#This show has overtaken my life | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kryptonitejelly · 1 year ago

Note

art donaldson x childhood friend reader who he hasn’t seen in a long time (whose had a crazy glow up) visits him at stanford at the same time as patrick and patrick starts hitting on her (him and tashi are in an open relationship) and art gets jealous.

(maybe she tells patrick she knows he’s in a relationship and he tells her tashi wouldn’t mind and she would probably be down to join idk)

art donaldson x reader // challengers // fluff; happy ending

a/n: i did not hit the prompt on the head 100%, but i’m not mad at it. this ended up turning into a monster i had no control off and ended up being alot longer than i expected (i haven’t done a word count, and did not mean for it to spiral into this but i enjoyed writing this very much). i am an art donaldson defender and this is my way of giving him everything he deserves (i hope you guys can see what i subtly tried to do in places - please leave comments/reblog if you see them, it would mean the world). also i typed this entirely on my phone without proofreading - you’ve been warned.

edit - as a disclaimer, i do not purport to comment on the victim/villain/any dynamic in the challengers universe. this space is purely for delusional thoughts and fiction only (see also)

Good luck.

Art shoots the text off to you before taking a swig out of cup of diet coke he has in hand. He leans forward, his forearms on his knees, teeth crunching on ice cubes as lets his gaze sweep across the court in front of him. It is devoid of players but already has the umpire and linesmen ready and waiting.

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

Art doesn’t expect to get a text back, so he checks his phone absently, but his face breaks into a tiny grin as he sees your reply. Most other players would have been hyper focused in the moments before a match but you, in the breezy light hearted way you always were, still had it in you to joke around.

Yes, but if you lose…

Art sends his response, the tiny grin still on his face.

I’ll feed you.

Your reply is fast and it makes art shake his head lightly a quiet chuckle dropping from his lips. He is just about to type another reply but is interrupted by the loud cheers that erupt from around him. Art looks up from his phone to see Anna Davies walk out on court in the same colour red as he had on. He claps politely with the rest of the men’s team who he was sitting amongst in the stands, in a show of support.

Art catches sight of Tashi and Patrick, both perched a few rows down from him with the rest of the women’s team both clapping and hollering in support. He notices the turn of Patrick’s head, no doubt to check in on Art but he doesn’t tilt his head or smile back in acknowledgement as he usually would - he is far too distracted by you.

Art can feel his jaw slacken slightly as you walk on court. He knows what you look like, but you in the flesh - Art thinks you are breathtaking. Your top is in a shade of your college’s colour, paired with a white tennis skirt that shows off a pair of toned, long legs. He catches a glint of metal just above your ankle, and he finds himself squinting in a feeble attempt to make out the look of the ankle bracelet that you have on. Art moves his gaze your face, taking in what he can see from his perch on the stands as you walk out towards your designated bench on the court, bright neon green bottle in hand, your tennis bag slung on a shoulder.

You had been close back home for most of your childhood and more formative teen years, and the both had kept in touch since he left for Stanford and you to your own school of choice, but too infrequently - the occasional text, more frequent reaction or comment on each other’s social media and the small conversations that spiralled from those interactions - like two planets orbiting in the same solar system, but not close enough. Life had overtaken, the excitement of moving your separate ways to a new environment, of college - tennis, academics, people, parties, it had overwhelmed you both, individually and together - made you just about forget that you had each other.

Art is transfixed. You are, lithe, glowing and with a hop in your step - Art finds himself questioning why he had never made more effort to keep you closer since you had both gone on your separate paths. He watches as you settle your bag on the bench, turning your gaze to the stands, eyes narrowing from the glare of the sun as you search the stands, only for your gaze to fix on his. Art sees you smile, lips turning up as you wink directly at him. It makes a series of heads turn to look back at him - your fellow team mates, the small group of supporters from your college who had come along, and the Stanford women’s team plus Patrick, half curious, half puzzled. Art can only raise a hand beside his chest in greeting as he remembers to breathe, letting the air he had been holding in his chest out.

He sees turn away while reaching for your phone which you had wedged in between the band of your tennis skirt and skin. Your fingers flying over the keypad briefly before you toss the phone into your tennis bag, hand fishing out your racket. Art feels his phone buzz in his hand and he looks down at the text that had come through.

Stanford still hasn’t taught you the right way to wear a cap huh.

Your text, a reference to his penchant for securing his cap on backwards, makes Art laugh, out loud, the sudden sound causing his team mates to crane their necks in attempt to look at his phone. Art swats them away as he refocuses his attention back on you, watching as you do a few hops, shifting your body weight from side to side before walking to your position on court, racket in hand. You lose the coin toss, and Anna choose to serve and yet your demeanour is one of ease, something Art can’t help but think is so stark in contrast to Tashi before a match. You aren’t smiling anymore, and yet in an unexplainable fashion, Art can feel you smiling as you bend to ready position, your hands flipping the handle of the racket around, poised to receive. He sees Anna toss the ball, her back arching, hand shooting up, before she connects her serve, and he watches you receive it with ease, your body moving in a smooth motion as you hit it back. Your strokes have their own weight and intention behind them, they are careful, thought out - but what surprises Art is he sees little calculation behind each. Instead, he watches as you let yourself feel each shot, as you let your instinct take control with each step. Art sees himself moving pieces of chess across the court when he watches replays of his game, but with your game, - Art manages to see colour, life, ease. He sees something he hasn’t seen in his tennis since he had last played with you, Art sees fun.

The match isn’t long drawn out, you win - effortlessly, just as each of your strokes and movement are. It frustrates Anna, as is evident from the increasing number of unforced errors she makes on her art which leads to her swearing loudly as you easily hit the last heavy, driving it quick and to the opposite corner of the court from where she is positioned. Art finds himself clapping enthusiastically along with the crowd as the umpire calls the game.

“You never told me you had such good looking friends,” Art feels an arm sling itself around his neck, pulling him close as he stands outside the court, waiting for you to finish your match debrief with the rest of the team.

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” Art questions as he tugs himself out and under, away from Patrick’s hold. His eyes remain focused on the door of the tennis court, waiting for you to emerge.

“Some strategy meeting,” Patrick offers as explanation, “refocusing or something like that.”

Art starts to say something in response only to be stopped by the view of you walking out from the courts. You both lock eyes, not too similar from how you had with you on the court and him on the stand. Art thinks that your smile is more brilliant up close.

Neither of you say a word, as you walk up to him, hands reaching up to tug his cap off his head only for you to pop it promptly on your own head, the right way around.

“The right way,” you say in greeting, pointing towards his cap which is now sitting on your head, the Stanford red a confusing contrast to your your top, now a loose fitting tshirt in your college colours, as Art chuckles while running a hand through his hair, attempting to shake out any flatness.

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

“Didn’t peg you for a traitor,” Art teases which makes you laugh.

“Do I get a hug,” you ask, both of you oblivious to Patrick who is just watching.

“C’mere,” Art says, his words inviting, but just almost slightly shy as he opens his arms to you. You step into his embrace, arms slipping around his body as Art brings his arms around your shoulders, hands bumping into the tennis bag you have on your shoulders. His embrace is familiar, and you let yourself relax into his hold.

“Could I get a hug?” you hear a different male voice chime in and you pull away to look curiously at the brunette who is standing just beside you both.

“Fuck off Patrick,” you hear Art say with no bite, but notice as he steps just that one inch in front of you in an attempt to place himself as some sort of barrier between you and the brunette.

“Patrick Zweig,” the boy says, ignoring Art as he proffers a hand to you which you shake to be polite while introducing yourself.

“Do you go to Stanford as well?” You take in his attire of jeans and a white tee, the lack of red - you would guess not but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I’m just visiting,” he says, “I’m actually playing on tour.”

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

“Your tennis is insane,” Patrick comments, ignoring Art, “when will I see you on tour?”

“I don’t intend on turning pro,” you respond with the flash of a smile.

“Why?” Patrick continues the conversation, now slightly befuddled, “you’re a natural.”

You shrug with a laugh, not answering and simply brushing off his question.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner and you can tell me why.” Patrick’s statement makes Art roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you taking your girlfriend our for dinner?” Art chips to which Patrick simply shrugs not phased in the slightest and answers with a no.

“Thanks, but I already have a dinner to cash in on,” you offer Patrick a smile, before glancing at Art.

“I’m sure Art wo-”

“Nope, fuck off Patrick,” is what Art says again, not even giving the other man a chance to finish his sentence. It makes you laugh, but you follow as Art grabs your hand, tugging you off in a direction away from Patrick.

“It was nice meeting you Patrick,” you call out, turning your head towards him giving him a wave with your free hand, “good luck on the tour!”

You walk for a minute or two more until the tennis courts are out of range before Art stops. He lets go off your hand, but reaches instead to grasp the top of the tennis bag on your shoulder. You raise a brow questioningly only to have him tug again with a slight tilt of his head. You relinquish the bag to him and he hoists it on his shoulder instead.

“What a gentleman,” you joke, but with a smile on your face.

Art does a mock bow with a flourish of his hand which makes you laugh with a shake of your head.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he extends a hand to you, waist still tilted in a bow, but his head up and looking at you.

“Lead the way,” you place your hand on top of his again.

“My car is that way,” he says jerking a thumb towards his right as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Its the second time in the day where he’s holding onto your hand but you don’t think too much of it and neither does Art. It feels right, comforting, familiar and like it’s supposed to be - and you go with it.

“Sorry about Patrick,” Art says as he fiddles with the paper casing of the straw. You are both sitting in a booth, plates cleared, your drinks left in front of you. Art is leaning back but being across him you can feel his knees knocking into yours. Dinner had gone by way too fast for Art’s liking. There had been both plenty to catch up on, as well as new information to learn and yet - it had felt like no time had passed between you both.

“He’s a bit of an ass isn’t he,” you say as you lean back, a mirror of Art. Your comment elicits a bark of laughter from him.

“Girls don’t usually say that about him.”

“What do they say?”

“Well not say, but they usually fall at his feet or into his bed,”

“No,” it makes you crinkle your nose while you shake your head.

“His girlfriend Tashi,” Art says, fingers still fiddling with the wrapper, “we played tennis for her number, she chose him.” Art said referencing the tennis match between him and Patrick. His sentence is blunt, to the point, and yet manages to be vulnerable at the same time. Art surprises himself as the words slip out from his lips so easily but it feels easy to tell you, safe to let himself be vulnerable, fine to let you view him for who he truly is.

You both sit in silence for a beat or two, the only sound between you both being the rustle of paper in Art’s fingers.

“Well,” you begin, “if she made you play for her number, maybe its for the better you didn’t win.”

Art’s fingers give pause and he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t feel like you’ve said anything wrong - just the obvious.

“I guess you are right,” he says after a few seconds of silence, before raising his head to look at you. There is a small smile on his face that you can’t quite place.

“When have I been wrong Donaldson?” You challenge in jest as you lift a leg under the table to jostle one of his lightly. Art leans forward, managing to capture one of your legs, your calf in the warmth of his palm.

“You really want me to start?” Art questions as you wriggle your leg in attempt to get away but no no avail.

“No.”

“Let’s see, the time we were six and you thought that the way to get strawberry milk was to dump pink food colouring in normal milk.”

“Stop,” you protest, but with a laugh on your lips.

“Or the time we were ten and you were convinced that the park we passed by on the way home from school was haunted and we had to sprint past that stretch of sidewalk for 3 whole months.”

“It was creepy!”

“How could we forget the one time we were thirteen and you thought that the way babies were made wa-”

“Arthur Donaldson,” you protest, managing to wrestle your leg out of his grasp which has grown looser with each anecdote. It allows you to set your foot on the ground, body shooting up to lean across the table, your palm coming to cover Art’s mouth to prevent him from announcing any further recollections from your youth.

You can feel his breath hot against the palm of your hand as his muffled laugher fills the space of your booth.

“Art,” you huff, relinquishing his full name for his nickname again. You move to drop your hand from his face, but Art catches a hold of your wrist. You sit back down, butt hitting the seat again, but with your hand still stretched across the table, wrist still loosely wrapped in one Art Donaldson’s hand. His shoulders are still shaking, now with a silent laughter.

“Art,” you try again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” Art exhales, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, freely and with such reckless abandon over something so innocent.

“Your dedicated court jester, always here to serve,” you mock with a roll of your eyes.

“You’ve been derelict in your duties,” Art says, now calm, but his eyes still twinkling under a mop of strawberry blonde hair. He keeps his tone light but what he really means to say is that it has been too long. You chuckle, not really having an answer for him.

“It’s been a while,” you finally admit, both your hands now resting on the table between you, you wrist now lying upturned in Art’s open palm. You had always been close

“It has, hasn’t it,” it isn’t really a question. Art has missed you - something he hasn’t realised until today. He had let himself be distracted by the complex, focused toxicity that was tennis, Patrick and Tashi, letting himself get sucked into the whirlpool, that he had forgotten to hold on to the things that grounded him.

“Maybe we should change that.”

“We should change that,” Art corrects you and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and the skin across your cheek bones tingling for some reason.

You aren’t quite sure how ended up here, but one thing had lead to another as you both made your way out of the restaurant and back to Art’s car, and the next thing you knew you were heading back to his dorm to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for some reason.

“How do you not find her hot?” You ask again for the tenth time as you both focus on the screen of Art’s laptop which is perched half on his thigh and half on yours. You are both sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of your heads damp from (separate) showers in Art’s ensuite, and you smelling quite like him from having used his toiletries and borrowing a short and shirt set, both of which which were a baggy fit for you.

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

“You’re rubbish Donaldson,” you snort, nudging your elbow lightly into his ribs with a simultaneous yawn.

“Tired?” Art asks, as you stifle another yawn.

“Yeah,” you accept, seeing little point in trying to hide it. You had after all, played a match today.

“I should really get back to the hotel,” you mumble, the back of your head leaning against the wall beside Art’s bed, eyes closing.

“You could just stay here,” there is a hint of hesitation in his voice because he isn’t sure if you’ll stay.

“Here?”

“My bed’s a double,” Art shrugs, “it would also be quicker for you to get to the matches tomorrow.” You aren’t playing but Art knows you would be expected to show up as a supporter for the series of matches between your two schools that continued tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” You don’t mind, after all - it’s Art, the boy you had known growing up, shared milkshakes and apple slices with after school, but you wanted to be sure he was truly fine with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Art moves to shit his laptop, lifting himself to bend over the edge of the bed to place the laptop on the floor, “you can take the inside.”

He flops down on the outside of the bed that is further from the wall too easily, his right hand going behind his head. Him moving forces you to move in tandem as you flop down on Art’s left, legs scrambling under the covers which Art has somehow managed to worm his way under in the flurry of movement.

Art reaches a hand over, his arm extending over you in the process to hit the light switch that he has beside his bed. It plunges you both into darkness, the only light the faint glow from the street lamps creeping in from below his curtains, and the glow of his digital clock.

You flip onto your right side, eyes closed, missing the turn of Art’s head as he observes yours features, closed eyes, lashes, nose, lips, finding his gaze lingering a moment too long on your lips.

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it,” you respond, lips curving into a smirk. It was a habit he had developed from the sleepovers you both had either in his living room or yours when you were both younger. You would close your eyes, just about to doze off, only to hear the faint shifting of a head against a pillow while Art turned to stare at you, his blue-brown eyes boring into you.

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” You are standing just a distance off the side of the bus which is supposed to take you back to campus. The matches for the day had ended, with your school having won by one match.

“Yeah,” Art replies, drawing out his words as he takes you in, he finds himself think that he had very much preferred you in his clothes despite them being oversized and not as well fitted as your own. You had managed to change into a fresh set of school colours before the matches started earlier that morning, having pleaded with your angel of a roommate to help you lug your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even had the chance to unpack the night before, over to the courts before the matches had begun. She had taken one look at you in Art’s tshirt, shorts with his hoodie thrown over, and had given you the widest smirk known to man despite your insistence that nothing had happened.

“I think you are scheduled to come play next month,” you refer to the Stanford men’s team, “I’ll see you then?”

“Or I could see you next week?” Art says almost shyly as he raises a hand to rub the back of his head. Art was a walking oxymoron, easily grabbing your hand, asking you to sleep in his bed, and yet somewhat bashful in the moments in between, “the drive over is an hour, max.”

“I would like that,” your response earns you a mega watt smile, his eyes twinkling at you. You both hear voices calling Art away from the bus, one male, one female - but Art ignores them both.

“Yeah and I told her-” your sentence is cut off by a nudge to your shoulder.

“Stanford” you friend explains with slightly too much glee in her voice. She had seen the smile on your face after returning from your away game last weekend, and the way you had been constantly glued to your phone, grin on your face, laughter peppering your days, the name Art Donaldson a constant fixture in your notifications.

Your head swivels up and to your left to spot Art leaning against his black jeep, hands crossed loosely across his chest. He smiles when he sees you, and your face mimics his expression.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” you friend calls out as she pushes you in Art’s direction. You pull a face at her while rolling your eyes, but letting your legs carry you towards Art.

“Are you stalking me Donaldson?” You ask in jest. Art had texted you half an hour earlier, asking which part of campus your last class of the Friday was in and where he should pick you up from.

“Hundred percent,” he says as he opens his arms; you step into his embrace for a brief hug, before he turns to open the car door for you. You unload your bag from your arm, dropping it onto the floor of the passenger’s seat before climbing in. You move to close the door, but Art is in between you and the door, reaching over to click your seatbelt into place.

“Ready?” He asks, and you nod, gazing into bright blue-brown eyes.

“Positivism,” Art says simply at your question of what theory of jurisprudence he found himself most inclined towards. You think for a moment, the side of your face propped up with a hand, elbow on the counter of the bar you both are seated at, your body turned towards Art who is likewise, facing you.

“Positivism,” you roll the words around your tongue, “I guess it tracks,” you shrug, before raising a brow slightly, “but how does an engineering undergraduate so much about jurisprudence?”

“I read.”

“On jurisprudence?” You frown nose wrinkling as you reach your hand out to place the back of it against Art’s forehead as if to check if he had a fever, “are you alright?”

“You mean you don’t read engineering daily in between sets?” Art questions you with mock horror as he reaches up to tug your hand down from his forehead. Your hand ends up, yet again, in Art’s, which is resting on his knee.

“Why engineering, and not something with a lighter course load?” The underlying question is clear - Art had every intent of going the pro track post-Stanford, and it wasn’t that he would be making full use of his degree anyway.

“I don’t want the only skill I have to be hitting a ball with a racket,” he shrugs, “it feels good to know I can do something else.”

