#and when I look through all things all I think I should have had more photos

[earthtooz]

cw: fluff, phainon being shirtless and shameless and sending reader into a frenzy without even realising, based on the fact that phainon has awful fashion taste, unedited because i wrote this in one sitting sawry

"lord phainon... maybe you should let me pick out your outfit."

the chrysos heir, clueless as ever, glances at the atrocious combination of yellow and purple that sits on the edge of an armchair. you don't even think you can stomach looking at the clothes, the patterns mismatched and the colours clashing so much that you would have to squint to stomach looking at it.

even if he weren't such an important figure in society, you would still refuse to let him leave the estate looking like this, especially for the party lady aglaea was hosting.

you don't even want to think what her reaction to this pairing would be.

yet, phainon thinks nothing wrong of his... choice.

"what's wrong with this one?"

you choke down your more honest thoughts and go with something that won't upset him. "the outfit is far too casual for the occasion, we need something more appropriate!"

"alright, how about-"

his hand reaches to open his wardrobe again and you intercept its path before he can even touch the doorknob.

"how about you just leave this to me, lord phainon?" you insist, brushing his wrist aside. "i like to say i have an eye for things like this!"

he blinks at you, "alright."

as you deliberate through the selection of (rarely touched) clothes, your eyes and hands land on a white, silk dress shirt with blue accents, matching the colours of his normal attire. it looks sensible enough, and fitting for someone with the status of a prophesied 'new king', if you find a fitting set of jewellery, and a pair of black slacks and shoes, lady aglaea would surely allow him entry and not shoo him away for being a sore sight for her eyes.

however, in your rumination, you fail to hear the unbuckling of belts and shedding of clothes occurring behind you.

and when you turn to show him a potential dress shirt, your words barely make it off your tongue before you're squealing, almost falling into the closet.

"what's the matter?"

his toned back muscles, in all their glory, stare back at you as phainon looks over his shoulder, curiosity swirling in his aquamarine eyes. the curvature of his biceps, deltoids, and titans forbid- his waist, on proud display with supple skin, save for a few fading scars here and there- fuck, even his scars had muscles, you should just have let him wear that darned yellow and purple outfit instead of offering to help!

does he have no shame? well- you suppose he did need to be shirtless to try something on, and there's no dubious intent behind his actions, and with a body like his, what's there to be ashamed about?

by amphoreus, he's going to kill you.

"nothing," you choke out, casting your gaze away as you approach him with stiff steps. "try this on."

"okay."

then he extends his arms out, as if expecting you to help him put it on and you both stare at each other for a long moment, phainon, waiting for you to put the shirt on him, and you, waiting for phainon to take the shirt from you.

he's a grown man, why do you need to help him?

muttering a silent curse under your breath, you pretend like there isn't heat rising to your cheeks as he threads his arm through the material. you pretend like your hands aren't shaking when you do up his buttons, fingers careful not to graze his torso that's radiating heat from under the fabric. you pretend like it doesn't affect you when your knuckles graze his chest while fixing his collar. you pretend to busy yourself with the hanger when really, you just can't look him in the eye without feeling hot. and faint.

when you gently cuff his sleeves, you feel his gaze burning holes to the top of your head, and you don't dare look up to check.

"here, these will match." clasping gold bracelets, and slipping gold rings on his gloveless hands, you decide the selection to be fitting. "this looks good, and that shirt fits you very well."

"you think so?"

then you make the mistake of looking him in the eye.

you may not know phainon like the back of your hand, but you're all too familiar with the sheen of heroic determination in his eyes that makes them shine like the rarest aquamarine crystal, yet, it's replaced with something cozier, something as clear as a pond reflecting the blue sky. it steals the breath from your lungs and clutches at your heart, and you feel your mind preparing to shutdown for the second time in minutes.

parting from him like he was fire that had licked you, your movements are awkward when you go back to his wardrobe.

"i'll find some matching slacks and shoes, just wait a little longer."

this time, your ears catch the sound of a belt unbuckling.

"phainon. please, do not take off your pants."

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Breakfast VIII

Ellie Carpenter x Daniëlle van de Donk x Child!Reader

Summary: You look after Ellie

"Yeah, I mean, obviously Daan and I have a kid so our holidays are a little different. We have to cater more to y/n and her needs rather than our own. But, yeah, we make sure our daughter has a lot of fun when we go on trips."

It's such a throwaway comment that Daan can't believe it's become this big thing. No one had ever seemed to care when Beth said a similar thing about you during the days the two of you were at Arsenal.

It's strange that people suddenly have an issue with it when Ellie says it.

But, for some reason, people do have an issue. As if Ellie coming into your life later meant that you and her weren't mother and daughter, as if Daan would plan to marry someone that couldn't bring herself to fill a maternal role in your life.

She shakes her head dismissively as she looks up from Ellie's phone and the doom scrolling her partner had gone through last night.

"They're stupid," Daan says," And strangers saying crap on the internet has no baring on how we're raising our daughter. Okay? No matter what they say, you feeling like y/n's mother isn't wrong and it isn't weird. You're her mother and she's your daughter, alright?"

It's strange to see Ellie so insecure about something. It's not a feeling that Daan likes at all.

"I think so. You think so. Y/n thinks so."

"Does she?" Ellie says back," I just...I don't know, Daan. Does she really?"

"You know she does," Daan insists," Ellie, that girl adores you even if she tries to hide it. She loves you. Who else will try to convince me to get her a gerbil?"

"Pets are good for kids! She's old enough now to understand responsibility."

Daan laughs. "There you go. Having a conversation with me that my parents had when I was younger. You're a good mum, Ellie. No matter what strangers on the internet say."

"I know," Ellie says, putting on a bright smile that Daan can see through easily," I'm just being a bit silly. I know. I promise."

Daan chooses not to push it, dropping a soft kiss to Ellie's lips before heading off towards your bedroom.

You're sitting on the bed, playing with some of the action figures you got for Christmas.

"Hey," Daan says," I'm heading out soon. You promise you'll be good for your Mum?"

You rolls your eyes, huffing and puffing like Daan's interrupted you in the middle of a test instead of just a casual game with your toys.

"I'll be good for Ellie."

"You promise?"

"Yeah."

"Hey..." Daan crouches next to you, hand reaching out to touch your cheek. "Your Mum needs you to be extra good tonight, alright? She...She's feeling a little down right now so, please, just...be good."

Your brow furrows in confusion at how serious Daan sounds and you find yourself nodding.

"I'll be good for Ellie. I promise."

Daan smiles. "Good girl. I should be back later but you'll already be in bed. I love you."

"Love you too."

Ellie hadn't really expected for you to emerge from your room until dinner, too engrossed in making your Autobots fight the Decepticons but here you are, standing in front of her.

"You okay, pipsqueak?"

The thunder crashes before you can speak and you nearly jumped into Ellie's arms.

"Do you think Mumma is okay?" You say," Out in the storm? She gets scared, you know."

"Daan gets scared or you get scared?"

You purse your lips, trying to give an air of indifference that isn't nearly as convincing as you think it is. "I'm a big girl. I'm not scared of anything."

Another crash of thunder has you flinching and Ellie takes pity on you.

"I think Daan is just fine. She'll come home if she's scared."

"Good." You nod. "That's...That's good. She should do that."

Ellie shrugs. "And, you know, when I'm scared of storms, I usually build a fort. That usually helps."

"Right..." You eye the rain soaked windows warily. "You should...You should tell Mumma..."

"Or," Ellie suggests," We can build a fort here...now, for her when she comes back? Would you like that?"

"For Mumma," You make sure to say," Of course."

Ellie bites down her laugh. "For Daan, yes. Because Daan's the one scared of storms."

"Yes. I'll..." You grit your teeth as thunder crashes again and lightning flashes outside. "I'll grab some blankets."

It doesn't take long at all for the fort to be finished, even if it falls multiple times because of the sudden bouts of thunder that make you jump even if you deny it.

"I...I'm not scared," You say, teeth chattering anxiously as you lay on Ellie's chest in the fort," I'm...I'm just doing this so you don't get scared like Mumma does."

"You're doing a good job," Ellie tells you, gentle hands carding through your hair softly," You're making sure I'm not scared at all."

"Mumma said you were feeling down but it's okay," You continue," I...I won't let the storm get you."

"I...Daan said that about me?"

"I don't know how Mumma already knew about the storm but it's okay. I've got you."

Ellie smiles down at you. "I...Thanks, y/n."

"Of course, Mum," You say," I'll protect you."

[book-lore]

Library goblin rant incoming and yes, I'm about to ruin your dream. I also work there, so I am going to try to assist you in realizing why you need to access the bigger, better dream.

Okay, so I have seen this stupid post swirl around a few times now and it has had time to marinate and really turn into something I genuinely hate. The idea here isn't really a bad one, mind you. Having libraries open late enough that you can just enjoy reading and have a nice community oriented place to go is not bad at all. The thing is, this post very clearly has but one type of community in mind and it isn't going to be the one that shows up, most likely. This post also seems to have a weird idea of what it is that happens in a library, though to be fair, this isn't surprising for people who don't spend much time there. Let me explain.

For one: libraries are the last community centre that you have access to. It is free and welcoming of everyone and that includes a lot of people you probably aren't planning on inviting to your Saturday Night book club. Our homeless patrons are going to be a big part of who shows up to these late night hours and while most of them are wonderful patrons who are kind and respectful of the space, that doesn't mean that some of them aren't going through major mental health crises, drug withdrawals, conflicts among each other and various other parts that make up life without a home to go to. These are going to be a part of your library at night experience and yes, sometimes that means it's going to be scary there. Scary in a way that isn't necessarily going to be true at a coffee shop or a bar, where people who are deemed a problem are kept out on purpose. The library is for everyone and while I can't stress enough that our homeless patrons are most often among our best behaved, that doesn't always hold true for everyone.

Speaking of which, there are going to be other people attending these evening hours too and some of them aren't going to be people you want to get to know at night. People screaming and swearing and crying is going to be a part of the background of that time of day and those of you who aren't in the library during the day when it happens are probably going to find it pretty alarming. Likewise, when someone decides to go on a massive racist tirade, or just decides that they are going to try to hit on everyone who is feminine presenting, or someone decides to get into your face because they were forced to hear the word pronouns today, that is also something that happens on the regular, but will be a part of your evening experience. Drug use is also going to be happening in the bathrooms and you can expect that this may lead to people overdosing within the building. For the record, again, all this happens during the day, but if you only ever come to the library to pick up your holds before close, you probably didn't know this.

All of this probably has led you to believe that I don't think that there should be funding for later hours in the library, but the truth is a little more thorny. Having later hours wouldn't be a bad thing at all, except that people who are advocating for this fantasy are directly leaving out some crucial issues. For one, as the last community centre available to the wider public, that means that not only is this a shared space among the whole community, it is a space that has to take up the cause for everything the rest of the community doesn't provide. That means everything from people who are looking for shelter when the established ones that remain have no room, to places to safely inject, to places that they can find resources that they desperately need, to spaces where children can go to play in safety, to places where you can print off resumes, to places where someone can try to learn to start speaking English. All of this means that what you might imagine "well funded" looks like is a lot different. This isn't just about having adequate staffing, but also security and access to resources, including professionals who can take the burden off the front line staff who are going to deal with the bulk of it all. Those extra hours are within reach but convincing the people who hold the purse strings to shell out for any of this is going to be the bigger issue. More importantly, should the library really be this kind of resource?

This brings me to the two aspects of this dream that I hate the most: the lack of interest and advocacy that it reveals. As a library goblin, I am happy to help my community and I would love to offer more, but I can't pretend that this dream isn't entirely frustrating to me because nowhere in it does this take into account how it would play out for us or the community. If you want better options for after work and Saturday nights, you should be advocating for better community resources and spaces. There are means to get there. There are people you can elect and put pressure on to built that infrastructure. The library shouldn't be the only game in town where people can take care of their needs but we carry it all right now and we are seeing even more closures of community welfare sites. This means you need to be a part of that community and voice your concerns. This means you need to demand better from people. This means you need to show up and find or build those resources in your own community and help by being active. Community resources don't just appear, they are part of an effort that you have to be a part of.

The second aspect of this dream that I hate more than the first is the fact that if you want this dream to come true, you have to make sure that you are showing up for your libraries and your librarians, especially right now. Libraries have their funding under attack always, but right now a lot of them are facing reductions in their funding if they aren't being threatened with full closures. If you are in America, this is the time when you need to show up for this and demand access to your library. Demand that your money go towards keeping this resource alive. Get angry and make sure that you show up for community meetings about spending. Is it boring? Yes. That is so you won't bother and they can take away more hours from this resource. And if you do care about getting together in your local library to discuss books, you better also be hitting back hard against these book banning groups that have made it their mission to keep certain topics from anyone's eyes. Most book bans happen from the concerted efforts of very few people and if you believe that the library should be a place for you to gather and enjoy after work or on Saturday nights, you need to be a lot more openly hostile to those people who are actively trying to take it away from you. You want that funding? Demand it. You want those extra hours? Get out there and tell those people who are deciding the budget that this is what your community wants. You want those books on your shelf, show up and drown out those puritan assholes who are trying to ban them.

Libraries are for everyone and they have consistently taken on so much of the needs of the communities who rely on them. If you dream of a space that you can live out your dark academia fantasies and ignore the real issues that define the way we in the library operate, you are likely to be sorely disappointed. You are also likely to see the death of that dream if you aren't active about keeping your libraries alive. There's nothing wrong with dreaming, but I would ask you to dream bigger. Include other people in that dream. Make it so that even if the end result doesn't look like this, it also won't end in shuttered buildings and the end of your last community resources.

This is the DREAM.

[hoe4hotchner]

The Final Lap

Pairing: F1 driver!Hotch x fem!reader | WC: 2.3k | CW: A little swearing, one midly suggestive comment, champagne, I don't know - is sweat a cw?

A/N: I finished writing this at 2am, so some of the environemt might not make sense, I'm not changing it though ;)

The Ferrari garage was electric, the air thick with the buzz of movement as engineers murmured over headsets, eyes glued to the data screens, pit crew readying themselves for the next stop, and the unmistakable scent of fuel and burning rubber that clung to the humid night air and only got stronger with each lap.

Yet despite the organized chaos around you, your world had narrowed to one thing: the red blur blazing around the track.

Aaron Hotchner.

A two-time World Champion, one of the best drivers this generation of Formula 1 had ever seen. But tonight, that was all coming to an end. He was retiring. Mid-season at that. It had shocked everyone in the paddock.

Retiring in the middle of the season? Unheard of.

Speculation had run wild—injury, contract disputes, internal politics, a baby?—but no one had guessed the truth. Hotch wasn’t leaving because of any of that. He was leaving because he wanted something more than the endless race weekends, the constant jetlag, the hotels, the pressure of performance, and the fear of injury. He wanted a life, and that life had you in it.

For the first time in over a decade, Hotch had found someone he didn’t want to leave behind every other weekend. Someone who made the circuit feel small, someone who was waiting for him to come home, not just to a race but to a life beyond the track and parties.

Right now, he was in P2, chasing down Max Verstappen with only a handful of laps to go.

The garage was tense, every engineer hanging on the telemetry. You stood in the garage, chewing your lip, arms crossed and fingers digging into your skin as you watched the screen, tracking his every move.

“Gap to Verstappen, 1.2 seconds,” his race engineer, Paul, relayed over the radio. “He’s struggling with tire degradation. If we push, we can get him.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and composed. “Understood.”

God, you loved him.

You loved how focused he was, how in control he remained even when every part of his body must’ve been screaming for release, for a break.

But not tonight. Not when this was his last race.

A sudden thought struck you, and without hesitation, you turned to one of the engineers, pointing at a spare headset on the workbench. “Can I say something to him?”

The engineer hesitated, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, but then smirked. “Make it quick.”

You pulled the headset on and pressed the comms button, taking a deep breath. The air in the garage felt thick with anticipation as everyone waited for you to make your move, but in that moment, you only had one person on your mind.

“Hey, handsome.”

Silence.

Then, a breathy response came through the radio.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was softer than it ever was during a race. Always so composed, never losing focus—never even swearing, like many of his opponents—yet you could tell by the slight drop in his tone that he was smirking.

You grinned, your heart racing. “You look good out there.”

The air shifted in the garage, the engineers going silent as they eavesdropped on the comms.

“You should see me up close,” Hotch murmured back, and you swore you could feel the weight of his words in your chest.

Hotch flirting mid-race? The fans were going to have a field day with this recording you thought.

You bit back a laugh, suddenly feeling a flutter in your chest. “I’ll hold you to that,” you teased, voice dropping just slightly. “But I think P1 would look even better on you. Let Max eat your exhaust fumes”

A breath from him, holding together a laugh. Then, a low and steady reply:

“Copy that.”

The garage went completely still. The next few seconds would determine everything.

Lap traffic ahead. Two backmarkers. Hotch’s team didn’t even need to tell him twice. He saw the gap, recognized the opportunity, and now it was up to him.

The roar of the engine shifted, the engine note rising as Hotch pushed harder. Paul’s voice cut through the static. “Verstappen’s losing time in Zone 4. This is our chance.”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. He was already setting up for the move.

As they approached the Anderson Bridge, Max hesitated behind the Aston—which was unlike him. It was the opening Hotch needed.

ERS deployed.

He dove down the inside at Turn 12, braking impossibly late. The Ferrari twitched, almost losing the rear, but Hotch held it steady, centimeters from Max's rear.

And then—he was ahead.

The garage exploded into triumphant chaos. “He’s done it!” “He’s in P1!”

Your heart raced, your hands trembling as you pressed the comms button again, breathless with excitement. “Aaron, you absolute machine.”

Through the radio, you heard his low chuckle. “Told you to hold on tight.”

Final lap.

You barely registered the world around you. You were all but consumed by the sheer will of the moment. Every corner was a battle. Every turn was his. The world around you blurred into the background, the only thing that mattered being Hotch and the finish line that was now within reach.

Turn 17.

Turn 18.

The final corner.

The checkered flag waved.

“AARON HOTCHNER WINS THE SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX!”

The words rang in your ears as the Ferrari surged across the line, the crowd roaring, the Tifosi screaming in unison. It was over. The moment had arrived.

The Ferrari garage erupted. Headsets slammed onto tables—clearly not caring if they broke—engineers leaped into each other's arms, and bottles of champagne were already being cracked open. On the pit wall, a sea of red uniforms flooded the monitors, clapping, shouting, barely able to contain themselves as the realization set in—Aaron Hotchner had just won the Singapore Grand Prix. Your breath caught, hands pressed to the headset, every nerve in your body still wired from the last ten laps. The tension had been unbearable—Max had been defending his spot like his life depended on it, and for a while, it seemed like P2 was where Hotch would finish his racing days.

Until he didn’t.

The radio was full of cheering, the entire Ferrari team shouting over each other. Hotch’s voice finally broke through—breathless, steady, softer than you expected. “Yes!” A rare burst of raw emotion. “That was—unbelievable. Thank you, guys.” Paul, his race engineer, was practically laughing.

“Aaron Hotchner wins in Singapore! What a move. What a drive. P1, baby!”

And you? You pressed the comms button, voice teasing. “Told you P1 would look good on you.”

A chuckle—low, warm, the kind of laugh that curled through you like fire on a cold day. “Guess I couldn’t let you down.”

Your fingers tightened around the headset. Out on the circuit, he was still weaving his car side to side on the cool-down lap, burning the last of the fuel, fans screaming his name from the grandstands. Red flares ignited in the sky, casting a glow over the Marina Bay circuit.

The final results came in:

🥇 Aaron Hotchner | Ferrari

🥈 Max Verstappen | Red Bull

🥉 Charles Leclerc | Ferrari

A Ferrari double podium in Hotch’s last race. If the garage had been loud before, it was deafening now. But you stayed rooted in place, eyes locked on the screens.

He pulled into parc fermé, stopping in front of the #1 marker. Engine off. Helmet off. You watched as he climbed out of the car, sweat-soaked fireproofs clinging to his body, hair damp, chest rising and falling as he took in the moment, before climbing on top of his car, with his helmet raised to the sky.

And then—That smile. Not the usual, small, controlled one. This was real. Wide, bright, a kind of happiness he couldn't control. Mechanics surrounded him first as he climbed back down, clapping his back, congratulating him. He took it all in stride, shaking hands, hugging his engineers. But then—He started searching for something.

No, not something.

Someone.

You.

The second the cameras shifted to the post-race interview area, you ran. Through the garage, past team personnel, ducking under barriers as you weaved through the sea of red. And then he saw you. A split second of recognition—Then open arms.

You collided with him, the scent of fuel, sweat, and somehow champagne already clinging to his suit, but you didn’t care. His arms locked around you, tight, body still thrumming with adrenaline. His voice was hushed, just for you.

“I was waiting for you.” Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the hammering heartbeat. “Had to make sure you really won.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “You doubted me?”

“Never.”

The Ferrari crew around you whistled, someone muttering something about "Hotch getting a different kind of trophy tonight." You flushed, but Hotch only laughed under his breath, fingers brushing the side of your face before a team official clapped his shoulder.

“Podium time, Hotch.”

You squeezed his wrist. “Go. I’ll be watching.” His gaze lingered before he nodded, turning towards the podium ceremony.

The circuit was alive with energy. Red flares burned, fans roared, and the Ferrari team crowded together in the pit lane, waving flags and cheering.

At the top of the paddock, the podium gleamed under the bright floodlights, a red carpet leading up the stairs where FIA officials and race stewards stood waiting. Above, the massive digital screen displayed the final race standings: Aaron Hotchner in P1. Max Verstappen in P2. Charles Leclerc in P3. If anyone was unsure of the standings.

You stood just below the stage with the rest of the team, heart racing as you watched Hotch climb the steps. His suit was still damp with sweat, the red and black fabric clinging to his body, and yet he carried himself with that same unwavering confidence, like a man who had done this a thousand times before—which it felt like he had. But this time was different. This was his last time.

The podium announcer’s voice echoed across the circuit, listing the finishing positions in order. Charles was introduced first, stepping onto the third-place podium to a chorus of cheers. He shook his head slightly as he adjusted his collar, still breathless from the race. Then Max, accepting his second-place finish with the usual tight-lipped nod, the competitive edge in his eyes refusing to dull—no doubt he would power through several simulations the following days.

But it was when the announcer called Hotch’s name that the world seemed to explode.

Everything erupted. Fans chanted his name, flares burned brighter in the night, and as he stepped onto the highest tier of the podium, he exhaled slowly, drinking it in. His final podium. His final win. But instead of sadness, there was peace in the way his shoulders dropped slightly, in the way he ran a hand over his jaw before placing the Pirelli cap on his head.

Even with the weight of history, of legacy, of an entire nation behind him, his gaze still searched for you.

The American national anthem played first, Hotch standing motionless as the flag was raised above him. Then the Italian anthem, and if the fans had been loud before, they were deafening now. Every single word was sung, voices carrying over the circuit, filling the air with pure, unfiltered passion. And through it all, Hotch stood tall, head slightly bowed, fingers flexing at his sides. You had never seen him look so at home.

One by one, the trophies were presented. Charles accepted his first, shaking his head with an exasperated smile before turning to congratulate Hotch with a playful nudge. Max followed his grip tight on his trophy, still smirking slightly like he was already thinking about the next race. And then, finally, the presenter stepped forward with the massive gold-plated winner’s trophy.

The weight of it was nothing compared to the moment itself, but Hotch lifted it with ease, raising it high above his head.

The second the trophies were set down, the champagne bottles were cracked open. Charles was the first to strike, popping his bottle and immediately drenching Max, who let out an indignant shout before retaliating. The two of them descended into absolute chaos, but Hotch, ever the strategist, waited—watching, calculating—before launching his own attack. He shook his bottle furiously, angling it just right before absolutely soaking Charles in champagne. Charles yelped, attempting to shield himself, but the cameras had already captured his fate. The crowd ate it up, loving every second of the carnage, knowing that they would miss the relationship between Hotch and Charles on the track.

Through it all, you watched, heart swelling with something deeper than pride, something warmer than admiration. You had loved him in so many ways, in so many lifetimes, but seeing him here—drenched in champagne, racing suit and fireproofs sticking to his frame, a rare, boyish smirk on his lips—you had never loved him more.

And then, before you could react, he was moving. Away from the cameras. Away from the podium. Away from the crowd. And toward you. Not caring about the interviews.

His fingers curled around your waist, tugging you in until you were flush against him. He was still damp, still smelled of adrenaline and gasoline, but you didn’t care. His lips brushed your ear, voice low, teasing, the same voice that had made your heart race over the radio.

“I think I like winning.”

You let out a breathless laugh, pressing your hands against his chest. “Then why retire?”

He exhaled, warm against your skin, fingers grazing the small of your back. And then, softly and simply smiled—

“You know why.”

Because it had never been about injuries. It had never been about losing. Aaron Hotchner was retiring from Formula 1 because he had already won the most important thing of all.

You.

[dolcekissy]

Hear me out- reader hires a hitman(rafe) for her cheating husband, and when they go to meetup and finalize she realizes how attractive he actually is and fucks him in in the back of his car

hot, hot. hope you enjoy! mwah, mwah.

disclaimer // 18+ content. this story includes p in v, unprotected sex, mentions of death and murder.

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the only sound sounding the dark alley are the clicks of your heels against the pavement and the wind whistling, pulling your coat tighter around you as you take long strides, not a single thought running through your mind but the thought of your husband with a bullet through his head after the shit he's put you through ─ nights of trying to remain calm after he's slowly crawling into your shared bed smelling like another woman, trying to keep a smile on your face as you cook him dinner every night, trying not to fucking smoother his lying ass.

he must have forgotten who you are, seriously. does he truly think you'd allow this behavior? i mean come on ─ to be humiliated and kicked to the curb by the man you've given everything up for, seriously? it almost makes you laugh. men. men are stupid, men are men. men never think twice before doing, men always underestimate women, always think they can get away ─ never face the consequences of their actions.

men always forget that there is something scarier ─ more dangerous in this world than a man. a heartbroken, nasty fucking woman.

─────────────────────────

you squint your eyes, legs picking up in speed as you approach the blacked out car in front of you, headlights turning off the second you approach the passenger side door. you can't lie, you're nervous. what if the universe turns around and kicks you right in the ass? this plan backfires ─ the hitman kills you. you open the car door, climbing in with a humorless laugh, thinking, the universe would do the same thing you're doing, the universe is a woman, it's a woman's world after all.

the man turns to face you, blue eyes meeting yours, pink lips curling into a faint smirk as he eyes your figure, hands busying themselves cleaning a small gun. your eyes narrow as you take him in, eyes tracing over his features ─ eyes falling to his hands. he's attractive, very attractive. you'd be damned if you had to hire a hitman on him if you were married to him.

"sweet thing like you hiring a hitman, huh? i guess it is a dangerous world we live in." he rasped, letting out a breathy chuckle ─ watching as you unzip your purse, pulling out wads of cash, watching your fingers run through one of the stacks of cash, eyes fixated on the green paper.

"it is." you hand him one of the stacks, eyes never leaving his as you lean closer. "i want that man gone tonight. i'll pay you extra to kill his mistress too, i want to watch the life leave that whores eyes. alright?" he stares at you for a moment, his eyes full of nothing until they light up ─ a smile breaking out on his face, his pearly whites shining in the dim light of his car.

