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skamenglishsubs · 11 months ago

Text

Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 3, Episode 2

Episode 2 starts days or maybe a week after episode 1. The curfews and phone ban is in place, so Wilhelm and Simon make the most of their one hour of phone sex talking.

Blink and you miss it: Wilhelm snapped a quick instant picture of himself and Simon at the palace in the last episode, using the camera we saw on his desk. The heart is still on his hand, so maybe it's the next day, or maybe he's been filling it in every day.

Cinematography: Intense red light typically symbolizes their mutual love, and this scene is overflowing with it.

Lost in translation: They both finish the phone call with "puss", which means kiss, but not exactly. It's more platonic, something you can say and do with your parents, or your kids, or end phone calls with. The other word for kiss, "kyss", is more romantic/sexual, and would be super weird to end a phone call with. Simon is using that word when he says he would kiss Wilhelm's collar bone birth mark.

Subtext: Of course Vincent doesn't believe anyone was bullied. He's the biggest bully, but what he does is just a joke, or the other guy deserved it. This is gonna be a recurring theme™ in this episode, how various characters look back on and remember, or choose not to remember, what happened to them.

Subtext: If you didn't pick up this meaningful glance, you're blind. The initiation porno was totally real, and Nils and August clearly remember it, and weren't as flippant about it as Vincent.

Culture: In Sweden, inner city schools are typically better and have richer students than the poorer schools out in the suburbs. This is the exact opposite of the typical US school demographical pattern.

Subtext: Wilhelm avoids Farima's question by evading it. Note that it does make sense that she doesn't know what's going on at these schools since she's an employee, she's not upper-class herself. Wilhelm's parents know though since they attended Hillerska, but they would of course never admit it either.

Culture: Ironically, this is exactly how the real-world Danish royal family handled the Herlufsholm scandal in 2022 involving prince Christian. Only when the media storm in Denmark got too intense did they pull him out of the school, while furiously denying knowledge of the abuse or that he was involved in any way.

Cinematography: We're in the cursed music room, but the light is soft and golden, and the scene is just cute. No fight this time.

Subtext: We're touching the theme™ again, but from Simon's perspective. He has the same outsider perspective we have; speaking up about abuse is always good, and if the school's closing because of it, that's an obviously good thing. There's plenty of scenes in this episode showing that most Hillerska students don't share this perspective, they really love their school, as fucked up as it is.

Subtext: Although it sounds like a rehearsed PR line and Felice is thinking about her girl group here, it's gonna come true for her and Sara.

Subtext: Yuck. No further comment.

Cinematography: The immediate cut to Felice getting her aggressions out in gym class shows us exactly what she thought of what the principal said and how much it pissed her off.

Blink and you miss it: Simon audibly sniffs Wilhelm's hair.

Blink and you miss it: Micke made dinner for both of them, but in her depression, Sara ignores the cooked food (Pyttipanna, btw), and makes herself a cucumber sandwich instead.

Subtext: Micke is a man on a mission, and he is constantly steering the conversation towards helping Sara get her driver's license. For him, it's a way to make up for having been a shitty parent.

Culture: Sweden has long been a holdout of stick-shift cars, and if you don't do your practical test in a stick-shift, you'll get a restricted license, so it's not out of the ordinary for Micke to be teaching Sara how to drive one. However, automatics have seen a sharp rise in the last decade, and in 2024 automatics will finally overtake them.

Culture: The green ÖVNINGSKÖRNING sign is compulsory in Sweden if a car is being driven by someone on a learner's permit, with a parent or friend as the instructor. There's also a red version of the sign, which indicates it's a student driver with a professional instructor in a dual control car.

Cinematography: The room is filled to the brim with things to do, there's a bazillion board games, they have books, magazines, fidget thingies, they're drowning in stuff, and yet the girls are still soooooo boooored just because they don't have their phones. Except Madison, who is knitting.

Subtext: Here comes the theme™ again, and Fredrika is firmly in camp denial. Everyone else is just lying and exaggerating! The wheels are starting to turn in Felice's head though.

Subtext: Nils and August are finally talking about the initiation without Vincent being present, and they can finally be honest about what they actually thought about it. It happened, they didn't like.

Subtext: Their idea of fixing it however is not to go out publicly and talk about it, but to just quietly stop the tradition, hoping they'll be the last ones. (Since there are no second-year students in the show, we have no idea what happened to them, so we're just gonna ignore that.)

Subtext: And here comes the reason that August wanted to put a stop to it. He was completely humiliated by it, and he doesn't want anyone else to know that he was humiliated, because that just makes it worse. This is also the reason that traditions like this keep on going, no-one wants to blow the whistle on it, because everyone was abused, everyone was a victim, it's hard for abuse victims to speak up.

Cinematography: The talk with Nils triggered an anxiety attack for August, and being inside his small room doesn't exactly help. Him going so close to the camera that he almost bumps into it really shows how he feels like the walls are closing in on him.

Culture: This, kids, is a standard Swedish landline telephone jack. For the longest time I thought phone jacks looked like this everywhere, but it turns out that this particular design was only used in Sweden and Iceland(!?!). You won't find these in newer buildings because landlines are pretty much dying out, and if there are phone jacks they'll probably be using the much more common RJ-11 standard.

Culture: This, kids, is an Ericsson Diavox phone. The former government phone monopoly in Sweden, Televerket, only allowed certified and approved phones to be used on the network, and they only approved a very small set of phones, so everyone had pretty much the same phones in their homes. However, in the 1980's the market started getting flooded with "illegal" phones from other countries, so the monopoly simply stopped enforcing the rule, and you could finally, finally, plug in that novelty Garfield phone that you always wanted.

Blink and you miss it: Sara is studying for her driving test, and she's reading about driving in the dark.

Subtext: We're gearing up for the main plotline of the season, dropping more hints that maybe Wilhelm's image of Erik wasn't complete, and what August says sows some seeds of doubt in him.

Subtext: This song is objectively not very good, please don't kill me, but it is very sixteen-year-old-boy-just-singing-from-his-heart, not thinking about the text.

Subtext: Simon isn't wearing anything purple, but just after he posts his song video, he picks up a purple shirt, drops it immediately, and then the camera lingers on it. Colour theory goes brrrrrrrr. He thought about Wilhelm, and then stopped because his music is more important to him or something?

Subtext: Unlike Simon, Wilhelm immediately understands how problematic the text is for him, and how people will interpret it...

Subtext: ...but since he doesn't want to hurt Simon's feelings, he lies about why he thinks the song was a very, very bad idea. And he cushions it by telling Simon that he thinks the song is jätte-jätte-bra. Giant-giant-good.

Subtext: Yes, but also no, and someone from the court really should have given Simon some media training and explained to him why he has to be very careful about what he posts. But it's drama fuel, which is why this disaster is allowed to happen.

Subtext: A nice little throwback to season 1, this is exactly what Erik told Wilhelm in the first episode, about making sure that their public image is carefully curated.

Subtext: That's some on-the-nose foreshadowing there, since Felice is one of the main causes for the school ultimately closing.

Subtext: We're back to the theme™, Fredrika is saying pretty much the same thing as Vincent. It didn't happen, and if it did, it wasn't that bad.

Subtext: However, Felice isn't playing along this time, she's starting to speak up about the issues, and the result is a long, awkward silence, because her friends are not willing to do the same.

Subtext: Wilhelm and the rest of the rich kids are of course all wearing pretty expensive high-end hiking gear, in contrast with Simon who is simply wearing one of his usual hoodies and his usual winter jacket that we've seen before. That's a damn fine jacket from Fjällräven, btw, the same company that makes the weirdly globally popular Kånken backpacks.

Blink and you miss it: Henry is getting dragged for his actually quite reasonable objection to the tent groupings.

Subtext: Felice physically distances herself from her friends, and joins Simon and Wilhelm, in a nice little foreshadowing of the show's ending.

Blink and you miss it: Did you miss the line in last episode where Ayub said they were also gonna go camping at Talludden with their classmates from Marieberg? Well, here they are, because they pitched their tents nearby, and decided to go check out the Hillerska camp. It's not just Rosh and Ayub randomly walking through the woods.

Subtext: In season 2, we learned that Stella has a crush on Fredrika that she thinks is one-sided, but Fredrika sure has some kind of reaction to seeing Stella being close with Rosh. Jealousy, perhaps? Not clear at this point in time.

Subtext: Read the room Fredrika, for fuck's sake. At least Wilhelm has started learning to recognize privilege. The other rich kids probably recognize their privilege, but they're mostly just enjoying how much better they are than the poor regular kids.

Subtext: But Wilhelm's still got a lot more to learn. Yes, technically he is forced to spend his summer studying, and technically it is a kind of work, but the underlying reasons are completely different. If he skips it or fails, nothing bad will happen to him, unlike the Marieberg kids who rely on their summer jobs to have any sort of spending money.

Lost in translation: Wilhelm's dad says that the queen is going to be "sjukskriven", which is more serious than someone deciding on their own to take some time off or to use some sick days. It means that a doctor has evaluated you and decided that you are not fit to work, and that if you're a regular person, you are eligible for sick pay for the foreseeable future.

Cinematography: Yeah, mommy is really sick and Wilhelm is feeling the weight of responsibility, but take a look at that sunrise! It's so pretty! Wilhelm is completely in shadow because trouble whatever, but look at how that light just pops, with the sky and the water and the sun on the trees! Beautiful!

