#i love her and i love how much she reminds me of myself

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter fourteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: in the quiet that follows disaster, the days stitch themselves forward. jack holds the line beside you, while the people you love build scaffolding around your sleep. recovery isn’t swift, but it’s real—felt in laughter, in small rebellions, and in breath.

⤿ warning(s): medical talk + procedures

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2k

Jack jolts awake in the ICU family lounge, neck kinked, mouth sour. 

The wall clock reads 09:48; he must have dozed twenty minutes tops—long enough for caffeine to burn off and hunger to gnaw in. Beside him stands Margot, hair half-escaped her bun, night-shift badge still clipped though daylight streams through the blinds.

“That’s all the sleep you’re getting, soldier,” she murmurs, pressing a protein bar and a cup of lukewarm tea into his hands. “I’m finally going home before Ben files a missing-person report. But heads-up—your girl’s sister just texted the front desk. They’re on their way up.”

Jack scrubs his face. “You pulled a double.”

“Triple, technically,” Margot says, attempting a smile. “But she’d do it for me. Go meet the family—try not to look like a ghost.” She squeezes his shoulder, then forces herself down the corridor, coat over scrubs, exhaustion dragging at every step.

Jack first makes a beeline to the scrub-machine—the hospital’s weary confessional booth. He scans his badge; the carousel inside whirs like a tired roulette wheel and spits out a fresh packet. 

In the staff bathroom he unpacks the crisp set, changes, and then leans over the sink. Cool water sluices over puffy eyes; he scrubs until the copper scent of dried blood yields to antiseptic soap and stale peppermint. A quick brush of teeth, damp fingers through unruly curls. The mirror still shows a scruffy hollow-cheeked man, but at least he’s wrapped in clean fabric and the tremor in his hands has eased. 

One deep breath later he heads for the lobby—ready, as much as anyone can be, to meet your family at the doors. He doesn’t forget to shove his blood-stiffened top and pants down the machine’s return chute on his way, hears them thunk into the bin, and stands a second with palm flat to the metal. He swallows the ache that rises—hold the line, he reminds himself—and heads for the elevators.

The doors part to reveal who can only be your sister and her husband. Her face is unmistakably yours—same determined brow, same worry etched deep. “Dr. Abbot?” Her voice quavers.

He nods and steps forward, catching her hands before she can wobble. “Jack. I’m glad you made it.”

They introduce themselves as Laura and Paul—him clutching their carry-ons, eyes wide from sleepless travel. 

“You saved her,” Laura whispers.

Jack’s voice comes rough. “Surgery saved her. She’s fighting hard.” He draws back enough to see her face. “Come on—I’ll explain everything as we go.”

He steers them toward a quiet alcove off the lobby. As they sit, he outlines the fall, the injuries, the long night of surgery—stripping jargon until only truth remains. He then explains Moylan in measured strokes: a pathology tech who slipped past security, obsessed with you for months, and waiting for one vulnerable window. One which he eventually got and seized. 

Laura pales but listens, knuckles tight around a travel-size tissue pack. “She never told us how bad it was,” she murmurs.

“She didn’t want the worry to cross state lines,” Jack says, voice gentle—then falters. The guilt he’s held at bay all night steals through the crack. “I kept telling myself I’d be there, I should have—” 

The words shatter in his throat.

Laura lays a hand over his. Her grip is firm, eyes bright with the same grief—and strength—you carry. It hurts, it really hurts.

“You saved her life down on that scaffold,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, we’d be planning a funeral, not a recovery. Hold on to that.” She squeezes once more, anchoring him. Even Paul nods, silent reinforcement.

Jack draws a solid breath and collects himself. “She’s on medications to keep her still,” he explains, guiding them toward ICU. “It lets her body heal without fighting every tube. She can’t wake up until we dial them back, but hearing can slip through. Talk to her.”

They gown, sanitize, and step into the subdued hush of intensive care. Laura’s breath catches at the sight of so many lines feeding into you—the ventilator’s slow hiss, the rhythmic click of IV pumps. But she masters the fear and moves to your bedside.

“Hey, trouble,” she murmurs, voice trembling yet steady. “Lily’s third volcano erupted glitter everywhere. I have pictures for when you wake up—you’re going to roll your eyes so hard.”

Paul circles to the opposite side, finds your uninjured hand, and folds it into his own. “Just rest. We’ve got everything else covered.”

Jack steps back, watches the pulse on your monitor climb half a beat—as if your heart recognizes home when it hears it. When visiting minutes dwindle, Laura turns to him.

“Thank you,” she says. “For staying.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so, the next two weeks unspool in slow, deliberate stitches—every day a thread that keeps you tethered while the rest of the unit and your family hold Jack steady so he doesn’t rust in place.

Day 3

Margot slips in before dawn with contraband Earl Grey and a small Bluetooth speaker. She sets it on your table and queues the lo-fi playlist you once used to tame a jittery med-student. “White-noise with a pulse,” she tells Jack, then corners him outside the glass: “Drink some of the tea, take a shower, and write your op-notes. She’d roast you alive if you missed work rounds.” He returns three hours later, hair damp, charting tablet in hand—tired, but moving.

Day 4

Dana and Robby arrive together on their post-shift shuffle. Dana reads you the day’s memes from the nurse group chat, her laughter deliberately oversized to vibrate through the mattress rails. Robby brings a ridiculous stuffed fox wearing a helmet visor. He props it by your good arm, then drags Jack to the vending machines (“Protein, brother—stat”). Jack swallows a turkey sandwich he swears tastes like cardboard salvation.

Day 5

Garcia appears in crisp clothes—official day off, hair actually down. She spends exactly five minutes at your bedside, whispering numbers you used to throw at each other like darts: “Clamped in three minutes, thirty-two seconds… sponge discrepancy zero.” When she exits she pins Jack with a flinty stare: “If you skip tomorrow’s trauma board, we’ll discuss your liver with the interns.” Jack shows up to the meeting, presents Moylan’s case in objective detail, and feels the weight lessen a gram.

Day 7

Fin tiptoes in after night shift, balancing a Bento of his own making—rice bricks and lumpy tamago. He sets it beside you, clears his throat, then counts the IV pump beeps under his breath to match your heart rate. When Jack arrives, Fin startles and blurts, “I practiced a drain label six times.” Jack claps his shoulder. “She’d be proud.”

Day 9

Jules brings a stack of ridiculous romance novels and places them on your cabinet. “Studies say read-aloud boosts neural recovery,” she claims, opening one sharply. She reads a dramatic kiss scene until Jack’s ears redden and your pulse ticks up two points—visible proof, maybe, that somewhere inside the sedation fog you find the melodrama hilarious.

Day 10

Ellis barges in muttering about missing retractors. She plants a cartoon “NO KNOCK” sign on your door, then informs Jack of every supply-room scandal just to keep him irritated enough to stay sharp. He snorts, retorts, and for ten minutes forgets to track the seconds between breaths.

Day 12

Laura and Paul learnt the ICU rhythm. Laura shows you photos of Lily, some silly, some cute. Paul sets up a video call so your parents—too frail to travel—can see you, even if you can’t answer. Jack hovers in the background, translating every beep for your mother until she finally nods, comforted by the numbers. Neither of the three ever answer fully when they ask about the details of the incident. That's one place where they won't go.

Day 14

Shen drops off a thumb drive of blues classics labeled “Auditory PT.” A speech therapist confirms it’s time to start reducing sedation, test your brain’s response to sound. The first afternoon Jack plays a slow B.B. King track, your eyelashes flutter. The second song earns a faint grimace at a sour note—tiny but seismic. Jack’s knees nearly give out.

Some nights, when the pumps are calm and the monitors steady, he leans close to your ear and recounts the smallest details: Ellis finally labeled forceps right; Fin’s drain counts perfect; the sunrise looked like mango pulp over the river. He tells you he misses arguing over music, misses the way you line up syringes by height. He tells you the rooftop is still waiting.

And though you give no verbal answer, the trending numbers say your body is inching toward the surface—liver stable, chest tube output dwindling, neuro checks a touch sharper each shift. Odds are still a steep incline, but every visitor, every enforced meal, every stubborn return to the ER keeps Jack from freezing on one spot of tile. Together they form the scaffolding—a safer one—holding him steady until the day his voice alone will coax your eyes open to the light.

It happens in slow, uneven increments—nothing cinematic, just the body deciding it’s tired of obeying the drip.

First, your eyelids twitch. Heavy, gummy, like someone swapped them for sandbags. You drift again, surface, drift. Margot is the first to note the flicker and nudges the respiratory therapist with her. Sedation’s already tapering; they’ve been waiting for this.

Hours later your lashes sift open to a strip of ceiling tile. Light blurs at the edges. Something huge anchors your throat, hisses warm air into your lungs. You fight a gag reflex that feels a century old; hands try to rise but soft restraints remind you why they’re there.

Margot leans into view, eyes tired but bright. “Hey, there. If you can hear me, blink twice.” You manage the signal—slow, deliberate.

Then, they run the protocol: neuro checks with a penlight, squeeze tests, a pressure support trial to prove the lungs can solo without the machine. When your numbers hold, the RT deflates the cuff, tilts your chin, and the tube slides free in a hot rush that tastes of plastic and old air.

