#but the one thing that always made her seem incapable was her sentimentality for her own brother

[gothampire]

SOFIA FALCONE + HER RISE TO POWER.

out of all of carmine's children, sofia is the one who has had the most involvement in the family's business, and has done since she was in her early - twenties. she has always been one to try and prove to her father that she was capable of doing what he needed her to do, as well as proving to those beyond the family that she was more than just the spoiled daughter of the falcone don. which is why carmine had put her in place of the falcone's new york expansion: and allowed her to experience some semblance of power and control over its much smaller operation. her capabilities were put to the test when the falcone's arrival into new york was met with retaliation from its already prevalent criminal gangs (a key opposition being from that of wilson fisk, who had actively been running the majority of the city's criminal empire). however, sofia's ability to prevail against the onslaught helped to solidify the fact that she was more than able to run the entirety of the falcone syndicate in the future: and was what ultimately made carmine officially incite her to be his heir, come his inevitable demise.

upon inheriting the entirety of the falcone empire, sofia's priority immediately shifted to their main operation in gotham: and subsequently relinquished her position in new york to her younger brother, alberto falcone. HOWEVER, THE FALCONE'S OPERATIONS IN NEW YORK CEASED, AFTER IT WAS REVEALED THAT ALBERTO WAS THE HOLIDAY KILLER — CAUSING THE NEW YORK FACTION TO CRUMBLE ENTIRELY. * the only business the falcone's have in new york now is through the transportation of illegal goods, that are kept in a secure warehouse by the docks. they are then quickly transported to new jersey, before anyone can catch wind of their arrival.

[tomriddleslove]

Forgotten once again.

✩Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary: The one where Tom isn’t capable of love, but you thought you could change that. Alternatively: Possesiveness and Love become the same thing.

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this one because Tom’s character is sm fun to write. It’s interesting because despite my delusions I couldn’t ever imagine him being capable of loving someone, and if he did it would be like this. Also this is probably the last time i’ll post for the next three weeks!

Warnings: Toxic Relationships, mentions of manipulation, violence (towards others). Generally about a very toxic and unhealthy relationship so please do not read if you’re triggered by anything to do with this! My inbox is always open if you ever need someone to talk to 🫶🏼.

Songs: Leaving Tonight - The Neighbourhood

Spectre - Radiohead

Tom Riddle was many things.

For one, he was ambitious. He would achieve whatever he so desired. If he had the means to do it, it would be done immediately. If he did not, well...

He would find the means to do so. Because Tom Riddle achieved whatever he so desired.

He was also charismatic.

Tom had a natural charisma that drew people to him. Whether through his charm, intelligence, or a combination of both, he had a magnetic presence that captivated those around him. This charisma played a significant role in his ability to influence and manipulate others to further his ambitions.

Tom Riddle was brilliant. Gifted with a sharp mind and a keen understanding of magic, he excelled in his studies. His intelligence, coupled with his ambition, allowed him to delve into dark magic and ancient mysteries, seeking knowledge and power that others might shy away from.

Tom Riddle was many things, but there was only one thing he lacked.

Perhaps it was karma, some form of divine intervention, his hamartia, that it was this very thing that would be his downfall in the years to come.

Tom was many things, but loving was not one of them.

Tom Riddle was not loving. No - he was not capable of love.

Tom Riddle, was incapable of experiencing genuine love due to being conceived under the influence of a love potion, not true love. The circumstances of Tom’s conception were marked by coercion and manipulation, as his mother, Merope Gaunt, used a love potion to attract and bind Tom Riddle Sr. to her. It was artificial and devoid of true affection. This was a concrete and inexplicably tragic detail that meant Tom Riddle simply was not physically capable of reciprocating love.

Key word, reciprocating. For, it was very much possible for someone to fall in love with Tom. A cruel thing it would be, for one cannot simply love Lucifer himself and expect to be loved in return. Tom Riddle's incapacity for reciprocating love stemmed from a profound emotional void rather than an inability to elicit affection from others.

This fact was a cruel truth that you only chose to accept once it was too late. One does not simply get involved with Tom Riddle, and come out unscathed.

Tom never cared for love, really. To him, it was just some sort of transaction or tool, something to be manipulated for his own benefit. Love, in Tom Riddle's eyes, was a means to an end rather than an intrinsic value. It was a sentiment that he observed in others but never truly felt himself.

Love, however, seemed to be the most raw, human thing in existence. It was everything we hated, yet also everything we loved. It unravelled our deepest insecurities, it brought things to the surface that we had long pushed to the side. It required us to lay ourselves, bare, for the other to see. Love made us tolerate the very worst of things, love made us hate the very best of things.

Many things can be complementary in life. Love was not one of them. It was overpowering, consuming. It changed who you were.

Love was the beginning of life and the end of it. Love was part of being human.

Tom lacking this fundamentally crucial aspect of the human experience may have been the very thing that led him to despise his humanity.

When Tom had met you, it was slightly different. A puzzle piece that didn't quite fit but intrigued him nonetheless.

You were undeniably talented, a mind that had its worth. You had this air of arrogance, and whilst Tom hated unbacked arrogance, you had the means to justify it. You were self-assured, and he found it to be somewhat refreshing compared to the other people he knew (who unashamedly sucked up to him.) You didn’t fall for his tricks immediately, which made him all the more agitated, and intrigued. Rather, you seemed to enjoy being with Tom most when he’d drop the ‘perfect and polite’ facade he had. You valued honesty and bluntness, two things Tom did not do (After all, how would he gain the trust of others if he truthfully told them he planned on using every single one of them?)

However, the more time he spent with you, the more he found that he fed into what you liked. And somehow, to his dismay, he found some sort of sick satisfaction in it. He enjoyed seeing you actively seek out his presence, and as much as it went against what Tom believed, he liked the validation of having people want to be associated with him. It was a testament to how he longed to be known, to be admired. He observed, learned, and dissected your intricacies, seeing you not as an individual but as a canvas upon which he could project his desires.

He soon grew very used to you, and he didn't absolutely loathe you. As the days unfolded into months, and the months unfolded into years, a semblance of tolerance took root. He played the part, masking his true intentions beneath a veneer of charm. Tolerance morphed into a twisted form of acknowledgement — an acknowledgement that you held a role in his future ambitions, his ultimate goal.

After all, that's all he ever did anything for, right? His goals, His desires. His needs.

The evolution was subtle but insidious. What began as a detached fascination transformed into a possessive need. Tom, driven by an insatiable hunger for control, found satisfaction in manipulating the threads of your existence. Obsession seeped into every crevice of his thoughts. Your every action became a challenge to him, something for him to understand, something he wanted to have control over. His infatuation stemmed from a desire to have control, to claim your very being, to possess you like some sort of artefact in his prized possessions.

Whilst you may have been immune to Tom’s charm when you first met, you certainly weren't without your weakness. After all, Tom always got what he wanted, and if he didn't have the means to do so, he'd find it.

He became fluent in his ways of understanding you, observing every little thing you did. He dissected the very core of your being till he was sure there was nothing he wouldn't know. Casual conversations about schoolwork in the depths of the library turned to confessions about your life as the hours passed. Tom preyed on your vulnerability, sowing seeds of doubt into your mind.

He agreed with you when you expressed your frustrations at your friends, he encouraged your rash actions. He told you what you wanted to hear, and made it seem as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

As everything he did, each word he spoke was carefully calculated, a thread sewn in the fabric of your fucked up relationship, binding him inexplicably closer to you without even realising.

He pointed out things, seemingly from a place of concern, making you distance yourself from your friends. He highlighted instances where your friends might have let you down, carefully framing himself as the only steadfast pillar in your life. Tom was everything you could have needed; he understood you, and he made you feel seen.

He was selective about what he let you know. He let you know he had grown up in a children’s home, and that his mother had died. Trust was a two-way thing, and you were smart enough to detect when it wasn’t being reciprocated. He let you see what he wanted to see, for no human was perfect, and he needed you to see he had his imperfections if he wanted you to trust him.

He needed to make it seem as though you made him feel seen too.

Tom had been sitting in your room, working with you on a transfiguration assignment you both had been set. Cross-legged on your bed, he still remembers how you had sat down next to him, visibly frustrated.

Tom, ever attuned to you, asked whether you were ok because that's what someone who cared for you did. He didn't care greatly though, not in a selfless way. Rather, he needed you to know that he was the only person who knew you, the only person you needed.

You opened up about what had happened, explaining how your friends had betrayed your trust, and how they seemed to misunderstand you, leaving you feeling isolated and vulnerable. Tom, feigning empathy with expert precision, listened intently, absorbing every detail like a sponge. You began crying because it all became too much.

You never thought Tom would comfort you. You believed he'd perhaps pat your back, or assure you it was all fine. What you didn't expect, was for Tom to draw you in, to wrap his arms around you, and pull you into his chest. You didn't expect him to soothe you, and rub your back as he uttered words of comfort into your ear, seemingly shielding you from the emotions that had been weighing you down.

You didn't expect to feel safe, to feel protected. If only you knew the only thing you needed protection from, was Tom himself.

You felt special. You knew it was not in Tom's nature to do so. You had no idea how vile of a person he truly was, but you understood he was avoidant of sentiment or affection. For him to have been so tender, made you feel loved.

It was only ever bound to go downhill from there.

It was only natural that you had fallen in love with him. From there it all somewhat became a blur. In between the lines, the illusion of love was beginning to waver. Graduating from Hogwarts, you no longer held those ambitions you once had. Your plans seemed now to be a distant memory, a past life. You had Tom, and that was all that mattered.

Tom had gotten his job at Borgin and Burkes. You moved in with him. You ignored the pleas of concern from those who were near and dear to you, who Tom hadn’t managed to isolate you from.

Tom convinced you that they did not have your best interest in mind, that they didn’t like him because he was a poor orphan, working a salesperson job. He had earlier convinced you he had his insecurities about his past, and he used that to make you believe the people around you were prejudiced, that they didn't care for your happiness but rather their status being affected by who they associated with. No one would want to be acquainted with the girl who loved the charity case.

You believed him. You couldn't fathom why they didn’t like Tom. You shut them out.

It was rather terrifying seeing how quickly Tom could snuff out your fiery flame, and reduce you down to someone who became dependent on him. You rarely left the house, your life revolved around what Tom wanted, and how Tom felt.

He left you teetering on the precipe of unhappiness, fulfilling your needs to the point where you couldn’t complain for fear of seeming ungrateful, unloving.

He would neglect you, coming back from work to lock himself in your bedroom, pouring over books and writings. He wasn’t who he used to be, caring, affectionate, loving.

Shame on you for assuming you could make Tom capable of love.

His neglect pierced your soul, and when you mustered the courage to voice your needs, he snapped at you for bothering him. Tom's transformation into an emotionally distant stranger left you in a state of perpetual uncertainty.

At times, you resolved to leave him, but Tom had a knack for sensing your unrest. As though he could read your mind, he returned with offerings and apologies, painting himself as the troubled victim and casting you as the ungrateful perpetrator. Guilt became the shackle that bound you, and his apologies only deepened the wounds.

Tom, in those fleeting moments of remorse, would momentarily embody the man you had fallen in love with. You cooked dinner together. He’ d play with your hair as you read, and he fucked you as if he truly did love you. Yet, the morning after, the bed would be empty, and the reality of your entangled existence with Tom would once again sink in.

He began leaving for work earlier and coming back later. You began to doubt whether it was because of work, the day he came back reeking of dark magic.

You were undeniably clever, after all, that was what had sparked Tom’s obsession with you in the first place, and so it didn’t take long for you to connect the dots. Tom’s friends back in Hogwarts seemed more like devotees than anything else. This, coupled with him spending countless hours reading through books he wouldn't let you see, and his sudden late hours suggested to you he was dappling in dark things.

You weren't wrong, per se, but Tom was far beyond dappling in dark things. He had become the image of corruption itself.

The cycle persisted, a disheartening repetition of highs and lows that left you questioning your worth and the authenticity of the connection you had with Tom. His intermittent displays of affection, punctuated by periods of neglect and manipulation, became the norm. The more you yearned for stability, the deeper you sank into the quicksand of your toxic relationship.

You couldn't pinpoint exactly where neglect turned into heated words. Arguments turning more and more intense. Slammed doors became broken porcelain, yet the remorseful embraces remained the same.

The outside world, once filled with friends and dreams, now seemed like a distant echo. Tom had successfully eroded the foundations of your past life, isolating you from the support systems that could have provided a lifeline. His poisonous whispers had convinced you that only he truly cared for you, painting the rest of the world as indifferent or antagonistic.

The empty mornings and hollow apologies continued, and you slowly began to realise the love you once believed in had become a warped caricature, and the person you had fallen for had let his obsession manifest into your relationship, seeping through the feeble foundations.

The crisp air of Hogsmeade offered a welcome escape from the suffocating atmosphere of the shared home with Tom. As you strolled through the quaint village, a familiar face caught your eye – Elizabeth, your closest friend from Hogwarts. A twinge of nostalgia mixed with apprehension as you approached her.

"Hey, Elizabeth," you greeted, attempting a smile.

Her response was guarded, her eyes revealing a mixture of concern and wariness. "Hello. Long time no see."

You sensed a tension in the air as you tried to engage in small talk, but Elizabeth's words soon cut through the facade. "Look, What happened? You dropped off the face of the earth, and it's like you vanished after graduation. In our last year, you completely ignored all of us."

A knot tightened in your stomach as you fumbled for an explanation. "I... things have been complicated. I've been busy."

Elizabeth's expression softened, and she sighed. "Busy? More like completely consumed. We all missed you, you know? But you acted like we don't even exist. What happened to the person we used to know?"

You frown, crossing your arms. “Missed me? I only stopped talking to you because you all acted weird around me.” You respond, defensively.

“No, we didn't. You got angry at us when we told you we were worried for you. You rarely went out with us, you were always too busy elsewhere.” She corrected, and you felt a frustration bubble within you.

“No, it didn’t really seem like that. You all isolated me and the only person I had left was Tom. It was only natural that I wouldn't want to go back to being friends with you after that.” You snap.

Elizabeth's eyes widened, sympathy replacing her earlier frustration. "Tom? Are you serious? He's the one who isolated you, not us. We've been worried sick about you. You're not the same person anymore."

Who did she think she was? She knew nothing about the two of you, let alone what your relationship was like. Tom was right, these people had it out for you. They didn't care for you, not at all.

“You don't know what our relationship is like Elizabeth, so I suggest you stop making assumptions.” You hiss, glaring at her.

"We cared, but you pushed us away," Elizabeth explained gently. "You were so wrapped up in whatever was going on with Tom that you stopped caring about anyone else. It's not healthy, and we were genuinely concerned."

Elizabeth reached out to comfort you. "Listen, I know it's tough, but you need to reevaluate your situation. Staying with Tom isn't healthy, and you're not alone. My door is always open if you need somewhere to stay or someone to talk to.” She says, fumbling around in her pockets. She pulls out a receipt and hastily scribbles down an address, thrusting it into your hand. She gives you one last look of pity, and you feel enraged. You immediately apparate back home, you didn't have time for this foolishness.

You apparate back home, the confrontation with Elizabeth leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. The hastily scribbled address clutched in your hand feels like an unwanted invitation, an intrusion into the carefully constructed reality that Tom has woven around you.

As you step into the shared home, the atmosphere is unsettling. Tom is hunched over a dark tome, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as you enter.

"Where have you been?" he questions, the softness of his tone belying the underlying intensity.

You toss your coat aside, frustration boiling beneath the surface. "Out. I needed a break from all this," you retort, the words laced with the anger that has been building up.

A dangerous glint enters Tom's eyes, his composure slipping. "A break? Is that how you see it? Is it a burden to you?"

"Yes, Tom! I don’t know what’s gone wrong? One day you’re fin and the next you’re acting as though i’m a nuisance to your being," you snap, the resentment in your voice cutting through the room.

His posture stiffens, and a quiet threat laces his words. "Oh really?"

Your anger flares, a defiant fire pushing back against his dominance. "Guess who I saw today, hmm?" You seethe, venom lingering in your tone.

A momentary confusion flickers in Tom's eyes. "Who?" he questions, wondering how this could be relevant to the conversation.

"Elizabeth," you declare, watching his reaction closely.

Tom's expression darkens, and a cold tension settles in the room. "What does she have to do with anything?" He retorts, stepping closer to you.

"She told me a few things, Tom. About how I've distanced myself from everyone, how they were worried, and you know what struck me?" you press on, your anger finding a new target.

His eyes narrow, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "What?"

"That I believed it was my friends who had abandoned me, but in reality, it's been you isolating me all along," you accuse, the realization fueling your rage. You jab your finger into his chest as you speak.

Tom's composure wavers, but he quickly recovers. "I've been protecting you. You can't trust them. They're trying to pull you away from me."

"Stop. Stop it, Tom. Have the decency to acknowledge I'm not that fucking stupid. I know what you're trying to do,” You say, voice cracking. You resist the urge to shield your ears, his words burrowing their way into you as he attempts to trivialise your worries, making you out to be the irrational one.

Tom frowns, and the sight of you beginning to doubt him had bile riding in the back of his throat. H reaches out, hands holding onto your shoulders as he urges you to look at him.

“They’re lying to you. They’re trying to pull you away from me again! Can't you see this? Why do you believe them over me?” He says, voice pleading with you in fake desperation, the lengths he was willing to go to to ensure he could continue to possess you were unthinkable.

“Enough. Im fucking done. You’re so fucked up, Tom. You never loved me, did you? You only ever wanted to own me, to control me. Tell me, was it worth it? Was it ever fucking worth it, spending 5 years of your life weaving this tapestry of bullshit just so you could keep me locked up in here?” You snap, grabbing your coat.

Tom's pleading expression transforms into a cold mask, and a sinister calm settles over him. "You think you can just leave? You're mine, and you'll stay. I won't let you go." He utters.

The realization of his true nature, the toxicity of the relationship, fuels your determination. "Watch me,” You hiss.

As you move toward the door, his grip on control slips further, and an unsettling mix of rage and desperation flashes in his eyes. "You'll regret this. You'll come crawling back. You always come back." He says. You take a single look at him before slamming the door and walking off.

One cannot simply dance with the devil, and change him. He always changes you.

Tom Riddle was far beyond the devil.

You wondered if for once in your life God had been on your side when you had that chance encounter with Elizabeth. Despite your harsh words, she had accepted you into her home with open arms. The weight of the past five years settles heavily on your shoulders, and the enormity of what you've lost becomes painfully clear. You were young, so damn young, and you’d been living as a glorified prisoner, trapped by the very thing that was meant to liberate you.

But love was ugly, wasn't it? It made you tolerate the bad, it made you irrational. Love could bare its teeth into your neck, and you'd let it, for love was ugly.

It was ugly, but it was not macabre.

Tom knew where you were. Tom always did. It was already established that Tom always got what he wanted. He wanted you, and he found a way to ensure that.

At first, he did not bother you.

He believed you would come back to him, as you so often did. But when a week had passed and you had not reappeared as you always did, beautiful face flushed red, eyes glossy with tears as you wordlessly stepped in and fell back into normality, he began to worry.

If it came to any relief to you, which it might have, Tom believed he loved you. What you had was a far cry from love, an echo of what it should have been. But in the mind of he who cannot love, this is what he believed it to be. One could only wonder whether everything would have been different if he actually knew what love was. But he didn't, and he never would, so he was left with some sort of fucked up obsession that he believed was love.

Tom felt a gnawing emptiness that only intensified with your departure.

Again, he loved you, if one could call it love. It was a sick, twisted version of affection that demanded ownership. In his distorted reality, your existence became an extension of his own, a possession he couldn't bear to lose. The mere thought of you breaking free ignited a desperate panic within him.

He needed you like a drowning man gasping for air, clinging to the last vestiges of sanity.

Schopenhauer believed that the will, a blind and irrational force, dominated human behaviour. Love, according to Schopenhauer, was an expression of the will's desire.

Tom felt this indescribable gap in his life without you there, as though he simply wasn’t complete without you. The old him would have hated to admit it, but he needed you, and his need for you grew from a sickly infatuation to a desperate yearning. Love, in his distorted reality, meant ownership, and he was losing his grip.

It was a rather bleak evening, and you had a horrible feeling in your stomach as you sat on the sofa of Elizabeth’s living room, where you had been presiding for the past week.

How cruel it was, that you and Tom were so attuned to one another.

You somehow knew it was Tom without needing to see them.

As Tom had resonated with the words of Schopenhauer, you had resonated with the words of Plato. For you, love could not be controlled. Instead, it was a divine madness that took hold of individuals, transcending rational thought and choice.

You had often thought that was a beautiful thing. However, when it was love that was causing your demise, it no longer felt beautiful.

Elizabeth comes down the stairs and raises a brow when she sees you perched on the edge of the sofa, staring blankly off into the distance. She eyes you apprehensively as she opens the door.

That voice. It simultaneously sent dread coursing through you, and butterflies erupting in your stomach.

“Come back now. It's been far too long.” Tom says, his voice oh so tempting.

“Seriously? You think you can get her back with that bullshit?” Elizabeth snaps, standing at the door.

Tom, however, remains fixated on you, as if Elizabeth's words were mere background noise. Ignoring her comments, he continues, his eyes piercing into your conflicted gaze.

"Stop this. Come back. It's where you belong," he urges, the words carrying a persuasive weight that had once held you captive.

Elizabeth's frustration peaked as she turned to face you, pleading in her eyes. "Don't listen to him. He's toxic, and you don't need that in your life. You deserve so much more."

Tom's eyes bore into yours, his tone silky but insistent. "You don't belong in our business, Elizabeth. You’re as meddlesome as you were in school. She knows where she belongs."

You remain silent.

"He's killing you. Can't you see that?" Elizabeth's voice held a mixture of concern and frustration.

But Tom's voice slithered through the air once more, persuasive and relentless. "Come to me.” His words echoed a twisted sense of possessiveness, yet held such allure, spoken tenderly, enough to convince you it would be fine.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your skin. You stand up, letting out a shuddery breath. You walk towards the door.

“Fuck, stop! You don't need to go! Don't act like you have nowhere to go! I've given you my home, I’ve let you stay. Stop going back!” Elizabeth says, frustration laced in her voice.

How easy it is to claim you simply need to just “stop”, and it would all be fine.

It was never that simple. Tom's presence was poison, yet it was also the air you breathed. You had only known Tom for what felt like aeons, and you had shut everyone who questioned you out. All you had was Tom, all you ever would have is Tom.

He was home, a twisted kind that keeps you warm while slowly suffocating the life out of you.

As you walked back into his outstretched arms, a sense of numb acceptance settled over you. The outside world ceased to matter; the only reality was the one with Tom.

It wasn't love as the poets wrote or the philosophers pondered. Yet, in its ugliness, it was the only reality you knew.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around. Like a serpent, his embrace constricts around you, possessive and suffocating. You lean into him, feeling the coldness of his touch seep into your skin. It's oddly warming though, as paradoxical as it seemed.

"Where else would you go, my love?" he whispers, the sweetness of the endearment masking the toxicity beneath.

The serpent and its prey, bound in a perverse waltz of dependence and decay, disappear into the shadows, and the world outside is forgotten once again.

[technicolor-rhapsody]

They Love Nothing About Me

Fandom: Dungeons & Dragons; based within a homebrew-ish campaign

Rating: T

AO3 Link

She was useless without her magic. That much she knew. 

Maerwen Televanna was nothing special; not compared to the rest of her family and especially not compared to her twin brother. Where Sorrith excelled she fell horribly flat. Hells, all ten of her siblings seemed to have some remarkable quality or talent about them. She on the other hand seemed to only possess the talent of being an annoyance. In the eyes of the majority of her siblings, her existence was no different than a weed amongst a bed of herbs; a plant that held no purpose except leeching the sunlight and water that could nourish other plants. You just kind of get in the way, Amaryll had joked once. Though Maerwen had got the feeling there was more truth behind the statement than any would ever admit. She had no eye for artifacts like Deveriel, nor could she dazzle with academic accolades like Isela. No sense for business, no skill in potion brewing, no gift for enchanting. Comparatively her twin, Sorrith, had not only surpassed a couple of their siblings already in terms of power and skill, he was on the path to easily becoming the best magician out of all Televanna siblings. It seemed her twin held more magical ability in one of his pinkies than she could ever dream of possessing.

In the beginning it hadn’t bothered Maerwen that she lacked what her siblings all seemed to share. Instead she went about her business. Her time was spent doing close to whatever she pleased. Free from responsibility, her other siblings would say. In her younger years she had studies to attend to, yet eventually those came to an end. And that left her with one thing: time.

Reading had been her biggest pastime; easily she breezed through the majority of the family library and devoured whatever novels she could get her hands. The books filled her head with dreams of adventure and romance and most of all, life outside of the walls of the family abode. And despite how much she enjoyed a good story, there was only so much reading she could do in a day.

Permission to leave was granted for approved social events or visitations with friends ( friends whom her mother had to approve as well). Yet cordial events tended to be droll, and her so-called friends held very little adventurous ambitions; all content with what one could call a normal life. There was a time when Maerwen had casually mentioned her want to travel on the surface, seeking out thrills for her own stories to tell. The table at which she say at with her companions grew deathly silent. All wore looks of disapproval or disgust.

"Why would you want to go up there?" Dahlen Fortue had asked, brows furrowed and arms crossed upon his chest. "It's full of monsters and poor people. What would you even do for money? Be a tavern wench? Slay dragons?"

"More than likely get eaten by a dragon." Viessa Baen had scoffed. Her condescending remark had earned her a round of laughs from the present group.

Maerwen frowned down at her teacup, fiddling with the small spoon sitting within the dark liquid. She looks up when she feels a hand upon her shoulder.

Rosalynn Elisaerie gives her a patronizing smile, patting her shoulder. "There, there, Mae. I'm sure we all crave a little bit of excitement in our lives. But adventuring on the surface? You'd be the least likely to survive."

To be quite fair, her 'friends' had always made it known how little they thought of her intelligence, much less her as a person.

