#none of the characters exist to me expect for him

[chewysgummies]

I heard it's WOY 10th year anniversary today. God damn.

[grandline-fics]

Hello! Hope your having a good day today! Can I request mihawk, shanks and buggy with the prompt "sleeping separately after an argument" You can just do one of the characters listed if your busy! Or change them into a different character it's totally fine with me! - 🪼

DESCRIPTION: Prompt: Sleeping separately after an argument

WARNINGS: slight angst, arguing couples, ends in comfort 

CHARACTERS: Mihawk, Shanks, Buggy

WORDS: 4,199

A/N: Thank you for this request! It's my first Buggy request and first time writing for him so I hope he's to your liking. I tried to keep things varied with these and are on the long side to include a happy ending.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

———————

MIHAWK

“So what? You were never going to send word to me that you were safe?” You’d demanded glaring at your lover that you hadn’t seen in months. Ordinarily you were used to the time and distance apart but he was always in contact with you in some regard. This time however you had no idea about his whereabouts, not until that stupid poster fluttered out of your morning newspaper and you travelled across the sea to Cross Guild to see him for yourself, otherwise you doubted he’d have ever contacted you. 

“Well you would have known from the poster’s existence that I was perfectly safe.” Mihawk answered coolly. He hated how he was speaking to you but in his clear view of the world, in the long run this would be best. Underneath his calm exterior, seeing you stroll into Cross Guild had both sent a mix of conflicting feelings through him. On the one hand he loved the sight of you and wanted nothing more than to close the distance between you and welcome you properly. On the other he felt unnerved. He hadn’t been expecting you, if he had known perhaps his approach would have been more thought out but you were the only person to ever rattle him.

All he knew was he needed you gone so he could clear his head and he needed you out of Cross Guild before Crocodile came sniffing around. Acting on instinct, he’d abruptly taken your arm and led you out of the room filled with people. He didn’t need them listening in on any private conversation of his. However you’d only let him get as far as the corridor before you pulled out of his grip and began to interrogate him over his actions. Mihawk refused to tell you the truth, he refused to admit his only worry. Now that he no longer had the protection of Warlord, you would have a clearer and larger target on your head if anyone knew you were romantically involved with him. As much as he knew you could look after yourself he didn’t want to bring any added hassle to your life, nor did he want you to change your life by remaining in Cross Guild just to give him the peace of mind you were safe. “You’ve wasted your journey coming here.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Dracule.” You snarled meeting his steady, impassive stare with your own burning in intensity. You knew he was being guarded for a reason but after all this time you were frustrated and hurt that he wasn’t being honest with you. After all you’d handled together and after proving you were strong enough to be considered his equal, he still wanted to push you away. “You don’t get to stand there and throw some generic one-liner at me. I know you better than that and I deserve better than that. Now talk to me properly and explain yourself.”

“Since when have I ever had to explain my movements?” Mihawk asked arching an eyebrow at you while you continued to glare daggers at him. It never ceased to amaze him that you could always meet his stare. “Cross Guild is new and needed my entire focus, you would have just been an unwelcome distraction and a possible liability.” 

As much as his words hurt, they baffled you even more. Hopelessly you stared up at the man in front of you, trying to understand. None of it made sense. You both knew your lives took you in separate directions and you’d never once tried to force yourself into his business just as he respected yours. The only thing you both ensured was contacting the other if something unexpected happened so neither of you worried. Had he just done that, you wouldn’t have come looking for him. You stared at Mihawk and saw he wasn’t going to give in or tell you the truth, whatever his reasons were it was clear he didn’t respect you enough to be honest then was there any point in saying anything more. 

Mihawk watched as something switched in your demeanour and the spark in your eyes seemed to snuff out. He didn’t move as you approached and reached out. When your fingers skimmed against his jaw he had to steel his nerve to not give into the temptation you always brought him. It only got worse when you leant in and pressed your lips against his. Mihawk felt his resolve begin to snap but the kiss was over just as fast as it began. You pulled back and stared at him, no longer with understanding but firm resolve and finality. “I’m glad you’re safe and I wish you the best of luck with Cross Guild.” 

With nothing left to say you left Mihawk, heading for the entrance to let the stubborn man you loved get back to his new focus only to stop abruptly when Crocodile stepped around the corridor and all but blocked your exit. You stopped and looked at the man you knew mostly from newspapers and reputation. You kept your expression even as Crocodile stared down at you, his keen observation taking you in before drifting up to Mihawk who glared warningly at his business partner. “Leaving so soon?” He asked simply, returning his attention back to you. “You just got here.”

“I was never planning on staying.” You answered dryly, stepping around the broader man only to sigh when he called after you.

“It’s too late for sailing though. There’s plenty of rooms for you to stay in if Mihawk’s room isn’t to your liking.”

“Not necessary.”

“Suit yourself, just know there’re undercover Marines camped out at the only inn on this island. I use the term ‘undercover’ lightly. Still better to know now just in case…” Crocodile’s voice floated towards you and you stopped walking. You turned to watch the man light a cigar, completely at ease. Briefly you flickered your gaze towards Mihawk and you bit your tongue. Looked like you were becoming the liability Mihawk had predicted you’d be. 

“Just show me to a room.” You muttered to a smug Crocodile. “I’ll be gone by morning.”

Mihawk couldn’t sleep. In the times he was apart from you he had adopted a talent for forcing his body to rest at least a little and grab naps here and there through necessity. However when you were both in the same vicinity as each other he could never sleep without your body beside his. Knowing you were just a few rooms away was like the cruellest form of torture. Now that he’d had the time to actually think about it all and his actions, he knew he was an idiot and had reacted and let his worries for you direct him when he should have just talked. Mihawk let out a low growl and rose from his bed. Crocodile was a smug, interfering bastard and had made sure to stop by and casually inform him which room you’d be staying in so he found you in no time. Knocking once he waited. 

Slowly you opened the door, your eyes stinging with tiredness. After all the tossing and turning you’d done your body was exhausted and so nearly ready to give in and let you sleep. Then Mihawk had to disturb that by knocking. His golden eyes scanned yours and he frowned to see the dark circles. Another thing for him to apologise for. “The last thing I want is for you to feel forced into stopping living your life how you want to. I was worried that with my Warlord status now being gone you’d be targeted to hurt me were people to find out we’re a couple. I know you can look after yourself but I’d hate to think you ever got hurt because of me. I acted poorly and pushed you away without thinking because had I really thought about it, not having you in my life was the worst thing I could think of.”

“You should have just told me sooner. You get so much more talkative when you’re sleepy, did you know that?” You asked with a small smile. “So I’m not a liability or unwelcome distraction?”

“Never a liability.” Mihawk swore, relieved that you’d stepped away from the door and allowed him to move closer to you. “A distraction most definitely but always a welcome one.”

“So I can stay?” You asked, leaning into his touch as his hand cupped your face and lowered his head so your foreheads touched, finally getting to enjoy the reunion at last. 

“For as long as you want.” 

SHANKS

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Shanks demanded angrily as he stared at you, his eyes zeroed in on the large and painful looking bruise against your cheek and your bandaged leg.  

“What do you mean ‘what the hell was I thinking’ Shanks?!” You snapped back viciously. Why the hell was he blaming you for something that was clearly an accident. “I was thinking about stopping one of the recruits from getting crushed, obviously.” 

“You weren’t even meant to be there in the first place.”

“It’s a good fucking job I was there.” You retorted, holding your ground fiercely and unwaveringly. “If it hadn’t been for me, they could have been severely injured or killed. Why are you berating me for doing the right thing?” Shanks rarely admonished you or anyone on the crew for that matter. Usually looking out for other members was something he praised. This was just so out of character for him. All you wanted was an explanation, to just understand what it was you’d done that was so bad to deserve all of the animosity. “Had Benn or Lucky been in my place would they be getting this tirade?” From outside the room you and Shanks were arguing in, Benn and Lucky shared a nervous look. Why did they have to be brought into this? Everyone on board bustled about, trying to see to their tasks without making too much noise from fear of drawing yours or Shanks’ ire.

“That’s not the point. This is about-”

“No, it very much is the fucking point.” You interrupted, your blood boiling and patience fraying. “Answer the question. Would you be speaking to them like this had they done the exact same as me?”

“They’re my right and left hands. You’re…” Shanks stopped clumsily and stared at you. This was the crux of the matter. You were different, he cared for everyone on his crew but to see you hurt had made him realise just how much he’d loved you and never faced that feeling before. He had been terrified that afternoon when he’d heard the yells, the heavy crashes of cargo falling after the ropes securing them had snapped from the strain and their age, and came across the seen of you lying on the ground. For a moment he’d feared the absolute worst and because of that, he’d reacted badly and still he was too scared to vocally tell you why. “You’re…”

“Right…” You sniffed slightly, nodding as the pieces seemed to fall into place for you. “I’m just the Captain’s current bedwarmer.”

“What? No!” Seeing the hurt in your eyes at your misinterpretation of the relationship you had, managed to jolt him out of his anger. He took a step toward you, reaching out and watched as you flinched and stepped back. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t bother.” You uttered, continuing to the door. “I’ve had enough of this.”

For the rest of the day you stayed as far away from Shanks as you could but no matter where you were you could feel his stare on you. It felt strange to not be so close, to let your presences mix together in a balanced sense of warmth and strength but at the moment you didn’t want to be near him. You didn’t want to listen to the sound of his voice that usually reassured you and made you smile. Exhausted by the events that led to the argument and the argument itself, you retired to bed early when you’d finished your dinner. Shanks said nothing but watched as you walked away, his frown deepening when he saw you walk in the opposite direction of his quarters that had also doubled as yours since you two got involved. With a long sigh Shanks rubbed his face, as much as he wanted to go after you he wanted to respect your wish for distance. 

Despite your desperate need for rest and sleep, it just wouldn’t come. You’d tossed and turned in what had been your old bed that now felt unfamiliar, simply unable to let your mind settle. With that being coupled with being unable to get comfortable in anyway you let out a long sigh and rolled over, staring at the ceiling in frustration. How did it come to the point that without Shanks your body was like a stubborn toddler, refusing the sleep it wanted and clearly needed? Absently your hand settled over your chest and you closed your eyes, trying to think about anything other than the man who you’d fallen for yet had been hurt by. Suddenly from outside your room you heard a muttered curse and dull thud. Dragging yourself out of bed you opened the door and looked down in bewilderment to see Shanks curled up in the corridor with a pillow and blanket. At the sound of the door opening he’d slowly rolled onto his back and looked up at you cautiously. “What are you doing?” You asked tiredly, leaning against the doorframe. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“You didn’t.” Your tone and expression was even but underneath it all you were unsure. “Answer the question, please. What are you doing down there? You could damage your back if you’re not careful.” 

“It’d be the least I deserve for speaking to you the way I did.” Shanks muttered, his shame evident. “I didn’t want to sleep in our bed, not without you. It didn’t feel right and I also wanted to give you space but…I still wanted to be near. This was the only thing I could think of.”

“Our bed?” You repeated with a tilt of your head. 

“Yes our bed, in our quarters.” Shanks insisted as he sat up but remained firmly on the floor. The fact that you were even willing to speak with him and that you hadn’t slammed the door in his face was enough to give him the courage to say what he should have that morning instead of running his mouth without thinking. “You’re more to me than some ‘bedwarmer,’ you always have been and I’d been too much of a coward to admit it. When I saw you hurt I feared the worst and just panicked. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way that I had and I certainly should have told you how much I love you before now. For all of that I’m so sorry and will do what I can to make it up to you, only if you’ll let me that is.”

“Okay, three conditions and I’ll forgive you.” You conceded after a few heavy seconds and you fought to hold back your smile at the sight of Shanks’ face lighting up immediately.

“Name them.” He swore with no hesitation, watching as you knelt down beside him.

“First, I get your favourite pillow for the next month.”

“You can have it forever.” Shanks grinned, his hand sliding over your waist as you inched closer. “Next?”

“You carry me back to our room so we can sleep.” Immediately Shanks had you scooped up and was off the floor in a fluid motion that pulled a surprised yelp from your lips. In no time at all you were both back in what you now knew to be your shared quarters and not just his. Shanks settled you on the mattress, making sure your head was cushioned by the pillow you’d only jokingly wanted before he crawled under the covers and held you close. In unison you both felt peace settle over you both, the sleep that your bodies had refused was now creeping through you now but Shanks refused to fall over just yet. “What’s the third condition?”

“Tell me you love me again.” You murmured, your eyes already closed and body pressed against his chest. Shanks sleepily chuckled and held you tighter, vowing to never risk letting you go again. you were his heart after all. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

BUGGY

Everyone knew Buggy had a short fuse. They knew that a good mood could turn sour without any warning, all it would take would be the wrong thing at the wrong time and he’d implode his fury on the closest thing possible and it wouldn’t matter if it was to blame or not. Today it seemed you were the focus for his anger. You’d walked into the big top merely to tell your lover that he was needed by both Mihawk and Crocodile. “Hey Bug-”

“No!” You stopped mid-step when the clown’s head detached from his body and whirled through the air and glared down at you. Stunned, you could only stare into his angry eyes and listen to his vicious rant. “I have had it with the sheer incompetence of everyone! How hard is it to listen to simple instructions?” You were sure that Buggy didn’t have any idea that it was you that he was shouting at. When he got like this all he really saw was the person’s outline and no discernible features. Still though, you opened your mouth to try and calm him before his face got as red as his nose but he just got lost in his anger that had reached boiling point. “What did I just say?! Get the hell out of my sight before I use you for target practice!”

The idea of Buggy hurting you caused the amused smile and light laughter to appear out of the sheer absurdity of it all. You were the one Buggy loved, he’d never bring you harm. But all Buggy saw and heard was insubordination, mocking his authority and his status. Now that Mihawk and Crocodile were around the big top was the only place he still had any power. For someone to laugh at him here was only adding fuel to the fire. 

His hands detached and grabbed your upper arm, hauling you off your feet so you were now eye level with him. Only now did he blink through his fury and realise who it was he was about to physically punish. But still he was angry and his lack of authority had made him shaken. If he immediately apologised now, he’d seem weak. He needed those who followed him to see he was in charge. You saw the recognition in Buggy’s eyes and thought he'd lessen his hold and set you back on your feet but instead he kept you in the air. “Why do I tolerate you and your lack of respect? Just be grateful for my mercy. Keep out of my way and out of my spotlight! Is that clear?” 

 Ever since the founding of Cross Guild you'd done your best to reassure Buggy that he was still important and still powerful. You’d navigated his low self-esteem and tantrums for years, knowing him longer and better than anyone. You loved him and you knew he loved you but this made your own anger begin to light. His behaviour like this towards you would not be something you'd let him get away with but you also didn’t want him to lose face in front of the crew who were watching with held breaths. “Crystal clear, Captain Buggy.” You responded in an empty monotone. “Thank you for your mercy. The spotlight is yours and yours alone. If you can let me go I’ll keep out of your way, it won’t happen again.”

“G-good.” Buggy quickly uttered and set you on your feet before releasing your arms. His mind was slowly clearing as he watched with uncertainty as you fixed your clothes and headed for the door. Absently he wondered why you’d been in here in the first place. Dread filled his stomach now, had you come in just to visit him and unintentionally been brought into the firing line? You opened the door and refused to look his way. 

“I’ll let Mihawk and Crocodile know you’re busy, Captain.” Your remark made his eyes bug out and he was frozen in place. What did those two want with him now?! Panic filled him as he abruptly dismissed the crew and he hurried for the door you’d left through. When he was in the hallway he saw you were heading for one of the lounge rooms and not Cross Guild’s meeting room, Buggy sighed in relief. He made a mental note to talk to you after and hurried for the meeting. 

As the day wore on, Buggy’s mood lifted significantly and the morning’s incident with you was unfortunately pushed further and further to the back of his mind. It wasn't until the evening time that he realised he hadn’t seen much of you. When he passed Alvida he asked if she’d seen where you’d gone. Alvida regarded him silently, confusion pulling at her features. “On your way to apologise?”

“What does my flashy self have to apologise for?” Buggy asked with a confident grin. 

“Well this morning, remember?” Alvida asked with a smirk as realisation flickered in Buggy’s eyes. “Yelling at nothing subordinates is one thing, but your lover? You need to talk to them. Sadly I haven’t seen them since you told them to keep out of your way. Hope you find them.” Buggy watched hopelessly as the woman continued on her way, not even bothering to assist him in finding you. Grinding his teeth anxiously, Buggy continued his search. He finally found you in your shared room and with a sigh of relief, believing he didn’t need to apologise after all he flopped himself down onto the bed. 

“Been looking everywhere for you. Hey, where’re you going?” He immediately sat up when you moved for the door, watching you turn to look at him with a frown. 

“Keeping out of your way Captain Buggy.” You explained. “As per your orders.”

With a sigh Buggy prepared himself to finally apologise. “You know I didn’t mean it. Not with you.”

“But you don’t make mistakes, Captain.” You shook your head, not allowing him to talk him way out of his actions so soon. “Don’t worry I’ll keep out of your spotlight.”

“There’s no spotlight here-”

“Where you are, the spotlight follows that includes here.” Your eyes moved to the bed he was lying on. The last time you and Buggy had slept separately was when he was in Impel Down and it had been the worst time of your lives but you had to do something. Buggy knew that you’d have to be severely hurt by him to even consider putting yourself through that and he knew he was to blame for it. So he could only numbly let you leave to have some space from him. “Sleep well, Captain.”

For hours Buggy tried to sleep but it just refused to come. Even though he knew your body wasn’t beside him, his hands still searched across the cold mattress in the hopes of finding you and his head always turned towards your pillow, eyes desperate to find your face in the dark. With a sigh, Buggy rose, his lesson well and truly learned. Trudging down the silent hallways he moved to the lounge he’d seen you head towards after he’d yelled at you that morning. Stopping in the doorway he saw you lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling with heavy eyes that stubbornly wouldn’t close. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your circus, Captain.” You mumbled, still looking at the ceiling and too tired to move. “You don’t need to ask me for permission for anything.”

“Yes I do.” Buggy insisted, slowly walking into the room and stopped at the foot of the sofa. “You’re not some subordinate and the second I realised it was you I was shouting at I should have stopped. I should have apologised. Any orders I have are for those morons, never you. I’m sorry you had to do this to make me see that.”

Finally you dropped your eyes from the ceiling to observe Buggy, seeing he was free from his makeup and flashy outfit. Not Captain or figurehead, just your Buggy. Slowly you moved your blanket aside to wordlessly invite Buggy to join you. Tiredly you smiled when he wasted no time in moving down to lie with you, his arms circling you and his lips pressing lovingly against your cheek. Buggy relished the way you relaxed against him but knew he still had a hell of a lot of making up to do and come the morning he’d do jus that until you were sick of his flashy apology and spoiling you.

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[almostwisegalaxy]

PLEEEEASE DO MORE SEONGJE HEADCANONS IF YOU HAVE THEM

시발(Shibal)...

Geum Seongje x fem!reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

It wasn't that cold that night, but the asphalt smelled of rust. Geum Seong-je sat on a bench, looking vacant, a limp cigarette stuck between his teeth, almost completely burned out. He wasn't even really smoking it. His eyes followed the car headlights like flies around a bulb.

The screech of tires, the screams, the dull thud of a body being thrown, none of it made him move. It had happened right in front of him. He had turned his head, cast a lazy glance, seen a figure mowed down on the ground. He had cursed under his breath.

He hadn't snapped out of his torpor to help her. Not out of shock, not out of fear. He just didn't give a damn. But he had called the ambulance. Out of habit, maybe, or because he didn't want the hassle of a non-assistance investigation. He wasn't there to play the hero; he just wanted to be left alone.

But that face. Pale. Frozen. That face had disturbed him. Not because he found it beautiful or innocent. But because he hated seeing something broken, weak, fragile. And that girl, Y/N, was all of that, at that moment.

He found himself at the hospital, standing, leaning against the window of her room, watching her, unconscious, connected to tubes. He was going to leave, do what he always did: ignore the consequences. But as he was about to turn on his heel, the nurse called out to him.

"You're not going to leave her alone, not now. She talked about you in her sleep. 'My love,' that's what she said. It's you, isn't it?"

He had burst out laughing. Dry, humorless. He had wanted to deny it. But the police were already there, the rumors, the eyes fixed on him as if he were the reason for her accident. He had felt suffocated. So he had lied.

"Yeah. It's me .She's my girl..."

The following days were a punishment. For him. For her. He had to come back every day, bring things. Romantic crap: disgusting stuffed animals, candies, little notes folded into hearts. He had grabbed everything from the most cliché shops in town. And he called Y/N "jagiya," "yeobo," or even "my little bunny" with that drawling voice, twisted with sarcasm. But his gaze remained that of a madman, hungry, unstable.

He hid nothing. Neither his fights, nor his offenses, nor the scars on his fists. He even showed them, barely concealed under dirty bandages. He wanted her to be afraid. To understand who he was. To look at him with horror. He needed that fear to exist.

But what really haunted him was what it did to him. This feeling of being expected. Even if it was based on a damn misunderstanding. Even if she had never seen him before. He had started watching her sleep longer than necessary. He noticed the movements of her hands under the sheets, her lips that moved when she dreamed. He hated it. He hated feeling connected to someone.

A week after the accident, she had woken up.

"Who are you?" she had asked, her voice trembling.

He had dropped the water bottle he was handing her.

— Shibal... Are you serious? You sleep for eight days, moan my name like a lovelorn child, and now you're looking at me like a fucking stranger?

She had curled up. He had felt that fear. It ran through him. And it made him smile, a smile that was anything but tender. But inside, it turned his stomach. He felt dirty. Awkward. He didn't know how to get out of this mess.

He had kept coming. Every day. He brought the most ridiculous flowers, the most absurd declarations scribbled on Post-it notes, teen magazines, bags of cookies. He played the game. With an unhealthy intensity. Because he had never had this. Someone to see. Someone who looks at him, even with fear.

But it wasn't love. Not yet. It was need. Panic. As if she were the only thing that could keep the mess he was on a leash. He wasn't nice. He wasn't romantic. He was twisted. He was getting attached in the wrong way. He was becoming possessive before he even had the right to anything.

One day, she had said to him:

"I don't want you to come back."

He had replied, his teeth clenched:

"You don't get a say, jagi. They believe me, not you. You want me to leave? Then explain to them that I'm an asshole. Go on. Look them in the eyes and tell them you're all alone. You want that? Huh?"

