#maybe also making the first line longer than one sentence

[too-deviant]

The three weeks it took for Luke Castellan’s wounds to heal.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader

Summary: Luke comes back from his quest defeated and angry, and refuses to let anyone see him. But he still needs tending to. You are the lucky sucker who gets to do so.

Content: post-quest angsty luke, reader is awkward, i use the word under’t at one point because i think im shakespeare or some shit

Word Count: 7.6k

Notes: Pushing the agenda that lukes scar is gnarrly like it’s nasty !! not just some faint lil line. the boy was attacked by an actual dragon, like pls. also this hasn’t been proofread so sorry if it doesn’t make sense

part two

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The spring that Luke Castellan spent on his quest was a strange one for the residents of Camp Half-Blood.

For years, campers knew who to go to whenever they needed advice. When they needed help. They knew who to direct the new campers to when they stumbled over the boundary line — and knew they were in good hands. Luke’s hands. He was the big brother the whole camp needed, and not just because he was older than most of them. He just had that aura — and he was undoubtedly kind to everyone he came across. Not to mention the guy was insane with a sword, and had this boyish charm that anyone would fall for. Most campers, if not all of them, looked up to Luke Castellan.

So when he left, nobody knew what to do.

It was pretty tame at first, mostly just awkward. Especially in the Hermes cabin, with Chris Rodriguez in charge in his brother's absence. A Hephaestus kid had taken over the sword fighting classes Luke usually ran, which proved to do more harm than good because he wasn’t all that great at using a sword than he was at forging them, and most of Luke’s students were already better than him.

But nothing went wrong — at least for the first week.

But after the initial awkwardness wore off, chaos ensued.

Chris couldn’t keep the Hermes kids in check — once they realised he wasn’t as authoritative as Luke, they began to use it to their advantage. Everyone got pranked, the camp store was raided three times before Chiron decided to close it down for the meantime and dishwashing duty every night was not slowing them down.

You hadn’t realised just how much the camp relied on Luke until he wasn’t there to keep things under control. Fights broke out with nobody to step in between them, and more and more kids were showing up to the infirmary with injuries that they could take care of themselves — something Luke would’ve told them to do instead of bothering you and your siblings. It was actually unbelievable how much a group of about a hundred half-gods relied on the steady hand of one seventeen year old boy.

You couldn’t wait until he got back so you could finally get some peace and quiet.

Luke didn’t return to camp for two and a half weeks, and as the days went by, campers began to get uneasy. Nobody knew what his quest had entailed, or where he had to go, so the longer they went without news the more antsy people got. You didn’t speak to Luke much — maybe a few shared sentences to be polite — but you knew what he was capable of. You tried your best to reassure the campers, as did your brother Lee and the rest of the Cabin Counsellors.

You knew Luke would come back. You knew he would stumble down that hill with his head held high and meet the group of campers waiting for him at the bottom. You knew there would be a celebration, a party, and a lot of kids out past curfew. But you knew Chiron would let it off, because Luke Castellan was back.

Except that’s not what happened. At all.

It was a warm day, and you were helping some of your younger siblings make friendship bracelets by the lake. Your camp shirt clung to the sweat on your back and you peeled it off with a grimace whenever you stood, straightening out your shorts and checking on the next kid. They seemed happy enough to be in the sun — really, you should’ve been too. Child of Apollo and all. But apparently your father wasn’t feeling the love for you today, because while the rest of your siblings were thriving, you were seconds away from jumping into the lake just to cool down — even if it pissed off the Naiads.

Thankfully, when you stood up once more and looked over the horizon, you saw your brother Aden jogging towards you. You took the opportunity to hide under the shade of the trees by meeting him halfway, and greeted him with a breathless, “Hey.”

He spoke your name with a nod and a smile, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Chiron needs you in the Big House. Looked serious. I’ll take over here.”

“Oh, Okay.” You nodded, turning to the kids and telling them you’d be back as soon as you could, before marching your worn converse through the grass and up to where the house sat on the edge of the hill.

Chiron was in the doorway when you reached the porch, sat in wheelchair form and wearing a grim look. You paused, worried. He nodded at you, “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Usually I wouldn’t do this, but…desperate times. Follow me.”

You followed as he led you down the hall, brows furrowing, “What's going on? Is everything okay?”

He looked at you with a serious expression, saying your name lowly, “I need you to ensure that what I am about to tell you will never leave the walls of this house. Nobody needs to know about this until we have deemed it appropriate.”

“Of course.” You said immediately, folding your arms. You weren’t so warm anymore. “What happened?”

He straightened up, and stared, “Luke Castellan is back from his quest.”

That was not what you expected him to say. Dropping your arms to your side and stepping forward slightly, “What? Since when?”

“Ten minutes ago, give or take.” He replied, brows in a concerned furrow, “Mr D has taken him upstairs. He is injured.”

“Right.” You nodded, “I’ll go and—“

“Wait, child.” You stopped, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, looking back at him, “You must know something.”

Chiron took in a deep breath, eyes glossed over like whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him, “He is…not in good condition. On top of his injuries, Luke is unfortunately…not in a good state of mind. His quest has affected him, and he requested quite adamantly that nobody should see him until he is ready to see them. I will respect his wishes, of course, but he will still need someone to tend to his wounds. That will be you.”

“Me?” You’d never shared a full conversation with the guy. Maybe some small talk, a polite smile here and there, but you were hardly acquainted, let alone friendly. You told him this.

“Exactly my point.” Was his reply, head held high, “Luke does not want to talk to anyone at the moment, and I’m sure if any of his friends were to be up there, they would simply coddle him. You, on the other hand…”

“I’m a stranger.” You nodded, “Of course. Right. I get that. So, you just want me to patch him up, act like it never happened? I can do that.”

“Not exactly, my child.”

You raised a brow.

“Luke’s injuries are quite extensive. He will need around the clock care until he is healed enough. He will also need someone to bring him food, clean clothes.”

“Oh, so you want me to nanny him.”

He chuckled, but it faded just as quickly as it came, “Unfortunately, he needs it.”

You pursed your lips. It didn’t seem all that hard — it was just like having any other camper in the infirmary. Only this one, everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for, and you weren’t allowed to tell anyone he was a mere fifty feet away from them, curled up in a bed in the Big House.

No biggie.

i. WEEK ONE

Chiron had ushered you up the steps as soon as your conversation was over, and given you directions to the room Luke was in. Your steps were slow and unsure — you’d never been this far into the Big House before, but Mr D stood idly outside one of the doors lining the second floor hallway, arms crossed and face taut. The floorboards creaked under the weight of your foot when you reached the landing, and he looked up at you.

“He’s in there.” He pointed to the door in front of him, “Careful, he’s a short fuse right now. All the medical thingamabobs you need are in there already. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

Then he slid past you and down the stairs without another word, and you were left alone in the empty hall. Blinking hard to clear your head, you stood a few measly steps toward the door, stopping just outside of it and leaning your ear against the wood.

Nothing tangible. Mostly just the scraping of wood against the skin of your ear, and once you had stopped moving, there was nothing. No mutters, no bed creaks, not even a sniffle. It unnerves you, but you wrapped a hand around the cold metal of the handle and turned it anyway.

Maybe it was because he had been gone for a while, or maybe it was because you never saw him that much when he was around, but you had to blink away the shock at Luke’s appearance. Minus the obvious injuries, he just looked different. His skin was tanned and rough, his jaw taut and his hair hanging messily over his forehead, longer bits curling around his ears after going uncut for so long.

He was sitting on the edge of a bed that had been tucked into the corner of the room. There was a window just above it, but a thin curtain had been pulled over it and blocked out the sunlight that was begging to shine on you. The room was dark, but light enough that you could see what you were doing when you walked over to the desk in the other corner and started shuffling through the medical supplies Chiron had left there for you. Not much, but enough for now. You could always get more later.

Turning, you finally made your way over to where Luke was hunched over, staring at nothing. When you entered his line of vision, his dark eyes slid up to yours, and he blinked. Then he sighed, straightened his back and gave you a look that said do what you have to do and then get out.

But you didn’t move, not for at least ten seconds. Because while Chiron had told you he was injured extensively, he didn’t mention the five inch long scar that ran down the side of his face, cutting through his eye. It was jagged and gnarly, sharp edges carving a path through his skin. It was red all around, and just from looking at it you could tell it needed work. It was fairly new, but he had left it long enough for it to heal over — a thin layer of skin stopping it from bleeding.

He raised his eyebrows at you impatiently, and you nodded, scooting back to the desk and grabbing what you needed before going back to where he sat.

“I, uh…I need to get closer.” You were afraid to speak, to break the silence of the room, but you did need to get closer to his face. You waited for him to turn slightly to his left, hitch a leg up on the mattress and face his scar in your direction. Instead, he just slid his legs apart, inviting you to step between them.

And so you did, albeit a little shakily. You didn’t know Luke well enough to consider him a friend, but you’d seen enough of him to know that he never acted like this. He was never this quiet — all eyes, slow movements. He was charming, always grinning, always offering a hand. His battle instincts and ADHD made him fidgety like the rest of them, but from where you stood between his thighs, he was as still as a picture. It unnerved you more than the scar on his face did. You’d seen nasty injuries before, you’d never seen this.

You picked up a gauze, doused it in rubbing alcohol, and started wiping the area. You started on the outskirts, but when you pressed over the edge of the injury, his brows twitched and you let out a weak apology before lessening the grip. You kept your breaths thin and your eyes on your hand, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway. He had drifted off again, staring at nothing, and you were scared to break him out of his stupor again.

“He’s a short fuse.” Mr D had said. But he didn’t seem that way right now, sitting back silently and letting you do your work on his face. He wasn’t much of anything, if you had to make an assessment. You really wanted to know what happened on his quest, and why he was gone for so long, but you also didn’t want to test Mr D’s words by asking.

“What happened?” He didn’t say anything, again. You pressed on, “I sort of need to know before I reopen it…just in case something—“

“A dragon.” He murmured at once. His voice was rough, like he’d just been screaming. Maybe he had been, and that’s why Mr D had warned you. But it seemed all his anger had dissipated in the time it took for Chiron to get you and explain the situation. Maybe. “Ladon. Poisonous bites.”

So he had been to the Garden of the Hesperides. Presumably to collect some Golden Apples. What for, you didn’t know. You weren’t going to ask. You just grabbed a scalpel, muttered a quiet, “This is going to hurt.”, and started cutting down the scar, following its path across his cheek.

Luke hissed hard, not expecting you to dive in so suddenly, and his hand reached out for something to grab. That ended up being your camp shirt, bunching at your waist from where he gripped it between his knuckles. You didn’t mind it, but when you put the scalpel down and started to clean the inside of his wound, he adjusted his hand so he was holding the side of your waist instead, eyes clamped shut and feet tapping the wooden floor. You paused momentarily, but you couldn’t let him breathe or else it would just hurt more when you went back to work, so you brushed it off and continued your rampage down his face until the whole wound was free of the dirt and grime he had let accumulate inside it while he travelled back to Long Island.

“Sorry.” You finally built up the courage to say.

“S’Okay.” He breathed, “My fault.”

You wiped it over one last time before taping a bandage over the top. You cut it into two bits so he could still see out of his left eye, before stepping back from between his legs and assessing your work. Once you had deemed it good enough, you picked up your supplies and headed back to the desk, feeling Luke’s hand fall from your side.

“Uh—“ You really wanted to leave the room now, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but how long did you leave—“

“Three days.” He answered quickly. Chiron had probably already asked him that, and you felt stupid for making him repeat it.

You turned to leave, but then remembered what Chiron had said to you before sending you up to Luke’s room. You looked at him.

“Do you need anything from your cabin?” You asked, “It’s, uh, kind of my job to get that, if you do.” You turned to face him fully, “Oh, and are you hungry? Because I have to—“

“Just some clean clothes, thanks.” He quipped. It wasn’t looking like he wanted you around for much longer.

You were quick to leave.

It was hard coming up with an excuse as to why you were stealing clothes from Luke Castellan’s bunk, but you just told them there was a new camper in the Big House and Chiron had run out of spares that morning. They brushed it off, and you ran back up to Luke with the clothes bunched in your arms, and were breathless by the time you dropped them on the bed beside him.

“Did anyone see you?” He asked just as you were about to give him the privacy he needed to change.

You were facing the door when he asked, and turned to answer, but he was already pulling off the marred camp shirt he’d arrived in, revealing his very toned torso. You paused, eyes drifting, but quickly snapped them back up to his awaiting gaze. He didn’t seem to care that he was shirtless in front of you, but neither did most boys.

“No.” You weren’t sure how he would react if you’d told him the truth, even though it was harmless. He nodded and started to unbutton his cargos, and you were quick to turn back to the door and yank it open, “Okay, I’ll…uh, probably be back at…later. Bye.”

The rest of your week was rough to say the least. You had a lot on your plate, and it didn’t help when your siblings kept wondering why you were at the Big House three times a day and why you always made a second plate of food at mealtimes. Eventually, it got around that a new camper had arrived, and you were taking care of them. That's when the rumour mill started running.

“I heard they were older, like twenty or something. Apparently they’re super embarrassed.”

“Well, I heard they were injured super badly on their way into camp, and that’s why nobody’s seen them yet.”

“I heard they got violent when Chiron explained the demigod thing and now they have him locked away in the basement!”

So yeah, lots on your plate. You did little to dispel the rumours, not wanting to allude to the truth accidentally, but when you were the only one who knew the truth, it was difficult to hide from those who wanted it too.

But after a few days, you had developed a routine. Wake up, get breakfast, take food to Luke. Check his dressings while he ate and restock your med supplies if needed. Go to whatever task you were running that day, ignore anyone who asked about the new camper, go for lunch. Take lunch to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Go to dinner. Take dinner to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Lead the campfire sing-along. Check on Luke one more time. Go to bed.

It was a lot, to say the least. But you didn’t complain — if you did this top secret doctor work right, Chiron might make you cabin counsellor when your older sister Alina leaves after this summer.

And just as you had, Luke eased into the routine too. Every time you entered his room, with a polite knock, he would be perched on the side of his bed, legs open and inviting.

You wondered if he actually did this for you, or if he just never moved from that position.

Sunday morning was slightly different — as camp activities were more relaxed and you had more time on your hands. You strolled slowly to the Big House after breakfast — rather than your usual sprint so you weren’t late to Archery — and knocked politely on the door before cracking it open and heading for the desk. With a plate of food in one hand and a fresh bandage in the other, you made your way over to where Luke sat, readying yourself for another quiet twenty minutes of work. It was quite peaceful, now that you’d gotten used to it. More comfortable, less awkward.

“Hi.”

You blinked, almost dropping what you held, but Luke was there to grab the bandage from your hand as your grip loosened in your shock. He attempted a smile, but winced when it pulled at his scar, and chose to nod at you instead.

“Uh…” You put the plate down into the bedside table, straightening your shirt, “Hi.”

He’d never said hi before.

He didn’t say anything else after that, just let you do what you did, but your mind remained a whirlwind. He said hi. That’s a completely normal thing for him to do, and yet you were reeling from it.

Once you had changed his dressings, you headed for the door and allowed him to eat his breakfast. Your hand wrapped around the metal of the handle and turned it, pulling open the wooden door and stepping one foot into the hall before the voice sounded again.

“Bye.”

You chuckled this time, not looking back, “Bye.”

ii. WEEK TWO

It was an average morning, the blistering sun from last week finally fading and allowing you to walk comfortably outside. You never knew what your dad’s problem with you was last week, but you suspected that it had something to do with the cabin counsellor who slept on the second floor of the Big House with a bandage across his eye.

Like usual, you were heading up the stairs, breakfast plate in hand, ready to give your first checkup of the day. If Luke was healing like he should’ve been, you wouldn’t have to change his dressing at lunch, and you were crossing your fingers that he was.

Pushing the door open with your back, you walked in slowly and headed towards the desk like usual. You grabbed the bandage, made your way over to Luke and put the plate down next to his small lamp. Then you straightened up and put the new bandage under your arm, holding it in place while you moved to unwrap his eye.

Before you could, however, Luke was pulling the bandage from where it was trapped against your ribcage and held it in his own hands. You looked at him, and he gave you a weak smile, “Thought it’d be easier if I held it for you.”

You murmured out a thanks and smiled at him, keeping it there even as you peeled back the old dressings and revealed his still healing scar. Usually, it wouldn’t take this long for a demigod wound to heal itself, but because Luke had gone so long without nectar or ambrosia — or any form of medical help, that is — it was in worse condition. You had to scrape out the infected skin from it a few days back, and it left Luke blinking hard to try and hide the tears.

Nowadays he seemed to be better — not as broody as he seemed last week. But you always caught him drifting off, staring at nothing. You wondered if he was reliving it, asking himself what would’ve changed had he done it differently. Your guess? Not much — you’d read up on Ladon the dragon after finding out it was he who caused Luke’s pain, just in case there was something you needed to know before starting the healing process. He was vicious, not even Hercules could get past him. And while Luke was the best swordsman camp had seen in three centuries, even he would struggle going at Ladon alone.

Once you had redressed his face, you stepped back like you always did, your footfalls sounding out the same metronome as they did three times a day. You wondered if you would wear a mark into the floor from your constant repeating path — door to the desk, desk to the bed, bed to the door. You briefly thought that wouldn’t be possible, something like that would take years to indent, but then you looked back at Luke — his forlorn expression, the bandage across his eye and the bags under’t — and wondered how long it would be before he could build the courage to stand up from the bed, return to a camp that relied so heavily on his skill set, and take the weight of his failure with him.

He pulled the plate onto his lap and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone look so sad while stuffing their face with bacon.

“Hey, uh —“ You started, hand on the doorframe in an attempt to look casual. You couldn’t just leave him like that, right? “Do you…know — uh, know where the spare practising swords are kept?” A measly excuse, but it had him looking at you again.

He swallowed his food before speaking, “The wooden ones are in these old boxes in the back of weapon storage, but I think the celestial bronze ones are kept in the Hephaestus cabin now.”

You nodded, tapping your hand against the wood. That didn’t work in the way you wanted it to, but you weren’t going to force it. So you turned, went to open the door and leave —

“Why?”

Nevermind!

You whirled around — not too eagerly! You didn’t want to scare him off, now — “Oh! Uh, some Ares kid snapped one in half the other day, we needed a replacement.”

Luke nodded. Shit, say something else. Get him talking!

“Odd weather we’ve been having.”

What?

His lips parted, and he had the gall to look amused, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, yeah.” You breathed, humiliated. You pressed your lips together, ready to give up, until a thought came to you, “Hey, you haven’t been outside in, like, a week.”

Luke nodded, shadows falling across his face like the mere mention of the fact that he hadn’t been outside was a painful reminder of his circumstances, “Yeah, I, uh, don’t think I want anyone to know that I’m back yet. Not until I’m healed, y’know?”

You knew. You also knew that probably wasn’t the only reason he refused to let anyone know he was safe in the Big House, but you didn’t say that.

“Right, but —“ A breathy chuckle, “You need, like, sunlight. Fresh air.”

“I don’t wanna risk it.”

“Ok.” And that was that. You said goodbye, left him to his own devices, and didn’t mention the sun thing again for two days.

It was on Wednesday that you finally gave in. Now that you’d put the thought in your own head, you kept noticing the effects that being cooped indoors was having on Luke. His skin, once tanned and glistening under the sun, was paling by the hour. He winced whenever he had to straighten his back, and even though his scar was healing nicely, he seemed to be more sensitive to the pain of it than he was a week earlier.

