#just crazy to think this started with me just… writing a thing and posting it on ao3

[hatethysinner]

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: New York, 1970. You’ve come too far from Mississippi to be told no. Your agent, Remmick, calls you his masterpiece, and he’ll do anything to make the world see you the same. You don’t ask what it costs him, but every time the spotlight hits your skin, his eyes shine like it’s worth it.

ᴡᴄ: 22.5k (including cont'd)

ᴀ/ɴ: if there's any fanfic writer reading this, mix your settings up! it's so fun to go out of your comfort zone and just go batshit crazy with your ideas and that's exactly what i did. the fact that i had to split this into two posts makes me so mad like i promise i'm not interaction farming tumblr just can't handle the heat of 20k+ words. i've done grateful remmick, pathetic remmick, and now we've got obsessive remmick. collecting his archetypes like infinity stones 💋! as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too. enjoy reading divas!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: (including cont'd) SLOWburn, obsession, murder, vampirism, blood, bloodplay i think, praise kink, breeding kink, body worship, eye contact, biting, cunnilingus, very light dubcon, exhibitionism, p in v, monsterfucking, overstimulation, dacryphillia, cockwarming, the wildest possible time to have sex (you won't guess it), i'm sorry yall this shit is just freaky as fuck, overt affection from the start, fluff, a little domesticity never hurts, remmick being an unhinged control freak but in the least toxic way possible, reader did not prepare herself for ts, maybe a little angsty but that depends on your definition, codependency, power imbalance but it's never abused(?), religious undertones if you squint, depictions of racism, texturism, and microaggressions in the fashion industry, amateur knowledge of 1970s fashion and modeling (i was living on the devil wears prada and a prayer), excessive use of dividers, minor vampire rule changes for writing convenience

New York City, 1970.

The city shimmered in the distance like a mirage, flickering orange and gold against the horizon, then hardening into glass and steel as you drew closer. Manhattan rose from the ground like something alive, wild and bristling, all sirens and streetlamps and noise thick enough to taste. The car hummed low beneath you, headlights slicing through the last stretch of night. You leaned against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the skyline appear piece by piece like it was being conjured just for you.

It had been a long drive. A strange one. Not quick, not smooth. Over twenty-four hours, maybe more. Time bled at the edges when you were with Remmick.

He wouldn’t drive during the day. Not once. Every time the sky began to lighten, he’d pull off the road. Into a gas station, a motel lot, once even behind an abandoned diner where the air smelled like rust and pine needles, and he’d wait. In silence. Crouched low in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on even in the dark. You’d offered to take the wheel more than once, half-joking, half-worried, but he’d only chuckled and said, "Ain’t no use rushin’. Best things bloom slow, darlin’. Let the night do her part."

The highways felt endless. Flat fields, flickering street signs, the quiet rhythm of tires against asphalt. You dozed in and out, lulled by his steady driving and the scratch of his thumb against his lighter. He didn’t play the radio. He didn’t sing. Sometimes he talked to himself, voice low and rhythmic like a sermon, words you couldn’t quite catch. Other times, he said your name like it was the only thing worth saying.

And then: the city.

He pulled the car to the curb, the engine softening into silence. You blinked up at the brownstone. Tall and narrow, made of worn red brick with black trim and a wrought-iron gate that looked older than both of you. The street around it was quiet, lit by just a few streetlamps buzzing with moths. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was nice. Too nice, as if it'd been detailed just minutes before you arrived. Clean front stoop. Big bay window. Flower boxes under the sills.

You frowned. “This yours?”

Remmick stepped out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened your door with a little bow. “Ours,” he said simply, like that explained everything.

You stood slowly, stretching your spine after hours curled in the seat. The New York air was colder than Mississippi. Sharper. The kind that cut clean and left you blinking. You looked up at the brownstone again. It had to be expensive. The kind of place a real agent might have. The kind of place someone powerful stayed, not someone who drifted into a backwoods general store and offered to make you a star.

But he just smiled. Like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Ain’t much yet,” he said, his voice low, accent thick and lazy and true. “But it’s the start. From here on out, we climb.”

You stared at him. Your so-called agent, your midnight stranger, the man who found you counting change behind the counter of your uncle’s store in Mississippi, under flickering fluorescents and a ceiling fan that squealed with every turn.

You hadn’t been looking to be found.

You hadn’t even meant to speak to him.

He’d come in just before closing, tall and tired-looking, dressed like he didn’t belong. Black turtleneck, coat that didn’t suit the heat, and those eyes. Blue, yes, but something off about them. Ancient. Red flashed in his pupils if the light hit just right, like a warning. You caught yourself staring too long.

Then he said it. “You ever thought about modeling, sweetheart?”

You laughed in his face.

He didn’t leave.

He came back the next night. And the one after that.

He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t leer or flirt. Just leaned on the counter and looked at you like you were already on the cover of Vogue or Life. Like he was just waiting for the world to catch up.

“You’re a fuckin’ star,” he said again and again. “You don’t see it, but I do.”

Now here you were.

He carried your suitcase without asking, easy like it weighed nothing, and led you up the narrow staircase. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The walls were clean, freshly painted, but the baseboards and window frames still bore signs of age. The floors creaked under your feet, polished wood catching the light. The front room had a velvet couch in a deep wine color, a small but elegant fireplace, and shelves that already held a few books. Some old, some new, all carefully arranged.

There was a vase on the windowsill. Empty, waiting.

It wasn’t just an apartment. It felt like someone had made space for you here.

You dropped your bag near the door and looked around slowly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“You… really live like this?”

Remmick leaned against the doorframe, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal the top of his pale chest. That red glint shimmered faintly behind his tired blue eyes, not threatening, just… different. Other. He didn’t hide it. You didn’t want him to.

He grinned, showing the faint edge of his canines. Too sharp to be human, too familiar to scare you. “I told you, didn’t I?” he said softly. “You’re gonna be a fuckin’ star.”

You stepped toward him, unsure if you meant to laugh or cry. “And this is part of that?”

He nodded once, serious now. “You deserve a place to start from. A place that ain’t tryin’ to drag you back down. I meant it when I said I’d take care of you.”

And in his voice, you heard it again. That vow he’d made in a gas station parking lot under moth-covered lights. That strange devotion that didn’t ask for anything in return.

You looked around one last time, then back at him.

“So what now?”

He stepped into the room, slow and certain, like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

“Now,” he said, brushing a stray curl from your face, “we get to work.”

You very quickly learned the situation you’d gotten yourself into.

It wasn’t subtle. There were no illusions of partnership or shared footing. You weren’t splitting rent, trading favors, or learning the city together like other girls who moved north with dreams and no real plan. No, you were being kept. Thoroughly, obsessively, deliberately kept.

It started small. You mentioned your shoes were falling apart. The next morning, a pair of Ferragamos appeared beside the bed. You half-joked about not owning a proper winter coat, and he was gone for twenty minutes, then returned with three. Leather. Wool. Something French you couldn’t pronounce, still with the tag attached.

The closet filled before you realized what was happening. It started with a rack of dresses, mostly black, some red, some blue, a few greens and golds, all tailored like they knew your body before you’d ever tried them on. Then came the heels. Then the jewelry. Not flashy, but real. Real enough to catch light. Real enough to turn heads.

You didn’t ask for it. Sometimes, you weren’t even sure you wanted it.

But he noticed everything.

You lingered a second too long looking at a photo in a magazine, the jacket the model wore, the earrings that matched her lipstick, and the next day, something damn near identical was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Remmick, I don’t need-”

“Didn’t ask what you need, darlin’,” he’d say, brushing past you with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I asked what you want.”

He never lit that cigarette inside. Not even once. Wouldn’t so much as hold a lighter within ten feet of you. He’d smoke out on the stoop or disappear to the far end of the street, muttering something about “not stinkin’ up the air you breathe.” The first time you joked about wanting one yourself, just to see what the fuss was about, he looked at you like you’d cursed, warning “not with a smile like yours, not a chance.”

It wasn’t just the clothes.

You ran out of conditioner once. Just once. The bottle was still in the trash when you stepped out of the shower and found five new ones lined up on the bathroom sink. Different brands, all familiar, all from back home. Stuff you didn’t even think they sold up north. He’d stocked them like he’d raided a beauty supply store in Jackson and brought the entire aisle to you.

When you tried to thank him, he shook his head and looked at you like you’d insulted him.

“Don’t need thanks,” he murmured, turning the sink knobs absently, like making sure the water still ran. “Don’t want it neither. Just want you ready. Prepared. You look the part, they treat you like the part.”

That was the other thing. He never wavered.

You could be barefaced and groggy, hair wrapped, in slippers and one of his oversized shirts, and he’d still say it: “You’re the most beautiful thing in this city.”

Always with that voice, like gravel and honey, and always with that look. Like he was memorizing you for when you weren’t there.

He refused to let you carry groceries. Refused to let you pay at restaurants, even diners. The one time you tried, fumbling for your wallet while he was in the bathroom, he damn near lost it. Quietly, of course. Never loud. Never unkind. But the look on his face when he stepped out and saw you holding your purse?

He took your wrist gently and leaned in close. “You ain’t got to do that, darlin’. You never will.”

And you believed him.

Because Remmick didn’t make promises lightly.

He’d booked your first photoshoot before your second night in the city. He knew a guy who knew a guy. Shady as hell, probably, but the studio was real, the lighting was good, and the photographer never once looked at you sideways. You didn’t have a portfolio yet, didn’t know how to pose, but Remmick stood just out of frame, nodding, giving you small, soft corrections. Not criticism. Just reminders.

“Chin up. Eyes sharper. That’s it, darlin’. Just like that.”

He was everywhere. In the corner of the room, watching. Waiting. Always watching.

You got used to it. Maybe too fast. Maybe too easy.

But something about his presence didn’t unnerve you. It calmed you. Like if anything went wrong, if anyone tried anything, he’d handle it before you even knew to be afraid.

The girls you passed on the sidewalk in Harlem, downtown, SoHo, they looked at you with curiosity. Some with admiration, others with judgment. You didn’t blame them. You were the new face, the quiet one with an older man who opened every door and paid every bill and looked at you like you were something exquisite and holy.

And you noticed him too.

The way he never ate. The way his canines always looked a little too sharp when he smiled too wide. The way his eyes gleamed red sometimes when the light dipped low.

You weren’t stupid.

You weren’t scared either.

Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t hunger. It was worship.

Like he’d waited lifetimes for you. Like now that he had you, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth. living or dead. he wouldn’t rip apart to keep you standing.

And the strangest part?

You were starting to believe it.

You still didn’t know what exactly he was. He hadn’t told you, not directly. But there were nights when the city seemed to go still around him, when your reflection in the apartment window looked younger than it had the day before, when he came back from “errands” with dirt on his sleeves and a strange, metallic smell clinging to his coat.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched him move through your life like a secret you didn’t want solved.

And when he knelt in front of your vanity, helping you fasten the strap of your heels, he looked up at you like you were the moon.

“Whatever you want, darlin’,” he said. “All you ever gotta do is ask.”

And you believed him. Again.

The proofs arrived in a thick envelope, crisp and neatly stacked, smelling like ink and developer fluid. Remmick slit it open with his finger, careful not to smudge the edges, then spread the photos out across the kitchen table like cards in a high-stakes hand.

You hovered nearby, still in your robe, coffee cooling untouched between your hands. He’d barely said a word all morning, just paced between windows and rearranged the chairs until the light hit the table just right. Now he sat, back straight, fingers laced under his chin like he was studying scripture.

“Alright,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with.”

He picked up the first photo, held it close to his face, then glanced at you with a small, stunned kind of smile.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Look at you. Look at those eyes. Like they know somethin’ nobody else does.”

Your lips twitched. “That good or bad?”

He flicked his eyes up. “That’s perfect.”

The next photo didn’t get the same reaction. He turned it sideways, then back, then let out a thoughtful little hum before setting it aside.

“Not that one?”

“Too wide on the lens. Warps the shoulder line.” He looked up again, serious now. “Ain’t you. That’s on the camera, not the subject.”

You sat across from him, watching the small pile of rejects begin to form at his elbow. But with each one he discarded, he gave an explanation. Real, technical, thorough.

“This one’s too soft. Focus is just off the eye, makes you look unsure.”

“Lighting’s dirty on this one. Sinks the skin tone. Not your fault, not on you.”

“Angle’s wrong here. Nose ain’t shaped like that, lens just thinks it knows better.”

He never let it seem like you’d done something wrong.

Even the ones he didn’t like, he lingered on first. Admired them. Complimented the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth, the way you held your hands. He only tossed them aside if the frame failed you, if the shot wasn’t worthy.

“You’re not a problem to fix, darlin’,” he said at one point, tapping one of the keeper shots. “You’re a truth they gotta learn how to capture right.”

You were starting to understand how his mind worked. Not just as your agent, but as someone who genuinely couldn’t stand seeing the world misunderstand you. It mattered to him, deeply. Almost violently.

He ended up with four he liked. Four out of thirty.

“This one for the face,” he said, sliding the first forward. “No smile, just eyes. Says take me serious.”

The second: “This one shows the angles. That jaw? That neck? You’ll have girls tryin’ to grow bones like yours.”

The third: “Little softness. You look like someone’s dream here.”

And the last, his favorite, he didn’t explain. Just stared at it for a long while, thumb grazing the edge, eyes unreadable.

When you reached for it, he didn’t let go right away. Then he finally handed it over.

It was a shot of you mid-turn, hair caught in motion, dress pulling just slightly at the hip, your mouth parted like you’d been about to laugh.

You didn’t even remember posing like that.

“I love this one,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Remmick replied, watching you with something almost reverent in his face. “That’s why it works.”

You leaned your cheek into your hand, tracing the edge of the photo with your finger. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen myself like this before.”

“’Cause you haven’t had someone show you right. Not till now.”

He stood, collecting the rejected prints and sliding them back into the envelope. You watched him move. Graceful in that slow, deliberate way of his, like every motion was premeditated.

At the counter, he paused to straighten the stack of fashion magazines he’d brought home the night before, flipping through one until he found a dog-eared page. A model with your same cheekbones, but none of your soul.

“See that?” he asked, tilting it toward you. “They’ll chase this look ‘til they die tryin’, but you-” He tapped the table beside your photo. “You got it. Easy.”

He lingered a moment longer, then returned to the table, his thumb brushing a speck of dust from the corner of your favorite shot. You noticed his hands. Always busy, always precise. Even when they trembled a little, like they did now, like he was holding something too precious to mess up.

“Gonna send these four out by noon,” he said, tapping the chosen shots. “Couple magazines, two scouts. I’ll follow up by phone tomorrow.”

Your brow lifted. “That fast?”

He gave a small shrug, lips tugging into a lopsided grin. “You think I came all this way just to sit on my ass?” He leaned across the table, close enough for you to see the faint red gleam flicker at the edge of his irises. Subtle, quick. “Told you I’d make you a fuckin’ star. Didn’t say when. Just said I would.”

He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, then looked at you with that soft, satisfied expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t watching. “Put somethin’ nice on, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm. “I’m takin’ you out tonight. Gotta celebrate your first real shoot.”

The look in his eyes told you it wasn’t just about the pictures. It was about you. Everything was.

He didn’t call it a date. Wouldn’t even come close.

When you stepped out of the bedroom in one of the dresses he’d picked out days ago, red, silky, and cut to fit like it had been stitched directly onto you, he only gave a low whistle and said, “Now that’s how a star walks into a room.” Not you look beautiful. Not I can’t stop starin’ at you. But it was there in his face, plain as anything. The way he let his eyes trace you, slow and reverent, like he was seeing something sacred.

He held the door for you like always, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the black town car idling at the curb. The engine was quiet, the driver already waiting. No one had told you where you were going, and Remmick didn’t say. He just tucked you into the backseat like you were made of porcelain and leaned close with a grin, his fingers grazing your bare shoulder.

“Big night,” he murmured, low and warm. “You should eat like it.”

You didn’t expect what came next. The restaurant didn’t have a name on the front. Just a narrow archway tucked between a boutique hotel and a shuttered tailor shop, with a single golden plaque bolted to the brick. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t guided you up the steps like he belonged there.

The maître d’ recognized him instantly. “Right this way, sir,” he said without even asking for a name, and suddenly you were being led into the kind of place people waited months to get into. The dining room was dim and hushed, wrapped in warm light and the clink of expensive silverware. Velvet chairs, fresh flowers at every table, real wax candles instead of electric flickers. The sort of atmosphere where everyone whispered even when they didn’t have to, because they could.

