#instead of accusing them of leaving it out when every single time it has the same format and layout

[lyssakinzzz]

Temptation

(Hiii oml I realized the font I used didn't register on the web! I'm sorry for all web readers! If you have any good font pls rec)

Plot: you're husband hates you, and has not touched you in years! But remmick reminds you of the touch of a man.

Establish some what of a relationship, married reader, remmick x black married reader, smut, dumbification, porn with plot, kinda dominate submissive roles, spousal abuse, breaking and entering of sorts(welcome mat), cheating, oral(f! receiving, remmick playing with your mind a bit. Squirting, breeding if you squint.

You were a clean woman, a home maker too. Your house looked gorgeous, your garden, the aesthetic, your porch. You had the cutest house in the delta. From your opinion nice houses started from the outside, so you invested into a beautiful welcome mat. Annie, your friend said you can let in haints and vampires with it. You never really believed her, until now.

It felt like a man was in your house every single night when your husband was gone, he would loom over you, as you dreamt, you could've sworn he was giving you dreams of him. Because, why else you were think of a white man making love to you. This was one of the nights when the dreams got intense, you were met with the same man in your bed, licking your cunt and making you go feral. He had lustful eyes, a sweaty head, and a gorgeous physique. He sounded foreign, but from here. It was so strange.

You woke up in a sweat and your panties soaked, shit. You thought as you went to the kitchen to quench your thirst, you sat outside a bit and fiddled with your lips a bit, this was so strange. Not until sudden did you feel this presence, you prayed and prayed for it to go away, but nothing.

You sigh, and go back inside and walk to your bedroom just to be met with the same man from your dreams, you felt so alarmed. How'd he get in? You were at the front door the whole time. You rubbed your eyes like a cartoon character hoping he'd disappear, he just smirked instead.

"You dreamin' of me, girl." He smirked with a bit of a playful undertone to it. "Well, I'm flattered, truly ma'am, but don't you got a man on your arm. Now, I ain't think it's right for a married women to have such dirty dreams of another man..." He spoke in the same accent as he inched closer and grabbed your wrist, you whimper in some kind of fear but that just seemed to turn him on. "You Klan, sir?" You spoke up, you sounded a bit respectful and civilized but terrified, his eyebrows furrowed and he mortified by the pure idea. "Ma'am?" He asked dumbfounded you would even think that, a bit offended too as his eyes widened.

"Then why you up in my house, touching on a married women like me! My husband's gonna shoot you dead on this porch if you don't leave, immediately!" You spoke as you gained control over the situation, and pushed him away. "You mean the cheating one who beats on you?" He whispered, looking into your eyes, something about them just wasn't right. He didn't look alive. You felt hot with anger. "Don't you accuse my husband of that horrible stuff! He is a good man!" You yell, you said the last part almost like you were trying to convince yourself "He is a good man".

"Now, I'm sorry, angel. How bout I beg you for forgiveness right here on this floor,hm. As long as you show me what that voice sounds like when it's beggin' back?" He spoke in a low deep tone, he smirked as he saw your reaction to his words. "Yeah don't that sound good, it's a shame that man don't touch such a pretty little angel like you, hm? I'll fuck you real nice n sweet, darlin'." He muttered as he set you down on the mattress. He slowly kissed your neck, he inhaled the perfume on it, and practically moaned.

He kissed down, his hands slowly slipping under your floral nightgown, he gripped your perky boobs and played with them, he let out a sound of satisfaction when he felt how soft they were. He slowly peeled your nightgown off and kissed down your body, slowly and gentle just the way you liked it. You moaned, as your hands slipped down him as he kept getting lower. You could tell he was trying to keep it together as he reach your pussy. He let out a moan the second he peeled off your cotton panties.

"Fuck can't believe she's already this wet for me, hm?" He groaned as he kissed and licked it, teasing you a bit. He knew you wanted him to just starting eating it. "Mm, this is the sweetest pussy I've ever tasted" he groaned, going insane he was holding back as well. You looked down at him with pleading eyes and that was the straw that broke the camels back, he immediately started to eat you out. You moaned. "Gah!" you moaned as he kept going, he was so much better than you husband ever was, even when you two still had sex he would be like a blind man still not knowing where your clit was. However, this man had experience, he knew your body better than your husband of years. You moaned "Fuck!" your chest was moving up and down frantically, and you were basically about to rip the hair out of his head. This was an awesome way to end the five years of involuntary celibacy.

You groaned as you squirmed and tried to move away from him. He was strong so he kept you there and lapped you up like a dog who hadn't had water since 1910. You went cross eyed and fell back down as he stuck his tongue so far up, farther than your husband could ever yearn to reach. You felt blood rush to your head and your realase coming way faster than expected. You shook as he kept going and then it felt like a dam break as you squirted all over his face. He lapped it up and smirked as he flipped you over. You whine as he smacks your ass in a way to tell you to put it up, you mindlessly obey him.

"You know I never realize we never exchanged names, I'm remmick. You are?" You didn't even answer just had half lidded eyes, he chuckled and took off his belt and you felt his dick fall on your ass, he spat on his hand and lubed it up as you where whimpering and clenching over nothing. This fuckass white man really fucked you stupid. He sunk into you and you immediately moaned, you gripped hard onto the sheets as he fucked you hard.

"Damn this pussy's tight" he grunted as he thrusted into you. You whined, as he sunk your screaming self into a pillow. "Sh..sh..You don't want anyone to know how much of a fucking slut you are when your husband isn't here." He whispered as he kept thrusting, you whined loudly in the pillow and nodded. Ironically Remmick was way louder than you, he kept whimpering and you just know he woke up 5 houses. You started to loose around him as your body got used to the feeling of him being inside, in order to tighten you back up he threatened you a bit.

"Bet your husband would loveee to walk in and see his pretty pure wife fucking a cock other than his huh? In fact why don't I stay until he comes home so I can greet him, hm?" He grunted, as you tightened around him.

"That's it, girl..." He moaned as you tightened while he fucked your overstimulated cunt. He felt his balls tighten as he felt realase coming. He went faster as you screamed for him to not come inside, and tried to push him away. He chuckled not caring as he came inside you and he watched as your eyes fluttered as you got filled up and you sunk back down.

"Relax, I'm shootin' blanks." He said as he pulled out of you. Even though it wouldn't be too bad if he fucked his babies into you....

OKAY I JUST MADE MY FIRST FIC AYEEEEE AND TYSM FOR ALL THE LOVE IM GETTING ON MY HCS LIKE WHAT??? MY PHONES BUZZING EVER TWO SECONDS LIKE IM TIKTOK FAMOUS IN A MOVIE LMAO ANYWAYS YALL BETTER EAT THIS UP BYEEEEEEE

[lgbtlunaverse]

Fandom is so nice to Jiang Cheng's inferiority complex because in reality every single thing he gets accused of is something Wei Wuxian is better at than him.

Jiang Cheng killed Wei Wuxian? Nope. Didn't even get close. Wei Wuxian's own spirits tore him apart before jc could even get there. wwx:1 jc:0

Jiang Cheng tortures people? We get two and a half rumours and a mention from jin ling that jc has 'captured' demonic cultivators before, but who is also apparently confident that just letting wwx run off will kill the issue even though those earlier rumours said ~no one who sandu shengshou captured was ever seen again~

The word jiang cheng uses when he tries to talk big game about 'beating the truth' out of Wei Wuxian's is a word that carries the context of pestering someone to do their homework. Doesn't exactly strike fear into my heart.

Wei Wuxian? Excellent at torture. A prodigy. Did you fucking see what he did to Wen Chao? Dude didn't have fingers anymore because wei wuxian made him eat them. He ripped out his hair, burned his skin off, and then stalked him for several days just to prolong the pain. He forced Wang Lingjiao to bite Wen Chao's dick off and then made her shove a stool leg down her own throat! 10/10, no notes. Absolutely horrifying.

Meanwhile Jiang Cheng's idea of torture is getting a dog to bark at Wei Wuxian for a few seconds. Weak, unoriginal, I bet fairy was literally wagging her tail the whole time. 2-0

Jiang Cheng made the entire cultivation world believe Wei Wuxian was up to no good on the burial mounds and ultimately orchestrated his downfall? lol. lmao, even

It's a big thing in certain corners of the fandom to really zoom in one one particular phrase at the end of chapter 73, where after wwx and jc have their staged duel to make the world believe they hate each other jiang cheng tells everyone wwx has defected and become "a public enemy'' or "an enemy to the cultivation world" or whatever the translation you're familiar with decided upon.

(As an aside, something I really like about this line is that the last half of it is almost exactly the same, like verbatim, as what wwx told him to say. like, the chapter is really hammering home just how much jc is speaking from a script here. wwx tells jc to say "今后魏无羡无论做出什么事，都与云梦江氏无关." and jc says "今后无论此人有何动作，一概与云梦江氏无关" the only meaningful difference is that he says 'this person' instead of wwx's name)

I've seen it said that this bit, the use of 'enemy' was said without wei wuxian's approval, that jc deviated from the script just to hurt his ex-shixiong for leaving him. And that this is what caused all the other clans to turn against wei wuxian. Regardless of if this is what jc and wwx discussed, or if jc had malicious motivations for it (considering my conclusions above, you can guess where i fall) it doesn't really matter, because the novel tells us when the clans completely freak out and become convinced wei wuxian is out to get them (though of course they've been wringing their hands about it since the literal day wwx ran off with the wen, months before jiang cheng visited) very neatly in chapter 75!

It's when they find out about Wen Ning.

And how do they find out about Wen Ning?

Because Wei Wuxian took him on nighthunts! And they kicked ass!

...Wei Wuxian, my man, why are you on nighthunts??? Why are you showing off your incredibly cool sentient fierce corpse buddy, who is way better and stronger than all the other fierce corpses, in front of the whole cultivation world??

Whatever his motivations (extra money, maybe?? they were strapped for crash) I can only draw the conclusion wwx had already given up on appearing calm or non-threatening and didn't care if the clans thought he was a threat, because they'd believe whatever they wanted anyway. Which he seems to clearly be aware of the whole time.

Regardless, we know that this is what created the myth of the Yiling patriarch. It's literally when the title first shows up!

Even if you really believe jc was secretly plotting against wwx in chapter 73, he's clearly doing a shit job of it because nothing he said made anywhere near as big an impact as this. Flopped!

The other point people use to argue Jiang Cheng caused wei wuxian's downfall is Jin Guangyao's speech in Guanyin temple about how jiang cheng could have saved wei wuxian if only he stood by him. Setting aside that jin guangyao is trying to get into jiang cheng's head here, and isn't necessarily saying what he really believes (though it very well might be! who knows with a character like jgy. assuming he's always lying is just as misleading as assuming he's always saying the truth) the fact is, if you read the speech closely, what he's talking about is not the 'public enemy' line, he's talking about the bond between them. The fact that people wanted wei wuxian out of yunmeng jiang, because the two were too powerful together.

He's talking about that one time Jiang Cheng very publically kicked wei wuxian out of the sect!

Which, unbeknownst to Jin Guangyao, was in fact Wei Wuxian's idea the whole time.

final score: 3 for you wei wuxian, you go wei wuxian! And nothing for Jiang Cheng bye.

[supernova2205]

The Silence Of The Mole

Part 2

Summary: The past has a way of catching up, no matter how far you run. Years after leaving the 141 behind, you’ve built a new life one filled with purpose, loyalty, and something close to peace. But when fate forces your paths to cross again, old wounds are ripped open, and buried emotions resurface. Some things were never meant to be forgiven.

The moment you handed Price your transfer papers, you felt something inside you shatter.

You had spent years with the 141, built something you thought was unbreakable, but after everything after the interrogations, the bruises, the betrayal you couldn’t stay. Even if Soap and Gaz had started to mend the wounds they helped create, it wasn’t enough. Not when every time you saw Ghost or Price, all you could hear was their cold accusations, feel the phantom pain of their hands gripping you too tight, their voices laced with distrust.

Price didn’t try to stop you. He read the papers, his jaw tightening, then gave a single nod. “I’ll approve it,” he said gruffly. No apology. No fight. Just acceptance, as if he had already known this was coming.

Ghost hadn’t said a word. He watched you pack your things in silence, his mask betraying nothing, but his body was tense, like he wanted to say something anything. But he didn’t. And that hurt more than anything else.

Soap had been the one to argue, to try and convince you to stay. “We can fix this,” he had pleaded. “We will fix this.”

But some things couldn’t be fixed.

So you left.

The weight of the past was always with you, even when you thought you’d left it behind.

After the betrayal of the 141, you had nowhere else to turn. Los Vaqueros offered you a chance to start anew, and though you hesitated at first, something in you clicked when you met them. They treated you like family, not a tool or a weapon.

Alejandro was the first to speak with you when you arrived. His eyes were kind, though you could sense the professionalism in his demeanor. He didn’t ask too many questions. Instead, he offered you a place on his team, and with it, a new sense of purpose.

Rodolfo was the one who welcomed you with open arms, like a sibling you never had. He taught you the intricacies of their operations and helped you adjust to their way of working. Your Spanish, though solid, became smoother under his guidance. You felt a pride in being able to converse with ease now, the words rolling off your tongue without hesitation.

In the months that followed, you found comfort in the family dynamic of Los Vaqueros. They cared for each other in a way that made you feel safe, valued. For the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could be happy again.

But when the mission came when you found out you’d be working with 141 again it felt like the universe had decided to toy with you.

The first time you saw Ghost and Price again, you felt your heart stop. They were standing in the same room, their presence so heavy that it felt like the air was suffocating.

“You,” Ghost whispered, his eyes not meeting yours as though he couldn’t quite process seeing you again.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice even. “Me.”

Price was quieter than usual, his gaze flicking between you and the rest of Los Vaqueros. He nodded but said nothing, his face hardened.

“Are we working with them?” Soap asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he glanced at you.

“Sí,” Alejandro replied. “We need all the help we can get for this mission.”

It was the first time you had heard your old team’s voices in years, and despite your resolve, your emotions churned beneath the surface. You thought you had moved on, that you had buried the past but seeing them here, now, stirred up memories you weren’t ready to face.

You barely spared them a glance as you moved to your new team’s side, but Soap’s eyes lingered on you. You could see the pain there, the regret that was still fresh in his expression. You wanted to ignore it. You wanted to walk away from the past entirely but you couldn’t.

The mission was a blur of violence and strategy. You worked seamlessly with Los Vaqueros, and the team’s camaraderie was unmatched. But every moment with the 141 was a struggle.

Soap tried his hardest to bridge the gap, even joking with you in the same way he used to, but it fell flat. The wounds ran too deep. You could feel him watching you when you weren’t looking, as though waiting for a sign that you would return to the old dynamic.

Gaz was softer in his approach, but there was still a distance, an invisible wall between you and the rest of them. You felt it every time they looked at you, as though they were unsure whether you were still the person they once knew.

But it was Ghost who caused the most turmoil.

