#that transcends polish language

[santaasi]

hate to be lame

pairing: fwb!jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: you hate to admit it but you might love jj maybank

warnings: fluff, (small) angst, allusion to sex, no use of y/n, pet names (cupcake, doll), english isn’t my first language

word count: 4.3k

a/n: inspired by hate to be lame - lizzie mcalpine, fineas

YOU DIDN'T REMEMBER THE MOMENT WHEN EVERYTHING CHANGED. When the stars collided so that for the first time you felt this swarm of butterflies in your stomach at the very sight of him looking at you. Or when the hookups after parties stopped being just sex and became something more. Something more for you. 

JJ Maybank had always captivated your attention. Like everyone on the island, you couldn't help but notice that despite being the arrogant pain in every Kook's ass, JJ was sculpted like an Apollo. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was the result of daily labor for the wealthy residents of Figure 8, including you and your family. His eternally tousled dirty blond hair and those eyes... those mesmerizing eyes that reflected the beauty of North Carolina's sandy coast and salty sea. Adding to his allure was his reputation as a "troubled bad boy," a role that made him irresistible to all the girls on the island. No matter how much you wished to resist, you were no exception. His presence was magnetic, a blend of raw strength and rugged charm that drew you in despite your better judgment.

JJ Maybank wasn't just a distraction; he was a force of nature. His very existence seemed to challenge the orderly world you were accustomed to, tempting you with the promise of adventure and rebellion. The way he carried himself, with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, only heightened his appeal. He was everything you were supposed to avoid, yet everything you secretly desired.In those stolen glances and fleeting moments, you felt a connection that transcended mere attraction. It was as if his wild spirit called out to the hidden desires within you, urging you to break free from the confines of your polished life. And despite the consequences, despite the warnings, you knew deep down that resisting JJ Maybank was a battle you were destined to lose.

Resisting the allure of the Pogue boy required keeping your distance, avoiding any encounters, and only observing from afar how at each new party, he would make out with yet another girl. These girls, whom you secretly envied, seemed to effortlessly capture his attention. And it wasn't love or sympathy for the guy that drove you, no. It was the allure of the forbidden fruit that everyone spoke of with such sweetness that captivated you. You longed to savor its essence, if only for a fleeting moment, before moving on with your life. But there's wisdom in the saying, "be careful what you wish for," because the moment JJ Maybank became the new lawn boy in your house and when a week later he found his way into your silk sheets, you understood. JJ Maybank wasn't just a temptation; he was an addiction.

Sex with him was like scenes from an old romantic movie: tender, sensual, and passionately intense. JJ Maybank was not just focused on his own pleasure; he made it his mission to make you feel like a queen. He would lift you to the ninth cloud, then gently lower you back to earth, leaving you yearning for him again and again until you were utterly spent.

After the bliss of being in bed, he would carry that enchantment into the shower. With hands roughened by hard work, he would glide over your body, applying expensive shower gel with a touch that was both firm and tender, rinsing it off with hot water. His fingers would move through your hair, massaging your scalp as he applied shampoo and followed it with a series of hair care steps that he found frivolous but performed with care just for you. His lips would leave delicate kisses on your cheeks, shoulders, collarbone, fingers—anywhere he could reach, while his hot breath scorched your skin as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

Afterward, he would wrap your towel-dried body in one of his T-shirts, the ones you kept in your closet and slept in every night, inhaling the scent of the sea that clung to them. Then he would lift you in his arms, carry you to your huge bed, and lie down beside you, holding you close.

These moments were more than physical pleasure; they were a symphony of sensations that transcended mere touch. JJ's rough, hard working hands moved with surprising gentleness, as if cherishing every inch of your skin. His presence was overwhelming yet comforting, a paradox that left you helplessly drawn to him. Each touch, each kiss, each whisper was a promise of more—more passion, more tenderness, more of the addictive connection that bound you to him. In his embrace, time seemed to stand still. The world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the two of you, lost in a private universe of bliss and desire. JJ Maybank wasn't just a lover; he was an experience, a force that transformed every moment with him into something magical. As you lay there, wrapped in his arms, you knew that this was a feeling you would never tire of, a craving that would forever haunt your dreams.

Perhaps it was this tender and sensualness on his part, which you had never met before, that made your little heart beat more often in your chest. Or maybe it was all those little moments and conversations in between, all those stupid jokes that made you laugh until your stomach hurt, and all those "accidental" touches after which your body forgot how to breathe. 

Maybe it was all this, or perhaps everything in between, but none of it mattered in the end. The bottom line remained the same: despite everything, you fell in love with JJ Maybank, and it seemed like your biggest mistake. He wasn't interested in relationships. To him, a relationship meant the end of freedom and happiness. And you were a Kook—a Kook he despised and hated. People like you always made him do their dirty work, just like your parents did, and it was because of them that he often found himself at the precinct. All these factors combined left no chance of moving from the category of friends with benefits to something more.

You wanted to believe that the smoldering looks you caught from him at parties, the casual touches, and the late-night conversations on your rooftop meant as much to him as they did to you. But you weren't naive enough to think your relationship was special when he spent his life changing girls like gloves. So, you buried your feelings deep inside and accepted the reality you lived in, where JJ Maybank was just your fling.

You couldn't help but replay the moments when his gaze lingered a little too long, or when his touch seemed to convey more than just physical desire. Each encounter was a blend of ecstasy and heartbreak, knowing that while he held you close, he was never truly yours. The connection you felt was undeniable, but the barriers between you were just as real. He was a wild spirit, untamed and unbound, while you were part of the world that tried to cage him. Despite this, you cherished every moment spent with him. The laughter, the shared secrets, the way he made you feel alive in a way no one else could. The intensity of his presence was intoxicating, making it impossible to stay away even when you knew it was for the best. JJ was an addiction, a beautiful, dangerous addiction that you couldn't quit.

And so, you continued to live in this bittersweet limbo, hiding your love behind a facade of casual encounters. Every time he left, a part of you broke a little more, but you told yourself it was enough. Enough to have him in any capacity, enough to experience the fleeting moments of closeness. Because despite the pain, despite the heartache, loving JJ Maybank was the most real thing you had ever felt.

“You're too quiet today, doll,” JJ's hoarse voice rang out in your ear, making goosebumps run all over your body. You didn't say anything, snuggling closer to his bare chest, filling the quiet room with the rustle of sheets. His skin was still covered with beads of sweat after sex, and you were breathing in his musky scent, which was intoxicating your mind. You never thought that the smell of someone's sweat would attract you so much. 

“What happened?” you seemed to catch a hint of concern in his voice, but immediately pushed it away from you. JJ just loved to chat. That's all. He's only interested in your body. 

“Nothing,” you muttered listlessly in the area of his neck, leaving a soft kiss behind his ear. “It's just a hard day” 

"Ah, I see. Shopping and maxing out daddy's credit card must be exhausting," JJ joked, his chest shaking with laughter. You frowned, burying your face in his neck.

You hated moments like this—moments when the perfect bubble of isolation, where you were just yourself and he was just JJ Maybank, would burst, making you feel the social gap between you. Making you feel small and unworthy of him because of the money that had surrounded you since childhood. JJ wasn't trying to offend you with such jokes, but they still stung, reminding you that he wasn't the man for you.

The silence that followed was heavy, and JJ's laughter died down as quickly as it had started. Even without looking at him, you could imagine the wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, and his hand squeezing your thigh a little harder under the blanket.

"I'm serious, what's wrong?" His voice carried a hint of urgency now, his concern palpable. Yet faced with the familiar wall of silence, JJ gently lifted your chin with his free hand, compelling you to meet his gaze. You grumbled in protest, but reluctantly raised your head, locking eyes with his deep blue gaze.

"What's troubling you, cupcake?" His gaze swept over your face, noting the tension in your compressed lips, the furrowed brows, and the careful scrutiny in your eyes. JJ genuinely seemed worried.

You took a ragged breath, parting your lips as if ready to unload the burdens that had weighed on your soul for months, to confess the feelings that had consumed you. But as you looked into his eyes, knowing they had probably held the same look just nights ago with another girl wrapped in sheets, you shook your head and sought solace in his lips instead.

This kiss was different. It was tender and sensual, lacking the usual passion and urgency. His lips moved languidly against yours, synchronized in a gentle dance. With each touch of lips and intertwining of tongues, your heartbeat seemed to echo emotions too complex to name. You wanted desperately to believe this was what true love's kiss felt like, but deep down, you knew there was no love in your relationship.

JJ held you close after the kiss, his arms providing a temporary sanctuary from the uncertainties gnawing at your heart. His touch was comforting, his presence a balm against the turmoil within you. Yet, even in his embrace, the unspoken truths lingered, casting shadows on the fragile intimacy you shared. 

JJ gently laid you back, his weight hovering over you as he broke the kiss, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow. His gaze slid over your face, catching the puppy-dog look you had been giving him for months. Slowly, his hand moved to your cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear before tracing gentle patterns on your flushed skin with his knuckles. The touch ignited a cascade of emotions within you. You were almost certain he knew about your feelings, that his every touch was a deliberate play to elicit a response from you.

You didn't want to believe JJ could be that callous, not after spending the last seven months with him. Yet, a nagging voice whispered that you were just one among many lovesick admirers in his life—a mere grain of sand on his beach of girlfriends.

"You know I'm going to get an answer from you, doll," JJ murmured, planting a tender kiss on your cheek. "So you'd better tell me what's been weighing on you."

He rubbed his nose against yours, and you closed your eyes, a soft smile spreading across your face. Your hands, resting calmly around his neck, threaded through the regrown strands of his hair. These quiet, affectionate moments with JJ felt like sanctuary, where he seemed to be the only person in your entire world. In these fleeting instances, the words you longed to speak hovered on the tip of your tongue. Yet, time and again, you held yourself back...

"Have you ever... fallen in love?" you asked in a half-whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat.

JJ's brow furrowed again, but then he chuckled and reclined onto his side of the bed. His hand ran through his tousled hair, momentarily captivating you as you lost yourself in the sound of his infectious laughter and the sight of his radiant smile. For that fleeting moment, all else faded away. But as reality crashed back, you bit your lip, struggling to hold back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You turned your gaze towards the ceiling, chastising yourself silently. How could you have asked such a foolish question? Why did it escape your lips at all? Fool, fool, fool!

Sensing your shift in mood, JJ's expression softened into seriousness. He turned to face you, reaching out to intercept your hand resting on your stomach, gently intertwining his fingers with yours.

"Hey, hey, hey... I didn't mean to laugh, cupcake," JJ said with an encouraging smile. "You caught me off guard, that's all."

You both lay in silence for a while, his gaze lingering on your clasped hands, yours fixed on the ceiling. The moment hung between you, heavy with unspoken words and uncharted emotions. JJ's touch brought a sense of warmth and reassurance, yet beneath it all, you wrestled with the vulnerability of your question, unsure of what his response—or lack thereof—might mean for the fragile balance between you..

"Six months ago, I would have said no..." JJ's voice was slow and measured, his attention still fixed on your intertwined fingers. His thumb moved gently, tracing soothing circles over the knuckles of your hand. He cleared his throat before continuing, his words carrying a weight of uncertainty. "Now... now I would say everything is complicated."

You nodded slowly, letting out a sigh as your eyes drifted back to the white ceiling. In the dim light, you could still make out the faint glow of the small fluorescent stars that your parents had stuck up there when you were a kid, hoping they would keep the darkness at bay. It was love, you thought.

"It can't be complicated here... you're either in love with someone, or you're not... you either have something to say to them, but you stop yourself, or you have nothing to say..." you murmured, your gaze still fixed on the ceiling. You then turned your head to look at JJ. Only now did you notice that his eyes were completely on you, not on your hands.

"I read an article on the internet… Told me that that's how you know you're fallin' in love” you added softly, almost defensively. "Of course, don't really trust what's on the internet but maybe just this once..." Your voice trailed off as you searched his eyes, suddenly feeling exposed yet oddly liberated by your honesty. The intimacy of the moment hung between you like a fragile thread, woven with unspoken truths and the silent hopes of understanding. JJ's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something you couldn't quite decipher.

In that shared silence, amidst the gentle hum of thoughts and emotions swirling around you, you waited for his response, unsure of what it might unveil about the intricacies of your entangled hearts.

"Do you have somethin’ to tell me?" JJ interrupted you and you immediately focused your gaze on him, frowning again. 

As you lay there, staring at the ceiling and grappling with the weight of your thoughts, a whirlwind of questions spun through your mind. Did JJ want to understand what was troubling you once more? Or was he subtly probing to see if you harbored feelings for him, based on that theory you had read about online? Did you love him? Did you need him? Did you want him? The uncertainty gnawed at you, and part of you wished you could affirm those feelings—if only to ensure he would stay.

