#(and even then his story would forever be incomplete)

[hoodienanami]

since were living in this new age of understanding when it comes to how becoming famous (especially tabloid famous/infamous) at a young age negatively effects your mental health and psychological development i think its time that ppl start reevaluating how they talk about the sex pistols

[blerghie]

the fact that 999 spent maybe less than a month with kdj before he was like “you know what? i now see why they’re so obsessed with him” and then turned against sp

[novaursa]

The Queen Who Was Not

- Summary: After Aegon broke his promise to you, he leaves you broken. You decided to take your fate into your own hands. But fate is a fickle beast.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This is an alternative version of The Broken Crown, with another set of events. This story was another suggestion made by @renasd , with slight changes in the plot.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

You had loved Aegon since you were a child, when the world seemed small and the stars could be plucked from the sky with a word from your brother. He was the sun around which you orbited, his every word, every glance, every promise etched into your heart. When he promised you marriage, a union of love unlike any the realm had seen, you believed him with the fervor of a child who thinks dragons will live forever.

The bond between you and Aegon was forged in those early years, as strong as dragonsteel. You would watch him with wide, admiring eyes as he trained with Blackfyre in hand, his strength and determination unmatched. In turn, he would watch you with a quiet, almost protective affection, promising that one day you would stand beside him not just as a sister, but as a queen.

You thought that day would come when you turned sixteen. It was the age when a Targaryen girl came into her own, her blood singing with fire, ready to join with another to strengthen the family line. Your heart was aflame with anticipation, the promise of his words fueling the fire of your hope. Aegon was the Conqueror now, a king with two queens, but in your mind, you were always meant to be his third, his heart.

But then came the wedding of Visenya, the elder sister whose stern beauty and fierce loyalty had always been a shadow over you. You understood his duty to her, the need to cement the ancient bloodline with a union of strength. It was a bond of necessity, you told yourself, a marriage of fire and steel. And then, before you could even catch your breath, he took Rhaenys as well.

Rhaenys, the sister of the dawn, laughter always on her lips, her beauty a shining beacon that drew the eyes of the realm. She was the beloved, the one whom Aegon desired with a passion that left you cold. You saw it in the way he looked at her, the way his hand lingered on hers, the softening of his gaze that you had once thought was reserved for you alone.

The realization was a blade between your ribs, twisting deeper with each smile they shared, each touch that should have been yours. Aegon had taken Visenya out of duty, but Rhaenys he had chosen for desire. And what were you, then? A childhood promise, a girl left behind in the shadow of queens more radiant than the sun.

On the eve of your sixteenth name day, when the moon hung heavy and the sea whispered of forgotten hopes, you found yourself standing before Aegon. Your voice trembled as you spoke, asking him when it would be your turn, when he would fulfill the vow made beneath the stars of your childhood.

His answer shattered the last remnants of your hope. He wanted to marry you out of love, he said, and not out of duty or desire. He wanted to make you his queen, not because it was expected, but because he cherished you beyond all others. But not yet. Not now, when the realm was still fragile, when his conquests were still incomplete.

Your heart, already broken, turned to ash. Love. He spoke of love while he stood between his two queens, the weight of their presence suffocating you. He wanted you to wait, to be patient, to be his beloved someday, when the world was ready. But you had waited long enough. You could not be a shadow, a mere promise in the distance while he shared his bed, his throne, his life with others.

That night, you made your choice. Dressed in the colors of your house, your silver hair braided with blood-red ribbons, you climbed upon Tesaerix’s back. Your dragon felt your turmoil, your pain. She roared into the night sky, the sound echoing across Dragonstone, a cry of fury and sorrow that would not be contained.

You flew to Driftmark, the sea wind biting at your skin, tears freezing upon your cheeks. There, in the hall of High Tide, you found Aethan Velaryon, his eyes widening in surprise at your arrival. You barely knew him, this sea lord with salt in his veins and ambition in his heart, but that did not matter.

“I would marry you,” you said, your voice strong, unwavering. “I would marry you and be free of this cage.”

He looked at you, seeing the dragon fire in your eyes, the determination that could not be quenched. And he agreed. You were wed under the stars, the salt waves lapping at your feet, the cries of seagulls mingling with the distant roar of your dragon.

You were no longer the little sister left behind. You were a Velaryon now, a bride of the sea and sky, and Aegon’s hold on your heart was no more. As you stood there, your hand clasped in Aethan’s, you felt the first stirrings of something new—freedom, independence, the taste of a life that was your own.

And when Tesaerix took to the skies once more, her wings cutting through the night air, you knew there was no going back. You would never be his third queen, the last to be chosen. You were a dragon, and you would forge your own path in a world that had tried to bind you in chains.

The news reached Aegon like a dagger to the heart. You, his cherished sister, his beloved, had wed Aethan Velaryon. The words were barely whispered before he was in the air, his dragon’s wings beating furiously against the sky. He had never known fear like this, not when facing the flames of battle or the uncertainty of conquest. But now, it gripped him like an iron fist.

As he descended upon Driftmark, the sun barely cresting the horizon, he saw Tesaerix circling above the Velaryon castle, her gold-cream scales gleaming in the early light. Her roar was a warning, a challenge that cut through the air like a blade. He knew she sensed his turmoil, but he had to see you, had to make you understand.

You were in the courtyard when he landed, your stance regal, your eyes cold. Aethan stood beside you, a protective hand on your arm, his presence a barrier between you and the king. Aegon dismounted swiftly, his eyes locked on yours, desperation etched across his face.

“Y/N, what have you done?” His voice was strained, the words tearing from his lips. “Why would you do this?”

You lifted your chin, the hurt buried deep beneath a mask of resolve. “I did what you would not allow me to do, Aegon. I took my fate into my own hands.”

His hands clenched at his sides, his frustration barely contained. “I wanted to marry you, Y/N. I wanted to wait until the realm was secure, until I could give you everything you deserved, without the shadow of duty or desire hanging over us.”

“You speak of love,” you said, your voice icy, “but you made me wait while you took Visenya and Rhaenys. You left me to watch, to wonder when my turn would come. I am not some prize to be claimed at your convenience, Aegon.”

He stepped forward, his eyes pleading. “You are not a prize, Y/N. You are my heart. I thought you would understand. I needed to take Rhaenys—”

“Needed?” You laughed, the sound bitter. “You needed her because you wanted her. And Visenya, because it was your duty. What am I, then? A symbol of your love? A trinket you can set aside until you are ready?”

Aethan’s grip on your arm tightened, his eyes darkening as he watched Aegon. “She is my wife now, Aegon. You cannot undo what has been done.”

Aegon’s gaze flickered to Aethan, anger flaring in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Velaryon. You have stolen something precious from me.”

“I have taken nothing that was not freely given,” Aethan replied, his voice steady, though his hand shook ever so slightly.

You stepped forward, placing yourself between the two men, your expression resolute. “I made this choice, Aegon. I am no longer yours to command.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, his composure shattered. “Please, Y/N, come back with me. We can make this right.”

“No,” you said, the finality in your tone cutting through him like a sword. “You had your chance, Aegon. I will not be your afterthought.”

He stood there, the wind whipping around him, his fists trembling with suppressed rage and grief. He looked at you, his eyes searching, pleading, but you did not waver. Finally, with a choked growl, he turned away, climbing back onto his dragon.

As he flew back to Dragonstone, his heart was a storm of emotions—rage, despair, regret. He had lost you, the one he had always thought would be by his side. The bitter taste of his failure burned in his throat, and he knew that this wound would not heal easily.

Days passed, the silence between you and Aethan slowly thawing as you adjusted to your new life. He was kind, considerate, his presence a balm to the scars Aegon had left behind. Though your marriage had not yet been consummated, there was a growing warmth between you, a tentative affection that could have blossomed into something more given time.

But time was not on your side.

It happened one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sea in shades of crimson and gold. Aethan was found in his chambers, lifeless, his face twisted in pain. There were no marks, no wounds, nothing to suggest foul play, but you knew. In your heart, you knew.

Aegon.

The realization hit you like a blow, your knees buckling as you stumbled away from Aethan’s still form. The air seemed to close in around you, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were pressing down. You fled to the sea cliffs, the roar of the waves below a distant echo to the storm raging within you.

Tesaerix found you there, her massive form looming behind you, a soft rumble in her throat. She could sense your anguish, your fury. You pressed your forehead against her warm scales, your tears mingling with the salt spray of the sea.

“He did this,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He took him from me.”

Your dragon growled low, her eyes flashing crimson in the fading light. You knew she would burn the world at your command, that her wrath would mirror your own. But what good would that do now? Aethan was gone, his life snuffed out before it had truly begun, and you were left adrift, your heart shattered anew.

The days that followed were a blur of mourning, the Velaryons gathering to pay their respects, their faces shadowed with suspicion. They whispered of poison, of dark magic, of the king’s wrath descending upon them in secret. But there was no proof, nothing but the aching certainty in your heart.

And Aegon... Aegon was silent. No message, no word from Dragonstone. But you knew he was watching, waiting, his presence a looming shadow you could not shake.

As you stood before Aethan’s sarcophagus which his family lowered into the sea, you made a vow. You would not be broken, not by Aegon or anyone else. He had taken too much from you already, but he would not take your spirit. You were a Targaryen, a rider of dragons, a daughter of fire and blood.

And if Aegon thought he could bind you to his will, he would soon learn just how fierce a dragon’s wrath could be.

The months of mourning were a blur of quiet pain, the weight of grief settling like a mantle across your shoulders. Driftmark’s salt-soaked shores had been both refuge and prison, the sea wind a constant reminder of the life that had been stolen from you. But as time passed, sorrow hardened into resolve, and your thoughts turned to vengeance. Aethan’s death would not go unavenged, and the one who had wronged you would pay dearly.

You returned to Dragonstone in the dead of night, Tesaerix’s wings cutting through the dark sky like a blade. The castle loomed before you, a silhouette of ancient stone and flickering torches. It had been your home once, a place of childhood dreams and broken promises. Now, it would be the stage for your retribution.

Your father, Aerion Targaryen, the stern and unyielding Lord of Dragonstone, greeted you with a wary gaze. His hair, a crown of silver, seemed to catch the light as he watched you approach, your steps echoing in the great hall. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold calculation of a man who had seen too many battles, too much bloodshed.

“Why have you come, daughter?” His voice was gruff, suspicion lacing his words.

You met his gaze unflinchingly, your chin held high. “To make amends for my folly and to serve our house.”

His brows knitted together, curiosity mingling with doubt. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“By wedding Rhaegel,” you said, each word measured, deliberate. “It is time I returned to my family, to my duty. A union with my brother will strengthen the bloodline, bind our house tighter.”

Your father’s silence was heavy, the air between you charged with tension. You knew he would see the logic in your words. The union would solidify the family, secure the power of House Targaryen, and—most importantly—draw a line that Aegon would not be able to cross without dire consequences.

“Rhaegel is a gentle soul,” he finally said, his tone thoughtful. “He would not refuse you, and such a match would indeed serve our house well.”

The words were a victory, though they tasted bitter on your tongue. Rhaegel was a quiet, kind brother, one who had never sought power or conflict. But he would be your husband, and through him, you would strike back at the man who had shattered your world.

The wedding was held in the shadow of Dragonstone’s volcanic peak, the sky above churning with clouds that threatened rain. The hall was filled with the banners of your house, the air thick with the scent of burning incense and dragonsteel. Rhaegel stood beside you, his eyes soft, his hand trembling slightly as he took yours. He had not questioned your intentions, had not hesitated to join his fate with yours. He was a lamb led to slaughter, and you were the wolf at his side.

When you spoke your vows, your voice was steady, unyielding. Each word was a vow not only to Rhaegel, but to yourself, a promise that Aegon would never hold you again, never bend you to his will. The ceremony passed in a blur, the faces around you fading into insignificance as you sealed your fate.

And then, the news reached King’s Landing.

The ravens carried the message to Aegonfort, their wings a dark omen against the pale sky. Aegon’s rage, when he learned of your marriage, was a storm that shook the very foundations of the newly built keep. He was a dragon unleashed, his fury visible even from afar. The courtiers whispered of his madness, of the destruction that followed in his wake as he stormed through the halls, his voice a roar that sent servants scurrying for cover.

He tore through the council chamber, Blackfyre drawn, the gleaming blade slashing through the air. His advisors cowered, their faces ashen with fear as he raged, his words incoherent, his eyes blazing with a fire that seemed to burn from within. He cursed your name, cursed your defiance, the betrayal he felt like poison in his veins.

“How dare she!” His voice echoed through the stone halls, a thunderous bellow that seemed to shake the very walls. “She belongs to me, and she weds again another under my very nose!”

The destruction was swift, catastrophic. He smashed the great table that had been carved in the shape of Westeros, his wrath reducing it to splinters. Tapestries burned, the flames licking hungrily at the stone, and the Aegonfort quaked beneath the weight of his fury. The court trembled, for never before had they seen their king so unhinged, so consumed by rage.

From Dragonstone, you heard of the chaos, the whispers carried on the wind. Each word was a balm to the wounds he had inflicted, each report of his anger a testament to your victory. He would not have you, not now, not ever. Your marriage to Rhaegel was a shield, an unbreakable barrier between you and the man who had tried to claim you.

Rhaegel, sweet and oblivious, took no notice of the storm he had unwittingly become part of. He treated you with gentle kindness, his shy smiles and soft words a stark contrast to the tempest you had unleashed. He did not ask why you had chosen him, did not pry into the reasons behind your sudden return. Perhaps he was content to simply have you by his side, a sister and now a wife, his world made brighter by your presence.