So on Tuesday night you formed a plan, and on Wednesday morning at breakfast you put it into action. It started with asking Lee — ever so casually, of course — what the activities schedule was looking like. He started yapping about their cabin, and you waited patiently for him to bring up the Amphitheatre. Then, when he said the Apollo kids were training at two, you said —

“I thought we trained at twelve on Wednesdays?”

“No, that’s Ares and Hephaestus.”

“Oh, but don’t they train at four?”

“No, Hermes and Athena train at four.”

“Then who trains at ten?”

“Nobody.”

Bingo.

Luke was halfway through pulling on a pair of shorts when you burst into the room. He jumped, yanking them up the rest of the way before turning to look at you — his face was a mix of shock and unbridled anger until he realised it was you, then it softened into something calmer. But you saw him, even for just a split second, and the animosity in his gaze made you take a quiet step back. It was fearful almost — you’d seen him annoyed, irritated. You’d even bore witness to the Carden Cross Hot Cross Bun Incident of 2002,

(Carden Cross was this fifteen year old Ares kid. He threw one too many hot cross buns at the Aphrodite table and a then-sixteen-year-old Luke had wrung him out in front of everyone.

Nobody had ever heard Luke raise his voice like that, and Carden avoided everyone for a week straight).

but you had never seen such indignation in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and you could’ve told yourself it was never there, but it was. You were hit with the humbling realisation that whatever Luke had gone through on his quest was more damaging than you could ever imagine, and no amount of fresh air would change him back to who he was before.

That saddened you, but then you realised he was shirtless again and all morbid thoughts went straight out the window. You grinned at him, “Sorry. But we don’t have a lot of time.”

He stared at you, then at your hands that were empty of breakfast food or bandages, and asked, “Time for what?”

“For some fresh air!” You sang, throwing in some jazz hands as if they would wipe the hesitant frown that had graced his features, “Put some shoes on, let’s go!”

He said your name softly, “I can’t go outside.”

You straightened up from where you had leaned dramatically into the room and sent him a blank look, eyes still sparkling, “You can. I checked the schedule, the Amphitheatre is free from ten till twelve and it is currently…nine forty-five. If we hurry, we’ll miss the post-breakfast rush.”

Luke looked a little more at ease now, but he made no move to put his shoes on. His body twitched like he was thinking about it, but when he couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it, he sighed and nodded, “Alright. Doctors orders, I guess.”

“Awesome.” You smiled, “I’ll let you get ready.”

It took some convincing, even after you’d gotten him to follow you down the stairs, to get him out the door. But a few firm words (and a couple of threats) and he was basking in the morning sunlight just as you’d planned.

Well — more like squinting painfully. Turns out, after a week and a half in a dark room, it takes a minute to get used to the sunlight again. You ensured nobody was around and took the long way to the Ampitheatre, letting out a content sigh when you knew you were away from prying eyes. Luke seemed more relaxed already, and you could practically see his muscles getting looser.

“Damn.” He muttered, hand over his eyes, “I needed this.”

“Yeah.” You spoke over an unattractive snort, “I’m an Apollo kid, I know a Vitamin D deficiency when I’m looking at one.”

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes at you, amused, and moved towards the steps. He climbed up two before turning and sitting, leaning back on his elbows and blinking at the sky, “Think your dad made it extra sunny just for me?”

“Probably.” You smiled, standing in front of him — but still making sure you weren’t blocking the sun from his face. “After some convincing from your dad.”

Luke’s smile faded. His eyes remained closed but his hands tightened into loose fists, “I don’t think so.”

Now you were desperate to change the subject. Your eyes darted to the wall, and the rack of swords sitting in its usual spot, “Hey, wanna swing some bronze?”

“Gods.” He let out a rough laugh, and you grinned in satisfaction, “Swinging Bronze. Haven’t heard that in a while.”

You nodded, glad he was back to being somewhat happy, “We thought we were so cool.”

“We thought it’d catch on.”

You shared a laugh, and Luke peeked an eye open, looking at you, “How come we were never friends back then?”

A meek shrug, “We weren’t really friends until a couple of days ago. That's if you even count us as that now.”

He just kept looking at you, and his gaze burned into your skin. You stepped back, closer to the middle of the arena space, “We never really spoke.”

He looked at you as if he was thinking hard about what you said, and what he was gonna say next. Apparently he came up short, because seconds later he was clicking his tongue and pushing himself up, joining you in the middle of the arena, “Alright. Let’s swing some bronze.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. This was going well. He was outside, he was laughing, he was about to pick up a sword for the first time since he’d angrily thrown his own at the porch of the Big House when he got back a week and a half ago.

He handed you a wooden practice sword, and you raised a brow. Usually the wooden ones were for first-timers, or younger kids. He shrugged, you let it go.

Despite the fact that you and Luke had been at camp together for five years, you’d never actually gone one-on-one in a sword fight with him. It was rare that Apollo and Hermes were paired together for activities, since they were the two highest populated cabins, but even when Luke was running the practice he always picked the people he knew the best for demonstrations. You lingered at the back, watching.

So you were slightly nervous, but you also didn’t want to show it. Sure, on any normal day Luke would reassure you with kind eyes and that Luke Castellan Smile, but he wasn’t exactly himself right now. You swallowed down your nerves, matched his stance, and swung.

Best Sword Fighter in Three Hundred Years — not an exaggeration. His moves were swift, calculated, and he stayed calm the entire time. It was as if he knew everything you were going to do before you did it, and had three counterattacks on the back burner for when you would strike. Your swords clashed every time you made a move and suddenly you realised why he wanted you to use wooden swords — the clang of wood was a lot quieter than the clang of bronze, it was less likely anyone would hear you fighting. It made sense, but you couldn’t focus on that when he was practically parrying your thoughts with sweat dripping down his temple.

You held your own, though. You were quite impressed with yourself when you blocked his swipes and sidestepped his jabs. It was making him groan in frustration, and the edges of your mouth perked up. You didn’t realise how good you were at this.

Then Luke stumbled. He grunted, righted himself, and swung again. You blocked it, and he steadied his shoulders. You slowed, focusing on the way he heaved for breath, taking in gulps of air, while you were hardly breaking a sweat. The way he kept readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, and how his fingers shook on his free hand. He went for you again and you sidestepped him, making him trip up. He didn’t fall, but he did let out a long angry groan at his mistake, throwing the sword to the ground in frustration.

You flinched, “Luke.”

“This was a bad idea.” He snapped. He wasn’t looking at you, pacing up and down with his hands in his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“You’re still recovering —“ You tried to reason, but he wasn’t listening to you.

“I’m the best damn swordsman this camp has ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Why —“

“Luke.” You stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” He gritted through his teeth, “I fail one quest and suddenly I can’t do anything anymore? Yeah, that’s typical.”

You shook your head, “You just need time to get better.”

“I was better! Better than everyone else here, I —“ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes that unnerved you for a second before he was looking at you again, “I can hear people.”

You perked your ears up. He was right, you could hear the chatter of camp if you listened carefully enough — but it wasn’t anything to worry about. They were all doing their own tasks, far away from where they were. If someone was coming, it would be more clear. You told him that, but he shook his head.

“I need to go back. This was a bad idea.”

“Hey, it’s okay, we can go —“

“No, not we. Me.” He said firmly, a hard look in his gaze that he didn’t have before, “I’m going back. You’re staying here. And I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

iii. WEEK THREE

You hadn’t seen him in five days.

Chiron had pulled you out of Archery to ask about Luke — and why he had seen him storm angrily back into his room and lock the door. You just told him you thought it was best for him to find someone else to take care of him for the time being. You didn’t think Luke would want to see you again, ever.

All you wanted was for him to be his old self again. The guy you always saw helping out someone else with a smile on his face, the one who made others laugh and laughed with them. The one who waved at anyone who waved at him. The one who was completely oblivious to the flirting and just thought they were being friendly. The Luke Castellan who everyone gushed about, who everyone loved.

That man up there, with the scar on his face and the look in his eye, wasn't Luke Castellan. And maybe he never would be again, not completely. But he could come close — he could still smile, he could still laugh.

But you’d fucked all that up just by bringing him outside.

You didn’t know who Chiron had asked to replace you, because you never saw anyone else get up after breakfast with an extra plate. You didn’t see anyone sneaking out of the Hermes cabin with a pile of clothes. You stood in the fields for hours a day, watching those thin curtains stand stiff at the window, never to open. You thought you’d seen a shadow, but maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you.

The weekend came and went, and you spent the whole time worrying about Luke. Did this new person know that he preferred fatty bacon? Did they know that he liked keeping the curtains closed? Or would they just bring him a plate of pancakes? Ask him too many questions about his quest? Your mind whirred — would they make him worse?

No. That’s not what you were scared of.

Would they make him better?

Would they understand him more than you did? Would they coerce more words out of him? Would they even need to coerce him, or would he be comfortable holding a conversation with them no problem? What if he was better now than he ever had been with you?

You flinched when your name was called. Looking up from the bracelet you were crafting with some younger kids and meeting the eyes of Dionysus, “Sir.”

“Our, uh, special guest is requesting your presence.” He said with a stupid look on his face, “So get off your ass and get up there, I can’t stand his whining any longer.”

You did as asked with a slight roll of your eyes that made the six year old who was next to you giggle into their hands. It brought a grin to your otherwise down expression, unsure of what Luke wanted to say to you.

The room was dark when you cracked the door open — there was no response after you knocked, but you could hear him shuffling inside, so you went ahead and opened it an inch. It was a lot darker than it used to be — or maybe you too had gotten used to the shade after spending so much time there.

You pushed it open more, and there he was, in his usual spot on the edge of the bed. Head down, hands fiddling with something by his eye. He was muttering in frustration, and you stepped into the room in concern. The floor creaked, he looked up, and you gasped.

The side of his face where his scar sat was red with blood — you almost missed the bandage he was attempting to tie around it because it had been stained pink. His fingers were shaking and he pursed his trembling lips at you, “I can’t do it.”

You surged forward, immediately taking the fabric from his hands. He let them drop into his lap as you peeled it back and looked at the damage. You winced — not as bad as the blood had made it seem, but bad enough. The wound had reopened at the top, and the blood was dripping into his eye and along the curve of his jaw.

It took a few panicky minutes, but eventually the bleeding had stopped, Luke’s face was clean of blood, and you were staring at him in shock, your own fingers still red from the damage. He was avoiding your eyes, the only other thing he’d said to you being a strained thank you when you had stepped back.

“What —“ You were at a loss.

“I tried to change them myself.” He shrugged, picking at his fingernails, still not looking at you. “I’d watched you do it so many times, I figured I had it handled. Apparently I didn’t, because I woke up and it was freakin’ bleeding everywhere.”

“Oh, Luke.” You breathed, “Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”

“You never came back.” He said like it was obvious.

“What — so you’ve been doing this yourself for five days?” You asked, a shocked exclamation, “Chiron never sent someone else to help you?”

“He asked me who I wanted,” He shrugged, “I said you. You weren’t an option, so I did it myself.”

“You said —“

“I know what I said, alright?” He stressed, head in his hands now, “It was stupid. I was angry, hurt, whatever. It was at myself, but I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t — “ His voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Luke.” You murmured. You took a step closer, kneeled before him, and gently pried his hands away from his eyes so he would look at you. His expression was so…sad. So distraught. “What happened on your quest?”

And he told you everything.

iv. THE AFTER

Luke was ashamed to admit it — but he had no idea what your name was when you started looking after him.

Sure, he’d seen you around. You were one of the Apollo kids who spent more time in the infirmary than on the archery fields, but he was too good at his job to get injured. Hence why he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, he smiled at you and you would smile back. He was friendly with your brother, Lee. But that was about it.

That’s what made it so perfect.

You wouldn’t ask him about his quest. You wouldn’t try your hardest to get him to open up. You would do your job, and leave him to mope. That was all he wanted.

Until he learned your name.

And just from glancing at your smile — all awkward and nervous as you introduced yourself — he knew he wanted to be near you. He knew you were the type of person he could sit in silence with and walk away from it with a happy memory.

He thought he knew enough about you to determine who you were to him (a stranger). But he didn’t know your name, your voice, he didn’t know your touch or your smile — the real one you give when someone truly makes you laugh. Not the one he thought he knew.

He stood stiffly on the porch of the Big House — three weeks was all it took before Mr D was kicking him out, telling him to get a grip and face the music. Luke was ready; physically. His scar was nothing but that — a memory, faded into his skin forever. There was no other reason for him to keep himself hidden other than the fact that he wanted to. If it was up to him, nobody would ever bear the burden of seeing him ever again.

For weeks he told himself that his quest was pointless. He screamed it at the gods, at Chiron, at you. He cursed his dad every night for sending him on a path to failure and not even acknowledging it. He cursed himself for ruining the first chance he had at gaining his fathers pride in seventeen years — he sat in the dark, fists clenched, and asked himself what it was all for.

The five years on the run, the endless monster attacks, the relentless training, the offerings, the prayers. Would his life be any better had he just let that first monster kill him?

No. Because he wouldn’t have met Thalia, or Annabeth. He wouldn’t have seen the brighter side of being a halfblood — he wouldn’t have met his siblings, he wouldn’t have found his calling. He wouldn’t have experienced the joy of helping a new camper, of being the guiding hand he never got to hold.

But what of his quest? His mission for his father brought nothing but pain — a pointless trip, a humiliating failure, a deep jagged scar. For weeks he asked himself why he was given the quest in the first place, and for years to come he will question himself each and every day.

But each and every day he asks himself what the gods had ever given him, he would be reminded of the day he learnt your name. And he would tell himself had he not taken that trip, had he not fallen to Ladon, he never would have felt the searing touch of your fingertips on his skin.

So maybe it was worth it after all.

He stepped off the porch.

[jezabelle9299]

You're It for me S.R x FEM! reader

Overture- Your walking through a used bookstore when you spot an old magazine with your boyfriends face on the cover-- not for his academic ability

CWs- Comparison to Lila Archer, feeling replaceable, this is diet angst- I don't have the guts or skill for the truly heart wrenching, kissing

A/N- I was kind of picturing an early season 2 Spencer? Like they've been dating for a while, but like-- not more than maybe 2 years, so they're still a little bit nervous. Also this is the first of many things I'm doing this December so hopefully everything goes well and if you want to read any of the other things I'm doing you could do so HERE

Right in your favorite used bookstore, on top of some other old magazines, there it was. It caught your eye at first because of the vibrant photo— but when you stopped to look you saw a beautiful young actress rubbing her face onto your wonderful boyfriend's hand. You felt sick, but you pushed through it to buy the stupid thing so you could read it. 

You barely made it through the checkout line, pale as a ghost and wishing you’d never walked in there. Because why didn’t he tell you? The publishing date was only months before you started dating and he hated touch. Was this a long relationship? An intimate moment no one else was supposed to see?

By the time you got to your car you’d ripped the plastic covering off the magazine opening up the article about Lila Archer. You hadn’t really heard of her before, but she was gorgeous. The more you read about the ‘secret relationship’ between her and Spencer the more upset you got— until in one of the final sentences it said one of their reporters found them in a pool—fully clothed—making out. Spencer. Your germaphobic boyfriend who was nervous about so much as touching you in passing for your first 3 dates jumped into a pool to make out with someone he couldn’t have known for that long.

You sat on the couch in your apartment after a silent ride home. Spencer was supposed to meet you to spend some time together, he’d be landing any minute– but it was all you could do not to cry. It was before you were dating but you just felt– Insecure? Replaceable? You weren’t quite sure, but comparison stole your joy and left you with nothing but a sour mood and a boyfriend on his way to see you– one who was qualified to notice that you were upset nearly immediately upon seeing you. 

“Hey honey— I’m so glad I’m finally home. I’ve missed you so much.” He walked through the door, you’d told him so many times that he could come in without knocking– he even had his own key– and he moved straight to you. He leaned in to kiss you, but your lips were unrelenting, not soft like they usually were. You weren’t in the mood for romance right now and he wanted to figure out why. 

Not that you always had to be in the mood for physical touch, but usually when he got home from longer cases you were on him from the moment he walked through the door. He loved that— he missed that right now. 

“Is something wrong? Are you ok?”

“Yeah Spence, I’m fine.” You plastered on your best fake smile to no avail, only making Spencer more concerned in your efforts. 

“Did something happen while I was gone?”

“Nothing happened.” 

“I know you’re not telling me something. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.” Despite his words, his tone wasn’t accusatory at all. Only concerned. 

“I don’t need help— I just saw something that kind of… freaked me out is all.” You were really trying to downplay the effect that stupid magazine cover had on you.

“Did I leave one of my case files laying around? Oh honey I’m so sorry— I thought I picked them all up before I left.”He was wracked with guilt over something that didn’t even happen. 

“No Spencer it wasn’t that. It was a magazine? You were on the cover.” You thought he knew what you were talking about. I mean he’s been in a few science magazines for his academic ability, but nothing else like this. At least you certainly hoped not. 

“What magazine? From this month?” 

“No— it was a few months before we started dating. It was you and Lila Archer? I know it was before we started dating; and I know I have no right to be upset by it but it just— it just kind of took me by surprise, you know?”

“Oh. I forgot about that.” 

“You forgot about it? It said you were found fully clothed in her pool, and you just forgot?” You weren’t accusatory, just hurt—your voice was breaking by the end and you were still trying to look up at him. 

“It really wasn’t like that, I only knew her for a week— we were in LA because she was being stalked, I was supposed to be guarding her and she pulled me into the pool.” with just that one sentence he made it infinitely worse. He knew her for a week, and he wasn’t worried about her germs? What made her so different?

“You only knew her for a week?”

“Well–yes?” It was clear by the way he looked at you that he thought that would be a comforting notion. It was anything but. 

“On our first date you didn’t even want to touch me. You didn’t kiss me until we’d been dating for almost 2 weeks. I was perfectly fine with those things because I know you don’t really like touch but I need you to be honest with me about something. Do you just not like me as much? Because if you don’t that’s– well that’s ok. I mean I don’t want to be worried that you’re going to get a case in LA and find someone better.”

“Honey let me be perfectly clear– there is no one better. I love you more than anything or anyone on this Earth.” Spencer’s reassurance just wasn’t comforting you like it usually did. 

“Then–why? I mean do you just not think about me physically in that way?”

“I think the way I feel about you physically could easily be described as clingy and/or obsessed. You know this, sweetheart.” He held tightly onto your hands- rubbing the back of hand with his thumb

“Well now sure, but I honestly kind of thought you just weren’t attracted to me when we first started going out.”

“I was– and am for the record– extremely attracted to you. Some of my hesitance towards touching you was germ-based, but honestly I was just so ridiculously, extremely nervous around you that I was afraid to touch you and mess everything up.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, honey in case you hadn’t noticed you’re kind of it for me.” That feeling in the pit of your stomach finally subsided— giving way to the same feeling of love you always feel when Spencer wraps you in his arms. 

[hyunjuenthusiast]

I don't know if you meant like writing a one-shot or something was available but if it is can you do something with Hyun-ju x femreader! ?? Maybe angst or yandere or both?!

Yesssss my requests are definitely open!! Hopefully I do right by you anon with this goated af request! Let me cook!

BITTERSWEET (PART 1)

Summary: Y/n has always been sweet to everyone, no matter their background or their appearance. So what happens when Y/n is sweet to the wrong person?

Pairing: Yandere Hyun-ju! x Femreader!

Warnings: Yandere tendencies, stalking, obsession, angst, breaking and entering, abandonment issues, talk of transphobia, drugging. (If I missed anything, please let me know!)

