#are there people who still believes in this superstition?

[katarrinskey]

Well, she is a character in an ongoing dnd campaign, first and foremost, so anything that happens during or after the war of the ring is a bit up in the air, you see. I keep expanding on her tragic backstory tho: there is a lot of things to consider for the first age, to the point where part of me is considering actually writing something for the first time in a decade, haha

I did made a refsheet where I plan on organizing her backstory properly for myself, my dm, and anyone interested in her. Eventually. It's mostly empty for now except for arts, both those I already posted and some that I haven't

I will say that she keeps starting stupid (mostly human) legends, myths and superstitions throughout the second age, without quite noticing that she's doing it. Some notable ones:

-almost got caught by some numenorean guys - lone horse of some ancient elven breed just roaming in the middle of nowhere? Seems someone suspicious. Either she is lost and could be returned to the owners for some reward, or just straight up sold. Is really not a fan of being treated that way, so she may or may not have drowned at least one of them in a river before escaping her captors. Those who survive the encounter name her an evil spirit and ward their folk of the lone horses

- she's been known to help travelers occasionally. Every now and then a lone ranger unable to escape a band of orcs on foot will be miraculously carried away by a horse until they are safe out of enemy's clutches. The help, however, oftentimes means that you will wake up alone and with some of your belongings missing. If so, that is a fair price for a life saved

- she gets bored and follows traveling caravans sometimes. Those tend to gossip among themselves, and she is not true isolationist at heart - any news of the world around is a welcome thing. Moreover, when the travellers are asleep, no one would stop her from borrowing their books. Those she returns, always. They do not give her much of what she's looking for (namely, any word of her family - she is largely unaware of anything that happened after she left them), cause she is unlikely to join if there are elven travelers in the midst, but it means she sometimes knows seemingly random things. She probably gets caught every now and then - girl does kinda glow in the dark - but startling her means she is turning back into a horse and running off immediately. There are some people that consider her a particularly shy spirit of knowledge

- early in the second age, there were rumors of a lady in a torn cloak, that would sell intricate jewelry for far less than its worth in remote human villages. She came just before dawn while it was still dark out, and her eyes shined with a strange light and she would sell golden beads and bracelets with intricate etchings and combs made of bone and many other small things for some silvers and simple things one is willing to spare, like apples or last summer's preserves. She would then disappear as suddenly as she would appear. It is not at all surprising that some villagers start believing her a benevolent ghost.

There are probably more of those, about mistreated children being protected by spirits of old and lost ones finding their way, about things stolen under strange circumstances and payment left in their stead, or else borrowed and later found. She doesn't pay them much mind herself, never connects them to her own exploits or sees the impact left by her actions. But someone else might. Someone listening for rumors of someone else entirely, yet always stumbling into these. Someone looking for a songbird but always finding a bloody horse instead

@bblues-ocs

Omg, hiiiiii

You are giving me an excuse to talk about my girl and that is very kind of you and you bet I will take it-

First of all, new art I've been meaning to post anyways

And the rest got pretty long, so I am putting it under the cut

So, the biggest thing about Menelastë Andaraimë is that she is, well, kind of a coward. But that doesn't really become relevant until a bit later

She was born into a family of pretty prominent feanorian supporters, but she was never really big on politics herself. What she was good at, is horses. Breeding them, taking care if them, riding, ofc. Which, not necessarily what one would consider glamorous enough for a kid with her background, but that's where her heart always laid, and for the whole "family legacy" schtick, she has two older (and two younger, if need be) siblings (I got thoughts on each of them, but if I am going there, this is gonna take a while, so here is just a lil bunch of lil sketches of them-)

(Which, honestly, kinda funny that she end's up as Noldor's most famous musician's wife somehow, truly, but that is also it's own story, I think)

So, she doesn't consider herself smart enough for politics, prefers her horses' company most days, and just kinda chills. And then the darkening happens. And well, nearly everyone she cares about is going and bet they gonna need someone who knows horses on the other shore and staying is about as scary as going anyways, now that they know that Valinor isn't completely safe, so she goes too.

And then the first kinslaying happens. And she had been teaching herself sword, they all were, but this is terrifying and she is not the type for heavy armor so she just. Finds an alley and prays to Varda no one finds her. And so they don't. Not until it's all over.

(Her older brother, Failareth, is the type for heavy armor. That's why he drown in the harbor when some poor Teler pushes him of the pierce)

Once they reach Beleriand, she does as she always did. When the ships burn, she makes sure none of the animals panic when they see fire. When they get into skirmishes, she tries to get out of the fray instead of charging ahead. When the major battle approaches, she hides away in the chaos if it, turning into a horse herself - trick she learned back in Valinor. It is way easier to stay alive when you are just a horse.

She stands by her husband, of course. She is the oldest woman of the First House if the Noldor now, so she does what is needed of her. For a while, in Mithrim, she is Queen, and she tries to be convincing and generous and cultivates the appropriate dignity. It's hard - she isn't charming by nature and she prefers the stables still, but she tries. In the end, she is much better at observing than she is at talking. She is much relieved when the scrutiny shifts away from her again.

She is happy in the marches, tho. Maglors gap is mostly held by cavalry, her contribution is important. She helps with things like supplies. She trains the horses. She scouts, occasionally, or delivers correspondence. She fits there, for a while.

She's still a coward. She gets used to small scale fights, finds rhythm in those, but never masters any sort of exceptional skill in it. It is not a bad thing, she thinks. Less blood on her hands makes her a better healer.

She leads the first wave of evacuations during Bragolath. That's the most useful thing she can do anyways.

In the eve of the fifth battle, she does little else, but hope and prays for bravery. She still flees first chance she gets.

She sheds tears for all they lost after - they all do. She births a child - a daughter - a few years later. To give herself a future to fight for, maybe. To keep her hope and her faith from burning out completely. Or, perhaps, just cause there is just no point in waiting for better times anymore.

(Daughter in question)

She trusts her husband and brothers-in-law when they claim the attack on Menegroth to be inevitable, even when she doesn't quite recognise them anymore, even when they start scaring her. Her older sister is full of righteous fury - Sindar never had the right to keep the stone anyways. Menelastë agrees - she knows her people's laws, she knows they tried negotiations first, she knows the Oath will leave them with no other choice.

Her daughter is still a child. She is one of maybe a dozen they still have around. There is no place for them in a fight such as this, and, chances are, once they take step on this road, there will be no place they would be able to evacuate those kids to. The darkness keeps spreading and she can't count on still having allies after they take up swords against the Sindar.

So, once the course is set, she steals the children, her own included. She takes them to Cirdan - they won't be the first Noldor kids left in his people's care. By then, the second kinslaying happens already and news spread. She herself doesn't enter the city.

She doesn't go back to her own people either. Not after going behind everyone's backs on this. Not after running away from the battle again, in a way that cannot be denied now. She is not ashamed of doing what she had to, but she can't fave the consequences of her cowardice.

She turns into a horse. Noone will recognise her this way.

And then she stays a horse for a long time. If she ever rejoins civilization in her true form, she sticks to places noone would know her face - Eru bless men for their short memories. She rarely stays for long anyways. If she needs supplies, she stumbles into traveler's paths as a horse, then takes what she needs while everyone sleeps. She gets her news by listening to their conversations. She sells her noldorin jewelry to dwarves and men. She puts in low value coins into people's bags sometimes. It's less when what she takes is worth, more often than not, but it's better than nothing and it makes her feel a little better about herself.

And that's how she lives for a very long time. Till, one day all the way in the Third Age she stumbles upon an adventuring party and things start to change their course...

[oh-no-its-bird]

Hear me out: warring states era Hatake who went on a mission somewhere in the land of waves and fell off the fucking map— where they then witnessed the Unspeakable Timeless Horrors Of The Sea And Spiral, then washed up on shore a solid years later, irreversible changed and tangibly Other.

Their wolf contract no longer works because there is something so deeply Wrong with them that animals (especially contract beats and spirits) can feel it. There is something tangibly, legitimately Other(tm) about them, and while they've been wholeheartedly accepted back into the clan, everyone knows this is not the same person who they lost a year ago

They gazed into the abyss and the abyss gazed back type shit fr

[cantheykillmacbeth]

((I love the people who tag my posts with "The Scottish Play." Like. Macbeth Macbeth Macbeth!!! The play Macbeth!!!! Macbeth by William Shakespeare!!!!! Macbeth (not the character)!!!! Get scared get scared get scared!!!!!!!!! Woe sandbag be upon ye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway happy halloween y'all :) Hope you had a good time tonight))

[reneesbooks]

febuwhump day 2 -- holding back tears

isha: a Hass term of endearment meaning "my heart" canon status: canon (outtake) pov character: jack words: 1.7k

the raedoran cycle

Jack slips through the stable doors, ducking behind a stack of hay bales when the door into the inn swings open, allowing light and the raucous sound of laughter to spill out into the stables. The inn is still crowded, so Eima will still be at the bar and Kamon will likely be with her, supervising. He’ll start clearing them all out within an hour, so Jack doesn’t have a lot of time. The real trick will be getting into the private quarters at the back of the building without Kamon seeing him.

He climbs out the back window of the stables and up onto its roof, finding the loose windowpane on the second-floor corridor and wedging it open. He slides in silently and pulls the window back into place. There’s another loose window, this one due to a few chips he’d taken out of the sill over the course of several visits—he checks that no one is looking, then climbs out the window and onto the thin overhang over the window directly below. His arms burn when dangles from the overhang, his muscles protesting that it’s been a long time since he’s done this, and it takes him longer than it used to to get the final window open with his foot. He manages not to drop himself into the lake and swings back into the inn, landing gracefully on the wooden floor of the private living quarters for Meja’s family.

The door to the younger children’s room is shut and Jack makes his way carefully around the creaky floorboards, ears perked for any sound. The noises of the inn’s patrons are muted back here. He sees a light under Meja’s door and feels his stomach drop, a part of him wanting to turn and run. But the rest of him desperately needs her comfort right now, so he steps up to the door.

“Kamon?” Meja’s voice calls, and Jack nearly loses his nerve. “Is that you?”

He pushes open the door and she looks up from her seat on the edge of her bed, her hair hanging loose around her face. She’s in her dressing gown, a comb in one hand, and pauses when she sees him standing in the doorway. She blinks, and Jack swallows nervously. “I’ve been told I look like him,” he says, attempting one of his roguish smirks and knowing he’s failing.

Meja just smiles softly, gesturing for him to come sit. He shuts the door quietly, not wanting to wake the sleeping children down the hall, and sits on the bed at her side.

“You look tired,” she says, winding her arms around him in a tight hug. He doesn’t answer, leaning into the hug, and she runs her fingers down his spine. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

He nods, burying his face in her hair. She still smells of spices from whatever she’d cooked for the inn, and the faintest hint of lake water. She squeezes him once and lets go, winding her shawl around her hair with a practiced twist. Jack follows her back down to the empty kitchen and hops up onto the counter to watch as she glides around the cramped space, lighting the fire and chopping ingredients and swiftly sending one of the little ones back upstairs when he comes down looking for the sweets. He still remembers the day she found him, and the little pot of sweet elderflower jam she’d given him to eat. Kamon was always so exasperated when he realized Jack had eaten it all again, and Meja only ever smiled and said that perhaps Jack had a little Hass blood after all. She’d never been fazed by his failings, or his thievery, or the times that he came to her with bloody knuckles and a bloody lip and she had to patch up his injuries before he let Arthur see. And now he’s come home, after disappearing for months and never sending word, and all she wants to do is make him dinner.

He presses his hands to his eyes, sniffing in a pathetic attempt to keep the tears in. He hears the gentle clink of Meja setting down her knife and her fingers wrap around his, peeling his hands away from his face. He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see whatever expression is on her face.

“Isha, what’s wrong?” she asks, and she sounds so worried and sad and he hates himself, because he has never deserved having her in his life. Kamon was right that first day—he is a demon in human skin, here to trick her into caring about him only to break her heart. “Are you hurt?”

“Are you not angry with me?” he asks, his voice trembling. Her hands are still wrapped around his, and he feels no reaction to his words. “I...why aren’t you angry with me?”

He can hear the smile in her voice. “Do you wish for me to be angry with you, isha?” She lets go of his hand to pat his cheek. “Bjerkja heard my prayers, and delivered you to my door unharmed. What do I have to be angry about?”

He shakes his head, still refusing to open his eyes. “I disappeared. I never sent word.”

“You know I can’t read,” she laughs, but he only winces. She sighs and switches to Hassa. “My beautiful son, I could never be angry with you. Whatever sins you think you committed, you will forever be innocent in my eyes.” She squeezes his hand and lets go. He opens her eyes to see her return to her cooking, the smell of it filling the room. Jack watches her work, tears stinging the backs of his eyes but never falling, and thinks of the way she used to tuck him into the hay of the stables, wrapped in furs, and sing him a lullaby until he fell asleep. He remembers the day he realized she was hiding him from the city guard, when he woke up to her voice arguing with Kamon’s about the danger he was putting the two of them in, and their family. When he heard the clanking of armor as their voices fell silent, and when Kamon’s voice lied for him, protecting him despite shouting only minutes before that he was demon and a curse.

“You won’t be able to tell me about your adventures on an empty stomach,” Meja teases, pushing a bowl of rice and vegetables topped with fried fish into his hands and breaking him from his melancholy thoughts. “Eat before you wither away before my very eyes!”

He laughs and her eyes crinkle with her smile. He devours the food quickly, having missed the rich spices and flavors of her cooking. Birdie’s stews are fine, but she learned to cook from her father, and he had clearly never met a spice rack. Meja’s cooking is a royal feast, and the bowl is empty quickly. Jack wipes his hands on a rag Meja hands him and leans back, still perched on the counter. “I can see the inn is doing well.”

“I don’t want to talk about the inn,” Meja sighs, pulling him down from the counter. She drags him over to the table tucked in the corner where the family eats and sits him down, examining him more closely in the brighter light under the lanterns. “I want to hear all about your adventures.” Her eyes roam over his face, as if she’s trying to find any differences since she saw him last. “Is Arthur still with you?”

“Yes,” he says, and she smiles widely. “He’s doing well; I’m sure he’ll stop by in the next day or two.”

“Whenever,” Meja says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What exploits have the two of you been up to? You look wiser.”

Jack smiles, sure that she’s exaggerating. “I met a witch and two dragons,” he says. “I befriended one of the dragons and the witch, and I’m doing a pretty good job convincing the other dragon not to kill me.”

“You’ve always been my little troublemaker,” Meja laughs. “Witches and dragons; next you’ll tell me you’ve slain a sea serpent!”

“Perhaps on my next adventure,” Jack says, pretending to be disappointed. She tugs on his ear affectionately and listens as he tells her about Birdie’s cottage, and Fabin and Emilia, and the magic that Arthur has been learning. She gets up at one point and produces a platter of fried dough dusted in powdered sugar practically from nowhere, the two of them slowly picking away at the sweets while Jack tells her his stories.

“Meja, are you in here?” Kamon calls, and Meja’s eyes soften, her whole frame relaxing just a bit. Jack wonders if he looks like that when Arthur walks into a room. He doesn’t turn to the door, where he knows Kamon is standing and looking at the two of them. He’s not sure he’s ready to face Kamon’s reaction to his return.

“Kamon,” Meja says. “Look who Bjerkja brought back to us.”

Jack’s shoulders tense as Kamon’s footsteps cross the room to him. He gulps and keeps his eyes on the platter of sweets when Kamon pauses right next to him, smelling of lakewater and leather. He can feel his eyes on the side of his head but he isn’t ready, he doesn’t want it to hurt yet.

“Dammit, Jack, look at me,” Kamon says, and Jack snaps his gaze to his face. Kamon grins at him despite the tears sliding down his cheeks. “Fuck, kid, you scared us. I’m so happy you’re safe.”

He leans down to grab Jack in a crushing hug, pulling him halfway out of his seat. Jack blinks, feeling tears well up in his eyes again, and it takes him a second to remember how to hug. He buries his face in Kamon’s shoulder and tries not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, without realizing the words are spilling from him. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Kamon asks, without letting go of him. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I’m a curse on your family.” Jack gulps in shaking breaths. “I’m a curse.”

“You are our family,” Kamon says, and Meja’s arms wrap around them as well. “The accident of your birth will never change that.”

Jack finally lets himself cry, sinking into their hold.

taglist (ask to be added <3): @oh-no-another-idea @k--havok @space-writes @lyssa-ink

[taegularities]

some men are textbook villains fr

[yueebby]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (𝐢) – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips, 7.2k words of gojo unable to process his feelings

notes. sorry for leaving everyone hanging after the prologue (make sure to read or reread since it's been a hot minute!) TT but here it finally is!!!...not proofread soz :x

series masterlist | chapter 1/2

You haunt his dreams, he’s sure. Gojo never believed in superstitions or the supernatural despite what all those old geezers preached. That was until your figure started to appear every time he closed his eyes.

The familiar scene of you gets cloudier every time it appears in his dreams, but he knows it is still you. It’s nearly comical how even his subconscious knew of your everlasting beauty. Everytime, the same sequence replays: a grand celebration he had hosted in the palace in honor of a prosperous year of his reign. The two of you were overlooking the guests, seated at the head of the room.

You’re wearing court attire that was altered to fit solely you (it hugged your body in such ways that made Gojo’s head spin), fabrics and dyes all originating from foreign lands. In your hair sits beautiful hair ornaments, swinging with every movement you make.

However, Gojo knows it is not the materialistic items that make you beautiful, no, he knows that it was simply you.

“Has anyone told you how unnerving your eyes are?” You quietly comment, eyes still trained on the party in front of you. Satoru cracks a slight smile, not ashamed in the slightest that he was caught ogling you.

“I thought you said you loved them?” He blinks at you, attempting to lean closer to show off his blue orbs. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings, beloved.”

You purse your lips, subtly leaning away before he can initiate improper conduct. He does not take your action well, snaking an arm around you to firmly cage you in his hold. Normally, you would welcome his advances but you’d rather not be publically humiliated in front of the entire Imperial Court and all of the influential clanheads of Japan.

“Please have mercy on me, Your Grace,” You whisper, eyes flitting across the room, making sure there were no eyes on you. Luckily, everyone was too absorbed with the luxurious goods Gojo had imported for the occasion. It was the anniversary of his coronation, after all.

He makes a noise of disapproval, “Can’t. Must let these people know that you’re mine.” Gojo closes the gap between you and sniffs your neck, softly moaning at your scent. He knows that if the geezers looked up from their silver spoons they would have a heart attack at his public display of affection. Not that he cares. His unorthodox ways may make them livid, but Gojo knows they won’t do anything. He was going to pave the way for the Golden Age of Japan— with you by his side.

“Your Grace!” You giggle at the ticklish sensation left by his warm breath. Any attempts of shying away from him are fruitless.

“Don’t run away,” His other hand firmly places itself on your clothed thigh, restricting your movements. All of this is hidden by the table that sits in front of the two of you.

You’re looking at him with those shiny eyes of yours, silently pleading with him. “Can’t this wait until tonight?”

