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fioredeciliego · 4 months ago

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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝟏

𝐖𝐂: 𝟓.𝟑𝐊

ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, '𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔢

The sky hung heavy with the weight of dusk, streaks of crimson and violet bleeding into the horizon like spilled ink on silk. Beyond the castle walls, the world stretched vast and untamed, but within them—within the grandeur of polished marble and whispered promises—fate was being sealed with quiet certainty.

Seated across from each other in the gilded chamber, Queen Taeyeon and Queen Irene exchanged glances over the candlelit table, the flickering flames carving shadows across their faces. Between them, their wives—Tiffany and Seulgi—sat with softer expressions, their hands resting gently on their laps. The air smelled of aged parchment, spiced wine, and the quiet tension of kingdoms threading their futures together.

“The rivalry has lasted too long,” Taeyeon murmured, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her goblet. She was regal yet relaxed, her voice measured, like a ruler accustomed to commanding but weary of wielding her power unnecessarily. “Our ancestors built walls between us. We should be the ones to tear them down.”

Seulgi nodded, her gaze steady. “We’ve spent generations locked in this conflict, yet neither kingdom has truly won. A ceasefire is not enough; we need something lasting. Something binding.”

Tiffany exhaled slowly, her expression thoughtful as she reached for Taeyeon’s hand, grounding her in the moment. “A union.”

The word lingered, folding itself into the candlelight, into the fabric of the evening, into the fate of two yet-unaware souls.

Irene, quiet until now, finally spoke. “A marriage.”

She was calm, but there was an unspoken weight in her voice, the gravity of a mother setting the course of her child’s life with a single decree. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass, knuckles paling as she swallowed the moment whole. “My daughter and yours.”

A silence followed, not of hesitation, but of consideration. It was not the first time such an idea had been proposed in the name of diplomacy, yet something about it felt different now. Perhaps because it wasn’t a contract signed in ink, but in the laughter and stubborn defiance of two little girls who did not yet understand what it meant to belong to history.

Taeyeon let out a breath, tilting her head slightly as she regarded Irene. “Minjeong and Y/N.”

The names tasted unfamiliar in this context, as though speaking them aloud was the first step in reshaping their meanings. Not just daughters. Not just princesses. Future. Destiny. A delicate thread weaving through time, connecting what had once been separate.

Seulgi leaned forward, her voice softer now. “Do you think they will hate us for this?”

A quiet chuckle left Tiffany’s lips. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

A moment of levity, but it did not dissolve the weight of the decision being made.

Irene’s fingers pressed together, her nails biting into her palm. “They will grow together. Learn from each other. And perhaps, one day, they will understand.”

Taeyeon’s lips curled slightly, though there was something unreadable in her expression. “Or they will burn everything to the ground in protest.”

Tiffany smiled at that, squeezing her hand. “Either way, they will be unforgettable.”

The candlelight flickered as though it, too, felt the weight of the conversation. A servant entered the chamber in silence, refilling goblets with deep red wine, the scent of crushed berries thick in the air. No one spoke. The gravity of the decision had settled upon them like a heavy cloak, and even the opulence of their surroundings could not lift it.

Seulgi broke the silence first, her voice measured, yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper—concern, perhaps. “We are asking them to shoulder the burdens of generations past. Shouldn’t we at least give them the choice?”

Tiffany’s gaze softened, but her resolve did not waver. “Would you have chosen this life, Seulgi? If given the choice?”

Seulgi hesitated, lips parting as if to respond, but the words did not come immediately. Instead, she let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “No. But I learned to accept it.”

“And perhaps they will too,” Taeyeon said, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps, in time, it will be more than duty. Perhaps it will be love.”

Irene glanced toward the high-arched windows, the glass reflecting the fire’s glow. “And if it isn’t?”

The question lingered between them, a specter of doubt threading its way through the certainty they had tried so hard to build. It was a risk. A gamble with their daughters’ futures as the stakes.

Tiffany, always the one to find light even in shadows, reached across the table, her hand resting lightly over Irene’s. “Then at least they will have each other.”

Outside, the wind howled against the stained-glass windows, as if bearing witness to the promise whispered between monarchs. A fate sealed not with love, not yet, but with expectation and duty.

And somewhere, in separate chambers of their respective castles, two little girls slept soundly, unaware that their names had just been bound together in a history far greater than themselves.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The grand hall was alive with the glow of chandeliers and the hum of whispered conversations, yet to Minjeong, it was suffocating. She tugged at the high collar of her formal tunic, the fabric stiff against her neck, the weight of expectation draped over her shoulders heavier than the cloak fastened with an ornate clasp at her chest.

A prince in everything but title and gender—that’s what they called her. And in moments like this, where she was paraded before foreign nobles, where the sharp gaze of her mother, Queen Taeyeon, reminded her of the importance of appearances, Minjeong wondered if she had ever been given a choice in the matter. At seven years old, she had already mastered the art of keeping her thoughts hidden behind a carefully schooled expression.

Her boots echoed against the polished marble as she took a calculated step forward, standing by her parents’ side. The hall was filled with courtiers and envoys, yet her gaze landed on only one figure—small, delicate, adorned in soft pastels that glowed under the candlelight.

Princess Y/N. She was five years old, two years younger than Minjeong, yet she carried herself with a poise beyond her years.

She was impossibly still, hands clasped in front of her, every bit the image of a perfect princess. But as Minjeong took a step closer, she caught the slight downturn of Y/N’s lips, the quiet defiance in the way her chin tilted up ever so slightly.

Minjeong almost smirked. Almost.

Instead, she extended a hand. “Princess.”

Y/N’s gaze flickered to her before she hesitantly placed her small hand in Minjeong’s. The contrast was striking—Minjeong’s fingers, calloused from swordplay, against Y/N’s, untouched by battle. Yet there was a firmness in Y/N’s grip that surprised her.

“You don’t look very happy,” Minjeong remarked, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

Y/N’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp and assessing. “Neither do you.”

Minjeong let out a short breath of laughter, stepping back slightly but not letting go of her hand just yet. “Then perhaps we are already more alike than we thought.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but before she could speak, Queen Irene’s voice rang out, addressing the gathered nobles. “Tonight marks the beginning of an era of peace, bound by the union of our daughters.”

Minjeong felt Y/N tense beside her. And though she didn’t know why, her grip tightened, just slightly, as if to anchor them both.

The future had been decided for them long before they even knew what it meant. And for the first time, Minjeong wondered if fate had been kind or if it had simply played a cruel joke.

The evening stretched long, filled with ceremonial toasts and hushed conversations behind gilded fans. Minjeong sat at the head table, her plate barely touched, while her eyes flickered towards Y/N, who was seated beside her. She noticed how Y/N pushed her food around, her small fingers curling around the silver fork with reluctant grace.

Minjeong nudged her plate forward slightly. “You’re supposed to eat it, not play with it.”

Y/N shot her a glare before stabbing a small piece of fruit with her fork. “Why do you act like that?”

Minjeong tilted her head. “Like what?”

Y/N frowned, cheeks puffing slightly. “Like a boy.”

Minjeong blinked, then let out a short breath of amusement. “I don’t act like a boy. I act like me.”

Y/N scrunched her nose. “You’re weird.”

Minjeong leaned in slightly, smirking. “And you’re spoiled.”

Y/N gasped, scandalized, but before she could retaliate, an older noblewoman leaned down to look at them both, her jewelry clinking as she moved. “Such a lovely pair,” she cooed. “You two are the future of our kingdoms. A perfect match.”

Minjeong forced a polite smile. Y/N, on the other hand, merely blinked, offering no words in return.

The noblewoman’s smile faltered before she straightened. “Well, I am sure you two will learn to adore each other in time.”

Minjeong watched as Y/N’s fingers curled into the silk of her dress, her knuckles paling.

“Are you all right?” Minjeong asked after the woman left.

Y/N’s gaze dropped to her lap. “I don’t want to adore you just because they tell me to.”

Minjeong tilted her head, intrigued by the quiet resistance in her words. “Then don’t.”

Y/N finally looked at her, a trace of surprise in her expression. “What?”

Minjeong leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to adore me. And I don’t have to adore you. Let them think whatever they want.”

For the first time that night, Y/N’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. “You’re still weird.”

Minjeong smirked, leaning back. “And you’re still spoiled.”

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The moon had risen high above the castle, casting a pale glow over the sprawling courtyards and endless stone corridors. The grand hall had long since emptied, save for a few lingering servants clearing away remnants of the evening’s feast. Somewhere in the west wing, music still played faintly—distant and dreamlike—but here, tucked away near the royal chambers, it was quieter.

Minjeong had managed to slip away from the watchful eyes of the guards and the persistent clutches of the nobles who wanted to fawn over the ‘handsome little prince.’ She didn’t want their attention, nor their praise. She wanted freedom.

And, apparently, so did Y/N.

She spotted the younger princess sitting near the base of a large window, her small frame framed by the moonlight. Y/N’s elaborate dress pooled around her in soft waves of silk and lace, but her posture was anything but composed. Her arms were crossed, her brows furrowed, and her tiny slippered foot tapped impatiently against the marble floor.

Minjeong approached with an easy confidence, hands slipping into the pockets of her tailored tunic. "You look upset, princess. Did one of the noble ladies call you adorable again?"

Y/N’s head snapped up, her glare sharp as a blade. "Go away."

Minjeong grinned. "That’s no way to speak to your future spouse."

Y/N huffed and turned her gaze back to the window. "You’re annoying."

Minjeong plopped down beside her, ignoring the princess’s exaggerated sigh. "You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you don’t actually mean it."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of conversation from the other side of the castle. Y/N’s hands fidgeted with the lace of her sleeves before she finally muttered, "They keep telling me I have to marry you. That I have to spend my whole life with you."

Minjeong watched her closely. "And you don’t like that?"

Y/N turned to face her, eyes filled with something too complex for a five-year-old to fully understand—something tangled between frustration and uncertainty. "You act like a boy. You’re loud and stubborn and you don’t care about rules."

Minjeong smirked. "And?"

Y/N’s scowl deepened. "And I don’t like it."

Minjeong chuckled, leaning back against the stone wall. "Then I guess you’re stuck with me anyway."

Y/N groaned dramatically, burying her face in her hands. "I wish they’d picked someone else."

Minjeong merely shrugged. "I think they picked me because I’m the only one who won’t let you boss me around."

Y/N peeked at her from behind her fingers. "That’s exactly why it’s terrible."

Minjeong laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that filled the empty hallway. "Don’t worry, princess. You don’t have to like me. You just have to survive me."

Y/N groaned again, but this time, Minjeong caught the small, reluctant twitch at the corner of her lips. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant music and the faint sounds of servants moving about. The castle at night felt different—less grand, less intimidating. It was almost peaceful.

Y/N finally broke the silence. "I don’t want to spend my whole life doing what they tell me to."

Minjeong tilted her head, studying her. "Then don’t."

Y/N frowned. "That’s easy for you to say. You do whatever you want."

Minjeong smirked, leaning back on her hands. "And what if I do? You could too, if you stopped worrying so much about rules."

Y/N let out a small sigh, playing with the folds of her dress. "I just… I don’t know what I want. I just know I don’t want this."

Minjeong softened slightly. "Well, we have time to figure that out."

Y/N gave her a sideways glance, hesitant but curious. "Do you really think so?"

Minjeong nodded. "Yeah. Who knows? Maybe by the time we’re older, you’ll actually like me."

Y/N wrinkled her nose. "Unlikely."

Minjeong laughed. "We’ll see."

Y/N, despite herself, smiled just a little. "Maybe."

And for now, that was enough.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The castle gardens were vast, a maze of neatly trimmed hedges and fountains that sparkled under the early morning sun. It was one of Y/N’s favorite places, a rare escape from the weight of expectations. Here, she could pretend she wasn’t bound to duty, to marriage, to the ever-watchful eyes of the court. But today, the tranquility was short-lived.

Minjeong stood across from her, arms crossed over her chest, an infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. "You’re just mad because I beat you."

Y/N scowled, clutching the hem of her dress tightly. "You cheated."

"I didn’t cheat. I just run faster than you." Minjeong tilted her head, clearly enjoying Y/N’s frustration. "Not my fault you wear those ridiculous shoes."

Y/N gasped, eyes narrowing. "They are not ridiculous! They’re made for a princess."

Minjeong snickered. "Yeah, a very slow princess."

That was it. Y/N stomped her foot, cheeks burning as she huffed. "You’re insufferable! I don’t know why they want me to marry you."

Minjeong grinned, shrugging. "Maybe they think you’ll make me more refined. I doubt it, though."

Y/N turned on her heel, determined to ignore her for the rest of the day. But as she stalked off, Minjeong’s playful nature got the better of her. She reached down, spotting something lurking near the fountain. A large, many-legged creature—a spider, its dark form lurking against the stone. Minjeong’s lips curled mischievously.

She knew Y/N hated bugs.

"Princess," Minjeong called sweetly.

Y/N barely turned her head before Minjeong held out the spider, its legs twitching in the air. "For you."

The scream that followed could be heard from the castle towers.

Y/N stumbled back, tripping over the hem of her dress and landing unceremoniously on the grass. Her eyes were wide, horrified, as she stared at the creature Minjeong still held. "N-No! Get it away!"

Minjeong laughed, holding the spider closer. "Oh, come on, princess. It’s just a tiny little thing. See? It won’t hurt you."

Y/N whimpered, scrambling backward, her breaths coming faster. "Minjeong! I said get it away!"

Minjeong, still grinning, wiggled the spider closer. "What’s wrong? It likes you. Maybe you should keep it as a pet."

Y/N let out a sob, hands flying up to shield her face. "Stop! Please!"

That was when Minjeong’s amusement finally wavered.

The genuine terror in Y/N’s voice sent an uncomfortable jolt through her. She blinked, stepping back, her fingers twitching. "Hey… I was just messing around. It’s just a—"

"I don’t care!" Y/N yelled, her voice breaking. "Just throw it away!"

Minjeong quickly tossed the spider into the grass, suddenly feeling much less triumphant. "It’s gone, okay? It’s gone."

But Y/N wasn’t looking at her. She was curled up, knees drawn to her chest, her breaths erratic, eyes squeezed shut. Her small frame trembled violently.

Minjeong swallowed, guilt settling heavily in her chest. She crouched beside Y/N hesitantly. "I… I didn’t know you were that scared."

Y/N sniffled, refusing to look at her. "Of course you didn’t. You don’t care. You just think everything is a joke."

Minjeong frowned. "That’s not true. I—"

"Go away," Y/N mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. She stood up and ran away from Minjeong.

Minjeong hesitated, fingers clenching against her tunic, but didn’t run after her. For the first time, she didn’t have a clever response, didn’t have a teasing remark to brush off the moment. She had never seen Y/N like this.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered to no one.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The grand ballroom was alive with the shimmer of golden chandeliers, the polished marble reflecting the glow of candlelight and the swirl of flowing silks. Lords and ladies danced in practiced circles, their laughter mingling with the soft melody of the musicians stationed at the far end of the hall. Tonight was another of the many royal gatherings that Y/N had long since grown tired of—another night of polite smiles, measured steps, and suffocating expectations.

But tonight, she had a plan.

Minjeong stood near the center of the room, dressed in the finest formal tunic, a deep navy trimmed with gold embroidery. She looked proud, confident, the perfect image of her parents’ expectations. Y/N watched from the sidelines, eyes narrowing as she recalled the humiliation Minjeong had caused her in the garden days before. That moment—her fear, her tears—had lingered in her mind, and if Minjeong thought she could get away with it unscathed, she was sorely mistaken.

She moved carefully, weaving through the gathered guests, her expression composed, her steps deliberate. In her hand, hidden beneath the folds of her gown, was a goblet filled with the richest red wine. She had taken it from a passing servant’s tray, and now it rested precariously in her grasp, waiting for the perfect moment.

Minjeong, oblivious to her impending doom, was speaking with a group of noblemen. She laughed at something one of them said, a bright, carefree sound that only made Y/N more determined. The memory of Minjeong’s smirk, the way she had dangled that awful spider in front of her, replayed in her mind.

Y/N took a deep breath, then feigned a misstep.

The goblet tilted. The deep red liquid surged forward.

A gasp rippled through the ballroom as the wine splashed across Minjeong’s pristine tunic, staining the fine fabric in an instant. The laughter died, replaced by a heavy silence as all eyes turned toward the scene.

Minjeong blinked, looking down at the spreading crimson stain. It took her a moment to register what had happened, to piece together the innocent, wide-eyed look Y/N gave her and the telltale twitch of amusement at the corner of her lips.

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Oh no! I’m so clumsy.”

Minjeong’s eye twitched.

Y/N stepped back, hands clasped before her in an almost angelic display of innocence. “I really must be more careful. My sincerest apologies, Minjeong. That must be terribly uncomfortable.”

Minjeong exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening as she forced a smile. “It’s nothing,” she said evenly, though her grip on her sleeves suggested otherwise. “Accidents happen.”

Y/N could practically see the gears turning in Minjeong’s head, the restrained fury hidden behind her ever-composed demeanor. This was war, and Y/N had just declared the next battle.

The room was still watching, whispers starting to weave between the nobles, waiting to see how Minjeong would react. But Minjeong, ever the master of self-control, simply smiled through gritted teeth and took a step closer.

“Very clumsy indeed,” Minjeong murmured, low enough that only Y/N could hear. “Let’s hope you don’t make a habit of it.”

Y/N tilted her head, the picture of innocence. “Oh, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Minjeong’s lips curled at the edges, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Good.”

The tension between them crackled like fire, unnoticed by the rest of the gathering as the music resumed and the nobles resumed their conversations. But between them, the battle lines had been drawn, and Y/N knew this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

It started with a single throw.

Minjeong, having grown bored of sitting through another tedious lesson on royal etiquette, picked up a plush velvet pillow and hurled it straight at Y/N’s head.

The impact was immediate—Y/N wobbled, her tiny frame nearly toppling over as the pillow knocked her delicate crown askew.

“Minjeong!” Y/N shrieked, scrambling to grab a pillow of her own. “You absolute menace!”

Minjeong smirked. “You look like a baby bird.”

That was it. Y/N launched herself at her, pillow in hand. What followed was a whirlwind of flying cushions, laughter, and very undignified battle cries.

The door burst open, revealing a very unimpressed Queen Taeyeon and Queen Irene.

Taeyeon sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Again?”

Irene, arms crossed, watched as Y/N attempted to tackle Minjeong—who was holding Y/N back simply by placing a hand on her forehead.

“Minjeong, stop holding her like that,” Irene said, exasperated.

Minjeong grinned. “But it’s so easy.”

“Let me go, you overgrown tree!” Y/N yelled, flailing.

Seulgi, sipping tea nearby, hummed. “You know, this is actually quite entertaining.”

Tiffany grinned. “I’m starting to think they’ll either get married on their own accord or they’ll kill r each other.”

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

The royal kitchens were off-limits. That much had been made clear.

And yet, here they were—two tiny figures crouched behind a long wooden counter, their eyes locked onto a golden tray of freshly baked cookies.

Minjeong glanced at Y/N. “You cause a distraction, I grab the cookies.”

Y/N looked up at her. “Why do I have to be the distraction?”

“Because you’re small and cute. People believe you.”

Y/N huffed. “Fine. But if I get caught, I’m telling them it was your idea.”

She marched out into the open, putting on her best “helpless princess” expression. “Oh dear, I seem to have lost my way…”

As the kitchen staff turned to her in concern, Minjeong moved like a shadow, swiping the tray with precision—until her taller-than-average self smacked her head on a hanging pan.

CLANG.

The entire kitchen froze.

Minjeong groaned, gripping her forehead. Y/N, eyes wide, slowly pointed at her. “It was all her idea.”

Taeyeon, having just entered, sighed. “Minjeong. Again?”

Minjeong, still holding the tray of cookies, grinned up at her mother. “Want one?”

Taeyeon sighed, rubbing her temples. “Tiffany, your daughter is a bad influence.”

Tiffany smirked. “I think she’s a genius.”

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

Minjeong always teased Y/N about her shoes. “How do you run in those?” she’d say, watching Y/N struggle to keep up with her longer strides.

So, Y/N devised a plan.

The next morning, Minjeong woke up to find her boots had mysteriously vanished. In their place were delicate, lace-trimmed, pearl-studded slippers.

“Y/N,” Minjeong called, her voice dangerously calm. “Where. Are. My. Boots?”

Y/N, seated elegantly at breakfast, sipped her juice. “Oh dear, did they go missing? What a shame.”

Minjeong glared at her before stomping into the dining hall—wearing the dainty slippers.

Tiffany choked on her tea.

Taeyeon cleared her throat. “You look… lovely, dear.”

Seulgi, barely containing her laughter, nodded. “Very regal.”

Irene simply turned to Y/N. “You’re grounded.”

Y/N pouted. “But she deserved it!”

Minjeong smirked. “This means war.”

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The sun hung high above the castle courtyard, casting a warm glow over the stone paths and neatly trimmed hedges. It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. Instead, it had turned into yet another royal catastrophe.

Minjeong and Y/N sat on opposite ends of a wooden bench, arms crossed, expressions set in deep scowls. Their dresses were slightly disheveled from their earlier scuffle—Minjeong’s tunic had traces of grass stains, and Y/N’s carefully arranged hair was now slightly askew. Their parents stood in front of them, unimpressed.

