#this scene is perhaps more bittersweet than happy

[raainstorms]

Karen Page Appreciation Happy Moments (1/3)

[alwaysmicado]

Sink or swim

12.3k | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 8

WARNINGS: 18+, no outbreak AU, implied age gap, emotional hurt/comfort, flashbacks (toxic relationship, bad mental health), mention of miscarriage & surgery, smut (nothing too graphic), Tommy Miller x f!reader SUMMARY: You reminisce about the late-night conversation that changed your life forever. Joel shares a secret. A/N: Guys, it’s finally here!! This part was hard for me to write, but I’m beyond happy with how it turned out. We learn so much about reader’s past and her relationship with Tommy, and I can’t tell you how excited I am to share it with you. Have fun reading (even though it’s a bit sad) and please let me know what you think! I wanna know all your thoughts!! 🤍 Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics.

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The ocean stretches before you like a vast expanse of liquid silk, its rhythmic waves kissing the shore with a gentle insistence. The sun, now in its descent towards the horizon, casts a warm glow, painting the water and sand in hues of amber and gold.

You’re perched on a weathered bench, sneakers softly tapping against the sand, lost in thought as you watch the waves roll in.

Dressed in yoga shorts and an oversized t-shirt, with an ice cream cone in hand and sunglasses shielding your eyes from the brilliant rays of the setting sun, you blend seamlessly into the serene scene before you.

You appear inconspicuous, just another person soaking up the sun and breathing in the fresh air. No one can see the anguish gnawing at your heart, the tumult in your head, or the pain in your hand that makes you want to scream.

No, no, you look far too calm for that, too composed, too happy.

Besides, what would someone like you possibly have to feel bad about? Seriously. You just love to wallow in your own sadness, don’t you? You haven’t changed at all. You’re still your insecure, annoying, unlovable self. God, even your inner voice is irritating. Do you hear how pathetic you sound? Of course he wouldn’t lov–

Shut up. 

You focus on the waves as they dance and sway, their melodic rhythm a soothing balm to the cruel thoughts echoing relentlessly in your mind.

The ocean’s song, a symphony of calming whispers and gentle sighs you’ve loved ever since you were a little girl, envelops you in its embrace, drawing you deeper into a state of quiet reflection. The cool breeze dancing through the air brushes against your sun-kissed skin, carrying with it the salty scent of the ocean and the promise of new beginnings. 

With a gentle tilt of your head, you take another lick of the strawberry soft serve you bought at the ice cream stand near the boardwalk, feeling the familiar comfort of the cool creaminess dance across your taste buds. It’s been a few months since you last indulged in this particular treat, sharing it with Joel after a rough day at work.

As the cold sweetness melts on your tongue, bittersweet memories of that afternoon flood back with vivid clarity. You can almost hear Joel’s infectious laughter as you scarfed down the icy treat a little too eagerly, his eyes crinkling with amusement at your inevitable brain freeze. But it wasn’t just the shared laughter and playful banter that made this memory so special. 

It was Joel’s genuine interest in hearing about your day, about you, his calming presence grounding you and making you momentarily forget all your troubles. He provided you with a warmth that seeped into your bones, a connection that felt effortless yet profound. Like it could be more.

Reflecting on it now, perhaps that should have been a hint that things were more serious than you wanted to admit right from the beginning. Oh well, dwelling on it is futile now. Because you did finally admit it, didn’t you? And not only that, you basically shouted your feelings from the rooftops last night, laying your soul bare.

Fucking embarrassing.

How are you supposed to come back from that? How are you supposed to ever look into Joel’s eyes again? 

There’s a reason why you stopped psychotherapy after a few months, there’s a reason why you don’t have any close friends beside Tommy, there’s a reason why your dating life has consisted of a series of superficial hookups over the past couple of years.

“Fear of intimacy,” your therapist called it. “A response to sustained trauma.”

You walked out of that session and, fueled by defiance, decided to fuck the first guy who caught your eye, just to prove to yourself, and to your therapist, that you were very well capable of intimacy.

Lying in bed that night, lonely and empty, you couldn’t shake the truth of her words. You hated her guts for forcing you to confront your inner demons, but she did have a point in everything she said.

It’s an uncomfortable truth.

There’s nothing in the world you fear more than people knowing what’s going on inside your head, knowing what you feel, knowing your vulnerabilities and weaknesses—knowing the real you.

And last night, that fear came true.

Your innermost thoughts and feelings were on display for Joel to see, leaving you exposed and raw. The memory of your outburst, of his shocked face, weighs heavily on your mind and heart, filling you with a deep sense of shame and regret.

For a moment in that bathroom, you felt yourself transported back to all the times you’d scream at Simon for whatever he did to fuck with your feelings that day, just for him to laugh in your face or call you manipulative when you’d inevitably start crying tears of hurt and frustration. 

Does Joel see you differently now, knowing the depths of your insecurities? Will he even want to look you in the eye after witnessing what the real you is like? Have you lost your chance with him, and, did you ever even have one?

You sigh deeply and lick around the top of the ice cream cone to catch the drops threatening to run down, humming at the deliciousness.

You haven’t eaten anything else today, too nauseous from your meds and the knot in the pit of your stomach to find food appetizing. You haven’t slept for more than two consecutive hours, too agitated to find any real peace. You also couldn’t stay home this morning, as your apartment suddenly felt like a cage threatening to suffocate you.

Instead, you’ve spent your day off window shopping, aimlessly wandering from one coffee shop to another, your hands now jittery from too much caffeine on an empty stomach. You’ve ambled down the boardwalk, taking in the sights and sounds surrounding you, before finding yourself drawn to the familiar comfort of the ocean.

From the corner of your eye, you catch the display on your phone lighting up with Joel’s name, the device resting on the bench beside you alongside your bag.

You know you’ll have to take his calls and talk to him like an adult at some point. And you will. But this moment, this moment right here, belongs to you and your thoughts alone.

And to the hermit crab making its way through the sand just a few feet away from you. Your lips curl into a smile as you watch the determined little creature, impressed by its resilience in such an unforgiving world. Maybe you would’ve been happier if you’d been born as a hermit crab. Who knows.

As you swallow the last bit of your cone and lean back, feeling the sun’s gentle warmth on your skin, you can’t help but think of the first time you found yourself on this bench, watching the sunset. It feels like that was an entire lifetime ago, and yet, you vividly remember the overwhelming exhaustion that weighed you down, the sense of loneliness that engulfed you—how utterly lost you felt.

You allow your thoughts to drift, captivated by the soothing cadence of the waves lapping against the shore.

Three years earlier

The sun is down.

Staring into the void, you’re consumed by solitude, the cool breeze coming from the water a thin barrier against the weight pressing on your shoulders. The world seems distant, the murmur of the ocean a mere backdrop to the thoughts swirling in your troubled mind and the beat of your empty heart.

This is it. This is where you were always supposed to be.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, quietly drifting through the corners of your memory. With each passing moment, you meticulously comb through the fragments of the past few months. They offer no solace, only a stark reminder of how you reached this point.

In the stillness of the evening, you find a strange sense of calm, a numbness that dulls the edges of your emotions. Tears refuse to come, leaving only the echo of relief at the resolution of it all.

You open your eyes again, fixating on the endless mirror of the sky before you. The ocean has always held a special place in your heart. The salty tang in the air, the rhythmic melody of the waves, the laughter of birds mingling with the gentle lull of the breeze—everything.

You dig your naked toes into the sand, relishing the connection to the earth beneath you. The sensation is grounding, peaceful, almost–

“Hey there, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”

A man’s voice, rugged yet gentle, breaks through the silence, interrupting your thoughts. His words dance in the air, pulling you reluctantly back to the present.

Are you kidding me?

With a slow and deliberate movement, you lift your gaze from the horizon, meeting the eyes of the stranger who has disrupted the sanctuary of your thoughts. You rest your elbows on your knees and sigh deeply.

“Oh my fucking god,” you murmur, rubbing your temples in annoyance and disbelief. “The sun’s been down for two minutes, and the first creep’s already here.”

“Wha–” 

You look up at him. “Do you have like a radar or something where you get a notification every time a woman sits alone on a bench somewhere?”

The dark-haired man blinks in surprise, his expression caught between confusion and amusement. His brow furrows, his mouth slightly agape as he processes your words. After a moment of absorbing your outlandish accusation, his lips curve into a wry smile.

“Darlin’, I’m just–”

“Look, dude. If you’re here to murder me, could you at least spare me the whole blah blah you’ve got planned and just do it? Thank you.”

You look at him with a raised eyebrow, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s not entirely sure if you’re joking, but your sarcastic tone tells him you’re at least not scared of him.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I assure you I got no such plans. Just thought I’d check in on a fellow soul contemplating the mysteries of the universe.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed by his attempt at humor. “Yeah, well, I prefer to contemplate in peace.”

When he doesn’t budge and just…stares at you with those big, dark eyes of his, you take a moment to size him up. 

Your gaze drifts down from his eyes, tracing the contours of his muscular chest visible beneath a fitted white t-shirt. It lingers briefly on the obnoxiously large belt buckle adorning his waist, then travels down the length of his denim-clad legs to his cowboy boots. Despite the surreal encounter, you can’t help but notice how incredibly attractive he is. 

God, what’s wrong with you?

“Look, sweetheart,” he says calmly, his voice a blend of warmth and reassurance. “I’m not trying to get into your business or anything, but it’s gonna get pretty chilly out here soon.” He tilts his head and studies your face. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asks. “We could go grab a bite to eat if you want, and my place is right arou–”

“How subtle,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “I’m not going home with you, dude.”

“Fair enough, but at least let me call you a cab and wait with you until it arrives, hm?”

His soft voice and patronizing tone are starting to grate on your already frayed nerves. You’ve been sitting here, not taking up any space, minding your own fucking business, and even that wasn’t good enough, apparently.

Okay, world. Hint taken. 

“What the hell is your problem?” you blurt out. 

“What do you mean? I’m just–I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?” The question bursts from your lips like a dam breaking under pressure, laced with frustration. “Do you see me holding up a sign where I’m asking for your help? Huh? Or is this more about you and some, I dunno, bullshit white knight fantasy you’re acting out?” 

Your eyes narrow, fixing on him with a challenging glare, daring him to justify his intrusion into your solitude.

“No,” he responds calmly, his furrowed brow adding gravity to his words. “It’s because I’ve seen enough shit in my life to recognize when someone’s in need.”

The sincerity in his gaze catches you off guard, rendering you momentarily speechless. It’s as if this…stranger is peering into the depths of your soul, seeing past the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself. 

His face softens, the lines around his eyes relaxing as he meets yours. “Mind if I take a seat?”

You shrug indifferently, though a flicker of curiosity dances behind your eyes. “Suit yourself.”

He smiles warmly as he settles beside you. “I’m Tommy, by the way,” he offers, extending a hand. You hesitate for a moment, but eventually, you decide to reciprocate by telling him your name and shaking his hand with a soft sigh.

As his hand envelops yours, there’s a brief surge of something unspoken deep inside you, a connection allowing two disparate souls to briefly intertwine before returning to their separate paths again as soon as he lets go.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, darlin’,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, his mustache curling slightly as he smiles at you.

The faint scent of his cologne drifts towards you, mixing with the salty aroma of the sea air. As you gaze at him, your eyes trace the lines etched around his eyes and mouth, evidence of a life fully lived. Strangely, there’s something comforting about his presence, something that makes you feel a little less alone. 

You give him a subtle smile before turning your head back towards the ocean, mesmerized by the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy watches you silently, noticing the vacant look in your eyes and the way your gaze seems to be fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon. He furrows his brow slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he contemplates how lost you appear in that moment.

“What are you doing out here, sweetheart?” Tommy’s voice breaks the silence, his tone casual yet curious, as if striking up conversations with strange women on the beach is a regular occurrence for him.

Well, it probably is, you think to yourself.

“I, uh, wanted to watch the sunset,” you answer softly.

“Hm. It’s amazing, isn’t it? Should’ve been here and seen it too instead of wasting my time at that damn bar.”

“Oh? How did you waste your time? Can’t have been that bad, judging by the lipstick stains on your face,” you murmur.

“What? Where?” Tommy blurts out, his eyes widening in surprise as he hastily rubs at his lips and cheeks, searching for any traces of lipstick on his fingers.

You stifle a laugh. “I’m just fucking with you,” you deadpan, shooting him a quick glance. 

He stares at you in mock offense for a moment before his lips curl into a wide grin. “Touché,” he says, thoroughly entertained by your dry humor. “But yeah, things didn’t go the way I would’ve liked them to.” 

“What, she didn’t wanna go home with you either?”

“Very funny. But no, things were going well.” He sighs dramatically and rubs his forehead. “But then her husband showed up and kinda threw a giant monkey wrench into our plans.” 

“Wow, tough break,” you scoff, shaking your head in mock sympathy, “not getting to fuck a married woman. I hate it when that happens.”

Tommy chuckles. “Alright, alright, I didn’t know she was married, for the record. She wasn’t wearing a ring or anything.”

“Sure,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you cast a skeptical glance in his direction.

“What are you up to, then, darlin’? Hm?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Besides not making out with married women?” You hear Tommy’s laugh beside you and wiggle your toes in the sand. “Just enjoying the ocean, I guess. I’ve missed it.” 

“You’re not from here?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not.”

“Hm. You’re gonna love it. There’s lots of cool things to see and do, especially for young people like you.”

You furrow your brow. “Why are you talking like you’re ninety years old and I’m your estranged grandkid?”

“I dunno,” he sighs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I guess…turning forty did something to me.”

“Married women apparently still throw themselves at you. You’re gonna be fine.”

He chuckles, a deep, resonant sound that seems to echo across the beach. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, punctuated by the gentle sound of the ocean and the occasional cry of seagulls wheeling overhead. 

“What brings you here, then?” Tommy asks, observing your profile. You look tired.

“I told you, watching the sunset.” 

“No, I mean what brings you into town? Vacation or family or something?”

You turn to look at him, tilting your head slightly as you study his expression. “Why do you care?”

“Just making conversation,” he says with a smile, a glint of genuine curiosity shining in his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. We can talk about something else if you want.”

“Like what?”

“Like did you know it’s illegal to own just one guinea pig in Switzerland?”

Your bewildered look amuses him. 

“It’s true. You’re required, by law, to get your guinea pig a little guinea pig friend. They won’t sell you just one. Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever heard?”

You stare at him, shaking your head slowly. “What kind of women do you pull if this is how you flirt?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Who says I’m flirting?”

“Uh-huh,” you say with a smirk, then turn your head back towards the water. “But what if they want to be alone?”

“Hm?”

“What if you get a guinea pig in Switzerland and you have to buy a second one to keep it company but the first guinea pig actually just wants to be alone on a bench and then some other guinea pig with a mustache shows up and asks weird questions? What then?”