But beneath the calm exterior, your heart was a roiling sea. You had won a victory, yes, but the cost was high. You had bound yourself to Rhaegel, a man who could never be more than a shield against Aegon’s wrath. The knowledge was a cold, sharp blade, but you wielded it with purpose, with a determination that burned hotter than dragonfire.

You would not be owned, not by Aegon or any man. Your life was yours to command, your choices your own to make. And if Aegon thought he could bend you, could break you with his fury, he would soon learn that a dragon does not bow to anyone.

In the halls of Dragonstone, you walked with your head held high, the whispers of the courtiers following in your wake. They spoke of your defiance, your strength, your unyielding will. You were a force to be reckoned with, a storm in human form, and you would not be swayed.

Aegon could rage and destroy, could tear down kingdoms and burn cities to ash. But he could not touch you, not now. You were beyond his reach, a dragon in flight, your wings spread wide against the sky. And you would soar, higher and farther than he could ever imagine, leaving him behind in the ruin of his own making.

The birth was a struggle from the very beginning. As the night waned and the dawn crept over the horizon, the air in Dragonstone was thick with tension. The cries from your chambers echoed through the stone halls, a haunting symphony of pain and desperation. The maesters and midwives worked frantically, their faces drawn and pale, their hands slick with blood and sweat.

When the infant’s wail finally pierced the silence, it was not the sound of triumph. The child, small and frail, struggled to draw breath, its cries weak and fluttering like the wings of a dying bird. And you, spent and broken, lay still upon the birthing bed, your skin ashen, your breath shallow. The life that had burned so brightly in your eyes was now a dim flicker, barely holding on.

Rhaegel sat at your bedside, his hands clutching yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. He called your name, his voice breaking, but you were already slipping away, your spirit drifting like smoke on the wind. As the sun rose, you drew your last breath, the light fading from your eyes as the shadows claimed you.

Grief settled over Dragonstone like a dark cloud. Rhaegel, the gentle brother who had loved you with a quiet devotion, was inconsolable. He held the child—a daughter, her silver hair fine as silk, her tiny chest struggling with each shallow breath—and he wept for the life that was already slipping away. She survived only a day, a brief flicker of existence that faded into darkness before she could even know the world.

The news reached Aegon in King’s Landing, carried by a raven whose dark wings seemed an ill omen. He read the message once, twice, his mind struggling to grasp the words. You were gone. His fierce, defiant sister, the one he had always thought would stand beside him, had been taken by death’s cruel hand. And the child—his niece, his blood—was gone as well.

The rage that gripped him was like nothing he had ever known, a tempest that tore through his heart and mind. He mounted Balerion without a word, the Black Dread’s wings spreading wide as they soared into the sky. The flight to Dragonstone was swift and furious, the great dragon’s roar echoing across the Narrow Sea as if the heavens themselves were protesting Aegon’s wrath.

He arrived on the day of your pyre, the castle’s courtyards filled with the somber faces of those gathered to pay their respects. As he dismounted, his eyes blazed with fury, his expression dark and terrifying. He stormed through the crowd, his presence a force of nature that parted those before him like a wave crashing against the shore.

Rhaegel stood beside the pyre, his face hollow, his eyes red from weeping. He looked up as Aegon approached, his grief turning to fear at the sight of his brother’s wrath. Aegon’s hand shot out, gripping Rhaegel by the front of his robes, dragging him close until their faces were inches apart.

“What did you do to her?” Aegon’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, each word trembling with barely restrained violence. “She was never yours to take.”

Rhaegel’s hands clutched at Aegon’s wrists, his voice shaking as he tried to answer. “I—she was my wife, Aegon. I loved her, I would never—”

“Your wife?” Aegon spat, his grip tightening, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to burn hotter than the flames that would soon consume your body. “She was mine! She was always mine, and you took her, you stole her from me! You killed her!”

The accusation hung in the air, raw and brutal, and those gathered around the pyre fell silent, their eyes wide with shock and fear. Rhaegel’s breath came in ragged gasps, his face paling as Aegon’s words struck like blows.

“Aegon, please,” he choked out, his voice desperate. “I did nothing to harm her. I tried to love her, to make her happy—”

“You are a fool,” Aegon snarled, shoving Rhaegel away so violently that he stumbled, nearly falling to the ground. “A weak, pathetic fool who let her die, who couldn’t protect her! She was too strong for you, too fierce, and you crushed her spirit with your weakness!”

Rhaegel fell to his knees, his shoulders shaking as he wept, his cries soft and broken. “I tried, Aegon. I tried to save her.”

Aegon’s laughter was a bitter, hollow sound. “Save her? You were never strong enough to save her. You should have let her be, let her come back to me. I would have protected her, would have given her everything. But now—” His voice broke, and for a moment, the fury in his eyes was eclipsed by a grief so deep it seemed to tear him apart from within. “Now she’s gone, and it’s your fault.”

Their father, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward, his face lined with sorrow and weariness. “Aegon, enough. This is not the time—”

“Not the time?” Aegon rounded on him, his rage flaring anew. “You let this happen! You let her marry him, let her throw herself away on someone too weak to protect her. You were supposed to be our father, supposed to keep us safe, and you failed.”

The old man’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Aegon’s words bearing down on him like a crushing tide. “I did what I thought was best. She made her choice, Aegon. She chose her path.”

Aegon’s face twisted with pain and anger, his voice a roar that echoed off the castle walls. “Her path should have been beside me! You should have made her mine, should have stopped her!”

The silence that followed was deafening, the air thick with the tension of words that could not be unsaid. Aegon’s chest heaved with the force of his emotions, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes, wild and haunted, turned back to the pyre where your body lay, wrapped in the white shroud of death.

He took a step forward, his gaze fixed on your still form, and the rage seemed to drain from him, leaving only a hollow emptiness. “You were mine,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You were always supposed to be mine.”

And then, with a choked sound that was part sob, part growl, he turned and stormed away, the crowd parting before him in silence. He climbed back onto Balerion, the great dragon’s wings unfurling as they took to the sky. The wind whipped around him as they flew, the cold air biting at his skin, but he felt nothing but the gaping void where you had once been.

In the days that followed, the fire of Aegon’s wrath spread across the realm, his fury a wildfire that consumed everything in its path. He was a king unchained, his grief and anger a deadly combination that none dared challenge. The Aegonfort, now a place of ashes and ruin, stood as a testament to his pain, the once-proud symbol of his reign now crumbling beneath the weight of his loss.

And through it all, the memory of you lingered, a ghost that haunted his every step, a reminder of what he had lost, of what he had destroyed with his own hands. The realm would remember this day, the day a dragon’s heart broke, and the world trembled beneath the shadow of its rage.

[allfearstofallto]

Nice

Yandere childe x reader

1.7k

Synopsis: He'll buy you absolutely anything your heart desires, but he longs for you to describe things as more than just "nice"

TW: Yandere, abusive themes, bribery, NSFW themes, toxic relationship, Dub-Con

AN: I haven't written in FOREVER so forgive me if it's not awesome or if it feels incomplete. My last account got shadow banned :(, doesn't help that I was already pretty depressed before that. No time for sob stories here, it's been two years since I've written anything and I miss writing, thanks for joining me!

Gems that dazzled and gleamed stars in the night sky, silver that was carved painstakingly from the mines in Liyue, an appearance that was beautiful, but still kept up with the most current fashion trends. He had truly outdone himself with this one, this has to be the one that would take your breath away. The one that would make you leap into his arms and pepper his face with kisses from your sweet lips that he rarely got the chance to taste.

When it came to gifts for you, there was no price tag. Childe would spend every mora he had if it meant he could even get a smile out of you and spend he often did. Money meant nothing to him, being a Fatui harbinger, his paychecks were larger than he knew what to do with. After sending money back home to his family, he still had so much left and nothing that he longed for other than your affection. So, why not spend it on something else he cared about?

Your eyes ghosted over the ring he was showing you, encased in a black velvet box with red satin holding it up. It wasn’t an engagement ring, he’d assured you of that multiple times after you were taken aback by him holding it up to you. He knew you weren’t ready for that just yet, and he was willing to respect your wishes, but he still wanted to give you something to wear on that pretty little finger to show that you were his while you waited for the real deal. Your engagement ring would be much, much larger than the one he was gifting you now and it would incorporate details from both of your home countries.

The expression on your face was unreadable. It wasn’t quite a grimace, but it wasn’t a smile either. It was the usual face you made when you were given something. An equal mixture of discomfort and unease. “It’s…nice.” you mumbled quietly as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

There was that word again. Nice. It made him sick to his stomach every time he heard it fall from your pretty lips. But that was always what you said about his gifts, as if you couldn’t think of another word to describe how you felt about them. Rare spices imported from Sumeru? Nice. A custom hanfu made from only the finest silk to wear to the lantern rite? Nice. Wine aged for almost a decade and shipped straight from Mondstadt? Very nice.

You spoke that one word, but even then it felt like you were straining yourself to say that much. On multiple occasions, your displeasure with receiving such expressive gifts was expressed, but he told you that that didn’t matter. Mora was just an object to him, something that held no value, and yet you still held each gift as if they would collapse under your touch.

“You can tell me if you don’t like it,”

“No!” you quickly retorted back, holding your hand up to examine the ring once more, “Its…” you purse your lips to stop yourself from saying the word, knowing that he would only be upset with your lack of what he considered to be a proper answer, “I like it.”

With a sigh and a dramatic slump of his shoulders, he reached up and cupped your face. His hand felt like solid ice against your cheek. Childe often claimed that that was another thing he loved about you so much. How warm your body was in comparison to himself. He told you that when he someday took you to Snezhnaya to meet his family, you would be his personal heater, that he wouldn’t let you go for even a second during the duration of your stay there.

“You don’t even wear the earrings I got you anymore,” Childe’s long fingers traced from your cheek to the lobe of your ear, grazing the empty hole where jewelry would go.

“You know I can’t wear those at work,”

“Then quit your job,” He spoke those words so quickly, with no hesitation, a part of you was convinced you imagined it. But you working was a constant conflict of interest between the two of you, something you’d even argued about before.

The situation grew heated that day. Both of you, yelling back and forth about what you thought was right. You remembered seeing his eyes glow at the same time as his vision that rested on his hip, making your stomach drop. Childe would never hurt you, would he? But even you didn’t know the answer to that, you could never be too sure about what was going on in the mind of a harbinger. So you backed down slightly, telling him that it was something you would consider, and that answer sufficed with him for the time being.

“Childe-”

“Ajax,” he cut you off. He hated when you used his codename, claiming that as his future wife, you alone should be allowed to call him by his given name.

“Ajax," you exhaled harshly after speaking his name, "I really would like to work and be independent,”

For just the briefest of moments, his eyes went dull, his smile fell, his facade faltered and he was his true self. It only lasted for less than a second, the average person might not have even seen it, but you’d spent so much time with him. You knew his tells. You knew that even though he was smiling again, it was completely fake. He was angry, even if the gleam in his eyes didn't show it.

A cold kiss was pressed against your cheek, just a peck to get his point across. When he pulled away, still making eye contact, he was still so close that you could feel his shallow breath on your skin. He squatted down slightly to meet your eyes and whispered against your lips, “I don’t plan to let my wife work. Why don’t you quit now, have a little practice before we’re wed?”

He said that as a suggestion, but you knew it wasn’t one. With Childe there were only orders and threats, nothing in between. You had no choice on whether or not you’d get to work, on whether or not you got to live alone, on whether or not you married him. In his eyes, you were already his, and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

A lump was caught in your throat as you tried to figure out what to say. Could you even tell him that the prospect of marrying him was something that seldom crossed your mind? Something that even when you did think about, it brought a twinge of fear into your heart. That on multiple occasions, you considered leaving him, but your unease around him was what was making your stay.

“I…” you finally met his gaze as you tried to force words out of your tense body. His eyes felt so cold and the hand that he had managed to snake its way down onto your shoulder was gripping your flesh tightly. It was a warning that what you said next would matter, “I should just-”

“You should quit,” he spoke the last part of the sentence for you, not caring about what you truly wanted to say.

Eyes turned downcast, you gave a slow nod. There wasn’t much of a choice with him anymore, he was hellbent on that being your answer. He had given you an order, if you didn’t react the way he wanted you to, you would regret it.

The grip that was on your shoulder loosened, exhibiting that you had pleased him and another kiss was placed on your cheek as a reward. This time his lips touched just below your eyes, where tears were threatening to fall, “That’s my girl,” another peck right against your lips, “How about I buy you something special, huh? For being so good.”

You swallow slowly, trying to keep yourself from falling apart in front of him, clenching and unclenching your fist as a way to self soothe. Your voice was shaky as you delivered your stiff answer, “Sure. That sounds lovely.”

“How about a new pair of earrings,” he followed this up by lightly biting the side of your ear, “or maybe a new necklace,” you felt his warm tongue slide down from your ear to your collarbone, making all the hairs on your body stand up, “Or maybe even a new dress,” he spoke into your neck, his hand reaching down and trying to slide the dress you were wearing up your thigh, exposing your your bare skin to the air.

You jolted your body backwards, your hands placed against his chest in an attempt to keep the distance between the two of you. He was moving so fast. Too fast. Even though it had been a while since you and him had last been intimate, for him to try it again so suddenly was worrisome.

You didn’t dare look at his face. There was no doubt about it that he was upset at your response to his touch, he never liked when you rejected him. The hand that was placed against him, was taken into his. The way he held you was gentle, but you could still feel force behind his movement. The thumb of his hand traced the back of your palm as he held you, before lifting it up and placing a kiss against it. Right on your finger, right on the very expensive ring he’d just bought you, almost as a way to draw your attention to it once more.