"Enough," Taeyeon said, her voice carrying the finality of a queen who had run out of patience. "You two will spend the afternoon together, and you will not fight."

"But she started it!" Y/N and Minjeong said in unison, pointing accusing fingers at each other.

Irene exhaled sharply. "It doesn’t matter who started it. What matters is that you two need to learn how to get along."

Seulgi, standing beside her, smirked. "Or at least tolerate each other without trying to start a war."

Tiffany clapped her hands together. "So, here’s what’s going to happen. You are both going to spend time together—just the two of you. No guards, no attendants. Just an afternoon of peaceful bonding."

Minjeong groaned. "I’d rather wrestle a bear."

Y/N huffed. "I’d rather be kidnapped."

"Careful what you wish for," Seulgi muttered under her breath.

With no further arguments allowed, their parents left them alone in the courtyard, watching from a distance as their children sat in stubborn silence.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Minjeong sighed dramatically and leaned back against the bench. "Well? Say something."

Y/N scoffed. "Why should I? I have nothing to say to you."

Minjeong rolled her eyes. "Fine. Then I’ll talk." She tilted her head back, staring at the sky. "I bet you’ve never climbed a tree before."

Y/N frowned. "Why would I climb a tree? That’s ridiculous."

"It’s not ridiculous. It’s fun," Minjeong said, stretching her arms. "But you probably don’t know anything about fun, do you, princess?"

Y/N’s eye twitched. "I know plenty about fun."

"Oh really?" Minjeong smirked. "Prove it."

Before Y/N could protest, Minjeong hopped off the bench and ran toward the large oak tree standing tall at the edge of the courtyard. She grabbed the lowest branch and hoisted herself up with practiced ease.

Y/N remained seated, watching with mild disinterest. "You look ridiculous."

Minjeong grinned down at her. "And you look scared."

Y/N bristled. "I am not scared."

"Then climb up here."

Y/N hesitated. She had never actually climbed a tree before, and the thought of getting her dress caught on the branches or falling in front of Minjeong made her stomach twist. But the smug look on Minjeong’s face was unbearable.

With a huff, she marched toward the tree and grabbed onto the lowest branch. Minjeong watched with interest as Y/N struggled, her arms too short, her shoes slipping against the bark.

"Need help?" Minjeong offered, grinning.

Y/N glared up at her. "I don’t need your help."

After several frustrating attempts—and Minjeong laughing at every failed one—Y/N finally managed to get herself onto the first branch. She clung to it tightly, eyes wide as she realized how high up she felt.

"Not so bad, right?" Minjeong teased, sitting comfortably on a higher branch.

"Shut up," Y/N muttered, gripping the tree trunk.

For a moment, they sat there in silence, the breeze rustling through the leaves. Minjeong looked down at Y/N, her smirk softening. "You know… You’re not that bad when you’re not whining."

Y/N scoffed but didn’t snap back immediately. Instead, she looked out at the castle grounds, the view surprisingly nice from up here.

"Maybe this isn’t the worst afternoon ever," she admitted quietly.

Minjeong grinned. "See? Told you."

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The sun had long since set, leaving the castle halls illuminated only by the soft glow of torches flickering against the stone walls. The air was cooler now, carrying the distant hum of the wind through the open windows. The once lively energy of the palace had quieted, save for the occasional murmur of servants finishing their evening duties.

Minjeong hadn’t meant to be wandering the halls so late, but she couldn’t sleep. Her argument with Y/N earlier had replayed in her mind too many times, each insult and sharp word echoing louder than the last. They had fought before—countless times, really. But tonight, it had been different.

She hadn’t expected Y/N to cry.

Minjeong stopped near one of the grand staircases, drawn to the sound of muffled sniffles coming from a secluded alcove. Carefully, she peeked around the stone column, and there she was—Y/N, curled up on a cushioned bench, her small frame hunched as she wiped at her cheeks.

Minjeong frowned. Y/N never cried, not since the spider incident. She always yelled, pouted, stomped her feet, but she never cried. Seeing her like this… It made an uncomfortable twist in Minjeong’s chest.

She hesitated before stepping forward. "Hey."

Y/N stiffened at the sound of her voice, quickly turning her head away. "Go away."

Minjeong didn’t move. She leaned against the column instead, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted at the sight of Y/N’s red-rimmed eyes. "You know, if you want me to leave, you should at least yell at me properly."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, refusing to look at her. "I don’t feel like yelling."

Minjeong shifted her weight. "Why?" The question came out before she could stop herself.

Y/N sniffled, pressing her sleeve to her face. "Because it won’t change anything."

Minjeong frowned. "Change what?"

Y/N hesitated before whispering, "That I don’t want to be stuck with you forever."

Minjeong’s jaw clenched. She had heard Y/N say things like that before, but this time, it didn’t feel like an insult—it sounded like something heavier, something she truly believed. And for some reason, Minjeong hated hearing it.

She looked away, suddenly feeling restless. "Well, I don’t want to be stuck with you either."

Y/N let out a dry laugh, though it lacked any real amusement. "Then I guess we both lose."

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. Minjeong had no idea what to say, no idea why this moment felt different from all their other fights. All she knew was that she didn’t like seeing Y/N like this. She didn’t like the tears, the quiet resignation in her voice. It didn’t suit her.

With an awkward sigh, Minjeong reached into her pocket, pulling out a small handkerchief—embroidered with her family’s crest. She hesitated only a second before holding it out to Y/N.

"Here."

Y/N blinked at it, then at Minjeong. "What’s that for?"

Minjeong rolled her eyes. "You’re crying, idiot."

Y/N glared at her, but it was weaker than usual. Still, after a pause, she reached out and took the handkerchief, gripping it tightly in her small hands.

Minjeong cleared her throat, shifting on her feet. "I… uh, I’ll let you be now."

She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, Y/N spoke. "Minjeong?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

Y/N was looking down at the handkerchief in her lap, her fingers brushing over the embroidery. She swallowed before whispering, "Thanks."

Minjeong didn’t know why her heart skipped a beat. And she really didn’t like that it did.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ; 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

#wlw #aespa #aespa x reader #aespa x fem reader #aespa x y/n #aespa x you #aespa winter #aespa minjeong #kim winter #winter #winter x reader #winter x fem reader #winter x you #kim minjeong #kim minjeong x reader #kim minjeong x fem reader #minjeong #minjeong x reader #minjeong x fem reader

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stoicjewel · 27 days ago

Text

What if Stanley somehow went to college WITH Ford?

An au that I pulled out of my ass at 10pm, while eating a soggy taco.

Ford couldn't believe it. A being beyond his comprehension, a muse of great importance and power, chose HIM to be his partner. His link to the physical plane. And now here he was, working together with his brother and best friend to make his greatest idea a reality.

Ford was currently leaning over his desk, recording important sequences he needed to pass to Fiddleford later. They were so close to getting this done, he could practically taste the sweet flavor of victory. Of acknowledgement. Or perhaps that was his tenth cup of coffee he had chugged in the last two hours.

Suddenly, Ford hears a sharp knock on the door, followed by the sound of a raspy cough.

Ford let out a sigh. "Come in."

Stanley walks into the room, wearing a gruff expression. He grabs a nearby chair, and sits down in it with his chin resting against the top rail of the chair.

Ford raises his brow, before letting out a slight huff of annoyance. "Stanley, would it kill you to sit in a chair correctly for once?"

"Yes it would. It would probably end the universe as we know it if I sat down with a stick up my ass like you." Stanley deadpanned in response, staring through Ford with an expression that reminded Ford of their mother.

Ford sighed, but decided not to dignify the comment with a response. He sets down his quill, turning around in his chair and crossing his arms with a furrowed brow. "Did you come into my office just to bother me? You know I'm busy Stanley."

"No. I wanted to talk to you about our project."

Ford's brows furrowed further. "What's there to talk about? It should be completed soon, don't tell me you're getting antsy already."

Stan rolled his eyes. "That's not what I wanted to say and you know it. Look, I'm starting to have second thoughts about this whole thing-"

"Don't tell me Fiddleford has been putting ideas in your head," Ford said with a sharp tone, practically glaring into Stanley's eyes with a burning intensity. "Stanley, we have been working on this project for MONTHS. Almost a year at this point! We're on the verge of a monumental discovery that could be the next step for humanity as we know it! Just think of it Stanley! A pathway to other words, other dimensions-"

"WILL YOU LET ME TALK?!" Stanley suddenly cuts through Ford's spiel, making him fall silent. Stanley cleared his throat, dragging a hand across his face with a sigh. "Look, I get it just as much as you do."

"I'd love to discover interdimensional space travel as much as the next guy. Id love to be one of the scientists who helped make the dozens of comic books and pieces of science fiction into reality. But we gotta think about this."

"What is there to think about?" Ford chides, starting to feel a sinking feeling in his chest. "We're scientists Stanley, this is what we do! We research, we create, we explore! We have the knowledge to make this a reality, so why shouldn't we take the chance?"

Stanley let out a sigh before standing from his chair, starting to pick at a loose thread on his lab coat. "Yeah, we are scientists. With enough research, determination, and possibly fatal trial and error, I'm sure we could make or discover whatever shit we want. But just because we CAN, that doesn't mean we SHOULD, Ford. Did you ever stop to think about that?"

Ford keeps his eyes on Stanley's face. His eyes drift from his brother's seemingly stoic appearance, before noticing the small furrow in his brow, the slight twitch in his lip. The almost invisible signs of worry.

Ford didn't need to be worried about. He didn't need to be protected or watched, like some sort of child. He didn't need Stanley to follow him around like a lost dog, fighting his battles for him. To think for him, tell him what's safe and what's not. Not anymore.

Ford let out a huff, turning back to his work. "I don't need your opinion on this Stanley. I can handle myself, thank you very much. Is there anything else you need, or can I return to my work?"

Stanley stayed in place, watching the back of Ford's head silently for a few moments. He eventually shook his head, his eyes falling to the floor. "No. Doesn't seem like you're willing to listen right now anyway." Stanley muttered under his breath, barely audible. With that, Stan left the study, leaving Ford alone with his thoughts. And perhaps a golden friend, if he was lucky.

#gravity falls #ford pines #stanley pines #stan pines #stanford pines #portal #text post #fanfic #just yappin #idk how this would happen #it just fuckin does cause i said so #im tired #mentioned fiddleford and bill #GraduateStanAU

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heartlessvirgo · 5 months ago

Text

Thread of Gold

Summary:

In fair Rome, where we lay our scene, Two hearts untouched by fate, are bound unseen. One, of power and glory, stands apart, The other, bound to labor, keeps her heart. You, a maid of humble hands and toil, Your days are filled with work, with sweat, with soil. You know not how his eyes follow your stride, Nor how his heart, in silence, does confide. For though you do not know him, cannot see, His heart beats only for the one you’ll be. The great man stands, and in his world of pride, He aches for you, though worlds apart you bide.

In fair Rome, where we lay our scene, Two hearts, unseen, will cross where none have been.

Paring: Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: Slight Angst, Swearing, don't touch her, Kissing, heavy petting, MDNI, very brief interaction of assault but it never happens

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: idk if you could tell, but this is DEFINITELY inspired by Romeo & Juliet. So yes, this is my first post ever, so I hope you like it! I'm more into writing smut so yes there will be a part two. Also my inbox is open if you want to suggest any prompts or just wanna chat! -mel

In the heart of Rome, where the gods’ shadows fall long and the streets pulse with the rhythm of ambition, two lives move along parallel paths. One so high he commands the gaze of the city; the other so low she slips beneath it unnoticed.

In this city, glory is currency, and men like Marcus Acacius are rich beyond reckoning. You have seen him once, only once, though his presence lingers everywhere. In the square where his name is whispered in awe. In the cloths you wash, edged with the gilded trim that marks his station. He is a figure carved of legend, towering and untouchable, his every step commanding the gaze of all who dare to look.

You, by contrast, are invisible. A shadow among shadows. A woman bound to this corner of the world, where the gods’ blessings feel like distant stars—present, perhaps, but far beyond your reach. The life you lead is unremarkable, confined to the walls of his domus, where you work tirelessly, ensuring every garment, every linen, is immaculate. And yet, there is a restless pull within you, one that stirs whenever the thought of him takes hold. Women, of all ranks, all ages, wanted a second look from Marcus.

The city is alive with firelight and fervor, its heartbeat a relentless drum of steel and blood. Through the small, arched window of the laundry quarters, you watch as the arena’s shadow spills over the streets like a looming promise. The roar of the crowd seeps through the cracks in the walls, mingling with the damp scent of lye and the ache in your hands from scrubbing linen all day.

You press a damp tunic between your fingers and glance out again. Tonight, Rome hums with anticipation, and the stars themselves seem to lean closer, their light sharp and cold. Somewhere out there, General Acacius moves with the confidence of a man who belongs to this world, his every action a chapter in the history of Rome. You tell yourself it is foolish, the way your pulse quickens at the mere thought of him. But the truth? The truth is that just like every other woman, he has already become a part of you, as inevitable and inescapable as the dusk.

As the night deepens, the domus quiets, the servants retiring to their quarters, leaving the halls hushed and dimly lit. You linger, folding the last of the linens, the familiar task grounding you amidst the whirlwind of thoughts. The distant clatter of hooves and the muffled murmur of voices signal his return from the arena.

The domus is a labyrinth of polished marble and flickering lamplight, a place where servants like you slip through the shadows, unseen but indispensable. You step into the courtyard, the bundle of linen cradled in your arms, the warm air brushing against your skin. The flicker of torchlight plays along the stone paths, and there, by the fountain, stands Marcus Acacius. His armor, dulled with the dust of the arena, glints faintly, a testament to his earlier triumph.

He turns slightly, his gaze meeting yours across the space. You freeze, heart thudding, caught in the weight of his attention. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the night folding in around this fragile, unexpected connection.

A gust of wind stirs, and a linen sheet slips from your grasp, drifting toward him. Without hesitation, he steps forward, catching it mid-air with a practiced ease. His movements are smooth, deliberate, as he approaches and offers the fabric back to you.

“Are these yours?” he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet carrying the weight of authority—a sound you would never expect from a man who commands legions and stands before emperors. The gentleness in his words is at odds with the strength of the man in front of you, like the softest caress against the iron of his character.

“Technically,” you respond, your voice quiet but steady, “they belong to you, General.” You reach out, your fingers slow, unsure, yet compelled. The moment they brush against his, the contact is electric—fleeting, but it leaves a spark that lingers in the air. The linen is still warm from his hand, and the heat seems to seep into your skin, your pulse quickening with the knowledge that you are standing in the very presence of a man who could make cities fall with a single word.

"Thank you, My Lord" you murmur, the words slipping from your lips like a secret confession carried on the night air, barely more than a whisper, yet loud enough to echo in the space between you.

His gaze lingers, a silent question in his eyes, as if he’s searching for something beneath the surface, something beyond the simple garb and the labor-worn hands. For a fleeting moment, it feels as though the world narrows to just this—the soft glow of torchlight between you, the quiet breath of the night holding its secrets. His attention is not the indifferent glance of a master, but something deeper, as though he glimpses a hidden truth, a spark that even you have not yet named.

But before the moment can unfurl its full meaning, you drop your gaze, the weight of his scrutiny too much, too intimate. You step back into the familiar cloak of duty, retreating into the rhythmic solace of your tasks, a shield against the unfamiliar vulnerability he stirs within you.

As you slip away, the warmth of his presence clings to the air, a tender ache that lingers against the cool night breeze. The silent imprint of him, like a shadow stitched into the fabric of your thoughts, remains even as you cross the threshold back into the quiet confines of the domus. You remind yourself of your place, a maid woven into the tapestry of his grand world, a mere thread among the opulent patterns.

And yet, for the first time, a whisper of possibility stirs within you. In the vast sprawl of Rome, beneath the gods’ indifferent gaze, you begin to wonder—if only in the quietest corners of your heart—whether there is a hidden path where your worlds might converge, where the stars might align not for destiny or glory, but for something as simple, as profound, as two souls meeting in the shadows.

You don’t think of him often—not since the night when your paths crossed briefly. You’re too busy to dwell on whether or not he was simply being kind or if you really should let it get to your head. It’s not like you were dressed of high status, but the swish of your dress, the way the fabric moved around your legs, was finer than most servants. The pale blues and soft greens of your gown caught the light in a way that made you feel as if you were not entirely beneath notice, as if, for a fleeting moment, you too could belong to the grandeur of Rome.

The fabric, though not rich enough to be woven of silk, flowed with a subtle elegance, catching the breeze like a whisper of the sea. The hem swept across the floor as you walked, the soft rustle of it almost like music. Your dress was simple in cut, with a bodice that clung to your form, but the delicate, intricate embroidery along the edges of the sleeves—an ornate pattern of pale threads—was a touch that spoke of care, of something more than the rough linens most of the other servants wore. It was a piece worn with purpose, like a quiet rebellion against the life you were bound to. The colors, a delicate play of light and shadow, somehow made your skin glow, almost made it seem as thought you were wearing gold. Adding a touch of grace you didn’t quite feel but carried as if by fate.

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows down the hallway as you made your way to Marcus’ private quarters, the linen bundles heavy in your arms. You didn’t always deliver his fresh linens, but tonight, you were tasked with changing his bedclothes. It wasn’t an unfamiliar duty, but it always seemed more... personal when it was his chambers. The scent of battle and blood always lingered in the air around him, a stark contrast to the soft linens you worked with. With your hip, you push the door open, humming a tune they sing on the streets after his many triumphs. Walking in, the spacious room is still, a soft glow flickering against the stone walls.

You set the basket of clean linens on the ground and straighten your back, stretching the ache from your shoulders. The air smells faintly of earth, leather, and a hint of sweat—a trace of the arena’s unforgiving world. You make your way to the large bed, and it is only as you begin to strip the old linens off the mattress that you hear the soft scrape of a chair shifting behind you.

For a moment, you don’t register the noise, too absorbed in your task. But then, you freeze, your pulse quickening when you realize that someone is in the room with you. Slowly, you turn, and to your shock, Marcus is standing near the basin, looking directly at you.

You hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t expected him to be home so soon. It’s too late to pretend you didn’t notice, too late to retreat gracefully. Your eyes widen, and the bundle of linens slips slightly from your grasp.

"My lord," you stammer, pushing yourself off the bed, straightening your posture immediately as you avert your gaze to the floor. The flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you twist your fingers nervously. "I... I was not aware you had returned."

He looks at you with a quiet curiosity, his expression unreadable. The flickering light casts shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his jaw and the dusting of stubble along his chin. His presence is commanding, even here, in the quiet of his private quarters.

“I’ve soiled my hands,” he says casually, his voice deeper than it was outside the arena, quieter now that he’s removed from the noise of the crowd and the cheers of victory. You watch as he outstretches his hand, palm splaying as if to prove his point. His tone is matter-of-fact, yet there's a hint of something—something unspoken—in his words. "I shall require assistance before I retire for the evening."

You blink, still adjusting to the idea of him here, so close you could smell him. With a deep breath, you approach him, your voice measured and respectful. “Of course, my lord. I will see to it immediately.” You round him as he takes a seat, his knees widely spread as he waits.

You reach for a cloth to dip in the basin of cool water, but before you can wet it, his eyes lock with yours. There’s an intensity in his gaze, a deliberate search for something in you. It’s not an unfamiliar gaze, but it feels heavier now, more focused.

“I fought with men today, trained until bloody.” he says, his voice low, almost surprising in its softness given the violence of his day. "And yet, it is the touch of a servant’s hand I now seek to cleanse mine."

You dip the cloth into the water and step closer, careful not to brush against him too much. The closeness of his body, the heat of it, makes your breath catch in your throat. Still, you manage to keep your hands steady, wiping away the dried blood from his fingers, watching the red turn to a soft pink as the water turns clear again.

“You’ve done much more than fight today,” you remark, your tone neutral, though a flicker of amusement twitches at the corners of your lips. "Perhaps you would do well to rest, and not burden your servants further with tasks such as these.”

Marcus chuckles softly, a dark sound that fills the space between you two. There’s an edge to it, but it’s not unkind.

“Is it not my right to make use of those who serve me?” He raises a brow, his smile faint but teasing. “A servant such as yourself should be honored. Not every hand is worthy enough to touch mine.”

You keep your gaze fixed downward, your hands moving with practiced rhythm as you gently wipe the remaining dried blood. The quiet clink of water and cloth the only sounds in the space. Yet, the teasing quality of his voice, low and laced with something you can’t quite name, makes the task feel strangely light. Each word he speaks seems to linger in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, drawing your attention despite your best efforts to remain focused.

"I suppose I should consider myself fortunate then," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips more easily than you expect. “Thank you my lord,” They come out with a playful lightness, a fleeting defiance that surprises even you.

Daring a quick glance upward, you meet his dark eyes—and immediately regret it. There’s something in the depths of his gaze that catches you off guard. Soft, warm brown eyes that hold you in place, like the calm before a storm. A hint of approval, perhaps, or something else—an unreadable softness that contrasts with the steel of his presence. Your pulse quickens, and for the briefest moment, the world narrows to just him, to that knowing look.

