#Otherwise just call it an adaption

[msfbgraves]

Let it stand alone

Saw "Wonka" with the nieces way too late, because I thought it was a cash grab franchise milking faux nostalgic manipulation move, and I guess it was, and I still had a good time.

Now, if I were Roald Dahl, I'd likely object to this sweetheart of a Wonka. Wonka's a mad borderline dangerous maverick in Charlie. But this isn't the book, it's an adaption. If you don't know Wonka isn't a sweetheart, him being one doesn't ring false in the film. And books get adapted all the time - various adaptions aren't necessarily a commentary on one another.

So why tie this so deliberately to the Gene Wilder version? It isn't the same Wonka, and that's OK! It isn't Dahl's Wonka, and that's OK! It's another take on Wonka that works fine for what it is. Do they really think audiences would not have gone to watch a lovely romp about a sweet chocolatier anyway? That Oompa Loompas aren't fun without green hair? Look, this setup could have worked as "The Corruption of Willy Wonka" too, but that isn't what it wanted to be. Tying it too closely to another film for the parents' sake is the only thing that suddenly creates plotholes and ooc moments when there weren't any before.

[hplonesomeart]

Heyyy to ease my nerves I decided to pull myself out of a self imposed state of (possibly? Maybe? Not too sure but it sure feels like) executive dysfunction and instead of staring at my animation program sitting in my lingering dread for several more hours, I did a little SONG COVER YEAHHHHH!!!! FUN SILLY SONG THERAPYYYYYY <3

Okay but this is also kinda a way to trick my mind into being complacent for a bit? Because thing is I would rather be stuck watching the same Mr. Puzzles clip compilation again and again then focus on animating the A Hat In Time project. Here’s the difficulties making it harder and harder for me to stay motivated and work; Last month was Artfight so I’m burned out from drawing, the part I’m stuck animating on is uninteresting to me and it’s frustrating that it doesn’t even look good, and THEN you’ve got the part of my mind going “lol hey we should animate Mr. Puzzles to All Eyes On Me-“ which in turn causes me to break down because NO, NO WE CAN’T DO THAT RIGHT NOW AHAHAH ARE YOU INSANE. If I start another animation project on TOP of what I’m SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON that’s called procrastinating and it’s making everything HARDER AAAAAA. So what’s better then starting a whole new animation project? Singing about the idea instead so I’ll feel content and be able to keep focusing on what I actually need to. Everyone wins! :3

…..anyways sorry to those who just recently came to my blog. I promise I’m not always this unhinged in my posts, I hope I don’t scare you away. Just been a lot on my mind recently. I like writing/talking to myself to get feelings and thoughts outta the system so please don’t take it all too seriously. Just helping myself process information is all :D

So enjoy the very unorganized song cover while I try to get better at time management skills

[cbrownjc]

*cracks knuckles*

Well, as a Devil's Minion fan from way back, I'll flat-out say why, if this is really how Daniel was turned, why I'll hate it:

Because even more in the show than in the books, it's been established that companions are made out of love. Not out of panic and definitely not out of spite and anger.

Because love, in the end, is what trumps what Armand thinks about Maker-Fedgling relationships and how they end up becoming. Armand risked his deeply held beliefs about Maker and Fledgling relationships never working out because of love. His love for one human boy, who really wasn't any more or less special than any other human in the world except that Armand found him special. He fascinated Armand and contrary to every interaction with mortals in his life from the moment he was turned, he connected and fell in love with this one. To Daniel.

To the point that the very idea of living without Daniel filled him with more fear than even the possibility of Daniel hating him.

"I told you. It's just a dream. But if you want a name, let me call it the gateway of life and death. I'll bring you with me through this gateway. And why? Because I am a coward. And I love you too much to let you go."

This paragraph right here. This is why Armand turns Daniel and is not only a beating heart of their relationship but of Armand's character growth on this whole subject of having never turned some one before.

This isn't just about Daniel knowing Armand is a monster. It's about him loving that monster before he becomes one himself. Because loving a monster when you are still a human yourself? Especially given what human older Daniel on the show has been saying all this entire time about vampires and how he distains what they are? Refusing to be turned when Louis offered?

Okay, Daniel saw Armand as a monster. And? Because that is not all there is to it, or Armand would have turned Daniel in Pompeii in the books after stalking him for 4 years where he showed that side of himself to Daniel very well.

And look, it would have been an even harder task for older human Daniel to reconcile that love -- loving Armand of all monsters -- whether he knew about anything that happened in the past between them (if it happened) or not, given the full life Daniel has now led. But it still could have been done IMO.

Daniel falling in love with Armand after he's already been turned by Armand into a monster himself and seems to have taken to it like a duck to water? Who cares? In this scenario, he only hates Armand for some personal grievances not because, you know Armand is denying him immortality and Daniel thinks that means Armand doesn't really love or care about him, which is how it was in the book. And with an older Daniel, who was actively dying, there would have been even more to explore wrt all of this.

In the books, Louis and Lestat only knew each other for 3 night before Louis was turned, and with that even -- on night one -- things started out with Lestat attacking Louis out of nowhere.

The show, however, went to the full trouble of having Lestat turn Louis after months of courting between them, in a church in a clear analogy to a wedding. And them both clearly in love with each other.

And somehow, with Armand and Daniel who actually have a darkly romantic turning in the book in a vision of Pompeii where they both first declared they loved each other -- that they might not only not get that but get less than Louis and Lestat got? To the point that they may not even be in love yet?

Yeah, no. I will flat-out call it a bad adaptation of Devil's Minion if the show really has done that here. Because it guts the actual complexity to the love part of their love story. And the character growth from Armand that came from it. Because Daniel was human and because Armand had to make a choice to either lose Daniel in death or risk almost 500 years of belief and trust that turning Daniel wasn't going to mean he'd lose Daniel.

Doing it this way, without the love? Armand really risks nothing. Yeah, he bound himself to a whip-smart person who hates him. Yay. Whatever. Given that Daniel can't seem to find him, Armand looks to not have stuck around long enough to try and even care a little bit about his one and only fledgling that he didn't mind breaking 500 years of not turning anyone to turn.

But I just wrote a meta about the show purposefully framing Armand in a villain/antagonist way, so it does fit with that IMO. 🤷🏾‍♀️

So no, I'm sorry but it damn well does matter to me if Daniel and especially Armand were in love with each other before Daniel was turned. Vampire companionship being made of out love -- a Maker making their companion out of love and those being the enduring companionship -- is a thing I'm noticing very much in the Prince Lestat books. I don't see any sort of move like this enhancing their story at all. IMO it just adds less complexity if that's how it really went down.

So yeah, Daniel having been made by Armand out of anything other than love -- at the very least on Armand's part? Yes, I will hate that if that turns out to be the case of this. Because not only does it gut the complexity of their entire pre-turning relationship, but it guts the conflict and complexity of this post-turning one as well IMO.

I'm willing to listen to anyone with a good argument to the contrary but for now? Out of everything, Armand turning Daniel out of anything but love? That's not Devil's Minion or ever why Armand would ever break his never-turing-someone rule. No matter what else he has or hasn't pulled in the past.

And just personally? I think there is something purposefully off about all of this. If not just because this show is so planned wrt things that they can deliberately call back to things from the first three episodes from last season to deliver a coup de gras about the trial, plus would go to all the trouble of making it very clear that Lestat and Louis were very much in love with each other when Louis was turned . . . I can't see how they would drop the ball of Armand and Daniel's love story. Not like this.

@iamanoccasionaldoodler

Okay so,

There seems to be this negative reaction to the finale from a lot of Devil's Minion fans and I don't understand it for a lot of reasons, but one of them is ... I don't get why people are upset that, when read at it's worst, Armand and Daniel are seemingly not on good terms after Daniel is turned. I keep seeing this belief that Armand "abandoned" him, which I think is fully pulled from y'alls collective ass, and a disappointment that Daniel would call Armand a "fucking asshole."

But the thing about Armand/Daniel everyone seems to be forgetting is that even in the source material, they first had to tear each other down to their bare bones before they could see each other well enough to love one another -- REALLY love one another. Because Armand is a russian nesting doll of lies, masks, and emotional walls, and with Daniel, idek if I can explain it properly, but I think its some combination of Armand needing to break him a bit to get him on his level of broken freakitude, and also Armand not being able to relate to the 20th Century Human period and needing to drill down into Daniel's core, straight down into the monkey brain that every homo sapien has shared for eons, before he can find something he understands.

If we were to ever get a proper Devil's Minion storyline on this show (and we will), they've laid the perfect groundwork by having Daniel EVISCERATE Armand right to his face, slicing his Gorgon's knot of lies and schemes in half and leaving it lay on that table. And Armand's face! HIS FACE! He can't believe it! Seventy-seven years with Louis who never could unravel all the strings, or simply didn't care to even bother. And THIS guy who seemingly hates him found Armand fascinating enough to try. AND succeed!

And why wouldn't he? Daniel may not have remembered until they were nearing the end of the interview, but Armand SHOWED Daniel what was beneath the mask years ago, the very first time they met. The jealous, insecure, desperate creature that was hiding under there, that IS Armand to Daniel.

I'm getting off track here, but what I'm trying to say is that as much as Armand turning Daniel in the books is SUCH a flawless scene, ultimately, if you believe in the infinite and eternal nature of their love story, it doesn't matter whether Armand turned Daniel before they fell for each other, afterward, during a break-up or at the climax of their most romantic streak. Like Lestat said, "We'll be together ten thousand nights, a hundred thousand. What we're doing is hard."

So maybe Armand turned Daniel shortly after Daniel stripped him bare in front of Louis, and Louis was so disgusted by what he saw, he threw him into a stone wall. Daniel could have run, too. For some reason, he didnt. Armand could have killed him in an instant, sitting at that table or after Louis left. He didn't. Armand made a conscious decision to tie himself to this man who just exposed him for ETERNITY. Because as horrific an experience as it was, as devastating and life-altering, he was seen.

"It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me, how efficiently succinct and impenetrable his argument was. All my conceptions, even my guilt and my wish to die, seemed utterly unimportant, and I completely forgot myself and the barbaric scene that surrounded me. For the first time in my life, I was seen."

Louis said those words to Lestat as he described being made a vampire, when he kissed Lestat on the altar.

That feeling, of someone cutting to the core of you and telling you exactly what you are as no one else has ever been able to understand, made Louis accept the Dark Gift from Lestat.

And it made Armand give that Gift to Daniel.

[thegracefullion]

10 Generations. 10 Different Heroines. 1 Legacy. Welcome to the Literary Heroine Legacy Challenge! I’ve been itching for a good legacy to revive my love for the Sims 4, and I haven’t found one so I wrote one myself.  I was inspired after reading Emma— the family dynamics, drama, and romance were everything I ever wanted in a Sims challenge. So I modernized the stories and adapted them to fit this game.  Special shoutout to Designergirl81, who I met through MissLollypopSims’ Discord! The generations of Anne of Avonlea and Dorothy were their brainchildren. 💗 I designed each generation to reference a famous literary heroine. This is a very story-oriented challenge but feel free to bend, tweak, and change as much as you can! Sims Challenges aren’t meant to limit your fun. 😉 TL;DR: Play your own way while letting these rules guide your storytelling! The official tag of the challenge is #TheLiteraryHeroineChallengeTS4. Have fun! Check out the rules here or keep reading!

Basic Rules

Play on any life span you want but I recommend playing on Normal life span.

You are encouraged to play with female heirs. Of course, this is optional!

You are discouraged from using money cheats. Some generations have stories that are related to their social class— so try to stay true to the story as much as you can.

You can live wherever you want unless the generation states otherwise.

Feel free to customize each generation’s race and sexual orientation

Unless specifically stated, each generation has to finish their aspiration and career.

Even if most of these books are classics, I wrote this with a more modern take on it. You don’t need any mods or CC to fit the eras’ aesthetics— but if you want to, you totally can!

⭐ means there’s a recommended mod for this!

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 1: Elizabeth Bennett 📚 Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to play you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart. 📚

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that all Sims 4 challenges must start with an heir. In this case, that’s you, which is surprising because everyone else in your life has decided that you are plain, especially when compared to your other two sisters. Lately though, you start to sense that you’ve been getting more attention from your neighbors. One particular Sim hasn’t been able to leave you and your family alone… and you don’t like them at all, not one bit. Well… maybe just a bit.

Aspiration: Successful Lineage 

Traits: Family Oriented, Hot-Headed, Bookworm OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Journalist

→ Master the Writing skill. → Live in a rundown family home passed down by your parents with two sisters until you are married. → Have a negative relationship with a neighbor. → Reject a proposal from your work boyfriend. → Build a relationship with your neighbor after you reject the proposal of your ex. → Have a scandal involving one of your sisters that your neighbor supports you through. → Fall in love and marry this neighbor then move in with him. → Have two children.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 2: Emma Woodhouse 💗  It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble.  💗

Growing up, you were always the sheltered one. Your father was very protective of you, and therefore never let you out of his sight. Of course, that didn’t stop you from becoming well-loved by the entire town. You were known for throwing the best dinner parties and befriending everyone your father and mother knew. Needless to say, this got to your head a bit. You weren’t arrogant, you were confident. In everyone’s eyes, you could do no wrong. Well, everyone except your childhood best friend— who was never afraid to call you out for being a bit clueless at times. 

Aspiration: Neighborhood Confidante OR Party Animal

Traits: Self-Assured, High Maintenance, Music-Lover OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Romance Consultant or Lawyer

→ Master the Charisma and Piano skills. → Host at least 5 gold-star dinners. → Have a childhood best friend who’s a bit older than you. For example: When you’re 17 (end of teenage years), they’re already 20 (start of young adult years). * → You can’t have good friends who are your age until your childhood best friend ages up into a young adult. → Make a new friend that you treat like a “project” until you two fall out. Choose if you two will reconcile in the future. → Profess your love to your childhood best friend during a heated argument. → Marry your best friend and live with your mother and father in your childhood home until your parents die. Have one child. *It goes without saying to only get with your childhood best friend when the two sims are both young adults 🙂 No super uncomfortable age gaps, please.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 3: Scarlett O’Hara ✨ “Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to get him back.” ✨ All your life, you grew up spoiled. Your mother and father were so in love, and you almost expected to have a story as romantic and easy as theirs. However, when your high school flame elopes quickly with someone else right after graduation, you start to spiral. No longer able to get things your way, you begin to self-sabotage and jump from relationship to relationship. Deep down you know you should stop and smarten up but frankly, my dear, you don’t give a damn.

Aspiration: Soulmate— you fail this 

Traits: Materialistic, Genius, Jealous OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: None until your divorce then become a Manual Laborer + Barista

⭐ Recommended Mods: Healthcare Redux Mod, Extreme Violence Mod

→ Don’t master any skill. → Have a high school flame who elopes with someone else. → Elope immediately with someone else. Have them die tragically.* → Marry another person quickly who you have bad compatibility with. Get negative romance with them right before they pass.* → Marry a third time. Have them catch you in a compromising moment with your high school flame, which leads to a divorce that leaves you with nothing. → End up working two part time jobs to keep your household running. → Have 4 kids with your 3 husbands (you can cheat for twins, if you want). *You decide how they die. I recommended having mods like the Healthcare Redux and Extreme Violence in your game for realistic roleplay reasons— but if he gets tragically eaten by a Cowplant that works too! 🙂

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 4: Jo March 🧾 “When the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.” 🧾 Growing up was not easy for you. Your childhood was incredibly unpredictable with your mother jumping from relationship-to-relationship. And when things started to stabilize emotionally, you ended up in poverty.  Luckily, you had your siblings to cling to, and a passion for writing that’s unmatched. You wrote a ton of things across different genres, except for romance which you didn’t quite understand. In fact, everyone always expected you to be a little woman, not rough or wild, but you knew in your heart that’s not what you were destined to become.

Aspiration: Best-Selling Author

Traits: Creative, Unflirty, and Ambitious OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Author

⭐ Recommended Mods: Writing Career Overhaul, SNB Banking

→ Master the Writing and Logic skills. → Be best friends with all of your siblings. → Start selling short stories as a teenager to help pay the bills. → Get a best friend in high school who professes their love to you during graduation. Turn them down. Optional: Have them marry one of your other siblings. → Move away to the city to focus on your writing. Always send 30% of your income to your mother until she dies. → Due to a tragedy in the family, adopt a child of one of your siblings.* → Win a Starlight Accolade for one of your novels. → Never marry but live a fulfilling life. *They are to be the next heir to preserve the bloodline. You can adopt more if you want.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 5: Anne Shirley 📖 “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” 📖 You were adopted by your aunt and lived a happy childhood. Despite being surrounded by family drama, you never let it dampen your spirit. You struggled with social cues and caused mayhem wherever you went— of course, that never stopped you from making your voice heard. You were, afterall, raised by someone who was never afraid to make a point. However, unlike your aunt, you always longed for romance. You always imagined big declarations of passion— but perhaps it’s time to learn that love creeps to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways.

Aspiration: Academic OR Soulmate

Traits: Romantic, Socially Awkward, and Loyal OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Education Career

⭐ Recommended Mod: Education Overhaul

→ Master the Research and Debate skill. → Have a childhood enemy that you become best friends with in high school. → Go to University and study Language and Literature. → Fall out with your best friend while in University. → Start dating someone you meet in University but break up right after graduation. → Get a job in the Education Career and write on the side. → Reconnect with your former best friend and realize you love them. → Get married to your best friend. → Retire from the Education career and become a freelance writer in your twilight years.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 6: Nancy Drew 🔍 “I don't promise to forget the mystery, but I know I'll have a marvelous time.”  🔍 Every bedtime, your mother read you stories that she and your grandmother wrote. Among all of those, it’s your grandmother’s mysteries that impacted you the most. There was something so thrilling about being a heroic, fearless woman who helped others out. Because of this, you gained a bunch of friends who loved you very deeply. With their support, you grew up as a well-known detective who can solve any case.  It was a fun life, but you eventually settled down in Henford-On-Bagley to have a family of your own.

Aspiration: Friend of the World 

Traits: Generous, Nosy, and Outgoing OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Detective OR  ⭐ Zerbu’s Simvestigations Mod

→ Master the fitness skill. → Be close friends with both your parents. → Have 2 best friends who are either your roommates (Discover University) or live in the same apartment complex as you (For Rent) for your entire YA life. → Get engaged to someone you meet on-the-job. → Before marrying your fiance, go on a trip to Selvadorada with your 2 best friends and explore the Jungle Temples. → Settle down in Henford-On-Bagley and have a farm life of your own. → Never move away once you settle in Henford-On-Bagley.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 7: Dorothy Gale 🐶 “If we walk far enough, we shall sometime come to someplace.”  🐶 Growing up you knew that there was more to the world than what was outside your own backdoor.  Afterall, your mother was a famous detective— if she went on her own adventures, why can’t you?