His eyes never left you, not for a moment. Even when you were deep in the mission, you could feel the weight of his stare. It wasn’t just the old tension between you two. No, it was something else guilt, regret, fear.

One night, after the mission had wrapped for the day, he approached you.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked, his voice low and rough, the words hanging in the air between you.

You glanced at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “What?”

“The past,” he said, his eyes flicking to the ground. “Do you ever think about what happened?”

“I think about it every day,” you said, your tone steady, but the weight of your words hung heavily between you. “But that doesn’t mean I can forget it.”

You watched him swallow, his hands clenched at his sides as if he were fighting some internal battle. “I never meant to hurt you,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you turned away and walked off, leaving him standing there, a shadow of the man you once knew.

The mission progressed, and tensions mounted. Days passed with little change. But then, during a particularly dangerous operation, everything went wrong.

Soap got separated.

You didn’t know how it happened one minute, you were all moving together, and the next, Soap was gone, lost in the chaos of the battlefield.

Rodolfo immediately took charge, his voice commanding as he directed the team to search for him. You didn’t wait for orders. You moved, your mind on nothing but Soap’s safety.

You found him a few hours later, battered and broken, his breathing shallow but steady. His eyes flickered open when he heard you approach.

“You came,” he whispered, his voice weak but relieved.

“I always will,” you replied, your hand gently touching his shoulder.

You worked quickly to patch him up, your hands steady despite the pounding in your chest. The mission had already been a nightmare, but losing Soap after everything was too much.

He winced as you worked, but he didn’t complain. “I’m sorry,” he muttered again, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity you hadn’t seen in years. “For everything.”

You didn’t know what to say. Instead, you just nodded, wrapping the bandages tight to stop the bleeding.

Rudy stayed close by, his presence a comforting constant as you worked. He’d been by your side this whole time, a steady hand when you needed it most. He wasn’t like the 141. He didn’t judge you or question your worth. He just supported you.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said to him quietly, your voice hoarse.

“Siempre,” he replied, his hand resting on your shoulder.

After the mission, you couldn’t shake the feeling that things had changed irreparably. Soap had apologized, but there was still a distance between you, one that couldn’t be crossed so easily. Ghost had said his piece, but his actions spoke louder than any apology.

Price? He stayed quiet, as always, but his eyes were full of things left unsaid.

But you were no longer the same person.

And neither were they.

After all that chaos you guys were supposed to meet with Graves. The mission had started well, or so you thought. You had tracked your targets to a small compound nestled deep in the mountains. Alejandro led the way, as always, with his calm and steady presence. You had become accustomed to the rhythm of the team the way everyone knew their place, the way Los Vaqueros operated like a well-oiled machine.

But then, as with most missions, things went wrong.

You had been in the middle of clearing a room when the explosion rocked the building. Dust and debris filled the air as the ground beneath your feet gave way. The next thing you knew, you were thrown to the ground, your ears ringing, your vision spinning.

By the time you regained your senses, Alejandro was gone.

The panic in Rudy’s voice was unmistakable as he called out for Alejandro, but there was no answer. The silence that followed was even worse than the explosion itself.

Then came the realization: Alejandro had been taken.

And you…

You’d been captured too.

They didn’t waste time.

You were dragged through dark, damp corridors, your hands bound tightly behind you. You had no idea where they were taking you, but you knew it wasn’t going to end well.

“You worked with them,” one of the captors hissed. “You were with 141.”

The words stung more than they should have. The weight of the accusation the way they spat it at you felt like a blow to the chest. You were no longer just a soldier. You were the traitor who had betrayed them.

They made sure to remind you of that with every strike, every torture, every demand for information.

At first, you held your tongue. You knew better than to give them anything, but the pain was unbearable. They knew what to target, what to make you remember. And every time they dug deeper, every time they tore at your flesh, your mind flashed back to the 141 back to the accusations, the interrogations, the betrayal.

They knew about your past with them. They used it against you.

It felt like days weeks even before you heard any familiar voices. You barely recognized them through the haze of blood and pain, but when Rudy’s voice broke through the darkness, you almost couldn’t believe it.

“Hold on, we’re getting you out,” he said, his voice full of concern.

The next few hours were a blur of gunfire, explosions, and chaos. Rudy’s steady hands helped free you from your restraints, but the pain was still fresh. The wounds were deep, but they didn’t matter as much as what had been taken from you.

By the time Alejandro was found, it was clear that something inside you had broken. You had always been the medic, the one who healed others but you had nothing left to give.

Back at the safe house, the mission debrief felt like a slow-motion nightmare.

You sat in the corner, barely able to look at the 141, who had just joined the operation. The tension was palpable like a wall that had been built between you and the rest of the team. You could barely meet their eyes without feeling the weight of everything that had happened.

But it wasn’t the 141 that you were most concerned about.

It was Alejandro.

He had seen the toll that the torture had taken on you, and while he didn’t say much, his eyes betrayed the concern he felt. He pulled you aside after the meeting, his gaze soft but unwavering.

“Are you alright?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m not.”

Days passed, and the pain of the mission lingered in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t shake the memories of the torture, the feel of their hands on your skin, the words they had used to break you.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

The decision came as a shock to the team.

You told Rudy you couldn’t do it anymore and talked to Alejandro, unable to find the right words to explain why you were leaving.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly. “I’m not the person I was before.”

Alejandro didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, his brow furrowing as if trying to understand, trying to find a way to fix this.

“I’m sorry,” you added, your voice cracking. “I know you were counting on me. But I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay. I’m not.”

Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with regret. “You’ve done enough, hermana,” he said softly. “No one can ask you to carry this burden forever.”

It was the hardest decision you had ever made. Leaving Los Vaqueros was like tearing a part of yourself away. You had built something with them, something real. But you couldn’t stay in a world that had broken you, couldn’t continue fighting when everything inside you felt like it was already shattered.

The 141 they had taken that from you. You had been so loyal, so willing to fight for them, but now all that was left was a hollow shell.

So, you walked away.

The days following your departure were lonely. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak to anyone, not even Rudy, not even Alejandro. It felt like they had all moved on without you.

But one night, as you sat in a dimly lit bar in a quiet corner of the world, you heard a familiar voice.

“Not the kind of place I expected to find you.”

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Soap’s accent was unmistakable, even in the quiet hum of the bar.

When you did look up, he was standing there, his face tense but soft with emotion. His eyes searched yours for something anything.

“I’m not here to fight,” he said quietly. “I just… I need to see you.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know how to.

But in that moment, you realized that you were done with them. But you weren’t ready to forgive either.

The days following your decision to leave were filled with uncertainty, but they were also peaceful. You moved to a small town, far from the chaos of the battlefield and the haunting memories of what you had endured. It wasn’t an easy transition, but you found comfort in the little things things you had once pushed aside in the name of duty.

You took up painting, something you had always loved but never had the time to pursue. The soft brushstrokes on the canvas became your refuge, your way of expressing what words couldn’t. You would spend hours lost in color, in texture, in creating something beautiful from the turmoil that had once consumed you.

You also started gardening, planting flowers in your backyard. The smell of fresh soil and the sight of buds slowly blossoming into life brought you a sense of calm you hadn’t felt in years. It was strange to feel peace again, but it was also liberating.

At night, you would sit on your porch with a cup of tea, staring at the stars, thinking about the life you had left behind. The memories of your time with Los Vaqueros and the 141 faded slowly, like the setting sun. It was as if you were finding yourself all over again, carving out a new identity far from the battlefield.

But no matter how far you went, no matter how much you tried to forget, there was one thing you couldn’t escape your past.

Years had passed since you walked away from the life you knew, and for the most part, you had found a quiet peace. But in the back of your mind, the shadows of your past still lingered, always just beyond reach.

One evening, while you were painting on your porch, you felt a strange sense of being watched. You glanced up, your breath catching in your throat as you spotted him. Simon, standing just at the edge of the trees, his figure cloaked in shadows.

He didn’t move didn’t say anything. He simply watched you, his masked face hiding whatever emotions were behind it. The familiar weight of his presence settled in your chest. Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t run. Instead, you stared back at him, trying to make sense of the moment.

What was he doing here?

Had he been watching you all this time?

Years of pain and uncertainty bubbled up inside you, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Finally, Simon took a slow step forward, but stopped at the edge of your yard. He stood there for a long while, silent, his gaze never leaving you.

It wasn’t until you put down your paintbrush that he spoke. His voice was low and steady, as if nothing had changed. “You’ve been busy, huh?”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t the words that mattered it was the presence. The weight of everything that had come before this moment. Moments passed with just the two of you standing in silence.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Simon continued. His words were raw, more vulnerable than you had ever heard them. “But I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You stood still, letting the silence stretch between you, letting the weight of his apology settle in. It was enough for now. The years of hurt, of betrayal, of everything that had gone wrong, were too much to unpack in a single moment. But what you felt wasn’t anger anymore. It wasn’t rage. It was… sadness. A sadness that you had lost something you would never get back.

Finally, you broke the silence. “I’m okay now, Simon. I’ve found peace. I don’t need anything from you.” Your voice was soft but firm, as if you were reassuring yourself more than him.

His eyes softened his blond short hair slightly moving with the wind, It was calming in a sense staring at the face you once loved and would give your life for. And for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of regret. But he said nothing. He simply nodded and turned, walking away into the night.

Months went by, and life returned to its quiet rhythm. You still painted, still gardened, still lived a life you could be proud of. You didn’t think about Simon every day, but there were moments like when the breeze would rustle the trees or when the stars hung low in the sky that you couldn’t help but wonder if he was out there, somewhere, still watching over you from a distance.

But you didn’t need him anymore. You had moved on, built a life for yourself, and in the end, that was all you could ask for. The weight of the past had finally begun to lift, and though there were days when you still felt the sting of what had been lost, you were stronger now. You had learned to live again.

And as you sat on your porch one evening, painting beneath the stars, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace. You had come a long way farther than you had ever thought possible and for the first time in years, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Even if Simon still watched from afar, you knew that you were finally free.

This is where your journey truly began. The story of pain, loss, and healing had come full circle. It was no longer about the past, or the choices you made, but about the future you were building on your own terms.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I really hope you enjoy this chapter! I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to keep going with it because the last chapter felt like it could stand on its own, but all the love and encouragement from my last post inspired me to continue. I truly appreciate your support! Please let me know what you think and what else you’d love to see in the future. Your feedback means a lot to me!🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

[actual-changeling]

i've had this fic for 1x12/fire in my drafts for ages and it's surprisingly put-together and plotted out but idk whether the people tm have an interest in the finished work. usually i'm not this self conscious about my writing but i haven't written much recently and it shows.

the premise is literally just "okay but what if they kissed about it" because that's what i think every single time i watch this scene. they should kiss. and then fuck on the desk but we will see about that

season 1 scully being jealous is really 'but that's MY emotional support idiot i have a crush on, you don't get to play with him' and i'm obsessed with it. she doesn't like sharing.

so anyway, here's an excerpt from what i've written so far, i'd be happy to hear everyone's thoughts.

———

"Yeaaah, I noticed how you couldn't drop everything fast enough in order to help her out."

Scully perches on the edge of the desk, looking everywhere except at him, and she bites her tongue when she hears how sharp her thinly veiled accusation sounds. He's done nothing to deserve it, and while a part of it is jealousy, yes, the other half is the ever-present fear of being expendable, replaceable. During some of her worse nights, she has spend hours wondering if her work on the X Files is holding him back more than it is helping him.

Maybe he doesn't need her for this. Maybe he wants to… catch up with his brilliant ex-girlfriend from Scotland Yard who dropped an interesting case right into his lap and herself with it. The kiss keeps replaying in her mind on a never-ending loop, and it's only Mulder's complete lack of reciprocation that prevents it from completely eating her alive.

"I was merely extending her a professional courtesy."

He stops next to her and shrugs on his jacket, his gaze heavy and familiar on her face, and a wave of his aftershave mixed with Phoebe's perfume washes over her. Holding back a scoff, she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, worrying it between her teeth before letting it go with a smack.

Courtesy. Right.

Anything to be polite, to stay professional, to have an excuse to follow after his ex and relive his college days. So he can keep Scully firmly in the 'co-worker' category while simultaneously invading her personal space, staring at her lips, pressing his palm to her lower back at every opportunity—and then not kiss her despite how obviously she wants him to. The next words leave her mouth before she can stop them.

"Oh, is that what you were extending?"

She expects him to brush off her remark, which is toeing a line they have both silently agreed on not crossing, and walk away, but instead he stays put and blinks down at her. When realization begins to dawn on his face and his smile turns into a smirk, Scully swallows heavily and averts her gaze, already regretting whatever it is she has apparently unleashed. Maybe if it weren't such a refreshing contrast to the brooding expression he's been wearing she'd immediately back-pedal, but she lets it happen.

You brought this on yourself, Dana.

Mulder crowds her against the desk, standing so closely she can feel the warmth he radiates all the way down to her bones, but she stubbornly keeps staring at his tie.

"Why, Agent Scully, is that a hint of jealousy I detect in your voice?"

[kathlare]

lingering shadows

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Tensions reach a boiling point as Lando confronts the end of a fleeting relationship, facing accusations that cut deeper than he’s ready to admit.

Wordcount: 1.0 k

Warnings: just fluff

full masterlist // request over here!

September 8th, 2023 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

The setting sun cast a golden glow over Monaco, the vibrant hues of the sky contrasting sharply with the tension brewing in Lando’s penthouse. The air inside was heavy, oppressive even, as Lando leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Across from him, Magui paced the floor, her sharp, frustrated movements betraying her growing anger.

—So, that's it then?— she snapped, spinning on her heel to glare at him. —You're just ending it, out of nowhere?—

—It’s not out of nowhere,— Lando replied, his voice strained but measured. —I told you from the start this wasn’t serious, Magui. I thought we were on the same page.—

Magui let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through her dark hair. —Right, because you’re so good at being upfront. You think I didn’t notice how you started pulling away? How you’ve been avoiding me?— She stopped pacing and fixed him with a glare that could have cut glass. —What changed, Lando? Or should I say, who?—

Lando sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He hated confrontation, especially this kind. —No one changed anything. I just… I can’t give you what you want, Magui. And I’m not going to pretend I can.—

—What I want?— she scoffed, her voice rising. —What I want is for you to stop acting like you don’t care about anyone but yourself!—

That stung, but Lando refused to let it show. Instead, he kept his voice steady. —I care about you, but not in the way you deserve. That’s why this has to end.—

Magui took a step closer, her anger morphing into something sharper, more pointed. —You’re such a fucking coward, you know that? You’d rather keep running from your feelings than actually deal with them. And I know why, Lando. It’s because you’re obsessed with her.—

Lando’s heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t react, refusing to give her the satisfaction. —Don’t.—

—Oh, I’m going to fucking say it,— Magui shot back, her eyes blazing. —Amelie. That’s who this is about, isn’t it? You can’t stop stalking her on Instagram, looking at her pictures like some lovesick idiot. And for what? She’s never going to want you back. Hell, does she even know how pathetic you are?—

Lando’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into the edge of the counter. He didn’t owe Magui an explanation, but her words were hitting too close to home.