“Well,” Tommy starts, happy that you’re seemingly warming up a bit. “I think the first guinea pig would quickly realize that the other, dashingly handsome guinea pig isn’t that bad and just wants to be friends. And then they’d be friends and run around together and eat hay or whatever.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, and you know, I think us humans aren’t that different from them. I don’t think we’re meant to be alone either.”

You look at him. “Is that why you came to talk to me? Because you don’t want me to be alone?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“I guess not,” you murmur softly, your gaze drifting to the patch of dry skin on the back of your right hand. “And I’m, uh, not here for any special reason. I just…needed a break from home, I suppose.”

“And you have a place to stay, darlin’?” Tommy’s voice carries a gentle concern as he leans slightly closer, trying to see your eyes. 

“Yeah, I booked a hotel room a few minutes from here,” you lie smoothly. “With sea-view and everything. Just haven’t checked in yet.”

“Where did you put all your stuff?” 

“My stuff?”

“Yeah, your clothes and teddy bears and whatnot.” 

You nudge the backpack sitting on the ground next to you with your naked foot. “This is my stuff.”

“Oh.” You must have really wanted to get away if you traveled this lightly, Tommy contemplates silently.

He used to do the same, packing a bag and escaping, seeking solace in the open road. But he learned the hard way that you can’t outrun your problems. They always find a way to catch up with you, no matter how far you go.

He gives you a sympathetic smile. “Have you had dinner already?”

“I had a bagel at the airport this morning,” you say nonchalantly.

Tommy’s brows furrow slightly, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Yup.” If you had even the slightest bit of energy left inside of you, you’d find his shocked face amusing.

“Okay, that’s just unacceptable. Wait.” He retrieves his phone from his pocket and opens a food delivery app. “What kind of pizza do you want?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want pi–”

“Yes, you do. I’m not gonna have you starving on my watch.”

You raise an eyebrow. “On your watch?” 

“Yeah, on my watch. Now, what kind of topping–”

“Pineapple.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pine. Apple.”

“Oh, but I’m the weirdo,” he mutters, shaking his head and giving you the side-eye as he reluctantly adds pineapple as a topping to your pizza. “Anything else? Anchovies? Corn? My tears?”

“Jesus, don’t have a heart attack. Are you Italian or something?”

“No, just not a complete monster.”

You can’t help but chuckle, your smile lighting up your face for the first time in what feels like ages. Tommy’s eyes linger on you a moment too long, captivated by your sudden radiance, before he tears his gaze away as your smile fades once more.

Clearing his throat, he shifts his attention back to his task, fingers tapping away as he types the description of your location for the delivery.

“Should arrive in twenty minutes, the app says.” 

You nod and lean back, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you watch the waves again. 

“When did you decide to fly out here?”

“Last night.” 

“How? Why?”

“Simple. I took out a map, closed my eyes, and this is where my finger landed. And as for the why…well, home just didn’t feel like home anymore, you know?”

“Hm. I know that feeling.”

You turn your head and look into his warm eyes. “You do?”

“Oh yeah. It took me almost a decade after retiring from active duty to feel home again, or like I was safe, or like I belonged. It’s, uh, not easy to get that feeling back once you’ve lost it. I’m sorry you’re going through that,” Tommy says with a somber tone. He really is sorry. 

You look at him for a moment and give him a tired smile. “It’s okay,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “It wasn’t home to begin with. Not really.”

“Whatever your reasons are, you’re brave for leaving.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure, I’m brave for running away.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Look, it’s okay. You don’t need to try and make me feel better ‘cause I’m not sad. But I’m also not gonna act like I’m not a coward who accepted far too much shit for far too long ‘cause I’m very much not brave.”

You sigh deeply. “I should’ve gotten the fuck out of that miserable town and relationship years ago. But now it’s too late.” 

Tommy furrows his brow and opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.

“Are you married?”

“No, darlin’, I’m not married.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend.” 

“So there’s no one special in your life right now?”

“Nothing serious, no. No attachments for me.”

“Hm. No attachments,” you murmur. “That sounds nice.” 

Tommy nods. “It is, most of the time at least. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss being in love.” 

“You’ve been in love before?” You tilt your head and look at him with genuine curiosity. 

“A few times, yeah.”

“And the women you were with…they loved you?”

“Yeah, they did.” The soft smile lighting up his face tells you he has pleasant memories of his former partners. How nice that must be. 

“Do you ever wonder why it didn’t work out?”

Tommy’s expression turns introspective, his gaze drifting towards the horizon as if searching for answers in the distant waves.

“I have,” he admits after a pause, his voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “But I guess that’s just how life goes sometimes. People drift apart, circumstances change, life changes...”

“Do you think it’s possible to hate someone you love?”

Your question catches him off guard, and the look in your eyes concerns him. “Well,” he says calmly, carefully choosing his words, “I can’t say I’ve ever had that experience, but I could imagine that’s how my brother felt about me back when I was spiraling and he had to watch me make bad decision after bad decision. He loved me, I know he always has, but he also hated me for what I was doing.” 

“Sounds like a good brother,” you say, mustering a smile. 

“He really is. Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah, but I don’t talk to them,” you say, your tone betraying a hint of sadness before you quickly mask it with indifference. “My, uh…best friend was like my sister though.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, you know,” you murmur, the smile on your lips not matching the bitterness in your tone, “that friendship kinda ended after I saw her sitting on my boyfriend’s lap, shoving her tongue down his throat.”

“What the hell? When was that?” 

“Hmm, about a month ago. And you wanna know the real kicker? They’ve been fucking for like half a year. My best friend and my boyfriend. Laughing their asses off behind my back. Hilarious, isn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry, darlin’. They’re shitty people for doing that to you. You didn’t deserve any–”

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“How do you know that I didn’t deserve it? You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me.”

“I may not know you,” Tommy says gently, “but I know that no one deserves to be treated like that, especially by the people they trust. It’s hard sometimes to see things objectively because we’re our own worst enemies, but I’m telling you, you didn’t deserve that.” 

“I’m not sure that’s true.” 

“What makes you say that?”

You look into his eyes, and the pain he can see in yours breaks his heart.

“Because, I fucking loved it. Everything he did to me, all these years. I loved it. I could’ve left him after he cheated on me for the first time, the second time, the hundredth time, but no. I loved how he came crawling back to me time and time again, promising me the world, telling me he only loved me.”

You pull away, hands resting on his chest as you try to find your words. Simon’s intense gaze has your mind swirling with conflicting emotions, and your heart pounding in your chest. “I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper, your body trembling as he presses you against the wall with his body. “You–you say you’ll change, you say you’ll never do it again, you say you regret hurting me. And I forgive you. Every time. But nothing ever changes. You do it again and again, not caring how much you hurt me.” He places a hand on the wall next to your head, pushing your shirt up around your waist with the other, his touch on your naked skin sending a shiver down your spine. He looks down at you with a hint of amusement, a devious smirk appearing on his face as he searches your pleading eyes. “I’m serious, Simon,” you insist, unsuccessfully trying to convince yourself of what you’re saying. “I’m done.” Leaning in, he traces your neck with his nose, your heavy breathing and the way your tits press against his chest making his cock twitch in his jeans. “Is that so?” he murmurs against your skin before softly sucking and kissing on your flesh. “Why are you doing this?” you breathe, instinctively wrapping your arms around him, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you draw him closer. His leg between yours presses against your core, and you can’t help but whimper desperately at the feeling. “I love you,” he whispers, his warm breath gently caressing the curve of your ear, his words piercing your heart like a poisonous dart. “No, you don’t,” you murmur, your voice heavy with sadness, your eyes betraying the turmoil raging within you. Despite the ache in your heart, a part of you still yearns for the comfort of his touch, the familiarity of his presence, the illusion of affection he gives you. You need him, need to feel him, need him to love you—even if it kills you. In this moment of vulnerability, you surrender to the torrent of emotions flooding your senses, pressing your lips against his in a desperate attempt to drown out the pain, to silence the screams that plague your mind—eagerly drinking his poison straight from the source. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him closer, offering yourself up to him with each rough tug, fervent kiss, and harsh bite to his lips. He matches your energy, gripping the back of your neck with a bruising hold as he hastily opens his jeans to free his cock. “I hate you,” you choke out, the words laced with bitterness and the raw intensity of your need for him as your heart races and your vision blurs. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, baby,” Simon murmurs with a smirk, his words a cruel reminder of the tangled web of emotions that binds you to him, even as you struggle to break free. With a deft movement, he pulls aside your panties, sliding his hard cock through your wet folds as he holds your leg up around his waist. “Oh fuck,” you moan as he pushes inside you in one harsh thrust, your fingernails reflexively digging into his scalp. Overwhelming pleasure mingles with the anguish of your body betraying you, even as your mind screams in protest. Your walls clench around Simon with fierce intensity, his repeated thrusts against your G-spot having you close to orgasm within a minute. “Tell me, baby,” he pants, his eyes gleaming with triumph and satisfaction as he watches in real time how his poison travels through your entire body, your mind, intoxicating your very being with his essence. “Tell me how much you hate me while you come on my cock.”

You tilt your head and give Tommy a tired smile. “Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard?” 

“No, sweetheart, you’re not pathetic for wanting to be loved. You’re human and our feelings can be…complicated, irrational, dangerous. But you got yourself away from a toxic situation despite your feelings and that takes a lot of strength.”

“Hm.” You draw shapes into the sand with your toes, your heart heavy in your chest.

“Is he…why you left? You had to get away from him?”

“Surprisingly, no,” you say pensively, lost in thought as you fold one leg beneath you on the bench. “Things weren’t that bad after I decided not to care anymore. You know you can just wake up one day and realize it hurts a lot less to just not care about anything? Amazing. So yeah, that’s what I did.” You shrug and rub your left thumb with your right one.

“Of course, he didn’t like that at all, not being able to emotionally drain me anymore. He even told me I was depressed or some shit, acting like he cared, when all he actually missed was me giving him the reactions he wanted,” you scoff, bitterness dripping from your lips. “Coincidentally, that’s when he and my best friend started fucking.”

“I’m so sorry, darlin’, that’s beyond fucked up. Do you, uh, have someone to talk to about all this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean apart from handsome cowboys in too-tight jeans late at night?”

“Did you just call me handsome?”

“Don’t think so,” you give him a playful smile, then turn your head to watch the waves doing their mesmerizing dance. Despite the light-hearted banter, a hint of sadness flickers across your face. “But no, I don’t have anyone left.”

Tommy’s expression softens, his eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and concern as he listens to your words. He reaches out, but catches himself before his hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

“Why did you leave?” he asks gently.

“I saw her.”

“Who?”

“Laura. My best friend,” you say, shuddering at her name. “I came out of the hospital yesterday, stood at a red light, and then I saw her. Looking right at me from the other side of the street. We hadn’t talked since before I almost died a month ago, ‘cause she never bothered to answer any of my calls or texts…and there she was. Daring to look at me with those fake-ass tears in her eyes like she isn’t a fucking sociopath.”

“What did you do?”

“I just…looked at her, knowing I could never see her again. I walked away, went to mine and Simon’s apartment, grabbed a few things, and went to the airport.”

“And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here.”

The weight of your experience hangs heavy in the air, casting a somber shadow over the conversation. Tommy nods thoughtfully as he absorbs your words, until he suddenly shakes his head, chastising himself for his own stupidity.

“Okay wait, I’m sorry, but did you just say you almost died? What the hell happened?”

“Oh,” you scoff, a wide smile spreading across your face, its brightness contrasting sharply with the dullness in your eyes, “it’s nothing. One of my fallopian tubes burst ‘cause my dumbass gynecologist failed to diagnose an ectopic pregnancy, so I was hemorrhaging and had to have emergency surgery to get it removed.”

Tommy’s reaction is visceral: his eyes widen in shock, and his mouth falls open slightly, a silent gasp escaping him as the gravity of your words, spoken with horrifying casualness, hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Jesus Christ, darlin’...”

“But hey, the doctor said I’m completely fine at the check-up yesterday, so I guess that’s what I am.” You shrug and smile at him, but your attempt to lighten the mood falls flat.

“Darlin’, I’m so sor–”

“Don’t, please. It’s okay,” you interrupt softly, shaking your head. “My ex told me to have an abortion when I told him I was pregnant, and I wouldn’t have been a good mom anyway, so it’s best for the baby that it wasn’t born into the shitshow that is my life.”

“Dar–”

“I swear to God, Tommy, if you say ‘darlin’’ in that stupid, sexy accent of yours one more time,” you cut him off with a playful glare. 

He smiles at you, though worry lingers in his eyes and tugs at his heart.

“I’ve always wanted to live near the ocean,” you muse, welcoming the breeze cooling your hot face down. “It’s kind of poetic that my journey ends here.”

“It really is beautiful here, I’m sure you’d love livi–” Tommy starts, but you’re not hearing him.

“You know, I have this recurring dream where I drown, but instead of feeling panicked or scared I just feel peaceful, light. Like the weight of the world is lifted off my shoulders. I don’t thrash or struggle, I just…let the water take me under and I can finally breathe.”

Concern flashes in Tommy’s eyes, but he quickly masks it with a calm expression, not wanting to alarm you.

“That sounds intense,” he responds gently, choosing his words carefully. “Dreams can be strange sometimes, but that one sounds like it’s trying to tell you something. Maybe it’s your mind’s way of processing all the heavy things that’ve been weighing on you."

He shifts slightly closer to you, his tone soft and reassuring. “But you know, maybe it’s worth exploring with a therapist or someone who can help you unpack it. Sometimes talking about these things can bring some clarity and relief.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you say absentmindedly. 

“Darlin’, please look at me,” Tommy’s voice breaks through the haze of your thoughts, his gaze penetrating through the fog of your mind. If you had any tears left to cry, the sincerity in his eyes would surely coax them out right about now. 

“About what you said earlier…you–you don’t deserve people treating you badly, or any of the bad things that happen to you. You never did, you hear me? You were supposed to be loved, protected and cared for, but you weren’t, and that’s not fair, and most certainly not your fault.”

You tilt your head, studying his face intently. Why does he care? Why couldn’t he just leave you alone? But hey, he’s trying to be nice, and it’s not like you’re ever going to see him again. So, you’re trying to be nice back. 

“Thanks,” you say softly, mustering a smile. “But enough about me and my dumpster fire of a life.” You shift in your seat, untucking your leg and stretching it out in front of you. 

“I’d rather hear about you and how you get your hair to be this healthy. I can never get mine to look that good. Do you think it’s because I just eat garbage, don’t drink enough water and don’t get enough sunlight?”

Tommy chuckles and nods understandingly, recognizing your attempt to shift gears, and decides to play along until you both hear the pizza guy calling for you.

Your insistence to pay for your own pizza and drink falls on deaf ears, so you begrudgingly accept Tommy’s invitation and thank him for ordering food. Surprisingly, you find yourself ravenously hungry after taking the first few bites of your pineapple pizza—that you originally only wanted to mess with Tommy. But even he has to admit it isn’t half bad after you make him eat a slice.