With her and your father’s support, you spend your young adult life traveling. You made some great friends along the way (and even some loves), but eventually you start to wonder if there is no place like home.

Aspiration: Local Aspirations— complete at least two

Beach Life

Mt. Komorebi Sightseer 

Fount of Tomarani Knowledge

Traits: Adventurous, Dog Lover, and Loves Outdoors OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Any Freelance Career 

⭐ Recommended Mods: SimNation Travel, Home Region

→ Have a dog that goes everywhere with you. → Live in 3 or more worlds during your Young Adult life. → Make 3 best friends that each teach you a valuable life lesson. → After making your three best friends, use reward points to add the following traits: Brave, Savant, and Incredibly Friendly. → As an adult, realize you miss your family and return home. → Have a long distance relationship with the father of your children.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 8: Wendy Darling 🌟 “She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. ”  🌟 You grew up waiting. First, for your father’s seasonal visits… which eventually stops when you become a teenager. Next, for the opportunity to leave Henford-on-Bagley to pursue your dreams of becoming an actress. And finally, for your first love, a man who refused to propose to you, no matter how long you waited for him to. Eventually you grew tired waiting and decided to grow up. You married a sensible man, had a child, and gave up your dreams of becoming an actress. Still, you held on to the dreams of your first love and end up reconnecting in a night of passion that leaves you pregnant with his child. Realizing that he’ll never grow up, you decide to dedicate your life to your family and husband.

Aspiration: Master Actor/Actress - you fail this or the⭐ Housewife Aspiration (after you marry)

Traits: Perfectionist, Proper, and Cheerful OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Actor/Actress

→ Master the Parenting skill. → Have a distant family dynamic with your father who never lives with you. → Join the drama club and meet your first love. Optional: He has the childish trait. → Give your first love all of your major romantic milestones. → Lose touch with your first love when you move to Del Sol Valley. → Marry a man you’d consider as sensible. Have one child with him. → Have a one time secret affair that results in another child. → Dedicate your life to your children afterwards.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 9: Alice Liddell  🐰 “It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.”  🐰

There were times you felt like you never truly belonged anywhere. While everyone at home lived and abided by your parents’ rules, your head was always in the clouds. Sensibilities and propriety were never in your vocabulary, much to the disdain of your father and the rest of your siblings. Still, you were a free spirit that could never be controlled. After moving out as a young adult, you fell in love with cooking and mixology. You also met a group of misfits who were as different as you. Every Sunday, you’d host special “tea” parties with them, that broadened your worldview and made you realize that the world gets curiouser and curiouser with each passing day.

Aspiration: Master Mixologist or Master Chef

Traits: Clumsy, Foodie, and Childish OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Culinary Career

⭐ Recommended Mods: Basemental, Grannies Cookbook, Open Love Life

→ Master the Cooking and Mixology Skills. → Have a juice/nectar hobby on the side. → Have a club with people who have weird or eccentric traits.* → Fall in love with someone with the Erratic Trait. → Host “tea” parties every Sunday in your own home. ⭐ Optional: Use the Basemental Mods and have your Sims get high on dope/drunk on alcohol during the tea parties. → Dye your hair a different, brighter color. → Live in a quirky and colorful house. → Befriend a rabbit who you talk to constantly. Name them The Mad Hatter. → ⭐ Optional: Be in a polyamorous relationship with Romantic Boundaries OR the Open Love Life Mod → Have two children. *You decide what weird and eccentric means.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Generation 10: Countess Ellen Olenska  🎨 “The real loneliness is living among all these people who only ask one to pretend.”  🎨

You appreciated your mother’s lifestyle. You saw the world for what it could become, and not what everyone wanted it to be. However, you worried about your younger sister. You saw her innocence and wanted to protect it. When you turned into a young adult, you moved away and took your sister with you to start anew. However, life was not always easy. Straight out of teenhood, you married someone from a different city and had a tumultuous relationship with him. You separate with him and continue to care for your sister. You’re able to provide for her through your paintings, which also brought you a lot of fame. When she grew up into a Young Adult, she formed an attachment with a man that… intrigued you. She married him. This kept him in your life, but made it difficult for you to ignore your feelings. One night, you find yourself alone together, and you must make a choice: stay with him and break your sister's heart, or leave forever to give them peace. You have a price to pay either way— we can't behave like people in novels without consequence, can we?

Aspiration: Painter Extraordinaire

Traits: Gloomy, Art Lover, and Family Oriented OR choose/roll for the last trait

Career: Critic 

⭐ Recommended Mods: RPO, Wonderful Whims, Custom Relationship Bits, Soulmates

→ Master the Painting Skill. → Become a Level 3 Celebrity with your paintings. → Marry someone who isn’t your soulmate straight out of high school. Have a negative relationship with him before separating. ⭐ Optional: Only temporarily separate with him using the RPO Mod. → Be best friends with your sister. → Become soulmates with the partner of your sister without consummating the relationship. → When you’re an adult, invite your sister’s partner over, and make a choice— woohoo together and break your sister's heart, or end the emotional affair. → If you woohoo together - Tell your sister the next day and become enemies. Name your child after them. → If you end the emotional affair - Move away from your love and get back together with your ex-husband. Die without having your own children.

[reasonsforhope]

If I can also offer some additional thoughts to strawberryraviegutz, and anyone else who's worried about the same things:

There's zero evidence for the "250 year/10 generations" rule or whatever they call it. It's been a popular theory for quite some time, but every post about it cherrypicks examples of nations in history that lasted around that long and ignores all the ones that lasted longer or survived by adapting over time.

Literally every doomer post about it is based on that same cherrypicking and contemporary trends you see on social media, not long-term realistic projections used in actual academic circles, where they employ real scientific and historical evidence. Evidence that doesn't round off the lifespans of nations to some arbitrary number.

Not that I'm trying to downplay any existing problems, just that what we're dealing with today is hardly anything apocalyptic. It's really important to remember that increased awareness of a problem does not correlate to an increase in scale of said problem.

Also, despite what you may hear, there haven't really been many true collapses of entire civilizations in history. When states in the past have collapsed- Rome, China, India, the Mongol Empire, Alexander the Great's Empire, etc.- the people living there don't just disappear. They survive and go on to build new states that grow, change and evolve from there. That's a form of continuity, not total destruction.

And just as there has never been a true utopia, there has also never been a true dystopia. A dystopia is a literary device, not a state of being. So long as people disagree with and oppose cruelty and tyranny in any form, as is human nature, a true dystopia is impossible.

Especially because a dictator will never outlive the people. No matter how they may want to pretend otherwise, their grip on power is only ever temporary. The power held by the people is eternal.

I've seen more tangible good done in the last ten years than I thought would be possible, and I don't see any reason to stop believing that'll be true.

So don't give up just because of a few social media posts from people who have no idea what they're talking about. Every generation has had people who say these things and they're always proven wrong, so it's not worth your time and energy to worry about it.

Be kind to yourself and to others, and remember the world is a better place with you in it. We have not reached the end of history, not by a long shot.

Thank you for sending this in, and agreed!

[d3adlyromb3ar]

✧'. ݁₊ ♡∘⊹ so delicate, your touch

— pairing. inexperienced!choso x fem!reader

— synopsis. you help choso adapt to the world, teaching him about many things he doesn’t quite understand. although, you didn’t know helping him adapt would take this kind of turn.

— word count. 3.7k

— contents. fluff, smut, nipple play, titty worship, dry humping, handjobs (male receiving), blowjobs (male receiving)

— notes. dividers @saradika 💕

main masterlist

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | 18+ CONTENT

Days turned into months, and soon it was a routine to wander off with Choso. Showing him the wonders of the world, while teaching him things that were unknown to him. You answered all his questions, making sure he adapted thoroughly to this world that was new to him.

There was just so much that he didn’t understand, and after your offer to help him out— he leaned on you to guide him through everything he was confused on. He felt more comfortable having you around, not letting him stumble off into this odd world without guidance.

You liked spending time with him, finding him easy to talk to. Choso felt the same way, except he’d rather listen to you talk all day. You calmed him, made him feel normal. He thought you were incredibly kind, your huge heart something he adored about you. He found himself just wanting to be near you, even on the days he didn’t feel like exploring the world.

That’s where you found yourself with Choso, relaxed on your bed together as you showed him one of your favorite movies. Tangled.

“Her hair is so long, and magical?” He wondered, genuinely curious.

You found it adorable. You giggled.

“Yup, she got her powers from a magic flower her mother had to drink when she was sick and pregnant with her.” You explained.

Choso hummed, his eyes never leaving the screen. Watching intently as the girl so called Rapunzel, healed this man’s hand with her hair.

“Intriguing.” He whispered.

You giggled again, his interest in the disney movie endearing. You didn’t expect him to be so interested. The two of you sat in silence, only occasionally answering a question he had. Otherwise the movie played on.

You leaned back against the headboard, both your hands supporting your head as a specific scene started to play. The music started up as the two characters watched the lanterns from their boat.

It was quite a beautiful scene, and you found yourself getting lost in the moment. The way the man was so gentle towards the girl, it was so sweet— you had wished you could have something such as that.

Meanwhile, Choso wasn’t paying attention to the movie anymore. He glanced over to you when he saw you adjusting yourself and caught a look at your eyes. How they were practically shining as you were trapped in the scene. He couldn’t stop himself from staring, taking in your features— how ethereal you looked from the tv’s glow. His eyes danced over your brows, looking lower to the way your lashes hovered over your eyes, looking even lower to the curve of your nose. His eyes danced down to your cupids bow, steeping lower to your plump lips— his own mouth parting as your tongue poked out the wet them.

He let out a heavy breath watching you, studying every micro expression you made— he was captivated by you.

After a wave of warmth rushed through his body, he swallowed through the dryness in his throat and let his eyes dance lower, dropping from your chin and down your neck and collarbone— his eyes locking on your chest. He stared shamelessly at the steady rise and fall, the movement almost relaxing him into a sleepy state— that was until he looked a little lower.

His eyebrows furrowed as he focused on the two pebbled indents, poking through your shirt. A lot of unknown to him, but he had known basic human anatomy— at least a good portion of it.

He was licking his own lips, his eyes unable to stray away from your nipples begging to escape from your shirt. He felt like he should look away, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“(Y/n)? Why ar—” He trailed off, growing nervous when your eyes met with his, “Are you okay?”

You were confused with his sudden concern.

“What do you mean Cho? I’m fine.”

“Oh… um never mind then.” He mumbled bashfully.

Your gaze softened and the movie was suddenly forgotten in the background, despite it being one of your favorite scenes.

“Cho, hey. What’s wrong? You can ask me anything remember?”

He nodded but couldn’t seem to voice what he wanted to say in the first place, so he pointed instead towards your chest.

You were confused, following the tip of his finger and glancing down to your shirt.

“You like my shirt?” You wondered.

He shook his head.

“No…” He pointed again, this time his finger got closer and he misjudged how close he was to you, because before you could think twice— the tip of his finger had brushed against your hardened nipple through your shirt.

The action had you letting out a little gasp, warmth shooting straight to your core from it. Choso retracted his hand, but his eyes were dilated, your reaction intriguing him.

Your eyes shot down to your chest, noticing he was talking about your tits. Oh.

“Oh you mean my… boobs?” You asked, not feeling uncomfortable at all by his curiosity.

He nodded, his hand dropping to his side.

You tried your best to put the pieces together and assumed he was specifically referring to your nipples— which had your cheeks flushed.

“Uh, what about them?”

He turned his body towards you more, his eyes glancing down from time to time, but you could tell he was trying not to look. Although, you didn’t mind if he did.

“They are… hard.”

He was talking about your tits so casually, you knew you should be mature and answer his questions but you couldn’t ignore how flustered you felt.

“Yeah, I guess they are.” You laughed awkwardly, but it wasn’t that you felt uncomfortable. You were just flustered.

“Why?”

You bit your lip, Choso’s eyes followed, and you thought for a moment of how to answer.

“Well, sometimes they just get hard. Like, if I’m cold or… turned on.” You answered truthfully, although maybe you shouldn’t of added in that last part.

Choso’s eyes met with yours, breaking away from your lips as you spoke, and his eyes had darkened. Unbeknownst to him, he was turned on as well. Staring at your body so sensually had him spinning.

“Are you?” He wondered.

You tilted your head in innocent confusion, the action had Choso licking his lips.

“Am I what?”

“Are you turned on?”

His words had your core throbbing and you had to squeeze your thighs together, not missing the way his eyes shot down and caught the slight movement.

Truth was, yeah. You were turned on. Like really turned on, it was hard not to be when he was looking at you so intensely.

“Well, I wasn’t before but…” You trailed off, and Choso was hanging onto every word, “After you touched me accidentally, yeah.”

He swallowed nervously and lowered his gaze, he felt bad all of a sudden. Not meaning to make you uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry… I… I didn’t mea—”

“Cho it’s okay,” You stopped his apologies, noticing his distressed look, “It felt good actually.”

His expression switched from embarrassed to the same darkened look again. Like he was realizing now.

You couldn’t help your own curiosity.

“Have you never… touched someone like that?”

He shook his head, his mouth parted slightly— like breathing was becoming a hard task.

“Do you want to?” You asked, your voice lower.

Choso swallowed, scooting a little closer to you, his movements almost as if he was squirming a bit in his spot— like he couldn’t control himself.

He nodded, his pupils blown out.

“Go ahead.” You whispered, your eyes falling on your chest before meeting with his.

“A-are you sure?”

You smiled sweetly at him. Always trying to be so polite. You nodded.

“Yes.”

At those words, Choso let his eyes fall on your breasts. His focus on the hardened buds. His hand lifted slowly, his eyes meeting with yours one last time as if he was asking for permission again. At your nod, he focused back on your chest, his hand cupping one of your tits.

Even through your shirt, you could feel his palm warming your tit. You watched him, his eyes wide and staring at your chest. It was adorable how excited he was— no actually it was hot.

He lightly squeezed the mound before letting his thumb brush over your nipple, eliciting a gasp from you.

He eyes shot up to yours, pausing his movements as he took in your hooded eyes, the way your lips were parted. He kept his gaze on you, brushing this thumb over the bud again— this time watching your body jump, your mouth parting wider as another sweet sound escaped.

He liked the reactions from you, knowing he was the one causing it.

“It’s not the same for everyone but…” You trailed off, another brush of his thumb over your nipple making you take a deep breath in, “I’m really sensitive there.”

He licked his lips, his other hand coming up to give the other tit attention. He lightly squeezed and kept teasing the buds, until his mind wondered what they felt like without the shirt.

They already felt so soft through this material, but his mouth almost watered at how they’d feel bare.

“Go ahead Cho.” You whispered, almost like you read his mind.

His breathing was heavy, his hands dipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing his fingertips up the soft skin of your belly.

You shivered, his touch so delicate. Touching you like you were fragile and bound to break.

His fingers brushed the underside of your breast, the feeling causing you to shiver again, goosebumps covering your flesh. His cupped both tits as he had before, but this time he could finally feel your soft skin. He was right— so soft. He gently massaged your tits, before letting his thumb brush over your nipple again, this time no material in the way.

You whined at the sensation, eyes pinching shut as he played with your tits. It felt so good, and for someone who hadn’t touched anyone before like this— he was pretty damn good at it.

Choso’s eyes shot up at your noise, the sound only spurring him on as he used his pointer finger and thumb to roll the sensitive buds.

The throbbing in your core intensified, and you could feel a knot start to build up in your abdomen. If he kept playing with you like this, you might just end up coming.

“Cho… feels s’good…” You breathed out, “If you don’t stop… I might…”

Choso didn’t stop, he was hungry with desire. He was hungry for you— he needed to feel every inch of your body.

He lifted your shirt off quickly, leaving you bare and exposed to him. His mouth watered at the sit of your plump, perky tits— nipples rosy and swollen. You were one hell of a view.

“So… pretty.” Choso panted out, licking his lips before lowering himself to your chest, taking a nipple in his mouth.

Your back arched, pressing yourself further into him as he sucked on the sensitive bud, swirling his tongue around before flicking it.

“F-fuckk Cho…” Your voice was rough and scratchy, the sound making Choso growl into your skin. The vibrations on your nipple making you cry.

Choso kept his mouth locked around your bud, his hands dropping from your chest. His arms circled around you, picking you up with ease until you were straddling his lap, his hands pushing on your back so that your tits were smushed in his face.

This position had the throbbing in your core tripling, but with your core pressed over his, you relieved the ache in your center— grinding your hips down hard and slow over him.

Choso let go of your nipple with a pop, a pained whimper leaving his lips. You stopped your hips.

“What’s wrong Cho?” You cupped his jaw, tilting it up to see his glossy eyes.

“Do that again.” He begged.

You held him, stroking your thumb along his jawline as you grinding your hips over him once more. The friction was delicious to your clit, but not as satisfying as the sounds Choso was making.

One of his hands stayed pushed against the small of your back, keeping you close to him while the other shot down and gripped your hip.

“Again.” He growled.

You started up a slow and steady pace, your hips pressing down on his clothed member.

His face contorted up into a pained expression, biting his lip to try and stop the whines from escaping, but you heard every addicting sound.

“Has no one ever touched you like this?” You purred, running your fingers through his scalp.

He shook his head weakly, his own hips starting to jut up into you— needing more.

“Does it feel good?”

Choso gazed into your eyes, his own glossy with an almost drunk looking gaze.

“Feels s’good.”

You changed your pattern and started grinding little slow circles on him, his breathing getting heavier as his hand gripped your hip tighter.

“M-more, I need more please—!” He whimpered, burying his face into your chest again, licking and sucking on your already overstimulated tits.

You panted into his hairline, your nose resting there as you found the strength to speak.

“What do you want Cho?”

He flicked your nipple with his tongue, giving it a gentle kiss before releasing it once more, tilting his head up to meet your drunk gaze.

“More…” He whined, his hips jolting up into yours.

You giggled lowly, your voice strained and breathy. He was so needy and whiny, it had the throbbing in your core only getting more intense.

“I know Cho… but what do you want?” You cooed, brushing some of his fallen hairs back, “You want to keep touching me… or do you want me to touch you? Make you feel good, hm?”

His eyes were darting from eye to eye, his face scrunched up almost into a pained pout as he couldn’t answer. His facial expressions were an answer enough.

