#his parents built with him. he was their legacy. still is. and he understands that now. and he'll make sure he's one they can be proud of

[crappymixtape]

stand on my own

after months of begging, steve finally takes you home to meet his parents – you've been together for over a year and he doesn't talk about them much, but once you meet them you begin to understand why *18+ only | ( 3K words – TW: verbal abuse, almost physical abuse, both from steve's dad – angst, hurt / comfort, sprinkle of fluff, est. relationship, steve x you, steve x reader )

S T A N D O N M Y O W N 🎶 stupid 4 u, dizzy

When you pulled into the Harrington’s driveway, your mouth dropped open at the sheer size of the house. Three times the size of yours growing up with a brand new Porsche parked out front. Steve always told you his dad was materialistic, but he hadn’t said anything about how materialistic or how much someone would have to make to drive a car like that.

Robin had warned you, told you the Harringtons were the pinnacle of Hawkins, Indiana, but if you didn’t grow up with that last name in your mouth, you’d have no idea. No idea of the legacy the Harringtons built after producing generation after generation of lawyers, and why would you? Hawkins was a tiny dot on the map compared to Indianapolis.

You’d moved away from the city in pursuit of a softer life, roomed with Robin Buckley after you’d both been accepted at the local community college and met her best friend – most platonic boyfriend, Steve – on your first night there at a party. He had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder drinking a beer with another guy, Eddie Munson, and both had grease stains all over their pants. In another world, you might have found it a turn-off, but when he caught your eye from across the room you knew you were done for.

Long locks of hair fell into his eyes, his thick lashes sweeping across high cheekbones when he blinked, and the most perfect, pink lips that tugged up at the corner in a grin, grinning at you. High school basketball superstar turned mechanic after getting denied by Indiana State, and damn, it looked good on him.

The day after the party, your car broke down just outside of town, and he came to pick you up in the tow truck with grease-smudged hands and a towel hanging out of the back pocket of his Carhartts. You talked the whole way back to the garage, told him about growing up in the city and how it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He told you how his favorite thing about Hawkins was the way the sky lit up in the summer right as the sun went down, set to flames as it crept beneath the horizon and you asked him if he’d show you sometime. When you got to the shop he told you he’d personally make sure your car was put back in tip-top shape and then took you for the best milkshake of your life at the diner afterward.

Eddie’s uncle Wayne owned the shop, simply called Munson’s, and had been running it since his old man died back in the 50s. It was the most trusted mechanic south of the city and while it wasn’t glamorous, it was honest work, and Steve liked the people. They were thankful for his help and paid him enough to make a decent living, and there was something about working with his hands that gave Steve a sense of gratification and pride he’d never experienced before. Not stuck behind some desk 9-5 like his dad. He didn’t make hundreds of thousands of dollars or live in a mini-mansion, and even though all that wasn’t important to Steve, it still didn’t make him feel any better as he rumbled into his parents’ driveway.

“Shit,” Steve muttered under his breath as he shifted the truck into park. Running his hands through his hair, he let his head fall forward onto the steering wheel, his nerves palpable from the passenger seat. “I really don’t want to go in there.”

“You’re not going alone, if that’s any consolation?” you offered, gently teasing, rubbing a hand over the soft fabric of the only clean, white t-shirt he owned.

He gave you a lopsided smile and turned the truck off, “That helps a lot.”

“Good.”

The light on the porch flicked on, and it drew Steve’s attention like the snap of a whip.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” you grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed as the front door opened to reveal the portrait of a perfect housewife, Carol Harrington.

“Hi, honey!” she called with a wave, gesturing you to get out of the truck and Steve huffed a heavy sigh.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, expression tinged with dread. With one last glance over at you, he moved to open his door, “Listen, if my dad says anything, I can’t promise I won’t say something back.”

“That makes two of us,” you half-joked, but Steve knew by the look in your eye you were serious. If there was anything you didn’t tolerate, it was demeaning people, and from what Robin said, Gary Harrington had used Steve as his verbal punching bag for most of his life.

You watched as Steve tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat as he pushed himself off the truck bench and out onto the driveway.

“Hey, Mom.”

“I hope you came hungry!” Carol said, wiping her hands on the red, checkered apron tied around her waist. “I made a casserole, a fresh green salad, and those rolls you like so much.”

“Oh–you didn’t have to do all that,” Steve insisted as he met his mom on the steps, his cheeks growing pink under the warm glow of the porch light.

“Of course I did.” Carol pulled her son into a hug, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And who is this?” she smiled, turning her attention to you, big, blue eyes appraising, trying to decide if you were good enough for her Stevie.

You returned the smile, introducing yourself as Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his Levis, anxious. The weight of her gaze was heavy and for a minute it shook you, but you doubled down. No one was going to push you around.

“Thank you for having us,” you said genuinely and a pleased look passed over her features.

“Yes, it’s so nice to finally meet you! We’ve been asking Stevie to come to dinner for months now. How’d you convince him?”

“Mom.”

“Okay,” she put her hands up in surrender. “Here, let’s get you two out of the cold. Come in, come in.”

If the outside manicured lawn and award-winning flowerbeds were perfection, then the inside had to have been crafted by God himself.

Every surface was spotless, decorated exquisitely with things you’d only seen in a catalog. Large, smooth, eggshell vases full of bare branches arranged just so, portraits of sweeping landscapes framed in gold and glass candy dishes sat atop polished, mahogany credenzas. As you took it all in, you noticed there were no photos of the family, and in that moment it all felt so empty. Staged and not properly lived in.

“Please, sit! What can I get you to drink?” Carol’s voice interrupted your thoughts and you glanced over to see her holding two bottles of wine. “I’ve got a chilled rosé or a bold red, can’t make a bad choice.”

“Thank you, but water’s fine,” you insisted and a grumble from the head of the dining room table pulled your attention.

Sitting in one of the lavishly, upholstered, high-backed chairs, Steve’s father met your gaze over the top of the newspaper he held in his hands. Folding it up, he set it neatly on the table top and folded his arms over chest, not appraising like Carol. No. This was judgement, cold and severe.

“Not a drinker, hm?” he drawled and you felt Steve tense at your side.

“One of us needs to be responsible,” you quipped back, half-joking and taking Steve’s hand in yours. It’s okay.

The older man snorted in reply and took up the tumbler of scotch at the side of his table setting. Before you could reply, Carol jumped in in an attempt to settle the already blooming tension.

“So, what do you do, dear? Stevie tells us you’re in school!” she asked, setting a hot casserole at the center of the table.

“Oh,” fell out, clumsy as the attention fully focused on you, “I’m uh–I’m pursuing a degree in the arts.”

“The arts! How wonderful!” Carol gushed, returning from the kitchen with a basket of rolls and glass, bowl of salad. “Literature or teaching? Some noble profession surely,” she said, tone oozing and saccharine sweet.

“Ceramics,” you replied tensely, wanting to be embarrassed, but refusing to give them the satisfaction. “I’m actually hoping to open my own studio someday.”

You’d barely finished your sentence when your ears caught Gary mumbling something about hippies and Steve’s mouth firmed into a flat line.

“Dad.”

“What?” Gary snipped back, taking another drink of his scotch as Carol pushed you both into your chairs. “It’s not a very common profession to get into. How’d you find it anyway?” Gary asked, feigning interest, but you could hear the skepticism.

Sitting a bit taller in your chair you leaned forward, chin tilted up in confidence, You can’t scare me.

“I’m originally from Indianapolis, but I came out here looking for something a little…slower. It’s a bit too busy up there for me. Mom was hoping I’d follow in her footsteps up there as a doctor, but–”

“Now see, that’s real work!” Gary said, leaning forward to match you. He shook his head, clicking his tongue at you. “Throwing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity away.”

“Dad!” Steve protested again from his chair next to you, the tension pulling taut in the air.

“Gary,” Carol cut in, eyes on her plate and not meeting the look her husband was giving her. “That’s enough. I’m sure she has good reason.“ Taking the serving spoon she started to dish everyone up. “How’s work going for you, Stevie?”

A heavy sigh pushed itself from Steve’s lungs and he closed his eyes for a minute. You could tell he was uncomfortable and for a minute you regretted making him do this. Taking his hand under the table you squeezed, reassuring, and he opened his eyes again to look at you in silent thanks.

“Uh…yeah,” he started, regaining his composure. “It’s good. Eddie and I are pretty busy right now. Wayne’s showing me how to do the books, actually.”

“Oh! Well, that’s wonderful!” Carol said with a comforting smile as she dished up her husband. “Isn’t that wonderful, Gary?”

“Wonderful isn’t the word I’d choose,” Gary sneered and Carol elbowed his shoulder.

“Behave,” she tutted.

“Actually, Wayne says he’s gonna retire soon,” Steve said sitting up a little taller and your stomach flipped over.

You’d talked on the way over about not sharing any of the news about the shop with them. Promised you wouldn’t say a word about it because it would only make things worse, but you watched now as Steve put it all on the table. Brave. Confident. Proud.

A vein bulged in the middle of Gary’s forehead.

“He’s leaving it to Eddie and–well, Eddie asked if I want to be his business partner. I haven’t signed the paperwork yet, but I’m going to. I want to. I think it’ll be good for–

“Absolutely not! Over my dead body,” Gary slammed a hand flat against the table and you flinched at the force of it, silverware clattering metallically against the fine china.

“It’s a good business, Dad, with a solid client list,” Steve pushed, “I make more than enough to–”

“You think you can convince me?” Gary growled, a sardonic smile twisting across his lips. “You wanna end up like the Munsons? Living like trailer trash?” The smile disappeared. “Jesus Steven, you’ve got a family business right here — your legacy — and you’re shitting all over it! For what? Some filthy garage?”

Carol’s face was as white as a sheet as Gary dug in and she put a hand on his shoulder, “Gary, please–”

“No, Carol. I’m not done,” he shrugged her off and stood from his chair. “That family has done nothing but produce a long line of losers,” he said, pointing a finger off out the dining room window toward Forest Hills. “Edward’s father was a drunk and that kid is one disaster away from drinking what little money he has. I mean, look at him! He’s always high, driving around town in that piece of shit van with hair down to his ass and–”

“Shut up!”

Steve stood up then and slapped the palms of his hands against the table, making you flinch again, your heart leaping into your throat as you watched him glare at his father, flushed and red from his neck to his ears, his hair falling into his eyes.

“Stevie–” Carol pleaded, but he ignored her.

“God, I’m so tired of it,” Steve roughed his hands over his face, flinging an arm in the same direction his father had. Toward Eddie, his partner, his best friend. “The Munsons work really hard! And they’re honest, which can’t be said for you,” he pushed, Gary’s face twisting ugly as Steve laid into him. “Lying and cheating people for what, huh? For money? For a Porche?”

“You watch your mouth,” Gary said a little too evenly and unease settled in your stomach.

“No. I’m not gonna sit here and let you lecture me about something you know nothing about. When was the last time you really felt proud, Dad? Like you accomplished something?”

“Every day!” Gary snapped, “When I sit at my desk and look at the framed degree on my wall because I did something with my life, Steven!” He pushed his chair out behind him and took a half step around the table toward his son. “I’ve become someone and made a name for myself! I support my wife because I’m a man,” he emphasized his point with a finger to Steve’s chest and you watched as Steve’s body grew stiff, hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Yeah, well based on the flashy sports car in the driveway I’d say you’re compensating.”

“That’s enough!”

Gary stepped into Steve, Steve’s back bumping into the wall and it pulled you up from your seat while Carol shrunk into hers, head buried in her hands.

“You ungrateful little shit,” Gary spat, “You’re being handed an opportunity on a silver platter and spitting on it. How dare you—”

“No, dad! How dare you?” Steve shoved a hand flat into his dad’s chest and the older man stumbled back a step. “I bring home the most important person in my life to meet you, and you can’t even keep it together for more than five minutes! It’s embarrassing. You’re embarrassing. Let’s go.”

Steve grabbed your hand and started to pull you toward the door, food untouched on the table, but Gary took a half-step into your path of escape.

“You’ll stay until you apologize,” he growled.

Steve laughed incredulously. “Apologize? For what? For telling you what we already know? That you’re a selfish asshole?”

“What did I say about language?” Gary returned the shove Steve had given him, but Steve didn’t move.

“Honey, stop. Please,” Carol begged her husband from the table, but her pleas were ignored.

“My entire life, all you’ve been is gone," Steve leveled. "You were never there for me, especially when I needed you the most, and, honestly? I don’t care what you think, Dad. Not anymore.” Steve pushed himself to his full height, at least a full two inches taller than his father, and shouldered past him, “We’re out of here.”

“Stevie, sweetheart don’t go,” Carol finally stood from her chair, coming around to paw at Steve’s back. “You know how he gets, he just needs to walk it off—“

“—stop making excuses for him, mom. He doesn’t deserve it and you deserve better.”

Carol kept grabbing at him and it made something snap inside you.

“Don’t touch him,” you said firmly, pressing a hand into hers and tugging it away from Steve. The look on her face then was like you’d slapped her and a tiny pinch of guilt squeezed in your chest, but Gary made sure to fix that, his voice at your backs.

“If you leave, that’s it, Steven! Game over!” he shouted.

“I don’t want it, Dad.”

“I’m serious! One more step and you’re written out of the company!” Gary said just as you both reached the door, Steve’s hand on the handle as he spun around to make sure he made eye contact with his dad.

“Where’s the paper? I’ll write it myself!” Steve snapped and for the first time that evening Gary was rendered speechless, mouth dropped open in shock. “If you break down, don’t call me.”

Pride swelled in your chest and you had to keep from whooping and hollering right there in the foyer, but as soon as you both were safely on the other side of the thick, wooden, double doors you flung your arms around him.

“Holy shit, babe,” you breathed, burying your face in the crook of his neck, the warm, citrusy scent of his cologne setting you at ease as his arms squeezed at your waist. Pulling away, you clasped his face between your hands. “First? I’m so sorry,” you said, shaking your head, running your thumb gently over his cheek, “And second? You were amazing in there, standing up for yourself.”

Steve turned a deep shade of pink, clearing his throat as his eyes dropped down to look at his shoes. “No way, that was awful.”

“It was,” you agreed, leading him slowly back to the truck, “But I’ve never seen you defend yourself, your hard work, like that. It’s not something to disregard.”

“You think so?” he asked the steering wheel after settling onto the bench seat next to you, the truck rumbling to life when he turned the key over.

Lifting a hand to the strong line of his jaw you gently turned his head to look at you.

“I know so,” you said softly, “And I love you and the way you take care of me, so damn much.”

His lashes fluttered, blinking away the starts of his tears, and smiled through it. No one had ever stood by his side the way you had just now. Had pushed through all the bullshit from his family and didn't shy away from it all. It meant more to him than he could ever put into words, so he settled for the truth.

“I love you too," he said, leaning into you with a hand pressed to your thigh and holding your cheek in his other. “I love you,” he said again, a soft whisper as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” another to your cheek. “I love you,” his mouth meeting the corner of yours. “I love you,” his bottom lip catching yours perfectly, sweetly, “I love you.”