As you’re eating together and the night deepens around you, the street lamps along the boardwalk spending enough light, you ask Tommy about his life. 

He shares his journey of enlisting in the army as a teenager, grappling with PTSD upon his return, and navigating through troubled times. He tells you about the unwavering support of his brother and how therapy helped him cope with his demons. You delve deeper, asking him about his wishes for the future, about his hopes and dreams.

You enjoy hearing about his life, about his experiences that are so different from yours. It’s comforting to get lost in someone else’s story for a bit. It’s a refuge, a welcome escape from your own tiring existence. 

Pizzas devoured, you sit side by side, enveloped in the soothing melody of the ocean’s whispers. Time seems to lose its grip as you share both laughter and quiet, the minutes and hours slipping away unnoticed like grains of sand carried by the tide.

As tranquility settles between you, the world around you seemingly forgotten, a question gnaws at your insides, its weight palpable in the silence. It’s a question you’re reluctant to voice aloud, knowing it will rupture the delicate bubble you and Tommy have found yourselves in. Yet, it persists, demanding acknowledgment, refusing to be ignored.

You take a deep breath.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

He gives you a reassuring smile. “Of course, darlin’.”

“Why won’t you go home?”

Oh. Tommy looks deeply into your eyes, his own filled with turmoil, and finds that he can’t lie to you. 

“I can’t,” he admits softly, turning his gaze towards the distant horizon.

You nod slowly, turning your head towards the water as well. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” he says simply, his acknowledgment laden with a quiet understanding.

You steal a glance at him, your eyes searching for comfort in the weary lines on his face. With a tentative gesture, you place your hand on the bench between you, a subtle invitation for connection.

Tommy, sensing your unspoken plea, catches the movement from the corner of his eye. His gaze meets yours as you turn your head, and in that shared moment of vulnerability, he understands. Without a word, he responds, reaching out to cover your hand with his own. 

His touch is protective, a silent promise that you’re not alone. 

“Do you…do you think that makes me a bad person?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you lay bare the depths of your fears.

“No,” he responds softly, his gaze meeting yours with unwavering sincerity. “You’re not a bad person for feeling the way you do.”

For the first time since your miscarriage, tears glisten in your eyes, shimmering like fragments of shattered dreams under the moonlight. Tommy’s words offer a glimmer of solace, touching your broken heart. 

Silence settles between you two, heavy with shared pain. You sit like that for a while, two strangers finding kinship in the gentle embrace of this summer night.

Gently squeezing your hand, Tommy turns to look at you after a few minutes. “I need you to do something for me,” he says, his voice tinged with urgency. You look into his eyes, finding comfort in the warmth of his presence.

“Please stay with me tonight,” he pleads, his fingers tightening around yours, anchoring you to the present moment as if afraid you might slip away into the night. 

“We can stay here, we can go for drinks, we can go dancing, we can break into the zoo—whatever you want, sweetheart. We don’t have to talk about anything, and I promise I won’t bother you anymore if tomorrow you decide that’s what you want, but please give me a chance to show you that I ca–”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Okay.”

As the gentle breeze around you whispers secrets of hope and renewal, you find yourself nodding in agreement, a silent promise to give him the chance he so earnestly seeks—to let him show you the light that flickers within the darkness. 

Tommy is momentarily stunned as he searches your face for any sign of hesitation. But there’s none to be found—only a quiet resolve that speaks volumes. A wave of relief washes over him, and he can’t hold back the wide grin spreading across his face.

“So, there’s a place a few minutes from here where we could dance, or there’s the bar I went to earlier, or we could–”

“Tommy?”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“I’m tired. Could we maybe…could we go home?”

Tommy’s face lights up even more. “Yes, yes, of course, darlin’. My place is right around the corner.”

“Great,” you say with a small smile. 

You put your socks and sneakers back on, your movements slow and unsteady after hours of sitting. As you stand up for the first time, your legs wobble beneath you, but Tommy is quick to react, reaching out to steady you with his hands on your waist.

“Sorry,” you mumble, cheeks heating up as you realize your hands are gripping his shoulders for support.

“That’s alright, darlin’. I got you.”

“You’re so cheesy, you know that?” you say with a playful roll of your eyes before removing your hands and taking a step back. 

“Look me in the eye and tell me it’s not working,” he teases back with a smirk.

“Whatever. Can we go?” You raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“After you, my lady,” Tommy says with a gallant flourish, gesturing for you to go first. You shake your head with a theatrical sigh, but play along and start walking.

He falls into step beside you, eager to lift your spirits with an array of random animal facts he’s accumulated over the years, and, much to your amusement, with some particularly funny stories about failed hookups, like the one from tonight.

As you draw closer to his apartment, he suddenly sucks in a sharp breath and comes to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to ask if you need anything.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, tampons, make-up wipes, solution for your contacts, hair conditioner, lotion—I don’t think I have any of that at home, but there’s a convenience sto–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, touched by his consideration. “I got all my essentials in my backpack and really don’t need anything fancy. Thank you, though.”

“Are you–”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you interrupt softly. “Thank you.”

Arriving at Tommy’s apartment, you’re struck by its elegant yet welcoming nature. It’s spacious and tastefully furnished, with a modern aesthetic that speaks to Tommy’s discerning taste. You can’t help but wonder if his job as a contractor affords him such a nice living space or if he’s secretly a trust fund kid—or a very successful drug dealer.

“Must be nice,” you think to yourself.

As Tommy ushers you inside, you’re enveloped in a sense of warmth and comfort as the space feels distinctly homey, with its wooden furnishings and cozy accents that evoke a rustic charm. The polished hardwood floors gleam under soft lamplight, casting a warm glow throughout the living room.

Tommy assures you that you’re welcome to make yourself at home as he heads into the kitchen to get you a glass of water.

Despite its hominess, the apartment remains impeccably clean and organized—a testament, perhaps, to Tommy’s meticulous nature. Every surface is spotless, every item in its proper place, reflecting a discipline that may well stem from his army training.

As you explore further, you do notice small touches that hint at Tommy’s personality—framed photos of him and his friends, a worn but well-loved armchair and couch positioned opposite the TV, horse figurines on the sideboard, and a few potted plants scattered throughout, adding a touch of life to the space.

Your eyes are eventually drawn to the record player nestled in one corner, surrounded by a collection of vinyl records. The sight brings a smile to your face, appreciating the nostalgic feeling it gives you. You’re pretty sure you used to have the same model in your childhood home.  

“Here you go, sweetheart,” you hear Tommy’s voice behind you as he hands you the glass of water with a knowing smile. “You like Jazz?”

“Thanks. And yeah, I guess?” 

“Okay, wait a sec.” He moves with practiced ease, flipping through his collection of vinyl records until he finds the one he’s looking for. With a gentle touch, he carefully removes the chosen record from its sleeve, handling it delicately as if it were a precious artifact.

You sip on your water and watch in fascination as he places the record onto the turntable, the soft click of the needle finding its groove. As the first notes of a smooth jazz melody fill the air, you can’t help but smile, the music enveloping you in its warm embrace.

Tommy catches your eye and grins, nodding in approval as if to say, “See, I knew you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his arm with your elbow. 

“Want me to show you around?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, so this is the bedroom,” he says, leading you down the hallway and into the room where you’ll be sleeping. The bed sits neatly made, its dark sheets promising a restful night ahead. “I’ll change the sheets for you in a bit, okay? And I’ll be sleeping in the living room on the couch.” 

“I, uh,” you murmur, but stop yourself, shaking your head. “No, forget it.”

“What is it? It’s okay, you can tell me.” He searches your eyes as you meet his gaze, waiting patiently for you to answer him. 

“Could you maybe…not change the sheets?”

Tommy’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t make it awkward. Instead, he nods understandingly and immediately assures you, “Sure, I’ll leave the bed as it is then.”

You offer him a grateful smile and as if sensing your need for comfort, he asks, “Do you need a shirt to sleep?” Without waiting for your response, he retrieves one of his shirts and hands it to you.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, taking the shirt from him and holding it close. It’s soft and smells nice.

“And here’s the bathroom,” Tommy continues, leading you through the space. “Feel free to take a shower if you want. Spare towels are here, and there’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet here. Toothpaste is over there. I even got fancy face masks if you wanna try, they’re in here. You think you got everything you need?”

“I think so,” you smile at him before leaving the bathroom to grab your backpack. 

As you’re about to head back, Tommy slips in ahead of you. You watch as he discreetly removes all the razor blades, a silent but clear gesture of concern for your well-being. You understand what he’s doing, and although it stirs a pang of humiliation and shame inside you, you don’t say anything and act like you didn’t see it.

After he leaves the bathroom, you take a moment to compose yourself before closing the door, peeing, taking off your clothes, and catching a glimpse of the small surgery scars on your belly. They appear to be healing well, already looking much better than even a week ago.

With a deep breath, you turn on the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over your body, soothing away some of your tension. As you lather up, enveloped in the steam and the rich scent of Tommy’s body wash, there’s a knock on the door, interrupting your thoughts.

“Darlin’?” Tommy’s voice sounds through the door.

“Yeah?”

“Just wanted to check if you were okay.”

“I’m okay. But you seriously need to start buying body wash for adults, dude. I’m gonna be smelling like a fourteen-year-old boy now, and I don’t know how to feel about it,” you tease. 

“Ha ha, you brat. Enjoy your shower.”

You smile to yourself and appreciate how clean Tommy’s shower is as, in your experience, that is not something you can count on with men who live alone.

As you lather shampoo into your hair, you close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of peace amidst the chaos of recent events. It’s all so surreal.

Once rinsed, you step out of the shower and wrap yourself in one of Tommy’s plush towels, the soft fabric hugging your body in a tight embrace. With the steam still lingering in the air, you take your time cleaning your face, brushing your teeth and detangling your wet hair, these simple acts of self-care something you’ve neglected in the weeks prior.

Luckily, your past self decided to pack a fresh pair of panties and a pair of soft yoga pants you can change into now, Tommy’s shirt completing your pajamas for tonight. 

Slowly, you step out of the bathroom, the soft light of the living room floor lamp casting a warm glow on the scene before you. Tommy’s sitting on the couch, bathed in the gentle ambiance of the record player’s music.

With a glass of whiskey in hand, he seems lost in thought, fingers rhythmically tapping against the glass, his eyes focused on the spinning vinyl. As you approach, he looks up, a small smile gracing his lips as he welcomes you to join him.

“Okay yeah, I get it,” he quips, his tone playful as he notices how perfectly his shirt accentuates your eye color. “You look better in my shirt than I ever could. There’s really no need to rub it in.”

Chuckling, you settle into the cushion beside him, feeling the warmth of his presence. It feels oddly comforting to be close to him again, his cologne a familiar scent.

But as you sit beside him now, something shifts in the air, a subtle change that you can’t quite pinpoint. It’s as if a newfound awareness has settled between you, casting a different light on the space you share. And as you steal glances at Tommy, you start to feel restless, your heart rate quickening.

Oh.

The realization dawns on you slowly, creeping in like the first light of dawn, illuminating the depths of your emotions. You find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him, mesmerized by the way he sits on the couch, his posture relaxed yet undeniably confident. 

Your eyes trail over the breadth of his shoulders, down his strong arms, his sculpted torso, and settle on his spread thighs, the subtle flex of muscles visible beneath the fabric of his jeans. Each movement, each shift of his body, only serves to deepen the intensity of your attraction to him.

You’re in trouble. 

His handsome face holds a certain allure, drawing you in with its rugged charm—especially with those warm eyes and the beautiful facial hair. As you look at him, really take him in, you can’t deny the flutter of arousal stirring deep within you.

A flutter that’s enough to urge your scrambled brain to make a move.

Tommy catches your prolonged stare, and his brows furrow slightly, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. You gather the courage to ask for a sip of his whiskey, unwittingly biting your lip as you wait for his answer. 

“Of course, darlin’,” he agrees, leaning in with a broad smile, bringing the glass closer to you.

As your fingers brush against his on the glass, you feel a surge of electricity pass between you. His pupils dilate ever so slightly, his gaze locked onto yours. You take the glass from him, your fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary.

Raising the glass to your lips, you take a slow sip, relishing the smooth warmth of the whiskey as it slides down your throat. Your eyes never leave his as you lick your lips, the gesture not lost on Tommy as he watches you intently.

The flicker of desire in his eyes tells you that he’s captivated by your silent invitation, but as Tommy accepts the glass back, a faint frown tugs at his brow, his expression suddenly tense.

“Darlin’, don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, his voice husky with restraint.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence as you ask, “Why not?”

“Because,” he breathes out, “it’s making me want to do things I shouldn’t.”

“Hmm, but what if I told you that I want to do those things, too?”

Tommy swallows hard as you scoot closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours. His pulse quickens, evident in the subtle rise and fall of his chest, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, unsure of what to do or say next.

When your hand lands gently above his knee, his body tenses at your touch. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak, but all he manages is a heavy breath.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you lean in slowly, searching his eyes. You can see the conflict raging within him, desire warring with restraint, and you wait for his response.

With a shaky exhale, his gaze drops down to your lips, his entire being filled with longing and uncertainty. But as your palm wanders up his thigh, drawing closer and closer to his growing erection, his resolve begins to crumble like sand underfoot. 

Unable to resist any longer, he leans in, closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender yet fervent kiss. His hand instinctively finds the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your wet hair as he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet urgency.

Feeling you so close, feeling your soft lips against his, he surrenders to the moment, to the sweet sensation of your embrace, letting himself be consumed by the taste of you.

And yet, in the back of his mind, he’s painfully aware of the circumstances of your meeting.

“I don’t think…this…is a good idea,” Tommy mumbles breathlessly against your lips as you whine needily for more.

“I don’t care,” you breathe, pulling back for a moment to hold onto his shoulders and straddle his lap. His cock twitches in his jeans as you scoot forward, your warm core putting delicious pressure on it. Smiling, you put your hands on his chest and lean in to kiss him again. He cups your face with his hands, kissing you back deeply before nudging your nose with his. 

You open your eyes and meet his gaze, his pupils so dilated his brown eyes are almost completely black. 

“Let me look at you, baby” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. With a smile, you straighten up and place your hands behind you on his thighs, giving him a great  view of your spread thighs and torso.

“Is this okay?” Tommy asks softly as he traces your thighs with his palms, his touch sending tingles of anticipation through your body.

You nod your head yes, and his lips curve into a smile as his eyes roam your body and face with adoration. His hands wander over your hips, under the shirt you’re wearing, along your waist and further up, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. 

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, his eyes piercing yours as his hands come to rest on your waist. 

“I’m sure you say that to every girl willing to sit on your lap,” you tease with a smirk, putting your hands on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm. 

“Yeah, but with you I mean it.” His words carry a weight of sincerity as one hand reaches out to tenderly caress your cheek, while the other glides over the soft skin of your back. “C’mere baby.”