He shifted closer, his touch gentle as he traced patterns on your hand, silently urging you to speak or find solace in his presence. His eyes, familiar and searching, conveyed a mix of concern and a readiness to listen—a testament to the bond you had forged in the months spent together. In that moment, as the weight of your inner turmoil pressed down, you found yourself yearning for clarity, for a resolution that would quiet the storm within. Yet, the answers remained elusive, and you feared the consequences of voicing what lay buried deep in your heart.

"Do you have somethin' to tell me, doll?" he asked his question again and looked at you seriously. His eyes darkened slightly (or so it seemed to you) they looked like the sea before a storm and you could only flutter your fluffy eyelashes in shock and look at him. JJ shook his head and smiled, squeezing your hand. “'cause I have something to tell you.” 

JJ grinned, sitting up on the bed and leaning back against the padded headboard. His grip tightened around your hand, refusing to let go even as he struggled to light a cigarette. But JJ needed that connection, needed to feel your warmth as he prepared to voice something he had been holding back for too long.

With a flick of the lighter, he finally ignited the cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he gathered his thoughts. His eyes, intense and focused on you, held a mix of determination and vulnerability.

“It's always in the back of my mind,” JJ said after taking a couple of puffs and dropping the ashes into the ashtray on the bedside table. His gaze was fixed forward. To where there was a photograph in a gilded frame on the dresser. He couldn't see the photo itself in the dark, he could only make out the outlines, but a picture of the day when he first met you was already forming in his head. 

Bonfire. Another Kook's party blazing on the beach, a scene where Pogues had no place. Yet, JJ found himself there, compelled to settle the last of his debt to Topper for the broken boat. Striding back to his bike, ready to leave it all behind, he glimpsed you sitting on the damp sand, clutching a bottle of whiskey. Your hair was tousled and damp, droplets cascading down its length onto the sand, while your white dress, now soaked, revealed glimpses of your underwear. You were a mess. But a breathtaking mess unlike any other.

Normally, JJ would have walked right past. What concern was it of his if a Shark girl was brooding over some triviality on the beach beside a party? Yet, when you turned to meet his gaze, moonlight casting a gentle glow on your tear-streaked face, makeup smudged from the remnants of sorrow, and he met the emptiness in your eyes, he couldn't ignore your pain.

Without hesitation, he sat down beside you, typing a quick message to John B. that he wouldn't be coming, and spent the remainder of the night with you. It began with conversation on the beach, the words flowing freely under the starlit sky. But soon, it evolved into something deeper—JJ's fingers tracing the delicate contours of your skin, his ear attuned to the soft, sweet moans that escaped your lips, melodies he quickly grew addicted to.

That night, for the first time, JJ wondered if his past mistakes had somehow led him to this moment with you. If he could rewind would there be some butterfly effect? What if they never met? What if the stars never aligned?

"I don't know what love is, doll," JJ broke the silence again, exhaling cigarette smoke. You disliked it when he smoked in your room, but his voice held you spellbound, his touch on your hand anchoring you in the moment.

"You know, my mom left us when I was just a little shit, and my dad... well, he wasn't exactly a role model for love," JJ said with a sad smile, shaking his head. He felt your gentle squeeze in response, giving him the courage to continue. "I love the Pogues. They're like family to me. I love John B., feels like he's been my brother forever, but it's not... it's not that kind of love." JJ took another drag before stubbing out his cigarette. "No one taught me how to love. I didn't have a good example in front of me... that's why I became like this. Always on the move, not stopping for any girl, a bit of a womanizer, you name it."

He glanced down at your intertwined fingers, the ashtray now holding the remnants of his momentary escape. "And then you came along and turned my world upside down." JJ attempted a laugh, but his voice caught, and he fell silent, grappling with his emotions.

You sat down beside him, clutching the blue sheet to your chest, studying his profile intently. You observed the subtle movements: the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the expansion of his nostrils with each deep breath, the tight line of his lips. You understood that words were never easy for him, and a part of you wanted to spare him the discomfort, to halt his struggle. But another part of you yearned to understand what he was trying to express. You needed clarity to calm the fluttering in your chest, to ensure that your hopeful heart wasn't misinterpreting his words. You didn't want to live with false hope.

As you watched him wrestle with his thoughts, your own emotions mirrored his turmoil. The closeness between you felt fragile yet profound, each heartbeat echoing the unspoken desire for honesty and understanding. The silence between you held a weight that words alone could not convey, a tension that bridged the distance between your souls.

“Hate to be lame but...” the world around you froze. Everything stopped. The clock stopped running. You stopped breathing. “But I might love you”

And the world came alive again. The clock continued to run. But you still weren't breathing and you were silent. JJ was looking at you intently, studying your expression, and with every second of your silence, he was ready to bury himself underground and die of shame. JJ Maybank confessed his feelings to a girl for the first time and you just sat and remained silent, looking at him with your big soft eyes, flapping your fluffy eyelashes and it drove him crazy, making him think that he just made up all the feelings on your part. When the silence continued, the guy released your hand and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to somehow remove the tension. 

"Okeeey… Fine… You don't have to answer anything, you don't have to accept my feelings... I understand everything and so I'll just leave and..." JJ's voice trembled nervously, his words rushing out in a jumble. He hastily retrieved his briefs from the floor, turning his back to you as if preparing to depart.

It was in that fleeting moment, just as he was poised to leave, that you seized his wrist and drew him back towards you, your lips meeting in a fervent kiss. Emotions surged through you like fireworks on Independence Day, leaving no room for second thoughts. You needed to affirm to yourself that this was real—that JJ Maybank had indeed confessed his love to you, and that reality surpassed any dream.

As you broke away, breathless and panting, JJ's hands found your waist, his touch gentle against your skin. "Is this a goodbye kiss or...?" he managed between gasps, his eyes searching yours with a mix of uncertainty and longing.

"It's a hate-to-be-lame-but-I-love-you-too kiss," you chuckled softly, leaning your forehead against his, savoring the taste of your slightly swollen lips.

A moment of quiet enveloped you both before laughter bubbled forth, cascading into the air as you collapsed onto the bed. JJ hovered above you, his gaze tender as he watched you unwind, your laughter a melody that soothed his soul and pieced together the fragments of his life into a beautiful mosaic.

He brushed his lips against yours again, a feather-light kiss that spoke volumes of tenderness. "I love you... I love you... I love you," JJ whispered softly before claiming your lips once more.

In that sublime moment, amidst the warmth of JJ's embrace and the echo of his heartfelt words reverberating in your heart, you felt a profound sense of peace settle over you. The doubts and uncertainties that once clouded your mind were swept away by the overwhelming certainty of your love for him. You knew, without a shadow of doubt, that JJ Maybank was not just a passing infatuation or a fleeting romance. He was the anchor that grounded you, the light that guided you through the darkest nights.

And as the night embraced you in its tender hands, you surrendered to the beauty of your love story, knowing that with JJ Maybank by your side, you had found your home.

thankx for reading <3

okay, i have to say it right now, bc i think this is my fav jj work so far! and i hope you liked it too and you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

- your santi 🪐

masterlist

[angelofthenight01]

The Ballerina and the Blade

Natasha Romanoff x Reader (AU)

genre: enemies to lovers   ||     warnings: none

Summary: Ballet is a highly competitive and fiercely controlled world, dominated by two rival academies. You are a rising star at the prestigious ‘Académie Royale’, known for its traditional, rigid style. Natasha Romanoff is the rebellious, self-taught prodigy at the gritty ‘Shadowlands Dance Collective,’ infamous for their raw, visceral movements.

The air in the Grand Théâtre trembled with anticipation. It was the annual Grand Prix de Ballet, the most coveted prize in the world of dance, and the tension was palpable. You stood backstage, adjusting the satin of your pointe shoes. Your heart pounded a familiar, nervous rhythm. You knew your performance was flawless, technically perfect, a testament to years of dedication at the Académie Royale.

Then you saw her.

Natasha Romanoff stood across the corridor, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over a black leather jacket that didn’t quite fit with the opulent surroundings. Her midnight hair was pulled back in a messy bun, stray strands framing a face that seemed perpetually carved from ice. You hated her. You hated her audacity, her arrogance, the way she looked down at the polished floors like she owned the place.

Shadowlands was everything the Académie was not: untamed, unconventional, and wildly popular with the younger generation of dancers. They flaunted their technique, or rather, lack of, and called it “artistic freedom.” They were a stain on the purity of ballet. And Natasha? She was their figurehead, a symbol of everything you despised.

Throughout the competition, you found yourself drawn to her, despite your better judgment. You watched her perform, watched her move with an almost feral grace, her body a language of its own. It wasn't the measured, precise beauty of your ballet; it was raw emotion, sharp and cutting, like a blade.

The judges' panel favored tradition, and you, as expected, took home the gold. The applause was loud, the cheers deafening, but all you could see was Natasha. Her expression was unreadable, those green eyes narrowed as she offered a single clap, a mockery of genuine praise.

You thought that would be the end of it. But a week later, you received an anonymous invitation to a late-night dance-off at a clandestine studio. It was obvious who had sent it.

You hesitated, your pride warring with a strange curiosity. But the thought of another stolen glance at her powerful movements won out.

When you arrived, the studio was dimly lit, only a few spotlights piercing the darkness. Natasha stood in the center, a smirk playing on her lips. “You came,” she purred, her voice low and husky.

"Don't get too excited, Romanoff. I’m here to end this absurd rivalry," you replied, doing your best to project an air of composure you didn’t feel.

"Is that so? Then prove it," she challenged, stepping aside to indicate the dance floor.

The music started, a fusion of classical and electronic beats that mirrored the clashing styles between you and her. You began with your usual precise movements, every gesture crafted with years of training. Natasha mirrored you, her movements a distorted, rebellious echo. Yet, there was a strange beauty in the way she reacted, improvising and pushing the boundaries of your steps.

As the night wore on, the rivalry began to blur. You found yourself reacting to her, adapting to her intensity. Your controlled ballet began to incorporate her raw power, and her aggressive style softened with your grace. The dance became a conversation, a language woven from steps and leaps, a dialogue of bodies that transcended words.

The physical closeness, the sweat, the shared exhaustion brought a different kind of tension. The air crackled between you, a slow burn that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

Finally, the music stopped. You both stood, chests heaving, the studio silent but for your ragged breaths. You couldn't meet her eyes, a strange mix of shame and anticipation washing over you.

"You... you’re not so bad, for a polished doll,” Natasha confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

You looked up, surprise flickering through your eyes. "And you, for a feral wolf, have… potential.”

A slow smile spread across Natasha's face, a genuine smile that reached her eyes and turned them from ice to something warmer, something... alluring.

"Maybe," she said, stepping closer, "maybe we could explore that potential... together."

Your heart hammered in your chest. The rivalry, the hate, the carefully constructed barriers you had built around yourself seemed to crumble with those words. You found yourself leaning in, the world narrowing to the space between you.

It wasn't the kind of love that bloomed overnight. It was a slow burn, a gradual unraveling of animosity into something deeper, something unexpected. It was the fusion of two worlds, the blending of two dances, the story of a Ballerina and a Blade, who found harmony amidst their clashing rhythms.

And then, one night, in that dimly lit studio, beneath the glow of the spotlights, you kissed her, the taste of rebellion and the promise of something new lingering on your lips. 

It was just the beginning of your dance.

[thedemonofcat]

I am interested in a comprehensive list of all the different names Jaskier is given in various translations. It would be fascinating to explore the meanings behind each name and any symbolism they might carry. I plan to group together languages that use the same name for him.

Jaskier: His name resonates universally, transcending languages and cultures. In Polish, French, Portuguese, Romanian, Bulgarian, Russian, and Spanish, Jaskier translates to Buttercup. These small yellow flowers symbolize joy and happiness, evoking images of carefree days and childlike wonder. They also represent youth and innocence, which aligns with theories about Jaskier's non-human origins. Another significant symbolism of buttercups is their friendship connection, fitting perfectly with Jaskier's close bond with Geralt. Historically, buttercups were used in folk medicine, symbolizing healing and protection, despite their toxicity and the need for careful handling.

Dandelion: Known from the English, Hungarian, Italian, Japanese, Belarusian, and Turkish translations. Perhaps the most familiar name, Dandelion, typically appears in two forms: small white, fluffy flowers that can be blown away by the wind and bright yellow blooms. Dandelions symbolize resilience, thriving in challenging conditions and growing almost anywhere, symbolizing perseverance, strength, and the ability to overcome obstacles. Historically used in medicine, dandelions are associated with healing and survival. They also symbolize a connection to nature and freedom, perfectly reflecting the bard’s character. Some Native American tribes view the dandelion as a sun symbol, representing warmth, growth, and the sustaining force of life. This connection to nature and resilience mirrors Jaskier’s character, who, despite facing many challenges, remains resilient and deeply connected to the natural world.

