#but i like the idea that he can see that she is trying and learning bit by bit

[adara-of-the-flame]

the-name-is-hoggle

"Hoggle is - I mean, I am completely fine with having no facial hair. It would be nice if everyone else was too….”

Hoggle mutters back to Mars, leaning in slightly towards her now that the young woman had sat down and thus her face was at least a few feet closer to his own at this point. The pair very much had been forgotten by the now crowd of dwarves around them, despite having been the reason everyone had gathered int he first place. Even Sir Didymus was distracted talking with the Summer Dwarfs, the knight alternating between common tongue and Khudzul to make his opinion known.

The dwarf blinks at the Urru’s compliment, she thought he looked….good? Huh?

Hoggle doesn’t get to ponder on this long though, realizing with Mars that they were being lifted up.

“This isn’t me-!”

He begins to protest just as the Summer Queen reveals that it was in fact her that was literally whisking them away from the current debacle - and honestly Hoggle was feeling a bit grateful. Last thing he needed to was to try talk down a crowd of dwarves.

Sir Didymus seemed to be doing already as a moderator though….when he wasn’t adding to an argument….

“Spring Training? Whatever you’re willing to show me….”

Hoggle agrees readily to Selva, the sooner he learned the better….

adara-of-the-flame

Mars wondered if this is what'd be like to talk to the Statue of Liberty. Selva Roja was pretty much just as tall, and just as big. The half-Urru remembered seeing an old newsclipping of a drawing (or, was it a photograph? When was the camera invented again?) of when Lady Liberty's hand was first brought over from France. Back when she was still copper-colored, before the patina set in. People in old-style clothing were climbing all over it. Pretty neat.

Since then, Mars had wondered how that must have felt. Well, here she is! In the taloned hands of a very big, very feathery, red giant.

"Can I stick around and watch while you train Hoggle? I don't think I'd be much use down there." Far below, the dwarves were still arguing.

"That's the idea, hon." Entire canopies and swaths of trees tilted and bowed out of Selva Roja's way as she strided. Her jungle was vast. A literal ocean of tumbling, rolling green.

Eventually trees parted way underfoot into a grand valley. A literal dip in the Earth, like a collossal bowl, growing ever deeper towards the center. The jungle and the valley were like two flavors of the same sweet. Green met green: the lush, rough overgrowth of the jungle gave way to a more tender, level sway of grass and shorter trees. The scent of peaches tickled Mars's nose. She glance down. "It's an orchard!"

Because, there are many flavors of summer: To name a few, there's the eternal 'tropical rainforest', there's the traditional 'hot dogs and fireworks' (always a favorite), there's the scantily-clad 'fun at the beach', and for that old-timey feeling, there's 'lazy day under the fruit trees.'

Selva Roja stopped beside the bank of a large pond at the very center of the valley to set her two passengers down. "Welcome to one of my outdoor castles. It's peaceful enough here we should get some work done." Settling down next to the two, she cast a gigantic, cooling shadow. "I suppose we should start with a question I'm sure you've both been wanting to ask me: Why, before you arrived, didn't we let Saisho No Me die? Have you figured out the answer yet?"

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the stench of this terrible blog…bleck!”

[project-sekai-facts]

What grinds my gears is what when people say that the reason Kana5 is bad due to it trying to make Mafumon sympathetic.

A couple have even gone as far as saying that Kana5 is as bad as Toya5 for the same reason and I-

Look. I deeply understand the idea of abusers being more complicated than simply “evil trash” is hard to comprehend. And I may sound insensitive but,

They need to grow up. They should not let their biases cloud their judgement and assume something is bad just because a piece of media has something they personally don’t like

the difference between harumichi and mafuyumum is their awareness.

harumichi - fully aware of what he is doing, fully aware his son is his own person and does not stop him despite heavy disapproval

mafumum - completely oblivious to what she is doing to mafuyu, projecting an idealised version of mafuyu onto her (and possibly an idealised version of herself)

harumichi working toya to the bone is him applying how he learnt to toya. the intent was not to physically/emotionally harm toya but that is what ended up happening (physical exhaustion is to be expected, he should not have forced toya to keep working but he deals with the same so he probably doesn't think it's a big deal). that said, he is fully aware of the fact he is taking away from toya's childhood, and admits this in concerto that toya's life was not "normal".

mafumum is entirely unaware of her abuse to mafuyu. this is repeatedly made clear in events post sayonara persona. mafudad relays to her what mafuyu tells him and she's incredibly distressed to learn that she'd been hurting mafuyu and she doesn't know what she did wrong. she can be manipulative, but she's not aware that she's being malicious, she thinks she's genuinely doing what's best for her child who she loves. there's also some context clues such as her young age compared to other parents, the fact she doesn't have a job and the fact she's at a lower social standing to her husband that suggest she may also be projecting the life she didn't get onto mafuyu.

harumichi being given the attempted sympathetic backstory doesn't work. he is neglectful towards his son, but is slowly easing out of these ways a little bit. toya has already begun to make ammends without the need for making harumichi sympathetic. he's a bad parent who did a bad thing knowingly.

with mafumum it is justified. in her first appearance, we see her from the biased viewpoint of kanade, who sees her as a cold and neglectful parent towards mafuyu. however from mafuyu's pov, she is a loving mother who is misguided in how she shows this love. this is what unreliable notes is about. mafumum is a bad parent who did a bad thing unknowingly. she is sympathetic because she is a troubled mother coming to terms with the fact she ruined her child's life.

both characters are loved by their children by virtue of them being their parents. the story is going to convey that no matter how bad they are as people. yes, forgiving abusers in fiction is overdone and to some degree unrealistic, however we do not yet know if that is where the story will go. all we know is that there will be a reconciliation. but even if mafumum specifically gets forgiven, it would not be unjustified. i feel like the first impression we get of mafumum from Kanade POV left a strong impact on a lot of people that they can't let go of. the whole point of the current arc is to let that go. the game builds her up as this malicious antagonistic force so that it can deconstruct that when we get to see her from an unbiased POV. she's not a villain like many people make her out to be, she's a human who made a mistake. a very bad and very big mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. she is a loving mother who fucked up really badly because she was too obsessed over perfection to actually see her daughter for who she is.

if the writers try and make us forgive harumichi though fuck them he fucking sucks. like i feel like toya will because he's like that yknow but i don't think the audience should feel sympathetic towards him.

[dragonridersandhighlords]

As you have one-shot coming up, this idea could work as a long one shot or mini series.

Though I'm just halfway through Iron Flame and don't know how Xaden turns into a venin and of like rest of the fandom and Vi, as of now we don't know the cure for it too. I stumbled upon some 'venin-cure' theories and one of it inspired this idea so hear me out.

Ik Xaden turned into a venin for Violet. As per theories, if he can become one for his love, he has come into the realization and give up what he took (the direct power).

Finally the idea: the reader is actually pregnant. It's up to you if Xaden knew it earlier or not but maybe like idk they're in a war zone or whatever situation, he was going to kill somebody or whatever and at that moment reader faces Xaden. Telling him that she's not going to fight him, she let go of her dagger or sword, trying to remind him of himself, showing him his ring still on her finger. When she sees him calming down, she may take his hand and touch her barely visible (or visible) belly, begging him to let go of the power, reminding him that he's in control of himself, begging him to come to her and their baby.

So I got lost in the writing and made it an OC instead of x reader but it can still be read as a reader instert! That being said, please please please wait to read this until AFTER you've read Onyx Storm as I did use actual events in this!

⚠️MAJOR ONYX STORM SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️

What Love Left Behind | Xaden Riorson

Summary: In the wake of war and unexpected loss, Briar Veyloren–now Riorson–is left to lead Tyrrendor alone—pregnant, grieving, and haunted by the man she loves. Briar must navigate politics, power, and the whisper of hope that lingers in a mysterious letter. She learns that love may be the most dangerous weapon of all—and the only one worth wielding.

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x OC! Briar Veyloren

Notes: I included a couple theories that have been circulating. But seriously if you haven’t read Onyx Storm, you should before reading this.

Warnings: Onyx Storm spoilers, surprise pregnancy and concerns around maternal health, emotional distress and PTSD themes, implied past violence and death, mentions of planned death, war context and threat of battle, angst

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

“Your Grace.” 

The words echoed in my mind like a relentless drumbeat, each utterance threatening to send me over the edge. One month had passed since he vanished, leaving behind only a marriage certificate, a noble title, and an unexpected pregnancy. The last month spent poring over maps and sending out search parties, each return bringing nothing but disappointment. The latest team would be back any day now, but every second dragged on like a lifetime.

As the Duchess of Tyrrendor, I was trapped by my responsibilities, drowning in meetings and decisions that felt foreign to me. No longer just Briar Veyloren, I was now a figurehead, a woman expected to wield authority, yet all I wanted was a moment to breathe without the suffocating weight of my new title. 

The next person who bowed low and addressed me as “Your Grace” just might find themselves on the receiving end of my very real frustration—and it's not my hormones talking.

“Briar? What are you doing?” Brennan’s voice cut through my thoughts, his brow furrowed with concern as he approached. 

“Walking? Did you not just tell me I needed to be more active?” I shot back, rolling my eyes. At barely eleven weeks pregnant and not even showing, I felt more like a burden than a mother-to-be. Brennan’s worry was sweet, but it had become suffocating since he and Imogen had found me unconscious in the courtyard of Riorson House. 

And let's be honest, my whole world feels suffocating without him.

“With someone! What if you tripped on any of the stairs between your room and here?” His voice was laced with the kind of earnestness that made me want to scream and laugh at the same time.

“Brennan,” I began, pinching the bridge of my nose, “I’m going to be honest with you for a minute, okay?” He nodded, earnestness replaced with curiosity. “I appreciate your concern, I really do. But if you lecture me again for walking through my own home, I will strangle you.” I raised an eyebrow, my expression daring him to argue.

Brennan's face shifted to one of understanding. I wasn’t just battling the challenges of my pregnancy or the burdens of my title—I was facing the reality that the one man I had trusted to stand by my side was missing, and with him, a part of my heart.

“Understood.” Brennan nods, his expression betraying a mixture of sympathy and concern, but I know this won’t be the last time I’ll have to remind him of my boundaries. “Garrick and Bodhi landed a few minutes ago; they’re in the Assembly Room waiting for you.” His words cut through my thoughts like a sharpened blade as I turn to continue my walk.

“And you waited to tell me that because?” I gasp, the weight of urgency pooling in my chest. The minute those two returned from their mission, I should have been the first to know. 

“Sorry, Bree.” Brennan’s smile emerges, almost sheepish, as a chuckle escaped his lips at my reaction. “I’ll walk you down.” I eye him suspiciously, skepticism knitting my brow, but he’s quick with a rebuttal. “Merely because I’m a part of that meeting too, not because of what I said earlier, I swear.” 

My laughter, albeit strained, breaks through the monotonous hum of everyday life in the halls, a sound that feels foreign yet welcome. It’s probably the brightest anyone has heard since his departure, a small glimpse of the woman I used to be, if only for a moment. 

As we approach the grand double doors leading into the Assembly Room, Brennan leans forward, his hand resting lightly on the polished wood, a silent invitation. He swings the door open, and I step inside, the air suddenly thick with the weight of expectation. Instantly, all eyes turn towards me, the occupants standing with a blend of respect and trepidation as I walk through the threshold.

“What did I say about that shit?” I groan, exasperation lacing my tone as I stride to the opposite end of the throne, settling into one of the more ordinary chairs that line the table. 

“Wouldn’t you prefer to sit on the throne, Your Grace?” Major Ulices Ferris’s voice cuts through the murmur of the room, sounding less like a suggestion and more like a command. I refrain from reacting, my gaze fixated on the imposing throne that looms across the table, a symbol of power that feels unlike something that's mine. 

“It is the Duke’s throne, not mine.” My reply is curt, resolute, as I remain anchored in the chair I’ve chosen, fighting the sorrows that gnawed at me.

“You are the acting leader of Tyrrendor, Your Grace. The Duke is not–” 

“If you tell me what to do in my own province again, Major, you will find that my temper is much, much shorter than his.” The words escape my lips like wildfire, a hand slamming onto the table with a resounding bang that silences the room. “If I do not wish to sit on the fucking throne, then I won’t.” Wide eyes are fixed on me, some filled with surprise, others masking concern, as I struggle against the tears that threaten to spill. “And the next person to call me ‘Your Grace’ will find their vocal cords ripped out.” I realize then, perhaps it is the hormones talking, because I never raise my voice or lash out but the frustration surging within me feels all too real.

A palpable silence envelops the Assembly Room, heavy and suffocating. The clatter of chairs scraping against the floor echoes like thunder as everyone hastily settles at the long, polished table. I take in the scene before me, trying to read the emotions etched on the faces of my advisors and comrades, but I find myself floundering. My dragon, Ríogh, had decided to block me from his power until my child arrives, severing the tether that usually grounds me in the whirlwind of feelings surrounding me. The air feels thick and stagnant, as if charged with unspoken fears and burdens, and I have no way to discern why.

The murmurs fade as the Assembly begins their weekly reports—information that should be routine yet now seems to hang like a dark cloud overhead. One by one, they share updates on the army's status, the progress of the riders’ and flyers’ classes—classes I should be attending, but the demands of governing Tyrrendor weigh heavily on my shoulders. The mention of Violet’s training under Felix pulls my attention momentarily, but I am drawn back to the map spread before me, its worn surface marked with notes and symbols that pulse with urgency.

“And the search?” My voice, low and steady, cuts through the air, my gaze still focused on the map as if the answers might leap off the parchment and reveal themselves to me. Hope is a fragile thing, and I’ve learned not to cling to it, especially during these grim reports. Two weeks of relentless despair in the beginning had left their mark, and I understood all too well the reason Ríogh had shielded me from his power.

“We arrived a day, if not a few hours, after the attack.” As Garrick's voice reaches me, a dagger suddenly plunges into the map, piercing the inked details with alarming accuracy. My hand hovers above the blade, a physical extension of my shock. “There were no signs of Venin or wyverns remaining in the area.” 

“But we did find this, Briar.” Bodhi’s voice breaks through my daze as he slides a letter towards me, its wax seal glinting ominously in the dim light. I reach for it, my heart racing as I analyze the unfamiliar seal. Yet, it is the handwriting that sends a cold shiver racing down my spine, his handwriting.

“Where?” I manage to ask, the urgency in my tone rising as I set the unopened letter back on the table, a weight growing in my chest.

“Hung on the main gates of the city,” Bodhi replies softly, his gaze downcast as he sets the blade alongside the letter. “With this stabbed through the corner.” 

My breath hitches, and I struggle to contain the emotion that threatens to spill over. One look at the familiar blade sends a sob escaping me, and I lift it trembling from the table, tracing the delicate carvings along its length—my initials, BV, just below the hilt, carved by by parents before my entry into the Rider's Quadrant. The leather wrapped around the hilt, added by him after he won the dagger from me during a challenge in my first year, brings an achingly familiar feeling. The weight of the dagger in my hand felt like a tether to a past I desperately wanted to cling to, yet the reality of its current context made my grip falter. 

I was acutely aware of the bustling energy around me as my friends hastily ushered the Assembly leaders out of the room, their murmurs becoming a distant hum, barely piercing through the fog of my thoughts. 

“He always carried this dagger,” I whispered, the words escaping in a broken whisper that was almost lost amidst the scuffle of chairs and the echo of hurried footsteps. My eyes remained fixed on the intricate carvings adorning the blade, but the simplest carving of my initials below the hilt that my parents had placed there. The worn leather, a reminder of him, that was added after he had won in a challenge.

Garrick’s voice broke through the haze, steady and firm. He spoke of the dagger’s significance, recounting tales of how it had become an extension of him. As I absently twisted the blade between my fingers, the familiar weight brought fleeting comfort, grounding me amidst the turmoil swirling around me. 

Using the dagger, I carefully pressed the tip against the wax, the sharpness gliding through it with an ease that mirrored the memories flooding my mind. As the seal broke, I felt an exhilarating rush that felt eerily like both dread and anticipation. The letter now lay before me, a promise of answers that beckoned me closer, even as it threatened to unravel everything I thought I knew.

The world around me quieted. I could sense the worried glances of my friends, the weight of their expectations heavy on my shoulders. Yet, the only thing that mattered in that moment was the letter before me, a bridge between despair and hope.

As the last remnants of the wax fell away, the air shifted, thickening with tension as if the universe itself held its breath, waiting for me to unveil the secrets hidden within the paper. My fingers tremble slightly, and I could almost hear the heartbeat of Tyrrendor in the silence, a reminder of the stakes that lay beyond my personal anguish.

“Briar,” Bodhi’s voice penetrated my concentration, laced with worry. “What does it say?” 

The question hung in the air like a charge, electrifying and daunting. I felt as though the answer would either condemn me or set me free. I inhaled deeply, my heart racing with the weight of anticipation.