You were seated in the center of it all, surrounded by couples in tailored suits and silk shawls, sparkling jewelry and moneyed quiet. The moment you sat down, you felt them. Eyes, subtle and sideways, glancing over menus and martinis to look at you. You were the only Black woman in the room. Probably the only one who’d been here in a while, if ever. Their stares weren’t loud, but they were there. Lingering. Curious. Unwelcome.

Remmick didn’t miss it.

His hand was already on the table, fingers brushing yours. “Hey,” he said, soft enough only you could hear. “They look ‘cause they don’t get it. ‘Cause you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream, and they’re not used to seein’ somethin’ that real.”

You looked up at him, and he was already watching you, something dangerous and steady behind the softness in his voice. “Let ‘em stare. You belong right here, sweetheart. You belong everywhere.”

That was all he had to say. The weight of the room shifted. Not for them, for you. Like suddenly you were immune. Like the whispering walls of that restaurant had never held a woman like you before, but they were damn lucky to now.

He ordered for both of you, waving off the menu like he already knew what was good. “She’ll have the oysters and the saffron risotto,” he said with a smile that was somehow both charming and firm. “Bring us the champagne. The good kind.”

You laughed and asked how he even got a reservation. He just shrugged. “Told ‘em I had someone I needed to impress. They didn’t ask more’n that.”

The food came in careful courses, small and perfect, each bite richer than anything you’d ever tasted. He didn’t eat much, just pushed things around on his plate while watching you. Every time you made a face or hummed in surprise at the flavor, he looked like he was cataloging it, like he’d remember what you liked forever.

“Tell me which dish you want me to learn to cook,” he said at one point. “I’ll have the whole damn kitchen figured out by next week if you ask.”

You told him that wasn’t necessary, and he smiled. “That ain’t the point.”

Between courses, he kept the compliments coming. Not like a man trying to win favor, more like someone stunned into reverence. He said it like a fact, like gravity: you were stunning, and you should already be on magazine covers. “The cameras don’t even get it yet,” he said. “They ain’t caught what I see.”

Still, he never called it a date.

Even when his gaze lingered on your mouth for too long. Even when he wiped a smear of sauce from the corner of your lip with his thumb and let it stay there for a beat too long. Even when his voice went low again and he said, “We’ll remember this night. First of many, I promise you that.”

You smiled down at your plate, cheeks warm, heart louder than it had been all day. He watched you like you were the only one left in the world. Like he could feel the pull of it just as much as you could, but wouldn’t name it. Not yet.

Dessert was something ridiculous with gold leaf and dark chocolate, something you didn’t ask for but he somehow knew you’d love. When you took the first bite, he grinned wide and leaned back in his chair.

“A star and her agent,” he said. “That’s all this is.”

But his voice was thick, and his eyes didn’t leave yours, and when he reached out to adjust the strap of your dress where it slipped on your shoulder, his hand lingered, slow and possessive.

“And stars oughta be spoiled, don’t you think?”

You nodded, quiet, caught between the warmth of the food and the fizz of champagne and the impossible softness in his voice. He said nothing more, just sat there across from you like he’d already decided you were the best thing he’d ever done.

And maybe he had.

Watching Remmick work was your favorite pastime.

You curled your legs up beneath you on the couch, still wearing the oversized tee he’d laid out for you. Not one of yours, of course. Something soft and perfectly worn, smelling faintly of cedar and whatever cologne he only ever seemed to wear around the apartment. The plate on your lap was empty now, just crumbs and the last smear of blackberry preserves from the toast he’d made fresh that morning. No burnt edges. No crusts. The way you liked it.

He’d sat with you through the whole thing, elbows on the table, watching every bite like it fed him instead. When you asked if he was gonna eat too, he only smiled.

“I’ll grab somethin’ later. You go on.”

He never ate around you, not really. Said mornings weren’t his time. Said he didn’t like the taste of breakfast. Said he’d already had his coffee. A lie, probably, because you never once saw him make a cup. But he’d sat there all the same, chin in his hand, smiling at you like you were the sunrise itself.

Now he stood across the apartment, back to you, the long cord of the house phone stretched taut from the wall to where he leaned against the kitchen counter. His voice was calm but firm, syrupy in a way that meant he was negotiating. You could only hear his side, but it was enough to understand.

“...I know what I’m askin’, but you ain’t looked at her yet, Mary. Once you see her in front of you, you’ll understand-”

A long pause. The hand not gripping the phone gestured in frustration, but his voice didn’t budge.

“Yeah. I get that. But what I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t just a checkmark on a theme issue, alright? She’s talent. She’s the face. Whether that issue’s in January or June or never, she deserves ink. You know it.”

Your stomach tightened a little. He hadn’t said what magazine it was, not directly, but you’d caught the hint yesterday when he started listing off dream shots. Glamour, he’d said. Cosmopolitan. Vogue, if they bite, but Glamour’s got that open slot sooner. At the time, you’d thought he was dreaming big. Shooting for the stars to see what stuck.

Now, listening to him wrangle a gatekeeper with the kind of slick charm only he could wield, you realized he hadn’t just dreamed. He’d promised.

And he was fighting tooth and nail to deliver.

“Mmhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I read it.” His voice thinned slightly, though he still sounded smooth. “Saw the whole spread. Good issue.”

A beat. You caught the flicker of his jaw tightening.

“Nah, I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have done it. Just sayin’ maybe you oughta take another look at your timing. Feels a little... seasonal. Like maybe you think color only matters once a year.”

Your eyebrows rose.

There was a longer pause now. You heard a faint tinny buzz from the other end of the line, though the words were too muffled to catch. Remmick didn’t speak. He just waited, staring out the tiny kitchen window at nothing. His fingers tapped the countertop, slow and even. You could feel it. The moment. That low boil of something restrained. Whatever she’d said next, it had hit a nerve.

Then finally, he spoke again.

“Listen, Mary. I’m not askin’ you to do her a favor. I’m offerin’ you a face your readers are gonna be grateful for. She’s got the look and the movement. She’s camera-trained and runway-ready, and she just got off a shoot with a photographer I know you’ve pulled from before. You want numbers? You’ll get numbers. All I need is fifteen minutes in front of your casting director.”

Another pause.

His eyes flicked to you.

You offered the smallest smile, and he smiled back. Just slightly, just enough to soften the line of his mouth. Then turned back to the phone.

“Perfect. Yeah. Tuesday’s good. Tell ‘em she’ll be there.”

He hung up with the kind of gentleness that didn’t match the fight you’d just heard in his voice. As if slamming the phone down would’ve undone the win. He stayed there a second longer, hand resting on the receiver, then turned toward you and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he said, voice back to its usual slow drawl. “Hope you didn’t make other plans for Tuesday.”

He'd already made sure you didn't.

You blinked, throwing the first name that came to your mind out. “That was Glamour?”

He gave a short nod and crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of the couch. “That was me doin’ what I said I would. You’re in, sweetheart. Casting preview, ten a.m. I’ll walk you in myself.”

Your heart was thudding, too fast to hide. “Remmick... they said no at first, didn’t they?”

He didn’t lie. Didn’t pretend. Just shrugged. “Didn’t matter what they said at first. You got me. I make sure first ain’t never final.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his blue eyes caught the light and shimmered red in the middle, something not quite right about them, something old and endless that had never scared you. Something that felt like fire behind glass. You’d never asked what he was, not out loud. But you knew.

And you knew whatever he was, it loved you. Or worshipped you. Or both.

“Remmick,” you said, quieter now. “What if it doesn’t go well?”

He reached up, thumb brushing just beneath your cheek. “Then I raise hell.”

You laughed, half from nerves and half from wonder. You’d come to this city with nothing but a suitcase, a dream, and a man who’d found you behind a dusty counter and said star like he already believed it. And now here you were. Toast crumbs on your lap, your agent on fire, and Tuesday morning shining in the near distance like something impossible.

You weren’t sure if you were ready.

But with Remmick at your side, it almost didn't matter.

Tuesday morning came earlier than you'd hoped, though you weren’t the one who set the alarm. Remmick had been up before the sun, half-dressed and humming under his breath in the next room while laying your outfit out across the back of the couch.

He’d picked it the night before, but apparently that hadn’t stopped him from fussing over it again in the morning. You heard the crisp flick of a lint roller, the brush of fingers smoothing seams, the rustle of tissue paper as he checked the shoes a third time.

When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, you found the kettle already whistling and the lights dimmed low, the way you liked them. Remmick was standing by the window, fingers pressed lightly to the frame, eyes flicking up toward the gray, dim sky like he expected it to turn on him.

You watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe in your feather-trimmed robe, half-curious, half-sleepy.

“You waitin’ on somethin’?” you asked.

He turned slightly, not startled, just aware. That quiet, humming attention he always gave you.

“Mm? No,” he said, too quickly. “Just checkin’ the weather. They were callin’ for sun earlier. Thought maybe it’d clear.”

You blinked. “And that’s bad?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you don’t want your hair frizzin’ before the cameras roll.”

You didn’t buy that, not fully, but you didn’t press. Especially not when you caught the way his shoulders dropped just a little with relief as he turned back toward the window and muttered, “Overcast’s good. Real good.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all his focus was back on you.

“Went with the green. It’ll set off your skin like it’s already been retouched,” he said, running a hand over the fabric. “Open collar, mid-thigh hem. You’re showin’ just enough to make ‘em lean forward, not enough to make ‘em blink wrong. You’ll kill in it.”

He’d chosen your heels too. Pearlescent and soft. He bent to help buckle them before you could even sit down fully, kneeling in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up after the second one clicked into place.

He pulled you in front of the small mirror in the hallway, fingers brushing through your curls. Careful but firm, like he was memorizing every strand, every coil.

“You look damn beautiful like this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you. “This hair? It’s got fire. It’s you. Ain’t no straightening iron gonna fix what’s already perfect.”

You watched his face, how his lips twitched into a rare smile, how his sharp canines flashed for a moment when he spoke. It was like he was showing you a piece of a world you hadn’t dared to claim yet.

“If they try to tell you to change it, you tell ’em exactly what I’m tellin’ you.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower, the kind of serious that makes you hold your breath. “If they don’t like this, they can choke on it.”

You couldn't help but laugh.

The walk to the Glamour offices wasn’t long, but he stretched it out like a runway. Kept looking you up and down with a quiet smile that made your stomach dip.

“You remember what to say if they ask about work history?”

“Freelance,” you said. “New Orleans, mostly. Catalogue stuff. A few showroom calls.”

“Good girl.” His hand found the small of your back. “And if they ask who’s representin’ you?”

“You.”

“Damn right.”

Every few steps, he’d stop to adjust your sleeve, or reposition your collar just slightly, or brush a speck of lint off your back like it was a threat. All the while, compliments rolled off him like breath.

“Walkin’ like you got six hundred cameras on you already.”

“No one else out here looks like you. That’s why they’re gonna remember.”

“God, darlin’, if they don’t pick you up after this, I’ll make a whole new magazine just to show ‘em what they missed.”

He meant it too. That was the thing.

When you reached the building, the receptionist barely had time to look up before Remmick had already introduced you both. “Ten o’clock, casting preview for senior editorial. We’re expected.”

He kept his hand low at your back as you were ushered toward the elevators, nodding politely but not waiting to be led. He knew the layout better than he should have. Knew exactly which floor. Which door. Which office.

You didn’t ask how.

Just like you didn’t ask how he managed the reservation for that dinner, or the money for the apartment, or the pull it must’ve taken to get a Tuesday meeting with Glamour on less than a week’s notice.

He stood with you right up to the waiting room. Talked you through every possible scenario. Repeated it all again. Not like he didn’t think you remembered, but like he needed to be sure. His hand curled around yours for a moment, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“You’re gonna go in there, and you’re gonna own it,” he said low. “Chin up. Shoulders back. They ain’t doin’ you a favor, darlin’. You’re the one bringin’ value.”

You smiled, even if your heart was loud in your ears. “You’re staying, right?”

“As long as they let me.”

The door cracked open then. A woman in a gray blazer stepped out and gave you a polite, clipped smile. “They’re ready for you.”

Remmick looked at her, then back at you.

“You got this,” he whispered, eyes catching the light like glass. “Go turn ‘em to mush.”

You stepped through the door with a deep breath, feeling him at your back even after it shut behind you.

The room wasn’t anything like you’d imagined. No flashbulbs. No velvet couches. Just white walls, a long table, and a row of people behind it. Only three today, though it felt like more.

The man in the middle leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he looked you over. His suit was tan. His tie was brown. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a retirement brochure.

He didn’t smile.

His eyes landed on your hair, soft and natural, shaped carefully the way you and Remmick had discussed, and he frowned.

“You didn’t straighten your hair?”

The air thinned.

He said it casually. Like it was a reasonable question. Like you were the one who’d missed a memo. There was no malice in his voice. No edge. Just that neutral, evaluative tone. The kind that made your skin prickle.

You opened your mouth, unsure whether to answer. Whether to defend. But you didn’t get the chance.

Remmick’s words came back to you.

If they don’t like it, they can choke on it.

You straightened your spine. Lifted your chin.

“No,” you said, clearly. “I didn’t.”

His brow lifted, but he didn’t comment further. Just made a note on the paper in front of him and gestured toward the far end of the room. “We’ll have you stand there, please.”

You moved without trembling. Stood where he told you. But just as he looked up again, his tone shifted. Cool, clinical, condescending, like he was correcting a child.

“Next time, I’d encourage you to tame it a little,” he said, making a vague swirling motion near his own head. “It tends to interfere with the shape of the editorial spread. Distracts from the clothes.”

You held your breath for a second.

Then exhaled, choosing to respond with your silence.

You couldn’t see Remmick from here, but you knew, if he could, he’d be watching through the walls. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. Fingers curled around the armrest of some uncomfortable waiting room chair, burning with the need to intervene but holding back for your sake. Because he trusted you. Because he’d prepared you for this.

They smiled at you.

All three of them. The old white man in the center, still reeking of cedar cologne and importance. The younger one on his left with the narrow glasses and tight mouth. And the woman, quiet, polished, seated from the start, offered the warmest smile of all, like it might soften what was coming.

“You’ve got something,” the man in the center said, folding his hands like he was giving you the world instead of brushing you off. “Undeniably. And that face? It tells a story.”

You waited. Chin high. Shoulders set. The reader in you knew a setup when you heard one.

“But,” he continued, “we just couldn’t find the right fit for you on the cover. The concept’s already tight, and we’re working with established talent.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “We’ll absolutely include you in the spread, though. There’s a great piece near the back. Beauty-focused, intimate lighting. You’ll photograph beautifully there.”

“Somewhere in the centerfold,” the younger man added. “Where you’ll pop.”

Pop.

You kept smiling. Even thanked them. Told them it was an honor.

The hallway outside felt colder than it had earlier. Like whatever heat had filled the building this morning had been drained just for you. You glanced around, expecting to see Remmick waiting in that same corner you assumed he'd been pacing in for the last hour, but he wasn’t there.

“Your agent?” the receptionist offered, catching your look. “He was asked to wait in the lobby. Waiting room’s only for models.”

You nodded, once. Of course it was.

You stepped into the elevator, then down through the marble lobby, each heel-click a reminder. Not of rejection exactly, because they hadn’t said no. But of all the ways a person can still be told not quite.

Remmick was already rising from the bench opposite of the window when you turned the corner. The second he saw you, he stood fast. Palms brushing down the front of his shirt, like his whole body was waiting for your cue. For your expression to tell him what to feel.

His mouth opened, but you beat him to it.

“They said I’ll be in the magazine,” you said.

His face didn’t move. Not right away.

Then slowly, his brow lifted.

“And?”

“Not on the cover.”

You watched it hit him. Watched how his expression stayed still for half a second too long. Just long enough for it to twist into something else. Something dangerous.

His jaw set hard. A muscle ticked. The color beneath his skin seemed to shift, just faintly, as if whatever fire lived inside him didn’t know where to go yet.

You almost thought he’d go back upstairs. March into that office and ask those men if they had any idea who they’d just handed a consolation prize to. If they knew how much talent they’d looked straight in the eye and passed over like it was nothing. He looked like he wanted blood.

But instead, he turned back to you.

His voice was quiet when it came. Measured.

“Well,” he said, lips tight around the word, “it’s a start.”