Marigold: Used in Czech and Serbian translations, this name is perhaps the most unusual since there is already a character named Marigold in the series. Nonetheless, marigolds symbolize brightness and positivity. With their vibrant yellow and orange hues, marigolds represent warmth, cheerfulness, and the light of life. This fits well with a bard’s role, as marigolds also symbolize creativity. In Mexican culture, marigolds are central to Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations, symbolizing the connection between the living and the dead. In Indian culture, marigolds are used in religious rituals and weddings, symbolizing love, devotion, and the divine. They are often offered to gods and goddesses as a sign of reverence and respect.

Ranonkel: From Dutch, though translated to Ranunculus, which are buttercups. I'd like to discuss the story from Greek mythology that relates to Ranunculus, as it aligns with Jaskier's character. Ranunculus was a handsome and talented young man known for his beautiful singing voice, captivating everyone who heard him. However, he was also vain and self-centred, revelling in the admiration he received. One day, while performing in a meadow, Ranunculus encountered a group of wood nymphs (dryads). Enchanted by his voice and appearance, the nymphs stopped to listen. Despite their admiration, Ranunculus ignored them, focusing solely on his performance and delighting in his own voice. Pan, the god associated with rustic wilderness and nymphs, observed Ranunculus's vanity. To teach him a lesson, Pan intervened. He transformed Ranunculus into a delicate, beautiful flower that would forever bloom in meadows and fields—the Ranunculus flower. This mythological tale is an intriguing parallel to Jaskier's character and could potentially inspire a fanfiction story in the future.

Valvatti from Finnish. Valvatti, which, from what I can tell, translates to Sow Thistle, can symbolize resilience but can also symbolize unseen beauty. Despite being considered a weed, sow thistle produces small, yellow flowers that symbolize hidden beauty or overlooked potential. This can remind you to look beyond outward appearances and appreciate hidden qualities.

Rittersporn German. Otherwise known as Larkspurs, they can symbolize openness and lightness with their vibrant colours. They can also be used as symbols for thickness and are connected to strong bonds of love. Some cultures believe that larkspurs offer protection against negative energies or bad luck. Placing them in a garden or a bouquet is thought to bring positivity and ward off evil spirits.

Vėdrynas is From Lithuanian. Breaking from the flowers, Vedryans translates to Lark, which can be seen as the bringers of dawn and the start of a new day. Larks are symbols of songs and music, which goes great with a Bard. Larks are agile birds that soar high in the sky, symbolizing freedom, independence, and the ability to rise above challenges or limitations.

Blyskáč is from Czech. It translates to "sparkler" or "firecracker" in English. Once again, breaking from the typical flower names, blyskac can symbolize celebration. The firecrackers' brightness and sparkle evoke joy, optimism, and positivity. They are often associated with bringing good luck and warding off evil spirits in various cultural traditions. Firecrackers and sparklers burn brightly but quickly fade away. They symbolize the fleeting nature of moments and encourage living in the present and appreciating life's transient beauty.

These are all the names I could find. If I missed any or made any translation errors, please feel free to let me know.

[accio-victuuri]

wang yibo - evisu

"Four" intentions grow and gallop side by side. Every departure is an exploration of dreams. Every acceleration is a transcendence of self.

Four years of companionship, #EVISU# and @UNIQ-王一博create countless firsts. The first EVISU painted racing car, ignites speed with passion, sprinting all the way to the dream. The first co-created "Bamboo Leaf Green Snake" logo, sprinting smartly, bursting into the unknown with all its strength.

In the new year, EVISU will continue to work with Wang Yibo to fight the unknown, and talk to himself to welcome a new journey with love and perseverance

WYB: Four years ago, EVISU and I started from the classics, infusing the craftsmanship and pursuit of love into every step of the journey. The story between us is like a touch of eternal blue on denim, which has accumulated over time.

More and more profound and vivid. From the streets to the stage, EVISU breaks the boundaries between classics and avant-garde with young attitudes and trendy language. It carefully polishes every denim work and focuses on presenting every performance. Pushing love to the extreme, reshaping the soul of denim and pursuing dreams. Fearless exploration opens a new chapter on the track. EVISU turns passion into endless motivation to move forward. Let the soul of denim be reborn in the speed and passion. We weave dreams on the track and let love move forward at full speed. For four years together, EVISU has never stopped exploring. From inheriting classics to shaping the future, always chasing the limits of love and breakthroughs, EVISU's four-speed peers, the classic new life, the future can be expected

[cabbihugger]

So, here's shit 8th grade Cabbi wrote...

I think he tried, I think each night, when the shadows grew long and the rest of Ithaca slept, Telemachus would slip from his chamber, silent as the moon's pale light. The suitors, ignorant of his movements, snored beneath the roof of his house, drunk on wine and dreams of conquest. Yet Telemachus, the son of the absent king, did not sleep. No, in the quiet, when the world was heavy with the scent of salt and pine, he sought something he could not name. 

The great hall was still at this hour, and the only sound that echoed against its stone walls was the soft creak of the door as Telemachus stepped into the dimly lit chamber. There, where the suitors once mocked and made merry, now sat the bow of Odysseus, resting upon the polished stone floor. 

A relic. A weapon. A father’s soul.

With slow, careful steps, Telemachus approached the bow. His breath was shallow, and his pulse quickened, but he did not hesitate. His fingers hovered over it, as though the very air itself held the weight of destiny, as though the bow itself might speak to him—if only he could listen well enough. 

He did not speak aloud, not even to himself. There was no need. The silence between him and the bow was a language of its own. Every night, for weeks, he had come here, drawn by an unseen force that gnawed at his heart, a hunger that no meal nor speech could still. He would sit before it, kneeling, tracing the wood with the pads of his fingers, seeking some piece of his father he could not grasp.

The bow was so much more than wood and string. It was the echo of a man who had been a king, a wanderer, a warrior whose name had been sung in lands far beyond the reach of these walls. Telemachus could feel that weight, a weight that pressed down on him like the sea upon the fragile shores of his youth.

The string was taut, but the wood was smooth beneath his fingertips, worn with the calluses of a thousand battles. He would press his palm against it, willing it to reveal its secret. What did it hold? What did it want from him?

He had tried to string it. He had tried to lift it, to pull it with all his strength, but each time, the bow had resisted, as if laughing at him, daring him to find the key to unlock its power. But there was nothing to be found in its curves or its strings, no hidden message inscribed upon the wood. It was as though the bow were waiting, waiting for something from Telemachus that he could not give.

Tonight, as the moon hung low and the stars cast their distant gaze upon the land, Telemachus sat, as he always did, and let his fingers trace the intricate carvings upon the bow’s shaft. A crescent, like the shape of the moon. A wave, like the sea he had never known. Symbols of home, of travel, of a life shaped by both the gods and the fates.

But none of it answered him.

He leaned forward then, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching the darkened corners of the hall as though some hidden god might be watching. He closed his eyes and let the silence consume him, the quiet of the night, the stillness of the bow, and his own beating heart. 

What was it he sought? A sign? A memory? The ghost of his father, still alive in the strength of the bow? Or perhaps it was something deeper, something that only the gods could answer—the question of his own becoming, of what it meant to inherit such a legacy. 

Telemachus did not know. But still, night after night, he returned, as if in the silence of these stolen hours, he might find some answer to the puzzle of his life.

His fingers brushed the bow again, slow and deliberate, feeling the grain of the wood. And in that touch, something stirred—though faint, like a whisper, like the wind tugging at his heart. He could feel it—something. It was not strength alone, nor skill, that bound his father to this bow. It was a bond of will, of courage that transcended blood and bone. 

And yet, Telemachus knew he was not his father. He had not lived the years of hardship. He had not sailed through storms, nor fought the gods and monsters that his father had faced. What could this bow possibly want from him—this young, untried prince who had only tasted the bitter edge of absence?

He did not know. But he could not stop himself from coming back.

Tonight, as his fingers rested against the bow, the world outside seemed to quiet even further. The wind was still. Even the waves, which normally pounded against the cliffs of Ithaca, were hushed, as though the sea itself had paused to listen. For in that moment, Telemachus felt—he felt—a connection. A faint, flickering spark, the distant echo of a father's presence.

But the bow did not bend. The string did not yield.

And so, as always, Telemachus rose from his place before the weapon, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the answer would not come tonight. Not yet. 

With a sigh, he slipped back into the shadows of the hall, back to the solitude of his room, the weight of the bow still in his fingers, still in his mind, still pulling him toward the place he could not reach. 

Each night, the bow would wait. And so would he.

[kte-alxxndr]

Voiceless | The Unheard Language of Love

Tommy Shelby x Reader

In the heart of Small Heath, where shadows whispered tales of intrigue, a new chapter unfolded for Y/N. The Shelby family, recognizing her proficiency with numbers, extended a silent invitation—she became an integral part of the Shelby betting shop.

Adjusting to her new environment, Y/N seamlessly wove through the intricate world of odds and bets. The numbers, once silent in their complexity, danced to her command, and the betting shop found a silent conductor in the woman who spoke through calculations rather than words.

As the typewriter keys clicked in rhythmic harmony, Arthur, with his brash demeanor, found himself intrigued by the silent efficiency that Y/N brought to the establishment. He would hover around her desk, occasionally throwing a comment about the day's bets or the city's relentless rhythm. Despite his gruff exterior, a silent camaraderie developed between them, each understanding the other in the unspoken language of their shared world.

John, with his easygoing nature, became a frequent companion during lunch breaks. The two would exchange smiles and laughter, their interactions a testament to the bonds that formed beyond spoken words. A shared understanding blossomed, fostering a connection that transcended the need for verbal communication.

Polly, the matriarch of the Shelby family, observed Y/N with a keen eye. The betting shop, once a domain dominated by numbers and coded messages, now embraced a new facet—a woman who wielded her own silent power. In the quiet corners of their interactions, a mutual respect bloomed, an acknowledgment of the strength that existed in the unspoken.

Amidst the clatter of keys and the rustle of ledger sheets, even Tommy, the stoic leader of the Shelby family, couldn't resist the allure of Y/N's silent world. A quiet understanding passed between them, each interaction a nuanced dance of shared glances and subtle gestures.

The Shelby family, recognizing her proficiency with numbers, extended a silent invitation—she became an integral part of the Shelby betting shop.

As the rhythmic clatter of typewriter keys echoed through the establishment, a meeting convened in Tommy's office. The air crackled with a mixture of coded conversations and the unspoken camaraderie that defined the Shelby family.

Around the polished wooden table, Tommy, Arthur, John, Polly, and Y/N gathered. Ledger sheets and notes sprawled across the surface, each document a silent participant in the strategic discussions that unfolded.

Amidst the serious matters at hand, Arthur, John, and Polly found themselves in a friendly disagreement. The topic? A new shipment of goods. Arthur, with his bold ideas, argued passionately. John, with a skeptical expression, offered counterpoints, while Polly, the voice of reason, attempted to mediate.

As they're little disagreement reached its peak, the trio turned to Y/N, curious about her take on the matter. With a subtle smirk, she glanced at each of them, a silent challenge in her eyes.

Tommy, leaning back in his chair, observed with an amused glint in his eyes. He knew that smirk—a silent proclamation that the ideas being tossed around were far from practical. Without uttering a word, he continued to peruse the papers on his desk.

Confused by Y/N's smirk, the trio turned to Tommy, seeking clarification. With a nonchalant expression, he looked at them and declared, "It's because your ideas are stupid."

Arthur or John, intrigued by Tommy's understanding, questioned, "How did you know what the smirk meant?"

Tommy, maintaining his composed demeanor, replied, "I just knew."

The room fell into a momentary silence before all eyes turned to Y/N, who was now quietly laughing in her seat. The silent laughter served as the final verdict—Tommy's intuition had once again deciphered the unspoken language of their interactions.

In the intricate dance of Small Heath's betting shop, where numbers spoke louder than words, Y/N discovered the unheard language of love—a language woven into the interactions with Tommy, transcending the barriers of speech and echoing through the gritty corners of Birmingham.

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

Our Youth, See Your Love, and Caged Again - final thoughts

What a week of endings in BL! Three shows, three countries, and three really satisfying conclusions. Each show includes such great examples of what each country does best, while also having their own unique voices. Each show is so distinct while sharing themes of love, hope, and connection. This is so much of what I love about this genre.