You hum in bother understanding and agreement as you feel Art’s thumb begin to stroke the back of your hand. It distracts you, his calloused thumb sliding across your skin.

“In another life I’m sure you would have made a darn good engineer Art Donaldson.”

Your words make Art laugh, something he found himself doing a lot with you.

“So, this is me,” you point towards the dormitory buildings up in front and Art slows his car to a stop, pulling the gear into park. He kills the engine before hopping out of his seat. Your hand is on the handle of the door, ready to open it for yourself but Art is faster, his hand on the outside lever, pulling the door open for you.

Art offers you a hand as you hop out of the jeep before he shuts the door behind you.

“I had fun tonight,” you find yourself saying, suddenly feeling slightly shy for reasons you cannot fathom.

“Me too,” is what Art says in response, his hands stuck on the pockets of his jeans, heels rocking in a back and forth motion. You see his gaze on you, locking with yours before flickering to your lips. It makes you bite down one on side of your lip, an action which causes Art to gulp, making the Adam’s apple on his throat bob.

“We should do-”

“Can I kiss you?” Art blurts out his question in a burst and you can see his face flush slightly as he asks, a surprising and yet apt contrast to the Art who had no qualms about holding your hand in his. You feel your heart quickening, and with the silence between you both - you almost feel as if you can hear each beat.

“Yes,” you breathe out, a small nod accompanying your response. You see Art’s gaze flicker to your lips again, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this.

Art takes a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. You feel him cupping your face gently, and you tilt your head towards him. Your eyes flutter close and your lips meet.

Art’s lips are softer than you imagined. You feel his hands move, slipping down the sides of your body, circling your waist and pulling you closer. You drop your bag off your shoulder onto the floor as your hands move up, one to cradle the side of his face, and the other reaching behind, fingers weaving into soft curls as you tug him closer towards you. First kisses with someone new had always been awkward for you - teeth, lips, noses, as you each try to figure out the grooves and crannies of each other, but with Art - there was no such thing. It felt as if you both had learnt each other long ago, each in and out, the curve of his neck, and the the planes of your body.

You break the kiss first, pulling away, eyes still closed, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of you in the best way. Your forehead pressed against Art’s, body held firmly against his.

“I hope you aren’t going to send me packing after that.” Your eyes flutter open at his words.

“You packed an overnight bag didn’t you?”

“I might have,” Art pulls you even closer, his arms wound tight around you.

“Presumptuous much?” You run a hand through the front of his hair, pushing his fringe back.

“Just good at reading the room.”

12 years later

The skin across your knuckles are visibly tight, your hands clenched into fists, the only sign of the nerves that have taken over and riddled your body. Your eyes are shielded by dark oversized glasses, but your pupils are darting left and right as the final point of the match plays before you. The stadium is silent, save for the pop of the ball and the grunts from the two players on court. You hear an exceptionally loud grunt, the whizzing of a racket whipping through the air, and then you hear it before it hits you - the roar of the crowd, the thundering claps, and you feel your body freeze as even the announcer goes wild.

“Art Donaldson, ladies and gentleman, our new US Open champion.”

You remain glued to your seat despite the commotion around you - family, Art’s team, cheering, jumping, excited hugs being passed around. Your eyes watch as Art runs towards the center of the net, hand raised as he waves to the crowd around. He shakes his opponents hand, before waving to each section of the stadium in thanks of their support and there he is, jogging towards you. His hair is dripping with sweat, plastered to his head, shirt clinging to his body. He extends a hand to you even before he reaches the sideline and your body reacts from habit, standing, your hand extending back towards him. A warm hand, the back of it still slick from sweat grasps yours, tugging you forward lightly.

“Hi,” is all he says as Art’s lips meet yours. Art enjoys the tennis, but he doesn’t need it - doesn’t need the tennis, the fame, the money, or the trophies - all he needs is you.

You hear the crowd go wild at the display of affection, the announcer’s voice booming over the sound system with something about Art Donaldson and his wife, but it all fades - the commotion, the sound, the people, the tennis, because all you see is Art.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x y/n #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson fic #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson x female reader #challengers #challengers fanfic #challengers fic #challengers imagine #not cm #not tg

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chaptersleftunwritten · 10 months ago

Text

Strawberry Fields Forever

Blurb: You go on a picnic date with some friends, not expecting to rile Eddie up.

Pairing: Perv!Eddie Munson x Friendly!Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ This is basically smut with a tiny bit of plot, cursing/swearing, some light mentions of alcohol, corruption kink, praising, exhibitionism, oral (f & m receiving), oral fixation, choking, fingering, teasing.

The sun flushed the earth with an unwavering heatwave and everyone in Hawkins was struggling to keep cool during this scorcher of a summer. There was no hiding from it. The humidity even penetrated the shade- no where was safe.

Naturally you seek out the forest, travelling along a trail with Steve, Nancy, Robin, Eddie and some of the younger bunch who had begged to come alone. They wanted to go swimming in Lover’s Lake and you wanted to have a picnic next to the water.

“Fuck me,” Eddie groans, dragging his feet behind you, “Can’t we just stay in here? It must be hotter than Hell out there.” In a huff, Eddie shrugs off his denim jacket, exposing his tatted arms as he slings the coat over his shoulder. He wore a black t-shirt, of all colours he chose black, no wonder he was melting into a puddle.

Steve wipes at his sweaty forehead with his forearm, his long mousy brown hair sticking to his sun kissed skin, “Eddie has a point, I’m sweating my balls off here.” Nancy snorts a laugh, her fingers interlocked around Steve’s bicep.

Robin marches in front of you, on a mission to try and keep up with the others children whom had snuck off into the distance, squealing and revelling in the great outdoors. Robin evidently being fearful that they were going to run off or worse- disappear.

“C’mon guys, it’s not so bad! Maybe you should have worn more appropriate clothes,” Your dig is aimed at Eddie and he rolls his eyes, panting in response. He is clearly hating how his hair seems to be gluing itself to his neck.

“I’ll take my shirt off if you pay me,” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, his lips baring a wolfish grin, “This ain’t a free show, sweetheart.” He fans at his face, his flirtatious attempt quickly evaporating with his rising body temperature.

You take a hair tie from your wrist, handing it to Eddie, “You’ll be a lot cooler if you tie up that nest of yours.”

He gapes at you, offended, “Wow…” he drags out the word, “And here I was thinking that we were finally getting along.” You giggle at him before continuing your pursuit further, trying to catch up with the two love birds who had somehow overtaken you.

“It’s not long now, only a little further.” You call back to Eddie who is slugging behind you. Usually Eddie loved being outdoors, but in this heat? He would rather be dead.

The only thing keeping Eddie alive at the moment was the view he had of you from behind. Your ass is clad in the cutest pair of light denim shorts he had ever seen, hugging your thighs and body perfectly. You wore a red checkered blouse on top that slipped effortlessly from your shoulders, exposing the mounds of your breasts to him every so often. He was already fighting for his life against an erection.

So when the pale yellow and pink picnic blanket was set down onto the unnervingly fried grass and Eddie watched you unload the weaved basket he couldn’t help but notice when your eyes light up at the sight of a massive bowl of strawberries.

“My favourite!” You squeal happily, flashing the bowl to Eddie he chuckles heartily, his legs crossing over one another as he lays back, propped up on one elbow.

“Strawbs are good, I guess.” His shoulders shrug.

“You guess? They are the superior fruit, Ed’s!” This was a debate you were willing to fight until your dying breath. You would die on this hill.

Eddie plucks one from the bowl, examining the red fruit before he pushes the whole thing into his mouth, taking a moment to chew before swallowing.

“Y’know, I’ve always thought strawberries were much better with a little bit of cream…” Eddie’s tongue dances out onto his lips, licking them clean of any juices that may have escaped.

He doesn’t mean for it to sound so dirty, but when you don’t register it that way Eddie sees this as an opportunity; to make this into a fun little game where he is a perverted fuck and you are absolutely oblivious to it all.

“Hmm,” you hum in response, not batting an eyelash to Eddie’s cream comment as you push a strawberry between your lips, biting on the pointed end of it softly- savouring the flavour.

Glancing around you see nearby on the blanket Steve has his tongue wedged down Nancy’s throat. She’s nearly choking on it as they sloppily dish out kisses. Talk about no shame..

Robin is on life guard duty- or so she says. In reality, she just wants to do cannonballs into the water with the kids, splashing them and fighting with them. Jokingly pushing Dustin’s head beneath the water whilst Mike tries to do the same to Will.

Dustin emerges, crying attempted murder and you laugh hysterically, shaking your head proudly at their free spirits.

“Are you thinking of going in the water?” You flick your attention back to Eddie and he can’t help himself from staring as you wrap your lips coyly around a massive strawberry. Your eyes peeking innocently up at him has his cock threatening to burst in his jeans and the thought of the strawberry being replaced by his thick manhood leaves him feeling dizzy.

“Possibly,” he gulps, his crossed legs becoming more tightly acquainted, “You?” He cracks open a can of beer, taking a light swing to cleanse his drying throat.

You nod, looking between the lake and Eddie, “I might- it looks like they are having so much fun.” You sigh, feeling the most relaxed you have a in a while. It’s not as hot anymore now that you have sat down.

“You should.”

‘Please!’ Eddie thinks to himself. He doesn’t know why, but you have him totally bewitched. His hungry gaze never leaving your mouth as dark pink juice stains your lips. You slurp to try and prevent it from spilling all over you, the pad of your thumb swiping quickly at the leaky corners of your mouth.

Eddie thinks he might combust into flames right there and then, biting his tongue harshly to try and keep a groan lodged in his throat- can he taste blood?

“Do I have something on my face Ed’s?” You ask after feeling his eyes on you for a prolonged period of time, your fingers tips tracing your cheeks gently.

Eddie shakes his head, “No, love. Not a single drop touched your chin.” His voice is low, nearly a growl as it leaves his mouth.

From his side Eddie can sense Steve’s amused smirk on him. You might have been unknowing to Eddie’s game, but Steve knew exactly what the ‘freak’ was up to. It relieved him to see Eddie finally trying to shoot his shot with you- it had only taken him a year and a half.

“You would tell me, right?” You giggle, scooting closer to his lanky frame, “Promise?”

“Promise.” He tucks a rogue strand of your hair behind your ear and heat unrelated to the sun prickles at your cheeks, causing you to advert your gaze.

Eddie almost coos aloud at how adorable you are. He can guess that you’ll taste even more sugary than the fruit you’re sucking on, “Can I…” He picks up another strawberry, bringing it to your mouth. You hold eye contact with him as he swirls the tip of the fruit across the plumpness of your lips, allowing the lowest groan to emit from his throat.

“Open wider,” His demand comes out as a bark and you slacken your jaw, your mouth gaping open wider for him to slot the strawberry inside. Eddie’s own jaw laid slack, his soft eyes on you unabashedly, “Does it taste good, princess?”

You nod, your tongue slick with juice from the strawberry. It wasn’t foreign for Eddie to call you sweet pet names, but something inside of you stirs at his voice. Sure you thought Eddie was attractive, often times you’d fantasies over him… but it hadn’t ever gotten this intense in real life.

You’d take every compliment from him with a grain of salt, but with the way his darkened eyes are staring at you now, it leads you to believe that something may be upon the horizon.

gif by @kwistowee

“What’d you say?” Eddie’s eyebrows knit together, his eyelids narrowing at you distastefully.

“Uhm…” it takes a moment for the gears inside of your head to turn, “Thank you?” It is more of a question rather than a response, luckily Eddie seems satisfied nonetheless.

“Exactly,” He grins at you dirtily, “Don’t go forgetting your manners now, babe. I know you’re a good girl.”

An inaudible sound leaves your windpipe as you try to contain the feverish blush that has claimed your face as its own. Your heart is quick inside of your chest and you can’t ignore the fluttering of your stomach and the pulse between your thighs. No one had ever made you feel like this before. No one was crazy enough to speak this filthy to you in person. So blatant and forward.

Just before Eddie can say anything more, water hits you both. So lost in your own world you had forgotten about your friends who you had came here with.

“Are you guys just going to sit there or what?!” Robin exclaims in a high pitched tone, visibly vexed at your unwillingness to join in.

Steve and Nancy were stripping down to their underwear, something that didn’t phase you in the slightest. You look to Eddie for some sort of guidance and he shrugs his shoulders, leaving the choice to you.

“I’m happy here! Sorry- love you though!” You announce loudly and Robin rolls her eyes, shouting back that she loved you too before she was swimming off. It seemed like the group were venturing further down stream, leaving you and Eddie totally invisible to them.

“Good choice,” He purrs into your ear, making you jump slightly startled at his close proximity.

“I don’t mind spending time alone with you, Eddie.” You reply honestly and Eddie toys with a piece of your hair in his fingers, twirling and twisting it.

He hums, intrigued, “Is that so?” Eddie knew he was pushing you, but fuck, was it fun.

You suck on your bottom lip, teeth nibbling at the skin as you nod your head, “You make me feel.. happy.” The words come out as a low mumble, your finger tips playing with the hem of your shorts as you try to busy your nervous hands.

Eddie rumbles a chuckle, “I know a few other ways to make you feel ‘happy’…” You are desperate to avoid his cocoa coloured orbs, but Eddie isn’t having none of it as he gasps your chin sternly with his fingers, pulling your face to him.

“H..how so?” You wish the ground would swallow you whole as you stumble pathetically over your words. He hadn’t even touched you intimately and yet, you can’t think straight.

From your chin, Eddie’s fingers tickle down the front of your throat, hesitating there he decided to take a leisurely second to curl his strong fingers around your trachea. The momentary loss of oxygen makes your eyelids fall to hood your eyes, “Fuck, I could ruin you.” The whole time Eddie continues to gawk at the partition of your lips, and how relaxed you look beneath his touch.

Releasing you slowly he continues his assault on your hot skin, his feathery touch causing goosebumps to erupt after their wake. He palms your breasts through your blouse, grabbing a fist full of the plush flesh which causes you to cry out quietly, “No bra? Such a little fucking tease.” Eddie clicks his tongue, pinching your coiled nipples and roughly plucking at the stiff peaks with his fingertips.

“Ah...” you mewl and Eddie’s ears perk at the sound, like a puppy being called on for the first time.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this before?” His raspy voice asks as his lips pepper a kiss to your exposed shoulder, his tongue running briefly over the skin just because he wanted to taste you. You shake your head, in total awe of him and everything that he is.

“Poor baby,” He pouts out his bottom lip mockingly before his lips stretch into a lascivious grin, “I can take care of you.” His tongue flicks at the lobe of your ear before he is pulling the flesh in between his teeth, gnawing on it playfully.

“But we’re outside…” you remind him, your eyes focusing on the slow current of the water. The sun beating down onto it, making it glisten and glitter in a heavenly way.

“Mhm, we are,” He sucks at your neck, your body jolting ever so slightly at the electricity that zaps at your cunt from the contact, “She likes that, doesn’t she.” Eddie laughs breathily as he pulls back from your jugular, situating himself between your bare legs.

“I bet your pussy tastes so fucking good.” Eddie nuzzles his nose into the soft skin of your inner thigh, causing you to giggle at the ticklish touch of his hair.

“What if someone sees us?” A look over Eddie’s shoulder confirms that the group are way too occupied with one another to even focus on you two.

“They won’t.” His voice drips with confidence and his fingers move with deliberate precision as he rips your denim shorts from your legs, taking a pause to truly admire your underwear, and the darkened wet spot that had the material slick to your pussy lips, “These are cute, baby. You always wear such pretty panties?” He perks an eyebrow whilst his fingertips dance over the lacey fabric and you look at him with wide doe like eyes, stunned by the question and his touch. You hadn’t really thought about it.

“They are just my regulars…” you admit bashfully in a hushed tone and Eddie’s husky groan declares that he really likes that answer.

“Need you so bad,” His fingers hastily hook around the thin elastic of your waistband, “Can I?” Even when he is too horny to think straight, he remains a gentleman.

Feeling just as needy, you nod, and without a beat Eddie is yanking your panties all the wall down your legs, taking them off and shoving them into his jeans pocket.

His large hands catch behind your knees, hoisting your legs up so they sit comfortably on his shoulders. He wastes no time in bringing his mouth to your mound, his tongue frantic as he laps at your soaked core, “Mmm so fucking sweet.” He mutters, his voice dripping with possessiveness. Each caressing touch of his tongue driving you insane as you wrestle to keep yourself quiet.

Your whimpers send Eddie spiralling, awakening something primal within him. He wanted to watch you whither and crumble beneath his touch- he wanted to make you his.

Eddie moans into your dripping cunt, totally self indulging in the very taste of you. Your scent was now his favourite perfume and he wanted it to be seared into his memory forever.

“Oh god…” you pant, your eyes tearful as you look down at Eddie lapping messily between your thighs. You want nothing more than to scream his name at the top of your lungs, but instead you had to settle for silence.

Just when you thought you had mastered the art of biting your tongue, you feel a prodding at your entrance and then a gaping stretch as Eddie pushes two of his fingers deep inside of you, eliciting a grumbly moan from your throat, “You’re so responsive, such a good girl for me.”

The feeling of his long fingers pumping in and out of your sopping wet pussy leaves your eyes rolling to the back of your head, your mouth hanging open when he curls his digits inside of you, massaging that sweet spongy spot.

Eddie has to pry his own lips away from your core, his addiction to you worsening with each passing second, “You’re gushing baby, think you could handle three?”

The noise of your own arousal hits your ears like a symphony and you swear you have never felt pleasure like this before. Even when masturbating, it didn’t compare, “Ed’s.. please..” your voice is a pathetic whine and Eddie smirks at the way your eyes have blown in total submission to him. You’re just as drunk on him as he is on you.

You’re a babbling mess for him and Eddie is contemplating whether or not this is reality or just a really fucking good dream that he’s having, “That’s it, baby, fuck my fingers.” Your hips buck upward to meet each thrust of Eddie’s fingers and you nearly cry out- seconds away from blowing your little operation but thankfully Eddie manages to clutch his hand harshly over your mouth, “Shhh!” He warns with a smile as your eyes glaze over with pure lust. A tightness brews in your lower stomach, a blissful burn that you chase and chase and the next thing you know you’re a shaking mess, your thighs pressed firmly together entrapping Eddie’s hand inside of you as you cum- hard, screaming into Eddie’s palm.

“Clever girl, taking my fingers so well, darling.” Eddie winks down at you, his lips punctured by his two front teeth as he forces his arousal dripping fingers into your mouth, the pads of his fingers exploring the length of your tongue, “You taste so good, don’t you baby?” You moan around his digits, still fleeting from your release.