Your first breath alone rasps like tearing paper; your throat feels flayed. Someone pats saline across cracked lips. You try to ask the time, but it comes out a croak—no vowel, just static.

Margot smiles anyway, then hits the call bell. “She’s awake.”

Footsteps scramble in the hall—orders barked, shoes squeaking—but you slip sideways, exhausted by the effort, eyelids shuttering on the world again.

You wake next to silence and dim daylight. No visitors yet, just the ventilator cart pushed back in the corner and the soft beep of a minimal monitor load. Hair greasy, gown damp, arm stiff in a bulky brace—you feel like a scarecrow after a storm. Still, you’re breathing on your own, chest aching with each expansion but gloriously alive.

Then, the door bursts open.

Jack stumbles to a halt at the threshold, beard now grown and crescent, eyes wide and disbelieving. He hesitates as if the room might vanish.

Your voice scrapes the bottom of a well. “Nice… beard.”

The words are barely there—husky, cracked—but they’re enough. Jack’s face crumples; he crosses the room in two strides and drops to one knee beside the bed. Tears spill unchecked, beard catching the shine.

“You came back,” he whispers, voice breaking on every syllable.

You lift a hand—trembling, IV tugging—and find his cheek, coarse stubble prickling your palm. It hurts to smile, but you do. In that unremarkable, throat-raw moment—no trumpets, no miracle soundtrack—life simply restarts: one ragged breath, one relieved sob, one brief laugh from Margot hitting the monitor silence button.

Outside, alarms continue in other rooms, lunch carts rattle down corridors, the city churns beyond the windows. But inside this modest square of ICU tile, beard scratches skin, tears salt the sheets, and the odds finally lean in your favor.

divider credit

[cherry-coffees]

Caitlyn x lonely!reader

cw: domestic!Caitlyn, loneliness, doomscrolling, staying up late, hints of jealousy, written based off of my own experiences

You get lonely at night.

You don't know what it is about the dark sky and early hours of the morning, but something about the combination claws at your soul. You're a night owl, always have been, but the isolation you've been harboring lately feels more haunting than comforting

You still like the night. It used to be a time for relaxation: a time in which you could let your guard down and recharge from your long days. It's peaceful to know that everyone is asleep; thus, you can do whatever you please. It's just—

It's just lonely.

You don't know when it shifted, don't know when you started to sink into a depressive state the later it got. Your bedroom feels empty, like your presence isn't enough to fill it. Your heart is left aching for something that's not there. It feels like someone should be next to you, pulling you close into their warm embrace and burying their face in your hair. You long to fall asleep like that: legs tangled together, safe, loved.

Social media, as always, only makes things worse. You find yourself doomscrolling most nights, flipping through Instagram stories and TikToks of people you envy. Not that you wish you were them — you just desperately want what they have. When a TikTok comes up of two beautiful women in a relationship, living the happiest domestic life together as wives, the pit in your stomach grows larger.

Like. Repost. Comment: "may this kind of love find me."

Yet, it never seems to.

|------» ~~~ «------| 

"Darling?"

A voice tinged by a heavy accent calls softly throughout your bedroom. "Are you coming to bed?"

You're in the bathroom, glancing at yourself in the mirror as you apply your moisturizer. "Coming," you sigh, capping your moisturizer before turning off the bathroom light and stepping into your bedroom.

Caitlyn lounges on her side of your bed, her pretty head propped up on a pillow as she looks at you expectantly. The glow of the fairy lights strung above your bed make her sharp features look softer. "How am I supposed to fall asleep if you're off doing skincare?" she complains, marking her place in her book and setting it on the nightstand.

You cast a smile at her, too soft and loving to be reminding. "You always tell me to take care of myself. That's what my skincare is."

"So you say," Caitlyn grumbles, but she's tugging you into her arms the moment you make contact with the bed. She draws the blankets over the two of you, tucking in the edges to make sure you're warm enough. Presses her lips to your forehead, too, as if you need any more evidence of her adoration. It reminds you of your doomscrolling nights years ago, when you thought you'd never find a love like hers.

"We're waking up at nine tomorrow?" You mumble, already half asleep as Caitlyn's warmth lulls you to the land of dreams.

"Mhm. We have breakfast with Jayce, and then we'll visit my mother afterwards."

"M'kay," your voice drops to a whisper as your eyes fall shut. You say the words you've always longed to say, that you never thought you'd be able to. "I love you, Cait."

"And I love you, my darling."

For all my sweeties that get lonely at night, wishing for something you don't have so much so that your soul hurts. I feel this way most, if not all nights, despite staying up so late. It weighs on me a lot. So, since I'm currently experiencing one of those nights, I decided to write my feelings out in hopes that some of you can see yourselves in it.

And I'll tell you what I also need to hear: it will be okay, I promise. I hope you all find a love like Caitlyn's. Even if you don't think you will, even if you're reading this and thinking "I want this, but I don't think I can have it," I believe that you will. I believe that there is someone out there feeling the exact same way, hoping for you.

~Cherry 🍒

[gigiii1sblog]

DORM-ROOM DEVIL 010

Warnings: mature content, fluff, sexual content, teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sexual content.

Chapter Ten: Almost Something.

Y/N POV: Two Months Later

It’s been two months since the night I told him I loved him.

Two months since I cried in a random person room at a party with his mouth on mine and his hands in my hair, whispering that he loved me too, but still somehow made it feel like goodbye.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Because the next morning, he knocked on my door holding greasy pizza and a six-pack of Pepsi, like it could undo the damage. Like laughter and food and watching the ocean swallow the sun from the hood of his car could replace the ache that never quite left my chest.

And I let him.

God, I let him.

Since then, it’s been messy and soft, beautiful in ways I never expected. I’ve memorized the way he folds his pizza in half before biting it, how he sings along to Lil Skies under his breath when we drive with the windows down. We’ve danced in our dorm kitchen at 2 a.m. to whatever was playing on my phone, flour in our hair from the cinnamon rolls we forgot in the oven, our fingers sticky with sugar and heat. He taught me how to play Fortnite and cursed every time I accidentally shot him instead of the enemy. I made him watch 10 Things I Hate About You, and he pretended not to like it, but I saw the way he smiled when Kat read the poem.

We’ve kissed in every way possible. In silence. In laughter. In apology. In desperation.

We’ve made love with the lights off, with the sunrise pouring through the window, with our bodies trembling like we were finally enough.

He introduced me to his parents last weekend.

I watched his mom hug him with her whole soul, and his dad call him “kiddo” even though he towered over him. He called me his girlfriend. Looked at me like he meant it.

I brought him home too. My mom adored him. My brother’s didn’t, not at first, but Chris was patient, and polite, and even helped fix our broken back fence. Now my brother’s call him “Sturniolo” like they’re on the same team.

There was a moment.

A fleeting one.

Where I thought, maybe this is it. Maybe this time, I won’t be the one with stars in her eyes and scars on her heart.

But even in those golden hours, something about him stays locked away.

Like no matter how close I get, I’ll never get to keep him.

Because sometimes, in the quiet, after he’s kissed every inch of my skin and told me I’m his favorite thing in the world, he’ll look away like he’s ashamed. Like he’s waiting to ruin it all.

And maybe he will.

Because even now, when I say “I love you,” he says it back…but he never looks me in the eye when he does.

CHRIS POV:

It’s been two months since she told me she loved me.

Two months since she said the words I swore I didn’t deserve.

And every day since, I’ve been trying to prove that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as broken as I think.

She’s been the softest fucking thing I’ve ever touched. And the scariest.

Because she looks at me like I hung the moon, and I’m terrified I’ll drop it.

She’s met my parents. My brothers. She made my mom cry with how kind she was. My dad said she reminded him of my grandmother fiery, stubborn, smarter than everyone in the room. She’s perfect.

She’s better than me.

I’ve given her pieces of myself I never gave anyone else. Not just my bed, or my mouth, or my name in public.

I gave her Sundays.

I gave her home.

But I can’t give her all of me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I want to. God, I want to. But there’s a version of myself I keep buried. The part that still believes no one stays. The one that whispers that no matter how much she loves me, she’ll leave too. They always do.

So I keep her close, but not too close.

I kiss her like she’s oxygen and push her away like she’s fire.

It’s not fair. I know that.

And still—I keep holding on.

Because there’s this look she gives me when she’s half asleep, buried in my hoodie and my sheets, where her whole body softens like she finally feels safe.

And for a second, I believe I might not fuck this up.

But then I remember every time someone said “forever” and didn’t mean it.

I remember the sound of footsteps leaving.

I remember that people lie when they say they’ll stay.

So I don’t say it back the way I should.

I don’t tell her she’s the only thing in my life that feels right.

Instead, I keep pretending that if I don’t let her all the way in, it won’t hurt if she ever walks away.

Even if she’s the one thing I’d never recover from.

Y/N POV:

Today, we’re at a party.

We had argued earlier, something stupid, something sharp. Something that started as a joke and ended in silence. He made a comment about commitment. I laughed too loud, too fake. I told him I didn’t care. He said, “Good, because I never promised you anything.”

