#i even tried to fool it with the ... at the end

[takimakiiiii]

i love you but not as much as i love me

summary: after waiting for lando countless times you finally realise that you deserve more than that.

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

tw: heartbreak, self doubt

a/n: i have absolutely no idea where this came from but it’s kinda bad so bear with me and it’s 12:30am rn and i have a maths test tmr so spare me okay 😭

themes: angst, heartbreak, BADASS Y/N HELL YEAHHHH

word count: like 300 words?

—————————————————————————

The restaurant noises seemed to distort the longer you sat and waited. Thoughts circled through your mind as each minute ticked by slowly but surely. 

“I promise I’ll be on time.” Lando’s words lay heavy on your chest as you sat alone at a table. 

Liar. 

You should have known he wouldn’t come. But you chose to give Lando the benefit of the doubt and look how that ended. Sitting alone with a glass of wine in your hand, you could feel the stares of the people around you. Their pity for you radiating in your direction as you wallowed in silence. 

You nearly laughed out loud at the sheer irony of it all. You thought he would actually come, how pathetic. You already knew the script off by heart. You’d get home, he’d get home, you fight and everyone goes to sleep either mad or sad. Too many times had this occurred and you couldn’t help but blame yourself. Blame yourself for trying too hard, putting in too much effort when you knew it would be the same outcome each time. Work would always be Lando’s first priority, it came before everything, his health, his family and above all, you. 

You couldn’t even count how many times you’d been left waiting alone in a restaurant embarrassed. Peoples stares would linger far too long to be just friendly. Monaco was a small place so there was no way around all the whispers and exchanges of gossip that would occur. Especially surrounding Lando and your relationship. 

The wine tasted bitter in your mouth as you finished the glass. Your eyes flickered up to the clock that hung on the wall, the time reading 9:43pm. 

With a heavy sigh you decided it was time to leave. You payed for your glass and stepped out of the restaurant, the sky already swallowed in darkness. You swallowed, holding back tears as you slowly made your way toward your car. The street lights seemed to buzz tauntingly above your head as your heels clicked against the pavement. 

“Y/N!” an all too recognisable voice called down the street. Your head shot up as your eyes fell on Lando who jogged toward you. You payed no attention to the tears that threatened to fall as you stopped in your tracks. 

Lando finally caught up to you, out of breath. Still in his papaya shirt he looked like a fool next to you. You who had gotten ready for tonight only for it to end like the countless times before. You stared at him unimpressed as you held a steady face. You absolutely refused to let him see how much it affected you.

“What happen to ‘I’ll be on time this time,’ hmm?” you asked, folding your arms across your chest defensively. 

“Look, I got caught up-“

“You’ve already used that before.” you interrupted. Lando frowned, pausing under your stare. 

“What?”

You let out a scoff, anger pulsating through your chest as you tried to remain calm. He looked absolutely clueless.

“You’ve already used that excuse, Lando. Come up with a new one and impress me.” sarcasm seeped off your words. He stared at you is disbelief, words failing to leave his lips. 

“Have you run out? Is that it? Surely you can think of at least one.” you pressed until anger ticked through his eyes. 

“Don’t do this right now, Y/N. I thought you’d be able to understand that work is just too important right now for . . . this.” he gestured to nothing but the space in between you both. You raised your eyebrows, throat beginning to ache from holding back tears. “So you want to break up?” 

“No, that’s not what I meant.” he gritted, running his hand through his hair, frustration thick in his voice. You scoffed, letting out a bitter laugh. 

“What do you mean then?” you asked. “Because right now there is absolutely nothing keeping me from staying. I love you, Lando and I really thought you would see that seeing how many times I’ve waited for you to show up and you haven’t. Your life is work and I get that, I really do but have you ever thought to think how that affects me? That maybe I don’t want to be constantly pushed aside and dismissed as a priority? You can work day and night and everything in between but what about me? Why am I the only one trying to keep this together?”

“That’s untrue, Y/N. I do try, everything I ever do is for us and our future together.”

“Don’t say that. Everything you do is for yourself, Lando.” 

“What do you want me to do then? I should just call up Zak and say ‘sorry boyfriend duties!’ and hang up?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Lando and you know it.” your heart felt like it was failing inside of your chest as he stood before you.

“Please, enlighten me then. If you can’t understand that work is my priority right now then maybe we shouldn’t be together.” 

His words lay heavy in the silence that followed. You stood before him, that guy who had loved you just as much as you’d loved him was long gone now. 

“God I hate you.” you whispered, biting back a sob. His gaze softened as he watched you rub away tears. Regret washed over him like a tidal wave but as it turns out that wouldn’t be enough to save him this time. 

“That’s not what I meant-“ he began to say

“I’m leaving.” you said in finality, the words seeming like a foreign language to you. Lando looked up in disbelief, “What?” 

You took a deep breath in, the thought in your mind resonating with you. This wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t deserve someone who wouldn’t give you their time or at least to even try to. You loved yourself far too much to let yourself be treated like that. He didn’t deserve your love or respect, he’d made that clear every single time he didn’t show up. Exhaling slowly you continued, “You’re absolutely right. I won’t ever understand how work can be a priority over your own relationship, so good luck finding someone who will because it most certainly won’t be me.” 

Lando was at lost for words as he stood and stared at you. Silence lay thick in the air as you waited once again for him. “Yeah,” you breathed, “That’s what I thought.” 

And as you walked off into the night your mind and heart finally felt free. 

a/n: well i hope you enjoyeddd and a reminder that you should never doubt yourself and that your health and wellbeing comes first! love yourself first <333 stay safe and have a good day!

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (17/???)

Hey!!! What's up??

Let's calm down a little? Haha I know how excited you are, but today chapter is to lighten my beloved ones who still had doubts about R being more than a source. She really is!

I really loved this chapter. So sad, but so beautiful...

And don't blame me, blame my pms! (mommy is needy 😢)

Warnings: angst chapter! Proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha and Rio seek Lilia to give her answers

Amélie

At the beginning, you were just a project.

A source of energy, young and vibrant, ready to be drained to the last drop. Until your skin paled, until your breath turned into a faint whisper, and your eyes closed forever.

They prepared you carefully for this.

The plan was simple: seduce you, shape you, enchant you, make you more and more vulnerable. Make you fall in love with the illusion, lose yourself in their touch, surrender without resistance. And then, at the right moment, they would take everything.

Agatha and Rio had handpicked you, they had felt you. Wanda and Lilia agreed without hesitation. They knew what to do. They knew your last breath of life would be the sweetest.

The purest.

Rio would be the last to drink from you.

The last to hold your soul in her arms and carry it with her forever. Because that was her destiny.

Death.

The last touch, the last kiss, the last goodbye. Rio had always been there, at the threshold between the end and the eternal.

But now…

That simply can’t happen anymore.

They can’t let you go.

Now, you are not a sacrifice.

Now, you are theirs.

Only theirs.

Rio’s studio used to be a sanctuary of chaos and solitude, where she externalized the rebellious waves of emotions that devoured her.

Vidal’s fate had always been complicated.

She hadn’t asked for it.

Carrying the souls of others on her shoulders, feeling their stories, their pain, their last words embedding into her… it was too much. But death never has a choice. Only duties.

And even if Rio tried to escape, pretend she was nothing but flesh and bone, just a woman with paint-stained fingers and eternal dark circles under her eyes, she knew the truth.

Every stroke, every brush, every color carried something beyond reality. Her paintings wept. Whispered. Shattered in sighs and sins that weren’t hers.

It was a burden. A destiny.

Until you.

Most nights, she arrived home at dawn, hands and clothes dirty with paint, eyes tired, chest heavy. Agatha would already be asleep—or pretending to be. Always one step ahead, always distant enough to never be attached to anything.

It didn’t matter. Neither of them needed more.

Until you.

Until Rio discovered what it was like to come home and hear hurried footsteps on the wooden floor, feel arms wrapping around her waist before she could even drop her bag. The warmth of your body against hers, the soft sound of your voice saying, "You were late today."

She didn’t know she needed that.

Didn’t know how good it was to have someone waiting for her.

Agatha, on the other hand, never saw herself as someone who belonged to another.

She had always belonged only to herself.

To her intelligence. To her ambition.

That was how she survived for centuries. That was how she built her empire, stone by stone, blood by blood.

Evanora made sure of that.

Her mother forged her like iron in fire, breaking any weakness before it could even form.

Love? Love was a distraction. Love was a chain, an anchor dragging fools deep enough to surrender to it.

And Agatha would never be a fool.

She watched her sisters burn, saw mercy being punished, saw how those who loved too much always ended up in ashes.

So she made herself strong. Made herself unbreakable. And for a long time, she believed that’s exactly what she was.

Until Rio.

Because Rio didn’t court her with promises or ambition. Didn’t try to conquer her with power plays or seduction.

Rio was free.

And Agatha hated that.

Hated the way the woman laughed without guilt, how she spoke nonsense without fear of looking ridiculous. How she looked at her without fear, without the desire to control or be controlled.

Hated the way, beside her, Evanora’s words didn’t feel so heavy.

At first, Agatha wanted her just to spite her mother. To provoke. But then, without realizing it, she found herself lost in those brown eyes and silly smiles. In the warmth of Rio’s arms, in the way she expected nothing more than what Agatha already was.

She fought it. For two decades, she fought. Because she wasn’t capable of love.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

And then came the truth.

Because the woman who enchanted her with easy laughter and casual touches…

Was death itself.

The shock was paralyzing.

Evanora would have laughed. Oh, how she would have laughed!

The brilliant, ambitious daughter, heir to her legacy, seduced not by power, but by the one force in the universe that even magic cannot contain.

Agatha saw her break.

Saw the sweet and calm Rio obliterate everything around her in an instant.

Not out of rage.

But out of pain.

The truth burned, and as much as Agatha wanted to deny it… she knew.

Agatha loved Rio.

Loved the chaos that came with her, and over time, grew to love what she represented.

So when you entered her life, Agatha thought it would be easy and sweet, like strawberry cake.

She knew what to do.

Knew how to manipulate, how to shape, how to take whatever she wanted from you without you noticing. That’s what she did. That’s what she had always done.

And then you relaxed into her arms and called her mommy.

And for the first time in centuries, Agatha hesitated.

You weren’t supposed to unsettle her, but you did.

You weren’t supposed to make her heart pound in her chest, but you did.

You weren’t supposed to make her want more than just possession, but you did.

She felt ridiculous for liking it, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t deny the way her voice softened when you said it, the way you fit so naturally in her lap, the way your eyes shone when she praised you.

She tried to deny it. Ignore it.

But every touch of yours was different. Every time you looked at her, without fear, without reverence, something inside her trembled.

Control slipped through her fingers like fine sand.

The first time you called her that, it was a slip.

The second, a test.

Now, it’s inevitable and completely natural.

Now, she doesn’t want to hear you call anyone else that.

Before you… they were empty.

Now, they are overflowing.

And that changed everything.

[...]

The bedroom lighting was dim, and they prowled around you like wolves. Anger exploding in their hearts. Agatha knew that your shabby little friend was a young witch.

Lilia had already warned her.

That’s why, when you asked for permission to go out with Alice after class, it felt like a punch to the stomach.

She could have said no.

You would have obeyed without question.

Because you were good. The good girl of your mommies.

But Agatha didn’t want to.

Something inside her weighed on her, something unsettling and unknown. You were young. You had the right to have a life beyond them. Beyond this.

So, she let you go.

And she never regretted a decision more in her entire existence.

In mere minutes, Agatha explained the situation to Rio, the unease burning in her mind like an omen. Something was wrong. Something had been building up for weeks.

Wanda, always watching, always questioning, always wanting to know why they were taking so long to “lend” you to her and Lilia.

Why the delay?

The answer was simple.

It wasn’t going to happen.

That’s why, that day, when Wanda appeared at the mansion, sniffing the air and saying how much you reeked of Agatha and Rio—it was enough.

Sharing you with Wanda was out of the question.

Rio went back to Los Angeles; she knew Agatha might be right. She had seen this happen once before. And it didn’t end well.

So they cornered you.

Cruel. Sensual.

"Go on, pet. What else did that little whore say about us?"

The touch was gentle, but the words were chosen to hurt.

You weren’t supposed to believe other people.

You weren’t even supposed to question them.

"She said… you only want to use me." Your voice trembled in a whisper. "That I’m just a source…"

The words cut through the air like a sharp blade.

For a moment, the world stopped.

No one moved.

No one even breathed.

Agatha blinked slowly, brows furrowed, head tilted.

Rio remained still, her expression unreadable, but a muscle in her jaw twitched.

The room seemed to fold around you, suffocating, heavy.

Alice was a young witch. Inexperienced. An insect compared to them.

And yet, Alice knew about the sources.

Alice.

Not Wanda.

Not Lilia.

Alice.

But Alice wasn’t supposed to know.

Because that truth existed only between the four of them.

Rio, who had never shared the burden of fate with anyone beyond them.

Agatha, who held her secrets with firm hands and a cruel smile.

Lilia, sarcastic like Agatha but level-headed.

Wanda, intense, ruthless, loyal… Or at least, that’s what they thought.

One of them had betrayed. And the puzzle that had remained intact for centuries shattered right then and there.

Rio was the first to move.

Her dark eyes glowed like a black hole about to consume everything. She stepped forward, the scent of a storm rising in the air.

"Which one was it?" Her voice was a sharp whisper. "Who opened their mouth?"

Agatha’s gaze slid to you, your exhausted figure on the bed, your body still marked by the traces of last night.

She massaged the places where the whip had passed, her hands light and warm, like those of an ancient witch.

She caressed each mark with reverent touch.

"My love," she murmured, spreading a little more ointment on the inside of your thighs. "We’ve seen Wanda do this once before."

Rio paced back and forth like a caged animal.

"But that was centuries ago!" She said, arms crossed over her chest. "And Lilia said she forgave her." Rio pondered, avoiding her wife’s gaze.

"Lilia is too sensible." Your mommy’s hands were on your back. Massaging, caressing, and she smiled when you let out a small sound at how relaxed you were. "She has never put herself or her own will above us."

Rolling her eyes, Rio huffed. "Love…"

She had always been against Agatha’s desire for immediacy. If she suspected someone in a situation, Agatha wouldn’t stop until she had proof. Even if the person was innocent.

