#it’s awful and it’s horrendous and they are ALIVE

[novelconcepts]

Saw a couple of people take to the “Other Tai isn’t evil; she’s hungry” post with “but she’s DOING evil, don’t forget that” and—yes! Yes, that’s the show! The things done in the name of survival are often reprehensible. Deeply, deeply awful. There is no morality in the pure drive to survive. There wasn’t in the woods. There wasn’t when it colored how they behaved even in times of plenty out there. Once that door is open, it is open. The actions are vicious, cruel, sometimes unforgivable. That’s why we’re here. That’s why these women are so very not okay. They have done things they can’t live with if they think on it. It’s why Taissa represses. It’s why Other Tai very much doesn’t operate on the “think it through” level. She is id. She is need. Need isn’t evil, but the things done in its name certainly can be.

[valentineveils]

instagram is such a rancid app at this point in time . its horrendous on there

[tohakumaru]

[project page]

>walk away, go with the nomad. i love you.

since you cannot cry, you make an effort to push the stale air out of your lungs, a poor imitation of a sigh - i guess bad habits really die hard. if the nomad has noticed, then it pays you no mind and simply carries on. casting one last lingering glance at the water and the sky above, you dutifully follow. after a short while, it becomes clear that something has changed. the nomad has picked up its pace, moving in erratic strides. here and there, you find it dashing across the sand, beak and head angled upwards, as though searching, or following an invisible thread in the air, one that you can feel, but cannot quite grasp, like a long forgotten name - always on the tip of your tongue, yet never to be spoken aloud. at times, you struggle to keep up. it's so hard, you're so tired, it's too much. your eyes burn with fatigue. you want to scream, to beg the bird-thing to slow down, but the words evade you everytime you open your mouth, and the nomad does not so much as look at you. a hot and bitter pressure builds behind your nose and muffles your ears. once again you feel yourself falling apart - but the blanket wrapped around your frame and the water sloshing in your hollow stomach seem to work against your body's trajectory to disintegrate, two forces swirling inside and all around you, like a wicked pendulum that propels you forward despite, despite.

i won't let you go, should have known that from the start.

---

tenderly her eyes made their pilgrimage across the mounds of glass and steel, mourning perhaps hunger is a cure for insanity, shut-you-up-real-nice knowing full well being alive is a horrendously beautiful thing while the dogs, blood stained snouts dig out the madness, turn it into a five course meal heaving, a still-beating heart melts like butter on their lips as poorly clipped nails fumbled and fussed,

just enough to make a day-ride.

---

in this fashion, you and the nomad dance across the white sand for some time, until a hillside comes into view. upon closer inspection, you are awed to realise it is made entirely of roots. at the foot of this strange hill, a grove - an incredible indent in that tangled mass that is the tree-hill - opens up and presents an even more curious sight: 12 creatures, each bearing the likeness of a bird, but is clearly not one. they stand stock-still and solemn, with multitudes of dried flowers and glittering gemstones at their feet. their faces, elongated and coming to pointy, beak-like ends, are not dissimilar to the nomad, but much more haggard; and so immobile, it is easy to mistake them for statues, has there not been the occassional puffs of dusty smoke and shrill noises, like a kettle boiling over, coming from their beaks and throats that betray any hints of liveliness about them.

the nomad slows its steps, and looks down. it keeps its eyes to the ground as you get nearer to the grove. it occurs to you that it is avoiding the living-statues' gaze. surprisingly, they reciprocrate the gesture. Ever so slightly each of them turn their head, so their eyes fall off the nomad, and onto … you. you, who does not belong you, who comes on a leash, believing it to be choice you, who dies, and nothing changes

to your bewilderment, the statues came to life, all at once. they grovel at the flowers and gems, and toss them in handfuls at you as the nomad leads you through the grove, leaving a trail of petals and stones. when you pass the 12th statue and come to the end of the opening, everything suddenly shifts: slowly, mechanically, the roots shape themselves into a winding stairway, leading you up the hill.

calmly, the nomad signals you to go up.

what do you do?

[previous chapter]

[curlyfriesgalore]

curly can't sing.

as the title says, it's a headcanon i randomly had when playing my mouthwashing sims 4 household (lol), where swansea and curly went karaoke-ing at 'waterside warble' in san myshuno. curly sang horrendously since he just gained the skill. though, it made me think, how funny would it be if curly genuinely couldn't sing for shit?

it's the one thing jimmy has leverage over (he's no better, really), and curly is painfully aware of his tone-deafness, so he never reveals it unless it's for a special occasion... with an extra special someone there to watch him perform (miserably).

that being said, daisuke suggested the crew do something fun to celebrate the completion of their shipment, so why not do some karaoke?

★ a sfw one-shot broken down into bullets with chat-format segments for dialogue. fair warning, there are a few suggestive moments, but the implications aren't overt. [2,817 words]

☆ gen tags: set in 2005. gn! reader who is a doctor and a great singer. none of the game's events happen, so they're just a bunch of folks doing regular space deliveries, but jimmy is still an unpleasant ass that gets on the reader's nerves. reader and curly are crushing on each other (they're on the brink of knowing it's reciprocal). manfailure curly but he's trying his best... whatever that best is (lmfao, accurate to canon 😭). curly -> grant (name switch at some point in the fic). there's one moment where curly and reader share a glass, so just letting you know in case you're not a fan of that :)

[i'm still on break, but i wanted to write something more concise and improvised in under a day! and i won't lie, i find fics including everyone to be so fun to write. i really love testing out my characterizations of the crew and have them interact in relaxed scenarios. art by kafukafukadayo on twt. —iris🌠]

while you bask in the dim hues of red lights, the instrumental of an electropop softens into silence as it tandems with your pants. when you peel your eyes open, everyone's gaping their mouths and raising their brows—even jimmy, ever the unimpressed, is surprisingly taken aback, and you're taken aback by that alone.

daisuke springs from the leather sofa. he bounds towards you, grips both your shoulders, and shakes you senselessly, his hand still somehow clutching his open flip phone.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"doc, that... was... INSANE!" he jostles your body back and forth between his pauses, swaying you with all his might as he nearly forces the microphone to drop out your hand. daisuke swishes his head, finally letting you go, "wh—buh?! how do you—are you imogen heap reincarnated?!"

anya snorts, sounding like a stuffed trumpet. "dai, imogen's alive! she's only 27." swansea follows suit, his deep chuckle rumbling through his belly, crossed arms resting atop. "pfft, that's far from dead."

daisuke rolls his eyes away from the two, "tch, you get what i mean! like, look—!" he speedily dials the buttons on his phone, opening his gallery and brandishing a pixelated clip of you singing along to the mbira melody and string bass beats, the crunchy electronic syncs with your ethereal mezzo-soprano. daisuke snaps the phone shut with his palm, raising his free hand in surrender. "if that's not the lead singer of frou frou, then i don't know who is." he takes the remote, looking through what next to sing.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

amid the nurse, mechanic, and intern belting their lungs out to "hey ya!" curly sits, and you stand before him. his ocean eyes swim in awe as he cranes his neck to face you. you're glowing. your head perfectly aligns right in front of the carmine light; its luminescence filters around your shadowed outline, like you were some angel graced from above with an even more angelic voice to come with. it was sort of comical how the largest man in the room felt so small beneath your presence.

there's a dew of sweat hanging below your bottom lip, and curly can't help but bite his. that is until he slips his teeth back in when you cushion yourself onto the couch, spreading your legs wide with an arm lounging on the headrest behind him. curly huffed a laugh and leaned into the shiny sofa, letting his scalp fall onto your forearm.

even with your tongue tucked inside your parted lips, curly could practically see your papillae beg for freshness. he smiles, momentarily stretching his back away from the couch to grab your drink and hands it to you. a raspy thanks escape your parched throat.

your neck bobs with every gulp, drinking like it's the last you'll ever taste water. curly tries his hardest not to let his gaze linger longer than it should, but the way your head tilts back and your hand grips the glass, he can't help but swallow some of that imaginary water himself.

a contented sigh leaves you. you flick your eyes to him and just about see the last of his adam's apple slurp up nothing. you gesture the drink, asking if he wants it. curly is briefly hesitant until he turns to see his empty cup and shrugs, "sure, why not?"

as curly takes his sip, he notices the beaded sweat shining on your lip more notably than before. his brows raise ever so subtly, ruminating his next moves. when you still fail to realize the wetness glistening at your mouth's rim, he pulls the drink away from himself.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"hey, can i...?"

your eyes widen softly as you watch his thumb inch toward your jaw. you flick your view down, puffing out your lower lip to see a dab of sweat cling onto you for dear life. you look back at him and nod. curly gently takes a hold of your chin, thumbing the sudor away while his remaining fingers brush against your neck. you take in the moment, eyes half-lidded and lips ever so parted. he wasn't glancing at you, but you could tell he wanted to, for his warm breath quiets the longer you study him—noticing the way his tongue peeks out his mouth or how his golden greying hair falls over the wrinkles etched into his temple. "you know," moments before he drops his hand, he finally manages to look you in the eye, your faces merely inches apart. "your performance really gave me chills." you smirked, "is that why you didn't speak up?" your tease brought curly to a laugh, the bass in his voice strong. "i can't help but be mesmerized when that's how you sing, doc."

you hummed a titter, nodding to yourself as you thanked him with a delicate smile. "you can drop the formalities, grant. we're at a karaoke bar, not the tulpar."

whether or not you noticed the hitch in his breath, grant softened upon hearing his first name, oftentimes forgetting that's who he actually is. his head tilts down, blithely sighing before picking himself up to show you his grin, "okay, okay..." he momentarily chuckles, now resting his elbow on the headrest, propping it up, and leaning onto his knuckles next to your arm still lying there. "well, my point still stands. you have an incredibly captivating voice, y/n." "oh, stop it...!" you both become a blushing, giggling mess. your other hand finds its way to rest on your knee, which sits right against grant's. as you speak about your singing history, grant brings his free palm to his thigh, pretending to unintentionally graze his calloused fingers against your nails. he listens intently to how you'd belt out your favorite songs on repeat, albeit the sound of daisuke and anya screaming, "HEEEY YAAA!" and the tidbits of exhaustion lingering in his mind make your words muffle into incoherent jargon.

