#assuming this is in the past before they become a real couple

[shadowtraveled]

"mithrun is the only real monsterfucker in dungeon meshi" is objectively the funniest bit you can get out of his everything, but in all seriousness i think his attraction to his love interest is deliberately overstated—and that makes sense, because romantic jealousy is a classic and digestible motive, which is explicitly what kabru was aiming for in condensing mithrun's backstory, and also because until chapter 94, mithrun wasn't willing to admit to the true nature of his desires.

but because romantic envy is both classic and digestible, it probably isn’t a unique enough or complicated enough desire to tempt a demon’s appetite. mithrun’s wish, as far as we can figure from kabru’s reduced retelling, was to have a life in which he had never become one of the canaries, and that carries like 3857 implications and desires within it. that’s delicious. his love interest acts as sort of a red herring to his motivation for making it, though. (side note: i'm saying "love interest" here because, keeping in mind that i barely speak japanese on a good day anymore, "想い人" is something i'd usually take as just kind of an old-fashioned and romantic way to refer to a lover, but in context i wonder if both the connotation of yearning and the vagueness are intentional, and i think this phrasing gets those aspects of it more effectively. anyway.)

mithrun considered his love interest to be untrustworthy. there was a minute where i thought that comment might be about a similar-looking elf (yugin, one of his squad members), but comparing the two…

the "sketchy" arrow is definitely referring to the elf we know as his love interest—the bangs go toward her right, she only has the one forehead ornament, and, most notably, her ears aren't notched.

every time she’s given a full-body depiction in his dungeon, she’s drawn as a chimera, with the body of a snake from the waist down. (side note: the “what if a dungeon has chimeras before reaching level 4?”/“then the dungeon lord is unstable” exchange just being mithrun grilling his past self alive is so funny. he’s so. but anyway) there are a couple things about this.

first, the snake part of the chimera appears to be modeled after some species of coral snake mimic

which, in the biology-for-fun manga, i… doubt is a coincidence, especially with the added context of the “untrustworthy” comment. the dungeon’s conjured illusion of mithrun’s love interest was a harmless copycat of a venomous original. for whatever reason, he felt this person was a threat and made up a "safe" version of her to be in a relationship with, and while it’s definitely possible to be attracted to or even love someone you find to be toxic and/or intimidating, when you take that into consideration alongside the configuration of her body, you get some interesting implications.

which brings us to our second point: if we assume that mithrun was not in fact fucking a snake, then sexual attraction, at least, was so far removed from his idea of a relationship with this person that he did not even bother to keep her dungeon copy human enough to maintain the illusion of the option of a sexual relationship. this is somewhat echoed in the depictions of their interactions, which also imply a frankly unexpected romantic distance. she kisses his cheek and he doesn't seem to react; she's at the edge of a narrow bed with only one set of pillows, on top of his blankets while he's underneath them.

the kiss is particularly interesting because it seems to contrast the text. kabru's narration tells us this was everything mithrun could have asked for, but mithrun is there looking unreadable to pensive, likely because this is right before the panel that makes it clear things in the dungeon are beginning to go wrong.

walking through this backwards for a minute, we have the physical barrier of his bedding and the spatial separation inherent in a bed made for one person, the emotional barrier of his mounting anxiety getting in the way of his ability to enjoy the affection he sought, and... the snake, which historically carries the connotation of temptation, yes, but also mistrust, barring physical intimacy. okay. ok. if a dungeon reflects the mentality of its lord, all of this might suggest that mithrun was not able to have any real desire for a relationship with this person. his unwillingness to be vulnerable or let another person in was insurmountable. but in that case, why was she such a focal point that she remained to the end, after his dungeon had stopped creating iterations of his friends to come and visit him? why would he get so upset over her meeting with his brother that he became lord of a dungeon about it?

well. mithrun's brother was also interested in her, probably genuinely. and mithrun had to win.

you have an older brother who your parents completely ignore, probably in part because he is chronically ill/disabled and almost definitely in part because he received a ton of recessive traits that resulted in rumors that he was an illegitimate child. you are aware, most likely because those same parents fucking told you, that you actually are an illegitimate child. but they keep you around because you had the good fortune of looking just like your mother. what can that possibly teach you but that you, like your brother, are disposable?

it's utterly unsurprising that mithrun, under these circumstances, developed a pathological need to be better than everyone around him. people don't keep you otherwise. i'd argue this is also why he says he looked down on everyone he knew while milsiril claims his dungeon reeked of feelings of inferiority—he sought out people's worst traits and prioritized them in his mind to protect his already extremely fragile sense of self-worth, and all the while he tried to be as likable and high-performing as he possibly could be. his parents disposed of him anyway, but even then he tried to keep up the performance. he was kind to everyone. he never once lost to a dungeon.

when he saw his "love interest" meeting up with his brother, what he saw was himself being replaced by a person his parents had always treated as worthless, and if that was what they thought of the child they'd kept, what value could anyone possibly see in the bastard they'd given away to die? mithrun and kabru tell the story like he wanted to win this unnamed elf's heart, but it was never about being with her. it was about cementing his worth, proving that he didn't deserve to be thrown away.

and so it's particularly cruel that his demon discarded him, too. but maybe it's also particularly gentle that, in the end, there was someone who refused to even consider giving up on him.

kui laid it out in three panels better than i could hope to.

yeah. it's love. you wanted to be loved, even when the only way you were able to understand it was through the desire to be wanted, and you wanted that so badly that the idea of being consumed felt like the promise of finally mattering to someone.

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

Fine. One more night.

After Azul's overblot everyone was exhausted. When you finally stumbled out of Octavinelle's portal the sun has already set beneath the horizon.

Leona and the other Savanaclaw boys walked out of the portal behind you in similar states of exhaustion. Seeing them caused you to remember you had still had to grab your stuff from their dorm before heading off to Ramshackle. After that you would likely have to spend around 10 minutes trying to get the front door unlocked and open, check the old dorm to make sure it hadn't deteriorated to the point it would collapse on yours and Grim's heads as you slept, make sure nobody broke into the dorm in your time away (they'd have nothing to steal, but you've caught students more than once trying to vandalize the place), and then the ghosts would likely hound you with questions as to what had happened. You weren't going to get any sleep tonight.

You groaned and ran your hands over your tired face.

Leona noticed this action and looked at you suspiciously. "What now," he asked against his own best judgement. Whatever it was would probably cause trouble for him, but he asked before he could stop himself.

"I still have to grab our stuff from Savanaclaw before heading back to Ramshackle. And when we get there. . ." you sighed and rubbed your face again "so much to do. Not gonna get any sleep."

Without another word, you and Grim hobbled through Savanaclaw's mirror. Once the two of you were gone Jack and Ruggie both looked over towards Leona.

"What?" He tried to snap, but he was to tired to put any real bite in his words.

"Surely. . .one more night wouldn't hurt. . ." Jack mumbled.

"Could get 'em to cook breakfast again in the morning." Ruggie hummed. "They're a pretty killer cook."

Leona just stared at the two like they each had grown another head. "You're kiddin'. After the Ruckas they caused last night?"

"They were just trying to convince you to help! They'd have no reason to do that again tonight." Jack immediately piped up.

"It's not like ya had any troubly sleeping the other couple of nights they were here," Ruggie snickered. "If I didn't know any better, I'd even say ya slept better."

The two watch as Leona growl before walking to the Savanaclaw mirror with a huff.

In Leona's room, you'd just finished getting yours and Grims stuff packed up. Grim hadn't been much help, having fallen asleep on a plush chair the moment you stepped foot in the room.

You were about to wake him when a grumpy Leona came stomping through the door. Assuming he was angry at the two of you for still being there you began to apologize: "Sorry, Leona. I just finished packing out stuff and I was just about to wake Grim so we could-"

Before you could finish your sentence he cut you off "You're staying here tonight."

". . .wha-?"

"I said you're staying here tonight! It's dark out and you're already here, so you're staying here tonight. I don't need the two of you getting into trouble on your way home that becomes my problem in the morning," he grumbles.

"Why would any trouble we get in become your-"

"Do you wanna stay here tonight or not?" Leona's tone is harsh, but his posture is relaxed as always, and his face is just a hair softer than usual.

"Uhm. . .yeah. Thanks." You stumble a bit, shocked by his words, but eventually manage to respond. When you do he simply huffs and flops onto his bed.

You hurry to unfold the futon in the area next to Grim's chair so as to not make him keep the lights on any longer. After draping a blanket over the sleeping Grim, you toss the pillow and blanket you had been using the past few night onto the futon and crawl onto it.

Leona finally shuts off the lights (not that he was waiting for you or anything) and the room falls into darkness. The only light comes from the moon shining through the openings in the wall next to Leona's bed.

Several minutes pass in silence before Leona speaks: "Whatever you have to say just say it so I can get to sleep. I can't relax with you staring me down like that."

"It's. . .It's nothing."

You're about to close your eyes and pull the blanket over your head so you can wallow in your embarrassment when you hear a click. You slowly turn over to see the lamp next to Leona's bed has been turned on and he's staring at you with an expression that reads 'don't play with me right now."

You sigh and sit up. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I already told you my reasons for letting you stay here tonight." He grumbles, reaching to turn off the lamp again.

"No! I-I mean. . .for that too, but what I meant was: thank you for letting us stay here and for helping us with the overblot. I know you didn't have to, and I appreciate it. It may sound dramatic, but you really did risk your life to help us today. . .thank you."

The room falls into silence again before you hear Leona's laugh ring through the space. You look up in surprise.

"It almost sounds like I'm a good person when you put it like that."

Another moment of silence.

"You're not?"

He looks at you like you're crazy before clicking the light back off.

You both shuffle back into comfortable positions. You aren't sure if you were simply imagining things from exhaustion, but you could have sworn you heard a mumbled "Thanks to you too" from across the room before you drifted off to the land of dreams.

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[aureatchi]

ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu

৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.

◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.

SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+

৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3

৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.

— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about. 

The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up. 

An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you. 

The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…

“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!” 

The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence. 

Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…

“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.” 

“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.” 

You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud. 

“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.” 

“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement. 

“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.” 

Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right. 

“I hope the question slips his mind.”

You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed. 

You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile. 

You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps. 

He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far. 

“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.

“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.” 

“Pardon me, Fyodor?” 

…

A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position. 

It was just meant to be, you guessed. 

Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence. 

However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested. 

You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now. 

You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint. 

He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both. 

Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too. 

They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.

And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works. 

…

“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?” 

“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.” 

“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation. 

“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied. 

“Even worse! You better not fall off!” 

There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening. 

“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”

“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made. 

He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness. 

You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.

“I think I’ll try this one first.” 

Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror. 

You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular. 

You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room. 

“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design. 

“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said. 

“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.” 

The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others. 

“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”

Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods. 

You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics. 

You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you. 

“Good day, miss,” a few of them said. 

“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.

I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile. 

“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!” 

“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks. 

“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.” 

“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…” 

You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…

Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters. 

You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after. 

“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.

A moment passed. 

“…Yes, my lady.” 

Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing. 

“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again. 

“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.” 

The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man. 

What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.

You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.

Splash!

Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake. 

Oh shit! 

You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank. 

Am I really going to do this? 

This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.

You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began. 

You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in. 

He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted. 

You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature. 

Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you. 

You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return. 

Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue. 

You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly. 

You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared. 

Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—

“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.” 

“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.” 

“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?” 

It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry. 

Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up. 

“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!” 

“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”

Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside. 

Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting. 

“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?” 

You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself. 

“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”

You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.

Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs. 

However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.) 

You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves. 

There is no way. 

However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room. 

“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask. 

Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd. 

“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!” 

You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else. 

“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.” 

After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading. 

“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away. 

If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.

But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white. 

You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.

It’s him. 

And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed. 

What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him? 

Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions. 

In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”

“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters. 

“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them. 

You didn’t miss how Dazai’s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear. 

“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all. 

“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.

“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face. 

“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you. 

He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach. 

“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.

Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago? 

He was the artist you admired all along? 

“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words. 

He was familiar with my name all along.

“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked. 

“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.

But to your relief, he did not. 

“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.” 

Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.” 

“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.” 

It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you. 

He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words. 

“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.

“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough? 

“Is grasping originality so tough?

“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?” 

He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face. 

“Excuse me?” 

But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you. 

“I’m flattered.” 

For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.

You gave him a poisonous smile of your own. 

“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”

Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat. 

You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)

“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project. 

“What about you, my lord?” 

There was a pause; he was thinking. 

“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”

“And you’re sure you can find it here?” 

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you. 

What a juxtaposition. 

“What did you say?” 

“Did you not hear me?” 

He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.” 

…

“May I have this next dance, my lady?” 

The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you. 

“Lord Dazai?” 

You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where. 

“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.” 

“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.” 

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.” 

You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine. 

“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”

He dramatically pretended he was offended. 

“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!” 

“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared. 

“Keyword: nearly!” 

You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them. 

“Ow!” 

Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn. 

“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin. 

“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot. 

“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin. 

He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot. 

“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted. 

“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.” 

He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor. 

You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere. 

“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly. 

“What dance is this?” you asked.

“A galliard. The La Volta.” 

Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what. 

It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore. 

Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit. 

You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.

I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge. 

The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…

“No, I’ll do it,” you decided. 

…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned. 

“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.” 

“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.” 

“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.

“Collaboration,” he bowed. 

You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer. 

Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist. 

“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?” 

You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy. 

You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. 

“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.

Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you. 

He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you. 

His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night. 

“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.” 

In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal. 

You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.” 

“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!” 

You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.” 

“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”

“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake. 

“Exactly! You remember!” 

“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”

Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?

He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?” 

“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself. 

“You’re too beautiful to not.” 

…

“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.” 

Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room. 

“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.” 

There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors. 

“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.” 

There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas. 

It was unheard of. 

“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again. 

“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you. 

Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked. 

“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay. 

“But that’s sculpting, not painting.” 

“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?” 

He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.

Oh.

You paused, scanning the room to see where he was. 

He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope. 

“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.” 

Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed. 

“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.” 

Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it. 

“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”

There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out. 

However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm. 

“There you are! Let’s go!” 

“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away. 

“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.

“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?” 

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away. 

“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?” 

“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.” 

“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.” 

What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!

“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.” 

“Intentions? For what?” 

“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…” 

You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside. 

“...I carve marble, not paint.” 

“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”

“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.” 

You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice. 

“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.

Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care. 

“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-” 

Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you. 

“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.” 

The three of you waited. 

“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.” 

He thought for another moment. 

“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.” 

What a rat!

It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night. 

You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?

Knock, knock, knock!

“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door. 

“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?” 

“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.” 

He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys. 

“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”

“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!” 

“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.” 

“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys. 

“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.” 

“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”

He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…

…

Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside. 

“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face. 

“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased. 

“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.” 

“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.

“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!” 

You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day. 

Ugh, Fyodor.

“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.” 

Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.

“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.” 

“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.” 

“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.” 

Dance. 

Deceit.

Dreams. 

Only a few you had discovered so far. 

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”

You couldn’t even grasp,

Dazai.

You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land. 

Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?

That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise. 

But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours. 

You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.

“Ow!”

You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again. 

When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.

“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).

Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked. 

“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you? 

“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!” 

“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative. 

“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…” 

“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?” 

“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.” 

You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!” 

“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”

You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?” 

“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.” 

“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?” 

“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin. 

“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.” 

You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?” 

“Rome.” 

“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.” 

“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state. 

As if you did not already. 

“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again. 

Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer. 

“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.

“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?” 

You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway. 

When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face. 

He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night. 

And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again. 

“I pinkie promise,” he said. 

You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing. 

“Your name?” he asked. 

“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter. 

“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—” 

“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless. 

You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.” 

His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.

“Until we meet again.” 

…

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.

+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ

TERMS & DEFINITIONS:

CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress

RUELLA - salons/social gatherings

ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)

TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)

gramercy - “thank you”

artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)

bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)

© AUREATCHI 2024. no reposts or translations. do not steal. support banner + animated line divider by cafekitsune. header + series dividers mine; DO NOT SAVE.

[kteezy997]

and btw could u maybe start an series with an assistant x Timothée ?

Beyond Business-part one//t.c.

Warnings: cursing, mention of alcohol and drug use

“Timothée, you have the power to end this, any time you want to, so why don’t you?” you asked, waking into his home with him.

“You don’t get it, okay? It’s more complicated than you know.” he grumbled, heading to the fridge, opening it up to grab a bottle of beer.

“Timmy you reek of alcohol, do you really think you need more?”

He gulped down some of the cold liquid, stopping to glare at you, “As if it’s any of your business. You’re not my mother, y/n, just go home.”