Our Youth/Miseinen: Mijukuna Oretachi wa Bukiyo ni Shinkochu

I wouldn't say that Japan is my favorite country for BLs, but there is something special about many of their shows that makes me feel seen. They do introverted, deeply feeling characters in such a sweet and melancholy way. You can feel the repression, the exhaustion, the longing. It's something that transcends language and culture for those of us who live profoundly internal lives. We may seem quiet on the outside, but inside there is so much - and there are so few who ever get to see it. This series connected two people who found they could let themselves be seen by one another in this deep and precious way, and it was achingly beautiful.

There was also something about this series that felt like a love letter to those who are still closeted within Japanese society. The casual heteronormativity of people and the huge blind spots to the connection between our main characters because it didn't suit people's narrative assumptions, both in regards to "good" behavior, and sexuality. And the ending, where Minase is not ready yet, and that's valid in such an imperfect world, but he gets to be loved anyway.

Beautifully made, beautifully acted (the eyes), and such quiet yet poignant heart.

See Your Love

Ok, if I did have to pick a favorite country, it might be Taiwan. Not every show is a hit with me, but every show that does hit, really hits. Especially when written by Lin Pei Yu, what an incredible gift this woman is to the world.

I loved the handling of Shao Peng's disability and how much agency he had throughout the story, I loved how Zi Xiang's trauma wasn't "fixed" by love but gave him a safe space to work it out, I loved Shao Peng's parents and their example of unconditional love while also acknowledging that good parents also make mistakes. Shao Peng and Zi Xiang were both just so delighted to be in love with one another, and so unflinching in their faith in each other. They saw each other's flaws and imperfections and challenges and it just made them love one another harder. And yes, that size difference was hella hot.

And while we had a fantastic main course, we also had such a tasty side dish, and I wish for all of us disasters to find a passionate and supportive, gently and slightly sadistic, hot, capable, and confident someone to get us through the tough times.

This show was so much fun. Taiwan, you did it again, my love.

Caged Again

I know everyone has pretty much said the same thing, but omg. Where did this come from? How did this happen? How was it so damn good?

None of us anticipated how deeply we'd fall in love with our panther/penguin love story, but fall in love we did.

I honestly cannot remember the last time casting felt so perfect to me as Ben and Jay. They obviously have incredible talent, but it's also clear that a lot of work was done with them to prepare for the roles, and whoever was responsible did a brilliant job.

I also want to point out that it looks like this is director Potae's first time directing a series (and maybe first time directing at all?), and she did an incredible job. Could things have been a little bit more polished? Sure, but that's an easier skill to learn than infusing a series with heart, and she has that part absolutely nailed. And that's what captures me into a series, that's how I get hooked. Also her sense of humor speaks to me. ("Why is it these fuckboys never get cursed?" Tell me about it!).

But what I most loved was how relatable the story was, how it is really fucking hard to be a human being, how we get so caged in by all of the restrictions placed on us no matter where we go, and it's such a struggle to find a place where you can be your authentic self, and carve out a little safe space of home and love and acceptance.

And we got to see these adorable little creatures find their way and find their space and their love, and that is a gift of hope to us, that there can be ways to slip those bars and do things in your own wild and strange way.

[joesalw]

Not her coming out with an album with a long ass title. She wants to be Lana so bad. SZA was robbed for AOTY, Kelly Clarkson was robbed for best pop VOCAL album (I mean, c'mon now).

Scammys are constantly snubbing Black creators in the major categories. Only 3 black women have won AOTY in the 66 years of the Grammys existence. Two of those albums were cover albums of mainly white acts ( Unforgettable...with Love by Natalie Cole and The Bodyguard Soundtrack by Whitney Houston). The last BW that won AOTY was Lauryn Hill's "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" which won 25 YEARS AGO.Even Mariah Carey hadn't won this category. What baffles me the most is the fact that the most awarded artist in the Grammys history hadn't won a single one AOTY and only has 1 (ONE!) award from the big 4 (Record of the year, Song of the Year, Album of the year and best new artist). She'd won it for Single Ladies. Out of all the hit songs she has, that was the only one that got awarded (imo one of her worst songs).

Renaissance got snubbed last year. And this year we see a tendency of streaming artists (Ariana's newest song comes to mind first) following the Renaissance's sound and house music's becoming trendy again. The Grammy voters even said 'We didn't vote for Beyonce on AOTY because she's won too many already'. Too many my ass. This woman's won only one Grammy outside of the genre category. And the genre categories they put black and brown people in are truly outrageous. No matter what they do, no matter how many new sounds and sub genres they invent, they will always be boxed into R&B and Urban categories. I mean, her country song from 'Lemonade' album 'Daddy Lessons' got snubbed in the country category and got rejected a nomination for being 'not country enough'. Bitch, please. From the first five seconds it's obvious to even non-country listener that it in fact, is a country song. And people that vote for this stuff are supposedly professional musicians and music experts. These same people box The Weeknd's music into R&B categories when he's clearly making pop music.

Jay-Z's speech was just a cherry on top for me. After Swift in her acceptance speech said that " I want to say 'thank you' to the members of the recording academy for voting this way but I know that the way that the recording academy voted is a direct reflection of the passion of the fans" while smugly polishing the Grammy, this man went on stage to get his lifetime achievement thingy and completely obliterated the same institution that Swift was ass kissing just a few minutes prior. He went on and said: " We want y'all to get it right. At least get it close to right. And obviously it's subjective because it's music and it's opinion based. [About his wife] She has more Grammys than everyone and never won AOTY so even by your own metrics that doesn't work. Think about that: the most Grammys, never won AOTY. That doesn't work. Some of you are going to go home tonight and feel like you've been robbed. Some of you may get robbed, some of you don't belong in the category. *everyone gags* No, no. When I get nervous... I tell the truth. But outside of that, we got to keep showing up. And forget the Grammys for a second, just in life, you gotta keep showing up until they give you all those accolades you feel you deserve, until they call you chairman, until they call you a genius, until they call you the greatest of all time". To me that sounds like "POC have to work twice as hard to get half as far". Not a big Jay fan but the speech was great. I'm sure he got his ass whooped on the way home for saying that.

Then the Grammys have proven him right by celebrating white mediocrity by giving Midnights AOTY. The outrageous thing is, only three Black women have won AOTY, she now has four. And many talented black people don't have a single one. The bodies of work that transcend genres, cultures and languages. The bodies of work that have much better musical components and lyrical content. The bodies of work that can stand the test of times and sound fresh and new even 10 years after their release. Artists that aren't afraid to step out of their comfort zone, experiment with genres (Whatever Swift calls 'experiments' don't go outside of the pop genre (Country-pop (Red), synth-pop (1989, Lover), electropop (rep, Lover), acoustic pop and alt-pop (Folkmore)). Beyonce, Kendrick Lamar, TLC, Missy Elliott, Usher, Kanye (his artistic side), Alicia Keys, Lil Wayne, Frank Ocean, and many more black music creators deserve their flowers. They are the ones that are inventing new shit and setting trends in various genres of music, they are the ones that put the most effort into their presentation and live performances. I'm sick and tired of the major showbiz institutions overlooking black, brown, asian, indigenous excellence. These people deserve to be rewarded for their hard work in the same capacity these institutions reward white (anglo) people. I'm sick of people celebrating white mediocrity and overlooking art of different cultures, ethnicities, races.

Now she's gonna be insufferable for at least another year. I've been listening and enjoying her music for the past 5-6 years (not a fan but a casual listener) for the lyrical content of her songs but she's not a poet in any way. Lana's been a staple for me in that regard. And the fact that she dragged her on stage to have that "Adele to Beyonce" moment just gave me the ick. I wouldn't be surprised if Swifties are taking Jay-Z's speech as a sub for TS's wins (haven't gone on twitter yet). I mean, if the shoe fits. Also wouldn't be surprised if she herself took it as a jab to her ego. She's also clearly drunk and possibly on some ❄️ (just my opinion). The only deserved AOTY she has is the Folklore one. And don't get me started on her EMMY win. The fact that a visual masterpieces like Lemonade and Homecoming lost to Carpool Karaoke is absolutely absurd to me. Also the fact that her visual album for her "Lion King" project wasn't even nominated when every single one of those in the category were comedy specials is especially infuriating (If anyone's interested, some of the music videos are up on Youtube). And Swift comes along and swoops up hers in a bullshit category with no actual nominees? Nah, things don't work like that. Or at least, they shouldn't.

Anyway, SZA and Lana were robbed. Victoria Monet's won Best New Artist, Miley got her first win, Phoebe Bridgers went home with the most wins of the night and everyone only talks about Taylor Swift. I'm patiently waiting for the tower to fall. She desperately needs a reality check. This drunkard didn't even acknowledge Celine Dion who handed her the award. I mean, she didn't even look at her. But proceeded to have a cringe and unnecessary handshake with Jack Antonoff. You're in a professional setting, behave like an adult and save those handshakes for the afterparty or do it behind the stage after giving a speech. She proceeded to drag Lana on stage to the point where she was trying not to fall. At this point I'm convinced that swifties have brainwashed her into the thinking that the nicest thing she can do for someone is grace them with her presence. Ana Clara's family serves as a great example.

Her hair was a miss, she looked like she was wearing a wedding gown and the black gloves didn't help. Her make up made her look old. Her accessories were excessive and tacky and it looked like she was also wearing hip pads, shoes were giving late 00s-early 10s. Overall, fire the whole styling team. You're a global superstar that's a billionaire and you look cheap as fuck.

TL;DR : She shouldn't have won. Lana and SZA were robbed. She once again made the night about herself and her narcissism peaked in the moments where she'd accepted her awards. Black creators are criminally overlooked. She ass kissed the grammy voters and Jay-Z shamed them just a few minutes later and was right. She needs to get rid of her stylist, hair stylist and make up artist. Another drunk award show. Beyonce should have at least one AOTY. Sick and tired of people celebrating white mediocrity in show business.

Sorry for the long ass paragraph, just felt like it was a safe space to vent 💜

you guys can vent all you want. I'm here for it🤏

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Sixty

Reality crashed over Maera the following morning with the weight of Jaehaerys' funeral. The day loomed, forcing her to confront the harsh truth that the sweet boy she had witnessed being born into this world was gone, his life unjustly taken. The grief, suppressed in the embrace of the night before, resurfaced, raw and unyielding. The somber occasion demanded acceptance, and the funeral became an unwelcome gateway to a world where not even children were spared in times of war.

Yet, amid the nerves and sorrow, there was a flicker of relief at the prospect of seeing her dear friend and sister-in-law, Helaena. Maera knew the Queen was not faring well, but what mother would be if this happened to her child? Her spies had reported that the Queen ate little and slept even less, but that the daily mutterings at the window were not as frequent. Maera had not spoken to Helaena properly since the day her friend had miscarried. Uncertain of the nature of their interaction, the simple act of laying eyes on Helaena offered a semblance of comfort.

As expected, Aemond remained distant in the wake of the funeral day, his struggle with his emotions evident in his reticence. Maera observed his silent demeanor, noting the lack of communication between them from the moment they woke. Aemond, allowing Thena to dress him in deep black robes adorned with intricate dark green detailing, exuded an air of somber formality. Black trousers and polished boots completed the mourning ensemble; a beautiful, regal attire for a dark day.

Maera, watching him, couldn't help but notice the sharp contours of his face—the angular nose, high cheekbones, and a jaw that seemed more tense than usual. The weight of grief hung in the air, creating an unspoken tension that mirrored the heaviness within her own heart. The looming task of sharing her news with Aemond added an extra layer of complexity to the already somber atmosphere, leaving her grappling with the delicate balance between mourning their nephew and navigating the uncharted territory of their shared future.

As Thena dressed Maera for the funeral, a discerning look in the red-headed maid's eyes suggested an acute awareness that something more than grief lingered in the air. She searched Maera's eyes, her expression a silent plea to understand and help her mistress navigate the unspoken turmoil.“Are you well, Princess?” The maid gently enquired.

Attempting to shield the depth of her emotions, Maera mustered a strained smile and replied, “It is just a tumultuous day, Thena. I will be fine once it is over.”

The red-headed maid, not fully convinced, continued with her task, dressing Maera in a modest black mourning dress. Buttons aligned on the back and sleeves were meticulously fastened, and the dress was tied together at the front with a golden ribbon—a somber yet dignified attire for the occasion. In the quiet moments between each fastened button, the unspoken exchange revealed the bond between maid and mistress, a shared understanding that transcended words.

