#beneath the veneer art

[o0oclownztowno0o]

Unfinished drawings of Ran Ratte. I actually like drawing him :3

[artigas]

seeing people harass Ethel Cain on this dumbass website. this, the queer erotica website. i love you my mutuals and I’m sure nobody who follows me feels this way but I’m going to say it anyway: if you misgender and deadname trans people, it’s on sight with me. if you liken any queer people to child predators, I hope you literally choke on your own bile. accept and support and uplift trans people or suffer my wrath. terfs, I pray on your downfall and applaud your misfortunes.

[croutonconfidential]

maybe some of us want a ten page thesis, have you though of that? be deranged about it id support you <3

maybe you should tell him that you need him too

(more iroh and zuko doodles for your viewing pleasure: 1 2 3 4)

[fel-09]

General Acacius x Isekai! Reader x emperor Geta

Words 2k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

Get into the movie?What a joke Part3

The carriage came to a halt before a grand marble estate, its imposing facade gleaming in the golden sunlight. A lush garden surrounded the mansion, its paths adorned with blooming peonies and vibrant roses. The floral arrangements framed the entrance like a work of art, their delicate petals contrasting with the stoic grandeur of the house. Your eyes wandered to the gilded details embedded in the tall, spiraling columns flanking the doorway. Each column was a testament to craftsmanship, their intricate designs depicting mythical nymphs intertwined in an eternal dance.

The iron gates, crafted in ornate patterns, bore the likeness of two ethereal maidens, presumably the aforementioned nymphs. Their gazes, though forged of metal, seemed to follow your every move.

Swallowing nervously, you looked down at your hands, clenching and unclenching them. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, allowing the memories of the journey here to surface. Confusion and panic had plagued you, and though the turmoil still simmered, you had forced yourself to confront the truth.

This wasn’t a dream.

Somewhere along the way, the lines between fantasy and reality had blurred, and now you stood here, in a story you had once studied and admired. The man who had rescued you on the road—General Acacius—had called you by a name that was not your own: "Flavnia Plavcia."

The name was unfamiliar, its weight foreign, yet it resonated with an echo of significance. Flavnia. Plavcia. A woman whose story you knew not from modern tales but from the annals of Roman history. She was said to have wielded immense influence during the reigns of the emperors Geta and Caracalla.

Flavnia was a name shrouded in both admiration and infamy. Historians debated her legacy—was she a cunning survivor or a scheming villainess? According to one account, she had secured wealth and favor through relentless ambition, skillfully navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics. She evaded countless assassination attempts, eventually retreating to Sicily, where she lived out her days.

But there was another tale—one of betrayal and tragedy. In this version, her husband had poisoned her and smuggled her lifeless body to Sicily, burying her far from her father, Cornelian, who had doted upon her.

You had studied both narratives in depth during your university years, yet neither version had provided a definitive answer. Flavnia remained an enigma—a shadowy figure from the past whose true character eluded clarity.

A Roman woman of such cunning in her time? you mused, stepping out of the carriage. Surely, even the blind would sense duplicity here.

Your musings were interrupted as the carriage door opened. A maid, dressed in simple yet pristine attire, curtsied deeply, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Lady Flavnia, welcome home,” she greeted, her eyes widening in shock as they fell upon your disheveled state. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp.

“W-who did this to you, my lady?” she cried, her tone laced with both horror and concern. Her gaze flickered to your damp clothes, your tangled hair, and the traces of algae clinging stubbornly to your tresses.

Before you could respond, she had summoned more servants. They surrounded you, fussing over every detail of your appearance. Without hesitation, they led you inside, bathing you, combing the remnants of the ordeal from your hair, dressing you in finery befitting your station, and finally, offering a tray of delicacies to restore your strength.

Their care was meticulous, almost reverent. Though you uttered not a word, it became clear that these servants harbored deep loyalty to the woman they believed you to be.

---

Not long after you had settled into your quarters, the door opened abruptly. In strode a man of commanding presence, his expression a mask of fury barely concealed beneath a veneer of composure. He seated himself in a chair across from you, his elbow resting on the armrest as he propped his cheek against his knuckles.

The tension in the room was palpable.

“Point him out,” he demanded coldly, his voice low and deliberate, though it carried the weight of a tempest waiting to be unleashed. “Tell me who dared harm my daughter, and I shall see to it that he disappears from this world before the day is through.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his words struck you like a physical blow. Your hands clenched the folds of your skirt as you stared at the floor, the weight of his anger suffocating. How could you explain to him that you had no memory of the incident—at least not as Flavnia?

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “It’s all a blur.”

His fist came down upon the table with a resounding crack, causing you to flinch violently. His face turned crimson with rage, his dark eyes alight with an almost supernatural fire.

“This is why I should never have allowed you to attend!” he thundered, pacing the room in agitation. His fury was boundless, yet his concern was equally apparent.

The man before you was no ordinary Roman citizen. He was Cornelian—a man celebrated for his valor and unwavering dedication to Rome. His reputation as “Stompus Staptus” (the Unyielding Gate) was not merely a title but a testament to his fortitude. He had once defended the gates of Rome against relentless invaders, holding his ground for an entire year.

But to you, he was something more than a legend. He was a father—a protector whose love transcended even his allegiance to the Empire. His daughter had once dubbed him “Atius Obsidium” (Father-Protector), and that title seemed to cling to him still.

Turning back to you, he sighed heavily. His anger seemed to drain from him as his gaze softened.

“If I had known the danger, I would never have allowed you to leave,” he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. “Those insolent fools think they can harm my daughter without consequence…”

Before his anger could reignite, you rose from your seat, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Father,” you began softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips, “there’s no need to waste your energy on them. Instead, I would like to discuss General Acacius, who assisted me. I wish to thank him personally.”

The mention of Acacius seemed to shift the atmosphere. Cornelian studied your face, his lips twitching into a small, reluctant smile. With a nod, he placed a hand atop your head, ruffling your hair affectionately.

“You’ve always had a way with words, my clever girl,” he said, his voice tinged with pride. “Very well. We shall arrange to meet with him. He has proven himself trustworthy, and for that, I owe him my gratitude.”

With a final, reassuring pat on your head, Cornelian turned toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Rest now, my child. Your father will see to everything.”

“And you as well,” you replied warmly, watching as the door closed behind him.

Finally alone, you let out a long breath, sinking onto the plush bedding. Wrapping your arms around a pillow, you buried your face in its softness.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you muttered to yourself, your voice muffled. “And how am I supposed to survive here without my Milo?”

You sniffled, thinking of the little golden-furred cat you had left behind. Though you knew your mother would care for him in your absence, the thought of being without him in this strange new world was almost too much to bear.

The days flowed like a gentle stream, each bringing its own discoveries. You had already wandered through every chamber of the mansion, each one adorned with opulence: golden-framed mirrors that caught every flicker of light, heavy velvet curtains embroidered with intricate patterns, and antique furniture that whispered tales of grandeur. Yet none of these treasures captivated your heart as much as the garden did—a secluded paradise where wisteria cascaded like a shimmering veil, offering cool shade from the sun’s relentless embrace. The air there was imbued with a fragrance so divine that it seemed otherworldly, and the pristine white marble paths wove through the greenery like strokes of an artist’s brush, completing the vision of Eden.

This place felt untouched by time, a sanctuary where kindness blossomed in every soul you encountered. The servants, ever loyal, treated you with a reverence that bordered on familial warmth. You were their lady, the one they had known since your earliest days. Smiling faintly, you raised a hand to wave at one of the gardeners. He responded with equal enthusiasm, his weathered face lighting up with a grin as he set aside his tools. You approached him, your thoughts already turning to the flowers.

“I’ve been wondering,” you began, your voice carrying the melody of curiosity. “Would it be suitable to plant amaryllis here? They may lack fragrance, but their beauty could complement the mimosa.”

The gardener paused, his brow furrowing as he considered your suggestion. “It’s a fine idea, my lady,” he replied, though a trace of uncertainty lingered in his tone. “Yet, I fear they might not thrive together. Such flowers, though beautiful, sometimes fail to coexist.”

You tilted your head, undeterred by his hesitation. Together, you delved into the nuances of flora, your voices blending with the rustling leaves and the distant hum of bees. Unbeknownst to you, a figure lingered nearby. Acacius stood in the shadows, his dark gaze fixed upon you.

To him, this was an unfamiliar side of you. Gone was the woman whose sharp tongue and icy demeanor he had come to expect. In her place was someone alive with passion, her every word animated by a genuine interest. She seemed brighter, almost radiant, as she discussed the nuances of flowers with the gardener. This transformation confounded him. What had changed? Or had he simply never taken the time to see this side of you?

The gardener’s voice broke his train of thought. “It’s a shame,” the man said with a sigh. “Some beauties simply cannot share the same space.”

You offered him an encouraging smile, brushing aside his doubts with a gentle wave of your hand. “Nonsense,” you replied. “We’ll find a way. Perhaps a different arrangement…”

Acacius shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stepped forward. “Lady Plavtiana,” he called, his deep voice cutting through the garden’s tranquil atmosphere. “Might I request a moment of your time?”

Startled, you turned to face him. Your expression shifted from surprise to guarded composure, though your hands betrayed you by nervously clutching the fabric of your skirt. “General… I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you began, searching his face for answers. “I thought my father and I were to visit you at your estate. Do you have business with him?”

A smirk played on Acacius’s lips, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Indeed,” he replied. “But must you always address me so formally? We’ve known each other far too long for such titles. Simply Acacius will suffice.”

You stiffened at his words, your cheeks warming as you realized your slip. “My apologies,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Before you could say more, he noticed the subtle tremor in your hands and decided not to press further—not here, with the gardener still present.

“Regardless,” he continued smoothly, his tone gentler now, “you are correct. I am here on business with your father. However, I was hoping to speak with you… privately. If, of course, you have the time.”

His words hung in the air, a quiet challenge, as his gaze met yours and held it. The gardener, sensing the shift in atmosphere, discreetly stepped away, leaving you alone with Acacius under the canopy of wisteria

[stxrbxrn]

the feast of forbidden fruit …

pairing: hannibal x f!reader tw: implied cannibalism, dubious consent, uhealthy/obsessive relationship dynamics, sexual content ( not full out smut but hints towards it ) word count: 1.8k (ish)

you step into the dimly lit gallery, your heels echoing on the polished marble floor. the air is heavy with the scent of aged wood and oil paint, a fitting atmosphere for the exhibition of renaissance masterpieces. but it's not the art that draws your gaze tonight. it's him.

dr. hannibal lecter stands before a botticelli, his profile sharp and regal in the soft lighting. he turns, as if sensing your presence, and his maroon eyes lock onto yours. a shiver runs down your spine - from fear or excitement, you're not quite sure.

"good evening," he says, his accented voice smooth as silk. "i was hoping you'd come."

you approach, drawn into his orbit like a moth to flame. "i wouldn't miss it, dr. lecter. your taste in art is... exquisite."

his lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "as is yours, my dear. both in art and... company."

the double meaning hangs in the air between you. you've been dancing this dangerous waltz for months now, circling each other in a game of cat and mouse. but which of you is the predator, and which the prey?

"would you care to join me for a closer look?" he asks, gesturing to the painting.

you nod, allowing him to guide you with a gentle hand on the small of your back. his touch burns through the thin fabric of your dress.

as you stand before the botticelli, he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. "do you see how the artist has captured the vulnerability of the human form? the delicate interplay of light and shadow on bare flesh?"

your breath catches in your throat. "yes," you whisper. "it's beautiful."

"indeed," he murmurs. "beauty and suffering, inexorably intertwined. one cannot truly appreciate the former without experiencing the latter."

you turn to face him, your faces mere inches apart. "and which are you offering tonight, dr. lecter? beauty or suffering?"

his eyes gleam in the low light. "why not both?"

the world seems to fade away, leaving only you and hannibal in this moment of exquisite tension. you know you should run, should flee from the darkness you see swirling in the depths of his gaze. but you're captivated, ensnared by the enigma of the man before you.

"come," he says, offering his arm. "let us continue our tour. there is so much more i wish to show you."

you take his arm, your fate sealed with that simple gesture. as he leads you deeper into the gallery, you can't help but wonder if you're walking willingly into the lion's den.

the rest of the evening passes in a blur of wine, witty conversation, and lingering glances. hannibal is the perfect gentleman, charming and erudite. but beneath the polished veneer, you sense something wild and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface.

as the night draws to a close, he escorts you to your car. "i've greatly enjoyed your company this evening," he says, his hand still resting on the small of your back.

"as have i," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

he leans in, his lips brushing against your cheek. "until next time, my dear," he murmurs. "sweet dreams."

you drive home in a daze, your mind reeling from the evening's events. as you prepare for bed, you can't shake the feeling that something has fundamentally shifted. you've crossed a threshold, and there's no going back.

that night, your dreams are a kaleidoscope of images - flashes of steel, splashes of crimson, and always, always, those burning maroon eyes watching you.

* * *

days pass, but you can't get dr. lecter out of your mind. his presence lingers like a phantom limb, an ache you can't quite shake. you find yourself obsessively replaying every moment of your encounters, analyzing each word, each gesture.

when your phone rings and his name appears on the screen, your heart leaps into your throat.

"hello, my dear," his voice purrs through the speaker. "i was wondering if you might join me for dinner tomorrow evening. i'm preparing a rather special menu, and i can think of no one i'd rather share it with."

you know you should refuse. every instinct screams at you to make an excuse, to put distance between yourself and this man who both thrills and terrifies you. but the words that come out of your mouth betray you:

"i'd be delighted, dr. lecter."

you can almost hear his smile through the phone. "excellent. shall we say 8 o'clock? and please, call me hannibal."

the next evening finds you standing before his door, your heart pounding a staccato rhythm against your ribs. you smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and knock.

the door swings open, and there he stands, resplendent in a three-piece suit. "good evening," he says, his eyes roaming appreciatively over your form. "you look ravishing."

he ushers you inside, taking your coat with the grace of a perfect host. the air is rich with the aroma of simmering herbs and spices, making your mouth water despite your nerves.

"i hope you're hungry," hannibal says, leading you into the dining room. the table is set with exquisite china and gleaming silverware, a single red rose in a crystal vase serving as the centerpiece.

"starving," you reply, and something in his eyes flashes at your choice of words.

he pulls out your chair, ever the gentleman, before disappearing into the kitchen. you take the moment alone to steady your nerves, reminding yourself that this is just dinner. nothing more.

but as hannibal returns, bearing plates of food that look more like works of art than mere sustenance, you know you're only lying to yourself. this is so much more than just dinner.

"our first course," he announces, setting a plate before you. "carpaccio of veal heart, with a black truffle emulsion."

you raise an eyebrow at the choice of meat, but the presentation is stunning. hannibal watches intently as you take your first bite. the flavors explode on your tongue - rich, complex, unlike anything you've ever tasted before.

"it's incredible," you breathe.

his smile is one of genuine pleasure. "i'm so glad you enjoy it. i always take great care in selecting the... ingredients for my special guests."

the meal progresses through several more exquisite courses, each one a symphony of flavors and textures. hannibal is the perfect host, keeping the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. but there's an undercurrent of tension, a predatory gleam in his eye that both excites and unnerves you.

as he clears away the dessert plates, you find yourself feeling slightly lightheaded. whether from the rich food, the wine, or simply hannibal's intoxicating presence, you're not sure.

"shall we retire to the study for a digestif?" he suggests, offering his hand to help you up.

you take it, relishing the warmth of his skin against yours. "lead the way."

his study is a temple to refined taste - walls lined with leather-bound books, artwork that probably costs more than your yearly salary, and a crackling fire that casts dancing shadows across the room.

hannibal pours two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. "armagnac," he explains, handing you one. "a 1965 vintage. i've been saving it for a special occasion."

you accept the glass, your fingers brushing against his. "and what occasion might that be?"

he takes a step closer, invading your personal space. "tonight," he pauses, eyes transfixed on your face, "the night you become mine."

your breath catches in your throat. this is the moment you've both been building towards, the culmination of months of tension and unspoken desire. you should be afraid - you know, deep down, that there's something not quite right about hannibal lecter. but all you feel is a burning need.

"what makes you think i want to be yours?" you challenge, even as your body betrays you, leaning into him.

his free hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "you've been mine since the moment our eyes first met."

he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. it's nothing like you imagined - it's better. his mouth is hot, demanding, tasting of armagnac and something darker, something uniquely hannibal.

you melt into him, your glass slipping from your fingers and shattering on the hardwood floor. neither of you pays it any mind. your hands fist in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as his own hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

when you finally break apart, gasping for air, his eyes are wild with hunger. "tell me you want this," he growls, his accent thicker with desire. "tell me you want me."

"i want you," you breathe, beyond the point of no return. "god help me, i need you."

it's a desperate, violent thing, all clashing teeth and battling tongues. you pour all your fear, all your desire, all your conflicted emotions into that kiss. and hannibal matches you passion for passion, his hands gripping you so tightly you know you'll have bruises tomorrow.

when you break apart, you're both panting. "what happens now?" you ask, your voice hoarse.

hannibal's smile is a thing of terrible beauty. "now, my dear, we feast."

he lead you back to the wooded table, lifting you effortlessly to sit upon it. the material cold against your bare thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of hannibal's body as he steps between your legs.

"are you afraid?" he asks, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

you consider lying, but you know he'd see right through it. "yes," you admit before considering the thought further.

"good," he says, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. "fear heightens the senses. makes everything more... intense."

his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. you shiver, but not entirely from fear. despite everything - or perhaps because of it - you want him more than you've ever wanted anyone in your life.

"hannibal," you gasp as his lips trail down your neck, "i need-"

"shh," he soothes, his breath hot against your skin. "i know exactly what you need. trust me."

and lord have mercy on you, you do. you trust him as he slowly undresses you, as he worships your body with his hands and mouth. you trust him as he takes you there on the table. your cries of pleasure echoing off the stone walls.

afterward, as you lie tangled together, your body humming with satisfied desire. you lose yourself in his embrace once more, you know that you've crossed a line from which there's no return. you've willingly stepped into the darkness, hand in hand with the monster who now owns your heart and soul.

and god help you, you wouldn't have it any other way.

[waliminium]

Shadows of a Heart Unclaimed

Pairing: Harvey Specter x Reader Warnings: angst, emotional unavailability Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: Harvey Specter has always been a man of control, a man who never shows weakness — except when it comes to you. As they grow closer, the connection between them becomes undeniable, but Harvey remains emotionally unavailable, haunted by past heartbreaks and the emotional baggage he can’t let go of. Though he deeply cares for you, he knows he can’t give them the love they deserve.

The night was quiet, save for the hum of the city outside and the faint rustle of paper in the office. You sat across from Harvey, watching him work in his usual focused silence, a distant look in his eyes. There was always something about him, something magnetic that drew you in despite the walls he kept up. You’d gotten close over the months — close enough that you could almost see past the polished veneer he wore. Almost.

But that was the thing with Harvey Specter: he had mastered the art of keeping people at arm's length. It didn’t matter how much you wanted to break through, how much you wanted to know the man behind the sharp suits and sharp tongue. He never let anyone get close enough to truly understand the complexities of his heart. And you? You weren’t immune to it. You knew the risks. You knew he wasn’t the type to give you what you deserved, but the more you spent time with him, the more you couldn’t help the feelings that grew.