"alright." he says with a slight nod, watching as you slap multiple stacks of cash into his hand ─ pulling out extra cash as promised, greedy eyes staring at the stacks with money symbols in his eyes ─ part of him wondering what a pretty thing like you does for a living. he counts through the cash for a while, your alluring eyes staring him down like a hawk, eyes running over his features and his slender fingers - squeezing your thighs together when he lets out a hum of approval.

"you've got yourself a deal, babydoll." he rasps out, lifting his head to look at you, a faint smirk on his face. you nod your head, eyes shamelessly trained to him ─ eyes running over his body before you look away, glancing at the side mirror before your irises meet his again.

"name?" you breathe.

"can't tell ya, doll." he huffs.

"you should." you shrug.

he pauses, glancing out of the window, "rafe."

"fuck me, rafe."

─────────────────────────

listen, you haven't had sex in months. in what world would you allow your husbands penis to enter your womb after being buried in another's an hour ago? you know the worth of the gold that has been placed between your thighs, rewarding an unclean man would be humiliating, disgraceful really. but a man like rafe ─ the one who is about to get rid of the problems in your life, the problems that have caused you too much fucking trouble. he deserves it, he deserves a reward.

you're not ashamed as you bounce on a strangers cock in his backseat, a hitman's cock at that. he's attractive, smooth talking, everything you deserve after being cheated on. you're not ashamed as your nails dig into his shoulders, clawing at his skin as he kneads the fat of your ass, spreading and groping the skin as your hips move skillfully. when you first spoke with rafe about your husband, he assumed your husband must have gotten bored ─ maybe you didn't know how to fuck right, pillow princess at all times. but the way your gummy walls squeeze him, the way you skillfully bounce on his cock has him questioning everything ─ your husband is a complete dumbass.

his fingernails dig into your hips, head tipping back against the black leather seat, jaw slack as his eyes stay trained to your face ─ watching each expression, each movement, every emotion. your eyes drift down his body to his cock, watching the way your cunt swallows him whole, angry cock glistening with your creamy arousal and his precum ─ your jaw slack in awe as your eyes travel back up to his, his eyes already on you.

you're both panting, moans falling from your swollen lips, groans falling from his as his hips thrust up to meet yours ─ his tip nudging your cervix, cunt squeezing him perfectly as his cock fucks your hole just right. you're both attacking each other, your hips bouncing as fast as possible, his hips thrusting just as fast ─ bodies begging to cum, minds mush.

he's groaning as you lick his earlobe, nibbling on it, whispering filthy words,

"cum in me, rafe."

"give it to me."

"be a man and fuck me."

he's holding your hips, stilling them as he uses all of his strength to fuck his cock up into you, hissing when your nails dig into his neck and shoulders, groaning when you're crying out his name, your head tipping back as the car shakes with each thrust ─ your grip on him tight enough to bruise, adrenaline pumping through your veins as a killer fucks you skillfully, hitting places your husband never could.

his hand travels up to your neck, squeezing the exposed flesh as he pants, hot breath hitting your face as he guides your eyes to his, his body tensing as he cums ─ cumming deep in your womb, growling when your cunt flutters around him as you cum as well, your pretty face contorting into pleasure as you cry out his name again, and again.

"what a fool." he huffs out, hand running over your smooth back.

"what a fuckin' fool to cheat on this, deserves to die. m'glad i met you, i'll show you what a man is."

─────────────────────────

[mulloey]

Can you write a full length fic of boyfriends!sanhwa reminding the reader who she belong to after someone tried to flirt with her at party and she was too oblivious to understand and went with it?

Can you include overstim and them having the reader on their lap. And a bit of size kink on sanhwa's part.

Do not include: mxm, misogynistic terms like whore and slut.

too sweet

san & seonghwa x fem!reader

words: 1k

join my taglist

warnings: overstim, punishment, soft doms!sanhwa, kind of innocent!reader, reader is smaller than sanhwa, big size kink (you’re referred to as small, tiny, little etc)

—

“Do you understand now?”

Seonghwa’s voice is low and teasing in your ear, making you squirm in his hold; he has you on his lap, your legs spread apart and held in position by his own strong thighs. His arms are wrapped around your torso, stroking your flushed skin as you sob through another orgasm.

You don’t know how many you’ve had now, nor how many you’re yet to endure; San’s fingers pump in and out of your pussy relentlessly, his other hand holding a vibrator firmly against your swollen clit. You writhe pathetically in Seonghwa’s arms but you all know it’s pointless; they could overpower you in your sleep, and when they’re this determined to teach you a lesson, there’s nothing you can do but take it.

“Yes, Hwa,” you hiccup. Your voice is tiny and pathetic, hoarse from screaming and begging for God knows how long. “Hwa, m’ sorry, please.”

He laughs softly into your skin, lips trailing across your neck. “Oh I know, honey,” he coos. “It must hurt so much, huh?” His voice drips with condescension and you know he doesn’t actually care if it hurts; he wants it to hurt, wants you so drunk on pleasure that you can’t think of anything except them, their hands, and how sorry you are for being so bad.

And you were really, really bad—or so they said. You don’t think it’s fair, honestly, to be punished for something you didn’t even know you were doing, but you’re not silly enough to protest; Seonghwa in particular hates when you try to weasel out of a punishment, sees it as the ultimate form of disobedience—so trying to talk yourself out of this would only have made it worse. For the nth time tonight your safeword dances on your tongue but you have no intention of using it. They know as well as you do that you absolutely adore being used like this.

Still, it would be better if this wasn’t happening as a punishment; then you’d be able to ask San to take it slower, or to pull his fingers out and fuck you instead. But if that’s what you wanted, then maybe you should have been more careful.

They knew they shouldn’t have taken you to that party. A company event filled with other artists and staff, it was all too easy to lose you in the crowd; you were smaller than most of the people, a social butterfly, and endlessly optimistic of people’s intentions. For just ten seconds San had looked away from you to chat with one of his stylists—but that was all the time it took for you to slip away.

It was Seonghwa that found you chatting happily with one of the choreographers. To be fair to the guy, he was new and didn’t know the nature of your relationship to them yet; but that didn’t make the sight of him leaning against the wall with his hand on your arm any more pleasant. And you, sweet thing that you were, had no idea what he was doing.

He got you out of there quickly, both of your boyfriends bundling you into the car despite your protests; Seonghwa nearly broke the speed limit trying to get you home before he snapped and took you right there on the motorway.

You’re just too sweet for your own good. And the noises you make as you approach another orgasm certainly are.

You can’t bear to look at San anymore; the focus on his face and the bulging muscles of his arms as he works you open are only turning you on more, so you bury your face in Seonghwa’s neck, crying pitifully into his hair. You shudder through your next orgasm, barely in control of your limbs anymore and San kisses your cream-covered thighs. “Pretty girl,” he croons. “Naughty girl.”

“M’ sorry,” you whine. “Sannie, please, I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Seonghwa says with a sweet smile. “You’re gonna, baby.”

San hums in agreement as he resumes his assault on your aching cunt. “Such a pretty pussy,” he purrs. “So tiny for us. Only for us, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you whisper. “Only for— only for you. Only for Sannie and Hwa.”

“Good girl,” Seonghwa says. “Such a sweetheart, learning her lesson so well. Isn’t she, Sannie?”

“She is, yeah. One more orgasm, baby, then I’ll fuck you, alright?”

You nod dizzily, barely aware of what’s going on; just as your last orgasm approaches, San pulls the vibrator away and attaches his mouth to your clit, sucking harshly at it and it’s all takes for you to come crashing over the edge, releasing onto his face. He comes up with a grin, mouth and chin wet with your juices as he pulls you out to Seonghwa’s arms and into his own. He pushes you down on the sheets, hovering over you. “Hi, tiny,” he smiles. “Want me in your pussy?”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly. “And— and Hwa?”

San’s smile widens and you hear Seonghwa laugh from next to you. “Silly girl,” he says. “How am I gonna fit in there with Sannie? You’re too little, baby, we’d tear you open.”

“Don’t care,” you say. Your voice is stubborn and San pinches your thigh in warning.

“Be good,” he mumbles. “Hwa’s right, honey. We’re too big to fit in that little pussy. But if you ask him nicely I’m sure he’ll fuck your mouth, right?”

“Right.” Seonghwa grabs your chin gently, turning your head to face him where he’s kneeling at the side of the bed. His eyes are soft and impossibly aroused as he looks you up and down. “Want me in your mouth, pretty?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Please.”

“That’s not enough.” There’s a stern edge to his voice now that makes you shrink into yourself a little and his lips quirk amusedly when he notices. “You were really, really naughty tonight, baby. If you want me in your mouth you’re gonna have to beg for it, aren’t you?”

“Please,” you say. “Please, Hwa, I need— I’ll be so good. I won’t be bad again, I won’t let anyone flirt with me again, I swear I learnt my lesson, pl—”

“Sh, sh,” San soothes you with a chuckle, rubbing your pussy gently; the wet sounds make you blush. “We know, baby, good girl. Always so good.”

“You are,” Seonghwa smiles.

As you feel San start to push into you you feel the bed dip under Seonghwa’s weight as he climbs onto it. His dick is already leaking when he presses it against your lips.

“Open up, baby.”

—

ateez taglist: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi @tangerineastronaut @fancypeacepersona @aloevendetta @lemonkait00 @uhh-awkward-rightt @whyokoa @miyaluvvsyou @yabbadabbatuh @mylovelymito

requests open!

[aringofsalt]

silver linings

so that bts video, huh??? i got a lil brain worm and. well. now i have 1.3k of spec fic. under the cut for anyone avoiding bts/potential spoilers 💛

It was raining. Of course it was raining.

The clouds that had gathered that morning had seemed like enough of a bad omen when Buck woke that morning, back stiff from a night on his old air mattress since Eddie's couch had been packed away. Eddie had made a halfhearted joke about clouds with silver linings as they packed the last few things into the U-Haul, Buck had glared at him without comment, and then, without further ado, the sky had opened up.

Unfortunately, it was just normal rain—barely more than drizzle—and Eddie was fully capable of driving in it, so it wouldn't do more than slow him down a little.

It wouldn't keep him here.

Logically, Buck knew this was the best choice Eddie could be making. Chris needed him, and he needed Chris. It made sense, even if he hated it. But his traitor brain kept running through the list of people who'd left him, for one reason or another. Maddie Abby Ali Maddie Eddie Taylor Natalia Bobby Tommy Eddie; it was a never-ending loop, and he couldn't make it stop. But that wasn't Eddie's fault, it wasn't his problem, it was entirely Buck's to deal with. So he slapped on his best smile—sure, it probably looked more like a grimace, but he was trying—and drew Eddie in for a hug.

He let himself hang on for longer than he probably should've, and when they pulled back, he ran to his truck for the bag of cookies and snacks he'd made. If he used that as an opportunity to wipe tears from his eyes, well, that was nobody's business but his.

When he got back, he handed off the bag, and Eddie just stared at it for a moment.

"Of course you're still baking."

"Well, yeah. Gotta fill my time somehow with everybody busy or—or gone." It came out harsher than he intended. "Sorry, that's not fair."

Eddie looked almost...nervous, passing the bag back and forth between his hands.

"So, I have an apology to make," he began.

Oh.

"Dude, come on, you already tried to apologize. I told you, I get it."

"No, not for—" Eddie gestured at the U-Haul. "I know you get it, but it still sucks for you, I know. But that's not what I mean. I mean for Tommy."

Buck's brow furrowed. "Tommy? What about Tommy?"

"I told you not to call him," he said simply. "I mean, I actively stopped you from calling him, too. We all did. And that wasn't fair, to you or him."

"Why the hell are you bringing this up now?" That, more than anything, made Buck's temper start to simmer in his veins. He'd spent far longer than he cared to admit agonizing over it, finally convincing himself that if everybody he knew was saying he shouldn't reach out, maybe they were right. And now Eddie was trying to take it back? "It's been months, Eddie, I can't just call him up now because—because, what, you feel guilty?"

"Because we were wrong. And you still miss him." Eddie shook the bag in Buck's direction. "I know you do."

"I miss a lot of people. So what?"

Eddie cringed a little, but Buck couldn't bring himself to feel bad for the harsh edge to his tone. This was not how he pictured saying goodbye going, standing in the rain arguing with his best friend before he left the state, anger getting close to boiling over.

"So, I called him." Eddie paused, visibly steeling himself. "A couple days ago. I figured he should know I was leaving, I wanted to say bye. See how he was doing. We got a beer and talked some and—shit, Buck, I should've just let you call. The man's a mess. He's hiding it, or trying to, but he is. He knows he fucked up, he wanted to reach out, too, but he thought you were fine with it, so he stayed away."

Despair shot through him. Tommy had wanted to reach out, too? Tommy thought he was fine with it? Eddie's words put so much of the last few months in a different perspective. The times he'd caught him bubbling, what if he'd started typing too, given Tommy a sign, any sign, that they were thinking about each other, instead of him just believing it was one-sided?

"Eddie, what the fuck."

"I know a thing or two about running because things are moving in a way you weren't expecting and not knowing how to get control back. I think that was his problem, he's used to being in control and, man, you hit him like a freaking hurricane. Figuratively and literally, I guess. But he's still completely gone on you, and I know you are on him, so. It means I made the right choice."

"The—the right choice? Eddie, what—"

"Told you. I called Tommy."

Eddie reached out and clapped Buck on the shoulder, then waved behind him.

"Hey, man."

"Hey Eddie."

Buck turned slowly, as though if he moved too fast he'd find someone else behind him. But no, it was Tommy; and Eddie was right. He was a bit of a mess. The average person probably wouldn't have noticed—he was, as always, devastatingly attractive. But Buck could tell that the hollows under his eyes were deeper than he'd ever seen them, the stubble on his jaw grown out a little more than he'd ever let it get while they were together. He was even holding himself differently, hands balled up in the pockets of his hoodie, just like they'd been when they'd met for coffee after Buck fucked things up the first time.

He had that same look on his face, too, that unsure, nervous look that still said I hope as he smiled softly.

"Evan."

Fuck, he'd missed hearing that. He let out a shaky breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, itching to reach out and wrap his arms around Tommy like he'd been dying to for months, unsure how it would be received. But Eddie was behind him, pushing him gently in his direction.

"Go on, Buck. You guys got this," Eddie whispered in his ear.

He got one more hug, then Eddie moved forward to hug Tommy as well. Buck would have felt bad about the way his and Tommy's eyes met and didn't leave each other the whole time if Eddie hadn't orchestrated this whole thing to begin with.

He left, quietly, the U-Haul pulling away with little fanfare, and they were still staring at each other. The rain was still falling, soaking their hair and clothes, and it was a single drop trailing down Tommy's nose to sit on the tip of it that finally made Buck move. He stepped into Tommy's space, gently reaching out and wiping it away with his thumb, and then it was the easiest thing in the world to pull him even closer.

It felt like something out of the movies Tommy loved so much, the two of them reunited and kissing in the rain. He didn't even want to come up for air, confident that he could survive without it if he could just keep kissing him forever, cradling Tommy's face in his hands and feeling Tommy's hands warm on his hips. But eventually they gave in, foreheads pressed together and breathing heavily.

"I missed you so much," he finally forced out. "I—I don't know what you want, from here, but I want—Tommy, I just want—" He broke off, nuzzled into Tommy's neck instead, breathing in the scent of his skin, his detergent and cologne.

"I want, too," Tommy agreed. "I'm so sorry—"

"Don't," Buck cut him off. "Not now. We have time for that later. All the time in the world. Let's go get dry, okay?"

"Okay," Tommy agreed, pressing one more kiss to Buck's lips. "All the time in the world."

[bunny-jpeg]

hi!, could i please get churros, nanaimo bars and honey cruller with a side of milkshake and dark hot chocolate with oscar piastri?

bakery menu

hey that was quite the hiatus! happy to be back. i spent the holidays trying to figure out how to make a comeback with the bakery prompts. they'll still be scattered in with my other fics, but i hope you enjoy 'em! a little break is never a bad thing and i hope that you've been enjoying my other fan fics! i wanted to start with smaller orders to get back into the groove, but i'll work up to the lovely bigger orders ya'll have sent! thank you anon and i hope you enjoy <3

churros: "if you don't shut that little mouth of yours, i will stuff it full. okay?" + nanaimo bars: "who's my pretty girl? c'mon say it." + honey cruller: "i forget how small you are sometimes." + milkshake: size kink + dark hot chocolate: sub!reader served by oscar piastri (formula one)!!

tags: smut/pwp, established relationship, stress relief, oral sex (oscar receives), car sex, dirty talk

sometimes racing felt like hitting his head against the wall. another week, another messy weekend. he was so close, but advised to let lando over take him. oscar honestly hated it sometimes.

they were friends, but lando always seemed to get the spotlight more. he was currently barrelling towards the wdc, and oscar felt like he was being left behind. a seat filler without much to give.

the anger brewed into something else inside of the normally gentle oscar. when you were talking to him on the drive back to the hotel. he made a remark that sent a hot feeling through you, "if you don't shut that little mouth of yours, i will stuff it full. okay?"

his eyes went wide and before he could say anything, you replied, "promise?"

oscar parked the car quickly, pulled into a quiet car park. he was thankful for his tinted windows as he put the car in park and turned it off. he said, "i'm sorry, i don't know-"

he never spoke to you like that. but you weren't scared of him, instead he knew that you were fairly flustered at his words. he reached to touch your cheek and instead you leaned in to kiss his inner wrist.

"don't worry about it, oscar. you're stressed out. i was near the pit wall when i heard them make the call... you feel bad." you said lovingly. you placed a hand on his thigh, close to his cock and added, "you should lose more if it makes you dirty talk like that."

oscar was able to relax and then leaned in across the gear shift to kiss you on the lips. he was able to cup most of your jaw with his larger hand. he asked, "do you like the dirty talk?"

you nodded as he held your cheeks in his hand. your lips forced to pout as he held you a little tighter. he chuckled lowly and thought it was beyond adorable.

he kissed your lips and said, "i forget how small you are sometimes." he knew that you liked your size difference, while it wasn't the largest gap anyone has seen. his slightly taller frame and bigger hands made you feel safe in his grasp.

"oscar." you said softly.

he chuckled and kissed your lips tenderly. he held you face, letting you feel close to him. he soon pulled away and said, "honey, why don't you help me relieve a little stress... we're all alone here. look at you, so pretty. who's my pretty girl? c'mon say it." there was a slight tease to his tone that made your cheeks heat up.

"fuck." you exhaled deeply. it was erotic, you had to admit it. you moved your hands to his jeans and started to work his belt. you licked your lips and made eye contact with briefly before you got the belt undone. you asked softly, "

"no one else i'd rather make headlines with." he said lovingly before he kissed your cheek, "i think we're okay. i'll keep an eye out. you just focus on getting me off."

you got his cock out of his pants then leaned in to kiss the tip. you rubbed your thighs together even with the awkward angle that came with giving oral sex in a car. you kissed the tip softly before you wrapped your lips around it and sank down as deep as you could allow yourself.

you didn't want to choke on his cock. you were spurred on by his soft noises. even when he was angry, he still was painfully sweet. you moved your head up and down, you kept your pace steady and you tried to play with the head as you slid up and down.

"do you want dirty talk, baby?" he asked softly.

you nodded as you looked up at him. he patted your soft hair and held onto the back of your neck loosely. the feeling of his large hand on the back of your neck made your core soaked and goosebumps run down your legs. you shivered and he applied a little more pressure on his hold of you while you orally pleasured him.

"oh i bet you love that." he said, "the best stress relief i could have. they always say exercise or a massage, something. but, my best way to relief stress is to have you between my legs. have you choking on my cock. letting me do it in a car park, what a dirty girl. what would everyone think? they barely think we have sex!" he chuckled lightly. he licked his lips at the sight of you taking him, "but we get up to a lot, right? back home, you and i. i remember those weekends, how good you looked on top of me."

you moaned a little bit and he chuckled softly. you moved your head faster and oscar exhaled deeply from the feeling of your tongue on his cock. you anchored yourself on his thighs as your drool dripped down to his balls, wetting his briefs.

he held onto your hair for better hold of you. your curls in his hair hand as he moved your hips a little to push his cock just a little further into your mouth. he felt the shudder of want through him as the pleasure continued to mount in him.

your eyes fluttered shut as you focused more of your attention on his cock. your lips were slick with the gloss your wore, but it was coming off due to the saliva that was painting them now.

"baby." oscar cooed as he played with your hair.

the pleasure continued to grow in him. it mounted in his core as you pleasured him. you looked beautiful rested up against him. even if the position wasn't the most comfortable. but, he knew that once you got back to where you were staying for the weekend, that he'd take proper care of you. any pleasure you gave him, he would return five times over.

while he still felt the stress in his body, it was nothing that couldn't be fixed with your thighs wrapped around his head. he moaned a little bit and bit back a louder one that followed, "you take me so good. remember when we started having sex, you've only gotten better with each time we fuck. i'm so lucky to have you." he swallowed as he rested further against the leather car seat.

you let out a sweet moan as his cock nudged against your throat. you continued to move your head and even with the slight ache in your jaw, you continued. you wanted to get him off. soon after you took your mouth off of him and jerked his cock with the same energy. you panted heavily as you said, "you're my champion, oscar. even if no one else on the team sees it. i do." you looked at him and leaned up to kiss him on the lips.

he moaned into the kiss and hissed through his teeth when your mouth went back on his cock and you continued to pleasure him. the momentum of lust only picked up further in his body. he swore under his breath as he felt on the edge of orgasm.

you played with the tip against your tongue and he pushed you down further quickly as he came down your throat. you let out a squeaky moan, your mouth full of his cock as he finished. you pulled your head away and swallowed the salty taste in your mouth.

oscar's hand was on your face as he asked softly, "are you okay?" even with all the dirty talk, oscar was still the sweet, kind boyfriend you fell in love with. when you nodded he kissed you on the lips. "good." he said afterwards.

he put his cock back into his pants and patted you on the thigh before he started the car to leave the lot. his hand found your thigh and kept it there like it belonged there. he said simply when he pulled back to the main road, "when we get back. i hope you're ready for more dirty talk. because there's so much more i want to do." <3

[sageshouldknowbetter]

In Defense of Mark S

Post S2E4, Helly is going to be mad at Mark. I can’t see a way around it. He not only didn’t know someone else was “behind the wheel” of her body, he continued romantic pursuing of that person… thinking it was her.

But though Helly has valid reasons to be angry, a) victim blaming isn’t okay and b) I can totally see why Mark didn’t realize something was amiss!

First: impossibility and sheer absurdity. To Mark S, it would be unthinkable for an outie to ever enter the severed floor. That’s a violation of his universal laws, immutable as gravity.

Water is wet. Coffee cups fall down when you knock them off the table. And outies do NOT come down to the severed floor, because the chips are spatially triggered.

And sure, he knows about the OTC and that it’s theoretically possible — but why would any outie want to, and why would Lumon ever LET them? If he ever thought, “Oh, Helly’s acting strange,” Mark’s mind would go through a million different logical steps before landing on something outlandish as that.

Maybe she’s sad she was alone when she woke up during the OTC. Maybe she’s just having a bad week. Maybe she’s acting differently around him because of their first kiss. The idea that she’s being possessed by another being? Never would have occurred to him!

Remember how his outie plays into this as well. Irving B has the subconscious of some kind of anti-Lumon revolutionary with the paranoia that only comes from a military background. (“She’s a mole!”) Of course he clocked her.

But Mark? Mark Scout a) doesn’t know the entire family of his CEO, and b) has the subconscious of a history professor grieving his wife. While Irving’s outie’s knowledge bled through to him in the subconscious of his dream, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mark’s subconscious was actively TRYING to suppress any suspicious thoughts.

Of course it’s Helly. It NEEDS to be Helly. Because Mark’s brain is tired of grieving. His subconscious will shut down any accusations that she’s acting differently and cling to the idea because she CAN’T be gone, right? It’s not happening again… right?

And then we circle back to the first kiss. Mark S is in love — head over heels — with Helly R. He’s trying to find Gemma, sure, but that’s for his outie’s happiness, not his own.

If you’ve had one, do you remember your first crush? Remember the butterflies in your stomach and how much you were laser-focused on your own behavior? “What should I say?” “How do I look?” “Am I being weird? Why is she looking at me like that?” Mark S doesn’t notice Helly R is off because he’s too busy worrying about how he comes across to her. And because he has no idea she’s Helena, he has every reason to believe that’s how she’s thinking about him, too! He thinks they’re both dorks in love trying to figure things out. Irving doesn’t have this disadvantage — he’s on the outside and can see everything play out.

All I’m saying is I get it. I hope Helly at least kind of gets it too. What I’m wondering is, will Mark even tell Helly about his assault? Will he hide it out of some misguided belief that it would make her even more angry? Will she yell at him, not knowing that he’s a victim of someone wearing her own face? Much to think about.

[bloomstream]

just saw your cheerleader x bhna boys and 🤯🤯 I LOVE ITT

could you do this but with musical theatre reader and maybe add shinso?? 💗🤗

⋆˚࿔ behind the spotlight

— includes : kirishima, kaminari, sero, & shinsou (in that order)

𓂃　♪　𓈒 cw: mostly gn!reader but eiji and denki say girlfriend once, fluff, established relationship, babe and baby used

𓂃　★ 𓈒 a/n: thank u for the request anon! i’ll take this as a sign to never exclude shinsou again lolol so i added a little extra for u shinsou fans

⋆˚࿔ e.kirishima

eijiro is your biggest fan, making you feel like a mainstream actor. when you tell him you landed the lead role in newest musical, he seemed to be more excited than you! “i know you could do it, you’re the best!”

eijiro acts like your manager—a super nice one of course—he helps you rehearse your lines and guides you through warming up your voice.

he comes to every rehearsal he can make it too. eijiro cheers for you and your peers. your peers actually love him, how could they not? stage crew like to use him to carry and lift things, he enjoys doing these things knowing they help you in the long run.

secretly memorizes all the songs (and learns the meaning behind each of them) you’re singing so he won’t only be watching but also understanding.

his favorite musical is legally blonde! he thinks it’s super fun and elle woods quickly becomes his new inspiration.

on opening night, he gives you a bouquet of flowers before you go and stage. even in a rush he can’t help but encourage you, “can’t wait to see you on stage baby, i’m so excited.”

he is cheesing in the front row seats, his eyes not leaving you for a single second. he’s the first one standing when the show is over, clapping as the curtains come to a close.

“you were so good!” he engulfs you in a bear hug and you laugh. he is also brought to tears when he sees your glowing face, you’re like a real-life star and he gets to live in your glory.

after another bouquet of flowers and a million praises, he finally takes you home.

for the next three week he’s singing non-stop, the songs from the musical stuck in his head.