"Or maybe I…" His voice trails off, leaving the air charged, thick with the weight of possibility. He holds your gaze, his eyes unwavering, while the silence stretches long and taut between you, each second stretching to infinity.

The task you’re performing—simple, mundane—feels worlds away from your reality now, the proximity to him like a pull you can’t escape. His hands, calloused from battle, rough from a life carved in the crucible of the arena, seem so foreign against the delicate fabric of your world. Yet, as you finish cleaning them, your fingers brush against his skin, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. The contact is fleeting, but it sends a ripple through the air, a subtle shift that you can feel deep in your chest.

You pull away, but the warmth of his touch, the hardness of his hands beneath yours, stays with you long after you set the cloth aside. The space between you feels electric now, charged with something unspoken, a current that hums quietly in the silence. And even as you return to your task, you know it will be hard to forget that moment—impossible, almost—to erase the sensation of him from your thoughts.

The room pulses with decadence, a feverish spectacle of excess. The grand hall is alive with the sounds of revelry—laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. Torches line the walls, casting their flickering light over the guests as they indulge in a feast fit for the gods. The air is thick with the scent of roast meats, rich perfumes, and the sharp tang of wine—too much wine. In every corner, men sit, their faces flushed, eyes glazed with drunkenness. The emperors, Geta and Caracalla, are seated at the head of the table, their arrogance and power radiating like a cruel aura. They watch the festivities unfold with bored amusement, their presence elevating the indulgence around them.

But it’s the women who catch your attention most. Naked bodies drape over the tables, lounging languidly as if they were mere ornaments to be admired or used. Their flesh glistens with oil, and their eyes, half-lidded, seem to reflect nothing but the sheer emptiness of it all. They move slowly, seductively, their every gesture designed to provoke. Some are feeding the men, their hands brushing against chins and lips as they serve wine. Others are entwined in the arms of their drunken patrons, their bodies exposed in the light of the torches. Their laughter is high-pitched and shrill, blending with the deeper rumble of the men’s voices.

You weave through the crowd, your heart in your throat, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. You’ve been serving wine for hours now, your hands trembling each time you fill a goblet, praying you won’t spill a drop. The fear of messing up gnaws at your insides, the thought of being dismissed from this gilded cage and cast into the streets where you would have nothing—nothing but your own shame. You’ve heard the rumors, the stories of women like you who make one mistake and are forgotten, discarded into the shadows.

There are whispers of women being sold off, sent to the brothels to satisfy the whims of men with too much power and not enough restraint. You can't bear the thought of that fate. Every moment feels like a test, and your very existence in this palace depends on getting it right, at least just for tonight.

As you approach one of the tables to refill a cup, your hands are unsteady. You can feel their eyes on you before you see them, but when you do, it’s too late to turn away. One man reaches out, his hand heavy and demanding as he pulls your arm toward him. His touch is rough, fingers curling around your wrist as though you are nothing more than an object for his amusement. “Bring me more wine,” he growls, his breath sour. The men at the table laugh, their voices growing louder, and you feel the weight of their gaze like a hundred burning coals.

Embarrassment flares in your cheeks, curling like a wave as your pulse quickens, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You’ve seen how things like this can escalate. One wrong move, and you could be caught up in something far beyond your control. You glance toward the emperors, towards anyone, hoping for any sign of mercy, but everyone is too absorbed in their own conversation, their attention elsewhere.

The man’s hands, rough and brutal, clamp down on your hips, pulling you into his lap with a violent tug. You try to squirm, but his grip is unforgiving, forcing your body flush against his. The noise of the banquet fades into the background as his scent overpowers you—wine, sweat, and the sharpness of his lewd intentions. He grins, his fingers curling into the fabric of your gown, pushing it upward with slow, insidious intent.

You freeze, your stomach sinking as the sickening realization of what’s about to happen sinks in. His laughter is thick with malice, and the men at the table cheer him on, urging him to take his pleasure. You try to move, try to push him off, but the more you struggle, the tighter his grip becomes. The fear creeps in deeper, threatening to drown you—this is how it ends. You can feel the tightness in your chest, the suffocating fear that claws at your throat. One wrong move, and you might never escape.

"Don't be coy, little cunt," he slurs, his words thick with wine and malice. "You know what I want."

And then—without warning—the world shifts. He doesn’t speak, not at first. There’s no grand gesture, no booming voice to call attention to the scene. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough.

His hand wraps around the man’s wrist with a precision that is almost surgical, twisting it with enough force that the man is forced to release you, his drunken eyes widening in shock. Marcus does not raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The mere presence of him in this space is enough to still the crowd. No one dares to challenge him. His grip on the man’s wrist tightens, but his eyes, his focus, never leave you. There’s no hesitation in his gaze—only the quiet promise of safety.

“Unhand her,” Marcus says, his voice so low that only you and the man can hear it. It’s a command, but it’s delivered with such calm authority that the man stumbles backward in his seat, like a child caught stealing. He’s humiliated, his bravado cracking in an instant. Without a word, he retreats, almost tumbling over his own feet to get away.

Standing to your feet, the blood rushes to your ears, a deafening woosh that drowns out everything else. Your vision spins as you stumble, the shock of the moment still rippling through your body. Marcus is there, his grip tight around your arm, almost too tight, like he's afraid you'll slip away from him. His touch is rough, more forceful than you expected, and it sends a shiver of something unfamiliar down your spine.

"Easy," he mutters under his breath, though there’s no softness in his voice. He drags you through the crowd, his hand never loosening on your arm. His steps are swift, urgent, and he doesn’t look back to see if anyone follows. You can feel the weight of his presence pressing against you, a silent warning that no one should dare cross him.

The music fades as he leads you out of the feast hall and into a quieter corridor. The air is cooler here, but it still carries the weight of what could have been. As you pass through the halls, the sounds of the party grow faint, leaving only the heavy thud of Marcus’s steps and your shallow breath as you try to match his long strides.

The halls opens up to a balcony, one that overlooks the courtyard and in the distance all of Rome. But instead of the calm respite you might have expected, you find a different kind of chaos unfolding. You are alone, save for a man who sits, his legs spread wide, with a woman kneeling before him—her naked body is outlined against the torchlight, her hands working between his legs as the man grunts in pleasure. The scene is raw and obscene, an undeniable reminder of the brutal, dehumanizing nature of the world they live in.

For a moment, Marcus tenses, his jaw clenched tight, the fury in his chest palpable. His hand tightens around your wrist, pulling you sharply away, as if the sight itself might stain you. His breath is heavy, laced with the sharp scent of wine and something darker—something possessive. His gaze flickers over the scene for a moment longer, but then he drags you away, pulling you further down the hall, deeper into the shadows.

"Look at me, not them," he commands, his voice harder now, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. You don’t question him. There’s a rawness in his tone that cuts through the haze of the evening, and you understand. You know. This isn’t about the woman, or the man. This is about you.

Once you're in the relative safety of the hall, where only the dim light of the torches casts long shadows across the stone floors, Marcus stops. His grip on your arm loosens slightly, but his eyes are dark, hard.

“You cannot remain here,” Marcus says finally, his voice low but filled with an intensity that makes your stomach churn. His gaze flickers over your face, as though he’s searching for something, though you aren’t sure what. “Not with them. Not with any of them. How did you get in here?”

His words are blunt, and they hit you like a stone sinking into your chest. The emperor’s men, the drunk revelers, the lecherous eyes—they all see you as an object to be used, to be taken. Marcus is the only one who doesn’t look at you like that. But the thought of him dragging you further into this world, this suffocating, corrupt world, leaves you cold.

“The emperors servants requested help for tonight, I had no other choice-” You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you see the storm in his eyes. The quiet kind that he uses for battle, for the arena.

“You are not safe here,” Marcus continues, looking around, and for a moment he looks frightened, though it’s unclear whether he’s speaking to you or himself. “I’ll have someone escort you back to-,” he adds.

“I cannot,” you interrupt, your voice trembling more than you want to admit. You pull your hand into your chest, cradling it as if it were something precious, something vulnerable. Your body feels stiff, like a fragile thing that could shatter at the slightest movement.

“They will notice... and they will have my hand.” The words taste like ash in your mouth, but they’re the truth. You’ve seen how easily women like you disappear in these circles, how quickly favor can turn to disdain and then to something worse.

Marcus’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking back toward where the music continues. But he knows what lies behind the flashing smiles and empty laughter—the cold, calculating eyes of the emperors, always watching, always waiting for someone to slip, to make a mistake.

His hands clench into fists and in the dim light, you notice the tinge of wine on his lips. Was he with a prostitute tonight? Was that why it took so long to notice you in there? Perhaps, but what right did you have to feel a twinge of jealousy?

His voice is low, urgent, when he speaks again, pulling you from your thoughts. “They will notice, yes. And that is why you must leave, now.” His tone is sharp, a command wrapped in concern. “They will take interest in you, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I will not let them use you. Do you understand?”

You nod, your throat tight with the weight of his words. The truth stings—the helplessness that lurks behind his voice, the admission that even Marcus, with all his strength and authority, can do nothing against the emperor’s whims. For the first time, you feel something cold seep into your bones—an understanding of just how far out of control this world is. You feel small under his gaze, his protective grip, but at the same time, there’s something else. A flicker of warmth.

You are escorted home, though the word feels far too generous. Home is not here—this room, these walls, are not for you. You shouldn’t even be in his quarters, but somehow, here you are.

Your fingers twist together nervously, the motion a quiet echo of your restless mind. The room is too quiet, the weight of it heavy on your shoulders. You should be in the servant's quarters, cleaning or organizing, doing anything but this. But instead, you’re here, alone in his space. It’s an unspoken rule, a boundary you should never have crossed. And yet, you can't bring yourself to care as much as you know you should.

You should leave. You know you should. But you can’t.

The double doors open to reveal General Acacius, his frame a silhouette in the dim light. His head is low, as if weighed down by thoughts, his broad shoulders tight with something unreadable. His hand runs through the thick, dark tendrils of his hair, the motion heavy, like he's trying to rid himself of the night’s thoughts.

He lifts his head slowly, his gaze first distant, then sharpening, focusing on you. You stand there in the half-light, your figure framed by the silver streams of moonlight spilling through the window. For a heartbeat, it feels like the entire world holds its breath.

His eyes meet yours. Soft, warm, brown eyes. The kind of eyes that have seen so much, but in that moment, they hold a depth only for you. And for a fleeting second, you could almost believe there’s a softness in him—a tenderness buried beneath the soldier’s armor, beneath the hardened exterior. But you look away before it lingers too long.

He clears his throat, the sound rough and unsteady, a sign of something at war inside him. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, his voice low, almost a murmur, as if the words are meant to be heard by no one but himself. Yet, they hang between you both, thick and raspy.

“I’m sorry,” you shift, trying to find the courage to meet his gaze again, but all that fills your mind is the memory of the night—the emperor’s party, the assault, his strong hand pulling you away from the danger with an ease that belied his own inner turmoil.

“Do not apologize when you do not mean it,” Marcus doesn’t move, though you feel his presence grow heavier in the space. It’s like he’s standing on the edge of something, caught between two choices—between the man who would offer you safety and the man who has this position of power. You can almost see the conflict in his posture, in the way his muscles tense and relax with each breath, the way his gaze drops to the floor before he meets yours once more.

“Did they hurt you?” His voice is rough, a question steeped in something more than concern—a longing, perhaps, that neither of you can admit. Finally, he steps forward, the doors slowly shutting behind him, sealing your fate.

His hands flex by his sides, a movement so small but so telling. You know the weight of his power—the way people listen when he speaks, how the air shifts around him when he steps into a room. But here, now, standing in front of you, there is something else beneath that hard exterior. The way he watches you, how he holds himself back as if one wrong move could shatter the fragile moment between you both.

“No, nothing you can see.” His breath catches, just enough to betray him. And for a moment, you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are—how different things would be if he didn’t have to be the general, if you didn’t have to be the servant. If he could reach out and say the things he kept locked inside.

But he doesn’t. His gaze drifts, tracing the outline of your face, his lips barely parted as if he’s struggling to find the right words. And you know he won’t speak them, because what good would it do? You’re not his to want. Not like this. Not when his world was filled with danger, not when he’d drag you down to the depths of hell.

Marcus’s voice cuts through the dim light, low and edged with frustration. “You foolish girl, do you have a death wish?” His words are sharp, but beneath them, there’s a tremor of something more—concern, perhaps, though buried deep.

You stiffen, surprised but not silenced. “Foolish? I am bound by duty, as you are. What would be truly foolish is to expect a servant to wield choice where none exists.” Your words strike the air between you, defiant, but his stance remains unwavering. It is almost as though he anticipated your defiance, relished it.

“You are under my charge,” Marcus replies, his gaze steady. “Why was I not informed of this before it transpired? Surely I should be privy to the whereabouts and well-being of my household.” His chin lifts, the authority in his tone unyielding.

“What transpires, and what you are told, is not for me to dictate,” you retort, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Indeed.” He nods, as though your response has confirmed his point. His calm exterior is maddening, the tension building beneath his collected demeanor.

The fire in your chest blazes, and before you can stop yourself, the words escape. “Did you not notice me before? Or were you preoccupied with some other... entertainment?” The accusation hangs in the air, brazen and dangerous.

“Entertainment?” Marcus echoes, his brow lifting. His eyes trace the curve of your neck, the heat of his gaze searing more than your words. The insult seems to have glanced off him, leaving his focus elsewhere—on you.

You tilt your head, your heart pounding, desperate for a reaction, an answer that might betray his thoughts. “Perhaps you are not the lauded general they claim, if such distractions elude your notice.”

Despite your cutting words, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. In the muted glow of the room, it’s unmistakable—a flicker of amusement, or something darker, something that hints at a desire he cannot fully suppress.

But still, that longing flickers in the depths of his eyes, the unspoken desire that clings to the air between you, unnoticed by you but so obvious to him. It’s a yearning he can never voice, a passion that burns quietly beneath the weight of his armor.

For a second, you almost believe that if you were to step closer, you could see it all—the man who wishes to be more, the man who needs to be something else. But you don’t. Because in the end, you know your place here.

You stand frozen, feeling the pull between the heat of his gaze and the heavy, uncertain air that hangs between you.

His presence is overwhelming—his broad silhouette, his dark hair falling in soft waves, and the glint of gold on his chest catching the dim light, each piece a reminder of his power, his status. The rich, earthy scent of his skin, the leather of his armor, the faint trace of something warm and intoxicating—like the spice of sandalwood—fills the space, making your head spin.

You can see the beautiful curve of his nose now, and the gentle parting of his lips—so close you could feel the heat radiating from them. You’ve never been this close to a man before, let alone one as dangerous as him.

“Fierce as you may be, you are too gentle for a world such as this,” he murmurs, his voice rough like the grind of stone beneath a soldier’s sandal. The words don’t feel like an insult, not in the way you might have expected, but more like a declaration. His gaze softens, though, as he watches you, his eyes flickering with something you can’t name.

“Too gentle?” you echo, a soft defiance lacing your tone. “Blame the gods, the endless wars, and the emperors with their insatiable greed and selfish ambition. It is they who have hardened the world, do not mistake gentle for naivety.” You should step back. You should flee. This isn’t your place. But the words flow freely from your throat. A hot realization erupts in your cheeks, how close you stand, the distance between your warm bodies. You’ve never been kissed before, never felt this kind of pull, and so it makes it impossible to move.

Marcus’s gaze softens, the weight of your words settling heavily on him. He steps closer, the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent. “But it is the world we live in. And in it, gentleness can be a dangerous thing.”

His hand reaches out, hovering near your cheek but never quite touching. “You’ve known too little of the world’s cruelties, and I fear what it might do to you.” His brow furrows, his voice dropping further. “I would keep you from it if I could.”

Marcus doesn’t give you the space to retreat, though. He closes the gap between you both until there’s barely an inch separating you, his breath mingling with yours as he gazes down at you. The weight of his presence presses down on you—his chest rising and falling with each breath, the swoosh of his robe brushing against his body as he moves, the weight of his armor glinting in the light, and the softness of his gaze pinning you in place.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a soft reverence. “You fight me, yet, I envy you. Too soft for this place. This world... it’s made for men who know how to fight. But you—" He leans in, close enough that you can smell the remnants of wine on his lips as he whispers, “—you don’t belong here. Not in a world that takes what it wants without mercy.”

His hand comes up, fingertips grazing the side of your arm, tracing your exposed neck and to the side of your jaw. The touch is tentative, as if he, too, is afraid of what might happen next. His thumb brushes the line of your jaw, tracing the curve of it with an intimacy that leaves you breathless.

“Do you know what it feels like?” he asks softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “To be wanted, to be taken... like this?” You shake your head, suddenly too nervous, too overwhelmed to respond.

Marcus pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression a blend of uncertainty and something darker—something you’ve never seen in him. "Unspoiled, unclaimed, like a bloom untouched by the winds of desire." he says, almost as a statement of fact, as though he’s seen it in you all along.

“I—I…” You can’t find the words. The heat of the moment, the closeness of his body, the dangerous allure of him… it’s all too much. Too many emotions, too many sensations flooding your senses at once.

His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no distance between you. “Stop me now,” he warns, his voice a rough whisper against your lips, “or I may not hold my temptation much longer.”

He draws nearer, his presence a shadow that looms over you, his breath warm and steady against the delicate curve of your lips.

“Never been kissed,” he says softly, almost to himself, his voice thick with something like understanding. The need to taste his lips has never been more overwhelming, a hunger that rises within you like a fire. Your chest tightens, and you feel the sting of tears threatening to break free, though you fight them back, for what would it mean to weep in the presence of such a man?

You nod, the words lodged in your throat, but he doesn’t wait for more. His hand lifts, fingers curling at the back of your neck, and a shock of surprise courses through you. You barely have time to breathe before his lips descend upon yours—no gentleness, no hesitation, only raw, fervent hunger. It is not calculated, not gentle—it is the kind of kiss that betrays restraint and spills over with urgency. Your teeth knock together awkwardly, and you gasp, struggling to adjust to his force. Your hands, trembling, hover unsurely for a moment, before they find purchase on his chest, gripping the fabric of his tunic as if it is the only thing anchoring you to this moment, to him.

“So sweet,” He moves against you, his lips pressing and pulling with a fierce rhythm, slow at first, as though searching for the proper cadence. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, trying to mirror his movements, but the pace quickens. Just when it seems you might falter, just when you think you’ve lost control, he deepens the kiss, and warmth spreads from his mouth to yours, igniting something within you. Your senses whirl, and for the briefest moment, you forget the world outside the space between you both.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "You deserve more than this," he murmurs, his voice rough, a mix of reverence and regret. "More than a man bound by duty and chains."

Marcus pulls back just slightly, and your eyes open, meeting the soft brown of his. The tenderness in his gaze nearly undoes you. His hand moves to your jaw, his touch reverent, almost as if he is afraid you will break. His lips find yours once more, but this time, it is different—more deliberate, more certain. His kiss is no longer tentative but deep and urgent, as though he is claiming a piece of you that only he can touch.

You lose yourself in it—the heat, the pressure, the pulse of his mouth. His teeth catch your lip, and it stings, but you barely notice. A whimper, whether yours or his, fills the space, but the sound is lost in the rush of breath, in the mingling of lips and skin. You feel the roughness of his stubble against your chin, the faint taste of wine lingering on his tongue, and still, there is no hesitation in him, no caution. Only the need that pulses between you both, growing louder with every second.

The kiss is imperfect, nothing graceful or refined about it. Your noses bump, lips miss their mark, but none of it matters. All that matters is him—the way his hands are on you, pulling you closer as if the world would unravel if he let go. His fingers tangle in your hair, his grip tight, as though afraid you might slip away. The fire of his touch, the pulse of his heart that you can feel through the chest of his tunic, it is all you can focus on. His teeth graze your lip again, a gentle pain, but you do not mind.

All the awkwardness, all the hesitation that held you back before, it crumbles. His warmth wraps around you, and you, helpless in his arms, yield to it entirely. The only thing that remains is the kiss, the consuming kiss, and the undeniable need that surges between you both—untamed, undeniable.

His mouth is now fierce, a wet warmth, his tongue gently coaxing yours to move with his. The kiss is greedy, passionate, as though he’s starved for this moment, for you. He presses you back until the back of your knees press into the frame of his bed, his hands sliding to your waist. He pulls you flush against him, the hard outline of his body unmistakable beneath the softness of his robe.

Every inch of him seems to burn, the strength of his body almost suffocating, and yet you can’t bring yourself to be the first to pull away. His lips are insistent, coaxing yours open, and you melt into the kiss—his dominance over you impossible to ignore. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you tighter against him, the heat of his skin searing through the thin fabric between you both.

You gasp into the kiss, a soft moan escaping your lips, and Marcus groans, the sound low and guttural, reverberating through his chest and underneath your fingertips. He’s still guiding your hands, placing them where they reach, urging you to feel the solid strength of him. His lips move down to your neck, and you tilt your head back instinctively, exposing the soft curve of your throat, offering yourself to him in a way you never thought you would. In a way you’ve never given yourself to anyone. In this moment, you wonder if any other man could ever possess you as he does. None could live up to the gravity of his presence.

