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bloodandiron-if · 2 months ago

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DEMO (TBA) | FORUM (TBA) | CHARACTER INTROS (TBA)

BLOOD AND IRON is a compelling and mature action IF made for an adult audience. This story includes content that some may find disturbing, such as explicit language, mentions of child trafficking, child abuse, sexism, psychological stress, homophobia, intense violence, death, gore, and much more.

Inspired by Batman, John Wick, Ninja Assassin, The Punisher, and The Equalizer.

ABBREVIATION: B&I

- - -

Chicago, 1994.

Chicago bleeds quietly these days. Not in the headlines, but in basements, behind unmarked doors, in the flicker of broken streetlamps, no proper badge patrols.

The world didn’t ask if you were ready. It just kept turning and grinding down the soft parts until only the sharp edges remained.

Raised in a hidden facility outside Chicago, you were one of many children. An experiment in obedience, efficiency, and silence. They didn’t call it a home. They called it a program. And you survived it.

Barely.

They stripped your name. Trained your body. Broke your will, up until they didn’t.

You escaped.

The world didn’t know what to do with you.

But he did—the man who saved you, giving you a name, cover, and a second chance dressed up as a normal life.

By day, you blend seamlessly into the crowd, adopting a new name and working a steady job making pizzas. To the citizens of South Chicago, you’re just another face on the street.

But by night, you take on a different role—one that cleans up the shadows left by a broken system: dismantling organ trafficking rings, confronting human traffickers, and bringing to justice those killers shielded by power or wealth.

But this isn’t just an act of heroism on your part.

It’s personal.

You’re digging through the filth of this city, tearing up every buried secret, because somewhere beneath it all lies the truth.

The Facility.

And the man who ran it.

Whitaker.

He’s not on any official record—and the place that you escaped from doesn’t exist on paper.

But you remember the rooms. The drills. The screaming. The numbers burned into your skin like a barcode.

Every body you drop might be connected. Every whisper might lead back to him.

You’re not a hero.

You’re a survivor searching for the ghost of the man who made you—and the trail of blood he left behind.

The closer you get, the more unstable everything becomes—your past, your purpose, his goal.

You can follow orders. Break free. Burn it all down. But one question echoes through every silence:

Who will you become when you finally reach the end?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary.

Define who you are beyond the number—whether you seek connection, crave freedom, or prefer to walk alone.

Be straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, aromantic, or asexual.

Establish your cover identity—first and last name. C-4 doesn’t exist outside the wire.

Explore Chicago in the 90s.

Experience flashbacks of your harrowing and unforgiving childhood at the facility.

Define your body and presence with scars, tattoos and more, including flavour stats that affect immersion and narrative tone.

Choose out of four languages your MC can speak and understand.

Choose your ride, customize it, and leave your mark in burnt rubber and broken taillights. Whether it’s a snarling muscle car, a rumbling motorcycle, a rugged Jeep, or a heavy-duty pickup, you’ll be behind the wheel.

Experience a world where the way you choose your character's appearance influences how others perceive and interact with you. (Intimidation Meter)

Choose your physical appearance, build and height—whether towering and lithe, or compact and deadly.

Meet six ROs, each with their own storylines, layered personalities, and emotional arcs that evolve with your choices. It’s up to you to decide how the story unfolds: as allies, enemies, or even the possibility of something more.

Get ready for action. This story pulls no punches—literally. You’ll be thrown headfirst into brutal gunfights, savage fistfights, high-speed car chases, and close-quarters takedowns.

Define your personality through detailed flavour choices: are you brutal or merciful, stoic or emotional, cautious or impulsive, friendly or rude?

Navigate the grim underworld of adulthood: surveillance, corruption, organized crime, and the scars of memory.

Shape your legacy in a world that tried to erase your humanity. It's all down to you C-4.

OPERATIVE D-6 (RO)

Age: 24 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Korean-American Vibe: Ghost of the past. Loyalty carved from trauma. Quiet intensity.

The Operative — the life you left behind, still trying to follow you home.

D-6 is a shadow stitched to your childhood, moving with a precision that speaks louder than words ever could. They don’t flinch, don’t blink, and rarely break eye contact—yet there’s no threat in it. Just memory. Just calculation. The facility shaped them like it shaped you, but where you ran, they stayed. Hardened. Refined. Perfected into something cold and frighteningly still.

They barely speak, but understand everything. Loyal not by choice, but by conditioning—yet something in their gaze suggests the cracks are forming.

Whether D-6 is here to kill you, bring you back or break away with you… even they haven’t decided. But they’ve always been watching. And they never forget.

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES (RO)

Age: 33 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Puerto Rican-American Vibe: Gravely moral. Sharp-jawed justice. Righteous conflict.

The Detective — your ideological foil, and mirror of what you could have been with a badge instead of a body count.

Detective Juno Reyes is the type of person to walk like they carry the whole city on their shoulders, and honestly, maybe they do. Every crime scene clings to their coat, every unsolved case etched into the set of their jaw. They believe in justice, not the easy kind, but the kind that scrapes its knuckles bloody. The kind that keeps them up at night because they still think it matters.

Juno doesn’t trust you. Maybe they never will. But they understand you in the way only someone on the other side of the line can.

Where you cut through the rot with a blade, they try to dig it out with a badge. Righteous, relentless, and furious with the system that fails people like you, and maybe even with themselves for not walking away from it.

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO (RO)

Age: 22 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Italian-American Vibe: Snark-as-armour. Trash-mouth tendencies. Hot grease and soft heart.

The Co-worker — the one who has their worst days, yet still shows up.

Russo talks like the world owes them a fistfight and a cigarette break. All bite, all bark, and just enough burn to keep people at arm’s length. They’ve got grease on their apron, a permanent chip on their shoulder, and a mouth that never learned the word “filter.” You’re not sure they even like the job, but they’re here, day after day, late at times, but constantly grinding out those shifts like it's a special part of their routine.

They’re also halfway through a criminal justice degree at a city college they never talk about unless they’re arguing with the news playing in the background. Claims it’s all bullshit—cops, lawyers, the system. But you’ve caught Russo studying case law in the backroom between deliveries. Says it’s for the credits, but the way their jaw tightens during certain stories on the news? It’s more than that.

They're not just pissed off. They’re paying attention.

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES (RO)

Age: 27 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Half White, Half Mexican-American Vibe: Fragrance, coded language, and too many knives hidden in tailored jackets

The Interloper — the one who wasn’t supposed to be on your radar—but is.

Myles moves through rooms like a whispered secret and the scent of money—sharp, intentional, impossible to ignore. Head high, steps measured, eyes always calculating. They speak in layers, smile in puzzles, and dress like they’re late for a gala or an ambush, maybe both. Everything about them feels curated, controlled… until it isn’t.

You don’t know what they want, not really.

One minute it’s intel, the next it’s something softer, more dangerous.

Myles wasn't part of your mission. Not part of your world. But now they’re in it, circling closer, asking questions with too much knowledge behind the eyes. You're not sure if they’re here to ruin you, or to remind you there’s still something left worth ruining.

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE (RO)

Age: 25 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: Scandanavian-American Vibe: Softness meets suspicion. The light in the hallway. The warmth in the cold

The Neighbor — the one who sees past the walls and doesn’t look away.

Monroe lives two doors down and leaves their window open when it rains. They laugh too loudly at sitcom reruns, forget to water their plants, and hum under their breath while waiting for the kettle to boil. On the surface: harmless. Gentle. The kind of softness you’d expect to break easy.

But there’s something behind the smile—something watchful—subtly. Thoughtfully. The way someone does when they’re used to reading what isn’t said.

Monroe doesn't pry. They just linger. Just look a little too long sometimes, like they’re trying to put a puzzle together without knowing what the picture will exactly be.

And worse, they still smile at you anyway.

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER (RO)

Age: 29 Gender: Player-selectable (M/F) Nationality/Ethnicity: African-American Vibe: Revolutionary soul. Firebrand idealism. Beautiful, dangerous hope.

The Crusader — the one who wants to save the world, even if it means breaking it.

Carter speaks like every word could spark a revolution, and maybe it could, if they weren’t already carrying the weight of too many failed ones. There’s something magnetic in the way they move through a room, controlled chaos, dressed in confidence and defiance. Their voice carries conviction like heat, and they never seem to doubt it. Not publicly, at least.

They believe in something bigger. In justice. In tearing down the structures that rot people from the inside out. It’s not naive, what they preach, it’s dangerous. The kind of hope that gets people killed. The kind that inspires others to follow anyway.

Carter sees what’s broken and doesn't look away. They demand change, even if it has to be carved from ruin. That makes them dangerous. That makes them rare.

And when they look at you, it’s like they see the potential for something more, something bigger than just blood and vengeance. But whether that makes you want to run toward them or burn everything down before they get too close… that’s up to you.

- - -

ELIJAH CREED

Age: 44 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Irish-American Vibe: Cigars, classical music, hollow warmth. That voice that makes monsters feel like myths.

The Father — the one who gave you a name, a roof, and a purpose.

Elijah Creed moves through the world like a man carrying both a lifetime of regrets and the weight of unshakable resolve. There’s a quiet authority in his voice, calm, deliberate, the kind that can soothe storms or summon lightning. His days are marked by the scent of cigars and the soft notes of classical music drifting through the rooms of the house you guys used to share.

He’s not just a guardian, he’s the father you never truly had, the one who took you in when the world wanted to erase you. Behind that steady warmth lies a steel core, forged by loss and haunted by the past. Elijah gave you a name, a place to belong, and a reason to fight, but never illusions that the world outside is anything less than brutal.

He is both shelter and shadow, a man who knows the cost of survival—and who will make sure you never pay it alone.

- - -

MS. CLAUDIA BELLAMY

Age: 49 Gender: Female Nationality/Ethnicity: American (Afro-Puerto Rican) Vibe: Gold hoops, chipped nail polish, a cigarette always halfway gone. Keeps a revolver in her sewing kit and a bottle of gin under the sink.

The Landlady — the building’s backbone, eyes, and occasional judge, jury, and babysitter.

Ms. Bellamy has lived in the building longer than the cockroaches, and even they know better than to cross her. Her voice rarely rises, but when it does, even the radiators stop rattling. Always in gold hoops and a housecoat with yesterday’s cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray, she moves like someone who’s already seen the worst and didn’t flinch.

She doesn’t run the building. She rules it, half landlady, half neighbourhood matriarch. Rent better be on time, the hallways better stay quiet, and no one better mess with the kid on the second floor unless they want a lecture followed by a left hook.

She calls your new name like it’s your real one, sees through lies like smoke through sunlight, and keeps a .38 tucked behind the cans of beans in her pantry. Whatever history she has, it walks with her, but she’ll never speak of it unless the city starts burning again. And even then, only maybe.

- - -

SALVATORE “SAL” RUSSO

Age: 47 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Italian-American Vibe: Loud shirt, louder laugh. The kind of man who sings to the tomato sauce and cries at baseball games.

The Pizza King — a local legend with marinara in his veins and a heart too big for this city.

Salvatore Russo isn’t just the owner of the pizza shop—he is the pizza shop. Grease-stained apron, gold chain bouncing with every belly laugh, and a voice that could carry through a riot. He talks with his hands, loves like he’s got something to prove, and swears every pie has a soul.

To the neighborhood, he’s an uncle. To his niece/nephew, he’s a safety net and a headache. And to you? He’s the rare kind of man who doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want the answers to, so long as you show up, work hard, and don’t scare the regulars.

Somehow, Sal always knows when to push, and when to just slide you a slice and say nothing at all, but could all the smile and laughter be hiding a deeper truth than what's shown on the surface?

- - -

WHEELS

Age: 36 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Polish-American Vibe: Motor oil and Marlboro smoke. Burnt fingers. Mismatched socks stuffed into combat boots. A man who can hotwire your car with a bottle cap and grudge.

The Arms Dealer — your supplier and the only man in Chicago who listens to Public Enemy while cleaning an M4.

Wheels moves through the city like a ghost with a purpose—fast, sharp, and unpredictable. He’s not just an arms dealer; he’s a craftsman, a collector of weapons with stories carved into their blades. Among his prized possessions are three custom knives, each named after people who shaped his life, two exes who taught him lessons in pain and betrayal, and one for his mother, the only person he never wanted to disappoint.

His sharp gaze misses nothing, always sizing up threats and opportunities with cold precision. Reliable when it counts, Wheels plays the game on his own terms, offering more than just firepower, he’s a lifeline in a city drowning in chaos, but one that carries a warning: trust him carefully, or not at all.

- - -

DR. SILAS CROSS

Age: 55 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: Lebanese-American Vibe: Tailored suits under his lab coat. Surgical gloves and bourbon. The hum of high-end equipment beneath the jazz playing low through recessed speakers.

The Surgeon — not your friend, not your enemy, just the man who keeps you stitched together.

Dr. Cross is not the kind of man you thank.

You show up bleeding, broken, maybe dying, and he fixes you anyway. No questions. No judgment. Just the quiet clink of surgical tools and the faint smell of antiseptic layered beneath expensive cologne. His clinic hides behind the façade of a luxury med spa, but the back rooms tell a different story. Marble floors, climate control, and machines that hum like symphonies, because pain, here, is handled with elegance.

He wears tailored suits under his lab coat, pours bourbon like it’s medicine, and plays Coltrane through speakers you’ll never find. Every stitch comes with an unspoken rule: you don’t ask about him, and he doesn’t ask about you. His price is steep, but he’s the reason a dozen corpses aren’t yours.

He’s not your friend. Not your savior. He’s the man who puts you back together because it’s the only thing he still knows how to do.

- - -

REESE

Age: 12 Gender: Male Nationality/Ethnicity: African-American Vibe: Scuffed sneakers. Sharp eyes. A heart still intact—but only barely.

The Kid — street-smart pickpocket and your stubborn follower.

Reese has a grin too big for someone who’s had to survive this much.

He moves like he owns the sidewalk, dodging adults, snatching wallets, slipping through crowds like smoke. Every scrape on his knees and tear in his hoodie tells a story, and most of them end with him outrunning someone bigger. Or meaner. Or both. But behind all the swagger and mouthiness, there’s a kid who still believes in something. Maybe not people. But moments. Mercy. Second chances.

Reese follows you like a stray cat that decided you were home. Doesn’t care how cold you get, how many times you warn him off. You’re a ghost in a city full of monsters, and somehow, he’s decided you’re one of the better ones. Maybe the only one.

He’s not smart enough to know who you truly are.

But is young enough to believe that there’s still more to you than what meets the eye.

TBA.

#bloodandiron-if #interactive fiction #interactive story #choice of games #wip game #if wip #action #choicescript #B&I #choose your own adventure #cyoa #interactive novel #cog #action if #hosted games #wip #status: no demo #text game #if: intro

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

Note

Heyy!! I hope you're doing ok :)

I was thinking maybe Lewis and reader being in a marriage/relationship by contract. It's like the beginning of it, when both of their agents or family or whatever decide is good for their public image. She is really nice towards him, immersed in his world, trying to give the best of her so it could work for both of them and make it a bit endurable. But Lewis is a total dick, rude towards her, treats her badly, humiliates her, hooks up with other girls, etc. After a while, after having to endure so much mistreatment, she decides to break the contract, but he has finally fallen too much in love with her. He begs her not to leave him and tries with his life to earn her forgiveness and love.

𝒯𝑒𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

Authors Note: Hey Guys! I've actually been meaning to write a one-shot like this so thank you for requesting it. I'm doing okay at the moment, a lot going on. Lots of love xx

Summary: A contract bound them; she gave her heart, he gave her pain until she walked away, and he finally begged to stay.

Warnings: slight swearing, slight angst

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You never thought your first marriage would take place in a glass-walled office overlooking the Thames.

No ceremony. No dress. No trembling vows whispered with love in your eyes.

Just an obscenely long contract, a silent Formula 1 legend across the table, and the low hum of a Nespresso machine somewhere behind you.

The pen in your hand feels heavier than it should. You glance down again at the mountain of papers before you - thirty dense pages, legal jargon weaving a cage around you. Your name printed neatly beside his: Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton. The bold header reads Public Marital Partnership Agreement.

Romantic, isn’t it?

The silence thickens until it’s broken by a dry cough.

You look up.

His agent is watching you with thinly veiled impatience, tapping his pen against the polished table. Your lawyer leans forward, offering a quiet nod of reassurance. This is what you agreed to, they say without words. This is “good for you.” This is “safe.”

Safe.

Lewis hasn’t glanced in your direction once.

He’s slouched in the chair, sunglasses on despite the dull grey light flooding the room, arms crossed in a way that screams disinterest. Forty years old and still treating eye contact like some kind of favour you haven’t earned. His jaw is clenched, the sharp line of his mouth set in that cold, unreadable mask you’ve seen a thousand times on race day interviews and in press photos.

You clear your throat, trying to steady the tremor in your voice.

“We don’t need to go over it again?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

He shifts, finally, without looking at you. “No. It’s pretty straightforward,” he says, voice flat, clipped, like he’s dismissing a nuisance rather than discussing your future.

You bite back the urge to react.

“Right,” you say, forcing your fingers to stop trembling.

Lewis reaches for the pen with a deliberate snap and clicks it loudly, almost aggressively. The sound echoes too loud in the cold, glass office. He flips to the last page, and his signature flows smoothly confident, precise. Then he pushes the contract toward you, the movement sharp and careless, like he’s flicking away a scrap of trash.

The tension in the room swells. You lean forward, heart hammering, and sign beneath his name. The ink feels like a brand on your skin. You stare at the paper, the contract that binds you legally to a man who has barely spoken to you.

A voice breaks the heavy silence.

“Congratulations,” someone says, but it lands flat basically hollow and meaningless.

Your lawyer smiles politely, and Lewis’s agent claps his hands once, brisk and businesslike.

“That’s it, then. Public announcement scheduled for next week. Engagement photoshoot this weekend. Your first official appearance together will be the Monaco Gala next month,” the agent rattles off, as if you are nothing more than players in some carefully scripted PR campaign.

Lewis stands abruptly without a word.

He doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t wait for you.

Doesn’t acknowledge your existence at all.

He strides toward the glass door like this entire arrangement is just another race to win or lose and he’s already checked out.

You exhale slowly, the sound more like a sigh of defeat than relief.

So, this is it.

You don’t know what you expected. Maybe a handshake, a nod, a flicker of human decency.

But Lewis Hamilton owes you nothing.

This isn’t about love. Not even about compatibility.

It’s about image.

Forty years old. Single. Tabloids circling like vultures.

And your name? Clean. Safe. The charity founder, smart enough to keep quiet, photogenic enough to play the part.

You are the perfect answer to the unspoken question hanging over Lewis’s public persona:

Why haven’t you settled down?

Because now he has.

On paper, anyway.

You gather your things with care, your lawyer’s voice low beside you.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes searching yours.

You nod once, forcing the smallest smile you can muster.

“I’m fine,” you say. “It’s just business.”

But deep in the pit of your stomach, something twists a knot tightening.

Because business doesn’t usually feel this cold.

And neither, you suspect, does marriage.

The first few days weren’t unbearable. Just hollow.

You moved into his London flat on a grey Wednesday afternoon, dragging two suitcases behind you and carrying a smile so rehearsed it could’ve been printed. Angela greeted you at the door, her voice a soft balm against the sterile silence that met your arrival. She helped you carry your things in, chatting gently about the weather, about the new legal aid project you’d be balancing alongside your new role in Lewis’s life, a role with no title and no clarity.

Lewis, meanwhile, remained out of sight, his voice drifting in from the next room in clipped, businesslike tones. Something about sponsorship clauses and non-disclosure agreements. Something important enough to ignore the fact that his new “wife” in every sense but legal and emotional had just walked into his home for the foreseeable future.

Angela touched your shoulder as she passed you a keycard. “He’s not good with change,” she murmured, offering a kind smile. “Just give it time.”

You nodded. You were always good at waiting. At hoping. At being the understanding one.

But this flat...it was a mausoleum. All sleek lines, polished concrete, and glass that let in the grey London skyline but none of the warmth. It looked like a place someone might tour and admire, not a place anyone actually lived in. Black leather furniture that looked un-sat-on, a state-of-the-art kitchen without a single spice jar or recipe book, and walls so bare they seemed to echo with their own emptiness.

There were no framed photos. No records or books or handwritten notes. Just silence.

And Lewis.

That first night, he finally emerged from the study around eight, eyes on his phone, AirPods in. You were in the kitchen, stirring a simple pasta sauce with garlic, crushed tomatoes, basil it was the kind of comforting meal you always made on uncertain nights. Something grounding. Human.

He barely glanced your way as he passed behind you to grab a bottle of alkaline water from the fridge.

“I made dinner,” you offered, voice light, hopeful.

He turned, face expressionless. “I don’t eat that.”

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “I didn’t know. I can make something else—”

“Don’t bother.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Just next time, don’t waste ingredients.”

You stood there for a moment, wooden spoon in hand, feeling the shame rise hot in your cheeks.

“Right,” you muttered. “Sorry.”

He finally looked at you properly looked at you and there was something in his eyes that felt like contempt disguised as boredom.

“Don’t you read interviews?” he asked. “I’ve said a thousand times I don’t eat pasta. Or anything with gluten. Or animal products. Or sugar.”

You held his gaze, the sting of humiliation settling beneath your ribs. “I read plenty,” you said softly. “Just not your food columns.”

He scoffed a low, humourless sound and walked away, muttering, “Figures.”

You ate alone. At the massive dining table that could’ve seated ten, you sat with your plate and a glass of water, listening to the distant thud of bass from the home gym downstairs. He didn’t come back up for hours.

And so, it began.

The next morning, he was gone before you woke. No note. No message. Angela texted around 10 a.m. to let you know he’d left early for training. You wandered the flat like a guest in a museum, unpacking slowly, careful not to disrupt the curated emptiness. You tried to add small touches like a book on the nightstand, your toothbrush by the sink, a lavender candle in the living room but they looked like mistakes in a showroom. Out of place.

That evening, he returned late and didn’t speak a word as he moved past you, towel slung around his neck, heading for the shower. You tried again asked how his day was, if he wanted anything for dinner.

He didn’t answer.