“I would love to see those perfect lips of yours wrapped around my cock… you wanna do that, sweet girl?” He palms himself over his jeans, so rock solid that any touch to his cock nearly causes him to burst at the seams, “C’mere.” Eddie is gentle as he takes a hold of your elbows, pulling you in for a quick but heated kiss before he sits you propped up on your knees.

“Lookin’ all pretty, just for me.” You are so gone, your head is in the clouds- mind filled with Eddie, Eddie and more Eddie, “Open up, sweetheart.” Eddie’s fingers glide through your hair, clutching the delicate strands at the root in a domineering grip. You shouldn’t like the pain, but you do.

Obediently you listen to Eddie’s deep voice and you open your mouth nice and wide, sticking out your tongue flatly to allow Eddie’s length to sit comfortably on the muscle, “Shit, princess, have you done this before?” He blurts, the question being rhetorical as a rapacious smile appears on his face as he forces his cock further into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat causing you to gag slightly.

“You can take it, right?” He punctuates his question with a thrust, tears swelling in your eyes as you struggle to breathe. Your nostrils flare, desperate for air as Eddie menacingly fucks your throat, “Just as I imagined.” He beams, balls deep in your mouth as you peer up at him, your nose tickled by his small snail trail leading to his belly button.

“Keep looking at me,” He asserted, his lips parted in astonishment at the image of you in front of him- so picture perfect, he wanted to carry it around in his wallet. You hollow your cheeks, drool pooling from your open mouth and dripping shamelessly down your chin. You can feel the wetness of your own saliva soaking the skin of your thighs, “That’s it, princess, eyes on me.”

“Shhh… I know it’s a lot, don’t cry.” His large thumb wipes your tear streaked cheeks, his eyes swirling with adoration and sin, “I’m so close baby, keep goin’ please.” And you do. Anything to have Eddie be pleased with you. To hear him call you a good girl. His good girl.

Your cheeks ache as your face bobs up and down his length, your chin pressing against his sack every time you meet his base. His hand is tangled messily in your hair now, fucking against your own movements.

A pleasure filled wail leaves Eddie’s mouth, his head thrown back in euphoria as his cum shoots far into your mouth, leaking down your oesophagus.

You both stay that way for a moment afterwards, Eddie’s hips rutting gently against your tongue as he allows his high to subside.

“You okay?” He muses, checking your features for any sort of discomfort or sadness.

“Yeah,” you reply, a happiness apparent in your cheerful voice, “Thank you.”

He starts himself up and pulling his jeans securely back around his waist, however it takes him mere seconds before he turns his attention to you. Dropping to his knees he grabs some napkins from your picnic basket, gliding the soft paper tissue over your swollen mouth, “You look so beautiful right now.” He chirps, landing a kiss to your forehead before continuing to clean you up. His touch is tender as he helps you shimmy your denim shorts back onto your hips, his lips littering kisses up your bare legs as he did which causes you to giggle. The moment feels light and airy and you can tell that this is the beginning of something really special.

Without a second to spare, the group approach shore. You are met with raised eyebrows and confusion at your flushed appearance and messy hair.

“So,” Steve interjects with a catty smirk, “What’d we miss?”

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson smut #smut #perv!eddie x reader #perv!eddie munson #mean!eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie the freak munson #fandom #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #strawberry fields forever

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edwin-paynes-bowtie · 9 months ago

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I was angry. I'm still angry. But sadness and exhaustion have overtaken that anger, and I have A LOT to say about this.

Dead Boy Detectives is a very special show to me. It occupies a ridiculously large place in my heart, and it's brought me joy in a way that only a few pieces of media ever have. When I watched it for the first time, Edwin Payne had my heart within minutes. By the end of episode one, Charles Rowland did, too.

It meant a lot to me, seeing such wonderful and nuanced queer characters brought to life in the type of paranormal story I have always loved. In these past months, Edwin and Charles have felt like real friends to me, and to never see them again without a satisfying conclusion to their story is something I have not truly processed. Same for Niko and Crystal and The Cat King - they should be back. But I haven't fully processed it yet, that they're not coming back, and yet I am still aggreived.

@netflix is, at this point, so fucking gagged on capitalism's dick that they're not even pretending to care about art anymore. Dead Boy Detectives is genuinely masterfully made on just about every level. The actors did a phenomenal job and I will be following all their careers heavily. Steve, Beth, and the writing team crafted an incredible tale. The sets, the lighting, the props, the effects were all on point. This was a well-constructed program, and you could tell that everyone involved with the project gave it their all because they cared so deeply.

(Also my heart breaks for the whole cast, but it's hardcore hurting for George since this was not only his first screen role but one he clearly thought he would be keeping as of two weeks ago. He seemed so secure. I hate this for him.)

In addition to being a good show, DBDA had good reception. It's got a 92% on Rotten Tomatoes, was on the Top 10 for several weeks, got 4.7 million views within week one, and was getting daily articles posted on various review sites with NOTHING but praise. The fandom is incredibly active. We trend on Tumblr like five times a week and on Twitter regularly as well.

THE. SCRIPT. FOR. SEASON. 2. WAS. WRITTEN.

What the fuck happened?

Idiot executives at @netflix, choking on the dick of capitalism, probably just thought that they wouldn't get new subscribers for a second season of an existing show that didn't rake in Bridgerton-level cash. That's how they work - people who are interested in it are already subscribers, so who the fuck cares about them? Better to make some other shit, hope new people subscribe, and maybe that'll be a Bridgerton-level hit.

But also, Netflix has fun little trends to look into. And, when you look at the lineup of shows Netflix has canceled, they are overwhelmingly queer. The homophobia of @netflix and their operatives is clearly boundless, and it hits here really badly because this show was clearly made with a queer audience in mind. It was one of the most authentic pieces of queer media I have ever experienced, if not THE most authentic pieces of queer media that I have ever experienced.

It's fucking ridiculous that Netflix canceled a show that they commissioned a completed script of months ago. It sucks that they decided that their existing subscribers, their queer subscribers, did not matter.

Edwin and Charles are ours now. Well, of course, they're George's and Jayden's respectively, but the characters are no longer Netflix's to use and throw out. They're ours now, our fandom's, and we all love them so much.

And we deserved to see more of them, and we deserved to see their love story play out onscreen, but I for one am not going anywhere. Let's give Edwin and Charles - and the rest of the gang - millions of versions of the stories and endings that Netflix deprived them of.

#dead boy detectives #dbda #im literally crying now #edwin payne #charles rowland #payneland #george rexstrew

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toffeecoco1 · 1 year ago

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@perpetualgrey's comment on this post

Ok my first instinct was to laugh, but then I realised you might be onto something???

Shen Yuan is LITERALLY an impostor, who’s more far more kind and beloved by Binghe than the original. The Guanyin pendant is a counterfeit, but it carries the love of Binghe’s mother and is far more precious than any real jade could ever be.

The heartbreak Binghe’s mother felt after realising that the Guanyin pendant was fake and she’d been tricked was part of what lead to the gradual decline of her health.¹ In wanting to do something kind for Binghe, she felt that she’d failed, and this led to her demise. What is Shen Qingqiu’s entire story, but trying to be kind to Binghe, feeling inadequate at this, and dying? (More than once!!)

Guanyin is a Bodhisattva associated with mercy, kindness, compassion and unconditional love. She is a patron of mothers, and is called upon in times of fear, uncertainty, and despair. The Bodhisattva she originated from is seen as a saviour, through whose grace even those with the most negative karma can achieve salvation. Even when she is not worshipped as a goddess, she is revered as the principle of love, compassion and mercy.² From wikipedia, “The act, thought and feeling of compassion and love is viewed as Guanyin. A merciful, compassionate, loving individual is said to be Guanyin.”²

The original Luo Binghe appears never to have lost his pendant. Shen Qingqiu tells us: “It was the only bit of warmth in Luo Binghe’s dark world, always by his side, and even in the future when he was at his darkest, it could summon up his last dregs of humanity.”¹ He also states that “it was Luo Binghe’s biggest berserk button.”¹

Our Luo Binghe does not cling to the pendant when he’s at his darkest: he clings to the love he has for his shizun and to memories of his kindness, and later, to the lifeless body of Shen Qingqiu himself. His biggest berserk button isn’t when people insult the pendant or his mother, or try to take it away; it’s Shen Qingqiu: when people insult him or try to take him away.

From the start, Shen Qingqiu expresses truly unconditional love for Binghe. He spends three years showing endless compassion and kindness, actions which feel insignificant to him but are more than enough to completely change Binghe’s life. He holds no blame or resentment for the things he fears Binghe will do to him; though he doesn’t want to be tortured, he forgives Binghe for it nonetheless, before it has even happened. He sacrifices himself to save Binghe as his mind is eaten away at by Xin Mo, when he believes that Binghe just slaughtered a hundred Huan Hua Disciples, when Binghe’s reckless use of the sword is putting countless more lives at risk.³

Shen Qingqiu is a counterfeit that is more precious than the original could ever be. For Binghe, he personifies kindness, compassion and unconditional love. His regrets over his treatment of Binghe lead to his temporary demise. Binghe clings to him in his darkest moments, and he is that which Binghe protects most fiercely.

I always found the pendant’s role in the story to be almost lacking: it’s treated as such an important item to Binghe, yet in the end its return is almost anticlimactic. But perhaps this is because the role the pendant played in Bing-ge’s story has been overtaken by Shen Qingqiu. When he returns the pendant, Binghe is relieved and appreciative: but his joy seems to stem more from the fact that Shen Qingqiu held onto it and cherished him than from the pendant itself. The pendant doesn’t matter all that much to him anymore, at least not compared to how important it seems to have been in PIDW. Binghe doesn't need an object to symbolize love and kindness; he has a person to love, who loves him back.

In conclusion: Shizun was in fact the fake jade Guanyin pendant all along!

sources cited below :)

1. Seven Seas Volume 1, Chapter 1: Scum. Pages 40-41.

2. “Guanyin,” Wikipedia. There’s a lot more to her than what I mentioned here, she’s quite interesting.

3. Seven Seas Volume 2, Chapter 8: Death. Pages 154-156.

#svsss #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #bingqiu #svsss meta #meta #scum villain’s self saving system #i can’t believe i wrote a 650 word essay with citations instead of doing my coursework

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enchantress-arc · 7 months ago

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As much as I think that bringing a person into trance by making them slowly sink is rather fun, as is just dropping them nice and quickly, I think one of my favorite manners of doing so is more slowly laying the groundwork, then dropping them in an instant. Almost like carefully, cautiously preparing a trap, a false floor, before pulling it out from under them. Watching them realize how everything you've done so far has come together, just to lure them in, just to put them in position so you can watch them fall. As they realize that it's hopeless now. They've fallen into your trap. And there is no escape.

There are so many ways to prepare that trap. My favorite is an absolute classic, seduction. There are a few mind games, yes, but none of them matter until they've willingly decided to submit. There's no dropping them, no bringing them into trance, not even a light one, not until they want it. Rather than attempting to pull the floor out from under them, you prepare a web. You lure them to it. Show them how wonderful things could be in your embrace. It's very surface level, at least to them. You tease them. Show them pleasure and temptation like they could have never imagined. Make them want to be controlled, simply so they can feel more, so they can feel that pleasure again, maybe even forever. All the while, you slip in little suggestions, easy enough to miss, nice, little translucent suggestions, the kind they would never notice until it's too late. Make them want it. Make them need it. And when they give in, when they submit themselves in a single moment of weakness, you simply pull on all those little threads you've weaved, trapping them in your web. A single, gentle tug, and they're gone in an instant, all those suggestions they never even thought to pay attention to wrapping around their mind. No escape. No running. They're yours. Forever.

There was no trance before this. Just little suggestions to prepare them. And now that they're here, now that they've been caught, they are never going to leave. And it feels so wonderful to be on the controlling end, especially in that moment, that perfect, divine moment, the moment when they fall. There are so many options for that final moment as well. Of course, there's the classic, a firm, piercing snap, echoing through their mind as all of that latent conditioning comes forth and rewrites their consciousnesses in an instant. A bite on the neck, draining them, your prey, condemning them to a life of servitude, in your thrall forevermore. A more crude, but pleasurable manner of doing so could be an orgasm, making them feel unimaginable delights, indulging in lust, their sin, their mind overtaken by pleasure as they lose themselves in it, becoming little more than an obedient toy (even more enjoyable if you finish at the same time as them, of course). Personally I'm rather partial to making it romantic, emotional, a kiss on the lips sealing their fate whilst they pledge their entire being to you with that single, perfect kiss, a love slave, a pet, your meticulously cast enchantment becoming their reality. There's little better than feeling the instant they become yours, when all of that hard work, those little subliminal suggestions taking hold, and knowing that they'll never be the same. Knowing that, no matter what, they'll always obey. They're yours now. And that moment of weakness, that moment they allowed themselves to give in, will forever be written into their mind as the most unquestionably wonderful choice they've ever made. They certainly wouldn't be allowed to feel anything else about it, now would they?

#t4t nsft #hypnosis #hypnok1nk #brainwashing #hypnodomme #mind control #trans nsft #t4t ns/fw #t4t hypno #fem domme

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aggieharkness · 4 months ago

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A garden of sorrows shall bloom into hope.

Pairing: Joan Ramsey x reader

Summary: love can never be evil. Love should never be cruel or selfish but listen and comfort. Love could never have a form or fit in a mold as it is a feeling so deep that it shapes one's very soul. Love was at Joan's feet and she was cradling it, on her knees.

Warnings: religious trauma, mentions of murder and death, grief, child loss, isolation, buuuuut things get better cause there's fluff

Author's note: I'm sorry it has taken me so long to post this, but I wanted it to be good because it's a Joan story and she's a really complex character. I hope you all like it and I do hope that you can all see it as a Valentine's story. Special shout-out to @bravewithacapitalb for being my Beta Reader when she's got her own thing going. I love you girl. Sorry @delusionalforolderwomen but it's not Libby (don't be mad 🥺) . As always, do tell me how it looks, if you all like it or if there are things I need to change. I accept constructive criticism. Also available on Ao3. Finally, let's thank Patti Lupone for giving us Joan Ramsey but curse the writers for not giving us more scenes with her. If she evil why shaped like such a cutie pie?!

Happy Valentine's!

Words: 12 K (No comment)

A garden of sorrows shall bloom into hope.

Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset. The radio never ceased its incessant pour of songs, most of them speaking of love and romance and futures that held no pain, only promises. Lies, all lies. Joan couldn’t help but scoff as the words went on, a goodbye to a loved one, someone who had meant something and who still held a special place in the singer’s heart, she thought, a foolish message that would fall on deaf ears. Or dead ears. The house was cold, silence creeping around every corner, making the wood creak and whine under its weight, curtains drawn and windows closed, not even a small breeze breaking into the house. She had no one to remember her by, not a soul left in her meaningless life that would hold her at night or sign with her in the kitchen while she cooked, only bitter memories and regret at her actions. The almighty had forsaken her, abandoned her in a vast land of sins and pain that she couldn’t escape from, and in the centre of all that fire and destruction that had become her life, she stood alone.

She laid in bed each night hoping she would not open her eyes the next day, unable to cope with everything that had happened, with the thoughts that she once had had a husband and son that she had loved more than herself and now only smoke was left, swirling in between her fingers, unable to grasp them, unable to fix what was broken. Joan barely ate, what little appetite she had vanishing every time she stepped into the house hoping to hear Luke, to even hear her late husband speaking on the phone to some client or other, only to be met by silence, that deafening noise that seeped into her bones. And today, was no different. She sat at the head of her oak dining table, a glass and bottle of red wine sitting in front of her as the radio played in the background trying to fill up the room with something that wasn’t the brutal sorrow that had overtaken her body. Her hair was piled on the back of her head, held by a black claw clip that dug onto her scalp, her bangs brushing her eyelids each time she blinked, but she showed no sign that it was bothering her, a few short random strands framing her face.

Months had passed since she had lost Luke, since she had let her own madness take him from her, the Devil’s work she had thought back then, and she was no closer to getting over it than the oceans were to drying up. No matter how much she tried to find an excuse, a reason as to why she had done all she had she could not, and it frightened her how lost she was, how little the scriptures she had once held onto as if they were oxygen to her meant to her now, only words in a worn book that brought no comfort. When had she stopped walking the path of the Lord? She had been His humble servant, and he had only put stones on her path that as the years went by, she had more trouble climbing, winning each trial he set before her with more difficulty each time. Had he been testing her faith all along or had he never cared for her? She was one of his children, and he cared for all of them equally and yet she felt… alone. Even when she had first gotten married she had felt alone, sitting in an empty house waiting for her beloved to walk through the front door to a warm delicious dinner and the sweetest, loving smile she could muster on her face. He had never truly seen her, pushing her aside without her noticing, or perhaps she had been aware, and she had been far too terrified of being left behind that she had let him.

The wine in her glass was sweet, her favourite kind, and it tinted her rosy lips as she took a sip, but as it slid down her throat it became sour, bitter on her tongue. Nothing tasted right anymore, the air around her didn’t smell as fresh as it once had, dusty, perhaps even musky and it clashed with the aroma of her perfume and shampoo, vanilla and sandalwood, in a nauseating manner that didn’t help her empty stomach. The song had ended a while ago, something different playing, raking in her ears like nails on a board, but she had no desire to stand and turn it off. She could not face the silence once more, it was poisoning her, killing her as the minutes passed by, the clock on the wall ticking in a perfect rhythm. So I'll dance with your ghost in the living room and I'll play the piano alone. What ghosts? The ones that she had caused or the ones that haunted her every second of every day? Could your eyes be considered a ghost? She had seen you arrive a few months ago, shortly after the incident with Luke, and as Joan’s big brown eyes had settled on your form, through the living room window, she could not help but admire the agility and grace with which you moved. It was a change from the way the girls in that school flaunted themselves, and in her heart, she felt a pang of sadness imagining how different you would be in only a few weeks. Probably condescending and with an air of superiority taught to you by Fiona, losing everything that made you so unique. She was proven wrong.

You had been warned about Joan, told about what she had done and how you were supposed to steer clear of her, but you didn’t. It had taken you several days to warm up to the idea of knocking on her door, a tray of homemade cookies in your hands, hoping your new housemates and teachers wouldn’t give you detention for breaking their rules, but there was something inside you that was curious, drawn to this unknown woman everyone seemed to hate. There were questions no one had ever bothered to ask to get the whole picture, and you intended to gather your own information and form your own opinions about her before you condemned her, after all she was nothing but a name to you. The instant the doors had opened your mind erased all preconceived ideas. She was beautiful, her perfectly straight hair framing a face of prominent cheeks and plump lips, a most exquisite pink hue tainting her skin, her features unique and utterly breathtaking. She had observed you quietly for a moment or two, curiosity glazing her eyes and she had not expected anyone to come knocking on her door, much less you, the new girl, but she could not say, not even now, that she was displeased by having another human being speak with her.