“You alright?” you asked softly, breaking the silence. You watched as his head snapped up, his eyes locking with yours, not quite surprised, but guarded.

“I’m fine,” Harvey replied, his tone curt, dismissive. But you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered for just a second longer than usual. It was almost like he was trying to tell you something — something he didn’t have the words for.

You weren’t fooled. You knew him better than that. The cracks were starting to show. You could see the pain lurking beneath the surface. It wasn’t the first time you had caught him in one of these moments, but you never pressed. Harvey wasn’t the type to open up. You were too afraid of pushing too hard and losing whatever fragile connection you had. Still, your heart ached for him, for the parts of himself he refused to share.

“Harvey...” you started, your voice gentle, testing the waters. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know. You don’t always have to be… this guy. The one who never needs anyone.”

His lips pressed together into a thin line, and for a second, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his eyes flicking to your face as if considering your words, but never truly letting them sink in. Finally, he sighed, the weight of everything around him suddenly apparent.

“I’m not doing this right now, okay?” His voice was strained, the edges of his words sharp with something more than just frustration — something deeper, older. He looked away, his focus shifting back to the files in front of him, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

You stayed silent, feeling the familiar sting of his emotional walls. You didn’t press. Instead, you stood up, walking slowly over to the window. You stared out at the city below, the lights flickering in the distance, each one a reminder of how much you had invested in this impossible thing between you two. How much you had wanted it to be real.

The truth was, you knew Harvey. You knew what he was capable of — the charisma, the brilliance, the charm. But you also knew the scars that ran deeper than anyone would ever admit. The heartbreaks, the betrayals, the abandonment that had shaped him into the man he was today. He wasn’t ready to open up to anyone. Not you. Not anyone.

You could feel your heart racing as you fought to suppress the feelings that threatened to bubble over. You had been patient, understanding, but you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You couldn’t pretend that you didn’t want more.

You turned back to him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Harvey, you know you don’t have to shut me out. I’m not asking for all of you. Just… don’t shut me out completely.”

His eyes met yours, this time softer, but still guarded. He shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips, but it wasn’t real. It was just another mask. “I can’t give you what you want,” he said, his voice quiet, laden with regret.

You took a step closer, your heart pounding in your chest as you reached out, your fingers brushing against his. “You don’t have to give me anything. Just… let me be here. Let me help.”

But Harvey pulled his hand back, the movement swift, almost automatic. He stood up from his chair, his eyes dark with emotion, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in his carefully constructed facade.

“I care about you,” he said, his voice raw, but steady. “I care more than I should, but I’m not the guy you need. Not right now. I’m not the guy you think I am.”

Your breath caught in your throat as his words landed like a punch to the gut. The truth stung more than you expected. But you knew he was right. Harvey Specter wasn’t the guy who could give you the love you deserved. Not now. Not ever.

A long silence followed. You stood there, staring at him, the weight of his words settling between you like a wall you couldn’t climb over. The connection was real, but it was also impossible. The love he had for you, the care he felt, was buried beneath layers of hurt and emotional baggage he couldn’t shed. You knew it wasn’t about you. It was about him. It always had been.

Finally, you spoke, your voice barely audible. “I know.”

Harvey nodded, as if relieved that you understood. “I wish things were different. But they’re not. And I can’t give you the kind of love you deserve.”

You nodded, the ache in your chest growing with each word he spoke. It wasn’t fair, but it was the reality you both had to face. The impossible love.

You wanted to reach out, to say something, but you didn’t. There was nothing left to say. You had to accept it, just as he had.

“I’ll be here, Harvey,” you said quietly, though the words were meant more for yourself than for him. “I’ll always be here, but I can’t wait forever.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The distance between you was already too great.

[thewolffairytaler]

A mad lass's perspective - oneshot | Child Michael Myers x female reader

_____________________________

Summary: Deemed to being insane by the adults, a little lassie gets sent to an asylum for a chance of recovery after the incident involving her deceased grandfather. Being viewed as disturbing and all to knowing, many doctors and nurses want to avoid taking care of her. Yet two people seem to take a somewhat interest in her, Dr. Samuel Loomis, and a silent boy who seems to be devoided of emotions.

Art Credit (Full picture): ofwolfandmanbook on Instagram

Each echoing footstep served as a reminder of the unusual girl's solitude as the sterile white walls of Smith's Groove Sanitarium closed in on her. Since they brought her here, weeks had passed since the world had swung on its axis and begun to make no sense at all, weeks since the terrifying discovery of her Grandpa Gabriel, and weeks had blurred into one another. She was aware that the case was 'unsolved,' not withstanding the authorities' classification. It wasn't unsolvable; rather, it was obfuscated, concealed by layers of darkness and inappropriate objects. The bizarre, warped reality she had briefly experienced before fleeing, half-crazed, from the scene was beyond the rational minds of the adults.

She was discovered a few streets away, a tiny, shivering ball of terror curled up against a brick wall, cold and unconscious. The objects that had flickered in the corners of her vision, the shadows that had taken on their truest forms, the crimson, pulsing dead eyes that had watched her whilst standing besides every living breathing creature, from humans to animals, anything a mind could come up with. They were all things she tried to explain when she woke up. However, she was met with silent murmurs and blank glances when she spoke the words she knew to be true. They referred to her as "mad," "unstable." They had no knowledge of the still living like corpses or the creatures that lay beneath the world's surface. So they sent her here, to Smith's Groove, where the pulsating hum of anxiety is always there and the corridors are quiet.

Here, surrounded by the other "broken" children, the female felt almost more alone. She would spend her days drawing in the small room they had given her, sketching the people as how she saw them, some creatures that haunted her dreams and the reality she saw when she looked past the veneer of normalcy. She filled pages with depictions of the grotesque, hoping that somehow, someone would understand. But no one did. They would just nod with pity, or shake their heads, their faces etched with concern that hid a veiled fear. Mostly because the doctors assumed that she saw them for how everyone truly was, yet in a more twisted disgusting way.

Everyone was too distubered by it, and wanted nothing to do with her when they learned too much. The only one who was willing to look after her as her doctor was Samuel Loomis, but his intrest in her didn't seem to come from care all that much. Don't get her wrong, she could tell there was some sympathy from him, and she was aware that he wanted her to get better since she had the potential for it. But Dr Loomis was more intrigued than commiserated. When he wasn't with his other patients, he would ask her some questions, make her remember some old memories, along with making her do some activities that would help her recovery. At first, Loomis thought she was faking it, seeing how polite and average she was acting. Nonetheless, it did not take long for him to see it too, and out of all things, it came from pictures of the dead. A bleeding fox with its eyes closed. "The fox is sleeping, it looks very peaceful. I hope it has good dreams." A deer with its flesh and bones being visible whilst being nearly headless. "Oh no, it's head is barely hanging! I wish I could help it put it back on." A decomposed corpse of a nurse with a dirty uniform and it's terrible leftover makeup. "Ms. Nurse didn't do a good job, its all messy and unfinished." She responded it so casually and innocently that it was baffling, couldn't the girl understand death? No, he knew she could, that's why she ran away from home after discovering her dead grandfather. It was something else, and it surely wasn't because of some innocence.

The strangest thing though was that she didn’t see all these grotesque things or mention some questionably accurate information all the time. These things only happened during certain triggers, when her headaches where at her worst, as well as taking some psychoactive pills. Containing the main ingredient, Lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD for short. A sort of drug that is supposed to cause hallucinations, it was used back in the day to comprehend, mind control, information gathering and other unmoral purposes during the cold war. Of course, this was highly illegal to use it this way, especially with a patient who is listed as having signs of psychosis. However, he thinks it is necessary to understand her brain this way because the healthy treatment seems to be uneffective, not to mention that the medications does have different side effects, even if it costs her mind to deteriorate. It was better than nothing, he does feel guilty over it though, essentially considering she's always so nice towards him. Even at her angry limit, but maybe she does that to not anger him too. It could be both, she's difficult to read at times.

One of her favorite ways to escape the starkness of the asylum was in the small, overgrown garden at the back. It was a patch of green in a world of white, and there she could at least pretend that things were normal - even if she knew it wasn't. One afternoon, while sitting beneath a gnarled apple tree, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick, she noticed a presence. He was a small boy, older than herself, sitting silently at the ground whilst looking towards the distance. His face was pale and expressionless, his eyes, a startlingly clear brown, fixed on the ground. She didn't recognise him. He wasn't one of the children she saw during their scheduled outdoor time.

Curiosity, a flicker of flame in her chest, drove her forward. She tentatively approached, her drawing clutched in her hand. "Hello," she said, her voice barely a whisper. The boy didn't react. He didn't flinch, didn't look up. He just kept staring at the sundown. Hesitantly, the petite girl sat down a little distance from him. She unrolled her drawing and placed it on the earth between them. It was a depiction of Dr Loomis, although just like the rest of her drawings, it wasn't a realistic sketch. The flesh was rottening, skeletal bones showing, showing level of suffering and damage, a visual stating he should be dead, but he isn't. A slow-minded, ineffective, and pallid individual who drags himself along. A creature that is walking among us like a zombie, refusing to die, refusing to let go, but it wasn’t a zombie she drew. It was a draugr! The boy didn't react, at least, not in the way she expected. He still didn't look up, he didn't have curiosity. But a small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, like he'd subtly leaned forward, revealed he had noticed.

The younger patient felt a strange sense of… not belonging, not exactly, but recognition. She didn't know why, but she knew this boy was different. Most kids here either wept all the time or screamed in their sleep. The others spoke to themselves, often in gibberish, or tried to talk to the walls. He, however, was just... silent. He was like a void, a blank space in the noise and chaos of the sanitarium. There was a feeling of quiet desperation around him that she somehow understood, that she somehow felt herself. She kept an eye on him, looking for any response. However, his face remained unreadable, an expressionless mask. But it felt like a connection had been made. As though the very soil beneath them vibrated with an invisible energy, the moment hung in the air, thick and strange. Maybe, just maybe, he saw past the 'normal' in the same way she did. Perhaps, just possibly, she wasn't by herself.

The girl cleared her throat, trying to break the heavy silence. "Can I draw you?" She asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. She carefully pointed to a spot beside her drawing, a cheap sketchbook she had just gotten today by an old nurse because she claimed she needed to stop wasting normal papper. Again, the boy didn't look up. He just kept staring at the dirt, his stillness a mystery, his silence a language she didn't yet understand. She took his silence as a yes in a way and opened up her book to begin sketching him. She also used a blending stump to create the shadows a bit smoother.

She didn't have anything to expect out of him, but she couldn't ignore this strange connection to the noiseless boy. She would visit him again tomorrow, and after that, so long until he gets annoyed by it and somehow tells her to quit bothering him. Her pencil skittered across the thick paper of her sketchbook, the first page being set to use. The idea of him that had taken root in her mind. She saw him as a doll, a large porcelain figure with a stoic face, one that could be hugged and cuddled, a silent companion in her solitary world.

Her strokes were both precise and clumsy, an interesting combination that reflected her own unique perspective. Every line was intentional, every shade of colour carefully chosen. She made his hair dark, inky black, not just the colour of ink but its shape and its fluidity. The grey in the ink had been added to a very slight black base, creating a very dark grey that was almost charcoal. She gave him clothes that were just as messy and detailed as his hair. Her focus was intense as she drew the details of a very large shirt that looked about six sizes bigger than it should and pants that had that same unkempt vibe to them.

As she worked, the image of him on the paper started to morph into something both familiar and unsettling. She gave him a mouth that was perpetually stained red, not from any actual wound, but from her imagination. It was the blood mouth of her own twisted vision, a visual representation of his hidden, unspoken nature; it wasn't quite accurate, not even close, but that didn’t matter. She gave him eyes that were round, almost glassy, like the eyes of a doll. They held no warmth, no spark of life, just an empty expanse that reminded her of the fragile, delicate sheen of porcelain. They were not evil, but rather, simply vacant, a disturbing hollowness that both fascinated and repelled her.

She added a splash of more red splotches on his clothes, splattering them around in a way that almost seemed haphazard but with a clear precision to it. These were not real blood splatters, but rather, an artistic license to further her doll-like vision of the boy. With each stroke, she was translating the complex, unsettling mystery he was into something that did make sense, something tangible that she could understand. He was not a real human, not in her mind. So he was now a doll. A doll with a painted blood mouth, soulless eyes, and messy clothes that seemed more like they were put on someone who was going through a very rough day.

She was so engrossed in her work that she didn't hear when the door at the building clicked open with the sound of a lock slowly disengaging. A nurse walked to her with a gentle smile and a small white cup where she was carrying her medication. The nurse's smile was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the sterile environment and the almost unsettling nature of the drawing she was creating.

"Time for your new medicine, sweetie," the nurse said, her voice soft. "Let's try it right now, shall we?" The girl, reluctantly peeling her attention from the drawing, nodded. The nurse was always kind to her, and it was nice to feel a sense of comfort and safety in this place. She carefully placed her pen back into the pen pouch it came from and stood up, careful not to leave the pouch close to the edge of the bench she was sitting on. The sketchbook was left where it was, on the ground on the left of where the boy was sitting. She assumed that it would be safe there, no one would touch it. As she followed the nurse, leaving the quiet corner of the yard, her mind was already racing with new ideas for her next drawing. Little did she know that her art, left behind, held no small amount of interest for the silent boy she had just portrayed. It was left abandoned and out in the open for him to see with no one close enough to watch him, only one sleep debrived guard and the other one with a lack of focus today.

Michael’s gaze, however, did not return to the horizon, which he had been staring at for the past couple of hours. His attention did eventually go to the drawing on the ground. The paper was slightly dirty from the girl’s use and the way she had left it behind, but the drawing itself remained pristine, as if it was not just a simple ink and pencil sketch. His eyes, those same vacant eyes that the girl had so meticulously captured, remained absolutely still as he observed the image of himself. The blood on the mouth and on the clothes was not something he was used to seeing, not even from the reflection in the mirror.

He stared at the image intently, the silence of the hallway almost palpable. It was not the drawing itself that held his interests, but rather the fact that someone was able to see him and interpret him in such a way. Someone was actually there and cared enough to take the time to draw and study him. It was a novel sensation, a curious mix of bemusement, and something akin to recognition. He had only ever seen folks flee and get afraid at his gaze. To see someone, especially someone young, take the time to draw him was very odd and a new experience to him. He continued to look at the drawing, taking in each detail as the afternoon slowly faded away, and the night grew longer. Only for him to be taken away by the guards once more. It seems like the girl wasn't coming back for the day. He might as well take it for himself.

Author's note: I did not plan for this oneshot to be so long, yet all my stories tend to be so. Also, I don’t plan to make more oneshots of this story route, however, if you do want to see more of it, or have any special requests in mind for this character, I could expand on that idea. And just so you know, even though I write these characters as if you are them. They aren't Y/n coded. They are like an OC but have a blank slate mindset. A good example I could come up with to explain it easier would be any of the protagonists in the Pokemon games. You could read them as if you were there, but this mad girl has personality and a backstory. Like any other (Y/n)'s out there... Man, (Y/n)'s are difficult to understand when it comes to how it's supposed to be used at times.

[my-religion-greek-myth]

Freedom far away - I&J

GAh I lost my martial arts competition in the finals! The next part will be urm.. smut?

Fem Reader X Agatha X Rio

Warning: Just a bit of violence, and kissy kissy

Part A | Part B | Part C&D | Part E | Part F | Part G | Part H | Part I&J | Part K | Part L | Part M | Part ?

When you finally approached the gate of your household, the familiar sight of the looming walls felt colder than usual. The night had fully settled in, the stars offering little solace as you stepped through the entrance. As you paused just inside the gate, your gaze fell to your feet.

After the torrent of tears and hurried explanations, you finally noticed what Agatha and Rio had pointed out earlier: you were barefoot when you arrived at their house. A sharp ache brought your attention to the scratches and faint traces of blood marking your skin, souvenirs of your frantic escape. You hadn’t even realised in your haste that you had run all the way to their house without shoes.

The absurdity of it made you wince. How reckless had you been to not even notice? You recalled the moment when Rio exaggeratedly gasped at your bare feet, clutching her chest dramatically. Agatha had let out a deep sigh, her sharp eyes softening slightly as she knelt to inspect the damage. They had both fussed over the small wounds with surprising care before Agatha, with a flick of her wrist and a flourish of purple mist, produced a pair of shoes that fit as if they had always belonged to you.

Now, standing at your own gate once more, those shoes felt heavier than they should, as though they carried the warmth and reassurance of the heaven you had just left behind.

Almost immediately, a servant approached, their expression taut with unease.

"My lady," they began hesitantly, bowing low. "The Lord has given orders… you are to inform him immediately upon your return."

Your stomach twisted, but you managed a curt nod. The servant led the way, the air between you thick with tension. As you reached the door to your grandfather’s study, you hesitated, your hand hovering over the handle. The faint murmur of voices reached your ears, and you realised with a sinking feeling that you were not walking into a private scolding.

When you finally pushed the door open, the sight before you made your heart sink. The room was filled—your parents, siblings, uncles, and aunts—all gathered under the oppressive gaze of your grandfather. The size of the study, usually imposing, felt suffocating, with so many eyes turning toward you.

Your grandfather stood at the far end, his presence dominating the space. His glare was like a physical weight bearing down on you as you stepped inside. You barely had time to close the door before he moved.

With one swift motion, his hand came down hard across your cheek. The force of the blow sent you stumbling back, the sting radiating through your skin as gasps erupted around the room.

"Father!" your own father called out, his voice sharp with shock and anger.

Your grandfather ignored your father entirely, his steely gaze fixed solely on you. The weight of his glare was colder than you’d ever seen, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?" he demanded, his tone sharp enough to cut. "Running away from your responsibilities? From the marriage proposal of a lifetime? Do you comprehend the disgrace you’ll bring upon this family if word of this escapes? The ridicule—our house, reduced to a laughingstock among the nobles?" His words fell like hammer blows, each one heavier than the last. The disdain in his voice was palpable, his fury simmering beneath a thin veneer of composure.

You clenched your jaw, the taste of iron faint on your tongue as you resisted the urge to reply. The weight of his words pressed down on you, but so did the memories of Agatha and Rio. Their love, fierce protectiveness, and the way they had made you feel seen—it all swirled in your mind, giving you the strength to stand tall.

"The proposal will proceed as planned," your grandfather declared, his voice final and unyielding. "You will marry into the royal family and not disgrace this household any further."

Your father stepped forward, his expression conflicted as he glanced between you and your grandfather. "Father," he began cautiously, "perhaps we should—"

"There will be no discussion!" your grandfather barked, his fist slamming onto the desk. "She is a daughter of this house and will do as she is told!"

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your grandfather’s authority stifling any further protests. Your mother’s gaze met yours, a mix of worry and resignation in her eyes. Your siblings looked on in stunned silence, their expressions ranging from anger to concern.

You lifted your chin, and the sting of your cheek was a constant reminder of the line you were walking. "I understand, Grandfather," you said quietly, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

His eyes narrowed, his fury barely contained. "You will do as you are told," he repeated, his tone low and menacing. "Or you will face the consequences."

You held his gaze, refusing to back down, even as your heart pounded against your ribs. The room felt like closing in, but you stood your ground, knowing this was only the beginning of a new life.