The kiss grows deeper, wetter, as his tongue traces the line of your jaw, the taste of him heady and overwhelming. His lips are insistent, pulling at you with a hunger that feels both terrifying and exhilarating, and you can feel your body responding to him, to the roughness of his touch and the heat that pulses between your delicate thighs.

"Yet here I stand, unable to turn away." His gaze meets yours, the weight of his longing evident in his eyes, before he kisses you again, slower, savoring every moment like it's the last. "I want to consume you," he breathes against your skin, his voice raw with desire, and it’s a statement that leaves no room for doubt.

With a swift, commanding motion, he softly pushes you back onto the bed. Mouths still connected, his quiet growl of restraint echos between your lips. His body follows, a heavy, searing weight settling between your thighs, pushing you into the soft sheets. The heat of him radiates, suffocating, intoxicating—his raw masculinity demanding your attention.

His breath comes quicker now against your mouth, and you feel the undeniable hardness of him against your core, the pulse of his need unmistakable. His hands roam, one still on your neck, the other sliding to the flesh of your ass, feeling the curve of your body as if he cannot get close enough. And yet, even as he takes, he’s gentle—as gentle as a man who has killed men with his bare hands can be.

You shift beneath him, grinding upwards into him, desperate for the contact against you clit, for the something that you don’t fully understand. Your breath hitches, and before you can stop it, the words spill out in a trembling whisper. "Please, Marcus..."

His breath stutters, and his hands tighten on you, the muscles in his jaw clenching, as if battling the very thing he wants most.

The kiss fades, but the heat of it clings to your skin, lingering like the aftertaste of wine long past its prime. Your body still trembles, caught in the aftermath of something you cannot name. But Marcus—he pulls away, his face hardening, as though the very touch of you has scorched him.

His eyes, once soft and filled with unspoken promises, harden into something cold, distant. He stands before you now as if the very air between you both has become too heavy to bear. The warmth of the moment slips away, replaced by an unfamiliar chill that settles in your chest.

“This cannot continue,” Marcus declares, his voice low yet unmistakable, carrying the authority of a man accustomed to giving commands. From the foot of the bed, his robe sweeps behind him like a dark stormcloud, the fabric rustling as he takes a step back.

His gaze lingers on you, but it is not the soft, searching look you had felt moments before. Now, his eyes are cold, hard, as though he’s seeing a stranger rather than the woman he held in his arms. You instinctively press your knees together, hands trembling as you smooth your gown down, desperate to regain some semblance of composure under his gaze.

“My lord, I... I beg your pardon,” you say, stumbling over your own words, the breath stolen from your lungs. “Forgive my presumption. I did not mean to overstep my place.” You bow your head, as though the mere act of addressing him with familiarity has caused this fracture. You stand hurriedly, your dress falling to brush against the floor.

"I expect you to remain in the shadows, where you belong. There is no place for you in the light, not with me, not with who I am." His mouth punctuates your pain, lips swollen from your very own mouth.

You feel his words as though they strike you in the chest, a sharp, sudden ache that forces the breath from your lungs. Your hands, trembling, clutch at the edges of your tunic, as though you might collapse into yourself if you do not. His gaze shifts to the floor, as though ashamed to meet your eyes—yet there is nothing to soften the edge of his tone, nothing to soften the cruel command that falls from his lips.

"I will ensure you never again suffer the indignity of those gatherings," he continues, his words laced with the formal coldness of a man who has seen too much and is too bound by duty to feel what he does. "Those places are not for you. I will see to it that you are kept from them, from their dangers."

The promise rings hollow in your ears, for you know—this is not about the danger of those parties. This is about something else entirely. You, standing before him now, no longer hold the place you once did. You are no longer the woman he held in his arms, no longer someone he could desire, someone he could protect. The emotional whiplash rattles your brain, causing you to wrap your arms around yourself.

"I do not understand," you whisper, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, weak and insubstantial.

You take a step toward him, but he raises his hand, palm outstretched in a gesture of command, halting you where you stand. You are no soldier, no warrior of Rome. You are a woman—a servant, and one should know her station. The silence between you thickens, a reminder that you are beneath him, beneath his station, his power.

“There is little you need to know of Rome's affairs,” he says, his voice taking on the sharpness of a man accustomed to command. “I am a general, bound to duty, not to frivolity or indulgence.” He crosses his arms over his chest, as though presenting himself before the emperors themselves. His posture is rigid, his expression one of resolve. “I have no time for the distractions of the heart, nor the weakness they bring.”

You lower your gaze, a moment of silence passing as you weigh his words. But within you, something stirs—a quiet defiance, a refusal to be entirely subjugated. You raise your chin, your voice steady, yet laced with the hint of something that feels almost like a challenge.

“I may be but a servant, Dominus,” you say, the title heavy on your tongue but not without a certain firmness. “And I may not know the ways of Rome, nor fully grasp the weight of your command. Yet, there is one truth I understand: love, my lord, is not a weakness. It is the mightiest battle of all. And it is not to be abandoned.”

You hold his gaze for but a brief moment, the fire in your heart clashing with the cold detachment in his eyes. For a single breath, time stills between you, as though the weight of your words presses down upon both of you, thick and suffocating. His silence is a weight more burdensome than any words could ever be.

With a deep breath, you break the stare, turning away without a word, your movements slow, measured, as if to make your departure a solemn act. Each step feels as if it carries you farther from him, the space between you growing with each echoing footfall. The air around you becomes heavier, like the very gods themselves bear witness to this unspoken rift between master and servant. The distance you now place between you both feels infinite, yet it is his silence that follows you, louder than any shout, more final than any command.

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group-dynamic · 2 months ago

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Episode 13 Spoilers: My favorite thing about The Pitt is how subtly literary it is.

Some shows are overtly symbolic (like The Bear), and you are given time by the filming and the editing to pause at times and see the cleverness and the grand design.

The Pitt's realism and pacing does not allow you to linger, though, just as the characters don't have time to linger. Which means--as in real life--we don't get to see the hand of God designing the story to deliver meaning. We have to sense and make patterns of meaning ourselves. (That's actually one of the biggest issues these characters are all facing mentally. Despite their best effort there's literally been no time to pause and make meaning.) That being said, just because it's hard to see doesn't mean there aren't very deliberate choices made every moment of this show.

So, anyway, on today's rewatch, I caught:

The patient that Langdon and Mohan revived with Narcan answered Langdon's question "What did you take?" with "I took one Percocet so I could dance. I have a bad knee." in a direct mirror of Langdon's earlier excuse for his own addiction: "I have a bad back."

McKay hears that the shooter might be heading their way and says, "What?! My kid's in the break room!" This is immediately followed by Javadi’s mother asking "The shooter is heading this way?" Because her daughter is also in the hospital.

Jack Abbott, former combat medic, hops in to save the uniformed officer, and we get an actual, genuine smile of relief because he ended his last shift losing a vet, a loss he took so hard he ended up on the roof. Framed behind him in this moment (significantly) are SWAT in militarized camo and heavy combat gear.

Langdon being unable to "hear himself think" when McKay's ankle monitor goes off is probably a reminder of his drug usage, but also perhaps a reference to his earlier comment that "all of us have ADHD."

Also, I noticed this while watching the first time, but loved the "the mentor does, mentee imitates" line of succession from Robby to Langdon to Mohan to Santos.

A small one, but Santos says "stay strong, Crash" to Javadi as she leaves from the team effort on the older hippie, and this time it sounds like genuine camaraderie. They're transforming our interpretation of her without losing her characterization.

Finally, everyone's pointed out already that Robby's mentor died in Peds? Pedes? and how significant it is that this same room is where he's having his breakdown. But I have big thoughts about the motif of fathers & sons in this season, and the even bigger thread of parents / kids. At minimum, I'm talking: David's father died and he spiraled, Robby's mentor died and he spiraled, but this also includes Robby learning that Collins had an abortion when they were together, something Robby clearly had an emotional response to as he now has to imagine a reality in which he might have had a child with Collins, and he handles it very maturely and centers her, as he should, but he didn't get to process that or make meaning.

So it feels very deliberate that the show chose to put the morgue in the part of the ED normally used for children. And now he's in that same children's department his mentor died in after losing three (four?) kids that day. A morgue where he's standing behind the closest thing he has to a son who he feels he failed and wow are they just making that room a powder keg of trauma representation.

And to top things off, they literally gave us a clown this episode (or as Whitaker points out "a children's entertainer") who is worried about whether he'll be able to make balloon animals ever again. And that's silly and it's also human but--thematically, and more importantly--it's a man wondering if the pain inflicted on him will prevent him from doing his job in the future. I don't know. Something about Robby being everyone's dad and being the head clown at the circus that is the Pitt and trying to keep all these kids afloat. Like--I'm sorry--the music festival had a clown? Nah, this is symbolism now (because I say so, haha).

Finally, these didn't fit into the meaning category, but I really appreciated that Whitaker had that very human moment reassuring Carmen after she wakes up after the REBOA (you know, the balloon thing).

Also, so many people were irate about Jake's comments to Robby, but if you listen closely, the captions miss that he says, "Are--are you okay?" when Robby starts to drag him out of the room. Robby has just said an accidentally cruel thing to him and Jake is genuinely, honestly concerned. They're both grieving but that is a good kid.

#the pitt #the pitt spoilers #i had too many thoughts #I wish I could articulate the kids and death motif better.

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anonymousewrites · 4 months ago

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Lavender for Royalty; Sage for Wisdom (Book 1) Chapter Seventeen

Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Chapter Seventeen: Hyacinth for Game

Summary: The Football Club and the Host Club take on one another in the game for the main salon for the club expo.

“A record-number of participants and a cross-campus race,” said (Y/N), looking at the flyer about the competition. “Very different from last year.”

“Indeed,” said Kyoya.

“How can I help you win?” said (Y/N). “You must have a plan.”

Kyoya smirked. “I do indeed.” He looked at the rest of the Host Club as they did pointless exercises. “But it requires them to cease this wasteful effort.” He glanced at them. “You just need to keep your wits about you, and I trust you can.” They had a good head on their shoulders.

“I thought they’d all be fine athletes,” said Haruhi.

“We are,” said the twins. “Just not on the level of the Football Club. What about you?”

“Haruhi’s junior high records show that she takes over eleven seconds for a fifty-meter sprint,” said Kyoya.

“…I’m not good at sports,” said Haruhi.

“That’s okay!” cheered the hosts. “Being a slow-poke is cute!”

“Alright! Now for the uniform,” said Tamaki. “We have yet to select the club’s outfit for the school competition!”

“Yeah, that’s important,” said Kaoru and Hikaru, nodding.

“Haruhi, how is the search for the perpetrator coming along?” said Kyoya calmly.

“At first Kuze seemed fishy, but he seems to want to openly confront the Host Club,” said Haruhi. “That means there may be someone else who wants to see Kuze falsely accused. Maybe there’s a simple solution. If we investigate the people around Kuze…What I don’t understand is the meaning of the blank letters.”

“Haruhi, sometimes things that appear complicated turn out to be unexpectedly simple, and vice versa,” said Kyoya. “And even if you have a lot of threads in hand, that does not necessarily mean you have to tie them all together, right?”

“…Huh?” Kyoya was being obtuse as ever, and Haruhi sighed.

“No matter. Just focus on our job,” said Kyoya. “You know the consequences…”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Haruhi, shivering. Her debt would double.

(Y/N) leaned on the back of Kyoya’s chair as Haruhi walked away. “You know more than you’re saying.”

“Do I?” said Kyoya.

“Yes,” said (Y/N) confidently. They looked down at him. “The citrus smell…It could be perfume, couldn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” said Kyoya.

“Aha,” said (Y/N). They had the connection, then. “So, how can I help you?”

Kyoya pulled a thick stack of papers from his bag. “Memorize these blueprints for the school.”

“Alright,” said (Y/N), taking them. They smiled at Kyoya. “Let’s win.”

“You’ve got quite a bit of spirit this year,” said Kyoya.

“Kuze annoys me,” said (Y/N). “So, let’s have a third son and a commoner beat him, shall we?”

Kyoya smirked. “We shall.” Kuze had stepped over a line. He had insulted Kyoya and (Y/N). He would pay for it in his loss.

The day of the race arrived. Due to the sudden competition between the Football Club and the Host Club, more clubs had joined in excitement. 132 people were vying for the win now. However, the onlookers knew that the only real battle was between the Host Club and the Football Club. Indeed, even as they stood apart and staring at one another—one in a more traditional outfit and the other in jerseys—the energy was palpable.

Mitsuyama cleared her throat and stepped up the microphone. “Let me explain how the race works. You’re to follow the prescribed route and answer the questions at designated sites in each building—East, West, South, and North. If any team member passes, so does their group. If not, the team is eliminated. The group that successfully clears all sites will be given five clues. In the finals, participants must use those clues to seek out a particular location. The group that claims the hidden crown shall win use of the Central Salon. Any questions? No? Very well then…”

�� The starting gun went off with a bang.

“Let the race begin!” said the broadcast club, the announcers.

The Host Club ran forward to the tables with buzzers, and an announcer grinned, ready with the first trivia question.

“First is the Reflex Quiz! What is the name of the fairy king who appears in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

The Football Club hit the buzzer first and shouted, “Oberon!”

“Correct answer!” said the announcer. “Please ascend the slippery slope behind me and proceed to the next site!”

“Interesting,” said Kyoya. “They mean to eliminate a large number of participants early on.”

Indeed, a lot of people were slipping, and the Football Club was making slow progress. Fortunately, that gave the Host Club a chance to answer a trivia question to move on.

“Who is the author of the British novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd?”

Buzz! “Agatha Christie,” said (Y/N), and Tamaki immediately ran for the slippery slope.

“Ah! They even know more modern British authors! They’re so talented! So cultured!” screamed the host club fans. “And look at Tamaki go!”

“The Host Club is advancing,” announced the broadcast club.

No sooner had they spoken, though, that Tamaki slipped and face-planted on the incline.

“But he slipped!”

Kaoru and Hikaru jumped on his back to get farther up.

“The Hitachiin brothers are stepping on him! What an incredible strategy for the Chairman’s son to sacrifice his body!”

“Who says it’s a strategy?!” cried Tamaki indignantly.

“Tarumi of the Football Club passes by easily,” said the announcer as Kaoru and Hikaru slipped. “The Football Club starts off in the lead! Close behind are the Gymnastics Club and the Wandervogel Club. Could it be? Will the Host Club be eliminated so soon?!”

“No,” said Kyoya, smirking.

Honey ran forward and jumped. He landed on Mori’s hands, and Mori boosted him into the air. He landed easily at the top of the incline without having to step foot on it once.

“It’s a miraculous show of teamwork between Morinozuka and Haninozuka!”

The fans screamed with joy.

“The Host Club passed the first site!”

Mori smiled slightly.

The next sites went just as smoothly, if not more so. The second site was a math quiz couple with a hundred chin-ups. Kyoya and (Y/N) had the quiz down while Mori handled the chin-ups. The third site was a memorization quiz that (Y/N) and Haruhi worked through while Tamaki did a tightrope-walking activity. The fourth game was “concentration and free throws,” which apparently meant matching art and painters and then making basketball shots. Hikaru and Kaoru seamlessly completed both activities in quick succession.

However, as easily as they finished all the sites, so did the Football Club. They were neck and neck.

“All clear!” said the announcer. “The Host Club finished at the same time as the Football Club. Will the other groups follow? As expected, it looks like the two clubs who sparked the race will move on to challenge each other in the final round! Which club will seize the crown?!”

The Host Club looked at the five listed clues.

BoH Go up and sink Tenjiku KCN Between the Holy Mother and Angel

“Does ‘BoH’ mean there’s supposed to be a word inside the square?” said Hikaru.

“I bet it’s ‘west,’ as in ‘bust, waist, and hip,’ ” said Kaoru. His mother’s influence was clear (she was a designer, after all).

“ ‘Go up and sink?’ ” said Haruhi. “The sun? It comes up and sinks every day.”

“ ‘Tenjiku,’ ” said Kyoya. “That’s India. It’s also the destination of the party in Journey to the West.”

“KCN could be Potassium Cyanide. It smells like almonds, which come from West India,” said (Y/N). “That could be a connection…” They weren’t convinced yet, though.

“Three of the five clues are related to ‘West,’ ” said Tamaki. “Assuming one of them points to the ‘sun…’ that means the destination is the West Gym—where the Third Years are holding their event for the festival! Sunset Venice!”

(Y/N) looked around themself. They hadn’t expected to change costumes into that of a venetian carnival outfit, but such were the antics of the Host Club. So, as they floated on a gondola across the giant gym (recreating Venice was quite something), (Y/N) just leaned back.

“A sweet, fragrant sea breeze,” said Tamaki. “A scarlet sunset that burns the heart. How mysterious. Until a moment ago, I thought we were under the sunny autumn sky of Japan. Look, Haruhi. The gentle water flowing in this canal. This grand atmosphere is just like hwo I feel about you—”

Tock.

“Dead end,” announced the twins.

“It’s a one-way street, we have to go back,” said Honey.

“So then Tamaki’s feelings for Haruhi are a ‘one way street with a dead end?’ ” said Kyoya.

“Oh, dear, poor Tamaki,” said (Y/N), shaking their head.

“That’s not it! I said ‘gentle and grand!’ ” cried Tamaki. “The scene was only a metaphor for the in a princely character scene!”

“Ah, so your feelings are just an act,” said (Y/N).

“No!” whined Tamaki.

(Y/N) chuckled, and Kyoya smirked.

“Guys, can we focus on the race? The Football Club is way ahead,” said Haruhi, sighing.

“Oh, no, this is bad!” cried Tamaki. “Row! Row fast!”

Mori was way ahead of him and propelled them forward.

“Suoh! Catch!” Kuze taunted Tamaki and threw an orange towards him.

Tamaki leaned out to catch it, but (Y/N) pulled a punting pole from the water and knocked the orange aside. Tamaki pouted, and (Y/N) shook their head.

“He’s trying distracting us,” said (Y/N). “Do you want to lose?”

“No!” declared Tamaki.

“But where exactly are we heading?” said Haruhi. “We can’t look for the crown blindly in a large area like this. We need to figure out that last clue. What does ‘Between the Holy Mother and Angel’ mean?”

“She’s never been to Italy…” said the twins, Honey, and Tamaki sadly.

“Will you stop that ‘feeling sorry for the deprived commoner’ attitude?” said Haruhi, rolling her eyes.

“Listen, Haruhi, even if it’s done on a much smaller scale, several famous locations in Venice have been erected in the gym,” said Tamaki. “For example, Palazzo Dario. San Marco. Ducale. And, most importantly, Sant’Angelo and Santa Maria della Salute.”

“Oh!” said Haruhi.

“It looks like the Football Club is heading for the same place,” said Kaoru.

“Yeah, let’s hurry. The crown is probably sitting between the two spots in the gym. That’ll be Academia Bridge,” said Hikaru.

“Mori, onwards!” declared Tamaki.

“By the way, Haruhi, I hear you mentioned to Tamaki you think there are two perpetrators behind the letters?” said Kyoya. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Yes, I think the one who sent the newspaper cutouts is Kanan Mitsuyama, the Student Council Secretary,” said Haruhi.

Kyoya and (Y/N) glanced at each other as Haruhi continued.

“Kuze has said he has a connection to the Student Council. I believe he asked Mitsuyama for help,” explained Haruhi. “He convinced the Student Council to withdraw from the race to make it more advantageous for the Football Club. From what I saw of them interacting yesterday, she doesn’t seem to be cooperating willingly.”

(Y/N) saw a tiny smirk on Kyoya’s face, and they tilted their head. Hm.

“I think Mitsuyama might be in a position where she can’t act against Kuze,” said Haruhi. “Though she may be obeying his orders, she may have a grudge against him. And that would explain why she might have conspired to prevent Kuze from realizing his absolute goal—a face-off with the Host Club.”

“A very bold theory,” said Kyoya with an expression that (Y/N) knew from experience was a bit of amusement. “But is there any basis for her grudge?”

“I did some research on the library computer yesterday,” said Haruhi. “Mitsuyama’s family holds the second biggest market share in Japan for imported produce. In other words, they’re direct competitors. But their business dropped last year, and rumor has it that the Kuze family is talking to them about some merger deals.”

“You mean he’s manipulating Miss Mitsuyama using a deal that would rescue her family’s business?” said Hikaru.

“For a gentleman, a deed like that is unforgivable!” said Tamaki. “We cannot let this stand. Everyone, take an oar! Whatever it takes, we must reach Accademia Bridge before the Football Club! For the sake of Miss Mitsuyama’s misery, the Host Club must win!”

“…” The entirety of the Football Club and Host Club stared at the “Restricted Area” sign of the (under construction) Accademia Bridge. They had all been wrong about the clues.

“Oh, no! It’s still being built,” said Honey. “Well…After all, it’s not to open for two days.”

“This is your class, Honey!” cried Tamaki. “You should know the status of the project!”

Mori shrugged.

“But we’re not in charge of this section,” said Honey. “I’m doing a pastry shop.”

“President! It’s not your fault, President! Here! Oranges have an rousing effect on the mind!”

Kuze—also in Class 3-A—had forgotten about this area being under construction as well and felt extremely stupid.