"but enough about me, i wanna hear you." you catch his eyes snapping away from both his and your legs smushing together, hoping you don't notice the blankness in his brain. "or are you just charming me to stall your big reveal, hm?"

grant's jaw falls, and utterances of filler words filter out his mouth, but before he can respond, daisuke catches wind of their conversation as outkast's song dies down in the background.

"oh, yeah!" daisuke takes a swig of his soda. after a sigh of satisfaction and couple of lip smacks, daisuke leaps from his end of the couch and motions to the two, microphone in hand. "it's your turn to solo, captain!"

"uhh, i don't know if i should..." grant sheepishly waves the mic away, his eyes shifting between everyone's expressions. daisuke is pouting and pleading with puppy eyes. anya just gives him a thumbs-up and a classic comforting smile. swansea is indifferent. jimmy, who's been leaning against the palm tree printed wall for the past four songs, beer in hand, grows an all-too-familiar smirk. then there's you, expectantly looking at him with overlaid eyes he wishes to see in a different setting... that of his bedroom—

"aww, why not, curl? we've done our parts. 's only fair you do yours, too." jimmy's tone was far from welcoming, sounding more like a jab than anything. you narrowed your sights at him, "didn't you only sing in the group ones?" jimmy shrugs. "look," after taking another chug of his can, raising his hands in defeat. "my karaoke quota's been filled. sorry." you simply roll your eyes. before the tension thickens, daisuke interjects, "ah, don't worry, cap. i bet your voice sounds super cool, like superhero cool! you've got that gruffness that swan's got... but y'know... less croaky n' stuff!" "'scuze me?" swansea lifts a single brow, anya stifles a laugh, and daisuke flails his hands in defense, "eh- i mean it as a compliment! you've got a sick voice, swansea." "emphasis on sick..." anya cheekily comments under her breath, and for the first time in forever, swansea's jaw drops. he coughs out a laugh that's been lodged in his throat for god knows how long and shakes his head, pointing his thumb at the giggling woman. "wowww, aren't you, the nurse, supposed to be fixing that?" anya nods to you, "only under doctor's orders." the two have a back and forth, but daisuke still stands in front of grant, intent on lending the mic to the man.

"i—okay..." grant crumbles under the pressure, caving in when you whisper a couple of encouragements. daisuke cheers, anya claps, swansea bobs his head in support, jimmy fakes a whoop, and you—genuinely—hype him up with a holler.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

grant purses his lip as he presses the buttons on the remote while daisuke guides him through the songs on the screen.

jimmy leaves his spot, his boot denting a scuff mark on the wallpaper. your nose flares, watching him carelessly toss the can into the bin as he makes his way to sandwich you between him and swansea, purposefully maximizing the width of how far he can stretch his legs.

you ignore him, opting to watch someone much cuter. grant turns to you, awkwardly smiling as you return a thumbs-up. he focuses back on daisuke, who's now raving over a song he definitely thinks grant should sing.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"you know he's shit, right?" your brows contort into a furrow, still not looking at the man. "the fuck you mean?" you never had much patience for jimmy, of all people, so your courtesies never fail to fall short with him. "you know who i mean—him." jimmy gestures to grant, pointer finger flicking at the blond. "no shit, sherlock. i'm saying, what are you specifically referring to?" "obviously, his voice, sherlock." he drawls the two syllables, the stench of yeast and malt oozing out of his mouth and into your unfortunate nose. "he'll make your ears bleed, trust me." finally, you face him and stare at jimmy's smugness with an incredulous squint. seriously, how the fuck does grant put up with him? you couldn't even stand the guy's presence, let alone his incessant insults on grant himself. "do you do anything but complain?" you sneer. "nope." jimmy curtly replies, mouthing a pop after the 'p' as he claws a hand over the chips bowl, stuffing his face with grease. at this point, you weren't sure if you should stay annoyed or be slightly impressed with his sheer ability to find the worst in everything. "some fucking friend..." you say to yourself, already past the point of defeat. with his mouth still full of food, jimmy responds, "hey, as his friend, i'm actively warning you. i've known this guy long enough to be there for his first choir class." "whatever, we'll see." you huffed, relaxing on the couch, sitting much closer to swansea than the other. "it's not like you've got much credibility, anyway." you think back to moments ago, whenever it was jimmy's turn to sing his parts, his half-assed attempts barely constitutes as a grumble. jimmy snickers, "who says i'm denying that? just 'cause i don't care doesn't mean i'm wrong."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

you have never been more relieved to hear a soft pop interlude, forcing the conversation to a close.

daisuke flops onto the sofa next to anya and flips open his phone, pressing record as the tv flashes the music video to "shape of my heart." you lean behind swansea and lock eyes with daisuke, who abashedly giggles when you mouth, 'you chose this, didn't you?' to which he nods excitedly.

ah, daisuke, ever the avid backstreet boys fanatic.

your eyes fall back to grant. the man fidgets with his microphone, and his shoe frantically taps to the beat, pursing his lips into a tight smile in hopes it will clench down the shivers rising with the guitar strums. you silently cheer him on when he starts humming, following the yellow highlight filling up the white text reading ♪ yeah, yeah ♪, and��

oh!

...oh

oh, god.

jimmy... wasn't wrong, far from it, actually—as much as it pains you to admit.

the very moment grant hits that ♪ baby ♪, it's all downhill from here. it's as if his pitch took a trip to six flags. his questionably paced breaths mimic a ride with an unnecessary amount of loop-the-loops, and his tone flip-flops between a coarse rasp and an oddly airy twang, like a reverse bungee slingshotting into the air.

grant's eyes squeeze shut, facing away from the crew. either he was incredibly invested or excruciatingly embarrassed, and with how he was really getting into that chorus, nobody could tell. he only ever peeks to look at you, though, clearly awaiting your approval, to whom you always beam, your face mixed in pity and affection.

as much as he sounded like a crow was clawing its way out of his esophagus, you couldn't help but find his attempts to be really wholesome. maybe it's your pre-existing bias, and maybe it's because this feels like he's serenading every line at you, but it's hard not to fall for this vocal failure of a man—even though everyone else's expressions say otherwise.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"told you so," jimmy taunts in your ear, sickeningly chuckling at grant without hesitation. "woo! curly, you go, dude!" he cheers, voice dipped in mockery. all you do is click your tongue and face the others, choosing to listen in on anya and swansea. "you sure i'm the one that's 'sick'?" swansea jokes, albeit laced with genuine disgust. he leans to you, whispering the same revulsion, "you both need to rethink your careers."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

anya simply grimaces, trying her hardest to make it look like a grin, but her knit brows and frown give way.

daisuke's eyes say everything. they're wide, and his pupils constrict like he's a cartoon. his hand hesitantly grips onto his flip phone, unsure if he should keep the camera going. as his leg rapidly bounces and his teeth bite down on his paint-chipped nails, his gaze slowly turns away from grant's caterwauling and towards the rest of the crew.

moreover, you're just as guilty. although you're not irked by this newfound fact, a wince washes over you the moment you are out of grant's sights.

suddenly, after the first chorus, the song reveals a blue highlight painting the white text. grant falters, his voice shrinking when he sees the two primary colors play different lyrics simultaneously. everyone takes notice, their faces easing from cringe to confusion. then it clicks.

this was a duet.

daisuke palms his face with a slap—that's his bad. you skim the room, and everyone's exchanging glances, implicitly questioning who'll aid their poor captain.

without hesitation, you jump to the rescue. snatching a mic from the coffee table and quickly singing your parts, striding your way towards grant, who immediately picks up where he's left off, still shrill as ever.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

♪ i'M hEre WIDTH myYy...! confEh shion ♪, in a sheer attempt at confidence, grant belts his lyrics. his dimples dig into his smile, sending you the much-needed energy to sing your lines. ♪ got nothing to hide no more ♪. you sway your head in accordance with the melody, ball up your fist, and let your fingers spread far and wide, wiping the air as you and grant's steps magnetize toward each other. ♪ i don't kNOw whe...rE to st-art ♪; warbling his words, grant's gaze softens when you're within arms reach. he lowers his neck, brings the mic close to his lips, and grazes your forearm, wishing he could feel the flush skin of your waist and reel you in. ♪ but to show you... ♪, as both lyrics meld into one, you take his hand into yours. ♪...the shA-pe of mY hEart ♪

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

daisuke bursts into song, singing the first line of the last verse, startling everyone in the process. anya joins in, now standing with daisuke as both pull swansea to his feet. the mechanic begrudgingly croons along to his intern's baritone and his nurse's soprano.

daisuke beckons for jimmy to come with him, but in classic jimmy zare fashion, he remains stagnant. the younger man frowns. though, he quickly reminds himself that there are only five members in BSB, anyway. so daisuke hands jimmy his phone instead, telling the co-pilot to make sure that everyone's in frame.

they've turned this into a concert for a one-man audience, who's hating every second of it.

save for jimmy, currently grousing under his breath, the crew wraps their arms around each other's shoulders and chants their hearts out to the R&B melody.

as the track nears its final moments, you and grant rest your hands on each other's waists, pulling your bodies close as your head leans on his pec. neither of you realizes that you've left the other three, who are all too busy rocking side to side to notice the two of you in a side embrace, minds too carried away to feel jimmy's prickly leer.

[oh my god, i genuinely didn't even intend for this ending, but here we are 🥹! i hope you guys liked this, and if anyone has comments on how i wrote everyone's dialogue and mannerisms, like what worked, or if you have suggestions for any additions, please let me know! i still need to learn more about writing anya, since in canon, it's hard to get a read of her real personality through jimmy's lens. still, so far, i like to think she enjoys teasing people she's comfortable with. as for swansea, i'm trying to lean into his meanness more, but i'm saving most of that for a daisuke fic centered on swansea's pov, so we'll see what i do when i get there! —iris🌠]

[bbygirl-aemond]

Emma D'Arcy on Rhaenyra's Fanaticism

Hi all so I've been going on about Rhaenyra's cult leader era for a few days now and wanted to bring in some quotes from two recent interviews that Emma D'Arcy gave about this most recent episode specifically. This is part three of my ramblings- I first talked about Rhaenyra's growing religious fanaticism here, and then expanded on the evidence from the show to support this here.