You circled harder onto him, his hands tightening around you.

“Is that it? Want me to make you feel good Cho?”

He swallowed, his eyes fluttering shut before opening back up— the sultry sound of your voice making him dizzy.

“Please.”

You smirked and leaned in, giving the tip of his nose a kiss.

“I’ll be good.” He whined.

You bit your lip, this strong massive man melting underneath you. It was incredibly sexy, and you just wanted to devour him.

You leaned forward and captured his lips in a gentle kiss, knowing he probably had never kissed anyone before. He was hesitant at first, letting you take lead while he just felt you. After you opened your mouth a bit, taking more of his lips into yours— he slowly started to move against you, he mouth parting and trapping your bottom lip in between his.

Choso was all new to this, but he really liked it. He especially liked that it was you he was doing it with.

Your hips moved in a delicious pace, one that had Choso going mad. The friction was succulent, and the mere idea of never having felt or experienced this feeling before had Choso wanting to cry. It was so good— too good.

“You’re so hard Cho,” You panted in between kisses, “So big.”

He thrusted up, the all too amazing friction not enough— he needed so much more.

One of his hands left your hip, relieving the flesh as he moved his hand up towards your breast. Your back arched into him as he squeezed the plump flesh, circling his thumb over the bud.

You lifted off of him, not missing the whine when you left him.

“Hold on Cho.” You giggled, stripping yourself of your shorts and panties. Choso watched with drunken glazed eyes, hungrily staring at your exposed center. “Is this okay?”

He swallowed hard, eyes raking up your beautiful nude body until he met your eyes.

“Yes… so beautiful.” He spoke breathlessly, never have seen someone— something so breathtaking.

You blushed from his words, crawling closer to him and sitting back on your knees in front of him. Straddling him, but careful to stay off his center. His eyes were dilated, wide with anticipation.

You rubbed your hands on his legs, running your hands over his knees and caressed his thighs through his pants. Your touch was so addicting, even the softest most innocent touches had him going wild. His skin tingled underneath his robes.

His breath hitched, his eyebrows pulling together when your hands stopped just before you could smooth a hand over his covered member.

You gazed up at him.

“Can I?”

He nodded, his own hands fisting the bedsheets below him.

You smoothed your palm over his dick, a gasp escaping his lips as his body shuttered. You bit your lip at the reaction before hooking your thumbs into his pants and sliding them down his legs.

Choso stayed still and patient. Although, he wouldn’t be able to keep that control for long.

Your core throbbed at the sight of his muscular legs, eyes trailing up from his calves and landing on his thick, bulging thighs.

Your hands ran along his exposed skin, the feeling of your fingertips scraping against his skin soothing. The burning in his skin calmed at your touch, his eyes closing at the pleasant sensation.

“(Y/n)… please…” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for, but he just needed more of your touch. All of it.

“Patience Cho, m’gonna make you feel good.” You purred, your hand running over his tensing thigh and cupping his painfully hard member.

Choso couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting into your palm, whimpering as the touch of your skin against his most private part felt heavenly.

“F-fuck…” He whined, voice strained and breathy.

You wrapped your hand around the base of him, squeezing and sliding up his cock until you reached his rosy tip. You smoothed your thumb over his slit, smearing the precum that had built up there, taking your time to circle the pad of your thumb around his head— driving him insane.

His knuckles were white and strained as they fisted the bedsheets, his eyes clamped shut as the feeling was too much— it was too good.

He cried out, face scrunching up as you rubbed your palm over his head, collecting his juices and grabbing ahold of his cock again— this time beginning to stroke him with a delicious pace.

He felt so hard and huge in your hand, you were licking your lips and squeezing your thighs together— wanting to feel him inside your aching pussy.

“How’s that feel Cho?” You whispered, your other hand lightly scraping your fingernails all the way from his abs to his thigh.

He whined, hips thrusting up to meet your strokes.

“S’good… s’good… don’t stop… fuck…”

You smirked at his reaction, completely melting from your touch. You stroked him faster, making sure to rub your thumb all the way across his tip with every stroke.

Your other hand started playing with his balls, gently rolling them in your palm. That action had Choso growling, his eyes shooting open and gazing down at you.

His expression was dark, his eyes glazed over with some primal urge— one that had him wanting to devour you.

“You gonna cum for me Cho?”

His expression switched back to a pained, needy look. His eyebrows pulling together as his mouth hang open, panting as the sensation was building so perfectly.

He nodded lazily. “Yes… yes.”

You felt his hips thrusting into your hand quicker, a messy pace and you knew he was close. Without thinking, you lowered your mouth onto him, sucking on his tip, letting your tongue circle his head before flicking his slit. Choso watched with a drunken expression, as you sucked on his most private area. It wasn’t long before he was letting out a pained whimper, thrusting his dick into your mouth deeper and shooting his seed down your throat.

You kept playing with his balls, running your hand up and down his thigh soothingly as he lazily thrusted into your mouth, your tongue running along the underside of his dick as he worked through his high.

His vision slowly lost the black spots, his breath finally coming back to him. That sensation, it felt like he had died and had come back to life— it was indescribable.

You released him with a pop, giving the tip one last kiss, making him hiss as he was sensitive— but the gesture had him already getting hard again.

“How was that Cho?” You asked in a sweet, gentle voice.

Choso didn’t answer for awhile, pulling you up into his lap. Sitting you down in his already hard again member. It was supposed to be a sweet gesture, but the feeling of his dick throbbing against your abandoned core— god it took everything in you to not sink down onto his dick.

He hugged you close to him, just gazing at you and breathing— staring at you with a dangerously longing look in his eyes.

“That was amazing baby,” Your cheeks dusted pink at the nickname, making your pussy clench around nothing. “You’re… really good at that.”

You giggled, running your hands through his hair.

“Good Cho, I’m happy I could make you feel good.”

Choso gazed at you, his hooded eyes darkening as he realized how good your very wet pussy felt sitting on top of his dick. His hands snuck down from your back, landing on your ass and giving the flesh a squeeze— earning a jolt of your hips against his. The action made him growl.

You gasped, back arching into him as your aching clit got some relief.

“Can I return the favor?”

You were dazed, spacing out as he felt too good underneath you— and you stared at him with glossy eyes.

“W-what?” You asked breathlessly.

He smirked, his eyes soft but lust filled. He gave your ass another squeeze, addicted to the feel of them in his hands.

“Can I make you feel good?”

You grinded your wet heat over his dick, both of you letting out a hiss at the action. You gripped the back of his neck, leaning close and hovering your lips over his.

“Please.”

— ending notes. don’t be mad at that ending, i promise another part is coming 😏

[woso-dreamzzz]

Different II

Katie McCabe x Teen!Reader

Summary: You get your diagnosis

There's a lot of hoops to jump through to finally work out what's wrong with you.

Mam doesn't like you using those words. She doesn't like referring to it as 'what's wrong with you'. She tells you that you're perfect. Nothing is wrong with you. You're perfect the way you are.

There's nothing wrong. You're jumping through these hoops so Katie can finally understand how to help you.

You meet with the paediatrician who makes follow-up appointments for you with a psychologist and an occupational therapist.

The psychologist rules out things like dyscalculia and dyslexia. She says you don't have anxiety and depression either.

You go to the occupational therapist. He runs you through a series of tests. At first, it's big things like jumping or using a skipping rope before he moves onto the smaller things like holding a paintbrush and placing weird pegs things into small holes.

You go back to the paediatrician.

"Dyspraxia," Katie says that evening as you both sit on her bed together," That's what it's called. Dyspraxia."

"I know," You say," I was in the room with you when we got told."

She's holding the pamphlet and folder that the doctor had given you, explaining all the ins and outs of the condition.

It's nothing that you haven't experienced first-hand. You imagine all of these documents were made for parents of little kids who got diagnosed. You imagine it's more for Katie's benefit than your own.

You know what it's like to live with this condition. You know what to expect and how to adapt.

Katie is the one that will be reading those pages front to back, well into the night even though she's got training the next day.

You're off school for the week.

One of the gas taps in the science laps has started leaking so the whole school was shut down as a precaution.

You're more than happy to tag along to training, stealing one of the muffins from the dining hall to eat by yourself out on the pitch.

"So," Kim says as she sits next to you," I heard from Katie that you finally got that diagnosis."

You shrug. "It's nice to have a name for it now. I think Mam's read that folder at least ten times now. I don't know if she even got any sleep last night."

"That sounds like Katie." Kim nudges you with her knee. "How are you feeling about it?"

"It is what it is," You reply, picking at your muffin," Mam said that she's still trying to take it all in. I don't know if that's good or bad."

Katie had been resistant at first. She hadn't wanted you to get tested for anything. You were perfect the way you were and she didn't want anyone to make you think otherwise.

She was all denial.

Deny, deny, deny.

You were brutal acceptance.

There was something that made you different to the other kids. There was something that made you different to most other people you had ever met.

You don't know now what Katie thinks of your diagnosis, this new label to stick on yourself.

You don't know if it'll change how she thinks of you. If she'll think you're less perfect now that you've got something official to say that you aren't.

"Katie loves you," Kim says," That won't ever change. You're her kid."

"I'm not a kid," You grumble and Kim laughs.

"You're her teenager then," She corrects," But she does love you and all she wants is to give you the best possible life."

"Yeah but-"

"It's not going to change anything," Kim insists," Okay? Katie loves you."

You don't doubt that. You've never doubted that.

You just hope Katie doesn't doubt it either.

She paces in front of you that evening and you hold your breath.

"I've talked to your school," She says," They're working on getting you a school-issued laptop but for the time being you're allowed to bring in one of ours from home. You'll get extra time for your exams and the teachers are going to start giving you more handouts rather than making you write everything up."

"Wait...what?"

"What do you mean what?"

You frown. "Mam...I...I don't get it."

"You're getting accommodations," katie says, sitting right next to you," Because you're different to the other kids and need a bit more support. You're a smart kid. You just need to do things a little differently. We're getting you help."

"Mam, I..." You don't quite know what to say. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Katie says," I love you. I'm just making sure you get what you deserve."

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Shadows and Paws

Chapter 1: Into the Wild

Pairing: 141 x reader, Eventual Poly 141 x reader

AU: Hybrid 141 x Hybrid reader

Warning: Mostly Angst with like a smidge of fluff

Authors note: I hope yall enjoy this hybrid AU, I’ve been dabbling into a lot of things

Word Count: 1.1k

Masterlist | Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The sanctuary was nothing like they’d expected.

Dense fog clung to the forest floor, muffling their footsteps and swallowing every sound. Towering trees stretched endlessly above them, their branches twisted together like ancient hands guarding the sanctuary’s secrets. The air was thick and damp, carrying scents of moss and earth, tinged with hints of wild animals and faint traces of something else—something that felt old, almost sacred. It was a place untouched by the outside world, a haven carved out of the wilderness, and every instinct in Price told him they were being watched.

Captain Price led the way through the misty forest, his senses heightened, the quiet hum of wolf instincts ever-present in his mind. His eyes scanned the shadows, alert for any sign of movement, every fiber of him tuned to the pulse of the forest. Behind him, Ghost moved like a wraith, his panther-like form blending seamlessly into the darkness, each step careful and deliberate, his presence almost an extension of the shadows themselves. Gaz circled above in falcon form, his sharp eyes piercing through the canopy, scanning the surrounding trees with precision, watching for anything out of the ordinary. Soap followed close to Price, his husky ears perked and alert, his energy barely contained, as if every sound was calling him to explore.

As a pack, they moved seamlessly, each member adapting to the environment, their hybrid senses complementing each other. The forest around them was eerily quiet, the usual sounds of birds and insects absent as though the sanctuary itself was holding its breath. Just as Price was about to signal for a halt, Gaz’s voice crackled softly through the comms, a low murmur that barely broke the stillness.

“Got movement, Cap. Northwest, closing fast. Looks like we’ve got company.”

Price’s ear twitched, picking up the faint rustling of leaves from the direction Gaz had indicated. He raised a hand, signaling the others to stop, his body tensing as he scanned the shadows ahead. His gaze sharpened, waiting for any sign of a threat, when a sudden flash of red fur caught his eye, there and gone again, darting through the underbrush with silent grace and a speed that suggested they weren’t alone.

“It’s a fox,” Price muttered under his breath, though he didn’t relax, his hand hovering near his weapon just in case.

Moments later, a figure emerged from the trees, moving with a fluid confidence that put the entire team on edge. It was a fox hybrid, their stature smaller than the 141 members but exuding an unmistakable presence. Their sharp, glinting eyes danced over each of them, assessing, appraising, lingering just a moment longer on Ghost before finally settling on Price.

“Well, well,” the fox drawled, their voice carrying a playful yet dangerous edge as they crossed their arms. “More rogues, I assume? You’re not exactly blending in.”

The fox’s sly smile and relaxed stance belied a readiness, a coiled energy that suggested they could vanish or attack in an instant if provoked. Price held their gaze steadily, refusing to let himself be rattled. “We’re just passing through,” he said, his voice steady, but every word measured.

The fox tilted their head, studying them intently with a glimmer of amusement in their eyes. “Nobody just passes through here,” they replied, one brow raised as they spoke. “But if you’re here to help, then maybe we can have a chat. Otherwise…” They trailed off, their fingers twitching ever so slightly, a subtle hint that they could disappear into the shadows in a heartbeat if they chose.

Price exchanged a glance with Soap, who was watching the fox intently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I like ‘em already,” he whispered to Ghost, whose only response was a quiet, amused huff from under his mask.

The fox’s gaze flickered between them, clearly aware of the silent exchanges. “So, are you going to keep staring?” they teased, their voice laced with a challenge. “Or should I show you somewhere a bit safer than out here?”

“Lead the way,” Price replied, stepping forward, his voice a quiet command as he signaled to the others to follow.

The fox hybrid didn’t hesitate, moving deeper into the forest with a quick, confident stride, winding through paths that seemed invisible to anyone who hadn’t been born to this place. As they walked, the fog grew thicker, shrouding the trees in a ghostly mist that muted every sound and blurred the edges of the world around them. It was as if the sanctuary itself was wrapping them in secrecy, guarding its mysteries from prying eyes.

They came to an abrupt stop near a secluded glade where a small fire flickered, casting a warm, welcoming glow against the cold mist. The fox turned to them, their gaze unwavering as they gestured for them to sit around the fire. Soap dropped down with a grin, his tail wagging with an eagerness that made Price feel the faintest sense of relief at being out of the open, if only for a moment.

“I’ll make this quick,” the fox began, folding their arms across their chest as they met each team member’s gaze. “There’s a group of rogues here, causing chaos for hybrids and humans alike. They’re not subtle, and they’re dangerous. If you’re here to help with that, then I can give you intel—maybe even show you some safe paths.”

Price studied them carefully, his expression unreadable. “And what’s in it for you?”

The fox shrugged, a slight smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. “I don’t trust anyone to do a job properly unless I’m involved. Besides, you all look like you could use a bit of help.”

Soap chuckled, an amused spark in his eyes as he looked the fox over with admiration. “You’re not wrong about that.”

Ghost’s voice cut in, low and sharp as he fixed the fox with a piercing stare. “And how do we know we can trust you?”

The fox met Ghost’s gaze without flinching, their own expression softening slightly. “You don’t,” they replied simply. “But you can trust that I don’t want those rogues overrunning my home.” For the first time, Price caught a glimpse of something deeper beneath their confident demeanor—a hint of loyalty, a fierce protectiveness that resonated with him.

The fox shifted, stretching out with a lazy elegance as their red tail curled around them, a playful glint returning to their eyes as they looked each of them in turn. “Well, boys, do we have a deal?”

Price didn’t need to look back at his team to know their answer. He extended his hand, sealing the alliance with a firm nod, his gaze steady. “Looks like we’re in this together.”

---

End of Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Hope you all enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[p0orbaby]

Not Nineteen Forever

summary: co-parenting with two kids? light work

warnings: are exes a warning ?

a/n: i smell reconciliation in the air…

word count: 1.1k

-

“He’s forgotten his boots? What time is his lesson? No sorry don’t answer that, I’ve got meetings for the rest of the day, I can’t leave the office. Can he play in his school shoes? Can I just ask, have you tried getting in contact with Alexia? No, you just called me, got it. Well it looks like he will have to miss football then doesn’t it. Yes, it’s such a shame! Okay, thank you, bye”

You hang up and smash the phone back into its receiver, frustration boiling over. This is the third time this month something has come up with the kids while you are at work. Balancing a full-time job and single parenthood was taking its toll. You sigh, running a hand through your hair, and try to refocus on the mountain of tasks waiting for you.

It has been a year since you and Alexia divorced. The decision was mutual, borne out of necessity rather than any particular wrongdoing. Her career had always been demanding, but as she rose to greater heights, the time she could spend at home dwindled to almost nothing. The distance, both physical and emotional, had grown insurmountable. You had drifted apart, slowly and painfully.

The kids have taken the separation surprisingly well. They are resilient, adapting quickly to the new arrangement of split weeks and alternating weekends. But despite their brave faces, you can see the strain it puts on them. You miss the days when the four of you were a team, tackling life’s challenges together.

As you stare at your computer screen, trying to immerse yourself back into work, the phone rings again. It was the school. Again.

“You should have Alexia’s number on file but if you need me to confirm-“

“I’m sorry?”

“Luis’ boots. If it’s that much of a problem I’m sure my wife- ex wife, can drop them off”

“Apologies Ms Putellas, but I'm ringing about your daughter. This is the school nurse…”

-

You arrive at the school to find Alexia already there, uncharacteristically nervous as she waits. Despite everything, she always manages to be present when it truly matters. It’s one of the things you admire most about her, and also one of the most frustrating – her ability to show up at the critical moments, even if she couldn’t be there for the day-to-day.

Silently you’re both ushered into the head's office, where your daughter sits with a bandaged arm and teary eyes.

“How did this happen?” you ask suddenly, directing your question to the principal as you crouch down to inspect Liliana.

“She was climbing on the monkey bars and lost her grip,” the older woman explains. “It was an accident. She’ll be fine, but we thought it best to have you both here, given the circumstances”

“An accident?” Alexia echoes sharply, her voice edged with anger she normally only reserves for the pitch. “She’s only four! Why wasn’t she being supervised properly?”

The principal shifts uncomfortably. “We do our best to keep an eye on all the children, but sometimes with kids these things happen. We deeply apologise for any distress this has caused”

Alexia’s face tightens with frustration. “My daughter could have been seriously hurt!”