You gave a small nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“And every star,” he added, smoothing his thumb along the back of your hand, “has to get her start somewhere.”

You looked down.

There was something about the way he said it. Not forced, not fake. But like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. Like he was clinging to the shape of the words because they were the only thing keeping him from sinking into whatever fury had been building behind his eyes.

“I wore what you told me,” you murmured. “Said what you told me to say. Stood still, smiled, kept my tone light. Did everything right.”

“You did more than right,” he said quickly. “You were brilliant.”

You looked back up.

“Then why wasn’t it enough?”

His face twisted. Something old passed over it. A flicker of pain he couldn’t hide fast enough.

“It was enough,” he said, voice low. “You are enough. You’re more than they’ve ever had walk through those doors, and they know it. That’s why they smiled so damn hard, ’cause they were too scared to admit they didn’t have the guts to hand you what you earned.”

You blinked.

He softened immediately.

“Darlin’,” he said gently, and that was the first time he’d called you that in a place like this. Not in the safety of your brownstone, not in the hush of his voice during quiet mornings or late nights. Here. Now. On a marble floor that didn’t want to carry your name.

He pulled you close, just enough to press his hand to the small of your back, shielding you from the glances nearby. “This is the last time someone underestimates you and walks away proud of it. I swear on my fuckin’ life.”

You exhaled, shaky. His hand rubbed small circles into your back, smoothing over the ache like he could press all the disappointment down until it flattened into something manageable.

“You said it yourself. You'll be in the magazine,” he went on. “A spread still gets eyes. Still gets press. They’ll see your face, your name, and the next time we walk into a building like this-” his voice dropped, almost growled, “-they’ll beg to put you on the front.”

You knew it wasn’t just a promise. It was a threat. A vow.

Remmick didn’t get loud. He didn’t need to. But the intensity in his voice had a gravity all its own, like if the world didn’t bend for you, he’d find a way to crack it open with his bare hands.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he said, softer now. “No matter what it takes.”

You leaned into him. Just slightly. Enough for him to steady you.

The world had felt heavier in the elevator. More than disappointment. It was like it had reinforced something you’d been trying to unlearn: that the door would still close, even when you did everything right.

But here, in the curve of his palm and the grit of his words, it felt manageable. Not fixed. But seen.

You didn’t say anything else as you both walked toward the exit, his hand never once leaving your back. His touch didn't say Keep moving. It said I’ve got you, and for now, that was enough.

He didn’t take you out that night.

You thought maybe he would. Half-expected it, honestly, with the way he’d looked at you in the car. Like you were glass and flame all at once, and he couldn’t decide which part to reach for first. His hand had stayed on your knee the whole ride, but not in that idle, drifting way men sometimes did when they got comfortable. No, his touch had been still. Focused. His thumb pressing slow, precise circles into the fabric, as if committing the shape of you to memory.

But when you stepped into the brownstone, he didn’t say a word about dinner, or drinks, or anything at all that required going back out into the city.

The door clicked softly shut behind you.

He locked it. Then checked it again, like he always did. Not once. Twice. Fingers lingering on the bolt like the world couldn’t be trusted not to knock again.

Then he turned, caught your eye in the dim hallway light, and you caught the redshift in his.

“Let me keep you in tonight,” he said.

Not a plea. Not a command. Just a fact.

You nodded before you even realized it.

It wasn’t long before the apartment was quiet again, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of Remmick moving through the kitchen. You stood in the living room, still in your casting outfit, watching him open the fridge with that same thoughtful care he brought to everything. Like every bottle or jar might be hiding something important.

You didn’t expect him to cook. You’d never seen him eat. But the man knew his way around a pan, that much was clear.

He tied your apron around his waist without asking, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he set to work with the kind of slow, methodical focus that made the whole kitchen seem quieter.

Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic hit it next, the sizzle sharp and sudden before mellowing into something rich and familiar.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Watching.

He didn’t look up, but you saw his shoulders shift like he could feel your eyes.

“I had somethin’ else in mind for tonight,” he said. “Somethin’ with music. White tablecloths. Wine list thick enough to kill a man. But figured you might need a minute to breathe.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Still.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him toss fresh herbs into the pan. Basil, thyme, a pinch of something red from a spice jar he’d labeled in your handwriting. You didn't allow yourself to consider how he even learned to write like you.

“What’re you making?”

“Pasta,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The real kind. Not that boxed stuff.”

You raised a brow. “You knead dough too, Remmick? That part of the agency job description?”

His mouth twitched, knowingly so. “Never hurts to be versatile.”

You smirked, but didn’t push it.

The radio played something low and old from the corner of the room, letting its dusty melody thread through the space like smoke. You sank into the armchair by the window, curling one leg beneath you as you listened to the rhythmic scrape of Remmick’s knife against the cutting board.

It was peaceful. Domestic in a way that felt almost unreal.

He plated your food with a flourish and brought it over without a word, setting it gently in front of you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Don’t wait,” he said, already moving to clear space on the coffee table.

You didn’t.

The pasta was perfectly done. Homemade sauce, deep and savory. You chewed slowly, trying to hide your surprise.

“You sure you didn’t work in a kitchen before this?”

“No ma’am,” he said, stretching out on the floor in front of you, back against the couch. “Just picked things up.”

He didn’t have a plate. You’d stopped asking about that after the third time it happened. He always said he’d eat later, that he’d already eaten, or that he wasn’t hungry. But the look in his eyes as he watched you always told a different story.

“Thank you,” you murmured, after a few more bites.

He looked up at you then. Eyes soft.

“You don’t gotta thank me.”

“I want to.”

Something shifted in his face. A flicker of something he didn’t say. He looked back down at the rug.

“I know today didn’t go like we wanted,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s a start. Ain’t no stars born in full blaze. You’ll get there.”

You hummed, letting the praise settle somewhere deep inside. The pasta disappeared slower after that. You were full before you finished, but you kept taking little bites just to keep him sitting there. Just to keep this moment still.

He cleared the plate when you finally set it down. Washed it, dried it, and returned like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t watched his shoulders flex through the thin linen of his shirt or followed the curve of his jaw as he leaned over the sink.

When he returned, he didn’t sit on the floor this time.

He eased onto the couch instead, the cushions dipping under his weight, the worn linen wrinkling beneath him. His body moved with the kind of slow care that wasn’t laziness, but calculation. Like he was measuring how much space he ought to take up, how much distance there was between your bodies.

Then he held out his hand.

Open. Bare. Still.

No words. Just that quiet, steady offering. Not an ask. Not a demand. An invitation.

You didn’t speak either. Just looked at him, looked at that hand, then back up into his face.

He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But there was a kind of soft hope carved into the lines of his mouth, a flicker in his eyes that said he needed the touch more than he wanted to admit.

So you reached for him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and let him draw you forward. Not pulled. Not dragged or directed or coaxed, but simply… guided. Like gravity worked differently where he was.

You let yourself settle beside him.

His arm curled naturally along the back of the couch, but didn’t touch you. Not at first. He sat still as you tucked your legs beneath you, shifting until your shoulder just brushed his chest.

The lamp nearby cast long, slow shadows against the brick wall behind you. The whole apartment felt hushed, wrapped in soft amber and low sounds from the street that barely reached the window.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch.

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And not with that mask he wore around others, the one he used when smoothing the way for phone calls and photoshoots, all cleverness and quiet, careful charm.

This was different.

His hand slid from the cushion behind you, moved down and found yours again. He cradled it between both of his like it was delicate. Breakable. A thing too precious to be touched without veneration.

He traced the shape of your palm with the tip of one finger. Slow. Careful.

And said nothing.

You let him do it. Let him take your hand in his and explore it like it might disappear, like every line and fold and soft edge meant something more than flesh and skin.

You looked at him for a long moment, studying the lines around his eyes, the way his hair was still mussed from running his fingers through it. His jaw was tense, but not with anger. Something quieter. Something more internal.

“You okay?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Tired.”

“You sleep last night?”

He gave a soft snort. “Don’t need much.”

You let that go.

The apartment was quiet again. The kind of hush that felt deliberate. Sacred. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only thing keeping time now.

And then he spoke again.

“I ever tell you how much I hate bein’ helpless?” he said quietly. “Hate sittin’ in a hall waitin’ to hear how they gonna minimize you. Like I’m just supposed to swallow it.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned, leaning slightly into the curve of his arm where it hovered behind you.

“Hey,” you said after a pause. “You didn’t fail me.”

He didn’t speak.

“You hear me?” you pressed, voice firmer now. “You didn’t.”

He looked at you again then. That same old look. Like you were something just out of reach, Something he didn’t think he deserved but couldn’t stop staring at.

And then, like a dam breaking, he shifted.

His hand slid from yours, only to return a second later, cupping the back of your fingers, cradling them between both of his. He brought them close to his mouth, not quite kissing them, but holding them there like they warmed him.

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” he frowned.

You tilted your head.

“It is,” you said. “Not the job. Not them. But this? Us?”

He blinked.

“It’s getting there.”

That earned a small laugh. Quiet. Real.

You smiled.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said again, softer now.

His eyes lingered on your lips a moment too long.

“Anytime.”

And he meant it.

Anytime. Anything. Always.

Every inch of him said so.

You didn’t sleep much the night before.

Too much weight in your chest. Too many thoughts, all rustling like paper just out of reach. Every time your eyes drifted closed, they fluttered open again. The room was too quiet, the air too still. It felt like something was waiting. Or maybe you were.

But even if you had managed to drift off, you would’ve woken anyway. You always did, somehow, whenever he came close.

It was subtle at first. The soft creak of a floorboard just beyond the hallway. A change in pressure. Barely there, but enough to make your skin prickle. Like the atmosphere shifted slightly to accommodate him. The air grew heavier, like it recognized him before your eyes did.

You didn’t move. Kept your breath even. Let your lashes stay low, even though your eyes were cracked open just enough to see the shape in the corner.

Remmick.

Standing there. Still as a portrait, as if one stray blink might smear him from view. Bare-chested, in nothing but a pair of dark briefs that hung low on his hips, his skin pale and sharp against the dark. The moonlight didn’t dare touch him directly. It hovered in the corners instead, gathering where his shoulder met his throat, pooling in the shallow dip of his chest. His body looked almost carved. Lean, wiry muscle wrapped tight in skin that barely looked like it belonged to someone living.

But it was his eyes that held you in place.

They didn’t catch the light.

They made their own.

Twin glints of red shimmered low beneath his brow, steady and unblinking. Not the flash of a reflection. Not the glimmer of light hitting moisture. No. These burned from within, low and quiet, like embers buried deep beneath ash. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t pulse.

They glowed.

And in that glow was something else. Something wordless. Something ancient.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a sound.

Just stood there at the foot of your bed, breathing like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer. Like he’d been walking through a dream all night and didn’t want to wake you for fear of it ending.

It wasn’t hunger in his face. Not lust, either. It was… awe. Disbelief, maybe. As if he wasn’t entirely convinced you were still real.

And as you watched him, quiet, breath steady, you couldn’t help but wonder:

How long had he been doing this?

How many nights had he stood in that exact spot?

How many times had you not woken up? Had you not noticed?

The thought didn’t scare you. If anything, it stirred something softer. Stranger. Like the ghost of a heartbeat rising from the floorboards beneath you.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And neither did he.

By the time the alarm sounded, the sun wasn’t up yet, but he was already in the kitchen.

You heard the clink of porcelain, the soft scrape of a drawer sliding open, the rhythmic hush of his bare feet moving across the floor. The smell of something warm and faintly herbal drifted through the air. Something like honey and mint, but darker underneath. Earthier.

You sat up slowly, still heavy with the weight of half-slept dreams, and blinked against the dim light spilling in from the hallway.

Your clothes were already laid out again. Pressed and folded across the back of the couch. The same place as last time.

A blouse in cream and cinnamon tones. High-waisted slacks. The matching heels you'd only worn once, but that he’d polished clean anyway. Everything laid out with such care it made your chest ache. He didn’t miss a detail. He never did.

Even your hair products, combs, oils, moisturizers, pins, were already set neatly beside a warm towel on the kitchen counter. Like he’d anticipated the exact order you’d reach for them, the sequence of your morning carved into his mind.

You stepped in, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and found him whistling. Low and unhurried, some old tune you couldn’t place. He stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pan, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a quiet light to him this morning.

His hair was combed back, not slicked, but neat. The buttons on his shirt done all the way up, save for the top two, leaving his throat bare. His slacks were creased to perfection, and the leather belt cinched around his waist gleamed like he’d buffed it just for the occasion.

He looked over his shoulder at you, and his face lit up like it always did. Like you were the very thing he’d been hoping would walk through that doorway.

Because you were.

“Evenin',” he said with a smile, voice rough but still sweet.

You raised a brow. “It’s morning.”

His smile widened, almost sheepish. “Don’t feel like it.”

You moved closer, the floor cool beneath your bare feet, and leaned your hip against the counter beside him.

“You been up long?” you asked.

He shrugged, eyes flicking back to the pan. “Long enough. Wanted to make sure everything was just right.”

He handed you a steaming mug of tea without being asked. Your favorite, of course. Just the right amount of honey, just the way you liked it.

“You nervous?” he asked softly, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you watched him. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed slightly on the wooden spoon. His body was still, but the tension was there. It always was. Like the storm never fully left his bones.

“Not really,” you said. “Not yet.”

He nodded. Then turned toward you fully, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of his slacks. He studied you, head tilted slightly, eyes trailing over your face with that same intent scrutiny you were starting to get used to.

You didn’t flinch from it anymore.

“C’mere,” he said gently, holding out a hand.

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Then reached forward.

His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and careful, and he tugged you closer. Slow, but certain.

“I had a dream about you,” he said softly.

“You were wearin’ that same look. All bright-eyed and sharpened up. Like you’d walked straight out of some storybook meant to ruin someone,”

He laughed, soft and half-embarrassed, but didn’t look away.

“You make it hard for a man to think straight, y’know that?”

You didn’t respond right away. You just let the words settle, warm and slow in the hollow of your throat. Something in the way he said those words made your stomach twist. Made your breath stick somewhere deep in your ribs. It didn’t feel like the usual flattery. Not cheap. Not performative. Not the kind of thing you’d heard a dozen times back home or whispered at castings with a sleazy grin.

This was different. Lower. Honest. Like it surprised even him.

And maybe it did.

Because as soon as he said it, he seemed to catch himself. Barely. His throat moved with the effort of swallowing it down. His eyes dropped, and he took a small step back, as if distance might fix whatever he’d let slip between you.

“Go wash up,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll get breakfast finished.”

You didn’t argue. Just nodded once and moved toward the bathroom, heartbeat louder than your footsteps.

By the time you stepped out again, hair wrapped in a towel and skin still warm from the steam, the apartment smelled faintly of sage and something sweet. Peaches, maybe. Or brown sugar. You couldn’t tell. Just that it was soft. Comforting.

The living room had a golden hue now, touched by early light filtered through overcast skies. Everything looked gentler, as if the whole city had been wrapped in gauze.

Remmick wasn’t at the stove anymore. The burner was off, the kettle still hot beside it.

He stood at the window instead, one hand resting on the sill, the other pulling the curtain back just a fraction. Not enough to see out fully. Just enough to check.

When he turned back around and saw you, whatever he’d been worrying about fell clean out of his face.

His eyes widened slightly. Jaw slackened. His whole posture shifted, like the breath had been pulled straight out of him.

“God damn,” he whispered, nearly under his breath. “Look at you.”

You didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing. The high-waisted pants he’d picked out the night before, fitted just right to your waist. The blouse with its delicate neckline and little pearl buttons, catching faint light. Your curls still damp but styled soft and neat. Face clean. Mostly bare, but radiant.

You let yourself smile. Just a little. “You picked the outfit.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t nod, either.

Just walked toward you, slow and careful, like approaching something sacred. His boots barely made a sound on the old wood floor.

“Still,” he purred, reaching out to brush something, nothing, really, from your sleeve. His fingers lingered a little longer than needed. “You wear it better than I dreamed.”

He fussed over you the entire time. Fixing buttons. Adjusting seams. His fingers lingered where they shouldn’t have. On your hip, on your collarbone, but always under the guise of perfection.

“You’re gonna hate the cabs in this city,” he chuckled, smoothing a wrinkle from your skirt. “Good thing we’re not takin’ one.”

You raised a brow, though you weren't at all surprised. “We’re not?”

