#But I like to think this is the divide between him and Thomas

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

little sister, my arse (f.w.)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.

A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?

Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider

Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.

Best friends, even.

“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.

Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.

In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.

And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.

Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.

Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.

You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

You looked hot.

Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.

Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.

He stared at you.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”

You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”

Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.

You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”

“It’s a postage stamp.”

“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.

“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”

Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”

Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”

You rolled your eyes.

Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."

You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."

Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"

He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"

That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”

"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.

"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."

You blinked again, "For what?"

He paused, "To supervise."

"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."

Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."

"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.

Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”

You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."

Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.

He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.

“You’re like a little sister to me.”

He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.

And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.

Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.

But you noticed.

So did everyone else.

And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.

And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.

Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground. Every duel, a performance. Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.

Today was no different.

You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.

But you simply smiled.

Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.

You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.

It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.

Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.

“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.

His face was a picture of panic.

Your internal grin was feral.

He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.

“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.

He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.

"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”

You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)

“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”

Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”

Little sister.

Right.

You tried not to roll your eyes.

Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.

No, it was different when it was you.

When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.

You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.

You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.

As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.

You’d get him eventually. You were patient. And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.

It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.

You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.

Until it wasn’t.

A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”

“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”

You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”

Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”

You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.

Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”

You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”

“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”

You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”

“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.

Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”

You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”

Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”

You blinked, “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”

“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”

“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”

“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”

He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”

You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”

He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”

That shut you up.

He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.

“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”

He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”

You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”

He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”

Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.

He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”

You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.

“You do?”

You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”

Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.

“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.

You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”

“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”

You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.

It was nothing and everything.

Just a moment. Just a feeling.

But it was these moments that truly made you believe.

You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.

The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.

You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.

A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.

“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”

Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?

It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.

You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”

You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.

But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.

So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.

The small detail you’d failed to factor in?

Your friends hadn’t come alone.

So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.

You weren’t bitter. Not really.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.

Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.

He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.

Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.

You looked up as he stopped in front of you.

“Fred?”

“You look like a lemon.”

You blinked. “Charming.”

He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”

You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”

You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”

You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.

“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”

“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”

“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”

“You won’t.” You said smugly.

You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”

You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.

“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.

The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”

Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”

The boy hesitated, then walked away.

You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”

Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”

You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”

He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”

The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.

“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.

“Fred—what are you—?”

Then he dipped you.

Dramatically.

One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.

“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”

“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”

He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”

Your breath caught.

He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.

Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.

You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.

So you said nothing. You let him hold you a little too close. Let his fingers linger at your waist. Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.

And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.

At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.

The both of you just lost in your own world.

Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.

Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.

“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”

You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”

He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”

“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”

He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.

“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.

Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”

He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.

“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.

“Angelina, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”

Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”

She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”

His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”

“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”

Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.

Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.

Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.

Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.

Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.

Oh.

Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.

He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.

Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”

But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.

“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”

Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”

Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”

George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”

“I didn’t—”

“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”

“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.

“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”

Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”

George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”

Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”

George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are in love with her.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”

George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.

Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.

The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.

He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.

He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.

Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.

So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.

You’d gone all out.

Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.

So you did.

The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.

George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.

“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”

They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.

And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.

The real one.

Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.

And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.

When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.

“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”

He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”

You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.

Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.

He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.

His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.

“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”

Fred stared at it.

Then at you.

His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.

You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.

There was no warning.

No hesitation.

Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”

You opened your mouth.

He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”

You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.

Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.

The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.

A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.

“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”

George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”

Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.

You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.

His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.

“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”

Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.

You just winked.

And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.

And he always had been.

Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.

Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.

Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.

At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.

George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.

“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”

Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”

“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”

Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.

This went on for days.

He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.

It was, frankly, kind of adorable.

George was having the time of his life.

On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”

Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.

Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.

Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.

Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.

You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.

When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.

Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”

Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.

“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.

Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.

Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.

“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”

You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.

“Moi?”

Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”

You just winked, utterly unapologetic.

You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.

The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.

He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.

He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”

That was when you snapped.

You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.

For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.

He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.

Again and again and again.

But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.

You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.

“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.

Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.

Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?

Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.

“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.

Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.

And now? Now he was properly wrecked.

Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.

“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”

He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—

“Oi!”

The door slammed open.

George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”

Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”

George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”

“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”

George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.

Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.

“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.

You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”

Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”

You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.

Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”

“You do.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”

You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”

You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”

He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”

Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”

He did.

This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.

Bonus:

It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.

Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.

You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.

He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.

“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.

“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.

“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.

You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”

His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.

Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”

Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.

“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”

Fred blinked, “What is that?”

George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”

You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”

Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”

You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”

Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”

“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”

Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.

“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”

Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”

Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.

Bonus Bonus Scene:

It started innocently enough. (Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)

You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along. “You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.

Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.

By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.

Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.

You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.

You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.

You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.

Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.

You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.

Until—

“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”

You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.

Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)

Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.

For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.

Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.

Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.

Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.

Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.

“How long has this been going on?!”

Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”

Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”

You winced. Fred winced.

Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.

Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.

Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.

“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Even George stopped laughing.

You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.

Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.

And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.

“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”

You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”

He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”

Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)

The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.

“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”

“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”

“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”

You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”

“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.

“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”

“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.

“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”

At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.

“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.

Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.

You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.

“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.

Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”

“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.

Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”

“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.

And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

[celaenaeiln]

Hiii, how are you? I’m new in the Batman fandom, but i saw a lot of people saying that Jason is actually Batman’s favorite child, and when i was reading the comics, i really though that Dick is Bruce absolute favorite, but i saw a lot of posts here on tumblr of the fandom saying is actually Jason and that the batkids all know its Jason, but i don’t know what is canon and what is fanon (quite honestly when it comes about the batfam i don’t like a lot about the fanon version 😭), so i wanted to ask you about it

And sorry if i said something wrong, english is not my first language

Hi and no worries at all!!

Yeah, canonically Dick is Bruce's favorite by a LONG shot and canonically the batkids all know this.

Infinite Crisis Issue #3

It's says right here in the comics. Really explicitly. But not only that, time and time again, there is clear evidence of Bruce's preferential treatment of Dick over the rest of the batkids.

One time the batboys and Bruce are searching for a guy that kinda is using the Gotham criminals as his subjects. So what they decide to do is split up to narrow him down.

Detective Comics (2016) Issue #1057

But they run into issues because the villains chose a 'divide and conquer strategy"

Detective Comics (2016) Issue #1057

Bruce gets swept away! Because of a carefully planned trap. But do you what he does the second he wakes up?

Detective Comics (2016) Issue #1058

JDAKFA;BFJALEC

BRUCE LITERALLY WENT: "I love Dick and all the other not-Dicks equally" !!!!!

As if that's not enough, Bruce's biggest fear is that he's not good enough for Dick.

Bruce's fear about Dick-

Batman vs Robin Issue #3

because he believes this -

vs

Bruce's fear about Jason -

Batman vs Robin Issue #3

because he believed he failed to do this -

Batman: Hush

Reminder: Joe Chill is Martha and Thomas Wayne's killer. Enough said.

If you want to be even more explicit about Bruce's preference for Dick over Jason it can't be clearer than here:

Bruce reflects on Jason's Robin tenure -

Batman (1940) Issue #428

Something a lot of people don't know/refuse to acknowledge is that Jason canonically did have anger issues. There aren't a lot of parallels between Jason and Dick but one particular thing that DC points out is that Jason and Dick both lost their beloved fathers. The difference is that Dick was able to move on and become cheerful even if he didn't get revenge. Jason wasn't able to get over the loss of his father and became angry. UTRH makes a specific point of talking about this too.

Batman (1940) Issue #645 "He knew that Jason Todd was NOT Dick Grayson."

Do you remember why Jason became Robin?

Batman (1940) Issue #416

Bruce wanted Dick. He took in Jason in replacement for Dick. But Jason was not Dick and even on the day he died, all Bruce could think of was that taking in Jason was a mistake.

The batkids are well aware of this. Damian actually calls Jason Bruce's mistake too when he's recounting the story of the robins.

Here's what he says -

Batman (1940) Issue #713

That's Damian's retelling. Tim's is even worse -

A Lonely Place of Dying

Ouch.

Truthfully Jason is like Bruce's 4th favorite. In order of how much Bruce loves his kids it goes:

Dick

Damian

Cass

Jason/Tim (tie)

Tim/Jason (tie)

Steph

I think there's so much confusion about Jason supposedly being the favorite because Bruce grieved over Jason's that but I think a lot of people are conflating grief and self-blame with love. There have been two significant deaths in the family: Jason and Damian. If you look at how Bruce reacted in each aftermath, it becomes clear that he loves Damian more than he loved Jason.

After Jason's death:

Batman (1940) Issue #429

Batman (1940) Issue #431

After Damian's death:

Batman and Robin (2011) Issue #21

Batman and Robin (2011) Issue #20

He would forcefully make Jason relive the worst day of his life so that his other son could enjoy his.

Bruce's behavior after Jason's death was self-destructive and isolative but his behavior after Damian's death was to beat bloodly every single criminal. His reasoning for beating Dick after Jason's death was "Jason was your replacement. If you hadn't left I wouldn't have had to take him in and he wouldn't have died." His reason for beating Jason after Damian's death was "Your trauma matters so little to mean that all I want is Damian to live again and I couldn't care less about how you feel."

In summary, Jason wasn't Bruce's favorite either as Robin or as an adult. But even if it's not Dick, claiming that Jason is the favorite is so far off that no one is DC would remotely believe it. You would think there would be more analysis on Damian's death in comparison to Jason's because they were two big official deaths but I guess not for some reason. I ran out of image space but yeah there's more than just this overall. This isn't to say that Bruce doesn't love Jason. NO! He very much loves him. But he just doesn't love him the most.

On a different note - coming from someone who went from TT show to YJ to fanfic AND THEN reading comics, I've had relearn a lot about each of the characters. But for people still in the process of transitioning from fanfic to comics or just in the fanfic stage, general rule of thumb when it comes to batfamily content - NEVER trust what people say if they don't provide the evidence for it. People in this fandom are so wild that they'll have you believing the earth is the center of the universe, that you'll fall off the world if you go too far left or right, and that pigs can fly.

[see-arcane]

Thinking about another dividing line between Thomas Hutter and Jonathan Harker:

One has absolutely no poker face whatsoever.

The other successfully played 'We both know I know you're a bloodsucking horror but the pretense won't end until one of us cracks' chicken for two months solid.

In Thomas' defense, he went through a lot more immediate stressors and terrors within a much shorter time period. Dude was frozen and starving and being magic trick-whammied and getting his blood drained from the tit in under 24 hours' time. Probably not in the best shape to put on a good performance.

But Jonathan, despite being given a far softer introduction to his nightmare, does absolutely ping that Dracula is 1) Keeping him prisoner 2) Not human and 3) Planning to drink him with his roommates and undeadify him the moment the game ends. Still, being a good customer service worker, he bottles up his breakdowns for private time. Then clocks back in to Vampire Hell Guest Mode.

"Yes Count, I would love to hear more war history while you randomly touch me :) This is so nice and fun and normal :)"

I won't say he'd do much better in Thomas' spot, seeing as Orlok is...not built for playing cordial host. But Jonathan is like Mina in the way that he can get a person rambling. If nothing else, I think Orlok would have been caught in gruff peacocking mode for a fair bit longer than he intended if Jonathan started fishing. Orlok would take Dracula's 'lol you soft city boys know nothing of the ways of the hunter' line and turn it into a full diatribe while Jonathan nodded along and tallied the seconds in which he got to keep all of his blood in him

[zomb-rabbit]

Rabbit

Rabbit I'm begging you to do stalker headcanons with Mh or EMH guys (you don't gotta ofc! But w o ah)

🐟

AAAA IM SO HAPPY U LIKED THEM !!!! I WAS RLLY HAPPY W HOW THE TOBY ONES CAME OUT :)))) also,,,, watch me hit u w ALL the guys !!!!!!!!!!!!!! (nsfw can come later if u wish fishy, i skipped it cus this is alr a super long post BFJSJFNJS) (also i got to use my rainbow dividers i have saved up cus there's so many ppl YAYYYYYYY)

[📹⛓️‍💥🚬👁️☠️🐇]

Stalker!Brian Thomas / Hoodie / Tim Wright / Masky / Evan Myers / HABIT x gn!reader headcanons :)

Brian ;

ok we know Brian likes to record

so expect there to be at least one camera on you a majority of the time

sometimes he'll leave it in a tree or placed just right behind a fence post, zoomed in on your bedroom window so he can document you and your routine even when he's busy

he's so thoughtful 😸😸😸

definitely the type to perfectly curate a "meet-cute" for the both of you, writing down the coffee place you stop off at on mondays for a pick-me-up, the stores you go to that have your favorite brand of something, he calculates his every action with you long before it's happened.

he knows what he's doing is wrong, but unlike Toby, he's not exactly ashamed of it. if anything he likes the added excitement that you could still find him out

this is one of the times him and Hoodie kind of blur together a little bit, both in morals and actions

Brian is fully willing to do whatever it takes to keep eyes on you and to keep you under his thumb and his alone; it doesn't matter who gets in his way

Hoodie ;

also a big fan of recording, but tends to get much more risky with it

likes the feeling that you might catch a little camera that's nestled in between some trinkets and books or a pile of blankets you keep on your couch

he is a creepy creeper . he wants to watch EVERYTHING

gets his feelings hurt when you close your curtains cus you feel eyes on you (you're right, but still :(()

it takes a lot to deter him from doing everything in his power to keep watch over you

he's not even sure of his own motives, really. sure, he wants to keep you safe and make sure no one else is watching you, but most of the time he's just there to watch.

you're like a doll to him, something to entertain him.

Masky ;

this isn't even part of this i just wanna say the vibe for stalker Masky (and just him in general tbh) for me feels a lot like the intro to My Meds Aren't Working by Dystopia . very slow, calculating, stuck in your own head but still zeroed in on one thing

and it's you ofc !!!!

i think Masky is one of the more scarier guys to have stalking you on this lineup honestly. hot? yes absolutely. terrifying to see constantly out of the corner of your eye, sitting at the bus stop outside your job, standing in the parking lot of the gas station by your apartment complex and staring up into your window? YES VERY

he's haunting. he doesn't go up to you, will go completely brick wall at you if you try to come up to him, and you can never tell what emotion is going on behind his eyes. the few times you've walked closer to him, likely on the street in the earlier stages, he looked hungry. like he was waiting and watching for your guard to be down to do something.

if he knows you'll be out, he'll get into your house to steal some of your clothes- likely your underwear (creepy crawler) and a sleep shirt

you will never see him without the mask on. point blank. not to smoke, eat, anything. he is not human or himself when he's around you; he needs to absorb everything about you.

i don't think of him to be the type to film you, would rather be there in person 24/7. it feels more personal to him.

Tim ;

one of the few guys that feels guilt about what he's doing- he knows how scary it is to feel watched all the time. how awful it is to find out you were right.

he’s embarrassed of himself; he’s prided himself on being stoic and independent for so long that this sudden urge to love you and watch you and know you gives him waves of shame

watches from afar, would definitely try and avoid letting himself get too close to you in person. he’s ashamed of it, but he can’t help himself- he needs you, even if at a distance. 

steals clothes you’ve slept in so he can try and satiate his yearning to be close to you without actually needing to be so vulnerable, with you or anyone

his near dependency on you reminds me of It Will Come Back by Hozier, his obsession is fed by breadcrumbs from the few in-person up close encounters he’s had with you. smiles when he comes into where you work, nervous little waves when you catch him looking at you at the store, soft 'excuse me!'s when you pass by him

you drive him up a wall (lovingly)

Evan ;

Evan feels guilty, but for the ‘wrong’ reasons

i say ‘wrong’ because he’s more concerned with you inevitable introduction to the whole Habit mess, not with the morals of stalking and obsessing over you

despite his guilt, he can’t get enough of you. his persistence rivals Brian's; it’s almost immediate that he tries to get you with him

latches onto you for fear of you leaving- honestly less of a stalker and more on the obsessive side. not good at keeping his hands to himself. 

you might be one of the only cases where he tries to bargain and/or work with Habit, in an attempt to keep you safe or keep you near him out of desperation if you're not listening to him when he tries to convince you to stay with him essentially 25/8

touchy obsessive little critter . give him what he wants before he goes sicko mode (being 10 feet away from you at all times)

Habit ;

does not hide himself AT ALL

will actively be letting you know he's watching

seeing him behind you in mirrors, rabbit motifs everywhere, a random blood splatter in plain sight that no one else seems to see.

he watches, he knows, and he learns

what things make you the most paranoid, all the ways he can slowly introduce himself in a more. friendly light to get you to trust him. to love him.

he's what's best for you, whether you like it or not. it just might take some time for you to get there

ironically for him, think 'The Best Is Yet To Come' by Frank Sinatra. it's just a matter of time before things get so much better. for the both of you, of course!