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[daycourtofficial]

Fireling

Pairing: Eris x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 1.5k | warnings: none

Summary: every father’s dream is to be there the day his son first uses his powers. Luckily for Eris, he gets just that.

Note: this is a part of my gingerfucker series and is for day 2 of @erisweekofficial ���� I guess you can decide for yourself if this is more of the childhood or legacy promot

Eris sighed as he moved through the halls of the Forest House, the wiggling mass in his arms not deterring him in the slightest. Every time one of his hands was loosened from the boy, it would reappear elsewhere, making the small version of himself wiggle even harder.

In all his years, he had helped raise all of his brothers, became quite familiar with several of the servant’s children over the years, and yet his firstborn child was an utter mystery to him. Almost three years old, Atlas had never been capable of sitting still for even a moment.

It made changing his nappy a monumental task.

A physical replica of himself, Atlas loved roaming the halls and seeing old portraits of Eris, slightly confused when he would be corrected that no, that was Dada. An answer he didn’t like, because the idea of his parents having lives previous to his existence was unfathomable at best and upsetting to the point of tears at worst.

He wiggled around in Eris’ arms, the High Lord looking absurd as he moved his arms to catch where the young heir would go next.

Atlas, above all else, liked routine. He enjoyed structure of some kind. It was very easy for the boy to fall into routines - if you did the same activity three days in a row around the same time, he began expecting it.

Which led Eris to open the door to Atlas’ room, letting the boy down to run.

He closed the door behind him, his son spinning around the room, soft giggles echoing through the space.

“See, dada?”

“Yes, now I understand why spinning in the front foyer was impossible and you had to do it in here under my watch.”

“Mama’s sick, so it’s Dada time.”

You were pregnant again, but it was during the early stages where you were tired all of the time, food did not sound appetizing, and you were incredibly sensitive to smells.

Eris had swelled with pride when you were able to tell him, before immediately throwing up onto his shoes. It was endearing how apologetic you were, even though he opted to just throw out the shoes, the socks, and the trousers before he spent a solid thirty minutes in the bath, scrubbing furiously as he tried to battle the conflicting thoughts that moved through his head. It filled him with immeasurable joy and excitement to see a new babe, his thoughts constantly wondering how much this second babe will resemble Atlas.

But a whole new set of worries came with a second babe. How would Atlas, the center of his world, react to having to share the attention?

Fae having children back to back so quickly was practically unheard of, so Eris had nothing to compare it to.

Atlas was - and remains - an easy babe. He’s a bit particular, but overall he is smart, kind and he cares so much about the smallest things, it constantly leaves Eris both in awe and slightly annoyed that his son insists they greet every tree by name whenever they pass them.

Eris watched as Atlas spun about the room, his red curls bouncing with each step.

You had been sick the past few days, spending the mornings cuddled up in bed with Atlas until his wiggling body made your stomach turn with nausea, which was when Eris would bring Atlas to his room and have him run, jump, and spin around until he wore himself out.

Thus a new routine was built.

Atlas’s giggles changed, becoming quicker and louder causing Eris to look up just in time to watch Atlas spin around the room, his arms outstretched into a ‘T’. As he spun through the air, little sparks began forming in his wake, tracing where he had just been spinning.

Eris stopped breathing, watching carefully. His thoughts stilled, knowing if he said or did anything, Atlas would stop. So he waited with bated breath, watching Atlas spin until he fell down, too dizzy to stay up on his small legs. As he fell, a burst of sparks erupted, small flames shot from his hands as he fell on the pile of pillows.

His giggles became louder, but Eris could hardly hear them.

It had been a few years since Beron’s death, since Eris felt the magic leave Beron’s body and his own absorb it - the same magic Atlas may one day possess. So much of his life was plagued with thoughts that always related back to Beron, all roads leading back to his father.

Some small part of him worried without Beron, there would be some hole in his chest, some emptiness at losing his purpose, the fire within him extinguishing with Beron.

His worries, like most these days, had been for nothing. He hardly ever thought about Beron since his death - only on nights when his dreams turn into nightmares, when various reminders of his father made their presence known amongst the hidden secrets of the Forest House.

Watching Atlas, his mind drifted to Beron. His son looked exactly like he did, but neither of them resembled Beron much. The only difference between Eris and his son were their eyes: Eris had Beron’s eyes - a cold, calculated look to them at all times. Meanwhile Atlas had the Lady of Autumn’s eyes - a bright, kind look that made the amber glow with warmth.

They were both the spitting image of Eris’s mother.

He thought of Beron as Atlas twirled about the room, tiny sparks coming from him getting bigger and bigger. He watched his son spin, the sparks catching onto his sweater before being burnt out.

Most of the clothing worn by anyone working in the Forest House was flame resistant - a lingering tradition from when Eris was young that continued well past the birth of each of his brothers, continuing well after Beron began delighting in making those that were incompetent walk around with flames adorning their clothes, the heat enough to make them sweat.

Eris’s thoughts whirled and swirled, the past few years a whirlwind of managing a court and becoming a father, a title so foreign to him he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Father.

An incredibly loaded word, always on the tip of his tongue as if he were still getting used to it after three years.

The High Lord title was easier to bear.

Atlas now stood, opening and closing his small hands, eyes widening each time he opened them. His brows crinkled as he looked on in determination, briefly flicking his eyes to check if Eris was still watching him.

His stance faltered as he made a small flame appear in one of his hands, amber eyes bright with the light in front of him. His gaze was pulled from the flame to his father, who was watching with a sad gaze.

Eris watched as Atlas produced the flame, a surge of pride and happiness growing in his chest, before the past reared its ugly head. He remembered when he first produced a flame intentionally - he was somewhere around his son’s age, and he had been so ecstatic he had spent the following weeks practicing to show his father.

He remembered how Beron looked down at Eris over his sloping nose, how Eris had felt extraordinarily small beneath his gaze. He thought it was how ants must look up at him.

Beron hadn’t said anything when Eris had shown him his powers, offering an unamused look at being disturbed before leaving the room.

He remembered watching him go, lip wobbling harder with each step, tears streaming down his face until new steps approached, and his mother watched him show off his new skills, despite having seen it each time the past few weeks.

He was jolted from the past, the present coming back to him in vivid colors as warmth flared against his cheeks, a tiny, freckled face looking at him. Atlas had crawled into his lap, his tiny hands too small to hold Eris’s face, but his touch remained there.

His hands were so warm, Eris drew back some of his own heat from his face to really feel his son’s power, to let his cheeks bask in the warmth of a son he never saw coming.

“Dada?”

It took that one word, a soft voice full of wonder and concern. One word from the small boy who warmed his soul.

He had spent months agonizing over what kind of father he would be - fears that were squashed each time Atlas looked up at him as if he had never done anything wrong. As if he held all the answers and all Atlas had to do was ask.

Atlas, much happier with Eris’s full attention on him, stuck out his tongue once more, deep in concentration before Eris saw from the bottom of his peripheral tiny flames dancing across his skin.

His smile was impossible to contain, and Atlas immediately mirrored his father’s expression.

He didn’t know what kind of father he would be. He didn’t know how Atlas and the new babe would speak of him decades and centuries from now.

But he would be there.

And he would try.

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Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @panther-girl-124

[maxdibert]

I’m a Brit and think that’s pretty spot on about James trying to put Snape back in his place…Snape doesn’t just offend their sensibilities because he’s working class, but because he doesn’t consider himself inferior and because he’s visibly trying to social climb through academics and connections, the ambition oozes from him (good for him! wish he’d had better mentors!) there is literally *nothing* a British snob disdains more than a social climber. Not getting above your station is considered the ultimate virtue. There’s a bit of this in Lily’s objections to Snape’s Slytherin friends too…obviously her main issue is that they’re bigoted cunts, but there’s definitely also a hint of unflattering disbelief about him being accepted (however conditionally) by well-connected scions.

Whenever I think about class analysis in Harry Potter, I do so fully aware of how intense the topic of social class has always been in Britain. It’s something I’ve always known, but when I lived there, it became much clearer, so for me, the issue of classism in this context is pretty obvious. I also think the issue of social class and the expectation from the upper echelons (especially the aristocracy) that those from below should stay below and know their place is something very common across Europe—especially in countries where monarchies and, therefore, aristocratic elites still persist today. This means that society isn’t entirely shaped by the neoliberal capitalist perception of class seen in countries like the United States, where the “self-made millionaire” is glorified. Instead, there is a deeply ingrained perception that above the self-made millionaire stands the aristocrat, the name, the old money. The name often matters more than the money because a name represents prestige, pedigree—it’s part of the DNA of a society built on the foundations of an old regime whose pillars haven’t fallen but simply modernized. This is something that also happens in Spain, which, like England, is a monarchy, or in other European countries where monarchies may no longer exist but held significant power over the past two centuries. These nations still retain a strong legacy of social hierarchies rooted in aristocracy within their societal structures.

James and Sirius weren’t just wealthy—translated into a real-world context, they would be aristocrats. They were people of family names and lineages stretching back hundreds of generations. They weren’t just boys from good families; their families were at the pinnacle of the social scale. Severus ended up in a Hogwarts house where not only were the students from high social classes, they were also ARISTOCRATS. He was a working-class kid, but not just that—he came from an industrial area, which on the social scale is just one step above peasants. The only thing that positions an industrial worker above a peasant is that industrial workers are located in cities, and within the web of social classes, cities rank above rural areas. This is something we understand very well in Europe.

From a practical standpoint and from a class perspective, Severus was already at the bottom in the Muggle world. But on top of that, in the wizarding world, he was a half-blood—not because he had parents who were magical but Muggle-born, but because one of his parents was a Muggle, the same parent who gave him his surname. The difference in status between him and Lily in that sense was practically nonexistent. Severus wasn’t just poor from a neoliberal perspective; from the traditionalist perspective of how social classes interact, he came from the very bottom, both in terms of his social position and his blood status. Ignoring that basically disregards not only the lens of class and the significant power imbalance between the characters but also reveals an immense level of cultural ignorance—not just about British culture but about European culture as a whole.

[rubyuji]

Where the Roses Bloom (Joshua Hong) ✞⋆⭒˚.⋆

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Genre: Slowburn, Angst

AU: 1950s AU

Pairing: Friar!Joshua x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Working unconventional jobs (Reader is a dancer in the red light district because she's a run away), Seungcheol is an asshole

Synopsis: A wealthy runaway seeking freedom and a devout seminarian devoted to faith find an unexpected connection in Crimson Lane, where love becomes their greatest salvation and torment. Torn between their hearts and the lives they are destined to lead, they are forced to confront sacrifice, identity, and the cost of their choices.

Note: I've been obsessed with Hilda Furacão lately and am currently watching it because the story is so intriguing, so why not publish my own take on Hilda and Malthus' story you know? Also, I'm so glad I've found the time to publish a few more works in my busy schedule because I've missed writing. I hope you guys enjoy reading! Don't forget to like + reblog as always.

W.C: 7.2k

You are the beloved daughter of a wealthy, conservative family, a fragile porcelain doll meant to adorn the halls of high society. Every word you speak is measured, every gesture rehearsed, every smile carefully crafted to maintain the illusion of perfection your family has built around you.

You have always known your place in their world—a tool to be wielded in their quest for status and legacy.

But tonight, the cracks in that porcelain threaten to shatter completely.

“You bring shame to this family!” your father’s voice thunders through the drawing room, his face flushed with fury. He paces back and forth like a predator circling its prey, while your mother sits rigidly on the velvet settee, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you understand the humiliation you’ve caused us?”

Your fiancé stands off to the side, his arms crossed and a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He says nothing, content to let your parents do the dirty work of berating you. 

You can still feel the sting of his earlier words, the way he dismissed your reluctance as childishness and called you ungrateful for even questioning the life planned for you.

“Humiliation?” you finally snap, your voice trembling but strong enough to cut through the oppressive atmosphere. “The only humiliation here is being forced into a marriage with a man who sees me as nothing more than property!”

“Watch your tone!” your father bellows, slamming his hand against the mahogany table. “You will marry him, and you will do so with dignity. That is your duty to this family.”

“And what about my duty to myself?” you demand, your voice breaking. “Don’t I deserve to choose my own life? To be something more than just a pawn in your plans?”

“Enough!” your mother interjects sharply, her icy gaze locking onto yours. 

“You are selfish, ungrateful, and disgraceful. Do you think anyone else would have you after this display? Your childish rebellion ends now. Tomorrow, you will apologize to your fiancé and prepare for the engagement ceremony.”

The room falls silent, the air thick with unspoken threats and unrelenting pressure. You look at each of them—your father, red-faced and seething; your mother, cold and unyielding; and your fiancé, smug and victorious. It feels as though the walls are closing in, the weight of their expectations suffocating you.

“I’d rather die than live like this,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Your father stiffens, his face twisting with rage, but you don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and storm out of the room, the sound of your mother’s sharp voice calling after you fading into the background.

You run to your room, grabbing a small bag and stuffing it with essentials—money, jewelry, a coat. 

The thought of staying here one more night, of bowing to their will and losing yourself completely, is unbearable. With shaking hands, you throw open the window and climb out, your heart pounding as you disappear into the cool night air.

The city is a blur as you wander, your breath visible in the chilly air. Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You’ve made your choice. There’s no turning back now.

By the time you reach Crimson Lane, your feet ache, and your throat is raw from the cold. 

The district looms before you like a forbidden dream—a world of sin, danger, and freedom. Smoke rises from narrow alleyways, mingling with the faint strains of music and the chatter of strangers.

You stumble, and a hand reaches out to steady you. A woman with painted lips and tired but kind eyes looks you over, taking in your disheveled appearance and the fine fabric of your coat.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks, her voice gentle but wary.

You shake your head, your voice faltering as you say, “I… I have nowhere else to go.”

She studies you for a moment, then gestures for you to follow her. “Come on, then. You’ll freeze out here.”

She leads you deeper into the district, where the streets glow with lantern light and the scent of spice and smoke fills the air.

The people here are rough around the edges, their laughter loud and unapologetic, but there’s a warmth to them—a sense of camaraderie that you’ve never felt in your old life.

The woman introduces herself as Lucia and takes you to La Rosa, a club that feels like the beating heart of Crimson Lane. The velvet curtains, the glittering chandeliers, the sound of laughter and music—it’s a world so far removed from the one you left behind that it feels almost dreamlike.

“You’ll be safe here,” Lucia says. “We take care of our own.”

For the first time in your life, you feel a flicker of hope. Here, you are not a disgrace or a disappointment. Here, you are free to be whoever you want to be.

Joshua steps hesitantly onto the cobblestone streets of Crimson Lane, his polished shoes carrying him into a world that seems to pulse with temptation and sin. The air is thick and heavy with the mingling scents of smoke, cheap liquor, and perfume. 

Neon signs flicker above the doorways of clubs and gambling dens, casting the streets in a kaleidoscope of red and gold. Laughter and music spill out into the night, wild and unrestrained, unlike anything he’s ever known.

He grips the cross hanging from his neck, the smooth metal cool against his palm, as if to remind himself of who he is and why he’s here. 

This place feels godless, a maze of excess and indulgence, yet it is precisely where he believes his mission lies. Beneath the vice, he is certain there is still humanity—still souls waiting to be saved.

