together the story through bits and pieces, hidden clues, secrets, implication and interpretation. The goal of Dark Confluence is to do that together at the table.

To that end, Dark Confluence is all about the setting and unfolding story you all put together. It is as much a game as it is a chopped up setting book that never tells you exactly what's going on - because that's the fun! Making it all up! Crafting your own unique crumbling, melancholy universe and then rooting around in it to see what you can make sense of.

Character mechanics draw a lot from my other game Extracausal, so its a lot of tag/trait based stuff, but there's also DNA from games like Wanderhome in there, with how the Realms ("levels") and Lords of the Tower ("bosses") work. I want the game to give the table a bunch of tools for getting into weird and complicated situations, and then stringing it all together into something uniquely cohesive.

Most of the mechanics are mostly done and written at this point, all that's left is just all the other writing lmao. There's 36 character backgrounds (each with their own set of 3 unique items), 12 Realms, 12 Lords, 18 Magical Spells, 18 Artifacts, 18 Major NPCs, 36 Creatures and Wretches (and more!), all of which have embedded within them little "lore sparks" for the table to play around with. Nothing is "canon", but there's a lot of moving parts - building blocks - for the table to play around with.

You're all gonna be wandering around your unique version of the Infinite Tower (the dark confluence of the multiverse), confronting the Lords of the Tower as you shape the universe to come. Along the way, you'll meet weird and interesting NPCs, horrible and dangerous Wretches, and uncover and create your own deep lore and secrets.

As a reward for everyone reading through all this text, here's a new Artifact

Ossifrage Great Bow; tags - ravenous, violent A great bow shaped from many fragments of bones. It glistens in the light, bleeding like an open wound. Effect: The wielder never runs out of arrows, as the bow fires massive, barbed, missiles grown and harvested from the skeleton of the wielder themself. Burden: The wielder’s sternum must be kept pried open, beating heart exposed. Augments The bow can launch a flurry of smaller arrows that darken the sky The bow can steal the bones of another whom it has injured The projectiles fired from the bow leave a burning stream of blood in their wake

And! A new Spell!

Fragmentation Effect: Unleash your manifold soul, allowing the hungry, grasping hands of Fate within you to reach out and unravel whatever they touch. Requirement: Consume an entire age’s worth of Fragments, becoming infinite, fractal, and glorious. Ember Moves Like tangled strands of a knot, all Fragments are secretly connected. All Fragments must take a Curse. The howl of the dying cosmos echoes louder, consuming the dreams of those within the Realm, replacing them with something else. One of your many soul-pieces sloughs off, becoming a Fragment all its own, one with the Fate of bringing about your final Dissolution. They say that souls are the building blocks of the cosmos, and the gods merely stonemasons. From where then, do souls come from?

It's gonna be done eventually. I might be on the lookout for playtesters once I have the text done. So, keep an eye out for that maybe?

[oogaboogasphincter]

Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter one: the high priestess

series summary: when you find love in a priest, a litany of spooky events begin to follow you that can only be described as a haunting. is it your own guilty conscience that disturbs you... or could it be something else?

chapter summary: you're visiting your best friend in her new town for the first time when you are begrudgingly thrust into her devout way of life. however, something - or someone - makes you rethink your plans of avoiding the church at all costs.

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.4k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI!: reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, SLOW BURN TABOO RELATIONSHIP BABYYY, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ lots of character introductions so pls bear with me, mention of the death of a loved one and some light grief, food and eating mentions, sudden illness, potentially cringe banter, take a shot for every time i wrote 'father pike' in this (trust me we learn his first name soon enough but for now it's all formalities between him and reader), is this whole thing blasphemous? probably

a/n: sooo this is something very different from what i normally write, but i'm so excited to be trying something new! :) i'm not too sure where i want to take this story yet, so i don't have a total number of chapters or an ending planned (i really don't even have much of the plot figured out LMAO) but i'd really really appreciate any and all feedback from my readers! ♥️ let me know what you liked and what you want to see more of in future chapters!

“So I won’t burst into flames when I walk through the doors?” 

You ask your best friend, Lucy, sending her into a fit of laughter. She clutches your hand tighter in hers, squeezing it with pompous affection. Despite your best efforts to maintain your feelings of impartialness towards the church, your palm slips against hers with a sheen of clamminess as you travel closer to the hulking cathedral. 

“No!” She laughs, that breathless laugh you’ve always found comfort in. “You’re holier than most of the people who go every Sunday.” 

You scoff and give her some side-eye, something that just makes her shake her head even more. Whether or not this is how you wanted to spend your first day in Carmeltree visiting her, you are going to this harvest dinner. 

She sighs contentiously, contrasting the playful smirk on her face, “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Now come on, we’re gonna be late!” 

——

Lucy has been your best friend since kindergarten. The maple leaves that swirl around you both in the crisp autumn air as you run through the streets now invoke a fierce sense of nostalgia, one that’s almost painful. One of your first memories together is making leaf rubbings in class with the fallen leaves that blanketed the frosted school grounds. She liked warm colors and you liked cool colors; she liked maple leaves and you liked birch leaves. Two complete halves made an even brighter whole when you came together, and the rest is history. 

Despite the big city you grew up in, somehow you always managed to be in the same classes, share the same hobbies. But your luck had to run out sometime; when you both graduated, you got accepted into universities on opposite sides of the country. You kept up your communication, talking to each other every day and spilling your guts about everything, from the monumental to the regrettable, the joyous to the devastating. 

You thought something was amiss when she called you in the middle of the night a few months back. At first you brushed it off, thinking maybe she fell asleep with her phone in her hand and dialed you by accident, something you’ve both done plenty of times over the course of your friendship. When she called you back as soon as you didn’t answer, you knew there was something wrong. That’s when you learned her mom had passed away. 

It wasn’t sudden, but that didn’t spare her any devastation. You were there for her all day, every day. Consoling her when she wept, relishing in the happy memories that brought a rare but vital smile to her voice, sympathizing with her grief. But without a physical shoulder to lean on, Lucy went looking for more support to help her. 

Her mom was a devout Christian and, by proxy, so was Lucy. She isn’t as rigid in her faith as her mom was, but she always viewed it as a guiding light to betterment, a sturdy foundation to catch her when she crumbled. Luckily, the whirlwind of life events in the past six months that displaced her from her college friends to the small town of Carmeltree was gracious enough to gift her a tight-knit, painfully orthodox population. 

On the contrary, you grew up in a household without any influence of organized religion. Your family celebrated Christmas and Easter, but it was mostly for all of the gifts and chocolate. 

Religious differences never caused any turmoil between you and your best friend, because you love each other for who you are, regardless if you share spiritual beliefs. If praying and attending sermons helps Lucy to process her grief and gives her something that uplifts her soul, what kind of a friend would you be to forbid her from that? 

—— 

That doesn’t make you any more enthused about being dragged to the dinner held at the church to celebrate the autumn harvest. Lucy dropped the plan on you the second she picked you up from the major airport, whose segregating miles seem to swell with every second that passes. Knowing you would come up with an alternative plan you’d both like better, she didn’t give you a chance to back out, and you didn’t fight. Committed to being a good friend, and with a curiosity pricking your heart, you run alongside her through residual puddles as the street clocks chime eight times. 

And let’s get one thing straight - “church” was a dishonorable term for the structure you’re going to. For hundreds of years, since the first round of colonizing settlers that invaded this square patch of disparate land, the citizens have been addicted to worship. They would lend their last cent to their religion, egregiously ignoring their growling stomachs and dilapidated houses for the sake of a prosperous God. The result of this frenzied generosity is the biggest cathedral you’ve ever seen. 

You’re still a few blocks away, but the spires reach over the trees and spear up at the moon; whose craters can be seen with miraculous clarity on this autumn night. As you move closer and closer, the details in this spectacular of gothic architecture reveal themselves. There are a litany of pinnacles that stand like soldiers guarding their fortress and clerestory windows that dance and swish with light coming from inside the maw of the beast. When your eyes drift to angular beams that aid the structure - flying buttresses, if you remember correctly - your marvel is suddenly absent.

“No gargoyles?” you ask. 

Lucy matches your disappointment with a shake of her head, “They come too close to the pagan border.” It’s unmistakable the way she lowers her voice, though there’s only a handful of patrons a hundred feet away from you. 

Against the cloudless, darkening sky and a comically-eerie full moon, anyone would be dosed with at least a few drops of intimidation by the staggering black outlines. You fail to find any ease once you come to one of three entrances. The carvings of ancient tales you don’t know loom over your head in the angular tympanum and greet you with uncertainty. Are they supposed to make you feel welcomed or warned? 

The gigantic doors are swung and held open by their own weight, giving way to the narthex. There’s a singing choir hidden deeper within and their melodies echo all around you. A large chandelier emits a soft orange glow, which is peculiarly swallowed up instead of reflected by the intricate, gilded etchings that coat the walls. Maroon velvet beneath your feet turns into a dark abyss of shadows from the unprecedented amount of people in here. You cling to Lucy’s coat with both your hands, somewhat subconsciously, and she laughs before taking your hand in hers and parting though the sea. 

You’ll admit it, you can be very shy when you’re overwhelmed. Though for some inexplicable reason, crowds usually didn’t give you a fuss. You actually found a sense of comfort in being lost in the blur, blending in as just another body amongst hundreds, sometimes thousands of others. But you didn’t like this crowd, didn’t know these people, and not in a stranger-danger kind of way; you’ve unknowingly crossed the line of some Christians in the past and have dealt with their fiery ravings. From knowing Lucy all these years, you seem to have an understanding of their way of life, but then you slip up - use His name in vain, talk about a crush you have no plans to marry a little too fondly. You’ll be chewing on your third forkful and look up at the table, meeting ghastly stares and wanting to smack yourself in the face for completely forgetting grace. 

Lucy never scorned you about forgetting or misunderstanding the rules. She knew that you didn’t mean any malice, you just simply… thought it was all a little silly sometimes. Between lighthearted Lucys and tyrannical Karens, it felt like walking on a minefield. So, you guess, you do know these people; it’s their unpredictability that worries you. 

The claustrophobia wanes as you enter the nave. The ceiling spreads out, breathes, and is lined with stained glass windows that bend the moonlight into faint rainbows. Some of the outermost pews have been moved to accommodate long tables, adorned in chestnut velour, copper filigree and serve as the throne for only the most impressive squashes of the harvest. A buffet joins the autumnal decor, sitting in sterling silver that you can imagine was forged at the beginning of the century and is used only for occasions such as these. 

Ever atune to your mind and body, Lucy pulls you into the line of hungry patrons just as your stomach grumbles. You’re transfixed by the magnificent altar at the back of this illustrious cave, your eyes climbing up the grand steps of the sanctuary to the stone table where you know the priest stands when mass is held. You try to picture one giving a sermon and reciting from scriptures. Doesn’t he have a cup or something too?…

A plate is stuck in front of you, waving a little, and the priest laughs at you when he finally gets your attention. You take the plate with a little embarrassment, your smile a sheepish one. “Sorry,” you mumble with pity. 

The tall, wispy-haired man smiles with his teeth and places his arthritic hands around one of yours as you hold the plate. “Oh, it’s alright, my child. I myself have gotten lost in the wonders of the cathedral many times.”

Lucy chimes in, reading your awkward gaze. “It’s her first time,” she whispers with a little too much excitement for your liking. The priest puts on a goofy surprised expression, his eyebrows going up and his mouth forming a small 'o'. He looks back to you with a softer smile, “What a beautiful thing to witness, then. I’m Father Gala, pleased to meet you.” 

“There’s no one better to come here with for the first time than Miss Finkle. You’re in very good hands.” As you nod in agreement, you can’t help but wonder… what would this elder man, in his starched and pressed vestments, think if he knew you and Lucy had “practiced” kissing so you’d know what you were doing when the “real thing” happened? 

You wave the thought away like a gnat, not wanting to feel like you’re keeping another clean secret that’s considered dirty by some. You’re already under the guise of being a practicing Christian; Lucy had said they were more readily accepted than anyone else, despite the church’s proclamation of aiming for cultural diversity. 

The choir has ended their singing, replaced by applause then the soft, overlapping chatter of the religious folk, and their red robes merge seamlessly into the surrounding crowd. Three other priests emerge from doors on either side of the sanctuary, two from the door closer to you and one from the other. You don’t get a good look at the singular man, since the door is on the opposite side of the grand hall from you. The two others are deep in talk, gesturing with their hands and keeping their faces close to one another while they walk as to not let anyone eavesdrop. You move ahead in line and depart from the eldest priest, whom the two new faces greet and guide a few feet away from everyone. 

You don’t mean to pry, but you can’t help your curiosity and look back at the men. You can’t hear them, only watching their mouths move, but Father Gala’s sweet smile grows somber, then bitter. With scowling brows to match, the other two priests keep up their gestures laden with well-maintained passion as they tell Father Gala a story. 

In the first lull of this conversation, the eldest priest, with his arms crossed over his chest, flickers his eyes to yours without moving his head. Your heart springs from your chest to your throat. His glower lessens when he bites the inside of his cheek, but you feel a doubling, tripling of stress when the other two priests turn to look at you too. The taller one, with a jet black, scraggly bowl cut, mirrors Father Gala and crosses his arms. He looks down his long nose at you in dignified annoyance. The third, with stocky limbs and strawberry blonde hair, glares at you from his periphery. Your eyes widen, in an attempt to show them you’re not a threat, expose your remorseful guilt, or provide a silent apology, you don’t know.