Agatha sighed, pulling away from you. The warmth of her touch vanished in an instant, and she got up from the bed, crossing the room with the lethal calm only she possessed.

"I’ll talk to Wanda tomorrow," she announced, her voice as sharp as glass.

Rio let out a brief, incredulous laugh.

"Talk?" She tilted her head, her eyes burning with something close to hatred. "And you really think she’ll admit it?"

Agatha turned to face her. "If it was her, I’ll know."

Rio studied her for a moment. "And if it wasn’t?"

The witch smiled, slow and sharp. "Then someone will pay all the same."

Rio ran her tongue over her teeth, crossing her arms. Her throat was dry. "I’m not like Lilia, Agatha. I won’t forgive."

The subtext was there.

Cruel and clear.

The last time this happened, it almost destroyed them. Almost tore them apart.

Agatha stepped closer, aligning her body with Rio’s, the candlelight shadows dancing over them like silent witnesses.

"I know, love. And that’s why you’re perfect for me."

Their eyes met, and in that instant, an understanding was sealed between them.

They had played this game for centuries. Survived every blow, every ambush, every broken alliance.

But this time was different.

This time, you were at the center of the board.

[...]

The set was alive with the sound of cameras, directors, and extras in their proper places. But Agatha heard nothing. Saw nothing. Time had flattened into a single thought: Where the hell are you?

Minutes before the break ended, a subtle unease made her check her phone. A habit. You always answered. Always came to her. Always obeyed.

Message sent. No response.

Her fingers slid across the screen, calling your name from the contact list. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail.

Agatha waited. Took a deep breath. Called again.

Nothing.

Her jaw clenched, and a weight began to settle in her chest, dense as molten lead. Irritation burned her skin like a persistent fever, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, something she refused to name.

She felt the tension in her shoulders when an assistant rushed past her. Without thinking, her hand shot out, gripping the woman's arm firmly.

"Where is she?" Agatha’s voice was low, but there was a sharpness to it, something that made the assistant blink in alarm.

"Who?"

Agatha’s patience was a thread about to snap.

She inhaled through her nose, teeth grinding as her mind processed the absurdity of the question. "The intern." The title felt weak in her mouth. Inadequate. "I need to review the script. And she’s not here."

The assistant hesitated, discomfort plain on her face. "I... I haven’t seen her. But I can find Yelena to review—"

Agatha dismissed her with an impatient gesture, her hand moving to her temple as her jaw locked even tighter.

The break ended.

The cast returned.

The extras returned.

The director returned.

But you didn’t.

The unease crept into her bones, replacing anger with something heavier, more unbearable.

That was when her assistant approached.

An uncertain gaze, hesitation in her steps.

She extended her hand. In the center of her palm, cold and silent, was your phone.

"The security guard found this..."

Agatha tore her eyes from her own screen, where she had been trying to call you for the umpteenth time.

The world stopped.

Her gaze fixed on the device, and something inside her tensed like a trap ready to spring. Her fingers wrapped around the phone, gripping it as if she could squeeze answers out of it.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

A second. Two. Her heart stuttered in her chest, erratic.

Fear.

The recognition of the emotion made her nauseous.

She lifted her eyes suddenly, her voice sharp as an ice blade:

"Where is Wanda?"

The woman’s agent barely glanced up from his phone, his expression vaguely distracted. "She went out for lunch."

And in that instant, Agatha knew.

Tension shot down her spine, a distant thunder before the storm.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles turning white.

"Fuck."

The sound was nearly lost beneath the ringing in her ears.

Her eyes darkened.

"Cancel today's scenes." Her voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it was undeniable. "Everyone is dismissed."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She didn’t notice the confused stares around her as she turned on her heel and stormed out, her purple coat billowing behind her.

Her fingers flew to her phone.

Calling Rio.

Her car was parked just outside, but the keys felt heavy in her hands.

Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the door.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Agatha gripped the steering wheel tightly, her breath quickening.

"Pick up, damn it."

The call was finally answered.

"Agatha."

Rio’s voice was steady, but Agatha recognized that hint of concern, as if she had been expecting this all along.

"Meet me at Lilia’s house."

There was a brief silence on the other end. No questions. No hesitation.

"I’m on my way."

Agatha hung up without further explanation.

Her heart pounded, her chest tight with a mix of fury and dread.

If Wanda had anything to do with this, Agatha was going to kill her.

Lilia was sitting at her desk, glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of her nose as she graded her students’ exams. The tip of the red pen struck a firm line through an incorrect answer, and she sighed.

That was when the front door slammed violently.

The sound echoed through the house, rattling the windows.

Lilia closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling a slow breath before saying, without even turning around:

"That was a bit much, don’t you think?"

Rio’s boots echoed against the wooden floor, each step like thunder ready to crash.

"Where. Is. She?"

Rio’s voice was a low growl, something primal and dangerous.

Lilia pushed her glasses up, finally looking at the woman standing in front of her. Rio was tense, shoulders rigid, dark eyes burning, fists clenched at her sides as if holding back violence by a thread.

But Lilia didn’t look surprised. Or scared.

She merely tilted her head slightly, her gaze analytical.

"You’re breaking into my house for this?"

Rio’s jaw clenched. She stepped forward, her shadow swallowing Lilia whole.

"I’m not in the mood for games, Lilia." Her voice was quieter now, more lethal. "She’s missing."

Lilia blinked slowly.

"And you think I’m involved?"

Rio narrowed her eyes, moving in like a predator scenting its prey.

"I think… you know something."

Their eyes locked in a silent duel.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

"Rio," Agatha warned, urging her to step back.

She entered the apartment, noticing the broken door, but even so, she grabbed it and fit it back into place, using her magic to repair the damage her wife had caused.

"I didn’t know you were a carpenter as well as a witch," Lilia mocked, slipping out of Rio’s grasp to sit on the couch, irritated.

"I apologize for that. But you understand what’s happening here, don’t you?"

"Understand?" Lilia scoffed, lighting a cigarette with the lighter on the coffee table.

Long centuries and she had never managed to kick the habit.

"Understand that you two got more attached than you should have?" She pointed the cigarette at both women. "I understand. It’s happened before, hasn’t it?" Lilia let out a hollow laugh, something almost melancholic behind it.

Agatha and Rio both took deep breaths, sinking into the plush cushions.

"But you should know I have nothing to do with this."

"Lilia…" Agatha began. "Where is Wanda?" Her tone was patient, too calm. She knew yelling at Lilia would only slow things down.

Lilia took another drag of her cigarette before answering. The orange glow briefly illuminated her face before she exhaled the smoke slowly, eyes locked on Agatha.

Silence stretched.

Time pulled tight like a thread about to snap.

Rio moved first. Her body leaned forward, hands landing heavy on the coffee table with a dull thud. "Answer, Lilia." Her voice was low, carrying an unspoken threat.

The other woman merely raised an eyebrow, looking bored.

"And what if I don’t know?"

"You know." Rio growled.

The laugh Lilia let out was short, devoid of humor. Her gaze drifted briefly, landing on an invisible point in the room. As if she were seeing something the others could not.

It was Agatha who spoke first, not raising her tone, yet making it impossible to ignore: "I don’t want to play with you tonight."

Lilia finally looked at her.

Her eyes gleamed under the dim light of the room. "But you always know how to play, Agatha."

Her name, coming from Lilia’s lips, sounded like a sharp blade sliding against skin.

The air grew heavier.

Rio felt her shoulders tense. It wasn’t an explicit threat. Not yet. But the game was being set before them, and the scent of danger was palpable.

"Her phone was found on set." Agatha continued, ignoring the provocation. "And Wanda disappeared at the exact same time."

"Coincidence." Lilia murmured, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray’s edge.

"Coincidences don’t fucking exist." Rio shot back, her patience crumbling.

"You’re right." Agatha admitted, making Lilia and Rio stare at her in disbelief. "We got attached more than we should have. Honestly, I didn’t even know that could happen to women like us…" Agatha trailed off, her eyes lost in the ashtray on the coffee table, watching the gray smoke dance in the air.

"Yeah… it can." Lilia breathed, sadly.

Agatha lifted her gaze, her eyes now firm and unyielding. "I don’t want the same thing that happened to Amélie to happen to her."

Oh.

The name was a punch. A dry crack in the air. A weight settling in Lilia’s chest, constricting each heartbeat.

Her face changed completely. The closed expression, the mask of disdain she always wore, shattered in an instant.

"Don’t say her name." Lilia’s voice was cutting, but there was something fragile beneath it. Something even she couldn’t hide.

The silence that followed screamed. It filled the room, creeping between the three of them, suffocating like an invisible presence refusing to leave.

Amélie’s name wasn’t just a name. It was a specter. A painful memory that had never found rest.

Lilia ran her tongue over her teeth, impatient. She took another cigarette, lighting it with the tip of her fingers. The flame flickered before dying, but the name still echoed in the heavy silence.

Amélie.

Agatha noticed the tremor in her friend’s hands as she brought the cigarette to her lips. "You still feel it, don’t you?"

Her voice came low, almost soft.

Lilia exhaled the smoke slowly. "What?"

Rio crossed her arms, her expression hard. "The absence. The guilt."

Lilia laughed. But it was an empty sound, dry, devoid of humor. "Guilt?" She repeated, testing the word on her tongue, as if it were something bitter. "Every single day."

She closed her eyes for a second, allowing herself to feel. And then, the memory came.

The golden hair—half blonde, half brown. Lilia never really knew for sure.

The soft texture.

The scent of eucalyptus shampoo, a common aroma, but on her, it was different. Unmistakable.

The white veil pinned to her head.

White.

Pure.

Amélie was light.

And Lilia?

"But no amount of guilt I feel. No stupid regret for not fighting for her, for us… will bring her back."

Agatha didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze landed on Lilia’s cigarette, on the way she held it, as if it were a shield. But it was useless. The past always found a way to reach them.

"Did you forgive her?" Agatha asked.

Lilia laughed again, but this time, there was pain in the sound. "Did I have another choice?" She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. "I was the one in the wrong. I betrayed you all. My family."

Agatha leaned forward. "Is that really what you think?"

For a moment, only silence answered. Then, finally, Lilia spoke, and her voice was a rough whisper:

"Fuck... of course not. I loved Amélie."

Her throat tightened, her lips trembling, but she kept going:

"I loved her."

Tears streamed from Lilia’s tired eyes. She had seen so many things, met so many people. But no one, no one, had ever compared to her Amélie.

"Of course you did." Rio spoke, her voice mirroring something she understood all too well. "You were never the same again, Lilia."

Lilia shook her head, letting out a shaky sigh. "She was so young. It was unbelievable that someone like her would waste her years inside that damned church. But fuck that." She shut her eyes, a weak chuckle escaping at the memory of the girl and how devoted she was. "I’d give anything to have her here with me."

Agatha blinked slowly, absorbing every word. It was like looking into a mirror.

If she let Wanda destroy everything… she’d end up like Lilia.

Or worse.

Because this time, she would watch Rio fall apart along with her.

Agatha took a deep breath. "Lilia…"

It was a plea. A silent request.

The older woman sighed again, her chest still heavy, but something in her seemed different. Maybe it was the weight shared between sisters. Maybe it was the unspoken understanding that their support for each other was non-negotiable.

Lilia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, watching the ember die.

"Wanda has too many dealings in WestView." She gave them an answer, but lifted her head to look at the women already at the door.

"Do you really think you can stop Wanda?"

Lilia studied the two women before her. The intensity in Agatha’s eyes. The ferocity in Rio’s.

The love and loyalty they shared, binding them in a way that neither time nor darkness could break.

For an instant, she saw something she thought had been lost long ago: hope.

Rio growled. "If she thinks she can touch her, she’ll have to go through me first."

Lilia smiled—a small, almost imperceptible smile, but genuine.

"Then good luck."

And with that, Agatha and Rio left, leaving behind the smoke of Lilia’s cigarette and the sweet memories of a name whispered in the air.

Amélie.

~*~

And who is Amélie? Well... I can tell you this story someday.

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi

[stickyspeckledlight]

Tidal Cesspool [Yan!Chrollo x GN!Reader]

Chrollo brings up your favorite literary genre in a typical conversation.

WC: 3.6k

Tags: n0nc0n mention (chrollo hasn't done anything yet, but there's...there's just a VERY brief mention), potentially a bit OOC *sweat*, not beta read whatsoever, borderline crack at the end

Note: Ngl I think there's an ask which covers this crack scenario. However I can’t find it but this silly lil thought was still plaguing me so here we go. If I’m not hallucinating, then don’t fault me for the “plagiarism…on accident [which I will fix immediately]” (Somerton, 2020). IF anyone knows abt such an ask then pls put it in the reblogs. Anyways this wasn't necessary I just wanted to put in a plagiarism joke before the fic starts lel

Anyway here's chrollo being a pretentious shithead who should just go and die or something (ngl sometimes i can't help but think he's shalnark expect he tries to pretend to be a gentleman lol).

enjoy my yandere comedy piece <3 xoxoxoxoxo

There is something inane to the way you stare up at the ceiling. You're sprawled over the couch like a sea star, waiting for the tide to come take you.

However, the air continues to waft over you. Continues to prick at your skin, tangling your hair and stinging your eyes.

But you're stuck to your rock. You can't move from your tide pool to the nearshore, much less the deepest of depths, even if you wanted to.

It's not because of your own attachment to the rock walls, however. Rather...

"Deep in contemplation again, love?"

A hand keeps you pressed and trapped against it; a hand that currently runs down the leather spine of a book that you think he's been going through for about a week. Probably about this or that; but most likely, a word salad of pretentious philosophy he’ll use to justify his usual fatalism and/or the Troupe’s actions. Taking after his name (which you’re convinced he must’ve chosen for himself), he does play the devil’s advocate well; but you’d say his ability to twist words to suit his own needs is much, much more impressive. And annoying. But begrudgingly, impressive all the same.

You only wish you weren’t on the receiving end of it.

Chrollo regards you with a patient smile. Joy doesn’t reach his eyes—even if he was capable of such an emotion, he’s irritatingly good at concealing his emotions—but he can never fully mask the hunger that crinkles his eyes; crinkles, like a wolf’s snout, right before it tears into prey. It's the only reason you believe in his insistence that you're of some interest to him. You don't believe in that interest being 'love,' as he likes to say, but you're wholly assured in being a passing, if not intense, interest. Like being enamored with a new show, movie, or game; for a bit, it'll be all your life is defined by, etched into the sand, but eventually, the tide will come back and wash it away like it was never there in the first place. Only truly precious things can be engraved in rock, after all.