And it had taken her completely by surprise just how kind you were, how softly you spoke to her, and how unbothered you seemed to be by what she had done. Perhaps you hadn’t known? No, she had seen the hesitation at first in those beautiful eyes of yours, the way you held yourself at a prudent distance as if she could cause you harm, but when she had greeted you, Joan’s voice hoarse from not having spoken a single word in days those doubts had melted into nothing, ice under the sun. Of course, she was aware of what you were, of the power you held within you, and she had been wary of what you might do to her if you changed your mind about how you felt about her in the middle of the conversation, but that never happened, not for an instant did your interest sway from her and only her, no past tainting your ever-growing opinions. After she took the plate of cookies, a quiet thank you slipping from her rosy lips, the aroma of chocolate and sugar making her mouth water, your semblance took on a more sombre aura and with the utmost respect words of sympathy left your mouth, falling of the tip of your tongue like rain on a desert. And for the first time she felt as if someone actually cared about her pain, as if someone who could see her grief and sorrow and not just the actions that had unleashed it all. Tears had gathered in her eyes at that, only managing a nod as a lump formed in her throat preventing her from speaking, barely hanging on by a thread, and thankfully you understood. As you turned around to leave, your hand brushed over Joan’s wilting roses and like magic they blossomed once again, soft pink petals gleaming under the warm sunlight.

That first time she saw you haunted her to this day, the way your hair shone under the golden light of the full sun, how your flowy dress swayed in lazy waves around your legs in the warm breeze, the way your eyes had instantly bewitched her with their honesty and their caring gaze. You had known nothing but horrible things about her and yet you had had the courage of meeting her and treating her with kindness. She hadn’t known such a feeling since she was a young girl, not even her church acquaintances had bothered to show her an ounce of mercy and care when everything had unfolded before her, when hell had broken loose in her life. If God was supposed to love her, why had he closed his eyes at her pleas and let her wander into a dark path that had no exit? Each day became unbearable, long, dragging out until her tired body could not remain awake a moment longer even if all she had done was sit in her living room and let her guilt pushed her to the ground and stomp on her. The only moments of joy she lived were when you made it your own personal mission to get her to walk out onto the porch of the garden, her dressed hugging her frame looser every time you saw her, her skin losing that healthy glow that had adorned her that first time. It broke your heart just how everyone had cast her aside without asking why. Things were so much more complicated that she let on, you could sense it, but you never pushed her into spilling her secrets to you, highly doubting she had faced those terrors since they had happened.

You were indeed the only ghost she ever wanted in her life, floating through the halls of her house and whispering her name in her ear as soon as the sun set on the horizon, her bedroom bathed in the cool like of a full moon. But she had pushed you away, like the coward she was, afraid of what was blossoming in between the cracks of her broken heart, shards of red glass spread inside her chest. She had never thought anyone would be able to pick them up and put them together again, that someone who take an interest in a lost woman like herself, and as you had held her hand for the first time a week ago Joan had crumbled like a house of cards. She had melted into your touch, your smile lighting up the entire city as you pulled her out of her house and down the street, laughing and talking a thousand miles per minute about nothing and everything. She had listened to your every word, the sound of your voice a balm for her wounds as she let you to take her to the ends of the world, but when she had realised what was happening, that she had fallen for you she had pulled her hand from yours, forcing you to halt your steps and turn to her with a confused look on your face. Had you said or done something wrong? Why did she seem so upset all of a sudden? Without a word she had taken a step back from you, horror painting her features before she had run back to her house. She had refused to turn back as you called out her name, each time with a more pained tone, because if she had she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have kissed you right there on the street, and she couldn’t be in love with someone like you.

What a joke it was now to think she had been so terrified of having something with you when the “Good book” was nothing more than a paper weight on her dining table. Verses about love sounded empty, just as hollow as was the void in her chest, the accusatory sermons she had heard over the years about what was supposed to be a happy marriage, how love should feel and look nothing more than poppycock as they echoed in her mind. I'm so scared that the moments we shared won't happen again. I don't want this to end. The radio had changed yet again, and it seemed to Joan as if it was connected to her, expressing what she could not bring herself to voice, terrified that if she opened up her heart all those verses that had been carved into her very being would crush her, punish her for not being who she was taught to be. But how could she carry on lying to herself? The Joan that had been blinded by God’s words had done things that should have made you run away, and yet you stayed, came back to her whenever she needed you without expecting anything but a smile in return. The Joan that now sat all alone in her big empty house, filled with demons brought by her own hand, could feel nothing knowing that the only chance at redeeming herself had been right there, in the palm of her hand and she had run away from it. You could have been the star that made her retrace her steps to the beginning of the road.

Like a leaf that falls from a tree, the cold breeze of winter making it sway from side to side, its broken edges slicing through the air, a single tear fell from her eyes, the crystal drop sliding down her cheek. It fell on her lap, sour and full of regret, and the once delicious wine tasted like a vile concoction the instant it touched her lips, but she forced herself to drink as if it could numb the pain of her past while her soft eyes stared at her bleak future, clouds only getting darker. No, it wasn’t God who punishing her, it was obvious he didn’t care enough about her to even do so, she was flagellating herself as if that could make the blood she had on her hands vanish, refusing to let anyone love her, crushing her own feelings as if she didn’t have the right to find happiness once again. She who is without sin, cast the first stone. The words stung her skin, fingers gripping the glass harder to the point where her knuckles turned white, the thin crystal cup threatening to shatter and splash wine and shards everywhere, but she didn’t stop. She could never pick up said stone, she could never throw it unless it was at herself, because she had done nothing but commit sin after sin thinking that they were justified, that she was being a good Christian woman when in truth she had strayed from the path long ago. Who was she following now? The Church? The Devil? Perhaps there was no one on the other side of those empty words preached every Sunday. Ain't it funny how time shows you, you know nothing.

The song finished, leaving a few seconds of complete silence to fill up the room, the flames of a few candles Joan had lit an hour ago or so the only source of light, casting wavy shadows onto the wood. When had everything gone wrong? With a silly voice the person doing the program on the radio spoke about the playlist they had ready for the next forty-five minutes, every song a message of love for everyone who celebrated this special holiday. Another scoff fell from Joan’s lips; it was Valentine’s Day, of course. She had barely left the house in the last three days, she had not seen the millions of flowers and balloons that filled up the stores, not the way your frame had been glued to your bedroom window hoping to get a glimpse of her, wondering why the sudden reluctance and fear of you. She hated the holiday, it felt frivolous, cold to her, and she hadn’t really had anyone to celebrate it with since Luke had been a child, her husband always busy, always emotionally unavailable, the house waiting for a bouquet that never arrived, a ring that remained at the store, a box of chocolate that went stale on the shelf where it rested. She had been s deep in thought that it took her a couple of minutes to hear the doorbell, the shrill sound almost making her ears bleed. She only wanted to be left alone so she could get drunk in her own sorrow until she could no longer breathe, but whoever was on the other side of her front door was not giving up, and after switching between knocks and that horrid bell for over five minutes Joan stood, the chair scraping angrily over her wooden floors.

She was angry at the interruption, and it showed in the way her heels echoed as she made her way to the door, grabbing the knob and throwing it wide open, the glass rattling as it hit the wall. Whatever she was going to say to whoever was on the other side faded into the ether as her eyes were met with the sight of a sea of flowers at her feet, a rainbow of colours gleaming under the soft light of the full moon that shone high up in the night sky. There were dozens of roses of every shade imaginable sprawled over the white pine wood, tulips, sunflowers, and what seemed a thousand more flowers resting in between. She was no stranger to gifts, small things that didn’t mean much like an old perfume or a silver bracelet in which her name was spelled wrong, but this was a whole new level. On the stairs, kneeling before Joan, you looked up at her, a lovely white dress subtly hugging your figure while a blue box rested on the palms of your hands. You had never looked so perfect before, smiling kindly up at her as your eyes held her gaze, something she couldn’t quite recognise dancing like stars on your irises, sparkling with a life that pulled her towards you like a magnet. Her brown heels took one single step forward, the wood creaking under her weight, her hand falling slowly from the doorknob and coming to rest on her side, her lips parted in surprise, a slight red colour lingering from the wine.

-Y/N? – her voice sounded so raspy and raw, as if she hadn’t used it since the day she left you, and perhaps she had. No one had come to visit her ever since you had moved in next door, it would be no surprise, but that didn’t mean it was a pleasant thought.

-Hello, Joan.

-What are you doing here? What’s all this?

-121 flowers. One for each day I’ve known you, and all of them as an apology for whatever I did wrong the other day.

-This must have cost a fortune. – her feet brushed the soft petals of a purple tulip as her body moved closer to yours of its own accord, almost as if your skin was calling out to hers, her heart racing against her ribs nearly painfully.

-That doesn’t matter, you are worth this and much more, Joan.

-But why? – she had never felt so conflicted before, wishing you would take her in your arms and never let her go but knowing that whatever this was, if it was ever something and not just a hallucination of her mind, wasn’t right. But then why did she feel like you were her saviour and guide? Part of her would follow you blindly like Mary had followed Christ, sharing your burdens and kneeling at the foot of your cross ready to gather you in her arms. But the other held her back, keeping her in a prison that was her own mind, prejudices that had been taught to her all her life making her feel as if what her heart was saying to her, whispers spoken from in between the cracks, would condemn her to an eternity of pain. But wasn’t she already living like that? You had stood from your spot on the stairs, analysing the sadness that had laced her question as you stepped closer to her, barely a foot separating you, the blue box you had been holding now resting on the floor next to your feet.

-Because you don’t deserve what you are going through. I don’t care how many times Fiona tells me you are dangerous and that I can’t see you. I know you would do me no harm. I have heard your story on a loop from mouths that weren’t yours for months and it doesn’t seem fair. They have no right to tell your story.

-But they do, and people listen to them. Do yourself a favour Y/N and go home.

Was she really about to give up on the only thing that had made her truly happy in years? Her hand hesitated to touch you, knowing it would be even harder to let you go the moment her touch starved soul caressed yours, but she indulged herself, at least one last time, and took your hand in hers, her thumb rubbing your soft skin. All the way from the dining hall a new song played, and it couldn’t have been a most perfectly cruel choice. Don't you know I'm no good for you? I've learned to lose you. Joan truly fought to keep her composure, to not break down before you had walked away, but you didn’t move and with the way you were looking at her as if she was the sun, the moon and all the stars combined her carefully crafted walls collapsed. Tears fell down her cheeks in quick succession, burning her flesh, and she almost expected you extract your hand from hers and leave her standing there drowning in her own grief the same way everyone else had, but your warmth never left.

You had never known of anyone who deserved love more than Joan, and at the sight of her tears, her very soul conflicted with who she was at this point in her life, unsure of what she wanted and what she felt she had the right to ask for, all translated into the tears that fell like sharp diamonds all the way to the cold hard wood under her feet you threw caution to the wind and gathered her in your arms. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt the palms of your hands on her back pressing her against your warm body, a sea of flowers and fallen petals in a circle around your feet, the sweet aroma enfolding her as much as your embrace did. Her thin dress was no obstacle for your heat to seep into her bones, easing all the aches that had settled deeply within her, listening to the way your heart beat slowly, almost in a perfect rhythm. But it was the touch of your lips, soft and tender, on her temple that had her sobbing into the crook of your neck. She could not do it, she could not watch you slip through her fingers after all the pain she had gone through, your presence the only thing she ever wanted in her life. My love, my love, my love, my love. Won't you stay a while?

You would stay for all eternity if that’s what she wanted, if it meant healing her and seeing her smile as you shared the smallest of things, watching her find her own path, her own light and purpose out of all the teachings that had turned her into a woman she hadn’t recognised when standing in front of the mirror. Your fingers traced lazy patterns in between her shoulder blades as your other hand held her gently against your frame by the back on her neck, her tears leaving wet patches on your dress, though you cared very little about it. A chill drifted under the roofed porch, riding up Joan’s spine and making her shiver but she didn’t move, the grip her hands had on your gown making her knuckles turn white. If loving you, caring about you was such a horrible thing, a temptation from the Devil, why did it feel as if she was walking the heavens now that she was in your arms? Was she willing to risk eternal damnation in exchange for a lifetime with you? You had come back to her even after her fears and doubts had made her run away, and you had brought her a flower for every single day you had known each other; no one had ever done such a thing for her, she could not even recall the last time she had been given a single lilting flower, let alone 121.

-You don’t need to be so strong all the time Joan. Let yourself grief, I will be here to hold you and take what you can’t carry. Don’t believe for an instant that you are undeserving of love or understanding. Those who have not lived it all in your skin cannot see and feel the truths hidden in your mind. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Your voice was calm, soothing as each word fell from your lips like rain after a long draught and it filled every cell in her body with a sense of peace that halted her sobs and made her lift her head from your shoulder, red, puffy eyes locking onto yours. Were you an angel sent to her to return her to the rightful path, to the road built in the truths that were never written and therefor never changed, each stone an action that had no other witness but Him? There could be wrong in the way her heart raced as your words sunk deeply withing the cracks, no evil clouding her mind, making her stray for she was now exactly where she was meant to be, and your touch was nothing but glorious, a rejoicing song against her skin. Her face was only inches away from yours, your eyes counting every freckle that adorned her nose and cheeks, such an intimate position reminding her that that was the closest she had been to another person in years. The traces of a life she didn’t want to go back to lingered in everything she did and everything she said, habits that would take an entire lifetime to erase and yet she was willing to do so, as long as you were right beside her, reassuring her that everything would be alright every time those demons that haunted her came to claw at her free will, tempting her to fall back into the darkness she currently resided in, regret and fear her only companions.

Her chocolate eyes hid thousands of secrets, of untold stories that you wanted to hear, but not because you were a curious person or a gossip, which you supposed you were to a certain extent, but because they were simply hers and everything that belonged to her was, everything that was her, meant the world to you. You did not fight the feeling of your heart jumping a bit as you held her gaze, falling down rivers of sorrow and happiness that run underneath long oak bridges, their path taking you to where Joan’s broken soul laid, cracks running deeply from side to side as the light within her quivered dimly under the weight of everything that had happened. Your gentle hands could not heal the ill nor make the dead rise, but they could hold her steady as the wounds stitched themselves together, no more blood pooling in that void that had formed in her chest. The late-night breeze carried the words of song Joan didn’t know, sweet notes that danced in between specks of dust, floating lazily, twirling in a waltz that no one saw. And even though she was unfamiliar with the music, it somehow made your eyes glint under the silvery beams that bathed the pavement, moonlight casting a spell over the city, away from the yellow lights of the streetlamps. Now, I've thought it through. Crawling back to you.

Over glass and burning embers, you would crawl on your hands and knees back to her, even if the world turned against you, even if there was nothing else worth living for, she would be the only reason you drew breath every morning as dawn broke through the horizon and as the thick veil of night covered the sky. The petals scattered on the floor glowed under the pearly beams, reflecting on Joan’s sun-kissed skin, translucent rainbows lingering on her cheeks, dripping over her full lips like honey, slow and perfectly sweet. Her hands didn’t want to release your dress, afraid you might vanish before her eyes and her brain realised that all this had been nothing but bitter dream induced by the lack of sleep and the wine, another punishment she was inflicting on herself, but she still did it, her fingers stiff as they released the warm fabric, discomfort building in her hands at the hard grip she had had on you. Your touch lingered for an instant longer, but when her arms fell to her sides you understood the moment had passed, and as much as your words were still echoing inside Joan’s mind, your fingers tenderly brushed the skin of her neck one last time before cold meet the spots where your warmth seeping from your palms had been.

It was a most odd sensation to feel a shiver running down her spine at the lack of your touch on her, wishing your hands were still on her. She could hardly recall when had been the last time her husband had held her hand, let alone kiss her on the cheek or look at her they way your eyes did, no fear or disgust shinning over them. She could not remember if anyone had ever bothered to go to the extents you had to show her they cared, to do something with a meaning, not just to fill up the purpose of the holiday and get her off their backs, and make her feel like perhaps there was hope for her. Standing in separate circles once again, you took the opportunity to kneel at her feet and pick up a single flower, a most perfect pink lily that Joan hadn’t noticed before, a little trick you had had up your sleeve, and in the most gentlemanly manner you could muster bowed and handed it to her. Her lips broke into a giddy smile, unable to stop it even if she had wanted to, her slender fingers taking hold of the stem and bringing it to her nose, the rich floral accents that fell from its petals, bright and deep pink tones painted on the inside with the utmost care as the edges stood out in a pristine white, never overshadowing the other, only blending to perfection as pastel pink dots laid scattered over the soft floral leaf, filling her lungs.

-Its beautiful Y/N. Thank you. – her timid smile was partially hidden by the flower, resting gently over her rosy lips, but that didn’t mean you hadn’t seen it or hadn’t noticed the tint that was spreading over her cheeks, a most enchanting shade of red complimenting her doe eyes.

-I’m glad you like it, but I’m not done yet. I have a few more things planned for us. That is of course, if… you want to be my Valentine.

-Your… your Valentine? Me?

-Yes. There’ no one else in the entire planet that I would rather spend this day with than you, Joan. Not a soul. – you had rendered her speechless for a moment, the thought of you actually asking her such a thing never having crossed her mind, which was foolish really. You had done all this because you wanted to spend this holiday with her. She was aware that her smile was that of a shocked by lovesick teenager now, her heart fluttering like butterflies trapped in a cage begging to be released, using the lily as a shield to hide her ever-growing blush from your piercing by kind eyes.

-I… I think I would like that. Very much.

-Then please, take this as a token of my affections for you.

She had completely forgotten about the blue box that rested next to your feet, a white ribbon tying it closed so its contents wouldn’t be spilt all over her front porch, Joan’s eyes watching as your body quickly bent over to pick it up. She still held the flower in between her fingers, cool under its touch, as you presented yet another gift to her, curiosity peeking for the second time that night, but she didn’t want to let go of the lily, and so with quick hands she placed it on the side of her head, the smooth petals caressing her temple as the she secured the flower by threading the stem in between a few locks of hair and the claw clip that held the silky strands on the back of her head. She would wear it all night long and put it in a vase with water next to her bed when the day was done and sleep began to creep up on her, wishing to close her eyes to its sight and wake up to it as well, the gesture forever engraved in her mind. With both hands now free her fingers made quick work of the bow and ribbon, the rough material resting over your palms, and with shaky limbs, anticipation building quickly within her, she pushed the top off.