He looked up, pleased with himself in that quiet way. “Got a car waitin’. Somethin’ a little easier on the nerves. And the shoes.”

You laughed. “You got us another driver?”

“I got you a driver,” he corrected gently, brushing something invisible from your sleeve. “I just happen to be taggin’ along.”

His words tried to sound offhand, but his hands kept pausing. Kept hovering like they couldn’t quite bring themselves to let go.

The last touch lingered too long on your lower back.

“If it comes down to it,” he added lowly, “I’ll carry you myself.”

You smiled at the joke, but when you met his eyes, it wasn’t a joke at all.

He meant it.

And for a second, the air in the room felt heavier. Pressed in close. Charged.

You cleared your throat. “We better go.”

He nodded once, like it snapped him out of whatever spell he’d drifted into.

But just before you reached the door, he caught your hand. Gently. Held it between both of his, the edges of his fingers slightly trembling.

“Today ain’t just a shoot,” he said, voice steady, low. “It’s your beginnin’. Your real one. So when they look at you, don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Let ‘em see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” you asked softly.

He didn’t smile.

“Perfection.”

The car rolled to a stop outside a tall brick building tucked deep into SoHo, the kind with no sign on the front and a buzzer system you had to know how to work to get inside. From the curb, it didn’t look like much. A delivery van was parked at the corner. Two men with light meters and cases of film were hunched over a dolly at the service entrance. But inside was something different.

The photographer’s studio took up the entire top floor. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, wall-to-wall windows dressed in gauzy white fabric that filtered in the pale morning light like milk through cheesecloth. You stepped in and immediately noticed the quiet chill in the air, too sterile to feel artistic. Not cold exactly. Just... clinical.

The space had clearly been prepared. No one had cut corners. A fresh bouquet of lilies and peonies sat in a vase by the makeup station. Garment racks overflowed with gowns in every imaginable shade, some still tagged, some borrowed from designers who only lent to the best. Studio assistants buzzed around with clipboards and cups of coffee, walking fast but talking softly. Respectfully. Not to you, but to him.

Remmick.

He stood just behind your shoulder, as he always did, not saying much but radiating authority in a way that made people clear a path. There was no need for volume, no need for presence to be announced. His silence had weight. The kind that made a room shift without realizing it.

You saw it in the way spines straightened when he stepped close, the way assistants lowered their voices mid-sentence, as if whatever they were discussing might offend him by accident. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. His gaze alone, steady, unreadable, somehow both patient and predatory, did most of the work.

Every time someone turned, they looked at him first. Their questions never quite made it to your lips. The makeup artist. The stylist. Even the photographer, who was trying too hard to act like he didn’t notice. His eyes flicked to Remmick’s figure once, twice, like he was trying to place him. Like he didn’t understand why he felt nervous.

You’d started noticing it more often. How his presence rearranged a room. How the tone changed, the pace shifted. Like the energy bent around him before anyone knew it was happening.

The photographer, a trim white man in his late thirties with thin lips and thick-framed glasses, finally stepped forward. His pants were pressed too stiff. His cologne smelled sharp and expensive, but didn't mask the sweat already building beneath his collar. He gave you a quick glance. Nothing warm. Nothing memorable. Just a skim of the eyes like you were a fabric sample. He didn’t offer a name.

Instead, he turned his head, nose wrinkling ever so slightly, and addressed the stylist behind him.

“She’s darker than I expected,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. Not even a whisper of shame. “We’ll need to be careful with lighting. That undertone catches weird on film.”

You felt Remmick stiffen behind you. So subtly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so attuned to the way he breathed.

There was a silence, sudden and sharp, like someone had shut a drawer too hard.

But he didn’t speak.

Not yet.

You didn’t need to turn to know his hands were probably flexing at his sides, slow and deliberate. His restraint wasn’t the brittle kind. It was the kind that bided time. Waited for the perfect opening.

You kept your face smooth. Not blank, not soft, just controlled. Every inch of you brimming with dignity he clearly hadn’t expected. You caught one of the assistants glancing up from her clipboard, eyes wide and flicking from the photographer to you with something like alarm. Her jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

No one corrected him.

No one said a word.

But you simply walked past anyway, toward the makeup chair, head held high.

The chair sat beneath a ring of lights, too white and too bright. You sank into it with practiced grace, smoothing your robe over your thighs as a stylist bustled over, her nervous smile stretched too wide.

“Hey, sweetie,” she chirped. “Let’s get you glammed up, yeah?”

Her hands were quick, efficient. She swatched shades across your jawline with a speed that spoke more to panic than precision. None of them matched. Too yellow. Too gray. Too red. You didn’t say anything. Just watched as she fumbled, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for another palette.

“Your undertone’s so unique,” she muttered. “Really gotta find that balance... can’t let the camera flatten it...”

You knew what she meant.

And what she didn’t say.

Remmick hadn’t moved from the edge of the room. He leaned against a column, arms crossed, eyes locked on the back of your head through the mirror. Not breathing heavy. Not shifting. Just watching.

Guarding.

The stylist was careful with your hair, at least. Didn't try to fight it. Just lifted and pinned and fluffed with dutiful fingers, whispering tiny praises under her breath like she was scared of doing too much. She was trying, you gave her that. Whether it was guilt or fear or something closer to decency, you didn’t care. So long as she kept her hands gentle and her thoughts to herself.

“Camera loves your cheekbones,” she said, and that part sounded honest.

When you were done, you stood slowly, caught your own reflection in the mirror.

You looked like yourself.

Yourself, but sharpened. Framed in gold and plum. Lips glossed, lashes full, jaw set just right.

Behind you, Remmick shifted. You saw him in the glass, his eyes not on the outfit, not on the hair.

On you.

Always on you.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased in your chest.

The first few rounds of photos went smoothly enough. You moved between backdrops in different gowns. Deep purples, yellows, something champagne-colored with a sheer overlay that caught the light like water. The fabric floated when you walked, whispering against your legs, pooling at your ankles in gentle, liquid waves.

You didn’t pose so much as exist the way Remmick had taught you: shoulders open, chin tilted with certainty, mouth soft but deliberate. Posture like armor. Expression like invitation. You didn’t chase the camera. You let it come to you. Let it find the angles it wanted, as if it had no choice but to follow the pull of your gravity.

The flashbulbs burst in rhythmic intervals, bright and brief, filling the space with the scent of heat and ozone. Stylists moved around you in a silent, efficient orbit. Patting down your skirt hem, adjusting the hang of your sleeve, brushing an invisible strand of hair from your brow. But it was the photographer who kept lagging behind. You could feel it in the pauses. In the hesitations. In the way he kept glancing toward Remmick like a man who had questions he didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

“Give me something more demure,” he called at one point, standing behind the camera with a squint and a frown. “Less... confrontational. Softer eyes.”

Your brows lifted. Not high. Just enough. And just for a moment, you let your tongue slip.

“I’m looking into a lens.”

“Well, yes,” he said, chuckling like he thought that’d smooth things over. “But it’s just... try to be less direct. You’re a feature, not the focus.”

You didn't say anything back.

Your mouth didn't even twitch.

But Remmick did.

“She’s exactly the focus,” he said, stepping forward from the edge of the lights, voice low and firm and without a speck of humor. “That’s what centerfold means.”

The room went still again.

Even the stylist’s hands froze mid-pin near your waist. The assistant by the reflector stiffened, eyes darting between the two men.

The photographer adjusted a light. His fingers weren’t as steady as before.

“I meant it compositionally,” he said, clearing his throat, not quite meeting Remmick’s eye.

“No, you didn’t.”

Remmick said it without blinking.

His tone hadn’t changed. Calm. Crisp. But the weight behind it was enough to press the silence flat between every heartbeat in the room.

And for a moment, the only thing that moved was the slow flicker of the overhead bulb as it warmed.

The photographer looked down, fiddled with his light meter, and muttered something about “another angle.”

Eventually, the shoot resumed.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t fold.

But you caught the way Remmick stayed closer now. Just outside the frame. Arms still crossed. Watching the photographer like a man making mental measurements. Every time the camera clicked, his eyes weren’t on the flash, but on the hands that adjusted it. On the words that came next. On every breath, every shift in tone, like he was deciding whether or not to let this man finish his job.

As the final shots were taken, dramatic lighting, a sheer backdrop, your hair full and proud against the white, he moved beside the stylist and spoke low, voice barely above a hum.

“She’s done after this one,” he said. “I’ll be handling approvals.”

The stylist didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together, hands folding neatly at her waist.

You were back in your clothes ten minutes later, the silk blouse clinging a little from the heat still radiating off your skin. The dressing room felt more cramped than it did before, the air heavy with setting spray and leftover perfume. Your throat was dry. One of the assistants handed you a paper cup with a straw, and you accepted it without a word, sipping slow, letting the cool water settle the heat in your chest.

Someone knelt beside you, working at the straps of the heels. Your feet ached, throbbing faintly from hours of posing. Never quite standing, never quite walking, just holding beauty in place.

Remmick was waiting by the door.

He hadn’t moved the entire time. Coat over his arm, one hand resting lightly against the wall as if to anchor himself. His body didn’t sway. Didn’t fidget. But his jaw ticked every few seconds, like he was grinding something silent between his teeth.

When you joined him, blouse tucked, shoulders square, he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you.

Looked long.

“You were perfect,” he hummed, voice barely above a hush.

“But?”

“But nothing,” he said, tone rough at the edges. “You were perfect.”

He opened the door with his free hand, held it until you passed through, his touch naturally settling the small of your back.

He didn’t comment on the photographer again.

He didn’t have to.

You saw it in the way he walked beside you. Shoulders set too tight, gait too rigid for someone supposedly at ease. His jaw was still clenched, the muscle there twitching with the rhythm of his steps. His fingers flexed every now and then, as if rehearsing something they’d wanted to do but hadn’t been given permission to.

And when you stepped into the elevator, he stood still. Hands folded in front of him. The red shimmer pulsed once, subtle and slow. You reached out, gently brushing the tips of your fingers against his wrist.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

Just looked at you, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

You weren’t sure what he would’ve done if you hadn’t been there to stop him.

But you were.

And he let you lead this time.

Just this once.

It had been a week since the shoot. Seven full days since your skin was powdered and styled, since camera bulbs flashed like lightning, and since Remmick’s hand hovered behind your back like a second spine. Steadier than any wall, quieter than any breath, always there.

And now, a week later, the magazines were out.

The sun hadn’t even gone down when you heard the lock click. You were barefoot in the living room, tea cooling untouched on the windowsill, your thumb slowly dragging across the same corner of the same page in a book you hadn’t really touched since morning. You weren’t reading. Just looking. Letting the quiet stretch long around you.

The soft hum of traffic rose from below, dulled behind brick and double glass. Somewhere across the alley, a radio crackled faintly from an open window. But inside, the air was hushed and warm, filled with the scent of sweet almond and black vanilla. Something Remmick had lit before he left, soft and curling in the corners of the apartment like memory. A clean smell. Luxurious in its calm.

You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open.

Remmick stepped in, arms full. No coat, he hadn’t worn one in days now, but his favorite fitted blazer was slung on his shoulders. Brown and a little rumpled like he’d worn it too long. His sleeves were pushed to the elbows, forearms exposed, the collar open at his throat. His skin looked flushed, not from heat, but from effort. From thrill.

And in his hands?

Magazines.

Stacks and stacks of them.

Glamour. Thick, glossy. Dozens, no, maybe hundreds of copies, some with their spines still crisp, others already peeled open, like he couldn’t resist peeking before bringing them home. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe and dropped the load on the coffee table in a huff of breath and triumph.

You blinked at the pile.

Then looked up at him.

Then back down.

“…Remmick.”

He beamed at you.

Actually beamed.

And for just a second, just long enough to make your stomach flip, you saw them.

Fangs.

Not teeth. Not canines. Fangs.

They hadn’t fully retracted. The points glinted faintly behind his bottom lip, his mouth too wide with joy to contain them, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to hide.

He didn’t notice. Not yet. Just stood there, catching his breath, eyes glowing faint and sweet in the lamplight like he'd returned from battle with spoils no one could take from him.

And you, watching from the couch, weren’t sure what took your breath first. His smile, or the fact that it wasn’t quite human.

“Every shop had a limit,” he said breathlessly, already tugging the first magazine open. “Three per customer, some of ’em said. Five, if I smiled real nice.”

You raised a brow.

He licked his thumb, flipped a page. “So I went to every damn shop in Manhattan.”

And he meant it. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves wrinkled at the elbows. A thin line of sweat traced his temple like he’d run half the way home. You could practically see the city on him. Subway grit on his cuffs, the faint scent of cold air and ink clinging to the folds of his blazer. He looked like a man who’d carried your name through the streets like it was gospel.

Then he found the spread.

Your spread.

Dead center in the glossy pages, your face filled the left half. Your body, the way they’d posed you, half reclined, your mouth parted like you’d just finished saying something worth listening to, took up the right. Above it, the title gleamed in embossed gold: A Southern Star on the Rise

He whistled low. “Would you look at that.”

He turned the magazine toward you like you hadn’t already lived it. Like you hadn’t memorized every contour, every careful arch of your brows, every piece of your expression caught in that still moment of light.

But he held it like it was sacred. Like scripture. Like he was revealing something you hadn’t quite grasped yet.

“Damn,” he muttered, opening another copy. “Print didn’t dull you a bit. Thought maybe it would. Thought maybe it’d catch you wrong. But no. You shine right through.”

He pulled open another magazine. Then another.

In seconds, your entire coffee table disappeared under layers of your own image. Identical pages laid side by side, all turned to the centerfold. There you were, over and over again. Still. Composed. Glowing.

Like a constellation laid across the living room. Like stars, just rearranged.

Remmick crouched beside the table, smoothing one copy flat with the care of someone laying down silk. He didn’t blink, just studied the page like it was breathing, alive. Like he was waiting for it to reach back.

Then he rose to full height, tucked a copy under his arm, and walked over to you. Still barefoot. Still silent.

Still watching.

And you, frozen on the couch, felt your throat tighten with something you hadn’t named yet.

“You seen yourself in these?” he asked, voice quiet and smooth. Like the question itself was fragile.

You nodded once.

He grinned and leaned in to kiss your cheek. Just a brush of lips. But slow. Like it meant something. Like it had waited all day to land there, and now that it had, the world could keep spinning again.

Then he reached for your chin. Callused fingers gentle as they tipped your face up, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“I want you to say it,” he demanded, though so gently you could've mistaken it for a polite question.

You blinked. “Say what?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Really looked. His pupils were blown wide, red bleeding through the blue, burning steady in the low light of your living room.

Not glowing out of hunger.

Not now.

Out of pride. Out of something heavier. Older.

He waited.

So you said it.

Soft at first. A breath, barely formed.

“I’m a fuckin’ star.”

His smile widened. Slow, hungry, like it’d been waiting just beneath the surface.

So you said it again.

Louder this time.

“I’m a fuckin’ star!”

And this time, he didn’t stop at your cheek.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. Gentle. Noncommittal. A press of gratitude, of awe. Like you’d just named something holy.

Then he straightened, tapped your shoulder once with two fingers like sealing a blessing, and turned back toward the coffee table. Toward the sea of open pages like he couldn’t stand to look at just one.

He crouched again. Fingers drifting over the print, barely touching the paper. Just enough to feel the ink. Just enough to make sure it was real.

Behind him, you stared down at your own face. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room felt covered in you. Until your name echoed back at you from every glossy surface.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

You reached for one of the magazines and ran your hand over the fold. The version of yourself staring back was powerful. Beautiful. Alive. You looked like a woman who knew exactly who she was.

The only thing stronger than the pride warming your chest was the look in his eyes every time he flipped a page.

He thumbed through another copy, quieter now. As if just the sound of turning paper was too loud. Then, almost absentmindedly, like the thought had just resurfaced between page turns, he said it:

“Oh, Vogue called.”

Your head snapped up.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept flipping, smoothing down a crease on one of the centerfolds.

“Said they had an opening next month. I booked it. Thursday, ten.”

You blinked.

“Vogue.”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, distracted. Eyes still on the magazine in front of him. “Figured it was a good fit. Didn’t wanna wait.”

“You... booked a Vogue shoot?”

He finally looked up then, eyes wide and sincere, brows pinched like he was only just realizing something might be unusual.

“I mean… yeah. I told you, didn’t I?”

You stared at him.

He stared at your photo.

And then you laughed. Soft, incredulous, stunned.

Because of course he had.