It burned more than I’d admit.

And now, hours later, we’re here.

The music’s loud, Open Arms by SZA vibrating through the walls of someone’s too-big house with a pool no one swims in. The lights are low and hazy, and everyone’s drunk enough to forget how to be careful. I’m standing near the kitchen, pretending to listen to a conversation I’m not part of, my eyes locked on him.

There he is.

Chris.

Sitting in a circle on the floor with his usual crowd, Nate’s loud laughter echoing, someone handing out shots, smoke curling through the air. And her.

A girl.

Too close.

She’s laughing at everything he says. Her hand is on his knee like it belongs there. He leans back on his elbows, completely relaxed. And when she whispers something in his ear, he smirks. That smirk. The one I used to think was just for me.

My stomach twists.

I’m wearing his jacket.

Still.

Even after the fight.

Even now.

And he hasn’t looked at me once.

⸻

I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m standing outside on the porch, gripping the wood railing like it might anchor me. My throat is tight. I don’t want to cry. I’m tired of crying over a boy who holds my heart with bloody hands.

I hear the door creak behind me. Footsteps.

I know it’s him before he speaks.

“Hey.”

I don’t turn around.

“Y/N,” he says again, quieter now, almost careful.

“Go back inside,” I murmur, “She’s probably wondering where you went.”

He exhales a laugh, humorless, dry. “Are you serious?”

I finally turn. “You were all over her, Chris.”

“We’re not doing this here,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

I laugh. “Right. Because God forbid we talk about anything real at a party. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to make you look like you’re taken or something. So what the fuck are we, Chris? Convenient? Conditional? A warm body until something easier comes along?”

He steps closer, eyes dark, voice low. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like I haven’t given you everything I could. You just wanted more.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Because I love you. And you love me too. You just don’t know how to stop destroying things you care about.”

He stares at me. Silent.

Then—

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking.

“But you did,” I whisper. “Over and over.”

There’s a beat of silence. And I swear the air between us shifts. Thick with the weight of everything we never said.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks finally, like he’s choking on the words.

I look at him, this boy with messy hair and tired eyes, who looks like home and heartbreak all at once.

“No,” I breathe. “I want you to stay. But only if you’re going to stop running.”

Chris doesn’t answer. His mouth parts like he might speak, but he doesn’t. He just steps forward slowly, curling his hand around my wrist and resting his forehead against mine.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he whispers. “But I’m trying. For you.”

I nod. Barely.

But deep down, I’m not sure we’ll make it through the next time.

Because love shouldn’t feel like surviving a war every weekend.

And with Chris, it always does.

⸻

It’s always the same with him.

The silence after the fight.

The sideways glances.

That look on his face, like he’s sorry but too proud to say it, like he’s bleeding and too afraid to ask me to stitch him back together.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall for it again.

That this time, I’d lock the door, go to bed, and not answer when he knocked.

But I opened it anyway.

And there he was, hoodie pulled low, jaw clenched, eyes soft in a way that always broke me open.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

But he didn’t mean words.

He never did.

Because the second the door clicked shut, his lips were on mine — urgent, hungry, desperate in that way that said I’m sorry without ever saying it.

Hands in my hair. Fingers curling around my waist.

He kissed me like he wanted to memorize the shape of my regret.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathed, voice cracked.

“I can’t stand fighting with you.”

My back hit the wall.

He was pulling my shirt over my head.

His hands dragging down my spine like he was trying to map it, trying to remember all the places he’d hurt so he could kiss them better.

I should’ve stopped him.

But his mouth was on my neck, sucking slow bruises into my skin, grounding me and unraveling me in the same breath.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did.

He worshipped me, like if he touched me just right, I’d forget the things he didn’t say.

Like if he made me feel good enough, I’d ignore the ache still echoing in my chest.

We tumbled to the bed in pieces.

His lips were everywhere.

His hands, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense.

And when he moved against me, slow and deep, I gasped, not just from the way it felt, but from the way he made me feel.

Wanted.

Claimed.

Destroyed.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned into my ear. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

I gripped his shoulders like they were the only stable thing in my life.

Tears burned in the corners of my eyes from the pressure, from the pleasure, from the part of me that hated how good it always was when he was trying to fix us like this.

Because it was always like this.

He’d mess up. I’d walk away.

He’d find me, kiss me like he was drowning, and I’d let him.

He always gave me everything physically, but only parts of himself emotionally.

And I hated how I let that be enough.

Afterward, when we were tangled in sweat and sheets, my cheek on his chest, I heard his heartbeat, loud, fast, uneven.

“I’m never good at this,” he said, quietly.

“At what?” I whispered.

“Being yours,” he answered.

And I didn’t say anything back.

Because the worst part?

He was still the only person I wanted to belong to.

Because the truth?

He loves me.

He loves me in a strange, fractured way.

A ruined kind of love, crooked at the edges, bleeding at the seams.

The kind of love that bruises when it touches you, but still makes you crave it like oxygen.

It’s not soft. It’s not safe. It’s not the kind of love you write songs about.

It’s the kind of love that rips pages out of you.

The kind that keeps you up at night replaying what he didn’t say and what you didn’t stop.

He loves me in a weird form, those that damage you, but despite everything, it’s addictive.

I think we just love differently.

He shows it in half-glances, lingering touches, in the way he stays silent but never quite leaves.

And I… I loved him with everything. I didn’t know how to ration it.

He gave me what he had left.

I gave him the only thing I had.

And now we’re just two people still trying to convince each other that what we have is enough.

That sex can substitute apologies. That lips can cover bruises.

But every time we do this, every time I let him back in, I wonder if I’m still in love…

Or if I’m just addicted to the way he makes me feel right before he ruins it all again.

CHRIS POV:

She thinks I don’t love her.

And maybe that’s on me.

Maybe that’s because I show it in all the wrong ways, hands on her hips, lips on her throat, promises whispered between sheets instead of in daylight.

I don’t know how to love soft.

I never learned.

I only know love the way I grew up seeing it loud, broken, like fists through drywall and silence that stretches days long.

So when she looks at me with those eyes like she believes in me, I panic.

Because I don’t even believe in myself.

But God, I love her.

I love the way she walks into a room and somehow makes it feel like I can breathe.

The way she fights back when I’m being a dick, calls me out on my bullshit, makes me feel like maybe I’m not just the sum of all the people who’ve left me.

I love her in a way that fucking terrifies me.

Because she could ruin me if she wanted to.

She already has, maybe. Just with that smile. With the way she whispers “okay” even when I don’t deserve it. With the way she lets me touch her like she’s made of stars and I’m just a guy with dirty hands.

I try to keep her out sometimes. Push her just far enough away to feel safe.

Because if she gets in too deep… if she really sees the parts of me I bury?

She might leave.

And if she leaves, I don’t know what the fuck I’d do.

So I fuck it up.

I say shit I don’t mean.

I pretend I don’t care.

I pretend like the sex is just sex when it’s never been just sex with her.

But when she cried that night after the party?

When she touched my arm like it was the last time?

I felt it.

Right in my chest.

Like something broke open.

And tonight when I kissed her like I needed to feel anything but guilt, and she let me?

I wanted to say it then.

Wanted to whisper, “I love you. I’m scared, but I love you.”

But I didn’t.

Because I still don’t know how.

So I let her go to sleep thinking I’m okay.

Thinking I’ll always stay like this half-in, half-out.

But I’m not.

I’m drowning in this love, and I’m too much of a coward to admit I’ve already been saved.

As an avoidant to the attached and an attached to the avoidant this hurt my soul.

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44@emeraldsturns @sturnslux3 @kalel2005 @sarahsturns @teheabrams @needchrissturniolobad @julessspoetry @sturniszn @slutforchrissturniolo2 @alinagrace11 @beardedbernard @matthewswifeyy

[georgiapeach30513]

Once you've entered the Marvel Cinematic Universe, it's pretty tough to dip back out into the world of a struggling actor. But that's exactly what Chris Evans is doing in Materialists. The new romantic dramedy from writer-director Celine Song - the follow-up to her soulful 2023 debut Past Lives, which earned Oscar nominations for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay - sees Evans trade his Captain America spandex for a cater waiter's apron as John, a broke theater actor working odd jobs to pay the bills. The film sets up a love triangle between John, his high-end matchmaker ex Lucy, played by Dakota Johnson, and Harry, a charming, wealthy suitor played by Pedro Pascal.

"John is amalgamation of an entire lifestyle of theater artists in New York City," Song told Rolling Stone on a recent video call from New York City. "He's somebody who was born poor and grew up poor and has a bit of a chip on his shoulder about it in a way that's really beautiful, and I find that to be quite moving. So how did she land on a literal American hero as her romantic underdog?

"There is a merchandise of Chris that people who do not know him maybe see first and foremost, because that's the easiest way to understand an actor, as an object," Song says. "But then when I actually met Chris the person, he was so inspiring as John, because there's a part of Chris that's John and has been John forever. Chris for a while was an up and comer, and he also understands that." She adds with a laugh, "He's had roommates."