That sentiment of her being incapable of taking care of herself is the thing the truly ate away at her. It's been expressed not just by her eldest siblings and even parents, but worse of all her twin.

"Even if we did make it to the world above you would stand no chance up there," Sorrith had said with a shake of his head, "Which is why we're gonna find you a patron. We'll get a pact to gives you power and magic. Then we can venture forth."

Until then she would be nothing.

Maerwen had tried in vain to quell the chaos within the ritual space. Left and right cult members were being slaughtered and the friends she had come to love are falling victim to some cosmic beast her patron has blessed the world with.

RESPONSIBILITY. It's the word that continually echoes in her mind. She has a responsibility to fulfill. Yet at what cost? 

Her patron, the Father of the Stars, is unhappy with her. That much becomes clear when on two attempts her magic fizzles; no Eldritch blast in sight. Tears sting her eyes as she frantically flipped through the grimoire gifted to her by said patron. No solution comes to her. No whispers, no tug on her heart.

Her world seems to be crumbling around her. This isn't what she expected to happen. She expected to have to do a few favors for whatever blessed her with power, not completing possibly world ending rituals.

Then there's her friends; well friends in her eyes. She's never been sure what they see her as beyond a party member and a possible pain in the ass. They stuck with her even after she hid the truth of the Ouroboros from them. 

And now they so graciously help her to enact the ceremony that was disrupted. Perhaps they lend in a hand in such a heinous act because they too recognize that she is useless (in general and to them) without an ounce of magic. 

The familiar feeling of being dragged down takes holds. Once again she's faced with the scenery of the stars, her patron speaking down to her. There's a flash of a vision --- Sorrith in chains, tormented by imps and beaten down.

Her patron gives her no scrap of information beyond that. He makes the promise that she will be his champion, like it or not.

Her rebuttal and anguished please are met with a venomous snap of "Go to Hell."

Then she's back in her body.

The completion of the ritual causes the ground to crumble, taking the offered sacrifice down below.

All that's left is the guilt and sorrow that squeeze her heart like a mighty python. 

It's no wonder no one loves anything about her. Maerwen is useless without her magic. However, even with it she retains her role of a being a pest and a burden. 

[anundiscoveredelement]

She didn’t know what it said about her, that she was incapable of writing a good old-fashioned meet-cute romance. The things that tumbled from her mind were usually gore-soaked, reflections glinting off sharpened metal. She didn’t know what it said about her that any love she wrote was always tinged with the taste of blood as it mingled between cracked lips, declarations made as lovers bled out in the arm’s of their enemies, or the broken taste of salt as the hero dropped to his knees and vowed to rip the world apart if not for one more second with her.

Ordinary love had always seemed too small in comparison to that epic sentiment; and while she loved love, her pile of cartoon covers with lovers holding hands and names like With Love, From Room 3B continued to remain stagnant and lost on the bottom shelf while the stacks piled up with a common theme of blood, ash, and bone.

She hoped it wasn’t a glaring symptom of emotional constipation or the promise of a life spent tied up in the back of sex clubs while an unabashedly sexy and tattooed man called her a “good kitten,” between sips of his whiskey. Because, no matter how cute or tooth-rotting sweet, nothing came close to mirroring the rolling passion locked behind that dam inside her than the kind of love forged on battlefields.

-The First Words of Her Quintessential Rom-Com

(s.m.)

[starlight-edith]

Yes deceptive editing is illegal. That's why Adam Waldman was kicked off of the case. He also refused to testify about any of his illegal behavior citing attorney client privilege.

People care because of the larger social implications, right. Some people like you view it as so obviously that she's a lying abusive gold digger you would have to be deranged about thinking men can't be abused. Some people think it's one of the most well documented public cases of abuse and are highly disturbed about the way Depp was able to spin the case, use abusive litigation to keep pushing her into court, even after being legally declared a wife beater in his UK case, all because he did illegally leak edited information before the trial to prejudice public opinion and then the judge made the horrific decision to live broadcast rape testimony.

Obviously the reason we all care not because it's someone's favorite rich celebrity (especially Amber Heard was a B list celebrity AT BEST - no one who takes her side is really doing it as a stan). For me, because I have read hundreds of pages of court documents, it's also about how we (and he) treat bisexual women. He admitted to defacing paintings from her ex wife and was jealous of how much they interacted. There's witness testimony of the way he acted when she was around other women. Constant slut shaming and even calling her slurs in text (he justified this in court by saying homophobia wasn't bad in 2014).

You seem like you don't have an in-depth grasp of the facts of the case, which is fine, and you don't have to, but if that's the case you shouldn't judge other people for thinking she's the real abuse victim. You can't assume someone is an unsafe person if you don't know much about what happened. Again I'm fine with coming off anon and sending you links or answering questions if you do care, but it's completely fine if you'd rather not waste your time on rich celebrity drama - just don't lose good mutuals over it if you've decided not to look further into it

Hi again nonny! I have two related things to talk about so I’m splitting this into sections. Thanks for being so civil and I apologize if anything I say comes off as attacking or anything like that in the personal section, I just have a lot of feelings if that makes sense.

Explaining my position:

I’ll just show you the screenshot

The reason this makes me wary is because of how demeaning it is.

It turns “I believe this man is a victim of abuse by a woman and I want to show my support because I know how fucking hard it is for abused men to be believed or get any type of support whatsoever” into “uwu captain Jack sparrow is blameless :)”

I’m taking this the way I am because it perfectly mirrors my experience. For reference, I am a trans man. I was taken SO much more seriously when I was viewed as a battered woman. As soon as I transitioned it turned into “you wanted it” and “women can’t hurt men because men always have the power” I was thirteen and entirely oblivious to sex, she was 16 and I trusted her even when she made me commit literal crimes because SHE had the power in that scenario.

With AH/JD it’s different obviously because he’s older and has more connections.

My problem is not with either of them, nor either side’s supporters, it’s the fact that the people on heard’s side 9 times out of 10 are echoing the sentiment that pushed me into fucking hiding, forced me to pretend I wasn’t hurt, and convinced me it was all my fault because I wanted it.

It’s not the cause they’re supporting, as a survivor I support my peers to the best of my ability, loudly and proudly when appropriate, it’s the WAY they’re doing it.

You cannot claim to support victims whilst also making fun of them — this applies to both sides!!! I HATED all the memes about “my dog stepped on a bee” and the way people laughed at AHs description of violent rape by Depp. I also hate it when AH supporters say things like the post above or claim that AH is incapable of being at fault because Depp has more power.

Depp’s struggle with addiction was also cited as if that automatically makes him abusive. My entire family are addicts and I PROMISE YOU that had nothing to do with the horrible shit they did to me. Most addicts are struggling with underlying conditions, but being a drug addict or being mentally ill does NOT make someone an abuser. Can drugs make abuse worse? Absolutely! But the way many of Heard’s supporters just stopped at “he’s a drug addict so he’s an abuser” just doesn’t sit right with me.

As for my knowledge of the case, I watched Observe’s series on it — he’s the pseudo science behavior guy that was later proven to be abusive as FUCK which is why as soon as I learned that I re-examined the opinions I took on from him — but not much else.

To reiterate again, I’m not on either side, my problem isn’t that the person is supporting amber heard, it’s the way in which they’re doing it. Sort of like how it’s perfectly normal to like pepperoni pizza but it’s weird to say that pepperoni is better because big pineapple is a liar.

TL;DR, my problem isn’t with neither heard nor depp, it’s with the way the people that still talk about it (cannot stress this enough: on both sides!!!) approach abuse.

I would be saying exactly the same thing if they wrote that post but supporting Depp instead

——————————

Additional commentary:

On Depp’s side, I find it suspicious that he was regularly referred to as “Johnny” by his witnesses and supporting counsel. This is a common way to infantilise them. Kids are innocent, so by making depp sound like a kid you’re more likely to sympathize with him. Heard never had any of that.

As an autistic person looking back on the things that Observe put out about the case I can tell I was originally swayed by his rhetoric. He says that for autistic people he would establish a baseline and then the regular body language analysis would work on them. As an autistic person who has been accused of lying on numerous occasions simply for not making eye contact, or flinching at unrelated negative stimuli, that’s total bullshit.

You cannot tell whether someone is lying by the way they act alone.

We’ve seen time and time again that there are no consequences for the rich, those with money and connections, and it’s very possible that that’s what happened here.

I doubt that this case will ever truly come to justice regardless of who was the “actual” victim because that’s just how our society treats abuse. We turn it into tribalism. Team Johnny, team Amber. We will likely never sway the opinions of those who decided early on who was in the right.

I’m not trying to say I’m the pinochle of objectivity or anything here though please don’t take it like that 😭

The more I hear about this the more I reconsider my opinion. At the moment I don’t know who was “right.” But again, for the millionth time just to make sure I’m really driving this home:

It’s the wording, I would be having the same exact reaction if they made this post in favor of depp

[indigo-rants]

Mom: with step brother moving out you're going to have your toys/collections in his old room. No discussions.

Me: I'd prefer having all my stuff in one room adn that be like the study or somthing, but I agree for the forseeable future sure, I guess...

I am a maximalist, a collector of things, a lover of physical items. Her attempts at me losing/getting rid of things have either failed in the long term or caused me to hold onto certain items for far longer than intended. She is a minimalist in her older age (not old age, she's barely almost 50) and her sentimental attachments have either been broken, lost, or become non-existent emotion wise. A lot of things she's held dear in the past 4 years especially have been destroyed by people who were her friends, people we onced considered family (including step brother), and herself due to her bipolar issues (she wasn't medicated til about 2023/2024)

I've done everything possible to ensure the stuff we both owned could be kept safe and away from those wanting to destroy her stuff. My room has always been a no go zone for anyone but me and her (and she barely enters herself past the doorway). Our garage sale has come and gone leading to me getting rid of stuff I didn't want, she didn't want, and airing my room out of certain items that weren't mine. I still have some stuff, but it isn;t over taking my room or limited safe spaces (ie breakables aren't all over my shelves and food cans are finally in one place). This time last year my room was almost falling over in places due to the amount of items everywhere.

Mom doesn't really understand me when it comes to this stuff, I've never had a real chat about it with her past "this is my stuff and I like it", but when I told her about my age regression and she started to see it first hand... it seems like that gave her a sort of answer on this subject... Due to my agere being near purely involuntary she's somehow interpreted my actions as being some kinda mental issue (like a side effect of autism being issues with textures, not an illness or anything in itself).

How do you tell someone that due to the years of having to put your favorite things into boxes adn bags, and go to your other parent's house for so many years just to get the stuff you bring over stolen/broken by the other kids, and have instances where you suddenly need to leave and choose to leave your fav items cause you ahve a younger sister to take care of instead of yourself, that all of that effects you today that all of that... makes you super incapable of letting go of certain things now... I cry just typing this out, I can't physically say any of this...

She judges me every time we pass the toy aisles in stores, every time I look at a plushie, every time I mention one of those things... but also is happy to go shopping with me for that stuff... She enjoys the look on my face when I see something I enjoy, that I can afford it in that moment, she enjoys coming to see me during/after the unboxing process adn seeing whatever little trinket or item I got. When I told her about the new gen of LPS right before my b-day she and my step dad went to roughly 3 walmarts before going to a target and seeing a wall of the stuff. She made sure to look up the codes on the blindboxes that tell you which you got, she snuck me one fo those cats from the blindbox display box, adn when we found the decora girls she helped me with the codes on that one and get a different one when I nearly got a double...

I know she cares, I know she just wants me to be happy, but when she's in a judgmental mood it hurts because previous moments don't matter anymore... it's the here and now adn according to her that often means "getting rid of what's not needed" and making room for what we want for the future. Our christmas/halloween/etc village stuff aren't happening anymore, most if not all are gone, all cause "we don;t need it" and "it takes too much space". I'm glad they didn't go into my sister's closet or their closet with my plushies.... god knows how many I would've seen get sold, given away, or on the final day packed up to be sent to the landfill....

I got 2 plushies ordered from Makeship last month with my step dad's help, she wasn't pleased with my choices, but didn't step in our way... All I can do is hope she doesn't cause a fuss in October/November when I get 3 plushie packages (my sis ordered me a plushie with her money adn I paid her back immediately, it's a long story) and my step dad get's carded fro another one he technically bought me today (makeship petition plush, won't be live til then)...

[ofwildfire]

@silverflamcs said: “you didn't have to stand up for me, and yet you did.”

it was an old sentiment for aelin by now — she was always shocking people with her empathy, with her regard for others... as if her time spent as an assassin had fundamentally made her incapable. truthfully, maybe it should have. surely the judgement was reasonable; after all, what regard could she possibly have for human life if she was so quick to take it? maybe once upon a time, she would have argued that she understood better than most just how precious life was because of that moment in her personal history... but she didn't have it in her anymore to argue for understanding. she didn't feel the need to; she wasn't that girl anymore. she was queen of her own land, one of the many saviors of her world. and she had done all of it, every accomplishment, based off of her own kindness. if that didn't speak for itself by now, it never would.

and it seemed, to aelin, this woman was thinking less about aelin's generosity and more about her own perceived lack of worth. "i don't like watching people abuse their power and authority. it's kind of a thing with me," she responded finally, forcing herself to act blasé, looking at nesta with a gently probing stare. "that's... your brother in law?" there was clear judgement dripping from her tone as she watched the space where the dark haired man disappeared through the doorway.

[fond-and-found]

Thorns.

Never have I seen the end of my mind’s servitude.

It was as if my thoughts were forever bound to a relentless cycle, much like a deciduous tree that undergoes an unending transformation with every change of season. Once adorned with vibrant green leaves brimming with life and enthusiasm, it gradually descended into a state of desolation. The once lively hues shifted from auburn to brown, and the leaves' sense of purpose waned as they drew nearer to the ground, succumbing to the weight of their own existence.

The chains never seem to break. Spiraling heavily and creating suction, consuming every fragment of shattered pieces that came from my being, transforming into an altered reality rooted in the depths of my convictions. I, myself, became a faithless ardour, stripped of all defenses in a battle that existed solely within the confines of my mind.

“Leave.” I murmured, my tone fractured and heavy with emotion.

“…. Again?” she asked, her voice trembled and strained, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes, which once shone as brightly as the midday sun, now resembled a sun hastily retreating. I couldn't help but notice the cascade of tears welling up within her own orbs, poised to break free and stream down her cheeks.

This scene had unfolded countless times before, a recurring narrative where her eyes took centre stage, narrating vibrant sentiments that her lips were incapable of moulding.

“I don’t want to leave.” She insisted, as she always did. Her gut was adamant, persistent and unshackled. There is a choice that was made in the depth of her mind—unbeknownst to any consequences and pain; for our future was nothing but a clouded grey haze, and her bones were frail from the burden I placed upon her body. 

“You have to. Run away from me, as far as you can. I can’t save myself and neither can you. I will keep pushing you away, Tiana. You can never fix me." I said with a brittle voice, and my nails raking deep into my own skin, protruding such pain to cope competitively with the ache in my heart.

“Please, I can’t leave you. Not when you’re my world.”

She was my world, too. I treasured her like a rose kept within a garden full of thorns. She was one of a kind. So rare to find, standing steadfast by my side when so few others would. Her friends deemed her crazy for staying with a man who left nothing but scars in her wake. But giving up doesn’t seem to exist in her dictionary. Countless times, I appeared as a crumpled piece of paper discarded in a wastebasket. And countless times, she plucked me from the trash.

Yet, still, I remained that crumpled piece of paper. No matter how hard she tried to iron out the worn wrinkles, those little folds would still persist.

"You have to," I managed to say, my voice trembling. “You could’ve moved out. Away from my mind, and close the door on me.” 

"Please," she pleaded, her voice filled with desperation. "I cannot bear to leave you. Just this once, look at me and consider my feelings."

"This is me being considerate," I replied, my words heavy with a weight she could not fully comprehend. 

I thought that I was crisping too much into my own elegy, that to have someone else wrapped up around me is another call for disaster. In this state of mind, where the line between my tranquility and chaos blurred, the last thing I want is to witness her desperately clinging to my wounded heart. I was never meant to be a sanctuary for others. I'm already drowning in my own struggles, so why would I burden myself with another soul seeking solace in me?

Silence enveloped us for a moment, her mouth agape as if her words were trapped within her throat. She sought understanding, grasping for the reasons behind my actions, yearning to discern her own fault in all of this. But it was never her fault to begin with.

I’ve been the cause of all of this arson, and she was never meant to burn with me. I am used to the fire, to the scorching crimson that slowly ate my skin and turned it into ashes. But she was nothing more than a living being, draped by the ocean’s water. She wanted to annihilate the fervour, but the fiasco had landed before she realised that my fire was big enough to cause my surroundings into a state of anarchy. 

Each day unfolded in a repetitive cycle, where the night offered fleeting moments of romanticism, only to be cruelly replaced by a morning that plunged us both into an undesired nightmare.

I cherished her beyond measure. So much so that all I could do was weep for the pain I inflicted upon her. I yearned for my wounds to heal, for my memories to soften their pointed edges, so that she might experience the best version of myself when I was in her presence. But with every glimpse of her face, it was not love that sprang to life within me, but guilt. The knowledge that by staying, she would bear the weight of my burdens.

I’ve put too much prophecy into my mind. The clouded thoughts filled with black and white; consumed by my own demon, and the flesh-eating devil has found my brain as their utmost delicacy. Yet, they’re nowhere dare to project their hunger when it comes to her memory. 

Even amidst this bloody war, my indiscretion would still find her mesmerising, and she could only bear the agony for it is the only thing my soul chooses to tell.

[fdelopera]

I need to finish reading your essays (haven't had the mental bandwidth for it) but broadly speaking, I do want to know your take on the "quality" of Jewish representation in MCU Moon Knight, because I continue to see self-described "prominent" fans imply or straight up demand to be "reached out to" for future iterations of the show to "fix" the bad representation. I already went off on twitter about it (shad woke up mad), but thus far your essays have been the most well-supported critical analysis I've seen.

Thank you so much for your Ask @shadradraws . Okay, so here’s my take on this “discourse.” This will be a long one (I seem to be incapable of writing anything under 1500 words lol), so buckle up.

Season 1 of Moon Knight is a Jewish show that explores Jewish themes. It explores those themes in a way that Jewish audiences can see and understand them, but the themes are also broad enough that a general audience can appreciate them.

Here’s why this is important. Marc’s relationship to his Judaism is CANONICALLY strained. A general, non-Jewish audience seeing a Jewish person struggle with their faith could potentially extend this to seeing Judaism as “bad.” This could then trigger antisemitic sentiments. And yes, Marc’s struggles with his faith are explored EXTENSIVELY in the comics. However, the comics readership is relatively small and self-selecting. Disney Plus is a massive, international platform. There are a lot of EYES watching this Jewish, neurodivergent system live their life.

This is what differentiates Moon Knight from Daredevil. I’ve seen some discourse around, “Daredevil gets to explore heavy themes in terms of Catholicism. Why can’t Moon Knight explore Judaism in the same way?” Yes, both Marc and Matt struggle with their faith, but Catholics are not a marginalized minority. We have to be much more careful, much more responsible, when we depict Judaism on screen. Showing a Catholic struggling with their faith in a way that potentially puts Catholicism in a bad light doesn’t increase the likelihood of Nazis making a plan to storm a Catholic church and start shooting. I lived in Pittsburgh. I know this firsthand…

As I have written about in my post on Judaism in Moon Knight, the show extensively explores Jewish themes. It explores the theme of free will versus determinism, which is an important aspect of Judaism. Life is for living. There is always room for growth, for change. There is not some grand, Calvinistic plan that determines whether or not a person is one of God’s worthy faithful. Judaism understands that we are each a collection of the decisions we have made, and in every moment, we can choose a different path.

Moon Knight Season 1 is also a show about eugenics. AMMIT is a force of eugenics. She is not eliminating the “bad” people of society. She is eliminating the “undesirables.” That is why her “selection” process seems so arbitrary. It’s because it IS arbitrary. SHE is deciding who is “worthy” and “unworthy.” She, and she alone, is deciding who is “desirable” and “undesirable.”

Harrow used the “if you could go back and kill baby Hitler” argument with Steven in Episodes 1 and 2 to throw us off the trail of Ammit’s true designs. But the theme of weeding out the undesirables from society is EXACTLY what Hitler used to build support for his Final Solution. And among the first “undesirables” that Hitler weeded out, in addition to the Jews, were the mentally ill and neurodivergent.

Now, in terms of Moon Knight’s next appearance. I know that there are a lot of Jewish people who want to see the MK System doing more “Jewish” things. To be more identifiably “Jewish.”

I agree. We absolutely want that. BUT it has to be done responsibly. Because, let’s think about how that would go down. And LET’S THINK ABOUT IT IN THE CONTEXT OF THE WORLD WATCHING.

Because the MK System’s Jewish experience is by definition traumatic, and the message this could send to the world (which is predominantly NOT Jewish and has NO knowledge of Jewish life) would be that Judaism is a traumatizing religion. Which of course, it is not. No more than any other. ANY religion can be traumatizing if it is associated with abuse. And of course, the MK System’s experience of Judaism is inextricably connected to their experience of abuse. Even for Steven, who was shielded from their specific memories of childhood abuse, now has a connection to Marc, and there are going to be some Jewish-specific trauma memories that will filter through.

So, for instance, let’s say that Steven takes them to the Synagogue he attends for Shabbat services. In the middle of the service, Marc starts having a flashback to when Wendy used to drag them to Shabbat as a kid so that she could keep up the pretext of “performative” Judaism. To try to convince the community that everything was fine at home. Then Steven starts to hyperventilate at Marc’s memory, and he gets up and runs out of there while the rest of the congregation stares at them with alarm and incredulity.

Is this really the depiction of Judaism that we want to see on screen? Cause this is what it realistically would be. And while writers like Jed MacKay handle this type of discourse BEAUTIFULLY in the comics, I don’t really want a mass audience of mostly non-Jews watching these specific and personal Jewish pain points. I don’t want non-Jews having an OPINION on this. Because these pain points are SO personal.

Then there are other Jewish people who want to see “acts of antisemitism” depicted on screen.

I will tell you right now, that this is a TERRIBLE idea. Here are three reasons why:

Reason #1:

Showing acts of antisemitism is like showing acts of homophobia. It’s like the obligatory “gay bashing” that used to be part of nearly every depiction of queer characters in media. It paints an already marginalized group as victims. And it uses the real pain points of that marginalized group to drum up viewership and “watercooler talk” from people who are outside of the group. I for one do NOT want to see antisemitism on screen. I recently lived through the fallout from an act of antisemitic terror, and watching the MK System experience something similar would not be cathartic; it would only be traumatizing. Which brings me to my next point.

Reason #2:

Depicting acts of antisemitism on screen only emboldens antisemites. It doesn’t make them sympathetic to Jews; it just makes them more eager to hurt and kill Jewish people. This has real world consequences. I used to live in Pittsburgh, PA. I moved away because of the pandemic, but back in 2018, I lived about a 5 minute drive away from Or L'Simcha Congregation — the Tree of Life Synagogue. You may remember it from the news. A Nazi terrorist came into the congregation on Saturday, October 27, 2018 and murdered eleven Jewish people who were there for Shabbat morning services. It was the deadliest single attack on the American Jewish community in US history. This Nazi scum believed in the “great replacement.” Simply put, Nazis believe that Jewish people are secretly plotting to replace white people with black and brown people (like, I wish this were true, but it’s not guys). These Nazis believe that the “white race” is “under attack” and that white people will soon go extinct. So this fucker plotted with other Nazis in the Pittsburgh area to plan the murders. And you know that he is a white man, because the police did nothing. They let him live. He is still breathing air.

The eleven Jewish people who were murdered were:

May their memory be for a blessing. At my old Temple in Pittsburgh, as well as the other congregations, their names are always said every time the Mourner’s Kaddish is recited. They will be remembered.

Joyce Fienberg

Richard Gottfried

Rose Mallinger

Jerry Rabinowitz

Cecil Rosenthal

David Rosenthal

Bernice Simon

Sylvan Simon

Daniel Stein

Melvin Wax

Irving Younger

Reason #3:

The comics storyline that some people want to see depicted is the Bemis run. However, what he wrote was incredibly irresponsible. Yes, yes, I know. Bemis himself is Jewish. But that doesn’t absolve him from criticism. He didn’t consider how what he wrote could actually EMBOLDEN antisemites. Having a storyline in which a Jewish congregation is unknowingly harboring a dangerous person is EXACTLY the kind of conspiracy theory bullshit that antisemites eat up. It doesn’t matter that the dangerous person in question is a Nazi. Newsflash, but antisemites aren’t that smart. They won’t recognize the irony there. Jewish people harboring “dangerous people” is the narrative that the Nazi terrorist used when he murdered the eleven Jewish people at Tree of Life.

The only really responsible way to depict Nazis in media is as buffoons. Examples of this are The Producers and Jojo Rabbit. In Jojo Rabbit, Taika Waititi went the extra mile and portrayed Hitler himself, because he knew that it would be disempowering for Nazis to see their great leader portrayed by a Jewish Māori man. It was Taika giving them a great big ol middle finger. “The Boys” television show also got around this issue by casting Aya Cash, a Jewish actress, to play Stormfront. You see, Nazis can’t CLAIM any of these Nazi characters. They are buffoons; they are women; they are played by Jews. But Nazis can and DO claim dangerous, unhinged Nazi characters. They CLAIM characters that we look at and feel disgusted by. Because deep down, Nazis FEEL disgusting. They FEEL like maggots. And when they can see a character who is disgusting AND powerful, they feel represented. They feel like there is hope for them. They feel emboldened. And when they feel that way, they sometimes take a gun and go to their nearest Synagogue.

So how do we proceed? How do we move forward?