⋆˚࿔ d.kaminari

denki doesn’t know much about musical theater but after watching your first performance he finds that it’s his new eye candy.

when you tell him you landed the lead role denki grins, “what do i always say? my girlfriend is crazy talented!” his arm is draped around your shoulder. he pulls you closer, leaning down to kiss your cheek, “you’re gonna do amazing, i know it.”

tries his best to help you rehearse but gets distracted. “wait so, she has a crush on her sister's husband? that’s fucked up man.” even with his confusion he still manages to be super into the drama of it all.

denki lets you practice your stage makeup on him and is actually excited when you ask him to. thought by the end of it, he’s unsure, “are my cheeks supposed to be that… pink?”

would lose his mind if you had to do an onstage kiss. “can’t you just high-five instead! i mean you don’t have to kiss!” he says while he crosses his arm, practically pouting.

his favorite musical is heathers, no explanation needed. spongebob is a close second.

has tried to help backstage once but accidentally bumped into a switch and caused a power outage. the stage crew has been a little more cautious around him after that.

arrived to your show right as it starts so he can’t see you face to face until after the show, he’s devastated about this.

runs backstage as soon as the curtains fall, screaming. “BABE! YOU DID GREAT OUT THERE!” crushing you in a hug. he pulls back to hand you some flowers, the bouquet looking a bit shabby because he got fidgety during the show. “you're a star, should sign with broadway.” he teases as he walks you out.

denki somehow convinced the other theater kids to have an after party. so you spend the night celebrating with your boyfriend who makes this accomplishment feel special.

he may have auditioned for the next show to surprise you but didn’t get the role so he never told you about it.

⋆˚࿔ h.sero

hanta acts chill, but in the inside, he is amazed on how you keep on becoming more and more perfect, “lead role? holy shit babe that’s huge!” he brings you close and ruffles your hair “looks like i got an actor on my hands now.” he teases.

hanta is an absolute sweetheart, but he’s no actor. “oh no, how could you do this to me. i’m in completely despair.” he reads off the script with not a single hit of emotion behind his words. he then looks up with you with a grin, “did i do it good?” he’s trying his best to help you.

if you have a dance-heavy role he’ll joke about being jealous of your dance partner (he is not joking, he is jealous). he offers to help you practice dancing; this is mostly for his own pleasure.

tried to harmonize with you once but his voice cracked. hasn’t attempted to sing again since that day.

adds little encouraging doodles in the margins of your script. some with encouraging messages like, “you got this superstar!” others are… not so encouraging “i should’ve been cast as your super hot and cool love interest.”

got banned from watching your rehearsals because he would cheer every time you said your lines and boo everytime your love interest spoke. (denki was there supporting—booing—too)

his favorite musical was matilda, but after finding out that it’s originally british he changed it to mamma mia. now he can’t help but cry whenever he hears slipping through my fingers.

brings you chocolates and flowers on opening night. gives you a forehead kiss before you go on stage. “i’m might be more nervous than you,” he lets out an airy laugh and you end up having to comfort him. “break a leg!” he says as you walk off, his voice still weary.

he pretends to be causal when he sees you preform for the first time but how could he? you were perfect in every way and so impossible to ignore.

“you are so awesome.” is all he can say when you come off the stage. he is absolutely starstruck. he pulls you a long hug because he is just so freaking proud of you.

⋆˚࿔ h.shinsou

hitoshi is a part of the tech/backstage crew for the theater. he’s seen all the shows and actors before. so it comes to no surprise to him when you tell him you got the lead role, knowing how good you are. “of course you got the lead baby, you’re the best actor here.” he almost laughs at your modesty.

you both being theater heads leads to a lot of helping each other out! arriving at the theater early to help him prepare the stage speakers while you warm up your voice.

hitoshi is ecstatic when you ask him to adjust your mic or move the lights. he’ll take any chance he can to help you out.

if you’re alone in the theater rehearsing, hitoshi sometimes likes to mess with you through the intercom “that’s not how you said the line last time!” he calls out. you didn’t even know he was watching you.

lets you ruffle his hair and mess with his headset.

maybe the other actors don’t know it, but the stage crew does. hitoshi makes sure the stage crew never hears the end of your achievements. he doesn’t even mean to, he just finds himself commenting on your performance.

“she’s really good at that.” he watches from backstage with a smile, speaking to no one in particular.

“be careful with that set piece, my girlfriend is on stage.” he says it deadpan, but eveyone knows he’s serious.

his favorite musical is the addams family, obviously.

consoles in izuku about color theory so he can learn what color stage lights will match best with your skin tone.

you get ready for opening night together. he zips up your costume and you tighten his tie. he gives you flowers and a high quality pair of sheer tights, you almost propose to him right there.

hitoshi is happy he has the pleasure of watching you backstage, seeing you from an angle no one else is.

you stand next to each other when the show is over, and the time comes to bow for the crowd. he doesn’t let go of your hand when the curtain drops. before you can even open your mouth to ask, he speaks “perfect, fucking perfect.” he praises as guides you into a gentle kiss.

[rik0shii]

reader being the only girl member of big bang, and her and daesung secretly being all flirty and in love with each other, but they dont date, until years later , people do edits and stuff to start pointing out how they definitely liked each other which gives them the push to date, so it ends in our current year.

hope this is okay, thanks so much💜

Years in the Making

Pairing: Daesung x Reader

Word Count: ~5k

hiii i hope you like it, this was pretty rushed 😭😭 reposts and comments are appreciated!

Summary: You and Daesung have always had a connection—one that the rest of BIGBANG teased but never took too seriously. Years of inside jokes, secret smiles, and lingering touches were just part of your friendship. But now, in 2025, the internet has receipts, and maybe it’s time to stop pretending.

2006 – The Beginning

Being the only female member of BIGBANG wasn’t easy. You had to fight for every bit of respect, prove yourself just as much—if not more—than the others. But through the exhausting days of training and the pressure of debuting, Daesung was always there.

He made everything lighter, easier.

You clicked instantly—maybe it was the way you both loved to joke around, how neither of you took yourselves too seriously despite the industry’s expectations. Or maybe it was the way he always looked out for you—pulling you away from reporters when their questions became too personal, sneaking extra snacks into your bag when you were too busy to eat, keeping an eye on you even when you didn’t realize it.

And the flirting? That was just part of the game.

“You looked good today,” he’d murmur after performances, voice just low enough for only you to hear.

“So did you,” you’d reply, watching the tips of his ears turn red.

It was effortless, natural. But it was also safe. Neither of you ever pushed past the invisible line between friends and something more.

Not yet.

2012 – Still Just Friends

BIGBANG was dominating the industry, and your friendship with Daesung was as strong as ever. If anything, it had only grown.

The fans noticed it—the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how you finished each other’s jokes, how Daesung’s eyes lingered on you just a second too long during interviews. Edits of your moments together flooded the internet, clips of him looking at you like you hung the stars gaining thousands of views.

The other members noticed too.

“You two should just date already,” Taeyang teased once, watching the way you nudged Daesung’s shoulder during a break in rehearsal.

Daesung laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, but you saw the flicker of something in his eyes before he shrugged it off.

“We’re just friends,” you said, the same response you always gave.

The conversation moved on, but for the first time, the words didn’t sit right in your chest.

Because deep down, you weren’t so sure they were true.

2017 – The Almost

It was late after a concert in Japan, the adrenaline finally wearing off as you and Daesung sat in the back of the van, heads resting against the seats. The others were chatting in the front, their voices distant.

Daesung shifted beside you. “Do you ever think…?”

You turned to him, his voice quieter than usual. “Think what?”

“That maybe we missed something?”

Your heart skipped.

It was the closest either of you had ever come to acknowledging it—this thing that had existed between you for years, unspoken but always there.

You opened your mouth, unsure of what you were about to say, but the van stopped, and the moment shattered. The conversation was left unfinished, lost to the chaos of schedules, tours, and comebacks.

And maybe that was easier.

Maybe pretending was better than facing what it really meant.

2020 – The Shift

BIGBANG had been through so much. Hiatuses, military service, changes in the group—it felt like a lifetime had passed since your debut.

You and Daesung still talked, of course. Always. But things felt different. There were fewer playful touches, fewer lingering glances. Maybe you were both too scared of what would happen if you let it slip.

Then one night, as you sat in your apartment scrolling through your phone, you came across an edit.

It was one of those fan compilations—clips spanning over a decade, showing every moment you and Daesung had ever shared. The way he looked at you when you weren’t watching, the way your hands always seemed to find each other, the way he smiled a little softer when you were the one speaking.

And the comments?

“How did they not date?”

“You’re telling me this wasn’t real???”

“Daesung was down BAD.”

Your chest tightened. You had spent years convincing yourself that what you had was just friendship. But watching it all laid out like this? The internet had noticed something you had spent years ignoring.

And maybe… maybe it was time to stop running from it.

2025 – The Now

It had taken almost twenty years, but here you were.

Sitting next to Daesung in a quiet café, watching as he scrolled through the same edits that had haunted your mind for months.

He looked up, expression unreadable. “So, the internet thinks we’ve been in love this whole time.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky. “Maybe they have a point.”

Daesung didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want to miss it this time,” he murmured.

And this time, you didn’t pretend you didn’t understand.

This time, you laced your fingers through his and held on.

Later That Year – The Interview

Daesung’s talk show had quickly become a fan favorite. He had always been a natural entertainer, effortlessly funny yet able to draw out deep conversations from his guests. His humor kept things light, but he had a way of making people open up without even realizing it.

So when he invited you on, you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you was how openly you both talked about your relationship.

The set was warm and inviting, the audience buzzing with excitement as the cameras rolled. You sat beside Daesung on the sleek studio couch, watching him grin like he was up to something.

“So, Y/N, should we tell them who made the first move?” he asked, leaning forward with that signature mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked. “Technically, it was you.”

He gasped dramatically, turning to the audience. “Did you hear that? She’s rewriting history! Someone pull up the receipts!”

Laughter filled the studio.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you want receipts? Should we talk about the time in Japan in 2017?”

The audience ooooh’d in excitement, and Daesung immediately started laughing, shaking his head. “I knew you were going to bring that up.”

You turned to the audience, grinning. “So, there we were, exhausted after a concert, sitting in the back of a van, and this man turns to me and says—”

“—‘Do you ever think we missed something?’” Daesung finished, sighing dramatically. “Yeah, yeah, I walked right into this one.”

The audience erupted into cheers, and Daesung pretended to hide his face behind his hands.

You nudged his arm. “That was basically a confession, you know.”

“I know,” he groaned. “And then I did nothing about it for years.”

More laughter.

“But honestly,” he continued, looking at you with a softer expression, “I think we were both scared back then. Scared of ruining what we had, scared of the industry, scared of—”

You nodded, finishing his sentence. “Scared of everything.”

There was a pause—just long enough for the audience to feel the weight of it.

Then Daesung brightened, turning back to the camera. “But thankfully, the internet came through for us.”

The screen behind you lit up with clips—fan edits, old interviews, even that viral comment section that had pushed you both toward the truth.

“How did they not date?”

“You’re telling me this wasn’t real???”

“Daesung was down BAD.”

Daesung groaned again. “That last one really hurts. Down bad?? Am I that obvious?”

“Yes,” the entire audience answered in unison, making everyone laugh again.

You squeezed his hand, grinning. “But it’s okay. Because we both were.”

More aww’s from the audience.

Then Daesung smirked again. “Okay, real question—who had to be the one to officially ask?”

You rolled your eyes, already knowing where this was going. “You refused to do it, so I had to.”

“I wasn’t refusing! I was building suspense,” he argued.

You turned to the audience. “He stalled for weeks.”

“I was nervous!”

The teasing continued, but under it all, there was something soft, something warm. It was the kind of banter that came naturally, built on years of friendship, trust, and love.

As the interview wrapped up, Daesung turned back to you with a more genuine expression.

“For real, though,” he said, voice quieter, “I think it was always supposed to be us. It just took us a long time to see it.”

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of everything you had gone through settling into something right.

Reaching for his hand, you smiled. “Yeah. But we got there in the end.”

The audience clapped, the energy buzzing through the studio.

Years in the making. But finally, finally yours.

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 6

Hi my angels, here is a long awaited part 6 xx its a tad bit shorter but i wanted to give you guys somethin as ive been holding out on yall. i love you guys sooo much pls enjoy - there will be another chapter!!

previous chapter

word count: 6k words

The days blurred together in an endless, suffocating loop, stretching out like an expanse of barren land where nothing grew, where nothing changed, where time was both crawling and slipping through your fingers.

You barely left the house. You barely ate. You barely slept.

It was pathetic, really— sulking like a heartbroken girl convinced her world had shattered over a boy, except this wasn’t even that. There had been no confession, no love declared and returned, no sweet promises broken. Just a drunken moment, a slip of the tongue, a feeling dragged into the light and left there to wilt under his silence.

And Joel—Joel hadn’t come to see you. Hadn’t so much as looked in your direction. He was out there, moving through the world, working, speaking, drinking, doing anything and everything except facing what he’d done. A part of you hated him for it. Not just for walking away, but for making you feel stupid for ever believing he might have stayed.

Spring crept in slow and golden, its warmth seeping into the bones of Jackson, melting away the last remnants of winter, softening the air, making the rivers swell and the ground smell of damp earth.

The whole world was moving forward. Days stretched longer, the snow thinned into streams, the buds bloomed against sun-warmed wood.

And yet you remained unchanged, frozen beneath the thaw, untouched by the season’s promise of renewal.

Regret sat thick in your chest, wound tight as barbed wire, pressing sharp against your ribs, scraping with every breath. You regretted it all—getting drunk, speaking too freely, telling him you loved—

No.

You regretted feeling anything for him at all.

Whatever it was—this raw, impossible, consuming thing that had settled deep inside you—it had become something you could neither hold nor rid yourself of.

It pushed and pulled, twisted and tore, made you ache with longing and fury all at once, until the two bled together so thoroughly that you could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

And at night, when the world quieted and the town lay still beneath the silver glow of the moon, you thought of him.

Spring had arrived, but it had done nothing for you.

˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You forced yourself out of the house today, dragging yourself from the tangled sheets and the stale air of your room.

It took effort—more than it should have—to pull a brush through your hair, to find clothes that didn’t reek of days spent in bed, to step outside and face the world that had continued to turn without you.

You walked without purpose, without real direction, but your feet knew where to take you before your mind did, leading you down the familiar path toward the stables, toward something steady, something safe.

When you reached the stables, you pushed the door open without thinking, the familiar creak of the hinges breaking the silence. The smell of leather and hay washed over you immediately—warm, steady, safe, like stepping into a memory that wasn’t yours but still felt like home.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tightness in your ribs loosened, if only just a fraction. Your eyes found Winnie in her stall, the sight of her sending the smallest most fragile flicker of warmth through you.

Your girl. She was still here. Still waiting.

Her ears twitched at the sound of your boots scraping against the dirt floor. You moved toward her and reached for the stall door, brushing your fingers over the worn wood, when a sound stopped you cold.

A click. Subtle, metallic. Deliberate.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t dare look up. But you didn’t need to. You knew that sound. Knew it better than you wanted to.

When you finally lifted your head, your heart gave a heavy, painful lurch in your chest.

Joel was there.

He sat on the bench against the far wall, half-shrouded in the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the wood. His broad shoulders were hunched forward, his head bent low as he worked the gun in his hands, his fingers moving with an ease that didn’t match the tension carved into his face. His brow was furrowed, his mouth a tight, hard line, his eyes fixed on the task as if he could will away whatever thoughts had followed him here.

He looked good—too good—caught in the kind of light that didn’t seem fair, the soft, golden rays spilling through the gaps in the barn walls, framing him like something meant to be remembered, something holy.

The warmth of the day had coaxed him out of his usual layers, leaving him in nothing but a faded t-shirt that clung to him in a way that made you forget how to breathe. The fabric stretched taut over broad shoulders, hinting at the strength beneath, the sleeves brushing just enough to expose the curve of his biceps, the hard lines of his forearms—a quiet, unassuming display of power he didn’t even seem aware of.

The sunlight kissed his skin as though it had been made for him alone, drenching him in gold, illuminating every ridge and valley of his face, deepening the ruggedness carved into his features by time, by loss, by the weight of things unspoken.

Shadows stretched across his skin, soft and reverent, tracing the faint scars along his forearms like scripture, like devotion, like something sacred.

The weathered roughness of him—the calloused hands, the lines around his mouth that spoke of too many battles fought, too many nights spent awake—only added to the unbearable beauty of his presence. His hair was tousled, unkempt in a way that was careless but perfect, the strands falling over his forehead like they had a mind of their own.

And then he looked up.

It wasn’t just a glance. It never was with him.

His eyes—God, his eyes.

A deep, sin-darkened brown, rich and endless, like the earth after rainfall, like soil warm beneath the sun, like something meant to swallow you whole and never let you go.

They held depth, a heaviness, a sorrow that ran deeper than flesh, deeper than blood, something ancient, something eternal.

They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much, carried too much, and yet they softened when they found you, dark lashes casting shadows against his cheeks, gaze sinking into you like a whispered prayer.

For a moment—just a breath, just a heartbeat—the barn, the sunlit dust floating in the air, the aching hollow in your chest—it all ceased to exist. There was only him.

“Hey,” he murmured, soft and coaxing, a word wrapped in something gentle, something unfamiliar—so distinctly opposite to the man he was, it almost felt like a trick of the light.

Your breath hitched, stomach twisting, and you swallowed hard, tearing your gaze away with a force that nearly unsteadied you, as though breaking eye contact might somehow lessen the hold he had on you. As though not looking at him might make it hurt less.

“Hi,” you muttered, barely more than breath, barely more than sound, your voice catching against the tightness in your throat. You forced yourself to focus on Winnie, on the warmth of her nose beneath your trembling fingers, on the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“How are you?” His voice was soft, careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice, aware that any wrong move could send everything crashing into the freezing depths.

“I’m fine.” The words slipped out too quickly, too sharp, the lie embedded in every syllable. You hated the way your voice trembled at the edges, betraying the knot of tension in your throat. In your peripheral vision, you saw him shift, his jaw tightening, the slight clench of muscle betraying the sting of your tone.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t push, just nodded once—a short, measured motion, his expression unreadable as though bracing himself for the silence that followed.

Then—after what could’ve been moments, or minutes, or an eternity—his voice came again, cutting through the stillness like a blade softened at the edges, quieter this time, barely above a whisper, so gentle you might have missed it if not for the way it curled around you, wrapped tight and unshakable.

"Hey."

It was softer than before, rougher somehow, like it wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud, like it had been pulled straight from something raw and aching inside him.

You shouldn’t have turned. Shouldn’t have looked. But you did. Your heart stammered, stumbled, its rhythm uneven, a weak, faltering thing, as you turned your head just enough to catch sight of him.

"C’mere."

Two syllables. Quiet. Coaxing. His voice held that same impossible ache, that quiet longing, like he was pulling at a thread neither of you had the strength to break.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t move.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, a subtle motion, barely a movement at all, but somehow it still carried weight, as if the gesture alone had the power to pull you closer, as if some invisible tether had wrapped around you both, dragging you toward something inevitable. His eyes were locked onto yours, deep and dark and unreadable, except—no. No, they weren’t unreadable at all. They were speaking, murmuring, pleading.

"You’re too far away."

The look he gave you—it was unbearable. The weight of it, the sheer intensity of it, the way it stripped you down with nothing but silence.

Your fingers curled against the edge of Winnie’s stall, gripping the rough wood like a lifeline. "I’m fine here," you murmured, the words quiet, forced, barely scraping past the tightness in your chest.

His brow furrowed. A flicker of something crossed his face, there and then gone again, replaced by something unreadable. But then his voice came again—low, rough, frayed at the edges, like a thread pulling taut, like something on the verge of snapping.

"I ain’t gonna bite."

There was something wry in it, something that might’ve made you smile if your ribs didn’t feel like they were caving in. Almost. But even his quiet attempt at humor couldn’t mask the weight in his voice, the guilt clinging to him like a second skin.

And still—you didn’t move.

He exhaled then, the sound quiet but heavy.

Then—soft. Barely more than breath.

"Please."

Before you could stop yourself, before logic or pride could anchor you to the ground, you moved. It was terrifying, how easy it was to move toward him after everything, how little resistance your body put up against the very thing you had sworn to fight.

You didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare lift your gaze and risk seeing what might be waiting there, because you knew—you knew it would ruin you, that it would be too much, that whatever flickered in his eyes would only make the ache in your chest worse.

You reached the bench before you had the chance to second-guess yourself. You sat stiffly, carefully, deliberately leaving space between you, hands gripping your knees as though keeping them still might somehow keep your heart from threatening to break free from your ribs.

Joel's gun sat forgotten at his feet, abandoned without a second thought, but you could feel his attention locked onto you, unwavering, unrelenting.

You didn’t have to look to know that he had turned toward you, that his body had angled ever so slightly in your direction, that his shoulders had shifted like he was preparing himself for something, bracing himself against a force greater than either of you knew how to name.

Joel noticed the gap you had left. Of course, he noticed. He always noticed.

You saw it in the way his gaze dropped to the empty space between you, in the way his lips pressed into a faint line, in the way something in his expression tightened, just for a second, just long enough for you to catch it before he forced it away.

He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. You felt it. The quiet, unspoken wish, the way he longed for you to close the distance, the way he wanted—needed—you to reach for him first.

You saw it in the way his fingers curled loosely over his knee, in the way his shoulders tensed as if holding himself back, as if waiting.

He wanted you to lean into him, to let the warmth of your leg brush against his, to rest your head on his shoulder the way you used to, to fold into him like it was something instinctive, something natural, something you had both forgotten how to live without.

He wanted it more than he would ever let himself admit. But he didn’t ask. He wouldn’t. Because he couldn’t. Because he was the one who had walked away. Because he was the one who had put the distance there in the first place.

You swallowed hard, the tension coiling tighter with every second of silence. Words caught in your throat, heavy and clumsy, and you were scrambling for something—anything—to break it.

“Thanks—” you started, the word barely out before his voice cut through yours.

“Can we talk—”

The two of you froze, words colliding mid-air, tangled and awkward, stumbling over each other in the thick silence that stretched between you.

It was ridiculous, really—how hesitant, how unsure you both suddenly were, as if the past week of distance had left you fumbling, out of sync, two halves of something that used to fit but now felt just a little off-kilter.

Your eyes darted to his, startled, unsure, and found him already looking at you, his brows drawing together ever so slightly, the barest flicker of something indecipherable passing over his face—something caught between an apology and quiet amusement.

Neither of you spoke, neither of you moved, and the moment stretched long, thick with something almost unbearable, something teetering on the edge of too much, until the sheer absurdity of it—the hesitation, the silence, the way you were both acting like strangers—finally broke you.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest before you could stop it, breathless and unsteady, soft around the edges, but real, and the second it escaped, something in him shifted.

His expression changed, subtle but devastating, the lines of his face loosening just slightly, as if the sound of your laughter had reached into some hidden part of him and shaken something loose.

He blinked, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, like he had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

His lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and something softer, and for a moment, it looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. And then—

He smiled.

Not just a polite smile, not the distant, barely-there twitch of his lips he gave when he wanted to keep people at arm’s length.

No, this was different.

It was crooked and boyish, unguarded in a way that was almost maddening, something warm and reckless and so infuriatingly, devastatingly Joel that it felt like a punch to the chest.

It made him look younger, somehow—not in age, not in years, but in a way that made your throat tighten, in a way that made you ache.

And God, it was so Joel.

That impossible contradiction of him—the man who had lived through more than most could ever comprehend, who carried the weight of too many ghosts, but who could still look at you like that, like he had been caught off guard by something good, something soft, something he hadn’t quite believed he’d get to have again.

It was boyish and rugged, maddeningly beautiful, something both careless and careful all at once. Like an angel who had long since fallen, like a devil who had learned the art of tenderness, like something carved from both sin and devotion.

"Sorry." The word barely scraped past your lips, quiet, uncertain, almost fragile. Heat flooded your face before you could control it, rushing up from your chest, blooming hot beneath your skin, betraying you. And Joel—of course he noticed.

You saw the way his eyes flickered, how they lingered just a second too long, how something in his expression shifted, subtle but devastating, like he wasn’t just looking at you—he was feeling you, imagining the warmth of your skin against his, the press of your body, the way heat lived in your veins the same way it did in his.

Blood with blood. Flesh and bone. It was a fleeting thought, something primal, something dangerous, but it rooted itself deep inside him, settled into the quiet places he tried not to think about.

You dropped your gaze before you could drown in the weight of it, fixing your eyes on the dirt floor beneath your boots as though it held something worth looking at, as though the uneven, scuffed earth could offer you an escape, a place to rest your attention instead of meeting the impossible intensity of his stare.

And then he chuckled, low and quiet, a sound so warm and unguarded that it forced you to look at him, as if your body had decided before your mind had caught up.

He shifted slightly, his shoulders rolling beneath the weight of your gaze, his body adjusting like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, like you were the thing making him nervous.

And then you saw it.

The faint blush creeping along the edges of his ears.

Joel Miller—this strong, unshakable, impossible man—was blushing.

"Don’t apologize." The words were soft, meant only for you. "You go first."

You hesitated, your fingers clenching slightly against your lap, unsure, unsteady.

And then, softer this time, lower, steadier, his voice curling through the thick air and settling over you like something warm, something solid—

"Go on."

“I, um…” The words caught in your throat, fragile and uneven.

“I wanted to say thank you,” you murmured finally, barely above a whisper, as if speaking them aloud might steal the last of your courage. “For taking me home the other night.”

He froze. The subtle rhythm of his movements—the faint sway of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against his knee—stilled completely.

“What?” The single word came low and careful, but you heard it—the faint tremor just beneath the surface.

His head tilted slightly, and his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, your skin flush. Those dark eyes searched you, narrowing slightly, as if the answer to his confusion might be written somewhere on your face.

Thank me? The question didn’t leave his lips, but it hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable, his silence thick with thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

For what? For leaving you when you needed him most? For all the ways he’d failed you, all the promises he’d never kept? The questions burned in his eyes, sharp and unrelenting, but he swallowed them back.

You pressed on, your voice trembling, your fingers curling into the rough wood of the bench to ground yourself. “I don’t…” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sound steady even as your chest felt like it might cave in.

“I don’t remember much from that night,” you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, each syllable heavier than the last. “Maria told me you… you took me home?”

Joel looked at you like he was trying to make sense of something, trying to find an anchor in a sea of things unsaid.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally, his voice rough, barely audible. “I did.” His eyes searched yours, dark and intent, like they were trying to pull the truth from you, to find something you weren’t ready to give.

“You don’t remember,” he said, so softly it barely reached your ears.

You don’t remember saying—

"I more than care about you. I love—"

He could still hear it. Still feel it like a ghost against his skin, something whispered, something fragile, something that had hit him so hard it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

And maybe if he were a different man, if he were better, he would’ve stayed. He would’ve let himself believe that you meant it, that it wasn’t just the alcohol speaking, that maybe—maybe—it was something real, something he could hold on to.

But instead—he had walked away.

And now, sitting here, listening to you say you didn’t remember, he wasn’t sure if it was a relief or a knife to the gut.

Because if you did remember, and you were pretending you didn’t, it meant you regretted it.

And if you really didn’t remember—

Then maybe you hadn’t meant it at all.

“You don’t gotta thank me,” he murmured finally, his voice rough, dragged out like it hurt to speak.

A pause. A breath. And then—

“You really don’t remember anything?” The words were quieter this time, almost hesitant, edged with something he couldn’t hide quickly enough.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head.

The lie burned its way up your throat, scorching and bitter, but you forced it down, swallowing hard as you buried it deep.

“The last thing I remember is being sprawled out on Tommy’s living room floor.” You let out a brittle laugh, sharp and hollow, the sound grating against the stillness like shattered glass. “I must’ve made a fool of myself.”

He looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line as though holding back words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“I shouldn’t’ve let you drink that much,” he muttered finally, his voice quieter now, almost rough with regret. “That was on me.”

“You didn’t let me,” you said quietly, your voice wavering as you forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I made my own choices. I always do.”.

“Right,” he said finally, the word flat, drained of life, like it had been dragged out of him against his will.

God, his eyes. They were dark and intense, warmth swallowed by the storm of frustration and something far more devastating. Something that looked a lot like hurt. Those eyes—deep, unwavering, devastating—held only you, burned into yours with an intensity that felt like it might unravel you, echoing the silent, aching question that sat heavy between you - Why are you lying to me?

“Anyways,” you blurted, the word tumbling out too quickly, too sharp, cracking under the weight of his stare. You risked a glance at him, hoping for a reprieve, but his gaze had already shifted, fixed on some distant point like he could will himself anywhere but here.

“You were gonna say something before?” you asked, the question tentative, your breath catching as you waited for him to answer.

Joel blinked, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Oh. Yeah,” he muttered.

“Tommy and I are headin’ out on a two-day patrol. Overnight,” he said finally, his words slow and deliberate. He hesitated, his voice faltering before finishing softly, “So… I won’t be here.”

The realization struck you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for, the ache blooming in your chest so sharply and suddenly it felt like the air had been stolen from your lungs.

Two days.

It wasn’t a long time—not really, not when measured against the steady pulse of Jackson’s days or the quiet, unspoken permanence of the life you’d built here—but the thought of him out there, beyond the gates, scraped against something raw, something tender, something that ached before it even had the chance to bruise.

“Right,” you said, your voice quiet, brittle, as you fought to keep it steady. You forced a shrug, hoping it looked nonchalant, but it felt like it might shatter you. “Well… be careful, I guess.”

He watched you closely, his gaze fixed on the way your hands remained tightly clasped in your lap, fidgeting with nothing, refusing to find any anchor beyond yourself. You wouldn’t look at him—not really—and the absence of your gaze, the way you kept your eyes so firmly averted, felt like a hollow ache in his chest that he couldn’t ignore.

“Always am,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady, though a softness lingered just beneath, barely there but impossible to ignore.

His mind, unbidden and bitter, dragged him back to just a week ago, to a version of you who might’ve thrown your arms around his neck without a second thought, laughing as you made some teasing comment about him pulling his back out or grumbling about having to carry Tommy’s weight.

He could almost hear your voice, light and familiar, cutting through the heavy moments like it was nothing, like it had always been your natural gift to lift the impossible weight of the world off his shoulders without even trying.

You would’ve made him laugh, he was sure of it—really laugh, the kind of laugh that didn’t feel like it had to fight its way past the hardness of the life he carried.

A thought, wicked and insidious, placed there by the devil himself—selfish, desperate, utterly inappropriate for the fragile tension strung between you—urged him to kiss you, to press his lips to yours and steal away the hurt, to show you, not with words but with touch, just how much he needed you.

But all he could do was sit there, helpless and aching, watching as you pulled further away, retreating into yourself like a tide slipping from the shore, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

And before he could stop himself, before the rational part of his mind could scream loud enough to pull him back from the reckless, selfish thing he was about to do, his hand moved.

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t even something he thought about—it just happened, slow and deliberate, like instinct had taken over, like it was something he was meant to do all along.

His fingers found your cheek, rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, the contrast so sharp it made his chest tighten, made something deep and aching bloom in the space between you.

His thumb moved, treacherous and traitorous, dragging slowly along the curve of your jaw, tilting your face toward him with a reverence that felt almost sacred.

It was a betrayal of everything he’d been trying so hard to hold back, an admission he hadn’t meant to make, but he couldn’t stop himself now. His breathing hitched when your lips parted, soft and uncertain, the warmth of your stuttered breath brushing against his fingertips like a quiet plea, like something unspoken passing between you.

And still, his thumb moved again, dragging over your bottom lip this time, so slow, so careful, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, as if this tiny act of closeness could somehow soothe the ache that had settled so deeply in his chest. It was reverent, desperate, dangerous—a quiet, trembling act of defiance against the walls he’d spent so long building.

His heart hammered against his ribs as his thumb lingered there, just a moment longer than it should have, and when your throat bobbed, when your breath stuttered again, he felt his control slipping further, felt himself drowning in everything he wasn’t supposed to want.

"Be good," he murmured finally, his voice low and rough, breaking under the weight of everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

"Take care of yourself while I’m gone," he added, quieter this time, almost too soft to hear, and the words felt like they cost him something, like each one dragged a piece of him out with it. And then, as if the act of speaking hadn’t already been enough to break him, he swallowed hard and breathed, "You need anything, you go to Maria, okay?"

You didn’t answer—not right away, not in the way he had hoped, in the way that might’ve made this easier. Instead, you just breathed, sharp and uneven, the weight of it pressing into the space between you, thick and suffocating.

And then, finally, slowly, like it physically pained you to do it, you shifted back, putting distance where there had been none. His touch slipped from your skin, his thumb no longer caught in the trance of you, no longer resting against the softness of your lips.

And because the silence threatened to swallow him whole, because he couldn’t bear the ache of it anymore, he did the only thing he could—he stood abruptly, the old wooden bench groaning loudly under the force of his movement.

It was sharp, unsteady, almost frantic, like he was trying to outrun whatever had settled between you. He reached for his rifle, grabbing it with more force than was necessary, slinging it over his shoulder in one quick motion, his jaw so tight it sent a sharp ache through his teeth.

"Well," he muttered finally, his voice low and rough, barely carrying the weight of the words. "I better get goin’."

You nodded once, a quick, small movement, like it was all you could manage.

Joel stood there for a second too long, hesitating, his fingers twitching slightly at his side like they wanted to reach for you one last time, like they couldn’t help themselves.

But then he forced himself to move, his steps slow and deliberate, each one feeling heavier than the last as he turned and walked toward the door.

The stable door groaned under Joel’s weight as he pushed it open, the late afternoon sun spilling in behind him in a flood of warm, golden light. The glow caught on the edges of his frame, outlining the broad cut of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the tousled strands of his hair that curled just slightly in the heat. It painted him in shades of amber and firelight, casting uneven shadows across the dirt floor that stretched like reaching hands, as though the room itself couldn’t bear to let him go.

He paused there, one hand resting against the weathered wood, his fingers curling slightly into the grooves of it, as if something unseen was holding him back, as if leaving was harder than he’d expected it to be.

For a moment, you thought that was it. That he’d go. That he’d step into the light without another word, without sparing you a second glance, and leave you here, drowning in the ghost of his touch, in the heavy, suffocating ache of all the things you’d left unsaid.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he turned.

"Hey."

His voice was soft, a low, steady warmth that slipped through the silence like a balm, untying the knots that had coiled themselves so tightly in your chest.

You blinked, swallowing hard, dragging yourself out of the spiral that threatened to pull you under. “Yeah?”

"We’re okay, aren’t we?"

"Yeah. We’re good."

It was a lie. A terrible one. And the worst part was that you both knew it.

Joel’s jaw twitched—just the slightest flicker of movement, but it was enough. Enough for you to know he felt it, the weight of your dishonesty settling between you like a lead weight. He didn’t believe you. Of course, he didn’t. And you knew he didn’t. You saw it in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, in the way his chest rose with a slow, measured breath like he was holding something back, in the way his eyes stayed locked onto yours—steady, dark, searching.

And still, he didn’t call you on it. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring at you, seeing you in that way only he ever did, like he could read every thought before you could even voice it, like he could reach inside you and pull out the truth no matter how hard you tried to bury it.

"Alright."

He turned then, his boots scuffing against the dirt as he stepped toward the open doorway.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

So quick. Too quick. Like a shadow disappearing the moment you tried to grasp it, slipping through your fingers before you could hold onto anything solid.

A shiver crawled up your spine as you stared at the empty space where he had been, something cold and unreal settling deep in your chest. It was dizzying, disorienting—had he even been here at all? Had you imagined the weight of his touch, the way his voice had softened, the quiet devastation in his eyes? Or had you conjured it out of thin air, a cruel trick of your own longing, your own inability to let go of something that had never truly been yours?

You weren’t a religious woman. Never had been. But there, in the quiet of that stable, with the last remnants of Joel’s presence still lingering in the air, you fell to your knees. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, before logic or pride could stop you, before you could convince yourself that it wouldn’t make a difference.

Your elbows braced against the edge of the bench where the two of you had sat only moments ago, your hands clasped together so tightly that your knuckles ached, and you begged.

Not to anyone in particular, not to anything you truly believed in, but to something—something holy, something divine, something greater than yourself.

You begged for the hole in your heart to heal, for the ache in your chest to ease, for the unbearable weight of loving him to lift from your shoulders.

You begged for the strength to let go, for the kind of peace that had always eluded you, for the impossible relief of forgetting what it felt like to need him. And, most of all, you prayed.

You prayed that he would come back safe.

And you prayed that one day, somehow, you would be able to stop loving him.

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[anneapocalypse]

Urianger’s Faith

I think Urianger’s faith is a core part of his character. In fact, I think that most other things about him—his history of secrecy and deception, his lifelong fascination with prophecy, and his growth over a multi-expansion character arc—are better understood in the context of it. So that’s what I want to talk about today!

This essay contains major plot spoilers through Endwalker. It's also really long.

Urianger’s Religion

We should probably talk about what, exactly, Urianger's faith is—or, to start, what his religion is. Like the majority of Eorzeans, and so far as we know, all of the core Scions, Urianger is a Twelve-worshipper. Rites and customs vary widely between the different regions of Eorzea depending upon their patron deity and the local culture, but while the worship of Rhalgr may look very different from the worship of Halone, they all fall under the same pantheon, and their devotees ascribe to a shared mythos regarding these gods and their relations with one another. In brief, there are believed to be Twelve deities, with various familial relationships to one another, who rule over and guide various aspects of the world and life within it. There exist seven hells and seven heavens, created and presided over by the gods, to which mortals will be sent in death according to their deeds in life.

Born in the Sharlayan colony (according to anecdotes about Urianger and Moenbryda in Encyclopedia Eorzea), and presumably raised there until the exodus when he would have returned to the motherland, Urianger’s patron deity is Thaliak, and accordingly when he invokes a singular deity it tends to be the Scholar, as in this rather sarcastic-sounding greeting to Alphinaud in the Heavensward patches:

Why, Master Alphinaud. Would that the Scholar had seen fit to grant me knowledge of thy coming. What bringeth thee and thine here this day?

As in the real world, it’s not uncommon for characters to invoke the names of their gods in casual, humorous, and downright irreverent ways, such as the well-known exclamation of “Thal’s balls!” among Ul’dahns. Similarly, just as an utterance of “Jesus Christ!” does not necessary indicate a profound Christian faith in the real world, characters exclaiming “By the Twelve!” or “Gods be good!” does not alone indicate that they are especially devout.

I think it’s probably safe to say that the followers of Louisoix who comprised the Circle of Knowing are, at the very least, more than nominal adherents of Twelve-worship. As seen in the “End of an Era” video, it is their prayers that summoned primal versions of the Twelve in an attempt to contain Bahamut; they could not have done so were they not possessed of genuine faith.

I think it is possible, however, to single out Urianger as especially religious even relative to his comrades. There are numerous instances in his dialogue that I think demonstrate a singular faith. He regularly interprets good fortune in terms of the favor of the gods to a greater extent that his colleagues. As late as Shadowbringers, for example, when Y’shtola is rescued from the aetherial sea for the second time, he says:

In all of history, there are but few who have returned from a misadventure in the aetherial sea possessed of mind and body both. To have done so twice beggereth belief. 'Tis plain Y'shtola wanteth not for favor among the Twelve.

However, I think it would also be inaccurate and incomplete to say that Urianger’s faith is wholly centered around the Twelve.

Hydaelyn as Mother-Goddess

If you’re going purely by 2.0 onward, I think it’s easy to miss that a broad awareness of Hydaelyn as a personage (as opposed to simply the name of the star) is a fairly new development in Eorzea. Sharlayan, at the forefront of aetherological studies, has been well ahead of the curve on this, with scholars theorizing not only a concentration of aether at the core of the star which they have termed "the Mothercrystal," but possibly even a consciousness, a "will of the star," sometimes also called "the will of Light." This theory was confirmed when the scholars of Sharlayan succeeded in contacting Hydaelyn through the Antitower in the Dravanian colony, granting them knowledge of the Final Days, and directly leading to the exodus from the colony and subsequent preparations for a potential exodus from the star itself. This knowledge was intentionally kept extremely secret, however, even from most Sharlayan citizens, nevermind the rest of Eorzea.

Any conception of Hydaelyn as a deity is a novel concept, and not a part of traditional Twelve worship. We don't generally hear common people invoke Hydaelyn as they would a deity; it's usually one or all of the Twelve. As recently as five years ago, in 1.0, the true nature of the Echo was still widely unknown; Minfilia’s Echo support group was called The Path of the Twelve because the phenomenon was, understandably, believed to be a gift from the gods. The various powers granted by the Echo had been previously documented, but it is only in recent years that they have been hypothesized (Encyclopedia Eorzea specifically uses the word "hypothesized" rather than "believed") to be a gift from Hydaelyn. "Blessing of Light," likewise, is a broad term referring to a variety of phenomena in which Hydaelyn seems to directly communicate with Echo bearers or intervene on their behalf. EE1 tells us that "despite their frequency, little is known about them. However, it is assumed that many of the 'miracles' which appear in myth and legend are actually instances of Hydaelyn bestowing Her blessing upon an individual." Again, this appears to be a recent theory recontextualizing a set of long-documented but poorly-understood phenomena. Any understanding of the struggle between Hydaelyn and Zodiark is also noted here as a recent discovery by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

(As a sidenote, I don't think it's necessary for our purposes here to get too hung up on where the Echo ends and the blessing of Light begins, as at the end of the day both are umbrella terms for a broad set of distinct but overlapping phenomena that come from Hydaelyn.)

It's probably also important to note that this evolving understanding of Hydaelyn is one both spiritual and scientific. By the time we meet them in ARR, it does seem clear that the Scions have already developed a view of Hydaelyn as a mother-goddess figure, but they're also devoted to deepening their understanding of the world through observation and study. They're working closely with the Students of Baldesion from the beginning of ARR (and a couple of Students can be found hanging out in the Waking Sands in the early game). They are willing to modify their beliefs based on new evidence, and indeed, over the course of the next few expansions, a whole lot of new evidence is going to surface. The political leaders who stood with Louisoix at Carteneau—Admiral Merlwyb, General Raubahn, Elder Seedseer Kan-E-Senna—are also familiar with these novel theories. When the Warrior of Light has their first direct contact with Hydaelyn in the introduction to ARR, thereby receiving a Blessing of Light, it is both their Scion representative and the leader of their starting city who explain to them the meaning of their vision and the crystal of Light they now bear.

And novel though it may be, it is clear that the arrival of the Warrior of Light only strengthens the Scions' belief in Hydaelyn. I think this adds important context to the Scions' reception of the player character and the way they look upon that character as such a beacon of hope. It's not just that the WoL is possessed of great strength and skill, or even that they have the Echo; it's that their experiences are actively confirming the Scions' developing theories about Hydaelyn.

Yet for all their approach to understanding Hydaelyn is of a scientific bent, their relationship to Hydaelyn on a personal level still has a distinctly religious flavor—particularly for Minfilia and Urianger. I'll be bringing up Minfilia a few times here, both because her story is deeply intertwined with Urianger's and because I think in some ways they have a lot in common.

Minfilia herself is an Echo-bearer, though it seems like prior to the end of the ARR patches, she has not experienced the blessing of Light in the way the Warrior of Light has. Nonetheless, as she escapes with the Warrior of Light through the watercourse, it is to her that Hydaelyn speaks—and Minfilia heeds Her call, urging the Warrior of Light onward without her, while she runs back to be caught up in Y'shtola's Flow spell and carried into the aetherial sea.

This much, it seems, was Hydaelyn's doing. But something that I think is often missed about Minfilia is that she does not become the Word of the Mother against her will. Hydaelyn does not pull her into the aetherial sea and simply consume her; with Her power so diminished, she probably couldn’t have done that even had she wanted to. Hydaelyn merely guides Minfilia back toward Y'shtola to be caught in the Flow spell. Whatever Hydaelyn’s intentions (which we can’t know for certain), it’s entirely possible that had Minfilia not made a choice, the Seedseers might have pulled her from the aetherial sea alongside Y'shtola, or she might have eventually materialized malms away in the wilderness like Thancred.

In Minfilia's own words:

There, adrift and alone, Her voice silent once more, I prayed... For those we have lost. For those we can yet save. To Her I would make an offering...

Minfilia gives herself to Hydaelyn. She understands—all the Scions understand—that Hydaelyn is profoundly weakened after protecting the Warrior of Light against the Ultima Weapon. She understands that the only way Hydaelyn might intervene in the present crisis is if She can regain some of her strength, and for that, She would need an offering of aether… and Minfilia, having faith that Hydaelyn will intervene, offers herself.

Though it comes at great cost to her and to the people who love her, Minfilia's faith is rewarded. The Warrior of Light survives. Little by little, Hydaelyn does regain strength, and is finally able to speak to the Warrior of Light again and begin to restore what Midgardsormr stripped from them. The Scions rebuild themselves and continue their work. Through Minfilia, Hydaelyn is able to communicate truths lost to time, to help the Scions better understand the struggles they face. And ultimately, Minfilia goes on to save another reflection and its people from total destruction.

What Minfilia understands, Urianger also understands.

The first time Urianger really caught my attention was in the Warriors of Darkness storyline in the Heavensward patches. I love that whole storyline and what it established about his character, and I love how much it set up threads that will be further explored and paid off later. Shadowbringers was a true delight for me, not just because Urianger is so central to it, or because I love the story in its own right (though those are both true things) but also because it is the resolution of this storyline.

The way Urianger calls upon Hydaelyn after the invocation of the crystals has always stuck in mind:

Mother Hydaelyn, hearken unto Your children's plea! From two worlds do we gather, and from two worlds do we offer a bounty of Light. In this desperate hour, we do beseech Your intercession! We beg an audience with the Word of the Mother─with Your chosen, Minfilia!

Urianger possesses a flair for the dramatic generally, of course. And at the same time, this has always struck me as such an earnest prayer. Even in Her weakened state, he has faith that if they can only invoke the combined power of the crystals of Light—an offering of aether!—She will be both willing and able to work with them to save another shard, which is Her aim as well.

And he’s right. Though it comes at great cost, Urianger’s faith in Hydaelyn is rewarded here.

The Invocation of Saints

While Thaliak may be Urianger's patron deity in the strictest sense, I think his faith rests much more strongly in a figure closer to home: his late master, Louisoix Leveilleur.

All of the core Scions have great respect for Louisoix, even what might be called reverence. I don't think it's a reach to say that the Archons of his Circle of Knowing view him, not only as an expert in prophecy, but as a kind of prophet himself. In an Echo flashback to a time before the Calamity in the introductory questline, you might see Y'shtola saying, "It is as Louisoix foretold…" or Papalymo saying, "…just as Louisoix forewarned," depending on your starting city. Thancred, notably, seems to take a more practical view, saying, "Louisoix will know what to do. We need only trust in his judgment," focusing more on his master's wisdom in the present than foreknowledge of the future. Nevertheless, it is clear that all of them put a profound faith in their mentor. Later in ARR, we see Thancred berate himself for arriving too late to prevent Ifrit from tempering nearby soldiers, saying, "Lousioix would never have allowed this to happen."

For Urianger and Minfilia, this reverence takes on a particular flavor.

Urianger's very first words to the Warrior of Light in 2.0 are: "Dawn may banish even the darkest night…" This is the beginning of a well-known writing of Louisoix, which we later hear in full from the Wandering Minstrel, who has arranged them into verse (though he notes that they were not originally written as poetry):

Dawn may banish even the darkest night, Yet ever shall primal desires burn. Two swords shall vie to lay them low─ A blade born of light and a blade forged of might. Alas, man may entrust his fate unto but one.

I think it's very likely Urianger meant to recite the whole thing, finding it a prescient introduction both to the Scions’ work and what role the Warrior of Light might play in it. However, Minfilia gives him a Look which I think suggests he is losing his audience, and Urianger seemingly course-corrects, saying, "The words of a dear friend. I am glad of our meeting." Nonetheless, it seems clear to me that he holds the words of Louisoix in the same regard he would any canonical prophet, and looks to them for guidance in the man's absence.

In the middle of A Realm Reborn, while the Waking Sands are still bustling with Scions going about their work and new recruits waiting for their first mission, Urianger may be found conversing in a very animated (if perhaps one-sided) fashion with a group of adventurers. If spoken to, he has the following to say:

Knowest thou the import of the broken staff within the solar? It fell from the grasp of Archon Louisoix, the man who, in his abiding love for all Eorzeans, shielded us against the storm of the Calamity.

The way he describes his late master feels almost like a christ figure. Have you heard about our lord and savior Louisoix, who so loved the world that he died to save us?

Both Minfilia and Urianger pray directly to Louisoix at certain points in the story. Furthermore, they both make reference to Louisoix watching over them and even guiding their path forward. Y'shtola, too, seems to hold this view. After the attack on the Waking Sands, she says, "It is as if the benevolent hand of Master Louisoix guides us still. He would not see us undone so easily. Not now, when the need is so great." In an Echo flashback, just before the attack on the Wakings Sands, we see Minfilia look up to the fragments of Tupsimati upon the wall of the Solar and say, "Louisoix, do you see? Your light shines brightly in this one. And in time, it will illuminate the realm once more." In the patches, as the Scions prepare to depart for Mor Dhona, she asks, "Tell me, Louisoix... Would you have done the same?" And in learning that Hydaelyn has been silent to both herself and the Warrior of Light, she says, "Then She speaks to neither one of us. Hydaelyn's silence portends naught but ill, I fear. Louisoix… I pray you yet watch over us…"

And as Urianger brings his plan with the Warriors of Darkness to fruition, just before calling upon the Warrior of Light to invoke the power of their crystals, he utters, "Master Louisoix, guide my hand, I pray you, as fate's thread spinneth upon this most capricious spindle." (Note that as with Hydaelyn, and with Louisoix’s grandchildren, Urianger uses the formal you rather than the informal thou.)

While for other Scions, these invocations largely fall away after ARR, for Urianger they do not. As late as Endwalker, he still prays to his late master and invokes his protection:

'Tis no meager delight to watch Alisaie and Alphinaud grow more resolute in mind and heart. And remarkable though their accomplishments may be, I doubt not that they are destined for still greater things. Grant them thy protection, Master Louisoix. I implore thee…

As the Scions call upon their various allies and prepare to use salvaged Allagan technology to craft a vessel to ferry people to the moon, Urianger has this idle remark:

What serendipitous irony that the remnants of the Seventh Umbral Calamity would become the keys to mankind's salvation. Never more certain have I been that Master Louisoix watcheth over us from the aetherial sea...

In this, it is plain that Urianger's faith is deeply tied not merely to distant gods, but to one particularly trusted mortal leader.

Faith, Science, and Flexibility of Mind

Above, I discussed how the Scions’ understanding of Hydaelyn is both scientific and spiritual. It is also worth noting that this idea of the dead watching over them from the aetherial sea seems somewhat divergent from the standard beliefs of Twelve-worship, the seven heavens and hells to which mortals ascend or descend upon death depending on their deeds. Devout as they may be, the Scions’ beliefs about the afterlife are more aligned with the scientific findings of Sharlayan’s aetherologists. This is evident in 2.3, when Urianger and Minfilia review the principles of aetheric dissipation:

Minfilia: Before discussing our new discoveries, it may benefit us all to recall what we know of aetheric behavior. Minfilia: Let us begin at what some might call the end. When we who dwell in the material realm die, our spirits dissolve into the flow of aether, and are returned to the aetherial realm. Minfilia: In turn, the restless energy which suffuses that plane streams back into our world, giving rise to new life. Urianger: 'Tis as the heavens did decree─the way of all mortal souls. Urianger: 'Twixt this world and the next do the aetherial currents swirl, bearing the very essence of life. Thus doth the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth continue unabated.

I find this exchange particularly interesting, because it does not seem to me that the Scions see any conflict between their faith in the Twelve and their understanding of aetherological phenomena. In fact, Urianger explicitly frames the latter in spiritual terms: “’Tis as the heavens did decree.” Integrating a scientific understanding into his nonetheless devout worldview does not seem to be an issue for him, or for the Scions generally. This seems perfectly in keeping with the Sharlayan ethos to me, but it also seems pretty consistent with who Urianger is as a person, with his love of esoteric texts packed with metaphor and poetic imagination. Even were the tenets of Twelve-worship strictly codified across Eorzea, which I suspect they are not on the whole (Ishgard's strict textual orthodoxy seems to be the exception and not the rule), Urianger is not a literalist. It’s probably not a reach for him to interpret "hells and heavens" as poetic interpretations of observable reality.

Urianger will later say that his studies in prophecies have granted him a “flexibility of mind,” and I think that’s an accurate descriptor.

The Art of Foreknowledge

At the heart of Urianger's faith is his belief in foreknowledge and fate.

We are told that prophetic works have fascinated Urianger from a young age—and at this point, I think we need to take a step back and talk about what, exactly, prophecy is in this world. So far as I know, Final Fantasy XIV doesn’t ever really give us a clear definition, but we can deduce some things from context.

Divination takes a variety of forms in this universe, from the astrology we see in Sharlayan and Ishgardian practice, to tomes of poetic verse which are accepted as having some true bearing on the future or the nature of the world or both. It is the latter which is Urianger’s primary field of expertise, though he does seem to have some background in the theory of astrology, and takes it up in practice later on.

That part about certain texts being widely accepted as prophetic is pretty important. We can guess that among scholars of prophecy there is an accepted canon of sorts—works which are acknowledged by scholarly consensus as bearing prophetic relevance. In the cutscene with Elidibus in the Great Gubal Library, Urianger initially scoffs at the Gerun Oracles as “apocrypha”: non-canon, not accepted in scholarly circles as significant. (Elidibus, of course, refutes this by calling it “a truth long forgotten.”)

Prophecy in fantasy fiction often focuses primarily on predictions of the future, but there is a more nuanced understanding to be had of prophecy as speaking of past, present, andfuture, and of truths fundamental to the nature of reality. This is certainly true of many of the texts we hear Urianger recite. Some offer a more vague sort of wisdom, such as the verse Urianger recites for the Scions upon their departure to the Far East:

Look ye where the sun doth rise, see crimson embers, dark'ning skies... Look ye where the sun doth fall, see azure lost amidst the squall.

There is certainly some meaning to be found in these words with regard to the events of Stormblood: conflict in both east and west, war on both horizons. "Azure lost amidst the squall" might even be interpreted as a poetic reference to Estinien's activities. Still, these words offer no great revelations. Compare this to the Gerun Oracles, which Urianger comes to accept it as not only true, but corroborating the revelations of the Word of the Mother with regard to the Sundering, the Reflections, and their destruction in the Umbral Calamities. Even of this text, Urianger acknowledges, "their copious use of allegory defieth any single interpretation." Prophetic texts, it seems, are rarely straightforward.