#young royals #young royals subtext #young royals analysis #young royals season 3

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scoutofmymind · 28 days ago

Note

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #req

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veilkeeper · 3 months ago

Text

Act 3 Emmrichmance: Lich Edition

alt title: if you're really determined, "'til death do us part" is only a suggestion

okay so, after the point of no return some pretty major stuff happens in the romances. @/crossdressingdeath and i talked in DMs about how, as far as we can tell, all the romances have some sort of unfinished business going into the endgame. in the lucanismance, it's him cutting rook off from saying they love him, in the davrinmance it's a discussion about davrin's fear that one of them is going to die just as he's starting to imagine a future with them, and with emmrich it's The Argument™—which as i've discussed before, is emmrich and rook having an argument about his insecurities. in the lich path, which is what i'm specifically talking about here, the argument is about his concern that rook is going to die at some point, and his fear that he's going to mourn them forever. the argument is left unresolved after some pretty intense back and forth, where rook calls him out on pushing his insecurities and fears onto them, and they have to shelve it to head to tearstone island.

to their credit, they do try to apologize to each other. in banter on tearstone island, emmrich very clearly regrets starting an argument, but he and rook both agree that now isn't really a good time and that they'll talk when they get home.

and then rook almost dies in front of him and gets thrown into fade jail by solas.

uh oh!!!!

if this isn't the manifestation of all his fears, i don't know what is. for all intents and purposes, he has lost rook. he's sure they're alive—trapped in a prison meant to hold gods, but alive—and since he's a lich i have every confidence that there was not a moment of rest in the weeks it took to rescue rook. he's their fade expert, he's the best equipped to find them, and he has to, because otherwise the last real conversation they had was an argument he never got to apologize for, and he will have to live with that guilt for an eternity.

i really have to wonder if he ever would have been able to bring himself to stop looking for them.

and while i suspect their LI is always the first person to grab a hold of rook to pull them out of the fade, there's a special flavour to it when you're romancing emmrich. knowing that he's probably been obsessively trying to find them. the sheer relief he must have felt when he reached through the veil and was able to get his hands on them, to pull them through and back into the safety of his arms.

he fusses after them, too. urgently takes them to the necropolis so he can be extra certain that solas' hold on them is gone. he was afraid he'd lost them forever, he wasn't going to waste any time making sure they'd be as safe as they can be. and then he says,

"I will let nothing part us again, my love. Not in this nor any other world."

he says it in that level, sort of indulgent tone that he says all his romance lines in, so it's easy to mistake this as him being poetically hyperbolic. but let us never forget that this is the man with such a profound fear of death that he became a lich just to avoid it. he's not half as well-adjusted as he likes to appear.

when he says he would not let anything separate him and rook again, he is dead fucking serious.

he wakes them up at dawn despite knowing they need rest—i think, perhaps, because it isn't enough to have them breathing in front of him. that he needs to hear their voice and have the reassurance that they're here and real and alive and safe, at least right now. "I would move the world before I lost you again," he says later. before the final fight against elgar'nan, he says he has plans he wants to make with rook, that he wants to be safe and at home with them. if i had to guess, i'd say rook i going to have a hard time shaking him for anything after this. i don't think he's ever going to feel like they're safe if he can't see them. hope you like a clingy boyfriend.

it's kind of the inevitable conclusion to what i was talking about in my sacrifice of souls meta—none of his actual fears around death and dying and grieving have been addressed, and he's hitched his wagon to immortality. and now that he's almost lost rook, he's realized that there is no universe where he's ever going to survive losing them for real.

and we all know the lengths he's willing to go to stay alive.

#am i saying that emmrich is going to find a way to make rook immortal? well lets just say im not NOT saying that.#emmrich would become a fucking *husk* if rook died and you cant change my mind ♥#word count: 784 #emmrich #emmrichmance #dav #dav spoilers #dragon age #dragon age spoilers #veilguard #veilguard spoilers #mine #da meta #my meta #emmrook #emmrich x rook

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biomic · 16 days ago

Note

why do you think the tone of gavv is distracting you compared to things like donbrothers and saber?

for me, gavv's premise and its gimmick are almost always at odds with one another. as much as this is probably the best produced kamen rider in years, and as strong as komura's writing has been (her first show with good pacing!), it's lacking that connective tissue between what it's doing vs what it's selling that throws the whole thing out of whack when i watch it

gavv has gone all in on the dark confections being a metaphor for drugs, and every monster of the week being an addict (kind of its own can of worms there), and exploring shoma's trauma from the abuse he endured as a child, and that's just a Lot to put on the shoulders of the guy wearing potato chip armor, you know? when a show like saber or donbrothers gets intense and tugs at your heartstrings, it's still typically on a very heightened, superheroic level, and while that's definitely present in gavv, rakia holding his dying brother in his arms after kicking him out for using their money on drugs is. not. which makes it stand out all the more when it cuts back to him and he's pudding.

other shows have touched on similar subjects before, but fourze's switches were mainly used to explore the anxieties of being in your Teens™, and W's memories felt a lot less intrusive in the world of a regular (by rider's standards) bug-eyed detective's show. even the fruit was never what took me out of gaim, partially because he was designed to be as much a Samurai as he was an Orange, and i can see how you get to forbidden fruit and rival dance teams from the lockseeds and warring states theming even if i didn't like the end result

and on top of all that i think about how gavv just kind of. throws you into the deep end almost immediately. before i even got a chance to really invest in this world and these characters im watching shoma's mother get murdered in front of him and it's like. wow okay. well now he's marshmallows. part of why boonboomger's heel turn near the end doesn't ring false is because the seeds have been planted throughout the show's entire run and i've grown to love the cast so much over the year. you pull that stunt with boondorio in the early episodes and im likely coming away thinking "really? you're doing all this for the tire people show?"

i'll stop there since i feel like im rambling on, because honestly im also still having trouble parsing why exactly gavv isn't fully hitting for me. and i don't mean to sound negative because i do think it's a good show! i AM enjoying it. i just wish i could be fully invested in the Peak Fiction™ everyone else seems to be experiencing

#snapple man #asks #kendrix morgan died for our sins #kamen rider for ts

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chandelier-s-notebook · 27 days ago

Text

Hey, so I started writing a Landoscar 5+1 which...didn't even spiral outwardly that badly, but I hate it. I hate it enough that I never want to look at it again, and I think that if I put it down, I will never pick it back up. And both desperately want to put it down, and don't believe in continually ramming your head into the wall if something isn't working. So, into the fic graveyard it goes.

But! Instead of tossing it in the trash, never to be seen again, I am posting it here to Tumblr. Maybe someone can enjoy it.

It's supposed to be Landoscar, but it takes Lando 1800 of those prose words to show up. What's happening in that first 1.8k? Charles adopting Oscar. Alex and George are also here. Max exists, and Lando is a biter.

The whole 5+1 part is outlined, it's five different things Lando calls Oscar in a College!AU and one time Oscar gives him a nickname back. The bones are all there, but...

*ahem*

I present to you: 2.3k of pose and 1.1k of outline.

Have an experience.

[INSERT TITLE HERE]

Oscar Piastri is a regular engineering major university shut in by the time Winter semester rolls around in his first year of university.

He has one friend—Logan, his roommate, who he’d met all the way back in middle school—two different incompetent lab groups, a class with four midterms and a final, 18 hours of lecture a week, a never ending stream of assignments, a healthy addition to Monster Energy™, and three humanities he has to take if he wants to graduate at all.

Oscar is taking a 300-level Principles of Marketing—he figures it will be useful enough—when he meets Charles Leclerc.

And that's when his life starts to change.

— — —

Charles is a business major, and Charles happens to be sitting next to Oscar when Professor Vettel—”But please call me Sebastain, or even Seb,”—asks them to introduce themselves to the person sitting next to them.

“Oscar Piastri. I’m in engineering, mechanical, first year.”

“Ah. So you are here for the credit, then? I am Charles Leclerc, second year.”

The name pings some level of familiarity deep in the back of his brain, but it’s not enough of a connection for him to follow it down any sort of rabbit hole. “Pretty much, but I have to keep my GPA up to keep my scholarship, so I’m not planning on being completely useless.”

“Good,” Charles smiles. “Because this introduction thing is how Seb likes to assign groups of the term.”

Oscar feels like a bucket of water has been dumped on his head. “What?”

“I know. It is weird, but all of the professors here are. I hope we work well together. When I was in Intro to Marketing, I was stuck with George. George is nice, but he is very intense about the wrong things sometimes. We did not work well together.”

“This class is going to be, like, last on my list of priorities,” Oscar feels the need to tell him.

But Charles just smiles again. “I figured, since you said you are an engineer. That is okay. At least I know what I am in for from the start. We will meet once a week, yes? So we have a dedicated time to work on this class, and you can ignore it the rest of the time?”

Oscar starts to protest, but a clap sounds from the front of the room. “Well. I hope you like the person sitting next to you,” Professor Vettel, Sebastian, Seb says. “Because this is who you will be working with for the rest of the semester! I’ll give you five minutes to exchange contact information, and then we’ll get started!”

Charles winks at him; he’s bad at it. “See?”

Oscar forks over his number, and pencils in a weekly Wednesday evening library session with Charles Leclerc.

— — —

Wednesday evening quickly becomes Oscar’s favourite time of the week.

For two hours he can shut off his brain, ignore all of his coursework, and just hangout with Charles Leclerc. At least it feels like they’re just hanging out, because what’s actually happening is Charles is explaining to Oscar what the fuck he’s doing for their joint assignments that Oscar feels a little bit bad about putting his name on.

“It’s okay,” Charles assures him. “Seb’s husband is one of the engineering profs. He knows which people in his class are eng students, and how much they’ve got on their plates.”

“Which one?”

“Not telling.”

“Rude!”

“Besides, you’re doing quality control.”

“I don’t know what quality I am controlling, is the issue.”

“That is okay.”

“Is it? I’m going to fail the final at this rate.”

“No you aren’t.”

Oscar flops down onto the table. “Yes I am.”

“Because it is a term project.”

He looks up. “I’m not letting you do an entire term project on your own.”

“Of course you are not. We need to build a product website. I cannot code, and I know that coding is a requirement to graduate, so I will make the design document, and you will code.”

“Okay,” he says, small. “I don’t want to drag your grade down because I don’t know what’s going on in this course.”

“You won’t. I won’t let you,” Charles tells him. “You understand the lectures, non?”

“Yeah. And I’m acing the theory quizzes.”

Charles grins. “See? You are doing very well.”

Oscar smiles. “Okay, but what goes in a design document?”

— — —

“Charles, I know I have to be the one to do the presentation, but I can’t. I’m going to sound so stupid standing up there reading off these cards.”

“You are not going to sound stupid. That is why we are practicing.”

“You’re biased. You need to tell me I’m going well so I stay calm.”

“Are you not calm?” Charles asks, tilting his head.

“I am not calm.”

“This is you not calm?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I cannot tell. Which is good, because then no one will be able to see if you start to panic. The audience is like a snark.”

“Not helpful!”

“Right.” Charles taps his chin with this index finger. “I know! I will get George.”

“George?”

“Yes!” The upperclassman pulls out his phone. “If you can present to George, you can present to anybody.”

“I thought you didn’t like George?”

“I don’t like working with George. He is judgy.”