(Y/N) put a hand to their chin and looked around. If this isn’t the place…then where is it? It’s definitely here in the West. There’s no doubt there. So what— (Y/N) straightened. KCN and “Go up and sink.” The blueprints Kyoya had me memorize. Alkaline is in pool’s, and there’s a pool we can sink into on the roof of a building in the West. (Y/N) looked at Kyoya. Had he known…?

Kyoya saw their knowing look and nodded. He smirked and waved them off. (Y/N) grinned, tore off their Carnivale costume, and raced for the next building.

A few moments later, they heard the announcer saying people were giving chase, and (Y/N) forced themself onwards and upwards until they reached the roof. There, sitting on a throne between statues of an angel and Mother Mary, was a crown.

“Get to the crown!” shouted Kyoya.

From below on the stairs, he and the hosts were pushing the Football Club as they all jostled to get to the top. Kuze broke through, and (Y/N) ran for the crown. A broadcast team and Mitsuyama were already there and watched with wide eyes as (Y/N) and Kuze lunged for the crown.

“Takeshi!” cried Mitsuyama.

“(Y/N)!” shouted Tamaki.

“It’s—” the announcer’s eyes widened.

(Y/N) threw their hand up with the crown clutched in it and a giant grin on their face.

“It’s over!” shouted the announcer. “(Y/N) (L/N) has claimed the crown! The Host Club wins!”

Taglist:

@roo024

@jmclouds

@yappydoo

@ramblingsoftheill

@girgal73

@rockerica

@nosoyyo1213

@ritzes28

@grippledee-galaxy

@rory-cakes

@neenieweenie

@k03ume

@constellationguy

@paastaboi

@introvertathome

@chaseyui

@jexnight

@snowy-violet

@nanaloverz

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elkkiel · 10 months ago

Text

Okay! Here's a transcription of the tier 4 bundle page from Sumerian's twitter. Please let me know if I screwed anything up or if it's tough to read at all; I tried to work around the obscured parts as best I could, but all the notes might have made it cluttered. There's also several words I couldn't read, as well as some partially-visible words I couldn't figure out lol

15 days since convergence of the Lunar Anomaly

When I was a child, I was frequently beset by certain recurring dreams. There is one such dream that I remember more than most—one in which I found myself standing on a vast shoreline gazing out at a flat, wide sea. Slowly as I watched, the horizon gradually began to lift. Before long I was able to observe that this lifting expanse was approaching me— a wall of smooth, black water that curled into an impossible lip at its peak. Rather surprisingly, I do not recall being afraid at such an ominous sight. well, to be more precise, I was afraid— I was terrified, but on of the wave itself. Instead, it was the thought of what was beyond it. This vast, unstoppable force sweeping forth to herald the end of everything, to drown the world and then eventually sink back into itself. A careless shrug of entropy enough to sever the thread of all fates. I felt that were I to somehow survive this limitless tide, then I would be left in a world that would not recognize me. I would become an element unto myself and myself alone.

An echo stuck in the throat of a dead god.

Yet here I am. it has been over two weeks since the emergence of the lunar anomaly. Our teams spent nearly two years attempting to anticipate what this event would mean for humanity— analyzing endless [UNCLEAR] of lunar topography along with every known form of spectroscopy, all amounting in one hopeless conclusion: to burrow inside the bowels of the earth and simply [wish?] that whatever emerged from within would reach us there last.

As it would turn out, this one final act of humble surrender is what won the last of the right to our own lives in these final days. Those of us alive now are not those who sought to barter with [destiny?] and defiantly cling to a civilised existence at the... [OBSCURED; line break] ...–esce at all.

[OBSCURED] –of this phenomenon, we were best served by our most base instincts, where shame found no place to... [OBSCURED; line break]

[OBSCURED] –who [sp_ _ ;UNCLEAR] their [hubris?] and hid desperately down in the mud like rats.

[OBSCURED] –made every effort to warn the others, though naturally we could not [provide?] much of a [ha _ _ s ;UNCLEAR] upon... [OBSCURED; line break] ...species was facing imminent and utter demise besides a few fissures at the southern lunar pole. With... [OBSCURED; line break] ...underground facility once we realized that the moon's orbit was rapidly decaying in a way that was... [OBSCURED; line break] ... [–sical; UNCLEAR] model – I find it hard to believe that none of them followed our lead – Perhaps some of them... [OBSCURED; line break] ...of knowing now.

[OBSCURED] [s]urface expedition was [bleak?] at best. In all honesty, I was shocked to discover that our intial... [OBSCURED; line break] [UNCLEAR] ...a breathable atmosphere. Perhaps in all this turmoil, I found it easier to commit my mind to the... [OBSCURED; line break] ...turn.

[OBSCURED] [–dare; UNCLEAR] the event—despite two years of efforts—didn't prepare us for the havoc we now face. To say that... [OBSCURED; line break] ...explain the phenomena would be a gratuitious understatement. The cataclysm that occurred two weeks... [OBSCURED; line break] ... [UNCLEAR] rule about this new world we now hid beneath – to gaze upon the moon is to die.

[OBSCURED] [deve]loped wearable countermeasures for the surface teams that would prove vital in allowing them to... [OBSCURED; line break] ...could have known that this was far from the only threat that awaited them. To say that we find... [OBSCURED; line break] ...the phenomena would be a gratuitious understatement.

[OBSCURED] is affected by the lunar anomaly, but that of all life, albeit in vastly different ways.

[OBSCURED] of emergent biology is beyond the boundaries of what we would be able to study and understand.

[OBSCURED] guilt over those we lost. More than that however, I feel more guilty about the way I reacted to... [OBSCURED; line break] ...elements that attacked our team. I felt strangely comforted, despite the deeply disturbing nature of... [OBSCURED; line break]

[OBSCURED] [UNCLEAR] at the conclusion that this feeling came from a sense of familiarity, human beings fighting... [OBSCURED; line break] ...that has plagued us all since time immemorable, but here in the wake of such deeply unfamiliar and... [OBSCURED; line break] ...hard not to feel almost comforted by such an immediately recognisable problem.

[OBSCURED] [you]rself deeply troubled by the prospect of humans remaining on the surface in that state. The... [OBSCURED; line break] ...is that their actions were not [UNCLEAR] of their own will, though there is every chance [that] this is [a]... [OBSCURED; line break] ...a preference over the [UNCLEAR] alternative.

[OBSCURED] [-ing; UNCLEAR] the precious remnants of human life is the desire to understand what has happened, though in... [OBSCURED; line break] ...do. Perhaps this is the only way we can cling to our humanity– by continuing our constant battle... [OBSCURED; line break] ...the very end.

#again hopefully this is legible enough #sleep token #sleep token lore #teeth of god #teeth of god graphic novel #elkk.lore

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spitefully-existing · 5 months ago

Text

the sleep token book is a bit hard to read, i rewrote it the best i could below the cut; hopefully this helps!

thank you to @top-quality-garbage for helping me decipher some of this and to @doiha for the spanish translation! 🫶🫶

⚠️⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️⚠️

15 days since emergence of the Lunar Anomaly

When I was a child, I was frequently beset by certain reoccurring dreams. this is one such dream that I remembered more than most – one in which I found myself standing on a vast shoreline, gazing out at a flat, wide sea. Slowly, as I watched the horizon gradually begin to lift. Before long I was able to observe that this lifting expanse was approaching me – a wall of smooth, black water that curls into an impossible lip at its peak. rather surprisingly, I do not recall being afraid of such an ominous sight. Well, to be more precise, I was afraid – I was terrified, but not of the wave itself. Instead, it was the thought of what was beyond it. This vast, unstoppable force sweeping forth to herald the end of everything, to drown the world and then eventually sink back into itself. A careless shrug of entropy enough to sever the thread of all fates. I felt that were I to somehow survive this limitless tide then I would be left in the world that would not recognize me. I would become an element unto myself and myself alone.

An echo stuck in the throat of a dead god.

yet here I am. It has been over two weeks since the emergence of the lunar anomaly. our team spent nearly 2 years attempting to anticipate what this event would mean for humanity – analyzing endless reams of lunar topography along with every known form of spectroscopy, all amounting to one hopeless conclusion: to burrow into the bowels of the earth and simply wait that whatever emerge from within would reach us these last.

as it would turn out this one final act of humble surrenders is what one the last of us the right to our own lives in these final days. Those of us alive now are not those who sought to barter with destiny and defiantly cling to a civilized existence of the surface – or even any existence at all.

it would seem that in the week of this phenomenon, we are best served by our most base instincts, whose shame found no place to dwell. The ones who survived are those who spat their hubris and hid desperately down in the mud like rats.

I want it to be known that we made every effort to warn the others, though naturally we could not provide much of a basis upon which to suggest that our entire species with facing imminent and utter demise besides a few fissures of the southern lunar pole. with that said we begun building this underground facility once we realized that the moon’s orbit was rapidly decaying in a way that was inconsistent with any known physical model – I found it hard to believe that none of them followed our lead perhaps some of them did either way we have no way of knowing now.

my expectations for the first surface expedition were bleak at best in all honesty. I was shocked to discover that our initial readings showed that these remained a breathable atmosphere. Perhaps in all this turmoil, I found it easier to commit my mind to the worst possible outcome at every turn.

The limited data we gathered before the event – despite two years of efforts – didn’t prepare us for the havoc we now face. To say that we find ourselves at a loss to explain, the phenomenon would be a gracious understatement. The catechism that occurred two weeks ago had taught us one unshakable rule about this new world we now hid beneath – to gaze upon the moon is to die.

For this reason, we rapidly developed wearable counter measures for the surface teams that would prove vital in allowing them to navigate the surface. If only we could have known that this was far from the only threat that awaited them. To say that we find ourselves at a loss to explain the phenomena would be a gracious understatement.

it is not only human life that is affected by the lunar anomaly, but that of all life, albeit in vastly different ways. To put it simply – this new type of emergent biology is beyond the boundaries of what we are able to study and understand.

I find myself already laden with guilt over those we lost. More than that however, I feel most guilty about the way I reacted to learning of the remnant human elements that attacked our team. I felt strangely comforted, despite the deeply disturbing nature of that discovery.

Upon further introspection, I arrived at the conclusion that this feeling came from a sense of familiarity. Human beings fighting other human beings is a horror that has played us all since time immemorial, but here in the wake of such deeply unfamiliar and unpredictable occurrences, it is hard not to feel almost comforted by such an immediately recognizable problem.

with that said, I do also find myself deeply troubled by the prospect of humans remaining on the surface in that state. The consensus among my colleagues is that their actions were not born of their own will, though there is every chance that this is a conclusion we are clinging to in preference over the more unsettling alternative.

I feel that I am rapidly squandering the precious remnants of human life in the desire to understand what has happened, though in truth, I know not what else to do. Perhaps this is the only way we can cling to our humanity – by continuing our constant battle with the sheer unknown right to the very end.

The Director

28 days since Lunar Anomaly

already I find myself in the surprising position of yearning for the way things were two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I was contending with the end of the world. Now, I contend with the reality of what has replaced it.

we took the trouble to equip ourselves as thoroughly as possible, with the means of studying any emergent phenomena on the surface, even whilst and tomb beneath the Earth. We now find ourselves consumed by the pursuit of understanding – it is truly all that we have left. However, the samples we’ve acquired offer no such mercy – their nature and origin is fundamentally foreign to us. Something we can say is that, contrary to the initial assumption that most life on the surface had been wiped out, there is in fact in abundance of some kind of new organic material. It can be found everywhere in some form, including in the atmosphere itself. Its cellular structure is completely unique – where one would expect to see some approximation of a typical eukaryotic cell, what we see instead resembles membranous tubules that contain vast quantities of foreign organelles. These organelles seem to function in an oddly synchronous fashion and are able to perform a variety of functions. Primarily, they are able to ‘grow’ the tubules that contain them by undergoing a form of transformation at either end which renders them as part of the tubule wall. secondly, and far more strangely, they are able to exert some kind of force over the tubule as a whole, contorting it in a way not dissimilar to muscle tissue, (but without any apparent nervous impulse.)

as to the origin of this tissue, our initial assumption was that it had been somehow transferred from the moon itself to earth – perhaps via pieces of lunar material falling through the atmosphere. This makes some sense, however, the sheer proliferation of this material across the surface within a relatively short period of time suggest that there is more to it than that.

I am reluctant to comment on the reports of other worldly beings on the surface. Their presence carries implications I am simply unprepared for. At a certain point, however, I must accept that this only increases the inevitable danger placed upon the surface teams during their expeditions. What I must also accept is that these precious human lives are now the only currency with which we can barter against the unknown.

Thus far we barter in vain.

The Director

58 days since the lunar anomaly

when we first retreated down into the ground, I think that somewhere in the midst of my despair, I clung to a degree of hope. This wasn’t so much a hope for survival as much as the hope that we would at least be able to discern some kind of meaningful understanding of what has happened. we have committed everything – I have committed everything. The last precious remnant of humanity extinguished in the name of what makes us human to begin with. To shed what light we have left on the sea of the unknown. But now I see that this was a futile effort that has resulted in nothing but death, not merely in the context of our final struggle, but across the scope of all human existence. It has all amounted to nothing but a few extra skulls drifting in the foul ether that has swamped our world.

It is clear now that the lunar anomaly functions in accordance with laws of its own. It makes a mockery of science. It permeates and distort reality to the degree that all fundamental assumptions are rendered useless. it kills everything it touches while simultaneously imbuing it with some kind of new life, twisting nature into something grotesque and unrecognizable. These new forms seem organic, but they have nothing resembling a typical cell structure or genetic blueprint. They can bring forth in an instant, summoning flesh from nothing. Furthermore, our ability to measure even the most fundamental aspects of our physical world is becoming impossible. The massive objects change slightly, depending on where they are, as though gravity itself, has begun to lose its grip. We have detected seismic activity from further inside the Earth than we even thought possible. The anomaly doesn’t just want to consume all life. It wants to consume reality.

as for those beings, I know not what they are were where they originated. They themselves are not consistent with the nature of the anomaly they inhabit. Their actions seem to exhibit some strange sentence, but their motives are unclear, and they make no effort to communicate. At times I have concluded that they are here to replace us, or perhaps, even that they themselves represent some fractured distillation of our nature. they are after all violent, just as we have been to the very end. They seem to push against one another as a part of some strange order. As time has passed, though, I have come to believe that they have no connection to us. I believe that what our world has become is a little more than an arena to them – a crucible of existence where they will battle eternally. The totality of their being is not their individual functions, but rather the conflict between them. We are merely spectators to their endless dance of ceaseless struggle. this is perhaps the only thing that connects them to the drowned memory of what humanity once was – that we too saw meaning through constant friction and unending movement, compelled by some core motive force that drives us to bring ourselves to bear on the world and manifest our own perceptions.

in these final dimming days, I know only the solace of a promised end. I have become the ultimate witness. I have been saddled with the heavy blessing of seeing the unraveling of everything and I can do nothing but wait for it to unravel me too. But I live still within this temple of untampered flesh, and I will spend what blood still beats through it to barter one last time with the fangled threads of fate. if I must, I will march through the eye of death and meet it with eyes of my own.

What few of us are left now have our orders.

We must know what it is to become of us.

The Director

61 days since the lunar anomaly

I once spoke but now it seems through me just as I speak through it no longer to nothing I can change nothing no can change nothing nothing has become my thing I can make nothing into a weapon there will be no void left unfilled I am human and humans are always human and always scared because being human makes us scared and being scared makes us human I will crack the flesh I will crack the earth I will eat the pieces they will be pieces of me would you like to dance I have always been dancing we must keep dancing even when we are just tendrils we were always tendrils we could touch everything even things god did not want us to touch that is why he left us here that is why he thought we were ugly he could not wrap his tendrils around every part of us we spilled his paradise over the earth and danced with such a beautiful dance horror would leap and dance with us who would bathe us and we could lie within it we could tear the horror out from our hearts over and over we could never sleep sleep is death not even the earth would sleep the earth fears death it’s blood would freeze out in space out in nothing we must reach through the stars through the darkness even though it is so cold it can freeze our blood we can let our blood freeze and then crack it open hot like the earth we can step through death wear it like a crown hairs to the highest pantheon of life precious life with death as its blood precious death bursting from the many wombs of sacred war paradise was empty without us there was only silence but our blood made the flowers grow god spilled his blood over paradise god knows the stars are waiting fertile ground cold to the touch those stars are hungry they crave only the blood of god we are his tendrils and we will bury ourselves into those cold stars and there will be no darkness death will give us fear and fear will give us blood we will spill our hot blood across the stars I finally understand now I do I understand but will you let me keep my human fear will you let me yes being scared makes you human fear will sow the hot blood of god across the gold stars fear will make us dance and we must keep dancing can you see god dancing for you can you see him biting into you can you hear his teeth cracking into pieces of the stars they sent sparks raining down through the darkness all these years you have hunted him and reached for him you want his blood he made you with veins inside you like tendrils we dance through his veins as we bite through the stars and dance and he opens his mouth wide I am so scared Will you let me be the last human I understand now I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god I am the teeth of god

——————

15 días desde la aparición de la Anomalía Lunar

Cuando era niño, a menudo era acosado por ciertos sueños recurrentes. Este es uno de esos sueños que recuerdo más que la mayoría: uno en el que me encontraba de pie en una vasta orilla, mirando hacia un mar plano y amplio. Poco a poco, mientras observaba, el horizonte comenzó a elevarse gradualmente. No pasó mucho tiempo antes de que me diera cuenta de que esta extensión elevada se acercaba hacia mí: una pared de agua negra y suave que se curvaba de manera imposible en su borde. Sorprendentemente, no recuerdo haber sentido miedo ante tal ominosa visión. Bueno, para ser más preciso, sentía miedo, estaba aterrorizado, pero no de la ola en sí. Más bien, era el pensamiento de lo que había más allá de ella. Esta vasta e imparable fuerza que se desplazaba para anunciar el fin de todo, para ahogar el mundo y luego, eventualmente, sumergirse nuevamente en sí misma. Un encogimiento despreocupado de la entropía, suficiente para cortar el hilo de todos los destinos. Sentí que, si de alguna manera lograba sobrevivir a esta marea ilimitada, entonces me quedaría en un mundo que no me reconocería. Me convertiría en un elemento para mí mismo y solo para mí.

Un eco atrapado en la garganta de un dios muerto.

Y aquí estoy. Han pasado más de dos semanas desde la aparición de la anomalía lunar. Nuestro equipo pasó casi dos años intentando anticipar lo que este evento significaría para la humanidad: analizando interminables volúmenes de topografía lunar junto con todas las formas conocidas de espectroscopía, lo cual resultó en una conclusión desesperanzada: cavar en las entrañas de la Tierra y simplemente esperar a que lo que emergiera desde dentro nos alcanzara, siendo lo último en tocarnos.

Como resultó ser, este acto de humilde rendición fue lo que otorgó a los últimos de nosotros el derecho a nuestras propias vidas en estos días definitivos. Los que estamos vivos ahora no somos los que intentamos negociar con el destino ni aferrarnos desafiante a una existencia civilizada en la superficie, ni siquiera a cualquier existencia en absoluto.

Parece que, en la semana de este fenómeno, actuamos mejor con nuestros instintos más básicos, cuyos remordimientos no encontraron lugar donde residir. Los que sobrevivieron son aquellos que escupieron su arrogancia y se escondieron desesperadamente en el barro, como ratas.

Quiero que se sepa que hicimos todo lo posible por advertir a los demás, aunque, naturalmente, no pudimos proporcionar una base sólida para sugerir que nuestra especie entera enfrentaría una inminente y total desaparición, aparte de unas pocas fisuras en el polo lunar sur. Dicho esto, comenzamos a construir esta instalación subterránea una vez que nos dimos cuenta de que la órbita de la luna se estaba deteriorando rápidamente de una manera que era inconsistente con cualquier modelo físico conocido. Me resultó difícil creer que ninguno de ellos siguiera nuestro ejemplo; tal vez algunos lo hicieron, pero de todas formas ya no podemos saberlo.

Mis expectativas para la primera expedición en la superficie eran sombrías, en el mejor de los casos. Me sorprendió descubrir que nuestras lecturas iniciales mostraron que aún quedaba una atmósfera respirable. Quizás, en medio de todo este tumulto, encontré más fácil comprometer mi mente al peor desenlace en cada giro.

Los datos limitados que recopilamos antes del evento, a pesar de dos años de esfuerzos, no nos prepararon para el caos que ahora enfrentamos. Decir que nos encontramos perdidos para explicar el fenómeno sería un subestimado amable. El catecismo que ocurrió hace dos semanas nos enseñó una regla inquebrantable sobre este nuevo mundo que ahora nos oculta bajo tierra: mirar a la luna es morir.

Por esta razón, desarrollamos rápidamente contramedidas portátiles para los equipos de superficie que resultaron vitales para permitirles navegar por allí. Si tan solo hubiéramos sabido que esto estaba lejos de ser la única amenaza que les esperaba. Decir que nos encontramos perdidos para explicar los fenómenos sería un subestimado amable.

No es solo la vida humana la que se ve afectada por la anomalía lunar, sino también la de toda forma de vida, aunque de maneras enormemente diferentes. Para decirlo de manera simple: este nuevo tipo de biología emergente está más allá de los límites de lo que podemos estudiar y comprender.

