#like it served its purpose for drawing attention to the head

[gamebunny-advance]

Hm...

How do we feel about Kun3h0 being less monochromatic?

[lizzyiii]

just wondering 👉🏼👈🏼 when the next update of his lady love will be? i’m just so excited for the next chapter im OBSESSED with the story 👻

I'm so sorry I took this long, I've been having a mental block with this

His Lady Love (9)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the taglist just add your username to this DOC

word count | 3,8k words

summary | finally you make your return back to king's landing and reunite with aemond

tags | hurt/comfort,

note | I'm so sorry I took so long

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

The storm had raged for a week, battering the old farmstead with rain and howling winds. Inside, the small prince had finally begun to show signs of recovery. Jaehaerys, once pale and on the verge of death, now had the flush of life back in his cheeks, thanks to the small doses of your ancient vampire blood. His eyes, once glazed and distant, now held a quiet strength. Despite his reserved nature, the boy had grown fond of you in his own way, calling you “munās”

The crumbling farm had served its purpose. Though it was no Red Keep, the rations you had scavenged from Tym’s meager cupboards had been enough to sustain the both of you. Tym, the unfortunate soul whose blood had been your own sustenance, now lay rotting in a closet—his death no more significant than a footnote in a much larger story. The smell of his decaying body was thick in the air, but it hardly bothered you. In your long life, you had smelled far worse.

Outside, the rain had finally ceased. The journey back to King’s Landing would be dangerous, but necessary. You could already envision the uproar awaiting your and Jaehaerys’ return. Let them fret; it was no concern of yours.

You gathered what little provisions were left and tucked them into a satchel, slinging it over your shoulder. The food wasn’t for you, of course, but for the prince. He would need his strength if he was to survive the coming days. As you approached Jaehaerys, he looked up at you with a small, fleeting smile—a gesture that melted your dead heart. Without a word, you draped a thick cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood low to hide his silver Targaryen hair. The last thing you needed was to draw unwanted attention on the road.

The air was damp and heavy as you stepped outside, the smell of wet earth mingling with the distant scent of the ocean. You hoisted the boy onto your horse, his small frame easily fitting in front of you. The skies were still dark, but the rain had stopped for now. With a flick of the reins, the horse began its slow trot down the muddy path.

As you approached the towering walls of King’s Landing, the familiar stench of sweat and desperation thickened in the air. Your grip on Jaehaerys tightened, pulling him closer to you as your sharp senses took in the chaotic scene ahead. The streets swarmed with restless peasants, their voices a cacophony of rage and despair, echoing through the narrow alleyways that led to the Red Keep.

You focused, your hearing tuning into the mob’s cries. They were angry, starved. "Food! Bread!" they screamed, their desperation palpable. The realization struck you almost immediately—Rhaenyra must have sealed off the city. No traders, no merchants, no supplies flowing in. It was a power play, of course. She sought to starve out the opposition within her rightful walls, but it was the smallfolk who suffered most. Typical.

But it was what you saw next that made even your blood freeze.

Through the throngs of people, a procession of white cloaks—Kingsguard—marched proudly through the streets, their armor gleaming in the dimming light of dusk. In their hands, they bore a horrifying trophy: the severed head of a red dragon. Melys, you thought, the Red Queen, her crimson scales dulling in death.

The thought of Daemon’s dragon, Caraxes, crossed your mind briefly, but you dismissed it just as quickly. Daemon was not so easily felled. He was a force of chaos, relentless and unyielding. But Rhaenys... She had fought valiantly for her kin. It had to be her. Aegon had slain her and had the audacity to parade her dragon’s head as if it were some twisted victory.

The crowd grew louder, their protests turning to angry shouts as they watched the grotesque display. You could feel the fear rising among them, but it was overshadowed by the hunger—both for food and for rebellion. The city was on the brink, and Aegon was playing with fire.

Jaehaerys stirred slightly in your arms, oblivious to the grim spectacle unfolding before you. He was innocent in all this, yet he would soon be thrust into the heart of this brutal war. With a final glance at the dragon’s severed head, you urged your horse forward, pulling the hood of Jaehaerys’ cloak lower to shield his Targaryen features. The mob surged around you, but you moved through it like a shadow, unseen and unstoppable.

As you slipped through the shadowed alleys and hidden paths of King’s Landing, the weight of Jaehaerys in your arms was a reminder of just how fragile human life could be. The streets were filled with chaos, but to you, it was nothing. In six hundred years, you had perfected the art of moving unseen, a phantom in the night.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how those men, Daemon had sent, had managed to infiltrate these halls. It was almost laughably easy for you to slip past the guards. They were easily distracted, and you had no trouble avoiding detection.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Aemond, his sharp, striking features, the single violet eye that gleamed with intelligence and ruthlessness. You yearned for him in a way that surprised even you. In all your centuries of existence, through the rise and fall of empires, you had never felt this way about anyone. Aemond had a way of stirring something deep within you—a hunger, not for blood, but for him.

It was strange to admit, even to yourself, but you loved him. In your immortal life, you had seen love twisted and turned into something vile, something manipulative and fleeting. But with Aemond, it was different. His ambition, his fire, even his darkness—those were things you understood, things you were drawn to.

Still, love would have to wait. For now, your priority was Jaehaerys, the boy asleep in your arms, his silver hair tucked away beneath the hood you had wrapped around him. You glided through the hidden corridors of the Red Keep with ease, your steps silent, your presence undetected.

Helaena’s chambers were quiet when you arrived, the door slightly ajar as if awaiting your return. You pushed it open gently, stepping inside to the dimly lit room. Helaena was sitting by the window, her eyes distant and unfocused, lost in her thoughts.

You frowned noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes as the frown that tugged on her lips. “Helaena,” you whispered softly, moving toward her.

Her gaze shifted slowly, her violet eyes blinking as if pulling her from a dream. When she saw Jaehaerys in your arms, her expression changed—a flicker of recognition, of hope. Her lips parted, a gasp escaping her as she stood from her chair.

Helaena breathed out your name softly, her voice fragile, as if uttering it too loudly might cause you to vanish. She rose from her chair, her steps tentative, as if unsure whether you were real or some apparition conjured by her grief. Her eyes glistened with tears, her hands trembling as she reached for you.

You gently placed Jaehaerys in her arms, watching as she clung to him with a desperation that broke your heart. Her tears flowed freely as she kissed his sleeping face, her maternal love rekindled in the boy’s presence. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted from her, her sorrow held at bay by the soft rise and fall of her son’s breathing.

"I knew you weren't dead," she whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with conviction.

A frown creased your brow, confusion settling over you like a fog. "Why would you think that, Helaena?" you asked softly, your concern growing as you saw the pain etched into her delicate features.

Helaena’s gaze dropped to Jaehaerys as she gently rocked him in her arms, her sorrow palpable in the silence that followed. "Three dead Kingsguard, your carriage burnt to ash... what were we to think?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, the words heavy with the weight of grief she had been carrying.

The shock hit you like a dagger to the chest. Your eyes widened in disbelief. "My carriage... burnt?" The last time you had seen it, it had been intact. And worse, Aemond—he must have thought you perished in the flames.

You could feel the fear rising in you, not for yourself, but for him. What had Aemond been thinking all this time? The very thought of him mourning you sent a pang of sadness through your heart.

You swallowed the rising tide of emotion, forcing a smile to reassure Helaena, though it felt strained and unnatural. Your hand rested gently atop hers, offering comfort the way you always had, with a tender touch and a steady heart. "I am fine, my Queen," you said, your voice soft but firm, hoping your words could ease some of the burden that weighed on her. "Jaehaerys is fine. We are both safe, and that is all that matters now."

Helaena looked up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and for a moment, she seemed to believe you. But you could see the remnants of her anguish still clinging to her, a shadow she could not shake.

Seeing Helaena in such a state—it wounded you, though you could never let it show. You had centuries of practice hiding your own grief, your own longing. But now, with Aemond believing you dead, you felt the familiar weight of sorrow creeping back in.

You had to find him. He needed to know you were alive.

"I have to find Aemond," you murmured, the urgency in your voice betraying the calm you had tried to maintain.

Helaena’s eyes snapped to you, her sorrow deepening as she spoke softly, "He’s changed."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Helaena hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. "The battle at Rook’s Rest," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "He brought down both Rhaenys and Aegon."

You flinched, a ripple of shock running through you. "He killed Aegon?" Your voice trembled slightly as you spoke. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, despite his cruelty, he was still Aemond's brother. How could Aemond have done such a thing?

Helaena shook her head, her expression mournful, weighed down by grief. "No. He didn’t kill him, but he might as well have. Aegon is burnt beyond recognition... A shadow of himself now."

The words hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to grasp them. "Why?" you whispered, more to yourself than to Helaena. How could Aemond, the man you loved, have let things go so far?

Helaena’s gaze softened, and she pressed another kiss to Jaehaerys' forehead, her voice filled with a melancholy acceptance. "Aegon’s taunts… his cruel words… Perhaps he had enough of being belittled, of being treated as lesser, when in truth, he has always been the stronger of the two."

You could see the weariness in Helaena’s eyes, the understanding of how deep the rift had grown between her brothers. But what you couldn’t understand was how much Aemond had changed in just a week. The man you knew, the one you loved, was fierce and proud, yes, but he had always been measured, calculating. To hear that he had snapped so violently, even against his own kin—it worried you.

But you had to see him. You couldn’t wait any longer.

Without another word, you turned toward the door, your mind already racing with thoughts of Aemond—of the man he had been, and the man he might be now.

Aemond was riding a dangerous high, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue. He had dealt with Aegon—though not as thoroughly as he would have preferred. Aegon still lived, if one could call it living. Burnt beyond recognition, a husk of his former self, barely clinging to life. But it didn’t matter. Aegon was no longer a threat to him, and now, Aemond stood as Prince Regent. His mother’s protests were of no consequence to him anymore. She had forsaken him, after all. Turned her back on him, chosen Aegon despite everything. Well, now he would forsake her.

He clenched his fists tightly as he forced his thoughts away from her disappointment, her judgment. It wasn’t Alicent's rebuke that tormented him now. No, when he allowed his mind to drift, when the battlefield fell quiet and the bloodlust faded, his thoughts always, always came back to you.

And that was a pain he could not bear. The sharp sting in his chest that came whenever he remembered your face, your voice, the way your eyes looked at him with a softness no one else could offer. That softness had been his anchor in a world of chaos, and now it was gone. You were gone. Aemond clenched his jaw, forcing the memories back down, but they refused to be silenced.

You haunted him.

So he clung to the one thing that had never failed him: anger. The rage burned hotter and clearer than any sorrow ever could. Vengeance had always been his closest companion, and now it was the only thing he had left to keep him standing. It was easier to drown in that fire, to let the heat scorch away the grief, than to face the aching emptiness your death had left behind.

Because to truly feel the weight of his heartache—to allow himself to grieve—would be a descent into madness. It would be a slow, deliberate suicide. And Aemond Targaryen would not be destroyed by sorrow. He had survived too much for that.

His face was a mask of cold determination, but inside, the wound you left was bleeding still. Anger was a salve, not a cure, but it was the only thing keeping him alive.

As long as he was angry, he couldn’t be sad. And as long as he avoided sadness, he wouldn’t have to confront the truth: that without you, something in him had already died.

Aemond made his way to his chambers, eager to escape the oppressive weight of the castle and the relentless thoughts swirling in his mind. His steps were heavy, and though he had embraced the cold edge of his anger, exhaustion tugged at the edges of his resolve. He needed a moment, just a fleeting break from the burdens of regency and family strife.

But as he pushed open the door, his breath caught in his throat. Standing in the center of his room, with their back turned, was a figure he knew too well. His entire body froze, heart pounding so violently it hurt. His mind, sharp and disciplined, rebelled against the sight before him. It couldn't be real. It shouldn't be real.

Aemond's throat tightened, and he rubbed his eye, the patch over the other itching against his skin as if willing this cruel vision away. His breaths became shallow, harsh gasps escaping him as the figure turned.

And there you were.

The eyes he had dreamt of, that he had mourned for, were looking back at him, alive with warmth and familiarity. "Aemond," you murmured softly, your voice like a balm to his tormented soul.

He stumbled back, his chest heaving with the effort to contain the surge of emotion ripping through him. You moved toward him, your hands reaching out as if to soothe, but he flinched. The pain in your eyes mirrored his own, though he couldn't understand why. He had believed you dead, and now you stood before him. But his mind, ever cautious, doubted the reality before him.

"You're not real," he choked out, the words leaving his lips like a prayer, desperate and broken.

You faltered for a moment, your face contorting with an expression of pain. But it wasn’t for you—it was for him. "I am real, Aemond," you said firmly, your voice unwavering even as his trembled. Then, softer, you added, "As real as the sun and stars, my love."

Tentatively, he reached out, his hand shaking as he brushed your cheek. The soft warmth of your skin against his palm sent a shock through him. His lone eye stung with tears as he leaned closer, feeling the truth of your presence in the softness of your flesh. And when you leaned into his touch, his entire world seemed to shift.

The sob broke from his chest, raw and aching, as he pulled you into his arms with a fierce desperation. He crushed you against his chest, his face buried in your hair, inhaling the scent he had feared he would never experience again. It was real. You were real. His hands trembled as they tightened around you, holding you as if you might slip away once more.

"You're real," he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips in a reverent chant, as if saying it enough times would make it an undeniable truth. "You're alive."

Tears streamed freely down his face as he clung to you, the walls he had built around his heart crumbling in your presence. You had returned to him, and in this moment, the weight of the world, the rage, the grief—it all faded away in the warmth of your embrace. He whispered your name like a prayer, his chest shaking with the sobs he could no longer control.

The two of you had eventually found your way onto Aemond's bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip. The moonlight spilled softly through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room, but all that mattered in this moment was the warmth of his body beneath yours. You lay on top of him, your noses touching, your breaths mingling in the quiet stillness of the night.

And yet, he only stared at you, his eye searching your face as if trying to memorize every inch, every detail. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke.

"I don’t understand how," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, the confusion and longing in his eye clear as he tried to reconcile your presence with the grief he had been drowning in.

You lifted your head slightly, his gaze following your every movement. Gently, you brought a finger to trail down his scar, your touch soft and comforting. His eye fluttered shut at the sensation, as if the weight of the world lifted momentarily under your fingertips.

"Helaena told me what was believed," you began, your voice steady as you prepared to weave the lie once more. "But the truth is, our carriage was ambushed. The Kingsguard were killed." You paused, then continued with conviction, "I escaped with Jaehaerys. My intent was to return."

His eye opened slowly, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through his gaze as he asked in a voice that was unusually soft, "Why did it take so long?"

"The prince fell ill on the journey. My only priority was his health, not how quickly we could return," you explained, your lips pressing together in a thin line. "I'm sorry it took so long," you added, guilt weighing your words, though the truth of your ordeal remained hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed deception.

Aemond's expression softened as you rested your head back against him, in the crook of his neck where you could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "You're here now," he whispered, his voice filled with relief. It seemed as if that was all that mattered to him in this moment.

The silence between you lingered, a peaceful reprieve from the chaos that awaited outside these walls. But after a while, he spoke again, his voice barely breaking the quiet. "I'm Prince Regent now."

You already knew, of course. Helaena had told you, but you wanted to hear it from him. "Helaena told me what happened to Aegon," you said slowly, choosing your words carefully. You had to know the truth, not from Helaena’s recounting but from Aemond himself. You needed to understand what had happened, why he had done what he did.

There was a pause, a silence that stretched on too long before he finally spoke. "He was not supposed to be there. At Rook’s Rest," he said, his voice low and distant, as if recounting a memory he wanted to forget.

Your hand rested on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you. "What happened, Aemond?" you asked, your tone soft but insistent, though part of you dreaded hearing the answer.

Aemond’s face hardened, his eye staring up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. "Aegon got what he deserved," he said flatly, his tone almost indifferent. "He was unfit to rule. Unworthy to sit the throne."

His words hit you like a stone sinking into a well, and though you had expected them, it still hurt. Aegon was not a good man. He was cruel, selfish, and unfit to lead, but knowing that Aemond had taken such drastic action—it was a bitter pill to swallow. The world was better without Aegon’s reign, and yet the weight of Aemond’s decision loomed over you.

You studied his face, searching for any hint of remorse, of conflict. "Was it worth it?" you asked quietly, though you weren’t sure you wanted the answer.

Aemond didn’t respond. He simply stared at the ceiling, his silence speaking louder than any words could. And you didn’t push him. You knew Aemond better than anyone; his guilt, his anger, and his desire for power all warred within him.

So you lay there, your hand on his chest, letting the silence stretch on, knowing that in time, perhaps, the answers would come. But for now, you were content to simply be there with him.

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[phantomrose96]

I feel like it takes A Lot to collectively traumatize a fandom as fond of vivisection as the Danny Phantom fandom, but damn that'd do it. Fantastic fic!!!

Also I *love* the detail of the news report in the background of the breakfast scene. At first I was like "oh cool they're talking about PTSD, which he definitely seems to be developing" then I read it again and I was like "oh *fuck* they're talking *about Danny*" which is *chef's kiss* superb

(Prometheus)

Achievement unlocked! Danny gets to be an easter egg in his own story!!

I'm a fan of the trope (I guess it's a trope) of the secret-identity character who just has to listen powerlessly while the talking heads on the tv muse about what's happened to them. Doesn't matter if the broadcast is sympathetic or damning. Either way it hits for me.