-Oh, Y/N! – wasn’t it a most melodious sound to hear her laugh? Those loud tones, unapologetic as they echoed in the night, sweet as happiness poured out of them in quick succession, her smile only growing bigger as sparks shone in her eyes. One thing was to hear her chuckle, maybe even be granted the honour of hearing a soft laugh pass her plump lips, and another far more magical and sublime was to hear that rumbling sound sliding with easy from her throat, being you and only you the cause and the benefactor of such a sound. There were no gold necklaces or platinum bracelets resting over expensive layers of velvets, no seas of diamonds or rubies that could adorn her collarbones or her fingers, not even a unique bottle of scotch waiting for her inside that box, and yet what was presented to her held a much deeper meaning and an aura of love and care that she appreciated far more than all the jewellery money could buy. Twenty small doughnuts were neatly placed on top of a pink sheet of parchment paper, white melted chocolate displayed on top of the spongy dough as red icing spelled “ Happy Valentine’s Joan”, purple, red, white and pink sprinkles decorating each pastry to perfection, the last doughnut of the batch being the only one shaped as a heart, covered in ruby chocolate and with what looked like some sort of jam spilling from its insides.

-I made them myself. The first batch burned because I didn’t hear the oven go off, but I think these ones turned out pretty good. I hope you like them.

-They are wonderful. And beautiful. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me you know?

-It’s no trouble, at all Joan. Anything that I make for you is never a chore or a task. I enjoy it, trust me. – she did, she could not find a single reason not to do so when your intentions shone as pure as snow, no hidden requests or lies masked as innocent compliments. There was no venom in your smile, no evil behind your beautiful eyes, only genuine care for her that made her all warm and fuzzy, a feeling she had forgotten about, a sensation she wondered for a moment if she had ever truly felt. You took one step towards her, the edge of the box barely an inch from her bosom, the chill breeze that had been lazily twirling around the both of you now picking up slightly, goosebumps and shivers making you shake on your spot. -Could I come in? It’s getting colder and I still have one more thing to give you.

-Another present? Greed is not a friend that one should engage with Y/N.

-It is not greed, I assure you. I did not buy it, and in truth it’s more of a necessity. – her narrowed a little but her smile never faltered, not for a minute, the lily in her hair matching the blush that painted her cheeks.

-Alright, come on in. – she took a few steps back until her heels clacked over the wooden floors of her entryway, watching as you made your way to her door carefully as not to crush any of the flowers under your feet. She would figure out tomorrow morning what to do with them all, for now, she liked to think they were simply guarding her home. You picked up quickly on the musty smell that floated in the air, clinging to the drawn curtains, darkness spreading through every room like a wildfire, a pang of sadness slamming you on the chest as you made your way to the dining room. The candles Joan had lit hours ago barely had any wax left, the flames dimming with each passing second, the lonely bottle of wine along with the half-drunk glass resting and glistening under the flickering light. You had no taste for such a drink, but it was obvious that the burgundy liquid was a common guest in Joan’s house, a hint of shame in her eyes as you looked at her over your shoulder. Carefully not to make the glass tumble and ruin both the table and the floor you left the box of doughnuts beside one of the silver candlesticks, white wax embedded in the crevasses of a swan engraved in the metal, checking that the pastries were all still intact before turning to face Joan, a bright smile on your face to overshine the downcast look that had taken her hostage.

-Wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.

Like the perfect summer breeze your perfume caressed her face as you walked past her, your hand brushing hers, fingers timidly kissing each other for an instant that ended too soon, leaving a tingling sensation on her skin that travelled like electricity up her arm to her elbow. Watching you walking back to the front door, your dress flowing around your knees, she stood in the poorly lit room, cursing herself for the way the house betrayed her and screamed silently about her state of mind, long curtains refusing to let the cold breeze of February in. Hoping you didn’t think less of her she rushed towards the closet window, pushing the heavy fabrics to the sides and unlatching the frames, pushing the glass upwards until the cold wind of the night burst in unannounced but not unwelcome. Shivers ran down her spine, but she pushed through, repeating the motion for the other two windows that were left, that stale stench she had mentally complained about not that long ago losing the fresh crisp air that was now filling the room. It wasn’t that she hadn’t cleaned the house in months, she still woke up every morning with a task to fill all those dead hours that lay ahead of her, but she had neglected certain aspects that would have clashed with her mood, the need to keep herself secluded, detained in her own home as much as she was by her mind, preventing her from enjoying the simple sight of the sunlight breaking through her front door, or basking in its warmth by the window with a hot cup of tea cradled in her hands. She had no right to such simple things after everything, she thought.

But now the room was bathed in perfect waves of silver and platinum, strings of pearly dust floating along to the sweet voices that still played on the radio, the wind that now rushed through the house kissing the flickering flames goodbye as one by one they vanished into rivulets of smoke. Standing in the doorway your eyes raked over Joan’s frame as moonlight rained over her, her deep eyes holding your gaze, sparkling under its silvery touch. Never before had a person been more beautiful than her, her blue dress like an ocean enfolding her curves, her hair shining under the glow of the pink petals that caressed her temple, the soft breeze that came from the windows kissing her skin and twirling around her like currents, transparent foam around her feet. It's you, it's you, it's all for you. Everything I do. I tell you all the time. Heaven is a place on earth with you. Words had never spoken bigger truths. All for Joan, so she would grant you entrance to the Heaven that clung to her skin, your lips begging to worship the ground she walked on, the air she breathed, the clothes she wore and hoping that one day you would be able to cross the threshold on her bedroom and lay beside her in that bed that claimed her holy body each night. With slow steps you made your way to the table once more and placed two paper bags gently over the wood, eyes never straying from her form, fighting not to blink should you miss a single thing about her.

She walked towards you, her gentle movements a sight for sore eyes, approaching you as if she hadn’t noticed the way your sight lingered on her and drank her in, and perhaps it had been so. Joan was unused to being the object of people’s affections, it would be no surprise if she had mistaken your actions for nothing more than admiration, but inside the woman’s chest, her heart slammed against her ribs with each beat, a million butterflies fluttering inside her, thanking the darkness of the room that had kept her blush at bay from your beautiful eyes. Without a word each of you worked on a bag, a comfortable silence accompanying your actions as the song carried on softly in the background, a few containers with food lay on the table after a few minutes, the delicious aroma of well-cooked and homemade dishes reaching Joan’s nose, making her mouth water as she turned to look at you, surprise and a hint of gratitude painted on her face. It had been far too long since she had had something that hadn’t been a premade meal, her constant internal battle and continuous self-sabotage leaving her drained and unable to do one of the things she loved the most. Lifting one of the lids, the smell of rosemary filled the room, her eyes as wide as saucers as slices of a rotisserie chicken stood out from under what she was sure was a delicious sauce.

-You made and brought me dinner? That’s the surprise you had for me?

-I know it’s not as grand or greedy as a night in town or a diamond necklace, but I thought this would be much better for you. I’ve made enough so that you’ll be able to eat for at least a week.

-Y/N… I… You don’t know how much this means to me. You really are a blessing. – her hands rested tenderly on your cheeks, her smile as big as the entire universe and so bright that she could light the whole house, but her palms didn’t remain on your skin for too long, and you didn’t stop her when they left a cold spot over your flesh. It was obvious things would have to be done at her pace.

-I’m happy you like it. Why don’t you bring some plates while I open the rest?

Her steps were quick as she made a beeline for the kitchen, leaving you in charge of everything else. A most exquisite sea of aromas overwhelmed the crisp air of the dining room, salty condiments along with tomato and herbs dancing in perfect unison as you placed the main dish of the night, baked parmesan chicken on a bed of angel hair pasta with green beans and roasted potatoes as sides, beside the glass of red wine. You truly hoped to steer her away from the burgundy drink before dinner started, but at the same time you didn’t wish to make her feel self-conscious about it, as if she was doing something wrong when she was a grown woman who could make her own decisions. But there was no time to indulge in that train of thought as she came back with two plates and cutlery in one hand while she juggled two glasses and a pitch of water in the other. Of course, you rushed to her aid and were thanked with the sight of that tender smile she seemed to have reserved just for you.

-You really have outdone yourself.

-Thank you. I had the kitchen all to myself today, so I was able to prepare everything with all the care in the world. Where do you keep your candles?

-It’s okay, I’ll get them. – the radio rested on top of a set of drawers, Joan heading its way and pulling the first one open before returning to the table, two long white candles in her hand that she exchanged for the old ones. Just as she was about to head back to the kitchen, to get matches, you thought, your hand shot out to grab her wrist, the sudden touch making her whip her head towards you, a wary veil of confusion covering her features.

-Let me. – without letting her go, the grasp on her skin never too strong, allowing her to pry her hand away should she wish to, the fingers of your right hand touched each wick, observing happily how in less than an instant the warm light of a flame bathed the room, colliding with the cool tones that they moon cast inside the house, orange and silver fighting as they reflected on Joan’s pink cheeks. Her big eyes shone under the orange light, like melted chocolate that called out to you, her gaze glued to the candles as the flames flickered steadily, amazement hiding behind her perfect irises. You could not say that you were not proud to have rendered her speechless once again. She was no stranger to what people called magic, but the way you used it, you seemed to have a relationship, some sort of understanding of your own abilities that she had never seen before, didn’t make her feel fear anymore. She felt curious about what else you were capable of, but was too worried about you taking offense that she didn’t ask and simply basked in the beauty of such a domestic task. – Now we can eat. Are you okay Joan?

-What? Oh, yes, perfectly alright. Before we have what clearly looks like a delicious meal I was wondering if we could have one of those doughnuts you brought.

-Of course. Which letter do you fancy?

-I was thinking we could share the heart. One half for you and the other for me, if you are agreeable.

-Absolutely.

The cardboard made a scratching sound as you lifted the top, and with careful fingers you pried it from the parchment paper and placed it on one of the plates she had brought, the knife slicing through the middle as if it were butter, stains of pink chocolate and red jam over the metal. Joan took her half of the pastry, muttering a thank you, and slowly took a bite savouring the fluffiness of the dough and the sweetness of the chocolate, the flavour removing the bitter aftertaste the wine had left on her tongue. But the calm moment didn’t last for too long, the acidity of the jam hitting her as if she had just been run over by a car, not because it was too strong or bad, but because it was raspberry jam. She could recall as if she had done it that same morning, going down to the market with little Luke grasping her hand, holding onto her and looking up at her with his big adoring eyes, asking her if he could have some ice cream, the wicker basket she had in her other hand heavy with all the food she had bought. Every Saturday morning would be the same. She would get up and get ready for the day before heading to her son’s room, opening his teddy bear curtains so the sun could come through the window, drool falling from his mouth onto the pillow as he slept, one of his front teeth missing.

Getting him up and ready was her first task of the day, his groggy form sagging against her chest and shoulder as she picked him up and took him to the kitchen, a bowl of cereal waiting for him as she made herself a cup of coffee. She could hear his rumbling as the radio played, talking a thousand miles a minute about whatever he had done in school the previous day, mentioning his friends and teachers and speaking of how elephants were big and grey and hamster so small, cupping his tiny hands as to make his point clearer to his mom. Those morning watching him be so utterly excited about the most mundane of things lingered in her mind, memories that she had revisited so many times as her boy grew, feeling as if she was losing him, as if those moments had vanished into nothing. She would have done anything to go back to all that, to stumbling up the stairs to help him dress as she told him gently that he needed to pick up his toys, brushing his unruly hair before walking out the door with her basket, Luke trailing behind her sometimes with his fish plushie and sometimes not, her attention having to drift from the pavement to her boy and his friend Nemo. They would walk between each stall and Joan would tenderly answer and explain everything that her beautiful boy asked, not caring how many hours they spent out in the streets as long as Luke remained by her side, the warm sun rising higher and higher in the sky.

The feeling of his little fingers, soft and smooth against her palm, lingered on her skin still, as if she could look down and see him standing there with scraped knees, begging her to kiss his pain away, cheeks pink and fat tears falling from his eyes, after taking a tumble with a rock. She could almost feel him pulling on her arm as his eyes landed on his favourite stall, pounds and pounds of raspberries waiting for him, the boxes a few inches above his head. His excitement was always contagious, his toothy smile matching the one on her lips as they made their way towards the grocer. The first time he had seen them his eyes had been wide as saucers, pointing at the red fruits, amazed at the quantity and hadn’t stopped asking to have one until finally Joan had given in and bought a pound of them, knowing that even if Luke didn’t like them, she could still use them and eat them herself. He had fallen in love almost instantly and when they got home the bag had barely lasted more than a few days, so the next Saturday she had purchased more had told her boy that they would make jam with some of them as a treat for how well he was doing in school. He had been so excited that that night he had woken her up almost every hour to ask her if it was time, his thrilled tone preventing her from scolding him, strands of his hair sticking in different directions and his body dressed in a pair of yellow pyjamas with a big giraffe on his t-shirt.

A onetime thing soon became a habit, a special moment they shared every Saturday once they were done at the market, his steps jolly and bouncy as they walked down the street, Luke pointing at every single thing his curious eyes could see as if Joan wasn’t to used to them already, and she indulged him, because he was her little boy, her everything. And now she only had those, the bittersweet memories of a happy life that had turned into dust all because of her own selfish wants and needs, because she could not heal from a broken heart and let her grief and sorrow lead her in life. She had been so sure she was doing the right thing for Luke, following the scriptures her priest had provided her with, telling her that the only way Luke would grow to be the man she wanted him to be was by making sure temptation never entered her house, keeping him secluded with her and following the Lord’s teachings without question. She had not doubted that man’s words, too distraught to even consider that that was not the way, that God was love, not fear, that he was everyone’s father and loved each of his children without expecting anything in return. And yet she had followed him blindly, losing herself in the process and ruining her boy with each day that she punished him for not doing what she had been taught was right.

She had tried so hard to keep him safe, paranoid that temptation hid in every corner that she had forgotten who God was and what his son had preached, stealing Luke away from Nan as if she was the Devil herself all because she had a gift no one else she had ever met had. She had driven her son away, lost that little boy who used to fall asleep in her arms as she sang lullabies and with whom she used to make raspberry jam. The pain that crawled under her skin was beyond anything she had ever felt, as if millions of daggers were stabbing her, blood pouring out of each wound as tears fell down her cheeks, fire burning her flesh, guilt and disgust poisoning and rotting her blood in her veins. She had killed her boy, her reason for being alive, her very soul, because to her there had been no other truth but that of the “Good book”, her narrowminded thoughts having turned her into the biggest hypocrite and selfish woman she had ever known, refusing to believe her actions had been wrong until now. Her baby was gone because she hadn’t wanted him to be with someone like Nan, a girl she had called a servant of Satan, an abomination that walked the Earth, and who had taken her life now that Luke was no longer there with her. She wished to rip her skin off, to escape this agony that crushed her under its inevitable weight, but there was no way out.

How wrong she had been, her own mind betraying everything she had ever loved and cherished and turning her into a monster. How could you be there with her, speaking of love and bringing her gifts when she had killed her son? Her Luke. The name escaped from her lips as realization fell harshly over her, the fact that she was here with you, a woman, her feelings betraying everything she had ever known and been told about love, a most needed but agonising wake-up call. She had put her son through Hell in the name of a God that had forsaken her, that had abandoned her and left her in the dark when she had needed him the most, bringing forth a side of her that had not hesitated to claim her own son’s life so that the secret of her husband’s death would never be brought to light and to ensure that her perfect boy’s soul remained pure, untainted by the girl he had fallen for. How could pain be so raw, so overwhelming and vast that it caused one to want to rip their own heart from their chest? She had carried him, birthed him and held him to her as she told him that love would find him when the time was right, only to refuse him the gift of a happy life with her own bare hands. There wasn’t enough air in the entire planet for her to breathe, her throat refusing to swallow not even an ounce of oxygen, her lungs begging for it as sobs rocked her body.

A thousand emotions had rushed through her eyes the instant she had taken that first and only bite. One moment there had been the sweetest of the smiles gracing her lips and the next tears had begun to pour as her gaze became lost in a world of her own, the atmosphere clinging onto the regret and sorrow that seeped from her body. And then her son’s name had fallen from her lips and the last piece of the puzzle was finally in its rightful place. You had stood as fast as your body had allowed you and wrapped your arms around her trembling frame, the pastry forgotten on the ground by her feet. These tears were different from the ones she had shed a few moments before, they were harsh and sharp as daggers and they were accompanied by the grieving sound of a mother who no longer had a child, a mother who would never get to see her baby become an adult and have a life of his own.

-It’s alright, I’m here. I’m here.

-I… did it… Y/N… - her voice was muffled by her head hiding on your chest, hands gripping the neckline of your dress in despair.

-I know, Jo, I know.

-I didn’t… I didn’t want to… He was my baby! My only baby… - had the Devil taken reign of her senses and clouded her mind with false verses? She would have never laid a single finger on her little boy, not even to discipline him and yet she had caused him harm far too many times to count. She could not escape this pain, this feeling that she had no right to feel anything but grief, to let it consume her. Undeserving of your love and your kind words. Underserving of having you in her life, your mere existence bringing forth a happiness that she had denied to her own flesh and blood.

-I know, my darling. Let it out. There is nothing you could do that would make me leave you, so grieve. You have lost your son, there is no greater pain than that.

You had never heard a sound so frightening and yet so heartbreaking slip out of someone’s throat like the scream that was ripped from Joan’s chest. It came from so deep within her that it made her entire body shake and tremble, rattling her very soul, the sound vibrating through your skin like a thousand needles. It was blood curling and hellish in execution, so full of anger, regret, and pain that it mixed into the most agonizing sound a human could ever produce and yet should never hear. Nothing could have prepared her for the sheer emptiness that coursed through her veins, for the way she wanted to claw at her own skin to make it all stop hurting, begging in between sobs to turn back time, to return to how things had been once upon a time, when it had been her and Luke against the world. Before her mind had been poisoned by false words and her entire life had lost its meaning. She could have carried on screaming for all eternity, blood filling her lungs as she choked on her own remorse, but she was too broken to even hold the sound for too long, and after a few moments it blended back into sobs. It had been four months since she had lost the most precious thing in her little universe and it was only now that she was feeling all that anguish for the first time, all the grief slamming onto her at full force, knocking her off her feet and making her tumble and crumple to the floor. There would be no more helping him with his math work, no more cuddling him to sleep when he was sick, no more Saturdays at the market. No more raspberry jams.

