#JB Writes

[jb-nonsense]

💙 drunken kiss / tipsy for Tali/Astarion

send a heart and a ship for a brief snippet!

Summary: Talilah and Astarion have both had too much to drink and find each other in the other's embrace yet again, but is this time different? Word Count: 1,172

Everyone was out. Talilah sat in the camp, twirling the bottle of wine in her hand as she looked at her companions. They’d managed to find a stash of decent make human wine and after having a bit of a rough battle, felt the need to celebrate for the night. Karlach had been quite sure she’d be the last one standing but couldn’t outlast a high elf metabolism. And maybe Talilah had goaded her a little more than the others. But now Talilah was the last one awake and alone.

The only thing that had been missing from the night had been Astarion’s quips. He’d had to leave to find something to eat, after having the tough fight. He’d been a while, and some part of Talilah was concerned. She scoffed to herself, taking a swig from the bottle. So, she’d slept with him twice. It was for…Fun, not serious at all. Just playful banter back and forth, and then a little hot and heavy times. Something he seemed to withdraw from at certain points, requiring her goading, teasing…And attentions to draw him back for a little bit. That did not mean it was anything more. He had an angle and she wanted to figure out what it was, so she was playing his game. Why should she be worried if he was late? Sure, he could pick a lock better than her, he could make her laugh with ease, when he didn’t think she was looking, she could see a glimmer of something else in his eye—

There he was. Stumbling into camp, reminding her of the time he had found a bear to drain. Apparently, he’d fed well that night. She rose to a stand, swaying a bit as she realized how much she’d had to drink. He noticed her, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth and making his way to her. He put his hands on her hips, to steady her or himself, Talilah wasn’t so sure.

“Seems I missed the fun,” he slurred, taking the bottle from her and taking a drink, emptying it and tossing it to the side. Talilah gave a little drunk giggle, wrapping her arms around his neck. Just to steady herself.

“You did,” she said, looking to the rest of camp. “You would’ve enjoyed…Seeing them. Karlach…Karlach thought she could outdo me. And poor Gale, he’s not had a dr…Drinking competition in some time. And Wyll—” Feeling him drawing her closer pulled her gaze back to him. The look in his eyes, even through his inhibited state, spoke of a different kind of hunger, a longing that caused her breath to hitch.

Continue reading on AO3

[ilynpilled]

we dont talk enough about how fucking funny it is that in the show jaime does straight up casually tell qyburn that he saved the population of kings landing to epically own him. thats so fucking funny actually like what the hell do u mean???

[dollypopup]

look, y'all can all gleeful cancel me for this #unpopular opinion if you want, but even IF Nicola wasn't nominated for the comedy section and it was her and Luke head to head in best drama?

I'd still vote for him

because I genuinely and truly think his acting is INCREDIBLE. and I think he's one of the better actors on Bridgerton full stop. I love the nuance he brings to Colin as a character, I love how he so fully embodies him as a character and that Colin has similarities to him, but is fully different at the same time. Colin does not talk like Luke, walk like Luke, even fidget like Luke. He has his own character beats and yes, sometimes parts of Luke bleed into him, such as with the head tilt, but the voice is different, softer, the movements of Colin as a character are distinct to me, he delivers humor well ('you'd already be dead?') and his decisions for Colin as a character are ICONIC (I'm never forgetting that dress adjustment with specific fingers was all him). Colin had a harder go of it than a lot of leads because his story isn't as loud- he doesn't get a lot of big, dramatic moments to have big dramatic acting, and honestly the show didn't give him a lot of screentime in the first place. But when he does have poignant emotional moments? They feel REAL. He isn't given as much time with the audience as other characters are and he doesn't go for the broad strokes with his acting, so sometimes I think he can get lost in some of the louder acting, but that doesn't negate the fact that he's GOOD. He's a good ass actor. He plays Colin like Colin is an actual person.

And for me? For me, that hits home. Even with truncated time on his own season (yeah, I'm still bitter), he delivers every single time. Anger, betrayal, longing, heartache, silly awkward humor, heat- and he does all of those emotions BELIEVABLY. I watched Luke Newton depict Colin falling in love so beautifully and so realistically, I HAVE NO CHOICE but to give him his flowers. Just because he's not as heavy in the hustle as other actors are (please remember this is a neurodivergent actor with anxiety and dyslexia, mental health is important and it's good he took a break ) doesn't mean he's not a fantastic actor. And if you've ever seen his depiction in The Shape of Things? The man is excellent.

I think Bridgerton has a lot of 'big moves' actors. And that's fine. Many people prefer that. But I prefer the nuanced moments and the softer beats of it all, and I think if the camera had allowed us as an audience a longer glimpse into moments with Colin, we'd all be even more floored. I can watch gifs of his scenes over and over and over again and find something new every time.

So y'all can sit there and accuse others of a 'pity vote' but idgaf. Luke Newton is one of the best actors on that show. And I stand by that. Eat me.

[astrangetorpedo]

my eternal gratitude goes to @lettertoanoldpoet for the screencap. another relic from their joint show in portland in 2016. “if you’re really really lucky” i’m eating drywall, thanks

[webanglikethat]

When Love Changes the Script (my eah headcanon)

or — Cupid teaches Apple that love takes many forms, and an arrow always finds its true target.

Cupid, the daughter of Eros, is known for her wisdom about all things Love. Whether it’s answering questions about complicated feelings on her podcast or guiding someone toward their happily ever after (but never her own self, it seems) or finding the best gift for Heart's Day, Cupid is the person people turn to when they don’t know where else to go! Who else could do it like her? Who else can achieve it if not her? Love is her calling and she is more than happy to help you!

And she does it all with a smile that makes you feel so welcome !! Even when love seems to play a cruel joke on her by slipping away from her own hands. 

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

So truly, she should not be surprised when Apple White knocks at her door, seeking help. 

She is used to undoing the knots in people’s hearts, enlightening their darkened worries, but who would’ve thought that THE Apple White would come to her? And sure, she did seek her help once, but it was about Ashlynn’s relationship. 

Back then, she was agitated not about her own self but for the sake of her dearest friend.

This time .... she can see it in her eyes. 

She’s here for herself.

The Apple White, who has spent her entire life chasing perfection and destiny, who’s stood with a high head and fought for what she believed in, who has made so many hearts rise with envy in front of her composure, is now standing at Cupid’s doorstep, looking lost. 

It almost feels surreal.

But it’s true.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

So Cupid immediately invites her in.

Thankfully, Blondie isn’t there -- away on some top secret mission to find out about the validity of some rumours she’s heard. She has to get the scoop just right, she had said while excitedly getting ready.

When Apple steps inside, she’s as pristine as always — with every strand of hair in place, locks falling down like pieces into place, her cape immaculate, a shade of red adorning her lips, her sweet perfume clinging to her skin as if it was a privilege to adorn her — but there’s something fragile in the way she holds herself with her smile not quite reaching the depth and height of her eyes. 

It’s the weight of uncertainty, Cupid realizes, a weight she knows all too well. 

Apple admits to her that she needs help.

Her voice is low, as if she still can't admit it to herself.

The words feel unfamiliar, almost treacherous. Her mother's voice rings in her head, but she pushes it away. Not this, Apple thinks to herself. Her mother doesn't get to control this.

Cupid recognizes it very easily. The worry in the blonde's eyes seems to travel from her face to her shaking hands. But she made the first step, and that in itself is the biggest prize she could win. (Cupid tells her that with a smile.)

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

Cupid know what it is about, of course she does. Everyone saw how Daring’s kiss didn’t wake up Apple. They had all held their breath, waiting for the sacred moment that would’ve sealed their oh-so-yearned happy ever after. 

This was it, the moment Apple would get what she wanted!