When I was first piecing that scene together, I was intending to have Danny, Jack, and Jazz pay attention to the broadcast when it became obvious the reporters were talking about Phantom. It would be the vehicle to communicate to the audience that Phantom is slipping and Danny's definitely grappling with PTSD at this point.

But when I thought about it more, I wasn't actually in love with it as the delivery vehicle. Yeah I like the trope but it felt a little too much of just "I'm saying story details at the reader and using the newscaster as a mouth for that." It felt contrived in a way I don't like.

And what would everyone's reaction be? There wasn't a meaningful place to bring it. Like sure maybe Jack could scoff and say something like "Ghosts don't have complex feelings" or something else dismissive, but that wasn't constructive to the narrative I was building. What Jack thinks about Phantom isn't important to this kind of story. I could have Jazz maybe try to talk to Danny, but there's no way to do that with Jack in the room, and Jazz wouldn't need the newscasters for this anyway. It's her own baby brother, she'd have seen this before any tv host. And there's nothing important for Danny to gain from this. Other than maybe knowing his slipping is visible, but he knows.

So I came to a much better conclusion: ignore the news cast.

It does not need to be a contrived narrative device. It does not need to steer the scene. It does not need to misdirect me into unimportant conversations.

They ignore it. And THAT is so much more thematically potent to what is happening. Danny fighting through his denial. Danny shutting his friends out. The elephant in the room is ON THE TV and no one is even allowed to address it.

Tv host saying "Phantom has PTSD" isn't the vehicle I need for this "communicate to the reader Danny has PTSD" scene. THAT is much better done with Jack, and with his invention, and with the chekov's gun he's been dismantling and remantling the whole fic. It's done with Jack pointing a weapon at Danny - a thing which has occurred a THOUSAND times before - but it's different NOW, because of the trauma Danny is not coping with.

To be cliche, it's the show-don't-tell answer here. (And to be fair, there are PLENTY of places where "tell" is an entirely acceptable route and is often a necessary part of maintaining narrative velocity.) But in this case, the chill Fenton family breakfast atmosphere (tv ignored) snapping cold in the instant Jack draws the weapon on Danny is what the scene needed. The snap-change to Jack and Jazz's attitudes as they notice Danny's reaction. The "this isn't normal anymore" to a morning that was perfectly normal until this moment. And, only after that moment, revealing to the reader that Danny is crying.

The news cast gets to serve its best purpose as environmental storytelling. Confirming to the reader that this is bad enough to be impacting Phantom's ability to fight, to supplement the narrative which (coming from Danny's POV) is trying to not admit how bad it is. ("Super healing is cool!")

It gets to serve its purpose by being completely ignored. Until it's too late.

[lividstar]

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎THE CITY OF LOVE

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Two: Unexpected Encounters

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ You were now on your fifth job hunt for the week, and even though you were hoping for it to, for once, actually turn out to be a success, indifference spreads through you as the search concludes on a dead end once again. Just as you were about to head home, a sudden surprise catches up to you, nearly out of breath.

a/n: i should probably make a taglist for this... let me know if you want to be added :D

You’ve never really realized how hard it is to go through days without losing your mind when you’re unable to write your thoughts down, which is the only way you know how to keep your mind in check. At least until now that you’re on your fifth job hunt for the week, and you’re still met with nothing but polite rejections.

You felt like you were one risky step away from going insane. First off, you had no one to confide in regarding your frustrations—Madame Dupont once tried coaxing you into opening up but you refused, not wanting to bother her, no quote unquote friend of yours from Arcadia Bay kept in check with you after you moved countries, and most importantly, you don’t want your parents to know how much you’re struggling because then that would only do nothing but taint the independent imagery of you that you want them to keep for eternity.

Your journal had always been your only companion ever since a classmate of yours back in your days as a highschool student recommended it to you as a potential way to be able to express all the emotions you’ve been bottling up—you could no longer remember his name, but you hope he’s currently living his best life, wherever he is right now.

It all began one day when you were sat in the very back of the classroom, eyes shifting back and forth between focusing and losing its firm gaze as you did everything in your power not to let the different emotions in your heart combined into a thunderstorm escape from your ribs you’ve grown to refer to as what serves as the metal bars that keep your feelings caged and away from whatever was outside your little bubble. Your ears rang in a volume so insufferable you swore blood was nearly being pulled out from the inside, and you did your very best not to lose control of your body, because then, the repetitive sounds of you rapidly bouncing your feet on the concrete floor would draw everyone’s attention.

What’s worse was you had no idea what was happening to you. You’ve never spoken past a word to any of your classmates, and the only moments they were lucky enough to hear the sound of your voice was if the teacher would conduct an eenie-meenie to choose who would answer the complex question he had written on the board and you ended up being the (un)lucky winner of his personal lottery. You never speak unless spoken to, and perhaps that was why a few of your fellow schoolmates raised suspicions about you being mute—because no one ever really bothered to talk to you.

So then, you thought you were doing an exceptional job at trying to put a faltering mask on and act like you weren’t nearly losing your mind. No one knew you well enough back then to see right through you and be able to notice if there was anything off about your usual behavior—the counselor would occasionally be your confidant, but her words barely helped with anything. You can’t blame her for only taking up the job for the paycheck, but if that’s her only purpose, she might as well be good at her job, no?

Thankfully, right when the last thin string was about to snap and let you fall down at a rapid speed, the bells rang, signaling the end of the school hours for the day. You could still remember the fear you felt when everyone around you was already packing up their things and walking towards their own separated friend groups, while you remained sat, unable to move. The way you tried to place your hands on top of your desk for support to stand up, but they wouldn’t budge off your lap as if they were glued to your skin.

You were nearly trembling in fear, yet everything seemed to have been put to a halt the moment you heard the sound of a chair being pulled towards where you sat, and a hand less than a centimeter away from landing on your tense shoulders.

You couldn’t turn your head to see who it was, but given how the person sounded, you believed it was a male classmate of yours—you knew his name back then, but now? Not anymore. He was nice enough to attempt to comfort you, but not a word was brave enough to slip out of your lips. You were sure he had no negative intentions because all you knew of this boy back then was he was one of the nicest and tolerable ones in your highschool, so it wasn’t like you weren’t responding because you didn’t like him. It was more of a matter of not knowing how to.

When he was on his third sentence and you still couldn’t muster up a response, he drew the light touch of his hand off your shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, you were afraid he had gone tired of attempting, and you left a horrible impression on him. Just then, he asked a question you don’t believe you would’ve been able to expect even right now that you’re fully grown.

“Do you have a pen and a paper with you?”

You could only respond with as much as a short nod, and much to your surprise, your hand was no longer tense when you lifted it off your lap and lightly shoved it into your bag, searching for the objects he had requested for. After half a minute, you settled a blank piece of paper on your table, preventing it from flying away by placing a pen on top of it. What he said next was even more unexpected.

“Could you try to write down how you feel right now? Only if that’s okay with you.”

You were afraid of turning your head and letting him see right through you even further, so even if there was a hint of hesitance spreading all over you, you gathered enough courage to pick up the pen and do as he said.

I don’t know what to call what I’m feeling right now. I can’t get myself to calm down, and I feel like I’m one step away from having an outburst. I don’t know what to do.

Once you finished writing your answer down, you laid the tips of your fingers down on the paper’s surface, dragging it towards your right, where he sat. He leaned in to read what you had written, and for a moment, you were half-expecting him to either laugh at you or get weirded out, but instead, you were met with the sound of an understanding hum.

“How long have you been bottling up your emotions?”

You could still vividly remember the initial shock those words sent right through the very core of your heart. It was a simple question, but it was as if he was able to see right through you—a first. You picked up the pen once more, leaning in as well without realizing your faces were only a couple inches away from each other.

Forever? I just don’t know how to let it out in a way that doesn’t make me feel weird. I was never taught how to be expressive about my emotions.

“Have you ever thought about getting yourself a journal?” was what he asked, and you responded with a mere shake of your head. A hum of understanding was heard from him once more, before he told you to stay still in your seat and wait for him. The moment he came back, there was a notebook with a vintage pattern of pink roses in his hands.

This time, your confusion was uplifted enough to fully turn your head to him. Right now, looking back at it, the memory provided a clear vision of everything except for his face—it was blurred, something you could no longer remember. But when you were in that very moment, you swear you nearly compared him to the clear view of the sunset you were granted with thanks to your seat’s position in class.

“Here. From now on, you can use this as your personal journal. When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You could still remember how you both found yourselves staring into each other’s eyes at least a little longer than you were supposed to, until he took it upon himself to be the one to break it first. He stood up, pulling the chair he sat himself on back to its rightful place, and began packing his things. All you could do that moment was remain in your seat, with a gaze refusing to let him go.

When he was about to leave the classroom, he turned his head back once more, sending a soft smile and a bid of farewell before heading out. Only then when you were left all by yourself did you realize everyone else had already gone home, and the whole time he was talking to you, you were both alone together.

He was the only fleeting memory of your highschool days that remains stuck with you even until now.

You stared blankly at your ceiling, letting yourself get lost in the serene calmness of the evening. Not only did you value your journal because it contained every single thought of yours that you would never consider telling a soul, but also because of the history it holds. You decided to re-customize it and turn it into a plain, pitch black over the years, but its value remains the same.

You don’t remember anything about him anymore, and your notebook was the only thing that served as a bridge between the chasm that separates both of you. It’s funny, because you doubt that moment was anything but a normal occurence to him. If only he knew he was the one who did the kickstart to your changes in life. Sighing, you closed your eyes, with the hope that your job search will finally come to a successful conclusion tomorrow.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Paris, the city was still young—full of life and vibrantly shining, a stark contrast to the quiet night sky above. There in a restaurant sat Seonghwa across Hongjoong, who had completely lost himself in sketching designs on a new notebook he bought just a day ago.

“You’re really serious about starting all over again with your designs?” Seonghwa tilted his head, leaning forward to see what Hongjoong was working on, only for him to get told off.

“Do I look like I have any other choice? It’s been nearly a week, Seonghwa. We’ve tried everything we can to look for it. Even the café’s workers weren’t able to provide helpful insight,” Hongjoong said, brows furrowed in focus and precision as he tried to come up with new designs.

Seonghwa leaned back, crossing his arms. “Has it ever crossed your mind that I took you here because I wanted you to take a break from your work, and not to make you stress over your work even more?”

“A break can wait. Fashion week can’t. I’ll be fine,” Hongjoong brushed Seonghwa off. After five seconds of Seonghwa not responding, Hongjoong sighed in defeat, closing his notebook and turning his attention back to the man who sat across the table. “Look, why don’t you just let me be, and I’ll give you all the time in the world to look for the girl you saw at the bus stop?”

“Why don’t you give yourself all the time in the world to take a break just once?”

Hongjoong slumped his shoulders, hunched over in his seat. “I get that you care about my well-being, but I really don’t have time for that right now.”

“You never have time for a break, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa countered, taking the notebook from Hongjoong before he could react. Opening it, he was met with exactly what he expected—a blank page with blurry lines from erasure. “See? You can’t use your imagination to its fullest if your mind’s a total mess.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” Hongjoong muttered, avoiding Seonghwa’s gaze. “You know how much that sketchbook means to me, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa ran his fingers through his hair. “I know. I know that very well, Hongjoong. But that’s not the point. If you’re planning on settling on making new designs until you get your sketchbook back, then you have to at least clear your mind first so you’ll actually be able to come up with ideas.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” Hongjoong asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Take a stroll around the city, maybe? It’s a good way to unwind,” Seonghwa suggested, shrugging his shoulders. “A recommendable time period to do that is during the hours of dusk till dawn.”

“Like… all by myself?” Hongjoong said, confused. “You’re saying all I have to do is walk around the city alone late at night, and it’ll magically lift my frustration off of me? Is there a hidden ulterior motive behind this?”

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve already taken action upon it years ago, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “And no, going alone isn’t necessary. You could always, you know… look for a companion—”

“I let you have your moment to convince me into taking a break and the next thing I know is you’re taking advantage of it by trying to bring up my relationship status,” Hongjoong cut him off, groaning in frustration.

“Oh, come on, you can’t keep being like that forever!” Seonghwa threw his hands up in the air. “You’re less than 10 years away from reaching your 30’s and you’re still insisting on being single?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know why I prefer things to stay this way,” Hongjoong mumbled, gazing outside the window, a look of sorrow starting to form in his eyes.

Seonghwa sighed. “Look, I know you’re still hung up on her, but it’s been years, Hongjoong. She’s not coming back. You need to move on, you know…?”

“Easier said than done, Seonghwa.”

“What happened to her, anyway?” Seonghwa asked, his tone growing softer. “You never told me much about it.”

“I don’t know. It was like she was there, then the next moment, she wasn’t. She disappeared without a trace, without a word, not even a call, a letter—nothing. It was like she was nothing but a fleeting dream,” Hongjoong recalled, the pain in his tone evident.

Seonghwa pursed his lips, feeling guilty for bringing the situation up. Hongjoong was quick to notice, though, making him wave Seonghwa off. “Don’t feel bad for asking about it.”

Silence engulfed both of them, less of the awkward kind and more melancholic. After what felt like an eternity, Seonghwa finally spoke up, steering the conversation back into the main topic.

“I know you can’t bring yourself to be on the same page as I am, but trust me, taking a stroll works really well. I’ve done it a lot of times already.” Seonghwa leaned forward, trying to persuade Hongjoong. “Try it out sometime? It’s totally fine if you want to do it alone, of course.”

Hongjoong sighed in defeat. “Fine, I’ll try if I have time. If it turns out to be a huge failure, I’m no longer bringing myself to trust your words.”

“No need to threaten me. I can already tell it’ll turn out well.”

—

The sound of the birds singing their melodies as they sat by the tree in front of your window made your eyes flutter open, yet they closed shut just as quick the moment you turned over and nearly got blinded by the thin ray of sunlight passing through the tiny gap between your curtains. You rubbed your eyes, taking a moment before opening them once more. Once you were certain you were fully conscious, you sat up, stretching your arms after leaning back on your headboard. You looked at the digital clock you had placed on your bedside table, and it read: 8:01 AM. You sighed softly.

Another day for a job hunt with a 0.1% chance of ending on a good note.

You pulled the blankets draped over your figure off, letting your feet land softly on the floor as you stood up, this time stretching your entire body. You turned back to your bed, tidying it up before anything else. Once you were satisfied with the outcome, you made your way towards the bathroom, taking a minute to let your appearance sink in. There were light bags under your eyes, and you’re certain it wouldn’t take a stranger more than a single look to notice how tired you look. Sighing, you stepped inside the shower and took your clothes off, letting yourself melt away along with the warm drops of water that slid down on the surface of your skin.

After a thorough and refreshing shower, you dry off and wrap yourself in a soft, fluffy towel. The warmth of the shower water lingers on your skin, a small comfort in the face of the day's impending challenges. You take a moment to pamper yourself, applying a light moisturizer to keep your skin feeling smooth and hydrated. With each methodical step, you focus on maintaining a sense of calmness, trying to stave off the creeping anxiety of another potentially fruitless day.

Next, you move to your bedroom and open the closet. The selection is limited, a reflection of your dwindling budget, but you choose an outfit that makes you feel both comfortable and confident. You pull out a soft, cream-colored blouse made of a lightweight, breathable fabric. The blouse has delicate lace trim along the cuffs and neckline, giving it a touch of elegance. You pair it with a light, flowing skirt in a pastel floral pattern that falls just below your knees that sways gently with each movement.

You complete the ensemble with a pair of simple ballet flats in a matching cream shade. They are worn but still manage to look stylish, providing the comfort needed for a day spent navigating the streets of Paris. As a final touch, you choose a dainty gold necklace with a small pendant that rests gently against your collarbone, a gift from your grandmother that always brings you a sense of comfort and connection to home.

Standing before the mirror, you take a moment to brush your hair, allowing it to fall naturally around your shoulders. You apply a light touch of makeup—just enough to brighten your features and hide the evidence of your restless nights. Once you’re done, you give yourself a final, encouraging smile in the mirror, hoping that today will bring better luck.

Once dressed and ready, you head to the kitchen to make breakfast. Opening the cupboard, you’re greeted by the sight of only three cups of ramen left, a stark reminder of your dire financial situation. Your stomach twists with a mix of hunger and anxiety as you consider your options. You can’t keep surviving on instant noodles; you need to find a job soon, or you’ll risk running out of even the most basic supplies.

You take one of the cups of ramen and prepare it, boiling water and pouring it into the cup. As you wait for the noodles to soften, you lean against the counter, staring out of the small window above the sink. The morning light filters in, casting a soft glow over the modest kitchen. Despite the beauty of the Parisian morning, you can’t help but feel like the anchor of your struggles is weighing you down.

With breakfast ready, you sit at the small table in the corner of your kitchen. The steam rises from the cup of ramen, and you take a moment to appreciate the warmth it brings. As you eat, you let your mind wander, thinking about the places you’ll visit today in your job search, the people you’ll meet, and the potential opportunities that might arise.

Once you finish eating and begin cleaning up the dining table, a thought strikes you: the memory of the foreign, fancier part of the city you accidentally stumbled upon on your first day of job hunting. You hadn’t fully explored it, and given its apparent high status, it seemed like a promising place to search for employment. The only problem was you didn’t remember exactly how you got there.

