#its about....... the Juxtaposition. its about..... the Contrast

[fishofthewoods]

yknow while I'm baldursgateposting I've had another thought. There's a lot to be said about the dynamic between The Dark Urge & Astarion but one level that i haven't seen many people talk about is the juxtaposition between "Guy that can't get away from the gods' influence no matter how hard they try" and "Guy that can't get his prayers answered no matter how many gods he prays to"

[sandflakedraws]

in other news it absolutely tickles me that hickory's speaking voice is low, but he sings tenor, and floyd's speaking voice is light, but he sings baritone.

thoroughly tickled by this

[yonpote]

dan and phil are so appealing because they are the pinnacle of gap moe. in this essay i

[cowgirlvi]

mdni. sub-bottom ellie. top-fem reader. strap-on usage. vaginal sex. loss of virginity. squirting.

wc; 1,396

you’ve thought about fucking ellie before, but never like this—you never imagined she’d be so shy, flushed as pink as a tea rose, desperately attempting to quiet her huffs and whimpers while you kiss along her neck. for as long as you’ve known ellie, she’s been loud and unapologetic. the juxtaposition of her in bed is a startling contrast.

“hurry up,” she mutters, and her voice is so quiet it’s almost cute—unmistakable nervousness scratching at her throat.

it all started the other day when the two of you wandered into an adult toy store on a whim, giggling at the ridiculous names of different phallic-shaped objects. this is, until you spotted one in particular—

it was a black leather harness accompanied by a jelly-pink dildo, translucent and glittery on the inside. it spoke to you immediately, and not just because it was on sale.

you stretched onto your toes, plucking the beat-up box from its dusty shelf. skimming over the instructions with a slow, knowing smile, you glance up at ellie through your lashes. and the moment she caught on, her entire face burned crimson, taking a wary step back.

“huh? no way! absolutely not!”

and yet, here she is now—nude beneath you, pale legs spread, and her skin hot to the touch. your hands glide down her sides in a slow, soothing motion, mapping every dip and curve, savoring the softness of her small breasts and the subtle jut of her hipbones. though, when your eyes settle between her legs, ellie inhales sharply and tries to close them like a prey animal hiding from a predator.

”you were the one that wanted to do this, so get on with it,” ellie says lightly, but her tough facade is slipping.

”what’s with the attitude? i’m treating you nicely, aren’t i? all you’ve done is complain,” you wonder, fingers tracing lazy circles over her thigh. your voice softens, dipping into something honeyed and coaxing when you say, “you know what i think? i think you just need your pussy filled right, baby? yeahhh, you just want me to stuff your hole with my cock, maybe that’ll shut you up.”

ellie’s face burns even hotter. ”don’t say shit like that! god, you’re so weird—“

but you interrupt her, rubbing the head of your strap against her hole. it catches against her opening once, twice, three times. ellie shivers and involuntarily spreads her legs wider.

yeah. she needs her pussy filled, alright.

you hear the squelching sounds her juices make against the silicone, and the noise alone makes you throb. “your pussy’s so loud, els,” you murmur, voice heavy with desire. “wetter than i’ve ever seen before, too.”

she shoots you a glare, so you heed her silent warning and ease off, smoothing a hand up her stomach. “you sure you don’t want me to finger you some more?” you ask, serious now.

”i’m not made of glass,” ellie’s quick to reply. “just—put it in already. please.”

and really, who are you to deny a girl with such good manners?

you press the tip against her opening, watching ellie’s face for any signs of pain. finding none, you push in further, watching the soft, wet heat of her body suck you in until the head of your strap pops inside entirely.

ellie gasps, twisting her fingers in your bedsheets, creasing the baby pink fabric as she stares between her legs. she’s completely transfixed by the sight of you inside her, how her pussy is stretched around you—but the moment another inch eases inside her tight hole, her head drops back against the pillows with a whimper.

“holy shit,” you breathe. “you’re so tight, baby. i don’t know how i’m gonna fit the whole thing.”

”you’re s-seriously so embarrassing,” ellie mutters, raspy and as quiet as a whisper.

minutes pass as you work her open—slowly, gently—until you’re buried to the hilt. her pussy visibly clenches around your strap, adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of having her hole filled so deeply. you stroke slow circles into her waist with your thumbs, admiring how she’s glazing your shaft with her juices.

it’s hard for you to hold back from describing the vulgar scene before you, from telling ellie how cute her pussy looks stuffed to the brim, how hard you want to fuck her, but you keep your mouth shut for her sake while she adjusts.

”okay, you—you can move now,” ellie exhales. her green eyes are hazy as if she’s already cockdrunk. 

you draw your hips back, admiring the way her walls cling to you, slick and needy. her little clit twitches where it peaks out of her labia, aching for some relief, but remembering how sensitive the little nub is, you know to save that part for last.

you thrust forward and ellie sucks in a sharp breath.

again. again. a slow, measured rhythm as you adjust your angle, and then—

”mmnh—oh, that’s g-good, babe—ahh!”

found it.

“you like that, els?” you ask, syrupy and teasing, “you look—fuck—so cute like this. mmf, can’t get enough of you.”

the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with ellie’s soft, breathy moans that are steadily escalating in volume. 

your hands slide down to grip the back of her thighs, pressing them further apart, and your fingers dig into her soft flesh, no doubt leaving marks behind. her small tits bounce with every thrust and she’s a visionary. 

one of your hands moves to paw at ellie’s breast, squeezing the small mound like a stress ball, making her hips jump. you let out a moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure when she grinds back against your thrusts, pressing the strap roughly into your clit.

ellie is completely at your mercy, all she can do is lay there and take it as your hips piston forward, the thick length of your strap plunging deep inside her warm pussy.

leaning over her, your lips brush against the shell of her ear, grunting due to the immense amount of strength behind your thrusts. 

”you’re, hah, seriously so fucking tight,” you say right against her ear, husky and wanting. “i swear i can feel you gripping me.”

”you’re fucking—ngh!” ellie’s trembling now, clenching harder around your cock as if she, too, believes you can feel her tight heat. “you’re obnoxious.”

you brace one hand on the mattress beside ellie’s head, the other one gripping the headboard tightly as you loom over her, then you start fucking her in earnest—with animalistic fervor. the force of your thrusts drives little gasps from her lips, her hips twitching up to meet yours.

you simply giggle at her and tease, “oh, i am? i’m just giving you—mmf, fuck—what you asked for.”

then, you roll your hips in a deep, filthy grind that alights goosebumps all across ellie’s skin. “holy sh—oh, fuck, right there! i’m sorry, j-just please don’t stop!” ellie cries while her back arches off the mattress.

”you close, sweetheart?” you coo and ellie nods her head quickly, so feverishly that you laugh at her again, “you love this, don’t you? who knew all you needed was my cock inside your little pussy? fuck, you’re shaking so much.”

you’re just about to drop your hand to her clit when—

ellie tenses. her pussy flutters around your cock, and all too quickly, a wild gush of liquid escapes her pussy, soaking your your abdomen and bedsheets. the force of her orgasm pushes your strap out of her hole, her body trembling as if she’s out in the dead of winter, her mouth open on a silent scream. her eyes roll back into her head, tongue lolling out dumbly, completely fucked out of her mind.

for a moment, you're just in awe, frozen in place at the intensity of ellie’s orgasm, basking in the warm wetness that drenched your torso. then you bring your fingers to her clit, massaging it in hard, slow circles to help her ride out the rest of her orgasm. 

it feels like her orgasm lasts minutes, hours, until ellie chokes on a sob and pushes your hand away. she lays on your bed, spread out like a starfish, while panting all the oxygen back into her lungs—lost in the white noise of her release.

(2/1/25)

[pookalicious-hq]

no. 1 fan ... sukuna ryomen x reader

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - since when did sukuna ryomen have a girlfriend? and why is she so cute (and absolutely perfect for him)? tags: basketball!au, fluff, swearing, sfw <3 masterlist

The gym lights caught on the glossy surface, a faint shimmer bouncing with every shift of motion. Tiny flecks of glitter sparkled like distant stars, the edges glinting silver against the stark backdrop of the jersey. A burst of pastel pink contrasted sharply, the soft hue radiating a kind of innocent charm that felt entirely out of place.

It was a detail almost too small to notice—yet somehow, it drew eyes in, an odd juxtaposition against the chaos of the pregame atmosphere. The gym was alive with the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished wood, players stretching, and the low hum of excited chatter from the stands. Sukuna Ryomen, lounging casually in the middle of his team’s warm-up drills, was the last person anyone expected to have such a thing plastered on his shoulder. But there it was. My Melody, a sweet little bunny holding a basketball.

Satoru was the first to spot it, of course.

“Aw, how cute, Sukuna-chan. Didn’t know you were into Sanrio like that.”

Sukuna turned, narrowing his eyes at the playful teasing in Satoru's voice. “The fuck are you on about now?”

Satoru just pointed, smirking as all eyes followed his gesture. "Your cute little stowaway there."

And there it was—bold against the red and black of Sukuna's jersey, a sticker of My Melody, holding a basketball positioned perfectly as if to dunk it. It was so out of place, yet it felt strangely fitting. Its innocence danced in stark contrast to Sukuna's menacing aura, and the sweetness of the bunny somehow managed to coexist with the intimidating presence of the player.

Sukuna glanced at the sticker and then smirked, barely able to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. His eyes softened just slightly, knowing exactly where it came from.

“Guess it’s not that bad,” he muttered under his breath.

No one knew who had put it there, but there was no mistaking it—Sukuna wasn’t bothered in the slightest. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it made him smile.

“He’s so weird, I swear,” Satoru muttered, squinting across the gym floor as he slouched against the edge of the bench. The air around them crackled with energy, the squeak of sneakers on the polished hardwood floor echoing through the arena as players warmed up. The thudding sound of basketballs bouncing, the low hum of excited chatter from the crowd, and the faint whistle of the referee adding to the chaos all buzzed around them.

Suguru, already feeling the weight of Satoru's nonsense, pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to focus, pushing away the mounting noise as he geared up for the game. "Satoru, shut up. He’s literally just smiling."

"Exactly!" Satoru gestured with both hands, his voice carrying over the cacophony like a loud bell ringing. “I’ve never seen him... like this. It’s unnatural!”

Suguru flicked Satoru lightly in the forehead, the sharp sound of his fingers connecting with the skin cutting through the background noise. “You’re lucky he can’t hear you, idiot. Besides, he’s allowed to smile. It’s not a crime.”

“It’s so creepy, though!” Satoru rubbed his forehead dramatically, leaning back against the bench. His voice was exaggerated, filled with playful disdain. “I’ve never seen him so... soft. Gross. Eugh. What happened to the demon we all know and love?”

The gym seemed to buzz even louder as the players amped themselves up, a couple of them tossing passes back and forth with fast, sharp movements that made the air feel electric. Sneakers squeaked and slid across the court, some heavy breaths echoing as bodies shifted into the final preparations for the game.

Suguru, however, was still fighting for some semblance of focus, trying to shut out Satoru's ridiculousness as his mind sought that familiar pregame calm. He tried to breathe in rhythm with the ambient noise—the rustling of the crowd, the sharp claps of teammates slapping each other on the back—but Satoru just wouldn’t let up. "It’s because his girlfriend’s watching today," Suguru said casually, as if the thought didn’t even require a second glance.

Satoru snapped his head toward him so fast it almost looked like he was about to knock over the water bottle on the bench. “He has a girlfriend? How do you know?”

“Yuji told me about her yesterday,” Suguru said, brushing it off as if it were nothing. He wasn’t quite sure how to process the idea of Sukuna with someone so... normal, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, letting his thoughts return to the game.

“What about me?” 

Satoru’s stomach jolted, heart skipping in his chest. “Jesus—fuck, Yuji, you scared me!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest as if Yuji had just jumped out from behind him in a horror film.

Suddenly, Yuji’s face popped up right next to them, grinning widely with that unapologetically boyish enthusiasm. “Oops, sorry! I just heard my name and wanted to make sure you weren’t shit-talking me! Haha!”

The two seniors exchanged a look—Suguru, contemplating the comment, and Gojo, mildly entertained—but as usual, the latter barrelled straight past it. “Anyways, we were just wondering about Sukuna-chan’s little girlfriend. She’s here?”

The sound of basketballs slamming into the backboard reverberated loudly around them, rattling the floor beneath their feet as a player went for a dramatic dunk across the gym. The high-pitched swoosh of a net followed. Yet, the small chaos of the game only seemed to amplify Yuji's carefree nature, his laughter infectious.

He gave a single enthusiastic nod, expression lighting up with pure, uncontained excitement. “She should be! She just called to say she found a seat.”

The three of them turned toward the crowd, scanning the packed bleachers. It was almost impossible to pick out individual faces among the sea of fans, but they didn’t have to wonder for long why Yuji could find you so easily.

“There!” Yuji pointed, practically bouncing on his heels.

All at once, they saw you.

You weren’t loud or over the top, but there was something about you that drew attention, like a light you couldn’t help but turn toward. Your eyes sparkled with a warmth that didn’t belong in a crowd this rowdy, your face alight with unguarded joy. You leaned forward, effortlessly engaging the little girl beside you in a cheerful conversation, hands animated as you gestured toward the court.

The little girl giggled, clutching a handful of skittles you must have shared. It wasn’t just the candy; it was the way you leaned in, nodded attentively, and treated the child like her words carried the secrets of pandora’s box. The moment was so natural, so disarmingly sweet, that even Suguru had to admit he could see the charm.

“She’s just... giving away candy to kids?” Satoru blinked, eyebrows raised as though the sight was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen.

Suguru’s smile slowly turned into a gape, crossing his arms. “And apparently making everyone within a ten-foot radius feel like they’ve won the lottery. What a menace.”

“She’s adorable,” Satoru hissed, ignoring the sarcasm. “There’s no way Sukuna convinced someone like her to date him. I mean, look at her!” He gestured dramatically, nearly toppling off the bench.

“She’s smiling, not performing a miracle,” Suguru deadpanned. “Relax.”

“But that’s what’s weird about it!” Satoru insisted. “She’s the sunshine’s asshole, and he’s... I don’t even know what he is, probably just the asshole part.”

The three of them continued to watch as you apologized to a student who stumbled near you, even though it was clearly no fault of your own. You placed a steadying hand on their shoulder, offering a bright, reassuring smile that seemed to melt the poor kid’s embarrassment on the spot. A moment later, you turned back toward the court, your attention zeroing in on the players warming up.

Then, a laugh as melodic as an orchestra bubbled from your lips, captivating everyone within a 20-foot radius.