Evans welcomed the change of pace the role offered. "It's certainly nice to play someone who has challenges and struggles that I can relate to, just very human, pedestrian hurdles, as opposed to life-ending consequences," Evans says of playing a guy without superpowers.

"His posture, physicality, clothing, the tangible things that you can live in to bring a character to life - it's nice that it was flannels and sweatpants as opposed to a shield."

Rolling Stone spoke with Evans about Materialists, his own experience with moviemaking behind the camera, and modern romance.

What drew you to Materialists?

What Celine does so well is take what seems at times like simple dialogue and make the scene, from a directorial standpoint, incredibly special. She has a way of making it feel the way these things actually feel when they're happening to you.

Sometimes very simple things can happen in life that feel so profound, and when you try to tell a friend about it, it's never the same. And that's about the restraint that she shows as a director.

The restraint she shows as a writer. The silence and the pacing have just as much impact as the words themselves.

When you read the screenplay did you immediately feel connected to John?

I assumed that I would be cast as Harry when I first met with [Celine]. She said,

"Which role do you like?" And I said,

"Well, I like John, but I guess I'd be OK if you want to cast me as Harry." Both roles were wonderful, but I was a little more drawn to John. Luckily she felt the same.

What did you like about him?

There was more vulnerability, there was more pain. John is a guy who isn't where he wants to be in life. And I think it's easy to project an attitude of not caring, because if you care, then you'll have to try. And if you try, you might fail. John is this living embodiment of, "I'll push you away before you can push me away." But he also can't help his heart. He loves Lucy. And to admit that to Lucy, to admit that to himself, requires risk. And that's where his growth unfolds. where his growth unfolds.

Did playing John remind you about your early days in acting, considering he's still trying to break in?

I absolutely can relate to that aspect of John. The drive, the doubt, the shitty roommates, these are all things that I absolutely identify with. I myself am a little bit more of an open book. I'm too sensitive, you know. I'm a delicate guy.

And as a result, I probably overshare as a coping mechanism, where I think John is a little bit more of a closed book.

If you were 37, living with an inconsiderate roommate, and working random gigs to get by, would you still be trying to pursue acting?

I don't know how I would handle it if I were in my late thirties still trying. But I certainly know it would make me punchy. It would make me feel defensive and a little ossified and not wanting to feel inadequate because of the fact that I haven't reached my dreams. You feel inadequate enough to yourself, and to have a romantic partner also tell you the ways you're inadequate, it's just too much.

Talk to me a little bit about shooting the barn scene near the end of the film, where John and Lucy have a painful but necessary heart-to-heart. John says some rather swoon-worthy but also sorrowful lines.

One of the things that I love about Celine is that she shoots on 35[mm film]. Past Lives was absolutely gorgeous. And when you show up that night and see those string lights, you know you're going to be in a frame of film that's going be beautiful. You feel that it's special.The scene itself is this very vulnerable, very honest declaration of his love and knowing that he doesn't have what she wants, but also stating what he's desperate for. It's just very raw, and so it's very painful. But as an actor, when you try to call from your own personal experiences, there's plenty of things in life that I could call to, to feel that level of vulnerability, feeling just totally exposed and honest with your heart in your hand - and it usually leads to tears [laughs].

The fact that it was shot on 35mm also raises the stakes in terms of how many takes you can do.

Absolutely! That's part of the romance of making movies. I like the fact that there is a finite amount of film. I like watching mags of film being switched out of the camera. I like checking the gate. I like all that stuff. I like things dipping in and out of soft focus and not being able to fix it in post. That's the art of it.

What distinguishes Materialists from other romantic films? Celine Song's writing seems to tap into a different perspective on love, one could say more grounded.

Most rom-coms have this very idealized version of love, which is fun. It's great for escapism, but it doesn't always reflect real life. And this movie has a much more realistic, grounded, slightly less naive interpretation of what love is as something that's far more relatable to the modern viewer. The landscape of love today is really tough. A lot of the social norms that used to keep marriages together have been deconstructed. Now it's predicated purely on compatibility, and that can very easily devolve into an algorithm as opposed to matters of the heart.

Lucy says early on that love is easy, but dating is difficult. That seems to synthesize the film's theme.

Couldn't have said it better. Love is your heart. It's clear. It's binary. Dating is when the math comes in, dating is when it becomes a calculation. Dating is your mind, dating is pragmatism, and trying to reconcile the needs of your mind and the wants of your heart is messy.

Later this summer you also star in the Ethan Coen thriller Honey Don't! Is this a shift in gears in your career?

I hope so. It's just working with good filmmakers. As long as I've been doing this, it always comes back to the filmmaker. There are always a hundred reasons to do a movie. Sometimes it's great a role. Sometimes it's a really funny script or an amazing director, a great producer. But sometimes you try to squint to make a movie make sense and check enough boxes to make sense. The only box that matters is the filmmaker. It really comes down to the director, and that's really all I'm pursuing these days.

And if I like their work, then I'm in.

You directed your own romantic dramedy, Before We Go, a decade ago. Is this a genre you particularly enjoy, or were there other reasons to tackle it in your first feature as a director?

At that time, I wanted to direct, but I also was thinking from a very pragmatic perspective: I needed to learn. I had never been to film school. I was veering into a lane that I had no experience in. So I just felt like I owed the title of director a little more respect than to jump in and try and do something that I knew I might not be able to handle. The piece itself is a very contained script: two people, New York City, all-night shoots, felt very manageable to me. I did love the topic, but there was a more pragmatic motivation behind it as well.

Is directing something you want to try again?

It really is, but the tricky thing is I have about a hundred other things that I'm also interested in. I'm slightly fickle. Some days I'll wake up and I want to direct, but then some days I wake up and I want to go learn carpentry. [Laughs.] Honestly, it's about the movies I see. When I see an incredible movie that really inspires me, it completely pulls my focus back. But if I step away from actually going to see films, my interests drift.

It would be interesting to see what you would do behind the camera now, 10 years after that first attempt and after the experience of working with directors like Celine.

I would do it very differently. Oh, my gosh. When you look back, you just realize how much of the movie was done in a defensive posture. You have a movie you see in your head, but you almost don't have the courage or poetry of language or just knowledge of the medium to convey what you want it to be. You end up sometimes out of just simple fear, intimidation, letting things settle to a familiar, recognizable place.

I probably would take a lot more risk or be a lot more confident in what I wanted to see happen. But part of the reason that diving back in is so intimidating is because you know that it would have to be that the second time. You can't do the same thing if you're going to do it again. It's such a demanding thing. You give so much of your life: the prep, the filming, the post. To do it again but not do it properly would be a disservice to myself, my time. And that's a little intimidating.

What would you say is the defining quality of Celine Song as a filmmaker or what you found most memorable about your work with her in creating John?

Conviction. She knows exactly what she wants. I've worked with a lot of directors that have an idea, and they're very passionate, but they're more than happy to collaborate, massage, meet in the middle, find, make it this kind of, "Well, you bring this, and I'll bring this." And not to say that Celine is not a collaborator, but she's also very confident in her reasons. There's not a word that she writes that's filler; everything is on purpose. And it takes a minute to understand that, but once you find that trust, that confidence, and you start to say, "OK, I'm going to let go a little bit and let you take the wheel completely. If you say jump, I'm just going to say how high." She's two for two now, in my opinion.

X

[whisperingmidnights]

Starcrossed: Chapter Five

Pairing: Rhysand/Reader

Word count: 6,185

Series Masterlist

     I wheeze, the air rushing from my lungs Iris yanks on the laces of my corset, pulling it tighter than I typically wear it – when I can be bothered to wear one at all. I don’t like to be restricted and, no matter how pretty the lacework is, the boning feels like a cage. Asterope had offered to dress me, but the moment she reached for the gown hanging behind the screen – a gown I have yet to see myself – Iris all but snarled at the poor female and shooed her from the room to tend to our mother, who already has two maids of her own attending her. When I feel her beginning to tie the laces, I manage a small sigh of relief as my hands wander towards my curled and coiffed hair.

     The smack of my sister’s hand against my own echoes through the room.

     “Iris!” I huff, rubbing the thin skin on the back of my hand.

     “Stop touching it or it’ll fall. Then Asterope will have to do it all over again, and it already took hours.” After one final knot, she steps back to look at me as I watch her in the mirror, impatient and bored with the tedious task of dressing. I love pretty gowns as much as anyone, but so much goes into getting ready for a ball. We should have requested Day Court fashions since there aren’t nearly as many buttons or laces involved in them. Just yards and yards of artfully draped fabric. “There, now you should fit.”

     “Should?” I grumble, glancing over at the partition hiding our gowns. Iris tugs at the end of her elaborate braid, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. “I thought you’d commissioned this gown with my measurements.”

     “I did, but it’s a new style,” she huffs, tossing her braid over her shoulder as she goes to fetch the gown. Her robe flutters around her ankles, cut from the softest blue silk that reminds me of the morning sky. It’s lovely on her, the right shade to bring out the autumnal hues in her hair and eyes. When Iris emerges from behind the screen, I’m expecting to see a gown in shades of grey or cream, something soft and light.

     Draped over her arms is the most daring shade of crimson I’ve ever seen.