Determined to try your luck, you step out of your apartment and begin your journey. Just as you reach the end of the hallway, you cross paths with Madame Dupont. Her kind eyes light up when she sees you, and she greets you with a warm smile.

“Bonjour, my dear! How is the job search going?” she asks, her voice filled with genuine concern.

You return her smile, doing your best to maintain a positive facade. “Bonjour, Madame Dupont. It’s been challenging, but I’m not giving up. Actually, I was planning to head to a specific part of the city today, but I’m not sure how to get there. I only stumbled upon it by accident the first time.”

Madame Dupont raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Can you describe it for me?”

You nod, taking a moment to recall the details. “It’s a very elegant area, with wide streets lined with high-end boutiques and cafes. The buildings are all beautifully maintained, with ornate facades and large windows. There’s a small park with a fountain in the center, and I remember seeing people dressed quite fashionably, as if it’s a place frequented by those of a higher status.”

Madame Dupont’s face brightens with recognition. “Ah, I know exactly where you mean! That’s the Rue de la Paix district. It’s indeed a very prestigious part of the city. To get there, you’ll want to take the metro to the Opéra station, then it’s just a short walk down the avenue. You can’t miss it.”

Relief floods through you, and you offer her a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Madame Dupont. That really means a lot.”

She pats your arm gently. “Of course, my dear. I’m sure you’ll find something today. Good luck, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

With renewed determination, you bid her farewell and make your way to the metro station. Following Madame Dupont’s directions, you navigate the bustling underground system with ease, boarding the train that will take you to the Opéra station. As the train glides through the city, you allow yourself to relax, the rhythmic clattering of the wheels providing a calming backdrop to your thoughts.

When the train pulls into the Opéra station, you step off and follow the signs to the exit. Emerging onto the street, you’re greeted by the sight of the magnificent Palais Garnier opera house, its grand architecture a stunning example of the city’s rich cultural heritage. You take a moment to admire the building before setting off down the avenue as Madame Dupont instructed.

The walk to Rue de la Paix is short and pleasant. The wide boulevard is lined with luxurious boutiques and elegant cafes, just as you remembered. The buildings are indeed beautifully maintained, with their ornate facades and large windows creating an air of sophistication and wealth. The small park with its charming fountain serves as a tranquil oasis amidst the streets.

As you take in the sights and sounds of the district, you can’t help but feel a sense of optimism. The people here are well-dressed and exude an aura of confidence and success. If you could manage to land a job in this area, it would undoubtedly open many doors for you.

With this thought in mind, you begin your search. You walk into several boutiques and cafes, inquiring about job openings and handing out your resume. Each rejection stings a little less, fueled by the hope that this district holds the key to your future success. You remind yourself to keep pushing forward, knowing that persistence is your greatest ally in this journey.

Well, even if you had your hopes up high, it’s still just as you expected.

Hours passed, and the sun was now setting, casting a golden hue over the picturesque streets of Rue de la Paix. You decided to head to the small park you’d come across earlier, seeking solace in its tranquil atmosphere. Finding an empty bench, you sat down, setting your resume on your lap and letting out a heavy sigh.

The weight of the day was heavy, and despite your determination, a sense of defeat began to creep in. As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you reflected on the countless rejections you had faced today. Your heart ached with a familiar loneliness, a gnawing feeling that perhaps you were out of place in this glamorous part of the city. Each boutique and cafe you’d walked into had left you with a bittersweet taste of missed opportunities and the distant dream of success.

You couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the people around you, who seemed to glide effortlessly through their days, basking in the luxury and elegance of their surroundings. Your mind wandered back to the comfort of your journal, the one thing that had always been a steady companion through your struggles. But even that solace was out of reach now, leaving you feeling more vulnerable than ever.

Your thoughts spiraled, questioning your decision to move to Paris, to leave behind the familiarity of Arcadia Bay for a city that seemed to hold endless challenges. Doubts began to creep in, whispering that perhaps you weren’t cut out for this life, that the independent image you wanted to maintain for your parents was slipping through your fingers.

You sighed in defeat, thinking that maybe today wasn’t your luckiest day. Standing up, you were about to leave the park and head back to your apartment when you heard rapid footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You turned your head around, met with the sight of a seemingly familiar-looking man—the one you saw on the other side of the road the day you accidentally stumbled upon this area of Paris. You raised both your eyebrows, waiting for him to draw nearer to see if he was referring to you when he said to wait. When he was finally standing in front of you, catching his breath, your suspicions were confirmed.

“Sorry, I just—” he managed to say between ragged breaths, a hand on his heart as he tried to settle himself down. Looking at him blankly, you took out a bottle of water from your bag and handed it to him. He looked at you with both surprise and confusion.

“I think you need it,” you said, your voice calm and warm despite the exhaustion you felt.

He nodded, taking the bottle gratefully. “Thank you,” he said before chugging the water and then throwing the empty bottle in a nearby bin. He turned back to you, a mixture of relief and curiosity in his eyes. “Thanks again. I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You offered him a small smile. “It’s no problem. But… what do you mean? Do we know each other?”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly. I saw you the other day, across the road. I work around here, and I’ve been meaning to approach you. I’m Seonghwa, by the way.”

You smiled, your curiosity piqued. “Nice to meet you, Seonghwa. What made you want to approach me?”

Seonghwa’s expression turned serious, though his demeanor remained friendly. “I’m a talent scout, specifically for models. I work with a fashion designer who’s always on the lookout for fresh faces. When I saw you, something about you stood out. You have a unique presence that I think could really shine in the industry.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. “Oh, a model? I’ve never thought about that before…”

He smiled, sensing your hesitation. “I understand it might be a lot to take in, but I really believe you have potential. We’re actually holding an open casting soon, and I’d love for you to come by and give it a shot. No pressure, of course.”

You looked down, considering his words. It seemed like an unexpected opportunity, something that could change the course of your current struggle. “I appreciate the offer. It’s just… I’m not sure if I’m cut out for that world.”

Seonghwa nodded, his gaze reassuring. “I get it. But sometimes, the best opportunities come from stepping out of our comfort zones. You never know until you try.”

His words resonated with you, and you found yourself nodding slowly. “Alright, I’ll think about it. Thank you for the offer, Seonghwa.”

He smiled warmly. “That’s all I can ask. Here’s my card. Feel free to reach out if you have any questions or if you decide to give it a go.”

Seonghwa’s gaze was warm and sincere as he continued, shifting the conversation into something more casual. “Are you new here?”

You smiled, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. “Was it that obvious?”

Seonghwa waved you off. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just haven’t seen you around before. When did you arrive here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just a week ago. I’ve been on a job hunt since then, so that’s why I went to this part of the city,” you explained. “I’m still trying to get comfortable with my surroundings, though.”

He nodded in understanding. “Paris can be pretty overwhelming. I remember feeling lost when I first moved here. But sometimes, it’s the unplanned encounters that make the journey worthwhile.”

You smiled, appreciating his attempt to make you feel at ease. “Yeah, it’s definitely been an adjustment. Every corner of this city feels like it has a story, and I’m just trying to find my place in it.”

Seonghwa tucked a stray strand of his hair behind his ear, his posture relaxed. “It’s a process, but you’ll get there. You seem like someone who’s determined and resourceful. That’s half the battle won already.”

His words were reassuring, and you felt a small smile forming on your lips. “Thanks. That means a lot. I guess I just need to keep pushing forward.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And about the modeling—no need to decide right away. Take your time. If it’s something you’re curious about, just give me a call. Sometimes, the most unexpected paths can lead to the most rewarding experiences.”

You looked at him, feeling a genuine connection. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

As you both stood there, the park’s tranquility wrapping around you, it felt like the beginning of something new. You realized that while today hadn’t gone as planned, it had led to an encounter that could open doors you hadn’t even considered.

“Take care,” Seonghwa said, giving you a final nod before turning to leave.

“You too,” you replied, watching him walk away, feeling a newfound sense of possibility.

As you made your way back to your apartment, you retraced the path you had taken to Rue de la Paix, feeling a mix of exhaustion and a glimmer of hope. The bustling streets began to quiet down as the day transitioned into evening, the soft hum of the city’s nightlife starting to emerge. You navigated the narrow alleys and charming boulevards, the flickering streetlights casting long shadows on the cobblestones.

The route took you past the quaint cafes where locals and tourists alike were enjoying their evening meals, and through the elegant shopping district, now closing down for the night. You glanced at the beautifully dressed windows, a reminder of the world you were trying to break into. With each step, you felt the day’s events replaying in your mind, from the polite rejections to the unexpected encounter with Seonghwa.

Finally, you turned the corner onto your street, the familiar sight of your apartment building coming into view. As you approached, you noticed Madame Dupont standing outside, engaged in a lively conversation with another tenant. Her presence was a comforting constant in your new life here.

When she saw you, Madame Dupont’s face lit up with a warm smile. “Was it a success?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity and concern.

You looked down at the business card in your hands, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Guess we have yet to find out, Madame Dupont.”

With a nod and a reassuring smile from her, you made your way inside, feeling a sense of cautious optimism about what tomorrow might bring.

Seonghwa then arrives at Hongjoong’s penthouse, and as he steps inside, the luxurious space contrasts starkly with the simple park where he met you earlier.

Hongjoong, who had been lounging in his living room with a book, looked up, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. “Care to tell me how good this news you have for me is? Just so that I know my alone time was interrupted for a good cause.”

Seonghwa grinned, the excitement clear in his eyes. “Oh, definitely worth it. You’re going to want to hear this.” He took a seat opposite Hongjoong and began to recount the entire encounter.

“So, remember the girl I told you about? I was at the park today when I saw her. She wasn’t just sitting there, she was actually about to leave. I noticed her standing up from one of the benches, looking like she was about to head home. I couldn’t let the chance slip by, so I ran towards her, calling out for her to wait.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You… ran? Like, ran after her?” he said, mildly appalled.

Seonghwa nodded, a bit sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I must have looked a bit crazy, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. When she turned around, she looked a bit surprised, but there was this unique energy she held with her when I finally got to stand face to face with her. She has this presence—warm but with a sort of quiet strength. It’s hard to describe, like it’s something you’re either bound to feel or not.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, listening intently. “So? What did you say to her?”

Seonghwa smiled, remembering the encounter vividly. “I was a bit out of breath when I reached her, so the first thing she did was hand me a bottle of water from her bag. It was such a small gesture, but it felt genuine. I thanked her and explained who I was, and why I had run after her.”

He continued. “She was polite, a bit reserved, but there was this genuine interest in her eyes. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone; she was just herself. We chatted a bit about how she ended up in this part of the city. She told me about her struggles finding a job, and how she had hoped to find something in Rue de la Paix.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly, taking in Seonghwa’s words. “So she is new. What was your first impression of her?”

“Up close, she’s even more striking—there’s something about her eyes, they’re so expressive. She has this natural elegance that I think would be perfect for our brand. Despite her situation, she seemed hopeful, determined. She has this warmth about her that I think would resonate well with people.”

Hongjoong, though still skeptical, was intrigued. “Did you manage to get her name?”

Seonghwa winced slightly. “Oh. Well, no, unfortunately. But I did give her my card, and I tried to persuade her to consider coming to our casting. I think I made a good impression. She seemed interested, even if she was a bit unsure. I’m positive she’ll consider it.”

Hongjoong sighed, still not entirely convinced but trusting Seonghwa’s judgment. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it. But next time, try to get a name.”

Seonghwa smiled, relieved. “Will do. I really think she could be the fresh face we’ve been looking for.”

You, on the other hand, had lost count of how many times you had rolled around in bed. Sleep eluded you, and it felt strange because usually, it was easy for you to get tired and your body would yearn for moments of slumber. Sighing, you opened your eyes and sat up, leaning against the headboard. Reaching over to the bedside table, you grabbed your phone, the bright light nearly blinding you. Squinting, you quickly lowered the brightness to the lowest level.

Once the glare was manageable, you found yourself staring blankly at your lockscreen—a photo of Arcadia Bay’s lighthouse. You had taken the picture on the day you got fired from your job at a diner because the owner found out you were the one secretly eating the ingredients. It had been a horrible day—not because you lost yet another job, but because you really liked the way their potatoes tasted. You remembered walking home with your shoulders hunched over, feeling dejected. But then, the lighthouse came into view, perfectly highlighted by the golden hour. You couldn’t resist capturing the serene moment, and it became your lockscreen ever since. Maybe someday, once you’re properly settled, it would be replaced by a photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.

Snapping out of your reverie, you unlocked your phone and began browsing the internet to pass the time. You scrolled through social media, coming across a variety of random posts and videos. There were adorable clips of cats doing silly things, travel vlogs showcasing beautiful destinations, and motivational quotes superimposed on scenic backgrounds. You watched a video of a chef demonstrating how to make a perfect soufflé, then moved on to a compilation of the vertigo effect being used in movie scenes.

As you continued your aimless scrolling, an article title caught your eye: ”Ever wondered why you can’t sleep at night?” Intrigued, you clicked on the link. The article opened with a brief introduction about how common sleep troubles are and how they can be influenced by various factors. It discussed the usual suspects: stress, diet, lack of exercise, and an irregular sleep schedule.

You found yourself nodding along as you read, thinking about how some of these reasons might apply to you. The article elaborated on how stress from major life changes, like moving to a new city and job hunting, could wreak havoc on your sleep patterns. It mentioned how certain foods, especially those high in sugar or caffeine, could make it harder to fall asleep.

The next section delved into the impact of screen time. The article explained that exposure to blue light from phones, tablets, and computers could interfere with your body’s natural circadian rhythm. Blue light suppresses the production of melatonin, the hormone that regulates sleep, making it harder for you to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. You glanced at your phone, feeling a twinge of guilt but continued reading.

The article also touched on the importance of creating a comfortable sleeping environment. It emphasized the need for a cool, dark, and quiet room to foster better sleep. It suggested using blackout curtains, earplugs, or a white noise machine to eliminate distractions. You made a mental note to consider some of these adjustments, thinking about how you could improve your current setup.

Then, as you scrolled deeper into the article, you reached a section that listed possible reasons for not being able to sleep at night. The usual reasons were there: too much screen time before bed, an uncomfortable sleeping environment, underlying health issues, and more. But it was the last reason that truly caught your attention: “Someone may be thinking of you.”

Intrigued, you read further. The article explained that some people believe in the concept of a psychic connection, where thoughts and feelings can be transferred between individuals, especially those who share a close bond. It suggested that if someone is thinking intensely about you, it could create an energetic disturbance that might affect your sleep.

The article elaborated further: “This idea, although seemingly far-fetched to many, has roots in various cultural and spiritual beliefs. The notion is that when someone thinks about you intensely, their mental energy can reach out across distances, subtly impacting your own energy field. This might manifest as restlessness, sudden thoughts of the person, or difficulty in falling asleep.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to this. The article continued to delve into anecdotal evidence and testimonials from people who claimed to have experienced this phenomenon. There were stories of individuals who felt a sudden, unexplainable urge to contact someone, only to find out that the person had been thinking of them at that very moment. Other accounts described how people would dream of someone they hadn’t seen in years, only to receive a message from that person the next day.

The article suggested that this psychic connection could be stronger between people who share a deep emotional bond, such as family members, close friends, or romantic partners. It posited that these connections might be more prevalent during times of emotional intensity or major life changes, when thoughts and feelings are more powerful and focused.

As you pondered this notion, you thought back to the day’s events and the unexpected encounter with Seonghwa. Could it be possible that his thoughts were reaching out to you in some way? The article mentioned that sometimes, when someone is intensely focused on you, their thoughts could reach you, creating a sense of connection or unease. You considered the possibility that Seonghwa’s genuine interest and focus on you might be the reason for your restlessness. Or was it caused by an entirely different person?

Nevertheless, since you were already thinking of Seonghwa, your mind eventually drifted to the card he had given you. You reached over to your bedside table and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. The simple, elegant card had Seonghwa’s name and phone number neatly printed. You traced the embossed letters with your thumb, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety.

You thought back to your encounter with Seonghwa in the park. The way he had approached you, breathless and earnest, was still vivid in your mind. His genuine interest in you had been flattering, but also overwhelming. You had never seriously considered a career in fashion or modeling before. Sure, you had dabbled in amateur photography and enjoyed dressing up for special occasions solely for the fun it provides, but could you really make a living out of it?

Your thoughts spiraled as you weighed the pros and cons. On one hand, Seonghwa seemed convinced that you had the potential to succeed. His confidence was infectious, and you couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. A career in fashion could bring about the major change you had always longed for. It would be a chance to reinvent yourself, to step out of the shadow of your past failures and truly shine.

The prospect of entering the world of fashion was incredibly appealing. You had always admired the creativity and artistry behind it. Being a part of this vibrant industry could open doors you had never even dreamed of. The connections, the experiences, the opportunity to travel and meet new people—it was all so enticing.

But then, doubts began to creep in. What if you weren’t cut out for the world of fashion? It was a fiercely competitive industry, and you had no formal training or experience. You imagined the rigorous casting calls, the endless critiques, and the constant pressure to maintain a certain image. Could you handle that kind of scrutiny? You had always been more comfortable blending into the background, avoiding the spotlight. Modeling would require you to be confident, outgoing, and resilient—all traits you weren’t sure you possessed.

You also considered the practicalities. How would you balance a demanding career with your other responsibilities? Would you have enough time and energy to devote to your passion projects and personal life? The thought of juggling multiple commitments was daunting.