So, we return to the question: what is prophecy? Where did these writers gain the insights which they put to verse? Did they even understand their significance at the time of writing? Unfortunately, in this regard we really have only conjecture. I think it's easy enough to come up with plausible theories. The prophets might have been experiencing the Echo; they might have had contact with Ascians; they might have been spoken to by Hydaelyn Herself. The game, alas, does not offer us these answers. Indeed, even of the text most central to Louisoix's journey into Eorzea we know almost nothing.

The Divine Chronicles of Mezaya Thousand-Eyes are a series of prophetic writings that seem to describe each of the first six umbral calamities. This text is so widely-known that even Garleans are familiar with it and the Legatus Nael van Darnus of 1.0 fame also apparently regarded it as prophetic (according to GamerEscape’s 1.0 summary, The Rise and Fall of the White Raven). Of the famed prophetess who penned it, we have almost no information at all. The various fan wikis don't even have pages for her, as there is basically nothing to include there. Her writings, however, seem to be accepted as prophetic. In fact, the six verses of the Chronicles were widely cited as proof that no further Calamities would occur… until a seventh verse was found inscribed on a stone tablet in a cave.

Louisoix Leveilleur, Sharlayan's foremost expert on prophecy, believed this verse pointed to a seventh impending calamity. According the the Unending Codex, it was for this reason that Urianger joined the Circle of Knowing, seeking to understand the truth of this text. And the belief that Eorzea would soon be plunged into another calamity led Louisoix to leave Sharlayan with his followers and venture south into Eorzea to help her city-states prepare for the worst.

In their understanding of this prophetic text, they found purpose. Which leads us to…

Fate and Purpose

I want to return to Urianger's words about Louisoix in the Waking Sands, specifically the latter part of it:

The stars wheel across the heavens, and the skies brighten once more. The survivors gather, and ignite a fiery dawn to burn away the glowering shroud. Ah, but destiny, thou art beautiful...

Destiny, thou art beautiful. This is how Urianger conceptualizes the Scions gathering in the wake of their beloved master's sacrifice. We're still about mid-ARR here, before the Warrior of Light has slain Titan. Compare to Y'shtola's idle dialogue at the same point in MSQ:

As you have doubtless witnessed in your travels, the lands of Eorzea are gasping under the pall of a suffocating darkness. I must wonder if it is this darkness that invites disaster, or simply that disaster has left such gloom in its wake. One thing is for certain: now is not the time to relax our vigilance.

Urianger is hardly unaware of the trials facing the Scions and Eorzea at large, and yet his framing of their present circumstances is distinctly one of hope. Where Y'shtola speaks ominously of "the pall of a suffocating darkness," Urianger speaks almost rapturously of "a fiery dawn to burn away the glowering shroud."

Keep in mind, too, that these words about the beauty of destiny follow directly from Urianger speaking of Louisoix's death. This sentiment will be echoed later when, upon the death of his oldest and dearest friend, Urianger declares, "The moon sinketh, taking her leave of the heavens. Yet her passing heraldeth the coming of a new day. Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not?"

This is Urianger's response to loss. He affirms his belief in fate—not simply in predestination, in a future that may be foreseen, but in a brighter future that will give purpose to such sacrifices.

Encyclopedia Eorzea Volume 3 tells us that Urianger’s parents rarely had time for him as a child, occupied as they were with their own research. I think this likely impressed upon him from a young age that there was always something more important than him. And when his parents effectively abandoned him with the neighbors and departed for “parts unknown,” never to return, that idea would only have been solidified.

For a child already fascinated by prophecy and the idea of fate, I imagine it could have offered some kind of comfort to believe that the pain of his abandonment was all for a higher purpose, a greater good.

I can imagine how this belief, so ingrained in him as a child, could lead him to go along with his mentor even when Louisoix declared that Moenbryda must stay behind, and offered her no explanation as to why. It's clear that Urianger felt some guilt in the wake of this decision, specifically his choice not to explain Lousioix's intentions, believing their master wanted Moenbryda to come to that understanding on her own. As he laments after his friend's death, "Knowingly did I deny my friend the comfort she craved." Yet he did all of this, undoubtedly, not only out of faith in his mentor's judgment, but because he believed it to be in service of a greater good. And in fact, he seems to take Moenbryda's final words as affirmation that Louisoix was, in fact, correct. "The realization hath set her free. She may now find the peace which hath for so long eluded her."

So in the end, to his thinking, it all worked out as it was meant to.

I don't think Urianger believes that the future is set in stone. If that were the case, then personal choice would be meaningless; there would have been no reason to intervene in the first place, to warn the Eorzean nations of the Calamity, if the future would play out the same regardless. Indeed, Urianger speaks frequently of choice, and agonizes over the difficult choices he holds himself responsible for making.

What he does believe for a long time, I think, is that in the face of an impending and forewarned crisis, there is often only one path forward to avert it. The role of the one who would heed the warnings of the prophets is to make the necessary choices no matter how painful, to take the necessary actions, to make what sacrifices must be made.

When he overhears his oldest and dearest friend about to sacrifice herself to destroy an Ascian, he does not intervene to stop her. He speaks of her having "fulfilled her destiny," even as he will torment himself for this decision for a long time to come.

And as the Scions face mounting challenges for which they are increasingly unprepared, Urianger increasingly decides that his role is to take those burdens upon himself.

Changing Roles

I did not get to experience 1.0 for myself, and so what I know of Urianger's role in it is sadly limited to what has been preserved by other fans. To the best of my understanding, his role was as a kind of doomsayer, traveling from settlement to settlement and sharing prophecies of the Calamities in an attention-getting manner. Though his approach was off-putting to many, his performance ultimately succeeded in its aim: serving as a diversion for the Garlean Empire, leading Legatus Nael van Darnus to fixate on apprehending him, while in the meantime Louisoix and his fellow archons were able to rally the Grand Companies to face the coming crisis. (@mirkemenagerie has a great post about that.)

By the time ARR begins, this performance is no longer needed, and Urianger has taken on a much different role in the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, an organization formed from the merger of Louisoix's Circle of Knowing and Minfilia's Path of the Twelve. He is now the keeper of the Waking Sands, and the Scions' primary adviser on primal lore, and only rarely ventures out in the field with his fellow Archons.

And I think that initially, Urianger seems happy enough with this role. Though he may not get out as much as he once did, the Waking Sands are lively with new recruits. Urianger can be seen at various points during ARR having spirited conversations with other NPCs. In one bit of idle dialogue, he says, "As the primals fall, so do our spirits soar. Though mine aid be but modest, I nonetheless am heartened in my duties."

Urianger is happy here. Though the Scions face many mounting trials, he is surrounded by a community united in purpose with a leader in whom he may place his trust, and his duty is clear.

It's not until the ARR patches, when things really go awry for the Scions, that we begin to see the seeds of doubt in our steadfast arcanist.

The Seeds of Doubt

The defeat of the Ultima Weapon fundamentally alters the Scions' path and their role in Eorzea. While they have always been in communication with Eorzea's leaders and called upon for aid, now they are thrust into the public eye in an unprecedented way. 2.1 opens with Minfilia reflecting upon the myriad support from various parties suddenly on offer—and the price that inevitably comes with it. Urianger seems to share her ambivalence:

'Tis the lot of the powerful to attract the covetous as well as the needy. Thus doth prudence dictate that those with power proffer aid with one hand whilst the other resteth ever on their hilt. Alas, we have not the luxury of time to decipher our petitioners' machinations─nay, not while the beast tribes do labor unseen, defiant in defeat, to raise up their fallen primals once more. Doubt not that they shall return─stronger and bolder both─nor that we shall be the ones to meet them. This sacred charge shall ever be ours. 'Tis but a pity we are so few, and our fortune so finite...

By this point, tragedy has already altered Urianger's surrounds irrevocably. The Garlean attack on the Waking Sands has left dead many of the people with whom he once socialized on a daily basis, leaving the Scions' headquarters a much quieter and more somber place. Urianger himself, fortunate enough to be one of those spared, endured capture and imprisonment.

And further change threatens to unsettle the place and the people amongst whom he has found a home. Despite Minfilia's reticence, we see her increasingly bow to the vision Alphinaud has for the Scions—what he sees as continuing the work his grandfather began. Repeatedly, we see the two of them clash over what is best for the Scions—and each time, we see Minfilia cede ground.

Urianger is not without his own concerns about the Scions’ new direction, though he refrains from clashing directly with either Alphinaud or Minfilia, likely out of his deep respect for both of them. Nonetheless, he chooses to stay behind in the Waking Sands and continue his research there. "I had thought to relinquish the property," Minfilia explains, "but he was quite adamant, and I had not the heart to disagree."

As the Scions prepare to depart for Mor Dhona, Urianger confides in the Warrior of Light:

Thou art ever welcome, [Forename], but I require no assistance. Pray take thy leave unburdened by concern for my well-being. Verily, thy countenance bespeaks a desire to quit this place without further delay. Hm. Mayhap thou thinkest this chapter of our tale concluded─that these halls should rightly be consigned to the annals of history...? In man's eagerness to seize the future, how readily he doth set down the past. Full many a proud pioneer hath bravely stridden into the great unknown, only to find there the banner of his ancestor, faded by the eons. And still man glorieth in his discoveries. 'Tis through his pride that wisdom doth ever give way to ignorance, while they who lurk in shadow remain hidden, lost no sooner than they are found. <sigh> Be not offended, [Forename]. Thy conduct hath ever been beyond reproach. Despite thy surpassing strength, and all thy many victories, thou hast never been so convinced of thine own greatness as to imagine thyself above the failings of thy forebears. Mayhap it is the Echo which hath opened thine eyes to the lessons of history. Would that the same could be said of─

(At which point he is cut off by Minfilia's scream as she is accosted by Elidibus.)

It is not difficult to imagine that in the midst of so much upheaval, Urianger's remaining in the Waking Sands might be his way of clinging to one familiar thing, a place he feels at home, even if it cannot be for him what it once was. That said, he clearly has very real concerns about the Scions' direction on the world stage, and worries that his trusted leader is failing to heed the lessons of history.

I have no doubt that Urianger has great love and respect for Minfilia, but I do think this is when his faith in her as a leader begins to waver a little. Whether he meant to name her or Alphinaud before he was cut off is ultimately irrelevant, as Minfilia has capitulated to Alphinaud's vision for the Scions. (And I don't mean to pick on Minfilia here; she's another one of my favorite characters, and I think she does the best she can with the circumstances in which she finds herself and largely does manage to rise to the challenge of leading the Scions in Louisoix's absence. Through no fault of her own, she's simply ill-equipped to handle the increasing visibility and political volatility of the Scions' position, and the deference with which all the Archons seem to feel they should treat Louisoix's grandchildren only further complicates an already messy situation.)

And the hits just keep coming. Up until now, the Scions have worked closely with the Students of Baldesion, receiving substantial support from the Sharlayan organization and frequently consulting them for their research. They've barely arrived at Revenant's Toll when Urianger brings the news that he is unable to contact the Students, and fears the worst. Not long after, contacts in Sharlayan confirm the shocking news that entire Isle of Val, where the Students had had their base, has vanished. Once again, these likely include colleagues and friends, people with whom Urianger once communicated regularly for a common purpose. Now missing under terrifying circumstances, and feared dead.

It is in the midst of such turmoil that Urianger makes a rare trek out into the field to observe a primal firsthand—feeling, perhaps, that in the absence of the allies who had once provided valuable insights, it is his duty to observe all he can, even if it's quite a departure from his usual domain of written lore. And not long after that, faced with the puzzle of tracking down Lady Iceheart's hidden aetheryte, he calls upon Moenbryda.

In the light of all that has come before, this is such an interesting choice. Moenbryda’s expertise in aetherology is certainly invaluable to their present crisis, but there’s no doubt that it would have been valuable at many points prior. Louisoix Leveilleur has been dead for five years. Only now, after the Scions have suffered major losses at the hands of the Garleans and lost even more with the disappearance of the Students of Baldesion, does Urianger contravene the will of his late mentor, and ask Moenbryda to come to Eorzea.

So far as we know, this might be the only time he’s ever done that.

I bring all this up because it is here, in the ARR patches, where we see Urianger begin in subtle ways to question the wisdom of his trusted leaders. I don’t think this means that he in any way doubts the intentions of Louisoix or of Minfilia, or their principles in the broad strokes. His reverence for Louisoix persists all the way to Endwalker, and he continues to behave with great deference toward Minfilia, as well as toward the twins. There’s just a subtle shift here from Urianger simply doing as he’s told, to Urianger acting out of his own sense of duty to do what he believes necessary.

I didn't realize until the conversation in Endwalker that the implication of Urianger’s “I heard all” is meant to be that he was there just offscreen listening when Moenbryda died, not simply that he heard the others discussing her death after the fact. Though he clearly did not overhear her words about understanding Louisoix’s sacrifice (as the Warrior of Light has to tell him), his Endwalker dialogue makes it clear that he could have called out to her and begged her to live—and he did not. Knowingly, he allowed her to sacrifice herself to destroy an Ascian—for the greater good.

Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not? Thus does Urianger justify her sacrifice, as well as his own part in it, and thus does her death serve to reinforce his existing beliefs, even as it torments him with undeniable regret.

A Creed Sacrosanct

At the end of the ARR patches leading into Heavensward, the Urianger approached by Elidibus has seen nearly every person and institution in which he placed his faith crumble and vanish. Louisoix is dead, the Students of Baldesion missing and presumed dead, many other friends and colleagues lost, Minfilia missing, the remaining Scions scattered to the winds, the Waking Sands near-empty. Beyond what he may contribute to the search for the missing, coordinated by Tataru from distant Ishgard, Urianger is rudderless and leaderless both.

What remains is his faith in a greater good, in a higher purpose. And this time, when duty calls, he will choose to place that burden on none but himself.

The way Elidibus speaks to Urianger, I don’t doubt that he’s been observing the Archon for some time, because he seems to know exactly what buttons to push. For one thing, he approaches Urianger just when he is at his most vulnerable and alone. The Warriors of Darkness don’t actually come on the scene until post-Heavensward; Elidibus didn’t strictly need Urianger yet and doesn’t seem to have had him doing anything throughout Heavensward, but nonetheless, this is when he chooses to make contact. Upon their first meeting, he says, “I would speak of fate, Archon. Yours, mine—the fate of this very star.”

Later in 3.1, when we see them in the Great Gubal library and Urianger scoffs at the Gerun Oracles as apocryphal, Elidibus replies:

It is a truth long forgotten─a tale of the beginning, and of the path we have been set upon. Our fates were ordained long ago, Archon. The Garleans are no exception. Nor the Triad. You know what must be done.

We have only a few brief scenes of their interactions, and yet in these few words it’s made plain how Elidibus gained Urianger’s faith, not in his intentions, but in the truth of his words. As Urianger says later:

‘Twas in the hope of opening mine eyes to said revelation that they first came unto me, imagining it sufficient to secure mine allegiance. Nor would they have been mistaken─were my heart a temple to truth alone. But as a devoted follower of Master Louisoix's teachings, and for the love I bear him and his, I hearkened not to their words.

Elidibus is able to persuade Urianger of the truth of the Sundering, the Reflections, and the Rejoinings. Where he miscalculates is in missing Urianger’s core belief, his faith in the core of his mentor’s teachings, their entire purpose in coming to Eorzea: To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom—it is indolence.

By the time his friends are found and the Scions begin to rebuild, Urianger is already in the weeds with Elidibus and the Warriors of Darkness, and that secret in itself serves to further isolate him from his friends—though clearly not without misgivings. After pushing Arbert to confront the Warrior of Light, we see Urianger in a private moment of doubt, saying to himself:

What good a creed one cannot uphold? What hurts soothed, what lives saved... O hapless fool, what hast thou wrought by thine own hands? Minfilia, my friends─I shall not now beg your forgiveness. Full deeply though it paineth me to walk it, I shall not stray from my chosen path. As Moenbryda remained steadfast, so too shall I...

And once again, Urianger places the greater good, those who may yet be saved, before all else. Once again he accepts, as a necessary sacrifice, the loss of a trusted leader and a dear friend—though in this case, it is worth noting, Minfilia is for all practical purposes already lost to her friends, having offered herself to Hydaelyn. It is impossible to say whether she could or would ever have returned to mortal life, given that she has made effectively the same sacrifice the Warriors of Darkness made; nonetheless, her willing journey to the First does, in the eyes of her friends, all but eliminate that possibility. Urianger does not send her to the First, despite what Alphinaud says in an emotional moment; he couldn’t have forced her to go, especially had it gone against Hydaelyn’s will. What he does is functionally what Elidibus did to him: he tells the truth, and offers a choice. As Urianger chose to act, as Moenbryda chose to act, so too does Minfilia.

Nonetheless, he accepts that his friends will hold him responsible, for her loss and for the deception both. This he considers an acceptable sacrifice for the salvation of a distant star. He accepts the burden of this responsibility—and ultimately, he sees his faith in Hydaelyn and in Minfilia rewarded. The First is saved from absolute destruction by Minfilia’s intervention.

It’s no wonder, then, that it takes Urianger so long to change direction. Every sacrifice up to this point has been devastating, but still seemed ultimately necessary. Louisoix. Moenbryda. Minfilia.

It’s no wonder that, upon arriving in the First and seeing what his actions have wrought, he agrees to go along with the Exarch’s plan.

The Point of Failure

Once again, Urianger accepts a temporary deception and a permanent sacrifice as necessary in the service of the greater good.

Though Elidibus and the Exarch have very different motives, I think there are some striking similarities in the way they approach Urianger. Both, it’s safe to say, have observed him and his personality, and deemed him the best choice of accomplice. Both persuade him by getting him alone, and once persuaded, keeping their secrets will further isolate him from his friends. When the Warrior of Light arrives in the First, the Scions are scattered and distant, each pursuing their goals alone, and I think it’s safe to say that the secrecy has contributed to that—particularly for Y’shtola, who seems to have realized early on both that the Exarch was hiding something and that Urianger’s vision didn’t pass the smell test.

Once again, we see Urianger having clear reservations about the path he’s chosen. He appears anguished in the Echo flashback with the Exarch, asking whether this is truly the Exarch’s wish before he agrees. When Y’shtola expresses her concern for the Warrior of Light, and questions him about the veracity of his “vision,” his eyes drop to the floor as if in shame. Still, as before, Urianger accepts that he will face condemnation for what he has been party to. Once again, he has faith that it will all be worth it. The Warrior of Light and the First will be saved, his faith will be rewarded, and he will accept the responsibility for what it cost.

It’s not without cost even for the Warrior of Light, who is kept in the dark about what’s happening to them as they slay the Lightwardens, and clearly suffers considerable pain from the accumulation of Light once it reaches a critical mass. Urianger bears witness to this, and I don’t doubt that he feels remorse for it, even as he is committed to his path.

There’s this beautiful moment after the defeat of the Rak'tika Lightwarden where Y'shtola asks Urianger to describe the night sky to her. He describes it thus:

A sea of shimmering stars. Diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful. 'Tis an exquisite sight not unlike that of the Source. Calm and gentle... and forgiving...

This comes directly after Y'shtola presses him for the second time on telling the Warrior of Light the truth about the Light's corruption.

Once again, the cost weighs upon Urianger. He longs not only for the reassurance of faith rewarded, of a higher purpose served, but for forgiveness.

In his conversation with Ryne, Urianger speaks of life as "a tapestry of fates," and of the difficult decisions that must be made by those who strive to do good. He concludes with this:

Thou needst but have faith. Have faith and all will be well.

And I don't doubt that he means it. Is this not, after all, what he is doing? Continuing to withhold his knowledge and deceive his friends, out of faith that the Exarch's plan will succeed, and all will be well? If the Warrior of Light declares their trust in his plan in Kholusia, he swears to them that that trust is not misplaced. That their faith will be rewarded, that all will be well.

Thing is, in the end, that sentiment is proven wrong.

Faith isn't enough. The Exarch, however well-intentioned, fails to account for Emet-Selch's interference, the plan fails, and now Urianger is forced to confess his deception, not in victory, but to a friend on the brink of death.

After the revelations with the Warriors of Darkness, Urianger speaks frankly to the Warrior of Light, saying, “Speak thy mind. I do not expect thy forgiveness.” He even says later that Alisaie was right to condemn his choices. But he does not quite say he was wrong, and I think that’s apparent in the fact that when confronted with a similar scenario by the Exarch, though it is with obvious reluctance, he makes a similar choice.

And though Urianger even now does not openly beg forgiveness… his posture toward the Warrior of Light is very different. He goes to one knee, bowing his head before them. He says, “I offer no excuse.” He asks to be allowed to join them in setting things right, promising that his talents are at their disposal. He effectively throws himself upon their mercy. If the Warrior of Light forgives him, the look on his face is one of absolute relief, joy, and gratitude. There’s no doubt in my mind that that is the outcome he most desires, though he hardly dares hope for it.

This time, I think he knows he's fucked up. Perhaps it took the Exarch's plan going terribly sidewise for him to reach that point. I think this is a critical turning point for Urianger, one that sets him on the path to genuinely reevaluating his world view.

A Different Path

I've spent a long time pondering the fact that Urianger never has much of a visible crisis of faith upon learning the true nature of Hydaelyn.   

He remarks upon it, of course, following Emet-Selch’s revelations about Hydaelyn and Zodiark in Shadowbringers:

'Tis oft said truth is a matter of perspective. Yet upon this matter, there can be but one truth. I only pray it is not his.

From that moment on, I was honestly waiting for more of a reaction from him, especially after the confirmation in Endwalker by Hydaelyn’s own words that She is, in fact, a primal. You’d sort of expect it, right? More and more, as time has gone on and their understanding of the world has broadened, the faith of the Scions as a whole and Urianger’s devotion in specific has shifted away from the Twelve and toward Hydaelyn as an all-encompassing mother-goddess. To learn now that She is truly a primal—one of the very beings the Scions have sought to eradicate, for their devastating effects on the land and on people… Can they still trust Her guidance? Are the Echo-blessed merely tempered? What does it all mean?

Indeed, I think that these revelations very likely would have triggered a crisis of faith in pre-Shadowbringers Urianger.

But by Endwalker, Urianger is not that person anymore.

In Endwalker, we see the culmination of Urianger’s long character arc in several key scenes. The first of these comes on the moon, after the Loporrits, well-intentioned but anxious for the success of their venture after the lukewarm response to their preparations, have taken him aside and asked him to act as a liaison of sorts—to use his powers of persuasion to convince their collaborators that the moon will be a suitable vessel for the people of Etheirys.

On the surface perhaps, the Loporrits aren’t asking him to tell any really dramatic falsehoods—just talk up the moon, make it sound good, while passing along any information he can on what could improve it. And all in the service of saving a whole world full of people. He’s done far worse for that.

The subtext, however, is that Urianger would be acting to push the evacuation plan—perhaps at the expense of putting his efforts toward a way to halt the Final Days for good. Though this plan might well save the people of the Source, the reflections would be lost—a sacrifice beyond anything that’s been asked of him before. And yet if they fail to stop the Final Days, and exodus proves the only option left… could his powers of persuasion prove the difference in saving who they still can?

It all seems to immediately strike a nerve. “And so fate doth conspire to set my feet upon this path once more...” Moreover, Urianger hones right in on why he has been chosen for this task. “Is it so plain that these strangers could intuit it at a glance? My capacity for silence and secrecy... and duplicity.”

For a moment, it even appears that he might be considering going along with it. Once again, he references fate… but almost immediately, I think, he begins to turn away from that path. Y’shtola even remarks, “Urianger usually puts more effort into concealing his clandestine endeavors.” And when the Warrior of Light catches up to him, Urianger is unsurprised to see them, remarking, “Thine arrival is timely as ever.” It seems that he has already chosen not to move in shadow.

For his experiences in the First have changed him, and in the conversation that follows, he will explain why.

To me, this scene is a truly inspired moment of character development. In the hands of a lesser writer, we might have just gotten a "I don't want to lie and hide things from my friends anymore, because deception is bad" kind of epiphany. And like, sure, but that's never really been the core of it. Urianger doesn't keep secrets because he loves lying and being deceptive. He actually really doesn't. He hates it. Every time he's done it, it's been because he believed it was the only choice that would server the greater good, and the critical bit, as he finally says so candidly, is that he never looked for another way. Just as he didn't intervene to stop Moenbryda from sacrificing herself so that they could find a alternate source of aether to destroy an Ascian, he didn't look for an alternative to going undercover with the Warriors of Darkness alone, and he didn't try to convince the Exarch to look for an alternate solution to the Light problem.

“Dutiful disciple of Louisoix,” he says of himself, “ever looking to the greater good…” But the greater good part has also never actually been his problem. The Scions are all about the greater good, and most of them have been ready and willing to throw themselves on the sword should the greater good require it. The real significance of this description isn’t the greater good, but the dutiful disciple of Louisoix. Louisoix, their master; Louisoix, the prophet of their age.

Louisoix, who himself once asked Urianger to travel the realm alone and act as a diversion, while he himself moved in shadow to prepare Eorzea for the worst.

Urianger may have a natural talent for theatrics and misdirection, but he didn’t learn this from nowhere. He learned it, and performed it, at the behest of his beloved mentor, his prophet, his saint. The man who said, The worst is coming, and laid before them a path to fight it. And in his absence, Urianger has followed the path that Louisoix laid out for him: doom foretold, and one path to avert it, a path marked by, as he says now, subterfuge and sacrifice.

It's only here on the moon, faced with the request that he be the hype man for evacuating the entire star’s population onto a spaceship crewed by rabbits, that he finally says: There must be another way.

Even now, while he hopes to persuade the Loporrits to consider another avenue, he initially thinks to take that burden on himself so the responsibility of failure will be his alone. But when the Warrior of Light approaches, he confides in them, takes their encouragement to heart, and invites them to join him.

Ultimately, Urianger decides to stay on the moon to offer the Loporrits his aid, while his friends continue their work down on the surface. A plan that allows for multiple contingencies, making the best of the Loporrits’ preparations even as they hope not to need them, and most critically, a plan which requires cooperation and communication, not secrecy. Even now, it is possible they will fail. Yet for the first time, Urianger accepts that he need not carry his burdens alone. He has faith that his friends have the strength, and indeed the desire, to bear them alongside him.

This is the shift in Urianger’s faith, and the reason that in Endwalker his resolve is not shaken, but is in fact stronger than ever.

Standing Together

Urianger’s second key scene in Endwalker comes after he has returned with a gaggle of Loporrits eager to see Etheirys for themselves and learn how they can help.

Here is perhaps a good time to recall again that despite the stories of his early childhood, the Urianger we know as an adult has always been a fairly social person in his own way. In his 1.0 role, he might have been off-putting to some, but he was certainly not a recluse, and the work he was doing required its own particular type of charisma. In ARR we see him not hiding away in a corner with his books, but engaged in conversation with fellow Scions. Even in childhood, it seems like he found it difficult to relate to other children thanks to his singular personality and interests, rather than any innate misanthropy, and Moenbryda’s efforts to befriend him were ultimately successful because she made the effort to understand him.

Isolation seems to mark the darker periods of Urianger’s life, the times in which he undertakes the greatest subterfuge. And even then, he is never truly alone. In fact, he seems to succeed in these situations largely thanks to his skill in understanding and relating to those different than himself—a skill learned from his dear Moenbryda, perhaps. He manages to gain the trust of the very jaded and world-weary Warriors of Darkness. He submits himself to exhausting trials to gain the favor of the pixies and becomes practically an expert in the customs of the fae. It’s little wonder that he bonds so quickly and so well with the Loporrits, facilitating a great exchange of information and a much deeper understanding, ultimately getting them involved in the Scions' efforts to defeat Meteion and stop the Final Days.