Later, when you gently asked if he’d like help preparing for a team dinner that weekend, he looked up from his phone and said flatly, “You’re not coming.”

“I thought I was supposed to attend events with you—”

“Yeah, not all of them. Just the ones that matter. This one doesn’t.”

The implication hit like a slap.

“You don’t have to be rude about it,” you murmured.

He laughed then, genuinely amused. “This isn’t rude. You haven’t seen rude.”

You turned away, blinking quickly to keep the tears from falling where he could see.

But he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

The following days blurred together in a haze of performative civility and quiet cruelty.

In public, he held your hand for cameras and leaned in with rehearsed affection. In private, he barely spoke unless it was to criticise or correct.

“You used the wrong towels for the gym,” he said one morning. “Don’t touch my stuff if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“The PR team said you need to dress more upscale for interviews. That beige suit made you look like a law clerk, not a celebrity wife.”

When you tried to push back when you reminded him that you had your own career, that this arrangement wasn’t meant to erase who you were he rolled his eyes.

“Right,” he drawled, “because helping people fill out court forms is exactly the kind of fairytale the tabloids are dying for.”

He didn’t just ignore you he belittled you. Subtly. Quietly. Constantly.

The final straw that week came at a gala. You were nervous, surrounded by celebrities and sponsors and influencers with perfect skin and expensive laughs. You tried to make conversation, to seem polished and confident.

But when you gently touched his arm to ask if he’d introduce you to someone from the team, he turned to you eyes sharp, voice low but lethal.

“Is this all you can talk about? Honestly. You sound like a bored housewife.”

Your breath caught. You stepped back, humiliated, and spent the rest of the night nursing a single glass of champagne in a corner, watching him work the room like a professional actor.

That night, he didn’t come home.

The next morning, you woke alone in the massive bed. A cold breeze drifted through the half-open balcony doors.

You padded into the bathroom and found a smear of lipstick on the guest towel. Not yours.

No explanation. No apology.

Just silence.

And the faint, ever-present scent of his cologne mixed with something too sweet and unfamiliar.

You didn’t cry. Not then.

You just stared at yourself in the mirror and reminded yourself, for the hundredth time, that it wasn’t real.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you.

You were a convenience. A contract. A body to fill a frame.

But even so the ache in your chest didn’t care about logic.

And neither did the ghost of who you’d hoped he might be. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Weeks Later - Monte Carlo, 8:17 PM.

Another ballroom. Another lie.

The evening air was heavy with perfume and saltwater from the nearby coast, and even in the shelter of the marble-lined foyer, you felt the pressure creeping in under your skin a familiar, suffocating kind of tightness. You stood still, palms smooth against the clutch in your hands, every inch of you polished to perfection.

The gown champagne silk, off-the-shoulder was custom. It clung to your body like second skin, the kind of thing that begged to be admired and photographed. And it would be. You were styled to be noticed, sculpted to be the gleaming trophy beside him.

But inside, you felt like glass. Brittle. Cold. Ready to crack.

When Lewis finally appeared, you heard him before you saw him the click of designer shoes, the low rumble of his voice as he spoke to someone on his team, too casually, too loudly, like he knew he was being watched even now.

He didn’t look at you when he approached. Just stopped beside you, adjusted the cuff of his white tuxedo jacket, and gave a nod to someone across the corridor.

“You’re late,” you said softly, eyes still fixed on the ballroom doors ahead.

He finally glanced at you, his gaze slow and almost amused. “Fashionably.”

You held his gaze for a moment, jaw tight. “Of course. Wouldn’t want the spotlight to warm up without you.”

He smirked, leaned in like a lover about to whisper something sweet, but what came out was anything but.

“Try not to fumble your lines tonight,” he murmured, breath brushing your ear. “We’re supposed to look like we fuck.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d gotten good at that wearing stillness like armour.

“I’ll do my best,” you replied smoothly, lifting your chin. “Maybe if you touched me once in a while, it’d be easier to pretend.”

His hand curled around your waist then tighter than necessary, fingers pressing into your side like a warning. But when the doors opened, it was all smiles. You were bathed in light and camera flashes and the roar of the press calling his name.

“Lewis! Over here!”

“And your wife! Gorgeous! Give us a kiss!”

“Are those matching Cartier pieces? Couple goals!”

He played it perfectly.

A hand on the small of your back. A fake laugh at something you didn’t say. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple warm to anyone watching, but it felt like a stamp, a brand, a claim.

You smiled on cue, tilted your head just right, let your lips part in that rehearsed expression the world had grown so fond of.

Inside the ballroom, the air was rich with wealth and curated beauty. Gold trim danced along the walls, champagne fountains sparkled at the edges of your vision, and the buzz of elite conversation filled the space like white noise.

You barely had time to find your footing before Lewis guided you toward a cluster of important people - old sponsors, team executives, fashion heads. You recognised some of them, but they rarely addressed you directly.

That didn’t stop Lewis from using you as a conversation piece.

“This is her,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “My ball and chain. Doesn’t she clean up well?”

The group laughed politely. You laughed too, a soft, breathy sound that barely escaped your throat. Your cheeks flushed not with bashfulness, but embarrassment.

“She looks better when she’s not talking,” he added under his breath, only for you. Then louder, to the group, “Thank God she doesn’t try to keep up with F1 politics. I’d have to sedate myself.”

They chuckled again, and you felt the invisible wall tighten around you.

Later, at the dinner table, you reached for a glass of red wine only for Lewis to intercept it with an easy smile.

“She can’t hold her liquor,” he told the man beside him. “One glass and she’s telling strangers her childhood traumas.”

You blinked, stunned by the cruelty masked as charm, but you said nothing. You folded your hands in your lap and took a sip of water instead. Every head at the table still turned toward Lewis. No one noticed the colour draining from your face.

At one point, a reporter with a glossy microphone approached, all polish and bright smiles.

“Lewis, can we grab a quick word? And maybe one with your stunning wife?”

Lewis gave his best smirk. “Sure,” he said, drawing you in close like he hadn’t just humiliated you three times in the last half-hour.

The reporter asked you what it was like being married to a global icon.

Before you could open your mouth, Lewis cut in.

“Exhausting, right babe?” he said, grinning. “She married into chaos.”

You smiled tightly. “I knew what I was signing up for.”

He squeezed your waist again too hard.

“Did you?” he asked, just loud enough for you to hear.

By the end of the night, your feet ached, and your face felt like it might break from the constant smiling. Lewis had vanished three times once to the VIP lounge, twice to the bar with unnamed women hanging a little too close for comfort. Each time, he returned to your side like nothing had happened, taking your hand in his and brushing fake kisses along your cheekbone for the ever-watching photographers.

When the final camera flash died down and the crowd began to thin, he leaned in once more, voice low and cutting.

“You did well tonight. Almost made me believe you cared.”

You stared straight ahead, not blinking. “You’re welcome.”

He smirked again and stepped away to talk to someone from PUMA, already dismissing you.

You stood there a moment longer, just another ghost in the ballroom a beautiful, smiling, silent one.

The perfect accessory.

Back at the apartment, the facade crumbled quickly.

The Monte Carlo penthouse was the kind of place people dreamed about glass walls that looked out over the sea, high ceilings lined with sleek gold accents, and furniture so modern it looked untouched. But beauty didn’t always mean warmth. And inside these curated walls, the silence had begun to echo louder than any fight.

At first, you tried small things. Quiet, subtle efforts to make the space feel less like a showroom and more like a home. You left the lights on in the living room when Lewis stayed out late not glaring or intrusive, just a soft amber glow from the floor lamp near the sofa, the kind of light you imagined someone might appreciate after a long day.

A quiet welcome. A reminder. You’re not alone here.

But night after night, he breezed through the door without ever commenting on it. Sometimes he barely looked your way. A few nights he didn’t come home at all. And when he did, the light might as well have been a spotlight illuminating just how far apart you really were.

It was a rainy Tuesday when things finally cracked.

You were in the guest bathroom, kneeling on a plush bathmat, gently scrubbing Roscoe’s muddy paws. The weather had been terrible all day, and Lewis had taken him out early in the morning, returning only to rush off again, barely mumbling something about a meeting before vanishing.

Roscoe, sweet as ever, had trotted into the apartment hours later with bits of wet grass stuck in his fur, his paws tracking faint prints across the otherwise immaculate floor. You didn’t hesitate and you ran the warm water, fetched the special dog shampoo from the cabinet, and settled him into the oversized marble tub like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t protest. He never did with you.

His big eyes blinked at you with soft, trusting patience as you worked the shampoo into his coat, humming quietly an old lullaby your mother used to sing when your own childhood world felt like it might collapse.

In this space, in that moment, it wasn’t about roles or expectations or contracts. It was just you and a dog who, unlike his owner, seemed to recognise the shape of your kindness.

You wrapped him in a thick, warm towel and began to dry him off gently, whispering praise and running your fingers through the clean, damp curls of his fur. You barely noticed the creak of the door behind you.

“I swear he gets more affection than I do,” Lewis’s voice sliced through the moment like a blade dry, mocking and low.

You turned quickly, caught off guard, your hand still holding the towel to Roscoe’s back. Lewis stood in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame, blazer jacket tossed over his shoulder, eyes sharp with something you couldn’t quite name.

“He was muddy from this morning,” you said, carefully. “I figured—”

“You figured?” He cut you off with a humourless laugh, his eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You figured it was your job now to mother my dog too?”

Your stomach clenched. The softness of the moment vanished in an instant.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but he waved a hand, already dismissing your words.

“You weren’t trying, but you did it anyway. That’s the problem with you.” His tone was lighter than the words deserved, casual cruelty wrapped in silk. “You just insert yourself wherever there’s space. You think doing something nice means you belong here?”

You stood slowly, towel still draped in your hands, the scent of dog shampoo still clinging to your fingers. “I was just trying to help, Lewis. I thought—”

He scoffed. “Stop thinking so much. This isn’t your place. You’re not—” he paused, eyes flicking from your face to Roscoe’s wagging tail. “You’re not part of this life. Don’t start acting like you are.”

The room went quiet.

Roscoe let out a soft, uncertain whine, looking up at the man who hadn’t so much as offered him a pat on the head. Lewis’s eyes flicked downward briefly, but he didn’t move. He didn’t crouch. He didn’t smile.

He just turned, muttered, “Dry the floor,” and walked away, his shoes clicking down the hallway without a backward glance.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where he’d been. The towel in your hands was suddenly too heavy, the tiled room too cold. You crouched down again, pressing your forehead briefly to Roscoe’s damp fur, the only warmth left in the apartment.

“Maybe I’ll stop trying,” you whispered into the silence.

But deep down, you knew that was another lie. Because even when someone tells you it’s not your place when they humiliate you, when they ignore every soft offering, you give there’s always a piece of you that keeps hoping. Keeps waiting.

Keeps leaving the light on.

Later that evening, you folded laundry in the bedroom.

The silence in the apartment was oppressive not the gentle kind that soothed, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made your ears ring, made the stillness feel personal, like a punishment. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, folding laundry not because anyone asked you to, but because the motion of your hands gave you something to anchor yourself to.

The duvet was perfectly smooth beneath you. The wardrobe door creaked faintly when the air conditioner kicked on. Everything around you was sterile, untouched, staged like the photos in Architectural Digest. But you needed something real to hold onto, and so you turned to the mundane socks, joggers and hoodies.

Control. Neat piles. Clean lines.

You stacked Lewis’s black t-shirts into a tidy column on his side of the dresser. Soft cotton, all nearly identical like him in the press, in the interviews, in the photos. Polished. Predictable. Untouchable.

And then, your hand paused over one of them.

A black crewneck shirt, freshly washed, the fabric still warm from the dryer. At first, you thought the scent clinging to it was just the detergent. But no beneath the lavender and lemon, something else lurked. Something sweeter. Sharper. Foreign.

Perfume.

Your stomach dropped.

Not yours. Not your lotion. Not the hotel shampoo he sometimes liked to borrow from your side of the bathroom.

Another woman.

You pressed the shirt to your nose just to be sure, praying – begging that you were wrong.

But you weren’t.

It wasn’t damning, not outright. But it was enough.

Your throat tightened. A sharp sting bloomed behind your eyes, and you clenched your jaw against it. You just folded the shirt with mechanical precision and placed it at the bottom of the stack, your hands trembling slightly as you smoothed the fabric.

The pile sat there neat, clean and quiet but it felt like it was mocking you.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then you got up, walked to the bathroom, and washed your hands until the scent was gone.

The next morning, he was already in the kitchen.

The smell of his espresso lingered faintly in the air, and the sun poured in through the tall windows, casting golden stripes across the marble floor. Lewis stood at the counter in a crisp navy suit, head bent over his phone, thumb scrolling rapidly.

You stepped into the room quietly, still in your robe, your slippers making soft sounds against the tile. You offered a tentative “Morning,” but he didn’t look up.

“I had a meeting,” he snapped, voice clipped and cold. “Why didn’t you remind me?”

You blinked. “I told you. Yesterday, over breakfast. You nodded.”

His eyes finally flicked to yours, laced with irritation. “Then say it again. Say it until it registers. Or better yet, put it on the damn mirror if you’re playing housemaid now.”

The words struck like a slap. You looked down, hands tightening around your coffee cup.

“I thought maybe a calendar in the hallway could help?” you asked quietly, your voice fragile around the edges.

He didn’t even respond. Just grabbed his keys, muttered something under his breath, and walked out the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of an argument you never got to finish. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Angela came by once that week.

You hadn’t asked her to. She just showed up sunglasses perched on her head, tote bag slung over one shoulder, her gaze immediately scanning the apartment the moment she stepped inside. She didn’t comment on the spotless kitchen or the meticulously arranged fruit bowl. She just looked at you and something shifted in her face.

You were holding Roscoe in your arms, rubbing behind his ears as he blinked up at you lovingly. He was the only source of comfort you had some days. The only living creature in this space who didn’t make you feel like a shadow.

Lewis was in the other room, on the phone, pacing. His voice carrie not the words, just the sharp tone of someone barking instructions and expecting obedience.

Angela waited until he was out of earshot.

“Do you need anything?” she asked gently, her voice low and kind. Not pitying just honest concern.

You looked at her, and for a moment, you nearly broke. Nearly let it all fall from your shoulders and into her open hands. But then you shook your head. Smiled weakly.

“No. I’m fine.”

But you weren’t.

You were exhausted.

Exhausted from pretending. From twisting silence into comfort. From learning how to breathe in a space where every inch of you felt unwelcome.

You didn’t tell her that some nights, you sat at the kitchen table long after he didn’t come home, staring at two place settings you’d carefully arranged napkins folded, candles unlit.

You didn’t tell her that your fingers had started to ache from scrubbing the same spotless floors, again and again, as if clean tiles could erase the mess of your marriage.

You didn’t tell her that you still Googled vegan recipes at 2 a.m., hoping maybe the right one might make him stay in for dinner. Might make him see you.

You just smiled. The kind of smile that lies.

Angela hugged you before she left. It lasted a second longer than it needed to.

She knew.

The weeks blurred.

Lewis was gone more. Time zones changed. Headlines appeared.

You stopped looking at the gossip blogs, but the headlines found you anyway.

“Hamilton Seen With New Mystery Model in LA”

“Ferrari’s Golden Boy Parties Until Dawn”

“Where is Mrs. Hamilton?”

They called you “patient.” They called your silence “grace.”

You called it survival.

He came home on the nights that didn’t matter. Late. Smelling like sweat, alcohol, and women you didn’t know.

Sometimes he showered. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he didn’t say a word.

He’d pass you in the hallway like you were furniture. Or worse like you weren’t even there.

One night, you found him on the couch.

You had just cleaned the kitchen with dishes put away, counters shining. You sat beside him hesitantly, legs curled under you, searching his face for any version of the man you once believed in.

“You don’t have to keep playing perfect,” he said, eyes on the television, though the volume was muted. “This isn’t a movie.”

You exhaled shakily. “No,” you said softly. “But it is our life. At least for now.”

He laughed, bitter and hollow. “This isn’t life. It’s a contract. Don’t confuse the two.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him at his sharp jaw, his beautiful, distant eyes, his posture slouched like none of this mattered. Like you didn’t matter.

Your voice cracked. “I haven’t confused anything,” you whispered. “But maybe you should start trying.”

He didn’t respond.

Just stood up and left the room, his back retreating into the shadows, the distance between you stretching longer, colder, sharper.

You sat there, alone on the couch, the smell of lemon cleaner lingering in the air.

And for the first time, you didn’t just feel tired.

You felt done. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It happened on a Sunday.

There was no argument. No dramatic yelling. No thrown wine glasses or slammed doors. Just silence thick, stifling, the kind that creeps under your skin and stays there like a bruise. The kind of silence that doesn’t scream goodbye, but still says this is over louder than any fight ever could.

You made dinner that night.

Again.

You didn’t even realise you were doing it until your hands were already slicing carrots, moving with a rhythm that had become second nature a quiet choreography of survival. Each chop echoed through the hollow apartment like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The roasted parsnips were caramelised with maple and rosemary, like he liked them. You made mushroom risotto creamy, fragrant, perfectly salted. His favourite. You even steeped his oolong tea beside the plate, the loose leaves blooming in water the way your hope once had, before it shrivelled from too many cold nights.

You set the table for two.

Even though you knew.

You always knew.

The chair across from you stayed empty, and with every passing minute, that emptiness grew louder. You checked the clock. 8:04 PM.

Then your phone. Nothing. No call. No message. No apology.

You stared at the screen for so long your eyes blurred. At 9:12 PM, you stood up and quietly packed the food away. No dramatic slamming. Just lids pressed into containers with aching finality. Steam curled upward and vanished into the air like a ghost you couldn't hold onto anymore.

By the time 10:47 rolled around, the apartment had settled into that strange stillness that only truly exists when two people have stopped trying to reach each other.

Roscoe came padding in from the hallway quiet, loyal, sensing the shift in the atmosphere as only animals can. His nails clicked softly on the tile as he approached you, nudging your leg gently with his snout. You crouched down and buried your face into his fur. He smelled like lavender shampoo from his last bath the one you gave him, not Lewis. Always you.

Your hands clutched at him like a lifeline, grounding you, steadying you as you sat back on your heels and let yourself feel the ache that had been building for weeks. Maybe months. But still the tears didn’t fall. Not yet.

You curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of Lewis’s old hoodies the soft purple one he always tossed aside but you’d claimed, quietly, like a secret. It still held a fading trace of his cologne. It made you sick. It made you feel safe. You hated that contradiction.

Midnight came. Then 12:37 AM.

The lock clicked.

You didn’t look up.

He came in like a storm that had lost its thunder. Slouched shoulders, lazy steps. He didn’t speak. The room filled with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and something that didn’t belong to you sweet, sharp perfume that clung to his collar like a mocking whisper.

His shirt wasn’t his. Not one you’d ever seen. Lipstick stained the edge of the collar. His jaw clenched when his eyes finally met yours. Not guilt. Not surprise.

Just irritation.

“Why are you still up?” he slurred, tossing his keys onto the counter with a clatter. “And why the fuck are you wearing my hoodie?”

You looked at him, tired. Bone-deep tired. “I waited.”

Your voice barely carried across the room.

He scoffed, unscrewing a bottle of water. “You really don’t have to keep doing that.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I won’t anymore.”

He paused.

That finally made him look at you. Like really look at you. Like he was hearing words he didn’t expect to come from your mouth.

“What?” he asked, confused.

You stood up slowly, methodically, as though rushing would undo your resolve. Every motion deliberate. Every breath accounted for.

“I’m done, Lewis.”

His brows furrowed, still dulled by whatever cocktail of alcohol and arrogance he’d consumed. “Done with what?”

“With this.” You gestured around you to the table you still set every night, to the hoodie that still smelled like love, to the echo of a home that had never really been one. “With pretending. With waiting. With trying so hard for someone who stopped seeing me months ago.”

His mouth opened like he had something to say, something cruel probably. But you didn’t let him.

“I married you for a headline. And I told myself I could handle it. That I understood. But I didn’t agree to be invisible. I didn’t agree to be discarded.”

“You knew the terms,” he said sharply, defensive now, hiding behind the contract like a shield. “Don’t act like the victim.”

You exhaled, quiet but firm. “I’m not the victim. But I am done playing one.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “So, what now? You’re just…leaving?”

You nodded. “My lawyer will be in touch tomorrow. We’ll spin the narrative 'scheduling conflicts,' 'irreconcilable differences,' something the public will forget in a week. It won’t be messy. I won’t make it ugly.”

His face twisted, somewhere between disbelief and anger. “That’s it? After everything?”

“Yes,” you said, voice steady. “After everything.”

You turned and grabbed the overnight bag from the hallway the one you’d packed earlier that evening. Toothbrush. Socks. A worn paperback you never got around to finishing. No souvenirs. No letters. Nothing worth holding onto.

You walked to the door.

He didn’t follow.

Not until your hand touched the handle did, he speak again.

“Wait.”

You turned.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, his face cracked. Not enough to let anything healing through — just enough to show fear. The kind of fear that clings to men who don’t know how to be alone.

“I didn’t think…” He hesitated. “I didn’t think you’d actually go.”

You looked at him and you pitied him.

Not because he hurt you. But because he never realised what he had until it was already gone.

“That’s the problem, Lewis,” you whispered. “You never thought I would.”

Roscoe whined beside you. You knelt down and kissed the top of his head, brushing your fingers through his soft fur. “Stay. He’ll need you.”

He licked your wrist, a soft farewell. Reluctant, he padded back inside.

You opened the door. Stepped into the hallway.

No more lights left on.

No more half-eaten dinners.

No more silence that begged to be filled.

You didn’t know what waited for you outside those walls. Maybe more silence. Maybe loneliness. But at least it would be yours.

And for the first time in a long, long time you felt your lungs expand.

You could finally breathe.

The silence in the house was different now.

Not cold. Not convenient.

But suffocating.

For days, Lewis hadn’t noticed the little things not really. Not until they were gone.

Her shoes weren’t by the door anymore. The fuzzy brown slippers she always left angled just right, toes pointing slightly inward like she’d only stepped out for a second. Gone.