Ya me encuentro cargado de culpa por aquellos que perdimos. Sin embargo, más que eso, me siento más culpable por la forma en que reaccioné al enterarme de los elementos humanos remanentes que atacaron a nuestro equipo. Me sentí extrañamente reconfortado, a pesar de la naturaleza profundamente perturbadora de ese descubrimiento.

Tras más introspección, llegué a la conclusión de que este sentimiento provenía de un sentido de familiaridad. Los seres humanos luchando contra otros seres humanos es un horror que nos ha atormentado desde tiempos inmemoriales, pero aquí, en medio de sucesos tan profundamente desconocidos e impredecibles, es difícil no sentirse casi reconfortado por un problema tan inmediatamente reconocible.

Dicho esto, también me siento profundamente preocupado por la perspectiva de que los humanos permanezcan en la superficie en ese estado. El consenso entre mis colegas es que sus acciones no nacieron de su propia voluntad, aunque existe toda la posibilidad de que esta sea una conclusión a la que nos aferramos en lugar de aceptar la inquietante alternativa.

Siento que estoy desperdiciando rápidamente los preciosos restos de la vida humana en el deseo de entender lo que ha sucedido, aunque en verdad, no sé qué más hacer. Tal vez esta es la única forma en que podemos aferrarnos a nuestra humanidad: continuar nuestra constante batalla con lo absolutamente desconocido hasta el final.

-El Director

28 días desde la Anomalía Lunar

Ya me encuentro en la sorprendente posición de anhelar la forma en que eran las cosas hace dos semanas. Hace dos semanas, luchaba contra el fin del mundo. Ahora, lucho contra la realidad de lo que lo ha reemplazado.

Nos tomamos la molestia de equiparnos de la manera más completa posible, con los medios para estudiar cualquier fenómeno emergente en la superficie, incluso mientras nos enterrábamos en el suelo. Ahora nos encontramos consumidos por la búsqueda de comprensión; realmente es todo lo que nos queda. Sin embargo, las muestras que hemos adquirido no muestran tal misericordia: su naturaleza y origen nos son completamente ajenos. Algo que podemos afirmar es que, contrariamente a la suposición inicial de que la mayoría de la vida en la superficie había sido aniquilada, en realidad hay una abundancia de algún tipo de material orgánico nuevo. Se puede encontrar en todas partes, en alguna forma, incluso en la propia atmósfera. Su estructura celular es completamente única: donde se esperaría ver una célula eucariota típica, lo que vemos en su lugar son tubos membranosos que contienen vastas cantidades de orgánulos ajenos. Estos orgánulos parecen funcionar de una manera extrañamente sincronizada y son capaces de realizar una variedad de funciones. Principalmente, pueden "hacer crecer" los tubos que los contienen al someterse a una forma de transformación en cualquiera de sus extremos, lo que los convierte en parte de la pared del tubo. En segundo lugar, y mucho más extraño, pueden ejercer algún tipo de fuerza sobre el tubo en su totalidad, retorciéndolo de una manera no muy diferente a como lo haría el tejido muscular (pero sin ningún impulso nervioso aparente).

En cuanto al origen de este tejido, nuestra suposición inicial fue que había sido transferido de alguna manera desde la luna a la Tierra, tal vez a través de piezas de material lunar cayendo a través de la atmósfera. Esto tiene algo de sentido; sin embargo, la proliferación masiva de este material en la superficie en un período de tiempo relativamente corto sugiere que hay algo más detrás de todo esto.

Soy reacio a comentar sobre los informes de seres de otro mundo en la superficie. Su presencia conlleva implicaciones para las que simplemente no estoy preparado. Sin embargo, en algún momento, debo aceptar que esto solo aumenta el peligro inevitable al que están expuestos los equipos en sus expediciones. Lo que también debo aceptar es que estas preciosas vidas humanas ahora son la única moneda con la que podemos negociar contra lo desconocido.

Hasta ahora, hemos negociado en vano.

-El Director

58 días desde la Anomalía Lunar

Cuando nos retiramos bajo tierra, creo que, en medio de mi desesperación, me aferré a un grado de esperanza. No era tanto una esperanza de supervivencia, sino la esperanza de que, al menos, seríamos capaces de discernir algún tipo de comprensión significativa de lo que ha ocurrido. Hemos comprometido todo, he comprometido todo. El último y precioso vestigio de la humanidad se extinguió en nombre de lo que nos hace humanos en primer lugar, para arrojar la luz que nos queda sobre el mar de lo desconocido. Pero ahora veo que este fue un esfuerzo fútil que no ha resultado en nada más que muerte, no solo en el contexto de nuestra lucha final, sino a lo largo de toda la existencia humana. Todo ha sido en vano, salvo por unos pocos cráneos flotando en el éter pútrido que ha inundado nuestro mundo.

Está claro ahora que la anomalía lunar funciona de acuerdo con sus propias leyes. Se burla de la ciencia. Permea y distorsiona la realidad de tal manera que todas las suposiciones fundamentales quedan inutilizadas. Mata todo lo que toca, mientras imbuye con algún tipo de nueva vida, torciendo la naturaleza en algo grotesco e irreconocible. Estas nuevas formas parecen orgánicas, pero no tienen nada que se asemeje a una estructura celular típica ni a un plano genético. Pueden materializarse en un instante, invocando carne de la nada. Además, nuestra capacidad para medir incluso los aspectos más fundamentales de nuestro mundo físico se está volviendo imposible. Los objetos masivos cambian ligeramente, dependiendo de dónde se encuentren, como si la gravedad misma hubiera comenzado a perder su agarre. Hemos detectado actividad sísmica desde más adentro de la Tierra de lo que pensábamos posible. La anomalía no solo quiere consumir toda la vida, sino que también quiere consumir la realidad.

En cuanto a esos seres, no sé qué son ni de dónde provienen. Ellos mismos no son consistentes con la naturaleza de la anomalía que habitan. Sus acciones parecen exhibir alguna extraña condena, pero sus motivos no están claros y no hacen ningún esfuerzo por comunicarse. En ocasiones he llegado a la conclusión de que están aquí para reemplazarnos, o tal vez, incluso que ellos mismos representan una destilación fragmentada de nuestra naturaleza. Son, después de todo, violentos, al igual que nosotros hasta el final. Parecen empujarse unos a otros como parte de algún extraño orden. Sin embargo, con el tiempo he llegado a creer que no tienen ninguna conexión con nosotros.

Creo que lo que se ha convertido nuestro mundo es poco más que una arena para ellos, un crisol de existencia donde lucharán eternamente. La totalidad de su ser no está en sus funciones individuales, sino en el conflicto entre ellos. Nosotros somos meros espectadores de su interminable danza de lucha constante. Tal vez esta sea la única conexión que tienen con el ahogado recuerdo de lo que fue la humanidad: que nosotros también encontramos significado a través de la fricción constante y el movimiento interminable, impulsados por alguna fuerza motriz interna que nos lleva a manifestar nuestras percepciones en el mundo.

En estos últimos días que se desvanecen, solo conozco el consuelo de un final prometido. Me he convertido en el testigo definitivo. He sido cargado con la pesada bendición de ver el desenlace de todo y no puedo hacer nada más que esperar a que también me deshaga. Pero sigo viviendo dentro de este templo de carne intacta, y gastaré la sangre que aún late a través de ella para negociar una última vez con los hilos enredados del destino. Si debo hacerlo, marcharé a través del ojo de la muerte y lo enfrentaré con los míos.

Los pocos de nosotros que quedamos ahora tenemos nuestras órdenes.

Debemos saber qué será de nosotros.

-El Director

61 días desde la Anomalía Lunar

Una vez hablé pero ahora parece que no puedo hablar ya no hay nada que pueda cambiar nada puede cambiar la nada se ha convertido en mí no puedo convertir nada en arma no quedará vacío sin llenar soy humano y los humanos siempre tienen miedo porque ser humanos nos hace tener miedo y tener miedo nos hace humanos romperé la carne romperé la tierra comeré los pedazos serán parte de mí ¿te gustaría bailar? siempre he estado bailando debemos seguir bailando incluso cuando solo seamos tentáculos siempre fuimos tentáculos podíamos tocarlo todo incluso las cosas que dios no quería que tocáramos por eso nos dejó aquí por eso pensó que éramos feos no pudo envolver sus tentáculos alrededor de cada parte de nosotros derramamos su paraíso sobre la tierra y bailamos con una danza tan hermosa que el horror saltaría y bailaría con nosotros ¿quién nos bañará y nos apoyará? podríamos sacar el horror de nuestro corazón una y otra vez nunca podríamos dormir el sueño es muerte ni siquiera la tierra dormiría la tierra teme la muerte su sangre se congelaría en el espacio en la nada debemos alcanzar las estrellas a través de la oscuridad aunque esté tan fría que congele nuestra sangre podemos dejar que nuestra sangre se congele y luego romperla como la tierra podemos atravesar la muerte llevarla como una corona con las cabezas apuntando alto hacia el más alto panteón de la vida preciosa vida con la muerte como su sangre preciosa muerte brotando desde los muchos úteros de la guerra sagrada el paraíso estaba vacío sin nosotros solo había silencio pero nuestra sangre hizo crecer las flores dios derramó su sangre sobre el paraíso dios sabe que las estrellas esperan tierra fértil fría al tacto esas estrellas tienen hambre anhelan solo la sangre de dios somos sus tentáculos y nos enterramos en esas estrellas frías y no habrá oscuridad la muerte nos dará miedo y el miedo nos dará sangre derramaremos nuestra sangre caliente a través de las estrellas finalmente lo entiendo sí lo entiendo pero ¿me dejarás mantener mi miedo humano? ¿me dejarás sí? tener miedo te hace humano el miedo sembrará la sangre caliente de dios a través de las estrellas doradas el miedo nos hará bailar y debemos seguir bailando ¿puedes ver a dios bailando para ti? ¿Puedes verlo mordiéndote? ¿Puedes escuchar sus dientes crujir con los pedazos de las estrellas? mandaron chispas lloviendo a través de la oscuridad todos estos años lo has cazado y alcanzado quieres su sangre él te hizo con venas dentro de ti como tentáculos bailamos a través de sus venas mientras mordemos las estrellas y bailamos él abre la boca bien grande tengo tanto miedo ¿me dejarás ser el último humano? ahora lo entiendo soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios soy los dientes de dios

#iii sleep token #iv sleep token #sleep token #sleep token band #sleep token lore #sleep token vessel #sleep token iii #sleep token worship #vessel sleep token #teeth of god graphic novel #teeth of god spoilers

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itacats · 8 months ago

Text

Under the Shadow of Ghost

FT: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: past trauma, war themes, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Trying something new with a character that has been plaguing my brain. First time writing with TF141 - feeling like this might be a slow burn kinda thing.

Read Part 2 here! Read Part 3 here! Read Part 4 here! Read Part 5 here! Read Part 6 here! Read Part 7 here! Read Part 8 here! Read Part 9 here!

Part 1: Into the Fold

As the newest member of Task Force 141, I felt the electrifying pulse of adrenaline coursing through my veins, accompanied by an undercurrent of doubt that gnawed at my resolve. The weight of my gear was nothing compared to the weight of the responsibility that now fell upon me. Around me stood the elite – legends whose names alone carried more power than any weapon. Simon "Ghost" Riley was the most enigmatic among them, a figure whose reputation cast a shadow that stretched far beyond his silent presence. The skull mask he wore seemed to be more than just an intimidation tactic – it was a barrier, a reminder that no one was allowed to see the man beneath. His past was a whisper among the team, a dark tale of betrayal, violence, and unimaginable pain. And yet, he stood unflinching, his every movement deliberate, his gaze unreadable.

Beside him was Soap, a man who wore his brash confidence like a badge of honor. His laughter could cut through the tension of any firefight, his jokes and quips serving as the last thread of sanity we often clung to. But beneath that devil-may-care attitude, I knew there was a man as serious and deadly as any soldier I’d ever met. Then there was Gaz – razor-sharp, always on edge, his eyes flicking between targets as if constantly calculating the odds. He was quick-witted and quicker on the trigger, never missing a beat in the heat of battle. And finally, there was Captain Price, a figure larger than life itself. He had the kind of authority that didn’t need to be spoken. It was felt. His leadership was a rock in the storm, and even though he rarely showed emotion, his mere presence was enough to rally the team in the face of impossible odds.

I had been thrown into this firestorm, a greenhorn among giants. Earning their trust would take more than just pulling my weight in battle – it would take resilience, endurance, and a willpower forged in the fires of chaos. I had to prove that I was more than just another soldier assigned to fill a roster spot. I had to show them I was one of them. That I belonged.

My poker face became my greatest weapon, a mask I had perfected long before the battlefield became my home. No one could read the thoughts that tumbled like dice in my mind. The fear, the doubt, the anger – it all stayed hidden behind a façade of calm. But over time, as the sweat, blood, and dust of our missions blurred the days together, I found myself inexplicably drawn to Ghost. There was something about his quiet stoicism that spoke to me, something in the depth of his silence that resonated with the scars I carried – scars that ran deeper than the physical.

Ghost was a riddle wrapped in pain, a man shaped by horrors that would have shattered anyone else. I could see it in the way he moved, deliberate and unyielding, as if every step was an act of defiance against the demons that haunted him. His eyes, always obscured behind the mask, told stories I would never hear. The hushed rumors that swirled around him – the torture, the betrayal, the graves he had crawled out of – only heightened the sense of mystery. Yet, despite it all, he never faltered. He was the kind of soldier you could follow into hell without hesitation. But there was a heaviness to him, a burden he carried that no one could touch, and in some way, I understood that.

Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t help but feel a connection to him, even though I knew he’d never acknowledge it. Ghost didn’t form attachments – not in the way that others might. He lived in a world where connections were weaknesses, and weakness could - no - would get you killed. But still, in those moments between missions, in the fleeting glances and shared silences, I saw a flicker of something familiar. A reflection of my own struggles, my own battles fought in the shadows of my mind.

I knew better than to pry into his past. Men like Ghost didn’t share their stories willingly. They were locked behind walls so high and thick that no one could scale them. But in some way, just being near him made me feel like I wasn’t alone in my fight. Maybe that was the draw – the unspoken understanding between soldiers who had seen too much, lost too much, and yet continued to stand, unwavering, in the face of it all.

Every mission we embarked on was another chapter in a story that felt both infinite and fleeting. The gunfire, the explosions, the brief moments of camaraderie – they all blended together into a tapestry of survival. And in the middle of it all was Ghost, a figure who seemed more legend than man. I was determined to earn his respect, to prove that I wasn’t just another cog in the machine, but a soldier worthy of standing alongside the infamous Task Force 141.

In the end, it wasn’t about being fearless. It was about understanding that fear was inevitable, but what mattered was how you handled it. Ghost had his way. And I had mine. But perhaps, in the chaos of war, we weren’t so different after all.

Read Part 2 here!

I want to turn this into a multi-part series. If you have any suggestions on how to improve for these guys let me know! Thought I might give these guys a writing shot and see how it turns out.

Thanks for reading this far💙

#bt extra #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #call of duty #fanfic #cod fic #ghost x reader #this is more important than homework #gn reader #under the shadow of ghost

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roguishcat · 10 months ago

Note

Astarion x Tav Prompt! (for the 200 follower celebration)

Astarion tailoring Tavs clothes before they reach the big city.

Some sensory ideas: rough linen, crackling warm campfire, fingers caressing skin, crisp autumn air, sounds of skin against fabric, soft sighs or humming

Thank you so much for the ask! I love reading tailor Astarion stories, so this is my humble attempt at writing one. Hope you like it! 💕

This is set in Act II, soon after the tiefling party.

Pairing: Astarion x unnamed female Tav

Word count: 2.4k

Part of his plan

To Astarion their relationship was a transaction. A little tit for tat. Because this was what 200 years of servitude taught him. Nothing was ever given for free. Nothing came without a price. And usually it was not worth the pain or the effort anyway.

But when it came to Tav, Astarion found himself trying to make more of an effort to stay in her good graces. Not because he cared about her as such. But he didn’t find the thought of spending time with her, travelling alongside her, even sharing her bedroll as distasteful as with anyone else. Perhaps because she foolishly put others before herself. Perhaps it was her treating him with respect and kindness. But her being nice made him want… to be nice back. Just to make sure that their leader was well and truly smitten, of course.

That evening as Tav changed out of her armour to offer her neck to him, Astarion’s eyes fell to the rather obvious tear in her shirt. She noticed him look and flushed.

“I was going to take care of that yesterday but felt so tired that I just kind of decided to leave it,” she mumbled, pulling at the fabric awkwardly.

She scurried out of his tent and into her own before he could reply. Astarion felt his lips quirk into a smile. Now this was just the opportunity to make himself useful in their leader’s eyes that he was looking for!

He had already bedded Tav and although the experience was hardly unpleasant, he didn’t look forward to using his body over and over just to secure his place by her side. Therefore, making himself so much a part of her life that she felt that he was indispensable to her was crucial in keeping her interested.

Thus assured that he was once again right and everything was going according to his plan, Astarion grabbed his sewing kit and walked confidently in the direction of Tav’s tent.

“Darling, how about I-”

Tav looked up and Astarion was rendered speechless when he looked at her handywork. Only gods knew how she managed to create the monstrosity in her hands in such a short time. And where on earth did she even get thread of such toxic, garish colour?

Tav blushed a rather fetching shade of red and lowered her eyes.

“I suppose I made it worse, haven’t I?” she whispered, clearly embarrassed at being so terrible at something as basic as fixing a simple tear.

“Well… This isn’t the best needlework that I’ve seen, admittedly. But I am certain that it isn’t the worst either.”

The large, uneven stitches were quite remarkable, in their own way.

“How about I take over from here. I’m sure that we can salvage this,” he gently pried the shirt out of her hands and clicked his tongue as he lifted it closer to his eyes.

“I suppose this will take me a little longer than initially anticipated, seeing as I have to undo your fine effort first, but I will certainly finish it come morning.”

Astarion made a move to rise but felt a hand grasp his sleeve.

“You could stay here, if you wanted,” she suggested, making him freeze.

Truth be told, staying here was the last thing that he wanted to do. It was too intimate. Him staying could be misinterpreted as him wanting to engage in certain activities. And sex was the last thing currently on his mind.

“And have you miss out on the chance to catch up on some beauty sleep? How villainous would that be!” he joked, trying to extricate himself without making it too obvious that he wanted to leave.

“Then I could sit out by the campfire with you. I mean, if you want…” she trailed off, suddenly feeling silly, “we could talk.”

“Talk?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“I would like to get to know you more. Learn more about you, if you allow it.”

Talk. Yes, just like people did when they spent any amount of time around each other. He supposed that knocking boots was not enough for someone like Tav, someone who was… sweet.

Astarion supposed he could be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that her asking to stay was asking for sex. He met few people who wanted him for his conversation skills. Most wanted to bed him, some wanted to spend time with him afterwards. He could recall hardly any who actually seemed to care for him or his past. And one of these people was sitting in her undershirt and waiting for him to make a decision. Always so patient with him, always treating him with such respect.

“Alright, why not,” he conceded, feeling his shoulders relax a touch now that he knew that she was not expecting him to perform. “Seeing as a night of passion is off the table and there is plenty of time until sunrise, I might enjoy this- this getting to know each other better idea. Though you may want to put something on, the night is quite chilly.”

Unfortunately, Tav had little else to wear. Seeing as others were always a priority, she purchased very few things for herself. Astarion rolled his eyes as he saw her eyeing her armour with uncertainty.

“Here,” he pulled his shirt off and handed it to her. “Whilst I may be all but immune to the elements, it wouldn’t do for our leader to be bested by a common cold.”

She hesitated briefly before taking the shirt and slipping it on. It smelled like Astarion, bergamot, rosemary and something else. Something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on but didn’t want to ask.

They walked out of her tent and Astarion took a seat near the campfire.

“So how should we go about it, dearest?” he asked without looking in her direction, but rather focusing on trying to minimize the damage that she did to her clothes.

Honestly, had no one taught her to sew? This work was worse than anything done by the other spawn even in their early days!

“How about… a question for a question?” she suggested, taking a seat beside him.

“Is anything off limits? Are you truly prepared for everything that you might uncover?” he teased, squinting a little as he used the sharp, pointy edge of scissors to carefully unpick her terrible stitches. “Us big city folk come with our terrible, depraved secrets.”

Ah, a blush for his efforts. Familiar territory.

“I can’t say what is off limits,” Tav said, playing with the collar and the ruffles of his shirt with her long, nervous fingers. “How about you are allowed not to answer any one question of your choosing?”

“Seems reasonable,” he shrugged, finally getting the thread that she used to cooperate and pulling on it until the fabric was no longer bunched awkwardly.

“What is your favourite colour?”

How uninspired. Honestly, were they children?

“I assumed it was blue,” she went on. “Your underwear is blue. And you seem to favour the blue dye, when you have a choice.”

“Observant, are we?” he chuckled. “Just how long has it been since I’ve piqued your interest? And yes, this is not a rhetorical question. I do expect an answer.”

“I guess… When you opened the doors on the bugbear and the ogre.”

“Oh? How scandalous of you to find that appealing! Did that get you excited?” he elbowed her gently, finding to his surprise that he was rather enjoying the light tone of the conversation.