You place a calming hand on Alexia’s arm, feeling the tension radiating from her as she fizzes on the spot. “Ale,” you say softly. “We can talk about this later”

Alexia finally takes a deep breath, her eyes softening as she looks at Liliana, who is now clinging to her like a lifeline. “Are you okay, Cariño?” she asks, her voice gentler for your daughter's sake.

Liliana nods, though her eyes are still wet with leftover tears. “It hurts, Mami.”

The principal nods. “She’ll need some ice and rest, but otherwise, she should be okay. We just wanted to make sure you both were informed and could decide if she should go home for the rest of the day”

You glance at Alexia, your mind racing. It’s been a long time since you’ve had to make a decision like this together. “Do you think she should come home?” you ask.

Alexia looks down at Liliana who hugs at her leg, thinking as she strokes the top of her head. “I have the afternoon off. I can take her and keep an eye on her”

You’re surprised. “You have time off? I thought you had training”

“I managed to get the rest of the day cleared,” she says, her eyes meeting yours. “I wanted to be here”

For a moment, the tension between you eases, replaced by a shared concern for your child. You nod, before turning to the woman sitting behind her desk. “We’ll take Luis with us too”

The principal smiles, relieved. “Thank you both for coming in. We’ll make sure her things are ready to go”

-

“I finish at five, I’ll come straight here after” you say as the kids run past you into Alexia’s house. Liliana magically healed at the thought of being able to miss the rest of the school day.

Alexia watches them go, then turns back to you with a look that’s hard to read. “I know it’s been… different”

“Yeah, different is one way to put it,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, inoffensive. “But we’re making it work”

She nods, her gaze drifting to the door where the kids disappeared. “They seem happy. That’s what matters”

You follow her eyes, watching the kids through the window to where they’ve migrated to the garden. “They’re stronger than we give them credit for. It’s us adults who complicate things”

Alexia laughs softly. “Isn’t that the truth?”

There’s a moment of silence, filled with all the words neither of you have dared to say. Eventually, Alexia breaks it. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about everything”

You feel a twinge of something you can’t quite identify, hope maybe, but you push it aside. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes meeting yours in a way that makes your cheeks flush. “I miss them. And I miss… us”

You swallow hard, trying to bat away the emotions rising hopelessly within you. “Alexia, we’ve talked about this. Your career, my job, it just didn’t work”

“I know,” she replies, frustration creeping into her tone. “But just because it didn’t work then doesn’t mean it can’t work now. People change. Situations change”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don’t know, Alexia. It’s not that simple”

She steps closer, a dangerous move. You can smell the lingering scent of her soap, the gum she chews. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either”

You look at her, feeling the familiar pull you’ve tried to ignore for the past year. “I need to get back,” you say finally, peeling yourself away from her.

[familyvideostevie]

steel drum weight of me

joel miller x fem!reader, 18+ mdni

summary: joel comes back from his wall shift with hands in need of some serious tlc. but why stop there? | 3.2k

warnings: fem!reader, fluff turned to smut, a tender blowjob, p in v sex, unprotected sex, riding, creampie

a/n: this could be in the same universe as come care about me and watching you with wonder but who knows. what matters is it's a post-part i jackson au and all is well. this is my first fic in a while and i hammered it out today so hopefully it's coherent. <3 series masterlist here.

__

Jackson looks its best in the winter.

You've always thought so with its endless skies gone white, blending in with the grey clouds carrying the constant threat of snow. The peaks you never tire of, such ethereal beauty in a world otherwise gone to shit, looming over town with a steadfastness that you can fool yourself into thinking means protection, means safety. In reality, they're just something nice to look at when you have a free moment.

It's also fucking cold.

But you can deal with that. You've spent more winters in the last twenty years than you'd like to remember mostly outside, freezing your ass off, fingers so numb you could barely pull the trigger. But when it counted, you did.

Winter now means a town full of children laughing and having snowball fights. It means big pots of stew and your pick of hats, scarves, and a good pair of boots. It means a warm house to go back to every night, a bed to crawl into, and a man you love to hold you.

Things could be worse.

You're home first today. Joel and Ellie are on the wall and have been since mid-morning. The light is already going, the sun dipping behind the Tetons, sky that winter mix of purple and pink that makes the breath catch in your throat no matter how many times you see it. There's a flu going around and taking people out for a few days at most but it means fewer bodies free for the wall and for patrol. You're pulling a double tomorrow and you're already looking forward to the hot bath you'll take after.

Today, though, you change from your work clothes to something softer, a sweater that travels between your drawer and Joel's, thick socks Dina gave you for your birthday last year. It's hard to heat houses like yours the way you used to but it works well enough to fight the chill so long as you layer. That's the name of the game these days: adapting.

You set the kettle to boil and forgo thinking about dinner for a few hours. Joel won't drink tea with you but if Ellie stops by she'll have some. Maybe you can convince her to watch the movie you pulled from the library this week. You love him, but Joel just doesn't appreciate comedies.

The front door creaks, the bell you have hanging from the doorknob jingling.

"S'me," Joel calls into the house. "You home?"

"Making tea." The kettle isn't steaming yet so you lean against the counter and wait.

The sounds of his return are familiar even though you can't see him. He locks the door with a click, shrugs his jacket off with a sigh. He sits down on the bench you put in the entryway so he can take his boots off. The thunk of one and then the other. He'll tuck them next to yours under the coat rack. When the weather is bad you try to come in the back door so not as to track snow through the house but you don't want his back to get any worse so a bench in front makes sense.

The kettle screams. You pull it off quick and pour the water into your mug -- a chipped green one with a dinosaur holding a cookie that you find endlessly amusing -- and leave it to steep. The floor creaks under your socked feet as you make your way into the hall. Joel still sits on the bench digging into the meat of one palm with his thumb like he's working the feeling back into them.

He looks up and his jaw softens a little. His cheeks are rosy from the cold and his hair a mess from the wind. "Evenin," he says.

"How was the wall?"

"Fine." He stops messing with his hands and rolls his shoulders back with a grunt. "Ellie swears she saw a moose on her last patrol. Said to tell you. I think she's fuckin' with me. How was your shift?"

"Fine," you echo. "Is she coming for dinner?"

He shakes his head. "Game night at Jesse's."

You cross the remaining distance between you and he parts his legs automatically so you can stand between his knees. You run a hand through his hair, pushing the greying fringe back from his eyes. He looks up at you and finally smiles, just a little. You drag your hand down the side of his face and enjoy the feel of his beard on your skin.

"Maybe she did see a moose." He rolls his eyes and brings a hand up to cover yours. You lean down to kiss him but something catches your eye and you pull back, tugging your hand from beneath his to circle his wrist.

"Jesus, Joel." He makes a surprised sound.

"Hey now, what --"

You pull his other hand from his knee and hold them both close to your face, turning them over in the light of the entryway. "You didn't wear gloves, did you?"

He just shrugs. That means someone else on the wall -- probably Ellie -- forgot theirs and he handed his own over.

The skin of his knuckles is dry and cracked, the rest of his palm dry and cold to the touch. You've seen them bloody, broken and bruised, and compared to that, this is tame. Welcome, almost. But you know he won't do a damn thing about it, let himself bleed rather than take a second to make things better.

And you've never minded this part. Taking care of him, making him slow down and rest for even just a little bit. You both know you'd get your hands dirty or worse for him and he for you, but this is the part he has trouble with. So you take the reigns.

It's part of how you fit together -- part of how you look after each other.

"We've got something for this." Joel looks unamused. You press a light kiss to one of his knuckles and his nostrils flare. "Go sit on the couch," you say.

"I'm fine --"

"Joel, they'll bleed if you don't let me --"

"I said I'm --"

"Hey," you say. He hears the finality of your tone and lets you have it, sighing your name in one long breath.

"Alright," he says. "Move, then."

You press a quick kiss to his lips and release his hands to step back. He stands with his usual grunt and you have to stop yourself from leaning into the width of him, from wrapping your arms around him and slotting your nose in his neck and never letting go.

"It's that salve Dina brought over last week," you tell him. "The new one for the winter. Smells nice. Good for this kind of stuff."

Joel makes his way to the couch and you fetch the tin from the kitchen.

"What's it made of?"

"Uh -- oil? And some flowers, I think? Wax, maybe."

He's settled into the cushions when you return, smirking. "It's okay to say you don't fuckin' know."

You sit next to him and unscrew the top, folding your legs so you're facing him. "Well then, I don't fuckin' know." You're sure to imitate his drawl.

"Cute."

"Gimme those hands, big guy."

The salve smells faintly of lavender and it's cold on your fingertips. Joel extends his right hand and you work it into his skin slowly, extra careful around where it's cracked and split. You feel his eyes on you but you let him look.

"Feels good, huh?" He hums. "If you'd wear your gloves then --"

"What was I gonna do, let her freeze?" So it was Ellie, then. You flick your gaze up and find his brow furrowed. If you have a free hand you'd smooth the crease with your thumb.

"No," you say. "Guess it's a damn good thing you have me here, then."

He chuckles, a throaty, rusty sound. "Guess so."

You finish the first hand and motion for his second. He gives it to you and you dig your thumbs into the meat of his palm. Joel lets you touch him whenever you like, for the most part. Pressing into his side when you walk down the street in town, trailing your lips down his neck until he whines just a little in your bedroom. You've worked knots out of his shoulders and cleaned blood from surface wounds. You can never get enough of him, of his warmth, the expanse of his tanned skin all yours for the taking.

And, boy, he touches you back.

So you take your time. You rub the salve between his fingers, over the ridges of knuckles split so many times you don't even know about. His hands are rough even when they're not dry and cracking, callused from years of hard work. From years of violence and playing guitar, shooting a gun and holding the people he loves. Dotted with scars and nicks, hands that have touched every part of you.

Joel's slightly slimy finger taps your chin. "You okay?" You've been stroking the same bit of his hand for who knows how long.

"Yeah," you say and mean it. You rub your own hands together to soak in some of the salve before putting the lid back on the tin and standing. "Need to let it soak in."

"Feels soaked in already," he grumbles.

"Stay there." He purses his lips. "I mean it, Joel."

"Bossy today," he says. "There's wood that needs choppin'." You ignore him since he's just being annoying. The salve goes back in the kitchen and his voice trails after you. "And I told Tommy I'd --"

You turn on the tap. "You gotta let that soak in," you say again from the sink.

"What? Can't hear over the water."

You turn off the tap and dry your hands. Joel is still on the couch when you return. "Sorry," you say. You run your hand through his hair again and settle back down next to him. "I said be patient."

"Don't think that's what you said."

"It's what I meant."

And he looks at you in that way that always makes your face feel hot. Like he's seeing right to the bone of you, like he's laying you bare on the floor in his mind. Like he never wants to stop looking at you, next to him on the couch, leg pressed to yours. Like he loves you.

"Alright," he says.

You get an idea, the flames licking at your belly and your hands itching to touch him again, to touch him differently than before. That idea has you grabbing a pillow and tossing it to the floor, has you getting up and drawing the curtains before you sink to your knees before him.

Joel only looks mildly surprised, eyebrows raised, mouth tugging up at the corner. "Now, I ain't gonna complain but --"

"Then don't," you say. You tug his shirt from his waistband and start working on his belt. "Gotta pass the time somehow. And I don't know what we're doing for dinner yet, so maybe I'm just stalling."

"Hell of a way to stall." He reaches for you to touch your face, maybe, or help you with his belt, when you click your tongue. "We can just go to the community hall--"

"Don't touch," you remind him. "You have to let it--"

"Soak, Jesus, yeah, yeah." Joel tips his head back along the sofa and takes one deep breath. If he really wanted to he could ignore you and you'd let him get away with it, but if there's one thing you and Joel have solidified, it's trust. He trusts you to take care of him, to handle him with hands that love him.

So you do. He lifts his hips just a little so you can tug his jeans down, zipper undone and button popped. You pull out his cock, already half-hard at the promise of what's to come. You spit into your palm and stroke him once root to tip and he hisses. More blood flows and he stiffens in your hand.

"You just gonna look at it?"

You give him a squeeze for being a shit. He laughs but it sounds punched out, on the edge. Frankly it's an effort not to take him in your mouth right away. You've always loved this -- the exchange of power, the trust. You're the one on your knees but you're calling the shots. And he's mouthwatering. The way his cock curves a little, the vein that runs along the underside. The mushroom head a little pinker than the rest, the wiry hair at his base. The hefty weight of his balls in your hand, on your tongue. You know how to make it good for him and it's good for you, too.

Joel opens his mouth to no doubt say something else annoying so you finally drag your tongue along the vein, swirling a little at the top before taking just the tip of him in your mouth. His precome is salty. You work your hand along the rest of him as you start to suck in earnest, hollowing your cheeks and taking a little more each time.

"Look so pretty, baby," Joel says. His voice is gravely, broken in his throat. You manage to take almost all of him and you swallow, just once. Your reward is your name spilling from his mouth in a groan.

It's messy. Spit beads at the corner of your mouth and drips a little as you work him, breathing through your nose when you take him all the way. So good, takin' all of me, keep goin'.

Joel has clearly forgotten your directive as he winds one hand in your hair and pulls just a little, just enough to make you moan around him. You don't scold him for it, instead keeping your eyes on his face. His head is tipped back just a little, lips parted at he gazes down at you. His other arm is stretched along the length of the couch, his fingers digging into the fabric as you bob on his cock.

You know he's close. You can feel how he's trying hard to keep his hips down, trying not to fuck your throat cause usually he asks first. So it's only a little surprising when he pulls you off him, eyes a little glazed and some color high on his cheeks.

He wipes spit from the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. "Why don't you c'mere?" he says. "Let me fill you up."

"Joel." This was supposed to be about making him feel good. You know even if he comes in your mouth he'll ask you let him touch you, so frankly you don't mind if he fucks you or not.

He smirks, presses his fingers into the side of your neck a little. You swallow so he can feel it. "We both know you can take it," he drawls, eyes dark. "Always gets you goin', my cock in your mouth."

You can feel the heat between your legs, the arousal pooling in your gut. He's right but he's also an asshole. "You're annoying," you tell him.

"So is that a no?"

You drag the flat of your tongue up his shaft one last time as punishment before standing, using his knees as leverage to get off your own. He shucks off his jeans the rest of the way as you drag down your pants, letting them pool with your underwear at your feet before stepping out. Joel holds out a hand for you to balance on and you take it, putting your other on his shoulder.

"Feels softer already," you mutter. Joel snickers and you straddle him. He uses one hand to drag his fingers through your cunt and you fail to swallow a gasp.

"Well, look at that," he says. "I was right." He pushes two fingers into you and they go easily, your hips jerking as he pumps them in and out once, twice, and then you're empty again.

"Smug bastard," you manage. He brings his hand to his mouth and takes a long lick before surging forward to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue and it makes you even wetter.

Joel licks into your mouth and you kiss him back sloppily, desperately, in the way you know he likes. You're so busy with that hands on his face, his beard scratching your skin deliciously, that you don't notice what else he's doing. His hand presses into the bare skin of your back under your shirt and you lift up a little on instinct and then --

The head of his cock nudges at your entrance and his hand presses again and you meet the movement of his hips with your own and he fills you with just one stroke.

You moan in unison, Joel's arm wrapping around your back as you curl yours around his neck, mouths not so much pressed together as hovering as you pant, as you adjust. Even with how wet you are Joel is a stretch, a welcome one, but a stretch regardless. You shift your hips, roll them back and forth a little.

"Go on, then," you tell him. "Fuck me."

He laughs.

His lips leave yours and trail down your chin, sucking spots onto your neck and on that spot that makes you keen as he does what you ask. He goes slow at first, letting you meet him thrust for thrust. One hand snakes up your shirt, thumbs at your nipple when he finds no bra in the way. You wing your fingers in his hair and tug, tug until he picks up the pace, until all you can hear is the smack of his flesh against yours.

"Joel -- Joel -- right there --"

"M'not gonna -- I -- fuck --"

"Said you were gonna fill me up, didn't you?" you pant, managing to find a bit of cheek in the haze of your fucking. "C'mon, Miller. Don't keep a lady wait--"

His hips pick up the pace, his hands pressing into you hard enough to bruise. You give up trying to tease him and hang on for dear life, managing to snake a hand between your legs to rub at your clit as he pounds into you. The only thing you can say is his name over and over as you feel the hook pull taught, feel the head of his cock brush against and then pound that spot that makes your vision blur.

Joel comes just before you do, his thrusts stuttering and his name on your lips. You feel it, the heat inside you and it's enough to send you over the edge, your cunt squeezing him as he empties inside you.

You press your forehead to his and catch your breath. He palms your neck, your jaw, slides his thumb lazily under your eye and kisses the corner of your mouth.

"Hell of a salve," he manages.

You slot your lips over his. "Wear your damn gloves." Joel laughs and it shifts him inside you. Even softening it makes you both hiss a little. "Just gimme a second."

His hand drags up and down your back, pressing into your spine. "Take your time," he says. "M'clearly not goin' anywhere."

"You never stop, do you?"

Joel kisses you again. "'fraid not."

You laugh into his neck. "Good."

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[physalian]

What No one Tells You about Writing Fantasy, #2!

I did this list about 7 annoyances about fantasy, but I write in this genre for a reason! Fantasy knows no bounds, it can encompass all other genres within it. You can write a fantastical murder mystery, fantasy horror, fantasy romance, political drama, slice-of-life, comedy, whatever you’d like!

Whether it’s urban or high fantasy, supernatural or scientific, here’s seven great benefits of writing in this genre:

1. No modern means of communication

Unless you’re writing a world with phones or phone-adjacent devices. Phones and instant communication seriously inhibits the plausibility of dramatic irony and tension when you have to keep coming up with reasons to keep your characters from calling or texting each other everything they know. It’s exhausting, I tell you, and such a relief when phones aren’t a factor.

With that said, without phones, you have complete freedom to design your own magical channels of supernatural FaceTime, as weird and zany as you want. But without instant connections? Your character who knew too much can’t pass on the intel before they die. Your hero team can’t call for backup in their darkest hour. Otherwise easily preventable tragedies and deadly miscommunications are now very real.

2. The Monster Allegory

Fantasy and sci-fi tend to overlap more than they’re set apart, and in that overlap sits the monster allegory. Everything from werewolves to vampires to witches, reapers, demons, angels, goblins, trolls, wraiths, fairies, mermaids, ghosts, to Eldritch horrors and your classic Hollywood cast of mummies, creatures from the black lagoon, and Frankenstein.