I would propose that we continue to explore Jewish themes. When the MK System next appears on screen, whether that screen be small or large, we will most likely be seeing things from Jake’s POV. An example of a Jewish theme that could be explored through Jake’s experience is the story of the Golem — the man of clay who was created as a protector, as a tool, but who became a weapon. This Jewish theme is BRILLIANTLY explored in The Narrow Hidden Tracks by @love-r-boy . I encourage you ALL to read it. Jake Lockley has a JOB to do, and that job is to protect the System, even at the expense of his own connection with them. And yet, he fights tirelessly for his own personhood. He fights to be SEEN, as I have explored in my post on Jake Lockley’s Judaism, and in my post on the way that Jake wrestles with God and with authority. Again, an approach like this would allow Moon Knight to explore Judaism in a way that would be meaningful for Jewish people, but that would allow a general audience to see us in a way that is safe for us. Without scrutinizing us. Without dissecting us. Without plotting an attack on us…

[piecksz]

three’s a crowd | (m)

pairing: reiner x fem!reader x eren

warnings: nsfw, oral sex (female recieving), cuckolding, male masturbation, penetrative sex, voyeurism, slight degredation, slight angst, light mention of drugs, explicit language

summary: reiner’s attempt at hiding his attraction towards you fails, but lucky for him, eren’s feeling generous.

words: 4.6k

a/n: this was so much longer than i planned for.....well.....shit LMAOOO

a/n x2: I FORGOT TO ADD if you guys wanna listen to the song i looped like 47 fucking times while writing this, bc i feel like it fits reiner in this one shot kinda well, u can listen to recognize by partynextdoor (feat. drake) :p enjoy

Reiner hated Eren.

He hadn’t gone into living with someone he’d never met in person before with innumerable expectations, but he wasn’t banking on his roommate to be his polar opposite. He hated the sound of Eren’s riotous music into the early hours of dawn. He hated the unbearable malodor of his marijuana dependence, and he hated the way he carried himself with an intolerable air of arrogance, but as much as Eren’s living habits irritated him, it was the fact that Eren had you that presided over all of his grievances.

Being a witness to it made Reiner sick, knowing that you were leagues above Eren, and surely you deserved someone respectable, but somehow he’d charmed you into a long-term relationship, and Reiner wondered how he’d managed it. If by some miracle it had been up to him, Reiner speculated that he would be a viable match for you--that was if he had those sentiments for you--and he reassured himself he didn’t hold any promiscuous feelings towards his roommate’s girlfriend.

Yet it was hard for Reiner to rationalize the obscene thoughts that pervaded his mind at 2 AM. His clock displayed the time in bold red numbers, an indication that he should have been fast asleep, but you had decided to spend the night, and he already understood what that entailed.

The walls in their apartment were thin and did an insubstantial job of muting the noise that traveled between rooms. Reiner boasted the privilege of having his room right next to Eren’s, which meant he could hear everything that happened on the other side of the barrier. He heard every whimper, every groan, every time Eren praised you for taking him so well, and every time he admired how irresistible you looked while he fucked you from the back. The sound was so lucid he could count exactly how many rounds you guys had gone, and it was usually two, three if Eren hadn’t seen you in a while which was rare.

You two were hard to ignore, no matter how hard Reiner had tried, meaning he was also up late, listening while you two coupled. Your cries of stimulation, however, he didn’t mind as much. In truth, Reiner was always tempted to slip his hands into his pants and get himself off to the sound of your enticing whimpers, but he would discourage himself, deciding it was against his better judgement. Instead he would opt to cover his ears with his pillow, flipping over onto his side and dedicating his total effort to falling asleep.  

Of course, Reiner had long established that he didn’t like you, but he swore he could make you feel better than Eren could.

It was around midday when Reiner returned to their apartment after committing his morning to helping his long-time friend, Pieck, pack up the furniture at her studio in preparation to move. They were halfway finished with stowing away Pieck’s belongings before she realized they didn’t have enough boxes and apologized, asking Reiner if he’d be willing to return the following day to help her load up her remaining things. He obliged, guiltily happy that he was being dismissed early.

Reiner kicked off his shoes and ambled into the kitchen to set down the food he secured on his way home, but he paused momentarily to scrutinize the condition of the living room, discerning Eren’s obvious trace.

The TV was on, but it sat idly, blinking images of some prime time movie Reiner couldn’t recognize, and Eren’s drug paraphernalia was left scattered on the coffee table, his bong alongside his stray lighter and grinder.

“Eren!” Reiner had prompted him on several occasions, reminding Eren that just because he thought electricity was a necessary utility and should be free, didn’t mean it was, they still had to pay for it. He also requested that he put his bong away after he was done smoking since it wasn’t permitted in their building, but Eren seemed heedless to that demand too. “Eren!”

Reiner anticipated a response, but huffed when he received only silence. Leave it to his roommate to blight his good mood in record time. He mumbled inaudibly, swiping the remote off the table to turn the TV off, and then reluctantly bending down to tidy the space of Eren’s things.

“Hi, Sunshine. You’re up and about early.”

Reiner straightened himself out and turned around, unaware that you’d been over. He missed your approaching footsteps. Had you stayed the night? He didn’t hear anything from Eren’s room the previous evening which was unusual to say the least. Maybe you’d stopped by earlier that morning while he’d been out.

“Hey,” he replied meekly. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”

Reiner’s eyes looked you over swiftly, slightly startled at the lack of clothing covering your bottom half. You were only wearing a loose shirt that stopped dangerously at your hips and a pair of lace undergarments, but naturally, you didn’t seem the least bit phased. You’d practically lived with them. When you weren’t in class or at your part-time job, you were at their apartment, leading Reiner to wonder if you forgot you had a place of your own. 

“It’s fine,” you smiled. “Sorry Eren left all of his shit out. I don’t know how I know the house rules and he doesn’t.”

Reiner snorted. “He knows them, he just doesn’t care.” His voice was casual although he walked hastily into the kitchen to avoid looking at you. He stored Eren’s bong in the vacant cupboard above the microwave before throwing his other tools into a miscellaneous drawer.

As if on cue, Eren wandered out of his room languidly, carelessly shrugging a jacket onto his unclad upper body. Reiner took that as a sign that his lunch would be best enjoyed in his room. He was already irked, and wasn’t in the headspace to deal with the current atmosphere.

“What’d you get?” you questioned, leaning over the counter with mirth. You paid little attention to the way Eren came up behind you, circling his arms around your waist and resting his chin in the curve of your shoulder. You looked more interested in the alluring smells wafting from the paper bag in Reiner’s hand.

Another thing he hated about Eren was his shameless PDA. It appeared he adored showing you off, letting everyone know that you were his, but God--how could anyone forget when it seemed he was incapable of keeping his hands off of you. Reiner himself recognized that you were a prize, from your lively eyes that were a marriage of subtle hues to the way your lips curled upwards when you grinned. He even noticed the curve of your breasts’ shape through your shirt. If Reiner had you, he’d want you all to himself.

He shook the thought out of his head.

“I just got something small on the way home.” He forced a smile. “If I’d known you were over I would have gotten you something too.”

“Why do you treat Y/N better than you treat me?” Eren asked, sounding only a little bit offended.

Reiner pretended to think before he responded. “Ah, maybe it’s because I don’t like you.”

You laughed at Reiner’s reply, and Eren only smiled, but Reiner detected something else behind his expression. Mischief.

“Do you like Y/N?”

Reiner creased his eyebrows together. “Of course.” He hadn’t read too much into the question. He did like you. You weren’t just easy on the eyes, but you were great company too. That was the only reason he didn’t mind lending their apartment to you as a second home, he enjoyed being around you.

You let out an exaggerated aww after he answered. “I like you too, Reiner.”

Reiner chuckled, shaking his head, but inside he was telling his heart to calm down. You didn’t mean it like that.

Eren hummed absentmindedly, swaying side to side slowly while you rocked along to his movement.

“Do you wanna fuck her?”

Reiner gripped the bag in his hand tightly, and his smile faltered in shock, reeling from the bombshell of Eren’s question. “What?” Did he hear him correctly?

You looked just as surprised, exclaiming your boyfriend’s name and craning your neck to look at him.

“I’m kidding,” he dismissed, but Reiner could tell he wasn’t from the way Eren’s eyes didn’t waver from him.

What Reiner didn’t know was that Eren had caught onto him. He’d known for a while, which was why he was particularly touchy with you around Reiner, showing you off, not caring whether you walked around their apartment scarcely dressed, it was because Eren enjoyed having something that someone else wanted. He saw the way his roommate acted around his girlfriend, reserved and quiet, more than he usually was, and he even noticed the way Reiner’s eyes dipped down to your chest in the moment because Eren was exceptional at paying attention to detail.

You must have detected how uncomfortable Reiner felt because you delivered a brief jab to Eren’s ribs with your elbow.

“Eren, that’s not fucking funny,” you chided. “Do I need to put you in time out?”

“It’s fine,” Reiner interrupted quickly. He didn’t want you defending him because you were oblivious. It only made the situation more embarrassing than it already was since, truthfully, the thought had crossed his mind more than once.

Eren reiterated his question, eyes narrowed at Reiner. “So do you?”

You sighed heavily and looked at Reiner apologetically. He could feel his face growing hot, and he prayed it wasn’t obvious he was as flushed as he felt. He just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

Reiner released a humourless chuckle. “Grow up, Eren.” He slipped past the two of you, but he didn’t get far.

“I’m only asking because I’m feeling charitable. You wouldn’t mind, would you baby?”

Reiner could hear Eren pressing a series of ticklish kisses against your skin, causing you to laugh through your answer.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind if Reiner doesn’t mind.”

Reiner brought his teeth down hard on the tip of his tongue. He was surprised that Eren was so secure in his relationship that he would willingly allow another man to have his way with his girlfriend. He wasn’t sure if his suggestion was insane or ingenious, because Eren had taken control of the one thing that threatened any relationship: infidelity, something so unvirtuous wouldn’t stop him from loving you. You and Eren were so committed to each other that a simple fuck meant nothing.

Reiner hesitated, but figured an opportunity like this was rare. He had both Eren’s permission and yours, yet he still didn’t believe his sincerity until you were in Eren’s room, starting to strip out of your clothes.

His chestnut eyes drifted over to Eren, slouched lazily in the chair he casually pulled out from his desk. “You’re gonna watch?”

Eren lifted a thick eyebrow, resting his thumb under his chin with an index finger against his cheek, looking unimpressed by Reiner’s obvious reservations. “You think I’d let you fuck my girlfriend without me here?”

Reiner slid a tense hand over the back of his neck, rubbing away the uncomfortable heat that creeped up his back and diffused to the tips of his ears. He figured that was reasonable considering the circumstances, after all, he was only fucking you because Eren had allowed it.

There was nothing more intoxicating to Reiner than your bare form, scanty pink lace clinging to your hips the only thing preventing you from being completely naked in front of him. His gaze dipped from your simpering smile down to your collarbones and then down to your breasts, perfectly sculpted to your figure.

Reiner made no efforts to move despite his insatiable urge to grab you in his arms and make certain that you were left satisfied. He feared he’d look too eager to Eren who was observing from the sidelines, but you paid little attention to your audience of one as you sauntered towards Reiner, closer and closer, until your arms slid around his neck and you pressed your chest to his torso.

Reiner’s body was strung so tightly, he was afraid he might snap. It seemed you took notice of the way his muscles tensed once your delicate fingers ghosted over the nape of his neck because your suggestive expression waned, and instead, your eyebrows creased with sincere concern.

“You okay?”

He couldn’t respond, but to be fair, it was because his heart was hammering against his chest and he wasn’t sure how to make it stop. He looked over at Eren again, who, fortunately, didn’t seem to pay much attention to him. Instead, your boyfriend’s stare was fixed on your backside, likely admiring how luscious you looked from his perspective.

“I’m over here.” You laughed and pressed a gentle finger to Reiner’s chin, redirecting his focus back to you. “Just relax.”

He swallowed, chuckling to soothe his unease. “I’m trying.”

Reiner wasn’t sure why he felt so unassertive in your presence. He didn’t hold a record like Eren did, but he also wasn't abstinent by any means. This, though, felt different. He was dealing with several months of pent-up sexual frustration that could only be satisfied by you and no one else. He knew because he’d tried.

Reiner drew in a ragged breath as you leaned into him, breathing heavily through his mouth until you closed the space in between you two, then he continued breathing heavily through his nose. At first, he made no efforts to close his eyes, afraid that the imagery in front of him was a mirage inspired by his own imagination and would disappear if he so much as blinked. His lips were timid, body taut under your touch, but you seduced his mouth, reining him in until he melted into the kiss.

He pushed back against you with fervor and desperation, outlining the shape of your bottom lip with his tongue before nipping at the soft flesh. You released a quiet whimper, intensifying the lust swelling in the pit of his stomach, and Reiner forced his tongue past your teeth, claiming your mouth while his wandering hands settled audaciously against your ass.

Your hands slid over his shoulders and crafted biceps until they tugged hastily against the hem of his shirt, and Reiner immediately understood your cue, withdrawing his mouth from yours to give himself just enough time to slip out of it. He dipped down again to deliver another kiss, but he was deterred by the feeling of your palm against his chest.

“What? Is something wrong?” he questioned quickly, eyes darting back and forth between your hand and your face, worried that he’d done something to overstep your boundaries.

Instead of the troubled expression he expected, you looked rather intrigued. Perhaps impressed was the better word. Your curiosity was held by Reiner’s physique, a living work of art. Eager fingers traveled down the built ripples of his abdomen, chuckling once you felt his muscles flex under your touch.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed. “Nice, Braun.”

A snicker emitted from the corner. This, miraculously, Eren allowed.

Reiner's mouth quirked upward in a subtle smile before he surrounded you with his arm, pulling you in for another kiss. He walked you backwards until you collapsed onto the mattress, and he fell on top of you, strong forearms holding up his weight. It was then that Reiner realized he allowed his lust to win in the war against himself.

He pulled away to recover his breath, winded pants fanning over your face. His surveying eyes searched yours before they lowered to your swollen lips. God, you were even more mesmerizing up close, heavy-lidded and studying him through a curtain of eyelashes. Maybe for once Reiner would admit he was jealous of Eren. He was fucking envious, bitter, and spiteful that you were his. He’d been a goddamn idiot to let things go this far, agreeing to Eren’s offer, because he knew one fuck wouldn’t be enough to fufill his need for you. He’d barely gotten a taste, and he could already promise that nothing would ever compare to this.

He found your throat and pressed a fleeting kiss to your pulse, moving further down until his lips met your collarbone. He nipped at the delicate skin, taking notice of the way your grip in his hair tightened. His eyebrows arched while he peered up at you, delighting in the way your head rolled back and forth against the duvet. He really wanted to suck at your skin, leaving dark bruises that decorated the path from your earlobe down to your breastbone, but he knew Eren would kill him.

Reiner dipped lower until his lips brushed lightly against your beaded nipple. You made a small sound of protest, but held his head closer, letting him know what you really wanted. His heart beat erratically against his ribcage as he curved a large hand around your right breast and suppressed a groan, but you released a breathy whimper.

He could feel the sound wreaking havoc in his brain. His balls were so damn tight, it would take barely any effort for him to cum, but he wanted to prolong your coupling as long as possible. He didn’t know if he’d ever get another chance like this.  

His thumb ran over the erect peaks of your breasts, captivated by the magic of watching your back arch and your body become aroused under his touch. He dipped a finger into his mouth, glazing it with his saliva before using it to flick back and forth at your nipple.

“Fuck, Reiner,” you mewled.

Reiner replaced his hand with his lips, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth. The tip of his tongue swirled around it, coating it generously with his spit, while you made no attempts to conceal your intense cries of pleasure.  

Eren released an entertained sigh, swiveling back and forth in his chair. “She whines like a bitch, doesn’t she?”

Shit. Reiner had almost forgotten he was there, but he still released a hungry grunt in agreement, sending vibrations over your chest. He tugged at your nipple with his teeth, releasing it, and then soothing the sting with the flat side of his tongue.

He trailed down your abdomen, pressing hard wet kisses and stopping to leave a quick lick to your navel. He grinned against your skin when you gripped the sheets and breathed his name again, this time quieter, as if you meant it only for his ears. He liked to think so.

Once he reached the waistband of your panties, he licked along the fabric, immobilizing your rolling hips with strong hands.

“Enough with the theatrics, Reiner. Just do it already,” Eren groaned, sounding irate.

Reiner assumed Eren’s groan was only to stress his impatience, but once he looked over to him, he realized he wasn’t just giving directives from the sidelines. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth, and his hand was moving steadily against the noticeable tent in his sweatpants.

He was enjoying this just as much as Reiner was, getting off to the sight of his girlfriend under another man, his roommate nonetheless.

Reiner suddenly felt strange. What the hell was he doing providing entertainment for Eren?

“Reiner,” your needy voice pulled him out of his reflection. His attention drifted back to you, watching while you propped yourself up on your elbows and slid your unsteady hands over your chest to tweak your own nipples, as if you were trying to hold yourself over.

He wished you hadn’t looked so tempting, even with your disheveled hair and sweaty skin, your vulnerable eyes fixated on him, and he was powerless.

Reiner hooked his fingers around your underwear, kissing a trail down the inside of your thighs as he pulled your panties down to your ankles before slipping them off and letting them pool on the floor.

“Spread wide baby, let him see that pretty pussy,” Eren stirred, cock now thrust out the top of his grey sweats and his swollen tip glistening with precum. His hand was wrapped firmly around his stiff length, moving slow while his breathing quickened.

For once, Reiner agreed with him, and he pressed his fingers into your thighs to aid you in parting your legs. Your pussy was slick with your own arousal, squelching as you tightened around nothing. You were even prettier than he’d imagined.

“Fuck,” Reiner breathed, extending two fingers to part your folds. Was he still sure he wasn’t dreaming?

He wrapped his built arms around your legs, pulled you closer, and lowered his head. He fixed his lips to your swollen clit, allowing his tongue to lap and circle around the tender bud every few seconds.

“Oh my god,” you cried, writhing against the sheets.

If he hadn’t secured your legs in his grip, he was certain you would have smothered him between your thighs out of reflex. He could detect the way you fought against his hold, but he far overpowered you in strength.

When he plunged his tongue inside you without notice, that was nearly enough to send you over the edge. You pulled on the sheets with a frenzied grip, producing a shrill cry your neighbors had certainly heard. There was no doubt about it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you murmured, chest expanding and falling with labored breaths.

Reiner wanted to spend a few more generous minutes tasting you, he couldn’t get enough, but he also wasn’t sure how much longer he would last. His cock was hot and hard in his pants, and he needed to feel you around him. Even if Eren wouldn’t let him cum inside of you, he needed to experience at least that much.

He rose to his feet, working quickly against his pants’ zipper while trying not to tease himself by looking at you. He was worried the mere sight of you on the bed, spread and ready for him would be enough to bring him to a climax, but he’d made the mistake of looking at you anyways, hand between your legs, delicate fingers rubbing at your clit while you stared up at him.

Fucking hell. Kill me. Reiner thought. Fuck. He felt the throbbing heat of his cock, and he wished you wouldn’t look at him like that. He really wished you wouldn’t look at him like that.

“Look at her, so desperate to be filled. It’s almost pathetic,” Eren laughed, but it was clear he was feeling your effect too. He lolled his head forward, long brown hair spilling over his shoulders and obscuring his face while his palm worked fast against his cock.

Shut up, Reiner thought. His head was growing hazy, and he couldn’t think. He needed to be inside you, and he couldn’t wait a second longer.

Reiner let himself free while his pants and underwear hung low around his knees. He couldn’t even find time to delight in the way your face melted into bliss once you laid eyes on his thick cock, leaking precum in sinful amounts because all he could think about was his ache. He leaned over you, positioning himself at your entrance.

He’d been waiting for this for so goddamn long.

Reiner exhaled when you said his name again, hips undulating against his cock and wet folds stroking his tip. He watched as he pushed himself into you, filling you to the hilt, and once he was inside he hung his head forward, eyes shut tightly in a painful sort of ecstasy.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Reiner grunted breathlessly.

He groaned, pinning your hips down with his once you attempted to fuck yourself onto his cock.

“Stop moving,” he pleaded. “Jesus christ--please don’t move.” He stayed still for a moment, waiting until his sensitivity subsided before he started rocking his hips against you slowly.

Reiner couldn’t dedicate his focus to anything other than the feeling of your slick walls clenching around his cock every time he pulled out, and the way he stretched you out every time he thrusted back in. He wondered if you could feel the depth of his desire.

“Harder,” you whispered once, and then begged louder. “Reiner please, fuck me harder.”

At first, Reiner was worried. He wanted to be gentle, he wanted to savor you, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt you, but your request had him picking up the pace, ramming into you until the familiar slapping sound of sweaty skin filled the room.  

You unraveled and became completely undone, letting out loud moans every time he drove his cock into you. Reiner thought the sound was incredibly euphonic as it fell upon his ears. You were like this because of him.

“How’s this?” His voice was husky and deep beside your ear.

Reiner was pleased by your lack of response. You could only nod, overwhelmed by the dual sensation brought on by him and the feeling of your quick fingers against your clit. You secured an arm around his neck again and wrapped your legs around his torso, clinging to him like he was all you needed. He wished that was how you really felt.

“Close…,” you murmured, and Reiner deduced you were warning him that you were near your orgasm. He could tell by the way your walls began to spasm.

Reiner felt the small of his back tighten, and he knew he was close too. He was torn between his release and holding himself back, not ready for this to end just yet, but his body betrayed him and he felt his cock twitch inside you.

Luckily, you reached your climax first, and Reiner watched in awe as your body seized underneath him, breasts bobbing with every jolt while you worked your clit into overstimulation. It wasn’t long after your orgasm that he made his last rueful thrusts. He quickly pulled out and clasped himself in the curve of his hand. He pumped his length until he released in quick spurts onto your stomach, covering you in his hot seed, and he kept pumping until he made sure he emptied himself of every drop.

His eyes quickly darted over to Eren, not to be odd or anything, but again, he had forgotten he was there. It seemed Eren had already satisfied himself. The creamy, white liquid decorating the bare skin of his abdomen and dribbling down his loose fist was evidence of that. Now that he had appeased his urges, he seemed disinterested as he reached over his desk and plucked a few tissues to clean himself up.

Reiner collapsed beside you, listening to the loud thudding of his heart as it delivered a few ecstatic beats while he caught his breath and began to calm down. He stared at the pivoting fan blades, and then his eyes dropped down to you lying next to him, sweaty and fucked out.

You were laying there with him, and goddammit he wanted to reach his arms out and wrap them around you, pulling you close so he could hold you and feel your heartbeat against his chest. He’d press kisses to your salty forehead, and then tell you how much he loved you. He wanted to stay like this.

Reiner's ideal vision dissolved once Eren stopped at the edge of the bed and extended his hand for you to grab.

“You wanna join me for a shower, baby?” Eren asked.

Of course, you took it, allowing him to support you until you were sitting up.

You released an exhausted laugh. “Yes, please.” You then turned to Reiner and arched your eyebrow in surprise. “By the way, not bad, Braun.”

Reiner gave you a small smile in return, but said nothing as he watched you cover your breasts with your arm and let Eren hoist you off the bed. You two slid past him and headed out of the room, but not without Eren looking back over his shoulder, shooting Reiner a shit-eating grin, as though reminding him who you’d always belong to.

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 11,592)

(first part) (second part) (third part)

--------------------

Part Four

He blinks awake, and he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

A ceiling, to be sure, but it’s not the ceiling that it should be. It’s paler, more uniform, and the light illuminates it more evenly. His eyes drift across it, catching on a few hairline cracks near the wall, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is something he needs to be concerned about. This isn’t his room. He ought to be in his room, if he was sleeping.

And then, he comes to full awareness, because he is suddenly very cognizant that there are other people nearby. Breathing, clothes rustling, quietly conversing, even, and panic bursts in his chest. He sits bolt upright, casting about him for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, because he’s not going to let Dream’s men get the drop on him, not going to let him take down their revolution so easily—

He’s greeted by the sight of his friends, staring at him, visibly startled.

That’s right. The war is over. And he can relax, because none of them are likely to stab him in the back. Though that doesn’t mean he can let his guard down entirely, of course—not likely is not the same as impossible, after all, and he learned long ago that nothing is impossible, no loyalty guaranteed. And why are they here in the first place?

He scans the looks on their faces and simultaneously tries to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve got paperwork, it seems like. All of them. Is that his paperwork? Why are they doing his paperwork? And why are their expressions like that, varying between vaguely guilty to concerned to glad to—

His gaze lands on Niki. And just like that, he remembers.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He can’t believe himself. Did he actually let himself have a full-on break down with her in the room? Did he actually say all of that to her? There’s no way he can take any of it back now, which means it’s out there. She knows. And with everybody else here, with Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and even Jack Manifold sitting around on his office floor, he can assume that they know too. They know how much of a failure he is.

Maybe that’s why they’re all here, going through the work that’s meant to be his. They’ve realized that he’s incapable of doing it properly, so they’re going to appoint someone else to take care of it and gently ask him to step down. He has no doubt that they will be gentle. As kind as possible with the knife that hits his heart. He’ll fade into obscurity, a slow death, and dust will coat his bones, and in fifty years or so someone will visit him and find what remains.

That is the kind of thought that would have even Technoblade accusing him of melodrama. He doesn’t care enough to rein himself in at the moment.

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, peering at him over a paper that he’s holding very close to his face. To get a good look at the words, he assumes. “You feeling any better?”

“Um,” he says, and curses his tired brain. He needs a minute. Alone, preferably, so that he can get his mind up and running properly, without anyone seeing him before he can manage as much. But they’re not about to grant him that, are they? “Uh, I’m good.” He shifts, trying to release some of his tension in a non-obvious manner, and fabric falls from his shoulders. He glances down at it; it’s his coat, meaning someone divested him of it when he was asleep and covered him with it. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s a nice gesture, on one hand, but on the other, he doesn’t like that they could do that without waking him up.