For all his eccentricities, Urianger thrives in community, perhaps even more so in community with the odd and the unusual.

And thus do Moenbryda’s parents observe with great affection when they are reunited with him in the Sharlayan hamlet:

Wilfsunn: And look at you now. At the center of the crowd─the reason there even is a crowd, having brought these people together. You've no idea how proud we are. Bloewyda: To see the boy our daughter trusted and believed in more than anyone... grow into the man she always knew he could be.

Urianger’s final key scene in Endwalker is in Ultima Thule.

It took me months to fully process the final events of Endwalker after playing through it. It's not that I disliked it—far from it, in fact. It was deeply cathartic to play through, and left me with a lot of lingering emotions. The main thing I had to grapple with was the sacrifice aspect. For the Scions, I think so much of their arc as a group has been moving past the idea that every victory must involve some heroic sacrifice. We have seen the culmination of Urianger's character arc in his understanding that sacrifice is not always necessary, or at least should not be assumed to be the only way. Moreover, Endwalker as a whole is about the need to stand together. We see not only the payoff of the Scions’ relationships, strengthened over the course of several expansions, but the payoff of the many relationships the Warrior of Light has forged in their adventures, all coming together to save the world.

So why does this story then culminate in the Scions sacrificing themselves one by one, so that the Warrior of Light can forge on alone?

I do think we are meant to understand that the Scions are not permanently dead and gone. Even in-universe, the Warrior of Light is given to understand that between the malleability of reality in this dynamis-based place and the power infused into Azem’s crystal, it is possible to bring their friends back. Hydaelyn hints at it, noting that souls were drawn to the WoL in their journey through the aetherial sea. Y’shtola says it outright:

Though my body will soon dissipate, there may be a way to restore it. Azem's magick. So long as our souls remain, you can use it to summon us back. But you mustn't, for it would mean losing our way forward. This, I only reveal so that you can promise not to invoke the magick.

G’raha, too, as he prepares to give himself to open the way forward, asks the Warrior of Light for several promises for the future, all of which indicate faith that they will be reunited.

And this all builds on what the Warrior of Light has seen in their journeys, in particular the understanding of life and death and the aetherial sea which their descent into the Aitiascope recently confirmed: the souls of the dead do not always dissipate immediately into their component aether, but may linger, still conscious of themselves, in the aetherial sea, even for considerable time. In the Aitiascope, we see departed friends come to the side of the Warrior of Light to lend them aid.

When Bloewyda says, “I can see her in you, too. Feel her. She walks with you, wheresoever you go…” and Urianger replies, “I think… I can feel her too,” it may sound like mere sentiment at the time. When the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud see a vision of Haurchefant and Ysayle at their side as they fight to prise the Eyes of Nidhogg from Estinien’s armor and save their friend, we might doubt whether they are literally there, or whether it’s simply their memory that gives our heroes the strength to succeed. But this, I believe, is what we are meant to take from the journey through the Aitiascope: it is not mere sentiment. In this world, the departed can and sometimes do watch over their loved ones from the aetherial sea for a time, even if they cannot intervene in mortal affairs.

And thus, whatever it is precisely that happens to the souls of the Scions as they leave their corporeal forms in Ultima Thule to bend its reality to their will, they are not gone.

Thancred’s intitial sacrifice to save his friends seems to be pure impulse. He has no time to think, only acts on instinct, and bids them live, and in this asserts his will over reality. When the others understand what he has done, however, each in turn are faced with a choice.

And Urianger’s approach to this choice is somewhat different than the rest. He does not simply announce his decision on the spot, but takes the Warrior of Light and G’raha aside to confide in them. (It seems he still harbors some discomfort in revealing his thoughts to the whole group—perhaps not least because he knows how the twins will respond.) In this conversation he reveals not merely his plan, but the thoughts that have led him there, as well as some guidance for their next steps.

In true Urianger form, he speaks of faith, and of fate. Addressing G’raha, he says:

I once placed my faith in thy chosen path, walking at thy side full knowing that we were bound for thy demise. I ask now that thou returnest the favor, and abide in faith as I fulfill mine own destiny.

I think it is important here that Urianger’s belief in fate, in purpose, persists. Moreover, he uses the word destiny in the context in which he has always used it: to offer purpose and hope in the face of loss.

But no longer does he presume that facing his destiny means facing it alone. “Yet even if I must needs go to such lengths,” he says, “I cannot well feign ignorance of the answer I have found within... The answer to the question: in what moment might I stand strongest?”

It’s clear that since their arrival in Ultima Thule and Thancred’s sacrifice, Urianger has been ruminating upon this question. This time, he has the opportunity to consider the choices ahead, not simply make a decision on the spot, and he seizes that opportunity, looking for where he may do the most good.

He does not say outright what answer he found, not yet, but it becomes clear when he steps up to join Y’shtola in opening the way forward.

My resolve hath never been as strong as thine. Full oft have I wavered in my decisions, and afterwards been stricken with regret. In spite of this, I may still stand with my comrades, supporting them as they attempt the greatest of feats. This truth, I have learned in the course of our journey.

And not only does Urianger help to forge a path by bending reality, by his words and his insights he also helps to guide his friends to confront each new despair that bars the way—even after he has vanished from their sight.

Ultima Thule is not truly about sacrifice, but about a tremendous leap of faith. It’s about the strength to keep going even in the face of loneliness and despair, to know that one is not alone no matter how alone one may feel. This Urianger has learned, and the Warrior of Light will in turn as they take those final steps.

By the end of his arc, Urianger has learned that he stands strongest at the side of his friends. And perhaps this is not quite a new revelation for him, but a truth learned and forgotten and learned again and again. Character growth need not be a straight line. In his youth, Urianger was an isolated child who learned to accept Moenbryda’s friendship, and it was by her encouragement that he pursued his own path of learning which eventually led him to join Louisoix and the Circle of Knowing. I point back to the animated, talkative Urianger we see in ARR, who in the face of loss and sacrifice yet looked to the future with hope, with faith in his companions and in the continued guidance of their mentor. I think this is a truth he has known before, but one he lost sight of as his community and support system crumbled around him. We might look at Urianger’s downward spiral following Moenbryda’s death as a dark night of the soul, in which he clings to his belief in fate and ordained purpose all the more tightly, for what he has sacrificed for them, even as his insistence upon carrying the weight of duty alone sets him upon an increasingly dark and lonely path.

I wonder if he sees something of that dark and lonely path in Hydaelyn Herself, when he stands before Her and hears Her words: “There was no kindness nor justice in the tragedy I wrought.”

And as Hydaelyn is unburdened at last in entrusting the future to others… so now has Urianger found peace by placing his faith in his friends.

Conclusions

Faith has always been a core part of Urianger’s character. All his life, he has looked to forces outside himself to guide him to the truth and the right path forward, and to reassure him in the face of loss: to the gods, to prophetic writings, to trusted leaders, to the stars. And he has striven to follow what he believed was the right path, even when it meant great sacrifice and pain—even when it drove a wedge between himself and the people dearest to him.

In the end, Urianger does not lose his faith, but rather the shape of it changes. In this he finds greater peace and purpose both, understanding that he need not walk in shadow, or alone.

Having finally met Hydaelyn face to face and understood Her purpose, I think Urianger understands that this is, in fact, what She would want. In Her death, She entrusts the future to Etheirys’s people. And though we unfortunately do not get to see Urianger (or most of the Scions) react to the true nature of the Twelve and their departure from the world in Myths of the Realm… I think he’d be okay about that now, too. It is in those who stand beside him that he now places his faith, not in distant gods. And Urianger has faith that his friends will happily share in his burdens, forgive him his failings, and celebrate their victories together.

And in this new faith, he has also gained faith in himself. He can accept his own strengths and weaknesses, confide in his friends without fear of judgment, request their aid without shame. We see Urianger look to the future and embrace his duties with far greater confidence and far less doubt and torment, knowing that even in the darkest moments, he can rely on the friends who stand at his side.

Endnotes

A huge thank-you to @eriyu for her searchable transcript of MSQ dialogue at xiv.quest, without which this essay and most of my Urianger research would have been a great deal more difficult.

An additional thank-you to all the fans who have worked to preserve material from FFXIV 1.0 and make it available on YouTube, on fan wikis, and in tumblr posts; I am forever in your debt.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 4

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

"I still can’t believe that you aren’t freaking out!?"

Lizzie didn't even bother to open her eyes at that question.

She was laying sprawled out on the massive garden swing her father had built nearly two decades ago, with Mara curled up on her stomach like a massive judgemental heating pad. It helped some against the muscle aches that her latest seizure had left her with, and not really at all with the the feeling of tiredness and like she had been hit by a bus. 

Which was the reason why she was laying around on the garden swing and not actually help her father and Tasha’s mother with their…weekly gardening. 

Tasha poked her and Lizzie just sighed. 

 Tasha was completely and utterly unapologetic about interrogating her and Lizzie wasn't in the mood to actually answer her best friend slash pseudo sister slash whatever the heck you called the daughter of your godmother when your father was also her godfather.

Their little family it was, even when it wasn't the most normal one. Lizzie's father and Aunt Lou had grown up down the street together...had gone to school together, later on to university...and had been best friends all throughout that. They had each gone on to get married, and had Lizzie and Natasha weeks apart. Tasha's father had been died when she had been 2...and Lizzie's parents marriage had spectacularly imploded by the time she was 6 and after that...well. It had always been just the four of them.

"Because I'm not freaking out," Lizzie finally said with a deep sigh. She was trying to take another nap, but Tasha's incessant questions weren't exactly helping.

"You should be freaking out," Tasha said, completely disregarding Lizzie's need for peace. "Lando Norris, formula one driver, is reading your book!“

"And he's probably just reading it as a curiosity," Lizzie said, trying to rationalize things. She didn’t think that lando was actually going to finish the book. Romantasy was not the kind of things that a guy like Lando Norris would read for fun…and maybe that would make their eventual break up easier.

Even when there was a part of Lizzie that was melting about the fact that he had wanted to get Mara a gift for her birthday.

Still.

She drew her fingernails through Mara’s short chocolate brown fur. 

Tasha, however, wasn't having any of it. She gave Lizzie an unimpressed look. "Did you miss the part where Oscar Piastri is also reading it, because his girlfriend loves your series?"

Lizzie opened her mouth to respond but Tasha wasn't done yet. "We are talking about two formula 1 racers, who probably have tons of friends and maybe even more formula 1 drivers who are reading you book! They might even recommend it to the rest of the grid! And you don’t care! Who are you and what have you done to my Lizzie?!"

Lizzie couldn’t help but laugh at that, opening her eyes to look at Tasha energetically gesturing, blonde hair flying around as she twisted to look at Lizzie. 

"Maybe I am freaking out a little bit," Lizzie admitted drily. “I just don’t have the energy to get all animated right now.”

Tasha harrumphed. “This is like the most interesting your life has been in years!“ Tasha said brightly. “First cafe guy, now F1 drivers that read your books! How is cafe guy by the way?”

"Fine," Lizzie said vaguely.

Tasha noticed and raised an eyebrow. "Just fine?" Lizzie could see the beginnings of a smirk in Tasha's eyes, and she already knew where this was going.

“He’s traveling for work,” she answered truthfully. It wasn’t a lie…and she wasn’t ready yet to admit to exactly who she was dating. She was pretty sure that Tasha was going to have a heart attack if Lizzie came around the corner with “Oh, you know the guy I am seeing? It’s Lando Norris.”.

“He saw me posting for Mara’s birthday and is now insisting that he’ll get her a gift,” Lizzie said softly. 

Tasha's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, seriously? He's buying a gift for your dog’s birthday? That’s the cutest fucking thing I have ever heard."

Lizzie nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, can you believe it? It's kind of sweet, actually."

"It's definitely sweet. So sweet that I am gonna throw up," Tasha agreed, a knowing glint in her eye. "And it definitely doesn't sound like just a fling to me."

Lizzie pressed her lips together at that.

“Uh oh,” Tasha said drily. “What’s going on in that head of yours Lizzie Lou?”

Lizzie sighed. “It’s not like it matters.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?”

Lizzie hesitated again, scratching Mara’s ears as a distraction. “It’s just… my mum left when she couldn’t handle my epilepsy. If she couldn’t stick around, how can I expect anyone else to?”

Tasha’s whole face scrunched up in immediate protest. “First of all, fuck her. Second of all, that’s not on you.”

Lizzie shrugged. “Maybe it’s not fair to put that on someone else, though. What if I love someone, and then they realize it’s too much?”

Tasha poked her in the forehead. “Then they don’t deserve you.”

Lizzie let out a humorless laugh. “You say that like it’s that simple.”

“It is that simple.” Tasha flopped onto the swing beside her, throwing her legs over Lizzie’s lap. “Look, I stick around. Mara sticks around. Your dad sticks around. My mum sticks around. We don’t do that because it’s easy. We do it because we love you.”

Lizzie slumped against the swing cushions. "I know, I know. You all love me. But that's different."

Tasha rolled her eyes, reaching down to whack Lizzie on the head. "Don't be an idiot. It's not different. Not one bit. We love you, and that's why we stick around."

"But it's just you guys," Lizzie argued, her voice muffled against the pillow, she buried her head into."Family is different. This is like, romantically sticking around."

Tasha scoffed. "Oh, so family love is stronger than romantic love? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Lizzie lifted her head to give Tasha a look. “No, you idiot. It’s just...it’s different, alright? Family is supposed to stick around. It’s like...a given. Romantic love...is supposed to be fun, and easy, and not have all these...issues.”

Tasha rolled her eyes. "Oh, right. Because the perfect relationship is one where nothing ever goes wrong and everything is sunshine and roses. That sounds like a load of horseshit to me.”

Lizzie groaned, burying her face into the pillow again. "You know what I mean. Obviously, relationships aren't always going to be easy. But...epilepsy isn't just a minor issue. It's a pretty big deal. A lot to handle."

Tasha ran her fingers through Lizzie’s hair, her touch surprisingly soothing. “Look, I’m not going to pretend like epilepsy doesn’t complicate things. Of course it does. But you’re acting like you’re some kind of burden, like you’re less deserving of love than anyone else. That’s bullshit, Lizzie. And you know it.”

“It’s just a shitty deal for anybody to take,” Lizzie mumbled. “He could have any other girl, any other girl that doesn’t get seizures, that doesn’t need a service dog.”

Tasha smacked her upside the head again, harder this time. “Shut up. God, you’re so bloody stupid sometimes.”

Lizzie winced, rubbing the spot where Tasha had hit her. "Ouch, that hurt."

Tasha snorted. "Good. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you."

Lizzie huffed, shoving Tasha’s legs off of her lap in retaliation. “I’m just being realistic here.”

“No, you’re being pessimistic,” Tasha retorted. “You’re basically assuming that this guy is going to run away as soon as things get difficult.”

“Well, what if he does?” Lizzie asked, her voice small. “What if he realizes that I’m not worth it?”

Tasha rolled her eyes. “Then he’s a total idiot, and he doesn’t deserve you anyway. And there is a million other good guys out there who would happily take his place.”

“I don’t want a million other guys,” Lizzie grumbled, feeling like a petulant child. “I want that one, I think.”

Tasha gave her a sympathetic look. “I know you do. But you’re sabotaging yourself before you’ve even given him a chance. Give him credit, yeah? Maybe he’s not as shallow as you think.”

Lizzie sighed, knowing that Tasha was right, but still feeling scared. "But what if he doesn't get it? What if he can't handle it when I have a seizure?"

Tasha shrugged. "That's a risk you take with any relationship, epilepsy or not. But you won't know until you give it a chance."

Lizzie opened her mouth to protest but Tasha cut her off. "Shut up. Don't give me any more of your stupid reasons. You just need to let it happen, alright?"

Lizzie rolled her eyes, but deep down she knew Tasha was right. "Alright, fine. I’ll try. But if it all goes to crap, I’m blaming you."

Tasha grinned. "Oh, I’ll gladly take the blame if that’s how it goes. But I think it’ll be fine. This guy already sounds way nicer than any of the guys you’ve dated in the past."

Aunt Lou’s laughter rang through the garden and Lizzie turned to watch her father and aunt laugh about something or other. They looked younger like that. Carefree. Unburdened.

“You think they’ll ever figure it out?” She asked Tasha with a sigh.

“Nah. They’ll be living in denial in 40 years when we visit them in their old people’s home,” Tasha said drily. “You know. Still having biweekly scrabble nights and making each other playlists filled with love songs…and sharing a vegetable garden.” 

“Girls! What are we thinking for dinner?!” Her father called loudly as he helped aunt lou to her feet.

Tasha shot Lizzie a small grin, her eyes glittering with amusement. "Think we can con them into ordering takeaway?"

Lizzie snickered, the tension in her shoulders relaxing at the familiar banter. “Worth a try. You do the talking.”

“Always do,” Tasha said with a mock salute. She hopped off the swing, grabbing Lizzie’s hand and tugging her up as well. “Come on. Let’s go get some pepperoni pizza.”

[absurdthirst]

Beauty and the Bloodsucker {Max Phillips x F!Reader}

Ratings: Explicit

Word Count: 11.6k

Warnings: Beauty and Beast AU, magical enchantments, imprisonment(?), quasi hostage, Stockholm syndrome-ish, magical timelines, seduction, blood drinking (Max is a vampire beast), oral sex (female receiving), loss of virginity, beastly sex, heartbreak, depression, fear/anger, castle attack, pillaging, threats of death, gunshot, blood, breaking the spell, arrogant/playful Max, happily ever after

Comments: Just an excuse to have Max be the Beast!

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Max Phillips MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“We should go back.” You whisper, dragging your cloak closer around your body as the wind whips through the bare branches of the trees and seems to speak. The voices are almost incoherent but it makes the dread pool in your stomach. “We cannot.” The shadows play off the light from the small torch in your brother’s hand as he turns back towards you, a heavy frown on his face. “The rent is due and if we do not pay, we will be tossed out on the street.” The landlord that owned the little cottage you live in had decided to raise your rent when you declined to marry him. He is vengeful and yet you know that no one in the small town you live in would help you. Everyone is terrified of him. “This place is massive. And deserted.” Your brother had come home yesterday, claiming he had discovered a way to raise the money for your increased rent. The washing you had taken in was no longer enough. “We will simply find a few things to sell here.”

You hear chatter coming from the shadows and you shiver again, “please. Let’s go.” You beg your brother who spins on his heel, “would you shut the fu-” His insult dies as his eyes flicker to something over your shoulder. “That’s not the way you speak to a lady.” The beast tuts, his wings spanned out behind him and his fangs glistening in the moonlight. 

You spin around and gasp, the scream dying in your throat with the way your brother grabs you. “Run. Get out of here!” Your brother screams and the beast scoffs, “she’s not going anywhere. Neither of you are. You stole from me. You dared to steal more from my castle. I should kill you.” Max chuckles darkly, “I am bored…I think I’ll kill you.” He decides but you step forward, “don’t kill us. Surely there’s some agreement we can come to.” You plead, eyes wide as you take in the beast. 

“Hmmm,” Max hums, “an agreement. I think -  a trade. You have taken from me after all.” You choke, “we don’t have anything. Our landlord has taken it all. We don’t own anything unless…unless you take me.” You offer, knowing you are condemning yourself to death but your brother is stronger. He can come back to save you. The beast stares at you, his dark eyes taking you in, and he sighs. He hasn’t had a companion for many years. Not since the last one died of natural causes. “Very well.” He decides, knowing that he would enjoy the company for a while, “how much gold for your sister?” The beast asks and you stand straight despite your hands shaking at the idea of remaining in the cold, damp castle.

“You cannot-“ your brother hisses and you shake your head. “He will kill us.” You remind him, not taking your eyes off the beast. His face almost looks human but there are heavy bones in the face, his eyes yellow and the glint of his fangs in the dim moonlight make your heart race. You take a shuddering breath. “Thirty pieces.” You decide, making your brother’s eyes widen. “You can live a comfortable life.” You finally turn towards him and take his cold hands in your own. “Marry. Perhaps our landlord will lower the rent when he learns I have, um, left.”

Your brother shakes his head, “no. No. I will not leave you here with a monster.” Max growls at that, the sound echoing off the wall, and you shudder in fear but try to stay strong. “Please. Let him go.” You beg to the monster who tilts his head, almost like he’s appraising you. “Very well. Thirty coins.” Max snaps his fingers, nails long and yellow, to the shadows and your brother shakes his head, “you cannot do this. He will kill you.” Your brother pleads but you reach for him to hug him. You don’t get to as a bag of coins is thrown on the floor and an arm wraps around your waist. You scream and your brother reaches for you but it’s too late. 

By the time you blink, you’re in a bedroom and the door is locked behind you. “You bastard! You didn’t let me say goodbye!” You shout, rushing over to bang your fists on the door. “You didn’t let me say goodbye.” You choke, tears in your eyes as the realization hits you. You have been sold to a monster.

Max stands outside the door, listening to your cries and curses. Something deep inside him stirs, his long talons hovering above the doorknob for a moment before he pulls his hand away. The deal had been struck and you had made it willingly. He strides away, his wings flapping slightly as he goes to find his housekeeper. A new tenant has arrived and she must be made aware.

You sniff as there’s a knock on the door, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, and you stumble to stand up just as the door is unlocked. An older woman walks in, a warm smile on her face that puts you immediately at ease. “Hello dearie. Max told me we have a new guest. I wanted to introduce myself. My name is Mrs. Smith and I am the housekeeper. We want to make sure you are comfortable. What foods do you like?” She asks, trailing her eyes along your figure, “and we will arrange for new clothes and you may change the bedroom however you wish.” She promises and you swallow harshly, “I - I- Max? Is that the beast’s name?” You ask, a frown on your face. 

“Maxwell Phillips.” She informs you, “his family have owned this castle for centuries.” She smiles, “now, let me fetch you some tea. You may roam anywhere in the castle but stay away from the left wing.” She warns and you nod, curious but too emotional to move from the safety of the bedroom. “Thank you.” You murmur, your throat hoarse.

You are a pretty thing, and Max likes pretty. She hums to herself as she walks down the hall, thinking about the years that have passed with her and the rest of the staff remaining the same age since the curse was cast and how many companions have been here over those centuries. It’s been a lonely existence and she sighs when she hears Francis and Corbin arguing down the hall. There is not a day that goes by that those two do not squawk at each other and if it weren’t for the fact that none of them technically could die, she would murder them herself. “Stop it!” She hisses, glaring at them when she rounds the corner and finds the tall and lanky man about the tussle with the short, portly one. “You would think after one hundred years you would find a way to get along!” She chides them. “We have a guest and I will not have you stressing her. Poor thing looks frightened.”

“Do you think she could be the one? To break the curse?” Francis asks, his eyes wide and excited. The servants in the castle have been frozen, not aging for centuries, and it’s lonely when they only have each other and cannot form other bonds. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Corbin scoffs, “she will be like the rest. You know he gets wearisome and agitated by them after a while. They all end up-” He drags his finger across his throat. “Can we see her? Is she pretty? If she’s beautiful she may be the one.” Francis says with hope but Mrs. Smith shakes her head, “leave her be for now. She must settle in. She has many lonely days ahead of her. You know Maxwell takes days to come down from his beastly form.” 

The men nod and Francis sighs, “let us prepare dinner for her. Surely if we treat her well, she will want to stay.” Corbin rolls his eyes, “perfect plan. Here’s a feast. Please stay and fall in love with our master so his curse is broken and we can finally live a normal life.” Francis scoffs, “you know nothing. The way to a heart is through the stomach. She will love us and in turn, love him.” The men continue to bicker while Mrs. Smith makes her way to the kitchen to check on the cook who is preparing supper for everyone. You sigh, eyes sore from sobs as you stare out the window to the vast forest, unaware that Max is doing the same thing across the castle.

Max turns away from the window, looking at the glass covered blood red rose, sparkling with the enchantment and the old crone’s words haunt him. The petals had begun to wilt and he knows that he will fail. He will be doomed to wear his grotesque monster form for eternity once the last petal falls. “She will not have anything to do with me.” He growls, hating himself for finding her so beautiful. Her smell is intoxicating and he wishes to drink from her. He flaps his wings and from the broken window of his chambers, he flies off into the night in search of an animal to drain of their lifeblood.

You look up when there’s a knock on the door and you see Mrs. Smith pushing a cart full of food. “Wow. I - this is all for me?” You ask and she nods, “I can’t - this is too much. I am happy with bread and some soup.” You promise and she tuts, “don’t be silly dearie. You must eat.” She insists and you stand up, making your way over to the cart and you inhale the smell of chicken and potatoes. “Thank you.” You murmur and she nods, “settle in. Tomorrow, we will give you a tour of the estate.”

Mrs. Smith walks towards the door and looks back to find you piling a plate high with the chicken. She wonders if it has been quite a while since you’ve had a hearty, proper meal. The staff will love spoiling you if you turn out to be as sweet as you seem to be.

The food is plentiful and you feel stuffed after you finish eating. Back home, you’d be lucky to have meat for dinner unless your brother spent the day hunting. You stare out the window and you wonder what your future holds. You haven’t seen the beast yet. You wonder if he will show.

****

Max flies high above the ground, watching the world as it passes under him with great flaps of his wings. Flying is probably his only escape from the reality of his existence. Your blood is already calling to him and he cannot attack you, not when you are so beautiful and scared of him. Glancing down, he spots a deer and growls, his fangs popping out and he swoops down to capture his meal. 

You finish your meal and Mrs. Smith returns to take it away and says you will meet the seamstress tomorrow for new clothes and you shake your head, “I don’t need - I have clothes.” You explain, and Mrs. Smith raises her eyebrows, “you have nothing with you, dear. We will supply you with what you need.” She promises, “Mr. Phillips supplies us with everything we need.” She promises and you sigh, “it’s nice to put a name to the monstrous face.”

“He was not always so monstrous.” She tuts as she cleans up the plates and stacks everything on the trolly to roll it out of your room. “There was once a time when Mr. Phillips was considered the most handsome man in the lands. Unfortunately, he was also very vain as well.” She sighs. “His existence is one that haunts him now.” 

You scoff, “he may have been handsome but inside he’s a monster. Buying me from my brother…I do not know his purpose and I never wish to find out.” You promise and she nods, sighing softly, “very well. Get some rest. Tomorrow, your new life begins.” She says and strides out of your room. You shake your head, “I won’t be staying here.” You murmur to yourself when she’s gone. You refuse to let that monster keep you prisoner. After a few hours pass, you grab your cape and wrap it around yourself, opening the bedroom door and sneaking into the hallway. The halls are empty and quiet and you tiptoe through the castle, finding a door to escape. You hear voices down the hall, “she will come around. He must have her fall for him. It’s our last chance.” You frown at that and wait until the footsteps disappear and you escape through the door, making your way into the gardens. You exhale shakily, the moon lighting your way as you run through the hedges until you’re in the forest. It’s dark and your heart pounds in your chest as you struggle to find your way. You hear a howl and start to run, your cape flowing behind you and you keep glancing over your shoulder. You miss the tree roots across the ground and cry out as you fall forward, twisting your ankle and you hear leaves crunch before a figure looms over you. You scream, terrified as the monster is above you.