Her soft humming from the kitchen barely there, always off-tune, always comforting had faded into a memory.

Her favourite mug, chipped at the rim but always the one she used, was tucked in the back of the cupboard, untouched.

He hadn’t realised how much he counted on the sound of her voice, the small routines she wove into their shared space. The way she always made tea when the nights ran long. The scent of her shampoo lingering on the towel she used to dry Roscoe after his bath jasmine and rosemary, clean and real and hers.

He tried to sleep the night she left.

He didn’t.

Not the next night either.

Not after that.

The house creaked differently now, like it was mourning her too.

No hallway light left on low “Just in case you come home late,” she used to say with a sleepy smile, eyes barely open.

No sound of her brushing her teeth in the ensuite bathroom.

No quiet rustle of her folding laundry that wasn’t even hers to fold.

She was just gone.

And the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It felt like punishment.

And he had made it this way.

Lewis had told himself lies for months dangerous ones; cruel ones dressed in detachment.

That she didn’t matter.

That this was just business.

That her kindness was part of the job.

But it wasn’t.

She hadn’t been pretending.

She’d learned how he liked his coffee not just dark, but with a splash of milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon on bad days.

She’d taken care of Roscoe when he couldn’t be bothered to look up from his phone.

She’d smiled through his silence, through his passive rejections, through the way he ignored her in public but depended on her in private.

And she never asked for anything.

Not praise. Not attention.

Just a little respect.

And he couldn’t even give her that.

Why?

Because she was too kind.

Too patient.

Too real.

And Lewis had spent most of his life building walls to keep people like that out — people who saw him, really saw him, past the trophies and headlines and charm.

And every time someone did, they eventually left.

Not because he failed them though sometimes, he did but because he never let them in. Not truly.

So, this time, he pushed first.

He treated her like she didn’t matter.

Because if she never got too close, she couldn’t leave.

But she had.

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Two Weeks Later

He showed up at the hotel first.

Angela told him with a reluctant sigh that said don’t make me regret this that you were staying there temporarily. A quiet boutique place with no press hovering out front. You were consulting on a legal aid project. One you'd been offered months ago and turned down because your life, back then, had been rooted in his world.

Now, you were starting over.

You weren’t hiding. Just healing.

He didn’t bring a speech. Didn’t bring flowers. Didn’t even bring Roscoe.

Just regret.

And something heavier.

You opened the door in a robe, hair wrapped in a towel, one eyebrow arched in guarded surprise.

Your face fell the second you saw him.

“Please,” he said before you could close the door. “Don’t.”

You stared, unmoving. “If this is about PR damage control—”

“It’s not,” he cut in, eyes fierce, voice low. “It’s not about anyone but us.”

You hesitated.

“There is no us, Lewis.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, the break in it betraying the weight behind his composure. “I know I ruined that. I know I don’t deserve another chance. I’m not here to beg. I just... I needed to say I’m sorry. For real. Not in an interview. Not in a press release. Just here.”

He held out a small envelope.

Inside after you took it with skeptical fingers and slowly unfolded the paper was a short, messy note, his handwriting painfully familiar:

You were the only real thing in a life I built out of mirrors.

I treated you like fiction because I didn’t believe I could ever deserve someone real.

I was wrong.

And I’m so, so sorry.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t close the door either.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Week Later

The headlines started popping up. You tried not to care.

You really tried.

LEWIS HAMILTON CANCELS NIGHTLIFE APPEARANCES, FOCUSES ON PERSONAL RECOVERY

"I TREATED HER WRONG" — HAMILTON TAKES RESPONSIBILITY IN RAW INTERVIEW

He didn’t name you.

Didn’t drop hints.

Didn’t drag you back into the public eye.

He just owned it.

And when he showed up at your work without cameras, without assistants, just a black hoodie, damp curls, and a small paper bag your coworkers exchanged wide-eyed stares.

So did you.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said softly, handing over the bag. Your favourite Thai. “And I hope you’re eating.”

He didn’t ask to come inside.

He didn’t linger.

He just turned and walked back into the drizzle; shoulders hunched against the wind.

And something in you, something bruised and aching softened, just slightly.

It didn’t happen overnight.

But he stayed steady.

He texted, never overstepping. Just little check-ins.

Hope your meeting went well.

Roscoe misses you (okay I do too)

I saw a book today that reminded me of you. Left it at the front desk.

No grand gestures. Just presence.

When he brought Roscoe over one evening, he didn’t even step inside.

“I thought he might like to visit,” he said, leash in hand.

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

And let the dog inside.

Small. Gentle. A beginning.

Days turned to weeks.

He helped where he could.

Brought coffee on mornings he knew your schedule.

Helped you prep for a nerve-wracking presentation.

Waited quietly outside a courtroom just to give you a hug after.

At a charity gala, you caught him watching you from across the room.

Not with pride.

Not with expectation.

Just love.

Later, away from cameras and champagne and small talk, he touched your hand gently.

“Thank you for giving me a chance to be better.”

Some days, your heart wavered.

The hurt ran deep, and trust doesn’t grow back like wildflowers.

But Lewis never demanded.

Never rushed.

When you doubted him, he didn’t try to fix it with charm.

He listened.

He showed up.

He stayed.

And slowly, you started to believe in him again not as the man he once pretended to be, but the man he was becoming. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Morning, Months Later

It was still early. The city barely awake.

You stepped out onto your balcony, robe pulled tight, coffee warm in your hands. The scent of jasmine drifted from your hair. And there he was already there sitting on the wooden chair he’d helped fix last week, hoodie pulled up, Roscoe curled at his feet, reading a book you’d once recommended.

He looked up, eyes soft.

“I know I lost the right to ask for anything from you,” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “But if someday you can see me the way I’m trying to see myself now... I’ll wait.”

You watched him for a long, quiet moment.

Watched the way his fingers stilled over the page.

Watched the hope in his eyes tremble.

Then you stepped forward.

You knelt beside Roscoe, brushing your hand over his ears, and leaned gently against Lewis’s knee.

“I see you, Lewis,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I see you trying. And I’m still here.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he reached for your hand tentative, almost afraid and when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers threaded with his and held tight, something shifted in the air between you. Not dramatic. Not perfect.

But real.

He rested his forehead to yours.

“Can I come back?” he whispered.

You nodded once. Slow. Certain.

“Only if you stay for real this time.”

His eyes closed, his hand gripping yours tighter.

“I’m already home.”

And this time, when you kissed, it wasn’t rushed or flashy. There was no music swelling around you, no perfect lighting or cinematic moment. Just the two of you, standing quietly in the fading light, the weight of weeks – months of silence and regret hanging between you like a fragile thread.

Lewis’s eyes searched yours, hesitant but desperate, like he was asking for permission without words. You felt your breath catch, your heart pounding so loud it threatened to drown out everything else. His hand found your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your skin as if afraid you might vanish if he touched too hard.

You closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his palm, the familiar roughness grounding you in the here and now.

When his lips met yours, it was soft at first, tentative like two people testing if the connection was still there, still real. Then, as if the walls you both built crumbled all at once, the kiss deepened. It became slow and aching, filled with all the things you couldn’t say the apologies, the longing, the sorrow, the hope.

Lewis’s hands cradled your face now, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you steady as if you were both afraid to let go. You felt the quiet desperation in his kiss, the way he was trying to memorise every inch of you, to make up for all the moments he missed.

You responded with your own yearning, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer as if closing the space between you could heal the past. The kiss was messy and imperfect, full of pauses and trembling breaths, but utterly real.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts still racing.

“I’m here,” Lewis whispered, voice raw and sure.

You smiled against his skin, tears threatening to spill not from sadness, but from the fragile, fierce hope blossoming between you.

“I’m here too.”

It was a promise.

One you would build together, brick by brick.

No mirrors.

No lies.

Just newfound love.

For real.

At last.

349 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 1 year ago

Text

The Lost Haven (8/16)

[ modern mafia • Aemond x niece • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, smut, the angst, broad description of suicide attempt (blood), forbidden relationship, half-manipulation, imprisonment, mention of murder, kind of toxic behaviour, violence, uncomfortable conversations, bad, bad things ]

[ description: The vacation from eight years ago still haunts his memories and doesn't let him forget what happened between him and his niece, the daughter of his sister and Harwin Strong. Their paths separate and he immerses himself in his father's mafia world until the day she calls him for the first time since those events. Sexual tension, dark, dangerous, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: As promised, this is another, this time official modern version of The Fall from the Heavens. In this version, Daemon is not related to the family, but is simply Rhaenyra's husband and the leader of the second gang, Alys and Larys are also not related to each other, but Larys is Harwin's brother. I will partly refer to the original series, hiding some easter eggs, and some will be a completely new, fresh plot. As in every universe, only Aemond calls her Rhaenys and this is not her real name (she is unnamed character and the others also do not know that he calls her that). There will be a lot more brutality and angst in this version, so watch out. You can read this as a standalone story.

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond & Rhaenys Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She knew that she was paying for her naivety and stupidity, for not listening to Daemon and her premonition. She wasn't even able to fully blame her uncle for what had happened, because even though he was the one who had imprisoned her, she had thrown herself into his arms herself.

She let him thrust into her body, she let him fill herself with his warm seed, thinking that perhaps there was a way for them, no matter how twisty and difficult.

Lying in his room on his bed, pretending she didn't see his pleading, desperate looks in her direction, she had plenty of time to think about herself and her life.

She realised that everything she was doing, her naivety, her desire to help him stemmed from the belief that if it was possible to fix him, to set him on the right path, to free him from this sullen, dark fate, there was also hope for her.

The hope that one day there would come a moment in her life when she would feel peace.

Meanwhile, instead of peace, something else filled her.

Emptiness.

She felt nothing when it turned out that he had taken her phone, when he locked his room door when he left, when he spoke to her or asked her something.

She pretended that all this wasn't happening, that she was actually on the beach, gazing out at the endless sea, listening to its sound.

She couldn't bear the sight of him, the smell of him, his touch, and everything she had dreamed of and held dear became, in her eyes, foreign and hated: hearing him, she felt as if a stranger, with whom she wanted nothing to do, was speaking to her.

She did not want his explanations.

His apology.

She felt nothing, experienced nothing, needed nothing.

She didn't even feel the need to go home: even if she were free again, it wouldn't change anything.

Her uncle had broken something in her and they both knew it.

Her heart trembled in sympathy and grief only at the sight of Helaena: his sister had been patient, warm and affectionate caretaker towards her. They did not, however, usually exchange even a word.

There was no need: she knew that Helaena was a hostage and prisoner of her family as much as she was, and that there was nothing she could do to help her.

"I'm worried about Aemond." She said one time, handing her a towel in the bathroom.

She could have covered herself with a curtain in the bath, but Helaena needed to be in the room with her.

They wanted to be sure she wouldn't hurt herself.

She looked at her and put on the T-shirt she got from her that served as her pyjamas.

She didn't answer.

She didn't know what.

Helaena looked at her fingers, playing with them in a nervous gesture exactly as her brothers had done, all probably inheriting it from their mother.

"I caught him browsing your Instagram account one evening, couple of months ago. He was sitting in the living room with a drink and thought he was alone. He was about to do something with our grandfather. He didn't hear me come downstairs and freaked out. He turned off his app as soon as he saw me."

She looked at her in disbelief, feeling a squeeze in her heart, discomfort, pain and heat ripple through her body at the thought that, contrary to what she thought, he hadn't forgotten her at all.

"I tried to help him and he took advantage of me. Forgive me, but I am no longer able to sympathise with him." She whispered, picking up her things from the floor. His sister swallowed hard, looking up at her.

"Since that night. Since our father died. Since he saw you. For a moment, something changed in him. He seemed content. Calmer than usual. He told me he was thinking of going to university part-time. I didn't know you were the one helping him with that." She muttered, stepping closer to her, looking somewhere to the side, as if distracted.

"You can't save someone who doesn't want it." She said in a trembling voice, wondering what she wanted from her, how could she think that after what he had done to her she would care about his decisions and what he chose to do.

He had mocked her, objectified her, humiliated her.

He left her with nothing, stripped her of all virtues and values.

"Our grandfather knows when to act like part of the family and when to act like a ruler. He does this to each of us. He knows our weaknesses. Our unfulfilled desires, our flaws, our complexes. He knows who among us is the most miserable, the most vulnerable. The most weak." She said, avoiding eye contact with her, looking around the room, tense.

She pressed her clothes to her chest, feeling the squeeze in her throat at her words, the sympathy and pain that showed she was no different from him.

They both were weak.

They always were, even then, during that summer.

They were sad, hopeless and small children, finding each other in the end, comforting one another with their presence.

"I can't help him anymore. He's made his decision and I'm here. I don't think there's anything more we can say to each other."

That night she couldn't sleep: he hadn't been back for a long time wherever he was, and the thought that perhaps someone had shot him or taken revenge on him didn't fill her with peace.

Despite everything she felt, she didn't want him to die.

She shuddered when she heard footsteps in the corridor and then the sound of a key turning in the lock. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep when he came inside, closing the door behind him.

She heard him pull off his jacket and shoes, trying not to make any noise, and then he came towards her, leaning over her with a quiet sigh. She swallowed hard when he gently covered her with the duvet, when his wide, warm hand combed through her hair as if she were a small child.

She was furious with herself that she felt tears under her eyelids as soon as he pulled away and lay down on the mattress, when she heard him say hello to Vhagar, who licked his fingers.

She was furious that some part of her still craved his closeness, that his touch made her feel safe, just as it had then, that summer.

The only joy in her days filled with shame and grief was Vhagar.

Her uncle's dog was gigantic and had big brown eyes. Vhagar was as distrustful as he was and did not approach her at first, but watched her closely as she lay on the floor, and when she held out her hand to her, she sniffed the air, wanting to smell her with her large, black, wet nose.

Like him, Vhagar required patience and understanding, respecting her barriers.

Eventually, however, she allowed herself to be touched, sealing her acceptance with a long, sticky lick from which her fingers were all moist. Being with her and touching her soft, warm fur was a form of therapy for her: she couldn't find comfort in his arms even though she craved it, and she knew he was dying to touch her.

However, if she broke down and let him, she would lose the remnants of her self-respect and her own dignity.

Although she tried to reject these thoughts and feelings that filled her, what she had repressed during the day came back to her in her dream: she saw her uncle lying in a pool of blood, his face cut, his eyes gouged out in revenge for what he had done to one of the men who had not paid him on time.

The scream she let out seemed inhuman to her and she didn't even know she had really let it out. She pulled herself up on the bed, terrified by the darkness and the fact that she did not recognise the room she was in when she heard something move on the floor.

"– Rhaenys? – Rhaenys, what happened? –" She heard his voice and looked at him with big eyes, whooping with her own tears, sobbing loudly as she felt relieved despite everything he had done to her.

He was alive.

"– did you have a bad dream? –" He asked, looking at her with a sincere worry from which she felt pain in her heart, thinking in disbelief that she wanted to throw herself into his arms and cuddle up to him.

"– hey – hey, baby – it's okay –" He whispered soothingly, rising slowly, approaching her uncertainly. She lifted her shoulders up, simultaneously wanting and not wanting this.

She felt a pleasant shiver as he sat down beside her, his hand gently touching her shoulder.

She swallowed hard when he dared to put his other hand on her head and sank his face into her neck – she felt like bursting into sobs feeling his familiar scent, his familiar warmth, her body relaxing involuntarily into his embrace against her will.

"– shhh – easy – easy, little one – no one will hurt you –" He assured her, only to sink his face into the top of her head a moment later, stroking her shuddering body soothingly with his hands.

You've already done it, she thought with pain.

The person before whom she was most vulnerable, whom she allowed to touch her naked body, whom she allowed to be deep inside her, as intimate as possible.

She thought, feeling her body convulsing as she tried to calm her breathing, that she had nothing left.

"– I'm not sure I want to live anymore –" She mumbled out, surprising herself with these words that came straight from her heart.

She heard him draw in the air loudly, terrified, rocking her in his embrace as if she were a small child.

"– no – don’t say that – it won’t take long – my grandfather is in contact with your mother – they will soon come to an agreement and you will return home –" He whispered as if he thought that was what she meant.

That she just wanted to go home.

"– you broke my heart –" She said, wanting him to understand that her going back anywhere wouldn't change anything, because what he had done to her no place could fix.

She didn't really care now where she was or what was happening to her.

She felt regret towards herself that when she heard him burst out crying she involuntarily felt sympathy for him.

"– forgive me – I regret this like nothing else in my life, I swear – I will spend my life trying to make it up to you –" He muttered, his warm, full lips starting to place wet, lingering, desperate kisses on her face, wanting to somehow soften her words and what she had said, but she felt worse and worse.

"– I love you – I love you in every sense of the word –"

Lie.

"– I don't believe you –"

She heard him wail quietly, hugging her as tightly as if he wanted to break her bones, melt into one with her so she could never escape him again.

"– I understand it – and I don't dare ask for it –" He whispered with difficulty, and she clenched her eyes shut, herself feeling the hot tears one by one begin to run down her face.

They were just empty words that couldn't change anything.

"– that feeling I had inside me was the only thing that allowed me to breathe – and you took it away from me –" She whined into his neck, finally saying what she had been feeling all this time, the regret, the disappointment, the terror and the emptiness she felt deep inside her flowed out of her mouth.

She was sure he was going to start denying it, saying he would make it up to her, but instead she heard his mournful cry, his kisses on her face, neck and shoulders loud, sticky, ravenous, his breath heavy and raspy, making her feel a pleasant tickle between her thighs in spite of herself.

"– I love you – I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so fucking much –" He mumbled out and she snuggled into him harder, wanting to hurt and comfort him at the same time, to reject and accept him deep inside her.

Some part of her wanted to believe him again.

She gasped, surprised to feel her nipples grow hard, to feel her warm cunt pulsate around nothing as his broad hand slid slowly under her t-shirt, trailing down her back while his swollen lips did not pull away from her bare skin.

"– I love you –" He assured her, the strokes of his hand, his wet, hot lips increasingly ambiguous and intimate, the tips of his fingers trailing down her spine, making a wonderful shiver run through her again and again, from which she finally moaned.

"– you hurt me –" She mumbled out regretfully through her tears, inhaling his scent, hating him for how good she felt with him, hating him for how much she wanted him, hating him for needing him so badly and him taking advantage of her.

"– no more – I swear – all I want is you –" He breathed out, pressing her tighter to him, her lips in some subconscious, involuntary reflex brushing against his neck, tasting his sweat and his perfume.

"– please – please, baby, please –" He exhaled, their fingers clenching tighter on their bodies, proving where this was going, how much they both needed comfort, reassurance, a moment of pleasure and warmth, what only they could give each other.

She shuddered and froze when she felt his hand slide down her back to her bare buttocks, digging his fingers into them, feeling the cold sweat on her neck.

She pushed him away, panting heavily, and quickly moved away, pressing her back against the cold wall. She looked at him with big eyes, feeling her whole body quiver with desire, her cunt pulsing greedily, dripping all over from her wetness.

"– no – no, no, no, you're doing this to me again –" She cried out, shaking her head, horrified at the effect he had on her, how easily he manipulated her.

She was a stupid idiot, exactly as Daemon had said.

Her uncle shook his head, moving closer to her, in some pathetic, helpless gesture grabbing her calves, kissing her knees as if he wanted to fall to her feet.

"– no, I swear – I want you so badly –"

"– your grandfather told you to do this? – to soften me up so that in case my mother didn't agree he would get shares in her companies through me? –" She asked with anger, thinking that surely that was the case, that this was just part of their plan.

She couldn't let them down, she couldn't make a fool of herself once again.

Her uncle looked at her with eyes red from tears, his face all swollen, his lips parted in a heavy, raspy breaths.

"– no – I was the one who demanded that I could be by your side – that no one but me could bother you – to make sure you were safe –" He muttered and she shook her head, thinking she couldn't believe him.

"– I want to go to sleep – I want to go to sleep –" She mumbled out, herself no longer knowing what she was feeling or thinking.

She turned her face to the wall and hugged its cold structure as if she wanted to melt into it, the space between her thighs hot and wet, throbbing from the tension that filled her entire lower abdomen.

She pursed her lips into a thin line when she felt him clamp his hand on her waist, his face pressed against her back.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – please, don't reject me – I promise I'll be good now – I'm studying, I'm going to take my exams, I'm going to go to university – please, be there for me – it doesn't matter without you – my life doesn't matter if I can't share it with you –" He whined pleadingly, falling into hysteria, bursting out in such a loud, pitiful, almost childish cry that she began to weep herself, not knowing what to do, where to go to escape the chaos of feelings and thoughts that were filling her head.

Although she wanted to, she couldn't push him away after those words and she let him fall asleep cuddled into her back.

The next day, lying down, staring at the wall, waiting for him to wake up, she looked between her and the bed and saw something shiny on the floor. She slipped her hand into the gap and when she caught it, she thought with a heavy beating heart that it was the blade to a small bookbinding knife.

She swallowed loudly as she grasped it in her fingers and slowly raised her hand, slipping it into her towel that lay on the chair just above her head.

He had told her that day that her mother would try to reach an agreement with them if she could see her.

She thought with disgust and shame that her mother and Daemon would have to sacrifice what was rightfully theirs because she had been stupid and naive, because she had disobeyed them, because she had shown thoughtlessness.

She decided that she would make it right.

That she would do something that would destroy Otto's entire plan and allow Daemon to keep what he wanted.

She thought that perhaps her step-father would understand that she had done this for him.

That this was her apology.

"I'd like to take a bath."

True to her assumption, her uncle was careful and removed the key from the bathroom lock, informing her that she had ten minutes, however, to her relief, he did not check her towel.

When he closed the door she quickly turned the water on, not wanting him to get suspicious, and slid the blade out of the cloth, turning it in her fingers.

This was her escape route.

Her final word.

She stepped into the tub, sinking into the pleasantly warm, crystal clear water and leaned her back against the backrest, breathing loudly, feeling fear, uncertainty and doubt.

She didn't want this, but there was no other choice.

Even if she went home, she would not escape the prison that was her heart.

She was unable to stop loving him.

This thought made her sink the blade into the skin of her wrist.