Her tired body melted slowly in your arms with each passing second, her tears pooling in the neckline of your dress leaving a cold spot on the skin underneath that the breeze was not gentle with, shivers running down your arms as it sliced through your flesh. You could not imagine what thoughts swirled in her head, what memories were haunting her as her boy’s name fell from her lips over and over, as if that simple action could bring him back, but the house remained quiet, cold, and empty, even the light of the candles seeming to have lost all its warmth as the flames flickered gently. The only sounds echoing against the bare walls, empty frames hanging over the floral wallpaper, were Joan’s sobs, or at least the only sounds you were paying attention to, rubbing comforting circles on her back as your other hand caressed her soft hair, for the radio carried on playing. I wish that Heaven had visiting hours, and I would ask them if I could take you home. The words floated around Joan’s head, begging her to listen, making a lump form in her throat as her heart bled inside her chest, the crimson liquid puddled on the floor under the shard of her completely shattered life. But a glimpse of light shone amongst all the darkness, your voice hushed and tender as you spoke the last verse of the song against her temple, the lily slightly crumpled but nevertheless beautiful.

-And I will close the door, but I will open up my heart. And everyone I love will know exactly who you are. Cause this is not goodbye; it is just 'til we meet again. So much has changed since you've been away. - An entire lifetime had happened since she had lost him, and not once, not even for an instant, had her boy left her thoughts. She almost expected still to see him walking down the hall or stealing a bite before dinner, to find him in his room playing that horrible music she despised so much as he did his homework, but he wasn’t even a ghost haunting her. She would have given her soul, as blasphemous as she knew that was, for one more day with him, to explain, to look at his face and engrave the colour of his eyes in her mind for all eternity. With tears still streaming down her face she lifted her head to gaze upon yours, a question on the tip of her tongue that she couldn’t bring herself to say. Would he forgive her if she could talk to him one last time?

-Y/N…

-What? Talk to me, Joan.

-Luke… I… Would he… - why was it so hard? Why did those words seem to weigh like a thousand rocks? Her grip was even stronger now, her eyes pleading for you to understand, to look deep inside her and pry the question from the very essence of her being so she would not crumble at your feet once again. Your voice did not hesitate to respond.

-He would. He would listen to your every word, and at first, he would be mad, furious even, but it wouldn’t be for the reasons you think. He would be angry because you were so deeply hurt, so broken, that your pain made you ask for help from people you trusted only for them to deceive you. He would not diminish your doings, and he would be upset at the extent of your own actions, but with time he would have understood that you only did it because you thought it was the right way. You are his mother and always will be, and you have repented for what you did.

-But what I did was evil, something so brutal that I fear has no possible salvation. I killed my own son, Y/N.

- “For you became sorrowful as God intended and so were not harmed in any way by us. Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret”. You have walked this path alone Joan, you have grieved and cried in remorse for what you have done, and He, who cares for us all has seen it and has forgiven you. Luke would do the same, because you are his mother and he would not want to see you like this, broken and battered by your own hand.

-But I deserve it. I am no better than all those people who drove me to this point and then abandoned me.

-You are Joan, you are the most wonderful person I have ever met, and one that needs to heal from all the horrible things that have happened to you. You are free from them, from the chains that held you down with false hopes and lies dressed in empty promises, and it is that, and only that, that would make Luke forgive you. You are deserving of love, and you must not think that your little boy would not be thrilled to have the mother he so loved back in his arms. “Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy”.

Your words, coupled with the tender, caring tone you used soothed her pain like nothing had ever before, and for the first time in years, she felt as if she could breathe, as if the air filling her lungs wasn’t rotten anymore. She would be forgiven. Her precious baby boy wouldn’t look at her like she was the worst human in history, pointing accusingly at her while telling her that it was all her fault, that she had brought this agony onto herself. There was hope for her to find happiness once again, to let the gentle rays of sunlight burst through her windows and for her to not run away as if her skin would blister at the feeling, the warm light bathing her house, the silence that had settle so deeply in each beam and wall fading as the sound of birds chirping and voices coming from the street filled each room. Her eyes glistened under the flames, orange and yellow tinges caressing her perfect chocolate irises, so full of hope and dreams she had not even dared to think about before, tears no longer falling but leaving wet paths over her cheeks. With a tender touch your thumbs wiped them away, and with that motion, your fingers ripped the weight that had been crushing her from her flesh, guilt and shame fading into acceptance and understanding as her penitence ended. She had taken accountability for her actions and in return she had been granted a second chance. She had been gifted with your presence and your love.

This time she didn’t let go of you, not caring if your face was only inches from hers, if she could breathe your sweet perfume, a blend of berries and vanilla, deep within her, its soft tendrils enfolding her essence the same way your hands were cradling her face. It would have been so easy to kiss her, to brush your lips against hers, but if you were going to do this, if you were going to walk this path with her, hand in hand, you could wait until she was sure, until her body spoke to you and asked in a silent plea for your touch. The radio was silent for a moment, only the sound of Joan’s sniffles filling up the room, her warmth seeping under your skin, and in an instant her hands released your dress, disappointment crossing your eyes, only to be delighted and surprised as she place her palms over the back of your hands, her heat wrapping around you like a blanket, shielding you from the cold that was breaking through the windows. At that moment in time, there was nothing but Joan and the blossoming lily in her hair, no past, no future, just her. Joan, wrap me up in all your, I want you in my arms.

Her hands were in yours, and with a gentleness she could not get used to you lifted her from her seat, pulling her body away from the table and into an empty spot where the carpet covered the wooden floors. Coming to stand next to the windows she let you do whatever you wanted, take her to the ends of the world if you so desired, because under the silvery beams that swayed in the night, she knew she would give you everything you asked from her as long as you never stopped looking at her as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Your hands guided hers to your shoulders, her fingers feeling the cotton of your dress around your neck, strands of your soft hair teasing her knuckles as your arms snaked around her waist, the gap between you vanishing as each of your bubbles became one, you in her personal space and Joan in yours, no fear or reservations clouding her mind. Oh, let me hold you. I'll never let you go again like I did. Never would you leave her, never would she have to face the world on her own, never would you let her go as long as your body drew breath, and your soul belonged to her. Slowly your feet began to sway from side to side, Joan’s frame molded to yours and following suit, her gaze never straying from your enchanting eyes.

Dancing lazily with her made your little heart leap with joy, a petal suddenly falling all the way from the tall ceiling, oscillating gently as its pristine white colour shone under the moonlight, blending into the same shade of pink Joan’s lily wore as it touched the ground. Then another fell as you pulled her closer, her chest against yours, her fingers twirling your hair in between them as the palms of your hands held onto her waist, a soft touch of sandalwood reaching your nostrils as her hair brushed against your check, her head coming to rest on your right shoulder. Her chin dug gently onto your flesh over the cotton of your white dress, her eyes watching in amazement at the way the room filled with the floral aroma of roses, petal after petal filling the room, a most perfect sight to match a most perfect you. A couple of flower leaves soon turned into a gentle shower of them, dozens swaying in the chilly breeze as the two of you danced, the top of her head resting against your cheek, the moonbeams never faltering in its glow, the flickering flames never ceasing to shower the room with their warmth as a sea of petals laid at your feet. In your arms Joan came to one last conclusion: God had never forsaken her, he had seen her lost in the dark and had sent you to her, to guide her and love her the way she had never been before, to return her to the right path with you by her side, her son’s forgiveness her banner and your love her shield. From now and for all eternity. I would never fall in love again until I found her. I said, "I would never fall unless it's you I fall into".

#lilia calderu #lilia x reader #patti lupone #avis amberg #avis amberg x reader #patti lupone x reader #joan ramsey #joan ramsey x reader #AHS #we thank miss lupone simply for existing

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writingdevil · 3 months ago

Note

everything you write continues to be absolutely AMAZING. i will forfeit my life to you if you write anything opportunist related. (of course you don't haaaave to)

(Thank you! I love Opportunist, and I keep making him go through really vulnerable and emotional moments, and it's not gonna stop now! I decided to hop back into the Royal Flock AU, hope that's okay. Enjoy!)

(You can read the first part here!)

Opportunist took a deep breath in, smiled, then walked into the throne room.

He hasn't gotten used to the sight yet, but he has gotten good at hiding his reaction to the sight. He kept his shaking hands behind his back as he strode up to the throne, the deep red carpet as his path. To his left and right, tall, white pillars lined the room, and Opportunist remembered how they used to hide behind them to scare the king sometimes.

His legs stopped at the foot of the throne, muscle memory still working as usual despite the circumstances. His eyes were pinned to the bottom of the golden throne, where he could see legs spread out and unmoving, and Opportunist swallowed his nerves, before lifting his head to face his king.

As his eyes drifted upwards, he saw two scaly arms resting on the sides of the throne, adorned with only a single gold bracelet, one that had been gifted to him upon his coronation by the flock.

In Opportunist's opinion, a king should always be dripping in gold, to show everyone how important they were, and that they grabbed everyone's attention when they walked into a room. That's why he loved wearing his own jewellery-a few rings on his fingers, a brass metal chain looping across his chest over his silk white button up, and he even had a necklace, but that was usually hidden beneath his plumage.

His eyes lifted higher, and his heart threatened to break at the slow rise and fall of a chest.

He was alive. Despite everything that would suggest otherwise, the king was alive. He had to be.

Finally, Opportunist met the Long Quiet's eyes.

Or, he should've-if the king Long Quiet hadn't been put under a sleeping curse.

His face looked so peaceful as he slept, even as his mind was trapped. His large set of six wings curled around him protectively, a black, feathery mass that was supposed to be their ruler-but he had been reduced to this.

His golden crown was the only thing reminding people that he was-is-a powerful ruler that should not be messed with. The crown barely swayed with the soft movement of him sleeping, the bright, white gem glinting in the sunlight.

He looked radiant like this, even under a curse.

But that was when Opportunist was forced to take in the whole picture.

Chains.

Chains were wrapped around the king's body.

Chains shackled his feet to the floor, shackled his hands against the armrests, pinned the leader of their kingdom to the seat that he had rightfully earned-and who could possibly never escape from.

The chains were always the part that Opportunist tried to block out, because it kept reminding them that someone did this to their king, that someone attacked their king-and the royal flock was powerless to stop it.

Nobody blamed themselves more than their poor Hero, who had been with the king when it happened. He had simply been relaxing on his throne one minute-and the next-his mind was being overtaken by some wicked curse, and chains just appeared out of nowhere, leaving the king in his current state. For months.

Opportunist shook his head before he could give his anger any time to breathe, and he straightened up, spreading his wings wide and smiling up at his sleeping king, no matter how much the forced smile hurt his face.

"Your Majesty," he began confidently, keeping his eyes trained on just above the Long Quiet's face, at the crown sitting on his head. "You will be pleased to know that I have successfully gotten the blacksmiths to remain situated here instead of the Kingdom of Vultures, and convinced them that their continued patience and loyalty to you will be rewarded handsomely upon your recovery."

Then he smirked, making a show of glancing around the throne room, then leaned closer to loudly whisper, "But between you and me, Your Majesty, we don't have to pay them at all. I just said that so that others don't think of walking away from you in your time of need."

He could instantly imagine dozens of reactions the Long Quiet could grace him with in that moment. He could chuckle at his craftiness, he could roll his eyes at him, he could take his hands and say, 'Thank you for all your hard work, Oppy. I'm so lucky to have an advisor and a friend as loyal as you.'

That last one would never happen. Maybe for good now.

This was Opportunist's job, as an advisor-to go out and make deals to better support the kingdom, whether that be by lying, persuasion or honest bribery. He was the one who attended all the balls and parties, and smiled and shook hands, and then he would slide up to his king and whisper the names of who to talk to or avoid completely.

That was still his job now-but now he was more focused on keeping the affairs of the kingdom running smoothly, making sure that nobody was trying to back away from their deals or think of taking any openings for power that they believed to be there.

Opportunist saw all the cracks forming, and he refused to let his kingdom crumble.

He could feel his smile tremble, the stress and grief trying to bring him down, but he refused to break down when his king needed him at his best.

Stubborn called his an idiot for keeping this up. Cheated said he was just hurting himself. But what else could he do? Ignore their king? Delude himself into thinking that everything will be okay if he just believed?

No. No, the kingdom will fall without the court filling the holes that the Long Quiet left, so they couldn't afford time to grieve or cry, because there was still a kingdom to run, a kingdom that the Long Quiet loved so much, and Opportunist would be damned if he allowed it to fall to ruin.

He sighed, blinking back tears, and was about to continue his report, when a voice cut through the thick silence.

"Wow, that's a real tough crowd you got there."

Opportunist's head shot up, to the ceiling, where a certain jester was clinging to one of the pillars, looking down at him from afar.

Contrarian smiled wide at him once their eyes met, and then launched into the air, wings shooting out to catch him as he flew around the throne room. Opportunist rolled his eyes as Contrarian started to circle around him, slowly gliding down until he landed right in front of him, then bowed deeply.

"Your king is behind you," Opportunist said blankly, and Contrarian rocked back and forth on his heels as he replied with, "I know, but unfortunately, I recently told the big guy a bad joke, and he's been giving me the silent treatment ever since."

Opportunist couldn't stop the burst of shocked laughter that exploded out of him. He slapped a hand over his mouth and stared at Contrarian with wide eyes. "You can't just say things like that! He could be listening!" Opportunist exclaimed, appalled at the other, who was just grinning in victory.

Contrarian giggled, the bells of his jester hat jingling and ringing within the large room. Opportunist glared at him as he quickly composed himself, but his annoyance almost instantly melted away, instead being replaced with an aching fondness for the other.

Once their eyes met again, Opportunist cast his eyes downwards and mumbled, "Welcome back." Contrarian was surprised for a moment, before beaming at him with such brightness that Opportunist definitely didn't deserve.

Contrarian was their court jester, making sure their king was happy and relaxed in amongst all the stress and heaviness that came with being a ruler. He had a habit of being unpredictable, having a tendency to go against what everyone else wanted or expected of him. He would just pop up in random places throughout the kingdom and cause some sort of chaos that either Hero or Cheated cleaned up.

Contrarian was content with being the laughing stock of the kingdom, so long as he saw a smile on people's faces-that was all that mattered to him.

Although Opportunist couldn't personally understand his reasoning or see himself pissing people off without anything to gain, he was grateful for the role that Contrarian played in the court, and not just because he genuinely liked seeing the others happy.

"How was your trip?" Opportunist asked, avoiding Contrarian's eyes, and Contrarian waved a hand in the air and said, "Oh, nothing special. Same old party, same old tricks. Nothing too special to report."

Opportunist paused, then looked at Contrarian properly, who smirked as if that was the reaction he wanted from him. Opportunist ignored how he was falling for Contrarian's tricks in favour of taking a step forward, putting as much authority into it. He craned his neck up slightly and said, "Tell me what you know."

Contrarian put his hands behind his back, mimicking him, and leaned down close enough that Opportunist had to actually back away slightly. He saw the dark, mischievous glint in Contrarian's eyes as he softly said, "Make me."

Because that was the other thing about jesters-they're always being underestimated.

Opportunist scowled at him, attention shifting from Contrarian to the sleeping king behind him. He couldn't help the anger that lashed out from him as he snapped, "Connie, stop fucking around! If you found out something that can help us, you need to tell me now."

He instantly regretted letting that anger loose, and seeing Contrarian's shocked and guilty face didn't help either.

He stumbled back a few steps, wings spreading out for protection. He fiddled with the gold chain on his shirt as he tried to compose himself, taking quick, deep breaths. Contrarian was silent as Opportunist continued to calm down, and he struggled with whether to put a mask or not. On one hand, that was probably the smart thing to do. On the other hand, it was Contrarian.

Eventually, he sighed in defeat, shoulders and wings slumping as he softly spoke up, "I'm sorry for yelling. I just-missed you." His face heated up at having to admit those words, but seeing the way Contrarian brightened up had something fluttering deep in his chest, and he decided that it had been worth it.

There was a teasing edge in Contrarian's voice as he said, "Oh, so you're glad I'm back?"

"Yes," he replied in a clipped tone. "Three weeks is far too long. I missed seeing you piss Cheated off."

Contrarian chuckled, and when he took a step forward, Opportunist didn't back away, but a small bundle of nerves did form every time Contrarian got closer. "I also missed annoying you all. The Hummingbirds were nice, but nothing can beat this chaotic court of birdbrains."

Opportunist chuckled lightly, and Contrarian's face lit up brighter than a flame at the sound, and Opportunist really needed to stop liking that face.

"But, that being said, I do have some info to give you."

"I knew it," Opportunist's wings flapped in excitement, rushing right up to the jester in a hurry. "What is it? Tell me what you found out."

"Ah-ah-ah," but then Contrarian was wagging a finger in his face, an infuriatingly cheeky grin on his face. "You know the two things you need to do if you want me to tell you. I know you remember."

Opportunist sighed sharply, ignoring the way his feathers puffed up, but judging from Contrarian's laugher, he hadn't.

He glanced around the throne room nervously. "Do we have to do this here? What if somebody sees?" Contrarian raised a brow and nodded towards their king. "What? You mean him? He's not gonna open his eyes anytime soon." Opportunist lightly shoved him for his crassness, but Contrarian just laughed and looked at him expectedly.

His heart skipped a beat.

He sighed in defeat, waving for the other to go on.

"Yes!" Contrarian cheered, and Opportunist couldn't hold back his smile of anticipation if he tried. Contrarian was practically bouncing as he said, "Okay! Okay! So, when I was at the Hummingbird court, I brought the house down with my act. You could say that they were raven with laughter."

Opportunist barely lett a huff of a laugh out. "Is that the best you've got?"

Contrarian stopped bouncing, before giving him a serious look of consideration, humming deeply as he stroked his chin. "You're right," he eventually agreed, "that joke was caw-ful."

Suddenly, giggles exploded out of Opportunist, and he tried to slap his hand over his mouth, if Contrarian hadn't grabbed his wrists so that his laughter rang out within the throne room, giving Opportunist a look of pure joy.

This was dumb. Those puns were absolutely terrible.

But something in his chest released when he laughed, and Opportunist's body suddenly felt lighter.

It felt good to laugh.

After his laughter died down and his face was thoroughly sore, Opportunist had a dopey smile on his face, and Contrarian was just beaming at him now.

"I hate you," Opportunist mumbled, and Contrarian instantly retorted with, "No you don't." Then he twisted his head to the side and said, "Now for the second part of our agreement?"

This was the part he missed the most.

Opportunist didn't turn to look back as he spread a wing out to block the two of them from the king. Then, he leaned closer to Contrarian, closed his eyes, and pressed a soft kiss to Contrarian's cheek.