As harsh as he was, he was right, he was your boss, and you weren’t friends. Your concern could only go so far before it was too personal.

Neither of you said anything more, Timmy left the kitchen, you assumed he was headed to crash in his bedroom after nursing on the brown bottle.

You left his apartment, reflecting on the past year of your life as Timothée Chalamet’s personal assistant. As you drove home, you remembered how goofy and lively he was when you were first hired. Now, he was becoming a hollow shell of that man.

He had been in a relationship with Kylie Jenner for nearly a year before you met him. But as time went on, after spending time with him, you wondered to what extent the relationship was real, or if it could qualify as a relationship at all. It seemed, to you, more of a situation-ship.

For the last six months, you saw Timmy become more dependent on alcohol and weed to help his moods. These days he was working crazy hours, traveling all over promoting his latest film. He was skinnier than you had ever seen him, and he was obviously tired as well. You, along with other people in his life, were worried about him.

The bad thing is, he is a grown man and he is going to do what he wants. He cannot be controlled any more than any other adult. So, for the most part, you felt as if you were watching him destroy himself and you were powerless to stop it.

.......

Timmy was bright and early with his apology text the next morning.

"hey, I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have been such a dick to you. especially not you, you don't deserve that. Let's have a good day together, yeah?"

You knew that he did not have the energy to hire a new assistant if you were to ever quit. He needed you, you both knew that. So you answered just a moment later.

"Okay. Want coffee after I'm finished running errands this morning?"

"Yes please! Thank you." he texted back immediately.

A couple of hours later, you made it to Timmy's place after picking up his dry cleaning, some groceries, his mail, and two coffees, one for him and one for you. You let yourself in with your copy of his key.

As you carefully carried the armfuls of items, you saw him drying his hair with a towel in the living room. "Hey, let me help." he said, dropping the towel on one of the couches and hustling over to you.

"Thanks." you said, and together you set all of the bags and the coffees onto the kitchen island. Carefully, you lay his garment bag flat on the surface.

"No, thank you for doing all of this." Timmy insisted, taking his attention from the items on the counter to look in your eyes.

You felt like his green eyes were piercing into your soul. This was the real Timmy. He had showered and sobered up from the drunken night before. "Well, it is my job."

“I know, but I’m still really grateful for you. Not everyone would put up with me for as long as you have.” he smiled.

You returned a smile to him, then said, “I should get these groceries put away.” you grabbed one of the bags, “But go ahead and tell me what’s on the agenda for today.”

As you started taking items out of the grocery bag, he cleared his throat, saying, “Oh, um, I just got some calls to make, so if you’d go through and answer emails for now that’d be great. After you’re done in the kitchen of course, I mean, no rush.” Between his sentences, he was also unloading the bags.

“Okay.” you giggled at him trying to help you, “I can get this, Timmy, you go make your calls.”

"Yeah," he set down a can of coffee, "yeah, okay." He gave you a soft smile before turning to leave the kitchen.

To you, he seemed almost...nervous? The vibes with him were different today. Not bad, just different. You didn't know what was up with him, but it was not your place to pry.

.......

A little bit later, you sat at his dining room table, replying to his vast number of emails on his laptop. In between calls, he would look through a script and read over his business contracts.

It began to feel like a normal workday again. Every once in a while, you would ask him a question and he would answer you and vice versa. He was himself.

"Alright, thank you, bye." Timmy ended another phone call. He sighed; it had been hours since he started. You knew that he was exhausted from talking to people for the day.

You peaked up from the laptop screen, still expertly typing your email message. Timmy made his way over to you.

As you typed, you heard his footsteps coming closer, until he was right next to your chair. You hit 'send,' and went on to another email, as nonchalantly as you could.

He leaned down, his hands on the table, his arms caging you on either side. You stopped, turned your head slightly to look at him, your heart was beating so fast.

January 5, 2025

Happy New Year, guys! Let me know if you’re excited for this new story!❤️

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @lixzey @bitchyunknownuser @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen @yukideadinside @elloise0 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @mel-vaz @sammy-halpert @iwishchalamet @that-one-fangirl69 @jindongdongie @briefkittenearthquake @imnotoverlyobsessive

[tkaulitzlvr]

hii I absolutely adore ur writing and I was wondering if maybe you could write something where like tom attempts to do no nut November but fails and it ends with smut??? Thank youuu💗

CAN’T RESIST - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: wierdly, tom is determined to get through the entire month of november with zero sex, having failed within the first few days for the past five years you have been together. you have other ideas, focused on getting him to crack, becoming desperate yourself.

content: smut

a/n: omg i loveeee this idea thanku sm for the request!! the way u sent this at like the start of november and i’m only just posting it i’m so sorry - i’ve had like the first paragraph written for a couple weeks😭also tom would def fail nnn on november 1st at 00:01am he is not lasting a second…

“oh my god.” tom pants, pulling out of me and climbing off of my limp frame, rolling to lay beside me, his chest heaving up and down as beads of sweat line the soft skin. “don’t know how i’m gonna last a whole month without this schatz.”

his confession doesn’t come as a surprise, in fact it is the exact opposite. tom is the horniest person i have ever met, and usually, he can’t go a day without sex - whether it be something rushed and desperate in public, or a long night of raw passion between the sheets, he can’t live without sex, which is why i am so surprised that he is attempting to go through with this whole ‘no nut november’ bullshit. he won’t last a second, and deep down i think he knows that too. though after the hours that he has spent inside of me, deciding to use the entirety of today - october 31st, the day before he had to give up his uncontrollable desires - fucking me just about anywhere he could, stating that it will ‘make up for the lost time’ and ‘make it a little easier for him’, i don’t see how he could even have the energy to do anything remotely sexual for the next month, his body spent and exhausted as it collapses beside me.

“i can’t believe you’re actually doing this.” a small giggle leaves my lips amidst the shaky breaths, hands pulling the sheets upward and over my naked body before snuggling into his frame, wrapping my arm loosely across his chest. “you know that you won’t even last a day, right?”

“this means no sex for you too you know.” his eyebrow raises, eyes tiredly meeting mine with a hint of mischief, thinking that he has caught me out, though he doesn’t realise that i can handle my needs in other ways, it is him that is totally restricted.

“i don’t need your help to cum baby. cute of you to assume i do.” i smirk, kissing his cheek lazily before rolling out of bed, grabbing my panties from the soft carpet, sensing his eyes burning into me from behind. i pay no attention, flashing him a teasing smile as a reminder that i have won, slowly walking into the bathroom to freshen up, his own steps soon following.

“the fuck do you mean you don’t need my help? i can still help you cum, i just can’t fuck you, which don’t get me wrong is the worst part, but nothing says that i can’t touch you. you know i’ll go insane if i can’t even do that.” he already sounds frustrated, a small smile tugging along my lips at the realisation that he really won’t last two seconds, his desperation embarrassingly clear despite the challenge not even starting yet.

“we’ll see. you just focus on getting yourself through this dumb challenge of yours baby.” i chuckle, that same knowing grin on my face once i palm him through his boxers, his mouth falling open at the sensation. though it doesn’t last long, my hand pulling away firmly to adjust the straps of my bra as i put it back on, leaving tom shocked as i walk away, the realisation that i don’t intend to make this easy for him soon becoming real.

and i stick to my plans - set on making this the most painful month of his life, certain that he will never consider doing this challenge again.

if only he knew what he was getting himself into.

“baby?” my voice sounds throughout the quiet house, loud enough for tom to pick up on it from downstairs. i smile to myself, turning to the mirror and adjusting the strap of the bra that i had bought earlier on, whilst tom had been at practice. the black lace - a colour which tom had never been able to control himself when ever i wore it - tightly cupped my breasts, pushing them upward and highlighting my cleavage in the most tempting way possible. small silver jewels line the lace of my thongs, matching perfectly with my upper half, leaving little to the imagination - though far too much that tom wouldn’t be able to touch, a task which would seem impossible the second he laid his eyes on mine.

“yeah?”

“can you come here for a second?” my question is nothing short of innocent, calm with a slight hint of mischief, though it is clearly not enough for him to pick up on as he shouts a quick ‘sure’, the rhythmic sound of his feet trudging up the stairs signalling that he is close, and clearly not expecting anything like this. but it has been two days- fourty eight hours of no sex, no touching, not even an implicit complaint of needing anything sexual from tom. he has been strangely okay with not fucking me, a task which any other time, would be next to impossible. and i feel it - i feel the difference in his actions. he is restricted, almost holding back just in case his impulses get the better of him. but right now, his mind has no choice, my own doing the thinking for him as he is walking blindly into my carefully calculated trap.

“is everything okay-” his calm question is soon cut off by the short curses that spill from his lips when his eyes make contact with my body, not bothering to hide the way they rake down my figure, drinking in the prominent cleavage, moving downward to my curves, finally landing on the slightly transparent panties.

“jesus christ schatz you’re gonna fucking kill me.” he mutters, walking toward me and attacking his hands to my waist, the pads of his fingers tracing the bare skin of my stomach, one slipping teasingly into my panties. his lips are inches away from my own, about to lean in and seal them in a heated kiss, though i pull away, leaving him dumbfounded.

“you like?” i ask innocently, doing a quick twirl as his eyes quickly glue to my ass, soon looking upward once i face him once again. he is in some sort of trance, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes dark and lustful, though the most noticeable difference is the tent that has formed through his sweatpants, a tinge of satisfaction in my veins at the realisation that my plan has worked. despite this, i keep the naive act up, acting as if i do not notice his change in demeanour. “i bought it from victoria’s secret today. it was on sale, and this was the last one in my size. what do you think?”

“you know what i think.” he states frustratedly, his hands doing the talking as they trail down to my ass, giving the bare flesh a rough squeeze, his lips ghosting over my own. “you’re so sexy schatz, so beautiful.”

his lips attach to my own, an indisputable hunger evident as he kisses me, his free hand latching onto the loose curls that fall to my upper waist, running through them harshly. he groans lowly into my mouth, pressing his hips against my own, silently drawing my attention to the hardness between his thighs.

“look what you’re doing to me baby.” he breathes out, seeming a little angry that i have managed to get to him so easily. though he doesn’t kiss me again, instead he holds back, pressing his forehead against mine whilst his hands continue to rest on my lower back, bringing our bodies closer together. “fuck you’re making this so hard…you know that?”

“you gonna give up already?” my voice is seductive, a torturous mix of sympathetic and lustful, lips moving to rest just below his ear, kissing the skin as his eyes flutter shut, a loud sigh leaving his parted mouth, the grip on my waist simultaneously becoming tighter when my kisses speed up. “if you want me…i’m right here.”

“jesus fucking christ.” he trails off, his eyes now squeezing shut as my lips work against his neck, his mind visibly contemplating on whether he should give in. i am right in front of him, my body a blank canvas, willing to give myself up, to allow myself to be used as he pleases, in exchange for the pathetic remainder of his pride - the two days that he has gone without me going down the drain if he decides to act on the desire that is so clearly eating him up.

his visible indecisiveness isn’t enough for me. i need him to give up, to no longer care about holding back anymore, my hand moving underneath his sweatpants as i run my fingers along his length through his boxers, a loud groan leaving his lips in response. he doesn’t object, instead he seems to lean into my touch, confirmation of his defeat on the tip of his tongue, just about to be uttered, my eyes wide open as i wait for him to finally say it.

a loud buzzing sound resonating from his pocket soon takes his attention, totally destroying the moment as i remove my hand from his pants, his eyes shooting open as he takes his phone, the source of the noise, eyes slightly widening once he sees the who is calling, their name lighting up the screen. bill.

“i have to take this baby. you look beautiful by the way, and, nice try.” he says, shooting me a wink and placing a quick kiss on my lips before adjusting himself, clearing his throat and disappearing out of the room. pretty fucking convenient.

i groan in frustration, collapsing backward onto the bed, completely infuriated at the fact that he was so close to letting go, knowing that right now he could be inside of me if it weren’t for that phone call - quickly realising that this is going to be much harder than i had thought.

my eyes make direct contact with the fresh towel folded neatly on the bathroom counter, scrambling quickly to hide it in the cupboard below as i step out of the shower, hands twisting the tap as the fast flow of water soon stops. i smile to myself when i hear the faint sound of a guitar from our bedroom, signalling that tom is in there, this key to my plan. nine days - nine whole days and he hadn’t cracked, not even close to wanting to fuck, the quick make out sessions and ability to still touch me as he pleases seeming to be sufficient. and whilst his mouth and fingers feel good, i need more, desperate to feel him inside of me, willing to go to any lengths to make him crack.

my fingers rake hurriedly through my freshly washed hair in an attempt to make it look somewhat neater, whilst my body remains completely naked, dripping with water. i take one final look at myself through the fogged up mirror, certain that my plan will work this time, figuring that if it doesn’t, then literally nothing else will.

i open the door that leads directly into our bedroom, acting totally nonchalant and squeezing any last droplets of water from my hair. i walk over to the closet, pretending to scan the shelves for towels, knowing that there aren’t any in here, my entire body on display for him. the gentle strumming of the guitar soon comes to a stop, signalling that i have gotten tom’s attention almost immediately, as i had expected.

“baby have you seen the towels? i can’t find any fresh ones anywhere.” i sigh obliviously, eyes finally landing on his own, only his are fixed on my figure, clearly not paying attention to a word that i am saying. his lips are parted, eyes shifting downward as they slowly take in each inch of skin, nothing at all left to his imagination which, despite his silence, clearly offers him no thoughts deemed holy.

“hm?” he mutters, moving his guitar from where it had been resting in his lap and setting it beside him on the bed. he gets up quickly, walking toward me, the awestruck expression plastered on his face now replaced with one unable to be mistaken for anything else besides pure lust. and when his hands find my waist, running up and down it softly, tongue dipping in and out of his mouth to play with the piercing there whilst his lips are curved into a smirk, i know that i have him right where i want him.

“i said do you know where the towels are. i can’t find any and i need to get dry.” his eyes look everywhere but my face, the only thing i get in response being a subtle nod. instead, his hands move upward, cupping my breasts, whilst his head finally tilts, eyes tearing away from where his hands now roam, lips nearing closer and closer, until they roughly collide with my own.

and i waste no time kissing back, silently thanking his almost non-existent willpower, channelling my pent up sexual frustration into the kiss as my lips mould with his, sighing loudly when his teeth sink into the plush of my bottom lip. he presses himself against me, the tent in his jeans more obvious than ever, one that he won’t be able to ignore as easily as he had done last time - one that i know he has to fix, meaning that this time, he won’t leave me totally desperate. his tongue slips into my mouth when i moan slightly, the kiss more messier than before, totally unrecognisable to the soft ones we had shared up until this moment, because this time, they show that he wants this just as badly as i do.

“jump.” he mutters almost inaudibly against my lips, soon reconnecting them once he breathes in shakily, his hands grabbing the flesh under my thighs once i hoist myself upward, wrapping them around his waist. he guides us toward the bed, using the steady hold he has on my hips to grind me against his, the sensation making it harder for him to kiss back, soon reminding me that this is the first sexual contact he has had in over a week. my back collides harshly with the soft sheets as he climbs above me, reconnecting our lips and slowly spreading my legs apart. he hurriedly scrambles to take his shirt off, throwing the material carelessly across the room, revealing his bare torso.

my hands run down the skin, trailing the muscle of his abs, watching how his eyes fall shut as i move lower and lower, stopping just above the waistband of his jeans. his eyes open when i hesitate, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. he quickly places his hand on top of mine, now guiding my movements as he forces my fingers to slip below the denim, moving below the cotton of his boxers.

“what about your challenge?” i ask, just before my fingers make contact with his dick, eyes widening when he groans in frustration, rolling his eyes at my question.

“fuck the challenge.” he mumbles, forcing my hand to wrap around his dick, his head falling backward the second that the pads of my fingers trace his length, soon running up and down at a slow pace.

“oh jesus christ.” he whispers, eyes half-lidded as he fights to keep them open, desperate to watch my movements, no matter how lethargic they are. because though i have gotten what i wanted, managing to divert his attention from the ridiculous challenge onto me, i want him to be in control, opposed to me doing all the work. and somehow, he seems to read my mind, removing my hand from underneath his pants despite the unmistakable satisfaction etched upon his face. his movements are fast as he removes his jeans, boxers soon following in a messy heap of clothing on the floor.

being naked already works in my favour, allowing tom to line his tip at my entrance, hand pumping his dick lazily a few times before slowly sliding in. as he does so, the tip slips in and out of my folds ever so slightly as i whine in frustration, the stimulation not enough as it reminds me of everything that i have within arms reach, tom holding back only agitating me even more. he picks up on my impatience, my anger buying him time to savour this moment, to tease me just a little more, having me under his mercy just as i had him last time i had gotten close to making him surrender. and i am not willing to have him ripped away again, to be taunted beyond belief, instead willing to beg for him.