Lucy snaps you back forward with a gentle push against your back to get you to move in the line. You’ve finally reached the buffet, but suddenly the smells that wandered up your nose in wispy, tempting little tendrils earlier instead worm their way down your esophagus and instill a powerful nausea. She can sense your discomfort, your disorientation from what just happened, and supplies your plate for you. With a protective gaze over your head at the men, and a loving hand on your bicep, she guides you to sit in the pew farthest away from them. 

She has to stick a fork in your petrified fist for you to speak. “What the hell was that about?” You question, chancing a glance over your shoulder at the offending party and see that they’ve gone off to greet guests with friendly smiles again. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, they just looked worried and-“

Lucy pats your knee once, “Don’t worry. There must be some sort of drama happening behind the scenes, something that the town would inquire about. Since they’re priests, they think they have immunity from gossip.” She scoffs lightly and you think you catch your devout friend rolling her eyes at those most holy. “They’ve been acting weird for a while now, off and on. One week, Father Gala is like Mr. Rogers, and the next, he’s Dracula.” 

That earns a snort from you, hiding your smile behind the back of your hand. She gives you a reassuring smile, filled with her signature warmth that’s comforted you all these years, “You’re doing great. Now eat.” 

Thankfully, your nausea has quelled enough that you taste the delicious food as it’s meant to be tasted. Maybe you don’t have to worry about foraging during your stay in this town void of all fast food, only relying on two quaint grocery stores to feed itself. You’ll just have to become friends with whoever made this delectably gooey mac and cheese. 

Lucy interrupts you, “Oh, by the way,” she covers her full mouth and then swallows, pointing daintily, “that’s Father Thorn,” at the tall one, “and that’s Father Angus,” at the blonde one. You nod once in understanding, taking a look at their faces to match their names with, before Lucy turns away with a laugh. She teases under her breath, “Maybe they’re all pissed they could never be as handsome as Father Pike.” 

“Priests can be handsome?” you ask of the mysterious fourth priest, bemused. Priests, deacons, popes and the like all conjure up images of men with wrinkles as delicate and numerous as the pages in the ancient books they abide by. If they’re not a million years old, they’re unsightly at best and possess a visceral lack of sensuality, like Father Thorn and Father Angus. Lucy has got to be pulling your leg. 

“Yes,” she breathes, a soft pink blooming in her cheeks, “and young, and warm, and have a voice that makes every sermon a lullaby, and big, tender hands…” she trails off in a dream.

You let out a laugh, amused by her dramatics. “Oh, so he’s really ugly, then,” you sneer, trying to expose her hyperbole. 

She giggles at your tone, shaking her head. You reign down on her, spurring her giggles on with a barrage of sarcasm until they’re uncontrollable.

“Is that why this place doesn’t have gargoyles, because he can take its place? Does he have leathery skin,” you drag your hands down your face, pulling your cheeks down to expose your eyes, “rotted fangs,” hold your hands by your mouth and snarl your fingers, “hairy feet with long, twisting toenails that tear through his shoes?” You get up and drag your feet along the floor, growling and licking your lips rabidly. 

Lucy doubles over, tears threatening to spill over her eyes every time her lungs have to suck in a breath, “Stop!” She’s wheezing and you drop the act, putting your hands on your hips. 

“Well, you gotta tell me if I’m wrong or not!” Tapping your foot, you await her retaliation, until a voice warm with a smile cuts through the air.

“You forgot the giant rat’s tail that drags behind me.” 

Your heart stops for a second, thumping wildly when it starts up again to catch the missed beats. Turning tentatively on your heel, you’re met with… exactly what Lucy described. 

Before you is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, if not the most handsome ever. Chocolate waves that crest over top one another in a cute, slightly overgrown style glisten like ganache on top of his head in the candlelight. He’s got a scruffy beard that’s cut close to his cheeks and jaw, avoiding looking unkempt, threaded with two or three streaks of gray. His aquiline nose is gorgeous, there’s a little dimple in his cheek that deepens as he’s smiling, and his eyes… oh, his eyes…

“I’m Father Pike,” he extends his hand in greeting, keeping his other tucked behind his back. He has to bend forward slightly to reach your height better, aiding your descent into enchanted madness as he gets closer. You take his hand and introduce yourself- GOD Lucy was right. His grasp is light, comforting. Where Father Gala made you feel stuck in his eternal cage, Father Pike sets you free. You fall into a stupor fantasizing about what his hugs must feel like.

He smells like cinnamon. It could be from the pie you suspect he ate, from the apple undertones you detect, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just how he naturally smelled. A warm, cozy, inviting dream; he sure looked like one, at least. 

His gaze lingers on your expression frozen with intrigue before he turns and welcomes Lucy. They begin a polite banter that allows you to stand back and try to quell your blood that throbs with nerve. If you had known someone like Father Pike was going to be here, you would’ve dressed in something nicer, possibly sexy - the modesty expected in a place of worship be damned. You curse yourself for choosing these well-worn jeans and roomy sweater over the opaque tights and a dress of an acceptable length you were going back and forth on in your mirror earlier. But, in an odd sort of way, you still felt exposed in front of Father Pike from underneath all your thick layers. You couldn’t hide yourself from him, no matter how many clothes you armored yourself with. 

He turns back to you, and he doesn’t ogle your nervous body, or try desperately not to; he looks into your eyes with a soft smile that crinkles the skin around those big brown puddles. It makes your chest feel like it has a big, gaping cavity that you could look inside of and see your heart thumping hard, vulnerable blood spilling from all your edges and trickling down your legs. The flustered emotions of a blooming crush rapidly morph into something malicious and parasitic, causing you to put the back of your hand to your forehead that has broken out in clamminess. It’s hard to hear Father Pike over the rushing buzz in your head when he speaks to you.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, are you new?” 

And just like that, your knees start trembling beneath you. Your heart misses a beat, causing your lungs to seize in anger and you suck in a harsh breath. In a flash, Father Pike’s friendliness snaps into genuine concern and he steps forward, taking your elbows and catching you on your way to the floor. You make a startled sound and his timbre slashes through your panic, “Let’s get you sat down somewhere, okay?” 

You can barely muster a nod, tears threatening to spill over your eyes and join the rivulets of sweat on your cheeks. Father Pike more or less carries you by your middle as you pathetically cling to his arms, dragging your debilitated form a short distance to a secluded, abandoned pew by the door he entered from earlier in the evening. Father Pike sits you down and takes the place right beside you, putting his left arm around your shoulders and his right hand in yours. As soon as you’re grounded on the unforgiving wood, your vision stops spinning, even though you didn’t realize it had started. Breathing suddenly feels easy again, returning to its involuntary glory instead of being laborious. It’s like your body resumed its regularly scheduled programming with an invisible snap. 

Away from the hub of the crowd, his voice seems louder, its velveteen quality more clear, “You alright?” 

You take a precautionary, steadying breath before meeting his eyes, fearful that something in him will set off all your alarms again. But when you meet his eyes, everything is serene. “Y-yeah, I’m okay.”

A pause to verify your sincerity, and then he chuckles, trying to uplift the atmosphere with a lighthearted tone, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just…”

You laugh, as much as you can muster in your breathless state, “No, no, you didn’t!” He retracts his hand from yours slowly and you instinctively grasp his forearm with a reassuring touch. Once you notice what you’re doing, you let go of him with an embarrassment like he’s burning you. “I- I don’t really know what happened, all of the sudden I just felt… sick.” With your confession, a wave of nausea infiltrates your stomach and makes you feel a little queasy again. It’s climbing to its previous intensity quickly. The fossilized church feels like it could cave in on you at any moment. 

Father Pike touches your shoulder softly, “I’m going to go get you some water, okay?” You nod and the waning gleam in your eye sends him swiftly disappearing into the crowd. 

A decent number of paces away, an older woman looks at you with fear as Lucy speaks to her, no doubt explaining your abrupt qualm. Drawing any more attention than you already have will just worsen your panic, so you thwart the drama. You raise your hand at her with a thin-lipped smile to deter her worry and she places her hand over her heart with a happy sigh before walking away.

Father Pike reappears behind Lucy and drifts by her with your drink clutched tight in his hand. Lucy’s eyes flit from the priest’s chivalry to your shy, measly form and she raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth with a scoffing smile. You could read your best friend’s face better than written word: she thinks that you’re doing this on purpose to get the Father’s attention. 

You wish you could say you were reeling him in with salacious spite, however, you were anything but. Your illness was true and unforgiving. You shake your head at her in defiance, but you can tell she doesn’t buy it. She turns away to busy herself with the rest of the party, but really she’s intending to give the two of you some privacy from the wink thrown over her shoulder. With a roll of your eyes, you think about how you’ll have to defend yourself with a foolproof case under her gavel later tonight. 

Father Pike retakes his seat next to you, handing you the bottle of water, unopened, that your puny fingers struggle with. Kindly, he offers his hand and you pass over the bottle for him to open. He hands it back to you and sits hunched over his lap, hands clasped between his open legs, staring at you intently as you take a few slow sips. You feel a little awkward, looking down at the bottle in your hands and fidgeting with the wrapper on the outside, so you take a note from his book and try to lighten the mood, “I knew I wasn’t a big fan of parties, but I didn’t know I was this bad.” You chuckle dryly, risking a glance at him. It works: he’s laughing with you. 

“I’m not a big party person, either,” he smiles, his dimple creasing within his beard. You raise an eyebrow at him, a little befuddled by his statement, given he inserts himself into the lives of others for a living. He takes your hint, “I enjoy talking to people, giving sermons and all of that… but even this feels a little overwhelming for me.” You nod, finding comfort in the fact that you’re on the same page. He keeps that endearing smile with a measuring eye as he continues watching you, looking from the crease of your brow to how your legs squirm uncomfortably. 

There’s something about this man that makes you feel… transparent. Like how you felt exposed to him earlier, even underneath all your coarsely knitted layers. You feel like a fraud, sitting next to one of the holiest figures in the entire congregation. And for some reason, out of all of the people here, you feel that he deserves the truth. There’s nothing about him that has given you any indication that he won’t turn on you like the rest would if you confess to your disguise, but at the same time… he makes you feel safe. Of course, he just recovered you from some undisclosed blight, but you can write that off as convenience. You were sick, he was right there, certainly he would’ve tended to you. There must be some moral code within the priesthood to never let a sick person lie. But even before that, putting aside his obvious handsomeness, there was something in his eyes that held you. Let you know that it was all okay. You decide to ply him with honesty. 

“Um… so, I’m not very religious. Like, at all.” Your voice is a little shaky, worried if his nice-guy facade will finally melt away to reveal a sneering orthodox. He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, so you keep going. 

“So, if I’m not religious, and I’m drinking this, does that mean…” You trail off in question, and he doesn’t understand what you’re getting at. 

“It’s holy, right?” You raise the water. 

Father Pike looks like he can’t believe what you just asked. He shakes his head in amusement, void of condescension, leaning the slightest bit closer towards you. He lowers his voice slightly, protecting you from any invasive ears. He softly explains, “Just because it’s water in a church doesn’t mean it’s holy. A priest or some other figure has to bless it.” His smirk deepens at your visible relief, “You’re not sinning, or anything near it. You’re perfect.” 

He said you’re… what? Your heart skips again but this time it’s not from sickness. Well... is it sick to be attracted to someone who is virtually untouchable? You get to thinking; you know enough about the church and its inner workings to know that priests usually take a vow of celibacy. Consequently, most never date or get married. Does that mean… are they barred from all things sensual? Are they allowed to tenderly brush their fingers against someone else’s, and not for the purpose of prayer? Can they share a glance that lingers a little too long for it to be considered chaste? Can they… can they even think about anything remotely sexual? 

There’s no way that can be true. You can understand physical celibacy, sure, but it’s impossible for one not to have a thought that makes them quiver at least once in their life. In your own experience, sensuality sometimes has nothing to do with sex. You’ve felt the warmth of eroticism lying under the sun’s rays in the middle of spring, savoring a delicious meal, when you finish a book with a satisfying conclusion. If Father Pike starves himself of such pleasures, you can’t fight the pity that chokes you. 

“What if they have priests at the packaging plant?” You joke, hoping to simultaneously break the silence that has swelled between you two and put a wedge in your brain’s cogs so they’ll stop churning. 

Father Pike laughs, genuinely from his belly, and oh you could get used to that sound. His eyes crinkle at their corners with a grin, “Then the church would be thrilled at our outreach.” 

You go to take another sip of your water, but his hand comes out to touch yours. The impossible delicacy almost makes you flinch. He puts gentle pressure on your skin, making you stop in your tracks. He shifts closer to you, his voice dropping an octave, warning you, “I’d be careful though; there is a possibility that you could grow rotted fangs and hairy feet, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Your fluttering nerves make your laugh squeak out of your tightened throat, louder than you intended, in a bark. Slightly mortified, you hide your smile behind the hand that isn’t suspended in the air by Father Pike. With mercy, he releases you. 

“What about a rat’s tail?” You ask with a teasing glint in your eye. 

He ponders for a moment, comically deep in thought. “That only affects the most sinful of us,” he reveals. 

...What? That was flirty, right? It had to be flirty. There’s no way he didn’t mean it to be flirty. Your imagination can be very active at times, but there was no mistaking the twitch of his mustache to repress a smirk. 