     “Try it on before you say anything,” she interjects as I open my mouth to protest. “Please?” Please. Iris doesn’t often ask me for anything, at least not since I’d returned from my first visit with our grandparents several weeks ago. It’s strange to be standing in my room in their palace now with her at my side after I’d grown so accustomed to being alone here. Well, as alone as one can be with a maid. Iris has been good about keeping out of my way, I suppose the least I can do is humor her.

     She only squeals a little when I beckon her over with the gown.

    “The fabric has cooling enchantments woven in,” she rambles as she kneels at my feet, helping me step into the gown before she pulls it up, “so you won’t be too hot in it. And there are lifting charms in the skirts, so it won’t be too heavy. All things considered, you should be rather comfortable.”

     “My ribs in this corset would beg to differ.”

     “Well, I didn’t say it was perfect, did I?” she asks as I shove my arms through the long sleeves. It’s heavier than I’d anticipated, the silk is far thicker than those we purchase from Dawn. Once the neckline is situated just over the corset and the cuffs of the sleeves are secure, Iris buttons the gown and I watch it transform. The waterfall bishop sleeves sit just off of my shoulders, flowing effortlessly into the deep, heart-shaped neckline; the ruching over the bodice creates the illusion of a sort of explosion, like a heart bursting. When she finally fluffs out the train, I glance back over my shoulder to see beautiful gold embroidery along the hem of romantic swirls and whorls I’ve only ever seen in her lacework.

     “Oh, Iris,” I gasp, twisting to get a better look at the gown. “This is incredible.”

     “Do you like it?” she asks, twisting her robe between her fists as she steps back to admire her handiwork.

     “It’s lovely. Did you help with the embroidery?”

     “I designed it. It wasn’t meant to have any,” she shrugs sheepishly, “but when you returned from your visit here, you were…different. And I thought the dress might need to reflect that.”

     “Different how?” I laugh, turning to look at myself in the mirror. All of my life I’ve had a plethora of beautiful gowns, but nothing quite this dramatic or flattering. It’s truly the most breathtaking dress I’ve ever owned.

     “Softer.” The word falls from her lips like a confession, and I stop admiring the gown to look at her. “A little dreamy, like your head was in the clouds until it was time to come back. Whatever you were thinking of, it looked like it brought you joy.”

     “You didn’t say anything about it.” Iris has never shied away from barging into my business before.

     “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

     “That hasn’t stopped you before.” I wince at the statement. It came out more bluntly than I’d intended, and my heart seizes at the way her face falls before she shrugs it off. We so rarely get along. I always feel as though she clings too tightly to me and I don’t know how to stand it. It’s so easy to push her away. I’ve been doing it for years, telling her I don’t need another shadow. Perhaps I’ve been too harsh.

     “This time it did.”

     “We can talk about it,” I tell her, this time more gently, “if you want. Preferably when Linden and Aspen aren’t around. They’d both have too many of the wrong sorts of questions or they’d bring it up at the wrong time, you know?”

     “In other words, you don’t want it getting back to Papa.” The gleam in her blood moon eyes makes me laugh and I shake my head at the fox-like smile on her lips.

     “I’m not hiding anything, Iris.” That’s not entirely true. There are letters hidden in a compartment of my trunk I only dare to reread in the dead of night, when the world’s gone quiet. I wonder if he keeps mine tucked away somewhere special. If they mean anything at all. “You should get your gown, I’ll help you with it.”

     “Oh, it’s simple enough that I won’t need help. But will you tell me about your secret?” I follow her over to the screen, stopping just shy of the edge to give her privacy as I hear her robe flutter to the floor. Smoothing my hands over the thick, pleated fabric of my skirt, I’m at a loss for what to say. How do I tell her of the male that haunts my dreams? We only shared a moment alone in the garden temple and a handful of letters in the passing weeks, little mementos that began to appear under my pillow a few days after his departure. Surely it will sound ridiculous and make me appear childish, to have latched so strongly onto the idea of someone. But when I think of him, the way my heart flutters in my chest, the deep sense of knowing that settles over me, I just…can’t bring myself to feel ridiculous.

     My name on my sister’s lips spurs me on, unlocking a latch I hadn’t realized was there until the truth comes spilling out of me like the opening of a dam.

     “When I was here last, helping Grandfather with the drought, they played host to Night’s new High Lord and his inner circle for a few days. Something about trade agreements or treaties, I wasn’t really paying attention when they were introduced.” My cheeks flood with heat as I remember the way Rhysand had looked, how his presence had filled my mind so thoroughly it was impossible to think of anything else.

     “You didn’t mention it at your return dinner, when Papa asked you if anything interesting happened while you were away.” Iris says, briefly poking her head around the screen. Her eyes are wide, sparkling with delight, and I shrug in response.

     “It didn’t seem important, and I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was particularly interesting.” Lie, lie, lie. I should have mentioned it, but I didn’t.

     “But it was, wasn’t it? What happened?” The sound of rustling fabric and frustrated huffing fills the room, and I almost offer to help her again. “Did you get to meet them? Were they as terrible as everyone claims?”

     “You knew Rho as well as I did-”

     “Not true. She didn’t like to speak to me nearly as well as she did you-”

     “-regardless, she wasn’t terrible. I didn’t expect her brother to be either and, well, he wasn’t. None of them were, really. A little cold, perhaps detached…but not terrible.” Not terrible at all. I begin to fuss with the pleats in my gown, running my fingers over the thick fabric until the skin begins to feel dry. “He, uhm…he might have happened upon me in the garden temple on his last day here. We had a…strange encounter, I suppose. I don’t know.”

     “You don’t know? What does that even mean?” Iris crows, stepping out from behind the screen. My lips part in an ‘o’ of surprise as I take in the details of my little sister’s gown. Cut from pale shades of twilight, the bodice is sleeveless, embroidered with beautiful, crystal beaded blackberries and flowers more akin to something you might find in the mountains than the autumnal forest of our home court; the skirt, flaring out from her waist, is constructed of many layers of sheer fabric cut to mimic the petals of a flower opening, occasionally interspersed with lovely, metallic silver accents.

     On a good day, Iris is one of the loveliest females in any room.

     In this gown? My sister is a vision. It illuminates her pale complexion and compliments the deep merlot curls cascading over her shoulder. She fluffs her skirt a bit as she sidesteps me to find the mirror, where she takes in every angle of the gown with an exacting eye. 

     “Oh, wow,” I murmur, crossing my arms as I admire her. “Your dress is amazing, Iris. You look beautiful.”

     “Don’t cross your arms like that, your gown will wrinkle.”

     “Am I supposed to hold them out by my sides all night?” I ask, flinging my arms out wide in a rare show of drama that makes her eyes sparkle. My beautiful, radiant sister. Envy roils in my gut and I do my best to shove it down.

     “I certainly hope you intend to do more than stand around all night. You might actually have to dance or have something to drink, socialize, you know. What people do at balls.” She laughs when I roll my eyes and wanders over to sit on the edge of my bed. “Now tell me more about this new High Lord. If he’s as handsome as his father was-”

     “Iris!” I huff, feeling my own face reddening at the very idea of my younger sister looking at anyone that old with such blatant interest. A heavy knock on my door is all the warning we’re given before it’s thrown wide open and Aspen comes barrelling in, his auburn curls still damp from the bath. His pale trousers and forest green jacket are almost certainly a miniature version of what our father must be wearing tonight. Mother does love for them to match on public outings. Following at his heels with a sour expression, Linden shrugs into a satin jacket the color of marigolds. There’s no trace of my gangly little brother in his soldier’s build or the sharply chiseled jawline, more defined now that his long hair’s been cut, but a familiar glimmer of mischief lights his russet eyes when they cut to mine.

     “Mother will be cross if your jacket is wrinkled, Aspen,” Linden reminds our youngest brother with a lazy grin just before he can barrel into Iris. The boy settles at her side instead, leaning against her as she runs her fingers through his hair.

     “You’re no fun anymore.” I tap a finger over my lips to contain the giggle threatening to bubble up at the pout on Aspen’s freckled face.

     “That’s what military service does to you, Asp,” Iris mock-whispers as she kisses the crown of Aspen’s head. “Makes you terribly boring.”

     “I’m afraid it’s more the promise of Mother’s wrath.” Linden’s nose wrinkles at the prospect as he falls in at my side, lightly bumping my shoulder as his eyes sweep over my gown. “Father sent us to hurry you along. Are you quite finished primping, or should we stall for five more minutes? I doubt it’ll help either of you-”

     “Watch it,” I warn, reaching up to tug the hair curling near his collar, “or I’ll give you another bald spot to fuss over.”

     “The hair’s grown back, no thanks to you,” Linden mutters, batting my hand away. “Some welcome back this is.”

     “Oh hush. A ballroom full of eligible females should make up for your arduous time spent along the northern border. I’m sure the cattle and fields cause many problems.”

     “Laugh all you want, you haven’t seen the creatures crawling down from the north.”

     “I see Papa’s reports, too.”

     “You think they’re putting them in official reports?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “If you have to ask, it’s not my place to say-”

     “Well then don’t start conversations you don’t intend to finish,” Iris huffs, her eyes flashing a violent shade of crimson as the flit between us. Aspen groans, kicking his feet up on the bed as he lays his head in her lap, guiding her hand back to his hair.