He huffs, “I have suffered enough today without your presence. Ijichi kept begging me to finalize the preparations, but who am I to care? My flower was too busy having fun without me.” 

“You and your dramatics. I was only away to tend the gardens in the Consort’s Pavilion. Which, might I remind you, is fading by the moment because someone refuses for me to stay there.” You tut, picking up your chopsticks to eat the delectable fish placed in front of you. 

Gojo’s stare never falters as he watches you pick up a small piece, eyes shining as if he were watching a spectacle. “You know I can’t sleep without you.”

“And I, you.” You pop the piece inside of your mouth, chewing happily at the flavor that fills your tongue. “You know, I–” You began, but were cut off by the sudden seizing of your throat. 

The chopsticks in your hands clatter loudly with the porcelain they are dropped on. 

Gojo's breath hitched, his eyes wide and trembling with horror as he watched you struggle for air. "My love?” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of rising panic.

Your hands immediately travel to your neck to alleviate the sudden burning feeling that blossomed in it.

“[Name]!” He shouts, large hands quickly rising to cup your cheeks. In a desperate attempt, he squeezes your cheeks to get you to spit it out. 

"Poi–poison," Your voice was hoarse, your face losing its color by the second. Satoru was frozen with fear. “Don’t eat it…Satoru.” With those parting words, you lose consciousness.

“[Name]?” Satoru’s hoarse voice can’t stop repeating your name like a prayer, hands lightly tapping your cheek as if it was going to bring you back to life.

Gojo wanted to laugh. Even when you were dying, you worried about him. Not that it mattered. You weren’t going to die. He refused.

Sometime during your struggle the chatter had stopped, and all eyes were on you. Satoru looks up from you to bark orders to the guards he had placed around the room. They leave to summon the Imperial Physician while Gojo is left clinging onto your limp body, praying to the Heavens above that they will grant him one more miracle.

—

Back in his chambers, Gojo’s head pounds, but he’s not sure whether it was the speed he shot up from his bed or the dream itself. He feels hot, sweat running from his bare chest that heaves to bring oxygen to his quickly pumping heart. He’s nearly certain his chest is going to cave any second with the way it constricts with pain. It was like he was a geezer, he humors silently.

“Your Grace?” A delicate hand cups his cheek. 

He follows the direction of the hand, eyes slowly trailing up the feminine body it belonged to, barely covered as a result of the thin silk nightgown that highlighted her natural curves. “Are you alright? It was only a nightmare.” She cradles his face, moving slowly in his vulnerable state.

Satoru breathes heavily, eyes widening as they travel from her breasts to her face, beautifully illuminated by the sparse moonlight leaking from the window. Her dark hair falls past her shoulders, obscuring some of his access to her skin. His beautiful mistress. He’s sure that she is whispering sweet nothings into his ear, but the images of his memory keep replaying in his mind, occupying it from functioning properly. ”Himiko, how did you–”

“I heard you and I couldn’t bear it.” Her finger softly caressed his flushed cheek, trying her best to ignore the bewildered look on her lover’s face. 

THE PRESENT —

The journey to the Inner Palace was a blur. After a long goodbye, a horse drawn carriage was sent to the front of Yaga’s estate the very next morning. Your mind was elsewhere the entire time, too busy mulling over your past and now damned future. 

That is why when the carriage comes to a complete stop in front of the servants’ quarters, you are startled to meet two awfully familiar faces.

The two are silent, eyes carefully watching you exit the carriage. The purple set of eyes steps forward first to take your bags from you. 

“Ah thank you Mister—“ Your voice trails off, eyes looking up from the dark robes in front of you only to be surprised with a familiar face. “L-Lord Geto?” 

His lips quirk up slightly upon recognition. “Welcome back, [Name].” Your heart throbs at his indifference from the last interaction you had. It is quickly concealed by the excitement in your voice when your eyes spot a comforting pair of eyes.

“And Kento?” You light up.

Suguru raises an eyebrow at your familiarity with the Imperial Chancellor. He knows he should be relieved that you held no malice towards himself and Nanami, knowing the struggle you were subjected to when banished. However, there was a foreboding feeling gnawing deep within his soul. Guilt? Fear? It was hard for Geto to put a finger on it.

Nanami simply nods in acknowledgment, but stays silent under Geto’s watchful gaze.

“[Name],” The black haired man starts. Your eyes return to his face. “I wanted to be the first to greet you here, but I suppose Lord Nanami must have had the same idea.” He chuckles lightly, but the mirth never makes it to his eyes. You don’t notice Lord Nanami stiffening up.

“To say I am flattered would be an understatement, Lord Geto.” You return the same sugarcoated pleasantries. 

Geto must have noticed your unease, reminding you, “Please, there is no need to keep your guard up around me. I don’t bite.” His voice has a teasing lilt. It does little to soothe you. 

“Can you blame me, Lord Geto?” Your eyes meet his purple ones that narrow at your allusion.

“I suppose not.” He hums. “Though I must tell you that the incident was out of my power. I must carry that burden everyday, so I implore you to forgive me, [Name].” He throws out your given name once again like you were familiar. 

When you don’t respond, he continues, “I know, it is easier said than done.”

“You don’t say.” You bite your tongue as soon as the words leave your mouth. He fails to acknowledge how your last interaction was your banishment, served just by the man in front of you.

A sigh escapes Geto’s lips. "As a gesture of my accountability, I place myself entirely at your disposal. Simply name a favor, and it shall be fulfilled." You can’t detect anything but sincerity in his words, leaving you speechless. “Of course, it had to be within my power, but I shall grant you one request in return for your forgiveness.”

“I—” You were too shocked to form a thought. “I don’t know what to say.”

Suguru’s eyes crinkle, "Our last encounter may not have been pleasant, but I still consider you a dear friend, after all.”

“I am flattered to say the least that you had decided to grant me such honor,” you gape.

Geto shakes his head softly, “You shouldn’t hold me to such high regard. I could hardly bear the weight of your disfavor.”

“You know I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards what happened,” you say softly. It wasn’t Suguru’s decision what happened that night.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself otherwise,” the black haired man in front of you pushes. You relent. Perhaps you should just bite your tongue and accept the opportunity presented. “Please. Just think about it.”

You watch in silence as Geto turns around to walk away. His sudden offer leaves your mind racing. A man of his caliber, second to none but the emperor himself, would be able to grant any of your desires. Perhaps you should ask to import Western literature, tales of great fantasy— or, you could think bigger and ask to move back with your clan. Though you highly doubt he will entertain the latter, considering your indentured servitude to the Inner Palace. 

Your racing thoughts are diverted when you hear someone clear their throat to capture your attention. You perk up when you realize that Lord Nanami was still here, and you have completely ignored his presence.

“I am just as surprised to see your immediate return to the palace.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his face, sympathetic eyes never leaving you. You flush under his gaze. It was quite embarrassing knowing the entire palace probably had caught wind of your incident with the emperor.

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips. 

“It wasn’t my intention,” you mumble. “But I suppose if fate has decided, there is not much I can do.”

“You truly believe that it was fate that brought you here?” Nanami asks, the hold he had on your arm tightening enough to catch your attention but not enough to hurt. 

“I-” You begin, words failing to conjure. “I’m not sure.”  You had thought that your banishment was fate, but now that you had been brought back, it felt like you were simply at the mercy of something cruel.

Nanami watches your eyes staring wistfully at the blue sky above, his own flickering to each of your features. He wonders if you know that your expressions gave you away. It’s more endearing than anything, from the flutter of your eyelashes, the wrinkle of your nose, to the furrow of your eyebrows. Only a blind man would deny the fact that you were easy to fall in love with. However, it would make a foolish man to dare to pursue you.

 He’ll appreciate you and your charm from afar where his head may stay attached to his body.

The comfortable silence shared between the two of you is disrupted by a flock of handmaidens passing by. Nanami tenses his jaw when the voices become audible. 

“Is it really her?”

“It’s said that she tried to sneak into the Emperor’s chambers.”

“Is that Lord Nanami? My, we must warn him about that whore that tried to seduce the emperor!”

“Poor Lady Himiko.”

Anger swells in your chest. Though you’re not sure what tale had managed to escape the servants’ quarters, but you pray that they may never reach the emperor’s ears. It was simply profane to the beloved consort, an offense that you know Gojo would never forgive you for. You can deal with nasty gossip, having previous experience, but you doubt you can handle being beheaded for conspiring against the emperor and his consort.

“I’m afraid no matter how much time has passed, the palace rumors seem to never die.” Nanami sighs, exhaustion evident in his gravelly voice. “I advise you to brace yourself. Within these coming days, the fire will only get hotter.” He doesn’t bother elaborating on his words, choosing to lead you to your new chambers.

“Thank you for the advice Nanami,” you exhale. “However, I am sure I’ll be able to manage on my own. After all, I’ve been doing it for quite some time.” The moment the solemn words leave your mouth his eyes soften. You quickly look away, flustered.

“I know you can, [Name]. I suppose my anxieties are misplaced, forgive me.” You can feel his stare bore into the side of your face. He sighs, “it is a habit that comes natural to me.” He worries for you. The words go unsaid, but you are able to decipher his double meaning.

Your heart flutters at his kind implications, eyes too shy to meet him once more. Instead, you choose to fix your gaze on the doors to the servants’ quarters. The blonde man beside you takes the liberty to open the doors to your new room. 

At the sight in front of you, your heart lurches.

Before you stands a familiar head of white hair, standing tall with his back turned towards you. His head was tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing something unseen, before he slowly shook it. Then, with an unsettling calm, he turned to face you, his gaze heavy with unspoken intent.

“I’ll take her from here,” Gojo’s icy voice breaks the silence that had overtaken you and Nanami.

“Of course,” Nanami bows deeply. You turn to bid the man goodbye, but he leaves hurriedly without sparing you so much as a glance. You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows in confusion, eyes longingly watching your old friend walk away.

The moment the shoji doors close behind him, Gojo clears his throat.

“[Name],” he tests the waters, his movements deliberate as he takes a slow, tentative step toward you, the air between you thick with an unspoken tension.

“Your Majesty,” You respond shakily, retreating a step as your breath catches.

“Please,” Gojo mutters breathlessly, his voice trembling with unspoken desperation, his eyes pleading with an intensity that only deepens the pit in your stomach. He takes two deliberate strides forward, the gap between you vanishing as though drawn by an invisible force.

“No,” You shake your head, pain flashing across your face. You won’t let him waltz right into your life after carelessly tossing you away, not without consequence. It is to no surprise that words seem to go unheard to the man in front of you. His eyes glistened in the dim lighting, fixed intently on your face, tracing each feature with a quiet focus, as if he were trying to burn them into his memory.

The world seemed to stay still just for the two of you. But it only lasted for just a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Gojo mutters, a strong hand flying to the back of your neck tugging you towards him for a searing kiss. The instant his lips crash against yours, he lets out a soft whimper, as though the very act consumes him. Despite the passage of time, your body responds instinctively, like it was always meant to be this way.

It felt like the only thing that mattered was the fact that he was right in front of you, your fast beating hearts making contact with the way he had your chest pressed to his. All while pushing you against his body, Gojo allows his hand to trail down your back, revisiting every valley that he had once memorized.

“Mph,” your traitorous hands find their way into his head of white hair. He smiles into the kiss upon hearing his name leave your mouth.

“Yes?” He leaves a wet kiss at the base of your throat, bending down to continue his frenzy.

“This isn’t right,” the words came out of your mouth in a whisper, as if you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

“You’re wrong.” He inhales deeply, attaching his mouth onto your collarbone, ”I was made solely for this.” A small whine leaves his mouth when you hesitantly try to push him off. He uses his innate strength to fight your attempts.

“May I ask something of you?”

A kiss was placed on your jawline. Another on the base of your throat.

“Anything,” he breathes.

“Do you..” Your voice falters. “Do you love her?” Like you loved me? 

The trail of kisses come to a complete stop. For a second you fear you may have overstepped. The emperor’s silence was palpable. The only sound that filled your ears was the harsh thuds of your own heart. 

“[Name]...” he slowly stands up to tower over you with his height. The distant look in his eyes forms a pit in your stomach.

“Answer me,” you whisper, the pit deepening.

“I am just a man,” he reasons. Your heart drops at his answer.

“You could not even take an oath of monogamy,” you spit. “You are nothing but a weak man.” 

His eyes shoot up from their trance frantically. You fear that the lust he had been tempted with had worn off, and now you were left with nothing but wrath.

“I understand that I was nothing but a spoil of war, but you could have done me one last favor by allowing me to leave on my own accord. You did not have to cast me away,” your vision starts to waver with the tears that puddle in your eyes. “If I knew your heart had yearned for another I would have left.”

The set of blue eyes that stare at you are no longer the lively shade that you had grown to love. They have been replaced by an uncertain stormy grey. It was almost laughable. A man, so big, who had the world in the palm of his hand looked so small.

A cruel part in you enjoyed seeing the turmoil in his eyes after the events that had transpired.

“Had I known the tribulations I put you through, perhaps I would have put a second thought before choosing you.” Gojo exhales, pinching in between his eyebrows. “But I must assure you that you weren’t the only one suffering.” And for a moment you think you see lightning strike in those stormy irises of his. 

Your eyes widen at his confession.

He lets out a deep sigh, “The head maid will be here any minute. I bid you farewell. I pray that with our next interaction, your heart learns to soften.”

Ever for dramatics, Gojo leaves before you can get the last word.

—

True to his word, the head maid soon comes to assign your duties. You’re not surprised at your new set of responsibilities: tending to the emperor’s garden, sweeping the floors to his chambers, and overseeing his meal preparations. 

It is nothing out of your skill set, and you’re more than willing to accept your predicament rather than being burned alive for offending the emperor on numerous accounts. You suppose even Gojo was kind enough to spare you from that cruel fate. It almost softens your heart enough to decide to forgive him of his transgressions. Almost.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud clang of a pot. When you turn your head towards the direction of the sound, you’re met with the head maid’s stern gaze. Her eyes narrowed on the wooden spoon you had been mixing in the broth. 

Ah. She wanted you to perform the mandatory poison test before serving the food to the emperor.

However, just as you bring the spoon to your lips, it is violently swatted from your hand, clattering to the floor. Your eyes sadly linger on the spilled broth before snapping to the culprit, your gaze filled with disbelief.

"There were strict orders to ensure that the task did not fall to you," the head maid, Ogami, declared sharply. The elderly woman, with silver hair neatly tied in a tight bun and skin etched with the marks of years spent in service, raised a wrinkled finger in your direction.

You blink, taken aback by her sudden reprimand, the sharpness in her gaze leaving you momentarily frozen. It didn’t make sense—there had been no mention of any such orders, no one had informed you of any changes. You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat, swallowed by the weight of her unyielding stare. 

How strange.

Days pass by like a blur, your routine falling into place. When dawn arrives, you’re up to prepare the emperor’s garments for the day. Your mid-mornings grow even busier as the palace comes alive with activity. Whether mending torn hems or ensuring the ceremonial robes are free of imperfection, you move like a ghost through the corridors with hopes of going unnoticed. The emperor’s unusual antics, however, make it nearly impossible to slip by unnoticed. He seems to have a knack for drawing your attention. His antics often begin at ungodly hours, long before the sun graces the horizon, as he attempts to coax you into sharing the first meal of the day with him. You decline each time, yet his persistence never wavers, a boyish grin always accompanying his invitations. By the time the sun reaches its zenith, Gojo finally departs to attend to his imperial duties. It’s only then, in the quiet lull of his absence, that you find the chance to make real progress with your work.

“To say I am relieved because of your presence would be an understatement, [Name].” Nanami and you overlook the palace’s main courtyard. 

You smile, hands filled with silks that needed washing, “I could say the same.” The emperor’s outrageous requests were driving you mad. Your mind flashes to earlier that week when he had insisted on hand feeding you honey! You wonder how he survived without a personal servant before you took the position.

“His Majesty is as eccentric as ever, I assume.” Nanami’s eyes crinkle. 

You laugh, “You know him too well!”

“I didn’t have much choice,” he shakes his head, smile ghosting his lips. “We’ve known eachother since our youth.”

You perk up at the news, your curiosity piqued. The confusion must have been written all over your face, prompting Nanami to offer a quick clarification.

“It was brief, our time at the academy. But we were both under the instruction of Yaga,” he elaborates. Huh. What a small world, you think as Nanami paints an unexpected connection. 

“I am struggling to imagine you and him studying under the ever serious Yaga,” you giggle.

“I was in the year below him. It was Lord Geto and Shoko who were first hand witnesses to his nature.” Nanami tells you. 

You nearly dropped all of the emperor’s clothes, “Shoko?” The revelation that your own friend was acquainted with the emperor stopped you dead in your tracks. Had she known him personally all along? If so, she made no effort to reveal it. Instead, she appeared almost disgusted by him, though you had chalked it up to her disdain for the new ruling dynasty rather than a personal vendetta against the man himself.

“I am aware you were well acquainted with her in your time in the Outer Palace, no?” “Yes, but–” you pause, before eyes snapping back to Nanami. “How did you know?”

Nanami blinks, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes widen a fraction, and he opens his mouth as if to explain, but then falters, his words stumbling.

Before he can say anything, a soft, familiar voice drifts from behind you.

“[Name]!” A servant of Lady Himiko calls urgently, her voice laced with a sense of urgency. You turn to face her.

“Yes?”

“The emperor requests your presence in the ceremonial hall. He says it is of great importance and that you must make haste!” The girl exclaims, grabbing your only free arm and tugging you toward the hall.

You glance back at Nanami, your eyes silently promising him that this conversation is far from over. He gives a small nod, acknowledging your unspoken words as he bids you farewell.

“Ah, may I ask what the emperor requires of me?” you ask, trying to maintain some control over the situation.

“You’ll see,” she replies, her tone clipped. Without sparing you a glance, she pulls you forward with determination, clearly focused on her task.

Like a lamb heading toward slaughter, you find yourself helplessly being dragged through the grand doors of the ceremonial hall, your thoughts swirling with questions you can’t yet answer.

The expansive room was eerily empty, a stark contrast to its usual grandeur. The sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting long beams of light that danced across the polished floors, illuminating the intricate tapestries and the grand pillars that lined the hall. But your gaze soon shifted, focusing on the emperor’s seat at the very end of the room.

You had expected the usual scene: Gojo slouched in his throne-like chair, whiny and complaining about the mountain of paperwork he despised. But what greeted you instead was something far more unexpected.

A figure stood poised at the head of the room, commanding the space with an elegance that was undeniable. Anyone familiar with the court could recognize her signature choice of kimono—the rich plum silk embroidered with intricate gold patterns, delicate yet striking. Her hair, black as midnight and flowing like a river of silk, cascaded down her back in perfect waves, a stark contrast to her porcelain-like complexion.

It was Lady Himiko. Her beauty was legendary, whispered about among women across the nation, often compared to a living work of art. The rumors of her grace and poise weren’t exaggerated. Standing there, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who remained perfectly still and attentive at her side.

Her eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, your breath was stolen. The stillness of the room was palpable, and you couldn’t help but wonder why she was here, in the emperor’s seat, with not a whisper of Gojo in sight.