There was also the fear of failure. What if you took the plunge and it didn’t work out? The fashion industry was notorious for its fickleness. One moment you could be in demand, and the next, forgotten. You had already experienced your fair share of setbacks and disappointments. Could you handle another one? The idea of putting yourself out there, only to be rejected, was terrifying.

As you pondered these questions, your mind drifted to the potential impact on your personal life. Moving to Paris had been a major step in seeking a fresh start. You had hoped to leave behind the suffocating familiarity of your hometown and create new memories. But diving into the fashion world might mean sacrificing some of the simplicity and tranquility you had been seeking.

On the other hand, this opportunity could be the very change you needed. It might be the catalyst that propels you toward a brighter future. You had always believed in taking risks and embracing new experiences. Maybe this was your chance to prove to yourself that you were capable of more than you ever imagined.

You thought about the kind of person you wanted to become. You envisioned yourself walking down the streets of Paris with confidence, attending glamorous events, and working on creative projects that inspired you. This was your chance to step out of your comfort zone and embrace a new chapter.

You also considered the people you might meet along the way. Fashion was a dynamic and diverse industry, filled with individuals from all walks of life. You could form connections with like-minded creatives, learn from seasoned professionals, and perhaps even find a mentor who could guide you on your journey.

Yet there was the reality of the unknown. Despite Seonghwa’s assurance, there was no guarantee that you would succeed. The fashion world was unpredictable, and you had to be prepared for the highs and lows. You wondered if you had the resilience to bounce back from setbacks and keep pushing forward.

But then you remember that you’ve been on your fifth job hunt for the week now and you’re still empty-handed. You can’t let yourself stay like this any longer—unless you want to starve and survive on ramen noodles for the rest of your life. Sure, you could ring up your parents if you were ever to come to that point, but that would defeat the whole purpose of proving to them that you’re brave enough to handle yourself, right? You wanted to show them, and yourself, that you could make it on your own in this new city. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your chance to reinvent yourself and find success on your own terms.

You sighed, feeling the weight of your situation. How long could you continue like this, barely scraping by, constantly worrying about where your next meal would come from or if you’d be able to pay rent next month? The thought of another week of rejections was almost too much to bear. You needed something to change, something big, something that would turn your luck around.

With a deep breath, you opened your phone once more, staring at the number written on Seonghwa’s card. The decision felt monumental, as if this single call could be the turning point you desperately needed. After a moment of hesitation, you dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times. Just as you were about to hang up, a groggy voice answered, “Hello?” You felt a pang of guilt, realizing you may have woken him up.

But you couldn’t back down now. This was too important. Gathering your courage, you spoke, “Hi, Seonghwa? It’s me—the girl from Rue de la Paix. I’m sorry for calling so late, but... could you tell me more about the casting?”

🪞 — lividstar.

[kookygranger]

Is This Desire?

Firefighter!Steve Harrington x Witch!Reader

A short lustful fever dream. Or, Steve Harrington finally makes a move.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, witchcraft, reader is a town outcast, fem!reader, no upside down/no hawkins au

Word count: 1k

Author's note: She's short but oh so sweet.

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Chapter Two: One Line

And I draw a line To your heart today To your heart from mine A line keep us safe

After the night of your eighteenth birthday, you’d looked out for Steve Harrington from afar.

The boy who’d bewitched you body and soul was under your protection without even knowing it.

You could only do so much from your bedroom with candles and Latin poetry, and the boy certainly didn’t make it easy, putting himself in the way of direct danger once he’d joined the local fire department as a rookie. But there were moments in his life when things should’ve gone sideways, sliding doors, split seconds making all the difference when he came out unscathed.

Steve couldn’t believe his luck one day when he’d gone in to inspect a charcoaled house, with water still dripping from the windows, heat lingering enough to make him sweat underneath his thick uniform. He’d heard the telling moan of the timber before the snap, a blur of blackened wood entering his sight, yelling voices behind him and he thought he was done for. The falling beam would’ve crushed him if it wasn’t for the gentle tug on his body that kept him out of its path.

When he looked back a polished silver nail winked at him on the otherwise soot-stained wall, wearing a tear of navy material taken from his back. He hadn’t thought much of it other than luck when he breathed out deeply, one of his fellow crew members clapping him on the shoulder with a nervous chuckle.

“Close call, kid.”

You were convinced he couldn’t be thinking of you as often as you were him, but you let this inexplicable need to protect him overtake in those first few months. A purpose for waking in an otherwise mundane and restrained existence. Eventually though, you recognised it was time to step back. To protect yourself, along with him. Getting hung up on a boy when you were still bound by your uncle’s rules in this house, that was the only life you’d ever known only served to deepen your depression. You had to put him to the back of your mind, as nothing but a saccharine memory.

But after you’d seen him at the library, adorably flustered and stammering about late fees, crumpled bills falling from his sweaty palms onto the pile of books in between you, he’d invaded your thoughts once again.

For weeks you’d been tossing and turning during the night, never comfortable, waking up in a searing heat. Your heart racing every time you got a glimpse of golden-brown hair turning a corner, a heat between your thighs that could never seem to be satiated, dreams of a constellation of freckles stretching over sun-kissed skin. For you, there was no relief.

So, you’re not at all surprised that the boy who refuses to be pushed aside by any other thoughts is standing in front of you now, soaking wet and heaving with desperation when you look up from the book you hadn’t been paying attention to. Bare legs crossed under you as you sit on the wicker couch you’d placed on the newly painted porch a month ago. Tea still steaming next to you, the heat thick and unwilling to lift even in this downpour, permeating every moment of your life, waking and within dreams. But the only one who seems to be feeling it as deeply as you is dripping a mess on your porch in front of you.

“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I think I’ve been dreaming about you every night for months…that–did not sound as creepy when I…in my head.” He chuckles breathily, threading a shaky hand through his damp locks “Could you forget I said that?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Reality setting in, like the water in his white socks, but you’re standing in front of him before he can ask himself how he got here.

���Steve?”

Brown eyes watch your lips intently, “Yeah?”

“I’ve been dreaming about you too.”

He huffs one breathe, two, before capturing your lips with his.

Warm hands collect the material keeping you from one another in fistfuls. Shaky touches, not born from shyness but an all-consuming need that neither of you had any comparison ready for.

There are no thoughts of your surroundings or anything outside the here and now as hips and backs bump, leaving toppled frames and glittering shards on the floor in your wake through the front door. Furniture groaning as it scrapes across the floorboards and out of your way, clothes hitting the floor, the couch, the side table – anywhere but your burning bodies as hands dig deeper. Kneading, pleading.

No room for slow-moving until you’re hip to hip, chest to chest, soft hair rubbing against your already sweat-slicked skin as you take a deep breath. Steve follows you, his thrusts slow and deep as the world stops spinning around the both of you.

You breathe in each other’s air through soft, deep kisses until your mouth stretches open in the wake of a tightening heat unwinding all at once. Steve’s wet lips trail across your jaw, down your neck before the feeling of you shaking beneath him has him joining you in shuddered ecstasy.

The scratchiness of the rug on your bare skin is a faraway feeling, one given less priority of your attention as Steve trails kisses along your body. Along your shoulders and across your chest as it rises and falls in a more steady rhythm as time continues to trickle by. You trace the freckles peppering his flexed arms that hold him above you, loose strands of hair falling into his face when he looks down at you – a sight already worryingly familiar.

“What now?” He rubs the back of your entwined hand with his thumb.

“I don’t know.”

He leans down to kiss your shoulder again, then under your ear. Forehead touching yours as a boyish smile takes over his face, golden like the feeling blooming in your chest. “How about we start with dinner?”

[gx-gameon]

Okay I’ve been thinking about post cannon more and more.

About Jesse and Jaden traveling around Europe. As they do they visit different land marks and historical sites. But it’s the castles that are weird.

Every time they are near a castle Jaden keeps seeing these brightly dressed knights. They are obviously spirits, but something’s off about them. They are more transparent than other spirits. They don’t speak, not a sound. And they seemed to fade in and out of reality, like they are having difficulty maintaining their presence in this dimensions.

But the weirdest this is that Jesse can’t see them.

They’re both a little freaked out by this. Jesse has always been able to see spirits. How is he missing these?

It’s Neos and Yubel who solve the mystery. It’s an archetype that hasn’t been ‘created’ yet. The monster spirits are there but their cards are not. Since the cards don’t exist the monster spirits don’t have a connection to this world yet, so it’s much harder to for them to appear.

The same thing happened with the Neospacians when Jaden was young. Since he is the wielder of the Gentle Darkness he has a strong connection to the spirit world. He was able to see the Neospacians reaching out to him (they were always meant to be his deck) Once he drew their cards they were able to appear in full without flicker out of existence and could speak to Jaden. They had a tether to this world now in the form of their card.

With this they conclude:

These monster spirits do not have cards yet

They are reaching out to Jaden for a purpose. Whether to be ‘created’ or because they have a connection to him.

Jesse can’t see them because they don’t have a tether yet. (With training Jesse will be able to see ‘incomplete’ archetypes as well. He will need to work for it unlike Jaden’s natural connection to the Gentle Darkness. Jesse has a strong connection to the spirit world it’s just not the same as the Supreme King you know?)

But Jaden makes a fourth realization. While the knights appear to him and try to approach. They always seem to be moving towards Jesse, not Jaden. The two boys are almost always together, but sometimes they split up. They’re looking at different things, a crowd split them, they were chasing something. It happens. But anytime they are near a castle, when Jaden meets up with Jesse one of those knights will be trailing him. Following Jesse’s steps, almost like it’s protecting him.

Year it’s flickering out of existence and can’t communicate but it’s there until Jaden meets back up with Jesse. The knight will look at him and disappear. It isn’t until the talk with Neos and Yubel that Jaden realizes they were nodding at him.

The only way to figure out what these spirits want is to communicate with them. And that can only be done if they have a card. Luckily Jaden’s art skills have improved since he was four. (If the Neospacians appeared form a sloppy clones drawling then I don’t think monster spirits care if their ‘card’ is professionally drawn or scribbled on a napkin.)

Jaden gets a sketchpad. (He’s pretty sure he’s going to be drawling more than one knight. And that this won’t be the last archetype he has to do this for)

The next time they are at a castle and one of the knights appears Jaden starts to draw it. The knight realizes with Jaden is doing and tries to stick around as long as possible. Once Jaden finishes the picture (it’s not professional by any means but it’s not awful art. I think he’d be good at it especially with practice) the connection snaps into place.

Gem Knight Crystal stands before them.

Jesse is now able to see the monster has its tether to their world is now in place. The gem knight kneels before both boys and explains.

He thanks his King (Jaden) for his attention and expresses the Gem Knights desire to serve their King and General again. He tilts his head up to look at Jesse when saying General.

Jesse’s taken aback. He already has a deck, his family, the Crystal Beast. He’s not looking for a new archetype.

The Gem Knights know that. They also know that the Crystal Beast are in constant danger from poachers because of their rarity. And that it is the honor of the Gem knights to serve under the Crystal Protector is service to their King.

Jaden and Jesse are baffled. They have no idea what is happening. Crystal Protector? Why are they calling Jesse that? Like it’s accurate but it feels like a title.

But Gen Knight Crystal makes his plea to find his brothers and sisters and Jaden and Jesse can’t say no to that. As they travel around Europe they collect more and more Gen knights. (Even going back to get the knights Jaden had already spotted)

Once Jaden them all drawn he send the sketches to Chumley and asked him if he can turn them into cards. Chumley can see spirits so he can listen to the Gem knights and get their cards just right.

The deck that gets sent back is shocking because it’s a perfect blend of Jesse and Jaden’s decks. The decks is a fusion deck. The gem knights work together just like Jaden’s hero’s to create stronger monsters.

They both use it but it becomes Jesse’s secondary Deck. While the Gem Knights are thrilled any time they get to work with Jaden they belong to and serve Jesse as protection to both the Crystal Beasts and Jaden.

(Yes I know there is a character in arc v that uses that deck but we’re not talking about her… it’s just to perfect of a deck not to belong to Jaden and Jesse)

[thatlonelymonster]

Little fights

Pairing: Lo'ak x male Metkayina reader x Aonung

Pronouns used: he/him

Words: 2k

Warnings: none

Request: “If your requests are open can I req some Aonung x male reader x Lo’ak? Any plot really, just some fluff would be nice”

"(M/n)! (M/n), over here!" What was that? My thoughts were still cloudy when I was awakened from my nap on the beach. "Oh man, just leave him, can’t you see he's sleeping?" "(M/n), look!" I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My gaze wandered over the water until I could see two figures not far away from me, to whom I could assign the voices from just now. It took me a second to get on my feet. Then I stretched briefly and patted some sand off of my tweng.

Finally, I started moving to make my way to the water. The spot where the low waves reached the beach was barely a few meters away. As the waves swept over my feet, I sighed contentedly. Feeling the coolness of the ocean on my body was one of my favorite feelings. But the quiet satisfaction did not last long when the same voice from earlier called my name again: "(M/n), look what I caught!" One of my boyfriends, Lo'ak, waved his hands excitedly in the air. His fingers were clasped around a short spear, on which a fish, a little larger than his head, was wriggling impaled. "Nice catch, love!" I closed the few steps between us and patted his shoulder with a grin. "Right?" He beamed from ear to ear. He had such a way about him, his joy was just contagious. "And Aonung made fun of me because of it!" I tried to contain myself from chuckling when I noticed the little pout that had now spread across his lips. It was clear to me that he was only looking for my confirmation with his actions. And since I knew what made him tick, I didn't want to deny him the little praise. So I just leaned over and gave him a small kiss that served its purpose and put the smile back on his pretty face. "Oh, don't hold it against him, he's just jealous because he hasn't caught anything yet." I quipped. Although I had said this quietly, a second later I heard some angry mumbling. Something about how this is not true and Lo'ak being like a baby who wouldn't even catch a tadpole.

I hadn't intended to have to start this all over again and I regretted saying anything at all. The relationship between Lo'ak and Aonung was, well, let's say more often still difficult. Before Lo'ak had joined our relationship, they had become friends to some extent, but not without constantly teasing each other. I had expected it to get better since the three of us were together, but now they were constantly arguing for my attention, which of them was better at what and more unnecessary quarrels on a toddler level. This rivalry, whether playful or not, sometimes really got on my nerves, as they were both very important to me. And I wasn't their mother to arbitrate such things all the time. Sometimes I wish that everything could just be a little more tension-free. I turned to Aonung, thinking about saying something, and couldn't decide whether to apologize to him for my comment or blame him for his. However, this decision was taken away from me when Lo'ak caught me off guard by placing his spear in the water and jumping into my arms, almost causing me to fall backwards in the process. By doing so, he was successful in drawing my attention back to him.

I put my hands around his back to hold him up. "Are you proud of me?" His gaze rested intensely on my face and he gave me an expression full of joyful anticipation. For now, I buried my face in the crook of his neck so he couldn't see my amused smile. It was mean, I knew that, but somehow Aonung wasn't entirely wrong with his words. Of course, since Lo'ak was one of the forest people, he had no practice in our hunt and had to start very small. And, of course, I didn't want to dissuade him from this progress by discouraging him. "Yes, soo proud!" I muttered, fueling his ego. Aonung snorted in exasperation. "Come on, can you even call this little thing a fish? Even a baby could catch something like that!", he said spitefully with his typical challenging grin. I had learned to just ignore his cheeky comments to Lo'ak, because when I scolded them for their little fights, both of them just ended up whining. "Oh, is that so, Aonung? You don't have to say anything, because unlike you, I actually caught something! And I'm not even from here!" He stuck his tongue out at the older boy. "Guys, please!" "He started it!", came from both of them at the same time.

As always, no one took the blame. In the end, I decided to let them discuss it when else because I couldn't bear their squabbling again. So, without further ado, I just went back towards the beach, literally running away from my problems for the moment. At least in part, because Lo'ak was still clinging to my neck and now wrapped his legs around my waist so as not to fall off due to my movement. "Hey, where are we going?" he asked, confused. "I don't know. I'll just separate you from each other until you behave appropriately for your age again." I also didn't care if Lo'ak was offended by my comment now. If he were, he would simply end up somewhere in the water. I was just fed up at the moment. However, to my surprise, he just relaxed in my arms and caressed the tattoos on my shoulders with his fingers. I waited for him to say something, but he didn't.

It wasn't until I arrived at the small cave somewhere near the beach, where we often came, that he let go of my neck and dropped on his own feet. Even though I loved carrying him around, I was glad that I didn't have to hold his weight anymore as it made walking kind of difficult. "Do we want to cook the fish for dinner?" he asked softly. The fish. "Well, did you bring it with you?" We both looked at each other in expressionless realization. "We forgot the fish." I sighed. "Then we'll just eat with the others later." He nodded. But I could see a hint of disappointment on his face. "You'll catch another one tomorrow!" He nodded again. Then he reached out to me and gave me the grasping hands movement. "Cuddle?" I asked him with my head tilted to the side. Instead of giving me an answer, he simply pulled me into a tight embrace. I didn't know why he was so needy for attention today, but of course I didn't mind. "Come on, let's make ourselves comfortable." I looked around the cave. It wasn't big, but it didn't have to be. When we first found it, we put a little effort into decorating it with leaves and laying out moss to sit on, built a small fire pit from a circle of stones and that was it. It wasn't my home, but I felt almost as at home here as I did in the village. Yet this was probably because I shared this place with my boyfriends and thus connected it with them.