     “I’m hungry,” he whines, the very picture of the pampered youngest brother. Little Juniper’s going to need to give Aspen a run for his money soon, or he’ll be insufferable forever. Iris shushes him in much the same way Mother does, running a thumb over his cherubic cheek as she narrows her eyes at Linden. She’ll make a formidable mother herself someday, though Linden remains unfazed. He casts a sidelong glance at me and gives a casual shrug, tilting his head towards the door.

     “Come on, they’re expecting us. Grandfather will be anxious to go down soon, I’m sure, if only to ensure Aspen is fed.”

     If he were shorter, I’d shake him the way I used to when we were small: until his teeth rattled and he told me what he knew. Unfortunately, we’re expected to be adults, so I suck my my teeth and shove my feet into the golden slippers beside my mirror, a perfect match for the embroidery on my gown. Aspen scurries off with a whoop, the sharp clip of his shoes echoing in the hall.

     “Go do something useful beyond stirring the pot,” Iris snips at Linden as she slips into her own silver shoes. I blink at her, taken aback by her attitude, but light sparks in Linden’s eyes as he gives her an assessing glance on his way out after Aspen. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He might like to think he’s worthy competition for you, but Papa would never-”

     “Oh, we don’t know what Papa will do, not that it’s necessarily up to him. And, who knows, perhaps Aspen will beat us all out-”

     “Oh please.”

     “You don’t know how he’ll settle.”

     “He’ll be lucky if he has half the power you do.”

     “Power isn’t everything,” I tell her as we hurry to join our brothers in the family sitting room. Papa, Uncle Lucien, and Grandfather stand beside an open window, looking out over the grounds as Juniper dozes in the crook of my grandfather’s arm, lost in some low conversation the sound of my grandmother’s fussing drowns out. Aunt Jesminda is seated uncomfortably on an emerald velvet sofa, her chestnut hair hanging in wild curls around her slender shoulders as she glances between my grandmother and mother. Her palm rests over the slight swell of her belly, the ruby in her mating ring gleaming in the warm, golden fae light. She smiles up at us as we enter, holding her hand out for me to take as I settle at her side. My head rests on her shoulder as I take in her scent, letting it calm the erratic beating of my heart.

     “Hello, sweetheart,” she whispers, kissing the crown of my head. Her golden gown is stunning, warming her skin, breathing a little life back into her. It seems this pregnancy has been more nightmare than blessing so far, but she’s well enough to be here with us. That counts for something. “How are you feeling? You look beautiful, kit.”

     “Thank you. I’m okay, are you okay?”

     “Perfectly fine, sweetling. It seems your cousin is as stubborn and difficult as the rest of you.”

     “It’s a Vanserra trait,” my mother adds, sitting on the sofa at my other side. Her gown of silver spidersilk is more revealing than she dares to wear at home, and lends towards the haunting image she usually cuts at my father’s side. The smell of dark, blackberry wine drifts up from the dark goblet dangling between her fingers, and I wrinkle my nose at it. She must have already made arrangements for Juniper if she’s drinking tonight. Her fingers curve around my chin, lifting my head from my aunt’s shoulder so she can properly look me over. I don’t know why she bothers, it seems there’s always something for her to be unsatisfied about when she looks at me. “Iris chose your dress well tonight, the color does much for your complexion.”

     “Thank you?” I say, pulling my chin out of her hold. I can hear Iris’s dramatic sigh from her place at my grandmother’s side, and I glance away from my mother’s harvest moon eyes to see my sister scowling down at her. Bright, tentative satisfaction bursts in my chest as I realize she’s taking my side, and how nice it is for her to do so. I should make more of an effort with her. Grandfather clears his throat then, drawing everyone’s attention to him as he hands off Juniper to Papa. My grandmother squeezes Iris’s arm before she drifts to his side, both of them resplendent in white and god.

     “Before we join my court to enjoy the night’s festivities,” Grandfather begins, placing his hand at the base of my grandmother’s back, “there’s something we wanted to share with all of you.”

     I look towards my father just in time to see him share a pointed look with Uncle Lucien. Aspen leans back against Lucien’s legs, fidgeting impatiently while Linden’s vacant gaze is fixed on a point on the far wall. He can’t even pretend to be interested. I feel for the currents in the air that help me generate lightning and carefully form the smallest burst of blue light right against the back of his neck, shocking him out of whatever daydream he was having with a small yelp. The older males glance at him, their faces painted in varying shades of bewilderment, then my father looks to me with a raised brow. I shrug innocently, giving him a bland smile before I turn my attention back to my grandparents.

     “It seems,” my grandmother says, looking to her children and their spouses before her eyes land on me. She smiles so warmly, I can’t help but return it. “It seems we’ll be welcoming another member of our family before spring. Helion and I are expecting a babe-”

     “You can still do that?” I’ve never seen my Uncle Lucien clamp a hand over Aspen’s mouth so fast, but the question is already out there. He received the talk after my mother fell pregnant with Juniper, and it seems he has not forgotten how babies are created. Lucien looks to my father again, something like horrified amusement on his face, and my father slowly blinks in return. Grandfather’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as he buries his face in my grandmother’s hair, who looks to be seconds away from erupting into laughter herself. My mother certainly has never looked so pale as she does now.

     “Congratulations,” Papa says diplomatically, giving my grandmother a warm smile before he directs his attention to my mother. “It seems we have more work to do with the boy regarding manners, yes?”

     “That’s an understatement,” Iris mutters, leaning against the back of the sofa. That’s all it takes for laughter to break through the room, and I rise to hug my grandmother. Her arms wrap tightly around my shoulders, and Grandfather’s hand rests between my shoulder blades, warm and steady. This close, I can smell the way her scent has changed, softer and sweeter as a result of the pregnancy.

     “Congratulations,” I whisper. She kisses my temple, pulling back to look into my eyes. All my life, she’s been nothing less than joyous, but I have never seen her quite so radiant before. It’s like the sun itself shines from her russet eyes. Even her beautiful red hair has a golden hue to it. She must have had a glamour on before, hiding these little changes.

    Her hands cup my cheeks, her thumbs trailing along my cheekbones. “My sweet girl. You’ll help me design the nursery, won’t you?”

     “Iris might be better at that than me.” Her joyous expression falters a little at my suggestion, and I quickly add, “but if it’s my help you want, consider it yours. I would like nothing more.” It’s not the truth, but it’s not technically a lie either. There are more thrilling things in life than designing nurseries, but I love my family. And something tells me my grandmother has waited a very long time for a babe she can openly celebrate. Moments later, my mother’s hands settle on my shoulders, shuffling me off to the side for everyone else to extend their congratulations.

     I’m strangely grateful for the intrusion. Father hands Juniper to me before embracing my grandmother, and I take the rare opportunity to look down at the sister I’ve made no effort to bond with. She’s small, with a little, scrunched face and chubby cheeks. Her red hair is a little darker than it was, easing more towards wine red than fire. She is objectively a beautiful baby, but looking at her, I don’t feel that rush of affection or protectiveness I did with the other three. Something must be wrong with me.

     My mother takes Juniper after a minute, handing her off to a nursemaid before ushering the rest of her children into the hall. We’re used to this by now, and arrange ourselves in order of birth, with Linden escorting me while Juniper and Aspen trail after us. We’ll follow behind our grandparents and parents, with Uncle Lucien and Aunt Jes at the back of the procession. Linden pinches me as he threads my arm through his and, the moment Mother’s back is turned, I zap him again. Iris giggles behind us, and I catch her eye over my shoulder. She winks at me, and the affection I’d been searching for with Juniper tugs at my heart. Perhaps it will just take time.

- - -

     The grand ballroom is a sea of gold and glimmering jewels. Fae from every court fill the room, drifting in and out of the archways leading out into the main garden. My eyes search the sea of them, taking in the varied fashions and colors until I find the dark figure I’m looking for leaning against a marble column. The Night Court stands on the periphery of the celebrations in a tight circle, but I notice the shadowsinger drift forward as my siblings and I take our places at the high table. Iris stiffens at my side, like a marionette whose strings have been tugged. I look over, trying to figure out what she’s looking at, but her gaze drops to the porcelain plate as Grandfather’s speech begins.

      I lean over to whisper in her ear. “Are you alright?”

     “Fine,” she mumbles quickly, looking towards our grandparents, her cheeks tinged with pink. Red tendrils of hair have fallen loose around her face, softening her features. She reminds me of something lovely out of an old painting. “I’m fine.” She doesn’t seem fine, but maybe she just doesn’t want to talk about it here. I reach for her hand, squeezing her fingers, and she returns it with a bone-crushing grip of her own. Iris has never been crowd shy a day in her life, I don’t understand why she looks so unsettled now. Once my grandfather finishes speaking and the room fills with thunderous applause, I look back to where Rhysand was leaning. His spymaster has disappeared with the general, and the High Lord of the Night Court is staring straight at me. He smirks, tilting his glass towards me, and I raise my own to my lips.