Joshua’s purpose tonight is clear: to bring a young man, barely more than a boy, back to the fold. The boy has been seen frequenting La Rosa, a club infamous even in this district.

Its reputation precedes it—a place of opulence and decadence where rules are rewritten nightly. Joshua’s breath quickens as the club comes into view, its crimson façade glowing like an ember in the darkness.

The doorman eyes him with suspicion as he steps inside, but no one stops him. The moment he enters, the atmosphere changes. It’s warmer, almost stifling, and alive with sound. 

The low hum of a saxophone weaves through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The scent of wine and something floral—jasmine, maybe—lingers in the room, intoxicating and overwhelming.

He scans the room, searching for the boy, but his attention is drawn to the stage. The lights dim, and the murmur of the crowd fades as a figure steps into the spotlight.

And then he sees you.

You command the stage with an effortless grace, your every movement exuding confidence and allure. The dress you wear shimmers under the soft glow of the lights, its fabric hugging your figure in a way that makes the audience hold their breath. 

You are radiant, magnetic, and utterly otherworldly. But what strikes Joshua most is your voice—a sultry, melodic sound that seems to reach deep into his chest and pull something loose.

His heart stirs in a way it never has before, and for a moment, the weight of his faith feels distant. He forgets his mission, forgets the boy, forgets where he is. All he can do is watch as you weave your spell, your voice filling every corner of the room.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, you look at him.

The moment your eyes meet his, time seems to slow. You’ve seen countless faces in your time at La Rosa, most of them predictable—men with hungry eyes and insincere smiles, women with envy or admiration etched into their expressions. But he is different.

There’s something pure in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. His gaze doesn’t linger on your body like the others; instead, it searches your face, as if he’s trying to understand you. It unnerves you, yet you can’t look away.

Joshua’s grip on his cross tightens, a silent prayer forming on his lips as his mind races.

Who are you? How can someone so captivating, so seemingly untouchable, exist in a place like this? He feels a pang of guilt for the way his heart beats faster, but there’s something deeper, something undeniable, that draws him to you.

The song ends, and the applause erupts, breaking the spell. You step back from the spotlight, but your gaze flickers toward him once more before you disappear into the wings. Joshua stands frozen, the world around him fading into a blur.

Later that night, as the crowd thins and the music softens, Joshua lingers near the edge of the stage. He tells himself it’s to wait for the boy, to fulfill the purpose that brought him here. But his eyes keep darting toward the backstage entrance, his mind replaying the moment your eyes met his.

When you finally approach, your footsteps soft against the polished floor, he feels a jolt of panic and something else—anticipation. You stop in front of him, your head tilted in curiosity. 

Up close, you’re even more stunning, but there’s something in your expression that takes him by surprise. Beneath the confidence, there’s a flicker of vulnerability, a depth that the stage lights couldn’t fully reveal.

“You don’t look like the type to spend your nights in places like this,” you say, your voice softer now, laced with intrigue.

Joshua clears his throat, his fingers brushing against the cross again. “I’m… not,” he admits, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “I’m here for someone. A young man from my parish.”

“Ah,” you reply with a wry smile. “A shepherd in the den of wolves.”

Your words are teasing, but your tone isn’t cruel. There’s a warmth in your gaze that disarms him, even as his instincts tell him to tread carefully. “I believe there’s good here,” he says, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. “Even in a place like this.”

Your smile falters, just for a moment, and Joshua catches the shadow that crosses your face. “Goodness,” you murmur, almost as if testing the word. “Not many would think so.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you step closer, your presence enveloping him in a way that makes the world feel impossibly small.

“So, what’s your name, shepherd?” you ask, your eyes studying him with genuine curiosity.

“Joshua,” he answers, his voice barely above a whisper.

You repeat his name, letting it roll off your tongue as if savoring its simplicity. For a moment, you forget about the performance, the crowd, the life you’ve built in La Rosa. There is something about this man, something untainted and sincere, that draws you in despite yourself.

And as you stand there, the weight of your respective worlds pressing against you, neither of you realizes how deeply your lives are about to intertwine.

The first time you and Joshua meet outside of La Rosa, it’s in the quiet corner of a small café tucked away from the chaos of Crimson Lane.

You arrive first, your coat wrapped tightly around you to ward off the chill, though you know it does little to shield you from the prying eyes of those who recognize you.

When Joshua enters, his presence shifts the room. He isn’t dressed in his cassock but in simple, clean-cut clothes that make him seem less like a devout seminarian and more like a boy trying to blend into a world he doesn’t belong to.

Still, his earnest gaze gives him away, and the way he hesitates before sitting across from you tells you he’s nervous.

“You came,” you say softly, sipping your tea to mask the flicker of relief in your voice.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” Joshua admits, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “But I thought… maybe you needed someone to talk to.”

The words catch you off guard. Most men come to you with expectations—of entertainment, of distraction, of something shallow and fleeting. But Joshua looks at you as if he genuinely wants to understand, to know the real you beneath the performance.

“I’m not used to people wanting to just ‘talk,’” you reply, your lips curling into a small smile.

He smiles, too, and for a moment, the tension between you eases. “I’m not like most people.”

Your meetings become a routine, a secret shared only between the two of you. Sometimes you meet in quiet cafés; other times, it’s in the park just as dawn begins to break, the city still cloaked in silence.

Joshua asks you questions no one has ever dared to ask. “Do you ever miss your old life?” he asks one morning, his voice gentle but probing.

You pause, your gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun spills golden light over the rooftops. “I miss parts of it,” you admit. “The security, maybe. The certainty. But not the suffocation.”

Joshua nods, his expression thoughtful. “And now? Do you feel free?”

You turn to him, meeting his earnest gaze. “Freedom isn’t as simple as leaving behind what holds you back. It’s… complicated.”

He doesn’t push further, but the way he looks at you lingers, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing too many pieces.

The conversations shift over time, becoming deeper, more intimate. Joshua talks about his faith, his calling, and the doubts that sometimes creep in despite his unwavering belief in something greater.

“I’ve always wanted to help people,” he says one evening, the two of you seated on a bench under the soft glow of a street lamp. “To give them hope, to remind them that they’re not alone. But sometimes… I wonder if I’m enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” you say, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. He looks at you, startled, and you feel a rush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I mean… you’ve already helped me, haven’t you?”

Joshua’s expression softens, and for a moment, the distance between your worlds feels smaller.

The unspoken desires between you grow harder to ignore. There are moments when your fingers brush as you walk side by side, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. 

When he speaks, his voice low and full of conviction, you can’t help but imagine what it would be like to pull him closer, to feel the weight of his devotion turned entirely toward you.

For Joshua, the temptation is both exhilarating and terrifying. He tells himself that he is here to guide you, to help you see the light. But with every meeting, every shared smile, he feels the foundation of his faith tremble. 

You are not the sinner he expected to find in Crimson Lane. You are complex, brave, and endlessly captivating.

In you, Joshua sees a reflection of his own humanity—the doubts he wrestles with, the longing for something more than the rigid path he has chosen. And in him, you see the purity and sincerity you thought the world had forgotten.

One night, after hours of quiet conversation and stolen glances, the silence stretches between you. The streets are unusually still, the usual hum of Crimson Lane reduced to faint murmurs and the occasional clatter of footsteps in the distance. 

You’re seated on a weathered wooden bench beneath a streetlamp that flickers every so often, casting fleeting shadows across your faces. The glow illuminates Joshua’s profile, highlighting the soft curve of his jaw and the furrow in his brow that deepens when he’s lost in thought.

The air between you feels heavier tonight, charged with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you has dared to fully acknowledge.

You’re no stranger to silences, but this one feels different, as if the words trapped within it could change everything.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice barely audible against the stillness. 

His name lingers on your tongue, familiar and strange all at once. It feels too intimate, like a secret you’re not sure you should share, yet you’ve never been able to call him anything else.

He turns to you, his eyes meeting yours with that quiet intensity that has always disarmed you. His gaze is steady, but there’s a vulnerability in it tonight, a crack in the armor of his resolve.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your voice trembles slightly, betraying the depth of your hesitation. “That you could… choose a life that wasn’t already decided for you?”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks away, his eyes following the faint outline of smoke curling from a nearby chimney. His fingers toy with the cross hanging around his neck, the movement absentminded yet telling.

“I think about it,” he says after a long pause, his voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder what it would be like to live without all the expectations. To… to make choices just for myself.”

His confession surprises you, and you feel a pang of something you can’t quite name—relief, perhaps, that even someone as steadfast as Joshua isn’t immune to doubt. “And what would you choose?” you ask, leaning closer without realizing it.

He hesitates, his gaze flickering back to you. For a moment, you see the walls he’s built around himself falter.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think about you.”

The words hit you like a storm, sudden and all-consuming. Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak. “Me?” you manage, your voice unsteady.

Joshua nods, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, perhaps, or courage. 

“I think about the way you talk about freedom, about wanting to find yourself. I’ve spent my whole life trying to give myself to something greater, to serve a purpose beyond myself. But when I’m with you… I don’t feel lost. I feel like I’m finally being seen.”

The honesty in his words is almost too much to bear. You feel your throat tighten, your chest aching with the weight of emotions you’ve tried to suppress.

“You see me, too,” you say, your voice trembling. 

“Not the person I pretend to be at La Rosa, or the daughter my family wanted me to be. You see the parts of me I thought were long gone.”

The silence that follows is deafening, every breath, every heartbeat magnified. You want to reach for him, to close the small distance between you, but you’re paralyzed by the fear of what it might mean.

“Do you ever wonder if we were meant to meet?” you ask quietly, your words tentative, as if afraid to give them too much power.

Joshua’s lips curve into the faintest smile, a mixture of sorrow and something almost like hope. “All the time,” he says. “But I also wonder what it means. If this—if we—are a test or a gift.”

You don’t know how to respond. You don’t know how to tell him that the mere thought of him has become both your solace and your torment, that he’s made you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

“I don’t have the answers,” you say softly, your gaze dropping to the ground. “But I know that being with you makes the world feel less heavy. And maybe that’s enough.”

Joshua reaches out then, his hand hovering between you as if he’s fighting an internal battle. Finally, he lets it rest gently on yours, the touch warm and grounding. You look up at him, startled, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe it is,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

In that moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of Crimson Lane replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe in the possibility of something more.

The change in Joshua is subtle at first, almost imperceptible to those around him. He still attends his daily prayers and still preaches sermons that touch hearts and inspire hope, but there’s a new uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitance in his voice when he speaks of his calling. His mentor at the parish, Father Miguel, notices the shift and questions him one evening.

“You seem troubled, Joshua,” Father Miguel says gently, his gaze steady but not unkind. “Is there something you wish to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his secret relationship with you pressing heavily on his chest. He shakes his head, offering a polite smile. “No, Father. I’m just… reflecting on my work here.”

Father Miguel doesn’t push, but his concern lingers. “Remember, doubt is part of faith. But so is discernment. Pray on it, Joshua, and trust that you’ll find your way.”

Joshua nods, but the advice feels hollow. He doesn’t need to pray to know what troubles him—it’s you.

For you, the change is more visceral. The armor you’ve worn for so long, the persona you’ve carefully crafted at La Rosa, begins to crack.

Joshua’s faith and kindness, so foreign in a world that has often shown you cruelty, force you to confront truths you’ve buried.

One night, after a particularly vulnerable conversation, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror backstage at La Rosa. The vibrant makeup and glittering costumes no longer feel like a shield but a mask you’re desperate to shed. 

You think of Joshua’s words, his belief that goodness exists even in the darkest places, and wonder if you could ever truly believe that about yourself.

Later, as you and Joshua sit on the steps of a quiet chapel he’s introduced you to, you let the words spill out. “I’ve spent so much of my life pretending,” you admit, your voice trembling. 

“Pretending to be the perfect daughter, pretending to be strong, pretending that none of this bothers me. But with you…” You pause, struggling to find the words. “I feel like I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t,” he says quietly. “You never did. You’re enough just as you are, Y/N.”

His words undo you, tears slipping down your cheeks as the weight you’ve carried for so long begins to lift.

But the fragile connection you’ve built with Joshua doesn’t go unnoticed. In a world as tightly knit as Crimson Lane, whispers spread faster than wildfire.

At La Rosa, the staff begins to exchange knowing looks, their smiles laced with curiosity and judgment. Madame Maria, always watchful, pulls you aside one evening after a particularly dazzling performance.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she says, her voice light but with an undertone of steel. Her sharp eyes bore into you, assessing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. “Is there something—or someone—you’d like to tell me about?”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to remain composed. “I don’t know what you mean,” you reply, carefully neutral.

Maria’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Be careful, darling,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “You may think you’re invincible, but the world outside these walls has a way of tearing people like you apart. And men like him…” She trails off, shaking her head. 

“Men like him don’t belong here.” The warning lingers in the air, unspoken yet clear: your relationship with Joshua is a risk, not just for you but for him as well.

Joshua also faces his share of scrutiny. His absences and distracted demeanor don’t go unnoticed by the parish elders, who begin to question his commitment. 

One evening, as he prepares to leave for another secret meeting with you, Father Miguel intercepts him at the church doors. 

“Joshua,” the older priest says, his tone firm but kind, “it’s clear that something is weighing on you. You’ve always been a man of conviction, but conviction without clarity can lead you astray. Is there something you need to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m… just trying to help someone,” he says, the words feeling both true and insufficient.

Father Miguel’s expression hardens, though his voice remains gentle. “Sometimes, the greatest tests of faith come disguised as acts of kindness. Be sure you are not mistaking temptation for charity.”

Joshua looks away, guilt and longing warring within him. 

“She’s not a temptation,” he says quietly. “She’s someone who’s lost, someone who deserves to be seen, to be valued. I can’t turn my back on her.”

Father Miguel sighs deeply, his disappointment palpable. “Then you must ask yourself, Joshua, if this is the path you truly wish to walk. Because once you choose, there may be no turning back.”

The scrutiny grows, and the walls around your relationship begin to close in. You find yourself plagued by doubts late at night, wondering if holding on to Joshua is selfish, if you are pulling him away from a life he was meant to live.

One evening, as you and Joshua sit together in the dimly lit chapel, the weight of everything finally becomes too much to bear.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “People are talking, and I… I can’t let them ruin you, Joshua. You’ve worked so hard for this life.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’re not ruining me,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion.

“You’ve made me question things I was too afraid to question before. You’ve shown me that there’s more to faith than rules and expectations. There’s… love. Compassion. Humanity.”

“But what if I’m a mistake?” you ask, your voice breaking as tears threaten to spill. “What if loving me ruins everything you’ve built?”

Joshua’s gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “And if loving you is wrong, then maybe everything I’ve been taught about right and wrong isn’t as simple as I thought.”

His words hang in the air, a declaration that feels both like a promise and a challenge. 

As the night stretches on, the line between what is right and what is necessary blurs, leaving the two of you caught in the fragile, intoxicating space in between.

The fragile world you and Joshua have built begins to teeter as the shadows of your past and the expectations of his present loom closer.

It begins with the sudden arrival of your former fiancé, Seungcheol—a man you thought you’d left behind forever. He finds you at La Rosa one evening, standing in the crowd with a smug, self-satisfied smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. 