She hissed, feeling with tears in her eyes how unpleasant, rough and stinging this feeling was, uncomfortable, exactly as her feelings towards her uncle.

She smiled under her breath thinking that he would be the one to find her.

She wondered if she would break his heart in this way, just as he had broken hers.

When she did the same with her other wrist she dropped the blade on the tiles and leaned her head back, lying in peaceful silence, hearing only the hum of water around her.

She closed her eyes, imagining that she was by the sea again, with him, listening as he told her about how old and valuable the coin they had found was.

Tears ran down her cheeks at the thought that in a moment she would join that boy.

The man standing outside the door had killed him long ago.

And then she fell asleep, and though she heard someone's voice, felt someone touch her, felt someone calling her name, she could not open her eyes, feeling calm and light.

Free.

She hissed, feeling an unpleasant burning sensation in her wrists and twisted on the bed, opening her eyelids with difficulty. She felt the sun shining on her face, the familiar smell of disinfectants all around her, the quiet beeping of the machines controlling her heart rate just above her head.

She looked to the side and saw the figure of Daemon sitting in a chair, looking at her exactly as he had then, when her uncle had brought her home from Heavenly Beach.

She felt her body begin to quiver in shame and fear: even though she tried, she couldn't find the words to express what she was feeling, and although she had never called him that, at that moment something snapped inside her.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry, Dad – I believed him – I was only supposed to bring him the books, nothing more – I was trying to fix it –" She mumbled out, bursting into sobs, struggling to catch air between the successive sentences that left her mouth.

Something in her step-father's gaze changed – he swallowed hard and twisted in his seat, clenching his hands into fists.

It seemed to her that some part of him sympathised with her.

"– I know –"

Those words, though short and dispassionate, meant more to her than he could have imagined.

Although he was furious with her, and he had every right to be, he understood why she did what she did and that she believed it would help his cause.

"– you did it for me – didn't you? –" He asked, looking at her wrists.

She nodded, trying to catch her breath, feeling that her cheeks and eyelids were all swollen with tears of sadness, grief and pain.

He lowered his gaze and sighed heavily, turning his head to the side, looking towards the window.

"– don't ever do it again – your mother almost died of despair –" He said, and she nodded again, letting his large hand close over her fingers.

"– you are a naive, stupid child – but mine – you will be under my full control from now on – you will not go anywhere without me, your mother or my bodyguards – do you understand? –" He asked and she nodded, feeling shame.

He was right.

She was a naive, stupid child who someone had to watch over to make sure she didn't mess up again.

Despite her initial horror that everyone would hate her, she was welcomed home with relief and joy: she knew that to some extent this was influenced by what she had done, but at least it made everyone understand that she regretted what had happened.

"– that son of a bitch – I swear I'll kill him with my own hands –" Jace said to her, embracing her tenderly as if she were a teddy bear.

She felt pain and discomfort at the thought that some part of her wanted to ask him not to hurt her uncle.

She wondered how much of this was due to how he was manipulating her and how much was due to how she really felt about him.

She knew that Daemon, Jace and their men had declared war on Otto: every day someone died in a shootout, and she prayed she wouldn't hear his name overhearing the conversations of her father's bodyguards.

"That boy with one eye sold Larys Strong a bullet in the head. His grandfather's partner! They say he just walked into his office and shot him. He must have pissed him off pretty good." He said, and she swallowed hard, feeling her heart stand up in her throat with terror.

She reached into the pocket of her shorts, pulling out the note he'd left her at the hospital and read its contents for the hundredth time.

I will always watch over you.

A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought that his confession was literal.

That he had killed him for her.

Do you know who did this?

I can take care of it.

For your comfort.

Those were his words.

I can take care of it for your comfort.

She hid her face in her hands at the thought of him sinking even deeper into darkness for her, thinking that in this way he would atone for what he had done.

Daemon agreed to let her return to the University on the condition that one of his bodyguards would wait in the car the entire time she was in the building, just to make sure she didn't leave or run away.

She agreed to this out of desperation, feeling that she was descending into madness sitting at home, constantly dreaming about him.

About someone bringing them news that he was dead.

Along with the end of the semester, the entry exams for all those who wanted to get into university were also approaching.

She tried not to think about whether he was studying, whether he was going to come and try, recognising that it was just his momentary whim, an attempt to make her believe that he was capable of change.

And then she'd see his silhouette in her memory, bent over a thick tome, read through her textbooks.

She hated herself for sympathising with him.

She hated herself for wanting him to succeed.

Since then neither of them had written or spoken to each other.

Even so, the day she knew the exams were to take place had her walking around in a state of complete shock and panic all day.

"Are you alright? I'm worried about you. You look terrified." Robb said, snapping her out of her reverie.

They had been together for a few months during the past year, as they had become very close on a excavations where they had been the professor's assistants together.

His ironic sense of humour, the glint in his eye and his cheeky smile made her feel a pleasant warmth in her stomach, and when he kissed her one evening she thought there was hope for her.

That she could live a normal life.

She spent her first time with him because she trusted him and knew he was experienced. He was tender and patient with her, excited by her clearly lack of skill in this aspect, by the fact that he could lead her by the hand, show her what desire and fulfilment were.

She was grateful to him for making the loss of her virginity only a little painful for her, and beyond that she felt only pleasure.

Nevertheless, she despaired that the orgasms she experienced with him could not compare to what she felt when she herself sank her hand into her leaking womanhood, imagining that it was her uncle's fingers that was greedily invading her slit.

"– go on – after all, that's what you want – that's why you came to me, isn't it? – for your uncle to take care of you – am I wrong? –"

She had to snuggle her face into the pillow so that her siblings wouldn't hear her moan of delight and relief, while wonderful waves of warmth and pleasure shook her body, causing her to fall into a peaceful, pleasant sleep, still holding her hand between her thighs.

However, it was enough for her to wake up in the morning, and remorse, sadness and disappointment in herself made her unable to breathe or eat.

And then she saw pictures of Robb with the women he had embraced at the club, and while part of her felt pain, part of her also felt relief.

When she broke up with him, he tried to explain to her that nothing had happened, that he had forgotten himself under the influence of alcohol but that he had never, never cheated on her because he had not kissed or had sex with any of them.

She then thought sadly that she could tell him exactly the same thing, however she felt that they were both cheating on each other in some way, just not physically.

She decided that it would be better if they remained friends, and although it was hard for him to bear at first, he seemed to eventually get used to the thought.

Neither of them resented each other.

She lowered her gaze at the thought, embarrassed, not knowing what to answer him, not being able to confess the truth after all.

She was, however, tired of lying.

"My friend was supposed to take his entry exams today. But I don't know if he will. He hurt me and I'm afraid to go there." She said, looking across the corridor to the part in the building where the big auditorium was located.

"Do you want me to go with you?" He suggested, and for some unknown reason she felt grateful to him for the offer.

She nodded, and he smiled at her in a way that she remembered vividly from the moments when she thought they were happy.

When they got there, she saw that the door to the room was open, probably because of how stuffy it was in there.

"Can you see him?" Robb whispered as she leaned out, she could, however, only see the first three rows of pews and did not recognise him among any of the people.

"No. But I can't see much." She muttered.

"Well, tough. We'll wait." He sighed, leaning back against the windowsill with his arms folded.

"Is he your boyfriend?" He asked after a moment with hesitation in his voice.

"No." She mumbled, looking at her fingers in shame. Robb raised his eyebrows, stroking his chin as if something in her words comforted him.

"Oh. I see." He said, and she swallowed hard, looking away, feeling that even though she had told the truth she felt like she had lied.

The people who had finished writing the exam started to leave one by one, making her lose faith with each passing minute that he had done it at all, thinking in the back of her mind that he was sitting with his grandfather and brother right now for sure, discussing how to destroy her step-father.

He didn't have time to play University now, she thought sadly, and froze when she saw him in the doorway.

His healthy eye grew wide at the sight of her as if he had seen a ghost and he stopped in mid-motion, pale, glancing at her, then at Robb.

"Is that him?" He asked curiously, extending his hand to him. "Robb, it's a pleasure. I hope you become a student soon too."

She swallowed hard seeing that his uncle's face expressed tension and coldness, a sign that something bad was about to happen.

His gaze full of impatience fell on her again while Robb's hand continued to hang in the air, showing her that if she didn't intervene, he would speak up and she wouldn't like that.

"Thank you, Robb. Will you leave us alone?" She asked in a trembling voice, wanting him to get away from this place as quickly as possible.

Robb blinked, bewildered, looking at her then at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Didn't you hear what she said?" Her uncle snarled in his direction in a way she knew was a warning.

He knew who he was, she realised suddenly with horror.

Then, when Helaena caught him looking at her Instagram account, it wasn't the first time he'd done it.

He followed her social media.

That's why he knew where he should come even though she hadn't given him her university address.

"I'm not talking to you, mate." Said Robb in a tone that betrayed that he had lost patience and she had to stand between them to keep her uncle from pushing against him, his jaw clenched in rage.

"That's enough." She said in a shaky voice.

"Aemond is having a hard time. Forgive him. Sometimes he doesn't know how to behave. He won't hurt me. Am I wrong?" She asked softly with a note of mockery in her voice, from which he swallowed loudly and looked away, embarrassed, trying to control himself.

Robb hesitated, but nodded finally and left them alone, glancing at them intently over his shoulder.

"It was a mistake." She said, shaking her head, herself wanting to leave, recognising that she didn't know why she was doing it, why she cared.

"– no – no, wait –" He muttered, grabbing her arm, careful, however, not to cause her pain. His hand wrapped around her waist in a way from which she swallowed hard, his forehead pressed against her temple.

"– are you two together again? –" He asked in a trembling voice, and she involuntarily burst out laughing, ignoring the stares of the other students who were just passing them by.

"– do you want to tell me how you know who I'm dating and when? –" She hissed, looking at him with fury, his gaze hot and pleading, full of feelings she didn't want to see.

"– do you love him? –"

She shook her head, trying to push him away, not wanting to hear it, having no intention of explaining herself to him.

"– I hope you'll pass – let me go – let me go, I said –" She growled, trying to pull away from him, but he closed his hands on her back, hugging his nose to her cheek like a small child seeking refuge, his eyes closed as he spoke his next words.

"– I killed him for you –" He whispered.

She swallowed hard, feeling a powerful, cold shiver run down her spine, her heart starting to pound like mad in her chest making her struggle to take another breath.

He had killed for her.

He had killed a man.

God, was it possible to wash away such a sin?

To carry such a burden.

She shook her head, her brow arching in pain at the thought that she didn't want to hear it.

"– I killed him because he threatened you – because he wanted to hurt you – I want you to be safe –" He gasped tenderly, enclosing her jaw in his hands, placing again and again warm, soft kisses on her cheek as if she were something he longed to cherish, that he adored, that he loved.

A part of her wanted to ask him if he planned to kill himself too, but those cruel words didn't leave her mouth.

When he hugged her she simply closed her eyes and allowed herself to calm down in the tender embrace of his arms, feeling his soft, full lips on her cheek, neck and shoulders, his hands combing through her hair tender, close, familiar, beloved.

"– I'm not pregnant –" She whispered and felt him freeze for a moment. He swallowed hard, placing a lingering, warm kiss on her temple.

"– I know – the doctor told me – we just have to try again –" He said softly, stroking her back comfortingly as if he were a husband who had just assured his wife that they would have a child in the future.

How absurd his words were simultaneously horrified, embarrassed and endeared her.

"– do you hear yourself? – after what you did to me? – after how –" She mumbled out, bursting into sobs, clasping her hands on his back, for some reason seeking help in his embrace.

He was the only person who understood what she was going through.

"– shhh – I'm here, baby –" He hushed her, stroking her hair and her back, his face sinking into her temple, his warm breath enveloping her neck.

She shuddered when she heard her phone ring – they moved away from each other, and when she pulled it out of her backpack it turned out to be Daemon's bodyguard.

"Your class is over, where are you? Is something wrong?"

"– n-no – no, I'm on my way, I was talking to the professor – I'm sorry –" She mumbled out, scared that the man would start looking for her.

"– it's okay – I'll wait where I always do –" He said and hung up while she breathed a sigh of relief.

"– wait a few minutes before I go so they don't see you –" She said indifferently, tucking the phone into her backpack. She felt him wanting to embrace her again, but she pushed him away, shaking her head and avoided him, unable to look at his face.

We just have to try again.

She burst out crying at the thought that some sick part of her wanted this.

"– you said he's not your boyfriend –" She heard Robb's voice behind her, standing at the entrance to the courtyard, looking at her with pain and disbelief.

She swallowed hard at the thought that he was watching them from a distance.

"– I –"

"– I thought we are friends, that we are honest with each other –" He said quickly, combing his hair with his hand in a gesture of impatience, his words making a cold, unpleasant shiver of shame shudder through her body.

He had caught her in the act, and she was like a small, weeping child who was afraid of the consequences.

"– he is not my boyfriend –"

"– are you serious? – you said he hurt you, and you almost let him fuck you in the middle of the corridor – where is your self-respect? –" He hissed and after a moment fell silent, seeing the look in her eyes, the expression on her face, hearing his own words, knowing that his last sentence was a step too far.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry I said that – I didn't –" He muttered, running his hand over his mouth.

He wanted to touch her shoulder, but she moved away from him, shaking her head, not caring that the others were looking at them from the side.

"– is there anything else you want to say? –" She asked, having the feeling that something inside her had broken once and for all, shattered into pieces like a glass vase.

Robb opened his mouth, his cheeks turning scarlet with horror and shame.

She turned tensely, heading for the exit, out of the corner of her eye noticing her uncle's face staring back at her, pale and shocked.

He heard it.

She shook her head letting him know not to follow her and ran towards the car park, thinking about how she wanted to sink to the ground and die.

As she closed the car door behind her, whooping with tears in panic, the man leaned over to look at her face, horrified.

"Are you all right?" He muttered.

"– I didn't pass the fucking exam – can we go now? –" She said with such anger and fury that the bodyguard merely nodded and started the engine, backing the car out onto the road.

She covered her face with her hands, choking and panting, trying to calm down, thinking she deserved it.

Why had she gone there?

Why did she have to see if he had come?

What did it matter?

We just had to try again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

They were both completely mad.

Maybe they had inherited it in their genes, she thought regretfully.

It wasn't until she was home at dinner, feeling Daemon's anxious gaze on her, that she thought uneasily that she had escaped the drowning ship, but had left her uncle and ex-boyfriend far too close. She felt her knee begin to pop up in a nervous reflex under the table at the thought that he might have done something to him.

Out of revenge, out of jealousy, out of whimsy.

I killed him for you.

She thought she would write to him to make sure he was okay.

But he didn't write back.

Unable to stand it, she put a second, new card in her phone, one of the hundreds her brother kept in his drawer to avoid bugging him, and called her uncle, demanding an explanation.

"What did you do to him?" She asked horrified, walking around her room as if in a trance.

"I see you have a new phone number and I have no idea what you're asking."

"Robb, Aemond. He's not writing me back."

She heard him hum on the other end, as if he was pleased with her words and the fact that whatever he had done had forced her to contact him.

"We only talked. His handsome face with brown eyes is unharmed." He said calmly, making her breathe a sigh of relief, still feeling the tension though.

"What were you two talking about?"

"It was our men's business."

"AEMOND."

"That I won't let anyone treat you like that. He doesn't know shit and meddles in matters that aren't his." He said coldly. "I gave him a warning."

For a moment there was a tension-filled silence between them, from which her heart pounded like mad.

She thought it was all some kind of pure madness, that it wasn't really happening.

"– did you threaten him? –"

She heard his loud sigh on the other side and a bark.

Vhagar.

"– I told him to treat you with respect and not to talk to other people about us if he didn't want unpleasantness – no violence, pure persuasion –"

"– manipulation – as in my case –"

"– that is not true –" He protested angrily.

"– LIAR –" She hissed and hung up, throwing her phone on the bed in a gesture full of rage.

She fell back on the bedding, sighing loudly and groaned when she saw that her display had lit up and he had sent her a new message.

She unlocked her phone reluctantly, thinking she had angered him with her words, but saw with surprise that he had sent her a picture of Vhagar.

She felt regret and a sting in her heart at the thought that involuntarily it made her smile.

What he was doing to her was so wrong, so very wrong.

So why did she feel warmth in her heart?

After a while, her phone vibrated again.

She didn't know why she laughed warmly only to burst out crying again a moment later, not understanding why he was the only one who could make her smile, the only one who could make her feel that wonderful warmth in her lower abdomen, the only one who could calm her down.

Why he was the only one she loved.

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charlesollielandooscararthur · 2 months ago

Text

The Mini Grand Prix at Home

Lando Norris x Family!Norris

You know how some parents spend their Saturdays doing laundry or running errands or… I don’t know, sitting down? Yeah, not us.

It started with a completely harmless comment from Lando that morning over breakfast.

“You know what we should do today?” he said, crunching into a piece of toast. “We should build a racetrack in the garden.”

I blinked. “Like… for the kids?”

He grinned. “Obviously. But also for my own competitive satisfaction.”

So, naturally, five minutes later, our peaceful garden was under siege. And by siege, I mean a complete transformation: we dragged out cones from the garage, uncoiled every garden hose we could find, chalked out some ‘curves’ on the grass (which was already clinging to life), and even repurposed a broken laundry basket as a pit stop marker. It was chaos. Beautiful, glorious, slightly unsafe chaos. Just the way our family likes it.

Lando (aged 25, going on 10 when properly hyped) took charge like it was a real Grand Prix circuit under construction. He was inspecting corners, adjusting cone placement like a race engineer, and muttering things like “We need more technical corners on sector two” while dragging the kiddie slide into position as a speed bump.

Meanwhile, I (also 25, also deeply amused) was tasked with finding the checkered flag. Spoiler alert: we don’t own one. So I improvised, naturally, and tied black and white dish towels together with a hair tie. Was it elegant? No. Did it wave dramatically in the wind? Also no. But it existed, and that’s what counts.

Cue: the arrival of the racers.

Kenya and Arlo burst onto the scene with matching intensity. Our twins, 6 years and 4 months old, were already in full-on race mode. They were still wearing their pajamas, but that did not slow down the intensity of their debate over who would be “Team Norris.”

“I called it first!” Kenya shouted, practically tripping over a cone in her rush to reach the imaginary pole position.

“You called it, but I wear my Norris hoodie more!” Arlo countered, tugging it dramatically over his head to prove his allegiance.

“You can’t just wear the team! You have to be the team!”

I was about to intervene when Rylan made his entrance. Our little superhero, four years and six months of pure, unfiltered confidence, came zooming down the path on his tricycle, wearing a bright blue cape and the most serious racing expression I’ve ever seen on a child’s face.

“I’m not on a team,” he declared, braking with a flair that sent gravel flying. “I’m Captain Fast.”

And honestly? No one dared argue.

With racers assigned (Kenya as Team Norris, Arlo as Team Lightning Strike—don’t ask—and Rylan as, well, himself), the race officially began.

Lando, now fully immersed in his role as lead commentator, crouched dramatically next to the flower beds with a makeshift headset—a pair of my wireless earbuds and a spoon for a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his most official tone, “welcome to the first ever Backyard Mini Grand Prix, hosted here at Norris Gardens. Our racers are at the grid, and we are moments away from an epic showdown!”

He paused, gave me a wink, and added, “Over to you, Flag Queen.”

Ah yes. That would be me. Standing at the starting line with my dish towel flag in one hand and, now that the kids were occupied, a chilled glass of white wine in the other. The sun was beaming, the birds were chirping, and my wine was the good kind we usually save for after bedtime.

“Ready,” I called out.

Kenya bent forward like a little missile. Arlo revved his imaginary engine. Rylan narrowed his eyes beneath the brim of his Lightning McQueen baseball cap.

“Set…”

Lando was making fake engine noises under his breath.

“GO!”

They were off. Kenya’s scooter rocketed forward like she’d just received a grid penalty she was determined to erase. Arlo weaved dramatically, kicking up grass like a pro. Rylan? Rylan immediately veered off course and began circling the picnic table while shouting, “I’m taking the long route! It’s for aerodynamics!”

The course was madness. The garden hose chicane caused several near collisions. One of the cones fell over in what Kenya later insisted was a “deliberate sabotage.” Arlo actually braked before the slide-speed bump because he said he was “testing tyre grip.” Meanwhile, Rylan rode directly into a bush and yelled, “I’m in the gravel trap! Requesting superhero recovery!”

Every lap had commentary from Lando that was honestly so good, I half expected a Netflix documentary crew to show up.

“Kenya takes the lead with a daring dive into Turn 4!”

“Arlo not giving an inch—this is some textbook defensive driving!”

“Captain Fast is… somewhere in the shrubbery. Possibly battling squirrels.”

Between each round, the kids would pile over to the pit stop (a picnic blanket with orange slices, because even tiny racers need their electrolytes). Lando would debrief them like a team principal. “Arlo, we need to talk about your corner exits. You’re losing time. Kenya, incredible braking. I think we’ve got a future world champion here. Rylan, how’s the cape holding up?”

I waved my flag with flair every time they crossed the line. I also refilled my wine. Because balance.

We went on like that for hours. Racing. Commentating. Rehydrating with juice boxes (them) and more wine (me). Rylan eventually declared himself the official safety car and drove slowly in front of everyone while humming the Mission: Impossible theme. Kenya built a podium out of lawn chairs. Arlo tried to conduct a team radio with a walkie-talkie that wasn’t turned on.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the trees, and the backyard looked like someone had hosted a birthday party for Mario Kart characters, we were all exhausted—but the good kind. The kind where your cheeks hurt from smiling and your heart feels like it’s glowing.

The kids lay in a heap on the grass, still arguing over who technically “won.” Rylan had the final word, of course: “I won because I flew.” (None of us are sure what that means, but it was too cute to question.)

Lando wrapped his arm around me, pulling me into his side as we watched them chatter and giggle and throw grass at each other.

“Best Grand Prix I’ve ever been to,” he said softly.

I raised my glass. “To Captain Fast, Team Norris, Team Lightning Strike… and the best pit crew in the world.”

The flag waved one last time as the sun set on our little backyard circuit. And in that perfect moment, I realized… this was the kind of race I never wanted to end.