—This has nothing to do with Amelie,— he lied, his voice cold.

Magui laughed again, this time softer, almost pitying. —You really believe that? Because I don’t. Every time we were together, you were somewhere else. And I know exactly where, no, who your mind was on. She’s in your fucking head, Lando. And until you get over her, you’re going to ruin every single thing you touch.—

Her words sliced through him like a knife, each one landing with brutal precision. Lando opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because deep down, he knew she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Magui took his silence as confirmation, shaking her head in disbelief. —You’re pathetic. You don’t even realize how much you sabotage yourself. You’re so hung up on someone who clearly doesn’t give a shit about you anymore. And you know what? She probably never did.—

That was the final blow. Lando felt something snap inside him, but instead of lashing out, he simply straightened up, his face unreadable.

—You should go,— he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Magui hesitated for a moment, as if expecting him to fight back, to say something, anything. But when he didn’t, she scoffed and grabbed her bag from the couch.

—You’re going to end up alone, Norris. And it’ll be no one’s fault but your own.—

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Lando alone in the deafening silence of his penthouse. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where she’d been, her words echoing in his mind.

He wanted to believe she was wrong, that he wasn’t still hung up on Amelie, that his feelings for her were a thing of the past. But as he sank down onto the couch, his head in his hands, he couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

He still thought about her. All the time.

The way she used to laugh at his terrible jokes, her voice lighting up their late-night gaming sessions during the pandemic. The way her eyes sparkled when she was passionate about something. The way she’d fit so perfectly into his arms, like she belonged there.

But she wasn’t his anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time. And maybe Magui was right—maybe she never really had been.

Lando let out a heavy sigh, his chest tightening with a familiar ache. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table, his thumb hovering over Instagram. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t do this again, but the temptation was too strong.

Before he could stop himself, he was on her profile, scrolling through her recent posts. There she was, radiant as ever, smiling brightly at the camera. She looked happy. And that, more than anything, was what tore him apart.

He tossed his phone onto the couch, leaning back and closing his eyes. Magui’s words lingered, taunting him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was pathetic. But the truth was, he didn’t know how to let go of Amelie.

And he wasn’t sure he ever would.

[inafieldofstarflowers]

Having alternate POVs gives a more rounded perspective of so many parts of aftg, but I think that Jean specifically gives a more in-depth view of Kevin which is deeply necessary to understand his character.

On multiple occasions throughout his narration, Neil comments on Kevin’s single-minded focus on Exy. This makes sense, because Exy is at the heart of Kevin and Neil’s relationship and is central to the overarching conflict of the books. Neil gives his game to Kevin, and Kevin takes that seriously. Moreover, Kevin has something to prove, to himself and to the world, and the success of the Foxes in their season is key to his success in proving his worth, so of course he’s focused on it. Also, Kevin just truly does love Exy: he’s spent his whole life working hard to get to where he is by the time the series begins, and he clearly did that because he cares just as much as he did it because it was expected—it makes sense that he loves the Trojans, because they play for love of the game, not just for the desire to win.

When Jean’s narration discussed Kevin, it agrees with all of these things: Kevin is fanatical and he loves the Trojans (even though his playing style is incongruous with theirs, as Jean points out) and he is arrogant, though not without cause. It also, however, gives peeks at a softer side of Kevin. Part of this is because so many interactions between Kevin and Jean are colored by Kevin’s guilt at leaving Jean behind, and the validity of Jean’s accusation that Kevin twisted the knife as he left, but regardless of the reason, Kevin lets his walls down ever so slightly when it comes to Jean, and while he’s still standoffish, it’s also evident how deeply he cares about the people he loves. Jean notices this side of him, though he doesn’t typically mention it outright, being justifiably angry with Kevin; he leans closest to admitting it when others criticize or doubt Kevin’s motivations, unwilling to let them misrepresent him.

Kevin Day is the ultimate fake idgaf-er. He has his people—Andrew, Neil, and Jean, but also the Foxes as a whole—and he sticks by them. He believes in them. His faith in Andrew keeps him going, his confidence in Neil gives him space to dream about the future, and his trust in Jean is what he falls back on (when he learns about the district change, when Neil is headed to the Nest),

Applying that lens to the original trilogy makes so many of Kevin’s actions stand out, even though Neil rarely flags them as significant or identifies them as a result of either his desire to show up Riko or his fear of retribution (which Neil sees as cowardice, while Jean intimately understands the way that bone-deep terror mixes with a cultivated, years-long habit of obedience to make a cage that is nearly impossible to escape).

In this light, Kevin’s love for the Trojans looks like a small act of defiance. His History major—of which Neil makes only a passing mention—gains weight as evidence of other passions strong enough to get Kevin to fight. Kevin’s plea for Neil to leave after he learns his identity, his decision to agree to train Neil every night, and his initial refusal to accept Neil’s choice to go to the Nest at Christmas are all highlighted, exemplifying how much he cares about Neil. Every act of defiance—every time Kevin stands up for or by the Foxes, each interview where he indicates he is where he wants to be, each moment he supports Neil instead of trying to change him—gain weight with Jean’s commentary on the trauma that comes from the Nest.

Kevin Day is an Exy player. He is arrogant and irritable and abrasive; he has built himself around his success. He has also built himself a net to fall back on out of the people he has chosen to have faith in, chooses to find worth in people the rest of the world has written off and fight for them to achieve the version of themselves everyone else has long stopped believing they could be. He is the Son of Kayleigh Day and David Wymack, and he takes after each of them in spite of growing up mostly apart from both of them.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Garden of Wishes: A Retelling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”

We go to the same garden every day, but you never see me. Why should you? You are the Princess Sonatina, youngest daughter of the greatest king on five continents, while I am only a gardener's assistant, with not even a surname of my own, save one that was given to me half as a taunt for my daydreaming ways. If you were ever to ask, I would tell you I answer to Michael Stargazer—but you never will think to ask, and I will never presume to speak.

Instead, I work silently in the gardens, while you wander past with your sisters—eleven of them, all unsurpassed in beauty of face and form and voice—laughing and chatting and singing snatches of songs. You are all more beautiful and vibrant than any of the flowers I tend, and I feel more alive just being near you.

Then the day comes when your morning songs are silent. You drag weary feet through the gardens, look blankly at the beauties of the world, lounge wearily along the edges of fountains and atop retaining walls. The rumor comes that every night, you are all wearing through your shoes.

Were I a prince, I would think no quest too perilous to save you from such sickness. I would climb a million trees in search of golden apples, cross storm-filled oceans in search of the Water of Life, work a dozen years at impossible tasks to find the key to ending your curse.

But I'm only a gardener, and nobody's son, so it falls to those with name and fortune to try their hands at saving you. The king has vowed that the man who finds the secret of where you go at night will win your hand in marriage, and there are many who are willing and worthy to try.

They are wonderful men—strong and handsome, noble and brave, with royal titles, vast holdings, great fortunes. They have skills and talents that a simple gardener could never match. Any one of them would make a fine husband for a princess. Yet all of them, to a man, disappear within a day of taking up their quest.

The rumors turn darker then, casting you not as victims but villains, luring men to their deaths with some dark magic of your own. Those who say such things did not see you in the gardens, or they would know that not one of you is capable of the crimes they accuse you of. Unfortunately, no one will ask a garden lad's thoughts, and I cannot speak unbidden unless I have proof.

So I go to the gardens and find two tiny rose trees. The head gardener tried to tear them out, in my first days at the palace, and I convinced him to let them live. I have watered them, fed them, saved them from disease and decay, told them stories of the princesses they serve. You have never seen them, I'm sure—you have never seen me—but though they are small, they are fine little plants, with dark, glossy green leaves, and little buds that seem always to be waiting for just the right time to bloom. An old woman told me once that they were wishing trees, planted in the earliest days of the kingdom's existence, and my service to them meant they would give me anything I desired.

For myself, I want nothing—wishes too easily become the ruin of those who have them granted—but for you, I would dare all. I ask my two rose trees to make me not only unseen, but unseeable, able to follow invisibly wherever you go.

The rose tree sprouts a single bloom, its petals so white and delicate they are almost transparent. When I pluck it from the bush, I disappear from sight. I place it in my buttonhole and move about the gardens, unseen by all who cross my path, even in the brightest sun.

That night, I follow you into the bedroom you share with your sisters, and I hide beneath the largest bed while the room above fills with the sounds of rustling dresses, clinking jewels, and girlish whispers. At last, your eldest sister Aria declares you dressed to perfection and calls for silence.

I creep out from under the bed and find you and your sisters dressed in ballroom finery—silks and satins and twelve pairs of perfectly-mended dancing shoes. I take my place just behind you, and find you more beautiful than ever in this moonlit room.

Aria pulls aside a tapestry, and the blank stone wall suddenly becomes an wooden door that Aria opens to reveal a torchlit staircase. You all rush through in single file. I keep close at your heels, afraid that I'll be left behind unseen.

I rush past where Aria holds the door, afraid she'll follow too close and crash into my unseen form. In doing so, I trod too near your skirt. The fabric tears beneath my foot as you take your first steps down the stairs.

You shriek and grab hold of Lyra, standing just before you on the stairs. "Someone stood on my skirt!" you scream.

I hold myself flat against the damp stone wall, heart pounding so fast that I'm certain you hear me.

Aria breezes down the staircase, rolling her eyes at her foolish juniors. "Don't be silly, Tina," Aria says. "I was nowhere near you on the stairs."

You protest that you felt someone on your skirt, but your cries for belief are drowned out by eleven dissenting voices, and your sisters continue down the staircase. You go only reluctantly, looking back at me—right through me—a thousand times as you go forth. Were it not for the weight of my mission, I would cast off the rose in the hope of a single moment when our eyes could truly meet.

After what seems like a million stairs, we emerge into an open clearing that would look like the outdoors if there was any sight of sky above. Trees tower over us with drops of silver on their branches, like rain upon the leaves. Further down the path is a gold-spattered orchard, each precious drop catching the soft white light that comes from I know not where. Even further beyond is a forest full of diamonds, every stone flashing fiery rainbows.

The forests are strange, but also strangely unsurprising—as though they've always been here, but simply unseen. Your sisters whisper of the night that this place was wished into existence—a place where they might revel in pure beauty and joy, away from the weighty expectations of the watchful world.

But the forest, it seems, is only a prelude—the true marvel is far ahead. We emerge onto the shores of a shimmering lake—so vast, so deep, and so darkly blue that I can see neither the bottom nor the opposite shore. On an island in its center stands a castle so magnificent that it makes your father's palace seem like a paper toy. Its white, sculpted spires glitter with gems in a thousand colors, every brick spangled with precious stones. Its windows hold wonders caught in flawless stained glass. Music sweeter than any I've ever heard pours out its open doors. Light from within forms a shining path across the lake, upon which float twelve sleek obsidian-colored boats.

Each boat has a boatman who rows swiftly toward the shore, and as they approach, I find that I know all the faces. Every one of these men is a prince who failed at finding your secret—or rather, they found it, and did not return. They are dressed in silks and velvets unlike any I've seen in the outer world, too rich for comprehension. As they slide up to the shore and each offer a place to one of you girls, they wear smiles that shine as bright as your own—but there is also something empty in their eyes.

You, as the youngest, take your place in the very last boat of all, piloted by a king's younger son whose sires have ruled half a continent for centuries. He smiles and bows as he takes you by the hand. The way your eyes light up make me wonder if I've seen what you look like in love.

The prince rows with arms strengthened by a warrior's skill—I doubt he's ever held a shovel in his life—but the other boats still outpace us by far.

"Why are you so slow tonight?" you ask him, half teasing, but with a trace of true annoyance.

"The boat is heavy," he says, "and I know not why."

You glance backward, toward where I sit in the stern, and again, I half-wish you could see me. But I let out a sigh of relief when you turn your eyes back toward the castle and give no further thought to unknowable truths.

We disembark on a dock just beneath the castle entrance, and in moments we are inside the palace of enchantment. This is a ballroom beyond what I could imagine—floors of marble streaked with gold and silver, towering windows displaying fantastical birds and beasts, spidery silver chandeliers holding thousands of brightly-lit candles, and at the far end of the room, tables tottering beneath food enough to half a nation.

But this splendor is nothing compared to the beauty of the music. It is like a living thing—vibrant, rapturous, all-consuming, pulling all into it like a roaring, flowing river. The moment one steps through the door, there is nothing one can do but dance. Your prince pulls you into his arms, and your sisters' princes do the same, and soon you are swirling through that wondrous room, beauty and motion and life all brought to their fullness and put into perfect order. All along the edges of that room are other faces—other princes who've failed at your father's quest—and they all take their turn in the dance.

If I thought you alive in the gardens, you are a thousand times more vibrant now, laughing and dancing so you glow with pure joy. These princes are your perfect partners, matching you with every step, reflecting the glow that you bring to the room. If I ever thought that I could take a place beside them, maybe win your father's wager and claim a princess for my bride, that spark is snuffed by the brightness of your blaze. You are ethereal, almost angelic, and could never be happy with one whose hands are stained from working with the common, solid Earth.

While the princes take their turns, you and your sisters dance without ceasing, and I no longer wonder how you could wear through your shoes in a single night. Those shoes are little more than tatters by the time the last note of the last dance plays, and the twelve of you trudge toward the boats to reach bed. Your princes are silent as they row the boats to the forested shore, and you, Sonatina, do not say a word about his slowness.

When you reach the banks, your prince bids you farewell, then all twelve of them row back to the palace, choosing to stay in the splendor rather than return to the pressures of their ordinary lives. After what I have seen, I cannot blame them for their choice.

But you and your sisters choose to return to your father. You trudge through the diamond, then gold, then silver-spangled forests, and as your sisters file one-by-one up the staircase, I realize that none of this fantastic tale will have a ring of truth unless I have something to bring as proof. I reach toward the nearest tree and snap off a slender silver branch. It disappears from sight as soon as I touch it to my clothes, but the sound of its breaking rings through that silent wood like a gunshot.

You jump at the sound and are suddenly wide, wide awake.

"What was that?" you ask your sister.

Aria rolls her eyes. "Only an owl," she says. "You know it roosts in the castle at night."

The explanation does not please you, I can tell, but having no other, you fall silent and leave the silver woods behind.

When you are all safely asleep in bed, I slip unseen through the door and make my way invisibly to my small cot in the servants' quarters. When I lay on my bunk, I take off the rose, and my face reappears in the reflection off the washing bowl. I look as I did before I left, though infinitely wearier, and perhaps—though it might only be fancy—I carry something in my eyes of the enchantment of the night.

In my hands sits the branch I broke, its leaves as green, its silver dewdrops as solid, as they were in that fantastical land. I imagine myself taking it to the king at dawn, having triumphed where the sons of kings and emperors have failed.