You’re performing when you see him, your practiced poise faltering ever so slightly as his face registers in the crowd. Panic coils in your chest, but you force yourself to finish the performance, smiling and bowing as though your world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

Afterward, he waits for you in the dimly lit corridor outside your dressing room, leaning casually against the wall as though he belongs there.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or should I say, Scarlet?”

You glare at him, your pulse racing as you step closer. 

“What do you want, Seungcheol?” You hiss, his name slipping off your tongue like venom. He chuckles, his smirk widening. 

“What I’ve always wanted. Control. You humiliated me, Y/N—running off like that, abandoning your family, your responsibilities, me. Do you have any idea what kind of scandal you caused?”

“I don’t care,” you snap, though your voice betrays the fear bubbling just beneath the surface. “You don’t own me, Seungcheol. You never did.”

His smile hardens, his tone growing cold. “Maybe not. But I do know things about you—things the world would love to hear. And I imagine your new… friend wouldn’t fare too well if they knew he was involved with someone like you.”

The threat hits its mark, your breath hitching as dread seeps into your bones. 

“Leave him out of this,” you say, your voice firm despite the tremor in your hands.

Seungcheol shrugs, his eyes glinting with malice. “That’s up to you, darling. You come with me, quietly, and I’ll forget about this sordid little chapter of your life. Stay here, and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are—and what you’ve done.”

Meanwhile, Joshua faces his own challenges. His growing absences and distracted demeanor have not gone unnoticed by his superiors at the parish. Father Miguel, once quietly concerned, now takes a firmer approach.

“You’ve been neglecting your duties, Joshua,” he says one evening, his tone sharper than usual. “The parish is a sacred commitment, one that requires your full devotion. I’ve given you time to reflect, but it’s clear your heart is no longer here.”

Joshua stiffens, guilt flickering across his face. “That’s not true, Father. I’ve been serving the people, just… in a different way.”

Father Miguel narrows his eyes, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Serving them? Or serving yourself? I’ve heard the rumors, Joshua. About her. Is it true?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his connection to you pressing heavily on his chest. 

“It’s complicated,” he finally says.

“Faith is not complicated,” Father Miguel retorts sharply. “It is a path of sacrifice and conviction. If you continue down this road, you will not only jeopardize your future in the church but also your soul.”

The tension between your two worlds becomes unbearable as Seungcheol’s threats grow bolder and Joshua’s superiors demand he sever ties with Crimson Lane entirely.

One evening, you and Joshua meet in the chapel, the only place you both feel safe enough to speak freely. The dim light of the candles flickers across Joshua’s face as he sits beside you, his expression a mixture of anguish and determination.

“He’s threatening you, isn’t he?” Joshua asks, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

You nod, your hands trembling as you grip the edge of the pew. “He wants me to go back with him, to leave this place—and you—behind. If I don’t, he’ll ruin both of us.”

Joshua’s jaw clenches, his fists curling in his lap. “You don’t have to go with him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“But what about you?” you ask, your voice breaking. “Your superiors are already suspicious. If Seungcheol exposes the truth, they’ll force you to leave the parish. Everything you’ve worked for will be gone.”

Joshua turns to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that takes your breath away. “I don’t care about that,” he says firmly. “I care about you. I care about what’s right. If staying in the church means abandoning you, then maybe I’m not meant to stay.”

His words stun you into silence, your heart pounding as the gravity of his declaration sinks in. “Joshua,” you whisper, tears pooling in your eyes. “You can’t just give up everything for me. It’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s the truth,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You’ve made me see things differently, Y/N. Maybe this is the test I’m supposed to face—not of my faith, but of my humanity.”

The decision weighs heavily on both of you. Seungcheol’s presence looms like a storm cloud, and Joshua’s faith is tested as he grapples with the idea of leaving behind a life he once thought was his calling.

In the quiet moments you share, there’s a sense of both urgency and tenderness, as though every touch, every word, could be your last.

Together, you must decide: will you stand against the forces threatening to tear you apart, or will you sacrifice your love to protect each other from a world that refuses to understand?

The days that follow Seungcheol’s threat and Father Miguel’s ultimatum feel like an unending storm, pulling you and Joshua in opposite directions. The quiet haven you had built together becomes fraught with tension, every meeting tinged with the unspoken knowledge that your time is running out.

You find yourself haunted by Seungcheol’s words. Every glance from a stranger feels like suspicion, every shadow a threat. At La Rosa, the staff are growing more curious, their whispers louder.

Even Madame Maria, who has always been fiercely protective of her own, seems hesitant now, her sharp gaze following you with a caution that wasn’t there before.

“Whatever you’re planning, darling,” she says one night after a show, her tone uncharacteristically soft, “be sure it’s worth the cost. Men like your Joshua—they don’t survive in places like this. And if you’re not careful, neither will you.”

Her words cut deep, but it’s the truth you already know.

Joshua, too, is unraveling. His prayers feel hollow, his faith no longer the comforting constant it once was. The parish feels foreign, its walls oppressive. Father Miguel’s disappointment lingers like a shadow, his words echoing in Joshua’s mind.

“This is your moment of truth, Joshua,” he had said during their last conversation. “You must choose. Your faith or this… distraction. You cannot serve both God and your desires.”

But how could he explain that you weren’t a distraction? That what he felt for you was not temptation but something more profound—something that made him question the very foundations of his beliefs?

Still, doubt claws at him. He wonders if loving you is selfish, if he is abandoning his calling for something fleeting. Yet every time he sees you, every time your eyes meet his, he feels that his path might lie not in the church but in the simple, devastating truth of his feelings for you.

One evening, as the tension reaches its breaking point, you meet in the chapel again, both of you weighed down by the decisions looming ahead. The air between you crackles with unspoken words, the silence heavy and suffocating.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice trembling, “we can’t keep doing this.”

He turns to you sharply, his expression a mix of desperation and sorrow. “Don’t say that. Don’t give up on us.”

“It’s not about giving up,” you reply, your voice cracking. “It’s about doing what’s right. Seungcheol’s not going to stop. Your superiors are already suspicious. If we keep this up, it’ll destroy us both.”

“Let it,” he says fiercely, his hands curling into fists. “I don’t care about the church, about their rules. None of it matters if I can’t be with you.”

“But I care,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “I care about what this will do to you, Joshua. You have so much good in you—so much to give. You’re meant for something greater than this. Greater than me.”

“Stop it,” he pleads, his voice breaking. “Stop saying that. You’re the one who’s shown me what faith truly means. You’ve made me see the world differently, made me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. How can you say you’re not worth it?”

“Because I love you,” you cry, your voice raw and aching. “And because I love you, I can’t let you throw your life away for me.”

The words hang between you, a devastating truth neither of you can escape.

Joshua’s shoulders slump, his resolve crumbling as he looks at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors your own. “So this is it?” he whispers. “After everything, we’re just… walking away?”

You nod, though it feels like your heart is being ripped from your chest. “We have to. For both our sakes.”

He takes a shuddering breath, stepping closer to you. For a moment, you think he might argue again, but instead, he reaches for your hand, holding it tightly as though trying to memorize the feel of your touch.

“I’ll never forget you,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter where I go, no matter what I do… you’ll always be with me.”

You choke back a sob, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “And I’ll always carry you in my heart, Joshua. But we can’t keep holding on to something that was never ours to begin with.”

The days that follow are excruciating. Joshua resigns from his post at the parish, choosing to leave Crimson Lane entirely. He doesn’t return to the church but instead travels to another city, seeking to rebuild his faith and his purpose in the quiet solitude of helping others.

You remain at La Rosa, but everything feels different now. The lights seem dimmer, the music hollow. The mask you wear grows heavier with each passing day.

Seungcheol eventually loses interest, his threats subsiding as he realizes you’ll never return to him. But his presence leaves a scar, a reminder of the life you escaped and the one you can never fully leave behind.

Years later, you hear the whispers of Joshua. He has become a quiet figure of inspiration, dedicating his life to working with the marginalized. His name is spoken with reverence in places far from Crimson Lane, but the man who loved you remains a ghost in your memory.

For him, you remain a lingering ache, a lesson in love and loss that shaped the man he has become. And though you’ll never see him again, you carry him with you—a reminder of the man who taught you to believe in something greater, even if that belief meant letting him go.

In the end, your paths diverge, but the love you shared leaves an indelible mark—a bittersweet testament to what could have been and what was sacrificed for the sake of survival.

Epilogue:

The grand ballroom is bathed in golden light, chandeliers casting their glow over a sea of elegantly dressed guests. The hum of polite conversation mingles with the soft strains of a string quartet, creating an atmosphere of sophistication and calm.

The gala, held to raise funds for a foundation supporting marginalized communities, is a testament to second chances—a theme that seems almost poetic as you step into the room.

You’ve come far since your days at La Rosa. The years have transformed you, though the fire in your spirit remains. Now a philanthropist in your own right, you’ve built a life dedicated to helping others reclaim their dignity, much like you once reclaimed your own.

Dressed in an understated yet elegant gown, you move through the crowd with quiet confidence, exchanging pleasantries and offering kind words.

But then, as you glance across the room, you see him.

Joshua.

He stands near the edge of the ballroom, deep in conversation with an elderly patron. Time has softened his youthful features, but his presence is as commanding as ever. His tailored suit fits him impeccably, and his familiar calmness radiates outward, drawing others in with his sincerity.

Your breath catches, memories rushing back in vivid detail—the warmth of his voice, the way his hand felt in yours, the bittersweet goodbye that had shattered you both. You had imagined this moment countless times but never truly believed it would come.

Joshua turns as though sensing your gaze, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you. For a moment, the noise and motion of the gala seem to fade, leaving only the two of you in a shared silence.

His eyes widen briefly, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips before his expression softens into something more unreadable—nostalgia, perhaps, or quiet wonder.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or retreat. But then, he takes a step forward, and the decision is made for you.

“Y/N,” he says when he reaches you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Joshua,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

The world seems to slow as you take each other in, noting the changes time has wrought and marveling at the things that remain unchanged.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his tone warm but tinged with surprise.

You smile softly, glancing around the room. “I could say the same about you. But then again, it doesn’t surprise me. This… this is exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound stirring something deep within you. “And you? What brought you here?”

You shrug, your smile turning wistful. “Purpose. A second chance. I’ve learned a lot about how much people can overcome when someone believes in them.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze filled with something like admiration. “You’ve always had that strength. Even when you didn’t see it in yourself.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, the tenderness in his voice tugging at old wounds and forgotten hopes. “And you?” you ask quietly. “Are you happy?”

He nods, his smile reaching his eyes. “I am. Life isn’t what I thought it would be, but… it’s good. I’ve found peace in helping others. It’s fulfilling in ways I never imagined.”

You nod, feeling a bittersweet mix of pride and sadness. “I’m glad. You deserve that, Joshua.”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken words. There is so much you could say, so much you could ask, but you both know the answers won’t change the past—or the choices you made.

“I’ve thought about you,” he admits suddenly, his voice quiet. “Over the years. Wondered how you were, what you were doing. If you were happy.”

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile.

“I’ve thought about you too. More than I should, probably.”

His expression softens, and he takes a half-step closer, his voice dropping. “Do you regret it? Walking away?”

You take a deep breath, your eyes meeting his with a mix of honesty and pain. “I don’t regret loving you, Joshua. Not for a second. But I think we both know it couldn’t have ended any other way.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “You were right,” he says. “About everything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourselves pulled back into the current of the gala. But even as you move among the other guests, you’re acutely aware of his presence, as though some invisible thread still connects you.

At the end of the night, you see him again, standing near the exit. He catches your eye, and this time, his smile is lighter, more peaceful. You return it, a silent acknowledgment of what you once shared—and what you’ve both become.

As you leave the gala, you carry the moment with you, a reminder that some connections endure even when paths diverge. Though you’ll never be together, the love you shared has shaped you both, leaving behind a legacy of strength, purpose, and bittersweet beauty.

© rubyuji 2025’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[blackflash9]

The Autonomous Flying Boars: Toph, Opal, and the Meaning of Freedom

I think there’s a more profound point as to why Toph likes Opal a bit more than her other grandchildren—Opal, in particular, is the most liberated from the Beifong legacy, both figuratively and literally.

Baatar Jr. was always weighed down by the expectations of his parents, Suyin and Baatar Sr., and that eventually pushed him into Kuvira’s arms as he sought purpose outside their influence. Huan, while eccentric, seems content to remain within Zaofu, and Wing and Wei, despite their mischievous streak, are still deeply tied to their mother, almost functioning as extensions of Su rather than striking out entirely on their own.

Opal, though, is different. Like Toph once was, Opal yearns for freedom—she loves her family but also wants to leave Zaofu and forge her own path. She didn’t stay behind in her mother’s city or bend to its structure; instead, she joined the Air Nation, embracing a life of travel and purpose beyond her Beifong name. And it’s important to remember that Toph sees everything through the spirit vines—she knows, even from a distance, that Opal longed to be "away." Even if they hadn’t seen each other since Opal was a little girl, Toph would have been aware of her struggles, frustrations, and desire to break free.

Bolin: "You know what? Maybe I am scared. But what about you? I know that you want to go to the Northern Air Temple to train with Tenzin, but you haven't done it, because you're afraid too!" Opal: "You know what? You're right. I don't want to leave my family and disappoint my mom."

This idea of independence is also why I think Toph identified with and got along better with Suyin than with Lin, despite Su arguably being more of a “problem child” in her youth. Toph has always valued freedom above all else—she ran away from her overbearing parents, rejected traditional roles, and carved out her own life on her own terms. Suyin, in her own way, did the same thing. She made mistakes but ultimately escaped Toph’s shadow and built a life for herself. Toph understands and respects that kind of independence, which is likely why she forgave and reconnected with Suyin much more quickly than she ever did with Lin.

It probably doesn’t hurt that the two Beifongs Toph gets along with most—Suyin and Opal—are the ones who finally broke the family’s cycle. Toph rejected her parents’ control but ended up raising her own kids with a whole new set of issues. Lin became the dutiful, law-abiding daughter, much like her grandparents, while Su rebelled just like Toph. Then there’s Opal—a Beifong who found balance. She didn’t have to fight against her family or live up to its legacy; she chose her path because it was what she wanted.

[phoenixkaptain]

I just want to say that the repeated mentions of Tim being like Bruce - Dick telling Tim that “you’re more like Bruce than I ever was” and even things as small as the other members of Young Justice assuming that Batman is literally Robin’s dad - mean so much to me because like-

Tim is so similar to Bruce. They are both rich kids, only childs, people like them but they never let anyone truly know them. Tim’s deductive ability is so often likened to Bruce’s, and even his combat prowess or leadership skills are more often compared to Bruce’s than Jason’s or Dick’s. Despite being Robin, and the third one at that, Tim really takes being the Batman of the group to an entirely new level with just how much he really is like Batman.