“stop playing around and just fuck me.” i sigh through pathetic moans, hands reaching to his neck, pulling it downward so our foreheads our inches apart. and surprisingly, he puts me out of my misery, slowly sliding into me in one smooth snap of his hips. my mouth falls open, a high-pitched moan leaving it when he bottoms out, his tip brushing against my g-spot perfectly, hands raking down his back.

and though my nails dig into the skin with enough force to draw blood, he uses the pain to build up the speed of his thrusts, teeth gritting together as he winces lowly, somewhat used to the feeling, knowing that his pace warranted the strength of my fingers dragging down his back. despite the stinging pain, he maintains a soft smirk, knowing that the soft red marks are nothing more than evidence of the pleasure that only he can provide me with. desperate to feel him just a little closer, my legs hook around his waist, drawing him even deeper inside me, so deep that i swear i can feel him in my stomach.

“you knew what you were doing.” he breathes out between soft groans, so quiet they are almost inaudible. “knew that i’d give in, didn’t you?”

whilst he can speak somewhat coherently, i had lost that ability the second his dick had entered me, any sound that i make an embarrassing mix of moans and whines - nowhere near a properly understandable sentence. though tom wants more, using one hand to grab hold of my cheeks firmly, though not enough to hurt me, forcing my eyes to make contact with his own, prompting me to answer his question.

“mhm…” i manage to mumble, eyes rolling to the back of my head when his tip repeatedly hits the soft spot inside of me, soft curses now pouring from tom’s lips as i clench around him, knowing the reaction that such movements usually encourage out of him, recognising that this time is no different.

“fuck- it’s worth it though schatz. you feel so good, taking me so well.” his words of encouragement are all i need to attach my lips to his neck, placing messy, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin, noticing the way his lips part, quiet and almost restricted moans escaping them. it isn’t enough for me, feeling somewhat frustrated that he holds back, wanting nothing more for him to cry out in pleasure as i already am, craving for him to mirror my own ecstasy.

“i wanna hear you…” i whine quietly, clenching around him as he curses once again before mumbling a low ‘okay baby’, his lips falling open as rough moans now sound from the back of his throat, getting louder when he drills into me at a certain angle, far deeper than he has ever been before.

and when that familiar knot begins to build within my stomach, i don’t need to ask tom if he is close to, his dick beginning to twitch faintly inside of me. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, thrusts becoming slow and deep, no longer rough and fast as they had been moments ago. now i can really feel him, every inch of his dick slowly pushing inside of me, stopping for a second when he bottoms out, soft grunts leaving his lips as quiet moans escape my own, feeling him closer than i ever had before.

“gonna cum baby. do it with me, yeah?” he whispers, head dipping downward to place messy kisses across my face, starting at my forehead, trailing downward to my nose and cheeks, before ending at my lips, capturing them in yet another rough kiss, nothing like the slow and deep movements of his hips as he continues to push in and out of me.

when his lips falter, no longer able to kiss me with such force as they had when they had initiated it, i know that he can’t hold on anymore, his head tilting backward as a loud moan escapes his mouth, followed with hot spurts of cum that coat my walls, his hips rocking back and forth tiredly as he releases. the pressure of his own climax soon triggers my own, his name spilling from my lips over and over again, high off the feeling of his dick as it continues to thrust into me, fucking his seed deeper, riding both our highs.

his hold on my waist becomes softer, slight red marks in place of his fingers, our breathing loud and heavy as it envelops the room, thick with the smell of sex. he pulls out of me, sighing loudly as a mix of our juices seeps out, his hands lazily grabbing some tissue to wipe it away.

tiredly, he moves upward, his body collapsing on top of me, lips pecking my own a few times. my own arms wrap around his back, fingers tracing the skin softly in an attempt to ease the stinging pain my nails had left whilst his own hands run along my trembling frame, lips pressing sweet kisses into my hair.

“you okay?” his voice is hoarse as he speaks, attempting to appear as unbothered as possible, though i can tell he is totally worn out. i manage a quick ‘mhm’, lips turning to kiss just above his shoulder, noticing him smile weakly against me.

“are you upset about the challenge?” i ask tiredly, eyes on the verge of closing, ears barely picking up the soft chuckle that leaves his lips, his fingers squeezing the flesh of my hips as he kisses me softly, shaking his head.

“fuck the challenge.” he stretches out, bringing my body closer to his. “sex is just too good, plus it’s hard when my girlfriend walks around naked in front of me, what kind of guy ignores that shit? i don’t care if someone paid me, i’d never pass up on a chance like that. especially when you look this good.”

“you’re so romantic.” i scoff sarcastically, shaking my head at his impulsiveness, feeling him smile against me, his head lifting up to look into my eyes.

“what, i’m not allowed to say you’re beautiful?” he smirks, hands trailing my body once again, eyes visibly lighting up with that same look i had seen just minutes ago, knowing exactly what it means. “i mean, i could show you that you’re beautiful instead, if you want me to…”

though the grin on his face says otherwise, i know that he is serious about it, his actions proving so if my instincts weren’t enough. his hands trail upward knowingly, fingers running across my breasts as his lips makes content with them, placing harsh kisses onto the skin, his teeth digging in every few seconds. my head falls backward, back arching to allow him better access, silently accepting his proposal. he stops momentarily, looking into my eyes.

“we’ve got nine days of lost time to make up for schatz. i think now seems like a good time to start, don’t you?”

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 5/12)

HEHEHE THIS ONES PACKED W LOTS OF... STUFF, ENJOYYYY!!!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie doesn't think he hates you anymore and you can't figure out eddie's game

contains: enemies to lovers trope, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, masturbation (f), maybe a little kith (hehe), flirting, and eddie being a jealous boy <3

word count: 6.5k

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| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

The four-day break seems to go by in the blink of an eye, and before you know it, it’s show day again.

As always, everybody is busy and filled with pre-show jitters. Although Eddie and Gareth have yet to speak with one another and resolve their dispute, breakfast is not as tense as last time, and you assume the time away from each other has aided in that realm. But then again, you have an inkling that Eddie is only putting up a nice front for Wayne since it’s his last day in New York.

Eddie is stiff and rigid throughout the morning, taught as a guitar string and vividly battling something he has yet to announce. He’s quiet at breakfast and only speaks when directly addressed, and he doesn’t taunt any back and forth that could transpire between him and Gareth. Jeff’s girlfriend joins the table for the first time, and you sit beside her. 

Naomi is kind and bubbly with tight, curly brown strands that smell of honey and lime whenever she brushes past you. She’s from a small town in Georgia, where she spent most of her life before going off to college and getting a bachelor's in fine arts. She tells you about her most recent projects and showcases and even invites you to attend if you’re ever in town, and you take her number to keep in contact.

Jeff has radiant energy throughout the meal, and you think he and Naomi make a fine couple with how they seem to complete each other.

After breakfast, you make a few calls for work and fill in Anna on your progress. She informs you that they’re working on setting a date for Corroded Coffin’s photoshoot for the magazine and should be in contact with Richie sometime soon. When Anna asks how the trip has been so far, you lie and tell her it’s been seamless and fun. 

You never told Anna about Eddie hating your guts, and you don’t even debate telling her that you’ve somehow stirred the pot between two of the band members or that you kissed the lead singer.

You’re still having a hard time convincing yourself that it was even real.

For a moment, when you woke up this morning, you thought you’d dreamt of kissing Eddie, but no dream ever feels as vivid as that.

You could feel the warmth radiating from Eddie’s body, the coolness of his rings stinging your cheeks when he placed his hands over your jaw to pull you in. The taste and smell of weed mixed in with the worn-down scent of his cologne from the day. And the kiss was so quick, and you were so sleepy you barely had enough time to memorize what his lips felt like or how the feeling of his warm breath against your upper lip sent shivers down your spine.

It left you in a daze for most of the day. Every time you remembered what had happened, your heart raced and the back of your neck heated— and you wanted to ask Eddie what the fuck that was about, but Eddie was nowhere to be found.

After breakfast, Eddie practically falls off the face of the earth. Nobody hears from or sees Eddie, and he doesn’t even show up for rehearsals, which is when Richie becomes suspicious.

“Has anybody fuckin’ seen Eddie, for the love of god?” Richie exclaims. Off to the side, the bass player plucks a deep tune in boredom. Standing center stage, Jeff looks at Richie and shakes his head before glancing at the other two members. Gareth sits behind his drum set, twirling the thick drumsticks between the knuckles of his fingers, lower jaw promptly working a piece of gum as he shrugs. His eye looks better, you note.

And that’s another thing. Gareth has been avoiding you like the plague. You didn’t talk to him much before, but now it’s as if you don’t even exist, and fuck is it making your job more complicated than it already is. How are you supposed to write about Corroded Coffin when half of the said band hates your guts?

Wayne had been spending the day at the hotel, preparing to fly back tomorrow morning, so you doubt he knows where his nephew went. Richie asked an assistant to check if Eddie was being a hermit in his room, but to nobody’s surprise, Eddie wasn’t there either.

By the time 8 o’clock rolls around, the doors to the venue have opened for fans to flood in, and Eddie is still yet to show up. You stand in front of the barricade, a perfect and obstructed view of the stage where you can see everything, including the hustle backstage. 

Wayne has opted for a seat next to the sound booth in the crowd, claiming he’d rather not spend the next few hours standing on his feet, “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” He claimed.

You enjoy the opening act, bopping along and singing to the lyrics you know, and before you know it, the band is leaving, and the clock for Corroded Coffin’s appearance is ticking— still, no word from Eddie.

You’re busy watching the stage crew set up Corroded Coffin’s display when a familiar face approaches you. “How’s the article coming along?”

James, one of the three tour photographers for Corroded Coffin. You sat next to James on day five of breakfast. James is kind, and with your little snippets of conversation, you’ve come to peg him as not exactly what you’d expect. 

James’ skin is littered with tattoos, sleeves up both arms with intricate ink slithering up his neck. You’d ask him how many tattoos he has in total, and he’d confessed that he lost count a long time ago and has now resulted in just throwing out a random number when people ask, to which you laughed.

He has jet-black curly hair that you’ve only seen at breakfast because he likes to slick it back most days, and he has piercings in each ear and one on his right eyebrow. 

He’s a character, James. Intimidating from the outside, but nothing but soft, fluffy teddy bear warmth on the inside. 

“It’s… well, it’s going. I’ve still got a bit of work to do, but so far, so good.” You nod. James smiles and nods, “I’m excited to see the final product. I won’t lie, after we spoke at breakfast, I did a little digging,” he responds. You raise your eyebrows in interest, “Digging?”

“Yeah, you know, looked at some of your past work and whatnot— which, by the way, the piece on the Cocteau Twins was insane,” He exclaims. Your eyes widen, “Really? Not many people talk about that one; I didn’t think it got around.” You laugh.

James tells you about his favorite pieces of yours he read, and he asks questions about each one of them. What your favorite interview was, who were you most excited to write about, and which of your works is your favorite piece so far.

You eventually end up talking about James and his current projects aside from the tour. He tells you about the new exhibit he’s partnering with in downtown LA. It’s an immersive piece, something new in the art world where the audience, for the first time, will get to experience art in a more tangible way. It’s more interactive and fulfilling for those who struggle to grasp the full context behind the art, and James seems more than excited about it when he tells you to stop by if you have the time.

However, before you can respond, the lights in the venue dim, and the crowd roars. 

This has always been your favorite part of a show, that moment when the lights cut off and the arena comes to life with a shared excitement. It’s exhilarating and pulls you to the edge of your seat, no matter how often you’ve seen it.

Through the smoke-filled venue and the dark atmosphere, you can see each of the boys file out onto the stage, Gareth spinning his drumsticks between his knuckles as he steps onto the drum riser while the other two grab their instruments. Three members are on stage, and you remember that Eddie has been missing in action for the entire day.

The crowd grows louder when they see the shadows of the boys on stage, screaming their names and chanting in anticipation. And as he shreds the first chords to the opening song, you worry that Eddie really might’ve skipped out on tonight’s show.

You’re happily mistaken, however, because soon you see another figure step out, and the crowd goes deafeningly loud.

Beside you, James smiles and shakes his head, “Shit never gets old,” he yells over the screams.

And your heart is racing for some reason as you watch the tall figure walk in the darkness, curly mane of hair akin to a halo as he steps up to the mic, electric guitar strapped across his body.

He leans into the mic and says a few words, words you don’t even hear due to how loud the crowd is, but you feel the gruffness and bass of his voice booming through the speakers, and you nearly mistake it for your heartbeat.

Because when the song finally starts and the stage lights go up, you’re at a loss for words.

Eddie is gorgeous, undeniably so; he always has been, and you never thought he wasn’t. The only thing that got in the way of Eddie’s beauty was his shitty attitude towards you. But this… the way Eddie looks tonight— you’re a speechless and wavering mess of mixed feelings.

Tonight, Eddie is beautiful.

His hair is down as usual, curly and healthy strands sitting pretty atop his shoulders, and he’s opted to play the show in nothing but leather pants and his usual boots.

His upper body is on full display, broad shoulders, and muscles flexing with each strum of his guitar, back muscles working overtime as he trashes along to the music. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, tattoo-covered skin glistening beneath the lights, and you want nothing more than to run your hands down his chest and watch the way it smudges beneath your fingertips.

When the second song finishes, Eddie’s chest is heaving as he pauses and looks out into the crowd, scanning the rows with a lopsided, smug grin.

You can hear faint pants leaving his lips as he leans into the mic, jewelry-wrapped fingers hugging the fret of his guitar. He gazes in silence for a moment, listening to the cheers of the crowd that pull the corners of his mouth into a wider grin. And you don’t even notice the rest of the band on stage because all you see and hear is Eddie.

You hold your breath when his eyes find yours, and your knees nearly buckle at the sight of his dark eyes shining beneath smudged, black eyeliner. 

“Fuck,” he breathes with a smile, softly laughing when the crowd screams at his voice, “Do you look good tonight, New York.”

And he’s saying this and looking at you.

He is staring at you like he can see through to your soul, and it makes your head dizzy with a whirlwind of emotions and greedy wishes.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Eddie finally looks away from you and into the crowd, “Are you ready to have a good time, New York?”

Eddie has never, in all his years of living, played as well as he did tonight.

He’s not sure what exactly caused this; maybe the fact that Wayne is in the crowd tonight, or perhaps because he’s still pissed with Gareth, or maybe because he can’t stop thinking about kissing you, or probably because he hates the way you and James won’t stop fucking talking to each other.

Eddie doesn’t know why it pisses him off to see you laughing and enjoying the company of James, but it does. It ticks him off to no end, and he can’t help the feeling that brews in his chest when you lean forward to hear James over the music or when James innocently squeezes your bicep to get your attention before he says something.

By the middle of the show, Eddie has had enough. He’s four shots of tequila in, and he’s feeling bold with the crowd's energy, so when his infamous guitar solo in one of the songs comes, he doesn’t stand center stage as usual.

No, Eddie makes sure to walk over and stand right in front of where you and James stand and play his solo like it’s the last time he'll ever play.

It’s a sinful view, and the crowd goes wild, the big screens zooming in on his skilled fingers dancing across the frets, the flexing of his wet torso, the flutter of his lashes when he closes his eyes and tosses his head back. His lips are slick and parted in ecstasy from the adrenaline high. 

And Eddie can feel your eyes on him. Can feel the heat of your gaze burning through every inch of his body, rolling over every movement he makes and taking him in like he’s a prized possession in a museum. He thrives off of it, and he plays harder.

When his solo ends, Eddie doesn’t bother looking at the crowd or James or his band; no, Eddie only looks at you, making sure you understand what he’s trying to say through his eyes. And for a moment, Eddie wishes James would turn the camera away from him and capture your beauty instead— because you look like an angel under red lights.

Eddie has only allowed himself small moments to appreciate the sight of you, but now, he is greedy with the upper hand he has. He takes in every piece of you; your hair, your eyes, your lips, the delicate necklace kissing the skin of your collarbones— and Eddie wants to run his tongue up the side of your neck and hear you whimper for him. Wants to dig his teeth into your skin until you keen and whine and beg him for more more more. 

The skirt you’re wearing, god, it’s fucking short, and Eddie imagines the way your skin would feel beneath his fingers, pressing into the fat of your thighs and marveling when the skin gives way to the pressure. Hot and messy fingerprints all around your hips and ribs. Teeth bearing marks across your stomach and chest. Eddie is dizzy with lust and need, and he feels like a fucking animal writhing and waiting to pounce.

Greedy, greedy, greedy.