“Ah, just the one I was looking for!” her eyes light up when she sees her servant return with you in her hand. The gleam in her eyes fill you with unease.

“Lady Himiko, it is an honor,” you bow.

“There’s no need for that! Please, stand.” She waves her slender fingers at you, or so it seems, but at her silent command, her ladies-in-waiting begin to move toward you.

You take a step back, instinctively using the emperor’s garments, still damp from your earlier washing, as a shield against their sudden movements. The soft rustling of fabric is almost deafening in the silence that follows.

Lady Himiko’s eyes narrow at the motion, her sharp gaze flicking to the garments you hold between you and her. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corners of her lips, but it does nothing to ease the tension thickening in the air.

“I understand the unspoken animosity between us,” she says, her voice smooth, but there's an edge to it that sets your nerves on edge. “I pray you will accept my humble apology.” She clasps her hands together, but her eyes remain calculating, never leaving yours.

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “I had not expected the emperor to kindle such… passion for me so suddenly. It was neither of our intentions that fateful night we reunited after the days of our youth.” She shakes her head softly, laughing nervously. "How rude of me, I doubt you of all would want to hear about Satoru and I."

Your breath hitches, caught between surprise and a tightening knot of discomfort in your chest. The weight of her words presses down on you, and you struggle to maintain composure.

“I do apologize for bringing you here on such deceptive terms, but I had to get your attention somehow,” she continues. “As one who has been a former concubine, I wanted your counsel on how I should navigate this delicate matter.” If you didn’t know any better, you would say she was mocking you. But you knew Himiko wasn’t one you wanted to offend, so you bite your tongue.

Instead, you nod, steeling yourself against the discomfort crawling up your spine. “What is it that you need from me?” you ask, your voice betraying none of the wariness you feel.

Himiko’s ladies-in-waiting close in around you swiftly, subtly guiding your every step toward the emperor’s stand. The grand hall feels even larger as you’re led deeper into its heart, each step reverberating through the space.

At the end of the room stands Himiko, watching you approach with a distant gaze. The soft glow from the nearby windows catches on the polished surface of the wooden desk before her, where inkstones, brushes, and stacks of paper lie in disarray.

You pause, your gaze falling upon the desk, and that’s when you notice the manuscript she’s pointing to. Her perfectly filed nails trace the edges of the paper with deliberate slowness. Though you cannot read the characters from this distance, the emblems that adorn the papers are unmistakable. They belong to some of the most powerful clans in the empire, each one a mark of authority and influence.

As your eyes skim across the paper Himiko’s hand rests on, the characters seem to leap off the page in a rush of realization. It’s a proposal– one written by the notorious Zenin clan. You can almost feel the air grow heavy as you piece it together. The words speak of demands for more autonomy—an increase in their power, more control over the lands they already possess. And you know, instinctively, that if this were to pass, everything Gojo has fought for, everything he’s struggled to protect, would crumble into dust. His fight against the rigid clan-based hierarchy would be for naught.

For a moment, your mind reels. This is no mere conversation or request for guidance. This is a game of power, one where you’re being used as a pawn. Her eyes lock with yours, and the air between you thickens with unspoken understanding. She must’ve taken you for a mere tool to execute her own plans.

But you’re no fool, and that realization comes like a slap to the face. You straighten your posture, eyes hardening as the weight of the situation settles in.

“These seals...” Your voice falters as you stare at the emblems, your hand hovering over the manuscript as though touching it might implicate you further. The weight of the realization crashes down on you like a cold wave. You look up at Himiko, bewildered, your heart pounding in your chest. Meddling with state affairs, let alone tampering with the emperor’s documents was a crime punishable by death.

“Does the emperor know about this?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and indignation. “This—this could be considered treason!”

“Careful with your words,” she says softly, her tone calm. “It is not treason when it is for the betterment of the empire.”

Your mouth opens as if to respond, but no sound escapes.

“The emperor has always held you in high regard,” Himiko says with a wistful sigh, her eyes narrowing on your figure. “I’ve no doubt he would find it impossible to refuse any command spoken by you.”

Her cryptic words linger in the air, their implications sinking into you. You’re left reeling, unsure of whether her remark is meant as flattery or a thinly veiled mockery of your banishment. 

She scoffs, her delicate façade cracking as her tone turns venomous. “The emperor may not know, but I see right through you. Seducing him to claim yourself as some spoil of war and twisting his mind to lead our nation to ruin—it’s sickening. Truly, a shame the assassination attempt failed.” Her words lash out like a whip, her civil mask shattering entirely.

You gasp, her implications cutting deep even as your heart hardens against the venom. Had she known–?

“Perhaps that is what the entire Court believes of me,” you manage, your voice trembling yet steady enough to carry your conviction. Months of whispered rumors and vicious gossip had thickened your skin, and you refused to crumble under her scrutiny. “But I will not allow you to sully the emperor’s reputation.”

As much as you detested Gojo, your disdain for the corrupt elders burned hotter. They had plotted your downfall, attempted to take your life, and now sought to undermine everything Gojo was fighting to build. You could not allow them to gain any more power in the Court  than they already held.

Himiko’s lips curl into a cold, triumphant smile as she picks up an inkstone and brush from the emperor’s desk. “As his Honored Consort and future Empress I command you to hold this for me while I pave the way for a greater future.” Her words are laced with mockery as she extends the inkstone toward you.

You recoil instinctively, shaking your head. “No. I refuse—” Your rejection is firm, your voice sharper than you expected, as you pull away, clutching the emperor’s garments protectively against your chest. 

The next few moments unravel in slow motion, as though fate itself had decided to humiliate you. Himiko’s gasp pierces the air as your sudden movement causes the inkstone to slip, spilling its dark, viscous contents over her elaborate kimono. The silk, undoubtedly crafted from the finest threads in Japan, drinks in the stain, the deep black spreading like a wound across the fabric.

“My lady!” Her servants rush to her side, their collective cries of alarm startle you. They push you aside as they fuss over her, their movements frantic as they attempt to salvage her now-ruined garment.

You stumble back, staring in disbelief at the disaster you’d unwittingly caused. “I—I am truly sorry—” you begin, but your words falter under the weight of the situation.

“What is going on here?”

The booming voice echoes through the hall like thunder, freezing everyone in place. You whip your head toward the source, your pulse quickening as your eyes land on the figure now standing in the doorway. The emperor himself, Gojo, commands the room with his presence, his expression a mixture of confusion and rising fury as he takes in the scene before him. By his side stands the owner of the voice, an elder, with an expression carved with barely restrained anger piercing through you.

Himiko lets out a sharp cry, her voice trembling with a convincing mix of distress and indignation. Gojo reacts instantly, rushing by her side, his features hardening with concern.

“I found her forging His Majesty’s signature,” Himiko exclaims, her voice wavering just enough to sound genuine. “When I tried to intervene, she lashed out and attacked me.” She trembles as she buries her head against the emperor’s chest.

It hits you—the full realization of her calculated scheme. This was her plan all along.

“I-I didn’t!” you stammer, your voice raw with desperation. “That wasn’t what happened at all– she was the one tampering with imperial documents. I tried to stop her!”

Gojo’s piercing blue eyes snap to yours, cutting off your explanation. His gaze, once warm and teasing, now burns with unrestrained fury. The bile rises in your throat as you see it. Anger, disdain, and worst of all, disbelief.

“Himiko,” he murmurs, his arms tightening protectively around her trembling form. Her soft sniffling only adds to the spectacle.

“To be caught tampering with imperial records is one thing,” Gojo finally says, his voice icy and cutting, “but to stoop so low as to accuse Lady Himiko? Was this an act out of jealousy? Spite? How pathetic. This is beneath even you, [Name].”

You feel your knees weaken, the tears you’ve fought to hold back beginning to pool in your eyes. “Please, you have to believe me,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of his words.

His expression darkens further, the light in his sky-blue eyes replaced by thunderclouds. “Why would I believe you?” he sneers, his tone laced with contempt.

A single tear escapes down your cheek, followed by another, and then another, until you can no longer stop them. The dam of your resolve breaks, shattered by his cruel dismissal.

“Why?” Your voice trembles, breaking as the tears come freely now. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Gojo’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Don’t make me laugh,” he says coldly. “How could I ever believe in one as base as you?”

His words cut deeper than any blade, piercing through the walls you’d built to protect yourself. You’d convinced yourself you were immune to his indifference, but the searing pain in your chest proves otherwise.

“Leave,” he commands, his voice sharp and final. “Do not look back. Your very presence stirs nothing but disdain within me.”

You stagger back, his words striking harder than any physical blow. He might as well have drawn his sword and ended it here. The infamous tales you had heard about Gojo were once glorious images that were painted of your beloved. You had never thought you would be on the other end of his blade. 

Without a word, you turn and run, your vision blurred with tears. The emperor’s garments slip from your hands, forgotten in your haste to escape the suffocating anguish. You don’t look back, even as the echoes of his disgust chase you out of the hall.

If there was one undeniable truth that Geto Suguru knew, it was that his best friend, Gojo Satoru could be an utter fool. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of a youth stolen too soon, replaced by the crushing weight of an empire resting on his shoulders. The brilliance that made Gojo a formidable emperor rendered him hopelessly inept when it came to navigating the labyrinth of his own emotions.

And as his closest confidant, bound by loyalty and friendship, Geto Suguru couldn’t help but feel the urge to shake some sense into him—to force him to confront what he stubbornly refused to see.

That is why, when your trembling form hurries across the courtyard, tears streaming down your face, Geto Suguru can’t help but halt you in your steps. 

“I’m leaving.” you declare, your voice raw, your eyes red and swollen. The words, so resolute despite your trembling tone, catch him off guard.

“What?” he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“My favor,” you say firmly, though your voice wavers. “I want to leave this place.”

For a moment, Geto says nothing, his sharp mind scrambling to process the abruptness of your request. Then he shakes his head, his expression softening. “You know I can’t do that.”

Your incredulous gaze snaps up to meet him. “So you lied to me?”

“No, not at all,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “I meant—I can grant you time off. But as someone under the emperor’s direct supervision, I can’t allow you to leave permanently. What I can do is give you one lunar cycle away from court.”

You hesitate, weighing his offer before giving a sharp nod. “I’ll take it. Just let me leave,” you reply, sniffling.

Geto watches you for a moment longer, his chest tightening at the sight of your despair. “I’ll make the arrangements right away,” he says gently. “I’m sorry we seem to meet only under such terrible circumstances.”

“I’m sorry too,” you murmur, your tone hollow.

He hesitates, searching for the right words to offer some semblance of comfort. “Whatever he did, I’m sure—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, your voice colder now. “He made his disgust for me perfectly clear.” You march past him, your steps resolute despite the trembling in your shoulders. “Thank you for understanding, though I must beg you to keep this between us. Who knows what might happen to either of us if he finds out.”

Geto exhales slowly, his composure steady but his mind racing. Just what, exactly, had his best friend done this time? Gojo’s antics always seemed to leave Geto cleaning up the aftermath, but this—this was something else entirely.

Just as he promised, there is a carriage waiting for you outside of the servants’ quarters. With heavy bags in hand and an even heavier heart, you make your way toward it, each step weighted with reluctant resolve. The irony of the moment doesn’t escape you, a sense of déjà vu washing over you, as though life had played this scene out countless times before.

You turn sharply, your bleary eyes meeting the calm, hazel gaze of someone you hadn’t expected to see.

“Nanami?” you breathe, disbelief coloring your tone.

He inclines his head in a polite nod. “Forgive the intrusion, but I insist on accompanying you,” he says, his voice as composed as ever. “The roads beyond the palace can be dangerous, especially for someone traveling alone.”

For a moment, you simply stare, caught between gratitude and confusion. The warmth in your chest battles against the ache that lingers from your earlier ordeal. “And what of the emperor?” you ask, forcing a faint smile. “Would he not throw a fit in your absence?”

Nanami lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh, the sound more bitter than amused. “Perhaps,” he admits, adjusting the luggage in his hands with ease. “But he was never one to share, was he?”

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[nomaishuttle]

im just a girl who loves ghost kids sorry to say. im also a girl who gets rly upset by child death. but i love ghost kids im very nuanced

[jenosbliss]

🍇🎀ᝢ grapes under the table?

pairing. fem!reader x bsf!jeno | genre. fluff, friends to lovers | wc. 1k | warnings. none

a/n:: happy new year! btw did anyone try the 12 grapes under the table thing?

“Why do you even want to try this?” Jeno asked, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief as he crouched under the small dorm table with you,  holding a bowl of grapes like it was the most absurd task he’d ever been asked to do.

You rolled your eyes, pushing the bowl of grapes into his hands. “It’s not like I’m throwing salt over my shoulder or reading tea leaves. It’s harmless. And who knows? Maybe it’ll work!”

“You don’t even believe in this stuff,” he shot back, holding up a grape and inspecting it like it was an artifact.

“I also don’t believe in horoscopes, but I still check mine every morning,” you countered, leaning back against the table leg. “But after twenty-something years of being single, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Jeno’s chest tightened at your words. He’d heard this complaint a million times before—your usual dramatic groaning about how unfair the dating scene was, about how no one ever liked you. But tonight, sitting under the table with you, something about it hit differently.

He remembered the evening he’d seen you at that café with some guy from your class. He’d never thought of himself as the jealous type, but watching you lean in with that laugh—the one you reserved for people you really liked—had made his stomach churn. But when the date didn’t turn into anything more, he buried the realization deep. You were his best friend, and losing you wasn’t worth the risk.

And now? The thought of this little superstition actually working, of you finding someone who wasn’t him? That made him want to throw the grapes out the window.

“You stayed back for this?” Jeno asked, his voice dipping into that teasing tone he always used to cover up his feelings. “You never skip parties, and it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“You’ve been skipping a lot of them lately, too,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. His heart stuttered. Yeah, because of you. “I just didn’t feel like going this time,” he lied.

You studied him for a moment before sighing, your gaze dropping to the bowl of grapes in his lap. “I don’t get why everyone makes such a big deal about New Year’s,” you said as if stating the obvious, your tone softer now. “It’s just a change of date. Not like Christmas or Thanksgiving, where there’s something to celebrate.”

Jeno watched you as you spoke, your expression pensive, your voice tinged with that familiar mix of frustration and longing. He’d heard this all before—how you hated being the only one without a date, how everyone seemed to find someone except you. He used to laugh at your complaints, teasing you until you smiled again.

But now? The thought of someone else being that person for you, the one who turned your complaints into laughter and made your eyes light up—it terrified him.

“Fine,” he said eventually, picking up a grape. “Let’s eat these grapes and see if your superstition works. But if you get a boyfriend this year, I’m blaming the table.”

You laughed, handing him a grape. “Deal. Now, eat.”

The two of you began eating, one grape for each month of the year. With every bite, Jeno’s heart beat louder, his thoughts spiralling. What if it actually worked? What if this silly little tradition actually brought someone into your life? What if someone else swept you off your feet and he had to watch from the sidelines?

As you popped the last grape into your mouth, you grinned triumphantly. “Done! If this works, I’m buying grapes by the crate every year.”

Jeno hesitated, his grip tightening on the bowl. His chest felt heavy, like the words he’d been holding in were threatening to spill over. “What if I don’t want it to work?”

You blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

He set the bowl aside, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “What if I don’t want you to find someone else? What if… I want to be your boyfriend?”

The words hung in the air, the weight of them pressing against your chest. “Jeno…” You stared at him, your lips parted in shock.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I stayed back tonight because I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I don’t want to watch you love someone else. I want it to be me.”

Your heart raced as the truth in his voice sank in. The boy who’d always been your anchor, your constant, was now baring his heart to you. “You’ve always been my best friend,” you said softly. “I never thought you—”

“That’s the problem,” he interrupted, his tone urgent. “You never thought. But I did. I’ve been thinking about it since the day I saw you on that stupid café date, and it scared the hell out of me. I’ve loved you longer than I even realized, and I’m done pretending I don’t.”

You stared at him, the room suddenly too small, too warm, too charged with everything you hadn’t let yourself feel until this moment. “Jeno,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Ask me again.”

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “Ask me again,” you repeated, your voice steadier this time.He swallowed hard, his hand reaching for yours. “Can I be your boyfriend?”

A smile broke across your face as you nodded. “Yes. You can.” Relief flooded his expression, and before either of you could second-guess it, he leaned forward, his hand cradling your cheek as his lips met yours.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, but quickly deepened as you melted into him. His touch was warm and steady, his thumb brushing against your skin as if to reassure you this was real.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and grinning, Jeno rested his forehead against yours. “Guess I owe the grapes an apology.” 

You laughed, the sound light and free. “You do.”

For the first time, New Year’s felt like more than just a change of date. It felt like the beginning of something real—something that had been waiting for the right moment all along.

As Jeno held you close under that tiny dorm table, you couldn’t help but think: this was the best start to a year yet. And just like that, New Year’s Eve didn’t feel so pointless anymore.

navigation.

masterlist. nct dream | nct 127 | wayv

[ryin-silverfish]

One nerd's musing about Chinese religion and "respect"

-I try to stay away from fandom discourse, but, much like how you can smell the stench from a dumpster fire without walking into said dumpster fire, I've noticed something that seemed to come up a lot in western JTTW + adjacent fandoms: "respect Chinese religion".

-Usually as a reason for why you shouldn't ship a character, because of fucking course it's shipping discourse too.

-And my first reaction is "Man, you are taking Chinese religion too darn seriously, more than people who are born and raised in China."

-My second reaction is "I mean, most of us are atheist/agnostic by default anyways, with a good number of what I'd call 'atheist/agnostics with superstitions': people who said they were not religious, yet believed in Fengshui or divinations and burnt incense at temples for good luck."

-My third reaction: "But why do I get the feeling that when you mention 'Respect', you are thinking about something completely different?"

-Then I reread an essay from Anthony C. Yu, "Religion and Literature in China: The "Obscure Way" of Journey to the West", and the metaphorical lightbulb just lit up over my head.

(Everything below applies more to Daoism + associated folk religions, but by the time most classic Chinese vernacular novels were written, the blending of the three religions had become well and truly mainstream.)

(The conception of gods differs from dynasty to dynasty. What I'm describing here is mostly based on Ming and Qing ones; if you went back to Han or pre-Qin times, most of these would not apply.)

(I am one of the "atheist/agnostic by default" people. I just have an interest in this kind of stuff. I am also just one Chinese person, and an actual Daoist/Buddhist/Religion Studies researcher would probably have a lot more valuable information and perspective to offer when it comes to contemporary practices and worship. Like any people on the internet: take my words with a grain of salt.)

-Even in the past, when society was far less secularized, Chinese gods are not omniscient, perfect beings whose worship is a solemn, humorless affair. Some's worship are Serious Business, but that has more to do with the sort of gods they are and the patronage they enjoy, not godhood in and of itself.

-And even the ones that you are supposed to "treat seriously" are still very human. To use an analogy I've used plenty of times before: you respect and fear them in the same way you'd respect and fear an emperor's official, or the emperor himself, because if you don't, you are not gonna like the consequences.