And that’s why they work so well together! Tim and Bruce are so similar, but they’re fundamentally different! Bruce is afraid to get hurt again, afraid to feel connections to other people, afraid of revealing his emotional vulnerability. Tim is afraid of disappointing people, afraid to fail to rise to the standards other people set for him, afraid of revealing that he isn’t as calm as he appears on the outside. Bruce and Tim both begin fighting crime out of love, a love so strong that it would lead either of them to give up their lives for that love, but Bruce does so out of a love for Gotham City and his parents and the legacy they represent to him while Tim does so out of a love for Gotham City and Robin and Batman.

Their partnership is built on their similarities, but it’s improved by their differences. Tim is softer than Bruce. He wants to trust people, he doesn’t enjoy making lists of ways to kill all of his friends. He tries to talk, to draw things out, to banter, while Bruce is more straightforward. Which, honestly, being more subtle than Bruce is a talent in its own right, ngl

Tim is described a lot as the perfect Robin. And, I can’t help but feel like yeah, he is. The writers really made this character perfect for Bruce specifically. Tim is a person who understands what Bruce wants him to do, even if he doesn’t always understand why. Tim cares about Bruce, both Bruce Wayne and Batman, and that care knocks down a lot of Bruce’s walls. Tim wants to fight crime with his friends and enjoy himself, but he also has his main goal which is to protect Bruce, especially from Bruce himself.

And it’s a two-way street. Bruce knows Tim so well. Like, I can’t even begin to describe how well Bruce can read Tim. He can tell that Tim’s care is sincere, and he wants to reciprocate that care. He trusts Tim, on such a deep, foundational level, and he trusts that if Tim lies to him, then Tim has a balid reason for doing so. He’s protective of Tim, even more than Tim is protective of him (for obvious reasons), but he’s also proud of Tim. He’s proud of how Tim can work with people and how Tim can handle his own and how Tim can solve cases.

Bruce and Tim are such a dynamic duo, literally. The understanding they have of each other is amazing. The trust they have in each other. The care. Bruce treats Tim like his son, and Tim honestly treats Bruce like his dad, even while Tim’s birth dad is still alive. These two are great together, they work so well together, they fit each other almost perfectly because Tim was literally made to be perfectly suited for Batman.

And, of course, there is an obsession there. Tim’s obsession with Batman runs deep. He would almost certainly make a great Batman, no matter how you look at it, because he has moments where he reaches that ability to be threatening. Of the times I know that he played Batman, he didn’t do a bad job. He’s intimidating and frightening and he manages to have his cape pulled around himself so he’s just a shape, just like Bruce does, and that’s mostly because he also literally does that same thing as Robin. Tim prefers to be Robin, because he prefers to be partnered with someone else.

(To be completely honest, I think Tim’s first choice of who he would want to be paired with at any given moment is almost certainly Dick. Dude loves that guy. I haven’t seen if Batman Dick and Robin Tim interact in those respective roles, but Tim is almost equally made to be Nightwing’s Robin. Bruce is his second choice though, definitely.)

I have to assume the obsession goes both ways, because the story is a lot more interesting if it does. Bruce is protective of Tim, even as he trusts Tim with the fate of the entire planet. His protectiveness of Tim is funny, actually, because he doesn’t mind Tim fighting gods but he does mind Tim showing the other members of Young Justice his face. (I mean, I get that one of the members is named Impulse, but Bart himself said that Batman gave him that name, so I feel like Bruce bringing it up as a detractor is just a bit hypocritical)

All the times we see Batman with Tim in the Young Justice run, Batman is pretty chill. Like, during the Sins of Youth storyline, when Bruce is Robin and Tim is Batman, Bruce seems totally cool with it. He doesn’t seem worried about Tim messing up. His comments on Tim talking to much read more to me as banter than actual criticisms. Bruce trusts Tim to be Batman, and I find that both sweet and a bit funny for a variety of reasons.

We see Batman get mad when Arrowette says the Justice League doesn’t understand any of the Young Justice members, although even then he just glares at her, he doesn’t say anything. Bruce is like “Yes, I know I don’t understand the majority of human interaction, what of it?” Batman doesn’t say much during that whole comic, actually? Like, he shows up with the rest of the Justice League and he taunts Tim (literally like someone taunting a child pfft) but he doesn’t actually seem to think they won’t pull through? He makes a quip about them being late getting back, but it doesn’t go anywhere, it was him teasing Robin, why was he even here?

(I like to think he kind of hoped Young Justice would disban so he could take Tim back. He obviously wants Tim around, he implies as much in the World Without Grownups arc, and he obviously enjoys Tim’s company, he seems to genuinely enjoy fighting crime with Tim, even when their roles are switched, and he lets Tim talk to Oracle all the time (he definitely could have cut that connection off if he really wanted to make it difficult for Tim during that whole bet thing) Like, Bruce believes that Tim is capable, I think he’s like Wonder Woman and thinks that the others (coughImpulseandSuperboycough) are bad influences. He is taking his boy wonder and leaving to get him good influences, like Nightwi- oh, wait, no, yeah, let’s let him hang out with Impulse and Superboy-)

This turned into a ramble about Young Justice, but I can’t help it!!! I really, REALLY wish that Batman had gone to the parent-teacher conference. Like, Nightwing showing up was wonderful on so many levels, but can you imagine?? Batman?? Dealing with Bonnie King-Jones??? Like, I think if he ever met her he would break the no-killing rule, full-stop, no hesitation. I want to know how the parent-teacher conference would have gone if Batman was there. I think it would have been mostly awkward silence while Batman lurked in the shadows and Red Tornado didn’t understand why everyone was so nervous, like, it’s just talking about what time he should feed their kids, why are you guys sweating-?

I love Tim and Bruce’s relationship. They’re so codependent. I don’t know if Bruce could ever not hold the next Robins up to Tim’s standard. Like, Damian trying to kill Tim makes a lot of sense if you look at it as Damian viewing the situation as “there only needs to be one Robin, and if there is a Tim to be compared to, I will lose.” Dick and Jason were great as Robin, but neither of them were Robin during the period of time in the nineties and early 2000s where Batman got a lot edgier and needed an edgier boy to be Robin. Dick was perfect for the 50s through to at least the 70s, and Jason was probably just fine too (still haven’t read Jason comics hrnng) but Tim fits Bruce perfectly because he was made for the more modern vision of Batman as a character.

Tim is a dweeb and a nerd, just like Dick before him, do not think that he isn’t, but he really works as a balance for Bruce. He was introduced to be that equilibrium, and he fulfills that role.

Tim and Bruce work so well together because they’re just on slightly different sides of a spectrum. They’re so close to being too similar, but they’re dissimilar enough that reading their dynamic is engaging and interesting. Tim really just is the Robin I understand people mistaking for Bruce’s blood kid, y’know? Before Damian, I mean. I feel like the Justice League members met Tim and went “whoa, shit, Batman knocked someone up, holy-“ The Young Justice members continuously genuinelybelieve that Batman is Robin’s dad (which makes it a lot funnier, because if he was Tim’s dad, Tim would essentially be saying: “my dad made me do this and won’t let me do this and to make things worse, my DAD moved us out!” Like, why would he just randomly mention who the subject of the conversation was again at such a pointed time? I understand that Superboy and Bart were not paying attention to him, but it’s just really funny to think that Tim would talk in such a strange way?) I like to think that Dick does not help matters, and instead goes out of his way to worsen them, because Dick is always the one telling Tim that he’s doing great and that he’s so similar to Bruce (he means it as a compliment, like Tim isn’t making the mistakes he thinks he’s making because he, just like Batman, just is unlikely to make mistakes) so I think Dick definitely tells his friends that Robin is Batman’s kid because it’s funny-

And this has gone from rambling about Young Justice to writing fanfiction mid-post, I should really stop while I’m ahead.

All in all, to sum it up, TLDR: Tim was made to be the best Robin specifically for Bruce as Batman. That’s why they work in harmony, but are ultimately entirely different instruments.

[splinterofpandora]

{BrightKnightUpcoming} <---------------------

-----------don't miss part 11 by tag💔💔💔💔

Chapter Fifteen. Destroyed the village.

There are many stories of the Dark Knight spending time in tranquility after the fall. In the old temples. The homes of wise women. In the company of lost cultures. He comes to his senses so his emotions don't betray him. Not override common sense, as they already have...

...with Cass...or Jason...

...Jim...

What I'm trying to say is that he was hitting painful emotions. That's why, as part of his training, he learned to be detached. And the rest, in an already positive way, you know thanks to...all that text works early.

Even at this point, we realize why Gotham War doesn't work. Bruce doesn't just give in to emotion. He does it instantly. Without any kind of fatigue. Without the “incentive” to break down.

Well, what about the crazy mind in his head? Zur's plans and manipulations. It's not.

Bruce has done it a million times. With Court of Owls brainwashing. Or Venom addiction. Fifth Dimension Tricks. Or even the Joker's poison. He always found a way out before he hurt innocent people. But here he takes offense to Tim and hurts him with words, simply because he doesn't fully agree with his position. He accuses every member of the Batfamily of betrayal. Yet he's still analyzing the situation. So he fully understands what he's doing and why he's doing it. After that, all of Bruce's actions become deliberately designed to inflict maximum pain on the family.

Look at the words he says to Jason. On the strength of the blows. That's not self-defense. He chooses the most horrible topics for their minds. He calls Jason a victim and his soldier. He points out his weaknesses and mistakes. He physically hurts Stephanie, which she doesn't forgive. Constantly pushing Tim's trauma with his parents. Forcing Cassandra to choose a side, which you can't do. Draws Damian into the War, as he will almost always be for his dad, right or wrong.

It's been years since the comics where Bruce clearly spelled out what the Bat-family means to him, and why he would never leave it. A bunch of issues have brought to life the idea that for all the general understatements and difficulties, sometimes even a couple of slaps, nothing can break them as a team, as a strong and healthy construction.

And what does Batman do? Without warning and hits exactly the places that no one will ever forgive or forget. He destroyed a family. He destroyed an idea. He destroyed the trust of the people closest to him.

Let me say this clearly. Chip Zdarsky's Batman is a criminal who beats up people who trusted him with their lives. There is no excuse for this, because the power of pain is incomparable to anything we have seen before. Because Wayne did stupid things out of inexperience. He learned from his kids.

Good Lord, for the first time in his life, not only is he not afraid, but he even thinks it's right to hurt them! It goes further in future.

Zdarsky laughs at the idea of any version of Batman. Keaton can't turn his head! His Bruce is more than Miller's drowned in Darkness vision. But jokes was on him...

The real Bruce on construction. He has built strong alliances. His legacy is in each of his students. He needs silly things like a mansion to be happy. He defeated the demons of the mind long ago. Chip is fighting for fighting. There's no purpose to it. Even parents don't really make sense, because he puts the death of one criminal above the lives of all of Gotham.

That's why I say Batman is dead. It's not like it's two steps backwards. It's a transformation from human to monster.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

(i just finished twatytk after reading it for like a week straight, i'm fine😩)

Oooooooo👀👀👀

🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻

🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎

-💋

THANKS! But also sorry damn that's so many words.

Excited to share these two new ones!

48 for 🤏🏻:

---

They’ve talked about this before. It’s not like this is the first time Eddie has complained about it. Buck knows all about how Eddie feels about shit with his parents. But maybe this is the first time Eddie has called Buck about it with such obvious grief in his voice.

“It’s not their choice, right?” Buck asks. “He’s your kid. It’s between you and him.” 

“If only,” Eddie grumbles. 

“No, seriously. I mean, what can they do? If Chris decides he wants to be with you, then it isn’t their choice. They don’t have custody. They have no real grounds to sue for custody. You’re not an unsafe father.”

Something about the way Buck says that, like it’s so certain, makes Eddie’s whole body ache. It doesn’t matter, he wants to scream. That’s not what actually matters here, because that’s not the story being told. 

“What if they’re right?” He whispers.

“Sorry, what?” Buck asks. “I didn’t quite catch that.” 

Eddie takes a deep breath. 

“What if they win?” 

“They won’t,” Buck says. “I just… I just know it, okay?” 

“Okay,” Eddie sighs. “Thanks.”

Sometimes he just needs to hear that. Even if it’s just Buck’s personal delusion. 

They end the call soon after that and Eddie pulls into his own driveway. He sits for a moment in the driver’s seat of the truck, not yet ready to go inside. Like the picture of the TV dad, sitting in the driveway to avoid the wife and kids inside; the chaos, after a long day of work. Except it’s the opposite. Eddie would give anything for a little chaos in there. He’s sitting out here, avoiding the quiet. Avoiding the stillness. It’s the kind of nothingness that feels lethal.

Eventually, he sighs, rubs his face, and gets out of the truck. He walks up the front steps to the house and unlocks the door. He turns on the light in the front entryway. The house is exactly like he left it. Because he is the only ghost that resides here. 

“At least it never gets messy,” he grumbles to himself.

“What never gets messy?” 

Eddie jumps and yelps. 

“Who the fuck…” He gasps, looking wildly around the house for the source of the strange and unexpected voice.

---

48 for 🍎:

---

Notes on branded stationary with no real feeling. 

But he’s trying to let that go. He knows resentment isn’t good for his own healing, his own sobriety. So he’s doing the right thing. He’s here. He just hopes the temporary peace they’ve found has settled, somewhat, before she dies. He hopes it gets to be the last thing between them. 

“What will you do?” Bobby asks that afternoon, out of the blue. 

Charlie pauses before taking another bite of his sandwich and turns to look at Bobby. 

“What will I do, when?” He asks.

“After,” Bobby says. That’s all that really needs saying. 

“Oh,” Charlie exhales.  

Maybe it’s a callous question, but it’s not an unfair one. Charlie has built his whole life around Ann. He’s let their dynamic ruin marriages. Plural. What will he be when she’s gone? Bobby worries for him, honestly. And that worry is another thing tiring him lately. 

“Sorry,” Bobby murmurs.

“No, that’s a fair question,” Charlie says. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about it, honestly.”

Bobby nods. He understands that instinct. 

“I don’t think I’m cut out to keep up her legacy,” Charlie chuckles. 

“Not many would be,” Bobby offers.

“Very true,” Charlie agrees. “I don’t know, though. I don’t think I’d want to go back to Minnesota.”

Bobby nods. “Yeah. Not the easiest place to be.”

“No,” Charlie says. “It’s not.”

“You never had any kids,” Bobby says. 

Charlie shakes his head. “Didn’t have the lifestyle for it.”

“Right,” Bobby nods. “So you and I… We’ll be the only relations the other has left.’

“I guess that’s true,” Charlie agrees. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Bobby asks. 

[urlocalrambler]

DN fanfic: an exploration into Kai Mori's mind while he's in prison. Introspective piece. So get ready for self-loathing, the woes of the disgraced son and the Banks reminiscence and yearning that we deserved.

My first Devils Night fanfiction ever. Actually, it's my first writing piece in a long time in general, but fuck it, we balling. I've always struggled a little with understanding Kai, but I think this piece helped me get more of a grip on my characterisation of him <3.