He wants it all.

The rest of the show goes back and forth like that. Eddie catches glimpses of you and James talking and takes it upon himself to direct your attention back to the stage— back to him. Near the end, James finally focuses on his fucking job and busies himself with taking pictures instead of flirting with you, and Eddie walks off the stage feeling satisfied.

The band does their meet and greet backstage and signs a few autographs before they can do their usual post-show rituals: drinking, playing games, and making plans to go out.

Despite his love for post-show rituals, Eddie wants nothing to do with it tonight because he can only focus on you. 

You’re standing with James and a stage crew member, talking about something Eddie could care less about, given how he cuts into the conversation, “Can we talk?”

Your eyes are wide and bright when you turn to him, shocked by Eddie’s ability to even acknowledge you, and Eddie thinks about last night and how your lips felt against his. “Um… talk?”

Eddie’s still high on post-show energy, and he doesn’t like that James is standing so close to you, so he takes a leap of faith and wraps a hand around your wrist, gently tugging with a short nod, not even waiting for an answer before he turns and drags you out of the green room. 

He doesn’t know at what point his fingers traveled down your wrist to slip between your warm and gentle fingers, but he becomes hyper-aware of it as soon as you both step out into the hallway, the slam of the door echoing behind you, “Eddie, where are you taking me?”

Eddie glances back at you, fingers subconsciously squeezing yours, “Dressing room. I wanna do the interview.” He answers.

You halt at his response, heels digging into the cement floor and tugging Eddie back, “What?”

The heat of your palm is burning through Eddie’s skin, and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop himself from what he wants to do if he continues touching you, so he lets go. “The interview.”

You shake your head and squeeze your eyes, “No, I heard you, but… I mean,” you pause, “why? And why now? This can’t wait until—“

“Look, if you don’t want to do it now, that’s fine, but I’m not doing it any other time.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before turning around and continuing to walk towards his dressing room.

You silently watch for a moment, clearly confused by the sudden change of heart, but you nod either way and follow after him.

Eddie hardly pays any mind to you when you walk in behind him, busying himself with walking over to the bar cart and pouring himself a glass of the first bottle he sees. Glancing over his shoulder, Eddie notices you awkwardly standing near the door and snickers. “You can take a seat, sweetheart; I didn’t bring you here to, like… chew you out or something.” He jokes.

He makes you a glass despite not asking, and when he turns around, you’re now seated on the light brown couch in the middle of the room, hands fiddling in your lap as you silently wait for Eddie.

He sits on the opposite side of the couch and places the second glass on the coffee table, wordlessly nudging it toward you before leaning back in the seat and taking a long sip.

“Where’s your cute little journal?”

You’re confused.

You don’t understand the game Eddie is playing, and it’s driving you insane the longer you look at him, leaned back against the plush couch, smug smirk kissing the rim of his glass as he takes a slow sip, brown, hazy eyes glazing over your nervous figure. The sheer button-down top he now wears is fully unbuttoned to reveal his sweat-glistening torso, leather pants hug his thighs, snug and tauntingly, the button popped open and zipper pulled down to show the sinful sight of a trail of hair that leads to places you’ve been trying so desperately not to imagine. You don’t mean to stare, and you catch yourself when he shifts his hips upward to get more comfortable, the sight of his lower stomach flexing and tattoos coming alive on his skin sending shivers up your spine.

You clear your throat and turn to grab your journal out of your bag. You haven’t had the time to buy a new journal after you ruined the binds by tearing out those pages for Eddie, so you must handle the remaining structure carefully.

You take a deep breath and flip to a clean page, clicking your pen once before glancing at Eddie, “Okay, I guess we’ll… start.”

Eddie smirks, and you want nothing more than to wipe it away.

You open your mouth to ask your first question, but Eddie cuts you off, “I have a proposition,” he begins.

You look at Eddie, blinking once and thinking over if you want to indulge in whatever trick this is. You relent, “Okay?”

Eddie smiles triumphantly and leans forward to put his glass on the table, yours still untouched. He grabs the pack of cigarettes lying to the side, picking a single stick and grabbing the lighter before leaning back onto the couch, lighting the cigarette before shifting to face you. He drapes an arm across the back of the sofa, blowing out a cloud of smoke before speaking, “I get to ask you questions as well. Like a trade-off, for each question you ask, I also get to ask one.”

And it’s not as bad as you’d thought, really. Knowing Eddie, you had expected him to propose a game involving stripping or drinking of some sort, and you had prepared to immediately shut him down— but this, you can settle for this.

So, you shrug, “Okay. We can do that.”

Eddie hums in delight, taking another drag of the burning stick and nodding for you to begin.

“Okay,” you sigh, shifting to get more comfortable. In the distance, you can hear the chaos of backstage rituals happening, and you fight through the noise to focus. “We’ll start light. What made you choose music?”

Eddie twiddles the cigarette between his fingers, silently thinking, “I don’t know. I grew up with music, never went a day without it, so, in a way, I guess you could say music chose me.” He responds.

You nod, “What are some of your first memories with music?”

Eddie smiles and gazes up at the ceiling, and you watch as he seems to wander down a road of memories. “When I was younger,” he begins, “before my mom died, I remember waking up and going to the kitchen to watch her cook breakfast,” he pauses as if trying to see through the fog of time to explain it clearly.

“And she had this small green radio that sat on the window sill, and she would play all of her tapes; The Mamas and Papas, Jefferson Airplane, Sam and Dave— you know… hippie shit.” He says. “I knew Surrealistic Pillow like the back of my hand by the time I could talk, I swear.” He jokes, smiling when you softly laugh. He looks at you, a glint flashing in his eyes, and you can tell the memory brings him a joy he misses. 

And you find yourself thinking back to a few days ago, when you were walking beside Wayne with Richie and Eddie a few paces back. You remember what Wayne had told you then; you remember the tone in his voice and the careful thought he’d used behind each sentence.

“Give him time,” Wayne softly says. You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Eddie and Richie sharing a cigarette. You turn back to Wayne when he adds, “You’re a nice girl, and Eddie… Eddie doesn’t know what to do with nice.”

You dig your teeth into the inside of your cheek, chest tightening at the pained gaze in his eyes when he speaks, “He hasn’t had much of that in his life.”

“I know you don’t owe it to him, but just give him some time… he’ll come around.”

Eddie glances at your empty page before gazing back into your eyes, “You gonna write something down? I’m not repeating any of this, just so you know.”

You nod, snapping out of your daze to begin writing. Eddie patiently waits as you jot down your thoughts and conversation, burning through his cigarette and watching your every move.

You look back at him when you finish, and fight the urge to shy away when you realize he hasn’t looked away from you this entire time. “Um, okay, tell me about—” “I believe I get to ask two questions now.” Eddie cuts in with a smirk.

“Oh,” you pause, “Yeah, okay. Go ahead.”

Eddie ashes his cigarette and grabs his drink again, “When did you start writing?”

And Eddie keeps surprising you. For some reason, you thought Eddie would ask something dumb, inappropriate, or condescending— nothing of this matter. You didn’t think Eddie was interested in actually learning something about you.

You sigh as you think, “Well, the first time I ever wrote for myself was around middle school; I had a diary.” You respond, and Eddie’s eyebrows raise in interest, “It was lilac with a gold lock on the pages, and I carried the key around on my necklace because I was so afraid someone would get ahold of it.” You shake your head as Eddie laughs.

“Now, what in god’s name was little middle school Birdie writing about in her secret diary?” Eddie pries.

You scoff, “Like I’d ever tell you that.” You roll your eyes, and Eddie makes a sound of protest, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” He pokes. You raise an eyebrow and glance at Eddie, “You’d be surprised by what goes through the mind of a twelve-year-old girl on the precipice of puberty. I’m taking those pages to the grave.”

Eddie laughs loudly at that, head tossing back with the action. You find it beautiful, the way his neck stretches and his skin molds against his bones— kissable and enticing.

“Okay, well, aside from your secretive diary. What made you choose this,” Eddie nods towards the journal in your lap.

You hum and purse your lips in thought, “I’ve always loved writing. I loved reading too, still do, and I tried writing fiction, but there’s something about writing people’s stories that just… feels good.” You respond.

“I know how easy it is to become misunderstood in this industry, so I want to hear the truth and help the audience see things from a clearer perspective. I want to help create an understanding if that makes sense.”

Eddie nods, eyes soft and smiling within his gaze. “That’s neat.” He comments, and you smile.

He sips his drink before speaking, “So, how did you end up writing for Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You laugh, “A shit ton of groveling, I’ll tell you that.”

You reach forward and pick up your drink for the first time, taking a sip before speaking, “I’d been trying to get an interview for the longest time, and then I finally just gave up for a while, but then my friend saw an opening a few months later and sent in one of my writings and… I guess they liked it enough to hire me,” You shrug.

“But,” you hold up a finger, “I spent a good year just running errands and shit for the managers; it was awful,” you admit. “So, how’d you end up with the big guys?” Eddie asks.

“Well, I wrote a hell of a paper and blew their fuckin’ minds.” You jokingly say, smirking over the rim of your glass as you take a sip. Eddie softly laughs and takes a sip of his drink as you place yours back down on the table in exchange for picking up your pen.

“My turn,” You remind him.

He nods, and you glance at your journal, thinking about what you want to ask next. “I know in the past you’ve mentioned that you don’t particularly release songs about your life, but you rather opt to tell stories within your music,” you mention, and Eddie nods in confirmation. 

“What’s the reasoning behind that?”

It’s a slightly more in-depth question, and Eddie has to take a few moments of silent pondering before he answers. “Well, for starters, I’ve always considered myself more of a storyteller. I like to create different scenarios and characters and find ways to bring them to life,” He begins.

You quietly jot down notes as you listen to him speak, “When I was in high school, I got really into Dungeons and Dragons, and I still love the game, but I guess you could say it stems from that— the storytelling aspect, I mean.” 

“But as for why I don’t release more personal songs… I don’t know; I guess I just like to keep a part of my life private to some degree. However, that doesn’t mean these made-up characters and scenarios I sing about aren’t in some way correlated to me,” He hints, and you nod in understanding.

“That’s neat.” You copy his words from earlier, and you both smile.

You and Eddie go back and forth with questions for a bit, touching base with topics like childhood, friendships, current projects, and such. It’s nice to have a decent conversation with Eddie, and for a moment you forget that you’re even doing your job because interviewing Eddie feels like any normal conversation you’d have— lighthearted, smooth, and innocent. Until—

“Alright, my turn. This one’s good,” Eddie starts.

You’re both two glasses in, and your cheeks feel warm from the drinks as you gesture for Eddie to go on. Eddie gazes at you and studies you briefly before speaking, “What’s going on with you and James?”

You blink in confusion, “James?” You question. Eddie nods, “Yeah, James. The photographer.” Eddie explains.

Your face twists in slight confusion as Eddie sips his drink, “What about him?” You ask.

Eddie laughs, “What’s up with you two? Are you guys together or something?”

And there it is. The game that Eddie’s been playing all along, revealed in all its true nature. 

Your eyebrows furrow in defense, annoyed with the sudden shift in demeanor, “Is that any of your business?” You question, and Eddie laughs, tapping his ring against the glass of his drink with a soft clink, “Sweetheart, it’s my business if I’m cutting the check.” He snickers.

You narrow your gaze at him, clearly irritated with his words. You don’t know why you ever gave him the chance. Eddie has only ever shown you his true colors, and he’s, more than once, told you that he doesn’t take you or your profession seriously. This has reminded you so.

“You don’t pay me,” you snap, “And I doubt you’ve even touched a check in the last three years.”

Eddie smirks, amused by your sudden frustration, “Maybe you have a point,” he relents, “But you still haven’t answered my question.” He points out.

You roll your eyes, “Why do you care, Eddie?”

Eddie shrugs, “I’m curious.” He smugly answers. 

“I don’t ask you who you’re fucking, do I?” A lousy attempt at dodging the question.

Eddie shrugs again, “You could if you want to, I don’t mind. I bet you’ve been curious to know anyway, haven’t you?” He replies.

You don’t like the way that makes your insides squirm with heat.

And you could tell him the truth. You could tell him the simple and honest answer that, no, nothing is going on between you and James. But as you look at Eddie sitting across the couch, you can’t find a single reason why Eddie should even care or why he should have the satisfaction of an answer. “Ask something else.” You say.

Eddie doesn’t waste a second to spit out his next question, “Did you like the kiss?”

“A different question.” “Those are my questions, princess.”

God, you don’t even know why you’re putting up with this. You could easily just get up and leave, but you hate to give Eddie any room for thinking he’s won whatever stupid battle this is. 

You shut your journal, refusing to stay another minute, going back and forth with Eddie. You stand and grab your bag, shoving your journal in before looking at Eddie and finally answering his original question, “No, nothing is going on between me and James.” You admit. And you think Eddie will leave it at that, but you're sadly mistaken.

“And the kiss?” He asks.

“What about it?” Your composure is beginning to falter and your frustration is seeping into your tone. Eddie’s eyes glint with mischief, gaze never leaving your fidgety frame as he speaks, “Did you like it?”

“No.”

A lie. A terrible one that Eddie can see right through.

You begin making your way to the door, but Eddie catches you before you can even lay a finger on the handle, turning you around to face him when he speaks, “You’re a shit liar.” He points out.

And he’s so close you can barely think straight with his overwhelming presence. You find your footing through the haze, gazing into Eddie’s eyes when you speak, “Did you ask me to come in here so you can answer my questions, or did you just want to waste my time?”

Eddie is silent for a long moment, eyes dancing between your wide and sharp gaze, darting down to your lips, the tip of his pink tongue darting out to lightly lick across his bottom lip. You can smell the smoke on his breath, reaching out to mix with your liquor-coated exhales.

“Did you like the kiss?”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eddie has you cornered now, pressed against a wall so tight you have no choice but to admit defeat, moving forward to press your lips against his liquor-slicked lips.

It’s hasty. Messy, greedy, drunk, and needy, and it rids your mind of all rational thought as Eddie presses himself against you. 

Eddie kisses you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get, pressing into you so close you’d think he’s trying to jump into your skin. And the taste of Eddie is addicting.

You crave for more, and you’re hesitant to push, but Eddie understands the second he feels your tongue lick against your lips. He takes it upon himself to push his tongue into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth, and you happily let him. All clear thinking has gone out the window at this point, and you let your bag slink off your shoulder to plot onto the floor, busying yourself with sinking your fingers into the curly strands of his hair and gently tugging at the root. Eddie moans against your lips, and you pant, your brain going dizzy at the heavenly sound.

Eddie’s hands are eager and hungry as they rest against your hips, sneaking up your torso to squeeze and grab at your skin. And he hates the fact that there are so many layers of clothes between you, and he wants them gone.

His hand travels down the side of your body and digs into the thick of your thigh, dipping lower to catch the back of your knee and hitch your leg around his waist. You keen, pitching your hips forward into Eddie’s, and he moans, greedily squeezing your skin and gliding up your leg. Cool rings send shivers up your spine when he slips under the hem of your denim skirt and kneads the fat of your ass.

If breathing weren’t a necessity, you would kiss Eddie forever, but your lungs burn with the lack of air, so you find yourself pulling away with a wet gasp, “I—“ Eddie presses a kiss to your lips, cutting you off before you can speak and you whine, fingers moving to dig into the soft material of his open shirt, “Eddie, I can’t… I can’t breathe, I gotta breathe,” You pant.

Eddie laughs, and you smile as he trails his kisses down to your neck, licking against the base of your throat before sinking his teeth into the skin. You moan, whiney and loud in Eddie’s ear and he hums in appreciation, grumbling into the skin of your neck as he speaks, “I wanna fuck you.”

His teeth scrape against your pulse, and you gasp, head dropping back against the wall with a soft thud as your nails dig into the skin of Eddie’s shoulder. “What?” You hazily blink.

Eddie moves back to see you, lust-ridden eyes darting all over your face. And he looks so pretty, hair messy, shirt skewed against his lean frame, lips swollen and pink from kissing, and you want him. You want him to a dangerous degree.

He kisses you, muttering his words against your lips as he squeezes your hips and pulls you closer, “I wanna fuck you.” Eddie repeats.

You pant, opening your mouth against his and preparing to speak, but you’re interrupted by the door opening, the two of you jumping at the sudden intrusion, your hand swiftly shoving at Eddie’s body to push him away. 

And you think you might die because who better to walk in on you and Eddie practically devouring one another than fucking Jeff.

“Oh, shit, uh,” Jeff looks the other way as soon as he sees you and Eddie. You hastily pick up your bag and tug your skirt back down to a modest length from where it had ridden up to your hips.