Niki is sitting closest to him, though everyone is kind of close, actually, now that he’s noticing it. They’ve pushed his desk to the side, too, as well as his chairs, leaving the floor wide open, and yet, they’re all clumped near him, papers spread out between all of them. But Niki smiles at him. No one else does. He wishes he could smile back. His heart refuses to calm, even though he’s recognized the people in here for friends rather than foes. The problem is that anyone could be a foe, and he might not know until it was too late. Not that he really thinks that about any of them, but—he can’t not think it, either.

And he’s too vulnerable. The space is too crowded. They’re all looking at him, watching him, and even though he’s slept, he doesn’t feel rested. Doesn’t feel awake. He’s going to slip up, and they’re all going to be here for it, and he didn’t know what to do about it when it was just Niki so how is he supposed to do damage control when it’s literally everyone—

“That’s good,” Niki says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m glad.” She pauses, and he should say something, but his head’s too jumbled, and all the words jam up against each other before he can think to voice any of them. “It’s been about four hours.”

Oh. That’s good. He hasn’t lost too much time, then. Not that he would have accomplished much with it, probably, but there’s a reason why he forces himself out of bed, at least, even when that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Right,” he says. “Good.” Fuck, the words just aren’t coming. He has to do better than this. “Can I ask why you’re all here?”

Silence falls, thick and oppressive. He feels like he’s breathing heavy fog, like it’s filling his lungs and then staying there. And they’re all still looking at him, too, at him and at each other, and they’re having some sort of silent conversation, and he hates it. He meets Fundy’s eyes for a second, and Fundy glances away, away and down, his ears almost flat against his head, and Wilbur—he’s not going to cry again. Not going to—but he wants to know why they’re here, and he wants to know whatever it is they’re not saying to him, and he doesn’t want his son to look at him with that expression on his face. Like he’s—he doesn’t even know, and when did he forget how to read Fundy? How long has it been since he really tried?

It’s Jack, of all people, who speaks up first.

“Niki said you could use some help,” he says with an easy shrug. “So we’re helping. And you seemed like you might need the rest.”

I don’t need help.

The sentence sticks in his throat. Because it’s a lie. It’s a lie, even though he’s tried so hard to make it into truth. It’s a lie, and perhaps he’s just tired of telling lies.

Though he doesn’t much like the alternative, either. Is there no way out of this?

“We don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tubbo tacks on. His tone is casual, but there is something knowing in it. Something slightly sharp. Tubbo is so very perceptive, even if he doesn’t always let that on, and normally, it’s a trait that he very much admires. Normally. When it’s not directed at him. “And besides, some of this is definitely stuff that I ought to be working on anyway. Since I’m in your cabinet and all. I’m not so busy with the space program that I can’t.”

Space—oh. Right. Did he approve that? He must have.

“Yeah, this is way too much for one guy,” Jack agrees. “No wonder you’ve been stressed out, man. But hey, you’ve got us. We’re paperwork champions, us.” He waves a paper cheerfully, grinning, and that’s a bit much for him at this second. There’s no malice in any of it, in anything that Jack is saying, but it’s still—too much, and he doesn’t quite know why, but his skin has started that uncomfortable buzzing again, the kind that it does when he’s feeling overwhelmed and doesn’t have an outlet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” he tries, phrasing it as carefully as he can, “but that’s really not any of your responsibility.”

“Wil,” Niki says, and her voice cuts through the white noise in his head. He stiffens, and suddenly finds that eye contact is also too much. “We want to help. That’s all. And it’ll make us feel better too, if you let us.”

“We made you soup, too,” Fundy mutters suddenly, ears still pinned back. “Or, well, Niki did. Tommy messed it up the first time.”

“Oi, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. He’s hunched over, curled in on himself, and eye contact is a thing that he seems to be avoiding as well, which is concerning. Tommy doesn’t tend to be avoidant when he’s angry.

In a way, though, it’s almost relieving to see clear signs that someone, at least, is upset with him.

“I did,” Niki agrees, “but Tommy tried his best. Actually, Tommy, it should be ready now, if you want to go and get it?”

Tommy lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, and the sight makes Wilbur feels a bit like he’s been shot. Because he did that, surely? That’s his fault? It has to be.

“Fine,” Tommy bites out, and then he rises, and he’s out the door before Wilbur can think of what to say to him at all.

“He actually did try his best,” Tubbo says. “When Niki said we ought to make you some soup, he was all over it. He’s just not any good at cooking things. He gets distracted, and then things are burning or boiling over and it’s a whole mess.”

He knows all of this. He traveled with Tommy for a very long time. He was in charge of meals for multiple reasons, despite the fact he doesn’t have much of an affinity for food himself. What he makes is often edible, though, which was always more than he could say for Tommy’s attempts, Tommy who is too impatient and too prone to jumping on ideas and following where they lead, discarding the old ones when they no longer interest him. Not the best mindset to have when it comes to cooking.

And then, the implications catch up to him. Soup. He’s going to have to eat.

That’s a thing he should do, he knows. He just doesn’t know if he can. Especially not with everyone here, everyone looking at him, and his discomfort at that fact has not left him, no matter how silly a thing it is to get worked up over. He ought to be fine with the attention, ought to thrive on it. He used to. He used to, once, not even that long ago. A matter of months. He could drop a deft turn of phrase and have anyone eating out of his hand, and he liked it that way. He could charm strangers and court friends. He was in control.

That control has left him. Along with his dignity, apparently.

“You know, that’s not all that surprising,” Jack says. “Tommy doesn’t really seem like the type of person who knows how to cook things.”

“Well, he can, if he really sets himself to it,” Tubbo says. “Just not if there’s anything else on his mind.”

The implication being that there was. The implication being that it was Wilbur.

His cheeks are on fire. He’s powerless to fight back the flush.

Is this what it’s going to be, now? Are they going to keep discussing him, dancing around the topic while he’s still in the room? He wonders what they talked about while he was asleep. Whether Niki spilled everything, shared all the finest details of his break down, or whether she left them to guess. He doesn’t know which would be worse, but either way, nothing will be the same. At best, they will pity him, will lose their respect for his abilities, lose their faith in his leadership, and they will feel sorry for him. Will feel dismay at how far he’s fallen. Perhaps they won’t even say as much to his face. Perhaps it will all be in sideways glances and hushed silences when he enters a room and too-gentle voices when they speak to him, and he will lose them just as surely as if they hated him.

Perhaps it will be better if they hate him. Perhaps he would prefer that, no matter how it would burn him. Because at least it would burn him quickly, and the flames would not be disguised as an open palm.

“Wil?” Niki’s voice is soft, but it brings him back to the present effectively enough. “Really, are you feeling any better?”

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, almost on instinct, even though he knows very well that he’s not going to be able to slide that past her. Not now. Not after their—

But should he be trying to? After what she said to him?

But he can’t believe her. He can’t. No matter how much some part of him wants to, no matter how much there is something in his brain and in his chest and in his bones that wants nothing more than to break down again, to let them all see the truth of him. Wants to let them take care of him, if they would.

But they shouldn’t have to. Even if they would, they shouldn’t have to.

And he doesn’t want them to pity him.

“Are you?” Niki asks, holding his gaze. He can feel the flush deepening.

“No shame in not,” Jack pipes up, still infuriatingly casual. “If you’re feeling sort of shit, you can tell us that, you know?”

“I’d say it’s encouraged, actually,” Tubbo adds on.

“I’m not feeling sort of shit,” he says, and—fuck. He has to look down. He can’t stand Niki staring at him like that. He’s lying, and she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just—earlier was a fluke. He can’t—he can’t repeat it. Can’t let himself—

So why the fuck is it so tempting to just give in? Is it that he knows he’s already doomed?

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and even he sounds a bit doubtful, “but you know, hypothetically, if you weren’t? That would hypothetically be fine, and we’d hypothetically be there for you. If you wanted to hypothetically talk to us. Get some things off your chest, as it were. Because we’re your friends.”

He opens his mouth. And closes it again.

And then, the door swings open. Tommy’s standing there, a large bowl in his hands.

“Soup,” he announces, curt and short. He’s angry. And still angry when he looks at Wilbur, for the first time since—all of this. His blue eyes are stormy, and if Wilbur had just a little less presence of mind, he might find himself shrinking back. Which would be ridiculous. He’s not afraid of Tommy.

Just of his judgment.

He blinks, and the soup is being thrust into his hands, along with a spoon. The bowl is hot, but it’s easy to handle, and he takes it before any of it can slosh over the sides. It’s mostly broth, it looks like, with a few chunks of meat. It smells nice. Fairly appetizing.

His stomach growls.

“Thanks, Tommy,” he murmurs. “And Niki, thank you.” He stirs it a couple times, trying to work up the nerve to bring the spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be that hard, but—he’s back to the people thing, again. Eyes on him. And it’s Fundy’s, maybe, that are most unnerving, because Fundy’s barely said anything to him at all. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him whatsoever, and that in itself is upsetting.

But perhaps it’s just as well that he waits a moment, because then, Tommy speaks up.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he demands, and once again, the room falls very silent. No one moves.

His mind blanks, unravels, almost, at the accusatory note in Tommy’s voice.

“Tommy—” Niki ventures, but Tommy shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps. “I want him to say. He’s been in here, fucking, fucking starving himself apparently, because he’s been so fucking stressed, and he hasn’t said anything about it. In fact, he’s been fucking lying about it, and I want some fucking—some fucking answers, alright? Why didn’t he tell any of us what was going on?”

No words form. He doesn’t have an answer. Not when it’s Tommy asking him these things.

His chest feels hot.

No. No, not now, not again, you’re not doing this.

“Tommy,” Niki says, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that—”

“Fuck complicated,” Tommy says. “He could’ve been dying and we wouldn’t have known.”

Tommy’s voice breaks.

And it is probably a bad thing, that Wilbur’s first thought is, I think that I was.

He has enough good sense to not say that aloud, at least.

“I was hardly about to burden you with my problems,” he says, barely above a whisper. He can’t get his volume to increase any more than that. Not in the face of Tommy’s anger. Which is odd, because usually he’s quite good at combating Tommy’s stubbornness. “Especially when I ought to be able to handle them myself.”

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Tommy says, and—it is an effort not to flinch at that, to stop himself from spiraling, to prevent tears from springing to his eyes again. He can’t be that sensitive. He can’t. But then, Tommy continues, and he thinks that all his efforts might be for naught anyway. “No, really, fuck you, man. You’re not fucking—burdening us, what the shit are you on about? Are you just stupid?”

“Not that I’d phrase it that way,” Tubbo joins in, “but Tommy’s got a point, boss man. Why’d you think you couldn’t come to us with this stuff? You have to know we’re happy to help you, right?”

It’s that same question again. He can’t go through it. He can’t explain the self-loathing, the mask he wears, the front he puts up. He can’t go through it, because he doesn’t want to see the dawning realizations on their faces. He doesn’t want them to understand him, not like that, because he understands himself. He understands himself, and he hates himself for it, and he doesn’t want them to hate him as well.

But Niki doesn’t hate him. Niki heard everything that came out of his mouth, and she doesn’t hate him.

But that’s not—

He feels so fucking lost. And he hates that, too.

“I think,” Niki says suddenly, “that Wilbur’s been dealing with some things lately. And that maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about it because he’s supposed to be the leader, so that means he’s supposed to be strong all the time, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to ask for help. And that maybe he thinks we’d think less of him if he did need help.”

He stares at her.

That’s the crux of a lot of it. And she’s just laid it out. It’s in the open, now, and he didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or upset about it.

She stares back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know it’s difficult for you. But am I right, Wil?”

It is difficult for him. That’s part of the whole problem. If it is a problem. He didn’t think that is was, thought that it was a strength, in fact, the only thing keeping him above water, the fraying stitches that maintain the facade that he so desperately needs to keep up. But if Niki is to be believed, he should have said something a long time ago. Because his leadership capabilities and his formation of this country aren’t why his friends stick with him. Apparently.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe that.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to believe it yet. Perhaps he needs to take a chance.

Slowly, he nods, and he keeps looking at her, not at anyone else, because he doesn’t want to see anyone else’s reactions, but he does see the relief in her eyes at the motion, at the admission. At the capitulation—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s him giving in, accepting that there is nowhere else to hide.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he thinks that someone else makes a noise, but he can’t tell who. “Well, that’s just some bullshit, then, innit? Everyone needs help sometimes, don’t they? Except for me, because I’m so poggers, but everyone can’t be me, you know, and there’s no shame in that. And maybe, you know, just maybe I ask for help sometimes too, just to make it fair to everyone else. But you know, asking for help, it doesn’t make you any less, um, good, and if you need help you should ask for it, I think. That’s my opinion.”

Oh fuck. He’s not going to cry. That shouldn’t even be hitting him like it is, because Tommy’s his kid brother and he’s supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around, but—

Fuck. He’s tearing up. He doesn’t want them to see him crying. But his mind’s a mess.

“I know it’s hard,” Niki says, and she scoots a little closer. “But we can start with little things, okay? And we’re here for you.” Her eyes take on a certain amount of hardness, a glint that’s just a bit like steel. “And we’re going to continue being here for you.” She reaches out, then, puts a hand on his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t flinch away and spill soup all over himself is because she choreographs the motion. “How about you eat your soup?”

He finds his voice at last.

“Okay,” he says, small and broken. They can hear it, he’s sure. But they don’t leave.

He eats the soup. It’s good.

He can only get about half of it down before he feels too full to continue, but it’s something like a start.

----

They’re true to their word, all of them.

He’s not alone nearly so often these days. It’s almost frustrating, because they’re hovering. He’s well aware of that fact. Even when he wants to isolate himself, he finds that he can’t do it, that it’s not fifteen minutes before someone comes barging in, either to take him out somewhere or to stay in with him, to work on policies or just to share stories or show him a new build or a thousand other things. His office sees more traffic in the next few weeks than it has in the past few months.

But what they don’t do, he’s starting to realize, is pity him.

He doesn’t understand it at first. But they never comment on the fact that he can’t do what he ought to be able to do, and they never hint that they find him incapable, and they don’t subtly try to say that he’s unfit for the job, even though all of these things are true and wrapped up in each other. They’re just—there. For him. Supporting him.

It’s a little bewildering. He tries not to express as much, because whenever he lets something like that slip, they look angry, if they’re Tommy, and sad if they’re anyone else. Which he doesn’t want. But it truly is as if they care about him as a person and not just what he can do for them, which is a mindset he’s never been able to hold when it comes to himself, and frankly, he’s not sure whether he can trust it at all, because he’s still not good at that. Still not good at trust. He’s not sure whether he ever will be again.

But they stay with him, and they help him, and from everything he can tell, it’s not because they pity him. It’s because they care.

Terrifying. And there have to be limits to that, surely? To even the most genuine compassion?

But he hasn’t found them yet.

The first time he thinks that perhaps there are none at all comes on what he’s taken to calling one of his grey mornings, where all the world appears lifeless, colorless, and there doesn’t seem to be a point to getting out of bed, and even if he wanted to, his limbs drag heavily, as if weighted down by anchors, and his mind refuses to emerge from the persistent fog that takes it.

Usually, on these mornings, he manages to be up and about by midday at the latest, if only because his anxiety about the tasks he needs to accomplish eventually overrides the haze, and no one is ever the wiser for it.

Today, Tommy comes barging into his private quarters at about ten in the morning.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, loud as anything, drawing out his name in the way that he does when he wants something. He wants to press his pillow over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen, because it’s grating, the sudden noise. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, so he just lies there, in bed, covers pulled over him, watching Tommy through slit eyes as he steps into the room. “Wilbur, you’ve got to come and tell Tubbo—why’s your room so shit?”

He’s fairly certain that’s a change in subject, and not what he’s supposed to come tell Tubbo.

“No, really,” Tommy says. “There’s like, nothing in here. What the hell?”

He needs to respond to that, so he sighs.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he mutters, and even just saying that much takes far too much effort. “Just—go do something, I’ll be up in a bit.”

And he will be. He always is. But Tommy doesn’t leave, stands there frowning at him, and it’s enough to make him feel self-conscious. Not as much as it would have a few weeks ago, perhaps, but still, he doesn’t like that Tommy’s seeing him like this, all slumped over and still in bed like a sad, messy sack of potatoes.

“Rough morning then, eh?” Tommy says, and—really, there’s no point in denying it.

“I’ll be over it in a bit,” he repeats, though it’s a chore, though he’s dreading the moment he steps out of bed, because the thing about days like these is that the haze doesn’t actually leave him. He just eventually uses his neuroticism to force himself to work through it, which makes for a gut-churning combination of nerves and apathy, both rolling through him at once. It’s unpleasant, and his brain never seems to work properly. Everything that’s supposed to be important dissolves, slips from his grasp, and he can’t even manage to care properly about it, and then he gets anxious about the fact that he can’t care properly about it, and then it turns into a cycle, all of his negative energy feeding itself. And he’s powerless to make it stop.

“Okay, but if I leave, you’re just going to be in here, all sad and shit,” Tommy says. “So how about I stay here, and I tell you about the crimes that Tubbo has committed against me, and then when you’re feeling a bit better, because everyone feels better after talking to me—when you’re feeling a bit better you can get up and we can go out together, yeah?”

He’s not sure how he feels about that. But he can hardly stop Tommy at the moment, since it seems he’s already made up his mind, and Tommy’s already looking around for a chair; the only one in the room is the one at his desk, so Tommy pulls that over to the bed, making a horrid, obnoxious scraping noise against the floor. And then, he seats himself, settling down like he’s not inclined to go anywhere anytime soon. And he talks.

The thing is, it sort of works.

The way Tommy’s speaking, it’s like he doesn’t have any kind of expectations. Wilbur doesn’t need to answer, just to listen. So he does, and he lets himself drift a little bit, and it’s difficult to believe that Tommy’s not judging him for it, or for any of this, but Tommy’s not the sort of kid who hides what he’s feeling, and he can’t detect any frustration or derision in the way he’s talking. It’s like he’s content enough to just talk, to be there, even though Wilbur’s hardly making it fun for him, is hardly being an engaging conversation partner. It’s like he just wants Wilbur to feel better, without any ulterior motive at all, so he’s here doing what he thinks will accomplish that.

And Wilbur does start to feel better.

Not all the way. Not by a long shot. But eventually, he finds himself able to reply, and the words come a bit easier and thinking feels a bit less like wading through mud, and it starts to be an actual conversation rather than just Tommy jabbering at him. And after that, he manages to swing himself out of bed and get dressed, and Tommy pushes breakfast on him that he manages to eat most of, and just like that, he’s up and about his day. Not at a hundred percent, not firing on all cylinders, but more than usual, on a grey day like today.

And it’s because of Tommy. Because he was here. Because he came, and he stayed, and he thinks that perhaps, what Tubbo did or did not do was never the point of this at all.

When he asks Tommy about it, a little circumspectly, Tommy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What do you mean, why?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I? You were feeling shitty, weren’t you? So I wanted to make you feel alright again.”

It’s stated so simply. As if that really is all there is to it.

And perhaps that’s the truth.

“You make things way too complicated,” Tommy tacks on, matter-of-factly. “I dunno why you do that. You ought to stop it, I reckon.”

That wrings a laugh from him, and if it’s a bit wet, Tommy doesn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I should,” he says, and Tommy nods, satisfied.

“Of course you should,” he says. “I am always so incredibly correct. You should listen to me all the time.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he returns, and it feels, just a little bit, like the way things used to be.

----

The white hair still bothers him. His reflection as a whole still bothers him, but the white hair most of all. It’s broad and obvious and an irritating reminder of what everyone keeps insisting isn’t weakness, but rather a sign that he’s pushed himself beyond the point of what’s healthy. Which matters. Evidently.

He still doesn’t like looking at it. It makes him feel—lesser, in a way, though he’s no longer sure that makes any sense at all.

So he still does his best to hide it, even though there’s not much point anymore, even though everyone’s seen it and everyone knows exactly what it means. He tries to hide it, and he avoids looking in the mirror when he can, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way people frown at him, sometimes, whenever he refuses to do something like take off his coat or hat in one of the more casual settings they’ve taken to luring him out to.

And then, Fundy shows up at his door with a bucket and a pair of fishing rods.

“Do you want to go fishing with me,” he blurts out, all in one breath, and Wilbur blinks, because he hadn’t expected this at all. He’s come to expect something, most days, has come to expect someone arriving either to interrupt the monotony of his work or to help him with it, but Fundy doesn’t make appearances often. And never by himself. Frankly, Wilbur had come to the conclusion long ago that he’d messed up somewhere along the line, done something that forced his son to desire a separation from him. That his little champion has resolved that he’d rather not have much to do with his father.

“Fishing?” he asks.

He’d promised, a long time ago, that he’d teach his son how to fish one day. That day never arrived. He’d thought that Fundy didn’t want to anymore.

“Yeah.” Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Um, it was just an idea. But I thought that maybe? You’d want to? If you, um, if you have some time for it. It’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s done that so many times, has denied his son again and again. Not just his son, but everyone, and now they’re all determined to make him see, apparently, that focusing on his work in the way he has been is not only unhealthy, but not necessary. He still doesn’t know that he believes that.

“Alright,” he says softly, and stands, and his heart breaks a little at the surprise that comes across Fundy’s face.

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I do,” he says. And he does, even if a bout of nerves rises up in him at the prospect. He does his best to quash them.

So they do. They go down to the docks. They get situated, and Wilbur shows his son how to put the bait on a hook, and how to cast his line out, and how to be patient, and they fish, and it’s a bit awkward. A bit stilted. There’s too many unspoken words between them, and one big subject that neither of them knows how to breach, especially not in this circumstance, and part of Wilbur doubts that they ever will.

But they’re both here. And he doesn’t want this to be their future. And he’s decided to try not to isolate himself like he was, so if something’s going to change, it really is up to him, so he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says, and stares out at the way their bobbers float next to each other in the gentle surf.

“It’s okay,” Fundy says. “Or, well, I mean. I kind of thought that you were disappointed in me or something, so that kind of didn’t feel okay, but I’m glad you’re not.”

He jerks at the confession, which sounds pained, as though he doesn’t really want to be saying it.

“Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” he asks.

“Well, it’s—” Fundy says. “I dunno, you just never let me do anything, and then you kind of stopped spending time with me at all, so I sort of figured that maybe you thought I couldn’t do anything.”

His mouth is dry. His line is slack, which is just as well; if a fish came along now, he might let it tug his rod right from his fingers.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he says. “I never—I never could be, Fundy, I promise. I—I thought you were disappointed in me, to be entirely honest.”

Fundy’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide.

It is a struggle to continue. Confessions like this are not his forte, even now. But he’s trying to be more open. Trying not to lock himself away. Trying to reach out for the hands that have been offered to him, trying to believe that they will help him stand, will not abandon him to his own shoddy balance as soon as it becomes apparent that he’s made up of more trouble than worth.

And Fundy deserves this.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he says, and that is difficult, too. Saying sorry outright like that. But he needs to. “Truly. I just figured—I mean, I know I’m not exactly the best parent. And especially lately, it’s been—”

He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. If it were a few weeks ago, he’d be apologizing for his weakness as well, for his inability to remain strong under the pressure, but everyone around him keeps insisting that that’s not the right way to look at it, and he’s growing more and more open to letting himself be convinced.

“You’re—” Fundy starts, and then falters. His tail drags back and forth, and then stills. “Oh. Um. Okay, I probably should’ve—um.” His ears flick, and he glances away. “I’m sorry too, then. For avoiding you lately. I know, um, that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t realize that it—it wasn’t because I thought that you were, that you were disappointing or anything, I just didn’t—I didn’t really know how to react. Because I sort of always thought you were invincible, and now all of a sudden you’re not.”

Something in him wilts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No! Um, no, that’s not what I—you don’t have to be invincible, it’s just that I sort of needed to, to adjust to that. Because of course, no one’s invincible, right? But you’re just—you’re my dad, so I guess I always just thought that nothing could hurt you. So I wasn’t—I wasn’t really sure what I should do. Or how I should help. Or if you even wanted me to help. But I didn’t mean to—I mean, maybe I was a little upset with you but not like—it wasn’t like, for a—I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I was upset because I was worried.” Fundy looks back at him. “‘Cause, you know. I love you and everything.”

Oh.

He’s not quite sure what to do with all of that, but the last sentence gets caught in his chest and sticks there, warmth unfurling.

All’s not lost. His son still loves him.

“I love you too,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Always.”

He can believe this. Sitting here, listening to the lap of the waves, he can believe this, can believe that his son loves him, that no matter his mistakes, his son still cares, that his son won’t leave him. Maybe he’ll forget later, but he can be reminded. And in turn, he hopes that Fundy believes him. Because there are so many words unspoken between them, but now, there are a few less.

They keep fishing. Far longer than he thought he’d allow himself, but he finds it easier than it has been, to push his duties from his mind. And at some point, he rolls up his sleeves, and then loses the coat entirely, and the hat lands on top of it, and he’s letting his hair free, and other than a few glances, Fundy doesn’t mention it at all.

And when he catches a glimpse of himself in the water, too-thin face and too-dark eyebags and a white streak of hair that’s almost skunk-like in its prominence, he doesn’t care much for it, but he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t feel the need to hide away, or to put on the layers again, to cover up behind the mask of professionalism.

For a moment, he can just be a man fishing with his son, and all the rest is less important.

----

“There is,” Jack Manifold says, and swallows, “a man.”

Not what he expected Jack to say when he burst in like that, but alright.

“What man?” he asks. He puts down the paper he’d been reading, and decides it goes into the ‘to-delegate-to-Tubbo’ pile. That’s a new system he’s been using. Delegation. He’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but it makes everyone else happier, so he’s doing his best to actually give it a try.

“A man,” Jack says, very helpfully. “He’s at the gates. We told him to wait to come in, and he’s doing that, but um. Wow. He’s got some vibes. Dunno how to describe them, except to be honest, he’s a bit intimidating. And he wants to see you.”

That can’t possibly bode well.

“Alright,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. Freshly washed. He’s getting better about that. He’s had a bit more energy, lately. “Show me.”