_

Kai sits in jail, and he knows he's a scrouge on his family name. He’s the shameful blot in their lineage, the fuck up who keeps on giving even when all they want is for him to stop. Kai's the shadow in his family's illustrious life. A good boy gone wrong, the ungrateful child, responsible for his mother's tight smiles and fervent worry — he’s the parasite leeching away at his mother's kindness, carelessly ruining the happy life his father fought to give her. It took one blow of a hammer slamming against a gavel, and his parents have a sword of humiliation rammed into their guts. The pain is only dug in deeper with the indignity of a sentence of 28 months lost to the confines of walls crammed to the brim with prisoners, with his fitted suits for interviews traded in for a standardised orange jumpsuit, as a lifestyle befitting of an animal is thrust into the hands of their only son. 

The worst part is that they still loved him despite his neverending failures.

"–Gave him three broken ribs. So he fractured his fucking spine."

"Who?"

"The rich brat. Mori. He didn't even hesitate."

"Shit, he might belong here, after all."

Yeah, maybe he does belong here.

From the start of it all, he's been the defining reason for the lines marring his father's forehead, those were wrinkles etched in from worrying about Kai's unfortunate tendencies, but he's still forgiven again and again for every indiscretion that they catch him in and he learns to forgive himself for the thousands that they don't know about as a default. Kai's allowed to follow his own path even if it means spitting at his father's feet and disparaging the legacy that Katsu built with his roughened hands. It's wrong, grievously so, but he takes the chances and the freedom, Kai proves he's a certified fuck up. Useless boy who's worth nothing much when compared to the father who tried to give him every head start in life no matter what it cost. Katsu's a man who pulled his family out of poverty, he gives his wife her old life back tenfold, and Kai’s the worthless son who ruins it by gorging himself on endless vices, amusing himself by toeing the lines, and eventually, he gets a crew and starts obliterating the lines. Never improving even as they ardently pray for him, Kai only gets worse as the years pass.

Everyone knows it in Thunder Bay. Kai Mori's a cautionary tale in the flesh. 

The good boy who gets caught up in the wrong crowd and suffers for it. Prince amongst the heathens, gilded gold stained by their tar, a demon playing at being an angel. Kinder smiles and 'thank you's' on his tongue don’t get rid of the taste of sin, but they mask it well enough. Until it suddenly doesn't anymore, and they see that he's made of the same strokes as his friends. Demon, not an angel. Predator, not the prey. Villain, never a prince. Sins can't be hidden forever in a modern era of phones to the ear and the glimmer of cameras catching their every move. He should’ve known better than to have expected zero consequences – Kai hid his truths better than his friends ever managed to, but an unchained nature couldn't be hidden forever.

People were predisposed to making assumptions. 

In Thunder Bay, they accepted and revered the version of him that they thought they knew, and they share their aggrieved regrets as his fall from grace occurs in the brightened spotlight. Analysed just like Icarus, with a tragic fate of his own making – Kai can't meet his father's eyes for the first couple of weeks after his wrongs are aired to the public. Kai Mori had potential in spades, the gossip somberly chastens, and he squandered it away on freedom ravelled within insanity, he wasted a guaranteed future on the kind of lust that made priests look away in discomfort, and he ruined himself due to a useless loyalty towards friends that should've never amounted to much more than a footnote in his life.

Outsiders never understood how the blood of the covenant could run thicker than the water of the womb. They didn't feel the allure of darkness in its fullest form. Nor could they understand the power that control gave him when it was cradled in his palms, and he had chaos biting at his neck. She had, though, that one girl who hides in his mind just like she'd veiled herself into that confession all those years ago– she understood it all, and she even fed into it back then. 

He wonders what she felt when she saw him in cuffs. 

Mystery Girl was among his worst mistakes, mostly because she quickly became his darkest daydream and a favourite nightmare.

Kai's quiet when he does it. In the showers, when heat spindles against the mirror, he washes off the heat of shame by engaging in more depravity. He thinks about her often. And he's not gentle, not even close to it. Whenever he thinks about girls wrapped up in men's clothes, in shirts that aren't his, he's harsh and angry because they should've been his clothes, she should've been his girl. He thinks of smart quips on the curve of her lips, and he wonders how sweet it would've been to have held her and shut her up in the way he'd desperately wanted to whenever she said the name of a man who wasn't him. Kai's got a hand on his cock and he jerks it hard to the thoughts of her. 

Chocolate hair. Green eyes. Golden skin. Daydreams and nightmares. 

She's the only thing he never got that he'd desperately wanted in his golden years; she's the thing he still wants so carnally even in his darkest hours. Wants her thighs wrapped around his torso, wants his name to be the only thing she's capable of saying by the time he's done with her, wants her marked and ruined by the touch of him and him only. Indulging in her, Kai knows, would've been his favourite sin. Back then, he got only a speck, got nothing more than a touch, and he'd still been hopelessly addicted, high on fumes when he had the wisp of her silhouetted in his arms, and he was in withdrawal whenever he lost her to a man he hated and loved in equal measure. Just a taste back then, just the thoughts now, and he's still maddeningly hooked on her. Pretty girl, harsh girl, but never his girl. Sweet like candy with a tangy kick to her. She's the only drug in his veins, inching in without warning, putting him in a trance and an unruly high.

In the dead of night, she visits him, and Kai welcomes her. 

He is a fuck-up, Kai knows it well. Somehow, he's still so ready to engage in the betrayal of his brother in everything but blood. Damon's down in a living nightmare in solitary, and he dreams of stealing his girl. He dreams of using her up. He yearns to take her and have her feed the desires of his concupiscent flesh for as long as he wants, and he thinks he wants to keep her for months, for years, for as long as it takes until she feels more his than anything else.

Irreverent lust, onerous fingers, amatory desires, and all for what? A girl he had known all of a couple of weeks. And he thinks he'd sell the flesh on his back to go back to that time with her. For her, he thinks he'd do anything because if she's a reverie then he's a victim to the ghost of her. Kai thinks of her and that hotel room, and he wonders why he let his dream girl go. 

She's the only person to ever make him feel alive, to make him feel desire on an impulse, the only one who could easily stoke his dangerous need for control, and she did it all without ever trying. No fight to take and no need to make his blood boil; there was no need to force himself into those conversations with her because he was already obsessed with her voice from the second he heard it. Everything came naturally when it was with her. 

He thinks she could've been his if she hadn't been Damon's to keep. 

Kai laughs when he grips the plexiglass, breathes harder, and strokes faster– she's certainly not either’s now, and she wasn't his back then, but she is all Kai’s in the darkness of his mind. Smooth skin pressed against his chest, lips to his neck, and she's begging for it, for his dirty criminal's hands to stay on her neck. Moaning, whining, crying for more. He's undone by the idea of her, air caught in the chasm of his lungs, knuckles tightened to a pale white, as he gives into his favourite nightmare. Kai's spent by the thought of her, the evidence washed away by water, as his back presses against the shower wall. 

Suddenly, he's almost glad that he doesn't see Damon here at all. Kai tries to convince himself that he should be relieved that he'll likely never see her again either (it doesn't work but he tries). If he doesn't see her, then it means the fantasies, the output of those unreachable desires, can stay intact.

There's no Damon to stop him. No dancer in a hotel to distort what they could've had. No blood to mop away and no nights to hide away. It was just him and her again.

In his dreams, Banks is everything he still desires.

In his dreams, she belongs to no one else.

In his dreams, Banks is all his.

--

[darkcrowprincess]

Batfamily: what I think about each robin

(I'm only going to mention my thoughts on the robins that I have the most information about. Most of my knowledge comes from wiki, cartoons, movies, wayne family adventures and fanfiction. This is how I personally see them)

Dick Grayson: He is the performer robin, watch as flies through the air with ease. He's pure loyalty and deserves his own category as a hero. He is the blue print on which the legacy of robin is built on. He stands toe to toe with batman and grows to be better than him because he can be both darkness and light.

Jason Todd: The rebel robin. Just bravery and guts man. The bravest and boldest of the robins. Even when he is filled with so much fear, trauma and rage. With all the bad things that happen to him he still cares. Cares too much at times but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. That doesn't change the fact that he's so good. So good even with all the blood on his hands. Even with all the anger and violence. Jason still cares so much. You can obviously tell which ones my favorite. So I'm probably bias when it comes to him.

Tim Drake: Robin of compassion. The very essence of his robin is that he chose this. Batman needed a robin, no one else was there so he stepped up. Even if he started out with no training and no one wanted him there he became robin because batman and gotham needed one. Yes Tim is incredibly intelligent and cunning. But everything he's based on his his empathy and compassion for others.

Damian Wayne: Honestly I don't understand his reasons to be robin. I don't understand him. His robin being a legacy thing and being trained to fight from a young age. It's like they wanted to created a surprise robin that was related to batman that happened to be super violent and raised by assassins. Like the complete opposite of the other robins. Why does Damian even want to be robin? Because of his family? Because of his parents? Does Damian even like fighting or is that just something ingrained in him because of how he was raised? Damian is not my favorite robin but I do like parts of his character. Like when he loves animals and how he tries to bond with his siblings. I get why he is the way he is. But he's just again not my favorite.

Duke Thomas: I desperately want to know more about him. His powers sound really cool. His origins as well. I just really want a Duke Thomas movie or cartoon. He seems really sweet in wayne family adventures comics.

Stephanie Brown: Has to be my least favorite of the robins in general. Probably will get me a lot of hate for disliking her. I do not get her. Her character feels all over the place to me. She reminds me a lot of Annabeth from Percy Jackson series books and I don't like her much either. I'm probably being unfair. But it's my opinion. I feel bad for not liking her because everyone seems to love her, but I just don't get the hype.

And that's it, I know there's probably a few more robins I'm not mentioning. Especially someone name Carrie. But I don't know a lot about her. But yeah those or my thoughts on the robins. You can probably tell Jason and Tim are my favorite robins. Dick gets a category of his own because again he's Dick Grayson. I'll probably talk more later about Cass and Barbara once I watch more stuff with them. A separate post to add with Batwoman because they seem really cool.

(Don't like don't read. Post hate and I'll block you!)

[sleekervae]

Espresso in Soho | billy x fem!reader (1930s!au) [2]

Masterlist

Pairing: billy the kid x fem!reader (1930s!au)

Summary: Billy Returns the Next Day

Warnings: some mild foul language, some allusions to xenophobia

Word Count: 2,540

Billy’s habit of stopping by Caffè Ricci had started innocently enough—a convenient place to warm up, escape the rain, and nurse his caffeine cravings. But over the days that followed, it became something more. He convinced himself it was about the coffee, rich and smooth in a way no other café seemed to match, but deep down, he knew better. The real reason was Giorgia Ricci, with her sharp tongue that always left him scrambling for a witty comeback, and her warmth that surfaced when he least expected it, like a rare burst of sunlight on a dreary London afternoon.

She had a way of catching him off guard, both with her pointed humor and the occasional soft glimmer in her eyes when she let her guard slip. And so, he returned, day after day, telling himself it was about the coffee while lingering just a bit longer than necessary, enjoying the sparring matches that felt more like a chess game than small talk.

One quiet morning, when the café was mercifully empty save for the two of them, Billy decided to push past the surface. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last dregs of his coffee, and regarded her carefully as she polished the counter.

“You’ve been in this place your whole life, haven’t you?” he asked, keeping his tone light but his curiosity evident.

Giorgia paused, her hand stilling on the rag. “Is that your opening line for an interview?” she replied, arching a brow. “Because I’d give it a six out of ten. Could use some flair.”

Billy smirked. “You caught me. I’m curious. What’s it like, running a place like this in a city that never stops moving?”

She hesitated, then shrugged, resuming her cleaning. “It’s like being a rock in a river. The water rushes past, pulling at you, but you stay put. You don’t really have a choice.”

Her words struck him as unexpectedly poignant, but he pressed on. “And do you like being the rock?”

Giorgia snorted softly, setting the rag down and leaning against the counter. “Some days, yes. Other days, it feels like the river might win. But my parents built this place from nothing. My father used to say that every espresso served was a victory over the world trying to knock us down. It’s hard to walk away from that.”

Billy studied her, intrigued by the glimpse into her world. “And yet,” he said gently, “I get the feeling you’ve thought about it.”

Her eyes flicked to his, narrowing slightly. “You’re not as subtle as you think, Mr. Bonny.”

“Never claimed to be,” he replied with a grin. “So, have you?”

She exhaled, crossing her arms. “Of course I have. Who wouldn’t? But I’ve got responsibilities, and someone has to keep this place running.”

“And no one else can do it like you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, his gaze steady.

Her lips curved into a small, wry smile. “Now you’re catching on.”

The air between them felt different—less like playful banter and more like the start of an understanding. Billy could sense the weight she carried, the unspoken sacrifices she made to keep her family’s legacy alive.

“And what about you?” she asked suddenly, tilting her head. “Why does an English journalist keep coming back here, pretending he’s just here for the coffee?”

Billy chuckled, caught off guard by the shift in attention. “Maybe I like the atmosphere,” he offered.

Giorgia gave him a pointed look, her smirk returning. “Or maybe you just like annoying me.”

He raised his cup in a mock toast. “You caught me. Guilty as charged.”

She shook her head, but he caught the faintest hint of a smile as she turned back to her work. Billy watched her, feeling both unsettled and oddly drawn in. There was something about Giorgia Ricci that was hard to pin down—something that made him want to keep asking questions, to keep pushing until he understood her completely.

The bell above the café door jingled sharply, interrupting the rhythm of their exchange. A young man stepped inside, broad-shouldered and slightly out of breath, a canvas delivery bag slung over one shoulder. His coat, weathered and patched, hung heavily on him as though weighed down by more than just the rain.

“Giorgia,” the man called, his voice low but firm. His eyes, a darker shade of Giorgia’s own, swept the room before landing on Billy. A flicker of something protective—maybe even territorial—crossed his face.

“Luca,” Giorgia said, her tone caught somewhere between welcome and exasperation. “Don't tell me -- you forgot the address book again.”

He ignored her jab, walking up to the counter and setting the bag down with a thud. “I'm hungry, I need to eat something. Didn’t realize you’d have company.”

Billy, feeling distinctly like he was being sized up, set his coffee cup down and straightened in his chair. “Just enjoying the best coffee in Soho,” he offered with a friendly smile, though Luca’s glare didn’t soften.

“Right,” Luca said flatly, his gaze flicking back to Giorgia. His words suddenly shifted to flawless Italian, “And you’re letting customers linger now? Must be slow.”

“Luca,” Giorgia snapped, rolling her eyes. “He’s a paying customer. And you’re dripping all over my counter.” she too responded in Italian. Billy was at a loss, watching in a limbo.

Luca gave her a pointed look, ignoring her attempt at deflection. “I’ve been hearing things, Giorgia. About people loitering around here. Englishmen causing trouble for us.”

Giorgia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Aye dio, Luca!”

“Giorgia, ascoltami!” Luca shot back, his voice rising slightly. “We can’t afford to have problems right now. You know that.”

Billy, sensing the growing tension, shifted uncomfortably but didn’t speak. He had no intention of wading into a sibling quarrel -- let alone where he was linguistically challenged, though he couldn’t help but notice the flicker of unease in Giorgia’s expression—a crack in her otherwise unshakable demeanor.

“Luca,” Giorgia said firmly, lowering her voice but keeping her tone sharp. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got it handled. You don’t need to check on me every five minutes like I’m a child.”