[piastrisun]

rings and regrets.

pairings: oscar piastri + ex fem reader.

summary: on the night of your engagement party, as you glide through the celebration, the last person you expect to see is oscar—your ex who broke your heart.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 3.7k.⠀ warning: none.

request: could you do an oscar x ex!reader where reader is engaged to another person and oscar comes to the engagement party to talk with reader while they slow dance. just something super angsty with fluff. thanks so much!

notes: so so happy it’s a request!! i hope it’s what you imagined and that you enjoy it a lot. <3 thank u thank u

you never thought it would end like this—your life divided between a past you can’t quite forget and a future you’ve been building, piece by piece. your relationship with oscar had been everything once. there were days when it felt like the two of you were invincible, everything falling into place: shared memories, laughter, plans for the future. but when it came down to the most important thing, the thing that made you want to take that step forward, he faltered.

oscar hadn’t been ready for marriage. you’d known it for a while, but hearing him say it out loud was still a shock. the words cut deeper than you’d expected. “i love you, but i’m not sure i can do this yet,” he had told you, his voice shaking, as if admitting that to you was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

you had tried, you really had. you gave him space, waited for him to come around, but the longer you waited, the more the silence between you two stretched. eventually, you understood that no matter how much you loved him, he wasn’t going to change. the engagement ring you had imagined slipping onto your finger now felt like a distant dream.

you left. the apartment you once shared became a hollow reminder of what could’ve been, and you never looked back.

months passed, and you moved forward. it wasn’t easy—how could it be, when your heart still carried pieces of him? but you found someone who was ready. someone who didn’t hesitate when you spoke of futures or building a life together. your fiancé, thomas, was steady and warm, the kind of man who held you without hesitation, who showed you what it was like to trust again.

and now, here you are. engaged to him. a soft smile on your lips as you stand beside him at your engagement party, your hands intertwined as the music swirls around the room. it’s a celebration of a love that’s been growing, blooming in ways that feel solid and right. you’ve known thomas for a while now. he's kind, dependable, everything you ever thought you wanted. he’s a man who thinks ahead, plans for the future, and dreams of stability. he was everything oscar wasn’t—and for that, you’re grateful. he’s everything you wanted, and more.

still, there’s a knot in your stomach that you can’t quite shake. it’s as if the past is lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to resurface.

the night is supposed to be a celebration. the air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as guests gather to toast your engagement. it's a moment that should feel like a dream come true—your friends and family, your fiancé at your side, all gathered to mark this new chapter in your life. the venue is elegant, soft golden lights hanging from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the carefully arranged tables. the sound of music drifts through the air, setting a light, joyful tone.

thomas holding your hand tightly as he grins at the guests, proudly showcasing the ring on your finger. you smile back at him, a genuine smile, even though your chest feels a little tight. everything is falling into place. or at least it should be.

the soft glow of string lights casts a warm, intimate atmosphere over the engagement party. couples move fluidly across the dance floor, and you’re among them, your fiancé’s hand resting lightly on your waist as the two of you sway to the rhythm of a slow song. your dress feels heavy—not from its weight but from the pressure of the moment. the words fall flat, lost in the noise of your own thoughts.

that’s when you see him—oscar. he’s standing at the edge of the room, his suit tailored to perfection but slightly disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through his hair too many times. his gaze locks onto you, and you feel the air leave your lungs. it’s been years since you’ve seen him, but the storm in his eyes is achingly familiar.

you try to ignore it, thomas’ hand gently tightens around your waist as the music slows, pulling you closer into the embrace of the dance. “you okay?” he whispers, his lips brushing the side of your ear, but you can’t answer. your eyes are locked on oscar, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t even tried to blend in with the crowd. he’s watching you, and you feel the familiar ache inside you, the one that never quite went away.

“yeah, i’m fine,” you say, too quickly, but thomas doesn’t seem to notice. he murmurs something else about how beautiful you look tonight, and you smile, the motion automatic, but distant.

oscar’s gaze burns through you. it’s not a look of anger, not even regret—no, it’s more complicated than that. you’ve seen that look before, in the quiet moments between you both, when he used to be afraid to let his guard down. the same expression that haunted your dreams, even after everything.

oscar approaches, weaving through the crowd until he’s close enough that you can feel his presence, though he doesn’t say a word at first. when he finally does, his voice is quiet but weighted.

“may i have this dance?” oscar asks, his tone gentle, almost formal, but there’s an undercurrent of something raw beneath it.

your fiancé looks at him with polite curiosity, unaware of the storm brewing just beneath the surface. he glances at you, a soft smile on his face. “do you know him?”

you hesitate, your throat tightening. “an old friend,” you manage, the words tasting strange on your tongue.

thomas nods, his smile never faltering. “go ahead. i’ll grab us some champagne,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple before stepping aside, oblivious to the weight of what he’s just allowed.

you hesitate, your heart hammering as you meet oscar’s eyes. “this isn’t the time,” you murmur, but he’s already extending his hand, waiting. despite every alarm in your head screaming at you to walk away, you take it. the moment his hand touches yours, a jolt runs through you, the kind that feels like both a spark and a wound reopening.

the music swells around you as he leads you to the center of the dance floor. his hand finds your waist, his touch familiar but tentative, while the other clasps yours gently.

“can we talk?” oscar’s voice is soft, but there’s an edge of desperation you hadn’t expected. he looks at you, and for the first time in a long while, you see the vulnerability in him.

your steps falter, but you force yourself to keep moving, your hand trembling slightly in his. “not now,” you reply, your tone sharper than you mean.

oscar doesn’t back down. if anything, his grip on you steadies, his jaw tightening. “please, just five minutes,” he murmurs, quieter this time, but no less intense.

the air between you feels charged, and you glance toward thomas at the edge of the room, standing with a champagne flute in each hand, waiting for you with the ease of someone who trusts you completely.

your stomach twists. “we shouldn’t do this here, i can’t,” you say under your breath, though your voice trembles as much as your hands.

oscar nods, his gaze never leaving yours. “then let’s go somewhere else. just for a moment. please.”

the finality in his tone makes it impossible to refuse. you glance at thomas again, guilt pinching at your chest, but when you meet oscar’s eyes, there’s something in them that pulls you in, something you’ve never been able to resist.

you exhale shakily. “we’ll talk outside,” you whisper, breaking the spell for a moment.

the sharp night air bites at your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in your chest. as you step further into the quiet, away from the glow of the party, your steps grow quicker, more urgent. your heels sinking slightly into the manicured grass with every hurried step. oscar follows, his footsteps steady but urgent behind you. the laughter and music from the engagement party grow faint, replaced by the erratic pounding of your heart.

you spin around once you’re far enough away, the soft glow of garden lanterns casting a pale light over his face. “what are you doing here, oscar?” your words come out harder than you feel, a defensive shield against the way your chest aches at seeing him again.

he stops a few feet away, his hands still buried in his pockets like he’s trying to keep himself together. “i needed to see you,” he says, his voice tight. he shoves his hands into his pockets, his movements restless. “i heard about the engagement, and i—” he stops, dragging in a shaky breath.

his words catch in your chest. “you’re too late,” you whisper, though you wish, just for a second, that he hadn’t come. “you made your choice, oscar.”

“i made a mistake.” his voice cracks, and he takes a hesitant step closer, as if he’s unsure whether or not he should cross the line. “i wasn’t ready before, but i am now. i want to make it right.”

"and? what exactly do you think this is going to accomplish?" you gesture around, your voice rising with a mix of anger and disbelief. "crashing my engagement party? making a scene in front of everyone i care about? do you think this is some kind of grand gesture that's going to fix everything?"

"i just—" his voice falters, but he holds your gaze, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. "i couldn’t just let this happen without saying something."

your heart hammers in your chest, but you cross your arms, the gesture more to steady yourself than to push him away. “you couldn’t let this happen? what, me moving on? finding someone who—” you swallow hard, the words catching. “someone who actually wanted me?”

his face contorts, pain flickering across it. “don’t say that. you know that’s not true.”

“isn't it?” your voice wavers, and you hate yourself for it. “you left, oscar. you said you weren’t ready, and i waited for you to change your mind, but you never did.”

“i know.” he steps closer, his hands twitching like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “i was scared. i thought i had time, but seeing you now… i can’t lose you. not like this.”

“what were you hoping for—that i’d just drop everything and run back to you?”

“is that so impossible?” his voice sharpens, his composure cracking. “after everything we’ve been through, is it really so crazy to think you might still care?”

“care?” you laugh bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet garden. “of course i care, oscar. i cared when i waited for you for years, hoping you’d finally be ready. i cared when you told me you weren’t, and i had to pick up the pieces of myself that you left behind. what about you, huh?” your throat tightens, and you shake your head, stepping back.

he flinches, his jaw tightening. “you think i didn’t care? that it didn’t kill me to walk away from you? i thought i was doing the right thing, giving you a chance to find someone who could give you everything i couldn’t.”

“don’t you dare act noble,” you snap, your voice breaking under the weight of your anger. “you didn’t leave for me, oscar. you left because you were a coward.”

the word hangs in the air between you, cutting deeper than either of you expected. he takes a step closer, his eyes dark and unreadable. “maybe i was,” he says, his voice softer now but no less intense. “but i’m here now. doesn’t that count for something?”

“no, you don’t get to do this now. not when i’m finally…” the words falter because you don’t know if they’re true. are you happy? or are you simply surviving without him? you shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “you don’t get to show up now and act like you’re the hero of this story. i’ve spent so long trying to move on, trying to be happy without you, and now you want to rip it all apart?”

“i’m not trying to ruin your life,” he says, his voice rising again. “i’m trying to fix what happened. and you—” he stops, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “you’re still it for me. you always have been.”

your chest tightens at his words, the sincerity in them slicing through your anger like a knife. “you don’t get to say that,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“why not?” he challenges, his gaze locking onto yours. “because it’s the truth? because you know it’s still there between us, no matter how much you try to deny it?”

“i’m not denying anything.” you snap, your emotions boiling over. “but it’s not that simple, oscar. you left me. do you have any idea what that did to me? how hard it was to piece myself back together, only to have you show up and try to pull it all apart again?"”

he steps closer, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. “i know i hurt you. i know i don’t deserve anything from you, but i can’t stand the thought of losing you forever.”he sees the crack in your armor, and his voice softens, filled with desperation. “do you love him?”

the question hits you like a punch to the stomach. you look down, your fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “don’t ask me that,” you whisper.

“why not? because you don’t want to lie, or because you can’t tell me the truth?” he steps even closer now, and you can smell the faint cologne he always used to wear. it’s maddening, pulling you into a past you’ve tried so hard to bury.

you glance back at the dance floor where your fiancé waits, his eyes scanning the crowd. he’s everything you wanted—stable, kind, ready to commit. but oscar is everything you lost.

“i can’t do this,” you finally say, your voice cracking. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“please, just tell me—do you love him?” his question knocks the air out of your lungs.

you look away, your throat tight, your mind a mess of conflicting emotions. “why does it matter?”

“because it’s the only thing that matters to me,” he says, his voice breaking. “if you love him, i’ll walk away. i swear i will. but if there’s even a part of you that still loves me…”

“stop it,” you whisper, shaking your head. “you don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.”

“i’m asking you to be honest with yourself," he says, stepping closer until there’s barely any space between you. “do you love him the way you loved me?”

the words hang between you, heavy and suffocating. you feel the tears spill over, hot against your cold cheeks. “why are you doing this to me?"”

“because i can’t let you go without fighting for you,” he says, his voice trembling. “not again."”

you let out a shaky breath, your chest heaving as you try to hold yourself together. “you should’ve fought for me when it mattered.”

his expression crumples, the weight of your words hitting him like a blow. “you’re right,” he whispers. “i should have. and i’ll spend the rest of my life regretting that i didn’t.”

his shoulders sag, but his gaze remains on you, raw and pleading. “if you can tell me you don’t love me anymore, i’ll walk away. right now. i swear.”

the sound of voices and laughter from the party drifts faintly through the garden, a cruel reminder of the life you’re supposed to be celebrating tonight. you glance back toward the lights, toward your fiancé waiting inside, then back at oscar, who looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

your breath hitches. the weight of the moment presses down on you, and the music in the background becomes a distant hum. you open your mouth to speak, but the words don’t come. instead, a single tear slips down your cheek, and that’s answer enough.

oscar watches you, his face softening as he steps closer again, his hand lifting but stopping just shy of touching you. “i never stopped loving you,” he says quietly, his voice almost breaking. “even when i tried to move on, it was always you.”

his words shatter something inside you. “oscar…”

you look back toward the golden glow of the party, the life you’re supposed to be celebrating tonight. thomas is waiting inside, kind and dependable, offering a love that is steady and certain. but when you turn back to oscar, all you see is the man who once made you feel like the world could catch fire and you wouldn’t care as long as he was holding you.

“i can’t do this,” you finally say, your voice breaking. “i can’t keep breaking my heart over you.”

oscar’s hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t. he exhales shakily, his hand brushing against yours for the briefest moment before he pulls back. “i’ll wait for you,” he says, his voice breaking. “even if it takes forever.”

your fingers close around his instinctively, a fleeting, fragile connection that neither of you is ready to let go of just yet. “you can’t just wait for me,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “that’s not fair to you.”

he smiles faintly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “life’s not fair. but you’re worth it.“

for a moment, the world seems to stop. the sound of laughter and music fades completely, and all that exists is the way he’s looking at you—raw, hopeful, and utterly unguarded.

you pull your hand back slowly, your heart breaking all over again. “i don’t know what to do,” you admit, your voice cracking.

oscar steps back, his gaze never leaving yours, as though he’s memorising every detail of this moment. “take the time you need,” he says softly. “but don’t think for a second that i’m going anywhere. i’m here, no matter how long it takes.”

and with that, he steps away, leaving you standing there under the stars, torn between a future that feels safe and a love that burns like a fire you’re not sure you can survive.

you glance back toward the glow of the party, then down at your hand, where his warmth still lingers. for the first time in a long time, you realise that love, even the messy kind, has never truly left you. and that scares you more than anything else.

the sound of oscar’s retreating footsteps stings, every step pulling him further away from you, further into the shadows of the garden. you should let him leave—should stay rooted where you are, let your choice carry you forward. but something inside you stirs, refuses to let this be the end.

“wait,” you call softly, barely audible over the hum of the music. but he hears you. he stops mid-step, his back stiffening as though he doesn’t dare turn around, afraid of the hope that might break him.

when he finally turns to face you, his expression is a mix of pain and something else—something fragile but enduring. love.

“i hate you for this,” you whisper, but your voice trembles with something softer than anger. “i hate that you still make me feel this way.”

oscar lets out a shaky breath, a flicker of something like relief crossing his face. “i don’t care if you hate me, as long as you don’t stop feeling something for me.”

you shake your head, your tears falling freely now. “you ruined me, oscar. and then you left.”

“i know,” he says, stepping closer, his hand lifting tentatively toward your face but stopping just shy of touching. “and i’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it, if you let me.”

the weight of his words presses against your chest, and for a moment, all you can do is stand there, caught in the pull of him, of everything you once had and could never fully let go of.

“you shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur, your voice almost breaking.

“why not?” he asks softly. “because it’s true? because i love you?”

his words make your breath hitch, and for a brief moment, the world around you blurs. you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but then you feel his hand—gentle, warm—slip over yours. it’s hesitant, like he’s asking permission with the simplest touch.

you don’t pull away.

“i can’t walk away from you again,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “not without knowing if there’s still a part of your heart that has my name on it.”

your chest tightens, and when you look up at him, there’s a softness in his eyes that undoes you completely. you’ve seen that look before, years ago, in moments you thought you’d forgotten. it’s the look that made you fall in love with him the first time.

for a moment, you don’t think. you lean in, just enough to rest your forehead against his, your breaths mingling in the cold night air. “you’re impossible,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid.

“and you’re everything,” he whispers back, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

you stay there, suspended in a moment that feels too delicate to break. and when you finally pull back, your heart feels just a little lighter, even as the ache remains.