You and Eddie are still breathing heavily from your extremities, and Eddie— fucking Eddie; he snickers when Jeff glances back at him and makes a lazy attempt at holding back a laugh. Your face and neck heat up in embarrassment as you shift in your spot, wanting nothing more than the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“The car is here, man, let’s go,” Jeff snickers before leaving.

And truthfully, you don’t currently have the confidence to look Eddie in the eye and register what’s just happened between you two. So, you grip the strap of your bag and flee before Eddie can say or do anything.

You’re not sure how that happened, and you’re not sure why it makes your stomach twist in a way that makes you blush, but you like it. 

And you can’t believe yourself.

You can’t believe that you spent the entire drive to the hotel thinking about how Eddie’s hands felt on your body, his lips against the skin of your neck, or how you could feel him pressed against your thigh, begging to be touched.

When you shower, you try to ignore the throbbing ache between your legs when you think of those words Eddie whispered to you. You try to ignore it as you get ready for bed and ignore the toe-curling sensation of the cool hotel sheets brushing against your hardened nipples when you slip into bed. You try so hard; you really do.

But you can’t help it when you begin imagining how Eddie’s hands would feel across your chest, the light and rough feeling of his calloused fingers ghosting over your nipples to watch as you writhe beneath him. 

Fuck, you really try to ignore it.

But you can’t. It’s annoying, the way Eddie clouds your mind. And you feel like a bitch in heat when the only thing running through your mind and body is the burning desire to cum. And if you stuff your hands between your thighs and bring yourself to cum to the idea of Eddie and the feeling of him pressed against you with your name on his tongue, who’s to judge you but yourself?

Because despite everything your mind is telling you, you can’t help but find yourself wanting Eddie.

But all of that flies out the window the following day.

You’d decided to order breakfast to your room, and the hotel sends the daily newspaper with each meal, and you like to read it while sipping on a hot cup of coffee on your terrace. However, when you see the newsletter cover, you’re not sure you have much of an appetite for coffee.

A picture of Eddie from last night with a familiar red-headed girl wrapped around his arm and a caption that makes your stomach twist in knots. The caption, ‘Corroded Coffin lead singer, Eddie Munson, new girlfriend debut!” in bold and italicized letters.

And you don’t know why, but your stomach sinks. You should’ve known better.

————

part six

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a/n: HIII YOU MADE IT TO THE END!! i know i said there would be drama drama in this part BUT it started getting too long for my liking, SOOO THE REAL DRAMA WILL COMMENCE IN PART 6 HEHE. THANK YOU FOR READING, AND AS ALWAYS, I LOVE TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS SO PLS LMK IN THE COMMENTS OR REBLOGS HOW YOU FEELLL <3

————

cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2

@mvnsonslvt @s-u-t @hereforshmut @mmunson86 @welcometohellsock @lma1986 @birdsinmywalls @animechick555 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @spideydreams00 @lorosette @prestinalove @sirensleepingsoundly

[admirationandromantics]

Teacher's Lounge

Another request! I'm thinking about not posting updates to anonymous requests, and instead just pasting said request in here? I'll tag you if you didn't ask anonymously. It's easier and more neat.

🍋‍🟩 Hear me out, Josh becoming a temporary teacher for film with his own office, he often let you study in there seeing as the campus didn’t have enough study space to accommodate everyone and you become quite overstimulated on a normal day (@b3rryb3t)

This is therefore maybe a teacher x student thing, but you're roughly the same age anyway (maybe 2 years difference), since he graduated before you and has already come out with his debut movie. You're still hanging out with the friend group as well.

Word count: 1,6k (Unedited)

It’s hard to find good reading spots on campus. My messy room could be an option, but I can’t get inspired there. I need different surroundings than what I’m used to. Booked rooms are a no-go, especially now that exams are coming closer. They’re always booked, and everyone uses them. I’ve tried going to the library, but if there’s room, the place is never quiet. The librarians don't care. I get it though, everyone is stressed, and the only place you can work on a group assignment is the library. You have to talk, you have to discuss. This means that I’m still left without a spot to study. I’ve tried other libraries, other cafes and even at my friends place. Nothing works. Maybe there’s something in the other buildings? Somewhere quiet where I’ll feel content. 

The first building that comes to mind is the Teachers house. A large building with some group rooms and many small study sofas. Many of the teachers have offices there, but if I'm quiet, they won’t mind. These spots are usually also taken, but maybe I’ll have a chance if I’m quick. 

I walk down the hall, stopping when I see the old abandoned office. This room is usually always empty, waiting for someone to inhabit it. But it’s not empty anymore. The previously collected dust is cleaned away, the wood door has a new furnish and a brand new slide-on plate reads a familiar name. Joshua Washington. 

I widen my eyes in surprise, it cannot be. Why is he here? Didn’t he already finish his degree? He just finished his debut movie, which was excellent. I saw him at one of Emily’s parties too, which was not long ago. About three weeks. He looked good then, very good. Like he felt fulfilled and accomplished. He should feel good about himself. Not many people do that on their first big project. He did talk about a new job he got, but I assumed it was another film-related gig. Was this the job? 

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I carefully knock three times. The sound is beautiful, hard and dark wood which doesn’t vibrate as I hit it. I wait, hearing shuffling and metal clinking inside. 

“Um, yeah, come in!” 

I open the door, holding the handle hard. If I was wrong, then this would be an awfully awkward encounter. The door glides easily without making any sound. They have really improved this place. He lifts his head, meeting my stare as he does. A smile creeps on his face, eyes lighting up by the sight. I stand still, mouth agape and furrowed brows. He’s really here. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite student” 

“You teach here?” 

“As of this Monday, yes” 

I close the door behind me, looking around the room. It’s cozy, filled with family pictures and a couple of movie posters. His diploma is also on the wall. On one surface are many small film trophies from his childhood, and in front of all of them, the price he got last year for his first debut Hollywood movie. I look around in awe, the yellow light making everything feel so professional and real. 

“And by the way, I’m not your student, I take another course” 

“That can’t stop me from stating that you’re in a superior’s office” 

“How did you get this job?”

“They offered it to me”

“Just out of nowhere? You don’t have experience in teaching. You’re not even a professor” 

“I guess my talent shines through”

I look at him and his smug face. He’s leaning back in the roller chair, feet upon his desk. Everything here is so neat, so unlike him. He also loves being able to joke like this, but honestly, I’m still surprised by the circumstances. He made one movie, and now, the university wanted him to teach a course? 

“If I know you correctly, you’ll probably be fired by the next month” 

“And why’s that?”

I take a seat in front of him, not surprised that the chair is lower than him. Oh, how he loves his power trips. The chair is comfortable, and suits the surroundings, but I feel small. 

“Because you can’t keep your hands to yourself” 

“That’s true” 

“There’s only a question about time, when will you fuck one of your students, and when will you get caught” 

He laughs, shaking his head as he fiddles with an expensive ball pen. He looks at me in disbelief, maybe a little surprised that I said exactly what I thought. 

“Who’s to say I haven’t done it already?” 

“One week into the job?” 

“Maybe” 

“You’re disgusting, Washington” 

“That’s Mr. Washington to you” he corrects, pointing at me with the same pen. I smile at him, almost unable to hide my laughter. 

“I’m not gonna start calling you that” 

“Ugh, damn you” 

A slight silence follows, and analyse his desk. Many, many pens, his laptop, a stack of papers and a couple of memory sticks. Again, everything is so neat. It makes me feel weird. 

“By the way, I actually haven’t had a teacher-student relationship” 

“You shouldn’t” I quickly shoot back. It would not be a good idea. Being in the filming industry is hard in itself, but he also has a shot of doing something more. This was not something to take lightly. 

“At least not gonna with my own students” 

“Jesus Chris Josh”

He laughs again, loving my overdramatic reactions. He knows what gets me to tip over, how to make me irritated and upset. Of course he’ll use it to his advantage. 

“Anyways, what are you doing here? Isn’t your building on the other side of campus?” 

I sigh loudly, leaning back in the chair and letting my head fall back. I’m tired, exhausted even. But just two more weeks, and I’ll be finished with the exams. My diploma isn’t far away. 

“Trying to find a study spot, but everywhere is taken”

“Why don’t you just use your dorm?”

“Easy for you to say, you never lived in one”

He leans back, furrowing his brows and being deep in thought. 

“You could sit here?” 

I look up, surprised by the offer. Is that even okay, am I, as a student, allowed to do that? I think about it, the place is quiet, cozy and a completely different atmosphere than usual. It could work. 

“Can I?” 

“Of course, it wouldn't be the first time you’ve been in my quarters” he teases, leaning back over the desk. 

“Haha, very funny, but are you serious?” 

“Yeah, I mean, my students usually don’t come here, too busy actually understanding the material, compared to some” he points at me and my backpack. I roll my eyes. 

“Well, if getting my degree consisted of knowing the on and off button of a camera, I would excel at it”

“Careful, or you might not get to study here” 

“Okay, okay, sorry. You’re an accomplished producer and teacher who’s totally awesome” 

“And you have to call me Mr. Washington”

I scoff at his request, shaking my head. He’s still smiling, biting casually into his lower lip. 

“I draw the line there”

“Fine”

I take up my laptop, immediately starting to type. This was gonna be great. Might have some negative effects though. We’ve got a history. Too much time spent together has usually led to more uncivilised activities, but that’s not something I have to worry about now. 

***

The weeks pass, and I truly enjoy his company, even if it’s in silence. He’s busy grading papers and making schedules. I’m prepping for my exams, writing, reading, and memorising. Everything was going great, and the day of the exam finally came. 

I took one look over the questions, and my heart fell. What the hell was this? I did my best, drawing out a mind map to help me refresh my memory. It actually went quite well, if I do say so myself. Not the best, but I’m definitely not failing. 

I walk down the hall yet again, not bothering to knock on Josh’s door. His head rises, noticing my presence, and he smiles. God I love how he smiles. 

“So, how did it go?” 

I close the door, biting my lip as I turn to face him again. He looks up expectantly, eyes big and round. He rises, walking around the desk to face me. 

“It went great!” I blurt out excitedly, arms going out. He smiles, meeting me in a hug as I throw my arms around him. His hands go to my waist, pulling me closer against him. I bury my face in his neck, warm skin against mine, smelling his expensive cologne. 

“See, you just needed a place to study”

“I indeed did”

We break apart a little, arms still holding tight so none of us leaves. He leans in, eyes lowering to my lips. I know what’s about to happen, it has happened a million times before. In his bedroom, a couple of random bathrooms, the mountain lodge, but never in an office. My finger finds its way to his lips, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Mr. Washington, what do you think you’re doing?” 

“Just celebrating” he whispers against my finger, hand going up to take it away. He finds his way to the back of my head, tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. 

“You can get in trouble”

“Never stopped us before”

His breath feels hot against my skin, head getting dizzy and body warmer. How long were we going to keep this thing alive? 

“Fuck it” I whisper against him, capturing his lips on mine.

[chimggukchim]

Share our @s so we can be bullied in our inboxes till kingdom come and be ostracized by you lot? No, thank you. I'm a Jikooker too and I've seen it happen to other Jikookers too many times just because their view of Jikook isn't "they are 100% together and practically married and monogamous towards each other for more than 10 years now"

Unfortunately this space has become too cult-like where one just can't have a slightly differing opinion about Jimin and Jungkook's relationship or express how they personally truly observe it without Jikookers losing their minds or accusing them of things, the way you guys are doing right now.

There's literally no difference between this community and the Taekooker community anymore - I've seen that crazy side turn on their own just because they had the audacity to point out the ITS talk made sense to them because for a while prior to that even they felt things weren't the same between Taekook anymore. And now it's Jikookers doing the same to other Jikookers🤦🏻‍♀

People can believe that Jikook is real while still pointing out the things they feel contradict that belief, or they can believe they were together and no longer are but still think they are special to each other, or they can believe they aren't together in what one would consider the "conventional, traditional" sense.

Taekook can never be real. That is a ship that has no real substance and was literally formed on aesthetics and vibes and had a whole false narrative attached to it that became lore over the years. A lot of people say just Jikook's existence alone cancels out Taekook, but I think even if Jimin and Jung kook didn't have the kind of dynamic they have and/or they didn't exist as a duo, Taekook still wouldn't be real. Please there's fuckall there.

I am someone who believes there's something more than platonic between Jimin and Jungkook and that Jungkook is deeply in love with Jimin, but still I agree with everything the last anon's(s') said. They *are* different from how they were before and the last few years make it hard to believe in the kind of image of them that Jikook shippers have painted for years.

We are Jikookers, we are here, we exist. Accusing us of being Taekookers won't make that shit true. We don't have to be a monolith.

First thing's first - YOU may not be a taekooker in disguise, but the other anon most likely was. And most with dumb takes are as they have a knack of using the SAME rhetoric and examples every single time, not to mention, always managing to slip in Tae somehow. Let's get that out of the way.

Now, here's the thing, anon.

I understand completely, the feelings of confusion and second-guessing whether jikook are really together or not. I have been there before, on multiple occasions. There were things in the past as it happened that made me doubt whether my suspicions about the true nature of their relationship was right. I get it.

So don't go putting words into my mouth and think that you can assume 'what kind of jikooker' I am.

Cause like I've said on multiple occasions now, I did not start out in the ARMY fandom space either as a jikooker or as a shipper. I had no clue what shipping was. And til this day, I remain an ARMY supporting all of our boys as a group before any sort of shipping enters my mind. Whenever I watch BTS content, jikook as a couple is never at the forefront of my mind. I watch them as a part of Bangtan.

There are certain moments that jikookers put on a pedestal as concrete 'proof' of a relationship, that I side-eye and hence, make no post or comment on because it does not make sense.

If tomorrow, Jimin and Jungkook were to announce they were both dating other people, I would still be happy for them because before anything, I want them to be happy. If that's with other people, so be it.

So I know me and how I perceive Jimin and Jungkook's relationship. I trust my objectivity of their relationship over yours, thank you.

Now to what you have accused most in this community of...I have honestly yet to see to the extent that you have indicated. Harassing? Bullying? Cult-like? Well, I've got news for you. You're in the wrong side of town, deary. And people who go looking there, clearly want to find what they're looking for. (toxicity, by the way)

And the way you spoke of taekookers and knowing how they behave and treat each other?...Honey, the 'normal' jikooker would NEVER EVER find themselves anywhere near taekooker spaces willingly. But you have apparently. That says a lot.

You're looking for trouble. You're going to find it.

Also...my sympathy for you lessened when you compared jikookers to the cult. Because the last time I checked, jikookers didn't go around literally harassing Tae's and JK's FAMILIES AND FRIENDS in real frigging life. So miss me with that similarity nonsense. Point out all you want about SOME jikookers not being able to handle different takes of others all you want, that's fair. I'm sure there may be the immature ones like that in this community, I'm not denying it. I assure you, they're in the minority. But the minute you go comparing any shipping community's behaviour to THAT CULT...it clearly shows loose objectivity.

So with my sincerest heart, I would advise you to change your space. You're clearly in toxic spaces, jikook and taekook-wise. This is bound to influence how you view not only jikook but more importantly, the jikook community.

There is a reason why I don't answer or comment on toxic asks. It's because it brings negativity to the jikook space. And I don't want that. I have found myself probably treading on that territory these days with this discourse. But I'll work it out to bring back the space to positivity and just focusing on Jimin and Jungkook.

Anyway, the final thing I'm going to bring up is that you all keep speaking about Jungkook and Jimin's relationship changing with no actual evidence. You all simply point out things happening now but fail to actually show a proper comparison to the past to highlight the 'CHANGE'. That's not how that works.

For instance, I can say their relationship changed in that Jungkook became a lot bolder with JImin publicly as opposed to years ago. He actively flirts with Jimin on stage when, for instance, during the Red Bullet Tour (back in 2014-2015), he didn't. Jimin did. See how easy that is? Comparison.

If you have any sound comparisons...with proper context, by all means, share. I'm up to hearing it.

PS. This does not include "they don't see each other as much" because we are not privy to how much they actually saw each other back then nor how much they did in 2022/2023.

Anyway, that's all from me. Peace!

[agent99galanzo]

Unmasking Chemistry

Setting: San Diego Comic-Con, where energy is high, and anticipation even higher. You’re on stage with the Marvel cast, ready for an evening of surprise reveals, interactive games, and secret announcements. The crowd is massive, buzzing with excitement for what they don’t know is going to be one of the biggest Comic-Con surprises ever.

---

You’ve played a beloved Marvel superhero for the past couple of years, and tonight’s panel is expected to reveal major spoilers for the next film. But what no one knows—not the fans, not the press, not even your fellow castmates—is that you've been roped into a very secret mission by the studio. Your co-star, the famously unpredictable Robert Downey Jr., is in on it with you, and he’s grinning like a cat who got the cream.