-However, unlike Jesus, the emperor & his officials were capable of being temperamental, flawed, or an outright asshole, divine or not. Ideally, they wouldn't be, and if you were one of the "serious" believers——people who actually got an official permit, became ordained clergy, and went to live in a temple, you were unlikely to think of your gods in that manner.

-But it wasn't a complete, utter impossibility. The lower you go in the pantheon, the closer you get to popular religion, the less "serious" the gods and their worship become. By that, I mean general attitude, not sincerity of faith. You still shouldn't be rude to them, but, well, they are more likely to take a joke in stride, or participate in the "vulgar" pleasures of commoners because they weren't as bound to Confucian moral standards or religious disciplines.

-To stretch the same analogy further: you should still respect your village head, they could still give your ass a good spanking for being a disrespectful brat, but you were not obligated to get on your knees and kowtow to them like you would do in front of a provincial magistrate, the emperor's minister, or the emperor himself, nor did they have the power to chop your head off just because you were rude.

-On the other hand, the emperor would never visit a random peasant just to help them fix their broken plow or treat them to a nice meal, but your village head could, and your relationship would probably be warmer and a lot more personal as a result.

-Your respect for them was more likely to stem from the things they actually did for you and the village as a whole, instead of something owed to this distant, powerful authority you might never get to see in your lifetime, but could change its course with a single stroke of a brush.

-Now exchange "village head" for your run-of-the-mill Tudis and Chenghuangs and friendly neighborhood spirits (because yes, people worshipped yaoguais for the exact same reasons), emperor + his officials for the Celestial Bureaucracy, and you'd have a basic idea of how Chinese religions worked on the ground level.

-This is far from absolute: maybe your village head was a spiteful old bastard who loved bullying his juniors, maybe your regional magistrate was an honest, upright man who could enjoy a good drink and a good laugh, maybe the emperor was a lenient one and wouldn't chop your head off for petty offenses. But their general degree of power over you and the closeness of your relationships still apply.

-Complicating the matter further, some folk gods (like Wutong) were worshipped not because they brought blessings, but because they were the divine equivalent of gangsters running a protection racket: you basically bribed them with offerings so they'd leave you alone and not wreck your shit. Famous people who died violently and were posthumously deified often fell into this category——shockingly enough, Guan Yu used to be one such god!

-Yeah, kinda like how your average guy could become an official through the imperial examinations, so could humans become gods through posthumous worship, or cultivate themselves into immortals and Enlightened beings.

-Some immortals aren't qualified for, or interested in a position in the Celestial Bureaucracy——they are the equivalent of your hermits, your cloistered Daoist priests, your common literati who kept trying and failing the exams. But some do get a job offer and gladly take it.

-Anyways, back to my original point: that's why it's so absurd when people pull the "Respect Chinese Religion1!!1!" card and immediately follow up with "Would you do X to Jesus?"

-Um, there are a lot of things you can do with Chinese gods that I'm pretty sure you can't do with Jesus. Like worshipping him side by side with Buddha and Confucius (Lao Tzu). Or inviting him to possess you and drink copious amount of alcohol (Tang-ki mediums in SEA). Or genderbend him into a woman over the course of several centuries because folks just like that version of Jesus better (Guan Yin/Avalokitesvara).

-But most importantly, Chinese religions are kinda a "free market" where you could pick and choose between gods, based on their vicinity to you and how efficient they were at answering prayers. You respect them because they'll help you out, you aren't an asshole and know your manners, and pissing them off is a bad idea in general, not because they are some omnipotent, perfect beings who demand exclusive and total reverence.

-A lot of the worship was also, well, very "practical" and almost transactional in nature: leave offerings to Great Immortal Hu, and he doesn't steal your imperial seal while you aren't looking. Perform the rites right and meditate on a Thunder General's visage, and you can temporarily channel said deity's power. Get this talisman for your kids at Bixia Yuanjun's temple, and they'll be protected from smallpox.

-"Faith alone" or "Scripture alone" is seldom the reason people worship popular deities. Even the obsession with afterlife wasn't about the eternal destination of your soul, and more about reducing the potential duration of the prison sentence for you and your loved ones so you can move on faster and reincarnate into a better life.

-Also, there isn't a single "canon" of scriptures. Many popular gods don't show up in Daoist literature until much later. Daoist scriptures often came up with their own gigantic pantheons, full of gods no one had heard of prior to said book, or enjoyed no worship in temples whatsoever.

-In the same way famous dead people could become gods via worship, famous fictional characters could, too, become gods of folk religion——FSYY's pantheon was very influential on popular worship, but that doesn't mean you should take the novels as actual scriptures.

-Like, God-Demon novels are to orthodox Daoism/Buddhism what the Divine Comedy is to medieval Christian doctrines, except no priests had actually built a Church of Saint Beatrice, while Daoists did put FSYY characters into their temples. By their very nature, the worship that stemmed from these books is not on the same level of "seriousness" as, say, the Tiantai school of Buddhism and their veneration of the Lotus Sutra.

-At the risk of being guilty of the same insertion of Christianity where it doesn't belong: You don't cite Dante's Inferno in a theological debate, nor would any self-respecting pastor preach it to churchgoers on a Sunday.

-Similarly, you don't use JTTW or FSYY as your sole evidence for why something is "disrespectful to Chinese religion/tradition" when many practitioners of said religions won't treat them as anything more than fantasy novels.

-In fact, let's use Tripitaka as an example. The historical Xuanzang was an extraordinarily talented, faithful, and determined monk. In JTTW, he was a caricature of a Confucian scholar in a Buddhist kasaya and served the same narrative function as Princess Peach in a Mario game.

-Does the presence of satire alone make JTTW anti-Buddhist, or its religious allegories less poignant? I'd say no. Should you take it as seriously as actual Buddhist sutras, when the book didn't even take itself 100% seriously? Also no.

-To expand further on the idea of "seriousness": even outside of vernacular novels, practitioners are not beholden to a universal set of strict religious laws and taboos.

-Both Daoism and Buddhism had what we called "cloistered" and "non-cloistered" adherents; only the former needed to follow their religious laws and (usually) took a vow of celibacy.

-Certain paths of Daoist cultivation allow for alcohol and sexual activities (thanks @ruibaozha for the info), and some immortals, like Lv Dongbin, had a well-established "playboy" reputation in folklore.

-Though it was rarer for Buddhism and very misunderstood, esoteric variants of it did utilize sexual imageries and sex. And, again, most of the above would not apply if you weren't among the cloistered and ordained clergy.

-Furthermore, not even the worship of gods is mandatory! You could just be a Daoist who was really into internal alchemy, cultivating your body and mind in order to prolong your lifespan and, ideally, attain immortality.

-This idea of "respect" as…for a lack of better words, No Fun & R18 Stuff Allowed, you must treat all divinity with fearful reverence and put yourself completely at their mercy, is NOT the norm in Chinese religious traditions.

-There are different degrees and types of respect, and not every god is supposed to be treated like the Supreme Heavenly Emperor himself during an imperial ceremony; the gods are capable of cracking a joke, and so are we!

TL;DR: Religions are complicated, and you aren't respecting Chinese religions by acting like a stereotypical Puritan over popular Chinese deities and their fictional portrayals.

[feeder86]

The Curse of Deansgate

An understudy for Chris Peterson? Most of Ned’s friends could not believe it. Nor could Ned, to be fair. The fact that Chris was even doing Broadway was almost just as unbelievable. Hollywood superstars, like him, rarely gave up the time for a twelve-week stint in a production like ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’. It was going to be, without a doubt, the hottest ticket in town.

Ned watched through some of Chris’ old movies before rehearsals began. He devoured them all: the romantic comedies, the science fiction classics, as well as the action hero thrillers where Chris’ shirt was pleasingly absent for multiple scenes. Ned swooned, still feeling unable to comprehend his good luck. He’d done the Broadway circuit for a few years now and was slowly building a name for himself. A major role in his last show had earned him the attention he craved within the industry, despite the show actually selling rather poorly. But Ned simply loved the theatre and couldn’t wait to see Chris in action on stage. He imagined that the guy would feel quite nervous performing to a large crowd every night, especially after exclusively working on movies for so many years. And, as his understudy, Ned would be sure to support him. He fantasised about them becoming best friends and forging a bond like no other. He felt the bubbling excitement in his stomach as the days ticked down, getting closer and closer to the beginning.

The media coverage was already everywhere, even before the two week rehearsal period. ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ was a rarely performed production due to the superstition surrounding its commercial failures in the past. Written in the early twentieth century, ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ had apparently never once completed a full run in any theatre; although Ned doubted that to be completely true. Like all superstitions, it made Ned laugh to think that the play would make the usually level-headed investors go weak at the knees; much like all the actors he had met over the years, too superstitious to utter the words ‘Macbeth’ on stage. But a ‘cursed’ play certainly made for an awful lot of clickbait; cleverly helping to fuel the audience’s anticipation, as well as the advanced ticket sales.

However, there was also another reason why the play was being discussed so much; one that Ned felt a little more nervous about. The director would be the incredibly talented Gordon Harrison; an absolute master; especially here on Broadway, crafting incredible productions over a career that spanned decades. He had once played the lead in ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ back when he was in his twenties, and was resurrecting it now, perhaps as a form of nostalgia for himself. However, if anyone was to meet Gordon, it might not have been his ingenious directing creativity that they first noticed. Gordon was known to be one of the largest men working in the industry; a ginormous gut and wide butt, weighing in at a waddling five hundred pounds or more. 

Ned was sure that many people had probably made fun of Gordon’s weight over the years, but none so publicly as Chris Peterson. It had apparently happened early on in Chris’ career, when he was still making a name for himself, playing a small role in one of Gordon’s rare movie productions. When asked what he thought of the renowned director, a young, pretty-boy Chris had been less than complimentary, remarking to a journalist about how grotesquely greedy and lazy the fat director was on set; rarely getting out of his reinforced chair to offer notes to the hardworking performers and crew surrounding him; also referring to him as just another ‘failed actor’ who had shifted to directing once his first career ended. They were throwaway comments, but even Ned remembered the media storm that inevitably came from it. 

Perhaps not for the right reasons, Chris Peterson undoubtedly became better known afterwards. He’d been remembered and picked for bad boy roles where a little edge to the character’s personality was definitely a requirement. From there, he’d only gone from strength to strength, after his management eventually taught him to hold his tongue a little more when it came to badmouthing people he had worked with. Now, the director’s offer of the lead role in this play had been widely seen as an olive branch to the handsome actor, as a way to leave the past behind them; one that had been graciously accepted by Chris’ management team who convinced him to sign up straight away. And so, for the first time ever, the money was pouring in from investors, hoping to get a slice of success as ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ was about to be performed to the public for the first time in thirty years.

Some men just had that aura about them. It was the thing Ned most remembered about Chris Peterson, the first time he strolled into the theatre. Like any Hollywood hunk, he was painfully handsome, not to mention stylish. But Chris was also incredibly tall and muscular, giving the perception that he could have turned his hand to any sport at all, had the acting career not worked out so well for him. Ned remembered how aroused he was, sitting in the wings, watching the final act, when Chris rehearsed the penultimate scene, completely shirtless: the broad back, the stunning chest, the insane six pack. Not that Ned was a stranger to the gym himself, it was pretty much given in his line of work, but there was just something so awe-inspiring about the physique of a true Hollywood leading man.

Unlike any other production Ned had ever been involved in, there were journalists waiting outside from day one of rehearsals. Gordon had made it clear that no one was to talk to them or pose for pictures, but that didn’t stop them shouting for attention each time the cast walked out. Usually they wanted to know about Chris, or about how Gordon was doing, working with a guy who had so badly insulted him almost ten years ago. If Ned had been allowed to answer them, he could have told them that, in fact, everything was absolutely fine. Ever the professional, a now twenty-seven year old Chris took to the theatre work with ease, and Gordon didn’t seem in the least bit resentful towards him at all. Perhaps that was the point. The reality was so fundamentally boring, keeping the air of mystery kept the media writing about the play and building that appetite for it.

As for Ned’s dreams of becoming best friends with Chris Peterson, well, that had always been unlikely. Although the man had learned all their names and was friendly enough, Chris kept himself to himself during break times and retained that Holwood mystique with the rest of the cast; continuing to be one of the only people Ned knew who could get away with wearing sunglasses indoors and still look sexy. But, in regards to being an understudy for him, Gordon had told Ned straight out that it was never going to happen. People were coming to this production to see Chris and that was exactly what they would get. It was the investors who had insisted on there being an understudy, just in case, but Ned was never going to actually get the chance to perform to an audience. He would simply stick to his significantly smaller role, dying before the end of the first act each and every night.

“Break a leg!” Ned smiled at Chris as the curtain was about to go up on their first night. He still got butterflies each time he had the opportunity to talk to the guy, even after the long rehearsals.

Chris smiled back, seeming as cool as could be; as if none of this phased him in the slightest. Then, with a final intake of breath, he stepped onto the stage, in front of a cheering crowd, surreptitiously dotted with some of New York’s harshest critics.

There was the strangest of feelings in the theatre that night; like an unheard frequency that was somehow ringing in the ears. Chris’ performance was powerful and moving; rising above anything they had witnessed in the rehearsals. Ned could already see the awards and accolades the Hollywood star was about to amass. The final act was a marvel, and Ned saw their large, oversized director sitting in an extra large chair on the front row, smiling with pride the entire time. When the final curtain fell, the audience rose to their feet, but Gordon remained seated. He looked pleased with himself, like he had just accomplished something he had been working towards for many, many years.

At the afterparty that evening, the excitement was electric. Everybody knew that the show was a hit; perhaps the biggest success they would ever be involved in; the pinnacle of their careers. Their director stood, having graciously acknowledged everyone in the cast and crew for all they had done, only leaving one final man to congratulate. He called Chris to stand beside him and slipped his big, heavy arm over the hunk’s broad shoulders.

“You’ve joined a very exclusive club this evening,” Gordon smiled. “There are very few ‘Gentlemen of Deansgate’ out there!” he nodded; acknowledging the fact that he too had once played the part, some twenty-five years ago. “You’re never going to be the same after this.” 

The grin on Gordon’s face was a little too perplexing for Ned. He couldn’t quite make it out. He held Chris’ stare for an almost uncomfortable time, until finally raising his glass and toasting the biggest Broadway smash in many, many years.

The reviews the next morning sang with praise, just as they had all expected. Ned poured over them all, hoping for even a brief mention of his own performance. Instead, Chris had stolen the show, and the promotional image of him in the final scene, shirtless and steamy, dominated much of the pages that were dedicated to the reviews. By lunchtime, Ned could recite almost all of them word for word. It seemed like he wasn’t the only one who had felt the curious atmosphere in the theatre that first night. Each review, every single one, seemed to comment on it in some form; like some magical awakening of acting greatness. Still, Ned cut every last one of them out, saving them all for his own personal scrapbook.

“Do me a favour,” Gordon insisted, raising his hand to get Ned’s attention as everyone else busied themselves backstage for the second night. “Drop these off with Chris, will you?” he insisted, thrusting a box of doughnuts towards Ned.

“What? Take them to his dressing room?” Ned asked, delighted and nervous about getting the opportunity to go and see Chris before the curtain went up. “Does he even eat doughnuts?”

Gordon chuckled. “Oh, he eats them alright!” he smirked, already waddling away to deal with something more pressing.

Ned held the large tray of doughnuts in his hands, feeling empowered, simply to go and see the star of the show before he went on stage. He raced along the corridor like a man on a mission and knocked firmly on the door until he heard Chris’ deep, masculine voice telling him to come inside.

Half dressed, Chris’ fine torso was on show as he collected all of his bits for the first act. Ned felt like he had entered at the absolute perfect time. “Um, Gordon sent these over,” he mumbled, trying to think straight and not stare too much at the gorgeous man in front of him. Just how many people would have paid serious cash to be standing exactly where he was right then?

“What are they? Doughnuts?” Chris asked, dropping his belt on the floor and heading straight over. He reached in and grabbed one with each hand, pushing one immediately into his mouth with the biggest bite Ned had ever seen. He moaned aloud and chewed quickly, as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

“I didn’t know you were so keen on doughnuts,” Ned chuckled awkwardly, simply standing there, holding the box, not knowing where he could put it down. Chris was still purposefully in front of him, seemingly getting ready to take another round.

Chris didn’t answer. He simply moaned as he gorged on doughnut after doughnut; not even caring that his mouth was now covered in sugar. Ned stood there, watching the car crash in slow motion as the entire box was devoured in less than three minutes flat.

“Fuck!” Chris chuckled, swallowing the last of it all. “I had no idea I could do that!” he smirked, turning to look at himself in the mirror, then laughing at how immediately bloated his stomach had become. “Bring me another one of those trays after the show and I’ll let you suck me off,” Chris suddenly declared, reaching his hand down to his crotch and readjusting the suddenly obvious erection that was pressing against his purposefully tight pants. 

“What?” Ned asked; his heart beating faster than ever before. Had he heard that right?

“Don’t act coy,” Chris shot back. “You heard me. I’ve seen the way you look at me. Bring me another tray of doughnuts after the show and I’ll let you suck me dry,” he repeated, reaching for Ned’s limp hand and placing it directly across to his boner. “Deal?” Chris asked, knowing that there was no way Ned would ever refuse him.

Ned left Chris’ dressing room almost shaking with elation. Was this really happening? The hottest, straight hunk in the world was going to let him go down on him after the show? Surely this was just a dream? 

With the first act soon over with, Ned snuck out to the doughnut place across the street and bought the exact same tray of treats that had been delivered earlier. He stood around, pretending to wait purposefully in the corridor, having concealed the order under a pile of clothes in his small, shared changing area. 

The next thing Ned knew, he was back on stage for the curtain call. He’d started to doubt himself; to dispute reality. He was going insane. Chris hadn’t really made such an advance on him, nor made the bizarre request! He was just slowly succumbing to madness. But as they all cheered their way off the stage, Ned felt a very firm hand on his shoulder and the Hollywood superstar bringing his mouth close to his ear, whispering. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

After the buzz of the first night, the second night always felt anticlimactic, with people darting off quickly after the show ended. Ned waited until there was a slight lull in the noisy corridor, until he stood outside Chris’ dressing room holding the doughnut tray, knocking until he heard the call for him to enter.

This time, Chris was sitting. already stroking himself in his chair; legs parted and pants removed, ready for Ned to do what he had come here for. Of course he had a large penis, Ned thought to himself, watching the sexy guy stroking it like he was filming a porn scene. 

“Give them to me!” Chris demanded, having eyes only for the tray that Ned was carrying. He reached out, ripped them from him and immediately began gorging, like he had before. Then, with only a nod of his head, he ordered Ned down to his crotch.

Slipping onto his knees, Ned could hardly believe what he was about to do; something he never imagined could be done. He started slowly, determined to get it exactly right; to give Chris as much pleasure as he could. If he delivered Chris the best blow job of his life, he would. He pursed his lips and worked his tongue to perfection, hearing Chris moan with pleasure as he pushed those doughnuts into his mouth. He felt the guy’s large, sticky, icing-covered hand press onto the top of his head, pushing him deeper into his crotch. Ned obliged, willing himself not to gag as his throat opened further. Then, absolute magic. He’d done it. He’d made the Hollywood superstar climax in what sounded like the most intense orgasm imaginable. 