I chose a large moss pillow to sit on and pulled Lo'ak by the hand towards me. As he wriggled around, trying to find a position that was comfortable for both of us, I watched him. In the end, he just rested his head on my chest and pulled his legs to him like a baby. My gaze wandered over his beautiful body. His skin tone, which had a darker shade of blue than mine, his strong but delicate hands with five beautifully long fingers, the patterns on his arms, chest, torso and legs, and actually all over his body, his thin forest tail, which probably made swimming much more difficult. He wasn't just special because he looked different from my people. He was also unique in his own way. "What is it?" I looked down and saw him staring at me with his big yellow orbs. It just looked indescribably adorable. "Nothing. You're just unbelievably beautiful." I gave him a warm smile. A dark purple blush crept onto his cheeks and he quickly hid them in his hands. "Don't just say something like that, skxawng!" His embarrassment made me laugh. "And you don't hide your cute face!" Carefully, I grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. His pupils were slightly dilated and his face still had a soft shade of purple. This sight made my face heat up as well. Without taking my eyes off him, I intertwined my fingers with his.

"Wow, now you're even cuddling without me. Lo'ak jumped when we suddenly heard a voice in the entrance of the cave. I laughed at his startled expression. Then I turned to the figure that was now approaching. The beautiful figure of my other boyfriend. He gave us a hurt look. So sad and genuine-looking that it would have convinced me if I hadn't known him so well. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he was holding something in his hands. Could that... "You brought the fish!" Lo'ak exclaimed happily. "Yes, but I'm not giving it to you since you're shutting me out like that." Lo'ak's happy expression turned into a guilty one. "Aonung, don't tease him like that!" He huffed. "Don't tease him like that!" he imitated me in a silly voice. "Why are you babying him all day?" I stared at him and he held my gaze. "Are you actually jealous?" I asked incredulously as I slowly saw through him. "No." It sounded more like a question than an answer. That would probably never change. Why did he always want to play tough and cool to hide the fact that he needed something? No matter if it was help or attention. He never asked for it and for years I noticed how he suffered in silence when he was struggling with something. This thought made me a little sad. Not only did he think he had to behave this way, he also acted like that in front of me as if I hadn't known him all his life. I had been his friend all these years, and not so long ago I become his boyfriend. "(M/n)?"

Yeah, maybe I had stared at him for too long. "Come here, darling." I opened one arm for him while holding Lo'ak's hand with the other. He still pretended to weigh whether or not to do it, but the next second, he put the spear with the fish on it down and got on his knees to crawl up to me and curl up next to Lo'ak in my arm. "We would never leave you out, you know that, right?" I asked him, gently stroking his head with my hand. He closed his eyes and kept silent. I sighed. "I love you so much. Both of you. Can't you imagine how hard it is for me to see you arguing all the time? I know you don't hate each other and I don't want to choose between the two of you. Moments like this are just too precious. Don't you prefer that to arguing?" They were both quiet, probably too proud to say anything. "I'm sorry I made fun of your hunting skills, Lo'ak." Aonung spoke under his breath. Lo'ak turned his gaze to him. "I'm sorry I stuck my tongue out at you and mocked you for not catching anything. I know you're a great hunter!" The words of the two almost melted my heart. "(M/n), are you crying?" "No!" Suddenly, they both laughed together. "You two are impossible!" I said, giggling and shaking my head. "I know, I know." Aonung snickered. We stayed like this for a few more minutes, then the older one shifted in my arms. "As much as I enjoy this, can we get up and make a fire now? It's getting dark and I'm really hungry!"

I hope you liked it :)

[pomplalamoose]

Mistletoe Misery

modern day AU / Dilf!Luke x reader

summary: Luke has spent an entire evening thinking about catching you, the reader, under the mistletoe; will he be successful?

(based on this request)

A/N: the way I STRUGGLED with this is unreal💀 but if just one person out there likes it, it'd more than up make up for it. Happy holidays, lovely people🫶🏻

From his place next to his nephew Luke has a great view of the entrance to the kitchen over which proudly dangles the mistletoe.

And although he is surrounded by family and loved ones, his main focus is on you; bustling from one room to the other you carry glasses and plates or cleaning rags, diligently helping to clean up the big dining table.

Again and again you pass under the mistletoe, engage in small talk, let yourself be whirled around to the jolly tunes of old Christmas songs and all of it without glancing his way even once.

With barely concealed frustration he watches as you run into his brother in law for what feels like the fourth or fifth time this evening.

"Keep your father from kissing everything in his vicinity, would you?"

He didn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it did and grimaces apologetically when Ben looks up at him in slight bewilderment.

"It's just an old tradition, uncle Luke.", he says. "I don't think mom minds terribly."

Luke sighs and swallows a grumbled retort, instead returning his attention back to you.

No, he isn't worried about Leia's relationship but very much about you falling for someone else.

Surely he, won't, can't be the focus of your attraction for long?

If he isn't mistaken, and he doubts he is, pretty much every member of his entire family was able to catch you under the mistletoe to receive one of your kisses or to gift one to you.

Except for him.

He can't suppress a longing sigh.

You're making for such a beautiful picture tonight. 

Mesmerized he watches as you gracefully swipe your hair to the side and out of your face, your beautiful earrings catching the light.

Their gleam flashes across the room like a little beacon, beckoning him closer, drawing him in.

The earrings HE gifted you.

HE should be the one in Han's place making you laugh, HE should be the one close to you.

And it's not as if he hasn't tried, as if he didn't put in any effort to reach out.

He did and yet, somehow, you managed to slip away, evaded his grasp every single time as if you were nothing more than a lovely play of his imagination.

***

You like your friend's family, you really do, and especially with one of their uncles, Han, you get along splendidly.

He's funny, although primarily unintentionally so because of how full he is of himself, and carries himself with an ease that's contagious.

Most importantly though he does an incredible job distracting you from the fact that Luke and you haven't exchanged a single word for the entirety of the evening.

From time to time you can feel his eyes on you but nothing more and, as a result, you've been growing increasingly fidgety and nervous.

He knows something is up, must have noticed how you're going out of your way to avoid any interaction with him.

Oh, if only it weren't for that damned mistletoe, there would be no problem at all.

You weren't this concerned when it was first brought in, so sure that its only serving purpose was meant to be a final touch to the decorations.

How nice of your friend's relatives to bring something along! 

Though rather quickly you realized how very very wrong that assumption was and immediately started panicking.

How, in all the worlds, were you supposed to handle a kiss from Luke?! 

If he would even want to kiss you, that is, whispered a nasty little voice of self doubt in your head, promptly introducing you to a whole new world of worries.

What if he rejected you?

All of a sudden it didn't matter that he had known about your feelings towards him for a while now, that you spent a lovely few weeks preparing for the holidays together.

It didn't matter that his gift was singlehandedly the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your eyes upon and which surely must have cost him a fortune.

He may have grown fond of you, yes, of that you can be relatively sure now, but how are you supposed to know if there's more to it than that?

If his feelings go beyond those a father has for their child?

Are you supposed to find out under the mistletoe? In front of everybody?

What if you were to share a kiss and it meant nothing to him but everything to you?

What if he'd leave you there, with weak knees and a flushing face, like nothing happened?

No.

Not tonight; not on a night that is meant to be joyous and light hearted.

***

Later, as the last guests are saying their goodbyes on the steps in front of the house, you are carefully making your way into the kitchen, hoping not to catch anybody's attention.

You'll have to come out of there eventually, you know, and sooner than later, but for now you're safe.

Surely, in all of this confusion of jackets and shoes and presents and hugs, nobody will think to take a look in here, not when they're already halfway out of the door.

Admittedly your feeling of relief is very nearly one of pride as well.

With the family's department the mistletoe has lost its power and you emerged on the other side victorious.

You did it! No awkward swooning, no hurtful rejection, no forced closeness, no unanswered questions; your little plan worked.

Happily humming to yourself you begin storing away the dishes, when you hear foot steps behind you.

Your friend! Great, you could definitely use a helping hand amidst this chaos and-

With a request already on your lips you turn around but all that leaves you is a squeak when instead you come face to face with the one person you've been trying so hard to evade.

Just barely fast enough to tighten your grasp on the expensive porcelain plate you were holding, you manage to save it from shattering on the floor in thousands of pieces.

Hoping to mask your fright with indignation, you angrily look up at Luke and are about to speak when he cuts across the room towards you, forcing you to retreat until your back hits the sink with a dull thump.

"Luke-", you start in surprise but he's quick to stun you into silence with how he leans forward to place his arms on either side of you, effectively caging you in.

Clearly pleased about having caught you so off guard he chuckles and tilts his head to get a better look at your facial expression.

"Playing hide and seek, little mouse?", Luke whispers close to your ear, his voice excitingly rough.

A shiver runs down your spine.

He's so close you can feel his hot breath on your face.

So easy; it'd be so easy to raise yourself on your toes and then- 

Your heart stops when he parts his sensual lips, your knees buckling beneath you.

Is this really happening? Will he-

"Come on.", he demands.

Taking your wrist he leads a bewildered you across the room, leaving you no choice but to quickly follow behind.

Before you have a chance to speak, to ask, to do anything, he stops and turns, swiftly pulling you closer.

It's quiet for a few seconds as his shockingly blue eyes bore into yours in a way that makes your poor heart stutter and your breath halt; then his gaze and grip soften.

And suddenly he seems upset, agitated.

"I missed your company tonight.", he says, speaking much gentler now. "I had hoped to spend more of it in your presence. With you."

"Oh..."

Your answer is more of a sigh than a word, really, but you are capable of nothing more.

This isn't what you expected.

Luke's hands are still holding on to you, before slowly, oh so slowly, they move to brush your hair aside.

Carefully he tucks it behind your ears and finally he's able to take a proper look at his gifts framing your face.

He smiles a sad smile.

"It's okay. There's just-", he sighs, needs to close his eyes, to gather himself, "there is something I still wish to do, before...before I can let you go."

"W-what...?"

It's like the time around you slows to a halt when he angles your face towards his and leans forward.

As his lips touch yours, light like a feather, barely even there, your questions dies in your throat.

And at last you spot the mistletoe directly above your heads.

The kiss doesn't last long, in fact it's over before it even started, before you can even think to close your eyes.

Yet he doesn't let go.

Breathing heavily he looks down at you like in a trance, like he can't believe what he just did.

His thumbs brush roughly over your cheeks again and again and you feel his other fingers flexing at the nape of your neck, holding on tight, like he's afraid you'll vanish if he isn't attentive enough.

"Merry Christmas."

[animeomegas]

Random non-sexual subspace thoughts from this evening~ (Multi-fandom)

One time, a villain grabbed Denki by the neck and it spooked him so much that when you got home, he demanded to sit on your lap and have you wrap your hands gently around his neck like a collar. He then sat there for two hours, slowly relaxing as you protected and held his neck, his mind emptying of thoughts and anxiety and filling with warm fluff instead. 

Mammon always feels so small when he sits on your lap, no matter what size you are in comparison to him. He just feels like he needs to bury his head into your neck and let you protect him, like the world can’t get him if he’s sitting on your lap. When you stroke his back or his hair he just floats away. He can’t help it. 

The first night after Kakashi had handed over the hokage hat to Naruto and retired from a shinobi was hard for him. He didn’t know how to feel. Relief? Sadness? Pride? He mainly just felt empty, like everything he’d ever known had been ripped from him, which in a way, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He found solace and purpose that first week in serving you. Cleaning, cooking, sitting by your feet during his down moments. Many people tried to come by and speak to him during that week, but you turned them all away, knowing he wasn’t ready. 

 Asra can only enter subspace after moments of high distress. He easily goes whole years without an incident, but when everything truly boils over, he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. He begs at first, for you to take care of him and take away the pain, but once you’re caring for him, the light in his eyes dims and becomes hazy and he stops speaking. He spends the day pressed up next to you at all times, just staring vacantly. Any attempt to remove yourself from his presence and his eyes start to water and soon enough tears pour down his face and little hiccup sobs escape him. That always draws you right back to him. 

Itachi gets so very irritable when he hasn’t been down for a long time. Any member of the Akatsuki that talks to him gets their head bitten off, and many of them tease him about his bad mood, which only makes it worse. And when he gets back into his room and he’s alone with you, he just pouts and skulks around until you give him the attention he needs. It can sometimes take him a little while to get into subspace because he chases it too desperately, but when it does happen, it’s one of the only times you’ll ever see him genuinely smile. 

Tamaki sometimes wakes up in subspace if you put him down the night before. He pouts about getting out of bed, he follows you around like a puppy, and he shakes his head at any suggestion like getting dressed, eating or letting you out of his sight. It’s pretty easy to bring him up if needed, but sometimes it’s nice to let him linger because he’s much more relaxed in subspace, so just holding him while watching some TV is a good idea. 

[caliburn-not-calculator]

Someone explain to me what happened with this detective au to land me here. Uh, some fic of the boys?

Anyway, they are... well you'll see

Contains: Religious overtones (they're not subtle at all), religious guilt, dom/sub undertones (i mean they might as well also be overtones), fade to black, implied sexual content, frottage, but overall it's very soft

Rays of afternoon light streamed through the drawing room’s tall windows, spilling across the floors and furnishings in a luminous mosaic. They glinted off unlit candle sticks, turned the ash scattering the desks to gold mica, and shone in the whites of Maxim’s eyes. Tears gathered in the corners as he took it in. His pupils swallowed the grey of his iris despite the glare, eyes wide and staring, pointed upward into the beams that slipped past Veerle’s face. Though his shadow saved most of Maxim from the burn, his companion refused to spare his sight. Not to give him such mercy. No relief. But the discomfort served its purpose. Not a test or cruelty, but a distraction.

Something to blind him to the scrapping nudge of a shoe sole at his waistband, and the tense heat that grew beneath its gentle pressure.

Maxim knelt on the plush Persian rug before the hearth, legs aching with a familiar throb. Not that of war or injury, but reverence. A position long forgotten, long ignored, but now…

Now he sat with a steady and still absoluteness. Trust unflinching and something like devotion in the sigh of each drawn out breath. Some may have considered him a damned soul, perhaps some small facet of himself did too, but it was drowned beneath the honey of Veerle’s stare and quashed beneath the press of his scuffed Oxford shoe. A disciple, not damned.

He tilted his head back, the slice of sun slipping over his cheekbones, blistering his lips. A long steadying breath whispered through them. He did not shift, not to avoid the pain, nor to hasten whatever Veerle had planned for him, but kept still. The ache pulsed up his hips, but the only groan that slipped from him was forced up from his contracting muscles and lungs at the slight downward push of Veerle’s foot. His waistband dipped, the leather scraping through the hair dusting his navel.

Maxim couldn’t decide if he wanted him to keep moving down or turn his attention higher. If he wanted that steady pressure to hasten the pleasurable pangs between his thighs or if he might fracture in both unbearable guilt and bliss at being given it. Either way, it was not his choice to make. Not his burden to bear. All Maxim had to do was take what Veerle bestowed unto him. Whether friction or famine, climax or come down.

He would take it. He had to take it. Wanted to take it. To take the absolution offered by gentle hands and heavy eyes. For surely there could be no sin in such supplication.

There was something about the submission which felt more like prayer than service ever had. Perhaps it was simply that, for the first time in decades, he truly, utterly, meant it. Offered it. Depended upon it. Maxim had little faith left to spare, nothing more than brittle shards that cut his hands whenever he tried to grasp them, and they did nothing but hurt when held close or offered out.

But, Veerle… 

The flitting fire of his chatter, the sparks of his laughter, the low smoulder of his rare and ravenous rage, melted the points and edges away. He made the ache manageable, tangible, and burned himself so irrevocably into its form that there was no other it could now be given to. No other deserving of such handiwork. None but its sculptor.

Maxim raised one hand from where it had laid limp on his thigh and gingerly tugged at the cuff of Veerle’s pants. The faintest, slightest tug. Maybe meaningless, maybe a mistake, but also, potentially, a request. Asked for or not, his companion hummed, tightened his fingers in Maxim’s hair, and pressed the sole of his shoe flat to his stomach. He swayed back as far as he could at the pressure, a strangled gasp slipping from his awe drunk lungs as the heel dug dangerously low. The hem of his shirt was rucked up by the motion. Sunlight spilt molten over his stomach, the fabric brushing teasingly soft against over sensitive skin. He choked back another noise, only harsh breath falling from parted lips, brows furrowed in concentration.

If there was one thing Maxim excelled at, perhaps to a detrimental degree, it was restraint. Restraint and reserve. Careful and precisely maintained control. Though he had handed Veerle the reins, allowed him to direct and decide and devastate him in whatever manner he believed best, it was still his to maintain. But now he merely had to focus on stilling his shaking form, and complying with each motion made onto him. A task almost meditative in its methodology. There was no heart stuttering panic or head splintering confusion, only the surety that he needed not to do anything more than take.

Perhaps once the vulnerability may have been sickening, but all that was left as Veerle dragged the toe of his shoe over his abdominals, shirt bunching beneath his pectorals, was a wake of heat. Melting molten heat. The pressure which crept up his chest like a lava flow. With painstaking languidness it sank into his skin, ever deeper, until it joined the pool of untouched arousal. It was a rare occasion for Maxim to blush, but the red across his cheeks bloomed unhindered.