She had said nothing. She couldn't. And he had clung to that silence like a rope.

Geum Seong-je didn't understand himself. He fought in the streets because he had never learned to talk. He lied because he had never trusted anything. He got angry with her because she was calm. Because she was gentle. Because everything about her reminded him of what he would never be.

But he was there. Every day. Sitting in the chair next to her bed. He ate her cookies, he sometimes fell asleep listening to the beeping of the machines. He expected nothing. Just for it to last a little longer.

The hospital had become his world. And Y/N, his fixation. It wasn't a fairy tale, it was a cell. And in his deranged mind, it was almost enough.

---

He refused to leave.

Y/N had asked him, even begged him, one morning when the pale sun filtered through the hospital blinds, but he had remained rooted there, staring at her with his split, distorted smile that never reached his eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You're the one who landed me here, jagiya. You're the one who got me into this mess. So now you deal with it."

She had turned her face away, trying to ignore him, as if that could make him disappear. But Seong-je wasn't a draft. He was a sticky, insistent presence, like an oil stain on a white tablecloth.

When the nurses passed by, he resumed his act. He laughed, offered her stuffed animals, strawberry chewing gum, little notes that he read aloud, punctuating them with saccharine nicknames.

"You remember when we stole that bike together, huh, yeobo? That was our first couple adventure, wasn't it?"

And when they moved away, his gaze changed. He leaned towards her, his sour breath on her cheek.

"Don't play smart with me. Say one more time that you want me to leave, and I swear you'll really know what it means to be alone."

He knew exactly when the staff changed shifts, which corridors were empty, which stolen moments he could use to whisper vile threats in her ear. He didn't need to shout. He inflicted pain with a few words, spoken softly.

"I have your first name. Your address. Your life, now, belongs to me. You wanted to put on a show by calling me in your sleep? You thought there would be no consequences? Well, here they are. You've earned yourself a monster, my dear."

Y/N tried to sit up in bed when she had the strength. Sometimes she struggled to reach the call button, but he would discreetly unplug it before anyone could see. Just to silence her.

"Come on, rest," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I don't want them to think you're hysterical, you know. It's not good for you."

He had to be careful. The cops kept coming by. Twice already, they had come to ask questions. First about the accident. Then about him. He played the desperate lover perfectly—a tear in the corner of his eye, stories of pseudo-memories with Y/N, a trembling voice when he spoke of his "fear of losing her."

"I'm just here for her, that's all," he had said to one of them, his hand placed over his heart. "We haven't always been an easy couple, but she's my world."

And it worked.

It worked because people preferred slightly dark love stories to disturbing truths. It worked because he knew how to manipulate silences, how to shed tears at will, how to create an illusion credible enough to be believed.

But with Y/N, he wasn't acting.

With her, he was what he truly was: unstable, violent, possessive. He swung between a distorted tenderness and an icy rage. One day, he brought macarons; the next, he smashed a bouquet against the wall when she wasn't looking.

He resented her. For what she had triggered. For the space she occupied in his head. For this obsession he couldn't control. He felt trapped, and his only way out was her.

"You can't push me away. You don't have the right. Not after what you made me believe. Now you put up with me. You endure me, just like I endure myself every damn day."

He sometimes slept in the armchair, his body tense, his arms crossed. Sometimes, he would get up in the middle of the night and stand, leaning over her, watching her. For a long time. Too long.

And in the morning, he would resume his act. Smile. Wink. Silly little nickname.

And when no one was watching:

"If you say one wrong word, I swear I'll make a scene. They think I'm the perfect boyfriend. You're just a fragile little girl. You know who they'll believe."

And the worst part was, he was right.

---

The days in the hospital dragged by with a devouring slowness, and Seong-je had had enough of every second spent in that sterile room, with Y/N lying on her bed, unconscious of everything happening around her. But it was even worse when she was awake. The heavy air of the room seemed strangely more oppressive. Every sigh he let out, every movement he made, seemed as desperate as it was useless. He felt suffocated, invisible in that overly silent room.

But a nightmare repeated itself every night. A nightmare that was gradually turning into an unbearable obsession.

Y/N was all he had. All he believed he had. And every night, he saw her leave. Not in an explosion of light or in a grand theatrical act. No. Y/N left in a much simpler, much more destructive way. She would look at him one last time, without emotion, then turn and disappear into the void. He couldn't hold her back, he couldn't even move. He was frozen, paralyzed in his own nightmare. And with each awakening, anguish washed over him, an irrepressible fear that dug even deeper into his twisted mind.

He was tired of feeling this way, of drowning in this inner void. So, he had hurt himself. Nothing serious, just enough to get Y/N's attention. It wasn't suffering he sought, but the moment when he would finally become real to her. He had slammed his fist against the bathroom wall until there was blood, and when he saw the red staining his skin, he had felt a little more alive. The taste of iron in his mouth, the burning pain, all of it had become almost… comforting. Then he had waited.

He had appeared in Y/N's room, a blank expression on his face, his wounds barely bandaged. He said nothing, he didn't move, just there, in the shadow of his own desire.

Y/N had woken up to muffled sounds. She had turned her head, her eyes blurry, and had seen him. He was there, sitting next to her, holding his arm where the blood had formed a small pool. He looked like nothing was wrong. But she… she couldn't ignore it.

He was looking at her. He had that look, both pleading and threatening, a mixture that no one else could understand. For a second, he had thought she would push him away again. For a second, he had thought he was too broken, too dirty for her to still pity him. But no, she had sat up, her face marked by fear and worry.

"Seong-je! What are you doing? You're hurt?!"

She had rushed towards him, panic in her movements. She had grabbed his arm, scrutinizing his wound as if the whole world depended on knowing he was safe. He could feel her fingers trembling on his skin. He could hear her short breaths. And he felt… loved. Not in a normal way, no. But it was enough.

"It's nothing," he had replied in a hoarse voice, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "Just a little accident."

Y/N hadn't replied immediately. She had lowered her eyes to his hand, still tightly gripping his arm. He could see her fingers closing a little tighter, as if to make sure he wouldn't disappear. She had slid up his shirt sleeve to get a better look at the wound. Her eyes were hard, focused, almost overwhelmed.

"But why did you do that? Why are you… Why are you still here, Seong-je? Why?"

The words had flowed from her lips, but he hadn't answered immediately. He felt almost trapped in the tenderness she was offering him without really meaning to. She was there, worried about him, touching his arm as if it were the most precious thing she had.

"Because you won't let me leave," he had murmured. "Because you gave me something. And I'm going to hold onto it."

He had seen the look she gave him, hesitant, confused, full of guilt. He wasn't sure she understood. But he knew. She was worried. And that was all he needed to feel that love could exist, even in this twisted version of himself.

But he didn't have time to think further. A nurse, a young trainee, entered the room. Her name was Joo-hyun ,made up like a failed idol, and she didn't seem to notice that Y/N was awake. She approached Seong-je, who was still standing in that strange position, and began to speak to him without paying attention.

"You're really stubborn, you know, aren't you? Not wanting anyone to touch you, and now you have another wound to take care of."

She spoke in a slightly casual, almost flirtatious tone, settling near him. Joo-hyun hadn't noticed that Y/N was awake, and she leaned a little too close to Seong-je, as if it were nothing special.

But Y/N had noticed. Every word Joo-hyun spoke, every movement she made towards him, all of it ignited an anger that Y/N didn't understand. She sat up slowly, her gaze hardening. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew it wasn't an innocent gesture. Not in this room.

Joo-hyun looked so carefree, too self-assured, too familiar with him. She had gently caressed Seong-je's shoulder, and her fingers had slipped a little too low, lingering on his skin. Y/N felt heat spread through her, but it wasn't the warmth of desire. It was a fever of anger, of frustration.

Without warning, Y/N stood up, looking tense, almost threatening.

"You… you should leave," she said, her voice louder, more authoritative than usual.

Joo-hyun jumped, raising her eyes to her, surprised by the coldness in her voice. Seong-je, for his part, watched silently, as if a strange smile was slowly spreading across his lips.

"What?" Joo-hyun asked, a little lost.

"I told you to leave. Right now," Y/N replied, her voice sharp.

Joo-hyun hesitated, then straightened up. A last furtive glance at Seong-je and she turned on her heel, leaving the room without a word.

Y/N sat back down on the edge of the bed. She didn't really understand why she had reacted that way. But what she had felt was something new. A feeling she had never had before. Jealousy. An emotion that was completely foreign to her.

She turned her gaze to Seong-je, who was still there, silent, his eyes fixed on her. It wasn't love. It wasn't even compassion. It was just… a need. A possession. She was afraid of it. And at the same time, something inside her tightened, a discomfort she couldn't identify.

Seong-je looked at her, then, as if nothing had happened, leaned towards her and whispered:

"Thank you. That's love, you know. The kind I can get. The kind you give me without meaning to."

She shivered at his words, but this time, she didn't react. She simply let herself be invaded by this strange sensation which, little by little, was making Seong-je someone more than he seemed. Someone essential.

And in Seong-je's tormented mind, this moment was just one small step further towards what he believed to be his own love. A love he would impose. A love she would never be able to get rid of again.

---

Seong-je no longer knew exactly when obsession had taken over everything else. When the anguish of losing her had become that black fire, that creeping thing that scratched at every corner of his mind. Maybe at the hospital, or even before. But one thing was certain: from the moment Y/N had placed her hands on him, worried, desperate to know if he was alright, something had broken for good within him.

It wasn't love. Not really. It was deeper, darker. A morbid need. He didn't want her to love him. He wanted her to need no one but him. To breathe only through him. For every beat of her heart to be linked to him. It was the only way he knew how to love. It had to hurt.

When Y/N finally left the hospital, she expected Seong-je to disappear. Maybe not immediately, but that he would understand, with time. But she saw him in the lobby, as if everything were perfectly normal. He was there, sitting calmly at a table, signing the discharge papers. As if he were her husband, her guarantor, her everything.

"What are you doing?" she asked, hesitant.

He turned to her with that small, split smile, the one she never knew how to interpret.

"I reassured them. I'm taking you home. You're my girlfriend, remember?"

He gently, almost tenderly, brought his hand to hers and intertwined their fingers. Like an ordinary scene between two lovers. But Y/N couldn't ignore that strange pressure in her chest. A suffocating sensation.

He had accompanied her home. She had expected him to leave afterwards. He had even said goodbye, a kiss on her forehead. And she had believed, truly believed, that he would go.

But Seong-je had returned.

That same evening, he had come back, his arms full. A few personal belongings, a worn travel bag, and groceries. As if he planned to stay for a long time.

"I... I have nowhere to go. And with the storm approaching, it's dangerous outside. Just a few days, okay?"

She hadn't answered. He had already entered. He already knew where the kitchen was, where to put the dishes, where to place his clothes. As if he already lived there.

The storm broke that night. Howling winds, driving rain, lightning streaking across the sky. And Y/N found herself stuck with him. Alone. Trapped. The perfect closed-door setting for the emotional tension that had been building for days.

But Seong-je, for his part, was calm. Almost too calm. He prepared food, chopping vegetables with military precision. Y/N had never said she liked spicy tofu dishes. But she had confided in a nurse once, half-asleep, thinking no one was listening. He had listened. He always listened.

They ate in silence, their fingers occasionally brushing. Heavy silences, followed by glances that lingered too long. Sometimes their arms touched, and she didn't pull away. Sometimes her eyes lingered on his lips, and she turned her head. Until he kissed her.

A kiss that was initially soft, almost clumsy. Then more intense. As if he wanted to bite her, devour her. And she, lost between confusion and attraction, hadn't known how to react. She hadn't managed to say no. Not right away.

But the storm hadn't only carried away the rain. It had unleashed another tornado, far more dangerous.

They were in the living room, the lightning barely visible behind the curtains. Y/N wanted to talk, to set boundaries. But he had approached with a step that was too assured. And she had backed away.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"No... I just want some space, Seong-je. You're not supposed to be here."

He had laughed. A dry, slightly bitter laugh.

"You always say that when you feel like you might love someone. You're afraid of yourself, not me."

"That's not true."

"Oh no? Didn't you see yourself at the hospital, worried about me, as if your life depended on it? You kicked that nurse out just because she touched my arm."

He moved closer again.

"I need you, Y/N. And you know you need me too."

"This isn't... healthy."

"Maybe it's not healthy. But it's real. You can feel it."

He placed a hand on the back of her neck, gently. But there was strength in that touch.

"You think you can forget me? I'm in your apartment. In your head. You still breathe in my scent on your sheets. Every time you close your eyes, I'm there."

"You're manipulating me."

"No. I'm just revealing what you're hiding. You didn't reject me when I kissed you. You wanted it. You still do."

His words were like needles. And she had nothing to say. Because deep down, a part of her wanted to believe he was right. A tiny part, lost, wounded.

And that night, as the storm continued to beat against the walls of the apartment, they found themselves entwined on the sofa, between hatred and passion, between fear and desire. Prisoners of a love that wasn't supposed to exist, but that consumed them, slowly, dangerously.

..................................................................................

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

Okay... She has a Trespassers in her house. But maybe she has this kind of view in the morning.

(⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

@mariii-0001

[snow-calypso]

New TADC Theory: Caine's Losing Control

Warning: Contains spoilers for The Amazing Digital Circus episodes 3 and 4.

Just watched episode 4 of The Amazing Digital Circus, and going in, I honestly expected this episode to end with Gangle's abstraction, to the point that I was honestly surprised that it didn't. It honestly seemed like the whole episode was building up to this, what with her going in with hopes of finally enjoying an adventure, then gradually being whittled down both by the stressful job and the other characters demeaning her. The fact that she only seemed to get actual satisfaction from tormenting Jax like he did to her only seemed to solidify this fact. After the isekai fakeout, I was legitimately scared that she would receive the punishment she suggested for Jax, and that would be what pushed her over the edge.

But it wasn't. Caine gave her the same grade as everyone else (except Kinger) and let her go.

Then he starts glitching out.

It wasn't until I was talking to a friend about this that I had the realization.

Gangle isn't going to abstract.

Caine is.

We've seen already in his therapy session with Zooble just how fragile his mental state can be. He begins to question his existence and the environment around the circus immediately starts to glitch out. This happens just from him having to reckon with the fact that he might not be that good at making adventures.

And what happens at the beginning of this episode?

They reject the first adventure he brings up.

As soon as Gangle leaves the room, he begins to glitch unprompted. This has only ever happened to him before during his therapy session with Zooble when he began to question his purpose.

Something is eating away at his mental state, and none of the characters know.

Granted, it isn't yet clear whether or not NPCs can abstract. But what we do know about abstraction is that it happens when someone in the Digital Circus completely loses their sense of self. Personally, I'd say that Caine is close enough to sentient for this to be a legitimate risk, and his entire identity is centered around making adventures for the characters. Adventures that they hate and are gradually starting to push back against.

What truly solidified this for me was the fact that every single other character has something keeping themselves from abstracting.

Everyone else has each other.

This has already been shown with both Pomni and Gangle. After Gummigoo's death, Ragatha stepped in to comfort Pomi and invite her to Kaufmo's funeral. After Pomni was possessed, Kinger helped calm her down and offered a solution. When Gangle was cracking under the pressure of being a manager and thought nobody liked her, Pomni offered to close so she could leave, and Zooble reassured her that they'd still be there for her.

Caine has nobody.

None of the characters in the Digital Circus even like Caine enough to check in on him like they do with each other. Given how much they've gotten used to his zaniness, they might not even know something's wrong with him until he starts growing extra eyes.

I predict that at the end of the series, Caine will fully abstract, turning the Circus into a glitching hellscape, and the characters will be faced with a choice: Leave and condemn the AI to self-destruction, or find some way to calm down their tormentor.

But hey, that's just a theory!

Do you guys have any thoughts on this? I'd love to hear them!

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 3

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

The library was supposed to be a safe space. The priestesses were supposed to be sheltered there.

A place far away from the terrors of the world. A place where they could study and learn far from the grasp of those who would harm them.

But clearly today that peace had been destroyed, Rhys reflected weakly. 

Merrill was dead. 

Neither Cassian or Rhys had let Gwyn see the…carnage of that, Nesta and Emerie bracketing her away from…her fellow priestesses’ corpse…and Irena…

Rhys had to keep repeating the words to himself, over and over again. Like a litany, a prayer, desperately trying to make them stick. 

Irena was alive. Irena would be fine.

 She would be alright, even though she looked so, so pale, deathly pale in Azriel's arms.

Irena.

Irena, who Azriel had saved around two centuries ago…

Not from the horrors of the war but from her husband.

The daughter of a merchant, married off young, to one of the richest men in the midlands…she had been raised to run an estate…had excelled at it in fact. And her husband had excelled in killing young girls.

The things he had put her through... The things he had done... 

Azriel, who had found her and brought her to Velaris had been shocked that she'd stayed in one piece to be honest. Rhys had been shocked too.

And once she had been in the library…she had excelled once more.

Rhys had gotten long used to see her handwriting, not long suffering Clotho’s, fill out the sheets with expenditures and acquisitions.

She had cut the fat, made sure that the House of Wind was self sufficient, thanks to research requests being able to be submitted, thanks to patents and the gardens…

Irena had been a godssend. Literally. 

Rhys wasn't quite sure how they had survived before her.

But the last fucking thing he had expected was that…her and Azriel were…mates.

Rhysand had not seen that coming in a million years

But there was no question about it.

If Irena's thoughts, an utter mess of shock and pain and grief and agony...with the only thing that ran through it the whole time was her thread to Azriel wouldn't have been a dead giveaway...then it would have been Azriel's behaviour.

Azriel who had gone on his knees next to the priestess, his hands slick with her blood and had simply clung to her. He had begged her, his voice broken.

Rhys would never forget the sound of his brother's voice, the pure desperation bleeding from every single letter. Please. We haven't had enough time. I am going to be so furious with you if you die. We may have our first fight. Don't you dare. Open your eyes. Look at me, love. You can't go. Fight.

That look on Azriel's face as he had held her close, refusing to let go as he tried to will her back from death's clutches. The words he had kept murmuring like a prayer. A desperate mantra to the Mother, the Cauldron, anyone who would listen.

Azriel was never the most expressive of them. He rarely even showed a flicker of emotion for most things. To see him lose so much control, to beg. To see tears in his eyes. None of them had ever seen him like that before, had ever even considered the possibility of him acting like that.

He was always composed. Always calm, collected, in control. To see him on his knees next to Irena, begging her not to leave as he pressed kisses to her forehead and kept telling her to stay with him…

For a moment, it had felt like he had forgotten the others even existed. That nothing had mattered except her pulse, the slight rise and fall of her chest. The only thing that had mattered to him in that moment was that she was still with him, still alive.

She was important to him. There was no question about it. 

Sometime during the last few years, that Priestess had become the Shadowsinger’s whole focus. 

Sometime in the past, Irena had become Azriel's whole world.

And Rhys hadn't known. Had known nothing about this.

He could feel the guilt clawing up inside him. 

Rhys had had no fucking clue this was happening, right underneath his nose. 

That he had never noticed that Azriel's eyes lingered on Irena…had never noticed that Azriel sought her company…hadn’t known that Azriel had spent time with her… 

Rhys hadn't known. Hadn't...hadn't even thought about it.

Azriel had pulled back from them after that catastrophic solstice and Rhys had let him. Had thought that Azriel needed to lick his wounds...that maybe then he would see it Rhysand's way...but none of this happened.

Azriel had kept his anger tightly leashed, even though Rhys had gotten a taste of it every time he badgered him. But Azriel hadn’t exploded. 

Instead, he had been vicious in throwing Rhysan’ own words back into his face. 

There didn’t pass one day where Rhys didn’t regret that one sentence, because Azriel was clearly… furious about it. 

Azriel had grown distant...cold...unfeeling. And Rhys had badgered him and got on his nerves and figured that if Azriel would just get it out of his system… but he didn't. Didn't get angry. Didn't fight. Didn't scream...Rhys would have preferred it if he did.

What wouldn't he give to have that old Azriel back, the one who actually got mad? Who didn't just accept everything with a nod and a word of acknowledgment. Who talked to Rhysand, who told him when he'd done something wrong. Who fought with him if he went too far, who made his opinion known. Who told him to his face when he was being an arrogant prick, who didn't just accept his commands with a quiet nod.

But now it made sense. Azriel hadn't fucking cared what Rhys did, what any of the did, because his priorities had been rearranged completely. As long as he could get home to his priestess...he hadn't cared.

He did all the missions Rhys had for him and then went home to the House of Wind and found one quiet corner or another to romance his mate, out of the view from everybody else. 

And that was the worst part. That Rhys had been such a prick to Azriel, so wrapped up in his own worries, his own fears, that he hadn't even noticed that something had shifted so fundamentally in his brother. Had pushed him so far away.

Rhys had thought that they were simply…in a rought spot. That in a few years, Azriel would be over Elain and it would be done. But now Rhys realised that…that it wasn’t about Elain. Not really.  

Rhys had never realized how deep this was, how close to the breaking point he'd taken his brother.

Deep enough that the fact that Azriel had found his mate...that was something that Azriel didn't share with any of them. Something that happy... Azriel had just kept silent.

Azriel hadn’t trusted them with the most treasured and precious thing in his life. 

And that hurt. Hurt more than he could put into words. 

That Azriel had found the one person who he was destined for, the only one who was perfect for him in the entire world. The one person who would love and cherish him, who would complete him, who would accept him as he was, who would understand him...and he hadn't told Rhys. Hadn't told any of them.

Azriel hadn't told anyone that he had found his mate. 

Had kept that to himself for who knew how long. Just how long had it been? When had he figured out they were mated? 

“Bring her to her room,” Madja said at the moment. And Rhys watched as seemingly some colour went back into Irena's cheeks, her eyes closed, her breathing still laboured…her mind filled with Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. and Safe, Safe, Safe. 

“My room,” Azriel corrected, his voice fierce. The mating instincts must have gone completely haywire at that very moment, not soothed at all, even when he had pressed a kiss against her forehead moments before.

.“Your room?” Gwyn asked sharply, staring at Azriel, then at still, quiet Irena. She seemed to be utterly shell-shocked, not that Rhys could fault her. 

"Gwyn," Rhys said carefully. It was best if none of them...interfered right now. This was between Azriel and his mate.

"Az, how long have the two of you..." Cassian asked, clearly having come to the same conclusion, but Rhys interrupted him. *Leave him be,* he warned their brother.