“And you want me to present in front of him?”

“Oui. He will stay quiet until you are done.”

“I hate this.”

“You told me you would.”

George is apparently George Russell, the man Oscar’s Solid Mechanics TA, Max Verstappen, loves to draw into pointless arguments. He brings his friend Alexander “Alex” Albon—wildlife biology major. They are both very good at quietly listening to him fumble, while keeping their expressions carefully blank.

At least George is. Alex is smiling at him in a way he knows is supposed to be comforting, but all it’s doing is making him more aware of tightness in his chest.

“And that’s that.” Oscar claps his hands together, and immediately regrets it.

Charles applauds and cheers like he’s just won a race or something.

Alex claps as well.

George turns to Charles. “You’ve adopted an engineer.”

“Maybe,” Charles grins. “You can barely tell.”

“It’s obvious.”

“No it’s not,” Charles turns to assure Oscar. “Barely. If you weren’t you, you couldn’t tell.”

“I mean it’s not really far, because I’ve seen him in Max’s office.”

Charles looks absolutely betrayed when his gaze whips towards him. “Why are you in Max’s office?”

“For help?”

Charles narrows his eyes.

“He’s my TA; solid mech.”

“Who do you like more?”

“Huh?”

“Me and Max. Who do you like more?”

Oscar’s eyes dart to Alex’s for a little help. There’s not much he can do, but he does manage to convey that this answer is apparently very important.

Oscar has never considered Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen against each other. They aren’t exactly in the same category of people in his mind.

“You?”

“More confidence.”

“You.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Charles sits back in his seat. “Do it again. Do you have a suit? You will wear a suit to this presentation.”

Oscar is only a little scared.

“Does Max like Oscar?” Charles asks George while they all go about packing their bags at the end of the session.

“I’d say so. You know how he pretends to be professional with the underclassmen, but when it’s just Oscar in the room he’s right back to his usual state of no decorum.”

Charles hums. “Do you do anything on Fridays, Oscar? Friday evenings?”

“Cry? All of my assignments are due Friday.”

“So you stay up all night doing them?”

“No, that's Thursday. I fix everything Friday morning, so that I’ve got time to cry in the evening before I start next week’s assignments on Saturday.”

Alex snorts. “Nice.”

“You are coming for drinks,” Charlest tells him. “Crying with friends is better than crying alone. I will come pick you up. Give me your address.” He holds out his phone in front of Oscar’s nose.

Oscar’s eyes dart back to Alex’s. The man looks just as befuddled as he feels, but honestly: Oscar would like more than one friend.

“Will I have to pay?” he asks.

“Non. If I tell you you have to pay you will come up with excuses to not come. I will pay. You have a class that ends at five thirty, non?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Then I will be there at six thirty. That will give you an hour to get home, and do whatever introvert things you need to do before we go out.”

At Oscar’s expression Alex tells him, “We also always meet up at seven.”

Which is good, because Oscar was about to tell Charles that they shouldn’t change their whole schedule for him.

— — —

Oscar’s shirt is only halfway on when there’s a knock at his door.

“In a minute!”

“I’ve got it!” Logan calls.

The door opens.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“You are not Oscar.”

“No. I’m not. Who are you?”

“Charles!” Oscar gasps, running out of his room. “Logan, this is Charles. He’s my Marketing partner. Charles, this is Logan, he’s my roommate.”

“You never mentioned a roommate.”

“Never came up,” he says, bending down to tie his shoelaces.

“I told you about my roommates!” Charles cries.

“You complained about your roommate to me,” he corrects.

Logan laughs. “Dude, you’re supposed to share horror stories when that happens.”

Oscar furrows his brows. “But I don’t have horror stories.”

“Oscar.”

“Yes?”

“Your roommate answered the door eating cereal out of a frying pan.”

Oscar turns to look.

Logan shrugs.

“Have you heard of bowls?” Charles shrieks.

“American,” he grins.

Oscar huffs. “He’s joking,” he assures Charles while grabbing his coat. “We’ve run out of bowls. Logan was supposed to do the dishes tonight.”

The man in question clicks his tongue, and shoots Charles with a finger gun. “Are you going out?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back…when will I be back?”

“Two?”

“I’m not making it to two. I’ll be back at ten.”

“Text me. I’m staying in.”

“Cool.” Oscar throws him a thumbs up. “Shall we? Who’s going to be there, by the way?”

“George, Alex, Pierre, Esteban, Yuki, Liam, Lando, and Max is not coming.”

“Pierre is your roommate?”

“Oui.”

When Oscar gets to the pub, he is immediately reminded why he’s bad at making friends.

While everybody else introduced themselves with their first names only, Oscar had said: “Oscar Piastri.”

Full name, full confidence.

Which was his only saving grace: the confidence. His face didn’t even scrunch up in displeasure.

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri!” Lando says.

“Just Oscar is fine.”

“But your name is Oscar Piastri.”

“Oh my god Lando,” Alex laughs. “Ignore him. He bites, but he’s harmless.”

“I thought the saying goes ‘he doesn’t bite,’ right?”

“Yeah,” George shrugs. “But Lando does bite. Literally. He’s a bit feral, but he’s good the first hour.”

Charles pats Oscar’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“You’re all making me sound like a dog. I’m not a pet!”

“I think it’d be nice to be a pet dog. No solid mech homework.”

“Is that what we’re crying about tonight?” Alex asks.

“Yep.”

Lando’s eyes light up. “You schedule your crying?”

“I’m in mech eng.”

“Oh Oscar Piastri, I’m so sorry.”

George groans. “Just call him Oscar.”

“No.”

Oscar laughs. He doesn’t really mind. It’s very clear that he’s just teasing. Besides, Oscar likes the way Lando says his full name: Oscar Piastri. It rolls off his tongue like it’s a single entity.

— — —

The presentation goes well, all things considered, and Oscar even manages to actually answer some of the audience questions without looking at Charles in panic first.

It’s a miracle.

“Good job!” Charles says, clapping his shoulder as they go back to their seats. “That was great. I’m so proud of you.”

Oscar blushes. “Stop. I feel like you’re about to give me a gold star or something.”

“I could. Do you want one?” Charles asks, way too earnestly for Oscar’s taste. “I carry some around with me. We give them to Lando when he does a good job.”

“First you tell me he bites, then you tell me you give him treats, are you sure he’s not the friend group’s dog or something.”

Charles grins. “Don’t let his whining confuse you, he likes it. He has a little sticker booklet, so if you are going to give him one you have to give it to him, because you put it on him it won’t be sticky anymore and it will be difficult to keep in the booklet.”

“Oh my god.”

“Would you like one?”

“I don’t have a booklet.”

“That is okay. You can put it on your laptop. They are die cut vinyl; very good quality.”

“Wow. Yeah I’ll have one.”

Oscar’s laptop is now the proud wearer of a smiling cartoon golden star sticker.

It’s silly, but he loves it.

— — —

At six thirty sharp every Friday, Charles Leclerc is at his door ready to drag him off to the pub with his friends who are all slowly, but surely, also being Oscar’s friends.

He jumps when all he gets is a loud “OSCAR!” before Lando is barrelling into his side, almost sending him sprawling just outside of the peb entrance.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Oscar is not not bracing for a bite.

Not because he wants Lando to bite him, but because he likes to think they’re friends, and apparently Lando bites his friends.

Or maybe they just told that to Oscar to scare him, and take the mick out of Lando in a single blow.

“Ah! Lando!” Alex cries. “You pest. Give me warning! You can’t just bite people.”

“I gave you a whole four seconds after arriving,” Lando pouts. “That’s plenty of warning. Not my fault you ignored it.”

“Say something,” Alex pleads, rubbing his shoulder. “You’ve gotten better at biting lightly, thank you.”

Lando brightens. “You’re welcome!” He turns to George. “George, I’m going to bite you.”

“Oh I don’t like that,” Alex says. “That’s so ominous. Nevermind. Don’t say anything. But like, tap me or something.”

Lando whacks George’s shoulder, and then with a “hwam” he clamps his teeth around the other man’s shoulder.

Oscar isn’t sure if he should be watching with horror or fascination.

Oscar jumps about twelve feet in the air when he hears a loud “OSCAR” shouted across the quad

Lando.

The biter.

Who didn’t bite anybody last time they were out

But they’ve known each other for longer than an hour, so he’s a little bit worried

Because Charles doesn’t tend to lie to him.

Lando throws himself into Oscar’s side

“Where are you going?”

“Physics Building.”

“Ugh. Why?”

“Solid Mech. Need to talk to my TA.”

“Terrible. I think. Max likes Solid Mech, but Max is a freak.”

“Verstappen?”

“Yep! Do you know him?”

“He’s my TA.”

“For Solid Mech?”

“Yup.”

“Of course he is. He was probably grading your assignments, that’s why he didn’t come out last night.”

Oscar pales. “You’re friends with my TA?”

“Yup! He’s a freak, but he’s cool.”

“If he’s a freak, what are you? I’m waiting for you to bite me.”

Lando pauses. “Do you want me to bite you, Oscar?”

“I was told you bite your friends.”

“Are we friends?”

“I dunno. Don’t have many of those.”

“Well we’ve got to fix that.”

Suddenly Lando is being scruffed.

“Lando. Why are you about to bite my favourite student?”

“We’re friends now. Charles brought him to the pub.”

“Ah.”

“Stop giving Oscar so many assignments. Cause then he’ll be less stressed, and you’ll be able to hangout more!”

“Not how that works. If I let you go, are you going to bite him?”

“He literally asked for it.”

“I did.”

Max sighs. “I see why Charles took you in. Were you having trouble with the assignment?”

“The indeterminate structures are doing my head in again.”

“The what?”

Max hauls Lando into his office. “Come in, you. You’re going to be Oscar’s rubber duck.”

“What?” he squawks. “Oscar! Max just called me dumb!”

Oscar feels warm.

He has a friend.

— — —

Lando loosens up a bit more and stops pronouncing the r in his name. It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does, but it practically kills Oscar.

Lando is an arts major, graphic design and photography

He sits with Oscar while he works on his assignments

Well, Lando is usually drawing or editing pictures

To Oscar it feels like not working, but Lando assures him that he is actually working

“Oscah. I’m bored.”

“I’m busy.”

“I knoooooooow. Can I take pictures of you?”

“What?”