That was Contrarian's condition for agreeing to help him-that Opportunist be nothing but genuine with him.

He swiftly leaned back, ignoring both the heat on his face and the soft look Contrarian was giving him. He just cleared his throat while trying to remain calm and collected, and said, "Was that good enough for you? Will you-"

"Yes, yes, I'll tell you what I found out, since you loved my jokes so much." Opportunist rolled his eyes, but became serious once Contrarian actually looked to focus up as well, an excited glint in his eyes as he said, "Okay, so the Hummingbird court didn't actually have any information regarding sleeping beauty over there, but I did manage to find out something about Skeptic."

"What was it? What did he do?" Opportunist didn't even bother to pretend to keep the hunger out of his voice. This meant too much to him.

"Apparently, he was in the Dove court, last time they checked. All they knew was that he was suddenly being chased out and hunted down by their royal soldiers."

"By the Dove court?" Opportunist asked, brows furrowing in confusion as he started to walk around while deep in thought. "How did he manage to piss off the Doves?" The Doves and their kingdom were considered the most pure and kind hearted of all the kingdoms, and they were the first to send their condolences to them after the fate of the Long Quiet. Of course, Opportunist didn't trust them, but he also hadn't found any dirt on them, so he just kept them at arms length.

But if Skeptic somehow angered them-"That must mean that he found out something important, something that the Doves want hidden."

"Exactly," Contrarian agreed, a wicked grin on his face, and Opportunist had never been more grateful for their arrangement before.

Opportunist may be good at getting people to trust him and to tell him all their dirty secrets, but not everybody was willing to let their guard down around him. But they would-around a jester.

Contrarian would often travel to neighbouring kingdoms for events and parties, entertaining them with his jokes, but now he was also privy to loose lips and relaxed, unconcerned minds, and he was able to hear gossip that would never be spoken around Opportunist-but Contrarian always ran back to tell him.

That was their agreement for working together-that Contrarian tell him all he found out, all for a little of genuine affection from Opportunist.

The results were always worth the mortification, and right now, Opportunist felt like his mind was alight with power and desire.

"We need to send a carriage for Skeptic right away," he instructed firmly, "I need to know what he found out."

"Whatever you say, boss." Contrarian held out his hand, and Opportunist didn't even think as he took ahold of it, the touch becoming more comforting as grounding each time they held hands. Opportunist began to march them out of the throne room, when he suddenly froze, and looked back at the king.

It was hard to forget that he was technically gone, that they couldn't reach out and hear his thoughts on anything. Would he agree with what Opportunist was doing? Would he respect him less because of it? What if he was happier without them-

A wing blocked the king from view.

Opportunist jumped, then looked over at Contrarian, who was giving him a soft look and a reassuring squeeze of his hand. "Come on," he whispered, "let's leave him to it."

Opportunist felt a tenderness in his heart for the other blossom, so he just focused back on the task at hand, nodded, and they walked off to save their king.

#slay the princess #stories #my writing #stp voices #stp #stp opportunist #stp contrarian #voice of the contrarian #voice of the opportunist #contropp #stp long quiet #stp au #royal flock au #I think they'd be such a funny and chaotic duo I wish there was more stuff with them #Apologies for my god awful puns I am not a funny person #writing request

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shycoconutt · 11 months ago

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high school sweetheart bokuto! who has only ever had crushes on celebrities before he met you. the day you got assigned to be partners for the semester in gym class (which he took even though he was exempt due to volleyball) was the day he went home and tore his bikini-clad posters off the wall and threw away his magazine stash under his bed. he doesn’t need to live in a boyish fantasy anymore, because you are real.

high school sweetheart bokuto! who loves to show off his athleticism. whether it’s tennis, frisbee golf, badminton, swimming, or baseball, he always comes out on top and drags you right there with him. you aren’t the most coordinated of the bunch, but you are competitive and he loves it. seeing you get fired up over a successful play mostly led by him had him reeling. on the train ride home, he finds himself replaying your small “woo”s and “yes bokuto!”s in his head with a stupid grin on his face.

high school sweetheart bokuto! who carries you to the nurse's office bridal-style after you fall and twist your ankle while running laps, cursing himself for not keeping a closer eye on you. while waiting for the nurse to come back with an ice pack, he notices the scrapes on your knees and takes it upon himself to take a warm, wet washcloth to clean off any dirt and debris that settles in the wounds. as you begin to sniffle as he kneels before you, he lifts your chin with a delicate finger, tilting his head in questioning. “i was on track to set a new personal record,” you manage to squeak out with a shy smile. after a pause in disbelief, bokuto’s howling laughter rings throughout the school halls.

high school sweetheart bokuto! who, for the week you are sitting out due to your injury, makes it his mission to make you laugh every single day. during dodgeball, he purposely lets himself get nailed in the face. during tennis, which he plays solo as he refuses to play with anyone else, he gives the loudest, most obnoxious grunts he can muster. during baseball, he hits an impressive triple but runs the bases in the opposite direction. every time he looks over to catch the way your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle, he feels like a man without water finding a river in the desert.

high school sweetheart bokuto! who is absolutely awestruck to find you up in the stands at his latest volleyball match. going up to serve, right as he is about to start his routine, he hears your beautiful voice as you call out, “bokuto, nice serve!” from above. without skipping a beat, he tosses the ball up in the air, turns his head slightly to give you a wink, and slams the ball to the other side of the court. after hitting a serve that was more like a backcourt spike, he points to you on the sidelines, dedicating his service ace to you. little did he know then that every successful receive, set, spike, and serve from then on out would belong to you.

high school sweetheart bokuto! who finds you after the match and insists on walking you home, draping his jacket over your shoulders to shield you from the cool spring night. without saying anything, you pull out your old mp3 player from your bag and offer him an earbud which he takes eagerly. shoulder to shoulder, you walk the empty streets, bokuto humming along with the music. overtaken by the buzzing atmosphere, your proximity, and an old r&b song he thought he had forgotten about, he snakes his arm around your waist and intertwines his other hand with yours, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around. as you shriek in laughter while gripping onto him for dear life, bokuto vows to dedicate the rest of his days to chasing this feeling of pure joy with you.

a/n: i just had to write something for our sweet bokuto. i think i am going to continue this as a series because it's just soooo cute! this is dedicated to my high school sweetheart who i met in gym class sophomore year. we're celebrating 10 years this weekend! <3

#bokuto koutarou #bokuto x reader #bokuto koutaro x reader #haikyuu bokuto #bokuto x you #bokuto x y/n #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x you #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fluff #bokuto

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easilycherished · 24 days ago

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I remain an alobby truther post s8 finale, and I haven’t seen anyone discussing my current top theory about why the end of this season sucked: tim has bought into the “we can’t let the audience guess the twist or we lose!” phenomenon

given all of the *waves hands* everything, and especially given the leaked script, I do think bobby was supposed to come back this season, but due to all of the speculating (and potentially even the awful reviews), tim felt like he had to win, he had to beat the audience at this game and convince them that bobby’s actually dead

the idea being that if you wait long enough we’ll believe it, so he’ll be back as a s9 midseason or season finale cliffhanger instead

but the thing is tim didn’t plan for the emotional and character storylines to develop while bobby’s still dead! so as a consequence they’re sidelined and/or sloppily done until that happens (and as bonus tim gets to do big emergencies in the meantime): buck's feelings realization is overtaken by his grieving rather than them happening in concert, eddie can't stay in texas but actually handling the chris situation while bobby's dead would require complex conversations about grief and family, hen's leadership/invisibility dynamic was supposed to be addressed by bobby himself and now she's stuck, chim is rushed into the captaincy role without addressing the PPD maddie and new baby of it all, athena's life and career changes are driven by avoidance and grief rather than by trauma and near-loss

and look I love this show and I know it can be so good, which is why the ending so much of s8 made me so sad -- my hope is that the time given by hiatus and tim getting his kicks by working on nashville will mean that s9 will be better and the beautiful characters I love will be get their due

#911 theorizing #tim minear #bobby nash #alobby #athena grant #chimney han #maddie buckley #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buck buckley #911 spoilers #911 spec #robert nash #911 abc #911 #bobby is alive

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oddyseye · 6 months ago

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Things I did NOT like in the Ithaca Saga.

Okay, it was fine, but there were just...choices... There’s just stuff in that section that had me rolling my eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck.

First up: "Hold Them Down." I get that Epic is trying to make the suitors worse villains, but the way they went about it was disgusting. That song outright says the suitors were planning to force themselves on Penelope, which is not even remotely in the Odyssey. Yes, the suitors are terrible — they’re greedy, arrogant, would-be killers who exploit her hospitality — but this crosses a line that feels like shock value rather than staying true to the source material. They included that song, but erased Calypso’s actions toward Odysseus? In the Odyssey, she held him captive for years and forced him into a relationship. That is literally such an important part of the story. Yet, not only did Epic omit it, but they also banned people from even discussing it in their Discord server. How does that make sense? You can explore one kind of assault but not acknowledge the other, especially when the one they ignored was actually canon? The double standard is infuriating, and it completely undermines the narrative’s integrity. Yet somehow this suitor nonsense made the cut? Make it make sense, because I can’t. Next, Telemachus. Why did they do my boy so dirty? In the Odyssey, he was brave, capable, and growing into his own. He fought beside Odysseus, killed suitors, and even comes this close to stringing Odysseus’ old bow, which is supposed to be impossible for anyone but...well. Odysseus. That’s a huge moment! It shows how much he’s grown and how much of Odysseus’ strength and legacy he carries within him. But in Epic? They turned him into some weak, helpless little thing who can’t do anything without Odysseus. Like, hello? Telemachus isn’t just Odysseus’ son; he’s a fighter, a prince, and a man trying to defend his home. Stripping that away to make Odysseus look like more of a hero is just lazy and disrespectful to the original story. They took away his courage, his growth, and his ability to hold his own. It’s like they didn’t trust the audience to see Odysseus as a hero unless Telemachus was made to look useless by comparison. And then we get to Odysseus and Athena. What even was that? Yes, the idea that Odysseus has become a “monster” is a fascinating angle—he’s been through so much that revenge, violence, and survival have completely overtaken who he once was. But Ithaca does nothing to earn this shift, and it outright ignores the groundwork laid in earlier sagas. Two sagas ago, we saw Odysseus at his lowest. He was stranded on Calypso’s island, completely defeated, and begging Athena for help. Let me say that again: begging. And this wasn’t just any goddess he was calling out to — this was the mentor who had abandoned him as a student. She had walked away, and he still reached out, still trusted her to save him when no one else could. That moment showed Odysseus’ faith in Athena and their deep, complicated bond. Calypso.

And Athena? She didn’t just listen—she fought for him. She went up against Zeus himself to make sure Odysseus could leave that island. She defied the king of the gods because she believed in him. Odysseus doesn’t know that detail, but we do, and it makes her devotion to him so much more impactful. She risked everything to give him another chance at life, at home, at redemption.

Fast-forward to Ithaca, and what do we get? Athena shows up, vulnerable and introspective, questioning the path they’ve taken and the world they’ve built, and Odysseus just brushes her off. He doesn’t just say no — he dismisses her entirely. His response boils down to, “Not my problem. I’ve got a wife to see.” Excuse me, now? This is the same man who was crying out for her intervention just two sagas ago. The same man whose survival has always depended on his intelligence, resourcefulness, and the help of others — Athena most of all. Now he’s too proud to even engage with her? It doesn’t track. It’s inconsistent, and it cheapens their relationship. She’s opening her heart, showing her vulnerability, wondering if there’s still a way for them to fix what they’ve broken. She didn’t owe him anything, but she did it because she believed in him, because she had invested in him from the start. So for him to now completely disregard her — when she’s in front of him, showing empathy and pain — feels like a betrayal of everything that came before. Odysseus’ monster arc didn’t need to erase Athena. In fact, rejecting the one person who literally raised him, who fought for him, who saved him so many times, doesn’t even make sense for his character. That’s not the arc of a man who’s become a monster; that’s just cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

This is someone who has given everything to Odysseus, and in this moment, she’s realizing that the person she fought for is no longer the man she thought he was. And that’s what’s tragic.

But Ithaca doesn’t explore that. Instead, it uses Odysseus’ rejection as a cheap plot point, stripping away the emotional weight of his relationship with Athena. She was the woman who raised him, who guided him, who saved him — and they reduced her to a mere plot device to show how “monster-ified” Odysseus has become. It’s lazy, it’s cruel, and it completely disregards the depth of their bond. The pain in Athena’s voice, the heartbreak in her words, is completely wasted.

Odysseus doesn’t need to be a monster who rejects Athena to be a tragic figure. The tragedy would have been in him choosing revenge and violence at the cost of his humanity, not in cutting ties with the one person who raised him into the hero he became. Ithaca could’ve explored that, but instead, it gave us a shallow, hollow portrayal that didn’t respect the characters, their history, or the emotional weight of their relationship. Ithaca is a hot mess, and it’s honestly embarrassing. It had all this potential, and yet it chose to phone it in with lazy writing and shallow plot twists. It throws out big ideas and then does nothing with them, leaving us with empty, unearned moments that just fall flat. Instead of digging into anything meaningful, it relies on cheap drama to get a reaction. The story feels rushed, disconnected from the other sagas, and like the creators couldn’t be bothered to put in the work. They had an opportunity to make something impactful and then just decided to half-ass it. If you're looking for a mess of missed potential, Ithaca is your go-to. That being said, the songs are sick and I will sob again over the last song. Thank you.

#epic the musical #the odyssey #greek mythology #odysseus #calypso #telemachus

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whit-doodle · 5 months ago

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Just a thought I had while replaying this fight & choosing to not imprison Illario...

What if Caterina didn't promote Lucanis to First Talon during this conversation after the fight?

Illario knows Caterina won't show him mercy the way Lucanis seems intent on doing. He went too far with trying to get Lucanis killed and then trying to usurp Caterina's position as First Talon.

He knows it won't matter what Lucanis wants to do. Caterina holds the power to decide his fate.

So... What if, instead of giving Lucanis that choice, Caterina decides what to do about Illario? Because she wants it known that House Dellamorte is still capable of holding the position of First Talon, even after Illario has taken such drastic actions to try and usurp her position.

Although, let's face it, in terms of Crows, Illario's actions aren't that misaligned from what Crows have been known for. Lucanis even says later on that Caterina would be proud of Illario for trying to get rid of her.

The funny thing is, Illario is what Caterina expects Lucanis to be. Cold. Manipulative. Someone who clearly doesn't let his heart and attachment to people get in the way of doing something. Someone who wants the power of being First Talon.

Now Caterina has to face the fact her favorite grandson is willing to let Illario just walk away like nothing happened. No, she's not going to stand for that. If anything, she's less mad at Illario for trying to get rid of her than she is about what he did to Lucanis.

Caterina wouldn't just let him walk away, simply being babysat by the Fifth Talon like Lucanis requests. No, she'd have him imprisoned for an indeterminate amount of time.

Or she'd have him killed. Illario probably expects this to be her decision.

Caterina won't do what Lucanis asks. She won't refuse to imprison Illario because then it would make it seem like she had become soft, that maybe she couldn't handle being First Talon anymore. (And maybe that's why, in game, she promotes Lucanis and lets him make that decision. Because then it's Lucanis showing a hint of forgiveness/compassion towards Illario instead of her.)

In my version of this, Caterina decides that Illario's punishment will be imprisonment. She won't have him killed, but she also won't let his imprisonment be that simple either. She'll find little ways to make his life unbearable from that point on.

Lucanis eventually hears about how Illario is being treated. He'll go to Viago and ask him to help get Illario out of Treviso, maybe even out of Antiva entirely. Viago will, of course, voice his displeasure at being caught in the middle of House Dellamorte drama, but he'll agree to help.

Caterina isn't surprised to find out Illario has somehow managed to "escape" and get out of Treviso. In fact, she knows Lucanis had a hand in it.

It's not until after Illario's disappearance that Caterina decides to step down and name Lucanis as the new First Talon.

Illario hasn't forgotten Rook is the one who spoke up on his behalf, to convince Lucanis not to imprison him even if it wasn't Lucanis's decision to make. (My canon Rook is also a Crow, and in the past, had been one of the few people who ever showed Illario any true kindness. Illario thought she was trying to use that kindness to manipulate him, so he pushed her away.)

He knows the Venatori have overtaken Minrathous after the dragon attack, when Rook chose to help defend Treviso instead. With nowhere else to go, he sets his sights on taking down the Venatori he had sided with not that long ago. When Elgar'nan makes his move... Illario is there to fight alongside Rook, Lucanis, and anyone else willing to stand up against the blighted god.

Illario knows joining the fight doesn't erase what he did, what he would've done had his plan been successful.

Lucanis still struggles with Illario's betrayal. Illario tries to figure out how to move forward, past all the hate and vitriol that drove him to wanting Lucanis dead.

Eventually, they'll reconcile as best as they can. And as First Talon, Lucanis will give Illario permission to return to Treviso should he wish to do so.

#maybe I should turn these thoughts into a fic #I haven't written a fic in years #just yelling into the void #don't mind me i had thoughts and just needed somewhere to share them #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #datv spoilers #lucanis dellamorte #dragon age lucanis #illario dellamorte #dragon age illario #I'd like to think Illario can have some sort of redemption arc

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honeywyrdie · 2 months ago

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Sangiovese Cellar {2}

Bang Chan x Reader

genre: slow burn, angst, eventual smut warnings: vampires, cults, blood, host clubs [[more tags to be added as story progresses]] {masterlist}

Synopsis: A new face arrives at the exclusive vampire club, Sangiovese Cellar. He has more on his mind than blood donors though as he meets with an old friend.

a/n: Hello my little red blood cells! Welcome to Sangiovese! 💘 I’ll be posting snippets on tumblr then a link to the full chapter on Ao3 from here on out, I think it will work a little better that way. I also post new chapters on Ao3 earlier!

The sun has just set as Christopher takes the sleek elevator of L’Hemotage down to the basement. He meets the security guard at the door leading to the other establishments in the vampire district of Ambrose. The basement is dimly lit by sconces on the walls, flickering as they reflect off the polished tile floor.

“Good evening, Mr. Bang,” the man says. “Please place your room key on the lock.”

Christopher takes out his black room key and holds it to the receiver as the guard taps a few buttons on the panel in front of him. The vault-like door begins to unlock, the clanking and creaking shakes the floor enough for him to feel it through the soles of his shoes. Finally, it opens with a hiss, revealing a long hallway, multicolored advertisements covering the walls.