Briar,

Can’t you ever listen to me? 

Against all odds, I know you’ll make the right decision.

Leave your resources where you need them most.

Look where you least expect.

Don’t take this as a clue on where to find me.

You are Tyrrendor’s only hope.

Remember the good moments.

I trust you.

-X

“What does it say?” Bodhi asks again, leaning over my shoulder, his breath a warm whisper against my neck. 

I carefully reread the letter, its words swirling in my mind like a chaotic tempest. “This makes no sense.” A heavy sigh escapes my lips, carrying the weight of despair that clings to me like a shroud. “Maybe he is too far gone.” The reality of the cryptic message settles in my chest like a stone, and I stand, tucking the letter into my pocket, the fabric of my clothes brushing against my skin, grounding me. I slide the dagger into its empty sheath, the familiar clink of metal against leather echoing in the silence around us. 

“I’m going to watch flight maneuvers.” My voice is firm, a declaration against the unease that threatens to consume me.

“Briar—” 

“Brennan, if you tell me I can’t go sit in a fucking field with my dragon and watch the cadets, I’m going to scream.” The softness in my voice belies the storm brewing within, and I don’t even turn to face him, my focus fixed on the door that leads outside.

“I was going to suggest taking a waterskin. It’s warmer today than it has been.” He sets a sturdy waterskin in my now outstretched hand, the leather cool and reassuring against my palm.

“I don’t want to be bothered while I’m out there. I just need some peace and quiet.” The words tumble out, a plea wrapped in frustration.

“Of course.” Garrick steps up beside me, his presence steady and calming. “We’ll handle everything.”

“We will?” Bodhi questions, and before I can reply, a grunt of pain escapes him, quickly followed by his reluctant agreement with Garrick.

I turn to face them, a small smile breaking through the cloud of anxiety that looms overhead. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Crash and burn?” Bodhi laughs, the lightness of his voice a balm to my frayed nerves, only to be silenced by Garrick’s elbow jabbing into his side.

I laugh at my friends' antics, the sound echoing through the Assembly Room, a momentary distraction from my turmoil. With a heart a touch lighter, I walk towards the exterior door, its wooden frame worn and familiar, leading me to the open path that winds toward the valley below. 

As I begin the trek, the anticipation of watching the cadets fills me with a  fleeting escape from the shadows that linger in my thoughts. After a bit of a walk, I finally arrive at the designated field, the vibrant hues of summer in Tyrrendor blooming around me, and there, nestled in the grass, I spot Violet curled up with Andarna, her laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves. My own dragon, Ríogh, stands sentinel beside them, an unmistakable warmth emanating from his scaled form.

“Hey Ríogh.” I smile at the sight of him, the bond we share a steady anchor amidst the storm.

“Feeling better, Little Foot?” His smirk dances through our connection, teasing and light-hearted.

“I’ve told you this before, just because your previous riders were all men does not mean I have small feet.” I pause mid-step, crossing my arms, my glare playful yet fierce, challenging him as the sun beams down on us.

“Oh, but it's so fun to rile you up. Even if the Mender had Marbh lecture me about being nice so you kept your blood pressure low.” Ríogh's voice cuts through my simmering irritation hangs heavily between us.

I release an annoyed sigh, feeling the weight of his words settle in my chest. My feet begin moving again, almost as if they’re propelled by sheer frustration. “I’m going to kill your brother,” I mutter, the declaration slipping from my lips as I pass by Violet, my stride purposeful and swift. I collapse onto the grass beside Ríogh’s massive head, leaning against his warm, scaled neck, seeking solace in his steadfast presence.

“What did he do this time?” Violet asks, laughter lacing her tone as her gaze remains glued to the pages of her book, the sunlight casting a golden glow over her hair.

“Lecturing me about walking alone, reminding me to grab a waterskin before I walked here, and apparently having his dragon lecture mine about my fucking blood pressure.” The words spill out of me, laced with exasperation. “I’m running a fucking province by myself while my husband—who I can’t even remember marrying—is fully Venin and apparently leaving cryptic letters at the cities he destroys now. My blood pressure hasn’t been normal in years.” My voice trembles with the weight of it all, each word a release of pent-up tension that has festered within me.

“Xaden left you a letter?” At the mention of his name, a sharp pang pierces my heart, each syllable feeling like a jagged blade. In the early days after his disappearance, the mere utterance of his name sent me spiraling into tears, raw grief threatening to consume me. Yet Violet never adhered to the unspoken rule her brother had set.

I pass the paper over to her when she sets her book aside, moving closer, her curiosity igniting a flicker of hope within me. She studies the words intently, her brow furrowing in concentration as she reads them over and over before finally speaking. 

“Holy shit, it's an acrostic.”

“Acrostic?” The word feels foreign on my tongue, an enigma until it clicks. “Like a poem?”

“The first letters of each line spell a word or phrase.” As she hands the letter back, I analyze the words once more, and adrenaline surges through me. With newfound clarity, I leap to my feet, urgency propelling me forward. 

“I know where they’re attacking next!” I shout, my voice echoing as I barrel through the doors of Riorson House, where Garrick, Bodhi, and Brennan still remain in the assembly room, their faces a mix of surprise and concern at my sudden arrival.

“Are you sure?” Aaric’s voice cuts through the tension, his brow furrowed with concern as he steps closer, the urgency of the moment hanging heavy in the air. I had sent for him the moment I returned, a spark of desperate hope igniting within me because if I was right, then a Prince of Navarre was urgently needed.

“Violet said it’s an acrostic,” I explain, my heart racing as I recall the words that had danced before my eyes like the flickering shadows of doubt. “Xaden has never written a poem in his life; that’s why it made no sense. He just needed to spell a word, not a whole message.” My hand trembles slightly as I hand the letter to Aaric, eager for him to see it with his own eyes. I spell it out, enunciating each letter clearly, “C-A-L-L-D-Y-R. He’s trying to tell us where to find them.” The hope in my voice feels fresh, like the first breath of spring air after a long winter, awakening a purpose within me that had been dormant.

“Briar, this is a stretch,” Garrick interjects, his skepticism evident as he pulls the paper from Aaric’s hands, the furrow in his brow deepening. 

“I trust you,” I implore, my gaze locked onto Garrick’s, willing him to see the truth within my conviction. “It’s a code we came up with before he graduated.” My eyes are pleading, a silent plea to embrace this fragile thread of hope. “Sign off with ‘I love you’ if it’s just a letter. ‘I trust you’ means there’s important info woven into the message.” The weight of my revelation hangs in the air, heavy and uncertain. 

Every pair of eyes is fixed on me, the silence thickening as I break down the implications of his words. 

Can’t you ever listen to me? He told me not to search for him in the note I was found with, but defiance had driven me to ignore his warning. 

Against all odds, I know you’ll make the right decision. The decision to seek him out? To stand and fight instead of hiding behind the wards? 

Leave your resources where you need them most. Aretia had ample defenses; between the riders and flyers we housed. The entire fleet wasn't needed here.

Look where you least expect. I’d never have imagined this—his clumsy attempt at poetry-- would be a desperate lifeline crafted in the dark. 

Don’t take this as a clue on where to find me. I had never been good at listening to him. 

You are Tyrrendor’s only hope. The echo of his words  from after he first channeled resonated within me, a haunting reminder of what he was preparing me for. 

Remember the good moments. He’d been sharing his plans during those fleeting, cherished instances, hints interwoven throughout our laughter and love, guiding me to this very moment.

“He laid it out for us.” The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, pressing down on my chest as I took in the skeptical expressions of my friends. I may not have been able to read emotions at this moment, but their faces told me everything I needed to know; doubt shadowed their brows, and disbelief flickered in their eyes. “Please, let me have this last bit of hope.” My voice cracked with desperation, and I felt as if I were grasping at threads of light in an encroaching darkness.

Bodhi, always the one with a heart so large it often outshone his doubts, was the first to break the tension that wrapped around us like a constricting serpent. “What’s the plan?” His tone was firm, a lifeline cast into turbulent waters.

“Aaric and the flyers leave today to prepare King Tauri for our arrival.” My mind raced, each word tumbling out like stones rolling down a hillside, gathering momentum. “The Dark Wielders have at least a three-day advantage on us. We leave a riot first-years along with a mix of second- and third-years and officers so Aretia is not defenseless.” My voice steadied, emboldened by purpose. “The rest of us leave for Calldyr City at dawn.”

“The rest of us? You are not going to battle in your condition.” Brennan’s protest cut through the air like a sharp blade, concern etched into his features. I could see the worry pooling in his eyes, a turbulent sea of emotions that mirrored my own.

“I’m pregnant, not dying!” My defense came out more forceful than intended, but the urgency of my plea propelled me forward. “If he’s there, then I have to see him. At a minimum, he deserves to hear the news from me.” A gentle hand rested over my stomach, a silent promise of the life that blossomed within me. I watched as my friends exchanged glances, their expressions softening ever so slightly, an understanding threading through the tension.

“If you need to, assign people to defend me, but I have to talk to him. If he’s truly gone, I’ll drive the knife in myself.” The words tasted bitter, yet they felt liberating, a catharsis of intent.

They looked between each other, silent deliberation flickering in their eyes before nodding in unison. 

“Fine,” Brennan agreed, the weight of his acceptance settling around us like a comforting cloak.

“The minute we tell you to run, you better be on Ríogh’s back and gone,” Garrick warned, his expression fierce and protective. I nodded, resolving the hardening in my chest.

“Thank you.” My heart swelled with gratitude, a flicker of hope igniting within me, illuminating the path ahead.

The flight was interminable, each beat of Ríogh's powerful wings echoing the urgency that thrummed through my veins. My back ached from the prolonged strain of clinging to his scaled form, the chill of the wind biting through my cloak.Had Aaric not successfully persuade his father to trust me, the kingdom might have been plunged into chaos with an untested ruler on the throne. 

As we soared through the sky, a heavy pall hung over us, the dragons sensing the approach of the Dark Wielders with an eerie intuition that prickled at my skin. It hadn’t been long since my arrival, yet already the atmosphere crackled with tension. Instead of convening with King Tauri to strategize, an urgent edict had been issued: protect the city at all costs. High above, with Garrick, Bodhi, Brennan, and Violet by my side, we hovered, scanning the horizon for any sign of him.

I was taken aback when we left to see Tairn willingly alongside us, his massive wings cutting through the air with a grace that belied his size. Violet had shared with me the heart-wrenching news of his bond with Sgaeyl fracturing during my lost twelve hours, and my heart ached for the dragons, their shared pain palpable even at this distance. Tairn, who had not been seen for weeks, now glided silently, his sorrow evident in every powerful stroke of his wings.

Suddenly, Ríogh’s voice broke through my reverie. “Sgaeyl nears.” The words resonated with urgency, and I turned to Violet, who nodded in understanding. 

Moments later, the majestic navy blue silhouette of Sgaeyl emerged from the clouds, a dark shadow against the sunlit sky, but there was something unsettling about her presence—she bore no rider.

“Tell her I need to speak to him,” I urged Ríogh, my heart pounding as Sgaeyl approached us with a grace that felt both regal and mournful. Ríogh scoffed at my command.

I felt the connection between Sgaeyl and Tairn, a profound sadness swirling in the air around them. Gathering my resolve, I broke tradition and shouted, “Tell the Duke his Duchess requires an audience.” 

After a tense moment, Ríogh relayed her message. Violet and I were to follow, the others had to keep their distance. 

“Tell the others, and don’t lose her, please,” I instructed, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me. As Ríogh and Tairn took the lead, I felt a strange calm wash over me, a stillness amidst the chaos that enveloped Calldyr City. 

We descended into a tranquil field to the east, the sound of battle faintly echoing from the city, contrasting sharply with the peaceful serenity of our surroundings. 

“Briar,” Violet called, pointing ahead. When my feet met the earth, I looked ahead. There, standing before Sgaeyl, was him. 

“Stay here, be ready in case this goes wrong,” I instructed Violet firmly, but my heart raced with hope and trepidation. Ríogh's growl vibrated beside me as I began my approach. “He won’t hurt me,” I reassured him, though his huff conveyed his doubts.

“Quiet the venue for a meeting, Your Grace.” His voice sliced through the heavy air, resonating with authority yet laced with a fragility that echoed the distance between us. I halted mid-step, the tension thick as I stood roughly ten feet from him, yet I could feel the magnetic pull towards Ríogh, who fidgeted behind me, his wings slightly unfurling as if sensing the charged atmosphere.

“You’re a hard man to nail down, Your Grace.” I matched his tone, defiance cloaking my emotions like a shield, even as I took in the sight of him. 

My heart ached, and I fought to mask the tumult within. The man who stood before me was a shadow of the one I had known. The once-familiar onyx depths of his eyes now held a tempest of turmoil, rimmed in red, and deep red veins at his temples. The only trace of familiarity was the intricate relic winding up his left arm and creeping over his neck. But the moment he stood before me, my heart betrayed me, skipping a beat at the sheer presence of him. 

“Xaden,” I breathed, the name falling from my lips like a tender sigh.

“You shouldn’t have come, my stillpoint.” His voice was devoid of the softness that once enveloped our conversations, each word striking me like a knife to the chest. I steeled myself against the ache of familiarity that felt foreign now, a haunting reminder of the love that felt so distant.

“I had to see you—needed to see you. Considering I don’t remember our last moments together.” The words slipped out, edged with a growl that I could not suppress. “Including our wedding.” I watched him flinch, the shadow of pain flickering across his face.

“It was for the best.” His response was hollow, a sentiment that did little to assuage the storm raging within me. 

I took a step closer, determined to bridge the chasm between us. “Why’d you turn?” I demanded, the question a relentless echo in my mind since that fateful night. 

“It's what I had to do.” His voice was strained, and the weight of it hung heavy in the air.

“Why?” I pressed, the urgency in my voice flaring. 

“Briar!” Bodhi’s warning cut through the tension, but I paid it no mind. 

“Little Foot.” 

“You told me once that your love for me was strong enough to keep you from channeling,” I said, taking another step forward, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. “But something else was stronger that night.” I drew nearer, driven by an inexplicable need to understand. “What drove you to channel?” 

“They were going to hurt Sgaeyl.” The admission fell from his lips, raw and broken, a lament that shattered the fragile moment. “I wasn’t going to let someone else I love get hurt for being connected to me.” 

I nodded, allowing the weight of his words to settle in. His love for me had once kept him off the ice, but in an instant, it was his love for Sgaeyl that had broken the ice below his feet. Understanding flickered like a candle in the wind, and with each heartbeat, the threads weaved together, drawing me inexorably closer. 

His love had been the driving force each time he channeled, a tempestuous tide that surged through him in moments of desperation. 

At Basgiath, because the sage had threatened me.

In my room, because he lost control when with me, leaving greyed fingerprints that still littered my hips.

Beyond the wards, because Garrick the wyvern were surrounding Garrick.

In Deverelli, when Courtlyn’s guards had turned their murderous sights on me.

When the venin were after Sgaeyl.

If his love was strong enough to drive him to channel, then could it also be the anchor that brought him back?

“The only time I will ever love someone more than you is if we get the chance to start a family.” 

Those words echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the future we once envisioned together. He had spoken them with a weight while he was subtly preparing me for a time when I would need to kill him, should he lose control.

“I’m a lost cause, Bree,” he laments, an air of resignation clouding his features. “Against all odds, I know you’ll make the right decision.” 

I paused, my heart pounding as realization washed over me. The ink of his letter still fresh in my mind, I understood at that moment that he had anticipated my arrival. This conversation, laden with unshed tears and unspoken goodbyes, was not a mere coincidence. It was a final chance to see me.

I will not let this be that moment.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, yet laced with determination. A soft smile broke through the anguish as I drew my dagger from the sheath, its familiar weight grounding me in a chaotic storm of emotion. Recognition flickered in his eyes when he saw the blade—the one he had left for me, a symbol of our intertwined fates. 

“Anything,” he breathed, the vulnerability in his tone echoing the tempest within. 

“I know you can fight it, the venin side of you.” Though he opened his mouth to protest, I pressed on. “Everything you’ve ever done was for love. For me, for Garrick, for Sgaeyl. Your love for those close to you was enough to break the ice from under you. So let a new love be enough to make you swim.” I reached for his hand, my heart thudding in the silence that enveloped us. He flinched at my touch, but miraculously, he did not pull away.

“Briar!” Brennan’s voice pierced the haze of urgency surrounding us. I glanced down at Xaden’s hand, instinctively placing it over the almost imperceptible bump that was our future.

“Swim for the life we created, please,” I implored, my voice trembling as I saw the flicker of understanding ignite within his stormy gaze. “I know you’re still in there, deep down, Xaden.” Each word felt like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters, hope anchoring my desperate plea. “If you can’t come back for me,” I felt the sting of tears threatening to spill, the weight of our love heavy in the air, “come back for our child, who deserves to grow up with their father.”