Jack takes him down to the front entrance. He keeps pace with him, matching him stride for stride, but it’s not until they’re almost there that Jack tacks on, almost an afterthought, “Oh, yeah, plus he had wings. That’s not really a usual thing.” And his heart leaps straight into his throat.

“He what,” he says, but by then it’s too late, because there’s the entrance to his nation, and standing there, talking amicably with Tubbo, is Phil.

He looks unchanged from the last time he saw him. Even though that was—well. Not actually years ago. He’s seen him in the meantime for a couple of tournaments and the like, but he’s thinking of the day he left home. The day he decided that the world was too vast, too big to leave unexplored and unconquered, the day he decided to go in pursuit of that nebulous more that he always seemed to want, but could never put a name to. The day he slung his guitar across his back and a coat over his shoulders and gave his father one last hug goodbye and promised to write, and only looked back once to the house, to where Phil stood on the porch, smiling and waving him off, proud of him.

He looks unchanged. Same robes, same sandals. Same dumb bucket hat. Same wings arching behind him, feathers black as the void that granted them to him.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Does Tubbo know him?”

He swallows.

Why is Phil here?

“Yeah, they’ve met,” he says. “He’s—not anyone you need to be worried about.”

Probably. Almost definitely. Especially if Technoblade’s not with him, since he’s heard Technoblade has a bit of a mind toward anarchy these days, so he’s not sure how well that next meeting is going to go. But there’s no sign of his father’s best friend, only his father, whose head swivels toward him on his approach, and it’s too late to turn back now. Not that he would. This isn’t something he can run away from.

“Wilbur!” Tubbo says, as soon as he’s close enough. “You didn’t say Phil was coming.”

“I wasn’t aware Phil was coming,” he says, and tries for a smile. Phil meets his eyes, and he returns it, but there is something else there. Something more complicated than a simple reunion ought to warrant. “Phil didn’t write ahead. Though that’s not to say he isn’t welcome, but I probably would’ve done a bit of tidying up first.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Phil says. “I don’t mean to drop by unannounced. But any letter I sent probably wouldn’t have gotten here much before I did.”

That is—concerning. What’s so pressing that he couldn’t have waited?

“We should probably let you guys catch up, huh?” Tubbo says, and then nudges Jack. “C’mon, we’ve got to go do a thing.”

“We do?”

“Yep.” And then, Tubbo’s got Jack by the arm, and both of them are walking away, Jack considerably more confused than Tubbo, and then they’re gone. And he’s left with Phil.

Should this feel as awkward as it does? There’s no reason for this tension. Not that he knows of.

“Hi,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Hi, mate,” Phil says, voice soft, expression soft. Is there a reason for the softness, more than just seeing each other again for the first time in—a while?

“Well, welcome to L’Manberg,” he says. “I mean it, you were welcome anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve made here. What we’ve made here.” He pauses. He can’t not ask. Letting something like that slip by him isn’t in his nature. “Though, is there anything I should know about? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am glad to see you, but I really wasn’t expecting you.” He finishes with a laugh, short and perhaps a bit nervous, and the corners of Phil’s eyes crinkle. His expression isn’t happy, though, not really.

“I got your letter,” Phil says, still soft, and Wilbur goes to ask for clarification, because he hasn’t sent a letter asking him to come. Except the next words make him freeze. “Both of them, actually.”

Phil dips a hand into a pocket in his robes, and it comes out holding two sheets of paper. Both written in his handwriting. One neat, clean. The other with lines and sentences scratched out, and then the rest of it rushed, an outpouring of emotion, something that he never, ever intended to send. And he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, would he have? Except he was so tired, and Tubbo came in and interrupted him, and couldn’t it be plausible that he’d just—scooped up both drafts, when he only meant to send the one? That he tucked both into the envelope, sent both flying off, sent them both into Phil’s hands, one a clear contradiction of the sweet lies of the other?

He’s gone numb.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

What did he write? He can’t even remember now. It was a flight of passion, a bit of self indulgence that he hoped would relieve some of the stress. It didn’t, of course. And he didn’t consider the idea that there would be consequences for it, that it would ever see the light of day. He never intended it to.

Something about being a disappointment. About failing everyone. About being hated. Something about the Final Control Room, too, which was something he never wanted Phil to learn about.

“Um,” he says.

“I figured you didn’t mean to send it,” Phil says. “But I—I could hardly not come, after reading that.”

He sounds a little bit lost. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation either. That makes two of them.

He can’t explain this away. Even if he’s been a bit better lately, even if he’s gotten a bit better at leaning on others, at asking for help, and even if he no longer quite believes that his friends will abandon him as soon as he proves to be of little use—because if they were going to do that, they would have already, surely—even with all of that, he’s still not well. In a better state of mind than he was when he penned that, but still not well. And now Phil knows, and he’s here, and he’s going to know all the rest, and whenever he thinks he’s mastered himself, has himself under control, the universe comes and spits in his face, doesn’t it?

Niki was one thing. And then all the rest of his friends, his little brother, even, that was another, but he’s been getting accustomed to it. Has been trying to trust, even though it’s so very difficult.

But Phil. He never wanted Phil to know. Not any of it.

“Right,” he says. “Um. I was—not in a very good headspace when I wrote that. I’ll admit it. But it’s not—I mean, I am okay. You don’t need to worry.”

The words taste stale before they even leave his mouth. Phil won’t believe them; he doesn’t believe them himself. No one has believed them for quite some time, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t. Hadn’t he said that he was tired of lying?

But this is Phil.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, and he almost cringes, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

And—that is not what he was expecting.

He’s nodding before he can really consider it. A few scant weeks ago, he would have denied the request, citing something about professionalism and maintaining appearances and no longer being a child. And that urge is still there, still present to some degree. But it is overwhelmed by the realization that it has been a long time since he was hugged by his father, and whenever Phil hugs him, he always feels safe and warm and protected, and he wants that, and if everyone around him is to be believed, it’s alright for him to want that.

So Phil steps forward, and he steps forward to meet him, and he’s not sure when he got to being so much taller than Phil, but even despite that, it feels just like he remembers, arms and wings folding around him and tugging him close. He sags against him almost instantly, and Phil holds him up with little effort.

And suddenly, there’s tears in his eyes. He’s starting to make this a habit.

“I’ve been really worried,” Phil murmurs. “Wil—why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“I didn’t,” he starts, and almost chokes on his own breath, “I didn’t want—”

Ah. There go the tears. He’s less ashamed of them than he would have been, not long ago, though he still doesn’t like that this is happening. Still doesn’t like that Phil’s privy to this, now, too.

Phil hushes him, rubbing circles into his back. They must be a sight, L’Manberg’s president crying into the shoulder of the Angel of Death.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he finally chokes out. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, his voice something like grief and something like sorrow, “you could never disappoint me.”

“I could,” he insists. “I’m very disappointing.”

“You’re not,” Phil says. “You’re not. And even if you could be, I would never, ever be disappointed in you for how you feel, or for needing help.”

Ah. Well.

That seems rather in line with the sentiments that everyone else has been expressing, of late. And there’s something in his brain that won’t let him be persuaded, not entirely, as much as he’s been trying to work past it. There’s something in his brain that insists that he is a disappointment, that he should be better at handling himself, that anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to placate him, because if he cannot accomplish anything worthy of attention or praise then he is not worthy himself.

But Phil is not lying to him. Phil is hugging him, and in his voice, there is nothing but sincerity. And pain, perhaps. Pain born of fear, of worry. For him.

He doesn’t have a response. Not a verbal one. But he holds Phil tighter, and Phil does the same, and for a while, they just stand there, and true safety is not a thing that exists, but if it did, he imagines it would feel a little like this.

----

He uncovers the mirror.

It’s a whim, not something thought out. He barely thinks about it at all before he’s doing it, whipping the sheet off and peering at himself.

The man staring back is a stranger, in more ways than one, and yet, he is utterly familiar. There are the bags, still deep and dark. There is the thinness of his wrist, the prominence of his cheekbones, the blood shot through his eyes. And there is the hair, creeping out from under the hat. Curly, a bit longer than he usually keeps it, and streaked with white in multiple places, the most obvious of which is a broad chunk right in front.

He breathes. In and out.

He still hates it. He doubts he’ll stop any time soon. It marks him as different, as other. Gives people something to stare at whenever it’s out in the open, though his friends have stopped doing it as much. He thinks they’ve realized that it well and truly bothers him.

But at the same time—

The bags are still dark, but less so. His frame is still lean, lanky, a bit underfed, but it’s no longer so bad, no longer as bad as it was. He’s not sure he understood how bad it was, at the time, but he’s eating more regularly now, and it’s obviously made a difference. His uniform is neat, and he feels no compulsion to straighten it up further, to get rid of all the creases, to stand with a soldier’s perfect posture. There is something to be said about professionalism, of course, but the need to be perfect all the time has faded. Not disappeared, but lessened.

And the white is still present, still a sign of what happened to him. Of the conditions he placed himself under. He doesn’t like it.

But he’s not ashamed. At least, not as much as he was.

He runs his hand through his hair. Puts his hat on his head, and lets his curls hang freely underneath it, doesn’t try to shove them up under the covering.

He doesn’t love it. He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know how to love himself. Doesn’t know how to convince himself that he deserves to.

But it doesn’t look bad.

He breathes. In and out.

“Alright,” he says, and the man in the mirror mouths the words in time with him. “You’re alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for the first time in a long time, it’s not quite a lie, either.

----

His feet carry him to Niki’s once again.

There’s no one else there but her. Her and the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of furnaces, the bits of flour always floating on the air. He slides into his usual seat, propping his head up on his hands and just watching her for a minute, not saying anything. The prominent scent is that of baking bread, but she’s setting ingredients out for cookies. He recognizes them, recognizes the combination of flour and eggs and sugar, and chocolate chips set off to the side. She’s washing her hands, and then, she turns, and she sees him.

She smiles.

He smiles back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” she answers. She turns back to the sink and washes her hands, and then goes back to her ingredients. It’s familiar. He’s watched this so many times. She mixes the dry ingredients, and then starts adding the wet, stirring until it all solidifies into dough, adding in the chocolate chips. She’s making them the way he knows most of the kids like them best, almost more chocolate than cookie, barely holding themselves together when they’re fresh out of the oven.

He pillows his head on his arms. Lets his hat slide to the side. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t pick it back up.

It’s so warm in here.

It’s not long before she has mounds of dough on baking sheets. Her movements are practiced, steady and sure. To his eyes, it’s almost like magic, the way it all comes together.

He’s tempted to ask for a bit of the dough. But if he does that, she’ll smack him on the head with her spoon and warn him about the dangers of eating raw eggs, an exasperated smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. And he’ll sigh and go along with it, no matter how tempting the morsel might be. Unless he sees an opportunity to sneak some, but she catches him more often than not.

So he doesn’t ask. Just watches. It’s warm, and he feels tired, but it’s not a bad kind of tired. Not a bone-deep weariness. Not the kind that makes him want to sleep and never wake up again—and that, that is something he has not quite confronted yet, that sentiment, that desire. He ought to. He has more clarity now, and he knows himself, and he knows he ought to. But not now.

He’s tired, but it’s the sort of tired that pushes him toward a nap, comfortable and safe, and that startles him for a moment, the fact that he feels safe here, with no qualifications placed on the idea at all.

He’s not in a talking sort of mood. So it surprises him when, after she’s finished putting the pans in the oven, Niki turns to him and asks, “Do you want to help with the next batch?”

He blinks.

“I thought I’d make some sugar cookies next,” she says, and then holds out her hand. “Come and help me.”

He stands, slowly, and ventures around behind the counter to where she’s standing. He takes her hand after only a moment’s hesitation, and is rewarded with another smile, one that he can’t help but return, if haltingly.

“You do know what a mess I am in the kitchen, right?” he checks.

“You are a disaster,” she agrees. “But you’ve been in here enough that you know what to do, don’t you? You can at least follow my directions.”

“I suppose,” he says, and Niki takes that as all the affirmation she needs, because in the next second, she’s stepping away from him and into a back room, and then returns in the next instant with an apron. Plain white, and definitely far too short for him, and she shoves it at him with an expression that tells him she clearly knows that it will make him look at least slightly ridiculous.

He sighs and puts it on. It barely reaches his mid-thigh.

“It suits you,” Niki says, with a determined nod. “Now, come here.”

She walks back over to the counter, clearing off all the bowls and measuring cups that she’d used for the chocolate chip cookies and pulling out new ones. She seems to have an endless supply. And then she looks at him, expectantly, so he comes over, hovering by her as she goes to get the actual ingredients. All familiar. All things he’s seen her use before, countless times. Perhaps this won’t go so badly; he could probably even get the measurements right himself, if he tried.

Niki sets a big bag of flour on the counter with a thump.

“Measure that out for me?” she says. “We’ve multiplying everything by four.”

Alright. He—thinks he knows what that means. So he takes a few measuring cups, scoots them closer to him, and begins pouring the flour, giving Niki sideways glances so as to pick up on whether he’s doing it right or not. She doesn’t stop him, but his distraction means that the flour starts kicking up in the air in earnest, and he coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. When it clears, she’s looking at him in amusement, and he shrugs, holding out one of the cups toward her.

It goes on like that. She directs him, and he does what she tells him to do, and if he gets it wrong, she corrects him, and if he gets it right, she thanks him. They stay quiet, for the most part, little conversation passing between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable lack. There’s no tension in the air, no pressure to perform. He feels as though his words have run dry again, melted away from him in the close warmth of the bakery, but for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels, for the most part, at ease.

What a novel concept.

It’s not too long before they’ve got dough, and plenty of it. Niki moves them to another counter, spreading flour out across a couple of thin boards before sliding one in front of him, and scooping some dough on top of it. She holds the rolling pin out in front of him a moment later, and he takes it. It’s fairly self-explanatory, what he’s meant to do now.

He rolls out the dough. Beside him, Niki does the same.

“We’d freeze it first, if we wanted it to hold its shape better,” she murmurs. “But I think we’ll keep these simple.”

He hums. The motion is repetitive, almost soothing, though it takes a moment to figure out how much pressure he should be applying. It takes some, but not too much. And yet, it’s simple, leaving his mind free to drift, and for the first time in a while, those drifting thoughts don’t land anywhere too dark.

“Here, that’s thin enough,” Niki says, putting a hand on his arm, and he stops. “You don’t want it to be too thin, and you don’t want to have to roll it out again. It’s never good to overwork the dough.”

“Right,” he says, and watches as she fishes around for some cookie cutters. True to her word, they’re simple, just various sizes of circles. She pushes some toward him, and he takes one, pressing it into his dough and coming up with a perfect circle. He then pauses, watching her to see how she gets hers out of the cutter; she pushes it gently with one finger, so he does the same, and it lands on one of the cookie sheets with a light thwap.

He finds a rhythm after that. And there’s something nice in the simplicity of the design. Just circles.

But after a few minutes, Niki breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says. “It was—scary. The way you were.”

He has to chew on that for a moment. It’s still a bit odd to be thinking of it that way. He spent so long being so determined that he was doing the right thing—and not only the right thing, but the only thing, the only option available to him. Keep his head high, his face pleasant, and only let out his despair when there was no one else around to see or hear. So it’s still foreign, just slightly, to wrap his head around the fact that other people cared that he was doing that. And not because it affected his ability to fulfill his duty, but because they cared for him. Care. Present tense.

Because they’re still here. Are still with him, despite how sure he was that admitting his weakness would drive them away. That, if nothing else, is the most convincing evidence of all as to the veracity of their words.

“I think I understand that now,” he says, and cuts out another cookie. “I’m glad too.”

He’s sleeping more often. Eating more frequently. And the storm of his mind, while not gone, has calmed. It’s easier to hold his ground against the wind that batters him, and easier to recognize it for wind at all.

It’s easier to reach out for a hand to help ground him.

“I think,” he starts, almost on impulse, and then stops. How much of this is fair to say? The importance of sharing his emotions has been impressed upon him, but he doesn’t want to give anyone else a burden. Doesn’t want to—but that’s not thinking about it the right way, is it? He glances at Niki, checks to see if she is willing to listen, and she nods at him, encouragingly. That’s all he needs. She wants to hear him, wants him to speak. The only person holding him back is himself, himself and the lingering fears that anything he says will be used against him, that everyone around him is circling, waiting for a fall, that the moment he opens up they’ll pounce, tear him to shreds and then leave what remains for the crows.

But that’s not the case.

They’ve proven it to him. And more than that, they were willing to prove it, even when it was, perhaps, not fair of him to demand that of them.

“I think I got used to it,” he says, slowly, feeling out the words as he says them. “Hating myself. So used to it that I didn’t realize that I was a bit fucked up.”

“I don’t know if fucked up is quite the right word,” Niki says, matching his soft tone. “Do you still? Hate yourself?” Her voice breaks just a little bit on the last word, but when he turns his head to meet her gaze full-on, she looks back steadily.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and this honesty burns. “I really—I really don’t.”

Is he supposed to know? That’s probably a thing he’s supposed to know. A chill runs up and down his spine, but then, Niki lays her hand on his arm again.

“I think that’s progress,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“But I should know,” he says. “And—I’m aware of the fact that healthy people don’t hate themselves, Niki.”

“Well, I don’t want you to hate yourself,” she says, and her voice is a strange mix of upset and calm. “I don’t think you should hate yourself. And it’s upsetting, that you can’t see how much of a wonderful person you are, just because you’re you. Upsetting for you, I mean. Not because of you. This isn’t your fault. It’s—” Her nose scrunches. “Tommy describes people as wrong’uns. I think your brain is a bit of a wrong’un.”

He blinks. “My brain’s a wrong’un?”

She nods. “Yeah, because it’s wrong, and it—it makes you feel bad about yourself.” With the hand not on his arm, she makes a sharp gesture. “And that’s not—that’s not the whole thing, it’s more complicated than that, I think. But do you know what I’m saying? It’s your brain’s fault, but it’s not you. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” he says, “but I think I understand what you mean.”

“I don’t think I quite have the words for it,” she says. “It’s just that—you’re worth so much more than you tell yourself that you are.”

He looks down at his dough. He’s pretty much cut out as many circles as he can, which means pushing the remainder together and rolling it out again. He does so, and then it’s back to making circles. Steady, rhythmic.

“I’m still having a hard time with that,” he says. “But it’s. Easier, I think. To try and accept it, than it was before.”

“And we’re with you,” Niki says. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all here with you.”

They are. Niki with her unflinching kindness, Tommy with his brashness and devotion, Tubbo with his matter-of-fact loyalty, Fundy with his awkward, honest support, Jack Manifold with his determined friendship. And lately, Phil, too, who has fit in with the rest of L’Manberg easily, smiles and laughter and a gleam in his eyes, and always a word of support when he needs one, and even when he thinks he doesn’t, always a safe haven to return to, always shelter under his wings.

They’re here. They’re with him.

They’re going to stay.

“I’m very glad,” he says, words halting, “that you all didn’t just up and decide that you’d had enough of me.”

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “we would never.”

He looks back at her. She’s smiling at him again, open and honest, concerned, but glad.

And he believes her.

“Let’s get these in the oven, shall we?” she says, and they do. They go pan by pan, one of them on each side, sliding them in to be baked. And then, they are left with no more dough and a mess of ingredients, and he’s too slow to move when a light enters Niki’s eyes, too slow to dodge when her flour-covered fingertips swipe across his cheek.

He can only retaliate from there, of course. It’s only fair. And he pays no mind to the state of his uniform as they start flicking baking ingredients at each other, pays no mind to the way his hair dangles in front of his face, pays no mind to the fact that he’s going to look a mess when he finally leaves. He’s got flour all over his clothes and sugar on his face, but Niki looks the exact same way, and when they finally have enough, when they slump against the counter side by side, a breathless laugh escapes him, and Niki looks delighted by it, so really, isn’t it all worth it?

“You look ridiculous,” he manages, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

“You look worse,” she says. “You look like you decided to wear the bakery instead of cook in it.”

“Oh?” he says. “And who started it?”

“And who decided to go along with it?” she returns, but she’s laughing, too.

And here he is, the president of L’Manberg, covered in baking ingredients, avoiding his duties so he can have a food fight with his best friend. No guilt accompanies the thought, and for the first time, he toys with the idea that perhaps, he does not need to be president forever. Maybe one day, he’ll work up the ability to set down the burden, to hand it to someone else, to let the possibilities open up before him, unconstrained by doubt and self-hatred and the cage he built for himself. Maybe his guitar will stop collecting dust.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

For now, this is enough.

So he stands in the bakery, warm as any hug, with white in his hair and the scent of cookies baking, and allows himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he is allowed this, and that life is worth living after all.

[skullsandwineglasses]

Love and Redemption Review

Overall, I have to say that the story was really good, maybe even better than the popular xianxia romances that came before it like Ten Miles of Peach Blossoms, Love and Destiny, and Ashes of Love. The romance may be comparable to AOL, but as a whole, the plot in L&R was more interesting and cohesive.

****SPOILERS AHEAD FOR LOVE AND REDEMPTION AND OTHER XIANXIA DRAMAS****

Plot

What sets Love and Redemption apart from the other 3 xianxia romances is that Love and Redemption also feels like a quest/adventure story, while also delivering a gut-wrenching, star-crossed romance plot. What’s interesting about L&R is that the main focus is on the mortal realm and the FL and ML’s current mortal incarnation, as opposed to the heavenly realm and their immortal identities.

The actions of the mortals have consequences across the 3 realms, as opposed to other xianxia romances that only use the mortal realm as a temporary stage for the leads to fall in love. The other 3 xianxias that I mentioned all opened up in the heavenly/celestial realm first, while the mortal realm was just a brief trial that the leads have to endure before returning to the immortal realm. The moral realm in L&R therefore feels livelier and more eventful, and the mortals have more agency and are not easily influenced by celestial beings. Whenever a celestial being does come down to the mortal realm, their powers are limited and are they are bound by the rules and restrictions of the mortal realm (which means that celestial beings can’t use their powers to mess with the emotions and decisions of mortals). 

The drama opens up with a tournament being held at the FL’s sect and members from all the other sects are arriving for the tournament. When the FL and ML meet, they are on equal footing (well, equal in terms of status as disciples, but not so much in terms of magical prowess). It’s like when you were in high school and you meet the visiting basketball team from a rival school, and then end up becoming friends with them.

Love and Redemption also takes the audience through a mystery. What is the true immortal identity of the FL? What’s her relationship to the Star of Mosha? Is she the saviour or the doomsday harbinger? Does the ML have an immortal identity too? Why do they have the same birthday? The drama keeps us on our toes because we learn about the truth and the history of the characters as they’re discovering it, as opposed to the other xianxia dramas where there is very little mystery and few plot twists.

Because of this mystery, the drama is tight and well-paced, since a new piece of the puzzle is always being revealed. Just when you thought that the mystery is solved, there’s a twist, and you realized that the twist was set up from the very beginning of the story, but you just missed it. 

The story also doesn’t stray from the main leads. Yes, there are subplots (as all dramas do), but the subplots here are brief, and they usually relate back to the main leads. Unlike in AOL where the later half of the drama derails and focuses on the two other supporting couples, while the main leads only get about 10 minutes of screen time. 

The Male Lead - Yu Si Feng

Before starting the drama, I read a lot of comments about how much whump and emotional torture the ML goes through and how much he sacrifices for the FL. I thought this was an exaggeration. I mean, Xufeng in AOL went through a lot of Jin Mi too, (and you could make the same argument for Ye Hua in TMOPB, or Bai Zi Hua in Journey of Flower), so I was a little hesitant about the premise since it’s such an old trope, and I was doubtful that it could top the sacrifice that other MLs have done in other dramas. 

But reader, boy was I wrong. Yu Si feng is the definition of limitless, unconditional love. I lost count of how many times he almost died for the FL (not including the 9 times she killed him in their previous 9 lives). He’s spitting up blood and stabbed in nearly every episode. Episodes 37-47 were the hardest to watch because of the escalating chronic angst and misunderstandings between him and Xuan ji that caused irreversible damage to their relationship. Even when she tries to kill him and tells him she regrets having ever known him, he still drags himself back to rescue her. To quote Si feng himself, it’s not a question of whether or not it’s worth it, but it’s a question of whether you are willing to do it. And Si feng is as eager and willing as ever to sacrifice everything for Xuan ji. 

I mean, even Xufeng in AOL and Ye Hua in TMOPB snapped at the FL’s cruelty and aloofness at one point, but Si feng seems incapable of ever being angry with Xuan ji. Even when Si feng purposely tries to avoid her, it’s out of protection for her, not out of anger for everything she’s done. Like??? Si feng is impossibly perfect, even by the impossible standards of xianxia. 

Cheng Yi plays Si feng to a T. He conveys a different type of pain in every crying scene, and so Si feng basically experiences like 59 different types of crushing pain, and you feel it in your bones every time you watch it. The man’s eyes speak volumes.

While it would be easy to say that Cheng Yi carries the drama with his portrayal of Si Feng, the actions of the ML would be meaningless if there were no romantic interest that he was doing this all for.  

The Female Lead - Chu Xuan Ji

Some people may feel that Xuan ji isn’t worth Si feng’s devotion. But, I would argue that the first 37 episodes shows us that she is definitely worth it. 

Xuan Ji is similar to Jin Mi from AOL in that she is incapable of feeling or understanding love. Because Xuan Ji was born without her 6 senses (and also without a real heart, unbeknownst to the other characters), she’s naive and juvenile. But despite not having feelings, she’s still able to care completely about others. She cares about her sister, her father, her sect brothers, and Si Feng. She’s fiercely protective of them as they are of her. To the best of her limited abilities, she is devoted to people as much as she can be. 

Because of her sensory deprivation, Xuan Ji is really curious about the world. She wants to be like everyone else, to feel like everyone else, in hopes of being able to properly reciprocate people’s love for her. She envies people who are able to cry because she thinks that’s an unhindered way of showing love. She regrets not being able to cry when her mother died. Xuan Ji is therefore a self-aware character, unlike Jin Mi, because she knows her shortcomings. She wants to be able to feel, understand, and share pain. 