As you lean in, his lips capture yours with an almost desperate hunger, his kiss rough and deep, as if he fears you might vanish if he doesn’t hold onto you tightly enough. His hands glide to your lower back, hovering just above your ass, hesitant to go further yet craving to pull you closer, to feel every inch of you pressed against him, to consume you whole. 

“You don’t have to be so gentle. I won’t break,” you say softly, leading his hands down to your ass. You hum in satisfaction as he grabs it, feeling the strain of his arousal against your aching pussy.

“Tommy,” you whine quietly against his lips, begging him to understand how desperately you need him.

Lost in the moment, you both sink deeper into the kiss, the world around you fading away until there’s only the heat of each other’s bodies and the rhythm of your shared desire. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands roam your back, igniting sparks of pleasure with every touch.

But as the intensity of your kiss grows, so does the weight of uncertainty. Tommy pulls back slightly, his breathing heavy as he searches your eyes for reassurance.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispers. “We don’t have to…”

“I want you, Tommy,” you purr, your eyes glazed. 

Your hips rock against him, trying to relieve the tension that has grown between your thighs, eliciting a deep groan from him. His hands move to your waist, helping you grind against him. 

“Oh shit,” he pants, reveling in the needy moans leaving your lips. “I don’t wanna hurt you, baby,” he admits with a soft shake of his head, looking at you with wide eyes, still moving you against the bulge in his jeans.

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you breathe, leaning in to kiss and suck at his sensitive neck, leaving purple marks behind. You feel his grip tighten, his restraint slipping as he responds to your touch with a low groan.

Lost in the overload of sensations—feeling your warm body, your soft lips and wet tongue, your urgent movements on him, hearing your moans and whispered pleas—Tommy is ready to give you what you both want.

But right as he’s opening his belt with deft fingers, he inadvertently turns his head and catches his reflection in the window. Watching you writhe on top of him, clutching his shirt, his own face twisted in ecstasy, a sharp pang of guilt shoots through him.

This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be doing this.

You move to kiss his lips again, but as you do so, you catch the concern in his eyes, and your heart sinks. “Hey,” you whisper, your brow furrowed, an anxious smile on your lips. 

Your fingers trail gently through his hair, seeking reassurance, but when his movements cease and his touch withdraws, panic floods your senses.

“No, no please don’t stop,” you beg, your desperation evident in every word. You press against him, your hips moving with urgency, aching for the connection you crave so deeply. “I need you.”

Your hands gently cup his cheeks, your pleading eyes flitting between his. 

“Please? Tommy?”

Feeling something bump against your leg, you’re called back to the present.

“Oh, hi there, buddy,” you coo, looking down at the toddler who just faceplanted in front of you. You lean down and offer your hand to help him up. “What are you up to, hm? Just running around?”

He looks up at you with wide eyes, his face breaking into a toothy grin. “You wanna sit up here and wait for your mommy?” You lift him up, putting more pressure on your bandaged hand than you should, and set him down beside you. “Great view, huh?”

He babbles something unintelligible, his little arms flailing as his excited laughter fills the air. “You’re so right, buddy,” you agree, following his gaze to the sparkling blue, “the ocean is beautiful.”

“Benji? Oh, there you are,” a lady in a swimsuit calls out, walking towards you with a relieved smile. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she says to you, her tone apologetic. “Benji, how many times have I told you not to run away, hm?”

The toddler giggles in response to his mom’s reproach, his little arms reaching out for her. You can’t help but laugh along with him. 

“Think twice before you decide to have kids,” the lady says with a deep sigh, lifting her son onto her hip. “They’re not always as cute as they look.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckle.

“Say bye to the nice lady,” she prompts, her voice warm and gentle.

Benji turns to you, his eyes bright with innocence, and waves enthusiastically with his chubby little hand.

“Bye Benji,” you coo, returning his wave with a big smile, your heart warmed by his adorable gesture.

You sigh and look at your phone. You have two new messages from Tommy.

Maria says she can’t wait to see you tomorrow. And that she’ll personally drag you here if you decide not to show up. 

You’re family and there’s nothing you can do to escape us ;)

You swallow hard and can feel your puffy, irritated eyes starting to water behind your black glasses. What the fuck did you ever do in your insignificant life to deserve this kind of love?

Your phone lights up with another text from Tommy. 

just accept it <3

You snort and shake your head. You’re so grateful for his friendship. It has changed a lot over the last couple of years, of course it has, especially after he started dating Maria, and more recently since you started…seeing his brother without telling him. 

But the fact that you’re still honoring your yearly tradition to have your late-night talk on this very bench, is a testament to the depth of your bond. It’s a cherished ritual, marking the anniversary of your first meeting. You meet here, under the evening sky, exchanging stories and laughter, and indulging in pizza after sunset.

Two years ago, Tommy told you he met someone before you left his apartment the next morning. 

“Sweetheart?” “Yeah?” “I, uh, I got something to tell you.” “Shoot.” “I met someone.” Your fingers halt as you’re tying your shoes, the world around you suddenly still as his words sink in. You stare at the floor, tension building in your heart. “We’ve only been on two dates, but I–” “Really like her,” you finish his sentence as you tie the laces into a knot, straighten up and meet his gaze. “Yes.” That’s it, then. You’ve been replaced. “Does that,” you clear your throat that feels incredibly tight now, your voice shaking, “does that mean we can’t hang out anymore?” Tears well up in your eyes as you feel a rush of panic flood through you. You look down and try to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. “Of course not,” Tommy says, his tone gentle yet firm. “Nothing and no one in the world could ever keep me from spending time with you.” “Okay,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper as you hastily wipe away a tear with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry for crying, I–I don’t mean to.” “Hey, you don’t need to apologize for that,” Tommy says softly, closing the distance between you two. His hands find their place on your shoulders, offering a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “Darlin’, look at me.” You lift your gaze to meet his, your eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I mean it,” he says with a comforting smile, looking intently into your eyes and cupping your face with his hands. “I promise I’m not going to leave you. I will always be here for you.” You study his face and tell the nagging voice in your mind to shut the fuck up. This is Tommy. He deserves love, he deserves happiness, he deserves someone who can give him everything he wants.  And that’s not you. You give him a kiss on the cheek and a sincere smile. “I’m really happy for you, Tommy.”

You did continue spending time together—Tommy kept his word and didn’t abandon you—but as more and more time passed, you would see him less and less as his relationship with Maria deepened.

You expected that to happen, it didn’t hurt any less though.

One year ago, he told you he was going to propose to her, and you spent all night brainstorming ideas on how he could do it. After she’d said yes, they both let you know one day over dinner that they were going to elope, just the two of them, and you were the only person they’d tell beforehand. 

A few weeks ago, Tommy beamed with pride as he shared that they were trying for a baby, the twinkle in his eyes warming your heart. Despite the joyous news, you couldn’t resist teasing him for planting that image in your mind.

After you’d shared your stories, and your pineapple and pepperoni pizzas, he very casually asked you if you were seeing anyone, and you said, “No.” 

“You’re a horrible liar, darlin’.” “I’m not lying. I don’t like anyone except you.” “Stroking my ego’s not gonna get you off the hook, baby.” “Hmm, I’m pretty sure it’s working though.” “The longer you deny it, the more obvious it gets, you know.” “I’m not seeing anybody, Tommy.” “You really wanna play semantics with me?” “Alright, alright. I guess I’m…kinda seeing someone.” “Why just ‘kinda’? Does the guy not realize what a lucky bastard he is?” “It’s not him. It’s, uh…you know me.” “Yeah, and that’s why I know you’ve caught feelings.” “Ew, don’t say that.” “Well, it’s true. It’s written all over your pretty face.” “You suck, you know that?” “Yeah, it’s part of what makes me so charming. Does he know?” “I dunno, probably not.” “Are you gonna tell him?” “Uhh, I don’t think so.” “Why not? All this time I’ve known you and I’ve never seen you in love before. You can’t just…ignore it.” “Tommy…” “Don’t even try it with the puppy eyes, I’m immune to them.” “Liar.” “Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t tell him.” “Easy. If I never tell him, it’ll never hurt.” “That’s not how it works.” “You just couldn’t let me live happily in my delusions, hm?”  “Sweetheart. I know you’re scared, and you have all the reason to, but…sometimes you gotta take a leap of faith, you know?” “I’m not sure I can.” “What does your gut say?” “My gut says he’s too good for me and that he wouldn’t like me if he knew who I really am.” “As someone who does know who you really are, I can assure you that it’s a privilege I wouldn’t miss for the world.” “I just…don’t wanna mess things up, Tommy.”  “Look. Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost if you try. Everything changes and everything is alright.” “Wow, that was beautiful…you’re really starting to feel that rum and coke, huh?” “You know I’m right, baby.”

It’s funny, really. 

You actually entertained the idea that Tommy might be onto something, that perhaps opening up to Joel could bring some semblance of peace, that perhaps you could be happy together. Yet here you are, back where you started, the familiar ache of loss settling in your heart, whispering that everything is far from alright.

As the sun dips below the horizon, the sky transforming into a canvas of vibrant colors,  reflecting off the rippling surface of the water, you take your shoes and socks off. You sink your toes into the soft, grainy sand, relishing its comforting texture. 

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, allowing the rhythmic sound of the waves to soothe your racing thoughts. With each exhale, you remind yourself that you’re safe, embracing the tranquility of the moment as the colors of the sunset dance across your eyelids. 

You feel grounded, peaceful, almost—

“Hi, darlin’.”

“Jesus, you scared me,” you startle with a gasp, snapping back to reality as Joel’s voice unexpectedly breaks the silence.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you saw me,” he says with an apologetic smile on his lips, his big puppy eyes looking puppier than ever.

You sigh exasperatedly and take off your sunglasses. “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his words stumbling over each other, “I didn’t mean to intrude, I just...I thought I–I mean, I wanted to...”

“Joel,” you interrupt him, too exhausted—physically and emotionally—to beat around the bush. “What are you doing here?”

His brow furrows slightly and his heart plummets as he sees your bleary eyes, a pang of concern settling heavily in his stomach. “I wanted to see you, darlin’,” he confesses softly.

Your gaze sharpens with curiosity and suspicion as you ask, “But how did you know I was gonna be here? And can you please sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

Joel hesitates for a moment, then sits down beside you, his movements cautious as if afraid to spook you. With a nervous glance in your direction, he clears his throat, his voice low and hesitant.

“I, uh,” he begins, his words faltering slightly, “I went to your place after work to see if you’d maybe talk to me in person. But you weren’t there. And then I went to your office to see if you were working late, but I saw Kristen and she said it was your day off. You could have been anywhere at that point, so I went to Tommy’s and…told him.”

His eyes flit between yours, anxiously searching for your reaction. 

You blink slowly, processing Joel’s words with a sense of resignation rather than shock. A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you realize that, at this point, nothing surprises you anymore. With a tired nod, you acknowledge Joel’s actions, feeling too drained to muster any significant reaction.

“How’d he take it?” you ask quietly.

Joel exhales deeply, a wry smile on his lips. “He isn’t too happy with me right now, but I think he’ll get over it.”

“Hm.”

“Darlin’, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice wavering with emotion. “I know you probably don’t want to see me right now, but after last night, I just…I couldn’t bare the thought of you not knowing how much you mean to me.”

As Joel speaks, you keep your gaze averted, unable to meet his eyes, your focus fixed on the sand beneath your feet. You hear every word he says, each one echoing in the silence between you, your heart pounding in your chest. Despite your reluctance to face him, Joel’s unwavering gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes silently pleading for understanding.

In the midst of the tense silence, a sudden clarity washes over you, and your heart speaks before your mind can catch up. Just as Joel opens his mouth to apologize again and explain further, you interject with your own question, the words tumbling out softly into the stillness.

“Do you ever feel like there’s something missing...like a piece of your heart is somewhere else? And no matter what you do, you’re always gonna be incomplete?” 

You meet Joel’s gaze, your eyes searching his, peering into his soul with a vulnerability that lays bare your deepest feelings. 

“I don’t feel like that when I’m with you,” you whisper.

Joel’s brows furrow in a mixture of surprise and tenderness as your words sink in. His lips part slightly, his expression softening with understanding as he processes the weight of your confession.

“Would you, um,” you clear your throat, “would you hold my hand and just sit with me for a bit?”

Joel’s eyes beam with adoration as he gently envelops your hand that’s clutching your shirt, delicately prying it away and intertwining his fingers with yours. With a soft, reassuring smile, he places your entwined hands on his thigh, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin.

As you both gaze out at the vast expanse of the water, the waves lapping against the shore in a mesmerizing dance, you feel a sense of peace settle over you like a warm blanket.

You still carry the weight of unresolved issues and uncertainties in your heart, acknowledging that they loom on the horizon, demanding attention. But for now, they can wait.

Your hand in Joel’s feels right, and in this shared moment right here, that’s enough.

Thank you for reading! 🤍

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 52

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I always come back to Loki.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Loki lingers, his head against your arm as you sit in the hue of spring. You could be calm if he weren’t there, if he hadn’t just altered your irrevocably. His wife? 

You could’ve never imagined it. You can’t be his wife. You’re the maid. You’re lost and hopeless and unimportant. Yet he wants to marry you? You? Even your own father doesn’t want you. Until just then, you may have thought the same of man kneeling by your feet. 

Should it feel special? Should you be happy? Doesn’t every woman dream of her wedding day? You didn’t. You never expected a husband. You never had the thought to spare marriage. It just didn’t seem realistic to you. It was never a possibility you had to weigh. 

“You’re quiet,” he lifts his head slowly, looking up at you with his gemlike eyes, “aren’t you excited?” 

You suck in your lip then let it out, “yeah, I’m just... surprised.” 

“Mm, I’m sorry it wasn’t a better one,” he looks around, “no candles, no champagne... but there are flowers.” 

“Yeah, I guess, er--” 

You hear the doors and before you can face the intruder on your scene, Frigga’s voice unleashes in a shrill squeal, “did you do it? Oh, please, Loki, what did she say?” 

He shifts and clears his throat. He grips the arms rest and pushes himself to his feet. He plants a kiss on your forehead before he straightens. He lets out a breath as he turns to his mother. 

“We are getting married,” he says plainly. 

“Oh, how wonderful,” she chimes, “oh, a daughter-in-law!... Again.” She chuckles lightly, “it will be like a fairytale.” She flutters over to you as Loki moves out of her way, “darling,” she takes your hand, tugging you up to your feet, “this will be even grander than Walpurgisnacht. Oh yes, this will be unforgettable.” 

You look at Loki as he returns your helpless gaze. You pout in his direction as he shrugs. Your mouth curves deeper downward. Please help! 

“I’ve got some silhouettes in mind,” she pulls you away from the table, “Hela showed me this app, Pinterest I believe it’s called. I have all these splendid things saved.” 

‘Sorry,’ Loki mouths and turns his hands out as you’re dragged away from the sunlight and the serenity of nature. Back to the dark house where you can’t breathe. 