Y/n L/n was raised to always treat people with kindness, no matter who they were. Her parents taught her that besides love, the most important thing was kindness, and now that her parents have passed, she keeps those values close. When Y/n first moved to South Korea, she didn't know the language all that well. But even so, she didn't have difficulties making friends who taught her how to speak Korean. Her bright smile and cheery attitude tributed to that.

On one particularly hot summer day, Y/n was talking a stroll through a few local shops. One shop in particular was her favorite. It sold these cute little pastries that had the most delectable chocolate mousse in the middle, and she deserved one! Her week had been so hectic, so swamped with paperwork and drama, so she was rewarding herself with a sweet treat!

As she opened the door, Y/n was hit with the most mouth-watering smell of desserts. This shop not only had her favorite pastries, but it had everything a sweet tooth could crave. But she could never stray away from her delicious pastries. Y/n quickly stood in line behind a few other people.

The line moved slowly, but that was okay. She wasn't in a rush. She heard the door open once more, and she turned to see a tall woman enter the shop. She had the prettiest pastel purple sweater on and a long black skirt! Y/n noticed the woman had on simple winged eye liner and mascara.

Maybe Y/n was staring a bit longer than she thought because the woman started fidgeting with her hands nervously after she got in line behind her, and she quickly turned her head back around, not wanting to seem rude. But that sweater was just so cute!

Y/n turns her head again, and the woman quickly averts her eyes to the floor. "I really like your sweater! Where'd you get it?!" Y/n asks with a soft smile. The woman looks up hesitantly, almost looking at Y/n in confusion. "I-I don't remember, I-Im sorry" the woman says, obviously anxious.

Y/n gives her a small smile. "Oh, that's okay! It's just so pretty!" Y/n says. The woman looks at her, her gaze softening. Could it be that someone was actually complimenting her? Well, her sweater, but this girl didn't seem to be mocking her. "Oh um thank you" the woman says with a blush, making Y/n smile.

The line moves a little more. "I'm Y/n, by the way!" She says, once again turning her head to the woman. "Hyun-ju. I-Im Hyun-ju." The woman says back in a whisper. "That's a pretty name, a pretty name and a pretty sweater, I'm jealous!" Y/n says, finally hlgetting a smile from the woman.

"I can take who's next!" The cashier says, making Y/n realise it was her turn in line. "Oh, I'm sorry!" Y/n says, starting to order her little sweet treat. "That's all! Thank you!" She says. "Alright, that'll be 5.11 w-" before the cashier could finish her sentence, Hyun-ju steps up from behind Y/n and hands the money to her. Making Y/n look up at her.

"You don't have to do that!" Y/n says, not expecting this stranger to be so nice! In return, Hyun-ju just gives her a soft smile, earning a scoff from someone behind them in line. Ytn turns to see an older man looking at them in what seems to be disgust, making Y/n's eyebrows furrow.

Hyun-ju also seems to notice the man and becomes more tense. "It's no problem," she says softly to Y/n. Hyun-ju looks down at her so softly. It makes Y/n that this woman wasn't used to receiving any sort of compliment.

The man checks his watch behind them. "How long is this going to take? Huh? Just because you can't decide your gender doesn't mean the rest of us have to suffer you choosing a damn pastry!" He says with a scowl. Y/n looks at him in shock at his audacity. It's been a long week, and this assho- this man, she corrects herself, doesn't seem to understand patience or respect for that matter.

Y/n looks to Hyun-ju, noticing her fallen expression and her slightly teary eyes. She turns back to the man with a rare glare. "What'd you say?" She asks the man softly, making him roll his eyes, almost repeating himself before Y/n inturupts him. "Oh, I'm sorry that was rhetorical. Though, you probably don't know what that means, considering you don't know what patience is. Does being an asshole come naturally, or is that just a special talent?" She asks the man, making his jaw slightly drop. "You can't speak to me like th-" she inturupts again. "Why not? You clearly don't think before you speak to other people. I've had a real shit week, mister, and people like you don't make it any better." She says with a hint of bitterness.

"Look at her," she says, hinting towards Hyun-ju. "What did she do to you to deserve such disrespect? Hmm? Just because old fucks like you can't fathom sharing the earth with people who don't look or act like you does not give you the right to judge or comment." Y/n says, getting a little fed up. "So I suggest you get that stick out of your ass and start acting like a gentleman before I do it for you!" She somewhat shouts that last part, making the man's face pale slightly.

Once Y/n gets that off her chest, she turns back around, seeing Hyun-ju and the cashier looking at her. She blushes, clearing her throat. "Sorry, I guess I'm just a little hungry." She says, earning a chuckle from the cashier. Hyun-ju is looking at her a bit differently, though. "I'm sorry, Hyun-ju, I didn't mean to embarrass you," she says softly, making Hyun-ju shake her head. "You didn't." The woman says to Y/n.

After both Y/n and Hyun-ju get their orders, Y/n turns back to the man. "I suggest the chocolate mousse pastry. It'll help sweeten you up!" She says with a giggle and walks towards a table, sitting down with her treat, but before she can take a bite, she looks up to see Hyun-ju standing there. "I'm sorry, m-may I sit with you?" The tall woman asks, making Y/n smile.

"Of course, please." Y/n gestures to the chair in front of her. Hyun-ju sits with her plate of what looks to be mochi. "Oh, I love the green tea mochi!" She says to Hyun-ju, making the woman smile. "It's one of my favorites. What's that?" She asks Y/n, looking at her plate. Y/n gasps. "This is perfection! It's a chocolate mousse pastry, I'm not really sure how to pronounce the name, but it's so good! Do you wanna try it?!" She asks Hyun-ju with excitement. Hyun-ju blushes. "I-I don't have a fork," She says, making Y/n giggle.

"Just take a bite, silly! You have a pretty smile, so I trust you!" Oh, she had Hyun-ju as red as a tomato. "O-Okay" Hyun-ju takes a bite. "It's good." Kaley giggles again. "It's the best thing on the menu! But good is a good word, I guess." they both laugh.

Hyun-ju fiddles with her hands. "T-Thank you, for earlier, I mean. I usually just ignore those kinds of things," She says softly. Y/n frowns. "You don't have to thank me, Hyun-ju. You're so pretty. Please don't listen to people like that" She says to the woman, which leads to them talking for a while, not about the mean comments but about each other, their likes and dislikes, just getting to know each other.

Over the next few weeks, Y/n and Hyun-ju become friends, mostly meeting up at the bakery for a treat, sometimes texting, just a casual friendship........at least that's what it is to Y/n.

Hyun-ju had never been treated this way in all of her life. The closest she's ever come to it was with Young-Mi. After she lost Young-Mi in the games, she never thought she would find someone who would accept her, but Y/n was different. Y/n was sweet, kind, and beautiful. Y/n was taking up all the space in Hyun-ju's mind. Not in a normal crush type of way either...Hyun-ju wanted Y/n for herself. And she decided...that should would have Y/n all to herself, she knew where the girl lived after all.

Y/n had just finished a 12-hour shift at the hospital, and she was exhausted. She looked forward to taking a hot bath and going to sleep!

She tiredly unlocked her front door to her little home. It was well past midnight, so it was dark but quiet. She closes her door, putting the keys in the bowl, taking her shoes off, stretching. She was so glad to be home......

What's that smell? Y/n thinks to herself. She quickly walks to her kitchen and pales immediately. Someone was in her home... they had something cooking... she didn't see them sneak up behind her, a sharp prick to her neck and a muffled voice behind her, she was unable to make out what the voice had said and she fell back into their arms, unconscious.

Y/n comes to with a whimper. She reaches up to rub at her head but can't... she looks down, her vision blurry, but she knew... her hands were bound. And she appeared to be in a baby pink dress...she didnt own a baby pink dress. She could feel a cloth tied on her head...a gag. She quickly and scaredly tries to get her hands free, only to be met with soft shushing.

"Shhhh shhh shhh, it's okay." Someone says. That makes Y/n's eyebrows furrow...she knows that voice. She looks up, and sees her friend. Hyun-ju. Y/n whimpers in confusion. What was happening?

"Shhhhh, I promise it's okay, sweet girl," Hyun-ju says, reaching over and caressing Y/n's cheek. "I'm so sorry I had to do this, I-I...I made you your favorite dish! I even put extra cheese in it, just how you like!" Hyun-ju says nervously, walking to the oven and getting out the pan. "I also made bread to go with it, a-and I went to the market to get a nice wine!" She says, trying to cheer the scared girl up.

Y/n looks at her pleadingly, and Hyun-ju melts. Coming to kneel in front of the trembling girl. "I-I know you're probably scared right now, I understand Y/n, I'm so sorry I had to do this, but I promise I'll explain everything, okay?" She says softly, trying to appear non-threatening. Y/n hesitantly nods, and Hyun-ju smiles.

Hyun-ju reaches up but hesitates. "Please don't scream, okay? I don't want to have to gag you again, sweet girl." She tells Y/n, making the girl nod in response. Hyun-ju gently slides the gag down.

"H-Hyun-ju? W-whats happening? W-what are y-you doing?" Y/n asks scaredly. Hyun-ju gives her the softest look she's ever seen. "Why don't we dig in first? Hmm? I know you love pasta." Hyun-ju says softly.

"H-How can I eat? M-My hands are tied. " Y/n tries. "I'll feed you," Hyun-ju says, and Y/n pales. "We'll have to let it cool. It's still hot from the oven. How about some wine in the meantime? I got red, but if you prefer white, I brought that just In case- Oh honey, don't cry, " She says, reaching over and gently wiping Y/n's tears away. "Your mascara will bleed," Hyun-ju whispers, caressing just under Y/n's eye.

"D-Did you undress me?" Y/n asks scaredly. Hyun-ju looks down a bit. "I did. But I only put on the dress, I didn't touch or look, I promise, I'd never do that, I'd never hurt you." She says. "And you look......so beautiful, Y/n. I saw that dress at a small boutique, and I knew you'd look just breathtaking in it." Hyun-ju says in awe.

Hyun-ju goes over to the counter, grabbing the red wine. "Is red okay? Or do you prefer white?" Y/n doesn't answer, to focused on the fact that her so-called friend had drugged her and changed her and now had her tied up in her own damn kitchen.

"Y/n?" Hyun-ju says, snapping Y/n from her thoughts. Hyun-ju gives her a smile. "Do you prefer red or white?" Y/n looks down. "Red," She whispers, though Hyun-ju still hears her.

Hyun-ju smiles as she sets down both glasses on the table. She brings one up to Y/n's mouth, but Y/n turns her head away. "How do I know you didn't put-?" Before she can finish, Hyun-ju takes a sip from Y/n's glass. When she swallows, she gives Y/n a soft look once again. "I would never. That drug was a one time thing, I promise, sweet girl."

She holds the glass back up to Y/n's lips, and this time, Y/n takes a sip. Oh, it was good, like really good. Like rich people wine. "Good?" Hyun-ju asks as she sets Y/n's glass down. Y/n nods in return.

"Why are you doing this, Hyun-ju?" Y/n finally asks. Hyun-ju sits across from her, fiddling with her hands. "You're so sweet, Y/n. I've never met someone like you, someone who stands up for people like me, someone who understands me, who compliments me. I-I know that doesn't mean you like me in that sense, I'm not delusional. " she laughs sadly. "But I have grown to love you, Y/n. I know it's only been a short time, but I do love you. You have my heart."

What. The. Fuck. Y/n says in her head. This is some Joe Goldberg type of shit. Jesus Fucking Christ. "H-Hyun-ju..." Y/n says nervously. "Shhhh shhh, I know, it's okay. I just need to explain that's all, I promise I won't hurt you. I know what you must be thinking, but I promise it's not like that." Hyun-ju says pleadingly.

"I used to know someone, w-who was kind of like you, her name was Young-Mi." Hyun-ju says with a sad smile. "W-Was?" Y/n says shakily. "She was killed i-in a game," Hyun-ju says, tearing up. "A game? The fuck? What game?" Y/n asks. "Y/n... I know this won't sound real. It'll make me sound even more crazy than you already think I am... but I was kidnapped, and I had to play 6 games in order to leave."

Y/n just looks at her, kind of like you'd look at someone with two heads. "I know. I know. But it's true. At first, I was willing, because I would win money. The first game was red light, green light. Then, six legs, then m-mingle." She says, a tear falling at the last one. "The fourth game was Jack and Jill, then the monkey bars, and then the last game was human chess."

"Young-Mi died during mingle." Hyun-ju says, making Y/n shrink into herself a bit. "She was so shy, so sweet, s-she was my responsibility, and I failed her. But that won't happen this time. This time will be different. I won't let anything happen to you." Y/n flinches back as Hyun-ju caresses her cheek once more. "Please don't be scared, Y/n, I promise, nothing bad will happen to you. I love you."

"Y-You're fucking crazy." Y/n whispers. Hyun-ju's lip quivers. "P-Please don't say that." Y/n's eyes widen as Hyun-ju picked up a bag...the same bag she would bring to the bakery. Hyun-ju opens it, and it's filled to the brim with money. "I was awarded 45.6 billion won. But I had to watch everyone die." Hyun-ju says sadly. "But not you. I'll never let anything hurt you, sweet girl. This time will be different." She says as she gets up and scoops some pasta onto a plate.

SOOOO???? WHAT DID WE THINK?! I def need some practice, but I think it turned out pretty good?! This took me foreverrrr😭

[hardly-an-escape]

just a little something for Tommy Kinard Appreciation Day and @peppermintquartz <3

A few weeks after they get back together, Tommy comes over to the loft for dinner. It's nothing fancy, no special occasion – Evan's got a new roasted chicken recipe and they both have the night off, so Tommy shows up around 6:00 with a bottle of wine and a slightly nicer-than-average shirt.

He's rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, looking for some matches or something to light the candles on the dining table, when he finds the notebook. It's one of those composition books with the classic black and white cover, the miniature version, a little beat up. He probably shouldn't read it – scratch that, he definitely shouldn't read it – but.

It's labeled with his name.

Tommy, right on the cover, in Evan's handwriting.

He glances over his shoulder. Evan has his back turned, fussing with the salad dressing and not particularly paying attention, so Tommy palms the little notebook and wanders over to the living room to open it.

The first page has a single sentence: Things I Miss about him. After that it turns into a list.

His eyes

the way his face scrunches up when he smiles for real

his hands

His ass! And his dick!!!

I feel like I shouldnt write that but it's true!!

Tommy swallows hard. Evan's handwriting is kind of uneven and hard to read, and his spelling and punctuation aren't the best – but it's undoubtedly a list, all lined up with neat little bullet points, of the things he'd missed about Tommy while they'd been apart.

His hugs

especialy the way he used to press our cheeks together and hang on just a little longer then I was expecting him too

He's such a good firefighter and so expereinced, I always felt like I couldve learned alot from him

the competency in general... hes so good at so many things!

he could be so bitchy/sarcastic but he's actually so kind. Like his jokes were never mean

Really good with kids

he would be an amazing dad someday

The last item is barely legible, thoroughly scratched out, as though Evan had thought twice about it the moment he'd written it down. Tommy feels tears prick behind his eyes. Evan would make a fantastic father, he thinks. They haven't really talked about it – marriage, kids, the whole nine yards. Before, it had been too early, and now that they're together again... it still feels too new, too raw, to bring it up. But Evan's the first person who's ever made Tommy want to have that conversation. He flips to the next page.

I don't want it to sound like I was only with him for sex but god I miss his body so much

Tommy snorts. He's so absorbed he doesn't hear Evan call out from the kitchen.

"What was that, babe?"

He took such good care of me. like when I hurt my shoulder but also just in general. He checked in with me alot and always made sure I was ok

really good listener

Did I take care of him enough? did I listen to him enough?

I think maybe I didn't

"Hey, Tommy, did you – oh," Evan says, poking his head around the stairs. "Uh. You found that."

"I'm sorry," Tommy says immediately. "I shouldn't have looked at it, I just – it had my name on it," he finishes lamely.

"It's okay," Evan says, coming to sit next to him on the couch. "It's just a little embarrassing. I didn't really know what to do with myself, I had a lot to say and, uh, people got kind of sick of me talking about you after a while. So I started writing it down. I kind of forgot it was still floating around."

The thing is, over the past couple of weeks they've talked about those last two items on the list. Tommy's been honest about the fact that he'd felt, at times, that he was being more careful with Evan than Evan was being with him. About the fact that he'd been okay with that, until he wasn't; that he'd been okay in the role of fun, sexy first boyfriend, until he realized that not only were he and Evan not on the same page, they weren't even reading the same book.

It's different to see the words written out so plainly. But they're on the same page now. They're walking into the same future, hand in hand.

Tommy sets the little notebook aside and laces his fingers together with Evan's.

"I love you a lot, you know," he says. It's not the first time he's said it, but it still feels so special it's a little unreal.

"I love you, too," Evan says instantly, beaming, eyes twinkling.

[roosterforme]

Okay, but how about the first time Jake and Darling have a fight? How would that go?

I really like your stories bc while it is fiction, I feel like you show every aspect of a relationship, not only the good parts.

🩷

OMG, nonny. I'm swooning. I try to make my stories realistic (as much as they can be for fanfic). Nobody is happy and confident all the time. Everyone is stressed about something. Relationships are hard work, and dealing with someone else is sometimes weird and annoying. So thank you, I appreciate that so much.

Jake and Darlin' argue all the time about all the small things in life. They have different opinions on a lot of things, but it's never usually anything they remember by the next day. I think their first big fight would happen shortly after she moves in with him, just after she graduates from school and starts her new job. (angsty below).

"I had the longest day at work," you muttered, shoveling the last bite of the dinner Jake made into your mouth. You set your fork down and stretched as you stood. This whole week was dragging. You realized you were probably complaining more than usual, but you were just over it. "Let's go take a bath and just go to bed. I'll clean up tomorrow morning."

Jake looked at you, his lips pressed into a firm line. "Go ahead. I'll clean it up."

You reached for his hand, but he was already stacking the plates. "You cooked. I don't want you to clean up. I'll do it later," you reiterated.

"Just go get in the bath," he snapped, carrying everything back to the kitchen.

"I don't want to take a bath without you!"

Jake dumped everything into the sink and spun around. "You're not the only one who's working full-time, but you're certainly acting like it."

With narrowed eyes, you asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jake took a deep, practiced breath and let it out slowly. "I know you're tired, but it would be nice for you to acknowledge that I work longer hours than you do. So just go relax in the bath by yourself while I clean up."

"Well, now I don't want to!" You were suddenly so angry, you couldn't see straight, and you also wanted to cry. "You're treating me like a child!"

"You're acting like one."

His words hurt you more than a slap across your cheek would have, and your jaw dropped open. But then his next sentence made it even worse.

"In my house no less."

"Wow," you gasped, turning and running toward the bedroom as you started crying. It wasn't like you weren't paying to be here. You knew it wasn't much, but you had been insistant about giving Jake five hundred dollars per month. And for what? So he could act like you were an unwanted guest?

You ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind you before you curled up on the tub mat on the floor and sobbed. Work wasn't like school. Trying to figure out how you fit in with your coworkers was exhausting, and you were still learning all the ropes. You drove back here every day mentally drained, and up until tonight, Jake was always the one who seemed willing to listen. You should have just cleaned up the kitchen, because now you felt like you didn't belong anywhere.

"Darlin'." Jake's voice was as sharp as his knock on the door. You tried to dry your tears, but it wasn't working, and maybe you really were a child compared to your boyfriend. "Darlin'!"