He swallowed as the rough sole found the base of his sternum, and metal clinked against Veerle’s shoe. Maxim tensed at the sound. His companion paused, tilting his head. The steadying hand he had in Maxim’s hair hesitated in its gentle caresses through the sun gilt strands. 

“Alright, my love?” He asked, his voice more breath than words, more manifestation than man.

It took most of Maxim’s mind to lift his tongue from the floor of his mouth and draw enough breath for words. “Quite. I uh… just do not remind me of it now.”

Veerle’s expression, soft as it was, lightened to something even sweeter. Lips upturned, worry lines nigh invisible in the warm shadow he was veiled with. He readjusted, setting his weight more toward Maxim’s heart, and away from the pendant now peaking from his raised shirt. His eyes slipped shut with an appreciative hum, and he sagged backwards, more than ready to fall from his aching knees. That worship as this did not always require such discipline, that it could be done just as well limp and reclined, dizzy and dazed, with prayer that wasn’t words, was more a blessing than he could have imagined.

“Well, in that case,” Veerle shifted, leaning his weight forward, shoe flat to Maxim’s chest, gentle enough to not immediately send him sprawling, “Let us get more comfortable, down you go.”

Veerle’s hand slipped from his hair as Maxim’s legs slid from beneath him. He barely caught himself with shaking arms as he was forced to the floor, his companion’s heel surely leaving an indent on his flushed skin. His grip around his ankle tightened, the heat of Veerle’s so distant through the fabric he held. Too distant. Too cold. Not nearly enough to brand as he wanted it to, though he dared not move even that small fraction of covering.

Whatever logical sliver of thought he still possessed understood that Veerle wouldn’t mind, not even slightly, but to touch his companion in a way that even approached how he touched him, to fathom undressing him, in being the one to reveal and revel in his bared skin, was a desecration he could not bear to perform. How much he longed to mattered not. Instead, he held tight, and let himself sink into the softness of the rug beneath him. Let himself gasp as the prized pressure crept high enough to nudge his chin up, and settle over his bared throat.

The sun warming his exposed skin was a poor replacement for the heated body he craved, but it was enough of a comfort to lose any remaining tension in his muscles. The prickling sensation of eyes flitting over him, though not nearly as stimulating as his companion’s touch, likewise satisfied his need for contact. His breath came in rushing rattles as his lungs were lovingly crushed.

Through lidded eyes he watched as Veerle went to speak, lips parting, chest rising with an intake of air, but nothing but a low groan escaping. His companion raised a hand to his face. Dainty fingers made more for dancing across pages and pens (and if Maxim were to be shamefully indulgent, over his chest and jaw and perhaps dipping between his lips) than the warless warfare he insisted on partaking in covered his mouth. He nibbled on his knuckles, an action something between thoughtful and nervous, but most certainly considering. Maxim let his head fall back against the rug, surrendering any of his remaining strength with a sigh.

Patience. That was all he needed now. Patience while Veerle enacted whatever design he’d no doubt painstakingly envisioned and would equally painstakingly enact. He brushed his thumb over the laces of the shoe pinning him, the rough threads calming in their intricate repetition. The sensation of eyes methodically passing over him did not fade. Nor did the ignored need Veerle had stirred up within him. But he merely closed his eyes, and focused on breathing.

Somewhere in the foggy depths of his thoughts, he remembered once comparing himself to one of his insectoid specimens. A mindless light lured creature, willingly flitting into flame, helpless to the unfathomable force that pinned it in its forever position. It was almost flattering to think of now, that Veerle saw him as something both beautiful and fascinating enough to keep, to study, to tend to. That he may want him in a manner similar to Maxim’s own desire, though surely less base and simplistic than his prior imaginings.

What consciousness had condensed was sent swirling formless once more, as the weight lifted, only to return tenfold. A breathy groan was forced from him as the careful pressure of a foot against his chest and shoulder turned to the digging press of a knee. Veerle knelt over him, one leg tucked against his side, the other resting atop his chest. He shifted, getting comfortable, the pads of his fingers slipping beneath his raised shirt to glide over his collarbones.

“I’m going to get rid of this, okay?” he asked, tugging gently at the fabric, voice a gentle disturbance upon Maxim's mind, like water rushing over loose sand.

He could only, and barely, nod in response.

“Thank you.”

The hands on his chest vanished, and he’d be lying if he said a displeased sound didn’t escape him at their loss, but a moment later they returned at his wrists. Carefully, Veerle guided his arms above his head so he could remove his shirt with ease. He whispered thanks and encouragement as he did, the softness at odds with the harsh press of his knee upon his chest. The fabric seemed to rustle and vanish, his thoughts too caught up elsewhere to process the moment of its loss. Only when Veerle took back his wrists and guided his hands down did he notice it was done, that what Veerle didn’t shadow was set feebly aflame by the sun. 

He startled as a soft texture met his palms, warmth radiating beneath them. His hands twitched. More by accident than purposeful action, he lightly squeezed what Veerle had given him. The narrow width and faint curve of his companion's hips were in his grasp. Hands covered his own, gently smoothing over his knuckles as he settled.

A faint sigh left Veerle at the pressure, and the weight upon Maxim momentarily vanished. It returned, more evenly distributed and crucially, lower on his body. Maxim maintained his hold on his companion, so he had at least some warning before he lowered himself to straddle his hips. He did not, however, have a warning for the smooth and sudden roll of his body. His fingers dug into Veerle’s flesh as he ground against him, tearing a sound from him he would have deemed unholy had any but Veerle invoked it. Though his belt had been removed and discarded some time ago, no move had been made to loosen his slacks. No buttons or ties undone. It had been a passing issue until then, as his companion set a slow and steady pace with the motions of his hips, the usually well tailored item started to become far too restrictive.

Palms settled upon his chest, Veerle’s fingers splayed wide over his feverish skin. With each breath Maxim inadvertently pressed up into the touch. If he breathed deeper, let his chest rise further in pursuit of some shadow of force from the cautious motions of Veerle’s explorations, then he hoped it went unnoticed.

Maxim couldn’t quash the urge to crack open his eyes and search for signs that Veerle may be as worked up as he was. The hope to see his sharp features or teasing smiles turned red and wanton one which far predated their more involved relationship. The image of him with lips parted in silent pleasure, bright eyes dark with need and face aflame was one Maxim had shamefully indulged himself with when he was too exhausted to stop himself. The thought that one day he may see it made the heat within him roil. The sight that met him was certainly no disappointment.

His companion gave him a shaky grin, crooked and creasing his eyes with yet impermanent laughter lines. Hair fell over his brow, coal dark strands loose and framing his face, and stress greyed streaks crowning him with silver. His clothes remained faintly rumpled as they were when they began. As neat as Veerle ever wore them, a few buttons undone and suspenders pulled over his narrow shoulders. Some part of Maxim considered grasping them, pulling down, forcing Veerle to finally meet his lips. The more sensible part acknowledged that moving his hands from his companion's hips was a feat beyond him.

“I, uh, don’t suppose you’ve ever been ridden before?” Veerle whispered with another roll of his hips, red blooming high on his cheeks and wide fluttering eyes painting far too sweet for all that he was doing.

Maxim failed to swallow his groan as the friction sent a pulse of pleasure coiling tight within him. The sweetness only unspooled him further, drawing out each thread of strength and will and weaving it through the loom of Veerle’s careful ministrations, into some new fragile tapestry. A picture wanton creature of his own design. 

“What?” He mumbled between shaking breaths, peering up through heavy lidded eyes and teeth clenched as Veerle slowed, but continued to make nigh imperceptible motions more teasing than stimulating.

“Well, that’s probably a no then. Don’t worry, my love.”

Veerle leaned forward, eyes soft crescents with his smile, glittering in the afternoon light like shattered stained glass. His shirt tickled Maxim’s bare chest, his breath caressing his jaw, the hands on his shoulders pressing with more force as he drew closer. A gentle kiss was placed upon his cheek, chapped lips lingering in its place.

“I’ll take you slow.”

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

May 16th

Thought things couldn’t get worse for our good friend Jonathan…? WELL YOU WERE WRONG:

God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed.

Is the Count running for N.1 Abusive Technically-Not-Boyfriend? Because he has a pretty strong shot.

Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say:—

"My tablets! quick, my tablets!

'Tis meet that I put it down," etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

We’re his only comfort and we can do nothing to help… 😭

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it.

The fact that this was an intentional infraction breaks my heart in the best way possible.

In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor.

More normal human things!!!

There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.

Honey I think Mina will forgive you for [checks notes] being manipulated through vampire pheromones

There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat.

SOMEONE DRAG HER AWAY FROM HIM

I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them.

NO NOT YOU

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me." The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

"You yourself never loved; you never love!" On this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

"Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done."

Queer-coding? In my XIXth century monstrous villain? It’s more likely than you think!

"Are we to have nothing to-night?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it.

Oh oh.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

Jonathan would love 2024 Tumblr slang! He too was once overcome by The Horrors™!

I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me here.

YIKES.

I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it.

😭

As I look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.

Was this staged…? Was this entire assault staged as a fucked up manipulation tactic to get Jonathan to seek protection from the Count??? I need answers

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[lamemaster]

Trade Worth an Afternoon

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Nolofinwean + Celegorm x Sister Reader

Summary: Ambarussar = 1 Y/n?

AN: My soul said, "WRITE THIS SHIT RN!!"

“Hmm why yes Celgorm, of course, we can come to an agreement,” Aredhel drawled carefully, her voice laced with amusement as she glanced away from where you and Argon sat, engrossed in your toys.  Her eyes twinkled with mischief, a stark contrast to the seriousness of the "trade negotiations" she was proposing.

Stifling a laugh that threatened to erupt, Celegorm replied, playing along.  “2 Ambrussa for 1 y/n.  That is fair trade, Aredhel.”  His voice held a hint of playful arrogance, knowing full well the absurdity of bartering with children.

The mention of your name pierced through your concentration, and you looked up from your game of blocks with wide, curious eyes.  Argon, ever the follower, followed suit, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“You are right, perhaps,” Aredhel conceded with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she turned her attention to you directly.  “What do you think, little y/n?  Do you want to become Celegorm’s sister?”

A small patter of feet echoed across the polished stone floor as both you and Argon scrambled towards your sister and cousin. “No. I am your sister,” you declared bluntly, your voice clear and unwavering.

“Yes, y/n is our sister,” Argon parroted, his voice echoing yours in a perfect unison.  The pair of you, oblivious to the undercurrent of amusement between your elders, stood side-by-side, a united front against this unexpected proposition.

Pulling Argon into a playful embrace, Aredhel feigned a dramatic sigh.  “But you have a sister, me.  Now Celegorm and his brothers don’t have one.  Why don’t we share, just like amil taught us?” 

Argon, ever his mother’s pet and easily swayed by her gentle words, was instantly caught in a moral dilemma.  His brow furrowed as he deliberated, torn between wanting to please both his mother and his best friend.  “No… but,” he stammered, his voice laden with worry as he looked back at you with a helpless expression.

You, however, were not so easily swayed.  You set your jaw with a determination that belied your age and glared at Celegorm, who was trying his best to stifle another laugh.  “I won’t go,” you declared fiercely. 

Celegorm, caught off guard by your outburst, hoisted you into his arms with a playful rumble.  "And why not, y/n?" he teased, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. You flailed your limbs in protest, the urge to pull his hair warring with the ticklish sensation his leather cuffs sent against your skin.

"Finno and Turu won't allow this!" you sputtered, glaring back at him with narrowed eyes.  "And ata loves me more than Aredhel!"  This last declaration was more of a desperate hope than a statement of fact, but it served its purpose. Aredhel's smile faltered for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossing her features.

As for Argon, the very notion of being separated from you sent him into a silent panic.  He looked mortified at the idea of sharing his room with the rambunctious Fëanorian twins, even more mortified at the prospect of leaving his unfinished drawing and the half-built block castle behind.  With a whimper, he tugged on Aredhel's sleeve, his lower lip trembling.  "No, y/n is my sister," he echoed your words, shaking his head vehemently as if denying the very possibility of the trade.

"Uncle Nolofinwe and my father already agreed," Celegorm declared smugly, a broad grin splitting his face. "Unfortunately, y/n, you will be now our sister."

His words hit you like a thunderbolt. Your eyes widened in shock, threatening to spill tears at any moment. "No!" you cried, your voice trembling like a leaf in a winter wind. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. "I'm Argon's sister! We promised Amil we'd finish building our castle together! And besides," you hiccuped, rubbing your eyes "Ambarussar are too big for my bed. They won't fit!"

Argon, mirroring your distress, began to wail. He clung to Aredhel, his tiny fists clutching at her tunic. "No! No y/n go!" he sobbed, his voice thick with tears.

"And when my brothers and I return from our next adventure," Celegorm continued adding fuel to the fire in his chaotic ways, "y/n will come with us.”

Argon, his lower lip trembling, clutched you desperately. His only playmate, his confidante. Galadriel was too smart to play with on normal days. 

The room erupted in chaos. You, fueled by a sudden surge of adrenaline, wriggled free from Celegorm's surprised grasp.  "Never!" you screamed, bolting towards the nearest exit. 

Argon, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, followed close behind, his small legs pumping furiously.

Fingolfin, his face a mask of thunder, stood before Aredhel and Celegorm, both of whom shuffled uncharacteristically on their feet. The usual twinkle in their eyes was replaced with a dull sheepishness.

"What did you do?"  Fingolfin's voice boomed.

"Well..." Aredhel began, her usual silver tongue failing her.  Celegorm, notorious for his smooth talk, coughed awkwardly, unable to meet Fingolfin's steely gaze.

And for once both Aeredhel and Celegorm were at a loss for their words. The prank…perhaps had been too harsh. The flushed faces of both Fingon and Turgon, who had spent the entire evening looking both you both were enough to answer that it indeed had been too much. 

And thus, the product of their prank lay in Fingolfin and Anaire's laps. Both you and Argon slept peacefully, your faces streaked with tears that had dried on your cheeks.

"Aredhel," Turgon's voice was a low rumble, devoid of its usual playful teasing. "We scoured the entire city for y/n and Argon. The entire afternoon."  His gaze, usually warm, was now icy with disapproval.

Fingon, his hand resting protectively on your head, patted Turgon's arm in a silent plea for calm.  "What did you even say for them to hide so fiercely?" he asked, his voice stern but tinged with relief.  "They ran away the moment they saw me and Turgon, then vanished for the entire day." Fingon usually retained the position of the most loved sibling for all Nolofinwean siblings.

"Y/n even hid all her belongings, and neither of them showed up for their evening snacks."

This last detail struck a deeper chord.  Evening snacks with Fingolfin were a cherished ritual for the younger members of the family, a time for stories and laughter.  That they would skip it willingly was a testament to the terror they must have felt.

“It was merely a jest,” Aredhel tries to weasel her way out of the situation. 

"A jest?" Turgon echoed, his voice tight with contained fury. "An entire afternoon of frantic searching constitutes a jest to you, Aredhel?"

Anaire, her face pale with worry, finally spoke. "They haven't said a word since we found them," she said, her voice trembling slightly.  "They were huddled together under their bed sobbing hysterically. What did you do to them?"

"We told them that we were going to trade y/n for the twins," Aredhel admitted, her voice barely a whisper. 

The room fell silent for a beat, thick with tension that quickly dissolved into an eruption of laughter. Fingon and Fingolfin, unable to contain themselves, doubled over, snorting with amusement. Even Anaire, despite her initial glare, found a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Finwe's crooked humor, it seemed, wasn't lost on his bloodline.

"Oh, my poor darlings," Anaire cooed, leaning down to kiss your and Argon's foreheads, a soft smile gracing her features. "That must have been terrifying. But you two managed to hide quite well.” While both the said, elflings barely stirred in their sleep.

Aredhel, relieved by the shift in atmosphere, puffed out her chest with a hint of pride. "They were! We even had them convinced Uncle Curufinwe and Ata were in on it."

Before she could revel in her mischievousness any further, Turgon, ever the serious one, swatted her playfully on the back of the head.

And that is how the infamous story of trading siblings came to be in the Finwean clan. One that often left a sputtering mess of Celegorm and Aredhel. And a slightly offended Ambarussar.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Big compliments - you're so gifted in writing stories! <3

Prompt idea for Larissa Weems x teacher!reader / friends with benefits. You both have no time to get to know new people and just want to blow of some steam. You are important to each other and trust each other so why not?

After one more night of love making rather than sex it just slips out of your mouth "I love you"

The next morning Larissa wants to end it but you will fight for your relationship

Thank you 💜

You gasped, her fingers curling within you. Red lips were smirking at you, blue eyes twinkling as your fingers twisted in the sheets beneath you. No one had ever been able to play your body as well as Larissa could.

Her lips pressed to your pulse point, tongue soothing over the mark she sucked into it. You moaned her name as her palm brushed against your clit, her pace slow, making your head spin. It was nothing like the usual rough fucking you engaged in. This was making you feel more cherished, more special.

“That’s it, love,” she murmured, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “you’re doing so good for me.”

“Fuck, Rissa,” you moaned.

Her thumb began to circle your bundle of nerves until you were a writhing mess below her. With soft kisses, you were beginning to feel your internal walls flutter around her fingers. She kept murmuring praise into your skin as your legs began to tremble.

“Oh god, I love you,” slipped from between your lips.

Her palm ground against you until you were crying out, pleasure coursing through your body. She worked you through your orgasm until you felt spent, bonelessly sinking into the mattress. Lying there, she cleaned you up, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did so well,” she murmured into your mouth as you pulled her in for a soft kiss.