Most of the time, the monsters aren’t just monsters, they represent a monstrous aspect of society the author wants to challenge and caricaturize in a fun and entertaining way. Or, the monsters are the good guys and the humans are the real terrors. Or, you’ve got two kinds of monsters to allegory two human sides. Sometimes they represent metaphorical demons, like vampires often representing addiction and werewolves repressed identities.

What all of this boils down to is the hyperbolic nature of science fantasy that allows you to go over-the-top with your metaphor and allegory in a way that a book grounded in reality just can’t.

3. Magic Systems!

Do you love world building? Do you love filling pages upon pages with your cool and unique set of superpowers you want your characters to have? Do you dream about your fight scenes and dramatic slow-mo shots?

Then Fantasy is for you!

There are zero limits to how you want to define your magic system. You can go classic with the familiar archetypes of elemental magic, wizards, sorcerers, and witches. Or you can step off the beaten path and design a whole new funky system of power sets. Best part? Your readers will have an awesome time imagining themselves with those powers, and debating endlessly about how it works.

4. Real-World Politics, who?

Amazon’s Rings of Power was twice-doomed when they only got the rights to adapt the appendices of The Silmarillion and when they decided to inject current political problems into a timeless story written purposefully to be divorced from those politics. You *can* write about human politics, but in fantasy, you don’t have to. You *can* interpret Lord of the Rings to be an allegory about the World Wars, but no matter how hard you argue, it wasn’t written with that intent.

Which means: Even if your story is set in the reality-adjacent fantasy version of 1543, you are free from the following: Racism, homophobia, sexism, religious bigotry, mental health bigotry, gender norms, anti-feminism, toxic masculinity, and more. “But that’s how it was-”

Nope. This is fantasy. You built this world, you decided to keep in the discrimination. Or… You can fill your fantasy world with a rainbow of gays, POCs in power, women in power, men unafraid to be compassionate and caring, a religion that doesn’t foster hate and division, the list goes on. You. Are. Free.

5. Nothing is too “unrealistic”

Both that you will always have people whining about how X would never happen so write the book you want to read, but also because fantasy is fake. Fairies aren’t real. Mermaids aren’t real. There are no rules for how they must be written and that’s how we have so much variety with so much room for interpretation by so many creators. Twilight made how much money writing about vampires that sparkle like diamonds in sunlight and crack like marble?

This is fantasy, it’s supposed to be unrealistic. Yes, your plot should make sense, but don’t be afraid to get weird. Write at least some of your story dependant on those fantasy elements. Write a story that can’t just be told in the real world minus the spectacle. Don’t be afraid to be sincerely fantastical and weird. People love weird. People love loving weird.

6. You are in complete control

But you do still need to research, unfortunately. Unless this is urban fantasy that depends at least a little on the human world, yours is completely your own to govern like a god tweezing weeds from their garden. You get to design your own geography and weather patterns and seasons. Your own countries and kingdoms and politicians. Your epic pre-canon fantasy war and the stakes that it was fought over. Your species, races, and ethnicities.

It’s a shame that a movie like Avatar (2009) set out to be this wholly unique take on aliens with music completely divorced from earthly bonds, new languages and a visually and culturally distinct alien species… and ended up a largely generic blue Pocahontas in space. It forgot that it was fantasy and didn’t go weird enough. They have horses, monkeys, wolves, rhinos, and deer just re-skinned with some extra limbs and colors. It’s pretty but it’s so, so shallow.

It could have become a cult classic like many a positively *weird* 80s off-beat fantasies, and now it just… exists. It makes a whole lot of money but its impact on the cultural zeitgeist is negligible. I’m the only person I know that can name every major character in the movie, and I’m no Avatar obsessor. They had complete creative control, and this is what they did with it. Don’t be Avatar. Take your creative freedom and run.

7. Even if it has been done before, do it again

You can say this about any genre, particularly romance, but fantasy and sci-fi, by the gatekeep-y nature of their fans, can be a lot less forgiving when it comes to claims of “unoriginality”. No one hates Star Wars more than Star Wars fans. Fans of these genres can get… concerningly attached to their favorite stories (mostly because the people who like them had only their fictional heroes to protect them from very real bullies).

But Game of Thrones exists because the author likes Lord of the Rings and went “yes, but what if it was an R-rated parade of misery?” Dungeons and Dragons exists because people wanted to roleplay in an LotR-esque world. Legolas and Gimli single-handedly defined what a badass elf and dwarf looks like in high fantasy. And people still gobble up media ripping shamelessly, or even good-naturedly, from this one story.

So on my other list, I argued that the sum of your parts is still original, even if the components aren’t. On this list, I implore you this: It’s not stealing or appropriating to write another Legolas if you love Legolas. Everyone loves Legolas. How many generic buff action heroes do we have and love? How many Hallmark romances tread the same predictable path? Who gives a damn if it’s unoriginal? Just make it entertaining and have something fresh to say in the end (or don’t, that’s fine too), and people will read it.

And when people say “Oh, you mean like Legolas”, take it as a compliment, not an insult. Yes, exactly like Legolas. Here’s my new elf because I adore this other book, now watch him go on a new adventure that I wrote for him.

[epicspheal]

Words Are Unnecessary! A Red Analysis

Picture this: You’re a 90s kid, you got a Gameboy and this new game called Pokemon (or as your parents likely called it, Pokeman). And you get one choice of protagonist, a boy from Pallet Town named Red. 

Game Red is a silent protagonist turned silent NPC, so one may think it might be hard to do a character analysis on him (compared to say his Origins, Pokespe or Anime counterparts). Yet like much of Kanto, Red is a character told through environmental storytelling.

Let’s start with his name, in all official translations his name is Red. The color Red is a primary color which low key represents his role as the protagonist and the top of the Kanto hierarchy. This is most apparent when you compare Blue’s Japanese name Green which is a secondary color (implying he’s the second best of the Kanto trainers). Symbolically the color red represents passion, love, strength, confidence and importance. As time has moved on and TPCi has made Red an important character just as much as a protagonist, we can see that he embodies so much of the symbolism of his namesake color.

He’s described as having a quiet passion and love for Pokemon. He exudes strength and confidence in any game related adaptation and he’s quite possibly the most important trainer in the series. When you consider the fact that originally, Pokemon Gold/Silver/Crystal were supposed to be the last games in the series you realize that Red’s naming was not just random but meant to be a story of his arc. From your entry into the wonderful world of Pokemon the formidable passionate flame on top of Mt Silver that would serve as your final obstacle. 

Alright so let’s take a look at Red’s team. Now canonically we know he completed the Kanto Pokedex of 151 unique little critters. That’s a huge accomplishment that affords him a vast rotation of Pokemon that most trainers in the world will not have. Yet in his NPC appearances we see that he tends to stick to a certain subset of Pokemon and this actually gives a lot of insight into his character

Like most Pokemon champions he opts for a more balanced team with varied typings. I’m going to focus on his HGSS team since that’s the one that is used the most over generations. We see he has a Pikachu, the three Kanto Starters, Lapras and Snorlax. The first thing that stands out is his use of a (very high leveled) Pikachu in a team of otherwise fully evolved Pokemon. This is of course a reference to Pokemon Yellow, but it also just shows his trust in his Pokemon. The fact that he would still keep one of his Pokemon unevolved due to the Pokemon’s own personal preference shows that Red respects the choices of his Pokemon. He even gives his Pikachu a Light Ball to hold in order to boost the powers of his moves, further showing how much he wants to work with his Pokemon to achieve their ultimate potential rather than deciding for them. 

The three Kanto Starters are a way to not formally canonize which starter he chooses, but they’re also a reference to Pokemon Yellow as all three can be obtained from gifts. The same goes for his Lapras and Espeon (in GSC) which are also obtained as gifts. Snorlax rounds out the team as the Pokemon he gets by waking up with the Pokeflute (the Pokeflute being a gift). So what does this all mean for Red? It shows that despite having caught the entire Kanto Pokedex (including legendaries and mythicals) he ends up prioritizing the Pokemon he got as gifts. This shows a very sentimental side of him. This makes sense when you consider the guide to Pokemon RBG where it shows he wishes to regain his friendship with Blue back after the latter starts being mean. The Kanto journey for Red is as much of a coming of age story as it is a sentimental one as he really wants his best friend back.

Now taking a look at the moves Red chooses for his team we can see he has a varied amount of attacks that helped to hit most types for super-effective damage. A couple of things to note here is that he does seem to have a preference for moves that give status conditions as a secondary effect showing that he tries to open multiple paths to victory in battle. This shows he is calculating and knowledgeable about the moves he uses. For his HGSS Mount Silver battle you’ll notice the Kanto starters all have the three ultimate moves: Frenzy Plant, Blast Burn, and Hydro Cannon. This once again symbolizes the high degree of love Red has in his Pokemon. 

However those moves are much like elemental Hyper Beams in that they require a recharge turn. And indeed Red has Giga Impact on his Snorlax which also requires a recharge turn. Not only that he uses moves like Focus Blast which has not the best accuracy. He also uses moves like Flare Blitz and Volt Tackle which give recoil damage. All this to say, Red has a bit of a reckless streak as well. Which checks when you think about how he single-handedly drove Team Rocket out of Kanto, and his actions during the Pokemas Kanto Villain arc. I do want to point out that he has the move Blizzard on three of his Pokemon which is normally a low accuracy move…except in the Hail. Which, what do you know, Mount Silver has Hail (er snow). This shows that while Red can be reckless he also is very smart in taking advantage of his surroundings. 

I’m actually going to jump to his Alola Team because you see aside from levels nothing has really changed except for the moves. Once again he still has some high risk-high reward moves but they’ve been toned down a bit. This actually provides a bit of subtle character growth as we see he’s toning down his reckless streak as he has become an adult. We also see in his moves and items in the battle tree that he varies the strategies he uses against opponents in terms of moves and items used. This is fitting given that this time he’s now known as a Battle Legend. He uses quite a few mega items in the Battle Tree which once again affirm the love and trust he has for his Pokemon.

Now let’s take a look at the few quotes we get from Red

"Hi! Do you like Pokémon? Uh no, I just asked you. Huh? You're strange!" 

"Hi! Thanks for earlier! Pardon? Is it that fun to mimic my every move?" - Talking to CopycatThis is one of the non-Pokemon Masters spoken words we get out of Red from RBGY/FRLG. Here he’s talking to Copy Cat who is…copying every word he says. It’s a funny bit of dialogue that shows despite being a living legend he was still definitely a kid with brutal honesty by calling CopyCat strange. But we get to see he is a polite child as he thanks CopyCat for the TM he get while also still curious as to why CopyCat seems to enjoy mimicking him.

"…?""…?!" -if Red defeats the player in the Pokemon World Tournament In Pokemon Black 2/White 2 When most of us think of Red, we think of the fact that he typically speaks in ellipses. I really liked this set of ellipses from the Pokemon World Tournament as it’s possible for any character to beat the player without forcing a rematch to progress the story. So that means any of the champions can claim victory. In the case of Victory with Red, here he seems to express a bit of shock that he won against Nate/Rosa. This shows a great deal of humility for him because by the time of the second Unova story events, he’s well regarded as a living battle legend.

"...I accept your challenge!" - To Blue before the Pasio Tournament Finals

This was a very touching moment between Red and Blue. Blue was admittedly rashly challenging Red to a battle due to his own insecurities about being a good rival to Red especially given the Pasio format of three on three battles. Normally when Red accepts challenges he does so silently, but here we see him make a verbal acceptance. This is huge because it shows how important Blue is to him. He recognizes Blue still struggles with insecurity in regards to the rivalry and rather than just wordlessly accept a battle, he tells Blue he accepts to show that he acknowledges Blue not just as his best friend, but as his rival. Even when he’s challenged by champions like Leon and Cynthia he is wordless, but with Blue he speaks to affirm the challenge. It speaks volumes about how much Red cares about Blue. Again going back to the RBGY guide book that talks about how Red wants to get his friend back, you can see how Red doesn’t want to lose Blue as a friend again and is willing to verbally affirm Blue, because he recognizes that words of affirmation are a love language to Blue.

"(Blue, Leaf...Let's win this—together!)" - in his head Okay so he didn’t actually speak this out loud but this counts. As they’re preparing for the finals of the Pasio Tournament, you see once again how much Red values his two childhood friends. He doesn’t just want this to be “The Red Show” where he, the living legend, effortlessly takes down the opponents and with all of  the glory going to himself. He wants to win it with the help of his friends. This once again shows how sentimental Red is as a person

"Congratulations! You won!"

This is also major in one of the few times he speaks after losing, but also in front of a large audience. Him verbally congratulating Scottie/Bettie and their team for their win shows a high degree of respect that he has for the rookie trainer to be able to lead a team to victory against him and his closest friends. Considering that (despite what team you use against him) the cutscene shows Rosa, Misty and Brock this is also a way of him showing major respect to the first two gym leaders he ever took on when he began his journey in Kanto years ago. 

"... ... ... ... ... ... Words are unnecessary!"

I remember seeing this “A Day with Sygna Suit Red” the first time and absolutely dying of laughter when these words were uttered. Red was absolutely trolling Flint and Scottie/Bettie at the moment knowing very few would believe them if they said they heard Red speak. It’s nice to see a more playful side of him that also shows why he, Blue and Leaf all get along so well. They’re all little shits. 

Alright I’m going to add a few more quotes from some other characters to give a bit more context to Red’s character

"Red is never satisfied with how strong he is. He's always looking for new ways to grow as a Trainer and bring out the potential of his Pokémon." - Professor Oak

With this quote from Professor Oak, we can see once again how despite how strong Red is he never lets it get to his head. He’s always constantly seeking improvement."With Red, what really stood out to me wasn't that he was strong but that he seemed very gifted as a Trainer." - Brock

Even though it may seem like to some that Red is portrayed as having always been this ultra strong trainer, Brock’s words here show that he had to grow into his strength. Yes he may have had a bit of a knack of battling, but those early victories weren’t flawless. He’s still fallible

"Well, don't go overboard with the tough love, Red." - Blue

To be honest, it was hard to choose a quote from Blue, since he won’t shut up about Red. But I really liked this one from the Neo Champion event. It gives some more fallibility to Red as he doles out tough love to his mentees and Blue cautions him about not overdoing it.  "Winning makes you two happier than anyone, while losing makes you the most frustrated. You're both unbelievably straightforward and earnest when it comes to Pokemon" - Blue, again And more quotes from Blue! Here we see him talking to Leon and comparing the two showing how similar they are on a core level. This comparison highlights Red having a straightforward philosophy when it comes to how he interacts with Pokemon and how he deals with battling. It's simple but as we can see from his results it's been very effective in catapulting to the sheer ability and strength he has.

“He’s been battling nonstop, even cutting back on sleep” - Elio That tough love he dealt to his mentees during the Neo Champion event also extends to himself as he pushes himself extremely hard after his close win against Leon in the Arc-Suit story. This tracks with him disappearing for years on Mount Silver to train after becoming the Kanto Champion. This highlights his drive to improve but also his reckless streak. It also shows just how much he respects Leon’s strength as he’s pushed Red to a limit he’s not used to being pushed to. It's also telling that he picks the three trainers (Elio, Rosa and Ethan) who in the mainline games are shown to be able to defeat his team. Once again highlighting Red's continuous strides for improvement.

Red throughout the years has been a powerful icon of the franchise and is in many ways a symbol for how as the generations pass, GameFreak continues to find new ways to explore the potential of the world of Pokemon. He’s a quiet flame filled with endless passion and a bit of recklessness. But above all he’s filled with love, love for Pokemon, the human friends he’s close to and the thrill of battle.

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

rosé | f. odair

(final part of red wine)

part one, part two

summary: in the final part of the red wine series, secrets are revealed, and miscommunication threatens to tear you and finnick apart.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, blood, minor injury, mentions of forced prostitution, swearing,

notes: i’m sorry this took so long to come out y’all. thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this mini fic <3

word count: 4.1k

Finnick believed he had made a lot of smart decisions in his life—like rigging a net made out of vines to ensnare tributes in the arena, accepting secrets as a form of payment from his patrons rather than material goods, and mastering the art of seduction to manipulate his way out of various difficult situations. However, shutting you out was not one of them.

Half an hour had passed since the incident on the staircase landing. He lingered within the mansion’s extravagant walls, where other guests mingled and dined on a range of bizarre delicacies. He couldn’t eat a thing. His stomach churned at the image of your hopeless expression as he walked off. The expression he caused.

It had to be done. That is what he had been telling himself. It had to be done, otherwise, everyone in the Capitol would learn of his feelings for you. Snow would find out and most likely punish you for interfering with the arrangement he had—the sale of his body. And Finnick was very aware of what happened to people who disrupted the president’s plans.

Partygoers would have already begun to spread rumours of the scene in the courtyard. Hopefully, it would just be chalked up to a simple argument between friends. Friends. The label borderline disgusted him. You don’t fall asleep to the thought of someone and think of them the moment you wake up if you’re just friends. Nor do you look for them in every room you walk into.

Even now, Finnick was scanning the lavishly decorated banquet hall for a glimpse of your pure white gown, despite being the one who walked away. It was an instinct at this point. But there was no one in the room wearing white but him; his matching half was still outside, blending in with the winter snow. Or maybe gone home.

One colour did catch his eye though. A vibrant, almost tacky red, worn by a woman who was strutting towards him, her chin held high with pride. Finnick noticed the material of her floor-length gown. Silk. She was wearing your old dress, only the colour was incredibly off, and each hem was lined with red fur, conforming with her implanted whiskers. That was when he realised who the woman was.

Her ensemble was entirely made out of fur that clung to her body, complementing the whiskers that were embedded in her face which made her look feline.

“Where’s your dancing partner tonight?” she asked, her voice low and seductive.

The bright saturation of her dress was almost blinding as she stopped in front of him. He held back a grimace and plastered on a smile even faker than her voice. “She wasn’t up for it this time,” he lied.

“Well, everyone knows she’s out of touch with our way of life,” she said. Finnick ground his jaw, struggling to maintain his façade. Words could not explain how condescending these people were. “This dress is an adaptation of one she wore quite a while ago. Such a plain thing. I only liked the colour and bodice. The only way I could wear it in public was if I spruced it up.”

He thought back to the dress you had worn. Nobody had even come close to how phenomenal you looked. Where others needed extravagance and flounce to stand out, you only needed a simple red dress. Yet here this woman was, thinking she had the audacity to call you plain.

“I noticed. It’s very… striking.”

“Thank you, darling,” she purred. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes, like that of a wild cat about to pounce and devour its meal. “I was waiting for the perfect occasion to wear it.”