Ned stood, feeling proud, looking down on the hunk slouched in the chair. The man was a mess, covered in icing and sugar all around his face; his toned stomach now bloated and hard. The man seemed dazed, either from the eating, or the intense relief of having ejaculated so forcefully. He sighed multiple times and began tapping his own face as if to bring himself back into reality. “Fuck! That was good!” the man growled, before sitting up and casually feeding himself the larger fragments of doughnut that had fallen onto his chest during his rampant gorging minutes earlier.

Grinning, Ned knew that this was a tale he would be able to recount for the rest of his life: the day he sucked off Chris Peterson in his dressing room!

“What are you doing this evening?” Chris asked, finally getting to his feet.

“Um, nothing much,” Ned replied, feeling the shadow of the large man cross over him.

“You know this city, don’t you?” Chris pondered. “You’re from here, aren’t you? You can take me out.”

“Yes,” Ned answered, without evening thinking; his heart almost leaping out of his chest. “But I wouldn’t know where to take a Hollywood star like you. We’d be harrassed by journalists the whole time if I took you to the bars I usually go to.”

“Then don’t take me to the bars,” Chris shot back. “Take me back to your place and order in.”

“You… you want to come back to my apartment?” Ned spluttered, overjoyed and simultaneously embarrassed by the thought of hosting Chris Peterson in the miniscule space he rented in the city. Still, he had kept the place fairly clean… Maybe Chris just wanted another opportunity for them to be alone together again.

“Is it far from here?” Chris asked, already gathering all that he needed and slipping a few items of clothing back on. 

“Not far,” Ned replied, realising that he didn’t really have a choice either way. “We can head out through the back and be there in five minutes.”

“Good,” the man nodded, already pushing Ned towards the door. “Lead on.”

Just over an hour later, Ned was accepting the second delivery at his apartment whilst Chris lounged on his couch, gorging himself on the pizzas that had arrived five minutes earlier. The moment he went back in, Chris dropped his greasy pizza down and made to grab the bag of Chinese food, not caring that the slice landed topside up on the couch, leaking the oily residue into the material. 

“I didn’t know that you were such a foodie,” Ned sighed, hoping that Chris’ hunger wasn’t going to get in the way of them having more fun later on. He ran to grab a cloth and began attempting to get the stain out.

Chris’s kisses were passionate and arousing after all the food. Ned had seen some bizarre Hollywood diets in his time, but this binge eating of Chris’ had bloated his stomach up like nothing he had ever known. He was gentle around the man in the bedroom, wondering whether he might throw up should things get a little energetic. Hosting a Hollywood superstar, making him climax in his very own apartment, it felt like a moment Ned had been waiting for his entire life; an experience he could boast about for years to come. Had Chris wanted to stay the night, Ned would have been more than delighted, but the man seemed restless and keen to get back to the hotel he was staying in, ordering himself a ride and bidding Ned a goodnight.

Gordon didn’t seem to care when Chris didn’t show in time for their pre-show meetings, rolling in with just enough time to get into costume and get on stage. For the first time, the backstage crew began to grumble about him, knowing that they were only one week in, with another eleven long weeks to go. But just as the lead actor had seemingly lost all passion for it, so had their esteemed director; no longer bothered by the silly little mistakes that were made by the lighting department on the fifth night, nor the fact that Chris had missed his cue several times by the start of week two.

On their opening night, the show had felt like a slick, well-oiled and ambitious machine. Now things were getting sloppy and haphazard. The excellent reviews of the previous week were being replaced by curious clippings in gossip columns about Chris’ amateurish performances. Not only that, but a rogue cell phone had snapped a picture of Chris during his shirtless scene looking significantly thicker than he had seemed in the promotional shots. Ned had seen it first hand as he continued to slip into Chris’ dressing room after a performance for some fun. He’d known that the make-up department had painted on a six-pack for the last three performances. However, nothing could mask the unmistakable width of Chris as he turned to his side; a distinct paunch starting to form. All of a sudden, that one picture seemed to be everywhere and all of the press interest in the play turned directly towards Chris’ weight gain.

“There’ll probably be more people trying to get pictures of you tomorrow,” Ned warned as he snuck into Chris’ dressing room and caught the guy gorging himself on a couple of boxes of cookies that had been left in there for him.

Chris scowled and nodded for Ned to lock the door behind him. “That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he grumbled, sliding down in his chair and pulling out his hardness for Ned to suck on as he ate.

Ned assumed the position, noticing the roll of stomach fat that was beginning to encircle Chris’ waist. His fingers slipped onto it as he took Chris’ hardness in his mouth, noticing the soft and doughy nature of it, slyly ruining the ultimate Hollywood sixpack. Ned knew he was in some way enabling Chris by not walking away and failing to challenge him on his eating but when else in his life was he going to have the chance to be with a global superstar like this?

With the doughnuts gone, Chris stood up and removed the last of his clothes, ready to fuck Ned over the table at the back of the room. Ned obliged, catching the view of Chris’ softer glutes in the mirror as they began kissing; the back fat standing out so much, the skin starting to roll. “Chris…” Ned started, knowing that he could no longer stay silent. “Don’t you think you need to do something about this?” he asked, pinching the actual lovehandles that had blossomed in just over a week.

“Do you want to get fucked, or not?” Chris growled back, clearly too consumed with arousal to think of anything else. Discussions about the guy’s weight were clearly off the table. Ned, lay across his table, spread his legs and allowed the horny glutton to at last get some exercise.

Their esteemed director seemed slightly different over the following days. Unlike Chis’ stomach, which seemed to grow more prominent each day, Gordon appeared to be deflating. His large gut didn’t seem quite so extreme as he strolled about at a faster pace, going from department to department. There was a twinkle in his eye as he saw Ned and a look that suggested that he knew exactly what went on between him and Chris behind the closed doors of the dressing room.

The man had rejected calls for the shirtless scene to be altered so that Chris could cover himself with a shirt, positively laughing at all the press that surrounded the hunk’s sudden gains. “All publicity is good publicity,” he grinned as if he hoped for a boost in ticket sales from it all; not that there was any need. The show had been booked out for weeks before they’d even started rehearsals. 

News outlets began reporting that Gordon had insisted Chris diet immediately and that he had threatened to kick him out from the show should he not comply. However, none of it was true. Of all the people working on that production, the director was the only one who was not in the least bit flustered by it all, even as Chris’ management seemed determined to find a way to get him out of the play and end this constant barrage of bad publicity. 

Ned felt it all very personally, having fallen for Chris during this strange period of his life. But with so much gossip and speculation flying around, how much longer could his fling with Chris stay a secret? A public ‘outting’ was absolutely the last thing either of them needed right then.

“Eight more weeks to go!” Gordon sang, almost tauntingly at them all as Chris stepped up behind the curtain, a rounded stomach pressing out, ready for the shirtless scene. Gordon appeared to wait, listening intently for the inevitable gasps of the stunned audience as the former hunk went out on stage. Then the director would chuckle to himself and stroll happily away.

Getting in to see Chris was becoming harder and harder. A team of people seemed to surround the man the entire time he was at the theatre; men and women who had been flown over from Hollywood to kick Chris into touch. None of it seemed to be working. Even under the strict eyes of his babysitters, Chris’ stomach seemed to be expanding daily. Tensions with the director seemed to flare up as Gordon failed time and time again to renegotiate the star’s watertight contract. The looming fear that the play would end hung like a dark cloud over all of them. As Chris’s belly blossomed into a small, stout and rounded beer gut, each of them looked at each other and sighed. Would this be their last show? How much longer could this insanity continue?

Like a petulant child, Chris appeared to detest all the fussing around him. Sometimes, at night, he would appear at Ned’s apartment, having snuck out undetected from his hotel. He’d order take-out, complain bitterly about his situation and completely fail to show any self-awareness of his own part in the evolving crisis that surrounded him; even as he gorged on pizza after pizza. He’d drawn Ned in, making him feel like the only one in the world who could sympathise with him; the one sane person in his life whilst all the madness threatened to consume him. Ned had been flattered. He felt special. And even though he could see the giant ball of stomach fat growing larger and larger; even as a double chin began to spread itself under Chris’s handsome face and his tight glutes softened with each passing day, Ned still fell for him and stayed up late into the night, pleasing him in any way he could.

It was week four when everything seemed to crash around them. Ned saw the news flash up on his cell phone before anyone at the play got in contact with him to let him know. Chris had left the production, paying a hefty, multi-million dollar fee for exiting early and ending the show.

“You’re up!” Gordon sang down the phone an hour or so later. “You’re my Gentleman of Deansgate!”

“But I thought…” Ned mumbled back; his head spinning.

“One last performance!” Gordon exclaimed excitedly. “Chris’ team were quite insistent upon it as they added a nice buffer into the cheque they signed this morning to get him out of his contract.”

“Why?” Ned asked, remembering how adamant Gordon had once been that he would never allow Ned to understudy for Chris. “What does it matter to them?”

“Just be here early,” Gordon replied, immediately ending the phone call.

Ned didn’t know how to feel. The last few weeks had been the strangest of his life. On the one hand, he felt elated that he was about to have the biggest career highlight to date, seeing his name appearing in the articles about Chris’ sudden departure as the Gordon’s team sent out their official press release about the final show. However, he also knew that he was unlikely to see Chris ever again. The media had already reported that he had left New York for his home in Los Angeles. Just like that, it was all over.

Gordon positively skipped about backstage, racing between the different departments. There was no denying that he had lost a significant amount of weight in the last few weeks and the spring in his step seemed to catch everyone off-guard. Everything had to be perfect once more and the sloppiness of the last few weeks had to end immediately. Yet, despite all the demands and high standards Gordon was insisting upon, there was still a smug, sickly grin plastered all over his face.

“He’s just had a massive payout from Chris’ people,” whispered one of the lighting guys as Ned watched the man with obvious confusion etched across his face. “I was here late last night when they were all negotiating.”

“Well, I expect it must be a relief for him now all the tickets will have to be refunded for the rest of the run,” Ned nodded.

“That stuff’s all covered,” the backstage man replied, shaking his head at Ned’s misunderstanding. “I mean Gordon himself. He’s just had over five million dollars from Chris to let him go early and to ensure there’s this last performance tonight.”

“They paid Gordon personally?” Ned asked. “But that makes no sense!”

Twenty minutes later and the crowds were starting to move into the theatre, bitterly disappointed that the main attraction for attending this play had inexplicably left the production. Ned had no doubt that he wouldn’t be able to please the audience, no matter what he did that night. Ned had braced himself for Gordon’s assertive approach to managing him, yet the man had barely uttered more than a few words. Despite micromanaging everyone else, as the new lead actor, Ned felt almost as if he was going into the whole thing blind. Gordon stood behind him as the music began to rumble into life, placing his hand on Ned’s shoulder just before his cue. The role had been Gordon’s once, many, many years ago. Perhaps he felt like he knew how Ned was feeling. “Welcome to the club,” he whispered, grinning excitedly and nudging Ned onto the stage.

If Ned could have found the words to describe the feeling as he acted on stage that night, his explanation would have been akin to the accounts of out-of-body experiences. It was as if he no longer needed to recall the lines of dialogue; like they simply flowed through his body. His movements did not feel like his own; his walk and stature had altered. It was as if he embodied the character and had no control over any of it at all. In the papers the next morning, they would criticise him for mimicking Chris’ performance to the very last detail, but in Ned’s mind, the only thing he had actually done was to step out onto that stage. Everything else had been autopilot.

Unlike the final show of every other production Ned had ever been in, the mood that night was too low to celebrate afterwards. People hugged backstage and collected all their things, knowing that they would not have an opportunity to do so at any other time. Meanwhile, after all the obligatory praise, Ned headed back into the main dressing room as if his mind had drifted below a dense fog. He simply sat in his chair, staring at his reflection in the mirror. What on earth had come over him?

Half an hour later, a drunken Gordon came skipping into the room, holding a glass of champagne for himself. “You did wonderfully!” he beamed at Ned, despite the fact that Ned had already been told that Gordon hadn’t seen a moment of it; too busy celebrating backstage. “And now, no one else will perform this play for many decades to come!” he beamed. “‘The Curse of Deansgate’ has struck again! An incomplete run, just like every other time it’s been attempted. No financial backers will go near it again,” he laughed, as if this had all been such a vast, cunning plan from the very beginning.

“Everything worked out pretty well for you, though,” Ned managed to utter, catching the scent of something sweet down the corridor and suddenly feeling remarkably hungry. 

“Even better than I expected,” Gordon nodded emphatically, running his hand down his surprisingly deflated gut. “But the curse has never been about financial ruin, has it?” he laughed. “The curse has always been something much more insidious. I taught that arrogant fuck a lesson and got a very decent payout at the same time.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror, seeming pleased with what he saw. “It’s been a very successful few weeks!”

“You never really did forgive Chris, did you?” Ned asked, feeling the strangest sense of familiarity with Gordon. The man’s last words to him before he had gone on stage had been to welcome him to the Deansgate ‘club’ and now that Ned was there, he felt as if he could ask Gordon anything and be told the exact truth.

Goron closed the door that he had been propping open with his large body and stepped inside so that he could not be overheard. “Of course not,” he laughed. “And you sealed your fate the moment you started sucking him off back here after each performance.” He looked down at Ned disapprovingly. “You’re a serious actor. You should have known better than that!” he scolded him. “Perhaps I should have fired you then and saved you from all this.”

Ned dropped his head. Gordon was certainly right there.

“I hadn’t ever planned to let you take the lead. But when Chris Peterson’s management figured things out, the opportunity to throw you under the bus was simply too easy.” He looked down at Ned with triumph dancing in his eyes. “Lay down with dogs and you get fleas.”

“What did they figure out?” Ned asked, having the strangest feeling that the way his mind was so clouded at that moment was all related to something much larger.

“Here,” Gordon grunted, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. “I’ve been told to give you this.”

An envelope was thrown into Ned’s lap without Gordon even making an effort to step forwards. Ned opened it up and found a plane ticket to Los Angeles, departing at 2.05am. 

“Lover Boy wants to see you!” Gordon explained, holding back a snarl.

Silently, Ned felt elated. From the moment he’d read that Chris had left New York, he had believed that their fling was over. Now he was realising that he hadn’t been forgotten after all. “Well, I guess there’s no point in sticking around here these next few days, anyway” he sighed, looking around the dressing room he would have to vacat shortly.

“No, I quite agree,” Gordon smirked. “I’ll message him to let him know that you’re on your way.” He placed his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Now that you’re the very latest Gentleman of Deansgate instead, I have a feeling that you’re about to meet the real Chris Peterson at long last…”

Ned felt eyes on him the entire time as he made his way to the airport and flew across the country, not really knowing what was going to happen when he finally arrived. In the arrivals lounge, a driver was waiting, holding up a banner with his name written across it. Ned’s only backpack was taken off his shoulders as he made his way to the expensive car that was to carry him away. 

They pulled up forty minutes later at the most obscene residence, overlooking the Hollywood hills. The whole residence seemed llavish beyond words. Unlike the chill of a New York winter, the sun shone gently on Ned’s face and he sighed in appreciation at his own good fortune.

A member of Chris’ extensive team came straight out to greet him, ushering him inside almost as if he was expecting a team of photographers to ambush them from the gates . Everywhere was pristine and surprisingly immaculate, from the large marble pillars to the extensive windows at the back of the property, overlooking an enormous swimming pool and the incredible view across the valley.

Ned sat down at the large breakfast bar in the kitchen, where pastries and snacks filled several plates for the members of Chris’ entourage. He was told to help himself whilst the man left the room to let Chris know that he had arrived. Whilst Ned ate, he heard the splash of someone emerging from the pool and suddenly saw the large, looming shape of Chris Peterson marching across the terrace towards the expansive kitchen. Dressed in only his swim shorts with a towel lazily draped over his shoulders, Chris moved with an assertive speed that Ned had not seen from him before; although, his fat stomach popped out in front of him, firm and rounded under his large pecs.

“Excellent!” Chris cheered, spotting Ned and striding straight over to place his hands on his secret lover’s shoulders as he ate. Chris’ strong fingers massaged Ned’s shoulders, not offering any other sign of affection, most likely because his team were all so close by. “Did anyone see him arriving?” Chris asked someone behind them.

“No, sir. It was all very fast and discreet,” replied a deep masculine voice.

“Good,” Chris replied, his hands massaging more softly now and leaning in to whisper into Ned’s ear. “I bet you’re hungry after all that travelling.”

Chris suddenly stood bolt upright and marched about once more, heading to the refrigerator and pulling out as many things as he could.

“Sir, sir…” counselled a woman from his staff. “You don’t need to do that. We’ve got this covered. You can head back to the pool. We’ll look after Ned.”

Chris looked across at Ned, as if calculating whether he could trust his entourage to do what they were promising. “Fine,” he spat, turning around and marching straight out, clearly in a mood about something. “But I need results. I need all of this mess sorting out now!”

Coming down from the high of his great performance the night before was almost impossible. Ned had hardly slept at all on the plane and he had the remarkable feeling of being almost drunk. Time seemed like nothing at all as Chris’ friendly team fussed around him. He was led out onto the terrace to watch Chris’ gruelling swimming training with his coach. Every now and then, the unnecessarily angry actor would call out to his team any time he looked up and saw that Ned wasn’t being looked after with something to eat or drink.

“You’ve got one fucking job!” he yelled from the pool, making them all rush about to serve Ned something else.

Ned was half asleep when he heard Chris’ voice mumbling around him. “Fucking wake him up then!” he ordered one of his team, before huffing and coming over himself. “Ned… Neddy…” he called out in a voice that was barely soothing. “It’s dinner time, buddy!”

Ned opened his eyes.

“He’s awake,” Chris nodded to two guys, who promptly lifted the back of Ned’s deckchair up so that he was sitting upright. “It’s time to eat now, buddy,” Chris explained to Ned, like he was a toddler, using the kindest voice he had heard from him all day. “Mmmm! Look at all this!” he cooed, as a perfect height table was rolled underneath the deck chair so that a table sat just in front of Ned, loaded with different items.

Overcome with hunger, Ned set to work without questioning any of it. Once food was in front of him, nothing else seemed to matter.

“Good. This is good,” Chris nodded again at his team, as he looked back and forth between them and Ned. “He seems to like this the best,” he pointed at one of the dishes, as if that was a cue for them to get more. 

Faced with so much food, Ned found it hard to concentrate. He was given large, chocolate flavoured drinks that were thick and almost difficult to swallow, however Chris seemed to nod his head in approval each time Ned managed to get one down.

Ned wished that everyone else would disappear. He felt so uncontrollably horny for Chris, yet there were always people around, making it impossible for them to come together. Something about the food seemed almost… erotic. He’d never felt this way before, nor eaten so much in only a few short hours; although he wasn’t quite sure how much that was.

As night time approached, Chris entered Ned’s bedroom carrying a large tray of doughnuts. “A little treat before bed!” he winked charmingly, throwing them down on the mattress.