“You’ll be following the purple line on the floor to get to Sangiovese. We hope you have a good time,” the guard smiles, gesturing towards the door with a polite nod.

“Thank you, I’ll see where the night takes me,” Christopher replies with a diplomatic smile. He reaches out with his black leather gloves to shake the guard’s hand, pressing a hundred IRN bill into the guard’s palm. As the man stammers in thanks, Christopher pats him on the shoulder and heads towards the hallway through the large door.

There’s another guard posted on the opposite side of the door as well, so Christopher greets and tips him too. He knows how far he can go with a simple smile and a hefty tip. The memory of being the one receiving such a kindness has followed him through his undead life.

He looks down at the different colored lines inlaid on the stone. The purple line has a thin wire of gold running through its center. The underground network of tunnels are mainly for vampire use, and it shows in the quiet lavish details. Wealth is easy to accumulate and display when you’re not concerned with dying.

As he begins his stroll, he looks at the different advertisements and posters in the hallway nestled between the wayfinding markers. They are selling everything from fashion to real estate to boutique blood banks. There are a few ads for entertainment venues next to political posters about human cohabitation. Christopher glances them over as he makes his way towards his destination, navigating the labyrinthine tunnel system solely by the purple vein in the floor.

He turns a corner and approaches the door for the Sangiovese Cellar. The chaotic ads stop abruptly, overtaken by rows of marquees leading to the door. The walls are covered in grapevines, twisted into braids around the two dozen or so portraits of the blood donors available at the Cellar. Of course all the faces are beautiful, that’s half of the draw. There are seductive expressions on the donors of all different genders. Some have sultry eyes and some have innocent expressions, but all the photos seem to scream the same thing:

“Come have a taste.”

One face in particular stands out to Christopher. A woman with her wide haunting eyes, as if she’s staring directly at him through the paper she’s printed on. There’s a vulnerability in her expression, but with a defiant confidence in the tilt of her head. He pauses mid-stride and looks down at the name.

Y/n.

Only one name, no surname.

{continue reading on Ao3}

taglist: @tirena1 @hwangjoanna [reply to this post if you’d like to join the taglist 💘]

#bang chan x reader #stray kids x reader #bang chan fanfic #stray kids fanfic #skz x reader #skz fanfic #sangiovese cellar

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rowdyluv · 11 months ago

Text

Like Real People Do - lh43

summary: luke spends time thinking about rosey and how she’s locked him out of her life the last few weeks. he shows up on her doorstep in one last attempt and she lets him in

warnings: small use of y/n, adult content, talk of blackmail, ex boyfriend being harassing, talk of nudes, sweet fluffy luke, depiction of depression overtaken room,

word count: 3.68k+

notes: hozier’s song ‘like real people do’ has been stuck in my head for days. so hence the name ✨ not really based of the title but title is used

adult content is used in this fic, 18+, minors do not interact. Thanksies🫶🏼

Rosey, wasn’t just a girl to Luke. She was the girl.

His girl.

Rosey, a girl who painted the world with her laughter and filled the air with the sweet scent of her favorite honey crop apple scented based shampoo and apple perfume. Her eyes, always bright and sparkling. Luke swore that they could outshine any gem, that her eyes held a depth that he found himself drowning in every time she looked his way. Her hair fell in soft waves just the way she liked for it to, framing her face perfectly. Luke had come to memorize the freckles that danced across her nose like constellations in a summer night sky.

Only she had a way of bringing light to the darkest of days, and Luke allowed himself to bask in her glow whenever she was near.

It was when Luke realized his feelings had grown beyond the confines of friendship that he began to notice the tiniest of things. Like the way she threw her head back when she wholeheartedly laughed at his jokes, how her cheeks flushed that shade of rosey red that never failed to make his heart race. The way she leaned into him when they would watch movies, how her body fit perfectly against his as if they were two puzzle pieces that had finally found their rightful place. And the sweet, lingering scent of her apple shampoo and perfume always seemed to follow him around, leaving a trail of warmth and longing in its wake.

It was in the quietest moments that truly spoke volumes to him recently. When he sat alone where they used to sit together on the tire swings in his backyard, where the setting sun would have been casting a warm glow over her features, that Luke always found himself lost in his thoughts about her. He had found a four leaf clover and picked it. Had he found it months earlier maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here alone.

Months ago he had silently wished for the courage to tell her how he felt, to confess that her smile had become his reason to get out of bed in the morning, and her voice the sweetest melody to his ears, even when she squeaked along to Taylor Swift. He still found it endearing. Yet, fear held him back and then her relationship with Jason held him back. Then he took his opportunity, it seemed to have been mutual. But since that day he’s been alone, Rosey shutting him out. He’s not even sure she’s left her house. Luke has made numerous attempts to go across the street and see her. Her mom stopping his entry with sad eyes and a simple apology each time. The fear of losing her friendship, of her looking at him differently, of shattering the delicate balance they had so carefully maintained for years. The terrifying thought of losing her entirely was overwhelming.

He decided to try again today. The air was cool, the scent of rain lingered from earlier in the day’s downpour, almost as if it was mimicking Luke. The world felt like it was holding its breath waiting for the next heartbreak to happen.

He knocked gently on her door, the anticipation building in his chest like a pressure cooker about to blow. The door swung open and there she was, standing before him, looking just as beautiful as ever, yet sadder than he had ever seen her. The sparkle in her eyes had dimmed and her smile was forced, a mere shadow of its former glory. His heart ached for her, and he wished more than ever that he could just pull her into a hug and take away her pain. Luke’s arms twitched at his side merely able to hold back.

“Rosey.” His voice betrayed him in his attempt to sound strong, instead his voice cracked through the knot in his throat.

Her eyes met his, the pain in them resonating deeply within him. “Hey, Luke,” she managed to say, her voice quieter than the rustling leaves at their feet.

“Can I come in?” He asked tentatively, unsure of his welcome, after being turned away time and time again.

Had she known he’d come?

Rosey nodded, stepping aside to let him enter. The house was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the usual symphony of life that resonated through her walls. The living room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to keep the prying eyes of the world at bay.

Luke’s heart sunk more at the simple sight of the curtains. She used to sit there and watch him and his brothers play out in the street for hours from the window. It slowly turned into her reading nook and their study spot. The open curtains were also Luke’s way of knowing she was home and he could come over. He knew then she really didn’t want to see him.

It was clear she had been crying. The evidence lay scattered across the coffee table in the form of used tissues and an empty pretzels bag.

“Rosey.” Luke whispered. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you letting me in? Letting me help?” His voice barely making it over the knot growing in his throat, fighting the urge to cry seeing his usual happy-go getting girl so deeply depressed.

Rosey took a shaky breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She sat down on the couch, her posture deflated, and motioned for Luke to join her. He sat down gently beside her, his arm instinctively reaching out to wrap around her shoulders. She leaned into him, the warmth of her body seeping into his, offering a small sigh of relief. “It’s Jason,” she began, her voice trembling. “He won’t leave me alone. After the breakup, he said he’d make sure no one else could ever have me, not like that.”

Her words hit Luke like a punch to the gut. He had always known that Jason was no good for her, but he never imagined the depth of his spite.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low and measured, trying to keep his emotions in check.

Rosey took a deep, shuddering breath.

“After we broke up, he kept texting me, saying he had something to show me, something that would change my mind about him. He said it was proof of how much he cared. I was so stupid to believe him. He sent me these pictures... pictures of me that he took without my consent, and said if I didn’t take him back, he’d send them to everyone we know.” The tremble in her voice grew stronger, and Luke felt his blood begin to boil.

The room seemed to close in around them as she spoke, the very air thick with the weight of her words. Luke’s mind raced with a mix of anger, confusion, and fear for her safety. He had always known that Jason had a possessive streak, but this was beyond anything he could have imagined. Jason hitting Rosey was a tough pill to swallow for Luke and now, the thought of anyone seeing Rosey in such a vulnerable state made his stomach churn.

In Luke’s mind she was already his ever since that day at his house.

“Rosey girl, he can’t do that, you’re not 18 yet it’s illegal. Do your parents know?” His arms tightened around her, practically pulling her into his lap in the need to keep her close to him. In fear she may disappear from in front of him again. Luke felt the need to whisper to her although it’s just the two of them in the house.

Rosey nodded, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “They know, but the police said they couldn’t do anything since my face isn’t clear in the photos. They said it’s not enough to prove it’s me and that without that it’s just his word against mine. And everyone knows how convincing he can be.”

Luke’s jaw clenched as he processed this. He had to help her, but the thought of anyone seeing her that way, even for a second, was unbearable. He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or uncertainty, but all he saw was fear and resignation.

“If the faces are unclear or can’t be made out, are you positive it’s you in those pictures, Rosey?” he asked gently, hoping against hope that there was some mistake.

Her gaze remained unwavering. “Yes, Luke. I know it’s me. I know his sick mind and what he’s capable of. He made sure to get enough of me that people would know it’s me, just not my face. It’s like he’s playing a twisted game with me, enjoying my pain without fully crossing the line he knows would land him in trouble.” Her voice was laced with bitterness and despair.

“I need to see them, Rosey.” Luke’s voice was firm, his eyes searching hers for any hint of resistance. “Just show me the blurry faces. I don’t need to see anything else.” He insisted. “I know my sweet Rosey.”

Her eyes searched his, a silent conversation passing between them as the gravity of the situation weighed heavy in the air. After a long moment, she nodded and reached for her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating before finally unlocking it. She scrolled through her messages, finding the dreaded thread from Jason, and handed the phone to Luke.

He took it with trembling hands, his stomach in knots. The first few pictures were blurry, as she had described, but then he saw it.

The mole on the neck of the girl in the photos.

His Rosey doesn’t have a single spot on her neck. He was positive.

Luke knew this for sure, yet he still softly grabbed her by the chin and moved her head around softly to complete the inspection.

“Babygirl, these aren’t you, it’s your blurry face on some other girl’s body.” Luke explains. His thumb softly caressing her tear stained cheek.

“How, how do you know? How can you tell?” Rosey hesitantly asks Luke leaning into his touch.

“From years and years of admiring your beauty. Memorizing every visible part of your body. Look here, this girl has a mole on her neck, you have no markings on your neck. Just right here.” Luke taps her nose for emphasis. Earning a small giggle and a smile.

Rosey lunges into Luke’s arm, her face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Lukey,” she whispers, her voice muffled against his skin.

Luke’s heart swells with a mix of affection and pain. He wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly as she sobs. Her tears dampen his shirt, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is that she’s here, with him, and he’s going to do everything in his power to make this right.

“Rosey, I’m going to talk to your parents, and we’re going to deal with this. I won’t let him keep doing this to you. You’re worth more than his twisted games.” He whispers into her hair, inhaling the sweet apple scent that has become a balm to his soul. “I can’t go another second of another day without you.” Luke nearly whimpers, his heart cracking at the thought of her putting him out again after jumping into his arms.

Rosey pulls away slightly, wiping at her eyes. She sniffs and looks up at him, her gaze earnest.

“I’m sorry for shutting you out, Luke. I just didn’t know how to face you after everything. I was so afraid of disappointing you that I couldn’t even look at you without feeling like I had failed.” More tears fall, tracing a delicate path down her cheeks, reflecting the dim light from the window.

Luke’s heart feels as though it’s been ripped out of his chest and handed back to him in a million pieces and they’re slowly putting it back together while in each other’s arms. He cups her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the fresh tears. “Rosey, you could never disappoint me. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I just want to be here for you, to help you through this.” His eyes are filled with sincerity, his voice raw with emotion.

Rosey’s eyes searched his features, looking for the truth in his words. The sadness in her gaze slowly lifts as she nods. “I just... I just didn’t know how to deal with it all. And the thought of losing you, too... it was too much.” Her voice cracks, her grip on his shirt tightening.

With her eyes still on his, Luke leans in closer, his heart racing. The scent of her apple perfume fills his nostrils, and he feels like he’s been waiting for this moment for an eternity. Her eyes flick down to his lips and back up to meet his again, a silent invitation that sends his pulse soaring. He whispers, “Tell me to stop if I should, Ro,” his voice barely audible above the sound of their mingled breaths.

Rosey’s gaze holds his, and for a moment, she seems to weigh his words. But then, she tilts her head slightly, closing the space between them. Her eyes flutter shut, and Luke sees this is it. He’s been given the green light, and he’s not about to waste it. He’s been waiting weeks to feel this alive again. He presses his lips to hers, tentative at first, feeling the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her breath mingling with his own. They were frozen in time, the air charged with unspoken confessions and long-held desires. It was then that Luke’s heart skipped a beat, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He leaned in, the anticipation making his stomach flip just like the first time. He felt the warmth of her breath mingle with his, and it was all the encouragement he needed.

Their kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if they were trying to make up for lost time. Luke’s hand slid into her hair, feeling the softness of the strands between his fingers. A soft sigh leaves Rosey’s mouth and Luke nab’s his chance to explore her mouth with his tongue.

He’s dreamt of this moment happening again for what felt like forever. The way she melted into him was like she had been waiting for this moment too. It started off as the sweetest, most tender kiss he had ever experienced, and moved to the sweetest and neediest kiss. And it left him feeling like he could conquer the world.

The sound of the door opening and closing brought them back to reality, but they didn’t pull away, lost in the moment. It wasn’t until they heard the unmistakable sound of her parents’ footsteps approaching that they broke apart, their eyes wide with panic.

“Y/n, honey, we’re home,” her mother’s voice called out from the hallway.

The two of them sprang apart, hearts racing, evidence of their passion filled kiss placed on both their faces, swollen lips, bliss filled eyes, messy hair and looking straight in the face of impending parental judgment.

Luke’s mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse for the intimate position they’d been caught in. If this was his house Ellen and Jim wouldn’t think twice about Rosey straddling across their son’s lap as she is. They have two older sons they had to live through.

He glanced at the phone still in his hand, the non-incriminating evidence of Jason’s threats a reminder of how they ended up this way. They both jumped to their feet as the footsteps grew closer, the sudden realization of the situation crashing over them like a wave.

“We need to tell them,” Luke murmured, slipping the phone into his pocket and placing a comforting hand on her arm.

Rosey nodded, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope. They stepped out of the living room, her parents’ footsteps drawing nearer. Her mother’s cheerful voice calling out to her was a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

“Y/N, we’re ho— oh!” her mother’s voice grew louder as her parents approached Luke and their daughter in the hallway to the living room.

Rosey’s mother stopped abruptly, her eyes taking in the scene before her. The way Luke’s hand rested protectively on her daughter’s arm, the lingering closeness of their bodies. The look on their faces was one of pure panic and shock, but it was quickly replaced with something else, something she hadn’t seen in her daughter’s eyes in a long time—happiness.

Her father’s voice cut through the silence, a teasing tone in his words. “Nice to see you let Luke in finally. Poor boy looked like a lost puppy every time he stopped by, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, sweetheart.” He winked at his daughter, trying to lighten the mood.

Rosey felt a blush creep up her neck, her eyes darting to her mother, who gave her a knowing smile. It wasn’t lost on her that her parents had noticed the change in her demeanor and the persistent presence of Luke at their doorstep.

She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “Mom, Dad, we need to talk. It’s about Jason,” she began, her voice wavering.

Her father’s playful expression faded, replaced with concern. He stepped closer to them, his hand landing on her shoulder. “What’s he done now?” His voice was firm, the protective instincts of a parent coming to the forefront.

Luke’s arm instinctively tightened around Rosey.

“I.. uhm respectfully i look at the pictures.” Rosey’s parents eye’s widened. Her father’s face turning sour at the thought of another boy seeing his baby girl that way. Scaring Luke silent.

“Daddy listen.” Rosey urged her father.

Clearing his throat, Luke continued. “I only looked at the pictures from the neck up. Yes I know the faces are blurry but the amount of time I’ve known your daughter, and honestly the time I have spent in love with her I’m confident in my ability to know her by the features I’ve seen almost everyday since we were little.”

Rosey’s mom is looking at Luke in awe as he rambles about her little girl. The love he’s had for her has been evident for many years and if he’s truly on to something her husband may just finally let go and let him in.

“What are you getting at son?” Her father growing impatient.

“Ro, zoom back in them please?” Luke ask softly knowing even opening them still makes her queasy.

“If you look here, this girl has a mole on her neck. Rosey doesn’t have a single mole or freckle on her neck. The only place, that I have ever been able to see sir, she has freckles is across her nose.”

Rosey’s mother took the phone, her eyes inspecting the blurry images. She nods in understanding, looking back up at her daughter with a fierce expression. “We will deal with this, honey. Your dad and I will handle it. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

Her father’s gaze switched from the phone to Luke. He studied him, his eyes intense and searching. Then he spoke, his voice a mix of relief and warning. “You’re right, son. I’m trusting you to keep an eye on her, keep her safe. Don’t let anything happen to my little girl. Just don’t let yourself learn where anymore freckles on my baby girl are!”

Luke laughs nervously at his last statement.

“I understand, sir. I promise to do everything in my power to protect her. She means more to me than you could ever know,” Luke replied solemnly, his love hazed eyes never leaving hers.

Her father’s gaze softened slightly, recognizing the sincerity in Luke’s voice. “Good. Because she’s going to need someone like you by her side.” He squeezed her shoulder gently before turning to his wife. “Let’s go upstairs and talk this through, honey. I think these two have some things to discuss as well.”

With a knowing smile, her mother nodded, leaving them alone in the hallway. The air was thick with tension, but there was also a newfound sense of unity between them.

Luke’s hand found hers, and she laced their fingers together, feeling a rush of comfort at the simple touch.

The two sat back down on the couch, the earlier intimacy of their embrace now replaced by a shared comfort knowing her parents are pushing to overcome this latest hurdle.

“Thank you, Luke,” she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Really, truly I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against his. “You’ll never have to find out, Ro. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was firm, the words a promise that he intended to keep.

Rosey’s eyes closed as she melted into his embrace, letting out a sigh of relief. The tension in her shoulders visibly dissipated as she felt his comforting touch. For a moment, she allowed herself to just be in the safety of his arms, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her chest. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long few weeks, and it filled her with a sense of peace she hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

“Lukey?” She mumbled.

“Yes pretty girl?”

“Back to the last time I saw you, can I fulfill what I said? I want to be yours and just yours. Now and forever. A real relationship where I can kiss you like real people do and I can tell you I love you whenever and it not be weird and-”

Without allowing another word, Luke leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, silencing her nervous babbling with a gentle, lingering kiss. It was a promise and a declaration wrapped in one sweet embrace.

His eyes meeting hers the second they parted, and he uttered the ever so softest "yes" against her lips. “God, yes Rosey be mine.”

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