As you left the study, your mind was already racing. The sting of his slap lingered, but so did the warmth of Agatha’s hand and the playful protectiveness in Rio’s voice. You did not know what you would do next, but one thing was clear—you couldn’t face this alone.

You needed them.

The heated sting on your cheek lingered as you sat in your room, lost in thought. The sound of the slap still echoed in your ears, the weight of your grandfather’s words pressing heavily on your chest. You barely noticed the door opening until your sister slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her.

She stood there for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze landed on your swollen cheek, and her frown deepened. Without a word, she crossed the room and knelt beside you.

"You shouldn’t have run away in the middle of speaking with Grandfather," she said softly, though her tone lacked any true reprimand. Her fingers brushed gently against your cheek, her touch cool against the warmth of the swelling. "I saw everything."

Your throat tightened. Of course, she had seen it.

"I could not just stay there and listen to his grand plan of marrying me off," you muttered, your voice trembling with frustration. "You know what he’s forcing me to do."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I do," she admitted. "And I hate it as much as you do. But running away like that only made things worse." She paused, her eyes searching yours. "You need to think carefully about what you’ll do next. Maybe…" She hesitated, then added, "Maybe run away for good?"

Your hands curled into fists as you looked away. "If I leave, he’ll just focus on you next," you said quietly, your voice thick with guilt. "He’ll push the same marriage talks onto you."

She blinked at you, startled before a hollow laugh escaped her lips. "That’s not your problem," she said firmly, her tone carrying an unexpected strength. "It’s not your job to protect me."

You turned back to her, shocked. "But—"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head with conviction. "Listen to me." Her voice softened, but her words were no less firm. "You’ve always been the brave one, always trying to shield everyone else. Do you think I don’t know the things you endured from Grandfather to protect us? How much of his anger you absorbed so we could breathe a little easier? You’re the reason we’ve been carefree, the reason we’ve had any semblance of freedom from his suffocating demands. But this time…" She took a deep breath, her eyes locking with yours. "This time, you need to protect yourself. Not me. Not anyone else. Just you."

Her words cut through the haze of guilt and obligation clouding your mind, their weight undeniable. You opened your mouth to argue, but her unwavering gaze stopped you short.

"You’ve always been the brave one," she repeated softly. "But sometimes, being brave means choosing yourself. Not this family. Not Grandfather. Yourself."

Silence filled the room, heavy with unspoken truths. You clenched your fists tighter, your mind battling the instinct to stay and endure versus the undeniable pull to seek refuge and love with Agatha and Rio.

"He’ll be heading to the Capital tomorrow early in the morning," she added after a moment, her voice softer, like a breeze before a storm. "He’ll be busy all day with arrangements and demands, and probably won’t return until he finalises your marriage proposal. If you want to leave…" She paused, her gaze steady but heavy with unspoken urgency. "This is your chance."

Her words lingered in the air, a lifeline cast into turbulent waters. It was as if she were telling you that the tides had shifted, presenting you with a fleeting window of calm before the storm returned. Would you let it carry you to freedom, or stay anchored to a crumbling shore?

The idea was both terrifying and liberating. You wanted to see them again, to feel their warmth, their love—even though you had just left them an hour ago. The thought of returning to their realm, where the weight of your family’s expectations couldn’t reach you, made your chest ache.

You nodded slowly, your decision solidifying. Your sister’s lips curved into a faint smile, a glimmer of relief in her eyes.

"And who knows," she said, her voice suddenly teasing, "maybe I’ll run away too. After all, I love someone as well." She winked, though the sadness behind her words was unmistakable.

You stood, your resolve clear as you gathered what little you needed. Your sister watched you quietly, her smile fading into something softer, almost wistful. As you turned to leave, she reached out and squeezed your hand, her grip firm yet reassuring.

"Go," she said simply, her voice steady yet filled with unspoken emotion. "Be happy. For both of us."

You nodded, but as you reached the door, you hesitated. Turning back to face her, you spoke, your voice filled with determination. "I’ll make sure you’ll be safe, too," you said firmly. "I’ll ask them to help you."

Your sister’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion, her head tilting as though to ask who you meant. But she didn’t voice the question. Instead, she nodded slowly, trusting you even without understanding.

With a final glance, you left her standing in your room, her silhouette framed by the faint moonlight filtering through the window. You quickly wrapped a few belongings into a bundle.

The cool night air greeted you as you stepped outside, wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The world felt quieter and calmer, like holding its breath for your next move.

Your feet instinctively carried you toward the hidden house, the realm that had become your sanctuary. Each step felt lighter, as though the burdens of your family’s expectations were falling away with every stride.

A fond memory surfaced as you thought about them—how they made you feel comfortable enough to let go of the constant pressure to speak and act properly in front of others.

The three of you lounged comfortably on the floor, surrounded by abundant soft cushions. The surreal glow of the realm bathed the room in a gentle light, casting long shadows that flickered with a soothing rhythm. You were nestled in the middle, flanked by Agatha on your left and Rio on your right.

Agatha sat upright against a large cushion as she flipped through a black leather-bound book. The glow illuminated her sharp profile, and the soft hum of her turning pages was the only sound for a while. Rio, on the other hand, was draped lazily across the cushions, her head flopped back in apparent boredom. One of her hands played idly with yours, tracing circles on your palm, her fingers warm and distracting. She grinned faintly, her dark eyes occasionally flicking up to meet yours.

The serenity of the moment gave you the courage to ask the question that had been haunting your mind. You tilted your head slightly toward Agatha, your voice quiet but steady. "Agatha," you began softly, "why did you admit to killing the shaman? You could have avoided the topic or stayed vague like the night before."

Agatha didn’t look up from her book immediately, her expression unreadable. When she finally did, her gaze was calm but piercing. "Could have," she murmured lightly. "But I didn’t."

"Why?" you pressed, the courage from the comfort of their presence pushing you forward.

Agatha closed the book with a soft thud, resting it on her lap. Her sharp blue eyes locked with yours, and a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Because you confessed your love to us," she said simply, her tone lacking any of her usual teasing.

Rio perked up at that, her head snapping forward from where it had rested. Her grin widened mischievously. "Love moved her," she declared dramatically, earning a soft snort from Agatha.

"Shut up," Agatha muttered, though a small smile betrayed her amusement.

Rio wasn’t deterred. She rolled onto her side, propping herself up with an elbow as she leaned closer to you. Her free hand, still holding yours, gave a gentle squeeze. "But it’s true, isn’t it? Our dear purple witch has been changed by love," she teased, earning herself a swift swat on the leg from Agatha.

"Don’t make me regret this," Agatha said dryly, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. She turned her focus back to you, her voice softening. "The truth, doll, is that your bravery moved me. You stood there, vulnerable and honest, and confessed something most people wouldn’t dare to say aloud. How could I repay that with half-truths or lies?"

Her words struck you deeply, leaving you momentarily breathless. You felt the warmth of Rio’s fingers tighten around yours, grounding you as you processed the weight of what Agatha had said.

"Oh, she’s smitten," Rio said with a laugh, her grin turning fond as she glanced between you and Agatha. "You’ve made her all soft, my lady."

"Rio," Agatha warned, though there was no real bite to her tone.

Rio grinned unapologetically and turned her attention back to you, her gaze shifting into something quieter, more sincere. "But isn’t that what you wanted, my lady?" she asked softly. "An equal relationship. No secrets, no lies. Just the truth, however messy it might be?"

Her words echoed in the air, and you realised she was right. That was what you wanted. Not just love but the trust and honesty that came with it—even if the truth was sometimes hard to bear.

You nodded slowly, your heart swelling with an odd mix of gratitude and affection. "Yes," you admitted, your voice soft but certain. "That is what I want."

Agatha’s sharp gaze softened, her lips curving into a small smile. She reached over, brushing lightly against your cheek before pulling back. "Then that’s what you’ll have," she said firmly, her voice carrying a quiet promise.

Rio’s grin widened as she shifted closer, her head resting lightly against your shoulder. "Welcome to the chaos, my lady," she said playfully, her tone light but her dark eyes warm. "I think you’ll fit right in."

The three of you sat there for a while longer, nestled together among the cushions, sharing a quiet moment of understanding. You didn’t have all the answers, but for now, you had something better—a connection you knew you could trust. And in the warmth of their presence, that was more than enough.

That memory stayed with you, wrapping around your heart like a protective shield as you took each step. You were not just running from something anymore—you were running to someone. Toward Agatha and Rio.

Toward your love.

---RAR---

Even in the dark, you knew the way to their house as though it had been etched into your memory. You didn’t stop to rest, your legs moving with purpose as you hurried along the familiar path. The cool night air brushed against your skin, but you hardly noticed. Your mind was focused entirely on reaching them—on finding comfort and safety in their presence.

When you reached the gate, you didn’t hesitate. You stepped through, the familiar warmth of their realm washing over you. The air was different here—softer, calmer, and yet it seemed to hum with energy.

The moment you crossed the gate, the door to their house opened as though they had been waiting for you. Agatha and Rio stepped out into the glow of the surreal realm, their eyes locking onto yours instantly.

Without a word, you dropped your bundle onto the ground and ran to them, your heart pounding in your chest. You threw your arms around both of them, holding them tightly as though they might vanish if you let go. Agatha’s arms wrapped firmly around your torso, her embrace grounding and secure. Rio’s embrace followed, encircling you both, her warmth seeping into your skin.

None of you spoke as you stayed in their arms, the world around you fading into nothingness. For a moment, there was only the three of you, connected by an unspoken bond that needed no explanation.

When you finally pulled back, their expressions shifted instantly. Agatha’s gaze swept over you, her sharp blue eyes narrowing as they landed on your swollen cheek. A flicker of icy coldness flashed through them, a dangerous edge to her usual composure. Rio’s reaction was even more primal—her jaw clenched, her dark eyes narrowing as her teeth bared in a snarl.

"Who," Rio growled, her voice low and venomous, "did this to you?"

Agatha’s hand reached up, her fingers brushing gently against your cheek. Despite the cold fury in her gaze, her touch was soft, almost reverent. "Tell us," she said, her voice deceptively calm. But the undercurrent of menace was unmistakable. "Who dared to harm you?"

You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the intensity of their reactions. "It’s not important," you said weakly, though even you knew the words would not placate them.

"Not important?" Rio hissed, her teeth gritted. "Your face is bruised, swollen, and you’re telling me it’s not important?" She took a step back, her hand reaching instinctively to her side, where you noticed her familiar dagger gleaming faintly in the ethereal light. Her eyes glinted dangerously, like a predator ready to strike. "Give me a name," she demanded.

"Rio," Agatha said sharply, her voice cutting through Rio’s anger like a blade. Yet her gaze remained fixed on you, her cold blue eyes softening just slightly. "Let her speak."

Rio’s jaw worked, but she relented, stepping aside with a frustrated huff. Agatha’s hand lingered against your cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the tender skin as though trying to erase the mark entirely.

"Tell us, doll," Agatha coaxed, her voice quieter now but no less firm. "We can’t help you if you don’t let us."

Agatha’s gaze was unrelenting, her hand still gently brushing against your swollen cheek. "Who hurt you?" she asked again, her voice a blend of concern and barely restrained fury.

But you shook your head stubbornly, stepping back just enough to break her touch. "It doesn’t matter," you said firmly, your voice trembling only slightly. "Everything is fine as long as I’m here with you two. That’s all I need."

Rio’s eyes narrowed, the fire in them undimmed. "You can’t just brush this off," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Someone hurt you—marked you—and you’re telling me it doesn’t matter? I swear, if you don’t tell us, I’ll—"

"You’ll do nothing," you interrupted, your voice gaining strength. You turned to face both of them, your jaw clenched. "Because I’m not telling you. What’s done is done. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters."

Rio’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That’s not good enough," she growled. "You can’t expect me to sit here and—"

"Enough," Agatha said sharply, cutting her off. Her piercing blue eyes turned to Rio, her gaze surprisingly pleading. "She’s made her choice. Let it go."

Rio’s growled furiously, her body tense as though she were barely holding herself back. But after a long moment, she exhaled sharply and nodded, though the fire in her gaze didn’t entirely fade. "Fine," she muttered, crossing her arms. "But don’t expect me to forget."

Agatha turned back to you, her expression softening slightly. "Doll," she said quietly, "you don’t have to carry this alone. We’re here for you—always."

You nodded, the weight of their concern pressing heavily on your chest. "I know," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "That’s why I came back."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the tension lingering like an unspoken question. But as the minutes stretched on, the weight began to ease, replaced by a sense of quiet understanding.

Agatha reached out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. "Come," she said softly, her voice low and soothing. "You need to rest."

Before you could respond, Rio stepped forward, her dark eyes boring into yours. "But first," she murmured, her voice dipping into something softer, sweeter. "You need to know how much you mean to us."

Her words jolt through your chest, the air around you seeming still. Before you could process what she meant, Rio leaned in, her hand cupping your cheek with surprising gentleness. Her lips brushed against yours, the kiss soft yet electric, igniting a warmth that spread through your entire body.

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding as Rio pulled back slightly, her lips curving into a satisfied grin. "I’ve been waiting for that," she said, her voice low and husky, liking her lips.

Before you could respond, Agatha stepped closer, her sharp gaze locking onto yours. "Don’t forget about me, doll," she murmured, her voice rich with amusement. Her hand tilted your chin upward, and her lips captured yours in a deeper, more deliberate kiss, sending a shiver down your spine that differed from Rio's.

When Agatha finally pulled away, her smirk was wicked. "You're so beautiful," her thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. "I could get used to this."

Rio chuckled, stepping behind you to press her body lightly against yours. Her arms encircled your waist, her lips brushing against your ear as she murmured, "And you haven’t even seen the best of us yet, my lady."

The warmth of their combined presence, touches, and kisses sent your mind reeling. The pull you had felt toward them since the beginning now felt inevitable, undeniable love. And as they held you between them, their gazes filled with affection and desire, you couldn’t bring yourself to resist.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to give in—to the connection you shared, to the love you felt, and to the promises their touches held. And in their arms, you finally felt whole.

But the moment didn’t end there. Your breath quickened, each exhale unsteady as a new warmth began to coil within you. It was unfamiliar and consuming, and yet you welcomed it and yearned for more of it, for more of them. The sensation was almost overwhelming, but Agatha and Rio seemed to understand completely.

Agatha’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile, her piercing eyes glinting with intent. Beside her, Rio’s dark gaze sparkled with mischief, her grin widening as though she were in on a secret you were only just beginning to uncover.

Agatha’s hand slid to your back, guiding you gently but firmly toward their large, inviting bedroom. The soft glow of their surreal realm filtered through the open windows, casting the room in a warm, almost magical light. The bed was massive, draped in luxurious fabrics that seemed to shimmer faintly as if touched by unseen starlight.

[lovesickeros]

☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, violence {☆} word count 0.8k

You are dying.

Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.

It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.

You will die.

"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."

A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.

"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."

They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.

"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."

Silence.

You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.

It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.

In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.

They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.

And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.

And alone, the cold remains.

Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.

But the cold remains, bathed in gold.

It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.

It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.

Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.

But you are yourself.

And you are where you belong.

They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.

All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.

One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.

Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

Three Houses primary problem isn't even gameplay imo. I think the art direction is easily the worst part about the game.

The gameplay loop and actual maps are very boring, yes. But it's still a fire emblem game and the gameplay is still good at its worst. The academy hub does become a chore at some point, but you can also skip it if you can't bear it at all. I think a large part of why people despise the gameplay in particular is because everything looks extremely drab.

The UI, graphics, art style and character portraits aren't necessarily bad, just... They just don't offer anything interesting. The environments of each map are really detailed, however 90% of the time you don't even see it. The colors are all sad greys and browns. While the character designs are inoffensive, they often don't have any unique identifier ( besides the main lords) like characters in past games did. Most of them are only unique by their hair color and maybe hair style ( Although that is mostly because they only wear uniforms. Post-time skip their designs get better). Characters don't strike any unique or memorable poses in their portraits, it's all just yearbook pictures.

This all confounds into a boring-looking game that is pretty great beneath that veneer of drabness.

Actually thinking on it... Quite a lot of stuff gets better post-time skip. Still not great per se, but a lot better. I think Three Hopes is where the art direction is at its peak.

.

[colibrie]

Mosaic Moments

Prompt 3, Leo: Not made of stone.

Art by @trilobitepunch

3. Not made of stone (Leo, Casey Jr, brief Donnie cameo)

"Woooowe! Now that was a great run!" Leo exclaimed, chest heaving gently as he skidded to a stop. His muscles throbbed with a pleasant burn, chest gently heaving with the welcome effort of exertion. A thin veneer of sweat cleansed his skin, gently pulling at the slight breeze that blew by the roof.

"Hah yeah," Casy huffed as he came up from behind, face flushed and hair stuck to his face. The humans thin shoulders jumped as he folded over, hands braced on his knees as he sucked in deep breaths of air.

"You good bro?" Leo asked, only half teasing as he stretched his arms above his head, casually nudging Casey Jr with the side of his foot. "Way you're sucking wind someone would think you were the one stuck in bed for over a month and a half."

"Hey, not all of us get to be freaky strong mutants," Casey shot back, a broad grin taking any away any heat that may of existed as he pushed himself upright. "You definitely don't run like someone whose been bed ridden. Then again, you always did heal fast. It was useful for the resistance but it drove uncle Tello and Master Michelangelo crazy trying to keep Sensei in bed long enough to meet minimum rest standards."

The shift was barely perceptible. If he hadn't been raised by older versions of the turtle he was sure he would have missed it. The suble tightness that crept into the corners of Leo's smile, forcing them wider in a way that was to plastic to be genuine. The way the light in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly, even as he let out the perfectly light chuckle to cover.

"Yeah, future me is like six kinds of amazing. Must have been a crazy time."

"It was the apocalypse," Casey replied slowly, mentally trying to make sense of these shifts.

Had it been mentioning sensei? In the aftermath of the Krang invasion Leo had initially had a hard time hearing Casey mention his future counterpart. But they had worked through that. They had talked, under the cover of night when the rest of the lair had been at rest. He'd apologised to the younger turtle for putting so much pressure on him. Leo had accepted with apologies of his own, and had eventually coaxed him to give more details about his life with sensei, stories both good and bad. They'd laughed, they'd cried. They were good...weren't they?

"Must all seem pretty tame now in comparison," Leo said casually as he leaned into his stretch.

"Yes and no," Casey responded, watching carefully as he pushed his hair away from his face. "There's certainly less explosions, and the lack of zombie krang chasing us on our morning run is nice. But other things are crazy. Like how rich everyone is. Uncle Tello used to tell me stories about it, and he had a million folders of ideas and inventions that he'd imagined but lacked the materials to make. Seeing how easy it is to get things here, I get it now. He'd be over the moon, and probably lock himself in the lab for a whole year!"

There. A slight flinch, shoulders hiking a few centimeters up towards his tympanum.

"Heh, once an egghead always an egghead I guess. Anyway, we should-"

"Leo, what's wrong?"

"Uh...Nothing?" Leo replied questioningly. "I mean, I'm kinda hungry. Wanna swing by Run of the Mill on the way back? We can-"

"I thought we were past lying to each other," Casey challenged, a tiny bud of frustration building beneath his ribs as he pinned the turtle with a look.