In an agonizing moment, he pulled his hand away, and I watched as the red veins, once pulsating with venomous fury, began to fade like mist at dawn. Xaden collapsed to his knees, fingers clawing into the earth, as if seeking refuge in the very ground beneath him.

“Back away, Little Foot.” Ríogh’s warning was accompanied by a fierce gust of wind, Sgaeyl launching into the air. But my eyes remained fixed on Xaden, his anguish palpable as the soil around his hands lost its color, wilting under the weight of his struggle. I instinctively retreated, the dagger slipping back into its sheath as I stumbled backward, my heart pounding.

Suddenly, a sturdy form blocked my path. Garrick’s arms encircled me protectively, but panic surged through me, propelling my feet forward just as the circle ceased expanding, a scream tearing through Xaden’s lips—a sound that reverberated with raw, unfiltered emotion.

“You need to go, Briar,” Garrick urged, his voice a mixture of fear and insistence as he attempted to guide me toward Ríogh. Yet, I stood firm, rooted to the spot.

“Wait.” My voice cut through the air, defiant.

“You promised—”

“Just wait!” I shouted, breaking free from his hold, my resolve solidified as I approached the very edge of the circle. Xaden’s screams morphed, a shift from frustration to fierce determination. I could see him lifting his head, and through the veil of tears, I caught a glimpse of what lay beneath—the onyx eyes now flecked with gold, igniting a spark of recognition in my chest. 

It was my Xaden staring back at me. 

As the circle began to shrink, color returned to the desaturated landscape, and instinct took over, guiding me back to him. 

“The little one says she senses no darkness in him. I’m inclined to agree,” Ríogh’s voice broke through, a beacon of hope as I drew closer.

“You’re saying my absolutely insane idea to put mine and the baby’s lives on the line by touching a venin actually worked?” I laughed, disbelief mingling with relief coursing through the bond between us.

“Sgaeyl thanks you for saving her rider,” came the response, and I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Xay?” I called softly, my voice trembling with the rush of emotions that flooded through me. Standing at arm's length, I could see the myriad of emotions flickering across his face like shadows dancing in the twilight. His eyes met mine with a deep intensity, shining with the remnants of the man I had fought so hard to save.

“How’d you know it would work?” His voice was shaky, a fragile thread woven with uncertainty. I caught sight of his hands, trembling ever so slightly, surely because of Sgaeyl's hesitation to let him tap into her magic for fear of him slipping.

“I didn’t,” I admitted, the truth spilling from my lips like a breath of wind. My heart raced, both from the thrill of his return and the perilous gamble I had taken.

“That was insanely dangerous, Your Grace.” His chastisement cut through the tension, but the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth contradicted the gravity of his words. Thank you for saving me.

“I really hate being called that.” A laugh escaped me, light and buoyant, as I reached out to cup his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath my fingertips—a small, grounding detail that reminded me of who he truly was.

“Then what should I call you? Duchess? Mrs. Riorson? My savior?” His voice held a teasing lilt as he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer, the warmth of his body enveloping me like a protective cocoon.

“Your wife will do just fine.” Relief coursed through me, mingling with joy I thought I had forgotten. I searched his eyes, yearning for confirmation, and finding it—an unwavering promise. “No urges?”

“None, my beautiful wife.” With that, our lips met in a passionate kiss, a moment suspended in time. As I melted into him, I prayed to the gods that he would never let me go.

But just as the world around us faded into a blissful oblivion, a throat cleared behind us, pulling us back into reality. Turning to see our friends gathered, I felt a tinge of embarrassment sweep through me.

“You’re not going to kill us, right?” Garrick asked, his voice laced with wariness as he remained a cautious distance away.

“Because I’m venin? No.” Xaden chuckled, releasing me from his embrace to pull Garrick into a hearty hug. A sense of camaraderie filled the air as he moved on to his cousin, laughter easing the tension in our group. “For bringing my pregnant wife to a battle? Definitely.” 

“Technically, the Duchess brought us into battle,” Bodhi interjected, a smirk lighting up his features. “Rank is a fickle thing in this world, especially considering she’s still a cadet yet somehow out ranks Brennan.”

“I did try to stop her regardless,” Brennan defended, his eyes revealing the weight he carried of having to contend with me but he smiled nonetheless.

Xaden's laughter rang out again, and it warmed my chest, igniting a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. 

“She’s never listened to anything I’ve ever told her.” With a playful shove, I pushed my husband away, but his hand caught my waist, pulling us back together. He pressed another kiss to my lips, sealing the moment with an electric spark that ignited my heart.

 Violet broke through the haze of our shared bliss, her voice sharp and steady amidst the charged atmosphere. “As sweet as this is, we do have an entire city under attack.”  Her words hung heavily in the air. 

Xaden muttered into the kiss, his breath warm against my lips, “Go back to Aretia.” 

The protest slipped from my mouth like a child’s plea, raw and desperate. “I won’t leave you.” My fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt, the coarse material grounding me in this moment that felt both infinite and fleeting. I felt his shadows swirling around me, a tender yet protective caress that ignited in my chest. I leaned further into him, craving the solidity of his presence, already missing everything about this moment, as if it were sand slipping through my fingers.

“I will return to you as soon as I gut the Sage like a fish.” A smirk played on his lips, a flicker of mischief that danced in his stormy eyes. “I have a new reason to end this war, and something tells me it’s going to stick.”

“Come home to me.” My voice, tinged with urgency, turned into a command, a plea wrapped in iron resolve. “Don’t make me a widow before I can experience married life.” 

“Are you saying that as my wife or as the Duchess of Tyrrendor?” he asked, his brow arching, a challenge mingled with affection.

“Both. Never different people with each other, remember?” I pulled on the words he had spoken after he received his title back.

“I love you, my wife.” 

“I love you, my husband.” 

I thought of an entire series for after this so if you would like to see more of what I'm calling The Aretian Chronicles, please let me know! I'll make a post of details and a poll if there is interest!

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans

Comment, ask, or pm to be added to a specific character or everything taglist!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[mikkomacko]

need a blurb of mob nico coming home to reader teaching luke how to tame and style his curls

Omg ok so I’ve always tried to keep reader pretty vague that way everyone can have they’re own perception of what she looks like haha

But I mean my girl is Italian so her hair would most like be textured/wavy/curly ya know??

I can so see Luke coming up to her one night at the bar and just being like “your hair looks really nice.”

And she’s smiling, a little caught off guard but flattered by the compliment. “Thanks Luke, that’s so sweet.”

“Do you-I mean like what stuff do you put it your hair to make it look that nice?”

Reader is so eager to sharing her product line up because her and Johnny have perfected it. Like it’s immaculate. So she’s getting all excited and listing off stuff and Luke has no idea what any of it is. He just nods until she stops talking and then goes kinda shy.

“Do you think you could teach me? Some of the boys have been saying my hair looks bad and that I should comb it or something but it just gets bigger when I do that!”

And oh my goodness reader’s whole day is made. She’s so excited, making plans to take him to the store to pick stuff out and then he can come to the house and she’ll show him how to use everything.

He comes over early Saturday morning for his little beauty lesson and because this is such a big deal, he even gets access to the overly large bathroom attached to reader and Nico’s bedroom.

Which is where Nico finds them when he comes home from his run, shirt damp with sweat and plastered to his skin uncomfortably. He just wants to get in the shower, get dressed for the day, and then spend the day lounging around with his girl.

Unfortunately he’s stopped by the sight of Luke sat on a stool from the kitchen, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and wet hair dripping down his forehead.

“Uhhh what’s happening here?”

Her and Luke both freeze, turning to him with the same deer in headlights look. Reader smiles then, waving the bottle of leave in conditioner in her hand.

“Luke is learning,” is all she says and Nico just nods, moving into the bathroom and perching against the counter to watch them. His clothes are drying and feel odd and gross on his skin, but he doesn’t care.

Because it’s actually entertaining to watch her explain everything to Luke, to make him tip his head upside down while she scrunches mouse into it and then curl the shorter pieces by his face with her finger, and even when she puts two claw clips in the wet ringlets on top of his head.

“For volume,” she explains simply, that look of pure concentration on her face that makes her look so cute. And Luke is hanging on her every word, like a school child, obediently nodding his head and asking questions.

Nico remembers the first time he watched this exact same routine, listened to her tell him about everything and while Nico knew she sometimes hated doing it, he loves her hair when it’s naturally styled, just a bit frizzy and curling around her face and neck.

He always wished his hair wasn’t so pin straight, so flat all the time. So yeah he admires it, admires her, and if he pictures this same moment in the future with mini version of him and her instead of Luke sat in that chair, well then that’s his little secret for now.

Afterwards, when Luke’s hair is mostly dry and he’s given up on trying to figure out the diffuser, he’s looking to Nico with his mouth parted in shock. “Did you know so much work went into this?”

And Nico is laughing. “Yeah man. I watch her get ready almost everyday.”

[qwanderer]

hey y'all, first off just wanted to let you know that we are adding some of these updates to ao3 here! We'll try to archive more over there if we can.

Also, I have taken so much material from @wordsinhaled and a few things from @autumn-equinox-04 and @nix-nihili to create:

Five Times the Boys hang out at Edwin's place and One time they go somewhere New

(warning for some, ah, undernegotiated kink? they don't realize it's kink because, and I can't stress this enough, they are not yet together when it happens.)

1. The Planning Stages

It's gonna be fun, Charles thinks, doing a cooking show with Edwin. He's obviously brilliant, and so much fun to hang out with.

When Charles goes over to his place for a planning session, they get some brainstorming in before Charles gets drawn in by the beautiful, professional grade kitchen that is the centerpiece of the flat.

Not much.

But after all, Edwin had already floated the idea of filming some cooking segments here; Charles will need to get comfortable with the space, won't he?

It's so shiny, but it's not like a showpiece; it's full of well used and well cared for equipment. Charles takes a look around, trying not to imagine Edwin in here, having a quiet morning, rumpled and soft, using the French press that's sitting in the dish drainer. Tries instead to imagine making a television show, using this space to show off Charles's cooking.

"So we'll set up like this, right," Charles says, gesturing to the gas range and countertop on the island, "with the main cameras overhead and behind the bar? So I'll want to be showing stuff that way." He points to Edwin where he's sitting at the bar.

"I'll play the role of the cameras, then," Edwin says. "Now. If you really want to familiarize yourself with the space, you should cook something."

Charles looks up at him with wide eyes. "Can I?"

"Be my guest," Edwin says with a crooked little smile.

Charles laughs, because yeah, he's kinda playing at being host here. He takes a more assessing look around. "Right. Let's see what you've got. Lemme know if anything's off limits, yeah? Don't wanna accidentally break into your secret stash of something you've been saving for a special occasion, do I?"

"Even if I were prone to such things," Edwin tells him, "I venture to say this would qualify."

"What, as a special occasion?"

"If we cannot celebrate beginning a joint venture in this television series," Edwin says, "when can we celebrate?"

He hadn't thought about it like that. "S'pose you're right about that." Charles's grin feels like it's gonna break his face.

This is important to Edwin, and he wants to celebrate with Charles.

Not anyone else, Charles.

Well, who else does he have to celebrate with, Charles wonders? After the whole "No one has ever cooked for me" bit that first time he'd come to the restaurant, maybe no one.

It dims the joy just a little.

Charles doesn't prod at the subject head on, but he's read enough of Edwin's blog at this point to read some stuff between the lines, so he asks little easy questions instead, the best parts about culinary school, favorite tricks he learned. Hides them in between questions about what ingredients he has stashed away and Edwin's favorite foods.

It's just fun, mostly, it's fun hanging out with Edwin and figuring out the logic of his kitchen and getting sidetracked by the smallest things.

Once he picks a dish and actually starts cooking, he notices Edwin has his phone out.

"What are you doing?" Charles asks.

"You are also going to need to get used to having a camera on you as you cook," Edwin says.

Right.

Charles giggles self-consciously. It is a little weird. "Got me there," Charles says, and tries to shake off the feeling.

But cooking is familiar, and anyway soon another problem distracts Charles.

Not all of Edwin's spices are labeled.

Of course there are some spices Charles and his mum buy in bulk at the farmer's market and then put in an unlabeled jar at home, he's used to the way she does it, but Edwin does it differently. Which is a lot more disorienting than Charles would have thought.

"Edwin, mate, where do you keep the cumin?" he asks absently, staring at the unfamiliar but neat rows of jars on the shelves.

"Top shelf, on the left, with a blue lid," Edwin answers immediately.

Good, it exists. Now. Where the hell is it?

"Is that your left or my left?" Charles asks over his shoulder.

"...We have the same left."

Ah. Right.

Wait. That looks like cumin.

"Is it this one, then?" Charles asks, opening the jar to sniff it.

Ah. Nope, definitely anise.

"Charles. Does that look blue to you?" Edwin says, slightly exasperated.

Charles looks down at the lid in his other hand.

The lid that was on the anise is definitely pink.

"Right," he tells Edwin, and the phone he is still pointing directly at Charles. "No one else can see that video, ever."

"This is why we are practicing filming," Edwin says a bit smugly. "To work out any issues like this before the professional camera crew arrives."

Charles smiles a bit sheepishly. "Guess maybe it is affecting my focus a little," he admits.

"Then we shall have to continue with the exercise," Edwin says mildly. "Go on, tell me how to prepare to make a dish like this."

So Charles gets all his ingredients ready, showing them off to Edwin's phone, then starting in on the chopping.

Edwin is gonna make a great host, Charles thinks, the way he's asking all these interesting questions in his smooth, posh voice.

Then Edwin and his phone are leaning in, focusing on the cutting board. “Show the viewers at home how finely you’re meant to mince the chillies, Charles,” he says.

So Charles does his best, making fine little even dices.

“There we are!" Edwin exclaims. "See how expertly that was done, that’s beautiful.”

Ah, wait, there's something about the way Edwin says the word beautiful that… well. Charles doesn't know if anyone's ever used the word beautiful about him before, even if it's just. No, yeah. It's just about his skills. He tells himself. Firmly.

Fuck, he can feel himself blushing.

I need to get it together!

He tries to push it off, make a joke out of it. “Mate, I’m pretty sure you’re meant to be highlighting the food, not me.”

Edwin gives him an inscrutable look. “Can we separate one from the other, Charles? This show is as much about you as it is about the food. And it is your food, with your soul in it. This dish would not be the same if someone else made it. It is only right that you should be highlighted.”

He’s so vehement about it that Charles has to put down the knife. Just for a moment. For knife safety. Because he is absolutely melting. And just a bit, maybe, falling in love.

Charles can't take the attention all being on him, from Edwin and the camera, so he says, "Right, put the phone away and come here, you know you're gonna be the host and not camera crew, yeah?"

He realizes, once Edwin comes around the island to join him, that it's a miscalculation, but it's such a good one. He only ever wants to tease Edwin closer.

Charles focuses on the food, narrating as he goes, moving to the stove to sweat the onions, adding the garlic, spices and chilies to the pan and stirring, then, when it smells just right, the tomatoes.

"That smells absolutely heavenly," Edwin says, soft and breathy and closer than Charles realized.

"Cheers, mate," Charles replies on autopilot, his conscious mind suddenly coming up entirely empty. And there's nothing much left to do, the sauce just has to simmer for a few more minutes before the lentils and veggies get added.

"Now, do you prefer to cook vegetarian dishes when you can?" Edwin asks, thankfully filling the silence. "For yourself, I mean. I know your restaurant serves meat. But I notice you didn't take any out for this meal."

Well, the truth is, Charles hadn't wanted to use anything too expensive, even after Edwin gave him free rein of the kitchen, so the lentils had caught his eye as something that wouldn't be too hard to replace, if Edwin doesn't end up liking this dish. But he's not gonna mention that.

"Nah, I wouldn't say I'm vegetarian by preference or anything, but I also think a meal doesn't need to have meat in it to be pretty phenomenal."

"Judging by the aroma, I would say you are about to prove that very much correct," Edwin says.

Charles stirs the sauce, and he thinks it's probably just ready, so he gets a spoonful ready to taste.

And then he has an idea. The best, worst idea.

He offers the spoonful of sauce to Edwin. "Tell me if it needs anything, yeah?" he asks.

Edwin brings the spoon to his mouth and tastes. Charles watches, more invested in the reaction than he has any right to be.

Edwin closes his eyes and makes a soft, delighted noise.

It’s right, then, if Edwin is making a face like that.

Well, Charles knows his business, knows he's good at this and he's done his work here, but there’s something about making it taste just right to… someone important.

Something about getting to watch the bloom of joy on Edwin’s face and the way Edwin laughs reflexively as everything sinks into his palate. The absolute focus he devotes to just a little spoonful of sauce.

“Good?” Charles says, grinning like mad.

At that, Edwin opens his eyes and says, “Charles, I do believe you are fishing for compliments.” But he’s got a smile quirking up his mouth. Then he gives a quiet almost-laugh, and says, “Alright, then. Shall I tell you what I really think?”