In the interview with the Wrap, we are told that Rhaenyra’s faith comes from “the ultimate belief that she is supposed to take over her father’s throne.” Over the series, “we see her become more and more wedded and ingratiated into her faith” to the point that “it borders on a kind of religious fanaticism.” She acts with this “slightly frightening…religious fervor, like she has the gods at her back in this decision.” In the interview with GQ, Emma reinforces this: “...something that has been happening for Rhaenyra throughout the series is a growing religious fanaticism.” Over the course of the episodes, “we see her more and more invested in her faith.”

As for why Rhaenyra is turning to religion, Emma outlines a few reasons in the GQ article. First, she is “in search of her right,” seeking to validate her insecurity over her birthright being questioned and usurped. Second, she has chosen her faith as the “anchor” that she is “going to cling to” in the wake of all the loss (Visenya, Lucerys, Rhaenys, Alicent, etc.) that she’s facing. But ultimately, Emma comes back to the idea of “narcissism” as Rhaenyra’s key motivator. “I think her connection with her religion is about wanting to reinforce a divine right.” Rhaenyra wants to believe that she is divinely ordained and special; it’s a very human desire, and so she’s reading into everything that happens around her. “She feels that she is riding on the wings of her faith. But her faith and her belief that she is the ruler that is supposed to sit on that throne are completely enmeshed.”

Emma also confirms in the GQ article that Rhaenyra views Addam claiming Seasmoke as “a gift from the gods” and says that this perceived sign is what emboldens Rhaenyra to both “ride roughshod over Jace’s very legitimate concerns” and is what “allows her to stage a massacre.” In the article from The Wrap, she expands on Rhaenyra dismissing Jace’s concerns: “ultimately, she will choose herself, really, above anyone. And here she chooses herself and her divine right over her son and her son’s legitimacy. I don’t think it’s an easy decision… but in this case, she feels she’s received divine permission.” We know how ride or die Rhaenyra has always been for her children, so this sense of divine permission must be incredibly significant to Rhaenyra in order to supersede her deep seated desire to fight for Jace’s claim.

Finally, Emma confirms in the GQ article that Rhaenyra feels like the dragonseeds’s deaths are “totally” and “without a shadow of a doubt” worth the result of two dragons being claimed. When Rhaenyra is up on that balcony, watching the dragonseeds be burned alive, “she feels like a god” and “feels super proud.”

To Rhaenyra, even the proximity to Vermithor and his dragon fire feels like she is “soaking up the divine.” Rhaenyra is in a state of religious fervor that distances her from the “horrendous” things she is doing in the short term; instead of truly registering how awful the carnage before her is, she is instead “experiencing events within a far bigger timeline” and thinking about how her name will go down in “the history books.” And so Rhaenyra ends episode 7 as “this sort of emboldened fanatic.”

[kisses-in-the-void]

"Though of immensely smaller native power than his Master, he remained less corrupt, cooler and more capable of calculation. At least in the Elder Days, and before he was bereft of his lord and fell into the folly of imitating him, and endeavouring to become himself supreme Lord of Middle-earth. While Morgoth still stood, Sauron did not seek his own supremacy, but worked and schemed for another, desiring the triumph of Melkor, whom in the beginning he had adored." (c) Morgoth's Ring

I find it very interesting that as long as Mairon had Melkor by his side, he, at least in part, remained the person he had once been before the fall — less corrupt, less chaotic, and someone who valued order and coordination over mindless destruction.

And indeed, I can’t remember a time when First Age Mairon acted purely on emotion. He was very cruel, yes, but his actions were driven by logic and gain, not by impulse. There were moments when he was truly awful, like with Beren and Finrod, when Mairon sent his werewolves to attack them and devour their companions. Or when he wanted to capture Luthien to get a reward. Or when he deceived Gorlim, lying about his wife being alive to extract information from him. But it wasn’t mere sadism on his part; there was always a clear, practical reason behind it

Unlike Melkor, whose hatred and nihilism drove him, Mairon was, at first, a different kind of villain. His violence was calculated, never gratuitous.

But later, when he was on his own, he began mimicking Melkor’s more chaotic nature, especially in Númenor, where he sank so low as to perform human sacrifices and became obsessed with vengeance, all while his only goal was to bring the kingdom to ruin when a wiser approach would have been to kill Ar-Pharazôn and claim Númenor for himself.

It's like he lost a part of what originally made him who he was.

Of course, Tolkien didn’t want readers to think that Melkor had a positive influence on Mairon or made him better, far from it. Once Mairon became Melkor’s lieutenant, he was no longer the Admirable Maia he had once been in Aulë’s service, and the world knew him as Sauron, the Abhorred. But it ties into the idea that the more power you hold, the more inevitably corrupt you become. In Tolkien’s view, Mairon was less evil than Melkor because, as the subordinate, he wielded less power and served another rather than himself.

And after losing his master, Mairon spiraled even further downward. His original obsession with order, planning, and coordination began to fade, overtaken by an all-consuming desire to hold on to power, his sole focus from then on.

It’s very tragic, he's a fallen angel who started with good intentions (or at least believed them to be) but succumbed to darkness, ignoring every chance to turn back and becoming a tyrant. Melkor’s arc is tragic too, and their shared story remains a tragedy, even as platonic "master/servant" type of dynamic in canon.

But we can take it further and turn it into romance, and then their story becomes something else, something almost majestic. Mairon couldn’t forget Melkor or break free from his influence, even millennia after his master was gone, beyond any reach. So he stepped into his place, becoming "a shadow of Morgoth and a ghost of his malice", even going so far as to claim himself "Morgoth returned". Maybe he wasn’t fully aware of it, maybe it wasn’t intentional, but it’s easy to interpret it as him missing Melkor so badly that he began to seek to literally become him. Because it was the only way to fill the void inside him, to soothe the ache in his heart. But in the end, he only destroyed himself with his own hands.

It’s just… everything about it screams how awful and twisted it is, but I can’t help but sob and think — yes, it’s horrendous, but it’s also fascinating. It’s a love that doesn’t inspire you to change for the better when you have it, nor does it allow you to heal after you’ve lost it. Instead, this feeling and this loss will ravage you, leaving you hollow, devastated, and doomed. But it’s still powerful, it’s consuming, it's an unbreakable force, a bond that ties you to your partner for eternity. And I can’t stop thinking that it’s beautiful, even in its darkness. It’s not something you’d want in your life, yet you still feel drawn to it — to this passion, this hunger, this tragedy.

[sea-angel-blu]

Get AI Garbage off your Search Engine

A wonderful and life changing blocklist that gets updated frequently so that when new generative AI sites come out they get blocked too.

Thankyou laylavish for making this, it is wonderful. <3

The internet means the world to me, and the steadily increasing uptick in generative AI infesting every corner of it, to say the least makes me incredibly uneasy and worried about it becoming a wasteland devoid of the human community that I love it for.

The difference it made for me when I installed the blocklist gave me an unbelievable amount of pure joy. When I searched for "Rainbow Fish" instead of only getting a few images of the actual fish species and the actual book mixed into an awful sea of AI's horrendous and eerie attempts at vomiting up a fish, all the AI garbage was replaced with adorable kids crafts and stunning artwork made by real alive people that AI took the spot of and hid from me. You can try it out yourself, search for something without the blocklist and then search for it with it.

I'm done with corporations trying to take the beauty of the internet away.

[sky-is-the-limit]

"It's what friends do."

P:F!Reader x Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

CW: Afab Reader,Infedelity,

NSFW,Oral(recieving)

Song Rec: Friends by Chase Atlantic

WC: 2,560 words

Notes: @chai-isms had this lovely idea and I just had to extend it.. :)

Disclaimer: I'm not a writer!

____________________________________

"Okay, okay, I get it. You missed me." He murmures softly, a wide grin spreading across his face. You can hear his heartbeat as you hug, a soothing rhythm that calmes your nerves, one hand cupping the back of your head gently. His leather jacket is cold against your skin, contrasting the warmth of his breath against your temple. You barely had time to brush your hair and hastily put on your pj's before answering the door, excitement washing over you knowing who's behind it.

"Damn right I did, you idiot." I still do, you wanted to admit. You always do. Saudade is difficult to deal with, it deepens when there’s nothing you can do to bring a person back to you and especially when death can easily fall into the equation. It always takes a few days for you to calm your restless heart down, sooth it that he's safe back home, where Sergeant Garrick is put to rest and Kyle gets to breathe again, alive once more.

You'd think that repetition makes it easier with time until you remember that your hug is a foreshadowing of the goodbye that would later tear you apart. It always does and there's nothing to fill the immeasurable emptiness until you can see kind amber eyes staring back into yours.

"Hey, I'm right here, all in one piece. I'm here." Now his lively cheekiness turns into reassuring whispers, as though he can sense your worried thoughts. You can feel his grip tighten, hearts thumping in unison to the sound of gentle rain landing on the ground outside.

You and Kyle are like magnets. Always finding your way back to each other no matter what. It's rare to find a friendship like yours, even more complex to describe it. You met five years ago when your dearest cousin started dating one of his closest friends, mutual gatherings bringing you closer together until you became inseparable. It wasn't abnormal for people to assume that there was something more between the two of you.

You won't lie to yourself that thoughts as such never creeped in. Thinking of all the late nights you'd spent covertly admiring his profile, he had the kind of face that stopped you in your tracks. A smile bright enough to illuminate the darkest corners of the room along with unusually sharp canines in contrast with his soft features.

He is striking, as if angels had carved his looks and you'd be a horrendous liar if you dared to say otherwise.

''I missed you too, you know. In case that wasn't clear.'' He finally untangles his arms from your body, hesitantly at first, then stands a foot apart, unwilling to completely let go. A sense of completeness washed over you, as if the hug had filled a void only he could create and make disappear. Kyle's eyes twinkle, accompanying the familiar playful tone in his voice before his gaze flicker past you, giving his attention elsewhere.

''Is he coming tonight?'' Oh. Him. You don't even have to match his gaze's direction to know he's staring at one of the photos on the wall. With Kyle's return, you forgot that the rest of the world existed, even your own boyfriend. The bitterness in his voice crystal clear matching the subtle frown on his lips.