“It’s not about that,” Luca replied, his tone softening slightly. “I just don’t want you—” He hesitated, glancing at Billy, then back to her. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, Billy thought she might snap. But instead, she forced a thin smile and waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine, Luca. Go finish your deliveries. I don’t have time for your theatrics.”

Luca’s jaw tightened, and he stood there a beat too long, clearly unsatisfied. But eventually, he picked up his bag and turned toward the door. Before leaving, he threw a final glance at Billy—a warning, unspoken but unmistakable—before stepping out into the rain. The bell above the door jangled loudly, the sound lingering even after the door shut behind him.

In the silence that followed, Billy glanced at Giorgia, who was already grabbing a towel to furiously scrub at an invisible stain on the counter.

“Let me guess,” he said lightly, hoping to ease the tension. “That wasn’t about me.”

Her head snapped up, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes before she sighed, leaning against the counter. “No,” she admitted, her voice weary. “But he’d probably lump you in with the rest anyway.”

Billy raised an eyebrow, curiosity tugging at him. “The rest?”

She shrugged, grabbing a fresh dish towel. “Never mind,” she said briskly, though her tone didn’t quite match her usual sharpness. “It's not a big deal.”

Billy watched her move around the counter, her sharp, purposeful gestures betraying a lingering irritation from her brother’s visit. The rhythm of the rain against the windows filled the silence between them, but Billy was too curious to let it stretch for long.

“So, that was Italian,” he began, his voice casual as he leaned back in his chair, watching her reaction carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it spoken before. Sounds… sharp. Like you’re always about to tell someone off.”

Giorgia stopped mid-swipe, her hand clutching the towel. She glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “Is that your polite way of saying you think it’s a bit aggressive?”

“No,” he said quickly, though a grin tugged at his lips. “It’s just different. I suppose I’m used to people shouting in English. Doesn’t have the same flair, does it?”

Her lips curved slightly, reluctant amusement breaking through her earlier tension. “That’s because English doesn’t have the same soul,” she replied, tossing the towel onto the counter and folding her arms. “Italian is more than words—it’s in the gestures, the tone, the rhythm. We speak with our hands, our faces, everything. If you can’t feel it, you’re not really speaking it.”

Billy chuckled, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin on his hand. “And here I thought you were just trying to outwit your brother. Didn’t realize it was an art form.”

“It is,” she said with mock solemnity, though her eyes sparkled. “One you clearly haven’t mastered, given your dry English humor.”

“Fair point,” he admitted, raising his cup in mock toast before taking another sip. “So, do you teach your customers, or is that reserved for siblings and nosy journalists?”

Giorgia shook her head, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Most people who come in here don’t ask. They just want their coffee and leave. You’re the first person to seem… curious.”

Billy set his cup down, his gaze steady. “Can you blame me? You’ve got a whole world tucked into this little café. I don’t think I’ve ever been farther than Brighton.”

Her expression shifted at that—less amused, more reflective. She walked around the counter, leaning against it as she looked at him. “Brighton?” she repeated, her tone almost incredulous. “That’s your idea of travel?”

“Well, it’s got a beach,” he said defensively. “Sort of.”

“Have you ever wanted to leave?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “See something beyond England? Beyond rain-soaked streets and grey skies?”

Billy hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden shift in her tone. There was something earnest in her voice, a flicker of longing that wasn’t entirely about him. “I suppose I’ve thought about it,” he said slowly. “But life gets in the way, doesn’t it? Work, responsibilities… you know how it is.”

She nodded, though her eyes drifted to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. “I know,” she murmured. “But sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it. Staying put, I mean. What if there’s something better out there? Something… more?”

Billy studied her profile, the way her fingers traced idle patterns along the counter’s edge. She looked less like the sharp-tongued woman who sparred with her brother and more like someone weighed down by questions she didn’t dare speak aloud.

“Do you think about it often?” he asked softly. “Leaving?”

She blinked, as though startled by the question, and turned back to him. “Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But this is my family’s life. Their work. Leaving isn’t as simple as dreaming about it.”

Billy nodded, unsure of what to say. There was a weight to her words, a complexity he didn’t yet understand. But he could see the way her gaze lingered on the rain beyond the window, as if searching for something just out of reach.

“Well,” he said lightly, hoping to ease the mood. “If you ever decide to teach me Italian, maybe you can sneak me a guidebook too. Just in case.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained distant. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. But even as she turned back to the counter, her thoughts seemed far away, her movements slower, more deliberate.

Billy leaned back in his chair, watching her with a mix of curiosity and admiration. She was a puzzle, no doubt about it. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he wanted to keep piecing her together.

The café had grown quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of Giorgia’s movements behind the counter. Billy shifted in his seat, the warmth of his coffee lingering but the conversation beginning to feel like it had reached its natural conclusion. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, especially when Giorgia seemed lost in her own thoughts, but something about the moment felt unfinished.

He stood, sliding his chair back with a soft scrape that drew her attention, "I should get on my way." Giorgia glanced up, her hands pausing mid-wipe on a clean mug.

“Giving me some peace at last?” she teased, though her tone was softer than he expected. The corners of her lips quirked in a faint smile, and for a fleeting second, her guarded demeanor cracked, revealing something warmer beneath.

Billy smirked, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “Figured you earned it. Wouldn’t want to wear out your patience for me in one go.”

Her laugh was brief but genuine, and it sent a ripple of satisfaction through him. “How considerate,” she said dryly, setting the mug aside. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

He chuckled, shrugging into his coat. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked, hesitating at the threshold. The rain outside still poured steadily, casting the café in a cozy glow.

Giorgia tilted her head, pretending to weigh her response as she leaned against the counter. “If you insist,” she said at last, her smirk playful but her eyes giving away just the faintest flicker of warmth.

Billy grinned, tipping an imaginary hat to her before stepping out into the rain. The door swung shut behind him, the bell jangling softly. He tucked his hands into his pockets, the chill of the rain soaking through his jacket barely registering as he replayed their conversation in his head. There was something about her—something that made him want to know more, to pull back the curtain on her fiery exterior and glimpse the woman beneath.

Inside the café, Giorgia watched him go, her thoughtful gaze lingering on the rain-slicked street where his figure quickly dissolved into the dreary afternoon. She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter as Luca’s voice echoed in her mind.

Englishmen cause trouble for us.

She shook her head, brushing the thought away. Billy didn’t seem like trouble—at least not the kind Luca worried about. Still, unease pricked at the edges of her thoughts, the way a storm builds quietly before it breaks. She pushed the feeling aside, busying herself with tidying the counter. Life was complicated enough without letting her brother’s paranoia crawl under her skin.

Outside, Billy walked on, the rain pattering against his coat and hat as he made his way through Soho. The streets blurred together, grey and familiar, but his mind stayed fixed on the small, vibrant café and the woman who ran it. She was different from anyone he’d ever met—sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, and yet there was something else there too. Something unspoken that made him want to keep coming back.

He smiled to himself, the thought warming him against the chill of the afternoon. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

[phantomchick]

The themes of Naruto and how the fact he and Sasuke are reincarnations/part of a cycle expands on those themes

Some guy was going on about how the reincarnation thing in Naruto was an asspull and when people pulled receipts and showed him panels from part one that hinted at it he maintained that it was still terrible because the whole destiny thing ruined the themes of the manga and I'm here like somebody really read the whole manga yet missed out on the themes of peace through absolute power vs peace through understanding that were key to the whole thing.

The Akatsuki's dream of peace is enforced on the rest of the world through the absolute power of the 9 bijuu powered infinite tsukuyomi. Sasuke chases power in order to avenge his family so he can be at peace + not have the threat of Itachi killing any further family he makes all over again hanging over him. Naruto comes to peace with those around him by understanding them whether or not he considers their past actions forgiveable, he chases Sasuke because he understands that Sasuke's motivation of revenge isn't wrong but the way he's going about it is actively self-destructive and hurts both him and those who care about him.

The whole idea of the villages I think are to show that it's a cycle of hatred, between war and peace, between might making right and compassion being the key and Sasuke and Naruto are symbolically representative of it all!

The theme of generational trauma is also all over the world of Naruto! Whether it's the legacy of the Uzumaki sacrificed to become the jinchuriki of the nine tails, a burden his parents pass onto Naruto; Kakashi's trauma stemming from his father's, Hinata and Neji both innocent kids but who are divided by the toxic customs of their family when they should be like siblings to each other, Hashirama and Madara bearing the weight of the brother war the Senju-Uchiha conflict and how hard it is to achieve peace even in a world where neither side actually wants to fight because of all the history and distrust that's built up, the curse of hatred of the Uchiha stemming from Ootsutsuki Indra's madness and willingness to murder his closest friends for the sake of taking power by force, Obito being taken by his own clan patriarch, hurt when he tries to leave and brainwashed and traumatised into buying into the dream of a perfect world - he literally inherits his hatred for the existing one, Gaara and his siblings lives effected by their father's actions but also by the custom of jinchuriki being created in the first place, the children of Ame all orphaned by war, Kaguya the enslaver, Kaguya the dictator, leaving a fragment of her will called Zetsu aka 'tongue' that continues to spread hatred, fear and prejudice and divide the people hundreds of years on. Haku experiencing the results of both the ninja world 'shinobi are tools' belief system and the prejudice of Kirigakure towards those with bloodline limits when he's a child too young to fully understand either with Zabuza the demon of the bloody mist who killed all his classmates to end kiri's killer graduation exams once and for all who can't bring himself to express his genuine love for Haku until he's already dead. I mean I could go on but you get the point.

The reincarnation thing emphasises the themes of Naruto which are generational trauma, the power of brotherhood/friendship and peace through absolute power vs peace through understanding and last but not least endurance in the face of a hopelessly cynical world: aka The will of fire, the will/resolve to keep trying to improve things even a little for the sake of the next generation, to refuse to give up even when it appears hopeless. Like say when you've just gotten your ass kicked by an army of zombies, the remainder of Akatsuki, Obito, Zetsu and Uchiha fucking Madara, you've failed to stop the moon's eye plan and suddenly, things get worse and a literal all powerful Goddess descends on you when you're already exhausted and the rest of the army is comatose.

[gffa]

THIS ARC WAS SO GOOD, because it just absolutely nailed the two themes it has at its heart: 1. Being Batman isn't just about loss, it's just as much about what he gained, that without what happened that night, he would not have his this family with him. That maybe he does still resent Gotham, but he also loves it for what it's given him. 2. That Bruce wouldn't go back. He wouldn't save his parents at the cost of the life he's built, he will stay with this life--this family. With Dick and Damian and Alfred there, the ones that most exemplify his legacy and that they're his sons more than they're anything else to him (Jason and Tim are also his sons, Cass is also his daughter, but not quite in the same way, that I think Dick and Damian's young ages when they came to Bruce made them something a little different), he has a very obvious choice to make. His parents or the children he's been given. And Bruce chooses to go forward with the family he's been given. He mourns having to let go of his parents again, he's still driven by their deaths, it doesn't mean that it won't lay him low again in the future, but it does mean that Bruce has reached a point where his family now isn't one he would give up to go back and regain his parents. They aren't just convenient soldiers to order around, they're people he'll choose over the very thing that defines him, simply because he loves them. The whole story has been threaded through with Dick and Damian walking all over that hallowed ground of Bruce's feelings about his parents, so to end the story with the very explicit understanding that Bruce would not give up his kids to bring back his parents, that they are just as important to who he is and what he wants as his parents (maybe more important in some ways), is so good. SO GOOD. Like, there's that old issue of Gotham Knights where Dick thinks that they're different, that he wouldn't go back to his parents instead of this life he's built, but that he thinks Bruce would--but, when the choice is actually in front of Bruce, he chooses Dick, Damian, and Alfred, he chooses to be Batman and the future that he's built because of it, not just the impersonal idea of justice or the desire to hit things with his fist. But very specifically, very explicitly he chooses it because he looks over and sees the people he loves and says that family is the only thing that really matters. Bruce wouldn't go back. He'll choose his kids and his father figure even over his own parents. Their deaths will always hurt him, it will always drive him, but it won't always be loss.

[redspades]

Now that the Legacy of Gods books are done I’ve come to bestow everyone with my rankings of all six books.

6. God of Pain

Starting with GOP, it did not touch me like the other books did, I don’t hate but don’t love it, but compared to the others it’s definitely my least favorite. Plus his nickname for her? Little purple? Rina, please. If anything little annoyance. No but seriously, this may have been a unique nickname, I give props but the nickname does not hit for me.

5. God of War

Do not come at me with the pitch forks and knives. I do not hate Eli or Ava, in fact, I love them both very dearly. It’s just that their book confused me the most and that a lot of the buildup I had for them was just… meh.

The amnesia trope with Ava was confusing as fuck. The psychosis and praise kink however? Good shit. But compared to how the others books made me feel? Meh.

But him calling her beautiful? Has me feeling some sort of way.

4. God of Wrath

People will def hate me for this one. I know Jeremy and GOW is a BIG fan favorite, if not, second/first to GOF. But first reading GOW it did not touch me the same way a few of the other books did y’know? Like after rereading it like 5 more times I got a little more attached but Jeremy somewhat just didn’t do it for me.

This book however has the best parent-male love interest interactions

Lisichka as a nickname lowkey be cute but don’t got me feeling anything much

3. God of Malice

When I tell yall Killian and Glyndon are > I mean it. Killian is so—hot. Like actually has me on my knees. He’s most hated by Levi? Has lowkey all of the King men at his head? Hello? What’s not to like? Also obsessed with her? Plus the little scenarios they have together, the picnic scene where he kisses her forehead? Tells her to be good? The way she kissed his chest after telling him she just wanted to sleep? That sort of intimacy with a psychopath? Damn.

The use of “Baby” and “Sweetheart” has me fucking fluttering. Little Rabbit however? Made me feel nothing, pussy dry. Feel like it could’ve been substituted with Bunny, feels cuter, little bunny, adorable bunny, cheeky lil bunny. Bunny rolls off the tongue better but may be more on the nose, still better than Little Purple.

2. God of Ruin

I have a bias for Mia and Landon, they’re so perfect. I’m an artist, too, so like,.. the flattery of being someone’s muse is so touching, specially when Landon just,.. can’t stop observing every slope of her just to sculpt her, the fact he’s a genius sculptor yet believes nothing he’s made is worthy of the attention he gets. He’s not humble by no means but his menace energy is just funny.

Like this dude is asking for whatever he’s getting.

And the risk of choosing her over his own art? Thags dedication that’s everything. Him choosing his love over his passion? Which is badically the equivalent to his love? I can’t even. Landon the most annoying and unfeeling mother fucker? Chooses Mia over his passion? The best.

Don’t get me started on the running, primal kink anyone?

1. GOD OF FURRRYYYYY

Y’all saw this one coming, yall had to. My absolute favorite (though some scenes make no damn sense). It’s very dramatic, I eat up dramatic. I have a physical copy of it, gifted by a friend and I will be rereading that shit word for word.