Of course Vogue had called Remmick.

Of course they had seen the piece and knew exactly what they were looking at.

He hadn’t had to knock on their door, hadn’t begged or bargained. They came to him.

Because when they saw you, they didn’t see a gamble. They didn’t see a request.

They saw inevitability.

And Remmick?

He treated it like the most obvious thing in the world.

“You,” you said, smiling now, “are insane.”

He blinked once. Then gave a faint shrug, turning back to the magazine.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But I’m not wrong.”

And when he looked at you again, spread out across a dozen pages, glowing under lamplight, you could see the truth settle in his expression.

He wasn’t just proud.

He was certain.

You were everything he said you were.

And now, the world was catching up.

You woke to the scent of freshly peeled citrus and the low sound of Remmick humming. The windows were still closed, the curtains drawn against a morning sky that hadn’t quite made up its mind. The apartment smelled sharper than usual. Grapefruit, maybe. Lemongrass. Something he knew cleared your head. You were still blinking the sleep from your eyes when his silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“Up,” he said gently. “Got somethin’ to tell you.”

You sat up slowly. “What time is it?”

“Little after six. But don’t panic,” he added, smile curling at the corners. “You’ve got hours.”

You raised a brow. “Remmick... what?”

He walked in, holding your outfit already pressed and draped across one arm. Light blue silk. Crisp ivory slacks. A bold, gold-buttoned jacket you didn’t recognize.

He held them out. “We’re goin’ to Vogue.”

You blinked. “I know. You said the shoot was today.”

He hesitated. Then, sheepishly, almost boyish, he added, “Right. But, uh… I didn’t tell you everything.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “It’s the cover. They want you on the cover.”

Your mouth went dry.

He took a step back. Just one. Holding the clothes like a peace offering. “Figured if I told you earlier, you’d start worryin’. Fret about posture. Or pores. Or your walk. Or-”

“Remmick.”

He looked at you then. Earnest. Glowing.

You pressed your palm against your chest, trying to slow the way your heart was kicking against your ribs.

“The cover?” you whispered.

“Front page. Full feature.”

It should’ve floored you. Maybe it still would. But right now, all you could do was nod and let him help you out of bed.

He guided you through the morning like a man who’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Hands careful, patient. Shirt laid out before you needed it. Jewelry untangled before you even glanced at the box. He pressed a warm cloth to your face, careful not to disturb the curl of your hair, freshly done the night before.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” he said, and you knew he believed every single word.

And then, quieter, almost to himself: “And I’ll be right there to see it.”

The car was waiting downstairs. Sleek and black and already running, the driver greeting Remmick with a nod and holding the door open for you like he’d been coached. Your nerves didn’t settle, not even on the drive. But Remmick’s hand rested gently against your knee the entire way. Grounding. Warm.

The studio was quiet when you arrived. Museum quiet, gallery quiet. The kind of stillness that felt curated, intentional, like someone had taken great care to make the space feel more like a cathedral than a workplace. The polished concrete floors were cool under your heels, spotless and reflecting faint outlines of the high arched windows that lined the walls. Exposed brick, original to the building, gave the room a sense of old, lived-in charm, and soft white curtains billowed ever so slightly from vents high above. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, linen, and something powdery-sweet.

You moved through the entrance with Remmick just behind you, his hand barely grazing the small of your back. Never guiding, just anchoring. He didn’t speak, didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. His presence always did the talking.

The photographer met you before you’d taken more than three steps inside. “Étienne,” he said, with a faint bow of the head. His accent was French, thick and rounded at the edges, the syllables slipping from his mouth like warm sugar. His hair was silver at the temples, his blazer draped and elegant, and his handshake was firm but not aggressive. Warm, like he’d waited a long time to meet you.

“It is my absolute pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said. “I’ve admired your spread in Glamour. You moved with the camera. Not many know how to do that.”

He didn’t say your skin glowed.

Didn’t ask about your hair.

Didn’t say anything about being “surprised” by your presence.

He just met your eyes, quiet and open. Like you were someone worth listening to.

“Today,” he said, “you belong to the camera. Let’s make her fall in love.”

You let yourself breathe, just a little.

The rest of the team introduced themselves in a calm rhythm, one by one. No rushed hands. No clipped instructions. A stylist with a soft Brooklyn accent asked gently before adjusting your collarbone. A makeup artist barely older than you murmured a few compliments while swatching shades along your jaw. Matched your undertones on the first go. No hesitation. No apologies.

Your hair wasn’t “a challenge.” It wasn’t “big.” It was just yours. One woman, sharp-eyed and efficient, studied the fullness of your curls for a beat, then nodded once and said, “Let’s let it speak today.” No flattening. No translation.

You didn’t feel tolerated.

You felt expected.

Appreciated.

The way the room moved around you was not with caution, but with respect. Like your place had already been made, and they were just moving to match it.

And Remmick, he didn’t hover today.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t step in or offer unnecessary notes. He took a chair near the edge of the set, legs crossed, hands loosely clasped over one knee. His coat lay neatly across the back of the chair, and he looked like he was simply waiting for a performance he’d already seen, waiting to watch it unfold in the flesh.

He watched you the way a man watched a storm rolling in. Calm. Certain. Unwavering.

His eyes tracked your every step.

And when the camera clicked, when Étienne raised the lens and tilted his head just so, it began.

Soft commands, never harsh.

“Lift your chin just a touch, oui. That’s perfect.”

“Let the shoulder dip, like you’re sighing.”

“Not a smile. Just the idea of one.”

And you you didn’t pose. You existed. You did what Remmick had drilled into you for weeks: you let the room adjust to you. Shoulders drawn back, chin at just the right angle, spine fluid. You didn’t chase the lens. You let it orbit you.

Each frame caught something new: your strength, your softness, your refusal to shrink.

Backdrops shifted behind you. One faded into the next. Cool eggshell white to a moody, smoky grey. Then to a blush-rose curtain lit from behind to mimic early sunrise, and finally to a gold-toned gradient that bathed your skin in warmth, turning every line of your body into a celebration. Your hands, your mouth, the arch of your back. You weren’t just in the photo.

You were the photo.

At one point, as you adjusted in the sheer champagne gown, the stylist stepped close to smooth a wrinkle on your shoulder. She paused, tilted her head, then muttered under her breath, “I swear, you don’t have a bad angle.”

Remmick smiled at that.

Didn’t say anything.

But you saw his fingers twitch against his knee.

And when Étienne pulled the camera down after the final shot, when the room held its breath and the lights warmed one final time, he exhaled slow, his voice dropping.

“Mon dieu,” he said. “You are going to be the beginning of a new era.”

There weren’t cheers. No grand applause. Just a quiet stillness that settled over the room like snowfall.

The stylists nodded. One of the assistants wiped her eyes.

Your name passed around the room in whispers.

Back in your own clothes again, the familiar weight of your own scent folded into the fabric, you stood in front of the mirror, unsure what exactly had changed.

Something had.

You could still feel the echo of the lights on your skin, the soft heat of the set, the way Étienne had whispered magnifique under his breath more than once without knowing you heard him. The clothes they’d dressed you in had been draped and pinned and sculpted to fit your body like a second skin, but now that they were gone, what lingered wasn’t fabric.

It was power.

You weren’t wearing a magazine dress anymore.

But you still felt like a cover.

You gathered your things slowly. Slipped on your shoes one at a time. Tucked the lipstick you'd needlessly brought. Gave the studio one last glance over your shoulder, just to make sure it had all been real. That the lights weren’t a trick, that the hush in the room wasn’t some illusion of grandeur.

And then you saw him.

Remmick.

Standing at the edge of the studio floor, right where the light faded into shadow. His coat was folded neatly over one arm, the other hanging at his side, still and sure. He didn’t lean against the wall. Didn’t shift his weight. He just stood there like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, this exact you, to turn and meet his eyes.

And when you did?

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t grin. Didn’t offer some teasing remark or coy turn of phrase.

He just looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

Or maybe he could.

Like he’d known it all along but still wasn’t prepared for the truth of it staring back at him now, standing in her own skin, quiet and luminous and ready.

He extended his hand.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Like a gentleman.

Like a vow.

You stepped forward, each footfall soft against the studio floor, and reached out to take it.

His palm was warm. Slightly callused, as always. Big enough to hold you steady.

And when he leaned in close, closer than necessary, just so his breath could touch your ear, his voice dropped so low it barely cleared the air.

“They’re never gonna forget this.”

A beat passed. Two.

Neither did you.

Not the way the stylist said your name like it mattered. Not the way Étienne had bowed when the shoot wrapped, saying Merci, étoile. Not the way your hands hadn’t shaken once. Not the way Remmick’s thumb had grazed your knuckles on the way out, subtle and steady.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the city welcomed its newest star.

You should’ve known not to get your hopes up.

Remmick had warned you once before. To not believe in the win until the ink dries and the check clears. And still, the moment the phone rang, you felt the breath catch in your chest like something was finally about to settle right.

It was early, too early, and the tea in your hand hadn’t even cooled yet. Steam curled in the morning light, soft and golden through the windows.

You heard him answer it in the kitchen. Not loud, not sharp. Just steady.

“Remmick.”

His voice, smooth. Polished. Still cold from sleep, but clipped with that quick professionalism he always wore when someone else was listening.

There was a pause. Long enough to tighten something at the base of your neck.

“…Come again?”

That was the first red flag.

You stood. Not rushed, not loud. Just enough to hear better. Half-expecting him to wave you off with a flick of his fingers, that little sideways smile he gave when things were under control.

But he didn’t.

He turned his back instead. Shoulders hunched slightly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want you to hear what was coming next.

He rubbed the back of his neck once, then pressed his thumb into the edge of the counter like he needed the grounding. His knuckles whitened around the phone cord, twisting it once, twice, tighter.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “I’m familiar with your lead editor.”

Another pause.

Then something darker entered his tone.

“Yes. The one with the impeccable eye for trend pieces.”

Your stomach dropped.

There was silence on his end. Long. Tense.

And then:

“They what?”

His voice didn’t rise. Not yet.

But it changed. Dropped lower. Flat and cold like steel before it’s drawn.

You stepped closer, quiet as breath, barefoot against the hardwood. Leaned just enough to see the side of his face. The angle of his jaw, sharp and flexed. The twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“They’ve already had their one for the year?” he repeated.

Low. Disbelieving. Dangerous.

His free hand came up, rubbing slow at his temple like he needed to press the words back out of his skull.

“Who’s they?” he asked, quieter now, but you felt the weight of it in your chest. “Go on. Say it clear.”

There was no response.

Just static. A voice on the other end fumbling for footing.

Remmick’s brows drew together.

“No, I’m not upset with you,” he said, voice thinning again into something cool and even. “I understand you’re just passing the message along.”

He closed his eyes a moment. You could see him working to keep it in. Like something old and sharp was waking in his blood, trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I’d like to speak with the editor directly,” he said, softer now. “Yes. I’ll hold.”

And then his hand dropped to the counter. Fingers drumming.

Waiting. Ready.

The line clicked.

Then his jaw twitched.

“Good morning,” he said. Different now. Calmer, colder. Stripped of the courtesy he kept like a glove around secret hands. “Didn’t expect to catch you so early.”

You still couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. Not a single word. But you didn’t have to.

You could see everything you needed in him.

The stillness of his posture, the death grip he had on the base of the phone, the fine tremble running through the muscle of his forearm beneath that rolled-up cotton sleeve. It wasn’t the kind of rage that burst outward. It was the kind that boiled, thick and patient, one degree at a time.

“Yes,” he said, so polite it sounded rehearsed. “I was just speaking with your assistant.”

He closed his eyes a moment. Not a blink, but something longer. As if he needed to press the lids down tight to keep from rolling them.

“She told me they, meaning you, have reconsidered the cover.”

The pause that followed was electric. Tense.

Then, low and even:

“Right. Of course. Marketable. That’s the word you’re going with?”

He said it like the word itself offended him. Like it was dirty in his mouth. Too small for what he knew you were worth.

You moved forward without thinking. Just enough to lean your shoulder against the hallway wall. Careful. Watchful. Your arms folded tightly across your chest, heart beating fast and slow at once. He hadn’t seen you yet.

And you weren’t sure he was aware of anything anymore beyond that call.

“I see,” he said softly.

That was the shift.

The sound of something sliding into place. Like a bolt locking. A fuse catching.

“So let me get this straight,” he continued. Slow. Measured. Precise in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Your board approved the shoot. Your casting team signed off. Your editor watched the proofs. Sat on them. And now, after all that, you want to scale her back to a feature because you already had your cover for the year.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was dense.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t curse.

He didn’t raise his voice by an inch.

But every word landed like a coin dropped on concrete. Heavy. Sharp. Deliberate.

“You think this city’s gonna run out of covers?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but it wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief, slicked with venom. “Or is it just that you think she’s the kind of beauty you ration out, so you don’t have to explain yourselves twice?”

His free hand braced against the counter now, steadying himself.

“Was she too sharp? Too soft? Too dark?” he asked, the last word clipped so hard it cracked in the air.

You watched him as he stood there, completely still except for the way his shoulders were rising. Measured. Controlled.

But underneath that, underneath every inch of him, he was seething.

He wasn’t shouting.

But something inside him was.

And you knew it. Could feel it.

Remmick was holding onto composure with a thread, not because he didn’t want to break, but because he knew what would happen if he did. Because if he said what he really meant, what lived behind that voice, that mouth, those glowing eyes, he might set the whole building on fire.

And you hadn’t even heard the worst of it yet.

His voice didn’t rise at first.

It stayed low, clipped, deliberate. But the sharpness in it grew. Line by line. Word by word. Like something uncoiling inside him, slick with heat and venom.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice climbing with a force that prickled the air, “and listen real good, if you think for one goddamn second that this is a numbers game, a market play, a token, you’ve already lost the future.”

You flinched. Not because he was yelling at you. He wasn’t.

He was yelling for you.

“You want safe? Go print another profile on Gunilla Lindblad. You want forgettable? Put some washed-out French girl on the cover in a turtleneck. But if you want history, if you want impact, you don’t remove the only name worth remembering.”

He turned then. Saw you.

And his eyes didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“She’s the only thing your readers are gonna remember come fall,” he snapped, jaw set, nostrils flaring. “Not the blonde. Not the brunette. Not whatever recycled face you’re tryin’ to float next. Her.”

There was a sputter of protest from the line. You couldn’t hear what was said. Didn’t need to. You were watching Remmick’s knuckles flare white around the phone.

“No, I don’t care what the board says. I don’t care what the sponsor says. And I sure as hell don’t care what you think’ll sell. I know what sells. You’re lookin’ at the future and treating it like it’s a fuckin’ one-shot.”

His voice cracked with how tightly it hit the consonants. Near shouting now, not just raised. Commanding.

“You owe her the same shot you’d give any other girl in her place. And if the only reason you’re pulling her is because you already had your one,” he hissed the word like it was venom, “then you better grow a spine before I walk you into a lawsuit so loud it echoes into next year’s masthead.”

Silence on the other end.

Remmick didn’t wait.

“I want you at the brownstone tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Alone.”

His next words were a knife dragged slow.

“We’ll talk in person.”

And then he hung up.

Didn’t slam the receiver. Just lowered it with a kind of deliberate grace, a calm that only made the burn beneath more terrifying. He stared at the cradle for a moment like he could crush it just by looking hard enough.

Then sat, slowly, at the dining table. Exhaled through his nose.

He didn’t look up at you right away.

Just stared at the wood grain beneath his fingers, the set of his jaw making it clear he was holding something in.

Then his hand rose.

Palm up.

You crossed the room without a word and slid your fingers into his.

He pulled you down gently, like you were breakable, into his lap. One arm curled low across your waist, the other resting across your thighs. His hands were steady, even though you could still feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms, coiled and waiting, like it hadn’t quite drained from him yet.

His cheek pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the side of your neck.

“You’re goin’ on that cover,” he said, low and final.

There was no fire behind it. No venom.

Just certainty.

Like he was telling you the weather. Like it was already written in the next day’s paper.

You turned slightly in his arms. His hands tightened to keep you balanced, to keep you close. “Remmick…”

“No,” he cut in, soft. “No more backpedalin’. No more maybe next times. We play their game, we lose. You hear me?”

You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

He looked up then. Met your gaze dead on. The light in the kitchen caught in his irises, a faint, simmering red just beneath the blue. Not bright. Not threatening. Just there. Alive.