*Leave him be?! I had no idea that he and Irena are...whatever the fuck they are!*

“Two years. She’s my mate,” Azriel answered, not even looking at any of them, completely concentrated on said mate. 

"Mate," Irena agreed weakly. "Mine."

"Yours," Azriel agreed, his voice hoarse, as he picked her up carefully like his mate was made out of spun glass. "Let's tuck you into bed, Love," he told her softly. 

And off his spymaster went carrying the priestess that was his mate.

Rhys could just stare after them. 

"Did you know?" Cassian demanded sharply.

"I had absolutely no fucking clue," Rhys admitted weakly.

He felt the guilt swirling inside him, deep and bitter and vicious. He should have known. He should have realized and supported Azriel.

But it had been Rhys who had pushed him so far away that he hadn't told him. That he didn't even think that he could tell Rhys that he had found his mate.

And it hurt. Gods, it hurt. To know that Azriel had kept something that he should have been so happy about to himself just so he wouldn't have to deal with Rhys's bullshit.

Cassian started barking orders...About a stretcher and about Merrill's body...It would be taken away and prepared for the last rites. 

It wasn't often that one of the priestesses died. It wasn't...They were safe here. They were supposed to be safe here...but whatever happened in this room…

“What even happened?” Rhys asked, as he turned around to surview the carnage. 

It was bad. Really bad. 

“Irena went to talk to Merill, because Merrill got…angry with one of the newer acolytes…” Gwyn said, her voice shaky. “Merrill was in a bad mood because Irena forbid her newest research project.”

Her newest research project? It was well known that Merrill was brilliant. So for Irena to…

"Why did she forbid it?" Rhys asked curiously.

"It involved some form of spell crafting. Irena wanted Merrill to have supervision from a spellcrafter, because it was a language that none of us actually understood and we didn’t eve know about what kind of spell it was…Merill didn't think that was needed," Gwyn said weakly, wiping away tears. "And now look where that got us. God, how could Merrill be this stupid?"

"It wasn't stupidity, it was probably arrogance," Cassian said with a sigh. "It's dumb luck that only...that only Irena got hurt.

Rhys couldn't but agree with Cassian's assessment. It was a miracle that Irena was alive. That she'd survived when Merrill’s body was…near unrecognisable….clearly it had been closer to whatever had blown up in their faces

Merrill had probably thought she knew what she was doing, but she didn't have the skill or training to work on advanced spell work. I

rena wasn’t the type of person who would deny research on a whim either. If she believed that Merrill needed supervision then Merrill had needed supervision.

Irena was clever. And cautious. 

Azriel's mate was a damn good judge of character after all.

Gods, Azriel's mate. What a thought…

The spymaster and the priestess. Rhys’ near silent brother and…and gentle, caring Irena, the beating heart of the library. 

Rhys would need to wrap his mind around that in private. 

“I’ll seal…this room,” Rhys said quietly. So nobody could enter. And then he would probably turn Amren loose in it, to turn around every fucking stone, so that they figured out what that spell had been that had reacted like it. The last thing they needed was for the spell to have any sort of consequences that involved Irena. 

"Clotho," he greeted the priestess as she arrived, inclining his head. 

What happened? she demanded, holding out her usual piece of paper. 

Rhys felt his stomach churn at that question.  

How the hell were they supposed to tell Clotho that not only one of the priestesses had tragically died…but one of the others was currently holed up in an Illyrian warrior's room, recovering from injuries that should have killed her, and that said Illyrian warrior was said priestess's mate, so was probably not going to leave her alone anytime soon?

And that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the absolute clusterfuck this whole situation was. There was nothing to do except to simply tell Clotho the truth and hope that she didn't have a breakdown.

"There was an...accident. Merrill is dead," he told her bluntly.

For a moment Clotho was just frozen in place. But he could tell that his words had hit her hard. That she was shocked, horrified, stunned beyond belief. HOW?!

And Rhys took a deep breath, trying to find a way to explain what had happened. 

To explain how one of her charges had been killed in a room where she was supposed to be safe…How her own experimentation, her own research had killed her…

And how no one had even noticed that a priestess had been mated. 

No...how the shadowsinger had mated to a Priestess and hadn't even thought to tell them because Rhys had acted like such as bastard to his brotherthat Azriel had actually thought it preferable to keep his mating bond a secret.

"Merill didn't listen when Irena turned down her research proposal," Gwyn said suddenly with a shaky voice. "Irena went to talk to her this afternoon, because Merill made Meera cry...It looks like the spell that she was taking apart went...haywire. Merill was killed in the backlash...Irena was hurt.”

Rhys just nodded. It was a reasonable explanation, even if it didn't cover everything that had gone on. At this point in time, he was almost more concerned about Clotho than anything else. The poor female looked ready to collapse.

I told Merill to keep away from that spellbook. We still don’t know what it even contained, Clotho agreed, even her handwriting looking shaky. 

He could tell that she was in shock and grief. Could imagine how she must be feeling. Clotho protected the Priestesses with all she had. They were her flock. To lose one of her charges...There was no way that Clotho would not blame herself.

She was going to blame herself for something that wasn't her fault at all. And the thought made Rhys feel sick to his stomach.

Clotho had enough weight on her shoulders already, the last thing she needed was guilt over something that was not even her fault.

IRENA?! Clotho demanded sharply.

"Alive, if just barely," Rhys informed her, trying to push down his own guilt at the thought. "Madja is with her."

In the dormitory?

"No, in Azriel's room," Cassian said bluntly. "Apparently they have been mates for... two years.”

Clotho's head snapped around, facing Cassian, her eyes wide. 

Nobody had seen that coming, not even one of Irena’s closest friends. 

It seemed like both of them had kept it quiet. Azriel must have so badly wanted to protect his mate from…from him, that…

The thought made Rhys feel sick. Azriel would rather keep his mate a secret than reveal to Rhys that he had found her. 

Than tell him that he had found his perfect match, that there was a female in this world that loved him above all others, who understood him, who supported him.

And it was all Rhys' own fault. 

He didn't have any other thought. There was no other explanation. If a friend didn't trust him enough to confide in him that he had found his mate, it was because he had done something wrong. So wrong that Azriel hadn't felt like he could tell him.

She wanted to be with him? Clotho demanded.

"From the look of it, she was barely conscious, but still claimed him as hers. And Azriel certainly seemed to think that she would want to be with him," Rhys told Clotho. 

And why wouldn't she? He was her mate. Her mate. 

"He won't do anything to her," Cassian said fiercely. "She's his mate."

Rhys agreed with that. Of all the males in existence, Azriel was by far the least likely to do anything that Irena would not like. Hell, he wouldn't do anything that might make her even feel mildly uncomfortable. And if she told him to back off, he would give her as much space as she needed.

"Mor, whatever Clotho needs," he told his cousin, who had brought Madja there, who just inclined her head, seemingly shaken. "I'll seal of this room...we'll need to...figure out what to do with it," he said softly. "Clotho, whatever form of memorial you would like to hold...take all the time you need and then let me know."

Clotho looked at him sharply before nodding weakly. She probably wouldn't need his help when it came to something like this. She knew how to handle something like this. How to give her fallen a last farewell.

"I want to check on Irena," Gwyn said, her hands shaking as she crossed her arms.

Rhys nodded. That was fair. Of course Gwyn wanted to check on her friend. And at this point all anyone could really do was wait anyway. "Let me seal the room and then we can go," he said softly. "But I need to warn you, Azriel will be...overprotective," he told her. "Chances are, he won't let you get close to her at all."

"I don't have any doubt about that," Gwyn said dryly. "But she's my friend. I should at least be allowed to check on her."

***

He cleaned the blood of her skin...The shadows procured one of Irena's nightgowns. She didn't protest when he held her up and Madja pulled the soiled, ruined dress from her body...didn't even flinch away from his touch on her naked skin.

They had never gone further than some heated...kisses...further than his hands slipping under her nightgown and pressing against her soft skin. He had never wanted to push. Azriel had been willing to give her all the time in the world. 

It had taken months until she had been ready for a hug…longer for a kiss. And he had waited. Gladly. He had gladly waited, because it was worth the wait. She was worth the wait. 

Her marriage wasn't something that she was just going to get over, and Azriel was never ever going to push her for more than she willingly offered him. 

He had never wanted to undress her under these circumstances. So he closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss to her head, not looking at all. 

Irena didn't make a sound, didn't even really respond...just stared into the distance. He wasn't even sure she really noticed what was happening to her. Wasn't sure she even noticed Madja cleaning the wounds…cleaning thin, silver lines, scars of her past, mostly hidden by her clothing, but still visible. 

This was also when they saw the rest of the wounds...and the fact that her bad leg was broken.

Madja bandaged it carefully, stuffing pillows underneath it to keep it elevated, wrapped the rest of her bruises and scrapes with a tincture.

Still, once she was clean, no more debris in her hair, her skin as clean as he could get it...and the new nightgown was fitted over her skin, he tugged her underneath the thick goose feather stuffed duvet and then the furs.

There was no resistance on Irena’s part. She just let him do as he pleased, let herself be maneuvered and tucked in with the patience of a parent settling a little girl into bed. She didn't say anything. Didn't protest at all, even when he curled his own large body around her smaller frame, even when his wings came around her, shielding her from the outside world.

But she didn't move to snuggle up to him either. Didn't reach for him, didn't try to press her body into his. Just...allowed him to pull her close and hold her as tightly as he wanted. Her body was limp and unmoving, the only emotion on her face a sort of...emptiness. A blank expression that...it was terrifying.

He wrapped his arms around her with a sigh, running a gentle hand through her hair with a sigh. He knew that she was in shock. That she had just survived something terrible, something traumatic. So it wasn't surprising that she wasn't really responsive at the moment, that her skin felt like ice to him and that she was shaking slightly, trembling…

But the instinct to comfort her, to protect her from everything that might hurt her was roaring in his chest. He couldn't pull away from her, even though he knew he should. Even though he knew he should just be thankful that he had her, that she was here, in his hands, breathing.

She felt so thin in his hands. So fragile. Like she might break if he didn't hold her close. And that feeling, the knowledge of how vulnerable his mate was, it was almost too much for him to bear.

“I have pain potions and a sleeping draught,” Madja said quietly.

Azriel felt his jaw clench at the mention of a sleeping draught. He wanted Irena to rest, needed her to sleep away some of the horrors, but there was also some instinct in him that revolted at the idea of making her vulnerable like that. That revolted at the thought of knocking his mate out when she couldn't protect herself.

“Is that alright, love?” He asked her softly.

She didn't answer. Didn't even stir. The only sign that she had heard his question at all was the way her fingers clenched more tightly in his shirt. The only outward sign that she even understood that he was there at all. That she could even hear him. "Love?" He asked again, his voice a gentle murmur. "Do you want the sleeping draught, love?"

“Sleep?” She repeated weakly. 

“Sleep.” He promised her.

She simply opened her mouth in response, letting him pour it down her throat and swallowed.

He ran gentle fingers through her hair as the potion began to take effect. As her eyelids drooped and her limbs went loose and he could almost watch the tension leaving her body. He couldn't help but press a soft, tender kiss to the crown of her head.

Azriel couldn't put into words how good it felt to have her in his arms like this. To have her safe and protected and healing.

Madja left with the promise to be back soon…and as soon as she left there was a knock at the door. He didn’t want to deal with his brothers. 

*We could bar the door, master,* the shadows offered.

Azriel considered that for a long moment. It was tempting. Really, really tempting to just let the shadows seal the door and tell everyone to fuck off. That they could deal with the rest of the world later and he could just focus on Irena for now.

He knew that he couldn't though. Knew that he couldn't keep the world away from Irena. For all that he would like to protect her from all the harm in this world and lock her away into the safety of his arms, he knew that he couldn't do that. And that Rhys would throw a fit if he didn't let them in immediately.

He sighed softly, his arms tightening around his mate. He didn't want to deal with his brothers right now. Didn't want to deal with Rhys lecturing him about his decisions. Didn't want the pity and understanding in Cassian's eyes, his careful kindness. He didn't want to have to hold up the strong facade when his brother pushed and pushed and pushed.

“Come in,” he said flatly.

Azriel sighed softly as the door was opened and his brothers entered, both looking at him with concern. There was something else in Rhys' eyes, something that he wasn't sure how to name. The High Lord had an indecipherable look on his face as he moved to come stand next to the bed.

But it was Gwyn that shouldered both Rhys and Cassian out of the way, that immediately went to Irena’s bedside.

“She’s asleep,” he warned her softly. “Madja gave her a sleeping draught.”

The Valkyrie moved in silence, but Azriel could tell that she desperately wanted to reach out and touch her friend. Could tell that there was some instinct in her to touch Irena, to comfort her, that she was fighting against. He almost felt bad for her, knowing how hard it must have been to hold back that urge to offer comfort, knowing how desperately she had to want to soothe her friend's pain.

He knew that the two of them were close. That Irena was well liked by practically every priestess…That Roslin was her very best friend, but that she also got along with seemingly everybody else, including Gwyn. 

 And he wanted to let her get close to his mate. He really did. But the need to keep his mate safe was too strong. Was something that he couldn't fight against. So he just pulled Irena more firmly into his chest.

His only saving grace was that Gwyn seemed to understand. Didn't even try to argue with him or demand to get close to his mate. She just stayed at a respectable distance and didn't protest when he pulled Irena closer to his chest.

He could tell that she recognized his possessive nature for what it was. Just a desperate instinct to hold and protect his mate from further harm. And she didn't argue with him. 

“You are the one who gets her the tea and the cookies, aren’t you?” She asked him suddenly. “I was wondering where she got them from. They were always good but the tea has definitely gotten better the last two years.” 

*See, Master?!* the shadows cooed, seemingly heaving and then coming to blanket Irena in their very presence too. *We are getting her the best tea!*

They seemed very pleased with themselves. 

Azriel knew that when he wasn’t in Velaris, some of the shadows even kept Irena company through the night, cuddling themselves beneath her blankets with her. He also knew that Irena loved it.

Knew better than anyone even his shadows that those moments of comfort, those little gestures, mattered more to his mate than any large gifts ever could. Irena had never cared about large gestures, about pricy gifts, didn’t care about gifts or public displays of  affection. 

But those little things…she loved those little things. Loved her shadows coming to spend time with her…loved it when he gave her a back rub to ease the pain in her back, or when the shadows brought her the tea that she liked or her favourite cookies.

And Azriel…he loved giving her that.  He was happy to provide each and every one of them. He would do anything for her at this point. Would bring her anything that she asked for with enthusiasm. Because he loved it when her face lit up or when she smiled when he brought her something she didn't expect to get. That was something that he would never get tired of.

Azriel would never get tired of watching her face light up with happiness at the smallest of gifts that he gave her. Would never tire of feeling those little gestures bring her even a small moment of happiness. It brought him somuch joy to see her delighted by something so small. Made something inside of him fill with warmth.

“I’ll let her sleep,” Gwyn said softly. “Tell her when she’s awake that she owes us all the gossip. None of us had a clue that the two of you were seeing each other.”

Azriel inclined his head in response, a soft grin pulling at his lips despite everything. "I'll be sure to tell her." Not that he thought that there was anything to gossip about.

Gwyn left with another smile. Which left him with his brothers. 

“Az.” Cassian said with a weary sigh. ”What the fuck.”

Azriel frowned sharply, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he looked at his brother. His arms tightened around Irena unconsciously, the protective instinct coming into play.

He knew Cassian, knew all too well that his brother liked to be a pain in his ass, liked to push him further than he wanted to be pushed. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, Cassian," he warned his brother in a low growl. "Say whatever it is that you feel the need to say, and then get out."

He knew that he probably looked completely insane. Knew that he looked like a madman clutching onto Irena with an iron grip and growling at anyone who dared get too close. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the instincts that seemed to be pulling at every muscle in his body, couldn't stop the tension that was coiling tight as a spring.

“How long has… this been going on?“ Rhys asked delicately. 

“Two years at next Starfall,“ Azriel answered flatly.

Cassian whistled softly at that. "Two years?!" He asked incredulously. "And you didn't think to tell us?"

Azriel's jaw clenched automatically at the words. 

He had thought to tell them. Numerous times. 

He had just never wanted to. 

First he had wanted to let things settle and solidify before announcing it to his family and letting them come swarming in to analyse their relationship…Later…later he just hadn’t wanted to. 

They were completely happy when nobody knew. Why change it? 

Azriel knew that he probably should have anticipated this reaction. Probably should have expected his brothers to be confused and annoyed, probably should have anticipated them wanting to know more. But he just hadn't wanted to deal with the questions and inquiries and curiosity and judgement. 

So he had kept his relationship with Irena a secret.

“It was none of your business,” he said simply.

Cassian stared at him, dark eyes pained.  “We are your brothers,” he said quietly.  

“Quite frankly, I just didn’t want to deal with whatever opinion you cook up about us,” Azriel said flatly.  His brothers were way too nosy and curious for their own good. Always had been. “We are happy. I didn’t want you to ruin that.”

They would have never respected his privacy or any boundary he had tried to set up. 

He knew that Cassianwas probably annoyed that he hadn’t told him about his relationship with Irena. Knew that he was probably feeling left out and...excluded. That he was hurt that Azriel had kept this from him. But he just couldn’t find it within himself to feel any sympathy at the moment. Not when his patience was already wearing thin. Not when he could still feel the fear of almost losing Irena thrumming under his skin.

He couldn’t deal with this right now. Couldn’t handle whatever pity or lecturing his brother would give him. Just wanted to hold his mate and try to keep the fear of losing her at bay.

That fear was already too much, already consuming him and threatening to swallow him whole. The only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that kept him from falling apart was the knowledge that his mate, his Irena, was safe in his arms. And he needed to focus on that if he wanted to keep it together.

“Azriel.” Rhys’ choice was choked.

Azriel stiffened at the sound, his attention flicking to his brother automatically. There was something in Rhys’ voice, some emotion in his eyes that Azriel couldn’t quite discern right now.

He had heard his brother choked or emotional or desperate before, but this was something else. This was emotion in his brother that he had never seen before: raw, unfiltered, and painful.

The tone of Rhys’ voice, the almost anguished look in his eyes had Azriel holding his breath for a moment. Had his heartbeat picking up speed as he waited for his brother to speak.

The tension was heavy and thick as he waited, his muscles coiled tight as he waited for Rhys to speak. His whole body tense like a tightly wound spring.

“I am sorry,” Rhys whispered quietly.

Azriel stiffened slightly at that, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. His muscles were still tense, still ready for a fight, but the raw apology in Rhys' words, the emotion in his voice...it surprised him.

It was unexpected. He had expected the anger and the hurt and the bitterness, not the raw emotion in his brother’s voice. Not the apology.

He almost couldn’t believe his ears, almost wanted to ask his brother to repeat himself. But he just stayed quiet instead, just tensed and listened and waited for his brother to continue speaking.

He couldn't even blink as he waited, as he hung on every slight movement or small change in expression on his brothers face. The tension was so thick, so heavy he could almost taste it. But he still didn't move an inch. Just waited, every muscle still as a statue as he watched his brother with an almost desperate intensity.

“I am sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t want to hurt you,” Rhys said quietly. “I…we would have been happy for you,” Rhys promised him fiercely. 

Azriel felt his throat go dry at the words. The apology, the admission of his brother's intent to protect him, it was so unexpected that he almost couldn’t comprehend it. He felt some of the tension drain from his body, some of the tightness in his muscles loosening slightly.

Azriel's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that he almost couldn't hear anything else over the sound. The raw emotion in his brother's voice, the sincerity in those simple words...it was overwhelming.

“You were hurt,” Rhys said softly. “I understand. But you could have come to us any time over the last two years and told us and we would have been a happy for you,” he promised him fiercely.

"Would you have really?" Azriel asked softly. "Would you really have been happy for us and not made a problem out of nothing?"

He wanted to believe his brother, truly he did. But there was still a small part of him, the small part that had been hurt and mistreated and rejected so many times before, that was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The part of him that was looking for a catch, looking for the sign that this was just another manipulation.

He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to look for the betrayal and rejection that had been written into his very soul. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the small part of him that was constantly looking for the next blow, bracing for rejection and hurt.

“We would have,” Cassian said fiercely. “You found your mate, Az.”

Azriel nodded slowly.

“How did you even hide it?” Cassian demanded, crossing his arms.

“I do know how to use a sound shield,” Azriel gave back flatly. 

Cassian let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head as he grinned. "Well, you've always been more adept at keeping secrets than I am," he teased, a sly grin pulling at his lips. “ Since when do you sleep surrounded by furs by the way?” Cassian muttered.

“Irena gets cold,” he said simply.

“Wait, she spend the nights here with you?” Cassian suddenly realised.

"None of your business," Azriel replied flatly, not even trying to hide his annoyance with the nosy question. "Just focus on keeping your own mate happy, brother."

“How do you even sneak her up here?!”

"None of your business," Azriel repeated flatly. "My relationship with my mate is my own business, not yours."

He knew that he was being stubborn, that he was probably being unreasonable right now. But he couldn't help it. His emotions were too raw, too overwhelming for him to handle the intrusion into his personal life. He just wanted to focus on Irena and making sure she was okay, not on his brother's questions and prodding into the details of his relationship.

It was none of their business how he and Irena spent their time together, how they snuck around the house without being caught. That was something private, something sacred between them. And he wasn't going to share it with anyone, not even his own brothers.

He just wanted to protect that intimacy between him and his mate, wanted to keep it safely guarded from prying eyes that might not understand. He knew that his brothers cared about him, but he also knew that they could be too nosy for their own good sometimes. 

“…is she aware what these furs mean?” Cassian asked him pointedly. 

Was she aware that Azriel was laying claim to her with every single one of those furs that he hunted for her? Aware that he was following Illyrian tradition, regardless of how much…of how fucked up it was in many senses? 

“Yes,” he said simply. Kinda. A little bit. 

"So it's...serious?" Cassian asked him.

"She's my mate," he snapped back.

Cassian held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, a sheepish expression on his face.

Azriel let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just…leave it alone," he said tiredly. "Please. I'm not in the mood for any more questions right now."

He just wanted to be alone with Irena, wanted to hold her close and let the warmth of her body soothe his frayed nerves. He didn't want to deal with his brothers and their incessant questioning. Didn't want to talk about his relationship with Irena or how serious it was. He just wanted to be with her and that was it.

. His emotions were just too raw, too close to the surface for him to hold back. He just wanted a moment of peace, of quiet, with his mate.