Inside, she takes you into the kitchen. She leaves you by the island as she flits around, dropping black tea into a pot and putting on the kettle to boil. She hums gleefully as you just stare. ‘Daughter-n-law'. That’s what she said. Would that make her your mother? 

“Dear,” she turns to you and exhales, her expression dampening, “I recall you said your mother isn't with us anymore. I understand that may make this bittersweet for you but I will be here for you. Whatever you need, whatever questions you have, I’ll be happy to help. A wedding is a big thing. There’s much to do.” 

You nod, “should we... should we hire a planner?” 

“A planner? Gods no! I fancy myself a bit of an amateur but more than adequate,” she tuts, “we could have it at the house. Or perhaps we might seek out a nice chapel.” 

You frown. It’s all so much so fast. She stops and puts her hand to her chest, “oh sorry, darling, I’m just so excited for you. I’m not trying to take over. Don’t be afraid to speak up. What do you think for a venue? Oh, perhaps a destination? Somewhere tropical?” 

You cross your arms and peer over, your eyes catching the sheen of sunlight. 

“The garden,” you murmur, “the gazebo. It’s all fixed up. We could put flowers around the rails.” 

“That’d be a beautiful ceremony but what about the reception? We need space.” 

“Oh,” you babble. 

“Certainly we could make it work. We could fit people into the garden, we may have to sacrifice a few hedges.” 

“Not many,” you mutter. 

“Pardon, dear?” She asks as the kettle clicks and she turns to grab it off the burner, “what do you mean by that?” 

“I...” your shoulders slump at the realisation, “I don’t have anyone to invite.” 

She’s quiet as she pours the steaming water into the tea pot, “that’s not true. You have us and oh, Bragi seemed quite fond of you.” 

“That doesn’t count.” 

“Why not? Dear, we love Loki because we have to, we love you because we want to,” she smiles. 

Your eyes drift away wistfully. She can’t understand. She has people, she has everything you ever wanted. Even with the promise of a pretty house, a gorgeous garden, and all that comes with it, it just doesn’t make you feel any different. 

You want a dad who loves you. You want a mother who’s alive. You want anyone who isn’t just obligated to you. 

“I’m sorry,” her voice goes low, “I’m not meaning to upset you. I’ll slow down. I understand it’s a lot--” 

“How could you want me to marry him? I don’t belong—I shouldn’t-- I can’t be your daughter.” 

“Why ever not?” She asks. 

You scoff and push your shoulders up, “I’m not good enough.” 

She laughs, but not a taunting laugh. It’s disbelieving. She takes you by the shoulders and makes you face her head on, “darling, let me tell you, you are. You... you have no idea.” 

“No idea?” You shake your head as you look at her from beneath your lashes. 

“About what you do to my son. No, you cannot see it but I do. My Loki. I’ve seen him married, I’ve seen him heartbroken, I’ve seen him through everything, but something’s different about this. About you,” he brings a hand up to caress your cheek and hairline, “you have a power over him. Once you claim it, this will all be so much easier.” She cups your cheeks and tilts her head with a coy smile, “that’s how a marriage should be, you will see. He’ll never admit it but my son is more like his father than you would think.” 

You scrunch up your nose. You don’t believe her. You can’t. You don’t have power. You’re just you. You’re not special or anything like that. You now what you are to Loki. The same thing you’ve always been to him, whether his maid, his plaything, or his wife; convenient. 

“You will see,” she assures as if she can hear your doubts, “and what always clears my mind is tea.” 

✨

Frigga expounds at length about all the possibilities ahead of you. She has grocery list that goes beyond a mere wedding. An engagement party, a bridal shower, the rehearsal, and not to mention, a scandalous bachelorette. You only sink further into anxiety. What have you gotten yourself into? 

Well, you never did say yes. You weren’t asked, were you? Doesn’t matter. It’s not like you have anywhere to go. 

You hold your chin, gnawing on your lip as Frigga rambles on about wedding colours. Green is nice but what about something subtle. Oh, or metallic. You simply nod, offering little to her monologue. 

Your eyes wander past her to the windows. The afternoon wanes as evening cools the air. You mourn the sunlight as it shifts and the curtains dull. 

“Ahem,” the clearing of a throat draws you away from your detachment. 

Frigga quiets as she glances at her husband. He stands in the doorway, greeting you both with a subtle smile. 

“I hate to interrupt, dear,” he says to Frigga, “but I was hoping I might be spared a moment with our future daughter before the sun sets. It has been a long day and I’d hate to keep her later than need be.” 

“Oh, uh, certainly,” Frigga pushes her shoulders back, her cheeks tinging a dainty pink, “time must’ve got away from me. I’m so sorry, darling.” She reaches over and squeezes above your elbow, “I have been going on and on.” 

“You will have lots of time to do so,” Odin chuckles, “but I feel the rain coming soon and I would like a walk in the gardens before then.” He tilts his head towards you, “may I have the honour?” 

Frigga nudges you dips her head, “go on.” 

You stand and swallow tightly, crossing the room to Odin as he waits patiently. You offer a sheepish look as he offers his arm. You thank him and walk with him into the entryway. He lets you retrieve your shoes before you go to the back doors and he ushers you outside. 

You’re quiet as you descend the steps and stroll between the hedges. You feel the cool dampness creeping in the air. He’s right about the rain. You cling to his arm as a shiver crawls up your spine. 

He draws away briefly, slipping off his thick cardigan, and he slips it over your shoulders. You murmur a thank you and he loops his arm with yours once again. You carry on, uncertain. You can sense he means to say something and you think you know what. He isn’t as happy as Frigga about this union. 

You brace yourself for it. For him to put all your doubts to voice. You’re not good enough for Loki. This is a mistake. You are a pretender and you don’t belong in this family. 

“My son is a fool,” he begins, shaking you with his soft but deep tone. You exhale, somewhat comforted that you were right. For once. “The way he’s behaved, foolish. And that’s to put it lightly, my dear.” He reaches to pat your hand in the crook of his arm, “you deserve much better than either of my sons.” 

You keep your chin low as you watch your feet. A twig crushes beneath your sole as leaves rustle to your left. You glance over and stare after a short tail before it disappears. It’s only then you realise where he’s leading you. 

The gazebo rises ahead of you with it’s domed roof. He stops you at the bottom and turns. He lets you go and lowers himself to sit on the step. He pats the wood next to him. As you sit, he looks up, admiring the structure. 

“You did a good job,” he says. 

“What?”  

“On this,” he touches the railing, “looks sturdy.” 

“Oh, well I... I only called the carpenter.” 

“You did what needed to be done. What my son would not.” 

“Mm, I guess,” you shrug. 

“You did,” he insists, “do you not see it?” 

“See what?” You twiddle your fingers. 

“You are much stronger than he thinks you are. Than you think you are,” he shakes his head, “you underestimate yourself. My son, as much as I hate to think I raised him that way, while whine and whine before he gets anything done. If he can avoid it, it won’t be done. But you, I see it clearly, you do things. You know what life is. You just get through it.” 

You hum and bite down on your cheeks. Not having a choice isn’t bravery. If anything, it’s the opposite. 

“You shouldn’t. Just get through it. You should have some joy. You shouldn’t be locked away in the dark away from the sunlight. You should flourish in it,” he leans against you, “don’t let this marriage be like everything else.” 

You dip your head. He sees right through you. 

“You’re wrong, I’m not strong. I’m weak. I only do things because I’m afraid,” you sniffle. 

“But you can admit that fear. You can face it. Not many people can.” 

You sighs and drag your hands up and down your calves, hunching over your knees. 

“If you want to marry my son, I will not say a word to stop you, but I do want you to make a promise to me,” he continues, “a small one. Rather, think of it as a promise to yourself.” 

“Okay,” you wilt as you look over at him. His eyes are a bluish grey with flecks of slate. His gaze is gentle. 

“It’s what we spoke of before,” he says, “you must tell my son no.” 

“No?” 

“Ah, yes, I do regret he didn’t hear more it earlier in his life but he does need to hear it. Especially from you,” he intones. 

“But I...” 

“You will. And when you do, he will listen.” 

“How-- no, he wouldn’t.” 

“Ah, I know. My son is isn’t very good at that but he will. He must. He has reason to listen now. You are not his wife yet,” he puts his hand over yours, just atop your knee. 

You give a strained look, somewhere between a smile and frown. You’re flattered that he believe in you but you don’t. He doesn’t know the way it. He doesn’t know the way you are. 

“Alright, let’s practice,” he pulls his hand away and claps. He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt and spins to face you. He adjusts his collar and lifts his chin, putting on face, almost a pinched look, “now, wife,” his voice is slightly off, “what I say is law and you will do as I say.” 

You stare at him, confused. You purse your lips and shake your head. What is he talking about? 

He grins and shows his palms, “I am him. Pretend I’m my son,” he lowers his voice, “now, we’ve had enough of this conversation and I have made my decision.” 

You pick your nail, watching him dumbly. 

He breaks character again, “say no.” 

“What?” 

“Say it,” he orders then once more his poster shifts. “Wife, I will not tell you again.” 

You blink and take a deep breath, “n--no?” 

He sputters, “pardon? What was that?” 

“No,” you say firmer, heart beating, “no, I—I won’t.” 

“But I said so--” 

“Oh, um, okay--” 

“No, no, no,” Odin waves his hands, “keep going.” 

“Uh, okay, uh, no,” you say again. 

“No? You’re telling me no?” He puts on a display which does remind you of Loki. “How can you tell me no?” 

You look at him and blanch. His grey eyes stare back, goading you on. He bows his head slightly. 

“Yes, I mean, no. Yes, I am telling you no. No,” you steady your voice, “no.” He spins his finger and you repeat it again, loudly. 

He arches his brow and puts his hand to his chest, “no?” He sounds almost pathetic, “but darling,” he comes forward and lowers himself to his knees, one at a time. He takes your hand in his, “darling, please, don’t be mad at me.” 

You scoff as his theatrics turn ridiculous. You make a face and roll your eyes, “he wouldn’t...” 

“He will,” Odin assures. “If he knows you’re serious, if you don’t give him what he wants right away, oh, I think you could give him a right scare. As I have it, you already have done.” He lifts himself slightly and angles to sit beside you again, “just perhaps this time you needn’t scale the roof.” 

[jaynovz]

In discussions about the finale of Black Sails, one of the things I often see is folks hard-focusing on Flint's fate, in an either-or binary fashion, usually presented as "Which do you believe-- that Silver killed him? or sent him to the plantation?"

Now, for posterity's sake, gonna mention a few things-- first off, that's simply not thinking broadly enough. There are farrrr more than two options here and I've come up with my share of the reallyyyyy bad ones for sure. Whatever your mind chooses, none of those are happy endings anyway, there are bittersweet, bad, and worse endings all the way down. (They are paused, they are in a time loop, and also all endings and no endings are happening simultaneously)

But also, the more cogent point is that, it doesn't actually matter what happened *to Flint* The story is... not actually about him at that point. We have transitioned from Flint as protag to Silver as protag, setting up for (the fanfiction that Black Sails has ended up making of, ugh, king shit) Treasure Island.

And so, I just, don't find it to be of particular interest exploring what we think Flint is actually doing or if he's alive for real. What is EXTREMELY interesting to explore though is how Silver's speech at the end to Madi is sort of giving Thomas back to Flint as a pacifier/comfort object, but how... Silver is giving Flint that thing in his own mind as his own type of pacifier/comfort object.

That's the REALLY chewy bit. What actually happens to Flint is not the purpose of that scene for me, of Silver's recounting of events to Madi. It's more about... projection. It's about how Silver is dealing with whatever happened to Flint/whatever he did.

And I just feel like it's missing the point to focus so hard on if Flint is alive or not.

He is the ghost of the story regardless, that's what's important. He's going to haunt the narrative for the rest of everyone's lives. No one has been untouched or unscarred by coming into contact with Captain Flint; he has a forever legacy. I'm not the first to call him this, but he's Schrödinger's Flint and he's staying that way.

But this?

"No. I did not kill Captain Flint. I unmade him. The man you know could never let go of his war. For if he were to exclude it from himself, he would not be able to understand himself. So I had to return him to an earlier state of being. One in which he could function without the war. Without the violence. Without us. Captain Flint was born out of great tragedy. I found a way to reach into the past... and undo it. There is a place near Savannah... where men unjustly imprisoned in England are sent in secret. An internment far more humane, but no less secure. Men who enter these gates never leave them. To the rest of the world, they simply cease to be. He resisted... at first. But then I told him what else I had heard about this place. I was told prominent families amongst London society made use of it. I was told the governor in Carolina made use of it. So I sent a man to find out if they'd used it to hide away one particular prisoner. He returned with news. Thomas Hamilton was there. He disbelieved me. He continued to resist. And corralling him took great effort. But the closer we got to Savannah, his resistance began to diminish. I couldn't say why. I wasn't expecting it. Perhaps he'd finally reached the limits of his physical ability to fight. Or perhaps as the promise of seeing Thomas got closer... he grew more comfortable letting go of this man he created in response to his loss. The man whose mind I had come to know so well... whose mind I'd in some ways incorporated into my own. It was a strange experience to see something from it... so unexpected. I choose to believe it... because it wasn't the man I had come to know at all... but one who existed beforehand... waking from a long... and terrible nightmare. Reorienting to the daylight... and the world as it existed before he first closed his eyes... letting the memory of the nightmare fade away. You may think what you want of me. I will draw comfort in the knowledge that you're alive to think it. But I'm not the villain you fear I am. I'm not him."

This is the speech of a man who is self-soothing, who is spinning himself a tale, who is projecting, who is coping.

and THAT is just, way chewier, innit?

[beautifulbows924]

Common Ground

Act One!Astarion x Gender Neutral!Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 650+

A/N: This fic is sort of a combination of a few of the (comparatively) similar requests I received, along with one particular scene that’s been running wild and ping ponging around in my brain for far too long. I somehow convinced my partner (who could not care less about fanfiction, but adores me) to proofread this for me. So any complaints should definitely be addressed to them—as I was, unfortunately, far too sleep deprived to read over this anymore than I already have. As always, I hope you enjoy—feel free to leave any feedback you have in the comments, and happy reading! :)

Warnings: Angst, intentional allusions to past SA (the circumstances are left purposefully vague), concerning both Astarion and the Reader, writer will often suddenly break off into unexpected poetic tangents, a smidge of fluff—if you squint, & perhaps a bittersweet ending (depending on how you interpret it?)

“Darling”, Astarion carefully poses his words, “Are you certain that you’re quite alright?”

You’re terrified. He can see it. Your pulse is visibly thumping beneath your skin, and there’s a tremor to your hands he’s certain wasn’t there before.

But why now?

You’ve told him you trust him, demanded the others leave if they weren’t willing to accept the gift that is his company, and mere seconds ago offered yourself to him as a meal—to what you, with both intimate knowledge and first hand experience, know is a hungry vampire.

He would be questioning your sense of self preservation, or alternatively, your sanity. If he wasn’t awed by just how quickly you’ve managed to sway your companions' loyalty.