“Which means,” he continued, more gently now, “you’re not gonna be here tomorrow night.”

That made you blink. “What?”

“I want you out the house. Just for a few hours. Somewhere comfortable. I’ll make sure your ride’s arranged. I don’t care if it’s the theatre or a restaurant. Hell, spend it with friends if you want.”

You didn’t have any of those yet.

He knew that.

Still, his tone didn’t waver.

“I just need the place. Need it quiet. I don’t want you hearin’ what might be said.”

His fingers grazed your wrist, his thumb brushing along your pulse. You leaned back, just slightly, the movement slow. Measured. Testing.

“What are you gonna say?”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “Enough.”

That was all he gave you.

And somehow, it was enough.

He kissed your temple then. Just once.

The kiss wasn’t sweet.

It was solemn.

Like a promise.

Like a man setting something in motion.

And you, sitting in his lap with your arms around his shoulders and your pulse kicking hard against your ribs, believed him. Felt something shifting under your skin.

A current.

A warning.

You’d seen Remmick angry before. Seen the quiet tension in his jaw when someone spoke over you. The cold way he looked at men who looked too long. The clipped tone when a stylist suggested straightening your hair or brightening your skin.

But not like this.

Not cold. Not still.

This wasn’t bluster.

It was a verdict.

You pressed your forehead to his, and he closed his eyes like the touch settled something in him. His fingers slid slowly along the small of your back. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t grip.

He just held.

Quiet and firm.

And somewhere, under all your nerves, you felt that same fire rise too.

Because he was right.

This was your cover.

And they didn’t get to decide otherwise.

Not anymore.

cont'd.

[floralmelancolie]

sex pollen + giyuu nagghhhhh i wanna see him literally start to go crazy from neediness and once he gets you to fuck him , no matter how many times he comes its just never enough—the over sensitivity paired with the burning need to come again just melts his brain…

(ps what do u think would make him cry during sex + something he likes but is really embarrassed about)

xx take care♥️

anon my love. i haven’t had the chance to write my extensive thoughts on this but know i’ve been going insane with this in my inbox. i’ll revisit the post script soon, you’ve sparked so many thoughts about mega whore giyuu <3

giyuu is already soooo needy. his big blue eyes fill with tears whenever you graze over his most sensitive spots, staring at you like a deer in headlights with his chest rising and falling quickly, cute little nipples puffy and bitten red, coming almost immediately at anything you do to him. he lays back and lets you play with him, a warm hole for you to use and giyuu is content with anything so long as you touch him.

but with something like sex pollen? oh… what a gorgeous sight. giyuu throws himself onto you, whimpering and humping his weeping cock that’s just sooo hard and needy against your leg. his hands would bundle into your haori, staring up at you desperately with flushed cheeks, pretty wet lips spread so eagerly. he can’t help it. he needs you, so bad.

giyuu’s so cute to tease. desperate, horny. he’s relatively quiet during sex asides from some sweet whines and gasps, but he’d be sooo noisy like this. breaths coming fast and wet, as he tugs you closer to him while he humps your leg.

“c’mon, need it,” giyuu whimpers, tears brimming at the corner of his eyes. he nuzzles his head into your neck, a strangled sob leaving his throat as you raise your leg into his needy cock. “p-please! don’t tease.”

you struggle to bite back a chuckle at how just damn horny your beautiful partner is, stroking a hand against his sweaty hair. “use your words,” you tease. “what does my baby need?”

“n-no, don’t make me say it… please,” he mutters between whines, squeezing his thighs together against your own and grinding down harder.

he acts like he hates it— you teasing him and making him beg for what he wants. but giyuu loves it. it’s cathartic for him, to let go of any shame. to let you take him apart and use his body how you please. if you push him just the right way, like this, he’ll scream pleas of more into the pillow until his throat goes hoarse.

“i dunno… i’m not too convinced.”

“f-fuck me, please, i need it! want it so bad!” giyuu cries, arching his back into you so beautifully and tearfully. with a harsh grind against your thigh, you feel a patch on your pants grow wet.

“no… fuck, i’m sorry.” giyuu says, attempting to pull off with his eyes lidded. you grip his waist tight, pulling him back down onto your leg, yelping at a swift spank over his ass.

“you’re beautiful, ‘yuu. let me fill you up good, mkay? fuck you dumb.”

giyuu could come in his pants like this. but he needs his hole filled— needs to be fucked stupid. he can feel his brain growing fuzzy, the corner of his vision going a little blurry. the only thing that boils in his stomach is pleasure and the knot of an orgasm on the brim. he loves that mindless feeling as you drag him onto your cock, enjoys the almost dehumanizing feeling of being a warm sleeve for you to use.

of course, giyuu knows you love him. knows you care for his pleasure— but his pleasure is best earned when you’re chasing your own. no matter how much you use him, he’s still so tight, clenching desperately around you, hands grasping against anything he can to ground himself as he feels another orgasm brewing.

“cumming, so good! mhh, please! m-more…” giyuu cries, a small bit of tears and drool staining the pillow beneath him as you pound deeply into his tight hole. his chest is flat against the bed, hips pulled impossibly high as you piston deep into him.

reaching your hand down, you flick at the tip of his red sensitive cock. he squeals, eyes opening wide as he sniffs.

“that’s… no, too much, just came! d-don’t—”

you know giyuu doesn’t mean it when he says no. he’d let you know if he truly didn’t want to— so you wrap your hand against his wet weeping cock and pump. giyuu’s hips jerk wildly, cum spurting out of his cock as you force his head back into that airy and floaty feeling.

“gonna— ngh, sensitive! fffuck,” giyuu drawls, nouth agape as his body twitches. his tongue hangs loose from his mouth, tears running down his adorably red cheeks.

“you got this, baby. attaboy. so good,” you praise, a slap against his ass arching his back further back into a position that has you pounding against his abused prostate. “my pretty, pretty, good boy.”

“good? i am?”

“mhm, my good little fucktoy. you love this, right? love getting pounded like the slut you are?”

giyuu nods quickly, hiccuping as you thumb over his slit as you press deep against his prostate. he feels melted, letting you take such good care of him as he lays there like a doll.

he can’t take it, but he has to keep cumming. his tummy feels so full… giyuu’s too brain dead to tell if it’s from your cum or from another orgasm building. a press against his tummy will have him shaking like crazy, holding it hard as he comes again. his body is so used, so tired, but it’s so soothing and cathartic. giyuu loves to be treated like a dumb little cumdump~

(and ps. as much as giyuu loves being fucked to tears of overstimulation, i think he’d cry at genuine slow sex. nothing too crazy, he just gets emotional at the love he’s feeling, and cries unconciously.

he’s embarrassed of it, but giyuu loves to be manhandled during sex. it drives him crazy when you toss him around like he’s nothing, and doesn’t mind if you’re rough enough to leave bruises, so long as you take care of them. he just doesn’t know how to ask you about these fantasies he has without sounding crazy… he daydreams of being slapped around by you. he just has a good enough poker face to hide it.)

[jynxedshapeshifter]

so apollo's dynamic with klavier is interesting

Hello and welcome to the Klapollo essay I said I was going to write. I mostly decided to write this because I think it's interesting that Apollo goes from "I have to pull that darkness out of him!" in Turnabout Succession to "oh god not him again" in Turnabout Academy, and I wanted to make a post analyzing why (but also I find it weird every time I see someone say Apollo hates Klavier, which doesn't happen often to be fair but is still a bit weird to me because Apollo canonically doesn't hate Klavier. Neither does Ema for that matter, at least in my opinion, but that's a post for a different time).

Part 1: Apollo Has Never Hated Klavier

First things first, Apollo has never canonically hated Klavier. At worst he finds him annoying. The first interaction they have after Klavier has the officer in front of People Park let Apollo and Trucy investigate is during the first day of Wocky's trial, where a lot of Apollo's interactions with Klavier are either annoyed, confused, or both. It's also made clear during the first day of Wocky's trial that Apollo finds Klavier attractive to some degree, as this is where we get the "I'll wipe that smirk off your pretty face, Gavin!" line. Notably, he never really genuinely shows disdain towards him, just annoyance. Like that's literally the worst we see his opinion of Klavier get. Apollo is vocal when he doesn't like something, we would know if he actually didn't like Klavier. From the start most of his comments on Klavier amount to "what the fuck is his deal" or subtle implications that he doesn't realize he's attracted to Klavier in some way which. Relatable.

Anyway, with that out of the way, I would like to talk about every interaction they've had whether it's canon or not.

Part 2: I don't know what to call this section

When I say I want to talk about every interaction Apollo and Klavier have ever had, I very much mean every interaction (although not necessarily in-depth). Whether that be how they interact during Wocky's trial or how they interact during the Gavinners Reunion tour CD drama, I will be analyzing all of it because this is my blog and I do what I want.

Part 2.1: Turnabout Corner

First things first, Klavier's first interaction with Apollo and Trucy. Klavier teases Apollo for staring, Apollo is still a bit confused because Klavier looks like Kristoph, and then Klavier very specifically turns his attention to Trucy, and this is what finally knocks Apollo out of his confused daze (which is really funny. Apollo basically got annoyed by Klavier ignoring him).

Important thing to note here: in at least the first part of Turnabout Corner's trial, Guilty Love is diegetic, which basically means it doesn't just exist as background music for us, the players, but it also exists in universe as Klavier's accompaniment when he's in court.

During the first part of Wocky's trial, which is when Apollo is first able to actually get a proper impression of how Klavier is, this exchange happens:

Klavier: Achtung, baby! Today we play it my way! Apollo: (What's that… noise?) Klavier: Sometimes you have to get on up in order to get down... to prosecuting! Apollo: (This is crazy…)

At this point in the game, Apollo just seems a bit exasperated by Klavier's antics. Like his reaction is basically "I'm the only normal person in this courtroom." A few lines after this, Apollo (internally) asks Klavier if he can speak without the accompaniment. Apollo's exasperation towards Klavier continues throughout the trial. He gets annoyed, he gets irritated, but he never actually gets angry with Klavier. You could argue he gets angry with Klavier when Klavier says "At least one person on the defense team seems to be thinking" but you could just as easily argue he's being defensive. Something also worth noting here is that that line of Klavier's is what triggers him to think "Grr... I'll wipe that smile off your pretty face, Gavin!" which also, notably, is the first indication we get that Apollo finds Klavier attractive.

Apollo continues to, throughout the game, make comments implying he finds Klavier annoying because of how he presents himself (in Turnabout Corner, for example, he says he wishes Klavier would stop being so cool, which seems to be similar to Ema's general attitude toward Klavier but that's for another post). Some more things of note in Turnabout Corner:

Klavier continues to tease Apollo throughout the trial, which mainly flusters Apollo instead of making him actually upset or anything.

When Klavier meets Apollo and Trucy outside People Park the second time, the first thing he does is have Apollo wave at his fans, once again flustering him (but notably not making him annoyed or anything, just confused and flustered). After this, he slips some pretty important information regarding the case to Apollo and Trucy.

Klavier helps Trucy and Apollo throughout the trial as much as he can. A lot of it comes off as him being a dick but he is genuinely helping Trucy and Apollo.

So to summarize: Apollo's attraction to Klavier is implied as early as the first trial day for Wocky's trial, and Apollo is, at worst, irritated by Klavier's antics.

Part 2.2: Turnabout Serenade

Apollo tending to be more annoyed than anything else with Klavier's antics continues in Turnabout Serenade. Apollo reacts worst to Klavier, in his eyes, not taking LeTouse's murder seriously. When Klavier asks him what crime he's referring to (the multiple thefts Klavier's a victim of or the murder) Apollo goes "The murder, what else?!" which is the most annoyed he gets with Klavier specifically in Turnabout Serenade. Apollo actually spends decent chunk of Turnabout Serenade sassing the hell out of Klavier.

Apollo also mentions that Klavier is "cool" in Turnabout Serenade which is something he's jealous about, and immediately tells himself he'll never admit it to Trucy. Here's the specific bit of dialogue:

(To be honest… …he was kind of cool. And I'm kind of envious. Not that I'd ever admit that to Trucy.)

Apollo continues to be jealous of Klavier multiple times after this in optional dialogue by the way.

When you present Apollo's badge to Klavier after The Guitar's Serenade portion of the concert:

Klavier: ...... Herr Forehead. Apollo: Y-Yeah? Klavier: Understand that I am not Prosecutor Gavin now. I am lead vocal of the Gavinners. That badge sings a different song… on a different stage. Apollo: Right… (I wish I had an alter-ego to hide behind sometimes.)

When you present the lyrics sheet for The Guitar's Serenade to Klavier:

Klavier: I wrote those lyrics, you know. Though it was Lamiroir who gave them life. Trucy: Wow… That's beautiful! Apollo: (Grr. Maybe I should try to write some lyrics someday.)

When Klavier gives Trucy and Apollo the aforementioned lyrics sheet:

Apollo: What's this…? Klavier: A lyrics sheet. It's yours. Signed by myself and Lamiroir. Trucy: Yippee! Thanks so much! Apollo: (All I ever get to sign are client defense agreements.)

Onto the trial itself, Apollo sasses Klavier a lot. Not even teases him, he just straight up bullies him. The instance of this that immediately comes to mind is when Klavier's talking about Daryan and Apollo says "That's nice, but it has nothing to do with the matter at hand." but he has a few other instances of just being a bit mean toward Klavier too (keep in mind that this very much feels closer to Apollo giving Klavier a taste of his own medicine than any actual malice or anything). Notably Klavier's still a bit of a bitch about how Apollo makes his case in Turnabout Serenade, but he's still willing to help him get to the truth of a situation if needed (as seen when you talk to him in his office).

Part 2.3: Turnabout Succession

Unlike in Turnabout Corner and Turnabout Serenade, Klavier isn't seen in Turnabout Succession until Vera's trial starts. The trial goes perfectly fine until the Gramarye commemorative stamp comes up as evidence, at which point not only is Klavier on the verge of snapping, but Apollo is concerned about him, and this concern stays into the next trial day, where Klavier's fawning aggressively in response to Kristoph. Trucy and Apollo both get really concerned about Klavier at this point. Let's also not forget that Apollo mentions that Klavier looks like he's in physical pain and immediately follows it up with "That darkness… …I have to pull that darkness out of him…" and by that point his goal isn't just securing a not guilty verdict for Vera, but also in some way helping Klavier break free from Kristoph's control.

This isn't subtext or an assumption on my end, Apollo is literally why Klavier broke free from Kristoph's control. Had Apollo not been the defense attorney on Vera's case, I don't think Klavier would've ever broken out of Kristoph's control honestly. Klavier's "Let's clean out the family closet, eh, Kristoph?" comes after Apollo's comment on pulling the darkness out of Klavier. It's Apollo proving Drew's link to Kristoph that breaks Klavier free of Kristoph's control (as Klavier very specifically says "Just… prove it! Clear up these doubts now, or I swear, I'm off this case!" There's something poetic about two of the victims of Kristoph's emotional manipulation coming together to make sure he's found out for murder and attempted murder.

Anyway, Apollo shows so much concern for Klavier in Turnabout Succession and I don't think he would if he didn't care a lot about him, and we know Apollo has a tendency to care about people even if he just met them or doesn't know them all that well based on his interactions with Vera, Trucy, Wocky, Machi, Juniper, and Rayfa (and probably others that I can't think of off the top of my head). Like Apollo cares so much about other people and I feel like it isn't really acknowledged a lot.

Part 2.4: Turnabout Academy/The Magical Turnabout

Turnabout Academy is the reason I wanted to analyze Apollo and Klavier's dynamic in the first place honestly. The reason is because Apollo's behavior around him going from quite concerned to annoyed between Turnabout Succession and Turnabout Serenade.

Apollo and Klavier's dynamic in Turnabout Academy is incredibly similar to their dynamic in Turnabout Serenade. The primary differences are that Klavier's a bit more mean and we're not seeing Apollo's attitude toward Klavier from his perspective. We're instead seeing it from Athena's perspective. We can also assume that Turnabout Academy is where Athena first noticed that Apollo gets prickly any time the topic of Klavier is brought up, because Turnabout Academy takes place around 6 months before The Magical Turnabout and The Magical Turnabout is where Athena mentions Apollo getting prickly any time the topic of Klavier comes up (and she specifically notes that she's noticed that "for a while").