Ned felt his body lunge for them and he began stuffing the first one into his mouth. Chris hopped on beside him, throwing his arm over Ned’s shoulders like they were old friends, rather than lovers.

“That fucking play, huh?” he grumbled to Ned as the guy ate. “Gordon did us both dirty with that one… and I had no fucking idea!” he laughed, like he had had some lucky escape. “That’s why it’s always important to have people looking out for you behind the scenes. That could have been the end of my whole career!”

Chris noticed a large piece of Ned’s third doughnut break off as the houseguest ate a little too fast. Chris picked it up, not caring about the sticky icing that had spread across the sheets, but keen that Ned should get it down him. 

“I’m afraid I’m not going to try and stop you eating, like you did with me.” He looked down at his own, stout gut and sighed. “Look at all this!” he complained, grabbing a large wedge of it. “How the hell did you ever let me fuck you, looking like this? It’s disgusting!”

“You’re beautiful,” Ned mumbled through a mouthful of food, spitting a little out.

Chris tutted and exhaled in frustration. “You’re wasting it!” he growled in annoyance. Getting more fed up when Ned tried to apologise and did the same thing again. “Look, just sit back a bit more and let me take care of this,” he insisted, handing Ned yet another doughnut and feeling his hand into the eager guy’s crotch, grabbing at the hardness, but not stroking until Ned started to eat. 

Ned had never known bliss like it: the tastes on his tongue and the pleasure down below. Each time he swallowed and opened his mouth to moan, in went a fresh doughnut. There were multiple points when he felt like he could have climaxed, yet Chris seemed to hold him back until the very last moment. He came, feeling like a strong jet had erupted from his groin, opening his eyes moments later to see Chris dropping the emptied doughnut tray onto the floor and wiping his hands on the bed sheets. “Was that nice?” he asked, returning to that slightly patronising tone.

Ned nodded, feeling utterly spent.

“Good,” Chris smiled. “Would you like the same again tomorrow?” Chris asked, like he was trying to bargain something out of Ned. So when Ned nodded, stuffed full of food and bloated, the man couldn’t help but chuckle, heading back to his own master suite.

Chris had lost weight. With all his training and determination, Ned had never seen a belly shrink so quickly. Yet, over the coming days, he felt an onslaught of fat begin to slide onto his own stomach, inflating it with softness in an unnaturally speedy manner. Sometimes he would wake from an afternoon nap to find a measuring tape had been wrapped around his arm or thigh, by a member of Chris’ staff; no one seeming in the least bit surprised at the sudden transformation, despite monitoring it closely.

Ned knew he should be paying more attention to his body. But food was everywhere and his brain felt like it was in such a fog. Dressed only in a pair of swim shorts, he couldn’t detect a stretching in his clothes, nor remember where he had even put his cell phone to communicate with the rest of the world outside of Chris’ incredible house. Nothing he seemed to do from that point on appeared to annoy Chris, with the man’s face lighting up each time he saw a shirtless Ned lazily trotting towards the breakfast bar to eat. The other staff were relaxing too, with fewer of them there in the day now. The ‘crisis mode’ of the previous week was now over. 

Chris lifted his arm and still felt a slight stubborn clinging of fat around his love handles. “Do you want some ice cream?” he asked Ned, as if this would somehow remedy the problem. Without waiting for an answer, he headed over to the freezer to fetch it and dumped the complete tub in front of Ned, along with a large spoon. 

Back Chris went to the mirror, turning and flexing, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Ned.

“It’s almost time for you to go home soon,” he smiled. “A couple more days and things should have worked themselves out.”

“I don’t think I want to go home,” Ned replied, feeling his heart sink.

Chris laughed and came over to pat his chubby friend on his back. “I know. I know,” he smiled. “But what am I supposed to do with you once I’m back to my old shape?” He looked down at Ned’s shirtless body and seemed to grimace at the rolls of fresh blubber along his side. “You’ll just be getting more and more out of shape and I don’t really want that hanging around outside by the pool.” He ruffled Ned’s hair playfully. “I’m sure you can understand that,” he laughed, pulling a fresh bottle of water out from the refrigerator and sliding a bowl of potato chips closer to Ned instead. Then, off he went onto the terrace, diving into his pool once more.

Ned didn’t see Chris after that. The guy had disappeared later that afternoon after a lucrative advertising deal had emerged. He read later on that Chris had claimed his appearance in the play had been caused by some form of abdominal distension, unrelated to weight gain. Several so-called ‘experts’ disputed that, but when the hunk reappeared in beach shots looking just as fit as ever only a few days later, all other explanations seemed to be implausible.

No such rapid recovery came for Ned, however. Once home, his ravenous appetite seemed to consume him and he was dropped by his agent only six months later after piling on a ridiculous amount of weight in that period. And, although he could never prove it, Ned always had a suspicion that Chris Peterson’s team had been at least partly behind his declining career; desperately wanting to reduce his influence after everything that had happened with their golden boy.

Ned’s handsome face seemed to bloat and his chiselled jawline was engulfed and framed by an unflattering amount of neck fat. His pecs drooped within a month and his stomach fat swelled into a giant ball of surprisingly squishy blubber. Pants were hard to come by, given how wide his rear had become after the first year. Ned found that he had to detach himself from his old life and form something new; taking inspiration from the only other man he had known to have gone through the same experience….

It was thirty years later when Ned sat in the same old theatre where they had performed ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ all those years ago. It had taken him decades to finance a new run and convince his investors. But, at long last, the show was ready to audition the lead roles. 

Years ago, after Ned had had time to think and understand it all, unemployed and gaining pounds and pounds of lard by the day, he wrote it all down; every last detail of that play he would one day hope to direct: the lighting, the sound, the timings, the instruments. He didn’t know which parts were important to whatever power fuelled the curse that he had lived with for so long; transforming him into the gluttonous man he had been all these years. Everything had to be perfect.

“I’m very grateful to you for coming all the way over here to audition,” Ned smiled at the handsome, young hopeful standing on the stage: the image of his beautiful father. 

“I’m very flattered that you wanted me,” the athletic twenty-seven year old replied. “I believe you were the understudy for my father when he performed here? It was his only Broadway appearance.”

“Yes, yes,” Ned nodded. “That seems like a lifetime ago!” he lied. “And I’m sure your father would be very proud to see you standing there now, ready to fill his shoes,” he smiled, pretending to be sorry that Chris Peterson’s drug-fuelled car crash had claimed his life five years earlier.

The audition went well; not that Ned had ever seriously considered anyone else for the role. Revenge could come in many forms, but few as sweet as this poor boy.

“I think this show is going to be a huge success!” Ned grinned, eyeing his new lead actor’s cute butt as he skipped out of the theatre having just signed a watertight contract. “I can’t wait to get started!”

[wistsandmagic]

No Way Out (Brother I Let You Down)

Welp. I finally caved in to one of the plot bunnies @keferon 's Mecha AU keeps putting in my brain. So here, have some Swindle and Vortex ANGST.

(under the cut because it's over 2k words)

It was the middle of the night. The lights in the hangar were dimmed, the sounds of the skeleton crew that worked as night shift far away in the mechanics’ sector, not on the hangar floor. The mecha stood still in their refuel bays, waiting on the next time the Quintessons attacked, when the alarms would blare and the hangar would become a frantic cacophony of activity.

For now though, things were quiet. Still.

Lonely.

Swindle walked silently across the catwalk strung between the mecha, the smell of oil and gear lubricant seeping into his nose like an old friend's aftershave. He didn't smell that often enough nowadays. Sometimes he missed it.

Sometimes, he thought, turning at a path junction to walk down to one particular mecha's bay, one that towered over everything else in the hangar. Sometimes he just missed the people that the smell accompanied.

No one would have ever guessed that he and Vortex had been close friends. They fought like cats and dogs, always sniping at each other, yelling and picking at each other until Onslaught had to break them up before things got too physical. They'd both ended up in medbay more than once after a fight hadn't been broken up quickly enough. They were the youngest of the group, after all, and so close in age that fights seemed almost inevitable.

Swindle had thought of Vortex as the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother. When he didn't come back from that ill-fated mission...

The former pilot stopped in front of the giant mecha in the bay, the faint hint of old blood adding itself to the scents mingling in his nose. Vortex's mecha always smelled vaguely bloody, though since that young medic-turned-pilot, First Aid, had taken over, things weren't as strong. Swindle thought that might be a good thing. Maybe.

He wasn't one to really believe in ghosts, not in the way people meant. A spirit that haunted the living? Seemed improbable. Ghosts were the memories that lingered when you stared at the things the dead had left behind. The scents that once followed them suddenly wafting through the air, the feel of a missing presence, an ache that never went away. That was a 'ghost'.

But when Swindle stared at the red visor of Vortex's mech – it would always be Vortex's mech to him, no matter who piloted it or for how long – it was all too easy to imagine the other kind of ghost. All too easy to give in to the superstitions surrounding this mecha, to believe that a malevolent spirit haunted it, for all it seemed to at least like First Aid. One pilot it didn't want to kill.  

The visor stared back blankly, and Swindle caught sight of his own reflection, warped and twisted by the thick, bullet-proof plexiglass. Somehow the warped reflection felt more like it was the real him than the him that existed in his own skin, at that moment. All of the stress, the heaviness, the days of lying through his teeth and pretending he cared less than he did, that all he was in things for was the money, that the pilots that came back to base maimed and traumatized didn't matter to him as long as the program got the money needed, that his best friend who couldn't even remember that he was Swindle's best friend was laying in a hospital bed, half of his body burned and his mind in tatters didn't matter beyond his ability to bring in investors...

It was too much. It was just...too much.

"H...hey," he managed, flinching at how much his own voice cracked. Where was the smarmy car-salesman he pretended at being? The smooth operator, the con man? "...Vortex, if...if you're in there, buddy, y'mind? I just..." Tears pricked at the corners of Swindle's eyes, startling him and making him put a hand to his face. Man, he was losing it, wasn't he? "I...I just needed..."

Before he knew it, Swindle found himself slumping to the catwalk floor, his back to Vortex's mech. Knew that if the ghost stories were true, that might not be a good idea, but he'd always trusted his friend. His brother. Saw no reason to stop now. "I miss you, y'know that?" He murmured, trying to stem the flow of tears without letting his voice hitch. "The entire...the entire program's shit. I know we knew that already, but...Vee, it's got so much worse. And here I am...actively promoting the damn thing 'cause we have no other choice. " ...he hadn't called Vortex 'Vee' in years. It was usually "Tex"; that was what Vortex had preferred. Swindle was the only one that could ever get away with calling him Vee without getting punched, even so. Swindle had reserved it for special occasions, knowing he held privilege. Now seemed like as good a time as any. Vortex wasn't there any longer to half-heartedly gripe at him for the affectionate diminutive.

That didn't make it better.

Swindle leaned his head back until it thunked against the catwalk railing, letting him stare up from behind his rose-tinted glasses toward the ceiling, heedless of the tears streaming down his face. "I dunno what to do to stop it, Vee. You were always the one c-coming up with the harebrained schemes that somehow worked. You always were smarter than I am, just damn crazy. We worked so good together, like brothers, you 'n me." He laughed mirthlessly, a shaking hand coming up to cover his face as he sobbed, unable to stop himself. "...though guess I'm probably the crazy one now, h-huh. Talkin' to your mech like somehow you c-can hear me through it. Like you're gonna act like my crazy older brother again and somehow tell me this's all gonna work out in the end, and I'm not a heartless monster for doin' this, goin' along with this shit."

He didn't pay attention to the faint nudging at his side at first, figuring it was just the edge of the railing digging into his ribs. When the touch became more insistant, however, he looked down, blinking away tears. Only to stare dumbly at the very large fingertip pressed ever so gently against his side. His breath caught, and for a moment Swindle couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, because that was the hand of Vortex's mech, his index finger pressed almost lovingly to Swindle's side, rubbing up and down very slightly now that Swindle was actively paying attention. Almost as if it were trying to comfort him.

Dashing tears from his eyes with the back of one hand, Swindle switched his attention from the massive finger at his side to the head of the mech beside him, expecting to see First Aid curled up inside the cockpit controlling things. But no, the cockpit was empty, the faint lights inside just enough to let him see through the visor before everything flared to life, the visor turning bright and opaque as the mech's head turned slowly to look directly at Swindle.

He'd spent years pretending there was no such thing as ghosts, hating that Vortex's mech killed pilots, but refusing to believe it was anything other than glitches. To say otherwise would be having to say that something of his friend, his brother, still lingered, and Swindle couldn't help him. Now, though, he couldn't deny it. He could feel Vortex there, staring at him through the mech, through that red visor so much like Vortex's own remembered helmet. He blinked as the sound of soft static filled the air, a mechanical text-to-speech voice whispering through the speakers embedded in the mech's head. "Swindler, c'mon now. You never were one for tears, little bro."

If...if Vortex intended that to stop Swindle from crying, it had the exact opposite effect. Sure, the voice was mechanical, it sounded off, but that was still, somehow, Vortex's voice, and Swindle hadn't heard it outside of old recordings for far too long. He shakily got to his feet, one hand covering his mouth to muffle himself while the other scrabbled frantically for Vortex's finger, any and all fears about the rogue mecha deciding to crush him into paste fleeing from his mind in his desperation to have some part of Vee touching him. Only Vortex ever called him "Swindler". Only Vortex ever called him little bro.

"A...are you really in there, Vee?" Even to Swindle's own ears he sounded pathetic. Not like himself at all. It was the stress. It had to be the stress. That was the only explanation.Maybe he was crazy. Maybe watching Blurr almost die was the final straw that broke him, and now he was headed for the looney bin as soon as someone found him. Damn. But hearing Vortex's voice, even distorted by machinery, coming from his mech, broke something inside Swindle's soul, and grief came pouring out whether he wanted it to or not.

Again that soft static, again that voice. "In the figurative flesh, Swindler." Somehow it even managed to retain Vortex's characteristic croon, the way he only spoke to those he actually liked, not the bitten-off snark of those he tolerated, or the open hiss to those he actively hated. Vortex carefully raised his hand over the railing, making Swindle step back a pace, and lowered a couple of his fingers, beckoning carefully. "C'mere. Can't hug you, know you need it, but c'mere anyway." Swindle should have thought twice. Every protocol to do with Vortex – the mech, not the long-dead person – screamed about caution and wariness. But this was Vortex. The person, not the mech. Crazy, full of bloodlust, stay out of his way on the battlefield, don't make him hate you, sure, but above all else he was Swindle's mech partner, his brother, his friend closer than a brother. The one who always had his back on and off the battlefield, in ways Onslaught never could.

He stepped into Vortex's hand without hesitation, trembling hands coming down to help hold himself steady as Vortex's fingers and thumb gripped him in a hold too gentle to come from a mech's default pilotless programming. He saw the visor open, and before he knew it he was deposited gently inside, warm air that smelled vaguely of vanilla – had First Aid hung an air freshener somewhere? – already wafting through the cockpit.

The speakers crackled to life. "Find a seat, little bro." Cabling hissed out of hidden apertures, operating oddly like hands and arms as they found Swindle, pulled him in closer to the emergency jumpseat off to the side of the pilot's seat, designed for maintenance and a place to stretch if trapped in the cockpit for too long, pulling it out from the wall and ushering Swindle to sit. Like Vortex knew Swindle couldn't bring himself to sit in the pilot's seat of a mech that didn't belong to him, that still belonged to Vortex, even if First Aid was 'sharing' it now.

"Vee..." "Hush." The voice was rough, kindness having always been oddly difficult for Vortex to manage, always making him sound like he was angry at himself for daring to show any kind of humanity. That was the case now, of course. Death hadn't changed some things. A lot of things. Still, Vortex's cabling wrapped gently around Swindle once he sat, draping over his shoulders and snaking across his lap like one of Vortex's annoying full-body hugs that had always been so good simply because of their rarity, even if he had to be drunk to give them. The thought made Swindle want to tear up all over again, grief and stress radiating off of him even as he reached out to brush over one of the cables, feeling unseen eyes watching him as he did his best to gather himself, unable to feel any fear for the faint malevolent presence that surrounded him, because he knew that malevolence wasn't directed at him. It never had been."I...you didn't come back," Swindle whispered, swallowing to try and keep his voice steady. "You died, Vee, and everything else went to hell after. It's only gotten worse now, and I...I didn't...I didn't even know you were still in here. You died."

"Yeah, I died. But. Still here, little bro. Got me a good pilot now that I like, finally, but I'm still here." Vortex's voice softened a little, in ways that would make almost anyone who knew him before his death stare at him like he'd lost even more of his marbles. Nobody ever really got to see this side of him other than the one pilot in their group who was younger than him; Swindle had been the only one to deserve the softness he was capable of, and even then only in secret. "Can't get rid of me that easily. I still got your back, y'know?" The cables wrapped around Swindle tightened slightly, reiterating Vortex's point and enclosing him in just that little bit of security. A hug from his dead friend, who was not entirely dead, and always closer to being more than even a brother would have been.

"Okay Swindler. Let's talk, you'n me. Let's come up with a plan. I'm here, little bro." "Always will be."

[ellestra]

The Voice from the Outer World

Dune is a story of failure. SPOILERS for Dune Part 2 below

Power corrupts and all of that. We all know this. So we would be able to avoid it, right? If you know what happens you can chose another option. You would be different.

And here's a story that shows that even when you know all of this and more and can literally see the future it's still not enough.

I get why people often think that to avoid this the person in power shouldn't want that power. That this would make them somehow immune. And this logic has multiple faults (like - how can you be good at doing something you hate?) and one of them is that just not wanting to abuse power doesn't mean you would do right things with it.

We are reminded multiple times in the film (and the books also aren't shy about it) that Fremen religious belief in a saviour is not something that arose naturally. It's a belief seeded by Bene Gesserit's Missionaria Protectiva. They seeded superstitions and myths in different cultures so they could use them in a future emergency. Everything Fremen believe about their Mahdi was created so their faith could be used by a Bene Gesserit in need. And both Jessica and Paul are aware of this even before they even set a foot on Arrakis.

It's specifically made for the saviour to be a foreign one (Lisan al-Gaib is The Voice from the Outer World) because the people who made and planned to use this prophecy were ones from an outsider culture. Paul doesn't hijack Fremen beliefs to insert himself as their white saviour. These beliefs was specifically created for someone like him to use.

It was made with purpose of hijacking Fremen religion into protecting the foreigners who know how this prophecy was constructed. This is a parasitic belief (cuckoo-like faith) and the truth doesn't set anyone free. We see why with Stilgar as he wants to believe so much that everything becomes a sign. Even when he's told this has been fabricated and he was manipulated he warps it into something that supports his beliefs not undermines them. I'm sure you've seen this in real life, in real politics if not religion.

Jessica and Chani got changed the most from their book versions. They've become opposite sides of the ideological divide. Not between religion and lack of it - Jessica obviously not a believer - but between using people and letting them decide their own future.

Book Jessica is more apprehensive of Paul's choices. She's often more worried he may not survive the trials than pushing for them for power. In here she becomes the driving force for using the messianic belief Bene Gesserit implanted for Paul's benefit. She makes sure Fremen believe he fits the story. She doesn't care about Paul's wishes to avoid this burden. She knows it doesn't matter when he tells the people the truth about Bene Gesserit, their abilities and their manipulation techniques. Belief is impervious to proof and confirmation bias makes you reject all evidence to the contrary.