"It's not even locked!" you shouted, but it came out as weak as you felt. Jake opened the door, and in an instant, he was curled up on the floor with you, pulling you into his arms.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I acted like an asshole." You tried to wriggle away from him, but he wouldn't let you. "I think I'm more exhausted this week than I'd like to admit, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

In spite of the fact that you were on the floor crying, you mustered up the courage to whisper, "I'm not a child."

"You're an adult," he said firmly. "An adult who just started a very impressive job. You're holding it together better than I did when I was in flight school." He kissed your forehead. "And you're absolutely right. We should have just climbed in our bathtub and then gone right to our bed. The fucking dishes do not matter right now. They can sit in our kitchen sink until whenever the fuck we feel like cleaning up."

Jake rubbed slow, soothing circles against your lower back until you were all cried out. If you thought you were tired before, it was nothing compared to how wrung out you felt now. You wanted to put forth a peace offering and just get up and clean the kitchen, but his lips were on your damp cheek and his voice was in your ear. "I love you, Darlin'. It has been a long week for both of us. I would like nothing more than to climb in a hot bath with you, relax until the water gets cold, and then get in our bed and go to sleep."

You nodded and started the water while he got two towels ready, and then both of you undressed. Jake kissed your bare shoulder and held you while the tub filled. "You belong here," he whispered. "I don't want you anywhere other than our house."

[danny-doodles]

Steve’s Hobby

This is a short 2k blurb about one of my Steve hcs, I am only really good at critical analysis writing so I’m sorry if this is bad!! Creative writing isn’t my strong suit but I felt like I couldn’t really explain this hc in a drawing as well as writing it could.

Growing up Steve was often taught the importance of words from his father, thinking it would be useful for his son’s future in the business. Steve was never the best reader, letters jumping around the page made it too difficult, so instead he listened to everyone around him. Teachers, his parent’s coworkers, older kids, all of them taught him the importance of the meaning of words.

How certain words would make someone a town pariah yet others a god among men. Steve was a more quiet kid but as he grew up he also grew confident in his words. He could tear someone down with one sentence, ensuring they knew he was not to be messed with. That’s why he was so confused when he struggled in his english class, he knew the power of words and the many meanings, but his teacher never understood. Sure he made grammar errors, how no one else struggled with the dancing letters he didn’t get, but how could the teachers not understand his connections? Steve shouldn’t have to explain why the red of the handmaid’s cloaks represented the ripping of humanity from the women, it was so clear to him. Obviously the boar head could be comparable to the church, how could his teachers not make the connection?

Even Nancy didn’t understand, someone he considered smarter than him. He knew she was trying to be nice when she critiqued his college paper but it still left him in the fog. Basketball was war to him, a fight that was pointless with one but possible with many. A challenge that called for leadership and a strict order. Everyone had the roles, knew where and when to shoot, needed the ability to think quickly on their feet and not struggle under the pressure. Uniforms to not only separate from the enemy but to show they are a unit reaching for a common goal. It was so clear leaving no need to explain, especially to Nancy.

But she didn’t get it, no one got it.

Maybe he wasn’t as good with words as he thought.

Steve from then on fumbled his words when he got nervous, scared he would say something that made him sound dumb and point out his weakness with words. The concussions didn’t help either, making him take longer to grasp concepts. Reading felt nearly impossible, the headaches were unbearable. Not to mention the kids' comments, judgmental and brutal as if Steve didn’t have a reason to struggle in the first place.

Everyone around him loved to put him in a sudden spotlight and when he didn’t say the right line he was booed off stage and dealt with the looks of disappointment from his co stars for messing up. So Steve stuck to what he knew, his quick remarks. Were they bitchy? Yes, but not coated in malice like they used to be. Piggybacking off others points with sarcastic comments so the other person kept talking, anything to get the attention off him.

But Steve had a secret hobby that he shared with no one, not even with his platonic soulmate with a capital P Robin.

Steve wrote poetry.

Years of horrors that by law he couldn’t share that caused vicious nightmares and a clammy grasp on reality at times tended to keep Steve up. Another gift bestowed by his father though was a feeling of shame when sharing his emotions. Didn’t help that those emotions were typically down played or outright ignored by others. Therefore a bottle filled with his emotions rested in Steve’s chest, which after Vecna he really realized probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. So Steve took to writing them down, but he did it for himself.

No need to explain everything, he knew what he meant, he knew every context of every word. He wrote on his experiences, his emotions. He wrote when he was happy, he wrote when he was sad. Steve wrote and wrote and found his love for words again. And god did it feel good, it felt like taking back his voice from a world that underappreciated it. In a weird way it felt like revisiting a relative he had last seen as a child, that sense of freedom and the loss of expectation because in their eyes he was still that little kid. All they wanted was to see someone they loved and to Steve the words welcomed him back with a hug that rivaled his Nonna Maria’s.

Steve would ponder over lines at random intervals of the day, biting his pencil between his teeth during the quiet hours at work or simply jotting down a line right before picking the kids up. Steve wrote so often he kept his small little notebook on him at all times, usually accompanied by a pencil bound to it with a rubber band. (Turns out having hearing aids and glasses made it really difficult to put pencils behind one's ears). At this point everyone had seen his notebook, pale blue with some star stickers because he never had a shortage of them. Everyone assumed it was for something different. Some thought it was grocery lists, to-do lists, something productive. Others thought it was like a pocket calendar with all his plans listed so he didn’t forget. Dustin insisted it was meant to hold the definitions of anything D&D related so Steve never forgot, meanwhile Robin argued it was to hold all the wonderfully obscure movie recommendations she loved to give. All of them were wrong though and Steve kind of adored it that way. He didn’t have to explain himself that way, he could continue to hide under the blankets. Steve no longer held his tongue out of fear of others but because he had an outlet he much rather prefer.

Listening now felt less like a pop quiz, waiting for him to mess up his response, it felt like an actual conversation. Steve may not speak up as much as he would have before the Upside Down but he fell back in love with his own voice and maybe one day he would feel confident enough to share it with the Party, but for now it was all his.

No matter how much they wanted to prove who was right, the kids and older teenagers never touched the book when it was rarely separated from Steve. Well...after someone tried to grab it and they learned they really shouldn’t touch it.

While at the Harrington house the Party were preparing for a campaign session when the argument about the pale binded pages was brought up again. Steve had left it on the kitchen counter while he went to the bathroom, and Mike decided he was done with the bickering. He shot up and went to retrieve and open the book but before he could grab it the book flew through the air.

All the heads turned and landed on El holding it in her hand, “We are not Steve, this is his. It is rude to invade his privacy, would you like me to watch you without telling you,” everyone quietly shook their heads, “Then we do not watch Steve without him knowing.”

That’s exactly when Steve walked back in, it takes one look across the room at all the embarrassed faces and El holding his book with frustration painting her eyes to know what had occurred while he was gone. He walks up, kisses El on her head and softly thanks her while taking back his little literature.

After that incident no one dared touch the book or face the wrath of their favorite mage. They would find out when Steve was ready for them to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That damn little book haunted Eddie’s thoughts. He knew Steve was not what he assumed him to be so anything was on the table, he had been wrong about the guy before who's to say he won’t be this time?

Of course Eddie wanted to respect Steve’s privacy because Eddie personally would be mortified if Steve had seen any of his notebooks, mainly because of the pages of lyrics that not so subtly hinted at an itsy bitsy affection for the badass babysitter. If that didn’t give Eddie away the random ‘Eddie Harrington’ and ‘Steve Munson’ with hearts all over would finish the job. So yeah, Eddie was not crazy to offer up any of his notebooks to venture into Steve’s book. He just had no idea the universe would present him with a much more favorable offer.

Steve and Eddie started hanging out a lot more after Vecna, no shocker considering they shared a hospital room, and soon the bat buddies would spend their time together outside of the hospital. That’s why it wasn’t surprising for Steve to let Eddie venture into Steve’s room while he went to pick up their lunch.

Eddie was somewhat of a curious cat, so when he spotted the notebook and some papers scattered on Steve’s desk he was like a moth to a flame. He softly glided his fingers over the blue cover and exhaled some breath in a soft laugh over the star stickers Steve oh so loved. It was the paper though that caught his eye when he finished observing the book. It looked like lyrics at first but then he realized some of the lines were too short to be lines, if anything they looked more like stanzas from a poem. Steve had poetry on his desk, did Steve read poetry? Thee Steve Harrington likes poetry? God his whole doctrine was garbage huh. Eddie moved the paper towards him and started to read.

Watchful gaze

Setules on the glass.

Wishful gaze

Silent pleas of escaping rolling in the mouth

Fingertips slipping through the veil,

Grasping for warm hands,

Receiving lukewarm.

Hesitant to grab.

Dependency clasping the palms

Such a feverish feeling

Poking at the appendages,

A coldness that numbs.

Gently gripping for the heat,

The balmy yields.

Smoke and simmers,

Arms rushing to sides

Frozen.

Yearning for ardor,

Turn not yet given,

Waiting for the impossible,

Waiting for the unobtainable,

So understanding.

So relieving.

So desperate.

So alone.

Standing for the calling.

So patient.

So pathetic.

Empty Hands by Steve H.

Eddie was staring at the very last line on the paper, utterly flabbergasted. Steve wrote this? Steve writes poetry?! Is that what resides in the little book? Before Eddie could even find the power to turn to the book to look, Steve walked into his room. Again a quick look is all Steve needed to take before he knew what happened in his absence.

“Oh! Uh..I’m guessing you read it.”

Eddie slowly looked back up while caressing the paper, “Yeah, you..um..you really wrote this? Is that…uh..what’s in your notebook? Cause I will admit I never would have guessed that.”

Steve started scratching his neck, “I don’t blame you,” he huffs, “But yeah I write poetry, helps to let some of the thoughts out considering our lives y'know?”

“I totally get it dude! Lord knows my lyrics are infected with the whole spring break bullhonkey. So..totally cool if you don’t want to tell me but, why is this one out of the book? Were you gonna write it into the book?” Eddie picked up the paper to place it next to the notebook and turned to face Steve.

“Actually I copied it from the notebook, I’m gonna, okay wait, you can’t tell anyone this-”

“Even Robin?” Eddie exaggerated his smile to look wild.

“Even Robin.” Steve nodded with his eyes shut.

Eddie put his hands together and swayed while standing, “Wowww look at me, lil old Eddie Munson getting to learn the secrets of the mysterious writer Steve Harrington.”

“Eddie, you want to know or not?” Steve sighed as he put his hands on his hips.

“Yes. Yes please,” Eddie eagerly replied, barely letting Steve finish his sentence.

“The last time I went to Indy with Robin to go shopping at their mall we went to a cafe. The bulletin board had a flier for a poetry night and I got curious I guess.”

“You gonna perform the poem there?”

“That’s the plan.”

Eddie could understand wanting a fresh slate when it came to having a reputation. “Craving anonymity? Must be tough considering you are Hawkin’s golden boy.”

Steve smiles brightly and Eddie sees his shoulders lose tension, tension Eddie didn’t even notice because he was so distracted by the fact that holy shit Steve is a poet. “Exactly.”

Honestly Eddie would give anything to hear more of Steve's hidden works, he grabs some of his hair and brings it to cover his mouth, “I know you don’t intend to tell the rest of the bunch, but uh..would you allow a humble bard to observe your lyrical performance?”

Eddie looks at Steve’s face for any hint of annoyance and finds none, instead he finds a look that he could hope to be correct in his guess is excitement.

“Really? You’d want to hear more, it's not confusing or stupid to you?” Steve softly smiled at Eddie, making him swoon inside.

“It's art! It doesn’t need to make sense, it just needs to make you feel good, who cares if others are confused. And for what its worth even if I’m not right on the money that poem made me feel Steve, I mean as the expert in self-expression it felt real and vulnerable, y’know.” Eddie had to shut himself up before he himself waxed poetry about just how much he is dying to hear more from Steve to learn more about him.

“Thanks Eddie.” Steve gazed at Eddie as if no one had ever told him that before. Which now that hes thinking about it that’s probably the truth. Guess Eddie needed to constantly remind him then.

Eddie smiled, mirroring Steves while bending at his waist, “Oh but of course my liege.”

“Oh my god okay Eddie cmon the food’s gonna get cold.”

Steve started to leave his room and Eddie rushed to follow him, “Now that I know what the book is filled with may I pretty please read it?” Rapidly blinking his eyelashes in an attempt to look innocent and pure but instead looking like a piece of dust got in his eyes.

“Nope.”

“Ugghhh c'mon Steve! Just imagine the look on the little hellions when they see me opening the book! God the jealousy! The feeling of betrayal when they see me reading Steve Harringtons’s treasure trove of text and they are none the wiser to what is inside. And the best part, I have permission! The power I would hold Steve! The possibility, I could use them like little puppets to do my bidding while they crave information I alone hold!”

“Eddie that sounds like a headache for me waiting to happen, they’re just gonna badger me to tell them because they would claim it’s unfair you know and they don’t.”

“Eh, their egos could take a little hit don’t you think?” Eddie was now resting his head on Steve’s shoulder as the younger started to bring the food out of the carry out bag.

“Can I read your lyric notebook?”

Eddie’s eyes went wide as his brain proceeded to remind him of every lyric he had written around his devotion to Steve. Red in the face Eddie responded quickly, “Nope! Mmm you smell that Stevie I’m so hungry, aren’t you?”

“Subtle Munson.”

“Tis my middle name.”

Steve fondly rolled his eyes, “Sure.”

As they settled down on the couch Eddie tracked Steve grabbing the remote, “So I can really watch you?”

Steve turned and looked at Eddie with a calmness on his face. “Yeah Eddie.”

Eddie grabbed his hair as Steve stared at him, “Cool, cool, it’s a date.” Eddie froze about to panic silently as he tried to fix his slip up.

“Yeah, it's a date.” The two looked at each other, neither wanting to look away. After a minute or so Steve turned on the TV and if the two fell asleep together it was their business.

[charliemwrites]

Uhhh this is sort of to get me back in the swing of writing since some people may have noticed I haven’t done much this week. It’s… it’s been a week, but that’s fine, those happen.

Anyway, concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.

(There will be a part 2 because this got longer than expected.)

Content: Verbal Threats, Dirty Talk, Objectification, Dub-Con, Name-calling. Please stay safe! 💕

You thought you were done with this.

Got out by making the best of a bad situation. Honorable discharge following an injury after your last base was infiltrated. “Data analysts” (hackers) can’t have unpredictable hand spasms in the middle of time-sensitive decryptions. So, you got out.

And now you’re all but being dragged back.

You don’t recognize the two stone-faced men flanking you, but you recognize the woman they sit you in front of.

“Laswell.”

She doesn’t look older, but she looks more tired. Like she hasn’t slept since she informed you of your discharge.

“It’s good to see you again,” she says without smiling. It’s good to see you; it’s not good that you’re seeing her. “I wish it was… I wish this wasn’t the situation.”

You arch your eyebrows. Have never known her to speak without measuring the exact dimensions of her words first. She always slides them into spaces perfectly designed for them, builds towers and forts out of syllables.

There’s a treacherous unintentional volume to the word “this” that prickles across your neurons.

“And what’s ‘this’ exactly?” you ask.

“A recently recovered asset,” she explains. You expect a dossier of some kind to be set in front of you. She links her fingers together on top of her desk and looks you in the eye. “He’s asking for you.”

You blink. Never was any good at staring contests with anything but a screen.

“And who,” you speak slowly, poking at the edges of whatever she’s hedging around, “is he?”

A pause, heavy enough to slowly start pressing the air from your lungs.

“Do you remember John MacTavish?” she asks.

You frown, rifling through mental files.

John MacTavish of Task Force 141. Soap. You remember liking him, even though he made a shy, anti-social part of you uneasy. He had a starting problem, and a smiling problem. Or maybe you were the one with the problem - with the way he would often stare and sometimes smile.

You taught him how to find files out in the field. How to take from the enemy and corrupt entire systems. He was good at it. A digital pyromaniac. Used to hand-deliver drives and disks to you, sometimes still bloody and bruised from getting them.

You heard through the gossip vine that he was MIA (or maybe went AWOL?) at some point. Was shipped out to your final assignment soon after.

“Is he the… asset?” you ask.

Her eyes do this funny flicker thing then, and the corner of her mouth tenses. You press your thumb into your palm as your fingers twitch.

“He’s asking for you,” she explains, “and he has information we need.”

Between the lines: we need you to get the information from him. The error code flashing in your mind demands to know why.

“Why?” you wonder.

Maybe you’ve been out too long; forgot that “why” is blasphemy to the government. The answer will always be “because we said so.”

You already miss being out.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” she answers and stands.

—

Laswell takes the lead, the same blank-faced guards bring up the rear. This doesn’t feel like you’ve been volun-told to do them a favor. It feels like you’ve been sentenced without a trial.

You’re led down silent, nondescript halls, through heavy gray doors, and into shiny metal elevators. Everything needs a keycard you’ve not been given. The quiet gets heavier, meaner the deeper you go.

There’s the vague sense that you’re underground when Laswell finally stops at a heavily guarded door. She pauses, steals a glance at you that starts a high-pitched alarm in your head.

“He’s different now,” she says finally, “I’m sorry in advance.”

A guard unlatches the door. She nods you ahead to enter first. You hesitate, don’t like the change in light beyond. Behind you, one of the guards shifts. Don’t like that either.

On tingling legs, you slink through the cracked door. It shuts with a gavel’s finality behind you. Alone.

The room you’ve been tricked into barely deserves the word. It’s more a tiny patch of sequestered floor, little bigger than an office cubicle. Clean linoleum and unmarked walls. In the corner, a camera blinks.

But in front of you are bars; a wall of them. A door interrupting the grid-pattern. Beyond, it’s pitch black. You almost make the mistake of stepping forward.

“Stay there,” Laswell’s voice commands. Staticky. An intercom.

From the shadows, a growl. Low, rough. Just this side of human. You plaster yourself to the door you came through, hair standing on end.

The lights come on. It’s only because you’ve frozen that you don’t scream, all of it trapped up in a constricted throat.

The man in front of you is not Soap. It’s not even John MacTavish. It’s a very convincing beast wearing his face. Sort of.

More scars than you remember. A thicker beard too. His signature Mohawk is just a suggestion in the dark brown mess of his hair - like he’s been running his hands through it and ripping out any tangles along the way.

He’s not moving now though. Not except the deep heave of his broad chest. Could be a statue save for that. He’s staring; his eyes are bluer than you remember. Bluer and blanker. Nothing in them except a flicker of something vicious, something covetous. Something that’s peering out from this man.

“We brought her, just like you asked.” Laswell’s voice again, wary and expectant.

Soap doesn’t respond. He inhales deep, gaze still locked with yours. It’s loud, purposeful. Your stomach twists.

“Just as sweet as I remember.” His voice is gravel on ice, resonates in his barrel chest. Fills up the room like a rockslide. You curl your fingers against the door behind you. “You remember me, bonnie?”

It takes your brain a second to realize he’s talking to you. As if he could be speaking to anyone else. Your shadow maybe; she’s always been braver than you.

His eyes twitch, narrowing ever so slightly. His patience winding down, tick, tick, tick.

You jerk your head in a nod. His eyes burn.

“Good.” He cracks his neck. It feels entirely inorganic that he can move just that part of his body. “Would have to punish you if you didn’t.”

You swallow, dig up your voice from the crevice it slunk into.

“Laswell.” Your voice is too high, too nervous. Soap bares his teeth, slams his fist against the all-too-bendable barrier between you two. It shocks you, frightens you. How he could be so still and then so alive all at once.