The Marvel cast is seated in a semi-circle, answering fan questions about plot points and character arcs when a huge announcement comes through the speakers:

Moderator: "We have a surprise guest who will join the MCU tonight... But you’ll have to guess who it is!"

The crowd goes wild, and the lights dim dramatically. A game begins, with the moderator reading out mysterious clues about the new Marvel character, but the audience isn’t getting it. Neither is your fellow cast, who are all shooting confused glances your way, sensing something is up.

The final clue is read:“He’s faster than a bullet, can charm the stars out of the sky, and might just be hiding in plain sight…

The lights flare back on, and suddenly, a character dressed in full costume appears on stage—a masked superhero in dark tactical gear, completely unrecognizable. The crowd erupts, assuming it’s a new Marvel villain or a hero they haven’t seen before.

Robert Downey Jr. the notorious troublemaker, grins widely at you, nudging you to stand up. You’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times, but the nervous excitement is still real. You step toward the masked figure and start engaging in some light banter, but then, without warning, the figure grabs you by the hand and twirls you toward them, dipping you dramatically.

The crowd gasps, and you lean into the mic with a mischievous smirk.

You: "Want to know who’s under the mask?"

With a flourish, you reach up and pull off the mask to reveal—Henry Cavill, looking devilishly handsome and playful. The audience loses it. The deafening cheers drown out everything, and the Marvel cast collectively falls apart in shock and laughter, with a few of them openly gaping at the unexpected twist.

Henry still holding you in the dip, smirks at you before setting you upright. He takes the mic, obviously amused by the stunned crowd.

Henry "Sorry to crash the party, but when Marvel offered me a spot next to this talented crew—and especially next to you—I couldn’t say no."

The banter is fast and flirty as Henry takes a seat beside you. There’s a palpable chemistry, and it’s clear that you two have a shared secret—one that your fellow cast members are only beginning to catch onto.

The interview continues with Henry playfully introducing his character, a mysterious anti-hero who will both rival and work with your character in the next movie. The Marvel cast slowly recovers from the shock, and the chemistry between you and Henry becomes the unexpected highlight of the panel, leaving everyone guessing just how much of the playful banter is scripted and how much is real.

Halfway through the interview, the moderator brings out a *Truth or Dare* segment—a tradition for these Comic-Con panels—and you feel your heart skip a beat. When it’s your turn, the moderator puts you on the spot, asking you to choose.

You: "Truth, let’s keep it safe... for now."

Moderator: "Okay. Here's one: Who is the most charming co-star you've ever worked with?"

You hesitate, feeling all eyes on you, especially Henry's. The crowd goes silent as you weigh your answer, and with a playful shrug, you finally respond.

You "Well, there’s this one guy…who unexpectedly swept me off my feet—literally—right here on stage tonight. What can I say, he’s got some charm."

The crowd roars with approval, and Henry laughs, clearly enjoying every second of this.

Then it’s Henry’s turn. He grins devilishly, choosing "Dare."

Moderator: "We dare you to recreate your favorite on-screen kiss with any cast member of your choice…on stage, right now."

There’s an audible “ooooh” from the crowd, and Henry’s gaze turns immediately to you, eyes glinting with mischief. Before you can react, your co-stars are egging him on, laughing and chanting your name. With a dramatic flourish, he turns toward you, his expression more serious.

Henry: "Well, since I just joined the MCU, I think it’s only fair to make it memorable… if you’re up for it?"

You can feel the room’s energy tighten, everyone waiting to see if you’ll accept the challenge. With a playful smile, you take a step closer to Henry and nod, a boldness taking over you.

You: "Why not? We’ll give them something to talk about."

Without hesitation, Henry gently cups your face and leans in, and what was supposed to be a “movie moment” becomes something entirely electric. It’s meant to be a quick, playful kiss for the crowd, but the intensity catches you both off guard, lingering just a second longer than planned.

The entire room explodes in applause, your Marvel co-stars are mock-fainting, and you and Henry pull back, both of you grinning like school kids who just got away with something outrageous.

---

The kiss becomes the highlight of Comic-Con, trending across every social media platform. Fans speculate wildly, analyzing every frame of the interaction, convinced there's more going on between you and Henry than a scripted moment.

That night, after the adrenaline-filled panel, you and the cast head to an after-party in a private suite overlooking the San Diego skyline. Henry is by your side the entire evening, the chemistry between you unmistakable.

At one point, when the crowd thins out and it's just the two of you standing on the balcony, he turns to you, his eyes warm and sincere.

Henry: "You know, I’m really glad we did this. The MCU, Comic-Con, the surprise... and everything else."

He reaches for your hand, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos of the evening. You look out over the glittering city below, feeling that tonight was the start of something thrilling and entirely unexpected.

You: "Me too. But next time we plan a stunt like that, let’s make sure we don’t surprise ourselves."

He laughs, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you realize that whatever comes next—whether it’s on-screen or off—it’s going to be one wild, unforgettable adventure.

[pruneunfair]

the real reason Remarried empress rarely remembers the slavery in the story.

I used to think it was just lazy writting so they can give Rashta a mandatory sad villain backstory and move back on with the romance but now that im thinking about it, it was probably on purpose because it heavily implies Naviers family would likely own slaves.

The only nobles I think don't own slaves are the Imperial family since slaves aren't allowed to be in the palace but everywhere else that has the money to buy them would likely have at least a few. When slavery does come up it's quickly justified in chapter 2 that slaves end up in that situation as some sort of indentured servitude and they free a handful every once in a while (that is the worst excuse I've ever seen but I digress) but it's canon that slaves can sold through the use of illegal trade thanks to Rashtas past confirming parents can pawn off their children to escape debt, Lebetti being kidnapped and sold, and for something a little more obscure: a bill of sale becoming a catastrophic object for Rashta. So no matter how much Navier will try to justify it, slavery will always be seen as what it is: a disgusting practice of humanity, but if she's such a generous woman who donates to the poor and is a perfect empress loved by all, why is she not only okay with slavery but also befriending slave owners?

well, given that the house of Trovi is one of the most powerful noble families behind the Vict's it's reasonable to assume that Naviers parents probably owned slaves whenever it was through sale or indentured servitude, a high end family like that not owning slaves just feels too unrealistic and it isn't helped by the fact that we know nothing about Naviers parents including their names, all we know is that they love their daughter dearly. So it's not unreasonable to say that not only was Navier taught slavery was justified karma but that she also grew up with slaves. I don't imagine Navier as the type to ever mistreat slaves of course and I think if her family did own them she'd be calm with them but I also feel like it's not out of morality, just because she doesn't have a temper and she's very dignified or Maybe her parents and brother did use cooperate punishment, we'll never know since Naviers only two aspects of her life are her love life and being a popular empress.

And even if for whatever reason Naviers family didn't own slaves, she had to be friends with a few slave owners even before meeting Lebetti. All her ladies in waiting (looking at you Laura) don't just insult Rashta because she's the mistress, they're also prone to insult Rashtas origins as a slave, Laura barely even refers to Rashta by anything other then "the slave" or "wench/filthy thing", this one's a bit more generalizing but Nian would also realistically own slaves or at least her ex husband would given her former status and the fact that she honestly looks like someone who would support the confederacy. I'm also not too sure about the west since I don't think we know much about it since most of it is spent on Navier and Heinrey being a couple, all I can remember is that the west is fruitful with gem mines and is a landlocked country but it wouldn't be totally off if they also had slaves.

All in all I just find it unrealistic as hell that the only slave owner is Lotteshu.

Now considering all this, Navier is already under suspicion with the fact that she's supposed to be kind to all her subjects yet slavery barely enters her mind outside of a cheap excuse to offer justification for it to exist. If slavery was actually a subject important to the plot then Navier wouldn't be the wronged girlboss they want her to be since she'd be implied to support slavery or even descend from a family that owned slaves. Rashta would actually have a valid reason to be distrustful of her, characters couldn't be so openly biased and classist without readers going "Hey, why should I support this character if they endorse human trafficking?" So they just don't talk about it, they shove it to the side, give confirmed slave owners redemption arcs and put them around the MC so they'll fangirl or whatever it is they need to do to be supportive. Do all of that while conveniently not showing the readers the other slaves they own and you'll quickly forget these people are garbage people.

frankly I'm disappointed they took this route because it ruins any chance of character development or even just interesting characters. There's tons of ways they could've gone with this if they just accepted the fact that Navier being from a high ranking noble family in a slavery adjacent country would mean her parents or friends would own people.

A: Navier could later realize how terrible it is to be a slave and right her wrongs by using Heinrey to push for it to be abolished in the west since he'll do anything for her

B: we could at least be given a reason why Navier doesn't try anymore, maybe she did push for it to be abolished when she was crown princess only for nobles to get pissed and it almost costed her engagement to Sovieshu.

C:Navier could just be a protagonist like Penelope or Aria, where she's not really a great person and you shouldn't support her all of the time but she's still very entertaining. This would work well since everyone in this story sucks anyway with the exception of McKenna and Charlotte.

But unfortunately, any flaws of her empire even really historically accurate ones would ruin Naviers self-insert quality. So slavery ends up in a box that feels like it's saying the practice is just a necessary evil, ironically making the other characters even more hateable then they could've been.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

I was totally talking about the "no, this was good and I'm gonna make more of it because you're wrong and I'm right." type of spite in regards to the statue scene and Adrien saying that's when he fell in love with Marinette.

I feel the same way towards what they did with Bustier in Season 5, having her new akumatized form be this awesome revolutionary who wanted to dethrone the mayor, have her eventually become the mayor and showing how downright utopic Paris became after she took the job, revealing that she's a LGBT character by giving her a girlfriend and have them share a kiss oncreen while the other LGBT couples still get little to nothing, it just feels like like they saw how people were hating on her because of how she kept fumbling the bag in regards to Chloe, and this was their attempts at forcing the audience to like her.

(Post this ask is referring to)

Disclaimer

Before we get into the topic at hand, I want to give a quick disclaimer: when I write these posts explaining the writers' most likely point of view or industry standards, it's never to defend the writing. I clearly don't like the writing and want it to change, too! The reason I get real and explain what's probably going on and why things aren't going to change is to give my readers a bit of a reality check about realistic expectations.

In the past, I have been in the position of being deeply emotionally invested in a show only for the writers to destroy it. Or, at least, I thought it was destroyed. It took about two seasons for the general public to agree with me. I remember the desperation of "why would they do this to us?" and "Why didn't anyone stop them?" and "How does no one else see how terrible this is?"

That was a deeply unhealthy mindset for younger me, so I'm never going to feed others who seem to be going down that path as it feels irresponsible. Instead, I give the kind of answers I'd give my younger self. I try to validate your very real feelings that the writing is bad and then give my best guess as to how it's happening and why it's unlikely to change. I don't like those "truths", but it's important to remember them if you want to have a healthy relationship with media that you have no control over outside of choosing how you'll interact with it.

Queer Stuff

Until it's universally cool to be queer, Miraculous is never going to give us quality rep for a few reasons. The first one is that it can get the show banned in certain countries. Banned shows make less money and the goal is to make money so it's just not going to happen. At best, you will get throwaway lines that can be changed to be "acceptable" in other languages or minor scenes that are easily cut. That's the most likely reason why Bustier is the one confirmed to be in a sapphic relationship along with Knight Owl and Majestia. These characters are all minor enough to have their sexuality very subtly included in canon*. Rose and Juleka are way too prominent for the same treatment. The most likely reason for Bustier being with a woman is that the writers wanted to risk some rep and went with what they could get away with without rocking the boat. I doubt it was done to make fans like her more as that assumes that most fans care about the sexuality of a minor character. It also assumes most fans would find this a likeable trait as opposed to something neutral or negative.

There's also the issue of parental appeal. If a show becomes known for having queer rep, there are lots of parents who will steer clear of it and keep it from their kids. That means less toy sales and so on and that's not good for business. If you want solid queer rep, you need to look to less mainstream productions. It is highly unlikely to come from something associated with Disney.

*Do any of the sapphic couples even kiss? I don't think they do. It's like Zoé's confession to Marinette, clearly implied but never actually given voice. A young viewer could easily miss the implications if they've been sheltered from the idea that a girl could like a girl. I could see a kid being told/thinking that this was just Marinette being honored that Zoé trusted her with the truth:

Marinette: Oh? Who is it, then? (Zoé simply looks at Marinette and smiles, with no words needed to answer her question. With her reflection in Zoé's eyes, Marinette realizes that the person Zoé likes... is her.) Marinette: Oh... Oh! Oh. (Zoé keeps her tender, loving smile and gaze at Marinette as the two share an embrace moments after) I am truly, very honored. I mean it, Zoé. Zoé: Thanks, Marinette. (they let go of their embrace) You're right! It's such a relief to get these things off your chest. You should try it, too!

Listening to Criticism

This wasn't directly stated in this ask, so I'm going to pull in a quote from the original ask for context:

he saw how much people hated that scene but instead of addressing the criticisms he instead just point blank tries to force us to like the scene

This was said in context of criticisms about the statue scene. Anon is annoyed that the writers doubled down instead of fixing the writing issues. I fully understand why anon feels that way, but unfortunately, this isn't a simple issue of the writers needing to listen to what the fans are telling them. It's a lot more complicated than that.

There was actually a recent Tumblr poll asking people their thoughts on that scene. A thousand people responded. We have no idea if those people were a representative sample of the fandom, but that's a reasonably large sample size and the responses were diverse enough for me to think that the poll has value in this discussion as it shows us something interesting: people like the statue scene. It's not everyone. In fact, "I hate it" won! But about 35% of the people who voted were neutral to positive about the scene. Only 38% actually hated it outright.

A poll about the season five ending got over 1,700 replies and the end result was that there's a pretty even split between people liking it and hating it.

Based on these polls and the fact that some people clearly still like the show, I can easily assemble a committee to give critical feedback who would praise the things you and I hate just like I can easily assemble a team who generally shares the same opinions as us. That's the problem with blithely stating "listen to criticism" when what you really mean is, "listen to my criticism and ignore anyone who doesn't agree." What we see as fixes others would label as ruination!

Miraculous' Current Feedback Process

Miraculous isn't one man's fever dream. There is some level of critical feedback process in place. We know from the bible leaks that people at Disney and TF1 give some level of approval to the bibles before the more detailed writing can begin.

We also know that the writers have had scripts rejected before. Chat Blanc was supposed to be in season two, but was "was rejected by broadcasters [for being] too dark and too sad." There's even a rumor that Gabriel was killed because of a mandate that he couldn't go to jail to avoid upsetting Brazilian audiences (if anyone can confirm that, please let me know!) In other words, the writers do get push-back! They aren't allowed to write whatever they want! There is a feedback process!

None of this is meant to say that I think the show is good. I clearly think it's bad, too! I only bring all of this up because this is what you need to keep in mind when you're wondering what the hell canon is doing. We may not get it and view it as terrible, but there is a whole host of people who think it's good or, at the very least, good enough. Industry professionals are signing off on this shit. While I think they're all insane, the best takeaway from these facts is that the team working on this project has wildly different tastes from us and we should either stop watching or watch with the knowledge that we're probably going to hate the final product.

Counterexample

Let's pivot slightly to a relevant counterexample. Brandon Sanderson is one of my favorite authors and a book podcast I follow read one of his books about a year ago. Two of the members weren't fans while the third loved it, leading to a really interesting disclaimer at the start of the episode. I'll post a link after this in case you want to hear the exact quote, but the general gist is that the show's host - Maria - was talking about ways the book could be improved with two fans of the book and, to her surprise, they were both adamant that the proposed changes would ruin the book for them.

I don't bring up this example to imply that Miraculous is secretly good and we just don't get it. I stand by pretty much every criticism I've ever made. I bring it up because this shows that even a story that I will defend isn't universally appealing. I generally agree with Maria and Will's thoughts on stories, I mostly disagree with them here. Is the book perfect? No, but most of their suggested changes aren't ones I'd make. At the same time, I understand why the story didn't click with them. Many of their issues are valid. I just think that most of those valid issues are subjective issues and not true flaws. It's also worth noting that the Mistborn series is wildly successful. The author is a multi-millionaire. People clearly like it as-is, which is why critical feedback is impossible to get "right."

Annoying Truth About Critical Feedback

There is no universally good version of a story. No one standard every work can strive to meet. There's not even such a thing as a universally right critic! You can think a person's feedback is good 95% of the time and still be totally fine rejecting the other 5%.