For him, only the Troupe is engraved there. And you'd be a fool to think you would be there, too.

The couch shifts. Chrollo's closer to you, his hand barely a pace away from the edges of your hair. Though it tries to beckon, you only ever feel repulsed by it.

...That said, if you only try to delay the inevitable, the inevitable will become much, much worse. And if he gets in a bad enough mood, he might suction you to his chest come nightfall, rather than his usual trick of the room's temperature coincidentally dropping to where cozying up to his warm body would be nice. Well, nice, if you disregard the fact that it's Chrollo's body, and not someone you actually like.

You roll over with a grimace, looking up at him from where you lay. You don't bother to sit with him eye to eye yet, and soon enough, you look straight ahead. All you see are his legs and the rest of the couch.

"And I thought you were deep into that book," you unenthusiastically respond, tracing patterns into the cushions.

“Quite,” he admits, “But few things match your level of salience.”

Salience? Really? “What’s with you and talking like a book? Talk like a person, please.”

“But you understood what I meant,” he breezily counters, “Seeing as you are my only present company, it follows that in this rhetorical situation, I need only ensure that you understand me, love. And in that, I have succeeded.”

You frown, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Not this again.” You would normally bury your face in your hands, but given your position, you bury it in the couches. Sure, he’s technically not wrong, but goddamnit if it doesn’t annoy you. You thought hearing stuff like that was far behind you, with the completion of your required writing and communication classes all the way back in college…

“You’re admonishing me, yet here you are taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Says the guy whose last name is a letter off from Lucifer. Shouldn’t you be alight with exuberance?” You suppress a sneer at your own mocking mimicry.

“I never claimed any moral superiority before, though. I’m only stating facts, love,” the book is set down on the couch, next to your head. His hand inches closer. It’s a sign for you to get up.

As you rise, he continues.

“If you have complaints about my language, then you should watch your own…that’s all I’m trying to say, love. I'm not contradicting myself.”

You grumble. “I’m only saying you should talk more…casually. More normally. Swearing is a part of that.”

“Ah, but I am speaking to you like that,” Chrollo tips his head, “Casual and normal are both subjective. No two people will have the same definition of them. My and your speech are wholly normal, both from our perspectives.”

“Not from my perspective. You've always been a weirdo.”

He challenges, “Even if I cared about what was ‘normal’ or not,” his fingers entwine with yours, despite everything, “I wouldn't call your situation...normal. Do you think 'normal' applies here?"

Now he's just deliberately pushing your buttons. Raving on from some weird, philosophical ledge, twisting out technicalities to craft arguments the average sociologist would drool over. Maybe you could appreciate it more if you were the academic type, but you were never really interested in that scene. Most of what those types talk about just seem too abstract, too pedantic (pretentious) to be of any use at all. Whenever you'd overheard some of the sociology majors (either kids with no idea what they wanted to do, or kids with parents too rich to let them fail---though, that's not to discredit the kids with a loose screw or two. You actually like those kids, but those kids also talked normally), you'd end up scoffing to yourself and rolling your eyes. You swear that those kids were doing everything in their power to use as many big, weird nobody-could-find-anywhere-besides-the-annals-of-a-dictionary words as possible to describe something that could be more easily described as "power activate many monkeh brain, so monkeh fight."

It's exhausting, and you want him to stop. At least---at least stop pretending that there's some sort of deep meaning to be twisted from this, and not just what the situation really is: "an obsessive psychopath kidnapped and imprisoned you and is trying to make you obsessive for him too."

"Whatever," you mumble, already drained. It's not a response; your response would've been begrudging agreement, followed by you sulking and him preening (even though he never seems to have to try too hard to win an argument against you; but you think it's just because he likes the overwhelming power and 'superiority' he holds over you).

No, you just want him to shut up. In an ideal world, his mouth is either sewn shut, or its not there at all. Actually, the latter would be truly ideal, because if that were the case, he would've died from dehydration hours after leaving the womb.

But, that's wishful thinking. Even when he has you stuck against sharp rock, he never resists the urge to twist his palm, grinding you impossibly closer to it.

"So you don't care about what's normal or not after all?" Chrollo muses. You bristle as his grip firms up. As you feel sharp rock edge on puncturing your skin. "That's a curious change of heart."

You groan, "Chrollo---" you swear he glows "---it doesn't matter. You can talk like some sort of cult member or something for all I care. Just because I'm annoyed at your weird pretentious hoity toity thing doesn't mean you'll stop it, considering the circumstances." You feel even more heated, and take a deep breath to try and quell it. A bit of shame creeps up your cheeks regardless, though. You're getting worked up for the worst reason. Even if Chrollo egged it on, even if you hate him, even if you're just lonely and want to di---you're getting worked up over so, so, so little. "Just...just chill out or something, man."

(Or is that just his manipulation creeping into your thoughts?)

"But it's indicative all the same," He hums. His smile has dropped, leaving behind the blank expression wholly characteristic of him (the only expression that looks like it belongs). Now, he did little to hide his observation. He prowls out in the open, right below the overhead sun. Perhaps it's a contradiction, given his profession, but you understand it as sheer, almost lackadaisical confidence. "If you're able to drop your conviction so easily, even for something as small as this," his hand raises so he can rest his chin on it, leaning forward in thought. He does not let go of your hand. "Then it stands to reason you could drop the conviction that has you refusing me."

You don't mention Chrollo's many, prior claims that you'd give into him, eventually. There's no need to, because from the look in his eyes, you're both thinking about those exact same claims. A futile pursuit, he called it.

And you know? It's true.

But if you've gone this far with futility, then there's no reason to not indulge in it for as long as you can.

"Just because I get annoyed with your conversational meandering doesn't mean I'll just suddenly get all kissy wissy with you," you snap.

"You're getting caught up on the macroscopic level. Today was just a microscopic display, no?"

Despite yourself, you feel heat returning to your cheeks. To your heart. Your whole body, really.

"As if. There's nothing redeemable about these circumstances."

He'll probably cheekily mention your use of room service, curling into the luxurious bedsheets---things like that. Expected things. Actually, things that have already happened, because he really likes mentioning that. It serves its purpose of pissing you off.

He doesn't say any of that, though.

"Are you sure?" he raises an eyebrow, "I was sure you’d enjoy this kind of situation."

Anger spikes in your heart. You realize in the back of your mind its bait, that he's trying to draw out this exact reaction, but emotion already courses through you. Maybe it's because you're so shocked that he didn't go the route you were expecting---or, or---

"Me? Enjoy?" You bitterly laugh, because what else can you do in front of such sheer audacity? "Wh-what," you sardonically chortle, "The kidnapping? Losing my friends, my family---my life?!" And oh, oh no, tears bead at the edges of your eyes--- "How you---how you force me to be with you, to---to kiss you---" the words are hissed, "just so you don't massacre the people I actually care about?! And---and even then," you swallow a lump, unpleasant scenes of sufferance and cruelty unwillingly passing through your mind, "You'll just kill other people anyway?! Steal, plunder, kill, massacre---" your mouth runs with words now; your mind feels too white, too raging hot to string together coherent sentences---

And Chrollo wears that patient fucking smile.

“Love,” he blinks languidly, fluttering his eyelashes, “Are you sure you aren’t lying to yourself?”

"Why would I be lying?!" You snap. Your hand now has a vice grip on Chrollo's, which he simply responds to by drawing circles on it with his thumb. It only incenses you more. "What, annoyed that I can't be your happy little doll of your fucking fantasies and, and---"

For the first time, a chuckle rumbles in of his chest. Somehow, it makes you freeze. It sends a shudder up your spine, and though you still shake with unreleased anger, it's forcibly tempered. It shouldn't be. Chrollo laughs during your conversations often. Before everything went to hell, he'd laugh with and for you. After everything went to hell, he laughs at you. Nothing boastful, of course; Chrollo's a reserved man to the greatest extreme. But it's always small. A slight rumble through his chest, a huff accompanied by a smile, and a chuckle in his throat. They're much different than the laughs with or for you---sometimes they were chuckles with a smile ear-to-ear, or even boyish giggles---but they ARE the closest thing to 'genuine' you think you'll ever be able to get with him. You hate them, but you've developed some defense mechanisms against them. They don't happen often, but when they do, you tend to be able to largely ignore them.

But what's so different about this laugh? You don't know, but something about it feels meticulous and planned. It feels---

It reminds you of the day he took you. It reminds you of all the times you've unwittingly sprung a trap.

Now that you think about it, Chrollo's smiled more in this conversation then he has in entire weeks.

"You used to ask me what kinds of books I read," Chrollo calmly starts, lifting his head to raise his book up. You did, but ever since that fateful day a few weeks ago, you haven't bothered.

"And?" You spit.

"Aren't you still curious?" There's a twinkle in his eye. It tells you that there's no choice but to be curious.

You don't want to take it. You're not going to give him the clean segway he surely wants. If not, prefers.

"No," you sneer, "I've got no interest in what a murderer likes to read. Like I said, if you want some nice little doll, go somewhere else."

"If I wanted a doll, I'd have killed and displayed you somewhere," he flippantly replies. You don't think he's serious (you think maybe it's a joke, as cruel as it is), but you can't tell at all. "What I want is you."

"Oh, so then, the 'me' you want is one locked up and currently miserable?"

"You catch on quickly," he teases. He chuckles at the glower you give him.

You think you're bleeding from the sharp rock.

"Since we both understand this, then you should know I love nothing more than some conversation, darling," Chrollo sweetly says. Sweetly, as in a weird, perverted approximation of it. You would've fallen for it before, but you don't anymore. Can't, anymore. "You haven't engaged with my interests for a good while. It worries me about the state of our relationship. Don't you think so?"

He delivers the word lightly, like a soft spring breeze, but the subtle threat doesn't go unnoticed. You like you're being plunged into sharp rock directly, now. Like you're being placed on a series of pikes.

"Ok, ok, ok," you breathe---you still want to scream, but maybe Chrollo's patience has started to wear, and maybe if you don't play along with his stupid little game, maybe he'll do something to you you'll really, really hate. Even more than being spooned by him in your sleep. "What are you reading? ...Chrollo."

Chrollo regards the tome in his hands almost tenderly. Almost dearly. Like a treasure. A priceless one, even, and not just something to admire before pawning to the highest bidder.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" He offers it toward your bloody, pinned hands.

You gingerly accept it, and when you do, he finally lets go of your hand. The tide still hasn't come for you.

You start to read. But you quickly notice...perplexing things. The language seems too...too normal, too casual. Not the sort of thing you'd expect to be printed in this sort of fancy leatherbound book. It's not bad, of course. The prose is solid, the imagery magical, and the dialogue vivid; but it's just so...understandable. And familiar, but you can't quite place your finger on it.

Then you come a name, and you swear you've just lost a good 10 years of your life.

“What…” a cold sweat forms on your back. Should you laugh? Should you cry? Should you rage? What are you supposed to do but ask? What CAN you do but ask? When this whole conversation---when you've been put on edge over this fuc---

“Shal has a way of tracking down info even I can't match,” he explains, running his hand over the paper, “Before his help, I never would’ve thought…” his eyes lock onto yours with a devious grin, “You had this…interest. It was a pleasant surprise."

You want to scream. You'd love nothing more than to take his head and slam it into the ground over and over---you'd love nothing more than to scream into the couch and flail your arms and legs with revulsion---you'd love nothing more than to laugh until you're blue and choking.

"H-how," you choke, "The book. And just. This. How'd you---how'd?"

"I went to a bookbinder," he explains. "I'm quite happy with the results. It was worth every single jenny I spent."

Your eyes are wide. "...How long? How long did you know?"

"Long enough."

You're too mortified to be properly offended by the non-answer.

The bastard went to a bookbinder so he could physically behold the copious amounts of yandere fanfiction you consume.

You look over at him helplessly.

"It's a fairly niche genre," he explains, like you aren't currently going through the five stages of grief, "But above all, fascinating."

Someone should just kill you.

"You've been so resistant to loving me because I stole you away. Yet, for years, you've taken escapism in these narratives of the unwilling 'darling' and doting lover."

Doting lover? That's what Chrollo is using to describe the person who imprisons? Who quashes any semblance of individuality out of a person whose only crime was being loved by the wrong person?

The leans in. "Rather than being my fantasy, don't you think you're the one living out a fantasy? I certainly never fantasized about this, at least not until I decided to take you on as my lover."

"N-no," you weakly defend.

"No?" He hums, "But there's everything. You, unsuspecting of a charming man, who eventually betrays your trust to whisk you away. And yes, you fight. But...you aren't truly threatened. You are surrounded by all manner of luxury---even if you say you don't like it."

"Don't tell me you can't differentiate fiction from reality," you stammer. "Why the fuck do you think just because I read about it meant I actually wanted it?"

"I didn't," he admits, "How long do you think I've had this book anyway?"

...A week or so, you think. After he took you. But he could've read a ton beforehand and only had his favorites binded. You just glare up at him in lieu of an answer.

"It doesn't matter," you raise your hands and let them fall unceremoniously, "The fact that you've read all of this makes everything worse. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised given the whole murdering thief thing, but I'll never not be surprised at just how depraved a man you really are."

"Depraved?" He smirks. That's not a good sign. "Darling," he pointedly says, "I'm not sure how much more depraved I can be than someone who gets raped vicariously through transformative fiction."

Humiliation punches you in the gut.

You choke. "If---if you---" you feel heat rise to your eyes, "You don't let me even have silly little secrets," you helplessly breathe, unable to say anything but the first thing that came to your mind when you read that damning name, "You can't let me have anything of my own."

"Not necessarily. You possess a portion of my heart." A lesser half than the one belonging to the Spider, you'd bet.

"And I'd be happy to relinquish it."

"It really does put a lot of things in perspective," Chrollo ignores you, attention turning back to the accursed book you have half a mind to tear, "How, sometimes," his eyes become lidded, "There's a small part of you that wants to give into me."

"Bullshit," you spit, reflexive more than anything, "A bunch of stupid fanfiction doesn't tell you shit about me."

"Clothes maketh the man, as they say. I imagine a similar principle applies to fiction."