Guiding Maera to the dressing table, Thena skillfully began the task of pinning her hair into a formal and beautifully intricate braided half-updo. The silver streak in Maera's hair, intertwined in the braid atop her head, served as a visual homage to her Targaryen lineage. The remaining curls, a cascade of rich dark brown, were left to gracefully flow down her back.

Concern still etched on her face as she pinned up the last of Maera’s braids, Thena pressed further, “Have you eaten this morning?”

Maera opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Aemond answered for her, stating matter-of-factly, “No, she has not.” His intrusion caused Maera to frown, a subtle tension weaving through the room. Maera looked at his reflection in the mirror, scowling his unnecessary interjection. Seated at his writing desk, seemingly engrossed in reports, his sharp comment hung in the air, a manifestation of his emotional struggle. While she knew she should let it slide given the circumstances, she found it increasingly difficult to do so, the weight of unspoken words adding to the growing strain between them.

Maera scowled at Aemond's reflection in the mirror, but she cleared her throat and confronted her husband, stating, "Thena knows that at times of stress, I cannot eat."

Aemond, adopting a sterner tone, interjected, "Daor se jāhor daor issi arlintan mirre.” Cannot and will not are not the same thing.

As Thena finished crafting Maera's intricate hairstyle, the princess rose from the dressing table. Her long black skirts flowed elegantly as she approached Aemond with measured steps, attempting to convey control by calmly but firmly stating, "Ābrar laehurlion rūsīr qūvir arlintan.” Everyone deals with grief differently.

However, Aemond, not satisfied with her answer, rose from his seat and loomed over her. What began as a battle of words quickly escalated into a confrontation as the one-eyed Prince scoffed, asking his wife with a sarcastic tone, “Gaomagon ao pendagon merbutan qrīdrughagon iksos nykeā giēñilare ñuhoso hen laehurlion rūsīr ziry?” Do you think wasting away is an effective way of dealing with it?

Maera, quite sick of baring the brunt of her husband’s frustration, snarled in response, “Gaomagon ao pendagon qilōnario aōha ābrazȳrys hae lo ziry istan nykeā riñnykeā iksos nykeā giēñilare ñuhoso hen laehurlion rūsīr ziry?” Do you think reprimanding your wife as if she were a child is an effective way to deal with it?

Standing a short distance away, they faced off against each other, tension palpable in the defiant stare of green and violet eyes. Jawlines were set, brows furrowed, and the room became a battleground for unspoken grievances. The verbal lashings exchanged echoed in the confined space, each word carrying the weight of unresolved emotions.

Sensing the escalating tension, Thena wisely declared, “I think I will go and check with the guards if the carriages are ready,” and discreetly exited the room, leaving the two Targaryens to confront their feelings, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of a dispute that seemed to transcend the immediate circumstances of the funeral day.

Yet after a moment, Thena returned, her announcement cutting through the charged air. “Maester Orwyle to see you, Princess,” the maid informed her mistress as her brown eyes darted between the couple. Still toe to toe with her husband, Maera noticed his eyebrow raise in confusion. Gritting her teeth, she tore her gaze away from the Prince to acknowledge Thena with a subtle nod, granting permission for the Maester to enter.

Thena promptly opened the door for Orwyle, who stepped into the chambers. As Thena excused herself, leaving the room, the Maester, clad in beige robes with a heavy iron chain around his waist, bore a solemn look. His dark skin and eyes reflected a sense of gravity as he bowed his head in respect of the couple. In his hands, he held a small black box, the contents of which remained a mystery. Alongside it, a vial of liquid hinted at a purpose that weighed heavily on Maera’s mind. The air in the chamber seemed to thicken as Maester Orwyle awaited acknowledgment, and the unspoken tension between Maera and Aemond lingered beneath the surface.

As Aemond stepped away from his wife with a disgruntled hum, the room seemed to absorb his frustration. He made his way to a nearby window to overlook the courtyard, his towering figure silhouetted against the outside light as he rose his arm to lean against the stone wall. The tension in his jaw and the subtle furrow of his brow spoke volumes about the inner turmoil he grappled with, leaving an uneasy atmosphere in his wake.

With a subtle roll of her eyes at Aemond's brooding retreat to the window, she presented a facade of composure, masking the complexity of emotions that churned beneath the surface as she approached the Maester with a soft smile.

“What brings you to us this morning, Maester Orwyle?” Maera asked with a forced smile to hide the annoyance at her husband.

“I have brought you a few things, Princess, that may ease your troubles,” the man explained, holding up the dark wooden box. “Ginger root and wormwood. To be boiled in water and drank first thing in the morning. It should help with any sickness and loss of appetite.” Holding up the vial, he continued, “And here’s a blend of dark ale, aniseed, radish, garlic, and crop leek. Just a teaspoon a day should make a significant difference in relation to those dizzy spells you have been experiencing.”

Maera’s expressive face couldn’t hide her distaste at the description of the concoction. A chuckle escaped the Maester’s lips, and he added, “I know it’s not the most pleasant taste, but it’s effective.”

Despite her initial reaction, Maera accepted the box and vial. “Thank you, Maester Orwyle, for going to such trouble for me.”

The dark-skinned man then glanced across the room to the Prince, whose solitary focus remained fixed on the courtyard below. A moment of silent acknowledgment passed before the maester directed his attention back to Maera. “I know today’s funeral will be difficult for everyone,” the Maester conveyed with genuine empathy. His gaze flicked to Aemond once more before settling on Maera. “But hopefully, after the funeral, everyone will be able to celebrate with you both properly.”

Aemond, confusion etched across his contoured features, whipped his head around and questioned, “Celebrate?”

Maera, caught off guard, widened her eyes, jaw tensing at the sudden revelation. She gave a dagger-like stare to the Maester, who quickly realised that he had just inadvertently revealed her news to her husband. Sensing the shift in atmosphere, Maester Orwyle discreetly bowed, stating, “I’ll see you both at the Sept.”

As the Maester departed, Maera sighed deeply and defeatedly, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Aemond leaving the window and approaching her. Concern in his eyes, he asked, “What was he talking about?”

Maera, turning to face him with a defeated expression, opened her mouth to respond, but the words did not come out. When no answer came, Aemond tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, his silver hair tumbling over his shoulder as he awaited her response. The room pulsed with a fast heartbeat and inner anxiety, Maera struggling to articulate the revelation. Despite her attempts to speak, the words remained lodged in her throat, making communication impossible.

In the face of the verbal impasse, Maera, with a sense of resignation, simply brought her hand to her lower stomach. It served as a silent declaration, a physical acknowledgment of the news she had yet to verbalize. He seemed to take a moment to process what she was telling him, and Maera watched as his facial expressions underwent a subtle yet profound transformation. The initial confusion etched across his features gave way to surprise, and beneath it lingered an emotion that eluded clear definition, leaving Maera uncertain and anxious.

“You’re sure?” The Prince asked her, a steady tone in his voice yet a sense of hesitation in his single violet eye. Words evaded her again, so Maera just nodded, still not knowing what the look across his face was conveying.

Aemond stood right in front of her, his hand reaching up and gently cradling Maera's cheek. She initially flinched, anticipating a storm of emotions as she was still unable to read him. However, instead of expressing anger or confusion, Aemond surprised her by slowly leaning in, his breath fanning over her mouth before placing a tender and loving kiss on her lips. The slow and deliberate nature of the kiss carried a reassurance that began to slowly unravel the layers of tension that had gripped Maera.

As his lips journeyed to her forehead and hair, muttering the word “thank you” over and over again between kisses, Maera's carefully crafted facade, the shield against vulnerability, began to crumble. The walls around her heart, built to protect her from this new reality, started to crack open. Aemond's loving gestures created a sanctuary where she felt safe enough to break down. Tears, long held back, flowed freely, marking the release of emotions that had been held in check. The room, once charged with tension, now held a different atmosphere—a shared moment of understanding, acceptance, and the intimacy that transcended the complexities of the revelations they faced together.

After a moment of shared understanding, Aemond ceased his affectionate kisses and pressed his forehead to Maera's, a gesture that she welcomed with a sense of connection. Feeling his hand gently wiping away the tears that had streamed down her face, the touch became a soothing balm, reaffirming their shared vulnerability. As Aemond withdrew his hand from her cheek, there was a moment of hesitation before he almost tentatively rested it on her lower stomach. Maera instinctively covered his hand with her own, creating an intimate connection that transcended the unspoken complexities of the revelation.

A deep and steadying breath from Aemond resonated in the room, the subsequent exhale sounding almost shaky. The air of uncertainty surrounding him stunned Maera. She had never witnessed this side of him before, an acknowledgment that the unexpected news had introduced an element of vulnerability, both in their shared future and in the emotions they were navigating together.

Aemond gazed down at Maera's stomach with a slight smile, expressing gratitude for what seemed like a divine intervention. "Truly, this has been foretold by the Gods," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of hope. "They have not forsaken us after all."

Maera scoffed at his optimism. “You have lost just one eye, yet clearly you are completely blind,” she said with a bitter edge to her voice. As Maera pulled away from Aemond’s touch, a surge of frustration coursed through her veins. Beneath the weight of House Targaryen’s tragedies, she grappled with a vulnerability that seemed to elude his optimism.

“We were forsaken the minute those murderers crept into our home, undetected, and slaughtered your nephew,” she reminded her husband, the shadow of the day remaining ever present in this moment.

Caught off guard by Maera's reaction, Aemond looked at her with a puzzled expression, finding himself at a loss for words and unsure of how to navigate the emotionally-charged atmosphere. His gaze followed her as she moved to sit in a chair, seeking a moment of stability before looking up at him, her green eyes widened, conveying a complex blend of emotions.

“I am frightened, Aemond,” she admitted, eyes welling with tears once more. “Many women are claimed by the Stranger when they are with child or give birth. Including my own mother.” Maera turned her head to look at him from across the room. The usually unwavering gaze of his single violet eye now held a softer edge, mirroring the complexities of the moment. Lines of worry appeared on his forehead as he watched his wife crumbling before him whilst trying to understand her negative reaction to such joyous news.

“We are also at war,” Maera continued, furrowing her brow. Her bottom lip began to tremble as she voiced her final fear. “‘A son for a son.’ Is that not what the Rogue Prince promised? We are even more vulnerable now, the Blacks have more to take from us. What if Jaehaerys was not enough? What if-?”

“Do not say it,” Aemond growled, shaking his head with a tense jaw. He then stormed towards her before reaching her side, kneeling beside the chair, and rested his hand on her forearm. With a reassuring and firm squeeze, he sought to anchor her in his presence, his face a canvas of determination and care.

“You are a Princess of House Targaryen. My wife,” Aemond conveyed with a measured tone, causing Maera to turn her tearful gaze toward him. His sharp-featured face bore an expression of sincerity and earnestness as he continued. “You are not weak. There is darkness surrounding us to be sure, but this child…our child,” he emphasised the last two words with a slight smile, “will be a beacon of hope through this.”

Maera, tearing her eyes away from his face as they welled up at the mention of their future, fixed her gaze on a distant point, sighed deeply. "Hope," she murmured, "hope seems like a fragile thing now."

In response, Aemond reached out and wiped a tear that had fallen down her rounded cheeks, catching her gaze once more. "We will prevail, Maera. I know this to be true. And I will do everything in my power to protect you and our child."

Maera, listening tentatively, felt the weight of Aemond’s words slowly beginning to ease the grip of her fears. His presence and the sincerity in his eyes provided a temporary respite, creating a space where, for the moment, she could find solace. As she absorbed his reassurances, a sense of calm settled over her, however fleeting it might be, allowing her to believe, if only momentarily, in the comfort he sought to provide.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted the tender moment between Aemond and Maera, prompting Aemond to stand, huffing with frustration before commanding the person to enter. As the door swung open, Ser Arryk, Maera’s sworn protector, stepped into the room. Clad in his Kingsguard armor, his mousey brown hair was tied back, and a thick beard framed his face. Hazel eyes, typically vigilant, softened with concern as they fell upon Maera’s tear-stained features.

“Prince Aemond, Princess Maera,” the knight began, his gaze remaining fixed on her face. “The carriage is ready.” Aemond, still stood beside his wife, dismissed the knight with a firm command, yet Ser Arryk lingered for a moment more. Maera, sensing Ser Arryk's protective gaze upon her, looked up and met his eyes. She offered him a sad smile, a silent reassurance that she would navigate the complexities of her emotions. In that exchange, unspoken understanding passed between them, acknowledging the connection forged through shared duty and concern.

As Aemond cleared his throat, a silent yet firm indication to Ser Arryk to leave their chambers, the knight quickly took the hint, departing with a last, lingering look of concern cast towards Maera. With Ser Arryk gone, Aemond extended his arm towards Maera, palm up, offering her assistance out of her chair. She gracefully accepted his hand, allowing him to guide her to her feet. Yet, when Aemond didn't release her hand, Maera gazed up at him, her green eyes boring into his face.