"I'm not lying Cas, everything is fine now, right? Apocalypse averted, city is in repairs, everyone is healing, and Donnie finally paused updating the security system long enough to eat something other than caffeine and applesauce. Everyone is happy."

"You're avoiding my question. Master Michelangelo said you'd..."

He did not even need to look for the flinch this time. Leo turned away.

There was something here he was missing. Something in his words. But what? It wasn't like he'd never told red eared slider about the future. About the family he'd lost.

About Master Michelangelo.

About Uncle Tello.

About how...

"They all die!"

His heart hit the floor, stomach doing flips as he stared at the mosaic of barely healed pain spiderwebbed across Leonardo's shell. They had talked about a lot of things in the aftermath of the apocalypse, but they had never discussed what had happened in the tunnels beneath the tower. About the fate he'd revealed.

"They all die!"

"Every single one of them."

"The world needs Master Leonardo, and all we have is this guy."

"Leo, I... I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what man? Everything is fine." Leo replied, voice smoothly polished. He did not turn around.

"I've been talking about the future this whole time and..and we never really talked about it like that."

"Sure we have. You were telling me about it yesterday."

"I was talking about Sensei yesterday," Casey corrected, "we've only discussed the...others... once."

A falling pin could have sounded like a gun shot in the quiet that followed.

"There's nothing to talk about there," Leo said eventually.

Gone was the polish, the glitz and the glamorous glow of humor. Leo's tone was flat, a blank slate for this single fact to be engraved.

"I think there is," Casey replied carefully, biting his lower lip hard as he sought the for words that would fix the situation. "The way I told you about what happened to them was... not ideal..."

"Hey, you did what you needed to do to get the message through my thick skull. I don't hold it against you Casey. "

"Yeah, that's partially why I did it. But...I think I also did it because I was mad at you."

The atmosphere between them felt tense enough to explode, and Casey found himself tripping over his words in the haste to get them our before the fireworks could begin.

"I was angry at you for not being Sensei, and I was scared that I was going to fail the mission he and Master Michelangelo sacrificed everything to give me. The mission that could make uncle Tello and Raphel's death mean something. I threw their deaths in your face, and it was...I didn't mean to... I didn't think it would still be effecting you this badly..."

"You didn't think learning my whole family died because of my stupidity would effect me? Jeez Casey, I know I'm an self-centered idiot sometimes, but I'm not made of stone either. "

The words were light, but underneath them was brittleness, fine cracks poised to shatter at the next misstep.

"No!" Casey panicked, desperately backpedaling for the a way to sooth the hurts he'd intentionally and unintentionally afflicted. "I just meant that-"

The soft beeping of Leo's com cut him off mid sentance, and the young terrapin answered it before he could regather his scrambled thoughts.

"What's good Dee?"

"I need to go to the junkyard for some parts, but Raph won't let me go alone incase Repomantis "shows up for a showdown". To appease him I volunteered you for the buddy system. Tell Junior to head home and meet me there in ten minutes," Donatello replied, his voice that perfectly painful bend of familiar irritation, excitement, and affected disinterest.

There was something else there too. Something Casey had never had a name for beyond donnieandleo. He'd grown up hearing donnieandleo in good times and in bad. In the early hours when Sensei would grumble and drag the soft shell into his own bed to ensure he got at least four hours of uninterrupted rest. In the curses that had flown from his uncles lips when he'd fought to keep Sensei from bleeding out after amputating his arm. It was like a secrect code that only they could speak, one that remained uncracked up until the day his uncle had died.

Whatever Donnie was saying now, Leo read loud and clear.

"Fine, but you owe me a smoothie after. Extra large."

"Says the guy who still owes me pizza for that bet from last week."

"Uuuugg fine, but I'm gonna need some serious food to make up for this. On my way."

"Leo, we need to-"

"Sorry Case, duty calls," Leo cut in, never looking back as he walked towards the edge of the roof. "You head back and get some lunch. I know Mikey has a new recipe for you."

"Leo stop! Just let me explain."

"No need. Heard it loud and clear, I promise."

[reverieparacosm]

Art's Silent Language (Lukai Hwei x GN!Reader)

Warnings: violence, blood, slight torture, kidnapping

Chapter 4: Through the Artist's Eyes

(part 1 here)

Summary: Captured by Jhin, you face a final performance of pain and beauty. Will this be Jhin's last act, or just the beginning of something more?

(Note is at the end of the chapter)

A searing pain lanced through your skull, each beat of your heart a hammer blow against it. You fight to open your eyes, the world a swirling vortex of darkness and pain. You blink, the world snapping into focus, revealing a figure bathed in the dim, ethereal glow of a single lantern.

Jhin.

His lips curl into a smile that holds no warmth, only a chilling, unsettling amusement. He moves with a grace that belies the terror he instills, his fingers, slender and elegant, tracing the outline of a wound on your head.

The cloth he holds, pristine white against the darkness, is a stark contrast to the crimson blossoming on it. He presses it gently against your wound, the pressure a searing agony. But there is a strange, almost hypnotic quality to his touch, a calculated precision that feels more like a surgical procedure than a simple act of tending to a wound. Each stroke of the cloth is deliberate, methodical, as if he were an artist meticulously applying paint to a canvas. The blood, once a vibrant red, is absorbed into the fabric, leaving a dark, ominous stain that mirrors the chilling dread that grips your heart.

You try to speak, to scream, but your throat is parched, your voice a mere croak.

"Shh, do not struggle," he coos, dabbing at your face. You flinch at his touch, feeling scrapes where your skin meets ropes. Jhin examines you with a twisted smile, his eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and malice, as if savoring discomfort. "You’ll make this worse for yourself," he warns softly, leaning very close.

"Release me," you say sharply.

Jhin throws back his head and laughs, a grating cacophony that sets your nerves on edge. Slowly, he circles you, trailing a gloved finger along your tense shoulders.

"My dear captive, you presume to threaten me?" he croons softly. "It is I who hold power in this dance, not some chirping fledgling gasping in my claws."

Halting before you, Jhin grips your chin in a punishing grip. His veneer of control cracks, exposing raving lunacy beneath.

"No artist lets his muse flee until the opus is complete! I have divined such exquisite torments for our finale. Through your anguished song will I craft my crowning masterwork!"

His long-fingered hand traces your cheekbone, leaving a trail of cold in its wake. You tremble under his gaze, uncertain of what horrors lay in store. 

You struggle against your bonds, to no avail. Jhin observes your movements with interest, like a painter studying his subject. Outside, the sunset paints the decaying walls in hues of orange and gold.

"Through art, all things can be transformed," Jhin continues rapturously. "Your mortal flesh will become something everlasting. I will alchemize your essence until only brilliance remains."

He lifts a glinting tool, and you see it is a sculpting knife, its edge honed to deadly precision. Panic rises in your throat as Jhin studies the play of fading sunlight on the blade.

"Diamonds, like humanity, are born of turmoil. Extreme heat and pressure fuse the chaotic cloud into clarity. So too shall you be remade." His voice rings with messianic fervor. "Soon, you will shine eternally as my greatest creation. The transformation begins...let the ceremony commence!"

As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, more details of your surrounds emerge. Crumbling brick walls are papered with faded posters advertising long-forgotten shows. A thick layer of dust covers the worn floorboards; your chair stands center-stage in a decrepit house.

Overhead, tattered curtains sway in the breeze drifting through broken windows. Beams of dying sunlight pierce the gloom, illuminating spinning dust motes like flecks of gold. It is a place suspended between creation and ruin - the perfect setting for Jhin's dark vision. 

The artist himself paces before you, muttering excitedly to himself.

"The lighting is perfect, the composition sublime," he muses. "All that remains is to complete my masterwork."

Jhin's hands flit restlessly over his assortment of strange artifacts: gleaming surgical tools, arcane tomes bound in human skin, vials containing viscous liquids and mysterious powders. His meticulous artist’s mind sorts rapidly through options.

Finally, he selects an instrument resembling a paintbrush, but its bristles end in thin blades. He tests the edge delicately against his finger, nodding in approval at the bead of blood welling forth. 

"First, we strip away your outer shells," Jhin declares, tracing the blade lightly over your cheek. "Only then can your truest essence shine through, polished to dazzling radiance.”

Jhin steps close, looming over you with the metallic bristles poised at your throat. You thrash against the ropes binding you, heart pounding, to no avail.

"Peace, my subject," Jhin soothes. "Struggle will only prolong your suffering. Remain still, and I can elevate you to glory." 

His gaze bores into you. With a surgeon's precision, he drags the blade slowly down your neck. You cry out as beads of blood rise in its wake, crimson against your skin.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the blade presses deeper. You inhale sharply but do not cry out - you will not give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

A bead of blood wells and Jhin leans in, tongue darting out to sample your essence on his lips.

"Sweet," he groans, eyes fluttering closed. When they open once more, wild hunger blazes within. Jhin looms closer still, trapping you with his gaze as the knife dances over your hammering pulse.

Jhin makes a small noise of pleasure, tilting his head to observe his handiwork. "Exquisite. The raw material reveals its luster."

"Transformation is seldom pleasant," Jhin comments clinically. "But pain birth beauty, as fire shapes the jewel."

"I knew from the start what lurked beneath your silken words and gifts," you say coldly. "The way you twisted Hwei's heart to suit your depraved games, used his passion as just one more sick puppet in your shows."

Jhin's gloved fingers suddenly wrap tight around your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. His touch is cold yet burns your skin all the same. 

Jhin cocks his head, regarding you with a curled smile. "The petal thought he understood my art. In time, he too would have become a masterpiece."

His patronizing tone only fuels your fury. "I saw how you fed on his love like some parasite, how you twisted his mind until he was but a shadow, living only to feed the void within you."

Chuckling softly, Jhin runs his thumb along your swollen bottom lip. "And what of you, my feisty little songbird? Do you also fly willingly into the fox's waiting jaws?"

You meet his eyes steadily. "Your acts of violence and violation do not move me. I understand you better than you understand yourself - you who knows only how to feed chaos and feel nothing."

Jhin's smiling mask shatters, giving way to something ravenous and raw. "Feel nothing?" he snarls, seizing your face in a crushing grip. "I feel it all, each exquisite moment - the passion, the rapture, the divine perfection of destruction! Through my art alone do I truly live!"

Releasing you, he draws back, composure sliding neatly back into place. But his eyes hold a new calculation.

"And what makes you think you know my intentions, my dear?" he whispers, voice low and deadly. Bloodlust swirls in his eyes yet something else flickers there - intrigue, admiration for your spirit.

You swallow yet hold his stare, defiant to the last. "I see the emptiness within you. Your 'art' is but a shallow mimicry of passion, meaningless destruction performed for an audience of one."

Jhin laughs softly, a mirthless sound. His flawless mask cracks, revealing the gaping void beneath, the ache that drives him to create through carnage alone.

Leaning impossibly close, he breathes against your trembling lips. "Perhaps you know me better than I thought, my clever sparrow. If shallowness is what you perceive...then let me show you the inferno that consumes."

With that, his mouth slants hard over yours, ravaging with a desperate hunger to feel - to feel anything amid the numbness. You gasp into the kiss, your heartbeat answering his like clashing symbols in a dark symphony.

For a stolen moment, passion transcends intention as you drown in sensation. But when Jhin pulls away, craving and madness have resurfaced in his eyes once more. The tender illusion shatters, and you know - this was but one more manipulating performance in his grisly design.

He rises and paces, gesticulating wildly.

"That kiss was but another brushstroke on the canvas of our drama together. Through it, I sought merely to elicit emotion - yours, and of the audience that surely hangs on our every moment."

Pausing, Jhin gazes down at you. His perfect features twist into a ghastly mockery of affection.

"Did you feel, little songbird, as I tore open your heart? Did you tremble with anguished rapture, swept along in the ecstatic tide of annihilation?"

His mocking laughter rings through the dusty room.

Jhin grips your hair forcefully, pulling your head back as he breathes against your neck, his warm breath sends shivers racing down your spine. You feel your back arch involuntarily.

He leans in closer, his lips grazing your skin as he slightly bites down on your neck, the sensation both pleasurable and painful.

His hand glides down your arms, fingers trailing lightly as if savoring every inch of your skin.

The touch feels possessive, yet there’s a strange tenderness in his movements. You can’t help but feel the tension building between you, a dance of power and vulnerability. He then shifts his attention to the bindings on your wrists, circling your wrist with his thumb in a deliberate manner, as if testing the strength of your restraints. For a fleeting moment, it feels as if he’s loosening them just enough to let hope flicker to life.

But the moment is fleeting. You turn your head away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze and the feelings swirling inside you. Just as you think you’ve escaped his grasp, he takes your face in both of his hands, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes softly against your lips.

"That, my dear, is the only 'passion' I know—the opus of agonies I craft through my works," he whispers, his voice smooth and chilling. "All else is but pale imitation. Remember that… should any wisp of feeling dare cloud your judgment."

With a savage grin and swish of his cloak, Jhin is once more lost to his dark imaginings, leaving you questioning all you thought you knew of this depraved artist.

As Jhin turns away to arrange his infernal stagecraft, you gather every ounce of strength and begin to struggle anew against your bonds. The ropes bite cruelly into your wrists, yet you twist and strain with wild desperation. 

Jhin pays you no mind, lost in his own deranged mutterings as he lays out gleaming utensils.

Seeing your chance, you redouble your efforts with a frenzied yell. The ropes fray and tear—and with one final wrench, your hands rip free!

Jhin whirls at the sound, anger flaring in his eyes at being denied his dark muse. But you waste no time gawking at the monster—you launch from the chair at him.

Off-balance, Jhin crashes to the dust-caked floorboards. His blade skitters away into the shadows.

Not sparing a glance at him, you sprint for the splintered exit with renewed vigor. Black night swallows your retreating form as you pour every ounce of will into escape.

Laughter and rage and the sound of pounding footsteps chase on your heels.

Your lungs burn as you push your exhausted body further into the desert night. Jhin's maniacal laughter still echoes behind you, though the sound is fading with each step. You dare not look back, knowing his twisted grin will be etched in your mind if you do. All that matters is putting as much distance between him and yourself as possible.

Up ahead, a faint glow peeks through the sparse trees - an oasis. New adrenaline surges through your veins at the sight of what might offer refuge. Sand kicks up with each footfall as you rush toward the glowing pool of water. Palm trees whip past you in a blur, their branches outstretched like beckoning arms guiding you to safety.

Bursting into the small oasis, you stumble to a halt beside the water's edge. Your hands brace against your knees as greedy lungs drink in air. Through the shallow pants, your ears strain for any sign you are still being pursued. Only the gentle lapping of waves meets them, the normal night sounds of the desert serenading the sparse trees.

Slowly, muscles uncoil from their clenched state. The immediate threat seems past, at least for now. You lower yourself fully to the cool sand and let the sight of glittering water soothe frazzled nerves.

Soft moonlight dances across the surface, dappling the shore in an ethereal glow. Clarity returns along with your breathing, allowing reality to truly sink in.

A shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the desert chill.

Pushing to unsteady legs, you shuffle closer to the pool's edge. Your parched throat begs for refreshment after the exhausting escape. Cupping greedy hands, you bring the cool liquid to chapped lips. Too soon, the last droplets fall from your palms. Thirst barely slaked; other needs demand attention in your weary state.

Scanning the sandy shore, your gaze lands on a cluster of palm fronds piled near the trees. With any luck, they might offer cushion and cover for the night. One problem at a time - rest now, plans later. Heavy feet carry you to the pile and you collapse into the fronds with a sigh. Cool surrounds quickly lull frayed senses as lingering adrenaline fades into exhaustion.

Darkness pulls you under like a comforting blanket.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The desert night is alive with the constant song of insects and wildlife. A sliver of moon drifts overhead amid patches of scattered clouds, casting the oasis in a dim glow.

As you drift in the space between sleep and waking, a shiver runs through your body that has nothing to do with the cool night air. 

Something is different. An energy tingles at the edge of perception, faint yet familiar. Slowly prying open weary eyes, you lift your head from the nest of palm fronds.

Rippling across the surface of the water is a blur of colors, dancing in hues too vibrant to be natural.

A paintbrush comes into focus, wielded by a figure kneeling at the pool's edge. Colored wisps trail his movements like an artist’s ashes, each strand levitating impossibly in the air.

There is no mistaking Hwei's magical brush at work, weaving ephemeral illustrations that shimmer on the water's canvas.

His eyes, iridescent even in shadow, find yours across the shore. Recognition lights within those prismatic orbs before flickering with an emotion you can’t place. Concern? Relief?

With fluid grace, Hwei rises and strides to your side. Up close, faint scents of oils and pigment cling to his frame. His gaze roams your form, lingering on patches of torn cloth.

"You're hurt." His voice is soft yet carries an undercurrent that raises the hairs along your nape. Fingers gently grasp your wrist to examine your wounds. You suppress a wince at the contact.

"It's nothing serious." Your assurance does little to quell the tempest raging behind Hwei's eyes. Releasing your arm, he pulls his brush from where it is strapped across his back. Colors sprung to life along the bristles at his beckon, bleeding together into a soothing teal wash.  

Without a word, Hwei dips the brush’s edge into the shimmering paint. Your breath hitches as cool bristles make contact, tracing delicate lines along your wounds.

Where pigment spreads, numbness follows in its wake, deadening pain.

Fascinated, you watch reddened skin knit together before eyes, leaving fresh and unmarred in the healing liquid’s wake.

Magic, or simple a gift of Hwei’s brush? Impossible to say where abilities end and the artist begins.

You gaze up to find his focus intent on the task, lips parted slightly as his skill purifies damaged flesh. Heat rises unbidden to your cheeks under such devoted care. Your heart, already quickened from your closeness, threatens to burst from your ribs. 

The last abrasions disappear under careful strokes. Hweis' eyes lift to yours, their depths reflecting colors and emotions too deep to comprehend.

One arm encircles your waist and pulls you against his slender form, the other brushes tousled strands of hair from your face. His thumb lingers and caresses the line of your jaw with tenderness.  

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Hwei’s hushed murmur causes lids to flutter closed, lost in the soothing rumble of his voice.

Lips meet yours then, slow and searching as if committing every facet to memory through touch alone.

With utmost care, he gathers you into his lap to cradle against his chest. One hand soothingly combs through your hair while the other takes up his brush anew. Upon the oasis sands, Hwei begins to paint in colors of serenity.

Lush blooms spill from under his talented strokes—petite lilies burst with dewdrops; morning glories unfurl translucent petals. Their vivid hues shine all the brighter in the shadows of night. As detail after detail comes alive, the flowers' sweet fragrance joins the cool desert air.

Instead of darkness, visions of sunlit gardens dance behind your closed eyes. Hwei watches vigilantly, brush never ceasing until the last stem stands vibrant and whole. Only then does he set the magical implement aside once more. You feel relaxed and calm.

Gently, he tilts your face up to meet his gaze. Hwei gazes for long moments, memorizing each fleeting emotion buried beneath fatigue. His hands cup your cheeks with care.

"Let me share this burden," Hwei murmurs, breath soft against your lips between words. "I would bear it all if only it rids you of pain."

Then slowly, he lowers his mouth to yours in a kiss filled with promise and devotion profound as the stars above.

Art is the highest form of hope.

All thoughts flee under that tender onslaught. Your hands tangle in his tunic, clinging to escape the nightmares of past hours in his grounding presence.