Heads turned—not just Sukuna’s, but several others, curious to see who’d spoken. Sukuna, however, didn’t seem fazed by the sound. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the court like a predator waiting for its prey. A mere glance from a teammate was enough to send them scurrying in the opposite direction, but when he caught sight of you, his posture seemed to relax just slightly. His gaze softened, and for a brief second, he didn’t look like a demon—he looked... content.

“Holy shit,” Satoru muttered, leaning closer. “He’s smiling again. Suguru, this is unnatural. I don’t think I like it.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re just jealous someone actually loves him.”

“Jealous?” Satoru scoffed. “Please. I’m too fabulous to be contained by one person. It’s just—look at her! She’s pure, and he’s... him. Do you think she read his terms and conditions properly?”

Yuji, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear, his chest practically puffed out with pride as though her presence was his personal achievement. “Do you get it now?” he asked, turning toward the two seniors.

“Get what?” Gojo drawled, still squinting at her like she was a science experiment.

“Why she’s perfect for him,” Yuji said simply.

Satoru opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to argue, but Suguru cut him off with a raised hand. “You know what? He’s got a point.”

For a moment, even Satoru was quiet, his gaze drifting back to you. You were now laughing, your head tipped back slightly as the little girl beside her showed off her Skittles-stained tongue. The sound was bright, full, and utterly unrestrained—like you’d never learned how to hold back your joy.

Satoru sighed, flopping against the bench in defeat. “Okay, fine. She’s perfect. Whatever. But I still don’t get how he landed her.”

Suguru chuckled. “Maybe she sees something in him you don’t.”

“Oi, loudmouths—and Suguru. Get your asses moving.”

The voice that rang out was unmistakable: Sukuna, cutting through the chatter with his usual no-nonsense tone.

“Sir, yes sir!” Gojo saluted.

“God, I hate you.”

“Love you too, Captain!”

The gym was buzzing with the typical pre-game chaos, but Sukuna’s attention was elsewhere, drawn by the familiar warmth cutting through the din of the crowd. His gaze swept over the stands, and it didn’t take long for his eyes to land on you.

There you were—unmistakable. Even in the sea of faces, your presence stood out. The way your eyes sparkled when you caught his gaze, the playful curve of your lips as you gave him a wink.

Then, as if the universe had granted him a brief moment of peace in the chaos, you blew him a kiss. A simple gesture that made his chest tighten. He of course caught it effortlessly, bringing a hand to his heart in mock reverence, but it was the next movement that caused something unfamiliar to flicker inside him.

Without missing a beat, his hand dropped to his shoulder, tapping the My Melody sticker with a subtle grin. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to Sukuna, it was his unspoken reply to you affection.

The smile lingered on his face for just a moment longer before he wiped it away, a smirk taking its place as he stood tall, ready to head out onto the court.

Deleted scene:

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT WAS ALL BALL! OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED EYES.”

Your voice sliced through the gym like a whip, sharp enough to make heads turn. Conversations stuttered, sneakers skidded to a stop, and even the referee hesitated for a beat before remembering he was supposed to be an authority figure.

On the court, Sukuna barely reacted—barely. His stance remained firm, shoulders squared as he glared down the ref with the same look that had sent weaker opponents scrambling. But for a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered to the stands, finding you instantly.

His girl.

You were on your feet, fury blazing in your eyes, hands clenched into fists at your sides. The tension in your stance screamed protective, and fuck if that didn’t do something to him.

The gym erupted as the ref made it official. Technical foul on number 20 - Sukuna Ryomen.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “A tech? For what? Looking too scary? Boohoo.”

Satoru’s whistle cut through the noise as he turned to Suguru, his grin lazy but amused. “Oh, this is fun. You ever see someone go feral for Sukuna before?”

Suguru hummed, watching Sukuna carefully. “Not like this.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Satoru mused. “Usually, it’s just people going feral at him.”

Yuji snorted. “Right? And he’s actually letting her.”

Which was the weirdest part. Sukuna hated when people stuck their noses in his business. If this were anyone else—even a coach—he’d have shut them down with a glare and a stay the hell out of it.

But with you?

He was letting you bark at the ref, letting you take up space in his fight.

And even worse?

He liked it.

Whistles blew. The opposing team’s bench erupted into cheers, and the ref signaled for free throws.

“Bullshit,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly over your chest.

��Damn,” Satoru mused from the sidelines, still watching you with newfound amusement. “She’s got more fight in her than half the guys on the court.”

Suguru hummed in agreement. “And he’s actually letting her.”

Yuji grinned. “Ah, shit. She’s really gonna go off.”

And he was absolutely right.

Because as the opposing player stepped up to the free-throw line, your voice rang out again—clear, unwavering, and loud enough for the entire gym to hear.

“Oh, come on! You’re calling that a foul? What, is Sukuna just supposed to breathe and get penalized now? Maybe we should just wrap him in bubble wrap and call it a day!”

Scattered chuckles rippled through the stands, but you weren’t joking. You knew how people saw him—how they wanted to see him. A villain. A monster. A player too aggressive for his own good, a walking technical foul waiting to happen.

They didn’t see the discipline. The precision. The sheer skill it took to dominate the court the way he did.

They didn’t see him.

The ref shot you a warning look, but you only lifted your chin, undeterred.

“Terrible call,” you sang again, just loud enough for Yuji to hear.

“Yeah,” he called back with a chuckle. “But that’s just how it is for him.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration curling in your chest. “It’s not fair.”

Yuji just smiled. “He’s used to it.”

That didn’t make it right.

Back on the court, Sukuna set his stance, waiting for the rebound. He should have been focused—should have been calculating his next move—but instead, his gaze slid sideways, just for a second.

You were still standing. Still fuming on his behalf.

His lips curled.

The first free throw went up. The ball arced high, hit the rim—bounced once, twice—then rolled out.

The crowd erupted into noise, but you? You smirked.

“S’what you get for being weak,” you muttered under your breath, knowing damn well the shooter couldn’t hear you.

Sukuna did.

And though he didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it outright, something about the way he held himself shifted. Shoulders looser. Jaw unclenched.

He wasn’t alone in this.

You had his back.

And for a guy who’d spent most of his life being the villain, that was a weird fucking feeling.

The second free throw went in, but it didn’t matter. The moment the ball was inbounded, Sukuna was a force of nature, tearing down the court with single-minded determination.

And if, after scoring on the very next possession, he just so happened to glance toward the stands—seeking you out, locking eyes for the briefest of moments—well.

That was nobody’s business but his own.

And yours.

a/n: he's a huge red flag but i can't help but romanticize him... anyways sorry its been a while

mwah <3

[sepublic]

OH FUCK????????? NEW SHOW BY DANA TERRACE!!!! WITH OTHER HEAD WRITERS JBO AND ZACH MARCUS FROM OWL HOUSE!!!!!

I’d known for a while that Dana had some project in the works, based on her Patreon ramblings but her own show? An indie show she’s in charge of again?! With the same guys she wrote TOH with, holy crap! And released by Glitch, of The Amazing Digital Circus fame!!!!

It’s glorious. It’s already got gore and cursing. We get to see these writers go unhinged. This is like a gift for me! And it’s surreal that we’re really going to get another story from these writers after all, and without the limitations. I’m really glad to see that less than two years after TOH’s ending, Dana and JBO and Zach are already working on another cartoon that they’re in charge of! I’m really happy to see them get to still create, and on their own terms. Where will they go with this…?

Also I gotta say that the princess’ idyllic dreams contrasting with the gorey reality of her body… Reminds me of this YouTube comment I saw once that really stuck with me, about a skinned frog corpse still making leaping motions, as if it still believes its happily jumping through the lily pads. I REALLY dig that.

There’s not enough to really speculate but if I had to guess, it’s about some fantasy medieval characters being reanimated in the future with technology and grappling with their past lives’ conflict with their current undead existences, and the change and existential horror of death. Like the Homunculi from Fullmetal Alchemist 2003. Yeah…!

I gotta add; I can see a bit of Dana’s art style, as well as the other features of her typical body horror, in this as well! When she said she’d been really looking forward to this year, HOO BOY… I never really imagined how much we’d be getting!

I want to give this project respect as its own thing from TOH as well, but I also gotta acknowledge that I can see just a bit of Collector vibes from this character. But also the juxtaposition of her sleeping pose feels very much like that WAKE UP gag with Hunter, which had been one of the first bits ever written for the show! I’ve looked at Dana’s past artwork too and there’s been a recurring theme of cutesy magical stuff contrasted with an unflinching brutality. Glad to recognize marks of a creator as they create!

[secriden]

Just going to cry again (see: my previous post about the parallels between the storage room scene and the abandoned factory scene) about parallels and juxtapositions in the store room scene vs the one in Styles bedroom:

Both these scenes have such a tone of desperation and are characterised by an overflowing of emotions, but in drastically opposite directions.

(Note, some of what I say in this post directly relates to concepts and themes I talked about here, so it may not wholly make sense without that context.)

The scene in the storeroom is filled with frustrated desire. Fadel kisses Style because he wants Style's body and also wants to take his frustrations at Style out on his body. He doesn't need to look Style in the eye (and in fact very intentionally only does so only in small snatches) because this isn't about a connection as much as it is about a release. Fadel's kisses come fast, hard, and are intended to bruise more than to adore.

But episode 5's scene is filled with much more quiet and tender sort of desire. Style is kissing Fadel so much more slowly and purposefully. He keeps looking back at Fadel, checking in to see how he feels and whether Fadel is enjoying it. Everything Style wanted in Episode 3, he now gives to Fadel here, pours the secrets of his knowing and choosing Fadel anyway into the way he presses his lips onto Fadel's skin. His kisses linger, they carry a weight but are somehow infinitely gentle still; Style's kisses contain a purpose that Fadel's kisses couldn't in Episode 3 because in all honesty they were relative strangers back then.

There's also the way there's such a ferocity and carelessness in the way Fadel starts the encounter in episode 3 that is juxtaposed beautifully by the slow, tender, almost hesitant way Style slides his lips onto Fadel's. Both of them are in such different headspaces, between these episodes and its especially evident in the way they care so much more about the other person's comfort and how intentionally they showed that to the audience.

There's hunger present in both scenes but what this hunger is focused on is so drastically different. In the storeroom, they're both mainly focused on a physical release; its primal and visceral but lacked emotional resonance. Fadel gives Style what he knows Style wants (that hint of danger, with the hand on his neck), but its not because he really cares about what Style wants on anything more than a physical level. In Style's bedroom, however, Fadel is drunk (intentionally and by his own design) and desperate to open himself up to Style on an emotional level. Meanwhile, Style wants that desperately too, but knows that Fadel shouldn't because of his own terrible secret. So this kiss is what they both will allow themselves - an honesty and a hunger for this deeper connection they can only share in act but not in words.

In the storeroom, Style wants Fadel to want more than his body but knows (or thinks) he can't push for it yet, so he remains passive, lets Fadel do whatever he wants, lets him turn and shove and place Style how he wants because at this point, this is all Fadel will give him. Here, Style is passive in spite of what he wants. But in the bedroom, Fadel is passive because it's what he wants; he wants to let Style do whatever he desires to and with Fadel's body. He wants to lay himself as bare as he possibly can, which is only physical, and so he does.

And because the encounter in Episode 3 lacked that emotional connection, the focus is merely their respective releases. There's a sense of two people trying to find pleasure and 'finish' while remaining emotionally disconnected despite actively having sex with each other. Because in some ways, they didn't really need each other in that moment to get there (there's actually a lot of truth in what Fadel says about it being easier to just jerk off alone). In sharp contrast, the scene in Episode 5 isn't focused on the destination but on the journey. Style is taking his time and Fadel is letting him - Style is choosing to worship Fadel's body, with his fingers, with his lips, to respond to his vulnerability with gentleness and tenderness and adoration. The goal has stopped being about finding a release, it's about allowing both these men to revel in the giving and receiving of pleasure.

The point of these scenes is to show to us the ways in which Fadel and Style have grown to care for and, dare I say it, love each other in ways that are so purposefully portrayed by showing the nature of their physical connection. Because the ways in which these scenes are the same and yet so wholly different showcases how their touches are now no longer merely tied to their senses any longer, but also to their hearts as well.

[sparklystarrrr]

May I request a one shot pf Malleus discovering that MC is a white Asian Dragon? While western dragons are associated with fire Asian dragons are associated with water. I just think the contrast are neat.

I remember LOVING dragons when I was younger so this is SO SO exciting to write, thx for the request!💗

Autumn Rain

Synopsis: Malleus comes to the realization that you’re just like him!

Contains: Malleus D. x Gn! Dragon! Reader, starts a big angsty, found family-esque, reader is royalty from their world, awkward love confession

The cool and slightly damp autumnal breeze flowed through (y/n)'s hair. It had been a rather damp evening as the rain had just ceased. Why had it been raining you ask? (Y/n) was upset being all alone in their dorm. It was practically a shell of a dorm from the amount of holes and cracks fled through it, and (y/n)'s low feelings created such a rain storm that a few roof panels had flown off! They stood at the fencing of their rickety dorm, clothes drinking the rain drops scattered on the dark metal. It was dark and silent with only the whispers of the wind catching their pointed ears. It was calming yet hollow, like something was meant to fill the hole where something once was in their heart. Everyone either feared or fell silent around (y/n). 'Why couldn't someone just... want me...' They thought while connecting thick raindrops with the pads of their fingers. A gust of wind strong enough to make the birds fly from their nest shook the trees and (y/n)'s body. Their large tail hadn't even been swaying back and forth as it would usually. Rain drops coated their horns and tail like diamond tears.

Green flickers of fire were riding every gust of wind that touched their face. It danced on their eyelashes and absorbed into their skin. It felt warm to the touch, like a hug. (y/n) welcomed it, albeit hesitant to accept this new embrace. The flickers of green embers grew with every passing second, then a flash of green lights emerged from the front of Ramshackle's fencing. A tall man with winding black horns that pierced the foggy sky. His face was not identifiable to them, but just from his back they knew who it was. The dark and feared Malleus Draconia. His appearance matched effortlessly with the somber setting surrounding the two. (y/n) looked to him, their pure and more delicate appearance becoming a large juxtaposition. It made them almost feel self conscious.

Malleus's hand felt the small drops of water coating the cement brick fencing, dragging his hands to the black metal propped atop the bricks. (y/n) had never before seen such a revered dragon like themself, much less Malleus standing just a few miles away. Of course, they'd spoken to the young prince a couple of times, but they'd concealed their dragon form from him. Not intentionally, it was just that word had gotten out about (y/n)'s true form and he'd never been one to follow the gossip surrounding mortals. Since finding out about (y/n)'s dragon form, people left them. They were too scared to be associated with a dragon even one as pure as them.