“What’s gotten into you? Hm?” he had an eyebrow cocked and a grin on his face, “Pushing me away like that after I got you something so precious? You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood for this right now,” you mumbled, switching between looking at your dress you were fiddling with and his borderline unblinking eyes.

Silence fell over the two of you, to the point where you could hear your own heart beat, the sound of blood pumping in your ears, the sound of his breaths that were slightly heavier than normal. Childe was rarely quiet. It was hard to get him to keep his mouth shut. In a way his anger was scaled based on how loud he was, the quieter, the worse.

His large hand came into your sight again, making you flinch about what was coming ahead, but rather than being struck, he used his thumb to trace your lips, “Figure something out.”

[turn3tifosi]

III. my love, my life

logan sargeant x girlfriend/ex!reader

you and logan have been dating since forever, and one day he realizes he doesn’t know himself without you.

series masterlist | main masterlist

There’s a look on Logan’s face, a look you instantly recognize. 

“We should break up,” he says quickly, as if afraid that if he said it more slowly, he might change his mind halfway.

His words hit you like a tidal wave, washing over your entire being. The world around you blurs as you focus on Logan’s eyes, the eyes that once looked at you with so much love and warmth. Now, they’re filled with a determination you’ve never seen before, a resolve that tells you he’s not wavering.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. 

“Logan, why? What happened?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“It’s not something you did. It’s just... I need to find myself. I need to figure out who I am without us.”

You know that trying to convince him otherwise would be futile. You can’t control him, can’t make him stay if his heart isn’t here anymore. So, you nod, even though it feels like your heart is shattering into a million pieces.

“I understand,” you say, even though you don’t. Not really. But you respect his need for self-discovery, even if it means losing him.

Logan’s shoulders sag with relief. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, as if he didn’t expect you to take it so calmly. 

“I’ll pack my things.”

As he moves around your shared apartment, collecting his belongings, you sit on the edge of the bed, memories flooding your mind. You remember the nights spent talking until dawn, the lazy Sunday mornings, the way his laughter would fill the room and make everything seem brighter. He is your love, your life, and you can’t imagine a world without him.

When he finally zips up his suitcase, he turns to you, hesitating. 

“I’ll always care about you,” he says softly.

You force a smile. 

“And I’ll always love you.”

With a final, lingering look, Logan leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like the end of everything you’ve known. You sit there, staring at the closed door, feeling a hollowness you’ve never felt before. It’s as if a part of you walked out with him, leaving you incomplete.

Days turn into weeks, and you find yourself going through the motions, existing but not truly living. You see Logan’s ghost in everything—his favorite coffee mug, the sweater he left behind, the photos of the two of you still on the walls. Each reminder is a knife twist in the wound, a painful echo of what you had.

There are moments when you almost call him, moments when you’re convinced that hearing his voice will make everything better. But you stop yourself, knowing that he needs this time apart, needs to find himself without you. Loving someone sometimes means letting them go, even if it breaks your heart in the process.

You throw yourself into work, into hobbies, into anything that can distract you from the ache inside. Slowly, you begin to rebuild your life, piece by piece. The pain never fully goes away, but it becomes a part of you, a scar that reminds you of what once was.

You see Logan sometimes, in the places you used to go together. There’s always a moment of recognition, a shared smile that says, “I remember.” But you never approach him, never try to rekindle what you had. You respect his journey, just as he respected yours.

In time, you find a sense of peace. You realize that love doesn’t always mean holding on. Sometimes, it means letting go, allowing the person you love to become who they need to be. Logan was your love, your life, and though he’s no longer by your side, he’s still a part of you, a chapter in your story that will always be cherished.

[vinelark]

what r some fics that shaped your psyche? you have so many good recs im currently rereading the to an athlete dying young series

hello! you sent me this ask ages ago and i've been meaning to get to it ever since. (it took me so long to answer that i'm sure you've reread to an athlete dying young by @sonosvegliato many times over by now but hell yeah, what a good one.)

these are a few fics--dc and beyond--that have been in my "in case of emergency" epub folder (aka fics i want to have on hand immediately to reread on bad days, or good days, or even average days) for a few years now. so here is an extremely incomplete list of fics that have shaped my psyche!

for dc specifically--if i tried to list all of them i would just end up repeating my whole fic rec tag, so these are just a few of the ones i read when i was getting into this fandom that stayed with me/made me want to seek out more for these characters:

📸 surveillance series by @smilebackwards

this series located the tim drake center of my brain and lit it up like the vegas strip.

🎒 like a hinge, like a wing by @bonesbuckleup

one of my go-to rereads for pangs; chapter one is a masterclass in tension. also, one of my favorite pre-robin tim pov fics of all time.

💻 nominal by @unpretty

"you don't get it, batman is a comedy" --conversation i've had with multiple people using this fic as my thesis statement.

🌃 the jingle jangle morning by @audreycritter

the moment somebody in my vicinity says "i love dick grayson" i'm on their doorstep with this fic url.

🚉 a meditation on railroading by @eggmacguffin

there's a moment in this fic known among my friends as "baby wipes jason" and it has successfully converted no less than three people to the fandom.

and then for non-dc fic:

🌌 atlas by @megafaunatic (mdzs & tgcf)

did i read this before i had a single clue who the characters were? yes. did i return to it once i did and lose my mind a little? yes. lore etymologyplayground writes that “so so so in love and pining so hard the lines between us are blurring and we haven’t made a move yet but it’s inevitable” flavor with such a deft hand; it is in fact called the lorezone. if any friends-to-lovers pining i write can achieve even 50% of a lorezone i will have done my job.

🪿 If they caught you by @feyburner (tgcf)

i go back to this when i think about setup and payoff, when i think about subtle misdirects, when i think about the monumental task of creating whole compelling new characters in 6k words.

🧪 away childish things by lettered (hp)

one of the best de-aging trope stories i've ever read; i think of this when i want to take a trope to its maximum potential and then go: no wait, there's even more.

(another fav de-aging fic is grow by @cafecliche; shorter plot but no less pangs 🌱)

🏡 in defiance of all geometry by @idiopath-fic-smile (les mis)

a fic that's a perfect reread when i need something cozy and full of character, and a perfect touchstone when i'm pondering something where the world may not hang in the balance but the stakes still matter.

📔 The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli (cql/mdzs)

paragon of metahumor, basically. i think of this when i want to write something that's funny in both text and form.

🍚 and his wanting grows teeth by @yuebings (cql/mdzs)

masterclass in pangy backstory reveal; the way the first scene loops back around to punch you in the gut long after you've forgotten it will forever be seared into my brain.

also, most answers on this list fit the bill!

(apologies again that this answer is so belated; it took me ages to write up partially because i kept stopping to reread these fics every time i tried.)

[fyodior]

IN EVERY UNIVERSE.

self-indulgent fyodor x gn!reader fluff because my heart is still so so broken :( no warnings! wc: 0.7k (divider by cafekitsune)

“I think that you and I would find each other in every universe.”

“Hmm?” your lover prods, pulling you closer against his chest and tipping your chin up with his finger. His violet eyes glowed in the waning light of the setting sun, slightly obscured by the raven fringe that swept across his forehead. “How do you mean?”

Taking advantage of the early summer weather and your approaching anniversary, you and Fyodor skipped work in favor of dedicating the day to your love. Starting with, of course, sleeping in, followed by a brunch you and him made together, visiting your favorite art museum, and ending the day with a picnic in a sprawling field within a nearby nature preserve.

It was like a movie, the way he hand-fed you strawberries and kissed away the juice that trickled down the corners of your lips with the laugh you could recognize anywhere. Prose and poetry danced off Fyodor’s lips as he read from the tote bag full of books you had lugged with you, reading stories of immortalized love and poems ignited by insurmountable passion as you laid your head in his lap. A few Russian novels had snuck their way into the collection as well, Fyodor gracing you with the heightened level of elegance and finesse in his voice as he spoke in his native tongue.

But now the two of you, pleasantly exhausted from the day, lie on the blanket laid out in the grass, surrounded by sprouts of baby’s breath and daisies in the cozy drowsiness of a summer haze.

You take the opportunity to press the gentlest of kisses against his warm lips, and he smiles softly as he returns the gesture. “I mean that… I don’t think there’s any version of us in any world, in any universe, in any timeline that don’t find each other. That never feel the touch of the other.”

Warmth blooms in Fyodor’s chest and spreads to each of his limbs, painting a rosy red on his cheeks that only you have ever been able to put there. “And why do you say that, my love?”

 “Because… I just know it. Our souls are intertwined. Don’t you feel it?”

It makes sense in your head. The way you perfectly compliment each other. The way you felt like you’d known him your whole life the second you met him. The tilt of his head and the almost mischievous spread of his lips felt like those of an old friend, and you hadn’t even known his name yet. And in that moment, too, you already knew you’d know him forever.

And yet, you weren’t two halves of a whole. You always found that expression to be reductive. To insinuate you were incomplete people without each other was incorrect – you would always be you, and Fyodor would always be Fyodor. But you made each other… better. More complete.

“Your handprint is forever burned on my soul, Fyodor,” you explain.

“I feel it,” he nods, answering your question from earlier as locks of your hair twirl between his fingers. “Like the roots of a thousand-year-old tree curl around each other and cement themselves into the earth, I feel it.” His hands leave your hair in favor of intertwining your fingers together, as if to illustrate his point.

 I fear we are stuck, you and I,” he chuckles, and you giggle along too.

“For better or for worse,” you say. “In every universe.”

“Through heaven and hell, and everything in between, above, or below. I’ll find you, my darling.”

The sun had finally dipped below the horizon now, casting your lover in a faint glow that made him seem ethereal, almost angelic. Your free hand, the one not enveloped in his, came to touch the delicate, porcelain skin of his cheek.

“You promise, Fedya? That you’ll find me?”

“I swear.”

[my-castles-crumbling]

card - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 309

It was the last present of the evening.

The whole friend group had all gathered around and exchanged gifts, all the while drinking Firewhiskey and swapping stories about their new jobs now that they'd all graduated.

It was one of those rare moments when everyone was there- nobody was caught up with another obligation that made their little family incomplete. Lily and Pandora were curled up on the couch, Dorcas and Marlene in an armchair. James and Regulus were sitting side-by-side on the floor whispering to each other and grinning while Barty and Evan took turns throwing wrapping paper into the fire. Peter and Mary could be heard joking in the kitchen with Alice, Frank, Gideon, and Fabian.

As Sirius smiles softly and took in all the people around him, he almost missed Remus elbowing him, passing him the small parcel. "For you," Remus murmured, smiling a bit.

"What, no card?" Sirius teased. Remus was known for writing long, heartfelt cards that could make anyone tear up.

The taller boy chuckled, looking a bit nervous for some reason, but didn't answer.

Shrugging, Sirius opened the paper to find a small box. It looked oddly like something one would put jewelry in. But Remus had already given him a beautiful necklace earlier that evening, at their apartment. "What-?" he began to ask, but broke off when he opened it.

Inside the box was a ring. Is was simple in design, with moons and stars etched on the outside, and the word 'forever' engraved inside the band.

And when he looked over to Remus for confirmation that this was what he thought it was, he realized at once that the entire room was quiet. And staring at them. And that Remus was on his knee.

"I didn't think I should put this in a card," Remus said with a teary grin.

[atelierlili]

In-Panem/Not Reaped Everlark AUs

Got asked to give some fanfic recommendations for In-Panem/Not Reaped Everlark AUs so here we are. Most of them (if not all of them) are gonna be fluffy and happy tbh because i can't take my pookies being hurt ):

Completed:

A New Path (138k words) by Endlessnightlock

The day after aging out of the Reaping, Katniss crosses paths with Peeta. She thanks him for the bread and to her surprise, a tentative friendship begins.

One of my favourites. I love the direction the author took with this story. Always made me want more!

Go Slow, Peeta (20k words) by Oakfarmer

The era of the Hunger Games has come to an end. How Everlark slowly happened anyway.

This was the one that started it all for me. Short, simple and to the point! A classic in my opinion.

Nothing Owed for a Gift (10k words) by orphaned account

Lately, Merchants have taken to flirting with unwitting Seam folk as a joke, sometimes going so far as to ask them out on a date. I've even heard of a couple instances of a Merchant asking someone from the Seam to marry them, and then laughing hysterically when the poor recipient says 'yes'. So, when Peeta Mellark approaches me after the reaping, red with nerves and pushing his lips together as if he's trying very hard not to do something like laugh, I'm immediately wary. Peeta can't possibly be asking me to marry him for real. ... right?

Urgh. Literally one of my favourite one-shots.

Inevitability (44k words) by Xerxia

What if? What if Peeta and Prim hadn't been reaped?

Definitely not the fluffiest fics in the list, but Katniss absolutely SHINES here. And Peeta stays very true to his character as well. Absolutely worth the read.

It Takes A District (55k words) by MTK4FUN

Thinking her mother is dying, Katniss Everdeen marries Peeta Mellark to keep her sister out of the Community Home.

I love this fic. I don't know what it is, but there's something about it that makes it standout on its own.

Katniss Everdeen Is Not A Stalker (241k words) by MegaAuLover

Katniss as a little problem, she can't stop looking through Peeta's window, trying to find a way to pay her boy with the bread back but as time goes on she realizes she wants more. But there is a problem the District is flooded with Peacekeepers and everyone faces danger as the Capitol tightens its reigns on the district. Can love bloom in the middle of adversity? Or will it shrivel in the face of surmounting danger?

This is the one. Easily one of the bestest AUs imo. Very long read- but I will be naming my first born after the squirrel. The Everlark relationship here is A+++.

Incomplete/Ongoing:

( I know its weird to recommend incomplete fics, some these ones are legitimately my favourite fics and think are still worth the read.)