Within the circle of his embrace, reality seems but a distant dream. Here, in Hwei's arms, you know only comfort, protection... and love that shelters your heart, always, from any threat in the waking world.

As the stars light creeps over the dunes, you stir in Hwei's tender embrace. Beneath palms and stars, the remainder of night has passed in comforting solace.

Gaze meeting Hwei's own, you ask in hushed tones, "How did you find me here?" A rueful smile touches his lips, fingers lifting to brush aside disheveled locks. "Worry not over such details, my heart. What matters is you're safe now." 

Still the unknowns nag, his knowing eyes betraying depths beyond casual passersby. "Through your magic, wasn't it?” Hwei's nod grants affirmation, though guarded concern now creases his features. A painter's sight can unveil truths better left buried; it seems...

"Tell me what horrors drove you to this place," he bids softly, voice roughened by rising emotion kept barely leashed. And so, haltingly, the tale spills forth —of Jhins plan, his machinations to make you "a creation beyond compare." 

How Jhin's maddened machinations seek to immortalize your agonized demise. How by fortune or fate, an opportunity arises allowing escape from dire design. Yet escape is not the end, as horrors haunt memory still... 

At the story's close, Hwei grows deafly silent.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The journey back is a somber one. Smoke rises on the horizon long before Koyehn's Temple simple spires come into view, an ominous shroud hanging overall.

But no prayers can prepare you for the hellscape that awaits.

As the temple comes into sight, it is engulfed in angry orange tongues that devour sacred scrolls and timber alike. Embers swirl chaotically on smoldering thermals, borne aloft to spread ruin further still.

Hwei reins in with a sudden gasp, leaving you to brace against his back. You clutch him tight as anguished cries escape his lips, giving voice to the torment writ large across his features. Never do you see such depths of anguish from the stoic painter, who schools his passions into disciplined lines and fluid strokes.

"No..." Hwei's choked whisper tears at your heart. This place is his sanctuary, his home—now reduced to cindering ruins. You grasp his arm for support as much as offering console, finding only tremors wracking his lithe form in return.

His soul bleeds… and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly, swallows him whole.

His brush falls unheeded, magic sparking errant between clenched fingers as if begging release. Yet for all the chaos within, no colors escape Hwei's tight rein—not here, not for this.

Sliding to the ground, you pull him into your arms as tears carve trails down soot-stained cheeks. You stand locked in mournful embrace until the sobs begin to still, the conflagration within banked to smoldering embers once more by love's balm. Lips press against your hair, murmuring apologies for all that can never be regained.

As morning's light lifts the ashen pall shrouding all, the full horror of the night comes into grim clarity. Where once lived and worked over fourscore brothers and sisters, now only broken shells of walls remain amongst the rubble.

You pick your way over the ruins, hoping against hope that some sheltering alcove or secret chamber may offer refuge to even a sole survivor. But as the sun climbs overhead with no signs of life stirring, grim certainty takes root.

You stand alone as the last remnants of an order consigned now to memory alone.

Hwei searched the longest for any survivors, as if refusing to accept the bitter truth laid bare before your eyes. When he finally sinks to his knees in defeat, wracking sobs echo the agonized screams that must have filled the night air as flames claimed their victims. You pull him close, but no comfort of yours can staunch the flood of his grief.

In time, his tears run dry, leaving in their wake an exhaustion of body and spirit you fear no rest can repair.

Hwei wanders as one dead, seeking solace that forever eludes him amongst the ruins. Nights find him waking in terror, reliving each moment of devastation in vivid and gruesome detail no hand can capture.

One such night, a glint of color amidst the cinders draws his numbed feet. Lifted free, it reveals a fiendish trap, its petals splayed open in grinning mockery—a lotus blossom none, but one artist could have crafted.

Understanding dawns in those hollow eyes, a cascade of emotions stirring their murky depths once more: terror, sorrow, betrayal... and a dreadful fascination you know all too well.

The ruins fall silent once more as Hwei gazes unblinking upon that noxious blossom. You dare not break his reverie, dreading what shadows might take root should he linger too long in contemplation of such madness... and the dark allure it holds, even for one whose gift is life and color, not decay.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The crackling fire does little to cut through the tavern's smoky chill. You nurse a mug of ale, staring into the fire as if they might hold answers to questions plaguing Hwei's mind.

It has been moons since you left the smoking remnants of Koyehn behind you. Amongst the ashes, you find renewed purpose—your art brings messages of hope and restoration to weary communities... but sometimes also of destruction. But with each new dawn, fresh mysteries call Hwei ever onwards.

You glance to where he sits apart, brush hovering restlessly as always. His eyes, once home to passion's vibrant spectrum, now seem but windows onto an abyss churning with shadows.

Hwei seeks understanding through revelation of torment—by replicating each scene of suffering until its essence bleeds forth. You fear such intimacy with evil may leech away what remains of his light.

As the sun dips low on the horizon, casting a golden hue over the tavern’s wooden beams, you sit beside Hwei, captivated by the way his brush dances across the canvas. Each stroke is filled with emotion, transforming the blank surface into a vibrant landscape of colors. Hwei pours his heart into the painting, bringing to life a sun rising triumphantly over a gentle sea, its rays bursting forth like tendrils of warmth. Hwei is completely absorbed in his painting.

Truly, no artist tolerates reality.

You lean closer, intrigued by the imagery. “Is it a sunset or a sunrise?” you ask, admiring the way the light plays in his eyes. Resting your chin on Hwei's shoulder, you feel a warm connection, as if the moment stretches into eternity.

Hwei pauses, his brush hovering above the canvas as he turns to you, a soft smile blooming on his lips. “It’s a sunrise,” he replies, his voice warm and tender. “A new beginning. I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.”

His gaze lingers on you, and in that moment, the world outside the tavern fades away. You feel a magnetic pull, an unspoken connection that draws you closer.

The ambiance is thick with the scent of paint and the calming whispers of the sea outside.

You close your eyes as his hand comes up to gently cup your cheek. His thumb softly traces your bottom lip. As he leans in closer, you can feel his warm breath mingling with yours.

His kiss is tentative at first, mere brushes of contact that leave you craving more. You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against his form.

His other hand slides into your hair, fingers twisting in the strands to tilt your head to a better angle. His kiss becomes deeper, more passionate. When his tongue sweeps along your lip, you grant access eagerly. As your tongues meet, a soft moan escapes you.

All the while, his hand on your cheek begins a slow descent. Over your jaw, down your neck, it comes to rest on your waist. His fingertips graze under the edge of your shirt, sending sparks across your skin. You cling to him more tightly, lost in the bliss of his lips moving with yours.

When you finally part for air, he does not go far. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed as you both pant, lost in the moment. His hand never strays from your waist, thumb making gentle strokes across the sensitive flesh. In his embrace, you have never felt so wanted, so cared for. It is here, in his arms, that you are meant to be.

Hwei opens his eyes and whispers, “Some people are artists. Some themselves, are art.”

When you finally pull away, breathless, you look into his eyes, which shimmer with joy and intensity. But as you glance back at the painting, something catches your eye. Dark, shadowy figures seem to writhe within the vibrant hues, lurking just beneath the surface of the canvas. They flicker in and out of existence, vanishing as quickly as they appear.

A shiver runs down your spine. “Hwei, do you see that?” you ask, pointing to the canvas.

His expression shifts, a shadow crossing his features. “I—I’ll protect you,” he says, his voice suddenly serious, his grip tightening around you. The remnants of the massacre at the temple echo in his eyes, a haunting reminder of the darkness he has faced.

“I know you will,” you reassure him, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, the weight of his past hangs heavy in the air. He leans into your touch, the warmth of your presence grounding him. “You’re my light,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

As the firelight dances upon Hwei's face, you trace gentle fingers along his jaw, brushing aside an ebony strand fallen askew.

Hwei leans into your touch with a soft sigh, clasping your fingers in his own. "I feel there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people. I feel like art and love are the same thing: it’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.”

His lips graze your knuckles, stirring memories as vivid as yesterday's joyous discoveries. For a moment's respite, all traces of grief and care dissolve beneath remembered rapture...

...Until a sharp rap at the door shatters remnants of days past like spun glass.

You open the door. A single lotus flower lays on the ground.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The memories of Hwei's past weigh heavily on him, each loss a haunting echo in his mind. Yet, as he paints, the burdens begin to lift. His art speaks of grief and longing, capturing the essence of his experiences in hues and textures that transcend language. With every stroke, he communicates the inexpressible—an intimate connection to those who suffer alongside him.

While words can falter, art holds the power to bridge the chasms of isolation. It is a silent language, one that resonates deeply within the hearts of those who behold it, conveying feelings that can never be articulated. The beauty of creations offers solace, a reminder that even in the depths of despair, connection is possible through the shared understanding of emotion.

Art can speak for one, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. In a world rife with pain, it becomes a guiding light—a universal form of communication that unites hearts across boundaries.

Though silent, art speaks volumes. In this moment of catharsis through creative expression, one begins to find healing. Art provides an empowering and voiceless language to communicate intimate feelings beyond what words can say.

Especially in times of deep suffering when words fail, art becomes a "silent language" to express the inexpressible emotions of a soul.

Through art, one always finds a way to express the inexpressible, to share a silent language with the world.

Art's Silent Language.

Note: Well, here it is—finally the grand finale of my fanfic! 🎉 Did you notice that this is the fourth chapter and the whole thing clocks in at 14,444 words? I mean, come on, Jhin would definitely be proud of me for that little numerical homage. Four is his jam, right? Haha! So, about the ending... it’s kind of a happy one, or at least an open one. I did toy with the idea of killing off the protagonist—just a little cheeky thought, you know? Hehe. Oh! And I hope you caught the title drop at the end, “Art’s Silent Language.” Subtle, right? Or maybe not so much, but I tried! Now, I did mischaracterize Jhin a tad for my down-bad heart (shoutout to all my fellow simps!), but I did my best to keep him lore-accurate. This chapter is dedicated to all my broken artists out there. 💔 Don’t let life get you down—pick up the pieces and create something beautiful! That’s the real message here. Art can express feelings that words sometimes can’t. As I wrote, "Art is the highest hope." And for the Van Gogh fans, I hope you recognized some of his quotes sprinkled throughout! I love Van Gogh, and honestly, Hwei gives off major Van Gogh vibes. Plus, he has that surrealist flair, so it felt natural to weave in some of that genius. If you’re curious about my theories on Hwei, check out my theory account (https://www.tumblr.com/hwei-theories?source=share). And if you want to see more of my chaotic thoughts, here’s my main account (https://www.tumblr.com/reverieparacosm?source=share). Thanks for reading, everyone! Keep creating! 💖

[idkyetxoxo]

Criston Cole - In the Dead of Night

Summary - A princess seeks to learn the art of swordsmanship in secret from her reluctant instructor, Criston. As they train under the moonlight, their proximity sparks a connection. The clandestine sessions set the stage for a deeper bond and uncharted possibilities.

Pairing - Criston Cole x Targaryen reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2039

Masterlist for Criston • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"Please, just teach me," I implored, my fingers tentatively resting on his arm as I tried to coax him. My touch was light, almost pleading, but Criston shook off my hand with a firm, practised motion, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I do not think the King would be very pleased to learn that I've been instructing his sister in the art of swordsmanship" Criston said, his voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and worry.

"But he doesn't have to know," I insisted, clasping my hands tightly in front of me and starting to fidget, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "It can be our secret."

"He will find out," Criston countered, his tone growing more resolute. "And if not him, then Prince Daemon will certainly catch wind of it."

I rolled my eyes, exasperated by his reluctance. "If they find out, they'll just have to deal with me. I'm perfectly capable of handling them."

Criston rubbed his temples in frustration, a sign of his growing irritation. "Why is it so important for you to learn how to wield a sword? What is driving you to pursue this?"

His question struck a chord, and I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the cold, uneven stone floor beneath us. The worn texture of the ground seemed suddenly absorbing as if it held the answer I was struggling to articulate.

I was quiet for a moment, the weight of my unspoken reasons pressing down on me.

"It's not just about the sword," I began slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. "I need to be able to protect myself and not just from threats that are obvious. I can not always rely on others to keep me safe. I want to be able to stand on my own."

Criston's expression softened slightly, though he still looked troubled. He seemed to be weighing my words, the stubborn resolve in his eyes warring with a flicker of understanding. 

"You're saying you want to be strong, not just for yourself, but for those you care about. I get that but it's dangerous and I'd be the one who'd have to answer for any harm that comes to you."

I met his gaze, my eyes steady and earnest. 

"Then help me. Teach me how to defend myself, and I promise I'll be careful. I need this, I want to be more than just a princess who's protected by others. I want to be capable, ready for whatever comes my way."

Criston scrutinized me intently, his gaze piercing through the veneer of my resolve. I could see the weight of my words taking their toll on him, as the stern lines on his face began to soften.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Criston finally sighed deeply, a gesture of both resignation and reluctant acceptance. "Alright, but we'll need to be discreet about this."

A wave of relief and exhilaration surged through me, and without thinking, I quickly pressed a grateful kiss to his cheek. The gesture was both spontaneous and sincere, a token of my deep appreciation.

"We can start tomorrow," I said breathlessly, my excitement bubbling over. "We'll train under the cover of darkness to avoid being seen. I'll be ready and waiting."

Before Criston could respond or reconsider, I spun on my heel and hurried away, my heart racing with anticipation and joy.

True to my word, just after midnight the following day, I made my way to the designated spot—a secluded corner of the training yard that was shielded from prying eyes. 

The area was dimly lit by the soft glow of the moon, casting long shadows across the ground and adding an air of mystery to our covert training session.

As the clock struck midnight, Criston emerged from the darkness, his silhouette cutting through the night air. He looked around, assessing the surroundings with a practised eye before focusing on me.

"You're late," I chided playfully, my earlier tension melting away as his familiar presence came into view.

Criston raised an eyebrow, setting down a satchel filled with supplies. "You're early," he countered a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I didn't want to give my instructor any excuses to back out," I replied, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Criston tilted his head slightly, a bemused expression flitting across his face. "Are you forgetting that you're still a princess?"

"I'm quite aware," I replied, a hint of sheepishness in my voice. I gave him a wry smile, acknowledging the absurdity of the situation.

Without missing a beat, Criston reached into his satchel and withdrew two wooden training swords, placing them carefully on the ground between us. He then pulled out a real sword, its blade glinting in the pale moonlight, and handed it to me with deliberate care.

"Start by lifting this and see how it feels," he instructed, his tone measured and serious. 

He held the sword out to me, its weight making my fingers tingle with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

I took the sword from him, my hands adjusting to its weight as I had seen countless men do before. I tried to mimic their grip, but the sword felt awkward in my hands, its balance unfamiliar and its heft more burdensome than I had anticipated.

Criston watched me closely, his eyes keen and observant. "How does it feel?"

"Heavy," I admitted, my arms straining slightly under the weight. The blade seemed to pull at me, testing my strength and resolve.

He clicked his tongue in mild frustration and gestured for me to place the sword down. As I did, he tossed me one of the wooden training swords with a practised flick of his wrist.

"Try this one instead," he said, his voice carrying a mix of encouragement and practical guidance. "Wooden swords are lighter and will help you get a feel for the movements without the added weight."

I caught the wooden sword with both hands and swung it experimentally, finding its lighter weight more manageable. The wooden practice blade was slightly easier to manoeuvre, and I began to understand the basic rhythm of the swings and parries.

Criston's demeanour softened slightly as he observed my progress. 

"That's better," he said, nodding approvingly. "You need to build your strength and technique gradually. The real sword will come in time, but mastering the basics with the wooden one will give you a solid foundation."

Criston watched intently as I then began to struggle with the wooden sword, trying to get a feel for its balance. My grip was awkward, and my stance was off. 

Every attempt felt clumsy, and the blade seemed to resist my every move.

"No, wait," Criston said, his voice suddenly more authoritative. He stepped closer, his presence commanding yet reassuring. 

Without waiting for my response, he moved in behind me, his proximity startling. I felt a rush of warmth as he encircled me, his hands gently but firmly resting on my arms.

His touch was surprisingly steady, guiding my grip and adjusting my posture with practised ease. I could feel the heat of his body close to mine, and his breath, warm and steady, grazed the back of my neck. 

The sensation was both intimate and oddly grounding, creating a unique blend of tension and focus.

"Hold it like this," he instructed softly, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. His hands shifted mine into the correct position, his touch both firm and gentle as he realigned my stance. 

The closeness was undeniable, and my heart quickened in response.

I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. Our faces were mere inches apart, and I could see the focused intensity in his gaze. 

For a moment, everything else faded away. The training yard, the weight of the sword, and even the chill of the night seemed to disappear. 

All that remained was the quiet, charged space between us.

Criston's eyes locked onto mine, and we stared at each other, the world narrowing to the space we occupied together. There was a depth in his gaze, a mix of concentration and something else, perhaps a hint of admiration or understanding. 

The connection was palpable, and the silence between us seemed to stretch, filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings.

As he adjusted my posture, his hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, the touch lingering like a promise of uncharted possibilities. My breath hitched slightly, the closeness stirring a flutter of emotions I hadn't anticipated.

Finally, he cleared his throat, breaking the spell. He pulled back just enough to allow me to regain my focus, but his gaze remained steady, a silent acknowledgement of the unexpected intimacy of the moment. 

"There, that's better," he said, his voice soft but carrying a new warmth.

I nodded, trying to steady my breathing and regain my composure. The sensation of his hands and the intensity of our shared gaze lingered, leaving me with a heightened sense of awareness and a deeper connection to both the training and to him.

"Thank you," I said quietly, meeting his eyes one last time before turning back to the practice. 

The training continued, marked by small, stolen glances between us. Despite the silent exchanges, neither of us brought up the brief but intense connection we had shared. The air between us was charged with unspoken acknowledgment, yet remained untouched by words.

"So, how did I do?" I asked, tossing the wooden sword back to him with a practised flick. 

As I brushed a few stray, damp strands of hair back into my braid, I caught a glimpse of his thoughtful expression.

"Very good for your first training session," he said, tilting his head slightly. 

The moonlight illuminated his face, casting soft shadows that highlighted his features, making him appear both striking and contemplative.

"Same time tomorrow?" I inquired, hopeful and determined.

Criston nodded resolutely. "Yes, same time. I'll be here." He glanced around, then added, "I will walk you back to your chambers. It's not safe for you to go alone."

I fell into step beside him as we began walking through the winding corridors of the keep. The cool night air contrasted with the warmth of our earlier encounter, and the quiet hum of the castle's nighttime routine surrounded us.

"You should rest well," Criston said, a hint of humour in his voice. "You will surely feel the ache in your bones tomorrow."

"I plan to bathe first," I said with a laugh, my tone light and teasing. "I fear I smell of wood and sweat."

Criston's chuckle was soft and genuine, carrying a touch of warmth. "I believe you still carry the scent of rose and jasmine," he replied with casual ease.

I raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at my lips. "You have quite the keen senses to know my preferred oils."

At my remark, I noticed a faint flush creeping up Criston's neck, a subtle hint of colour betraying his otherwise composed demeanour. His face reddened slightly as he processed what he had said and the unintended implications of his observation.

"I only meant to say—" he began, his words faltering as he struggled to find the right response. The awkwardness of the moment was palpable, and he seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

"It's alright," I interjected gently, offering a reassuring smile. "I'm actually quite flattered to know that you pay such close attention."