Malleus suffered the same fate. Both his status and his species drove people the other way. He was often left alone with only Lilia, Silver or Sebek to keep him company. Even then it never seemed to fill the gaping hole in his chest. Coming to Ramshackle for his daily walks would remove that pain even for just a bit. The two were alone, yet they hadn’t yet figured out a way to be together. There’s no true cure to loneliness after all. They were mentally two worlds apart. It was as if the idea of a feeling of company filling the cup loneliness emptied was set in front of the two yet they didn't drink. They couldn't even bear glancing in its direction.

In a sudden impulse, (y/n) glimpsed at the enticing cup.

Malleus did the same.

Their feet moved across the cobblestone, pacing slowly towards the tall male without a second thought. They stopped abruptly at the sight of him walking as well. He took a long stride across the stones beneath his feet, wet and slippery from the prior rain. His posture hadn't weakened. He seemed as stiff as ever. 'He is like the tall bamboo trees from my home..' (y/n) thought nostalgically. They sighed, curling their hand and manipulating the water off the dead blades of grass into whirling and dancing shapes.

While walking around the gloomy dorm, Malleus found himself feeling a sudden bright and lightweight feeling. Something strong yet pure. It felt like it was dragging him in but he had no clue what this new pulling feeling was coming from. There was a sudden curiosity in his movements, shifting his head in multiple directions slowly while keeping his poised expression and stature. His eyes followed, suddenly finding an illuminating figure in his trail of sight.

They had the aura and glow of a pure white light and a long scaled tail that dragged lazily behind. They had branch like horns sprouting atop their head, and gorgeous flowing hair getting gently played with in the breeze. There was something so familiar about them. Like this was someone he'd known before. His eyes traced the figure in deep thought. He walked closer, as if this was a risk worth taking. Like he needed to know who or what the figure was.

His feet moved with a hint of urgency. They guided him towards the figure that he made out to be (y/n). Their (e/c) eyes were wide open with uncertainty as were his. Seeing Malleus so vulnerable and confused was a new discovery in itself. But to Malleus, finding that you're in fact a dragon, exactly like him, made his lonely heart soar. He couldn't even find it in himself to try and hide that fact."Child of Man, it seems your're not so human after all..." Not even his normally monotone voice could hide the growing smile on his lips as he spoke.

"Yes, that I am not. I'm a White Dragon, royalty of the West Sea in my home land..." Their voice dragged off."...I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.." Their words fell under their breath in shame. A light drizzle fell like the tears that had yet to muster from their shining (e/c) eyes. Malleus shook his head with a chuckle that shook them from their thoughts. "Do not fret, I don't mind. I presume coming out about this was much too distressing to handle alone, no? Let me shoulder the burden with you." He held his hand out, reminding them that he was there.

They shivered,"N-no Malleus I just- I can't... What if it were to take a toll on you as well?" A small chuckle rumbled in his chest from their anxieties. His hand forward. "You forget that I myself am just like you." He took their delicate hand in his. "I go through these challenges the same way you have, let us carry them alongside each other." They hesitated. "Do you really believe that would be okay..?" (y/n)'s soft yet piercing eyes glazed over Malleus embracing their hand. It was warm once again. Like the flames he breathed. Like the ignition growing in both of their hearts.

"I do not mind one bit, Child of the Sea. My heart has drawn closer to you all this time. Being an output to your worries brings much contentment."His thumb brushed the top of their hand gently. 'Was this a confession..? No... I'm overthinking.' (y/n) thought hard. They felt a sense of companionship between them. "I've felt drawn in as well... but why are you telling me this, Malleus?" (y/n) was clouded in their own thoughts. He exhaled, a few green embers of fire flew from his lips,"This form of yours is something I wish not to part from. It has captured my heart. It beats for you at a pace I am not yet familiar with, fast and loud, like it is inside my ears." He dragged their hand to his chest, feeling the thumping of his heart.

An airy gasp left their lips. The drizzling rain stopped and left a jewel-like finish on both of their horns. Was this the end of their loneliness? Was this really someone who wanted them? Was this a dream? A million thoughts raced through their head, lips parting ever so slightly. Malleus's face faltered a bit."...You are not mandated to accept these feelings of mine if you are nonreciprocating of them-" "I-I..." Malleus paused at the sudden soft stutter in (y/n)'s voice.

"..I feel the same." Their soft lips spoke just above a whisper. A sudden firework set off between them and suddenly Malleus was pulling them in by their arm. He closed the space between them into an intimate embrace. His arms wrapped around their body like they would disappear if he loosened them by a hair. His fingers tangled into their (h/c) hair, lips near their ear "You truly mean that..?"

"Yes.. Malleus." Their arms draped over the tall man's neck. Their sudden feeling of loneliness started subsiding. They felt the weight of that nagging burden fly off their shoulders. And suddenly, that gap in their heart was filled. Filled with Malleus, his company, his new found love. The same applied for him. He felt that gaping hole in his heart suddenly fill up with their voice, their presence, everything about (y/n). Neither of them would ever let go. Not ever. They found each other, and in them they found the same souls, same struggles, same everything. Two dragons of contrasting elements made no match for the magic conjuring in their hearts. Their love defied all.

EVERYONE PLSSS LISTEN TO THE DAISOMNIA BLAZING JEWEL MV IT'S ACTUALLY INCREDIBLE I WAS ASCENDING THE WHOLE TIME

[conchcronch]

Kinktober 2024: Day 9

WC: 3195

Summary: You've discussed it, you've planned it, set your boundaries, now it's time for Sanji to watch the main event.

Zoro’s calloused hands felt so different in contrast to Sanji’s. The pads of the cook’s fingers were soft, his nails cut short enough as to not leave crescents along your skin when over excited. But Zoro’s were the opposite. Where Sanji was soft, Zoro was ruff, almost gritty with callouse. Where Sanji was gentle, Zoro was anything but. The way his hands gripped at the fat of your hips as he manhandled you against the wall, your back hitting the wall with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His kiss was all teeth and tongue, nipping at your lips with a hand on the back of your head controlling your every movement. 

You couldn’t deny how much you were enjoying this juxtaposition, the moans streaming from your obstructed mouth was all the proof Zoro needed of that. Although, just to be sure, the hand that had been on the back of your head slid its way down your body, before roughly forcing its way into your leggings. “Fuck you’re so wet.” He spoke directly into your mouth, the words coming out as a growl. His teeth pulled your bottom lip before he moved his lips from yours, allowing the moan you tried to swallow to slip out as he pressed his fingers deeper “You know who I bet would love to see how wet I got you?” All you could do was whine, a cocky smile across his lips that were wet with your saliva ”Cook.” He pulled his face away from you, looking over his shoulder as he shoved his fingers further into you moving them around to gather as much of you as he could between pulling them out. He held his hand up as he displayed the way your fluid webbed between his fingers, shining wetly in what little light there was in the room. “You see how wet I got your woman?” 

“Don’t be me-“ You were cut off by him shoving his slick covered digits into your mouth, muffling any further protests you had. 

“Mmm yeah baby, suck on those fingers like you’re gonna’ suck on my cock.” He started to pull them out from between your lips before thrusting them back in. His eyes glued to the way you greedily sucked on his fingers, your tongue lapping along his knuckles the way he knew you’d run it along the underside of his cock. Every time he pulled them out, thrusting them back into your mouth he fed off the quiet mm that managed to slip out from around his fingers. 

”We had an agreement.” Your boyfriend’s voice was much more level than you expected. The smell of his nicotine filled the small bedroom from where he sat in an armchair next to the bed, his body obscured by the swordsman’s who groaned as though he forgot the other man was in the room.

“Yeah yeah, like she won’t be begging for more.” Zoro’s gaze didn’t leave yours as you sucked greedily at his fingers. “Isn’t that right, baby girl.” You nodded as he slowly pulled his fingers from your lips, dragging them along your chin until he could roughly grope your still covered breast. “You ready for me to fuck you in front of your stupid dart brow?” He didn’t wait for you to confirm, you three had talked about it beforehand, he knew you wanted it, saw the way you had clenched your thighs when you met the day before to discuss it.  

He pulled you from the wall, shoving you towards the bed of which you fell back into. He stood over you, looking over your form, eyes scanning over you for long enough you began to squirm. You hazarded a look at the man next to the bed, his leg was perched atop his knee, cigarette between his lips, his hand gripping his calf tightly. His blazer was folded carefully over the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows. You knew that if he moved his legs you could see his cock straining through his slacks, but he was determined to ignore it until Zoro had left. 

Your attention was dragged back to the green haired man as he grabbed the waist of your leggings and yanked them down your legs and tossing them on the floor. The look in his eyes reminded you of a tiger that had just nabbed a wild boar and was getting ready to take its first bite. “Shirt off.” He demanded as he pulled his own shirt off, followed by him unzipping his pants. You could just barely see green hairs peaking out from under his pants before he pulled his cock out, stroking it slowly as he watched you pull your shirt over your head. “Such an obedient girl” You tried to close your legs, to give your cunt some kind of pleasure, but he was quick to grab your leg, pulling you to the edge of the bed. 

He stepped into you, still holding onto your calf as he rubbed the head of his cock against your slit. You raised your hips, enjoying the way his bulbous head slid between your folds, pausing for a second to smack it against your clit. It wasn’t until you felt him press into you, the sting of stretch forced a sharp intake of breath as you propped yourself up on your elbows “Wha-wait it’s, it’s too b-big“ You sputtered out, the look of confusion evident on the swordsman’s face, but he paused nevertheless. 

”You can’t just f- god you’re so stupid.” Sanji’s brow twitched in irritation, trying to keep his voice even as he rubbed a hand over his face. “No wonder you can’t get a woman.” 

“Who says I want a woman, seems like I’m doing a pretty good job with your’s.” Zoro turned to lock eyes with the man behind him, his head still stretched your hole as they argued. 

“You’re such a moron, you have to stretch her out.” He heavily sighed, falling back against his chair as his eyes fell back on you, his brows knit together in concern, but when you nodded, silently reassuring him you saw him relax again.

He stepped back, letting go of your leg and leaving you dangling over the side of the bed with him still between your legs. He slowly lowered himself down onto his knees, on hand still on his cock, lazily stroking it as he pushed his middle finger into your hole with ease. Quickly adding a second one, the sound of his hand smacking against your slick folds seemed almost deafening in the quiet room, but when you felt his warm breath against your cunt a long moan fell from your lips. His mouth was on you before Sanji had a chance to protest. You could feel him groan against you, working a third finger into your as he mouthed at your clit, his eyes closed as he enjoyed your taste. 

“My love.” You hummed at Sanji, moving your head to look at him, your eyes heavy and a constant flow of breathy ah’s coming from your open mouth. “How does his mouth feel?” 

“So good, ‘ji.” You could feel Zoro groan against you, clearly not liking that you’re being distracted from all his hard work.

”At least he can use his big mouth for something.” You watched as Sanji blew a perfect smoke ring in the opposite direction. “And his fingers, what’s he doing with them?” 

“He-he keeps c-curving them up and fuck it feels so-o good.” He hummed, and you didn’t know it but for a brief second the cook and swordsman lock eyes before you can feel Zoro smirk against your cunt. 

“She tastes real good, cook. Better than anything you’ve made.” Sanji sighed, knowing he was right. ”Wanna’ taste?” He asked, tongue flicking against your clit and fingers fucking into you with abandon. Sanji stayed quiet, knowing he had no intention of participating with a brute like him, he would get his fill of you afterwards. As he pushed in a fourth finger, which was a bit wider than his cock, you were so far gone you didn’t even feel the low ebb of stretch. His tongue lapping at your clit, getting under your hood and abusing the raw nerve endings almost to the point of discomfort but you knew you were going to be tossed over the edge and into the waves of your climax. 

Your body arched, your thighs clenching around his head as you grabbed his short hair, holding him against your cunt. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, slowly becoming less and less until you were just a whining mess of overstimulation, whimpering in hopes the swordsman would pull away from your pulsing clit. Which he eventually did, wiping his face on the back of his arm as he pulled his fingers from your cunt. If you hadn’t been so out of it, you would have questioned why he stood up and walked towards Sanji, but all you could do in that moment was silently follow him as he cleared the distance between him and the chair. “Open.” Sanji furrowed his brows, looking like he was about to say something but when he opened his mouth to speak, Zoro pushed two fingers into his mouth. “Tastes good, don’t she?” In your current state you were completely incapable of stopping the long drawn out moan at the sight of these two men sharing a strangely erotic moment as you laid out naked on the bed watching them, slowly beginning to understand why Sanji had been so interested in watching the two of you. Both their heads turned to you, clearly surprised by your reaction. Zoro smirked and Sanji’s face flushed a bright red, moving his head to silently urge Zoro to pull his fingers out from his mouth. 

“Come on baby girl, bring your ass this way so we can give Curly a front row seat.” He grabbed your leg, pulling you around the curve of the bed so Sanji could get a clear view of your slick cunt. He tugged your leg, bringing you right to the edge of the bed again, stroking his cock slowly although it clearly hadn’t softened in the least. He rubbed his tip along your folds, smacking it against your clit like he had before and watched how you squirmed, hips bucking to try to guide his cock to your entrance. “Someone’s needy.” You couldn’t help but nod as he slowly pushed into you. 

There was no way in hell you could have handled his girth had he not prepped you, even after all that, the sting of his thickness was still apparent. But as he leaned over you, he watched your expression, pausing when you scrunched your nose and then resuming slowly when you relaxed. “Taking me so well.” His jaw was tight, his exhales coming out through his nose as you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix. He leaned back, standing up and guiding your legs up to his shoulders, pausing to press a kiss to your right ankle. “See how well she’s taking me, Curls? Gonna stretch her out nice and good for you.” You were watching Sanji as Zoro began slowly thrusting in and out of you. 

“Sanji” your voice was breathy and you reached a hand out to him, even though you knew he wouldn’t take it, having made it very clear he had no intention of crossing the threshold of the bed until Zoro had left. 

“Yes my love” 

You opened your mouth to say something to your partner, but Zoro made sure to thrust particularly hard into you so all that came out was a startled moan. 

“Hey, pay attention to me, not him.” When you met his gaze again he hummed “yeah that’s it baby girl, keep those pretty eyes on me.” His thrusts were speeding up, and when he leaned over you, forcing your knees to your chest in a mating press you began seeing stars. His head was pressed into your shoulder, a slew of animalistic groans were pressed into your skin as his hips began to lose their rhythm. “Cook” his voice was uneven, you could even call it a little breathy as he called to the man watching the whole encounter. “You’re gonna’ have to tell me where to cum, cuz I’m gettin’ close” he had to speak up to be heard over you, moaning every time his cock head bullies your cervix. 