Then I imagine the you and your sisters standing by. In a horrible flash, the daydream shatters, and I see myself for what I am—a sneak and a spook, who crept uninvited into a strange woman's room to steal evidence that would bar her from the place she loves most in the world. If I have a role in this tale, it is as the villain, not the hero. I have triumphed in discovering the secret, but if I have any love in my heart for you, I cannot think of speaking.

After a short hour's sleep, I awake with the dawn, but I do not go to the king with what I've found. Instead, I go to the head gardener and get myself assigned the task of bringing the twelve princesses their morning bouquets. I gather careful handfuls of daisies and larkspur and bind them together with handfuls of greenery. I hand them to your sisters one by one as they come bleary-eyed to your bedroom door. When you come to me, last of all, I make sure that your bouquet contains a single silver-spangled branch.

Then, at last, you see me.

#

Golden sunlight streams down upon a freshly-turned flower bed. I am soaked with sweat and crusted with dirt as I shovel mulch around newly-planted seedlings. I can imagine no scene less like the moonlit enchantment of your jeweled forests and wondrous dances. Even you, when you come into the garden, are nothing like you were last night. Your golden brown hair is unruly, your dress is hastily done-up, and instead of floating with ethereal grace, you storm toward me like an angry warrior goddess.

Only the branch, silver-spangled, is the same as it was last night, when you brandish it beneath my nose.

"Garden boy, where did this branch come from?" you demand.

Your eyes blaze and your golden curls flash in the sun. I could cast myself at your feet in devotion.

I keep my countenance blank and my eyes downcast—the dutiful, lowly servant. "Your highness knows better than I," I reply.

"You have followed us!" you hiss.

I raise my head to meet your gaze. It is a wonder I am not struck dead by your fury. "Yes, your highness."

"How? I saw no one."

"I hid myself."

"It is impossible. I don't believe it."

"Believe as you like," I say. "You will still hold the branch."

You scramble to grasp something at your belt, and you throw a sack full of gold at my feet. "Keep your silence, and you will have this and more besides."

I stare at the bag of gold—more than I could earn with a year's labor—and my heart sinks like a stone. This is what I am to you. Not a man of honor, whose heart and reason can be trusted, but a common blackmailer whose silence can be purchased for a price.

"I will not be bought," I say, and when your face goes white, I add gently, "You have nothing to fear from me."

It is only after dark that it strikes me I may have something to fear from you. I have vowed my silence, but you have said nothing about yours. The secret encompasses your sisters and nearly two dozen princes. What would they be willing to do to ensure my silence?

Though the thought shames me, I cannot vanquish the fear. I must know more about you royals and your hidden world—and I long to spend just one more night in that palace of enchantment. I take the pale rose from its cup on my washstand, place it in my buttonhole, and make my way invisibly to your room.

You and your sisters are already dressed for the evening when I make my way among you. You are pale, and quieter than you were last evening, but none of your sisters remark upon it. I follow you down the staircase, through the forest, and to another wondrous dance. I can tell you are watching for me, but none of your sisters join in the search. They and all the princes laugh and dance as usual. At midnight, you dine upon a feast of impossible delicacies, and though the conversation is steady and quick-witted, none of you makes the least mention of me or the secret I know.

As dawn nears, I take my place in the rear of the boat that you ride in with your prince. Tonight, it is he who comments on the unexpected weight of the boat he steers.

My heart stops. Now you will tell him of my spying, and since there are few places to hide in a small boat, like as not I will be pitched headlong into that bottomless lake.

Your answer lifts my heart like the arrival of the long-awaited dawn. You take up a second oar and say to your prince, "It feels light to me."

The wonder of your defense of me makes me love you more than ever. I all but float behind you as you make your way through the jeweled forests.

In the golden orchards, I stumble and snap off a branch. I hide it against my invisible clothes, just a moment before your sister Melody looks toward where I stand.

"What was that sound?" she asks in fright.

"Only an owl," you answer quickly.

Though you do not know it, you meet my eyes. I bow my head in thanks.

The next morning, the golden-spattered branch I place in your bouquet is a gift of thanks—and an expression of trust.

#

When you storm toward me in the gardens the next morning, the golden branch quivers in your iron grip.

"What is it you want?" you ask. "You won't take gold. Do you plan to win yourself a princess, garden boy?"

"I do not plan to take a wife," I say. "When I wed, it must be to a woman whose love is freely given."

"Then why did you follow us?"

"I had to know if I could trust you. I now know that I can." I pluck an ordinary blossom from a nearby rose bush. I focus on its petals so I do not have to take the daring step of meeting your gaze while I ask my more-daring question. "Why did you shield me? You could have betrayed me to your princes or your sisters a thousand times."

"This is between you and me alone. I saw no need to frighten them."

I nod, understanding, even as I fight a strange sense of disappointment. It is love for your sisters, not care for me, that leads you to keep my secret.

"Do you see need now?" I ask.

You examine me, and you look at the golden branch, and I can tell you are thinking of the events of the last two nights. "You do not merely hide yourself," you say. "You make yourself invisible. How?"

I could no more lie to you than tear out my own heart. "I made a wish, and it was granted me."

"By whom?"

"Rather, by what. Your garden holds a wishing tree."

You seize my wrist. “Show it to me.”

I stand firm. "Tell me, Princess Sonatina, if you found such a tree, would you suffer to let it live?"

"I should tear it out by the roots," you say, and I know it is true that you would do anything you thought necessary to guard your secret.

"Then although it pains me to disappoint you, I must refuse your request. The trees serve me because I serve them. I cannot repay their gifts by bringing about their destruction."

Your eyes flash. "You refuse your princess?"

I bow my head in apology. "Because it is my duty as a gardener to the king."

You release my wrist and pull away. You pace in frustration—back and forth, back and forth, your golden-brown curls wilder than ever. "There is nothing to prevent my finding it?"

"It is not concealed," I say.

"If it is fair for you to follow me to find our secret, it is only right that I can follow you to find yours."

"It is not my place to say otherwise."

You come to the garden every day after that—sometimes openly, sometimes skulking behind bushes or trees. Some days, I am sure, you watch from places I cannot see. But I do nothing save my ordinary gardening tasks, and I do not try to follow you at night. If I were the sort of man to make wishes for my own benefit, this would be the perfect way to make me use that gift against you. I love you more than ever because this does not occur to you—either you are too pure-hearted to suspect such villainy, or too trusting to imagine it in me.

Eventually, your constant watch breaks down the barriers between us, and you begin to speak to me. You ask me the names of the flowers I tend, and I tell you of the lilies that bloom by day and by night. The next day, you ask me about the blue flowers in your bouquet, and I tell you of the morning glories that make a gorgeous arch over the path you stand upon. In the days that follow, you pepper me with questions, wanting to know the names of every flower and bush and weed that grows in your father's gardens. And then, at last, one day, the name you ask to know is my own.

"I am called Michael Stargazer," I say, as I hand you a white bloom like a five-pointed star.

"Is it not your true name?"

"The first was written on a slip of paper in the basket where I was found upon a church's doorstep. The second was given to me for daydreaming too much."

You sit upon the edge of a fountain and stroke the petals of the flower. "It suits you," you say. "Michael the guardian."

"And the Stargazer who spends too much time dreaming of what is unreachable?" I ask, feeling the rebuke I deserve.

"No," you say—firmly, kindly. "The one who watches. So he can know what is true. And know what to do with his knowledge."

"You trust that I judge rightly?" I ask.

"I trust you," is all you say.

After that, you are with me in the gardens—not merely watching, but being, doing, helping. You wish to help the flowers grow, so I teach you of spades and trowels, watering cans and fertilizer, pruning and grafting and weeding. We start out hesitant—you uncertain of your tasks, I afraid to put a princess to work—but soon, you work with enthusiastic gusto, and I am glad to let you do what gives you joy.

Every night, you still wear through your dancing shoes, but yours are less ragged than the other eleven pairs, and you are wide awake with me in the gardens every morning. We talk while we work, but we do not even mention wishing trees or diamond groves or the music of enchanted palaces; there are too many other things to discuss in the sunlit world. You tell me of your sisters, of growing up royal, of books you've read and tutors you've teased. I tell you of the village where I was raised, of the dreams I had of one day meeting a princess—though I do not tell you that I've dreamed I will marry one.

One morning, in the height of summer, you are kneeling beside me, in a gown that you borrowed from a serving girl, wearing work gloves you borrowed from the gardener's shed. There are streaks of dirt on your face, and you smile at me in triumph as you dig up a bulb for transplanting.

In that moment, the sun shines full upon you, setting the gold and brown streaks of your hair alight. Suddenly, you are not an ethereal being, too high and fine for me to reach. You are here, with me, laboring in the Earth—and you glow with joy. It is not the blazing joy of your dances in the midnight palace—burning bright and fast and destructive. This joy is gentler, life-giving—like a hearth fire or a candle flame. It warms and nourishes, comforts and caresses. For the first time, I can picture you as a gardener's wife, laboring with me in a cottage, caring for our children, giving life to sons and daughters and helping me to make good things grow.

I nearly speak something of the joy in my own heart—but the words freeze on my tongue when I hear a laugh high above us.

Five of your sisters—Lyra and Cadence, Harmony and Melody, and in the center of them all, elegant, dark-haired Aria—stand on the other side of the flower bed, peering down at us.

"Is this where you sneak off to every morning, Tina?" Lyra laughs. "Grubbing in the dirt with the garden boy?"

You drop the bulb as though it burns you, desperately try to brush the dirt off your skirt, and back as far away from me as possible on the narrow path between flower beds. Your face burns bright red. "No," you stammer. "I was only..."

"What a charming couple you make," Aria sneers.

"You wouldn't have to leave us if you married him," Harmony laughs.

Her twin adds, "You could live in a cottage at the bottom of the park, and you could bring us our flowers every morning!"

"He is nothing!" you snarl at your sisters. You storm toward the palace, and you do not look back.

I do not see you for two days.

#

On the third day, you and your sisters return to the garden in the company of a prince—yet another who has taken up your father's impossible task. To spare you the horror of seeing me, I keep the white rose in my buttonhole and invisibly tend the wishing trees while you entertain the prince nearby.

Prince Ivan is sterner, more solemn than some of the others. Even I, a lowly gardener, have heard tales of his valor in battle. A thick saber-scar runs from his temple to his chin. He knows the danger he has placed himself in and faces it without flinching. There is something in his eyes that makes me think he welcomes it.

As I watch him, I wonder how he will fare in his quest. Will he reveal your secret or remain in the enchanted world with all the others? For the first time, I question the fate of those other princes. I have assumed they remained by choice, but in such a magical place, can first impressions ever be trusted? For their sake, as well as yours, I must follow you to the dance one more time.

When I reach your chamber in the evening, Prince Ivan is already among you. The twins, Melody and Harmony, focus on flattering him while your sisters tie on the last of their ribbons. His eyes, however, are for the dark-haired, sweet-tempered Princess Melisma. I think she does not dislike the attention.

As you descend the staircase—Melody and Harmony taking the lead with Prince Ivan—Princess Aria keeps Melisma at the end of the line.

"You mustn't encourage him," Aria says. "It might give him reason to follow us back home."

"He is so brave," Melisma says, "and so gentle. Would it be so terrible for me to have him as a husband?"

"If he weds you, he will take you to the Northlands, and we shall never see you again. Is that the life you want?"

Melisma blushes. "No," she whispers.

"Then let him drink," Aria says in a low tone. "He shall be here always, for you to dance with as much as you like. He will be the same brave and gentle prince, but will never take you away from us."

That night at the dance, there is a banquet in honor of the new guest. The tables pile high with delicacies I cannot name, and silent, ghostly servants keep your plates and goblets constantly filled. Prince Ivan looks younger, almost childlike, as he takes in the wonders, and his eyes have lost their haunted look.

"Such a wondrous place!" he breathlessly declares. "All beauty and joy! No sorrow, no politics, no battle."

Aria, seated at his right hand, plies him with red wine, and leads him to speak upon the war he won such honors in. He served with valor and is proud of protecting his people, but he has lost friends and brothers, is haunted by the fields strewn with the bodies of those who died too young.

"I should not speak of such things," Ivan says, putting down another empty goblet. "They are better forgotten."

"Do you not cherish some memories?" Aria asks.

"If I could forget every moment of it, I would," Ivan declares, "and stay always in this dance.

Aria smiles, then takes a golden goblet—the largest and most ornate in the room—from a servant standing at her shoulder. "You may do so," Aria says, "if you only drink this elixir. You shall have no regrets. No duties. No memories of battle. Only the beauties of this world."

Ivan looks to Melisma, seated at his left hand. She squeezes his scarred fingers in her long, delicate ones. "I shall come every night," she says softly.

Ivan takes the goblet from Aria's hand. His face holds the grim determination of a soldier, and the innocent bravery of a child hoping a bitter tonic will bring relief from pain. He drains the cup to its dregs.

When Aria takes the empty goblet, the prince is transformed. His eyes hold the same light of joy as all the other princes, but the honorable nobility of his bearing has drained away, leaving behind an empty imitation, all paper and gold leaf with nothing solid behind. For the rest of the night, he dances every dance with Princess Melisma. She is all joy when she looks in his face, but every time she turns away, she seems close to bursting into tears.

For the rest of the night, I cannot enter into the enchantment of the dance. I see only those princes, and wonder who they were before their will was drained away. I see your sisters dancing, each choosing one partner more than all others, and wonder if they too renounced marriage to someone they admired for the sake of this endless courtship. I travel across the lake in Aria's boat instead of yours, and as her prince hands her off to shore, I see even she seems on the point of asking him to come with her, before dropping his hand and turning resolutely to the diamond forest.

When you alight from your prince's boat, I see no similar love or regret in your eyes. At first I am relieved, and then my anger flares at your heartlessness. I snap off a diamond-spangled branch so fiercely that the sound of its breaking makes your every sister jump.

They glance in all directions, bewildered by the sound. You look directly toward me, your face burning with shame. Though I remain invisible, I know you feel me standing before you.

"What was that?" Melody shrieks in alarm.

"My guardian angel," is all you say, and though your sisters pelt you with questions all the way through the forests and up the staircase, you do not say another word.

When I leave your room, part of me wants to run to the king and tell all, but I cannot let judgment fall upon you without giving you a chance to speak for yourself. The diamond-spangled branch I place in your bouquet is both an accusation and an offer of parley.

You come to me—though you do not know it—when I am tending to the wishing trees, in the most secluded corner of the garden. "You have seen," you say.

"You have witnessed every one and said nothing. I want to know how you can defend yourself."

The innocent confusion in your eyes makes me repent of every crime I imputed to you. "What is there to defend?" you ask. "Every prince chooses to drink. We cannot deny them their choice."

"Do they know what it makes them?" I ask.

"If they do, they don't care," you say.

"Because they have been made incapable of caring for anything but the dance."

"Would you send Ivan back to his wars?" you ask. "Edmund to his awful father? Kristoff to his plague-filled land? They all have horrors they are escaping. It would be cruel to make them remember all the sorrows they were so desperate to forget."

The things that seemed so simple when I stood invisibly at your shoulder are more muddled now that you can look me clear in the face. There is one place in the world untouched by sorrow or strife—can I judge those who have fled for refuge there?