"Have you even heard of---" you bite your lip, "Well, sometimes really good people read stuff that isn't deemed good or vice versa. I hear there was an artist who painted lots of cottages, but was a horrid drunk in real life. My favored sorts of stories doesn't inform my desires, and with you, I desire to skedaddle and never see your face ever again."

"Your most common tag is Stockholm Syndrome." He hums. "Say what you will; about the barrier between fiction and reality, but it tells me that, at least, a small part of you is...receptive."

You groan. "You do realize you sound like some weirdo pearl clutcher with that line of logic, right?"

"I'm not speaking in absolutes, love," he preens, "Merely that it's not remiss to consider you have some semblance of an agreeable predisposition to all of this."

"You---you're just," you want to scream, you want to tear out your eyes and ears and--- "fucking delusional and I---"

You don't realize you're heaving until a hand is placed on your shoulder. The ice it sends down your spine is enough to freeze over the fire of rage, embarrassment, and humiliation fueling you.

"Often, when people read," he begins, "They envision themselves as the perspective character while they do so. They try to feel what they do, and think as they do. Given the genre's heavy use of the second-person perspective, it's safe to say you were able to do that with ease."

"So, if that's the case..." he doesn't smile, not anymore, because there's just no need,

"Why don't you start eroding that barrier?"

It's going to be a long time before the tide comes back, you think. Until it does, you've nowhere but this cesspool.

ㅤㅤ Works Cited

Hbomberguy. “Plagiarism and You(Tube).”

Youtube, 2 Dec. 2023, youtu.be/yDp3cB5fHXQ?si=KsUuykgb8Xswn_he. Accessed 26 Mar. 2025.

Somerton, James. “James Somerton Stream .”

Youtube, 11 Dec. 2022, cant.be/botheredto?si=findlinkonwaybackmachine.. (qtd. in. Hbomberguy, Plagiarism and You(Tube)) .

plagarism joke after the fic 🔥

(it'll be off on mobile i think RIP)

im tired so i'll post it but tbh i might go back and edit this fic lmao

[enchantresss97]

Wicked Ties-Chapter One

Characters: Roman Godfrey(Slightly AU Roman is not in high school anymore, the action happens in present times) x Reader

Description: When Roman Godfrey comes seeking your help, you greet him with a blade to his throat. Witches and upirs have been enemies for centuries, and their own past is stained with betrayal. But with danger closing in and his hunger spiraling out of control, you are the only one who can save him. Bound by need, torn by desire that threatens to consume both of you, your wicked ties may destroy you both.

Warnings: dark themes, magic, witches, upirs/vampires, blood, death, SMUT, sex (most of the types).

Word count: 4158

A/N: This will be three chapters story, I really hope you will enjoy it. Happy reading! ❤️

Roman Godfrey was a lot of things but never a fool. He should have known better than to trust a witch.

But desperation had driven him to her. The hunger was getting worse, his control slipping. He was running out of ways to stop himself from tearing through flesh and draining every last drop of blood from the people around him.

Dr. Pryce had been his last hope. If anyone could have found a way to fix him, it should have been him. He had watched Pryce lie to him, experiment on him, twist his life into something unnatural. The man had promised control but had only made things worse unleashing his power. It was because of him that Roman had become this. A monster driven by hunger, barely able to hold himself together.

So, Roman had torn his throat out. Slowly. Deliberately. Let the man feel, just for a moment, what it was like to be powerless under something stronger.

Killing him didn’t change anything. It didn’t make the hunger disappear, didn’t make the need any less unbearable. It just meant he was out of options. Through out the year he tried to find many ways to escape this nightmare. Sure, he enjoyed the power who came with this, a little too much actually but not being able to control the hunger was the only reason couldn’t let it go the idea of a cure.

So, he turned to something older, something darker.

The witch had promised answers. She had let him believe she had the knowledge to fix whatever was inside him. Instead, she played him for a fool.

She was ancient, a powerful force feared even among the Sabat. Her knowledge and strength were unmatched, her reputation etched into the hearts of every witch who dared to cross her path.

But Roman hadn’t cared about any of that when he stood before her, rage burning in his veins.

She had made him believe she could help him. She had let him think that she could fix the monster he had become. The Sabat revered her, she had led them, taught them, and shaped them into what they were and the coven trusted her implicitly. She had seen centuries pass, seen the rise and fall of many so yeah, he had fallen for it, just as he had fallen for every other promise of salvation all these years. But when he finally understood that she had been playing him from the start he snapped.

In a fit of fury, Roman had killed her. There had been no warning, no calculated move. Just pure, raw rage. Her laugh still echoed in his mind, mocking, cruel, dismissive. She had thought herself untouchable. But Roman was done being a puppet, done letting anyone control him. So, he had torn her apart, ending her life in a moment of overwhelming fury.

And since a bad thing never comes alone, of course he knows that the witches would never forgive him for it. She had been too important, too powerful to be disposed of like that. Her death would send ripples through the coven. They would come for him. He needs to be one step ahead.

And that left him with only one choice:

Now, he stood at your door. The only person who could help him. The thing was, you weren’t exactly on good terms.

You hadn’t been since high school, before either of you knew what you truly were. Back then, Roman had been just a boy, and you, a girl with the world ahead of her. But everything changed the moment you both found out the truth. The truth that tore you apart.

What you had back then was innocent, sweet even and that’s rich coming from an spoiled brat like Roman. But then you found out about each other, the power dynamics shifted. You learned what you were, and so did he. And as it always went with your kind, the attraction was undeniable, but so were the consequences. Your relationship had ended badly. Too much power, too much darkness, too many things left unsaid.

Now, Roman stood on your doorstep, desperate for your help, he hesitated only for a moment before knocking on the heavy wooden door. The night air was thick around him, the scent of damp earth and smoke lingering. He knew you were there, he could feel it. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing your silhouette against the dim glow of candlelight. You didn’t look surprised, just annoyed.

But neither of you spoke. You stood there, frozen in place, just staring at each other. Even though you knew he was coming, the sight of him still knocked the breath from your lungs. He looked…different…older, rougher. His eyes were darker, haunted, but his presence was still overwhelming, suffocating even. And despite how much you hated it, your heart ached at the sight of him.

Roman didn’t fare much better. He had prepared himself for this, convinced himself that seeing you again wouldn’t mean anything after all these years. But now that you were standing in front of him, the memories hit him like a punch to the gut. You looked the same. Still had that fire in your eyes, that confidence that made his blood rush and his heart race. Yet there was something colder about you, something guarded, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of him.

He swallowed, a smirk slowly creeping onto his lips to mask the sting of nostalgia. “Long time no see,” he said, his tone casual. Too casual for what lay between you.

You didn’t look at him, instead tracing your finger over one of the tarot cards on the table. “What the fuck are you doing here, Roman?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just watched you with that lazy, arrogant smile, trying to hide the way his pulse was still racing from just seeing you again. “Missed me?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, your eyes sharp as glass. “Try again. Why are you here?”

He pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps closer, his gaze never leaving you. “I need your help.”

A humorless laugh escaped your lips. “My help” You turned fully now, eyes narrowing. “After what you did?”

Of course you already know what happened. Roman tilted his head, feigning innocence. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I do a lot of things.”

That was it. You shot up from your chair, the knife already in your hand, and in a flash, you were in front of him, the blade pressed to his throat. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just looked down at you with that same cocky expression.

“Relax, baby,” he purred. “You’ll cut me before we even get to the good part.”

You didn’t bother responding, just pulled back and swung the knife again, aiming to slice his cheek. He ducked, catching your wrist mid-swing, and twisted your arm behind your back, pressing you against the wall.

“Getting feisty already?” he whispered against your ear. “You always did have a short fuse.”

You gritted your teeth and stomped down on his foot, making him loosen his grip just enough for you to break free and punched him in the jaw, the force making him stumble back a step.

Roman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking when he saw the faint trace of blood on his skin.

You spun around and aimed a punch at his jaw again, which he dodged this time, but not without brushing his fingers over your waist. The touch sent a jolt through you, one you hated yourself for feeling.

“Can’t we just talk like adults?” he taunted. “Or are you gonna keep trying to take my head off?”

You threw another punch, and he caught your arm, smirking down at you. “You really think I wanted to kill her?” he asked, voice dropping to something almost serious.

You yanked your arm free, shoving him back. “You’re a fucking monster, Roman. You don’t care who you hurt.”

He clenched his jaw, something dark flashing in his eyes before he plastered on that smug smile again. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

You scoffed, muttering a quick spell under your breath. The room suddenly filled with an electric pulse, and Roman felt his legs buckle as the force knocked him down to one knee. You moved in to kick him, but he caught your ankle, pulling you off balance. You landed on top of him, and before you could move, he had you pinned beneath him, wrists trapped above your head.

He leaned down, lips brushing the side of your throat. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I didn’t want to kill her. She wouldn’t fucking help me. She just kept pushing, saying I was a monster. Said there was no cure, that I should just accept what I am.”

You struggled against his grip, glaring up at him. “So you killed her?”

His expression darkened, but he didn’t move. “She lied to me. Promised to help, then called me a lost cause. I snapped. Didn’t even realize what I was doing until she was already bleeding out.”

Your breathing was ragged, your heart racing against his chest. You hated how his scent still messed with your head, how the warmth of his body made your skin tingle.

“You’re just trying to manipulate me,” you hissed, turning your head to avoid his gaze.

He let out a low, frustrated growl. “You really think that little of me?”

You met his eyes, and for a moment, there was something raw in them, something unguarded. But you couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust him. You pushed against his chest, trying to shove him off, but he didn’t budge.

“Get off me,” you snapped but he didn’t move.

You shot him a glare, then mumbled another spell, the air around you warping with heat. Roman flinched, forced to release you as the energy crackled around him. You scrambled to your feet, grabbing for the knife again, but he intercepted, catching your wrist and spinning you around, trapping your arm behind your back. Your body was pressed against his chest, his breath hot against your ear.

Both of you were breathing heavily, chests heaving with the aftermath of the fight. His grip was firm but not painful, and you could feel every hard line of his body against yours.

For a moment, you froze. Your mind drifted back to high school, back when you and Roman were inseparable. He was always handsome, undeniably so, with a lean frame that moved with effortless grace. He was good looking, but now? Now he was something else entirely.

The boy you once knew was gone, replaced by a man, a raw, intimidating presence. His body was bulkier, his muscles more defined, his chest pressing against yours in a way that made it impossible to ignore just how much he’d changed. There was a heaviness to him now, a strength that sent a jolt of awareness through you. He wasn’t the same person. And God, did you feel it.

Back then, Roman was still discovering who he was, barely scratching the surface of his power, unsure how to control it or even fully understand what he was. But now? Now he radiated power, a force that could crush anything in his path. There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty. He knew exactly what he was, and how dangerous that knowledge made him. Stronger than ever. Definitely, far more dangerous than you ever imagined.

And then, there was his appearance. Impeccable, like something out of a high fashion magazine. After finding out that he’s the only heir of the Godfrey Industry, Roman started to carry himself with the poise of someone who had everything, a figurehead of the Godfrey empire. His clothes, tailored to perfection, fit him like a second skin. Sharp suits that spoke of wealth, power, and influence. It wasn’t just a look; it was a statement. A fashion icon in his own right. Oh and he definitely kept that throughout the years. The way he moved, the way he held himself, his every detail screamed control and authority. And even in this chaotic moment, you couldn’t help but notice it.

“Please,” he whispered, pulling you to reality. This time his voice wasn’t cocky or mocking, just desperate. “I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t control it. They’re going to come for me.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, his voice sending a shiver down your spine despite everything. You wanted to push him away, wanted to scream and curse him, but something in his tone made you hesitate.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his hands loosened their hold, just enough to give you space if you wanted to pull away. But you stayed still, caught between your anger and the way his body molded against yours.

“Please,” he repeated, softer this time.

Your breath hitched, and for the first time since he walked through the door, your firm stance is starting to weaken.

You both stood facing each other, the air still thick with unspoken emotions. The fight had died down, but the tension between you two had only grown. You shook your head, clearly frustrated, but with an edge of determination. Your arms crossed, facing the reality of the mess Roman had made.

“You really have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” you said, your tone sharp, but beneath it, you couldn’t help the edge of disbelief. Roman’s careless actions had just thrown him into a storm, and you were the one left trying to figure out how to stop it.

“Hiding isn’t going to work” you said without waiting for his response, moving back to your chair, the subtle grace of your movements betraying the storm inside you. You sank down, the heels of your boots clicking softly against the floor as you reclaimed your space. The Tarot cards that had been spread out in front of you now felt like the only thing grounding you.

Roman raised an eyebrow, the cocky smirk still on his face, but it faltered when he saw the serious look in your eyes. “You don’t want me to hide? I thought you’d be all for that,” he taunted, though there was a flicker of concern beneath the bravado.

But one thing that apparently never changed? His dirty mouth. And his arrogance. Even now, with all the changes, Roman was still the same bastard he’d always been. He still knew how to push your buttons with every word that left his lips, his cocky attitude never fading.

“Shut up, Roman,” you said, your voice firm, staring at him, almost incredulously. “The coven won’t just let this go. You know that, right? They will come for you.”

Roman leaned against the table, his posture casual, but the desperation in his eyes was clear. “I don’t know what I expect to do, but I need you to help me. You’re the only one who can.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers brushing against the edges of the cards. Slowly, deliberately, you began gathering them together, the soft shuffle of the cards a steady rhythm as you stacked them. They had always been a way to focus, to clear the noise from your mind.

You reached for the cigarette case on the table, effortlessly picking up the long cigarette holder. You slid the cigarette into its end and brought it to your lips, the holder dangling elegantly between your fingers. The smoke curled lazily from your lips as you took a slow drag, eyes never leaving Roman.

Roman raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he remarked, his gaze still on you.

“Well, I learned from the best,” you replied, a hint of playfulness in your voice while you shuffled the cards once more in your hands.

You could feel the old familiarity settle in the room, and your mind briefly drifted back to a different time. Roman teaching you how to smoke for the first time. It was supposed to be innocent, just a few puffs shared between you two but every time you tried, you both ended up closer than expected. His hands, guiding yours. The way his lips brushed against yours as he demonstrated how to inhale. And somehow, every lesson ended the same way: both naked moaning each other’s name.

Roman’s eyes had darkened slightly, and you could tell he was thinking about the same thing. And for a moment the sound of the cards sliding against each other was the only noise in the room. You drag once more from the cigarette and then spread the cards back to the table with slow precision.