They never liked each other, really. Always competing for the number one spot in your heart as if that question wasn't already answered with the way you look at solely one of them.

It hasn't been long since you've started dating Eric, a timid, gentle soul with strawberry blonde hair and emerald green eyes. He is handsome, no doubt. Always treating you with kindness and respect, giving you his undivided attention and time like every proper boyfriend should. Yet every time you look at him, you get reminded of the awful motive hiding behind the start of your relationship. He is Kyle's polar opposite.

It's fucked up, you know it. The moment cold realization washed over you like a thousand crushing waves that you might feel more for Kyle, you immediately said yes to the first person who showed interest in you. Someone who reminded you nothing of the man who offered you sleepless nights, wondering if he's still breathing under the same sky. A deluded solution to a problem that cannot be resolved.

"Uh, no. He's stuck at work, so he'll probably stay at his place tonight." The growing smirk that was plastered all over his face the second you mumbled those words was transparently clear, no ounce of shame behind filthy thoughts forming in his mind.

"Good, I deserve some time alone with you." He leers at you, eyebrow arching.

"Kyle-" You try to look away, eyes darting around the kitchen but inevitably drawn back to his.

"Obviously, you needed someone to fill the time now that I was gone." His forwardness doesn't surprise you one bit. Though you attempt to keep a cool demeanour, your body is practically vibrating with anticipation. You keep your eyes locked in his, arms over your chest as though to keep your trembling heart from jumping out.

"What makes you think he's not enough?" Your playful provocation works wonders. He looks at you with his mismatched gaze, daring. A fainted gasp escapes your lips, eyes widening as he suddenly closes the distance between you with a purposeful stride. 

"You want proof now, Y/N?" Kyle murmurs, thumbs tracing your abdomen over your soft cotton shirt, teasing at the waistband of your shorts. He took a step closer, leading you to press your lower back against the kitchen table whilst holding your gaze, completely still, clearly just torturing you at this point. Suddenly, you feel Kyle's cool fingers smooth over your bare thigh, and you instinctively jerk your leg away. You don't mean to, your skin is warm, and his hands are frigid.

"How about the countless nights of you calling me after he leaves so I can finish what he couldn't?" His fingers gently touch the side of your neck, caressing it softly as the words melt into your system, bringing back the agreement you so desperately missed while he was away. You had initially brushed it off as sexual frustration mixed with alcohol and your disoriented brain when it first happened. Oh, how naive you were.

A New year's eve party, a drunken kiss and a soft whispered 'I want you' brought both of you back to your cold apartment, flaming skins and shameless moans disturbing the deafening silence of the night. It started happening more frequently, as if your body was subconsciously begging for his touch and he was always aware. Perhaps it was the deep rooted loneliness that led to this, Kyle with his isolated job and you with your self -destructive tendencies.

How utterly wrong you were. You desperately told yourself that once you get a proper boyfriend, you'd put an end to this. Your body had a different reaction to your plans, rejecting your boyfriend's touch as if Kyle engraved his name onto it and it will accept no other.

"Fuck, this is so wrong-" You admit, a little breathless as if the words have no meaning behind them. The guilt vanished the moment you saw him again.

"It's what friends do, right?" Goosebumps slither down your spine as he whispers in your ear, lips gently grazing your lobe and your hips buck slightly, desperately at the lightest touch. To your surprise, his erection is readily felt on your thigh through the thick layer of his jeans, making you quiver instinctively.

"Help one another when one's in need, hm?" A surge of arousal hits your body instantly, feeling the near instant reaction between your thighs arising by the second. You can't help but shudder as he runs his thumb over your clothed nipple, your breasts heaving as you breathe rapidly. You ache for him like a starved animal locked in a cage for far too long.

"And I'm gonna show you, what a good fucking friend I am." Kyle informs you, his lips descending hungrily upon yours. Before you can respond, he scoops you up in one swift sweep, wrapping your legs around his waist. You catch yourself wanting to curse your reflection out for ever complaining that he needs to spend less time at the gym whilst he carries you like nothing, setting you down on the table without ever so much as lessening the strength of his kiss. His tongue dances around yours, stopping only to bite and pull at your lower lip.

It didn't take long for him to start trailing sloppy kisses from your jaw to your pulse, biting the place at the base of your neck where it connected your shoulder, then sucking the skin and licking over the freshly formed bruise. The thought of the mess awaiting for you tomorrow when your mind is clear from his intoxication, briefly creeps in and disappears with the same pace, every muscle in your body clenching to his mercy.

''Fuck, I missed you.'' He breathes, voice thick and gravelly with need and desire, before tucking his head into the base of your neck to take a long, shuddering breath in, his hands scurrying hungrily over your hips, thighs, and stomach, as if he's trying to remember your perfume, your body all over again.

''Show me.'' Please, you want to add but the words are lodged in your throat and get swallowed down the moment he brings his gaze back up to meet yours, lips brushing your own softly. You'd ruin yourself for him, turn your life upside down, all he had to do was say the word.

''You want me to take care of you, love?'' He asks breathlessly, his nose nuzzling against yours gently, sending blood up to redden your cheeks furiously to the sound of the sweet endearment. The words were soft like a blanket, pulling at your heart.

''Yes, please.'' A soft whine escapes your parted lips softly, your hips arcing upwards desperately to try and meet his. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, screaming for him and him alone.

''You know I will.'' He murmurs, eyes darkening proportionally with each new inch of skin exposed as his fingertips slid underneath your shirt, caressing your sides. ''I always do.'' No doubt ever crossed your mind when it comes to him, yet it's never needless to have him say it, voice oozing with desire.

''Beautiful.'" He whispers, tugging your bra cups down so your breasts were over the fabric of your shirt, making you squeak, blinking owlishly at the sudden development. Gasping at his touch, you grind yourself against him, desperate for contact while he immediately begins sucking, biting, and licking your nipple while grabbing the other breast with his right hand, massaging it firmly.

''I need more- please Kyle!'' Your nails drag down his forearms, creating red lines impatiently and you're a mess. Suddenly the cool temperature of the room turns into unbearable heat, skin on fire contradicting the cold sweat slipping down your spine.

“That bad, hm?” He asks, slyly grinning against your burning skin. Even in these circumstances, he’s a cocky bastard, knowing exactly how lonely it felt without him, even with a warm body sleeping beside you. He quickly moves down so your thighs are on his shoulders, stretching between them, his cheek caressing against familiar softness. Your black laced undergarments slip off your body with ease, and you’re left bare under his hungry gaze.

He turns his attention to your soaked cunt, folds glistening with your overflowing slick. Without hesitation, he presses his lips against your slit, licking painfully slow your arousal and groaning at the taste of you.

Oh, if he only knew how many sleepless nights you spent with your own hand right where his mouth currently savors you, wishing it was him instead.

''Kyle-'' You moan his name like a desperate prayer, voice feeble and croaky to his touch. If your neighbors weren't already aware of his return, they are now. He shoots you a quick, sly smirk from between your legs before turning his focus to the task at hand, zeroing in on your clit, sucking tenderly as your legs clip down automatically around his ears, trembling.

His tongue is painfully, awfully delicate and torturously slow as it circles your sweet spot. In need to feel more pressure, you try to lift your hips into the pleasure as his grasp tightens on your thighs, promising blue shaded marks to appear so to hold you into place.

''I'll make up for the time I spent away from you.'' He drawles between tongue flicks, amber eyes fixed up at your face, not wanting to miss a second. Both of your hands were now gripping the table edge as you arch your back to the sensation, your core throbbing with pleasure.

''Your fingers-'' Before you could even finish your request, his plump lips rested against your clit, sucking it with need as he inserts two fingers inside of you with ease, curling them upwards to hit your spot instantly. His fingers fuck into you slowly, agonizing, matching the pace of his tongue flickering every inch of you. You jolt as if you’d been electrocuted, tense and shirking as you grip the wooden edges so tight, your fingernails might leave marks underneath.

''All yours, baby.'' His voice sounds so broken and wrecked, he craves this as much as you, if not more. Your fingers tug at his hair, desperate for something to keep yourself grounded. The sound that escapes his lips is so feral, almost like a growl. His pace is brutal, and your eyes blur with stars as he hits the deepest parts inside of you with his long fingers over and over. 

You can feel the orgasm building inside of you with each thrust of his fingers, threatening to leave you shaking and breathless in a way no man could ever quite manage.

Kyle humms softly, and your toes curl as the sound washes over you like a heated wave.

"You taste so good, fuck-" He whispers breathlessly before licking you again, slower and more deliberately than before. The action draws a sharp cry from your lips which is quickly stifled as you bite down on them, squirming under the flickers of sensation. It never fails to surprise you how easily he can read your body language, as though you're connected and so he quickens his pace, working in broad strokes, sliding against the sides of your labia.

You can no longer control the moans and whimpers that leave you as he laps at your cunt, white dots your vision as the orgasm hits you hard, your whole body shaking with the sudden release of tension. When Kyle finally tugs his fingers out, your walls clench around them, almost like your body was trying to keep them inside for as long as possible. It was heady, intoxicating and you couldn't get enough.

Speechless, your hand reaches down to his face, tracing the outline of it with your fingertips.

''Don't mention it.'' Kyle chuckles at your loss of words, raising himself up so he can press a soft kiss on your cheek, before bringing his hand to his lips, allowing himself to taste your arousal soaking his fingertips.

''It's what friends do.''