“John, we brought her. That was the deal.”

You feel sick with something unspoken as he shakes his head.

“No, the deal was you give her to me. Do you see my fuckin’ hands on ‘er? My teeth?”

“The information first.”

You feel sick with rage. Like you’re going to throw up with the disgust that poisons your blood. Your legs nearly give out as you slide to the ground, pressing a hand over your mouth, filling with saliva. Stomach rolling.

Force yourself to breathe through your nose. Would work better if you could close your eyes but prey instinct won’t let you, survival too strong to dare look away from the predator now pacing at the bars. He’s agitated, devolving quickly into anger. You’d tell Laswell to stop pissing him off if that didn’t mean tossing you to him. More than she has, anyway.

“We will take her back if you don’t deliver your end of the deal.”

Like you’re some reward to be given and taken at someone else’s will. An incentive for good behavior.

The military used to make you feel like a dog - sit, stay, bark on command. But you’d take that over being the training treat any day.

Soap snarls. He sounds feral. Spits out a set of numbers, eyes pinned to you. When he’s done, he crouches down. Knees against the wall of bars.

“S’alright, little bird. C’mere and I’ll make it all better,” he coos, beckoning you with two fingers.

You press your lips together against a whimper. His expression twitches. You suck in a breath—

“We’ll need to verify those coordinates first,” Laswell says.

The noise that rips out of Soap makes you shake. You didn’t know people could make sounds like that; like something with teeth and claws and blood matted in its fur. He stands, huge and terrifying.

He curses and threatens (awful, cruel) but Laswell doesn’t respond again. You doubt she’s even listening. And you just stay still and quiet, hoping to avoid his attention altogether, pancaked to the wall.

As is the pattern today, your reasonable hope is eventually dashed. Can almost feel the exact moment Soap’s attention refocuses on you. Like a the click of switch.

And he’s down again, crooning at you so sweetly. Like you didn’t just watch him come within a breath of destroying his cell.

“You know it’s not fair, don’t you,” he murmurs. “You know that I’m owed you. C’mere.”

“I’m not a thing,” you snip, still too high. Almost petulant if not for the frightened crack in the middle. He flashes teeth.

“‘Course you are, hen,” he says, almost laughing. You realize with a jolt that you’ve amused him. “You’re my sweet, pretty thing with the sweet, pretty cunt that I’m gonna fuck and breed.”

Your voice slithers back into the abyss, snatched away by the smoke and shadow promises in his own.

“And you know that’s what you’re for, don’ you?” he continues, voice dripping lower and lower. “You know that you’re mine.”

You shake your head, want to explain that you didn’t have a choice. Government goons have been shuffling you about from place to place, only the illusion of free will, like horse blinders. Keeping you docile and complacent.

You don’t think Soap cares about things like logic or personhood right now though. Or at all.

“Come. Here.”

Hard metal between you, and every atom in your body screams not to comply. So you don’t.

When you shake your head, he snarls and slams his fist into the barrier again. You squeak this time, can’t help it, and try to become one with the wall.

He rages for a few minutes. Demands you, your compliance. At some point you just have to draw your knees up to your chest and lean your head against them. If he could get through, he would have by now. Let his anger become a terrifying background noise, a soundtrack for fear.

It’s when he goes quiet again that the fear returns. Your head snaps up. He’s staring again, still. Just like before. His arms are crossed - biceps huge, straining. There’s a sizable bulge pressed against the bars. Obscene.

“Best get your rest now, little girl,” he rumbles. Even and deceptively calm. “Because when that door opens, I’m not gonna be nice about it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Stop it.”

A puff of air. You can’t tell if it’s amused or annoyed. “Say it while you can, ‘cause it won’t make a difference later.”

You shudder through your next inhale, heart pounding. Try to wrestle yourself under control, convince yourself that Laswell won’t actually give you up to him. Not when she’s already gotten what she wanted from him.

A sound breaks you from your frantic meditation, slick and wet. You look up without thinking. Soap is fucking viciously into his fist, eyes trained on you. The head of his cock is flushed an angry red, dripping with precum, shiny and needy.

“Regret being a little bitch now?” he growls. “Now that you see what’s going in that prissy little cunt?”

You clench and cramp at the very thought. He’s massive, not just long but thick. You wouldn’t be shocked if your fingers didn’t touch wrapped around him — not that you should be considering those logistics. It’ll just freak you out more.

“Can smell your wet pussy from here, hen. Bet I’ll knock you up on the first try.” He squeezes almost cruelly, knuckles banging against the bars as his hips jerk.

You press your thighs together, trying not to think about it. Not to think about all that bulk pinning you down and using you. Big, rough hands and sharp, mean teeth while he—

“Stop,” you grit out, to yourself this time.

His breath shudders, a rough noise dragging up his throat. You twitch back as cum splatters the floor, coats the metal in milky drops. You stare at the mess, mortified.

“Well?” he rasps and your eyes snap back to his. “Going to lick it up like the bitch you are?”

You swallow and curl up tighter. He takes that for the denial it is.

“S’alright,” he says, “you’ll get a taste soon enough.”

Next

Masterlist

[shiorimakibawrites]

Daredevil: Born Again Thoughts (spoilers)

Daredevil: Born Again Ep 1 & 2

Okay these are my thoughts on the first two episodes of Daredevil: Born Again. Spoilers below the cut. Do not click unless you don’t mind said spoilers.

(Gotta remember to save some Born Again gifs).

Still here? Okay, you were warned.

Pure Aesthetics

New show has a different feel than the OG. Not bad, just different. Not nearly as dark with the lighting but a lot has been taking place during daylight hours.

Beardy Matt is as hot as expected. The new glasses are growing on me. Through unless he has identical pair laying around, about to replaced anyway.

Matt leans toward the darker end of spectrum with his suits anyway but aside from some red ties, haven’t seen any light colors in his wardrobe. Even his at-home leisure clothing is dark. No more gray sweatpants it seems.

They have done some neat stuff with the lighting, painting Matt with red light at certain thematic places.

The first fight scene felt less grounded than before but I was also a little distracted during it. For the same reason Matt was. Second fight was very raw and brutal. Okay, the first fight was brutal too, just in a different way.

Plot had Matt saying ‘magical amulet’ in a completely serious way.

Lawyer! Matt. So much lawyer Matt.

Foggy’s Death

Okay, can’t delay taking about this any longer: As far anyone in the show knows, Foggy is dead. I’m hoping they are pulling Coulson here. It’s happened in the comics.

But not gonna lie, it was brutal. They kept intercutting what Matt heard - listening to Karen beg Foggy to hold on, help is coming, just hang on while hearing Foggy’s labored breathing. Labored, wet breathing. Not a doc or a nurse but I’d guess that Foggy was hit in the lung. Which meant he couldn’t even speak during his final moments. Then hearing Foggy’s heart go slower and slower, become irregular … all while I’m Matt going “No, no, no, Foggy, no.”

Even if this is fake out, fuck Dex. I hates him. I hates him forever. I know some people like him - and am not saying the character is badly written or acted - but I hate him. And I will never forgive him for this.

Matt’s pain - so much pain

Y’all, the way he screamed “Why?!” at Bullseye. There was so much raw agony in that single word.

And that Bullseye’s only response was to laugh? I would have fucking pushed him off that roof edge too.

That Bullseye somehow survived a fall from six stories doesn’t change the fact that Matt would have killed him. It was only sheer dumb luck. Suddenly Frank’s line from that teaser “They’re still breathing the same air as you…” … I can see how that conversation is gonna both deeply pain and enrage Matt.

Given that Matt withdrew long enough that Karen, battling her own grief and demons, had withdrawn too (all the way to San Francisco)... honestly kinda surprised that Matt didn’t kill himself. Wonder who had suicide watch until Matt decided that he had to make sure some good came out of this horror. Maybe Jerry (new character), maybe Sister Maggie (we don’t see her but it could have happened). Or both. Either way someone held Matt together during that critical time, maybe going “Hey, gotta get through the trial Matt. It’s the closest thing to justice that Foggy is gonna get…”

One year later and Matt is Fine. He promises. He has a nice apartment, a career, and everything. It’s fine.

It’s not fine. The new apartment while pretty is colder than the old place. The lighting is cooler - more blue, less yellow - than the loft. But I can see why Matt picked it - away from Hell’s Kitchen and all those memories. Well above the streets and the screams. Many floors between him and temptation.

Playing records or the radio to further drown out the screams. If he can’t hear it, he can pretend it’s not happening.

That he carries the memorial card from Foggy’s funeral everywhere he goes…Oh, Matty. And his victim impact statement at the sentencing hearing… it’s good but it’s so painful.

Very clear Survivor’s Guilt here.

And Matt seems more distant with his coworkers Kristen and Jerry. He’s friendly with them. Clearly cares about them. But he holds them at arm’s length. He jokes with Kristen, banters a bit, but it’s not chummy like it was with Foggy. Part of that is Kristen is a different person and he hasn’t known her anywhere near as long and still grieving… 

But I think a bigger part is that Matt doesn’t want to let anyone in that close again. Foggy’s murder gutted him in a way that only the deaths of Jack and Elektra have. And Matt knows how to recognize a pattern, thank you very much. 

Fundamentally, he just doesn’t want to hurt that badly again. And if no one ever gets that close to his heart? Well then, if (when) they die, it can’t destroy him like Foggy’s death did.

One of the trailer scenes has him in bed with Heather and even sleeping next to her, he’s distant. He’s not touching her. It’s her hand on his shoulder, from the other side of the bed. And it’s not because Matt doesn’t like her. He very clearly does in their on-screen interactions (that kiss was hot and sweet) but again, doesn’t want anyone getting so close to his heart again.

Seeing sparks of the old Matt under new Matt. The way he keeps gritting his teeth, barely holding onto his temper. Letting those two corrupt cops beat him. Until they pulled the gun, then brutually kicking their asses. Which I am interested in seeing how those cops are gonna try and spin this when they wake up. “You got beaten up by the blind lawyer? In some random guy’s apartment? A guy that Murdock claims is a witness. Care to explain officers?”

Side note: At least one of those cops as a Punisher style tattoo on their arm, where it would covered by clothing or a watch most of the time. It’s clearly a Punisher skull but there is some kind of design on the skill that isn’t part of Frank’s symbol…I know the tattoo is important because the camera focused on it. A clue that our beloved Devil doesn’t have since he can’t see the tattoo…

That scream at the end of Episode 2. Matty, you are so Not Fine. You have managed to stuff all that pain and anger into a little box labeled - Do No Open - but that never works. No matter how tightly you chain the box, it always opens eventually. 

New Characters

While I still hope to see our old friends again, I’m liking the new characters.

Kristen MacDuffie is a bit of a meddler but she means well and obviously cares. Dr. Heather Glenn is pretty, smart, and kind - could be good for Matt. If he actually opens up to her. Jerry, he’s a good egg.

Worried about Heather. Two guys in her book signing line gave off bad vibes. More overtly. But the second guy is from Fisk’s entourage I’m pretty sure but hide his British accent when getting his signed book.

Muse is supposed to be a new villain. Wonder if it is gonna be overtly creepy guy or that guy a red herring as he’s being telegraphed so strongly.

BB Ulrich is cute, smart, and go-getter. Remembers that the point of journalism is accuracy, telling truth to power. Ben would be proud of his niece, I think. Terrified maybe but proud.

Queenpin and Mayor Fisk

Vanessa seems to have settled into the role of crime lord pretty seamlessly.

Fisk is now the Mayor of New York. This can only end in tears.

Matt is right to be suspicious of Fisk’s new leaf. Vanessa might be technically running the show with the crime stuff and they have set up the campaign and public business as clean as whistle … he didn’t say stop criming, baby, just make sure none of it can be traced to me as Mayor candidate / actual mayor.

Okay, if I heard right, Vanessa had an affair.

And now, they are doing couples’ counseling with Heather. Again, this can only end in tears.

Diner Scene

So much tension.

Fisk says that he didn’t order a hit on Foggy. He kept that agreement. And I do believe him but because I am a deeply suspicious person I wonder if we can say the same about Vanessa. Granted Bullseye could have been operating purely on his own.

Oh Fisk, trying to threaten Matt with consequences if he takes up being a vigilante again? Foggy is dead. There is nothing you can do or take away from him that will hurt that badly. Threats are for people with something to lose. And while you could argue Matt does have stuff to lose…I don’t think he cares about those things to the same degree. And as demonstrated in the past, Matt can and will blow up his legal career if pushed badly enough.

Vigilantes

References made for Echo, The Punisher, Spider-Man.

White Tiger is Matt’s new client. Hector seems like an interesting guy.

People have noted that Daredevil has “disappeared”. Hector implies that he becoming White Tiger is connected “Someone has to do something and Daredevil ain’t around anymore.” (not an exact quote).

Okay, that’s all I’ve got so far.

[justlookfrightened]

Needing a hug

Filling a prompt from @shygryf: A pining Bitty is jealous watching Shitty be casually affectionate with Jack.

Bitty wasn’t sure when he noticed it for the first time.

Maybe it wasn’t the first practice, but it was early.

Shitty was allowed to touch Jack in a way that other players — other people — weren’t.

Shitty clapped Jack on the shoulder when they were skating out onto the ice, slung his arm around Jack’s waist when they walked around campus, even — more than once — kissed Jack on the cheek.

Sure, Shitty was usually very drunk when the kissing happened. It usually followed Shitty making some kind of proclamation like, “Jackabelle! You magnificent specimen of a Canadian moose!” And Jack usually shrunk away a little bit — something between a flinch and a cringe — but he didn’t react violently, or yell at Shitty, or even look really displeased.

If it was anyone besides Jack, Bitty might have started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he enjoyed intimacy with men.

But it was Jack. The manliest of men. The straightest of arrows. Totally no-homo bro, as Holster would say.

Bitty had almost asked Shitty about it, once, when he was a frog. When Jack had seemed to be in a round robin of yelling at Bitty, sighing and rolling his eyes at Bitty in exasperation, and pounding on Bitty’s bedroom door so early in the morning it was by rights still night. And that didn’t even count Jack disparaging Bitty’s nutrition. 

Bitty had complained to Shitty about Jack and his Captain Hard Ass ways.

“It’s like he’s always watching me, just waiting for me to screw up,” Bitty had grumbled, wrapped in a blanket and sitting with his back against the wall while Shitty smoked a joint in the Reading Room on top of the Haus porch. “He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Shitty had said. “He’s really not a bad guy.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bitty said. “He likes you. He thinks I’m going to torpedo the team.”

“If he didn’t think you could contribute, he wouldn’t bother helping you,” Shitty said, like it was the most logical thing in the world.

“Helping me?” Bitty said, arching an eyebrow. “You mean by waking me up a full five hours before my first class three days a week?”

“You didn’t faint once at practice last week,” Shitty pointed out.

“Still,” Bitty said.

Shitty drew on the joint, making its end glow orange, then breathed out a cloud of smoke before he said,  “You know how they say that if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail? That’s Jack. The only tool in his box is working harder than anybody else.”

“Hasn’t he ever heard ‘work smarter, not harder’?” Bitty retorted. “And he doesn’t act like that with you. You, he hugs. Or at least hugs back, when you hug him.”

Bitty stopped and ran the sentence back. Did it make sense, or was he getting a contact high?

Shitty didn’t respond, instead asking, “How long until pie, brah?”

Bitty checked the timer on his phone.

“Comes out in a couple minutes,” he said. “But you have to let it cool before you eat it. You want me to whip up some muffins? Those you can eat warm.”

That was the closest Bitty ever got to talking about it with Shitty. He never brought it up again, maybe because it wasn’t too much longer before Jack and Bitty were on the same line, and Bitty was getting his own share of physical affection from Jack.

And, of course, from everyone else on the ice when their line (Jack) scored.

Bitty had spent years keeping his hands and body to himself to avoid the way people pulled away like being gay was contagious or something. Now he found that the camaraderie and joy in post-goal cellies was a balm to his lonely soul. Especially since the whole team already knew he was gay, and no one cared.

Moving into the Haus his second year gave him a whole new view of the Jack-Shitty relationship. Sure, Shitty was over the top with everyone, but he was also respectful. He had been the first on the team to ruffle Bitty’s hair, and the first to back off when Bitty recoiled. Even though Bitty tried not to show his distaste; he knew Shitty meant it affectionately.

Shitty roughhoused with Ransom and Holster, play-fighting and bro-hugging and noogie-ing with abandonment.

He did all those things with Jack, too. Even if Jack somehow always won even the play-fights.

But there was more. Shitty sat next to Jack on the gross couch, sides plastered up against each other, when there was a movie or game night. Shitty jumped into Jack’s arms and hugged him when they returned from winter break, and Shitty was in Jack’s room at all hours.

This morning, when Bitty had tried to go to Jack to ask about practice, he found an underwear-clad Shitty cuddling a (fully clothed) sleeping Jack in Jack’s bed. Shitty had just put a finger to his lips to tell Bitty to be quiet, and didn’t say a word about it.

Bitty backed out of the room and shut the door quietly, wondering why his heart hurt.

It shouldn’t make him sad that Jack and Shitty were comfortable expressing physical affection within the bonds of male-male platonic friendship. Or that Shitty was, and Jack was okay with it.

Bitty paused for a moment inside the door of his own room to be proud of how far he had come in terms of understanding gender dynamics, mostly through Shitty’s informal tutoring of anyone within earshot. Two years ago, before he came to Samwell, he would have looked at the scene in Jack’s room and immediately labeled it “gay.” Now he looked at it and knew that while he was gay, all he saw was Shitty attaching himself like a limpet to Jack, in order for Jack to get past his anxiety enough to rest.

He’d learned a lot about Jack, too. The upcoming parents’ weekend must really be getting to Jack, for all Jack’s parents seemed friendly and proud of their son.

Maybe it was that Bitty wished Shitty would come and hug him like that when he got overwhelmed? Shitty’s physical interactions with Bitty had been careful since the hair-ruffling incident, more than a year ago now; Shitty always hesitated just for a moment, something Bitty had come to understand as a non-verbal check-in to make sure the intended touch would be welcomed. 

Bitty kind of wished he wouldn’t, kind of wished the guys would include him in their rough play like he was just one of the guys. The thing was, he knew the only thing that was stopping them was Bitty himself. All he had to do was join in — he was sure of that — and they would pile on him as happily as they piled on one another, just like they did in cellies.

And all he had to do for Shitty to hug him would be to tell him it was okay, that he wanted that. Or even to hug Shitty first.

He wondered if Jack and Shitty had ever had a conversation like that, back before Bitty knew them.

Shitty: “Brah, is it okay if I hug you?”

Jack: shrug

Shitty: “I’m serious. Your body belongs to you, Jackabelle. I want to know if it’s okay.”

Jack: “If it’s not, I’ll tell you.”

And Jack had never said it wasn’t okay.

So maybe there was a conversation Bitty should have with Shitty, but that wasn’t what was making him sad.

Maybe it was that Jack was anxious, and needed someone like Shitty to help him rest?

But Jack’s anxiety had nothing to do with Bitty. It was just a part of Jack, a part that he tried (sometimes unsuccessfully) to keep under wraps by acting like a hockey robot. Which he very much was not, Bitty had come to learn. And that sometimes, when Jack’s anxiety got the better of him, he lashed out at people (like Bitty) who were in the way.

Bitty should be grateful to Shitty for helping Jack, whose behavior towards Bitty had undergone a marked change by the end of last season, a change that showed no signs of shifting back. It was like playing good hockey had somehow made Bitty a Real Person in Jack’s eyes.