It takes a moment for you to notice he’s asked you a question. But once you have, you nod.

He sighs, clicking his tongue at you. That vacancy behind your eyes, it’s unnerving, too familiar. “Don’t lie, it doesn’t suit you. What is it?”

Your gaze shifts, opting to search for what must be a rather interesting spot somewhere behind him.

Two breaths in.

Two breaths out.

Astarion falters. That may have been harsh—if your continued silence is anything to go by. Perhaps, he should have left the lie to rest.

“Dearest”, he works to intentionally soften his tone, shoving past the honeyed lump that rises in his throat, thickly coated with syrup. This little manipulation won’t be ending in a hand naively held between his as he leads you down unassuming crypt steps.

He knows that.

“If you’ve suddenly changed your mind about”, he gestures vaguely between himself and your neck, “I’m sure I can make do with whatever animals find themselves unluckily situated in this part of the forest.”

Humble or selfless certainly isn’t his favorite role to play, but if he wants you to be his personal guard, it seems he may have to make an exception.

“No!” You blurt out, swallowing thickly at the raised brow he sends in your direction, mouth suddenly very dry, “I—It’s not that. I swear to you.”

He tuts, “Ah, but it is something. Hmm?”

You nod again, frustrated tears building in your eyes as each attempt at an explanation falls flat.

“No, it couldn’t—it”, Astarion makes a rather exaggerated motion with both of his hands, clutching his chest in theatrical shock, “Was it Gale?”

You huff, but it’s more exasperated than annoyed.

The left side of his lips lifts.

You drag your own roughly between your teeth.

“Earlier, you made a comment about being quiet, not wanting to disturb my rest”, unsteady hands bury themselves in the fabric of your pants, “Those words, the sudden realization that someone…anyone could have access to my body like that while I slept”, your head slumps forward, “The last time—I can’t.”

Two breaths in.

Two breaths out.

Astarion’s fingers slot into place beneath your chin, tilting it upwards to look at him.

And suddenly all you can see are the differences.

Everything he is appears less forced. No longer are you merely an audience and he an actor, but equals. Those that have found a common ground built upon the cruelty of others.

Far too accustomed to it.

There’s a raw familiarity held within your expression Astarion can’t quite discern.

Perhaps, in another life, someone cared for him. Once. To look at him with such fondness.

He wonders if he deserved it, then.

He allows the hold he has on you to become lighter and lighter, until his arm returns to hang at his side.

You hear a weary sigh, then, gently, “For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry.”

A small smile flutters across your lips, light and without expectation. It’s a kindness he hasn’t yet learned how to navigate—and certainly has not earned, but he yearns for it all the same.

“Thank you, Astarion.”

BG3 Taglist: None yet!

[lokiusly]

Analysis: The track in Loki S2E6 (at 45:25) begins with Mobius telling B-15 “They need you in there”.

She asks him if he’s scared to leave the TVA and being out in the real world to which he replies, “Yes.”

His feet scuff the word, “Time”, from the TVA floor plaque. Good riddance. Or perhaps, a thank you.

A turning of the page.

We see the TVA War Room filled with employees, a stark contrast to before, when it was only a few employees who were allowed to be in there— this shows that B-15 achieved her glorious purpose, as did the TVA and its employees.

OB beams with pride at his newly written TVA handbook. His glorious purpose is to live out the sci-fi fantasy book that his timeline self always wrote about. Maybe one day his timeline self will be able to be a successful author too.

Of course, this song is bittersweet…

Ravonna wakes up at the Void, alone, and has to face the consequences of choosing power over love, which is what ultimately led to her downfall. She doesn’t realize that a pruned TVA plaque is at her feet. It’s assumed that she meets Alioth, destroyer of time— or maybe someone else who will get her out of there. She puts on a brave face.

Victor Timely, we assume has had his timeline restored. His younger self never receives the TVA handbook. He can be considered a sleeper agent. Or, a man who will only ever dream of power. He might not get it, but at least he will still have love of discovery and his humanity.

The score stops when Don (timeline Mobius) is in the frame with his kids. Mobius watches them.

The stopping of the score can mean two things. Someone (Loki) is listening. Or, this is not Mobius’ glorious purpose— it’s the absence of it. Maybe it’s both.

Sylvie is there too. Mobius asks her, “Where will you go?” She’s off, in search of free will. Glorious purpose.

This scenes show us the aftermath of Loki’s sacrifice and uses the track to guide us.

The track is called “Purpose Is Glorious.” Meaning, the purpose is in fact glorious. Duh.

But that contradicts what S1 Mobius says to S2 Loki and the advice that Loki takes to heart.

“Most purpose is more burden than glory. And trust me, you never wanna be the guy who avoids it ‘cause you can’t live with the burden.”

Implying, Mobius refused his glorious purpose as a TVA agent and now he lived with the consequences.

We are to believe that Loki’s glorious purpose is more of a burden than a glory. And even his sad glazed eyes at the end shows us this too. He’s not happy to be there per se…

But it is Loki’s glorious purpose. And it’s a burden. But, this is the god who spent centuries trying to find a way. And had they known earlier that there was only one way, they would’ve done it first thing.

This was always Loki’s glorious purpose. And it sucked and it wasn’t fair but dammit, the love they had for Mobius and the others made it glorious.

Everyone would get to live, Mobius would get a second chance.

And there was so much glory in that. Because Loki’s friends would never be a burden.

Mobius could never be a burden.

Mobius was the most glorious purpose anyone could ask for. And he belonged to Loki.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Snow (Let’s Not Lose Ourselves) 👀

(Also interested in "(library's haunted )" but u dont need to add it if it's a lot )

Tnx for the mention btw! :)

Hi Kit! :)

Snow (Let's Not Lose Ourselves) is one my earlier BSD pieces that I never finished because I hit a snag with a certain scene. However, I really want to get back to it since what I have down already I'm actually quite happy with.

It's a gen fic about the first snowfall of the year in Yokohama and how the Agency and Port Mafia are, surprisingly, having a peaceful day for once. Sort of like a Wan chapter but more with the tone of the series proper. There's also a winter market - idk if Yokohama actually has those but there were vendors and stands in the early winter around my area and I always loved those so... I'm sending sskk there for a break hehe. Or, well, they are at least minimally civil to each other lol

I also took the time to have a few character interactions that aren't seen in the series - Tanizaki, Kyouka, Ranpo and Lucy / Atsushi and Poe / Kenji and Higuchi - basically I'm just having fun and it's just meant to be a kind of calm, peaceful, bittersweet piece.

I've got a few exchanges below the cut that I'd like to share :) I was a good halfway done this one, so there's a lot more to share for this than the others.

In order, we have: Ranpo and Kyouka peer-pressuring Tanizaki, Poe being unhinged in front of a concerned Atsushi, and sskk just barely holding back from brawling in the middle of the market hjdbfhjldh

(As for library's haunted - someone else asked about that one too, so I'll answer it there!)

           “But then it won’t be the first snow!”            Ranpo had sidled up behind them at some point during their conversation, his hands laced casually behind his head, the stick of a lollipop clicking rhythmically between his teeth. Tanizaki jumped slightly from the volume of his interjection. Kyouka barely responded. She must’ve sensed his approach.            “Ah, but there’ll be other snows…” Tanizaki trailed off lamely, gesturing with a shrug made heavy by the weight of his stack of documents.            “He-llo?” Ranpo interrupted, popping the lollipop out and gesticulating irritably. “It’s not the same!”            “It isn’t,” Kyouka agreed quickly, then they both turned to stare at Tanizaki, who gulped. It was bad enough having Ranpo’s scrutinizing gaze boring holes into the depths of his being, but to have Kyouka fix him with her big eyes and a barely repressed pleading look behind them…            “I… I want to, really! But… but I don’t know what to do about it!”            At this, Ranpo let out a deep sigh.            “I know I’m the only one with a brain around here, but really? The solution is obvious, don’t you think?” he shrugged indifferently, popping the lollipop back into his mouth. “Shachou’s out.”            “You-” Tanizaki floundered, then in a hushed whisper, “we’re gonna get in trouble!”

           “Hang on. If you didn’t think you were invited, why did you tag along with Kenji and I?”            “I was already headed here…” Poe muttered, then he straightened back up sudden as a flash, alarming both Atsushi and Karl, who let out an irritated little squeak. The man clenched a fist dramatically, a manically gleeful grin spreading across his face.            “I have it from a reliable source that a certain group of vendors will be present on this day only - artisanal candy makers from out of the country!”            “Your source being… Alcott-san?”            “Well,” Poe coughed, deflating slightly. “Perhaps. But!” he continued, his energy restored. “The point is that the candy they make is apparently quite unique to them! I daresay Ranpo-kun has never had anything like it!”            “Oh!” Atsushi smiled, finally understanding. “You’re here to get a present for Ranpo-san! That’s nice! I was actually going to look for something for Kyouka-chan as well, maybe we could both-?”            “It’s not a present! It will be… my victory over him.”            “Your. Wha?”            “Ranpo-kun doesn’t know about the artisans. Even if he did – which is unlikely but I must not underestimate his skill – they were supposed to leave before the market opened due to a last-minute change of plans. But! Then there was an even more last-minute change of plans that allowed them to stay one more day! Due to the short time-frame, they should still be in the process of setting up on the opposite side of the market, and as such, word has not quite spread to anyone except for the market organizers. However, certain interested parties like to stay informed on events throughout Yokohama, including Fitzgerald, which naturally means that Fitzgerald does not know anything but Louisa does. She informed me of the changes and I was able to slip out through the window, as no one had noticed I was present for the past half-hour. After that, it was child’s play to join your shopping expedition group by simply blending in!”            “You tried to ask us. We didn’t hear you the first three times and then you just started walking with us.”            “Be that as it may! The point is that Ranpo-kun has no way of suspecting that I am currently purchasing him these candies, and even if he did! He has no way of knowing what kind of candies these are specifically! And when he takes them and opens them with an expression of surprise and joy… I will be triumphant! As his sworn rival, I will finally have bested him… heh heh heh…”            Poe trailed off his increasingly sinister monologue with a dark chuckle. Atsushi once again made the brave choice not to ask any further questions.

           Atsushi and Akutagawa remained in the middle of the main path, side-eyeing each other with a bitter animosity.            “…I’m going to that vendor over there,” Atsushi finally said, starting to step slowly backwards, unwilling to take his eye off the mafioso for too long.            “Find a different one,” Akutagawa said coolly, striding right past him. “That’s where I’m going.”            “Get your own!” Atsushi snapped, turning and picking up the pace to try and outpace the man.            “Don’t walk next to me.”            “Don’t cut me off!”            They exchanged barbs and insults all the way up to the vendor. The owner smiled at them as they approached, but her smile was a little uncertain as she glanced between them nervously.            Atsushi smiled back to alleviate her concern and began perusing the vendor, impressed with her work. She must have been some kind of ceramics craftswoman – little models of carefully glazed flowers, animals and people were artfully decorated in detailed patterns. He crouched down to get a better look at the sign next to it with the pricing options. He winced a bit at the cost.            Above him, he just barely heard the low mutterings of an exchange between Akutagawa and the owner, a sigh, and then the sound of snow crunching as the man crouched beside him to peer at the same sign.            Frustrated by his seeming inability to shake the mafioso off, Atsushi readied a retort on his tongue and a glare in his eyes, only to pause.            Akutagawa looked exhausted.            His dark eyes stared at the sign almost vacantly. His shoulders were tense but slumped over, and a slight shiver ran through his thin frame, bundled though he was in a thick coat and long scarf. He coughed, quietly as usual, into the palm of his hand but Atsushi’s keen hearing could pick out the stronger wheeze and rattle from his lungs.            Despite himself, he felt the stirrings of a pang of sympathy roiling in his stomach, combating fiercely against the tension and anger he usually felt around him. They weren’t enemies in this moment, Kenji had said, so there was no reason they couldn’t coexist but… it was Akutagawa. He struggled for several moments with his internal conflict, indecisive on whether or not he should say something. His mind was ultimately made up for him when Akutagawa fixed him with a quizzical, suspicious stare, leaving him in the awkward position of having to justify his reason for having stared at him first for so long. He’d just have to be casual. “So… what brings you here? To the market, I mean. On this day – today, you know, uh… nice weather?” Akutagawa stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. On second thought, maybe he just shouldn’t speak. Ever. Akutagawa mumbled something under his breath that even Atsushi’s keen hearing couldn’t parse. “Erm, sorry, what, uh, what was that?” “Gift shopping,” Akutagawa muttered, a little more clearly, like the concept offended him.

[blithesharem]

Barbatos 🌂

Okay so forgive me because all I could think of when I saw this was how much Barbatos probably enjoys the musical Singin' in the Rain. I feel like he secretly (not so secretly?) is a huge broadway/live theater fan. He certainly has memorized the main dance number.

So I'm using this as an excuse to do an entirely indulgent Bros + Extras HC post:

What is their favorite musical?

Lucifer: Les Misérables. Happy endings where? He appreciates the nuanced plot and relates to all the bullshit the leads have to deal with. He gets teary at the end but will never let a soul see. Except perhaps you. Perhaps.

Mammon: Newsies. A bunch of scrappy up start business boys coming together to demand some extra coin for their hard work? What’s not to like? I mean, if you asked him he’d deny enjoying musicals at all, but we’ve all heard him singing the lyrics under his breath.

Leviathan: Six. History but turned into an idol concert? His dream. For a period he got way into learning everything there was to know about Henry VIII’s six wives and he and Satan were insufferable, spouting facts to anyone who would listen.

Satan: Phantom of the Opera. A classic, and for a reason. He admires the impact it had on contemporary theater and he claims to relate to the Phantom…but you know better. Once he admitted to you that his real favorite was Wicked, and you suspect he sees himself in Elphaba more than he may be ready to admit.

Asmodeus: Chicago, of course. Razzle Dazzle? When You’re Good to Mama? CELL BLOCK TANGO? This is the most Asmo-coded musical to ever grace the stage. You know he’s just WAITING for the excuse to force his brothers to dress up and perform with him. He'd be satisfied if you'd settle for a private performance as well.

Beelzebub: Beel has a hard time with live theater, because it’s a long time to sit without any concessions to get him through. Watching a performance on TV or as a movie though he’s happy with. His personal favorite is Peter Pan. He likes the Lost Boys the best, a group of brothers all happy together (and Wendy too of course). Also, he knows it doesn't count...but that food scene in Hook? Nice.

Belphegor: Heathers. What can he say, he likes the bitchiness. Also he always thought J.D kinda had a point. He likes to imagine that he and Veronica blow up the school and run away together to live happily ever after in a sort of a twisted Bonnie and Clyde way. Anyway, how about those uniforms? Any chance of you wearing one of those sometime ha ha…?

Diavolo: The Lion King. Oh man oh man Diavolo loves The Lion King. Does he frequently tease Barbatos (and sometimes Lucifer) about being his Zazu? Absolutely. Was Nala his first not-so-secret crush? Oh yes. Does he wish he had a dad like Mufasa? …Well, let’s not worry about that. Diavolo loves every minute of the play, but he openly weeps at the end when Simba takes his place as king.