“I’ll talk to the coven,” you said finally, your voice cold, calculated. “I’ll explain it, make them understand. But you need to keep your mouth shut and let me handle this. The witch you killed, she was kind of the leader, I’m sure you already know this by now. After her, there were others in the hierarchy. I will speak and I’ll deal with them. You don’t get to say a word.”

Roman took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Smart? You mean playing nice with them? I’m not sure that’s my style.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you said, your voice low but firm. “Now pick a card” you continue without looking up from the cards you’d laid out before him.

Roman raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate. He moved toward the table, his fingers brushing the cards as he chose one with deliberate slowness, flipping it and then gave it to you. You watched him closely, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you analysis the card.

Your eyes met again and you saw Roman ran a hand through his hair, his mouth twisting into a rueful grin. Another gesture who reminds you of the old Roman, he always used to do this, apparently he still does.

“I know I fucked up,” he said, the cocky edge to his voice still present, even as he tried to show some kind of regret. “But I didn’t have much of a choice.”

You gestured to the cards. “Pick another one.” You said ignoring his statement.

Roman hesitated for only a moment before he reached out and drew another card, his hand still steady, but you could see the tension in his movements now.

“So, what does it say?” He asked studying the new card, trying to read something in the design, the symbols but he knows shit about tarot reading. You didn’t let him see your reaction, but you were scanning him, watching him carefully. The way he looked at the cards, the way he hesitated, everything he did had meaning to you.

Neither of you spoke, but the air was thick with the weight of the unspoken, everything that needed to be said, but wasn’t.

“Not everything is meant to be said aloud.” You finally broke the silence.

Roman stared at you, his frustration clear, but he knew better than to push you. Not yet, at least. He was here because he needed you, and clearly you weren’t about to make this easy on him.

“I’ll talk to the coven,” you said again after few seconds, “But you really need to let me handle this, Roman, no more tricks and no more loosing control. And no promise this will work.”

Roman shifted, standing a little straighter. He didn’t like it, but he knew it was the only option. His usual cocky, self-assured attitude flickered, but only for a moment.

He stepped closer, his gaze drifting over you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re so confident,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “You always were.”

You didn’t step back, holding your ground. “I’ve had to be. But I’m not the one who killed a high-ranking witch, am I?”

Roman chuckled softly, the sound rich with arrogance. “No, you’re not. But you always did like being the one in control, didn’t you?”

“Not this time, Roman,” you replied, your eyes narrowing. “But still, this time you have no choice but listening to me.”

After a long pause, Roman said, his voice quieter than before. “You know, I didn’t think it would come to this. I didn’t think I’d ever be asking for your help.”

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you watched him carefully, letting the moment stretch. His voice wasn’t just the usual cocky edge; there was a vulnerability to it now, one that didn’t sit well with him.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” you said after a beat, your tone cold but not unkind.

You knew. Him, standing here in front of you was the last place he wanted to be. And the same went for you. Fate had a cruel sense of humor, mocking both of you by dragging him to your door.

There he was, in your space, with that same cocky smirk and unspoken desperation behind his big green eyes.

You looked at him with a sly smile, one eyebrow raised as you pointed to the cards in front of him. “Wanna pick another card?” you teased, your voice laced with a hint of mischief.

He let out a low, frustrated groan, rolling his eyes. “Enough with the card game,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth curved up despite himself. He leaned forward, his hands pressing down on the table as he bent over it, his face just a breath away from yours. The tension crackled between you like a live wire, his scent, the expensive cologne and something unmistakably him filling your senses.

“So this is the plan, right?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, daring you to challenge him. “You’re really gonna help me?”

Your eyes traced the shape of his lips, and suddenly, memories came rushing back. His mouth against yours, hot and greedy, claiming every inch of your skin. Those full lips had kissed you breathless, whispered filthy promises in the dark, tasted every part of you. You hated that you remembered so vividly.

“Yes,” you replied, forcing your focus back to his eyes. “But what do I get in return?”

Roman let out a soft laugh, one that was both amused and tinged with something darker. “You know, you haven’t changed. Still the same stubborn, sexy witch you always were.”

You met his gaze, your pulse quickening despite yourself. The attraction was undeniable, and it pulled at you, but you couldn’t afford to let it get in the way now.

“And you’re still the same cocky bastard,” you replied, your voice sharp but with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, leaning back, settling into the chair with an air of nonchalance.

His gaze flicked down to your mouth before meeting your eyes again, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Anything you want,” he drawled, the words coated in sin and seduction. He didn’t move back, he stayed right there, so fucking close.

You picked up the cigarette holder again, taking a slow, deliberate drag before letting the smoke curl from your lips. Your eyes never left his as you gave him a faint, almost mocking smile.

“Then we have a deal,” you said smoothly, the hint of a challenge glinting in your eyes.

His lips curved into a smirk, clearly pleased and maybe just a little irritated because he was losing control and loosing control was the one thing Roman Godfrey hated more than anything. And right now, that’s exactly what he’d done.

Given in, let himself be pulled into your plan, and surrendered to the one person he never thought he’d have to depend on. The tension between you was almost palpable, his jaw clenched as he tried to mask the frustration simmering behind those sharp green eyes.

Roman’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, and you saw something flicker in his expression, something primal and raw. He looked at you like he wanted to bite, to taste, to remind you that you weren’t the only one pulling strings here.

But he didn’t say a word. Just gave a single, sharp nod, his eyes never leaving yours. He hated that he needed you. Hated that he couldn’t just walk out and figure this out on his own. Hated how much power you suddenly had over him.

Your lips twitched, amusement glinting in your eyes as you watched him fight for control. You wondered if fate had been waiting all this time just to pull you back together and make you face everything you’d tried to forget.

[flowersforthosewhoneeds]

"Forgive me, my mortal."

part 5 of " I wish i was her "

I recommend listening because this chapter is full of angst,,

.............

Last Time...

The mission had gone horribly wrong. The pain hit like a wave, and you fought to stay alive as blood poured from your wound. In those final moments, you had tried to reach out just one last time. Your voice cracked as you sang the words that echoed in your soul, knowing it might be the last time you’d ever speak.

"I’m ridin' in a getaway car, I was cryin' in a getaway car, I was dyin' in a getaway car..."

With your last breath, you managed to send out a signal, alerting the Avengers. You hadn’t called for help because you couldn’t bear the thought of Loki seeing you like this broken, bleeding, so very mortal. You managed to say, “Mission accomplished, sir. Goodbye.” The words slipped out like a final surrender, knowing the end was near.

Then... nothing.

You passed out, and the world around you went black. The last thing you heard was Loki's voice calling your name, distant but full of urgency. But even then, you weren’t sure if you could make it out. You weren’t sure if you would survive.

Now...

Loki stood frozen, his eyes fixated on the screen. The last footage of you the blood, the struggle, the brokenness played on repeat. Tony’s hands trembled as he pulled up the footage again, but Loki couldn’t tear his gaze away. He couldn’t process it. He couldn’t believe it.

“Where is she?” Thor’s voice cut through the tension, his usual calm demeanor replaced with concern. Loki’s fist tightened at his side, his jaw clenched.

“She’s not responding,” Tony said, his voice tight with panic. “Her signal’s lost. Friday’s trying to track her coordinates, but..”

“I don’t care about the signal!” Loki snapped, his voice low but sharp. “I need to find her now.”

The Avengers scrambled, preparing to leave, but Loki was already moving, a whirlwind of motion as he summoned his magic. A green mist surrounded him as he turned to the others, his expression hardening.

“We’re going to find her. Now.”

Without waiting for anyone, Loki vanished, leaving the Tower in a blur of light.

The Scene at the Mission Site

Loki arrived at the location where the last signal had been traced. The place was a desolate wreck, debris scattered across the ground, signs of a fierce battle everywhere. The dust still hung in the air, and the scent of destruction was thick. But something was wrong.

“Where is she?” Thor asked, his eyes scanning the surroundings, trying to locate any trace of you. But the silence was deafening.

Loki’s heart pounded in his chest as he moved swiftly, his eyes glowing with a barely-contained fury. His gaze darted from one corner to another, his mind racing. You had been here. You had to be.

But when he reached the spot where you had fallen there was nothing.

“No…” Loki’s voice trembled, a whisper of disbelief. His hand reached out, trembling as he touched the ground where you had bled. The earth was still warm from the magic, the signs of the battle still fresh, but you were nowhere to be found.

Thor, Tony, and the others arrived just as Loki dropped to his knees, his eyes wild with a mix of confusion and anger.

"Where the hell is she?" Tony demanded, his voice sharp.

Loki stood up, his face a mask of fury and confusion. His magic flared, but the surroundings didn’t change. No sign of your body. No trace of you.

“She’s been taken,” Loki muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was cold, controlled, but there was an underlying rage that no one could ignore. “Whoever did this… will pay.”

Tony’s eyes flickered to the ground, his expression darkening. He stepped forward, his voice softening slightly. “We’ll find her, Loki.”

“I don’t need your help,” Loki spat, his voice venomous as he turned to face Tony. “She was mine to protect.” His fists clenched again, his power crackling in the air around him. “Whoever took her is a fool to think they could steal her from me.”

Thor placed a hand on Loki’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “We will find her, brother.”

But Loki didn’t respond. He only turned away, his eyes glowing fiercely as he sought out the magic that had taken you. He was already in motion, leaving the Avengers behind to follow his trail.

A Few Hours Later Back at the Tower

The Avengers were back at the Tower, regrouping and trying to formulate a plan. The screens were filled with footage of the scene, but still, no answers.

Tony paced, his hand running through his hair. “Friday, any updates?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s still no signal,” Friday responded. “But the last known location shows a powerful surge of magic possibly dark magic.”

Loki was in another room, alone, consumed by the search. His thoughts raced as he tried to connect the dots. Who could’ve taken you? Why?

He didn’t care about the why anymore he just wanted you back. His mind kept replaying that last footage of you, your final words, your broken form. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t get the image out of his head.

"I left you in a motel bar, Put the money in a bag and I stole the keys, That was the last time you ever saw me..."

His chest tightened, his breath growing ragged. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

Meanwhile, You

You were no longer at the site of the explosion. The magic that had taken you had whisked you away to a place that was dark and unfamiliar. You could barely move, your body still recovering from the injury and the loss of blood. But you were alive barely.

The darkness around you felt suffocating, and you could feel the pull of magic surrounding you. Whoever had taken you wasn’t done with you yet.

And somewhere, in the distance, you could almost hear Loki’s voice a whisper of desperation, laced with the kind of fury only he could possess.

But you were fading again, the pain unbearable, the fear consuming you. All you could do was hold on, hoping that Loki or anyone would come for you before it was too late.

<3 @bailandotuki @tinytroublemaker @angelkat1013 @paryl @wannabe-oblivion @lokisgoodgirl @fantasyfan4life @saisbaldhead @xicr <3

[quintessenceofdust88]

Fuck it Friday Saturday

I was tagged by my lovely @bidisasterevankinard (Diana you're the love of my life thanks for tagging me, it makes my heart warm every time ♥) Soooo I'm kinda cheating a bit, cause I posted this as snippets of make me write, but now I've organized it into a whole thing that shall be finished and posted soon (hopefully!). It's from New Tides, ch. 1!

Buck is, there is no sugarcoating it, freaking out. 

There’s fifteen minutes left until Tommy is supposed to pick him up, and Buck still isn’t completely sure he won’t call and pretend he is sick and can’t go after all. Because he’s about to go on a date with a dude, and although that isn’t weirding him out at all (he is an ally, for Christ’s sake!), he’s so nervous it feels like his heart will fall out of his mouth. 

He’s halfway to reaching for his phone when it rings on its own, and Buck is so worried that it might be Tommy canceling on him (and despite of what he was thinking five minutes ago, he’s sure he’d be devastated if that were the case) that he doesn’t even look at the caller ID before answering. 

“Hello?!” He answers, checking his hair on the mirror for what has to be the tenth time in as many minutes.

“Stop freaking out, Buck” Maddie’s voice answers from the other side, and Buck, despite himself, feels a little calmer at hearing his older sister’s voice.

He hadn’t initially planned on telling Maddie about his date with Tommy, at least not until he was sure of what was going on. But Chim had blabbed to her about the whole ‘asking Tommy out while on painkillers’, and Buck had ended up telling her about Tommy showing up at his loft. To his relief, his sister had been completely supportive, the only teasing coming from the fact he had to be high to finally admit that guys were hot.

Right now, though, he’s extremely grateful that Maddie knows, because she’s the only person who might be able to talk him out of his mental spiraling. 

“I am not freaking out!”, Buck exclaims, but he knows there’s no fooling Maddie. “Okay, I am, but Maddie! What if this is a mistake?”

“Why would it be a mistake? Don’t you want to go out with him?”

“Of course I do! But what if I mess it up? You know that’s very likely to happen.” Buck says, pacing up and down his living room. He hears Maddie sigh very audibly on the other side. 

“Buck. Don’t let your head keep you from having something nice. Please? You deserve it after the last few months.” She says, almost pleadingly, and Buck’s heart skips a beat. 

He does deserve something nice after having his leg crushed by a firetruck, then spending his whole summer trying to get back on his job only for an embolism to ruin his plans, and then being in the middle of a literal tsunami. Tommy Kinard is the first really nice thing to happen to him in a long time, and he’s already finding a way to Buck it up. 

“You’re right”, he admits to Maddie. “I… I need to get out of my head about it. It’s just dinner, right? No big deal.”

“Definitely not a big deal”, Maddie agrees emphatically, and Buck takes a deep breath, his heartbeat slowing in his chest. “Go, have fun with your hot pilot. I love you”

“Love you too, Mads”, Buck tells her, and then they hang up. 

He’s still not totally calm, but he’s feeling better. This is something he’s always been good at; flirting, dating, getting to know someone (getting them to stay is where you run into trouble, a treacherous part of his brain tries to add, but Buck is determined to ignore it for now).

It won’t be any different just because Tommy’s a man, he reasons as he sprays on his favorite cologne. Buck still wants to flirt with him, get to know him. Definitely kiss him again. So why was he getting all nervous about it? He’s totally got this. 

There’s a knock on his door. Buck’s heart plummets all the way down to his knees. 