That wasn’t fair. Jack continued to treat Bitty like a Real Person, even when Bitty’s phobia came roaring back at the beginning of his second season and even Hall and Murray were talking about cutting him. Maybe it was just familiarity that did the trick?

In any case, Bitty didn’t want Jack to suffer — didn’t want anyone to suffer — from the kind of anxiety that plagued Jack, so he was grateful to Shitty for helping in a way that he couldn’t.

Bitty climbed out his own window to the Reading Room and sat with his back against the wall  because that was where he felt safest, not because he couldn’t be seen there from Jack’s room, and rolled that kernel of a thought around in his head.

He felt sad because Shitty could help Jack in a way that he couldn’t. 

That didn’t make any sense, though. Of course Shitty could help Jack in ways that he couldn’t. All people were different (maybe Shitty more than most, his brain unhelpfully supplied); he couldn’t be jealous of Shitty for using his unique strengths and skills to help their mutual friend Jack.

Because Jack was their mutual friend, even if Shitty was Jack’s best friend.

Well, of course he was. Shitty had known Jack longer, had helped Jack acclimate to college life in the States (and Bitty was proud that he didn’t call it “America” anymore, now that he knew people from other North American countries), was closer to Jack’s age, and even if it shouldn’t matter, closer to Jack’s social class. Bitty should be happy just to be allowed to tag along.

Bitty didn’t begrudge Shitty his best-friend status with Jack.

He just wished that he could hug Jack like Shitty did.

That was it.

He wished he could hug Jack (and maybe have Jack hug him back, the way he did Shitty?). Bitty was craving the comfort of physical contact, which he’d denied himself for too long. He’d have that conversation with Shitty, and maybe he’d jump into the next group wrestling match …

And then, maybe — maybe then he would be able to hug Jack.

[snowfires]

Best at flirting? From most the least? I have a feeling it’s Killer who’s the best lol

Most to least depends on what style of flirting you’d be most receptive to… though some of them are certainly better than others.

Killer adores flirting, in as many ways as possible. At times, he’ll purposefully be bad at it—cheesy pick up lines, little puns shared in private, cheeky smiles across the table while the others are distracted. Anything to make you smile, or start an oh-so-wonderful string of banter with him.

When he wants to, he’ll flirt properly. He whispers promises in your ear, laces his sentences with hidden meanings, and showers you in words of affirmation until you’re the same flustered mess you were when he first found you.

The main way Killer displays any level of affection, however, is physical touch; and he’s never shy about it. He’s definitely the one who gets the most nuzzles in, the most brushes of his hand along your arm as you pass him in the hall, the most cuddles from behind when you aren’t expecting them…

Horror is more methodical in his flirting. He plans ahead, waiting for the perfect moment to get the reaction he wants out of you. His favourite thing is to catch you alone—in the hallways of the castle or trailing behind the others on a mission—and whisper something that’ll have you freezing in your tracks or hissing a nervous ‘Horror’ while your eyes go wide and your face flushes. Out of everyone at the castle, he’s actually the most suggestive with his flirting.

Nightmare has a much more romantic flair to his flirting, due in part to the fact that his only understanding of romantic relationships (and relationships in general) comes from books. He would definitely take to studying his favourites after getting into a relationship with Reader, trying to emulate the same level of class and elegance as the leads. He strings complements into poetry, leaves you flowers, holds an arm out for you to take and twines one of his tentacles around your shoulder or waist like a proper gentleman. He may never catch you off guard like the others, but Nightmare has his way of making you feel cherished.

Cross is maybe the biggest romantic of the group, but he also gets incredibly flustered when he tries to flirt. Oh, he’ll start out proper and serious—he’s a knight. He can take you out on a date, hold your arm, give you roses, tell you how beautiful you look… but by that point he’s already blushing and stumbling over his own words. Despite that, he’s always very sweet with his words and advances, and never fails to make his devotion clear.

Besides his attempts at proper courtship, Cross loves to leave love letters for you. He’s rather shy should you actually bring them up, though. Cross is also a total mess when you flirt back at him.

Dust doesn’t do flirting in public. ’Public’ extending also to the other members of the group. He struggles to allow himself to have good relationships again, and is uncomfortable sharing his more vulnerable feelings, let alone sharing them in front of a crowd.

Instead, Dust most often shows affection through physical touch—he can, at times, rival Killer’s levels of clinginess. And if he’s not leaning against you, he’s lingering nearby, content to spend time in your company.

There are times though, when he draws you away to his observatory or the grottos in the garden, and a few words slip out; pet names, compliments, gratitude for your powers, and short tangents about soulmates. Considering they are a rarity, you can always be assured that any words of love Dust offers are spoken from the depths of his soul.

Error is terrible at flirting. He’s not keen on admitting he has any attachment to the ‘glitches’ that form Nightmare’s group… nor his… mild feelings (love) for you. But he is also very truthful and often blunt by nature and the longer your relationship goes on, the more he opens up to you.

Don’t expect flowery words or clever puns to make you blush or long-winded poems from him; rather, Error will tell you how he feels in plain words. Perhaps that is nice as well; you never need doubt that, though he considers you and himself ‘glitches’, he does care for you.

Error is also somewhat vain; he lives for attention. While he’ll play any compliments you throw his way as natural, he appreciates it quite a lot. Just be careful—any heavy flirting may cause him to blue screen.

[theboardwalkbody]

Haymitch as a lover dynamic post-SOTR thoughts

OK so I read THIS POST and I want to say YES EXACTLY THIS THANK YOU. Please def read that one to get context for the train of thought here. Likewise I also figured a rough lover (BEFORE reading SOTR). In a way of almost venting anger and trauma through love (not great, I know).

But I also wanted to add my additional takes (but didn't want to bog down their post so I just wanted to make it separate).

It doesn't spoil events in the book - just kinda like his attitude.

So yeah the way *I* see it:

He's so so so so afraid of letting the walls down. Like he said in the epilogue. He's not immune to love but he fears it (esp before the end of the trilogy). He's afraid to love because he sees it as a death sentence for whoever he loves. He'd have to allow himself to let his guard down and be vulnerable. This would scare the hell out of him.

He'd push it away. Any inkling he gets that someone might like him a little bit too much he'd start driving them away. Now if he realizes HE is developing feelings it would be 10x harder of a push. I can also see him hurting himself the second he realizes he's caring about someone that way (heavier drinking, more isolation). He would keep crossing lines and getting more aggressive in his attempts to drive away the longer the person(s) hold on.

I really can't see him allowing to let his guard down until after the rebellion. I think that at the point of the epilogue it still seems fairly recent after and he's still learning to relax and be vulnerable. But maybe it's possible. It's going to take WORK. And it's not going to be linear. He might seem like he's letting the walls down one day only to build them back up the next. It's hard and he's got so much trauma to deal with.

He's always going to love LD and whoever he winds up with absolutely needs to understand that there's a piece of his heart that will always love her.

When he gets to the point of being open with someone I can see it as a dam burst. A lot is going to happen for him emotionally all at once. He's going to be flooded with the love, the relief, the happiness, the fear, the grief, the frustration, and he's going to have to fight his trauma response of running away. I can absolutely see that flood becoming more of an actual panic attack.

As for opening up with someone for the first time in a sexual manner.... Absolutely petrified. It's extremely intimate. It's extremely vulnerable. It takes a lot of trust and there needs to be a sense of security. I imagine a few failed attempts at it where he just fully backs out of it completely. Then when he does I still imagine for a while he's going to be so uncertain and shaky and need a lot of reassurance. For the love of god, do not leave this man immediately after the act is finished. Oh add in the fact that his scars would be visible. They were made into a spectacle after he won and they're also a harsh reminder of the pain and the games and I really feel he would have some body image / self esteem issues related to it.

He's going to be protective as hell but it's more paranoia than possessive. He wakes up one morning and they're not home and he's going to panic thinking they were taken from him. They go out and take too long getting back he's panicking. He's not scared of loosing his person to other lovers. He's scared of them loosing their lives. And this isn't likely to result in him having open panic attacks and crying or being clingy. He's not delt with his emotions properly over the years. He's still drinking (and even if in any fic he would be in recovery or working towards it - it takes a while) and we've seen he can get a little volatile. He would panic and that panic would manifest as anger and he'd likely lash out. Even if not physically he might do it verbally. His person doesn't show up = he's afraid they've been killed simply for being involved with him = he's angry with himself for letting things get this far and feels responsible = he's lashing out at himself and feels the need to punish himself = when his person comes back even though they're ok he's still dealing with the guilt and fear and is self-sabotaging himself as a mean of punishing himself by pushing his person away by lashing out at them. That sort of cycle. It's not because he wants them to go its because he's trying to punish himself and also thinks his person is safer without him. It's going to be a long road to undo that thought process.

Loving and being loved is going to be hard for him at first. No whirlwind romances - it's going to be a delicate and long road.

I really want to write this kind of fic but it would have to be multi-chapter and IDK if I can manage that ATM.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

kings rising highlights & annotations

chapter 12

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

It was as if some protective membrane had been torn away and everything that he had not let himself feel was exposed behind the rupture.

this is a beautifully written sentence

He had nothing left to hold it back, only this raw, terrible feeling, of being denied family.

it’s interesting how he takes this as being denied family. it’s less of a literal denial, and more of him reckoning with the reality he’s been avoiding for the entire series: his father and kastor were/are incredibly flawed people, and in kastor’s case actively committed/attempted familicide. it’s less the denial of family itself and more the denial of the family he thought he had, and the ideal of family being loyal and dependable. that same disillusionment must have happened to laurent when auguste died and the regent started mistreating him.

In his life, he had known only one parent. His father had been to him a set of ideals, a man he looked up to, and strove to please, a standard against whom he measured himself. Since his father’s death, he had not allowed himself to think or feel anything but determination that he would return, that he would see his home again, and restore himself to the throne.

okay i think i kinda hinted at some mild criticism of king’s rising in my last set of annotations, and a some people agreed in that it seems like she had an editor and was writing to be traditionally published. i think i see that here. i don’t think captive prince or prince’s gambit pacat would have spelled this out here, as clearly as she does. it’s well-written, but also something we could easily understand between the lines. it almost feels less effective this way, although that’s partially because i’m so used to a certain style and approach from the author.

Now he felt as if he stood in front of his father, felt his father’s hand in his hair, as he never would again. He had wanted his father to be proud of him; and had failed him, in the end.

yeah, i’m sorry, but this feels really out of place. both in terms of the writing and the fact that it’s included at all. feels like some editor was like “you need to spell it out for the casual readers who are just interested in the porn if you want the scene to be effective.” the turns of phrase are a little trite and the entire thing just seems so… obvious? maybe i’m being too harsh, but i am curious what others think.

Laurent said, ‘No. I’m not here to—’ He said, ‘I’m just here.’

this is a lovely line. laurent knows damen thinks his presence is a call to action, but wants him to know he’s safe and can just exist. a little bit of a reversal between them.

Laurent, he realised, had guarded his solitude for him. And his people, fearing the fierce, strange foreign prince, had done as Laurent ordered, and stayed out. He was stupidly, profoundly grateful for that.

again with the reversal—similar to what happened after aimeric/nicaise

Before he could, he felt Laurent’s fingers on the back of his neck, a shock of touch that caught him in a tumult of confusion as it drew him forward, simply. It was, from Laurent, slightly awkward; sweet; rare; stiff with obvious inexperience. If he had been offered this as an adult, he couldn’t remember it.

<3 i still think we’re getting a lot spelled out for us, but it’s so lovely here that i don’t mind.

‘Now you are taking advantage of my kind-hearted instincts,’ Laurent said, a murmur into his ear.

:)

He let his lips form a half-smile. ‘You aren’t going to offer me one of your gaudy Veretian handkerchiefs?’ ‘You could use the clothing you’re wearing. It’s about the same size.’ ‘Your poor Veretian sensibilities. All those wrists and ankles.’ ‘And arms and thighs and every other part.’ ‘My father’s dead.’

YEP THIS IS GREAT. love how it takes this swift u-turn away from their usual banter. we know these characters and how they usually speak, so this is effective on its own

The words had a finality to them.

... so we don’t need this! we GET that finality from the way they heavily contrast with the light banter and stop it abruptly with "my father's dead."

His father was buried in Akielos beneath the columned halls of the silent, where the pain and confusion of his last days would never trouble him again.

this might be giving us a little hint of damen almost wanting to be dead himself? in the sense that it would be peaceful, to not have to deal with this bullshit. he hasn't grown up having these kinds of feelings acknowledged so he's unprepared to cope with them now.

‘You thought he was a warmonger. An aggressive, war-hungry king, who invaded your country on the flimsiest of pretexts, hungry for land and the glory of Akielos.’ ‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘We don’t have to do this now.’

laurent doesn’t disagree. the “no” is for “i’m not letting you do this yourself emotionally.” and laurent would know all about torturing himself with harsh realities about dead people during intimate and vulnerable moments, so that’s really saying something

‘A barbarian,’ said Damen, ‘with barbaric ambitions, fit only to rule by the sword. You hated him.’ ‘I hated you,’ said Laurent. ‘I hated you so badly I thought I’d choke on it. If my uncle hadn’t stopped me, I would have killed you. And then you saved my life, and every time I needed you, you were there, and I hated you for that, too.’ ‘I killed your brother.’

this feels a little bit like a summary, but i’ll allow it since they’re having an honest conversation while knowing each other fully for like the first time. do you think this is the chapter that was edited/pitched to publishers first? i don’t know exactly how publishing works, but it does feel just kind of weird

‘What are you doing here?’ Damen said.

i like how we get some insecurity from damen here. we don’t see it often, like this. he is surprised that laurent wants him, even while he is being vulnerable. i’d say it’s a toxic masculinity thing, but in the context of this world it’s more of a toxic royalty thing

Laurent said, ‘I know what it’s like to lose family.’

(as an answer to “what are you doing here?”) i get what this is trying to say, i think. laurent is looking past his anger at damen for auguste and offering him empathy, even though damen caused the tragedy that allows laurent to be empathetic in this case. it still feels… slightly off, though. maybe it’s even the fact that damen asked in the first place. maybe it’s the fact that laurent answered verbally. so much between them has been unspoken thus far, and i don’t see why that needs to change, even though they’re in a more supportive relationship. that can be implicit, too. and that unspoken understanding makes it even more intimate and distinctly Them.

‘Is there no way forward for us?’ said Damen. It just came out. Beside him, he could feel Laurent holding himself very still. ‘You mean, will I come back to your bed for the little time we have left?’ ‘I mean that we hold the centre. We hold everything from Acquitart to Sicyon. Can we not call it a kingdom and rule it together? Am I such a poorer prospect than a Patran princess, or a daughter of the Empire?’

he mentions unification so casually, which is both rewarding to the reader who has been screaming it for chapters but also kind of… annoying? i don’t know, so much of this feels in service of the imminent sex scene. kind of rushed or dumbed down. so much tension has been meticulously built, and they’ve had sex under far less resolved conditions. here it’s almost like there’s a checklist of Things Damen and Laurent Have to Agree On/Share About Themselves Emotionally Before They Can Satisfyingly Fuck For The First Time As Themselves. but like, these bitches are messy. always have been, always will be. and they’ve always BEEN themselves. to just try to quickly resolve and drop the mess feels inconsistent, and makes the execution of the sex less unique and ironically more shallow, maybe

When he made himself look at Laurent, Laurent’s eyes on him were very dark, his voice quiet. ‘How can you trust me, after what your own brother did to you?’ ‘Because he was false,’ said Damen, ‘and you are true. I have never known a truer man.’ He said, into the stillness, ‘I think if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly.’

contrast to what he’s learned about his family—kastor and his father, because the negative things he said about his father as if laurent believes them are also things damen has come to believe.

it’s a sweet line. and kind of insane, given everything laurent has done. but i think it works, because we know damen has been like this about laurent from the start. and we also know its difficult for laurent to believe or accept that anyone would want to trust him with their heart. i wish we could have had this interaction be spoken, but with FAR less of the previous conversation here. start the scene with laurent entering, have them comfort each other physically but unable to speak. or speak around the subject, instead of hitting the nail on the head. then give them this extremely direct moment, and it would be a lot more effective.

listen i’m not saying i’m better or smarter or anything, it is ultimately a matter of taste and i’ve been taking a break from the books. but i have done a VERY CLOSE READING of this series so far, so i feel at least somewhat capable of analyzing it in this way. if that makes sense.

Laurent turned his head, denying Damen his face.

this doesn’t feel like a pacat line. the construction of it does, but i feel like she’d say something far less direct and far more poetic than “denying his face”

Damen could see his breathing. After a moment he said in a low voice, ‘When you make love to me like that, I can’t think.’ ‘Don’t think,’ said Damen. Damen saw the flickering change, the tension, as the words provoked an internal battle. Damen said, ‘Don’t think.’ ‘Don’t,’ said Laurent, ‘toy with me. I—have not the means to—defend against this.’ ‘I don’t toy with you.’ ‘I—’ ‘Don’t think,’ said Damen. ‘Kiss me,’ said Laurent. And then flushed, a rich colour. Don’t think, Damen had said, but Laurent couldn’t do that. Even to sit there after what he had said, he was fighting a battle in his head. The words hung awkwardly, a blurt, but Laurent didn’t take them back, he just waited, his body singing with tension. Instead of leaning in, Damen took Laurent’s hand, brought it towards himself, and kissed his palm, once.

yeah.

He had learned in the course of their one night together to tell when Laurent was taken unawares—taken aback. It wasn’t easy to anticipate, the gaps in Laurent’s experience not mapping to anything that he understood. He felt it now, Laurent’s eyes very dark, uncertain of what he should do. ‘I meant—’ ‘Don’t let you think?’ Laurent didn’t answer.

this is. such an interesting way to bring in previous themes of consent and submission. bc this is by all means consensual, but laurent is almost asking damen to just take what he wants, because his anxiety is so bad that he doesn’t really WANT to be asked what he wants or made to initiate. it's submission willingly given because laurent trusts damen, both in terms of seeing and understanding his weakness here and in taking care of his pleasure. laurent asking outright to not have to be strong in this situation, and trusting damen to treat him well while his guard is down. trusting him with his heart, just as damen has sworn to trust laurent with his.

Laurent’s wariness was not, at this moment, the high walls of the defended citadel. It was that of a man with a portion of his guard down, who was desperately unused to it.

After a moment: ‘At Ravenel, I—it had been a long time since I had—with anyone. I was nervous.’ ‘I know,’ said Damen. ‘There has,’ said Laurent. He stopped. ‘There has only been one other person.’ Softly, ‘I’m a little more experienced than that.’ ‘Yes, that is immediately apparent.’ ‘Is it?’ A little pleased. ‘Yes.’

THIS is lamen dialogue. so much unsaid, and it’s perfect, because we know what it’s all implying.

‘Laurent, I’d never hurt you.’ He heard Laurent’s strange, disbelieving breath, and he realised what he had said. ‘I know,’ said Damen, ‘that I did hurt you.’ Laurent’s motionlessness was careful, even his breathing was careful. He didn’t turn back to look at Damen. ‘I hurt you, Laurent.’ ‘That’s enough, stop,’ said Laurent. ‘It wasn’t right. You were just a boy. You didn’t deserve what happened to you.’ ‘I said that’s enough.’ ‘Is it so hard to hear?’

big moment for damen, realizing he did something to hurt laurent and admitting it. this has been building for a while with his guilt about his father and slavery and everything else akielos stands for. damen has always lied to himself, a lot. he almost treats this scene like a confession.

on the laurent side of things: this is damen admitting he was wrong, but still wanting to be better. i think that confuses laurent, to think that anyone would ever want to treat him well when they’re strong enough to hurt him. also, this is just generally intense for laurent, but he's still here despite his discomfort because he cares about damen.

this entire scene really is just an insane amount of honesty and vulnerability from them both. it's quick to overwhelm laurent, while damen seems to be getting kind of addicted to it and wanting more. which he gets, in more ways than one.