Cavedweller (79k words) by Jennajuicebox (last update: 2021-01-25)

Her mother once told her she was brave. A word Katniss wouldn't have chosen for herself. Brave implies that you run headlong into the scary unknown. Brave implies you face the things that want you dead. It dredges up thoughts of conquering armies and swords raised over head. Katniss isn't brave. As much as she would never admit it to herself she is scared out of her wits. She is staring into a gaping chasm, waiting for it to swallow her whole.

I love AUs that explore Katniss otherside of the family so much. As always, the Everlark development here is absolutely heartwarming and delicious. 10/10

On the Threshold ( 97k words) by ghtlovesthg (last update: 2020-06-26)

Nineteen and free from the Reapings forever, Katniss finds a token on her doorstep commemorating her passage over the threshold of adulthood. Discovering the identity of the sender will start Katniss on a road that leads toward life's other milestones.

This is exactly how I envisioned Everlark would get together had it not been for the Reapings. So so so so good. There is just enough here to be satisfied that the fic is unfinished ; w;

hope you find something you like! I always have more if you want more to sink your teeth into <3 Happy readings!

@heartforeyes @the-tiny-fangirl

[2nv-diary]

flightless bird(have i found you?) | part 1

ray | binary star hero x reader

rushed for a friend who has just passed. gushed over this game with her, so i thought it deserved to be out there. not proofread.

word count: 2,001

It's not like him to move without completing the picture from top to bottom first—plans A to Z listed, supposedly; he had so much time, after all. Every move he's imagined you'd make branches out to 26 different outcomes. He thinks it's enough. Who the hell reacts differently than more than about three possibilities?

You, apparently. You take him out. Make him realize the need of a plan AA. A plan AB. A plan AC. And so on and so forth. He needs more than 26 plans when it's about you. Absolute pain in his ass.

It's the burning sensation in his gut that he almost thinks you are Apollo instead of Icarus. Icarus is meant to chase after the god with wing of wax and feather, but the story must be incomplete like his plans because—

—You are Apollo instead, he figures. If he's speaking about power, you are possibly both. You are the one on the Earth that cannot follow him to the skies beyond—Icarus—and yet you are the one being chased and the one so hard to reach—Apollo.

And god, does he want to reach you.

Bedrock crumbles when penetrated by roots deep enough, but soil clings. Like a vice if compact enough, roots unable to escape—truly, who is the one benefitting? The root that digs deep onto unsurmising surface, or the soil that grabs onto roots to stay intact?

Mutual, at least. They both use each other. Both beneficial.

It's what he craves with you. Hero calling only to be your enemy the moment your eyes meet. His could turn red and melt even the most pressurized of diamonds over—but why did it not cut through layers of you?

So much left of you he does not know. He doesn't like it one bit. Even with all this planning, there's not much to write home about in his knowledge of you. It's embarrassingly—

—Useless; a mind reader that can't still know their goddamn target after countless encounters? He's such a novice. When he shouldn't be.

Icarus seems to have the upper hand. There isn't even an attempt to use the wings, he never uses it for the one time Ray absolutely needs him to. Figures it must be because Apollo could craft wings himself to Icarus—who's chasing who at his point?

Your eyes pierce at him again, but with no fault of your own. No recognition whatsoever, but he doesn't blame you. Years of searching you of course made him remember your eyes, but you haven't searched him once.

And the eyes you gaze upon in television have a ridiculous mask plastered before it. He can't blame you for not making the connection—he doesn't want you to, anyway. But it still stings. But at the same time, this is perfect for him.

A new start for his Icarus—

—Apollo coming down to meet him.

In the guise of mortality, not in the god-like glory, he makes the choice for you. Perhaps if the sun wasn't as scorching, would you, dearest Icarus, attempt to come near now?

—Of course he's not the sun. Sun-like, at best. A void that pulls forces. Devours. He keeps his sun-like stature to fool you. Pulls an Apollo to bring Icarus home. Binary pairs, forever revolving around each other.

So, no. He will not burn you. Instead, he will come to you, attraction pulling hard on his heartstrings.

Maybe it is you who deserves a hero title. You're saving this world by simply existing. You would save much more if you knew your power well, but he likes to keep his cards close.

So when his first move of check in poker comes in the form of a visit to the café you work at, you think the game is fair.

(And it is. All is fair in love and war.)

You think it's destiny—him catching you whenever you fall.

Catching. As if what made you stumble wasn't him in the first place.

Your skin colliding with his—nevermind his sweater's a layer he wishes wasn't in between the two of you—his limb feels like burning from the slightest touch.

Actor setting up his stage, you were lead actress in the dark of what is most likely his idea of love. Ray your love interest but only because that is the limit he allows. Cotton over your eyes lest you see the true number of choices you have.

And you have a lot. He can lessen those numbers, but even so, there is only so much pain in your expression that he can handle and put up with. As ruthless as he is, obviously he wants what makes you happy.

Because if you're happy, you'd want to stay. He doesn't have to plan—52 plans incase you ruin the first 26(you love making him overthink, don't you?)—if you're willing. If you want him.

Pliant, in your soft mattress. His is softer, branded luxury amongst other practical items he's bothered to buy with his money, but of course to hunt is to never rush.

He hates it when you're up and about. You go to places he can't really follow—mundane, you say, but if he argues it's not, then your suspicions raise. He can't have that. All that settles are crumbs instead—

—His name and number, appearing as if you'd scored them, slipped into your pockets. Stealthy, as if he hadn't thought multiple times of how and what if there weren't even any pockets on you. How embarrassing would that have been on his end?

Ray is different. Or so he thinks. He wants to know now what you think, thinking all his efforts should at least leave you guessing. (Sweet summer child. No experience in the ways of love, only ever transactional relationships and it shows.) He's like a cat. Dropping the most vague of hints and hoping it spells out "we're soulmates—trust.".

So when the silence stretches longer than he would have liked(merely a week; for a stranger, he sure does not know how long buildup takes), he finds you.

Under his attempt of playing Apollo, you also play Icarus perfectly. Such versatility—or perhaps duality—you have, perched by the large advertisment of him plastered over the city. In gold and glitter, Ray is adorned in all that glimmers for the one interview he remembers.

The one interview that matters. A show that he so wishes you would bear witness to, and it is the perfect moment right now that he also witnesses you watch it himself. All his luck(should he believe in such a concept) has pooled its chances for today.

Ray made sure you would encounter this interview one way or another. If not from the billboard—though he argues that that alone is a hard feat to ignore—then from magazines. Surely your eyes will drift towards him—an image, at least, coincidentally. Be it in stores you pass by or it being read by a civillian before you.

He is well loved, after all.

(Well, Binary Star is.)

In that interview he calls out to you. In words he knows will stir a reaction from you, no matter how the meaning is twisted it still means something that involves you.

He will have you. The world already knows, and so should you.

--

"I work law enforcement, remember?" are the first reasons he throws at you when he arrives at the café first thing after work.

Work. His job doesn't have set hours like you do(as much as he likes to have some. Would really do him good to just... not be the one the world needs for maybe fourteen hours like everyone else) so it was either he heals up and shows nothing as incentive to you, or—

—His job might as well mean a good thing for him, your lovely face scrunched to focus on bandaging him with what supplies your workplace has. He loves the sight of you so close, your worry doing wonders for his wounds(that he could so easily patch up himself or even heal. Bastard even knows it's not going to get infected or get him to bleed out.)

Sparkling little starlight of his, burning bright even without meaning to. He's meant it when he said he doesn't feel the pain no matter how many times you check.

The antiseptic stings. The blood loss lightens his grip on reality. The presses on marred flesh would make a grown man burst into tears. But he's meant to make up for the days he hasn't visited—damned world needed saving, he's been pulled away from you.

Apollo, needed by devout men and women falling to their doom. Ray's mind roars back that their impending downfall is their own making—humanity always fucks around and finds out(it's the point of history, and yet it spirals and people still call them coincidences. Not like Ray expects them to learn.)

All this trouble, yet the one whose touch he needs is yet too far away. Icarus, still not making use of his wings.

Does he knows his bone and flesh will melt upon leaving his habitat to join Apollo? Ray hopes on Icarus' naivety, then.

If not to be the hero he once wanted to be(symbol of justice—but what is just, anyway? when it turns out to be a hero is but a mere puppet on strings that all circle back to the goddamn government?), then if only he could just be your hero. Can't you let him do that for you(himself, really)?

"Being good at your job doesn't mean you're invincible," You retort in concern. "And even if you were invincible, you'd think you'd at least take care if just for the sake of those that worry over you."

Ray finds you adorable—cute barista cleaning him up instead of cleaning up shop, her main job—but it's within said job that he's reminded you're not alone.

"See, some people would drag that to the hospital than to a café." Your coworker Haley makes their presence known.

"Sorry, Hal. I'll replace the supplies myself." You don't realize that's not the issue, but Ray doesn't want to tell you what is. Seems neither does Haley.

"'s fine. Those were about to expire, anyway." They shrug, words meant to have Ray wince were he an ordinary man.

Luckily for him, he doesn't need to do his version of cleanup on the café. (Lucky for Haley, too. Ray would hate for this charade—scene to end, curtains fall to a close, credits roll—to move if he does clean up starting with Haley. Where would you work, then?)

--

Caffeine could almost replace the blood in his veins with how often Ray drinks coffee. Black, too? No man can handle that frequency without palpitating towards an early grave.

You say so too when you pour him a cup in your tiny apartment, making up for when he carried your groceries home. When he'd worried to hell and back when all he'd seen in those bags were instant foods—let him take care of you. He wants so badly to offer.

"I don't know how you can live with absolutely zero sugar or cream," You murmur against the rim of your own cup. Foam of marshmallow clinging to your lips, only making you even more adorable in Ray's eyes, something he didn't know was even possible.

"Some of us don't actually want diabetes. Shocking, I know." He rolls his eyes. A poor attempt in his eyes to appear uninterested. Surely you and anyone under the sun knows his attraction to you. You're his weakness, as painstaking as it is to admit.

He hopes you are never one day the thing that crutches him. The one thing that he will lose for, and the world will know—

—Binary Star isn't actually the most powerful—you are.

(Apollo to his Icarus.)

[bridenore]

Author rec : moonflower_rose

Moonflower_rose is one of my favorite authors. Here are a few recs, listed in alphabetical order.

Beneath the Wave by @moonflower-rose [30k]

Harry is done with a life in the spotlight. No more adventures, no more mortal peril. He wants a quiet life of food and friends, and family. He even manages to have it for a while, until suddenly there are giant rabbits that need ferrying to a mysterious island, and a handsome Draco Malfoy, and Harry’s right back in the middle of the action again, despite his best efforts.

Contretemps by @moonflower-rose​ [8k]

Draco Malfoy has been living like a model citizen. If only he could convince Potter.

Nothing But You On My Mind by @moonflower-rose [29k]

Potter has been in Australia on an internship for almost a year, and Draco cannot wait for him to get back home. They’ll finally have a chance to talk about their feelings for each other. What could possibly go wrong? Loads, as it turns out.

Nothing Gold Can Stay by @moonflower-rose [40k]

One summer evening, Harry Potter vanished in the middle of dinner with his friends. Four days later he came back. Sort of. Draco Malfoy is on the case.

Poppiholla by @moonflower-rose [12k]

Harry had accepted that he would pine silently for Malfoy forever, but one, humid summer might change that. Hoppípolla by @moonflower-rose [20k] Falling in love was as easy as jumping in puddles, and Draco Malfoy was completely drenched.

Snug by @moonflower-rose [6k]

Potter can't keep his hands off himself. Draco can't look away.

Toy Story by @moonflower-rose [40k] *Incomplete

A politician, a cursed dildo, and a minor workplace accident. All in a day’s work for one Harry Potter.

Watch The Castles Burn by @moonflower-rose [21k]

Draco Malfoy knows better than to get involved with Harry Potter. If only someone would have reminded him of that six months sooner, then maybe he wouldn’t be in quite such a large mess.

The World of Management (Or, Harry Potter and the Office Romance) by @moonflower-rose [15k]

Draco Malfoy is the heart and soul of the Department of Magical Games and Sport. The only thing standing in the way of professional bliss is his boss. And Harry Potter.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[chynandri]

I’ve got so much on my mind! Eva/Neil stuff To the moon beach episode spoilers

While I’ve always liked the Eva/Neil ship I have seen it as more one sided, or maybe just UNdecided. Neil I think it got increasingly obvious that he liked her, but it was hard to tell with Eva. I think in this game she definitely showed Interest in him. peeking at his shirtlessness and whatever’s in his pants at the pool lmao. plus wanting to believe the real Neil would want to protect her and do nice gestures. I think my most satisfying personal interpretation is that she’s just isn’t all that sure how she feels about him besides that obviously, this was her best childhood friend. After all I think it’s hard to have feelings for someone who was so distant and secretive at the same time. But there’s definitely still Something there that just… never got the chance to become something more.

I think a feeling of ‘incompleteness’ is prominent after finishing this game. Somehow having some of the truth confirmed/spelled out to you just leaves me with more questions. And perhaps that’s the whole point… the incompleteness of their feelings for each other, the incompleteness of the beach trip, the incompleteness of the simulated beach trip, the incompleteness of Neil himself as a person. I feel like the life lesson here was that you got to be ok with not having all the closure but realize that things have an end in spite of it. And you’ve got to move on once you’re ready to. The game giving you one final chance to linger on a perfect moment of Neil and Eva at their most vulnerable, letting You choose when the story ends was really profound. It’s like Kan Gao was saying to you ‘yeah, you’ve known all along Neil was dying/is dead. And that this series wasn’t going to last forever. You can keep returning to it again and again, but that fact remains and eventually you will stop playing the games and move on.’