“go,” you say softly, your voice barely audible. “i need time.”

oscar nods, though you can see the pain in his eyes. “i’ll give you all the time you need,” he says, his voice steady despite the crack you hear beneath it. “but i’ll be waiting, always.”

he presses a fleeting kiss to your knuckles before stepping back, his warmth lingering even after he’s gone. you watch him disappear into the night, your heart torn but beating with something that feels dangerously close to hope.

as you turn back toward the lights of the party, you catch your reflection in the glass doors, your tear-streaked face and trembling smile staring back at you. you’re not sure where this path will take you, but for the first time in a long while, it feels like you’re finally letting yourself choose.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[cerisemerald]

One and only — Thomas Shelby x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: She has been loving Thomas for a while now, and it is heaving on her the fact she thinks he still is in love with Grace — she needs a confession, a affirmation that she is not just filling in a gap. It comes in a unexpected night, followed by an unusual morning, but everything with Thomas was like that.

MUSIC: One and only by Adele

A/N: this is the second fic I am reposting from my old account (I accidentally deleted it) and it was from one of my celebrations (200 followers I think) that consisted of fanfics inspired by Adele’s songs from the album 21, this one was requested by a dear friend and it is very dear to me!! It happens between s1-s2, Thomas meets (Y/N) after grace leaves. Feedback is always welcomed!

WARNINGS: English is not my first language.

WORD COUNT: 5,477

[MASTERLIST] [MOODBOARD]

(divider credit is for @cafekitsune)

“Thomas,” she calls, staring at his back, but he doesn't answer, he continues to look at the field in front of them instead. “Thomas?”

“Hm?” He still doesn't look at her.

(Y/N) decides to finally walk to him, she does not stop in front of him though, sensing something was wrong and not wanting to disturb or annoy him somehow. She stops right behind Thomas, a step of distance between them, from this close she can see the tension in his shoulders better, and as much as she wishes to touch him and try to tranquillise him, she waits. He doesn't do anything, however, not even looks at her, and she sighs.

She looks at the field, too, trying to understand what is possibly happening in his head. But she has a strong guess, one she does not like at all. (Y/N) hates when Thomas lives more in his past than in his present life, for her, it was his biggest flaw; the way he was constantly living for memories and not for life itself. And she feels that now he is probably thinking about what happened two years ago, Grace.

(Y/N) does not care he is thinking of her, that she can understand, after all he did fall in love with her, it would not be easy, especially for Thomas who protected himself with so many walls, to forget the woman. She doesn't expect him to just stop thinking about Grace overnight, but it did hurt, sometimes, how it felt, as if she was living in the shadows of someone bigger than her. It had been Grace's mistake, but she was the one paying for it, paying for the mistakes of a woman she hadn't even met.

She also knew, of course, that it would take Thomas time to trust again, to open himself like he had before. She knew everything that revolved around a broken heart, she did, but knowing did not make anything easier to deal with. It was still hard to face Tommy and see how, even in his most present moments, a piece of him was lost. Sometimes, she would ask herself why she even stayed, when it seemed like Thomas would never love her the same way. But she did, returned to him every single time, hope, maybe, tying her to him.

“Tom, why’d you bring me here?”

Thomas had showed up in her house last night, surprising (Y/N) in the middle of the week. It was not how their encounters usually went, Thomas would see her mostly on weekends. Sometimes he would spend the night, sleep with her to leave only on Sunday morning, sometimes stay up until four pm, these nights they would dance in her kitchen while drinking whiskey. It was all simple, but what mattered was that they talked, that they would sit down to talk and would sooth each other. Everything between them was simple, even love, when it came to their realisations that they were in love. There hadn't been a confession, not from her nor from him, they had just looked at each other differently, held each other for longer, kissed with more passion than ever, and that was enough to understand.

But yesterday was very different. She could not understand what was happening, neither read it on his face. As soon as she opened the door, he was tense, eyes haunted — not like tiredness from work or exhaustion because of all his problems, but as if he had just heard terrible news and saw his world crumbling. When she greeted him with a kiss, he had not held her waist or face, and had returned the kiss distantly. Still, she breathed and let him in, hoping that she might help somehow. He didn't talk much, short answers only, but it was like he needed the attention, needed her to listen to him, so she did. After sometime, she had run out of ideas to console him and offered for them to share a meal together, and for the first time since they had known each other, he ate something. Almost unnerving, but she was so relieved that she chose to see that as a good sign. After that, Thomas just sat in silence while she cleaned the plates.

When (Y/N) finished, she turned around to see he was sitting still at the table, eyes closed, breathing like he was trying to control himself. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to hold back tears or a scream, whatever it was, it was consuming him, drowning him in anguish. (Y/N) moved slowly, getting closer to him and delicately grabbing his hand. Then she whispered his name like a secret, like she was afraid of being caught saying that, because, in truth, she wasn’t sure if she wanted Tommy to hear it or not.

But Thomas did, and he squeezed her hand like his life depended on it, returning the touch with such a force it took her aback. It was not like he never touched her, or that he didn’t show any sign of affection such as holding her hand, but that touch was different. It was acid, burning (Y/N)'s skin in seconds and leaving a million scars behind. Thomas touched her like she was the only one capable of saving him.

It was scary. It was exhilarating. It was a breath of heaven’s pure oxygen. It was suffocating as the smoke on a fire. And it was only a touch of hand.

But it said so many things, it said that he wanted her there, that he actually needed her there. And she was happy with being wanted, but being needed was something she could not even describe, it was overwhelming. It took (Y/N)’s breath away. It made her forget everything else she needed to do, because Thomas was there, all of him, in her kitchen, holding her hand and asking her to be there for him.

With care, she walked until she was behind him, her arms adjusting perfectly in his neck, allowing his head to find a rest in her belly, it was not often Thomas would let her be the one embracing him. Usually, he would be more vulnerable after they would have an entire night together, and he would lay down between her legs and relax on her chest while she caressed him. (Y/N) started to caress his hair, gently as she could, and she noticed that with time, Thomas was melting to her touch, a small smile grew on her lips, but she kept quiet. It was the first time she felt like she could have every single piece of him with her. He sighed as she took some strands of his face, inclining his head even more.

Thomas opened his eyes suddenly, and because of his moving, they were now staring right at each other. Her heart sank with what she could see, his eyes were dark and tired, hurt. Still, she didn't say anything, knowing it had to be him the one to initiate any type of conversation about what was happening, she only kept caressing his hair. After some seconds, he reached for her left hand and kissed it, making her smile again, he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, and she understood that it was his way of saying thank you. And, in a way, showing that he liked being near her like that. Although he seemed more calm, it didn't look like he would talk, and it was obvious how tired he was, so instead of asking anything, (Y/N) offered for them to sleep. He nodded, and they were quick to go to bed, a simple, but genuine kiss as a good night.

In the morning, he had all of a sudden woken her up with kisses on her neck — like last night hadn’t been so different, saying he wanted to take her somewhere. And yet, even though it was his idea to bring her, he hadn’t spoken since they got in here.

“I haven't come here in a long time.” He finally says something, making (Y/N) stare at him again. “My father…” Thomas takes a time to complete his sentence, “my father used to bring us here, sometimes, I hunted with him one day.”

“Hunted what?”

“A deer,” Thomas smirks, finally directing his look at her.

“You still didn’t answer me.” Thomas smirks only grows bigger at her words. “Why did you bring me here, Thomas?”

He keeps staring at her, she can’t tell everything he is thinking, but that he wants to say something and the words are hard to say, she is sure.

“I don’t know.” He confesses, and (Y/N) could have believed it if it wasn't for the hint of doubt in his tone, as if he didn't want to tell all the truth, but at the same time, didn't know all of it too.

She breathes deeply, she is trying really hard to understand him, she has been for quite some time, but he never truly gives her the chance. “It's that so?”

Thomas and her stare at each other for long seconds, it's not a battle this time, it's not her trying to reach him and him running away, (Y/N) feels as if she is already inside, but can't see what it is, and how could she? When he showed nothing before. She is not sure how to navigate this, what to search, what to ask, not this time, and that scares and frustrates her in equal amounts.

Thomas has these eyes that always make her feel naked, confused and alive. He sometimes looks at her like she is precious, like he cannot go a second without touching her, and she believes it, because his eyes are true, raw even. And then, he could look at her the way he is doing now, like she has just stabbed him, as if she has his heart in her hands to do whatever she wanted, and she decided to make him suffer. It wasn’t true, and it wasn’t fair, she didn’t have him like that, so why would he stare at her with all that devotion and agony?

She chuckles, lowly and dryly, and starts to walk, leaving him behind. (Y/N) doesn't know exactly what she is feeling at the moment, but everything is a little too much. She doesn't want to have to guess, it would be nice, for once, if he could finally say it out loud.

Stopping a few steps away from him, she finally takes a better look at everything in front of her, how beautiful that field is, how breathtaking the view of the sky is with no pollution from the city. The sun hadn’t completely risen yet, some shades of purple, pink, and orange decorated the sky. It looks just like a painting, she thinks, and it hurts a bit to realise that it would be a pretty day to feel good, for her and Tommy to be doing something enjoyable.

What bothers most is that it feels like there is just one last wall between them, and she had thought she would finally have him — but it's not simple, it never is. Thomas has to be the one to take that last step, he has to be the one to, at last, face what he is feeling. If she is the one to do it, to once again try to put pieces together to understand him, it will never change, he will only come home broken and expects mending. She wants more than that, she wants genuine words being said, wants to feel more than… a fragment.

She was afraid sometimes, what if the problem was not his past love, but her? Understanding that old feelings were hard to get rid of was easy, but to which point was Thomas protecting himself from any new feelings? Did it ever become a protection against her? (Y/N) would ask herself, what was he so afraid of? Afraid of having feelings for someone again? Or was he just afraid of… her? It scared her that maybe it wasn’t love and it’s disappointments that kept them apart, maybe it was her. And that she couldn’t fix.

She kicks some rocks by her feet and holds back another frustrated sigh, feeling like maybe she wasn't being fair, that her previous insecurities and frustrations might be influencing her. (Y/N) was trying so hard, to be seen, to be heard, to be loved. Because she loved him, honestly and easily, but had she not done this before? Tried to communicate, to understand? With others that now seem pale in comparison with Thomas, but still, love was a complicated thing. For her, it had always been, since the very beginning, since she had known what love was. It was not just Thomas, no, it would be unfair to say it was only him, perhaps she also needed time to deal with what was inside her. Yet she can't help to think it is different with him, there were others before, but he is the one that matters, he is the one she wants close at all times, the one she still stays close to even with all the hurt and words unsaid, waiting, wishing.

It was Tommy, after all, making her heart feel full and empty at the same time, occupying her thoughts, making her feel like things could get better someday.

If she just had the chance to properly talk to him… to cross all the bridges and understand, maybe then a conclusion would be made, one not based on assumptions she could not fully trust.

Nevertheless, here they are, turbulent thoughts clouding each one's mind. The surroundings are beautiful, the wind making leaves float in the air, both of them with their mouths clasped shut and minds running wild.

She can't see it, Thomas thinks, this time she doesn't seem to see the truth in his eyes. He notices the way she is shrinking inside herself, body almost crumbling, and he walks to her, he is tense when he hugs her from behind, arms keeping her in a tight embrace. Thomas knows she is fighting back tears by the way she lets herself go and relaxes her head against his chest as soon as he pulls her in. He can feel the way her body is fighting, half of her not willing to rest completely.

He never truly knows what to say, he did when he was with Grace, or almost always did, a clarity coming to him when he was about to do something stupid. With (Y/N) it is different, he knows how he feels, and she says the right thing, and he lets her read him, and they go on. Sometimes he has to say it, because she is tired, because she needs him to, or simply because he feels the urge to. But now it feels like they have reached a point that if Thomas keeps being silent, things will end.

Still, for a while they just stay in silence. Thomas keeps his touch steady, not entirely conscious that he is drawing patterns on her waist until she lets out a sigh that he recognises quickly by now, contentment, he can feel her relaxing a bit more. His hands wander a bit further, tracing her belly and up her chest, and as he remembers the night they met, his touch becomes heavier. For what felt like an eternity, he had wished to touch her. It was quick, she'd always say, how they met and how they ended up in a private room. She was not aware that for him, it had felt like a long waiting.

A party that he meant to go for business only, not even much interested in said business, at least not enough to try to do it in person, he had sent John to do it, but he got sick. Never before had Thomas been so happy with his brother being ill. Had he never gone to that party, he would not have met her. And it was a truth, even though he did not say it much, but a truth nonetheless, that since they met, she was constantly taking him out of his stupor. Since he had laid his eyes on her, he felt it, hands pulling him up, making him finally blink and wake up.

It was simple between them, it had been since the beginning, he had wanted her and there was no room for questioning if he would follow her, she had corresponded in the same intensity. Slowly their lives came in between, the days apart, the reality of each one, but even then, she only told Thomas she would be waiting, and there was no room for questioning if he would come back.

On the weeks with fewer visits from him, nothing changed, on the weeks he could see her more frequently, everything did.

Although his ghosts still haunted him, it was not the same as before, he could breathe now, push them away easier. But he had never been good with words when it came to this. To confess, he used words to get what he wanted, to conquer, long gone was the time words served as a way to connect and open himself. Grace had started to change that, easily as if she was a childhood love, she had picked up his heart on her hands. Thomas had not expected it, and when it hit him, he realised how truly in love he had been. For once his intuition had left him, after such a long time creating walls upon walls, they crumbled only to have to be raised again. He had also not expected it to change, to meet someone else, and yet, he did.

“What are you thinking?” She asks, head still resting against him.

“You.”

“You are thinking about me?” He can hear the small smile on her lips.

“Yes.”

“What about me?”

“The night we met.”

“Oh.” She chuckles, as if something suddenly made sense to her. “You were so pretty that night.”

Thomas holds back a smile, like he usually does when she says something like this. “I’d say you were more.”

(Y/N) laughs and turns to look at him, distancing herself enough so they could stare, he is relieved to see there are no tears in her eyes. “I was, but it didn’t last long after I met you.”

Her arms find a place on his shoulders as she hugs him, hiding her face on the crock of his neck. She radiates warmth, and Thomas welcomes it eagerly.

“It wasn’t all my fault.” Thomas says, dead serious, because sometimes she seems to forget they burn together, and she laughs again.

He feels when her body changes after a few moments, her breathing getting erratic, he prepares himself.

“Tom?” It's nothing more than a whisper.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking, and…” something in him is begging for him to interrupt her, he knows what is coming, he can feel it. “I think we should, you know, stop seeing each other.”

He stays quiet, his arms never leave her body.

“Why?”

She takes a long time to answer, and Thomas starts to look for words he can say, things he can do to fix whatever needs to be fixed. He knows what it is, but as her silence stretches so much, he wonders if there is something more, if there is more he did and was unaware of it, that isn't hard to imagine. He feels, somehow, the moment she shivers, her arms seem to lose strength, her embrace weakening.

(Y/N) takes a deep breath before speaking,“because… because I feel like I’m Grace’s shadow. I feel like you met me when you were desperately needing someone to replace the emptiness that she left at your heart. It’s not that I’m the same as her, no…” she hides her face even more in his body, “it’s just you wanted someone to make you forget all the pain. And it happened that I was there to be your distraction. And at the beginning, I didn't care. But now, I do.”

She stops, Thomas knows she is fighting back tears, knows that she hates having to say all of this. Then she whispers, “I care because I’m in love with you, and being someone’s shadow for the man I love isn’t my biggest wish.”

What a treacherous path Thomas had walked them into. He could not deny it what he felt in the past was real, what he and Grace had shared was still haunting him, as his deceptions and frustrations always did. He never admitted, but for him, things like that never left his mind, he just pushed them away, kept them hidden. And still, things did not need to be like this, he did not have to act like that. He did… he liked (Y/N), not just that, he loved her even. A small and fragile thing at first, threatening to hurt him, not because it hurt, but because it made him finally move on. But now, a year later, it was not that small any more, he knew what he felt, knew that he searched for her when they were apart. And Thomas had no necessity in comparing what he felt before with what he felt now, he knew it would take time for something like that to happen again — to be true, he had not even thought it would happen again, but it did, it is happening.

Thomas blinks, watching as flowers and leaves were stirred by the wind, a hollow sound surrounding them. There is so much more he probably doesn't know, more things she thinks and has kept to herself.

“You’re not Grace’s shadow.” He says in a whisper, his voice betraying him. It sounds weak, and he wanted to convey how strong his affection is. Nonetheless, he hears her sighing in relief, distancing herself from him a bit, but still not looking at his eyes.