“I thought you could last longer than this.” You could hear how smug Sanji was.

“She’s squeezing me like crazy I-I won’t last!” 

“Where do you want to cum?” 

“F-fuck you, just tell me!” His hips were beginning to stutter, pausing for a bit longer when he was fully inside of you each time. “Can’t fuckin’ think right now.” His teeth were clenched as he pressed his head into your chest, his forehead sticky with sweat and his breath hot on your skin. His thrusts were so hard that you were steadily pushed back onto the bed, forcing him to kneel on the mattress, curving his body over you. 

“I think you can hold out longer then this.” The tone Sanji used a tone you instantly recognized, even in your sex fogged state. It was the tone he used on the very rare occasions he wanted to tease you. You felt Zoro groan more then you heard it, his arms moved from holding your legs that were pressed between your torsos to supporting his weight on either side of your head. 

“I’m always quite partial to finishing inside her,” You wanted to see his expression, see how he was managing to somehow keep his cool demeanor, cigarette held lazily between his index and middle finger, his head cocked to the side as he watched how uneven Zoro’s thrusts were becoming. “But that’s just for me,” He couldn’t stop the small laugh when Zoro swore into your skin, catching the fat of your breast between his front teeth “You could always cum on her stomach, but I bet she’d prefer it on her face,” he paused for a second, the long moan that slipped out from between Zoro’s teeth was like music to his ears. He was enjoying this so much more then he ever expected, something about getting to poke at his crewmate while watching you being fucked harder then he could find it in himself to do, it was turning him on more then he wanted to admit. “Knowing you, you’d probably get it in her hair.” 

“Cook” The three of you all knew that was a moan, a long drawn out moan from the swordsman. It caught Sanji entirely off guard, the throb of his cock making his hand cover his mouth to stifle the moan. Even in your cock drunk state, you thought it was the hottest thing to ever leave the green haired man’s mouth, but you swore to yourself that you’d never mention it.

“Fine, cum on her pretty pussy, but don’t ever say I don’t do anything nice for you.” He tried to sound disinterested, but when Zoro sat up straight you were finally able to see the blonde’s face. His grip on his cigarette was so tight, that he had crunched what little of the butt remained, his cheeks were pink and his eyes were glued to the last full thrust Zoro did before pulling out of your cunt and cumming almost instantly. The combination of your body clenching around nothing and the feeling of warm cum coating your folds felt like nothing you've experienced before. Zoro’s whole body tensed, his stomach clenching as he dug his nails into the fat of your thighs. 

“S-Sanji” The ache in your cunt was all you could think about. Your clit was ebbing as you clenched around nothing, the coolness of his drying cum was making your already sensitive body whine. 

“Yes my princess,”

”Can he make me cum one more time, please?” He finally forced his gaze away from your cum covered cunt, his mouth practically watering “I’m so close, all I would need is him to press his fin- Oh my f- yes-s” before Sanji could answer, your sentence was turned into a slew of moans as you felt Zoro’s thumb move in firm but slow circles around your clit. You used the leverage you had from his shoulders to buck your hips up in a silent plea for more. 

“Think she deserves another one, Cook?” Zoro’s voice is gravelly, exactly how he sounds after a long nap. 

“She was very well behaved.” As if Sanji ever doubted you. “Give her one last one before you go.” 

Zoro’s thumb maintained the same speed while putting more pressure on your bud. “Come on baby girl, give me one more.” He pressed slow kisses to the inside of your knee while using his free hand to hold onto your calf. You nodded, your eyes squeezed closed as you tried to speak, tried to tell him how close you were. “Your cunt is all sticky, all covered in my cum.” He was dragged his lips over your leg, nipping occasionally. “Is your cook gonna clean it up for you?” Both you and Sanji seemed to moan simultaneously. “Come on princess, don’t make him wait all night.” His use of your favorite of Sanji’s nicknames for you was what threw you over the edge for the second, and surely not the last time that night. He kept his thumb pressed on your clit until you fell limp against the bed, eyes open but not seeing. 

You could feel him slowly guide your legs off his shoulders, leaning over you to press a kiss to your temple as your brain slowly rebooted itself. 

“This better not be the last time you let me join, Curls.” You blinked a few times, gaze drawn to the two men in front of you. Zoro, lazily stroking his half hard cock as he stood next to Sanji, who was trying desperately not to stare at the swordsman’s crotch. 

“We’ll see.” Sanji stood up, his hand coming up to knot of his tie, working it loose. 

“Seemed like you enjoyed it” Zoro said in a cocky tone, nodding towards the very apparent tent in Sanji’s slacks. 

“At least I don’t finish as quickly as you do.” He retorted proudly. 

“Guess only round two will tell.” He said with a shrug as he shoved himself back into his sweat pants, pulling his shirt over his head. He paused for a second, as though he was going to say something else but thought better of it. Opening the door enough to slip out before closing it behind him. 

By the time you looked away from the door and back to Sanji, he was on his knees, his hands on your hips pulling you to the edge of the bed, his tongue immediately lapping at the drying cum that coated your folds. You knew you would be in for a long night.

[sy-on-boy]

These "non main plot" related arcs do hit me in the chest. The anti-war sentiment is conveyed poignantly and consistently throughout the series. I think it is important to dedicate chapters to one of the key messages of SxF. The stark juxtaposition between the (mostly) wholesome and funny daily lives of the Forgers and the suffering the adults experienced in the past. These chapters serve to shows us the history we (and characters) shouldn't repeat. It adds to why we and the characters should be invested in the lofty mission of "world peace", because war / conflict is a horror that affects everyone and permeates through basically the entire cast. From our leads to side characters like Millie. Yes, the tone of SxF is generally cheerful, but it sobers up appropriately to remind us of the traumas these characters have experienced, and yet kindness persists in a post-war world (or inter-war period).

Regarding the theme of education and its affect on the young, I liked how Endo showed Eden during wartime in contrast to the period of relative peace we've always seen at Eden (with underlying tensions, of course). Staff and students receiving unfortunate news about their family and having to continue with their day. Hiding in shelters. Henry trying to teach young kids who sleep in his lessons. Martha's despair over her dreams being shattered by the war and her resolve to protect. Henry and Martha aren't kids anymore, but they're still young, fresh graduates from a privileged school who jump into society (and are forced to participate in the war). It gives us a haunting vision of what life could be, and makes us appreciate that Anya and the kids don't have to deal with this at the moment.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Seven

A/N: again, temporary shitty formatting, will go back and fix tonight. Let me know how you feel about this because I feel like it's just... idk edited bad? A little disjointed? IDK. Would also love some feedback on how everyone is doing with the mega-chapters- hate it, love it?

Series Masterlist

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Max should be relaxed. This- the sun, the open water, the lazy sway of the yacht beneath him- is everything he loves. Everything he worked for. Everything that’s supposed to make all the bullshit worth it.

He shifts slightly, just enough to lie flat on his back- the cushion molding to his body, designed for peak comfort, peak relaxation, peak fuck you money. He should be enjoying it. He wants to be enjoying it. The sky above is a ridiculous shade of blue, the kind that looks fake in pictures, and the only sound should be the occasional splash of water against the hull, the low hum of the engines idling beneath deck.

But he’s not.

He props himself up on one elbow, pushing his sunglasses down his nose just enough to squint across the deck. Jos’s iPad is blaring through its shitty little speakers, cutting through the peace with the sharp, mechanical sound of an engine at full tilt. Max doesn’t even need to look to know what it is.

It’s her.

Not her, exactly. But the sound of her voice, the revs of her engine, the way Jos keeps narrating her fucking onboard like he’s a commentator watching a championship-defining lap.

Jos is sitting there, completely transfixed, eyes narrowed in that way he gets when he’s properly impressed by something. The onboard from her rally. Her first ever rally in a Verstappen.com car, and Jos has it cranked up loud enough that Max can hear every gear change, every throttle feather, every sharp inhale through her radio.

It’s all he’s been doing. LeChriste this, LeChriste that. Her sector times. Her throttle application. Her ability to adapt to a completely different style of driving with barely any prep. Ever since she showed up at Spa, since she pulled off that miracle debut and then landed herself under Jos’s roof for the summer break, her name has been coming up over and over and over again. In conversation. In analysis. In comparisons Max never fucking asked for.

Jos talks about her like she’s the best fucking thing since power steering, and it’s starting to drive Max insane. It’s the way Jos sounds when he talks about her. There’s something there- pride, approval, something that Max has spent years chasing and has only ever gotten in fractions. And now, here it is, spilling out unchecked over a girl who’s been in their orbit for all of five minutes.

Max is used to his dad talking about other drivers. Criticizing them, usually. Or, occasionally, begrudgingly admitting when someone’s done something particularly impressive. But this? This is different. Jos isn’t just impressed. He’s... invested. Like she's is some kind of prodigy he’s just discovered, like Max is supposed to be taking notes instead of relaxing on his own damn vacation.

He shifts, trying to sink deeper into the lounger, trying to let the sun soak into him and drown out the sound, but the juxtaposition is all wrong- too much heat in his chest, too much irritation curling under his skin. It’s not that Max disagrees. She’s good. More than good. He’s seen enough himself to know she’s sharp, instinctive, ruthless in her precision.

That’s not the point. The point is that Jos won’t fucking shut up about her.

Max should be used to this- his father latching onto some new project, some new fixation, talking in circles about potential and raw talent, about work ethic and hunger and how rare it is to find someone who really, really wants it.

But this feels different. Because it’s not just the praise. It’s the contrast.

Max knows exactly what’s happening, even if Jos doesn’t spell it out. The way he talks about her in front of Max isn’t just admiration. It’s a fucking shift. Like something is being reallocated, rerouted, redirected- approval, attention, investment. Things that Max has spent his whole life starving for, things he’s fought for, bled for, won for. Things that Jos only ever doles out in precise, measured increments.

But the words keep reaching him, carried over by the lazy sea breeze. The way she commits to the throttle, no hesitation- real control, real talent- instinctive, like she just knows where the grip is going to be before the car even tells her- 

It’s stupid. It’s fucking stupid. It doesn’t even have logic behind it. He’s not losing anything. He’s Max fucking Verstappen- he’s fine. He’s better than fine. He’s winning.

She’s some rookie. Some no-name wildcard they threw into the deep end and who, yeah, sure, did fine for herself, but- so what? Plenty of drivers have had a good debut race. Plenty of drivers have shown potential.

But Jos is talking like she’s something special. Like she’s something rare, something worth nurturing, something that deserves his attention, investment, time. Not from RedBull, or an Indy Team, or from the rally crew- Jos’s attention. And that- that- is the part that sits wrong.

Because Max has spent his entire life scraping for every ounce of attention, every inch of approval, every goddamn breadcrumb of acknowledgment. It has never been handed to him freely. Not once. Not even when he was seventeen, when he was doing things no one else his age had even attempted, when he was proving himself on a stage far bigger than any kid had any right to be on. Even then, even after all of it, there was always more to do, always more to prove, always the expectation that he was still falling short of what he should be.

And yet.

Jos is sitting there on the other side of the deck, speaking about some girl- some newcomer- with the kind of casual admiration Max has spent his whole life bleeding for. And maybe it’s not rational, maybe it’s not even fair, but it doesn’t fucking sit right with him.

“Listen to this,” Jos calls, rewinding a section of the video. “The way she handles the weight transfer through this hairpin- smooth as hell. And her time- decimated the women’s class,” Jos continues, and Max already knows where this is going, “would have put her top twenty overall. Against world-level men. And that’s with four years away from rally.”

“Fantastic,” Max mutters, not even hiding the sarcasm. “Maybe you should adopt her.”

Jos rewinds again. 

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The water is punishment.

It’s not leisure, not relaxation, not some luxurious indulgence in the middle of a summer break that barely feels real. It’s a means to an end- an outlet, a discipline, a place to put all the restless energy that would otherwise consume you.

You cut through the pool like a blade, pushing your body until your muscles scream for relief, until your lungs burn with the effort. The water resists you, but you don’t yield. You push harder, kicking off the wall, flipping into another lap, willing yourself to stay in motion because the alternative is stillness, and stillness means thinking.

And thinking is starting to become dangerous.

The first thing that strikes you about Jos’s estate is the silence. Not just the absence of noise, but the kind of cultivated, deliberate quiet that feels designed to make you self-conscious for existing too loudly. Every footstep you take on the polished floors seems to ripple outward, like you’re disturbing the air itself.

It’s sleek. Minimalistic to the point of sterility. Expansive windows, impossibly clean surfaces, not a single item out of place. It’s the kind of house you’d see in a luxury design magazine, all angles and expensive materials and perfectly curated furniture. But there’s nothing comfortable about it. You can’t imagine curling up on one of the pristine sofas with a bag of chips or leaving a coffee mug on the counter without feeling like you’ve committed some kind of crime.

This is not a house built for a family with small children.

It’s the opposite of home.

At home, on the ranch, there’s always something happening. Music playing somewhere- an old country station drifting out of the kitchen radio, or your dad gently playing his upright during the winter. Blankets draped over the couch, dog hair on the floor, the faint smell of dinner lingering long after the meal’s been eaten. Someone is always yelling, or laughing, or arguing over something stupid and irrelevant. The coffee table has rings from too many iced teas set down without coasters, and the fridge is covered in drawings, wedding invitations, and passive-aggressive notes about who used the last of the milk and put the carton back. 

This house has none of that.

It feels like a showroom. Not a home anyone actually lives in.

Jos is rarely seen, though you’re not sure if that’s because the house is too big and you refuse to go wandering around like some nosy guest- or if he’s genuinely not here much. You don’t ask. You just make yourself small, sticking to the one guest room you were given, keeping your things neatly confined to one side of it like you’re afraid spreading out might get you evicted.

His wife, Sandy, and their two little kids- kids you’ve only heard about in passing- are ghosts. You don’t see them, don’t hear them. There’s no trace of them in the halls, no toys underfoot, no fingerprints on the windows. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Jos lived alone.

It leaves you disoriented, this strange purgatory you’ve landed in. You’re a guest- but a guest with a job to do. You’re part of this family’s life- but not really. You’re in the house- but you don’t feel like you belong in it.

It makes you ache for the mess of home. For your mom yelling at your brother from the front porch. For the cluttered kitchen table where you could dump your boots and your bag without anyone batting an eye. For the knowledge that even if you fucked up, even if you crashed the truck or broke a fence or left the horse water on for two-goddamn-days, there would still be a place for you at the table at dinner.

Here, you’re not sure if you’re even allowed to breathe too hard. So you breathe quietly. You stay out of the way. You do your job. And in the absence of all that noise -  the team, the travel, the sheer adrenaline of the race -  you were left with nothing but this house.