Trying to ignore the furious heat that has instantaneously kindled between your thighs based on that singular tone change, you latch the bottle to your mouth and avert your eyes elsewhere. Out of your periphery, you think you see Father Pike’s shoulders droop and his gaze lower to the ground with a silent huff. Shit, did he take your silence as a blow to his humor? 

You can’t think too much now because the clocks outside in the streets resound ten chimes. Lucy appears and her beaming at the two of you seems to rejuvenate Father Pike a little. He straightens his back before he stands and they begin talking, shaking hands. Their mouths spew unintelligible babble to you as your entire nervous system is locked on one thing: Father Pike’s back. His gorgeous personality had swept you up and away into a cloud of bubbly giggles and blushing cheeks that you hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. Maybe if the robes had made a greater impression on you, they would’ve served as a reminder to restrain yourself from dreaming about the forbidden, but alas. 

Father Pike is dressed identically to the other priests: black clerical shirt, cassock, pants, and shoes, and a white tab collar. But he wears everything so much better. The garments are majorly obscured by the enveloping cassock, but even the thick, flowing fabric can’t hide the broad width of his shoulders. When he gestures with his hands, you can see the muscles move dreamily in reaction by the flickering candlelight. He’s tall, and this fact is only emphasized as you continue to sit motionless on the pew watching him and Lucy. 

When he turns with a hand outstretched to help you to your feet, you bite your lip with ravenous desire. Somehow you didn’t notice - probably because you were too enthralled with everything else about him - how his Adam’s apple sits on glorious display with the white tab collar as its pedestal. The tempting image makes you swallow hard. God, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. 

“Time to get going,” Lucy says, motioning from behind the Father’s back for you to take his hand. You do and stand, drifting to the front of the church on autopilot. It feels like the calm quiet of your time with Father Pike and the chummy, sociable atmosphere of the dinner has dissipated and a sense of urgency has taken root. The friendliness remains in the goodbyes and promises of meeting again you hear all around you, but you’re definitely being ushered out with the rest of the herd. You guess, remembering a tidbit about religious folk, that they have a curfew. 

It feels like you’re being ripped away from Father Pike and you don’t like that. Although you’ve only known him for all but two hours - which sounds ridiculous when you put it like that - you’re desperate to know more. You’d find genuine, complete contentedness in simply watching him go about his daily activities. Recording what details he decides to give you privy to and admiring his boundaries when he reserves himself. He’s the first possibility of a new friend in this conservative township and you don’t want to let him go. 

You’re grateful that he ghosts your back as Lucy leads you to the entrance, it gives you comfort and makes this dream last as long as it can. You don’t sense just how close he’s following behind you until you get to the heavy front doors and the toe of his shoe snags on the heel of yours. It makes you trip and fumble forward, but Father Pike reaches to catch you. His hands grip your waist, molding your oversized sweater to your body. Then, he gently steadies and pulls you back upright. The foreign sensation of your flattened heel tickles your foot and sends you stumbling back into his chest. He looks down at you, his hands still on you, “I-I apologize.”

Through the darkness you see the tips of his ears glow red. Before you can say anything in return, he renders you speechless by getting on his knees. Without a word spoken, moving in tandem with implicit choreography, you lift your foot up so he can fix the heel back into place. He doesn’t give you the choice of wobbling on your lonesome, placing one of your hands on his right shoulder to keep you balanced. And god, you wish he hadn’t done that. 

Your lips part as your breaths gain some weight, but you snap your oblong mouth shut when you hear an ancient, warbly voice. “Oh, no, what have we here?” Father Gala teeters over just as Father Pike finishes retying your shoe. Imperceptibly, you squeeze his shoulder in reverence as he stands up and then you let your hand fall innocently to your side. 

You shrug, giggling a little uncomfortably, “Father Pike stepped on the back of my shoe, it was an accident.” 

“Young and clumsy,” Father Gala jokes, you think, with a grumbly tone. He claps a hand on Father Pike’s left shoulder with more effort than you thought the old man could muster. As Father Pike steadies the elder priest’s cane, you reason he more so fell into Father Pike than anything else. Your favored Father chuckles with accountability. 

Father Gala passes off his cane for a moment to take your hand in his two, like he did when he gave you the dinner plate earlier this evening. Clearly the party has tired him out; his hands are quivering and his back is permanently bent at an angle. “Peace be with you,” he croaks with cheerfulness, despite his withered voice. 

You freeze. You know you’re supposed to say something back to complete this exchange and from the innermost depths of your brain you think it should be a simple phrase, something that any ardent Christian would remember. Between your disinterest in the church and the Father Pike fog that has eclipsed your mind, you’re dumbfounded.

An angel appears in your midst and comes to your rescue: Father Pike, peering into your eyes over the shoulder of the crouched figure before you, mouths the words silently, “And also with you.” 

“And also with you,” you recite amicably. Father Gala smiles, pats your hand twice in delight and turns to give Lucy the same departing sentiment. You release the air of worry you held inside and take a few steps to meet Father Pike, whispering close by his side so only he will hear, “Thank you.” 

The handsome Father closes your height difference by leaning down and pretends to brush some invisible dust off of your shoulder, an excuse to be this close to you. 

“Don’t mention it. Your secret’s safe with me,” he murmurs. 

And you trust him to keep his promise. Sure, he could go behind your back and spill your lies to the other priests, the entire community, let them know that there’s a rat infiltrating their congregation. 

The mischievous sparkle in his gaze as he looks at down you, biting your lip to suppress your giggle and keep your little inside secret just that, tells you he won’t let one word slip. 

Father Gala has returned for his cane, so Father Pike clears his throat and stiffens himself. Clasping his hands together, he builds an appropriate distance between the two of you before anyone sees it was anything otherwise. 

The night winds have picked up, biting at bits of exposed skin with a malevolent appetite. To shield the older priest, Father Pike guides him back into the cathedral. “I hope to see you two back soon,” the handsome Father interjects as you’re turning to leave. 

“We’ll be here Sunday!” Lucy shouts over an unnatural gust that howls and warbles her voice. With one arm over each other’s shoulders, holding tight together, you begin the trek back to her house to take refuge for the night. Behind you, you hear the cathedral doors shut, sealing you off from a final parting glance to Father Pike. You aren’t too disheartened by that and the cold can’t gnaw at your heart, either; Sunday is only two days away and you can’t contain your excitement. 

—— 

The whole night has felt like a whirlwind. To your complete and utter surprise, visiting the church is no longer seems like it’ll be a chore, but rather an opportunity. For what, you’re not exactly sure just yet. But you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks and skirting down your spine at the infinite possibilities. Maybe you should start praying for your salvation now.

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series masterlist ♥️ main masterlist ♥️ join my taglist!

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[italoniponic]

Hello!! I love your writing, could I request D H M N Z of the fluff alphabet for Jamil, Leona and Azul? I hope you have a lovely day ❤️

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲'𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

| Notes: Hi, darling! E um olá para meus manos conterrâneos pelo site~ (vi que você é BR)

Wow. This took me some time but I loved thinking bit by bit of everything, especially bc we deal with some very deep stuff here (dreams, marriage, yk). And, as always, it was interesting to reflect how every one of them would think about these things and what they could want. Also, it was fun to search things to complement the “N - Nicknames” bc I got after the boys possible nationalities to have some options. No need to say that I stand for Italian Azul every day forever lmao

Thanks for the request <3 Sério, obrigada! |

Jamil Viper, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto x g!n reader / fluff alphabet / use of "you" pronouns

Cherry's Harvesting event 🍒 Masterlist

Smoothie of Letters #3

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

If possible, a future where both of you are free to realize your dreams. Jamil finally freed from the status of servant of the Asim and you used enough to the whole new world around you to be with him and the friends you have made during all these years. You've been talking so much about free will and about Jamil having his own wishes that he ended up having these “selfish” dreams;

It would be nice to have a house of your own, no matter the size. Jamil has a lot of affection and appreciation for his hometown, Silk City, in the Land of Hot Sands. But it wouldn’t be bad to visit other places in the world with you. Seeing other cultures, learning new foods, dancing without worrying about overshadowing someone else. Living like yourselves;

Jamil never thought much about it, but because of the VDC and his passion for dancing, a musical or dance career wouldn’t be so absurd to think of. You support him 100% in this and his courage grows more and more when thinking about these prospects for the future. One day, Jamil will dedicate a song just for you and he hopes you will carry it in your heart for the rest of your days together.

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Once Jamil Viper, always Jamil Viper. In fact, it took Jamil a certain amount of time to feel comfortable revealing the most basic things about himself, then talking about the deepest things and the memories he feels most ashamed of. It's a whole process based on trust, you understand that well;

But Jamil is not the type to keep bad secrets. It's just things he feels embarrassed about and thinks you won't like him anymore if you find out. And when you find out or Jamil swallows the pride to tell you, it's not a really big deal. Your reactions make him have more security to talk more about himself;

And having secrets can be bothersome, Jamil knows from experience. You'll never have to worry about Jamil throwing a surprise party for you, at least. He likes to work on honesty, especially because it saves time knowing what you like and dislike;

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

Jamil never thought much about it. Not that his parents’ marriage is bad or anything to divert him from the idea. He just never thought about getting married or having a family, something of his own. One thing that is more about his future than the Asim family. But a future of yours and his? Jamil begins to think about it more and more;

It was a beautiful night when he proposed. You were visiting Silk City and Jamil prepared dinner for you in the apartment. You two could see the sky through the window and there were candles everywhere. He knelt down, took your hand and said: “My greatest desire is to be with you forever.”;

It was a semi-traditional wedding. Kalim offered — in fact, simply resolved — to bear the expenses, but let the two of you choose everything. Najma was your maid of honor. You received many gifts and in the end Jamil showed you a traditional fireworks show. It was all so magical!

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

“Dear” is a simple and formal nickname. As it’s less flamboyant than “darling,” Jamil prefers to call you that at times. It is sufficiently personal and proper for the beginning of your relationship;

“Ya amar” means “my moon” in Arabic. When you already know more things from Jamil’s life, he shifts between using your name, calling you “dear” and this beautiful nickname from his homeland. It is more used to compliment someone's appearance but Jamil likes the symbolism of the moon and how you are just as beautiful;

“Ya hayati” means “my life” in Arabic. Jamil uses this nickname after you get married. For him, this meaning contains a great weight but is not a burden. You are his life, the house he wants to belong to. Because the love you give Jamil is the greatest freedom and the best alliance he could ever want.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

Being the servant of a wealthy family and the personal page of their heir, Jamil is used to doing everything for someone, even giving his own life. But for you? For you, he would face the phenomenal cosmic powers of the universe alone without fear. You, who deigned to pay attention to him and inspire him so many good things;

Jamil is willing to accept himself more and open up more, both for you to know him and for you to be free together. He could not keep the chains that bind him to a meaningless life for long;

Jamil is the type to make things work out behind the scenes, so you may not even know what he's working on himself or working out for you to be together. But when you find out — eventually — that's a zeal that you do together, because you would also do anything for him.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Leona was never one to worry about thinking about the future. Perhaps for all people have said to him in the past, dreaming of something great seems tiresome and useless. No one expects him to be the best at something. But now, there is someone;

For you, Leona manages to dream a little. Just the necessary, in his mind. You praise his talent in Magift so much that he almost thinks about being a pro player after graduating from school and getting a little out of his brother’s shadow. He could be called “King of Magift”, you suggested once;

No matter what your dreams are, Leona always says they are worth fighting for. He may not have much hope for himself, but he has all the confidence in you. So even if you live in the Royal Palace at some point, you can do whatever you want. And only suffering to those who complain about it like an annoying hornbill!