“You love her Tom,” (Y/N) states, “you’re still deeply in love with her and all you lived by her side. If I’m not her shadow, then I’m a mere ghost of what she was.” She raises her eyes to his face, he is already staring, always staring at her.

She looks at him with so much resignation that Thomas is almost convinced he cannot change her mind.

“I’m not angry or mad or upset about this. I’m just sad.” She says it then, voice low, Thomas knows it is because she is holding tears back. “And it doesn’t matter how much I love you, I don’t want to be sad, to feel miserable every time I don’t act like someone I don't even know. I just don’t want that life for me, even if that means losing you.”

He looks away, not being able to stare at her eyes at the moment, not when he doesn't have the right words to say. It was not his intention for it to reach this point, for her to think he wants a copy of Grace. He knows he has to say it, explain himself, but it is like being paralysed. It's the kiss on his cheek that makes him finally blink, it is the way her lips are so delicate against his skin, a goodbye. She leaves his arms, turning around to go back to the car, but he holds her wrist immediately, (Y/N) stops, looking at him with knitted eyebrows.

Thomas takes in all of her at that moment, the determination clear in her eyes, eyes he has grown so accustomed to, that do not search him unless he opens himself, eyes that love him, tender him. Eyes that he cannot forget even when she is not with him. He looks at her lips, lips that have said the words he needed to hear, the ones he did not want to hear, lips that have kissed him with so much passion that he was able to forget the world for some hours. She has, slowly, found a place inside of him, roots with her name overtaking his chest. Her hair flutters around her face, she seems tired, (Y/N) offers no more resistance on her face, only resignation, but she does not pull away either. He engraves every single detail of her in his mind.

The words are not helping him, he cannot think of anything good enough to say, it is like she wiped his mind, leaving nothing but thousands of pictures of her behind. Of every moment she has used her words not to pry him open, but to convince him to do so, every moment she has held him in place instead of insisting on dragging him somewhere else.

It was at the moment, the sun shining brightly, orange light taking over the sky, making her skin seem warm to the touch, that he finally realised. It had always been simple between them, he did not need to complicate it right now, there was no need for elaborate words, only the truth. She wanted something straight-forward, (Y/N) was just asking for it to be real.

“I don’t want her,” Thomas says, words finally appearing. “I don’t want her like I want you. Not any more.”

And it was true, he had loved Grace, had felt something he thought himself incapable of after the war, and yet, it passed. She had betrayed him, and he still felt it then, sometimes still feels it now, but it passed.

She gives a step forward, “but you still love her, right?”

He allows himself to remember Grace's face, her tender touch, it was involuntary, the care that comes with it. But there is also the pang of heartbreak, the understanding and the sense of finality, there is nothing he can do to go back in time, and now, he does not want it any more. He has (Y/N), she mended what was broken. He takes a step towards her as well, hand tightening even more around her wrist, he wants her now more than he ever did.

“Yes.” he admits, because it is also true that (Y/N) can wring secrets from him. “But she’s past.”

“Is she, Tom?” She gives in a deep breath, “if that’s so, you’re a man living your days in the past. You’re always with her, even when you try to be here with me.”

“No.” he denies, low and firm, “It’s not me living in the past, (Y/N).”

“What is it then?”

He wants to say it at that moment, to confess she haunts him, that his past always does — who he was before war, who he became during it. It is a part of him now. But that is not his nature any more, to confess this easily, it takes time, and he has said more today than he ever did before. Instead, he looks at her, knowing that when nothing comes out of his mouth, that it's what denounces him, his eyes.

She reads him again. Thomas knows, he always knows when she understands. Maybe it is the look on her face, he has never been able to identify what it was, but something changed when she could get him.

“I know it ain't easy,” (Y/N) says, getting closer to him, she puts a hand on his face, “it seems to haunt you, Thomas.”

She is close now, enough that he can feel the warmth of her body again. Thomas lets himself relax against her, his hand still on her wrist, he can feel her pulse now, slightly accelerated.

“I feel left out sometimes,” she whispers, “as if she is right behind me, and I am echoing her words, or at least the words you wanted her to say.”

Thomas nods, “you are not like her.”

(Y/N) seems surprised at that, “what was she like?”

But that is too much. “You are different,” he establishes, firm enough for her to understand he does not want to talk about Grace like that. It's easier to just forget, sharing this feels strange, describing how he loved her — because it would not be just an impartial view of how she was. “And your words too, you do not echo her in my mind.”

You fixed it. Erased what hurt was left on the surface.

(Y/N) squint her eyes at him, he lets her stare into his eyes, lets her understand.

“If we…” she cleans her throat, “if you try, could this work?”

He bites his tongue to say that is already working, because yes, for him, it is, but she is opening herself to him and saying she is hurting.

“What do you want?” He asks, instead.

“You.” (Y/N) shrugs, “I know we can't be each other one and only. But it would be good if you opened yourself more, I cannot always read your mind.”

He must've frowned at that, because she immediately completes, “I know it's different for you, how you open up. I sometimes wish for words, it's true, but it is not what you can give me and I know that.” And although she understood it wrong — he was just surprised when she said she could not always read him —, he was happy to hear that.

Thomas puts a hand on her waist, pulling her and closing the distance that was left, he can feel her now, that smell that calms him every time they sleep together, he tightens his grip. There is not a world where he would refuse this, it is surprising, sometimes even slightly scary and annoying, how she managed to awaken him when he fought so much to numb himself. But he always comes back to her, always knocks on her door, because it is stupidity to refuse her, push her away, only a mad man would do that. He consumes her instead, goes to her house, drinks from her lips with such thirst it is as if he is famished, and it is never enough. Whatever she wants, he thinks, whatever she wants to stay.

She is looking at him with an indecipherable expression, but he cares not at the moment, he will have plenty of time to reflect on everything she said today, to understand her even more. Now, he searches for her lips, brushing his own against her, wanting to feel her before making the real move. He is not one for teasing, every time he does this, it is because the waiting feel as good as the actual kiss, the way he can feel her skin shivering, the way she whimpers slightly — because they are the same when it comes to this, she also has an insatiable hunger. They finally kiss, then, desperate to feel each other, it always feels like they are one at this moment, and nothing else matters.

She is the one to break the kiss, only to look at him and whisper, “I love you.”

Before Thomas can think of answering, her lips are crashing against his again, demanding, taking, and he answers it. He almost chuckles when one of her hands find her way to get under his shirt, but his own body leans into it in such a fast manner he knows he would be laughing at himself too.

Since the first time she touched him like this, he knew he had cursed himself. He knew he would be damned, growing hunger for that, fonder for her. She had scared him, and yet, proved herself to be exactly what he needed.

He broke the kiss this time, not being able to contain the smirk when he saw her drunk eyes, even though he was for sure laughing at himself too.

“I love you.”

She melts against him, smiles brightly. He does not know why he waited so long to say it, but he is usually like this, takes too long to say something important.

“You’re not her.” He finds himself saying, surprising the both of them, “you’re not her shadow.”

She nods, Thomas sees her blooming right in front of him. He feels something settling in his chest, his mind getting quieter, a miracle for its own, but even more special when he feels it because of her.

Please. He thinks as he gives a peck on her lips. Don’t ever say you’re a mere ghost, when I love you this much.

The wind was still stirring the flowers and leaves of the field, and the field was still the same, same as the sun shining in the sky. But somehow, everything seemed more right.

[glassprism]

Believe it or not, I have never watched the ALW Phantom of the Opera. So.. Seeing as you are the POTO expert here on Tumblr, what would you say is the best video for me to start with and watch first? I’m open to any English or German recs!

Oh, I doubt I'm the POTO expert on here, but when it comes to bootlegs, I can make some updated recommendations. I'll try not to go nuts and just pick one from each of the major productions.

West End - August 18, 2010: If you can get your hands on this one, this is a nicely filmed video of the original West End production with a great Christine and a Phantom who could have been good were he not actively hampered by the direction. At the time this was released, this was considered a really good quality video; now in the days of 4K boots, it's not, but it's still decent.

West End revival - January 2023: This is probably still one of my favorite videos in recent years - high quality, shot steadily and from the center of the audience, with a really good cast, especially Lucy St Louis as Christine and Matt Blaker as Raoul. It's also a good look at the various changes made to the production.

Broadway - May 17, 2014: There are so many good Broadway videos and casts that I ultimately chose this one for its accessibility and commonality. This was filmed in the first few days of Norm Lewis and Sierra Boggess's run together as the Phantom and Christine on Broadway. As with the West End video above, this video was considered good quality in 2014.

US Tour - April 6, 2006: People always recommend this video for a first time viewing experience and it's not hard to see why. This performance was filmed by two people who divided up the shots beforehand, then edited their videos together so that you get the best possible views together. It was also Gary Mauer (the Phantom) and Elizabeth Southard's (Christine) last show in the tour, and as they are married IRL, their chemistry and energy together are fire.

Vienna - June 30, 1993: This was the last show of the original Vienna production and two of the original cast members (Alexander Goebel as the Phantom and Luzia Nistler as Christine) returned for it. Both are great, especially Goebel's eerily haunting Phantom, and the video is pretty good for something from the 90s. There are also numerous little jokes and ad-libs for the last show. Just watch out for those sudden zooms.

Hamburg - June 30, 2001: Another last show, this one being source #2 of the original Hamburg production. A little shakier in filming but the detail is sharper than the also available source #1 of the same show, with Ian Jon Bourg being a commanding, old school Phantom. This video also includes the after show, particularly the fantastic and emotional mash-up of 'Think of Me' and 'Music of the Night' sung by the whole cast.

Stuttgart - May 23, 2004: Yet another last show, I'm on a roll! Had things worked out, this would have had Ian Jon Bourg again as the Phantom, but he was out on the last day and we got understudy Thomas Schulze instead, who is more bombastic. As with the other last shows, there are tons of jokes and ad-libs, including a famous "third kiss" between the Phantom and Christine.

Essen - April 20, 2006: I went back and forth between this, a similar video of Thomas Borchert, and a video of Uwe Kroger. The video of Borchert is steadier in filming but filmed earlier in the run, and I'm not trying to torture you with Kroger (but do watch him at some point for the entertainment value). This video is shakier and more obstructed, but worth it for the pairing of Ethan Freeman, a Leroux Phantom par excellence, and Anne Gorner. This was also Freeman's last ever as the Phantom, so extra emotional.

Hamburg revival - April 11, 2014: The Hamburg revival had some excellent videos, but I like this one best since it's steady, unobstructed, and doesn't have some unusual coloring or bad frame rates. I also think the cast is interesting: Nicky Wuchinger's Raoul is very strong, David Arnsperger's Phantom feels like he was directly inspired by the likes of Ian Jon Bourg, and Lauri Brons's Christine is just the weirdest.

Oberhausen - March 24, 2016: There's only one video from the Oberhausen production so this was an easy pick! It's technically highlights but it has all the major scenes, and though it's shot from near the front and at a bit of an angle it's HD quality and well filmed. It's also really cool to see perennial Broadway understudy Elizabeth Welch as principal Christine, and in German!

World Tour - January 26, 2014: The most recent World Tour boots all seem to be NFT, so I'm going with this, an oldie but goodie. Brad Little is the longest-running Phantom in the world so far, so it's worth it to see his performance, even if his vocals are much rougher here. Kristi Holden and Anthony Downing also round out the cast nicely.

25th anniversary concert: Not a bootleg but a professionally filmed and officially released proshot of the show's 25th anniversary concert, held at the Royal Albert Hall. This is easily one of the most accessible and viewable versions and you should probably watch this first to get an overall idea of what the show is like before venturing into one of the bootlegs. Given the venue, the concert made some changes to the staging and what-not, but it is 90% accurate to what goes on in the replica anyway.

[djarinova]

written on your upper thigh — rafayel

˗ˏ✎ synopsis: - what is he painting on your leg... and are you going to have the patience to wait him to finish when he's planting kisses on your skin and touching you oh so delicately?

˗ˏcontent - gn (reader wears a skirt), painting, kissing, making out, reader is blindfolded, reader has freckles + small scars on their leg - divider by @/saradika

˗ˏwc - 1860

“C’mon, Raf, it's been like 20 minutes, can I please take this blindfold off now?”

You hear him scoff, “I can't believe that after all this time you still think it's possible to rush me towards completion with a deadline.”

Underneath the blindfold—which is a dark, and suspiciously well looked after, piece of silk material—you roll your eyes. There's a soft clink in the background and you hear water splash against the side of the cup that sits on the table next to you.

“Are you seriously cleaning your brush again?” You huff. “How many colours are you using? Promise me you haven't painted an entire landscape on the side of my leg…”

Rafayel laughs, a soft sound that flows between the two of you and settles somewhere deep in your chest. The fingers of his free hand dance delicately across the bare flesh of your thigh—he had insisted that you needed to be clothes free below the waist for this particular activity, but you'd persuaded him against that choice with a flutter of your eyelashes and the reminder that there are other people (namely Thomas) that may appear in his home without any notice. The short lilac skirt you were wearing also helped your case a little…

“I promise.”

“...Yes?” You urge him to continue.

He suspends his hand palm down in the air, as if making an oath. “I promise I have not painted an entire landscape on the side of your leg.” He repeats, in a solemn voice.

You nod your head, satisfied.

“Will you just tell me what you're doing already! I'm getting anxious.” You whine.

The brush tickles your skin and a small giggle escapes your lips. You try not to shift too much in your seat, lest Rafayel scold you again.

“It's like you don't trust me at all.” He pouts, he exaggerates his point by sticking his bottom lip out, somehow forgetting that you can't see him. “If you missed seeing my face that much then you could just say so out right, there's no need to beat around the bush this much.”

The urge to roll your eyes resurfaces and you're about to speak out in your defense when the brush comes into contact with your skin again. You yelp in surprise, the water droplets from the bristles are cold, and Rafayel chastises you absentmindedly.

“And if you missed kissing me that much then maybe you should hurry up and finish painting me already.” You tease in return, the double meaning of your words not even crossing your mind.

Rafayel says nothing, but you hear him scoff quietly as if he disagrees with your words. His brush strokes tell a different story though, they seem to gain momentum rather suddenly and he begins to work much quicker than he was only a few moments ago.

You feel his breath fan against your leg and your cheeks heat up when he presses a gentle kiss upon your skin. Even knowing that he isn't looking at your face doesn't help to quell the thoughts that churn through your mind. Knowing that he's been working on you for the best part of an hour now, the thrill of being unable to see when or where he's going to be touching you next with the paintbrush… It makes you giddy. He's so meticulous with how he works on his art, you never get bored of the sight, but this secretiveness is far more exciting than you had expected when he suggested it.

He kisses your thigh again, slightly higher than before, and you have to swallow a whine that threatens to escape you. His lips are feather-light on your skin, almost tickling you with how delicate they are. Your brain is foggy with want and you feel your leg bounce minutely, like it's itching to move closer to him.

The noise of your thumping heart is all you can hear, you're so distracted that you fail to notice the shifting of Rafayel’s movements until he's pressed against your side on the sofa.

“Are you ready?” He whispers, his breath is warm on the shell of your ear. It makes your stomach flip.

You gulp, nodding slowly as shivers run down your spine. You think he might not have seen your reply and you're about to speak when you feel his hands fiddling with the knot at the back of your head. One end of the material flutters down over your chest, the other is held securely in Rafayel's hand.

You waste no time trying to adjust to the light that now floods your vision, instead your eyes flit wildly around the scene in front of you, trying to find the lips that you long to feel against your own. You get impatient with yourself before even 2 seconds have passed. The sunlight almost blinds you as you turn your head to the left. Rafayel's hands perched on his lap pass by you in a blur as you spin towards him. You screw your eyes shut and blindly make a move towards where you think his head is, too desperate, too eager, too hungry to bother looking properly. No thoughts cross your mind apart from the need to have his lips on yours. You're so caught up in your actions that you somehow completely forget about–

“Hey! Careful of my work! You almost smudged it off without even looking at it first!” Rafayel cries.

You freeze in your tracks and slowly open your eyes. You're halfway between sitting and straddling Rafayel's lap, your hands are balled into fists and they hold tightly onto his shirt material. The fabric is soft between your fingers.