"You have had your wishes granted," you say softly. "Would you deny all of us ours?"

Looking into your innocent, imploring face, I find that I cannot. Your silence, I see now, is not heartlessness, but compassion. Loyalty to your sisters who wish to remain together. Pity for those princes who can find no other peace from their sorrows. There is no simple answer to the riddle that has entangled us all.

"Will you follow us again?" you ask.

"I do not know," I say. "Will you tell your sisters that I do?"

"I do not know," you say.

When you wander at last from the garden, your eyes—and thoughts—are far from me. This game has gone much further than any of us could have predicted. Any bond the two of us have built will break, I think, when pitted against the bond that you share with your sisters.

So that evening, when I pin the rose to my collar and invisibly slip into your room, I am not surprised to find that I am the topic of discussion. You are seated on a trunk in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of glaring sisters.

"You knew all this time," Aria says, her voice low with anger, "and only now choose to tell us?"

"He vowed to keep the secret," you say. "He could do us no harm."

“Yet now you fear he will speak! He could destroy everything!”

“I told you when I thought you needed to know.”

Aria steps back and smooths her skirts and hair, becoming in one fluid motion the ever-composed crown princess. "There is only one thing we can do," she says. "We hand him over to the king’s justice. He has violated our royal persons by coming uninvited to our bedchamber. He will be hanged before the end of the week."

"No!" you shriek, jumping from your seat.

Your other sisters murmur in surprise—I cannot tell if more of it is directed toward you or Aria.

“There must be some other way,” says soft-hearted Allegra.

“Not if we wish to protect our secret," Aria says. "We have a world of perfection, an escape from all sorrows. We have twenty men who wish to stay there all their lives. We can’t endanger it for the sake of a presumptuous servant.”

You turn to Aria and say, “ He is not the first to know our secret. None of the other princes have had to die.”

Harmony says, "The garden boy is no prince."

Aria gazes thoughtfully at you. "Do you wish us to treat him as one? Let him present himself as a suitor for your hand?"

"I will not marry him,” you say, turning red.

"No one expects you to," Aria soothes. "But he can share the fate of the better-born. Let him dance and dine with us, then, at the end of the night, he will drink and forget there ever was a world above."

Your lips make a thin line, and your face goes white. “He would not like it.”

“Better than death, surely.”

You leave the circle of your sisters, tears in your eyes.

Aria follows you to where you gaze out the window. I could reach out and touch both of you. “Sonatina,” she says, soft and sweet as a mother. “I know you are fond of the garden boy. But you must be realistic. In this world, he can be nothing to you. You cannot marry a servant. He cannot marry a princess. Even friendship between you two can only be a scandal.”

Her words sink into my heart—cold, cruel, yet undeniably true. I have never dared to dream myself worthy of you—but there was, despite all, a small part of me that hoped for the impossible. Yet even if I could wish myself up a name and a title, it would not change who I truly was. Though I will love you to the end of my days, you can never love one such as me.

Aria’s voice becomes brighter, enticing. “But we have another world, where he can be whatever he wishes. You can dance with him every night without shame. You never have to face the impossible choice. You have him, and us, your title, your dances—forever.”

You gaze silently out the window. I stand at your side. I think of the world I would leave behind—the sunlight in the gardens, the wind and the rain and the wonderful flowers—in favor of that underground palace. I think of you laughing in the sun with dirt on your hands, and my wish that we could stay in that moment forever, ‘til death do us part.

It can never be anything more than a wish.

When you assent to your sister’s plan, my fate is sealed. I would risk all to give you the slightest joy. If it is your wish that I drink, I will drink—and gladly.

#

Your sisters come to me with their proposal, offering to present me to the king. They say nothing of their plan to give me the drink that will keep me forever in the dance. You, pale-faced at the rear of the crowd, say nothing at all. I say nothing of my presence at your midnight council. We are all trapped in the deafening silence of our secrets.

I accept their offer, but ask for time to prepare. Before I present myself at the palace, I make another trip to my faithful rose trees.

"Dress me as a prince," I beg. "Give me clothes fine enough to be seen in any royal court."

The second rose tree sprouts a crimson bloom, every petal as crisp as if cut by a tailor's scissors. When I place it in my buttonhole, my gardening clothes become a suit of black velvet, and a white-feathered cap appears upon my head.

As I stride toward the main doors of the palace, not one set of eyes knows me. Guards do not stop me as a presumptuous garden boy. I present myself before your father and he gives me all the respect due a prince.

When I rise from my bow of greeting, your eyes are riveted to my form. As I follow your father from the throne room, you stop me in the doorway with a hand upon my arm.

"Michael?" you ask, all amazed. "Can it truly be you?"

I bow my head—more garden boy than prince. "You need not be ashamed to be seen with me tonight."

Even so, you keep your distance. In the enchanted lake, I ride in a boat as Aria's guest, not yours. During the dance, your sisters all take their turns with me, from eldest to youngest. At last, I come to offer you my hand, but you seem reluctant to take it.

"Will you not dance with me, Princess Sonatina?" I ask.

"What need have you of my hand," you ask lightly, "when my sisters all treat you as a prince?"

"I want no hand but yours," I say.

You look down, your face drawn.

I bow over your hand and say softly, "Fear not, princess. You shall not be a gardener's wife."

I sweep you into the dance, and it is everything I could have dreamed. You are a wisp, a breath, a butterfly, moving at a touch, at a thought, stepping perfectly with my every unschooled motion. There is an energy between us, and at last you yield to it, looking deeply into my eyes.

In your gaze, I see the princess who I loved from a distance in the gardens, the companion who planted flowers at my side, the friend who defended me from her sisters' threats, and now a woman waiting to doom me to an eternal dance.

In this moment, such a fate does not seem a terror—it seems a gift. Here in this enchanted place, I am no gardener, no nameless, abandoned son. I can dwell here and see you night after night, as worthy as any man, if not to wed you, at least to take you in a dance, and know, if only for a moment, that I am the cause of your joy.

We whirl through the ballroom, through dance after dance after dance, neither able nor wishing to stop. After a time, all your sisters and their partners fall still, watching as we move in flawless harmony, our very heartbeats seeming to move in perfect time.

As the final dance draws to a close, you are silently weeping, tears in crystal rivers streaming down your face.

"Michael," you say. "After dinner—"

There is no need for you to speak what I already know. "Peace," I say. "All will be well."

At the dinner, your sisters flatter me, distracting me with delicacies and drink. Yet, they all seem restless, unsatisfied for once with this perfect palace and their empty-eyed princes.

At last Aria approaches with an ornate golden goblet.

"Garden boy," Aria says. "In the world above, you are a common laborer, unworthy even to gaze upon a princess. Here, you are an honored guest, who could dance with her every night should you choose. With this drink, you may stay here always, without the shame of your birth standing between you. Will you drink, Michael Stargazer, and forget all pain?"

I take the goblet between two work-hardened hands. The wine inside is clear as water and thick as blood. The scent intoxicates me, promising me endless joy in exchange for all memories.

There is much I loved in the world above—I love none of it so well as I love you. I close my eyes and set the cup to my lips.

There is a cry, and the cup is dashed from my hands. It crashes to the marble floor, and the wine oozes out in a thick mass.

Suddenly your arms are around my neck, and your face buried in my shoulder as you weep desperate tears.

"Michael, my love! Don't drink! I will love you beneath the open sky, in sun and rain and wind! I will be a gardener's wife! Let this castle crumble into dust! I would rather lose all the world than lose the man I love!”

My despair—though I did not know it by its true name until this moment—becomes hope, bright and dancing. I gather you in my arms and rain kisses upon your brow. It seems impossible that you love me, which makes it all the more wondrous to find it real.

Around us, the princes wake from their trance, and there is life in their gazes. They are men again, with minds and hearts, and the ones who served as boatmen each take one of your sisters in their arms. Your sisters—even Aria—cry with joy to see their restoration.

Suddenly, the ground shakes beneath us. Shards of colored glass and precious stones rain down from the castle walls.

“What is happening?” you cry.

I bend my head to kiss your brow, then look up at the castle. “You no longer wish for this world,” I say. “It cannot last.”

The other princes are already leading your sisters out the door, with Prince Ivan—Melisma at his side—taking charge of all. Each boatman leads one of your sisters to the water. They pile you into boats, and I help them arrange the transport, until you, your sisters, all the spare princes—and, least of all, myself—are safely across to the other shore.

We race through the forests—jeweled branches shattering as they fall—and clamber up the crumbling staircase. You and I are at the back of the line, hand in hand. As we stand at the base of the stairs, we look back at the crumbling palace, the destruction of a wondrous world of wishes.

“I am sorry,” I say, as the palace sinks into the black water of the lake.

You smile at me. “There is nothing to mourn.”

Laughing with joy, you tug my hand and lead me up the stairs.

#

In your moonlit bedroom, you and your sisters are as alive and beautiful as you once were in your mornings in the garden—moreso, because every eye is lit with love. Your sisters stand hand-in-hand with the princes who served as their boatmen. No longer empty revelers, they are men—noble, true, devoted—and overjoyed to be back in the world, despite its pain, rather than trapped in the never-ending dance.

Aria comes to us as we emerge from the staircase. She embraces each of us in turn, then closes and locks the wooden door behind us. The door disappears and becomes a blank stone wall once more. A low roar sounds as the tunnel and its staircase crumble.

“It is gone,” Aria says, "and good riddance.”

We gaze at her in astonishment, shocked to hear those words coming from the one who had been the greatest defender of the dance.

“I lost myself in wishes,” she says, “but I have found the truth again.” She takes the hand of her boatman—a dark man with kind eyes who reigns as prince of a far-southern realm. “I feared the future because I feared change. I thought the dance could keep us together—young and careless forever. Blinded by enchantments, I could not see that I kept us all from the possibility of a better world. You saved all of us.”

Your sister embraces you, and then—one of the night’s most astonishing sights—the crown princess of one of the greatest nations in the world kneels before a garden boy and bows over his dirt-stained hand.

You all ask for forgiveness, but there is nothing to forgive. All your princes—even myself—fell to the despair that kept them in the dance. We can forget the dance and its soulless wonders and return to the real, bright world.

But first, we must tell your father.

#

You all agree that the honor of revealing the secret should fall to me. You give me the three branches I placed in your bouquets, and at first light, still dressed in my princely clothes, I ask for an audience with the king.

Your father needs little convincing to believe my tale—with so many witnesses, and so many lost princes standing before him, there is little room for doubt.

“You have solved the mystery, Michael Stargazer,” the king says, “and have earned the offered prize. Which of my daughters will you have to wife?”

Stepping before all the assembled royalty, I say, “Majesty, I do not wish for a wife that I claim as a prize. I will only take the wife who chooses me freely, with all her heart and mind.”

In the moment of silence that follows, the glimmer of doubt reappears. You declared your love for me in that unreal underground kingdom, but can you do the same in the sunlit world, where your words have real and eternal consequences?

In that dawn-lit room, before all your sisters, your father, and twenty foreign princes, you come to my side and place your hand in mine. “I will be your wife, Michael Stargazer, with all my heart, mind, body and soul, until the end of my days.”

I answer with a kiss upon your brow. “I give you the same, and all my worldly goods, if you will join me in a cottage in the gardens.”

“There’s no need for that,” your father says. “You have helped to save the royal sons of more than fifteen kingdoms. No one would question your right to a title after such service. I can make you a prince, and you and my daughter can have a royal estate as a wedding present.”

After that is a day of rejoicing, your sisters and their princes all celebrating their restoration and my elevation. But before sunset, you and I slip away to the gardens, where I at last show you the two little rose trees that made all of this possible.

“They are beautiful,” you say.

“They have brought me all I could desire,” I say, “but I have one last wish to make.”

In answer to my whispered words, a pink rose blooms on the smallest bush, with a lady’s ring—twined gold and silver, with a diamond at its center—sitting at its heart.

I kneel before you and place it upon your finger. With your ringed hand, you raise me to my feet and pull me into a kiss.

The rose trees are transplanted to a place of honor in the gardens of our new home. You and I tend to them every day, but since we’ve had our three wishes, they grow only ordinary roses.

I am glad.

With you as my wife in such a glorious world, what further need have I of wishes?

[causenessus]

try again

part 0.4. NEXT TIME

"the playground seemed so big when they were younger. and now they’re here again, 10 years later, and it looks small. their world is bigger than just this playset now. the metal that forms the foundation of the structure is still a shiny, vibrant red, but the cracked, faded plastic shows its age. where has time gone? 'who are you now?' she wants to ask. as a kid, time goes by slowly, and you tell your parents you can’t wait to grow old. they tell you to enjoy your childhood, but you never believe them. and even now, she’s not sure she does. she's not old, but old enough to know time goes by fast. since their meeting in her office, she’s reflected more on how she’s grown up. she doesn’t miss her childhood– she likes the freedom that has come with adulthood, but at the same time, it’s slowly weighing her down. she’s old enough, that she can no longer spend her summers relaxed in a quiet house, laying in bed all day with the door open while both her parents are at work. she can't spend the nights stretched out on her back, against wet, dewy grass, looking at the stars with him while staining her favorite shirt. now she has responsibilities to take care of every day, and any little mistake can no longer be taken back. she’s an adult now, and no one is there to pick her up when she falls."

content warnings + notes: calling atsumu a little cupid whore (/lh), drinking, y/n is having a crisis, pay attention to unsent messages :) very long written part... oops </3

she downs the last of her glass in one go. 

it’s cheap whiskey, and she hates the taste. it’s probably the worst she’s ever had, but the burn down her throat is a little pleasant. 

completely going against her plan to drink something light, she decided she would need some liquid courage if she was going to do this. her hands are splayed across the cold bar counter as she stands from her chair, mind buzzing a little as she grounds herself. 

akaashi doesn’t notice her absence in his drunken state, but iwaizumi does. kita looks up as well, but remains seated, keeping akaashi company after nodding to iwaizumi who stands up.

“where are you going?” he asks following her out of the bar, pushing past a few groups of people in their way. he's not asking it like he's accusing her of anything, he just sounds concerned.

but he doesn’t need to worry, and she faces him as they make it out. “going to see omi,” she practically sings the answer, her voice careless as the nickname spills out of her mouth before she even realizes it. it comes too naturally to her, and the thought ruins the nice numbness in her veins from the alcohol. instead, she starts to feel the guilt build up again.

iwaizumi still stands in front of her, arms crossed, matching her own stance. “you’re going to see sakusa?” he repeats, brows raised.

“mhm,” she hums, shifting from one foot to the other. her shoes are starting to bother her, too. she'll probably take them off as soon as iwaizumi lets her go.

“where?”

she sighs, starting to feel restless just standing there. the warm lights and ruckus from inside the bar invite her back in, and so does the pull she feels in the opposite direction down the street, where she'll see him. “an old park, can i go?”

“no, hold on,” he stops her before she can even take a step, “you’re going to go meet a man you haven’t talked to in years after a single interaction at a park this late at night?”