He just wanted to hold her close and breathe in the scent of her skin, wanted to feel her warmth against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her protectively. He just wanted to know that she was safe, that she was still here with him. Was that really too much to ask?

He let out a long breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. He didn't want to be angry, didn't want to be frustrated. But he couldn't help it, couldn't help the surge of protective instincts that came over him every time he thought about how close he had come to losing his mate.

"If you need anything, let us know," Rhys said quietly.

Azriel stiffened at the words, his hands curling into fists at his sides automatically. He knew that Rhys was only trying to be supportive, that he was only trying to offer his help. But Azriel didn't want that. Didn't want his brother's help or sympathy. He just wanted to be left alone with his mate.

He wanted to protect her himself, to take care of her and keep her safe without his brothers' interference. He knew that Rhys only meant well, but that knowledge did nothing to calm his instincts. All he could think about was how close he had come to losing his mate, how close he had come to never seeing her again. And the thought terrified him.

It made his heart clench and his gut twist in fear and pain, his hands clenching tight as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. He didn't want to be vulnerable, didn't want to let his brothers see how much this had affected him. But he knew that it was pointless to try and hide it, that his brothers could probably see the rawness of his emotions written all over his face.

Azriel didn't try to argue with his brother, didn't try to explain himself. He just nodded.

[confused-lover]

All The Hugs

Character x reader / Platonic!Ortho x reader Summary: How the characters would hug you Warnings: None (that I can think) (english is not my first language)

Riddle Rosehearts: Oh man, he would be so awkward, like, if you are not in an already established relationship he couldn't even hug you. He'd let you hug him but would be stiff as a board.

Ace Trappola: Would totally yank you in and squeeze you so hard but it'll last a maximum of 5 seconds. If you want it to last more you gotta stay wrapped around him, he’ll give in. Hopefully.

Deuce Spade: He’d wrap his arms around your shoulders but he won't press his body to yours, my boy is too respectful. If you don’t care about “decency” and hug him properly he’ll blush like no one’s business. 

Cater Diamond: I totally see him hugging your waist and swaying just a bit. If he's feeling cheeky he’d snap a photo so quick you wouldn't even notice until you see it posted on Magicam an hour later.

Trey Clover: He’d be so normal about it. Just a normal hug. Thanks the seven for the one sane dude here.

Leona Kingscholar: No hug. You either snuggle in bed or you give up. But those cuddles, man are they good, you two stay like that for a minimum of 2 hours. The maximum does not exist. If you don’t get out of there yourself, you’ll never leave.

Jack Howl: Also a normal hug, he just wraps his arms around you and stays like that for a time, I see him probably taking in your scent but that’s about it. Please don’t mention the helicopter that is his tail. Please. 

Ruggie Bucchi: You hug him and he pickpockets you, that's it, nothing else to say. Sorry.

Azul Ashengrotto: Just from the hug you know a business proposal is coming. I don't know how he does it but he hugs so professionally. If he’s feeling very romantic tho it’ll all be really slow. He’d remove his glasses and nearly hang limp in your arms.

Jade Leech: His hugs also have very business vibes from him but he’d also slowly caress your back, his fingertips softly touching your spine sending you shivers. He knows what he’s doing, don’t let his smile deceive you, he's nothing but a little shit.

Floyd Leech: you know how his hugs are … you don’t need me to tell you…

Kalim Al-Asim: Warm and fuzzy, like hugging the sun itself. I don't even know how his face doesn't hurt with all the smiling he does. He’d 100% make little jumps when and after he hugs you. If extremely happy he’d probably squeal or something. He’s cute like that.

Jamil Viper: The moment you hug him you can both see and feel his body relax, he'd let out a breath and hug you tightly. Bring you closer to his chest. Best believe this in the only moment of peace he’ll have all day, just let him enjoy it.

Vil Schoenheit: You can feel his neck straining to not touch you, god forbid he ruins his make-up. That’ll make you think that he feels like hugging you is a chore or that he doesn’t like it, don't believe that, he loves it. Just wait until it’s the end of the day and all his make-up is gone, once you get in bed you’ll be able to lay your head on his chest and cuddle all night

Еpel Felmier: If you're shorter or taller doesn’t matter, he will wrap his arms around your shoulders and hug you as strongly as he can. Will think it’s manly. Please go along with it or he’ll have a crisis once alone in his dorm room.

Rook Hunk: It's happening when you least expect it. You think you're alone, then boom, you get hugged. He’ll stay there as long as you permit it and will spew poetics non-stop. If you are not one to hug people then he'll absolutely brag about it to everyone and their mother.

Idia Shroud: He won't ever initiate, so it's on you this time around. Whatever type of hug it is, long or short, tight or loose, you won’t be seeing him for at least a month after that, he’ll just be hiding until the end of time ( until you and his brother give him no choice and drag him out of his room).

Ortho Shroud: Will hug you, be so happy about it, and then immediately run to his brother to tell him how good it was and list all the mental and physical benefits of hugs. He just wants to help his brother. Cut him some slack.

Malleus Draconia: He sees a hug as a very intimate affair. If you wait for him to hug you then you better be prepared to wait at least 5 months. If you beat him to it he’ll blush. It's gonna be brief and not exactly satisfactory but be prepared to see a ring very soon. Also, he’ll brag. Loudly.

Lilia Vanrouge: Hug attack. It’s a strong embrace if short. Also will shamelessly laugh at your face afterwards.

Silver: More than a hug, it’s a cuddle, his sleeping is quite infectious and you’ll fall right asleep. One of the best naps of your life.

Sebek Zigvolt: He sees you go in for a hug, sidesteps you, yells about how improper all of it is, and then a second later hugs you anyway. Other than a broken eardrum the hug is unimpressive, not exactly something to write home about. Maybe write to his home, for the medical bills, for your ears.

[singleactionjack]

Mh wilds spoilers

I'm genuinely surprised how frequent it seems people are misrepresenting Nata's character arc and saying that they don't like him, every time it feels like they're actively leaving something out. I don't know if it's a lack of critical thinking or failure of narrative comprehension but idk

Like, it's not the most well written dialog but I think the kid has a pretty fleshed out set of motivations, his arc makes sense and none of it felt rushed to me.

Like, kid is in an isolated secret civilization, he doesn't know shit, he seems almost too innocent to be informed of anything. The most he seems to know is that monsters are dangerous, which seems very informed by his experiences in the intro. He doesn't know shit, his village is attacked by a terrifying creature he doesn't know much about, and his elder pushes him out of the village to "find help". His only community being presumably destroyed, everyone he cares about presumed dead, as a kid seemingly no older than 12 or something.

He gets picked up by hunters from the West or whatever, and they start an expedition to the forbidden lands because this kid is the first proof that there is /any/ civilization out there, and this traumatized child is having to be a part of this expedition because he's the only one alive they know who has any knowledge of the land. But the fucked up part is, he doesn't really know the land.

He spent the last few days (?) running scared out of his mind, luckily avoiding anything too particularly dangerous, across lands so large and dense the player needs a super fast dinosaur to navigate. The kid doesn't know much of anything about the land, only hoping he recognizes enough of the way out to see the way back home.

So you have a kid who's scared shitless, having to help an expedition to his home that /no one else/ knows about, through lands he doesn't know anything about, with the implicit expectation that his entire people are dead at the hands of a creature that still lingers in his nightmares. The glimpses of the brutality of Arkveld still plastered in his mind. And it seems until he travels with Alma and the player, this brutality has no context.

As he follows along with the party, he starts to see reasons for the behavior of monsters (which is probably subtly indicating that his home isn't a place where regular monsters live) He sees an ecosystem thriving, a cycle of life and death, things doing things to survive. This further stokes the growing hatred he has, survivors guilt and thinking he's the last survivor of Arkveld. He thinks his people are probably gone, and he can't see any reason why a creature would do that. Narratively, Arkveld isn't a Monster™️, but a Monster, who does things out of maliciousness, cruelty, with no rhyme or reason.

Later, Nata and friends actually spot his White Wraith, attacking the Apexes, draining power from Rey Dau. In this part of the story, this "Villain Arkveld" conceptualization is firm in his mind, a target of revenge for his fallen kin. He is too weak to enact any meaningful revenge, just wishing to stop Arkveld from hurting anyone else in the way his people were hurt. The Hunters he's with prevent him from doing anything reckless, but he's fully in the fuck Arkveld club.

All the while, he's still a child. Optimistic, still has hope. They're able to actually find his home, in Sild, and he (despite really thinking everyone would be dead) still calls out for Tasheen. He hopes that someone else survived the horrors he was saved from. And lo and behold, Tasheen lives, among many others. His people weren't wiped out, many did survive. Tasheen then does something that changes Nata's path directly.

Tasheen tells Nata about his people and their actual purpose/role as the ones who reside and look over this land filled with guardians, artificial monster shaped constructs who only exist to be tools for a civilization that no longer exists. And that the "White Wraith" was simply one of these creations who was behaving erratically, unable to be controlled.

Tasheen specifically does this reveal in combination with celebrating Nata for successfully escaping and getting help as something they were not supposed to be able to do. The people in Sild weren't supposed to be able to leave really, bound by duty and second hand shame from a civilization that no longer exists, but Nata was freed from that cycle of imprisonment.

In doing all this, Tasheen gives purpose for Arkveld AND Nata. No longer just a child, he was supposed to be one of these protectors. Arkveld, no longer a creature without direction, but a guardian who is acting strangely.

This information is given to him with the explicit understanding that Nata's purpose (as ascribed to him) isn't set in stone, and by him leaving and finding help he has already been given agency to be his own person and make choices his people could/would not. In this part of the narrative, the vengeance seeking Nata is largely replaced with concerned curiosity. He knows /what/ Arkveld is, but not why it's doing what it's doing.

They eventually discover a reason why. Arkveld, seemingly too powerful a construct, is attempting to revert to it's original status as the wyvern it was before extinction. Trying to engage in the behaviors it knows it should do, either from instincts or seeing other monsters in the wild. Predation, subsistence. Arkveld, as an extinct predator reinvented, has all the tools to hunt but not all the tools to survive, leading to it seemingly rampaging in acts of violence as it attempts to overcorrect by eating and hunting despite not needing to.

When Nata understands this, his perspective on Arkveld is informed and he becomes very sympathetic to it. It isn't the monster he was lead to believe. It's a creature who's agency was taken from it, that found freedom and sought to behave in a way it felt right over what it was predestined to do. In a very literal sense, Arkveld and Nata /ARE/ the same. Both are children of the ancient civilization, given purpose by people who no longer exist. They are both given opportunity to understand the outside world, and in doing so are given chances to make choices for themselves. If Nata decided to stay in Sild once he knew people were safe, this wouldn't be the case. He was given opportunity to do more and see more and he took it because his horizons were broadened. By Arkveld's attack both of them were unchained by fate.

Nata at this point starts to truly empathize with Arkveld for two reasons: one being the stuff listed above, but also his learned understanding of the ecosystem. Arkveld is just doing what any other monsters are doing. He's seen several environments where the monsters fight and struggle for survival. Arkveld is textually (for Nata) really "just like him frfr". Steeped in wylk, finally able to see the sun, able to eat the cheese (animal flesh) and be their own person.

When it is deemed Arkveld has overcorrected and is too dangerous for the ecosystem, Nata objects, but he does so purely from empathy. Before Arkveld had no purpose in its cruelty, now its cruelty is somewhat overstated and its purpose is no different from anything else. Why must it die for doing what everything else does? Why must it die when it was finally free?(Like Nata himself has come to recognize in himself)

It's very straightforward honestly. None of his arc feels rushed, he is a scared and traumatized boy who is then given new information and hope, and that hope informs his empathy. It's like if a kid grew up in a cult and his whole family got attacked by a knife guy ™️, they escape into the outside world to find out that Knife Guy was actually kidnapped and kept in his cult family basement. Knife Guy only did what they did to escape but now they're too maladjusted to society to not be knife guy other places. I'd probably feel bad for Knife Guy ™️ too if I was the kid who escaped.

[biancasaidstfu]

I am honestly still laughing over how much they tried. Meeting the contractual obligations while also setting the scene for a least-damage impact situation seems to be their game plan.

Couple of things that stood out for me:

1. The photodump is black and white, but the first one. Look at it carefully. Luke's lip has a hint of red/pink. Look at the other photos. It's not there. Choosing this as the first one seems very intentional in terms of the message they want to send. They are going with the whole look he is in a relationship with her.

2. It's followed by the photo of Luke kissing her WITH HIS EYES OPEN. We have seen him in pure bliss with Nic and that man literally purrs and closes his eyes at her touch! Sorry, but the eyes wide open scream staged.

3. Looks like there were a bit of drinks involved and well, if he has to put up with her presence, I would drink myself to oblivion. I don't think he was drunk at all and that is commendable because I needed a couple of drinks when this whole thing dropped. So drinks helped to tolerate her presence.

4. He cleaned up his insta feed. Archived almost every personal content. It's screaming work-based. So....... Changing the feed content to scream work-based right after dropping the so-called "hard launch" that there is indication that this is all PR

5. The only two personal content in his feed are his 30th b'day celebration and the celebratory cinnamon rolls. Both directly related to the one person. If he was aware of how fake his PR stunts were, he is most definitely aware of the lore behind the cinnamon rolls. It is a very strategic move.

6. He looked hot AF last night. He was giving bad boy vibes. This got me thinking..... With White Mars due to be released before bridgerton, what if his team is trying their best to kill two birds with one stone?

We have Colin Bridgerton who is the sweetest man to ever exist on our screens and what if, the character in White Mars is not the same? He looks like he had some training done and he looks more buff than he does. Imagine with me: Luke playing the hot bad boy vibes villain in White Mars.

These photos kinda give that vibe. I won't say f-boy vibes because that can be interpreted wrongly. It's smolder smolder and bad boy vibes.

7. I knew when Nic took Jake to Cannes, Luke and A will show up with a bigger matchstick. No one was buying what Nic and Jake tried to sell and people have been clocking on Luke's behaviors to the point that the fandom could predict what will happen next. It is widely speculated and hoped that Luke will distance A from anything Bridgerton related.

So what better way to throw a damn fucking granade by bringing her to a Bridgerton related event where Nic was even present and put up the stunt that they did.

8. In an event with many well-known people in the industry, they somehow let her pose solo on the red carpet? If this was a hard fucking launch, why did she pose solo? Why was she named in the images while certain actors weren't? I am a bit confused. Exactly what is her occupation? She is a dancer. We now see her trying to enter the modelling industry, but again, she is nowhere near close to level that will get her recognized on the street. We saw her try the influencer thing, but that didn't work because of her lack of relatability and authenticity. None of her current status/occupation justifies a solo red carpet appearance.

9. Taking the words out of Luke's mouth: "not that big on public displays of affection".......

They expect us to believe that staged photos and video with a woman Luke looked murderous next to? The same one with whom Luke were overheard saying, "let's get this over with" and boogergate? The same one that has been public bully for months without doing anything to defend her?

Yeah, that's right. Because she is not the woman who he is with irl.

10. The lack of any photos between Nic and Luke is so telling. If they were all just good friends, we would have gotten one. No photo is fueling the whole they are feuding claims. I guess this is the best thing to make sure they can sell the L and A content because putting Luke and Nic near each other is like having cupid hover above them all the time and thousands of fairies are born every second they spend together.

11. I feel like the current aim is to burn the fucking thing to the ground and I say this because of Nic's caption. Calling it a "class night", "favourite messers in one room" and "what a night" she has said what she wanted to say without saying it.

12. Nic's latest blocking spree helped with the current narrative that Lukola "isn't real". By blocking mostly Lukolas, she set the stage. It's mind-blowingly genius tbh.

13. I think majority of the fandom got the contractual obligations due date incorrect. Most are assuming it's June after the first papgate. I think not. Infact, I think it will extend well into the summer around the time when the SoHo gang broke up. When all of a sudden they stopped posting Luke on their stories and all and I remember one of them posting about NDAs. Yes, initially the contractual obligations may have started in June, but there was a clear shift in summer. Then there was another shift after Nic got papped with Jake. So I think the obligations will run to a one yr duration from the date that the renegotiations took place at.

14. I don't think we will get the Lukola launch as soon as the obligations end. They are currently in the trenches so I wouldn't be surprised if they take some time to bask in the no obligations period before they launch because they will have to field through media invasion once it happens. We know Luke didn't immediately unfollow Jade when they broke up. I doubt that Luke's team put out the statement the day that they broke up. So I am expecting a similar route to be opted and most importantly, it will be at Luke and Nic's own terms.

15. BAFTAs. I am calling it. Nic will either take her mom or her sister. I can't imagine her turning up to one of the most important award shows of her career where she is favoured to win, without someone from her family present.

50/50 on whether Luke will take A, but after the pre BAFTAS stunt, I would say they might double down and have her at the actual event. It would be such a cruel twist of fate if it does and in that case, whatever A has on Luke is HUGE and I will die on that hill.

16. If all of that is false and if Luke is really with her, I have lost my respect and admiration for him and it has nothing to do with her. It has everything to do with Luke.

The big names of Hollywood are dating people/married to people and they still do the press yours and all that with their co-stars. There is chemistry there, but they never deny that they have an irl partner/girlfriend/boyfriend. The teams don't say that they are "publicly single". They appear on red carpets together during the promos itself and are respectful for the partners.

What we saw on bridgerton WT goes beyond PR. Those acts, the things they said and the way they behaved would be extremely disrespectful to their partners if they are in a relationship with other people. The reception to the adjacents have been brutal. Nic has subtly spoken up about it while Luke has chosen pindrop silence. We know that Luke has no issue clarifying what he wants to, as he did with the cake one. So if Luke really is in a relationship with her, he hasn't treated her right. Sorry, but that's a fact.

17. Nic and Jake is a whole other topic that I have quite a lot to say about. The difference is, Nic and Jake are part of their friends circle. There is so many photos and videos to prove that they belong to the same friend group. My only issue is that having seen so many indications that Jake belongs to the LGTBQTIA+ community, letting the public speculate on Jakola, for the sake of upholding the contractual obligations Luke has to uphold, is very grey.

If for example, Jake volunteered for it and is willing to go along with it, then great. Especially if he is not ready to disclose information about his sexuality and if by this narrative, he is allowed time to be who he is, then fine. At the same time, Nic being such a vocal activist for the Queer community, people can perceive it differently. Some already do. It's a very grey area with no right and wrong because yes, if it is PR, there is a mutual understanding from both parties but at the same time, it is deceiving. It's inauthentic. It goes against what everyone associates Nic with.

I mean they can say that they never confirmed the relationship and that it was the public and the media who did so, but at the same time, people can bring up the fact that they do have the resources and manpower to correct the public narrative. The issue is RN they are not only not correcting the narrative, but they are fueling it.

Shit-stirrers indeed.

Then again, I always remember Nic saying I'm an interview with Aimee that she would never do anything for her haters. She didn't take her driving license because a dude yelled at her and she decided to be a forever passenger princess. So I think one of the reasons why she is leaning to the Jake narrative is because it's already out there and that it pisses the hell out of some people.

At the end of the day, it isn't looking good for Nic either. If she is really with Jake, she has behaved as inappropriately and as disrespectfully as Luke did. She hasn't treated him right. Also there is the added layer of Nic being a woman and girls girl and the optics are just bad because why would she encourage such an action from Luke if he was really with another woman?

18. I have spent hours rewatching their interactions, the interviews, what other people have said about Luke and Nic. There is 99% chance of them being together irl and only 1% chance of point 16 & 17 being true. We probably will never get the full story tbh. I think a lot of the messiness could have been avoided and it all comes down to the PR execution of this whole charade.

19. We know the teams are lurking around. I think some of us have come too close to the truth which is complicating things obligation wise and so we are being served with what we are rn. Smokescreens are no longer enough as the scales are tipped so much in favor for Lukola that the only thing they can do is just watch the whole damn thing burn to the fucking ground.

20. This is the endgame. It's about to be messy, but they don't seem to have much choices. I think what they want is to just let it burn and not have it overanalyzed so that when they want to rebuild, there is less holes to patch up. So, I am going to give them the grace that they are the actors we saw and fell in love with because of their incredible talent, chemistry and authenticity. If space is what they need, space they shall get. Fuck it all, I would make a Luke and A fan page if that's what it's going to help them fulfill Luke's obligations. Just give us a sign and I swear, Polin fans and Lukola fans will do whatever is needed to get this fucking over with

👏👏👏

Perfect anon.

[vinnyvamppp]

Your Name Lives Under My Tongue જ⁀➴ ♡

Note: For some reason, I’m having my  “tragic lovesick” moment and hearing this song—absolutely obsessed for the time being, by the way— gave me the great idea to write this. These wholesome and slightly angsty headcanons are a quick palate cleanser for the three smut fics you can expect tomorrow. Each character has a lyric I selected to match!

Synopsis: You haunt their thoughts like a song stuck on repeat—pulling them closer with every heartbeat, every whispered “come here.” Inspired by Love Me Not by Ravyn Lenae. ⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻

Warnings: None! Also, it's my insistent rambles.

☆: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Barbara Gordon, and Cassandra Cain x GN!Reader

WC: I’m very talkative, just trust me. (song at the bottom.)

ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Dick Grayson Lyric: “I don’t wanna tell you how I feel, but I want you all the time.”

• He’ll joke and flirt and wink like it’s nothing, but when you leave the room, he looks at the door like he’s just lost something sacred. Dick keeps his love quiet because if he says it out loud, it might break the delicate magic of what you are. But every time he pulls you into his arms like you’re his home, his body writes the love letter he’s too scared to speak.

• He sends late-night voice messages that start with jokes and end in confessions, quiet and sleepy, "Wish you were here... you always make my nights better." He’s all warm hands on cold skin, pulling you into his arms like he’s afraid you’ll vanish when morning comes. • He’s the type to send selfies while he's out on missions with the caption, “This city sucks but at least you exist”.

• He buys you earrings “because they reminded me of your eyes,” and gets adorably flustered when you wear them out.

• He’ll stay on video call with you until you fall asleep, whispering about stars and childhood dreams. Dick lingers on the screen a little longer, watching as your features soften into sleep. There’s a quiet smile on his lips as he takes a few silent screenshots, not to tease (sometimes), but to keep you close on the nights he can’t be.

• When he's jealous, he pouts like a golden retriever, until he pulls you close and says, “Tell me I’m your favorite. I need to hear it.”