“I–uh… Well–” You hesitate, before slowly moving away from Rafayel's sturdy thighs and planting yourself back on the sofa. Heat floods your cheeks, pressing a hand towards your face to hide your embarrassment you quickly turn your head away from his prying eyes and look down at the painting that has been keeping you still for so long.

“It's–”

“Beautiful, I know.”

You roll your eyes, but don't disagree. It is beautiful.

On your thigh, no bigger than a finger's length, sits an elegantly painted letter ‘R’. Its ends are curved and, as if following lazy brush strokes, they flick upwards ever so slightly. The circular part of the letter is so precise in how it curves along your skin, the movements of the letter outline seem to line perfectly with the freckles and small scars from hunting that adorn your skin. It's golden in colour, but the longer you look at it the more your eyes are able to pick up all of the hints of the other hues. There's small traces of orange hidden beneath the gold, with blue highlights along the curve and specks of lavender dotted around the edges like stars in the night sky.

You swallow your emotions, tears threaten to fall from your eyes and as you spin in your seat you feel the droplets pooling along your lashes. Before you have a chance to think about what to say Rafayel is pressing his lips against yours. He hums against you and you feel his hands slide around your waist before they sneak under your shirt and settle on the hem of your skirt. There's something different about the way he's kissing you, it's hungry and fast and he's deepening the kiss hurriedly in an effort to keep you close to him. Your hands knot in his hair, the soft strands tickle your skin. Something digs into your upper thigh, and you're about to open your eyes to check what it is when you feel Rafayel’s hands gripping the flesh of your ass. Your eyes fly open as he flips you onto your back and your hands search the air looking for purchase on his shirt. As you hum against his lips once more there is a faint ‘click’ noise in the background and before you have the chance to register the sound the front door is flung open.

“Hello?” Thomas whisper-shouts in the entryway.

Rafayel groans as your hands push against his chest haphazardly.

“C’mon—Rafayel—we have to—seriously—we have to move, quickly! C'mon, baby!” You mumble against his lips.

He sighs, but relents to your pushing. You manage to sit up and straighten your clothes just as Thomas enters the living room. You hope you don't look as thrown about as you feel.

“I was just coming over because I was certain that you'd forget–Oh!” His cheeks flood with warmth, and he stops dead in his tracks once he notices your embarrassed state and the air of Rafayel's oh-so-nonchalant attitude (and if he sees the mismatched buttons of Rafayel's shirt, and the dishevelled mess of your hair, he's polite enough not to draw any attention to it).

“Oh, right. You wanted to–”

“You promised me the week off and I was just coming over to remind you that today is Friday.” Thomas interrupts, “That means for the next seven days I will be unreachable to you, okay?” He directs his next question to you. “Please, please, please can you watch over him this week? You know how his schedule is and the only way for me to get any peace of mind is if I know you won't let him ignore his responsibilities this week.”

You nod confidently, if there's one thing Thomas can rely on you for, it's keeping Rafayel in check.

You smile widely. “Have a lovely and restful time, Thomas. See you next week.”

He waves to the two of you, Rafayel just huffs and crosses his arms in his seat as you promise to make him behave this week.

The door clicks once again and you hear the sound of Thomas's car pulling out of the drive. You sigh, somehow getting interrupted by Thomas has you feeling like a school kid who got caught cheating on a test. Your cheeks are hot and your pulse is quickened—and it's not for the same reason as it was before…

“You're really going to make me go to all those events and meetings that Thomas promised I would attend this week?” Rafayel pouts.

You turn to look at him. “Of course I am! I gave him my word. And don't even think about trying to run away, I know where all your hiding spots are.”

Rafayel huffs, his eyebrows furrowed together as if deep in thought.

“You think you know where all my hiding spots are…” He whispers.

You fake a shocked gasp, and shove his side lightly while laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night.” You tease.

Now it's his turn to gasp. He turns his head away from you dramatically and crosses his legs so his entire body is angled away from you, leaving just enough room for you to slide yourself behind him and wrap your legs around his waist.

“Your painting really is beautiful, you know.” You whisper against his ear and you feel him shudder against you.

“Thank you.” He whispers in return. His hands now preoccupied with tracing the outline of the ‘R’ that sits entrancingly on your thigh.

[i-try-to-write-stuff]

Queendom

This blog supports Palestine 🇵🇸.

Zionists and Minors DNI.

Prompt Plot - Dark Reader operating the invisible strings of the King of Small Heath aka Tommy Shelby

                                  Warning!!!!!

This material contains sensitive themes, including Dubcon, violence, and assault. By clicking the "Keep Reading" button, you explicitly acknowledge this warning. If you are triggered by any of these themes, do not proceed with reading this piece of fiction.

I am not responsible for your content consumption.

You always dreamed of making it big, big enough so you didn't have to worry about your next meal, a roof over your head, and even a small nest egg. Not that you had to worry about any of those things apart from your nest egg. 

Thomas Shelby, a shrewd "businessman", a man hell-bent on building an empire for his family, a clever man who could sense the next moves of his family, friends, foes and lovers alike on the chessboard of life. But why couldn't he predict you or your moves?

Maybe it's a good thing, maybe it's bad, but you wouldn't change it for the world. Queen is the real player with any power in the game of chess while the King sits on his ass. And just like the game of chess, your King reaps the benefit of your hard work, not that you care; you prefer to work in the shadows, shadows that shield you from the ugly side of the power play.

It wasn't easy for you to get Tommy's eyes on you, and to be fair, Grace, Ada, and every woman in between them had kept him plenty busy and naturally, he overlooked you. Not that you ever cared, for you indirectly controlling Tommy was a safer option. So many backroom shady deals you have had to grease with money, blackmail, sex murder or some combination of all four of those.

That's how you met your first husband, a rich old fool obtuse enough to think that a young woman in her 20s, fresh out of college with a business degree, would fall in love with a man old enough to be her grandfather who was also a guest of honour at your graduation.

That's how you met your first husband, and you were determined to be his last wife. Obviously, you weren't gonna waste your 20s tending to a senile old man so far away from the city. You played the doting wife as long as you could, madly in love with the old bastard so well that even his children and grandchildren, who rightfully doubted you and your motives, were convinced that you were really in love with the pile of brittle bones. And joyfully, Thompson died soon, or to put it differently, how you killed him by accidentally overdosing your weak-hearted old husband. You researched enough to know that his death would look natural. Due to his advanced age, his death didn't come as a surprise to his family, and just to put every doubt to rest, you cremated him and divided his ashes among his children. 

You played the role of grieving widow well, one might say too well; your refusal to leave the sprawling mansion (and millions of dollars in your name in offshore accounts hidden from his family) for a year really cemented your role as a dumb naive girl in high society, something you needed. London High Society was sprawling with filthy rich people still desperate enough to leech off of every penny from each other, you formed enough connections that when you fell from the face of the earth in search to "find yourself", nobody questioned. 

You returned to Small Heath, with sizeable savings. And unlike the Shelby's you didn't start spending money like them. You wanted to grow your fortune, but you also didn't want Arthur's nosiness, John's curiosity or the sedulous eyes of Tommy on you. And what better way to stay out of their radar than to join them?

You went to Polly and begged for a job at Shelby Brothers Limited. Polly was a little suspicious of you but that suspicion flew away when she saw tears and snot running down your face as you explained how the love of your life died and left you with nothing but a mansion which was too expensive to maintain and how you had to essentially rent it as a holiday home to break even on maintenance.

Polly got you an interview with Tommy Shelby; she couldn't just hire you into the illegal side of the business without Tommy's approval.

----

"You went to school with Ada, didn't you?" Tommy asked you and you nodded like a good girl.

"You were in her class?" John questioned.

You cleared your throat and replied affirmatively in a demure voice. "Yes, we were classmates."

"What happened to the rich old fuck you married?" Arthur questioned distastefully.

You saw John and Tommy making eye contact, silently communicating in their own language.

"He died," you replied trying to muster up some tears.

"And left you with nothing?" John probed.

"No, no, he left the mansion in my name, but the mansion is old, and it's too expensive to maintain, so I rented it out as a holiday home. But after all the expenses and salaries of the mansion's employees, there isn't much left." you spill out the lie.

"Don't you have a business degree?" Tommy asked and you nodded.

"Why aren't you using that to get a legitimate job?" John added.

"I don't have the real-world experience they want, being a trophy wife and a widow of a rich man isn't exactly considered an experience." you joked 

"From what we have heard, you really loved that old badger," Arthur added.

"I did, Greg Thompson was the love of my life..." you replied with tears in your eyes. Your acting classes were really paying off.

All the three Shelbys in the room silently communicated while you tried to look as pathetic and naive and dumb as possible. 

"Most men are fools; they underestimate women, kiddo", your Dad muttered when you trapped your older bully brother in his room when you were a child, not old enough to understand what that meant. But you often thought about it. Maybe that was the day you learned to observe people. Your parents weren't exactly like you; in fact, they were almost the polar opposite of you, where they saw good in people and loved to help people out; you saw bad; you saw their selfishness and their ability to use good people to do their work for them.  

 

To you Shelby's were a safe place to lay low and before you planned your next move. You had few leads that could turn over some serious cash but you also needed muscle to move it and you could definitely use Peaky Blinders for that.

"Come to Shelby Brothers offices tomorrow at eight in the morning." Tommy calculatedly replied.

"Thank you, thank you so so much, I will do my best, I will not let you down, I promise." you jumped up and down playing your part well.

"We know because we will be keeping our eyes on you" John smirked flirtatiously, clearly checking you out.

 

"We don't allow TicTacing, Instacarting, Snapshoting and Facelooking, so don't do that in the office. I am so tired of Finn and Isaiah doing these crazy internet challenges. I don't need you doing it too" Arthur gently warned. 

"Yes, sir" you replied meekly.

"You can go now; send Harry with a bottle of Scotch", Tommy dismissed you. 

From that moment on, you committed yourself to kinda, sorta obeying every command from the King, your loyalty unwavering as you embarked on this new path.

---------

If you like, please reblog or comment to let me know.

If you have any requests, prompts, or suggestions, feel free to share them here - Suggestion Box

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

🎏 — in love with the ghouls as cats 🥹 i am curious tho, how do you think they'll get along with MC also as a cat?

This is kind of a mix between how they react at first and after some time

Neuter him 🚫

These cats seem to notice that the newest cat is single and don't like that. Depending on who it's from this list this might reflect as fighting other suitors or licking the mc clean and demanding attention.

Jin

Kaito

Sho

Towa

Haku

Rui

Your his baby 🥺

These cats have a strong drive to protect whatever they perceive as weaker or smaller than than them or the mc hangs around the kitten they take care of enough for them to be part of the pack.

Thoma

Luca

Alan

Haru

Return them to the street 🛑

These little ones don't feel at ease with the new presence in their home out of nowhere. For some it might be territorial behavior, shyness or just having to divide their owners attention even more. Divided in those who hate the new cat or those who are skittish.

Leo

Ren

Romeo

Lyca

Subaru

Yuri

Unique reactions ✨

Taiga: his first reaction is to strike at them and sniff them for a while before letting them go, he does this the first few times they enter his field of vision.

Ritsu: no reaction but will follow them for a while and hiss and meow at them when they break a rule or do something wrong.

Zenji: he LOVES his new housemate!! Will chase after them regardless of where they go and they are now forced to hear his lengthy songs.

Ed: he is an old soul cat who only wants to nap and eat, as long as they don't bother him too much he will put them in the ‘kitten’ group even if they are an adult cat

Jiro: baby literally doesn't care, he is happy with having his doctor ordered food and a home to sunbathe in.

[cari-pharoahs]

gale + why suzanne collins is sort of wrong

ok idk if any of this is right at all but here's the script of a video essay that i've been brewing with for the past 2 years and I guess I just want a second opinion

(this is long so buckle up)

PROLOGUE

Lets backtrack.

We all know that the hunger games is a morality play. 

(um… whats a morality play?)

Shortly put, its sort of a way to explore the actions and consequences of people within the safety of fiction. That's about it. 

Ms Collins’ father was a war veteran, and wanted his children to know the consequences of war. She’d look on her tv screen seeing images of the Vietnam war and knew that her father was there, however young she was.

Now, from what I know, which isn’t a huge amount, given that the british history curriculum is only so wide and isn’t able to cover the vietnam war, I don’t think it was a great war to fight in. 

And a lot of ms collins’ views are sort of visible in a kids book that she wrote a long time ago. ‘A year in the jungle’. She speaks continually on how she’s afraid - afraid that her father will die. But there’s not much on who will kill him (and why would there be? Its a kid’s book. And yet… when you fight as an oppressor…)

She plays with the concept of a just war in the series. I’ve got an rs/pe gcse in a couple weeks in which this comes up (does this count as revision? It should…) First proposed by st thomas aquinas, 

Just war theory is a framework of military ethics that attempts to determine when war is morally justifiable, encompassing conditions for going to war (jus ad bellum), conduct during war (jus in bello), and justice after war (jus post bellum). 

There are a number of criteria required to fulfil in order to make a war a ‘just war’ - but, the queston ms collins proposes is, what are these criteria really? Who decides what they are? And how much authority do they have?

But here’s my counter question. Does it need to be a just war at all? Are the ethics of it more important than liberation?

But this is just ms collins, and my opinions. How does this affect the actual text, you may ask?

ACT 1: the old days

(to clarify, I will be making points about Gale’s character on a personal and ideological level. This may be a little bit confusing but, I swear, I have a point)

Well, Peeta is diplomacy and Gale is liberation at all costs.

We know this. Anyone with an ounce of media literacy probably knows this.

Gale grows up in the poorest area of district 12 - the seam. Gale’s father, much like Katniss's, died in a mining accident - the same mining accident, in fact. It's sort of trauma bonding for him and her - they end up sole providers of their families after that. 

There is a clear distinction between the seam and merchant section that goes beyond wealth. Gale, Katniss and Haymitch are all ‘olive skinned’ with ‘dark hair’ and ‘grey eyes’. I think casting white actors in the film adaptation for almost all these people of colour does them all a huge disservice - that clear divide is now gone. 

I can’t tell if Ms collins was trying to say something about the real world when it comes to this. Maybe she was. I haven't found an interview implying so but if there is one out there, please send it to me - I’d love to read it.

But Gale’s childhood is just as hard (if not harder) than the majority of people living in Panem. He is a CHILD, remember when a lot of this happens to him - and obviously, when you put a child through all that, they’re going to come out a different way to the way they began.

Even at the beginning of the text, Gale’s hatred of the capitol is very outward. Madge, the mayor’s daughter who’s not in the books, collects strawberries and he makes sure to point out that her chances of being entered are far, far less than his or Katniss’s. 

(insert quote)

He probably knows deep down that she is a victim of this system too, but seeing her with an expensive bit of jewellery and being able to purchase freely the items that they have to forage for would undoubtedly be frustrating. 

The ‘fire’ symbolism is there from the start. He is angry and rightfully so? This system has him at a disadvantage more than most and there is nothing he can do (right now).

Just to compare and contrast, Peeta grows up not exactly in luxury, but he’s comfortable. He may have had to ‘eat stale bread’ but he could eat. He didn’t have to take out tesserae. Him ending up in the games is meant to be a reminder that everyone has a chance of being entered into the games, even if some people’s chances are higher. 

When Katniss is leaving, he says to her,

(quote)

And the fandom shits on him a bit for this, because they say ‘oh look how cruel and awful he was from the start’...

No?

What else are you saying to your friend as they leave to enter the hunger games? ‘Good luck yolo!’

No.

You tell them to play to their strengths - you reassure them, you tell them they have a fighting chance, especially in this case, because she does. He wants her to come back because she’s his best friend and they are kindred spirits, and if reminding her of this is what’ll get her back then so be it. 

It’s not as if the other tributes, and even the capitol, don’t view them as animals. I guess this comes back to core questions of just war in a way - can you respond one way because your enemy has done the same? On a pure, philosophical level, no, I don’t think so. Ethically, it’s not the right choice at all.

But this is survival we’re talking about - the hunger games are known to strip children to their most basic, animalistic instincts. And there is something admirable about putting survival of your best friend over the people that are probably going to try to kill her.

I think when analysing Gale’s character, it’s important to keep putting yourself in his place, and that will really demonstrate how just because something is seen as ‘wrong’ on a moral standpoint, from a personal one, we can see he means no real ill-will to any of them, but he is prioritising the person that he knows. 

If my friend was being sentenced to death, but there was a chance out of it - I would not care. I want her safe. 