But then, in the film, Jessica is kind of possessed. Stilgar warns Paul not to listen to the djinn but neither he nor his mother can stop listening to the voices. The film removes Alia's book doings but replaces them with foreshadowing of what she becomes. She whispers the truths about the future to her mother even before she is born. Funny, how this change makes her, not Paul, the first fully prescient Atreides. She is manipulating the events when Paul refuses to and that's a foreshadowing too. When Jessica took the Water of Life while pregnant she did it for the power this new position among the Fremen would give her. Alia never stood a chance. She was pre-born into this.

The only one trying to stand in the way of succumbing to the power corruption is movie version of Chani. She was never believer in a saviour. She wants her people to save themselves. They already have a plan for a better future that doesn't involve killing worlds for the Empire they never wanted anything to do with. They were not supposed to be warriors of the prophet. She sees this for what it is - a way to control her people. She understands this is just another form of enslavement. The only difference is that this one is embraced. No one listens to her when she tells them the truth. They only see what they want to see.

The power that comes from being close to the rule is just as blinding when you stand close to the throne as it is when you sit on it.

And the sad part is she knows she played a part in this happening to as she convinced Paul to give this a try. She didn't see the visions he saw so she hoped he can remain the person she fell in love with. When he submits to the way prescience shows him and takes over the faith we feel her heartbreak. She watches him becoming what he feared and everyone around him stops her from trying to save him because they get something out of it (not just the other Fremen or Jessica - Gurney puts atomic arsenal in Paul's hands).

Paul doesn't bring freedom. He just changes who holds the power but in the end the structures of power remain (the similarities between Saudarkar and Fremen are not accidental). And billions die so it can happen. But billions is a an abstract number. It's much easier to feel the consequences when they hit close and personal.

Everyone around Paul gets to gain something - Gurney gets revenge on Rabban, Jessica and Stilgar get to destroy the Harkonnens and the Emperor. They are on top now. The power corrupts before you even hold it. Just the promise of power is enough.

This film version of Chani doesn't let us forget that this is what we watch. That what is happening is not a good thing. We as humans have tendency to gloss over big numbers of deaths when it's some unseen people with whom we have no emotional connections. Through her eyes the loss is so much more personal. She loses her Usul to Paul Muad'Dib. And he takes her people and her planet too.

As Paul says - they are Harkonnens too. And they do what Harkonnens do too. The difference was always cosmetic.

And one more thing. A lot is said about Arabic and Muslim influences in Fremen culture and religion but they aren't the only ones. One other is the word used for the places where Fremen live - Sietch. It comes from Zaporozhian Cossack name for their fortified encampments - sich.

In the West the name Cossacks invokes the cruel Russian Imperial forces that tsars used to pacify conquered territories. But this is not what comes to my mind first. In the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth they were free people living in the borderlands of the Commonwealth on the territories often attacked by the Ottomans. The constant raids from the Turks meant they were warriors and constantly moving. But this also allowed for a lot of freedom as there wasn't a lot of direct control over these territories for the same reason. This meant that they were often joined by anyone wishing to have that freedom - from peasants escaping indenture to nobles escaping the law.

The dissatisfaction with the Polish rule eventually lead to an uprising and this part of Ukraine joined Russian Empire. That Empire destroyed all the freedoms Cossacks had and those independent warriors became just another enforcers of conformity for the Empire. They've become exactly what they fought against. I often wondered if Herbert chose the name Sietch intentionally to invoke this turn of events.

[satorusugurugurl]

The Ghost in My Apartment

Summary: When you move into your new apartment, it comes with all the bells and whistles! Garden tub, balcony, and a sexy ghost roommate!

Pairing: Kamo Choso x AFAB!Reader

Warning: language, mentions of fire, death, ghosts, ghost sex (it’s kinktober play along), smut, unprotected sex

Word Count: 4.2K

A/N Kinktober day one: Ghosts! This was so much fun! Ugggh, I love him; let me bite his cheeks!! I hope you all are ready for a month of fun!!

For as long as you can remember, you have seen things other people weren’t able to see. Those things were spirits of the dead, ghosts. You began seeing these spirits at the right age of 10 years old. Your grandma often told you that it was a blessing, a gift, and one that you often ridiculed and hated because seeing ghosts wasn’t like it was in the movies or television shows.

Some of them were terrifying, mangled, bruised, beaten, and bloody. Seeing those kinds of things when you were still growing up could leave scars. Most of the time, you did your absolute best to ignore the spirits that you saw—until you were eighteen. Around this time, the ghost of an elderly man approached you. He was kind and gentle, and all he wanted was help. So, against your better judgment and your reservations, you decided to help him.

He only wanted to tell his wife where the key to their safety deposit box was. When you went to this woman’s home, she thought you were crazy. But her whole demeanor changed when you begged her to check his rain jacket. She had gone from cold and uncaring to a sobbing mess. She thanked you profusely, offering you money, which you declined. No amount of money in the world would satisfy her more than seeing a smile on her face.

From that day on, you made it a point to try to help any other spirits you encountered. Some were far beyond to help, becoming nothing more than a poltergeist. Most of the time, you were lucky enough to help those in desperate need find their way to light.

It was sort of your side hustle. Aside from working at a local bookstore, you did everything in your power to help those you could come across or help families who would reach out to you after hearing about what you had done for others in the past. But you did your best to keep that part of your life separate from your mundane daily routine until you moved into your new apartment.

“Yes, the last family that lived here suffered a great loss. The older brother of the family was gravely injured in a fire. That’s probably why the rent has dropped so much. You know how people are with the superstitions of the dead.”

Your lip twitched as you followed the elderly woman up the stairs to your brand new apartment, which you just found out had experienced a recent death, and that meant one of two things may happen. Either the spirit of the young man who had died would still be lingering in your apartment, burnt to a crisp, or he had moved on peacefully. You wouldn’t be able to know until you took a chance to look around.

It might take a few days, but you would eventually get your answer. Sometimes, spirits were still very much like humans. They kept their distance, but eventually, they would sometimes come forth and tell you what they wanted or needed help. You had gotten over your fear of the different appearances over the last few years, but the thought of seeing a person who had been severely burned in a fire was something you weren’t looking forward to.

“But aside from that, the view is beautiful, and your neighbors are nice. I do believe you will enjoy your time here.”

“I have a good feeling about this place. I’m looking forward to living here.”

The landlord gave you the key to your new apartment and a set of rules, like when your rent was due or what day the trash was picked up. These were the typical things you needed to know in case there were emergencies or if the power went out and you needed to call maintenance. Even after she had left, giving you all of the information you needed, you found yourself hesitating to open the door.

“Please don't be lurking around. At least let me get settled in, and then I’ll let you know I’m around if you need help.” You silently prayed to the unknown spirit if one was behind your door. With a twist of the key, you unlocked the door before heading into the apartment, finding it empty except for your furniture delivered and the boxes that had been brought in. Much to your relief, no ghost was roaming around exploring the living room.

Your ghostly roommate didn’t appear at all the whole time you unpacked and got settled in, which was comforting in a way. You had hoped that they had moved on, weren’t stuck to this earthly plane, and could spend eternity in paradise or be reincarnated. No one deserves to be stuck in the same place for all time.

You were sitting on the couch to watch a movie when you realized your hope for the spirit moving on had been a dream. While you stared at the screen, you felt the couch dip under the added weight of someone joining you. Over the years of seeing these spirits, you had realized that it was best to take your time and not make a big deal of their presence. Not daring to make sudden moves, you looked at the see-through silhouette next to you.

You would have expected it to be completely charred, seeing that there had been a fire in your apartment before. The spirit wasn’t burnt or injured in any invisible way you could see. Instead, he looked completely healthy, aside from a scar running down the side of his neck and arms. You were confident that if you were to remove his clothing, he would have burns elsewhere, but that didn’t take away from his at all.

The ghost was handsome, with dark hair tied up into two buns on top of his head, and a black tattoo had been etched into the skin across the bridge of his nose. Dark eyes were focused on the television. You could hear a clicking sound, most likely due to a tongue piercing, hitting his teeth. You had no clue who he was or his name; the only thing you knew was that this man was so good-looking. It was a shame that he had been taken from the world too soon.

“Fuuck,” you whispered, biting down on your bottom lip as you took another minute to look him over shamelessly. At this exact minute, he turned his head to look at you.

From the way that his eyes went wide, he wasn’t expecting you to be able to see him. But sure shit, you were eyeing him up and down like he was a tall glass of water on a hot summer day. The ghost scoffed, leaning back on the couch and shaking his head.

“If you're going to stare at me like that, at least you could tell me your name.”

“I could say the same thing for you, seeing that you’re in my apartment.”

The ghost jumped, eyes wide as he snapped his head toward you. “You can see me?” You laughed, nodding your head. The sudden realization had your newfound ghost roommate leaning back against the sofa, processing what you had just said. “Like you can really see me?” When you nodded a second time, the spirit laughed, running a hand over his face.

“What? Are you disappointed?”

“I’m a bit relieved. Death is pretty lonely.”

You frowned, finding yourself not interested in whatever was on the television. “I’m sorry, but I’m glad I at least could ease some of the loneliness.” You stuck your hand out towards him, Telling him your name, only to have him stare at your hand with amusement. “What?” The ghost shook his head, letting out a quiet huff.

“I think it’s just cute that you think I’ll be able to shake your hand.”

“Oh, right. I'm sorry. I forgot some spirits are dead even when they aren’t all that dead-looking.”

“No, you're okay. It really was cute. I’m Kamo Choso. Nice to meet you.” To play along with you, he reached his hand out, knowing it would go through you like his new form was with every solid object nowadays.

Much to his surprise, he felt you when his hand grazed over yours. Your skin was warm to the touch, and it felt like he was touching you. His hand didn’t pass through yours. It just gripped your hand, which surprised both of you. You stared at your joined hands in momentary shock before trailing your gaze up to Choso, who was just as shocked.

His eyes seemed to light up as his grip on your hand tightened. You couldn’t help but smile, eyes lighting up as you focused on Choso’s eyes, the way they trailed up your arm before meeting your gaze. There was a spark you had never felt with any spirits, let alone humans. It was, god, something you’d only read about in books.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Choso.”

That was the beginning of your extraordinary and slightly complicated friendship. You both hung out, talking like roommates, watching television, and getting to know each other. And the more you got to know Choso, who loved his younger brothers, went to art school and loved to cook, the more your heart ached. Strangely, you mourned the man you would never get to meet. That was a strange pain that settled in your gut.

Those thoughts often find their way into your mind nowadays. You sighed, lying on your bed, watching Choso float above you. He was talking about how Yuuji, his younger brother, made a hotpot around this time of year. He went on and on about how it would be perfect on an October day like today. But you were more interested in how his arms looked in the tanktop he had on. How he appeared, and you began wondering what he smelt like, what he would taste like.

Why were all the good ones either taken, not into girls, or, in your case, dead?

Choso was just your type, and it hurt to know you would never get a chance to be with him. Choso looked down at you when you didn’t respond to his question about whether you liked chicken meatballs. When he looked into your eyes, he frowned, finding them flooded with tears.

“Well damn, I just asked if you liked chicken meatballs.” He said with a snicker, knowing damn well that was not the reason behind your tears.

“I-I’m just sad.” You whispered, wiping at your eyes.

“About what?” Choso slowly floated down, lying on the bed right next to you.

He watched as you fiddled around with your pajamas, sighing softly before you rolled onto your side, gazing into his eyes. “I’m sad about you.” Choso reached out, cupping your cheek in one hand. The chills are almost calming in a strange way. “It’s not fair.” Choso’s soul ached at the sorrow that flooded your voice.

“Honey—”

“It’s not fair that you died too soon! It’s not fair at all.” You sniffled, finally losing yourself to the swell of emotions swarming in your chest. “It’s not fair, Cho.” Those cool arms wrapped around you, pulling you close to his chest.

“I know—but I don’t regret it.” His words struck you like icy rain that was colder than his touch. You pulled back, peeking at him as he brushed the hair back out of your face. “I died, but I managed to save my brothers. If I were given the chance to save them from a burning building, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

You had grown to know he loved his brothers endlessly. That was a God-given truth. Hell, that was one of the reasons you fell so hard for him, a ghost, the shade of a person who was no longer alive. For him not to regret his choice spoke volumes of his character—a character you would give anything to love for the rest of your days and grow old with.

“Do you have any regrets, Cho?” You asked as the tears finally stopped. “Anything you wished you got to do or things you would have done differently.”

“Yeah, there’s one thing.” He said with no hesitation.

The straightforward tone of his words had you sitting up, interested in what he had to say. “What’s that?” Choso followed your every move, sitting up, gently cupping both sides of your face as he stroked your cheeks with his thumbs.

“Not living long enough to meet you.”

His lips found yours in a passionate kiss that took your breath away. You gasped into his mouth, gently reaching out and gripping his upper arms as you kissed him back eagerly. Once again, sparks, no, that failed in comparison to the feelings blossoming inside of you. Fireworks were a better way to describe the passion coursing through your body as you melted against his cold, see-through form.

Choso shifted, laying on top of you, the coldness a stark contrast to the heat radiating through you. The sensation, while shocking at first, was one you found yourself craving. So you gave in to those desires, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him tighter against you as you whimpered and cried into his mouth as he kissed you as if he would never get the chance to do so again.

You broke the kiss first, panting heavily as Choso peppered kisses down your neck, moaning and grunting against your skin as he slowly slid his hand up your shirt, trailing over your tummy before coming in contact with your breasts. You inhaled sharply as the chill hardened your nipples before his lips found yours again. Kissing you with as much passion as he could muster, making the most of his time with you, making up for the lifetime he would miss with you.

“C-Choso!” You cried out as he gently twisted and teased your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, taking in the way your body twitched and melted against him. “Fuck!”

“I regret not living long enough to do all this to you with my body.” He snugged, tugging your shirt off with your help. “I regret not getting to grow old with you, to be with you, take you on dates.” He made quick work of his shorts before you both worked at his pants. “I feel a connection with you, and I wish we would have met sooner.”

As you tugged his pants and boxers down, you couldn’t have agreed more with him. The time you spent with Choso this far has been great. You had a genuine connection, but it is only so far. He couldn’t take you out on dates or leave the apartment. So, in a way, you selfishly wanted more. You longed for it, for him.

And goddamn it all! You were going to have him in every single way you could. Hands moved, working with clothes while caressing and roaming over bodies. In all of your years, all of your previous relationships, you have never had a connection like this.

Choso shifted, looking down as he positioned himself between his legs. “You want this?” He asked in such a gentle, sweet tone.

“Yes.” You whispered, grabbing a handful of his hair and bringing him down to your mouth, where you kissed him. “I want you.”

Not hesitating in the slightest, Choso moved, pushing that of his cock into your wet and willing pussy. You gasped, eyes going slightly wide at the cool sensation of him sliding inside of you. It was like temperature play but better. Choso growled in the back of his throat, a sound that chills up your spine. You want to hear more of the sounds he would make. You wanted all of him at once.

Not wanting to wait around or hesitate, you began to rock your hips up, pushing him further inside of you. The ghost above you shivered, falling slightly on top of you, but he braced himself on his arms to not crush you. There is a certain satisfaction in the way that you rolled your hips against him and how he reacted to your slightest touch.

“Holy fuck—Honey, that feels so good.” He whispered as he fisted the sheets, his cock throbbing inside of you. “P-please don’t stop.” he banged as you both began rocking and rolling against each other in the most sinful of ways.

You shuddered, gripping his arms as you rocked against him faster. Arching off the bed, the head of his cock hit all of the right spots deep inside of you, drawing out the pleasure, drawing out sounds from your that you had never heard before. It was perfect; Choso knew every part of your body, like where to kiss and how to move. There was a spark, a connection, and it made your heart ache because you knew you were meant to be together.

That realization, the truth, hurt so bad it killed you. You wanted to cry to curse the world for taking him from you before you two even met. The pain almost overrode the pleasure, but it was Choso’s kisses that made you release the grip of sorrow you were slowly clutching onto.

“I love you.” His voice was as smooth as honey. “I love you so damn much.”

You kissed him, slowly losing control of your rocking and gripping, allowing Choso to take the lead. He gripped the sheets, holding onto them as he slammed into you, rocking the bed, causing the sweetest sounds of pleasure to leave your mouth. Those sounds were like music to his ears as he shuddered, losing his self-control.

“C-Cho! L-love you!” you cried out, gripping his arms tighter. “L-love everything about you!”

Lips connected again as the room seemed to spin, and the bed creaked louder with each powerful thrust. Your moans grew louder, and the sound of skin slapping against your skin grew louder as your head writhed against the pillow. Choso cupped your breasts, squeezing them as the coil in your abdomen tightened, growing tighter and tighter, making your toes curl as you gasped out loud. Choso knew you were close.

You didn’t have a chance to warn him because he fucked into you, stealing the words from you. The orgasm was so intense you screamed, gripping onto him, crying out his name as you soaked his form and the sheets underneath you. Watching you come undone, crying out his name, had a warmth growing in his chest, one he hadn’t felt in so damn long.

Choso felt himself release, hips stilling as the overwhelming pleasure had him throwing his head back. God, he wished he was alive; he wanted to be inside of you, filling you up, making love with you. But he was sure these were fragments, memories of the past allowing him to remember what it felt like, but this felt so much better. This was real and true, but also painful because he could never be with you however he wanted.

“Cho~” your breathy whisper drew him back to the present, “mhmm~”

“You’re so perfect.” He whispered, pulling the sheets over your bare body. “I would have loved you in so many ways.”

You hummed, cuddling into his body, humming as the chill cooled your body down. “You already do, and I love you too.” Choso frowned, stroking your air as you slowly fell asleep in his arms.

That familiar warmth settled in his chest, and he knew it was his time to go. There was a voice calling him, a light drawing him in. He didn’t want to leave you, but the warmth in his chest grew hotter and hotter, and the once solid form you could touch was nothing more than air. Choso frowned, watching your arm slip through his body, landing on the mattress below you.

Choso sighed slowly, sliding out of the bed. He approached the balcony where the bright light was waiting for him, calling his name. But before he stepped outside into it, he took one final look over his shoulder, smiling sadly at your sleeping form.

“I’ll see you in the next life. I love you.” Choso stepped into the light with a gulp, leaving the apartment behind.

The following morning, you woke up, not finding Choso anywhere. You searched and called out his name for close to an hour before coming to the sudden and cold reality that Choso was gone. Part of you was happy that he could move on and find his peace, but the selfish part of you wished he would have stayed. But what you wanted didn’t matter; he was gone, hopefully at rest now, leaving you to mourn a man and relationship that never was.

That pain sat in your stomach like a rock, weighing you down for weeks. You tried to find joy in the little things in life. Reading your favorite books, watching your comfort movies, and making your favorite foods. But nothing seemed to fill the void your ghost roommate left behind.