I’m not sure if I’m articulating the metaness of this ending well enough, but Eva and the player feel in parallel here. Eva’s relationship with Neil, and the players relationship to this series.

Just wow. What an incredible ending. It almost felt too quick that the biggest theory of Neil being dead all along was confirmed but, it’s not too quick at all considering this story’s been going on for 13 years I guess. Still leaves me in shock even though that’s honestly what the games have been Strongly hinting at.

Will try to remember To the Moon for as long as I can. What an impactful game series…

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Eight (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note, this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Oh my goshhhhh, I hope you're ready for chapter eight??!!! We've been on such a journey with these two, and I can't wait for you to see where they go next. As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

In your ensuite, you shower the residue of the day away from your flushed skin, rinsing the sand and sunscreen and sweat away beneath the warm, sluicing water. You’re alone, and yet your thoughts are consumed by another. By Santiago specifically; of course. 

He had promised you something -to give you what you want, need- and you’re trembling already in anticipation of it. You feel butterflies unfurling in the pit of you at the thought of laying down with him. Of baring yourself to him. Of surrendering. Having him hold you. Not urgently or desperately this time - no. Intentionally. Deliberately. Gently. 

You unhook the shower head to rinse the soapy suds away from the contours of you and you think of him - because how can you think of anything else? Indeed, your want is so barreling that even your own hands smoothing over your skin - your breasts, your stomach, your thighs - arouse you, your own touch the precursor to the path his warm, rough fingers might travel. 

You are about to merge with him, but he already feels so much a part of you. 

You belong to Santiago. 

It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the lines and marks all over you where Santiago has been there for you, taken fire for you, pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. 

There’s that, but also, there are the more invisible markers which your life with him - alongside him- has left on your skin. There’s the scrape of his stubble against your neck. The grip of his broad hands on your hips. The pulse between your legs which your body remembers. You have catalogued and cartographed the soft and harsh parts of his body - and his soul. But, you still do not have the map to his heart. He is yet to show you the way; but even so…

He is your ride or die, and your body knows it. Always has. 

Your body knows that you are about to collide with him. To be subsumed by the surge and undertow of him, and you throb for it. You expel a sugared moan into the steamy air as the jet of water provides pressure against your wanting clit, and for a moment you wonder how you can be so gone for him. You have been waiting for him to choose you;  but, in truth, for you it was never a choice. 

One of you can not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies are forever moving through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you leave each other’s side. You didn’t choose it so much as it just happened. A lifetime, wearing familiar dirt tracks into clear waymarked paths with every step forward. 

Still, the map has always remained incomplete. You could never quite see where this path with him ended. How far it could take you. Whether he would walk alongside you some or all of the way. 

You are grateful for him. So grateful. But you always want more. More of him. How could you not? 

Santiago has already made your life beautiful in so many ways. Can he give you something beautiful tonight, too, like he had promised? Something that feels different to those waves which break, over and over, self-defeating. Something that feels different to an ending?

You startle as there is a soft rap at the door, and Santiago’s voice bleeds through the panelled wood, sounding as warm and grainy as sun-heated sand. Like summer. Like sunlight through a clearing in dense, gnarled woods. “Are you ready, querida?”

Are you? 

Are you ready for what he has promised? Because you are suddenly all too aware that what he has offered -in not so many words- is to make love to you tonight. To give himself to you. To let you bask in him. 

Are you ready for that? To see him in more than fragments. Not only snatching the haphazard pieces of him he offers - so jagged that they cut the palm you grasped them tightly in. Are you ready to feel whole? 

Can you take his love if it doesn’t hurt? 

Your heart thuds in your neck; from the hot, billowing steam, and from him. The mere idea of him. You step carefully out of the cubicle, steam venting into the room. Your skin is hot and wet and dripping, and you feel that same way too. 

“Two minutes.” 

You towel off, your hands lightly trembling. 

You think of him, because how can you do anything else?

You think of the water, sluicing down his sturdy body as he showered off in the main bathroom. Of him getting himself ready for you. You wonder if he aches for you as you do for him. You wonder if he grew rigid beneath his hand as you were becoming liquid for him. You wonder, if his heart ever once felt like it had a choice.

You think about him waiting for you right now in the bedroom. Maybe shirtless, black-grey curls wet and tight, his golden brown skin lit with the soft orange glow of the lamp. Of him poised there in the quiet and stillness waiting to collide with you, just like the sea washing over this frayed edge of land in this endless dance - consuming, taking, giving, repeating. Working as a team. 

You wonder if he feels this flutter in him too. This movement in him. This undeniable, slow drag which has always pulled you two to one another. Always. 

And so, he asks you. Are you ready? And you do what you can to prepare yourself for this collision. So eager to merge with him, but basking in the fact that, for once, you get to take your time. That you don’t have to fear or brace, thinking about whether, when you crack the door to the bedroom, he will already be gone. 

Taking your time then, and with subtly jittering hands, discombobulated breath, you smooth sweet-smelling lotion all over your body. Of course, you think of his hands and where they might travel too when they get their chance. Of how Santiago can touch you better than you could ever touch yourself. How he knows your body, seemingly, as well as he knows his own.

And so, you think of him. You think of him and of the ocean and the rocks. Of valleys and summits. Of dense jungles and sunlit clearings. Of the frayed edges of the land and the frayed edges of yourself. Of all the places where things collide and all the places where they merge, and how those places are so often one and the same.  

So then, when you think that you are finally ready? When you have smoothed lotion into your skin and smoothed your pleasant, buzzing nerves, you step out into the bedroom.

And that is the very moment you realise. Realise that you’re not at all ready. That you could never be. How could you be? How could he fail to take your breath away, even once? 

Just look at him. 

You enter the bedroom, your silk robe draped appealingly over the contours of your body and Santiago stands, surging up from where he had perched himself so impermanently on the edge of the mattress. He’s been waiting for you and he looks; immediately. Drinking you in. His jaw falling slack. He looks like he might’ve smiled at first - or greeted you in words. But he can’t do so now. The words are swallowed, perhaps, as a gulp trails down his corded neck. Santiago looks serious, his brows weighted. He looks as though he knows how much this matters. Like he finally knows how much you matter. 

You look at him too, and you find you can’t smile either. After all, Santiago fills you with a joy so heavy that sometimes, it is hard to recognise it as such. 

You simply take him in, then. All at once. The contours and ridges of him, and the paths your hands might travel over his smooth brown skin. You see him. Your lust-ridden and love-sparked eyes dance over his wetted, grizzled curls, scrunched-up but with errant strands coiling across his forehead. You take in his bare, sculpted chest. His toned arms and his soft, inviting stomach. You drink in the way his brushed cotton joggers cling to his ample hips. To his sturdy thighs and to the clear outline of the bulge at his crotch as he swells with anticipation from the sight of you alone. 

His hands hang loose yet primed at his sides as he looks at you from beneath his thick, fanning lashes. The pace of his breathing is slightly quickened, his gilded shoulders rise and fall with greater vigour as he scoops a hand over his flecked stubble and you hear it rasp. Feel it as though his fingers were your own. As though there is no difference or distance between you at all. Not the distance between here and Colombia. Not the distance he runs from you whenever you get too close. 

Your chest tightens with the sheer familiarity of him. Because of the fact you already know how he feels and how he tastes. How the vibration of his moans in his corded throat feel against your skin. Your chest tightens, because even in the mellow light of the room he still looks sharp and sure. Formidable. But he looks like home too. You remember all the ways you already know he is tender, and you want to learn every other way too. 

You take a deep, steadying breath as you sway towards him, from one steamy room to another, Santiago’s warmth every bit as enclosing. You are grateful that the window is cracked open, cool air kissing your heating skin. The sound of the swollen waves mirroring the surge within you.

In this moment, Santiago is not a man to you at all. Rather, he is a landscape. He is your whole life laid out before you. He is everywhere you have been, and he is everywhere you may go. His lands are your topography, and you know that you will walk his paths forever hoping to find a way to his heart. Hoping that, one day, he will let you call him home, even though you’ve already been here learning him for as long as you can remember. 

He is everything. And you’re not ready. And it’s all too much. 

Finally though, Santiago looks certain. He looks ready. He looks at you as though you are the moon and he is the tide, and that within moments he will move oceans for you. That he will flood your frayed edges, smooth and overcoming and inevitable. 

He closes the distance, his warm palm slipping up to gingerly cup your face and his lips slanting to capture yours. His fingertips tugging at the bow of your robe, about to release it. 

But you? You hesitate. You turn, almost impercebtibly, but it is enough for Santiago to notice. 

You hesitate because, by now, you are so used to breaking. And you’re not sure you can do it again. 

For so long, he has viewed you in pieces, and you have started to wonder whether he was the one who broke you apart in the first place. 

Now though? His gentle, earnest eyes reading your face and your body so carefully? His hand reaching out for you in a way that promises healing? That shows his palm holds nothing jagged - nothing but love? 

To your utter surprise, your skin flushes hot with embarrassment and you blink, your lashes fluttering towards your cheek. A modest, bashful smile is primed on your mouth. An apology readying itself on your tongue. It seems silly, you think. Silly to be hesitant now, after everything. Seems silly that after all of the times you have given in when he would promise you nothing, that you would shrink back when he offers you something more. Most of all, you think, it seems silly to be hesitant with him, after all the ways and places and times he has touched you.

You don’t quite understand it, but to his credit, Santiago seems to. When he senses your apprehension, his eyes narrow a little. His brow furrows, and his mouth slants up into a gentle, reassuring smile. 

“Come here,” he says instead, before your garbled, unnecessary apology can free itself from your throat. His voice is as soft as the shushing waves and the mellow light and he takes you by the hand, his fingers twined delicately with yours. He leads you, but not forcefully. He leads you the way the sun leads the moon into the night sky as it chases its warm light - you gladly follow, his palm bleeding heat. His eyes full of sunlight. He leads you then to your bed and he peels the covers back, inviting you to lie with him through a subtle nod of his head. The way this all started the first time he undid you - except tonight, you know, is so very different. 

Santiago climbs in first, never letting go of your hand, and he pats the spot on the mattress exposed by the turned-back comforter. Your fingers tug on your robe and you finally slip out of it, exposing the contours of your body to the pooling lamplight. Santiago’s tongue traces along his lower lip as he drinks you in, watching awestruck as the fabric shimmies to floor, pooling at your feet and leaving you bare. For a moment, you even feel self-conscious as Santiago regards you; for once not frenzied and desperate, but with time to study you. You feel on display and yet he makes you feel nothing but beautiful. Makes it seem natural as you allow the caress of the smooth fabric to be replaced by the warm embrace of him. You slip in beside him, shuffling under the covers. Both of you lying on your side to face each other, but still with some distance between you. 

You breath hitches as Santiago’s arm folds over your bare middle, his lithe fingers applying smooth caresses to your skin, the pads of him dancing up the notches of your spine, tracing the line of your shoulder blade. You are happy for him to touch you. You want it. But you do not reach for him just yet. Your arms remain bunched in the space between you, your forearms guarding your chest. 

“You still want this?” he asks, voice as soft as dissolving sugar. 

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, for you know it will be an irresistible, sweet, moreish thing. You can’t allow him to gaze into the depths of your own eyes just yet. After all, it is not only your body which is laid bare for him. Your feelings are too, you fear. Every single want and dream and desire and insecurity. He can read you. Knows you. 

“Yes,” you attempt to state levelly, and yet your voice cracks wide open. “I want this more than anything.” 

With a soft, perhaps relieved, exhale, Santiago shimmies forward then, closing some of the distance between your bodies. Tangles his thighs up with yours. Shifts his head so you are almost nose to nose on the pillow, dipping briefly to plant a fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose. All the while, too, his hand continues to wander over your body. Stroking you, caressing you, asking for nothing in return, and you bask in these slow, stretched, careful moments. 

“Then… what is it?” 

You finally look up at him then and, try as you might, you can’t disguise the way your eyes shimmer with emotion as you note the way concern has etched its way into his brow. For reassurance, your arms tug tighter into your chest. 

His eyes become liquid too, the earthy mirror to your own. They shine with a deep well of friendship, of care, of love. And you realise exactly “what”.

Part of you is afraid, sure. Part of you has been hurt too much to accept that you could share something truly joyful with the man. But a larger part of you is keen to relish in this waiting and restraint for other reasons.

Why, though? Why on earth would you wait? Hesitate? Well - it’s quite simple, really. Because if it doesn’t begin, it can’t ever be over. If you don’t have him like this - whole, fully - then you can never lose all of him. Losing pieces of him was hard enough, wasn’t it? And you don’t know that you could bear to lose a scrap more than that. 

Santiago’s gaze dips to your mouth and you can tell he’s eager. Good to go when and only if you should give him the green light. You want that. You do. Still, upon examining his expression more closely, something tells you that there is one more wall to fall. You’ve encountered so many of his walls already, that you’re not sure you have the strength to tear this one down. 

In the end, you are grateful that you don’t have to. That he does it for you. 

“You were wrong, you know,” Santiago’s voice sounds out, a gentle tone but full of subtle cracks. His hand slides up, gingerly capturing your cheek in his palm, holding your gaze with his. You don’t know what’s coming, but your chest tightens with some unknown thing, even as Santiago’s thumb tenderly strokes back and forth over your cheek to soothe you. Your brows knot, and you shake your head lightly, exhibiting your confusion. 

Pursing his lips, preparing himself, Santiago tugs the covers up to your shoulders, keeping you warm. “That night in Philadelphia,” he continues, a divot carving itself into his brow at first, and yet a mere moment later, his face lilts into a soft, wistful smile. “That was it. That was the night.” 