His forced smile twitched. “You’re certainly turning heads.”

“Did I turn yours?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Truth be told, Finnick hadn’t even remembered her existence until she walked right up to him. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her that, so he told her that she did. For a long period of time, they bounced back and forth, complimenting and flirting with each other, never dipping below the surface into a real conversation. Not that he wanted to anyway. Not with her. The only person he longed to conversate with was now out of reach.

The woman started talking about colourless topics such as the latest fashion trends in the Capitol and her opinions on the victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, all of which made Finnick wish she would just gouge his eyes out with her sharp claw-like fingernails. He couldn’t do anything but stand, smile, and agree. Doing anything else would result in Snow staying true to his very detailed threats

As the conversation continued, his attention began to drift. He surveyed the outfits of everyone in the room, amusing himself by deciding whether or not each person was making a fashion statement or tragedy. Only one person claimed the former title—the one in white.

Finnick watched as you entered the room. The giant golden chandelier cast down a bright light which caused your skin to glow with radiance; its glare enhanced the brilliance of your white dress. This brief moment ignited a fear in him that you had died in his absence because there was no way a mere human being could look so angelic.

“Finnick?” the feline asked, but her voice barely registered in his brain.

Captivated. He was utterly and completely captivated. One after the other, sudden realisations conjured in his mind. The first—there wasn’t a life worth living ahead of him if you weren’t by his side the whole way, and not as a friend or a fellow victor, but as his partner. His lover. The second—he would never let any harm come to you. He would keep you safe from Snow’s clutches, from the Capitol, from anyone who would put you in danger, even if it meant the two of you had to disappear into the vast forests of Panem.

And lastly, he was now absolutely certain that the woman in front of him could never compare to you, nor could anyone else in the ever-expanding universe. You were a basic human necessity to him. Without you, his heart might as well stop beating. Your laugh, your smile, your kindness, your unwavering support—every part of you kept him alive.

“Finnick?” the voice that went disregarded hissed again.

With a half-empty wine glass in hand, your anxious eyes searched the room. Finnick wanted nothing more than to sprint over, pull you into his arms, and cast away every trouble plaguing your mind. He couldn’t. Almost all eyes were on you, yet you hadn’t even seemed to notice. Only one person finally seemed to gain your attention, and that was Finnick, standing in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on yours.

The neurons firing in his brain signalled him to move and he did. But just as his legs started to walk, a forceful hand jerked his face to the side and a pair of harsh lips were crushed to his. Glass shattered on the marble flooring. Momentarily paralysed from shock, Finnick stumbled backwards, briefly catching the twisted triumphant smirk on the woman’s face before whirling around.

Your face was frozen with devastation; his heart dropped. Splatters of red wine had stained your gown, pooling in a crimson puddle of glass shards by your feet. Quiet mocking chuckles and whispers echoed around the room. Oh, if only he had his trident; they wouldn’t be laughing then.

An Avox rushed forward, attempting to clean up the mess, but you had crouched down with them.

“No, please,” Finnick heard you say to the Avox as he strode toward you. “Please don’t. I can do it.”

But delicate hands and glass shards never mix well. You gasped in pain. A jagged fragment you collected had sliced into your palm, creating another crimson pool in your hand.

Finnick’s strides quickened, eventually leading him to stop and kneel beside you. He wordlessly took your hand in his, cradling it as he inspected the damage. Blood coated his fingers, but he didn’t care. He might as well have cut your hand himself. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for him.

Pink blush overtook your face. For once, it wasn’t because he made you flustered or bashful, but because you were humiliated. He knew how much you disliked attention; now you were at the centre of it. Beside you was the Avox, tending to the mess of broken glass.

“Could you bring me a first-aid kit, please?” he asked with a polite smile.

They nodded and silently left. Finnick returned his attention to you, applying pressure to your wound. Your gaze was lowered, unwilling to meet his own. There was more to your demeanour than just embarrassment. There was sadness. Disheartenment. Neither of which were present when you walked in, only appearing after the feline woman had kissed him.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, eyes unmoving.

The Avox returned holding a medical kit; Finnick thanked them, taking the box into his hands. He climbed to his feet, hesitating before offering you a hand up. Much to his relief, you accepted his assistance. And then, without a word, you began walking towards the nearest exit with apparent indifference to the engrossed eyes following you.

Finnick didn’t bother to conceal his icy glare toward the crowd as he trailed behind you and exited the room.

*******

Pain of a thousand unrelenting bees stung the broken flesh of your palm. Even the slightest movement of your fingers sent waves of throbbing agony up your arm. But it was nothing compared to the brutal ache of your heart.

You had entered the mansion in search of Finnick, determined to mend the crack in your friendship before it crumbled completely. What you got instead was humiliation and heartbreak. What you saw was another woman kissing the man you loved, whilst wearing a horrible adaptation of your red gown no less.

The air had been sucked from your lungs. Believing he would kiss you on the dance floor in the courtyard was nothing more than a fantasy, a dream, a pathetic fool’s wish—every term under the sun that defined something not real. At least now you understood why he was acting so differently. Because he had found someone else and that someone wasn’t you.

A lump formed in your throat and you knew tears were approaching. As if your night couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

Your feet carried you down a long corridor, far enough away from the banquet hall that listening ears and prying eyes were unable to reach. Finnick still followed behind you, though you weren’t sure why he bothered. How could he explain what you saw with your own eyes? Plus, the last thing you wanted was for his new romance to think something was going on between you and him. Only in your dreams.

Unsure of your destination, you decided to enter the first room you came across. It turned out to be a lavishly decorated library, walled with large wooden bookshelves which were filled endlessly with novels and historic paraphernalia. Sitting within the bookshelves was a stone fireplace.

The door closed as Finnick entered behind you, the silence so loud that the crackles from the fireplace reverberated through the room. Your hand still throbbed something awful so you looked down, taking in the gruesome sight of your dress. A stranger might have thought you had just murdered someone. If it were televised, it would have been deemed acceptable.

You sniffled, wearing a small bitter smile. “I ruined Snow’s pretty white dress.”

A few moments passed before Finnick replied. “Red always was more your colour,” he said, his tone anything but playful.

Ahead of you was a great wall of windows; in the reflection, you saw him staring back at you with an unfamiliar expression. His brows were pinched upwards, pronouncing the lines in his forehead, and the corners of his mouth drooped in a slight pensive frown. He didn’t look like the Finnick you knew. This Finnick looked pained. Anguished.

You dropped his intense gaze and ambled across the room. By the lit fireplace was a cushioned stool which you sat down on, eyes staring into the flickering flames. If you were lucky, maybe your dress would catch alight and whisk you away from your troubled life. Okay, perhaps the thought was a little morbid, but so was a broken heart. Of all people, why did you have to fall in love with Finnick Odair?

Cautious footsteps followed behind you, coming to a stop beside your feet. Without your acknowledgement, Finnick crouched down, eyeing the bloody mess of your hands with concern. His gaze lifted to yours, which was still on the fire, and he sighed.

“Let me take care of your hand,” he murmured.

Before you could refuse, you realised contracting an infection was worse than giving in to your stubbornness. So, you nodded.

Finnick opened the first-aid kit and began tending to your wound; his touch was so gentle it was like he was piecing together a broken china cup. Using an antiseptic gauze, he attempted to clean the damaged skin, whispering apologies whenever you winced in pain. After carefully applying a dressing, he began wrapping a bandage around your hand.

You stared into the orange flames, wondering how he would explain to that woman why he left her behind. You wondered when their relationship started and why Finnick continued to shamelessly flirt with you in her absence. You wondered if their relationship would be the end of your friendship.

“Are you in love?” you quietly asked.

His hands stilled at your sudden words, then he continued wrapping the bandage. “Not with her.”

He secured the binding with medical tape and climbed to his feet, placing the supplies back into the kit on a small side table.

Brows drawn together in confusion, you turned to look up at him. “But I thought—"

“Things are much more complicated than they seem,” he interrupted. There was a clear vase of white roses on the table. Finnick toyed with the petals, caressing them between his gentle fingertips. “No one understands me better than you do, and there is no one in this world I trust more. But… there are still things I’ve been keeping from you.”

The troubled expression on his face melted into one of vulnerability. This was a new appearance for him. Finnick was known nationwide for his radiant confidence and charm; he never let his guard down. You have had difficult conversations before, such as discussing each other’s hardships and innermost secrets, but none of them seemed to affect him like this.

“Everyone knows about my visits to the Capitol,” he continued. “How I spend nights with different people every time as if it’s all a game for my pleasure. But it’s not true. It’s not my game I’m playing.” He began walking over to the wall of windows, overlooking Snow’s gardens. “There’s a part of it that no one knows about.”

You rose from the stool, beginning to take slow steps towards him. “Which is?”

The fire flickering behind you deepened Finnick’s features. It intensified the shiny bronze of his hair and enhanced the defined contours of his face, making it easy to see the muscles in his jaw clench with apprehension. He stared out the window so intensely that you were sure his usual green eyes were blazing with their own inferno.

Even full of angst, he was painstakingly beautiful.

His chest inflated with a deep breath. “President Snow… sells me to the Capitol.”

Horror washed over you in monstrous waves. Sells? Only one explanation appeared in your head as to what he meant. You remained silent, praying he would prove your assumption wrong.

“After I won my Games, he saw my success as an opportunity to please his citizens. He began offering me to potential buyers—'admirers’ is what he called them—who soon became my regular customers. They would use me however they liked. Some would pounce on me the second I stepped through the door. Others were relatively tamer. Kinder. They would have me take them on dates or watch a movie with them, but one way or another, it all ended the same way at the end of the night.” He sucked in a sharp uneasy breath before continuing. “Then there were the rare few—the ones who treated me like I was nothing more than a ragdoll for their amusement. They did things that were… unspeakable.”

Nausea churned in your stomach as your mind conjured sickening images. It couldn’t be true. You refused to believe that human beings could stoop to such levels of atrocity to make one person endure so much cruelty. Then again, you lived in a world where children were sent into an arena to fight to the death on live television.

Finnick looked like he was holding himself together by a thread. Every word he confessed shattered your heart into a million pieces. How could this have happened to him?

“I’ve tried to refuse but Snow threatened to harm the people I care about—my family, my friends. After I met you, I knew you were added to that list.” He finally turned around to face you, his eyes filled with such anguish, it shook you to your core. “The Capitol owns me, Y/N. Body and soul.”

Despair riddled your entire body. As you stared at him, the image of a teenager appeared in your mind—eyes sea green and hair a fiery bronze. He was just a boy when it started. A child.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” you managed to whisper. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to know.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

“Less of you? Finnick,” you said softly, stopping in front of him. Your eyes beckoned for his; you needed him to look at you, to really take in your next words. “There isn’t a single person alive I think more highly of than you. No one even comes close. Can’t you see? Just having you in my presence makes me feel whole. You make me whole.”

Tears glistened in his eyes as they flickered between your own, absorbing every reassuring word you said into his mind, his bones, his entire being.

“You have brought so much into my life,” you continued. “So much good. And I would never have made it to where I am now without you. So please, don’t ever distance yourself from me because you think I will judge you. I won’t and I never will.”

As the room stilled with silence, a lone tear rolled down Finnick’s cheek. His Adam’s apple bobbed, revealing the sob he was keeping restrained within his throat. And then a smile started to grow on his face, small at first, but then it stretched wider and wider, deepening those dimples that you adored so much.

You knew that your words had touched the deepest parts of him. That you had managed to convince him ‘less’ could never be a word used to describe him. He was more. More kind, more genuine, more caring than almost all of Panem.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered in awe, looking at you as if he were witnessing the birth of the universe. “Sweetheart, you’re incredible. Do have any idea how rare that is for a person to be? I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve someone like you in my life, but I swear I’ll do whatever I can to keep you. And if—” His gaze drifted, seemingly wrestling with a decision in his mind— “if that means I have to share all my secrets with you, then I will.”

“Have you got any more secrets, Finnick?”

He returned his attention back to your face. The indecision from moments ago had disappeared and was replaced with certainty, which was underscored by a sort of tenderness that settled in his features.

“Just one,” he murmured. He paused, observing the universe before him and wondering how on earth he got so lucky to have the privilege of having it staring right back at him. “I’m in love with you.”

Electricity shocked your heart like someone had placed a defibrillator over your chest and hit charge. Love? You? He was?

“What?” you asked, dumbfounded.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have told you everything. Even if saying this means I’m risking everything between us, I can’t keep it from you any longer. God, sweetheart, I love you so much it fucking hurts. I always will, even if you never feel the same.”

Somehow in the span of twenty minutes, everything you thought you knew came crashing down. First, your heart was broken by the thought of Finnick kissing another, and then it was healed. And then it broke again as he voiced his arrangement with Snow. It could never fully heal again while Snow was alive, not with what he was forcing upon Finnick.

But Finnick pieced together every piece he possibly could with his confession, one heartfelt word of declaration at a time.

The weight of his confession hung in the air. His eyes held a mixture of anxiety and hope for your response. Time seemed to stretch out as you tried to find your voice. How do you declare your love as powerfully as someone who just bared their soul to you?

An emotional laugh bubbled up your throat, your eyes brimming with tears. “You idiot,” was what you said, the words spoken with utmost adoration. “I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Finnick’s eyes widened in amazement and a brilliant smile broke across his face. Before you had a chance to react, he had moved towards you in one swift step, pulling you into his arms and crushing his lips to yours in a powerful, passionate kiss.

Your hands were quick to cling onto him, desperately terrified that if you let go, he would vanish into thin air. Every ounce of yearning and hidden affection from the past year poured into this one single moment, into the movement of your lips against one another, and the feeling of your hands cradling each other’s bodies.

Emotions were running high. You could taste both your own and Finnick’s tears as they streamed down your faces, salty and palpable with affection. The sheer relief of finally being free to express your love was so unimaginable that you felt like you would be crying with happiness your whole life.

Finnick’s hand cupped the side of your jaw and he lowered his head, deepening the kiss as much as he physically could to make up for all the time he wasted. His lips were soft and adoring, savouring the sweet taste of your lips on his. His other arm tightened around your lower back, pulling you even further against him.

You felt like you were melting into his embrace and happily, you would have. It felt so right, so safe to be held by him. The world outside the library no longer existed; there was only Finnick and you. Your hands settled on either side of his jaw, staining his skin red from your blood-soaked bandage. You knew he wouldn’t care—the blood belonged to you.

And that is how you spent most of the night. In the library, in that one spot by the windows, in each other’s arms. At some point, you ended up sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, both covered in red and feeling blissfully content. Your back was leaning against Finnick’s chest, his arms wrapped around your middle as he occasionally pressed his lips into your hair.

You toyed with the fabric of his sleeves, your head leaning against his collarbone as you watched the flames once more.

“If Snow ever finds out…” you murmured.

“He won’t,” he reassured quietly. “I won’t let him. He’s taken too much from me; he won’t take you too.”

You turned your head to peer up at him, wearing a teasing smile. “Can’t live without me, Odair?”

He grinned, leaning in closer. “Never without you, sweetheart.”

Once again, Finnick’s lips were on yours, conveying every ounce of immense love he felt for you through his kiss. The only time either of you broke apart was to whisper sweet declarations of your devotion and reverence before returning to each other again. This was when you felt most complete.

When you felt whole.

tags: @queenofspades6 @powellssaturn @bellamybellamyblake @heroinhchicblog222

[nvuy]

confiteor (WILL YOU EVER LOOK UP AGAIN?) — sunday

summary. the bronze melodia is a position that requires weariness, empathy, and patience. unfortunately for sunday, he receives far more than he expects through the voice in the window.

notes. i’m ashamed. this is dedicated to the anon that held me at gunpoint and forced me to post this to tumblr. otherwise, you can read it here.

you can read part 2 here !

warnings. mdni. this is LONGGG it’s about 7k words. religious themes, religious guilt, explicit sexual content, very inappropriate use of a confessional, mild degradation but in a religious way, reader is AFAB i fear and uhh. indecent and guided mutual tug sessions, if you catch my drift.

“Next. Please, step forward.”

Sunday had heard it all before. Timid footsteps, hushed whispers, skin stretching as the person trembled and fidgeted. It was always confronting to sinners, to step close to his voice and absolve.

Nothing truly shocked him anymore. He’d fallen in a state of numbness, in taking this position. A Bronze Melodia, as it was called.

He’d heard murder confessions, perjury, disloyalty, misconduct, everything. He had to grow used to it; this was his job. To forgive, to press his fists into palms beyond the confessors' sight line, and pretend he was as all-forgiving as he appeared to be.

He had learned to hold his voice steady.

Sunday found himself absentmindedly fixing his sleeves, though they already sat perfectly on his wrists.

What he could never predict was whether the person behind the window was here to absolve, or to mock the Aeons. It was always a guessing game for him; perhaps that’s what kept him from straying too far from the path.

The position was tedious, though patience was a virtue of his. He liked to akin himself to an adaptable man, warping his words and honeying his rather monotonous tone to that of reassurance. A false promise of hope, if you will.

He was good at that. Humans were exceedingly predictable in most of their actions; he had learned as such and had tried to drill the knowledge and dangers of the species into his dear sister, too.

Humans were cruel. Robin had never believed him, even in the feats of his struggles as a child, how one of the wings below his ear was mercilessly snapped in an act of child’s play. Child curiosity, it was dubbed as, though to him, it felt more like hatred.

He remembered crying that night, with his right-wing bandaged by his caregiver, and Robin had to remain in his room and sing him to sleep.

Now, it was different.

Quiet shuffles of footsteps were heard. He could tell they were the last recipient remaining, for the muted idle chatter of attendants had faded, and the sun was beginning to set. Members of kinship and the like would return home and sin, and then enter the church begging for forgiveness tomorrow. A never-ending, boorish and lonely cycle.

How shy. He listened to apprehensive slow steps until he heard the click of sharp heels stop just short of the window.

“Come to me, my devotee. I have sought THEIR presence within us.” Sweet words, peppered with powdered sugar poured from his tongue. “Tell me… what ails you such?”

The quiet intake of a breath, sharp and hushed.

Curious, Sunday leaned against the interior wall, just barely closer.

When there was no answer, he added, “do not be afraid. I am here to forgive. I cannot judge you.”

Another harsh inhale.

And then, “I apologise, Reverend.”

“Not at all.” A small, gentle smile pulled onto his lips. You could not see him through the box, and he made sure to stay clear of the iron bars of the window, but he hoped you heard the warmth and comforting sweetness in his tone. “Are you new to the congregation? Your voice is unfamiliar.”