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Leona isn’t the most open person in the world, which doesn’t mean that he is full of secrets. There are, yes, things he would like to hide at all costs for the sake of pride or lack of ability to share. Leona talks about himself few times, although these little stories are already interesting in themselves;

Patience and persistence go together on the journey of knowing more about who Leona Kingscholar really is. You need to earn his trust, make him feel that you are a person in whom he can ask for solace and share his pains, memories and dreams. Whatever he wants;

And over time, you succeed. Very long indeed. Leona is as stubborn as he is direct about certain feelings. He’ll tell you some stories here and there, letting you fit the pieces of the puzzle. And other things you'll end up finding out for yourself — like, Ruggie will tell you about the day Lucius slept in Leona's belly and he just let it be.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

It is a duty of a prince to be prepared for any sort of marriage for political purposes for the well being of his country, that is a fact. And although Falena and his wife’s marriage was partially arranged, Leona knew they loved each other from the very beginning. It wouldn't be bad to wish for something like that either. “But am I worthy of it?,” that's what Leona's unconscious questions him;

Leona doesn't like to admit it but he planned his proposal for a while. It was a private meeting in a jungle region on the borders of Afterglow Savannah and in the middle of your river boat ride, Leona took out a gold ring and taking your hand, offered it to you: “The same way you say my kingdom is your heart, please reign in mine.”;

A royal wedding is majestic, no matter what your position is. It became practically a national holiday because the whole country stopped to watch you two get married. It was a wedding according to the customs of the kingdom, with a detailed but joyful ceremony. Perhaps one of the few formal things Leona really enjoyed, although he was happier when the ceremony ended. After all, he could finally kiss the love of his life and seal that commitment.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

For most of your pre-dating relationship, Leona has become accustomed to calling you “herbivore” in a pejorative way. Over time, your relationship changed and you knew Leona was serious about loving you when he called you by your first name. From time to time, he calls you “herbivore” but in a more affective tone;

“Ayanfe” in the Yoruba language (an Nigerian tribe) means “beloved”. Leona uses this nickname on very special occasions, this is because your name alone is already good enough for him. But to call you “beloved”? He hates to admit it, but he likes that sound. Since it is a neutral word, you can also call him that;

“Alade Ori Mi” is a neutral affective term in Yoruba that can be roughly translated as “owner of my crown”. Leona uses it in rare and specific situations after you get married, being more consolidated. For Leona, it is a term of quite importance and you can perceive it by the way he calls you, giving a beautiful and genuine smile.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

There were many things that were given to Leona without him striving for it and many more that he never received, even when he should and could. So it took him a long time to find the strength within himself to fight for you. After all, what could he do? It wasn't like he could take the sun in his hands and hand you over;

However, there comes a time when Leona wishes he could do it. And if this is impossible, he wants to repay you with small and big things. Without Leona fully realizing it, he is there running after you in the big desert of hardships that is life, doing his best to reach you. 'Cause you're his love and Leona doesn't want anyone to steal you from his hands;

Leona even once said that if it were necessary, he would give up the Crown for you. A life, a royal position of great importance, a palace, a kingdom of which he was already a part, all this is nothing if you are prevented from being next to him. You taught Leona that he can be the king himself and he would like to have you in this small and glorious kingdom.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Azul has always been a boy of many dreams since he was little. He has gone through so many ideas of professions until he finally found himself as a business administrator or anything that requires an understanding of economics — or food as well. But when Azul grew up, he decided that it wasn’t necessary to dream anymore because he would make all his goals come true. Therefore, expanding Mostro Lounge is one of his biggest goals;

But having you by his side during this journey, having your support and love would make everything easier. The tweels may be Azul’s right and left arm but you’re his heart. You make him dream of blazing and conquering the “Seven Economy Seas” and how you can be together in this as a power couple;

Having you as a business partner would really be a dream, something that Azul would not deny for nothing. Working together would be wonderful and you two would never have to choose between prioritizing your beloved or work. Wouldn't that be a explendid business?

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Azul Ashengrotto doesn't keep secrets just like crabs don't conduct orchestras — oh wait. Not that this will surprise you much. Azul needs time to trust you no matter the aspects of your relationship. Therefore, the exchange of information and secrets is much more than simply talking about himself without hiding anything;

More than patience, you need to be honest with him first. Make him understand that he can trust you and that his secrets are safe with you. Talking about yourself opens that door to Azul. Carefully, he rewards your secrets for his own and so you walk slowly;

There will always be something new about Azul for you to discover. There are things that you will guess about him and when your guesses are right, he can only disguise how well you are informing yourself about him. But you let Azul have his secrets from time to time, because when the time comes, he will tell you everything.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

Azul perhaps doesn’t have the strongest opinions about marriage because of his parents’ divorce. It was a difficult time for everyone, including him. But, if his mother could find happiness again with his stepfather, that doesn't mean it's a bad deal. Be patient with Azul. At the right time, things will settle down;

In the future, Azul prepares a special dinner at Mostro Lounge — which is already a famous restaurant franchise at this time — and after delighting you with your favorite foods, dessert arrives. You were distracted by the beauty of the dessert and only then noticed that he was next to you, kneeling, with an oyster shell in his hand. Azul is more nervous than a cornered octopus, but he still finds the courage to say, “I swear by land and sea that my love is true and eternal.”;

You two discussed a lot about where the wedding venue would be until you came to the consensus that it would be on a ship in the middle of the sea. Apparently, a princess of the Coral Sea married in this way a long time ago. The Ashengrotto family and other merfolk guests were scattered across the sea and your friends were on the dry part of the ship. When your vows are over and you give your first married kiss, Azul takes you to the deck of the ship and you both take a potion to enter the sea. For you, it was to facilitate breathing in the sea and Azul returned to his true form, more confident about it after your support for all these years. He carries you in his arms and you jump into the water, where the party was just beginning.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

“My pearl” is the first nickname Azul gives you. Simple and precious, expensive and beautiful, just like you. With this, Azul also hopes to give some gifts with pearls to you in the future. This is because it is a precious jewel especially among merfolk and for Azul, it is the symbol of his love for you;

“Darling” is a more common and formal nickname, for simple situations — that because the tweels were filling Azul’s patience because of the first nickname he gave you;

“Amore” is a stronger, important nickname. It means “love” and Azul heard his stepfather and his mother call each other that way several times. He intends to use this with you when you both are their age, but sometimes he lets slip from time to time so you know how important you are to him already.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

Azul really took the time to float his boat about the idea that love is not simply an exchange of services. Or a fair exchange all the time. There are times when someone will have to sacrifice something for the one they love or there are obstacles about themselves that it is necessary to overcome or tolerate in the name of the greater good. This will not always be delivered on time, it will not always be the same way;

But there comes a time when there is nowhere else to run away and Azul arrives at what is usually the most distressing part of any contract: to accept or not. And he accepts;

Azul accepts that he needs to swallow fears and overcome childhood traumas properly. He will not be able to escape from the sea and his own true form forever, masking everything and burning evidence. You have forgiven him for several things, including his slippery behavior. So getting over things or doing something for you is a small price to pay.

[homegrown-blorbo-garden]

pinned post

main: @catboygirlboss

hello! this blog was created to be an original character bracket tournament (originally called the-ultimate-oc-tournament), but i became burnt out and decided to call it off. now i’ve rebranded into a blog dedicated to oc appreciation! i will reblog posts about people’s ocs to showcase them!

if you’d like your oc featured on this blog, you can:

tag this blog in your oc post,

add the tag #blorbo harvest to your oc post,

or submit a post directly to me!

if you choose to submit your post to my inbox, i recommend sending an ask saying you did so, because submissions don’t appear in my notifications and i don’t often go to my inbox tab on any of my blogs, so it could get lost ;^^

also!!! you may only share your OWN ocs with me!!! do NOT submit a post or tag a post with someone else’s ocs!!!

whitelist & blacklist

types of ocs i will feature:

characters made for original stories

characters that may not be attached to a story but are still original

furry ocs/fursonas

self inserts

fankids

characters made for other people’s original stories

characters made for existing media in general

characters that developed from au versions of existing characters that somehow evolved to the point where they’re so different from their source that you changed their names and adopted them

this list is nonexhaustive i just can’t think of everything

types of ocs i will NOT feature:

hp ocs

south park ocs

hetalia ocs

aot ocs

dsmp ocs (other mcyt themed ocs are fine i just hate dream lmao)

paw patrol ocs

oc posts made with stolen/traced art (commissioned art is fine! just credit the artist you commissioned! and if you use an art base please credit the artist and link to their base in your post!)

this list is also nonexhaustive my memory is trash

types of oc posts i’ll reblog:

intro posts

art posts

incorrect quotes

fanfiction (or whatever you call oc writing)

moodboards

physical crafts (sculptures, crochet/knitting/anything like that, themed jewelry, etc)

music/playlists

ocs made in gacha

i can’t think of anything else. get creative with it if you want!

dni

racists, sexists, transphobes, homophobes, antisemites, islamaphobes, you know the drill

prolife/anti abortion

anti endo (our system is traumagenic we're just open minded)

t*rfs, r*dfems, transmeds, etc

anti MOGAl, anti mspec lesbians, anti he/him lesbians, anti multigender, anti man in any way, basically if you exclude any gender or queer identity, get the fuck out

MAPs/pedos and their apologists

proshippers/anti antis

pro israel/anti palestine

dream supporters and HP supporters

[innocenthedgehog]

Happy World-building Wednesday! You had me at Ice Dune and your other WIPs sound awesome! What is your favorite part of worldbuilding? What details to you tend to get lost in (for better or worse)?

Hey! So the reality is I actually hate worldbuilding lmao, at least most of it. I want to create these huge sprawling worlds with interesting cultures and cool technology and all the fun societal implications because that's what I love reading about, but my brain just doesn't work that way.

Instead, I build almost purely based on aesthetics. I had a really strong image for Berg's opening of someone sailing down a river on a futuristic yacht at night, with bioluminescent purple moss and crystaline trees lining the banks, towering blue mountains in the distance, and everything glowing with the light of the auroras overhead. I also knew I wanted flying snakes. So I just started brainstorming, partly on my own, partly with ChatGPT (which I use for bulk idea generation), and came up with a few types of flora and fauna.

Another aspect of this story is class conflict, so I knew I wanted one character to come from a ridiculously opulent city, and one from a frontier village. I know basically nothing about either place, even 25K into the draft, just a few specific details relevant to given scenes. I know Sierra watches the first sunrise of the year from Hyperion Plaza, how the colours reflect in the frozen fountain and ignite the thousand crystal spires to harvest gold, but I have no idea where Hyperion Plaza is, what else happens there, or much of anything else about the city.

Essentially, anything which lets me create strong imagery is my favourite part of worldbuilding. Also I can spend hours making up artificial specs for hoverbikes or laser cannons or anything else which has very little plot relevance, but makes everything that bit more real when infused properly. It's creating the sandbox in the first place I struggle with!

[princeofmints]

hey i wanna know more about you because i think youre cool beans

whats the one media that you think is so underrated that you would recommend anyone and everyone to consume

i had to take forever to sit and think abt what the most Niche Thing i like is LKJSLSJG

honestly it is probably Rune Factory but i wouldn't necessarily recommend it to everyone but like

for me it's perfect bc i like farming sims but Harvest Moon and Stardew Valley don't quite cut it for me . i like that Rune Factory is not only more actively a fantasy game w more dungeons in it but has a major active plot (Stardew is very relaxing but the story of it is not nearly dramatic enough to keep me drawn in for long periods of time augh) and i like that if you want animals in ur barn you have to Go Out and tame them urself and not just. buy them. and they do so much... i love the way the monsters function in Frontier i like that you pet them to tame them and that they have specific jobs they each do (i like being forced to tame a variety of monsters if i want to automate my farm the fact you can just assign any monster to do anything in the later games makes me u_u i like having monsters that specifically water or weed, and then having my product monsters and fighter monsters be others/specific ones )

i think in terms of which game in the series i would tell people to play probably 4. i love Frontier and 5 to death but i think 4 takes the crown. sldkgj. i think the bachelors in 5 are my favourites a as group they're all just character types that tickle my brain a lot but 4 is just a more ironed out experience and i much prefer the story in it, and the fact the characters actually interact outside of events makes it so much more charming. and the environment is believable (listen 5 has a lot of shortcomings but it's the one that got me Back Into the series recently so it's special to me

i am very glad that in 5 you can be gay but there is a mod(s) for 4 that allows same sex marriage (it's not flawless but at least i get to be gay with Leon and Dylas and Vishnal. especially Leon)

i like that there is A Lot Of Plot in them but it's still very self guided like there is a sense of peril/impending doom but i can still play at my own pace like Yeah i gotta go restore magic n shit but. i am broke i need to grow some turnips for a sec. or i'm tired let's go fishin'. Not in the mood to adventure today i'm gonna go on a few dates. you don't need to be rushing thru plot to be able to experience things bc the town/farming life is just separate enough from the main story you can choose what ur gonna do with ur time and still be making progress

but like again i wouldn't be like EVERYONE PLAY THESE NOW it's more like. hey do you like farming sims but just wish they had a bit more ?? you like fantasy games but want a self paced experience that doesn't feel like ur completely putting the world on pause when you don't actively run thru it ?? try these <3

also the older games are kind of. dated. lmao like even in 4 there are some moments where i am like "yes this is definitely a 10 year old game" and by god sometimes i'll pick up the games with Raguna in them just like ah yes. 2000's attempts at 'humour' and it's just misogyny that i didn't recognize when i was younger

everything else i'm into tends to have a pretty big fanbase or at least one that i think is like the Right Size. like Obey Me! and Genshin Impact and Kingdom Hearts are incredibly popular and things like Hotline Miami i think have the right size fanbase. idk if there's anything i'd recommend to EVERYONE i tend to be like "hey if you want A and B try this" with whatever it is.

idk if any of this makes Sense but i am happy to ramble abt my silly little farming game bc it's one of the few things i have like. never Accidentally run into content for it's the One Series i find that i have to actively hunt for content for and i think it deserves more

[puppyeared]

Hi!! I really like ur art!! Ur artstyle is so cute it makes me wanna explote. Can i ask for ur ocs? (Their designs, names, etc) i wanna know more abt them!!! :]

YESS OMGB IM GOING TO BE SO ANNNOYING ABOUT THIS

augusta is a revamped oc that i made in grade 6, so technically shes my firstborn!! don’t really have any story for her, she’s just there to float around in my head lol

originally she was like, a brown and white fox with two tails and her special power was that she could use the tips of her tails to draw things made of shadows lmao. very edgy.. but it was everything to grade 6 me <3 (if youve been here for the longest time you might remember but shhh)

but now she's a part time astronaut who harvests stars for fuel and food on earth!! she drives her own spaceship called the moonfish, so just overall she has a very spacey theme and i like drawing her with stars or moons. her motif is supposed to be the five pointed star :o)

i also forget to draw it sometimes, but she has a dog collar that turns into a space helmet when you pull the tag! id like to imagine what work is like for her and what led her to become an astronaut, and maybe some stuff about her personal life like when she was younger. will probably make a doodle dump for that

despite being an astronaut, shes actually not that good at math and science and i figured its fine because thats not as needed in her world? theres probably magic if she can walk around on the moon in a dress so its more a fantasy or dream thing to me

before she was living on a house on the moon so she could go to space all the time, but since she has vincent and anton now i think she probably stays with them on earth <3 would be cool if she kind of tethers her ship to the house like a balloon, i should probably draw that later lol

speaking of!! shes in a relationship with @poicyss oc anton!!! i thought they would get along well, esp since auggie is a huge chatterbox so i think she'd be a good conversation partner. but theyre so cute!!! shes extremely curious and doesn't really give herself a reason to dislike others until theyre mean to her, so she'd definitely want to get to know anton!! theyre in love your honor!!!