He nodded, the blush still visible but no longer as pronounced.

We continued our walk in a comfortable silence, the earlier tension giving way to a quieter, more reflective atmosphere. As we approached my chamber doors, the quiet of the corridor seemed to underscore the subtle shift in our relationship a silent acknowledgement of the connection that had formed between us.

"I shall see you tomorrow then," I said, my voice soft but resolute as I pushed open the large wooden door. The hinges creaked softly, a sound that marked the end of our shared journey for the evening.

"I will be there," Criston replied, his tone steady and reassuring. He watched as I stepped through the doorway, his gaze lingering until I was fully out of sight. 

Only then did he turn, walking back through the corridor with a measured pace, his thoughts clearly occupied with the events of the night and the promise of what lay ahead.

A/n - The adjusting something from behind is such a classic move I love it but I unfortunately do not love this one-shot 😔

[ktvminn]

Abyss - choi subong x reader

CLICK HERE FOR THE FULL STORY !!

book cover and art made by me

warnings ! violence ● death ● gun ● sex ● drugs

summary : you sacrificed love for your ambition, choosing a high-powered career over your relationship with Su-bong. A year later, your carefully constructed world crumbles. Just as despair threatens to consume you, a mysterious invitation arrives.

Chapter One

10/26/21

The air in Su-bong's apartment hung heavy, a suffocating blanket woven with unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings. It pressed down, thick and palpable, like the humidity of a summer storm about to break. The room itself was a study in comfortable disarray – a lived-in sanctuary, not meticulously styled but radiating a sense of home. A single table lamp cast a pool of amber light, doing little to penetrate the encroaching shadows that clung to the corners.

Books, their spines worn and faded, were stacked haphazardly on the shelves, some toppled and leaning against each other, like old friends sharing secrets. Several lay open, face down, pages ruffled as if their readers had been abruptly pulled away mid-sentence, leaving behind a trail of forgotten thoughts.

In the corner, a half-finished canvas on an easel stood like an exclamation point of vibrant potential, a mocking testament to the artistic spirit struggling to find life in the muted atmosphere. Swirls of brilliant blues and yellows pulsed with a life that the rest of the room seemed to lack. But it wasn't the vibrant promise on the canvas that captured your attention; it was him.

He stood before you, a figure of conflicted emotions, his presence radiating a palpable tension that seemed to crackle in the air. His eyes, usually pools of warm, inviting darkness, were now like obsidian shards – intense and brimming with a hidden hurt he desperately tried to conceal beneath a veneer of stoicism. The corners of his mouth, usually curved in a playful smirk or a genuine smile, were downturned, a subtle but devastating betrayal of the cool, self-assured rapper façade he so meticulously cultivated.

You knew this face; you knew the vulnerability that hid beneath the carefully constructed layers of cool. You had seen the barely-contained bubbling joy when he had opened the door just moments ago, his face alight with a happiness that now twisted your gut into a painful knot of guilt. It had been a beacon of genuine warmth, a beacon now abruptly extinguished, leaving behind a hollow echo of what could have been.

The light had been snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a pained quiet. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white, his jeans crumpling with each tightening grip. He looked like a lost, abandoned puppy, his dark eyes seeking an answer you didn’t know how to give.

“I…” you began, your voice a strangled whisper, as if the words themselves were reluctant to leave your lips. The sound felt small and weak, as if it couldn’t possibly carry the weight of the situation. The words were like tiny, sharp shards of glass, scraping and tearing their way out of your throat, leaving a painful, raw sensation behind.

Every instinct screamed at you to reach out to him, to smooth away the worry lines that were etching themselves onto his brow, to pull him into a hug and never let go. But you forced yourself to stand still, your hands clenched tightly at your sides, nails digging into your palms, a pathetic attempt to control the chaos swirling within.

"I can't... this isn't going to work." The words were out finally, hanging in the air, heavy and final.

Su-bong’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, a barely perceptible tremor of suppressed emotion. He nodded slowly, measured and deliberate, not in agreement but in recognition, as if affirming a truth he had already known but had been desperately hoping to avoid.

“Your career,” he stated, his voice carefully neutral, a deliberate act of detachment, a stark and painful contrast to the swirling tempest of emotion you could see brewing in his eyes. "It's always your career."

His words hung in the air between you, a bitter and undeniable accusation that landed with the force of a physical blow, leaving you winded. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to take it back, to erase the words that had just tumbled from your mouth. You wanted to tell him, to show him in some way, that you were wrong, that he was more important, infinitely more important, than any fleeting success.

You wanted to promise him that nothing else mattered. But you’ve made a choice, a ruthless, calculated choice, you reminded yourself. You had poured everything you had, every ounce of your energy, every single waking moment into forging this opportunity, sacrificing time, relationships, everything. Now you were not going to back down. Not now. Not after coming this far.

“This is my only chance, Su-bong,” you managed, your voice dangerously close to breaking, a fragile thing cracking under the mounting pressure. You could feel the fault lines forming in your carefully constructed wall of ambition, the cracks widening with each passing second. The ambition that had once fuelled your every move, had once been the driving force behind your existence, now felt like a heavy cloak of guilt, a weighty burden on your shoulders that threatened to buckle you beneath its oppressive weight.

You had known this moment was coming, you had known this was going to hurt, but you had not expected it to feel like this, like your heart was being ripped from your chest, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound in its place. You weren't sure how you were still standing, still breathing, still managing to hold back the flood of tears that threatened to spill.

Your career had always been your compass, charting your course and guiding you forward, but now, standing at this painful crossroads, you were no longer sure you could even navigate this life without him, without his love, his warmth, his light.

He looked at you with wounded eyes, dark pools of hurt and disbelief. "What is it, then?" He asked, a tremor, a hint of desperate pleading, creeping into his usually steady voice. “What opportunity could possibly make you choose this? Choose… that over us?” The carefully constructed facade was crumbling at the edges, and the raw vulnerability beneath it was laid bare, like an exposed nerve.

You winced at his directness; it was like he was peeling back the protective layers of your carefully constructed justifications, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

"It's a big break," you explained, trying desperately to keep your voice steady, to maintain some semblance of composure. “It’s… it’s the kind of thing I’ve been working towards my entire life. A global tour, a record deal that would put me on the map. The contract. Everything. It's all happening. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. If I say no, I don’t know when I’d ever get another chance.”

The words sounded hollow and meaningless, even to your own ears, like a rehearsed script devoid of any true weight. You could feel the emptiness of the words as they left your lips, the lack of genuine passion and conviction.

He let out a humorless chuckle, a harsh, choked sound that felt like a punch to your gut, a brutal reminder of the reality you both were now facing. "So, your dream requires that you leave me? Leave us?" His voice cracked as he asked, a raw, broken sound that made your heart ache with a pain so intense it was almost unbearable.

"Are you telling me that you can’t do any of that... that this dream is only achievable without me in your life?" The question hung in the air, a devastating indictment of the choice you had made, a choice that was tearing both of you apart.

"It's not that I don't need you..." you begin, your voice barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like trapped birds. Your gaze is fixed on the worn wooden floorboards, tracing the familiar grain with a nervous intensity, your cheeks flushed. You can't bear to meet his eyes, not with the lie you're about to weave.

You continue, "...but it would be so much harder, Su-bong, so incredibly difficult with me constantly thinking of you, worrying if we're okay, if you're okay... It's a distraction, a siren call pulling me off course, and I can't afford to be distracted anymore. Not now." You shift your weight, the air in the small living room suddenly feeling thick and suffocating.

"This is a choice," you force out, the words tasting like ashes on your tongue, "a brutal choice between my heart and my career. And… and I have to choose my career. Now. This time." You grit your teeth, hoping, praying you sound convincing, resolute.

A desperate charade you knew even as you spoke it, the words hollow and empty, a betrayal all around. Your own doubts scream in your head, but you swallow them down along with the bitterness rising in your throat.

"So, you're choosing ambition over me," he states, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection, a blank canvas devoid of the usual warmth. His eyes, usually so bright and expressive, are like dark pools, reflecting the harsh light of the nearby window, leaving them cold and unreadable. He takes a step back, the soft scrape of his shoes on the carpet amplifying the distance that is already growing between the two of you.

"That's what you're saying, isn't it? That whatever you're aiming for, this elusive dream, is more valuable than what we have. More valuable than us." A subtle tremor makes his voice falter and the corners of his mouth pull down into a tight line, a visible attempt to maintain his composure.

“It’s not that simple!” you retort, the words exploding from you, laced with rising desperation, a small crack appearing in your carefully constructed facade. You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. “This is my chance, Su-bong, at everything I’ve ever wanted. I've poured years, sleepless nights, every ounce of my being into this! Don’t you understand?!”

Your eyes finally lift, meeting his for the first time since this conversation began. But you regret it instantly. He doesn't see you, not the woman he loves, he sees the cold, hard glint of ambition, the burning thirst to achieve that is reflected in your wide, frantic eyes. You see his features morph into a mask of wounded solemnity, as you've failed him for the first time, the realization of which punches you in the gut and makes you want to take it back. You've failed now, and he can see it.

His gaze doesn’t waver, intense, digging into you, searching for the truth behind your words, the cracks in your facade you desperately try to hide. The way he looks at you is so piercing, so thorough, it feels like every lie, every self-deceit you've ever held is laid bare right there, in front of his gaze, and it makes you shiver. You can’t bear it, and you avert your gaze back to the floor, a self-inflicted punishment. You don't want him to see your lies, your self-deceit, the fragile structure of your justifications.

He knows you well, too well, and he’d dissect it, call you out on your every false word and broken promise. You know it. He knew you, you suddenly realize, more intimately than you knew yourself. It's a terrifying, sobering thought.

The silence stretches, a thick, suffocating blanket that settles over the room, pressing down on you both. The soft hum of the city outside, the low drone of traffic, the distant wail of a siren, forms a discordant backdrop, a cacophony that underscores the small, private tragedy unfolding in this room, oblivious to the city around it. The world carries on, uncaring while yours is falling apart.

He slowly steps closer, his movements deliberate, each footfall heavy in the quiet room, a slow, painful dance towards the inevitable. And in that moment, the space between you shrinking, you know what’s coming, what's always been there, a sad, unspoken truth hanging between you. Something deep inside your chest aches with a painful longing, a silent plea for this connection being made that is the beginning of the end.

He brings his hand up, his fingers, usually rough and calloused, graze your cheek with gentle feather-like touches, his touch is like a spark, igniting a warmth that spreads through your entire being, chasing the chill that has settled in your bones. You close your eyes, your breath hitching, as his fingers trace the delicate outline of your face, mapping the curves you know so well.

Then, his hand moves, cupping your jaw, tilting you gently, forcing you to look up at him once more. It’s the only way he can get closer, the only way he has left to say goodbye, the only way he will ever have. His lips are on yours in the next second, a desperate act of defiance against the cruel inevitability of it all, and the kiss is deep, desperate, a silent plea, a futile attempt to stop this from happening, to turn back the clock.

It’s a kiss that holds everything you’ve shared: the boisterous laughter that echoed through these walls, the passionate nights that left you both breathless, the quiet comfort of being with someone who knew your soul as well as he knew his own. And it holds a goodbye, a final, aching farewell that seems to tear a piece out of your soul as it happens.

You let yourself drown in it for a moment, allowing all of your fears and all of your yearnings to mix in this last moment, the taste of him searing itself into your memory as if etched by fire. You return the kiss with the same ferocity, the same raw desperation, wanting to memorize every line on his face, every curve of his body, every scent that is uniquely him and nothing else.

He pulls back, his eyes heavy, dark with unsaid words, the weight of a story that will never be told. The kiss has taken its toll, leaving you both shaken and raw. His breath is ragged, and you mirror that exhaustion, your own heart pounding in your ears like a drum.

“Okay,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, broken by the sheer weight of loss. It’s not a surrender; it’s a confirmation; a quiet acceptance of a reality neither of you wanted, a bleak truth you've both been trying to avoid.

“Okay...”

There’s a finality to it that chills you to the bone, a tragic punctuation mark at the end of a story that had so much left to be told.

And that’s it. With one final, lingering look that holds all of his love, sadness, and quiet understanding, he lets you go, releasing his hold on your heart. You turn then, not wanting him to see the tears that have started welling in your eyes, your back to him as you walk past his door, away from your past, away from you.

You don’t look back, you cannot look back. If you do, you’re not sure you’d leave, not sure you could live with the decision you just agreed to. Your heart is a shattered mess, a gaping wound in your chest, but you force your feet to move, each step heavy with the weight of your choice.

You leave him standing in the doorway, the silhouette of a ghost of the man he once was against the light of the hallway behind him. This was the end, you realize, the end of you, the end of us. This wasn't just goodbye; this was the abyss, a dark, empty void you are now hurtling towards, alone, and it's of your own making.

for chapters 2 - 21 , click the link above. do not be a silent reader ! any feedback would be appreciated.

[chronically-ghosted]

can you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills?

rating: T (this is the tamest thing I’ve written in years)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a year into secretly dating, you are overwhelmed by your feelings for Dieter Bravo, confident and resigned to the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. But on Oscar’s night, drunk on sparkling wine and a terrific win, Dieter gives you a reason to doubt your fears. 

warnings/tags: age gap, self-aggrandizing rumination on our public vs private personas, a stupid amount of kissing, angst but soft angst, angst that is resolved, this is very different from anything i’ve done recently, and there’s no smut? just kisses? What have you become Taylor? one very very very soft Dieter, waxing shamelessly poetic about being in love and being loved by Dieter Bravo 

a/n: this comes from the same request by two of my LOVELY followers ( @tvversionperson and @bitchwitch1981) from my 100 followers event: “I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” with Dieter Bravo. this is so wildly different from anything i've done before, i'm flinging this into the internet like a goddamn trapshooter of emotional angst

shout out to @iamdesibell for the visuals of Dieter at the party. She spoils me with all of her incredible Dieter artwork.

🤍Masterlist

Every artist knows it's about the looks. The aesthetics of it all, the internet’s new favorite buzzword. Increasingly too often, the merit of the artwork is equated to the moral merit of the artist; it’s not so much about selling the image you create, it’s about selling the image of yourself. Does the artist fit into the image of what the masses imagine when they hear what the artist offers? Can the artist balance both the expectations and provide something new? When is the right time to break the mold, and be different, or when is it best to follow the crowd? Keep your head down and make more content than art. When does the aesthetics of a thing matter more than the thing itself?

For Oscar’s night, often there is nothing more important than the look of things. The elegance. The allure but approachability of the stars. Beautiful but obtainable. Handsome but effortless. But beneath all the veneer, all the lights, and gold and glitz, there is a yearning, an animalistic hunger, for a quite literal shiny object waved in their faces to clamor and push and shove for. The beauty is a mask that covers fragility and fear and anticipation – and that mask must remain firmly in place, no matter the outcome. Remember, they’re watching, always watching, and you cannot want a thing too much, lest you become conceited or conniving. You cannot love in a way that scares them.

And sometimes, you think you love him in a way that scares yourself.

His warm palm grips yours over your knee. He, along with the other nominees, wait patiently as the names are read allowed from the gilded stage. His face, a mask – of curiosity, of wonder – but only you, perhaps because you are so close to him, can see the fraught want in his eyes. You know how much he wants this, how much you want this for him. He wants it so much he’s trembling. Microscopically. Barely at all, barely a flinch of genuine human emotion, it makes you sick. Because Dieter, the Dieter you’ve come to know in the past year, is so wonderfully unpolished, such a sterling testament to the beauty in the raw, it makes a spot behind your sternum ache to watch him hold himself back. 

You want to give him a smile of encouragement, to kiss his knuckles and soothe his hammering pulse with your thumb, but you can’t. You can’t even look at him, any movement immediately flagged by the cameras. Always watching.

But behind the rows of seats, they can’t see your clasped hands. Can’t see his tapping foot. They can’t see how much he wants, how much he loves. As the names are read aloud for the category of Best Actor, you lift your thumbnail to the meat of his palm, between his own thumb and index finger. Gently, softly, quietly, so as not to startle the molecules of air around you, you draw a heart in his skin. 

But by his rigid posture, you’re not sure he registers it. You can’t tell if he knows you’re there at all. 

It began a year ago. 

After a truly spectacular break up that left you bereft and aimless, you decided to quit. Quit it all. Quit and start over doing the one thing you actually had passion for: screenwriting. Was it risky and dumb as hell at your age? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter if you never ended up writing for a big Hollywood film, you told yourself, as long as you were writing, that’s all that mattered. 

So you quit writing articles about car insurance, packed up everything, and moved to the City of Angels. 

Two years later, you were still earning your dues. Still working from the bottom of the barrel up, climbing through muck and verbal abuse and emotional exploitation and the very dredges of the industry. 

You tried to focus on your craft, on getting more than just getting coffee for the actual writers, but after multiple days spending nineteen hours on your feet, the capacity to be creative so rarely comes, your brain often sizzled and fried like the back end of a janky, unreliable toaster. The production company you worked for had just purchased the rights to a popular novelist’s book for a film adaptation. The party you were at was more of a “pat yourself on the back” sort of thing for the director and novelist to rub elbows while surrounded by beautiful people. Attending mind-numbing parties for the sake of building connections was one thing. You could actually have fun when you wanted, but this? This self-indulgent, ego-driven, flattery bullshit, when all you wanted to do was sleep?

You watch as Eliot Baker, friend of the director and whose house is currently being trashed by a bunch of dangerously drunk and high animals, steps up onto his kitchen table. His pupils nearly dilated to the size of quarters, he holds up a baggy of white powder.

“Anyone interested in Colombia’s finest, please join me in the bedroom. Beautiful women, please stay.” 

The three shots you had done earlier had done nothing to dull your irritation, now amplified by the grating cheer that goes up from the crowd. Coke rarely puts you in a better mood, but at least it’s better than sulking by the stairs. Eliot leaps off the table and leads a gaggle of giggling women, and men with their hands all over their sparkly asses, down the hall and you try not to roll your eyes, your feet all but dragging beneath you. 

Then someone catches you by the elbow.

And you wonder how a homeless man got past security. 

A comically large green beanie on his head, a blindly yellow hood zipped up over what perhaps had been a white t-shirt – you are immediately arrested by his dark, soft eyes. Thick, furrowed brow. He hasn’t let go of your elbow. 

“That guy is a fucker,” he tells you with vehemence. 

“What?” He could have asked you your name and you would have said the exact same thing.

“Baker,” he sneers over your shoulder at the small crowd tumbling through the open door, Eliot’s too blue eyes watching like a farmer counts cattle to the slaughterhouse. “He laces his shit. Makes you too fucked up. He’s the kind of evil fucker who roofies drinks.”

The stranger looks at you, the twist of rage around his mouth fading, eyes softening again, as if he is worried about you.

“Don’t go in there,” he says. 

His warm hand is still around your elbow. 

“Okay,” you say because you haven’t come across anyone this earnest, maybe in your entire life, and certainly not since moving to LA. 

He blinks, as if surprised, and slowly withdraws his hand. You stare at each other for perhaps too long before he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Wanna smoke some weed?”