“yes?” she quirks a brow at him, “it’s an old park we used to go to a lot. it’s not far from here and i know him. i’ll be okay.”

“i’m not saying sakusa’s going to do anything to you, but i’m not letting you walk there alone. especially when you’ve been drinking. let me make sure you get there safely and then i’ll leave you, deal?” he proposes, and she sees how much he cares in his eyes. they’re a pretty olive green and despite how sharp they are, there’s so much love in them. it reminds her of her own eyes, and how she feels when she looks at sakusa; her head starts to panic in alarm and get defensive, but at the same time, her heart slows down, as if telling her he's safe.

she knows iwaizumi makes a good point, and there’s nothing wrong with having a little extra safety, or a human purse. “fine,” she sighs, “but only if you hold my shoes.”

their walk to the park is silent, but it’s a peaceful silence. she’s walking next to him barefoot, feeling even shorter than before. he questions her a few times, to make sure she actually knows where she’s going, and she insists that she does. she’s had a little bit to drink, yes, but she’s not drunk. and she's confident she could still find her way to this park blindfolded. she’s walked these sidewalks hundreds of times, ran to this park from every direction and route possible. it was always their spot, whether they lay in the wet grass or sat on the playset. the memories of being with him back then make her feel a little grim, and iwaizumi looks down at her, noticing.

“you okay?” he asks, nudging her shoulder closest to him with his arm.

“yeah,” she sighs, watching the way her shoes clank against each other in his hand with every step they take.

“what’re you thinking?” he asks, still looking down at her and she looks back up at him.

“i just don’t know what i’m doing,” she says, trying to voice her feelings while she turns to stare back ahead of them. “what are we gonna do? what does he like doing now? what if i’ve changed and he doesn’t like who i am anymore? i'm so scared of disappointing him.”

“you’re good enough as you are, y/n,” he silences her and she glances back at him in surprise. “don’t let a man change how you see yourself. you’re good as you are, and if he doesn’t think so, he can fuck off. there's no such thing as an expectation or a right way for you to act. he’s probably changed too, and that’s just how people work. did he text you or did you text him?”

she gives him a smile at his words, nudging him back with her shoulder as a way of thanking him, “he texted me.”

he gives her a grin at that, “he texted you? asking to see you?” when she nods he continues, "damn that's ballsy. he really wants you, y/n. and i hope he's a good person. i’ve seen him around and worked a little bit with him, he seems alright.”  

she flusters a little bit at his words, “i’m sure it’s not like that. we just used to be very good friends, you know that. i’ve never stopped missing him, maybe he felt a little bit of the same way.”

he nods at her words, giving a hum in thought. they’re walking along the fence that’s been set up around the park, and she can see the entrance coming up, where a lone lamp post is lighting the way. “but you want him, don’t you?”

she knows he’s asking it in a romantic sense, and she does. she knows what she feels for him is more than just friendly, and she’s felt stupid for never being able to fall in love with anyone else because she’s been stuck on him this entire time. “i’m happy with anything,” she decides to say, “if we start hanging out again, that’s enough for me. i just want him to be a part of my life.”

they stop at the park entrance, and she can see the playset from here, just a bit down the path. “do you want me to walk you there? or are you’re fine from here? i think the walk helped you sober up a little bit, so i feel better about leaving you here now. just make sure you text me if you feel even slightly off, got it?”

“got it!” she responds with a smile, giving him a small salute as a joke. “thank you for walking me here, iwa. i'll be fine on my own now and i’ll text you when i'm walking home.”

he rolls his eyes at the salute but gives her a smile, “sounds good. i’ll check in with you then as well. i might come meet you halfway or who knows, maybe your guy will want to walk you home?”

he’s giving her another shitty grin that she’d like to slap off his face, and it’s her turn to roll her eyes, “whatever, iwa. see you in a little bit.”

she pulls him into a hug, trying to tell him all her feelings at once, thanking him for his advice and for walking her here, and he’s quick to reciprocate it, rubbing her back for a second before they pull away. he gives her her shoes and waves her off, making sure she steps onto the playground before he leaves, and she sees him.

tonight, it seems they’ll be sitting on the top of the playset, above a tube that connects one platform to another. she steps up onto one of the platforms first, dropping her shoes on it before clambering on top of the structure.

he offers her a hand after watching her (probably ungraceful) climb which she hesitates to take for a second. her heart feels like it's trying to escape her chest as she takes it, the contact sending chills along her skin.

“hi,” she whispers after she's sat down, stealing a glance at him, unsure of where to start.

“hi,” he says back, already looking at her. he looks better than when she saw him last, but perhaps that's just because today has been better for him. there are still bags under his eyes that she can see despite the lack of light around them, but she can also see that his eyes look brighter today. she wants to mention it, say she’s glad to see that he looks like he's doing well today, but she shouldn’t. it’s too early–

“you look good today.”

the words spill out of her mouth and she immediately slaps a hand over it. she had drank more after texting him purposefully, knowing that it would mess with her ability to reason and this was the consequence, although she wasn't sure yet if it was a positive or negative one.

he laughs in response, giving her a small smile that she hasn’t seen in years. she missed seeing it; she missed him.

“thank you,” he says, holding her gaze and she’s unable to look away, “you look good too. although maybe a little drunk.”

her cheeks are burning red and she feels hot despite the fact that she was practically shivering the entire way here, latching onto iwaizumi and his body heat. “no i– well– yes, i have been drinking but i didn’t mean it that way– i mean you do look good–” she has to take a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, “i meant you look happier today, sorry.”

he’s still looking at her, smiling. and maybe it’s a tiny bit bigger than it was before, and she smiles back.

she has no idea it’s because of her–that he seems happier today. he’s only just found her again after so many years apart, and yet he’s glad she’s in his life again. this is only the second time they’ve seen each other after so long, and she’s already had this big of an impact on him. and maybe it was due to atsumu’s influence, and the way that he kept bringing her up, and how it had been their entire conversation over dinner, but he didn’t really care. he was happy to be talking about her again, and to see her again. they had been so close, and it felt strangely nostalgic whenever he saw her, as if he was a child again, tossing and turning on a bed stand, sick to his stomach for home.

but he had been homesick for her this entire time, and he didn’t want to talk about her as if their time together had passed; he wanted to be close to her again. but only if she let him: “that guy you came here with, are you guys–”

“oh, no no no,” she immediately cuts him off, shaking her head before he gets the wrong idea. “he’s just a friend. my roommates and i went out to dinner today and then we went drinking. he just didn’t want me to walk here alone.”

he nods, feeling strangely relieved to hear that. “i just came from eating out with my roommates, too. i cut it short because one of them was being annoying.”

she hums in thought, a smile breaking out on her face, “hm, that can’t possibly be atsumu, can it?”

he can’t even joke back, just rolls his eyes with a sigh at the mention of his friend.

“i just texted him earlier tonight. finally scolded him for setting up that entire meeting between us. i mean– who even thinks to do something like that?”

“just him. he’s got one brain cell working for him and it’s got a funny way of working,” sakusa responds, looking forward to the field in front of them. they used to spin around on that field, trying to stay standing the longest before they both fell onto wet grass, too dizzy to keep standing. “i think it worked out nice, but there were definitely other ways he could have planned that out.”

she can’t help but look at him, slightly surprised. so he was happy to see her? perhaps she should’ve understood that by now; here they were sitting side by side on an old playset. “yeah, it did,” she can’t help but say, not even thinking twice about agreeing with him. “and if you don’t mind me bringing it up, do you think you will come back for a second meeting? i was just wondering.”

“yeah, i’m thinking about it,” he answers, still not looking at her, and she thinks maybe she shouldn’t have asked the question. she’s brought the topic of conversation back to her job, and reminded herself of everything she shouldn’t be doing right now. she shouldn’t be doing any of this. she’s looking forward to seeing him in her office again, but she shouldn’t. she should be treating him as a client, not as an old face or a silly old crush. and she shouldn’t be seeing him outside of the office; it ruins that professional relationship she should be trying to maintain. she's giving into him too easily, even after he had been the one to accuse her of something hurtful upon their first words to each other in years.

a particularly cold wind blows through and she shivers, breathing in sharply as her shoulders raise towards her ears on instinct, trying to protect them from the cold. in her defense, she hadn't foreseen sitting on a playset in the middle of the night today and had not dressed accordingly.

“are you cold?” he asks, hand already reaching towards the open black jacket he was wearing, a plain white shirt underneath.

she’s looking at him, face completely blank. her mind is so far gone, thinking about countless other things, including every single way this interaction could go. ‘what was she even doing here? why did she agree to come?’ the moment he texted her she put up little to no resistance. she lasted one text, trying to set up a boundary between them to prevent herself from getting hurt and then completely dropped it. how could he be so casual about seeing her again? was their friendship something shallow to him? something he could easily replace or come back to?

he’s saying her name, and her mind returns to the boy in front of her, blinking twice before responding, “sorry. i was just thinking about something. i’m fine. you don’t need to give me your jacket or anything.”

“but if i want to?” he asks and this is where she failed last time, and will fail again, and will always fail, because she can never resist him.

“i–”

the jacket is already around her shoulders before she knows it. it’s warm, and the weight of it on top of her shoulders is comforting. the smell of him is enveloping all of her senses and her entire mind, and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but it.

it was simple, and really not that heavy or distinctive of a smell. just clean clothes–his detergent, and maybe a hint of lemon or lavender. it was easy to get used to, and it had become familiar to her after being around him so long in the past, but she hadn’t smelled it in so long, she felt like she was suffocating now. with the smell came so many memories associated with him, and it took everything in her not to let out a shaky breath, giving away her emotions.

he didn’t know what to say, looking at her. her chin was resting on top of her knees, pulled up close against her chest, and her eyes were closed, brows furrowed as if she was trying desperately to hold something in. had he come off too strongly? he liked to think he still knew her, could read her mind, tell when she was cold, and when she needed something, but maybe he was wrong, or just moving too fast. maybe she didn’t feel the same way, and didn’t want to be friends again.

“thanks,” she murmurs finally, eyes opening again, although she’s staring at the ground below them, and he’s unsure of where to look–at her, or the ground as well.

“yeah,” he replies, and the conversation falls quiet between them again.

it’s almost comfortable between them. it would be if she wasn't feeling like she was ruining everything and only digging herself a bigger hole. maybe they went quiet because he was sick of her now, and regretted asking to see her. and should she even care or not? should she get up and leave right now? what was the right thing to do right now, objectively? not what was right according to her heart, but according to her head?

she should be keeping her distance from him, not allowing him to get closer, giving him the chance to hurt her again. he had let them get distant, she reminded herself. he had let their friendship crumble without saying a word, he didn’t see her the way she saw him, and she couldn’t rely on him to be there for her.

“how are you?” he breaks the silence, and the question sets off every nerve in her body. it’s like her mind is being torn in two, trying to find an answer to the simple question. it’s not really that simple– he’s asking it, referring to the last 10 years of her life, and he’s asking her to be vulnerable and share about herself, and she can’t do that.

“don’t do that to me,” she says, shutting her eyes again.

“do what?” he’s looking at her, at his jacket draped around her shoulders, and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to hold himself back from reaching out to fix her hair, which has been slightly caught underneath the jacket. 

she lets out a heavy, quiet breath, “don’t ask me that– like you care.”

“i do care,” he responds immediately, and she’s sure if she looked up at him, he’d be looking at her. but if she looks at him, she’ll break.

“we shouldn’t be doing this. we can’t be doing this. i shouldn’t be seeing you outside of my office. i listened to you talk about your struggles for an hour that you would've otherwise paid for if it wasn't the first meeting. you can’t turn around and ask how i am for free. that’s not fair. we should be nothing more than a therapist and a client. it’s easier for me to look at you that way because–” her voice gets caught in her throat for a second as she tries to talk confidently, but her voice gives away her feelings. she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears before they even reach her eyes, but she blinks through them, “because i look at you and still see what we used to be. but so much happened between us, and then you left, and that still hurts.”

‘then will you let me make it up to you? then can we go back to what we were before? and can we be more?’ the words are heavy in his head, and too forward to say out loud, but he has to say something. he has to say something now because he didn’t say anything back then.

he had always assumed that she had just been disappearing from his life altogether–from his notifications, the school hallways, and his walks home, but he realized now she had done that on purpose. she had purposely removed herself from his life so they would never see each other, and he had never stopped her. of course she hadn’t believed him, when he had said it was good to see her in her office, and of course she hadn’t fully understood what his ulterior motives were when he texted her out of the blue about wanting to see her again, because he had never showed how much he cared back then. but he had to tell her now that she was worth everything.

“i don’t mind paying it,” he ends up saying, and finally gets her to look at him, “i don’t mind paying to see you for an hour. i’d pay to be around you anyday, especially if you’re going to refuse to see me anywhere else, then i’ll just force you to put up with me for an hour every week.”

she laughs with a shake of her head, “you’re not forcing me to see you. i want to see you outside of that time…i just–i shouldn’t.”

“why not?” he can’t help but ask. “you’re still friends with atsumu, too. you text him outside of your appointments all the time.”

“yes but–” i like you more than a friend. hell, i’ve been in love with you for the past 10 years of my life. actually, probably for even longer, but who’s even counting at this point– she takes a deep breath again. she should leave soon, and think about this. she’s going to end up letting him convince her if she keeps listening to him, “maybe next time. i’ll tell you how i’ve been next time, okay?”

she’s giving him a next time, and he’ll take whatever he can get. they can start slow again. being her client is like being her acquaintance. people are always acquaintances before they’re friends; they can grow from here.

"when is next time?" he responds quickly, realizing it sounds like she’s going to stand up and leave soon, but he's not losing sight of her again.

she avoids looking at him, keeping her knees are pulled to her chest as she picks at the worn-down plastic of the playground tube they're sitting on, "i don't know, sakusa. i really need time to think about all of this. i don’t know what i’m doing here, or why i showed up tonight.”

her words feel like a burn in his lungs, but even when his sides are aching on his morning runs, he keeps going. "but you showed up anyway."

she finally looks at him, and he swears he could get lost in her eyes forever. he can’t believe he went through their entire friendship without telling her how beautiful she was, in every single way. he can’t believe he ever let go of her. perhaps that cliche saying was true, that you never know how important something really is until you lose it.

"i did," she echoes, continuing to stare into his own eyes.

"are you going to leave?" he asks, unable to look away.

she looks back down at the threads of green plastic she was pulling at, and his eyes follow. they used to meet at this playset all the time. during the summer, when she’d sleep over, they’d stay up until three in the morning, and then she’d nudge him about sneaking out. he used to worry about what would happen if his parents checked on them and saw that they were gone if they sneaked out, but she always ended up convincing him in the end. they rarely fought or had disagreements. with enough talking, they always managed to persuade the other to agree with them.