“Your turn tomorrow,” you promised, eyes slipping closed.

It wasn’t until you woke up feeling deliciously rested that you realised something had gone wrong. Usually you’d wake up in the same bed as Larissa after a night spent revelling in one another’s bodies. That day, you woke up alone.

Then the memory hit you in the face.

Showering and dressing, you went looking for her. She clearly wasn’t hiding, sitting in her office, fingers tapping away at lightning speed on her keyboard. She didn’t even look up at you entered, the door closing softly behind you.

“I think we should talk,” you said.

“Hm?” She looked up from the lit screen of her laptop.

“About last night…”

She held up a hand, silencing you before you could say anything. Your mouth closed with a snap. She didn’t even bother standing, just staring at you across the large wooden expanse.

“I think perhaps it’s time to end our arrangement,” she said, “it’s been nice but it’s served its purpose now.”

“Is this because I told you I love you?” you asked before she could say anything else.

“Of course not,” she replied, sounding offended at your accusation.

“You’re a shit liar,” you said, “and I won’t let you do this.”

“Please, love, we both knew this was only temporary,” she said, turning her attention back to the laptop.

“No, we didn’t.”

You slammed the laptop shut, her fingers only just moving out of the way in time. She stared up at you, shock on her face but you couldn’t care when you felt so angry. You were almost shaking.

“I think you’re scared, Rissa,” you hissed, leaning towards her, “I think you’re scared of the feelings you have for me because they make you vulnerable so you’d rather run from them.”

“There weren’t meant to be any feelings,” she roared.

“Too bad,” you shouted back.

She stood, towering over you, pressing you back against the edge of her desk. Your breath caught, much as it did any time she did that move. She sneered, looking over you.

“This was nothing but sex, okay?” she said, “sex and friendship and now I think it’s time for the sex to end if you’re experiencing feelings for me.”

“I’m not the only one,” you said, “I know I’m not.”

“And how do you know that, love?” she asked, drawing closer until her breath ghosted over your face.

“Because I know you,” you replied, “and no one responds like this if they’re not feeling something.”

“What do you know about it?” she hissed.

“I know I’m not giving up on you. Or on us,” you said.

You reached up, pulling her into a kiss. It was rough, more an extension of the fight you were having. Teeth tugging, fingers grasping, the sharp edge of the desk digging in. She wasn’t stopping, refusing to back down as you kissed her with all the emotion you’d been repressing. She made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, tearing herself away from you.

“Fuck you,” she spat, “fuck.”

She sunk back into her chair, burying her face in her hands. You waited a moment, catching your breath. She reached out a shaking hand towards you, tugging you until you were settled on her lap.

“Fuck you for making me fall in love with you,” she ground out before kissing you again.

[welcome-to-the-neotheater]

Non-Comprehensive List of Things I Love About AJR City Savers

AJR WEBISODE: CITY SAVERS (youtube.com)

keep reading because loooooooooooooooooong post

0:00, I love the implication that they are spending 3/4 of their waking hours on this club and they don't have any free time between that and the band

0:12-0:15, he's holding this box with his bare hands normally for a few good seconds here, and only at the end does he decide that its actually super radioactive and he jerks his hand away from it really fast

0:20 Yeah that's going to help get the paint off

0:23 The old logo looks really weird to me after being used to the current one

0:30 he is so fucking proud of himself for putting a leaf into the trash can

0:35 "We founded this city savers club to protect this fine city we live in", the protection of course being kicking a piece of cardboard about 5 feet

0:38 "We start off at 4:30 in the morning, first item on the agenda, song" They're singing songs for the public, (specifically, the "youth" , 1:10) at 4:30 in the morning, "first item on the agenda"

0:48 none of the children are paying any attention to his song, the only one who even looks at the camera is a parent who, if anything, seems unimpressed

0:52 they did this shit in public

1:06 great camera work there

1:13 "We really feel like it gets our message across"

1:20 this is entirely useless

1:35 Does he have a meterstick? How does he know?

1:37 There's no god damn way they can hear him inside their fast cars, probably with windows up with him speaking at slightly above speaking voice

1:42 "Morning Deb!"

1:46 Outfit change from previous scene, these are different days. He does this regularly.

1:53 "NO!"

1:57 He's no longer doing something useless, this is actually disruptive, as you can tell from the honks

1:59 Unless one was added in the jump cut, you can see in the previous shot there was not, in fact, a baby blue jay's nest right there

1:59 What purpose does the word "baby" in "baby blue jay's nest" serve? Correct me if im not up to date on bird knowledge, but aren't all nests built by adult birds build the nests for their babies? Is he trying to say that the baby blue bird built the nest? I don't think baby birds can build nests. Is he just referring to the fact that the birds that live in the nests are babies? This is either redundant or wrong.

2:05 "I've submitted my application for the city savers club almost a dozen times now... I really hope I get in this month". He has been applying to enter this "club" (it has 2 members and does nothing of value) for almost a year.

2:17 Jack checks behind the curtain as if there's any way Adam was just hiding behind the curtain

2:22 Ryan is already so bored

2:28 I counted a 5 second pause before "What?"

2:40 Their brother attached a headshot in his resume as if they wouldn't know what he looked like.

2:43-48 this is just great

2:05-48 Jack and Ryan have created this fake club and have, for almost a year, been holding this over their older brother's head and having him submit formal applications to join his younger brothers' fake club and they have been denying all of them. If that isn't the most sibling shit out there, I don't know what is

2:48 "Graffiti" is a child's chalk drawing

2:55 "Can't get this out", he's using his shoe to remove washable childs chalk from the street. "Can't get this out" have you tried water??? They have to make that shit so it's easy to get out of children's clothes, and so that it washes away when it rains, if this "graffiti" is such a problem get some water and spray it

3:01 "Surprisingly pigeons don't just eat breadcrumbs". Look, I've never been to New York, but if the pigeons there are anything like seagulls, it should be 0 surprise to someone that's grown up there that the pigeons will eat whatever you give to them.

Idk what those are (skittles?) but they don't look like you should be feeding them to pigeons

3:07, they're feeding chunky peanut butter to the pigeons. naturally

3:12 LEE!!!!!!!

3:18 He runs away immediately after hearing they're going to try to put that sweater on him

3:20 They were already talking to him at an unreasonable distance apart but now even more so as he's gone entirely off screen and they continue to talk normally to him for I counted 7 seconds.

3:27 The cut off "Lee-". How long did they do that for?

3:29 Gotta love the "we're saving the world!" music that comes in here

3:30 Pre 2020 mask

3:33 All of the water has fallen out of his hands before he reaches the plant

3:37-41 I don't know if this was planned, I don't want to know if that was intentional

3:52 Wow! Look at this plant!

Throughout the entirety of this video they do nothing actually helpful for the city (yet continuously act like they're saving the world). Their "good deeds" are either entirely pointless ("traffic control", trying to get rid off the paint with his foot at 0:20, "singing for the youth", "watering" that plant) or actually slightly harmful (blocking some car because of an invisible blue jays nest, refusing to let their brother into the club, feeding shit to pigeons that they should not be doing, trying to get rid of a child's drawing)

Jack stated in an interview once that he's actually afraid of pigeons

Adam is a climate activist now, and I like to think that stemmed from not being allowed into city savers

Damn did I write a lot for a video under 4 minutes. I feel like one of those people that keeps interrupting movies to talk about deeper meanings or explain the jokes now.

[weeo]

What's Bred in the Bone Comes Out in the Flesh

Where the Waters Do Agree - Chapter 4

Pairing:  Tommy Shelby / Alfie Solomons

Summary: Alfie offered Tommy to help him kill his mark—looks like they have a mission to complete, and a destabilising tension to deal with.

Warnings/Tags:  Violence, Blood, Assassination

Notes: This is the 4th chapter of a group fic! If you want to read the story from the beginning, you can have access to every chapter here.

Thank you so much to the lovely @deadendtracks for the beta!

Read on AO3

It may appear suspicious to find your very dear mate, on a serene morning after a churning storm, sharing eggs and bacon with none other than your own fucking mark. Alfie could concede to him that.

As a matter of fact, he’d been the first surprised by this incongruous situation. He considered he’d never get the chance to reencounter this shithead on the face of the earth, let alone come across him sipping tea in the first-class saloon the following day. Surreal, innit? When they parted their way to their personal cabins the previous night, Alfie had no doubts Tommy would squirm for 30 seconds in his bed before wandering through the halls to finish his task. What honestly could have been better than pretending to be Tommy's knight in shining armour without lifting a fucking finger, eh? 

Well, Alfie was open to recognising the situation was tricky. Nonetheless, stomping on Alfie’s foot with his boot heel, while Alfie generously served himself second helpings of scrambled eggs at the breakfast buffet, was an outright overreaction on Tommy’s part. 

Alfie’s cane, hung at his elbow, slammed to the ground in an excruciating commotion. All heads pivoted towards him. How silly of Tommy to draw attention to them in such a reckless manner!

“What the fuck, man?”

Alfie’s knees screamed when he picked his cane up. Blood trickled down the severed inside of his cheek and its bitter taste snaked around his teeth. Thankfully, the counter helped him to regain his feet without looking like a bedridden old grouch.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Alfie?” Tommy stared blankly at the wall facing him at the other end of the room and exhaled a trail of smoke. Slowly. Way too slow, so that the purpose was to be infuriating. Tommy acted like a Hollywood sweetheart, batting his eyelashes on a cardboard film set. Who the fuck does this disdainful prick think he is when Alfie’s been anything but considerate with his friend? 

“Well, actually, I’m doing your job, mate.”

Tommy snickered humorlessly before taking another drag of his cigarette. “I doubt that.”

Alfie smiled. “Hm, silly boy, you’ve not read your documents closely, ain’t you?”

“Should I understand you’ve been spying on me?” 

Alfie’s hand reached to his heart. “Accusing your dear mate of such lowness, what a world to raise children in!”

Tommy turned his head towards Alfie and raised an eyebrow: “It’s not because you can’t bend your knees anymore that such lowness is unreachable for you, Alfie.”

“Well, yeah, you know…”

“What were you bloody doing?”

“Well, I was extending a hand to a very dear friend of mine in need of assistance, because, see, helping you resolves my own fucking problem, mate.”

“Fucking spit it out, Alfie. What were you bloody doing with that fucker?”

“Oh, you know, just paying double for three crates of Tommy guns. You’re supposed to stop this guy from selling and shipping them to the IRA, if you’d read the papers closely.”

“How did you get them?” Tommy maintained an unimpressed—or nonetheless, contained—expression.

“In your coat pocket.”

“Do you think you’re being funny?” Tommy knitted his brows.

“Yeah, mate, indeed. You wouldn’t have fucking noticed if a horse burst into your fucking cabin, no less a simple man snatching a paper from your very own coat pocket.” Alfie nearly swiped his plate away with large, careless gestures. He got carried away—an excess of confidence. 

After a fleeting silence, Tommy admitted: “I just got straight to the main parts.”

“Better not to know, uh?” Alfie fixed Tommy, looking for his eyes. “Yeah, well, I help my mate, and by a phenomenal alignment of events, I also resolve the business I’m on this little trip for. It truly is the best of both worlds, innit?”

“Have you ever done something which wasn’t in your best interest, Alfie?”

“Have you?” Alfie smiled recklessly, showing his terrible crooked tooth on full display. “See, we’re just the same. Hell’s Kitchen also lives up to its fucking name, mate. It’s been put to fire and the sword since some bloody wop insulted the fiancé of my mourned cousin Adam.” Alfie’s hand reached to his heart. “Nonetheless, these bands of fucking savages have been killing each other with meat cleavers, saws and fucking rolling pins. Can’t you believe it? Hm, yeah, nothing’s worse than being ashamed of his own fucking kin, right? Soon, they’ll make their enemy choke on bloody bread dough if no one fucking intervenes. This regrettable shitshow has to be definitely put to an end, and the Thompson submachine guns would let off a good fucking firework finale, don’t you think?”

“Keep it down.” Tommy intervened and glanced to the side without moving his neck an inch.  “You will frighten our friend.” He whispered: “The guns can be part of the deal, but we need to figure out where they fucking are.”

“Meet me in room 47 at 9 PM. I’ll lure your guy in to conclude our business. He arms the enemy as long as the cash is worth it. He shouldn’t be difficult to bait with an increased transaction. We make him spill the beans and send him on an eternal honeymoon with good ol’ Eddie. Easy.”

“Easy enough if I trusted you, Alfie.”

“Look, mate, is there a remarkably better idea offered to you? Well, suppose an impeccable resolution fell on you from the sky this very morning, you know, sent by the Almighty; you could have just said like a freakin normal human blessed with the gift of speech: “No, mate, thank you dearly, but I’ll handle it myself.”, ain’t you?”

Tommy blinked slowly and crushed his cigarette on the tiled floor. He dropped his empty, pristine plate off on a trolley full of soiled dishes and left the saloon without a word. 

Suppose it’s his way to acknowledge he’s on board, eh?

*

He sure won’t complain to the staff about finding Tommy seated on the bed when he got to cabin number 47, but there’s been a real lack of safety and protection of private life on this fucking heap of metal. He was the one who had the fucking keys, for fuck’s sake.

“It’s not yours,” Tommy said as soon as Alfie opened the door.

“Didn’t want blood all over me fucking carpet, ain’t I?” Alfie leaned on his cane. “You already knew though, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Tommy got off the bed like he would offer his seat to an old man on the train.

Alfie stayed planted on his feet where he was, eyes widened and fixed towards Tommy: “Killed by a man mysteriously lost at sea. You offered us the perfect fucking carpet to ruin on a silver platter, mate.”

“When the fucker’s coming?” Tommy interrupted, acting like he’d already thought all this though.

“Thirsty for blood, ain’t you?” Alfie snickered.

“Thirsty to get it over with.”

Alfie’s lower back was cursing him. He waited until a decent amount of time had passed. He refused to appear as if he’d rushed towards the seat Tommy had left vacant. He must be careful about pushing his body like that in the next few days. “I gave you an early appointment, mate.” Alfie paused to restrain his breath of relief when he was seated. “It happens that, you know, we have business to discuss.”

“How much do you want?”

“Five crates of ten.”

“Two.”

“Nonsense. Tell me, treacle, why should I fucking settle for less than the fucking rich prick offered, eh?” 

“Three then. It’s even without spending a bloody pound.”

"Well, love, that would make sense in our dirty ol’ England, but we've been sailing on the waters of the mighty United States of America for a while now. The tip for the service isn't included in the initial price."

“Four. No higher.”

“Deal.”

*

Assured knocks were heard inside room 47.

Alfie bit back a groan when he stood up from the bed. His back had been struck by a lighting bolt. He opened the door and gestured an invitation to enter: “Henry, Henry, come in, mate.”

Henry Aston wiped his feet on the doormat and looked around the room while Alfie closed the door behind him: “I would have imagined you’d be less tidy, Mr Solomons.”

“I should hate to be predictable, shouldn’t I?” Alfie smiled and raised a metal flask out of his pocket: “Rum?”

Henry nodded. “We have to hide like rats to drink a glass of liquor, and they call that progress.”  

The cork of the flask popped off, and Alfie poured two glasses on the side table.

“It has come to my attention that we may share an acquaintance, Mr Solomons.” A shiver raced down Alfie’s spine. He drew his hand closer to his coat pocket. The cold metal of his gun kissed his wrist through the fabric.

“Who would that be?” 

“Edward O’Connell. I had the opportunity to witness how you nearly came to blows on the pontoon before the departure. I’m amazed they allowed you to board after causing such a delaying inconvenience.”

Alfie grabbed one glass in each hand and turned around, harbouring a forced smile: “Good ol’ Eddie. How do you know that tosser?”

Henry accepted the glass. “He’s a very dear client of mine. He happens to serve as the go-between for the shipping companies of armament and the IRA.” Henry smelled its content with his eyes closed. “I suspect he may also work as a counterintelligence agent for the Republic of Ireland.”

“Hm. Two sides to a coin, they say. Tails, you may be lucky. Heads, dirtied by the face of the King. Even truer for Irish, eh?”

“Cheers to that!” Henry raised his glass and gulped its amber-coloured liquid.

“Me own recipe. What do you think of that, eh?”

“Too bitter. That thing is for the workers.”

Alfie lifted an eyebrow. “Hm, yeah, right?” 

“We had important matters to discuss. One especially concerned me to the highest degree. That assassin from the crown you mentioned earlier, have you strictly identified him as we speak?” Henry asked.

Alfie bit his cheek. He hadn’t predicted that the tosser would bring that up so soon. “No, mate. He’s a tough fish to catch.” It’s not like their little games haven’t always been scattered with Alfie’s switches of side. Bet on all the horses, and you’ll never taste the bitter savour of defeat. An unquestionable victory is always tainted, though, whether in a distasteful range of vivid colours or a washed-out beige. Bravery has never made him richer than betting blindly on all the horses.

“Dear Edward had an eye on someone. He was supposed to have more information to provide after breakfast this morning, but he stood me up. Guess he slipped away after being an ineffective, dirty thief.”

“Well, yeah, sounds just like him.”

“You’re as bitter as your rum every time his name is cited in a conversation, and I might very well know why.”

“Do you?”

“He may have tried to intimidate me for the same felony. Men like us, Mr Solomons, are prone to be blackmailed by men like Eddie, if our penchant is ever uncovered by them despite our carefulness. Nonetheless, I conducted him hastily to understand it’d be in his best interests to conserve my friendship instead of provoking my wrath.”