“Pictures? With my camera? I need to practice my human portraits stuff. Framing and shit. And how to deal with natural lighting. The lighting in here is shit, mate.”

Oscar glances at him.

“I’ll be taking candid shots. Like you in your natural habitat. So I won’t even be talking. I’ll shut up!”

“Why is that a selling point?”

“Because you’re trying to work? I can be considerate.”

Oscar smiles. “Go for it. Might be a bit awkward though.”

“I’ve got you Oscah. I’ll make you look cool even without dynamic lighting.”

“I hate dynamics.”

— — —

Osc is not made for the pub despite being an engineer

“We are we are we are we are We are the engineers We can we can we can we can We can demolish forty beers So come so come so come so come So come along with us For we don't give a damn for any damn man who don't give a damn for us”

Oscar has been drinking water for the past three pubs on this crawl

He runs into Max at some point

Max, who decides that it’s time to save him, and Oscar is being dragged into a booth with Charles and his friends.

“Do you think those guys are going to notice you are gone?”

“Maybe? Probably. I’ve been Logan’s introvert all night. He’ll go looking for me before everybody leaves.”

Charles gets him another water.

Oscar starts asking questions about the torsion unit.

Max laughs, and they are doing office hours again.

“There you are! Man, I thought I’d lost you for good. You good, man?”

“Yeah! There is Charles.” He points.

Logan grins and shakes his hand. “Hey. Oscar’s roommate.”

“The messy one who eats cereal out of the frying pan?”

Logan laughs, everybody laughs. “Yeah. That’s me. We’re headed off to the next pub…”

Lando wraps his arms around Oscar’s torso and clings. “Nope. Osc is ours now. We’re keeping him. You have fun on your crawl.”

“Osc?” Lando jolts back. His face is suddenly stricken with a worried expression. “Is that okay? Can I call you that?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Logan tells him when Oscar starts floundering. “Use protection!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m staying at Liam’s!”

— — —

Lando comes over and finds out that Logan calls Oscar Osc and has for years.

He gets very pouty

“Just give him your own nickname,” Logan says in between bites of cereal.

“Do you not own bowls?”

“There are two left. Figured you would want one? And Oscar has some dignity left, so frying pan for me.”

“Osco, your roommate hurts me.”

“Osco?”

“I’ve decided on it.”

“Okay.”

“But seriously, what is wrong with your roommate?”

“American.”

“Bro.”

“He just called you bro.” Lando claps. “I’ve never heard someone do that in real life.”

Oscar sighs.

— — —

Charles: Who is your favourite?

Oscar *panicking*: Lando

Charles *waves him away*: Obviously. Between me and Max. Who is your favourite?

Oscar *deer in headlines*: Lando

Lando: *cackles*

Max: Remember, I grade your assignments. Actually, I am grading your midterm right now.

Oscar: How am I doing?

Max: Who is your favourite?

Oscar: *pales*

Charles: I do your assignments. I will not put your name on it.

George: That’s not going to work. Seb knows you well enough to know that Oscar hasn’t done any work all semester, and that you’re being petty.

Charles: And when Seb calls me for a meeting I will tell him how Oscar has been terrible to me, and does not deserve to coast off my work.

Oscar *panicking*: I need this class.

Charles *mouthing*: I’m joking.

Max: I’ll tell Mark that Oscar chose me over you, and he’ll tell Seb. Who’s Seb going to believe? You? Or a story that sounds exactly like something you would do?”

Charles: *pouts*

Oscar: Lando.

Lando: Say George. It’ll piss them both off.

Oscar: Alex.

George: Oi!

Alex: Don’t bring me into this!

Charles: It’s me, right?

Oscar: Yes?

Charles: With confidence.

Oscar: Yes.

Oscar is not a nickname guy.

But Lando clearly is

Charles drags Oscar to movie night in his dorm.

Lando gets up to stretch mid-action scene

“Anybody want anything? I’m gonna refill the popcorn.”

A chorus of nos from everybody in the room, but then Oscar finishes his drink.

“Hey, Lan, actually could you get me a Monster?”

Lando freezes.

He practically trips as he runs.

He throws himself on the couch

And bite

“Ow!”

“We warned you!”

“I let my guard down. It’s been weeks.”

#Formula 1 RPF #F1 RPF #F1 Fic #Oscar Piastri #Lando Norris #Charles Leclerc #Landoscar #Landoscar part of a fic #Landoscar Outline #Abandoned Projects:

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nuria-schnee · 3 months ago

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Hi everyone! ❤️ It's been a week™ after those spoilers. I'm going to ramble a bit about that under the cut in relation to this chapter. It'll be mostly writer problems, but well. Anyway, for now, in this sneak peek, Edwin and Thomas meet again unexpectedly.

Edwin made his way through the crowd, vibrating with the receding sensation of Charles’ hands on his face, his forehead against his. The music sounded muffled to his ears, and the creatures crowding every space of the place made him feel trapped, increasing his need to escape. In the end, Edwin found his way to the terrace, which was miraculously empty, aside from a few creatures lounging on the sofas over a secluded corner. The music was softer there, and Edwin couldn’t really feel the chill air of the night, but he breathed out as if he could, relaxing somewhat. He approached the railing made of glass panes, his eyes catching briefly on the red and pink orbs spelt to hover all over the terrace, creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. Edwin noticed someone else reclined on the railing, far away from the door to the terrace and the sofas. It shouldn’t have been possible, but Edwin immediately recognized that blond hair slicked back, the line of his shoulders. Approaching slowly, something churning in his stomach, Edwin felt curiously comforted to see him. “Thomas?” Edwin muttered. Thomas turned around immediately, eyes widening slightly, but quickly shifted into a smile. “Oh, this is a surprise,” Thomas purred, fully turning towards him. “What are you doing here, darling? On a case, I’m sure.” Edwin sighed, closing the last bit of distance and standing beside him, holding onto the railing. Thomas's smile only widened. “Actually, I am not here for work,” Edwin explained, averting his eyes and fixing them on the street below. “We have come the four of us for�� A leisure night.” “Well, you don’t look much entertained,” Thomas drawled, and Edwin could feel his eyes tracing his profile, making a soft tingling crawl under his skin. “I just needed a bit of calm,” his words sounded weak to even himself, the truth trapped right there, under his tongue. “I thought you would be in Port Townsend already.” “Said I would drop by to say goodbye, didn’t I?” Thomas said, and Edwin turned his head, regretting it immediately and finding how close they were standing suddenly. The intensity of their gazes became almost unbearable. Warmth bloomed underneath his skin, and the brief space felt like electricity.

“Why are you here?” Edwin forced his gaze away, that feeling of breathlessness coming back to him unexpectedly. “Well, I heard about the place and had to check if it was any good,” Thomas shrugged softly, looking away, too. “Been to better clubs, but it’s distracting enough.” “That is what you were searching for? A distraction?” Edwin turned to him intentively, frowning slightly. Thomas faced him, peeking at him with enclosed interest. “Just trying to get my mind off some things. And here you are, anyway.” Edwin almost rolled his eyes, but even so, something had to show up in his face anyway since it made Thomas chuckle softly. Silence stretched between them for a few seconds. Edwin took the chance to breathe and attempt to ease his thoughts. Not succeeding much, if he were to be honest. “You have that look in your eyes again,” Thomas eventually broke the silence, his voice soft, calm. “What look?” “Like you’re drowning.” Something cracked in his chest. His heart, probably. It came back with renewed force, the sensation of his spiralling thoughts back on the dance floor as Charles smiled at him brightly, pulled him so close, touching him so tenderly— How close it was, and how far at the same time, to what he desired. The certainty that it’d never go further than that had slapped him harder than ever before. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?” Thomas asked. “No,” Edwin sighed, resisting the need to look away. “I suspect— You were right. I am making things harder for myself, for the most part.” “Well, your bodyguard is not precisely making it easier,” Thomas scoffed. Edwin frowned at him, parting his lips as to retort. However, he couldn’t. What was going on wasn’t really Thomas’ business; even so, Edwin couldn’t deny it either, not entirely. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation away from that topic. “The masquerade was almost three weeks ago. What could possibly keep you so long here?” Edwin asked, though already knowing the answer deep down. “Ouch. So eager to get rid of me,” Thomas said dramatically, but without a bite. “I did not mean it that way.” Thomas only kept looking at him, his smile turning softer and weaker in a way that made Edwin feel warm all over. His eyes dropped to his mouth not very subtly, but he forced himself to lock his gaze with Edwin’s sparkling golden under the colourful lights. In turn, Edwin found himself down just the same. “That,” Thomas whispered, the huskiness in his voice making Edwin shiver. “Exactly, that is keeping me here.” “What do you mean?” Edwin's voice came out choked, his mind whirling. The lingering despair of that dance was still there, crashing with the strange relief of Thomas’ eyes on his. “Hope,” Thomas answered simply. “I might get a miracle, after all.”

LINKS

Index | Read Chapter 1 | Trailer | Teaser |

Okay, here goes a bit of rambling.

I have to admit, right now, I am feeling a bit anxious about this chapter. I mostly keep away from any discourse because I just want to chill, enjoy being in the fandom, and share my writing/scream about other people's art. However, it's been a coincidence I'm writing this chapter the week those spoilers have been going around. I'm trying not to worry too much about the discourse going on, but I can't help it, in a way. This fic is very important to me, and I'm putting a lot of hours into it. I can't help but worry if I'm doing it right or not, sometimes. And I'm fine with it not being to everyone's liking; that's completely natural.

I'm mostly concerned about not having explained/hinted some things right. I've had this chapter plotted since September when I started writing this story. If you have been reading it, you know how the interactions between Edwin and Thomas have been portrayed. And I was already hesitating if this made any sense at all or not, but I tried to write it as best as I could since I decided to take a certain route for this fic (that's all I can say without spoiling the chapter). I know I might be overthinking this too much, and, in the end, I'm having a lot of fun writing/sharing this; also, there are a lot of us working on our versions of Season 2, and I think it's amazing and enriching for the fandom to have different versions to enjoy. So I can only expect all of you who are reading it to keep enjoying the story.

I was very unsure about even talking about this, but I also believe that it's okay to express the ways in which you struggle sometimes. We all here are persons behind these screens, and I think sometimes we forget that. Anyway, I don't want this to get excessively long, so I hope you are taking care of yourselves. Thank you all over again for your support, comments, and reblogs.❤️ It's giving me life, I swear.