[strawberryforks]

whatever the hell we want // bellamy blake x reader

summary: reader didn’t care much for living, the eldest blake sibling made it worthwhile, even enjoyable

warnings: angst, suicidal thoughts/ideation, swearing

word count: 1908

a/n: this one is a bit heavy. i was having a bad day so i will apologize for turning the cutesy “how did bellamy and reader meet” request into this emotional abomination (sorry)

you probably should have been excited to be on the ground. it was that or being floated–tossed into a lock sealed door, trapped, and taunted with the faces of whatever loved ones chose to say goodbye (you didn’t have to worry about that, the only family you had, you met in lock up–your bio dad, marcus kane, was awful and on days that ended in ‘y’, you opted to pretend he didn’t exist) before another door would open and you’d be sucked out into space. the little oxygen in your lungs would tear them apart. what had sustained you for so long would then be your downfall. what you needed to breath would kill you.

you’d be so hot, so hot as your blood boiled and so hot as you died, staring out at the stars you loved so much. you were nineteen, the oldest prisoner to be alive and on the arc, but even kane’s powers had their limits. in three days you would be floated. three days until that would be your fate and still.

still.

when you woke up on that dropship you were pissed. it was the first thing you were mad about.

with a forever fuck-it attitude, you unbuckled your seat. floating around with a few others you ignored your best friend when she told you “sit back down, dumbass!” you cracked a grin and then the lights flickered.

while entering the new atmosphere something went wrong—something malfunctioned. maybe the shutes didn’t deploy or maybe you were just lucky but when the screaming started, you didn’t hear it for more than a few seconds because you were flung into one of the metal walls, just above the seats, and your vision spotted before going disappearing completely. sounds dulled, everything dulled. you were probably dying, you smiled because of that

when you landed, you woke up. that was the second thing you were mad about.

you were suspended in the air in some kind of fabric. It wasn’t uncomfortable or anything, not until you attempted to stretch your stiff limbs and found the material twisting. it spat you out on the ground and you made a noise. it bubbled from the back of your throat, expressing your obvious upset, you lifted your hand to touch your cheekbone–it was throbbing and you had the vague memory of your face slamming into the dropship wall. at fucking nineteen, you weren’t supposed to have to deal with any of this. you should’ve been floated a long damn time ago, would’ve like to have been too. you were the oldest prisoner on the ark, only alive because of who your daddy was. the daughter of marcus kane (you hate him as much as the next person) you’d been spared. he tended to get what he wanted.

where you lie, a boy does across from you on another makeshift bed. you lean over him, study him. He has some features you recognize. freckles and long eyelashes. you’re peering over him, observing, when those eyelashes lift and he’s blinking up at you. you scoot backwards not wanting to bang heads (yours was quite tender).

the hand that you have been absentmindedly feeling around your face with, came away with no blood coating, “i’m ocatavia’s brother, bellamy.” bellamy blake, okay. you’d heard of him and despite never meeting him before, the stories octavia had told you, mostly about how he protected her and made life under the floor less horrendous, you decided he was safe.

you glance at him, not all that hesitant. your best friend was a force and if she left you alone, in here, with him, he was trustworthy. your lips are pressed into a tight line. you don’t need to introduce yourself, he already knows. of course he does. you assure yourself he knows because you’re his little sister’s best friend and not because you’re kane’s daughter, the one who killed a man and got away scot free. you had a damn good reason but the ark’s justice system was lacking.

you tell yourself he isn’t judging you, he doesn’t look like he is, but you know you deserve to be judged so it’s a losing battle.

you glance down at your wrist and see it’s bare. the band that transmits your vitals to the ark is missing, and when you look at his wrist, you realise he isn’t wearing one either. “lost in the rough landing?” you ask, with a lilt to your voice.

his shoulders shake as he laughs a little. “something like that.”

you sit back up and climb back into your hammock. this time your hands are both out beside you to stabilise yourself. it’s quiet for a moment, the tent dark enough you know it’s night time. “why’d you take it?” you asked, unable to stop your curiosity.

“the ark hasn’t done anything for us. they sent us down here to die, because we’re expendable. in their eyes we’re just repaying them.”

oh. so your dad probably thinks you’re dead right now. that doesn’t unsettle you as much as it would the average person–actually you don’t mind it at all. let him learn what it means to fail, to lose, in some permanent way. let him face the brunt of the consequences his actions wrought for once. maybe this sentence would be the one to ruin him.

you stare at the pitch of the tent. are we on earth right now? is it safe? did the others survive? what happens now? your mind is flooded with questions.

“you think loudly.” bellamy informs.

“i’ve been out for awhile, huh?” in response, he nodded. “is it okay? is everyone okay?”

“they are. you almost weren’t though. that stunt you pulled? it was a whole different level of dumb.”

it’s peaceful until sunrise when the screaming starts. Guttural moans and groans echo from within the camp. “That’s jasper,” bellamy supplies while you’re rubbing your head, all but pleading with the ache to subside.

then octavia’s bursting through the tent flaps, “i knew i heard voices!” she pulls you outside with her and just… woah. everything is brighter. unlike the monotones on the ark there’s all kinds of colours. blue sky, green tress. they’re so green and so many different shades. light, dark, sage, evergreen. you’ve never seen anything so beautiful, other than your stars. you miss them, and looking up at the sky you can’t see them only clouds–white floating cotton that moves with the wind. you’re on earth and you don’t know if you belong here but in all fairness you didn’t belong on that spaceship either. the only place you thought might be a good fit for you was now miles upon miles away. a good thing, if you asked octavia.

the “whatever the hell we want” movement was one you supported quickly and joined even quicker. bellamy and his buddies at its forefront you figured, why not. you liked to fight, so thats what you did. you threw punches and received them and slaps to the face. It satiated you need to self destruct and would until bellamy or octavia intervened. you didn’t quite care for danger and took as many guard and patrol shifts as you could. you liked carrying a weapon, liked exploring, and hated being cooped up and confined.

you were walking away from the wall, alone this time, with no particular destination in mind. sometimes you brought octavia with you but she was busy talking and flirting (not in that particular order) her brother never liked when she joined in on your adventures so it was probably better that she wasn’t with you.

“not dragging my sister along with you this time?” a familiar voice chided. bellamy blake. speak of the devil and he shall appear.

you shrug your shoulders and continue walking. “not this time, no.”

“hey! come back. where the hell do you think you’re going.”

“i haven’t decided yet. maybe the river. maybe the caves. maybe, it’s none of your business,” you respond dryly, still walking ahead. his hand clamps down on your arm and he stops you from moving further, “what, bellamy? what?” his eyes, alight with fire, something you’ve seen in your best friend once or twice, full of curiosity, and understanding, meet your own. he gazes into your dead ones, takes a look at your blank expression and bends down. a hand grips the backs of your thighs and then he’s picking you up. you’re slung over his shoulder like you weigh nothing and had you not been so emotionally empty you would've been incredibly impressed. “what the hell bellamy? what are you doing?”

“whatever the hell i want, though, that? it doesn’t apply to you anymore, not when you don’t know what you want,”

“i do,” you argue.

“not when what you want isn’t anything good.” he fires back.

and that’s how you met bellamy blake. at first you hated him, hated how he drug you along wherever he went–patrol was nice but he would insist on bringing you everywhere, even on the most pointless errands. to do the most boring things. he made you drag logs to help reinforce the wall and sometimes he didn’t even help. prison warden or friend, who fucking knew?

but bellamy kept you busy. kept you distracted from the brewing storm in your head.

you got used to him. bellamy blake became your new normal and even made you smile a few times, usually when firelight was reflecting off of both of your cheeks as you roasted your dinner. the first time, you sat on a log beside him, your supper sitting inside of the flames, blackening. he went to grab the stick from you–probably guessing you were attempting to light yourself on fire, or that you’d begun to dissociate. you snatch the stick back. “it’s burning,” he warns, voice having a sharp edge.

“sorry if i would rather taste charcoal than two headed, six tailed, mutated squirrel.”

that night he held you. you let him.

close to his chest and away from any and all danger, you slept soundly and dreamlessly for the first time in years. the sleep–it helped with your mood, too.

bellamy held you again. he always liked to hold you—to have a hand in yours or resting on your shoulder. this time, the touch wasn’t comforting, to assure himself that you were real and not going anywhere. this time that physical touch was the only reason you weren’t going anywhere. his grip was tighter, thank god.

the grounders were coming an the only way to stop them or at least to slow them down was to blow up the bridge. you needed to place the bomb but everyone was terrified to let you go, bellamy especially. you did what you had to, sneaking away and setting it. you were scared–you didn’t know when it happened, when you started wanting to live, but it was a soul-deep change that you knew had something to do with the blake siblings. specifically bellamy, who’s companionship you hadn’t wanted but needed more than anything.

you placed the bomb on the bridge and detonated it, running as fast as you could as the moss covered stone crumbled behind you. the structural integrity was giving away and you were so close tot he edge but… you started to fall. you closed your eyes, pressed them shut as tightly as you could and then that hand was there.

bellamy’s. closed around your wrist and holding on for all he was worth. your heart beat so hard in your chest you had to look down to make sure you hadn’t been speared by a grounder, and that it wasn’t leaking out.

you loved him and you were so thankful he never listened to you. when you said you didn’t need him, when earlier, you shouted at him and told him not to follow you–it was a weak distraction but now, he pulled you back onto solid ground and wrapped you in his arms and you had no regrets. none at all. well… you had one, but it was easily rectified.

it was a struggle, pushing him away at the shoulders, holding him at arms length and seeing the worry on his face all over again. it was a struggle but when you stopped regretting things and dove back in, moulding your lips together in a passionate kiss, everything was better. bell’s hand palmed your cheek and pulled you impossibly closer as yours moved through his hair.

[ldrfanatic]

sitting in the corner i haunt

Theodore Nott x Reader "13" Series pt 4 warnings - depression, angst, blood, theo gets the dark mark, mentions of suicide, cursing

this chapter is written entirely from theo's point of view

to be added to the taglist, comment; Also I was gonna include so much more in this part but then I realized I was already at 2k words and it was long lol

ps sorry stinks but now that the series is starting to really pick up there's gonna be a lot more angst before reader and theo get their hea

translator series masterlist <previous chapter next chapter>

slytherin boys masterlist works

One thing Theo hadn't expected was for you not to forgive him. He'd figured you'd eventually find out about the bet, but he'd also noticed your crush on him a long long time ago. In all honesty, he'd been hoping and praying that you'd be able to forgive him and the pair of you could move past it.

Turns out those hopes and prayers were falling on empty ears.

He'd spent the remainder of the fall term secluded. At first, he tried to ignore Mattheo and Draco, still too mad at either of them for what they'd coerced him into. Finally he came to terms with the nature of his new relationship with you after what could have been was burned prematurely. Another thing Theo hadn't expected was for you to be the type that burned bridges instead of mending them.