He thought of Auguste, thought how no boy deserved to lose his brother.

interesting line for a guy who ends up almost being murdered by his stepbrother and gets saved by his divorce husband, whose brother he killed, killing his stepbrother

He didn’t understand the forces that moved in Laurent, but some instinct pushed him to say it. ‘My first time, there was a lot of rolling around. I was eager and had no idea what to do. It’s not like Vere, we don’t watch people doing it in public.’ He said, ‘I still get too caught up near the end. I know I forget myself.’

awww :) he’s trying to make him feel less awkward. this is such a setting-transcendent moment. anyone would say something like this, whether in this weird horny semi historical fictional society or any other romance setting. "you're new to this, but so was i. and i still have my flaws."

A silence. It went on too long. He didn’t disturb it, watching the tense line of Laurent’s body.

love the patience here

‘When you kissed me,’ said Laurent, pushing the words out, ‘I liked it. When you took me in your mouth, it was the first time that I had . . . done that.’ He said, ‘I liked it when you—’

he’s so brave for saying this. i’m not being sarcastic. go laurent

Laurent’s reaction to kissing had always been complex: tense; vulnerable; hot. The tension was the greatest part of it, as though this single act was too much for him, too extreme. And yet, he had asked for it. Kiss me.

as always, the way laurent is not a normal romantic interest but still deeply loved and respected narratively makes me feel so happy. gives me hope etc

Don’t think, he’d said, because it was easier than saying, Take me for who I am. He couldn’t bear that suddenly. He wanted it without pretences, without excuses, his fingers curling hard into Laurent’s hair.

love this evolution. damen desperately wants laurent to be here and thinking, and knowing him, and still letting himself want this. again, with the almost addiction to honesty between them. he's getting swept up in it.

‘It’s me,’ said Damen. ‘It’s me, here with you. Say my name.’ ‘Damianos.’ He felt the sundering in Laurent at that, the name an admission, a statement of truth that came out of him, Laurent open to him with nothing to hide behind. He could hear it in Laurent’s voice. Prince-killer.

He wanted it, felt a surge of purely selfish desire as he thought of it, that Laurent knew it was him. That Laurent wanted this with him.

we know. this could have been left out.

It was subsumed, as it had to be, into the act of kissing. His body felt heavy, one form of penetration substituted for another, the tremors in Laurent not that of a single barrier crumbling, but shudders as though one after another were being brought down, each place unexplored, each place deeper than the last. Prince-killer.

so is this kind of meant to conjure the image of damen taking auguste down, right? breaking down defenses, penetration, etc. prince killer as in murderer, but he’s also killing laurent as in like. “lady-killer ;)”

He felt acutely aware that he was half on his back, naked, with Laurent fully clothed, astride, still wearing his polished boots and the high-necked, tightly laced collar of his jacket. It was a sudden, vulnerable fantasy that Laurent might simply get up and wander off, strolling the rooms, or sit in the chair opposite to sip wine with his legs crossed, while Damen was left exposed on the bed.

yeah damen, you WOULD be into that

Laurent didn’t do that. Laurent lifted his hands to his own neck. His eyes on Damen’s, slowly, he took up one of the tight-laced ties at his throat, and drew on it.

the EYE CONTACT!!!

In the dim light, Auguste was between them, sharp as a knife. The scar on his shoulder was the last thing Auguste had done before Damen had killed him. The kiss was like a wound, as if to do it Laurent was impaling himself on that knife. There was an edge of desperation to it, Laurent kissing like he needed it, his fingers clutching, his body unsteady.

it really feels like this should be cut at “wound.” maybe continue with a much more brief “laurent impaled himself.” we can MAKE the connection that it’s like he’s stabbing himself on this figurative thing, but doing it anyway because he wants it. it doesn’t need to be written out, it’s already on the page between the lines! it is SO bizarre to me that pacat's style has changed in this way in seemingly just this one chapter. maybe it's because i stepped away for a while, but honestly i can't see how i couldn't NOT have a sort of sixth sense for recognizing these weird moments given the amount of detail i've put into my analysis and reading. again, your thoughts are definitely appreciated.

He kissed back knowing it hurt him, hurt them both. There was a desperation in both of them, an aching need that could not be filled, and he could feel it in Laurent, the same unconscious striving.

another example of “we don’t need the second the sentence because the first already says it!!” i seriously suspect that this scene was written way more raw at first but an editor was like “you have to make it a lot more clear they both want it/they’re chill with each other over and over again so it’s not too vague”

another alternate explanation could be the chapter's overarching theme of abundant honestly, like almost an overwhelming amount of it, but i still don't think that explains the change in like, craft. there's a difference between characters changing their behavior through development or to make a thematic point, and the narrative itself shifting in how it tells the story. and while damen is kind of going from the extreme of lying to himself about everything to craving this truth, it's still strange to read, and feels like a very intense departure from their previous scenes together.

In a burst of explicit fantasy, he wished Laurent were a pet, or a slave, wished him a body that was not going to require extensive, coaxing preparation before it could be penetrated.

“you like it simple” flashbacks

i think both laurent and damen have moments of wanting this, but ultimately care far more for the more complicated and real parts of their relationship and selves. that was a lot of my chapter 7 analysis re-write. part of what i love about this pairing is that it's really not that much about the sex for them, which is highly ironic given gestures vaguely to the story and world. true intimacy between them has been in their conversations, their little sidequests together and the way they've connected intellectually and emotionally despite literally every odd being against that happening. it's in the way they are equals, and choose to devote themselves mutually, whether it's through despising or adoring each other. anyone can fuck; and especially in this series, almost everyone does. whatever damen and laurent do is wayyy more insane and complicated and interesting and real than that.

He wanted to be inside. He wanted to feel Laurent’s surrender shudder and give way, become total. He wanted no denying that Laurent had let him in, who he had let in. It’s me. His body primed, as though only in one act could this be driven home.

(heads up, i talk pretty explicitly about sexual assault and rape in the following paragraphs)

see, i don’t get how THAT is the ultimate sign of laurent "letting damen in." because anyone could fuck anyone if they’re powerful enough, right? that’s the whole tragedy of laurent, he sees himself as weak because this has been done to him before without his consent. i guess the surrender is in admitting he wants it, which does make sense with how everything has been set up. laurent has been assaulted and harassed and objectified by countless people, but damen is the only one he’s even given enthusiastic consent, so yeah i guess it is the ultimate sign of uhhhh accomplishment, for damen? for lack of a better word. but that still just feels OFF to me. the emotions and the logic of it.

i understand that there is a raw sort of honesty to sex; a body's natural response, fairly disconnected from morality or reason. damen has experienced that for laurent from the very start, and it's gotten him into trouble before. but despite that, he isn't a character who experiences shame about having those feelings, like, ever. the man had sex slaves, after all. he is horny despite the horrors, that's his thing.

i guess where i struggle is in, myself, thinking that the kind of primal sexual honesty here is real or meaningful in the same way the aforementioned emotional and intellectual intimacy are. like, there's something here that just bothers me. maybe it's the way damen is so swept up in the "honesty" of laurent letting himself be fucked, as a totally good and amazing and real thing. i get how damen might feel that way, but it's like, did the regent not also feel those same kinds of feelings, and act on them? if laurent had any kind of bodily response to his own assault, was that bodily honesty his emotional or intellectual truth? is it any different from the bodily honesty damen is appreciating here? this line of thinking is a common way that people convince others that they wanted or deserved their assault. i know damen is like deeply unqualified to understand that, and i know that laurent does want it and damen cares for him deeply, but i guess i almost feel protective of laurent in this moment, with the way damen is thinking during this scene.

all of the terrible people in this series who do so many things without consent, to degrade and disempower others or simply because they think they're entitled to it, are acting on the same primal urges as damen in this scene. what makes damen different from them, the entire reason laurent trusts damen enough to LET him do this, is the fact that damen respects laurent beyond those primal urges, and sees him as a person and not an object. raw sexual desire, by contrast, is just... simple.

i get a little lost here as a reader because, like laurent, i need to intellectualize everything always. i do not like it simple, often to my own detriment, admittedly. it’s hard for me to amend the idea of this like unmitigated desire for sexual honesty/vulnerability with damen genuinely respecting laurent, even though i know he does and that’s literally the entire point, that the two things can coexist and this is romantic and powerful because somehow they do. i can suspend my disbelief while reading this in fiction, but it’s harder to rationalize or understand based on my own experiences, and my knowledge of the real world. trusting another person with vulnerability is horrifying and the series knows it, but is trying to offer a strong rebuttal in the way damen and laurent love each other.

maybe it's just that in this scene, i'm not totally sold. or something.

‘Do it, I told you, I don’t care—’

there is a little part of me that’s like “uh is this what a person who really wants to be doing this would say??” but also i know damn well that i'm projecting so go off king i guess????

maybe i would have been more satisfied by this scene if damen did not fuck laurent here and now. i don't know. this analysis is poor, unobjective, confused and hypocritical. but i'm not struggling with it in a fun or enriching way, like with chapter 7, it just makes me feel kinda bad. so i'm pushing through.

He was inside Laurent. It felt raw and unprotected. He had never felt more like himself: Laurent had let him inside, knowing who he was.

yes. WE KNOW.

Damen’s grip, still oiled, was wrapped around the hottest, most honest part of Laurent.

“most honest part” yeah that pretty much sums up what makes me weird about this scene. the way damen DELIGHTS in the primal honesty of it all, beneath laurent’s carefully constructed defenses. i guess just, its been so nice reading damen being so respectful of laurent’s hesitations and boundaries, and therefore falling for his personality and intellect and genuinely growing to understand and respect him without the promise of submission or sex, so the framing of this being damen finally getting what he REALLY wanted from laurent the whole time is… kind of rough to read. like oh, this is REALLY intimacy. this is the height of it. but it's not. like, at all.

damen is not me, and i get that. but in previous times where damen has done shit i've felt weird about, i've never felt like the narrative has been poking at me to approve of it or feel positive catharsis. but this entire scene is so heavily written to be this great moment of celebration and positive catharsis, for protagonist and reader alike. but what are we even celebrating here? we're celebrating the honesty between damen and laurent about their identities, and the fact that they support each other anyway. given how much baggage they both have about sex, i almost feel like it would be a more effective scene if they DIDN'T fuck. like, laurent just hugging damen was beautiful. that kind of simple comfort, not inherently sexual, was unusual to damen. and therefore impactful. but noooo, the sex is supposed to be the pinnacle, and we made the way for it with some weirdly written overly explanatory dialogue shoved at the start of the scene. to be fair, damen does literally say, 'I still get too caught up near the end. I know I forget myself.’ which is kind of what I've just described happening.

i just don't think i am where the book wants me to be, with how i react to that. it's an odd feeling. i feel like everyone is going to read this and be like "wow she has issues, she's insane, you're supposed to like that he forgets himself and is consumed by his desires." but oh well. i usually don't enjoy the romance genre for a reason.

this series really does challenge my own ability to let simple desire coexist with the proven need to be highly intentional and thoughtful in caring about/interacting with others. it’s hard for me to believe those two things can be in harmony—that you can be honest and vulnerable, and not either be hurting someone, getting hurt by someone, enabling someone else’s self-harm, or hurting yourself.

i suppose some of the catharsis of this scene is that laurent and damen are doing this together, KNOWING they have hurt each other. that they will always have that between them, yet also knowing and trusting that they can and will treat each other well.

it’s just hard for me to see that as anything other than fantasy. it's not honest, it's not real, in the way i've come to understand those concepts both in my personal ethos and the ethos of the series. so this entire scene built around honesty as a theme just kind of falls flat. it’s tragic, really, that damen is so happy about this apparent truth between them when he is unaware of the very blatant and relevant reality of laurent’s history with sexual assault. it’s a powerful scene, but not for the reasons damen thinks it’s powerful. maybe pacat meant for that to be the case, maybe she didn’t, maybe editing made it weird. who knows.

but it is, as i’ve said in previous chapter analysis posts, a nice fantasy. i'm glad if it hits for other readers, and i respect that cs pacat put it here for a reason. maybe someday i'll re-read it and react differently.

[b0nten]

BLUEBELLS, MINE ONLY.

[SYNOPSIS] ˚⁀➷｡ albeit rarely, rindou overthinks, but then he just stops and doesn’t think at all.

[NOTES] ˚⁀➷｡ i hope you guys like this!! part 2 for BLUEBELLS, YOURS TRULY. had such a fun time writing this and it’s just a lil goofy fic for lil goofy rindou and my lil goofy rindou enjoyers i love every one of yall!!!!

[MENTIONS] ˚⁀➷｡ reader smokes (she lights one cigarette), got inspired by jjk at one point but i’m not spoiling you, just pure chaoticness tbh

you can’t remember the last time you’ve been so excited. maybe when you got your scholarship? or when rindou asked you to be his girlfriend? who knows, but right now, you feel like you’re about to explode. you try to ignore ran’s messages, acting all offended he didn’t know you had to leave, but even when reading them, you can’t help but giggle and laugh and think about your oh-so-perfect plan.

“what’s taking him so long, though?” you wonder, and light a small candle. it’s grapefruit, and ran gifted you, blabbering on about how citrus makes the kitchen fresher. in boredom, you also slip a cigarette out of the pack, and put it between your lips, gently biting down the filter. the sweet taste of the watermelon spreads across the cellulose and you set the tobacco ablaze. “he better move quickly”.

meanwhile, rindou curses with every small push he’s subjected to. of course roppongi station is packed right when he needs to get somewhere fast. and not only that, but he also fucking lost the last last metro because he had no way to push himself into the wagon. fuck the hibiya line, fuck the salarymen and fuck everyone: now he’s gonna smell like sweat while he pleads with you not to break up with him.

“next station, ebisu. please disembark on the right side.”

one more to stop. next one’s his. he’s so ready for this, so so so ready. he’s got his little speech all planned out in his notes app, and he knows it by heart already. you’re not getting away and he’s gonna make you stay. he feels the adrenaline rushing through his veins. he-

a loud noise, light shake of the train and the lights suddenly shutting startle him from his reverie as he hears some belongings drop. god, he can hear that annoying sound even with stuffy ears.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” next, the sentence he’s been hoping not to hear echoes through the speakers.

we are terribly sorry to announce that the hibyia line is currently out of order due to technical difficulties. please stand by while we repair the train.

impossible. no, not today. please, god, let him do this one thing right. he can’t fuck this up today, have mercy on him. this one time only.

rindou exits the wagon, fingertips massaging at his forehead. he thinks positively, thinks wishfully, thinks pink and does calming exercises until, soon enough, he can no longer do so. so, him being him, being the youngest haitani, being impulsive, being the scare of roppongi and being rindou haitani, he just heads straight for the exit. once out, he bolts, and doesn’t look back: faster than in his extreme juvenile days, he runs so fast he makes the first 10-minute stretch in five. he doesn’t care for the people he pushes past, the ones that shoot him disapproving looks from the sidelines — he’s running the olympics — and he’s not about to give up. his medal’s just a little jog across the meguro river, that’s what he keeps repeating to himself.

and slowly, but for what feels like an eternity to him, but surely, he begins to recognize his surroundings — from the family mart around the yamate tunnel to the school support center — he sees them and starts to run faster. he reaches nakameguro in record time, and heads from the station straight to your apartment. he doesn’t care for the sunny weather or the overbearing heat or the nice surroundings that he always walks you home along, his goal is set straight.

he prays his legs won’t pass out on the way to 4-chome, where your apartment building resides, and pushes past everyone yet again. had someone looked at him attentively, they’d think he was some maniac running around to get his long-overdue heroin fix. ah, the duality of tokyo.

when he sees the familiar build, he sighs. “number 32, not really tall, grey, and large balconies full of greenery” he still quotes the text message you sent him, every single time he visits. it almost became a mantra these last years and it didn’t help that it all looks exactly the same, nothing having changed these last three years.

“haitani-kun! are you visiting y/n?” a familiar voice spooks him from behind. “oh, i’m sorry! did i startle you?”

turning around, he recognizes the owner of the voice.

“hasegawa-san! nice to see you!” he bows, and the little old lady just laughs. “yes, i am visiting y/n. how are you?”

smiling proudly at her correct guess, she signals him to the entrance. “i was out on a walk! but here, let me get you in.” scanning the magnet against the receptor, a small light flickers green and a mechanism does its thing behind the white plastic. rindou pushes the door with ease, allowing your neighbor to go in first.

“you don’t have to wait for me, i know that look when i see it.”

chizuru hasegawa. gosh, does he love that woman. she’s been your neighbor ever since you moved to 4-chome from your old apartment after a gas leak forced you out, and she’s been nothing but sweet and caring. she took care of you when rindou couldn’t: taught you how to cook (better), brought you meals during finals when you were not leaving your apartment because you had to study, helped you with commentaries for literature (rindou just sat there and listened, he liked reading soseki with you, but writing essays was too much for him) and overall acted like a sweet grandmother, ready to share advice with you whenever she saw something was bothering you during afternoon tea sessions on her balcony. hasegawa cared and still cares cautiously for the person he loves most, so he can’t help but love her too.

she was also a mistery. the wisest and most well-read person he’d ever come across, and he was sure there’s probably few to no other people that came close to her power of knowledge.

“look at me, rindou.” her voice is the same soft-spoken tune he knew, but it was still somehow threatening. almost like ran’s when he says “i’m not gonna be nice the second time around.”

“yes.” he gulps, and awaits for her next words.

“you look stressed, you think she’s gonna break up with you, don’t you?”he nods, “but you know she loves you too. and there’s no other person on this earth that y/n wants to spend her life with.”

a knot builds up in his stomach, and it’s like the reassurance he needed so badly for the last two weeks finally gives him closure. but still, how did she figure it out in … less than five minutes?!

“rindou, ” chizuru softly speaks again. “let me see the other ring.” once she points to the piece of jewelry, the boy’s eyes widen in disbelief and he clutches his necklace. shortly after, he rummages through his sweatpants’ pockets.

left, right, left, right, left, right.

with every vain grasp he feels his heart-pace quicken and the sweat forming beads everywhere on his forehead.

left, right, left, right, left, right.

“no, no, no way…” he touches every part of his body, trying to make sure he didn’t accidentally put the ring somewhere else, but when he reaches the verdict that yes, he’s probably lost it while he was running over here, his heart shatters and he is disappointed in himself.

head lowering and salt-water lining his waterline, he covers his face in frustration. it’s like the world fell on his back and now it refuses to get off.

“you’ve made this so much easier for me!” she laughs and rindou’s face drops lower than before. hasegawa reaches into her hand-bag and takes out a small, red, velvet box. when she opens it, rindou’s mouth somehow falls agape yet again.

it’s two rings, they’re insanely beautiful, only they seem to be inside out — the inner parts have intricate kanji engraved all upon them, adorned with a few beautiful stones, leveled nicely into the metal, while the outside is simple, brass, still shiny albeit obvious years of not being worn or cared for at all.

“you know, i once had someone like you.” the old woman sighs, “when i was young, i met a very nice boy. and to make a long story short, i lost him due to some unfortunate circumstances.” she pauses before speaking again, “y/n is the daughter i never had, and when i look at her and then look at you, i see us. me and.. the first boy i fell in love with.”

a shiver runs down his spine, hoping she still continues the story.