And yet, everyone got first row tickets to her biggest nightmare: the moment in which their desired future shattered, like a mirror laughing back at them. 

And instead of Daring, it was Darling’s lips that brought Apple back.

True Love’s kiss — what a cruel thing, deceiving everyone into believing one thing, only to unveil the truth when a sea of eyes dared to hope.

The scene still lingered in everyone’s minds, even if they tried to hide it.

Nobody wanted to question Apple, but the question was right on their tongue, threatening to spill whenever they saw her.

“What now?”,

except this time, the question was evicted from Apple’s lips.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

The thing is, Apple White isn’t the kind of person who doubts herself, not openly, not like this.

This sight felt like a joke, perhaps another one of Kitty’s pranks, an elaborate one with magic!

After all, if Apple starts doubting herself and her story, then the earth might as well swallow them all! 

For as long as anyone could remember, Apple had been obsessed with her story, with her destiny, with her future role.

It is what defined her, what she had built her entire life around. Apple didn't waver; she didn't question. She planned, she prepared, she perfected, she embodied. If you fail to plan, you plan to fail — and Apple vowed to never end on that route. 

She embodies royalty, she embodies perfection, she embodies her fate.

She’s everything Headmaster Grimm could ask for. If the Storybook of Legends could possess someone, it would be her. 

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

But now here she is, her hands shaking as she looks at Cupid, as if her eyes could speak to hers, in a language only they can transverse. As if the hues in her iris can reach to the lines under Cupid’s eyes, as if she’s still scared to speak up and hopes Cupid understands her silence.

All her life, she knew that a prince would be by her side. That is what she prepared for. She laid it all out, like pieces of a puzzle she already could hold in her hands. 

And now the pieces were stubborn, refusing to claim their place. 

They didn’t fit in anymore.

She didn’t fit in either.

So the pieces turned their back on her and began a new imagery. 

And she wondered, what were all those years for?

At times, being with Daring had been more an act of fulfilling duty than something she truly wanted. After all, this was the prince, the future king, with whom she would finally achieve her sweet desired ending. She would be poisoned, he’d wake her up, and her kingdom would finally be hers! She would reign, listening to her subjects, and Daring would make her laugh and … all the other things that came with love. She never truly thought about that part. They had forever ever after for those thoughts.

But now … how was she even supposed to face him?

Would they remain friends now? Were they ever friends?

Would their friendship, or perhaps lack of, change anything?

Could they move on, pretend like it never happened?

Apple knew the answer was no.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

So she asks Cupid, "Was this truly the life I’ve been waiting for, or have I been waiting for a version of it that never existed?"

She stands up nervously, pacing around the room, now visibly shaking, allowing her true emotions to reign in her body, materializing in the way her face falls apart, fear finally presenting itself.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

But at the same time, Apple is known for wanting to address things head-on. She isn’t the type to sit and let her thoughts fester. No, she’s outspoken, direct, the kind of person who believes in action rather than sitting down and drowning in worries. (Perhaps it’s another privilege of being the daughter of the Snow White—a woman who carved out her happily ever after with unwavering determination.)

So, of course, Apple almost treats this like a lesson. Maybe this is to protect herself. She can pretend it’s just another lesson she needs to master! She’s going to get the answers to all of her doubts and she’s going to know all hues and actions needed. It’s almost a coping mechanism. For a few minutes she can pretend this isn’t her real life, maybe it’s a dilemma in a theatrical play, or perhaps someone else is feeling what she is, so she’s gotta help them! This isn’t about her, obviously it isn’t!

So she asks questions — SO many questions — that Cupid almost doesn’t know where to begin. "How do I know for sure?" / "What does it mean if I feel this way?" / "Does it make me… wrong?" / "No story ever had this before, right?" / "Am I not going to get my happy ever after?" / "What do I do with … this destiny?" / "Was this always fated?" / "So why didn’t I notice?"

It’s earnest, vulnerable, and so utterly Apple that Cupid can’t help but feel a pang of something bittersweet. 

Apple’s perfectionist tendencies bleed into every corner of her life, even her confusion. Whether it’s a flaw or a skill, it’s up to the reader.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

Cupid quietly introduces her to the concept of comphet.

She doesn’t use the term outrightly though, so as to not scare Apple.

So instead she uses metaphors, "sometimes, we are handed a script. We read it and we assume that role. Even if it doesn’t fit us, we still try. We want to play the part to the best because we think we owe it to someone."

"Like trying on the wrong glass slipper?", Apple replies.

Cupid chuckles, "Yes! Imagine you’re handed the key to a new dorm — well, you switched with Maddie, right? So think that you got the key, and you put it in, you try and twist it, but it doesn’t open. The issue though isn’t the key, right? The key itself is right — it’s shiny, shaped the right way, and it feels right. The problem is the door. You can try and twist it as much as you want, but it will not open."

"So…. I’m not the issue? I just .. got the wrong door?"

Cupid smiles, taking Apple’s hands, as if the mere proximity can calm the blonde’s heart. "Exactly! It doesn’t mean the key is wrong, or that the door is wrong. They aren’t a match. That’s all."

She takes a deep breath and looks exactly into Apple’s bright blue irises’ horizon. "You’re not wrong, Apple. You’re not a faulted object, nor a fraud. What you’re feeling is completely right. You haven’t realized it because you tried so hard to be perfect, or the version of perfect that everyone wanted from you, that you suppressed all that you felt."

She can feel Apple’s hands shaking as she says "… So what do I do?" and it sounds so heartbreakingly lost that Cupid’s heart seems to drown in her pain.

"...Cupid...I don’t know who I am, if not the role given to me."

"You can still achieve your destiny, it simply looks different from what you planned. A long road — our lives — is always meant to change. You don’t have to be anyone else. You have to be yourself, for that is the girl who is going to achieve all that she desires."

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

And at the same time, perhaps pieces are falling into place.

Maybe that’s why hanging around Darling was easier, why her laughter seemed to seep into Apple’s chest, warming places she had never realized were cold.

Maybe that’s why losing Briar had felt so scary, as if losing one of her limbs.

Maybe that’s why she never felt like that around Daring, no matter how hard she tried or how often she told herself it would come with time.

And now she realizes, she doesn’t have to force herself to feel that way because she, like everyone else, DOES have a choice. It’s ironic, truly, considering how ardently she fought against it.

and it’s TERRIFYING, because who is she if not that role, that label? She's not her own person, she's literally named APPLE. They are all just wearer of their roles in this society, actors on the stage of fate — but what happens when you want to get off the stage and rewrite your own lines?

If Raven was here, she'd probably chuckle. She can almost hear her voice telling her "I told you so!".

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

Cupid would be so gentle with her, her voice soft and steady, the kind of voice that wraps around you like a warm blanket on a stormy night, the kind that can help lost sailors find their way. That was how Apple felt — as if lost at sea. She tells Apple it’s okay to feel confused. That it’s okay not to have all the answers, not to immediately understand her feelings or her sexuality. That it’s okay to be unsure, to take her time. That she isn’t the first, and will not be the last to feel like this.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

"You don’t owe anyone anything, Apple," Cupid would say, a stark contrast to the conditioning Apple has carried all her life. Her crown of thorns would slowly start dissipating.

Cupid would share stories — small, tender moments she’s witnessed or experienced herself. Maybe, if she’s feeling daring, even a glimpse of her time in Monster High, though she carefully avoids saying too much about the school itself. Instead, she talks about the universality of love, how it comes in countless forms and hues, how it can surprise even someone like her, who should know everything about it. Love is all encompassing, an action, something you can try and hide from, but it will find you when you least expect it. It sees the ashes in your heart and the thorns around your ribcage, and it is not scared.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

At some point, Apple would have probably taken out her notebook. She’s known to keep lists and categorize everything. She would treat it like the lesson of her lifetime. She would be jotting down questions, observations and little scraps of thoughts that flit across her mind. Sure, she is freaking out, but nothing will stop her perfectionism from shining through again. 