#dead boy detectives #payneland #painland #charles rowland #edwin payne #catwin #crystal palace #niko sasaki #dead boy detectives: the night of nights

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pastryland · 1 year ago

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lestappen completed fic recommendations

If any of the authors of the fics mentioned here or are tagged and don't want their fics to be here, please let me know and I'll remove it!

Will update this list periodically

❤️ = favorite

⭐️ = I love fics by this author in general

🔗 = part of a series (will usually only put fav from series on here)

❌ = triggering themes

🔥 = explicit

Devils roll their dice (Angels roll their eyes) - 55k - 🔗🔥

It all started with a crash. Well, technically, it started with a blue-eyed boy with blonde hair getting screamed at in a language he couldn’t understand when he was only 12 years old. He remembered looking at the boy, who couldn’t be much older than himself - (two weeks older, to be exact, he’d learn later) - and watching the spark disappear right out of those icy blue eyes. That was the first memory Charles Leclerc had of Max Verstappen: Watching Jos Verstappen, Max’s own father, scream at this 12 year old child with an intensity that turned his face red and made every blood vessel in his neck look dangerously close to bursting. But if anyone ever were to ask Charles when he started to realize that his feelings towards that same Max Verstappen he had known since childhood had begun to change into something else, something bigger, something terrifying he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - quite put his finger on, he would say that it all started with a crash.Because of fucking course it did.--- OR: The slow-burn story of Lestappen that has brought me back from the dead, which starts with Max's crash at Silverstone in 2021.

salad days - 48k - ❤️🔗🔥

“You think you are so much better –“ “I know I am,” Max cut him off again. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t be beat.” “You want me to beat you?” “I want you to fucking try,” Max said, and over the phone, Charles could hear his cocky little grin. Charles found himself grinning back.

half of a heaven - 39k - ❌ 🔥

“Good evening. I’m Charles,” he offers his hand, which Max takes and for a second, Charles thinks he’s going to kiss the back of it. Some muscle spasms in the tight grip, rough velvet against soft skin. When Charles gets his hand back, it feels like he lost a finger or two in the fight. “What’s your poison, Charles?” Max asks, settling on the barstool like it’s not designed to be the most uncomfortable chair in the world. “Cyanide, usually. I’ll settle for a gin tonic for now.” or, Charles is a supermodel that has learned everything he needs to make his world turn. Now, he has no idea what Max Verstappen wants from him.

glitch - 26k - ❤️ ⭐️

Max hums. “Well, at least that means I won’t bump into Charles Leclerc again.” “Bummer, really,” Daniel says, moving back to his own seat and drinking the little bit of coffee that was still in the cup. “Could’ve been the start of a great love story.” Lando snorts. “Kids, it all started when I told your father, who had won two World Driver Championships at that point, that he sucked at driving.” Max sticks his middle finger up at them, and pulls his noise canceling headphones back over his ears. Only two hours left to go, he thinks, wistfully, and goes back to work.

all's well that ends well (to end up with you) - 21k - 🔗🔥

"I was going to propose to him, and now I think he's going to leave me, so yeah, please… tell me how this could possibly get any fucking worse?" Lando gulps. "I uh... might have... misplaced the ring." *** In which it's summer break, and Max has an engagement ring with a gem the color of the Monaco sea locked in a safe in his closet. He wants to propose to Charles, and he enlists Lando, Oscar, Pierre, and a few other drivers to help make the proposal everything Charles deserves. But nothing in Max's life can ever be simple, and as Mission Lestappen Proposal™ unfolds, Max knows Charles is keeping something important from him. Max can survive Lando losing the ring. But he knows he can't survive losing Charles.

Rules of Engagement - 7k - ❤️ ⭐️

“Take me with you then!” Max felt his eyes go wide, his jaw literally dropping at the suggestion. “Tell them I’m like. Say I’m your fiancé, mate.” The heat had melted Charles’s brain, Max decided, staring at him blankly. “No.” He deadpanned. “Mate it’s genius! You won’t have to do anything, just stand there. Let me handle it. Them. The women.”

Second Time's the Charm - 7k - ⭐️

“Remember when you said you’d set me up with someone? A few months ago, at George’s wedding?” Charles’s voice is still pinched, as if his throat is trying to suffocate him and put him out of his misery. “Maybe you could do that? If the offer is still standing.” Simultaneously: “How did you know you liked guys?” Max’s tone is flat, as it usually is when he tries to come off as entirely disinterested, but Lando knows his tricks. He shoots upright, looking down at Max with wide eyes before exclaiming, arguably, one of the worst possible responses: “Oh my god, Max, are you fucking gay?” Or: Charles and Max don't know how to date; Alex and Lando try their best to make it happen.

masterpost for all completed fic rec lists

#fic rec #fic rec list #charles leclerc #max verstappen #lestappen

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hroscek · 7 months ago

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Hello ! I have been following your account for a while and totally in love with your theories and headcannons <3 I’m wondering if it’s possible to make a few headcannons about Dottore working out at the gym ?

Omg thank you so much!! It really means a lot <33 I love feeding fellow Dottore fans with whatever they desire. Here you go pookie, just for you.

🤍Il Dottore workout headcanons🤍

Slightly ooc and silly btw! Also I'm not that into fitness so excuse any awkward wording or mistakes (I run a Dottore fanblog, it's shocking if I leave the house more than once a week).

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Despite being mostly known for his intellectual abilities, Dottore also prides himself on his combat abilities. He is well educated on the topic of human anatomy and fitness. Being The Doctor he is responsible for creating the Fatui soldiers' training guide, maximizing each new recruit's progress toward becoming a worthy soldier. He is also likely behind creating and guiding the harbingers' workouts and combat training, focusing on each of their strengths and weaknesses to create truly powerful beings.

While he does spend most of his time on his research, Dottore is aware he can't skip out on his physical form. That's why he created a specialized workout schedule. His main focus was making sure it doesn't eat up too much of his time (he is a VERY busy man) while getting him ready for a variety of situations. I believe his main goal would be building strength and cardio with a healthy mix of flexibility.

If the leaks are to be believed he wields a claymore, which requires some intense core and arm strength so he'd put in some effort to be able to maneuver it effectively. This would include the standard combat training (most likely with specialized dummies, robots or unlucky segments) but also working with weights and agility training. From the in-game model we can tell he works most on his arms, shoulders, core and chest.

Another important component would be cardio. This helps him keep in shape and monitor his physical well being. It also helps him gtfo if a situation becomes too risky even for him. Most of this is realized with him just running on a treadmill or a similar exercise.

Lastly, he would likely practice some form of flexibility training to aid in his combat (and keep away the back pain). He definitely does some form of yoga, which doubles as an opportunity to do some meditation or pondering™ on his latest experiment.

He prefers to do these workouts alone, likely having a specialized gym in his lab. If he is away or can't access a private spot he will have his guards empty a room for it. He even designed a portable gym setup with the essentials that he brings on missions so he doesn't fall behind.

One time Childe suggested the Doctor show him how to do an exercise on his plan (believing that he'd be able to get a sparring match with a 2nd harbinger out of it) and he hit him with a death stare that could kill a man trough the mask. The poor kid decided to avoid him from then on.

He wouldn't be caught dead working out with other people if he can help it. He sees his body as sacred and it's upkeep is a very private matter to him. If he went to a modern gymbro type gym he'd most likely fake his own death and flee the country (or planet).

He is also one of those psychopaths that workout without headphones or music.

In contrast the segments don't adhere to a strict workout schedule, seeing as their bodies are constructed with combat in mind. Nevertheless they use working out as a way to relax after a mentally taxing period or as bonding with other segments. The younger segments have occasional fights and bets between each other in who's better at a certain sport or activity, usually settled by dropping everything to go measure just who's best.

The segments also have a more fun approach when it comes to taking care of their "bodies". Depending on their personality, some are very open to trying different disciplines and games. One of the teenage segments is actually surprisingly good at horseback riding (one time had a silent hour long race with Kaeya while riding around Mondstadt. They never learned who the other was, but will continue to praise their abilities when reminiscing). Some older segments find never ending joy in exercise tapes and even filmed their own (strictly controlled to make sure it never leaks).

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Thank you for reading and a HUGE thank you to whoever sent the ask <3 It really does mean a lot to see support for my content and I love receiving ideas on what I should cover. I hope this satisfies your Dottore gym urges well enough and sorry it took a while. I didn't post for a bit these days because I'm working on something kinda big but I'm not sure if I'll post it so don't get your hopes up please (a bit of a perfectionist so if it's not perfect it'll never see the light of day). In conclusion, I love getting asks so if there's ANYTHING you wanna share or suggest please do so. I really don't judge.

⟡

#enjoy 80s dancercise Dottore #dottore #genshin dottore #il dottore #genshin impact #dottore headcanons #genshin dottore headcanons #fatui headcanon #webtorre can do a kickflip btw #no need to check

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mariacallous · 24 days ago

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My Russian ex K was an Orthodox Christian. She believed deeply that this life was an exam, that our behaviour in it led to judgement and classification in the afterlife. In my naturally adaptive way, I said that I too believed that, in the German we spoke together, ‘dass das Leben eine Prufüng ist’, that life is a test. Yet even K noticed over time that what I seemed to mean in deploying this quasi-religious language wasn’t precisely what she did; as she asked me once, who is this God you are praying to?

I did in some way really believe that life is a test, but I suppose I meant that it’s a test without a subsequent qualification, that the only ‘pass’ in the test of living is to live, like a purist football fan who thinks the most important thing is to play good football rather than win trophies. (This suggests another essay, Tottenham Hotspur FC as a metaphor for human struggle). In this context the outward markers of success of a life are rather incidental to the practice of living well; it may even be advisable to always have markers to aim at of success unobtained. Always best to leave a little ambition for Ms Manners.

Strange then, given that I believe the above and don’t believe that there’s any ‘winning of life’, let alone any objective victory standard which would apply to everybody, that I have intense periods of feeling that I’ve made the wrong choices, that I’ve taken the wrong turns, that I’ve messed up my life.

I’ve recently hit a sticky patch in my own biography after some years of feeling things have been going rather well. Indeed, there seems to be a pattern in my life of the latter thirds of my decades being prosperous; 17-20 was good, 27-31 was excellent, likewise 37-41. As if it takes me most of each decade to bring that decade to a place of fruition.