     He’s beautiful, dressed entirely in black, his jacket trimmed with gold. The blonde at his side, Morrigan, is swathed in a gauzy, delicate white gown. Her tan skin is beautiful, contrasted by the stark fabric of her dress. A cousin, he’d said, distant but family nonetheless. All the family has left, it seems. I try not to let him distract me as the meal appears and everyone else takes their seats. Our plates are soon laden with fish and pasta in a creamy lemon sauce, and fresh, perfectly seasoned vegetables. Golden, crusty bread with oil and fresh herbs accompanies dinner, with light, sparkling peach wine and carafes of cold water.

     This truly is a celebration. Golden orbs blaze overhead like miniature suns, filling the space with light as dusk gives way to dark, glorious night. A string quartet plays in the corner, their music soft and lovely as pixie wings. My heart sings for the joy and laughter and love in this room, even if I don’t quite feel a part of it. After dinner, dessert arrives: peaches and sweet, vanilla cream or light, fluffy limoncello cake that tastes of liquor and sugar. I pick at the peaches, waiting for the rest of the musicians to arrive so the dancing can begin. It’s my favorite part.

     All through dessert, I search the ballroom for a head of raven black hair and that rich, dark laugh. I don’t hear or see him again until well after the dancing begins. The click of the heels of his polished black boots on the floor makes my breath catch as I lean around Linden to see Rhysand stop before the head of the table, giving my grandfather a respectful bow. The look he exchanges with my father is nothing short of complicated. I’ve never seen Papa look at anyone with so much mistrust as he leans back in his chair, his arm draped over the back of my mother’s chair as he sips his wine. Rhysand doesn’t seem to care much as he strides toward me. My brother bristles and from the corner of my eye, I see Iris glancing towards me, her blood moon eyes wide.

     “Lovely to see you again, Princess.” A few of the dancers behind him pause as the High Lord of Night formally addresses me. I straighten in my seat, trying to portray myself as the elegant Autumn lady my mother raised me to be. The wicked amusement in his eyes tells me he’s not fooled, but he’s not the one I’m putting on the act for. “You are a vision in crimson this evening.”

     “You flatter me, High Lord,” I reply, taking another sip of my wine. The flavor of peach and sweet vanilla tingles over my tongue, loosening the muscles in my shoulders, making me a little bolder. “How generous of you, to remember me after all these weeks.”

     “As though I could forget Autumn’s greatest treasure.” A few females in the corner titter, their heads bowed together as they watch the exchange. “You’ll forgive me, Lady, if my methods toe the border of propriety, but I’ve recently been told fortune favors the bold.”

     “And what could you possibly need fortune’s favor for tonight, High Lord?”

     “A dance, my lady. With Autumn’s loveliest jewel, if she would be so kind to oblige a northern lord.”

     I feel Linden rather than see him, his breath against the shell of my ear as he leans in to whisper, “oh fucking gag me. You’re not seriously entertaining this, are you?” I do not even deign to look at my younger brother. I merely shrug and smile at the male before me, elated at the opportunity to stretch my legs.

     “It would be an honor, High Lord.” Our family is hosting the revel, after all. It would be impolite to turn down the request of a guest. Rhysand meets me at the end of the dais, holding out a hand to help me descend the few short steps as the last song finishes. The crowd parts as he leads me to the dance floor, their whispers and my father’s pointed gaze on my back fading into the background as I look at him. He is beautiful. The scent of citrus and seawater wraps around me, marrying my own rain and orchard scent until all I can smell is us. My hand trembles as I set it on his shoulder, the other enveloped in his own. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me far closer than proper as the dark strains of a Night Court waltz fill the air. The music is slow, refined, and will gather speed in no time. It’s been a long time since I trained in this style of dance, but I remember enjoying the feeling of it. The slow, measured seduction of the beginning followed by the flurry of lifts in the middle. It was overwhelming to learn, but-

     “Just look at me, Dove.” His words are a command, and I turn my gaze to his. Gone are the dark shadows. In his eyes, all I see is beautiful, burning starlight. “It’s only us here. And it is so lovely to see you again. Did you receive my last letter?”

     “I did. The portrait you described was stunning, Rhysand.”

     “One day, perhaps I’ll show it to you.” I shiver at the idea of walking into that cruel, wicked court beneath the black mountain at his side. The mere thought of it is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I’ve heard the rumors of how they tear each other apart, of the faerie heads mounted on spikes in a long path before the entrance to the court. Of the beasts that reside in the pits of their dungeons, dark and monstrous things that know no master, only hunger. Only death.

     “I think I’d like that.”

     “You would be a vision there, too. A flame against the dark.”

     “I think you’re mistaking me for my sister.”

     “No. All I see is you.”

      In that moment, I am lost. Entangled in everything he is: the smell of him, the feeling of his body everywhere it meets mine, I am helpless in the face of the sheer power radiating from him. On our first lift, I lean my head back, letting the light wash over me as I begin the slow slide down his body, into his arms once more. Possession drips from his hands, every movement he makes a perfect mirror to my own, and something vicious and beautifully golden pulls between my ribs. A blue flash of lightning stretches across the sky, illuminating the grounds, and those violet eyes are full of unholy delight as he stares down at me.

     “I see you, too.” And, for a moment, I think I truly do. In the span of a breath, the bravado falls away, giving me a glimpse of something almost tender. Almost. But the mask slips back on before I can blink, and he’s spinning me in circles around him, little more than a planet in his orbit, a surety to his movements that doesn’t allow me to falter. Finally, when he pulls me back against him, the room falls into a hush. The music winds down, drifting into something softer and lovelier, and Rhysand’s arm is a solid weight around my waist. He’s looking down at me as though the stars are born and die in my eyes instead of his own, and my chin drifts up like he might kiss me here, in the middle of this room, with my entire family watching.

     Linden appears at my side, his hand outstretched to take me from the Lord of Night. Rhysand’s grip tightens, his expression flickering between possession and rage before his arm falls away and we step back from each other. My chest tightens, the space between us is too much to bear, but I remember myself before I can launch myself at him. We’re in the middle of a ballroom, and we both have roles we must fulfill. Lives that aren’t our own. I sink into a low curtsy, my head dropping as the thick, scarlet fabric of my dress fans out around me.

     Linden’s hand is an insistent presence at my side, and I reach for it as I stand. My brother turns me away, and I don’t hear the High Lord’s footsteps at my back, but I note the way Linden’s expression softens at his obvious departure. The minute the other dancers fill in the dance floor around us, I step on his foot.

     Hard.

     My little brother doesn’t even flinch. Asshole.

     “That was some display,” he grunts, pulling me into a much slower waltz. “What were you thinking?”

     “That a High Lord asked me to dance and I wouldn’t do him the dishonor of saying no.”

     “Well, sister, most of the other High Lords aren’t cold-blooded murders-“

     “Please, Lin, tell me which of them has unsullied hands and I’ll propose marriage myself. Go on, I’m waiting.” His jaw clenches, yet he says nothing. He can’t. To date, every High Lord has come to power with blood-soaked hands, our father included. He hates Night’s High Lord on principal, because their court has a long history of a sort of vicious cruelty our kind likes to pretend we’ve overcome. Rhysand doesn’t apologize for who he is or what he’s done. If he didn’t refuse to play the game, Linden might like him better.

     The fact that he doesn’t play the same, tired game makes me like him more.

     “Father is displeased-”

     “Because I shared a dance with a male who asked me?”

     “Because he was looking at you like he might burn the world for you,” Linden huffs, shaking his head. “And you were staring at him in kind. You know that’s not a match he could ever approve of.”

     The condescension in his voice is what makes me snap. “I’m not asking for his approval, Linden — not his or grandfather’s or anyone’s. And certainly not yours.”

     I disentangle myself from my brother’s arms and leave him in the center of the dance floor, storming off beneath one of the archways into the darkened garden. I hear him call after me, but I don’t deign to respond. Magic seizes me in a flurry of darkness and pressure. I can’t think or breathe, I don’t know where I am.

In the next moment, I step out into the center of the hedge maze. The stars wink to life overhead as the moon begins to rise, and sweet, warm air caresses my face. In the distance, I can hear the tburble of a nearby fountain. I shouldn’t have snapped at Linden, but I couldn’t endure another moment of him talking like he knows what’s best for me. None of them know what’s best for me, what I dream of, what I long for…yet they all have something to say about the way I choose to live my life.

     I’m not there longer than five minutes before the scent of sweet sea air envelops me. Threads of darkness dance along my skin, tugging at my arms, coaxing me to turn around. A warm hand gently clasps my shoulder and, finally, I look back. We don't speak, but we don't really need words. Not now. As day yields to night, I turn and grasp the front of his jacket, sinking into his arms as his lips meet my own.

     I feel like I’m burning alive. The brightness in my chest pushes its way out, expanding with every breath. The kiss deepens, his tongue darts against my lips, seeking entrance I willingly grant. Kissing Rhysand ignites something in me I know I can never extinguish. It is light and life and sweet, claiming darkness. Kissing him like falling asleep. Is this what it is to dream?