Barbatos: Singin’ in the Rain. The classic aesthetic, themes of struggling with adjustment in a changing world, a triumphant ending...it's a bit of an escapism pleasure for Barbatos. Not to mention, he's happy for any excuse to dress up and go out on the town with you on his arm.

Solomon: Moulin Rouge. Solomon is a romantic at heart, but he’s a romantic who knows that all too often, romances are tragedies wearing a mask. He enjoys indulging in the sweetness of the love story, the hopeful crescendo, before the fall into the reality of loss. He finds it depressing in a comforting way, like an old friend waving hello from across the street. As time with you goes on however, he finds it’s becoming harder to watch through to the end…Perhaps Beauty and the Beast is more to his new tastes?

Simeon: Waitress. Simeon, like Lucifer and Solomon, enjoys the bittersweetness. He likes that it doesn’t shy away from the messiness of human connection. As an angel, it’s fascinating, like a fruit he can never know the flavor of. However, unlike the other men, Simeon likes a happy ending, and the ending of Waitress makes him choke up for different reasons. If Luke asks, however, his favorite is Matilda.

Luke: Annie. Little kids being rascals and naughty with the sweetness of a tender adoption story? It makes him feel warm and fuzzy (and mischievous) every time. Knows all the words to every song though he won’t admit it in front of Mammon.

[ranchthoughts]

thinking thoughts about Wai, Pa, and the themes of Bad Buddy

I think one of the things that really gets me about waipa is how perfectly it encapsulates the themes of Bad Buddy. I picked a couple of the main ones that stand out to me, because otherwise I would be rambling for far too long:

Photography

In her great meta on photography in Aof shows, @chickenstrangers points out the prevalence of photography/photographers all of Aof's shows and the themes of visibility and invisibility they explore. Characters like Pat and Pran, Pete and Kao, Heart and Li Ming, among others, are seen for who they truly are (and for the love they have for each other) through the lens of a camera wielded by someone they care for and trust.

We see this same theme in Wai and Pa - Wai offers to be Pa's model and she takes photos of him, and Pa sees Wai for who he really is (and Wai doesn't hesitate to show Pa his true self: the soft, smiley side of him). In fact, it's also during the scene where Pa takes Wai's photo that their feelings for each other become visible - they experience each of Pa's Patented Four Ways to tell if someone likes you (see @airenyah's beautiful edit here). Pa and Wai see each other clearly and become aware of their own feelings for the other all through a moment of photography.

Rivalries and Healing

The premise of Bad Buddy rests on the familial feud between Pran's family and Pat's family, which echoes the stories of Romeo and Juliet (from Shakespeare's play Romeo and Juliet) and Kwam and Riam (from the Thai book Plae Kao). Many people have written at length about these stories and how they have been woven into Bad Buddy (see @chickenstrangers excellent meta on tragedies and queer futurities, for example).

We see these same themes of rivalries tearing people apart in Wai and Pa's relationship too. Wai wants to pursue Pa but when he learns she is the little sister of Pat, Wai's enemy, he gives up on his dreams of a relationship with her because he knows Pat will never accept them as a couple. The rivalry between the architecture and the engineering students (which predates Wai and his friends) keeps Wai and Pa apart, just like the long-standing rivalries between Pat and Pran, Romeo and Juliet, and Kwam and Riam's families keep them apart. Wai and Pa's relationship is only possible if their friend groups can heal and move past their destructive rivalry.

Bittersweet Endings

I've written about the bittersweet ending of Bad Buddy (and another Aof show, He's Coming to Me) before. This is another theme Aof likes to explore: endings that are melancholic, that are not neatly solved, that feel more true to life than perhaps an easy happy ending would be. The family feud between Pat and Pran's families is not resolved at the end of Bad Buddy, just as the relationship between Wai and Pa is not resolved either. Some hurts are too large to get over quickly or completely.

Over the course of Bad Buddy, especially after Wai meets Pa in episode 7, Wai works to dispel his animosity with Pat and the others in the engineering squad (e.g., providing the proof that cleared Pat of his gun possession charges, welcoming Pat into the architecture fold, hanging out with Pat and Korn). However, despite all the changes he's made and the growth he has exhibited, by the end of the show Pa doesn't feel ready to accept his change of heart. Wai might have made some atonement for his actions but he was still so antagonistic to Pat and Pat's friends (and honestly, often not a good friend to Pran either, though I don't know how much of that Pa would have known). Pa needs some time to learn to trust the changes he's made, the work he's put in, before her head will let her heart love freely like it wants to.

We don't get the resolution we wanted during the show's run: Wai and Pa are not officially together. Aof is so good at leaning into those bittersweet endings - the family feud between Pat's dad and Pran's mom persists at the end of Bad Buddy though we see some improvements and softening, Wai and Pa are not together at the end of Bad Buddy despite the character development he's had, we don't know how long Med is going to be able to stick around in HCTM, Li Ming, Jim and Jam have made great strides in their relationships but there is still more healing to do, etc. @waitmyturtles writes here about the prevalence of suffering in Asian narratives and cautions against a Western instinct to "close loops" at the end of a show. She argues that Asian filmmakers do not feel the same pressure to resolve "emotionally questionable loose ends," which further reflects and deepens other themes like intergenerational trauma present in shows like Bad Buddy (also explored in this meta by @waitmyturtles). Intergenerational trauma is not quickly and easily solved but continues to resonate and complicate the lives of those coming after, like their parents' feud affects Pat and Pran or the enduring architecture and engineering faculties' feud at their university affects Wai and Pa.

I know Wai and Pa are a side couple and sometimes you don't get resolution with side couples or characters, but the open ended-ness of their relationship felt intentional, like purposefully representation of that recurring Aof and Asian theme of intergenerational trauma, of learning to heal, of the complexities of life.

[randoimago]

Day 14 - Reincarnation

Fandom: Ace Attorney

Character(s): Godot

Type of Request: 31 Days of Oc-trope-r

Note(s): Anon asked for lots of angst, but I made this more bittersweet than angsty and I hope that's okay! It does have a happy ending.

The coffee tasted different somehow. Like it's sweeter than usual. Godot hummed as he checked his receipt again. It's a new blend he decided to try. He doesn't know why he wanted to try this specific blend, but it felt like something he had to taste.

Despite the new sweetness, it felt nostalgic in a way. Honestly, the whole reason he came into this coffee shop instead of using one of his home blends is because this whole place felt nostalgic. Like he had some sense of de ja vu. But he didn't quite know why. Perhaps it's a memory that's lost in time.

"Like it's fate we met."

He's taken aback as that phrase comes to his mind. He doesn't even hear it is his voice. For a second, he thought perhaps someone else in the shop had said it, but it's just him and an older couple in the background. The rest of the place is quiet and peaceful, a nice change from the turmoil thoughts he usually has.

"Fate huh?" He can't help a bitter chuckle at the idea. His vision is leaving him, he can't cry otherwise he'll cause a scene or have to throw out another shirt that gets stained with his blood. And life doesn't feel like it's getting any better.

"If your day is bitter, then I'll make sure your coffee is sweet enough to fix it!"

Another phrase that he hears in his head. Another phrase in a voice that isn't his. The voice is a different one than the one before, but just as familiar, just as nostalgic. Just as painful. But why is it painful?

He glances around the coffee shop again and purses his lips again as he takes another sip of the coffee that's a bit sweeter than his liking.

Godot goes back to the coffee shop after that day. He doesn't know why; the coffee always tastes off from what he usually likes but in a way that tastes right somehow. His investigation skills decided to kick in one day and he did a deep dive of the coffee shop. The building has been rebuilt a few times, the interior changed, but even with that information he knows that he has never stepped foot inside before so why is it familiar?

Now and then he sees photos attached to small articles of the coffee shop. He vaguely makes out the people in the background. He doesn't know why he takes a clipping of one of the photos and puts it in his wallet. He's hit with the same nostalgia when he sees it, his heart aching for some unknown reason despite the fact that he doesn't recognize the person in it, but he keeps the photo.

He still goes to the coffee shop, getting the same too sweet coffee that's started to grow on him for better or worse. He stares at the photo as he sits down, a stray thought that the coffee he bought isn't for him comes to mind. Godot is confused by that idea as he doesn't know who the coffee is for. He almost takes a sip when the bell chimes to the shop.

Godot glances up with his fading vision and feels like his thoughts come crashing still as he sees the person that entered. The person that looks around the shop in slight wonder as they take in the interior of the shop. Godot can't help himself as he stands up and walks over.

"Hey, you want this coffee? It's a little too sweet for my tastes," he offers the cup. This feels like a hell of a way to introduce himself to a stranger, but you don't feel like a stranger. And the way they stare at him for a bit before smiling as they take the coffee makes him feel like this is right. He watches as you take a sip and give him a smile.

"It's perfect."

[on-stolen-sunbeams]

There was a donut shop I used to pass on my walk to school senior year. I remember those pastel mornings well; the soft clouds of steam rising gently from outside vents, the way the world stood quiet, only interrupted by occasional puttering of an old pickup turning into the parking lot. It was in an old plaza, with flat, squat buildings and slightly garish, brightly colored signage. Every so often, if the breeze blew right, you could smell the faint aroma of coffee wafting your way. If you walked past early enough, sometimes you'd catch the glow of twinkle lights adorning the fence, still on from the night before and not yet washed out by sunlight. It was softer, somehow, a gentler, simpler place than the tall corporate-sleek tech companies, all silver and chrome, that came before. A kinder, more subdued plane of existence a few hundred feet down the road cloaked in goldenhour magic.

I once promised myself I'd stop by sometime, walk to school with a maple-glazed pastry in hand or curl up in the outdoor seating area and watch the sunrise. The shop opened early enough, after all. But I never did keep that promise. I regret it now.

It might just be the heartsick for yesteryear part of me, wedged somewhere beneath my ribcage like a particularly uncooperative splinter. But there's something pinprick painful about those unfulfilled promises. Not just about a warm donut, but penciled lists in childish handwriting with big dreams, so full of heart, leaving no room for much else. the complete and utter conviction in a happy ending. now I swirl bittersweet. Kids have the kind of faith that could take them to the stars should they only wish to glance a meteor. I know my younger self would lend me grace and sweet forgiveness that I can no longer afford, but I refuse to make a habit of accepting the priceless for free.

I'm not where I wanted to be. I didn't dream of dinner conversations under a veneer of disappointment and gray days, or pray to spend my days desperately clutching at mediocrity, of blending into wallpaper and counting down days torn between relief and dread.

It's easy to twist words into a new genre, a new form, cut sentences at the root and move them somewhere better. It's much harder to replant ampersand ambitions. I can't explain how things warped until they splintered. There's no clearcut reason for the way things are opposed to how they should've been. I don't want to look back and gloss over the regret, but averting my eyes is the least painful option, because it hurts, the twin desires to patch up youthful hopes and grind them to dust beneath my heel.

I don't know how this one ends. There's no moral, no central thesis I can cling to. I should've woven some kind of unifying theme, embedded details like a trail of breadcrumbs to an inevitable conclusion instead of throwing darts in the direction of a last page. The ending is still vague and uncertain. The story's not over yet.

Maybe I'll close with a zoomed in shot of a plane ticket, then a morning treat, some lesson in how it's never too late. The credits will roll into a lovely dawn sky, the focus will drag across a half-full coffee cup and evoke some sense of closure and peace. Onwards and upwards, it gets better. Maybe the shop's closed now, and the story ends with a solitary figure walking away, head heavy. the scene closes and you exit with a sour aftertaste and a wasted journey. I'm not cruel enough to spread regret like poisoned dandelion seeds in spring but sometimes it bleeds into the syllables. Maybe it fades off. I never visit, never wonder, slam the door shut and pretend today is day one and everything that came before never existed. Nostalgia sucks, but every open wound eventually scars over and flattens if you leave it be. Perhaps this one will too.

It's still too early to tell.

Some seven-year old part of me promises it will be alright. My seventeen year-old shade looks on with distrustful desperation. 

(I hope I do right by her.)

[pb-dot]

Film Friday: Lost In Translation

Today's flick is a bit of a departure from my usual ouevre. There are no sci-fi high concepts or murderers or ravenous horror beasties. All we have today is two sad and lonely people finding each other in a lonely city, and the knowledge that some times that's enough.

Charlotte, played by Scarlet Johansson, has gone to Tokyo with her photographer husband. As this is a work trip for hubby John, Charlotte is mostly left to herself and in aimlessly drifting around in her spacious but sparse hotel in various states of melancholia and alienation until she encounters the equally thousand-mile-staring Bob, played by Bill Murray. Bob is a film star solidly past his prime, in Tokyo to shoot comercials for Suntory Whiskey.

The two form something I struggle to place entirely on the scale of friendship to romantic relationship. It almost seems more like a mentor-student-relationship at times as the world-weary Bob does have some wisdom for the freshly graduated Charlotte, but what I like is how equitable it is. Charlotte learns from the aging actor, yes, but she also gets him out into the world, past the sulking he'd otherwise do in the hotel bar. They learn from each other, like any good mentor/pupil pair should, and it's a considerable step up from the coldness Charlotte gets from her husband John, who isn't in the movie much and generally doesn't seem to recognize what a jewel it is he has married... or maybe he's just a distant guy when he's not performing the "Entirely Too Social L.A Guy"-role, either way it's not working particularly well.

I tend to think of this as a movie about friendship more than a relationship, but I will concede that this reading is weakened somewhat by Charlotte ostensibly getting jealous at a lounge singer Bob has an one-night stand with in the movie's back half, as well as the distinctly romance-tinged feel to the ending, where Bob shares some secret or other wisdom that is so intimate as to even exclude the audience with her. I have throughout my years heard much speculation about what this final muted message actually was, but a reoccuring theory was that she should tell her husband she's not happy, as a kind of mirror to Bob's own little confrontation with his wife a little bit earlier in the movie. Either way, I think the message isn't quite as important as the scene itself. It's a bittersweet little thing, but Bob comes out of it smiling, I believe his first genuine smile in the movie just before the credits roll. Sometimes what you want isn't as important as what you need, and all that.

There's a very touristy feel to Lost In Translation, and for once I mean that as a compliment. The handheld cinema variete-inspired cinematography takes us on a tour of tokyo as that most lucky type of tourist, those that know a few locals so they got a hookup for some cool spots that are not tourist traps. There is a bit of spontaniety to it, and Bob & Charlotte's karaoke & fleeing from BB gun-wielding bar owners-night in particular feels free and footloose the way being lost in a city you have no need and no ability to fully understand can be. It's all very soft focus character study stuff, but there is also a sense of not dwelling too long.