His smile widens, ever so subtly, and his eyes shine with enough adoration that you wonder if you’re meant to be here. If he can really be looking at you like that, or if you’ve momentarily stolen someone else’s life. “The night that… what?” 

“The night my dumb ass first realised that I was in love with you. And… the night I first realised you didn’t love me back.” 

You face scrunches with even deeper confusion now. 

What?! But, that couldn’t possibly… 

That night was years before you even hooked-up. Years and years and years before all of this. Before you even felt…. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Your breath stalls in your chest then as comprehension floods you. 

He loved you first.

Your chest constricts, and your heartbeat pushes the rhythm of his name into your mouth, in lieu of any words. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

All this time? 

He crooks his finger under your chin, his gaze level and calm - no blame in it. “You were wrong, see? You didn’t get there first, querida. I was waiting a long time for you. I guess I got scared you’d never catch me up, and so I…” His eyes swim briefly then, clouding over with something like regret. “...I started running. And I guess I just…” His shoulders hunch up towards his ears. “I didn’t know how to stop.”

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Your heart thuds his name, and you are overcome with too many emotions to name. Emotions which bend you from the inside out, mobilising you to unfurl yourself, to move towards him. But you don’t; not just yet. 

You do see it plainly now, as you look into his earnest, regretful eyes. You’d spent so long acting as though he had something to prove to you, but you already know who he is, don’t you? Know that he’d never hurt you if he could help it. You see plainly how it has hurt him to love you. That it still hurts him to love you. 

You don’t want that for him. You never wanted that. In fact, all you’ve ever wanted is for him to feel safe. To feel loved. And so, if Santiago can’t run freely into your safe hands? If he doesn’t believe he’s brave enough to do so? If your arms were closed to him for so long that he forgot what it felt to be open? If all of that is true, then you will reach for him instead.  

“Santiago.” You breathe his name, finally pushing the syllables from out of your chest. Finally squeezing errant tears from the corners of your eyes as you realise all of this time you’ve loved each other alone instead of together like you should have. As you mourn all the missed moments. As you lament all of the things which got in the way. 

That doesn’t matter now though. All of that feels inconsequential. It all feels like bullshit now that your paths have finally converged. 

And so, you do reach for him with your careful, killing hands. It is your turn to gingerly cup his cheek with your palm now, his stubble rasping beneath your hand, and his long-lashed eyes fanning closed as he leans gratefully into your touch. 

There’s so much that you want to tell him. So much that you want to say. 

That you’re here now. That you love him. That he doesn’t need to run. 

But… you don’t want to say it with words. After all, that was never the language you two shared most fluently. You want to tell him with touch. You need to. Want to tell him plainly and hear those sentiments returned in the writhing conflux of your bodies. In the moment, with your love for him spilling out of you, it seems no other way you could tell him - show him - could be enough. 

You reach out then, and with a stuttered inhale, your chest a butterfly house, you press your palm to his warm, bare chest. You feel his heartbeat thudding under your hand. Faster, Faster, Faster, as you touch him. 

You love the man. You will keep his heart safe in the roll cage of your ribs if he’ll let you. You will. You promise. You’ll be gentle with it. No more bracing. No more collisions. 

“Santiago,” you breathe as you move closer. As close as you can get, in fact, your form pressed up against his, skin to skin. “What do you want, right now?” You speak the words into the junction of his neck, his pulse point throbbing against your wanton lips. “What would make you happy in this moment?” 

You feel the deep vibration in his throat as he hums, moans, begs - dumbly - and you know intuitively that he cannot rely on words in this moment either - only on his touch. Can only tell you -show you - what he wants, craves, in the act of reaching for you, his hands finding familiar paths on your skin but walking them in a new way tonight. He reaches for you. Rolls you beneath him in a fluid motion because you yield, already a boneless, molten thing under him. 

He touches you. Caresses you. Kisses you. You return it. For a moment you are a mess of ragged breath and sweat and clashing teeth and tangled tongues. Of pads of fingers and brushed cotton and soft heaving moans. And then, his strong arms bracing him over you, Santiago pauses - amidst a breath snatched from your mouth. Pauses just to look at you there beneath him. His eyes flit all over your face, and he huffs out a disbelieving puff of air. 

”Holy shit, hermosa.”  He looks at you as though you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Perhaps you are. His molten, lust-dark eyes certainly make you believe it. 

Still, just before your greedy fingers can wind up and over, brushing over the prickle of short, buzzed hairs at the nape of his neck to drag his mouth back over yours, Santiago shifts, his kiss eluding you.  

Santiago has always had the map to your heart, and as his fingers trail so confidently down your skin, his lips working down the column of your throat, your breasts, your puffy nipples, stubble grazing you, you think that maybe, finally, he is following it home. Your bodies always were symbiotic; moving, fighting, then fucking as a team. He already knows as well as you do that your bodies, the cartography of your love, is a terrain which can be best understood by traversing it. That touch is the language you share. That you were always fluent in. This time, it is not a touch borne out of jealously or frustration or anger. It is not half-hearted or contingent. It is beautiful and joyful and giving. It is soft and attentive and God he’s never felt so good. 

You expel a breathy, silent moan - a plea really - as Santiago presses his body up against yours, his knee nudging to kick open your thighs. His hips dipped to grind his clothed erection into your heat. Your skin heats, desire curling in the pit of you and you kick away the covers, his warmth more than enough now. With a gust of air, a show of restraint - you swear he’s so desperate for you he could have dry-humped you through his clothes - Santiago manoeuvres his sweat pants off of him, and when he settles in position again he is bare and warm and hard against your slick. 

“Are you-? Do we need-?” 

“-I’m protected,” you answer as his muscled form braces over you, his strong arms boxing you in, the tip of his nose nudging yours, his thighs between your parted legs as the straining mass of his arousal glides over your folds. You wrap your legs and arms around him, holding him tightly, your nails tracing lovingly up and down the canopy of his broad shoulders. Twining into the mess of damp curls on top of his head. You feel the press of his soft stomach against yours. The heat of him everywhere. 

His lips meet yours desperately then, his mouth so needy for yours you could swear his lower lip is trembling as he opens up to shove his tongue over yours. “Baby,” he asks, wracked by need already, his brow burdened with the weight of it and his words barely intelligible. “Are you ready for me? I need you, querida.” 

“You’ve got me,” you soothe. “But I… I want you like this.” He looks surprised for a moment as gently, you guide him on to his back, rolling yourself on top of him until you’re straddling his meaty thighs. You take control away from him and for a moment, you can see he feels the loss of it. That he seems vulnerable, unsure. That while he had clearly intended to give into you, fully, that doesn’t mean it’s at all easy for him to surrender. “Just lie back and let me take care of you, okay?” 

His eyes lock on to yours, soft and uncertain, and it occurs to you again that you’ve never taken him like this. That he has always tacitly taken control. That he has always focussed on your pleasure as paramount. His words, whispered against your skin, into the shell of your ear - that’s it, princesa, right there, huh? - still echo in the depths of you. And now, you want to focus on him. Tonight, things are different. 

You feel desire twist in the pit of you as you look at him all spread out beneath you like this. Evidently needy for you, his cock rock hard and nestled against his stomach. You want to keep him on the edge for hours. Want to hear gruff moans unspooling from deep in his chest. Want to see his fingers rake through the sheets and his jaw tipping to the sky as he writhes his curls back into the pillow, eyes rolling to oblivion. 

You want to kiss him, everywhere. Want to smooth your hands over his brown skin until he melts into the mattress. You want to cover him with your body until he feels safe. 

You want him to feel safe. 

As you examine his form, already near boneless on top of the mattress but reaching for you - reaching with his fingers, with a jut of his chin to raise his pretty mouth, with a buck of his hips to chase your friction -  you settle for a compromise. A balance of your urges to demolish and exalt him. 

For a moment then, you even entertain the idea that you can exhibit restraint enough for foreplay. To tease him. To drag this out. Indeed, Santiago whimpers, an uncharacteristic sound from a man too stubborn to ever admit defeat, and with the sound, your stomach lurches with want. He grows entirely needy as you suckle at his neck, leaving purple love bites in your wake.

You shuffle your hips down his sturdy thighs so that you can fold to slide your tongue over his pecs, circling his pebbled nipple, beginning to trail your warm, wet mouth down his abdomen in a way that makes his glistening cock -wet with your juices- twitch on air. 

“Please. Goddamn,” he begs already, his thighs shaking beneath you, and you don’t need to be told twice. You want the thick, needy, ruddy length of him inside of you as badly as he appears to want that too.

You’ve waited long enough for this. To hold him so completely and to love him with your whole body. 

And so, you shift up until your slick arousal settles over the hot, straining mass of him. It’s slippy - you’re so wet already, and the contact earns a deep, guttural noise from him. 

Then, as you settle in position, automatically - more than automatically, like it’s preordained - Santiago’s hands settle at your hips the moment you are on top of him. They rest in that familiar place he loves to hold, fingers splaying, pads digging into your supple flesh. He grips you in his broad, lethal hands. 

Hands that were trained to kill but made to hold you tenderly; just like this, you think. 

He holds you, and ever so suddenly everything falls into place. As though you were lost all of this time and you have finally found where you were supposed to be. Like someone just handed you a map and assured you you can never lose your way again - not now that you’ve found him. Not as long as you hold on and don’t let go. 

You look down at him, your whole world beneath you and Christ, he’s usually beautiful - luminescent even - but you’ve never seen him look quite like this before. He looks… undone. Unguarded. Needy. Dishevelled. Vulnerable. His lust-blown eyes are blackened with desire yet shining too with adoration. His lids are heavy. Screwing shut as you glide yourself along his shaft. Gusts of breath coming from the circle of his soft, plush lips. That stubbled jaw raising, tipping up as his crown of lustrous curls beds down into the pillow. Light and shadow pooling and dancing and swimming in the contours of him - his sharp nose and heavy brows and sculpted chest. All that and more; but the true beauty? 

The true beauty is when his eyes flutter open once more; and you clearly see the eyes of your best friend looking back at you. 

You see him all at once, rather than the parts of him he’s attempted to compartmentalise. 

Emotion and desire twist in your gut and all you want in that moment is to show him. To show him that he’s loved. 

He’s so, so loved. 

And so are you. 

You hinge at the hips, your head falling to the side of his, temple to temple, cheek to cheek, his stubble rough against you. His familiar scent, woody and citrus, fills your lungs. You feel his brow against yours is already slick with a sheen of sweat as you dip your mouth towards the shell of his ear. “Are you ready?” 

His voice is hoarse. He is levelled by his want, but his face still cracks with a smile, the muscles in his cheek shifting against yours and the rake of his stubble conveying heat all the way to your core. “Are you kidding? I know you didn’t miss this.” 

He plants his feet and bucks his needy shaft against you with greater pressure, the head of him pressing at your swollen clit, gliding over it. You moan at the unexpected zip of pleasure, blooming out from your centre to every extremity, and you feel Santiago’s dirty, satisfied chuckle vibrate through you, chest to chest. 

His chuckle quickly digresses to a moan as you return the favour just as suddenly. As you rise slightly on your thighs, until you are able to grip his aching shaft in your hand and notch him in position, your folds caressing the blunt head of him. His grip on your hips tightens as you lower yourself on to him, feeling how he spreads you open as his girth pushes past your entrance with a thick, hot glide. 

Santiago chokes as he bottoms out, and you can feel him throb and pulse in your centre as he adjusts to the sensations. 

You feel full of him. Full in every sense. 

Fuck. You didn’t know. You didn’t know it could feel like this with him. Light. Playful. Delicate. Joyful. Beautiful. 

“Fuck, hermosa,” Santiago keens as you begin to move, folding over him once again, covering him with your body, your thighs enclosing his ample hips and your forearms planted, bracing yourself against the cushioning either side of his head. 

It feels soft and syrupy as you enclose him in your wetness. Sweat beads and gathers between your bodies as you undulate and rise and fall on him, the slow, sensuous drag of you causing him to bite down into the meat of your shoulder, his breath hot as it billows into the hollow of your collarbone. 

Santiago clings to your hips for a moment, an admirable attempt to guide your motions - until it all becomes too much. Until he surrenders fully and lets you lead. His hands first fist into the sheets at his side, and then they wrap around your back, coming to rest there, his fingers intermittently dancing over your skin. For once, his embrace is not a desperate thing. He’s not attempting to pull you closer or to push you away. He simply wants you exactly where you are. Exactly like this. 

It’s tender, the way he’s touching you. The way he’s trusting you and letting you set the pace. The way he kisses a string of pearls along your skin, the wet, percussive sounds filtering down to your bones. It makes you feel some kind of way, so you try desperately to focus on the sensations his friction is stoking in your centre. In the way the glide and drag and pressure of him inside of you is causing a steady, building, eddying ball of light to hover in the core of you, getting ready to burst out and fill your whole body with sunshine. 

It has felt dark, sometimes, to love him. But right now? It feels like dawn. 

You screw your eyes shut against the dam of emotion breaking within you. Against the tears threatening to spill over. You distract yourself from feeling too much all at once, planting kisses along the length of his beautiful, sculpted jaw. By devouring his mouth the way one would savour a feast. Slowly. Intentionally. Your tongue, ever so deliberate against his. 

“Fuck,” Santiago curses, his voice trembling. “You’re dripping all over me. Jesus fucking Christ.” 

You are. You can hear it. Feel it. This pooling slick between your legs being worked out of you. Coating him. Making everything smooth and fluid and easy, after so long with such friction between you. 