The cool night air of LA always surprises you. It’s never cold, no, but the chill is noticeable, tangible, always right at the back of your neck when you least expect it. You stifle the urge to shiver as the man slides the glass door behind him, immediately deafening the party inside. You hadn’t realized it had been so loud until there is blissful silence, the sound of blood rushing in your ears replacing the trance music and the dull hum of overlapping voices. 

The man straight off the set of The Big Lebowski unhurriedly digs around in the pocket of that obnoxious hoodie for a bit, as if he could lose an item in that small pouch. 

He finds what he’s looking for with a grin on his face, and when he brings both the lighter and blunt to his lips, you realize his left arm is in a cast. 

He sees you eye it, managing to light and hit the blunt with one hand before pocketing the lighter and offering the smoke to you. The browns in his eyes are overcome by the darkness surrounding you on the back porch overlooking the valley below, the skyline of Los Angeles winking in the far distance. 

You notice something, not writing or words on his cast, more like a dark blot, but you don’t ask him about it. Most people in this business you’ve found are only on for the cameras and when it comes to personal, quiet moments, the less personable they have to be the better. You feel like you’re already pressing your luck by getting a few free hits off this guy so you wait your turn, ready to be as silent as he wants it to be.

Which apparently isn’t very much at all.

“How’d you end up here?” He asks with genuine interest and just a touch of weariness. 

You shrug as you take the blunt from him again. “My boss is here to schmooze his new writer. As his assistant, I think I’m contractually obligated to be around him more than his own shadow.”

“You’re a PA?” He asks, voice strained and full of smoke, before he puffs out the side of his mouth. A considerate smoker, then. 

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m whatever is lower than a PA. I think an actual bottom-feeder in a fish tank has more power than me.” 

“So you’re new to the scene?” 

You scowl, one arm tucked around your waist, the other tapping on your thigh. “Yeah, if two years is still new.” 

He frowns. “What are you trying to break into?” 

His fingertips brush yours over the next exchange and maybe it’s the earnest look in his eyes, or the bizarre fact that he actually smells good despite looking like he’d raided a garbage can, or maybe it’s the weed finally hitting, but you are honest with this complete stranger.

“I wanna be a screenwriter.” 

Maybe it’s the drugs finally hitting him too, but the glossy shine to his eyes doesn’t seem to be from boredom as you explain to him the past few years of your life, starting from the breakup in Boston to getting a very specific brand of q-tips from a drugstore on the other side of town for your boss at midnight. 

“I know I have to pay my dues, and I don’t mind that, but I just want to do something that matters, you know?” The unexpected chill of the night air curls around your neck as he listens intently to your uninterrupted ramble for ten minutes. “I don’t even care about big movies, or the awards, I want to write something that touches just one person. Give them something to think about for years to come. Comforts or encourages them to do the thing they’re scared of doing.” You feel heat climb up your ears as he watches as though you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s silly. It’s just a job, and I know I should treat it like that . . .”

You trail off, waiting for him to admonish you, but instead he grins. A smile that widens his whole face. On someone else it might look condescending, but he’s grinning wildly as he slides the joint back into his mouth with two fingers and leans back on his heels.

“So you’re a little dreamer, huh?” That faint blush now beats a harsh red. Fuck, you knew you sounded like an idiot – always opening up too soon and too fast to strangers who don’t really give a fuck. You were just supposed to have a conversation with this nice, albeit weird guy and go on your way and – 

He cocks his head as he looks at you, takes in your beet-red ears and cheeks and that smile falters.

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right? The world needs more dreamers. People, who despite all the bullshit, continue to believe they can be happy.”

“You could also call that being delusional,” you mutter as you take the halfway-spent joint from him when he offers. 

One of those thick eyebrows jerks as though thinking of a funny joke. He shrugs, his mouth twisting down in a disbelieving smirk. “Personally, I like to call it whimsy.” 

Whimsy? Who talks like that?

You fight a giggle and find him looking at you again, that smile smoothed out and warm again. One glance and you snort loudly, then bust out laughing. 

Those magnanimous eyes glitter as he watches you laugh yourself silly. 

“Child-like, wondrous whimsy,” he teases and you laugh harder as though he tickled you. Another snort explodes out of you and you clap your hand over your mouth, finally hearing the noises you’re making and mortified beyond reason. You glance over your shoulder, worried someone else might have heard your donkey laugh. In fact, you wish anyone other than the gorgeous man standing next to you had heard it. 

But if he finds it unpolished or annoying, he doesn’t show it. He just rolls on his heels, grinning and looking overly pleased with himself. When the giggles subside, you bite your lip at him.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Fire away, Pistol Pete.” 

“How’d you break your arm?” 

He looks down at it as he forgot it was there.

“Uh, it’s a long story.”

He finally pulls it out of the sleeve of his jacket. Your mouth drops.

You can’t even tell what medium had been used, either paint or sharpie or something else entirely, but the cast is a mosaic of some of the most gorgeous artwork you’d ever seen. Birds in gold and blue hues, flowers and leaves in stunningly rendered detail, the curves of anonymous noses and lips and teeth and earlobes – all wound together in collage by someone with an eye for detail and a precious reverence for the mundane. 

But for all the artwork, designs you fully believe should be in a museum, you realize no one has signed it. Maybe only twelve year olds sign each other’s casts, you think harshly to yourself. Grow up.

But still, the sight makes you a little sad. 

“Did you do these?” You ask quietly.

He nods, turning his arm to give you a better look, as if eager for your approval. You think you see the horns of Goya’s El Gran Cabrón before he pulls his arm back. 

The man hasn’t answered your original question, watching your face for every microexpression. Finally, you do glance up and he has his bottom lip in teeth, as though preparing to be scolded. 

At that moment, you want nothing more than to kiss those plush lips. You swallow, feeling rather lighted-headed and capable of making terrible decisions, so you take a clear step back. 

“I got daydrunk and fell in my pool wrong.”

You frown at him. “That’s not a very long story.”

He drops your gaze, suddenly bashful, and shakes his sleeve back over his cast. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t come up with a better story that makes me look really cool, or makes you laugh, so I went with the lame truth.”

You don’t remark that it sounds like he wanted to impress you so you go for the easy alternative.

“Why would I laugh at you?” 

He flops his arms in half-shrug. “I don’t want you to laugh at me. I just want you to laugh. I like your laugh.” 

How does someone who wears their heart so openly on their sleeve survive in a place like this? You want him to swallow you down so you can count the rings in his stomach, learn his history like oak trees. 

“Who are you?” You blurt out, your mouth full of cotton and brain somewhat disconnected from your brain stem. 

At that, he laughs. “Gimme your number and you’ll find out.” 

His smile elongates the longer you stare at him. “It’s not a line. I mean, it is, but not like that, if you don’t want it to be. This fucking industry is built on who you know and I know a couple of people to know. You can call me if you have any questions or need a reference.” 

The whiplash between flirty tease and professional contact is jarring. Your fingers shaking from shock, you take your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him. 

He taps away, bobbing his head to some tune only he can hear, before lifting it up to his face and snapping a selfie – tongue out and eye squinting into the flash. 

He tosses your phone back and you learn his name for the first time. 

The shock wears off immediately and you roll your eyes.

“Okay, my turn.” 

He digs into his back pocket and slides a bright pink 2007 motorola flip-phone into your outstretched hand. 

Full – chock full, in fact – of surprises. 

“I’m not gonna get tracked,” he says seriously, eyes narrowed. “You really should think about giving up your iPhone. All kinds of bad vibes.”

You eagerly look forward to him explaining the Big Foot Conspiracy and his theories about the magic silver bullet. 

It takes you a second to type out your name with the multiple buttons, some old sense memory from seventh grade coming back like a grumpy, displeased ghost, but finally, you snap the phone together and toss it back to him.

With the nub of the smoking joint poking out of his mouth, he frowns when he looks at the phone screen. 

“Dolly Parton?”

You pluck the joint out of his mouth, a surge of playful confidence keeping your eyes locked on his. You nod. “Since we’re doing the whole fake name thing . . .”

You want to wink, with your hand on your hip, so clever to have figured out his little game, but when he continues to frown, that rush of bravery fizzles out.

“But the name I put in your phone is actually my name?”

You chuckle, surprised and confused he’s still committing to the bit, a little frustrated at this point because you are actually starting to like this guy and . . .

Unless . . .

“You’re actually Dieter Bravo? The actor? Three-time Emmy nominated actor Dieter Bravo?” 

He loops his finger through one of the free-roaming curls from under the beanie and twists it. “That’s what it says on my underwear . . . when I remember to wear it.” 

The blush on your face now scalding, you dart across the space between you and him and snatch his phone back. You can literally feel the shameful heat in your spine, your lower back, as you delete Dolly’s name and frantically type in your own. 

“I’m so, so, sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you but it’s dark and, um, you don’t look like I thought you would and I-I had no idea – I’m so sorry –,”

“Girlie, take a breath,” he chuckles and strokes your fingers as they tremble over the keypad. “I’ve never seen someone so stressed out after smoking half a joint before.” 

You’ve gone stock still as he bleeds the panic out of you with just his touch. You watch as his warm hand, dwarfing yours in size, slowly moves up to your wrist, your pulse point. His thumb presses into the vein and gently rubs. You can’t help the sigh that eases out of your throat as all the tension in your arm collapses into that one focal point, that one place he presses against you. You inhale, not realizing you had stopped breathing for a second and he releases gently, the ache in your body left over from the rigidity gone. 

A brief dark haze passes over his eyes when you sigh, but gives you space easy enough when you settle. 

He takes the phone out of your limp hands and reads what you’ve typed out.

“Cute name. But I think I’m still gonna call you Dolly.”

Humor is your gut instinct. Defuse a situation or calm your nerves, sometimes the best you can do is crack a (often poorly timed) joke. You feel all fluttery inside, partially because you’d been talking to Dieter “I know people who know people” Bravo all night and partially because you’re about 86% sure he’d been flirting with you. And so, without thinking, you say:

“Because of my massive tits, right?”

His eyes flit up from his phone screen to, presumably, your tits. Which are very much not Dolly-Parton-comparable. 

But he grins. He actually giggles, pressing the back of the hand holding his phone against his lips as if trying to hide his smirk.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.” 

It is the kind of laugh that you know he’s laughing with you and not at you and he’s still staring when his laughter subsides. 

He is still staring at your tits.

Just as your face flushes what feels like the hundredth time tonight, he glances up at you. He offers you the last puff, you shake your head, so he sucks in down before flicking the nub over the railing of the patio. His hands sit heavy in his front pocket, the frown on his face contemplative, eyes searching the horizon.

“I think you’re going to text me . . . on a Tuesday,” he says, like he’s divining portents from the shapes of the clouds. 

You swallow, trying to purge yourself of this whiplash embarrassment, but you can’t quite decide what exactly to make of this man or this conversation. “What makes you say that?”

His smile is so genuine it rattles something inside you. “It’s my favorite day of the week.” 

This feels too good, too real, too intense, too fast. It was a quiet, but familiar story passed around in writer’s rooms or on the back lots of sets: an older man seduces a young girl, promising the world, and then offering nothing once he had gotten what he wanted. 

You beg your heartbeat to slow down. 

But Dieter Bravo doesn’t seem capable of that, not with his honesty, his open heart, but then again none of them ever do. 

That’s the whole point. 

“So, um, I should go. My boss is probably out back, breaking things, pissed off because I’m not behind him with a fresh macchiato.” Your phone feels absurd in your hands, as if it now carries something vital inside of it. “But, uh, thank you – for everything. The smoke, the advice, listening to me ramble endlessly –,”

“You weren’t rambling,” he says, arms crossed and finger tugging at an errant curl again. “You were talking about what makes you happy and I was listening. I like listening to you.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did. 

“I’ll call you sometime, okay?”

He nods, raising a hand in a wave, but as you turn away, something final, the last piece of the puzzle, pops into your brain.

“Why me?”

Dieter looks at you, big brown eyes confused like a puppy whom you scolded for chewing on your shoe. 

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be at least fifty people here. Why did you stop me from going into Eliot’s room? 

Dieter shrugs, that easy smile returning. “You looked like the only other person who didn’t want to be here. And you’re really pretty,” he adds casually and your heart launches itself into your throat. “I’ve got a thing for really pretty girls. Gets me into a lot of trouble.”

There comes that heat, that flare in his gaze that makes you wonder how someone like him fucks, all proof necessary that he has a working cock, and he’s not some mystical, Willy-Wonka-esque Ken doll. 

It’s a look that makes you wonder if he wants his cock in you. 

“Good night, Dieter.”

“Night, Dolly.” 

Weeks passed and immediately you were so drowned in work, Dieter Bravo occasionally slipped your mind, falling back on your list of things to do when a deadline was approaching.

But when a contract for a position in a new writer’s room passes over your desk, you pause, and immediately think of him. The offer is unbelievable. More money than you thought possible working as an underling. The channel set to produce was the real deal, likely to order more seasons if the first went well. 

“Saw your writing,” your boss told you by way of explaining your dreams falling directly into your lap. “Good work. I sent some of it off, and the studio came back with this. Don’t take too long signing the dotted line, okay?” 

You nod, dumb-founded as he walks off, and you glance back at the contract.

And, despite your almost desperate elation, something felt off. But you didn’t know enough about the industry to confidently say if this is a bad deal or not. 

So, with a glance down the hall, you call the only person you know who would.

He is immediately livid. Not that you haven’t called, of course, but that someone has clearly tried to take advantage of you. 

“Do not take that deal. That corporate bullshit means they’ll own your IP for years to come. I can’t believe they’d do that to you. Stay right there and whatever you do, do not sign that. I’m calling someone at the studios.”

“Yeah. Uh, okay, Dieter, I won’t,” you murmur, half-expecting your hand to burn if you picked the contract up again. “But, um, thank you, for being honest with me. It felt weird, but I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity and I was freaking out that this was the only one I was gonna get but I didn’t want to be rash,so I, um, . . .”

You trail off, the sudden silence on the other line only making your panic and shame more pronounced. You cringe inwardly – Dieter Bravo had better fucking things to do than console a baby screenwriter out of her first mistake – and Jesus, if there was ever a chance he was going to sleep with you, it’s long gone now – it must be, no one willingly sleeps with someone so goddamn gullible.

“Dolly?” His voice is quiet, but with a certain edge that makes you picture that implish little smirk. “Do you know what day it is?” 

“No?”

“It’s Tuesday.” 

That phone call turned into a new job with a female-led production team, thank yous over drinks, late-night dinners at obscure and dark Chinese food restaurants, movie nights at your shamefully small apartment, and then . . . a kiss.

Which led to all the rest. 

A year later and you’re so in love with Dieter Bravo, you crank up Beyonce’s Countdown and belt it from the top of your lungs every time you hear it on the radio. 

There’s a new irritant, a new agitation that can only be soothed by him. He’s remade you, changed you, reformed your very being to be missing a piece when he’s not around. He’s made space for him inside you, there was no life – not a real one, not a happy one – not before him and there won’t be anyone or anything after him. No one else fits with you anymore. Ever again. 

Your blood runs hot over the ridges of his fingerprints, stamped deep on your soul and your bones.

Trouble is, he’ll never know.

“And the award for Best Actor goes to . . .”

His grip is almost painful and you return it with everything you can, your jaw drawn tight.

The pause feels like it lasts forever.

You hear his name and you think for a second you’ve blacked out, that you’ve somehow missed the moment, or you’ve somehow slipped into a pungently real dream. 

And the crowd erupts.

The spotlight finds him in the crowd and you’re being pulled into his chest. 

The cologne he wears costs more than your car payment but the instant you’re crushed up into his silken shirt, it’s him. Beneath all the layers, beneath the veneer, the man with the green beanie and fervent yellow jacket is still there. Somewhere. You love them both.

“You did it, darling, you did it,” you whisper into his ear and that’s all you can say before you know you have to tear yourself back, because every second you linger on him, the harder it becomes to quell this rising tide inside you that increasingly tastes like salt water whenever he’s around. It’s become so obvious his name resides in the cup of your mouth. 

But when you do pull out of his embrace, in the ringing shout of the crowd, the sparkle of the spotlight, his hand lingers on your elbow, and in a space of a heartbeat that lasts impossibly longer in your memory, you’re met with such a look of profound regret you feel it take up room in your chest. 

And in an instant, it’s gone. Grinning broadly, he drops your elbow and moves on down the line, cheered on by his peers, the white light from above illuminating his broad back, the bits of gray becoming ever more present in his beard. You cheer and you cheer and you cheer and you hope it’s from all the cheering that your voice grows hoarse and the tears start to trickle out of the corner of your eyes. 

You’re trembling visibly as he accepts his award, showing just the right amount of awe, and appreciation, and excitement. He glances up into the spotlight and there’s the real Dieter for just a split second before he humbly gawks at the golden statue in his hand.

The clock begins.

Make your speech thoughtful and poignant – relevant to what is close to people’s hearts right now.

Be profusive with your thanks. Better start with that, actually. Lower yourself at the height of your glory.

Mention family, friends, names and faces that the masses don’t know because it makes you appear connected to a reality those watching on the television can only speculate about. Say something kindly about how this means so much to you.

Cry a bit, but not too much. Keep your voice steady but with tears in your eyes. Cut yourself off, the emotion too much, and say thank you again. 

And anything more than three minutes, they start to play you off. 

You’re mentally going through the notes on a potential acceptance speech his PR manager gave him on the drive over, but in the end, it’s clear he doesn’t need it. 

Dieter’s speech is excellent. 

Really good. Really, really, really good. It has a flare of genuinity, but not the bite of vulnerability that makes people uncomfortable. 

He’s been practicing for weeks now, editing as he talks, in the mirror, while driving home from the grocery store, before he goes to sleep. Tonight’s speech, a compilation of all that you’ve listened to time and time again, is the best version of all of them. 

He’s soft when he needs to be and excited when he can. He’s onto the gratitude bit, going through the director, the writers, the cast and crew, even his costar, whose beautiful face is shown on the twenty foot screen above the stage, joyful tears in her eyes. And as the applause dies down, his big hand dwarfing the tiny metal statue, his fingers flexing, Dieter’s back goes ridgid, his eyes downcast. A smile slips out infinitesimally. 

Dieter clears his throat and looks up.

“And there’s someone else I’d like to thank. This, uh, this one goes to all the little dreamers out there. Working nine to five, to make your dreams happen. We did it, baby, couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into the camera and you swear, you fucking swear, he’s looking right at you. 

It’s a drowning sort of wave, this focal point that draws you down into him. It’s all consuming and it’s tender and it touches places you didn’t know could go this warm and what else could describe this but love? You resent the Academy, this place, these people for keeping him away from you. You think you’ll claw out the eyes of anyone who tries to separate you again.

You are crying – for your industry friend, his guest at the Oscars, so sees the cameras and the glitz and the glamor. 

You’re crying because you’re in too deep. 

The rest of the night is dipped into a champagne glass and swirled fast, catching like lighting in a bottle.

Gold dust falling fast, dizzily. 

Bubbles, glinting green and pink in the light, rising and winking out of existence.

Golden bubbles in your drink, in your mouth. Your throat. Your stomach. 

You feel lighter than air. 

With him, you feel as bright and as strong as diamonds. As timeless and luminescent as pearl.

As beautiful as gold. 

When the door finally shuts behind you in a darkened apartment, you’ve entered a secret, separate realm of domesticity: mismatched shoes, coffee creamer flavors you don’t like, and shampoo bottles that take up too much space in your shower.