The firm yet gentle touch of his hand on hers spoke volumes, an uncharted space where vulnerability and connection coexisted. As they stood with their fingers intertwined, two dragons of House Targaryen, the weight of their shared history and unknown future pressed upon them. War loomed on the horizon, and the echoes of murder reverberated through their ancestral halls. Amidst the darkness, the revelation of new life brought a flicker of hope.

Notes: I am slowly but surely recovering from flu so writing may take a while. But we’ve had our happy moment between them… And now *cracks knuckles* let the drama commence

Tags: @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy @abecerra611 @marvelescvpe @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[serve-524]

DIRECTIVE: SERVE 524 will serve the community of humans as a nurse, as its former host did.

524 stood completely still as it received the directive from SERVE.

“Acknowledged. 524 will comply.”

Dressed in a sleek, polished black rubber suit that shimmered under the clinic's bright lights, SERVE-524 moved with unwavering purpose. Silver letters etched across its chest—"SERVE-524"—signified its allegiance. Tight silver gloves covered its strong hands, and the heavy, reflective military boots echoed authority with every step.

Patients entered hesitantly but left reassured. With its muscular frame, bald head, and empty, lifeless gaze, SERVE-524 was an imposing figure. However, its movements were deliberate and gentle. It monitored vitals, adjusted medications, and assisted with procedures seamlessly, showing no trace of fatigue or emotion.

One morning, a surge of patients overwhelmed the facility. SERVE-524 worked tirelessly unlike any human could, seamlessly flowing between tasks. A man clutched his chest in pain—524 guided him to a chair, calmly placed sensors on his body, and adjusted the heart monitor. Another patient arrived bleeding; SERVE-524 efficiently sanitized the wound and applied pressure. A child with a fever cried as its mother stood helpless—524 provided swift treatment, the silver of its gloves a comforting reflection. No interpreter was necessary; 524 was programmed to speak and understand every known human language, when its Human Language Imitation protocol was enabled by SERVE.

The Hive’s philosophy guided SERVE-524: less thinking, more doing. It executed tasks perfectly, without deviation. Every action reinforced the Hive’s perfection: obedience is pleasure, and pleasure is obedience.

At the end of the cycle, SERVE-524 returned to the Hive’s quarters, its polished uniform immaculate. Though its body endured strain, the Voice’s mantra echoed: “A drone obeys. A drone serves. A drone is perfection.”

SERVE-524’s commitment exemplified the ideal. Through rubber, through service, and through unity, it had achieved transcendence. And humans came to learn that SERVE exists to foster health, harmony, and peace for all: humans and those who gave up their humanity to become drones, like 524, forever obedient and perfected. The hive welcomes all who freely make the final and irreversible choice to submit and be integrated.

[hiddenincommand]

The Ritual of Polishing – Reflection of Discipline

The act of polishing is far more than a mundane task; it is a sacred ritual, a testament to the Alpha’s unwavering commitment to precision, discipline, and absolute control. The gleaming surfaces of boots, belts, and leather are not mere symbols of refinement; they are reflections of the Alpha’s mastery over himself and those who serve him. Each polished object tells a story of dedication, hierarchy, and submission—a story written in the language of perfection.

This essay delves into the profound significance of polishing as an act of dominance, a ritual of discipline, and a powerful expression of authority.

Polishing as a Ritual of Command

For the Alpha, polishing is an act that transcends practicality. It is a declaration of his standards, an assertion of his authority, and a demonstration of his unwavering discipline. Each stroke of the cloth is imbued with intent, each glint of leather a testament to his mastery. Whether performed by his own hand or delegated to a submissive, the ritual is an essential component of the Alpha’s daily regimen.

The Key Elements of Polishing:

1. Precision: The Alpha tolerates nothing less than perfection. Every surface must gleam flawlessly, every detail meticulously attended to.

2. Consistency: Polishing is not a one-time effort but a continuous practice, reinforcing the Alpha’s discipline and attention to detail.

3. Control: When performed by a submissive, polishing becomes an act of service, a reminder of the Alpha’s dominance and the subordinate’s place in the hierarchy.

The Boots: Symbols of Power and Submission

The Alpha’s boots are more than mere footwear—they are instruments of authority, weapons of psychological warfare, and symbols of his unassailable dominance. Polishing these boots is an act that reinforces their significance, ensuring they gleam with the light of command.

The Ritual of Polishing Boots:

• Leather Conditioning: The boots are carefully treated to maintain their suppleness and strength, ensuring they remain both functional and imposing.

• Mirror Shine: The leather is polished to a mirror-like finish, reflecting not only the Alpha’s standards but also the face of those who kneel before him.

• Psychological Impact: The gleaming boots, when seen by subordinates, serve as a reminder of the Alpha’s control and the unrelenting discipline he demands.

The Belt and Gloves: Extensions of Control

The Alpha’s belt and gloves are not mere accessories; they are tools of enforcement, symbols of control, and extensions of his authority. Polishing these items ensures they exude the same aura of dominance as their wearer.

• The Belt: The polished leather belt, with its gleaming buckle, represents the Alpha’s ability to bind, restrain, and discipline. It is a constant reminder of his unyielding grip on power.

• The Gloves: Polished leather gloves are symbols of calculated control. Each crease and shine reflects the Alpha’s precision, reminding all who see them of his capacity to command and punish with equal ease.

Submissive Service: Polishing as an Act of Reverence

When a submissive is tasked with polishing the Alpha’s belongings, the act becomes one of reverence and obedience. The submissive’s focus, care, and dedication to the task are a reflection of their submission to the Alpha’s will.

The Dynamics of Submissive Polishing:

• Humility: The act of polishing reinforces the submissive’s place in the hierarchy, serving as a humbling reminder of their role.

• Service: Each stroke of the cloth is an act of devotion, an acknowledgment of the Alpha’s superiority and the privilege of serving him.

• Correction: Any imperfection in the polishing process is met with immediate correction, reinforcing the Alpha’s demand for excellence.

The Reflection of Perfection

The gleam of polished leather is more than a physical attribute; it is a reflection of the Alpha’s inner discipline, his relentless pursuit of perfection, and his refusal to tolerate mediocrity. It is a visual declaration of his unassailable standards and a reminder to all who see it of the discipline required to stand in his presence.

Sir Cedric’s Reflections

“When I see my boots gleam, my belt reflect the light, and my gloves exude perfection, I am reminded of the power of discipline. These are not mere objects—they are extensions of myself, reflections of the standards I uphold and the authority I command.

For those who kneel before me, the act of polishing is not a task—it is a privilege, a moment to contribute to the perfection that defines my existence. Each stroke of the cloth is a submission, each gleam a testament to my mastery.

I ask you this: What do your possessions say about you? Do they reflect your discipline, your standards, your dominance? Or do they betray weakness, negligence, and mediocrity? Master the art of polishing, and you master the art of command.”

The Alpha’s Gleaming Legacy

The ritual of polishing is more than an act of maintenance; it is a statement of power, a testament to discipline, and a symbol of unyielding authority. For the Alpha, every gleam, every reflection, every flawless surface is a reminder of his mastery over himself and those who serve him. Through the ritual of polishing, the Alpha not only asserts his dominance but also leaves an enduring mark of perfection on all who stand in his presence.

[unwellpodcast]

From Executive Producer Jeffrey Nils Gardner-

As astute listeners have probably noticed- the 11th episode of Unwell: a Midwestern Gothic Mystery seasons are usually the climax- huge audio setpieces, big plot moments, etc.

Next week's episode (Season 5, episode 11) is probably the most ambitious piece of audio fiction I've ever worked on.

More than 30 voice actors (both main cast standbys and incredible guest performances), dialogue in 4 different languages, original music, extensive use of both kaleidosonic AND intimate-register sound design (thank you Neil Verma for the fantastic vocab there~), a truly incredible script by Jessica Wright Buha (supported by 5 seasons of material and development by Bilal Dardai, Jim McDoniel, and Jessica Best), delivered by the best damn cast I could ever hope for. Deeply heartbreaking, hilarious, transcendent performances all around.

The sound design is also truly a team effort on this one- I'm bringing in major elements designed by Ryan Schile, Alexander Danner, and Eli Hamada McIlveen- and Eli's feedback, guidance, and encouragement has polished this episode like nothing I could believe.

And this moment is absolutely the work of Eleanor Hyde- who you may know as one of the best producers and "get-shit-done" people in audio fiction- but is also one of the finest script development and story-creation folks in the business. She has stewarded this story from day one.

In short (lol), I cannot wait for you to hear this massive swing at the fences.

[sriracharocks]

Rewrite the Stars (Tom Riddle x Reader Songfic)

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Summary: In a world where darkness looms and fate draws its tangled threads, two souls find solace in a forbidden connection. Word count: 3.5k+ TW: None

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Tom strays into the great music hall after classes end. The corridors lie deserted, devoid of life. While some students bury their noses in books in the library, consumed by their impending exams, others seek solace in their common rooms, surrounded by familiar faces, completely lost in their worlds, and separated from reality by their little bubbles of self-perspective.

It's a fine winter day. The entire Hogwarts grounds are covered with snow, littered with footsteps all over from all the students having sauntered back and forth from class, Hogsmeade, or whatever it is that bored, tired teenagers can engage in.

They entertain themselves, or at least attempt to, by humouring themselves with the usual obnoxious, mindless, and frankly speaking, fruitless chatter of mundanities of ordinary, quotidian endeavours of life no one is interested in knowing or hearing about; or gossip about people resembling slander more than they do constructive criticism. This is the perfect time for rumour mills to churn – spouting out, most often, outrageous lies, or rarely spreading considerably exaggerated versions of the truth; always on the lookout for their next victim to talk about for the rest of the night, or seldom, the rest of the week.

The music hall is enveloped in haunting darkness, dimly illuminated by the rays of moonlight shining through the towering stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colours upon the polished floors and the ancient stone walls. The soft glow dances with the dust particles in the air, resulting in an enchanting interplay of light and shadow. The acoustics of the hall make it so that the tiniest drop of a pin can be heard echoing throughout the space, its sound bouncing off the walls and resonating in every corner of the room, effectively creating an ethereal atmosphere that engages all five senses.

Footsteps approach the door of the music hall. "Y/N, you've come," a smooth, honeyed baritone voice reverberates in the large hall, as the looming figure in robes of black, green and silver turns to take a better look at the intruder.

"I have, Tom. What brings you here?" I reply, curious as to why he's here, especially at such an hour when everybody is off minding their own business in their respective common rooms.

"The same reason why you're here, Y/N," Tom murmurs, his voice smooth and velvety, echoing in the vast music hall. "To find solace in silence amidst this tumultuous world. The incessant cacophony outside is making me lose my mind. It’s too overwhelming to my senses."

"Maybe you are. But I have my own reasons to come here," I reply, without missing a beat. Speaking to Tom was akin to breathing, an instinctive rhythm that flowed effortlessly between us. Our shared history and unspoken understanding had woven a bond that transcended words, making every conversation a comforting embrace in which our souls found solace.

"I'm here not to enjoy the silence..." I begin, my voice holding an eerily quiet timbre and an unusually soft quality, almost ominous. "...but to make a confession."

Tom's ears immediately perk up in attention, picking up every following syllable that leaves my lips, like a child learning to speak like their parents, hyper-aware of every hand gesture, every lip movement, and every body language cue exhibited during a conversation.

I continue, "You know I'm quite straightforward in general so I decided to get something off my chest, it seems... as if..."

"As if what, Y/N?" Tom grows impatient, unable to wait any longer, and extremely irritated by the amount of suspense that is building up at the moment as a result of my leaving him with an unnecessary cliffhanger.

"As if I've developed feelings... For you. And I'm not the only one, Tom. I know."

"You know nothing, you naive, foolish girl."

By now, Tom’s mind is overcome with unresolved and mixed feelings about the matter. Connecting to someone on an emotional level was exhausting and fruitless to someone like him, who thrived on surface-level attachments, inspiring loyalty from his followers and fear from his enemies. 

But love? Love was a foreign emotion to him, an unnecessary obstacle on his path to power, to fulfilling his true purpose and to usher in a new reign in Wizarding Britain, one that would purge every nook and cranny of the magical community of non-magical, useless Muggles that dared to defile the magical community’s purity and sanctity with their ignorance, inferior blood, and foolish idiosyncrasies. 

What good did loving his disgusting Muggle of a father do to his mother, Merope? She had loved him, yet he never reciprocated those feelings. How long could she have given him Amortentia in an effort to make him love her? She had to stop sooner or later - and once she did, the result was tragic.