He doesn’t got this, in fact. But it’s too late to back out, and Tommy is waiting for him outside his door like a perfect gentleman, and Maddie raised him right. So after a deep breath and a slight wiping of his sweaty hands on his dark jeans, Buck opens the door. 

To find Tommy Kinard with an honest-to-God bouquet of sunflowers in his hand and a sheepish adorable smile on his face.

Np tagging @agentpeggycartering @laundryandtaxesworld @dum-amo-vivo9 @jamieroyjamieroy @unhingedangstaddict and whoever else would like to join! (if you want you can consider this your tag for Inspiration Saturday since Friday is over for a lot of folks already!)

[sepublic]

TOH’s Dangerous Idiots

            Thinking of that tweet about how OP expected the men in power to burn down the world, they just didn’t expect them to be such losers about it. And the growing awareness of people like Trump and Musk who present themselves as brilliant, but are actually just very confident, loudmouthed idiots, and how incel ideology encourages a very dangerous breed of idiocy.

            And with Follies at the Coven Day Parade’s ending being modeled after the writers’ anxieties during the 2020 election, it makes me consider also how characters like Jacob Hopkins or Bill the Titan Trapper are pretty obvious, delusional idiots who go out of their way to buy into dumb stuff because it serves their egos. Adrian Graye can be somewhat clever, but he’s ultimately a dimwit both creatively and in general. Kikimora is delusional enough to believe Belos will make some exception for her, even after everything she’s experienced from him.

            Odalia is obviously business-savvy; But the way she buys into Belos’ genocide as something that doesn’t matter because she’ll be rich enough from his Abomaton purchases, is clearly modeled after wealthy people who believe they’ll be the last to suffer the consequences of a burning world, that they’ll be safe in their apocalypse bunkers, while also taking for granted that there are supply chains their hedonistic lifestyles are dependent on that will collapse during said apocalypse.

            And to be real here, Belos himself also qualifies; Like sure, he’s fairly decent at manipulating people now. But this is after centuries of trial and error; Any idiot can learn with that many chances. Before that, he was Philip Wittebane, who could fool people by playing up a sympathetic act. But there’s a reason we say “Fool me once, shame on you; Fool me twice, shame on me” and that’s because you’re not clever for lying to people who aren’t going to assume the worst of strangers at first glance; You’re just willing to cross an ethical line that most won’t. Which I feel also plays into Gus thinking of himself as an idiot in Labyrinth Runners after aforementioned idiot Graye gets the drop on him once, nevermind Gus seeing through him just before… Plus Luz’s guilt at having been fooled; They’re not dumb, just good-natured.

            And per Luz (and Lilith’s) example, people learned very quickly from Philip’s BS! There’s a reason Belos admits voluntarily without prompting that he got run out of town; He had no real backup plan for his backstabbing! He doesn’t even consider that Lilith’s about to punch him despite how obviously she’s telegraphing it, and tries his luck on her despite having almost gotten her and Luz killed.

            People question Belos’ first(?) sermon and so he had to resort to violence via false flag explosions to strong arm them into silence; So he has power but it’s a crutch he’s missing, which plays into how people can’t question him as easily under the coven system. And of course Belos’ acting during the “attack” was shit. It took centuries to achieve a true clone. He’s revealed to steal credit from others and failed to make a second portal, implying Philip plagiarized Evelyn's notes. He had centuries learning Archivist magic that gives him an edge over others from the Collector, but never goes close to how the infinitely younger Eda did during her final display of magic. When caught his excuses are laughably bad and he makes huge mistakes out of ego that lead to his life’s work being undone and his eventual death. He let Kikimora eavesdrop and it led to his entire plan being ruined.

            Of course Belos is a less stupid Trump/Musk. He’s as much of an engineer as Edison. Relying on unfair advantages as a crutch always taking and benefitting but never giving back. Making it harder for others like Luz to follow by driving people from the Knee and suppressing wild magic.

            Belos got smarter after centuries, but people don’t get centuries; He’s not special for that, he just has an advantage and so many chances to get it right that nobody else does, by hurting Palismen in a way people refuse to. He likely consumed Palismen essence on the basic logic that it’s powerful so it’ll make him powerful, and failed to consider any consequences, such as a curse, much in the same way that a lot of right-wing conspiracy idiots will take dubious concoctions under the delusion it’ll make them into “Alphas” (Think the Rhino Horn Boner Pills from Glass Onion). You could also tie this into how he carved glyphs into his skin instead of using tattoos.

            And in the end, for whatever cleverness Belos DID have… His manipulations still had a limit, hence his hilariously poor excuses in the S2 and S3 finales; Belos isn’t that smart, not without crutches that can be seen as symbolic of privilege and wealth that is stolen from others. Even IRL dictators have done more in less time.

            Furthermore, we have the other loyalist coven heads; We’ve already established that falling for a cult doesn’t necessarily make you an idiot, but in the end, they don’t know what they’re doing and that makes them dangerous because they’re bringing the devastation of their world and themselves. It all makes me think of how Trump and Musk somewhat know what they’re doing; Like, they ARE being exploitative of the poor and persecuting women and minorities, the like. But in the end their bluster fails to understand the huge mistakes they’re making as well, and their inability to actually run a country.

            Belos is good at being confident, and acting like it was his plan all along, like in the S1 finale where he saves face following Eda’s escape. And in that sense Trump and Musk can be savvy, in just these crucial spots. But all it means is they’re clever enough to look clever and were in the right place at the right time. Belos fixed the portal, but we know the Collector helped the protagonists build a fully-functioning one from scratch, and also taught Philip “magic stronger than anybody’s” which is clearly connected to the spells of the Archivists.

            Belos ultimately has two fight scenes just as himself without Hunter or the Titan to rely on, and it’s against Luz, who makes him a fool of him both times; He really comes across as a big fish in a small pond, flexing his power over children but otherwise hiding behind others or avoiding conflict entirely. Belos is a con artist so he’s not a total idiot, but let’s not give him too much credit.

            This is also a REALLY obscure deep dive, but one of the writers also made a joke about Boiling Isles cryptocurrency on Twitter, in which Mattholomule, some random background character, and the Emperor’s Coven’s historian Flora D’splora were all shown to be investors. Yes, the same Flora that Lilith looked up to in her naivete, whom Belos assigned with setting up a completed time loop.

            Overall, I do consider that TOH is making a demonstration of how a lot of the Alt-Right is comprised of confident idiots whose stupidity makes them dangerous, because they refuse to listen to reality and are dragging other people into their violent BS fueled by violent fantasies. There’s nothing really glamorous about TOH’s villains, (save arguably the Collector, who’s a weird case); They’re often undignified and in positions of power they don’t deserve, who are inadvertently taking the rest of the world down with them.

            It makes me think of how the trope of the hyper-competent mastermind villain almost feels in line with religion and even conspiracy thought, in the sense that there’s a need for the world to make sense because it’s following someone’s logic, rather than it being a bunch of messy mistakes and contradictions without meaning, there is no destiny, no planned destiny that is. That’s scarier, it’s chaotic and unpredictable. But that energy is as inherent to life as wild magic.

            And with how sufficiently advanced ignorance is indistinguishable from malice, the reverse applies for characters who refuse to admit they were wrong and just double-down out of hatred. If Belos is meant to be a realistic villain based on IRL people in power, then his coven cronies could also be described the same; And in the end, perhaps the most unrealistic thing about him is not the fantastical magic elements, it’s that Belos is still noticeably smarter than Trump or Musk. But then again, those fantastical magic elements arguably account for that when you compare Belos to his youth, and the writers still wanted a bit of fantasy in this show. Even so, the letdown of his banality is like part of the show’s wake up call for Luz in regards to how her adventure won’t always be what she wants (Hence, Tinella Nosa’s reveal in Any Sport in a Storm).

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Fifty-Two

(AO3 counterpart here.)

That night was painfully long and alarmingly short all at once.

Once everyone had eaten, the bodies were carried outside, the entire Clan following Fireheart into the woods. Even Goldenflower left with them, letting Aspenpaw take charge of the kits. Fireheart dimly reflected on the humor of an apprentice barely older than the kits themselves being their guardian. Goldenflower didn’t comment, simply helping carry Bluestar alongside Frostfur.

Every path to and from the burial sites stretched on and on, ending in a heartbeat of digging, placing, and refilling in silence, then returning to an eternity of walking. It was a marvel that the final hole was dug and filled by midnight.

After that came the return home. With the forest completely lacking dog-scent, cats were more willing to spread out to hunt on their way back. Fireheart, to his own surprise, managed to focus enough to catch a shrew. He waited for everyone to come to him, whether or not they had prey, before leading them to camp. It was still silent.

The Clan came home together, Fireheart giving Cinderpaw his shrew and heading straight for the meeting stump. He hopped onto it, standing and waiting for everyone to deposit their prey and look up at him attentively.

“Is everyone doing alright?” he asked first. Some surprised and mildly amused nods and verbal confirmations replied to him, and he fought to keep his ears from going back as he said sheepishly, “Just wanted to check before I said anything else.

“I won’t pretend to be gifted in speech, and I know I should have done this before we went out, but… I thought I should say something in honor of our leader, deputy and seer before we continue on for the night.”

Darkstripe made a face out of the corner of his eye, but everyone else, weary though they were, did perk up a bit. Many curious eyes were on Fireheart as he took in a breath, sorting his thoughts briefly.

“First, Whitecloud,” he said. “He saved my and Cinderpaw’s lives, but beyond that, he saved all of us by taking charge when he was appointed after Speckletail.” Speckletail died saving you too; seems to be a pattern with you, a nasty little voice whispered in the back of his mind. He ignored it for now. “He was our leader when Bluestar couldn’t be, and he still took care of his aunt while taking care of us. I have a legacy to live up to, and I’m honored to bear that task.” He looked up to the sky. “Whitecloud, I hope you’ve made it to StarClan by now, but if you haven’t and you’re still here… we owe you more than we could ever hope to give back.”

He looked back down to saddened faces. He restrained a sigh of sorrow himself and continued.

“Yellowfang…” He twitched his whiskers. “Well, I know she wouldn’t want us to get overly poetic about her. She’d probably slap me if I tried to be anything but honest, no matter how rude the rest of us would find it.” A few small titters. “She was crass, cranky, and courageous. She saw the world from a practical perspective, and she wasn’t afraid to test her ancestors’ patience by being blunt and ready to fight at the drop of a feather.” His eyes slowly drifted downwards. “I feel lucky that I got to take care of her when she first came to us. She was unlike anyone I’ve ever known, and there’s no replacing that cursing, grumpy ball of fur from the marshes.” He looked at Cinderpaw. “But she made sure to leave us with an apprentice that she loved more than anyone in the world, one that she was eager to fight and die for. And, Yellowfang, if you’re here, I promise we’ll take care of her in your stead. Your fool girl couldn’t have been trained by a better mentor.”

Cinderpaw swallowed a lump and blinked her wet eyes gratefully at Fireheart.

“And Bluestar,” Fireheart said, returning his attention to the rest of ThunderClan. Everyone’s gaze immediately turned even more unhappy. He fought a lump in his throat himself as he carefully considered what he needed to say.

“It wasn’t fair,” he said after a pause. “It wasn’t fair for her to grow ill and alienated from us after leading for so long. It wasn’t fair for us to avoid her or be angry with her for it. I only saw the end of her reign, but even then I could see how great she was from how eager all of you were to follow her. She was noble and dignified and wise, and…” His voice trembled now. “And to have that ripped away from her by something she couldn’t control is unbearably cruel. I watched her forget me and her nephew, and all of you. It… it was like watching her die over and over again. We lost her a long time ago.”

Many heads bowed, and many eyes shut painfully.

“We can take comfort in that her pain is over,” Fireheart continued, fighting to steady his voice. “But we shouldn’t forget that pain. Nor should we forget who she was before: regal and intelligent and confident. Those two things can exist together, and they do whether we want them to or not.” His breath was shaky. “She was my mentor, the one who practiced what she preached and took me in to live in ThunderClan. I owe everything to her, even more than I owe Whitecloud. If you’re still here, Bluestar…” He returned his attention to the sky, throat tight enough that he had to force his words out, and even then, they came out quiet and taut. “…Thank you.”

When he looked down, everyone’s faces were miserable. He resisted the urge to shake his pelt and simply stood tall.

“We will survive without them,” he said. “We’ll make them proud and let them rest in peace, knowing that in their absence, ThunderClan stands strong and keeps moving forward, no matter how many blows we take.”

The aura of camp brightened up and eased. Cats sat straighter or murmured agreement, expressions relaxing.

“That’s about all I have to say,” Fireheart said, a little awkwardly. “Let’s rest up for the Gathering tomorrow night. If you want to go, let me know.”

He jumped down from the stump, the only tangible thought in his head being, Well, that could have gone worse.

He spent the rest of the night checking on everyone, answering their questions with very little confidence, offering comfort with much more, and finally retiring when the stars started fading. Before he could leave camp, Cloudpaw came up to him with his tail curled eagerly.

“Me and the other apprentices cleaned the leader’s den and got you new nesting stuff,” he said, proud but still peeking at Fireheart, seeking approval. “You don’t have to sleep with all that rotten prey anymore! Or– well, you didn’t before, but now you definitely don’t have to.”

Fireheart purred. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Where is Frostfur’s litter?”

“Oh, they already went to our den, I think.”

“Well, when they wake up tomorrow, I’ll thank them too.” He ruffled Cloudpaw’s head-fur. “You did me a big favor.”

Cloudpaw puffed out his chest in delight. Fireheart kept a happy face on until he left camp and went to his new den alone. He limply collapsed into the soft, fresh moss, staring absently at the wall. It took him a long time to fall asleep, barely able to get past the feeling of being the only cat in the whole forest. How had Bluestar tolerated this?

The next night came, and Fireheart (with some help, to make sure he didn’t bring the wrong number of cats) selected Ravenwing, Teaselfoot, Sandstorm, Lizardtail, Cloudpaw, and Frostfur’s sons. Brightpaw adamantly refused his offer to take her, and he didn’t push her on it, just gently reminded her that she was welcome to come whenever she was ready. It mildly surprised him to see her remaining fur smooth down again with his soothing tone.