Well, the above is true most of the time. Personally I feel some scenes that are meant to establish theme early on perhaps spends a little more time on Bill Murray Not Understanding Japanese People than what is strictly speaking neccesary. Granted, one of these segments is pretty funny. In this scene, the production company has ordered what I can only assume is a prostitute to Bob's room turns into quite the "Who's On First" segment as ideas of sexual agency and dynamics between east and west collide, and it's all a good fun. As for some of the other related segments, I can kind of understand why some scholars have criticized how the movie portrays japanese people, as it feels a lot of the joke is on the difficulty inherent in translating colloquial japanese to English for a native Japanese speaker. I would argue that the purpose of these scenes are to establish that Bob is a place where he has nobody to talk to, no place or person his world weary wit can bounce off of, but again, the implication that the joke's on these people who so utterly fail to communicate with Bill Murray is hard to ignore entirely.

Communication is in general important in Lost In Translation. A lot of it is talking, of course, the dialog between Bob and Charlotte is fun and charming and at times profound, but it's also in looks, in what they chose to talk about as much as what they say about it. It's a lot of interpersonal stuff, and with a less skilled writer/director it could be a little navel-gaze-y and tedious, but Sofia Coppola has a real touch for stuff like this

So in short, while I don't think Lost In Translation is a perfect film, it is a quite beautiful. It's beauty isn't in flawlessness, but in it's little chaoses, the natural light graininess from having a camera and light rig you can carry around with you, to show off the frivolous but genuine joys of an arcade, the shared intimacy of a karaoke room as the night grows long, pondering over a person's nature in the light from a taxi window, that sort of thing.

[elavoria]

20 Questions for Writers

Tagged by @sylvienerevarine and @dirty-bosmer, thank you!

I tag @1helios1, @sheirukitriesfandom, and whoever wants to join. :3

Putting these under the cut~

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

10, and about half aren’t up to my current standards but I’m leaving them up for posterity.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

71,030, which does not remotely reflect how much I write. I wasn’t particularly inclined to answer these given the AO3 bias to the questions but then I was tagged twice so here we are.

I’m sitting on just about 401k words of unpublished fic. : )

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Dragon Age [all games], Pathfinder [mostly Wrath of the Righteous], and TES [Skyrim and Morrowind with a bit of Oblivion] are the biggest ones, but also Shadowrun, Mass Effect, Cyberpunk 2077, Fallout 4, Game of Thrones, Divinity: Original Sin II… if I get hooked into a story there is liable to be fic it seems.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I’m only giving you two—From Dreams to Deliverance [non-canon Nerevarine/Dagoth Ur] at 100, and The Adventures of Polyshep [post-canon Shep/Garrus/Tali OT3 + others having mostly fluffy fun] at 55.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Absolutely! And if we’re talking privately I WILL talk your ear off in response to any comments you make.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don’t go in for angsty endings but my Nerevarine’s fic will probably have a less happy / joyful / triumphant ending than the others, and my V’s ending will likewise be bittersweet.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hmm… hard to say. Perhaps a tossup between the Dragon Age fic and the Pathfinder fic… Ama and Isanna both get everything they ever wanted and more.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Ama’s AU fics get hate in the future for mage/templar shipping…

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes, generally things that are descriptive but not terribly explicit, and most sexual intimacy is a bit glossed over. I find I tend to write at least one descriptive sex scene per pairing and then gloss over the other instances—partly because it isn’t necessary to the story, partly because writing sex scenes takes so much more effort for me and I have no interest in coming up with endless variations on that theme.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I’ve written exactly one very whack crossover and have no intention of doing that again—Skyrim/Drowtales.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I’d be honored if someone asked to translate something of mine.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

I co-wrote a bit of unpublished Skyrim fic with spouse long enough ago that neither of us would be proud of it anymore, with each of us taking different POV chapters for our vampires that were going through the Dawnguard questline together. More recently I’ve been borrowing one of his WotR ladies for my Pathfinder fic and having him supply her dialogue if that counts. Amusingly, both instances of our characters interacting in this way involve his judging mine for their romantic interests lol.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Hmm… I get so deeply attached to most of the ships I write. I will cheat and say Ama/everyone I ship her with. ; p

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

At this point I doubt my TES fics will ever get finished, but it would be nice if they did… Rya’s story was too grand for my capabilities at the time, and Rendrasa’s I simply lost motivation on and with her playthrough finished, well… hm.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and characterization. Dialogue is my beloved and I’ve been told repeatedly that I capture canon characters well. Also romance, soft and tender things...

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Too many filler words and phrases that get repetitive… but I like them. So.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

If it fits and is understandable, sure. I sprinkled some German into my Shadowrun fic, but it was mostly pet names and I translated everything in the notes. As a reader I don’t want to be left with questions as to what was said, or have to look things up separately.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Good gods, probably H*rry P*tter ages and ages ago, before junior high, if I’m being honest, and not much of it. Not remotely interested in that fandom anymore. Then a tiny bit of Les Mis fic not too long after that. Terrible but at least some of the Les Mis concepts are… highly amusing, shall we say. Mermaid AU??? Younger self, what on earth…

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

My Dragon Age longfic-in-progress, Knight’s Star. I love Ama sooo so so much and I think her extended conversation with Samson is one of the best things I have ever written. The Pathfinder fic is shaping up to be a close second though. Learning many things about myself with that one hehe such as how desperately I want a gnome boyfriend.

[faneposting-my-beloved]

Fane romance scene

Okay, fellas, I FEEL LIKE PLUNGING INTO THE DEEP OCEAN SO LET'S GET IT. Now, I could be talking about how detached the whole thing feels in your overall relationship with Fane, how the man mentions things that never happened (story-wise) but I woke up without choosing violence today. I'd like to talk about Fane himself since I feel that some things just slide from attention and never get addressed.

How Fane sees himself. The memory dive is the only way Fane could show you himself as he used to be before his body was BRUTALLY* taken away from him. Make no mistake, even if Fane addresses his current state with humor:

[After all, I am an energetic, fresh-faced skeleton, teaming up with the Lady-turned-Goddess Amadia.] [Yes, yes. I may not have ears, but I was listening.]

In his retrospective [origin] lines he actively mourns the loss. He even lets his grief slip when he finds his mask back.

[Ah, my false faces. Not as fair as my true visage, but better than being seen as a monster. ] *[FANE] Quietly tell him that you are simply someone who knows the pain of confinement. [FANE] The memory of your skin blushes deeply. You haven't really got much experience in, erm… [FANE] Tell them your long-rotten heart goes out to them. No-one should be locked away for doing the right thing.

And when he finally lets you see himself - how he was before the tomb that took everything away from him - he's reserved. Maybe even scared of [romanced Godwoken's] opinion on his true visage, because of how alien to everything they know he is.

Perhaps you would prefer something else? I could find a mask if you would feel more comfortable looking at one of your own kind…

Now, the thing that sparked this whole train of thought;

His body seems to move and change to your pleasure, but all you can see are his eyes - a kaleidoscope of darkness and light, like the universe staring up at you.

Why can't you see him? (Besides the obvious answer: lazy writing) Was my question during half of this ordeal. Well, the narrator already hints that something is much out of the ordinary.

His heart races where your hands press down on his chest, and you can feel him growing - not just where you'd expect, but everywhere.

So, could it be that the projection of the cosmos is just him hiding himself from his romanced companion in fear that he is too different after all? You can ensure him you're fine with him as he is two (three?) times during the scene;

Reach out and touch his face. He looks incredible…

Let your hands explore his body. >>Here he's (appears to be, at least) tickled by your boldness!<<

Your hand moves across the muscles of his chest - a familiar yet alien feeling as you uncover a body unlike any you have had before. Your touch glides across his hip, around his waist, and slowly moves down with a squeeze as he grins. [Were you expecting a tail? I'm sure I could find a mask if you would prefer something a little more reptilian…] >>Although he slips with this into the 'am I not good/normal enough?' mindset.<<

Tell Fane you're more than happy with him as he is.

But no matter how many times you do assure him that you're fine (or happy!) with his strangeness - you're still left with the cosmos-coated vagueness. I know it adds mystery or the fact that they didn't have to write two versions of romance as with everyone else - but comparing it to the 'explicitness' of the rest you end up with MORE QUESTIONS THAN YOU STARTED WITH. And IF they were going for something more ethereal and less sexual, then why cut the dialogue with him so soon? I'd much rather have a heart-to-heart talk&cuddle session than...you know whatever in the love of eldritch is going on here. And if you're going for eldritch and alien - just go all out just like with the rest of the origins. Especially because he had laid his doubts/fears bare it all felt so bittersweet in a nothing-you-say-matters kind of way. Which is generally a thing with dos2 but anyway. I know some people say his romance scene feels weird or out of place - but I believe this is because of the fundamental misunderstanding of his character and his context. The tomb he was shut in wasn't some kind of skeleton transformer that spit him out unscathed with a little less flesh to boot. He himself calls it torture, unjustified and overdrawn. For a race that is immortal and based on Source, being sentenced to an eternity of rotting and loneliness is the highest punishment imaginable. Death would be an easy way out in this case. And he decides to show you how he was before the violence that has been done to him. That he actively misses. I just wish we could get a bit more on the context of Eternals in general, because of how little is told about Fane's past and his race. But, you know, that's loremaster quirk. The thing to take away from this is that Fane is *scared* of being judged, seen as weird, strange or eerie as of his romance scene - and for a character that usually is described as uncaring or aloof this is a grand breakthrough.

[alwayschasingrainbows]

What are your thoughts about the epilogue? Specifically this sentence :

It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly.

How do you interpret it?

Thank you so much.

@curiousnonny

Thank you for the question, Nonny!

Let me start with saying I absolutely love the epilogue. It is bittersweet - Peeta and Katniss's story does not end with "they lived happily ever after". And it fits so much better this way. They both had gone through too much to ever be wholly healed. It is understandable that they both still have bad moments, that they are haunted by their fears and nightmares. They can't go back to who they used to be before the Games. But they had built their own kind of happiness - more precious, perhaps, because it wasn't given, but had to be earned.

"They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs." The scene itself seems almost idyllic. Two young children, carefree and happy, running and dancing in the meadow. But the reader knows what the children have yet to learn; they play on a graveyard.

The Meadow itself is a curious place. It is full of memories - the good and the bad ones. The horrors of the past surround Katniss and Peeta, are mixed into the happiness of the present and the hopes for the future. These memories will never truly leave, but Katniss and Peeta manage to keep on living, in spite of that.

The children physically resemble their parents, but they seem to have a sort of innocence neither Katniss nor Peeta were ever allowed to have. Katniss describes her children in a rather vague way, not even using their names. We don't know how old the children are; the boy is a toddler, so around 1-3, the girl goes to school, so at least 5 or 6.

It might be also read as a message; this part of Katniss's life is going to be kept private. She is finally free to do so.

Another thing that came to my mind; the epilogue sounds a bit as if Katniss was talking to a reporter, during the interview, or to another person; a friend, perhaps? Annie? Johanna? That's why she wants to protect her children's privacy.

Now, about this quote: "It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly."

It is a puzzling sentence. Five, ten, fifteen years - so how many exactly? Katniss obviously is trying to say, it took a long time.

In my opinion "five, ten, fifteen years" is her way of trying to remember certain events. She goes back in time and recollects the times Peeta has asked. A "zero" time point is when she and Peeta became a couple (grew back together). So, "five years" later was the first time Peeta mentioned wanting to have children. Perhaps it was not long after they got married (it would explain why Katniss remembers this year). "Ten years" might be an important event in their life (fifth wedding anniversary, perhaps), and "fifteen" - around the time Katniss decided to try for a baby. Since the epilogue takes place more than twenty years after the end of the Mockingjay, it would go well with their daughter's possible age.

It makes perfect sense that Katniss wouldn't want to have children right after the end of the series. She was quite opposed to the idea for many years. She needed a time to heal, to find her peace, to accept that her new family was going to be safe. She has already lost Prim - her father - her mother, too, to some point. She had to rebuild her life before welcoming children into the world.

So, I think it is perfectly understandable that she waited this long. Katniss deciding to start a family is an important symbol: it means that the world they live in is a safe, more peaceful place. It is a symbol of Katniss and Peeta moving on, in spite of their memories.

The description of Katniss's fears while carrying her children is understandable as well. "When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself." Katniss had known the loss before. There were so many deaths she had seen; many death she had unvoluntarily caused. Such trauma couldn't leave her unmarked.

She had decided to have children because Peeta had wanted them badly; but it took her fifteen years to agree. It shows just how supportive these two were of each other. She aknowledged his dreams and hopes, but he gave her as much time as she needed. He didn't push her into something she wasn't ready for, but waited patiently for her to decide. She put his dreams ahead of her fears.

It shows how mature and understanding their relationship truly was.

[mtdthoughts]

Connections to Kristof's Book of Lies #1 (Migi & Dali Observation)

If you've read my another post of mine titled "Dali's Book", I mentioned that Dali was most likely reading Agota Kristof's La Preuve (or The Proof), which is the second of her famous "Book of Lies" trilogy.

Well, I decided to go ahead and read the whole trilogy in one sitting, and my goodness I was blown away. It was complex, grim, disturbing, intense, full of twists, and deeply tragic, and I will do my best not to spoil it.

If Nami Sano was inspired by this trilogy when writing Migi & Dali, I can definitely see it, whether it is through the usage of identical twin boys as the protagonists, the pervasive dark tones, the many shocking and disturbing moments and twists, and even a similar minimalistic writing style.

However, Migi & Dali takes on a much brighter tone than the Book of Lies trilogy and even has a happy ending, albeit a bit bittersweet.

That being said, after reading The Third Lie (the final part of the trilogy), I do wonder whether Sano intended for the events of Migi & Dali to be interpreted in a similar manner, which makes me shudder a bit because I really do not want to think about that...

Anyway, enough of that. I may or may not write a more detailed post about these books another time. Here, I just wanted to bring up references to them in Migi & Dali (which WILL contain spoilers of both stories).

Here's a list of links to all of the connections I have found so far:

#1 (this post)

#2

#3

#4

#5

#6

#7

#8

#9

#10

#11

#12

Without further ado, here's Connection #1.

If you've read Chapter 8 of the manga, you may recall that the twins were playing an interesting game where they take turns insulting and attacking each other.

According to Dali, this game is "special training" for them to find and kill their mother's killer as well as an exercise in controlling their emotions.

I bring this up because there were a couple chapters in The Notebook (the first in the trilogy) that reminded me of this.

Specifically, it was the chapters "Exercise to Toughen the Body" and "Exercise to Toughen the Mind", where the twins Lucas and Claus take turns beating each other in order to bear pain without crying, and they would call each other abusive and hurtful names so that they can get used to these words without caring.

Their "exercises" are much harsher than Migi and Dali's "training" that they make their "training" look like child's play (literally) by comparison. Nonetheless, the similarities in these scenes could give us additional context into Migi & Dali. Sure, this training could have trained them in seeking revenge, but perhaps Dali's ulterior motive was also to toughen them both up against persecution from others (which was pretty real). If true, then this "training" is a bit sadder and darker than I previously thought.