Part of the editing process is getting feedback and deciding if you agree with it or not. You don't have to make every suggested change which is good because, if you have more than one person giving feedback, then you'll probably get conflicting feedback! I can think of one story where beta reader A found a section confusing and beta reader B said it was perfectly clear. I had to talk to A to see what was confusing them and decide if I cared to rewrite that section to cater better to people like her knowing it could lead to the section being less clear for people who weren't like her. I can think of another story where a random commenter took the time to tell me they didn't like the way I wrote Adrien, leading several others to comment saying that I got him perfect.

This is why I'm so hesitant to blame Miraculous' writers for not "listening to criticism" because what does that even mean? Without an objective standard, who decides what criticism is good? What happens when there are dissenting opinions on a topic as there almost always are?

Anyone who wants to create has to decide whose opinions they value and ignore basically everyone else otherwise they'd never create anything. If the Miraculous writers have a team AND the team likes what the writers are creating AND there's an audience happy to consume what show in its current state? I don't know how you fix that. I don't even know if you can. Can anyone give a tried and true way to avoid creating an echo chamber while also ignoring unhelpful "haters"? It's an incredibly complicated topic and is why the trend I mentioned in the linked post exists.

For those who don't want to click back and read that post, there's a pretty common trend where a series gets popular, but then the writing starts to get "bad" or people start to realize that the series is never going to live up to the potential that they saw in it. Less forgiving fans begin to stop watching, but enough fans stick around that the money keeps coming in and so the writers have no reason to course correct. By the time the majority of fans have given up hope, the writing is so bad that there's no saving the property. You'll probably never reach a point where everyone hates the series, but you do reach a point where they're no longer able to make the property commercial successful. That or the series reaches its ending and it's so bad that people basically stop talking about the series or only remember how poorly it ended when it used to be a beloved, pop-culture zeitgeist. This trend is basically the media's version of enshittification. My partner and I talked about various series that came to mind for this trend and these are just a few of the properties that we were able to name: RWBY, Zack Snyder's DC Stuff, BBC's Sherlock, Game of Thrones, and How I Met Your Mother.

If the more critical fans are right and Miraculous is a mess that's just getting worse and worse, then this decaying process is Miraculous' most likely fate. More and more people will turn their backs on it until it fails or the writers run out of ideas and give a lackluster ending that is pretty universally hated. It will probably be slightly gratifying to people like us to see one of those things happen, but not gratifying enough to make the loss of a potentially good story worth it. Having gone through this cycle before, it really is a hollow victory and that sucks, but there's nothing you or I can do about it which is why I take the stances I do. It's fun to dunk on canon, but don't let canon's bad writing drag you down into dark places. That won't benefit anyone. It will just hurt you.

Final Thoughts

All of the above is why this blog isn't aimed at the writers. I don't expect them to fix anything. Canon is what it is and it will continue to be what it is because this is what the creative teams considers good. I don't agree, but I also highly doubt that I'd ever be able to change their minds. Even if they read my feedback, I doubt they'd agree with it even though I will stand by every point I've made and think canon has inexcusable issues.

This blog is aimed at sharing my thoughts on the writing with fellow former fans or somewhat-critical current fans. I want us to have fun thinking about writing and alternate takes on Miraculous for our own amusement. I will be a happy woman if this blog helps any of my followers improve in their own writing or critical analysis skills or even just gives them an outlet to flex those mental muscles.

It's the same reason I like the podcast I linked above. I enjoy listening to the three hosts and their occasional guests dig into the technical elements of writing and why a thing did or didn't work for them because I find discussion of those things interesting and useful for honing my own writing. It's not about fixing the source material. The books they talk about are finished products that are what they are. Chances of an edited edition being released are extremely low. It's not even about being right. I have no idea how you decide who is right in matters of taste! There are multiple extremely popular series that have me scratching my head at how people like them! There are also popular series that I greatly enjoy.

With this vast array of tastes and no true standard for anyone to meet, all you can do is state your opinions on a work logically and clearly and let whoever is listening decide for themselves if they agree with you or not. It can be frustrating when they don't, but it is something you just kind of learn to accept so you don't go mad. "Let people be wrong" is, unfortunately, the best way to protect your mental health, especially when it comes to something as unimportant as Miraculous.

I'll finish by imploring anyone reading this to never force your opinion on a fan! That's just rude. Let them have their fun! Just don't take recommendations from them. Whenever I meet someone who likes a thing I hate, I just say it wasn't for me and leave it at that unless they truly want to hear why I didn't like it. Most people don't. Most people just want to enjoy the things they enjoy which is completely fine and normal. Let people be wrong.

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

"Who'd think... Little voices... Could sound so loud": Helena Bertinelli the Teacher.

This is my reading of a short, little-known Huntress story: Rapscallions from Batman Chronicles #19. She isn't at war with the Mafia or fighting Vandal Savage, but who's to say she's not up against something just as difficult? Helena has to deal with lost kids repeating the same old mistakes as others before; meet Helena Bertinelli the teacher.

I've added all 10 pages of the story.

"I'm listening for... a smoker's cough or the cracking of men's joints as they spring from the shadows to fight. Not for this."

The title of this grim crime story is "Rapscallions", teasing that loss of innocence theme; playfully, allusively referring to the story's unfortunate but still felonious kids. The title doesn't let you forget that they're just kids, even if they grew up too quickly.

Harris and Battle give the "Rapscallions" quite an introduction; the kids aren't alright and they will not be ignored. Helena is on the trail of an organised drug trade so neither she nor we, the reader, suspected a bunch of kids and we "never heard them coming". I have a bone to pick with the art but it is deliberate and important how humbling a defeat The Huntress suffers to a couple of kids. Our formidable urban avenger is taken by surprise and wakes up hanging by her ankles, restrained and quite literally left speechless by the Rapscallions. No world-threatening supervillain has ever got to Helena like these kids did.

Harris reminds us that society (and I'd add the state) often fails to treat children as people. Society underestimates and even neglect kids; allowing them to slip through the cracks and that becomes our undoing, as it was Helena's here. "Who'd think little voices could sound so loud" is such a powerful line to paste over the image of the subdued Huntress looking up at her pint-sized captors. We forget about kids until their problems consume us too. Harris gives these children agency; their stories matter too. "No man's an island" and that doesn't just apply to "grown-ups".

"They thought they had it all figured out."

Right after the kids have shown us what they're capable of, we are reminded how they're still just lost kids; directionless, desperate, and scared. Helena, who herself is an orphan mixed up in the world of organised crime, quickly catches onto who the kids are. They're street kids with nowhere to go who thought they could pull a fast one and came up short.

You can see the uncertainty and fear in their faces but to me it's best illustrated by Tommy, the apparent ringleader, angrily interrogating the visibly gagged Helena. He knows she couldn't say anything even if she wanted to; he doesn't actually want her answers to his questions. If you think about it, the kids had no real need to gag Helena, they're clearly past keeping quiet yet make this choice. The gag the kids put on Helena represents their mistrust of adults. The kids assume Helena's probably another one of the nasty adults that exploit and prey on them.

Another important device is Helena's crossbow, it represents force and so authority through coercion, and Harris uses it like the conch in Lord of the Flies. Helena begins the story with the crossbow but when she's captured, Tommy picks it up. Ringleader or not, he's still just a scared kid who loses his head and makes a break for it, leaving the crossbow and a power vacuum. Helena knows this and you can see it in her face in the very next panel, where she's got her eyes fixed on the out-of-reach crossbow.

"Lucky me. Lucky us." That last panel has Helena drawn as a silhouette; at this point still a passive observer of the broken lives of these doomed kids. Luckily, pedagogy requires a bit of listening.

"I shouldn't get involved… But I'm a Teacher… It's what I do."

If Helena's crossbow represents force, Helena's voice represents persuasion, pedagogy, and authority through trust; she's a teacher. The reason Helena spends half the story gagged is that even the best of teachers require their students to be willing to listen. Kris declares herself to be such a student by putting a name to herself and freeing Helena from her gag, extending her trust. Kris needs a solution and turns to Helena for it.

Meanwhile, Billy picks up the crossbow to reestablish control, antagonising Helena. He again asserts only the Rapscallions have anything to offer themselves, but desolation begins to set in. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” is the first thing Helena says to remind the Rapscallions (and us) that they are still just lost kids.

When our protagonist utters her first words, she makes her active choice. Those keen survival instincts tell her to escape and walk away but her heart breaks for these kids and she just must get involved. It's also revealed that Helena was cutting her binds loose this whole time. She doesn't need to save these kids, she's choosing to.

There's this great line from, don't laugh, The Godfather novels where Michael insists: "It’s all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it’s personal as hell." And I think there's a lot of truth in that. She was once a orphan who was just as lost as these kids. Witnessing the loss of their innocence before her eyes, she's driven to help them. Whether she got a crossbow in hand or a stick of chalk, it's personal to Helena. Getting involved is "what [she] does".

"I try to talk sense-- the kind Miss Bertinelli talks every day she teaches school." "I'll help you, if you trust me."

Billy holds the crossbow but Helena finally has her voice back. There are those great panels depicting the struggle for power between these two symbols; coercion vs persuasion. Being the teacher she is, Helena is able to get through to the kids. “Does your brother always answer for you?” is a brilliant line because Helena is ultimately encouraging the kids to think a little critically. She establishes authority through their trust, symbolised by Billy dropping the crossbow, now willing to listen. The kids then confess, however implicit, to Helena about their own crime; the Rapscallions had murdered their abusive "employer" Karros. You reap what you sow. And unfortunately, the Rapscallions would learn this the hard way.

"Outside. Footsteps. The big kind, this time."

It all happens a little too late however, just as Helena is able to escape her restrains. Our teacher is yet again the avenger.

"Everything's going to be all right, Sweetie." But I don't believe that. And neither did she.

Helena scares off the assailants, taking one out, but Billy is fatally caught in the crosshairs. While Helena secures the perimeter, Kris takes off, scared and alone. There's a lot to take in. It's so painful that Helena admits her "everything is going to be all right" is an empty promise, but it's important she still chooses to say it. It's her duty, as a protector and a teacher. You could add that Helena knows a thing or two about the importance of faith.

The burns on Helena's cape and her final "I shouldn't have gotten involved" speak to how much of a toll vigilantism and teaching have on her. She has to watch kids make the same mistakes as people before, even the same mistakes she made, knowing that so much of the time there is nothing she can do about it. That's her burden as The Huntress and as Miss Bertinelli. You can't save everyone but this story shows how willing Helena is to try. "It's what I do," she told us. And despite that final line, the unreliable narrator she is, you just know she'll wake up tomorrow and keep on trying.

For Helena, for Miss Bertinelli and The Huntress, "it’s all personal, every bit of business".

[lanaaa-14]

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

Basically, u and Ethan have been dating for a while, and r currently studying for a test in Econ and he’s finally ready to lose his v-card. ;)

Warnings: kissing, cuddling, unprotected sex, oral ( f and m receiving and giving), dom! reader, sub! Ethan, experienced! reader, virgin! Ethan, I think that’s it idk.

———————————————————————

“Ethan.” Y/n whined, he wouldn’t stop goofing around while you too were studying for a major test in Econ. “I’m sorry, it’s just so easy to make you mad.” He laughed while the annoyed girl in front of him rubbed her temples. “Haha so funny. We actually need to study though. I cannot handle another bad grade in there.” She said, giving him a serious look. “How about we take a break? We’ve been studying for the past three hours and I can’t even focus anymore.” He complained, throwing his pencil down. “Fine as long as I get to pick a movie for us. I’m tired of watching stab 1 over and over again when you pick.” She giggled as they both closed their textbooks and went to Ethan’s room. “Cmon! You know you love stab!” He smiled as you both collapsed on his bed. “Whatever. I’m putting on a romcom.” He fake gagged at her choice in movies.

After a while, the couple was under the blankets and Ethan was cuddled into y/n’s chest. She was playing with his curls and every now and then, giggling at the movie. Ethan slowly moved his hand from around her waist, and started to move it up her hoodie. She gave him a look that he didn’t see, but honestly just ignored his movements. That was until his cold fingers brushed her bra covered breast. “Ethan?” She asked, not really knowing what he was doing. She already knew he was a virgin before they started dating, so she usually made the first move. Not him. She would kiss him and hug him but every time she touched any skin that was under clothing, he would freak the fuck out. But here he was, his slim fingers getting very close to her bare breasts. “Y/n, I think I’m ready.” He whispered. She immediately knew what he meant. “Are you sure?” She asked. She couldn’t lie, she’d been waiting for this moment for months.

“I’m extremely sure.” He responded, finally reaching his hand up all the way and massaging her left boob. She whimpered in response and quickly placed her lips on his. He didn’t really know what to do, so he just followed her movements and continued kissing her. After a while, she knew he needed some guidance. “Touch me, Ethan.” She moaned against his lips. “Can you help me? I want to make you feel good.” He asked. She nodded her head as she examined his face. He still looked so innocent as if his fingers weren’t brushing the elastic band of her panties. Before he actually touched her, he seemed to have changed his mind as he removed his hand and pulled down her sweatpants. “I wanna try something. Tell me if you want me to stop.” He said as he slowly removed her panties. He gave her a look, asking her for consent and she quickly nodded. “Wow. Your so fucking beautiful.” He spoke softly as he leaned down, his breath hitting her clit. He placed his thumb on a little ball shaped thing that he assumed was the clit.

He knew he was right based on how her back arched. He nearly came at the sight of his pretty girlfriend laid out like this. He’d always imagined doing this but never thought it would become real. He slowly licked through her folds and watched her reaction thoroughly. She moaned loudly, so he continued to lick up and down. “You taste so good.” He smiled against her pussy. He had his arms wrapped around her thighs, practically digging in. She began to grind her hips in an upward motion, trying to get as much pleasure as she could. He placed a hand on her lower abdomen, pushing her down. He used his other hand to finger her. After adding two finger, she was already a moaning mess. “Go faster!” She begged as she gripped his curly hair tight. He curled his fingers in her and that was the last straw. “Fuck! Ethan!” She screamed as she came on his face. He continued to eat her out, making sure she was able to finish her high. She was laid out on the bed, breathing heavily. “Who would’ve guessed Ethan Landry was so good at eating pussy?” She laughed as she looked at the pretty boy that was still between her legs. “Who would’ve guessed y/n l/n would taste so good?” He teased, making her roll her eyes in response.

“Since you were so good… I’ll help you out too.” She said as she eyed his obvious boner in his khakis. “Sit.” She demanded, patting the space beside her. He quickly crawled on the bed and sat down. She crawled onto his lap and began kissing him. It was soft and passionate, almost like a thank you for making her cum. “Can I?” She asked, placing her hands on his belt buckle. “Please.” He begged, his body aching from having a boner for so long. She unbuckled his belt and he lifted his body up so she could pull his pants down to his knees. She slowly pulled down his grey boxers and admired the sight in front of her. It was her first time seeing Ethan’s dick. They’d been dating a year but Ethan was so insecure about being a virgin he never did anything with you and you never did anything to him. For fucks sake, she even sent him an ass pic once and he sent a heart eyes emoji back. His dick was big, bout 7 inches; pretty decent width. The tip was a light pink that matched the blush on his cheeks perfectly. He definitely shaved before she came to study, he for sure planned this. She placed her hand on his cock and began to stroke up and down at a medium pace.

She admired his facial expression’s knowing that she was the only one who’s ever seen him this vulnerable. His eyes widened at her touch, and his mouth was slightly parted as he breathed slowly. She noticed how instead of grunts like men usually do in bed, Ethan whimpered. Like, a lot. It turned her on so she didn’t really mind. Hearing Ethan whimper her name was the best thing she’d ever heard. “If your already moaning like that because of my hand, wait till I put my mouth on it.” She whispered in his ear, making him thrust into her hands without realizing. Before going down, she tugged on his shirt signaling for him to remove it. She removed her hand from his cock to do the same. She even unclipped her bra and threw it to the ground. She bent down and kissed the tip, before swallowing his dick whole. She had never heard any man moan the way Ethan just did. She bobbed her head up and down his cock, while fisting his lower penis with her left hand. Her other hand was holding his hand. It was his first time so she still wanted to make him feel comfortable. She knew it felt good by the way he was squeezing her hand. “Wait!” He whimpered. She removed her mouth and looked at him with a concerned face. “Did I hurt you on accident?” She asked, rubbing her thumb on his cheek. “I want to… you know. Actually feel you.” He refused to make eye contact while talking. She smiled at his actions. “Of course baby. I know what you mean. Do you want me to be in control or you?” She asked him, placing a quick peck to his lips. “Is it okay if you lead?” He asked, finally looking at her. “Yeah I’m okay with that. Also Ethan, since it’s your first time you might cum before me or super early. But I don’t want you to be embarrassed about it because it’s completely normal.” She let him know.