This too-perfect, too-big, too-clean house. It’s the opposite of home, and after the first week, you stop trying to make yourself fit. You withdraw, pulling yourself inward until you’re nothing but a tightly wound knot of need and fear and simmering grief.

This doesn’t feel like a fever dream anymore.

It feels real. And it feels lonely.

So you do what you always do when the world feels too big and you feel too small -  you work harder.

You trained like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Long runs through the private trails that snake around the property, your feet pounding against the dirt until you couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Weight circuits in the sterile home gym, counting reps like prayers. You threw yourself into the sim like it’s a lifeline, lap after lap after lap until you couldn’t feel your hands, until your back locked up from the seat.

And the media room? The one with the absurdly large television and the fancy built-in sound system no one uses? You commandeered it. It took you nearly a week to strike up the nerve to use a piece of tape on the concrete wall, but when nobody notices, well, game on. 

It had become your war room -  screens glowing with onboard footage, data sheets pinned to the walls by the dozens, your notebook spread open across the coffee table like a sacred text. You track every lap, every sector time, every weather pattern that might affect a future race.

You studied Max, Pierre, Yuki, Checo -  everyone who’s touched a Red Bull or AlphaTauri in the last five years, because that’s the data you have best access to. Used every publicly available resource to reverse engineer the drives of the rest of the grid- likes, dislikes, the way they behave when you breathe down their neck. You built profiles like dossiers, not because anyone asked you to, but because it’s the only way you know how to cope.

You can’t afford to let this house, this silence, this emptiness swallow you whole.

Because if you stop -  even for a second -  you’re afraid you’ll have to actually feel everything you’ve lost.

Beyond the trianing, the studying, the past two weeks had passed in a blur so muted it’s hard to call them memories. It’s like you’re sleepwalking through someone else’s life -  inhabiting a body that isn’t quite yours, in a house that definitely isn’t yours, orbiting a family you only ever catch glimpses of. You know, logically, that you must have interacted with Jos when he was home, with Sandy and the kids when they drifted into your periphery, but none of it sticks. The details smear like rain on a windshield.

Your mom calls often- her voice cutting through the heavy quiet of your room, a lifeline back to something real. You let her talk, let her fill the space with questions you don’t always have the answers to, let her remind you that there’s a world outside of this strange, sterile limbo you’ve trapped yourself in.

You practice interviews, run through talking points until they blur together, until you can recite them without thinking, until you don’t have to feel anything when you say them. You give a few real ones, too- stiff and overly rehearsed in front of your laptop camera, forcing your mouth to stretch into smiles that never quite reach your eyes.

And then there’s Illinois. The friends you left behind when you peeled out of Dale Coyne’s garage for the last time. The life you abandoned so abruptly it still doesn’t feel entirely real. They packed it up for you- your entire existence reduced to eight large boxes, shipped off to the ranch like you had died and left them to sort through the remains.

You have no intention of going back. No reason to.

Illinois had been fine. But you hadn’t particularly liked it. It had been convenient, that was all- an unfortunate necessity dictated by a contract. And now? Now, you’re not a Dale Coyne driver anymore. You’re not a driver at all, technically.

That version of you- the one who compromised and shrunk and swallowed her pride to make it work- is dead. But there’s nothing triumphant about it. No blaze of glory. No catharsis.

Just a slow, unceremonious burial.

The water muffles everything -  sound, thought, even time. You’ve long since lost count of how many laps you’ve done, working on pure autopilot, pulling yourself through each length of the pool like it might save you. Your muscles burn, lungs tight, but you love that. You need that.

You flip at the wall, streamline into another lap, and when your face breaks the surface, you suck in a breath and- 

Jesus fucking Christ.

Jos Verstappen is standing at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, looming like a goddamn specter in his own backyard.

Your body reacts before your brain does- shoulders jerking, legs kicking out a little harder than necessary. You swallow a yelp, nearly inhaling water instead, and spend the next few seconds choking as you tread in place, blinking up at him in disbelief. How does a man that large move that quietly? Why does he move that quietly? Had he been standing there the whole time? Just watching?

You wipe water from your face, forcing yourself to settle, but it’s not just that he scared you- it’s that look. That impossible-to-read, mildly disapproving, permanently unimpressed look he always seems to wear, like he’s perpetually finding the world just slightly inadequate. You haven’t seen him in days- long enough to start assuming that was just how things worked in this house, long enough to get used to his absence. And now, out of nowhere, this.

God, Dutch people are so unsettling.

You grew up in America, where small talk is a sport; raced in the South, where politeness is practically a religion. In Texas, even the people who hate you smile when they pass by- hell, especially the people who hate you. Here? Not so much. Jos looks at you like you’re a project car someone left rusting in his driveway. Like you might have potential, but you’ll probably just disappoint him. And he’s saving himself the trouble of getting attached.

You open your mouth, trying to decide between hello and Jesus Christ, a little warning next time, but Jos speaks first. “Dinner.” His voice is flat as concrete. “Six o’clock. Family table. Be there.” There’s no question in his tone, no invitation. It’s a command. A summoning.

And just like that, he turns and walks off, disappearing back into the house without another word, leaving you blinking chlorinated water out of your eyes. That’s it? No explanation? No further details? No casual Hey, we eat together sometimes, thought you might want to join?

Just an edict, dropped at the edge of the pool like a brick through a windshield. Your arms ache as you tread water, your mind racing faster than your pulse. After three weeks of being ignored, of feeling like an unwelcome ghost in this house, you’re suddenly being called to the table like a member of the family. Except you know- you know- you’re not.

This isn’t hospitality. This isn’t warmth.

This is something else.

You pull yourself out of the pool, water rolling off your skin, and stand there for a moment, toes curling against the tile, wondering what the hell you’ve just been invited to. You mull it over as you towel off and slip back to your room- quietly, always quietly- for a shower.

You stand in the vast, spotless bathroom, steam curling out of the shower as it warms, towel clutched in one hand. You stare at your reflection like the answers might be written somewhere in the fogged-up mirror. Family dinner. What the hell does that even mean here? In this house, where silence feels like the default setting, where everything from the marble floors to the air itself feels staged, deliberate, untouchable.

Family dinner back home meant something entirely different- melamine plates around the kitchen peninsula, your brother in a dirty t-shirt, your mom threatening to stab someone with a fork if they tried to eat before grace. Laughter that got too loud, bickering that somehow always circled back to love. It meant elbows on the table and phones face-down. It meant warmth, mess, familiarity.

Here? Family dinner feels like an ambush.

You mull over what to wear as you rinse the chlorine out. Something that seems put together without trying too hard, probably. First order of business when you had got here was your several loads of laundry- Nomex in its own load, casual clothes in another, your scant selection of blouses and a single set of trousers in another. None of it really seems right. 

You mom, bless her, had packed up a box for you the moment she had found out you were staying. It showed up on the doorstep of the Verstappen house this morning. There’s got to be something in there. 

You peel the tape on the lid back to reveal neatly folded stacks of fabric- soft cotton, well-worn denim, a few crisp button-ups that still faintly smell like the laund- wait. Wait wait wait. The second you spot the familiar, glorious, eye-searing purple bag peeking out from the pile of clothes your mom sent, all rational thought evaporates.

Taki’s. Holy fucking shit.

You barely get the towel cinched around yourself before you’re tearing into the package, fingers already itching with the promise of neon-red dust and salt and heat. You’d known your mother would come through for you- she always does- but this? This is divine intervention. This is a goddamn oasis of flavor in the middle of this bland, minimalist, Dutch penitentiary.

You grab a handful, practically shoving the rolled chips into your mouth, and the moment that neon-red dust hits your tongue, it’s transcendent.

The first crunch is loud in the silence of your guest room, shattering against your teeth, setting every taste bud on fire in the best way possible. The tang of artificial lime burns the sides of your tongue, the heat from the chili powder kicks in a second later, and you actually moan. Like, audibly. The kind of sound that should only ever be made in response to something significantly more R-rated than processed corn snacks.

You don’t care.

You don’t care that you’re curled up on the edge of your too-pristine, too-expensive guest bed, fingers already stained nuclear red, demolishing this bag like a woman starved. Because you are. You’re starved for home, for anything remotely familiar, for something that doesn’t feel polished and muted and cold.

Dutch food, you’ve discovered, is the culinary equivalent of being scolded. Plain. Disciplined. A diet that seems fundamentally opposed to the concept of joy. It’s all soft cheeses and boiled potatoes and bread so dense it could be classified as a weapon. Even their seasonings are hesitant, cautious little dashes of salt that taste more like a vague suggestion than an actual decision. You’d decided about day three that you’d prefer to stick to your own brand of flavorless- endless chicken and rice, meal prepped in bulk, because while it might not be interesting, it at least hasn’t been boiled within an inch of it’s life. 

But this?

This is your Guy-Fieri-style homecoming to Flavortown. 

You groan, sagging against the headboard, shoving another chip into your mouth before you’ve even fully swallowed the last one. The heat builds in layers, stacking onto your tongue, your throat, the back of your sinuses. You revel in it, licking the neon dust from your fingertips, already reaching for more.

You should slow down, pace yourself- but fuck that. Fuck everything. You’ve been so good- so fucking composed, so perfectly polite and professional, walking around this house like a ghost, keeping your head down, keeping your mouth shut, keeping yourself from going fucking insane in this brutalistic hellscape of a home. You have earned this. This one indulgence.

And it is indulgent. Almost obscene, the way you’re devouring them, heat prickling across your lips, your fingers a crime scene of red dust. You think, absurdly, that if you were ever going to have a food orgasm, this would be it.

Your stomach clenches from the sheer force of spice, from the ruthless combination of acid and heat- but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. You fold the bag over, shaking it so the broken chips and extra seasoning settle at the bottom, then tip it back, letting it all spill onto your tongue in a final, sadistic burst of glory.

By the time you’re done, your lips are tingling, your tongue practically vibrating, and your face feels a little hot- but for the first time in weeks, you feel alive.

You suck every last whisper of flavor from your fingers before you start thumbing through the rest of the box. A little, nagging part of you holds out hope you might find another bag but- no such luck.

Your mom had known to keep it light, to keep it easy. A few casual pieces, things you can throw on without thinking, things that might make you feel a little less like a stranger in your own life. Your fingers skim over the top layer, brushing against the sharp pleats of something unexpected. You pause, grip tightening as you lift it from the pile, neat folds of tightly-woven wool unfolding in your hands.

The suit.

You hadn’t asked her to send it. You hadn’t even thought about it.

But of course she had.

The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, structured but comfortable, tailored perfectly to your body- a suit that means business, that means you belong in the room, that means they will take you seriously whether they want to or not.

If she sent this, that means…

You set the jacket and pants aside carefully, even years later still painfully aware of exactly how much they cost, and dig to the bottom of the box. There- about halfway down, your fingers scrape hard plastic, and you dump the box out over the bed entirely. It clatters out- bulky, beat up and scuffed- just how you remember. Your hat case. It might be faded and scuffed from getting tossed into the belly of planes, traines, and rental cars- but what’s inside is in perfect condition. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

Your fingers trail over the brim, the felt impossibly smooth beneath your touch, softer than anything you have any business owning. It’s flawless- pure beaver felt, crisp, perfect. A 40X cowboy hat. The kind of hat that turns heads when you walk into a room, the kind that means something in places where handshakes and deals are made under wide brims and a big sky. The shop smells like leather and cedar, rich and warm, and the weight of your parents’ presence beside you is both steadying and unbearable.

Your dad doesn’t answer immediately. He just nods toward the mirror. “Try it on.”

You hesitate, then do as you’re told, settling the hat onto your head. It fits like it was made for you, which- well, it will be. The hatmaker is watching, assessing, already planning whatever adjustments will be needed to make it perfect.

“It’s too much,” you say quietly.

"Doll," she says, voice quiet but firm, the way it always is when she’s already decided how this is going to go. "All good business in Texas happens under a 40X."

"I’m not gonna be in Texas," you argue, running your thumb over the ribbon on another hat, something cheaper, less significant. You don’t even know why you’re fighting it, not really. Maybe because it feels too nice, too permanent, too much like something you don’t deserve. 

Your mom’s mouth presses into a thin line.  She’s always been the picture of effortless presence, of someone who belongs anywhere she chooses to be. You’ve spent your whole life studying that about her, trying to learn how to command a room without raising your voice, how to make people want to listen, to follow. But right now, there’s something else in her expression. Something heavy. Something sad.

You know why she’s sad. She won’t say it outright, but you know. Texas isn’t just some place they picked at whim to start your junior career. It not even the closest major junior circuit to home. It didn’t matter that it was almost ten hours more of driving than the California circuit would have been. 

Because, to her, it’s not just a stepping stone, the way it was for you. It’s roots. Her roots. It’s where she grew up, where she met your dad, where some of her family still is. Even if Washington is home, Texas is still something. Still a piece of her. 

This is the place where she always knew someone would be watching out for you, where she could trust that even if she wasn’t there, someone else would be.

And what good did that do?

What did any of it fucking do, when it mattered most?

"Then you’ll just have to take Texas with you," she says.

Your dad finally shifts beside you, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the last few months has settled in there permanently, but he doesn’t say much. He never does in times like these. Still- he’s there, beside you, quiet and steady as ever. He lifts one off the rack, gives it a little test bend between his hands, then sets it on your head with the kind of gentleness that makes your throat tight.

"How’s that feel?" he asks.

It feels like too much. Like more than you deserve.

"You should spend the money on something else."

Your mom tsks. "Something else isn’t going to sit square on your head and remind people exactly where you come from."

You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat.

"It’s too much," you try again, softer this time. "You should save it. For- "

"For what?" your father cuts in, leveling you with one of those quiet, steady looks that makes you feel six again, standing in front of him with skinned knees and hands too small to hold all the things you wanted. "This is yours." His voice is steady, but there’s something else beneath it, something he doesn’t quite say. You deserve this. You deserve nice things. You deserve to be proud of what you’ve done.

You shake your head, staring at the hat, willing yourself not to feel too much. This isn’t a happy time. There are things none of you talk about, things that sit heavy in the spaces between words. But you know what this is. Because it’s not just a hat, not just a purchase- it’s them telling you that you belong to something bigger than whatever is waiting for you in Florida. That no matter how far you go, you are still theirs.

You exhale, staring at both pieces, feeling something tighten in your chest. You know exactly what this means. It’s not a sentimental gesture. It’s not just in case. It’s a statement. If you’re going to be here- if you’re going to play in this world- you better be prepared to play for real.