As such, she’s quite an active character because she has this goal of reviving her senses, which has ripple effects for the other characters in the story since they become a part of her journey, whether by choice or by force. 

Why Si Feng fell for Xuan Ji

Xuan Ji and Si Feng are very opposite characters, and not just because of the obvious difference in their personalities. Si Feng is a boy who feels too much (we later see that he gets his persistent sentimentality from his father), but was taught his whole life to suppress his emotions (I mean, the mask both literally and figuratively prevents him from emoting). Si Feng wants to express his feelings, but cannot. 

On the other hand, Xuan Ji is allowed to be as expressive as she wants, but she is empty on the inside. Xuan Ji represents everything Si Feng wants to be and is expected to be: free and emotionless. 

In this mortal incarnation, SF has responsibilities to everyone, from his spirit beast to his sect. Xuan Ji is the only one who doesn't ask or expect anything of him and yet, for someone who can't feel, she's always thinking of him. she stands up for him, she brings him snacks to comfort him when he’s being punished, she helps steal back his mother's hairpin. These are very simple gestures, but they mean the world to him (no one else has done these things for him before, and he doesn’t understand why she would unconditionally do these things for him), and that's why he's so quick to risk everything for her. Thus ironically, Si Feng actually learned about unconditional love from Xuan Ji. 

He’s never known love, warmth, or friendship in his lonely years growing up in the Lize Palace. And so, when you’re just a 16 year old awkward, hormonal, and introverted teenage boy, it’s easy to fall for a selfless girl who invades your personal space and has no sense of propriety. 

Why Xuan Ji fell for Si Feng

We see that her love is gradual. She falls in love with him without even realizing she’s fallen in love. She cares for him as a friend at first. After all, like she said, Si Feng is the first friend she’s made from outside her sect. But soon, her caring for him surpasses that of what she feels for her sect brothers. Si Feng teaches her about the world, from what different food tastes like, to naming colours. Si Feng doesn’t infantilize her like her sect brothers do. Her sect brothers are either dismissive or protective, like Ming yan, but she is able to find a proper confidant in Si Feng who is willing to be patient with her and listen to her. 

Their 4-year separation when they each undergo training and achieve a boost in their abilities, only made Xuan Ji’s heart grow fonder. She misses Si Feng, and is frustrated to see that things are different between them when they meet again. She doesn’t understand why he’s so cold and distant, and all she wants to do is close the distance between them. 

It’s a meme that Xuan Ji is the one who wears the pants in the relationship. She’s assertive and bold, and I think part of the reason why she fell for Si Feng is because he gives her that space to be best and biggest version of herself, whether in the heavenly realm or in the mortal realm. She’s also fascinated by him. A person outside of her sect who has an endearing personality unlike anyone else she’s seen. He piques her curiosity, and so she’s drawn to him. He’s as much as her romantic and sexual awakening as she is his. 

It’s apt that their ship name is the combination of their last names “Chu Yu”, which sounds similar to the words 初遇, which means “first encounter”. Not only is this drama about capturing the feelings of first love, but Si Feng and Xuan Ji have also had 10 different first encounters because of their 10 reincarnation tribulations. 

The Romance

It’s actually quite fun and endearing to watch because both Xuan Ji and Si Feng are playing hard to get, which frustrates the hell out of both of them. Xuan Ji is trying to win back Si Feng and convince him to stay, while Si Feng himself is trying to win Xuan Ji’s heart, and she doesn’t even realize it. They’re both trying to woo each other, but they’re both being resistant, intentionally and unintentionally. 

I have to admit, though, that the first few episodes were slow. 

There aren’t major sparks during the first meeting between the leads. She just falls out of the sky into his arms, and he’s flustered by her sudden appearance and clinginess. The love story didn’t feel “epic” during the the first 4 episodes because it didn’t feel like there were any stakes. These were just 2 young disciples from different sects who had a stereotypical meet-cute. It was like watching a high school coming-of-age romcom. 

Things start to get serious when Si feng is forced to wear the lover’s curse mask, meaning that he cannot love, or else every time he’s hurt by the one he loves, that mask will release a feather to his heart and he’ll feel unbearable pain. When all the feathers are released, he’ll die. This means that he has to stay away from Xuan Ji, but obviously, the drama can’t let that happen, so he’s constantly thrown into situations with her, he can’t stay away from her, and he ends up falling for her harder and harder against his will. 

Xuan Ji trusts Si Feng completely and unconditionally (until episodes 37-47 that is). She is willing to go against her father and sect in order to protect him. She’s willing to sacrifice herself to save him. She’s willing to go rogue with her powers for him. When no one else trusts him, she does. 

This makes Xuan Ji a very cathartic character to watch because she isn’t frustrating at all. She isn’t easily influenced and has her own views. She doesn’t share the same prejudiced views as the elder sect leaders. She is willing to disobey if it’s the right thing to do. She immediately clears up misunderstandings, like the one between her and Ming yan. We see her gradually become more mature through her increasing protectiveness over Si Feng. 

I think because we see this rational and loyal side of Xuan Ji, we’re able to have a higher tolerance for her ignorance and mistakes later in the drama (but only barely). 

The Reincarnations - What Does it Mean to Love a Soul?

Si Feng fell for Xuan Ji 10 times in the mortal world, not including the very first time he falls for her when they were immortals in the heavenly realm. 

I explained why I think Si Feng fell for Xuan Ji is this 10th reincarnation, but why did he fall for her in the past 9 lives? In the flashbacks, we see that in each life, Xuan Ji is cruel and heartless, and she still had the same unforgiving and ruthless demeanor as when she was the god of war. Is it because Si Feng’s soul is always going to be automatically attracted to Xuan Ji’s soul?

Because we only see brief glimpses of the past 9 lives (more specifically, we only see the ending of these lives), we don’t really know how they met or how Si Feng came to love her in each life. But, I would assume that there was something about Xuan Ji in each of her reincarnations that attracted her to Si Feng and completed him. Also, we know that Xuan Ji is capable of tenderness. As the god of war, she disliked fighting. As Mosha, she cared about Bailing. So, while Xuan Ji’s nature might be violent and cruel, I think that with each life, she learns about love and sincerity. If we assume that the flashbacks of the 9 lives are in order, then it would seem like Xuan Ji becomes more and more affected by Si Feng’s death with each successive lifetime. In the first life, she is completely indifferent to his beheading. but we see that she begins to become affected in the later lives, but tries to shove those emotions aside because they’re foreign and unfamiliar to her. 

We get even less context for how Si Feng might have fallen for the god of war in the heavenly realm. We only know that Si Feng was the Jade Emperor’s son, and only gained a celestial anamorphic form after 10, 000 years. His true form is the Golden-feathered bird. He’s always appearing by the god of war’s side to listen to her vent, but the god of war only sees him as a stray bird who comes by to visit occasionally. Why did he fall for her? Did he empathize with her loneliness? Maybe she was his only friend, like he was her only friend, but she didn’t even realize it. 

We also see that Si feng loves Xuan ji no matter who she is or what form she takes. Her gender doesn’t matter to him, and gender was never even an issue in the drama. The drama doesn’t give an explanation for why Bailing created a female body for the god of war (besides that he wanted to disguise Mosha’s appearance), but it also doesn’t matter. It’s a non-issue, and I love it. We just need to accept it, because the “why” isn’t important.

Xuan Ji has 3 different identities: The Star of Mosha (Luo Hou Ji Do), the god of war, and Xuan Ji the mortal. The god of war and Xuan Ji have the same “soul”, and that soul came from the glass of Mosha’s imprisonment lamp, and also from Mosha’s altered corporeal body. So, she is a part of Mosha, but has also become her own entity. 

To Si Feng, all 3 identities are Xuan Ji. The memories, emotions, and experiences of all the identities are what made Xuan Ji Xuan Ji, and so he loves all of them. 

But what made Xuan Ji finally crack so that she’s now able to love Si Feng in this 10th reincarnation? I think it has to do with her upbringing. We see in her previous 9 lives that she had a troubled upbringing filled with scheming and violence. So she was consumed by the darkest side of humanity and Si Feng couldn’t pull her out. But in this life, she grew up with an abundance of love, which made her want to learn how to love, which allowed her to open up to Si Feng. In this way, the drama shows that Si Feng alone isn’t enough to redeem her, but it took the love of her friends and family to help her grow a heart. 

The Angst

Okay. So. Si Feng has probably suffered more than any male lead in xianxia history. I think someone said that he has a martyr complex. But, I’d like to break down the type of angst that are present in dramas. 

There is angst that is harmless, and there is angst that is damaging to the relationship. 

Harmless angst is usually angst by external forces. Like parents who don’t allow their kids to be together. Like in AOL when Xufeng mistakenly thinks that Jin Mi might be his sister so he can’t be with her. In L&R, this kind of external angst happens when Si Feng mistakenly thinks that Xuan Ji likes her 6th sect brother Ming yan. Xuan Ji isn’t purposely hurting Si Feng, but it’s an unintentional misunderstanding. 

Damaging angst is when the couple turns against each other and become enemies. This happened when Jin Mi kills Xufeng and says she never loved him (which technically is true since her heart was re-sealed so she didn’t even understand what love was when she said it). In L&R, this happens Xuan Ji sides with her sect and attacks Si Feng when he reveals his demon form. This happens again when they confront each other outside the Lize Palace and she announces that she’s done with him and breaks ties with him. This happens again when she stabs him, says she regrets having ever known and loved him, and proceeds to try to stab him again. In Love and Redemption, Xuan Ji keeps saying hurtful things to him. There’s not just one moment of betrayal, but a constant onslaught of betrayals over 10 episodes that make the relationship feel like it’s entered a point of no return. 

The masochistic side of me likes love/hate relationships and damaging angst. I grew up with it. TVB dramas have a lot of it. My favourite is the angst in Raymond Lam and Charmain Sheh dramas like Drive of Life and Lethal Weapons of Love and Passion. But despite over 20 years of watching dramas, I was still not prepared for the pain and suffering in Love and Redemption. 

The good news is that they make up fairly quickly, though some may argue too quickly and easily. 

What I Enjoyed

Other xianxia romances usually only have 1 mortal reincarnation. This has 10 reincarnations (even if only shown briefly), and I love that. The leads have already had such a rich history together, but they don’t remember, and so the romance is about them falling in love all over again in this life, while also slowly remembering the love they had in their previous lifetimes. 

The world-building was also compelling, and the supporting characters were great. They were the voice of reason and talked sense into the main leads to help move the plot forward. I also liked how the ML and FL each had their own personal relationship with the supporting characters separate from each other. For instance, Ming yan has a childhood friendship with Xuan Ji, but he also develops his own friendship with Si Feng. Wu Ziqi was once Mosha’s helper, and also knew the god of war, but also forms his own friendship with Si Feng. Zi Hu is also friends with both Xuan Ji and Si Feng. Having separate friendships with the leads means that the supporting characters are unbiased. They’re not likely to help the ML more than the FL or vice versa, but they’re able to see both sides of things. They help the leads, but they’re also critical of them, and is therefore able to help the leads make rational decisions. It reminds me of the friendship dynamics in Avatar where the characters have unique relationships with each other. Like Toph has her own relationship dynamic with Sokka and Katara, which is different from Aang’s relationship dynamic with them. 

It goes without saying that Si Feng is the best part of the drama. He plays an emotionally repressed character, so it always feels like the heavens opened up when he smiles, and Xuan Ji seems to be the only one who can make him smile. SF's best moments are when he shows moments of vulnerability, like when he begs Xuan Ji not to cut ties with him, or when he's so happy to the point of disbelief and he's afraid of it being true that he begins to slightly quiver, like when he kept asking XJ if she was really the one who took off his mask. You can see him break down and not being able to contain his emotions and how much he’s desperately yearning for his love to be reciprocated. 

I like that the FL has the same personality throughout the drama. I'm always annoyed when the FL's personality takes a 360-degree turn when she has a sudden "awakening" when her past life memories come flooding back and she instantly matures and becomes jaded. In Love and Redemption, Xuan Ji stays her bubbly self, even when she’s burdened with responsibilities. Hell, even when she becomes a mother, she’s still aloof and playful. In episode 52 or so when she burns her leg and refuses to leave Si Feng’s house, she acts like a helpless little girl again. Si Feng tells her that such a small injury wouldn’t even faze someone as powerful as she is, but she reminds him that he once told her that even if she didn’t feel pain, her body would know the pain, and so she should always tell him when she’s hurt. I just like this throwback to the earlier episodes to show that while Xuan Ji has grown and matured, she’s still the same person who wants to be loved and pampered. 

Weaknesses of the Drama

Xuan Ji is a really multi-faceted and complex character (because of her villainous tendencies), but Crystal Yuan doesn’t completely deliver in all of her performances of the character. Crystal Yuan is great when she’s acting cute (though it reminds me a lot of Zhao Liying’s acting in Journey of Flower, even the voice actress is the same actress), but I feel like Crystal Yuan’s crying scenes are a little lacking. Also, Xuan Ji is a character who is often in moral and emotional conflict because she starts to feel emotions that she doesn’t understand since she’s never felt them before, but sometimes Crystal isn’t very convincing when trying to convey this internal conflict. For instance, in the scene when she thought Si Feng was getting married to Ah Lan, I thought that her devastation at seeing that should have been a bit more palpable. I mean, you finally found the love of your life after searching him for over a year and now he’s in front of you, about to get married to another woman. There should be more pain, anger, regret, disbelief, a battle of emotions unfolding on the face. There should have been more deflation, more staggering. I think back to when Tang Yan was watching Luo Jin get married to someone else in Princess Weiyoung, or when Jin Mi was watching Xufeng propose to Sui He in AOL, and the desperation and shock was subtle, but still so strong. You could feel the drop in your own stomach when sympathizing with the female character. 

I also obviously disliked how Xuan Ji didn’t believe Si Feng. But I would have understood why she didn’t believe him (even when he logically explained his innocence) since there are so many people pressuring her judgment, but what I can’t get over is how she had it in herself to physically hurt him. And she already hurt him before too, so she knows how much it pains her to hurt him. She already regretted the act before. But because she mistakenly thinks that he killed Hao Chen, she decides that she needs to kill him? Does Hao Chen mean that much to you that you’d be willing to sacrifice Si Feng in order to avenge him? That was my breaking point for her character. 

I didn’t like how Hao Chen’s arc was resolved. For 1000 years, he thought he was right and never had any regrets. He was obsessed with controlling his friend Mosha to the point of killing him and sealing his soul away. He then created another being, became possessive over that being to the point of falling in love with it (without admitting it), and then follows his creation down to the mortal world, and wrecks havoc on the mortals, especially Si Feng. And when Hao Chen learns that he can no longer control or redeem Xuan Ji, he decides that he needs to kill her in order to prevent Mosha from coming back. But then suddenly, because of a few words and visions from the Jade Emperor, he immediately has a change of heart and sees the error of his ways. It’s just so anti-climactic. Yuan Long’s ending was also underwhelming. I just wanted the good guys and bad guys to fight it out without divine intervention. 

While I sympathize with Si Feng and agree that it's like watching a puppy get kicked over and over again, he honestly gets jealous way too easily and is too insecure. He also keeps everything to himself and sucks at communicating. We blame Xuan Ji for being too quick at jumping to conclusions, but Si Feng also jumps to conclusions too and causes unnecessary pain for himself. 

Overall Impression

Overall, despite the frustrations, I really liked the consistency of the drama. It flows as one complete narrative and all the subplots are well intertwined with the main plot. With other reincarnation xianxia dramas, you could divide the story into distinct arcs, but it’s harder to do with this one since you have arcs that overlap and transcend other arcs. There’s the mask arc, the god of war arc, the reincarnation arc, the demon identity arc, the Mosha arc, etc. Before one arc is completed, another arc is introduced.

If you’re looking for a be-all-end-all, til the end of time and end of the world romance, this is it. While it has many similar tropes to other xianxias like AOL, I think this executes the tropes better. Although if you’ve already watched AOL or other xianxias, you might be more immune to the angst (even though this drama is angstier). But if you watch this drama first, I think it sets the bar pretty high for other xianxia dramas.

The chemistry and sexually tension is also through the roof (and the BTS will have you raising your eyebrows - are costars normally that flirty and touchy feely on set?)

So yes, this drama does live up to the hype. More meta posts to come because I’m still going through withdrawal. 

(Just checked the word count on this review, and it’s over 4700 words. I’m clearly an obsessed mess). 

Other meta posts:

Recurring details and motifs in Love and Redemption

Similarities to other stories in movies and literature

[mimisempai]

You make me feel so proud of loving you

Summary:

A summer party on Midgard in the avengers compound is an opportunity for Mobius to get to know some of the people who are or have been part of Loki's life, and to get a little bit drunk on the punch, it is also an opportunity for Loki to boast about the qualities of his lover.

Someone asked me for some more Mobius drunk, and I was dreaming of reproducing the scene from Ultron where Tony and Thor brag about Jane and Pepper's prowess by adding Loki bragging about Mobius. So here I am with this story. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33273142

1185 words - Rating G

Mobius, overwhelmed by the afternoon heat, poured himself a second glass of punch and leaned back in the shade of a tree, watching the various people present.

"Is this your first time at a gathering like this?"

Mobius turned to the person who had just arrived, a bottle in hand.

"It's that obvious?...uh...Valkyrie is it?"

The young woman nodded before replying, "And you're Mobius, right?"

"Oh I'm already known?" replied Mobius with a snicker.

"Oh yeah, I think everyone has heard of you because Loki and Thor keep saying, Mobius this, Mobius that..."

Mobius blushed slightly, embarrassed by the behavior of his lover and Thor.

Valkyrie, amused, continued, "When Thor told me that his little brother was coming to Stark's little party with his mate, I don't know what surprised me more, that Loki was still alive or that he was bringing someone."

Mobius laughed lightly before saying, "Indeed, I suppose it may have been surprising.."

The young woman continued, "Well after the explanation of the timelines concept and the TVA, it makes more sense, it's not the Loki I fought alongside on Asgard, but there is a lot of him in this Loki."  She paused to take a sip and then continued, "Now there's a light in him that there wasn't before. And I think you have something to do with it." She looked at Mobius with her discerning eyes, a glint of understanding in her eyes.

Mobius didn't know quite what to say in response and simply said, "Thank you."

"Well come on, enough sentiment, let's get another drink!"

Valkyrie took him by the neck and led him towards the bar, where she took a bottle of beer and poured Mobius a glass of ponch before leaving him there and walking away with a slightly unsteady step, probably because of her drunken state.

Mobius smiled and resumed his observation. He noted that a group had formed, Thor, Loki, Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes. The discussion looked lively, it seemed that the four men were challenging each other, in a friendly way, but one could feel a slight tension.

"Aha, they're going to do it again! Maria can't help herself since the first time."

Rhodey, who had been introduced to Mobius as Tony Stark's best friend and also War Machine had just joined him, also with a glass of punch in hand. Mobius saw that Maria had indeed approached the small group of men, but didn't understand what Rhodey was getting at.

"What are you talking about?"

"It started a few years ago, just before the events with Ultron, if that tells you anything."

Mobius nodded, of course he had not been there, but he knew the story. From the moment Thor had invited them to this party, he had made it his duty to find out about all the events concerning the Avengers, not just the ones where his lover was involved.

Rhodey continued, "Maria Hill and I witnessed a kind of male warfare comparing the qualities of their respective mates. It all started when Maria just asked about Peppers and Jane. Tony had argued that Pepper was excellent, Thor that Jane was smart etc... So now that the four of them are together, I can only imagine Tony being with Steve, let alone Bucky..."

"Who is Barnes with?" asked Mobius, curious.

"With Sam Wilson, the new Captain America."

Rhodey laughed and nudged Mobius, "do you feel like listening?"

Mobius was now genuinely curious and could not resist the invitation.

They approached the small group, so that they could hear them, but so that they would not be noticed.

They didn't have long to wait as Maria asked, "So gentlemen, how are your ladies and gentlemen?"

Thor naturally got the ball rolling, "Jane has received her Nobel Prize in astrophysics and is on a conference tour around the world."Tony replied matter-of-factly, "Steve may not be captain america anymore, but as an international consultant to the military he is in high demand and couldn't make it today."

Bucky with a defiant and above all extremely proud look continued, "Sam, as Captain America has a lot on his plate and is today in conference with several presidents of different countries."

Mobius, knowing it was probably Loki's turn to speak, closed his eyes in anticipation of what was to come.

"Mobius is worthy of Mjolnir and can lift it!"

Mobius shook his head and Rhodey stifled a laugh as Tony cried out, "Steve too! He can even lift Stormbreaker!"

Thor replied, "In fact Jane is even going on an intergalactic tour as her skills are so well known."

"According to the press, Sam is a new Captain America who is going to change the face of the world, plus the way his armor shows off his b- hmph..."

Mobius looked up, Bucky had just been interrupted by Captain America himself who was looking at him rather murderously, his hand over his lover's mouth. However, Mobius saw that Sam was also having trouble hiding his amusement.

"But Sam... it's true that..."

"Bucky... shut up!"

Mobius figured the interruption was perfect, they would probably change the subject and Loki would have nothing more to say.

"I just wanted to add one more thing."

He should have suspected that Loki was incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

"Mobius is crazy about me... that's an amazing achievement right?"

As Mobius blushed strongly for the very first time in his life, he felt all eyes turn to him under a stunned silence.

He drank his glass of punch in one gulp to give himself composure, as Thor exclaimed, "Let's toast to love!"

As everyone toasted, drank and laughed, Mobius suddenly felt light-headed, realizing he shouldn't have drunk so much punch so quickly.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Rhodey.

"I think... I... I drank too much."

He found himself suddenly sustained as Loki's voice rang out, "I'll take care of him James. Thanks."

He vaguely heard Rhodey nod and felt himself being pulled a little apart, into a shaded area.

"Come on love, sit down and drink this."

Loki sat him down at the foot of a tree and went to sit next to him, handing him a glass of water.

Mobius complied obediently before resting his head on Loki's shoulder.

Then he said, "You know, you should stop being mean, Sweetheart."

"Huh?"

Mobius, despite the haze of alcohol, felt Loki tense up beside him.

"You should stop being mea-mean to the man I love."

"I'm repeating: huh?"

Mobius, wavering, turned to Loki and took his head in his hands, as if to focus his gaze on him, "You were mean to you.  You-you said it was an amazing achievement that I was crazy about you. It's not."

"Oh?" Loki's eyes reflected puzzlement.

"Yes... because it's no achievement to love you. There's nothing easier than loving you."

All the haze of all the alcohol in the world could not have prevented Mobius from seeing in Loki's eyes the joy that his words made him feel.

After that, it was no longer the alcohol that increased his drunkenness, but Loki's kisses.

__________

Series of Oneshot : Together, for all time, always

As always, bear with me as it is not beta'd and english is not my native language I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless🥰

[valwrite]

the bella-vista avenue book club; daveed diggs

masterlist

summary: if only she’d double checked her Amazon shopping cart, Y/N L/N wouldn’t find herself torn between what book to give her hot neighbor next.

warnings: fluff, cheesiness, a slither of smut, mentions of a car accident, cooper is a basic dog name, i know but stfu about it.

fic style: oneshot.

word count: 6455.

author’s note: this fic took way too long to write, bye. no but for real, i’ve been back in uni for one month and so far i’ve: done way too many assignments; had more breakdowns than a disney child star; had a covid scare; and spontaneously dyed my hair dark blue/green at 4am instead of finishing an essay. we’re doing well, folks :)

It took exactly twenty one days for the loneliness to kick in.

On the day the lockdown was first announced, Y/N L/N felt the most confusing sentiment of relief and fear blended together. She'd spent just about the whole day in the meeting from Hell, during which three people had stormed out of after countless shouting matches had broken out and her boss had blatantly fired one of the guys from her department, right in front of everyone. When she did eventually get out of said meeting- a whole two hours later than her usual work days ended -, she was struggling with an impending migraine, threatening to blur her eyesight the whole drive home. She arrived home safely that evening, by the force of some miracle, only to find countless texts from relatives and friends alike, detailing the quarantine announcement and all the rules that came with it. Though concerned over the state of the world battling against the rapidly spreading virus, Y/N was just glad there would be no meetings for a while.

Quarantine was exciting at first. In the normal day-to-day life she lead, Y/N often found herself falling short on time to do things she truly enjoyed. There was just always one more task needing done at work; one more errand to complete; one more mile to run. By the time she stepped into her home come the end of the day, her eyelids were always battling to stay opened. So, it was very fair to say that the sudden infinite amount of free time had her feeling rather excited.

Day two and she'd already set herself a list of goals to spend all this time on, a chance to do all the things her schedule got in the way of. Of course, with the situation at hand, all these goals were modified to be achievable from within the confines of her home. The first goal she achieved was knitting a sweater. Granted, it was a mess she'd ended up trying to turn into a dog sweater only to watch as her fur-baby, Cooper, chewed it into rags.

There was no goal on the list to be good at all those goals.

In the following weeks, Y/N found herself trying her hand at pottery - she both made and broke a mug -, baking - the first cake burned but the second she made was actually pretty edible -, guitar playing - it really was just like riding a bike: one never really forgets how to do it - and many other hobbies. In between finding her artistic calling in life, it seemed family quiz nights became the norm.

But twenty one days, that's when she finally took notice of just how lonely living had become for her. A full twenty one days of not having made eye contact with anyone outside of a screen or who happened to not own four paws and a tail.

The loneliness wasn't unique to her, she was very aware. But she was stuck quarantining in a house all by herself, hours away from any of her family and she knew it was going to be a fair while before she even spoke with someone face to face. Much longer than most people. She was still at the point where even bringing up the thought of going to the store- with a trusted mask on, of course - would send her mother into a spiral of worse case scenarios and her father would be threatening to call her doctor.

As neurotic as the two could be about her health, Y/N completely understood their reactions. Things had never really been the same since her accident, even with the years gone by.