Nikolai is my type. He’s green forest galore. He’s hedonistic and doesn’t care abt what anyone says, but still extremely caring and obsessive of those around him and he’s EXTREMELY PROTECTIVE of those he loves, (THAT GARETH SCENE GMFU). Thats just everything I want, plus he’s got big muscles and his fan cast is universally accepted as Mike Debeer. I love my well built, tattooed, muscled men.

Please, I want myself a Nikolai. He’s so loving, caring, obsessive, and funny. To others he’s got the cold sheer personality of a Doberman/Cane corso, but to his one and only, he’s a golden retriever.

PLUS PLUS HE KNOWS HOW TO FIGHT, DO YALL UNDERSTAND HOW HOT IT IS TO PLAY FIGHT? Manhandle me.

Lotus Flower best nickname, fucking FIGHT ME.

Also? Landon and Nikolai? HELLO? BEST PAIR? Canon Landon is best brother. Landon and Brandon best brothers.

[catubarca]

Jon Snow’s name

I have been thinking about this non-stop for the past few days and I really wanted to share my thoughts about Jon Snow’s name.

This idea is built around the R + L = J theory, which if you’re not familiar is the idea that Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark are Jon Snow’s parents.

In the show, as we all know, they named him Aegon, which I hope we can all agree is kind of dumb. Rhaegar already had a damn son named Aegon. I understand why the show writers made this decision, being a connection back to Aegon the Conquerer and his legacy in the Targaryen family – it’s a nice and circular connection.

It’s also boring as hell and completely expected, which is not what George R. R. Martin is about. He’s all about that symbolism; doing the unexpected; going against the grain of typical fantasy into something darker.

Based on this, I have an idea about what Jon Snow’s name could be - one that has some cool symbolic links between the Starks and Targaryens; one that links to some of Martin’s history about the world; and creates a connection between the two major works, GoT and HoTD.

Jon Snow’s name should be Jacaerys Targaryen.

Not only does this create a nice link between Martin’s works - probably his two best known works at this point - it has some other symbolic connections.

During the Dance of the Dragons, it was Jace and Vermax who went to Winterfell to confirm the alliance of the Stark family; it was Jace who allegedly made some kind of pact/bond before a Weirwood tree, recognising their religion and traditions.

And, if we remember one of the North’s favourite little phrases: the North remembers.

Wouldn’t it have been very in character for Lyanna, the She-Wolf, to live up to this phrase of her House, and remember the Targaryen/Targaryen representative who came to Winterfell in alliance, and honoured their religion? Who may have (allegedly) married Sara Snow? 

Kind of like... a pact of ... ice.... and .... fire?

Jace is also (legally, at least) the result of water and fire; Velaryon and Targaryen. Close, but not quite.

I think it’s probably also interesting considering it was Jace’s dragon, Vermax, that Mushroom claims laid a clutch of eggs at Winterfell. His tale is widely considered to be fake, of course, as Vermax is generally considered to be male, but it’s still an interesting connection.

A dragon who left eggs in Winterfell.

A dragon who left a legacy - a bloodline - in Winterfell.

Maybe not a literal story to be taken truthfully, but a literary device that could come to represent a dragon being left with the Starks, if Martin so choses to use it as such. He might not have written it to mean anything, of course, but it would be a fun detail if he wanted it to be.

And, of course, there is something satisfyingly circular about Jace and Jon’s stories, but in a less expected way than Aegon I and Aegon VI: two dark haired boys with Targaryen blood but the wrong surnames.

A bastard raised as a true heir.

A true heir raised as a bastard.

Let me know what y’all think of my idea :) there’s no actual telling what Martin might decide to name Jon if the books do confirm R + L = J, and I’m sure whatever he choses he will have carefully considered reasons for, but I think this is a fun option :) !

[valy-gc]

Gael Lumespring – The Unlucky Prince

Born into the Ice-Dragon Fae Empire, Gael was the 13th child of the reigning emperors—a number that carried unlucky superstitions even among their pragmatic people. Ice-Dragon society was built on rigid roles assigned by birth order:

The firstborn became the heir and future ruler.

The second was destined to be the royal advisor.

The third trained as the commander of the empire’s armies.

And so on, each child fulfilling a predetermined duty to strengthen the kingdom.

Gael’s eldest sister, the future empress, was sharp-witted and graceful, already betrothed to a childhood friend—a noble ice-dragon with a promising future. His older siblings were similarly important figures in politics, strategy, and military affairs.

But Gael?

He was the 13th child—the cursed one.

There was no traditional role for a 13th-born. Some believed a 13th child was an omen of misfortune, while others thought such a birth was simply never meant to happen. The court’s scholars debated what role he should take, with unsettling suggestions ranging from the warden of the empire’s prisons to a royal assassin or spy—positions where a child of ill fate could at least serve a purpose in the shadows.

His family didn’t reject him, but he always felt out of place. His siblings would tease him about the superstition—not cruelly, but he felt the weight of it all the same. The saying that "the youngest is always the most loved" never applied to him. He wasn’t neglected, but he was never the favorite either.

Deep inside, he wondered… Was he truly meant to be here?

A Prince Without a Place

Despite the whispers about his bad luck, Gael was devoted to his family. He admired his eldest sister’s strength as a leader, respected his fathers’ wisdom, and cherished the few moments when his older siblings treated him as more than just "the extra one."

Yet, he felt like a shadow among them. They had purpose. He did not.

When he was old enough to train, his mentors urged him to embrace a role suited for his “fate.”

He was too thoughtful and kind to become an assassin.

He was too honest to be a spy.

He was too gentle to run the prisons.

But Gael was clever—his mind was sharp, and his heart was loyal. He didn’t want power or control, but he wanted to matter.

The Decision to Leave

One night, after another formal gathering where he was barely acknowledged, Gael found himself staring at his reflection in the ice. His own image seemed foreign to him—like a ghost of someone who had never been meant to exist.

That was when he heard a whisper.

Not a real voice—something deeper, something from within.

It told him the truth he had been avoiding:

"You will never find your place if you keep waiting for others to decide it for you."

That night, he made his choice.

Instead of lingering in his family's shadow, he would seek knowledge elsewhere. Instead of trying to prove himself in a world that didn’t know what to do with him, he would forge his own path.

When the invitation from Fablewood Academy arrived, he left without hesitation.

His parents let him go. They did not stop him.

They expected him to return one day, resigned to whatever lesser role the empire would find for him.

Fablewood Academy – Finding His Truth

At Fablewood Academy, Gael thrived in an environment where titles didn’t define worth.

His cleverness found a home in Lorecraft, where he learned to understand history beyond the rigid traditions of his homeland.

His loyalty made him a trusted friend and guide, helping others see their own strengths, even when he struggled to see his own.

His Legacy Arte, Reflected Truth, became a mirror not just for others, but for himself—forcing him to confront his own doubts and insecurities.

For the first time, he wasn’t the cursed 13th prince.

He was simply Gael.

Yet, the Question Remains…

Gael is still uncertain of his future.

Should he return home one day and find his place among his family?

Or should he carve a new life, separate from the empire that never had a role for him?

He has not found the answer yet.

But for the first time in his life—

The choice is his to make.

Gael Lumespring’s Hidden Hoard

In dragon-fae culture, a dragon is not considered fully grown until they discover their hoard—the one thing that brings them joy and fulfillment, no matter how simple or unusual.

For most dragons, the realization comes naturally. But for Gael Lumespring, it remains unnoticed.

Throughout his time at Fablewood Academy, corvids—crows, ravens, and magpies—have taken a strange liking to him. They follow him across the school grounds, perching on rooftops, watching him from trees, or waiting outside his dorm window. At first, he thought nothing of it. He would casually feed them scraps, and in return, the birds started bringing him tiny gifts—shiny buttons, lost coins, broken bits of jewelry, and polished pebbles.

He keeps every single one.

Not because he actively wants to collect them, but because throwing them away feels wrong. Without realizing it, he stores them in a small wooden box, a habit that grows without his awareness.

Other students have noticed. Some joke that he has a personal flock, while others find it strange that the birds seem to favor him over everyone else.

Gael brushes it off. It’s just coincidence. Just habit.

What he hasn’t realized is that this is his hoard.

Not gold, not weapons, not books or knowledge—but a flock of clever birds and the tiny gifts they choose to offer him.

One day, someone will point it out:

"You know this is your hoard, right?"

And Gael will finally understand.

The Search for a Suitor

The only remaining path was one any dragon fae dread most—an arranged marriage.

If Gael could not serve his own kingdom, he could at least serve by securing an alliance through marriage.

The council cared little for his happiness. Love was not required. His duty would be to wed whoever brought the greatest advantage—a noble from another kingdom, a powerful merchant’s heir, even a foreign ruler seeking favor. They only needed whatever they could offer, riches, trading, or anything interesting.

Dragons could not bear children without love—but that did not matter to them. A loveless marriage would still bind two nations.

His family was not cruel, but their hands were tied. The ancients held the majority vote, and not even the emperor himself could override them without risking claims of tyranny.

Gael had no choice.

He was not to be part of his sister’s court, nor hold a place in the empire’s future. He was to be cast away—a pawn in a political game.

While the council made their own plans, Gael’s family fought for him.

His fathers and siblings convinced the council to let them arrange suitors first, hoping to find someone Gael would actually care for.

Thus, every weekend at the Fablewood Academy, Gael met with nobles, warriors, scholars, and merchants—anyone worthy enough in the empire’s eyes. They came from every race—elves, beastfolk, merfolk, other fae—but none of them moved him.

Some were pleasant, some charming, and he even made a few friends—but love?

Love was not something that could be forced.

And so the clock was ticking.

If his family could not find someone by the end of his fourth year at Fablewood, the council would choose for him. And they were far less selective.

They would not care if his suitor was arrogant or ruthless, so long as the match benefited the empire.

Gael was desperate to escape his fate.

But how?

A Secret Act of Defiance

The answer came to him—one final act of rebellion.

He could fail his fourth year.

Fablewood Academy had five years, with the final year being an internship. But Gael already knew the council planned to control his internship, sending him to wherever his betrothed’s family dictated—even if it was menial, meaningless work.

Gael wanted to choose his own future—perhaps in education or as a scholar. Maybe even traveling the world.

But that would never be allowed.

So if he failed, he would have to redo his fourth year—buying himself an extra year of freedom.

He intentionally started submitting weaker assignments, holding back on tests, and making careless mistakes in combat classes.

It was risky. If someone noticed, he could be punished. If his plan failed, he would be sent away anyway.

But he had nothing to lose.

For once in his life, he was fighting for himself.

And perhaps—just maybe—he could find another way out before time ran out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

👑 The Reigning Emperors (Gael’s Fathers)

Emperor Vaelthar Lumespring (Ruler & Guardian of Tradition)

Hoard: Tea Cups – Every single one is different, collected from across the world. Never uses them. Just likes having them.

Emperor Sylthian Lumespring (Ruler & Diplomatic Strategist)

Hoard: Puzzle Boxes – Complex wooden or mechanical puzzles that he enjoys solving when stressed. Some have remained unsolved for centuries.

👑 The Royal Siblings & Their Hoards

Princess Ylvessia Lumespring (Eldest, Future Empress)

Hoard: Locks of Hair – Keeps a small strand of hair from every family member, close friend, or important figure she meets. It’s a little creepy, but she insists it’s sentimental.

Prince Kaelthorn Lumespring (Second-Born, Future Royal Advisor)

Hoard: Spoons – He does not know why. He just likes spoons. Silver spoons, wooden spoons, big spoons, tiny spoons. His room is full of them.

Prince Vaeric Lumespring (Third-Born, Supreme Commander of the Military)

Hoard: Tiny Model Ships – Painstakingly assembles miniature boats and absolutely flips out if someone touches them.

Prince Eryndor Lumespring (Fourth-Born, Master of Strategy & Warfare Tactics)

Hoard: Goose Feathers – No one knows why. He just collects nice-looking feathers. Will get irrationally protective if someone tries to take one.

Princess Iskaara Lumespring (Fifth-Born, High Scholar of Magic & Arcane Studies)

Hoard: Dried Flowers – Presses and preserves rare or beautiful flowers in thick tomes, each labeled with a meaning.

Prince Xylander Lumespring (Sixth-Born, Guardian of the Empire’s Borders)

Hoard: Shoes – He just keeps them. Fancy shoes, old boots, even stolen slippers from his siblings. No one understands why.

Princess Selyne Lumespring (Seventh-Born, High Priestess of the Ice-Dragon Faith)

Hoard: Hourglasses – All sizes and styles. Loves the sound of sand slipping through and considers it meditative.

Prince Mirthal Lumespring (Eighth-Born, Overseer of the Empire’s Treasury)

Hoard: Keys – Keeps keys to everything, even when he doesn’t own the locks. Some are ancient, some are stolen.

Princess Nivara Lumespring (Ninth-Born, Ambassador to Other Kingdoms)

Hoard: Soap – Collects exotic, handmade bars of soap from every culture she visits. Her room smells like a perfume shop.

Prince Thalvian Lumespring (Tenth-Born, Master of Beasthaven Relations)

Hoard: Plush Frogs – No real frogs. Just plush ones. He claims he doesn’t like them, but they mysteriously multiply in his room.

Princess Elvetha Lumespring (Eleventh-Born, Keeper of the Royal Archives)

Hoard: Dragon-Themed Items – Not because she’s a dragon, but because she finds it hilarious how other species portray them in trinkets and decorations.

Princess Veyndra Lumespring (Twelfth-Born, Royal Architect & Keeper of the Imperial Estates)

Hoard: Marbles – Glass, stone, enchanted—if it’s a marble, she collects it. Keeps them in ornate jars, scattered across her workspaces. No one knows how she tells them apart.

Prince Gael Lumespring (Thirth-Born, The "Cursed" Prince)

Hoard: Corvids & Their Gifts (But he hasn’t realized it yet.)

"What Else Can I do?" – Gael’s Version

(To the melody of Isabella’s Villain Song – Lydia the Bard’s cover of “What Else Can I Do?”)

Fate decides where I belong, Ranks and roles, set in stone. Every path has been walked before— Except for mine alone. What else could I do?

Names and titles neatly printed, Every step a thread they weave. Yet when they reached my place within it, There was nothing left for me.

Stand in silence, don’t stray, obey, remain. I must be useful, oh-oh.

They offer hands but never ask me What kind of life I want to lead. A pawn dressed up in silk and silver, But love was never guaranteed.

A blizzard howls through frozen valleys, Carving peaks, breaking stone. My life is mine to do with as I choose, I owe nothing to you.

When you shatter ice, the cracks will spread, No matter how you try to mend. Freeze it over, the fracture remains— You can’t reshape what won’t bend.

The only one to blame is you (you).

Your forgotten son will stand alone as glaciers rise. No chains remain, just the cold. And it’s time to see how I shine, How I shine.

The blizzard howls through frozen valleys, Carving peaks, breaking stone. My life is mine to do with as I choose, I owe nothing to you.

What could you possibly expect was gonna happen when you caged me? (When you caged me) Oh-oh. Lock me in frost and think I won’t awaken raging?

But I know my family only did what they had to do. (A prince is just a piece to trade) what choice did they have too? (A worthy price to uphold all their peace and pride.) What else can I do? (What else, what else, what else?) Ooh-oh What else can I do?