[crow-caller]

Its crazy how not only did no one know i was autistic for a long time, i definitely didnt realize my mother was. when I told her I was, she went 'you know, I think i might be too!'. Meanwhile all my friends who met my mother were like 'hey your mum is autistic af'

Anyway I see it now esp bc she texts me with no awareness of how one typically separates or approaches topics, which is to say she sent this today,

I guess it slipped her mind to remind me yesterday!!

This post might be more a long lead in to say 'wow my papa's been dead for 20 years jfc'. And you know what? He was autistic af too. My dad's favourite movie was The Producers, because his favourite Broadway show was the Producers. He loved it so much, and would always make us watch his favourite things with that promise: YOU'LL LOVE IT!

Now. The Producers is not a movie appropriate for young children, at the very least because it is difficult to understand satire (heavily nazi based) as a young child. I saw it many times. He went to the Broadway show multiple times over the years and took my sister at least once, around age... 11? I don't think at any point he was concerned it was too mature or difficult, he just really, really loved it and wanted more than anything to share that

It's a trait i recognize so much in myself. When I love something or somewhere, I want to introduce it to everyone I like, so they can like it too.

I was newly 8 when he died, and he was ill a long while before then. Much of my memory is missing or reconstructed. I'm not grieving him still, I'm always still sad for the potential of what might have been. And I'm melancholy enough to post about it a little. Thanks x

[rameiixo]

animation exercise with ayase !

[bixels]

Taking the current topic as an excuse to ask you to tell me all the reasons you love Rarijack. Your art for the ship is so sweet and intimate I'd love to hear any in depth thoughts you have.

Breathes in.

I think what makes their dynamic really strong is that they have opposing personalities but aligned values. It's deeper than just "opposites attract." Rarity's fancy, prissy, and femme while Applejack's modest, rough, and "masculine." But both value hard work (to the point of being workaholics), their families (both have guardianship over their little sisters), running successful businesses, and eventually each other. Their relationship can be boiled down to, "Despite our differences/disagreements, I still like you because we value the same things."

We see their relationship develop so much. In the first season, they can't stop bickering about surface-level differences. By season four, they still bicker, but will mend their relationship because they can't help but do nice things for each other. In Trade Ya, they start off arguing over personality differences (Applejack likes old junk and Rarity likes useless crap). Then they pivot and start arguing that they value their relationship more than the other. In the end, they mend things by sacrificing their needs and buying each other a gift. Even if they don't understand it, they know it'd make the other happy. And that's all that really matters. It's a genuinely sweet moment that shows how arguing can be healthy and necessary for relationships to strengthen.

We even see them dropping their hang-ups about each others' personalities. In Made in Manehattan, when Rarity runs off in dramatics about someone's fashion, AJ doesn't roll her eyes or scoff, she smiles. Oftentimes, their conflicts are very common domestic conflicts romantic couples face. Applejack's Day Off is about a woman's inability to balance work and life and find time to properly spend with her partner, causing her partner to feel neglected.

By season seven, they're actively participating in each others' interests. Any problems or conflicts that arise are dealt with, and they come out the other end stronger and closer. In Honest Apple, AJ pretty much spells out why their relationship works so well: even though she doesn't understand fashion, she can recognize and appreciate how much work it takes and wants to respect that. When she realizes her mistake in the episode, AJ goes above and beyond to fix things and apologize to Rarity. They care about each other so much.

The two go out of their way, sacrificing their personal desires and beliefs and doing things they normally wouldn't, to make the other happy. That's just love.

There's Simple Ways, where AJ gets stuck in an unwanted love triangle between Rarity and her hipster crush. And her frustration and anger can be so easily interpreted as AJ finding herself in a terrible position; the girl she loves wants another man, and that man wants her.

I dunno. I've always had a preference for opposites attract ships, but Rarijack's stuck with me like a brain worm because they have the perfect chemistry. The way they show they care, or do things for each other, I've always read it as the truest representation of romance in the show.

[faunandfloraas]

im so glad im not the only person that looks at seungmin and goes "❓tism❓" bc he is Way Too Relatable to me as a person w autism

yeah..... like I say it in jest but also..... well, yk. sometimes you notice something and you notice something and you notice something and you go Hmmmm

[patheticpat]

Told my girlfriend if she could guess who Loop actually was I’d divulge who the people helping the cast in my au and she fucking IMMEDIATELY guessed Siffrin, fuck my inter life lmfao

[lambilegs]

GUYSSSSS LOOK AT THE CUP MY FRIEND BOUGHT ME WHEN WE WENT OUT THIS SHIT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM LIKEEEEEE

[xxplastic-cubexx]

friend kayla very delicately asked me today when i first started drawing yaoi and i had to reflect on the fact it probably was avengers that started it all

[batfamfucker]

Appreciation post for 'girly girl' characters and/or shows that celebrate traditionally feminine things that girls and women are shamed for.

Characters on this list that love makeup, fashion, hair, etc. Characters that are still written as strong, intelligent, brave, etc. That told young girls that these interests are valid, they are not lesser interests. Being feminine and liking traditionally feminine things does not make them weak.

[brainfilehasstoppedworking]

Amy Rose, I love you. You're just like me. They could never make me hate you 🫶🫶

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

You know, I keep thinking about Entua and Vurai, and how Mask of Truth doesn't really... do much interesting stuff with them? Or rather, they don't really impact the plot much. It's a brief mirror of the end of MoD, and used to force Nekone to admit she thinks of Hakutor as her brother now/can't differentiate them anymore, but that arc comes out of nowhere and is quickly brushed aside again after Vurai is murdered again.

Under the cut, I propose an alternative timeline, that I find a little less wasteful (spoilers for Mask of Deception and Mask of Truth)

Vurai dies at the end of MoD. Arguably, there's something to the fact that Oshtor's sacrifice is ultimately in vain/only buys Hakutor a little bit of time to get better at the use of the Akuruka, but also by this time we have attempted to imprison/kill Vurai thrice. By the rule of threes, this time he should die.

His body is dashed upon hitting the cliff and the bottom of the river; but as in canon, he doesn't immediately die. Instead, his motionless form floats down the river, towards Uzurusha (geography is whack, but I believe we can make this happen). It also works if Vurai turns to salt and it's just his mask that floats down the river, but I think it is more satisfying if he is still alive because-

Vurai's body washes up close to where Gundhurua has retreated to. Gundhurua sees this almost dead man, and he has no mercy. He kills Vurai, and as a prize, takes the akuruka. He's not keen on using enemy technology, but he's seen what the mask can do, and he certainly has the willpower and desperation to use it.

(if we absolutely must it can even be Entua who found Vurai and took care of him for a day or two before she presented him as a potential ally to her homeland's owlo, so we can still have her weird romance/daddy issues with Vurai, but this step can also be skipped.)

Either way, Entua, when faced with criminal charges/general unrest in the Yamatan court, found her way back into her homeland, hoping to find her place again. She is, after all, a warrior of Uzurusha, and wishes to make her father proud.

When Gundhurua, akuruka in hand, asks her to be his informant, she has to pick between serving her homeland and the man her father died to protect, and betraying the trust of the people that were kind to her in her hour of need.

Ultimately, it isn't much of a choice at all. Gundhurua is a violent man, and she knows if she doesn't comply, she will be killed for insubordination.

And also she still wants the approval of some sort of strange, violent father(?)-figure. Is she happy? No. But this is all she can still do to honour her father's death, too. Serving the same man, until she, too, dies in the line of duty.

In order to avoid civilian casualties when Gundhurua sends an ambush upon Ennakamuy, Entua can suggest to lure out their figurehead "Oshtor" and kill him.

So we can still have the plot of Nekone getting kidnapped and doubting herself/not wanting Hakutor to come save her.

Gundhurua hasn't had the akuruka for long, so he's relatively weak/bad at using it, but still enough of a challenge to force Hakutor to use his own, especially as he's a violent fighter himself. He's also not almost-dead like Vurai, so the challenge level remains mostly the same for the fight.

As the kaiju-form of the mask is bound to the akuruka, Gundhurua still looks like Vurai, and still brings back the traumatic memories of Oshtors's death in Nekone and Hakutor.

It takes the party to arrive and help out to kill akuruturuka!Gundhurua. They're surprised to find the ghost that haunted them wasn't Vurai, but they have other problems (a grievously injured Hakutor) to deal with.

Entua makes a more active choice to steal the akuruka from the pile of salt that remains. She has seen nothing but violent men wearing this mask to hurt others, and therefore she decides it's best for everyone if it didn't exist. She sets off on a quest to destroy the akuruka, or, if that is not possible, hide it away.

This is the last we see of her. We don't know if she was successful; but at least she found a path she believed in.

It's not like this changes much in the story; Gundhurua dying off-screen is just such a waste of time, after keeping him alive post-invasion; and it's not like Vurai's repeat encounter added too much that his kaiju form could not provide as well (it's not like the party gained his akuruka or something). This way, Oshtor's sacrifice would have ultimately had more weight, too.

[hellamorte]

this is kinda hilarious but i spent so much time in dav so now when im playing dao i always have that pikachu face when encountering tranquils or templars gone mad from lyrium or shady mages ajsjshkajkakj what do you mean grey morality exists and the world is a complex and often a contradictory place