“i am. because we both need time to think. you need to think about if you’re going to see me again for therapy and i just need to think. about everything," she replies, and he watches her grab the edge of the tube, steadying herself as she moves to stand before he slides himself off the tube onto the ground below. it’s not that far of a drop for him now, although it was the scariest drop ever as a kid. now he stands eye level with most of the playset, but she's looking at him like it's still that big of a fall, mouth slightly agape in surprise.

“i’ll help you down,” he says with a smile and she blinks.

“no, i’m fine–” her words die out as he looks at her, brows raised in expectancy. this is what he meant: they were always able to push the other to do something, no matter how much they tried to resist in the beginning.

she lets out a sigh, trying to buy time as she fixes her skirt, preparing herself to slip off the tube. it really shouldn't be that scary, but she exclaims as she drops, barely registering the hands on the sides of her waist that catch her while her own clamp down on his shoulders.

her face is red as he lowers her down gently to the ground. whether it’s from the embarrassing noise she let out or the fact that he caught her, she’s not sure. maybe it’s both. even when he lets go of her, she can feel his hands on her still, as if they've been permanently etched into her skin. he’s looking down at her, and there’s a hint of playfulness in his eyes and the smile on his lips. he's too close to her, and she can't stop looking at his lips so she looks down at the ground instead, clutching at the jacket around her shoulders before she remembers it’s not hers.

“oh, here’s your jacket back,” she starts, moving to take off the piece of clothing before he stops her with a hand over he own.

“you can keep it for a little longer if you– if you let me walk you home,” he says, on the verge of losing all of his confidence, but he just can’t let go of her. he doesn't want to watch her leave, but he knows she needs a break.

she looks up at him, feeling like her lips are quivering with how nervous and flustered she feels, “you don’t have to do that, really. i can walk home by myself.”

“but if i want to?”

it’s a repeat of a conversation they had earlier, because she can never give him a complete no, and he always knows to take that as a yes.

she’s ruining everything she’s trying to do for herself right now. she’s trying to set a boundary between them, and horribly failing. because what if he walks her home, and he happens to live nearby again? what if they start to see each other more often? or worst of all, what if he ends up leaving again?

well what if he doesn’t?

oh, whatever.

fuck the what ifs.

they can try again.

.

.

.

"it's gonna rain soon / and pull me back in.

"i had the words / you thought a hundred times

"oh darlin' / will you still walk me back home?'"

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

not really any extras! i just hope u enjoyed <3 and that this chapter was good and not too long or just a bunch of rambles!! i had like three ideas i had randomly wrote down and then just copied and pasted into this chapter and was trying to make them all fit 😭

IWAIZUMI AND Y/N HAVE A PLATONIC SIBLING-TYPE RELATIONSHIP!!! JUST MAKING THAT CLEAR also i'm a sucker for iwaizumi but that's besides the point

omi just kind of got up and left at some point during dinner when atsumu got tipsy and started talking to shoyo and bo. he said goodbye to osamu and then left

they all have each other's locations anyway and shoyo and bokuto trust him to know what he's doing

kita, akaashi, and iwa ended up going home soon after iwa got back from walking y/n to the park and then he and kita stayed up all night waiting for her to come home while akaashi was passed out <3

this fic lowkey goes a little bit off the rails!! but hopefully u guys enjoy it <33

AND I KEEP FORGETTING TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS I'VE KIND OF LOST IT NOW!! but y/n's pfp is a pufferfish because they symbolize protecting yourself and setting boundaries <3 interpret that as u will

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[unsaidace]

Tbh I think the biggest culprits in this are the Buddie “journalists”.

They’re so desperate for clicks and clout that every single interview has been Buddie this and Buddie that.

If they really cared they would’ve jumped on Eddie’s departure as early as possible and continuously asked pressing questions about his future.

In a way they had the power to prepare the stans but instead they kept them wrapped up in something they knew would never be while completely ignoring the impending end.

Oh, the “journalists” are absolutely a huge part of the problem. They write their clickbaity articles to give people false hope, knowing that they’re lying through their teeth and stringing the Buddie stans along. They feed off the attention that their conspiracy theories and incomprehensible ramblings garner, and they know that the people they’re writing for will take their word as gospel.

It’s not even just if they’d cared, it’s if they’d had any common sense, at this point. The second Eddie said in the show that he was looking at houses in Texas, I saw what was coming from a mile away. The show wasn’t exactly subtle with it. Eddie moving to Texas was a way to get the audience used to seeing him less, because Ryan’s either out the door after this season or he’s dropping to recurring and we’ll see him maybe 2-3 times a season from s9 onwards.

They absolutely had the power to prepare the audience for this, but they instead chose to purposely spread misinformation about “Buddie canon is cLoSeR tHaN eVeR!!!”, baiting the fanbase, all while accusing the show of being the baiter. These people are going to lose it when Ryan leaves/reduces his appearances next season, and they only have themselves and their journalists to blame for how unprepared they’re about to be. Honestly, I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

[zeldaelmo]

I wrote a lot of Christmas and winter-themed stories over the past few years, so I thought I'd make a list for everyone who wants to get in the mood or just needs something to read during the holidays.

Modern AU

Flour, Water, Salt, Yeast, Love - As a regular in Link's bakery, Zelda asks him for a favor for Hylia's day. A mistake leads to them fake-dating until at the end of the holidays neither of them knows what is fake and what is real anymore. (25 chapters)

One Stitch at a Time - Zelda is taking over the fabric store from her mother and struggles to balance traditions, new ideas, and financial problems. The last thing she needs in her sewing class is a guy who disagrees with her every word and threatens to ruin her favorite time of the year: Christmas. (24 chapters)

A Rare Find - Link tries to catch a rare Korok that only appears when it rains. He finds a cute girl instead who happens to be in need of a fake boyfriend to impress her ex.

The Thing with the Matching Christmas Sweaters - Zelda realizes at the last minute that her father bought the same Christmas sweater that she and Link have planned to wear on their engagement announcing pictures. Link... has his own solution to this problem.

link_inofficial_23 - Link keeps blogging about Princess Zelda's and his life as new parents. PR is not amused.

One Night in December - Link regrets all his life decisions when he agrees to watching Hallmark movies with his long-term crush Zelda and she picks one about old friends getting together. Of all things...

Believe - A down on his luck Link accidentally prays to a long forgotten goddess and sets things in motion he isn't prepared for.

AoC/BotW

The Art of Now - A little AU where Link really is just a random soldier like at the beginning of Age of Calamity.

Of Pines and Pining - Zelda is forced to join the Champions and Sheikah to decorate the Great Hall for Hylia's Day. Of course, Link does it all wrong: chaotic and messy. But then, Zelda gets carried away and accuses him of being a messy kisser and everything only gets even more chaotic from there.

Sneaky Snow Attack - Link is on guard duty for once and discovers an intruder he doesn't mind so much. Well, before the snowball hit him, obviously.

Dismissed - Just before his first home leave after the Calamity, Link learns that Zelda has dismissed him as her appointed knight for personal reasons. He's confused and sad and the very last thing he needs is his family getting on his nerves about it.

Twilight Princess

Close Enough - The one mistletoe story without a single mistletoe around.

Fairy Magic - Zelda overworks herself before Christmas and Link decides she needs a break.

Ocarina of Time

It may be winter outside (but in my heart it's spring) - Impa sneaks Link and Zelda out to have some fun in the snow. A winterly snapshot set in the child timeline.

General LoZ AU

The Pen Pal Plan - Princess Zelda is sick of being wooed for her beauty and nothing else, so when it's time to pick a suitor, she develops a plan. All suitors who want to court her must engage in a pen pal ship with her so that they can get to know each other without the eyes of the court on them.

After a year, the time has come to meet the most promising candidates at the winter fair and make her choice, but she quickly realizes, that her "Pen Pal Plan" has some pitfalls she hasn't anticipated and chaos ensues. It would be a shame if she missed the meeting with her favorite candidate of all things! At least the kind, blue-eyed guard is still there to help her reach the last date in time...

Merry Christmas and enjoy!

💞 Zelmo

[nanaminokanojo]

THAWING ICE QUEEN (part 107)

–one night of fooling around with the annoying campus king gojo satoru (he thinks so), turns into...well, something else more long term

CHARACTERS: gojo satoru x you | geto suguru | jjk characters

GENRE: college au | smut | smau | smau + prose | everything in between | ons | fubus to lovers | aged-up characters | idk where this is going

⚠️ TW/CW: strong/mature language | 🔞 | mentions of alcohol, smoking, etc. | this has narrations | god-awful pet names | will add more if something arises

MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX

<<prev part 107 next>>

A/N: This has prose.

“What?”

Nothing was making sense. You don’t even know if you’ve heard right as you watched everything suddenly slow into a snail’s pace and blur out into nothing but colors. It was as if you were submerged in a transparent water tank where nothing was exactly clear, not sight or sound, although you were somehow aware of what was going on. You knew your father stood up from his seat, looking deathly pale as he looked towards the stage. You followed the direction of his eyes, that, too, seeming to take an eternity to accomplish as you turned your head and saw none other than Gojo Satoru standing behind the podium, smiling bright as he addressed the applauding crowd, dazzling under the ambient lights and seemingly not existing in the same realm as everyone was.

You whirled around to look at Kento, having to steady yourself on one of the chairs as questions, one after the other started to flood your mind, except you couldn’t voice them out, not knowing which one to ask first. Why was Satoru suddenly named the head of a company his maternal grandfather owns? Does he know the real reason why you were leaving? Did he do just that for you? What the hell was your father telling you to ask your friends what he was doing there? You held onto Kento’s arm, your eyes conveying every single one of the things you couldn’t say. His expression told you everything you needed to know.

“What?” you asked again, but your voice came out weak, drowned out by another round of applause that was addling your thought process, making you incoherent and unable to do anything. What did you want to do anyway? There wasn’t one thing that came to mind, not even the scathing smirk your father shot your way when your eyes met his again. You just wanted it to be over, but then again, in what way?

You swallowed, thick and hard, wishing you could say something. You knew what it meant, that same accusing look he threw your way all those years ago when your mother died, a core memory that hardened at the back of your mind. He might not have said it out loud, but it spoke volumes of how he wished you were gone instead of her, how he blames you for the loss of the only woman he ever cared about. He looked at you the same way now as if you wounded him the same way again, as if you were making him go through the pain again.

He held you frozen with his cold gaze, making you hold your breath until it hurt, when suddenly, he turned away to address someone else behind you. “I believe congratulations are in order,” he stated in a tone that was anything but congratulatory, “Mr. Gojo.”

“Hardly, but I believe thanks are in order,” Satoru responded, repeating your father’s words and returning it to him. “I have yet to fulfill the purpose of it all.”

You heard the smirk in his voice as opposed to seeing it, unable to move on your spot as Kento kept you steady, merely looking down on the floor. You wanted to do something, anything, take him away from there perhaps. Your father wasn’t worth the time, not Satoru’s anyway. Mustering all the wits you had left, you finally managed to turn around, looking at Satoru to ground yourself. He was there. Everything will be okay…right?

Satoru smiled at you and winked as if to answer your unspoken question. He stepped towards your father, and in a low tone, said, “If you think you can use me to hurt your own daughter, you couldn’t have been more mistaken.” Although he kept a pleasant look on his face, the playfulness was gone, replaced by a threat instead.

Your father scoffed. “Very valiant of you then, young man. All this for my daughter.” He chuckled. “But you said it yourself. She is my daughter, and what goes in our family neither involves you nor does it change things because you suddenly decided you’d want to go this far for her. Commendable, I must say –”

“I’ll take that as a compliment without the catch, if you don’t mind.” He leveled his expression with your father. “Of course, you are right. It changes nothing if you still want Y/N to leave, but she can decide on that without you threatening to tear me down should she disagree.”

You merely blinked slowly as your thoughts were confirmed, but before you could even wrap your head around it, Satoru was suddenly beside you, taking your hand in his, boldly displaying it in front of your father.

“Satoru –”

“I love your daughter, Atty. L/N. And yes, I’m willing to go through lengths to make her happy. I may not decide on that, but I’m giving her the freedom to do just that without anyone, not even you, interfering in it.”

The older male glared at Satoru. “This was all in vain, but you knew that.”

“We’ll see,” the blue-eyed menace beside you stated in that happy-go-lucky tone of his, even having the gall to grin at your father. “Now, if you don’t mind…” He shifted his gaze to you, a love-struck smile replacing his earlier expression. “I have a date with your daughter, father-in-law.”

With that, he turned around, dragging you away, but not before you saw your father fall onto his seat, evidently seething as he watched the pair of you go. But before you could dwell on that thought, you heard Satoru’s laughter ringing through the hallway as he looked back at you with nothing but that tender, adoring look he always has for you, enough to convince you to join in as you both ran towards your own fairy tale albeit momentary.

A/N: Hi, everyone! Just gonna leave this here for now and will update this over the next days one or two at a time, depending on how much I can create per day. Again, thank you for the love. We're almost to the end! Thanks for staying.

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© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI’S JUJUTSU KAISEN. [20240415]

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[sojirai]

fakeclaiming DID Jirai discourse post.

TW, be safe.

I believe I am following the rules of the confessions blog by not reblogging the post and instead screenshotting it and tagging it with "confessions discourse". Please let me know if I am not following the rules or if this is too messy. I will remove it. But I am enraged and not going to be silence about this when I know the damage it can do.

I don't like stirring shit but as someone with diagnosed dissociative personality disorder from several traumas that is affected by it on the daily, and also knows the horrific damage of fakeclaiming, this was absolutely disgusting and infuriating, and I have incredibly an personal issue with it for myself and the well-being of other systems and singlets in the community, especially the kids who will see it. These disorders are not your place to make accusations about, they are complex, personal, and you can horribly mess people up with this. I refuse to be silent and let syscourse and fakeclaiming culture run rampant in this space, especially about Dissociative Identity Disorder. This can be settled privately if the anon sees it, but — tl;dr, you can vent about skepticism of other people's mental illness without making those kinds of claims and uninformed, baseless accusations. This can harm people and is simply plain wrong, because YOUR definition of a fake DID haver is inlcuding someone like me who is diagnosed and lives with it every single day from repeated severe trauma and will be this way for the rest of my life.

This anon has a very narrow, inaccurate understanding of what DID is. It is not all horrors. This anon has a poorly-managed disorder, and that is tragic. Other people manage their disorder better. They accept it. They work with it. They have good moments. They don't resist and lash out. This is a deep misunderstanding of how the disorder even works, but we aren't getting aren't this.

This anon is flat out incorrect, and it is revolting that they believe it is okay for kids with dissociative identity disorder to be happy with themselves, and accuse them of not having it and "wanting to be like them". Nobody wants to be like that. We could easily be like that if our reactions to the disorder were destructive or types of denial.

Do not fucking accuse disordered individuals of lying because they found a way to be happier than you, and you haven't yet. That is horrific.

Your experiences are not universal. DID does not come with one expression.

I am begging absolutely no one to listen to this bullshit, and instead continue with what is best with you. Anon is horrifically misinformed and taking it out on other systems. Do not let other people dictate and police your disorder and how to engage with it. Your health comes first. And just because you are not in agony 100% of the time does not mean you don't have DID. For many of us it is very healing to accept our other parts and be sociable and allows us to work together.