Charles gives him a daring, gleeful look. “Tell me what Edwin E. E. Payne thinks.”

Edwin beams. “It’s perfect.”

Then they're just smiling at each other like fools, surrounded by the aroma of the simmering sauce, and Charles could swear there's a light, an interest in Edwin's eyes, and he wants to reach out…

Maybe it's… it's probably just… yeah, Edwin is clearing his throat and turning away.

For a minute there, he'd thought they'd had a moment, but nah.

Of course it's about food, the love of Edwin's life is food. It's what brings him into the restaurant, puts that sparkle in his eyes, obviously, that's why he's built his whole life around it on purpose, not like Charles, who just carries on family traditions as best he can.

Charles fell into food. It was kinda always gonna be his life. He loves it, yeah, but not the way Edwin does. Edwin chose it over everything and everyone he knew.

Stands to reason he'd do it again.

2: Shooting Begins

For some reason, Edwin is absolutely turning into a different person as they're wrapping up the first week of shooting at his flat. At first Charles thinks it's another kind of nervous reaction to the cameras, but Edwin is just as weirdly jittery and bouncy and energetic when the cameras get put away and it's just them again.

Charles's second guess is that Edwin has met someone new dating-wise, and is weirdly relieved when he discovers Edwin filling up his French press for the third time in one day.

It is absolutely a bad sign all around, but Charles can't help but be endeared by this new side of Edwin, an Edwin who's a tad bit hyperactive and talks insanely fast and keeps moving and Charles just.

Well. He finds himself thinking, How much more is there to learn about you? What if there's no end to it? What if I could do this for the rest of my life? What if I could see all the different sides of you, all your facets, and know you better than anyone ever? What else could ever make me happier?

Charles can't help but flirt with Edwin when he's like this, so goddamn responsive, quick to smile or laugh or throw some sarcastic quip back (and that is way more endearing than it should be, one of Charles's favorite responses if he's being honest), but Charles tries to keep it… he wants to say subtle, but he knows he's not being subtle.

Tries to keep plausible deniability on the table, is probably the way to put it.

And it's hard for Charles to think about anything except kissing Edwin's lively, coffee-bitter mouth, but meanwhile Edwin is intent on finding new things to worry about, like, apparently he's looked up statistics on what makes a successful cooking show and humor is essential. And now he's stressing over whether he has the comedy chops for the job.

"Was that all right?" he keeps asking, breaking the rhythm of the sequence. "I'm afraid I may not be living up to the potential of the concept."

He looks like he's about to start vibrating at frequencies unknown to humankind.

"Right, time for a break," Charles says, and hauls him out to the balcony again.

Edwin has gotten a second deck chair since the last time Charles was out here, which Charles supposes means he's supposed to sit in it, which is, like, really thoughtful, but it's too far away from Edwin's chair, so Charles drags his over until it's right next to Edwin's, before he can think too hard about that.

"I'm not doing it properly, am I?" Edwin is asking. "And this whole production supposedly hinges on me. As the host. My strengths do not lie in engaging with people."

Charles reaches out to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Mate, you just need to relax a little bit, get a little looser maybe, but you're already incredible, you don't need to stress so hard, they'll all love you —" and he bites off the rest before it escapes, like how I love you.

Edwin doesn't seem to notice the abrupt stop. "You do it all so naturally, it flows out of you, and meanwhile I am simply trying not to snap shut like a clam. For me, that can take a great deal of energy."

No, it's snapping shut that's taking it out of me, Charles thinks.

Edwin rubs at his eyes tiredly, and mutters, "Fuck, I need more coffee."

"No, nope," Charles tells him, leaning in to catch Edwin's eye. “I think we’ve got to cut you off the caffeine, mate,” he says.

“Oh god, no, be merciful, Charles,” Edwin begs, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back on his shoulders.

Charles bites his lip, contemplating Edwin. "No wonder you thought we should practice being on camera beforehand," he says. "This whole thing still really freaks you out, dunnit?"

"Yes," Edwin answers without opening his eyes.

"Well," Charles ventures, "I can give you a pressure point hand massage? They’re pretty relaxing. It helps a lot when I get hand cramps from chopping so much."

Edwin opens one eye, and Charles reaches out, letting his hand hover over one of Edwin's, waiting for an invitation.

Edwin lifts his hand, offering it up.

Charles gets to work, gently at first, watching Edwin's face carefully to see if he's hitting any tender spots. Then he digs in at an angle right in close to the first big thumb bone, a spot that gives Charles trouble sometimes.

Edwin inhales sharply, but as Charles soothes fingertips across the spot, Edwin relaxes into a soft sigh.

"There," says Charles. "Better already, innit?"

A soft hum gives Charles his answer. Then Edwin's eyes blink open, and he's watching Charles slightly muzzily.

(Charles pushes down the thought that he'd really like to see that look, and hear these soft noises, in other contexts. Not important.)

"When." Edwin clears his throat, and tries again. "Ah. When were you going to tell me that you have this skill?"

Charles brushes that question aside to focus on what's up with Edwin. "Why are you so freaked out, anyway? Like, you've got some viral vids out there."

"Those were flukes," Edwin says dismissively. The way his hand twitches and tries to clench in Charles's says he has some big feelings about that, anyway.

"Nah," Charles responds simply.

“Charles, I do not know how to be funny, not on purpose. You have to help me.”

“Mate, what are you on about?" Charles says, shaking his head. "You’re bloody hilarious.”

“Yes, but that is when I’m talking to you, alone. This is." Edwin lets out a breath. "This is different.”

Charles’s stomach swoops, buffeted by turbulent emotions. Edwin can’t be saying that Charles is special in the way that Charles wants to be.

Can he?

"Different how, mate?" Charles asks, eyes focused down on their hands as he is still kneading the tension out of the muscles of Edwin's thumb.

"Charles, you cannot be serious!" Edwin's hand twitches with annoyance in the cradle of Charles's. "There are no cameras on us, nobody watching..."

Charles thinks there must be more to it. The camera crew honestly isn't that big, and they're quickly becoming friends all around. And Edwin is already a public figure, he's been in a couple viral videos, stuff like that.

"Well, yeah," he offers, looking up at Edwin now, "but.... is it because it's me?"

With that question in the air, it's suddenly obvious how close they are to each other, Charles bent over, working the tension out of Edwin's hands.

Hands are full of nerves. It feels intimate as anything he's done with anyone. And he's staring into Edwin's eyes, and Edwin is staring right back.

God, Charles could just lean right in…

Edwin gives a soft sigh, so close Charles can feel it.

"Of course it is you, Charles!" Edwin says with quiet, earnest emphasis. "I am relaxed when I am around you, I am comfortable. You are my friend, I do not feel.... pressured."

If that answer makes Charles feel things, well, he sets that all aside, it's not useful. What does Edwin need right now?

He needs his friend.

"Well, I'll be right there with you, won't I?" Charles tells Edwin with a cheery smile. "Tell me your jokes, show me the food, explain everything in that pretty little head of yours to me. Not the camera. Me."

Edwin blinks at him. "...Pretty little head?" he asks.

Charles does a quick mental replay and oh, oh fuck, that was not supposed to slip out. He thought he told all those feelings to bugger off.

How do I even talk my way out of this one?

Pretty little head, what the fuck was he thinking, that could come across kinda patronizing, huh? Quick. What's the opposite of that?

"Well," says Charles, trying to sound confident and unbothered and probably totally failing. "I just meant that, you know, you're so intelligent!"

Frowning, Edwin says tentatively, "You said pretty," as if he isn't actually sure he heard it.

He's been trying to backpedal, but. Well. The last thing Charles is going to do right now is deny that he thinks Edwin is pretty.

Maybe if he says it, like, casual enough, it won't ruin anything.

Charles shrugs like it's not a big deal. "That's just how I see it, yeah? That's how I see you."

Edwin stares at him for a long moment. Then he clears his throat.

"Right," he says. "Well. I have some material in mind, but perhaps I ought to practice it without the camera on me first. Would you…"

And the conversation just moves on.

Charles tries not to worry.

He literally just said how he likes I don't make him feel pressured. How he thinks of me as a friend.

That was not a friend thing to say.

Well, I said what I said, and he doesn't seem to hate me for that, so it's fine, right?

Right.

3. Filming Continues

Edwin feels drawn to Charles like a magnet, constantly, and although he knows that it is likely unwise to continue organizing his life around any chance he can get to be closer to the man, he can't seem to help it.

There was one instance. One exactly. In the restaurant. When Charles reached out and adjusted Edwin's bow tie for him, and Charles's warm fingers just brushed incidentally across Edwin's neck. And Edwin was left stammering and breathless.

Edwin knows that Charles and his mother would not think less of him for foregoing a tie when visiting their establishment, but Edwin always puts one on, and they get increasingly flashy and eye-catching every time, until Edwin feels as if he is begging, visibly, for that moment to play itself out again, for Charles to notice and reach out and touch.

He feels more alive when he is with Charles. More vital. As if the air is fresher and more oxygenated when Charles is in the vicinity. He yearns for the color and energy that Charles brings into his life seemingly effortlessly.

After today's shoot, Edwin is feeling more than usually inadequate in comparison to Charles. And it's one of the days where he fears that his parents may have been right.

"Law and accounting are in your blood," his father used to say. "You'll realize eventually that pursuing anything else would be pure foolishness."

He knows, intellectually, that he has already proven his father quite wrong. He loves his work, and he is successful. But it doesn't stop the doubts from haunting him.

And today the haunting is fierce. Yes, perhaps Edwin is only good at making an account of food, at measuring it by rules. Perhaps he will never be an artist, never know the heart and soul of food the way Charles does.

The cameras and crew and equipment are gone or stowed away for next time, and only Charles remains, putting the kitchen back in its proper order. Edwin sits down at the bar and sighs.

"Still having a rough go of it?" Charles asks, frowning in sympathy.

How can he explain this? The way the stress is bringing back old doubts. Old demons.

Without making Charles feel that he has to remind Edwin that quitting the show is an option.

"Watching you cook is always a delight," he begins, and Charles beams. "And I know I am… very technically skilled at cooking. But there is something missing that I did not know was missing until I tasted your cooking."

It's an inadequate explanation, and Edwin knows it.

"Edwin," Charles says earnestly. "Your food is amazing. Pretty sure there's not, like, some secret skill you're missing."

"Perhaps. But some days, I cannot help but think there is."

Charles comes around the bar and takes him by the shoulders, looks him in the eye. Presses his lips together thoughtfully.

"Okay, well." Charles takes a breath. "Listen. You know, like, so much stuff about how food works in technical ways, right down to chemical ways. But you’re so stiff and perfect about it. Always expect so much from yourself. And maybe that's the problem. So like. Forget about what's wrong or right. What do you feel when you cook?"

"Truly, that did not factor into my education," Edwin says. "I had to get it right. That was the important thing. And I don't regret learning any of what I did, I could never, but I do have an inner critic which I struggle to filter out."

And Charles's face gets this gleeful, almost wicked look to it, and he says, "Right, we’re trying something. Do you trust me?"

Soon Edwin finds himself blindfolded, Charles standing behind him while Edwin sautees vegetables he cannot see.

He would know by smell if they were burning. It is still an uncomfortable lack.

"See, there," says Charles. "A little stiff, yeah?" And then his hands are on Edwin's shoulders, smoothing away the tension. "Keep stirring, you're doing great."

Edwin lets out a breath, and he keeps stirring.

"Smells good, doesn't it?" Charles asks. "But it needs spices. Hold out your hand."

"Why?" Edwin asks, but he raises his hand anyway. He trusts Charles.

"I'm gonna pour the cardamom pods in there so you can feel them and smell them," says Charles. "Decide how much the dish wants."

Charles's hand cradles his, shaping it into a cup, then the cardamom pods fall into the hollow of Edwin's palm, the gentlest patter of sensation.

This whole exercise, Edwin thinks, is going to ruin him, but he would not move away for the world.

The cardamom smells warm, almost musky, especially when combined with the heat of skin.

Charles guides his hands as they add the spices, and keeps drawing his attention to the little details he can perceive.

“Deep breaths!" he urges. "Breathe in the aroma of what you’re making."

So Edwin breathes.

"Now how is the flavor speaking to you?" Charles asks, his lips just brushing the shell of Edwin's ear. "What does it want to become?"

His hands are on Edwin's shoulders again, his thumbs skimming the base of Edwin's neck through the thin fabric of his shirt. And Edwin can smell the cardamom insinuating itself into the essence of the food.

And suddenly it does all make sense, it makes perfect sense, only it's not about the food, is it? Edwin feels as if he's just short-circuited; Charles is asking him to feel, and Edwin feels, when he is peeled down like this, when he is asked to notice; he notices instinct and flavor and Charles, and Edwin is suddenly consumed with the question, what does Charles taste like? Exactly. What does he taste like exactly in this moment. What elements of flavor linger from one source or another to decorate his natural taste, and what is the base and heart of it?

Edwin has never needed to know anything so badly in his life.

Pinned between the warmth of the stove in front and the warmth of Charles behind him, cradled in the sounds and the scents of Charles's cooking, Edwin is overwhelmed. He's alone in the warm dark with the spectre of Charles. Charles is so close, he's so close, how can Edwin pay any attention to the food in these conditions? There's only one thing he wants to taste.

He fights not to shake with the force of the emotion.

If Edwin is not very careful, he is going to snap and he is going to ruin everything.

He needs to turn and kiss Charles, or he needs to get out of this situation.

He reaches up to pull off the blindfold.

Here is his kitchen, bright and normal. Here is Charles, stepping away.

"Not helping?" Charles asks. When Edwin only blinks at him wordlessly, he says, "Sorry, that was weird, wasn't it."

"No, no, it's," Edwin stumbles, searching for the right words. "It was a clever thought."

"Hey, if it's not your thing, no reason to suffer through, yeah?" Charles steps in to tend the stove, rescuing the food.

Edwin needs to find a way to say that it was precisely his thing, which is the problem. Without. Pushing the issue. "It is… a lot," he manages.

Charles shoots him a regretful look. "Of course, yeah, we already did that whole shoot earlier, sorry, should've thought that one through better."

"Charles," says Edwin, wanting his attention, but finding once he has it that he doesn't know what he means to say. Except.

"Thank you." Edwin takes a breath. "Perhaps… we can try it again. Another time."

Charles gives him a searching look. "Right," he says. "I'll clean this up. You get some rest, yeah?"

Edwin nods in agreement. He is still slightly dazed, so he goes to sit on the sofa, clasping his hands together and looking at nothing at all while his mind spins and spins.

As it turns out, Charles doesn’t just clean up, he finishes the dish, ladles it into a bowl and sets it in front of Edwin.

"Need anything else?" he asks.

Edwin shakes his head.

"Right, I'm off. Call if you need anything. I mean it."

Edwin thinks perhaps Charles presses a feather-light kiss to the top of his head as he leaves, as if it's normal. But he hasn't got the presence of mind to be sure.

After the door has clicked shut, Edwin reaches for the bowl. Has a bite of what they've made.

The taste of it wakes up his beleaguered brain.

It tastes like…

Well, like love, like passion, like all the things Edwin longs for more of in his life. All warm and solid and cupped in his two hands.

And it strikes Edwin then that Charles is the one who arranged them in such an intimate position. He is the one who brushed past Edwin's ear with his mouth.

He must be interested.

Edwin sets the bowl aside so that he can put his head in his hands.

God, I should have asked him to stay over; I am the world’s most hapless man.

But no, Charles wants to help connect Edwin with the food. Food is a sensory experience that Charles gives to hundreds of people every day. He takes pride in it. This could be nothing more than an extension of that.

But most of all. What if Charles is. What if Charles is coming on to him. Not because it's what he wants. But because Edwin, and the show, represent an opportunity. Oh, he would never do it on purpose. Not consciously. But Edwin holds a certain amount of power over him, right now, as the host of a show that will decide how their restaurant appears to the public at large for the foreseeable future. It would be no wonder if Charles felt the need to be… appealing, right now.

There are too many possible factors. Everything is racing through his mind, he needs to set it down on paper, although that is generally more of a morning ritual.

He reaches for his journal, finding the page with this morning's entry.

We have been filming for nearly three weeks now. I cannot tell Charles I love him today. Much as I would like to, much as it threatens to spill out at the most inconvenient moments—when the cameras are trained on me, able to see everything I do, every expression on my face, every time my hand twitches with the need to hold his. Charles is the best friend I could ask for. Perhaps one day I will learn to be content with things as they are and this longing will stop eating me up alive. Yesterday he put his hand on my shoulder to comfort me and it tethered me to the earth. It worked—Charles can soothe my anxieties like no one else can, even when he is the cause of them. But it was also indescribably maddening. His thumb moved in little soothing circles and my entire existence seemed to suspend itself, as it so often does, between his eyes and our single point of contact. I do not know how I am doing this. how I continue to do this, every day. But I must.