#lando norris #dad!lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris fanfic #family!Norris #f1 imagine #f1

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captain-heartstrings · 5 months ago

Note

What was the biggest disappointment about the chapter in your opinion?

There was a lot of things- things I called from day one and said I would be disappointed with if they did. The list from most disappointing to least. Beware of spoilers:

-Ollie being the prototype: stupid stupid stupid stupid i hate it its such a blatant rip off of the mimic i hate it so fucking much no wonder chapter 4 was buggy to all hell when mob entertainment is stealing all its ideas from steal wool -The Doctor being the first ever straight up EVIL character in Poppy playtime, and yet somehow, the most disappointing. He had no reason to do the things he did- he was just bitter towards Ludwig for removing him from a program for his own good and was an asshole who tried to sabotage his whole company after his death, and continued to do so even when he was turned into a giant super computer. Despite all his boasting about the omni-hand giving him /god mode i feel like mommy long legs did a better job at rigging things against us while the doctor barely makes an attempt. Its like he doesn't even want to live anymore. Hell I'm not even convinced half of what we do to him was necessary- he didn't need the meaty bits to continue talking- so why did he have them anyways? STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. I'm going to shove him into a Tamagotchi. -The omni hand is a copout. why the FUCK does it have a set number of charges- what if an administrator got stuck in a room with no charges left. DUMB. dumb. so dumb. -Poppy getting mad at us for killing doey as if we wanted to, as if we werent all tricked, thats always broken my immersion in games- when characters get mad at you for the plot. It's like- I WOULDNT HAVE CHOSEN TO DO IT MYSELF!!! -It would have been EASY to get Doey back to his senses, because the tape to do so was literally like 3 rooms from where we killed him- and the doctor had given us choices before. so why didn't we get choices to save Doey here? -One of the tapes shows a reflection of our character, revealing that we are infact 100% human- unless there's a toy stuffed into that hazmat suit we got on. -Mob entertainment has a habit of giving us cutouts for characters with absolutely no screentime and it pisses me off. The nightmare critters were obviously a money grab because of the success of the smiling critters, there wasn't a single section that included them that I didn't think could have easily been replaced with the Smiling critters. YET THEY DIDN'T EVEN GIVE US CUTOUTS. I continue to hate the nightmare critters.

THE ONLY GOOD THING that came from this chapter is that people will stop yelling at me about Dogday being Dr. White because they share the same voice actor- because its been officially debunked that Poppy isn't Stella Graybur even though they share a voice actor. Voice actor connections have no sway in which humans end up in which toys in lore, and MAN does that make me feel so vindicated.

#rnanimations #asks and replies

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lqveharrington · 7 months ago

Note

Can I request I can do it with a broken heart for a Lucifer (Morningstar) x reader? Ty and congrats! <3

With a Broken Heart | L.M.

summary: You and Lucifer's relationship has been strained for years, and Charlie tries to mend your broken hearts.

pairing: lucifer morningstar x fem!reader

includes: arguing, cursing, crying, angst, heart break

a/n: luciiiii! it’s been so long 😭 (rules for celebration here!)

Ever since Charlie was born, your relationship with Lucifer had been strained. You both wanted to protect her from all the harm Hell would reign down on your family, but your methods were quite different.

He wanted to make peace with the Heavens — have them back out of their killings once a year. You wanted to hide Charlie from the exterminators until she was able to take care of herself without you or Lucifer. Or until she was able to use her magic properly.

Down to the second Charlie turned eighteen, you and Lucifer continued to argue about what was considered right. Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment after a horrible extermination, Lucifer finally snapped at you when Charlie walked in. She never saw her dad yell at you, and you clearly weren't expecting it either because later that night you left Morningstar Manor.

You hadn’t seen Lucifer since, but Charlie refused to lose contact between you and her dad. She tried to get you two to meet up, but no avail. Not until she needed help with the hotel and refused to admit she invited her dad over when you arrived.

“Charlie, you didn’t call your father to join us, right?" You asked and sighed when she puffed her cheeks out. She was a horrible liar and you knew that came from her being born from two angels. “Great.”

“Mom, whatever you and dad had going on should be history by now! It’s been what? Two centuries since you’ve last seen him?” Charlie grabbed your hands and squeezed them, looking back and forth between your eyes. "It'll be okay."

You opened your mouth to retort but she had already walked away to find Vaggie. Bringing a hand up to your temple, you silently cursed that she was so determined to get everything absolutely perfect.

Although you never officially divorced Lucifer, he still left you with a broken heart that he never attempted to mend. He left all your broken pieces for you to deal with — not caring that you had to handle all the sinners’ affairs as well when he decided to go M.I.A.

“Oh sweet sweet queen of hell,” Angel wrapped an arm around your shoulder while the other popped open a drink, taking a quick swig of the alcoholic drink. “I’m sure you can handle whatever shit his majesty will throw at you.”

“It’s not what I can handle.” You murmur and shake your head, spinning the golden ring on your finger before glaring at it once you realize what you were doing. “It’s if he can handle seeing me after ages of leaving me on my own without anything but my own fucking tears.”

Angel’s eyes widened before toasting to that, chugging the rest of his drink down and pulling you toward the couch. Honestly, you were ready to fight for your side again until you saw him. It was like nothing affected him.

When Lucifer burst into the Hotel like he owned the place, you noticed the façade he put on just to see Charlie smile. He was always putting on a face so she would see the best of him. He was in the middle of meeting all the sinners of the hotel when his gaze shifted to you, face paling when he met your glare.

As if you read his mind, you turned away and immersed yourself in whatever Angel Dust was complaining about to Husk. Charlie looked between the both of you, defeat etching across her face. Nothing was ever going to get done if the two of you refused to acknowledge each other the entire time he was staying with them.

She had to fix her parents' relationship — despite the way the both of you avoided each other like a plague.

"Charlie, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, your mom looked like she was ready to kill your dad the second he stepped into the hotel." Vaggie looked up her, eye brows creased in doubt. She was never one to doubt her girlfriend, but the King and Queen of Hell could easily kill all the sinners within the snap of their fingers if pushed far enough.

"They may be upset with each other but we won't get anything done if they keep walking eggshells around each other!" Charlie rubbed her forehead and began to pace the foyer, eyes glowing red in frustration. "Besides, my dad regrets ever yelling at my mom. She just... She doesn't know it because they're both too stubborn!"

Charlie's horns poked out before settling, steam releasing from her mouth. She waved a hand over the room's door and let the enchantments settle before whisking Vaggie away. "Anyway, we have to try and do this. If we don't, we can say goodbye to the hotel forever."

"Charlie, sweetheart, what are we even looking for? I can barely see anything in here." You huffed and moved cobwebs away from your face, snapping your fingers to produce small flames. When you didn't hear her respond, you turned around only to be met with the eyes of Lucifer Morningstar himself. "Where's Charlie?"

"Wha— Uhm, she shoved me in here and told me to look for something." Lucifer squeaked out and waved his hand around, letting golden whisps illuminate the small space. "I didn't realize you would be in here."

You rolled your eyes and continued to push away old pieces of furniture, doing your best to ignore the tugging in your chest. However, Lucifer couldn't help but stare. You were just as gorgeous as the day you met, and the lights shining across your face only took his breath away.

"Do you know what we're supposed to be— Lucifer!" You frowned and dragged a hand down your face in annoyance, letting the flames go out. "You know what? I can't deal with this right now."

You moved to the door and tried yanking it open, only to jerk backward. You looked back at Lucifer before trying the door again, this time the handle burning your palms. Wincing, you glare at the door and call out for you daughter.

"Charlie Morningstar, you come here and unlock this door!"

"Not until you and dad make up!" She shouted through the thick door, mind forcing herself to be confident. "And don't even try using your magic because I will send you back in there."

"Charlie!" You groan and bang your forehead on the door, shutting your eyes in disappointment.

Lucifer tugged his hat down to cover his face and moved to sit on an old crate behind him. He couldn't face you. Not yet. Not when you refused to even meet his eyes properly. It was like the Heavens purposely wanted to see him suffer.

Finally admitting defeat, you sat on the opposing crate and held your breath. You didn't think seeing him would affect you so much, especially since it had been cartularies since you last saw him. But Lucifer was always full of surprises and you knew Charlie got that trait from him.

You blew out a breath and spun your ring, eyes glued to the wooden floor. "Why did you do it?"

Lucifer peeked past his hat and looked around the room like it wasn't just you and him. He swallowed and shifted his gaze over to you, pursing his lips when he saw your wedding band. He opened his mouth to speak but shut it, not knowing what to say to you.

"Why did never try and stop me from leaving?" You whispered out and watched his body stiffen.

"I..." Lucifer shook his head and buried his face in his hands, voice muffled. "I don't know."

You brows creased and clasped your hands together, wanting to stop your fidgeting. "Lucifer, you promised to keep your family safe and you didn't even try to get me to stay." You stared at his hands, eyes hardening at the sight of his own wedding ring. "I don't understand—"

"Because you were so paranoid that something horrible was going to happen to us!" Lucifer finally burst and stood from his spot, eyes red and face contorted in dissatisfaction. He began to pace the small room and rubbed the back of his neck, voice cracking. "You were so overprotective of Charlie that you wouldn't even let me near her somedays."

"You were handling the Heavens, Luce! Did you think I wanted to keep her away from her own father? I didn't want her dead from the hands of an exterminator." You paused at the thought of your daughter ever dying from the hands of a supposed holy figure. When Lucifer shook his head, you wiped a stray tear and turned away. "You never understood what I was trying to tell you."

"Neither did you." He stopped his walking and stared at you with solemn eyes. He knew you tried your best to protect Charlie, but he wanted to protect more than his daughter. He also wanted to protect you, but you never understood his plans to do so. "Sometimes I think you wanted to pretend this wasn't our reality, but it is."

"Was it my fault Heaven kicked us out?" You bit your bottom lip and finally met his eyes, watching them soften instantly. You tilted your head to the side and frowned, "You told me you'd love me for all time but the second we landed in Hell, our time was cut short wasn't it?"

The look in your eyes broke Lucifer's heart even further. He always hated arguing with you and for the first time in so long, he wanted to freeze time and just hold you.

"You may think I've been perfectly fine without you, but nursing a broken heart absolutely crushes a person." You whisper before standing and walking toward the enchanted door, muttering your own reversal charms.

Lucifer reached out to you before pulling back, his own eyes glossing over. "Angel..."

"After we help Charlie with her hotel, we're done, okay?" You stay by the door and refuse to face him, doing your best to not have your voice waiver in heartache. When you didn't hear a response, you gripped the handle harder. "Luce?"

"Okay." He murmured back and tapped his cane to the ground, vanishing to a different part of the hotel.

You choked on your tears and covered your mouth, letting your heart completely dissolve to nothing. You knew crying wasn't going to help, but you had to try and be productive. Afterall, you were the Queen of Hell.

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whencyclopedia · 6 months ago

Photo

Lindow Man

The Lindow Man (officially Lindow III) is the top half of a male body, found preserved in a peat bog in Cheshire, England.

The peat bogs at Lindow Moss date back to the last ice age and were formed by holes of melting ice; they are now a tenth of their original size. Bogs often lead to the preservation of organic materials, particularly human remains, being acidic, cold, and devoid of oxygen. The brown colour of the skin, leathery texture, and appearance of human remains preserved in a bog are due to a type of moss that grows in bogs and when dead, lets out a substance that causes a tanning process.

During 1980s CE a series of finds were made at Lindow Moss by workers at a peat shredding mill (peat was then being harvested as fuel). These discoveries were small parts of the human anatomy, for example, a head known as the Lindow Woman and several limbs of other individuals. The most famous, largest, and important of these discoveries is the top half of a male body (the bottom half possibly lost when a digger cut up the bog) found in the summer of 1984 CE and called the Lindow Man. What is noticeable about this example and significant for study is that the hair, skin, and several of his integral organs were preserved. The body and surrounding section of peat were removed whole and taken away for study by a team led by British Museum scientists. Once safe in a laboratory it was the focus of analysis and has caused a great deal of excitement, producing an unprecedented investigation.

The beard, sideburns, and moustache made it instantly clear that the body was male. By calculating the length of his upper arm bone, it was estimated that he would have been between 1.68 m and 1.73 m tall. He was also well built, weighing around 64 kg. He was radiocarbon dated to between 2 BCE and 119 CE and was about 25 years old at the time of death. He was unclothed, apart from a fox fur armband. Using scanning electron microscopy researchers found that his hair and beard had been trimmed with a pair of scissors or shears. It is thought that he did not do any rough work or hard labour, based on his nails which were all manicured. Although the acid in the bog had removed all of the enamel from his teeth, there were no visible cavities, and what was left looked normal. Overall he appears to have been fairly healthy, but had slight osteoarthritis and an infestation of parasitic worms. It has even been possible to discover his blood group, O. Food residue discovered in his upper alimentary tract shows that his last meal was a griddle cake made from wheat and barley.

The reasons and cause of death have caused debate between scholars. There are signs of two blows to the top of the head with a heavy and bladed weapon and also a knife wound to the throat. There is also evidence for a blow to the back, by a broken rib. He had a thin cord around his neck which may have been used to strangle and break his neck, but some have argued that it was simply a necklace, because it is knotted in a decorative manner. Once dead he was placed face down in the bog. This horrific death may have been a ritual killing, a human sacrifice carried out, perhaps by the Druids. Or he could have been executed as a criminal or murdered by thieves, or if he was someone of stature, by his enemies. It is almost impossible to know for sure why he died, but the Lindow Man has provided valuable information and been subjected to more tests than any other ancient human being.

He was conserved by immersing him in a mixture of polyethylene glycol to prevent shrinking and then wrapped in cling film, frozen, and then finally freeze-dried. He is now on display in the British Museum.

#History #119CE #1980s #2BCE #WHE #[#]

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poeticallyspiteful · 7 months ago

Text

the way things change (ch. one)

ethan landry x reader

fluff/angst

cw: mentions of broken bones, blood loss, nerve damage, scars, burns, hand tremors, physical therapy, wheelchairs, chronic pain, a feeding tube, ptsd, the panic attacks, paranoia, nightmares, insomnia, murder?? like it’s scream, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, i think that’s it but lemme know if i missed anything

summary: after almost a year of recovery, ethan’s helping you push yourself into some immersion therapy—you’re not loving it.

notes: i hope y’all like the first official chapter, apologies for the ending, it was getting too long so i had to cut part of it to move it to the next chapter. enjoy!!

"do you think this is cute?" you stepped out of the bathroom, lifting your arms as stiff as a mannequin. your party clothes were comfortable but this was the first time in months you've really gotten ready; you couldn't help but feel a stranger in your own clothes.

three broken ribs, severe blood loss, nerve damage in your hands, and a shattered knee— not to mention the scars from burns and cuts and stabs that littered your body from head to toe. you were left quite literally broken into pieces after that night.

but, miraculously, you survived— even if that meant the recovery was mind breaking.

the hand tremors, the physical therapy, the wheelchair and the cane it had been traded in for. the scars, the random, blinding pains, being fed from a tube for months because stomaching food was nearly impossible. the ptsd, the panic attacks, the paranoia and the nightmares that turned into crippling insomnia.

the farther down the road you traveled, the more it seemed like a tunnel with no light at the end.

however, you had ethan. and he made everything infinitely better.

even now, you felt your muscles relax as he looked up from his phone, a small smile breaking out on his face at the sight of you.

“you’re gorgeous.”

you rolled your eyes as you fought back a smile, cheeks heating. “that’s not what i asked.”

“i don’t care. you’re gorgeous,” ethan said, closing the space between you and putting his hands on your hips.

you bit the inside of your lip to cinch your grin as you leaned into his touch.

“this is unfair, you can’t be cute when i’m supposed to be mad at you.”

ethan scoffed, tugging you forward until you were flush against his chest, his arms fully wrapped around you like a cocoon. “i’m making you follow your therapists instructions and attend a small party for an hour. you’ll live, princess.”

“so mean…” she mumbles against his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso.

“i know, i’m horrible. let’s go.”

the second you walked into the god awful frat house, a wave of nausea overcame you. the stench of beer wafted through the room, mingling with a sweaty, musty undertone.

"you said this was supposed to be a small party?" you asked, as a very drunk boy stumbled past you, nearly knocking you over. ethan pulled you tight against his side, though the packed room makes you both felt like you were overheating.

"yeah, on second thought, chad's not a very good judge of these things,” he says, eyes trailing after the drunk that almost ran you down.

you lean against him, looking up through your eyelashes with the needy look he can never deny. “can we leave? please?”

ethan furrows his brow, frowning at you. “we can still have fun! c’mon, just an hour. less than that! just 50 minutes now.”

you whine exaggeratedly as he leads you to a less crowded corner. “last time i was at one of these, someone stabbed me, so i feel i have good reason for hesitation.”

ethan’s expression softens but he does not relent. “you told me not to let you bail, baby. c’mon, let’s get you something to drink.”

blood. so much blood—coating your hands, soaking your dress, filling your senses and splattering on the floor.

“baby? bab— hey, hey, it’s okay.”

ethan’s face blurs and it feels like you’re swaying even though you know your not. it all happened so fast, the room was spinning so fast, everything was moving so fucking fast.

“hey! can you hear me?” ethan again. god, he sounds so worried. you hope he’s not too worried.

you managed to focus your eyes and see that he’s moved you to his lap, his hands covering your own as they press onto your wound. something is soft under your fingers now—his flannel, you realize—and in the same moment you realized your blood is soaking through that too.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i hear you…”

“the ambulance is on its way, just stay awake.”

“where— where’d he go?” you slurred. whether it was from the blood loss, the alcohol, or the panic, you weren’t sure.

ethan shakes his head, pressing down harder on your stomach as he saw your eyes lose focus again. “he ran away, he’s gone, you’re okay.”

she shut your eyes tight as the room started to swim again. “said you… coming…” you managed to murmur, though the blood that had snuck past your lips wasn’t doing any favors for your speech.

“what?”

“he said you had it coming.”

“what do you want to drink?” ethan asked softly, one hand gripping hip as he plucked too red solo cups off of the tower that say on the drink table.

you hummed doubtfully. “i don’t know if i want to drink tonight. maybe just a diet coke?”

“fine by me.” he presses a kiss to your temple before pulling away, pouring two cans of diet coke into two cups.

“you can drink,” you said quickly, suddenly worried you were ruining his night. you knew ethan was never much of a party person but you wouldn’t blame him for wanting to get out of the house, away from you, away from all your trauma and problems and—

“i don’t mind staying sober,” he reassures. “plus, when we’re back at my apartment, we can drink wine, watch a funny movie, and make out until we fall asleep.”

you smile, leaning into him and taking your soda from his hand. “that sounds nice.”

ethan hummed, kissing the top of your head as it rests against his chest. “40 minutes.”

you bite your lip, looking up at him, wrapping an arm around his middle. “what about 30 if i make it worth your while?”

“i’m not some slut,” he chides, a smile creeping on his face.

“i believe i’d be the slut in that situation.”

“oh really—”

“well if it isn’t mr. and mrs. landry!”

and there’s chad. more specifically, a super excited, super loud, and super drunk chat.

“hey, man,” ethan greets, pulling away from you to give his roommate a one armed hug and a pat on the back.

“what are you guys doing here?” chad asked, pulling you in for a hug with just as much excitement. “you haven’t come to one of these all year.”

“yeah, we’re not here for long,” you said, forcing a smile that chad was too drunk to call out. “just wanted to say hello and grab a drink.”

chad nods, head bobbing to the deafening beat of the music playing. he smiled at you, that broad, blinding smile and leaned in to hug you again, holding you against him for a moment longer.

“i’m proud of you,” he slurred whispered, patting you on the back hard enough to make you cough up some phlegm. “you’re doing really good.”

“thanks, chad.” you laughed as you pulled apart. “now go back to partying! your fans must be missing you dearly.”

he laughs, though it sounds more like a giggle and shouts something unintelligible at you as he walks back into the crowd. once he’s gone, your shoulders slump a bit again, leaning against ethan once more.

“i socialized, i’m done, we can leave now.”

“nope. we still have 35 minutes left.”

“what are you, the timekeeper?” you grumbled, feet feeling like cement blocks as he guided you out into the common area, away from the dance floor but still plenty claustrophobic.

“well, i did start a timer when we got out of the car, so yeah,” he quipped, “i am.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“you love me.”

“mhm.”

#fanfic #ethan landry x you #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry #scream x reader #scream #scream imagine

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voidofsunlight · 4 months ago

Text

The Forsaken Knight

CHAPTER ONE: The Edge of Death

Summary: Mattheo Riddle, a fearsome warrior, is brought to the brink of death by the betrayal of his most trusted ally. His fate uncertain, his only desire is revenge. But a princess steps forward to save him.

Trigger Warnings: ⚠ Graphic battle scenes, descriptions of blood, injuries, and death. Betrayal. Near-Death Experience: severe injuries, blood loss, and physical suffering. Captivity & imprisonment. Mentions of death in childbirth (brief mention of the Queen’s passing)Revenge & obsessive thoughts ⚠

Word count: 1,520.

A/N: Hey, hi, hello!! This is my first time posting a multi-chapter story, I feel super nervous, feedback is highly appreciated! The full story is already written. There are 5 official chapters, plus one alternate chapter and a bonus chapter at the end.

Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings! Also, I kept ‘your’ description vague so that ANYONE can immerse themselves in the story. The only thing set in stone is that the reader is a princess—but hey, feel free to be a princess to enjoy the ride!

Now, onto Knight!Mattheo, because I loved writing him, and I hope you love reading him just as much.

LINKS: 🧸 my C.ai profile! // 📜 my main masterlist! // 🫂 Click here to send me a request or message

Mattheo Riddle was once a legend. A warrior without equal. A name that rolled off tongues in both reverence and terror. He had been born for battle, molded by war, an orphan raised not with lullabies but with the sharp clang of steel and the bruising grip of discipline. There had never been a life before the sword, no childhood unmarred by the expectation of bloodshed. From the moment he was strong enough to hold a blade, he had been trained—beaten, broken, reforged—until the mere thought of losing was unthinkable.

But legends are not immortal.