Your mom knows you. She knows how this business works. And she sure as hell isn’t about to let you stand around looking lost while decisions get made around you. She’s going to wrap you in armour made of crisp beaver felt and sharp wool suits and remind you that you get to make some decisions your goddamn self.  You swallow, smoothing a hand over the fabric, a quiet, careful movement. 

Alright. You don’t know what’s coming next, when this meeting in your future might be, the lions that you’ll need to tame in your full regalia. But whenever it is?

You’ll be ready.

Not yet. Not tonight. You try to redirect your thoughts, away from happy-sad memories and expensive suits and towards your more immediately daunting task. Ah, yes. Family dinner. 

You settle on something softer, something that might pass for vaguely European- wide-leg linen trousers and a matching button-up tank top in a muted, earthy color. It feels appropriate, even if you have no actual reference point for what appropriate means in this house.

You twist your hair up at the nape of your neck, leaving it loose enough to not look too polished. A little mascara, a swipe of something on your lips so you don’t look like a corpse. That’s it.

You step back from the mirror, assessing yourself like you’re about to walk into an interview you didn’t apply for. It’s not perfect. But it’s presentable. Polished enough to look like you respect the invitation- casual enough to look like you didn’t overthink it. Even though you absolutely did.

You press your hands down the front of your trousers, exhaling slow. Okay. 

The moment you step into the dining room, you know something is off.

The table is set like it’s expecting a guest of honor- fresh stems in the vase, linen napkins folded with crisp, deliberate precision, silverware arranged just so. It’s formal in a way that dinner in this house never is, and for a brief, unsettling moment, you think maybe you missed something. A birthday? An anniversary? Some obscure European holiday?

And then you see him.

Max.

He’s at the far end of the table, leaning back in his chair with the kind of casual slouch that reads more like defensive position than comfort, his phone loose in his grip, thumb idly scrolling. He doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t even look up, but the set of his shoulders, the hard angle of his jaw, tells you everything you need to know.

He doesn’t want to be here. Neither do you.

And Kelly? Nowhere to be seen. The kids aren’t here, either. Just Sandy, calm and composed as ever, and Jos, who looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You keep your expression schooled, slipping into the perfect, polite mask your mother taught you to wear in rooms full of powerful men. You step into the role without thinking, automatically plating your own meal- prepped, measured, balanced to the gram, like every other meal you eat during race weeks. You don’t like imposing, and you’ve already learned the hard way that Dutch food is, for lack of a better term, shit.

As you sprinkle a pinch of salt over your chicken and vegetables, you glance toward Sandy. “No Kelly tonight?”

Jos answers before she can. “Running late.” Like it doesn’t matter.

His tone is dismissive, but you catch the flicker of something in Max’s eyes. He doesn’t look up from his phone, but you see the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers tighten for just a fraction of a second before relaxing again. You’d bet good money Kelly isn’t running late- she’s just avoiding this like the plague.

Honestly? Relatable.

You settle into your seat, hands folded in your lap, offering just the right amount of a smile. Engaged, but not eager. Interested, but not overstepping. You ask the correct questions, offer the appropriate remarks, thank Sandy for the offer of food even though you don’t take any. You play the part like it’s second nature- because it is. 

Jos, though. Jos talks too much. Jos, as it turns out, is feeling chatty.

About you. About Max. About racing and talent and potential and everything you’ve done right so far. It should be flattering. It’s not. It’s suffocating. You try to smile through it, but it’s hard when you’re being held up like some kind of prize for the whole table to examine. Jos goes on and on about your performance, your raw talent, your ability to adapt- he talks like you’re not sitting right there, like you’re a highlight reel instead of a person, something for the entire table to marvel over.

You’re smiling. You don’t know what else to do. It feels wrong, like this is too much, like Jos has never been this nice to you to your face, and you don’t trust it. Not for a second. But you smile anyway, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do?

Sandy, to her credit, seems fine. Not warm, not particularly invested, but not unfriendly either. Just… fine. She asks how you’re adjusting to Europe, to the house, to the endless rain. You get the sense that she’s made her peace with being wallpaper here- present, pleasant, largely ignored.

“She’s meticulous,” he says, gesturing vaguely at you, like presenting a fine piece of craftsmanship. “I’ve never seen a rookie so prepared. Do you know she’s been working on a file for every driver on the grid? Just like the one she showed you on the plane. Every. Single. One.”

You nearly choke on your water, but swallow it down, keeping your expression neutral. Jos doesn’t notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Across the table, Max says nothing, his silence heavy. He doesn’t need to speak. His father is already speaking for him, about him, like he’s not even in the room. If you had to guess, this isn’t the first time Jos has dragged him into one of these elaborate setups under the guise of a family meal.

And then, just when you think it can’t get worse, Jos starts trying to engage him.

“You two actually have a lot in common,” he says, effortlessly sliding the words into the conversation. His voice is casual, like he’s just making an observation, but there’s an edge of purpose to it, a calculation you don’t quite clock. “Same aggressive approach to racing, same work ethic, same hunger.”

Sandy, ever the perfectly unobtrusive presence, offers a quiet smile.  She at least looks mildly aware of how unbearable this conversation is. Not warm, not particularly invested, but not oblivious either. Just… present. A quiet observer, offering nothing more than the occasional nod, the occasional polite smile. A sip of wine. She’s not just used to being wallpaper, you think. She’s used to this. Used to letting Jos speak and letting it pass without protest.

Max still doesn’t look up from his phone. “Hmm.”

Jos doesn’t take the hint. “That’s what makes great drivers, you know,” he continues, cutting into his steak. “Not just talent. But the drive to be ruthless. To push harder than anyone else. Max understands that. And so do you.” He points his knife at you as he says it, like he’s bestowing some kind of great truth upon you.

You nod, polite. “Thank you.”

“Not many have that,” he says, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Not even half the grid. Plenty of drivers are fast. But they don’t all want it enough.”

Max’s fork clinks against his plate, the first sound he’s made in minutes. “Uh-huh.”

Jos either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking between the two of you like he’s waiting for something to click. “You two should talk more. You could learn from each other.”

You blink. You are talking. You’ve been sitting at the same table, enduring the same conversation, existing in the same fucking space. But that’s not what he means. You can hear it in his tone. He’s pushing something, steering toward some invisible objective.

You try not to let your discomfort show. You are so good at this- at smiling when you don’t mean it, at playing along, at making yourself palatable in the rooms that matter.

But this? This is suffocating.

And then Kelly walks in.

For a brief, fleeting second, you almost feel relieved.

She’s tall, poised, effortlessly elegant in the way only someone born into privilege can be. Long, dark hair cascades in sleek waves over her shoulders, makeup flawless, her outfit effortlessly polished. She’s the kind of woman who always looks put together, always moves with quiet certainty, always seems to have the upper hand in whatever room she steps into.

And maybe that’s why your first instinct is to think- finally.

Finally, some kind of reprieve from whatever the hell this dinner has been. Finally, a presence that might shift the balance, dilute the weight of Jos’s unwavering focus on you, lessen the unbearable pressure that’s been stretching across the table like a noose.

Because Kelly has been nice. Talking to Kelly is nice.

But no.

No, it gets worse.

The tension in the room doesn’t ease- it sharpens, condenses into something even heavier, something thick and stifling that settles deep in your ribs. You don’t fully understand it, don’t know what’s shifting, what’s crackling in the air, but you feel it. Like stepping into a conversation that started long before you arrived, like missing the first half of an argument and knowing you’ll never quite catch up.

“Seriously?” Kelly’s voice is sharp, slicing through the air, cutting Jos off mid-sentence. “You didn’t even wait for me?”

Jos barely looks up from his plate. “You were late.”

Kelly lets out a short, incredulous laugh, one hand bracing against her hip. “And that’s my fault?” You don’t know the full story. You don’t know any of the story. But you know this isn’t just about dinner.

You glance at Max, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just sits there, head bowed over his plate, fingers toying idly with his fork. Impossibly, he looks even more miserable than before. He looks more like a scolded child than a world champion.

And Kelly- Kelly is pissed. Not in the way people get when they’re mildly annoyed, but in the way that suggests there’s a much bigger fight happening under the surface, something unspoken and unresolved and bigger than you can begin to understand. You shift slightly in your chair, adjusting your napkin just for something to do, something to keep your hands busy, because fuck, the air in here is unbearable.

Jos is still eating like nothing is wrong. Kelly is still standing like everything is.

All evening, Max hadn’t been engaged in the conversation at all, his head mostly bent over his plate, phone occasionally appearing under the table when he thought Jos wasn’t looking. Fine by you, honestly. If you thought you could get away with it, you’d rather be doom-scrolling than timing your stretches of eye-contact with Jos. But now, caught between his father, his girlfriend, and the girl his dad would not shut the fuck up about, Max had seemed to reach his limit.

With a sharp scrape of his chair against the floor, he stands. "I’m finished.” 

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

[choerypetal]

Envy and Passion (Pt. 2) / Coriolanus Snow.

summary : this moving forward, the romantic affair of Coriolanus and you began to blossomed ever seen its first meet. with a envy for lust and power, snow is relcontless to make you officially his. with a gesture not so normal, and to perhaps have your father finally accept the two love bird's relationship.

read part one first!! : part one

english isn't my first language, so i excuse for small typo or error mistakes. ps : please don't copy my work or use it without proper credit! thank you.

Your involvement with Coriolanus Snow persisted, concealed from your father who remained oblivious to the situation. Fortunately, Snow chose to invest a significant amount of time with you in the laboratory. This arrangement included the opportunity to assist him directly under the guidance of Dr. Gaul herself. Surprisingly, it never posed a challenge for either of you. Whenever Snow felt a desire or yearned to intertwine his warm fingers with your cold skin, he didn't hesitate to express it openly, especially when you pleaded with him to do so. 

"Speak it aloud." He would insist, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the stark contrast of your dark pupils. He found this juxtaposition oddly unsettling yet captivating, especially as you exuded confidence despite the complete reversal of your family's name. Which contrasted oddly well, when you presented yourself before Snow, adopting a submissive demeanor, he ensured not to overlook it. "Say that you desire me." He commanded, and in that instant, his voice deepened. The soft gaze that he had employed earlier to pause shifted into something more intense, with his eyebrows furrowing, expressing a mix of dignity, pride, and a hunger solely for you.

Every time Snow expressed his feelings and unwavering commitment, a warmth would spread across your cheeks. "I desire you, Snow." You confessed, feeling palpitations resonating throughout your entire body, experiencing emotions previously unfamiliar to you. Despite your father's strict measures to ensure you remained free from romantic entanglements, the fear of him discovering your involvement with Snow loomed over you. Uttering Snow's name could potentially lead to punishment for both of you. However, in the present moment, neither of you cared about the potential consequences, dismissing any concerns about possible repercussions.  

Upon your confession and Snow's acceptance of your words, he reveled in the opportunity to explore every inch of your skin visible to his eyes alone. Your gentle touch on his blouse, revealing a glimpse of his chest, was met with amusement as you feigned clumsiness, as if he hadn't witnessed it before. Chuckling at your playful act, he remarked. "You know, if you were eager to see me shirtless, you could have asked from the very beginning." Despite the confidence instilled by your father, your shyness intrigued Snow. It fascinated him to witness a strong, independent woman like yourself, who, despite her confidence, found herself pleading at his mercy. And he wasn't complaining one bit. 

"All I want is to wait for the perfect moment." Was your simple declaration. Yet, Snow, with his deceptive and unconvincing response to your second confession, couldn't help but see through the charade. He knew all too well that it wasn’t just a matter of time. This realization felt somewhat absurd to him, considering that from the very start of your love affair, it was you who ensured that your skin was exposed. This time around, despite the temptation to witness another captivating display, he found himself yearning for you to admire him, to experience the same emotions he felt whenever your eyes met his. “How about we change a little bit?” 

"Change?" Your brows furrowed this time, a mix of confusion, anticipation, and eagerness, curious about what Snow had in store. After all, Snow was known for his penchant for surprises. It wasn't a coincidence that both of you were selected as Dr. Gaul's personally chosen students for her mentoring. Dr. Gaul was well aware of your relationship, and if it served to prolong the Hunger Games, she had a keen understanding of how to maintain loyalty between you and Snow. Whether the connection was romantic or not mattered little to her; as long as the two of you were working and following orders, Dr. Gaul was pleased. 

Snow reached for your fingers, and as they entwined with his, he motioned for you to sit on his lap. You complied effortlessly, well aware that whenever Snow needed a break from paperwork while maintaining focus, a call for you to be on his lap was a common occurrence. It served as a distraction, allowing him to immerse himself in the scent of your presence. Despite his internal struggle to control his obsession and resist the urge to engage in more intimate activities right there on his desk, the desire to hear your submissive murmurings and witness your eyes fixated on him alone was always tempting. However, today presented a deviation from the norm. As you settled onto his lap, his back comfortably resting against the chair, his fingers intertwined with yours, prompting to unbutton his blouse, you could only utter. "Oh..." In disbelief at his prompt actions. 

"Oops, I guess a few buttons slipped," Snow playfully admitted, revealing the subtle nature of his game. While he made it seem like his own oversight, the fact that your fingers remained intertwined with his suggested that he was not entirely innocent. It conveyed that, even if he were eager to take the blame, you were not hesitant to make his chest slightly visible. However, for Snow, it wasn't merely about a brief glimpse of his chest. He intended to shed everything – from blouse to coat – without hesitation, relishing the opportunity to hear the gasps and disapproval echoing from your own father.

A blush tinted your features, the same blush that had adorned your face during the reaping ceremony. It was a blush Snow relished, a sign that he was gaining complete control over you. Without hesitation, he took it upon himself to unbutton his entire blouse with a single hand. "It's getting a little hot, isn't it?" He casually remarked, using it as an excuse and subtly suggesting you might want to do the same if it pleased you. However, you resisted the urge to swiftly follow suit, observing as Snow confidently removed both his blouse and coat in one fluid motion. As you could’ve sworn to feel your teeth sinking the bottom of your lip. The tension between the two of you became apparent now. He wanted you. And you wanted him. 

Before he proceeded, his fingers gently disentangled from yours, trailing along your thighs as your short skirt revealed more skin, much to his satisfaction. He couldn't resist brushing it against your lips, a desire he had been suppressing since he first laid eyes on you that morning. With genuine affection, he admired the skirt he loved so much, especially paired with the Academy's uniform blouse you had deliberately made a little looser this time. He took notice when he observed your cleavage being more pronounced that very same day. 

"You can't fathom how much I've yearned to taste you. Don't pretend to be innocent, Princess. It's our little game, you know." Our Little Game. He declared, and the words echoed in your mind. However, in the midst of numerous affairs and the expression of feelings, the certainty of whether he genuinely meant it, whether his love for you was real, or if uttering your name was merely a distraction to maintain his sanity, became increasingly elusive. "Then, demonstrate your love for me.” You challenged. Without a moment's hesitation, your words caught him off guard, almost offended. "After everything I've done for you?" He countered.