Today's session was no different, and it strikes Edwin now how very tactile Charles truly is with him. The number of times Charles has taken his hand to pull him outside onto the balcony for a break, or just casually brushed his hand while handing him a bundle of herbs.

How many times has he interrupted to say something like, "Hey, mate, I think this needs a more vigorous stir," and put his hand over Edwin's around the stirring-spoon to take it from him. When Edwin is giving him something to try off a fork, Charles might be wrapping his hand around Edwin's where Edwin holds the fork to steady it. When they pass things back and forth across the kitchen, whenever it's even vaguely useful; or even when it's not.

Edwin is losing his mind.

Does it mean something?

Well, of course, it means everything. It means more than every touch from every person who has ever so much as shaken Edwin's hand.

More than anyone he has dated, certainly, by far. Those were mere dalliances. Fleeting and messy entanglements that left him feeling cold and lonelier than before. Nothing like the absolute slow-spreading maddening burn that is consuming him now for Charles Rowland. Nothing like being at Charles’s hearth and just wanting to draw closer.

He must know what he is doing to Edwin. He must be doing this on purpose.

Could Edwin be blamed for—

—for taking advantage?

No, he tells himself sharply, this is exactly why I mustn't.

I cannot be the one to make the first move. Not while he is a guest on my show.

He writes it down, underlines it twice, and closes his journal.

—

Blearily stumbling back into his kitchen the next morning after woefully inadequate sleep, Edwin realizes he'd meant to pick up more coffee yesterday, after the shoot, but he'd gotten distracted. He doesn't have quite enough left in the bag for a proper cup.

He is going to have to stop at a coffee shop before filming today's segment at the restaurant.

He goes to glare at the kettle, but finds his view interrupted by something unexpected. A fresh bag of coffee — and yes, it's the right type, identical in every way to the mostly empty bag in the cupboard, except that it is full.

And that it has a post-it note on it.

thought you'd need this - charles

Edwin's resolve weakens as his heart flips over in his chest.

When he walks into the restaurant with his piping hot travel mug full of just right coffee and raises it in a toast to Charles across the kitchen, Charles beams at him.

Charles is absolutely going to be the death of him.

4: Halfway Through the Filming Schedule

Of course Charles meant it when he said they should spend more nights together, if it meant Edwin was more likely to sleep.

He hadn't, maybe, really considered what that was gonna mean when he'd said it.

Doesn't really understand what it does mean until he finds himself standing in the bedroom doorway, trying to explain that there's no reason why they both have to squeeze onto Edwin's little couch like they're trying to hide from sleep to ambush it.

"Mate," he says, exasperated. "If this is gonna become a regular thing, I’m not gonna kick you out of your own bedroom every time, don’t be daft."

Edwin hesitates. "But if the point is for me to feel comfortable because you are next to me…"

"Then that's where I'll be," says Charles, gesturing at the bed. When Edwin still doesn't look convinced, Charles insists, "I promise I'm not gonna make it weird."

Edwin sighs, but he stands and follows Charles through into the bedroom.

And it could be awkward, maybe it should feel awkward, but instead it's just natural to lean up against the headboard and chat. There's no TV in here, but Edwin has so many books, magazines, even board games tucked away somewhere, apparently.

Edwin ends up reading aloud from Julia Child's My Life in France, which he's read several times before, apparently, and his voice softens as if he's speaking about a friend.

“'When I wasn't at school, I was experimenting at home,'" he reads, "'and became a bit of a Mad Scientist. I did hours of research on mayonnaise, for instance, and though no one else seemed to care about it, I thought it was utterly fascinating.... By the end of my research, I believe, I had written more on the subject of mayonnaise than anyone in history.'”

Charles is fascinated by it all, although Edwin had presented it as something tame to settle down with. At least Edwin does settle; he falls into long pauses, and then the book starts to droop, until Charles pulls it out of his unresisting hands and sets it aside.

Edwin falls asleep on Charles’s shoulder, and Charles carefully tucks him into his own bed and stretches out next to him.

Just looking. And longing.

Longing to brush Edwin’s hair from his forehead, but he can't.

Can't break that trust by taking advantage, by taking too much.

Edwin nuzzles in in his sleep, he's so so warm, and that almost breaks Charles's resolve, but he wants so badly to be worthy of the trust that Edwin has placed in him, even if he's not sure he can be (God, why did he suggest this. It's gonna break him, or them, or both).

No, he has to be good enough.

It's the trust that makes Charles's heart go tender, but there's so much more than that.

Like, Charles hasn't even kissed anybody in what's maybe a really long time, for him at least, and it makes him restless, itchy, to be so close to somebody so gorgeous and not do anything about it.

But Edwin isn't just kissable. There's so much more to him, and the stuff that he gets to see, being friends, being a close and trusted friend, that stuff is not a consolation prize. It's everything.

It's Edwin's eyes, the way they change color in different lights, sometimes sea glass, sometimes slate, sometimes a stormy sky, sometimes a lake on a placid day. It's his sense of humor that's always so surprising and pointed, it shocks a laugh out of Charles every time, because Edwin when he wants to can be audacious and incisive and he's so fucking smart, too.

It's the way he speaks, the way he notices everything, observant and ever careful of other people. It's the way Edwin treats Charles's mum, with respect and deference and warmth, and a tiny tinge of fear — just like Charles.

It's the way Edwin holds himself stiffly for everyone, and the soft parts of him that Charles gets to see as the layers fall away, the way he relaxes at the table. The way little tidbits come out slowly, about his childhood, or about his interests, or about his life before they met.

It's the way Edwin likes to project coolness and poise, but inside he has so much fierce caring, such a deep well of affection and vulnerable softness, and an undercurrent of strength. And whenever a tiny bit of that inner Edwin comes out to touch Charles it feels like nothing else Charles has ever experienced. A privilege. A gift.

It's Edwin's smile, his fucking dimples and how expressive his eyebrows are, how he can say so much in a single look, and the language of his hands. How elegant he looks in the kitchen, moving between sink, worktop, and stove like a dancer. His wrists when he stirs, his gestures when he's talking about a new menu item and he's caught in excitement about flavors melding together to tell a story. His attention to detail anytime he plates a dish, tongue caught between his teeth as he places the garnish, and the happy little tiny noise he doesn't even know he makes when he gets it just right. it's the facts he just somehow knows, the languages, all crammed in his brain ready to be called forth at a moment's notice.

It's the Kannada he speaks with Charles's mum, that he learned all on his own, for Charles's family, for Charles. It's the way the regulars at the restaurant know him and he greets them like old friends after a while.

It's the rug in Edwin's bedroom shaped like a dog and the scribbled-on pieces of paper on his bedside table and the vintage prints on the walls of Edwin's flat.

It's everything.

And being surrounded by it all, here, in Edwin's bed with Edwin snuggled against him, makes it impossible to resist touching him, but it also means he has to resist.

He has to.

It's gonna destroy him.

He wants to stay awake and savor it anyway.

—

He wakes to the smell of chai simmering and for a confused minute he thinks he's home with his mum, but no, this is Edwin's flat.

Charles grinds the spices fresh, when he can, like his mum does. And he keeps some here. And how many times has Edwin watched him grind them, he wonders, and put everything in the pot to simmer?

From the smell of it, enough times.

Charles's heart lurches in his chest.

And "everything" means a little bit more.

5: Last Reshoots

Charles keeps spending the night. How can he not? Edwin looks so much better rested when he does.

It's gotten easier (Charles tells himself. He tells himself hoping to make it true. It hasn't) to be around Edwin, to ignore the attraction, the… everything.

He can be just friends with Edwin. He's gotten so good at it.

Doesn't matter how much it aches.

He'll do his best.

Tonight he's watched Edwin try and fail to sleep, can't sleep himself either, not with Edwin so restless, and so they've given up and are playing truth or dare.

Charles has been made to dance the Macarena and done a pathetic attempt at juggling, entirely worth it to hear Edwin laugh.

Edwin has not once picked dare. It's like he doesn't trust Charles! (And that's probably wise, to be honest, especially at this hour.)

Charles so badly wants to get a rise out of him, see him get a little embarrassed too.

When Edwin picks truth again, Charles just plain asks, “Tell me something embarrassing that you haven’t told me yet.” Then watches, enthralled, as expressions cross Edwin's face in quick succession. Widening eyes, set jaw, pensive look. Tiny wince. Resignation.

“Well, I’ve…" Edwin begins eventually, "I may have invented some dishes inspired by you. I know, it’s a bit odd—"

'Odd' is not the word Charles would use.

“Mate! No! That’s brills! That’s… really? Inspired by me? Listen, you’re talking to the bloke who made ‘Edwin’s curry’ a semi official menu item, yeah? So what’d you make?”

"Well… there was a deconstructed tamarind duck that I thought came out rather well…"

"Okay," says Charles, "you have to make that for me." He starts untangling himself from the sheets.

“What, now?” Edwin blinks back at him.

“Yes, now!" Charles gives Edwin his best grin. "What’re we doing anyway? We’re not sleeping. C’monnnn, Edwin.”

Edwin purses his lips, looking uncertain.

"Please?"

"You needn't beg," Edwin says. "I am simply trying to figure out if I have all the necessary ingredients on hand."

"And do you?" Charles asks hopefully.

"I have the duck," Edwin says, untangling himself from the bedclothes with precision, "but it will need to thaw, so best to get that underway first thing. I usually serve it with greens, but I am not entirely sure what I have at the moment." He stands and heads for the bedroom door.

"And the rest of it's basically the tamarind paste and seasonings that go in the sauce, right?" Charles asks, scrambling to follow. "Not sure how you'd deconstruct that, really."

"Actually," Edwin says over his shoulder as they make their way to the kitchen, "I used fresh tamarind to make a jam."

"Woah, really?" Charles ponders that. "And you have fresh tamarind?"

"No. However, the first time I made it, I canned the remainder of the jam. I believe I still have a jar."

"Aces," says Charles, and situates himself on a barstool to watch as Edwin starts his prep.

First Edwin retrieves the duck and makes up a cold water bath for it, then starts getting out his dishes and tools, rooting around in the pantry until he finds the jam.

It's one in the morning, and everything feels surreal, most especially the fact that Edwin is making a whole dish just for Charles because he asked, because of a silly game of truth or dare.

A whole dish inspired by him. With all different parts and everything. And Charles had thought the chutney was amazing.

"So you said this was inspired by me?" Charles asks, wondering how that works.

“Well," Edwin says, retrieving a bag of flour, "duck symbolizes family connections. Protection. Trust. All things that are quite important to you, of course. That much was clear to see after our first meeting.”

“Aw, mate." Charles does a mental double take. "—Wait, hang on, you did this one up after our first meeting?”

“…And tamarind…” Edwin presses on, “often represents a meeting-place… as well as resilience, and adaptability. I admit I thought of the restaurant itself, and I did not know yet how much you embodied both of those qualities when I created this recipe, Charles, but coming to know you only served to assure me that I had made the right choice of ingredient.”

Ah, fuck.

Edwin is so sure of himself when he's cooking, so graceful, and now all of that skill is pointed squarely at Charles, at complimenting him, and how is Charles supposed to survive that?

"And as for the deconstruction," Edwin ponders, oblivious to Charles's quiet crisis, "I wanted something brighter and more lively than the usual tamarind paste sauce, so I broke it down into three main elements, a simple tamarind jam, crispy fried ginger, and a savory fish sauce."

Then Edwin is frowning into the fridge.

"Missing something?" Charles asks.

"Originally I served this with gai lan," Edwin laments, "but kale will have to do." He retrieves the greens.

"I'm sure it'll be great," Charles offers.

"Still. I'll have to make it properly for you someday," Edwin says offhandedly.

Like it's a foregone conclusion they'll keep having meals together like this, even after the series ends, after Edwin has moved on to the next big project.

Charles kicks the legs of his barstool lightly, trying not to think too hard about it.

Edwin sets out his ingredients and then begins peeling and slicing the fresh ginger, narrating in the way he's become so much more familiar with over the course of shooting. Preparing the ginger and the kale passes the rest of the time until the duck is thawed and ready to cook.

"Now I don't have to explain to you how best to cook duck breast," Edwin says pointedly.

"Duck's pretty difficult to screw up," Charles offers.

"Well." Edwin tilts his head to one side. "One would think."

"Oh, there's a story there," Charles prompts, setting his chin in his hands.

"While Crystal and I were visiting New York last year," Edwin begins, "we patronized a heinously overpriced Chinese fusion restaurant. The duck was, technically speaking, not badly cooked, per se, I suppose; the seasoning, however, was baffling."

"Oh, yeah?" Charles asks, enthralled.

"If I order duck, I expect the flavor of duck to factor into the dish at least somewhat. But this was… well." Edwin tuts. "If I am in New York City, and wish to eat something with that flavor profile, I would not go to an upscale restaurant and order duck." He shoots Charles a dry look. "In a city famous for its cheap and high caliber pepperoni pizza."

Charles laughs, full and delighted. He will never get tired of that brilliant, sharp wit.

Conversation turns back to the dish at hand. The carefully removed duck fat goes back in the pan to fry the ginger, and then the greens. It's all more interconnected than most deconstructions, which is promising, in Charles's opinion.

Then it all gets plated, the greens laid down, the duck arranged, the jam spooned, the sauce drizzled, the crispy ginger sprinkled on and then just a couple slivers of green onion.

Edwin sets it in front of Charles, looking suddenly shy.

Charles takes his first bite and it's overwhelming. It fills up his mouth with different tastes and sensations. The flavors and the textures and oh, all the thought and the affection Edwin put into it. Even way back when. Charles kinda wants to cry about it, if he thinks about it too hard, so he focuses back on the food.

The crispy ginger has its own sweetness, distinct from the sugar-and-tart of the tamarind jam. It's really, really good, and yeah, Charles can tell exactly what Edwin means about seasoning duck, like, the duck is great as it was cooked, just done up with salt and pepper, but then you can add on everything else, all the great flavors and textures, and it's lively, like a party. The way the notes don't so much blend as, like, harmonize, but in a bold, jazzy way. Like ska.

Edwin laughs at him when he says so.

Charles wants to bottle that laughter and hoard it away for the cold, rainy London days.

"But really, this is incredible," he says. "You gonna have any?" He beckons Edwin over to the other side of the bar.

"I do recall what it tastes like," Edwin says, "and I made that for you." But he comes anyway, smile soft and fond.

"Well I think we should share it," Charles says. He puts a good bit on his fork, meaning to offer it.

And suddenly Edwin is very close.

Sitting beside him, that makes sense. It's two thirty in the morning, and the whole world feels hushed and huddled close together. But Edwin is warm, and he's looking at Charles as if he expects…

Oh. The duck. Of course.

Charles offers it up. Right up to his mouth, because Edwin lets him.

Edwin hums softly with pleasure, and chews his bite of tamarind duck, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Charles.

This moment is perfect. Almost perfect. If he could just… if he was allowed to reach out, and tease more, different sounds of joy out of Edwin? That's the only piece of the puzzle he's missing.

The thing is, this? The thing he's trying not to lose, the part where they're so close they're family, the part where Charles is welcome here, expected here, the part where the laughter is easy? It's the same thing that makes him want to sink into Edwin's skin and love him from even closer.

And it's driving him crazy.

But there's no way he's risking this now.

+1: Wrap Party

The company's rented a really nice space for the wrap party, and there's music and dancing and all the people Charles has gotten to know over the course of filming, and it's fun but it can't help being just a little bit sad.

Everyone's coming up to him and congratulating him and his mum, who stayed behind to mind the restaurant and, Charles suspects, because she's still a bit intimidated by the whole scene. He promises to pass on everyone's messages.

Edwin is being similarly mobbed, and he looks like he might be wishing he'd opted out too.

When things have sort of tapered off and they do get a chance to actually move around more freely, they gravitate towards each other like always. But things are still loud and chaotic.

Charles is about to ask if they can get out of the crush of it for a bit, but Edwin speaks first.

"Charles, can I speak to you privately?" he says.

The seriousness of it makes Charles wary, but he just nods, leading them off to a quiet corner, a soft sofa and a potted plant separating them from the crowds.

"It's been an absolute delight working with you on this project," Edwin says, "but as it's coming to a close, I find myself…" He trails off, looking uncertain. "Is this a goodbye?" Charles asks bluntly, because he doesn't want to draw it out, if it is. "No!" Edwin says immediately, and then adds, "I hope not."

"But?" Charles asks.

"But, you see, I have been meaning to tell you something and I find myself without any more excuses to hide behind, and so..."

Charles's heart cracks, because that's exactly how he's been feeling, running out of excuses to lean close and act like they're something they're not, and if Edwin asks him to stop, he doesn't think he'll be able to, and this is gonna end up being a goodbye after all, isn't it?

Looking down, Charles braces himself as best he can.

Edwin takes a breath. "I must ask. Would it be terribly out of line for me to ask you to a date?"