Klavier's really funny in Turnabout Academy though because he focuses so much of his attention on Apollo specifically which means Athena's third-wheeling Klapollo for a fair amount of the investigation. I also acknowledge that I might be the only one who got that vibe from Turnabout Academy but for me that vibe absolutely exists.

Additionally, let's go over the exchange about the roses Klavier sent Trucy again.

Athena: Oh, these are from Prosecuter Gavin. Apollo: Roses, huh? How like him: pretentious. Athena: They might be pretentious, but you know what? He makes it work! Apollo: Hmph. Athena: Apollo, I've noticed this for a while, but… …you get awfully prickly when it comes to Prosecutor Gavin. Apollo: Y-You think so? Athena: I mean, don't hate him just because he's beautiful. Apollo: Th-That's not it at all!

I'm not just mentioning this because it's funny. Even assuming Athena did catch on to how annoyed Apollo gets about Klavier existing immediately in Turnabout Academy (which is likely considering her whole gimmick), this implies the topic of Klavier is regularly brought up around the Wright Anything Agency. Unless Apollo and Klavier regularly faced off in court between Turnabout Academy and The Magical Turnabout, there is no reason for this implication to exist. It makes me wonder who's bringing up Klavier and why. Does Klavier just show up at the WAA on a regular basis to fuck with Apollo? Do Phoenix, Trucy, and Athena regularly invite him over because Apollo's reactions are funny? Why has the topic of Klavier come up when Athena's around enough for Athena to notice that Apollo gets prickly when it comes to Klavier, let alone enough for her to assume the reason for it is because Klavier's attractive? What goes on at the Wright Anything Agency off-screen lol

Part 2.5: The Gavinners Reunion Tour CD Drama

(This isn't important and I'm not arguing its canonicity, I just think it's cute and want to talk about it. You can find the audio with English subtitles here)

The Gavinners Reunion Tour CD drama is genuinely one of my favorite non-game pieces of Ace Attorney media. I'm so emotionally attached to it. Before I go into the Klavier and Apollo parts of it, I need to mention that Phoenix invited Ema and Apollo to Klavier's revival concert thinking they'd be excited for it. Idk, it's really funny to me. Also, Klavier gave Apollo and Trucy a bigger discount on tickets than he gave Phoenix. I think Klavier has favorites lol

I also need to point out that Klavier completely ignores Ema and Phoenix when he mentions how good the concert's gonna be. He specifically mentions Apollo when he mentions how good the concert's gonna be. Apollo is also the one to suggest that he, Phoenix, and Ema go with Klavier's manager to get his drugs candy before he goes on stage. Now, to be fair, that could absolutely be more over concern for Klavier's manager than Klavier but Apollo was still the one to suggest it. Apollo is also the one who encourages Klavier's manager to keep looking for the aforementioned candy.

Anyway near the end Klavier invites Apollo to sing an acoustic duet of Guilty Love. It's adorable and I love it. Right before that Apollo mentions actually enjoying the concert (Apollo tells Ema this is specifically because he's faced off against Klavier so many times in court that his music feels similar to facing him in court which implies he'll only ever enjoy rock music if it's Klavier's. gay) and Klavier says "Even I never managed to imagine I'd be able to win your heart!"

Anyway go listen to the Gavinners Reunion Tour CD drama, it's absolutely wonderful.

Part 3: Conclusions or Something

I don't know what I'm concluding here. The last half of this was written over a month after the first half so I don't even really remember where I was going with this but basically, Apollo doesn't hate Klavier. He doesn't even see Klavier as a rival:

Athena: Look! There's your rival over there, Apollo! Apollo: Who, Prosecutor Gavin? We've battled it out a few times before, but I wouldn't call him-- Athena: No, not him. I meant that speaker over there! It can output massive blasts of sound that rival your Chords of Steel! Apollo: I have better things to do than compete with a speaker, so just forget it. - Dual Destinies, Turnabout Academy

Apollo even extends the "I can, will, and do worry about anyone and everyone I come across whether I know them well or not, with the exception of if they're a horrible person" attitude he has toward Klavier. He cares a lot about Klavier. That's canon. He cares about Klavier to the same (or at least a similar) degree that he cares about Trucy, Vera, Juniper, and even Wocky and Machi. He doesn't extend that to people he doesn't like. He finds Wocky annoying, but he doesn't seem to really dislike him. He gets frustrated with Machi, but he doesn't dislike him. Apollo cares so much about everyone who crosses his path who is worth his time and Klavier isn't an exception to this. The only time it's obvious is in Turnabout Succession, but that's because that's where Klavier is at his most vulnerable and we're playing as Apollo.

Additionally, we know based on AA4 that Apollo prefers to keep his feelings about Klavier as a whole to himself, and masks them by acting standoffish, which is why he comes off as prickly to other people. This is why Turnabout Academy is so interesting to me in terms of how Klavier and Apollo's dynamic is written. It's the first time we're viewing their dynamic as an outsider and not as Apollo. I'm quite sure that Apollo was worried about Klavier. Klavier's mentor had just been murdered, after all. Apollo was concerned when Klavier was in the same courtroom as Kristoph, it'd frankly be out of character for Apollo not to worry about Klavier in Turnabout Academy. Apollo just has a tendency to mask his feelings regarding Klavier, so it's not obvious to an outsider that he's worried (and I'm quite sure this was the case for Trucy in Turnabout Succession too. I don't think she realized just how worried about Klavier Apollo was for a bit because so much of Apollo's concern is made obvious to the player through his thoughts).

Anyway, TL;DR: Apollo cares so much about everyone he surrounds himself with (including his clients) and Klavier's not an exception to that. Apollo doesn't hate Klavier, he doesn't even see Klavier as a rival. At worst, Apollo finds Klavier a bit annoying at times. Saying Apollo is bitter or disdainful toward Klavier is an objectively wrong reading of their dynamic. Whether you ship them or not, Apollo does care a lot about Klavier. It's an incredibly important part of Turnabout Succession and saying or acting like Apollo doesn't care about Klavier to the same degree he cares about Trucy or Vera or Lamiroir or Juniper is just ignoring canon. Apollo has so much love and care in his heart and whether romantically or platonically he extends that love and care to Klavier too.

[coffeegnomee]

Gnome... Do you have any devotions thoughts in these trying times? I would love to know your opinions about the stream™, especially in regards to Mapicc. Cause his reaction to the bacon hearts thing seems so extreme, it's such a small thing compared to everything else

I keep thinking about your post about how incompatible and in sync they are at the same time, and Zam's stream is such a good example of that

(no pressure to respond ofc, but if you have any thoughts about what's going on I would be glad to hear them)

heheheheheehheeheh

ok idk where I really want to go with this. There are so many thoughts and I just finished the stream.

I feel like I finally understand exactly what happened during the dupe war. Mapicc placing that first crit in Zam's face felt exactly the same as Mapicc coming down with his sword on Spoke over. and over. and over again. Until Spoke ran out of totems. If Zam didn't run, we'd have that clip again.

pound. pound. pound. Until he is dead. No words. Past emotion.

And isn't the reasoning exactly the same?

Loyal, loyal Mapicc. You hate when someone goes behind the team to work with the enemy.

But it's more than just helping the enemy.

MAPICC: "because bro. Why is it a big fucking problem when I put wardens at spawn, you have to *ugh* throw me away, side with derapchu, make a whole new country, but then, when fucking bacon does it, here’s 6 hearts buddy, stay alive”

It's always. Always. Been about Derap. How Zam left him for Derap. No. Replaced him with Derap.

But did you notice? The tiny reordering of events. Mapicc says he put wardens at spawn AND THEN Zam threw him away to side with Derap.

But do you remember? Zam said "I'm teammates with Derap" and Mapicc's heart dropped. He went silent, started mulling, started clicking his ax at the air. Started wanting to kill Bacon. Starting wanting to do something.. crazy.

Only then did he bring wardens to spawn.

Everything has hinged upon that one moment. The panic of loosing Zam. The realization that he was already gone. The belief that it was too late.

And Mawn started days later.

And a few days before (the day mapicc talked to Spoke 1:28:00), Hannah was asking Mapicc why he hated Derap so much, and Mapicc said cause Zam replaced him with Derap. She laughed and said, why aren't you mad at Zam then?

MAPICC: “i went to do one fucking project and bro replaced me with derapchu. And kicked me off his little groupy team thing.” HANNAH: “oh so you’re jealous! Okay” MAPICC: “no he deadass replaced me. It’s not even a jealousy thing. He deadass replaced the team with me with derapchu”  HANNAH: "doesn't that reflect more on zam? Did zam do that?” MAPICC: “I hate both of them. Wait shit youre right. Fuck. You are right”  MAPICC: ”no you're right about that! That makes Zam the dickhead. Why am I mad at derapchu?” MAPICC: ”what the hell”  HANNAH: "I'm mad at derapchu because he would always kill bacon and I'm mad at him cause he has a bunch of wemmbu hearts that he doesn't deserve” MAPICC: "that’s also why I hate him. That’s part of the reason. That’s what it is. It's like zam replaced, me, with a shittier version of me. A 20 heart player that didn't actually get all the kills.”

It's not really about the 6 (5) hearts. The thing about the hearts is that they were the straw that broke the camel's back.

And that's the thing about the straw. You don't realize it's the one until it's too late. And it's just a little straw. Such a tiny thing.

But the hearts symbolized something: Support. The one thing Mapicc has not had from Zam all season. How many confrontations have they had about Zam either stopping Mapicc from killing, or warning his prey he's coming, or Zam not wanting to fight someone.

And that's not even to begin to talk about Zam's point of view. How and why he did everything he did. How every interaction has lead them down the slow march that landed him here.

It's too long to write, and you know the tale. Every little step that has brought Zam to the realization that what is best for the server is content, and if he can keep the content going then he will do whatever is necessary.

To understand that, during Mawn, Zam would have had to be in a completely different frame of mind. It was too soon to teaming with Derap and Flame was too *weird* that day for him to ever be able to be on Mapicc's side.

And Derap provided him with an easy out.

A way away from his feelings. A way away from the confusion of spawn, the pain and emotions, the heartbreak of Mapicc.

And Zam gladly took it. A way to be with his teammate who seemed to care about him so much more than Mapicc suddenly did, and a way to not fight Mapicc. To excuse himself from the content because the one person he cannot fight is Mapicc.

If Mapicc was the one taking up Subz legacy.. all alone. Zam would have thrown himself at Mapicc. Without ever trying to fight him I think.

But as it was Mapicc always needs a duo, someone by his side. And in his anger he picked Flame, picked him knowing that all he wanted to do was torment Zam.

Mapicc was both not alone, and with someone Zam could not ideologically reconcile with.

And Zam was both not alone, and with someone Mapicc could not ideologically reconcile with.

And so Mawn was not the same situation at all with Bacon. Bacon didn't just not own spawn, he was alone.

And he wasn't going directly against Zam, putting wardens at Zaun. He wasn't being oddly obsessed with Zam's reaction and trying to force him to stay and build at Mawn.

And Bacon recently had told Zam, for the first time Zam had ever heard it, that he didn't think they were in the wrong for doing Abyss. That Bacon counts Abyss as one of his biggest successes. For the first time ever Zam had the support of a server member for one of the actions he held as both a massive failure, and bad for the server.

And a couple weeks later he's having a very interesting lore convo with Bacon. He almost sounds like how Zam sounded during the Joker arc, confident, happy, excited, talking like what he was doing was exciting for Zam too, and Zam found himself agreeing.

ZAM:” [mutes] he’s talking like me. It's so fascinating”

And well. Bacon was doing something Subz did. And trying to understand, what was the phrase *rifles papers* "my dead teammate's legacy" oh. ok. so, not "previous teammate". "dead" teammate. Like they were simply just recently alive and still a teammate. Got it.

Subz being the object of fascination of Bacon's is so much of why Zam helped him out. He wanted to know why Subz left too. Did his heart skip a beat wondering if Bacon could solve the riddle to if Subz forgave him for Eclipse? If Bacon found out the reason, could Zam bring Subz back? Maybe just for a convo?

All questions never asked. But then. "Im just saying bacon’s not the only person to carry out my dead teammate’s legacy alright?"

Oh me oh my. How the past haunts PrinceZam forever. How everything is always about ItzSubz_ (and Vitalasy)

Not that he could ever tell Mapicc that. That was the last time Mapicc competed for Zam's affection and he hated Subz for it. With the same passion he hates Derap, except Subz could kill him.

Always jealous after PrinceZam, our Mapicc.

[asktheritochampion]

FOR THE PERSON BEHIND THIS ACCOUNT:

how'd you get started doing this account? also do you have any advice for someone who's thinking of doing a similar account? /genq

As someone who has run many an ask blog in different fandoms over the years, people asking me for advice in starting their own is something that happens pretty frequently.

Making an ask blog for your favourite character is a great way to explore that character in more depth without needing the narrative of writing a fanfiction, not to mention a super fun way to interact with the fandom community!

Ther's no right or wrong way to run an ask blog; but I'm happy to share some of the things I've learned over the years from trial and error for those just dipping their talon into this creative format for the first time.

There's two different ways you can start your ask blog; by creating a side-blog off of your main blog, or by creating a whole new blog. Either works fine, but I personally favour having a full blog - you can make a gmail in two minutes then bash out a full blog just like that. The drawback is that sometimes I forget to log back onto my main blog; but a side blog cannot send asks to other blogs and you have to remember to set everything you post to the correct blog, which can get confusing at times.

While decorating your new blog; make a rules page and write out a list of things you're not okay with people asking. Maybe you're uncomfortable with rude or violent asks - with topics of sexual harassment or racism or homophobia. Maybe you don't want to roleplay, or you only want to interact with people that follow your specific ship. You can put whatever you want on your rules page - but pin that post so that newcomers can read it and know what is and isn't okay to send in.

When you first start your blog, it can be a little tricky to get the ball rolling. I recomend following other ask blogs and active blogs in the fandom and interacting with their posts to connect with other people. Even then however, you might need to either get a friend to send you a couple of asks or send a few anonymous asks to yourself to get started.

Don't be discouraged if it takes a few days or weeks for people to starts sending in asks. It takes a long time to foster people's interest and engagement no matter how popular or interesting the character is.

A big question people often have is; should I post art with my asks?

From my experience, you could be the greatest writer in the world - but posts you make which have a visual aspect will always grab more attention on a social media platform designed for scrolling than just normal text posts. People have short attention spans. Keep text responses short, and add something sparkly to grab peoples attention.

Not everyone is an artist or has time to draw, but that doesn't mean you can't still make your posts visually interesting. You could use gifs or screenshots of your character, you could handwrite your replies to make them look like letters or diary entries (although if you ever do illustrated text, make sure to include it as a caption below for screenreaders to still be able to access), or even just make your reply fonts colourful or large or play around with different fonts to make them stand out from other posts.

If you do want to draw replies I encourage it because it's a great way to improve your drawing skills fast. If you're worried about your skill level, you can always make it part of the theme and say it's the character drawing their own responses.

I'd recomend if you're planning on sketching replies to draw out several different pictures of your character with different expressions and poses and to re-use them. However if you want to be a crazy person like me and try to draw unique responses most of the time; I'd highly recomend choosing a very simplified style of drawing.

Response pieces should take you less than fifteen minutes or you'll burn yourself out pretty fast. I sketch Revali in a simplified way and just do a flood-fill wash of tone so that my drawings are as fast and simple as possible to do - no colour or shading. If I was spending an hour on every response piece, I'd run out of spoons for this by the end of the week.

If you want to run a popular or highly interacted with blog, the most important thing is posting frequently. If you post a few times a day - or even just a few times a week, people will seek out your blog because it will keep appearing at the top of the tags. The key is churning out a lot of asks all the time.

Get into a habit of doin' your posts fast and rough, and don't worry too much about perfecting things. Nobody will notice if your art or writing is a little unfinished or sketchy. On social media, especially in this style of creating, people only look at your posts for a few seconds - so especially when you're first starting out and trying to get noticed, it's okay to choose quantity over quality.

Something I know a lot of people worry about when they first start out is lore and storytelling in their ask responses.

My best advice is to not take anything too seriously. On this blog, sometimes Revali is around before the Calamity, sometimes he's around in Totk times. Sometimes I draw him wearing modern clothes and using an ipad and other times he has no idea what a microwave is. Sometimes I answer an ask one way, then forget about it and answer something else with conflicting information a few months later.