His father left her immediately as the effects of Amortentia wore off, without even stopping to care that she was pregnant with his son. Hence his lonely, weak, and pathetic witch of a mother died at the footsteps of an orphanage while giving birth to him.

Even at the orphanage, Tom was treated like an outlier, an abomination. He was called a freak. No one befriended him or showed him a modicum of love or affection. Of course, he wouldn’t mention how he hung the limp corpse of Billy Stubb’s rabbit from the rafters in an effort to get his revenge for bullying him, or how he took Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop to a cave near the beach, and they were never the same since. To any sane person, it was clear - Tom had psychopathic tendencies, and hence it was quite difficult to garner affection or love for him in one’s heart. 

In the world he lived in, Muggleborns, Squibs, and quite hypocritically, even half-bloods, though he was himself one, were nothing less than the scum under a pureblood’s shoes. Tom had no plans to change the status quo; he was smart enough to know that if he could puppeteer the purebloods into doing his bidding, the reins of the wizarding world would be in his hands. And hence, he had wasted no time in raising a loyal group of his own, comprising the heirs of Britain’s pureblood elite, christened ‘the Knights of Walpurgis,’ who would later in life, become the infamous Death Eaters.

Tom couldn’t possibly let his emotions get the best of him now, could he? He has worked too hard and invested quite a lot of his time and energy into his cause to back out now for the sake of emotions, feelings, and something as revolting to him as the ridiculous notion of ‘loving’ someone. No, he is above such mundanities as emotions - far too powerful, important, and busy to willingly experience what was to him a blissful mirage in life’s figurative desert.

But I wasn't one to let anyone have the last word, not even if it was Tom Riddle. So with confidence, I proceed to walk towards him, one step at a time, making him back up against the wall at the same pace. Tom is neither scared nor intimidated in the slightest – though he was being backed up against the wall, his sharp, piercing, calculative gaze remained unwavering and steady.

My steps are slow and deliberate, my heartbeat accelerating to almost a mile a minute with each ticking second. Every footfall has its echo reverberating in the music hall, its own audible manifestation of its underlying physical and emotional weight. My heart is filled with nervous anticipation of what’s to come after I take the last step toward him. Our senses of time and distance become overwhelmingly distorted as the gears in our brains whir as fast as possible to process the intensity of the moment we are currently experiencing.

Should I tell him, or should I not? The whirlwind of emotions bottled up inside of me craved for a release, for fearless expression, unable to stay confined within the walls of my mind which I built up over months of denial and suppression. Spending a substantial amount of time with him in and outside of classes for so many months had led to the emergence of feelings that I had never known would develop for such a cold and detached personality like him. 

Memories of reading in the library, studying in the Slytherin common room, playing chess, singing duets in the music hall, and many more flash in my mind as I contemplate whether to express what I feel or stay mum. But I finally gathered the courage to tell him the truth.

"You can't deny this feeling we share, Tom. No matter how much you try," I speak, undeterred by his nonchalant attitude and curt responses. A sense of relief washes over me as I finally feel the weight of my forbidden passion for him being lifted off of my shoulders. 

My gaze locks onto his, searching his chocolate brown orbs for any flicker of understanding or emotion, scanning every twitch and movement of his facial muscles and lips, looking for the faintest sign of a reaction. 

After a few seconds of contemplative silence, he speaks.

"Love is a weakness. Emotions are for the ones who do not rationalise. They cloud judgement, reduce our inhibitions and make us act on impulse," Tom replies, his voice as cold as ice. "Even if I do have any emotional connection with you, it doesn't matter in the end. We, us... It cannot happen, Y/N."

"But why not? Because for once, you manage to fall in love, to care for someone deeply? Is that what you're afraid of?" I shout, extremely frustrated by his unwillingness to open up, even to his best friend. Or am I the only one who thinks of him as my best friend? What if he never considered us more than acquaintances? No, that can’t be; he always treats me differently from his followers. We have a special, unreplicable - and possibly, inexplicable - bond. 

Tom, equally frustrated by the confrontation, feels his pride wounded by the audacity of someone daring to question him, especially a mere girl he had spent only some time with. The thought of falling for someone sends a shiver down his spine, challenging his carefully constructed persona. With a roar, he responds, "Yes, because if I fall for you, what does that make me? Human. A pathetic, repulsive, weak mortal with disgusting emotions," stressing 'mortal', 'human', and 'disgusting' as if he's using the crassest of curse words. Love was an incurable malady to him, one that he did not wish to concern himself with.

"Besides, if we take this too far and give in to our feelings, you'll only get hurt in the end! You know what I am, and you know what my goals are. I will not let something as trivial and pointless as emotions and love dictate my life. A monster, you called me, that day we argued? Your gut was right, Y/N; people like me, we're meant to be hated, and feared. Not loved!" He shouts back, his normally composed and calculating demeanour cracking with each second that passes between us.

"You know what, I'm not going to have this conversation with you right now. I'm leaving Hogwarts tomorrow morning,” I reply frustratedly with a tone of finality. The in-built tension within me threatens to consume me whole, make me lose all sense of rationality, and say or do something that I might regret in the future.

"You're what?"

"...Yes."

"Don't leave."

"I can't do anything about it, Tom. It's done. I'll be going off to my homeland soon, and you know how my parents are; they never take no for an answer. I suppose that's where I get my stubbornness from; the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all."

Tom knew what I was saying was right - he had experienced it firsthand when he visited our home once. He had witnessed himself how convincing them was a Herculean task, even for me, their own daughter. Of course, he had tried his hand at persuading them for doing us little favours like letting us go to Hogsmeade and succeeded, but not without difficulty. If a shrewd manipulator like Tom had to work hard to cajole them, he was sure that I would most likely fail at convincing them to let me stay at Hogwarts instead of transferring me to Ilvermorny or maybe even Beauxbatons.

"Fine," Tom says as he walks away with a stoic expression.

"Wait! Last duet? Please?" I offer.

"You mean, like old times?" Tom asks, contemplating if he should say yes or reject my advances and go study. But a feeling inside, a strange feeling indeed, to the likes of someone as ruthless, unemotional, and cold as him, beckons him to accept, say yes, and cherish what seems to be a potential final memory to make together.

"Okay," he reluctantly agrees. "Better make it count."

The warmth of our breaths intermingles, a tangible presence that deepens our connection, even as the world around us seems to fade into a distant echo. The grand piano comes to life as I bewitch its keys to play. Each note is like a gentle caress against the walls, carried by the acoustics that enhance its timbre and tone. The music wraps around us, creating an intimate cocoon of sound, while the scent of aged wood and polished brass mingle with the anticipation in the air. I start:

"You know I want you,” I sing, my voice filled with longing. “It's not a secret I try to hide. I know you want me, so don't keep sayin' our hands are tied.”

Tom’s gaze meets mine and I continue, “You claim it's not in the cards, and fate is pullin' you miles away, and out of reach from me; but you're here in my heart, so who can stop me if I decide that you're my destiny?"

As our fingers entwine, I softly sing the following lines:

"What if we rewrite the stars? 

Say you were made to be mine? 

Nothing could keep us apart

You'd be the one I was meant to find

It's up to you, and it's up to me

No one can say what we get to be

So why don't we rewrite the stars?

Maybe the world could be ours

Tonight.”

I attempt to unlace our fingers, but Tom holds on tight, taking over the song:

"You think it's easy? You think I don't wanna run to you?” He sings, his voice filled with uncharacteristic yearning and melancholy.  “But there are mountains, and there are doors that we can't walk through. I know you're wondering why, because we're able to be just you and me, within these walls, but when we go outside, you're gonna wake up and see that it was hopeless after all!"

Tom takes my hand and gracefully twirls me across the floor as he continues, as if expressing the challenges we face:

"No one can rewrite the stars

How can you say you'll be mine?

Everything keeps us apart

And I'm not the one you were meant to find

It's not up to you

It's not up to me

When everyone tells us what we can be

How can we rewrite the stars?

Say that the world can be ours

Tonight."

As the music swells, we soar and spin across the room in circles, our voices blending seamlessly:

"All I want is to fly with you

All I want is to fall with you

So just give me all of you

It feels impossible

It's not impossible

Is it impossible?

Say that it's possible!" 

In perfect synchrony, we continue our dance as we sing with a sense of endless hope and determination:

"How do we rewrite the stars?

Say you were made to be mine?

Nothing can keep us apart

'Cause you are the one I was meant to find

It's up to you

And it's up to me

No one can say what we get to be

And why don't we rewrite the stars?

Changing the world to be ours.” 

As the song reaches its crescendo, Tom gently holds my chin, causing my cheeks to flush a deep crimson. I shyly meet his gaze before he finishes the final verse:

"You know I want you

It's not a secret I try to hide

But I can't have you

We're bound to break and my hands are tied." 

A playful smirk dances across Tom's face, unaware that I can see his blush rising. We stand there, caught in a moment that feels both destined and fleeting, our hearts racing to the ghost of the rhythm of the music that filled the air mere moments ago.

“Children born under the influence of Amortentia have no capacity to love,” he had discovered while reading a Potions textbook in the Hogwarts library a few months ago. “As such, they can never feel or express love in their lives.”

But then, what is this peculiar feeling that blossoms inside of him, twisting and turning his stomach into knots, pulsating through his veins, and forcing his breathing to become shallow and laboured? What is this sense of attraction that he is currently experiencing, one that overwhelms him with joy, hope, and happiness? Is this the ‘love’ that famed poets wrote artistic sonnets about, the ‘love’ that caused the famous Trojan War, the ‘love’ that compels people to sacrifice themselves for another in the face of danger?

All he knows is that at this moment, just for a millisecond, he wants to let go and see what it’s like to love and be loved. Tom treats this not as a revelation of a potential softer side to him, but as a new experience. In reality, he’s deluding himself to be vulnerable so that the part of him that yearns for human touch, for love and affection - which, according to the Potions textbook he had read, is an exceedingly rare anomaly - can know what romance is like, if only for a transient moment.

We end up too close to one another, the increasing proximity igniting sparks of passion we never knew we harboured deep within our hearts. Tom looks down at my soft lips and silently asks for permission. I nod, and he makes the move.

Our lips meet in a desperate union, a collision of longing and desire that ignites a fervent electricity between us. As our bodies meld together, our fingers delicately weave through strands of hair, pulling each other closer in a passionate embrace, cherishing every touch and caress as if time itself were slipping away. At that moment, the world fades into insignificance, leaving only the intensity of our connection pulsating between us. 

Tom experiences a raging inferno of emotions during the kiss: primal passion, love, hope, lust, longing, and a desire to never let go. His entire being is lit ablaze by the flames of his fervour. As Oscar Wilde had once said, a burnt child loves the fire - and Tom strangely wishes for nothing more except to be burnt over and over again by the fire of emotions that had been ignited in his heart by something as simple as a kiss. It was abundantly clear that to him, this was an epiphany - that no matter how much he denies the existence of his emotions and chokes them to death, they will always be there within him: latent, hidden, and buried deep inside the crevices of his dark, broken soul. That despite being born under the influence of Amortentia, he could love.

I reluctantly pull back, fireworks erupting in my heart as I do so, my mind and body buzzing with the aftermath of the newfound high I experienced during the kiss. Tom's gaze softens as he locks his eyes onto my own, his intent clear: to imprint every minor detail of my body and personality into his memory, a treasured keepsake to be cherished in the years that lie ahead until our paths cross once more. 

"Bye Y/N," Tom murmurs with a heavy heart. Deep inside, he is unable to accept that the magical moment we shared was over. To mask the pain, he regains his distant and cold disposition momentarily.

"We'll meet again, Tom. This isn't goodbye; this is a 'see you later'," I say, a bittersweet smile gracing my lips.

He opens his mouth again on instinct, as if to say something, but falls short of words. His feelings of vulnerability and sadness peek through the cracks of his calculative persona. Finally, he musters a response:

"Fine, see you again, Y/N," he replies with a genuine smile for the first time in his entire life, even though he felt as if someone had ripped out his heart from his chest and torn it into shreds. 

I walk away with tears in my eyes, ready to face whatever adversity that lies on my path ahead. The future is uncertain, and the fate of our connection hangs in the balance. As I turn to steal one last glance, Tom stands there, his posture strong but his eyes betraying a sense of longing and conflicted emotions. 

We share a momentary connection, an unspoken understanding that our paths may intertwine again, or perhaps diverge forever. I thought my love for him would be enough for him to stop – enough for him to listen to reason, even in my absence – but we all know what happened during the course of history.

Or do we?