You ride him like this, communing with grunts and moans. Communing with his body, which you read so well. So automatically. You know what each shift and expression passing over his face means. You understand the tightening of his thighs beneath you. You can read his breath, his touch, his sounds, his movements, and you relish in the ways that you know him. All the ways you know how to make him feel good. 

You kiss a bead of sweat from his temple, the salt flooding your tongue as you rise up on him, lifting your body away from his to let the cool air soothe your heat-pricked skin. Relishing the look and feel of him beneath you. Relishing the way he drinks the sight of you in too with a slack-jaw, watching the way your hips work over him. The way your breasts bounce and sway lightly with the motion. You shift your angle slightly, until a long, gritted exhale unspools from Santiago’s plush mouth, his pretty eyes fluttering shut and his grip on your hips unwavering but weakening. 

“That’s it. Right there? Just like that?” 

“Uh. Uh huh,” he replies through gritted teeth, his expression looking pained as he tries to work through it. “Holy shit, baby.” 

You beam a devilish smile down at him until his eyes spark with mischief, and your core clenches on his dick as you watch him swipe the pad of his thumb over his pink, supple tongue, liberally gathering spit. He reaches for you, rubbing the pad of him gently against your clit. 

“Good?” 

Good? Yeah. Good enough to make your toes curl and your legs weaken beneath you. Good enough that you can scarcely continue your ministrations, your body sagging forward again, slumped almost boneless over him. 

“Tired?” Santiago asks you, and you stubbornly answer no despite the burn and tremble in your spent thighs. He sees right through it. “Let me flip you over?”

Reluctantly you concede and he rolls you, carefully, staying inside of you and never breaking contact. Settling your back against the mattress and his sweat-sheened body over you like a canopy. Like safety. 

He kisses you - deeply. 

He thrusts himself inside of you, the noises between your bodies obscenely wet by now, his grunts and groans percussive as he continues to stoke that white hot ball of light in your middle. 

He has never rocked you like this. So tenderly. So reverently. Slow and sure. Not racing towards any ending. He makes love to you as though he’s not afraid of any kind of ending at all. Like this perfect moment can just stretch on forever. Like he can always be buried inside you. 

You, though? You are still afraid of that ending. 

It feels good. God. It feels impossibly good to be held by him like this; but it’s bittersweet. Bittersweet enough that you still have to screw your eyes shut against the flood of emotion you are continuing to hold back behind that dam. 

Santiago’s lips graze your cheek, a softly planted, lingering kiss. “Hermosa,” he encourages. “Look at me.” 

“I can’t,” you admit, and you feel a sting of prickled heat beneath your eyelids. You feel vulnerable, exposed, in a way you’re not used to either. You feel like you want to run, but you know now. That never did very much good. 

“Look at me,” he insists, his voice soft and smooth, no sand left in his throat. So you do. You trust him. You follow him. Walk with him, like you’ve been on the same road all along, each without a map. 

You don’t know what you expect to see when you open your eyes, but all you do see is his gaze fall softly on yours, even as he fills you. You see him as a friend and a lover. You see him as everywhere you’ve been and everywhere you’re going. He’s a landscape, and his whole being is expansive and opened up to you. 

He fucks into you, his pace consistent and steady, and he plants intermittent kisses over your cheeks, scattering them into your hairline, your neck, the corner of your mouth. That ball of light inside you tightens, shrinking down, and you know it’s getting ready to burst. To radiate out into every extremity. 

You feel like you’re heavy and weightless at the same time. Like you’ve sunk so far into the mattress that you’re inches below it. Like you’re floating up to the ceiling. “It f-feels too g-good,” you stutter, your voice mere breath.

It does - feel too good. Not just the sensations, but him. The familiarity and safety of him feels too perfect to risk never having this again. 

Your eyes roll back into your head as Santiago keeps hitting that spot deep inside of you over and over, pleasure sparking and sizzling, white hot. “It’s okay, querida. I got you. Just keep looking at me. I got you.” 

You wrap him up like the gift he is, your legs folding around him, the tender soles of your feet settling on to his plush ass cheeks. Your arms winding around his middle, tightening, drawing him to you. Drawing him so close to you that you can’t look at him anymore, his head buried into the junction of your shoulder, his curls tickling your cheek. You draw him close enough that there is no space between your writhing bodies. So close that you don’t know where he ends and you begin, a mess of breath and sweat and limbs like twined dense jungle.

I love you.

I love you is what you want to say. I love you too is what you want to hear back from him - but your mouth makes the shape of some different words instead. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

It’s a broken, laid-bare plea. It’s what all this comes down to, isn’t it? You can’t fathom losing him. Can’t fathom being without him. 

“Cariño,” Santiago speaks against your neck, his lips sliding hot and wet down the column of your throat. “I’m never lost when I’m touching you.” 

It’s not what you wanted to say. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But you realise, in that moment, as Santiago moves his mouth to meld desperately with yours. As a lone tear sluices over the bridge of his strong nose. You realise that the words each of you spoke mean the same damn thing anyway. 

His tongue shoves unceremoniously over yours then, Santiago coming undone now, ragged and frayed like an edge of land as you wash over him, flooding him with liquid. He opens you up, everywhere. The cave of your mouth, your weeping cunt, your heart breaking open like dawn. 

You moan and he punches your name from his lungs as his hips stutter into you. His thrusts become sloppy but he keeps consistent pace long enough to tip your pleasure over the brink. For you to come undone, a star bursting from your middle, light pulsing out to every extremity and sending jittering aftershocks through your body. You clamp down on him, hold him close to you as you ride it out, your head buried in the crook of his shoulder, his creamy load pumping into you, deep and urgent, and his disbelieving, wracked moans sounding in the shell of your ear. 

You convulse on him, squeezing every last drop from him, your legs quivering. 

You cling to him. Cling to him for dear life as your pleasure swells and breaks and ebbs and flows. 

In turn, Santiago comes down with a shudder, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths above you. Eventually, he slips out of you, wordlessly, his eyes shining still with unwaning, transparent adoration. He kisses you, everywhere. Puts his hands on you. He laves his tongue over you in gratitude. He kisses every crook and peak and contour and valley of you. He kisses your scars, his mouth curved with a smile the whole while. He applies love across the cartography of you, of your life together. He presses his lethal hands to you and he kills you; softly. Gathers you up to him. 

It is then, in this moment of impossible tenderness, that your tears find their release. 

It floods you. All the times you’ve almost lost him. All the times you should have been holding each other close instead of pushing each other away. All the times you should have been cherishing this beautiful, fragile thing between you instead of fearing it. 

You let the tears eke out; but then Santiago kisses them away too, concern shimmying in his molten eyes. 

In this moment, you feel that he’s loving you how he’s always wanted to love you. Showing you what he’s always wanted to show you. 

And then, something else slips out of you. “I love you.” Your voice is small. Afraid. Even now. 

But this time, Santiago does not hesitate. “I love you too.” 

A few more tears fall. You would like to believe they are happy tears, but you still somehow feel that they are bittersweet. 

Wordlessly, Santiago shifts you, gently, bundling you up against his warm, sturdy chest. 

You listen to his heartbeat thudding in the shell of your ear, noticing it gradually slow. 

You let him trace idle shapes into your skin. 

Let him hold you close, until he stills. Until his breathing is so soporific that you wonder if he has succumbed to sleep. 

“You still awake?” You venture. 

“Yeah.”

“We made a mess.” 

“I know. But it’s okay. I put you in the wet patch.” 

The laugh that escapes you is unexpected. Shifts some of the heaviness in your chest. You bat him playfully in the pec, tweaking his nipple for good measure. “You’re a bastard, Garcia.” 

You think his throaty, reciprocal laughter is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” 

You shift back just a little, enough to look up at his face. His teasing grin slips effortlessly into something far softer and more earnest when he’s looking at you. 

“Come here,” he proposes softly, guiding you up. Leading you back into the shower. You follow him. You follow him though he never would seem to follow you anywhere. 

Still, you push all that away, in favour of the here and now. With him looking at you like that, what else is there? 

And so, you let yourself enjoy it. You enjoy it as he playfully tweaks your nipple in return and you giggle. As he wraps his arms around you from behind and your fingertip draws a tentative heart in the steamed-up mirror. As he leads you into the cubicle with him, beneath the spray of warm water. 

As you step beneath the stream with him, his fingers twined with yours, you realise that he’s taking you all over again. Making you his, but not by fucking - no. This time, he’s taking you with his soft eyes. With the way his soaped hands move with reverence over your slick body, reluctantly washing the traces of him away from your skin. With the way his mouth moves languidly against yours - and he tastes of soap but you don’t care. He’s taking you. Piece by piece. Taking you until there’s nothing left. Until your heart has migrated little by little, bit by bit, into the roll cage of his chest. Gently, this time - as though for once he might even keep it safe. 

You dry off together, and you settle back on to the bed. 

Already, you can feel Santiago packing this away. 

Putting his heart back inside his chest like a folded map.  

You drag his lips to yours and you kiss him. You’re not sure if you’re trying to kiss him to death or kiss him to life; but you know that you have to kiss him with everything you’ve got regardless.

You know that you have to beg him, without words. With touch. The language you two have always shared, your bodies moving symbiotically through this world, as a team - no matter the distance between you. One of you incapable of being read without the other. 

You know that you have to beg him. 

Stay. 

Stay. 

Stay. 

Stay; ‘til the sun comes up. 

Stay; forever. 

For every new day. 

He could never run towards you, he insists. Not yet. So, instead, you reach for him, your arms wide open. You soften your lethal hands. You relax that killing grip. You make him feel safe. Feel loved. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, if only he would let you try. 

“Turn over,” you whisper, with a soft curl of your lips, and he does so. He lets you wrap him in your arms, chest to his back, and he hums - a low, resonant sound - as you plant a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. You stay like that, until the both of you fall asleep. 

It turned out to be a beautiful night. The most beautiful night of your life, in fact, with the person you love most in all the world. You held him all night. Kept him safe and warm. 

But, when you wake up, you feel only cold air at your back. Cold sheets under your palm as you reach for him. 

Maybe he did stay, at least until the sun came up. But now, he is gone. 

In truth though, you’re not even upset. At least, maybe… you’re not even surprised. 

He’d promised you something that didn’t feel like an ending. He’d given you that, but in many ways it had still felt like a goodbye. 

At least this time, you had said the kind of goodbye you would have wished for. Not an angry, bitter thing. At least this time, you did all you could to let him know how you feel, in all the ways you know how. 

You sit up on the edge of the bed, and you tug in a long slow breath, releasing it into the quiet solitude of the room. 

Is it true that there are some people who you can only ever love in fragments? 

You don’t know, honestly. For now, you only know that you feel broken into pieces too. 

It always hurts when you say goodbye to him, doesn’t it? 

At least this time, it was a more beautiful thing; just like he’d promised, right? 

And, as you stand and move to begin your day, you remind yourself that he hadn’t promised you any more than that. 

[spookykoolkat]

╰•★★ ᴊᴏʟɪᴇ'ꜱ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ★★•╯

hello and welcome to my main masterlist that compiles all of my written work EVER!

⇢ first i'd like to introduce myself!

i'd prefer if people would call me jolie, it doesn't matter!

i'm nineteen years old :p goth metalhead :3

and i ONLY write for fat, plus sized people, ii write stories that i would read myself, as a plus sized woman, and i hope everyone enjoys it! if not, i'm sorry that it does not cater to thinner people but i need my plus size representation 🖤

AND AS ALWAYS, its FREE FREE PALESTINE!

⇢ now to get into my written work <3

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! - all of my writing is STRICTLY 18+ ONLY! anyone under 18 and without an age in your bio will be blocked! you are responsible for the content you consume!

all of these written works will or are consisted of dark themes, adult content, adult themes, violence, romance, SMUT, and varying emotions/tones. all written work done by me is not allowed to be shared, published or claimed as their own!

⁂ - smut, 18+ only, mature themes

⁑ - angst, intimacy, light smut

🎃 - kinktober [INCOMPLETE]

joel miller fics will not be continued at the moment.

OKAY finally, here are my stories written by MEEE :p

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 '𝟐𝟑 ❞

kinktober masterlist

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 ❞

you're just so sweet ⁂

✰ coming back into town for your mother's birthday wasn't difficult. it was figuring out how to be around their long time friend, eddie, without feeling that familiar throb between your legs.

you're just so sweet | 2 ⁂

✰ of course he wouldn't speak to you. he was a much older man, and you were just a naïve little girl who pushed her luck. didn't you listen to every song about daddy issues ever?

always mine, forever ⁂

✰ having your friend group spend the night at your place to watch movies was supposed to be fun! so why was your heart racing at the thought of eddie being merely feet away while you slept in your bed?

your brother's rocker friend ⁂ request

✰ dustin was always a little shit, but he was YOUR little shit. along with your nerdy brother, came along his not so nerdy, older friends. one in particular that drooled over everything you did.

the cabin in the woods ⁂ request

✰ robin's new friend caught some attention from her friends, but eddie couldn't find it in himself to make a move on you. of course robin's hot friend had to be lesbian. or so he thought.

toxic ⁂ 🎃

✰ to your dismay, you and eddie could never find the sense to leave each other alone.

taped ⁂ 🎃

✰ eddie needed a way to keep you with him forever, what's a better way than to document it on camera?

looking for a good time? ⁂ 🎃

✰ eddie was always up for trying new things. he just didn't think someone who he couldn't even see would make him feel the way he did.

trick or treat ⁂ 🎃

sorry about your boyfriend ⁂ 🎃

lucifer, my love ⁂ 🎃

╰┈➤ blurbs

after work *

tattoo shop *

more coming soon

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 ❞

the red - series masterlist

updates halted indefinitely

「 chapter one 「 chapter two 「 chapter three 「 chapter four*

「 chapter five* 「 chapter six* 「 chapter seven* 「 chapter eight*

「 chapter nine 「 chapter ten

[reunionatdawn]

The beauty of Axel's original character arc

"I thought a lot about that. Should I leave him as he was or should I bring him back again? However, when I considered the people that Lea wants to bring back, his existence plays a big role. I think Lea has successively become a key character." (Tetsuya Nomura)

Nomura said that he debated whether to bring Axel back to life, or to leave him as he was. The fact that he wasn't sure meant that his KH2 character arc must have felt complete somehow. So, I'd like to take a look back at Axel's original storyline in KH2 and why I liked it so much. I thought his death worked very well as a beautiful and satisfying (albeit more bittersweet) ending to his story. In many ways, I found it to be much more poignant than his storyline in KH3.