But as the conversation deepens, as Cupid’s words resonate more and more, undoing the knots in Apple’s chest, the notebook would quietly fall to the side, forgotten in the corner, and with that, so would Apple’s concept of the world.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

It is clear that Apple feels even more shaken now, so Cupid moves closer, reaching for Apple’s hands, holding them firmly in her own. Her grip is warm and grounding, and when she speaks, her voice carries the kind of certainty that makes you believe it’s true, even if you don’t yet feel it.

Apple’s lip trembles, and she looks down at their joined hands, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Cupid doesn’t let go, doesn’t move. She simply stays, her thumbs brushing over Apple’s knuckles.

"Thank you," Apple says quietly. "For… for listening. For understanding."

Cupid smiles, "Always."

"Can I.. come again if I need help?", she asks. Cupid nods, "Of course!"

The waves in Apple's heart slow down a little after this interaction.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

And so, over time, they meet again. It’s always either in Cupid’s room (when Blondie isn’t present) or in Apple’s — anywhere else feels not enough for these sacred conversations, not deep enough to hold the truth Apple is slowly reaching for. They tried to meet in the gardens outside once, but it quickly felt too suffocating, so they decided to regularly meet in their rooms.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

At first, Cupid treats it like any other guidance she’s given: professional, purposeful, with all the wisdom she’s gathered from years of untangling hearts. She lays it all down, slowly and carefully, and explains it.

But Apple… Apple is different.

Apple shows up with the same precision she applies to every part of her life. There’s a determination in her, an eagerness to get it right. She brings notebooks, pens, color-coded questions. She has lists, she marks down her words, she highlights what she thinks is most important. 

She says it helps her concentrate.

She leans in too close when Cupid speaks, her bright blue eyes wide, her brows furrowed in concentration. She leans her head on Cupid’s shoulders when she feels too overwhelmed, and she squeezes her hands in excitement when discussing their days.

It’s endearing, at first. 

Then, it’s devastating.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

Because Cupid realizes that Apple doesn’t just listen to her words; she absorbs them, as if her words are water and she is a sponge. Every reassurance, every gentle truth Cupid offers, Apple takes them in as if they’re lifelines. Apple starts to smile more in these moments, the kind of smile that lights up her face in a way Cupid knows she shouldn’t find herself staring at for too long. The kind of smile you can’t help but desire to frame into your eyelids, so as to never spend a day without it.

Her red lips have become the latest interrupter of her nights.

And then there’s the laughter.

It begins slowly — awkward little chuckles when Apple catches herself overthinking or stumbling over her words, as if she’s making a mistake when asking completely normal questions. Then it grows, freer and louder as Apple relaxes, as she trusts Cupid more. She notices it in the way her shoulders relax, in the way she allows her eyes to close for minutes at times while thinking. The first time Apple laughs, really laughs in her presence, Cupid feels something shift in her chest. And it shouldn’t because she’s heard her laughter so many times. She could play it on a harp blindfolded. It’s a symphony that has taken over her brain. It shouldn’t, but it does.

It’s in the small things, too: the way Apple tucks her hair behind her ear while she’s listening intently, the way she hugs a pillow to her chest while sitting cross-legged on the bed. The way she pauses after Cupid says something profound, repeating it softly to herself, as if to make it real.

As if her words are a prayer, sacred.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

Cupid realizes she is in trouble when Apple thanks her one day, cheeks flushed and eyes gazing directly into hers, and her chest tightens, in a way that makes her want to run.

She feels it at that moment — the all too familiar ache of love seeping into her bones, flowing from her arms to her legs, almost making her stumble. 

Chariclo Arganthone Cupid has fallen in love with Apple White.

And it’s terrifying.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

She questions herself – maybe she’s making it up. They’ve been spending so much time together, of course she feels something! It’s just their endless talks about love that have clouded her mind. Of course all of her extremely detailed ramblings and explanations have accidentally seeped into her own heart. This is Apple White, of course everyone is drawn to her! 

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

But ……. Cupid can lie all she wants, but love is what she was born for, and she knows it too well.

Apple deserves clarity and she doesn’t deserve Cupid’s mess.

So she bites her tongue every time they meet. When long afternoons stretch into nights, and words threaten to spill from the soundbox of her chest, she holds the poison of her love trapped inside her ribcage. She ignores the way her heart starts racing when Apple takes her hands, running from their room to the Cafeteria to get the cake that — in Apple’s words — she absolutely has to try. Cupid doesn’t say it, but she would trade all the sweetness of this world to feel Apple’s love.

And when the laughter dies down, when the cake is gone and Apple’s hands have left hers, Cupid drowns in Apple’s ghost.

She could feel it in the silence, how her heart longed to be evicted from her chest and run, run till it found Apple’s.

But it can’t.

It’s not fair.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

And one night, as they are sitting on Apple’s bed, a scenery Cupid has gotten used to, Apple admits it out loud – "I think I like Darling. As more than a friend, I mean. And before you ask, this is not another Daring situation where I think I HAVE to like her because of … our fate. I think – No, I know that you were right."

Cupid’s heart stutters, but her expression remains steady. She’s practiced this a thousand times in her head — what she would say when this moment came, how her face would twist into the right expression, how she would smile as if she was the happiest girl in the world, how she would reach for her hands excitedly. But none of her rehearsed responses seem to fit now that it’s real. None of them are able to escape from her lips. So she nods and musters up a smile, "That is wonderful Apple! If Darling makes you feel like your story is yours, if she makes your heart feel cradled and your joy enlarged, then go for it!". And as she says it, she can feel her own heart being ripped into pieces.

She could swear an arrow of her own just pierced her soul.

How ironic.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

When Apple hugs her, thanking her endlessly for her support and wisdom, Cupid lets her hands linger just a second longer before pulling away, her eyes tracing her silhouette as if for the last time. 

She watches Apple leave the room, taking Cupid’s heart with her. She can barely call it her own at this point. But it will never know the tenderness of the blonde beauty’s love.

And she tells herself it’s alright, it will be alright. After all, this pain isn’t foreign to her.

Chariclo Arganthone Cupid was born for love, but love wasn’t raised for her.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

The memories she clings to like a lost sailor ….. Cupid tries to let them go, but her mind tortures her incessantly and interminably with the little moments she shared with Apple — the way Apple’s face would light up during their talks, the way she’d laugh a little too hard at Cupid’s jokes, the way her hand lingered a second longer than necessary when she reached for Cupid’s and the way she would rest her chin on her shoulder as if it could help her hide from the world and her own self. Was it real? Was any of it real? She doesn’t know what would hurt more: the possibility that it wasn’t or the thought that it was, just not enough.

She doesn’t cry where anyone can see: Cupid has mastered the art of hiding her pain. 

She greets Apple the next day like nothing’s wrong, nodding encouragingly when Apple gushes about her plans to talk to Darling. "You’re going to be amazing", she says, her voice steady, her eyes bright. She excuses herself a few minutes later, saying she has work to do. 

She doesn’t. She just can’t breathe.

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

When finally, one day, she sees the two of them together, Apple holding onto Darling’s hands the way she used to with Cupid, she knows it’s over. And she reprimands herself. It never even began, so how can it be over? And if it’s over, why is her heart still writing, demanding for more? Aching to be read by the only person who seems to transverse in its language.

She wishes she could turn it off, shut it away, locked in the tallest of secluded towers where nobody could reach for it.

She wishes she wasn’t Cupid, the embodiment of love. How can she stand up in front of everyone and declare that love is worth it, when it feels like a luxury she can never reach?