My recent good run was linked to an upturn in career fortunes; I started this newsletter, I brought out my novel ‘Midlands’, and I finally found a stimulating full-time job. For a few years, it was pleasant climbing all the way, and I began this year not, for possibly the first time in my adult life, completely broke.

Recently, I made a major mistake in my professional life. I registered for a career test I wasn’t ready for, and, amidst a turbulent period in my private life, duly flunked it. It left me facing the possibility a very different future than the one I’d imagined, like my dream home being revealed to be a stage set. Still, I’ve seen the damage before that self-reproach brings, so I resolved to go easy on myself about it.

Pretty soon the old chastising voices came back with a vengeance. The sheer fury with myself. The voice telling me that, with just one attempt at these exams left, I’d made a fatal mistake. When I wake up in the night and shout in a raw voice ‘Why the fuck did you do that?’ Just this terrible rageful regret. For a while, I was so angry with myself, even tho I know the anger was unjustified and inutile. We all make mistakes. Particularly me.

By now, of course, I’ve been here before. When I was a teenager, I used to beat my own head with a plastic club. I cut my arms once and they scarred. And then came the defining cock-up of my youth, my dismal stewardship of the Oxford Revue – When Student Theatre Goes Very Wrong!™ – and the frankly obscene amount of time it took me to stop ruminating on it. Even in recent years when I’d get things wrong, I'd rain blows down on my own head, calling myself a ‘stupid bastard’ and the like, tearing my own (increasingly limited) hair out.

On a purely quotidian level I am a constant source of personal exasperation to me. At times, I feel I’m in constant conflict with the idiot me of a few hours earlier; the one who loses his credit cards twice in six weeks, or leaves his Belgian ID card in London and has to come back down from Nottingham to pick it up, or tries to clean the mould in his apartment and gets mould cleaner in his eye. The one who, if he has any extra money, almost always stuffs something up to incur a cost of exactly that amount. What am I do to with this idiot I am located in? He’s hard to live with sometimes.

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gwynbleiddyn · 3 days ago

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time is a tide that disobeys; part 2

oc kiss week 2025 prompt fill ft. Thalon Lavellan who belongs to the ever wonderful @ourinquisitorialness <3 thank you for letting me run riot with your son in the pursuit of Exploring Themes™

recommended listening:

loosely inspired by the 'worship' prompt because that's a doozy in and of itself, part 2 brings us to Skyhold, where judgement awaits. a direct sequel to part 1, where the days and weeks that follow Adamant begin to shape an unfortunate and long-standing reality -- that this will not be their story to tell.

-----

It doesn’t rain in Skyhold often, but when it does, it pours.

The lifting summer air from the Hinterlands creeps upwards over the mountain, colliding with the sinking cold to call forth heavy grey clouds that burst as though pierced by the jagged offerings of the Frostbacks, and the deluge that follows is enough to harry most people indoors.

Except today.

Today, the courtyard is full. Bodies stand shoulder to shoulder, faceless, indistinguishable to Rion where he stands, watching, waiting, from his spot on the wall overlooking Skyhold’s inner workings. There’s a restless ripple over the crowd, shuddering through the steady lavender tones that raindrops paint across Rion’s unique vision, his eyes working twice as hard to catch what his ears don’t. And as the restless hum widens from a dull grey into white, Rion knows they grow impatient.

As does he.

His fingers drum idly on slick stone, hands free of heavy gloves and shoulders light with no armour to weigh him down, yet he still stands hunched - both against the rain and the shadow of Adamant, a memory that has yet to untangle itself from his waking thoughts.

He grows impatient because beneath the steady downpour and roiling clouds, the crowds gather to watch Magister Livius Erimond pay his due.

An empty, scarcely bloodied chopping block sits, lonely, on a dreary wooden stage down below. Erimond struggles in his restraints mere feet away from his end, a sole, looming guard his only company while they await the sword to carry out the sentence.

The judgement had been rendered in flickering torchlight, amongst the scaffolding and skeleton of Skyhold’s throne room where the Inquisitor sat as judge and executioner, resolute.

Rion had watched Thalon then with rapt, precise attention. He looked for every sign of conflict, a twitch of the hand or a sideways glance, anything that would give away a hint of uncertainty - enough that Rion would have used his voice as a counterweight to Thalon’s doubt, turned the tide, and placed the blame squarely on himself for the judgement. But in that hall, Thalon may as well have been a statue, caught forever in the shape of his brutal decree.

And Rion watches Thalon now, eyes fixed on his regal figure as he ascends the wooden steps with silent footfalls, the crowd’s murmur too strong for Rion to see any other sound. It isn’t a grand affair, they’d made sure of it; Erimond deserved the indignity of insignificance. It hadn’t taken Rion’s fit of rage and ruin to convince Thalon, either. The man’s fate was sealed the moment they stepped into Adamant and bore witness to the scale of his wrongs.

Words are spoken to the crowd, too far away and small for Rion to see. But Rion isn’t interested in words. He stares intensely, almost wiling Thalon to spare him a glance - just so he can see. Just so he can know that this is what he wants, and this is what he will do. And just before the Inquisitor turns to his duty, Thalon catches Rion’s eye at last, and Rion’s thundering heart slows with a sigh - relief.

The sword does its work. The rippling hum begins to fade as Erimond’s body slumps to the wood, headless, no longer the centre of attention, and other matters of mundane means begin to fill the courtyard instead as Skyhold turns into another day.

Rain pours, still.

Droplets roll down the ridge of Rion’s nose, dripping down onto stone below. His hair lies flattened to his skull, his civilian attire near soaked through, and his usual vanity has tumbled from his list of priorities to lie in the muck and mud. All he has been able to think about for the last week is Adamant and its aftermath.

My heart’s just angry, he’d told Nin. But that day, there had been a place for it.

Today, there is room for reason.

And reason tells him that this will be one of the nooses strung up on the gallows when the Inquisition ends. Erimond’s execution will sit at the receiving end of pointed, accusatory fingers in some far off future that Rion cannot see, but he knows it will come. They will point, they will cry, and they will call Thalon a murderer, a despot, Andraste’s herald turned zealot.

That is where his anger burns red-hot now, on this grey and dull day.

Reverent green seeps into his vision, washing away the brown of the courtyard and turning his gaze to something kinder - Thalon, alone, approaching through the rain. His face softens as Rion turns to him, not quite a smile, but grim tenderness remains there in spite of what’s just transpired by his hand.

“That was a cleaner cut than I would have given him,” Rion says, but his humour is hollow, carved out by something heavy. Thalon lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgement, gaze drifting to the courtyard below for a moment to see that it is nearly empty again. Erimond’s body has already been dutifully removed, but the spatter of crimson that decorates the wooden stage is a vibrant mark in an otherwise nondescript scene.

It is surprisingly hard to look away from. But Thalon manages, after a moment, and his kind, grey eyes land on Rion.

“It had to be done. The Wardens…” he frowns, his thought left stranded in the damp air. Rion lifts a brow, plucking the thought to completion himself.

“...they would have kept him. Conscripted, probably. Too pragmatic to lose what pathetic little gain we could squeeze out of him, but that would have gone down poorly with the bastards who killed their friends under his spell. He wouldn’t have survived the first night before they tore him apart like a pack of wild dogs.”

Rion grins, bitter and wild. A part of him would have relished the opportunity.

“That, or he would have died in agony during the Joining.”

He turns to look back at Thalon, whose eyes are closed, and Rion knows he is resisting the image. Violence is never his first answer, and rarely is it his second or third either, but it is a language that comes all too easily to Rion’s hands. His shoulders sink with a gentle, quiet sigh, and he curls fingers around Thalon’s wrist, pulling him closer if he allows it.

“You did the right thing.”

At that, Thalon’s pale stare is renewed, and he gives Rion the slightest of nods as a trembling breath leaves his lips. Uncertainty? Not quite. Something else. “I know. Thank you.”

Thalon’s pulse thrums steady beneath Rion’s fingers at his wrist, and he slips his hand into Thalon’s own, squeezing. “I know you know, but I don’t believe you when you say it. What’s on your mind?”

Rion knows he may as well ask him to pluck a grain of sand from an hourglass. Still, Thalon tries, his smile thin but appreciative nonetheless, and he returns the squeeze.

“I hardly enjoy playing the judge and jury to begin with, but this particular judgement sets a precedence, Rion. What comes after this? How far does the Inquisition reach, and to what end?” His shades of green grow a little more wilted by the word, like a great tree choked by the creeping doubt of ivy. Rion’s heart twists a little, caught on the hook of his own fears now echoed by Thalon, whose resolute spirit has kept him steady all this time in lockstep with Nin’s gentle fire.

Unfortunately, doubt is a difficult weed to cut. It tangles and trips, and it has them bound on this precipice, on this wall overlooking the heart of the Inquisition, and the remnants of its latest bloody judgement laid clear for all to see.

Thalon’s hand is less a gentle reassurance in this moment, and more a warning - if doubt thrives here, it will not just be one of them who tumbles from the tower.

Shaking his head free of that thought, Rion turns away from the wall, turning Thalon to face him too. The longer they stare at their choices, the harder it will get to look beyond them.

What can he say? Rion knows in his heart that there is no end that any of them will walk away from, unscathed, unmarred, untouched by an image that is steadily being painted by the world as witness. It has already happened to him - the Hero of Ferelden fell long ago, and in his place is someone Rion doesn’t recognize, but the world does.

He taps along Thalon’s knuckles with his thumb, as if he might find a response somewhere in the contours of skin and bone that he has come to know almost as entirely as his own. He wonders, briefly, would it would be like to step into Thalon’s skin, feel the weight that must be on his shoulders, see the world through his eyes… and listen. Would he hear the whispers in the hall? The accusations thrown across the Summer Bazaar of Val Royeaux? Where at least Rion can turn his eyes away, Thalon cannot.

Another gentle squeeze of Rion’s fingers pulls him from his thoughts, his storm-laden gaze flitting upwards to Thalon.

“I don’t expect an answer, I just…” Thalon’s brow furrows again, words consistently - and uncharacteristically - eluding him. “It’s a strange feeling, to be so powerful and powerless at the same time.”