Charles can only blink for a moment, playing the words back in his head to make sure he'd gotten them right, caught in the whiplash.

"Ah... you must forgive me," Edwin murmurs, expression closing in on itself.

Charles shakes himself out of it. "No!" he says, and then, grinning, "Yes!"

Edwin still looks wary, watching him carefully.

This needs sorting out right quick. And words may not be doing the job right now.

Instead he grabs Edwin and kisses him.

Charles's first excited press of lips to lips is meant to be all, an answer to a question, the only thing he needs to say right now, but when he starts to pull back Edwin catches him, draws him in with desperate fingers in Charles's hair. And the second time their mouths meet, it's warm and hungry and alive and all those things a kiss can be, but it also feels like a sigh of relief.

Like coming home, stepping through the door after the longest day.

Oh. Here we are. This is right. This is the place.

Thank the whole universe for Edwin Payne.

Charles holds on tight, savoring every little element of this moment, the familiar smell of Edwin, the taste of him, the hush of his breath.

They separate slowly, neither letting go, just breathing against each other's cheeks.

After they've both caught their breath again, Charles loosens his hold just a bit and says, "No, it's not out of line, there's nothing to forgive. Yes to the date."

"Thank you for that clarification," Edwin says, eyes twinkling.

Charles smiles fondly. "Can't believe you waited until the wrap party to ask."

"It was my show," Edwin says, matter-of-fact as anything. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, or to feel like you had to say yes to me simply because of the show. But you could have asked."

That is a fair point, really.

"I thought about it, believe me." Charles shrugs. It all seems a bit silly now, all the excuses. "But we're here now, yeah?"

"So does this mean we are dating?" Edwin asks.

"Yes?" Charles didn't mean that to sound like a question. It sounds so small, though, suddenly, for what Edwin is to him.

Edwin frowns. "Are you not sure?"

"I'm sure about you," Charles tells him firmly. "Not sure how I like that word."

"Are you not… ready, to be out?" Edwin asks, and he looks like he's folding himself down smaller again, bracing himself.

"That's not it at all!" Charles says, because it isn't. Because he'd do anything to stop Edwin from shrinking himself like that.

"Tell me," says Edwin. "You can talk to me, you know."

Of course Charles knows, he'd love to tell Edwin, if he could just sort it out himself.

"Dating," he says, tasting the word. "It sounds like… a beginning. Like, I'm thinking about what it's usually been like when I've been dating people, and honestly, dating sounds kind of like a downgrade from how we've been living in each other's pockets, putting this whole show together. You know?" He looks at Edwin, pleading for him to understand. "I don't wanna only see you for dates. I don't wanna start something new, like, start over because I don't wanna stop…" he shakes his head, sighing, not sure how to encompass it in words, what they've been to each other. "…Any of it."

There's a moment, then, where they're just looking at each other, where Charles can see that Edwin is recalculating some things.

Then Edwin gives himself a little shake. "Well then. Would you like to move in?" He smirks just a bit. "Officially, I mean."

Charles stares at him. Then he smiles, too brightly. He doesn't know whether to take the offer seriously; it feels too good to be true, so maybe he's just joking.

"One kiss and you're already asking me to move in," Charles says, shaking his head in wonder.

"Of course, if it's too fast," Edwin backtracks, which is not what Charles wanted at all.

He never wants anything less than everything Edwin will give him.

And maybe that really is okay.

Charles wraps his arms snugly around Edwin, drawing him in close. Kissing him again, firm and breathless.

"I didn't say no."

"Good," Edwin says, smile soft and relieved. "I'm afraid I've gotten rather attached to you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Edwin confirms. "I'm terribly in love with you."

"Me too," Charles says fervently. "God, so much I'm drowning in it."

"I feel very much the same," Edwin says, and then, with a slightly more hesitant look, "So. Shall we go home?"

Oh. Home. To Edwin's, not just Edwin's anymore, theirs. He means it.

Home. To the bright clean flat with the beautiful kitchen always full of good food and conversation, the sofa where they sat tangled together watching endless documentaries, the fragrant, thriving herb garden out on the balcony, the bed where… where Edwin is so soft and warm and trusting…

Oh, God, the bed, where they can…

"Right," Charles says abruptly. "How fast d'you reckon we can get home from here?"

Edwin gives him a knowing look, a smouldering look that makes him go weak in the knees.

"We'll find out."

They exit the party hand in hand, in a bit of a rush, to the faint sound of Niko squealing happily in the distance.

—

They could've been doing this like, the entire bloody time!

…On the other hand, trying to hide the hickeys from the cameras would've been hell.

3/? - Restaurant owner / chef Charles / Food critic Edwin AU - continued!

Hello, lovely folks - the restaurant AU continues and has outgrown its last thread, which is amazing! Here's a new reblog chain to reblog from and continue the journey <3 I'll also be updating the masterpost to add this one!

You can read the AU from the beginning here!

The masterpost for the AU is here!

[existence-is-a-pain87]

Can you Do Scraps Plz

Alrighty! As a warning, I haven't been fortunate enough to get enough things to play as Scraps in the game, so I'm going off the wiki. If I'm doing anything wrong regarding her in character or anything, please tell me immediately so I can go fix it!

Also, this story is written with the assumption those who read it have a pet cat. Because I have a cat and also think having a cat would have some unique benefits in the story. (Also I just like cats. And yes, you guys can have pictures of my cat if you ask <3)

There for You

Yandere!Self-Aware!Scraps x Reader

Warnings: Obsession and general yandere behaviors

--☆☆☆☆☆--

Scraps was one of the Toons who grew curious about you when she heard you.

She saw Goob's excitement, heard his curious rambles about you, his questioning if you liked hugs, how he really wanted to hug you since your voice made you sound like the most huggable person in the whole world!

She was a little more skeptical, worrying if you weren't a good person. What if you wanted to hurt her? What if you wanted to hurt Goob?

Then she heard you get excitement over having a Goob join your run. Heard you remark how you wanted to play as him but needed more research.

Even if you got frustrated whenever a Twisted Scraps or Twisted Goob appeared, she quickly figured out you just didn't like having to deal with being attacked at a range.

You cared about her and her younger brother.

So is it surprising she grew to care about you?

--☆☆☆--

Soon she started learning more things about you.

You liked to draw and create.

She would love to make arts and crafts with you! She hopes you know some good things to make!

You were airheaded and a bit forgetful.

Just like her! Hehe!

You liked other games too.

She just hopes Dandy's World is your favorite. She doesn't want you to get distracted and stop playing. That would make Goob sad!

And make her sad too...

And, much to her glee, you had a pet cat!

Even if she wasn't a cat, that meant you had to like her! Everyone calls her a cat anyways, so that means if you like cats, you like her!

She just hopes you'll like her more than your pet cat...

Why shouldn't she tell you about herself if she was able to learn so much about you?

When you finally managed to get her Toon form and play as her, it wasn't hard for the rest of your team to die and for it to just be you and her entering the elevator.

It was hilariously easy to say a new line, her commenting on how she wanted to try doing something new, and for you to speak.

To speak and be completely unaware of how she heard you.

You offered the idea of crocheting little animals into the shape of these cutesy little balls. How bees would be a great start.

She loved your idea. The moment you finished playing and left to do something else for a bit, she immediately got started.

She made all sorts of animals. She gave some to Goob.

Scraps loves your ideas.

She wants to hear more of them.

--☆☆☆--

Scraps hates seeing you cry.

One you played, quietly sobbing because something went wrong in your life.

Fortunately, you were playing as her.

So it wasn't hard to start saying new lines. One's you barely noticed were different.

But you started venting.

And Scraps listened.

She would do anything to help you.

That was the day she made her promise.

--☆☆☆--

Scraps made a little figurine of you.

She didn't know what you looked like, so she designed you off of what your voice sounded like.

You sounded kind, so she made you look kind.

You sounded creative, so she made you look creative.

Goob helped. He said you sounded like you were the most huggable person to ever be hugged, so your little figurine was perfect to hug.

Scraps even went and made little figurines of her and Goob to stay with your figurine.

She put them in a little shrine she made.

She always made sure to add new crafts to the shrine she made for you each and every day!

She loves you.

She loves you so much.

She promises one thing.

Her one promise she'll never forget nor break.

She'll always be there for you.

[seleneprince]

I've had the draft for the next chapter of Tales of Bats and Wolves open for what feels like hours but i've barely advanced because i'm just trying to put in order my ideas and decide what i'm actually going to include in the series because otherwise it'll be too much.

Now, instead of getting anything done, I can't stop thinking of the idea of N! Daughter actually being Catwoman's sidekick for a while as part of her training because seeked the woman out to learn her ways, and they both spend a year running around committing heists together. And ofc, Catwoman made her do it all in heels sharp enough to kill a person and tight leather, because if she you can't committ crimes with style, what's the point?

For this time, no one knows who Catwoman's new sidekick is. Some don't even know she exists, since Selina is actually a decent mentor and keeps her in the shadows because, well, she's only teaching her the ropes, she doesn't have to be involved in the gruesome parts of Gotham's underbelly (the girl does that by herself). Those who do know her call her Catgirl, which N! Daughter dislikes because she doesn't want to be a copy of Catwoman (which it's ironic because the suit she wears during the heists is very similar), but unfortunately, both Selina and Mrs Wayne find it amusing and like it. Suddenly, she's called kitty and catgirl by her mom and her mentor/somewhat mother figure?

It's even better considering Selina and Wife! Darling were friends in their youth until they went separate ways for a while, but Selina was definitely there when she gave birth and got to hold the baby sometimes until she left again. Years later, getting asked by that same baby, now older, to be mentored by her feels like one of the universe's jokes.

Anyway, just keep coming up with scenarios for this. Maybe they cross paths with the batfamily and they just don't recognise Catwoman's new companion (why would they?). She stands far from them and wears her own suit, rarely speaks and vanishes before anyone can catch her. Selina covers for her. After all, Bruce should be capable of recognising his own child. This falls on him.

No one guesses it...except one person.

*After everyone's gone*

The Signal: "Since when do you work with Catwoman, weirdo?"

Catgirl: "Excuse me?"

Signal: "C'mon, sis. I knew it as soon as I saw you. I didn't say anything because i wanted to hear you first. But seriously, what the hell?"

Catgirl: "Look, it's complicated. She's just training me, okay? So what's a couple of stolen goods?"

Signal: "I don't care about that. I meant your outfit. Geez, you look like you're about to star in the cover of a Playboy magazine. Was it really necessary?"

In the end, he keeps her secret because they're besties (and ngl he wants to see how far she can take this before the batfam figures it out).

Spoiler: They never do. She quits when she feels she's learnt enough and wants to go solo, and no one ever finds out her identity.

[zany-lil-detective]

Okay, now there's been some separation and I can collect my thoughts; Bobby's death fucking sucks. I am going to miss that man so much, this was stupid. However, for the sake of argument and getting this thought out, they also killed him in a really dumb way. And even outside of Tim claiming Bobby's death is part of some search for 'realism' (though that's still very relevant), it also sucks because Bobby's a firefighter and this is way outside their normal stuff. If he'd died in a big natural disaster or in a fire, that would have made so much more sense and potentially, while still really fucking sad, would maybe be more satisfying for his character.

To me though, I really think if he had to die, it should have been cancer. Which, I am fully aware of how that sounds, but stick with me here for a sec. I understand 'oh, surprise cancer diagnosis' happens a lot in TV, and 911 has used it a good handful. However, I just feel like it would be good narratively, even in spite of the fact I actually hurt my own feelings with this one.

For one thing, it would circle back to the thing in season one where Bobby thought he had cancer and it turned out he had special donation blood. (Heck, or even the time where he was in that tunnel with the radiation and Buck got worried!) At the time he didn't care about living and even with his list of names not being completed, would have welcomed death.

Suddenly getting cancer when he has so many people to live for would be a gut punch. And, as a firefighter, lung cancer would make sense. It also means we get to see Bobby fighting for his life for the sake of his life; for wanting to live, for wanting to stick around for the people in his life, not sacrificing himself in a 'it's you or me' situation. He only has his own life to consider and he wants to live. It would also be something that could be drawn out, giving both the characters and the audience time to really sit in and process the idea of Bobby potentially being gone.

We'd get everyone being sad, and emotional, and trying to be supportive. (I feel like Ravi and Bobby would have some serious discussions and heart to hearts that would also let Ravi's character be explored.)

And then, things just don't work. Maybe the chemo takes initially but stops working, and they all have to live in the reality that Bobby probably only has so much longer to live. It would still bring Eddie and Chris back, because you bet your ass they're coming back to LA to spend Bobby's final months with him.

Heck, I'm not super focused on Buddie in this, but it could even bring Buddie together; they get their heads out of their asses, being reminded of life being fleeting but also wanting Bobby to know everything he's done for them, including bringing them together in every way that matters.

It also gives time for whoever's new captain (not Gerrard, never Gerrard) to learn to be captain with Bobby still being there to support them and help them through it and give advice.

And, it would give everyone time to prepare, but especially Athena. She's had so many things and people just suddenly ripped from her with no warning. It would still be sad and painful, but at least Athena would have some warning, would be able to say a proper goodbye to Bobby and their life together, knowing for sure he wouldn't choose to leave instead of what they did in the lab.

Again, no death would be good by any means, but if Bobby had to die, I feel like something slow like a terminal illness would give time to process, grieve, and prepare for the final blow.

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 12

TWELVE: Easily Torn, Not Easily Mended

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM READER

Summary: What is it they say about best laid plans? Well, your plan goes horribly wrong and just keeps getting worse. And worse... Ah, but chin up, dear reader. It's always darkest before the dawn.

Tags/Warnings: profanity, hints of spice but nothing explicit, angst... so much angst, hurt/no comfort

(Notes: I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.)

mdni banner & divider: @saradika-graphics

CHAPTER TWELVE

“From this new and intimate perspective, she learned a simple, obvious thing she had always known, and everyone knew; that a person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn, not easily mended.”

― Ian McEwan, Atonement

-

Ollie's been casting worried looks your way all day.

He can tell that something has gone terribly wrong, but you don't have it in you to tell him. Reliving all that had happened that morning by speaking of it would break you, and you're barely holding it together as it is.

Tears keep welling up out of nowhere, and you have to rush off to the loo or the kitchen or the supply closet to hide until you get yourself sorted out. You try to avoid Ollie as best you can.

While restocking the bar, the memory of how Peach wrapped herself around Simon suddenly pops into your mind. It leads to you imagining what the two of them must be doing at that very moment, and just the thought of it has your gorge rising. You end up in the loo on your knees, retching up your morning coffee and toast into the toilet.

By noon, Ollie has retreated to his office, and you take your lunch break. The idea of eating makes your stomach churn, so you grab a water and your phone and go out the back entrance.

The humidity hits you like a wall as soon as you step outside, and you immediately start to sweat. Flipping over an empty bucket, you drag it into the meager shade of the building and plop down with a tired sigh.

Pretending to be alright while your world is falling apart is exhausting. At this point, you're struggling to keep your head straight, your thoughts a jumbled mess. The feeling only gets worse when you open your phone and see that you've got a voicemail from Simon.

Your hands are shaking as your thumb hovers over the screen, debating whether or not to listen to his voicemail. In the end, you chicken out and call Fiona, instead. You tell yourself you're calling her for a distraction, a bit of idle chat to take your mind off of things. Yet as soon as you hear her voice, the floodgates open and the whole wretched story comes spilling out.

Needless to say, she's furious on your behalf. She rants for a solid five minutes, threatening to bring doom and destruction down on the heads of Simon and Peach, which does make you feel somewhat better. It's enough to stop your tears, at least.

"I can't believe he stood there an' let that manky tart call ya his bleedin' housekeeper! Swear it, love. Say the word an' I'll geld the fucker!"

You want to get angry about it, like Fiona, to rage and rant and throw things, but all you feel is heartbroken, a sadness that settles deep in the bones and aches like a wound. It hurts; it hurts so much, and it makes you feel sick.

Sick down to your very soul.

>>>>>>>>>>

-

You're still a mess by the time Ollie opens the door for business, but at least you've stopped spontaneously bursting into tears. You're so emotionally drained that you feel numb, working behind the bar like a robotic automaton. It's only when Ollie asks if 'Riley' is coming to pick you up after your shift that you show true signs of life.

In a dead panic, you grab your phone and dart into the kitchen, muttering, "shitshitshit..." as you open your texts. Typing out a quick message with trembling hands, you send it off to Simon and pray it reaches him in time.

[YOU]: No need to pick me up. Already have a ride. TTYL

You fret as you wait, half-expecting the phone to ring at any moment. That text is vague enough to set him off, to have him calling or charging down here to demand more intel. He's protective and suspicious of everyone and...

He's not answering back.

You wait for a minute, then two, then five, both dreading and hoping for a response, but it never comes. Your text sits there in its little speech bubble, unanswered and unread. It's like a knife to the gut, eviscerates you and hollows you out.