Max growls, furious that you are trying to escape, but he doesn’t strike you. Instead he reaches down, ignoring your scream as he gathers you up in his arms. His wings push the two of you off the ground and he shoots up into the sky. “Foolish girl.” He hisses as he flies up over the treetops with you in his grasp. “Do you know what roams these woods? Beside me?” 

Your next scream echoes but is lost to the sky as he carries you back to the castle. You cling to him, your eyes squeezed shut as you try to not look down. You stumble when he sets you down in the gardens and you scramble away from him, his wings spread out and blocking the moon from your gaze. “You’re - you just - oh my-” Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you collapse from the shock of flying and the reality that you’re trapped here in this castle.

Max rolls his eyes and sighs as he looks down at you. Realizing that he can’t leave you on the cold hard ground. His wings fold against his back and he reaches down to pick you up again, opting to carry you without flying back to your room. The servants gawk at him as he trudges through the halls with your body limp in his arms, ignoring the whispers as he carries you to the bed and lays you down far more gently than you deserve. “Now stay.” He commands, unable to resist caressing your cheek before turning away and closing the door behind him. 

When you wake up, it’s daylight and you inhale sharply as the events of last night come back to you. He flies. He flew with you in his arms. The thought makes you sick and you sit up, trying to inhale deeply to control yourself. You are terrified of the man you’ve been sold to but you can’t leave. It’s clear he will find you and there’s no way you can survive in the woods alone. You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You need him to let you go. There’s a knock on your door and you stand, watching Mrs. Smith roll in a tray full of fruits and breads. It’s more food than you have had in months. “Thank you.” You murmur and she nods, turning to leave, “the master wants to speak with you after you finish breakfast and we will find you a dress to wear until your new ones are finished.” She announces and you nod, knowing this could be the chance to convince him to let you go.

“You must woo her.” Andrew advises, having been Max’s valet for many years, making Max snort as he paces. “With this face?” He sneers, his fangs hanging over the edge of his lips and his face unable to shift out of his monstrous form. “I am a beast.” He growls, once again struck by the irony. All of his staff are still human looking, only he took the true form of a vampire and it has been his damnation. No one could see past his anger and his ugly countenance to see the witty humor or sharp sarcasm he possesses. It was a shame really, because he finds himself hilarious.

You follow Mrs. Smith through the halls until you enter a room and you gasp as you look around. It’s a huge library with books scattered everywhere and it seems to go on forever. “Wow.” You murmur, glancing around the room until you hear his voice, “I take it you like to read?” He asks and you nod, “very much so. It’s - wow. You must have hundreds of books in here.” You exclaim and he chuckles, “try thousands.” You shake your head, “it would take forever to read every book in here.” Max chuckles, “well, it’s a good thing I have forever.” You frown, taking in his image in the daylight. The heavy brow and yellow eyes are scary but the wings are tucked behind him and he looks almost human. “Why did you bring me back here?” You demand to know why he didn’t let you run.

He doesn’t frown, but he tilts his head, as if you are an odd curiosity. “You agreed to stay with me.” He reminds you. “For the thirty pieces of gold I gave your brother. You agreed.” He stresses before he gestures towards the library. “You don’t like your new home? You need more books? More dresses?” He asks, wondering what would make you happy here.

“I agreed because my brother needed to survive. We were struggling. Could barely find enough coin to eat and our landlord put our rent up after I declined his proposal. I - I wanted to sacrifice myself for my brother. He deserves a chance and I never - I was not going to marry a villager. They don’t like women who read. Women who think for themselves. I didn’t want to be a housewife collecting the eggs from the chickens and carrying a baby.” You shake your head, “I want to know why you didn’t let me risk my life in the woods. Why did you pay my brother for me?” You deflect his questions about the books and the dresses.

“I protect what is mine.” Max’s fangs flash in the light and he almost growls that protectively. You tense up and he senses that he might have been too intense so he relaxes and shrugs his wings. “I paid because you were honest about stealing from me.” He snorts. “Have to hand it to you, not many people tell the truth. They lie to save their necks.” He sighs. “Gold doesn’t mean anything to me. I would have paid whatever you demanded.”

You accept his answer. He has no reason to lie. Not when he has you in his home. “I had no motivation to lie to you. Not when you could’ve killed us.” You tilt your head, wondering what he looked like as a human. “So what is it you want from me?” You ask and he sighs, “I want you to get to know me. Not the beast. Me.” He confesses and you frown, “that’s all? You don’t want anything physical? Most men would want…more.”

“If you were offering, I wouldn’t say no.” Max snorts. “You are a gorgeous creature that deserves to be worshiped, but I don’t think that you would want my touch.” He knows how you view him. You’ve screamed and fainted enough to give him that clue. “I am not that kind of monster. I could coerce you into my bed with a simple look, but that is not what I want. So, I would like you to just spend time with me. Talk with me.”

You stare at him, wondering for a moment if he’s tricking you and you wonder what he means about a single look but you nod, “very well. I can talk to you.” You assure him even if he terrifies you. Human men would’ve taken advantage by now so you feel a little more comfortable that he isn’t going to harm you. “Good. Let’s, uh, talk.” He says awkwardly, clearly not having anticipated your conversation lasting this long. You walk over to the bookshelf, caressing the spines of several books, “why do you have so many books?”

“I like to read.” He snorts, as if it should be obvious. “I enjoy learning about different places, different things.”

You turn to look at him, “they aren’t organized.” You observe and he shrugs again, “I get lazy about putting them back.” You shake your head, “an unorganized library is like an unorganized mind. You’ll never find anything. You must ensure the books are in the right place.” You tell him, “you have to take care of things otherwise you’ll lose them to time.”

He smirks but on his face looks more wicked than anything. “Then why don’t you organize it for me?” He asks, making your eyes blow wide in surprise. “What?” You shake your head but he nods. “It’s perfect. You can see what books I have and then add any that you see that I am missing to the collection.”

You huff, looking around at the ridiculous amount of books that are in random piles, “it will take forever.” You whine slightly even though you like the idea. Max chuckles, “we have forever, sweetheart.” You tilt your head at his wording but nod, “I wouldn’t mind spending my days in here.” You confess, “and seeing as I’m not going anywhere, I’ll accept the task.”

“Perfect!” He claps his hands together, his talons clinking together and he grins again. “It will be good to have it cleaned up. The servant can help too.” He wrinkles his nose when he notices how dusty everything is. “Just because I’m a beast doesn’t mean we have to live like it, right? Or you live, I don’t breathe.” He jokes.

“You don’t - you don’t breathe?” You ask and he nods, “what exactly are you?” You inquire, curious as you step away from the book shelf towards him. He flashes his fangs, “I’m a vampire.” You inhale sharply, knowing he could kill you without you even knowing it. “I didn’t know - how did you become-” You gesture to his form, “this?”

He growls slightly, the grin slipping down into a frown. “It was a dark, stormy night.” He tells you dramatically. “An old witch knocked on the door and asked to come inside. I refused her and she attacked me, biting my neck and cursing me.” He explains. “When I changed, she told me that I would stay like this until….” He breaks off and looks towards the west wing of the house. “Until I had learned my lesson.” He finished lamely, not wanting you to pity him or pretend to love him. It wouldn’t work.

Your eyes widen at the story, “and what lesson are you supposed to learn?” You inquire and he snarls slightly, “it doesn’t matter.” You nod and reach for a book to occupy your hands, “so how long have you been like this?” You want to know his story, it will help you understand why you’re a prisoner in his castle.

“One the eve of the new year, it will have been one hundred years since I have taken a breath.” Max tells you, thinking about the rose upstairs. He knows that he is running out of time, but he hopes that you will be the one to break the curse. The staff is already whispering about it in the hallways, as if he couldn’t hear them.

“One hundred - oh my goodness.” You gasp, shocked that the beast in front of you is over a century old. “And the staff?” You ask and he nods, “they are frozen in time with me.” You are struggling to process this. So much has happened within the past day so your mind whirls until he steps back, “I know I’m a monster but I would like you to enjoy living in my home.” He says and you nod, “it appears this is my new home. It’s beautiful. I am struggling to realize that you are - wow. I am sorry that this happened to you.”

He softens at your kindness and if he could, he would be blushing. “Would you like to order some tea while we get started?” He asks. He won’t drink anything, but you might like something. Mrs. Smith had told him that you had been scarfing down the food like you weren’t used to proper meals. He wants you to be comfortable and happy here with him. “And some sweets?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, “Mr. Phillips, are you trying to bribe me?” You ask and he stammers, “well no. I am trying to be a good host and I-” You giggle as he loses his confidence for a moment and you pick up a book, “I’m joking. I would love some tea and sweets. I must confess that my brother and I haven’t been blessed with ample food.” You admit and Max walks over to ring the bell, “you’ll have whatever you want here.” His words make your stomach twist and you nod, inspecting the book, “thank you.”

The silence settles between the two of you and Max feels almost shy. It’s been a long time since anyone has just been in the same room as him, besides the servants. They were used to his gruesome visage but it seems that you either pretend he is not there or feel more comfortable as you start to sort books into growing piles.

****

Weeks later, Max lounges on a chair, watching you as you take a sip of your customary tea. Since that first visit to the library, every time you are here, there is a pot of tea waiting and some small treat for you to nibble on. You have grown even more beautiful, flourishing with proper meals and rest. Your eyes are fixed on the page of the book and he leans forward when you start to read to him again.

You have softened towards Max in the past few weeks. He has let you have your space and you have spent your days organizing his library. You have come to know him more, listening to his comments on different books and his jokes that made you giggle even if you rolled your eyes. He may look like a monster but you have come to know him as the man he was. “So you weren’t married before your change?” You ask as you sip your tea and he snorts, “I was an asshole. I was vain, cocky, and I couldn’t conceive considering someone else’s happiness.” He confesses and you set your tea cup down, “well, now you consider my happiness by making sure I have enough sweets to rot my teeth.” You tease, picking up the small cake.

He chuckles. “Call it envy.” He hums. “I cannot eat sweets anymore and I used to love them.” He recalls fondly. “So watching you enjoy them is the next best thing.” He doesn’t add that your blood smells sweeter and is intoxicating to him. He doesn’t want to scare you when you are starting to become more at ease with him.

You offer him a sweet smile, knowing that he’s telling the truth. He may look beastly but he’s funny and very smart. You’ve spent days discussing literature and he doesn’t dismiss your opinions as “frivolous thoughts of a silly woman” but he listens intently and has a discussion with you. “I was thinking about taking a walk around the gardens.” Max says after you finish the cake. “Would you like to join me? I can show you the roses that the gardener prides himself on.” He says and you nod, “I’d love that.”

He’s both surprised and delighted that you will talk with him. Despite the rumors that vampires are allergic to the sun, he has no problem walking around during the day. He stands and offers you his arm as you brush any crumbs carefully off your lap. “Shall we?”

You take his arm and his form doesn’t scare you like it did before. You know he’s not going to kill you but he could with a flick of his wrist. You always thought vampire myths detailed them keeping their human form but Max is different. He can walk in the sun. You make your way outside and you breathe in the fresh air. “Your gardens are beautiful. It’s a shame people cannot come and see them.”

Max sighs. “If the people knew what I am, they would kill me.” He looks around and sees the flowers blooming in the freshly fallen snow. It’s a rarity, but the gardener had perfected the art of growing flowers in the winter. One hundred years of practice makes perfect. You shiver slightly, not wearing a wrap and Max unfolds one wing to wrap around your shoulders. “I should have insisted on you wearing a coat.” He chides himself. “I don’t feel the cold.”

You know you should be terrified of him but you can’t find it in you. Not when he’s shown you nothing but kindness since that first night. You live in luxury, getting to read books and paint instead of breaking your back doing laundry for the townsfolk. “I’m okay.” You promise and lean closer to him. “It’s too beautiful to go back inside and get a coat.” You insist and grip his arm a little tighter.

He preens slightly, his back straightening and his other wing ruffles slightly. Proudly puffing his chest out as he continues to take you around the garden. Explaining what the gardener had done and how he had managed to keep flowers growing all year long. “Since I am so ugly now, I love having beautiful things around me. Flowers, women.” He teases, winking at you when you look up at him.

You playfully roll your eyes even though your stomach clenches. He may look grotesque but he isn’t as bad as he looks. He can be sweet even if he can be harsh at times. His sarcasm makes you snort and his jokes make you laugh. “I haven’t seen any other women that aren’t servants.” You hum and he says softly, “because I only want the most beautiful woman in the world in my home.” You look at him at that moment, his yellow eyes sincere and your heart flutters. You’re silent but leaning closer, driven by the emotional tidal wave inside you. “Master Phillips. Master Phillips.” Corbin calls out and you immediately move back from Max, turning to the older portly man as he rushes over to Max.

****

You return to your room and spend your time reading until Mrs. Smith and Mrs Delacroix enter your rooms. “Miss. We must dress you. The master has requested your presence at a ball.” Mrs. Smith grins and your eyes widen, “a ball? Is anyone else invited?” Mrs. Smith shakes her head and you swallow, “just us. Wow. I don’t have anything to wear.” You admit and Mrs. Delacroix smirks, “oh don’t worry, mademoiselle, I have the perfect dress for you.” The two older women grin and you nod, nervous for a dance with Max. You are dressed and soon making your way to the ballroom, your heart pounding and you enter the landing for the large staircase that leads down to the ballroom dance floor.

Max is standing in the middle of the ballroom floor, resplendent in a suit that was custom made to fit around his wings. He had scrubbed and slicked his hair back, shined his fangs until they gleamed and tried to trim his talons but they had just grown back. In his hand, he holds one yellow rose, to match the gown that Mrs. Delacroix had fitted to your gorgeous body. He swears his heart would start beating when you appear and give him a shy smile as you descend the steps and he moves forward to meet you. “You are the angel to my devil.” He murmurs softly, taking your hand and kissing the back of it.

He looks so handsome, his yellow eyes taking in your gown and you smile, “thank you. You are the devil in disguise.” You promise, “you look good, Max. Really good.” You inhale deeply and the smell of his cologne hits your senses. “For you.” He holds the rose out and you soften even more, taking the flower and smelling it. “You are spoiling me.”

“Not yet,” he chuckles as he guides you over to the long, formal table that could seat twenty five, but there are just two place settings amongst the platters of pies and tarts, roasts and gravy. It is a banquet that would rival a king’s table. He pulls out your chair and pushes it in for you, before sitting down across from your seat. “Eat.” He orders softly. 

You feel guilty having so much food for just you but you know Max likes extravagance. You dig in eagerly, knowing your days could be numbered here but you haven’t felt in danger since that first night in the castle. “You have an eternity, right?” You ask Max who taps his fingers on the table cloth, “in a way, yes.” He hopes he doesn’t have an eternity stuck like this. “What will you do with an eternity?” You inquire, wondering if he has plans.

Max’s eyes slide away for a moment, looking up towards the ceiling at the west wing and he sighs. “I don’t know.” He admits quietly. “I have already been lonely for so long, I don’t want to think about what will happen when eons pass by and I’m still here.” You tilt your head curiously. “You can go anywhere you want, can’t you?” You ask and he shakes his head, “the curse keeps me bound to my lands. I cannot leave beyond its borders.” He reveals, knowing that he is giving you a chance to escape if you want to, but he is hoping that you will stay. 

Your heart breaks for him and you reach out to touch his hand, “I hope you can break the curse.” You don’t ask him how that’s accomplished because you don’t want to torture him if the curse is something that cannot be broken easily. “Me too.” He says, his eyes burning into yours and he squeezes your hand just as the music begins to play. You turn to look over your shoulder as a small band made up of servants convenes in the corner.

It looks like you have eaten your fill, if not, you can always come back to it. Pushing his chair back, Max stands and holds out his hand to you. “Dance with me, beauty,” he croons softly, hoping you take his hand. When he was a human, he had attended many dances and was good at it. Hopefully his abilities as a vampire will only improve those skills. 

You take his hand, your heart fluttering as you stand up and he escorts you to the center of the ballroom. The band continues to play and you let him pull you close and you grip his shoulder and his hand. “I am not the best dancer.” You confess, “never really had a need to dance in the taverns.”

Max smiles a toothy grin. “No one here will judge you.” He promises before he steps into the dance and sweeps you along with him. You gasp and hold onto his shoulder tighter, making him chuckle as he starts to twirl you around the large ballroom, your skirts swishing along with the two of you as you dance.

You are shocked by how good a dancer Max is. Guiding you around the ballroom for a few songs until your thirst takes over. “I need a drink.” You announce and Max rushes over to fetch you a glass of water. “Thank you.” You lean in to kiss his cheek and you swear he blushes. “Tonight has been magical.” You sigh, glancing back at the quartet and you turn back to Max who has a soft look in his eye.

“It has.” He could compel you, but it wouldn’t break the spell. Plus it would be a hollow victory if you were to fall into his arms. You give him the sweetest smile, one that shows him that you see past his monstrous face but Max still steps forward slowly. “I want to kiss you.” He growls softly, reaching for your waist to pull you gently towards him. Giving you ample opportunity to turn him away. “Will you let me?” He remembers what you said about most men just wanting more and he doesn’t want you to feel like he is forcing you.

His face is monstrous but you see his soul, the kindness hiding beneath the hue of his yellow eyes. He claims to be selfish and mean but you have found him to be giving and kind. He is capable of so much more. You want him to kiss you. You nod, knowing he could kill you with a flick of his wrist but he’s only protected you. You tilt your head as his hand comes up to cup your cheek, his talons long but you’re not scared as his lips press against yours.

He takes it slow, keeping the kiss light and not pressing it further until your lips move. You change the angle of the kiss and Max growls. He still doesn’t take over, but he opens up and he feels your shiver when the edge of your tongue touches his fang, making him groan. It’s so innocent yet bold, spreading a warmth through his chest as he tightens his grip on you slightly and lets his own tongue touch against yours.

Your hands slide up his chest, gently gripping his suit jacket as you deepen the kiss, your tongue sliding against his and you gasp when his fang cuts your tongue and your drops of your blood spill into his mouth.

Max growls, feeling the need to taste you nearly overwhelming him, but he doesn’t attack you. Yanking his head away, his eyes are dark yellow, even more vivid than before.

You gasp when he pulls back to look at you, “I’m sorry.” He says and you shake your head, “it’s okay. I want - I want you to kiss me again.” You demand, your eyes wide and your chest heaving.

Your teeth are coated in the pink hue of your tongue but it makes Max even more ravenous as he swoops down to capture your lips again. It’s only a pity that it’s not enough blood to break the curse, and he isn’t convinced you love him yet. His tongue slides into your mouth eagerly and he crushes you against him, taking care not to hold you too tight.

You moan into his mouth, your hands sliding up to cup his cheeks, distorted beneath your touch and you slide your tongue against his, letting him taste you. The band stops playing and quietly leaves the ballroom, leaving you and Max to yourselves.

“I have to stop here.” Max confesses, hard and throbbing but he has pulled away from you again. “I do not wish to push you any farther than you would like to go and I can feel myself losing control.” He confesses. “I would never hurt you.” He adds. “I would make you scream in pleasure, but never fear.”

You have never been with a man but you want Max. You shouldn’t because he’s a beast but you see the kindness in his eye towards you. You want him to touch you. “I want you, Max. I don’t care that you are a vampire. I want you to take me to your bed. I’ve never thought - you would be the first.” You confess, biting your lip.

Max searches your eyes, looking for any hint of doubt and he finds none. His blood seemingly boils in his veins at your confession, making his passions undeniable. He scoops you up in his arms, and in the blink of an eye, you are transported to the west wing of the house. To his bedroom that had been previously forbidden for you to enter.

You shriek at the movement and you find yourself in a room you’ve never been in before. You gasp at the heavy drapes and painting that cover the room and near the window is a rose, sparkling and covered by glass. You don’t get a chance to ask about it as he spins you to press his lips to yours.

His talons almost shred the dress off your body but he tries to be gentle. Desperate to feel your skin and taste your warmth. He wants to give you the most pleasure you have only ever dreamed of. To show you that he can make you feel things that no one else can. Groaning softly when he caresses your back, he tugs the dress down to let it pool at your feet; your undergarments and your slippers the only thing you are wearing.

You step out of the dress, his hands all over your body and you reach for his cravat, pulling it loose and you toss it onto the floor so you can work on removing his shirt, untying it. “I want you, Max.” You plead, knowing he’s monstrous but you see the man beneath.

“You have me.” He promises, his talons are less careful with his own clothes. Hearing the fabric rip as he tries to get out of them so you can touch him as you wish to. His body is much like his face, human-like, but he is harder and more muscular than a human might ever dream of being, hard planes and sinewy under thick skin.

You gasp at the exposed skin and you slide your hands down his chest, noticing the lack of a heartbeat. “Max.” You moan when he leans in to kiss along your neck. He doesn’t bite you and you’re grateful for that, feeling his fangs scrap your skin as his hands grip your ass.

“Beautiful angel.” He groans softly, loving how sweet and warm you are. How you shiver against his cooler skin and your fingers caressing his chest feel like you are branding him with your touch. “Let me explore you.” He kisses your pulse and smiles when it jumps. “Taste you. Lick your sweet, untouched cunt and see if you will scream my name.” 

His words make you wet and you nod, letting him guide you to the large bed in the middle of the room. You moan when he kisses down your chest as you lay down on the bed. “Max.” You sigh, “touch me.”

Permission granted, Max starts to strip you of the thin layer keeping your body from his gaze. Hungry for you, he can smell the arousal that heats your cunt and he growls possessively, monstrous claws holding your thighs apart to look down at the thick thatch of hair that protects your sex and his tongue swipes across his fangs. Ravenous for you, he hooks your knees under his hands and lifts them up to his shoulders and he bends down, your feet perched on his wings as he dives into your cunt. 

Your cry echoes in the bedroom as his tongue slides through your folds. You’ve never felt anything like it and your hand immediately finds his hair, pulling to push him further into your flesh. “Oh my God, Max.” You moan, tilting your head back as your heart thumps.

You aren’t pushing him away. Instead you are arching your back and pulling him closer. Wanting more from the beast that he is. HIs growl of approval vibrates through your core and he laps at your clit before moving down to push his monstrous tongue into your wet heat, wanting to taste you from the source as he grinds his hips into the bed. 

Your chest heaves as he makes you feel things you’ve never felt before. You whimper when he curls his tongue deep inside you, pushing against that spot that makes your heart pound and your stomach twist. “Fuck.” You curse, unable to help yourself.

He huffs, amused and enthralled by the curse that falls from your sweet lips. His yellow eyes are fixed on your face, watching your reactions as he continues to devour you. You are so sweet, even your taste is like the cakes and candies that he used to enjoy before he had been changed. He could become addicted to you. 

His tongue curls deep and his nose presses against your clit. “Oh God.” You pant, eyes squeezed shut as he pushes you higher and higher. “I am - I’ve never felt like this before.” You confess breathlessly. He chuckles at your confession, knowing that you couldn’t have felt this way when you’ve never had anyone - man or beast - between your thighs. Growling softly as he nudges his nose against the little button of pleasure above your entrance while he works his tongue deeper and deeper inside you. 

His tongue makes you see stars and you’re pushed over the edge within moments, your body tensing as you flood his tongue with your pleasure. You’ve never felt like that and your fingers tangle in his hair as you take what he gives you.

Your juices are just as addictive as blood. Making Max greedy as he slurps it down, working you through the first orgasm  you have received by another until your thighs are shaking and your feet are pressing into his wings. 

You gasp, struggling to try and get oxygen as he steals the breath from you with his mouth on your cunt. “Max. Max. I - oh God.” You whine when it becomes too much to handle. “I want to kiss you.” You demand, wanting to taste yourself on his lips.

He crawls up your body, his eyes fixed on yours and the monstrous planes of his face make him look evil. Like he is about to devour you, but he only wants to possess you and make you cry by giving you another round of breathtaking pleasure. Following your orders and kissing you as soon as he can reach your lips.

 You slide your tongue against his, moaning into his mouth as your tang hits your tongue from his. Your hands slide up his stomach and you reach around to caress his wings, loving the way they flutter beneath your touch.

Max is still wearing his trousers, his cock straining against the seam and he reaches between the two of you, his claws slicing through the fabric to rip them off in his eagerness to free his length.

You slide your hands down his body, gasping when your fingers wrap around his hard length and you’re shocked at how big he is. You’ve seen naked men washing in your village and you never imagined feeling a man so large. “Max.” You plead, “tell me what to do.”

“Put me right at your entrance, Angel.” He groans and rocks his hips forward. “Tell me that I can slide inside you. That I can feel you around me.”

“Yes. Yes. I want you inside me.” You plead, feeling him shift so you can position him at your entrance. You’re dripping wet for him and you slide the head through your folds. “Take me, Max.” You beg, “I want to feel you inside me.”

You would be so easy to convince right now. Teasing you with his cock as he begs to drink your blood. You are desperate enough that you would consider it, probably letting him. Still he doesn’t. Instead, he slides his tongue into your mouth as he feels his cock notch at your entrance and he starts to slowly push inside you.

You grip his shoulders near his wings as he pushes slowly into you, his tongue caressing yours and you wince slightly at the sting when he pushes deeper and you try to relax to take him.

He feels how tight you are, despite him working to make sure you are wet and ready for him. He slowly rocks his hips and his wings unfurl in pleasure when you clench down around him.

“Max.” You cry as he pushes deep and he’s fully inside you. There’s a brief moment of pain but it fades when he kisses along your neck and allows you to adjust to him. “Oh God.” You pant, lifting your legs higher up on his hips.

You are perfect. Your sweet innocence is now taken by him, a monster. Yet you are whimpering for him to move and he waits still, wanting you to adjust to the feeling before he pulls his hips back.

He twitches inside you and you beg him to move and finally, he concedes. He rocks his hips and you close your eyes, head tilted back as you let him take your innocence. He's incredible and you see past the terror of his looks to see the man beneath.

Max tries to keep his pace slow, to build up to the frantic pace his own body is demanding. The tight heat of your cunt just makes him want to destroy you, to take everything you will give him and rail you into the bed. With his strength, that could kill you, so he holds himself back. Still, you moan every time he’s rocking back into your body.

You cling to him as he thrusts into you. Your mouth opens as he makes you feel things you’ve never felt before. You moan and he smirks, “so tight for me.” You caress his back, his wings fluttering around you as he fucks you.

Max pushes his arms around your body, lifting you up off the bed as he continues to push in and out of your body, his wings flapping to keep you hovering above the sheets you were just writhing in.

You gasp in surprise and you clench around him. Your stomach twists and you’re getting closer. His talons dig into your flesh a little and you fall over the edge. His cock pushes deep and you cry out, clamping down on his cock as he makes you feel things you’ve never felt before.

Max throws his head back and growls, nearly a roar as he pushes deep. His seed is useless, but it paints your walls with thick, shuddering pulses as he follows you over the edge of bliss.

You cling to him, letting him work himself inside your body, and you sigh in bliss when he lays you back down on the sheets. “Max.” You whisper, a soft smile on your face as you open your eyes to look at him.

Max knows that he loves you. His heart would be pounding wildly if it still beat. He leans and gently kisses your lips, still buried inside you but he cannot stay there forever. Slowly, he pulls out of you and folds his wings down so he can against your body on his side. “How do you feel?”