This went on for a few months, and you finally started feeling like yourself again. The pain was still there, of course, but it no longer weighed you down like a ton of bricks. You felt more relaxed leaving the apartment, finally healing. You were less sad about Choso finding peace and more happy that he was finally at rest.

His warm, dark eyes were on your mind as you pulled out some cookies from your oven when there was a knock on the door to your apartment. You hummed, taking off your oven mitts and opening the door to find a young man with tufts of pink hair staring down at you. He smiled, bright eyes twinkling as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his yellow hoodie.

“Hi! Sorry to bother you. My name is Itadori Yuuji, and I used to live here.” He swayed back and forth, pursing his lips together in thought. “I uhm—well, my brother told me about a fire safety box he hid in one of the vents, so we came to collect it if that’s okay.”

“Oh,” this was Yuuji, Choso’s younger brother. Finally, getting to see the young man in person felt surreal. “Uhm—”

“If it’s not a good time, I can come back later.”

“No, no, sorry, uhm, I just—it’s nothing. Please come inside.”

Yuuji grinned, nodding his head, turning towards the stairs. “Hey, bro! She said it was okay!” You stepped further into your apartment, hugging yourself as Yuuji took his shoes off. “My brother is right behind; he just takes longer to climb the stairs.” The clanking of a can hit the floor as a shadow stretched out across the floor.

“I just got out of the hospital. I think that’s a valid excuse.” That voice, you knew that voice. “I’m sorry for the intru—” That voice you loved, the one you thought you would never hear again, trailed off. “Have we met?”

Kamo Choso, the ghost you had fallen in love with, stood in front of you, very much alive and well, gripping a cane. He had burn scars just like his ghostly form, but he was here, solid, and no longer saw thought. Seeing him, hearing him, and smelling the musky scent of spices and amber had your heart crawling up your throat as you stepped forward. Your eyes frantically searched his face, making sure he truly was there, alive and standing in front of you.

“Not formally.” You whispered, grinning as tears blurred your vision as a certain softness crept into his features. You held your hand out, telling him your name with a smile.

Much like the first time you met, Choso stared at your hand with tears in his eyes before he took it. This time, instead of being like ice, it was as warm as could be. That sensation had him smiling as he shut his eyes as if this wasn’t the first time you had met but a reunion.

“I’m Kamo Choso, it’s nice to meet you.”

“I couldn't agree more.” you motioned towards the kitchen. “Well, Choso, could I offer you some cookies?”

“I like the sound of that. But in exchange, would you let me take you to dinner sometime.” His grip on your hand tightened. “I can’t get over this feeling that I know you from somewhere.”

“Maybe from a dream.”

Choso beamed down at you finally releasing his grip on your hand as he followed you into the kitchen. “Well, I hope that dream becomes a reality.” You bit down on your bottom lip with a knowing smile. That dream was going to become a reality because this was a love that transcended both life and death.

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[katsu28]

Kissing away their tears with lando, please and thank you!!🫶🏻

anything for you rachel my love <3 ily!

lando norris x reader, 1.6k, there's a crash but no descriptions of injury. request something from here!

“Norris is doing really well today, isn’t he?” 

You’re not sure whose mouth the words come out of, but your head whips in their general direction, as do the rest of folks in the VIP box. Variations of “Shut the fuck up!” echo around the room, people grumbling to each other about those who obviously don’t know one of the biggest unspoken rules in sports. 

Whenever a player, or in this case, a driver, happens to be doing well in a match (or race), you never, ever mention that they are. You can think it, you can say it in your head, but you don’t ever say it out loud. When those words make it out into the open air, bad things happen. 

Call it stupid, call it superstition, but it’s a known sentiment in sports—Formula One especially. It’s like eating the same breakfast or listening to the same song before every race, or wearing a certain item of clothing every race day because you believe it brings you luck.

Does it actually bring you luck? Maybe, maybe not, but you do it anyway because of the possibility that it could. 

You take a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut with a prayer to whatever higher power out there is listening.

Please, please, please don’t let anything fuck up Lando’s race. 

Your prayer is futile.

You hear it before you see it on the TV—a loud crash. Tires skidding over asphalt with a deafening screech, metal grinding on metal, carbon fiber snapping off chassis and skidding across the track.

Instantly, you know there’s been a collision. Your heart leaps into your throat at the single thought that screams its way through your mind like an emergency alarm. 

Was it Lando? 

A hush falls over the track, and suddenly the only thing you can hear is the thundering of your heartbeat in your ears.

On the screen flashes an aerial shot of what you assume is the scene of the crash, but you can’t see much through the smoke and dust. The vague misshapen lump of a mangled car, a wheel rolling away from the wreckage, then—

Your heart drops out of your ass. 

The car is bright orange. And as the cloud of dust gets blown away by the strong wind on track, your eyes zero in on the unmistakable fluoro green of Lando’s helmet.

He’s not moving. 

No, no, no, no. 

Your body is in the move before your brain even realizes you’re running, sprinting through the hall, down the stairs that would take you to the McLaren garage. You’re dodging people, you’re dodging equipment and carts and everything of the sort like a pro. All the while, you feel like you can’t breathe because you don’t know if your boyfriend is okay. You don’t even know if he’s alive. 

That’s what scares you the most. 

You’re stopped by track security before you can enter through to the garage. You show the guard your pass, but he still keeps you there, muttering something into a walkie talkie that you don’t understand. 

“Come on, mate! Do you see what it says? Let me through, please!” You plead, near tears at this point. 

The frantic part of you wants to push right past this knob and find Lando yourself, but you know the only good that’ll do is get yourself thrown out, and that’s the last thing you need right now. Your best option is to play nice, despite all the worst thoughts running rampant in your mind. 

The guard takes what seems like a lifetime to look over your pass, glances up at you, then back down to the pass, but steps aside eventually, waving you into the bustling garage. You force yourself to calm down a smidge, not wanting to disturb any part of Oscar’s race. 

From there, it’s not hard to find Lando’s race engineer. Will looks less worried than you, even as he paces back and forth with his headphones still on. 

“Will!” You blurt, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the tall man. “Please tell me he’s okay.” 

“There you are! I sent someone up to the box to fetch you ages ago. Lando’s at the medical center now, he’s conscious, coherent,” Will says. You let out a sigh of barely there relief. At least he’s alive. “He was asking for you. Reckon you’ll be able to see him after the medics check him out, if you want to go wait there.” 

“Yes. Yeah, yes, thank you, Will,” You breathe, wrangling him in a quick hug before making a mad dash back through the halls towards the medical station.

You’re panting when you get there, fully aware you probably look mental to any sane person, but you don’t care. All you care about is getting to Lando. “Hi, where’s Lando Norris? McLaren driver, number 4, was brought in after the crash at turn ten?” 

The friendly looking woman at the front table smiles sympathetically. “You’re his girlfriend, aren’t you? He told us you’d be worried. Wanted us to make sure someone found you.” 

“I am, yeah. Is he—can I see him?” 

“Sorry, dear. The medic team is still doing their tests and all that. Best let them be for now, but I’ll tell you what.” She leans in like she’s about to divulge some big secret. “I’ll let Lando know you’re here. Technically, I’m not supposed to, but you both seem like you could use a little break.” 

“Thank you,” You say shakily, inhaling a wavering breath. “Thank you so much.” 

“Of course, dear. You just sit tight over here, alright?” 

That’s exactly what you do. You sit in the metal folding chair and you wait. 

Nearly an hour passes and you’re still no closer to seeing Lando than you already were. The race is nearing its end, and you don’t want to bother the nice lady who’d already bent the rules for you once, but you’re almost at your wits end.

You’ve got your head in your hands when you hear your name called. It’s the lady again, telling you you’re able to go see Lando now. You're not sure what to expect when you make your way into the station, but you've gone through so many possibilities in your head you feel like you've adequately prepared yourself for almost anything.

Lando is sitting on the edge of the gurney when you walk into the room, legs swinging aimlessly as he secures his watch around his wrist. 

He’s okay. He’s sweaty and covered in dust and dirt and looks like hell, but he’s okay. 

You’re not sure why that realization, the one you’ve been waiting for this whole time, is the final crack in the dam. Lando’s eyes snap to you at the same time you rush forward, jumping off the bed with a tiny grimace and crossing the cramped room to bring you against his chest. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” He soothes, holding your sobbing frame tight. You’ve got two fists twisted into the lapels of his racing suit, clutching at it like you're afraid he’ll slip right through your fingers. “I’m alright, love. I’m fine, I promise.” 

“I heard you—I saw—” You can’t even get the words out through the tears streaming freely down your face. 

“I know. Fuck, I know, I’m so sorry.” 

You feel his lips press against your tear soaked cheeks, kissing all over your face until your breathing levels out. Even when you do stop hyperventilating, Lando continues to litter gentle pecks all around, finally stopping with one long, lingering kiss to your forehead. 

You’re finally able to release your death grip on the front of his suit, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles as if it wasn’t already completely a mess. 

On instinct, one of your hands slides over his fireproofs, splaying over his chest right where his heart is. It beats strongly under your palm, if not a little faster when you look him in the eyes. It helps, but it does little to get rid of the knotted ball of fear that’s been sitting right on your chest this entire time. But hey, at least you’re not crying anymore. 

“There’s my girl,” He hums, swiping the pad of his thumb under your eyes gently to rid you of any stray tear tracks. His free hand comes to blanket yours where it remains on his chest, fingers curing over your own. “Hi there. Are you alright?” 

“Fuck me, I’m a mess,” You say, sniffling. “I should be the one checking on you and here I am crying like a baby. How are you? Are you hurt, what did the medics say?” You size him up for any outward injuries, patting around his suit gently. Your hand presses against his torso and he winces a little bit at the sudden pressure, but tuts at the wide eyed look you give him. 

“I’m fine, darling. Few bruised ribs and bumps from impact but otherwise a clean bill of health. Don’t even need to go to the hospital.”

“Thank god,” You sigh, slumping forward against his chest in relief. “That was so fucking scary.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” He murmurs, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. His nose presses into your hair, inhaling as deep as he can without pain twinging in his sides. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.” 

You shake your head firmly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” 

“Me too.” 

“How’s the car?” 

Lando grimaces, shaking his head. “Totaled. Not great.” 

“Is Zak mad?” 

“He’s definitely not happy, but I reckon he’s more relieved I’m okay.” 

“That makes two of us.” You hug him again, careful of his bruised ribs. “I would’ve hit him with your front wing if he was more worried about the damn car.” 

Lando lets out a snort of high pitched laughter, though it does sound a little nervous. He knows you're serious. “Babe, you can’t just whack my boss with a broken off piece of the car.” 

“Would you stop me?” 

“I’d feel obligated to or else I might be fired.” 

“But would you?” 

“Let’s just put a pin in that for now.”

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[saintatreidess]

(MINOR) SPOILERS FOR BOTH NOSFERATU (2024) & THE NOVEL DRACULA AHEAD!

modernity in nosferatu (2024) & dracula

it’s been almost 24 hours since i saw robert eggers’ nosferatu and i’m still in shock by how well crafted this film is. all my expectations for a dracula adaptation have been met. it’s obviously not a faithful adaptation of the novel. but we’ve seen that even adaptations that claim faithfulness end up fumbling what the story is about (cough, cough, bram stoker’s dracula (1992)). so, with that in mind, i think it’s better for a movie to do its own thing as long as it includes the themes at the core of dracula. and this is what nosferatu (2024) does really well.

what i want to talk about here is the topic of modernity in the story. it’s a central theme in the novel. there are a lot of references to late 19th century technological & scientific innovation. the count dracula is wary of modernity. he doesn’t understand it so he almost fears it. there is an opposition between modernity and old/paganism. this opposition can also be interpreted as "west v east".

this is referenced a lot in robert eggers’ nosferatu. when thomas hutter arrives at count orlok’s castle he asks his host about the local population’s superstitions. this angers the count who calls said superstitions idiotic (or something like this, i don’t remember the exact quote). obviously in the movie the main reason orlok goes to the west (germany in the movie, england in the novel) is to get to ellen. but there’s another reason, which is that in the 19th century western world (at least in the cities) pagan beliefs are practically gone. it’s a "modern" world in which people are no longer superstitious. they don’t believe in the supernatural, in vampires.

in his home country, orlok is threatened by pagan beliefs. by moving west, he can claim victims and get away with it because he’s protected by the upholding of modern science and rational thinking, which replaced superstition long ago. in the movie, the germans think that the doings of orlok are the plague. the existence of a blood-thirsty demon is ridiculous to them. this idea is represented by the character of herr harding (aaron taylor-johnson), whose rational mind ends up costing him the loss of his family and his own life.

that being said, in the novel, what ends up causing count dracula’s downfall is his weariness of modernity that i mentioned above. he uses "archaic" means of transportation to escape the hunting team made of van helsing, dr seward, mina & jonathan harker etc. he travels by sail instead of steamboat, carriage instead of steam train, the list goes on. but what allows the count’s foes to defeat him is in fact the belief that modernity/science and superstition are complementary and not opposite. van helsing uses both a scientific and pagan approach to eventually kill the vampire. so, don’t get it twisted, the novel doesn’t try to say that "modernity = good & superstition = bad" or vice versa. rather i think it offers a more nuanced take, suggesting that one doesn’t necessarily have to cancel out the other.

gif credits: junkfoodcinemas

[sluglore]

Explaining The Iterator's Purpose (And Why They Weren't Made to Circumvent The Echoes)

Alright, I know there's already been a few posts like this out there, like this older one from @halvedforest, and this recent one from @noizepushr, which are both good posts, but I've been meaning to touch up and cross-post my own older misconceptions post from reddit for a while now, and provide a deeper, more expanded analysis as to why this misconception exists and explain what's actually going on, so here it finally is haha I'll also be using the term 'Benefactor' instead of 'Ancient', if people are confused about that, I intend to make a post about it eventually ^^

( If you're confused on who out there even believes this, this idea originated from Rain World YouTube lore videos, long before Downpour was ever a thing! It is unfortunately still quite prominent on there... but it's definitely getting better :3 )

This misconception stems from misreading the singular pearl to ever mention the echoes, being the Bright Red farm arrays pearl, so let me begin by attaching the specific section below:

“There were some horror stories though... That if your ego was big enough, not even the Void Fluid could entirely cross you out, and a faint echo of your pompousness would grandiosely haunt the premises forever. So even when the Void Fluid baths became cheaper, some would still starve and drink the bitter tea.” (Bright red Farm Arrays pearl dialogue)

Note the specific usage of “some” here. Echoes weren't presented as an issue significant to re-center Benefactor society around, (let alone build the iterators for) but as some horror stories which only "some" people (likely on the fringes of society) would believe in. Nowhere are we given anything that alludes to the existence of Echoes being regarded as a societal problem to address, much less have anything to do with the Iterators.

Additionally, although we know for a fact that echoes do exist, its fairly possible that most of Benefactor society didn't, as LTTM doesn't even know what they are either, regarding them as nothing more than superstition. On the very next line, LTTM confirms that the void baths continued all the same, while again mentioning that "some" would still choose to abstain from them, and drink the bitter tea.

Then what’s the purpose of the iterators if they weren't created to circumvent the echoes? What is The Big Problem that they are even trying to solve in the first place? Well, both FP, LTTM, and the Exterior colored pearl dialogue spell the answer out for you. In fact, it's the first thing FP even tells you!

“The good news first. In a way, I am what you are searching for. Me and my kind have as our purpose to solve that very oscillating claustrophobia in the chests of you and countless others. A strange charity - you the unknowing recipient, I the reluctant gift. The noble benefactors? Gone.” (Five Pebbles dialogue to Survivor) (Monk's version also hits similar notes)

Five pebbles introduces himself as a “reluctant gift," with his purpose being "to solve that very oscillating claustrophobia in the chests of you and countless others," meaning to solve the cycles for everyone and everything else.

If you bring Looks to the Moon a neuron, she has the chance to repeat the same exact explanation to you.

"We were supposed to help everyone, you know. Everything. That was our purpose: a great gift to the lesser beings of the world. When facing our inability to do so, we all reacted differently. Many with madness.”

FP, LTTM, and the rest of their kind were created to serve the rest of the world in finding a method of total mass ascension, of ending the cycle entirely for everyone.... and everything. Not only including the fauna of the world, like the slugcat, but the bedrock, microbes and even gases, as explicitly stated in this snippet from the Exterior pearl dialogue below:

“The Moral Argument: Five Pebbles is our Creation, and we have Parental Obligations towards him. As an Iterator, he is also a Gift of Charity from Us to The World (unable to reach Enlightenment by itself - being composed mostly of Rock, Gas, dull witted Bugs and Microbes - and towards which We thus have Obligations)” (Pale Green Exterior pearl dialogue)

Here we have the Benefactors define it very clearly, that as an iterator, Five Pebbles is a "Gift of Charity from Us to The World." It's important to note that many misinterpret the next section in parentheses as being about FP himself, but if it were, it would be the only time FP is ever referred to as “it”. What's really being described is the world, “unable to reach enlightenment by itself, being composed mostly of rock, gas, dull witted bugs and microbes” The world is unable to reach Enlightenment on it's own and therefore, that's why the iterators were created. (Also- when you think about it, the description of "being composed of rock, gas, and dull witted microbes" doesn't even really fit FP's description lol)

Quick but necessary tangent, the concept of non-living things being apart of the cycle is a little confusing, and tricky to quickly answer without going deep into cycle lore discussion, (I have an entire post in drafts dedicated to clearing this up) but it's actually incredibly important for understanding what The Great Problem is! To shed some light, it's not that non-living matter are able to somehow comprehend the cycles, but that the entire physical world itself is actually an intrinsic part of the cycles.

If you leave a stone on the ground, and come back some time later, it's covered in dust. This happens everywhere, and over several lifetimes of creatures such as you, the ground slowly builds upwards. So why doesn't the ground collide with the sky? Because far down, under the very very old layers of the earth, the rock is being dissolved or removed. The entity which does this is known as the Void Sea. If you drill far enough into the earth you begin encountering a substance called Void Fluid. The deeper you go, the less rock and more Void Fluid. It's believed that there is a point where the rock completely gives way - below that would be the Void Sea. When that stone you placed on the ground has finally done its time in the sediments, it meets the Void Fluid and is dissolved, leaving the physical world. (Teal Subterranean pearl dialogue)

There's a reason that 'Cycles' is always plural in Rain World, because there's multiple of them! Organic life is in cycles, the physical bedrock of the world is in cycles, even the very concept of civilization is in cycles. In order to ascend everything, that means ascending not only all living things, but the entire physical universe itself! That's what the Great Problem really is :D (Also technicallyyy it's only ever referred to as "the big problem" and not "the great problem", the latter term stems entirely from the community but it's whatever i just wanted to quickly mention that. great problem definitely sounds cooler LOL)

In conclusion, Iterators are described as "Gifts to the World" not once, not twice, but three entire times throughout base game Rain World's dialogue, one from FP, one from LTTM, and one from the Benefactors. Rain World lore holds many unanswered, purposefully ambiguous questions, but the Iterator's purpose is not one of them!

If you're confused/interested in analysis of the Benefactor's motivations and perspectives on Ascension, I made a post a little while back containing my thoughts right here :)