After ten minutes, you give up. You guess he's too busy to be bothered with you right now and, oh! Does that cut deep.

A nasty thought suddenly occurs to you. There was probably no need for you to text Simon at all. He must still be so wrapped up in Peach that he's completely forgotten about you. Hell, he forgot about you the moment he saw her standing in his doorway. You never had a chance.

Feeling more despondent than ever, you put away your phone and return to the bar.

>>>>>>>>>>

Fiona arrives a bit early for her shift, coming behind the bar where you're filling a pint for old Ned. You slide it across the bar to him and then shift your gaze to Fi.

"Christ, luv, ya look like hell."

You shrug, because you know this already. You're hurt because Simon hasn't called or texted back. Being forgotten is so much worse than simply being ignored. When you purposefully ignore someone, you're still acknowledging them, in a sense. You're still thinking about them, even if you choose not to engage with them. But being forgotten?

That means you haven't crossed their mind at all. Not once.

Fiona purses her lips, narrowing her eyes at you in assessment. She's gauging your pain, sussing out your mental state. She already knows that emotionally you're a wreck, but she still needs to determine how you're holding up. She doesn't seem very encouraged by what she sees.

"Have ya heard from the blighter?"

Your heart sinks at the question. "No, I..." You shake your head, then pause, remembering his voicemail. "Wait. Actually, he did call me earlier today and left a message. I've not listened to it yet. I was too chicken," you admit.

You take out your phone, feeling nervous, uncertain. "Should I listen to it?"

"It'll drive ya mad 'til ya do," she says with a sigh. "All I can say is, it better be a feckin' apology."

With Fi standing beside you, you finally gather the courage to listen to what Simon had to say. Pulling up the voicemail, you hit the PLAY arrow and tilt the phone so Fiona can listen in.

The first thing you hear is Simon's rumbling chuckle, along with a husky female giggle in the background.

(Simon speaking away from the phone) "Get off me, ya muppet. 'M try'na leave Dee a message."

(Peach giggling in the background but close) "Tell her I wore ya out this morning, so I'm takin' ya out to feed ya. Gotta rebuild your strength for round two later."

(Simon huffing a laugh) "Shuddup..."

...(rustling sounds)...

"Oi, Dee. 'Me an' Peach 'r goin' out f'lunch in Blackheath. She's wantin' t'check out some uh the shops, too, so we'll prob'ly be there all bloody afternoon. Should be back in time tuh pick ya up after work, though. Oh, an' Peach is gonna spend the night. Thought I'd warn ya. Later."

(click)

It feels like an invisible hand has reached into your chest and is squeezing your heart. It thuds hard and erratic, the sound loud in your ears. Your phone slips out of your numb fingers and hits the floor, breaking apart. You don't bother picking up the pieces.

Fiona has moved down to the end of the bar, whispering at Ollie's ear with a seething expression on her face. Ned and the other old geezers look on with keen interest, muttering their speculations back and forth. All the voices sound garbled, like your head's under water.

Your throat constricts, your next exhale wheezing out. You can't breathe in here. You feel like you're suffocating. You need to get out, go outside where there's more space, more air.

The quickest route is through the kitchen, so you slam through the swinging door and rush for the back exit. Stumbling out into the alley, you manage to get out just in time, before you heave up the water you drank earlier. You gag and spit and sob, bracing your arms against the wall. You drop your head, panting, and try to count your breaths.

Eventually, you hear the exit door creak open, but don't bother to see who's come out. Footsteps crunch on bits of broken glass, grinding them into sandy grit. A pair of red Converse appear. Fiona.

"Christ, Dee..."

You straighten, arms wrapping around your torso, as your eyes raise to meet hers. She blanches, hurting because you're hurt, and her bottom lip trembles before she wills it to stop.

"C'mere," she whispers, and wraps her arms around you. "I'm so sorry, luv. I can't believe Riley would just—" She bites off her words, shaking her head. "Never mind. Him an' tha' homewreckin' slag can both feck off."

Sniffling, you pull away to look at her, panic dawning on your face.

"What am I going to do, Fi? I can't go home. I can't be around them. If I see them together, I'll..."

The rest of your words dissolve into tears.

"I know, luv," she murmurs, rubbing your back to soothe you. "Ya come stay with me an' mum t'night. Hell, stay fer as long as ya want. We'll make do."

You sniff, clinging to her, beyond grateful for her offer. "Are you sure?"

Fi scoffs. "Like ya hafta ask." She keeps on hugging you, tight and fierce. "We'll get this sorted out, luv. Don't ya worry."

Heaving a sigh, you draw away to look at her, still hurting but resigned to it now.

"This sucks," you sniffle, your breath hitching. "I don't even have a change of clothes or my toothbrush."

"Then we'll go by Riley's an' get it."

You rear back, shaking your head. "No! I can't, Fi! I don't want to see—"

"Shh... Easy, now," she croons, trying to calm you. "I know ya don't want to see him, but just listen fer a second. Riley said him an' Peach were goin' t'Blackheath, so they may still be there. I can drive ya by his place t'see if they're still gone. If they are, we'll go in, grab ya some clothes and get out."

You bite your lip, considering it. "But what if they're back?"

She thinks about it for a moment, then smirks. "If they are, I'll have Ollie give Riley a call. He can talk 'em into comin' down to the Dog fer a pint. We'll wait fer 'em t'show up, then go back to Riley's and grab yer stuff."

You give her a worried frown, uncertain. "Do you think Ollie will do it, though? He might not want to get involved, and I don't want to drag him into the middle of it."

"Pfft!" Fi scoffs. "He saw how upset ya were, an' he's none too pleased with Riley right now. If I ask him, he'll do it."

Steeling your nerves, you take in a deep breath and blow it out. "Alright then. Let's go."

>>>>>>>>>>

It's just past six when Fiona turns down Simon's street and cruises past the line of row houses. A few dim lights glow in the windows of neighboring houses, but Simon's windows are dark.

"I don't see any lights on inside his flat, but his truck's here," Fi mutters, head turning as she drives past it.

You peer out at the line of cars parked at the curb. "I don't see Peach's rental car, though. She'd be parked behind his truck if she was here."

Fiona speeds up, does a U-turn, and goes back for another look. "Check all the cars, t'be sure," she says. "Riley said he was goin' with her to Blackheath. That makes me think they took her car."

After another drive-by, you still don't spot her rental. "Her car's not here."

"Let's do this, then."

Fiona parks up the street and shuts off the motor. Taking your hand, she looks you in the eye. "Are ya ready?"

You blow out a shaky breath and nod. "I'm ready. Let's hurry and get this over with."

You feel like a thief, slipping through the gate and creeping up Simon's walk. You've got your door keys already in hand, casting around furtive glances. You know you're being ridiculous—you live here, you're not breaking and entering—but the thought of Simon and Peach catching you here and confronting you is your current, worst nightmare.

Fi stands as lookout while you unlock the door and turn off the alarm, then she hurries inside after you and closes the door. She grins at you in the gloom of the foyer, her eyes glinting.

"See? Nothin' tuh worry about."

You open your mouth to reply, then nearly swallow your tongue when a voice at the top of the stairs calls out softly, "Who's there? Is that you, Deedee?"

No. Fucking. Way.

You both gawk as Peach comes padding down the stairs, dressed in a short, red kimono with her long, black hair hanging damp around her shoulders. She stops on the bottom step, propping a hand on her hip as she looks you both over.

"Simon was wonderin' where ya were. He tried callin', but ya didn't answer, so he tried the pub. His friend told him you were out with Fiona. I'm guessin' that's you?" she asks Fi.

You feel Fi tense up beside you and grab her hand, giving it a squeeze. Side-eyeing you, she huffs out an irritated breath but maintains her cool.

"Yeah," she mutters and crosses her arms.

Peach smiles as she takes the last step down and saunters past you like she owns the place. Heading towards the kitchen, she calls over her shoulder, "Gettin' a drink. You guys want one?"

"Where's your rental car?" you blurt out, following her. "I didn't see it parked out front."

She giggles, flapping her hand. "Ah, we had to leave it in Blackheath and take an Uber home. After me an' Si went shopping, we stopped at a pub for a drink and ended up having too good of a time."

"Who the feck is Si?" Fi whispers to you as you trail Peach into the kitchen.

"Later," you mouth back.

Peach opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of water. "Sure ya don't want one?" she asks, standing in the bright vee of its light.

The sash of her robe has come undone, the kimono parted to reveal what she's wearing underneath. You nearly choke at the sight.

She's wearing a sheer, red, see-through nightie with a matching G-string that does little to hide her lithe body. Her pert breasts are pushed out proudly, hard nipples plain to see through the gauzy material.

She sees you both staring and laughs at the look on your faces. "You like?" she teases, her grin lewd. "Pretty hot, right? Si helped me pick it out. Man's got good taste."

Fiona makes a gurgling, choked sound in the back of her throat, her eyes bugging as she turns to glare at you.

You feel sick and avert your eyes. "We should go," you croak.

"Where's Riley?" Fi grits out between her clenched teeth.

"Fi, no," you hiss, shaking your head.

Peach cracks open her water and takes a slow sip, then tilts her head, giving you a sly little grin. "In bed, asleep. He needs the rest, so be quiet if ya go upstairs. Don't want to wake him."

You're shaking, wanting nothing more than to launch yourself over the island and rip out her silky, black hair. Fiona grips your elbow and pulls you back towards the kitchen door.

"C'mon, Dee," she mutters lowly, disgust plain on her face. "Let's get yer stuff and get the hell outta here."

Leading you up the stairs, Fiona practically drags you down the hall to your room, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath the whole way. You come up short in front of Simon's bedroom door, tempted to barge in and just scream at him. You feel like you could scream until your throat is bloody and raw, and then you would scream some more. Instead your tongue stays glued to the roof of your mouth.

Fiona sees you staring and gives your arm a sharp tug, drawing your attention. "He's not worth it, Dee. He's not worth another second of yer time. Now, c'mon an' pack yer things. We need t'get outta here before I do somethin' that'll get me arrested."

The two of you manage to pack two large duffels plus a carry-on bag with all your toiletries in record time. You're just coming out of the loo into the hall when Peach appears at the top of the stairs. She sashays towards you with a smug smile, pausing at Simon's door as you approach.

"Are ya leavin' now?"

"Yeah," you rasp, choking on your own impotent fury. "Just need to get my bags from my room."

"Okay. See ya around, I guess." She twiddles her fingers in a mock wave before she opens Simon's door. "Be sure an' lock up on your way out, will ya, Deedee?" she says, then shuts the door with a soft click, not waiting for a response.

"Feckin' cunt!" Fiona hisses, taking a step towards Simon's door, before you yank her back and pull her into your room.

"Just leave it alone, Fi," you warble out, fighting tears. "They can both rot, for all I care."

Hitching a duffel up on your shoulder, you follow Fiona out of your room, but then freeze mid-step when you hear Simon grunt, followed by Peach's husky giggle.

"Ungh... Peach? Whaddya want? Why'd ya wake me up?" Simon slurs, his voice gravelly with sleep.

"Mmm, c'mon Si," she moans. "You know exactly what I want, baby..."

You can't get down the stairs fast enough, and when you run from the row house, you leave the front door standing wide open behind you.

-

prev. << | >> next

[gilmorenights]

You've done Hugo hcs and Nuru hcs, but what about Yong?

I was waiting for this one 😼

First off, he’s the middle child of a huge family. I say middle instead of youngest because it means he’s more easily forgotten, therefore he needs to do more to get the smallest scraps of attention

This ^^ is where I think the whole firework/rocket obsession started. One of his oldest brothers produces fireworks that get exported throughout the seven kingdoms for festivals, making him one of the largest sources of income and the prodigy child of the family. Yong sees this and goes “hey! That’s a great idea! If I could learn to do that, my family wouldn’t overlook me and they’d be proud of me!” But obviously we all know how well that goes

Eventually Yong’s love for fireworks go from being a validation thing to being an art that he genuinely enjoys and can use to protect his family

Yong craves validation, but rarely gets it. My dude just wants someone to say they’re proud of him and mean it, which is why he’s so insistent on helping Varian on his journey. Not only does he want to learn and improve from being mentored, but he wants Varian to be proud of him the way Varian always wanted his dad to be proud of him.

Because of this ^^, he’ll tell everyone on Team Radical he’s proud of them 24/7, but is shocked and on the verge of tears whenever someone actually says it back to him

He’s nosy asf. Growing up as a middle child in a large household had certain advantages, like learning how to eavesdrop. He definitely uses this to his advantage and gets away with it most of the time due to being seen as the innocent baby of the group (Hugo sees right through it of course)

HE IS NOT INNOCENT!!! He is a twelve year old boy. Have you ever met a twelve year old boy? They’re literally spawns from hell. Yong would not be a sweet, naive baby who never knows what’s going on. It’s the opposite actually; he knows more than he should and isn’t above using blackmail just to get the others to do a chore he doesn’t want to do

This ^^ being said, I do believe he’s a sweet person at heart. He’s kind to strangers and believes in second chances but will blow you up without a second thought if you hurt his friends

Hated camping in the woods at first (terrified of animal/bandit attacks), so Hugo would sit with him by the dying campfire and tell him stories until he fell asleep despite Yong protesting that he’s “too old for childish stuff like that”

Ruddiger falls asleep with him when Varian is up too late

Thought Nuru was lowkey annoying when she first joined the group because she kept trying to baby him (they talked it out and he felt really guilty after getting to know her)

Went through an emo phase on the journey after finding out about Varian’s Saporian era (Yong’s phase lasted three days before he gave up)

Absolutely adores Olivia, makes little leaf dresses and acorn hats for her

AROACE YONG TRUTHER 🗣️🗣️🗣️

He models firework displays after his friends the way Varian does elements and chemicals (purple and gold for Nuru, green and gold for Hugo, etc)

Felt jealous of Varian’s family when they first found them because he felt like he was being replaced by all the cousins

Uhhh I think that’s all the main ones I could think of? I really do love Yong, I think he deserves more recognition within the fandom

Thank you for the ask <33

[jewish-vents]

I got so tired of one of Intro to Public Speaking professor constantly implying I'm a colonizer that I did my final speech on my family's genealogy. We are documented in the area that is now Israel/Palestine going back to at least 1702, likely further. How can you "colonize" the only place you've ever lived? How can you "colonize" your own house? I watched my professor's teeth grind and his jaw set as he grew more and more annoyed with me. Other than my mom, who is from Serbia, the only other outside ancestor I have who moved to the area instead of being from it was 1894, and she was from Lebanon.

I used to love this professor. I helped campaign and get signatures so he could start an African American Studies minor at this university. I backed him up when students were racist to him and the Dean of Students needed witnesses to confirm it. I filed a complaint myself when my French professor called him a term I won't repeat here. I have never missed a day of class. I take copious notes. When he would assign essays on films we watched in Intro To Africana Studies, I wouldn't half-ass it, I would easily clear double the word count he asked for, every time. When he mentioned wanting to go camping in an area, I explained to him that there's a Neo Nazi compound in the woods near there and they killed a black Forest Service worker a few years ago, because as someone from out of state, he had no idea what danger he was walking into. I wanted him to be safe and happy and live a good life. He helped me learn so much in such a short span of time and he always had book recommendations and more ideas to share that he hadn't gotten to in class.

I don't recognize the him I see now, gritting his teeth, angry because after a semester of him saying Jewish people aren't indigenous to Israel, I laid out the facts in front of him. A lot of being Jewish is grieving the loss of people to antisemitism. We lose our friends. We lose family. And we lose the person someone was before they let hate into their hearts, the educator who seemed almost like an older brother, the kindhearted person who wanted to fight inequality.

And then we just have to deal with it. Just accept that we've lost someone, again, and again, and again, on repeat, endlessly, and try not to let it impact us because if we do, the goyim assure us it's not that serious. Which is interesting, because when things actually aren't serious? No one needs to tell me. It always feels like a suspicious specific denial, every time.

Losing people because your family's history goes against propaganda's rewriting of history is a surreal experience. But sometimes losses are necessary. I'm not going to lie about our lives to make one man feel comfortable, even if he used to be a friend.

.

[z0mbbiegvrl]

kenny x fem/gen reader

dating headcanons

✮⋆˙ KENNY MCCORMICK DATING HEADCANNONS

↳ pairings: kenny mccormick x reader (can be read for fem/gen)

↳ an: hope you enjoy this! kenny is my fav so it's cool i have a lot of requests for him!!

↳ cw: some suggestive ideas, but this is fluff

↳ mlist

It didn’t take long for Kenny to admit he liked you a lot. He noticed how different it was, realizing he didn’t like you in the way he just wanted to have sex with you, then move on, but he wanted to see you more, hug you, kiss you, see you smile, and take you on dates. (definitely still wants to sleep with you, but this time there’s no time frame)

Kenny is the type to act like the playboy of the school and has the reputation of one. Kenny usually goes for the girls who he knows have the same mindset as him, or he’s heard things about them, COUGH the ring episode COUGH. But when it comes to you, he doesn’t try to hook up; he instead goes back to his flirty ways.