She was sat on her sofa- well, actually, sat on her floor, with her back against the sofa - when the door bell rang. She was up at lighting speed, bounding her way over to the front of the house before peaking a look through the peep hole and finding no one there. Unfazed by this, she unlocked the door and pulled it open to unveil a package at her doorstep, the ever familiar Amazon logo splashed across it. In the past few weeks, the delivery service and her bank account had become well acquainted, with most of her new found hobbies being aided by it.

In a matter of seconds, she'd picked up the package, shut the door and made her way into her kitchen, a drawer being pulled open as she dug through it for a pair of scissors. The package was ripped up and there she found a sight she wasn't awaiting, her eyes widening ever so slightly and a "Huh." noise escaping her.

There, laying on the remaining cardboard package, sat a hardback copy of A Tale Of Two Cities. And right next to it sat an identical copy, both of them staring up at Y/N.

“This can't be right, right?” She proposed the question down at Cooper, who'd at some point sauntered in to the kitchen and sat down at her feet, his tail wagging lazily upon being spoken to.

Sure enough, when she checked her receipt online, there was only one copy on the list. She wondered if it was perhaps a “buy one, get one free” kind of deal but quickly found no evidence to back up her hypothesis.

Thinking of what the right thing to do would be, Y/N on instinct began to investigate how she could possibly return the additional book they'd sent to her. As she came to the realization that it would entail her having to return both books and, then, waiting once again for a copy to be sent to her, she changed her mind instantly. A few other solutions came to mind: she could mail it to her sister-in-law, she was just as much of a book worm as Y/N; or she could keep it until the next time she needs a birthday present for someone; or she could just keep both of the copies, even if it felt a little wasteful.

It was only later on that very evening, as Y/N chopped away at some onions and was struggling to contain her tears- she had a spoon in her mouth because her mother swore it stopped you from crying, spoiler: it did not -, that the perfect idea struck.

In the corner of her eye she spotted him, strolling about his own kitchen. He hadn't lived next door for very long, he'd only moved in at the very start of the year, if she remembered correctly. And though they had never really spoken or interacted- polite waves and stiff smiles when spotting one another either leaving or arriving home wasn't exactly very conversational after all-, Y/N couldn't help but decide he was going to be the honorary recipient of the book. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Well, he could use the book to keep his fireplace alight, but Y/N was more eager to just think optimistically about it.

With her mind firmly made up, she neatly wrapped the book in some stray wrapping paper she'd found in her junk drawer and tied a neat, makeshift bow around it. His doorstep was only a couple feet from her own and it wasn't long till she was stood right in front of it, finger hovering over the doorbell as she wrestled with the thought off handing the present directly to him. She recalled one night, where her bedroom curtains had been wide open to let in the moonlight, and he'd walked past his own bedroom window, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The image of water dripping down those defined abs made her mind up and she placed the wrapped book next to his door, the little note she'd written taped on to it carefully.

Happy housewarming! I hope you're taking care during these trying time! - Y/N, your neighbor from door 27. p.s. Cooper (the German Shepherd) says sorry for peeing in your flowers :(

A few days later, as Y/N and Cooper arrived home from their daily walk, a mysterious package sat on the doorstep. What made it mysterious was the fact it wasn't from Amazon, nor from her local grocery store either. Cooper possessed no hesitation and dashed over to investigate, his tail beginning to wag as Y/N approached the front door.

“What is it, Coops?” She crouched down, her hand rubbing over the top of his head as his tongue dangled out of his mouth. There was a small piece of paper stuck on the package and, at first, she wondered if perhaps her attempt at a kind gesture had backfired and the hot neighbor had just dropped it back off. Then, she read the note. “Housewarming? Took you a while. This Dickens guy's good, hope he finally get's some popularity soon. - Daveed, your neighbor from door 28.” A smile crept onto her face as she learnt his name. It felt nice on her lips. His calligraphy skills only made the name look prettier. “P.S. check this book out, author is a real hidden gem. P.S.S. tell Cooper it's chill, I got my revenge and peed in his flowers.”

It was there on her doorstep, with a thin layer of sweat decorating her face and a tired out dog at her feet, that Y/N upgraded Daveed from hot neighbor to hot and funny neighbor.

It was almost like an otherworldly sign when Y/N stumbled over a chew toy the next day, her whole body slamming right into her bookcase and out from it fell a book, smacking her right on her head to add yet another bruise on to her list. Her mother had always joked that she bruised easier than a peach, partially on account of her incapability to walk five paces without stumbling over air or slipping on dry ground.

She let out a groan, her hand rubbing at the spot the book hit her and she reached down to grab her attacker- which lay face down - off of the floor. The cover turned out to be that of The Great Gatsby and the sudden urge to wrap it up, attach a note and drop it over at Daveed's doorstep became overwhelming. It still felt so personal to know his name.

Was she seriously about to use a book as an excuse to try catch a glimpse of her hot neighbor, who just yesterday was claiming to have peed on her flowers? Yes, yes she was. Because, after all, he was hot. And if society had taught her anything, it was that hot people were excused of everything. Okay, perhaps she was exaggerating just a little bit but it all added up to the same thing: Daveed was hot and she was thirsty.

Maybe quarantine really was beginning to have an effect on her.

A few hours later, Y/N was comfortably snuggled under her blankets in bed, the room illuminated by nothing but her television screen and the streetlights outside. A door opened somewhere, her anxious brain questioning if it was one of her own doors but the sudden laughter she could hear changed her train of thought quickly.

Oh my god, his laugh was music to her ears. And, oh my god, she'd actually made him laugh.

She lay back, wondering which part of her note had made Daveed laugh as consciousness slowly slipped away from her. One house away, her hot and funny neighbor was near mirroring her position in his own bed, his head replaying the note he'd received from the cute girl next door.

Not too sure about this author, he seems to have a fetish for big feet! I'm beginning to question exactly what kind of weird foot erotica you read, Daveed from door 28! -Y/N, your foot hating neighbor. P.S. this guy definitely needs more clout, can't you just picture his writing being used to teach the younger generations? P.S.S. Cooper isn't happy about you peeing in his flowers but he is happy about the treats.

Two days later, in the morning, Y/N was sat at her kitchen island. Her computer lay open in front of her, untouched for the past half hour as she flipped through the pages of her book and sipped away at the smoothie she'd blended up for herself. Cooper lay sound asleep under her seat, the occasional snore coming from the pup. It was those moments in her quarantine that she enjoyed most, just pure tranquility. It took her mind off of the loneliness.

A feeling overcame her, as the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. It was almost like she could feel someone's eyes on her. She tore her own eyes away from the printed text and checked her surroundings vaguely. It was only when she looked straight ahead, out of the window that she spotted the intrusive stare of his.

They were sat in near parallel, him also sat at his kitchen island with a computer opened, only he had a mug of coffee instead of a smoothie. When their eyes made contact, he grinned at her, waving the book in his hand before pointing at the cover. The Great Gatsby.

He really was reading the book she'd sent over.

Mirroring his actions, she lifted up her own book, the one he'd sent over all those days ago. The Hobbit.

It was short, it was sweet and it was the longest they had ever interacted off paper. Even without verbal communication, so much was said between them both in that small instance. It was a sign that these little book deliveries were appreciated, they both cared enough to read whatever the other sent over.

Maybe it was time to consider Daveed her hot, funny and caring neighbor.

The book exchanges continued onward for weeks.

Daveed sent over a collection of fairy tales by the Grimm brothers, his attached note read: Thanks for putting me onto Fitzgerald, gonna have to see if the school board will let me teach his work in my lectures. Think they might be against it, what ya think? In the meantime, check these indie short stories out. Think Cooper will resonate with the wolf in the Red Ridding Hood story. -Daveed, your literature professor neighbor. P.S. Noticed the Raptors jersey on your washing line, tell your boyfriend the Warrior in me is unimpressed.

To which Y/N replied to with, alongside a copy of Twilight,: Cooper loved the Red Ridding Hood story, but he says you remind him of the grandmother in it. Speaking of wolves, check out this classic example of American literature, the lack of emotions this author puts into her writing is truly astounding. -Y/N, the Raptor next door. P.S. The Raptors jersey is mine, but I'll applaud you for smoothly trying to find out if I have a boyfriend. For the record, I do. He's tall, dark haired and lives in my imagination. P.S.S. Could you ask your girlfriend if she knows any good foundations? I'm thinking of changing mine.

He took less than a day to fire back with a copy of 50 Shades Of Grey: If Cooper is the wolf, and I'm the grandmother, would that make you the girl? I think the romance in this book is quite poignant, it really values the emotional over the physical. - Daveed, your grandmother neighbor. P.S. Not sure about my girlfriend's foundation, seeing as she doesn't exist, but I use L'Oreal. Very creamy, or whatever it is foundation is meant to be like. P.S.S. You looked cute in your paint splattered t-shirt the other day.

Not even an hour later, he opened his door to find a hardback of the Holy Bible and the following: I went into that book expecting a rush of happiness and sweetness, but ended up feeling scared and turned on in the most confusing way. I worry about your taste, Daveed, and that is why I'm recommending this book to you. This will cleanse you of all you've done wrong, my friend. -Y/N, your concerned neighbor. P.S. I'm not the girl, I'm the huntsman. P.S.S. Your dog is so cute, Cooper wants her/his number.

It took 45 days of lockdown for Y/N to finally venture out to her local grocers, tired of ordering food online and desperate for some human contact which didn't have to be separated by a great distance and united by a glass screen and a stable internet connection. She'd felt wrong; out of place; strange the whole time she'd been wandering up and down the aisles of the shop, her mask secured on her face and a near full basket hanging on her arm.

The fact Cooper was at home, holding down the fort for the time being gave her a little comfort.

Despite paying through self-service, and using a contactless card payment, her father's voice was ringing in her ears, scolding her for even taking the risk of stepping outdoors. Naturally, she appreciated his caring tendencies but she liked to consider herself old enough and smart enough to manage her own health problems.

With four bags stacked awkwardly in her arms, she took a few steps away from her car, attempting to peak over her shopping to see just where exactly the gate to her garden was. She could very faintly hear Cooper's excited whining, his paws scratching against the metal gate.

It was the sound of a voice, a very distinct voice, calling out her name that halted her movement and turned her head.

“Let me,” He, Daveed from door 28, paused, his hand clutching at his heaving chest. As her eyes drifted over him briefly, she took note of the trainers, the sweaty running shorts and, most of all, his bare chest, perfectly lined abs scattered along him. “get that for you.”

Before Y/N could so much as protest, Daveed had already snatched all four bags from her arms and was stood holding the gate open for her, a stupidly handsome smile decorating him. Her mask was still firmly held up but she smiled beneath it and done her best to share her gratitude with him.

“You don't need to do that.” Despite her words, she never attempted to take her bags back from him, instead cautiously slipping her way past him into her open garden. Cooper launched his paws up onto her, a bark of excitement escaping him before he licked at her arm and redirected his attention to Daveed. Cooper was still fairly young, not even a year old yet, but he was a fierce dog when it came to guarding his owner from any stranger. So, for Y/N to turn back and find him happily circling Daveed's legs, his favorite toy in his mouth and his tail wagging at lighting speed, it was purely a shock to her system.

And the clearest sign she'd ever seen that Daveed, whether he was a complete stranger to her or not, could be trusted.

“Where should I leave these?” He ignored her protest, effortlessly walking up the path of her garden with the heavy bags secure in his hands. Having him around her, all sweaty and heavy breathing and half dressed was more of a health hazard than her trip to the shops. Y/N began to wonder if it was legal to look so good.

“Uh, just,” She fished through her purse for her door key, avoiding the temptation to peak at his abs again. “on the table over there, if you don't mind.” She nodded her head in the direction of the small table sat out on her front porch and, within a couple seconds, she felt as Daveed brushed past her, so close she swore she could feel the heat radiating off of him.

He done exactly as she requested and lay the bags gently to rest on the table, the muscles in his arms flexing. Y/N had to wonder if this was a purposeful action, a way to tempt and seduce her, as if he needed to try much to succeed at that. She'd more or less been whipped for him the second he delivered his first book to her.

“Are you looking after yourself?” Her parents had asked this every time they spoke on the phone - which was basically a daily occasion - but hearing it from Daveed felt refreshing, as though she'd never heard the words before; as though she'd never been spoken to with such tenderness. She let her eyes meet his face, a dangerous choice when she found a dazzling smile reflected back at her.

“I am.” Was it possible for a smile to be brighter than the sun? “Are you?”

“Yeah. Even started eating kale.” Daveed chuckled and she followed suit, because his laugh was infectious and she would willingly let it consume her. “It tastes like shit, don't get me wrong, but it's gotta count for something, right?”

“Oh, totally, kale-boy.”

“Excuse me, I'd prefer if you called me by what I really am: a kale-man.”

The mask slid down the bridge of her nose as she smiled wider than the Cheshire cat. In her mind, she cursed her heart-eyes behavior but it did nothing to halt it, Daveed simply put her on edge in the best way.

“It was nice to finally hear your voice, it's cuter than I thought.” She wondered if he was aware of the effect he was having on her, if each word and every gesture of his was carefully calculated to make her weak in the knees. “I'll save you from my sweaty smell and head off now, I can hear the shower calling my name.”

The last thing, yet also the best thing, Y/N needed to be envisioning was a water soaked Daveed. “I didn't want to say anything but, yeah, you smell worse than Cooper's breath.”

“There's the attitude from all your notes!” Daveed had at some point stepped closer to her, to the point where it was likely a big enough inhalation of a breath would have their chests touching. He was so tall, and muscular. “I'll see you around, Y/N from door 27.”

For two minutes she stood there, mask slapped across her face and her breath caught in her throat, nothing but the raw memory of his body so close and, yet, so far away from her own. She made her way indoors, finally, in a zombiefied state. Cooper trailed happily behind her through the house and all the way into the kitchen and, like the good pup he was being raised to be, he helped put away a few of the groceries, by greedily grabbing at the packet of dog treats when something else in the bag caught Y/N's attention.

“Thank you for the bible, now may I rebut with a copy of the Torah? The characters might seem similar but I swear it's different. Friend? Was that you officially friendzoning me, Y/N? And to think I was willing to look past the fact you're a raptor.” She mumbled allowed without even noticing, her eyes drifting across the note in her hand. When Daveed had snuck this into her shopping, she didn't know. Perhaps he'd left it earlier on that day and simply scooped it into the bags after carrying them for her. That sure made more sense than her theory of him hiding the book down his running shorts. “P.S. My dog and I share a number, so I guess I'll just have to give you that one. Just tell Cooper no phone calls past ten o'clock, that's her bedtime.”

She'd never thought it would be so easy to achieve her hot neighbor's number, but the crumpled paper in her hand told her differently.

The room was dark. Or maybe her eyes were closed. Y/N honestly didn't know nor care enough to find out which was the truth. No, all she cared about was the feeling of her nerves being lit on fire and simultaneously soothed. As the moments passed, she became more and more aware of the predicament she found herself in. Her head was thrown back on the comfort of someone's pillow- it couldn't be one of her own, it was far too plush and soft -, both her legs were bent up at the knee, her hands were busy grasping on to anything and everything close by (the bed sheets, the headboard, the hair of whoever was currently positioned between her thighs) and her mouth was agape. Hushed moans and whimpers of ecstasy filled the thick air of the room, and they were all coming from her.

The tension was building in her gut, a knot winding itself tighter and tighter all the while threatening to snap at any moment. Her hips started grinding in time with the warm tongue against her heat. Or, maybe, she'd already been grinding before. Nothing was making sense. Up was down, left was right and Y/N was on the brink of the most thrilling orgasm she'd felt in a while, or ever, really.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?”

Her eyes- which apparently had in fact been opened all along-, with heavy eyelids, flickered down to between her legs. The man was certainly a specimen built to the likes of a Greek god, or something deriving from one. His fingers, buried deep within her, coaxed out another moan from her as they curled upwards. Daveed only smiled in satisfaction at this, as if he was getting more pleasure from it than she was.

Daveed.

Holy shit.

Daveed was between her bare legs.

Y/N bolted up and out of bed, hand reaching out and switching on the light. Just as she expected, there was no sign of Daveed in her room: not on her bed, not under her covers, not in her closet. But he was everywhere in her mind. Fully dressed, Y/N had never felt more naked in her entire life as she gazed out of her bedroom balcony door, over at the very window of the man who'd soaked her dream in a haze of steam. 

His light was on.

Worst of all, she found that Daveed was sat at his desk, typing away at something on his opened laptop. As though he felt her intrusive gaze, he looked up from the screen and met her eyes. Due to the distance between them both Y/N couldn't tell for sure but she could have sworn he sucked in his lower lip before releasing it in a teasing smile, his hand lazily waving at her.

With all the shame in the world, she shut her curtains and flopped back on to her bad.

In the span of five minutes she'd dreamed of Daveed doing unspeakable things to her with that mouth of his and been caught peeking into the bedroom of the very same man.

She hadn't phoned him.

She hadn't sent a book over to him.

She hadn't opened her blinds.

He'd been stuck thinking about her for eight days straight, yet it was beginning to feel like she'd been nothing but a creation of his own socially starved brain.

In the grand scheme of things, Daveed was not a narcissist. But he also wasn't an idiot. He was very aware of his own looks, of the lingering stares he'd receive from his students- male and female alike-, of the way soccer moms would shamelessly pay more attention to him than their own sons when he coached the local little league team. And, up until that point, he'd been sure Y/N had been reciprocating whatever feelings he'd amassed for her.

One thing Daveed was is decisive.

Mask pulled across the lower part of his face, he let himself into the gated front yard. In a couple seconds, Cooper had pounced up at him, tail wagging a million miles an hour and tongue lapping away at his face. He chuckled as he lowered the dog safely back onto all four paws.

It only took knocking on the door twice for him to get a “Hold on!” shouted from some part of the house as a response. Relief flooded him at the sound of Y/N's voice, reassuring him that everything was okay. But it only brought on more questions about her sudden lack of communication.

“Hell- Oh, Daveed.” A mask decorated her own face, meaning he was unaware  of the hint of a smile on her lips. All Daveed could see were her widened and tired eyes. “Can I help you?” He'd been stood staring her in silence for a little too long, it seemed.

"You never called.” He'd never sounded more pathetic in his life.

“You noticed.”

“Of course I noticed. Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?”

Apart from appear in one of my wet dreams? “What?! No! I've just been busy and I also didn't want to burden you, if I'm honest.”

“I gave you my number so you'd call me, Y/N.”

“And here I thought it was so our two dogs could kick off their fairy-tale romance.”

“As their parents, don't you think it's our responsibility to get along?” Daveed wanted to ask what had kept her busy for eight days. He wanted to know what she thought about in the morning, in the evening. What she thought about him. About the prospect of there ever being a “them”. But it wasn't the time nor the place. “Promise you'll call.”

“I promise I'll call you, loser.” She laughed behind her mask, leaving him with a longing to see her smile. “Now get lost, I've probably just burnt my omelette because of you.”

Daveed had just closed his front door as he felt his phone begin to buzz in his pocket, an unknown number displayed across the screen.

“You owe me an omelette.” Were the first words he heard as he answered it.

Two months passed. The quarantine rules had loosened and tightened over and over again. The supermarkets had restocked their shelves many times. An entire season had come and gone. And Y/N and Daveed had spoken nearly every single day on the phone.

He'd come to learn a few key things: a health scare had kept her busy those eight days; she was allergic to bullshit and always called him out on his; she loved rose wine, or any wine really; she had the most beautiful mind.

She'd also come to learn some stuff about him: he was a university professor, specifying in classic literature; despite the muscles, he was one heck of a dork; he knew a little too much about the rap industry and was prone to throw himself into tangents about the subject; his voice was even more heavenly in the morning.

“Make yourself something to eat,” Daveed spoke down the line, a twinge of excited demand in his voice. “pour yourself a glass of wine and go up to your bedroom balcony.”

“Ooh, someone's feeling bossy tonight, huh?” Y/N laughed, switching the phone between hands as she pushed herself off of her couch, disturbing a sleeping Cooper. After a few strokes to his head, she began her journey to the kitchen, suppressing a laugh as the tired dog chose to follow her, much like he done all the time. “Am I allowed to ask why I'm doing this?”

“Just do it, before I hang up.”

“I'll add grumpy to list of Daveed Moods tonight.”

With a bowl of heated up leftover pasta, a bottle of red wine and a glass balanced in her hands, and her phone glued between her ear and her shoulder, Y/N found her way up stairs to her bedroom. She was incapable of turning on the lights until she'd put down the items in her hand. It was then, as the lights lit up her room in a warm, golden hue, that she noticed Daveed.

No, not in her room. That would have been completely creepy, and partially arousing.

He was sat out on his own balcony, room lit up behind him, with a dish of unknown food, some wine and a candle lit in front of him. He was dressed casually, yet Y/N still found herself on the cusp of drooling at the sight of him. And when he finally noticed her, Daveed waved with the most shit eating grin on his face.

“Cute onesie. What is it, a bunny?” His tone was friendly, as always, but that never stopped her from groaning in frustration at his teasing.

“Did you call me up here just to criticize my choice of clothing, Diggs? Because I was taking part in an intense Criminal Minds marathon before someone interrupted me.”

“I actually called you to invite you to enjoy the evening with me.” It was a curse and a blessing to be so foul minded, Y/N's instantly flooding her with different meanings to his words. “The sky looked pretty tonight and I need someone to appreciate it with me. Unfortunately, you're the only one who answered my call.”

“I won't hesitate to hang up.”

“Stop talking and sit down, your dinner'll get cold.”

Who knows how much time really passed as the two sat staring out at the other, bellies filled by food and wine, hearts filled with desire and longing. There was a great distance between the two balconies but Y/N couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so close to someone, even before social distancing had become the norm.

“It's crazy, I know. How can we be prepared to teach classes now that the infection rates are higher than back at the start of the year, where we all shut down?” Daveed had brought up the fact he was going back to work soon, a topic which made him a perfect blend of relieved, infuriated and confused. “I give it one semester till they make us go back to online teaching, honestly. What about you? Any signs of getting back to your office?”

“We just got the go ahead last week, we're opening back up in a fortnight.” Her reply was paused by a sip of wine, her second glass of the night. “I say we but I really mean them. My doctor told me I'm not allowed to go back yet, apparently I've got some tests left to do.”

The silence that ensued lasted quite a few minutes, then Daveed sighed down the line.

“Is it alright for me to ask why?” He seemed to regret his words instantly, at least from the limited expressions Y/N could read on his face. “I mean, the doctor thing. Are you sick or...?”

“Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't ask sooner.” In their months of getting to know each other, there were times she couldn't even open the door to him when he'd deliver some of her mail or drop off a bunch of flowers he'd stolen from a neighboring garden. It was always under the excuse of doctor's orders and he never questioned or doubted her, he just accepted her for everything she said and gave of herself. “I was in a car accident a couple years ago. It wasn't fatal for anyone, thankfully, but it was pretty bad. One of my lungs ended up collapsing.

I pretty much lived in and out of the hospital for months, which almost sucked more than having a lung that was pretty much giving up on me. I don't know if you've ever spent a lot of time in hospital but it's like attending your own funeral. Everyone that visits you has this look of grief, everything they say is apologetic and there are so many tears. Not to mention the fact the place smells like a crime scene with how much bleach cleaning they do. Anyways, I'm okay now but I guess they consider me high risk or something so they're taking extra steps to make sure I'm as safe and as far away from that virus as possible.”

“So, correct me if I'm wrong, but does that mean I won't be able to take you out anytime soon?” Daveed spoke up finally, and boy was she glad that he didn't want to stick on the topic of her hospital stay. It was a dark and sad time, and she didn't want to experience any of that with him.

“Nope, not until I get permission from my doctor.”

“Can't believe I'm getting cock-blocked by some fucking virus.”

A laugh, so loud that Daveed heard it without his phone pressed to his ear, erupted from Y/N. “You'll just have to settle for balcony dates for now.”

“This isn't a date, Y/N.” It was his turn to laugh.

“Oh, sorry.” Clearly, she was worse at reading signs than she'd thought. She'd never felt more foolish in her life.

“When I eventually do take you on a date, there won't be so much space between us.” His words honestly had the chance to make or break her in that moment, her entire soul depended on whatever he said next. “It'll be a night where I take you to the most ridiculously expensive restaurant. We won't really like the food on the menu but we'll stay as part of a principle. You'll be reluctant to let me blow all my money on the bill but I'll get my way eventually. We'll find some excuse or reason to stay out. Maybe we'll find some piano bar, do some dancing, share some drinks. I don't think I'll be able to stop thinking about how beautiful you look. We'll still be hungry because dinner was shit, so we'll get some fast food before you let me drive us home. I'll probably hold your hand while I drive. I'll walk you to your front door and, even if I really wish you'd invite me in, I'll be relieved when you don't. I'll try tell you how much I enjoyed our night but I'll probably fumble my words. You'll finally send me on my way but I'll find a way to steal a kiss from you. I'll probably think about your lips until the next date I take you on.”

“The english major really jumped out of you.” Y/N wished she didn't lack the self control to say something normal when a man spoke to her like Daveed did. “But, uh, that sounds really nice. Honestly. Except the bill part. We'll be splitting it or I won't be coming on that date.”

“You're so high maintenance, Y/N from door 27, but I guess that could work.” The eye-roll was audible in his tone. “Speaking of english major, I actually have a book for you to read.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I'll drop it round in the morning.”

“I'll be at the doctors in the morning, sorry.” The wine had rushed to her cheeks, heating them up and making the chill in the air all the more relaxing, lulling her into a half asleep faze.

“Don't worry, I'll leave you a note.”

[astriefer]

I will elaborate more later, but I reached 100 followers on Tumbler and I just find it? So? Amazing??? I don't get why someone would follow me but I love you all a lot!! <3

Thank you @kit-12 for dealing with my incapable mind and helping me get the courage to post it. You're the best :3

Warning: bad writing and possible fluff.

"Come here," Cordelia wheedled, spreading her arms. "Come to your sister, azizam."