The party set out warily, heads constantly turning and noses in the air. The dog never did appear, even as they reached the neutral grounds. The other Clans had already arrived, looking no worse for wear. Fireheart breathed slowly to steady his hammering heart, which did absolutely nothing as he padded through the crowd, his Clanmates dispersing and curiosity wafting off everyone else as they watched him walk along. He nodded politely to as many cats as he could, dreading reaching the boulder. Thank the stars that he managed to jump up onto it without any trouble, but the other leaders were staring at him with puzzlement.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Rookstar said flatly.

“Er…” Fireheart bobbed his head to him, chuffing awkwardly. “It’s been a pretty crazy month for us.”

Crookedstar purred and tilted his head, peering down at the much younger tom. “Bluestar’s still not well, I take it?”

Fireheart resisted the urge to sag in grief. “You could say that.”

The leaders fell silent, all exchanging questioning glances but not being rude enough to pry.

Fireheart watched the crowd, mourning his place in it. I’ll never get to just…talk to other cats again, will I? I’m going to be “the leader”, and I have to sit up here, watching everyone else have fun conversations. Will cats be afraid to talk to me? I’m still just me…

“Think we’re about ready,” Rookstar said after a lengthy pause, the warriors and apprentices’ conversations quieting down.

“I’ll do it,” Blackstar said, and stood, calling out with the same loud, elongated cry that Bluestar had used so many times before. Everyone immediately fell silent and looked forward, though some of the other Clans’ eyes were very closely focused on Fireheart.

As usual, Crookedstar began. “A night of peace to you all, and hopefully many more peaceful nights past this!” He grimaced about as well as a crooked-jawed cat could. “We’ve all scented or seen that one dog by now, I gather.”

“The other ones were killed or carried away,” Fireheart said. “They’ve been invading ThunderClan for a while now.”

Lizardtail winced and gave Fireheart a “don’t tell them that” gesture with his paw. Fireheart ignored him.

Crookedstar looked down at Fireheart. “Well, then, I assume you have a great deal to tell us!”

“A very great deal,” Fireheart confirmed. He stood up, took a step forward, and breathed in deep, mindful of every stare he was getting.

“Good evening,” he started, at least getting his voice to be a little louder than at home. “My name is Fireheart, and I’m here to speak for ThunderClan. We’ve…” He trailed off, shivered, and willed himself to keep speaking. “We’ve lost pretty much all of our senior warriors and our seer to the dogs, and illness in the case of Bluestar.”

ThunderClan’s warriors opened their mouths, looking mortified. The rest of the cats gasped or spoke to each other in surprise, followed by sympathetic murmurs as they looked back up at Fireheart.

“Bluestar wasn’t able to make any decisions on her own,” Fireheart went on. “We relied on our deputies, Speckletail and Whitecloud, to lead us. When Whitecloud succeeded Speckletail, he had two cats in mind to be his deputies when he went to the Mother to become a leader. That was me and my friend, Dustpelt.” Fireheart’s tail wanted to cling around his back leg, but he forced it to stay straight and tall. “Whitecloud was killed very suddenly, along with Yellowfang, who left behind Cinderpaw as our only seer. And Bluestar died right after them, only two nights ago. The Clan…” He braced himself for derision and bafflement. “The Clan has accepted me as the new leader.”

There was a heartbeat of a pause, then several loud voices cheered from the crowd, making Fireheart jolt. He caught sight of the tortoiseshell Mosspelt standing beside Pansyheart, both of them with shining eyes and curled tails, shouting excitedly.

“Congratulations!” a familiar voice called—Fireheart looked to see Rainpath standing beside his apprentice, tip-tapping joyfully in place. Badgerpaw added in a high pitch, “Blessings!”

“ThunderClan made a good choice for once!” a black tom yelled, receiving a wave of chuffs. Fireheart recognized him as Silverstream’s old friend, Privetclaw.

“How about that,” another familiar voice said, just barely above the normal volume. Wrenwhisker’s eyes were slightly crinkled, his long tail curling behind him. “Well done, buddy.”

“You’ll do fine,” Rookstar said, and he dipped his head respectfully.

“Ha!” Crookedstar nearly slapped Fireheart on the back, but caught himself and just tapped him with a broad paw. “Yes, you certainly will. Young to lead, but we’ve got your back if ever you need us, lad.”

“ShadowClan offers their well-wishes and support,” Blackstar added, his sour face ever-so-slightly warmer. “Our seer can come to assist Cinderpaw whenever she needs it. Even give her her name, if she accepts it.”

Fireheart’s gaze swept around, from the other leaders to the cats below him, all nodding in support or beaming for him. His heart warmed in his chest, and he couldn’t fight back a beam of his own, legs almost wobbly from relief.

“Thank you,” he said when it got quiet. “I– I’m very grateful for your support. All of your support.”

Cloudpaw, in the center of the gathered cats, was flaring out his fur in pride. Fireheart read his lips as he whispered to a brown-and-white apprentice beside him, “That’s my uncle!”

“I hope that’s the worst of your news,” Crookedstar said to Fireheart. “The dogs are mostly gone, save that one?”

Fireheart nodded. “We haven’t scented it anywhere else around the forest. The last time it was seen was here, in the neutral grounds.” He paused, then realized what he was supposed to do next and added, “That’s all from us.” He stepped back and sat down quickly, tail now wrapping tightly around his front paws.

“Well…” Crookedstar stood up now and took that usual step forward. “We’ve seen that bloody big dog too. It’s running all over the place, but it’s mostly been in the fields, chasing after rabbits and horses, and then disappearing for days. I’ll freely admit that we have no idea what to do about that.” He shuddered. “It’s been awful enough just having to constantly keep an eye on it and stay hidden.”

“You are not the only ones to watch something carefully,” Blackstar said. “We in the marshes have seen a human with a rronakrak walking our borders.” He scowled. “And the dog has been spotted in the far distance of the north, too.”

“And by our border, too,” Rookstar said. He let out the faintest sigh. “Humans are walking our land. Perhaps to find the dog.”

“I’m sure they are,” Fireheart said. “They were the ones to trap the other dogs and take them away. We haven’t seen those ones since.”

“Interesting…” Blackstar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Then you suggest they’d take this one too?”

Fireheart rolled a shoulder. “Or just kill it, if they’ve got a rronakrak. One car killed a dog in front of us. Those humans are the only reason we’re all alive right now.”

The crowd did not quite growl at this, but their chatter was less than friendly at the notion of humans being spoken of in the positive.

“They’re taking their sweet time killing this last one,” Crookedstar said, his joviality a poor cover for his anger. “We need it gone as soon as possible.”

A voice piped up. “Maybe we could speed it along?”

Fireheart was startled to hear Ravenwing, and even more startled to see that he didn’t look particularly afraid as everyone turned their heads to him. He flinched a tiny bit, but his voice stayed steady.

“When it was pel dogs, we couldn’t do anything, even as an entire group,” he said, loud and clear. “But we have just one left, and the humans are already seeking to kill it. If they show up at the right time, and the dog is led over to them or something, maybe they could kill it quickly.”

The crowd murmured at this, ears pricked and heads tilted.

“That’s not a bad idea you have there,” Crookedstar said contemplatively. “I don’t really see us taking it down ourselves. But how to pass it off to humans?”

“We’d need to find a location to bring it to, if we had someone lure it,” Rookstar said, tail tapping the boulder. “WindClan’s fastest could outpace it easily.”

“And RiverClan’s fields are flat and very open,” a round-faced patched molly called. “Humans are on the walking path all the time, and they’re always trying to get close to us.”

“Then that’d be a perfect spot.” Blackstar’s face was still dark, but his front paws kneaded in place. “ShadowClan always has its eyes on the Aulmir. We can locate a human with a rronakrak and alert the rest of you.”

“If we can get this to work…” Crookedstar’s short tail started wagging. “We ought to discuss it more. RiverClan’s territory will be open to all the Clans, if we work on this as a team.” He spoke to Fireheart. “ThunderClan’s staggering right now, I take it. You don’t have to be a part of this; you’re free to rest and recover.”

Fireheart twitched his whiskers. “Like blazes I’m not trying to help. I’ll speak to the rest of the Clan about it, but I’m sure we’d all want in. For those we’ve lost, if nothing else.”

“As you like,” Crookedstar said, eyes warm with approval. He turned to the crowd. “Now, let’s chat. We have a dog to kill.”

[formiito]

drunk walk home ; soukoku

synopsis : dazai osamu's last night before he leaves for good— his last night with the only one who has ever truly seen him.

author's note : my first time writing soukoku!! i hope this isn't too ooc, god knows i tried. a bit rushed towards the end because i really should study instead (and i'm not <3) read on ao3

In the middle of the night, the only lights on are the ones near the port. Flickering street lights, late offices and the glow of distant bars; artificial stars dotting the bay city. The neon colours bleed into each other once again, burning into Dazai’s vision. Everything seems slowed, as if he was struggling to catch up with a reality that was far faster than his alcohol addled mind could keep up with. The occasional auburn blur was the only thing that reassured him that his current drinking buddy was still following along, despite being near the edge of a stupor.

Stumbling through the roads and the night marketplaces, Dazai attempted to find the shortcut to Chuuya’s home, a route he knew like the back of his hand. Well, usually. Currently, he's taken atleast three wrong turns. Chuuya’s no more helpful, considering he insisted on taking the shorter way back. They took a bit too long to realize that the main road would've been shorter, but what more can anyone expect from two absolutely drunken fools trying their level best to get home. Chuuya blinks, wondering where the hell he had left his bike. He parked it somewhere, well, obviously, but when he got back his beloved bike was nowhere in the parking lot, and after a few minutes of searching it was painfully clear to him that he's going to have to try again when he can actually walk straight. He's gonna regret all those tequila shots later in the morning, but there were just some problems wine can't drown.

That is exactly why the both of them end up in this situation every time, isn't it? The lure of relief was too hard to resist, even though they both would much rather drink with anyone than each other. Leaning his arm on Chuuya’s shoulder, much to the shorter man’s chagrin, Dazai stumbled through the narrow street. The fluorescent signs that lined this road were rendered hazy by the smoke that seemed to perpetually linger in the air, and the path itself was free of any pedestrians. Empty? Good. They hardly needed trouble at this hour, not when they both barely had the coordination to tell left from right. Even with their best attempt at being vigilant, Chuuya could only manage to note how the color of his friend’s eyes seemed to mellow into a honey like hue under the glow of a signboard. An artificial glow that, for a few moments, made him look a little more alive. Even as he pushes the thought out of his head, a strange disappointment gnaws at his heart. Like he should have stared a little longer, to remember it.

All the while, Dazai tried to hold up both their weight, even though it was quickly becoming a futile attempt; arm around Chuuya’s waist, fingers curled into the fabric of the waistcoat to make sure they both didn't just topple over one another. It's not like it hasn't happened before, but he doesn't particularly fancy another night passed out over this slug in a nameless alley. Been there, done that.

“You're surprisingly heavy for such a short guy, you know, slug?”

“What the fuck did you just call me, bastard?!”

Dazai gives his best performance of a weary sigh. “Now you're hard of hearing, too? Slug.” As if to emphasize, he spells out the word in a singsong manner. “s-l-u-g!! That clear enough for you?”

“…I think I’m gonna kill you.” Chuuya spat out, trying to not grind his teeth from the sheer annoyance this waste of bandages caused him. “I hope you get the worst hangover tomorrow. I hope you're sick for days.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, while Dazai held him up straight.

“We're both getting killer hangovers, dumbass.”

“It was your idea to go drinking!!”

“You know damn well your ass can't hold your liquor. Lightweight!”

“I ain't no fucking lightweight, I kept up just fine!”

“You gave up after the second goddamn round, slug. Now get off me, I think my arm’s going to break from your heavy ass.”

Chuuya let up a little, the faint red glow of gravity manipulation surrounding him. Making himself lighter helped stabilize him in this condition. Even after he stopped leaning, Dazai’s hand didn't leave his waist, bandaged fingers curled into the fabric as they crossed the smog filled streets. “You know what, yeah, we've been walking in circles for an hour. Let's sit down for a bit.” Dazai nods at the idea, though not without a comical exaggeration. “Tired already?”—he drawls—”I thought you'd have a bit more left in you than that!” The way Chuuya’s jaw tightens and how his brows furrow? God, that's cute.

The fuck?

A few seconds after a thought so uncalled for, Dazai’s expression twists into grimace from the sheer distaste. There's no way he just thought that. Meanwhile, Chuuya had already found himself a lovely little cargo crate to sit upon, not even humouring Dazai’s taunt, sitting down on it with that annoyed expression still on his face. Dazai follows suit, and watches as the petit mafioso flicks open his cigarette case, taking out a singular stick. Just as Chuuya’s thumb moved to close the flap, a bandaged finger slips another stick out of it.

“Hey! Get your own, damn bastard.”

Dazai twirled the cigarette with practiced dexterity. “Mmm, nope.” He pops the 'p' as he says it. Maybe a good smoke would get that thought out of his head. Whatever that was. His other hand reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, fishing out a lighter. The blue flame lights the tip of the cigarette. The familiar, acrid scent fills his senses, the dim ember makes him feel oddly warm. From the corner of his chocolate eyes, he noticed Chuuya struggling with his own lighter. That old thing was clearly was out of fuel. He extends the black lighter to his cigarette, watching how it dangles idly from his mouth. “Guess you needed me anyway, huh?”

Chuuya waited for the end of the smoke stick to burn, eyes singularly focused on the light. “…Shut it.”

Dazai shrugs off the rude remark, taking a languid drag of the cigarette. A bit stronger than the ones he usually carried with him, but they hit the spot. The puff of smoke exhaled into the air curls upwards, and then fades into the glow of the green and blue signboard lights. Pretty. Fleeting. Only such a shame their youth would suffer the same fate, even if neither will realize it yet. Perhaps in Dazai’s mind, those days were already gone, for this is the last night he'll allow himself to stick to his old ways. To stick with him.

The auburn haired man seems none the wiser about his eventual departure. A good thing, for a lie is so much easier to say than the truth. It's a burden of youth to fall in pursuit of a distant, unclear dream, the promise of light; only to ignore the glow of the bridges they were burning behind them. It's foolish, Dazai knows, but it would be the only way he could bring himself to leave this teenage wastleland of theirs. To save what was remaining of this worthless life.

But what is salvation worth when compared to Nakahara Chuuya?