“Perfect.” You murmur, curling into his side. You feel adored and relaxed, riding high on the pleasure from him. You caress his chest, lacking a heartbeat but you’re certain he can hear yours pounding in your chest. You close your eyes and breathe him in, “how - was it good for you?” You ask, curious and a little nervous.

“It was…..” Max tries to find a word to accurately describe it. “Beautiful.” He decides, his long digits slowly dragging up and down your side with his talons curled in so he doesn’t hurt you. “Just like you are.” He smiles. “Now we will have more to do than just read together in the library.”

You grin, kissing his chest as he curls around you, and you sigh, loving how good he’s made you feel. “I definitely want to do this again.” You hum and he chuckles, kissing your forehead, “I’ve created a monster.” You giggle at the wording and you yawn, suddenly exhausted by the way your body aches from the new movements. “Sleep.” Max orders, happy to hold you in his arms all night. You nod and snuggle into his side as he pulls the covers over you.

Max doesn’t sleep much, another effect of the curse. Instead he watches as you sleep, knowing that he has to tell you how he feels. Show you how he feels. He wants this curse to be broken so he can spend a real life with you. To take you to see the world and to experience how it has changed over the last one hundred years. You have talked of wanting to go on adventures and he will take you on them.

****

 The morning after, Max was very sweet, reluctantly letting you go so you could wash and change for breakfast. He sits and watches you eat your morning meal while he sips a cup of blood - a sight you’ve gotten used to. He offers you a bloody smile every so often that makes you giggle and he chuckles, loving to make you laugh. After breakfast, you go for a walk and Max tells you about the history of his home, how it spans back generations and how his parents taught him to manage the estate. “I was spoiled. Selfish. A blood sucking bastard. I didn’t deserve such a fine home and I know that is why I was cursed. I was horrible.” He admits and you rub his arm, “but you’ve learned and surely that gets you closer to breaking the curse.”

“Hopefully I am closer than ever before.” Max admits, pausing in the gardens to turn towards you. “You are so beautiful.” He murmurs again, reaching out to cup your cheek and he is struck by the contrast between his taloned hand and your gentle human body. “Angel, I-“ there is a crash from around the hedges and Max instantly changes, fangs on display and growling protectively at any threat that might harm you.

You gasp as Max shoves you behind him and you peek around him, eyes wide as you see your brother. “Max. No. It’s - it’s my brother.” You pat Max on the back and he lets you step around him. Your brother rushes forward to hug you, pulling you close. “You’re okay.” He gasps, kissing your hair. “I’m better than okay.” You promise, “I’ve been treated like royalty.” You admit and your brother looks over at Max with raised eyebrows. “He - he’s a monster.” Your brother frowns and you shake your head, “he’s not.” Your brother sighs, “you need to come home. I - I will give back the coins. I cannot let you stay here with a monster. Not when father has returned. I think - he’s dying. He cannot walk and his speech is slurring.” Your brother confesses and you sigh, knowing your alcoholic father would come back one day to the cottage you called home.

Max scowls but he relaxes when he recognizes your brother, unhappy that the man is here and demanding that you leave. He sees the hesitation in your refusal and knows that you want to leave him. Despite how he has treated you, despite everything he has given you, you don’t love him. He should have known you could never love a monster.

You don’t want to leave but your father is dying. You must say goodbye to him and get his affairs in order. You turn to look at Max, knowing he is the one who decides if you leave or if you stay. “My father is dying. He’s not a good man but I must say goodbye for my own peace of mind.” You say to Max, hoping he lets you go do this. “I’ll come back.” You promise even though you doubt he will believe you.

His heart breaks, knowing that by the time you come back, it will be too late. The last petals of the rose will have fallen and the curse will be permanent. His heart shatters, but he arches a brow and ruffles his wings as if he is completely unaffected. “Leave.” He commands dismissively. “Do not bother to return. I have already gotten what I craved from you.” He lies cruelly, lashing out in his own hurt.

Your heart twists at the way his frown furrows and his expression hardens, his words piercing your heart that thumps for him. “You - you didn’t?” Your brother chokes and you stiffen your back, “it doesn’t matter. Let’s go.” You demand and your brother wraps his around you to guide you through the gardens to his horse. Max watches until you disappear and he doesn’t see the tears on your cheeks as you walk away from the man you love.

A loud roar scatters the birds that had started to come around the castle again, sending them into the skies. Max uncurls his wings and shoots up into the air, desperate to hunt and drain the life of something to feed himself and rip it to shreds.

****

You return to your village and you enter the cottage to find your father in bed, his brow beaded with sweat and you know he’s dying. “Papa.” You call to him and kneel down beside him. “You’re here.” Your father smiles and reaches for your hand, “I’m here, papa.” You promise, a sad smile on your face.

“I am sorry.” He groans. “I was not the father I should have been. Losing your mother changed me.” He has had time to reflect on his mistakes and these are the ones he regret most bitterly. “Find love, my sweet daughter. Settle for nothing more than a man who would give you everything.”

You caress his cheek, knowing he could’ve been a better father but he let himself get lost in the ale after your mother died suddenly. “I have found love, papa. He’s everything I want. I love him.” You confess and your father squeezes your hand, “then go to him.” He urges, coughing moments later and you choke when his grip goes slack.

His last thoughts on this earth are of your mother; of the joy of knowing that you are loved and will be cared for. Your brother shuffles behind you. “You cannot return to that monster.” He hisses. “He let you go.”

You turn to your brother, your eyes watery and you shake your head, “he let me go because I- I needed to be here. I want to go back. He’s not a monster, he’s a good man.” You argue and your brother shakes his head, “he’s a beast. He will kill you.” You scoff, wiping your cheeks, “he made me feel protected and valued. He listened to me. Gave me whatever I wanted. I wish to return to him and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I love you but I am in love with him.” You declare and your brother is shocked. He’s never heard you speak like this. “Then go.” He demands, waving at you, “go back to him.” You stand up, rushing to your brother to kiss his cheek before you run outside to your horse. You quickly saddle him and swing your leg over, your dress flowing out behind you as you make your way back to Max.

The bedroom is trashed, the bed splintered to pieces and the furniture destroyed. The only thing that remains untouched in the room is the table with the enchanted rose. The single petal hanging precariously on as Max sulks in the shadows. “Sir!” The door bursts open and Corbin hustles into the room. “We are under attack!” He cries, but even that does nothing to stir Max from his depression. “Let them come.” He grunts, turning away from the servant and staring out the window in the direction he had last seen you from.

You find out as you approach the castle that your brother had told every man who ventured into the tavern in the village that the castle in the forest was piled high in gold and silver and a monster resides there. You ride harder, desperate to get to Max and you see your landlord leading the charge into the castle. Gold and silver are carried away in the men’s hands as they pillage and you run through the castle after leaving your horse outside. “Max!” You yell, trying to find the man you love.

Max lets the men take what they want, the servants are down in the passageways under the castle, safe behind a trick door but he doesn’t leave his room. Not paying attention to anything, not even the door creaking open as he stares out the window still.

You rush through the castle, pushing past the men who are carrying whatever their pockets will handle. “Well, well, well. This is the beast her brother was crowing about. I have to say, you’re hardly a beast when you live in luxury. If I was you, I’d be fucking whatever I could and living it up.” The landlord, Louis, grins as he holds the gun in his hand, pointing it towards Max.

“Just take what you want and go.” Max barely cuts his eyes towards the man standing in his room. The gun isn’t a threat he is concerned about and he won’t fight the man. You are gone and he will be this way forever, so it doesn’t matter.

“It’s not gold that I want.” Louis declares, “you have something that’s more precious. Someone.” He says your name, “you stole her from me. I wanted her, asked her to marry me and the next thing I know her brother is screaming about a beast who has taken his sister. Then she returns and says the beast isn’t a beast. He’s a man and her eyes…she looks like she’s in love.” Louis scoffs, “you have what is mine. She will never be with me if you are alive.”

“She doesn’t love me.” Max snorts. “I am a beast. I sent her away.” He hates how he had just a glimmer of hope because of his words. “Do not make me kill you.” He warns. “I just want to be left in peace.”

“I cannot allow you to live. Not if she has a glimmer of hope to be with you. I shall kill you and I’ll console the poor girl. I did my research. I have wooden bullets.” He chuckles and Max growls, standing up to face the man, “I told you to leave me the fuck a-” He doesn’t finish his sentence as Louis fires the gun just as you rush across the room and push the man to the floor with all of your strength.

Max sees you, hears your scream right as the wooden bullet pierces his skin. Making him groan out and collapse to the floor, feeling physical pain for the first time since he had been cursed and feeling the blood in his body start to pool under him. He moans your name. “You came.”

Louis chuckles and you scramble off of him, rushing over to Max who chokes on his blood. “No no no no.” You cry, cupping his cheeks, “please don’t die. Please.” You beg, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Don’t go, Max.” You plead as his eyes flutter, more blood pooling beneath him and staining your skirts. He chokes and you can’t understand him, it’s more of a gurgle. “Please.” You whimper as his eyes close, “I love you. Please don’t go. I love you.” You sob, your hands cupping his cheeks and you don’t realize it but you cut your wrist on Louis’s knife when you pushed him down. Your blood trickles down your palm and onto Max’s cheek, trailing along to his mouth as you lean over him, crying for the loss of your love.

In the glass case, the last petal on the rose falls off and flutters to the bottom. The time is up.

Max goes still and his eyes close, silence falling over the room making your sobs sound even louder. Louis watches, believing that he has won and will be able to drag you away from the beast’s body. Not noticing the small flickers of light starting to dance around both you and the body. Not until a giant ball of light seems to glow out of the monster's chest and he starts to rise from the ground, making you gasp as you are pushed upright.

You watch Max rise into the air, the light engulfing him and you scramble back, eyes wide at the scene in front of you. You swallow harshly, tears on your cheeks and you wince when the light beams until it starts to fade and you see a man standing in the place where Max once stood. You frown, standing on shaky legs as you walk towards the man, his eyes now brown and soft, his hair dark and short but his features are familiar to you. “Max?” You choke, recognizing the beast who is now human.

It takes him a moment, staring down at his hands and then feeling his chest and face, feeling his hair before he chokes out a laugh and grabs your hands to say your name. “It’s me!” He laughs again. “You broke the curse! I- I’m me again.” Crushing you against him, he presses his lips to yours without the presence of fangs.

You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning against his lips as you pull back to look at him, “it’s you. Oh my God.” You laugh, ridiculously happy for him to be alive and the curse of be broken. “Wait. How is - the curse? How is it broken?” You ask, brow furrowed.

Max shoots you a guilty look. “I had to drink your blood.” He frowns when he realizes that means you are injured and pulls back to examine your hands and tutting when he sees the cut.

You look down at the injury and you gasp, not even realizing you were cut. Louis growls, pissed off that his plan failed but as he raises his gun again, he is whacked over the head by Corbin with a metal tray. Louis falls to the floor but you pay him no mind. “Why didn’t you just ask me? I would’ve given you my blood if it meant your curse being broken.” You tut and Max sighs, “because it doesn’t work like that. It only works if you love me.” You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “The curse is broken. Did you not hear me say it? I love you, Max. I loved you as a beast and I love you as you are now. I don’t care about your looks, I love you. Who you are inside.” You promise, cupping his cheek.

“But you cannot tell me that I do not look better now.” He huffs, leaning in to kiss you again. His heart jolts in his chest and his eyes widen, gasping into the kiss. “My heart!” He grabs your hand and holds it over the wildly beating muscle. “This is all for you, Angel.”

“Your haircut is better.” You tease and he chuckles, his chest moving beneath your palm. You feel his heartbeat and you lean in to kiss him again, “mine is yours.” You promise and he nudges his nose against yours. The staff come rushing through the doors, excited cries of relief that their years of being frozen in time are over. “I knew she was the one.” Mrs. Smith proclaims and the others nod as Max caresses your cheek while he stares lovingly into your eyes.

“I love you.” He murmurs softly. “You saved me from my fate as the beast that no one could love.” His thumb strokes your cheek. “We will be married as soon as we can have the party.” He decides, grinning at you. “And we will live happily ever after.”

You nod, knowing you want to spend the rest of your life with him. “I love you.” You murmur, kissing him again as he pulls you close. 

**** 

“You may now kiss the bride!” The priest declares even though Max has already surged forward to press his lips to yours. The castle is decorated and the villagers are in attendance as well as the servants, all excited to witness Max and his bride be married. Max is soon sweeping you onto the dance floor and you grip his arms as he twirls you around. He is devastatingly handsome but he’s softer, not the bitter beast he was. He is happy and giving and kind even if he’s sarcastic at times. You adore him and you can’t wait to spend your life with him. 

“Are you ready for happily ever after?” You ask Max and he offers you a beautiful grin, “with you? I was ready from the night you broke into my house.” He smirks and you snort, “that was my brother.” You look over at your brother who is smiling and speaking with the maid who is blushing at his flirtations. “So you weren’t trying to steal, but you ended up stealing my heart.” He declares and you giggle softly, making him grin to have made you laugh. “And ended up taming the beast.” You counter and Max grins, oblivious to anyone but you. The beauty who tamed the beast and broke the vampiric curse of Max Phillips

[gdinthehouseee]

Bittersweet: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: ji-yong misses you a lot, and he finally decides to visit the one place he's been avoiding. it seems some things must be set in stone...

word count: 3311

tags: pure angst; grief, implied depression and suicide - i wanna say now this is real damn sad so if you feel it's too much please click off and prioritise yourself, do NOT feel pressured to read <33

ao3 link

"You always said I had terrible taste in movies."

Ji-yong’s voice carries a quiet chuckle as he leans back against the couch, arms crossed over his chest. The dim glow of the TV flickers across the room, casting soft shadows on the walls. You’re curled up beside him, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies—the same one you swore you weren’t stealing, even though it had been missing from his closet for weeks.

He won’t admit it out loud, but he thinks you look ridiculously cute in his hoodie. It’s too big on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you reach for the popcorn, the fabric hanging loose around your frame. He should probably be annoyed that you keep stealing his clothes, but instead, he finds himself staring—at the way the collar slips just enough to reveal your collarbone, at the way you absentmindedly tug the sleeves over your fingers when you’re focused. It’s stupid, really, how something so simple makes his heart do that weird, unsteady thing in his chest.

"I never said that," you protest, nudging his leg with your foot. "I just said you have… a very specific taste."

"Right. That’s just your polite way of saying it sucks."

You don’t argue, only biting back a smile as you take another handful of popcorn. He watches the way you focus on the screen, even though he knows you’re not really paying attention to the movie. You never do. Half the time, you’re too busy commenting on the set design or the background music, pointing out details he wouldn’t have noticed.

"You know, if you hate my movie picks so much, you could just pick one yourself."

"I don’t hate them," you murmur, voice softer now, more thoughtful. "I just like watching them with you."

Ji-yong doesn’t reply right away. There’s something in the way you say it—simple, effortless, like the thought has always been there, just waiting for him to hear it. He swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers rest against his arm, the warmth of your body so close.

He thinks about saying something then. About how his favorite part of movie nights isn’t the film itself but the way you lean into him when you get tired, or how you always steal the blanket halfway through. He wants to tell you that it doesn’t matter what’s playing, as long as you’re here.

But instead, he just laughs. "You’re lucky I put up with your commentary."

And just like that, the moment passes. Ji-yong never realized how much he memorized about you until now.

Sitting here, watching the same old movie alone, he can still hear your voice filling the empty spaces. The way you’d hum along to the soundtrack even if you didn’t know the melody. The way you’d lean your head against his shoulder when you got sleepy, murmuring something about how his stupid movie choices made the best background noise. He almost turns to say something—some teasing remark about how you’d probably still find a way to make fun of his taste. But when he glances beside him, the seat is empty. The hoodie, the warmth, the quiet weight of you tucked into his side—it’s all gone. The air feels heavier now, like something is pressing against his chest. He lets his head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, and before he can stop it, another memory rises to the surface.

"Can’t sleep again?" He asked

Your tired sigh crackled through the speaker. "Yeah… not really."

He frowned, adjusting the phone against his ear. He glanced at the time—2:47 a.m. The calls always came late, always started the same way.

"What’s on your mind?" He asked softly.

You hesitated. "Nothing, really. Everything. It’s just… I don’t know. Some nights, it feels like my brain won’t shut up. And some nights, it feels like there’s nothing there at all."

Ji-yong sat up a little, propping himself up on his elbows. "Did something happen?"

"No," you said, too quickly. "Nothing new. Just that same heavy feeling, you know? Like I’m tired, but not in a way that sleeping can fix."

He exhaled slowly. He hated when you talked like this—not because he didn’t want to hear it, but because he didn’t know how to make it better. "Then don’t sleep," he said after a moment. "Just talk. I’ll listen."

You hummed quietly, like you were trying to find the words. "Do you ever feel like… you could disappear, and the world would just keep going like nothing happened?"

Ji-yong’s grip on his phone tightened as an uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. "Don’t say that."

"Sorry," you mumbled. "I just—forget it. Tell me something stupid. Distract me."

He wanted to tell you that it wasn’t nothing. That it wasn’t something to just forget. That if you disappeared, his whole world would tilt off its axis. But instead, he swallowed down the lump in his throat and played along.

"Okay. How about this—did you know octopuses have three hearts?"

There was a pause before you let out a soft laugh, and for now, that was enough.

Ji-yong blinks, pulled back into the present. His apartment feels quieter than it should. The TV is still playing, the dialogue muffled in the background, but the warmth that filled these moments before is missing.

His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve.

"I never told you how much I liked it," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "The way you always called me at night. The way you trusted me with your thoughts."

The screen flickers in front of him, but Ji-yong doesn’t see it. His gaze is lost somewhere in the past, in all the moments he never realized were fleeting. The way you’d smile when you thought no one was watching, the way your voice softened when you spoke about things that mattered most to you, even the little quirk of your lip when you were about to tease him. He had taken all of it for granted. The laughter, the late-night talks, the warmth that filled the space between them.

Now, in the silence, he feels the weight of it all—the things he should have said but never did, the moments he let slip away, assuming there would always be more. But time doesn’t wait. The feeling of regret curls around his chest, suffocating him. If only he had told you, if only he had shown you how much you meant to him when it still mattered. He wishes he had told you then. But now, it’s too late. The space beside him is cold, the echo of your absence louder than anything the screen could show.

The apartment is too quiet. The TV hums faintly in the background, but it feels like it's just there for noise—just there to fill the silence that’s pressing against him, suffocating him.

Ji-yong rubs his face, eyes blurry from lack of sleep, and stands up slowly. He moves mechanically, as if on autopilot, because every other part of him feels frozen in place. He walks to the window, staring out at the city below, the lights flickering like stars in the distance. But the view is meaningless.

Everything is.

He can’t help but remember the nights when you were there beside him, when everything felt like it made sense. The way you’d call him, even if it was just to talk about nothing, the way your voice had comforted him, grounding him. He remembers the softness of your laugh, the way it would echo in his chest long after the call ended. He remembers the feeling of your hand, warm and sure, when you’d place it on his arm or reach out in the dark of night. But now, the silence is deafening.

It’s too late.

Ji-yong runs a hand through his hair, breathing in deep. It’s the first time he’s had to face it, the first time he’s allowed himself to feel everything that he’s been running from. The truth, the pain, the regret—it’s all too much.

He pulls out his phone, his fingers trembling as he scrolls through the messages—the ones that should have been answered, the ones that should have been sent. But all of it is still here, untouched. Every text, every missed call, a reminder of the words he never said.

He should have been there. He should have noticed. He never imagined it would come to this. And now, he’s left with nothing but memories of the person he let slip away.

Ji-yong’s hand shakes as he places the phone back down on the counter, the weight of his own guilt heavier than any silence he’s ever known. The emptiness presses down on him, unbearable, and he finally allows himself to feel the sting of tears that had stayed hidden for so long. But it's too late to fix it now.

He has to go. He pulls on his jacket, his steps slow but determined, like he’s walking toward something he doesn’t want to confront but knows he has no choice but to face. There’s a place he hasn’t visited in far too long.

His footsteps feel heavier with each step, the quiet of the world around him amplifying the weight of everything he’s been avoiding. The gray sky seems to press down on him, like it’s holding his pain in place. He’s been walking for what feels like hours, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He’s drawn to this place—this place he’s tried to forget, tried to ignore, but no matter how far he runs, it always pulls him back. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to face the truth that’s been gnawing at him from the inside out. But somehow, it feels like this is the only place he can go.

Finally, he reaches the spot.

The air is thick with the scent of the earth, the stillness around him suffocating, like the world has paused for a moment, holding its breath. His heart beats in his chest, painfully loud.

He sees the familiar silhouette of something ahead—the marker, the seemingly insignificant landmark that stands where everything shifted. It doesn’t have to say a name for him to know what it means. His throat tightens, and his pulse quickens as the realization sinks in. This is it.

He kneels slowly, the cold ground pressing against him as his fingers dig into the dirt, as if somehow, if he touches the earth, it will bring him closer to you. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it." His words are barely audible, lost in the emptiness around him. "I should’ve been there. I should’ve... told you..."

His breath catches in his throat, and the words he’s been holding back for so long rush out in a broken sob. "I should’ve told you that I loved you."

His head falls forward, and tears escape, mingling with the dirt beneath him. The pain in his chest is unbearable now, like the weight of his regret is crushing him from the inside out. His hands tremble as he presses them against the earth, trying to reach something he can no longer touch. He stays there for a long time, the world spinning around him, as he whispers the words he never said before. The things he should have said, the things he’ll never get the chance to say now.

One more chance. That’s all he wanted. But it’s far too late now.

Ji-yong stays kneeling, his hands gripping the cold earth beneath him as the weight of everything crashes down on him. His tears have turned into sobs, raw and uncontrollable, but still, he whispers the same words over and over, as if saying them could somehow undo the reality he’s facing.

“I’m sorry... I should’ve been there... I should’ve known...” he repeats, as if whispering these words would bring you back to him.

But the world doesn’t stop. The wind continues to rustle the leaves around him, the empty, hollow sound only serving to amplify the silence. And still, he doesn’t stop. His hands press harder against the stone, his nails scraping against it as if trying to carve through the pain.

Then, with a force that takes him completely by surprise, his gaze lands fully on the marker in front of him. At first, it’s a blur—his eyes were too full of tears to focus. But when his vision clears, it hits him like a punch to the gut. The name.

Your name.

The truth smashes into him all at once, and for the first time, he lets out a gut-wrenching scream. A scream filled with pain, with sorrow, with a guilt so deep it feels like it’s splitting him in two. His hands tremble as they reach out, clutching the stone as though it might shatter with the force of his grip.

“No... no, no, no!” His voice is strangled, broken, the words unrecognizable through his sobs. “I didn’t... I didn’t mean for this to happen...”

He falls forward, his forehead pressing against the cold stone, the only connection left to you. His entire body shakes violently as he sobs, each breath a desperate gasp. The weight of his regret, of everything he never said, is suffocating him. Once more, he can’t see. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.

“I should’ve been there...” The words are barely more than a whisper, but they’re filled with such agony that it’s as if they’ve torn through his very soul. He screams again, louder this time, his voice echoing into the emptiness, his heart breaking with the realization that it’s too late to fix anything.

It’s too late.

The words feel like a knife. There’s no going back now. No way to take back the time he wasted, the moments he lost. He’s left with nothing but his grief, his guilt, and the unbearable weight of your absence.

“I love you...” he whispers, his voice broken. If it meant he could get you back, even for just one more day, he would have traded anything. Because you were his everything. You still are his everything. His love, his home, his world: all taken away from him in the blink of an eye. 

His chest heaves as he tries to breathe, but it feels impossible. The weight of his own heartache is too much, the emptiness too vast. He presses his palms to his eyes, as if trying to push the tears back, to stop the flood that feels like it’s drowning him. But it never works. They fall anyway, each drop a reminder of all the things he will never say to you again. All the moments that will never come.

He lets out a choked sob, his voice barely a whisper as he says your name one more time, like a prayer, like a desperate plea for something he knows he can never have again. He was too late. Too late to protect you, too late to save you from everything that hurt, too late to show you the love he was too afraid to admit before. Now, with you gone, all he has are the ghosts of his regrets, haunting him in the silence. He doesn't know how to live with them, but he knows he will—because living with this pain is all he has left. He has to live for you. 

Ji-yong’s fingers twitch at the thought, his mind pulling him back to that night. The memory lingers, sharp and suffocating, like a wound that hasn’t healed. He can still feel the dread that crept into his chest when he glanced at his phone, the screen lighting up with missed calls from your number.

The calls had come in rapid succession, one after another, like a hammer striking him over and over. His stomach dropped, instinct kicking in before his brain had even caught up. He didn’t even listen to the voicemail. He didn’t need to. He knew. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

His heart raced as he dialed your number, his fingers trembling, but it just rang and rang, no answer. His mind spiraled, but his body was already moving. He didn’t even grab a jacket or his belongings, he just rushed out the door, every step feeling heavier than the last. The only thought in his mind was you. Whatever was happening, he needed to be there. He had to make sure you were okay.

The hospital was a blur when he arrived—too many flashing lights, too many voices. The sterile smell of disinfectant, the cold air that wrapped around him like a death sentence. He pushed through the doors, his breath shallow, his pulse quickening, but nothing prepared him for what he found.

Your family was there, standing in the hallway, their faces pale, their eyes empty. They didn’t need to say anything. The look in their eyes told him everything. He barely registered the nurse who spoke to him, her words muddled, drowned out by the roar in his ears.

It’s too late.

They tried to save you. That’s all he could hear. They did everything they could. But it wasn’t enough.

He collapsed in a chair, his body no longer able to hold him up. His hands shook violently, and he could feel the air around him turn to ice. He had failed you.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as his head dropped into his hands. He could still hear your laughter, see your smile, feel the warmth of your presence. Now, it was all gone, slipping through his fingers like sand. The calls, the hospital, the frantic rush to save you—it all felt like an endless loop, and nothing could change the truth that it was too late.

The sound of you calling his name echoed in his mind, a cruel and harsh reminder that he’d never hear that properly ever again. You must’ve been so scared in your final moments, yet the only thing on your mind as you drew your last breath was him. It had always been him. 

“I’m sorry, Ji-yong.” 

A sudden sensation stops him in his tracks. A soft breeze, warm and gentle, brushes past him, despite the stillness of the air around him. It feels like your touch, like the comfort of your presence, even though he knows you’re not there.

His breath catches, his heart skipping a beat. He spins around, looking toward the grave, expecting to see nothing but the same cold stone that has haunted him for so long.

But there’s something different this time. In the silence, there’s a memory—your laugh, the way your voice used to light up his world. He hears it, faint, almost like another echo, and his eyes widen as the tears rush back. He holds his breath, afraid that if he moves or speaks, the moment will vanish.

The world feels suspended, like time itself has decided to hold its breath. And then, in the quiet, there’s a sense of warmth that he can’t explain. It wraps around him, pulling him into something soft and familiar. It’s as though you’re still with him, as if the distance between the two of you isn’t as vast as it feels.

“Aein?” he whispers, his voice barely audible, the words trembling with a mixture of hope and pain.

For a brief second, he thinks he feels your hand on his shoulder, the warmth of your touch grounding him, and his heart swells with a fleeting sense of peace. His chest tightens with emotion as he reaches out, but when he looks around, all he finds is the empty grave—silent, still, and so final.

"You’ll always be with me, won’t you?"

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