ᢉ𐭩 — ✦ . ⁺ 　

As days go on, even as the pain lingers, unlike Apple’s presence, Cupid straightens her shoulders. She tells herself it’s alright, but that she needs to move on. She might not get to keep love, but she gets to create it, to inspire it, to watch it bloom in others. She might not have been able to be part of Apple’s love story, but she helped writing it. And that should be enough. One day it will be enough. 

And maybe, one day, someone will teach her the kind of love she’s always given to everyone else. 

It is not the ending she wanted, but it is hers. And she learns to hold it gently, the way she wishes someone would hold her.

Author’s Note: omg hi! I have been working on this for almost two months now. it is my first and probably last eah piece. I am very unfamiliar with how to write both Cupid and Apple so I hope this is not too OOC. I guess this story is a quiet ode to the beauty of love, the ache of an untouched arrow, and the joy of watching others bloom in love’s light. may it remind you that love, in all its forms, finds its way to the heart meant to hold it. the love that you give will always find its way back to you. love in its truest form is never wasted, even if it hurts you and makes you feel dismantled. and you never lose love when you give it to someone; instead, you set it free. it travels, it grows, and in time, it always finds its way back to you, often in ways you least expect. thank you so much for mira and void for listening to my rants about this headcanon, and to my friend fungi for even giving me the idea in the first place !! I didn’t specifically listen to this song when I was writing but I feel like it fits the overall topic of the headcanon <3

[fadewalking]

Indie Multimuse for Solas and Emmrich Volkarin. Mutuals Only. Highly Selective. Mun is 21+

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[pjshermann]

advertising post for my upcoming/in progress A Little Life fics bc im so excited about them and need to talk about them :D

just what the doctor ordered (title not finalized)

Fic about Andy and Jude meeting for the first time when Jude is seventeen and has a terrible, sustained episode that makes his friends take him to the campus hospital. Fic follows Andy and Jude through their relationship up until Jude's death

I won't put my child in the dark

Fic about Harold and Julia in the days and weeks and months after Jude's death. enough said about that ;)

Scones

A lighthearted, no angst A Little Life fic???? can you believe it. If you've ever watched Derry Girls you will love this one. I'm taking the scones episode from season two, and putting the Boys in the Hood in a similar situation. College shenanagins involving corpses and weed

Gnossienne

Remember when Jude said his worst nightmare would be for Harold and Julia to find out about his past through a doctors report, a photograph, or a film still? Yeah, that's EXACTLY what happens. woops

No title yet (relatively new idea so yk)

Fic about Harold and Julia meeting for the first time, with Harold finding happiness again after grieving Jacob's passing and his divorce from Liesl. First dates, wedding, and general love !

[halfagod]

to the 3 people who said they wanted to read my irish jb au, it's your lucky day! btw jaime is wearing a slim fit hand-fitted hugo boss suit iykyk

Brienne squints at the digital display on the bus stop sign, palms sweating. Her bus will be here in six minutes, it tells her. For the fifth time, she checks Google Maps just to make sure it’s the right one – the H1 towards Baldoyle. Yes, she is at the right stop. The last time she’d tried this, she’d gone to the wrong side of the road. But this time, she’s done everything right, she’s sure of it.

She exhales, relaxing a little, only to have to jump suddenly to the side to avoid being hit by two young teenage boys careening down the footpath on a scooter. They look over their shoulders to jeer at her as they pass.

Brienne suddenly feels very homesick for Inis Oírr.

She glances back at the bus sign, and frowns. The H1 towards Baldoyle is no longer anywhere to be seen on the sign. Behind her, she hears two elderly ladies tutting.

“Gone again,” one of them says. “Typical.”

“Honest to God, Bríd,” says the other one. “We’ll be waiting twenty minutes now for the next one.”

Brienne stares at the sign, not understanding. It was supposed to be six minutes away. Where could it have gone?

At least she’s not in a rush – she’s only going home from work – but she’s exhausted from her first day and wants nothing more than dinner and bed. She sighs. If she has to wait, she may as well call her father.

She digs her phone out of her pocket, hoping he has signal. It can be very patchy out on the island, but she had never minded that when she lived there.

“Haigh,” she says, when he answers in his customary gruff fashion. The sound of his voice sends another wave of homesickness through her. “Cén chaoi ina bhfuil tú?” How are you?

“Maith go leor,” he says. All right. “Agus tusa? Conas a bhí do chéad lá?” How was your first day?

“Maith go leor,” she echoes. She tells him about her new boss, Catelyn, a kind woman from up north who had recently moved to Dublin after losing her husband. She had hired Brienne to help market her new handmade jewellery business, Abhainn.

It’s Brienne’s first proper job out of college, and secretly she is terrifed of letting Catelyn down. Apart from Catelyn’s daughter Sansa, who helps Catelyn out with social media from time to time, Brienne is the sole person on the marketing team, and she can’t help but feel the pressure.

“Ná cuir an iomarca brú ort féin,” her father tells her, as if he’d read her mind. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. “Béidh tú go hiontach.” You’ll be great.

To her surprise, Brienne feels tears well up in her eyes, and chides herself. She’s just tired and a bit homesick, that’s all. There’s nothing to cry about.

Suddenly, she sees the H1 bus loom around the corner. Miraculously, it has come on time after all. Relieved, she bids her father a hasty goodbye and sticks her hand out to hail it.

She lets the old ladies board first, pulling a crisp tenner out of her purse as she waits. Suddenly, she hears a voice from behind her. A male voice, lazy and amused, with a South Dublin drawl. “They don’t give change, you know.”

Brienne turns, startled, and sees the most handsome man she’s ever seen in her life.

He is older than her, in his early thirties probably, wearing a suit that looks expensive. He has tanned skin, flashing green eyes, and curly hair the colour of beaten gold. His smile is sharp and perfect, revealing a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. He looks like he should be on a beach in Australia, or on the catwalk at Paris Fashion Week, not in Dublin about to get on the H1 to Baldoyle.

“What?” she says stupidly, both flustered that the most handsome man in the world is talking to her and panicked by the information he has just imparted.

The bus driver clears his throat impatiently; it’s her turn to pay. Before she can decide what to do, the most handsome man in the world hands the bus driver a tenner of his own.

“For both of us,” he says, nodding towards Brienne.

The bus door closes behind them, and the bus jolts forward at a speed Brienne had not been prepared for. She catapults backwards, and the handsome man catches her, strong arms wrapping around her. He smells of expensive cologne. She feels a flutter in her belly; she has seldom been this close to a man, and never one this beautiful.

“Wow,” he says, still amused, his voice low in her ear. Even with that accent, it’s an undeniably sexy voice. “You’ve really never been on a Dublin bus before, have you?”

She struggles out of his grip, mortified, and grabs a handrail. He looks her up and down, that cutting smile still on his face, and she is suddenly very aware of the fact that she’s wearing a Penney’s jumper and a shabby green anorak.

Her embarrassment turns to anger. She does not need to be made fun of by some posh, rich South Dubliner who has probably never had to work for anything in his life. She mutters, “Thank you,” shoves her tenner into his hand, and wobbles down the aisle to find a seat, holding on to the handrails as she goes.

To her consternation, the man follows her. “I didn’t mean any offence,” he says lightly, sitting down beside her when she takes a seat. “Where are you from? What was that language I heard you speaking?”

Brienne stares at him in disbelief, forgetting her anger for a moment. “You mean... Irish?”

The man laughs. “You don’t say. I wasn’t very good at it in school. I always thought it was a bit pointless.”

Brienne shakes her head. Handsome though he may be, this man is everything she hates about Dublin personified. “Thank you for paying for me,” she tells him primly, then pointedly takes her headphones out of her bag and puts them on.