Their sibling, sitting on the other side of the carpet, was too busy playing with his toy to notice. He was bubbling and giggling as he shook the Persian doll vigorously.

"This is ridiculous," commented Alastair from his place on the armchair. He laid there, twisted so one leg was over the arm of the chair and the other fell to the floor. He also, for five minutes straight, kept saying how ludicrous Cordelia's attempts were.

"You will see," she retorted, redoubling her effort for the sake of proving Alastair wrong. She reached out her arms and signaled their sibling to get closer. "Come on, Baraadar-e koochektar. Let's prove our ill-tempered brother you can do it!"

Alastair rolled his eyes, cutting his gaze back to the newspaper in his hands. "He still too young to crawl. Leave him off alone." 

"No," she insisted. She looked at her brother with a keen look, despite his eyes rested on the printed words on the newspaper. "He will. Have some faith, Alastair."

"I have faith just alright," he said. "But he'll do it when he's ready."

Cordelia didn't resist making a face. Their baby brother laughed at it, a toothless grin that reminded Cordelia of Alastair's. 

That was one thing she and Alastair would argue about frequently: Whose smile is more like the baby's smile, what weapons would he use growing up, would he like Persian literature and art like them and Maman, what food he'd like, what music he'd prefer (Alastair stated their brother loves classical music, she's certain he prefer Blues much better).

"You talk as if I make him walk on a five feet tall rope. It's just crawling." She smiled fondly at her baby brother. "Oh, little one, I hope you won't end up like Alastair." She pretended to shudder from the thought. "Great Lord, I'd do all in my force to prevent such tragedy."

"Very amusing," Alastair said dryly.

Her brother looked up at her, chubby cheeks flushed from glee and expression clear of any fuss. Cordelia smiled to him encouragingly, coaxing him up to try and reach her. He glanced at her innocently for three steady seconds before ignoring her again in favor of the toy in his hand. 

Cordelia stared blankly. Alastair mumbled under his breath, and she turned to glare at him. He pressed his lips together, clearly suppressing a grin.

"What?" she demanded.

"Maybe he just doesn't want to come to you," he suggested. She captured the smug smirk playing on his lips and narrowed her eyes at him.

"What is it you implying?" she demanded, peeved already. 

Alastair didn't seem bothered by her exasperation. He cocked his eyebrows. "Nothing, sister. Nothing at all."

She crossed her arms on her chest. "You think he is not trying because he isn't interested in coming to me, especially."

"How observant of you."

He was indifferent to her irritation, which made her even more annoyed. She huffed at Alastair's irksome demeanor. "You won't do any better on this field."

"Of course I will," her brother said in a superior voice. "You clearly don't know how to capture his eye."

"And you do?"

"Yes, most obviously, " he responded.

It was Cordelia's turn to arch her eyebrows, a challenging smile on her face. "Oh, really?  So why don't you, dear brother, try to make him crawl toward you?"

Alastair made his signature eye-rolling. "Because it's childish. And because he can very well do so on his own."

She clicked her tongue. "Are these excuses? Besides, you said a moment ago he's still too young."

"He is," Alastair clarified.

"But he's a Carstairs, we always come ahead of our time," she smiled at him. She swept imaginary dust away from her dress. It was too late, she knew; Alastair's challenge was accepted - and she was determined to prove him wrong. "If I didn't know better, I would say you don't think he'll come to you, seeing as you refuse to prove your saying of him not wanting to crawl only to me. You should have no problem then."

He squinted at her, grumbling, and she thought he might simply go to his room and ignore her for the rest of the day. However, he tossed his newspaper aside and looked her straight in the eye. "I know what you are trying to do."

"I have no doubt," she answered. "But it's working, isn't it?"

He didn't reply but glanced at their brother. Their sibling has been rolling over, rocking, and dragging himself on his belly in the course of the last months. She always was fascinated and full of joy to see their baby brother stumbling around; pushing himself to sit, reaching to whatever near to grab or investigate with dark curious eyes.

"Just give him a toy he likes. He is fond of that baby rattle with the dragons' decorations as much as this Persian doll."

"Ah," Cordelia said, faking the incredulous tone in her voice. Her glinting eyes and curving smile failed her, though. "You need to bribe him with toys! How poor of you, Alastair."

He rolled his eyes again. Cordelia chuckled. "Let's make a deal. If I lose, I will give you one of my books."

Alastair tilted his head quizzically, but his look was drab. "A book?"

"It's a very fine book," she protested. "Tessa Herondale bought it for me, a rare book in Farsi, so it's sentimental. Just to show how gravely I take it."

"I am not convinced," he revealed pensively.

Alastair hummed and looked over at her, and she scowled. She knew what he wanted to hear. "I will not say it."

"You already know my answer, then."

She restrained herself before she could stick her tongue out at him. She begrudgingly nodded. Then, "As you may. But if I win, you have to perform a song in front of all my friends."

His eyes widened and he made some sort of choking sound. "Pardon?"

"You heard me," she smiled mischievously. "It's only fair." 

Alastair considered her, still thunderstruck. "In what world is it fair? A song in exchange for a book I don't desire? I eat my hat before this would ever happen."

"So to Maman, Papa, Risa, and myself. And our sibling, of course. Be that as it may, I agreed to add the second part to your request, so I want a song."

Alastair shook his head but seemed less strained. He scowled - not unlike she did before - but deemed it fair. "Alright."

She pushed it far enough already. Yet, she gave it a last try. "Include that little say you made me add, and we are on our way."

Alastair's expression made his answer clear. Cordelia rubbed her hands together. "Your face when you lose will be enough, I suppose. The song is just a benefit."

Alastair snorted. He lifted himself to his feet and reached to them. "We will see." 

He sat cross-legged on another edge of the carpet, so both were in front of their baby brother on different corners. 

Cordelia spread his arms, twisting her fingers to gesture to the baby to come. Alastair was a bit stiff as he called their brother's name, too self-conscious to do the same thing. Their sibling seemed baffled by the additional attention drawn toward him, ruthlessly rattling his doll and staring at them.

"Look how surprised he seems by getting your attention," Cordelia pondered. Their brother rocked back a forth on the muted carpet, pushing his hand into his face as if he was wondering what he should do.

"Nonsense. He always looks like that," he dismissed. 

"I decided to ignore your remark. Azizam, come here," she cajoled, concentrating on her mission. "Would you not like to play some music with me?"

One thing both siblings agreed on was their brother's attachment to music. Once, left on the kitchen floor, he took a wooden spoon and decided to hit a pot with it, ostensibly creating music for his own ears. He later threw it, unintentionally, at Cordelia. Alastair could barely keep his face straight when it happened and reminisced it for weeks.

"Who's bribing who now, Cordelia?" quipped her brother, and was rewarded by a giggle from their brother. He twirled an eyebrow. "It seems like he got my sense of humor."

"A natural disaster, really," she teased. Alastair gave her an amused look. A small sound made her glance forward. The word 'music' apparently intrigued him because their sibling's eyes were fixed on her.

"Oh, Would you like that, baby brother? " She smiled victoriously, spreading her arms. "Come to me, and we could play together." 

"Or, I could play the piano, unlike Cordelia," suggested Alastair. He changed position so that he knelt now, pressing his hands on the knees. He leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "And you could assist with the drums."

Cordelia pouted. "That was my idea," she complained. "And I will be a much better companion to play music with." 

Alastair rolled his eyes again. "So to speak."

he opened her mouth to tell her older brother he is wasting time and is wrong about what he is trying to prove when she saw the movement in the corner of her eye. Their brother left behind his toy. He swung his legs, slipping more than once, putting one small hand after the other as he attempted to crawl.

"Alastair," she gasped, forgetting their banter. "He is doing it! He's crawling!"

She turned, elated, to share her awe with Alastair. He looked at their brother wonderingly - It was a rare, open expression on her brother's face that made her smirk wider. His lips turned upward and tinted his face with a smile. She suspected her expression is similar. 

The older Carstairs siblings observed as their brother made his way toward them on the carpet. Cordelia decided no matter whom the baby will come to, she couldn't be more joyous. "Mother should see it," Alastair mumbled.

Cordelia nodded. "It would be a nice surprise when she gets back from tea with the Lightwoods."

Alastair swept his head so swiftly a few strands fell on his eyes. "Wait," he stuttered out. "Which Lightwoods?"

Cordelia flushed and turned her attention back to her little brother. She watched as he tried to move his leg unsuccessfully. "Come to your sister, Baraadar!"

"Layla," he said, his voice informing her he won't let her away without an answer. "Is Mother with Sophie and Gideon Lightwood?"

"Maybe," she conceded. She kept her eyes on their brother "Maybe not."

"Cordelia-"

"It's our brother's first time crawling, do you really want to miss it?" 

"We'll talk about it later," he snapped, and Cordelia found it inequitable. She had nothing to do with whom their mother went out with, and it was certainly not her fault Sophie and Gideon Lightwood happened to be Alastair's partner's parents.

Now fully settled on their brother, they watched as he ungracefully wiggled himself toward them. They encouraged him to get up when he fell and smiled at him when he raised his head to their voices. Cordelia even clapped her hands.

The baby crawled, not fairly straight, but if she reached her hands out she could hold him now. So could Alastair, but she tried her luck. "I think it considered my win."

"Not quite yet, Layla."  The baby fell on his belly. He struggles to find his balance and continued to come closer, his visage as if he wondered himself what was going on.

They watched in astonishment as he kept wiggling his legs and hands, and then passed them. They both changed confused glanced and turned over, watching as a pair of hands grabbed their sibling's small figure. 

"Risa!"

Their baby brother snuggled himself contentedly in Risa's embrace, and she gave the both of them amused looks. She turned away to leave the room.

The Carstairs siblings locked eyes with one another.

"That's unjust!" She exclaimed. "Risa wasn't one of the choices."

As Risa walked away, they heard her laughter echoing from the corridor. Alastair's eyes lent on hers again. "So, what was it about Mother and the Lightwoods?"

Cordelia just grunted and shook her head.

_ _

Thank you for reading so far! I hope you liked it!!

This is still very weird to me. 100 followers??? I suppose some doesn't remember they followed me at all, but I am still quite honored 🥺

I can make the 100 followers celebration thingie🙈 although I'm not as crafty as others I don't think someone wants to know me better, I can answer asks about my opinions, headcanons, maybe a fic if it's Alastair centered, stuff like that :p Please tell me what you think and if you'd like that!!

I'll tag some people who I much regard as mutuals or friends here! I am glad I got to meet you all, no matter if we don't talk at all. If you are reading this, you are amazing 🌺

@fairchilds-and-herondales @littlx-songbxrd @upsidedown-cats @nott-the-best @rinadragomir @gummybears-4u @aceofjesper @dianasarrow @no-scones-allowed @stitchkiss @stxr-thxif @itsdaughterofthemoon @shadowhuntertrash @doitforthecarstairs @banescrown @greymistttt

[ddarker-dreams]

Round Them Up II. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

warnings: canon typical violence, drug mention, kidnapping, gaslighting, previous not sfw mention, and manipulation. word count: 3.4k. part I.

All things that fester in the dark will one day be brought into the light. 

Giorno’s unsure when he first heard this sentiment expressed. Maybe it was when he was passing by a mother scolding her child on the street, or from a missionary of the Church passing on their doctrine. This legalistic jargon never resonated with him. Why fear the judgement of a heavenly being that you didn’t believe to exist? As he makes his way through winding halls, this is the thought that plagues him the most. This concept of judgement. He can’t recall a time where the thoughts and opinions of others held a tangible weight. It’s inconsequential. Almost all others are inconsequential. What has mattered most to him is sticking to his ideals, his dream, not what onlookers may whisper behind closed doors. Yet now he can’t stand the thought of you thinking less of him.

Keen eyes stay focused on the butterfly in front of him. The butterflies wings flutter, gliding to the area you’re being held captive. You’re alive. Here, somewhere in this dilapidated building. Giorno’s familiar with the rhythm of your life energy, and is confident that his Stand sensed you. How beautiful a thing it is. It pulsates, like the strings of a harp being strummed, his chest swelling with adoration whenever he feels it. He keeps checking. Those who sought to hurt you are dropping like flies, Giorno noting that the life energy he felt upon arriving is diminishing. Courtesy of Mista, if he were to guess. Gold Experience Requiem has been primed for usage as well. 

He comes to a halt when the butterfly insists on a single set of doors. This must be the room you’re in. Giorno takes a deep breath, steadying himself, hearing hushed whispers coming from inside. That accident… undoubtedly, this group is from Northern Italy. The moment he opens these doors, there is but one thing that’ll be for certain. His Stand’s power is absolute. Already, unfortunate guards who he happened upon earlier, have sent to a hellish limbo of his making. A fate that they’ll never come to understand. Everyone who took part in this plan will meet a similar demise. 

What worries him most… is how you’ll look at him when it’s all said and done. How much information has Enzo’s men given you? Did you believe all that they said? There must be numerous questions plaguing your mind regardless, having had no idea what being involved with Giorno Giovanna truly meant. He knew there’d be a day where he could no longer hide the truth as he had for months now. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. It was going to be on his terms, an easy to digest version custom made for you. Wetting his lips, he pushes open the door, casting all reservations aside. When the time comes, he’ll know what to do. The proper words have always come to him, like whispers from the divine. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting here. 

Wherever this place is -- somewhere far away from Naples, is all you know -- has boarded up windows. From how empty your stomach is feeling, you can safely assume it’s around dinner time. You’ve never felt so sore, your wrists and ankles tied in an uncomfortable position. More information is what you need now. Listening to your surroundings has become second only to breathing. It’s at times difficult to pick through the accents you’re unfamiliar with, the terminology in use not making it easier. These people live in a world completely different from yours, and they speak of a Giorno Giovanna you’ve never heard of. 

The consistent story is that they want to spite him somehow. That this is an act of retribution. How did your precious GioGio earn the ire of these men, to the point of driving them to kidnap a civilian? He’s gotten mixed up with the wrong people. Is that all this is? Your throat feels tighter as time goes on, sweat perspiring on your skin, and chest heaving with every labored breath. The anxiety that’s been provoked within you refuses to release its vice-like grip. You want to be strong. In the car ride earlier, the man who spoke to you did so in a demeaning fashion. Dumbing down his words and treating you like a fool. Being weak here is not an option. 

So who do you place your hope in? The police? Your own strength? Giorno? There’s no way of being certain. From how tight the ropes are against your skin, squirming out of them is a hopeless endeavor. Not to mention the soldatos around you carry concealed weapons. They’ve been tracking your every movement in between chatting with the other men in the room. You don’t want to succumb to the pits of despair, desperately clinging to the possibility of getting out of this somehow. The injury you sustained from the previous escape attempt is making it even harder, the pain in your wrist ebbing and flowing. It’s likely broken or sprained. Pulling an escape off in a situation like this just seems impossible.

You hang your head down, eyes incapable of focusing on your lap in this dimly lit room. It’s difficult to believe that just this afternoon things had been so different. That you had been completely oblivious to the underbelly of society, blissfully thinking about your date for tonight. Whatever Giorno’s association with these men are, he’s surely noticed your absence, and must have informed the police by now. If he hasn’t picked up on it yet, your family or friends have had to. A shaky sigh leaves your lips, earning a pointed glare from the man next to you. He looks at you as if you’re nothing but a pest. 

“Stop moving so much, bischero,” he wrinkles his nose, glowering down at you. “Any more suspicious movement and I’ll tighten your restraints. Just sit there like you’re supposed to.”

Cheeks set ablaze, you nod your head, not trusting your voice to form the proper words. Never before have you felt such a stirring sense of hatred in your heart for another. You have done nothing to be treated like this, living your life as a good citizen. The thought of harming someone has never arisen in your mind until now, wanting nothing more than to prove these men wrong. That you’re not the weakling they so obviously believe you to be. You sweep over the area in the most inconspicuous way possible. Five men are all in the same room as you, two standing near the door and the other three by the chair you’re restrained to. The only way out of this room is through that set of doors. 

There is nothing you can do now. This is what you decide. No miracle will give you the strength necessary to get out of here. 

Every second passes by slower than the last, tension in the room thick enough to cut through with a knife. That’s when you notice something is different than your initial arrival. The casual banter between the men have ceased, their bodies noticeably tenser, despite what must be their superior ordering them to remain calm. When you listen closely, you hear a faint commotion outside. It’s a piercing sound that takes a moment to recognize. Is that… gunfire? It doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever heard in the movies, the shots coming in sets of six. Your kidnappers draw their own weapons from inside their coats, readying themselves. 

The man who has been standing next to you goes to whisper in the ears of the others, who in turn secure different angles in the room. You don’t want to get your hopes up for nothing... but is it possible that law enforcement is coming to rescue you? Adrenaline pumps through your veins at the thought. The throbbing pain of your wrist is drowned out, your vigor restoring. Everyone present in this room -- including you -- is waiting for something. Someone. Whether it’s friend or foe is yet to be discovered. You’re on pins and needles, gaze locked onto the guarded door with bated breath.

Nothing happened like you envisioned it. 

The door, to the disbelief of the others, opens as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Amidst the brewing chaos, you spot an unmistakable flash of golden hair. You could recognize that sight anywhere. It belongs to someone you’ve grown to care for greatly, someone who you didn’t know as much as you thought you did. Still, relief floods into your heart, washing away the previous despair. It’s the sound of guns cocking that brings you back from this potential cloud nine. You’re still in danger. That means he’s in danger too.

Driven by emotion rather than logic, you yell out to him, hoping it might prevent a bloody fate. “Giorno! They have guns!”

Your desperate plea is too late. You know this, and still you pray that it might have any impact. The men in the room fire without holding anything back, all in the direction of the door, the loud noise causing your ears to ring like funeral bells. Though you’re still undecided on your feelings for all that Giorno has been involved with in secret, the thought of him bloodied and falling lifeless to the ground is too much to bear. There’s no way he can survive this onslaught of bullets. This is going to kill him. He’s going to die, trying to save you—

“[First].”

He’s in front of you. 

His face is so close, you can feel his warm breath against your tear stricken cheeks. You smell his musky cologne, feel his silky hair against his face, see the light in his emerald eyes. Giorno’s lips part, words leaving them, that you’re too dazed to pick up on. Blinking once, you look around your surroundings as he works to free you from your restraints. This has to be a dream, a final cruel prank before you enter the next life. 

“GioGio,” your voice croaks, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I don’t— I don’t understand, what is happening?”

All that you’re able to gather is that this is the room you’ve been in for hours. The earth tones of the wall, the crumbling ceiling, boarded up windows, and concrete floor are undeniably the same. There’s rustling behind you, your weakened limbs being freed and falling limp. You gasp as he touches your wounded wrist. There’s a stinging sensation, and then the pain alleviates. Testing out the formerly wounded appendage, you notice the bruises from before are gone. Your skin is a normal complexion, instead of the discolored bruises from before.

 It feels like your grip on reality is slipping through loose fingers. Pinching your side does nothing, as you don’t wake from a dream like you wish. This is reality. It’s as if the only people in the world are you and him. That doesn’t make sense, there were five other men here, literal seconds ago. How any of this is possible is beyond you. They were firing at Giorno, who is here in the flesh, not a single wound in sight. 

“I know you must have a lot of questions,” Giorno’s voice is soothing as it always has been. You still flinch when he speaks up, a mannerism that he doesn’t miss. “I’ll answer all of them to the best of my ability. For now, we need to get you somewhere safe. You can agree with that, right?” 

He’s picking and choosing his words with the utmost care. You can still notice this in your mentally exhausted state. There’s no point in arguing, you’ll feel sick should you remain here any longer. “Ah… yes.” 

“Can you walk?” Giorno’s giving you a once over. He must be inspecting you for further injury. You nod your head, standing up on shaky legs. The relief of being in Giorno’s presence is fleeting. You don’t want to dwell on it, not here, but the underlying anxiety he brings can’t be shaken. He’s standing by your side, composed as ever. You wonder how you actually know about him. Everyone in relationships is bound to have their own secrets, aspects of them they’re unwilling to share. This is on another level entirely. Being too close to him now doesn’t bring the sense of security it should, and you find yourself on guard.

He places a hand to your shaking side in what’s meant to be a soothing act. “There’s no reason to hide if you can’t.”

“I said I’m fine.” Your tone comes out harsher than you intended. Giorno pauses, looking into your eyes, as if thinking. Conceding to your wishes, he retracts his hand, and leads you to the door. The walk through the building is silent, neither of you making attempts to speak. There isn’t anyone around other than the two of you. Where are all the others you saw on the way here? It’s not that you care for the wellbeing of your kidnappers, but the mystery of their ambiguous fate stays on your mind. How did Giorno have the confidence to face an armed force by himself? There’s no way he’s operating on his own. Not that anything has made sense lately. 

The poorly insulated building allows for the occasional breeze to slip through the cracks in the walls. It takes your breath away, and you wrap your arms around yourself to ward off the cold. Giorno is quick to take notice, and sheds his blazer without asking. Warmth envelopes you as he places it over your shivering shoulders. It’s a gesture that would’ve sent your heart racing, but no longer feels right. You want to trust him, to believe that he’s the man you fell in love with. That’s why it hurts even more. To think that all this time, you were being deceived. As pressing as these concerns are, getting home is what takes top priority in your mind. The rest can wait for later. 

Walking out the same way you came in, you spot the line of cars that drove you here. All of them are eerily empty. There’s one new car present that you recognize as belonging to Giorno. He’s surprised you in the past by picking you up from work with this car, your coworkers always asking nosy questions about your mysterious lover. Now that you’re reflecting on it, maybe you should’ve been asking more questions too. The source of his wealth was an occasional topic -- that you unfortunately felt was too rude to keep asking about -- and he never gave clear answers. His charm blinded you, and led you into a false sense of security. 

You realize that you’re no longer alone with Giorno. There’s a man wearing an odd hat and an outfit with clashing patterns, and another with an equally strange hole covered ensemble. They straighten up their posture when you come into their sight, or more specifically, when Giorno does. From how Giorno’s body language remains neutral, they must be with him. You probably don’t even want to know their relation to one another. The one wearing a hat is brandishing a gun that’s hard to miss, a revolver to be exact. With what meager information you have, you can safely assume that was the source of gunshots you heard earlier. Now that your earlier bloodlust for your captors has faded, your stomach churns at the thought of what must’ve happened. The person you’re staring at notices your intent staring. He shifts his body to keep the weapon out of sight, not that it means anything now.

“Let’s get you back home.” With an arm around your lower back, he leads you to the parked car. Giorno opens the door for you to the backseat, and slides in after you. The partition is put up from whoever is driving for a false sense of privacy. For the second time today, you find yourself unwittingly in the backseat of a car, having more questions than answers. That has to be a new record. The engine purrs to life, and you’re on the road once more. 

Now that the opportunity to learn more about what the fuck just happened to you is here, you’re having difficulty figuring out where to start the interrogation. It doesn’t help that your anxiety has been given new life. Giorno, who you’ve always found a serene person, is the source of your newfound dread. At least he’s kind enough to let you gather your bearings. 

“Earlier, those... people,” you take a deep breath, hands shaking relentlessly. “The way that they were talking about you made it sound like you did something to them.”

You surprise yourself by gathering the strength to look him in the eyes. He returns your gaze with a similar intensity, inadvertently testing you to say what you’ve wanted to all along. “Giorno Giovanna… just who are you, exactly? And why should I even believe you?”

There’s no immediate response. Despite the physical closeness, you’ve never felt so far away from him. It reinstates the fear that, no matter how well you believe to know someone, they could always be lying. That the truth is what they want it to be. Giorno taking his time to respond makes him appear guilty before your eyes. 

“You’ve been through a series of traumatizing events. Before I explain anything, you should rest,” he glances down at his watch. “It’ll be a few hours before we get home.” 

So he is trying to avoid it. Pursing your lips together, you shoot him a displeased look. “No. Tell me now. I deserve that much after all I endured, don’t I?”

“You’re right. My apologies.”

Giorno leans back in the leather seats of the car and crosses his legs. It’s unfortunate how now of all times you’re reminded of memories shared here. The times the two of you would tumble into the back, becoming intimate with one another, exploring each other’s bodies with mutual trust. Now there is a frigidity in your interactions. You’ve been torn from your blissful ignorance.

“Those men were seeking revenge like you gathered,” he begins to explain. “I lead a coalition that prevents the sale of drugs on the streets. You saw yourself what levels they’re willing to stoop to, didn’t you? This was meant to be a last ditch effort. To use you as a bargaining chip to renegotiate the terms we established months ago, so they could flood the streets with drugs once more.” 

The words seem truthful enough, yet you still have your reservations. “You lead a coalition...? Is it like, a government position? I don’t understand that.” 

“Precisely. I can’t go too deep into it for that very reason, [First],” he places his hand over yours, and you let him. “Please, let me continue to protect you. Now that you’ve been involved with me... I’m afraid something like today could happen again.” 

It makes sense more sense than you care to admit. That doesn’t mean you want to accept it. What choice do you have? They struck in the middle of the day, at a public mall. Next time, you might not be so lucky as to have this outcome. You’re not sure if you could even sleep soundly at night after what you’ve gone through, knowing every moment might be your last. Your body feels heavy, and the blood drains from your face. Giorno came to you, saved you, how can you continue to doubt him? He put his life on the line for your sake. Who is to say those men earlier weren’t lying as a final act of cruelty? Bottom lip quivering, you squeeze his hand tightly, not that he seems to mind. 

“GioGio... I’m sorry. I’ve been awful to you,” you sniffle, wiping away at your tears. “I was scared... I didn’t know what to do, if they’d hurt me, god, if they’d kill me--” 

“I know, I know.” He beckons you to his chest and you gladly accept the offer. The expensive fabric rubs against your cheek, and you openly sob against him. Giorno takes a moment to steel himself, before wrapping his arms around you. He’s never been the best when it came to physical affection, you noticed it never came naturally to him. You can’t bring yourself to care any longer. The comfort and security of being here with him is too good to pass on. 

“Let’s get you home. I’ll take care of everything, so leave it all to me.”