• Plans rooftop picnics under string lights and always insists on feeding you grapes with hot chocolate in thermoses, he insists are “bat-proof.”

• Always spins you around while dancing in the kitchen, even if there's no music, just your laughter.

• Loves sneaking kisses on your shoulders while he's holding you during movies.

• Keeps a spare toothbrush and your favorite snacks in his apartment as a quiet “stay here more often.” • He leaves you breathless with teasing touches and glances during team meetings, like he’s daring you not to react.

• He’s the king of slow kisses against your neck after patrol, letting his breath linger just a second too long—just long enough to make you forget every good reason to leave. Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here." He tells himself he can live without you—he’s done it before, hasn’t he? But the second he hears your voice, the cracks show, and he’s already halfway across the city, knocking at your door with apology in his eyes and longing on his breath. Every part of him says, “don’t go back,” but his heart whispers, “just one more night.”

Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here."

You’re across the room, smiling at someone else, and he’s smiling too, but his eyes always find you. He won’t admit it, but it guts him to love you from a distance. He wants to dance with you again, to selfishly pull you in close and pretend the space between you never existed. When Dick looks at you, it’s like the rest of the world goes into soft focus—you’re all he sees, all he wants, like the sun decided to stay for him a little longer. He memorizes the way your face crinkles when you laugh, and sometimes he swears your smile has saved him more than any cape ever could. He wants to hold you until the ache in his chest settles, until being with you stops feeling like a dream he’s terrified to wake up from

ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!（ꐦ𝅒_𝅒 ) Jason Todd Lyric: “I know that this ain’t right, but it feels so right.”

• He tastes your name like sin in his mouth, forbidden and perfect, so he keeps coming back to you like a moth to a flame. Every kiss is a dare, every glance laced with the kind of hunger that doesn’t go away with time. Jason would destroy the whole world to keep you in it, even if it means burning with the wreckage.

• He swears he's bad at this love thing, but you catch him memorizing your coffee order and leaving annotated pages of your favorite book with "made me think of you" in the margins. He falls in love like he fights, it's messy, bruised, and with his whole damn chest.

• Reads to you in bed, sometimes poetry, sometimes horror, and lets you fall asleep against his chest mid-sentence. If you're lucky, he might kiss you on the knuckles as you rest.

• Leaves you notes in his messy handwriting tucked into your coat pockets: “Drink water, don’t get stabbed.”

• Pretends to be annoyed when you steal his leather jacket, but he never asks for it back. • He’ll write you poetry he swears is “cringe” and hide it under your pillow, sonnets in his scrawl, angry and beautiful.

• He’ll teach you how to shoot, his arms wrapped around you, voice low in your ear... half instruction, half seduction. Your date nights usually end in something morally questionable with a touch of romance.

• If he’s having a rough night, he’ll show up at your window instead of texting. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

• He makes you playlists labeled "do not open unless you miss me." You open them every damn time. • Jason has a thing for kissing you mid-argument, fast and aggressive like he’d rather fight with his mouth on yours.

• He kisses like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, always pushing you against the door like the space between you two is something that is offending his very being. Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here." He’s stubborn. He’ll ghost you, stay away, swear he’s better off alone, but then he dreams about your hands, your voice, the way you say his name like its a kiss-worn caress. He shows up at your window, rain-drenched and hoarse, saying, “I didn’t plan to come. I just… missed you.” Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here." He sees you and it stings, because you look happy, and he can’t tell if it’s because of or without him. He looks away, but he’s still listening for your laugh, and when you do glance his way, he looks like he hasn’t breathed in weeks. Jason thinks of you like a favorite song he keeps putting on repeat— its familiar, and something he can’t stop needing in the dark. You’re the quiet voice in the chaos, the one person he believes might love the broken parts and the bruised knuckles. He watches you like a man who thinks you’ll vanish if he blinks too long, and he’d rather burn than lose the warmth you give him.

(·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ) Tim Drake Lyric: “You been lookin’ at me all night, tryna figure me out.”

• He watches you like you’re the one thing that makes sense in a world made of lies and algorithms, calculating every beat of your heart like it’s the code he was born to crack. But the truth is, you’re the one who’s figured him out, and it terrifies him in ways he’ll never admit. Every time you touch him, he feels like a boy again, hopeful, fragile, and full of impossible dreams.

• He’ll overthink a text for twenty minutes before deleting it all and just sending “You up?” but the second you say yes, he’s showing up with snacks and theories on what your dreams mean. He's the quiet touch on your wrist, the safe place you didn’t know you needed. • He keeps polaroids of you tucked into his notebooks like you're the secret he can’t stop studying.

• You catch him staring sometimes, and when you ask why, he just shrugs and says, “You’re distracting in the best way.”

• When he’s exhausted, he lets you drag him onto the couch and fall asleep in your lap like he belongs there.

• He’ll analyze every text you send, but still answer with something clumsy and real like, “I missed you. A lot.” ... He can't help it when it comes to you.

• Works late but always FaceTimes you just to watch you laugh before he crashes.

• Makes a shared digital calendar just for your dates and labels cuddle nights with bat emojis and falls asleep with your hand in his and a book open between you two.

• Buys two of everything, one for him, one for you, so you always have matching mugs, pens, socks, anything. • He’s quiet in bed until you whisper his name and then, God, the way he comes undone from just your voice.

• He’s all shy glances and soft moans when you run your fingers through his hair, until the moment he stops holding back and decides he wants to be the one making you tremble. Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here."

He’ll dive into work, research, anything to forget you, but the silence between 2am and sunrise is too loud. He scrolls through old photos with trembling fingers, telling himself it’s just nostalgia. Then he texts “You awake?” even though he knows you are, because you always wait for him, and that’s what kills him most.

Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here."

He runs into you at a gala, and you look like a dream in a room full of strangers. His chest tightens and he wants to say hi, to say he’s sorry, to say anything, but the words choke behind his tongue. So he sips his drink and watches you disappear again, like you always do. Tim looks at you like a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve—just hold, just study, because the mystery of you is the most beautiful thing he’s ever been given. You make him feel like he’s real in a world where he usually feels like a ghost behind a screen. When you touch him, so gently, he swears the Earth tilts, just for him.

^,…,^ Bruce Wayne Lyric: “I shouldn’t be here, but I’m right here.”

• He’s a master at disappearing, but somehow, with you, he keeps showing up at your door, in your dreams, in the way his voice softens when he says your name. Bruce doesn’t believe in fate, but something about the way you look at him makes him wonder if some things are just meant. He’ll never say I love you initially, but when he presses his forehead to yours in the silence, it’s louder than words.

• He tells you he doesn’t do attachments, but he shows up to your place in the middle of the night with his tie still on and a bottle of wine he pretends he “just happened to have.” His love is quiet, but it’s in the way he memorizes your laugh and lets you see the man behind the mask. • He’ll leave you handwritten notes on your mirror after long nights: “Couldn’t sleep. Thinking of you.”

• He buys you ridiculously expensive gifts and says, “It’s just a thing. You matter more.”

• He pulls you onto the rooftop to watch the sunrise in silence, his hand finding yours in the hush.

• You call him out on hiding his feelings, and he responds by kissing you like a confession, pouring everything into actions rather than words.

• Drives you out to the manor gardens at night just to slow dance under the moonlight.

• Shows his love in tailored suits for you, matching cufflinks, and remembering exactly how you take your tea.

• His idea of romance is quiet protection: warming your hands in his coat pockets, carrying a photo of you in his wallet like he's in high school, and drawing you closer when no one's looking. • He’s slow and intentional, like every button he undoes is a promise he won’t break.

• Bruce kisses you like he’s trying to forget the world, like if he kisses hard enough, Gotham might disappear. Like his responsibilities might disappear long enough to engrave you into his heart. Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here." He won’t say it. But he’ll find excuses to check on you, to protect you from afar, to stay near without ever stepping close enough to feel. The distance is safety, but every fiber of him misses you like a bruise he keeps pressing. Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here." You’re in the same room but in a different world, one where Bruce let you go to protect you. He tells himself it’s better this way, but every time he sees you, something behind his eyes flickers with regret. He wants to cross the room and tell you he never stopped wanting you, but instead, he stays in the shadows, like he always does. Bruce sees you in flashes—your laughter echoing in the cave, your silhouette in moonlight, and for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s chasing shadows. You are the softness he forgot he deserved, the quiet that calms the noise in his head. He doesn’t believe in fairy tales, but when you say his name like it’s something sacred, he almost wants to try.

⋆. ˚ Barbara Gordon Lyric: “You got me floatin’ but my feet feel grounded.” • You make her feel weightless, like she’s flying without ever leaving the ground, like love could be both thrilling and safe. Barbara doesn’t fall easily, but with you, it’s a controlled descent, both exhilarating and completely consuming. When she’s with you, the world slows down just enough for her to breathe.

• She plays it cool, all clever comebacks and flirty sarcasm, but she melts when you hold her hand under the table or kiss her cheek mid-sentence. She's fierce in love; if she lets you in, it's because she knows you're worth the risk. • She builds you an encrypted app just to send secret love notes throughout the day.

• She’ll steal your jacket and wear it to missions “for luck,” but really it’s because it smells like you.

• She flirts with you over comms during missions, “If you survive this, I’ll let you kiss me again.”

• When you surprise her with flowers, she blushes and tries to sass it off, but you catch her saving the petals.

• Leaves voice notes when she knows you’re having a bad day, “You got this. And I’ve got you.” and buys you matching phone cases and says, “Now no one can flirt with you—branding, babe.”

• Sends you memes at 3AM followed by “miss you, come over?”

• Pulls you into spontaneous, spinning dances in the kitchen to whatever song’s playing (reboot ver). • She pins you against her wheelchair handles and kisses you until you’re the one breathless. • Her voice dips low when she whispers your name, fingers tracing your collarbone like she's writing code on your skin. Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here." She deletes your contact to prove a point, but never forgets the number. She doesn’t need you, but the second your name lights up her screen again, she’s breathless. She types “I missed you.” Deletes it. Then sends, “Come over.”

Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here." She thought she could handle seeing you again, until you looked at her like she was still yours. Now, every moment is a war between holding back and reaching out. She wants you here, now, always, but she doesn’t know if her heart can survive another “almost. Barbara watches you like you’re the glitch in her code she never wants to fix, a perfect flaw that makes everything else finally make sense. You’ve become her favorite distraction, the reason she finds herself staring out windows and smiling at nothing. When she holds your hand, it feels like finally finding the right frequency after years of static.

°❀⋆.��࿔*:･ Stephanie Brown Lyric: “What’s the use in tryin’ not to feel it?”

• She tried to play it cool, to act like this was just fun, but the way her hands linger on yours says otherwise. Steph’s heart beats too loud when you're near, and no amount of joking can hide the way her eyes follow you like she’s afraid to miss a moment. Eventually, she just gives in because if falling for you is a mistake, it’s the kind she’d make every time.

• She'll flirt with you like it’s a game, but go all soft when you bring her flowers “just because,” and if you make her laugh until she snorts, she’s gone for you. She loves loud and holds your face when she kisses you, and writes little hearts on your coffee cup. • She doodles little hearts and inside jokes in your patrol notes because “vigilanting should be fun sometimes.”

• She takes the dumbest couple selfies and sends them with captions like “We’re cute. Tell your enemies.”

• She throws popcorn at your head during movie night when you won’t cuddle closer, then grins when you finally do.

• She teases you mercilessly but melts if you call her "my girl."

• Shows up at your window with takeout and a playlist she made just for you. If she brings to-go coffee, she always writes, "You're cute. Like, really cute," with a ridiculous sticker that says "Best Kisser."

• Wears matching socks with you on purpose and brags about it.

• Makes blanket forts with fairy lights and insists it’s the most romantic place on Earth. • She whispers dirty jokes mid-mission just to see you lose your cool in public. • She’ll pull you into a closet for a quick makeout, lipstick smeared and giggling, “Oops, I needed this.” Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here." She says she’s over it, but she laughs too loudly, flirts too much, and tries too hard to look unbothered. She still walks past places you used to go, still hums the song you sang to her that one night, still whispers “damn it, I miss you” into her pillow like it’s a secret.

Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here."

She smiles when she sees you, but her grip tightens on her drink like it’s the only thing holding her together. She wants to run to you, to kiss you, to scream “I still love you, damn it” but instead, she raises her eyebrows and walks away like a scene from a movie she’ll watch later and cry to. You don’t follow, and she hates how much that hurts. To Steph, you are the bright spot after a string of bad days, the golden moment when the sun breaks through and everything feels possible. She notices every little thing about you—how you bite your lip when you’re nervous, how your nose scrunches when you're mad—and it wrecks her in the best way. Sometimes, when she’s alone, she whispers your name just to remember what love sounds like.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ Cassandra Cain Lyric: “You read my mind, you know what I like.”

• Cass doesn’t need words to fall in love, you just move right, feel right, are right, and she reads you like a second skin. You speak her language in glances, fingertips, and shared silences, and it makes her feel more seen than any sentence ever could. When she rests her head against your shoulder, you know without asking: she’s chosen you, and that means everything.

• Cass doesn’t say much, but the way she looks at you, like you’re the first good thing she’s ever seen, is more than enough. She shows her love in small, perfect gestures: a touch to your cheek, a shared silence, a dance in the dark with no music. • She traces the veins on your wrist like she’s reading your body language like a poem.

• You teach her how to say “I love you” in five languages, she only uses it when she really means it.

• She gives you gifts in silence, a flower, a feather, a paper crane, each one left where you’ll find it without her watching.

• Her hugs are rare but consuming, like you’re being held by someone who never lets go once they care. • If you matched outfits with her (even just a color or detail), she’d blink slowly, look at you for a few extra seconds, and then just… softly smile. If you learned some of her body language or trained alongside her to move in sync, she'd be floored. If you mirrored her signs or small gestures? She’d reach for your hand, link your fingers with hers, and squeeze. That's intimacy, that's “you care about my world.”

• When you’re sad, she doesn’t ask questions. She just holds you like a lighthouse holds light. • Cass doesn’t say what she wants. She shows it in every kiss, a message in a language only your body understands. • Her lips brush yours slowly, her breath catching, like she’s learning what it means to want, and then she pulls you closer, like she’s decided to want you over and over again. Lyric 1: "Oh, no, I don't need you, but I miss you, come here." She doesn’t understand why missing you hurts more than physical wounds ever did. She left because she thought it was right, but the echo of your heartbeat still lives in her ribcage. Sometimes she opens the door at night, hoping the wind will carry you back in. Lyric 2: "And, oh, it's hard to see you, but I wish you were right here." Seeing you again feels like watching a ghost walk through her. She says nothing, but her hands tremble slightly, and you’d only notice if you ever learned to read her that well. She stands still, heart aching, wishing you’d come to her, but she won’t beg, not even now. Cass sees you like movement—fluid, beautiful, real—like a story translated into film just for her, and she reads you with her hands more than her eyes. You are the only person who’s ever made her feel both safe and wild, like she could be soft without being small. When you look at her with that kind of patience, that kind of wonder, she thinks maybe this is what it means to be known.

A/N: I might add some more later on. I'm pretty content with how it is, but you guys know I love to run my mouth so…

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[arkaiveofurown]

Love Against Justice

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Reader

tags: angst, major character death

You were born into justice— Admiral Akainu’s perfect daughter, raised to obey, to believe that fire could burn the world clean. But then you met him.

Portgas D Ace. Son of the Pirate King. Wild, golden-eyed, and free. He showed you a world beyond orders, beyond duty—a world where you could choose.

You weren’t supposed to love him. He wasn’t supposed to matter. But on the night you met, everything changed.

And when the war came, you had to make the hardest choice of all.

Stand by your father…

Or die for the man who taught you how to live.

Word count: ~4,500 words

my masterlist here ♡

——

The island was supposed to be quiet—just another checkpoint. You were out past curfew, your boots light on the sand, the stars above your only company.

Until he spoke.

“You shouldn’t be walking around here in that uniform, you know. Might give someone ideas.”

You froze, hand hovering over your sword. But the voice wasn’t threatening—just amused.

From the shadows, a man stepped forward. Black tattoo on his back. Orange hat. The moment your eyes met his golden ones, something in your chest shifted.

“Portgas D. Ace,” you said carefully.

He tilted his head. “And you are… a Vice Admiral’s brat?”

You stiffened. “Admiral. I’m his daughter.”

He let out a low whistle. “Didn’t expect Sakazuki to have a kid. You don’t have his scowl.”

Your lips twitched, despite yourself. “I get that a lot.”

He smiled then, soft and crooked. “So what’s a good little Marine doing walking alone?”

“I could ask you the same. You’re a wanted man.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you haven’t drawn your blade.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. For some reason, looking at him didn’t feel like facing an enemy.

“I’m not here to fight.”

He looked up at the stars. “Good. Neither am I.”

That night stretched longer than you expected—two hours of talking by the water’s edge. About justice. About pirates. About fathers.

“You trying to make yours proud?” he asked, picking up a shell and tossing it into the waves.

“…Yes.”

He turned to you, serious now. “You know that’s not living, right?”

Your voice faltered. “Then what is?”

He chuckled softly, plucking up another shell. “Living is… waking up and knowing the choices you’re making are your own. Not someone else’s. Not your father’s.”

You stared down at the water. “It’s not that simple. I was raised to believe in justice. That pirates were evil. That anything less than total obedience is weakness.”

Ace didn’t laugh this time. He just nodded. “Sounds lonely.”

You blinked at him. “It is.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

You sighed, fingers curling into fists at your sides. “Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Because I thought if I could just be strong enough, obedient enough, perfect enough—maybe he’d actually look at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just another soldier in his fleet.”

Ace was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You matter without any of that. You shouldn’t have to bleed yourself dry just to earn scraps of love.”

The words hit too hard, too fast. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re free. You get to be who you are. You’re not being crushed under your last name.”

He tilted his head. “You think freedom means not being weighed down? I’ve spent most of my life wondering if I even deserve to exist. Carrying my father’s name like a curse I never asked for.”

You looked at him, startled. “Your father?”

Ace looked away, a shadow in his gaze. “Gol D. Roger. The Pirate King.”

You swallowed. “But that means—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone thinks I should be something—good or evil, depends who you ask. But none of them care what I want. They only see what I was born from.”

You stared at him, quiet now.

Ace sat down in the sand, arms resting on his knees. “So yeah. I know a little about trying to run from your blood. Or trying to live up to something impossible. But trust me… it never works. Either way, you lose yourself.”

You sat beside him slowly, the sea breeze brushing your face. “Then what do I do?”

He turned to you gently. “Start small. What do you want? Not as a Marine. Not as Sakazuki’s daughter. Just… you.”

You hesitated, breath catching in your throat. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he said quietly. “Knowing you don’t know—that’s a hell of a start.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the man who was supposed to be your enemy. Who was offering you more kindness in an hour than your father had in years.

“Why are you telling me all this?” you asked.

He gave a crooked smile. “Because you looked like someone who needed to hear it. And maybe… because I wish someone had said it to me when I was younger.”

You didn’t respond. You just sat there with him, watching the waves roll in.

The wind stirred your hair, the ocean licking at your boots.

“I want to see you again,” you whispered, surprising even yourself.

Ace blinked—then nodded. “Then we will. One day.”

That night, there was a pull between the two of you—something magnetic, impossible to ignore. Without a word, Ace closed the space between you, his hand finding yours, warm and calloused, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You didn’t pull away.

He kissed you then, a soft press of lips that deepened slowly as the tension between you both flared into something more. There was no rush—only the pressing need to feel alive, to be seen, to be wanted. You kissed him back, hands gently threading into his dark hair, your heart racing in a way that felt both terrifying and freeing.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, the stars above you like silent witnesses to something new and raw. Ace’s eyes were dark, but his smile was soft.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek, a promise in the quiet of the night.

You didn’t say anything, just nodded, letting his words sink in.

There, under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, you found something unexpected. You weren’t sure where it would lead, or if it would survive the world that lay ahead. But for that moment, it was enough.

“I’ll see you again,” you whispered, a promise between the two of you.

He nodded, the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes. “One day.”

——

Marineford roared like a monster of steel and flame. Cannons fired. Blood painted the sea red. Above it all stood your father, barking orders with magma on his fists.

You stood with the other officers, heart numb, until your eyes found him—Ace, shackled on the execution platform, chest heaving.

You couldn’t breathe.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But those nights thinking about his laugh, the way he listened—like you were more than your name…

He found you too. His gaze locked with yours, even from the distance. You couldn’t tell what emotion flickered behind his eyes. Recognition? Regret?

Was this the future he’d imagined for your reunion?

——

“You seem distracted.”

Your father’s voice cut through the storm like a knife.

You stiffened. “Just focused.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t lose yourself. This war is for justice. For order.”

You nodded, throat tight. He’d never ask if you were afraid. He’d only care that you stood tall.

But inside, you were already breaking.

“Father…” you tried, voice trembling. “What if there’s more to this than justice? What if—”

“SILENCE.”

His voice boomed like thunder. “There is no ‘what if.’ There is justice. There is crime. And there is fire to purge it.”

You turned away before he could see the doubt in your eyes.

——

When Luffy burst through the chaos, a part of you hoped he’d fail. Another part—the part that remembered moonlight and laughter—begged him to win.

And he did.

The chains broke. Ace stood free.

You ran before you could think.

He was there, coughing, dazed. You called his name. He turned.

“…You came.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I couldn’t let you die.”

He smiled, pain flickering across his face. “You always were too good for them.”

You touched his arm. “We have to go.”

But fate doesn’t care about love.

——

Admiral Aikanu stepped into your path —raw, unrelenting, and burning with hate. His coat billowed like smoke in the wind, and steam hissed off his molten fists. You saw the rage in his eyes before he even spoke. It was the same rage you’d grown up under, now aimed straight at the man you loved.

“Portgas D. Ace,” your father snarled. “You dare escape judgment?”

Ace instinctively pushed you behind him. “Stay back,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Don’t let him touch you.”

But you stepped forward, shoulder brushing his. “I’m not hiding, Ace. Not from him. Not anymore.”

Akainu’s eyes burned into yours. “So. You’ve chosen your side.”

His voice cracked like fire through stone.

“I chose it long before today,” you said, lifting your chin. “You just never wanted to see it.”

“You would throw away justice for him?” His voice seethed, disgust curling in his lip.

“I’m not throwing anything away,” you said. “I’m claiming what’s mine. My life. My choice.”

Akainu’s fists ignited with fury. Lava spilled from his knuckles, hissing as it hit the ground. “Then you’re no daughter of mine.”