It’s a difficult notion to grapple with. Rion doesn’t really know where to begin with it - it’s not a problem he can attack with a sword or a well placed army, and there is nowhere on Thedas where he could keep Thalon safe from it either. Despite that thought, he moves so that he’s half sitting and half leaning back on the wall, and guides Thalon to stand in the gap between his knees, as if he could offer a moment of invulnerability with Rion between him and the rest of the world.

Just a moment.

“I wish I could give you that answer, but I’m not that clever and we both know it,” Rion offers a half-smile, hands resting at Thalon’s waist once he settles, fingers clutched tightly into the fabric of his coat. He waits until he sees a glimmer of a smile in return before he continues, reassured. “But I do know what I believe in, and who I believe in. I don’t paint you as Herald, as Lord Inquisitor, but I know that… in another time, someone else will think I did. I’ll be the tyrant swinging his sword, gutting his Wardens for a chance at life, and you’ll be the messiah that allowed it.”

Thalon winces, hands raised in complaint but Rion gently catches his left, the Anchor, and pulls it to his chest.

“But we aren’t that. What we are is Dalish,” even Rion surprises himself with that, “and we will tell the stories. There will always be people who tell the wrong one, but there will also be people telling the right one too. You know I don’t trust easy, but I trust Nin when he tells me that and I love him enough to believe it.”

A breath of relief fills his lungs as he feels Thalon’s hand at his face, thumb brushing the scars on his cheek. Rion grins up at him, leonine and proud, unable to hide his appreciation as Thalon opens his mouth to speak. “You are remarkably eloquent when you want to be.”

A sweet kiss follows, warm and comforting amidst the cold rain. There isn't much else to say, but a safe, unspoken understanding settles between them as Thalon presses his forehead to Rion's, laughing at the rain sliding down his nose. He sweeps it away with a thumb, brushes the edge of Rion's lower lip, and unknowingly anoints the Warden Commander into the belief that they will endure, one way or another.

Rion has no idea what true devotion feels like - faith has eluded him with each attempt to reach out and find it, both in Andraste, and in the Dalish gods whose colours left Rion wanting. Even now, scarred as he is by Elgar’nan’s rage, he longs for something gentler.

But he could breathe a little easier if devotion felt like this.

#ockiss25 #i am extremely normal about the implications here as i know you will be too galen :) COMPLETELY NORMAL :)#anyway hehe <3 i hope you enjoy my friend <3 <3 #the song especially. 'a fixer who will numb your pain and strangeness' is a LINE #I WONT OVERDIVULGE BUT MAN THE THOUGHTS WERE THERE #c: rion severan #thalon lavellan #g: da #Spotify

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the-galactic-catt · 16 days ago

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star's dream journal | 04/02/2025: THE GHOSTS AMONG US

the πηγάδια™ and i were playing hide and seek in the among us game and i was recording a let's play of it for my youtube channel. there must have been at least 10 people playing. there was a lot of screaming and laughing throughout it which still leaves me a little confused (context: usually when i speak even a little loud in my dreams, i end up waking myself up).

on the last round, sugar ( @sugaroto ) suggested a new rule: the last person standing (not including the seeker) will have to sing a song of their choosing. we all agreed and began the game. i remember it was especially more intense than the previous rounds, because most of us did not want to sing but we also didn't want to lose for some reason. the seeker (i think it was alex ( @iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife ) ?) was having the time of their lives, laughing every time they caught someone.

eventually the game had to end. the seeker had caught us all, but the last survivor ended up being sugar. she chose to sing μια κόκκινη γραμμή by νατάσσα θεοδορίδου. makes sense, as i've been listening to that song non-stop all week. the lyrics were distorted and didn't sound at all like the actual song (at one point a donkey became part of the main chorus) but the music was overall the same.

i don't know how accurate it is to the real thing but sugar's singing was great and we were all having fun, taking turns backing her up and even playing instruments to accompany her vocals. in fact we were having so much fun that one of us decided it would be a great idea to upload the cover as a separate video on youtube.

when it was uploaded it didn't go viral but it still went well in terms of views. we decided to do it again on the next let's play, and we continued it on all the future ones, a different main singer and song each time. all of them were doing great and we soon started singing in other languages like english and french (it's blurry but i remember hearing the melody of la seine from a monster in paris). it eventually turned into a little series and everyone watching was expecting there to be at least one cover on each let's play.

since the background when we sang always showcased our among us avatars as little floating ghosts in a circle, people in the comments nicknamed us "the ghosts among us". we were basically like a little band. we ran with it and made it our shared channel's name where we would upload all the covers separately from the let's plays on my channel.

i don't remember much else but i think towards the end of the dream i was in the middle of writing an original song for all of us to sing as a special for a milestone we had reached, and then the dream transitioned to a different one i can't recall.

#κάθε lyric video είχε και μια ζωγραφιά του τραγουδιστή #και όσοι δεν ήταν main τραγουδιστές ήταν chibis γύρω από τον τραγουδιστή #κρατούσαν μικρά όργανα και τα παίζανε ήτανε πολύ γλυκούλι #και αυτός που έκανε τον seeker κρατούσε πάντα ένα μαχαίρι #OH επίσης όταν τραγουδούσε η sugar η ζωγραφιά έδειχνε τον buddy σε μοβ στολή αστροναύτη λολ #ίσως από τα καλύτερά μου όνειρα έχω να πω #star's dream journal #<- new thing i'm hoping to continue because my dreams can get epically weird #i had a dream #today i dreamt

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yoongisleftshoulder · 2 years ago

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BTS Reacts: Their S/O Has Bad Period Pains

Seokjin:

Jin knew he could only do so much to aid you during your period so he would be there as much as he could emotionally. Basically an emotional support puppy. Of course, he would provide you with anything you needed, like pads/tampons, heating pads etc. Prepare to be snuggled more than you've ever been snuggled before. He would be afraid of accidentally putting pressure on the wrong spot and making things worse but once he found a comfy position for the both of you, he wouldn't be leaving. Throughout the whole week, he did anything within his power to make you smile.

Yoongi:

If your period pains were bad enough, Yoongi would essentially parent you through it. Without you even asking, he would be cooking all of your meals every day, running you hot baths or showers, warming up your blankets in the dryer, and even running to the store to do some shopping for you. He wouldn't sit and rub your back or wherever for hours but you bet your bottom he would give you everything you needed. Yoongi would probably have the most mature response to this situation.

Hoseok:

Soft boy™ Hoseok would be one concerned mf. Why were you in so much pain??? Were you dying??? He would probably text his older sister to ask if it was normal to experience such intense pain while being on your period. When she told him that for some people this was a regular thing, he would feel even worse. Excruciating pain was normal for you??? Wack. Like Jimin, he would absolutely baby you. You were the warmth to his sunshine and it broke him to see you like that. Back rubs, shoulder rubs, tummy rubs, all of the rubs. Hoseok would suddenly become a master in the field of heating pads and pads/tampons. Eventually, he wouldn't even need to call his sister for advice anymore.

Namjoon:

Namjoon definitely has quite a bit of knowledge on periods from the get go. He has a younger sister and tends to have a habit of researching everything he's even slightly curious about. But when it came to you scrunched over in pain in bed because of horrible cramping?....Whole different ball game. Low-key is just as distressed as you. He definitely feels a mental strain just from witnessing you experiencing what basically felt like torture. Namjoon spends the entire week being on high alert, jumping up without a second thought anytime you needed something, no questions asked. He gets to the point where he finds himself moving around a little too fast from nerves and has to calm himself before he cuddles with you.

Jimin:

If your relationship was still somewhat new, he would be a little bewildered. He was aware that periods are a generally unpleasant experience for women everywhere but didn't know exactly how different they can be every month, and how strong the pains could really be. When he first experienced being around you during this time, he wanted to help you feel better more than anything. He questioned you and asked for tips on how to help and what could ease your discomfort. After that, he was basically an expert. He knew exactly what pads/tampons you needed from the store, he knew what foods helped and what foods to avoid, and he knew what pain meds actually did something for you. Even though you had been dealing with periods most of your life at this point, he would baby you a lot for the week.

Taehyung:

Seeing his baby in so much pain and discomfort low-key made him want to cry. He knew it was awful for you but he swore it was the worst thing in the world not being able to just snap his fingers and make your pain disappear. Expect hot teas, multiple heating pads on your stomach and over your aching back, and painkillers. Taehyung would provide anything and everything for you. Anything you asked for or wanted to try, he was on it. Never had to ask twice. He would apologize to you while holding you from behind in bed, hating that he felt powerless. Logically, he knew that it wasn't his fault but he couldn't help but feel responsible when he couldn't take the misery away from the one he loved most.

Jungkook:

Jungkook would be in almost as much distress as you were. He swore it caused real physical pain in his body to see you like that. He underestimated just how powerful the pain could be during your period and felt awful for it. While you were hunched over laying down on the couch, tears streaming down your face from the intense cramping, he ran into the bedroom and gathered up two blankets and a pillow. He propped your head up with the pillow and covered your shivering form. With a kiss on your forehead, he left the room again and started looking around the kitchen for the ingredients to your favorite hot mint tea. When it was done, he brought the hot mug over to you and set it on the table in front of the couch. Jungkook then sat onto the floor in front of you, body turned towards you, rubbing your stomach in light circles. He wanted to anything he could to help ease your pain.

#bts #bts reactions #bts reaction #kpop reaction #jin #kim seokjin #suga #min yoongi #jhope #jung hoseok #rm #kim namjoon #jimin #park jimin #v #kim taehyung #jungkook #jeon jungkook

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thenexusofsouls · 19 days ago

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{i am the caretaker of souls} *flops and dies... then comes back to give a shaky thumbs-ups* Well, I survived my work meeting. It was long, intense, stressful, and at times, contentious, but... I think it went about as well as a meeting like that could've gone. The good news is, at least for right now, I still have a job. The bad news is, because I made the cut, I now get slapped with a whole lot of extra work to do, heh. But you know what, I'm fine with that, because I really need this job. I also managed to get through the whole meeting without having a StupidMoment™ where I say something just totally off because I'm socially awkward and the whole room just looks at me like wtf. Thankfully, I was Moment™-free today, heh. I'm just so glad it's over. Thanks to everyone on here who was supportive of me, and for putting up with my stress over the past few weeks.