The man taps her shoulder. When she turns to glare at him, he hands her back the tenner she’d given him. “It was a gift,” he says, smiling. “I like to help out the culchies wherever I can.”

Hot with rage, Brienne screws the note up into a ball and shoves it back into his hand without a word.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, I’m sorry. I’d give you your change, but that’s all the cash I have on me. Can’t fit much coinage in the pockets of this suit.”

Part of her does want to take the tenner back – she’s painfully broke – but it’s a matter of pride. She does not need charity from some insufferable D4 who thinks her first language is pointless. She stares out of the window, ignoring him, and finally he leaves her alone.

At least until they get to his stop, at which point he taps her on the shoulder again. She grudgingly pauses her music, wondering what he could possibly want now.

“My name’s Jaime,” he informs her, as though this is something she needs to know.

“OK,” she says.

He waits, and she realises he’s waiting for her to give him her name. She doesn’t.

He smiles, sharp as a knife. “All right, culchie. Good luck in the big smoke,” he says, and then finally, finally, gets off the bus.

As the bus moves off again, she watches him stride confidently down the street. What an obnoxious, snobby, gorgeous weirdo, she thinks, and can’t tell if she’s relieved or strangely disappointed that she’ll probably never see him again.

[otomes-and-tears]

it’s meeeeeeeee i’m shiloh enjoyer #3!!!! revolving him around in my brain every day like it’s a microwave 😭😭 i know you’re busy with a lot of other asks at the moment but i’m eagerly awaiting the lizzie post!! and all of your other writing ofc <33 you brighten my day :D

HELLO TO THE MYSTERIOUS SHILOH ENJOYER #3! I think we're all here now haha I'm glad you enjoy my analysis posts! NOW BUCKLE UP, BUCKAROOS! THIS ONE IS GOING TO BE LOWKEY SAD: Elizabeth is perhaps the most complex and defining relationship in Shiloh's life.

First of all, it's one of the few we see glimpses of throughout several steps in his life-- we see how he idolises her as a child, how he acts towards her when they reconnect in his teenage years and glimpses of how the different versions of him act with her in adulthood. It's likely the oldest relationship he maintains that isn't familial, and I think that's incredibly significant when we take into consideration what I believe to be one of the paradoxical cores of Shiloh's character: Connections and relationships are disposable to him, but Shiloh is only Shiloh as long as there’s someone there. He still feels lonely.

I talked a little before about Shiloh's childhood. How the social dynamics he established as a kid ended up influencing his behaviour as a teenager: He sees Lizzie as the obvious leader, since she's older and more assertive than him and MC, and follows her around and obeys her every whim because of it. Whether he genuinely likes her or not is up for debate, but I don’t think it matters to Shiloh. What she means to him is something that can far supersede any simple likes or dislikes that he might feel at that age:

She provides stability and purpose. She’s his anchor against the mean kids, the teasing, the isolation. All he has to do is stay in her favour. Lizzie is his first encounter with a power dynamic he can rely on and emulate as he grows, and therefore she becomes someone he idolises.

Shiloh doesn’t need to be honest, or even be himself, as long as he’s useful and needed. He understands social hierarchies all too well, knowing what happens to people at the bottom. It’s why he insists he isn’t “different” and loses it when Cove calls him “weird.”

He was probably one of the kids who got picked on, so he’s always scrambling to stay just above water and not sink to the bottom with the rest of the “outcasts.” MC doesn’t mean much to him, but in Lizzie’s absence, he sticks to them just as obediently, as they’re the next best thing. Cove, on the other hand, is mostly just a mild annoyance but does give Shiloh a bit of relief because, for once, he’s not the one at the bottom. And it’s not like Cove was ever going to be Lizzie’s favourite anyway.

Whenever Shiloh gets ignored, he panics and tries to wedge himself back into the conversation however he can. And as soon as Lizzie shows up again, he immediately runs back to the safety of their old dynamic.

I think that while most of him admires her at that age, there's a little part of him that resents not being like her. Not being able to be a leader and being relegated to a follower, feeling aimless when she isn't around. As a kid, he's more prone to lashing out when angered, unlike older Shiloh who acts with fake cheeriness and this strange, eery coldness when annoyed. And that's why he pulls her down with him into the water in Step 1.

If he isn't willing to voice these things because he doesn't want to rock the boat and cause issues, he expresses it more subtly.

Shiloh’s just scared—a scared little kid who figured out a way to fit in. And because that method kept working for him, through moving out of state and getting through life without Lizzie, he never really had a reason to change, even if it did a number on his very sense of self.

He got better at these tactics over time, making sure he’d always have a way to fit in, but it cost him a real personality and genuine social skills beyond the manipulation tactics he fine-tuned throughout the years. Eventually, he started taking control in small but crucial ways: He’s the one who walks away from relationships, now. Removing himself from them becomes a choice. It’s not only about leaving when people cease being useful to him but about imposing a sense of control that he felt like he lacked in childhood since he moved schools and states a few times and was likely used to being the “new kid” in different places.

He learned to hide his feelings better, so he wouldn’t blow up the way he did when he was seven. That’s why his relationship with Elizabeth—and the times he had to start fresh somewhere new—were so essential to shaping who he is: Lizzie set the standard for the kinds of relationships he’d chase, and moving around gave him fresh slates and new people to practice on.

That brings us to the serendipity moment in Our life and what we know from him in Xoxo droplets. Now, I know a lot of people haven’t actually played XOD and only have a cursory knowledge of it and the fact that a few characters from it cameo in the Our Life series! But did you know that Liz is mentioned by name in Shiloh’s route?!?

Yes! Back in 2017 we actually had Shiloh mention the events of Serendipity, which I think is a crucial scene to understand Shiloh’s character.

But before we talk about that, Let's talk Serendipity!

After Jeremy brings up “Shiloh’s famous memory” and Liz realizes he lied about not remembering her in the Step 3 prologue, Shiloh actually goes ahead and explains why he is the way he is. His explanation lines up with what we know about him from XOXO Droplets and how he acts in Step 1.

I don’t think he’s lying. Not about all of it, at least. Some of the only concrete information we have on Shiloh’s character and how he functions comes from his childhood, and I think that what he’s saying is a natural progression of that information. He only does things for his own benefit, he’s afraid of being left out and he asserts his sense of control through his relationships with others. But it’s really important to remember that Shiloh doesn’t do things without it benefiting him. While I believe in the core of what he’s saying, the fact that he’s divulging this information at all (how he’s going about it, by putting Liz and her feelings on the matter first, and framing his choices as being mistakes he made out of care for an old friend and by reiterating that they’re too good and putting himself down for pity points) instead of trying to dodge the conversation again, he’s employing a few of his known manipulation tactics: the real me strategy.

Shiloh knows that this new information is hurtful to Liz, and like in Step 1, her opinion is really the one that matters to him. He knows that there’s a limit to how much he can play dumb before they snap, and by Jeremy revealing part of his MO, there isn’t a lot he can do to smooth things over, so the least destructive path is to do exactly what Shiloh does to JB during his route in Xoxo droplets: He feeds Liz little bits of truth because he knows he’ll damage their relationship if he doesn’t. He gives her enough so she feels like she knows him better, like she’s got some new, special insight into the “real” Shiloh that nobody else has, which keeps her around. He pretends to drop his manipulative schtick because by telling her this, she has “figured him out” and there isn’t a point in trying anymore. That itself is a manipulation tactic.

But why bother? He’d be gone again by the end of the afternoon regardless of her forgiveness or not.

It comes back to what I mentioned earlier: Shiloh is the one who exerts control over his relationships. He is the one who decides when they start, and when they end, and by Liz being upset and deciding she doesn’t want to be around him, not only does he lose the control he craves, but Shiloh loses it with the person he based all of his subsequent relationships on.