their son vincent was also meant to be a one off because i wanted to see what their child would look like, like one of those crack ship memes lol. obviously i got attached cause hes so dang cute and he probably has a mix between his parents personalities ^^

i talk bow's ear off about them constantly but like!! theyre so cute!!!! my blorbos!!!!!!

these are presto and soleil!! theyre rival magicians who hate each others guts for stealing the others spotlight all the time. they both became world famous magicians around the same time so they've been fighting each other for attention for a while lol

the thing is that their magician identities are secret from their civilian identities! this means absolutely no one is allowed to know their civilian selves AND nobody in their personal lives know they happen to be the magician. also, the names presto and soleil are their stage names!!

so what happens is that they happen to enter the same apartment at the same time as theyre changing out of their costumes, which means they accidentally discover each others civilian identities and magician identities lol!!

the reason why this happens is that they both happened to apply for an apartment, but the building manager (mrs. koi) is very old and forgetful so she accidentally gave both of them the same apartment thinking she only gave it to one of them.

the other apartments in the area are also too expensive because theyre bigger and newer compared to mrs. koi's apartments, so they reluctantly become roommates >;o)

thats basically the context for them but i really have no idea what else i wanna do with their story, probably just roommate shenanigans and shit lol. im a huge sucker for rivals to friends/lovers so this is constantly on my mind lmao

i was also thinking of making other tenants for the story so maybe like eccentric old man, single mom and her five year old, idk? theyre just a bunch of silly little guys to me :o)

also i think they'd each have their own style? i imagine presto is more of a stage magician with the wand, and he enters the stage through a huge top hat, just playing with classic magician cliches. soleil is probably more like mind boggling shit on americas got talent, maybe street magicians and a phantom thief kind of vibe

these guys are minor inconvenience (min) and delaney!!! their story kind of revolves around luck and coincidence lol

min comes from a family of internationally wanted phantom thieves who hide out in a small town. he's actually a red panda adopted into a family of raccoons, but the thing is that they're colorblind so they can't really tell the difference. the only things that really set him apart is that he's not extremely smart (but decently smart) and he's very clumsy, unlike his family

this means his family doesnt ever take him with them on heists, but only because his clumsiness could give them away and get them all caught. eventually he gets fed up with being left out and decides to do his own "heists" as practice to get better so he can come with them someday

but since he knows most of the people hes stealing from in town, he doesn't actually keep what he steals. he just does it to try and get better with lock picking, disabling alarms, etc. and eventually puts everything somewhere the owner can find it

also extremely important to know is that even though min is extremely clumsy, he actually has stupidly good luck which balances it out. somehow, even if he trips on nothing, he will manage to land a sick backflip on the way down. there is no explanation for why this happens. his family thinks it's because he has a four leafed clover birthmark in an embarrassing place.

the thing is that his luck only works on him, not on his surroundings. so if he was in a group of people that get splashed with mud, he would be the only person not to get splashed no matter how close you are to him. this leads to a lot of misunderstandings lol

on the other hand, delaney is normal and she really had nothing to do with him until she was walking home and somehow found him stuck in a vent trying to escape. she felt bad for him and helped him out, mostly because she didn't know he was stealing and thought he was just dumb, but that kind of triggered a bunch of coincidences where they cross paths, specifically while min is in the middle of stealing and delaney eventually helps him out

they don't even really want to see each other until one time delaney finds him and he gets hurt trying to climb out a broken window. she patches him up and they kind of have like some sort of acquaintance relationship to the point where they wave when they see each other, and eventually meet up on purpose EHEHE

[scattered-winter]

well well my keyword for you is: magic system. do you have one and is it hard, soft, something in between??? tell me about it :D. also hope your day has been nice <3<3<3<3<3

I'm pulling from the jaykyle fantasy au that's been gathering dust in my docs for ,, nearly 6 months now lmao!! but I'm super proud of the magic system I built for it and tbh I love it so much I might implement some aspects of it into some og fantasy stories I have because it's sooo <333

it's.....somewhere between hard and soft, I think. like. the system is built around color (like lantern rings), so certain "colors" of magic can do things that other colors can't, but even then there are exceptions. there's some really big, very fundamental, completely unbreakable laws that apply to all magic types, and there are smaller rules that might apply to only a few and that could be bent/worked around if so desired, so I think it's a solid mix between hard and soft <3

every main lantern color is a specific type of magic, but colors can also be combined to make subtypes (kind of like how some firebenders can also redirect lightning in avatar the last airbender).

red = blood magic

orange = alchemy

yellow = mind magic

green = glyph/construct magic

blue = healing magic

indigo = flora/fauna magic

violet = star magic

black = death magic

white = life magic

blood magic at its core is the most powerful when the user draws his own blood, but some groups of blood mages have started using the blood of other people/animals which isn't as effective but its easier to harvest someone else's blood than your own. mind magic basically means that a yellow mage can manipulate someone with hallucinations, visions, or even by tampering with their emotions. green magic creates constructs, and the more powerful green mages can make glyphs that have gravitational/propulsion properties (inspired by these glyphs from rwby). indigo mages can control plants and animals, and each mage usually specializes in one over the other. star magic draws power from the sun and stars, and some mages literally suck the life from the stars to power their magic.

red/orange = blood alchemy

red/yellow = earth magic

red/green = air magic?

red/blue = water magic

red/indigo = fire magic

red/violet = storm magic

red/black = hollow magic (sucking life from living things for spells)

orange/yellow = academia magic (spellbooks, chalk circles, etc)

orange/green = trick magic (illusions)

orange/blue = advanced healing magic (slowing aging, replacing limbs, etc)

orange/indigo = herb potions

orange/violet = constellation magic (star positions)

orange/black = death alchemy

yellow/green = creation magic (creations with minds of their own but no souls)

yellow/blue = soul magic

yellow/indigo = animal magic (channeling animal auras)

yellow/violet = emotion magic

yellow/black = terror magic

green/blue = repair magic

green/indigo = growth magic

green/violet = summoning magic

green/black = dark glyph magic (using your own or other life forces to power glyphs)

blue/indigo = healing magic (specializing in plants/animals)

blue/violet = clairvoyance magic

blue/black = aura magic

indigo/violet = celestial magic (sun and moon)

indigo/black = decay magic

black/white = lazarus magic

I'm still not sure how the main strains of color magic coincide with the combinations, but ideally a red mage would be able to at least dabble in all the red combinations. the rules get kinda bendable on the individual color level, but the overall sphere of magic has some very strict fundamental laws. the biggest and most important: everything has an equal and opposing force. black magic is very powerful and terrifying, but white magic is just as powerful, and they cancel each other out. no spell is completely invincible from other spells, because no matter how many safeguards there are, there will always be something that can counteract.

send me a keyword and I'll tell you something from my brain (aus, ocs, etc) that relates to it

[futureghost97]

18

Most traumatic experience… My entire freshman year of college? Lmao. But that’s because it was everything compounding on top of everything else.

The single most traumatic experience, taken on its own and that I’m willing to discuss publicly, might be from 2nd grade? My sister had to withdraw from her sophomore year of college and come back home to live with us because she was dangerously underweight. She did not want to be home from college. There were lots of argument while she was in recovery, usually because whenever she wanted a snack she’d go for ice cubes instead of anything else. There was one night where I was supposed to be sleeping (please note that I was 7 years old) and I was listening to my father and my sister have an insane shouting match about the fact that she was munching on ice when he wanted her to have a glass of milk. It ended with a “you’re going to wake Molly!”, at which point I was already halfway down the stairs, crying and confused. Things escalated and that was the night she was dragged off to inpatient treatment! Brother ended up scooping me up while my parents were at the hospital with my sister, and he sat me down at the end of his bed and let me watch him play Harvest Moon on his N64/his shitty little TV while he tried his best to explain (at 16 years old) what was going on. I don’t think I’ve written about that night since I was in high school, weird.

Other contenders include SA/watching my brother cry/my dad’s emergency brain surgery. For those of you who know everything that’s been going on this fall and are giving me side-eye, hush!

[lepusrufus]

Just wanna throw a HC out there for you to maybe elaborate on 😙: Alcina can fight. Not just slash down on somebody with her five foot claws or beat them with raw strength, but she *actually* has skill. I can totally imagine her being very good at fencing and having great marksmanship. She probably taught the girls everything.

I never thought about this, but it actually does make a hell of a lot of sense! (Some speculation based on my own hc since we really don't know anything abt their pasts but here goes)

The sisters know how to fight, most likely with different weapons (see: Bela carrying a dagger with her or Cassandra's fight being in an armory) but it's unlikely that they learned those things before being infected. I guess that depends on your hc for their lives before that, but whether they were glorified maidens meant as sacrifices, nobles, or already part of the cult, I don't exactly see Miranda giving her "subjects" combat training left and right so it's a lot more plausible that they learned that after being adopted by Alcina.

They also have matching weapons, the sickles, that were also most likely something given to them by their mother. Maybe (as I've already seen theorized) for the harvest theme they have. Perhaps they've got a little harvest tradition themselves, outside the grapes from the vineyard, where they "harvest" the maidens whose blood is then turned into wine. Would also explain why they all wear the exact same thing, they just have ceremonial clothes that they decided are appropriate enough for THE Ceremony. But I'm getting a little derailed here.

Alcina being amazing at fencing suits her so well (and fits my personal hc of Bela also favoring that, she's a mama's girl). She's definitely handy with swords and an array of other weapons, and one of the annoyances of growing to 3 meters after the infection was that she had to change and adapt all her fighting techniques to compensate for the newfound lack of speed. She can even use guns and has quite good aim (why else would there be guns all over the castle, for the staff lmao?).

And in true bored nobles fashion, she taught the girls to hunt, with all the nitpicky details that go into it beyond the "find a buck and shoot" and they go hunting together every year. The girls eventually develop their own fighting styles, going off of what their mother taught then and expand their interests in other weapons. Bela is quite fond of swords and daggers, Cassandra can use a bow beautifully and Daniela likes to piss Cassandra off by messing up the blades of her swords.

[wickedpact]

dear tumblr user crim wickedpact pls write the essay/dissertation about nicky being shakespeare's fair youth (if you have time, ofc!!)

Not To Imply Nicky Was Shakespeare’s Fair Youth But Ive Read The Fair Youth Sonnets & Nicky Was Definitely Shakespeare’s Fair Youth, an essay by me, tumblr user crim wickedpact

background knowledge: our man shakespeare wrote some 120 sonnets about a young man referred to as the Fair Youth during the mid 1590s; there has been some debate among shakespeare enthusiasts whether shakespeare’s interest in the Fair Youth was platonic or romantic (but like. they were definitely romantic). no one knows for sure who the Fair Youth was, but it was definitely nicky and my first and most important piece of evidence regarding this hypothesis is the ‘lmao babe do you remember that guy who had a crush on me?’/ ‘i try not to remember the guy who had a crush on you’ look joe and nicky exchange when Merrick brings up shakespeare during the movie. especially since gina confirmed in a tweet that joe and nicky canonly did know shakespeare

my second piece of evidence is that it just Works (except for a couple small facts like.. the Fair Youth was prolly closer to his 20s than his 30s. and the fact that shakespeare implies that the Fair Youth slept with his mistress at one point. but he doesnt know what hes talking about shhh we IGNORE)

long post under cut

A. The Description Matches

when describing the Fair Youth (who I’ll call the FY from now on), shakespeare says he has a ‘gold complexion’ and ‘beautiful eyes’ and compares him to a ‘summer’s day’. He says the FY has “A woman’s gentle heart" and “An eye more bright than [women’s are], (...) Gilding the object whereupon [they] gazeth”

As much as shakespeare’s perceptions of sexuality and gender are very........  late 1500′s (whoo boy sonnet #20 is a wild ride) ...... the description does match, and also:

  B. The Fair Youth Refused to Get Married

it’s never really said why one way or another (shakespeare assumes it’s because the FY is selfish) but the FY didn’t/wouldn’t take on a wife and have a kid, and this was something that was a real sticker for our man Willy S. because, as he says in his sonnets a million times: beauty doesn’t last forever, but having a child not only passes down the FY’s beauty, but also blesses the woman the FY would have a child with (im not saying shakespeare wanted to bear the FY’s children, but he definitely did)

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

(ie. If you don’t renew yourself/ have children, you deprive the world and deprive a woman from having your child, since what woman out there is so beautiful that she wouldn’t want to bear your child?)

Like.