I'm not letting this problem start. Plurals in the community, keep doing you. No one will ever accept the "good ones with DID who really suffer". Outsiders will judge us no matter what. We must not attack each other. First and foremost we are human beings navigating our complex situations.

This person is entitled to vent, but not entitled to project it onto others and act is if their disorder is only way it can manifest and everyone who isn't miserable is faking. Just because you hate having it doesn't mean other people have to. Leave these kids alone.

By the way, a lot of the symptoms they're citing aren't even the same for other people who dislike the having the disorder. This is overall one of the worst, most narrow-minded takes I've seen. This is a poorly integrated, volatile system. Not all systems are like that. And that is ANON'S BUSINESS to take care of themselves. Not FAKECLAIM MINORS because they are struggling more.

[prickly-paprikash]

Feels like the beef is over. Possible Kendrick album drop on the horizon. He even went and lifted copyright claims over any video that uses his four diss tracks since him and his team knew the fire they started over the weekend and that this would go a long way in helping out reactors, edit channels, dissection channels and more.

With the (likely) end of this feud, investigations need to begin. If Kendrick has proper receipts over his allegations, it needs to see the light of day and I hope it's soon. Rap disses is one thing—these are predator accusations that need to be met with the proper gravity. Given his relations with Baka and the stories in Toronto cropping up of his activities, I feel at the very least confident that there will be things Drake needs to address. And address them soon.

But I also want to discuss the (possible) last diss. The Heart Part 6.

A pathetic attempt to steal a title from Kendrick's own series of singles "The Heart Parts I-V". Songs that Kendrick has utilized to give introspection regarding the industry, his masculinity, depression, his savior complex and so much more. And Drake uses that title for what exactly?

Not a brutal response. Not a catchy summer bop.

He sounds defeated. His lyrics are incoherent, going from saying he planted that false information, to also saying that those who planted it are clowns and fakes. He dismisses and ridicules Kendrick's "Mother, I Sober" song, a story about Kendrick being harassed and SA. Except, as I have since corrected myself over thanks to others on here, that the entire song is him saying the assault never happened and no one believes him. So not only did Drake contradict his claims in one song, he showed his illiteracy.

And Kendrick doesn't respond like he does with Family Matters. When Drake dropped FM, Kendrick immediately invalidated an entire seven minute track by dropping his own response, a haunting meet the grahams, within thirty minutes. A malicious dissection and mock therapy session between him and every member of the Grahams, including Drake's alleged hidden daughter. And finishes the blow by dropping Not Like Us in less than a day, a certified summer hit that has already been played over and over again across the world. When Drake stans accused him of making boring, sleep-causing disses because they were too deep and complex, Kendrick dropped all pretense and released a song produced by DJ Mustard himself to bluntly call Drake and his posse predators while making everyone, including Drake's own base, to dance to the beat.

And we return to Drake's last response. More dislikes than likes. Boring. Lacking the pettiness and replayability that previous disses possessed. A sad, final attempt at a defense and Kendrick doesn't seem to bother responding.

Instead, it seems he leaves it up to the public now. Let them do the rest of the work.

I have to ask one final time.

What made Drake think it was a smart idea to go bar for bar in a lyrical war against a man who won a Pulitzer and has more than three times the amount of Grammy's he does?

RIP Drake, I guess. Didn't realize your entire legacy would be destroyed on a club beat. Ironic, actually.

[kokoandkookie]

2. Honesty

Pairing : businessman!Jungkook x businesswoman!reader named Soa.

Genre : office romance, infidelity, marriage au.

Summary : Soa finds out that Jeongguk has been unfaithful. She takes it upon herself to remove his shares from her family company.

Warnings: Cheating, Tears

-

Her office felt colder than it had ever been. The polished dark marble bore the weight of silent war. Shafts of sunlight bounced off the windows in fractured lines, painting Soa in jagged snapshots of her own silhouette—crowned in stained glass, but broken. Cracked in a way she had never expected to be.

Jeongguk stood behind her, silent, raw with regret. His suit, a shell from a man he used to be, hung off his shoulders like a too-loose coat, its fabric still carrying all the weight of polished appearances. Behind him, the double doors swung closed with a hush that sounded louder than a slammed exit.

She would have preferred him to slam it.

His foot was halfway in front of the door when she spoke.

“Get out.”

Her voice was low. Even. The blade hidden in her tone made him stop. Not enough to cost him another step, but enough to remind him how much ground he’d already lost. She’s never spoken to him life that.

Soa’s blazer slipped from her shoulders. She folded her arms tight over her chest as though she could hold every part of herself in, except the part that was bleeding. The chair behind her caught the jacket with a soft, final tap, and she wrapped herself in stoic composure.

“Now isn’t the time to grovel back to me,” She told him, chin raised, voice cold.

Jeongguk’s chest tightened.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, rawness smudging his control. “We need to talk.”

The single laugh she gave him cracked the air, sharper than a whip, colder than a crack in the ice.

“Now you want to talk?” she scoffed.

His fists clenched at his sides. Every heartbeat screamed a confession.

He swallowed and forced words out. “You think you’re the only one bleeding?”

Soa didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.

But blood was already seeping through his voice.

“No,” she finally said. Quiet. Cruel. “I think you’re the only one who folded.”

It was a wound he wouldn’t—couldn’t—recover from. He blinked hard.

He stepped forward. Soa held her ground. Spine iron, hope dead. Her eyes the coldest he’d ever seen them be when looking at him.

“You think I wanted this to happen?” He asked, the sound of it shattering like a stone breaking glass.

She sighed and let her eyes travel the length of him, down to the hands that had once protected her, now held themselves up like stained trophies.

“No,” she said. Then softer, “I think you let it happen.”

Silence boiled between them. Her words thrummed with accusation and grief and the kind of heartbreak that didn’t look like grief anymore. It looked like fury. She was angry at him. Angry at the scandal, angry at him throwing away years of love and dedication to someone random. Someone she never saw coming.

The second set of words came out in a rush, unfiltered.

“You got weak,” she whispered. Her voice broke before she could shield it. “Instead of saying you felt like you were drowning … you reached for the easiest buoy. You didn’t come to me, Jeongguk”

The use of his name struck a never. The room spun as though the lights danced off every line in her face, as though he’d only just seen her.

“I couldn’t come to you,” he said finally, breath low and ragged. The words felt hollow but true.

Her head snapped to him.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t leave room for anyone else’s strength,” he whispered back, almost afraid to say it out loud. Pain spiraling into accusation. “You want to be everything. You want to hold the world in your palm and still be adored. There’s no room for me stand beside you.”

She closed her eyes. But her spine didn’t bow.

“I would have stood beside you,” she whispered.

“You don’t let anyone help!” he screamed.

She didn’t even blink. Not a flinch.

Then he said something he couldn’t retract.

“You stand in the front like a queen with no king. And wonder why everyone’s too scared to approach. I told you then that I would never compete with your power. I still won’t do it it today.”

Truth stabbed harder than any lie.

In that moment her hands shook, tight fists at her sides. Lip quivering. She didn’t break. She bled.

He saw it.

A single tear slithered down her cheek slowly, silently. Like a wound reopening.

“You think I wanted to lead?” she said softly, voice thin as breath. “You think I enjoy carrying every sword? Fixing everything? Smiling so Belle never asks why I’m crying, too?”

He heard it, felt it, in his chest as though it was his own ribcage cracking.

She studied him, eyes blazing but arms wrapped in her own pain.

Because of him.

Then she whispered the words that landed like a fist to his gut.

“You were never strong enough to stand beside me, Jeongguk. That’s why it’s so easy for you to fall for her, because she praises you.” She gestured toward him, her eyes glistening as she looked into his. “And maybe it’s my fault for thinking you’d ever be able to rise to the occasion, become the man who would walk beside me.”

He saw it then. The truth hung raw between them. He had always been behind, not beside. Always out of breath.

He jerked, as though shot.

“I wanted you to lead me,” she said. “I wanted us to fight it together. But when you folded, I kept fighting.”

She didn’t need to elaborate. He knew.

His chest squeezed so tight he couldn’t breathe.

And then—the denial that shattered everything.

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Time paused.

Her whole body froze. She was fire and ice in one frame. A queen in her ruin.

He took a single step forward—slow, desperate, hungry for absolution.

“I swear,” he said softly. “I didn’t. Wouldn’t do that to you or Belle.”

He didn’t lie. But the truth tasted bitter.

He didn’t sleep with her, but he had craved being seen. Somehow that felt worse. It carried threads of a deeper intimacy.

Soa stared at him. Her tears were loud.

Air felt thick.

She sagged. Fell into the high-backed chair behind her, head pressed against velvet. It swallowed her sorrow and her dignity all at once.

Jeongguk stifled a sob, barely audible.

She didn’t stop him when he fell to his knees, head pressed to her lap. Mistakes were his shroud, sorrow his penance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her dress. “I’m so fucking sorry. I let it go on too long. I ruined our family.” He held onto her.

Her arms didn’t wrap around him. She let him stay, this soldier naked in his surrender. It broke to see her husband that way. She’s never imagined that was how he felt and somehow she should have expected it. Taehyung had always called it, even though Jeongguk was his best friend.

She felt his tears seep down—into the part of her that still loved him. She hated seeing him in the floor, beneath her. Something she never wanted to ever witness or be the cause of.

“I’m sorry,” He said again, a fragile echo.

He didn’t move. Just held that space. Held it like a gift. Because inheritance and forgiveness don’t look like a clean slate—they look like this: humanity laid bare.

Not forgiveness. Not love back. But:

Honesty.

[a-teacup-of-golden-cracks]

You are saying this because you literally don't know anything about @angelbleeding

Apparently she is the self proclaimed drama queen (more like a clown) of anime community. She is a 33-year-old who picks up fight with teen girls, she is trying way too hard to act like she's still in her prime, stirring up drama with those subposts, she has kept her own anon off and writes triggering subposts about people in the intention to hurt them and get this, she turns off her anon so she can talk smack without taking any heat herself, leaving her mutuals to deal with all the hate instead but she doesn't give a rat ass about her mutuals getting harassed, she would still trigger people and stir drama when she knows her mutuals have to deal with the hate, plus she never even apologised that her mutuals are getting harassed because she is coward who can't subpost without having her own anon off. A total coward move. She even went as far as recreating someone's deactivated blog, and when she gets called out, she pulls the victim card like a pro. She has made racist joke on POC women and to top it off she asked a minor to suck her dick, but she acts so innocent and managed to fool people by playing victim every single time.

Wow! Thats a lot of accusations! Can you come off anon and provide me with some sources for them? Surely with so much evidence against this person you'd have no reason to hide on anon, right?

Or maybe you can't and need to just shut the hell up. Almost everything you just said reeks of lies even to my tired 2 am brain. "Still in her prime" prime of what? No seriously this makes no sense and I can't think of anything you could be referring to here.

If shes doing things that leave her mutuals to rot, why are they still her mutuals? And how would people even find out who her mutuals are in the first place?

For the last few accusations, it would've been so easy to provide a link to the posts, even on anon, where this happened. Don't say bullshit like "oh it was deleted" either because that means it never happened or she made a mistake and proceeded to correct it.

Good night and goodbye person who definitely isn't deadeye anon

[lollipopsnowy]

warning !! rant. if you don’t wanna read a rant about the state of the tally hall community then pls scroll on, and I hope you have a nice day ^^

I’ve been thinking this for a pretty long while, and honestly I’ve always been too afraid to speak out in fear that it is the “wrong” opinion, but I feel I need to say this now more than ever. It’s probably obvious and it’s probably been said a billion times, it’s practically just talking to a wall at this point, but I still want to make this point clear:

This community has a huge problem with empathy and nuance.

Full stop. I’m not sure what it is about this fandom, but it’s almost as if you are walking on eggshells every single second. In the eyes of the people in this community, you are either a saint who can do no wrong, or you are human scum, ready to be fed to the bloodthirsty legions of Christ. It’s horrible, and it’s causing people in this community to stress about their public image or even causing people to full on leave. I have so many friends that have lost interest in this band because the community has been so awful to them, and honestly I understand why. At the end of the day, this community is festered with hormonal teenagers that, at times, seriously don’t know any better, and make stupid decisions that will be forever imprinted on the internet. It happens to the best of us, and I share sympathy with them and refuse to hold them as “evil” because of that.

That is not what you guys are doing.

Just because someone makes one mistake doesn’t make them a monster. Just because someone is sharing an opinion differing from yours doesn’t make them evil. Just because someone is doing something that is generally frowned upon doesn’t mean that they’re doing that to be malicious. Sometimes, that’s genuinely the only way that people can cope. Yes, it is important to help them break out of these mindsets, but screaming at them and belittling them for the things that they do doesn’t make them want to change, it just makes them feel afraid. Bullied. Ostracized. The least we could do is listen to their explanation, and if they’re going to be aggressive, then don’t be aggressive back, that only fuels their rage. Instead, keep a levelheaded approach on the situation and try to diffuse it. Be nuanced, people. Everyone’s a shade of gray. Good people can do bad things, and bad people can do good things. That’s just the way the world works. Treat everyone as a fellow human, because truthfully, that’s what they are. There is a person behind the screen. Someone with thoughts, feelings, and experiences that you may not know about, and just being a little more peaceful and less aggressive in your approach to them can go a long way.

I’m making this post for a few reasons. One, just to speak for my friends, but also to try and help my fellow tally tumblr fans out with this information, as I think it will make this place much less divided and so much less toxic and scary to be in.

I’ll give an example. Last night, I made a rather insensitive post about tallyshippers, claiming that they “weren’t real” and that they were “made in labs.” Truthfully, I made that just to shitpost, and it was all in good fun, but not everyone sees it that way, and I will admit, it was rather insensitive for me to group an entire subset of people in that manner, even if I don’t agree with what they do. In that aspect, I apologize. However, the aftermath was not fun whatsoever. I had a tallyshipper roll into my ask box on anon, so I could not identify and block them, and basically just spew all of their frustrations about the anti-tallyshipping crowd onto one person (me), and make accusations and claims about me that were completely unwarranted and, truthfully, quite cruel, while still trying to convince me that they meant no harm. No matter what “side” of this community you’re on, please acknowledge that this isn’t okay. It’s never okay to waltz into someone’s ask box when they are not comfortable with speaking to you (bandshippers are on my dni list), and air out all of your grievances on that one person, whether it’s someone you agree with or not. You don’t know what they’re going through and you don’t know how much it’s going to affect them. Please consider the other side before you go and leave messages like that.

Sorry for the yap spree, but it’s just been on my mind for a while. I promise that the rest of my blog is not like this. Please, just have some more empathy, my friends. You don’t have to love everything and everyone in this community, but the least you could do is show them some respect, even if they aren’t willing to show that respect to you. Because, after all, you are your own person, and they are their own. Everyone is different and everyone deals with things in varying ways. Everyone is human, and everyone should be treated as such.

-Eddie