In the few hours that he spent in Sunset Bird, they all fell back into their old dynamics even though it had been so long since Shiloh stepped foot in that town. He still remembers that she prefers popsicles over ice-cream sandwiches, and even though he’s better at including MC and Cove, Shiloh in a lot of ways fell back into their old routine, looking back to Liz as his leader and following into step as her sidekick. It doesn’t matter if Liz isn’t an active part of his life any longer, what would it mean to him to have those memories tainted? For that perfect template to be ruined?

But Liz stays. 

And because of that choice, we get to see the ultimate consequences of it. Shiloh isn’t a good person. As pitiful and as tragic as he might be, he simply isn’t one. And I think that can be encapsulated perfectly in how he frames his interaction with Liz to his girlfriend in Xoxo Droplets.

He glosses over what he did wrong, he casually exploits that event to garner points with his girlfriend. He ultimately doesn’t care if she takes his and Liz’s relationship the wrong way and frames it as being romantic, even if that’s far from the truth. Even with Elizabeth being miles away and already hurt by him, he still finds ways to use people and spin narratives to his advantage. 

I do believe he holds Liz in higher esteem than most (and arguments can be made that JB, the main character in XOXO droplets and his love interest, and Elizabeth share similarities in both appearance and their strong-willed, confident personalities), since she was his “idol” by his own admittance, but this is a tiny way in which he asserts his control over the situation. It doesn’t matter if Liz believes she holds the reins. If she’s older, admirable and if he still follows her around like an obedient puppy when she’s around.

By choosing to stay, she tipped the scales in his favour. He is the one in control once again, and he's able to continue his interminable cycle of holding people at arm's length while playing the part of a devoted companion.

[brandogenius]

Stranded. (small teaser)

‼️RPF‼️

Julien x singer! Reader - enemies to lovers

(based on one of my requests! 🤭🤭🤭)

Description: after missing your flight to toronto for your next tour stop. you’re stranded in a random city with nothing but $20, a guitar, a suitcase full of clothes and a small tattooed guitarist who seems to not like you very much.

————-

“know where you’re going?”

“of course i fucking know where i’m going” you huffed, one hand on the suitcase, the other hand gripping the phone, google maps displayed on the screen.

“doesn’t seem like it.” you snap your head to glare at the other person beside you. she’s staring at the sky, cigarette between her lips. leaned up against the wall, suitcase settled beside her with the guitar case propped up on the ground.

“have you nothing better to do than complain?” you tilted your head, squinting as the rain splashed down aggressively on your head. one hand over your eyes. the tattooed woman shrugged her shoulders. “s’kinda fun watching you just give out” she gave a nod towards the phone in your hand “stop getting distracted princess. we have places to be”

“we have places to be” you mocked in a high pitched tone as you rolled your eyes “and whose fault is it that we’re in this situation?”

“hey, don’t blame me! blame the taxi cab”

“ oh yeah. i’ll blame the taxi driver who was late bringing us to the airport because you lost your goddamn phone in the hotel room” you waved your arms in the air as your voice got louder

“how could i leave my phone there? it had all my documents, my lyrics and bank details on it!” julien snapped back.

“we missed the fucking flight, julien! a flight to goddamn canada! we’re in california” you sighed loudly, getting more annoyed.

“there isn’t any more flights this week, due to this stupid fucking storm. we’re stranded here and we have a show in two days” you wiped the rain off the phone screen, zooming in to look at the nearest location to a hotel.

“it’s fine-“ julien leaned off the wall. grabbing her suitcase and guitar. “get a cheap hotel for the night, rent a car and drive over to toronto, simple. we’ll make it there in no time”

“that’s easy for you to say” you scoffed, walking ahead of her, following the map.

“it’s true. what’s the worst that can happen?”

[jb-nonsense]

Underneath the summer sun, she does sleep,

Resting in the rare heated rays, she is still,

Yet step in her waves, her cold grip is there,

Back and forth, back and forth, circling around you,

Go no further or you'll join her fore'er,

When the cold, icy northern winds do blow,

And the land is a sea of red and orange,

Everyone knows to ne'er touch the water,

No ship'll set sail with November's cold gales,

When she awakens, her waves know no end,

Reaching the sky, touching the winter clouds,

Pulling down any souls who are poor fools,

Who failed to heed the shipman bell's warning.

[distinguishedstudentcat]

ivy by taylor swift is so show!braime coded I'm going to be sick

[swordmaid]

having insane jb thoughts CURRENTLY. like I am PLAGUED with it.

[crashromance]

hitting the lads with the babygirlification beam

[emergingghost]

I can't really hear/understand the first new torres x julien song on the videos but the second one wowoow already adore it ouch

[webanglikethat]

⋆⁺₊❅. Lonely winter, cradle my heart.

Pairing: Vyxaria x Walter. Words: 4004. Tags: for @agattthaa’s birthday, @eeriedreamer, @malbontesmrs and @liykaii — thank you for always believing in me. & shoutout to tswift for writing peace, give it a listen!

🎼 “could it be enough, if I could never give you peace?, ts.

Raindrops fell down the window, as if chasing trails they were afraid to lose, slithering down like snakes on a fresh slippery bruise. The wind whispered against the walls, similar to how waves crash into the shore with more strength each time, as if seeking something, demanding it. The room was dimly lit and warm, but the heart of the succubus felt anything but.

It was truly pathetic; and the worst part was … she knew that.

A creature like her had no use for pain or sadness, let alone grief, but her heart felt consumed by it.

Vyxaria laid on the bed, eyes closed, replaying over and over the scene that would haunt her till her bones decayed, and her spirit vanished — …. Xantheia stabbing her.

Surely that couldn’t have been her Xantheia right? Not the Xantheia she spent all of her valuable moments with – not that succubi were supposed to have valuable moments, not with mortals, and certainly not with each other. But Xantheia had always been her exception. The Xantheia who laughed with her under moons swollen with silver light. The one who would trace her fingers along Vyxaria’s cheek, murmuring words too sweet to belong to their world. The Xantheia that would sit on the thrones of kings they’d manipulate, pretending that the kingdom now belonged to them. The Xantheia that – as human said – took her under her wings, as if some kind of protecting angel – and oh, how cruelly heaven turned out to be another fake.

It couldn’t be her Xantheia.

Maybe she imagined it. Maybe the chill of the air perforated her stomach. She had read somewhere that the mesosphere of this world was becoming weaker – whatever it meant. She hadn’t understood it then – for what did she care for human science? It made no sense to her nor brought her any kind of advantages — but now it cruelly reminded her of her own figure. Wasn’t she just the same? Once impenetrable, now fractured. Once strong, now laying on a bed of a house she couldn’t call her own, in a world that didn’t listen to her, eyes that closed which betrayed her with the same image under her lashes and in the depth of her iris. She could almost feel it, that weakening, spreading through her veins like frost, breaking apart everything she thought she was.

She pressed her hand against her chest, fingers trembling as though searching for a heartbeat. Of course, it wasn’t there; there was no pulse to find. There never had been. But now, the absence felt louder, deafening.

How could someone miss what they had never needed before?

What good was power, when she couldn’t even protect herself from a mere memory?

She closed her eyes, damning her own figure. Centuries of hunting, scheming, attacking, and yet all it took was one betrayal to crumble her down. Her chest heaved, and before she could stop herself, a sob clawed its way out of her throat, as if begging to finally be let free – something she could never be. It was raw, jagged, unfamiliar – a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. Her grief had welled up, transporting itself from her organs to her mouth, climbing the soundbox of her lips, and it finally bled. 

The flood was open.