Something broke in your chest—but it wasn’t grief. It was the last thread of fear.

Ace’s voice cut through the tension. “She was never yours to shape into a weapon.”

Akainu turned his wrath back toward him. “You speak of freedom while hiding behind her skirts?”

And then he moved.

His magma-coated fist blazed through the air toward Ace. Time slowed.

And without thinking, without hesitation—

You stepped in front of him.

——

The pain was instant. A white-hot agony tore through your side as the lava smashed into you. You felt yourself being thrown back into Ace’s arms, the world tilting, fire blooming across your vision like a dying sun.

You were weightless and heavy at once.

“No!” Ace caught you, stumbling as he dropped to his knees. His hands trembled, cradling you like you were glass already cracking. “Y/N—no. No, no, no…”

Your blood was everywhere. On his arms, on your uniform, soaking into the dirt.

Your breathing came in ragged gasps, and yet—you smiled.

“Why…?” he choked out, eyes wild and wet. “Why would you do that?”

You reached up with shaking fingers to brush his cheek. “Because I love you.”

He held you tighter, pressing his forehead to yours. “You weren’t supposed to die for me. You were supposed to live. With me. You were supposed to live.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “I know… I wanted that too.”

“Then why—why—”

“Because this was my choice,” you said, voice thin but steady. “Not my father’s. Not the Marines’. Mine.”

He shook his head violently, tears spilling freely. “You idiot… you beautiful, stubborn idiot…”

You tried to smile again, even as the cold crept in. “This… this is freedom. I finally got to decide what I’d give my life for.”

Ace was sobbing now, arms wrapped around you like he could hold your soul in. “No. No, don’t go—please, Y/N…”

You leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut. “Live, Ace. Please. Not for him. Not for Whitebeard. For you.”

Your fingers slipped from his, and the last thing you saw was the sky—vast, open, free.

And Ace—broken, holding you like the world had ended.

Behind him, your father stood still. Staring. Silent. Like even fire had forgotten how to burn.

——

They say Ace fought like hell that day.

They say he screamed your name like a prayer turned curse, tearing through enemy lines with fire that scorched even the sea-slick stone beneath his feet. Magma met flame, and still, he stood. Burning. Bleeding. Unstoppable.

They say it took Luffy, broken and battered, to drag him back—his brother’s arms locked around his chest as he screamed and kicked and sobbed. They say Ace didn’t want to run. That he wanted to die there, next to you.

But Luffy wouldn’t let him.

Not after you had already made that choice.

After the war, Ace disappeared from the public eye. But everyone in Whitebeard’s crew knew where he went.

The first place he returned to was your grave.

Buried quietly, anonymously, far from Marine monuments or war heroes. Your marine pin sat at the headstone, cleaned and polished. And on it was carved only what Ace asked for:

“She died free.”

He stayed there for hours the first time. Maybe days. No one knows what he said. But when he came back, something in him had changed.

He still laughed. Still drank. Still threw his arm around Thatch and teased Marco and got into brawls with the crew. But the light in his eyes had shifted.

He lived like a man with a fire he couldn’t put out.

Every time the Moby Dick passed through a new island, he asked for any news of the Marine girl with the burning eyes and the fireproof heart. Every time he met someone who believed they were born into chains, he told your story.

Not to make them mourn you.

But to remind them what choice could look like.

“Don’t live trying to prove yourself to people who will never see you,” he’d say. “She taught me that.”

He never said your name out loud. Not often. It hurt too much. But your memory followed him like a shadow—like the steady heat of a fire that never died.

Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, he’d take the small locket he wore under his shirt—a single photo of you, tucked behind a scrap of your old Marine uniform—and whisper,

“I’m still burning for you.”

And he was.

Not for Whitebeard. Not for revenge.

For you.

Because if someone like you—born into war, raised under fire—could choose love in the end…

Then he could choose life.

Just as he was.

And he would live every day the way you wanted him to:

Free.

[ephemeralinstance]

the ending

For my sanity, a collection of all the ways in which the Veilguard ending is a bad way to conclude Solas' arc. All of this has been said before but I think it's quite striking to put it all together.

(As a caveat, the closing scene itself is aesthetically very beautiful and clearly made with love; there's just this big disconnect between the form and the content)

1) The only way for Solas to 'atone' is for him to be released by someone who has been manipulating him his whole life and there is a very plausible interpretation of the text in which she abused him and/or owned him as a slave.

2) Not only does no one listen to Solas about how binding spirits is abusive, the game ends with us binding him, a former spirit, either by force or by manipulating him in a vulnerable moment. When he tries to say something about spirits in this scene Rook immediately cuts him off.

3) All three endings are punitive and cruel, sending a person whose greatest fear is dying alone into eternal solitary confinement, and thus conveying a very retributive approach to punishment. Maybe you can headcanon something different in the atonement case, but that is not what is presented in game: the last thing we see of him is being sent away alone. You can make it slightly better by sending Lavellan or Rook with him, but two people being trapped in prison together forever is not really a good outcome either.

4) In a game that is all about healing through community, with a character whose central flaw has always been insisting on working alone, it makes no thematic sense for his ending to be that he is sent away alone.

5) This is blood magic, one of the Big Evils of the game, and yet the fact that Rook uses blood magic is never acknowledged or commented on.

6) The same endings are available regardless of his relationship with the Inquisitor and Rook, thus rendering his whole character arc in Inquisition and all his interactions with Rook completely pointless (Solavellan is the one exception to this and I love that it exists but I don't think this should have been the only way to get an even slightly hopeful ending to his arc).

7) Solas has no agency. What happens to him is entirely decided by Rook, his own growth plays no part in it. He is just passing directly from being controlled by Mythal to being controlled by Rook.

8) It is extremely unclear how any of this is going to work, e.g. if Solas has the dagger with him couldn't he just kill himself to take the Veil down? The Trick ending in particular makes no sense at all.

Note that none of this is about thinking Solas should have a happy ending. I was personally expecting that his atonement would involve him sacrificing himself and in many ways I honestly think that would have been better.

One or two of these things might have been ok, but put them all together and this is just a very icky collection of things to endorse and a spectacularly uncomfortable note to end on. It's honestly quite puzzling to me that anyone thought this would be a good or respectful way to conclude this arc which has been so central to the series.

[hopesaheartache]

I never thought I'd be creating an new account and being active on Tumblr again after years just to talk about a new THG book, but I've shipped Hayffie for more than half my life and people on Twitter are really getting on my nerves, so I needed to vent with people I know will understand.

I have some issues with certain narrative choices in SOTR, but I expected that since I’m not a big fan of prequels, especially ones released long after the original story. I think it's very tough to write a prequel more than a decade later without some things feeling like retcons. I had the same issue with TBOSAS, but I’m good at just ignoring that kind of thing. The original trilogy will always exist, so it doesn’t really affect me that much.

But I cannot stand seeing so many people saying the new book makes Hayffie impossible and acting like they're smarter because they don't ship it.

We've always known that Haymitch had a girlfriend when he was a teenager. It's not new information.

Haymitch and Lenore Dove had a sweet, young, idealized love - that ended up being an eternal what if and could it be if Haymitch had never gone to the Games, if Lenore Dove hadn’t died, if they had been born in a better world.

But Haymitch did go to the Games. Lenore Dove did die. They were born into a terrible world.

So why would it be so wrong for him to find love again? To allow himself to be happy? To have a relationship that works within the reality he actually lives in, instead of the one that could have been?

The reason I was drawn to Hayffie years ago and the reason most of my main ships are between mature characters instead of teenagers is because I’ve always found it more interesting when two people, in later stages of life, with scars, baggage, and different experiences, still manage to learn from each other, discover new things, and allow themselves to grow.

It’s so tragic to think of someone’s life as over when they were only 16. And Haymitch’s life is already tragic enough.

What SOTR establishes as canon shows that, despite all odds, Effie and Haymitch are gentle with each other from the very beginning. Despite all the propaganda and life in the Capitol, Effie is introduced as someone involved with the Games because of the love she has for her sister, as a kind person, as someone who knows Haymitch won’t hurt her.

Despite their social and ideological differences - and all the friction between them - they spend two decades keeping each other company in a horrible environment designed to discourage any kind of bond. They still work together as a team.

Post-Mockingjay, when they have to carry the weight of all their pain, torture, loss, and war, why is it so hard to imagine that they would help each other figure out who they are in a world without the Games? That they would help each other process the pain and learn to live with some peace and hope for the days ahead? That two people who know each other so well would slowly build their slow-burn romance, allowing themselves to love and be loved?

And none of this erases the impact or the feelings Haymitch had for Lenore Dove. It's just different. Simple as that.

He may believe that geese mate for life, but in reality, he hasn’t had the same life in a very long time. And in this new life, it’s Effie who walks beside him.

[rudimentaryflair]

Something about Ren I think is often overlooked is that his character motivation stems from wanting to be invisible, not from disliking others or laziness.

Though those things can be related, there is a distinction. Characters like Yuri and Romeo are belligerent on their own with no provocation. They believe most of the people they interact with are incapable idiots or TGAs (Tiresome, Good-for-nothing Assholes for those of you without a Romeo dictionary). In contrast, Ren isn't really rude unless somebody pokes at him or he's forced to do something he doesn't want to (see: how he treats/speaks about Haru versus Towa). He reacts negatively if the MC acknowledges him (re: bus stop side story) and can be blunt in his requests to be left alone, but he rarely ever calls her names or treats her meanly. Ren would never go out of his way to be an asshole because that would draw attention. He's only rude as a reaction to attention already being on him.

Another hint is his stigma. Though we still don't know much about the demon-pacts, people have noticed/theorized that the ghouls’ stigmas are related to their wants and goals. Leo likes learning secrets; he can eavesdrop on conversations from far away. Haru is overburdened by chores; he can make himself lighter to move faster. Subaru is very private and seems to distrust others; he can sense people's intentions and emotions with a single touch. Rui is afflicted by an incurable curse; he can heal others. So on and so forth.

I also want to draw attention to this particular scene from Episode 12, when Ren was running the duck show at the farm:

Ren's activation word, Raothtas, is an anagram of Astaroth, an archdemon who “can make men invisible” (from the Ars Goetia Wikipedia). In Episode 3, he was able to use it to remove ink stains from the dorm carpet. He seemed unsure that it would work at first, showing that its main intended purpose is not cleaning-related; he likely just turned the stains invisible instead of cleaning them (which is quite in-character tbh). With this in mind, I believe the reason for his pact is related to being able to navigate through life unseen or unacknowledged. It's also why his other main complaint about Jabberwock is that it has no general students: he can't blend into the regular student body because the only members of his House are ghouls. Not to mention, every time the topic of demon-pacts has been brought up, his mood has visibly worsened.

Ren did not have any positive feelings towards the ducks. He didn't even need to be talking, since the dog patch was doing it for him. However, he felt so strongly about making sure the ducks were left alone that he spoke up and scolded the boy anyway. Probably because he related to the situation on a personal level.

Astaroth is also described to “seduce by means of laziness”, but the thing is Ren… isn’t that lazy? He does his best to go to all his classes (despite being woken up at atrocious hours), is invested in doing well in them, and is the only ghoul who has a part-time job. In fact, he works hard enough to resent when things appear easy for others, such as when he suspected Sho of cheating on exams because he scored so high without having to study as much. He doesn't understand how people can succeed without hard work. He only seems lazy because he's in an understaffed, underfunded House that expects a lot of extra work out of him that he isn't willing to give, especially since none of the other Houses’ students have similar responsibilities. Ren being labeled a slacker when characters like Jin and Ed, who actually shirk their required duties, exist, makes me think this whole lazy campaign is a red herring for something else.

Ren, at his core, just wants to feel safe and normal. He doesn't want to go on missions and be put in danger, and he doesn't want to be reminded that he's a ghoul.

Unfortunately, he also goes to Darkwick Academy.

[ch0llies]

REVIVAL | CHRIS STURNIOLO

A story in which a messy breakup lands you in your best friend’s Boston apartment a year after high school, and you find yourself face-to-face again with Christopher Sturniolo—your first love. As your paths cross again, the bitterness of how you left him still lingers, fueling every hated glance. But with your best friend dating his brother, you know is there’s no escaping Chris—or the tension that refuses to die. Is this revival destined to reignite, or will it crumble under the weight of your unresolved past?

story warning: this story includes very toxic and abusive behavior. none of the actions or words in this series are justified and are written exclusively for entertainment purposes only. under no circumstances are they personally associated with chris other than just using him as the main character. read at your own discretion. now that that is cleared up, there will be filthy smut, angst, swearing, underage drinking, underage drug use, abusive behavior, morally skewed choices, toxic relationships, and overall mature themes. if any of this upsets you... don't read!

word count: 7.7k

CHAPTER TWO:

A week passes in a blur of days spent shopping and late nights half-heartedly scrolling through streaming platforms. You and Ava have mostly been lying low, letting the dust settle after the chaotic party where you first ran into Chris again. Still, life trudges on—your breakup wounds scab over bit by bit, and Chris remains a frustrating fixture you occasionally see, thanks to Matt’s involvement with Ava.

Tonight, though, you’re supposed to forget about all that.

Ava bounces into your bedroom, brandishing a bottle of cheap vodka like it’s her prized possession. “Guess who scored a last-minute invite to that frat party?” she singsongs, tapping her foot in excitement. “You and me, babes. I heard it’s super fun—though it might be more about the free booze than anything.”

You glance up from your phone, arching an eyebrow. “Isn’t this the college we were thinking of applying to after our gap year?”

She grins, tossing you a crop top of the school’s logo. “Exactly. Consider it… research.”

Thirty minutes later after you prettied up, you’re in a cramped Uber, weaving through Boston streets toward the campus. The plan is simple: have fun, dance a little, maybe scope out the scene for next year. Even so, you can’t help the tiny flutter in your stomach. A new environment, new faces. It feels like a reset you didn’t realize you needed.

The frat house is exactly what you’d expect: loud music vibrating through the floorboards, red Solo cups strewn over every flat surface, sweaty clusters of students dancing as if finals don’t exist. Ava wastes no time finding the makeshift bar—a battered folding table stacked with punch bowls and half-empty liquor bottles.

“Cheers,” she declares, handing you a neon cup of something fruity and suspiciously strong.

One drink turns into two, and by the d of college jungle juicethird, the lights start to blur around the edges. You can’t remember the last time you let loose like this, your head pleasantly spinning as you sway with Ava to whatever pop remix is thundering through the speakers.

At some point, you both end up on a sticky leather couch, howling with laughter over absolutely nothing. An extremely tall, extremely confident frat boy attempts to flirt with Ava by demonstrating his “epic” ability to chug from a funnel—only to spill half of it on his shirt. You nearly fall off the couch laughing, tears streaming down your face.

Then Ava tugs you outside to the porch for some fresher air, the two of you leaning over the railing like you might topple right off it. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, and your phone is dangerously close to slipping from your back pocket.

“This is so fun,” Ava squeals, throwing her arms around you in a giggly hug. “I needed a night like this.”

A warm, liquor-fueled glow blooms in your chest. “Same,” you admit, hugging her back. “No drama, no messy ex situations, no—”

A shrill ringtone interrupts you, and Ava fumbles for her phone. She squints at the screen, then tosses it aside to the porch bench in favor of gulping more punch straight from your cup. “Ugh, telemarketer,” she mutters, ignoring it.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the phone somehow butt-dials Matt, whose name flashes on the screen before the call timer starts ticking.

You’re both oblivious to this as you keep giggling and shouting random observations about the party, the music, the questionable bathroom lines. Ava’s volume goes up a notch with every passing second.

“Dude, I swear—this is the best night!” Ava yells, dancing in place with no music outside. “I love you, girl—best friend forever, woo!”

Inside the phone pressed awkwardly beneath her leg, Matt’s eyes are probably widening in alarm at the yelling. He can only hear snippets of your conversation—loud shrieks, bursts of laughter, and occasional words like “dangerous,” “drunk,” or “someone fell over.”

Meanwhile, Matt is in the passenger seat of his car, scrolling through social media as Chris drives back from them dropping Nick at the airport. He was going to visit a film college in LA. It’s already late, and they’re stuck in some mild traffic near the outskirts of the campus you and ava were partying at.

Matt’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen: sweetheart. Heart kicking up in concern, he answers.

“Ava?” he asks. But instead of a coherent response, he hears yelling, heavy bass, and what sounds suspiciously like you two shrieking.

“Hello? Ava?” Matt’s voice grows urgent as he picks out phrases like “Oh my God!” and “We’re so hammered!”

He pales. “Chris, something’s up. Ava’s in trouble, or, or I don’t know—they’re screaming and…”

Chris cuts in “Y/N is there too?” 

Matt just nods.

Chris frowns, gripping the steering wheel. “What do you mean, trouble?”

Matt toggles the screen to see Ava’s location. “They’re at some frat house at the college campus only a few miles from us right now. If they’re drunk and something went wrong…” He doesn’t finish, anxiety threading through his voice.

Chris curses under his breath and flips the turn signal, pulling a uturn. “Fuck. We’ll go check it out.”

Ten minutes later, you and Ava are back inside, rummaging for jackets you drunkenly tossed somewhere. The world tilts with every step, but you’re not worried—this all feels like good, harmless fun.

Then the front door bursts open, and Matt’s familiar voice booms through the chatter: “Ava? Y/N?”

Ava whips around, nearly tripping over someone’s foot. “Matt!” she cries happily, stumbling toward him. “Oh my God, you came to party too?”

He catches her, relief and frustration mingling on his face. “I thought you were in danger. You butt-dialed me, screaming your head off.”

“Huh?” Ava tilts her head, eyes unfocused. “I… butt-dialed?”

Behind Matt, Chriss hovers in the doorway, scanning the chaotic living room with furrowed brows. You lock eyes with Chris briefly, your buzz making everything feel a little surreal.

Chris looks halfway between annoyed and relieved. His gaze flicks over you—messy hair, glazed eyes. He shakes his head. “You two sure know how to get yourselves in trouble.”

Ava only giggles, patting Matt’s chest. “We’re not in trouble, you big worrywart! We were having fun.”

Matt sighs, then glances at Chris. “Let’s just get them out of here, okay?”

In a blur, you’re ushered out of the stuffy frat house and into Chris’s car. Ava clings to Matt in the back seat, slurring apologies and jokes in equal measure. 

You decide not to sit shotgun with Chris. That leaves you squished in the middle of the back seat, half-leaning against Ava, half avoiding Chris’s side glances in the rearview mirror. The closeness and the alcoholic haze mix into a swirl of heightened awareness.

“Next time you decide to party, maybe don’t dial Matt in the middle of it,” Chris mutters, catching your eye in the mirror again. “We thought you were being attacked or something.”

You bristle at his tone—he sounds equal parts concerned and reprimanding. “We’re fine,” you snap, words slightly slurred. “It was an accident.”

“Yeah, well,” he huffs, tightening his grip on the wheel, “you scared the crap out of him. And me.”

Matt’s arms are wrapped around Ava, who’s busy giggling into his shirt. “You guys have no idea how panicked I was,” he mutters, relief evident now that he sees you’re both physically okay.

As the car zips through the city streets, passing bright storefronts and bars, your eyelids grow heavier. The combined warmth of the car’s heater, Ava leaning on you, and the vodka in your veins weighs you down.

Finally, you pull up in front of your apartment building. The moment the engine shuts off, Matt twists around in his seat. “Nick’s gone, by the way,” he says, a touch abruptly. “Dropped him at the airport earlier to go visit some colleges. So, it’s just us tonight.”

You’re too buzzed to question the timing of that info, and Ava seems unfazed. She basically tumbles out of the car, laughing when her heel snags on the curb. You follow, pressing a palm to the cool exterior of the car for balance, while Chris and Matt exchange glances—equal parts concerned and amused.

Inside your apartment, Ava makes a beeline for the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets until she triumphantly produces a stack of plastic cups and the battered ping-pong balls you’ve both used for impromptu “drinking games.” She smirks at you, eyes bright with mischief.

“Let’s turn this night around,” she announces, leaning dramatically against the kitchen counter. “You guys up for some pong?”

Chris scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Pretty sure you two have had enough drinking for a lifetime,” he mutters, eyeing the way you’re still swaying on your feet.

You roll your eyes, tossing your jacket onto a nearby chair. “Relax. It’s not that late—and we’re not that drunk.” You catch yourself on the edge of the table and give Ava a pointed look. “Well, mostly. Plus you two can just crash here if Nick’s not home.”

Matt sighs but cracks a small grin. “I’ll play only to make sure you two don’t, I don’t know, pass out mid-throw.”

Ava’s face lights up, like she’s just hatched the best idea in the world. She leans in conspiratorially. “I say we raise the stakes: strip pong.”

You blink at her, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Strip pong?”

“Hell no,” Chris interjects immediately, but there’s an amused tilt to his mouth that betrays he’s not totally opposed.

Matt runs a hand through his hair, eyeing the increasingly giddy look on Ava’s face. “What do you mean, ‘strip pong?’”

Ava bats her lashes with dramatic flair. “Every time your opponent sinks a shot, you either drink or remove a piece of clothing. Drink too much, you’ll probably lose anyway—so it’s a win-win.”

Chris snorts. “That is a terrible idea.”

“Which means it’s the best idea,” you counter, the alcohol loosening your tongue. A reckless thrill buzzes through your veins. “C’mon, don’t be a buzzkill.”

Ava claps her hands, beaming. “Right? Let’s do it!”

Before anyone can mount real objections, she’s already clearing space on the kitchen table, setting up two triangles of cups. The environment shifts from the earlier tension into something mischievously charged. There’s a giddy sense of inevitability—like you all know this is reckless, but you’re too caught in the moment to stop.

It starts off almost tame—Matt pairs with Chris against you and Ava, cups half-filled with cheap liquor you still have leftover from last weekend. The first couple of rounds go smoothly enough. You miss a shot, Ava misses a shot, the guys miss a shot. A few drinks go down.

Then Matt sinks one with surprising finesse, and Ava clutches her head. “Ugh, I’m still so drunk already.” She flicks a glance at you. “Should I strip or drink?”

“Your call.” You giggle, swaying into her shoulder.

Ava shrugs and peels off her crop top with zero hesitation, leaving her in a skimpy bra. Chris stiffens across the table, flicking his gaze away, while Matt tries really hard—and fails—to keep his eyes respectfully diverted. You can’t help but laugh, your cheeks flushing in the stuffy air.

Game on.