ACT 2: his relationship with Katniss

Katniss comes back, alive and… not so well. But this is where people start to dislike Gale’s character further. They say he is irritating with his intentions, that he feels as though he is entitled to Katniss’s affections.

In a way, yeah, I guess that’s true.

He is upset, when he sees Katniss with Peeta, because while he understands that she did what she did to survive,

[Then suddenly, as I was suggesting I take over the daily snare run, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I was completely unprepared. You would think that after all the hours I'd spent with Gale-watching him talk and laugh and frown - that I would know all there was to know about his lips. But I hadn't imagined how warm they would feel pressed against my own. Or how those hands, which could set the most intricate of snares, could as easily entrap me. I think I made some sort of noise in the back of my throat, and I vaguely remember my fingers, curled tightly closed, resting on his chest. Then he let go and said, "I had to do that. At least once." And he was gone. Despite the fact that the sun was setting and my family would be worried, I sat by a tree next to the fence. I tried to decide how I felt about the kiss, if I had liked it or resented it, but all I really remembered was the pressure of Gale's lips and the scent of the oranges that still lingered on his skin. It was pointless comparing it with the many kisses I'd exchanged with Peeta. I still hadn't figured out if any of those counted. Finally I went home.]

I guess, from this passage, I see the dislike. He kisses her without any sort of permission and we're lucky that she seems to enjoy it, but she's so traumatised that I don't really know if she's in the right mind to consent to anything at all.

[Life in District 12 isn't really so different from life in the arena. At some point, you have to stop running and turn around and face whoever wants you dead. The hard thing is finding the courage to do it. Well, it's not hard for Gale. He was born a rebel. I'm the one making an escape plan. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. I lean forward and kiss him. His eyelashes flutter and he looks at me through a haze of opiates. "Hey, Catnip." ]

^^^EDITING ME SPEAKING - she does something similar? ?? i think this is a writing problem

[Someone they love. The words numb my tongue as if it's been packed in snow coat. Of course, I love Gale. But what kind of love does she mean? What do /mean when I say I love Gale? I don't know. I did kiss him last night, in a moment when my emotions were running so high. But I'm sure he doesn't remember it. Does he? I hope not. If he does, everything will just get more complicated and I really can't think about kissing when I've got a rebellion to incite. I give my head a little shake to clear it.

"Where's Peeta?" I say.]

[He takes a deep breath. "Look, Katniss, I've been wanting to talk to you about the way I acted on the train. I mean, the last train. The one that brought us home. I knew you had something with Gale. I was jealous of him before I even officially met you. And it wasn't fair to hold you to anything that happened in the Games. I'm sorry." His apology takes me by surprise. It's true that Peeta froze me out after I confessed that my love for him during the Games was something of an act. But I don't hold that against him. In the arena, I'd played that romance angle for all it was worth. There had been times when I didn't honestly know how I felt about him. I still don't, really. "I'm sorry, too," I say. I'm not sure for what exactly. Maybe because there's a real chance I'm about to destroy him. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You were just keeping us alive. But I don't want us to go on like this, ignoring each other in real life and falling into the snow every time there's a camera around. So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded, we could take a shot at just being friends," he says.]

Peeta also sees that maybe he was in the wrong for the way he spoke to her at the end of the first book, and apologises, which Gale never does. I don't know if I think Gale was wrong in that moment - I think he very easily could have been, and it's only luck that he wasn't. But this shows the differences in their characters and……..

Let's hear a bit more before I get back to my point.

Their relationship does seem to be a complicated one.

There is an extreme level of codependency, to a toxic level, that comes out of the strange trauma bond of having no one but eachother for 4 years. (funny how katniss keeps falling into relationships that revolve around trauma bonding). 

lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com

There is this extreme level of codependence with this two, and I think we only truly see the extent of how deep it goes for Katniss when Gale is whipped. (on a side note, I think people that enjoy when this happens are genuinely insane. This is still a teenager, who was hunting to keep his family alive. Forget his relationship with Katniss, he is still a person.)

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He's whipped 40 times. A teenage boy, living under oppression, whipped 40 times. No, I don’t think it’s funny. It’s cruel, and so is a lot of the fandom response.

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And shes jealous. I guess thats the plain, teenage angsty way of looking at it - she’s upset for no real reason that Madge had brought medicine because she feels an equal level of ownership over Gale.

This isn’t to defend his own strangely possessive tendencies, it’s to show the depth of this relationship. Gale isn’t the one-sided, angry guy in love with a girl, its both of them equally strangely attached to eachother.

https://64.media.tumblr.com/127ebcb2812b8944054fd67a679b0921/38aed5d34b1a0637-0e/s1280x1920/a692e9739ba67ca76070003cce4dda206064e463.pnj

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He’s thrilled to run away. He wanted to leave before and now that he can, he can keep his siblings safe forever with his best friend/situationship? He’s happy, of course he’s happy, and Katniss is happy too. 

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Not just about his family anymore, and this is a nice segway back to their ideologies. Gale wants freedom for everyone.

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And… crazy as it seems, is that not the ethical choice? To help everyone, if they can? He knows she can save people, she can be the symbol of a revolution if she so wished, but she wants to run away. It’s not wrong of her to want to run away - of course not. She’s traumatised and young and wants to be safe - but its not wrong of him to want a revolution.

He’s young and angry and rightfully so when he’s faced some of the worst that this system has to offer and knows that there are others like him - other prims, other gales, other katnisses that deserve to grow up happy.

This is where my opinions bleed in. I think wanting freedom and liberation were the only correct courses of action.

But, on a personal level, he’s rude. He’s a little bit cruel, honestly. He’s angry. All, in a way, rightfully so… but at the wrong person.

lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com

And I guess this shows the extent, but also some of Katniss’s own dilemma. 

She’s self-deprecating and selfish and this moment changes everything for her. She could be useful and she hates that she isnt, which is the wrong response - she’s traumatised and upset and of course she didn’t want to be the face of a revolution. 

But, I think I’ve shown enough quotes to demonstrate that their feelings for eachother, as well as where Gale is coming from.

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INTERLUDE:

Before I get into Mockingjay, there are a few things I want to address. 

On a completely objective, third-person level, Peeta is a much more agreeable person. Katniss picking him in the end isn’t the wrong decision, rather it’s the objectively correct one.

However, this isn’t a story about a love triangle, is it? No, Collins loves to remind people - its an allegorical tale about Katniss’s world view.

(2018 nyt interview)

So, I think, personally, that presenting one of the people in the story as ‘objectively nicer’ does defeat the purpose a bit. If we are meant to be judging them solely on the ideologies that they represent, then posing one as a better person than the other seems counter-intuitive. 

Because, while I have sympathy for Gale, and honestly, a lot of empathy too, I have the emotional intelligence to understand that for Katniss’s mental state and this time in her life, Peeta is better for her. But that doesn’t mean I agree with the ideology that he represents, and this in itself could override the question that collins is posing:

Diplomacy, or liberation at all costs?

Well, the reader is not able to objectively make a decision. More on that later, but, at least for now, I think it’s important to note that we are not making a choice. We are guided to a choice that was honestly made for us from the beginning.

Back to gale.

ACT 3: Mockingjay part 1

To recap - he was born poor. He was born the oldest of 3 siblings, taking out tesserae to help feed them. He works in dangerous mines that could kill him, the same mines that killed his father every day. He was whipped, publicly. 

And then his district is bombed.

Somehow, Gale saves as many people as possible - which, people like to say that he doesn’t save Peeta’s family on purpose, but it’s clear, if you ask me, that he saved people closest to him. People in the SEAM, where he was able to easily access them. 

He experiences a horrific bombing. He is 19. None of those people deserved to die, and Gale knows this. So does Katniss, and its why she’s fighting.

[Prim … Rue … aren't they the very reason I have to try to fight? Because what has been done to them is so wrong, so beyond justification, so evil that there is no choice? Because no one has the right to treat them as they have been treated?]

Gale is disliked because he wanted power. I don't know if that's necessarily a bad thing, unless you abuse it.

(below in italics is a brief recap of their relationship in quotations - skip if you don't need it lol)

["No, just blocked the doorway when he tried to follow you. His elbow caught me in the nose," says Gale. "They'll probably punish you," I say. "Already have." He holds up his wrist. I stare at it uncomprehendingly. "Coin took back my communicuff." Ibite my lip, trying to remain serious. But it seems so ridiculous. "I'm sorry, Soldier Gale Hawthorne."

"Don't be, Soldier Katniss Everdeen." He grins. "I felt like a jerk walking around with it anyway." We both start laughing. "I think it was quite a demotion."

This is one of the few good things about 13. Getting Gale back. With the pressure of the Capitol's arranged marriage between Peeta and me gone, we've managed to regain our friendship. He doesn't push it any further-- try to kiss me or talk about love. Either I've been too sick, or he's willing to give me space, or he knows it's just too cruel with Peeta in the hands of the Capitol. Whatever the case, I've got someone to tell my secrets to again.

EDITING ME WANTED TO PUT THIS IN

I'm afraid of Gale's answer, but I ask anyway. "Why do you think he said it?" "He might have been tortured. Or persuaded. My guess is he made some kind of deal to protect you. He'd put forth the idea of the cease-fire if Snow let him present you as a confused pregnant girl who had no idea what was going on when she was taken prisoner by the rebels. This way, if the districts lose, there's still a chance of leniency for you. If you play it right." I must still look perplexed because Gale delivers the next line very slowly. "Katniss…he's still trying to keep you alive."

They start to disagree near here -

"I still stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?" he asks. "No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion," I tell him. But this just makes him laugh. I have to let it go. There's no point in trying to dictate what Gale thinks. Which, if I'm honest, is one reason I trust him. "That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say. "Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he answers. "I'll be right back," says Beetee. He presses a code into a panel, and a small doorway opens. I watch until he's disappeared and the door's shut. "So, it'd be easy for you? Using that on people?" I ask. "I didn't say that." Gale drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw happen in Twelve…if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena…'d have used it." "Me, too," I admit. But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you.]

So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn't enough to erase that from his consciousness. "I didn't think you'd remember that," I say. "Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then," he tells me. "Maybe I'll be like that man in 'The Hanging Tree.' Still waiting for an answer." Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over, Ireach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes, and misery. It's a surprising flavor for such a gentle kiss. He pulls away first and gives me a wry smile. "I knew you'd kiss me." "How?" I say. Because I didn't know myself. "Because I'm in pain," he says. "That's the only way I get your attention." He picks up the box. "Don't worry, Katniss. It'll pass." He leaves before I can answer.

"The majority of the workers are citizens from Two," says Beetee neutrally. "So what?" says Gale. "We'll never be able to trust them again." "They should at least have a chance to surrender," says Lyme. "Well, that's a luxury we weren't given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you're all so much cozier with the Capitol here," says Gale. By the look on Lyme's face, I think she might shoot him, or at least take a swing. She'd probably have the upper hand, too, with all her training. But her anger only seems to infuriate him and he yells, "We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!"

Well obviously thats going to piss people off.

the above quotes sort of show the deterioration of his character and relationship with Katniss. and now, here comes...

ACT 4: THE BOMB

This seems to be the nail in the coffin for why not only are we meant to pick Peeta for Katniss, but also the moment where we are meant to reject Gale’s ideologies. 

But, before we get into the ethics of the bomb, let’s look once more at the life of a citizen in Panem, not from Gale’s perspective anymore, but yours.

You live in a world rapidly headed towards facism, where the lines between oligarchy and democracy have started to blur. Conflict surrounds you, every day you see that people are being killed, wrongfully, from the war in Ukraine to the genocide in palestine. None of these people deserve to die, you know this, but there isn’t much that you can do.

You might be rich, or poor - you might live in an upper-class neighbourhood, or you’re one of the rest of us - living in average conditions, average lifestyles, but at the whim of the government. Free market capitalism and neoliberalism are tyrants, and we are at their whim.

Or, you’re one of the Gales and Katniss’s of the world. Your parents cannot provide, you are being exploited and harmed, or you’re one of the people at risk of being affected by the conflict surrounding you. You know that not everyone in the country of your oppressor is the villain, but they might be silently complicit in yours and the surrounding people’s oppression.

When the united healthcare ceo was shot, no one was worried about your family. People were praising the supposed assassin. If you were one of them - congratulations. You might agree with Gale. 

Katniss pleads to Gale that capitol citizens are unaware of the damage they are causing.

"It's more complicated than that. I know them. They're not evil or cruel. They're not even smart. Hurting them, it's like hurting children. They don't see…I mean, they don't know…" I get knotted up in my words. "They don't know what, Katniss?" he says. "That tributes - who are the actual children involved here, not your trio of freaks are forced to fight to the death? That you were going into that arena for people's amusement? Was that a big secret in the Capitol?"

But what about us, today? We're living in, far from the worst times in history, but far from peaceful. We see propaganda on the news every single day. The deaths of thousands of innocent Palestinians are barely given coverage while the US claims that the atrocious events taking place there are all in self-defence.

But we're not stupid. There are people that claim to think that the situation is 'complex' and 'difficult to understand'. But no one respects them. We don't infantilize them. They're adults that are being wilfully ignorant.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Attributed to Edmund Burke, including by John F Kennedy in a speech in 1961. Burke didn’t say it, and its earliest form was by John Stuart Mill, who said in 1867: “Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.” Thanks to Andrew Marshall.

Therefore, I don’t think Gale was wrong at all. Acting as though they are just too stupid, or too propagandized to realise that the killing of children every year is wrong is ridiculous. Every person that allowed those games to happen without speaking up is just as guilty.

I want to rapid-fire some arguments and the counter arguments for the sake of time.

Gale killed prim! 

No, he invented the bomb, with Beetee. 

Same thing!

No, beetee helped invent the bomb. And Coin fired it. By this logic, the inventor of the gun is responsible for all gun crime ever.

(I got that from a reddit post lol)

But, but, he killed someone else’s prim! And he wanted to do that.

Well, that’s a bit more complicated. Gale wanted to be free, at all costs.

Let’s go back to you, in panem - sorry, I mean, you, today.

You have a weapon that could ensure that everyone suffering today would be safe. Some may die, but the majority will survive. Their children will survive, in a better world than the one today. The catch?

Well, some innocents may die. Some. Not all, not everyone, but you’re sacrificing a few lives for a better tomorrow. They might not all be innocent at all, no, but some are.

You cannot guarantee that you are not killing people that deserve to stay alive.

So, what do you do?

If you’re going to do it, pull the trigger, then once again, congratulations. You’re like Gale - like me. I think I would do it. I don’t think you’re meant to want to, as the reader, but thinking about it from the perspective of someone in Panem, someone who can prevent suffering, its completely alright.

Gale says himself - if he’d had a weapon to stop what happened in 12, he’d have used it.

I guess this is full circle for him - he can save people now, and with the weapon that he and Beetee designed. Not just him, by the way.

[At some point, Gale and Beetee left the wilderness behind and focused on more human impulses. Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well. "That seems to be crossing some kind of line," I say. "So anything goes?" They both stare at me - Beetee with doubt, Gale with hostility. "I guess there isn't a rule book for what might be unacceptable to do to another human being." "Sure there is. Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta," says Gale.]

Now, we're back at the topic from the beginning. Just war. Is this ethical, in any situation?

That's hard to determine. I'll pull up 3 ethical systems for us to judge them by, to help us a bit.

Kantian ethics, utilitarian ethics, and situation ethics. Immanuel believed in right and wrong, nothing more, nothing less. The world is black and white with no space for gray. Well…. By that logic, Gale is wrong, Katniss is wrong, Peeta is wrong. They're all villains in this situation because they committed murder.

Utilitarian ethics? Simply put, the action that guarantees the greatest amount of good for the greatest amount of people. Well, the problem with this, is that it all depends on if the districts have a bigger population than the capitol. If the districts have more people….

Gale is right. In his ideology, he will save future generations, today's people, everyone, at the cost of the lives of a few. But it also justifies the killing of innocents, which, technically, defeats the point of a just war. 

(just war critera)

But, who decides what is right and wrong in war? No one, not really. There isn’t really a way to quantify how much murder was okay. 

I guess that brings us to the last ethical system I wanted to bring up. Situation ethics. Determined on a case by case basis. In this case, was the killing of hundreds okay? It did guarantee the safety of future generations. (keep in mind, this is about the murder itself in the context of intention - Coin sanctioned that, for power. She wasn’t doing it for freedom. Gale was)

I think, personally, that it comes down to this:

Does it matter if its ethical or not? Because, in hundreds of years, people might look back on someone like Gale, they’ll study these oppressive, awful systems, and wonder, how did we end up in that situation? How did we get out?