“I know. I’ll try to make you finish before me and if I don’t I’ll just eat you out again.” He smirked, making the girl let out a small giggle. She aliened herself with his dick. “You ready?” She asked. “Yes.” He responded. She slowly lowered herself and could feel him starting to fill her up. “God Ethan.” She moaned as she sat down all the way. “Your so ahh! Tight.” He grunted. Y/n began grinding her hips and savoring every moan that came from his lips. He looked so pretty like this. Curls wet from sweat sticking to his forehead, his eyes glossy, his doe eyes begging for more, and his soft pink lips that were releasing his soft whimpers. His hands found there way to her hips and began helping her go up and down. She continued to bounce up and down as Ethan whimpered like crazy. He reached a hand down to rub her clit. He could feel his climax coming so he tried to make hers come at the same time. “Your so wet.” He moaned as he rubbed his fingers on her clit. “Only for you, baby.” She whispered in his ear. This sent him over the edge. He rubbed her clit as fast as he could and even was humping into her. They both were moaning nonstop, both feeling their climax coming. “Agh! Y/n!” He yelled as he came inside her pussy. The feeling of his warm seed filling her up made her cum.

She continued to ride him until she felt overstimulation. She moaned one last time, and collapsed beside him. “Fuck.” Is all she could get out as she breathed heavily. “Shit I’ll be right back.” Ethan said as he left the room. Y/n was extremely confused, but then understood when she saw him come back with a juice box and a rag. “Here you go.” He said, handing her the juice. He spread her legs with his hands and then cleaned the leaking cum from her pussy. He put the rag on the side table and pulled the cover over the both of them. “You did so good baby.” She praised, running a hand through his curls. “You did too. I never knew that someone’s mouth could feel so good.” He grinned making the girl chuckle. “I never knew a virgin could be so good in bed.” She joked as she traced her fingers along his chest. “What can I say? I’m just great like that. And, Chad can’t make fun of me for being a virgin anymore so it’s a win win.” Ethan smirked, making the girl beside him laugh.

—————————————————

Finally fucking finished this omggg. School is kicking my ass rn with all these damn assignments as if we don’t get out in 2 weeks… anyway, this was my first time writing a one shot smut soooo hope u liked it ! Also sorry if it’s a bit short, I’m an amateur writer. Have a great day lovely!

lana xo

[wishmaster]

Body swap 72 : ErroR- Merged Subjects

Zeke was your regular cop at least by day he was straight acting one of the guys but at night is when his kinky side kicked in. For months he had been kicking around the idea of doing one of those 72 hour body swap to really let his freak flag fly. He decided he was going to do it and he knew the kind of guy he wanted to swap with, a real slutty twink in fact that was all he could picture was spending three daysa s a firm assed kinky Twink getting fucked 24/7. Something he knew he could never do in his current life.

Kevin was a 21 year old exotic dancer and escort, his real money came from online but for the extra cash he signed up to swap his body it was good money for a couple days work. Besides he usually got to see how the other half lived. On the day of the swap it was extremely stormy, thunder, lightning. When the programmer went o perform the swap his computer was struck by lightning mid swap. the body's lit up, Kevin's body disappeared and Zeke's, well Zekes seemed to change. Hid big gruff body seemingly aged down a bit and became well different, all of his clothes, his uniforms including the one he was wearing, they all became leather. He looked at himself in the mirror, he'd become a twink cop hybrid.

He went off to live his life, the clinc assumed somehow during the storm the two had become merged and now Kevin and Zeke were some sort of super version of themseslves.

The first few days were awkward as Zeke could get used to seeing stranger in his mirror, Tensions at the station became high as Zeke only ever showed up in his new leather uniforms which didn't sit well with the captain. But it was the nights, when he'd go to sleep he'd black out as if he was no longer in charge of his body... He wasn't at night Kevin took over and for rthe past month he's been continuing his life as an kinky exotic dancer under the name of Officer Dick.

When Kevin took over there was a slight change to Zeke's body

He's whore himself out as well until one night he managed to whore himself out to his Captain's Son, his father discovering his kinkiest officers night time activities when he turned back in his son's bed the next morning. This would be the end of his Police career but soon Zeke would give in to the kinky Twink side that he so wanted to experience all those weeks before deciding to let Kevin take full control on a permanent basis, he merely enjoyed the ride and what a ride it was.

[babiebom]

When You Fall (V)

A/N: take what I am writing with a grain of salt I have no idea how lawyers speak or how their letters work lmao.

Tw:mental breakdown, cursing, slight su*cide attempt, talks of de*th, violence

Wc:2.4k

Previous Next Masterlist

Your day was ruined before it even truly began. You didn't even get to eat breakfast before one letter ruined what you assume to be your entire week. There was going to be no mental healing for a little while longer. 

'To whom it may concern,

Y/N L/N is being summoned to the reading of the final will and testament of {ENTER NAME(S) HERE} on May 22, 2023 or whenever is soonest possible…'

You don't even finish reading it before crumpling up the paper and tossing it away from you. You laugh bitterly, in disbelief at the fact that they couldn't even be bothered to actually enter all three names…they didn't even enter one except for yours and it was misspelled. After a second you go and pick it up, throwing it inside of your home before grabbing your pickaxe and fleeing to where you think the mines are. 

Seeing your parents and grandfather buried was final enough for you, the almost literal nails in the coffin confirming the fact that you would never see them again unless you believed in God or an afterlife. Yet now things seemed even more real, as if the funeral and the police calls and the planning and the crying weren't enough to get it through your head that this was all real. As if you needed one more punch to the gut to remind you of all your past mistakes. 

Tears stream down your face as you power walk your way up the mountain. You puff, chest already burning from how hard you were walking, the air growing just the slightest bit thinner. Your eyes land on a house, lonely by itself on the mountain. There were potted plants decorating the outside, and a gate that was propped open as if the space didn't truly need to be fenced off at all. You walk passed, not wanting to be caught standing around outside and also not wanting to have a conversation with whoever lived there. It was too early anyways. There was also a tent, a couple yards out further up the mountain under a tree. You could kind of see an outline of a person, but again you didn't want to have any sort of conversation. Continuing on, you begin to see debris littering the ground, large rocks and wood and other…things lying around as if whoever was doing something around here hadn't cleaned up at all. 

Gratefully you follow the debris, all the way to the entrance of a cave. Stepping inside, you almost feel relieved you can collapse in here and no one would ever find you. Hell, you could die here and no one would ever see you again. You doubted anyone in town really came into the caves. 

You laugh loudly, hysterically as you allow yourself to fall to the ground, away from the entrance but not deep enough inside that no one outside wouldn't be able to hear you. Your laughs echo and bounce around the cavern as they grow louder and louder. Your lungs burn and your stomach twists as you continue, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as you fold and press your forehead to the cold wet floor. You hit your head once against the floor before bursting into sobs, laughing in between each one.

It felt as if your mind was melting and going deeper into the caves was becoming the best idea you have ever had. You would surely get what you wanted that way, you could hopefully see your parents again, or realistically be freed from whatever nightmare you had found yourself trapped in. You were nowhere close to a professional miner, and one wrong move could bring down everything onto your head. 

There was a ladder and a broken down elevator a few meters ahead of you, and the thought that maybe just...maybe sabotaging yourself would get the job done far more quickly than hoping some rocks would fall on your head. Just one slip off of the ladder, just one jump that was too heavy for the elevator to hold and you would be free. 

Your sobs quieted down as you dragged yourself towards the ladder. Only pausing when you hear something move. The something moving turns into more movements and you slowly come to the realization that someone was walking towards you, slowly. 

The man wasn't really paying attention to anything, his eyes…well eye was pointed to the ground, his eyebrows furrowing. The other eye was covered by an eyepatch and he wore some sort of cloak on his shoulders. He sort of looked like a pirate. Is he a pirate? Do pirates even exist anymore?

He hums and moves closer, stepping around you. Was he not going to say anything? The feeling of annoyance crept up your throat, but slowly as it was being weighed down by relief and gratitude. He wasn't here for you, and you weren't here for him, so whatever you were doing is none of his business. The man looks down the hole where the ladder is and you curiously follow his lead still from your position on the ground. What was he doing?

After a second he frowns then backs away, finally looking at you. Embarrassed, you look away, before opening your mouth to speak. You wanted to ask him what he was doing before he could ask you. 

"...I was just peering down into this old mine shaft. It's been abandoned for decades." He sighs and offers you a hand which you take, standing up on wobbling legs. He doesn't question it. "Still, there's probably good ore down there."

"Ore?" You ask, trying to regain your balance. He nods with a grunt, the eye not covered by the eyepatch looking at you with an emotion you couldn't quite read. Was he judging you?

"But a dark place, undisturbed for so long…I'm afraid ore isn't the only thing you'll find." He's silent for a moment while you look down again. You can't really see anything, apart from darkness. Were you really going to go down there?

"Here, take this," he hands you an old sword that was hanging from his belt. The thing is old and rusted but it made your heart swell just from receiving it. The man didn't even know you and he gave you something that you assume meant something to him. "You might need it." 

You thank him, holding the sword awkwardly in your hands. It wasn't too heavy, but the weight was still an unfamiliar one. You hadn't gotten many chances to hold an actual sword before. "Name's Marlon, by the way. I run the adventurers guild right outside." 

You don't recall seeing anything of the sort on your way up here, but then again you had your sights set only on this cave. Maybe you can explore some more since the self sabotage plan couldn't be done now. "I'll keep my eye on you. Prove yourself and I might think about making you a member." 

You blink rapidly at his words, confused on when you had made it apparent that you wanted to join. You didn't want to join. You open your mouth to object him, but the white haired man is already walking away from you and out of the cave. You frown as you watch him, turning back to the ladder. There had to be no way he just did that, right? It felt as if you had been tricked by some sort of forest imp or something into giving your soul away, and while the situation wasn't that dramatic you still felt almost played. You assumed there weren't many members to begin with, which is probably why he did that in the first place. You didn't think anyone else in the valley would do anything like this so he needed who he could get. 

Sighing loudly, you try and put your feet on a rung of the ladder. The thing was shaky and, as he mentioned, old so caution needed to be used. The thought of trying to purposefully get hurt leaves your mind, now your need is to somehow prove yourself to this strange man because what else did you have to do? And though you did not wish to admit it you knew somewhere in the back of your mind that things were only bad for now, and that youd at least needed to use the gift that your grandfather made without doing anything rash. It would be rude to not use a gift, especially one as grand as an entire farm. 

It was hard for your eyes to adjust during your descent. The darkness overtaking your sight and the smell of rocks and dust overtaking your nose. Your lungs, nose, and throat burned as you forced yourself to hold in any coughs or sneezes until you got all the way down. One wrong or rough move would have the whole rickety thing coming down and despite what you wished for previously, dying a slow and painful death if probably starvation at the bottom of this ladder wasn't ideal. 

Thankfully you got to the bottom pretty quickly, torches lit up around you casting an eerie glow around the cave. It was empty except for the rocks that littered the ground, was this all there is to the cave? You wondered for a second why you would need a sword if this is how far down it went, except you didn't see any sign of the supposed elevator or the ore he was talking about earlier. 

It took a second to adjust yourself, but luckily the sword Marlon gave you came with a sheath that you struggled to attach to your backpack. Putting the sword away you take out your pickaxe, the tool seemingly lighter in your hands from all the hours you spent hitting rocks. 

In here was no different, though the air was cooler and a little more muggy. Particles stirring with every move you make. Soon enough you find a ladder hidden under one of the rocks. And so level after level, rock after rock, you make your steady descent into the somehow dry cavern. 

It was past the first time you saw the elevator when you came across your first…thing. It was almost similar to the little thing you saw in the community center, though it was almost also completely different. 

This thing looked like sentient jelly, see through even though it was green. No arms or legs, and it bounced like a ball. It was kinda cute…in a creepy sort of way. Its eyes are black and empty, not really focusing on anything until you take a step closer. For a split second you think the thing might be friendly, it's small and cute-ish, only coming up to your ankle. There was no way this thing could damage you in any way, right?

Wrong. The thing sets its sights on you and it's like the air around you changes. Its eyes somehow grow darker and it lunges towards you in a leap that even a frog would think is risky. You move backwards, staring at the thing in confusion, what did it think it could do? It's a ball of sentient jello. Frowning at it you make a noise of surprise as you get lunged at again.  

The thing gets too close somehow, way too quickly and unexpectedly. The slime thing bounces against your leg and you're suddenly overcome with a sluggish feeling, as if your body was being weighed down by a ton of bricks. 

In a panic you scrunch your face, trying to stomp on the thing. It doesn't do much damage to the things as you frantically attempt to stomp it out like a fire. The feeling leaves you after a couple moments, allowing your movement to pick up speed. All this does is serve to make the little thing angry, its eyes turning a vibrant red. Just like you had been able to pick up speed, it picks up speed and launches itself at you again. This time you move, allowing it to fly past you giving you a little time to scramble and take out your sword. 

Swinging hard, the sword passes through the thing and to your relief it seems to do a little damage to it though it was still moving at an alarming rate. You swing again, and again, and again until the thing is just a puddle of goo. 

Panting, you rest your hands on your knees, tears springing to your eyes. It wasn't as if you were hurt. You were cut, or bleeding, or dying; but somehow it felt as if that thing took some of your life force away and the thought makes you angry. Sure you had been wishing for death earlier, but you absolutely did not want to be killed by a ball of jello. Not only would that be embarrassing, but it would be shameful. 

A sort of rage filled you and for a moment it fuelled your steady descent. Now determined tonat least stomp out one of those jellies for the sin that the first you had come across had committed. Yeah, it was kind of petty, and dramatic, but you couldn't quite get control of your emotions just yet. 

So you stomp and stomp, kicking and slashing at every jelly you see, letting the rage in their eyes ignite yours more. They wanted to fight? So did you. By the time you had gotten to the elevator again, you were exhausted. Luckily for you the stupid thing seems to now work. 

Hobbling towards it, you can feel the weight of everything you had carried in your bag, quite a bit of rocks, some orange stuff that you thought might be valuable, and an even larger rock that you hoped held something in it. When you step into the elevator you pause for a moment, trying to get your bearings. 

That now familiar feeling takes over your body, as if you were being held down by a ton of bricks. The rage had fizzled out, but you still refused to die by the hands, or lack thereof, of these stupid things. So you turn, and swing at it even with all of your exhaustion. The thing charges for you again the second you swing, hoping it would be the last one. 

You get hit the same time you hear the sound of the jelly splattering. The noise is reassuring and satisfying even as you begin to pass out. Frantically you jab your finger against the only buttons in the elevator that glow, hoping it would get you out of your situation. Just as you hear the ding and the sound of the doors closing, your world fades to black. 

[tumb1rprincess]

You know those days where everything that can go wrong does go wrong? Yeah, that’s what the last couple of minutes of this episode felt like. Jon tried to contain the fears because he’s a self sacrificing son of a bitch and Martin changed the plan in a futile attempt to save him and it backfired and he had to be the one to kill Jon, the one price he absolutely didn’t want to pay. And now the Fears have been released into other dimensions and I’m assuming that’s what the audience is supposed to be: a dimension that the Fears entered and the tapes are explaining why and how it happened. Everything went according to the Web’s plan and nobody’s choices mattered. It won. And Jon and Martin are either dead, somewhere else, or who knows? They became a mystery, the last thing Jon wanted to be.

I do try to look at some positive things when it comes to tragedies and ambiguous endings though. Like, I’m the one who likes to believe Spike lives at the end of Cowboy Bebop or that Dom Cobb makes it to the real world in Inception. And there are two positive things I’m keeping in mind with the Magnus Archives.

First, even though Jon changed a lot and was more of a monster at the end and losing his humanity was something he really feared, I feel like he didn’t lose it all. Heck, he might have become even more human in a way. At the beginning of the series, he kept everyone at arm’s length and didn’t exactly show a lot of empathy. He cared, he just tended to keep it to himself. But as the series went on, we saw more and more that he did care, a lot. He loved and cared so much for the people around him. He made mistakes, but he tried so hard to do right by them. And I know his care for others was something the Fears and Jonah used to manipulate him, but I still feel like it’s important that he didn’t completely lose that, even at the end. He became more monstrous, but he became more human too.

Second, even though Jon was manipulated by so many things throughout his life, there was one choice that I feel like was really his: loving Martin. All the fear and trauma may have pushed them together, but that didn’t mean they had to fall in love with each other. But they did anyway and they made each other better. Martin was finally moving past what he suffered and was believing that he had value. Jon had found someone that would love him no matter how much he changed. And I feel like there’s gotta be some significance in that their last words to each other were “I love you.” Love has beaten the fears before, so maybe it was enough to beat this. And that’s why I choose to hope that they ended up somewhere else, together.