Mentally, I want to write so badly, but I have a horrible headache (probably an adrenaline crash) and my eyes really hurt. Also, it's getting late. So I think I'm going to leave Zhaan go for tonight and focus on @tarnishedxknight to try to get as much done there as I can. Tomorrow I'll be over on @armed-and-alxne at the very least (my other two muses for tomorrow have been quiet lately), and I'll probably have some time to do things for Zhaan here as well. So for now, Imma pop over to my FFXII for a couple hours, and I'll likely be back here tomorrow! =)

#{ i am the caretaker of souls } ᵒᵒᶜ #{it was a lot... but it's over}#{but omg the adrenaline crash is real}#{i feel like human jello... that got beat up lol}

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xshingie · 29 days ago

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Musings on Richter/Annette Writing Journey

(but also, how I basically became that one obsessed Edouard/Annette shipper lmfao)

What the fuck lol my Richter/Annette fanfic This Distance Between Us totally blew up… I can't believe the view count more than doubled (!!!) in less than a week lol. That's unreal lmfao.

I've been processing a lot of feelings™ that started way before S2 aired. I realized how much I soured on Richter/Annette over time, and how much I wanted to delete everything I wrote. And then S2 aired, which totally shot everything I had ever written for them. Lol. But I realized I kind of did that to myself, having imagined a certain dynamic that never came to be. All the feelings and themes -- things that awakened me to write, which I never did before -- all the complexities to explore in Annette's character, or how Richter and Annette end up interacting… all of them ended up not being relevant at all.

With S2 Richter/Annette canon, everything I ever fell in love about writing for the ship -- about Annette, isn't actually a thing -- and it's clear to me now, the disparity of seeing the things people fawn over the ship aren't the same things I had wanted to write for, meaning that they're not the same things people want to read for.

It's… a bitter pill to swallow, because seeing people demand more Richter/Annette fanfiction, only for me to realize that it was because it wasn't my Richter/Annette fanfiction people wanted to read, I guess. And now I understand why.

Been thinking a lot -- and reading a lot, too. Thinking about how to navigate the challenges and complexities of writing an interracial romance in a historical setting. And how much my understanding has so significantly changed since then with all the additional research I've done. How I wish I could have written things differently, knowing what I know now.

I remember so vividly, how much of it was a struggle to bring myself to post This Distance Between Us, knowing that everybody had moved on from the show, and when I did post it, I was right ;_; People really had moved on from Nocturne. I usually vomit words to "debrief" with myself at the time of writing to help me process my thoughts at the time, but it'd be nice to revisit my writing again.

One thing I am deeply grateful for, is how much Annette and Edouard inspired me to write, to read, to research so intensely in a way I hadn't before.

It's fun, to look back on your 2023 musings and see how your perspective and interpretations have shifted over time. How I actually ended up falling for Annette and Edouard more…. It's quite funny. I didn't consider Edouard initially until I started looking into who Edouard was in relation to Annette when developing her character conceptually. Over time, I've realized how much more nuance and depth Edouard/Annette from a storytelling lens that I'm vastly more interested in exploring and writing for, even though it's a dead ship o_o;

I'm not sure where I want to go from here. I still need to finish rewatching Season 2 and re-evaluate if I feel differently about Richter/Annette, and Annette as an individual character how they turned out in canon.

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gerrydelano · 10 months ago

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Hi i would. Looove to hear about this fantasy au (bonus points for gerrys fucked up origins thanks for the food)

scrambles to sit up and falls out of my desk chair in the process. Bless You, Anon. Bless You. i will limit this to the first side quest because even that is long as fuck but it Is gerry centric which means it's food for Me.

okay So. the key tenets here are:

tim is the pov character

the stokers knew sasha and martin as kids until martin moved away with his dad after his mom's passing (wild!)

danny was taken by the fey at like 18. BAD.

after two years of training and study, tim and sasha are about to set off to find him or get revenge (it's a death wish) just as martin swaggers back into town a new man (he spent a decent chunk of his money on glamors that are tantamount to HRT while traveling back to their hometown after he super left his shitty dad's house) and he elects to come with them because It's A Death Wish and he doesn't want tim to get into trouble, and also he has like... nowhere to go anyway. might as well keep adventuring, but this time with friends.

they go to a coastal city to ask adelard dekker for some advice, and he sends his apprentice along with them. hi jon!

and then once they're on their adventure........ we meet a mysterious figure.

they do a lot of little bounty hunts and side quests for money and whatever obviously and so at one point they get enlisted to find some heirloom for some guy and right as they're about to get it, oops! insert Guy In A Featureless Silver Mask Riding On A Black Dire Wolf, Who Then Swoops In And Takes The Heirloom First.

What.

they hate this guy. they can't stand this guy. they wanna beat this guy up for doing that. he was so scary though so what do you even do. they ask around town and find out he's The Black Rider™ and he has a habit of doing this shit and they should stay out of his way.

they find melanie in a tavern and jon recognizes her from their childhoods because surprise! THEY grew up together. and she's been Away for a while after she ran away with josephine, her first love, who ended up dying about a year later. she's been too ashamed to return home alone. she is begrudging about reconnecting with jon, but she does end up hugging him and crying about this. i love them. bad weather friends.

she joins their party in time to run into the Black Rider again, who once more is trying to get something before they get it.

this time they get some awkward banter out of him though so they figure there is some kind of person under there.

and the Third time they encounter him, tim tries to cut to the chase and offer an olive branch of friendship, only for the black rider to attack them with his big scary halberd and it's like DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!

the fight is pretty intense but they do outnumber him, so tim gets him on the ground with his sword under his chin and he can feel the dog breathing down his neck but she isn't biting - because the black rider has held up a hand to stop her.

tense! and kinda sexy.

they agree to lower the weapon/call off the dog on the count of three from sasha, but tim hesitates longer than the black rider does. intriguing.

he leaves and they realize he still took the bounty they were after. G-d DAMMIT!!!!

then a few weeks later they meet some guy named gerry in a dungeon and he helps them fight off some zombies or whatever and they vibe for a few days, he seems nice if not a little weird, and they get along well. he dips after a bit and it's just a standard interaction pretty much. neither here nor there.

then they're fighting a cockatrice at some point and the Black Rider comes in to help them! odd, but accepted.

oops! his mask gets knocked off.

martin, being the nice guy he is, goes to return it to him and sees his face - gasp! it's gerry! who EVER could have guessed!

after they defeat the cockatrice they really have to have a whole ass conversation about this because Seriously Dude What The Fuck.

he ends up talking to them a little bit but not much, he's cagey and now seems kind of... nervous? what gives, right.

after a bit though they offer to let him come with them because tim is like "oh my g-d. you're LONELY 😆"

and he'd be right.

but there's a lot more to it than that.

eventually he caves and tells them, "we're being watched." by who? his patron, he says, after taking his time deciding on the wording.

he's never told anyone this before. he didn't even know she couldn't Hear him too, only just found that out.

then after a little while he fucks off for a bit without an explanation, and they're like. wtf.

when he comes back to find them, he explains that he nearly stabbed tim in his sleep one day because he's not only being spied upon, but his body is able to be controlled by his patron.

they are understandably upset about this and have to put in some protective measures to prevent that from happening again. he's no longer allowed on night watch.

but he's clearly distraught with guilt and like... they can SEE the humanity in him, they can SEE that he hates this and he needs help.

martin is a Redemption paladin by now and he wants to help him really badly.

tim needs... some time.

jon suggests they put a blindfold on him now and then to help him feel more at ease talking about things without fear of being spied on and it helps sometimes.

they travel for like 9 months before gerry trusts tim enough to show him what's really going on, while they're bathing in a lake after a battle that left them covered in blood.

he moves his hair aside to show tim a sigil branded on his back.

mary did that to him when he was 12.

so, basically, this guy hasn't had a shred of bodily autonomy or privacy in half his life. it's disgusting honestly like literally if you think for two seconds about the logistics of this it just gets more and more upsetting. bad!!!!

so they've already wanted to break his curse but it's just. tim can't stand this knowledge. he still doesn't know it's his mother yet, though. that stays on lock.

the group goes on to meet with mikaele salesa for some help, and gerry refuses to go anywhere near him. fucks off again with no explanation.

but they take the opportunity to ask salesa if he knows anything about the black rider etc and he says BOY DO I KNOW HIM. HE'S WHY I HAVE SO MUCH PROTECTION AROUND MY HOUSE LOL.

gerry has stolen so much from him and killed some of his guys and it's like YIKES. but salesa Also knows about mary.

she's been collecting super powerful artifacts for ages now trying to give herself more power so she can become a lich. uh oh!

and tim, who has made a Paladin Oath with Death by now, is now assigned by HIS patron to go and kill her before her transformation takes place, because she would be defying the natural order.

so, they go find her scary tower and are intent on fighting her, only to find - gerry?

and boy does he look rough. he looks Bad right now he hasn't been having a good time while he's been gone.

mary is in the middle of her ritual and she halves her focus in order to control gerry into fighting for her and eventually the fight is looking bad enough that she switches tactics.

she has him point the knife at his own throat.

because she did spy a little bit of the tiny intimate moments between gerry and tim, try as gerry might have to keep his eyes averted or up at the sky or just anywhere But tim, and she knows the group has come to care about him. so, clearly this is a better threat.

sasha calls her bluff BIGTIME and says hell no are you gonna kill him, you put too much work into him, he's your only heir, you need him, you'd never go that far, blablabla.

and that much is actually true. but it looks pretty close when she actually has him break skin a little bit.

tim is very upset at sasha for potentially making it worse lol But

it does work

they manage to kill her and free gerry and it's a very complicated moment because like... dude that's his mom. she's all he's ever known, save the wolf she "got" for him when he was a kid that is now his closest companion, and the dryad who guards the forest outside (hi tazia!)

so it takes gerry and tim a while to like. recover from that. but they do.

meanwhile, before they leave mary's tower, they totally pilfer her magical objects and jon finds a peculiar glass orb... that looks like it's got spider webbing inside it.

and that's all i'll say for now! obviously this is the Side Quest i am most invested in, but the plot of this filled 15 pages of a timeline and it goes on until gerrytim die in their 70s lmao so like. Big Big AU. it takes like 5 years after this all happens to find danny and That is a huge mess, too. boy howdy!!!!

now i realize i can't surprise anyone with this plot if i did write it but like. chances of that are slim. this is still so niche. jdhdjdhfk. gtcu brand classes, not canon based at all.

#asks #anon #dah tag #gtcu

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