One shot after another, the pile of clothes on the floor grows. Your shoes. Ava’s shoes. Matt’s socks. Chris’s hoodie. Ava loses her jeans next, and you see Chris suck in a breath, determinedly not staring at her toned legs. You can’t decide if it’s hilarious or strangely hot, but the alcohol swirling in your bloodstream makes the whole thing feel surreal.

Your turn comes, and you land a perfect shot right in the center cup of Matt and Chris’s formation. “Ha!” you crow triumphantly, swaying a bit on your feet. “Chug or strip, boys.”

Matt groans, tossing back a shot instead. You see the grimace twist his lips as the cheap liquor burns down his throat.

Chris goes next. “Fine,” he grumbles, lifting the hem of his T-shirt and tugging it off in one fluid motion. Your gaze flicks over his chest. Something low in your stomach clenches, and you tear your eyes away before he catches you staring.

Another round passes in a blur of sloshing cups and fumbling giggles. Ava calls out your name, but you barely register it—too busy trying to line up your shot and not topple forward. You miss, and the ball bounces right into your own side of cups.

“You know what that means,” Chris teases, voice threaded with amusement. “Strip or drink.”

You weigh your options, biting your lip. “I’m basically out of clothes,” you mumble, glancing down at your half-zipped skirt and your bra. “And I’m not chugging more, or I’ll be on the floor.”

Biting the bullet, you slip out of your skirt, leaving you in panties and your bra. Ava cackles, hugging your side like you’ve just achieved some glorious victory. Chris just rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes, but you see the flush creeping up his cheeks. Matt tries to busy himself setting the next ping-pong ball in play.

Before you know it, the table is down to just a few cups on each side. Ava, also stripped to bra and panties, shoots you a giddy grin.

It’s the final round of the game. You’re both swaying on your feet, flushed from alcohol and adrenaline.

“Oh my God, we lost again,” Ava groans, pressing a hand to her forehead. “We’re out of clothes to lose, unless…”

Her eyes dart to you, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. You catch on immediately, your own cheeks already burning from the booze. “Right,” you say, heart thumping. “We could distract them.”

Ava shrugs with exaggerated nonchalance. “Strip or drink, right?” Without missing a beat, she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, letting it slide off her arms.

Your pulse quickens. Glancing at Chris trying not to stare—trying and failing. Matt however looked like his eyes were going to fall out of his head as they made direct contact with avas tits. With a reckless smile, you reach for your own bra clasp. “Oh, what the hell,” you mutter. One tug, and it falls away.

Matt chokes on air and Chris rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flicking anywhere but your bare skin—until he finally sneaks a glance he can’t quite hide. It’s obvious he’s caught between exasperation and attraction.

But you and Ava decide to up the ante. You trade a look that says, Let’s really throw them off. Giggling under your breath, you loop an arm around Ava’s waist, tugging her closer until your mouths meet in a slow, tipsy kiss.

Ava’s free hand comes up to your tit, and the warmth of her lips lights a spark of shock and amusement through your chest. The boldness of it, the gleeful madness—it’s enough to make your head spin, even without the alcohol. You hear a sharp intake of breath from the boys’ side of the table.

“Oh… fuck,” Matt manages, blinking rapidly.

Chris stands stock-still, ping-pong ball forgotten in his hand as it drops to the floor, eyes locked on the two of you as if he can’t decide whether to look away or lean closer.

Your kiss with Ava lingers just long enough to ensure the boys are thoroughly distracted. When you finally break apart, you shoot her a triumphant grin, adrenaline surging. She laughs, resting her forehead against yours.

“Guess it’s your turn,” Ava purrs, turning her attention to Matt and Chris. “Are you two gonna throw, or what?”

Matt’s throat bobs; Chris glances at him, and they both snap to attention, suddenly remembering the game. But the shot is rushed—Chris lobs the ball, and it bounces wildly off the table, nowhere near any cup.

You and Ava exchange a gleeful high five. “Distraction success,” you declare, still breathless.

“That’s so not fair,” Matt blurts, cheeks tinted pink. “We—uh—didn’t exactly expect that.”

Ava shrugs with mock innocence. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“Your turn to strip or drink,” you remind them, placing your hands on your exposed hips.

Matt and Chris exchange looks of defeat. With a resigned sigh, Matt takes off his pants, stepping out of them in just his boxers. Chris follows suit, hooking his thumbs under his waistband and tugging his own pants off.

You steal a glance—yep, they’re both standing there in boxers, and it’s pretty clear they’re more turned on than they’d like to admit. A flush crawls up Chris’s neck as he tries to hide the telltale outline of his arousal. Matt stares holes into Ava, as if he can’t wait to get his hands on her once the game is over.

Ava bites her lip, stifling laughter as she leans into you. “I’d say that’s game over,” she whispers conspiratorially, both of you grinning like you’ve just pulled off the biggest prank in history.

Matt finally grumbles, “Yeah, we’re done here.”

Matt’s eyes dart between Ava—topless, flushed, and giggling—and the mess of clothes and cups on the table. Something in him snaps, like he’s done waiting. In two strides, he closes the distance, hooks an arm around Ava’s waist, and hoists her off her feet with a growl of mock exasperation. She squeals, clinging to him as he marches toward the stairs.

“Matt—!” she protests through laughter, but she’s not really protesting at all.

Neither you nor Chris misses the way Matt’s fingertips dig into Ava’s side, or how Ava’s lips find Matt’s neck before they even reach the second step. Then they disappear upstairs, leaving you and Chris alone in the aftermath of the wildest game of strip pong you’ve ever played.

You stand there for a moment, heart still hammering. You’re topless, wearing nothing but your underwear, and Chris is in nothing but boxers. His chest rises and falls with each breath, tension radiating off him in waves. It’s strangely silent without Ava’s giggles and Matt’s banter—just the faint thump of the door closing above and the pulse of your own blood rushing in your ears.

Finally, Chris’s gaze lifts to yours, and there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “So…” he drawls, voice a touch raspy, “you just gonna kiss Ava like that, or… what?”

A tiny spark lights in your chest, fueled by the lingering buzz of alcohol and the reckless rush of the evening. Instead of answering, you cross the room in a few unsteady steps. There’s a daring glint in his eyes—like he half-expected, half-hoped you’d call his bluff.

Your hands find his shoulders. “Or what?” you echo softly, leaning in.

He doesn’t get the chance to respond. You press your lips to his with a sudden, heated urgency, adrenaline spiking at the feel of his bare skin against yours. His fingers curve around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth of him—his scent, the faint taste of cheap liquor still on his tongue—sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Chris drops onto the couch first, eyes full of an urgency you haven’t felt in ages. You swing a leg over his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders as your mouths collide in another feverish kiss. His hands roam over your waist, sliding up your sides as you melt into him, grinding against his bulge, pulse thrumming with reckless desire.

You moan softly when he tilts his head, lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. Each warm press of his mouth sends shivers rippling down your spine. He grazes your collarbone next, taking his time, and then dips lower, brushing his lips over the swell of your breast. You gasp, fingers curling into his hair as the heat between you both intensifies.

His breath is warm against your skin when he murmurs your name, voice tinged with want and just a hint of disbelief. You answer by tugging him closer, letting him kiss his way back up to your neck, losing yourself in the dizzy rush of being half-naked and tangled in Chris’s arms after years.

Just as his hands slide up your back, mapping every curve of your body, a sudden, jarring crash rattles the ceiling. It’s immediately followed by a startled yelp—loud enough to slice clean through the haze of lust enveloping you both.

You tense, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with Chris. His chest heaves under your palms, and there’s a flicker of concern mixed with reluctance in his gaze—clearly, he’s torn between checking on the commotion and staying right here.

“Did you hear…?” you start, breath ragged.

He exhales sharply, forehead brushing yours. “Yeah. We should—”

Another noise, like something being knocked over, leaves no room for debate. Whatever’s happening upstairs, it can’t be ignored. You slip off Chris’s lap, both of you scrambling for balance while you catch your breath. The heady mixture of heat and urgency remains, thrumming in your veins, but you know you have to push it aside—at least for now.

With one last shared look of frustration and lingering want, you and Chris take off toward the stairs, bracing yourselves for whatever mess might be waiting up there—heartbeats still pounding from the kiss you just left behind.

You and Chris take the stairs two at a time. The second you shove Ava’s door open, the sight inside nearly stops you in your tracks:

Ava’s sprawled on the floor beside the bed, clutching her forehead and moaning in exaggerated agony. Matt is kneeling on the mattress, stark naked, dick hard and out, one hand covering himself while the other hovers in shock near his mouth. His eyes dart between you, Chris, and Ava, unsure whether to rush to her side or dive under the covers.

“Oh my God,” you exclaim, rushing over. “Ava, are you okay?”

She sucks in a shaky breath, wincing. “No, I’m not okay!” she yelps, tears of pain and laughter mingling in her eyes. “He went too hard with the backshots! My forehead slammed right into the headboard! And then I fell off the fucking bed!”

Chris stops in the doorway, takes in the scene with wide eyes, and then—without a word—he meets Matt’s gaze and smirks. Matt, sheepish and half-panicked, still can’t hide the flash of pride in his eyes. Chris crosses the room, offers him a quick fist-bump-turned-handshake, and murmurs, “That’s my boy.”

You stifle a disbelieving snort at their little moment of bro solidarity, then refocus on Ava, who’s groaning dramatically, clutching her temple. “Oh, Ava,” you sigh, gently brushing her hair aside to check her forehead. “We heard a bang—are you bleeding? Does it hurt really bad?”

Ava nods, tears in her eyes, though you can’t tell if she’s more embarrassed or in pain. “I swear, if I have to explain a concussion from Matt’s… enthusiasm, I’m gonna lose it.”

Matt, flushing scarlet, finally crawls off the bed. He grabs the nearest shirt to toss on, but then abandons it in favor of helping you lift Ava to a seated position. “I’m so sorry, babe,” he says earnestly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, well,” she mutters, pressing a hand to the side of her face, “now I’m pretty sure my head has its own heartbeat.”

Chris, arms folded across his bare chest, shakes his head—though there’s a faint grin curving his lips. “Let’s just get her some ice, some water… maybe a helmet next time.”

Ava huffs, half-laughing, half-sniffling. “Funny,” she groans, letting you help her stand. “So fucking funny, Chris.”

You guide Ava toward the hallway, Matt trailing right behind, still apologizing under his breath. Meanwhile, Chris lingers for a second, surveying the rumpled bed and smirking to himself like he’s savoring a secret joke.

He catches your eye before you all head downstairs, the ghost of a smile on his face—a silent reminder of the steamy moment you shared just before this chaos. 

The four of you make your way downstairs, with Ava leaning on you and Matt hovering close behind, still wracked with guilt over her throbbing forehead. Chris trails behind, looking more amused than alarmed, though concern flickers in his eyes each time Ava winces.

You guide Ava to the couch and gently lower her, then scurry off to grab an ice pack from the freezer. Chris follows, rummaging in a kitchen drawer until he emerges with a clean dish towel. He wraps it around the ice pack and hands it over to you. Together, you return to the living room and settle the makeshift cold compress against Ava’s swollen bump.

She hisses at first contact but eventually sighs in relief. “Okay,” she mumbles through still-watery eyes, “this is helping, I think.”

You rub her shoulder softly. “Better?”

Ava nods, blinking away the last of her tears. Slowly, that mischievous spark returns to her gaze. She glances from the ice pack to you and Chris—who are both still in your underwear—and lets out a dramatic groan. “Wait, I’m still naked. Now y’all need to ditch your underwear, too. I feel exposed.”

You snort, cheeks warming. Chris smirks, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t think so,” he says, voice tinged with amusement.

When neither of you moves to strip further, Ava sputters a laugh then pauses, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Wait, did I interrupt something earlier?”

For a moment, the silence in the living room is deafening. You and Chris exchange a look, neither of you wanting to address exactly how close you’d been to going all the way.

Chris clears his throat, shifting his stance uncomfortably as he adjusts himself in his boxers. Ava takes one look at that and squeals in horror and glee all at once. “Oh my God! I did interrupt you!”

“Relax,” Chris mutters, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. “It was just a… horny mistake.”

Something in his dismissive tone sets you off. A spark of anger flares in your chest, snapping you out of your tipsy haze. “A horny mistake?” you echo, voice sharp.

He lifts his hands, like he’s not sure what he did wrong. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

But you’re already on your feet, body buzzing with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. Without another word, you storm toward the stairs, heat pooling beneath your skin. As you stomp up the stairs, Ava spins on Chris, her eyes blazing.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, ignoring the throb in her forehead as she points an accusing finger his way. “Calling it a ‘horny mistake’? Seriously? You couldn’t be more of a dick if you tried.”

Chris rubs at the back of his neck, clearly taken aback by her sudden fury. “Ava, I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off with a venomous glare. “You do not get to stand there, practically half-naked, and act like she was just some afterthought.”

Matt steps in, hands raised in a soothing gesture. “Hey, hey—let’s calm down. It’s been a crazy night—”

“Oh my God, Matt, do not start,” Ava snarls, turning her wrath on him. “You nearly gave me a fucking concussion upstairs! And now you’re gonna defend him, too?”

Matt winces, guilt etched all over his face. “I’m not defending anyone, babe, I’m just—”

“Just what?” Ava scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Trying to ‘calm’ me down like I’m some hysterical child? Newsflash: I’m pissed for a reason!”

Chris opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, but Ava shuts him down before he can get a word out. “No. I don’t wanna hear it right now. You said something shitty, you hurt her feelings—so congratulations. You did something dumber than Matt ramming my forehead into the headboard, and that’s saying a lot.”

Matt make a face somewhere between embarrassment and frustration. “Ava, come on—”

“Don’t ‘come on’ me,” she snaps. “And don’t fucking follow me, either, because I need to check on my girl, and both of you need to learn how to stop screwing everything up for five minutes.”

With that, she whirls around, leaves the boys downstairs, and marches upstairs after you, ice pack pressed to her head, muttering a final, “Assholes,” under her breath before disappearing into your room to find you while Matt stares at her ass. 

Moments later, you hear a soft knock at the door. Then Ava slips in, still swaddling the ice pack against her head, sporting the same disheveled look from all the chaos.

“Hey, babe,” she murmurs, voice laced with concern. She closes the door gently and moves to sit beside you on the bed. “I totally chewed him out, by the way. Don’t know if he’s still alive downstairs.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help a small, reluctant laugh. You roll onto your side, making room for her under the covers. She settles in, cuddling up with you as if it’s second nature—because, really, it is.

You sigh, pressing a hand to your face. “I just… I don’t know why I’m so mad. It was fun, it was stupid, it got interrupted, and now—”

Ava hushes you gently, tucking her arm around your waist. “Hey, it was a lot. You’re allowed to be upset.”

You exhale, tension draining from your shoulders. Having Ava there, warm and comforting, soothes the swirling mess in your head. “Thanks,” you whisper, nuzzling against her just enough to feel supported.

She chuckles softly, pressing the cold pack to her own throbbing forehead. “No problem. Just keep me from getting a concussion, yeah?”

You both share a tired laugh. Eventually, the apartment grows quiet again. Somewhere below, Matt is likely still hovering worriedly, and Chris… well, who knows. But for now, Ava’s presence gives you a moment’s peace—wrapped in a blanket, side by side, nursing your bruised hearts and heads in equal measure as you fall asleep next to each other.

Morning light streams through your bedroom curtains, rousing you from a restless sleep. Your head throbs faintly, a not-so-subtle reminder of last night’s drunken chaos. Ava, sprawled beside you under a tangle of blankets, groans softly, pressing a hand to her bandaged forehead. Neither of you notices the quiet right away—until you pad into the living room in search of water and see that the boys are gone.

“What the hell?” Ava mutters, blinking blearily around your apartment. “No text, no note…” She checks her phone and scoffs. “Nada.”

You rub sleep from your eyes, mind still foggy. “Maybe Chris and Matt went home before their parents noticed they were gone all night?”

Ava’s jaw tightens. “Screw that. They could’ve woken us up or something—especially after what went down.” She tosses her phone aside. “Get dressed. We’re going over there.”

You’re too groggy to protest. Five minutes later, you’re stuffing yourself into the baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants Ava thrust into your arms while she drives—white-knuckled and furious—through the morning traffic toward the Sturniolo family home. Her eyes stay fixed on the road, jaw clenched like she’s ready for war.

The Sturniolo house stands in a quiet neighborhood, the driveway empty except for Matt’s car and Chris’s familiar ride. Their parents must be at work, leaving the place wide open. Ava parks haphazardly at the curb, kills the engine, and practically launches herself out of the driver’s seat.

“Ava, wait—” you call, scrambling to keep up as she beelines for the front door. She doesn’t bother to knock, just pushes it open and stomps inside, her slippers squeaking on the tiled entryway.

The living room comes into view: Matt is leaning against a side table, sipping coffee, while Chris is sprawled on the couch, eyes on his phone. Both look up in unison, equal parts startled and guilty, as Ava storms in.

“Well, good morning,” Chris says slowly, arching a brow. His gaze flicks over to you, lingering just a second longer, before swinging back to Ava. “Didn’t expect you here so soon.”

Ava plants her hands on her hips, ignoring the twinge in her forehead. “You two took off this morning without a single word—after everything that happened last night. Seriously? You couldn’t even leave a note?”

Matt sets his mug down with a sigh. “Ava—”

“Don’t you ‘Ava’ me,” she snaps. “Look at my face!” She lifts the cloth pressed to her injury. “I practically have a concussion from your dick and Y/N got humiliated because Chris decided to call it a ‘horny mistake.’ Yet you just sneak out and think it’s all good?”

Heat flushes your cheeks at the mention of Chris’s words. Meanwhile, Matt glances sheepishly at you, then Chris, clearly unsure how to diffuse this. “We weren’t exactly sneaking out,” Matt tries. “We just figured we’d let you both sleep it off. You were wasted—”

“Shut up,” Ava hisses, turning her glare on him. “You’re the one who practically slammed my head into the headboard, and now you’re defending him for being an ass to my best friend? Come on, Matt.”

Chris sets his phone aside and stands, hands slipping into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Okay, I get it,” he says tersely, meeting Ava’s anger head-on. “We messed up. We should’ve said something.”

Ava’s eyes blaze. “Damn right, you should have.” Then she whips around to face Matt again. “Or a text—something.”

Matt rubs the back of his neck. “We’re sorry, babe. Really. We know we screwed up.”

Ava scoffs, lifting her chin. “A little courtesy would be nice. I have a possible concussion and you guys just bounce? Unbelievable.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, remembering the tension, the moment you and Chris nearly shared. He glances at you again, something akin to regret flickering across his face. You swallow hard, hugging yourself. You’re not sure if you want to confront him or disappear.

Matt reaches for Ava’s arm, voice softer. “We didn’t mean to make things worse. Last night got so crazy… we figured space might help.”

Ava yanks her arm away, “I don’t need space. I need communication you fucking idiot!” She tilts her head, leveling a glare at Chris. “Especially from you. You have anything else to say about my best friend and your ‘horny mistake’?”

Chris exhales slowly, shoulders sagging. “I shouldn’t have called it that. It came out wrong.” He looks directly at you. “I’m sorry.”

Ava rubs at her eyes, taking a long, shaky breath. She suddenly looks more worn out than furious, and you realize the weight of her hangover might be as heavy as her anger. With a small groan, she presses a palm gently to her sore forehead.

“You know what,” she mutters, sagging into the couch, “maybe I’m just—” She sighs. “I’m just hungover, cranky, and my head still hurts. That’s all.”

Relief flickers across Matt’s face. He steps forward, resting a cautious hand on her shoulder. When she doesn’t shove him away, he leans in, kissing her head softly. “I’m sorry about… everything,” he murmurs. “Let me make it up to you. We’ll go grab breakfast—my treat. You, me, Chris, Y/N… we could all use some food right now.”

Ava looks around the quiet living room—Chris with his hands in his pockets, you standing off to the side and finally, she nods, a faint, tired smile pulling at her lips. “Yeah,” she relents. “I could eat.”

Matt exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “Great,” he says, relieved. “Let’s go. There’s a Denny’s not too far from here.”

Chris glances your way, a silent question in his eyes—You good? You nod, trying to move past your lingering annoyance. Breakfast might be the first step toward smoothing things over… or at least not making them worse.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of you are crammed into a booth at Denny’s beneath too-bright fluorescent lights. There’s a collective slump in your posture, as though the whole table is nursing hangovers or leftover tension. But the aroma of coffee and frying bacon starts to lift the mood.

Ava flops an elbow on the table, reading the menu with one eye open. Matt, sitting beside her, rubs slow circles on her back, whispering apologies here and there. Across from them, you and Chris hold your menus like makeshift shields—unsure if you’re truly ready to talk yet, but at least the scents of hash browns and eggs ease some of the awkwardness.

“Ugh, I can’t decide,” you mutter, eyeing the pancake combos.

“Waffles,” Chris counters immediately, glancing up from his own menu.

You arch an eyebrow. “Waffles?”

He flips the laminated page toward you, jabbing a finger at a picture of crisp, golden-brown waffles drizzled in syrup. “They’re superior in every way. Texture, flavor pockets, structural integrity—waffles win.”

“Structural integrity?” you repeat, a disbelieving scoff escaping you. “I don’t care about ‘flavor pockets,’ Chris. Pancakes are fluffy and comforting.”

He snorts, setting his menu down like he’s ready to present a thesis. “Fluffy is just code for ‘soggy if you don’t eat them in five seconds.’ With waffles, you get these perfect little squares to hold your syrup. Pancakes are basically sog-biscuits.”

Your mouth drops open. “They are not sog-biscuits! You can’t beat a stack of warm, buttery pancakes.”

He leans forward, eyes narrowed in mock challenge. “Oh, I can, and I will: a stack of warm, buttery waffles, plus that satisfying crunch on the outside.”

You’re about to retort—something about pancakes being the foundation of every breakfast place in America—when Ava peeks up from her menu, looking a bit more alive. “If you two start a food fight over which carb is better, I’m going to need another ibuprofen. And Y/N is right. Its pancakes.” she warns, though there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Matt slides her a small grin, then turns to you and Chris. “You know what’s better than waffles and pancakes?”

All three of you look at him skeptically, and he chuckles. “French toast.”

Ava rolls her eyes but pokes his side playfully. “You’re so extra.”

“Guilty as charged,” he admits, raising a hand for the waitress. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll get the pancakes to show solidarity with Y/N’s taste buds.”