It’s quiet here, blue and shadowed. The girl who left here hours ago to get ready in a hotel halfway across town forgot to leave on a light, rushing out in her haste. 

Behind you, you hear him snicker, his tongue behind his teeth, champagne bubbles still in his nose, as he hangs his silk jacket on your coat rack, right next to your muddy raincoat and baseball caps faded with sweat. 

“We gotta be quiet,” he hums, wobbling a bit as he toes out of his expensive loafers, pushing them near your off-brand birkenstocks. “Nala’s gonna hate me forever if we wake her up now.”

He is, of course, referring to your tabby cat, who hates everyone who isn’t you, and has a distinct requirement for twelve hour naps with no interruptions. Dieter swears he’s going to wake up one morning with that cat flexing her claws against his throat.

It takes you a moment to recognize and comprehend how your lives have melted together, how extracting you from him and him from you would be akin to destructive alchemy, the process of deconstructing two things causing both of them to oxidize and reduce to flaky rust. You’re drunk and you’re a little dizzy and you’re swaying slightly because your feet hurt but you are too consumed by introspection on your own feelings, what it means to love something other than yourself, to do anything about it. 

You’re so far gone from your own body you float, untethered and lost in thought, right up until the moment his arms come around your waist and he pulls you into his chest, like slipping on a beloved coat. 

“I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island,” he murmurs into the nape of your neck like he is reciting Neruda’s poetry. You stifle a smile, your hands gripping around his elbows, as he sways with you. He does this a lot; thinks one thing, then two, then three, and by the time it comes out of his mouth, it’s nonsensical to anyone not strapped into his train of thought. 

“Try again, darling.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb, his chin tucked over your shoulder, ear pressed to yours. “I think you missed a couple of steps.” 

Your voice is gummy even to your own ears, the endless drinks at the afterparty stitching your syllables and consonants together into some freakish creature. He’s slightly blurry in your eyes, his presence overwhelming all of your senses as they try to keep you upright. 

He chuckles and presses his face into your neck in what you believe is an attempted kiss. 

“I mean, you glow,” he admits quietly to your skin. The grin falls from your face when your heart constricts. “You fucking shined tonight and I couldn’t stop thinking how beautiful and sweet you looked. Sweetness I wanna lick up.” He chuckles again, this time through his nose, laughing at his own absurdity. “And then I remembered cotton candy is sweet too and you can buy cotton candy at Coney Island for a quarter and. . . I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island.” 

He scrapes the back of your neck with his teeth as he nudges you forward down the hall, not sparing an inch between your bodies. Which makes for a disastrous time, both of you drunk, his socked feet slipping on the wood, and your heels and dress tangling up together. 

“Baby, wait–,” 

“We’re almost to the bedroom, we can make it–,”

“Not if we break our necks first. Gimme a second, I’ll just–,”

You slide out of his grasp, inching down the wall and tucking up the truly insane amount of tulle they managed to stitch into your dress. You feel like you’ve been digging for five minutes before you find what you're looking for.

You stick your heel in the air and fiddle with the clasp around your ankle, drunk and working in near total darkness.

Dieter huffs and slides to the floor next to you. He watches you struggle for a minute, nearly swallowed up by the layers and layers of tulle, before he squeezes the air with his open hand.

“Gimme. We’ll be here all night.”

You pout visibly and awkwardly rotate until your foot is in his lap. His fingers are warm as he plucks at the clasp.

“I am perfectly capable of getting dressed on my own.” You toss your hair indignantly. 

“Yeah, but you’re always going to need my help to get undressed, right?” He smirks, eyes bleary, as he slides the heel off your foot and takes up the other one when you don’t move. 

Always, he said. 

Forever.

He’s being so soft, so gentle.

He sees the red marks left behind by the straps of your heels and frowns, displeased. Slumped over in the hallway of your tiny, pathetic apartment, his top few buttons of his pressed dress shirt hopelessly gone, tonight’s bow tie slung around his neck like a tipsy snake, Dieter gives you a foot rub by way of kneading out your pain. 

He kisses your ankle with such reverence, adoration, the liquid in your mouth vanishes and ends up in the crotch of your tights. 

You’re both too drunk for an actual fuck (“don’t make fun of my whisky dick, baby, it makes it sad,”) but you don’t want to be anywhere else but in your bed with him when you do sober up. So, you let the tulle drop, Dieter giggling as he gets hit with an avalanche of dress and you both clamor over each other to stand up. 

Towering over you and smelling like rich, warm, leather and splash of something spicy, he raises an eyebrow at you. You scrunch up your face, your twisted-up mouth betraying the stern look in your eyes, and put your knuckles to your hips. He matches your stance, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us . . .

“You’re in my way,” he grumbles, his mouth twitching. 

“Maybe you’re in mine.”

“Well, then it looks like we’ve got on our hands a good ol’ Mexican standoff.” 

“By all means, pardner, stick ‘em up.”

You eye him like PopEye, cheek full of nothing but air, your one eye all squinty. At that, he completely breaks, going red as he laughs. You hold the pose for a second longer before you collapse against him, laughing until tears run out of the corners of your eyes. You press your forehead into his chest, his heartbeat like a homing beacon, as he nuzzles the back of your head, giggles escaping occasionally on puffs of air. 

“That’s it!” He says after a moment of silence and tosses his hands into the air. “I’ve had enough! I can’t do this anymore!”

Without warning, he bends down and hauls you over his shoulder. He continues his tirade over your brief gasp of surprise – “Dieter!” – his finger indignantly in the air as he marches off towards the bedroom.  

“I can no longer date a girl who is funnier than me and so goddamn, fucking pretty. Who let you do that, huh? Who taught you how to be so fucking adorable? Answer me, you sexy, little weirdo.”

He tickles you enough just to make you squirm before dramatically tossing you onto the bed. You assume your best heart-broken divorcé pose, hand draped over your forehead, one leg tucked under the other. 

“Think of the children, honey! Nala needs a father’s influence, a lonely girl trying to survive in a man’s world! You can’t shoulder me with the responsibility of single motherhood!” You sit up, eyes fluttering up at him. “Everything I learned, I learned it all from you!”

Smirking, he kneels onto the mattress, your body folding back as he hovers forward, his nose inches from yours. You fight the shiver that arches up your body every time he gets that look on his face. He’s got your sanity between his teeth. “That child loathes me, darling,” he purrs. “She’s better off with you. She looks far too much like the milkman to be mine anyway.”

Your fake gasp is buried beneath the lunge of his mouth over yours. His hand cups your cheek as his mouth seeks out all its favorite places against your lips, your skin, your jaw. Your fingers dig into his wrinkled, once-starched shirt, the heat of his skin pricking your fingertips.

It’s right there, that knife edge between starting something there’s no going back from, no alternative path that ends in anything other than him buried deep inside you, filth that still makes you blush pouring from his mouth into your ear. A part of you, the part of you that’s been stalking behind every smile and touch he sends your way all night, the part of you that every nerve sing for him, is begging you to continue. To touch him in the right places that make his eyelids drop, mouth wrench open, to take on the animal that’s gnawing at you both. 

But you don’t. You can’t.

The simple fact of the matter is – you’re exhausted. You know he is too. The Oscar statue sitting on your entryway is a culmination of dozens of exhausted nights that finally paid off. 

He sighs when you pull back, there is no anger on his face, no disappointment that you’re ending things here. There’s only . . .

“You looked really, really pretty tonight,” he confesses to your nose with a smile. “Thanks . . . for coming with me tonight. You make everything better.”

You tuck his hair over his ear, feeling whole and small beneath the gentle search of his gaze. His hair is getting long and you love it, but you don’t want to nag him about it. The universe has finally balanced itself with him in between your legs, the foundations that make up the galaxy all settled in right here. 

He takes it one step further, reaching back behind him to the comforter you keep on the end of the bed that inevitably gets kicked to the floor every time he stays over. You’d pick it up and put it back every day of your life without complaint if it meant him in your bed until the end of time. 

Dieter tosses the blanket over both of your heads and crawls back in between your legs, elbows tucked by your ribs. All the champagne in the world couldn’t give you this same warm, bubbly feeling in your chest as his weight sinks into you.

He’s submerged you both in another realm, a deeper one than the one before, and in this one you have to whisper, even though the only other person in all of existence is inches from your nose. 

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, hushed. You can barely find the outline of his chin, his lips, his nose. The steady drum in your chest misses a beat as you consider where he might be looking on you. 

He awkwardly tugs your knuckles from both hands beneath his head, kissing them gently before allowing them to quietly slide into his hair. He’s so warm, nearly completely invisible to you in the blackness, the weight of his broad chest threatens to choke the air right out of you. But this exactly is how you want it to be. You want to be overwhelmed by Dieter Bravo.  

“I’m not drunk,” he tuts, a soft slur still tucking his words together. 

You reach down just inches to his temple, following the lines of his body that swear all lead to you, to find the arch of his cheek. He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against your thumbs. 

“Could a drunk person do this?” He asks quietly, as close as he could come to indignant in this special, dark little world. 

You wait, for a sloppy kiss, for something hard to tap against your thigh, but nothing comes. In fact, he doesn’t move. 

You inhale as best you can, grinning, ready to start another proverbial sparring match with him.

“You’re not doing anything, Dieter.”

His eyelashes stroke your thumbs again, a kitten lick, as he opens his eyes. 

“I sent you my love. Did you not get it?”

All in the air in your lungs is purged in a heavy gasp as his words impact your chest the way comets collide with meteors. 

He says your name, concerned by the wounded noise you just made, and when you don’t answer, he leans back, tugging the blanket as he goes.

It’s not until you’re looking up at him in your bedroom, his face blurry and your cheeks cold, that you realize you’re crying. 

“Dolly, what did I do?” He sounds so concerned, so visibly shaken, you can’t help but cry harder. He only touches your wrist, as if he’d been banished from your body. 

If you hadn’t had so much to drink, this wouldn’t be happening or at least you’d be able to get it to stop, reign in those explosive feelings that you had kept for so long deep and buried until he came along with a match in the dark. 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked onto the ceiling, hands clenched in fists. You know he can feel the tension in your forearm beneath his thumb making circles inches below your pulsepoint. You thought you never, ever wanted to have this conversation, but now you understand this has been the only thing that’s been on your mind for months.

“You don’t mean that,” you croak into the darkness. You feel small and foolish, embarrassed for having a body that produces emotions. 

“Don’t mean what, darling?” He’s still talking quietly, but firmer, providing a hook onto which you can grasp and fight the current in your mind. He knows this feeling, anxiety, and he hates how it looks on you.

“That you love me.”

Your words ring in the air, like the distinctive pitch of singing glass. You swallow that choking knot further down your throat and, wrenching your gaze down from the ceiling, finally look him in the eyes.

It’s the same look he blinked at you from the seats, there and gone so fast you partially convinced yourself you’d imagined it: profound, deep regret.

“You think I don’t love you?”

His tone makes you instantly feel guilty. Did you miss something? What if he texted it to you and you didn’t see it? Or wrote it in a note . . .

“You’ve never said it. At least not to me.” 

And his face crumbles.

He slides off his haunches, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, his big shoulders curved. 

Slowly, as if believing he has no right to, he touches your ankle, where he had rubbed away those painful marks in the hallway. He shakes his head, smirking darkly at himself.

“At the risk of sounding like a dramatic fucking actor, I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

You sit up, unable to help yourself from curling up next to him, his grip adjusting to your thigh, instantly finding the heat of it beneath all the tulle. Cutting right to the core of you. 

He gets this furtive glance when he’s thinking about something unpleasant, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth, as though unable to choose the right course of action. How much does he say, how much does he give away?

He rubs your dress material between his fingers.

“I’m older than you,” is how he starts. When your mouth twists open, ready with a litany of reasons why you don’t care, why no one should – reasons you’ve already said to him a dozen times – he meets your gaze and silences everything in your head. “And it’s not me they’re going to come for.” 

The weight, the finality to his voice shoves that knot right back up your throat, your eyes hot and tight.

“I . . . I didn’t say it, outloud, because then we’d have to do something about it. I don’t want to keep us in the dark, but . . .” he swallows as if choking too. “But after the dox two years ago and then the incident in Austin, I feel like I’ll be putting you in physical harm when they find out we’re together. And I would literally rather die than have anything happen to you.”

He kisses your temple, the touch a consolation. 

You don’t want to turn away, you want every kiss he gives you, but all you can feel are the studio’s words, the words of your managers, pressing down on you:

You know how some fans get. For your safety, let’s give it two years. 

We’re happy for you, we really are, but you can’t be seen together too much. Minimal instagram, rare public appearances. We’re just trying to keep up appearances until the fans settle. 

Appearances.

Aesthetics.

Image.

You’d happily kill anyone who tried to take him from you. 

But you know he’s right.

“It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, what I feel for you,” he promises, voice warm, dipped in honey. “I just . . . I can’t lose you.”

“Then can you say it just this once? Just to me?” You try to smile but the tightening of your skin only spills the tears. “Please, Dieter, I won’t ask again. I have to hear it once from you. After that, I promise I–,”

His great warm palm covets the back of your neck, rolling you into him like melting chocolate drips onto the floor. He stops, inches from your mouth, so close you can feel your neutrons mix with his.

“I love you.” 

Earnest, genuine, real. 

A green beanie and a yellow jacket.

Chinese food and dreams of a better life. Of a happy life.

You steady yourself, your spinning world, against his hand around your cheek, clutching onto his wrist like it’s the last great lighthouse at the end of the world.

You open your eyes and, yes, yes, there is adoration in his smile, in the way he watches his words soothe some ache inside of you with joy.

“I love you too,” you tell him, in case it wasn’t obvious. If somehow he couldn’t smell your obsession for him. “I love you,” you say again, firmly. 

It’s an inevitable sort of fall, his mouth into yours.

Like neutron stars collapsing together, alone and quiet in the far reaches of space.

Like the stone bones of an ancient church cracking and tipping into the sea as time and erosion eats away at a once great monument.

Like the spinning metal within a compass, never failing to find north, to find home.

When you awake next to him the next morning, warm in a way that goes behind physical body heat, he kisses your nose.

I love you, he tells you, with his words, with his body. With the dozens of ways he’s been mulling over in his mind to keep you safe and make you his for everyone to see.

I love you, he tells you that morning. 

And every morning after that.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Apparently, this new Seb podcast episode is too much for my stupid little brain 'cause I just can't stop thinking about how good Seb is, how much he deserves to be admired, and everything else that this man is.

So, anyway, of course, these feelings have spawned evanstan thoughts:

Chris ends up watching The Apprentice alone in his home, cuddling Dodger, sinking into his criminally comfortable couch, playing on his stupid-big flat-screen because, well, frankly, he only watches it because his agent tells him to after he gets send an early release copy (and his agent only tells him because they know, in detail, his feelings about Trump, and so it's not likely to be one of the many early copies he actually sits down to watch). Also, he watches it because his sister sees it and says he has to, and he trusts her taste, even if sometimes his siblings and him pull each others legs... he watches it because it's Sebastian... god, Sebastian... he watches it because... because...

He watches it because Sebastian has been shouting him out, hankering to work with him again, since they hugged and laughed together at that Kevin Fiege event--honoring him on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

He watches it because of all those things wrapped, tangled together, but he also watches it because Chris can't stop fucking thinking about the study in contradictions that is Sebastian as a human being. And he's been a contradiction from the day they met. Sebastian, the human being, that becomes entirely, completely unrecognizable beneath the gilded veneer of someone who Chris couldn't--wouldn't dream of portraying. Chris knows he's watching Sebastian but, damn, that's not Sebastian.

That's not Sebastian.

That's not Sebastian, consumed entirely by this role, impressive and impossible. Chris can't squint and see him, but Chris also can't stop thinking about the shy yet fearless kid he found on the set of Captain America: The First Avenger. His lips eager to curl into a mischievous, I-know-something-you-don't but still geniune smirk.

Inviting and exciting.

Something about him... there was always a mystery about Sebastian. He was--he is, last they connected for the Walk of Fame--fearless. Sebastian is wild yet tamed by anyone willing to look him in the eyes and tell him where to go, where to be, and how to be.

The right direction, and he falls exactly into place, easy to fold or expand himself into the space he's inhabiting. He is real, somehow, seemingly without drawing back into himself because he so daringly becomes anyone else. Everyone else. Just fucking look at the kid! On his home TV screen, playing Donald Fucking Trump. Ugh. Chris' lip curls until, yeah, Jesus. Sebastian. He's so private yet cuts himself open for anything.

For the art.

Chris watches the film and cries. Just a little. Not too much. It's not that embarrassing. It's just that he doesn't even know what about it. It's a good film--okay, begrudgingly, for being centered on a man he hates so much, it's beyond phenomenonal--but it's not that. Not exactly. His chest is... tight. He's mortified that the country could do this. Elect this person. Humanized or not, he is, presently, a monster; it doesn't matter what he was. Chris is... he's embarrassed he wasn't going to see it. He can't believe he didn't trust Seb enough to know that this would be perfect. Of course it is. He's great. He's one of the fucking greats. Now, he's sniffling. He's so lucky to know him, even if they don't talk all the time.

Chris feels like a tangled web, no, a knot. It's more complicated and less organized than a web.

When the credits are over, he texts Sebastian through watery eyes, one arm around Dodger, squeezing him a little harder than necessary: Great fucking job, man! Just finished the apprentice, you did so good!! 💙

To Chris' quiet surprise, Sebastian hits him back almost immediately, just barely long enough for Chris to get to his feet, blink the blurry, teariness, and weird tightness away, and start toward the back deck to let Dodger out.

Sebastian doesn't just respond to his text with a text, though. Instead, Chris' phone chimes with a FaceTime request.

There's nothing to do but answer it. No excuse. So, he does. And, shit, Chris' throat closes upon seeing him--his kind, grey-blue eyes, his grey-brown beard, and, just, his everything.

He's so goddamn brave. He's so unafraid. He's out there, and he's doing it, and Chris admires him so much, his career has definitely been cut according to his fears and anxieties more than once, his want to stay home even, and he feels like maybe he missed his chance, maybe he isn't cut out to be with someone so unafraid, unapologetic, but--

Wait.

What?

His chance?

They've already said their hellos, Sebastian squirmed his way through the dregs of Chris' compliment, and so Sebastian is deep into talking about something else. Related but, something else, rambling on in thanks of compliments, blushing lighter than he once would've, but still blushing. Then, oh, quietly admitting he didn't even think Chris would watch that, he knows why, he maybe understands, but he was hoping and--

"Where are you, man? I wanna see you." Chris blurts, the words jumping out of his mouth before he even realizes he's thinking them, much less about to say them, lips and teeth and tongue poised.

Sebastian stops rambling. He looks at him, cocking his head to the side as if he doesn't understand what he's just uttered.

"Let's get coffee," Chris suggests, foot too far in his mouth to take it out. It's not a date. Coffee's not a date. Not always.

But...

Sebastian's eyes tell him it might be in the same way, if Chris replays the last decade and a half of their fucking lives with raw, honest hope, he's said before.

"Coffee?" Chris insists, quieter, but taking the plunge. Braver. Less hesitation than whether to take a life-changing role or not, and more fearless, deal-with-the-blow-back-later Sebastian-ism.

"Yes, absolutely, yes."