It was help from a bomb?

Well, maybe he was a villain in someone’s story for inventing it, for wanting freedom regardless of all other factors - maybe he’s a villain in Katniss’s story, in a tragic, twisted way. But he wasn’t the villain. His actions have saved so many - is he in the wrong? Really?

[We stand there, face-to-face, not meeting each other's eyes. "You didn't come see me in the hospital." He doesn't answer, so finally I just say it. "Was it your bomb?" "I don't know. Neither does Beetee," he says. "Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it." He waits for me to deny it; Iwant to deny it, but it's true. Even now I can see the flash that ignites her, feel the heat of the flames.And Iwill never be able to separate that moment from Gale. My silence is my answer. "That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family," he says. "Shoot straight, okay?" He touches my cheek and leaves. Iwant to call him back and tell him that Iwas wrong. That I'll figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped it.]

That's the end of them. 6 years of friendship, gone. In my mind, when I read that, I didn’t mourn Prim - not really. We didn’t even know her. I did mourn the loss of that friendship though. I think she did too. But there’s nothing to be done.

So, in the end, Gale makes choices. From an ideological standpoint, the majority of the fandom that thinks that Gale’s choices would never be wrong - I don’t think so.

I think, when we come down to what we believe in, to making a difference, liberation at all costs is the answer that most of us would pick in the face of decades-long systematic oppression. 

Now, back to Collins.

The presentation of gale, in the my opinion, was intentional. He is meant to be seen as frustrating, chasing the girl and hurting people for freedom. His personality taints the actions that he makes - arguable, a lot of what he does is justified, until the end.

To make katniss choosing a partner, and a life ideology, more of a fair thing - I think you’ve got to present both people as reasonably okay people. Gale, as a person, while I agree with his ideology and in fact many of his actions, is objectively more toxic as a person than Peeta. 

It means that, when I say I’m ‘team peeta’ in a way, i've chosen his beliefs, because collins chose them. They’re what she believes, in her own work, which in a way is completely okay. 

She wrote the ending she believed in, because it’s her book. But,

This is meant to be a morality play - we as a reader should be less influenced by the writer. in my opinion, (yada yaya yada), the better ending would have been something like this:

I inhaled slowly, lifting the bow. Snow in front, coin behind, but in the moment, I could hardly tell who was who. I thought I saw someone out of the corner of my eye flip a coin. Two sides. One coin. The noise around was overwhelming - I heard cheers, I heard people murmuring, I heard screaming. It seemed to crescendo in my mind, utterly consuming me. 

Coin’s eyes glinted, brighter than I’d thought possible in a human being. In a strange moment, they reminded me of the bejewelled accessories of many a capitol citizen. I exhaled, lifting the bow again.

And shot straight.

Does this read as really bad fanfiction? Of course it does. I’m not an experienced, award winning writer - the longest thing I’ve written is…. (no you’ll never know and im not telling you).

The point is, I don’t think Katniss should have made a choice at all. I think that should have been left up to the reader. And, collins isn’t as intelligent as the fandom makes her out to be.

‘She only writes when she has something to say’

Does she? Really? With all her media literacy, she didn’t speak on the current atrocities in gaza at all. Not that she has to, but with all her books preach, you’d think that she would. 

‘Reading isn’t political’ stfu. 

In the end, this is my opinion. But to summarise -

Gale isn’t a bad person. In fact, he has the right idea a lot of the time. He is often presented negatively, which I think can sway the reader, but I don’t think he’s in the wrong. Just because his character isn’t written to be the right choice for Katniss, doesn’t mean he is the wrong ideology.

And even if he is the wrong one, I think that choice should have been left up to the reader. A better version of this book wouldn’t taint the readers’ choice with his less than agreeable statements, rather, we’d be allowed to make that choice for ourselves. Collins’ views shine though more often than not, which is alright, but it means that her books do not pose an important question that we must contemplate - they are well-crafted works of fiction that explore ideas, but ultimately tell you what they believe are right.

The fandom holds them to the highest standard, but personally, I believe that there is an integral flaw in them conceptually. 

But ultimately, this is all my opinion - if you disagree, please let me know! I love good-natured, philosophical debate. pls dont send me death threats. tyyyy for reading this mammoth of an essay.

[sorvqlz]

Songs I believe fit the CRP's 3/?

Tim Wright / Brian Thomas (Marble Hornets)

(Before becoming Masky & Hoody)

(Warning! this might be not accurate bc I don't remember too much about the MH series I literally watched it like over a year ago)

“The truth is hiding in your eyes / And it’s hanging on your tongue, just boiling in my blood”

- This could reflect Tim’s suspicion that Brian is hiding something from him. As the series progresses, Tim begins to suspect that Brian knows more about what’s happening with Alex and Slender Man than he’s letting on. Tim can see something in Brian’s eyes—the guilt, the fear—but Brian is either unwilling or unable to speak the full truth, which causes tension and frustration for Tim. The “boiling in my blood” part reflects Tim’s anger and the emotional turmoil of realizing that someone close to him may be hiding crucial information.

“But you think that I can’t see what kind of man that you are / If you’re a man at all”

- This line is particularly powerful when applied to Tim’s view of Brian. As Tim digs deeper into the mystery, he begins to notice the darker side of Brian, especially as Brian becomes more involved with the twisted events surrounding Slender Man. Tim might start questioning Brian’s integrity, wondering if he’s still the same person he thought he knew. It’s possible that Tim sees Brian as someone who has lost his humanity or who is making questionable decisions, adding to the emotional conflict between them.

“Oh, I will figure this one out on my own”

- Tim’s determination to uncover the truth on his own is a major theme in Marble Hornets, and this lyric fits his mindset. He feels increasingly isolated as he uncovers the dark realities of the situation. Despite his suspicions about Brian’s involvement and the sense of betrayal, Tim decides to continue investigating alone, especially after realizing how deep the mystery goes. The sense of being alone, even when surrounded by others, is something Tim grapples with throughout the series.

”(I’m screaming, ‘I love you so’) on my own / (But my thoughts you can’t decode)”

- This part is particularly poignant in relation to Tim and Brian’s relationship. Tim likely still has deep care and love for his friend, but the emotional distance between them grows as the situation becomes more complex. Tim wants to trust Brian, but Brian’s actions and the secrecy around him make it impossible to fully understand what’s happening. The “my thoughts you can’t decode” part speaks to the lack of communication and the growing rift between them. Brian may be withholding information, or Tim may be misreading his intentions, but the emotional divide is widening.

“How did we get here?”

- Tim might be asking this question in regard to his relationship with Brian. Initially, Tim and Brian had a solid friendship, but over time, as Brian becomes more entangled with the events and darker forces, Tim is left wondering how things went so wrong. How did Brian, who he once trusted, become someone he can’t fully understand or rely on? The increasing tension and mistrust between them might make Tim feel like they’ve both lost the connection they once had.

Author's note: Tim and Brian’s relationship in Marble Hornets shifts from friendship to suspicion as Tim uncovers unsettling truths. The growing emotional distance and distrust reflect the themes of betrayal and confusion in “Decode,” with Tim struggling to reconcile his feelings for Brian while facing harsh realities.

[don1t1red]

Honestly, one thing about DotO which always bothered me is how Billie seems to be so lonely in her journey. And not in a way of "she is a lone-wolf" but in a literal sense of loneliness and not-belonging. It almost feels like it is her first day in Karnaca, a city where she doesn't know a single thing or person. Which isn't true. I know that a lot of people have already talked about this, and so I won't jump into the depth of criticism. Treat this post as a bunch of thoughts which occurred to me in my first playthrough.

Firstly, there is no recognition from different people. Stilton, for example. In DH2 she was ready to battle her way to his house and help him, she payed with her blood, her eye and her arm. And yet in DotO we don't see any valuable mentions of this man. Yes, we have a photo in her cabin but that's it! Nothing more nothing less, just a photo which exists in the cabin only to show us, the player, the Void rifts. Almost like it was never meant to actually represent their relationship, just a funny mechanic of the game.

Maybe I don't understand her character to that extent but when I firstly played and heard Billie's monologue about the state of the Dreadful Whale, I had a thought. Was there no one who could help her with that? And my first thought was Stilton, especially after I saw their photo together. But alas she didn't mention anything like that which was completely fine… till the The Stolen Archive mission. With a plot progression things became absurdly stupid. Billie learns that the cult uses Shindaerey as their hideout. And what is Shindaerey? It's a literal mining quarry.

And so you want to tell me that Billie who I know, cunning Billie, who was, by Daud's words, extremely good at unsolving mysteries, won't at least ask Stilton about this quarry? She won't ask a mining baron of Karnaca? Really? Give her skills some credit! I'm not asking for a 5 minute long cutscene but at least a small panel in the pre-mission briefing where Billie talks to him about that, and where we can see how worried he is for her. She is not alone and, no matter what, there is still at least one person who remembers her, sees her and wants the best for her. But again, for whatever reason Billie has no valuable connections in this game, it seems. So it didn't happen.

Two other people about which I keep thinking about are Thomas and that person who borrowed Billie's skiff and returned it during the Follow the Ink mission.

If that note from a certain T. was actually from Thomas I can't think of good enough reasons not to include some of the letter which might happen in between them during the events of the game. Thomas knew that both Billie and Daud were in Karnaca but he didn't know that Daud had died. And honestly an unfinished letter from Billie to him where she tries her best to write about their master's death but just can't - would be absolutely gut-wrenching and insightful. Also it could be interesting to see the difference in how Billie is talking about this event and how she is living through it in reality. Because - obviously - people's internal and external dialogues would be different and seeing that difference in Billie would help us, the player, to understand some shapes of her character.

Or maybe Thomas would learn about Daud's death himself somehow, maybe he could recognize Billie's work as she goes though the city to uncover its secrets. And, finally, it would be simply fun to find a small lootstach from Thomas on one of the missions, accompanied with a letter from him. How is he now? What are his thoughts about Billie? How do her actions are seen by the common folk? Or by the gangs? After all, a good character is not only divided by how the story sees that character but also how this character sees themselves and what other people in the story are thinking about this character. And, as I already said, this small letter exchange between Billie and Thomas could cover up those aspects.

And so we are left with only one character whose presence and absence in Billie's story bothers me. That person who borrowed the skiff. Because the skiff was Billie's main link between the shore and the Dreadful Whale. We learnt from DH2 that in any port there would be a “fee” for leaving the ship there, later, in DotO she complains that hiding her ship wasn't an easy task. So whoever borrowed it must be a good friend of Billie, as absence of the skiff puts her in a bad and potentially dangerous situation. Besides there is a note by a certain M., which talks about meeting with Billie later. I was kinda excited to see who this person might be. Someone whom I already know? Character from the first game? Maybe from the second one? Would it be a howler or black market dealer? Would they give me some special mission akin to one that Emily can get in the Royal Conservatory mission? Well, should I say that I was left wondering as there was not a single special NPC which met the criteria.

What? I forgot about someone? Deirdre? Oh, right. Deirdre. The best person in Billie's life and the worst death in Billie's memory. Right. It's almost too easy to forget that she exists, as Billie talks about her approximately two times in the game? More or less so. Should she talk more about her? Maybe, I don't know. But I remember thinking about using the rat charm in the Void or in the quarry. I thought that in the Void I could hear the real Deirdre speaking, this idea gave me chills back then. To adjust to the voice of your loved one's from rats, only to hear her cursing you for all you have done or to call you from beyond. I thought that she would appear somewhere in the Void, just in the corner of my vision. But again it didn't happen. And I don't know for better or for worse. As in the current state if you want to completely strip her out from the game - you won't lose a single thing. After all, a rat charm is just a rat charm, and so is a voice in it, as it never changes and never really speaks to Billie, it was never a personal matter.

Overall, I don't want to be another person who throws rocks at DotO as, honestly, I like Billie and I'm just… sad, I guess. I'm sad that the game about such a character fails to make me think more of her. I'm sad that the plot of this game was kinda ruined with a terrible script. And, at the end of the day, I'm just sad that Billies didn't get her chance to shine in her own game.

But nonetheless I still like Billie and, at least, her sarcastic comments on the surrounding was always a delight to hear, so I'm gonna replay this game one more time in vain hopes to find what I see in it.

[winstontheecow]

Logan isn’t logic.

What if Logan isn’t a light side and is actually orange disguised as logic. Think about it. First of all, their outfits.

Roman and Patton wear virtually no black. Roman has absolutely no visible black in most videos. Nothing above the waistline at least. Patton has black glasses, he also is more accepting and sees, so to speak, that the “dark sides” have their purpose. Then Virgil has the black on his hoodie and has black pants. Then Remus and Janus have the majority of their outfits being black with green and yellow accents respectively. Then look at Logan. Completely black except for the tie. The connection speaks for itself but there’s more. Alcohol.

Both Janus and Logan canonically drink wine. And though the incorrect quotes have been confirmed to be non-canon (i heard from a secondary source), he did drink the perfume not knowing if it was whisky or not. Patton has openly disliked wine and there is no evidence of roman or Virgil with alcohol. 

Additionally the only signs of orange with the sides has been hints. But especially with Logan. The orange light when he threw the paper in Learning New Things About Ourselves, as well as the eyes. And many have attributed the orange side to anger and rage, which I agree with. This also supports the idea that Logan could be orange because of his Falsehood bit. He claims to have no emotions but feels anger very strongly. It also may be why he claims to feel nothing, because he doesn’t want to feel something too strongly and lose control over his appearance like when he got too angry. It would also be a completion of the rainbow without any repeats like the double blue that has been there. 

Here’s the question, why? Why would orange dress up as Logan and be apart of the light sides. And to that I have two answers. Either Logan is turning into a dark side and this is all just elaborate suspense and foreshadowing (which I will get to later). Or it's for balance.

We know each side plays a specific part for Thomas which would have to have been true since his childhood. We also know that the split happened between creativity. What if when roman and Remus split, that started the divide between the sides. Because they split due to the way Thomas was taught about right and wrong. Then he gets taught lying is bad. Thus separating janus and remus from him then he only has morality and light creativity (bc I’m a firm believer in Virgil developing later than all the sides) and Logan sees this and decides that Thomas can’t live without him. Because he has all his feelings with Patton but when have we really seen Patton get angry? What if orange split from Patton long before the creativity split and just existed with them all. Orange, Logan, knows that it would be dangerous for Thomas to live without one of the core emotions such as anger. (Also Logan was anger in the inside out video) so he replaced his orange tie with a dark blue one and pretended to be logic. 

Another thing is the names, for Janus and Remus it’s much more difficult to figure out the correlation than Roman and Patton simply because of most school systems but all four are connected to their core idea in a small way. Same goes for Virgil. However, it’s very easy to make the connection of logic to Logan. Literally changing two letters and calling it a day. Obviously, very easy name to fake. And it’s a similar ending to the other sides so that’s where the ending could have come from and it’s also another link to Patton with both having the -on ending.

Furthermore, in Moving On pt 2 he said that even if he’s not there, there will always be logic. Insinuating he can’t duck out like Virgil did. What if he can but it wouldn’t leave Thomas without logic but without anger. Which of course would be concerning because 1, Yerkes-Dodson isn't just applicable to anxiety, and 2, what if they think it's better without him because they’ve been under the impression that he is logic and if he leaves but logic remains, then what? 

Of course I am going a little off my rocker. There is the other idea that he is turning into orange and all of this is just a crazy amount of foreshadowing and connecting dots that shouldn’t be connected. However both would line up with how Thomas is using complementary colors and the sides. Yellow and purple being complementary but both are to keep Thomas safe (from society as well as the world itself), green and red are both complementary but are both his creativity, orange and blue both being complementary and both being his emotions. It would line up. 

[taeaura]

So..I was listening to Ethel Cain {as always} specifically Strangers and may or may not have thought about this franchise again..whoops. Here's a complete list of Ethel Cain songs + lyrics that I feel reflect the franchise ++++ an analysis of each one ! 🫀 I'd also like to preface this by saying I understand the meanings behind each of these songs are not what is reflected in this analysis, this is simply just finding connections.

I might make this a series, who knows?