Nobody really pays enough attention to everything you post to notice continuousy errors. These blogs are just a bit of fun and a way for you to play around with your character like a barbie doll. You can do whatever you want with them, and change it day by day. You don't have to stick to one timeline or ensure that every single thing you post is lore accurate.

Saying that; let's talk about something I like to call 'arcs'.

Every once in a while when things are feeling a little dry or someone sends in something interesting, I'll throw in an 'arc' for Revali. Maybe he gets turned into a chick or a Hylian or joins the Yiga Clan - and for a few days all of my ask posts will revolve around this.

While it's a lot of fun to play with arcs, I'd recomend keeping them short and sweet - lasting no more than a week at longest before returning back to a comfortable norm. Newcomers are always drifting into fandom, as are more casual fans, and if newbies or people who aren't as deep into this character's life as you stumble upon your posts while you're doing a crazy arc, they're likely not really going to understand what's going on. Returning to a more 'canon typical' version of your character between arcs is important for coaxing in newer fans and keeping people from getting too lost.

Another thing people often wonder about is roleplay.

I don't really make my ask blogs with roleplay in mind, but the format itself is kind of built for it if the concept interests you. Playing as your favourite character and enacting little scenes with other blogs can be super fun - great escapism and an interesting way to tell a narrative.

There are however some unspoken rules to roleplay; things you pick up over time that aren't always obvious.

First off - not every ask blog wants to roleplay. Some people just aren't comfortable with it - and that's okay. Check out someone's rules page or just pop them a DM to ask, and respect their decision if they don't want to.

When you do roleplay with somebody; it's common courtasy to keep your roleplay to under ten posts. While this isn't as big of a deal as it used to be (truely Hylia bless Tumblr's newly enforced read-more feature when a post reaches a certain length), it's still polite not to clog up people's dashes with tons of long replies. If the roleplay starts to get too long, try to wrap it up and start a new one.

Another important unspoken rule is something I like to call the 'ask blog universe'.

Every ask blog is their own little universe bubble, where you come up with your own ideas and headcanons for your character and others. Sometimes you'll roleplay with another ask blog - and those ideas will clash.

You cannnot force your headcanons onto another blogs universe, so try to keep your headcanons out of roleplay and leave them just for asks and posts. If I'm roleplaying as Revali with another blog, I'm not going to mention within that roleplay that he's transgender or that he's infatuated with Link - because that might not be the canon for that other blog's universe, and it would be rude to make them have to bend their established canon to accomodate me.

You should always have fun acting out your favourite ships and headcanons - but just try to be considerate when roleplaying with other blogs that not everyone will share your opinions, and maybe just avoid topics of debate within the play.

Another thing people often ask; Can I start an ask blog for a character if someone else is already running an ask blog for them.

The answer is yes, of course you can. That person does not own the character - if you want to start a Revali blog like me, go for it! You can bring something new to the table that I cannot - we will inevitably play very different versions of this character and explore things the other has not even thought of. The more fun writing and art for our favourite character in the world - the better.

Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Which brings me onto my most important piece of advice.

No matter how you run your blog, inevitably at some point, some sad person with nothing better to do is going to come into your ask box and send something unplesent. Maybe it will be something gross and sexual - maybe it will be a rant about how they disagree with a headcanon you've made and why it's all wrong - maybe they'll just send you vauge death threats because they don't like the character (Revali gets a LOT of those...). This is unfortunatly an inescapable part of being online and creating.

The BEST thing you can do - and I cannot express enough how important this is - block them and delete the asks. Turn off anonymous asks if it starts to really bother you - even if it's just for a little bit.

Do not post them. Do not respond to them. Do not post ABOUT them.

These people are purely here for your attention, they want a reaction from you; and the second you give them that even if it's the most levelheaded response in the world, they will keep harassing you nonstop.

Whereas if you never acknowledge them; they will vanish so fast it will make your head spin.

Now, it's HARD not to post the scary, mean, or ranty asks that people send you for the validation of your kind followers telling you how wrong their harassment is. I get that. What I would recomend is befriending other ask blogs and sharing the woes with them instead. We even have a Legend of Zelda ask blogs discord group that anyone making an ask blog can join - go in there and screenshot post the garbage people send so we can all rant about it and validate you together.

Just never post it publically - it only feeds the wee beasts.

Ask blogs can be really fun to run!

They can also be hard work sometimes - whether it's because you're stuck on difficult asks, overwhelmed or underwhelmed with the amount of people interacting with you, getting mean anons, or burning out from trying to draw every response.

If you ever need a listening ear or a little advice or support, ol' Rahlin is always happy to share what I know. Don't be nervous to shoot over any questions or worries you have and we can talk them out.

I'm no expert in this genre by any means, but I have had a lot of experience with a lot of different issues over the years, and I'm always here to help anyone who is new to the scene and wants to join in the fun!

[codthefishgod]

Analysis post for episode 84 of Faroff, AKA Truth: Part 3

Split below for spoilers!

Anywho, I'm getting off track. Let's get into it then, shall we!

I'm happy to report I'm officially on summer break, so I should be able to write a LOT more often and quicker. Hopefully that means I'll be able to be more consistent about when exactly these go out.

Getting the analysis post out this late definitely isn't a GREAT start on that whole "being more consistent" thing, but it's been a crazy busy week with moving and all. (I'm also joining Art Fight for the first time this year, my user is cod_the_fish_god if y'all are interested in following me there!)

The first thing I noticed was that Fenn didn't answer Tobias' question about if he trusts him.

This isn't a great sign, but I don't think it necessarily means Fenn doesn't trust Tobi. I think the trust has certainly been damaged, but not completely destroyed. He more likely is just conflicted and needs time to think about it so he can decide how he feels. After all, if Fenn really didn't trust Tobias at all anymore, he probably wouldn't be letting him stay. He's just processing this new information he's learned about him and can't sort it all out immediately.

In any case, Fenn is still displaying a lot of genuine care for Tobias.

For example, here he's willingly giving up his own comfort for Tobias' sake. Not only is this a gesture of care, but it also demonstrates how Fenn is starting to see Tobias in a different light. Before the last episode, I think Fenn thought Tobias was more...what's the word? Unaffected? He didn't realise how much Tobias was grappling with, nor how much Fenn's actions hurt him. After all that, I don't think he'd feel right about leaving Tobias to sleep on the floor while he goes back to sleep in his bed. He feels more sympathy for him now.

Also, how terrified Tobias looks in this panel is genuinely breaking my heart. He just revealed to Fenn some of his worst insecurities, his worst struggles, and he can't stand to just be alone after that. Especially considering how used Tobias is to being alone and having his emotions be dismissed, a person finally acknowledging them must feel...validating. Not only that, but being comforted for them. Not told he's being weak, or shameful, or a disgrace, but comforted. As far as we know, this isn't something that has ever happened for him, aside from Alice. He likely has avoided confronting these emotions for years, and this is the first time he's been around someone he felt safe enough to open up to. It's no wonder that he doesn't want to just be left by himself now.

Secondly, you might've noticed that this moment

And a moment from episode 66 (Goodnight: part 3)

...Are parallels. I think it shows how they're both starting to rely on each other more and turn to one another for comfort. They've both reached out (metaphorically and literally in this case, lmao) and requested each other's company in a time of distress. In other words, they've turned from being sources of stress to being a safe haven of sorts.

That's not a particularly groundbreaking observation or anything, but I love parallels.

Alright, moving on.

Anyone notice how easily Fenn agreed to staying with Tobi? He never even would've entertained the idea before, let alone this easily.

I do think this partially has to do with, as I said earlier, Fenn seeing Tobias in a new light, but there's also something else that I think is contributing to it (something that, if intentional, makes the episode better in my eyes.)

And that's that I don't think either of them are seeing this action in an inherently romantic light. It's not about being in the same bed as someone you have a crush on, or even comforting someone you have a crush on, it's just about helping someone you care about as a person. And that's something that makes me love their relationship even more. The feelings they have for each other aren't based solely in romantic attraction, and it wouldn't matter if they were friends or lovers or anything else, they'd always want the best for each other and always want to protect one another.

So, yeah, Fenn would probably be getting flustered over this in any other situation. But this isn't any situation. He isn't comforting Tobias because he likes him romantically, he's comforting him because he cares about him as a person before all else. And I deeply appreciate the lack of romantic focus in this episode, because caring for someone like this shouldn't be considered exclusive to someone you have romantic feelings for.

But maybe that's just my little aroace heart speaking.

Anywho, going from there.

I find it interesting that Tobias is the one who keeps probing this subject. We've seen in the past that he's usually the one trying to get Fenn to forget about the war and his responsibilities, but here he's the one who keeps bringing it up.

I think, somewhere in Tobias' mind, he thinks that Fenn must have some sort of external reason for helping him. He's lived his entire life thinking that being loved = being useful, and even if he logically knows Fenn could have another reason for what he's doing, a part of him still resorts to that way of thinking. I think he...doesn't really understand the concept of Fenn willingly giving up his own benefit, his goal he's worked towards for an entire year, for no other reason than because he cares about Tobi. Because no one has ever done that for him.

Speaking of things no one has done before, Fenn has been more upfront and honest about his emotions than ever before this episode.

First off, there were no excuses.

He didn't try to come up with some elaborate story about how this is actually him being loyal to Sona. He just told Tobi the truth--that he doesn't know why he feels the need to protect him.

More than that, he told him straight up that he doesn't want him to be harmed, and that he hates seeing him upset. He's never said anything like this out loud before. Not only is he confessing this to Tobi, but he's also confessing it to himself. He's finally allowing himself to feel this way about Tobi without trying to reason it away or make up an excuse or deny it.

Again, I don't think this is inherently romantic, but Fenn is taking the first step of admitting to himself that he does care about Tobi, and that it isn't because of some truce or other obligation. That's huge growth for Fenn.

And, yet again, I think this also partially has to do with Fenn seeing Tobi in a new light after the last episode. Fenn has felt this way about Tobi for awhile now, but I think after the last episode he realised that him lying about it and keeping it to himself isn't only about him, but about Tobi as well. Tobi has spent his entire life being neglected and treated as less than, and he already thinks that no one loves or cares about him without Fenn piling on. The last episode was basically a huge wake up call. He's being more upfront about it now because, yeah, it's scary for Fenn, but Tobias needs to know that someone does care about him and wants him to be safe. I think Fenn's pushing past his fear of confronting his emotions because he knows it's what Tobias needs to hear right now.

And it definitely worked, because...

TOBIAS IS STARTING TO OPEN UP!!!!!

This is the first time Tobias has voluntarily opened up to Fenn. I've said for awhile that I believe once Fenn gets the brunt of his character development, Tobias' character development arc will begin (because I believe that Fenn's character development HAD to happen first), and I think this is showing that! Tobias' character development arc is beginning, folks!

I swear I must be missing something, considering this is a bit of a shorter post than usual, but this is what I have to show!

Thanks for reading!

[sillygarlicbrind]

‼💫💫💫💫💫‼

CONRTALE UPDATE 1.5 HAPPENED

Animation:

The most notable change is the animation tree, holy fuck that thing was crazy, this is before the update

And this is after the update :3

LOOK AT THAT DIFFERENCE, SO NEAT AND ORGANIZED. In the first version, the animations would break sometimes if the player would spam random buttons too much (I wonder why huh) but now nothing breaks!!!! :D

Instead of using unity transitions, I resorted to call animations directly from code, so now they override each other much more confidently and basically just everything looks nicer :3

Input navigation system:

My girlfriend was one of the main reasons I wanted to make an update. TuRnS oUt some people don't have arrow keys on their keyboards, so now the game responds to WASD keys!!! :D

SFX and sounds:

I recieved multiple complaints about sound effects being too loud, honestly fair, so I fixed it with the help of my friend Onion :3

You can access the updated game by the links from the original post or here

More rambles under cut:

I would go into describing how I managed to fix the animation tree even more, buuut, despite how much I want this to be a devlog, I wont do that right now.

Honestly I'm starting to think that this game can turn into something like a sandbox project, I've been already considering to add an outside the shop room lol. It's basically like an au now, heavy fanfic au lmaoo. Yeah I might just keep on adding to this thing until it turns into a fully fledged complete fan game (since also I already have some people who would want this to happen)

Also I want to update it at least one more time. Since the design for Raycast was building up right as i was spriting him(them, whatever, they, I, dont mind), he now looks different in my head and I want my game to reflect it.

I've been also thinking to try writing music, for at least the staring menu, I already have an idea for how it should sound, and it's a good excuse for me to start learning how to make music like that :3

I was also thinking about changing some items, since the "pocket knife", especially in the background, looks awfully similar to good ol' regular ut dagger.

And lastly, I want to make this game web available, so people wouldn't have to download it to see how it is (even though there is a full showcase on YouTube linked here and on the itch page.)

But that's it for the Corntale :3

Currently I'm working on another game called Lucidus, with a group of my friends, and we need to have the demo finished in around 4 weeks, so I'm busy with that :P Might be posting about it too :3

Aight, toodles! (If u read this far u r crazy n I love u <3)

I AM HAPPY TO INTRODUCE YOU TO:

CORNTALE - SHOP SIMULATOR is my own tiny mini lil sim game! :D

It was made as a project for my software development study to show off what development skills I learned during the first half(?) of the first study year! Made using Unity Engine.

IF you would want to experience it for yourself, you can get it here on itch.io :]

You can also just watch the full playthrough in the vid below!

Credits: Development and visual art by me! Thanks to my friends for emotional support (they are featured as objects in the background)

Thanks to @planetnapcast for the wonderful background music! And thanks to @lemonnere for character design inspo!

Wanna create smth with me? Just ask! :D

More silly info under cut:

This sim was completed in around 4 weeks from start to finish :P It's my first 2D video game !!! Also my first time drawing pixel art xP This game was developed in Unity Engine with code written in C#

Next image contains some general rambling about this lil thing:

This whole thing took some time for sure! But i'm really proud of it >:3

[hootyhoowoo]

A little 15 min doodle but first post of the year has to be Bingqiu!

[s1lv3rp4w3dc4t]

shout out object shows with canon queer ships. I'm talking on screen kiss or even just verbal confirmation. all things considered it's a bit strange you don't really see them that much when you think about how gay everyone here is. I love you ii but c2bc did what you didn't and I think that's actually really nice.

[myokk]

For writers:

What’s your favorite piece of writing you’ve done, and why??

Idk I just woke up thinking about this & now I’m curious!!! & may or may not be compiling a tbr based on your responses since I really haven’t had the time to read any hl fics yet🫶🫶🫶

[yaralulu]

crazy that its officially been 1 year since i’ve made this blog!! not to get too sappy on everyone (kinda am tho) but making this blog was probably the best decision i’d ever made. i’ve met and gotten to know so many lovely ppl because of it and have made a ton of memories that have genuinely made my days. it even led me to writing, something that is now such a fundamental part of who i am and its all just so insane to think about. this blog is my safe space and i adore all 458 of you very, very much <33

[angelsdean]

don't know how people multi-fandom. dipped my toe into another one and immediately backed out bc everyone there was insufferable.

[kiwi-luminaryofthestars]

Lolll uh no progress update today (daily streak is broken 💀) ‘cause I had much going on and then got distracted by some awesome people who I was grateful to have my time taken up by 🫡 We will get back to it tomorrow yahoo!

[emilydorp]

Most of the new VIPs are honestly super annoying. They think GD’s using Tabi’s fame, but they don’t get that those two are legit soulmates and really care about each other. Nobody loves Tabi more than GD.

And Nyongtory? Totally fake and made-up. It’s just fan service to please fans. GD never shows his love like that, and honestly, in the last documentary, they just showed how the fan service between them works.

But GTOP was never fake like that. From the very beginning, their love was real and you could feel it. It was so obvious that even the Korean national network, Mnet, made a video about them.

Girl PREACH. PREACH. Say it louder for EVERYONE cuz it’s not only the people in the back that need to hear this!! *Converts this blog into a place that simply cheers you on*. These are the anons I NEED, these are the anons I want :))).

Also you’re so right about GRI, especially towards the end, when these shippers made videos called “Ri and GD’s money, a love story” and were on copium after Middle Fingers up dropped and see him singing it as a “good” thing to this DAY like Gurl stfu and admit you were wrong—

Anyways. Here’s possible (?) cuteness:

[chunkofchange]

list of stickfigures:

sketches

the line of action

skeletons

emojis and symbols

tropes

concepts

[prophecyofgray]

i know i say this like every time i consume a new media but guys. guyyys. in other lands is somethign that can be soooo the underland chronicles