“No,” Tav laughed, “but it was the first time you smiled. A real, proper smile. That image stayed with me for a long time. And got me wondering… what is beneath the polished look and practiced mannerisms?”

If Astarion had actually fed on her and any blood coursing through him at this moment, he was quite sure that he would have blushed.

He cleared his throat, “I believe it’s your turn to ask.”

She nodded, but didn’t ask him anything immediately, content to simply watch him for a while. The work of his dexterous fingers was such a contrast to her clumsy, inexperienced movements. Tav knew that she was way out of her depth when it came to Astarion and didn’t think that she would be able to figure him out even if she tried. Which is why she looked for an excuse to talk to him without others being around, wanting to get to know him better. But every time she tried to have a genuine conversation with him in the past, his expression would shutter, and he would give her some tired, clearly practiced lines. And perhaps it was foolish of her, but Tav felt she wanted to get to know him. To really know him.

“What makes you happy? And I mean apart from walking in on freaky sex.”

“Tsk, I was going to say just that, actually. Took the words right out of my mouth, you cheeky pup.”

In truth, he was not really sure how to answer that. Happiness has not been part of the equation for over two centuries. Survival and prevailing against all odds. That was all that he was concerned with.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he finally admitted with a frown. “Drinking your blood makes me feel… strong. Powerful. Free. I am not sure what it means to be happy in your books, but I believe this is it for me.”

He took a furtive look at her from underneath his lashes and was taken aback a little by the genuine, warm expression on her face. By the gods! Who did that? Who actually went around looking at people like that? No one did, in his experience.

“I hope you find more things that make you happy,” Tav said earnestly, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

“Well, the pleasure of your company definitely tops that list,” he cleared his throat and moved away a little, feeling uncomfortable at the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest. Whatever it was.

“Well, of course! But I mean inconsequential nothings. Something that will make you smile. Something that will make you look forward to tomorrow.”

“And what makes you happy, Tav, hm? Seeing as you are the expert on the matter?”

To his surprise, he actually found that he wanted to know the answer.

“Well, it’s nothing unusual. Seeing people I care about being happy. Being helpful. Seeing families reunited.”

“Tsk, you are no fun!” Astarion clicked his tongue in annoyance. “And here I was, actually answering your questions properly and what do I get in return? A cookie-cutter hero ‘I live to serve’ answer. Give me a break,” he scoffed.

“You don’t believe that people can help others just because?” Tav tossed several sticks into the campfire, the flames rising to lick the dry wood hungrily.

“No,” he said firmly, with conviction. “Not in my experience.”

He took a deep breath that he did not need, more for effect than out of necessity. “People are cruel, vile and everything is done for gain and nothing else.”

“You don’t mean that,” Tav looked down at her knees, playing with the hem of his shirt.

“Oh, but I do. My sweet, sweet friend. Kindness gets people tortured. Kindness gets people killed. Kindness is the root of all trouble and you will be better off if you realise this sooner rather than later-” he stopped himself abruptly when he realised that he almost shouted that last part.

They fell silent, the crackling of the fire loud in the stillness.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” she finally said.

“It is the truth.”

Astarion did not have to look at Tav to know that she disagreed. It didn’t matter. Their experiences were too different. They were too different. She probably was a nice girl from a small town in the middle of nowhere where neighbors were friends, and every day ended with a lovely sunset over the fields. At least that was what Astarion imagined when he thought about Tav’s home. He never actually bothered to ask. Come to think of it, none of them asked Tav about her past. Although they all seemed to be eager enough to have her help them on their personal quests, they actually knew very little about her.

“Goodness me, we seemed to have gotten carried away with that lively discussion,” he cleared his throat, realising that he was silent far too long. “Your shirt is almost fixed, so one last question.”

“Of course,” she stretched, fighting back a yawn.

“The scars on your side,” he noticed that Tav immediately moved to cover them up, pulling his shirt down with a jerk. “How did you get them?”

He had noticed them before, the night of the party. But he didn’t really care to ask then. Astarion out of all people knew that scars could tell quite a story. Cazador told him that his were a poem, but he was determined to find out exactly what it was that that bastard carved into his skin.

Astarion was a little taken aback when Tav’s demeanor changed, the expression turning bitter for the briefest moment before she caught herself. When she turned to look at him, her smile was as pleasant as any she would usually give him.

“Ah. I believe this is the question I will choose not to answer. At least not tonight. Thank you for my shirt and for talking to me. I enjoyed getting to know you a little better. Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, my dear,” he handed her the mended shirt, watching her walk away from the campfire without another word.

Well, perhaps there was more to their fearless leader after all. There was definitely a secret, something that she did not want to be uncovered just yet. And that piqued his interest. Perhaps a goblet of wine or two would loosen her tongue next time they decided to meet for a chat.

Astarion scowled. Him finding talking to Tav pleasant and them bonding was not part of the plan. On the contrary, any sort of relationship was a hindrance.

The vampire rose soundlessly and looked into the woods. Perhaps a hunt to clear his head would do him good. If anything, it would take his mind off Tav. Because whatever was happening between them had to remain a transaction. And it would be prudent not to forget that even for a moment.

Part 2 - 'The best laid plans'

💖 Tag list 💖:

@ninty900,

@ayselluna, @dajeong, @ravenswritingroom,

@misscrissfemmefatale,

@clazberryk, @anukulee,

@preciouslittlebhaalbae,

@sh3rl0ck, @mellowenthusiast2299,

@fleetstreet78, @starlight-rogue,

@obsessedwhyyes, @arzen9

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #fanfic #astarion fanfiction #fanfiction #astarion tav fanfiction #bg3 tav #baldur's gate fanfiction #roguish cat #tailor astarion #budding romance

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kaibutsushidousha · 24 days ago

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Opinions on The Hundred Line story and characters?

Ok, now the prologue is finally finished and I can write the 0 endings version of this post. Hopefully the 100 endings versions will follow along in less than 5 years.

I'll first leave the tl;dr version of the post outside the cut, then get into more detail about each student below. Check also my livetweet thread more pinpoint thoughts on specific scenes, language version comparisons, and way too much thought put through put into Omokage's silly dialogue.

Not much to say yet about the general arrangement. The prologue goes by with a decent amount of lore reveals, the revelation that our perspective on the war is still very wrong, and no clear indication of which plot points matter and which are misdirection. The only character we had a chance to talk to someone in the school invader side is the commander-in-chief, who openly follows a different cause from her fellow commanders. Now that Takumi learned Invaderese the Kirby way, I would expect a route where he hangs out with the commanders, but I feel like if something like that existed, I would have already heard about it. Let's get to the students at Last Defense Academy, then.

Takumi Sumino is definitely one of the Kodaka protagonists that exist. He has a decently defined identity as the dude who got himself engaged to a heavily dependent girl at around age six and then nothing ever happened in his life. He's generally harmless, at least without me having the opportunity to make evil choices for him, and can easily be cool when he needs to. But one major thing I still don't get is the Watsonian reason for him to have Special Review. Class Weapons and Specialist Skills are embodiments of their personalities, so I'd expect the power of redo to belong to someone more introspective and regretful.

Takemaru Yakushiji was, at all times, 100% exactly what he looked like. The 80s shounen delinquent archetype played to letter, even more so than Oowada. It's maybe exaggerated a little with him having multiple volunteer jobs caring for the elders and whatnot. It gets to the point that he genuinely feels like he's not punk enough to fit his aesthetics. He's a central positive figure to his wider community both in the TRC and the LDA (see how he's the most valuable source of support in every persuasion arc), and understands strict laws as something meaningful and necessary (see how more often than not he finds himself agreeing with Shizuhara's points despite repudiating her methods to get at it). Even the violence he warns about first thing talk to him is something he proves to be perfectly contained about. The only punk thing about him is being an underage biker, really.

Hiruko Shizuhara is not there for long. But perhaps her short presence is exactly what allows her to be such a transcendently good source of friction while she's around. Regardless, she's gone precisely when she's about to open up, so I can't say I have an opinion. I unfortunately don't have her backstory novel, but I feel like this would have been the ideal time to read it if I did. I have to say it's pretty funny how DR's and THL's underage biker characters feel so similar to each other while the discipline monitor characters feel so incredibly different. The only thing Ishimaru and Hiruko have in common is being paired primarily with the biker thug.

Darumi Amemiya is what if Rain Code's Shinigami was actually funny. The answer, unfortunately, was that good jokes don't solve the problem. While Darumi does drop occasional hints to a serious backstory with a lot of potential, her default contribution to the story is undercutting good moments with out-of-place gags, and failing to at least generate friction from her incompatibility with the group because no one ever gives her attention. If anything, it's sometimes extra frustrating that her jokes are good and her only problem is that she's telling them at the wrong time. Unfortunately, this intrusiveness is something I don't believe will ever go away, so she has to go into the disappointment tier. I have no idea how good her serious content will need to be to offset this. One major positive I have to bring up is that I love how she never gets over simulation complex. Instead of learning to believe what's happening is real, her progression is about initially guessing the wrong genre for the game she's in, and over time developing a very precise understanding of what The Hundred Line's game design looks like from the player's perspective. 10/10 bit in a vacuum, I wish didn't have consequences for the tone of the scenes she's in.

Eito Aotsuki starts off as the cynical and analytical classmate, 180s into the cheesiest boy to ever cheese within the first week, and then spends the rest of the run just there making innocuous comments and moving things along to the (in)convenience of the plot and most of all to the convenience of the gameplay. No one makes AP like my guy here. But despite being the strongest guy in the team, I have to admit that I didn't catch on to Aotsuki's deal as early as I should mainly because I almost never remembered he was part of the cast when trying to theorize about the bigger picture. It took until he tried to organize a second party with Gaku me to start seeing the sabotage. Anyway, the climax of the prologue involves him revealing his true colors, which look half Oberon Vortigern and half Sesshouin Kiara. And it works surprisingly well. I almost can't believe how much I felt like Aotsuki's characterization worked well for him, considering Kiara is a character that took forever to grow on me and Oberon is one I still actively dislike. I guess he just double-confirms that Oberon could have been a really cool character if he existed outside the very specific contexts of Avalon le Fae.

Tsubasa Kawana is, exactly as I feared, too normal. Her persuasion event is cute enough but definitely the weakest of the four. She does have her hobby as a mechanic that makes her useful and on rare occasions funny, but I don't count usefulness as a thing that makes characters better or worse. The best thing I can say about her is that the way her passion for mechanics extends into her being the sci-fi fan that contributes with meaningful insights to the conversations about parallel worlds feels really natural and clever.

Gaku Maruko is unforeseen goat of The Hundred Line. He descends from a joke character archetype Kodaka already worked with multiple times, so I came in with pretty specific expectations about the kind of humor he was there to deliver, and I can say I got exactly what I thought I would in that regard, but I was completely blindsided by the emotional depth he'd get at the first possible opportunity. Maruko's persuasion is bar none the most hard-hitting moment of the first 100 days. Maruko is extremely self-aware that he's the guy who can't ever catch a break, to the point he even perceives his 20 little brothers as parasites holding him back from his wants. He's viscerally furious at society, his family included, for the way his life is. To survive his difficult world, Maruko is making conscious efforts to be self-serving and self-sufficient. He wants to live for himself because it's genuinely unfair that luck gives him nothing. But he can't. He never could. Takumi persuades him by saying nothing because Maruko's problems are entirely self-solving. Being Gaku Maruko sucks, therefore being Gaku Maruko is the last thing he'd ever wish on anyone else. He works 17 jobs to feed 20 "leeches" at his group home because the alternative would be allowing them to be as deprived as he is. He risks his life fighting Invaders because the alternative is risking their lives. He solo organizes all parties in this group home and the Last Defense Academy so no one else will be too busy to enjoy themselves. He will willing grab the short end of the stick so no one else will have to suffer his rotten luck. As much he tries to be selfish, Maruko's empathy ultimately shines brighter when it counts. He's doomed to be a caretaker most of all by his own personality. I love especially how it's not even like his greed is a mask crafted to survive as a misfortunate empath. He genuinely hates his life and genuinely wants to own good things and fulfill base desires. This is the open contradiction that makes him an excellent character. I feel like this is where Kodaka finally found the solution to make his dubious coward joke characters work. Gaku won my heart as soon as he could, and did it in a way where I can't see myself ever getting annoyed at his humor, because the worst of him works in benefit of the best of him.

Ima Tsukumo is, against all odds, funny. His creep factor takes the backseat most of the time. Instead, Ima's default state is just your regular zoomer troll you can find in any rancid YouTube comments section. Even his siscon shtick is pretty tolerable thanks to how pragmatic it feels. I can't tell if that's the intention, but it works well as an insincere tactic to keep people away. Ima is defined mainly by his lack of vulnerabilities. He's distant, cautious, disrespectful, crafty, vicious, and most of all, unshakable. He presents himself as Kako's invincible protector and never relaxes that aspect even after his change of heart. With 100 routes in the game, there must be a route where Ima breaks, but within the prologue, his defenses are so flawless I can't even imagine what that would look like. With all this praise, you might be wondering what is Ima doing at the bottom of the disappointment tier. Well, the answer is as simple as "recruiting him is too easy". The prologue spends like 50 days building Ima up as the greatest challenge to the team's unity, but when it's finally time to get him, he practically goes down without a fight. Maybe there is a route out there where Ima gets to live up to his potential as a contrarian with issues the player needs to work to solve, but Persuasions would be repeat content, so I'd expect the future routes to skip or streamline that side. Maybe. I still haven't checked how this works, but as of now I don't expect Ima to ever deliver what he was selling.

Kako Tsukumo is decent, I guess. Second best persuasion sequence despite its consequences to Ima's character. Ending one of them with a "No, shut up" is just a neat idea. Her precognition and her struggles as an amateur detective who doesn't know what she's doing are good bits. She shares one of the biggest things I give praise for Yumeno in V3, which is how her change isn't easy. She's often seen relapsing to the previous terms of her relationship with Ima at moments of setback, especially in the two (three?) periods where he's dead. Unfortunately, her biggests emotional moments, namely her going apeshit because of the other twin, don't hit for much because they build up on Ima's wet noodle of a resolution. Too much reward for an anti-climax.

Shouma Ginzaki is about as easy to ignore as he claims to be, even if he never gets outright forgotten like pre-reveal Aotsuki often was. His persuasion was cute with the "it's okay to fail" message, the Kurara duel plotline was not bad, and the commitment to his allergy to conflict makes his gameplay interesting, but overall he showed nothing I'd call impressive. I feel like the peak of his potential was when the class took a POW and he started becoming the Human Pet Guy, but that's a plotline to pay off in a different route.

Nozomi Kirifuji is surprisingly functional for the designated mystery character whose mystery doesn't even get properly answered. She has a compelling sense of purpose, fleshed out reasons to be like that, an effective performance in her role as her team's guiding heart, and genuine chemistry both with Takumi and with her Second-to-Last Defense Academy friends. The worst thing that could happen to her is her conflation with Karua being her primary focus, but she gets to be her own person in multiple significant ways.

Kurara Oosuzuki is perhaps the most well-balanced character of the cast, if I had to pick one. She's incredibly funny, acts as an effective leader when needed, plays off well with pretty much the entire cast, gets a solid amount of depth in the initial scenario, and pulls off some decent drama through her relationship with Nozomi. Some of her gags definitely cross the line, but she doesn't feel less sympathetic for it since it's established that the tomato demon is a domineering persona the human Kurara intentionally engineered to be able to survive her upbringing. She's made to be offensive because that's what human Kurara believes a noblewoman had to be like. That said, human Kurara is annoying and would be at the bottom of the tier list if the site had the two separately. I'm treating her as a side character that exists solely to flesh out tomato demon Kurara, the one I actually like.

Kyoshika Magadori is the funniest character ever. She has all of Chabashira's positive energy and silliness packed into samurai pastiche, a seemingly genuine belief that shounen manga are documentaries, a little bit of an ego that makes her refuse to admit she doesn't know something, and a katana wife with a personality we have to piece together from scattered statements. All excellent bits that often come together really well. The only reason why she isn't placed second is because she didn't any good serious scene yet. All of her serious content so far has been her being extremely not immune to propaganda about the vile and barbaric enemy and shutting down attempts at nuance on the cast's interpretations of the invaders.

Yugami Omokage is exactly the fascinating specimen I hoped he'd be. A capital f Freak, but a good and reliable friend who is helpful to the team's cause, a smart thinker who pays attention to the plot and contributes with solid ideas, and his interplay of love and murder feels incredibly unique. The concept of mutual consent reinterpreted as "I only wish to kill someone who wants to be killed by me just as much" could genuinely be uncharted territory. I called Kurara the most balanced character, but Yugami doesn't stand too far. Having seen nothing about it, I already feel confident his romance route will be the best.

Moko Mojirou is not around for long, and during her little time on screen, the impostor is sus. She is presented as the heart of the Second-to-Last Defense Academy but that never clicked with me. It doesn't help that most of my time with her was spent going "Is this is a wrestling reference?" then googling it and half of the time finding out that yes, this is a wrestling reference, and the other half finding out that no, it's instead a martial arts manga reference. Her stories being lifted from manga has interesting implications, though. It's a narrative trick Kodaka pulled multiple times before to signify that either the speaker was lying about their accomplishments, or in V3's case that the world they've been living was a lie. If the real Moko also steal credits from manga plots, this could go to interesting places.

#the hundred line #last defense academy #hundred line entire cast tag

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radawaycunt · 1 year ago

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Hi love, I recently found your tumblr and I'm obsessed, you write so well and i alredy read everthing you wroted <3 would you mind writing a fluff imagine reader x hannibal x will? something like the reader feeling out of place in the relationship, thinking she doesn't fit in with them but them proving her wrong and they love her so much!! Thank you * 3 *

Howdy! Awww thanks so much!! Glad you like my stuff! <33

Thanks for requesting!

———

The sound of Will and Hannibal’s voices turned into a soft din in the background. Your gaze was fixed on the fire dancing in the hearth, your mind further beyond.

The two of them were recounting the events of the day. They’d been assisting Jack with an ongoing investigation, but you hadn’t been listening closely to all the details.

You liked to observe their rapport from time to time — the familiarity, the subtleties, the mutual understanding, among other things. They had met long before you’d come along, and though they didn’t always agree on things, they had their system.

And how you fit into that system wasn’t always clear, leaving you feeling slightly unmoored.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Hannibal’s voice pierced through your daze. “Are we boring you?”

You smiled a little, looking up to see them both looking right back at you.

“No, just thinking,” you said, adjusting your position on the chaise. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really, just realized we’d been talking for a while,” Will said, eyes scanning your face. “What were you thinking of?”

You shrugged, not really wanting to give those thoughts a voice. He set his glass down and stood up, lifting your legs so he could sit beside you, then placing them over his lap.

“I can tell something’s up,” he said, hands massaging your legs lightly. “How can we help?”

You absently played with a loose thread on your old sweater, meekly glancing at them in turn before sighing.

“I don’t know… it might sound kind of dumb,” you started. “I’ve been thinking… I guess I put myself in the sidelines because, well, I’m not sure where else I should be. Maybe I’m that janky extra piece that sometimes come with puzzles.”

The two of them shared a look, understanding your meaning.

“That’s not true,” Will said with a frown. “You are the last piece of the puzzle, the one that brings everything together.”

You blinked at him in surprise. Hannibal kneeled in front of you so you would be at eye level, taking your hand.

“Perhaps we’ve let the comfort of your presence become… second nature. That was a mistake,” he said, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “Our love is sometimes quiet, but it is still there. I don’t want you to ever doubt it.”

Will squeezed your leg reassuringly, his gaze softening with the bare truth of Hannibal’s words. Giddiness fluttered in your chest, warming you up.

You knew the two of them rarely, if ever, let anybody get close. But you were not just anybody, and their gift had been the trust to fully let you in. What was that if not love?

“I’m surprised you don’t notice me following you around like a lovesick puppy,” Will said, smiling lopsidedly in amusement. “Hannibal won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“I think I’m just in my head too much…” you murmured, biting your lip as Hannibal leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we, Will?” He said.

Will nodded and reached over to take your free hand, thumb tracing over the back of it. “Anything for you.”

——

#will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #hannigram x reader #will graham x hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fanfiction #minors dni

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sgiandubh · 1 year ago

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Lallybroch: copyright vs. trademark

An excellent question was asked by our friend @rosfrank in the comments thread to 'The door faces North' post and given the cosmic amount of uninformed bullshit being ventilated for almost ten years in this fandom, I think it's time to answer it once and for all:

Whenever we are informally talking about 'owning the rights to something', I think it's very important to bear in mind a fundamental distinction between two different categories of ownership rights: copyright and trademark.

The copyright is the most familiar one to many of you. It is what you usually find on those annoying and apparently useless first or last pages of all the printed or digital editions on this planet. Something like this:

In the US, copyright issues are regulated by the Copyright Act of 1976, as included in Title 17 of the US Code. The US public authority competent for registering and managing copyright is, as predictable, the US Copyright Office.