“you see, rindou… evil spirits are more than evil, they’re malefic, to put it nicely.” the boy tilts his head to the right. “they’re like a pest, only they don’t really die. they’re always gonna be around. tell me, you haven’t been sleeping, right?”

“yeah.”

“and for two weeks, wow, that’s a lot.”

he thinks he’s dreaming. what is happening?

“and you feel like your ears are blocked, am i right?” he nods again, “and if i may guess correctly, you either have dreams of someone smashing your head, or y/n’s. and you wake up with a roaring headache. aaaand.. a lot of intrusive thoughts?”

“hasegawa-san, how do you know all that?”

“change out the ring with this one.” she instructs and rindou, though sheepishly, slides his golden ring off the chain and replaces it with the other.

“why.. ” he looks at the woman, “why did my ears unstuff?”

she simply laughs, and swats her palm around in the air. “i’ll tell you when you’re older. now, go.” she puts the box in his right hand and gently folds his left one over it.

he looks at her with eyes full of hope. whatever the hell is up with this woman, he doesn’t know. and frankly, he doesn’t want to. for the first time ever, he feels somewhat scared of a person who has no way of tackling him in a fight.

she nods, and that’s rindou’s signal to sprint up the stairs. luckily the building isn’t tall, so the fifth floor — the one you live on — is just a few skips of stairs away.

when he reaches the door, he knocks. not once, not twice, tens of times, like he’s a broken machine.

“rin!” you greet him, “ho-”

“marry me.” he’s not asking you.

your jaw hits the floor. he’s just as surprised, why should he lie to himself?

“marry me, y/n.” clumsily, he gets down on one knee and opens the box. your hands cover your mouth once you see the ring. “i don’t care if you want to break up with me for the time you’re going back home, i don’t care if you want to break up with me because of some other reason, because i don’t want to. it doesn’t have to be this year, or next or the next three or five. whenever you want is fine. just—”

“of course i’m not breaking up with you, you dumbass!” you exclaim, offended. you look to the side, cheeks flushed and smile begging to rip your cheeks apart, “yes.”

“w-what?” rindou stutters. he couldn’t even comprehend that he’s asked you to marry him, yet alone that you’ve said yes.

“oh my god, get up already!” you pull him up by his shirt, and then down, close to your face. “yes, i’m gonna marry you. i don’t know for sure if this year, or next or in three or in five, but i’ll definitely marry you.” you parrot his little speech, giddy and delighted.

he takes the ring out of the box, and slides it on your finger. then, CRASH. his lips come down on yours mindlessly, and he holds your entire body so close to his, as if you’d fall apart into a million shards and disappear any minute now. and his head feels lighter and he guesses that whatever hasegawa may have done with those rings, they’re also probably gonna make his nightmares go away too.

“you’re coming with me.” you break the kiss to make space for announcement.

“what?” rindou malfunctions, “you weren’t gonna break up with me?”

“no, rin. i just wanted to get you pumped but that took a very wrong turn, apparently. you’re coming home with me, this summer.”

oh, bless his little heart.

🏷️ taglist @sirachano0dles @idktbhloley thank you for reading <3

[oddyseye]

hi armelle!! this is sort of like. a hyperspecific / niche question so you're totally cool to not answer if it's too bothersome! but as someone who likes the odyssey and is fluent in greek; i wanted to ask for your take on leodes' dialogue?

minor suitor, priest / prophet / seer (? i read that he's sort of like. a religious jack-of-all-trades. a little bit everything, which i was also a little curious about but it's not the point of my question haha), in love with penelope, that's the guy.

before the slaughter in the halls; leodes gets one scene of dialogue during the archery challenge (21.153-5) as he's the first suitor to string the bow. i read emily wilson's translation notes where she says the following;

Leodes speaks in prophetic language, perhaps unconsciously. His words could suggest only that the attempt to string the bow will discourage those who fail in the attempt; but they can also mean that the bow will kill many men.

i don't think i've seen other translators address this, and i'm quite fond of leodes – so i was wondering if his words in the og greek would have a similar read to a speaker, if that makes sense? i suppose this is just me trying to scramble for anything related to an irrelevant literary character i like lmao, but that's all. hope you're well 🙏!

Ohhh, I love this kind of question, don’t even worry about it. Leodes is such an odd little guy, and honestly, I get why you’re attached to him. He’s one of those characters who barely exists but has just enough detail to be fascinating.

So, his line in Odyssey 21.153-155 goes like this in Greek: "ἄνδρες φίλοι, οὐκ ἄν ποτε τοῦτό γ᾽ ἐπιφύροιτο χερείων· οὐ γάρ μοι τόξων τόδ᾽ ἐπίτροχον ἁρμόζεται· ἀλλ᾽ ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες ἀνέρες ἥρωες ἐνταῦθα, τῷ ὅδε τοξαζέσθω· ἐπεὶ πολὺ φέρτερος ἄλλων. πολλοὺς γὰρ θυμοῦ καὶ ψυχῆς τόξον ἀπορρήξει, ἦ πολὺ λώβιον θανέειν ἢ βίοτον τελέθειν, μὴ τελέσαντα ἔργον, ὅ τοι τόσον ἦλθε καὶ ἐστίν. ἄλλος δὲ φρεσὶν ᾗσιν ἐελδομένῳ ἐπιπέπτηται ὄλβῳ ὀρεγόμενος γαμέειν Πηνελόπειαν Οὐλυσσῆος ἄκοιτιν· ὅτ᾽ ἂν δὲ τόξου πειρηθῇ, ἔργον ἰδὼν, ἄλλῃ δὲ γυναικὶ περικαλλέ᾽ Ἀχαιῇ μνηστευέτω ἀγίνεσθαι δόμον ἄλλον ἑταίρης. Πηνελόπεια δ᾽ ἀνδρὶ γαμεῖσθαι τῷ κ᾽ ἀμείνων, ὅς τις μᾶλλον ἄποινα δόῃ ὀιζυροτάτῃ."

"Friends, this is not a task for weaker men; they will find no triumph here. This bow does not fit my hands, nor does it belong to me. Let another, one of you heroes, take it up instead— for truly, he must be far superior to the rest. For this bow shall break the spirit and the breath of many. Better by far to die than to live on in disgrace, having failed in the task for which we have all gathered here. Many men have clung to false hopes, grasping for fortune and longing to wed Penelope, the wife of Odysseus. But when he has tested the bow, and seen the truth of it, let him turn elsewhere— to another fair-robed Achaean woman, and seek to win her instead. For Penelope must wed the man who proves himself better, the one who offers the greatest bride-price to the most sorrowful woman."

One thing you will notice here is that my translation here differs a lot from others, such as Fagles, Samuel Butler or Fitzgerald. One thing I want to point out before we continue is this:

TRANSLATION YAP. Unnecessary to understand Leodes! Skip if you want!

I’m not here to roast Fagles, Wilson (maybe), or anyone else, but I am definitely doing things differently when it comes to translation. Fagles, for example, is pretty well-known for staying faithful to Homer’s style, aiming for the balance between accessibility and the original tone. He captures the grandeur of Homer without losing too much of the substance. But even he has to smooth things out sometimes to fit English poetic conventions, which means trimming or rewording for flow.

Now, with me, the main difference is I don’t give a damn about making the Greek fit into English norms. I am not a translator, after all, and I do not plan on translating the full Odyssey or Iliad. The sentences might look longer because I’m sticking closer to the Greek syntax and structure. That’s how Homer’s rhythm works. The Greek doesn’t rely on the same sentence structures or pacing that we have in English. So yeah, when I translate, I lean into that, and the result is more direct, almost rougher at times.

The thing is, Homer’s Greek isn't neat. It’s chaotic, sometimes abrupt, sometimes drawn out, and it carries multiple layers of meaning that English doesn’t always have the luxury of conveying in a short sentence. When I translate Leodes’ speech, for example, I don’t condense or “pretty up” the language like you might see with other translators. I want the ambiguity, the tension, the discomfort. That’s why my translations sometimes sound longer than other translations! Because I’m giving the full texture of the Greek, not just a quick, digestible version of it.

So, yeah, with Fagles or Butler, there’s a lot of focus on keeping things flowing in a way that fits English expectations. I don’t care as much about that. For me, it’s more about what the original text feels like, and sometimes that means it’ll be wordier or less “smooth.”

YAP END.

When Leodes says, “For this bow will rob many of spirit and life,” he’s not just saying it’s hard. He’s saying that this thing isn’t just going to humiliate them. It’s gonna destroy them. The bow is like a metaphorical soul-sucker. The word θυμός (thymós) isn’t just your run-of-the-mill “spirit” here. It’s your will. Your drive. It’s what gets you out of bed in the morning, what keeps you going when things suck. And the other word, ψυχή (psychē), that’s your life, your essence. Leodes isn’t just saying “lol this is gonna be embarrassing.” He’s saying that whoever fails this test is gonna lose everything. They won’t just fail; they’ll cease to exist as the person they were before. There’s no coming back from this. Leodes is really talking about himself here too. Yeah, he’s technically speaking to the other suitors, but he’s also predicting his own doom. He’s like, “The bow is gonna destroy your soul,” and then bam, what happens when it’s his turn? He gets destroyed too. He’s just as doomed as the rest of them.

Then he says this thing that kills me every time: “Better by far to die than to live on in disgrace.” He’s essentially saying that living without honor is worse than dying. This is like the ultimate Homeric mentality: if you’re gonna fail, just die. Don’t live through the shame. But what’s hilarious (and sad) is that Leodes is already stuck in that cycle. He’s already in disgrace. He just doesn’t know it yet. He’s here trying to make himself look good, like, “I’m too noble for this bow, guys,” but he’s already in the game, and by being in the game, he’s already lost. Odysseus proves this later on, when Leodes begs for mercy. It’s fate. He’s telling the others to give up because they’ll be humiliated, but he’s the one who doesn’t see that the humiliation is already written in his story.

And when he goes on about Penelope, he’s all “Yeah, only the best man can win her” like he’s some kind of high moral authority. But Leodes isn’t some humble guy just waiting for the woman he loves. He wants Penelope, sure, but deep down, he knows this whole thing is a power play. These suitors don’t want her for her heart, they want her for the status, the control, the access to Ithaca’s throne. Penelope is just a trophy at this point. So when Leodes says, “The man who proves himself better should win her,” it’s all talk. It sounds like this noble call to honor, but it’s hollow.

The real point is that the only reason he’s saying this is because he knows he’s gonna fail this challenge.

In the end, Leodes’ words are tragic because they’re self-aware but in the wrong way. He sees the destruction coming, but he can’t stop it. The bow doesn’t just break their bodies. It breaks their souls, their sense of self. Leodes, in his own words, is a walking, talking prophecy of failure.

Now, compare that to the language of the other suitors like Antinous and Eurymachus, who are completely different in their approach.

Eurymachus doesn’t go for the straightforward confrontation. He uses words to twist, to soften, to make you think he’s on your side. His speech isn’t just about power or aggression like Antinous. It’s more like a subtle manipulation, almost coaxing. There’s this intimacy to it, like he’s not talking down to people; he’s talking to them, trying to get on their level, like he understands them. It’s smoother in a way that you don’t see with Antinous or Telemachus (in fact, I believe Leodes’ speech is very similar to that of Odysseus). It’s that classic “soft-sell” approach, where it’s not about screaming in your face or challenging you like Antinous does. Eurymachus is more like the guy who tries to convince you that everything’s going to be okay, while simultaneously pulling the rug out from under you.

Meanwhile, Antinous is all fire and aggression and open hostility. When Antinous speaks, there’s no finesse. He’s already an open enemy, ready to fight you to the death. He’s not interested in making you feel safe or comfortable; he wants you to feel oppressed, to feel his dominance. His words are direct, harsh, and don’t leave much room for misinterpretation. He’s the kind of guy who thinks, “If I yell louder, I’ll get what I want.” There’s no softness there, no coaxing. It’s pure power play through and through.

Leodes is more cryptic and distant in his language, and that makes his downfall even more tragic.

So, in the Greek, Leodes’ speech is absolutely soaked in a sense of doom and prophecy. It’s not just some random, poetic musing. His words foretell the disaster. He’s not just speaking about the bow and the challenge. He’s speaking about the unraveling of the suitors’ lives, and he just doesn’t know how close he is to the truth. It’s heavy, tragic, and the perfect buildup to his eventual end.

Also, I am like...half asleep right now. Forgive me if this isn’t what you asked. Feel free to send me another ask if this isn’t what you wanted!

[mizuki-foreshadowing]

Kamiyama High Festival, Episodes 6 & 7

Feeling hurt from the two students from earlier, Mizuki retreats to the rooftop, an old habit. There she sees Rui. Their middle school days were defined by these lonely impromptu hangouts. Rui knew Mizuki before she became Mizuki, and he had been the one to help her back then.

We learn that the context of the flashback to Mizuki and Rui with Mizuki in the boys uniform, is that it's the first time the two had met.

Their first introduction is very worth delving into. Rui introduces himself and asks Mizuki's name. She refuses to give it, but Rui already knew it. He says the reason he asked anyway was to hear what Mizuki would say. Under the reading that Mizuki is a closetted trans girl, this interaction makes perfect sense; Rui picked up on Mizuki's self-loathing and wanted to be considerate and kind to a fellow loner. It was an invitation for Mizuki to give him her real name [Mizuki].

Likewise, the metacontext is that Colorful Palette wants to be kind and considerate to people like Mizuki; they're telling her story in a sincere way. The first and easiest way they do this, made even easier by Japanese grammar, is to not refer to her with a masculine pronoun. Japanese allows the omission of a pronoun if it's clear from context, which combines well with the depth that can be conveyed with [name]-honorific, as well as simply using either the first or the last name. Akito, for instance, who's heard the rumors about Mizuki, exclusively calls her Akiyama in this event story.

It's a little harder to do this in English, which requires a subject for its sentences, and only really offers the use of first name or a pronoun. In English, students who know Mizuki's secret, at worst, refer to her in the text of the game with 'they'. The dialogue of N25 members, at least from what I've seen, is careful to only use 'Mizuki' or some other wording to refer to Mizuki. (as a trans woman, I'm very sensitive to when 'they' is used for us) They don't know her secret after all, and would otherwise use 'she'.

A more difficult way than pronoun usage, for the team to be respectful of Mizuki and players who they want to reach out to with her story, is to not deadname her. If they ever gave a birth name for her, it could be used by hurtful fans as a more correct way to refer to her, doing only harm. Rui and Mizuki's introduction is meant to be read as Rui asking for a different name from Mizuki. She refuses to give any name. This would otherwise signal the conversation as being over, so Rui skips the introduction for her, saying he already knows her name.

Is this all enough evidence to support that 'Mizuki' when used in flashbacks of her in a boys uniform is a way to respectfully censor out her deadname? Maybe, but there is one more piece of evidence, in the next episode. Episode 7 opens with a timeskipped flashback. Mizuki and Rui have been having their loner hangouts on the school roof for a while now.

It's not something I can capture in a screenshot, but Rui refers to Mizuki in this line with "Mizuki-kun". This is clearly still Mizuki before she transitioned, and she's still just as icy and bitter in the way that she talks as she'd been in Episode 6. But more than that, [I checked and] Mizuki is an unambiguously feminine name. It means 'hope', and the only suggested spelling for it is with the kanji that Mizuki's name officially uses. Conversely, -kun is typically reserved for a male addressee. While Rui also uses -kun for Emu and other members of the cast younger than him as part of how he talks, he no longer uses -kun for Mizuki. At the end of Episode 5 and all throughout Episodes 6 and 7, Rui in the present uses just Mizuki to address her, which acts to respect her in the same way friends avoid using 'dude' or 'guys' when addressing a trans girl. Rui using -kun in the flashback may reflect that the name in-universe it's spoken with was not actually 'Mizuki' and that we the players read it as 'Mizuki' as part of the writers respecting her character.

This is the Mizuki who Mizuki talks about when she tells people about how she used to feel confined by people's expectations, always wondering how much she should change herself not to inconvenience those around her. That Mizuki can't understand why Rui refuses to act more normal and try to fit in, even as herself doing so is the source of her own misery.

Rui's response is there are many things that are very much worth finding in solidude. Among them, Mizuki herself, with the silent hope that Rui is also that for Mizuki.

Mizuki understanding that getting rejected by the other people around her isn't the end of the world, and that she can still find meaning even if she does so alone, is the first step toward the person she'll become, of somebody who does things her way and is so much happier for it.

[wayfayrr]

Ohhhh! I really like the people pleaser idea, especially as someone who has been called out as a people pleaser before...

Something that comes to my mind is the people pleasing coming from not just the need for approval but also for survival. Like, there's being 'fight' or 'flight' responses, there's also 'fawn': pleasing and appeasing the needs of someone else in order to avoid conflict and to establish a sense of safety.

<3<3<3

You pulled an accidental isekai and landed into Hyrule with nothing but the clothes on your back and maybe a few personal items.

You don't know where you are. You don't know who or what snagged you away, except for that, it had red eyes and that it might come back to tie loose ends. It'll come back to finish you off in a place that wasn't home.

You'll eventually find a group of men. Maybe you had eventually pass out, and they found your body? Maybe you happened to accidently stumble upon them, immediatly tense at the sight of their weapons.

When your story is spilled through shallow breaths, being pulled from your home because of a red-eyed beast, you’re met with quiet speculation and suspicion. Because Why — why were you taken in the first place? You weren't someone that had faced enemies born from hatred, nor did you have the hero's spirit; could you even be considered a threat with how you intentionally made yourself small in their prescence. Too afraid to take up an ounce space. Too afraid to do something that'll be considered out of line, something that could leave you bleeding if you weren’t careful.

It was agreed upon that you would join their group. It's not like you had anywhere to go.

You would struggle trying to keep up with them. You’re not used to so much walking or the monster encounters. (Especially the monster encounters) After a particulary close call that left you in the healing hands of Hyrule, you quickly realized how much you genuinely lacked compared to the others. Not in a self-deprecating way, but in a sense that you are, objectively speaking, dead weight.

You can't fight. You can't strategize. You get tired too easily. It felt humiliating when the literal child could find the courage to hold up his sword while you flinch at your own shadow.

You couldn't do anything without the chain. You couldn't survive without the chain. You’re dead without chain. The only words that fell from your lips was a simple “Thank you” to the traveler. Your wounds were healed but your heart felt heavier than it ever was before. Thankful, you were truly thankful to them for everything.

There was a new found hesitancy in your actions and words. Every sentence was carefully constructed, but your go-to would be silence, sometimes it felt better to not speak — speaking could cause conflict. And you couldn’t afford to cause conflict with the men that are keeping you alive. You also couldn’t afford leeching off of their kindness like a parasite, so you tried to find ways to be useful to them. You have to show them you can be as helpful and useful so there wouldn’t be a need to leave you behind. Try to stay in their good graces, and to make their more happy moods stay a little longer — keep an eye on the slightest change in demeanor, the subtle hints of anger and minimize that immediatly.

You couldn’t afford to lose their approval when they’re the only hand that kept you alive.

Anon holy shit your brain, I love all of this. it's so perfect.

it's so natural for reader to act like that as a defence mechanism too, they don't know the people they're with - or why they seem so intent on letting them travel with them when they're 'useless'. I'd love to see more of your take on it too because the fawn reaction was something I'd overlooked when rambling earlier and 👀👀 it's a good one