Rather than feel his emotions, Theo had taken to drinking them lately. He tuned out of the various famous Slytherin parties and drank firewhiskey until it felt like his head was screwed on backwards. His groupies didn't stop chasing him, but he'd started hexing them in return.

Nothing serious just the occasional bat-bogey hex. And only at the ones that insulted you. Whether or not you wanted to be, you were still the girl that held his heart. And it was unacceptable for anyone to insult you. Mattheo and Draco had learned that fairly quickly following the incident.

As the Express chugged along the tracks and onto Platform 9 3/4, Theo tried to ignore the twisting in his stomach. Ever since his mother passed away in fourth year, his father had become an unbearable rotter. He knew that with the war looming, this break would be particularly unpleasant. As he retrieved his trunk from above his seat in the compartment, he didn't even bother with useless greetings to his friends. The children of Death Eaters were never cheery at the holidays. Everyone was returning to their own personal nightmare.

Theo used to feel bad for Mattheo's home situation. Used to. Until Mattheo really begun to live up to his father's reputation. Then all sympathy he had for the boy really flew out the window. Mattheo had been a perfectly fine bloke until Christmas of fifth year. When they'd returned in January, he was awful. No explanation, no more apologies. Just downright awful.

The moment his boot touched the platform, Theo apparated to his father's estate.

Nott Manor was in the most horrendous part of England. It was ALWAYS dark and cloudy. The sun was shining so bright at King's Cross, it was nearly headache worthy. But the moment Theo twisted down in front of the gates of his childhood home, the skies were dark, and the air was cold.

To Theo's surprise, Nott Sr was waiting at the door when he finally approached the massive structure.

"Theodore, my boy."

Theo was silent at his father pulled him into an awkward hug. He was being unusual cheery and it was rather unsettling.

"Father?"

If Nott Sr noticed Theo's tone at all, he ignored it. A large grin was spread across his face. It wasn't the kind that Theo had been accustomed to when his mother was alive. This one was creepy and made Theo's skeleton want to climb out of his skin.

"It's time, son. The Dark Lord will be rising soon, and he's calling for us to strengthen our ranks to prepare for the coming war. You'll be getting your mark soon Theodore. Finally."

Fuck.

Thunder rumbled in the sky overhead and Theo jostled awake. He hadn't sat with his friends on the ride back. With the burning in his arm and the screams of whatever poor bastard his father was torturing in the house, he'd barely gotten any sleep over the break. In fact, the burning hadn't stopped. His body was apparently just as unfond of the mark as his heart was.

What he hadn't expected was to see you. Sitting across from him in the compartment, reading a book. Your eyebrows were furrowed and you seemed pretty zoned in to the novel. Theo cleared his throat lightly and immediately regretted it as it sent him into a coughing fit.

You passed him a flask that you had. Theo accepted it with a quick thanks and drank, the cool water soothing his apparently irritated throat. "Not that I'm complaining cuore, but what are you doing here?" He tried to appear cool and calm but inside he was freaking out. How long had you been sitting there? What if you accidentally saw his mark?

If you had seen it, you made no indication. In fact, you didn't even look up from your book.

"I was just walking past and saw your compartment was empty. Astoria has taken a fancy to my dear awful cousin Draco and wanted to sit with him and that repulsive boy Mattheo. I'd much rather not for obvious reasons."

Even though you came from a pureblood family, you'd never taken a shine to that blood purity crap. It was something that Theo and you had in common. Something that he admired about you. Despite constant pressures from your other, darker side of your extended family, the Malfoys.

Finally, your eyes made contact with Theo's and he felt his breath leave his lungs. He could no longer hear the soft chugging of the train. He couldn't even feel the damn thing moving. Every sense in his body was tuned into you. Your voice still lingered in his ears even when you weren't speaking. His eyes feasted on every inch of you that they could catch. Your scent filled his nose and intoxicated his brain.

"I do miss you, Theo."

"I miss you too, cuore. I know that we were never really friends before, but the truth is, I'd gotten used to your presence. Without you..."

Theo didn't finish his sentence and you didn't ask him to. After you'd finished your chapter, you closed the book and set it on the cushion next to you.

"How was your break?"

Theo stared at you thoughtfully. He hadn't wanted to talk to anyone about his break, hence why he'd been avoiding his friends. At the same time, he'd take any excuse to talk to you. And with his father's words, he'd feared this was his last chance to really converse with you before you positively despised him.

"It was... uneventful."

You stared at him with a look that told him you knew he was lying. Disappointment flashed in your eyes briefly and felt like a knife in his gut.

"We both know that's not true. Draco was boasting about your entire little friend group finally getting their gifts from you-know-who." You shifted in your seat and then leaned forward. The look on your face was so intense, Theo felt that if he looked away, he'd simply burst into flames and die. "But even if Draco hadn't said anything to me, I've had a crush on you for almost as long as I've been alive Theodore Nott. I can tell when you're lying. Especially when you're lying to me."

Theo felt rage building up inside of him. How dare you patronize him like this? You had no right to judge him. You couldn't possibly understand what he was going through. "Whatever. You don't know me, Y/n." He sneered at you. In his heart, Theo was screaming at himself to stop. But even as he saw tears gathering in your eyes, he locked that part of him away. You'd shown him that Theo couldn't afford to be vulnerable. "You've no right to judge me. Following me around for years like some little fangirl. You've no idea what it's like when your father and uncle hold you down while you kick and scream and beg for them to stop. To let you go. To get away from a true monster while he carves his mark into your flesh."

Your face morphed into one of shock.

"What?"

Theo scoffed at your empty question.

"What? That dear cousin of yours forgot to mention the excruciating pain? That he was there with my father and uncle and helped them hold me down so Voldemort could brand me like cattle?"

His questions were rhetorical but it didn't matter. He stood from his seat across from you and exited the compartment at the mark on his arm started to burn. It was time Theodore Nott learned. Feelings were and always would be a weakness.

By the time the middle of the second term rolled around, Theo had come to terms with the dynamics of his feelings for you. He'd learned to push them down and away, and he'd grown accustomed to doing so. Instead, he focused on the task given to him by his father to prep Hogwarts for the Dark Lord to take over. You could still get to him in his dreams and he often awoke with nightmares. You'd appeared to him many times and spewed various levels of nonsense. How you'd never forgive him for this and the like. Usually they ended with Theo consuming enough firewhiskey to put down a horse and then falling into a drunken slumber only to wake up the next day with a hangover from hell.

This continued for a few weeks longer until finally, Pansy Parkinson had enough of his shit. She'd never been a best friend of yours or Theo's, but as a close friend of Draco's she heard constantly about the depression the pair of you had fallen into without one another. She'd figured that she'd have an easier time getting through to Theo than you most likely.

And there she sat. Across the Slytherin Common Room from Theo fixing him with a stare that would make even Nott Sr. rethink his life choices. If monsters were capable of that sort of thing.

"What the hell is wrong with you Theodore?"

"What do you want Parkinson?"

Pansy sighed frustratedly and whacked Theo with her potions textbook before resuming her homework as though she hadn't just left him with a fresh bruise. "I want you to stop being such an idiot. What happened to winning Y/n over?"

"It wasn't working out. Found a new hobby."

"What? Cohorting with the likes of Mattheo Riddle and serving as the Dark Lord's newest little bitch?" Theo glared back at the girl but she continued undeterred. "Besides, if it wasn't working then how come she was in your compartment on the train? That is until you lost your shit on her like a rabid animal."

"She doesn't understand. She never will. Not my fault and certainly not my problem."

"What she understands, Theo, is that she loves you. She always has. And now that she's finally coming back to that, you've gone back to being the insufferable twat that you always are."

Theo lit another cigarette. Pansy eyes rolled so far back Theo thought they might actually get caught at the back of her head.

"She took too long to get there. I've moved on from her."

"Moved on so much that you drink just to sleep and smoke a pack of those disgusting things a day? Moved on so much that when you think no one's looking in potions, you stare at her like she's the only girl in this whole school? Why is it that she waited years for you, and you can't even last a few weeks?"

Theo sat forward and stomped his cigarette out on the cold stone floor. He'd officially had enough of whatever little intervention Pansy thought she was throwing. "Listen Parkinson. This isn't really any of your concern. My feelings for Y/n are a weakness. She's better off without me anyhow."

"Your feelings for her are not a weakness. They are the strength that one day will be the reason you wake up from whatever spell you let your father put you under. You fucked up, and it sucks. But now it's time to grow a pair, and fix it. Or don't. Suffer for all I care but please, if you're gonna die, do it quietly."

Pansy shut her potions textbook and stood from her seat. She marched silently up to the girls dorms. But by the time she'd made it halfway up the stairs, Theo was already gone.

--

wc 2059

3.31.2024

-- taglist - @moonlightreader649

[kaelleid]

Izzy Hands Fic Recs (September 2024)

My favorite of the Izzy fics that I read in September 2024. See other recs here.

Pierced Through the Heart by @waterofthemoon, @sungmee (Stede/Izzy)

After Stede and Ed come together and fall apart following Calypso's birthday, Izzy finds Stede heartbroken and on the verge of getting his ear pierced, and manages to help him with both.

an irrevocable condition by redshift (Stede/Izzy)

Love doesn't come with conditions. Maybe that's something Izzy can accept, after all.

heartbreak feels so good by wishingonalightningbolt (Stede/Izzy)

Izzy Hands, chief political strategist with the Green Party, meets Stede Bonnet, a new addition to the morning shows doing spin for Labour. They get along about as well as you might predict.

Iz, just Iz by lepus (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

Out of all the fucking ships in the sea this is where Izzy ended up.

Feeling Crabby by tempocon (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

After coming across a perfect, horrendous gift for his captain, Izzy decides to do something nice for once in his life. Unfortunately, what he fails to account for is that nobody who resides within the captains' cabin of the Revenge has ever been capable of being normal about anything. Things escalate.

Your Awful Heart to Song by @acesaru (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

No one left alive knows that Izzy isn’t strictly human, and he’s worked damn hard to keep it that way. He’s perfectly content to live the rest of his life without speaking the truth to anyone–Edward included–shoving any and all yearning for the sea and his true form down deep inside him where it belongs. He is, after all, good at denying himself what he wants most...