The sky above the battlefield had been an unforgiving shade of gray, thick with the acrid stench of sweat, blood, and the dying. Horses shrieked. Swords clashed. The earth beneath Mattheo's feet was slick with red. He cut through enemies like a storm given form, his movements sharp and ruthless, each strike a whisper of death. His armor, once polished steel, was battered, dented, dark with the stains of war.

Then came Hasher.

His most trusted comrade. His second in command. A man who had once fought at his side, who had once sworn brotherhood to him.

Mattheo never saw it coming.

A searing pain tore through his ribs, white-hot and merciless. His breath hitched as he staggered forward, his fingers twitching as he tried to understand why his own blood was spilling down his side, soaking through the layers of his armor.

Hasher was behind him. The sword was still lodged deep.

For the first time in his life, Mattheo stumbled.

The battlefield blurred at the edges. Sounds dulled beneath the deafening roar in his head. He turned, gasping through the pain, his chest rising and falling in ragged, shuddering breaths.

"Hasher—"

"There can only be one legend, Mattheo," Hasher murmured, his voice steady, almost pitiful. "And it won’t be you."

Then came the shove. It was swift, calculated—just like the betrayal.

Mattheo collapsed, his knees slamming into the dirt. His fingers dug into the mud as he fought to stay upright, to fight, to breathe. His vision darkened at the edges, and for the first time, true fury burned through his veins hotter than the pain.

The others did nothing. His men. His soldiers. The ones who had followed him. They stood there, unmoving, watching as Hasher wrenched the blade free and turned his back on the man he had once called his brother in arms.

One by one, they followed him.

And just like that, Mattheo Riddle—the legend, the warrior, the undefeated knight—was left to die in the dirt.

This wasn’t where he died. And especially not like this.

The journey away from death was one of sheer, unrelenting willpower.

The wound at his side throbbed, torn open with every strained movement. His body screamed for rest, but Mattheo Riddle had never been granted mercy, and he would not start begging for it now. He walked. Stumbled. Crawled. The weight of his armor dragged at him, but he refused to let it crush him.

Time blurred, his throat burned from dehydration, his vision swam in and out of focus. He followed nothing but the instinct to survive, the iron-clad fury that kept his body moving even when every muscle screamed in agony.

Then, at last—

A Kingdom.

He barely made it past the gates before the guards were upon him. Hands grabbed him, voices snapped orders—"Take his weapons!" "He's from the enemy!"

They shouted, swords drawn, their words a distant hum in his fogged mind. He did not fight them. Couldn’t. His body gave out, collapsing to the stone in a heap of blood and exhaustion.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Mattheo stirred. Barely. The cold was the first thing he noticed. A breath. A twitch of his fingers against the stone beneath him. But it was enough.

His body felt as if it had been torn apart, his ribs ached where the blade had pierced him, flesh shredded open. His blood had long since soaked into the fabric clinging to his frame, the dried and fresh layers blending together in a grotesque mosaic of his suffering. He should have been dead.By all accounts, he should have been dead.

But Mattheo Riddle did not die so easily.

When his eyes cracked open, there was no haze of confusion, no sluggish drift between life and death. There was only fire.

Hasher.

The name burned inside his skull, seared into the shattered remnants of his trust. The betrayal was not just a wound in his side—it was the very thing keeping him alive. Rage pressed against his ribs, demanding he keep breathing. Keep fighting. Because as long as blood still ran through his veins, it would be spilled for one purpose alone.

Revenge.

The voices outside his cell were sharp, decisive.

"Execute him." A deep voice. Unyielding. The King.

Mattheo did not care where he was. Did not care that the man standing before his cell had sentenced him to die. The only thing that mattered was that he was still breathing. And that meant Hasher still needed to be murdered.

A flicker of movement. A voice—soft, yet unwavering.

"No."

It was then that he felt it.

A gaze.

Not the King’s. Not the guards’.

Yours.

Slowly, with effort, Mattheo lifted his head. His dark eyes flickered upward and met yours.

You stood there, just beyond the bars, your gaze locked onto his. He didn’t know why you had spoken, why you had stepped forward.

You didn’t hesitate before speaking again.

"It’s inhuman," you said, your voice clear despite the weight of the moment. "Killing a man for his only crime being a rival kingdom’s battler."

The King barely spared you a glance. His posture remained rigid, his expression impassive, but the flicker of warning in his eyes was unmistakable.

"This is war," he said. "Not your decision to make. You are a princess, not a warrior. This is men’s work."

There it was. The dismissal. The sharp, unyielding divide between the world of men and the place they had carved out for you within it. But you were not like them.

"This isn’t war," you countered, stepping forward, your voice steady, defiant. "This is power."

You looked at him as though you could see through him. As if you saw more than just his ruined body and bloodied hands.

You saw it, just as you saw his wounds—the anger, the hatred—just as you saw the sheer force of his will keeping him upright. The unyielding will that had kept him alive when any other man would have succumbed.

You argued for his life.

"If his reputation is as great as they say," you continued, tearing your gaze from his to meet your father’s once more, "then his skill could be useful. We have lost too many men. You know this."

A shift in the room. Small. Subtle. But you felt it.

"You would have me believe that spilling more blood is the only path forward?" you countered, voice edged with something sharper now, something dangerously close to accusation. "We are not savages. Mercy does not make us weak. Killing him isn’t a necessity—it’s a message," you continued, your tone unwavering. "One you don’t need to send."

Mattheo had said nothing, done nothing, but you could feel his gaze on you, dark and unreadable.

For the first time, the King truly looked at you. Not as his daughter, not as a mere girl standing before him in a hall of men, but as something else entirely. Then, he exhaled. Slow. Heavy.

"You resemble your mother," he murmured. It wasn't a reprimand. It was something rawer, quieter, as though the words had left him before he could stop them. His voice, always so sure, faltered for just a fraction of a second, as he remembered her, and the tragic way she died birthing you.

"She too was stubborn," he continued, though now his gaze was no longer on you but somewhere far beyond, lost in memory.

For the first time since entering this hall, your heart beat too loud.

Then, the King straightened. His expression hardened once more, the moment of softness vanishing beneath the weight of his station.

"At last," he said, voice firm, decisive. "If you so desire to save this man, then so be it."

The hall felt smaller now. You felt smaller now. But still, you did not waver.

"Get him well," your father continued, "and only then will I decide his fate."

The finality in his tone left no room for further argument. The decision had been made. The weight of it settled over you like a crown you were not meant to wear, pressing into your shoulders, into your very bones.

You had won.

For now.

Mattheo let out a slow, uneven breath. He did not speak. Did not thank you. But as your eyes met his once more, he held your gaze.

He was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

Because one day, he would find Hasher again.

And when that day came, he would make sure Hasher suffered.

PLEASE DO NOT COPY / TRANSLATE OR REPOST AS YOUR OWN!

©Voidofsunlight

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brookstolemybrand · 5 months ago

Text

An overly elaborate comparison of Harley translations: The Third World

[1st World] [2nd World]

PLEASE READ THE FIRST AND SECOND WORLD POSTS FIRST.

(This is not a criticism of these translations: I'm not considering their literary merit, only accuracy for the sake of analysis and theorising, not for reader enjoyment or immersion, which are equally important)

(Also feel free to correct me because my Japanese isn't perfect by any means (also at this point I've been working on these posts for hours and I'm too tired to comprehend words))

The Third World

混沌に空白あり

[OFFICIAL] Within the chaos there was emptiness. (?)

[LUNA] In chaos, there was a void.

[YUDE] In chaos, there exists a void.

[OHARA] Upon the chaos, there is Void.

[TCB] Chaos reigns; the world drifts in a void. [!]

[OPS] There was void upon the chaos.

[TS] In chaos, there is void.

Once again this follows the same formatting as the other first lines.

The reason why everybody here is saying "void" (except the official) is because this word 空白 is the word used in Void Century.

空白 more literally means "blankness" or "gap" or something being missing, and this is why Stephen Paul chose not to use "void" here but instead in the previous section. He explained this on the One Piece podcast. Personally I don't know if "emptiness" is more accurate but oh well.

Point is, this definitely seems to be evoking the Void Century, or the Blank Century, whatever you wanna call it.

The tense could be present or past, I think present makes more sense in this case.

idk what TCB was doing with this one. I don't know where they even got this interpretation because it makes zero sense.

Conclusion: There is (a) [void/gap] [upon/within] (the) chaos.

不都合な残影は約束の日を思い出し片われ月の声を聞く

[OFFICIAL] The inconvenient remnants recall the promised day and hear the voice of the half-moon.

[LUNA] An inconvenient afterglow / remember [sic] the promised day / and listen [sic] to the voice of the half-moon

[YUDE] The inconvenient remnant recalls the promised day. The voice of the Half-Moon echoes, (?)

[OHARA] The inconvenienced lingering shadows / shall remember the Day of Promise. / They shall listen to the voices of the half-broken Moon. (?)

[TCB] Yet time does not erase the memory of the promised day. Its shadow looms as the voice of the half-moon echoes through the ages, [!]

[OPS] The unbidden shadows remember the day of the promise and they hear the voice of the fragmented moon. (?)

[TS] The troubled shadow remembers / The promised day / and listens to the sound of the fragmented Moon (?)

I'm gonna be nitpicky about this one too, I'm sorry. To be fair, this is a really difficult part. I feel like only the official and Luna got it right.

不都合な means "inconvenient; inexpedient; unfavourable; troublesome; difficult"

残影 means "traces; remnants", or it can also mean something like "faint glow" or "afterglow" (NOT THAT KIND). Or an afterimage, like the kind you see after looking at a light for too long, or right after you've closed your eyes.

So, "inconvenient remnants" is the idea. I do like the imagery of "afterglow" (NOT THAT KIND) but it's less obvious in translation, I think. There's definitely some kind of metaphor here about lingering light in the darkness. Honestly, maybe you could translate it as "the inconvenient lingering light(s)" although that's a bit too long.

Translating it as "shadow(s)" with the idea that they're just a shadow of something that came before kinda works? But it feels almost opposite to what the actual word implies. Yes, there is the kanji 影 in the word, which does mean "shadow" (or "shape" or "figure") but that's not what 残影 means, as far as I know. It seems to be more associated with light in the darkness than shadow (which is more like darkness in the light).

Also it's not "inconvenienced" or "troubled", for the record. The "remnant(s)" are inconvenient for someone else.

思い出し means "to recall", 約束の日 means "the promised day".

片われ月 is the interesting one. Both LunaPienArt and Stephen Paul talked about this. It's likely a reference to an early medieval Japanese poem from the Man'yōshū collection. It's a poetic way of saying "half-moon", literally something like a "half of the moon". 片われ on its own seems to mean a piece of a whole, or one half of a pair, like a missing sock would be 靴下の片われ. I also found a bunch of examples of people using it for one half of a heart sign, like this 🫶 but with only one hand.

The medieval poem goes like this:

逢ふ事は片割れ月の雲隠れおぼろけにやは人の恋しき

Translation by Luna from the video:

Meeting you is like a half-moon hiding behind the clouds. I long for you, yet I cannot see you.

^ This doesn't seem to be a literal translation, but I'm not gonna attempt it myself, I don't know medieval Japanese. The point is that it's about yearning to reunite with a loved one, using the half-moon covered by clouds as a metaphor for the distance between you, or something along those lines.

Oda quoted this poem in the title of chapter 292: To Meet, like the Half-Moon Hidden by Clouds (Viz translation)

This is the chapter where half of Jaya gets launched up into the sky and Noland returns only to find the Shandians and their city gone.

The poem is also mentioned in the volume 39 SBS!

Stephen said he would have liked to translate this as "broken moon" or something like that, but didn't want to mess with it because a previous translator had already translated the same term as "half-moon" in that aforementioned chapter 292 title.

ANYWAY. When the Harley says "the voice of the half-moon" it uses this poetic way of saying "half-moon" rather than the usual 半月 which was used in the Second World section for the "people of the half-moon".

声 is specifially "voice", not "sound". 聞くcan be either "to hear" or "to listen".

(I'm exhausted now, thank god the rest of the Harley is easier)

Conclusion: The inconvenient [remnant(s)/lingering light(s)] recall the promised day and hear the voice of the half-moon(/a half of the moon).

"太陽の神"は踊り、笑い世界を終末へと導く

[OFFICIAL] The sun god dances and laughs, / guiding the world to its end.

[LUNA] The sun god dances and laughs, / leading the world to its end.

[YUDE] The Sun God dances, laughs, and leads the world to its end.

[OHARA] The Sun God dances, he laughs. / He leads towards world’s end. (?)

[TCB] And once more, the sun god shall rise— laughing, dancing, guiding the world to its final act. (?)

[OPS] The "god of the sun" dances and laughs, / Guiding the world to its end.

[TS] "The Sun God" dances and laughs / Leading the world to its end

I'm getting too tired so I'll keep this short: See the First World post for the talk about the sun god. Most of these translations are nearly identical and that's because they're all correct. This is a very simple sentence. (Please just ignore the weird ones.)

世界の終末 is "the end of the world" so that's what the line is evoking. That said, 終末 doesn't necessarily mean "destruction", it could just be an ending.

Also I can't resist pointing out that once again, technically, there could be multiple sun gods. And if you think about Bonney, maybe there already are!

Conclusion: The Sun God* dances and laughs, guiding the world to its end.

(* or possibly Sun Gods :D

太陽は回帰し新しい朝が来る

[OFFICIAL] The sun returns and / brings a new morning.

[LUNA] The sun will return, / and a new dawn will rise.

[OHARA] The Sun will return. / A new morning will arrive.

[TCB] The sun is reborn. A new dawn will break. [!]

[OPS] The sun will return, / And a new dawn will come.

[TS] The Sun will return / And so comes a new morning

I feel like all of these tried to make this sound fancier than it is but that's fine. Except I think "the sun is reborn" is way too dramatic and especially for theory-brained people it might tempt them to start theorising about some kind of reincarnation narrative or something.

回帰 means "return" but in the sense of a revolving motion. Like completing a full revolution or circling around. Literally what the sun does (well from our perspective anyway) every day.

朝 is "morning", so this isn't literally the "dawn" which would be 夜明け

Conclusion: The sun will return (/circle back), and a new morning will come.

彼らはきっと会えるだろう

[OFFICIAL] And they will surely meet

[LUNA] They will surely meet again.

[OHARA] Those men will surely be able to meet again. [!]

[TCB] Surely, this time, they will meet.

[OPS] They will surely meet again.

[TS] They will meet again. (?)

I already talked about the other final lines and much of it will be applicable here too.

This time there definitely isn't an "again" here. I can't blame anyone for including it to match the earlier phrasing, but it isn't here. It's just "will meet". The "again" could be implied, though.

Conclusion: They will surely meet.

...

These posts took me like eight hours orz

And I'm pretty sure nobody will even read them... oh well, at least I got it done

#one piece 1138 #one piece harley #one piece translations #one piece analysis #one piece meta

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miscretis · 9 months ago

Text

Discord Mod!Ronin x Discord Kitten!Reader (G.n) [PART 2 OF A CRACK FIC TAKEN SERIOUSLY]

WRITER'S NOTE:

Here's the awaited part two of a crackfic taken seriously! I hope you guys enjoy!!

CW:

- Mentions of Murder

- Cringe

“Breaking news: 3 new dead bodies were found at the Purgatory, an alleyway that the known Serial Killer, The Butcher, roams in. The government has sent out a notice for all citizens to go home safely with another friend.”

Clickety clack

You spiral down the world of words through the immersive writing of your serial killer novel. However that concentration was then interrupted by a ‘ding’. You stared down at the notification from goreboy.

This is my chance. My time to shine.

I swiftly slid into his DMs.

<goreboy> rise and Shine darlin’, How's The Server?

<User> morning to you too, the server was really something to get used to (TvT)

My hands quickly retracted away from the keyboard after sending that text. I felt elation welling inside of me, soon exploding out with a big laughter.

I can't believe it, I did it!

<goreboy> that seems Good, Hope to See More Outta Ya

<goreboy> so don't Disappoint me

Oh, he seems to not care about the typing style, I need to step it up to a level.

Maybe I need my profile to be more ‘discord kitten’

At this time and moment, I'm already mentally rolling on the floor with absolute joy filling me up with giggles. I reached for the mouse, quickly changed my status to add cute emoticons, and put my profile picture with a catfishing selfie and placed a picture of Cinnamoroll as my banner. Now I'm officially a discord kitten, ready to tackle Ronin!

<User> alright!!! I won't disappoint ÙwÚ

<goreboy> alright then, i expect More than just Bark.

One month quickly passed and you were having a blast writing your novel. You managed to craft a perfect serial killer protagonist. Brash, charismatic and manipulative. It was pretty obvious who it was based on. During your past time, you would lurk around the server, occasionally replying to some texts.

You decide to slide into Ronin’s DMs.

<User> hi ronin!! OwO

<goreboy> oh look Who's Here, it's our server's Enigma.

<User> yeeeppp! It is I, the server’s enigma! ÙvÚ

<goreboy> how amusing You Are. Well, let's play a game.

You raised your eyebrow.

<User> what game?

<goreboy> You'll see

@goreboy is calling you!

You picked up the call with no hesitation. Right in front of you was a man with wine red hair, a devil beanie and piercings. He also wore a black jacket over a skull printed shirt. He looked young— but definitely not ‘teenager young’. He looked like an adult, possibly in his mid 20s.

<User> sorry my mic is broken.

Ronin’s piercing eyes stared across the screen, his smirk crept up his face, stifling a laughter.

“Oh please! To speak the truth! I know you're trying to be a discord kitten. It's honestly so amusing to see how pathetic you are.”

“As expected of the devil, you find amusement in me trying to be a discord kitten.” You scoffed as you leaned back on your chair, “So what is this?”

“We'll be playing truth or dare. Now, pick your poison and we shall see.”

“Dare.”

Ronin leaned back on his chair and starting chuckling loudly, the audio glitches a little.

“Alright darlin, I want you to tell the server that you're in love with me.”

You felt the heat rush up to your cheeks

You tried to hide it but failing to. This made Ronin chuckle again, “What is it darling? Cat got your tongue?”

You sighed as you replied, “ Alright, bet.”

You toggled off the calling screen and went to the main channel, typing in…

<User>I've danced with the devil and now I'm obsessed.

<hitmeuppp> Omg does that mean…

<Angelic> …

You went back to the call just to see Ronin’s expression twisting in absolute euphoria.

“Alright then, my turn but I'll play it in my own way. Truth or dare.”

“Heh…dare.”

“I dare you to send me nitro and make me your discord kitten.”

Ronin smirked again, “That's two in one!”

You frowned, “I said I'll play it in my own way. It's counted as one sentence. One sentence, one dare.”

“You're one feisty little kitten. Alright darling, I'll send you some nitro.” his shit setting grin still on his face.

A second later, you received nitro from goreboy. You were surprised that he even did it however it brought joy to your heart. You could finally customise your profile to the fullest extent and use emojis from any server you're in.

“Well, thanks for that I guess.”

“Okay, my turn. True or dare.”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to give me a kiss.”

“Bet, sending you air kisses.”

You pout up your lips and fanned your hand towards the screen. Now that's an air kiss. Now it was my turn, I felt a little bolder.

“I say…dare.” Ronin leads back to his chair again.

“I dare you to tell the server that you're OBSESSED with me.”

Ronin lets out another shit eating grin and after a bit, he replies, “Done and dusted.”

You check the main channel…

<goreboy> im Obsessed with @user

<Angelic> what?

<hitmeuppp> OMG ITS TRUE

Oh my gosh, their reactions are priceless.

At this point, you were thoroughly satisfied with the outcome of the game. You decide to save the rest of the fun for another day.

“Well, that wraps it up. Bye Ronin.”

“Heh, well then. Cya soon, my darlin’ kitten.”

To be continued...

#killer chat #ronin killer chat #ronin beaufort #x reader #discord server #discord chat #discord mod #discord kitten

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beautiful-illusions25 · 3 months ago

Text

illusions

He didn’t know what had happened—nor did he care.

All he knew now was that his energy had been completely drained.

He could no longer feel anything around him; the sound of the breeze had faded, and the colors vanished from his tired eyes.

All he wanted now was to surrender to sleep, even for a few minutes, beside the embodiment of that illusion gently stroking his hair.

Those cold touches were something he had longed for all these past years.

With a heavy breath, he let his eyes fall shut, and the fatigue that had clung to his soul like a second skin at last rose to the surface.

Slowly, his mind began to drift—

To the events that had led him to this very moment...

It was an ordinary day—or so it seemed on the surface.

As usual, he moved from one official meeting to another, spent hours listening to ministers’ reports, then received several nobles who arrived bearing their familiar complaints, flattering words, and the ever-persistent marriage proposals, though he had long since made a public declaration relinquishing the throne to one of his brother’s children.

Later, he devoted hours to reviewing the kingdom’s development plans—adjusting here, striking through there, adding a suggestion or rejecting another, his eyes sharp though his mind bore the heavy weight of duty.

Everything moved as it should, as if the wheel of routine turned without the slightest falter.

The sun was breathing its last on the edge of the horizon, casting golden threads across the sky like a silent farewell curtain—a quiet gesture of mourning, as if the heavens themselves grieved for him.

And then it left him behind, adrift once more with his silent companion—solitude.

It crept in through the cold corners of his room, slipped in with the last breath of day, and settled in his chest like an unseen void.

There was no noise, only the heavy silence that cloaked the room like a shroud wraps a lifeless body—just as he had wrapped his own feelings in smiles, masking them with polished lies.

The last fingers of sunlight slipped into the palace, reaching for the emperor seated amid towers of documents, his pen tracing its final signatures like a poet weaving verses on parchment.

The glow of dusk kissed his weary features, casting a quiet enchantment upon him, as if time itself had stopped—and the world, for a fleeting moment, forgot everything but that solitary, spellbound scene.

The room was quiet, broken only by the soft scratch of the pen gliding across official papers.

His hands moved fluidly over the pages, as though his fingers knew the path by heart, requiring no conscious thought—signing, stamping, reviewing reports with a precision that had long since become second nature.

Alberu was immersed in his work, absorbed in completing the weighty tasks.