Dark blue drops bruised her bedding, as if to shame her, drown her into her incompetence. Tears spilled over her lashes, unbidden, and the sky itself seemed to react, for the wind got stronger, smearing the windows of her room, the jalousies of her face.

No, no, no. 

This wasn’t her. This couldn’t be her.

The storm outside screamed as though mocking her, ridiculing her for behaving like a weak mortal whose heart had been broken, but her own grief was louder, more strident, intrusive, pushy as if to say - yes, I know, and I’m already punishing myself.

She tried to stifle the sound, dissect it with her fingers clamped over her mouth, but the battle had been lost long before it began. It couldn’t be buried, it was implanted. And so, the roots of pain grew over her figure, reaching her neck, and in a twisted way, it reminded her of the touch she so desperately wanted to forget.

Vyxaria wished she could turn it all off. She wasn’t supposed to feel in the first place, perhaps a curse disguised as a blessing. She was a soulless creature, mistress of the night, conquistador of men and women alike. So why, why did she now feel like a spider in the corner of someone’s room? Weaving, weaving, weaving till her fingers bled.

Feelings weren’t for her.

She was not for this world.

She wasn’t for her “home world”, either.

A Soulless creature who felt too much. Foreigner on earth, stranger at home. Everywhere she went, it wasn’t enough. She was rejected, as if her mere presence was a toxin nobody could withstand – too eager to be purged, buried, forgotten.

She wished she could reach into her stomach, cradle her bones and caress the spot where her body’s warmth had been cascaded with blood, warm blood, blood that had begun at her hips and ended at her head, where it ultimately stayed, festering the remains of the cavity of her ruin.

It was pathetic because all the times she had been hunted, she had assumed that one misstep would lead her into a trap. One day she’d be too slow, maybe she’d slip, perhaps she’d accidentally turn around and be hit right in the chest. It would be a scheme, a well thought plan, a step-by-step approach for her downfall. 

But alas, the world sneered at her, for it wasn’t strength, desire, fury or confusion that brought her down, but affection. 

Pure, unbridled affection.

She should have never let it into her chest, but she didn’t notice the way her guarded bridge opened itself for the closest thing she had to family. Her castle had crumbled overnight, both by the admission and the betrayal. It was nauseating, the kind of disease you cannot name. Maybe in fifty years humans would look at her, dichotomize her bones and blood, and classify it after her. ‘The plague of trusting’ – and so, she’d be immortalized as a weak, fragile creature whose sin had not been existing, but trusting.

Vyxaria pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the presence of the phantom wound. It lingered, and lingered, and lingered, braiding itself in the marrow of her being.

Pathetic. Truly fucking pathetic.

The name burned on her lips, seared through her arms and dissipated in her legs — for yes, the blade might have only plunged into her stomach, but it spread like a wildfire through the rivers and valleys of her body.

Perhaps this was the hell humans so ardently feared.

Fires of hell, daughter of seduction.

Maybe this was her home call.

Caught in the place that she had sneered for others.

A spider, suffocated by its own construction.

A knock broke through the storm’s howling, pulling her away from her thoughts. She rolled her eyes, the sound reverberating in the small room, against the mournful rhythm of the rain. Even with tears on her face, she could feel annoyance. Of course, of course she wasn’t graced with silence when she needed it!

Another knock, this one softer, almost hesitant, tentative.

There was only one, who could treat even her door so softly.

Only one who had ever treated her so tenderly.

“Vyxaria?”

The voice was unmistakable — she could’ve written down the notes of his talking if she were to go deaf. It was accompanied by a warmth that didn’t belong in the cold chaos of her night, or the tempest of her mind.

Walter.

She didn’t answer. Her throat felt dry, and the thought of facing him — of being seen like this — was unbearable. But Walter was nothing if not persistent. The entrance door creaked open slowly, just enough for him to step inside.

“Vyx? The door was open. Are…are you here?” If the demon felt anything at the nickname, she didn’t show it. She quickly stood up, annoyance replacing her hurt. How dare he intrude? How dare he be here? But as she thought that, something else intruded her heart too. Blue warmth, the colour of his eyes.

She wouldn’t let that drown her too.

“Don’t come inside!” she yelled at him, now standing up in her room. She couldn’t risk him seeing her like that. She was a mess, both inside and outside. He couldn’t view the unravelling. It wasn’t meant for her body, nor his eyes.

“Vyxaria… I’m not going to leave unless I know you’re alright”, he whispered, as if trying to not intrude with his voice. Even then, he respected her space, as if it was some kind of human being. He was too nice for his own good, she thought with a slight grin. Maybe he had been right, maybe they should’ve just stayed out of each other’s orbits – she brought nothing but upheaval.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, as she left her bedroom. She was going to regret it, she could feel it in her bones. Her voice was shaky despite her attempt to sound biting. “Always needing to be the hero.” 

She finally reached the living room, where he stood. As soon as their gazes met, his softened, while hers hardened. She knew her eyes were probably red, she knew her hair was probably a mess, she knew but yet… she let him witness that. Her hair was falling like a curtain to shield her expression, but even in disguise, Walter knew her too well.

“Maybe,” he replied softly, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and slow. “But heroes don’t walk away when someone they care about is hurting.”

Her breath hitched, the word care ringing in her ears, unwanted but impossible to ignore. She clenched her fists tighter, her nails digging into her palms. What was she thinking? She couldn’t. She couldn’t let him in. What was care in the face of death? 

‘Care? Is that what this is? Your way to look better?’, she answered, trying her best to sound enraged. But she wasn't. She wanted him to feel it, to reject it, to reject her. But she never could do the opposite.

“You don’t get it,” she added sharply, her voice cracking despite her best efforts to sound composed. “You think you can just — what? Walk in here, say the right things, and fix this?” She laughed bitterly, her fists clenching. “This isn’t something you can fix, Walter. I’m not a cloth for you to iron and smooth over. I’m not a crease you can undo. I’m not a toy whose batteries have been drained. And you’d be foolish to think otherwise”

Walter flinched at her words, but he didn’t back away. Let the waves of her anger overtake him, he thought –  as long as she reached the shore of understanding. He clenched his hands, to stop himself from reaching for her. The action didn’t go unnoticed, making the demon’s hurt bleed even faster. Even then, he respected her choice, even if it tore him apart. “That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer despite her glare. “Whatever you think you’ve done—whatever’s tearing you up inside—”

“Stop!” she snapped, her voice rising as she took a step back, putting distance between them. Her legs hit the couch, but she didn’t care. She needed space, needed air, not whatever this was. “Don’t act like you know what this feels like. You don’t know what it’s like to be … betrayed by an embrace that turns into the gates of death. To be—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing the rest of the words out. “To lose the one thing you held onto. This world isn’t for me, Walter, and now I lost my only bridge to home. Or whatever that world was. I can barely call it home now, can I?”

His gaze softened, his iris moving in confusion, understanding, and fear all in one. He could see the same reflected into her own face. ‘This isn’t your f–’

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s not my fault. I let her in, Walter. I trusted her. I wanted to trust her. I let myself believe—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going. She might as well unlock the vault and let the contents spill. “I should have seen it coming. I should have known. Affection isn’t for creatures like me. I should have known better. That thing? That thing you clutch so desperately? It’s not in my chest. But for a moment it felt like it. And I liked it. I liked that feeling..”

“For a moment, I let myself forget I was a succubus. And now I feel anything but. Look at me!”, she almost screamed. His eyes had never left hers, but he knew what she meant. “I’m a mess. But I don’t break. I shouldn’t break. I’m the one who conquers, who breaks, who disturbs, who crumbles and separates — and now … now I’m this”, she spat out the last word, as if it was choking her.