The small cigarette break ends far too quickly, fingers itching to light up one more, but the night wasn’t getting any younger. Neither were they getting less drunk, and if they didn’t make it home in time for the streetlights and signboards to die out for the night, it's another night falling asleep in an alley. Once Chuuya is done, he impatiently stands up once again; an extremely dumb idea. His head swirls, disoriented by the sudden movement. Instinctively his hands reach for Dazai’s shoulders, until they both stood up, looking like absolute idiots. Dazai was going to taunt him again for being a lightweight, until something caught his attention.

Tap.

The water droplet hit his head, and a quiet 'ow…’ left his pallid lips. Right. They were in the middle of rainy days. And of course the skies had to pick just the right time to cry; when they both were utterly drunk out of their minds and who knows how far from home. Two follows one, three follows two, countless does three. The downpour had begun. Chuuya let out of a groan of utter frustration, shrugging off his coat the best he could with his balance, attempting to drape it over the both of them. Their makeshift umbrella didn't do much, but it was enough for them to get home without being miserably wet. “Ugh, hold this, mummy boy.” Chuuya did not fancy being on his tiptoes for the whole journey back, and Dazai took the edges of the coat from him, holding it up over the both of them.

“Think we can make it if we run?”

“Yeah, think you can keep up?”

“Any day, slug.”

Without hesitation, they were off with their mad dash in the rain. Stumbling once or twice over the curbs, they barely managed to keep the same pace so that they could still be under the coat’s canopy. Chuuya could feel the raindrops hitting his back, and Dazai’s bandages were damp already. They didn't know when they got back to Chuuya’s place; perhaps they should have tried this earlier instead of walking around like bumbling fools all over the place. Dazai set the drenched coat down once they were in the building; gravel streaked steps to the elevator. The two were out of breath, panting, realizing a bit too late that maybe it was a little stupid of them to run off with that kind of reckless abandon when they were drunk and tired.

Once they caught their breath, the ring of the elevator bell indicated that they'd reached their floor. Now they just had to hope they had the right number. 322 — yeah, that's mine.

Chuuya fumbled with the keys in his pocket, attempting to figure out which ones worked with this lock. Vision glazed over, the ridges looked far too blurry; hands clumsily undoing the lock. One of the keys worked; fifth try was the charm. The shoes were kicked off, flying to god knows what part of the living room; the two drunken idiots stumbled in. Dazai didn't hesitate without collapsing right there on the couch, although his friend seemed to atleast have a bit more sense to get himself a glass of water. Not like it mattered that much anyway when thirty minutes afterwards they were both puking their guts out, crawling out of the bathroom like zombies from a b-rated horror film. All those shots were definitely a bad idea, and they were feeling it. If reading minds were possible, one would find that they could only think the same thing.

I’m never drinking with shitty Dazai again!

I swear, this is the last time I get drunk with that hatrack!

And it was true for it was indeed the last time they did drink together.

By quite a bit of effort, they managed to reach the couch once again. Legs over chests and arms over heads, they fit in the most uncomfortable way, but they did manage to not fall over. “Get off me, you're heavy!” Dazai whined, and in truth, he would've shoved him off if he could tell where his hands ended and where Chuuya’s began. “Shut up, I want to sleep!” Perhaps he was right for once, maybe sleep would do them well. With an annoyed grumble, his bandaged fingers settled to curl themselves into the auburn locks that tickled his neck, legs tangled on the velvet sofa. Gloved hands reach to turn the light off.

It was no easy to ignore his thoughts in the dark, not when the silence festered thoughts of his eventual departure; the uncertainty that will grip his life for the days ahead. Perhaps if it weren't for that man’s final words, the promise he drew out of Dazai, he wouldn’t be so willing to upend this life. He wouldn't have even considered saving himself.

So, when we ask once again, what is salvation worth when compared to Nakahara Chuuya?

It is worth a promise. One that must be kept.

Dazai’s mind drifts away once this resolution is made. The symphony that plays in the space between the waking and the asleep is the soft breathing of the man beside him. Focusing singularly on the nearly inaudible sound, looking at the back of his eyes, he allows himself to feel the moment for a final time before he gives away to sleep. Trace away the weave of the fabric that makes the back of his shirt, feel the soft strands that sometimes pricks skin, take note of the sleepy mumbles that leave Chuuya through his dreams. And before the subtle sensation fades, his mouth opens to form the words he feels he must say or they will rend apart his mind forever.

“...I think I’m gonna miss this.”

[bulletsandbracelets]

I normally don’t engage on Harry Potter content anymore because I don’t think it, or JK, deserve the attention. But I wanted to clarify that I think y’all are missing the criticism of the story that people have.

Harry is a hard protagonist to like because she tries to have it both ways. He is bullied and kicked down all his life, but the moment he reaches school, things flip and suddenly he’s the cool kid. Normally, at some point, that would bring a little self reflection. But despite that, he becomes pretty much the same person his father was. He is rude to Luna and Neville initially, he doesn’t think much of Hermoine, snd he never really engages with anyone on a deeper level than “some people are mean and some aren’t” or “some people are cool and some aren’t”.

That’s a feature of JK’s writing though. Everything is incredibly shallow. The problem with the series, particularly the ending, isn’t that Harry doesn’t change anything. It’s that no one is trying to change anything, and the few times people do, they are treated like idealistic fools who are overstepping and actually doing more harm than good. Muggles and wizards always have to be separate because magic isn’t something to be used to improve muggles’ lives, they are too small minded to ever engage with it positively. Magical creatures should never be on the same level as wizards, even the sentient ones, because surely they know their place and are happier there. I don’t think you needed to get that on an initial read but in retrospect, the book says very little.

Voldemort wasn’t bad because he disliked “muggles”, he was bad because he took that too far. Other wizards are totally fine disliking them, and Mr. Weasley is such a weird fanboy for being so into mundane things like that. Hermoine means well, but she is a little “woke”, trying to push her agenda on everyone. Doesn’t she know they are happy without rights? (Sorry, couldn’t resist).

Harry Potter is a simple good vs evil story in a world with a lot of detail but very little, if any, depth. Systems are neutral, they cannot be good or bad, it is the people that are the problem according to the way the story is written. It’s fine for a children’s series in isolation, but when you combine it with JKR’s horrible political views after the fact, it becomes a lot clearer that the series didnt necessarily mean what people took from it back then. And it becomes harder to enjoy it now, even for those who prescribe to “death of the author” (which I don’t, for her).

You cannot separate Harry Potter or the books from JK and her beliefs because she wrote the book believing those things and the book reflects those beliefs. You can ignore it, you can put your own interpretations on it, of course. But what the author intended and what they believe is always going to inform analysis, and unfortunately for us, that means reckoning with the fact that Harry being a bit of a prick a lot of the time wasn’t so much a flaw as it was giving him the “satisfaction” of being the cool kid and the one with the power. The bullied becomes the bully, to a lesser extent, but he’s never really called on it. Which makes a lot of sense, again, seeing how vindictive and spite driven JKR is in her interactions.

Hello! How are you?

Basically, I have seen this in many spaces where people are anti hp (the series and the mc), they bring up the fact that harry isn't a great mc because by the end of the series he made/brought no changes in the wizarding world. He didn't change the system, didn't do anything about the house elf slavery, (they mention the fact that after the war harry contemplates asking kreacher to bring him a sandwich!! and that he wasn't as passionate about freeing them as Hermione was), and so on, I don't remember everything.

Mostly, they mention that he becomes a ministry lapdog and ended up joining the same system which oppressed him (like you, i hate that he becomes an auror btw) and by the end of the series everything is the same and he didn't bring any monumental change like he doesn't have the power or interest to do so.

So, my questions to you are - what are your thoughts on these opinions?? Do you think it's poor writing by jkr?? Or it wasn't relevant to the core plot?

I don't really like speculating what JKR was thinking when she wrote something, because I have no way of actually knowing, but book 7, in certain parts, always felt to me like she was ready to move on and wanted to be done with it.

I think by the time she got to writing book 7, she just kinda wanted the writing process to be over already. So, book 7 has always been a mixed bag for me — when it's good, it's really good, but it also has moments that drag and are utter stupidity.

I think the epilogue is a bit of that race to be done with it already.

Like, there is a fan theory she wrote the epilogue before the book, and honestly, I can belive that.

But, I think the Harry becoming an auror isn't bad writing in the books — it's bad writing post-books. Sure, the epilogue implies the system didn't change as much as it should have (Albus worrying about being sorted into Slytherin, Ron confounding muggles with no consequences, Percy's treatment, etc.), but I think it wouldn't have been as egregious and offensive as it is to most fans who dislike it if it wasn’t for a lot of JKR's periphery canon she wrote that added a lot of details about the characters' futures that just made everything worse (plus the CC play).

Without the epilogue, the ending of DH doesn't say anything about what Harry would do. Yes, he isn't passionate about freeing house elves, but this isn't new and is true to his character. He isn't perfect, and that's not bad writing, it's staying consistent with his characterization up to this point. The ending without the epilogue leaves the reader off with plenty of potential to work with for their imagination and write fic about Harry's future. I actually like the end note of the series pre-epilogue because it fits. It works with Harry as a character who just wants something simple to eat and go to bed. He isn't concerned with instating new policies and shit, because it would be out of character for him to concern himself over these things in that moment. Harry is not a politician and he never wanted to be one. I feel like the fandom expects a lot from Harry that would be out of character for him to do without external factors pushing him into a political role. (Don't get me wrong, he'd be a decent politician, but that would be because he won't play the same game as everyone else. And he'd never choose to be a politician without being forced/pressured/otherwise convinced into the position).

The epilogue itself, while, closing off some options and proving the wizarding world still has many many issues, doesn't actually mention the Golden Trio's (or Ginny's) professions and still leaves us with a lot of open room for interpretation. Harry isn't stated to be an auror in the epilogue — it's JKR's writings after the books that made him an auror and Hermione a minister and kinda butchered Ron altogether (book 7 started the job of butchering Ron's character, though...). Even if the epilogue doesn't paint the best picture of the future of the WW, it's still open enough to work with if you really want to. It's the stuff she published after the books that made everything about the wizarding world's (and Harry's) future so much worse for me.

I do think, the epilogue is bad writing in that it doesn't add to the story and I think makes book 7 (and the whole series) worse overall, but I would've hated it less if it wasn't for all the information she added in after the fact (that didn't actually add anything, just ruin and destroy).

And a lot of her periphery canon writing show how much she doesn't remember from her books. I talked about it when it comes to fahion and the term "warlock", but she tends to, not really know her own world building and she contradicts herself a lot. This tendency is at it's worst with book 7 Wandlore, a lot of her Pottermore articles, and, of course, the Fantastic Beasts films and CC (some of her commentary in the Hogwarts Library books collection as well). So, I take any periphery canon stuff as additional to the books and optional depending on if they make sense with the books' canon or not.

So, I'd say, the problems for me are more with post-books stuff, and not the content of the books themselves. Becouse yeah, Harry mentioned wanting to be an auror in years 5 and 6, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't change his mind once he realizes what it entails

15-16 year old Harry talking about wanting to be an auror actually fits his character. Not because I think the job would be great for him, but because of his low self-worth. Moody/Barty told him he has the talent to be an auror and Harry is ridiculously insecure in himself. When one of the first adults to tell him he is talented and good at things to his face told him he'd make a good auror — of course that's what Harry would focus on!

Even if Moody/Barty was discovered to be a Death Eater later, he was still someone Harry looked up to. Harry who thinks he isn't particularly good at anything:

“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is — play to your strengths.” “I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. “Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best at?”

(GoF, Ch20)

Was told he'd be good at something (being an auror) — so it makes sense he'd want to pursue it initially. I think Harry is likely to not want to stay as an auror though. I love to headcanon him as an auror program dropout, honestly. That he starts and then leaves. Which is possible with book 7 canon (including the epilogue).

The books actually don't contradict some changes or changes-in-progress in the WW (including the epilogue). It's just been 19 years, not even a whole generation, big systematic changes rarely happen this quickly, so while some of the patterns are worrying, you can work with it, I think the epilogue is bad, but it's not the worst that happened to HP books.

The worse problem is that JKR kept writing contradictory things instead of leaving the books be once they were done.

(Not that the books don't have their moments of contradicting themselves, they do. There are plot contrivances, stuff that makes zero sense, and plenty of plot holes, but when it comes to Harry's future and the WW's future as a whole, the books are not the main culprit here, the epilogue was a witness that did nothing to help at the scene of the crime at best).

[sforzesco]

Plutarch, Crassus 7 (trans. Rex Warner)

caesar's in his mid 20s here, crassus is in his late 30s. early 40s. I did the math for their ages two days ago and didn't. uh. bother to write it down on account of being Very Tired. it's a 15 year age difference because their respective birth dates are easy numbers to remember, but if I have to add in another math step related to specific years events happened, I'm going to walk into a forest.

anyway! this comic was a certifiable creative nightmare on account of it was originally. going to be something goofy, it was supposed to end with crassus going (don draper voice) I don't think about you at all. but every time I tried to start over to get that ending, it would veer back into this territory. so after a full week of wrestling with it, I finally let the dramatics win. and you know what, having it cut off mid sentence is fun, actually!! might do it again sometime tbh

OH and that panel of crassus pouring caesar a drink is a callback to the first time I made a comic focusing on them

[torillatavataan]

30 minutes of Finnish doomer music

0:00 Leevi and the leavings - Pimeä tie, mukavaa matkaa 3:33 Eppu Normaali - Murheellisten laulujen maa 6:55 Eppu Normaali - Tahroja paperilla 11:43 Leevi and the leavings - Elina, mitä mä teen? 15:11 Arttu Wiskari - Mökkitie 18:23 Leevi and the leavings - Kerro terveiset lapsille 21:29 Arttu Wiskari - Tuntematon potilas 25:20 Leevi and the leavings - Unelmia ja toimistohommia 29:28 Hector - Lumi teki enkelin eteiseen 32:55 Juice Leskinen - Syksyn sävel ...

[hauntingblue]

making a collection

making another collection with a threatening aura

[chaoortu]

in honor of anatomy of a rose debuting this weekend...

some memes

[synthville]

“fans of seven and raffi will find their journey worthwhile in the end.”

?????????

did the definition of worthwhile change without me noticing or what.

at this point i just want seven and raffi to have one private conversation. given up on anything else i just want to hear about the breakup from their own mouths and not through some teachable moment, mansplaing game of telephone. just let them take it from here the pointed distancing has gone on long enough.

[prairiedeath]

📸: @prairiedeath ~ story behind this shot in the tags.