He heard the shuffling of clothes. A pause, and then a wilting, “yes– no, sir.” Another pause, longer than the last. “I have not visited the confessional, but I do sometimes attend service.”

Sunday hummed curiously. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”

He heard the tapping of nails against the exterior of the box, pensive and thoughtful. Rhythmic, like in time to a tune he couldn’t quite place his finger on.

The setting, orange glow of the sunlight, partially tinted a deep bloodied colour through the stained glass windows of the church, crept further through the bars of the confessional as it drew closer to the horizon. The light was warm on the lick of his fingertips that rested close to the frame.

The persistent tap, tap, tap sounded like an agitated display of impatience. Like a song of trepidation and dread, yet much too quick to be sorrowful. Excitement, perhaps?

Then, there was the hard swallow of a lump in their throat. He heard it through the wall.

“I fell in love with a man.”

Their voice, your voice, rang clear as if you were standing next to him without the muffle of the confessional in between his body and yours.

Sunday’s eyes flitted to the wall by his head as if he could see you through the wood.

He said nothing.

Speckles of dust caught in the setting orange sun from the stained glass windows.

“A beautiful man,” you continued softly. “Generous, kind, considerate…” Your voice tapered off like a votive candle flickering in the breeze.

Sunday remained quiet, choosing instead to focus on the soft beating of his heart in his ears, and the sound of your breathing.

There was another ruffle of clothes—a blazer perhaps? It sounded like stiffened cotton or something as luxurious as pure wool. He wondered if such a material could be purchased by someone so common. Wool was a fleeting thought; an easy purchase with the wave of a credit card.

There was a pregnant pause, as if you, too, did not know what to say.

“Is he a bad man?” Sunday inquired encouragingly, still soft and eloquent.

A hiss of an inhale.

“No, not at all.”

Still, nothing.

Sunday watched the wall for a moment, imagining a figure on the other side fidgeting nervously. He could hear the tussle of form-fitted clothes shifting back and forth as if the devotee had been unable to stand still.

“I offer my sincerest apologies,” he started gently. “But I fail to understand any wrongdoings in your confession.” He prompted his voice to remain even. Patience. All in due time. “If he is as truly good a man as you put it, then there is nothing I see to absolve.”

“It’s not him,” you tried. There was a drone in your tone, as if you were trying to defend yourself. “It’s who he is.”

“An unattainable man, I presume? Or, is he perhaps forbidden?” The pressure was light. He was not so much forcing or coaxing words from your throat, but to embolden you instead.

He heard you hum nervously in agreement. He thought it to be a reply to both of his questions.

“Is it his status?”

Another uncomfortable tussle of clothing.

“Yes, sir.” He heard you lean against the confessional through the strain of the wall. “He is a holy man.”

“Ah… a man of the church?”

“I cannot want what I cannot have,” you dwelled softly. “I know the answer is to let go, but it has been months, and I have grown worse.”

Sunday hummed. Quite the predicament indeed. Such a precious scenario, though. Somebody ordinary in love with the unordinary. So sweet, like fruit growing on a tree in a sacred garden.

The tragedy of unattainable romance was fleeting for the congregation. Even Robin, his dear sister, a truly devoted romantic at heart, could never commit herself to a person. To worship another, and to take eyes from Xipe, would be worth a painful, slow and torturous death unlike no other.

Grotesque and twisted, like the many priests before him, who had been slashed and severed for their transgressions.

To turn your back on The Family–

He willed the thoughts away.

“I do hear you. I pray for your struggles.” His gloves pressed to the window. “But, it is not unreasonable, nor a defiance of the Holy, to be in love with a man of the church.”

“That’s the thing. It’s beyond love, Reverend,” you said, hoarse and strained, like you’d raked a hand down your jugular. “It’s everything.”

The shift of clothes again. This time, a hand brushed against a zipper, though there was no tug at the clip. He listened attentively, like a song he’d never heard before.

The stretch of clothes around skin, the glimpse of an expensive leather shoe from the corner of his eye, and attire inappropriate for the church. Exposed legs, too much skin, a low neckline of a shirt. Patterned stockings following black embroidered flowers and thorny stems travelled up bare legs like serpents.

“I want to ruin him.”

There it was.

“I want it so he thinks no more of the Aeon he worships, and only of me.”

His lips only barely parted at what he was hearing. A startled quiet breath escaped him.

He heard the skin of your knuckles pull taught into fists. They tapped against the wood.

“But it’s wrong of me to think this way, so I humbly request your blessings, Reverend, even if I–” You paused. Sunday flinched when a hand pressed against the iron bars, dreadfully close to the feathered wings beneath his ears. “There’s something bad inside of me. I need your help.”

Never had he heard something like this. A sinner be so outwardly humble and honest in their speech; to admit that you were wrong. To admit that your behaviour was treacherous and ghastly.

And to pine after a man of worship and unbreaking devotion.

To defy the Lord. To fight teachings, to fight him and his words. A stubbornness like no other, and one so incredibly shameful and distasteful, and yet, you still carried a weight of guilt heavy on your chest.

Another shudder of a breath. Another pitiful, desperate noise. All to receive his good graces.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness anymore. I don’t think I even deserve your blessings, sire. I don’t think anybody does.” Maybe he would agree with you, and maybe he wouldn’t. Instead, he leaned against the wall and stared up towards the ceiling of the confessional. “I only ask to hear your voice.”

Sunday’s breath hitched at the suspicious sound of a zipper being tugged, roaming hands, far too purposeful in their placement. He didn’t wish to imagine where your fingers travelled.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“If you have convinced yourself that nothing can be done, then why would you seek me?” he asked, a waver in his tone. His ear pressed to the wall again, cold against his warm skin. “…If you think you cannot be absolved, then I am unable to help you.”

“I want relief,” was all you said. You pressed against the confessional. “Blessed Reverend, I want you to relieve me.”

Sunday was at a loss for words. He was listening attentively again.

You did not ask for forgiveness, peaceful solitude, or punishment. He did not understand what you were referring to specifically, choosing instead to pull delicately at the tips of his gloves. They suddenly felt constricting, like they’d grown a size too small for his hands.

Usually, he’d refrain from mindless fiddling and fidgeting. Something was different now.

Something warm ran from the pit of his stomach up to his neck.

It was vile. Like a serpent’s tongue following the rigid bone of his spine towards the nape of his neck. Warm and forked, like a pitchfork wielded in the hands of the irreverent.

The slimy body of the snake would twist and coil around his neck, squeezing the delicate flesh, marring it, coercing more sweet honey from his tongue until you were writhing.

The localised swelling heat curling in his stomach burned hotter when your breathing faltered and strayed from its natural rhythm.

It faltered too immorally to be mistaken for a simple hitch, or an error in your presentation. It was not a reflection of apprehension, nor fear.

It was–

“Would you be honest with me?” Sunday asked gently. His trembling hands curled into fists, still pressed against the wall and out of view of the window. “I only ask one answer of you.”

“Of course.” Strained, weak, unsure. Another pathetic attempt of an even breath left your lips. The aroma of something rich and sweet wavered through the bars of the window. “Anything for you.”

How depraved. Indecent, perverse. Your tone was repulsive, and so incredibly honest.

He heard the sound of something slippery, like the swallowing of spit in your mouth, or perhaps something far far more obscene.

He was tempted to move closer, to bite at the hand that fed him.

Your devotion was corrupt, focused solely on the sound of his breathing from inside the confessional. You were not here for redemption.

The box grew warm with his shaken breaths.

“Then, pray tell…” His temple rested against the interior of the confessional, and something hot and vile stirred in his stomach, like fiery pits of devastation. Like claws from a being unforeseen by Aeons above. “Are your hands between your thighs?”

You let out a stuttered gasp.

Sunday closed his eyes and tried to control his shaken breathing. His perfectly fitted clothes suddenly felt too tight, too restricting, every crease and fold tattering and ruined heating skin.

He swallowed thickly, wings barely catching on the window of the confessional.

“I’m not–” Your hands abandoned their position and pressed to the window, the diagonal frames digging into your soft flesh. The pad of your longest finger shimmered in the setting sunlight. “–I’m wrong. There’s something wrong with me.”

His gloved nails dug into his thighs. The dove white trousers stretched with the pressure.

He could not see you fully, no, for if he could, he was afraid he’d throw the door open, drag you into his lap and satisfy that burning ache that ricocheted in his stomach.

“To think of you this way,” you continued meekly. “It’s disgusting and vile and I need you to help me.”

He had to agree with you, though his fingers pressed just shy of the borders of the window. He almost grabbed your hand and dragged his tongue up your finger.

He felt the same. Hot and sticky, clothes clinging to him like they’d been doused in glue. The feeling pressed into his burning skin like a fragrance of saffron and black peppers.

That seductively enticing aroma of your perfume that lingered through the gaps in the windows. Honey and dessert, and the salty smell of your sweat. He did not eat sweets anymore; that sweet tooth was long left to dust and decay, and yet his mouth watered.

He felt as though he was being tempted to bite into something that held dire consequences.

Desperate to relieve the burning below his skin, Sunday unbuttoned his blazer. “Do you wish to be absolved?”

“I–” He heard you shuffle. The telltale swish of cloth. The click of heels. You’d dressed up for him, even if he couldn’t see you, and you couldn’t see him. Even your painted nails he peered at; a dark navy blue, like the wings at his waist that stretched in relief when he freed them from the confines of his jacket. “I don’t deserve it.”

“So, why did you come?” he asked. The larger, navy blue wings were much too big for the small perimeter of the confessional, but anything was better than to feel as restricted as he was.

His gloved hands pressed to the window now.

He wanted to touch you.

God, no. He couldn’t think like this.

He wanted his fingerprints branded into your skin, to stain every inch of your flesh like cigarette burns, forever marring the perfection.

“To relieve myself.”

Sunday smiled, and it was pained. You heard it in his tone. “How honest.” His temple pressed onto the cool wooden box again, leaning as close as he could to your voice. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

His forehead pressed to the wood beside the window, out of view. The orange rays of the sun setting outside licked upon his fingertips that curled over the iron bars. The warmth felt cold.

“Very,” was all you said.

Sunday fought the urge to moan, pressing his teeth into his tongue and hissing at the pain.

This was wrong.

He couldn’t stop himself.

“Go on, then. One hand. Relieve yourself.”

He heard a muffled sigh of relief. Perhaps you, too, had pressed yourself against the exterior of the confessional. The only thing parting you from his body was a thin slide of wood.

A sacred sanctuary that you would reform from pure selfishness.

One of the hands on the window abandoned its firm grip around the frames, and he heard a quiet gasp.

It was quickly cut off.

“Let me hear you,” Sunday whispered through the window. A gloved hand raked down the side of the window, and his head knocked against the corner of the confessional. His halo suddenly felt like a crown of thorns, weighted and punishing.

He would indulge.

If you were here to ruin him, then he would indulge.

He heard a wet squelch that made him shiver. His other hand had absentmindedly crawled up his thigh, trembling to remain flat on the seat. The skin below his trousers was pulled taught and had grown sensitive.

You moaned, and it was so close to his ear that his spine snapped straight. His fingers brushed over his straining cock beneath his belt.

The awful, awful, yet so beautiful sounds that tore from your throat left him reeling for more. For his mind to fill in the blanks, squeezing his eyes shut tight until even the light from the window was shunned out of his eyelids.

“Slow your hand,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself properly.”

The squelching slowed significantly after only a moment of hesitation. He heard you continuously pant like a helpless mutt, confused, perhaps frustrated, too.

The other hand still curled as tight as it could around the iron diagonal bars of the window shook with reckless abandon.

Debauch sin felt good. Like a drug. Like alcohol washing down his throat and filling his stomach. So, so good, like the slide of his hand up his shirt. His other hand, much less secure, fumbled with the golden buckle of his belt.

He wondered if you felt the same. “How will you sleep tonight?”

“I won’t,” you whispered hoarsely. He was sure your appearance was something to match the rasp of your voice. “I will toss and turn.”

As will he. He’ll lay on his side, tangled between freshly washed white sheets and feathered pillows, and touch himself. He knows it so. He feels the strain of his palm tracing along the hot skin, thumbing the beading slit while he thinks of your perfume.

His cock twitched in the confines of his pants when the heel of his palm knocked against his tip. So hot, and so difficult to breathe. This box was not made to entertain whores, nor himself.

Sunday managed to unbuckle his belt. The leather straps smack against the side of the box.

You’re so wet. He can hear you through the confessional, and a dreamy sigh escapes his nose.

“How many fingers are inside of you?” He couldn’t quite tell. His hands curled into fists.

“Just one, sire.”

Sunday huffed, thumbing the button of his trousers around his waist. The claws in the pit of his stomach had returned, scratching and marring the inner walls and slicing through the bubbles of acid, desperate to be set free. It hurt.

He could imagine how you felt. He could imagine everything; the rhythmic sound of a single finger sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole between your legs. Pressing your body against the exterior of the box, desperate to feel the cold wood against your burning skin.

Your finger being hugged tight inside of you, pressing and dragging along sensitive nerves deep near your womb.

He was a mess.

Hair frazzled, halo dimming and fading when the light angled into the box just right, wings twitching, battling a game of whether he was to wrap them around himself or spread out as wide as they could.

You must’ve heard the zip of his fly undone, for you gasped, and your finger sped up accordingly. That same wet squishing of your poor poor limbs trying to accommodate how shameful you’d become.

His teeth caught on the tip of his glove and pulled the material off. The white cotton fell to the floor uselessly.

“You must be so lonely,” you said to him through the window. “So deprived.” He felt the fanning of warm breath against his ear. “I can fix that.”

Sunday, attentively listening with glowing cheeks, slowly freed his cock from his pants. A sigh slipped past his wet lips.

A different sound echoed from between your legs, and you groaned as close to his ear as you could.

“I want to hear you, Reverend.”

His hand dragged up his cock and he moaned. It was a shameful display of sincerity, and he wished he had bit his tongue again. Instead, he panted against the wood of the confessional, and muttered, “touch yourself.”

A wet noise that made his hips shift forward into his hand told him your finger had abandoned your insides, instead dragging up to play with that precious bundle of nerves.

He heard the stretch of skin, the shift of whatever clothes you had kept on yourself, and what you had thrown to the side. You were leaning against the box; your scent was stronger, that perfume and something sweeter, mixed with the salt and sweat of your skin.

He only hoped your thighs were as parted as his were. One of the sides of his knees knocked gently against the wall of the confessional.

So wrong. So shameful, so blasphemous, to do this, to please you and please himself to the thought of you, and then exit the church as if it had never happened. As if he wasn’t trapped fucking his palm like a mutt in heat, unable to control the panting and the incessant whispers of groans that escaped his lips.

Cum beaded at his slit, sticky and dribbling down to the base of his tip.

He wanted nothing more than to heave the door open, taste the slick that ran down your legs, and then bend you over the nearby podium and–

“So wet,” he murmured through the window. The only response you formed was a whimper. “So shameless. Do you feel guilty?”

“O-of course,” you tried. It was pathetic between the hot coiling in your stomach, like a deadly serpent curling around its prey and squeezing. “Do you?”

Sunday tried to imagine a hot tongue cleaning the mess of his cock, tracing the cum pooling at the base and flattening against his tip, angling just right to press into his slit flushed an angry scarlet, like wine and blood.

He could imagine ruining you for any other man. To slam his hips up against yours, to drag the head of his cock along those plush velvety insides until you were sobbing, struggling to accommodate him. He imagined you’d be perfect.

If only he could do all of those things without repercussions.

Tracing the swollen veins of his cock while you played with yourself with wet fingers was already too far. He could foresee punishment on his behalf and yours. Perhaps death, though neither of you deserved such luxury.

He did not answer.

Instead, he asked, “will you return?” His voice was shaky at best, and filthy at worst.

There was a hopeful twinge to his tone. He prayed you did not hear it.

You hesitated. There was a waver in your tone. “I shouldn’t.”

Your voice sent his mind reeling. He was thumbing at his slit while his thighs trembled. When his palm was coated in enough of his cum, he continued dragging his hand up and down the head of his cock.

He was growing dizzy. “But?”

“But I will.”

“This shouldn’t happen again,” Sunday heaved. His hand grew desperate, wetter, and the urge to pull the door of the confessional off its hinges and take you on the floor and away from the stained glass windows where the sun peered through was filling his senses. He yearned to know what you felt like squeezing around him. “You should not let this happen again.”

“I need you, Reverend,” you confessed. “If I am honest, my sins will be atoned for. As will yours.”

“You will not touch me tonight, and I will not touch you.” It was final. Without room for argument, though he sounded somewhat disappointed.

“But what about tomorrow night?”

Sunday breathed against the wood, tugging at his collar and rolling his hips into his hand. “If you return, I will punish you for it.”

“You tempt me, Reverend,” you said through a moan. “I will think of you tonight.” Your fingers had returned to your hole. He’d recognised the noise, somehow more obscene than it had been before.

His cock ached with hatred. How you would feel dripping down him like an unsatiated whore, trying so desperately to ask for his forgiveness, to try and seduce Godhood.

He hoped you felt empty. He hoped you hungered for his cock through the wall, breathing erratic and loud as his palm dragged along the length of hot skin over and over again.

Ecstasy filled his throat and every vein in his body. Goodness, the edge was glorious. He pilfered off the side for a moment before he stopped his hand.

His cock twitched in agony and he let out a groan that tapered off.

“Don’t you dare cum,” he snapped through the box.

You whined, but your hand obediently stilled

“I would imagine you’re filthy now.” He pressed his forehead to the cool wood. The surface heated up along with his skin almost instantly. It was so hot here. “Use your fingers again.”

“How many?”

So obedient. He almost purred at your behaviour. “Two.”

Oh, he spoiled you. That familiar sound again, so wet and warm and inviting, and you were moaning and shivering around your own hand. He could imagine slippery slick pooling along your palm now, lathering your fingers like a thin paste.

His own fingers found the flushed swollen tip of his cock again. It twitched in his palm. There was a greedy puddle of cum forming at the base of his cock now, and he quickly wiped drool from his lip.

Already frazzled from the orgasm he’d denied just mere minutes ago, your breathing grew louder and louder, though not alarming enough.

“Touch yourself again,” he rasped out. His halo was now a liability, too ironic. His wings were cramped against the interior walls, desperate to be let out. Wet fingers rubbed along his tip in rhythm with the sound of your own moving against yourself, drawing wet slippery rings around that adorable swollen bundle of nerves between your legs.

He hopes you struggle to cum tonight without his guidance. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes his thighs lock and freeze against the seat.