When his flirting attempts work, he’s taken aback for sure, which flips a switch in his brain, and that whole playboy attitude is GONE. That’s when you’ll see him stutter, go red in the face, or go completely silent until he finally gathers up the courage to ask you out.

A BIG supporter of whatever you do, will spend his free time following you to practices if it’s that type of deal, go to your shows, games, whatever you’re doing he’s there without a fight. sometimes will just show up even if you forgot to tell him!

He works a lot, so expect a lot of late-night visits, but he never turns up empty-handed. If he’s working at a restaurant, expect him to bring you leftovers from the kitchen to share while watching movies. 

PDA CRAZED, but he will be blushing the moment you do anything back to him. Hand in your back pocket, hand holding his, arm around your shoulder, literally anything he can do to display you to the world, he’s doing it. But the moment you kiss his cheek before going your separate ways to class, he will blush and walk into the wall as he leaves. Practically, the factory resets him for a second.

To Kenny, there is no such thing as moving too fast in life; by your second date, he’s already planning for the long run. Breaking up isn’t even a thought in his mind (not in the Yandere way) when he plans out the future. His friends bully him for it, he just knows you’re it for him, even if something did happen, he’d always want you in his life because he cares about you a lot. 

LOVES LOVES loves, adventurous dates. The more fear-inducing of being kicked out, the better.

He’s super protective of you, no matter how late you two are out, expect him to walk you home each time. No ifs, ands, or buts.

weirdly super good at doing hair; learned from having a little sister. If you have a different type of hair texture, style, trust he will spend the time to learn how to do hairstyles to try on you! I just like quality time.

He’s very attentive; he can figure out something is wrong with you with a glance and immediately pulls you into a hug, rubbing your back. Or if that’s not what you like, he will find a way to calm down how you feel, and give you that silence you need, but he will insist on holding your hand. 

Obsessed with kissing you- I mean, it’s Kenny. He’ll lean in for a quick peck on the lips, see you smile, and go right back in for a much longer kiss. He’d be a sloppy kisser, though, not in the gross way, but he just tends to lazily kiss you if you two are lying together.

He’s very crafty with gifts. We know Kenny doesn’t have a lot of money, but he doesn’t use that as an excuse not to give you things. Most of his gifts are flowers he picked or stole from places- all have little love letters attached. Kenny isn’t at all afraid to sound cringe in those letters. 

Right away, he introduces you to Karen, and without any struggles, she loves you right away. If you go to Kenny’s house, she drags you away from Kenny to show you her new doll that Kenny had gotten her. Kenny doesn’t mind this; in fact, he is so content with it. His two favorite people are getting along. Though sometimes, he’ll pretend to feel lonely and pout until you give him attention, too. 

He’s a good cuddler. Yeah, he might smell like smoke all the time, but if you don’t mind, then cuddling is very peaceful for both of you. He unzips his parka for you to lie against his shirt before zipping it up again, making you stuck against his chest. 

Overall, Kenny is an amazing boyfriend!!

[thesoulforgeorder]

I love Astrid so, so much. And Ara, and Spencer, and Theo-- My type is just dem soft, loving ones. Any Idea what the ROs childhood fixations would be ? Mine was greek mythology and Industrial-revolution-era fashion. and... What was yours, dear author ??

Hehe yes, give more love to Astrid and Ara! It is rare to see them mentioned in asks. I am glad the women are getting more love. I do hope more will join you in part two when Mina and Ara get more screentime.

Also those are fine choices if your type is soft, loving ones! They all have so much love in their hearts they can barely contain it.

Childhood fixations:

Astrid: Robotics. She loved taking things apart (still does) and rebuilding them. She would often be scolded as a child because she left toasters and the like in pieces.

Nico: Anything involving music. He wanted to learn every instrument he saw, memorised the lyrics to the songs he fell in love with and he is a secret musical theatre fiend.

Ara: Bad romance books. If wattpad existed in Azish she would have read it as a kid, wrote her own bad fanfiction and then moved on to other sites as she grew older.

Will: Collecting seashells and trying to adopt any stray animal he saw as a pet. He still collects seashells that he thinks are cool but now he just takes any animals he sees to the local shelter. He knows his work doesn't allow for having a pet.

Mina: She was obsessed with superheroes. She collected comics, figurines and dressed up as her fave when she was a kid. She would never admit to any of that as an adult now - especially if people tried to connect her love for helping people and superheroes.

Theo: Folk tales, farm animals and flowers. He still loves them as an adult too. He can tell you any flowers' name and what they can be used for and he was well on his way to being an apprentice of one of the elders back at the commune.

Spencer: Punk and rock music. They really wanted to start a band when they were a kid but then they realised they enjoyed listening to music more than they did trying to learn an instrument.

As for me... I had a huge archaeology phase a kid. I would beg my parents to buy me those fossil kits and I would go digging in my garden whenever I could. I was also obsessed with comics (still am) and would draw and write my own stories.

The Soulforge Order was originally meant to be a webcomic but then I fell in love with the IF medium and here we are!

Thank you for the ask, this was a lot of fun to answer.

[cccakessslicemeee]

Spoilers for fantasy high read at your own risk

-------

I wanna see Fig find out about all the shit Bobby Dawn and how it personally affected her mom. Like I don't think Sandra Lynn would ever tell Fig about that. At least she would tell-if pushed the softest version of what she went through. Probably chalk it up 'yeah well... It was a really difficult time. I made my bed and that's where I got to stay for awhile. It was a mistake and I learned from it." But she's clearly doing that thing where she doesn't want to be too open or too vulnerable because all that shit happened in the past right? It doesn't matter now and she shouldn't make her daughter feel bad for HER own mistakes. It's just a thing that happened.

I feel like Sandra Lynn wouldn't tell Jawbone. Or maybe do that thing where she just says a lil bit to give him an idea but she doesn't tell the full story. He'd know though. He's been through some shit of his own and he would definitely have an idea.

I like to imagine it happens so organically.

Like Bobby Dawn returns to town. He's done nothing wrong. He's just doing a little shopping and he runs into Sandra Lyn while at fantasy grocery store. Fig and Kristen are probably there Figs looking at pre ripped jeans and Kristen is probably trying to convince Sandra Lynn to pick up a huge thing of protein powder. They don't need it they still have half a tub of that nasty shit at the manor.

Sandra Lynn sees Bobby Dawn as he comes around a corner. Probably got milk or bread. Maybe both? He's a white conservative so I soupy his grocery list is super complicated. Maybe eggs if he's feeling the light of Helios blessing. Anyway they stare at one another for a moment but he smiles first. Sandra Lynn turns away and grabs something off the shelf.

Bobby Dawn can't let it go. He must say something. All he has to say to get under her skin is just a simple hello. And she's shrinking into herself.

Kristen puts herself between Sandra Lynn and Bobby and also says hello. She didn't think he'd be coming back to town anytime soon. And he agrees. It's not his job to know everything, only to follow under Helios light.

Fig is baffled. Her mom is such a force of nature usually but now she's so...quiet? What the fuck??? Fig looks to to her mother who just focuses on the grocery list but her hands are shaking. Maybe with an unspoken rage or fear but it's not ..this is so weird.

Bobby's eyes don't meet Kristen. They are set on Sandra Lynn.

"I think it's so fascinating that you choose to continue living in broken homes."

Sandra Lynn does not react. She's in a store. She's buying milk and eggs and a shit ton of pork for a barbeque later and pool cleaner and a bag of coal and all this other stuff .. she can't.. she can't be.. she cannot just leave. She has shit to do and this asshole doesn't fucking matter anymore. Why won't he just leave?

I like to think Fig reacts before she even realizes what she does. It's not a spell or a punch and even Kristen has to kinda duck (fall honestly) out of the way to avoid being smacked upside the head with a bass guitar. It catches him in his stupid mouth and his glasses are flung nine isles over. Fuck this guy. Broken home? BROKEN?

"maybe shit has to break so it can be fixed and it comes back better than it ever was!" Fig wacks him again. He's prone. The man is pissed and scrambling to get away.

Kristen is like haha yeah fuck him up!

Sandra Lynn turns to see what the fuck Fig is doing and it's a lot. She feels like she's a failure because Fig should not be fighting her demons. None of this should be happening. She thinks about saying something like "you can't just beat up on people shopping" but she doesn't. Her mouth doesn't seem to be cooperating and her hands won't stop buzzing.

Kristen cast a zone of calm on Sandra Lynn and it helps sure but she's still so uncomfortable.

Bobby Dawn scrambles away and Fig absolutely chases after him but stops short when she gets to the threshold of the store only to scream obscenities and then come back to her mom who still seems so messed up?

They get the stuff they need and head home. Just this interaction has Sandra Lynn all discombobulated. She's having some thoughts and old memories she buried bubble up on loop. Her mind becomes a hellscape she just can't seem to escape from.

She remembers the bad things but worse than that she remembers the good things. When he was kind and kissed her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair telling her she was the most beautiful woman in the world and quite possibly the best ranger he's ever witnessed. She remembers snuggling up to his chest and whispering sweet nothings back and forth. She remembers sharing meals and making plans. She can't forget the first night she slept behind a dumpster. It's everything all at once. Good and bad and ugly.

Where the fuck is Baxter? Oh right. He's sleeping at the manor or playing tug of war with jawbone. (Jawbone lets him win all the time)

They get home and she's real quiet. Stuck in her head reliving memories and what not. Baxter goes to her and he knows he's glued to her side and she's in tears nearly..but not quite.

Jawbone asks what's up. Sandra Lynn says something about "It doesn't even matter I should feel like this anymore it happened so many, years ago. Everything's fine now. I have a home."

He makes tea. He sets his paw on her hand and let's her have the floor. She doesn't talk, he doesn't make her. They just sit there for awhile.

Fig talks. She's so pissed about that Bobby Dawn guy. How come he has this effect on her mom?? What the fuck? Kristen agrees but she's well aware of Bobby Dawn and his...less than stellar work in the church. It's a hard night.

Fig is a bitch on a mission now and Sandra Lynn won't talk but maybe Gilear will? She presses him. He's not quite the guy to spill other people's secrets but Fig feels like she has a right to know. So he tells what he knows. She's livid. Not at him tho and she reassures him of that.

I like to imagine that days go by and Sandra Lynn is still very much on edge. Like spacing out and accidentally dropping mugs or over filling her coffee cup. Just a mess. Adine is doing her best to follow her around subtly and just not really sure what she can do other than hover around. Fig can't be around to see her mom like that. It hurts so bad seeing someone so capable struggle to put the milk back in the fridge.

Sandra Lynn is so certain she can just push through this. She'll be fine. She's done it before.

Adine assures her that "They are gonna murder that guy so hard."

[edgybutnotveryedgy]

ok, so I've been rewatching everything that has been released in order, and I have many thoughts on that, but for now we'll focus on el toro de piedra.

so first of all this bastard

undoubtedly this is Chrysalis. Previously I had my doubts that there was multiple people behind the persona of Chrysalis, but now I'm certain there must be. Not that Lila cannot look this snazzy, but I'm certain this is a guy. They have a very masculine build from the little we see. There was also the person in Sublimation who also seemed to have a more masculine build.

Initially I had my doubts, because the clothes are kinda baggy, so an argument could be made that this is just Lila wearing baggy clothes. I also thought that the clothes remind me of Aglea's clothes, and I am certain (especially after watching the episodes in their release order) that Aglea is Lila's new disguise. It fits her MO in that she is someone who everyone wants to protect, and she interjects herself into the group right when is most convenient, but also she is hardly seen otherwise. Biggest difference is that she realizes now that she can't reveal herself so she's not trying to provoke Marinette, as well as she's not going crazy with the lies.

Initially I thought that her jacket looked very similar to the one in the previous image, so I assumed that perhaps they were the same, but now I'm not so sure. (especially considering the person in the previous image is wearing blue jeans, and Aglea is wearing dark greyish purple tights.)

I want to propose the possibility that the person seen in El Toro de Piedra and Sublimation is perhaps this bastard

Ray.

I don't have much of a reason to suspect him beyond vibes and his fabulous hair. idk. maybe i'm just wrong but i want to be right because it would be so funny.

I also kinda suspect him because his voice kinda sounds like the masculine voice that speaks at the same time as Lila's voice. I may be completely wrong about this, especially because the second voice i'm not even sure if it is fully masculine? in english it sounds slightly androgynous but in french and Portuguese it sounds masculine. I really have no idea.

moving on, I loved the song, and I loved the parallels between Adrien, Ivan and Julika, with how they each have their own issues with their respective fathers. Julika just learning who her father is less then a year ago, Ivan refusing to become his father, and Adrien not knowing who his father really was. Each of them feeling like they have to live up to their fathers expectations, and the dramatic irony that Marinette is hiding the letter from Gabriel so Adrien never know what his father's expectations really were of him. Especially with the ending of how we learn that Nathalie also has a father who has high expectations of her, and the question being if she will live up to those expectations or if she'll follow what Ivan did and stand against him and do what is right.

small aside, this season really seems to be laying it on hard with the father stuff. showing what a good father is (Sabrina's dad), and what a bad father is (Ivan's dad) etc, and how that effects the characters. I can't help but wonder if TA has some sort of daddy issues he's working out through fiction writing? jkjk, but I do think it is an interesting theme.

on another note,

this was severely disappointing. Like you can hardly tell they're kissing! what the heck? are you scared of the censor's in other countries or something? what happened to that courage at the end of season 5? i know i should be happy because this is the first time my miraculous otp had an on screen kiss, but this was very disappointing and i'm kinda mad about it. LET THE GIRLS KISS YOU COWARDS!

anyways, then there's this

so we know the diamond was gabriel, "the machine" is undoubtedly Tomoe Tsurugi since she's going on about the new world blah blah blah, and we know the wheat is Monsieur Sancoeur. I'm curious about who the other's are. i bet that Audrey is one of them, not sure who she is though. I'm also starting to wonder if the people who were saying there was a bunch of rich people making designer babies was right. I do not think that chloe would have been a senti, but maybe zoe? especially since we still don't know who her father is, much like Kagami.

much to think about.

[just-b-wilde]

A happy ending for Nick and June

Today I caught a wave of positivity, and I want to share with you how Nick and June’s story could have a happy ending…

(I just let myself daydream a little, okay?)

Come along with me...

• During the revolution in Gilead, June, Nick, and probably Luke would all be involved. Although, honestly, I’m not sure if Luke would be more of a burden than a help—but I need him for one particular scene, so in my vision, he’s there.

• Nick would get into trouble, and someone might try to kill him. My bet would be on his father-in-law, Wharton—maybe because he finds out Nick doesn’t love his daughter the way he thinks she deserves… but probably also because he learns that Nick’s been playing both sides.

• June would be caught up in this situation. While the obvious route would be for Wharton to try to kill Nick’s beloved as revenge and Nick would heroically save her like he has so many times before… I’d much prefer if this time, it was June who risked everything to save Nick—even if she was the one to take the bullet.

• That would lead to a dramatic moment where June might not survive… but today we’re being positive, so yes—she survives.

• Luke might witness all of this too, maybe just from a distance—seeing his wife throw herself into danger for another man. And at that moment, he’d truly realize that his June is no longer his. And when he sees how much Nick is suffering because of what happened to June (just like Luke and everyone else who loves her), maybe that would finally spark an honest conversation between them about how their situation can no longer be ignored.

• What happens with the uprising and how Gilead is resolved? No idea! I’m leaving that alone… the creators didn’t get anywhere with that throughout the entire show, so I’m not about to dive into it either.

• In any case… Nick would have a baby—maybe another daughter? But Rose would die in childbirth. …Although, wait—I am feeling positive today, right? Okay, then let’s say Rose dumps Nick voluntarily because she wants her husband to actually love her. And she knows that won't happen with Nick. But honestly, I’d be more inclined to believe she wouldn’t survive the birth (which is also a huge theme in this series). Sorry, Rose.

• And Hannah? Honestly, I’m one of those people who believes it’s been way too long for her, and it’s completely understandable that she would be a different person now. So if they find her and plan to rescue her… maybe… it would be nice if someone actually asked her what she wants. She’s not the little girl she was the day June lost her…

• And after that? I picture a small time skip—just a few months ahead. It doesn’t have to be Hawaii, but maybe a beautiful and safe beach somewhere, far away from all the problems. June and Nick would finally be there together with their daughter, just like they dreamed of so many times… and maybe their other kids would be there too, with a brighter future ahead of them.

And you know what? It's gonna be Hawaii!

So, what do you think? Would you like an ending like that? Honestly, I know it probably won’t happen… but it would be nice, wouldn’t it?

And even if the creators won’t give me this kind of ending—I’ll definitely write it as a fanfic on AO3!