“Well, there’s a variety of means to reach an equal goal, innit?”

“Like punching him in the face.”

“Hm, yeah, sort of.”

“And which means would lead you to blow me?”

Alfie snickered, and Henry’s stare underlined his seriousness.

“Nah, fuck off, mate. I have for a rule, right, that, you know, I don’t blow rich fucking assholes who served in the cavalry.” 

As much as Tommy liked to pretend they didn’t have a deep understanding of each other, Alfie knew damn well Tommy’s blood was boiling right fucking now. He was galvanising him for the hardships to come. It was as much a smack across the face as a delicate, thoughtful gift. 

“Let’s settle our gun business, right? You tell me at which pier we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. I give you your money. And then, I’ll kindly invite you to fuck off.”

“You’re a fool if you believed I ever had any interest in your money. I smelled it on you from afar you were a bloody cock-sucker. You reek of it even more when walking that pikey rent boy around. Your business must have been fruitful to afford such an overpriced, ostentatious slut on a whole boat journey. We could invite him if you need that tight ass to get it up.”

One minute, Alfie snickered humorlessly, and the next, a shadow came into sight behind Henry to trap its arm around his throat. They were both thrown off balance and moved backwards until Tommy’s back banged the wardrobe he’d been hidden in. Henry struggled to free himself from Tommy, who tightened his hold around Henry’s neck. 

“You were jealous, weren’t you?” Henry smirked. He elbowed Tommy’s side and managed to get out of Tommy’s grip.

“You, fucker.” Alfie moved closer and punched Henry’s face. Henry grabbed Alfie’s shirt to steady himself. The rush of adrenaline maintained the illusion Alfie had regained his grounded, rooted in the floor strength of his youth, until something in his back snapped and made him follow Henry in his fall.

They reached for each other’s shirts. “You spent way too much time on a horse, mate.” Alfie took advantage of that hold to give Henry a headbutt. A second. And a third. 

Henry’s nose was gushing blood, and Alfie might have also broken his own. A red fountain was running down his face, dripping on Henry’s chest. Henry gave a shove with his legs and made them roll through the cabin until they hit the foot of the bed. He topped over Alfie and lifted his fist to punch him: “You—“ 

Tommy seized Henry under his armpits to drag him backwards to the centre of the room. Alfie dove on Henry’s legs to help Tommy immobilise him. With a knife, Tommy slit Henry’s throat. Drips splashed on Alfie’s face. A river of blood snaked down the scumbag’s chest and Tommy’s arms. Henry was still trying to stop blood spilling from his throat with his hands, as life was abandoning his eyes. Tommy shoved Alfie further to straddle Henry and planted his knife in Henry’s chest, the side of his neck, and even his face multiple times. Every stab given was hurried and swifter than the previous one. 

The adrenaline unleashed the frightened, contained beast, which never ceased to growl inside Tommy’s guts since France. Alfie could be afraid of it if his stomach weren’t vibrating with the howling of his own, poorly imprisoned with rusty shackles. The beasts living inside them were acquainted. Their barks had the familiarity of relatives’ steps on a staircase. Their instinct danced around the excitement of their shared rage, their shared fear. They were rolled in a comforting scent—the thrill of recognition, their yearning and reunion for a fellow creature intertwined until suffocation.

The tension in Henry’s legs had melted long ago when Alfie called Tommy’s name and stroked Tommy’s arm to stop his repetitive motions. There was so much blood suddenly, as if they burst into an open-heart surgery. Tommy crawled on his knees and stumbled on the carpet coated with a reflective bed of blood. Tommy’s loud breathing started to slow down. Alfie’s back, which had been surprisingly silent, now screamed. He threw Henry’s corpse further away in a last painful effort to lie down next to Tommy.

Half of Tommy’s face was drenched in fresh blood. There were two sides of a coin. Unlike Eddie, the dirt suited him. His eyelashes, covered by blood and tears, were glinting in the awful orange light of the bedside lamp. This scene carried the ambivalence Alfie had always felt towards butterfly wings. He craved to crush the beauty of Tommy’s face under his boot, as much as keeping it pinned behind glass for admiration and never allowing it to yield to decay.

A different kind of beast had been woken up in his lower belly. One that was no less dangerous.

“You betrayed me once again, Alfie.” Tommy interrupted Alfie’s train of thought. He was fixing the wood ceiling over them without even looking at it.

“Hm, yeah, sweetie, you know, don’t put all your eggs in the same basket, they say.” Tommy frowned, and Alfie raised his voice: “What was I supposed to do, right? Waiting for what God had intended for me!? Nah, nah, nah. Fucking ridiculous, mate.” Alfie gave a sour laugh. He turned his face and pointed his raised forefinger towards Tommy, who wouldn’t look at him: “Only fools don’t back themselves, eh? And I fucking well know what you’re going to fucking say: Alfie, he was giving away too much strategic information to plan on keeping you alive.” Alfie imitated Tommy’s rough voice. “I know, alright?” 

Tommy raised an eyebrow, and Alfie mumbled as if he was confessing a secret: “To reassure you, mate, I had put most of my eggs in your freakin’ basket.”

Tommy’s blank stare turned towards Alfie: "It seems your collaboration has a price, doesn’t it?” 

Alfie was torn to say yes because he’d never been a good man, and Tommy would do anything to secure the success of this mission. He was curious. It was nibbling him. He wanted to know to what extent Tommy would go to ensure he had Alfie on a hook. To what lengths could Alfie push him before he snapped and showed any sign of opposition? He would revel in it, even if Tommy’s willingness to comply was encouraged by an axe hanging over his beloved’s head. 

“Everyone has a price, Alfie. Even your fragile loyalty.”

Alfie cupped Tommy’s bloody face and stroked it with his thumb. His selfishness lent credence to Henry's despicable words towards Tommy. But, good God, he’d go straight to Hell if it would stop him. He averted his gaze: “There’s indeed one thing…”

Quietly, Tommy led his hand towards his cheek and interlaced it with Alfie’s fingers. He winced when he turned on his side to face Alfie. Henry’s blows must have bruised his ribs. 

They were both breathing loudly to the rhythm of Alfie’s increasing heartbeat. Tommy grimaced again from pain when he wrapped the back of Alfie’s head with his right arm. He stared into Alfie’s eyes a second too long and kissed him open-mouthed. His arm clasped tighter around Alfie to draw him closer. Alfie was transfixed. He needed to see. He needed to gather proof this moment was real. His eyes were wide open when Tommy’s were tight shut. Tommy squeezed his hold on Alfie’s head and drew closer. He ached to feel it, even if it hurt, and yearned for Alfie to suffer the effects of his wrath. He took his time. It was so soft and passionate; it felt earnest—a truth offered on a silver plate.

Tommy pulled them apart and opened his eyes back. Alfie could only hope what he perceived—what Tommy allowed him to see—was sincere, even if it’d be more than he had the right to expect.

Pierced by a stab of hunger, Alfie moved nearer to Tommy to kiss him once more. Tommy backed off slightly and murmured: “Enough.”

Caught in his frenzy of Tommy allowing everything he desired, Alfie tried to draw closer again. Tommy stretched his arm holding Alfie’s hand, and kept him at a distance. Both of them strained on their arm. Tommy clenched his jaw to resist Alfie’s strength. 

 “Enough.” Tommy raised his voice.

As if a lightning bolt had struck him, Alfie’s arm loosened and folded on itself. Tommy’s liquefied over it to ensure Alfie couldn’t overpower him if he changed his mind. 

His gaze was one of a desperate wolf, ready to jump to its prey’s neck. This beast, which had learned the hard way to survive men like Alfie, scared him more than any other Tommy carried inside him. 

His stare was a challenge. A mortal one, to ask: who’s the prey now? He had the look of the Fallen Angel brewing a storm with a tear gathering at the corner of his eye.

Alfie pulled back to lie on his back, and Tommy did the same a few instants later. An awkward silence floated in the room. After calming his breath, Tommy suddenly rose to his feet.

*

Water poured forth from the tap of the bathroom. Tommy was scrubbing the dried blood off his face, hands, and under his nails with soap. When he stepped outside the bathroom, he carried two white washcloths and threw a wet one over Alfie’s face. 

“Fucking hell, mate, what was that for?” Alfie dragged the cold towel off his face.

"If we play by the rules of the market, consider this to be the first deposit of the transaction." Tommy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even if this natural gesture was uncalculated, it still hurt. “For your assistance to this successfully conducted first-degree murder.”

A remarkably high wave of shame engulfed Alfie and churned his guts. He hadn’t been seasick for days, but he wanted to throw up.

“The Irish dockworkers won’t give up their guns easily, though. We still have work to do.” Tommy was drying his face and hands with the washcloth as if nothing he said was abnormal. 

Alfie gave a little impulse to sit up and shake his musings with the damp cloth, but his bloody back snapped again. It would have barely looked like he had a spasm if it didn’t twist his face in agony. He’d live better with it if Tommy’s attentive gaze hadn’t caught it, but the faint smile at the corner of Tommy’s lips suggested it’d been enough. 

Alfie exhaled in defeat. “You heard. I couldn’t get the location out of him.”

"Pier 47. Thursday, 5 AM." 

“How the fuck do you know the pier, mate?” Alfie frowned.

“I reached my informants.” Tommy crossed the room to the wardrobe and picked up his immaculate coat from the hanging rack.

“Well, couldn’t have said that before, eh?”

“I said I didn’t trust you, Alfie.” Tommy slipped into his coat to uncover the carnage that was his shirt. “And wasn’t I right?”

The shame of his betrayal had now no equal to the guilt for his behaviour earlier. Regardless of whether it was unclear which event Tommy was referring to, he couldn’t help thinking Tommy wasn’t only alluding to his foreseeable betrayal. He’d always been the type to sow his seeds between the lines, and Alfie inherited the curse of the skilled harvester. 

“Who are your informants? Convenient you had some on this boat.”

Tommy puffed a mocking laugh through his nose and stepped forward. He hovered over Alfie with his severe, intent gaze. His feet framed Alfie’s face. He squatted to draw close to Alfie’s face: “I also place my eggs in several baskets, Alfie. I made calls before getting on this boat.” Tommy rose back to his feet and left the room.

Alfie had always prided himself on being a man of words. He was cracking smiles on the coldest faces, maintaining a convincing speech or sermon to the most inconvincible and snarking back as a sword cut through the air—vain but excitingly effective—a coquetry crafted for his very own pleasure. 

Yet, he was at a loss for words. The ground crumbled beneath him, and he got sucked up by the ocean. 

He’d been fucked big time.

Tommy had been curious as well. Curious to what extent Alfie was under his spell.

[whatwouldvalerydo]

Forgive me not - chapter 2

We are back with the second chapter.

Oliver Gerard belongs to the lovely @kc-and-co

TW: mention of blood

The darkness appeared to stretch endlessly, the only source of light in front being Lachlan’s odd eyes. The dense fog felt like a heavy cloak ready to encompass Johnathan, a weight as if pressing down upon him, wishing to send him toppling in the cold murky water guiding the boat. If he tilted his head just right, it was as if the depths below called to him, closer, closer, for him to draw near.

It wasn't a voice, nor was it a light to draw his attention. more like an invisible pull, as if the water had a magnetic force to it and Jonathan felt his body release all reason from his mind. It was as if all those warnings, before he got on the boat, before he even met Lachlan and Leila dissipated and instead of it came the overwhelming temptation to leap out of the boat. As if his body was on fire and nothing could dissipate it but the freezing murky depths.

Placing his hand inside his pocket, he squeezed the rosary until his hand went numb, refusing to fall into temptation. 

And the water stirred, each soft ripple carried away by Lachlan’s oars as if sighing, defeated yet hungry. But they were lucky for the spirit of the water ventured on land that night, searching, a child’s heartbeat calling out to her for soon it was his time.

On the pier of the island stood the mayor of the city, holding a torch in his hand to guide those from the water back to land. His tired eyes spoke of many restless nights and that one proved to be no different. In a few hours salvation was to be had, however all those dreams shattered as the island once more fell into despair.

They had a plan, the perfect one to unite two of the most influential families. The Cranes protected by the spirit of the woods, the hungry wolves bringing their kind no harm. The ones who managed to bypass the curse and not offer their flesh as sacrifice to appease the cursed lands, their only child thriving and still very much alive, Talia.

The Rosiers protected by the spirit of the water, earning her favor having sacrificed their first born. Strong and resilient, blending in the fog as if born of it. Their attention turning to their second son, Felix, engulfing him like the grey swirls, trying everything in their power to influence him.

Felix and Talia’s union should have saved them all, uniting the wrath of the spirits to protect the island. As the heat of summer tumbled into fall, leaving room for the decay of leaves and sunshine dipped into heavy fog, its light dimming entirely, their love was to be witnessed late October when the very first slither of fog dawned upon the damp soil that stood ready for them before they were even born.

However as per usual nothing went according to plan, the mayor, Gareth Farr running out of time, his son next in line to be claimed by the spirit of the water. There was no one left to save them. Not the daughter of a savage father with an iron fist and a doomed mother. Not the son of dark intentions and people leaning far too much in following the wrong path. Two children marked from the very beginning to serve a purpose. One of them taken or more than likely dead.

The events of that night played on repeat in Gareth’s head. Celebrations were snuffed out before they even began, panic rising in the constricting chests of the onlookers as the mayor tried to calm their spirits down despite he himself feeling the fear crawling up his spine like a venous leech unwilling to let go.

The scene still remained the same, right behind the pier in the island central square. A testimony of white flower arches bathed in blood, the stage to witness their union soaked in the crimson liquid, smell of it traveling through the air, calling forth the predators lurking in the forest shadows, the wolves howling in the night as if crying out for the wild girl that vanished without a trace.

Soon they would learn if the blood was indeed hers and if it was, well, no one could have survived that.

The sounds of oars hitting the water brought Gareth back to the present, the torch being waved to signal the pier. A last gamble, a backup plan, a priest to drive out the spirits. He was wise to request one, as if he expected for the union to not take place. The spirits were hungry after all, desperate to fill their ranks, to claim until there was nothing left but them.

As the boat docked and Jonathan set foot in front of Gareth, the mayor hesitated, confusion and dread evident in his tired eyes. The letter explaining why Jonathan was there did little to calm him, but there was no more time, no other solutions. No turning back now.

“Follow me.” Gareth instructed as he led the young priest through the crimson blood bath that was the square, leaving behind the two guides who had fulfilled their duties “The Crane daughter is missing.”

Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks taking in the soiled wedding decorations, the island sheriff approaching him “Oliver Gerard, you must be the new priest.”

Shaking hands, Jonathan tried to gather his bearings “Father Jonathan, a pleasure.” Glancing back at the stage, he tried to keep his voice from shaking “Are we certain the girl is missing and not…”

“Dead?” Oliver asked “You can say it, no romanticizing it or anything, but without a body we cannot confirm. Though truth be told” he leaned in and whispered “if she is, we are as well. Hope you don’t have anyone waiting for you on the other side priest because once you set foot here, it’s like walking through the gates of Hell and believe me, no amount of praying is going to save us.”

Giving a grave look he replied also whispering “Can’t say I ever heard a man of the law ever talk like you. But if we are in Hell you’d better pray I can deliver you from evil.”

Throwing his head back, Oliver laughed “You chose a good one mayor, this one is fun.”

“Enough of this. He isn’t the one chosen, but he will have to do. Now if you would continue to follow me, I shall see you are settled at the church before I return home to my son.”

Oliver stepped in “Allow me sir, you get some rest, it’s been a long night.” Taking the keys from Gareth he waved Jonathan along “Come on priest, let’s go open up that dusty church of yours.”

The town was not much, mainly a long road, buildings lining it left and right. Lights could be seen from every establishment, Oliver explaining it was a must to keep the fog at bay as much as possible. Yet he did laugh at that prospect. As if all hope was lost the moment Talia disappeared.

“You’ll recognize the best houses, the Cranes” he pointed to his left “the Rosiers” he pointed to the right “rich kids, they practically founded the island. And here” he said waving his hands dramatically “the church.” Imposing, dark, the tallest building on the island by the looks of it. A heavy padlock and chains kept the doors secured, wind howling as if resonating from inside of the building.

“Can I ask where the cemetery is, I haven’t seen one.”

Oliver let the heavy chain hit the ground, opening the old creaky doors “We don’t have a cemetery.”

“Excuse me?”

Walking inside the church felt like steeping in a catacomb, the air heavy and dusty, temperature as if dropping “We never did, no need to have one when there’s never a body to bury. You’ll learn soon. Those who perish just disappear, those who aren’t entirely claimed also disappear once their duties are fulfilled. If it makes you feel better there’s a book with names somewhere in the backroom for all who were claimed by the spirits.”

“There’s no such thing Oliver.” Jonathan quietly spoke as if afraid to disturb the silence of the church.

Leaning in, he smiled, the darkness of the church expanding on the walls, further drawn to them “Then why are you actually here priest? If I were you I would pray to whatever God you believe in. I would scream it, let it echo. Because then maybe someone will actually listen.” He stepped back, shrugging his shoulders “Or don’t, enjoy your last days. Not many are left to claim and when the last child is taken we are next.” Placing the keys in Jonathan’s hands, he mockingly made the sign of the cross “Your house is out back in the yard. Sleep well father Jonathan.”