The Old Therebefore by @carrymelikeimcute (Ed/Stede/Izzy)

Three weeks after they bury Izzy, he appears in the water beside The Revenge, half drowned, with two legs, and calling Stede by his first name.

[stupidlittlespirit]

Can you give me more examples of Alex disliking Ford? I’ve always kinda felt it, but I never really had much of a real grasp on it.

Okay so this is the part where I look crazy because I can't give you specific examples LMAO but I'll try to explain what I mean. It's more in what he doesn't say than what he does.

Alex doesn't ever come right out and state 'I hate Ford', but he implies his distaste for him through his treatment of him. The way he hasn't gone harder/more explicit on drawing lines about Ford's abuse, or talking about how Ford suffered terribly during the time he was alone, for example. The way he blames Ford inherently for a lot of stuff that Ford, while not blameless, isn't fully at fault for. It's little things, and I'll detail them below.

TW below: Abuse, discussions of victimhood and irl consequences.

He extends more sympathy to other characters whereas Ford is sort of an afterthought. I don't actually think Alex has fleshed Ford out very well in his own head. Remember when he said that he didn't even know that Bill was going to be the main villain? They were flying by the seat of their pants for a lot of the series and it's quite clear in some elements. Obviously, the series is wonderful, I love it, it's one of my favourite shows of all time and Alex is a true talent, but it's obvious which characters are more important to him. He favours Bill a lot, too, so when his disliking of Ford/being ambivalent about him meets his enjoyment of Bill, only one of those dogs is coming out of the fight alive and it ain't Ford.

I think Alex is a genuine talent, I admire his work and his writing. He seems lovely. But I do also think he lacks in skill when it comes to complex abuse depictions.

I see a running theme that he isn't very good at portraying it specifically via 'unlikeable' characters. I mentioned on a previous post that he did this with Pacifica until people expressed empathy with her, and then he decided to round her out. He stated that himself during an old interview; I can't source it but I remember it vividly because it flagged red in my head that he couldn't see she was just a product of her environment. She's a twelve year old girl, for god's sake, she isn't 'just a horrible person', it makes a person sound like Bill when they beef with kids like that lol.

Another thing is in TBoB, there's a really horrendous page where Ford is tortured. It is visceral and awful, and tbh I wish I'd have been able to ask Alex what his top 5 horror movies were when I saw his talk because the scene is very reminiscent of a lot of my fav horrors.

But anyway, it is literal torture and it is also communicating about how helpless Ford is. He's a victim and a 'weak one' at that. Nothing he can do will stop Bill's abuse, he's stupid for trying, he's pathetic, he deserves it.

Now, that is a take I see with Ford a lot. He deserves it. He's asking for it. And it's a really upsetting one. It's also a common narrative told by people who blame victims for the abuse they suffered.

Not once have I ever seen Alex defend Ford. Not once have I ever heard him say 'Ford didn't deserve this', 'Ford suffered as much as Stan'. Not once.

Considering that he said he took 'inspiration' from his friend's 'toxic' relationships (I also think this is a strange and slightly perverse thing to do btw), I would have thought he might feel more strongly about pushing away this narrative about victims deserving their treatment.

I, obviously, also don't know for sure that he did take inspo from friends; he could well be describing his own experiences and just not feel comfortable saying so because men do suffer a different kind of stigma around being abused. That's fine, he doesn't have to out himself or anything, that would be horrible. That's something else entirely and not something for me to speak on.

There are many types of abuse. Ford's experience is familial, relationship-wise (platonic, because nothing about his relationship with Bill is romantic in the most basic sense of the term, if anything you can liken that side of things to sexual abuse) and personal. Ford then abuses himself as a reaction to outside abuse. Not his fault, again, but it does happen and it's a common thing for victims to do. I did.

Ford does nothing but suffer.

I truly don't believe that if you loved and cared for your character, you would be willing to watch your audience tear them apart like that after they had already been through so much and were not actually a villain themselves.

Especially if you had, or knew other people who had, experience with that kind of abuse. He doesn't let it happen to Stan, he came down hard on people when they did it to Dipper, and to Mabel, too.

It would kill me to let my OCs be bastardised like that by an audience and I'd be damned if I did a disservice to victims everywhere over something like this.

I think his lack of care is displayed in his treatment of Ford, as opposed to him outright saying he doesn't like him.

I also understand that this analysis also comes from a deeply personal point of view and my own experience with this topic, too.

This is a TV show, it isn't real and I don't need to take it so seriously, but what I do take seriously is seeing the real world reactions of other people. That does hurt. It hurts to see someone who is (very inelegantly and heavy-handedly, btw) depicted as a victim of abuse be laughed at and made into a joke, or flipped on their head and made to be romanticised with their abuser just to make a ship happen.

Fiction doesn't need to be taken seriously except when the lines begin to blur over into real life. We know people are cruel to irl victims and we can see where these lines blur quite obviously.

I think abuse and uncomfortable topics should be depicted, but I also think that as a creator, if you use them, you have a HUGE responsibility to teach and guide your audience into understanding why these things are bad/what makes them so. You shouldn't make jokes about the topic or encourage other people to go off the rails with it.

You can't control people, of course you can't, but you can hold their hand a bit and show them towards the light. If they choose not to follow it then they're probably not bright enough to pick up what you're putting down and that's on them, but you have to try.

Maybe if I hadn't (and my friends and other victims hadn't) been subjected to exactly the same reaction, we wouldn't feel so strongly about this, but it really does feel like a kick in the teeth to see a large number of people behave so grotesquely about abuse.

And just as an aside: I am a victim, I have been/am an unlikeable one, but it does not mean that I deserved what I got and that goes the same for every other 'unlikeable' victim out there.

*deep breath* but other than that I'm totally normal about Ford and not at all mentally ill :)

[folkdevilfables]

🜲 Werewolves | Diavolo

drabble (0.3k words) | sfw | gn!reader | fluff/crack

cw: alt title 'You can't sit with us', scenario about playing the game Werewolves (similar to Mafia for those who don't know) with the OM! Cast, Diavolo's hopes & dreams being unceremoniously crushed

You look at Diavolo, unsure on how to proceed.

"I...erm... Diavolo?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think you can join the game, I'm sorry."

The future demon king looks as if you just violently crushed his hopes and dreams by running them over in a Range Rover on the highway while violating every speed limit known to man.

"What do you mean?"

Barbatos already looks wholly unamused if his ever polite and neutral facial expressions are anything to go by.

"Well, Werewolves is a game about deceiving other players in order to have your team win and you obviously have an unfair advantage over everyone else." In real time, you watch Diavolo deflate like a helium balloon in front of you and feel like the most terrible human being alive. "If you join, it's not fair towards everyone else. I could give you the role of narrator, but you never played the game before so that doesn't work. I considered always assigning you certain roles, but that would skew the game as well since everyone would know you're not a villager for sure. I'm sorry."

It was truly heartbreaking to see this grown man falter like a house of cards under the impact of the faintest breeze.

"...Would you be okay with sitting next to me and watching without commenting on anything while I narrate the game?"

Diavolo solemnly nods and Lucifer hands him a chair out of the circle and adjusts the other chairs to make up for the gap.

Oh, I'm absolutely going to hell for this, you think. I'm a terrible, awful horrendous person, but I simply had to tell him. I can't let him join the game in good conscience.

You blink.

WAIT A SECOND - I am in hell. Oh no. Where do you go from here?

Unedited Diavolo icon can be found here | Divider by @/saradika | all rights reserved and support banner made by @/cafekitsune

[shamixlour]

I see Armand exposing Marius's painting in their Dubai penthouse the same way as I see Louis putting the insulating rocks in his garden of peace and finding comfort in them.

They both deal with trauma in quite an horrendous fashion which mainly consist of keeping the damage to remember (which in itself is already fucked up and harsh) but also extrapolating that principle so unhingedly that along the years, the damages aren't even there just for you to remember but they now bring this very odd and obviously toxic mechanism/sense of comfort and peace and calm so much that when undergoing an emotional turmoil, through your worst experiences in life, through the vestiges of them, you find a certain balance and serenity.

It is not, imho, always healthy to do that, although I understand the comfort it can bring in the sense of if you can survive this aka being burried alive under kilos of tiny little indulating rocks then with Louis putting his feet into the said rocks + taking a breath, it is a way to say you will get over this aka Daniel stinging where it hurts bcs this is nothing, remember how worse and awful it had already been.

Either way, it is quite heartbreaking, and imo SO loumand coded. The fact that they are able (need really) to find quietude and internal restfulness in the most traumatic events of their lives being thrown right into their faces, willingly on top of that....like that is Louis and Armand.

[moonlight-prose]

Tommy Miller. Please hit me with all the psychoanalyzing/breaking his ass down you've got because you're the queen of writing him imo. I'm ready 🍿

(thank you! 💖)

tommy miller thoughts & musings

note: the queen???? you're so fucking sweet my darling raven. i have been saving this for when the brain rot returns, but i have to be honest - the brain rot for this man never leaves. so here we go!

There's never been a man more devoted to the concept of love - even if it's muddled in his mind. He treasures his family. He'd die for them. That fact remained true the day he turned sixteen and realized how Joel stepped in.

How he helped in making sure the little brother who followed him around everywhere (both in awe and to be a constant annoyance) become the man he was today. Joel Miller. The legend he one day hoped to make proud.

The fact of death - of family and love - hardened in his mind in time with his heart. Something broke the night Sarah died. Fractured his soul at the sight of his big brother - his hero - lying in the blood of his niece, begging for her to live.

The imaginary concept of dying for his family...now suddenly a reality.

Tommy Miller is a man who uses humor to hide the dying light in his brown eyes. He's the first to offer a smile, a helping hand, the promise of hope. Because what little remained in his mind was barely enough for him. Yet he gave it away without question.

The lessons of his big brother live in his mind - a tether to the life he once had. This is his commandment; the rules he's set for himself to keep a piece of the old Tommy alive. Though the world may have gone to shit, he refused to go down with it. Even as Joel and him committed atrocities - destroyed the humanity in their souls - he fought to keep himself in tact.

Tommy Miller is a man who is scared of so much yet keeps it to himself. What's the fucking point of making a spectacle of his fears? Who would care to listen? He'd been on this shattered road for so long he forgot that he was human. That he deserved light and love and a chance to redeem the sins of his past.