And though everything was over—the wars, the White Star, the hunters, even his own personal battles—though he had achieved the dream he had fought for so long, a silent desolation still clung to his soul.

An emptiness he had once believed would vanish once he fulfilled his long-held wishes—only to be struck by the bitter truth.

There were many people around him—his aunt, cale, the children, his allies—but their presence, no matter how warm, could never truly fill the hollow carved deep within him by the passing years.

And even with all that weight he carried within him, he locked the doors around himself tightly—

As if confession were betrayal, as if asking for help were a weakness unworthy of him.

He never reached out, never raised the flag of exhaustion.

Instead, he wore a calm smile—polished, composed, a mask that betrayed nothing of what stirred beneath it.

He smiled with the finesse of someone who had learned how to deceive the world, how to wrap his wounds in glittering paper made of pleasantries and fleeting laughter.

Even when loneliness gnawed at his heart, even when the emptiness grew heavy in his chest, that smile remained—reassuring, steady, as if nothing was ever wrong.

---

But to the one who looked a little deeper, it became clear that this smile was nothing but a fragile wall—

Behind it, a small boy quietly ached.

A boy who asked for so little—

Only to be held by one of his parents,

To hear a simple “Well done”, or even “I’m proud of you”.

To feel a gentle hand ruffle his hair,

To catch a single glance of pride that could have sustained him for a lifetime.

He wasn’t asking for much—

Just begging for a little love, a touch of warmth from the ones who gave him life.

But all he asked for, he asked of the void—

And the void never answered.

His mother…

She left too soon—so soon that he forgot the details of her face, the warmth of her voice, even the scent of her embrace.

All that remained was a faded image that hurt him every time he tried to remember.

And at her funeral, he didn’t cry.

He wasn’t allowed to.

How could a prince break down before the eyes of the world?

But the truth was—he simply couldn’t.

Back then, crying wasn’t weakness... it was betrayal.

A betrayal of the little boy who believed—

It was his fault.

Yes, his fault.

That’s what he came to believe.

If only he’d been stronger, smarter—

If only he’d done something—

She wouldn’t have died.

She died because of him.

Because of his weakness.

So, when the tears welled up in his eyes, he felt like a fraud.

How dare he cry?

How dare he grieve, when he was the one who had caused it all?

And when his aunt wrapped him in her arms, whispering that it was okay to cry—

He couldn’t.

He didn’t cry.

She was close, warm, offering him what he had lost…

But he was afraid.

Afraid to let her in.

Afraid to love her the way he had loved his mother—

Because what if death took her away, too?

It had been greed—selfishness, really—wanting to keep her close despite his fear.

And yet, he couldn’t let her go.

Because she was the only one who loved him without conditions, without titles, without expectations.

She loved him as he was—

With his broken pieces, his silence, and his counterfeit smile.

He felt disgusted with himself for clinging to her.

And still—

He was willing to burn in silence,

If only... to keep from losing her.

So he held his aunt close—

With the last sparks of childhood still flickering inside him—

And silently vowed, from the depths of his small heart,

That he would never let her shed a tear because of him.

She was everything he had left.

The last of his family.

The last trace of warmth, of anything that could be called home.

He cherished her as he did his own soul—

Placed her on a pedestal unreachable by doubt,

Untouched by the fear that stained the rest of his wounded heart.

She was the only reason he kept breathing,

The reason he turned away from death when it called to him.

And yet—

In a fleeting moment,

When his eyes met hers one day,

He saw it.

Fear.

And a sorrow so deep, it could not be spoken—nor hidden.

It was etched into the silence between them like a scar.

And in that moment—

He understood.

He understood then—

She had seen him. Always.

She watched him as he wore his hollow smiles.

Heard the tremble he tried to bury by lowering his voice.

She noticed the pallor behind his pride, the emptiness that lurked beneath his crafted might.

She had seen his soul.

But what truly shattered him—

Was the belief that she had seen the monster.

The monster that lived inside him,

That whispered, over and over, “You killed her.”

The child who survived death, but never escaped guilt.

She had seen the murderer in his eyes—

The killer that still breathed beneath his skin.

And yet… she never pulled away.

She never turned her love into hatred.

She looked at him with eyes full of silent mercy,

Wishing—pleading—that he would stop blaming himself.

Wishing he could believe he was worthy of love and light.

Because he was.

And in that quiet gaze, she told him:

“I don’t see you the way you see yourself.”

In that moment, the ground beneath him cracked.

He was on the verge of collapse.

But he didn’t fall.

Because a prince does not break.

And because she… she was all he had left.

So he began to step away—

Carefully, steadily, quietly—

that no one would notice.

__________ he had always known, deep down,

That his desire for the throne was never a noble ambition, nor the royal dream everyone believed it to be.

It was a quiet hunger—

A silent yearning for a single glance from his father,

For a word of pride,

For the simplest of recognitions: “You are my son.”

He wanted the crown because he thought reaching it would make him visible—

That it would make his father turn, smile, say something… anything.

But as time passed,

With every council meeting he was never summoned to,

With every decision made while he stood behind closed doors,

With every warm laugh he heard from afar—never meant for him—

The cold truth took root:

There was no place for him in his father’s heart.

The king didn’t need him—

Barely even saw him.

As if his existence were a mere historical accident,

Important only on paper.

And with that truth, the dream began to fade.

The throne no longer gleamed in his eyes—

It became a mirror,

Reflecting only his fragility,

And how far he was willing to burn just to be loved by someone who never offered him warmth.

Everything he did...

Everything he longed for...

Had always been for a man

Who never once reached for him.

But he never admitted that to anyone.

Because—

Because princes are not meant to ask for love.

And so… he continued.

He pressed on toward the throne with steady steps, sharp eyes, and unyielding silence.

It was his way of screaming without sound—

Of saying, “I’m here… I exist.”

Every political battle he fought, every brilliant decision he made, every move that brought him closer to the crown—

Was nothing but a desperate attempt to carve his name into the memory of a man who had never truly been a father.

He never realized—

Or perhaps he refused to realize—

That with every step forward, he was straying further from himself.

Clinging to the illusion of royal affection,

Leaving behind the little boy who was never held, who never truly believed that love could come without conditions.

He won councils.

He earned the loyalty of nobles.

He inspired admiration with his resilience and cunning.

But his eyes grew emptier,

And his heart—heavier with every passing day.

He thought he was ascending.

But the truth?

He was drowning

In a delusion he had crafted with his own hands.

And he didn’t notice—

Until he no longer knew who he was without the title of “heir.”

Until he became afraid of stopping—

Because stopping meant facing the void.

The void no crown could fill.

No applause could silence.

No one suspected a thing.

No one noticed the distant look in his eyes, nor those fleeting moments when his eyelids fell as if holding back a tear that had no permission to fall.

Everyone chose to believe the lie he had so patiently woven—

That he was strong.

No one ever asked him how he truly felt.

No one saw the weight pressing on his shoulders, or the exhaustion spilling shadows across his features.

He played his role too well—

The resolute prince, unwavering, unbreakable.

_______________

They saw him as strong because he never bowed,

Brave because he never ran,

Steadfast because he never screamed.

But cale… saw.

He was the only one who saw without staring, understood without questioning, believed without needing proof.

That enigmatic, quiet young man—

So alike him in ways too deep to count—

As if wreckage recognized wreckage,

As if the rust on one heart was drawn to the rust of another.

Cale didn’t pat his shoulder or flood him with empty comforts.

He simply said, with that unwavering certainty of his:

"Your existence is valid. You were born to be king."

And for the first time…

Someone believed in him as he was.

Cale, with his recklessness, his wild defiance, his madness that flirted with chaos—

Was pure loyalty.

Uncompromised.

He gave Alberu a devotion that couldn’t be demanded,

A companionship that couldn’t be bought.

And every time Alberu thought he had figured him out,

Cale surprised him again—

With his brilliance, his insanity,

His humanity tucked away behind a mask of indifference.

And so, without meaning to,

Alberu began to rely on him.

To treasure him.

But every time death brushed close to cale—

With each reckless abuse of his power—

Alberu’s heart trembled.

Just one more loss

Would break him.

Losing his mother had taught him one brutal truth:

Everyone who gets too close… dies.

And so, in the quiet corners of his heart, he began to pull away.

Trying to protect cale from the curse of his presence.

Trying to save him—from himself.

And yet… cale, as always, returned.

Unshaken. Uninvited. Unafraid.

And there, deep within Alberu, a bitter question took root—

One that gave him no rest.

If cale knew…

If he knew the truth—

Would he hate him?

Blame him?

Leave?

In that moment, Alberu wished for nothing more than for cale to leave quietly,

If he had to leave at all.

Because he was tired.

Tired of begging life not to take more.

Tired of holding onto hope like it was a blade.

Tired… of loving someone else,

Knowing that no one survives it.

With every paper he signed, every task he completed,

He felt himself slipping further and further away from reality,

Falling deeper into delusions.

He was like a drowning man…

Clinging to a straw,

Convincing himself that it was a lifeline,

While the water rose, the sound faded,

And the cold seeped into his bones.

But he didn’t scream.

He didn’t cry for help.

Deep inside, he knew no one would save him.

So, he continued holding onto the straw…

Perhaps because sometimes,

The illusion is kinder than the truth.

With the final signature on the last document, the pen stopped between his fingers.

Albero stared at the completed page in front of him, not truly seeing it, as if the whole world had vanished, and only he remained, alone in the midst of a heavy silence.

Cold crept into the tips of his fingers, despite the warmth of the room,

And suddenly, he felt that the achievement he had once dreamed of… was crushing him in the most painful way.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find solace in the silence.

Minutes passed before he silently, tiredly, decided that he needed to walk for a while,

Away from this stillness that began to suffocate him.

He slowly rose from his seat, ignoring the scattered papers on the table,

And the pile of scattered teacups, stepping out of the room with heavy footsteps.

The palace hallways were drowned in the quiet of the evening.

Everyone had finished their work and retired to the world of dreams.

He walked aimlessly, moving through the parts of the palace, the winding corridors,

Listening to the soft echo of his steps on the cold floor.

Here, too, he was alone.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a distant corner, barely touched by footsteps,

A faint light emanating from it.

He tensed, gripped his pen, and walked towards it with careful, cautious steps,

To see that door—camouflaged in the ornate wall, as though part of the very fabric of the palace itself.

He had never remembered seeing it before, despite knowing every corner of this place in detail.

He stopped in front of it, his eyes staring at it with a cautious curiosity.

This door...

It was nowhere to be found in any of the official records or the blueprints he had memorized by heart.

It was as if it had appeared from nowhere.

He reached out and gently pushed the door.

A faint creak reached his ears as it opened, as if the door hadn't been opened in years, or perhaps never before.

The door revealed a narrow, dark corridor, filled with the scent of ancient time and forgotten dust.

Albero walked inside without hesitation, as though some unseen force was guiding him forward, farther and deeper, until he reached another door.

This door was different—engraved with ancient symbols that seemed to pulse beneath the dusted fingertips, glowing for a brief moment as his fingers brushed them.

He opened the door, and before him stretched a vast space, filled with endless waving green grass under a soft, source-less light.

It was vast in a way that defied reason, and at the center, a massive tree stood, impossibly large, emitting a faint, silver glow.

But he barely noticed the tree.

What truly caught his attention was the figure—an ethereal presence standing near the tree.

He held his breath at the sight, then began to move toward her, as the features of the woman slowly became clearer.

A woman, her hair flowing like a silken waterfall, her eyes carrying a warmth that had long been his secret yearning, and a sad smile that found its way to his soul without hesitation—a face he had always wanted to remember.

It was his mother.

Her apparition, or perhaps her spirit, or maybe just a mirage created by the place, it didn’t matter.

For all that Albero saw in that moment was his mother, as he had longed to see her for years.

He took a step, then another, his breath faltering, his lips trembling.

"Mother..." he whispered, barely audible, as though afraid that the dream would vanish if his voice rose.

The apparition smiled at him with tenderness, opening her arms as if inviting him, without words, without explanation.

Albero rushed forward, feeling the weight of an entire lifetime lift from his shoulders, and fell to his knees before her.

He couldn't touch her—his hands passed through the light—but she was there, close to him, in a way deeper than any physical contact.

Warm whispers rose in the space, like an old song his heart knew.

He felt the warmth seep into him, filling the emptiness he had long believed would never heal.

Tears fell silently down his cheeks, and he didn’t try to stop them.

For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to break, without fear, without pride.

He cried as he had never cried before, overwhelmed by sorrow.

Soft whispers reached him — not words, but ancient melodies that spirits hum when they return to visit their loved ones.

He closed his eyes and surrendered to that illusory embrace, to the warmth that seeped into his heart, heavy with loneliness.

He felt as though something inside him, something fragile, had finally healed... if only for a moment.

In that instant, nothing else mattered anymore.

Notes:

I wrote this story because I wanted to vent my feelings

I recently discovered this app. The study seems to have taken me away. 🫠

This is my first experience here. I originally posted it on ao3

(A Beautiful Illusion)

#alberu crossman #lcf #tcf #tcf cale #sad thoughts #illusion

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mariiilume · 2 months ago

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# __RESTART LMK__

** **

**Welcome to the official server for the Restart!Lmk Au!! This server centers around roleplay, but feel free to just pop in and spectate! The roleplay is used to help plan for the making of the comic surrounding this Au! Main character role players will have SIGNIFICANT effect on how the story will go in the comic!**

•

*When Nuwa collects Mk for his sacrifice, he ultimately rebels, refusing to see his friends destroyed and ‘reset’ as new beings. They are all fighters, he won’t loose them like this. But in his efforts to use the color stones to save his world, he’s only able to successfully steal one: The green stone (Meis stone). Nuwa is forced to recreate the new cycle without the green stone, creating a broken and unstable cycle, a cycle where Mk was never ‘born’. Mk is imprisoned in an in between limbo of the past cycle and the new cycle while his friends live their life without knowledge of him ever existing. Except for one particular green stone dragon girl… Mei. Mei has been having visions or memories of a strange boy she’s never met since she was young, they’ve only gotten worse in recent years as she watches her world fall victim to chaos and corruption. With Mks family all split off, and the world fallen into corruption with Mei being his only connection to the real world, Mks fears of his past mistakes begin to catch up to him.*

•

**COME TAKE A LOOK!**

⇨ An immersive roleplay filled with lore and story line you can help develop!!

⇨ Updates on the comic and lore!

⇨ Canon AND oc character slots!

⇨ An Lgbtq+, neurodivergent, and system Friendly zone!

⇨ Fun reaction roles!

⇨ A place to share your art and Writing!

⇨ A fun talk, vibe and chat area to enjoy yourself and meet new people!

#mars bars art #lmk #lmk mei #lego monkie kid #lego monkie kid au #Lmk au

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autistichalsin · 10 months ago

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My chapter-by chapter analysis of The Hunger Games, chapter 1

Disclaimer: this and all future chapter analyses will contain spoilers for all the books.

What really strikes me about this chapter is what a masterpiece it is; a masterpiece of foreshadowing, establishing moments of characterization, worldbuilding and more, all without ever feeling like we're actually getting infodumped on. This is accomplished with Katniss's stream-of-consciousness storytelling. I've heard it criticized so much, but even aside from the very salient point that it fits her characterization as an emotionally stunted, traumatized, poorly-educated teenage girl, it still helps the story in moments like this. We feel Katniss's inner chaos, and it makes the story that much more immersive.

On to the spoilery part of the analysis:

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

There was a post, a while ago, that I can't find but wish I could. In it, the OP talks about how Prim is literally doomed by the narrative, not "heavily foreshadowed death," but literally doomed by the narrative, and this paragraph is the first sign, because Katniss reaches for Prim and feels emptiness instead. And re-reading this, I agree. The first thing we see Katniss do is reach for Prim, and find nothing. This time, it's temporary, but by the end of the series, it won't be. We've been warned, even if we don't realize it yet: Prim is doomed.

Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Katniss loves her sister and will do literally anything for her. Katniss also has no moral qualms about drowning kittens. With just one paragraph, we learn what a simultaneously harshly practical yet beautifully caring, loving person Katniss is. She has no room in her life for useless things like pets, and drowning strays probably helps the people of 12 in the long run by leaving vermin to be eaten by those on the verge of starvation. But her sister wants to keep Buttercup, and so she will. Katniss will sacrifice anything to keep Prim happy.

Foreshadowing. Prim is doomed.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

STILL more foreshadowing, for different themes: both for one of Katniss's biggest complexes (I'll get into details about this later) and for the theme of love. Katniss doesn't truly love anyone but Prim. Her entire world, we know, is going to be shaken when she does finally feel that for someone else again. Once again, we are being introduced to the recurring themes of love vs practicality and the classic question, "how much pain is love worth?"

Katniss is going to answer this question again and again: for Prim, there is no amount of suffering too great. For others... she'll find different answers. Eventually.

My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

The first hints of Katniss as a deeply traumatized girl emerge. Sometimes, when you're traumatized enough, thoughts can segue into The Event with no warning, just by proximity. And through the combination of blunted language and stream-of-consciousness leaps, we can see just how broken this has left Katniss. Unfortunately, this is only the start of Events for her.

My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they’re among our best customers.

A brilliant bit of worldbuilding. The Peacekeepers are working off of deeply corrupt laws, which they ignore because they too are being mistreated and systematically starved, even if they aren't as at risk as the people of 12. The system doesn't care about the very same people it safeguards to enforce its rules. This is the first hint we get that the system isn't sustainable, and it comes before we even fully understand what kind of hell this government is.

The theme of "bread and circuses" is going to be hammered down to us again and again that this is how tyrannical governments, including this one, pacify the masses. But when only the bourgeoisie are being given the bread and circuses, well.... the proletariat aren't going to take it forever.

The book hasn't shown itself to be the anti-capitalist masterpiece it is yet, but this is the first hint that we're reading a tale of class warfare.

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

I have seen criticisms that this is an egregious case of showing and not telling, with Katniss constantly talking about the dangers of badmouthing the government while never facing them. But in truth, it's the opposite. Yes, Katniss hasn't been caught despite repeated statements that she could have, but we'll learn, here and in future chapters, that 12 has been receiving a sort of tradeoff with other districts; their more severe poverty places them below notice. No one thinks them capable of causing real trouble, and even their district specialty- coal- is later proven to be basically useless, busy-work. So they get ignored... for now. Until the oligarchs start seeing what the proletariat can actually do and crack down all the harder to ensure they keep their cheap labor.

Are you seeing the resonance with the real world yet?

Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

Here we see the dual themes of parentification and sacrifice. Katniss will be the adult, even though she ISN'T an adult, for her sister. She will keep quiet on things that hurt her, and upset her, to set a better example for her sister and keep her from getting hurt. Prim gets to have the normal and safe childhood Katniss never had, because Katniss has invested everything into ensuring she does.

We are taking a step up the ladder of self-sacrificial acts, here. In other words: more foreshadowing. Katniss will give everything for Prim. Prim is going to die, because Katniss is going to lose everything she cared about in the process of protecting everything she cared about.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Katniss can't be a teenage girl. She has to be Prim's mom. She has to be tough. She has to be a provider. She has to be a trader. An advocate. She so rarely complains about it, too. But it shows here just how much she's given up. Only one place, and one person she can be herself with, and yet...

Gale.

Isn't this ironic. Because we are about to see, throughout the entire series, that this day is going to be the last time Gale actually lets Katniss be herself (and even here, there are strong hints that Gale wants Katniss to be something very different).*

*Disclaimer, because it seems important: my opinion on the Katniss/Gale vs Katniss/Peeta ship war is "team nobody." I think both of them were very bad for her in different ways. Any comment I make that seems like it is favoring one ship or the other... isn't.

“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me.

Maybe I'm overanalyzing, but I feel like this sums up the Katniss/Gale relationship so much. Katniss tries to speak, and Gale doesn't hear or understand her. Gale projects something onto her, and Katniss rolls with it. Sure, in this case it's a cute nickname, but it represents so much more to me.

Gale doesn't understand Katniss. Fundamentally. He understands the Katniss he wants to exist. The one who will run off with him and play house in the woods and indulge his little fantasies. He doesn't know very much about the real Katniss, at least as long as he's looking at her through a romantic lens.

“Look what I shot.” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh.

Despite what I just said, I do love Gale and Katniss's friendship, and it breaks my heart that their friendship was as doomed as Prim. (Hint. Hint.) Katniss needed someone who understood the unique pain of parentification due not to abuse, but poverty- the kind where you aren't 'allowed' to feel angry at anyone within reach. Which is the worst kind of injustice. Getting mad at someone who harmed you is one thing, but getting mad at a system you can never (... yet) hope to change is different.

She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam.

It's said in a casual and sort of admiring way here. But Katniss is going to learn firsthand about the intersection between love and sacrifice. With the generational mirroring as a theme, especially between Katniss and Peeta, we're being given more foreshadowing that Katniss has self-sacrifice "in the blood."

I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.

Another little glimpse into Katniss's pain and trauma. Her mom wasn't there when Katniss needed her most, and Katniss and Prim both almost died as a result. It wasn't her fault, and we see later that she regrets it deeply, but this still leaves scars. Your parents, above everyone else, are supposed to protect you. Katniss's mom didn't, Katniss nearly died, and because of that, Katniss had to sacrifice what remained of her childhood to become Prim's mom.

Katniss and Prim's relationship never goes back to just normal sisterhood after this. From the moment Mrs. Everdeen's trauma rendered her catatonic onwards, Katniss and Prim's relationship was infused with a mother-child dynamic that never left, not even when Mrs. Everdeen became well again.

It's so painful, all the more so because it's so real. I lived this with my little brother, albeit with stakes maybe 1% this high, when my mom became an alcoholic and my dad was too busy just trying to survive to really do anything. I was the one to take care of him emotionally, to show someone cared, to provoke my mom's anger so he wouldn't be hit, to make sure homework got done and he didn't skip school (I failed. Badly.) He still considers me more his parent than either of our parents. It never really goes away, even when you're both adults; that overdeveloped feeling of responsibility stays with you. Always.