1.) if nicky is the FY then so many of these poems center around the idea of nicky growing old sometime soon and that must have been pretty funny to Nicky and

2.)  the fact that shakespeare would have been So Desperate for nicky to find a wife must have been the opposite of funny to joe. considering the ease of his and nicky’s relationship and the fact that being gay in late 1500s england was probably not a walk in the park, it is very likely shakespeare wouldn’t have known they were in a committed relationship-- or at least not known how close they actually were. Thus:

  C. The Rival (aka. Joe)

shakespeare mentions having a poetic rival in regards to the FY in several sonnets. In sonnet #21 he talks about how he’s not like Those Other Writers who use grand metaphors to talk about their muses

So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,

(ie. I’m not like other poets who, when inspired by a ‘painted beauty’ use heaven and every other beautiful thing on the planet to make a grand comparison to their muse: he specifically lists the sun and moon as examples as well as other beautiful things)

He then goes on to say

And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:

(ie. my love [the FY] is as beautiful as any other beautiful person, though I wouldn’t compare them to the stars/heavens (which is what he means by the 'gold candles’. those are stars.))

So shakespeare insults poets who compare their subjects to the sun, moon, and stars (amongst other things) and in the comics, Joe does literally exactly that

That man is the stars in my sky, and the sun that lights my days. That man is the moon when I'm lost in darkness, and warmth when I shiver in cold.

shakespeare also goes on to say in the same sonnet “Let them say more that like of hearsay well / I will not praise that purpose not to sell” which is to say ‘let people who like that kind of language use it, I wont because I don’t want anyone else to have the subject of my affections (the FY)’.

(which is a bit of a contradiction regarding his feelings abt the FY getting married, but these sonnets are full of contradictions. shakespeare was a confused dude; man spent the first 100 or so sonnets convinced the FY loved him back only for him to start wondering if the FY ever loved him near the end)

(not to mention Marriage For Love wasnt really.. much of a thing in Ye Olden Times but thats a different conversation. so shakespeare prolly didnt associate marriage with love/competition? anyways)

Shakesy-boo goes on to complain about this rival several times. In #79, he says

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.

(ie. everything ‘your poet’ (as the FY apparently favored this unnamed rival) says about you, he takes it from you in the first place. he talks about your virtue, but learned the word from watching your behavior. he calls you beautiful but only discovered beauty by looking at your face. every compliment he gives you he took from you in the first place)

[and, as a smaller example, he also bemoans the fact that people want to paint the FY in #67, saying, “Why should false painting imitate his cheek, / And steal dead seeming of his living hue?”. and yknow. Joe’s an artist.]

And then another example in #86

Was it the proud full sail of [the rival’s] great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?

(ie. he’s talking about how he’s having difficulty writing abt the FY and is rhetorically asking if ‘the proud sail’ of the rival’s verses was the reason his ‘ripe thoughts’ were killed in their ‘womb’. He then asks (again rhetorically) if it was the rival’s ‘spirit’ (or creativity, maybe) ‘’’‘by spirits taught to write’’’’ that killed his own drive to write. none of the analyses I’ve read really explain what shakespeare means by ‘spirits taught to write’, other than maybe being a joke or reference to something we dont know, but... ‘taught by dead people to write in a way mortal people can’t’ very much sounds like a description of an immortal poet, eh?)

Which brings me to,

  D. Willy Boy Thinks There Are 500 Year Old Writings About the Fair Youth

shakespeare talks about people having written about the FY ‘500 years ago’ from the late 1500s in #59 which......................... would have been around 1100 AD. :thinking face:

Oh that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done, That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame;

(ie. Oh if I could look back 500 years and see how you were described in some old books so I could see/reference what people used to write about you)

Which again brings me to,

  E. I’m Not Saying shakespeare Stole From Joe, But:

1.) In #22, shakespeare says this,

For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: 

(ie, your beauty is due to the ‘clothes’ my heart gives you-- probably means something like ‘you’re beautiful because i love you’. goes on to say his heart lives in the FY’s chest, and the FY’s heart lives in shakespeare’s chest)

so: shakespeare tells the FY he has shakespeare’s heart. in comparison, Joe calls nicky ‘my heart’ in the comics...... :thinking face x2:

2.) In #109, shakespeare tells the FY ‘thou art my all’,

For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

which rings similar to Joe’s ‘he’s all and he’s more’ as well as (from the comics) ‘he is my everything’

and just saying. joe looks pretty #done the mention of shakespeare.

  F. The last One

Despite shakespeare writing 30+ poems about the FY eventually growing old, the very last poem he writes about/for the FY says,

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein showest Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest. 

(ie. you [the FY] have power over the ‘mirror’ (fickle glass) of time as well as time’s ‘harvesting’ ability (sickle hour) and as you grow older, you remain beautiful while your lovers [shakespeare] wither and grow old)

The transition from ‘get married and have a baby before you get old!!!!’ in #1-20 to talking about the FY’s presence in 500 y/o books in #59 to admitting the FY isn’t growing old in #126 kinda seems to imply shakespeare learning of/about nicky’s immortality at some point, and this last poem is him accepting it.

TLDR: not only does it make perfect sense if nicky was the Fair Youth from the FY sonnets, but it also makes perfect sense if joe was the Rival from the FY sonnets. its canon nothing will convince me otherwise

[thebyunhip]

DOOM AT YOUR SERVICE – THEORIES

I mentioned a few days ago that I decided to go back and watch all episodes because I felt like I missed important plot points of the drama, which I did. I was just too busy going crazy about Myul Mang and Tak to care about anything else. So now that I have watched three episodes again, some things caught my attention and made me theorize about everything.

Now it’s important to say that my research can only take me so far. I’m not familiar at all with Korean mythology, folklore or culture for that matter. Some things might have been lost during translation; I can’t say for sure. If that is the case and something I say here is wrong, I would like to apologize in advance. I won’t add any screenshots of the conversations that ‘ill be mentioning because I don’t think it will be of much use, my subs are mostly in Portuguese (I’m Brazilian). Since this post will turn out to be quite long, I’ll add a cut.

PS. Dora the explorer is how I call Sonyeoshin.

Without further ado, let’s start

1- Myul Mang, the butterfly

Right in the first episode, Dora the explorer tell’s Myul Mang that is her garden, he is like a butterfly. Butterflies, in general, bring the thought of renovation, rebirth. The only one that has a different meaning is the black one, that is sometimes seen as bad omen. In that sense I don’t see Myul Mang being entirely bad, as he thinks he is. Maybe there’s more to him than just destruction. Which leads me to my next theory.

2- Hananim

While researching for Korean gods and some of their mythology, I found a god, Hananim (apparently said god can be found under different names such as Hanallim, Hanŭnim, or Hanŭllim – the Ruler of Heaven, but I’ll stick with Hananim). According to one the pages I read Hananim is “the supreme god of ancient korea, as well as the god of the sky who moves the stars. Hananim punishes the evil and rewards the good”, another website says “Everything in the universe was attributed to him, the lives of the people, their harvest, the rain and other natural phenomena. He was the invisible and ultimate cause of everything. Worship was given to those spirits to which he had delegated authority.”

In some scenes during the drama, we see Myul Mang and stars connected. Like when he is drinking in episode one there are stars in his glass and some appear in the sky, how he can easily make shooting stars appear when Tak doubts his powers, when he asks Tak to be the first human to love him, plus they’re always talking about stars from some reason. There’s also that moment when Tak meets Dora the explorer outside the hospital she gives Tak a small ball (I don’t actually know how to call it, sorry) and inside shows some sort of stared universe.

There’s also that specific lines “punishes the evil” and “He was the invisible and ultimate cause of everything”. Specially this last one, most people won’t actually expect Destruction to a god.

All of things makes me believe that maybe Myul Mang isn’t just the god of destruction, maybe there’s more to him and he for some reason doesn’t know about it? I don’t know. I just thought that it was a good point.

3- Tak, a future deity?

Three points made me come to this: 1- when Myul Mang shows Tak how his world is, in black and white, and as she gets closer to him the colors return and everything that was dead comes back to life; 2- Tak is the only one who sees Myul Mang’s true face, everyone else sees someone different. And she remembers him from her parents funeral; 3- during episode one Dora the explorer tells Myul Mang that he is a deity creator. Now this one might be wrong; I can’t say for sure. In Portuguese it says that Myul Mang is a deity creator, but in English says that he is the creation of a deity, but for the purpose of this theory, I will assume that he a deity creator (this conversation happened in episode 2, around 42 minutes)

As we already know, Myul Mang can’t grant wishes that involve himself (kill himself or fall for Tak), but as deity maker he can turn Tak into a deity in the future.

4- The red string of fate, Akai Ito

I think a lot of people are already familiarize with this, but for those who aren’t I’ll quickly explain it. Akai Ito is an old belief that when humans are born the gods tie a red string to their feet or hands and on the other side of this string will be their soulmate. In various moments Dora the explorer seems to suggest that Myul Mang and Tak are somehow connected, as if it were fate. Myul Mang tells Tak that she should be a little clingier to the destiny that came to her, meaning him. And there’s the obvious red string around her wrist, they could have used any color, but they went for red.

So what if, remember that I don't speak korean while reading this part, when Tak asks for "destruction" she doesn't really want doomsday but she is, somehow, looking for him, Myul Mang, because as I said before Tak is possibly a deity

5- Tak’s mother/aunt is important

During all the first episode, Tak’s aunts’ face is hidden. Tak’s mom and aunt have the same face, something that could easily be explained as twin sister, but it wasn’t mentioned so far. The fact that her face was hidden makes me question her importance and who she is.

Honestly, this one is just grabbing at anything at this point.

---

These are my five theories. I didn’t come up with them on my own, my friend helped me since we are equally losing our minds over this drama. I hope you guys like it, if you have a different theory let me know somehow. If something doens't make any sense, just ignore it (like the red string part). I’m too invested on this drama lmao.

[the-last-cuddlebender]

I straight up check your profile daily for the southern raiders analysis you’re working on. 👀👀 where IS IT 😩

bRUH I am so excited to drop this analysis you have no idea (It’s creeping up to 22k+ I am gonna cryyyyyyyyyyyy). The only problem is that my TSR analysis and “Moon theory” are so incredibly hard to structure and articulate. I’m happy you’re so excited for it, though!!! Truly, it’s an honor. I’ll give you a taste of my madness and what’s to come, but be warned: it may be a bit hard to follow because TSR (from how I’ve come to understand it) is about the vagueness of beginnings, endings, and cycles, so there isn’t really a starting point for me to begin with. (So it may seem a tad bit like a ramble in some points that I haven’t fleshed out yet/am summarizing for this ask)

This analysis has me on trails like THIS brilliant nonsense, and I am 1000000000% here for it:

Roku: “The spirit's name is Koh, but he is very dangerous. They call him The Face Stealer.”

Katara: “We’re going to find the man who took my mother from me.”...“That’s him. That’s the monster.”

Lion Turtle: “To bend another's energy, your own spirit must be unbendable, or you will be corrupted and destroyed.”

Roku: “When you speak with him, you must be very careful to show no emotion at all. Not the slightest expression, or he will steal your face.”

Hama: “Congratulations, Katara. You’re a bloodbender.”

(If Katara had killed Yon Rha, she would be giving up her identity--her face. Not only would she have become a killer, but she would be killing what made her Katara)

Aang: “Let your anger out, and then let it go. Forgive him.”

Forgive him--approach him for what he is, not the faces your memories or your heart are having him wear. See him for the pathetic man he is in that moment right in front of you.

Aang’s forgiveness is seeing someone for the sum of their parts. It’s judging them and seeing through into their very soul, just like the Firebending Masters saw through Zuko being the Crown Prince and Aang being the Avatar. That meant nothing to the Masters. What did matter to them was who the boys were right there, right then, right in front of them.

“Why should I hold a grudge against you for something you did in a past life? After all, you’re a different person, now. You’ve come to me with a new face.”

But anyways...

If I can give no other take-away from my analysis and moon theory, it’s that Yin and Yang are not two entities; they are three. I think the fandom’s misunderstanding of it may be why the discourse on TSR (and Aang, Katara, and Zuko) is so black and white (pun intended lol). 

“But Yin and Yang are obviously two things. Don’t you know the symbol?” I hear some people already saying.

Wrong, sir.

It has never been just Yin and Yang. Yin and Yang have never existed as just two things.

They are Yin and Yang and Wu Wei.

(Aunt Wu has her name for a reason, and she has the mark of the wise in her hair for a reason, too...AND she is at odds with Sokka in The Fortuneteller for a reason, too!!!...but that’s for the analysis😉)

Balance isn’t good triumphing over evil. Balance is good and evil. Balance is standing on the flow between two opposites--it’s the compliment that connects them. (The koi fish live in an oasis for a reason.)

I’ll explain what Wu Wei is later in the full analysis (like many things in here), but here’s some of my evidences and proofs for the “Yin Yang trio”:

The Tibetan “Wheel of Dharma”

(I’ll also explain the Wheel and Dharma and etc. later because it has everything to do with Koh and the moon) Long story short, the wheel and its spokes are representative of the 8 steps to enlightenment and the cycle of rebirth. 

Look at the hub of the wheel. It’s a swirl made of 3 parts.

It is also a white lotus

Here’s the colored version of the wheel (as an alter):

Recognize the colors?

BLUE, WHITE (or gold, depending), & RED

These are the “THREE TREASURES” OR JEWELS.

They symbolize DHARMA, BUDDHA, & SANGHA respectively. 

KATARA, AANG, & ZUKO

water, air, & fire

T H R E E

Bato: “Ice dodging is a ceremonial test of wisdom, bravery, and trust.