He's afraid of dying.

He's reminded of it every day he opens his eyes.

But he won't reveal the real horror that is buried in the depths of his heart. The darkness he hates with a bitterness on his tongue. Oh how he wished he could spit it out like tobacco. Cleanse himself in the River Styx and resurface anew.

Tommy Miller is a man who is is afraid of dying.

Tommy Miller is a man who wants to die.

Tommy Miller...is a man who wants to love and be loved in the horrendous tumultuous landscape of hell he's found himself in.

He cares with his entire body. Loves with every part of his heart and soul. He gives and gives and gives, hoping that it would be enough to suffice for the broken parts of a hollow man. If you look close - inspect the makeup of who he is - you'd see the pain.

You'd catch a glimpse of the mania behind the curtain.

So he offers himself up on a silver platter (everything he believes you want) to deter you from pushing down the wall holding him together. He begs for more, silently fighting against the ache of need that sprouts deep. Yet assures you that he's fine. He's okay.

He's alive.

That's what he wants.

And that would have to be enough; knowing that to ask for more in this world, was to dip himself in the greed he knew couldn't be appeased.

Tommy Miller.

A man who gave the world too much. Yet managed to smile in spite of his grief.

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

STILL ALIVE!

tobio kageyama learns to fall in love with the small things. although in his eyes, no thing is truly small as long as you're involved in it. a ruined kitchen for a strawberry tart is a small price to pay to admire your everyday.

gender neutral reader

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Tobio found out not too long after you moved in with him that he liked watching you while you worked your magic in the kitchen. 

He was always a stickler for what he ate. Ever since he was young, the adults around him hammered the importance of food and its nutritious properties into his volleyball-filled head, and like the good boy he was, Tobio took everything they said with a great deal of respect and dedicated himself into his strict upkeep so that he could do his best on the court. Now as an adult, he adhered to a strict diet of nutritious vegetables and plenty of protein. But given that his mind was hyperfixated on volleyball and he was never one to get super creative in the kitchen, there was never much variety to his diet outside of his regular rotation of healthy meals tailor-made for a professional athlete’s needs. 

Frankly speaking, he never thought he’d need too much variety. Tobio was a man of schedule, of regularity, of volleyball and volleyball only. Everything he did, from maintaining his nails whenever he got the chance to doing finger exercises with weights before bed, was to augment his skills as an athlete. His food was no exception. He wasn’t picky. All he needed was the proper nutrients to fuel his body, and as long as it didn’t taste horrendously awful, he was fine with it. 

Once he started dating you though, he started eating other things more and more. At first it was ordering a slice of espresso-tinged tiramisu occasionally while on a date with you, and then it turned into you insisting on packing him a bento box whenever his practices and matches required for him to be out of the house all day. Next thing he knew, you’d greet him with a piping hot dinner whenever he trudged back home, and the aches in his limbs seemed to melt away as he wolfed down whatever you had whipped up while he was gone. It was never the same two meals in a row, and despite being unused to unpredictability, Tobio found himself looking forward to mealtimes specifically with you.

He learned early on in his life, thanks to his grandfather, that cooking for someone was an art just as much as it was an underappreciated act of love. And with each bite, he savored the love that you must have poured into it, just as much as he dedicated himself to perfecting his craft in order to show you how far your love took him. There were times he wished he was an eloquent man, a more romantic man, so that he could actually articulate all the fuzzy feelings overwhelming him whenever you made food for him.

But you didn’t need words to understand him.

And he loved you.

He barely stifled a smile as he sat a few feet away from the kitchen, where you were frantically scurrying around. He knew you were probably frazzled, desperately scrolling through the recipe websites that had videos and ads scattered throughout them to make it almost impossible to access the actual recipe. But the cacophony of your slightly annoyed exhales, the banging of pots and pans, and the clatter of glass plates being shifted around every now and then were like a sweet melody to Tobio.

He feigned interest in the match he was supposed to be studying, and he stole a glance across the living room to see you dump something into a big bowl before sticking your hands into the mixture. Tobio has loved you for as long as he has known you, but there was something especially calming and bewitching about seeing you do something so ordinary. He stared at you with a softness in his eyes he couldn’t quite describe, a softness that he wasn’t even aware was there half of the time, as he watched you let out little grunts to work whatever tough dough you were kneading. 

The apron you insisted on wearing was already skewed, and he knew that by the end of your little cooking session, the apron would have done nothing to keep your clothes from getting covered in bits of food. Your eyes were fixed downwards in concentration, the skin in between scrunched up cutely. Your sleeves were rolled up but not quite secure as you might have hoped, and Tobio could also see that in a few minutes they would probably become undone and you’d have to call him over to ask him to roll them up properly for you since your hands were covered in sticky dough.

Tobio believed love was in the little things. Love was in the way he’d accept an earful from his dietician from sneaking in one too many desserts that you insisted on him having. Love was in the way he let himself get distracted so he could watch you make a mess out of the kitchen counter, and he prayed that you never learned how to clean the countertop off thoroughly because he loved going over and wiping off the marks of sauce and flour with a clean dishrag of his own. Love was in the way you cheekily stole a lick of the sweet dough from your fingers before washing your hands off in the sink, your sleeves rolling down your forearms and wrists and the telltale loud yelp you let out when the sink water lapped at the edges.

“Tobio!” You cried out, yanking your hands away from the sink. A few water droplets dripped down from the back of your hands and alongside the silhouette of your fingers. Your hands were always so much smaller in comparison to his wide, calloused palms, and the drops of water fell helplessly onto the floor. “Can you help me roll my sleeves on?”

He acted as if he hadn’t been staring at you for more or less the entire time, and he hurriedly paused the match. He would have to rewind it and rewatch it later, but he had a much more urgent task at hand. You grinned at him as he shuffled his way into the kitchen, and you held your arms up.

“What are you making?” The smell of something sweet had been wafting through the house a long time ago, the notes of sugar and vanilla intermingling all throughout the atmosphere. The kitchen looked as if a hurricane had passed through it: a mountain of dirty tools splayed out on the table, flour spread across a section of the countertop, and the cabinet doors thrown open and not properly closed. Had he been someone else, or any less in love with you, he might have considered all of this as an eyesore or a mountain of impossible chores, but Tobio’s heart swelled so much in his chest that he felt like he was struggling to keep his usual stoic expression.

“A tart!” You announced proudly. His fingertips brushed against the delicate skin of your wrists as he folded your sleeves over, and he made sure they wouldn’t fall down again. “Do you remember the restaurant we had dinner at last week? The one where I got a slice of strawberry tart for dessert? Oh, I couldn’t stop thinking about it… So I decided I was going to try making it myself! You’ll have some once I finish making it, right?”

That’s if you actually manage to make it. The thought bubbled to the forefront of Tobio’s mind, accompanied with a defeated but still adoring smile. It looked like he was in for another long lecture about watching his sugar consumption from his dietician, but he would gladly take an eon of scoldings than pass up on a chance to eat the treats you made. 

He picked up the tart crust sitting in its pan, and he gestured towards the heated oven. “Why don’t we put this in the oven to bake first? But yeah, I would love to have a slice once you’re done.”

You beamed at him, laughing sheepishly at your airheadedness before stepping aside for him to maneuver the delicate tart crust into the oven. If he looked closely, he could see where you had filled the holes in the crust with extra dough. Bits and pieces of the edges were lumpy and not quite fully adhered to the shape of the pan. He already knew it wouldn’t look anything like the pretty store-bought crusts or the expertly crafted ones in the bakeries around town, but judging from the fingerprints etched into the dough and your giddiness, Tobio would happily pass it off as a Michelin star pastry if anyone cared for his opinion.

“You’re the best!” You gushed at him as he walked past, and he let a flash of pride light up the inside of his chest as he settled back down in the living room. You hummed some tune slightly out of pitch as he settled back down into the couch, turning the game back on. The sounds of commentary and the players quickly melted into background noise when he found his eyes sneaking back over to you, splashing water all over the surrounding areas of the sink as you rinsed the strawberries in order to chop them up.

The bright crimson of the fruit stood in contrast to your skin, and Tobio’s eyes crawled all over the shape of your pinched fingers. You carefully sliced them up to the size you wanted, the knife marks a little jagged and not super straight. But they were perfect in your eyes, so they were also perfect in Tobio’s eyes. He can imagine the sour pangs of the fruit in his own mouth when you chow down on a handful of strawberry pieces that didn’t quite make your cut. Your fingertips, the cutting board, and a small part of your apron was stained with the pink, sticky strawberry juice, but you looked so proud scooping up the bits of strawberry and setting them aside. 

None of this was particularly special, but Tobio admired you from afar as if his vision had been coated over with honey. But he lived for these small moments, lived for the trivial everyday parts, like you dancing around in the kitchen with strawberry juice and dough bits stuck to you, and Tobio would be mesmerized all the same as if he was staring at you at the wedding altar. And god, does he hope a day like that might come, where he can make these small scenes a promised reality for the rest of his life, taking in the beauty from places you would never have expected and uncovering different ways for him to fall in love with you all over again.

He wished the thirty minute timer you set for the tart crust to bake could last forever. He could die a happy man, right here and now, eyes fixed on you until the end of time as you happily turned the kitchen upside-down in order to satisfy your craving for a sweet treat. He loved the way you approached life with a newfound vigor that bled into his own day-to-day, turning his bland and predictable meals into something for him to look forward to, be it a recipe you pulled from a social media website or you doing your best to recreate the dishes he enjoyed so much in his childhood. You always went the extra mile for him, the same way he did for you. Tobio didn’t need any grand gestures of love, nor was he one for anything like that, and he would rather learn how to love and be loved through these small, continual motions that came and went like the gentle pull of the waves to the silver-tinted moon.

But for now, he let the softness of the couch envelop him as he watched you from across the room, the pitter-patter of your bare feet on the kitchen tile like the sounds of wedding bells. He didn’t need to taste the unfinished strawberry tart to know that he was going to taste every bit of it like it was his last meal, swallowing the warmth back like an oath and a promise, to cherish and love you for as long as this life would let him.

Nothing could be sweeter.

x

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