And the worst part of it is when the parent who made you have to do this decides, on their own, that the time is right for them to come back. Katniss's mom is far more gracious about it than my own. She at least understood Katniss's pain, and didn't try to force the role on her; it happened only when Katniss was ready. But that too, as we'll see in a minute, was painfully real for me.

“I never want to have kids,” I say. “I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale. “But you do,” I say, irritated. “Forget it,” he snaps back. The conversation feels all wrong.

Once again, a hint that despite their sweet friendship and similarities, these are two tragically, fundamentally incompatible people. Katniss is in too much pain to think of ever having a family, and Gale is in too much pain to think of not ever having one. Katniss wants to survive the way she always has (which she doesn't realize isn't her destiny yet) and Gale wants to flee and survive literally any other way.

Both change in the end, but the underlying incompatibilities in their life approaches are still there.

And even if we did . . . even if we did . . . where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s never been anything romantic between Gale and me. [...] Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

A few very interesting things are happening here. One, we're getting another hint, first dropped during Katniss's thoughts about Buttercup, that Katniss has a pathological inability to believe others actually like her- romantically or otherwise. Part of it is low self-esteem, part of it is putting Prim on such a pedestal that Katniss feels she can never live up (and giving her more self-esteem issues) and feeling like anything she attributes to herself might take away from Prim, and part of it is just raw cynicism. And maybe a dash or two of the feeling of permanent othering trauma gives you. Especially when that trauma involves a realization that you're never going to be able to rely on others to meet your own needs. You're responsible for your needs and your loved ones' too.

(Katniss is one of the most complex and real characters of all time. I relate to Katniss an uncomfortable amount sometimes.)

The other interesting thing is that you're getting a sense, for the first time, of how much trouble Katniss has recognizing and processing her own emotions- a very common trait in neurodivergent people. She can sort-of-understand a feeling of jealousy, but can't quite put her finger on the reason, and fitting with her attitude of relentless practicality, she decides that it's the worry of losing a useful hunting partner. Because, after all, Prim is the only person she loves, she can't care for anyone else, there isn't room for that. To care about anyone else would be to "take away" something from Prim.

Katniss repeatedly raises the question of when self-sacrifice crosses the line into self-harm by proxy. When altruistic love becomes self-negation instead. It's sweet that she loves Prim so much, but the codependence... If this is the benchmark for love for Katniss, it's no wonder that she feels at this point that she can't feel it for anyone else. This isn't sustainable.

(Prim is doomed. We've been warned.)

I found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

This is going to be a recurring theme; Katniss is too impulsive and lacking a sufficient cause-effect pathway to be a planner/strategist. Gale makes the plans now; later it'll be Peeta and Haymitch.

(Also, this is foreshadowing Katniss's lack of agency. She is about to become an audience member in her own life story. She found the strawberries, but she didn't decide what to do about them. Gale did. That's about to become her entire life.)

No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

There is a hierarchy still, where the Peacekeepers are starving, but not as starving as the people in the communities they're sent to. Everyone is hungry, but some are hungrier than others.

Hint. Hint.

“That’s not her fault,” I say. “No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

"Remember who the real enemy is." Katniss gets told this repeatedly, by Haymitch and others, and eventually she learns the lesson in time to lead a successful revoltuion.

Gale does not learn this lesson. He will end up destroying everything he cares about in his pursuit of revenge against the Capitol and anyone associated with it.

Gale would normally say that there is a huge difference between Madge, the mayor's daughter who is pampered and comparatively privileged, versus the willfully malicious Peacekeepers; the middle class are still part of the proletariat, after all. But Gale, in his pain and fear, loses sight of it and lashes out. This time, it's just words. By the end of the series, when he gets actual power, it will lead to something far more catastrophic.

Prim is doomed to die, Gale and Katniss's friendship is doomed to end in the most bitter way possible, and Gale is doomed to be his own worst enemy.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. “It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,” he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I’m sure she thought was a harmless comment.

Gale knows he's wrong to say things like that. But again, as said above, his pain and fear get the better of him, and cause pain to those around him. His normal philosophy is correct, but he loses sight of and discards it far too easily.

(Gale is going to lose everything because of his scorched-earth approach to anger.)

Also, a note: this is how the real world operates too. Culture wars to distract from class war. For an entire generation of readers, this was their introduction to the basic principles of socialism.

But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make things fair. It doesn’t fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Katniss is still hung up on practicality. When she rants about the Capitol, she is, subconsciously, crying for help. But venting for the sake of venting doesn't make so much sense to her, given her stunted emotions.

Another bit of characterization I really enjoy here is the realistic teenage behavior. Yes, they're the oldest in their families, responsible for their entire family and only able to support them by hunting, and they should "know better". But they're teenagers in a fascist government, with an already extreme list of traumas and corresponding problems with emotions. Of course they're going to act irrationally at times and scare off game because they're having a meltdown- even non-traumatized teens would do that sometimes!

They're teenagers. Incredibly well-written, realistic teenagers. They don't have fully developed frontal lobes with the corresponding gifts of planning, impulse control, cause-effect relationships, and other things yet. They're more mature than most, but they're still going to behave foolishly sometimes.

Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins.

This is probably a "the curtains are blue because they're blue!" moment, but this is another bit of symbolism I enjoy. Katniss, at Prim's age, was hunting and entering the Hob. Prim is being kept alive by both Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen. She has a dress that mostly fits. She has good meals now. She is protected where Katniss wasn't. The dress represents both the sacrifices Katniss made for her and the fact that now, Prim has the adoring mother Katniss didn't have. She has two loving people looking out for her, willing to do anything to keep her safe, healthy, and happy.

(Prim is doomed.)

To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes. “Are you sure?” I ask.

Katniss can't comprehend her mom doing motherly things for her. Both because of the parentification, and because Katniss still fundamentally can't believe that anyone, even her own mother, actually cares for her enough to want to do anything for her. Not after four years of Katniss carrying the entire family on her back. It's incompatible with the world she's lived in for the last four years.

Katniss is painfully relatable.

I’m trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me.

Painfully. Relatable.

What Katniss is feeling in this scene, I don't think I can describe to anyone who hasn't been there. It's relief-bitterness-anger-hope-longing-mistrust.

"Oh great, look who's finally here to help now that things are okay again and I figured everything out on my own! I want you back. I want a parent back. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't stop it. I can't trust you not to make me do it again. I'd better keep doing it so I don't get my hopes up. How do I even live without doing this? How do I live as a person and not a caretaking robot for my family? Am I allowed to do that? What kind of selfish person would I be if I did, especially now that I've seen what will happen if you fail again? No, I'm not letting you do this. I'll let you pretend to the little one because they need a parent figure and they deserve to feel normal, but me? Hell no, do you think I'm stupid? I am taking care of myself, I already learned what it costs to trust other people to see to my needs and that is not a price I'll pay a second time, thankyouverymuch. Yeah, mom I love you. I'm glad you're okay now. And thanks for doing this for me, I guess."

It goes something like that.

But I digress.

In just this paragraph Katniss expresses so much of the pain of parentification, so succinctly yet vividly that it makes my chest hurt.

I just really, really love Katniss, okay?

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice. “And nothing like myself,” I say.

Ow. Just... ow. She says it so matter-of-factly. Like she's just accepted it into her worldview; Prim, the embodiment of everything good in the world, is beautiful. Katniss, the leftover, the thing that exists just to take care of Prim, is ugly. That simple.

I wish we could have seen Prim respond here; surely she doesn't like anyone, even her sister herself, talking about Katniss this way? Or maybe Prim is so used to these kinds of casual self-put-downs that she's stopped trying to talk Katniss out of it.

Again: painfully relatable.

I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.

Once more: Painfully. Relatable. You put so much into protecting 'your kiddo'. And then something comes along and reminds you that you're even more powerless than the useless adults in your life. It hurts. It feels like you failed. It's one thing for you to get hurt, you already know how to deal with it, but them?

Ugh. Dystopian fiction isn't usually where my inner abused and parentified child gets validated, but this series unlocked some things in my neural pathways.

Thank you, Suzanne Collins, for Katniss. I feel so seen in so many ways through her and her story.

Sorry. I know this is supposed to be an analysis, not a love letter, but damn if Katniss doesn't play my heartstrings like a fiddle.

“Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say, smoothing the blouse back in place. Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.” “Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only Prim can draw out of me.

Sorry, I am going to try to not repeat myself so much, but once again it just... Prim gets to be a child, because of Katniss. She gets to be a normal-ish 12 year old who makes silly animal noises and can't tuck her dress in. Katniss was fighting for her life and trying to find food. And of course it's not Prim's fault- I love Prim. But there's something just so painful about this contrast. Katniss had her childhood stolen from her, first by the tyrannical government she lived in, then her father's death, then her mother's mental illness, and finally the needs of a child she never should have been responsible for.

It's no wonder Katniss spends so much of the series in that emotional state abused, neglected, and traumatized children know all too well. You're simultaneously precocious and childish. Too grown-up one minute and acting like a child the next. Katniss never got to experience linear growth, and her psychology sure as hell shows it.

Painfully. Relatable.

Also, yet again: Prim. Is. Doomed. She's the most important thing in Katniss's life, the rationale for every decision Katniss makes, the reason she gets out of bed in the morning. The one person who makes Katniss's life worth living. Precious, sweet Prim, who retains her innocence and kindness in a world that aggressively stomps out both, is doomed by the narrative in every possible way.

Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker. The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. [...] I stare at the paper slips in the girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

When you're a child, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your parents, because your life experience just hasn't shaped yet to show you that it's even possible. You don't understand that it can happen.

When you're an adult, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your child, because your life experience has shaped to show you exactly how it's possible. You know exactly how it can happen, so you can't believe that it can actually happen.

Katniss is at a stage of her life that would already be transitional in normal circumstances, where she'd start contemplating mortality- but she's already dealt with it for years.

Her own death doesn't scare her anymore. Her sister's scares her so much that she doesn't even think it's a possibility. After all, everything she's done for the last four years of her life has been for Prim. To keep her alive and give her the childhood Katniss lost suddenly and traumatically.

Prim is doomed.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.

We got hints of apathy and cruelty before, but now the curtain is, for the first time, being peeled back. This isn't a system built on simple oppression. It's a system built on raw sadism.

It's another sign that Panem isn't sustainable. People can endure a lot of cruelty when their loved ones are hostages, but there are limits. When those limits get pushed (hint), something will have to give.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others.

Bread and circuses. The poor give labor (food) and entertainment, and the rich receive them. The rich live sequestered lives full of privilege, yet ultimately just as much under the thumb as the tyrant as anyone else. But still supporting the system because they lack the empathy to want change when they benefit from the status quo more than they would from a new system, so they think. They are simultaneously disgusting and pitiful.

Like the comfortably wealthy Trump-supporting boomers we all know and loathe.

The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.

Our very first, incredibly subtle hint, that winning the games might be even worse than losing them. The first time reading, of course, you'll take this at face value. Later, though, you'll think of this and realize it was all only mockery and isolationism, a way of guaranteeing that the victors would be scapegoated by their District, ensuring they would never find companionship again even if their trauma didn't prevent it. And they can't complain, because, after all, they now have a life of comfort.

So many things are intersecting here; class warfare (Victors being an allegory for "temporarily embarrassed millionaires" and the American Dream) and the isolation of trauma and mental illness and more.

But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. “But there are still thousands of slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.

Katniss so rarely worries about herself, only those she cares for. Again; her own mortality is okay to her. It's those she protects she can't let this happen to. But since she can't even bear to face the possibility of Prim being chosen (Prim is doomed) yet, she focuses her feelings on Gale, not only worrying that he'll be picked, but worrying that he will be upset that she might be. She only spares thoughts for herself for a few brief seconds, in the next paragraph.

Katniss gets accused of being selfish so many times, but it's notable that those moments only happen once she volunteers to go into the arena, once her survival depends on a bit of selfishness. Before then, she's one of the least selfish people in the entire series, and I'd argue that even at her worst she doesn't count as truly selfish. She's a teenager trying to survive and return home to her family, not a toddler who won't share toys.

I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.

But, of course, even when you are theoretically okay with dying, being faced with the actual thing will still inspire terror. So for just a moment, Katniss lets herself lapse into worry about herself.

For just a moment, she thinks about herself- and just that fast, Prim is placed in danger.

(This is how Prim will die too, by the way; being put in danger the one time Katniss is focused on something other than her. Prim is doomed.)

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me. It’s Primrose Everdeen.

The unthinkable has happened, and Katniss's life has been changed forever.

And even though she can save Prim this time, it's only temporary.

Prim is doomed. Nothing in the world can prevent it now. Prim would die in the arena, but by going instead, Katniss has put herself in a position where any and all actions she does will spark a revolution that gives her a Pyrrhic victory.

There is no version of events where Prim lives.

Prim is doomed.

#katniss everdeen #thg #the hunger games #hunger games #primrose everdeen

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smixhino · 5 months ago

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Sonic The Hedgehog 3: A Perfect Blend of Mediums (Sonic 3 Review)

Released on December 20th, 2024, and officially the 21st in the UK, the third in a series of well-known blockbusters by Paramount Pictures, ‘Sonic The Hedgehog 3’ continues the trend of these films becoming more like the games they are inspired by, breaking away from the trends of typical kids movies to deliver a quality experience for both general audiences and fans of the source material alike.

An all-star cast was brought in for this, including Jim Carrey in a double feature, James Marsden, Tika Sumpter, Idris Elba, Keanu Reeves, and more to deliver the story with engaging performances. Speaking of, the film features Team Sonic on yet another adventure to stop a new threat, a mysterious hedgehog named Shadow. Along the way, Robotnik’s long lost grandfather Gerald joins Shadow and his grandson together, creating higher tension for the heroes on a quest with higher scales than ever before.

It’s incredibly clear that director Jeff Fowler and several others on the team are very big fans of the source material and want to create something truly special out of it. First off, the CGI is absolutely incredible, and a remarkable step up from the first two movies. In basically every scene, the characters look completely natural and don’t clash thanks to the textures and lighting, making them feel like a completely normal part of the world, meaning that your immersion won’t be broken at all. Because of this, you manage to feel every scene involving them, whether it be the fast-paced action or strong emotional moments, truly leaving a profound impact. The mise-en-scene as a whole is incredible, with settings like the G.U.N HQ, Eclipse Cannon, or just straight up space, all looking incredibly natural and well-done, to where you’re in constant awe at what you’re looking at. Everyone also looks incredibly dressed and fitting for whatever scene they’re in, further enhancing the tones of the scenes, especially comedy in the case of the Robotniks.

Special mention can also go to the cinematographers and choreography team in this film, because they pulled out all the stops for this one. The action in this movie is absolutely insane, with every moment involving it being incredibly dynamic with so many camera angles and tracking shots that make the movie such an exciting watch. One scene in particular makes great use of those tracking shots that help keep the immersion going and the blood pumping. The way the characters are framed also helps with this, helping them be intimidating and hilarious when the time calls for it. Shadow especially gets this treatment, with every scene involving him feeling like an event with the way he’s framed. It’s all truly impressive work, and much like the CGI, a massive step up from the first two films, which, while good, cannot compare to how amazing the action was here. It’s honestly night and day, as Sonic 3 is so much more articulated and expressive with it’s action that it honestly makes the first two look a bit pathetic in comparison.

The humour is where a few of my problems come about, though. This is obviously subjective, due to humour itself being such, but for me personally, some of the jokes didn’t land. Some were definitely really funny, don’t get me wrong. I especially loved ‘Revenge Guac’, but some others didn’t land for me unfortunately. The main problem is that some just last too long, to the point where I do wish they would get to the next scene to advance the plot, but they just drag on. They also can interrupt some very pivotal and exciting moments that make you wish they would cut back to the moments that get you hyped. One moment especially took me out of it and if I could swap back to the exciting action and skip the comedy, I would do it in a heartbeat. But, as I said before, many of the jokes do land for me, and I imagine many others, so overall I would say the comedy of this film is one of it’s positives, and even if the joke itself isn’t funny, a member of the cast may still deliver it well, or the comedic timing of it makes up for a lame punchline. I would still consider this movie pretty intentionally funny at times.

Speaking of the cast, they absolutely brought their a-games for this. Jim Carrey is at his absolute best here as both Ivo and Gerald Robotnik. He of course portrays the zaniness and tomfoolery he and one of his characters is known for very well, always managing to be humorous and cartoony. He does, however, manage to convey some serious moments surprisingly well, showing the range he has and why he’s a great actor. Speaking of great actors, Keanu Reeves absolutely killed it as Shadow, which makes sense given his roles like John Wick. He manages to convey Shadow’s pained and sullen emotions perfectly, making his character clear and entertaining to the audience. Shadow’s character was incredible in this, which I will get to later, but Reeves’ performance elevates it. Elba as Knuckles and Colleen O’Shaughnessey as Tails were both great, much like in Sonic 2 and the Knuckles TV show, with their lines all being delivered greatly for the scenes and elevating their tough but funny and heartwarming respective characters greatly. The same can be said for James Marsden, Tika Sumpter, Krysten Ritter, Natasha Rothwell, Shemar Moore, Lee Majdoub and Adam Pally as the human characters, all being fairly important for the first few and helping deliver the emotions of the scene really well, such as the heartwarming family moments, and one scene especially manages to convey the sadness and tension without the need for dialogue thanks to Tika. But special mention has to go to Ben Schwartz as Sonic, who is the best he’s ever been. He manages to show Sonic in a way unlike the previous films, and delivers a surprisingly wide range for his voice that shows off how great of a voice actor he is, showing cockiness, sadness, and even rage unlike anything before. It’s all incredible work from everyone in the cast.

I think it’s about time I talked about the plot now, huh. It’s easily the most intense Sonic movie, with stakes unlike anything the previous films had. Where those ones just dealt with stopping an evil guy, this one does still have that, but on a global scale. By ramping it up like this, it draws audiences in and makes them wonder what will happen. Once again, Shadow stole the show, as despite his surprisingly little screentime, he managed to push the plot along greatly, feeling like a threat and keeping the story engaging thanks to his influence. Everyone else is great too, with it feeling like every character that was involved having a significant part to play. This is a big step up from the previous film, where it felt like some characters, mainly Tails, didn’t get to do anything too important. Here, everyone gets involved and it’s really nice to see. One problem I do have with the film’s plot, however, is the way it’s paced. Especially in the first act of the movie, it feels like some of the scenes go by really fast and don’t have that much time to sink in or leave much of an impact. As such, it does leave a feeling of whiplash going from one scene to the next before it truly sunk in. There is also the problem of some scenes feeling like they’re missing. What I mean is that it feels as if there was a scene cut from a point before a pivotal moment that could better justify said moment, such as with Gerald’s character and what happens with him. If these were in place, and this film had a longer runtime, this could likely have been alleviated. Regardless, these problems don’t drag the movie down all too much, especially by the final act. This film’s third act is basically perfect, from the amazing and dynamic action, the incredible performances, the high stakes, and the insane looking setpieces and characters, it all combines together for an absolutely breathtaking conclusion.

But now for why I titled this the way I did; why Sonic 3 is a perfect blending of mediums. I have been a Sonic fan ever since I was five years old, and I have been incredibly satisfied with the previous two films to see the characters I love so much on the big screen. That does come with the problem, however, of these not really feeling like video game movies, and more like movies that involve video games. The first one especially feels like a rather generic buddy-cop movie but with Sonic, and the second film does also fall into that trap, despite being a big step in the right direction. But, Sonic 3 was honestly perfect. It adapted so many elements from the games to make an engaging story for both Sonic fans and general audiences. Sonic Adventure 2, especially, was heavily drawn from for adaption, and since that’s my favourite Sonic game, how could I complain? Most of it is based around that, from Shadow’s character arc and overcoming his trauma, to Gerald trying to destroy the world, to journeys across said world. I will admit, Gerald is a very heavy departure from how he is in the games, and it may alienate people who get into the series from the movies, so I do wish he was handled a bit differently to better ease people into the franchise. Sonic himself is also victim of this, what with him being a static character who inspires others in the games, but here he does have a character arc of becoming part of a team, but I honestly don’t mind it. Regardless, this feels like a film that isn’t afraid of being a video game, but still knows that it’s a film first and foremost. One example of an opposite problem to the first two films is 2023’s Mario movie, which I did really like, but it was lacking in terms of story and overall value beyond it being an adaptation of a series I like. Sonic 3, in my opinion, strikes a perfect balance, being able to entertain general audiences but also feel like a movie for Sonic fans above all else. This can be felt through all the references to the source material, from iconography to setpieces. It feels like a Sonic movie, and not just a general audiences movie.

That is also why I have neglected to mention the film’s soundtrack. The first two films were fairly lacking in terms of being adaptations of a series known for iconic music, being rather generic action and family music throughout. As you can guess, Sonic 3 picks up the slack. Not perfectly, mind you. There is still plenty of basic rock and orchestra throughout, and there is still a way to go before something like, again, the Mario movie, which had sound cues all throughout, but it’s a big step up. Many leitmotifs from the games are lifted, like level clears, level themes, and main themes from the games themselves. Sonic Adventure 2 and it’s main theme, ‘Live and Learn’ absolutely got this treatment the most, however, and I could not be happier, as it elevates the scenes (especially one in particular) to be absolutely amazing.

Overall, while certainly not a perfect movie in regards to it’s pacing and some of it’s writing, Sonic The Hedgehog 3 has certainly proved that video games can make compelling stories. With generally great writing, outstanding performances, superb music work, breathtaking cinematography and action, and so many references that make it proud to be a Sonic movie, I can say with no hesitation that this is not only a great movie, but an incredible Sonic movie, and in my opinion, the best video game movie yet.

Objectively, this movie is more than likely a 7 or an 8 out of 10, but my love for this franchise, as well as how well things were executed were so great in my opinion, it made for one of my favourite movies of all time, so I will be giving Sonic The Hedgehog 3, a 10 out of 10.

The movies aren’t done either, with Sonic 4 already being confirmed and set for a release on March 19th 2027. This, combined with the amazing game that was Sonic X Shadow Generations releasing on October 25th last year to great reviews and fanfare, means that Sonic has been doing better than ever, and I for one, can’t wait to see where it goes from here.

#sonic movie 3 #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #miles tails prower #knuckles the echidna #sonic adventure 2

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