Bato: “The spirits of water bear witness to these marks...”

Why does Bato say spirit(s) plural? The Ocean and the Moon are only two spirits. The Ocean can’t be two things. Right?

WRONG

Yue: “The legends say the Moon was the first waterbender. Our ancestors saw how it pushed and pulled the tides and learned how to do it themselves.”

The Moon--singular. The Tides--plural (push and pull)

Lion Turtle: “In the era before the Avatar, we bent not the elements, but the energy within our senses.”

The moon pushing and pulling the tide is the moon bending the energy of its world. 

Katara finding balance between “being too weak to do it” or “strong enough not to” is her bending the energy within herself.

It’s two solutions written as a question but said as a statement.

Yue: “Our ancestors saw how it pushed and pulled the tides and learned how to do it themselves”

THE SOUTHERN RAIDERS IS ABOUT AANG AND ZUKO LEARNING FROM KATARA. Katara had already learned from Aang and Zuko all leading up to TSR. That was her studying. TSR was her test.

TSR is Zuko’s and Aang’s studying. Sozin’s Comet is their test.

Bato: “For Sokka, the Mark of the Wise. The same mark your father earned. For Katara, the Mark of the Brave. Your courage inspires us. And for Aang, the Mark of the Trusted. You are now an honorary member of the Water Tribe.”

Aang - Wise (”you’re pretty wise for a kid”)

Katara - Brave (the same mark her mother earned)

Zuko - Trusted (”I was the first person to trust you”)

Sokka - Bato ("I am to have no part in this--you pass or fail on your own.”)

Yin and Yang are nothing without their dance. The Avatar and the Firelord mean nothing if they don’t have a world to rebuild.

The valley means nothing if there isn’t anyone to live in it.

Fighting is useless if there isn’t someone to fight for, otherwise it is “selfish and stupid”

Katara had to have a reason to return from Yon Rha. She needed to have Aang waiting for her. If she didn’t have a reason to stay, then she wouldn’t have a reason to go.

To have a reason to sleep, a person has to have a reason to wake up.

Katara: “Aang. He just took his glider and disappeared. He has this ridiculous notion that he has to save the world alone; that it's all his responsibility.”

Hakoda: “Maybe that's his way of being brave.”

(Bato: “For Katara, the Mark of the Brave. Your courage inspires us.”)

Katara: “It's not brave! It's selfish and stupid! We could be helping him! And I know the world needs him, but doesn't he know how much we need him, too? How can he just leave us behind?!”

(It was, in fact, not easy for Aang to ‘do nothing’)

Katara: “I understand why you left. I really do, and I know that you had to go, so why do I still feel this way? I'm so sad and angry...and hurt.”

Hakoda: “I love you more than anything. You and your brother are my entire world. I thought about you every day when I was gone, and every night when I went to sleep, I would lie awake missing you so much it would ache.”

(AND YUE IS ONE OF THE ONES TO SAVE AANG IN THE OCEAN FOR A REASON)

Thinking and missing: a matter of mind (who) and heart (want). 

Iroh: “Who are you? And what do you want?”

Sokka: “We need to go back. I wanna see Dad, but helping Aang is where we're needed the most.”

Mai: “I love Zuko more than I fear you.”

BUT YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT THE MOON FOR A HOT SECOND???

I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT THE MOON

I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT 2 MOONS

OH

OH REALLY???

OH REALLY, ZUKO

A FEW HOURS YOU SAY?

THEN TELL ME, ZUKO

WHY IS THE SUN GOING UP

WHEN IT IS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT A FEW HOURS LATER

AND KATARA IS SLEEPING SO YOU CAN’T TELL ME IT’S BECAUSE YOU RISE WITH THE SUN OTHERWISE SHE’D BE WIDE AWAKE DURING THE FULL MOON THAT SHE USES TO BLOODBEND NOT EVEN TWO MINUTES LATER

THIS, MY FRIENDS, IS A HARVEST MOON

WHICH IS THE LAST FULL MOON OF THE SUMMER 

(and looks off color when it rises/falls because of the angle of the rise/fall in the atmosphere...it’s normal once overhead)

AND SYMOLIZES HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF

“We’re going to find the MAN who took my mother from me.”

“That’s him. That’s the MONSTER.”

8 spokes on the wheel

Katara was 8 when Kya was killed

8 steps to enlightenment (the “Eightfold Path”)

8 phases of the moon

8 faces of Koh

“One of your previous incarnations tried to slay me! Be it 8 or 9 hundred years ago” (but time is an illusion, so hundreds mean nothing)

THE OTHER TWO MOONS THAT ARE CONSUMING MY EVERY WAKING MOMENT???:

1.) The WOLF MOON--the first full moon of the new year (a love between the wolf and the moon in the harshest winters...connection is kindof obvious lmao)

2.) THE THUNDER MOON

The Thunder Moon is the full moon of July. It is also known as the Buck Moon--for when young buck regrow their antlers.

Yue: “My hair turned white.”

Zuko: *cuts and re-grows his hair*

Aang: “I have hair?”

The Thunder Moon--the full moon of July--is also the beginning of a certain Buddhist holiday.

DHARMA DAY

WHICH CELEBRATES THE BEGINING OF BUDDHISM AND THE FIRST OF THE 8 STEPS (the first spoke of the Dharma Wheel) TOWARDS ENLIGHTENMENT

AVATAR IS ALL ABOUT CYCLES

THE SOUTHERN RAIDERS IS ALL ABOUT BREAKING THEM

I haven’t even touched Jung, Koh, Hinduism, and Buddhism yet

or the fact that Katara and Kya are the only characters in the entire series to wear moons on their clothing and that, together, they form an actual lunar phenomenon

or why the spirit oasis isn’t a complete circle

or the fact that this thing that Aang is told to chase is just like Whaletail Island:

or how important the Great Divide and the Solstice are

AND I’M JUST GETTING STARTED

BECAUSE EVERYTHING IN THE SOUTHERN RAIDERS--RIGHT DOWN TO THE SOUND DESIGN--IS ABSOLUTELY MONUMENTAL IN UNDERSTANDING THE SHOW, ITS MESSAGE, ENERGYBENDING, AND LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE

TLDR: Idk how the heck I’m going to arrange or articulate this analysis because it is WILD. Be warned: There is literally no exact beginning and ending to this analysis because the whole point of Yin and Yang is that is has no beginning or ending (...kindof...), so you’ll have to bear with me once I’m done editing it into something that’s somewhat coherent.

These are just SOME of the things I’ve been able to answer with my moon theory and analysis of The Southern Raiders as it currently stands:

Why “letting go” isn’t really letting go (as we understand it...see: Aang’s confrontation with Koh)

Why Lake Laogai and the Spirit World are symbolically the same thing.

Zuko’s advice to the bullfrog is actually a summary of the show, energybending, the origin of bending, and the definition of Aang’s “forgiveness” I stg

Why “Sokka’s instincts” are the reason Katara yells at Sokka

Believe it or not, every time Katara mentions her mother, it is at specific times for specific reasons.

^^^same thing for the moon, lack of moon, moon positioning, etc.

Katara’s mother’s necklace is more important than we realize.

Who the faces of Koh are and WHY they are there.

The true meaning of Jet’s sacrifice.

Why Jet’s episode about the dam explains the entirety of TSR as it pertains to Katara (all the way down to the little girl who runs to get her doll after the dam breaks)

Why Katara actually DID forgive Yon Rha, and the fact that she doesn’t even know it is proof that she did

^^^^^Aang’s definition of forgiveness is completely misunderstood by the fandom, and the way he “forgives” is sososo much deeper than “moving on”, and it is DEFINATELY by no means “doing  nothing” or “excusing” past actions.

The importance of lightning, Zuko, Aang, and Katara.

The absolutely monumental and not nearly talked about importance of Jeong-Jeong like holy crap.

How Katara and Azula are just as much of a Yin and Yang as Zuko and Aang but not in the way we think they are

Why Koh has the Blue Spirit’s face

Why Koh DOESN’T have the Painted Lady’s face.

Who Ni-Ni from Katara’s campfire story in The Puppetmaster is 

How and why Iroh was able to learn firebending from the Masters even though he didn’t have a partner. 

How/Why Azula had her breakdown and why she saw her mother in the mirror

Why “Leaves from the Vine” and “Four Seasons” are the same song, explain Azula’s downfall, and explain the Yin and Yang of TSR.

Why Katara and Sokka are so often mistaken for parental figures.

Why Aang’s flashbacks to the Air Nomads are so important in understanding TSR.

Why Toph and Suki disappear after the campfire in TSR.

How Hakoda, Gyatso, and Kya are all connected.

Why it is so dang important that Azula shows up in the beginning of TSR.

The importance of the Spirit Oasis.

Energybending, healing with waterbending, Aang’s trauma, and Zuko’s scar.

Why Zuko gives Katara the exact opposite advise in TSR that he gave her in the catacombs. 

How everything could be predicted and read by the moon.

WHY YIN AND YANG ARE THREE THINGS AND HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THREE THINGS.

HOW ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL OF THIS TIES BACK TO THE MOON AND BUDDHIST BELIEFS--AND YEAH THE MOON AND BUDDHISM AND HINDUISM ARE MORE CONNECTED IN ATLA THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE.

AND HOW IT LEADS INTO OUR MODERN UNDERSTANDING OF THE SELF--BECAUSE JUNG TOOK GREAT INFLUENCE IN HIS DEVELOPING THEORY OF THE CONSCIOUS AND THE SUBCONSCIOUS FROM THE HINDU/BUDDHIST RELIGIONS 

^^^^AND ALSO THE THEORY OF THE SHADOW AND THE PERSONA 

The ocean is a deep, dark, unknown place with a lot of hidden monsters (like Yon Rah). Katara needed a light to find her monster, but she also needed somewhere she could breathe when she came back up for air.

If she didn’t have both Zuko and Aang, Katara would have drowned. 

I wasn’t kidding when I said this was a thesis, and what I’ve said and listed here isn’t even all that I have.

btw This all does line up on the traditional Yin Yang symbol we know and see in the show, but I don’t have enough space here for that lmao. That’ll be in the analysis

I hope you enjoyed this little taste, my friend, because I need to sit down for a hot second before my brain leaks out of my ears. Sorry for the ramble. I promise the analysis isn’t like this lol. This is just me trying to summarize as best as I can. 

***Disclaimer: My points are always subject to change since I am still researching. These are the facts as I’ve found and applied them to the evidences I’ve noted from in the show. I’m always open for friendly discussion or any directions to better sources on Buddhism/Tao/Jung!***

[saltpepperbeard]

Fighting the Rain ~An Everlark One-Shot~

A/N: Oh? What’s this? *Cough hacks CHOKES on cobwebs* A one-shot after almost two years of inactivity? Who knew that over-caffeinating was the true key to motivation after all this time! But hello hello everyone! So very happy to be back. I come bearing a bit of Reverent Sweetness™ as a small exercise to hop back into things! I really wish for this energy to continue, and so I’ll be attempting to push myself into getting back into the swing of things.

For the record, I completely and wholeheartedly blame Andy and Cate for such an idea. And I do believe I’ve seen another tub-related piece that was also hanging around in my mind as I thought this up. Whatever the case, thank y’all; your talks and creations fINALLY FUELED ME lmao!

But for now, enjoy some simple Everlark rubadubdub, and without further adoooooo...

Fighting the Rain

No two days are the same, and no two hunts are created equal. Some glow with warmth and yield a plentiful harvest, while others fall into a category of melancholy and disappointment. Unfortunately, as the clouds build relentlessly overheard, my efforts seem to be leaning towards the latter.

My arrows drive into a frustrating nothingness. My pray scurry as if they have an oddly heightened sense of awareness. My attitude grows all the more frustrated and downtrodden. And almost as if to directly mock me, the sky cackles and booms before releasing an onslaught of cold moisture.

Great. I’m quite a ways from home, but close enough to hopefully beat a deluge should it chose to erupt. I hate departing emptyhanded, but don’t feel keen on pushing my luck further. Not when a kindling of annoyance burns within my chest, and the clouds answer back with further rumbling.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and dart with bow in hand, the various unused arrows clinking against my backside. The rain is chilling, biting my skin and hissing against the internal fire. Water is normally apt at putting out flames, but it only serves to amplify mine. My scowl deepens as I continue on, growing damper and colder by the minute.

Aside from the fire roaring in irritation, perhaps it burns for another reason. Perhaps it presents itself now as a yearn for warmth, for the feeling only he can provide. His arms have always been there to chase away the deepest of stings, so of course I would want him like nothing else now.

My step inadvertently quickens, the mental image of his embrace fueling me. A blessing and a curse; the sky groans above and opens up to completion, sending buckets of rain upon me. My desperate speed of course, points to an even extremer drenching effect, my scowl deepening something terrible as I’m quickly soaked to the bone. But in moving faster, in practically flying across the land, the entrance to the back porch quickly appears through the falling sheets.

I waste no time in careening up the steps, practically throwing myself into the house with a hissing groan. But I’m sure such sourness will be short-lived. Such dampness will likely turn anew. Such chilling sensations will be burned off, the embodiment of the sun coming forth to bestow his touch.

Or not.

On the contrary, I’m met with emptiness. Silence. Nothing more than the shivers coursing through my form, and the soft drips of water rolling off my soaked clothes.