You felt his lips brushed against yours, temptation of not wanting to kiss you on the spot. While you challenged him such deal, he became almost too offended by your question. Was it even obvious? Snow became a little persistent, and with his piercing blue eyes never leaving it’s gaze now his eyes began darker. Darker as his gaze became aware of his need for you. A need of you becoming his officially. And today, it was one of the few occasions he could at least do. “I will.” 

His fingers delicately cradled your face, exhibiting a hunger to explore and savor every inch of your skin exclusively reserved for him. Starting with your lips, he pressed his plump lips against yours, reveling in the intoxicating taste of your cherry balm that drove him to the brink of insanity. This obsession was so profound that whenever he encountered a blossoming Cherry Tree, it inevitably reminded him of you. Not stopping there, he proceeded to confidently grip your backside, causing your loose skirt to flutter up. The chill from the brisk lab air made you flinch in response to the sudden exposure.  

"Mine. Mine." His voice grew rougher, a tone that required a certain adaptation on your part. Your head tilted backward as you felt his lips trail down the crook of your neck, an area he longed to adorn with endless pampering and marks that, at least, could be concealed. Today, however, he made sure they were visible, intended to stoke the fires of your father's entire disdain. "Mine until the break of dawn." He declared, feeling the friction between cloth and underwear intensify, causing his arousal to surge. Snow could no longer contain himself when your soft fingers journeyed from his immaculate chest to the zipper of his pants. In a mere second, as you unzipped them, you teasingly grasped his now fully erect member and gently stroked it, bringing him undeniable pleasure. 

"If you truly mean it." You approached him with a hint of seduction, taking control of the situation. In this game of chess, Snow had anticipated that one day the tables would turn, and today seemed to be that day. "Make love to me like you've never done before. Make me moan until the sounds echo through the entire lab, risking the chance of getting caught." To Snow's surprise, he tilted his head upon hearing your bold words, realizing that the desire you expressed mirrored his own. This opportunity was rare, the only time both of you could be together. If it wasn't for your father's protection; you would feel ashamed if he were to catch a glimpse of the two of you right now. Yet, love has a way of blinding reason. 

“And make your father know, to who you belong to. Princess.” He lingered with a loving and lust of wanted to fuck you. This time although he enjoyed a quickie, he wanted to make it an experience for you, whether it was sloppy or messy. It did not mattered for the both of you, as long as Snow showed and declared his entire love for you. It was all it mattered. 

After the surprisingly enjoyable encounter, you suddenly realized the time and the fact that you had completely forgotten about a meeting with Dr. Gaul and your father regarding the Hunger Games. You began to panic. "Shit, I'm going to be late!" You exclaimed, and Snow found it oddly cute, especially since you rarely used such language in public. "Don't forget this." Even though Snow was well aware of what he was doing, you hastily grabbed anything resembling a uniform. As long as you had your skirt back on, along with the coat and blouse, it should be enough to avoid arousing suspicion. Thankfully, with your hair strategically covering the hickeys, you managed to arrive late to the meeting, running at full speed without raising any eyebrows.

Upon finally arriving, you seized the chance to catch your breath, fortunate that your father and everyone else attending the meeting were engrossed in Dr. Gaul's presentation. However, upon laying eyes on you, she couldn't help but voice concern about your uniform. "Y/N, my dear. What is this monstrosity?" Swiftly, your father's gaze shifted to you, taking note of the alteration in your uniform. The blouse, that delicately hugging your curves, now appeared slightly larger, evident in your fingers poking through its sleeves. It became glaringly obvious that it wasn't yours but Snow's. You found yourself in a deeper mess. Vaguely recalling seeing Snow casually blending his blouse with yours before leaving, you realized it was another way for him to mark you as his own—a subtle yet effective gesture, particularly if it meant provoking your father into a boiling rage. 

"And where might Snow be? He was supposed to be invited to this meeting as well," Dr. Gaul expressed her suspicion. Although you attempted to ignore your father's disapproving gaze, well aware of his concerns and mentoring about his feelings regarding Snow, you were preoccupied by Snow's unexpected actions. You weren't certain if he was indeed coming or intentionally delaying his arrival to avoid raising suspicion, only to later excuse himself for being late and have Dr. Gaul overlook his absence. “I didn’t know Snow was invited for today’s meeting…” Was all you could say, which wasn’t entirely false. 

Dismissing her concern for Snow, she accepted your response. Despite being already aware of the possible relationship between the two of you, she simply smiled at you and suggested you join the audience. As you took a seat next to your father, he noticed your arrival. Quite annoyed at least. “Next time, try to cover the marks in your neck. For the love of god, Y/N.” Shit, your father had spot Snow’s hickeys. If it wasn’t to make it worse even noticed the slight change in your cheeks as it was still showing a flushed and pink shade from the climax you had encountered prior with Snow. Instead to not disrupt any further you obliged and apologize like the good daughter you were meant to be. “It will never happen again, I promise.” But did you? 

As anticipated, Snow arrived late. Fortunately, he had the foresight to bring an extra blouse, fully intending to have you wear one of his. The expression on your father's face when he noticed the unconventional attire was exactly what Snow had anticipated. Doing his best to catch his breath after rushing to the meeting, he excused himself, saying, "Sorry, I am late." Dr. Gaul acknowledged his presence and gestured for him to sit next to you. A proud smile adorned Snow's face as he witnessed the exact expression he had expected from your father.

“Loving the uniform, sweetheart.” He casually said, whispering to your ear this time before quickly gaining his attention back to him but also making sure that you were aware of his meschibiosu little guess. 

"Shut up, Snow." He hoped to hear from you as you were about to speak up. Instead, it was your father's voice that uttered those words upon realizing that it wasn't, in fact, your uniform all this time but Snow's. Anticipating a response from you after your father's remark, Snow waited, but instead, Casca continued. "Just be a little more secretive next time." 

To your surprise, you glanced over at your father, intending to defend yourself. However, a mere gaze from him conveyed the unspoken message that if you attempted to object, he would ensure an end to the relationship. Despite his unwillingness to witness his daughter's unhappiness due to her father's unwarranted bias against the Snow family, he held on to the hope that, at the very least, Coriolanus Snow wasn't akin to his own father. Or... was your father not entirely wrong?

"We will." 

Snow's voice lingered in the crook of your neck, indicating his satisfaction with your father's newfound approval of the relationship. Finally, he felt unburdened, no longer afraid to proudly show the world that you were his and his alone.

[andersonsprincess]

Clarisse La Rue - Training

characters - clarisse , demigod!reader (fem in mind but i think it could be read as gn)

contents - mild swearing, probably ooc, luke mentioned, no god/goddess parent mentioned just not hermes or ares, confession

word count - 460

a/n - kinda awkward tbh, lots of yapping towards the end 😭, this took me a while bc i couldn't figure out an ending

it was an incredibly hot summers day. most campers were in the shade or hiding from the blistering heat in their cabins, but of course you and clarisse were in the forest practicing techniques. that's something she loved about you. you're willing to spar with her any given time.

the two of you had been at it for about an hour and a half. the sounds of metal clashing rang through the forest and your ears.

clarisse's movements were swift and sharp as they always were. confidence and strength behind every swing. and she was always so careful when sparring with you. her intentions were to teach you not hurt you. a stark contrast from her spars with other campers.

"you surrendering, sweetheart?" the way she said it was so condescending.

you were on the ground panting, your sword in her hand as well as hers.

"as if."

you grab your dagger out of its sheath oh your hip and attack her head on.

the dagger stuns her for a second allowing you to-

"nice try, princess."

she knocks you back down, her foot resting comfortably on your stomach.

"but i am impressed. where'd you learn that from? i didn't teach you that..."

she lifts her foot and you sit you sit up.

"i was," you sigh. "i was asking luke for tips in sword fighting."

a look of confusion flashes on her face.

"castellan? why him? you have me."

you smirk at her. "jealous, clarisse?"

she laughs at you. "me? jealous of castellan? you've lost your mind princess."

"that's not a no."

"i am not sharing you with luke."

"i'm not yours."

"not yet."

that caught you off guard.

"what-"

"i'll be damned if i lose you to luke castellan."

your face heats up at that. "what are you saying?"

she rolls her eyes and groans. "i'm saying i...like you. idiot."

she continues. "you're pretty, smart, funny, talented-"

"oh incredibly so."

she rolls her eyes and hits you playfully. "this is serious, dumbass."

"i know, i know. i like you too clair."

her cheeks darken slightly. "quit calling me that!"

"you know you like it!"

the two of you laugh for a while. then she turns her head and looks at you deeply. her deep brown eyes staring in to yours. you slowly creep your hand towards hers and intertwine her fingers with yours. the look in her eyes, a beautiful juxtaposition to her behavior in battle. she looks at you lovesick. that girl would kill anyone for you. it was strangely flattering, others would call you crazy. the girl with nothing but pride and destruction in her eyes when fighting, looks at you with nothing but pure adoration.

you are going to be the death of each other.

[atamascolily]

I found Inu Curry's commentary on the "Prologue in Heaven" shot that haunts me, and it only raised more questions. I don't know what I expected.

Here is what it says as best as I can make out with my fledgling Japanese and a bunch of online references:

逆 さまにった街と穴があいた空。 The upside-down city and the hole in the opened[?] sky.

"Upside-down city" seemingly refers to Walpurgisnacht's goal of turning Mitakihara upside-down both literally and metaphorically by ripping the buildings off their foundations and making them hover in mid-air. It's a little difficult to see in the above sketch, but the finished film version is a little brighter so you can see the buildings in the upper corners.

However, what is "upside-down" depends on our perspective. Is the city upside down because Walpurgisnacht has made it that way, or because we, the audience, are viewing an upside-down image? This is another way in which Walpurgisnacht messes with our heads and confuses our ideas of what constitutes reality.

As for the second part of the sentence, there are a couple of different past tense constructions that are pronounced "aita" (あいた), and I'm not sure which is applicable in this situation because this phrase is written in hiragana. In this context, I'm guessing 開いた ("opened", "emptied") which has considerable overlap with 空いた, with the latter using the same kanji for 空 ("sky") and therefore creating a pun.

空 is a complex character with a lot of meanings, and I think it is doing a lot of load-bearing here, but for now I'll also note the contrast with 穴, which means "hole" in the sense of "cave" or "being underground". Earth and sky might seem like total opposites but given that 空 can also mean "emptiness" or "void", they simultaneously have a lot in common, to the point where 空 even includes the 穴 radical in it.

All this is to say, it feels like there's a lot going on in this line, and I still have a lot of questions. Still, it seems like we have a distinct contrast between the inverted (solid, material) city and the (intangible) "hole in the sky", which might refer to the black circular void at the center of Walpurgisnacht's mandala, which appears to be drawing everything up towards it.

逆 さまの山の頂にワルプルギスの後光。 Walpurgisnacht's halo on the upside-down mountain's peak

Once again we have a juxtaposition between two things, one of which is inverted, but this one is a little more straightforward straightforward, in that the halo is right there and the original Walpurgisnacht celebration was said to take place on Mount Brocken in Germany. And indeed, if you flip the image upside-down, it's much easier to see the "mountain" in this image--the pyramidal shadow upon which the witch's mandala now appears to be resting.

From this perspective, it looks very much like another drawing in the production note of Madoka's witch Kriemhild Gretchen reaching up to the heavens with Walpurgisnacht hovering overhead for scale [as explained in the two boxes immediately above the drawing].

This page is also the source of the famous Inu Curry quote that Walpurgisnacht and Gretchen are like two halves of an hourglass (bottom text), another statement that makes me want to gnaw on the furniture every time I think about it. Why would you do this if there wasn't supposed to be some connection between them??! And why an hourglass, given its associations with one character (Homura) in particular?

This is why I have always interpreted this shot as Walpurgisnacht and Gretchen together in "Heaven", which raises all kinds of fascinating metatexual questions like, "Why did Inu Curry et al. decide to open with this particular image?" and "Is this a frame narrative implying that the entire story is a performance by Walpurgisnacht?" and "If so, why would Walpurgisnacht be its narrator?", etc, etc.

Of course one very obvious answer to all of these questions is "Walpurgisnacht is somehow Homura and the story she is retelling is the story of how she and Madoka came to be united as super-witches in 'heaven' and everything we take as 'real' in-universe is actually inside her labyrinth and has been a staged production from the beginning", but at this point, that's all heavily speculative at best. (It doesn't hurt that the white glare resembles a vinyl record in motion, records are a recurring motif that go round and round, hourglasses are associated with Homura, etc, etc-- but I digress.)

Another is, "Inu Curry thought it looked cool and it's something that may never be fully explained, just like the anime's ending with Homura in the desert and the black wings isn't really explained in Rebellion", which may be correct but would be disappointing in a series where every other detail means something. Also, after a close study of Rebellion, it's clear that Inu Curry doesn't generally do random details--anything that's there has a meaning, even if only to Inu Curry, even if it's not fully elaborated or expanded upon in the finished film or in the production notes. So that seems like it might have happened here as well with this scene--that it's meant to represent something that wasn't ultimately developed in the final version.

It could also be that Inu Curry believes that Homura and Walpurgisnacht are connected, but that doesn't necessarily translate to the script that Gen Urobuchi wrote and so remains ambiguous and unspoken visual subtext. Or this could be something from an earlier draft that stayed in while other things got changed, so its original meaning is no longer relevant.

However, given that in the Rebellion Production Note, Inu Curry associates Homulilly, the "Witch of the Mortal World/Near Shore" with "color" (used in a Buddhist sense to mean form/matter) and Madokami with its opposite, emptiness (which also uses the same character for sky, 空) then it's possible that Walpurgisnacht is the upside-down city and Gretchen is the hole in the sky. This is admittedly a convoluted chain of logic that only works if you assume Homura is Walpurgisnacht, but given that Inu Curry created both of these juxtapositions in the first place, I can't immediately rule it out. Symbols and motifs evolve and change over time (or could mean two different things at once) and Walpurgisnacht is certainly "upside down"; if her labyrinth does contain Mitakihara, well, that's an upside-down city right there. But like I said, this is all purely speculative at this point.

That said, Inu Curry was clearly thinking along similar lines at one point, because an early draft for Walpurgisnacht in the anime production note shows Walpurgisnacht as a "stage" with buildings on it:

(If you're wondering why it's a bubble, it's because in Inu Curry's first drafts, the labyrinths were all spheres with fixed dimensions, which did not carry over to the final version.)