“Is that how to treat a best friend on coming back from completing a long mission!” “I don’t recall becoming your best friend.” (Another Report: Roxas—Somewhere in Time)

Roxas was closer to Axel than any of the other Organization members. But he obviously yearned to have best friends his own age. That is why he was best friends with Hayner in his dream world, even though he didn't know them in real life. And he didn't even remember Axel. In other words, Roxas and Axel were not really best friends. In the short story that was included with the Japanese version of KH2FM+, Axel was the one who was insistent on using that label.

Hayner: Well, I doubt we can be together forever. But isn't that what growing up's all about? What's important isn't how often we see each other, but how often we think about each other. Right?

The whole concept behind Nobodies was that they had no hearts, but they still had their memories from the time when they did. So, the writers undoubtedly had some idea of what each member's backstory was like. In the original KH2, the writers chose not to explicitly tell us anything about Axel's past. But based on his behavior, we would be able to ascertain that he probably had a best friend when he was still a human. However, he was already a grown up. His summer vacation must've ended a long time ago. He could no longer be with his best friend, and he needed Roxas to fill that void.

Roxas: Organization XIII… they're a bad group. Naminé: Bad or good, I don't know. They're a group of incomplete people who wish to be whole. To that end, they're desperately searching for something.

One of the biggest themes in KH2 is that of duality. In Hinduism, the universe is said to be made up of two complementary opposite forces called Shiva and Shakti. Shiva is the masculine force and is known as the destroyer or transformer. He is associated with chaos, darkness, and the element of fire, which symbolizes purification. Shakti represents light, order, and the feminine nurturing aspects of the universe, giving birth to new life. She is associated the element of wind, which symbolizes life energy and creation.

Axel's moniker is "おどる火の風". It translates to "Wind of the Dancing Fire" or "Dancing Fire's Wind". This is my theory of what the deeper meaning was. One of the most famous depictions of Shiva is that of him dancing in a ring of fire. This version of him is known as known as Nataraja. The rhythmic movements of the dance are said to cause storms and destruction. And there's a backstory to the dance.

In Hindu mythology, Sati immolated herself out of intense devotion to her husband Shiva when her father insulted him. When Shiva learned of Sati's death, he was overcome with grief, sorrow, and uncontrollable rage. Shiva carried Sati's lifeless body on his shoulders and began to perform the cosmic dance of destruction.

In KH1, the reports mentioned how Ansem amplified "storms" in the subjects of his experiments on the darkness of the heart. The kanji used (嵐) can refer to a literal storm or it can also be used metaphorically to describe an intense emotional state. I suspect that the original idea in KH2 was that Axel's best friend was killed during an experiment. And this event caused Axel's heart fall to darkness, turning him into a Nobody. It's probably the reason why Axel was so delighted to assassinate Vexen by setting him on fire.

Axel: Let's meet again in the next life. Roxas: Yeah. I'll be waiting. Axel: Silly. Just because you have a next life…

The imagery of Shiva dancing within a circle of flames represents the eternal cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Shiva performs the dance and destroys the universe, but this destruction is eventually followed by rebirth. His lover Sati was reborn as the goddess Parvati and reunited with Shiva as his other half. Their combined form represents unity in duality and cosmic balance. In KH2, Axel did not think he was going to be reborn. And that was the basis of his storyline.

Naminé: We may not have homes. But there is someplace I want to go… And someone I want to see… Axel: Same here.

Nobodies had a strong thematic association with death and the afterlife. In KH2, Naminé was the ghost girl living in the haunted mansion. In KH3, she was an incorporeal star in the Final World, the metaphysical place where people go when they have strong attachments and cannot pass on to the other side.

A Nobody was the spirit that went on even as its body faded from existence. They were very similar to the Unsent from FFX, which was another game written by Kazushige Nojima. Axel was created because his human-self had strong sentiments. He desperately wanted to be with his best friend forever. And this unfulfilled dream, ironically, kept his body and soul tethered to the realm of light.

Kairi: Maybe…waiting isn't good enough. Axel: My thoughts exactly! If you have a dream, don't wait. Act. One of life's little rules. Got it memorized?

When Axel asked Kairi if she wanted to "see" Sora, he was referring to her meeting him in the afterlife because he was planning to kill them both. A similar form of wordplay was also used in the Japanese dialogue. His intentions were made apparent by his outstretched hand. He wanted Sora to become a Heartless again. So, he probably planned to accomplish that the same way he became a Heartless.

(Japanese Translation) Axel: We're quite similar, aren't we? Both of us want to meet our important friends. Don't you think we're like comrades?

In the KH universe, when a person dies, their heart returns to the light of Kingdom Hearts. Since Axel didn't think he had a heart, he thought there would be nothing left of him to live on after his empty vessel was destroyed. Even if he wanted to die and be reborn to meet his best friend, he couldn't. He was driven by intense loneliness.

Some Kingdom Hearts fans think there's something romantic between Axel and Roxas and that Disney stopped that from being made explicit. Is that true? Have there been things Disney have stopped you from doing? Nomura: In terms of the relationship between Axel and Roxas, we never intended anything like this and this is actually the first time I ever heard of it! We don't want to openly negate how the fans have come to enjoy the characters, but it was not something the creative team intended. Axel and Roxas are the best of friends and that's their primary relationship. 

Axel's intense yearning to see Roxas once more made fans question his orientation even back in 2005. Akuroku was quite a popular ship back in the day and many players saw romantic subtext on Axel's part. I do agree that Axel is easily read as queer. But the creative team was not trying to imply that he was in love with Roxas. I think it was his human best friend that he was really in love with, and Roxas just reminded Axel of him. When he was with Roxas, he felt like he was with his best friend. And that's why he wanted to die by his side.

(Japanese Translation) Axel: When I was with him, it felt like I had a heart too. That kind of feeling... I feel it with you too... The same...

When Axel said, "the same", he was referring to how Sora reminded him of Roxas. But I believe that we were invited to read between the lines and wonder if he was also referring to a human best friend that had already passed on. Ultimately, Axel's original KH2 arc was not about being together with Roxas forever. Roxas merged with his other half and became whole. He would live on within Sora.

In some Hindu traditions, "Sati" also refers to the act of a widow willingly participating in a self-immolation ritual on her deceased husband's funeral pyre. It was seen as an expression of devotion and loyalty and also an act of peerless piety which was said to purge her of all her sins. The widow would achieve spiritual liberation (moksha) not only for herself but also for her deceased husband. This meant that both would be freed from the cycle of death and rebirth (samsara). The widow was thought to be reunited with her husband in the afterlife, enjoying an eternal spiritual existence with him.

To help Sora reunite with Kairi, Axel self-immolated. After he died, Nojima probably envisioned that he would meet his dead best friend again, who was waiting for him on the other side. He had attained moksha, which represents the final goal of human existence in Hinduism, where the soul is liberated from the cycle of samsara. And that's probably why Nomura wasn't sure whether it was better to bring him back to life or to just leave him as he was.

"I never thought he would grow as much as he has. We originally planned to have him exit upon being defeated by Roxas during the opening of KHII, but all the staff, myself included, were strongly inclined to have him keep playing an active role after that. It's possible he will have things to do in the future, too. I tried to put that into his 'see you' line in KH2 FM+." (Tetsuya Nomura)

When KH2 was written, the writers probably had not envisioned a preexisting relationship between Saïx and Axel. But after its success, they decided to expand on the Organization's backstories, and came up with that idea. Isa was based on the original concept that was implied in KH2. Axel did have a human best friend, and that loss had a profound influence on his relationship with Roxas.

If Axel's human best friend was supposed to be literally dead in KH2, then him only being Norted is a major retcon, yes. But it was a retcon that would allow for the eventual reunion of Axel with his best friend in the physical life. Like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, he could resurrect him from the dead. And that was the underlying idea of making Lea a Keyblade wielder in the first place.

Lea and Isa's backstory is one of the missing links of the KH series. By all means, it should have been depicted many years ago, in the defunct Birth by Sleep Volume II. This is a shame because it left their relationship extremely underdeveloped, and their reunion was largely glossed over in KH3 as a result. Because of this, I thought Axel's storyline in KH3 fell flat, and I thought that his ending in KH2 was more impactful. But I may change my mind if we finally get to see more of Axel's long overdue backstory in Missing Link.

[pen-and-umbra]

Compilation spoilers below.

As the party delves deeper into the Temple of the Ancients, a vision of Sephiroth delivers a cryptic speech:

(“My fragmented mother, these errant worlds… All shall be one again.”)

“My fragmented mother” is a very deliberate choice of words. While the OG story touched on Jenova's fragmentation while dealing with the subject of Reunion, the plotbeats focused on Sephiroth and his failed copies rather than the creature itself. As the story unfolds, Cloud kills or severely injures Sephiroth during the Nibelheim mission, leading him to utilize clones and Jenova's remains after emerging at the Northern Crater in order to repair his maimed body. The same Ultimania Omega relayed that developers once thought about a scene where Sephiroth was revealed to have a Jenovaesque lower half. (The concept was eventually scrapped, but it would have added an even more grotesque element to Sephiroth's already terrifying being.)

(“It shall encompass worlds unbound by fate and histories unwritten. <...> My dominion shall reach into infinity”)

However, the Remake implies that the Reunion serves a different purpose. Or, more accurately, Sephiroth refers to a distinct event—the merging of worlds—as Reunion. According to Sephiroth's cryptic message, this is yet another foray into “godhood”. Not too unlike Ultimecia’s time compression, Sephiroth allegedly plans to join all the timelines into one to achieve “infinity/forever”. And yet, what does it have to do with “his fragmented mother”?

(“All made whole.”)

What if the true purpose of Remake's Reunion is not about “infinity” per se but about the “whole” part?

From the perspective of the OG, we are led to believe that the gathering of failed copies is the result of Sephiroth's will. However, Cetra's hologram delivers an interesting warning as the party traverses through the Temple of Ancients.

(“Heed well to our warning of that which is to come…<...> The reunion. When our adversary's scattered malignancy shall converge to plague the Planet once more.”)

The Cetra allegedly referred to Jenova's own inherent ability to reassemble its pieces (“Reunion”), whether conscious or unconscious. Unless the message was purely prophetic in nature, the statement presupposes that Jenova's body was already dispersed during the era of the Cetra, predating ShinRA's R&D department's experiments with alien cell injections. The Temple of Ancients narrates a gripping tale of Cetra's battle against the calamity-from-the-skies, with significant casualties suggesting a lasting conflict rather than a singular encounter.

Thus, it is possible that Jenova sustained injuries and lost some of its biologics before Cetra managed to seal it. Alternatively, fearing Jenova's reunification, the Cetran people may have “scattered” the creature in some way in order to hamper its resurrection. Whatever the case, at the end of the day, Jenova at the Nibelheim reactor appears incomplete or misshapen, missing a wing, and apparently suspended midway between morphing into a humanoid.

If the message is interpreted as a prophecy about the future, it demonstrates Cetran's extraordinary augury ability. However, assuming their knowledge of the future is precise, they never mention a different agent (Sephiroth), instead referring to their “celestial adversary” as the enemy who will plague the planet once more.

Anyway, spool forward, and in the age of ShinRA, the likes of Hollander and Hojo kept experimenting with Jenova's organic material, further disseminating alien cells. Several of its hosts have died. That includes both humans (Angeal or Gillian, for example) and monstrosities infused with J-cells that our party encounters (both organic and mechanical). While it is hard to estimate how many test subjects died during the course of the Jenova/SOLDIER Project, we can suppose that quite a number. It is currently unclear what happens to Jenova cells after the host dies; several instances appear to be convoluted (Angeal's mother allegedly dies alongside alien material, but Lucrecia claims that Jenova cells keep her alive). Let's assume that J-cells usually die with the host. As a result, an uncertain amount of organic material is missing from Jenova's body and will not make it to Reunion.

When combined with the Ancients' reference to “scattered” essence, Sephiroth's words about his fragmented mother make a lot more sense in the context of worlds merging. What if the primary aim of unchaining timelines was to acquire unattainable fragments of Jenova from hosts that are deceased within the primary timeline? Destiny's Crossroads, as a singularity of some kind, appears to be linked to all points in time and space. As a result of destroying Harbinger, our party is likely to have had an impact on PAST events (Zack's Last Stand). As a consequence, Zack lived. What if Jenovaroth's true goal is to alter branching timelines so that as many J-cell hosts as possible survive to converge at Northern Crater? Bringing scattered Jenova fragments across time and space to resurrect the entire entity and restore its power? The consequences of such a plan could indeed be disastrous.

Examining the issue from this perspective raises the question of who is truly in control and what kind of being will emerge after Reunion has run its course. It also raises the question of whether there are other ancient “deposits” of Jenova's organic material left from the Cetran War, if the warning in the Temple of Ancients was NOT a prophecy about ShinRA era.

👋 @pen-and-umbra