My scowl, though now painted with confusion, deepens all the more. Was I too presumptuous? Knowing my current luck, he’s likely elsewhere: wrapped up in the Bakery, next door with Haymitch, or deep in the throes of a painting upstairs.

I shed my father’s hunting jacket, hanging the damp leather to dry before shrugging off my equally-wet bag. My arms come to lace across my chest, crossing in both self-comfort and simmering frustration. Though, my lungs are quick to rattle with a sigh. He’s not responsible for my happiness, and I know so. And I can manage well enough alone when I need to; I’m no stranger to the empty cold.

But God, he definitely helps. He’s everything and more on a rainy, relentless day. And with every hour, with every moment spent with him, it gets harder and harder to deny the growing draw. So used to solitude and survival, and yet now do I find myself wishing for warm company more often than not. How Spring has warmed the deepest reaches of my soul.

I’m about to let my hair down and poke my head out the door to wring it out, when the day continues to prove me wrong. Or maybe, my mental call is answered by the only one who can hear it. Whatever the case, cold limbs run warm and angered heart beats ginger as his voice unexpectedly manifests.

“Katniss?”

My sigh shifts to something of tender relief, blowing out a quivering breath as I feel the instant effects.

“Down here,” I call back.

My chest seems to pound in unison with his footsteps on the stairs. He has no idea, the effect he has. It’s like the dissatisfaction towards the day’s events instantly drains, washing away like the billowing spout outside. Made even more intense, of course, by him rounding the corner.

I should be used to this. This is something of normalcy now. And yet, my breath still manages to hitch, coupled with the stutter of my heart. As usual, he beats me to talking, grinning his endearing smile as his blue eyes lay upon me.

“Hi, my love-” His voice and the expression are short-lived; he must have gotten a proper look at my state. Yes, the widening and wandering of his eyes confirm it, as does the speed in which he reaches me.

“Oh...God, you’re soaked!”

“That obvious?” I grumble through the hairs plastered to my face, though twinges of amusement exist therein.

“A bit!” he softly chuckles, reaching up to brush said strands away. An action which, is unsurprisingly topped off with a kiss, a very tender one against my glistening forehead. In missing him, in wanting the mellowness from my flower, I move for more. I chase after his lips as they depart, quickly bringing forth my own. The tender connection causes me to contently sigh, particularly when I can feel him smiling. We hold each other in the gentle lock for a few ginger beats, before he pulls free- oddly looking sheepish.

I cock a brow at him, which seems to be enough to pry an explanation.

“Didn’t know it was supposed to rain today. Really ah...puts a damper on my plans.”

I roll my eyes at what appears to be a pun, and he laughs a bit before grabbing the back of his neck. I cannot help but pry further.

“Plans?”

“Yeah...”

He puts on the shy smile which likely stole my heart all those years ago, and looks down in the direction of our feet.

“I ah...Drew you a bath. Thought you would like it after a long morning of hunting. Seems kind of counterintuitive now though.”

There it goes, the departure of every ounce of cold, of negativity. Akin to Spring melting the deepest reaches of Winter, easing the snow into the Earth and drawing forth blooms. I’m sure his thoughtfulness will never cease to soften me into awe. And, though it seemed impossible years ago, what with all the roadblocks and challenges that stood in our way, I’m sure my love will never stop heightening.

I find myself hushed into an affectionate silence, my cheeks blushing all the while. Before he can doubt the validity of his decision though, or doubt himself to any other degree, I leap back to him once more. My mouth dusts across his tender cheek first, before selfishly seeking out another caress of his lips.

“No,” I assure when we finally break, “No. That sounds nice.”

“Really? Fighting dampness with dampness?”

“Well, yeah. One is awful, cold, and from rain, and the other is inviting, warm, and from you.”

I’m surprised, though absolutely not, to see a glint flash through his shyness, his smile turning a bit more crooked to match.

“Hmm. Not yet it’s not.”

I roll my eyes and give his chest a playful shove. He of course laughs, and softly grabs my wrists, pulling me close for yet another kiss. I sigh against him, falling all the more into a state of contentment. Unsurprisingly, a trio of relatively new words present themselves on my tongue. Though, in yearning for Peeta, in having my heart beat deeper and faster for him day by day, their utterance feels more and more natural.

“I love you...” I whisper for him to capture, “Thank you.”

He grins so hard our connection breaks, and I can practically feel the heat from his blush, effectively triggering mine all the same.

“I love you too. Now go ahead- can’t have the bathwater turning into sitting rainwater.”

I let out a huff of mirth, and give one last parting kiss before taking him up on his offer. There’s a small bit of apprehension towards leaving him so soon, but I remind myself that this was his doing. The warm water will carry his essence, surely, ushering me away from all the troubles of the morning.

And so I walk up the stairs towards our bathroom, humming softly as I envision what awaits. Dampness to fight dampness indeed; I’m met with a plume of steam when I open the door. But quite quickly, it proves to be a far better option than that of outside.

Unlike the rain which chased me away, this draws me deeper into the bathroom. The steam is like a warm blanket, or a hug from Peeta, wrapping around my slightly shivering form. When I inhale deep enough, it seems like I catch notes of something floral- lavender, maybe? All the more thoughtful of him to doctor it up so.

My cheeks flush, and I quickly rid myself of my soaked garments, plopping them into a wet heap on the tile. My skin is quick to pimple from the biting air, so I’m even faster to slip into the beckoning tub.

And I cannot hush the contented moan that slips from my lips. It’s wonderful. Heated just so, smelling so sweet. My eyes roll shut with a sigh, and I poise myself to slip deeper into the watery embrace. That is, until the day continues on with its ever-changing events. That is, until a jostling of the doorknob halts my movements and breaks the relaxed trance.

Out of pure reflex, I draw my knees up towards my chest, hugging myself and hiding my body away. An action birthed from years of apprehension, and one that immediately unravels at the sight to follow.

Because it’s Peeta, of course it’s Peeta.

But the unexpected element is that he too, stands completely bare, all of him on displayed for my stunned, flustered eyes. I find his own first, and though he’s grinning, I can see that same shyness playing across his features. Much to my blushing dismay, my gaze cannot help but drift to the space I’ve become recently acquainted with. It’s still so new to the both of us that the hitch of my breath is answered by one in return. Warmth seems to travel to more than one place as I gaze at him, though my grey stare wanders to where it’s most prominent, his cheeks utterly rosy with red.

He shifts himself a bit then, looking down and snickering softly before catching my eye once more.

“Too much?”

A shiver rolls down my spine. I’m not sure what he has planned, but I have a feeling I won’t be opposed to anything he brings forth. Thus, I’m entirely earnest as I shake my head, releasing my knees fully.

“No,” I murmur, giving my lips a quick lick.

“Mind if I join you then?”

“Already seem pretty prepped to do so.”

He laughs his beautiful laugh, before blue interlocks tightly with grey. In knowing he’s silently asking for permission, a nodding gesture of my head brings him forward. I watch as he walks towards my backside, and I believe I’ve placed his intention. I slide forward a bit then, allowing him space to slip in behind me, should he choose to do so.

Sure enough, he does, momentarily sitting on the tub’s lip to unclasp his prosthetic before sliding in, the water sloshing a bit and rising from the introduction of another body. And, of course, it seemingly grows warmer, his form, his raw form, utterly reaching the depths of my being.

It’s ridiculous, considering he’s gone where no one else has, but I find myself somewhat timid. Maybe because it’s yet another new form of intimacy. I never really considered so many existing aside from the more carnal ones, but Peeta continues to surprise me. And where I find myself unsure, he also is there to softly guide me.

His warm hands gently slip to grasp my shoulders, and with a gentle tug, he ushers me to lean back against him. I don’t protest in the slightest, venturing back with his grasp and gasping ever so slightly when skin meets skin.

It’s different. Our bodies have been unified before of course, tangled and messy and desperate. But this is...different. It’s vulnerable, it’s tender, and it’s...comforting.

It’s everything. Just as he is.

My thoughts momentarily blip back to the former however, when I feel...him wedged between us. I squirm a bit, my breath hitching as more intense thoughts threaten to invade. But the more I feel, the more I lay against him, the more I realize that he’s relaxed.

And that it’s simply us. All that we are, together.

The thought settles me, and I sigh as I fully melt against him. Every bit of tension saps from my body, and my form seems to meld perfectly into his. His head comes forward to nestle against mine, and I can feel him smiling, the heat evident as he nuzzles and offers the occasional kiss.

I’m back to humming, back to closing my eyes, utterly slipping away like he intended, like I wanted. I had felt almost selfish before, wanting this so badly. But then again, it was nigh impossible not to; it does exactly the intended purpose. I’m ushered to plane where it’s just he and I, where nothing bad exists. I’m taken to a place of pure warmth, of pure love, everything else falling away.

As blissfully lost as I am, I of course have no choice but to vocalize once more.

“I love you so much...”

His turn to hum, as if he’s absorbing and ingesting such sacred words. But all the same, he presses a kiss to my cheek before returning the sentiments.

“And I love you...”

I’m prepped to simply drift away, waiting for my body to become so relaxed that I doze off against his chest. He denies me the opportunity though, but I don’t complain, his fingers coming up to nestle into my messy braid.

“May I?”

When I nod, he begins to softly unravel the intertwined strands. An easier task than usual, as the rain and running left it loose. I give my head a gentle shake when I feel it entirely unwind, fully freeing the waves of darkened ebony.

“Beautiful...” I hear him whisper, and before I have a chance to respond, before I can really even process, his fingers venture in further, sifting through swaths of black to dance atop my scalp.

Any crinkle of my nose towards his compliment instantly dies with such an action. He rubs, massages, the pads of his fingers driving me into an entirely different state of bliss. How is he able to do this? How can he affect me so? How can he drive my body and soul to places unthinkable?

I guess if anyone could be able to do it, it would definitely be Peeta. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I fall even deeper, my skin sliding against his as I descend a bit into the water. He snickers softly, but continues on with the massage. Or wash, perhaps? I think I can smell even stronger notes of flora and sweetness. Whatever the case, I can barely think, barely process, utterly mollified and melting.

So much so that I think my chin eventually brushes the water’s surface, effectively snapping me back into reality. With it, comes a hint of something else. Further selfishness? Guilt? Desire to return? Either way, my whisper breaks through the gentle steam.

“Peeta?”

“Yeah?”

“I feel like...We need to switch places. Take turns.”

His fingers momentarily halt, before he laughs and continues on.

“No. No no- this is more than enough for me. It’s perfect.”

“But-”

“Just enjoy it, love,” he murmurs, “Really. I’m just...happy to be here with you.”

So sweet, sugary sweet, sweeter than the confectionaries he specializes in. Surely something that would have earned a tense scowl years ago; now it draws forth a ghost of a smile. It makes me want to consider the journey, the steps we’ve taken to come to this very moment. But in the delightful erasure, all the pain and hurt is numbed, cast aside in the eyes of our affection.

What it fails to erase however, is my want to be stubborn, my need to please in return. Though blips of meekness still linger, shyness still evident amidst my cheeks, the former drives me and overrides. With a bit of difficulty in the porcelain space, I pivot around to face Peeta, connecting our stares with my smile running to a playful scowl.

Though there’s a slightly confused lift to his brows, he’s grinning immensely, an expression that acts as magnetism between our mouths. I kiss him for just a moment before carrying on with the intended plan. Just as he had done with me, I reach up with both hands, curling my fingers through his ashy blonde locks. I hear him shakily sigh, though the silence it what truly drives me onward; no argument is being made.

My pads nestle deep into his hair, softly rubbing and massaging like he had done for me. It’s lovely, returning the sentiments, returning the newly found intimacy. Unfortunately though, in doing so, I fail to recognize the more prominent form, the more familiar.

Perhaps it’s Peeta’s shaky hand that comes to rest at the small of my back, or the realization that such a position has put him directly at eyelevel with a more than desirable part of me- at least to him. I subsequently bite my lip, blush, and halt at the thought, slipping back to my previous perch.

Sure enough, when I pull away to get a look at his face, the flush to his cheeks and flare to his nostrils paint the correct picture.

“Too much?” I ask, parroting his opening question from earlier.

“Hmm, uh, a test of will perhaps, yes,” he replies with a shaky laugh.

It’s my turn to snicker, reaching to gently cup his face with a hand.

“Sorry. Might make this take a different turn.”

“I mean, it could, if you wanted,” Peeta murmurs, his grin turning crooked once more.

I let out a huff of mirth, softly shaking my head.

“Seems inevitable. But I dunno...I do like this.”

Peeta’s smile shifts back to a warmer tonality, pivoting his face to kiss my hand a kiss before responding.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like you said, I’m just...happy to be here with you. Always.”

His words repeated off my tongue are perhaps more loving and beneficial than the stroke of my fingers; he lights up like the sun, burning away the fog between us as his sapphire eyes sparkle.

“Always,” he reaffirms with a whisper, giving my hand another kiss before continuing, “Whatever you’d like then. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Whether I nestle up against his chest, lay back against him once again, or get ravished atop towels on the bathroom floor, the thick clouds of steam refuse to reveal. Whether they remain entirely chaste and grey, or heated and dripping, they encapsulate us, locking us away from the morning, from the bad.

Just as he does for me, and how I hopefully do in turn. 

Oh, how life is simpler, more bearable. How the negatives turn into things so much more desirable. And how humorous is it that I find myself longing to get caught out in the rain once more.