He hopes you never find any satisfaction in another man. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle? A mindless bumbling whore stumbling after a High Priest, another Bronze Melodia.

You were murmuring his name now in a never ending chant of prayer.

Saliva caught in his throat as he breathed.

“Rub that pretty clit harder, will you?” Still in tune with your second hand that had finally pulled off of the bars to trace around the rim of your hole. He tried his best to keep up with the noise, eyes still wound shut.

You were hopeless. Struggling at the ministrations like a squirming worm caught on a hook. Your knuckles knocked against the confessional before your fingers slid into yourself.

This was heaven.

He knew it so, no matter how wrong it felt. It was a feeling, not the real thing; never the real thing. Not after tonight, but he could live with himself, if he ended up buried inside of you.

His tip bubbled and drooled at the thought of it.

You taught him self indulgence. And as sinful as it was, as wicked as it felt to buck his hips into his own palm, slick with need and sweat and dribbles of saliva that had fallen from his lips, he loved every pull of his skin.

Oh, it was awful. And it was so good. So treacherous, so disgustingly unholy, so blasphemous and insulting to do this in the very place he’d learned to be sacrificial and sanctified. Where he’d sit on the confessional with a heavy halo and a light heart and try to feel for the heathen on the other side of the window.

Spills of moans and moans left your lips, fingers working at that pace he had commanded of you. Your palms must have been soaked in your own slick now, the delicate flesh between your legs swollen and dark with blood.

He wanted to touch you.

It took everything at this point to keep the door shut. Like a woman being tempted by a serpent to bite into a forbidden fruit off of a large tree. He was sure you would have also indulged, had he offered you a slice of the fruit.

“I’m–” You couldn’t finish the sentence. The wood of the box groaned beneath the shared weight. “I need to–”

Oh. The scent was delicious. The hissing of a snake in his ears, the watchful eyes of a nightingale from somewhere far away, the taste of a sweet fruit running along his tongue.

He hoped you returned.

“Go on. Isn’t that what you came for?” He dared to say more, but instead bit down on his lip.

You bit down first on the fruit.

You came much more broken than he would have expected, and his hands paused around his cock to listen to that gorgeous melody. The drawn out whine came out more as a sob, fingers still drawing tight and hard circles around your clit as your hole clenched around weakened fingers.

Such a beautiful noise. You sounded as though you were struggling through wet heaves, filthy soaked fleshed between your thighs, skin tattered in sweat and bathed in the sunlight just barely peeking above the horizon from out of the window.

You whispered his name like a prayer. A pitiful drone, as if you’d become fully aware of your transgressions.

Wet fingers returned to the window.

His hot breath cooled the slick stuck to your skin, but Sunday kept his tongue pulled behind his teeth. Did you feel empty? Did you want more? Did you also want to pull open the door to the confessional and take him in the seat?

Your voice was weak. “Sire…”

Your tone rippled beneath his skin. His face was on fire. His hand sped up.

“How close are you?”

A whine ripped from his throat. “So close.”

He heard you breathe a hoarse laugh and his feathers raised behind his ears, and it was still one of the most ethereal tunes he’d ever had the honour to listen to.

His wrist grew tired, but he pressed on, thumbing at the overtly sensitive tip and his bubbling slit that wept in tandem. He watched your fingers against the window closely, imagining the heat of your flesh curled around his cock instead.

His cock twitched and twitched in his palm, and his hips raised off the seat for a moment.

Sunday heard you swallow. A hum rumbled in your throat, low and pretty.

He was sure you could hear how slick he was. It was humiliating how hard he’d grown just from the sound of you.

The wings below his ears were crushed against the wooden wall. The bones ached, but he ignored everything in favour of the sound of your breathing so close to his ear.

The sun had now drowned below the horizon.

“Cum, sir.” What a pretty plea. Your fingers tightened around the bars of the window. “Please.”

Sunday gasped, his own knuckles pulling back and knocking the other wall of the confessional as his hips twitched and twitched and he squirmed and his cock felt as though it was going to burst.

He came then, almost weeping as his teeth sunk into his sore knuckles. The sharp vertices of his halo felt weightless and warm, and his shirt felt just as constricting as it had before he’d come undone.

It was like fire oozing from him. Cum dribbled from his tip and painted his palms impossibly stickier than before. What fell from his hands pooled into a puddle on the seat and he grimaced.

An angry and raw garble escaped his throat at your words; who were you to do this to him? How could you do this to him—his cock twitched again, this time violently, as if aching for another round. His palm pressed heavy to his tip, still flushed that beautiful scarlet, and fattened with blood, experimentally giving it another drag along his palm.

Sunday’s hips jutted forward into his hand again. A discomforting chill ran up his spine and remained at the nape of his neck.

Viciously, he tore his hand away from his cock, staring at his sullied hand as if it had betrayed him. Maybe it had, you see, for he had no foresight his body would succumb to such temptations.

His body should not have succumbed. He should not have succumbed.

This was beyond his teachings; cardinal sin and disloyalty to Xipe, whom he praised every night with withering and wavering hands.

And now they were tainted.

“Just a taste, Reverend.”

Sunday’s spine stiffened as if a hot metal rod had replaced the bone.

His skin ached and his teeth vibrated with disgust. Sacrilege. That’s what it was. Vengeful and spiteful, much unlike sweetened delectable fruits off of a tree in the Garden of Eden. This should not have happened. You shouldn’t have ever come here.

He had an inkling of a feeling, as fleeting and dull as it was, that you did not feel guilty for your actions.

His teeth gritted, and his jaw ached in accordance.

Wretched thing.

Sunday, disgusted in his actions, ignoring the beads of sweat pooling down his neck like pearls, held out the degloved hand tainted in his cum through the gap in the window.

A tongue curled around his fingers, hot and heavy, and dragged up from the tip of his nails to his knuckles.

He resisted the urge to make a noise, instead catching his tongue in his teeth and biting down enough to draw blood.

His cock was swelling with blood again, tip flushed and leaking once more. He refused to touch himself again. He had already ruined the tranquillity of the church. He had already ruined you.

Sunday’s fingers twitched in your mouth before they dragged down your tongue.

When he was sure you were done, and his hand was covered in your spit, he grabbed your chin and drew you as close to the window as he could.

There, he managed to catch a glimpse of your face.

Sweaty, mangled, ruined, and so imperfect that his cheeks fill with blood at the sight of you. Your image is ruined by the light from the still burning votive candles from the completed service hours ago that shines behind you, branding the crown of your head like a halo.

Sunday assumed he looked worse.

“You will speak of this to no one,” he rasped. “Not ever.”

“No, sir,” you whispered. There was an impervious grin stretched into your lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“The second I hear wind that you’ve been sharing this night with those undeserving, I’ll rip your tongue from your filthy throat.”

You exhaled shakily. There were stars in your eyes.

Sunday’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Of course.”

He let go of your chin and tossed you as far as he could backwards through the window of the confessional. You teetered, wobbly in your position of kneeling, before you briskly stood up.

He couldn’t bear the sight of bare legs, so he looked away and shrunk down into the corner of the box, out of view of the sunlight, and the barred window.

Sunday did catch a glimpse of those expensive shoes. Too expensive, too fancy for a church setting. Your clothes were the same, too form fitting to be dubbed appropriate in such a sacred place.

How could you appease to THEM if you were dressed to seduce their messengers?

He said nothing, did nothing, silently wallowing in pitiful hatred as white hot pin pricks of one thousand needles formed behind his eyes. His wings curled around his waist.

He let out a breath that caught in his throat.

“Goodnight, Reverend,” was all you murmured to him.

Your fingers retreated from the window.

Sunday attentively listened to the sound of your footsteps. He hoped he could be forgiven for this. He watched the ceiling with disdain.

When he heard you leave, and the telltale slam of the door shutting behind you, he retracted his hand still coated in your saliva and thumbed at the tip of his cock.

Your spit slid so easily against him.

He shuddered, and then he moaned. It echoed along the walls.

Silently praying for forgiveness, and covering his eyes with his other hand in the process, he drowned once more in solitude.

[tabletopresources]

Image credit "Fishing" By yonaz

So in last night's 3.5 edition D&D game, my players had a chance to do some ice fishing and one player called out for one of my ad hoc mini-games (I do this a lot haha). I wanted something simple, a combo of character skill and some luck, and so in short order ended up with this very quick mini-game you can easily employ.

:

Quick Disclaimer: These fishing mini-game mechanics may not be entirely original and could resemble systems from other games I just can't recall. For my part, I'm posting this FOR sharing. Feel free to use, adapt, or modify them in your own games as you see fit. No ownership or exclusivity is claimed over this idea—enjoy and share as you wish!

:

Fishing Mini-Game (D&D 3.5 Edition)

Step 1: Build the Fishing Pool

The player rolls a number of d6 equal to their relevant skill modifier (Survival or Profession (Fisher)).

Example: A character with a +10 in Survival rolls 10d6 and sets these dice aside as their "Fishing Pool".

Fishing Pool Example Roll: 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6.

Step 2: Perform the Fishing Check

The player then rolls 5d6 as their "Fishing Check" for one hour of fishing.

Example Roll: 1, 2, 4, 4, 6.

Step 3: Match for Combos

The player now attempts to match the dice results from their Fishing Pool with their Fishing Check results to form combos. The number of dice used in the combo determines the size of the fish:

Small Fish: Match 2 dice from the Fishing Pool with the Fishing Check.

Medium Fish: Match 3 dice from the Fishing Pool with the Fishing Check.

Large Fish: Match 5 dice from the Fishing Pool with the Fishing Check.

Example Combo:

If the player's Fishing Pool has dice showing 1, 2, 4, 4, and 6, they could match all 5 dice with their Fishing Check, catching a Large Fish.

Step 4: Fish Weight and Rations

Once the fish is caught, the total weight of the edible parts of the fish is determined by summing the values of the dice used in the combo.

Example: For a Large Fish (1, 2, 4, 4, 6), the total weight is 1+2+4+4+6 = 17 kg.

To calculate the number of rations provided by the fish:

1 kg = 2,000 calories (or half a ration).

Rations Formula: Divide the total weight of the fish by 2.

Example: 17 kg / 2 = 8.5 kg or 8 rations (we round down).

Step 5: Continue or Stop

After catching a fish, remove the dice used from the Fishing Pool.

If the player still has at least 2 dice left in their Fishing Pool, they can attempt to catch another fish using the same Fishing Check results. Otherwise, they are done for that hour.

That's all that we did and they loved it!

But since then we've considered how future games or others might expand on it with special roll combos, items, locations, setting conditions, Aid Other, etc. So here are some...

Optional Add-Ons and Considerations

Multiple Attempts Per Hour:

If the player rolls exceptionally well on their Fishing Pool, they may be able to attempt fishing multiple times in an hour. To keep this simple, I'd say if they are able to clear the first Pool entirely, they get a brand new roll, a whole new Pool as if starting fishing over, but they keep their previous catches.

Modifiers and Conditions:

You could introduce conditions that affect the Fishing Pool or Fishing Check rolls:

Good Fishing Spot: +1d6 to the Fishing Pool.

Bad Weather/Overfished Area: -1d6 (or more) to the Fishing Pool or disadvantage (see 5e, we use this idea quite a bit even in our 3.5e games) on Fishing Check rolls.

Magic/Luck Items: Grant rerolls or bonus dice to the Fishing Pool or allow rerolls of the Fishing Check.

Special Fish Combos:

Occasionally, you could allow rare or magical fish (or larger species) that provide bonuses or other effects; perhaps these are possible if the combos use specific die results:

Giant Fish: Requires a match of dice with identical values, but double the weight result (ex: a medium fish that used 5,5,5 would be a Giant of its type, and grant 15x2 or 30 kg of edible parts!).

Magical Fish: Grants temporary bonuses, like extra HP or special buffs, when consumed. (ex. A combo of sequential rising values, like 1,2,3,4,5, would grant a Magical Large fish)

Fishing Tools and Bait:

Fishing equipment or bait could modify the rolls:

Better Rods/Lines: Allow rerolls or add extra dice to the Fishing Pool.

Special Bait/Lures: Increases chances of catching better or more fish (ex. set any one die result to 6; or allow player to select the value of any one die, etc.).

Aid Other

Another player can choose to assist Player A if they are proficient in the same associated skill (Survival or Profession (Fisher), etc based on your setting):

Player B (helper) rolls for the associated skill.

If the result of their skill check (rolled like any other skill check) is 10-19, Player A gains 1 extra die in their fishing Pool.

If the result of their skill check is 20 or higher, Player A gains 2 extra dice in their fishing Pool.

Player A can then use these extra dice to help form better combos when matching against their Fishing Check.

Let me know if you use this mini-game in your D&D sessions, or revamp it for the tabletop rpg/edition you play!

I'd love to hear your stories of the biggest catch, or lamenting that one LEGENDARY CATCH that got away!

And check out Tabletop Gaming Resources for more art, tips, and tools for your game!

[moviecritc]

good luck, babe! ⋆ lestappen

pairing: lestappen x driver!reader

summary: charles doesn't want to accept that he has feelings for both of max and you

word count: 1.1K

warnings: charles being stressed, idealizing, insinuations, making out

a/n: so, ik that good luck, babe! is tecnically abt a sapphic relationship. but it adapted perfectly to the plot and i love chappel with all my heart so i couldn't resist

masterlist | wattpad | letterboxd

part 1 | part 2

It had been three weeks and Charles was still feeling guilty. Just by feeling them close to him, Charles saw all the problems that this would bring to his work. Just the rumor would have terrible consequences. It was illegal to be with a man in countries they raced in, it would be unthinkable. But this was just the tip of all the emotions he was dealing with.

He couldn’t get them out of his head. Neither of them.

Having to see them almost every week didn't help at all. Both Max and Y/N seemed totally unconcerned; they were present in interviews, responding normally and acting naturally. Not Charles, he was tired and it seemed his mind was elsewhere. Because it was. He excluded himself from conversations with the other drivers while he overthought all his interactions from the last few years. He even wondered if he was the first person they had asked to do that.

Y/N had tried to approach him several times, asking how he was or how the race went, Charles always answered in monosyllables or directly escaped the conversation. Y/N noticed his discomfort but kept trying to talk to him because she didn’t want to lose a friend.

“Let it go, Y/N,” Max would tell her after she told him how Charles had responded. “We can't do anything if he doesn't want to accept his feelings.”

“I know,” she responded, curling up under Max’s arm. “But it still annoys me.”

That week was the Monaco Grand Prix, so the attention would be especially focused on Charles. Between that and his urge to mess up his home race, Charles was on edge. Somehow Y/N noticed, as there had been several times when Y/N had noticed the nervousness of her teammates and had talked to them.

"Charlie!" That nickname again. After the interviews, she managed to corner him in his garage. “Can we talk?”

“I don’t think so…” he said, although he struggled to swallow the words.

Y/N grabbed him by the arm. “Please,” she leaned her head a bit, with a compassionate look, almost as if she pitied him.

Charles didn’t resist, feeling submissive to Y/N’s touch. He couldn’t say no, nor even make a gesture of denial, her presence paralyzed him.

They went to his room in the motorhome. Charles realized it was a bad idea too late.

“Are you nervous about the race?” asked Y/N, with a sweet smile.

“Do you really have to ask?”

Y/N didn't take Charles’s sharp tones seriously, knowing he was just trying to put space between them.

“It’s normal, Charlie,” Charles wanted to tell her not to call him that, because it wouldn’t end well. “Everyone expects you to win your home race. It's usual.”

“But you always end up winning. Or Max,” Charles shrugged, leaning against the wall while Y/N had sat on the cot in the room.

She averted her gaze with a little smile. It was true that she was on a very good streak, if she won in Monaco it would be her sixth victory in a row.

“You and Max don't talk much, do you?” asked Y/N, although she knew the answer she wanted to hear Charles talk about them. She was dying to hear his name from his lips.

“No, obviously not,” Charles started biting his nails.

“Obviously?” She seemed confused.

Charles clicked his tongue, knowing it was all a ploy to seduce him again. He was just a kink for them.

“If you came to talk to me about what happened… it's better that you leave,” He tried to sound confident, though his voice said otherwise.

Y/N pursed her lips and stretched out her arms for Charles to sit beside her. He didn’t even need to be touched, he went to her side without resisting.

“Charlie, it’s eating you up inside,” She made a gesture to put her hand on his knee, but changed her mind at the exact moment.

“Y/N, it's wrong,” That sounded sure. “Do you know the problems it could bring us?”

“People don't have to know,” Now, she placed a hand on his knee and moved Charles’s chin so they could look at each other.

“Y/N, no,”

Charles looked at the wall again and Y/N repeated the gesture. “But you want to,”

“Of course I want to!” he burst out, running his hands over his face. “But…”

“No buts,” Y/N decreed. “Kiss me already. Satisfy yourself.”

Charles licked his lips, staying still for a moment. “And Max?”

Y/N suppressed a laugh. “Aren’t I enough for you?” “If we do this, we do it right,”

Charles still thought it was going to be a one-time thing.

“Then let's go to our penthouse,”

Charles slightly frowned. “Do you and Max live together?”

“Sure. For about three years or so,” Y/N was almost opening the door.

Charles understood that getting involved in their relationship would surely bring problems. Seeing that Charles wasn’t moving, she turned, seeing him still seated.

“Y/N… I'm not a homewrecker,”

She rolled her eyes instead of letting out a groan in front of Charles. “Do you really think you’re going to wreck our home?”

Y/N took a couple of steps toward him, kissing him. He followed the kiss for a moment, but then pulled away.

The next day Max caught him off guard and practically cornered him after practice.

“What… what’s up?” Charles stuttered.

“Damn, Charles,” Max grunted. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that we want a relationship with you? That you're not a homewrecker? On the contrary, you're going to improve our relationship, damn it. We need you.”

Charles grabbed him by the shirt collar and kissed him as if his life depended on it.

“Where’s Y/N?” he questioned, with his lips and cheeks reddened.

She won that, with Charles P2 and Max P3, and the feeling on the podium was incredible. The way they looked at each other and touched each other occasionally "accidentally". They didn’t go to any club to celebrate, although they practically didn’t sleep that night.

Six months later, Charles had practically all his clothes in Max and Y/N’s penthouse. One morning, Max simply dropped the question that had been going around the heads of the three.

“Char, why don't you move in here? Officially,”

Y/N loved the idea and it showed on her face.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. “I’d love to,”

They took advantage of the winter break to move, and although it took Sassy and Jimmy a while to get used to the presence of Leo, everything was so simple and natural that it was almost perfect.