Chris feigns a horrified gasp. “Traitor.”

“Uh-huh,” Matt deadpans. “And Ava can get waffles so she’ll stop having to listen to you two bicker.”

Ava groans dramatically. “Why the fuck do I have to eat waffles,” she teases, resting her head on Matt’s shoulder. Despite the jab, there’s relief etched in her features—like the tension in her shoulders has finally lifted a bit.

You catch Chris’s eye across the table and, despite yourself, a small smile creeps up. The argument feels less about pancakes and waffles and more about exhaling the stress of the last twelve hours.

“Fine,” you concede, flipping your menu closed. “But only because I’m starving.”

Chris huffs out a soft laugh, doing the same with his menu. “Yeah. Me too.”

And for the first time since last night’s chaos, you and Ava and the boys breathe a little easier—sitting in a too-bright diner with questionable coffee, letting the warm promise of breakfast slowly piece things back together.

After Matt paid the bill and grabbed your leftovers, the four of you step out of Denny’s into the brisk midday air. Breakfast felt like a temporary truce—banter over waffles and pancakes masking the undercurrent of unresolved tension. But as you all pile into Matt’s car—him behind the wheel, Ava in the passenger seat, you and Chris in the back—there’s a sense the peace won’t last.

Matt starts the engine, carefully guiding the car into traffic. Ava scrolls through apple music for music, and for a few minutes, the only sounds are of the passing cars. You stare out the window, head still pounding from a mix of caffeine. Beside you, Chris sits with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the seat in front of him, as if waiting for the right moment to speak.

Eventually, Matt hits a pothole so deep it rattles the whole car, and Chris nearly loses his grip on his takeout container. He mutters a curse and shoots a glare at the back of Matt’s head. “Could we not hit every crater in the road?” he growls.

“Sorry,” Matt says flatly, clearly not in the mood to argue. “Boston roads aren’t exactly a smooth ride.”

Ava twists in her seat, rolling her eyes at Chris. “You want to drive instead? Be my guest,” she challenges, though her voice is weary.

Chris exhales, as if already fed up. You can’t help but notice he keeps casting sidelong looks your way. Finally, he shifts toward you, opening his mouth like he’s been holding back words that can’t wait any longer.

“So,” he says, his tone deceptively casual, “you ever gonna explain what happened after senior year? Because last I remember, you were all set on college—then you vanished.”

A spike of tension hits your stomach. “Things changed,” you say curtly. “It’s none of your business, Chris.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Funny. You made it everyone’s business when you wouldn’t stop talking about your big future. Then out of nowhere, poof—you’re gone.”

Heat flushes your cheeks. “I didn’t vanish. I took a gap year. Not that it matters to you.”

Chris’s jaw tightens. “It matters because you ghosted me. One minute we’re talking, the next you’re off with someone else like I never existed.”

Ava glances over her shoulder, wanting to intervene, but Matt shakes his head slightly. He keeps his eyes on the road, tension etched across his features. You feel the interior of the car tighten as Chris’s accusation hangs in the air.

“Are we seriously doing this right now?” You laugh in disbelief.

He cocks his head to the side in complete seriousness. “I don’t know, are we?”

“Fuck you, Chris. You know that’s not why I stopped talking to you,” you snap, though the guilt of lying twists in your gut. “I didn’t ghost you because of some other guy, so drop it.”

“Right,” he spits back. “Because that’s totally how it looked when you got a boyfriend and never bothered to call again.”

“That’s not what happened,” you hiss. “Can we not do this right now?”

Chris ignores your plea, leaning closer, voice low and charged. “I think it’s really convenient how you had all these big plans—until you bailed on them, and me. Don’t act surprised, I'm still pissed.”

Anger flares in your chest. You clench your fingers against the seat. “Don’t rewrite history just because you’re mad. You think you were a saint? You barely acknowledged me half the time besides when you wanted your dick sucked. Don’t act like I was the only one who messed up.”

Chris’s eyes blaze. “You know that's not true. I was obsessed with you. And we were kids. We didn’t know how to handle—”

“Stop acting like that excuses everything!” you cut in, voice trembling with the force of your emotion. “You never asked what I wanted. You never said if you wanted more. Then you blame me when I moved on?”

He sucks in a breath, looking ready to throw another barb, when Matt’s voice finally cracks through the tension. “Hey!” he barks, sparing a quick glance in the rearview. “Cut it out. Both of you.”

Chris grits his teeth, but you can see he’s holding himself back. You’re vibrating with leftover fury, blood pounding in your ears. Ava twists again, her gaze darting between you and Chris. She looks torn between yelling at you both or letting Matt handle it.

Chris exhales, folding his arms. His voice is a bitter mutter. “Guess we’ll never know if you’d have stuck around if you hadn’t had a backup plan.”

Your anger surges anew. “Don’t you dare imply I was just waiting for something better to come along!”

Before Chris can retort, Matt hits the brakes harder than necessary at a yellow light, causing everyone to jolt forward. “That’s it!” he snaps, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “We can talk about this when we’re not moving at 40 miles an hour, okay? I’m not letting you two kill each other in Avas car.”

A taut silence falls, your chest heaving with unsaid words. Chris slumps back in his seat, staring out the window with a thunderous expression. You rub your temples, frustration and guilt churning in your stomach.

By the time Matt pulls up to the Sturniolo house, the tension in the car is suffocating. Chris throws open the back door and practically leaps out, not sparing you a second glance. Ava sighs and unbuckles, eyeing you and Chris warily. Matt parks, shoulders rigid, then steps out to follow his brother.

You remain in the back seat for a moment, heart still hammering. Ava glances at you, sympathy flickering across her features, but she doesn’t say a word. She simply gives a weary shake of her head, then trudges after Matt.

Finally, with a shuddering breath, you climb out. You catch a glimpse of Chris disappearing inside, posture tense. Your anger hasn’t cooled, but beneath it lies a pang of something else—regret, maybe. Of course, you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

Ava returns to the car and slides behind the wheel. She waits, eyes on you. “Ready to go?”

You nod numbly, slipping into the passenger seat. As she drives away, the echo of your own shouting plays on repeat in your mind, mingling with Chris’s accusations. It’s as if the old wounds have been ripped wide open, and neither of you knows how to stop the bleeding.

MASTERLIST

tag list: @mattsobvimyfav @sturnsvelocity @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002

[starryblueeyesandstarryblueskies]

Unexpected Interruption | R.C.

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Topper interrupts your lunch date at the club

A/N: A random Rafe blurb for your Thursday. I kinda hate it but oh well

As I am an adult, all characters I write for are written as adults. Any minor characters will be aged up to the general range of their actor’s age.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 346

-

“Please say you won’t be mad at me.” Your boyfriend gave you a pleading look that left you confused. That is until you turned and saw who he was looking at over your shoulder.

“I feel anger rising up.” You seethed, turning a scathing look on your boyfriend. “Do not wave him over here. Do not-“ he raised his arm, “I swear to god, Rafe.”

“Yo, Rafe!”

Topper Thornton made his way over to your table. If looks could kill, your boyfriend would be dead. Instead, Rafe pretended not to notice your glare as he clapped hands with your least favorite kook on the island.

“Fancy seeing you two here.” Topper drawled, as if you and Rafe didn’t spend half your time at the club.

You gave him a fake smile. “Yeah, I didn’t think we’d run into you today, Topper.”

“Crazy right!” He directed his words toward Rafe. “It's perfect timing. I was just thinking that I had a couple things I wanted to run by you about that deal we talked about.”

Before you could so much as interject, Topper had pulled up a chair to the table and was rambling to Rafe about business, effectively ruining your lunch date.

-

You sat there in silence for 20 minutes, Topper ignoring your existence for the entirety of the conversation. When he finally left, you boyfriend turned to you with an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry.” He told you sheepishly. “I didn’t mean for him to interrupt like that.”

“Guess you should’ve listened when I told you not to wave him over.”

“I know. It won’t happen again.” Rafe promised.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you said last time, Rafe. And the time before that.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He gave you that cheeky grin that he knew you couldn’t resist. “But I really mean it this time.”

“Oh, suuure.” You rolled your eyes teasingly. “I’ll forgive you this time, baby. But I expect some really good groveling to make up for it.”

“Done deal, darlin’.” Rafe agreed with a smirk. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

-

Writing masterlist

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Epilogue (The End)

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

And with that, we have reached the end. I could, as always, write a lot more, (And maybe eventually I will, but for right now, that's where we will leave Lando and Lizzie.)

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Twitch Stream Transcript – Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

[Stream starts]

Max: Right, chat. I know we’ve been through a lot together. We’ve seen things. We’ve survived things. But I don’t think any of you are ready for what’s about to happen.

Max: Because, somehow, defying all expectations, defying all logic—Lando Norris is actually here.

Chat: 

LIAR.

NO WAY.

PROVE IT.

MAX THIS BETTER NOT BE A PRERECORDED AI CLIP.

OH SO HE DOES EXIST.

IT’S BEEN 84 YEARS.

Lando: [over voice chat, deadpan] I hate you.

Max: Gasp. He speaks. It’s real. It’s happening.

Lando: You’re so dramatic.

Max: No, mate, I’m just telling it like it is. The last time we saw you, you were escaping the internet at full speed. Thought you retired. Went off the grid. Became a monk.

Lando: Yeah, well. Things got messy.

Max: Understatement of the year.

Chat: 

YEAH NO KIDDING.

THE INTERNET WAS A NIGHTMARE.

LIZZIE DESERVED BETTER.

MARAAA OUR QUEEN.

THE ABLEISM WAS SO BAD.

LANDO DEFENDING HER >>>

Max: So, how’s Lizzie?

Lando: She’s good. Writing, mostly. And making sure I actually sleep.

Max: A saint.

Lando: Obviously.

Chat: 

PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS.

SHE NEEDS TO KNOW WE LOVE HER.

I WANT TO SEND HER FANMAIL BUT I’M SCARED.

MARA POST WHEN??

TELL LIZZIE SHE’S A QUEEN.

Max: But mate, you really should’ve warned me before hopping on. Nearly had a heart attack.

Lando: Didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

Max: Didn’t think it was—oh my god. Chat, back me up.

Chat: 

IT IS A BIG DEAL.

HISTORIC MOMENT.

LORE DROP.

WE THOUGHT LIZZIE LOGGED YOU OUT FOREVER.

DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER YOUR TWITCH PASSWORD??

SHE PROBABLY DRAGGED HIM BACK HERE.

Lando: Actually, she’s in the kitchen right now.

Max: Oh, is she? What’s she doing?

Lando: Giving Mara peanut butter.

Max: …Oh no.

Lando: Yeah.

(And then, as if on cue, absolute chaos erupts in Lando’s mic—loud licking, snuffling, something knocking against furniture. A thump. A very happy dog making a complete racket.)

Max: WHAT IS HAPPENING.

Lando: [muffled laughter] She’s going feral.

Max: CHAT, DO YOU HEAR THIS?

Chat: 

MARAAA.

SHE’S EATING LIKE SHE HASN’T BEEN FED IN YEARS.

DOG ASMR STREAM WHEN.

THAT’S THE SOUND OF A QUEEN ENJOYING LIFE.

SHE DESERVES EVERY BIT OF THAT PEANUT BUTTER.

Max: Mate. Your dog is losing it.

Lando: She loves peanut butter.

Max: Yeah, no kidding. It sounds like she’s wrestling it.

Lando: Wouldn’t surprise me.

Max: I swear, chat’s gonna riot if you don’t post a Mara video soon.

Lando: I’ll think about it.

Max: Think about it? No, mate, you don’t understand. Mara is the people’s princess.

Chat: 

MARA FOR PRESIDENT.

SHE DESERVES THE WORLD.

THE WAY SHE’S JUST EXISTING AND WE’RE ALL LOSING IT.

THIS IS NOW A MARA FAN STREAM.

GIRLBOSS.

Max: You could literally disappear again for months, but if you drop one single Mara clip, all will be forgiven.

Lando: Huh. Good to know.

Max: Don’t even pretend like you won’t exploit that.

Lando: [grinning] Wouldn’t dream of it.

(Mara, still licking peanut butter, lets out an extremely content sigh.)

Max: Oh, that was adorable.

Lando: Yeah, she’s great.

Max: I can feel chat melting over this.

Chat: 

SHE’S SO PRECIOUS.

LIZZIE AND MARA HARD CARRYING THE CONTENT RIGHT NOW.

MARA POST WHEN.

WE DON’T DESERVE HER.

SHE’S SO REAL FOR THIS.

Max: Right. Now that we’ve all had our emotional moment over Mara’s peanut butter obsession, shall we actually play the game?

Lando: Probably.

Max: But just so we’re clear—this stream peaked the moment Mara showed up.

Lando: Yeah, I figured.

(Chat spams heart emojis as the game finally begins.)

***

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car PrinceBy June Shepard

Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton has built an empire on love stories—intoxicating, sweeping, heart-stopping love stories that have made her one of the most successful romantasy authors of the decade. Her Seasons of Fate series, a four-book saga filled with magic, intrigue, and forbidden romance, has captivated millions worldwide, cementing her place as the reigning queen of the genre.

But even her most devoted readers could never have predicted that she was living out a love story of her own. And certainly not with one of the biggest stars in motorsport.

When Lizzie Treshton walked into the Silverstone paddock in July 2025, hand-in-hand with McLaren’s Lando Norris, social media imploded.

No one had any idea they were together. No rumors, no leaks—just an earth-shattering confirmation that sent both F1 and romantasy Twitter into collective cardiac arrest.

"It wasn’t supposed to be a big thing," Treshton says now, curled up on a sofa in her Surrey flat, a steaming mug of tea in hand. "Lando was racing at Silverstone. I wanted to be there to support him. I didn’t think the world would explode."

Perhaps that was naive. Because if there’s one thing the world loves, it’s an unexpected crossover. And this? This was the ultimate crossover event.

Lando Norris has spent the last six years in the high-pressure world of Formula 1, balancing blistering lap times with an ever-growing fanbase that adores his mix of raw talent, easy charm, and chaotic humor. He’s no stranger to public scrutiny. But even he was caught off guard by the sheer scale of the reaction.

"I knew Lizzie was a big deal," he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "But I didn’t fully grasp it until people started calling me ‘the romantasy book boyfriend of the year.’"

He grins. "I think my sisters are still mad I didn’t tell them who I was dating."

That particular detail has only added to the legend of "Lizzie & Lando." While Norris’s family knew he had a girlfriend, they had no idea it was that Lizzie Treshton—the very same author whose books they had lined up at midnight to buy. His sisters, self-proclaimed romantasy fanatics, took approximately thirty seconds to forgive him before launching into full-scale fangirl mode.

But not everyone has been as welcoming.

Almost immediately after Silverstone, the backlash began. While plenty of fans celebrated the unexpected pairing, others turned vicious. Some called Treshton “undeserving.” Others dismissed the relationship entirely, claiming Norris would eventually move on.

And then there were the ones who went after her health.

Treshton has always been open about living with epilepsy, discussing it occasionally in interviews and social media posts. But being open about something and having it dissected by millions of strangers are two very different things.

Some reactions were cruel—questioning Norris’s commitment, making sweeping judgments about Treshton’s ability to “keep up” with the fast-paced, jet-setting lifestyle of an F1 driver. Others were outright ableist, using her condition as a reason to doubt her place at his side.

Norris, uncharacteristically sharp in his response, took to Instagram. “The way some of you have spoken about Liz—the woman I love—is disgusting. There’s no other way to put it. You’ve taken something she has no control over and used it as an excuse to dehumanize her, to insult her, to act like she isn’t worthy of me.” 

McLaren issued a formal statement condemning the backlash, while much of the grid rallied behind Treshton, with drivers like Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc publicly voicing their support.

“It was disgusting,” Treshton says bluntly. “But not surprising.”

"I’ve lost people because of my epilepsy," Treshton says quietly, her fingers tightening around her mug. "People who couldn’t handle it. People who didn’t want to try."

Her mother was one of them.

Treshton doesn’t often talk about her mother, but when she does, it’s with a detachment that speaks of wounds long since buried. "She left when I was young," she says. "Said she couldn’t deal with it. So she didn’t."

She exhales slowly. "I learned early on that some people see epilepsy as an inconvenience. Like it makes you fragile. But it doesn’t make me less. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me unlovable."

Despite the backlash, Treshton and Norris remain unfazed. Their relationship, built away from the public eye, is stronger than the noise that surrounds it.

"Lando makes me feel safe," she admits. "Not in a way that makes me feel like I need protecting, but in a way that reminds me I don’t have to do everything alone."

For Norris, it’s simple. "She’s incredible," he says. "And I’m lucky to have her. End of story."

There’s something almost cinematic about the two of them. The bestselling author who spins love stories for a living. The racing driver who defies speed and gravity every weekend. It’s the kind of pairing that shouldn’t make sense. And yet, it does.

At the end of the day, theirs isn’t just a love story. It’s a story about resilience. About belonging. About choosing each other in a world that constantly tries to tear people down.

When asked what’s next, Treshton shrugs. “I have a book to finish. He has races to win. And beyond that?” She tilts her head, thoughtful. “I think we’ll just keep surprising people.”

One thing is clear: the queen of romantasy and her race car prince are far from a fleeting fairytale.

They’re just getting started.

****

8 December 2024, Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi

The moment Lando stepped out of the car, the world blurred around him. The cheers, the McLaren team swarming in orange, the fireworks—none of it felt real. He had won Abu Dhabi. He had won the Constructors’ Championship for McLaren. After years of dreaming, of heartbreak, of being so close yet so far—he had done it.

His mother reached him first, arms tight around his shoulders, holding him like she never wanted to let go. “Lando,” she breathed, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You’ve made so many people happy today.”

His father clapped a firm hand on his back, pride evident in his expression. His team, his engineers, Zak Brown—everyone was celebrating around him. But Lando was already searching for someone else.

And then he saw her.

Lizzie stood off to the side, wrapped in one of his McLaren jackets, Mara sitting dutifully at her feet. She looked exhausted, and he knew why. Just last night, she had suffered a seizure. He had been with her through it, waiting for the worst to pass. He had told her she didn’t have to come today, that she should stay at the hotel and rest.

But Lizzie was nothing if not stubborn.

Her gaze found his, and her face lit up like the fireworks lighting the sky outside.

He could see how tired she was, though, in the tightness around her eyes, the way her body was still a little stiff.

But she was here.

His feet moved before his brain caught up, and suddenly, she was in front of him, her hands reaching up to his face before he could say a word.

Her fingers traced over his skin, her tired eyes taking him in with a familiar, almost reverent look. It was as if she couldn’t believe he was real. Lando knew the feeling.

“Like I ever would have missed this,” she murmured before he could scold her for being out in the chaos of the paddock. Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, her voice thick with emotion. “Lando, you did it. You actually did it.”

"You didn't need to come," he whispered. His hands came to rest on her waist, grounding himself. “I was worried about you.”

“And I was never going to miss watching you win,” she said simply, smiling up at him. “I am so proud of you.”

Lando let out a shaky breath.

Then, with the whole world watching, he kissed her.

It was soft, careful—his hands tightening on her waist like he was terrified she might disappear, like he still wasn’t sure if any of this was real. When he pulled back, her eyes were shining, and for the first time since he crossed the finish line, it hit him.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

****

Dedications of The Seasons of Fate: 

A Spring of Secrets and Thorns

For Mara—

My steady ground, my quiet guardian, my fiercest protector.

For every unseen battle you’ve helped me fight, for every moment you’ve kept me safe, and for always being by my side—this book, like so much of my life, is possible because of you.

A Summer of Blood and Bloom

For Dad—

For every doctor’s appointment, every sleepless night, and every time you carried the weight of the world so I wouldn’t have to.

You taught me that love doesn’t walk away—it stays, it fights, and it endures. This book is a testament to that, and to you.

An Autumn of Fire and Stone

For Tasha and Aunt Lou—

For the sister I chose and the woman who made us family.

For every page read, every dream encouraged, and every time you reminded me that I was more than my worst days. I am who I am because I had you both beside me. I couldn’t have done this without you.

A Winter of Ash and Starlight

For Lando - 

Who taught me that love, like speed, can take your breath away in an instant. You’ve turned the pages of my life in the most unexpected, beautiful way. 

Thank you for showing me that sometimes the best stories are the ones you never saw coming. 

Ours is my favourite one. 

Acknowledgments – A Winter of Ash and Starlight

Writing this book, and really this entire series, has been one of the greatest joys of my life. I never imagined that a story I started one summer in my dad’s garden would turn into this, but here we are. I couldn’t have done it alone, and I wouldn’t have wanted to.

To my dad—thank you for everything. For the late-night talks, the endless encouragement, and the way you always made sure I knew I was enough, just as I am. You’ve been my rock, my biggest supporter, and the reason I never stopped believing I could do this.

To Aunt Lou—you are proof that family is about love, not blood. You didn’t have to be a mother to me, but chose to be anyway. I don’t have the words to properly thank you for that, but I hope you know how much I love you.

To Tasha—my sister in every way that matters. For always having my back, for every chaotic adventure, and for making sure I never forget who I am. You are my favorite person to cause trouble with.

To Mara—my best girl, my constant companion, my real-life guardian angel. You have been curled up beside me through every late-night writing session, every deadline panic, every high and low.  There is no version of my life, or this book, without you in it.

This book marks the end of Astrid and Ciaran’s journey—the last chapter of their love story. And in a way, it closes a chapter of my own life, too. Love has a funny way of finding you when you least expect it, and just as I was bringing Astrid and Ciaran home, someone walked into my life and changed everything.

To Lando—who came into my life just as I was closing this chapter and somehow became the best story of all. I don’t know if fate is real, but if it is, I think it was always meant to bring me to you. You walked into my world when I wasn’t sure I deserved something good, and you have never let me forget that I do. 

Thank you for every quiet moment and every inside joke. Thank you for the dino nuggets, the peanut butter and the Ferrari Dog Bandanas. Thank you for making me laugh, for making me feel safe, and for proving, every single day, that love isn’t about grand gestures, but about showing up, time and time again. 

You have been the greatest plot twist of my life. I love you. 

And finally, to the readers—thank you for taking this journey with me. Thank you for believing in Astrid and Ciaran, in fate and magic, in love that defies the odds. This world, this story, exists because of you.

Here’s to new stories, new adventures, and finding our own kind of magic. Always.

With love and endless gratitude, Elizabeth Louise Treshton

The End