Walter moved closer, step for step, till the distance between them was of arm reach. It wasn’t hesitation, far from it. He wanted nothing more than to extend his hand, let her face be caressed by his affection, to unravel the strings of the pain that chocked her and transform it into jewelry to be adored. He wasn’t here to challenge her or further rattle her — when, and if, she wanted to, she’d be the one to close the gravity between them.

He spoke again, "You think being unbreakable is strength, that it is something to admire and parade – and I can understand why! We were taught that, you and I. But even those stones that you admire in passing in the streets? They crack under pressure, Vyxaria. That doesn’t make them useless or futile, does it? And you — God, you're more than that. You are so much greater than the parts you’ve lost or feel like you’ve abandoned. So let yourself break if you must — because even in pieces, you'd be more whole than anyone I've ever known. You're not a simple  'this.' You're so much more."

The words hung, like roots on a wall, battling her, confusing her… comforting her, all at once. Vyxaria hated how they made her chest tighten. Hated the way his presence, calm and steady, made her want to crumble. She wanted him to leave, but she needed him to stay. To stay, stay as he was — stay with his ocean filled irises, his sweet smile that always reached his eyes around her with his shoulders that would slump when laughing, guards falling down as if to welcome the mistress of the fortress home.

“What do you think this is?”, she whispered, brows furrowing. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I want to be here for you” his arms were shaking as he raised them, as if to touch her face. And she let him. She finally let him. His touch met her skin, and waves of pain met the shore of tenderness, the moon’s somber light mingled with the gleam of elliptical celestial bodies. 

“You have no idea what you’re asking for”, she muttered, leaning into his touch, even when her mind asked her not to. She felt his fingers move tentatively, as if not daring to break the moment, as if afraid of breaking her. 

“Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know how to undo it, I don’t know how to come up with words that can alleviate it. But I know you. And that’s enough for me”

Her breath hitched at the sincerity of his voice. They weren’t words that could be faked, no, not when his voice sounded like he had been hit himself by the dagger. And for once, she didn’t know what to say, how to retort, how to push him away, to change the situation in her favour.

And it terrified her.

Not because his touch hurt her, but because it didn’t.

The clouds lifted from the sky, and she finally crashed into him, shores welcomed home, at last. It felt like a magnetic pull, a thread pulling her closer and closer, and she followed it, she trusted it, she let it happen. Because it was him, it was Walter. Her arms found the back of his neck, his hands the dips of her waist, and they held each other as if lost in the sea, as if their gazes were the only lifeline available.

“I hate you”, she whispered, “No you don’t”, he replied with a smile that finally bloomed again. Winter unfurled, spring brought its suitcases and sat down. It felt like a promise, one she didn’t dare accept, but at the same time couldn’t fathom refusing. She traced the lines of his smile with her fingers, and he let her. He’d let her do anything, even destroy him, if she needed to. He’d drown in her sadness if it meant saving her from it. Not that she needed saving, that part was clear. Not a bayonet, not a spear — perhaps a shield, a crossbow. He could be that for her, if only she let him.

Her nails dug into his shirt, as if holding onto him could keep the flood contained, but it was too late. The dam had broken, and she was drowning in it, spilling the parts of herself she swore no one would ever see. Tears unraveled again, this time quicker, as if they knew they now had a vessel, something that would catch them. 

Walter simply held her closer. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t push her away, he didn’t grab her and scream at her for how pathetic it was. He simply stood there, held her as if the mere proximity could heal her panic, his hands circling the back of her neck, as if to soothe her. She hated how easy it was to fall, if he was there. She hated how easy she let herself crumble because in his eyes, she wasn’t a wrinkle. She hated how he was her truest undoing, and at the same time, the only shore she wanted. Her rusting armour fell, and instead of glaring at her scars, he held her. And she knew, deep down, that she didn’t hate it.

He pulled away only to be able to look at her, and before she could react, his lips pressed to her tears, as if they were bandages keeping the flood at rest. The world was in pieces, draining on the floor, bodies circling in the bleeding rain. But here, here she was at rest. In the final storm, what is there to do if not stay? Everything else drowned in the wreckage, but it was her whom he held onto. She was the only real thing. He simply caressed her face with his lips, as if to absorb the pain she couldn’t name. 

She didn’t push him away, instead she let him kiss away her pain. It was new, unfamiliar, and she didn’t know how to react. She was used to pushy hands, tore clothes, messy lips and selfish demands. She didn’t know what the procedure was for affection — perhaps he would have to teach her. But it didn’t matter, nothing did when he looked at her and wasn’t afraid of what he saw. The inundation slowly stopped, and he smiled at her — something crashed, clung, ached in her chest. His fingers softly wiped the remains of her pain, and with him, she could pretend it was never there — but for once, she didn’t want to. She wanted him to view her, not the artificial figure she put up. The rawness, the anger, the ugly and the messy — for his eyes only.

She searched her mind for things she could say, sentences that would explain what this meant for her, but instead she rushed out “… Well, were you that thirsty? I didn’t take you for a guy who liked salty things”. As soon as she did, she cringed at her attempt to let a joke break the tension she had created, but he looked at her and pure unbridled laughter broke from his throat. It wasn’t a polite, perhaps nervous chuckle or the forced sympathy filled grin she expected. It was the kind of laughter that rattled your body, that made you shake your head in disbelief, and your eyes light up. And she liked that, being the reason of his reaction. She liked being the cause of his eyes closing in joy, his hands rising to cover his face as he laughed and laughed. 

“Oh, Vyx…”, he replied, still laughing as he now held her even closer, “You’re lucky you’re not allergic to demons”, she added with a shrug, her hands reaching again for the back of his neck. She liked the position, she never wanted to be untangled again. 

“Vyxaria, not even an allergy could stop me from reaching out for you”, he continued with a smile that began on his face and ended in her eyes, as if the very essence of his joy ended in the vast depth of the affection on the stage of her face. It travelled from his hands to her legs, and there it reached for her chest. She didn’t know how to respond, not with words, so she simply leaned into him again, breathed in his scent, and smiled to herself. A pure, gentle smile. 

“You’re impossible”, she whispered against his shoulders with a grin she couldn’t veil.

“For you, I want to believe the opposite”, he admitted, holding her by the waist, as the sun finally turned to greet the two lovers. A little too late, she thought to herself, but she didn’t care, not when he held her Ike this. 

And perhaps, Vyxaria could never give him the kind of peace he desired — she didn’t even know how to, but perhaps, they could still be enough.

Maybe the sky would bleed again, and the sun would hide to worlds they couldn’t reach — but they could be more. Fire to warm, protect, guide. So fierce it could create a new dawn, just for them. So soft it would erect sanctuaries.

“Does it always feel this …empty?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She let the words find place on her tongue, and freedom in the space between them.

He didn’t answer at first, afraid his words might break the fragile stillness between them, so he simply held her tighter, lulled her. One day, he decided, he’d sing for her – the way his chest did when she touched him like this. He gently cupped her hand in his. His thumb traced the delicate curve of her knuckles, a silent promise he didn’t know how to voice. 

“No,” he murmured finally, his voice low and steady. “…not when you let someone stay.”

It wasn’t the grand confessions or fervent kisses she thought she would experience — it was more. The warmth of a hand that didn’t let go, the quiet strength of someone willing to hold her loneliness until it was no longer just hers. To be a vessel, a repository. To pull the strings of sadness of their chests, and make a sweater out of it to share.

Vyxaria and Walter both knew they weren’t perfect, and they might never be, but this was enough. It was enough to just exist, to be in each other’s orbit and let their hands find home in the dips, curves and heights of their bodies.

The rain outside stopped, windows finally shining again, and spring bloomed, fragile yet relentless. In the chest of the azul eyed merman and the succubus’s stirred soul, something new began to grow.

It wasn’t peace, but it was something more.

And it was enough.

It finally was enough.