TW: SA / Rape, Strong Language, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Gore, TCM-Canon-Typical Violence / Topics, Animal Abuse?, Hoyt being Hoyt {boo lame boo, I know}

Family Tree

"I'm just a child, but I'm not above violence My mama raised me better than that When the preacher talks, that man demands his silence And daddy said, "Shoot first, then run and don't look back"

So take me down to the river And bathe me clean Put me on the back of your white horse to ride All the way to the chapel, let you wash all over me"

-

"These crosses all over my body Remind me of who I used to be And Christ, forgive these bones I've been hiding Oh, and the bones I'm about to leave, yeah"

____

Right off the bat "I'm just a child but I'm not above violence" throws me right back to the introductory credits in TCM:TB 2006. Thomas' self-harm, killing and skinning animals, all the violence he was subjected to at a young age. He was young sure, but he was willing to be violent. Not necessarily to other people, but animals. Maybe he viewed himself an animal; Something to skin and use. Following that line "My mama raised me better than that." We know the relationship between Thomas and Hoyt, but we just barely scratch the surface of Thomas and Luda Mae's relationship. I'm sure Thomas was raised to fight back, especially considering Hoyt's background.

"When the preacher talks, that man demands his silence And daddy said, "Shoot first, then run and don't look back." This is just self-explanatory. Hoyt, in this case, is 'the preacher.' He's a man who provides and dictates his family {at least that's what he thinks.} He demands silence; The family listens to him without interruption. Now, this also applies to Luda Mae. She doesn't demand silence, but she is the one who 'preaches.' Whether it be religious ideals, scoldings, or general guidance to the family. The continuation of this line reminds me of what I previously discussed: Encouraging self-defense as well as dividing yourself socially from the opposing side. In this case, it's the 'city-slickers' Hoyt preaches about.

"So take me down to the river And bathe me clean Put me on the back of your white horse to ride All the way to the chapel, let you wash all over me"

"These crosses all over my body Remind me of who I used to be And Christ, forgive these bones I've been hiding Oh, and the bones I'm about to leave, yeah"

These lyrics are just so reminiscent of the first supper scene. That scene has always come across as the family killing off who they were. Consuming the final ounce of humanity within the town and fully transforming into the killers they portray in the 2003 film. I find this to be especially prominent during this segment:

"Thanks to the good sheriff here, we ain't gonna go hungry tonight. Matter of fact, we ain't never gonna starve again." Followed by "Charlie, say grace." It seems almost as if Luda Mae is encouraging Charlie / Hoyt to 'say grace' similarly to how Ethel writes "Christ forgive these bones I've been hiding - and the bones I'm about to leave." She's asking for forgiveness not only for herself and the remaining members of the family, but especially for Charlie. The 'bones' he's been hiding are the sadistic tendencies he gained over the war. The 'bones' he {and the family} are about to leave are the carcasses of the people they once were. The kind receptionist at the community center. The mechanic. The veteran farmer. The butcher.

____

Ptolemaea

"I followed you in and I was with you there I invited you in twice, I did You love blood too much But not like I do Not like I do

Heard you, saw you, felt you, gave you Need you, love you, love you, love you"

-

"You'd do well to say yes to me"

-

"Even the iron still fears the rot Hiding from something I cannot stop Walking on shadows, I can't lead him back, uh Buckled on the floor when night comes along Daddy's left and momma won't come home, oh, uh

You poor thing Sweet, mourning lamb There's nothing you can do It's already been done

What fear a man like you brings upon a woman like me (show me your face) Please, don't look at me I can see it in your eyes, he keeps looking at me Tell me, what have you done?

Stop, stop, stop, make it stop Stop, make it stop, make it stop I've had enough"

____

This song reminds me a lot of Hoyt {for obvious reasons which we will get into} but also Thomas. This specific set: "I followed you in and - I was with you there - I invited you in twice, I did - You love blood too much - But not like I do - Not like I do" reads to me as a subconscious urge of Thomas'. His urge to destroy and abuse. To tear into and become. It's almost as if the sadistic and animalistic side of him coaxes him. This could also apply to Hoyt; How hist trauma began to whisper urges into his ears. How the sadistic desire dripped into his mind, forming puddles until it flooded. The next segment: "Heard you, saw you, felt you, gave you Need you, love you, love you, love you" - "You'd do well to say yes to me" is SO reminiscent of Hoyt. It feels like him talking to a victim. ESPECIALLY when he was talking to Bailey. "Don't you think you're gonna go any place, huh? - I love you." And his moans just felt so..selfish. So primal and inhumane. It's so reflective of the constant 'I love you"s in Ptolemaea. Such a demonic and contradictory statement that festers within the background of the song. This song continues to reflect Hoyt within the lines: "Hiding from something I cannot stop - Walking on shadows, I can't lead him back, uh - Buckled on the floor when night comes along - Daddy's left and momma won't come home, oh, uh." Each victim may try to hide from the family, but their fate is inevitable. Hiding in the shadows whilst figuratively being in the shadow of the family. By this I mean, they will never be seen as human by the family. Never considering more than a meal and a puppet of pleasure by their captures. Their humanity consistently overshadowed by the family's primal hunger. "Buckled to the floor as night comes along - Daddy's left and momma won't come home" Essentially reads as being trapped in the rotten walls of the house. No one is there to help you, no one there to comfort you. It also describes the physical conditions: Being buckled to the table in the basement, hung on a meathook, tied to the chairs, wrapped to a bedpost, ect.

"You poor thing - Sweet, mourning lamb - There's nothing you can do - It's already been done." This segment just reminds me of Luda Mae, Kathy / The Tea Lady, and Henrietta. The three women of the household seem to be the only ones attempting to cover-up their malice with maternal reassurance and comfort. It's not like they care about the victims, at least not anymore. All they care about is the family. All they can trust is the family.

"What fear a man like you brings upon a woman like me (show me your face) - Please, don't look at me - I can see it in your eyes, he keeps looking at me - Tell me, what have you done?" You cannot TELL ME that listening to Ethel sing "Tell me, what have you done?" Doesn't slightly sound like "Tommy, what have you done?" It's at 3:32 in the song, please someone tell me they hear it too 😭. Anyway, this entire segment feels like an outside perspective of how terrified the victims {and people in general} are of Thomas. I'm sure even Luda Mae was terrified and just extremely worried when she found Thomas mutilating himself {which is where the "Tell me, what have you done?" and "Show me your face" comes in.}

"What fear a man like you brings upon a woman like me" Is also just, EXTREMELY reminiscent of Hoyt. Cmon now. As well as the repeated "Stop", "Make it stop", "I've had enough."

____

Gibson Girl

Speaking of Hoyt; Gibson Girl. That's it. That's the post. Nah I'm kidding but hear me out:

"Says he's in love with my body, that's why he's fucking it up And then he says to me

"Baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad" Where I can be immoral in a stranger's lap And if you want it good, downright iconic Something they all want that only you can have

You wanna fuck me right now You wanna see me on my knees You wanna rip these clothes off And hurt me

And if you hate me Please don't tell me Just let the lights bleed All over me"

____

You COULD NOT convince me this song doesn't reflect Hoyt. ESPECIALLY "Says he's in love with my body, that's why he's fucking it up - Baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad." Cmon now. He doesn't seem to want his female victims to be dead, but his behavior often results in extreme injury. Specifically gynecologic bleeding / tearing, bruising, cuts, ect. So he really is "fucking up" their bodies. {If you're experiencing sexual abuse of any kind, contact RAINN or the local authorities.}

____

Strangers

"I tried to be good, am I no good? Am I no good? Am I no good? With my memory restricted to a Polaroid in evidence (oh, oh)

I just wanted to be yours, can I be yours? Can I be yours? Just tell me I'm yours If I'm turning in your stomach and I'm making you feel sick (sick)"

____

Alright, let's just state the obvious: This is Thomas' subconscious. At least how I interpret it. He craves praise, he needs it. And I'm not taking about "you're so good to me; You did so good, ect." I mean reassuring him he's not just a destructive brute. Praising his strength, giving him patience and space when it's needed. Providing and acknowledging opportunities where he can do more than just butcher. Providing new ways to communicate whilst trying to understand his current communication skills. Reassuring him that he doesn't make you feel sick. Understanding that his hygiene is poor for a few reasons {I.E; Depression, exhaustion, fear of looking at himself, disgusts, ect.} and not shaming him but simply encouraging self-care. Praise his accomplishments, even small ones. Reassure him that he doesn't scare you; That his physical state isn't revolting. And especially that he's worthy of love, that he won't be abandoned; "Can I be yours - Just tell me I'm yours." This is the type of praise Thomas needs. Something that helps him grow as a person whilst fulfilling his needs. He needs specifics, and genuine interest in what he's doing. But remember, give him space :) We all need it. Getting into specifics within the lyrics:

"I tried to be good, am I no good? Am I no good? Am I no good? With my memory restricted to a Polaroid in evidence (oh, oh)"

This reminds me of when Thomas burnt and destroyed his childhood pictures. To his family, those are memories of him, his childhood, their time spent together. To Thomas, those are his childhood. The childhood that was full of ridicule, disgust, trauma. I doubt he wants to remember that; Hell, I don't remember some of the things that happened to me as a kid because they were traumatic and upsetting. The memories of pain aren't usually remembered by the perpetrator. The only recollection of Thomas' insulting memories are "restricted to a polaroid in evidence." The memories that made him doubt himself.

____

Inbred

I did my analysis on Inbred here :)

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Onanist

Listen..I know this song is about masturbation; I just think some of the lyrics OUT OF CONTEXT could fit a narrative found in TCM. Hear me out PLEASE

"Witness to such agony but there, - before the grace of god go I - I want to know love - I want to know what it feels like"

"it feels good "

"it feels good"

"it feels good"

"it feels good"

____

Okay..this may seem way out in left field but this almost reads to me {In the context of TCM} like a semi-sexual experience for Thomas. LISTEN. Just hear me out. I know the masks are a way for Thomas to hide himself, to present as someone else; I just can't help but imagine how intense putting on his first human mask felt. I know it just looks like a normal day for him in the scene, but I just have this inkling that this felt so intense for Thomas. I've discussed Thomas' sexuality before in this post, just for extra details. Sometimes experiences that aren't inherently sexual feel sexual, y'know? Just this intense build-up that feels pleasurable once it climaxes. Thomas had finally found his craft. This feeling of intense accomplishment. Almost an 'a-hah' moment. It was the first time Thomas could fully take on the appearance of another person; Truly transform himself into an 'alternative mind' if you will. He's still him, obviously. I don't think he 'transitions' between persona's like Bubba Sawyer does, but I still think his masks are influenced by how he wants to navigate the moment. During such an intense moment of agony, Thomas found himself in the grotesque. His image stitched into the face of another. There was no longer an 'Eric', only Thomas. Eric was 'consumed' by Thomas, if you will. Both literally and figuratively {assuming the family ate Eric's body afterward.} Idk, I could be talking out my ass rn but for some reason I could imagine this being mentally stimulating in the same way sex is {for him.} Definitely a source of pleasure, maybe just a form of catharsis.

____

It feels good.

It feels good.

Does it not?🫀{GOD THE WAY HIS BICEPS LOOK IN THIS RAFGHFHAH}

[noomsu]

nothing gets better than this

s. kamisato ayato has always been a man of word and action, but this time it seems his wife holds the final word. cw. fluff. ayato being an absolute menace. he's whining. named oc/self-insert since this is for f/obruary! tw. not proofread. wc. 1.1k pr. love letters a/n. i don't know why but when i saw love letters i immediately knew it had to be ayatsu for this one. if you do read this one, i hope you enjoy a lil glimpse into their daily life and their dynamic! cr. dividers by @/cafekitsune.

When Thoma appeared at midmorning with an envelope in hand, Natsu knew exactly what to expect—the poor man handed her the letter with a mixture of sheepishness and exasperation, but he did not say anything in defense of his master. She felt her lips curve slightly upward as she accepted it with both hands, eyes already recognizing Ayato’s penmanship and seal on it. 

“Thank you, Thoma,” She bowed softly. “Can you please remind my husband that I am in the room next to his and that there’s no need to bother his staff for this?”

Thoma let out a slightly awkward chuckle. “Of course, my lady.”

As he exited the room, pulling the door closed again, Natsu left the manuscript she was reading on the side and instead opted to open the envelope. Ayato’s neat calligraphy greeted her. She rolled her eyes in exasperation—if she were anyone else, perhaps she would be inclined to think that her husband was being clingy or needy, or merely affectionate. She knew better, though; Ayato was just poking fun at her, as he so often did, probably because he was bored.

Definitely because she had not agreed to work in his office.

With a sigh, she began reading.

My dear lady: It seems I’ve been relegated to “distracting husband” instead of “loving husband” this morning, haven’t I?  I see you insist on working in another room, away from my charming presence—the same one you consider too distracting. I can hardly blame you, though. I know very well the effect I have on you. However, I must admit that it still makes me feel sad to know that you’re so close yet so far away. In all seriousness, though, I understand that you need your space to focus. I know you take your job very seriously, and that the last thing you want is for Guuji Yae to take issue with your work because of me (which she might, I’ll admit). Still, I must ask: don’t you miss our little exchanges? Isn’t your job a little too quiet? We could be here, in my office, sharing a glance or perhaps even a laugh between our tasks. I am sure it would brighten your day, as I know it would brighten mine. But if a little distance is what you need, I suppose I can bear it (not that you’ve given me any other choice). I’ll just have to entertain myself in other ways to make sure I don’t miss you as much, though I don’t know if they’ll work. It’s just not as fun without you here. If you need a break or a distraction (hopefully of the me kind), just say the word. You know I’m always available for you, my love. Don’t be too surprised if you find me “accidentally” walking past your room once or twice, though. I do miss you terribly. You cannot possibly blame a man for missing his wife. With all my love, An abandoned husband.

Natsu burst out laughing loudly as she finished reading. No matter how much time passed, Ayato remained that mischievous boy that scared her once with a spider so she would jump into his arms. Even now, after they had exchanged vows under the Sacred Sakura Tree with only the stars as witnesses, he pulled out these moves. She knew that, in part, he loved to make her laugh like this—but he was also stubborn, and he was trying to appeal to her more sensitive side.

Instead of playing into his hand and going into his office to lecture him—which he would adore—, Natsu picked up her own brush and a fresh page to write her reply.

In the next room, Ayato merely waited, humming to himself as he shuffled the papers on his desk. Most of them were requests that he had yet to read—stall requests for the upcoming festival, more budget for the advertising, and many other parts of his job that seemed a little too boring compared to his wife. 

When Thoma came back, wearing that same uncomfortable expression, Ayato smiled. His wife, after all, was stubborn. A little too stubborn, sometimes, but that only added to her charm in his eyes. As he looked up at his retainer, however, he seemed surprised. 

“That’s-” He raised an eyebrow.

Thoma cleared his throat as he handed him a clumsily folded letter. Natsu was still getting used to writing with a brush again, after all. “Lady Natsu said that she’s not engaging in your games anymore, my lord.”

Ayato let out an amused chuckle. “Did she now?”

Thoma excused himself, then. It was clear that he had had enough of entangling in his marriage, and he still had cleaning to do around the estate. Ayato chuckled to himself again as he placed the letter on his desk.

Dearest: I see you’ve been working on the art of whining lately. You’ve taken it to a whole new level, haven’t you? It’s honestly impressive. Should I start charging for your performances? You certainly know how to write a dramatic letter, considering that I am precisely in the room next to yours. I do understand that my absence might be causing you some minor inconveniences, seeing as you have no one to distract right now. You must understand, though, that I need to get through this manuscript today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today. And you, my love, are nothing short of irresistibly distracting, as you so kindly reminded me. A few minutes of work will definitely turn into hours with you around. I cannot get anything done with you sitting across from me with that charming smile.  Now, while I do miss our “little exchanges”, as you called them, I will not be tempted to come into your office. Stop trying. I am quite certain, as you probably are, that if I did, I would never leave. We would probably end up taking a break for tea, you would ask Thoma to bring some of those cakes I like so much, and I would never get anything done. So, as much as I am very amused by your antics, I will be staying in this room until I’m through with this manuscript. I promise I will come find you as soon as I get to a good stopping point, so stop sending Thoma in to check on me every five minutes. He’s caught up with your plan and so have I.  If you’re lucky (and patient), I might even bring some tea as an apology for not rushing to your side and abandoning you this morning. Until then, please, try to survive without me. I am sure you will manage somehow. After all, aren’t you a man of many talents? Very exasperated, Natsu.

Ayato chuckled again as he finished—he had truly found his match, hadn’t he?

more about this ship. | more works.

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