In Walpurgisnacht's final design in the anime, the stage became a giant cog, while the original gears at the base were replaced by the doll body, but at one point, the witch was indeed a city, or a facsimile of one. Her labyrinth disappeared because she is ostensibly too strong to "need" one, but her official goal is to turn the entire world into a drama nonetheless--which, as I read it, means making the entire world her labyrinth and erasing the distinctions between "reality" and "fantasy" entirely.

And given that Rebellion features Homulilly, a witch whose labyrinth takes the form of a city, and that city is initially indistinguishable from the "real" thing--and ends with said labyrinth seemingly encompassing the entire universe--the stage is now set for more reality-bending revelations in Walpurgis no Kaiten from one or both entities with overlapping thematic motifs.

Of course, how much of any of this will end up carrying over to subsequent installments is an open question, but I'm definitely watching closely to see where this ends up going. Since the title and at least the first trailer for Walpurgis no Kaiten suggest that Walpurgisnacht will return and her mysteries will be revealed, I'm hoping we'll finally learn what this cryptic "shot "Prologue in Heaven" shot and its description actually mean--even though I'm also bracing myself in case it ultimately remains unexplained.

[vellichor74]

Arcane - S.2 Ep.2 Opening

Something that I’ve always admired about Arcane is its ability to tap into the most heartbreaking concepts, and portray them in a breathtaking way that puts across the stark reality of such concepts, yet blends in the beauty of visual symbolism, dialogue, and emotional complexity.

The opening scene of S.2, Ep.2 is a brilliant example of heartbreak and grief, with Jinx’s farewell to Silco cutting deeply to the core of her character. Her words, especially, “Except this time, you aren’t here to put it all back together, because someone put all those holes in you,” carry a devastating emotional weight. What makes this line so heart-wrenchingly haunting is its childlike simplicity, masking the violent nature of Silco’s death behind a tone of innocence.

The phrasing feels almost as though a child were trying to make sense of something incomprehensible, softening the horror of death by turning it into something more clear and manageable. “Put it all back together” evokes the imagery of broken toys, where fixing things can be an act of reassurance and love. Silco was the one who used to ‘put her back together’ when her mind fractured, acting as both a caretaker and the very creator of her evolving identity. Now, the reversal is straight-up cruel; she quite frankly cannot repair him, and the finality of “all those holes in you” is heartbreakingly literal, yet phrased as if a child were describing a once revered doll, lost by damage.

This childlike lens shines a tragic contrast with the reality of Jinx’s world. It’s a brutal, unforgiving place that has stolen her innocence time and time again, yet in this moment, the words suggest a yearning to escape the harshness. This juxtaposition mirrors her core struggle - wavering between a fractured, older psyche, and the lost, uncertain child she once was.

Visually, the scene is amplified with its soft, muted underwater setting, a place where her words like bubbles seem to float, untethered by logic or chronology. It’s as if she’s clinging to the last remnants of her childhood: words, images, and a desperate belief that things can be undone, even when they can’t. In the water, time itself seems irrelevant, just as it does in grief.

This quote also ties directly to Silco’s role in her life. Despite his manipulations, he became a parental figure who accepted her for all her chaos. Her phrasing suggests she still sees him in this light, not as the dangerous and cunning underlord of Zaun, but as a steady, almost mythical presence who was always there to catch her when she fell. This childlike portrayal of Silco’s death renders it even more tragic. She simplifies the trauma into something she can understand and endure; a defense mechanism as fragile and devastating as Powder’s remaining sense of self.

I just love how this moment captures so much of what makes Arcane unforgettable. It is raw and poetic, balancing emotional complexity with a delicate touch of innocence that both humanises Jinx and deepens the tragedy of her world. I swear this kind of portrayal is so rarely done well, and oh my goodness when it is..

[koooobi]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⸻ ✧˚ · . 𝓻esidue 𓈒 𓈒 03

summary: After witnessing a murder, you expect to be killed on the spot. Instead the killer demands for shelter in your home. The only way out of the clutches of death, is to let him stay. Fear and uncertainty ripped within your body, but you had to comply. That was the only way to live.

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 2558

extra: find more on ao3 @monkishes, wp @joyfuii

warnings: death, murder,

01, 02, 03, 04 masterlist

You found yourself standing in front of the small kitchen counter, hands trembling as you stared down at the scattered contents of your fridge. There wasn't much: a carton of eggs, some wilted vegetables, a block of tofu that might've been well past its prime, and a half-finished jar of kimchi. You glanced at the killer, who had made himself comfortable on your sofa. He sat with one arm draped across the backrest, his legs spread in a relaxed posture, eyes fixed on you with unsettling patience. He had the air of someone who could wait for hours, watching you squirm, feeding off your fear.

The sight of him lounging in your living room like he owned the place made your stomach twist. You were acutely aware of how surreal and terrifying this situation was, how fragile your life had become. You needed to focus, to keep it together, at least long enough to buy yourself more time.

You grabbed the carton of eggs and set it on the counter, pulling a frying pan from the cabinet. Your fingers fumbled with the stove controls as you turned on the heat, trying to steady your breathing. Everything felt wrong—every movement, every sound, every thought. The normalcy of cooking felt like a grotesque contrast to the horror lurking in the background. How was this even real? A killer had walked into your home, washed his hands of blood in your bathroom, and now expected you to cook for him.

Just keep moving, you told yourself. Don't think about it too much. He's not killing you yet, so just keep him calm.

You cracked the eggs into the pan, the sizzle of oil offering a brief distraction from the weight of his gaze. But it didn't last. You could still feel him watching you, silently assessing. A shiver ran down your spine, and you tried not to think about how close he had come to ending your life mere minutes ago.

"What's taking so long?" His voice broke the fragile silence, a lazy drawl that sent a chill through you. "I thought I told you to hurry."

You swallowed hard and tried to keep your voice steady as you replied, "It's almost ready." Your throat felt tight, the words barely making it out.

He didn't respond, but the weight of his presence loomed over you, making the simple act of cooking feel like a test of survival. You stirred the eggs in the pan, adding a dash of salt with trembling fingers. Every clink of the utensils, every hiss of the stovetop, felt amplified in the oppressive quiet of your small apartment.

You risked a glance at him over your shoulder. His expression hadn't changed much—he still looked as if he was enjoying this strange game, his dark eyes half-lidded, lips curving slightly at the corners. He looked too relaxed for someone who had just committed murder. The juxtaposition was unnerving.

When the eggs were done, you slid them onto a plate and hesitated for a moment before placing it on the small table in front of him. You stayed standing, unsure of what to do next. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, to escape this nightmare, but you knew better. There was nowhere to go. He had your phone, your wallet, and most importantly, your life in his hands.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice soft but with a weight that left no room for defiance.

You did as he said, sitting across from him at the table. Your hands rested on your lap, gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly that your knuckles turned white. You watched as he picked up the fork and slowly began to eat, taking deliberate bites as if savoring the moment. It was unsettling, the way he chewed so calmly, as if this was just another meal and not some twisted prelude to God knows what.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like a small eternity. The sound of his fork scraping against the plate filled the room, and you found yourself hyper-focusing on it, anything to drown out the swirling thoughts of fear in your head. But the silence was suffocating, and eventually, he looked up at you again, that unnerving smile playing at his lips.

"You don't seem like the type who cooks often," he remarked, leaning back in his chair. He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he was trying to solve.

You forced yourself to answer, even though your voice was barely above a whisper. "I... I don't. Not usually."

He chuckled, a sound that sent a tremor of unease through you. "I can tell. But it's not bad."

You weren't sure how to respond to that, so you said nothing, your gaze dropping to the table in front of you. Your heart was still pounding in your chest, and your body felt tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap. You just wanted this to end, wanted him to leave so you could curl up somewhere and try to forget that this ever happened.

But something told you it wasn't going to be that easy.

He finished the food, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before standing up and stretching as if this were just a casual evening. Then, without warning, he crossed the room and grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet. The sudden contact made you flinch, your pulse spiking in panic.

"I think it's time we talked about something more important," he said, his voice dropping an octave. His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you winced at the pressure, instinctively trying to pull away, but he held you in place, his grip unyielding.

"W-What do you want?" you stammered, your voice barely audible over the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he dragged you across the room, pulling you into the small hallway leading to your bedroom. You stumbled behind him, your legs weak and shaky as dread settled deep in your gut. Every step toward the closed door felt like a march toward something terrible.

When he reached the door, he pushed it open and shoved you inside, his grip on your wrist finally loosening as you stumbled into the familiar space. He followed, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound of the latch sent a jolt of terror through you, and you spun around to face him, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.

He stood by the door, watching you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. His eyes were sharp, calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey. You took an involuntary step back, your back pressing up against the edge of your bed.

"I need to make sure you understand something," he said, his voice soft but laced with menace. He took a step forward, and your breath hitched in your throat. "I don't like loose ends. People who talk too much... they're liabilities."

You shook your head quickly, your pulse racing. "I won't say anything. I swear."

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room seemed to close in around you. "It's easy to say that now," he murmured, taking another step closer, "but how do I know you'll keep that promise?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Your mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. What was he getting at? What did he want from you?

He reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek. The touch was light, almost gentle, but it sent a wave of revulsion through you. "You're going to be a good little secret-keeper, aren't you?" His voice was low, dangerous, his eyes locking onto yours. "Because if you're not... I'll come back, and next time, it won't just be to visit."

You nodded frantically, your body trembling. "I-I will. I promise."

He studied you for a long, agonizing moment, as if weighing your words. Then, finally, he let out a soft hum of satisfaction and took a step back, releasing you from the crushing weight of his presence.

"Good," he said simply. "Then I guess this is goodbye... for now."

With that, he turned and walked out of your room, leaving you standing there, breathless and shaken. The sound of the front door opening and closing moments later felt surreal, as if it were part of some distant dream.

For a long time, you just stood there, staring at the empty doorway, your legs too weak to support you any longer. When you finally collapsed onto the bed, the tears you had been holding back spilled over, silent sobs wracking your body as the reality of what had just happened crashed down on you.

You were alive. But for how long?

You didn't know if this nightmare was over—or if it had only just begun.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared down at the door, unmoving and completely alert. A couple minutes ago, when the killer was beside you, you felt no fear. For some reason now that he'd left your home, you felt yourself growing more and more terrified by the second. You feared that he was waiting with his knife behind your door, waiting for you to make one wrong move and come in to kill you like he killed that poor, old man.

At that thought, you suddenly remembered the gruesome and grotesque scene that you'd witnessed earlier. The whole reason why you were in this predicament. What did he even do to deserve that?

Questions filled your mind as you struggled to find the right answers for them. Your head began to pound as all the thoughts of the events that had just occurred replayed over and over in your head.

Finally, you broke out of your trance, forcing yourself to look away from the door and went to the kitchen to grab yourself some water.

Your hands trembled violently as you filled the glass with water, the cool liquid slipping over the rim and onto the counter as you struggled to steady yourself. You took a shaky sip, but it did nothing to quell the suffocating tightness in your chest. Your heart was hammering too hard, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn't control.

He could still be there. He could be right outside the door.

The idea rooted itself in your mind, growing stronger with each passing second. What if he hadn't left? What if he was waiting, just out of sight, ready to pounce the second you let your guard down?

You couldn't take it anymore. You needed to hear a familiar voice—someone to pull you out of this spiral. Your fingers fumbled as you grabbed your phone, barely able to unlock it. Jennie's name flashed on the screen as you hit her contact, your breathing unsteady while the phone rang.

She picked up quickly. "Hey, Y/N! What's up?" she chirped, her voice so normal and light, completely unaware of the chaos tearing through you.

For a moment, you couldn't speak. The words you had practiced in your head disappeared, leaving you with only the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears. How could you explain this? How could you possibly tell her that you'd seen a man die, that there was a murderer who might still be lurking just feet away? It sounded too insane to even say out loud.

"Y/N?" Jennie's voice crackled through the speaker again, this time more concerned. "Hello? You there?"

"I—" You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. "Yeah, I'm here."

"You okay? You sound... off. Is something wrong?"

Your gaze flicked toward the door, the fear constricting your chest even more tightly. You could still picture him in your mind: the killer's cold stare, the flash of the blade, the blood. All of it came rushing back, making it harder to breathe. You wanted to tell Jennie everything, but every time you tried to form the words, they caught in your throat.

What would she even think? Would she believe you?

"Y/N?" Jennie's voice pulled you back, her concern deepening. "What's going on? You're scaring me a little."

You opened your mouth, hesitated, and then closed it again. What if saying it out loud made it all feel too real? You didn't want this to be real. Maybe if you kept it to yourself, it would somehow disappear, like a bad dream you could forget.

"I..." You took a shaky breath, forcing the words out, but the truth still wouldn't come. "It's nothing. I'm just... I don't know. I've had a really long day."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Are you sure?" Jennie's voice softened, but you could tell she wasn't convinced. "You sound really freaked out."

Your pulse quickened, the panic bubbling up again. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your free hand to your forehead as if that could stop the racing thoughts. "Yeah, I swear," you lied, your voice wavering. "I've just been stressed out lately... work's been a lot. I didn't get much sleep last night."

There was another pause, longer this time. You could almost hear Jennie trying to figure out if she believed you. You hated lying to her, but you couldn't bring yourself to explain the truth. It was too terrifying to say out loud.

"You sound like you're scared," she said gently, her tone probing, like she was waiting for you to crack. "If something's wrong, you can tell me, Y/N."

Your throat tightened as the urge to tell her everything flared up again, but you forced it down. The words hovered on the tip of your tongue, just waiting to spill out, but you couldn't do it. If you told her, then she'd worry. And then... what if it was all in your head? What if this killer wasn't waiting for you at all?

"I'm fine," you said quickly, forcing a small laugh, though it sounded hollow in your ears. "Really, it's just been one of those days. I'm overthinking everything."

Jennie didn't sound convinced. "Alright," she said slowly, her doubt clear. "But if you need anything, you call me, okay? Even if it's just to talk."

"Yeah, I will," you lied again, hating yourself for it. "Thanks, Jennie."

You ended the call, the silence in your apartment crashing down around you. Your phone felt cold in your hand, useless now that the conversation was over. You stood there, frozen, the same sense of dread creeping back into your mind like a dark fog.

Then—

Knock, knock, knock.

The sudden, harsh banging echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. You jumped, nearly dropping your phone, your pulse spiking as the sound reverberated in your chest. Your body went rigid, and your eyes darted to the door. The knock came again, harder this time, more impatient.

Your stomach twisted violently. Was it him? Had he come back? The image of the killer flashed through your mind again—his cold, emotionless eyes, the blood dripping from his knife—and your breath caught in your throat.

You took a small step back, staring at the door, paralyzed by fear.