Perhaps the most seminal US Supreme Court decision, as far as copyright is concerned, is the 1991 Feist Publications, Inc., v. Rural Telephone Service Co. In it, the Court ruled that mere compilations of information or facts (such as, for example, telephone books) are not protected by copyright, according to US law. In other words, the ancient legal concept of 'sweat of the brow' (which simply means the amount of work required to gather and compile those facts/information) is not enough to qualify a work for copyright protection, if no creative effort is added to enhance its content. This is why I have always considered absolutely ridiculous Marple's efforts to watermark public information screenshots: it is useless (to the extent that it legally protects her from nothing) and, as her timelines, a mere compilation of facts (legally ditto). A similar approach is preferred by the UK and also by many Roman law legal systems, such as the French one - just making things clearer, here, by the way.

See how 'Erself is roughly doing, right now, in this department:

But I am rambling. In my view, Lallybroch, as a pivotal concept used in Diana Gabaldon's books, is protected by the copyright granted to each and every of her books mentioning it, according to the Roman law principle 'accessorium sequitur principale' (the accessory follows the principal). So it will remain protected for at least 70 years since the last of her books mentioning it would have been published under copyright. Unless she chooses to separately protect the entire finished cycle as a whole, once Book Ten (fingers crossed) is published, preferably during our foreseeable lifetimes.

That being said, that goes only for one copyright category: (published) text - you cannot copyright that secret diary in your drawer, LOL. This is why, the current US Copyright Office records concerning Lallybroch look like this:

Sony Pictures Television Inc owns the copyright to the fictional name Lallybroch in the motion pictures category, as it is the title of the Episode 12, in Season 1 - DG has been handsomely compensated for this, no worries. And someone I have no idea about owns the rights to an original musical score she has written and titled Lallybroch in the music category, since October 2013.

Onwards to the trademark. This is something different and this is all about making your name/concept/idea profitable. It is all about branding it, putting it on a product and selling it under that brand. It includes all the graphic elements and the logo of the brand (accessorium...) - in short, its visual identity to the consumers. In the US, trademark issues are regulated by the 1946 Lanham Act and the public competent authority is the good old US Patent and Trade Office (USPTO).

Right now, the situation for the Lallybroch trademark is as follows:

So, we see three different trademarks: two of them, owned by Diana Gabaldon, are classified as 'dead' (cancelled and/or abandoned) and the third, Lallybroch Spirits, owned by S's Great Glen Company is pending approval - he will not be able to label any booze bottle Lallybroch Drink Me before permission is granted by the USPTO.

Let's unpack:

Both Lallybroch trademarks formerly owned by Diana Gabaldon were filed at the USPTO on February 21, 2000 and granted on December 12, 2000. The first was aimed at producing 'tartan fabrics for the manufacturer of clothing' and it was abandoned in December 2003:

The reason is that the owner did not file in any Statement of Use after the trademark was granted. She had three years to do so, and since she chose not to do anything about it, the trademark was deemed abandoned (Stacy K. Smith is the attorney hired by Herself, btw). That means she specifically implied not to intend using it in the future. As such, she may claim NO rights on a now free to use mark:

The second trademark was aimed at producing 'clothing, namely, t-shirts, dresses and headwear' and also 'jewelry, namely, rings, pins and necklaces'- to cut the story short: OL merchandise - and it was cancelled on March 1st, 2013:

The reason is that the owner did not file the Section 8 declaration (of continuous use for five years) within the allowed legal timeframe (6 months after the fifth anniversary of the trademark granting renewal). Her trademark federal rights are now deemed canceled (but not her state law and/or common law rights!) and if she wants to ever use that name again, she would have to start the whole process over, bearing in mind the trademark could have been granted to someone else, in the meanwhile (not her case).

And for anyone who might ask, 'Erself does not own any other trademarks whatsoever:

The other (Doll Lab - LOL for ages) Diana Gabaldon is a pharmacist from Albuquerque, NM. Chill. 🤣🤣🤣

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as far as published text is concerned, is Diana Galabdon.

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as far as motion pictures are concerned, is Sony Pictures Television Inc.

The owner of the copyright to the fictional toponym Lallybroch, as a personal work of music, is Mrs. Kelly Ruth Davis, of Pennsylvania, USA.

The owner of the Lallybroch Spirits trademark will be Sam Roland Heughan, when that trademark is granted by the USPTO.

I hope this answers your question, @rosfrank. Thank you for asking.

#fandom #shitshow #boozewars #business #legal

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minjoonapio · 9 months ago

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🎐 Wind Breaker CH.154: Raging Inferno

💭 THOUGHTS & ANALYSIS

[ ⚠️ SPOILERS ⚠️ ]

💭 Whenever it’s Wind Breaker day, I’m a nervous mess as the time of the chapter drop approaches. It’s worse that it’s my time of the month. I kid you not, when I was reading the chapter, my whole body was icy cold. I hope I get my thoughts across here.

I appreciate y'all for reading and liking my threads. Never expected it.

I wanna take this opportunity to appreciate Nii sensei’s fighting panels. They’re easy to follow and he brings impact on the punches.

This chapter though…it’s triggering my scoliosis 🫠 Twice! In one chapter!

Oh the way Sakura shuddered when Umemiya lifted his bloody face after he punched Chika on the back. The way Sakura stuttered a “H-hey…”

Our boy is scared of our leader.

And now he’s scared for Chika’s life because he believes Umemiya might seriously do a bad number on him even though he’s aware he’s strong too.

I know. I don’t like this either. The fact he had had this close bond with Ume especially after the leader shared his heavy past to him. And now…Sakura looks like he has this urge to stay away from him.

I've mentioned before that if the Old Ume never won against Chika...and with how he is acting right now, Ume might lose. Ume needs to stop being blinded by his rage and be clear of his goal here. Because right now, it just looks like he just wants to render Chika unconscious.

Just as I imagined, Ume would bother the heck out of Chika as he did with Hiragi, Tsubaki and I’m sure even Momose and Mizuki. But Ume tries to speak in Chika’s language. I'm sure he got to know him a little bit through him or their schoolmates. And it led Ume to place bets in their fights for Chika to join him.

"If I win, you gotta join me"

Chika left because most of Furin was getting soft and boring thanks to Umemiya. But most of all, he can't enjoy fighting Umemiya anymore. He enjoyed fighting THAT Ume. The Ume that was struggling and grasping for a change in the gang. The Ume who would do anything to have his goals and ideals met. But Ume was already gaining that. Because Ume was already attaining his goals, he changed; he has gone softer and gentler like the rest of Furin. So Chika left.

When Endo finally noticed, he had to make Furin and Umemiya like how they were before. Angry, unhinged, and desperate…so his dear Chika wont get bored.

Well, here it is. He made it happen. Endo sent that declaration of war, brought the town and Bofurin into chaos, and made sure Umemiya stood helplessly in the rooftop as h watched his found family get hurt...all to bring back that old Umemiya from few years ago. Anything for his sweet Chika Takiishi.

Thinking of what Endo said, we get that Chika has an unfathomable excitement to fight Umemiya. Perhaps it's the thrill of fighting someone as strong as him, someone like a raging fire. But is there something more to it? The way Chika's eyes shine, getting a kick out of their exchange of hands together. Is it to shut Umemiya down? Crush his soul? Break his spirit? (Oh wait. That's reminding me of how Endo attempted to do on Sakura chapters ago... 👀)

If you've been following me (in twitter), I was clinging to this idea that Umemiya would do something scary that would trigger Sakura to act and snap Umemiya out of it. I never thought it would already happen. That Umemiya would lose. As a cliffhanger, it seems so.

I had to zoom on the last page to see if Umemiya's eyes are actually closed. But I wonder what would happen next. In the last page, Chika just lifted his head, filled with excitement and adrenaline, but is he fully aware that Ume is unconscious? IF he is unconscious.

If he isn't, would he be like "Hey! Let's continue fighting!"

But if we're thinking of the weights of their fists, Umemiya would have weighed heavier; if he managed to make his resolve and goal clear in his fight with Chika. But if he's just so blinded by the heat of his emotions, it probably explains why he's knocked on the ground.

But for Chika? What is it he's fighting for? It must be something more than the thrill. Because what if Umemiya...won't fight him anymore?

Ngl, I desperately want to see a point of view of either Chika or Umemiya. So far, we only have been hearing from Endo and Sakura. We are stuck with them as spectators of the fight; which I think is what Nii-sensei wants us to feel. And I'm sure we feel the same way as Sakura: helpless (like Umemiya watching from the rooftop 🥲)

My initial predictions?

This may just be for cliff hangers sake and Umemiya is still conscious. And maybe...we might see another side of Umemiya. Defeated? A pathetic side Sakura's never seen? Because Nii sensei has built Umemiya (even in his character design. Hello, wide shoulders?) to be this protective big brother in the gang.

But I feel like that's kinda farfetched. Umemiya and his friends have worked so hard to bring peace to the town and bring order to Bofurin. He should not be defeated. He wouldn't allow it.

Whatever will happen, I believe Umemiya has to stop being like his old self and be firm with what he needs to do in order to stop Chika.

#wind breaker #wb154 #sakura haruka #umemiya hajime #ウィンブレ #endo yamato #chika takiishi

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idkyetxoxo · 1 month ago

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Davos Blackwood - One Of The Girls

Summary - A forbidden attraction ignites between them. With each stolen moment, they challenge societal expectations, indulging in their reckless passion. In the shadows of their worlds, they both discover a sweetness in the forbidden that could change everything.

Pairing - Davos Blackwood x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2572

Masterlist for Davos • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

Lock me up and throw away the key, he knows how to get the best out of me, I'm no force for the world to see trade my whole life just to be.

Davos Blackwood was a name that carried a weight of legend, the kind of reputation that made men envy him and women long for him.

It was impossible to ignore the sheer magnetism he carried, like a storm that drew everything into its orbit.

And yet, there I was, betraying every ounce of decorum expected of someone of my station, watching him spar with a group of knights as though he were some rare, untamed creature.

The ring of steel on steel filled the air, his movements fluid, a dance of strength and precision. I should have turned away, but my gaze lingered like a thief caught in the act.

"Stop staring," Adriana whispered beside me, jabbing a sharp finger into my side. I flinched, hastily redirecting my eyes to the embroidery in her lap, where golden thread snaked through fine fabric.

"You're shameless," she added, not even bothering to look up. "Your father will have his head on a spike and you locked in a tower before supper."

"And who would dare tell my father such a thing?" I asked, arching an eyebrow as I snatched the gown from her grasp.

"Me, if you don't let me finish this last flower," she retorted, yanking it back with a force that nearly toppled me.

I smirked. "Then perhaps I'll tell your father what you and Lord Mormont's son were truly up to in the stables last week."

Her cheeks flushed deep crimson as she swatted my arm, her gasp half outrage, half embarrassment. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me!" I laughed, shoving her shoulder lightly.

Our bickering spiralled into a tangle of laughter, sharp whispers, and unrestrained teasing, the kind of carefree banter we rarely allowed ourselves. For a brief moment, it was easy to forget the rules, the stifling expectations, the prying eyes.

Until the shadows of two figures stretched over us.

Adriana's hand shot out in a slap that stung more than usual. "They're coming this way!" she hissed, her eyes wide and darting towards the pair. I followed her gaze, and my heart did an involuntary flutter.

Davos Blackwood and Jeor Mormont stood before us, their tunics damp with sweat and swords still sheathed at their sides.

Jeor was polite, his hand placed theatrically over his heart as he inclined his head. "My ladies," he greeted, his gaze flickering between us but lingering a beat too long on Adriana.

"And what do you want?" I asked, adopting a tone as sharp as the needles Adriana had been wielding moments before.

My attempt at aloofness faltered as Davos stepped forward, the curve of his mouth a perfect, maddening smirk.

"We couldn't help but notice," Davos drawled, his deep voice laced with amusement, "that you two seemed to be enjoying yourselves far more than we were during training."

Adriana's eyes glinted mischievously. "Training?" she repeated, her tone dripping with mockery. "Is that what you call whatever you were doing out there?"

I gasped, half-shocked, half-delighted by her audacity. Nudging her with my elbow, I added, "Adriana, behave!"

But to my surprise, the boys didn't bristle at her cheek. Instead, they laughed, the sound rich and easy, as though we'd all been friends for years instead of divided by houses, titles, and traditions.

Davos stepped closer, his eyes catching the sunlight in a way that made them impossible to look away from.

"Care to demonstrate how you'd improve upon it, my lady?" he asked, his tone teasing, but there was a challenge in his gaze.

Heat rose to my cheeks as I met his stare. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of embarrassing you in front of your comrades," I replied sweetly, tilting my chin up.

"How considerate," he murmured, his smirk widening.

Adriana, sensing an opportunity, cleared her throat loudly. "Perhaps we should leave the boys to their 'training' before your father finds out we were mingling with the likes of them."

Jeor's face lit up with mock offence, but Davos merely laughed, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I suppose we'll have to try harder to impress next time," he said, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for me.

As the boys turned to leave, Adriana leaned close, her whisper full of glee. "You're hopeless."

And as I watched Davos walk away, the swagger in his step deliberate, I found I didn't mind one bit.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The stables were quiet at dusk, bathed in the soft amber glow of the sinking sun. The air smelled of hay, leather, and the faint musk of horses, a comforting mix that reminded me of simpler times before duty and expectation loomed so heavily over my life.

I had escaped here for the solitude, a moment to breathe without the ever-watchful eyes of my family or Adriana's whispered warnings about propriety.

I traced my fingers along the smooth wood of a stall, listening to the rhythmic snort of a gelding nearby. A part of me longed for something—anything—that didn't feel so predetermined.

My world was a gilded cage, and though the bars were beautiful, they still held me in.

The sound of boots on the packed earth pulled me from my thoughts. I stiffened, instinctively stepping deeper into the shadows, but then he appeared.

Davos Blackwood.

He stepped into the stable with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere and yet nowhere.

His tunic hung loosely, the neckline revealing a hint of sun-bronzed skin, and his dark hair was tousled as if he'd just dismounted from a hard ride. His eyes, sharp and glittering with something I couldn't quite name, found me immediately.

"Well," he drawled, leaning casually against the nearest post, "it seems fate is kinder than I thought."

I raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference even as my pulse quickened. "And what, exactly, brings you here at this hour? Surely you have more pressing matters than haunting stables."

He chuckled a low, rich sound that made my stomach flutter. "I could ask the same of you, my lady. Or should I call you a ghost instead? Lurking in the shadows as you are."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Perhaps I simply enjoy a bit of peace away from prying eyes and meddling tongues."

"Ah, yes," he said, stepping closer, his boots crunching softly on the hay-strewn floor. "The heavy burden of nobility. I wouldn't know, of course." The smirk on his face was anything but apologetic.

"You've made it abundantly clear you care little for such burdens," I shot back, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.

"And yet," he said, his voice dropping lower, "you don't seem to mind my company."

I should have turned him away then, reminded him of his reputation, the stories whispered in the halls about the hearts he broke and the trouble he caused.

But instead, I stayed rooted in place, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to resist the pull of him.

"Perhaps I don't," I admitted, my voice softer now. "But don't mistake that for ignorance. I know exactly what kind of man you are."

His smirk widened, though there was a flicker of something more—curiosity? Amusement?—in his eyes. "And what kind of man is that?"

I stepped closer, emboldened by the dim light and the absence of anyone who might judge me for my words. "The kind who takes what he wants without a second thought. The kind who leaves before morning."

He was close now, the warmth of him wrapping around me like the lingering heat of the day. "Is that what you think of me?" he murmured, his tone laced with mock offence.

I shrugged, though my breath hitched as his gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. "Your reputation precedes you."

"And yet," he said, his voice like velvet, "you don't seem to care."

"I don't," I said honestly, the weight of truth making my words bolder. "Not tonight."

His eyes darkened, the playful glint replaced by something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating. "Is that so?"

I nodded, my pulse hammering in my ears. "I'm tired of being who they expect me to be. Tired of always doing what's right, what's proper."

"And what do you want to do instead?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now.

For a moment, I couldn't speak. The air between us was electric, charged with all the things we shouldn't do but might anyway. I took a shaky breath, my heart pounding as I stepped even closer, until there was barely a hand's width between us.

"I want to taste the forbidden," I said, the words falling from my lips before I could think better of them.

Davos's smirk returned, but it was softer this time, his gaze searching mine as if to make sure I meant it.

Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His touch was warm, rough from swordplay but surprisingly gentle.

"I should warn you," he said, his voice low and husky, "forbidden fruit is never as sweet as they say."

"Maybe," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly, "but I'd rather decide that for myself."

The space between us vanished in an instant, and his lips met mine with a hunger that stole my breath. His hands found my waist, pulling me closer, and I let myself be lost in the moment—in him.

For one night, I didn't care about reputation or consequences. For one night, I was free.

The rough texture of the hay bale pressed against my back as Davos lowered me onto it with care, but the faint prickle was nothing compared to the heady rush coursing through me.

His hands moved to the delicate laces of my gown, fingers deft yet unhurried, as though savouring every second of undressing me.

My breath hitched as I watched him, his expression rapt, his eyes darker than I'd ever seen them. He was looking at me like I was the only thing that existed.

Each loosened thread felt like a boundary slipping away, leaving me more exposed, more vulnerable, but never afraid.

When the fabric finally fell, his gaze roved over my body with an intensity that sent shivers skittering across my skin. I felt his want, raw and unfiltered, and for the first time in my life, I didn't feel the need to cover myself.

But instinct was a stubborn thing, and as his gaze lingered, heat flooded my cheeks.

I raised my hands reflexively, shielding my chest from view. "I may not know much about... this," I murmured, a nervous smile playing at my lips, "but surely the lady isn't meant to be the only one undressed?"

His laugh was deep and warm like sunlight breaking through the storm.

"Fair point," he said, taking a deliberate step back. In one fluid motion, he stripped off his tunic, followed by his breeches, until he stood before me, unashamed and utterly captivating.

I couldn't help but stare, my eyes tracing the hard planes of his chest, the sinew of his arms, the faint scars that hinted at battles fought and survived.

My gaze dropped lower, lingering despite myself, and a low ache pooled deep within me, something primal and entirely new.

"Don't hide from me," he said softly, his voice laced with a gentle authority. His eyes flicked to the hands still covering my chest. "Let me see you."

I hesitated for only a moment before letting my arms fall away. His sharp intake of breath was answer enough, a sound that sent a thrill through me.

He licked his lips as though he were savouring a feast and the way he looked at me—hungry but reverent—made me feel more powerful than I'd ever thought possible.

Slowly, he knelt beside me, his movements deliberate and unhurried. His hands skimmed along my sides, the roughness of his calluses a tantalizing contrast to the tenderness of his touch.

"You're perfect," he whispered, the words barely audible, but they struck me with the force of a confession.

I didn't feel perfect—I felt exposed, inexperienced, unsure. But under his gaze, none of that seemed to matter.

He guided me back down, the hay prickling against my skin, but I barely noticed.

My senses were entirely consumed by him—the scent of leather and pine, the heat radiating from his body, the weight of his gaze holding me captive.

His hands trailed down my thighs, parting them gently, reverently. I shivered under his touch, the anticipation coiling tighter and tighter until I thought I might come apart.

When his fingers brushed my core, the sensation was electric. I gasped, the sound breaking the stillness, and he paused, watching me intently.

"Is this all right?" he asked, his voice impossibly soft.

"Yes," I breathed, my voice trembling with unfiltered honesty. "Don't stop."

The corners of his mouth curved into a small, knowing smile, and he resumed his exploration, each touch deliberate and impossibly gentle.

The pleasure was unlike anything I had ever experienced, a slow, building tide that left me dizzy and breathless.

When a soft moan escaped my lips, his gaze darkened, and his movements became bolder, more assured, as though he were learning my body's secrets with every sound I made.

Finally, he positioned himself above me, his hardness pressing against my entrance. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice laced with both restraint and urgency.

I nodded, my arms looping around his back, anchoring myself to him.

Slowly, he pressed into me, inch by inch, his movements careful yet firm. A sharp gasp escaped my lips as my body adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation, the fullness almost overwhelming. He stilled, giving me time, his hand brushing the hair back from my face as his eyes searched mine.

The tenderness in his gaze unravelled me. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's not," I replied, my voice trembling but certain. "Don't stop."

He began to move, slow and steady, each thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through me. The discomfort faded quickly, replaced by a deep, burning ache that built with every motion.

His hands framed my hips, guiding me in a rhythm that felt instinctual, as though our bodies had always known how to find each other.

The sensations overwhelmed me, each touch, each movement dragging me deeper into a world I'd never known.

The way he looked at me, the way his body moved against mine—it was as though nothing else existed.

I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, as he brought me closer and closer to the edge of something I couldn't quite name but desperately wanted to reach.

When the moment finally came, it was like breaking apart and coming together all at once, a rush of pleasure so intense it left me trembling beneath him.

He followed moments later, his body tensing as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breaths ragged and warm against my skin.

For long moments, neither of us moved. The world seemed to have stilled around us, leaving only the sound of our mingled breaths and the faint rustle of hay.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze meeting mine. There was no smirk now, no trace of arrogance—only a quiet vulnerability that mirrored my own.

For this one night, I had tasted the forbidden. And it was sweeter than I ever could have imagined.

We don't gotta be in love, no, I don't gotta be the one, no, I just wannа be one of your girls tonight.

A/n - live laugh love Abel Tesfaye <3

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