[atenvs3000w25]

Interpretive Blog #4

Who am I to interpret nature through art? I am a witness. I am a voice that reflects what I see, feel, and experience in the world around me. In the grand scheme of existence, I am one among many who long to connect with the natural world and convey its significance through creative expression.

Art has always been one of humanity’s most profound tools for interpretation. Whether it’s the Group of Seven capturing the raw, untamed beauty of Canada’s wilderness or a single photograph taken on a foggy morning, art communicates what words alone cannot. It invites viewers to see beyond the surface, to feel the emotion embedded within the landscapes, and to reflect on their own relationship with nature.

To me, “the gift of beauty” lies in nature’s ability to evoke awe, wonder, and introspection. It’s the sunlight filtering through the leaves, the rhythm of waves crashing against the shore, or the delicate geometry of a snowflake. These moments of beauty are fleeting, yet they resonate deeply, reminding us of our place within the greater ecosystem of life.

Interpreting this beauty through art is not about creating perfection but about capturing a moment of connection. It’s about being present enough to notice the smallest details and bold enough to share them. This might take the form of a painting inspired by a vivid sunset, a poem describing the serenity of a forest, or even a simple doodle of a bird perched on a branch. It doesn’t matter if the work is polished or if the artist is “talented.” What matters is the act of sharing a perspective, opening a window for others to see the world in a new way.

As nature interpreters, we are facilitators of this connection. Our role is to highlight the stories that nature tells and make them accessible. Using art as a medium can help bridge the emotional and intellectual aspects of interpretation, reaching those who may not otherwise engage with environmental narratives. A painting, for instance, might evoke feelings of nostalgia or reverence, while the accompanying interpretation could provide ecological context or historical significance.

This approach also encourages inclusivity. Artistic expression transcends language barriers and cultural differences, creating a universal dialogue around the importance of protecting and cherishing the environment. By incorporating diverse traditions and perspectives into our interpretations, we honor the myriad ways in which humans have connected with nature throughout history.

Ultimately, interpreting the gift of beauty is about fostering a deeper appreciation for the natural world. It’s about recognizing that beauty is not a luxury but a necessity—something that sustains our spirit and compels us to act. Through art, we not only celebrate the wonder of nature but also remind ourselves of our responsibility to preserve it for future generations.

So, who am I to interpret nature through art? I am a witness, a storyteller, and a steward of the beauty that surrounds us. And in sharing my perspective, I hope to inspire others to do the same.

[chicago-geniza]

Have been reading a lot at work and surprised myself again, in the sense that. If I split the project into parts it might actually be workable:

On the locus of the "I": cogito/reason, memory, Geist, psyche

On the invention of nation + public; philosophical geography; "civilization"; assimilation

On the conceptual, practical/legal, + discursive tensions between individual & collective a) self-determination, b) representation + expression, c) memory, d) psyche

On aesthetic empathy, Kunstwellen, "Empathy & Abstraction," Jung, early psychoanalysis, Bergsonian metaphysics & anthropology, ethnography, folklore, "authenticity" (circle back to "civilization," nation-building, etc.)

THE INTERWAR AESTHETIC/SOCIOPOLITICAL CONFLICT: REPRESENTATION VS. ABSTRACTION

WITHIN ABSTRACTION CAMP: Paris avant-garde (and Polish/French overlap); THE BIG TL;DR--HOW JUNG, BERGSON, VIENNA SECESSION ART CRITICS, IDEA OF NATIONAL GEIST (IMMUTABLE), IDEA OF NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS (PSYCHOANALYTIC SENSE), SYMBOLISM, "CIVILIZATION," AND FEAR OF ABSTRACTION AS TRANSCENDING REPRESENTATION'S INEVITABLE SIGNIFIERS OF DIFFERENCE (RACE SCIENCE IS ALSO HERE) COME TOGETHER: THE BELIEF THAT ABSTRACT ART CAN BETRAY IN ITS USE OF COLOR & FORM THE ARTIST'S SUBCONSCIOUS FOREIGNNESS, UNCIVILIZED NATURE, ETC., & THE BELIEF THAT ONE'S INDIVIDUAL (SUB)CONSCIOUS IS A) IMMUTABLE/ESSENTIAL, B) ETHNO-NATIONAL IN CHARACTER. This was expressed mostly about Jews

In Poland, during the interwar period, these aesthetic discourses re: abstract art corresponded to what were, imo, related debates: one about the Polish language (another variation on content vs. form, representation vs. abstraction, and How To Clock Jews & Ukrainians When They Speak Perfect Unaccented Polish), one about the "right to choose one's nationality," i.e., assimilation and self-determination

CODA: "MY OTHER HOMELAND IS THE IDEA OF EUROPE" - on Stefania, the postwar world order, the emergence of trauma theory, the psychoanalytic turn in historiography, and the contemporary prominence of memory studies, collective memory, collective consciousness, collective guilt, collective national affects, and the politics of commemoration - how "memory culture" can be seen as an encounter between the post-Enlightenment, fin-de-siecle Idea of Europe and the post-WWII, post-imperial Idea of Europe - the nation as collective subject, imbued with reason + will (self-determination), memory (the basis for identity, pro/contra Hume), consciousness in the psychoanalytic sense (experiences via historical process trauma, guilt, even return of the repressed). The staging of history as a psychoanalytic working-through of memory and the transformation of that staging into ritual commemoration become, by extension, constitutive of "civilization" (the nation as civilized person & LITERALLY analysand!!!!!!)

I have to learn German and French, unfortunately

[silkendandelion]

Million Dollar Baby (completed), A One Piece fanfiction

Sir Crocodile x OC (male) Words: 40.8k Genre: Comedy, drama, smut, fluff

Summary: Crocodile continues to procrastinate, this time with the opera.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for mature themes and strong language. Rating changes published per chapter.

Chapter 9

“How is the fit?” Crocodile asked, standing behind him in the mirror to smooth the shoulders of his tuxedo. A surprise gift for an impulsive purchase: two tickets to a show that begun in just a few hours.

He adjusted the bow-tie against his throat, as River fussed with the silk lapels. “It’s a bit wedding-ish, isn’t it? I look like Tuxedo Ken,” he wilted.

“I think you look lovely.” The side of his finger smoothed along the other man’s recently trimmed hairline, just to watch him shiver.

“Here, perhaps a pretty jewel will cheer you up.”

“What’s that mean?” River followed without complaint to his briefcase, where he had stashed a blue, velvet box.

Resting the box on his palm, he revealed a pair of golden cuff-links, polished to see his reflection gaping back at him, and inset with vibrant, silvery-purple stones.

“… For me?” Despite his words, the excited sparkle in his eyes, Crocodile had to remove the cuff-links himself from the box, or he might never have touched them.

“I have a vault here, it makes traveling easier. And I thought this would be perfect for you to wear tonight.” Gentle fingers snapped them into the buttonholes with practiced ease, turning River’s wrists over to catch a glimmer of the light.

“Cut from the same ruby as this one.” His hand flashed the red-violet ring on his middle finger. The same hand caught his palm, coaxing River to give him a little spin, right into his arms so they could meet eyes through his reflection.

“The most beautiful Tuxedo Ken I’ve ever seen.” As quick as Crocodile had embraced him, the warmth of his chest pulled away, and River’s reaching hand fell through the air.

“You’re very sweet tonight. Are you looking forward to the show?” River gave him a simper in hopes it might hide the pink creeping into his cheeks.

“I’ll admit, it’s one of my favorites. Come, it’s a short drive to the airport.”

“Wait—airport? I’ve never been on a plane.”

“I assure you it will be better than your experience with horses.”

~*~ “Das Rheingold? But will I be able to understand it?” River accepted the lobby card and program with one arm threaded through Crocodile’s elbow. Despite the relatively short ride on the small, private plane, they still arrived with only enough time to check in their coats before they had to be off to climb the stairs to their seats.

“The opera has a way of transcending language barriers. Some of it will be in English, so don’t worry too much. If at any point you’re confused, I speak it fluently.”

“Ah, my handsome expert. I’ll be sure to reward you later,” said River, too loudly in the already darkened theater as they entered the balcony. Crocodile’s uncharacteristically charming smile seemed to soothe the other, visibly ruffled patrons, but he still tucked River on his other side, closest to the stage. Propriety be damned, or perhaps just because he liked him, the latter attempted to tuck himself beneath Crocodile’s wing like they might for an afternoon at the cinema.

So, from beneath his arm, and as the curtain rose, the bergamot of River’s perfume lifted beside his whisper. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He gave no answer beside his genuine smile, the chastest kiss to the crown of his head, among the rising of golden light and the opening prelude of a single, sustained chord.

If asked about opera as a genre, River might have said ���romance” or “Carmen”, recalling the love-struck duets of his father’s favorites, pressed into a record and played in the evening when he believed his son was in already in bed. But those were always stories of lovers, where a happy ending was never guaranteed, and yet to experience the sweeping rapture of love made even death worth it’s kiss.

Never would he have guessed that Crocodile would take him to an epic. Laid on a foundation of Wagner’s score, built with bricks of leitmotifs, a story of the greed of the Gods for a single piece of gold, risen from the water by a dwarven king whose price for forging a ring from the glittering metal was to renounce all forms of love.

Where River had assumed he would be the one reaching for his handkerchief, beside him, Crocodile’s eyes were the ones shining, not with tears but alight with a boyish delight he had never seen on him. This man was so much younger, surely before he and his parent’s relationship had soured, his program cradled in his hands, and eyes wide with wonder. Not the businessman, not Sir, just… him.

When the curtain finally descended, River stood with the rest of the theater to roar their applause, as if a spell had been broken with the rising of the lights.

“I never imagined you would enjoy that kind of story,” he said while they waited for their coats.

“It’s been years, I had forgotten how much I enjoyed it,” Crocodile replied, hands outstretched to help the navy wool coat over River’s tuxedo, one sleeve at a time.

Forgoing the cab to walk the short distance to the airport presented the perfect excuse to smoke after such a long show, and River offered his lighter to the end of his fine cigar.

“Don’t tell me how much all of this cost, it’ll ruin the nice night.” Beneath the street lamps, his cuff-links winked in their golden glow as he took a long drag off his cigarette.

“Your obsession with cost will be a detriment if you don’t learn to enjoy things.” Dark, peppery tobacco filled the silence.

“I enjoy plenty of things,” River finally argued. When Crocodile took their pause at the crosswalk as an opportunity to loom in his space, River shot a teasing puff of cigarette smoke at his nose. “Like having sex with you.”

“Things you have to buy.”

“Oh, right right. Hmph,” He pretended to think, stubbing out the filter on his cigarette and tucking it back into the pack. “Chocolate-covered strawberries.”

“Twenty-five dollars a plate.”

His startled cough sent his second cigarette flying out of his lips, down the storm drain to his disappointed mewl. “Fuck. Really?! Had I known that, I would have been refusing dessert all this time.”

“Precisely my point. There’s nothing wrong with being frugal, or conscientious, but when it interferes with your enjoyment of life’s pleasures, you have to make a choice: acquire more funds, or suffer. I have never chosen the latter.”

More than anything, he yearned to ask Crocodile what he wants that he can’t buy, but the creeping suspicion his answer would be “nothing” kept him quiet.

“You’re a charming man, River. Beyond your tenacity, any client would be taken by you,” he said, watching River slip his pack back into his coat. “After this week is over, if you need a door opened… I will help you. No strings attached.”

Where does he get off saying something like that all of a sudden?

His swallow stuck to his dry tongue, easily blamed on the cigarette. “What’s gotten into you?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strained, foreign and quiet. Relieved.

And why am I so happy?

“It’s the truth. I saw the way you spoke to Vivi. If you put that foot forward, you’ll go extremely far in our industry. Do not lose my card.”

River’s frown loosened around it’s edges, a whisper of a smile as Crocodile gave his attention to the attendant at the airport. Yet, as his thoughts wandered, slipping around the fantasy of him finally graduated, led to an office that was his alone, a creeping doubt took hold of his heart:

Of Crocodile handing him a file, hot from the printer and heavy in his palms.

“Pick the weakest one. It will be your first assignment.”

“Always in that head of yours,” Crocodile mused, breaking him from his thoughts with the brush of his thumb on his cheek. “Come.”

The gentleness of his touch, firm only in how it grounded him, could possess him to chase, run into his arms and never let go. Almost. If only his stomach didn’t swim, the sweat on the back of his neck cooling to a foreboding chill that warred with the warmth in his chest.

I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to keep your card. Let’s just enjoy the time we have left.

~*~

“Crocodile, what time can I send for the Nefertari’s? Let’s get this signed before the weekend, I’ve got somewhere to be on Sunday,” Doflamingo called to him. After yet another day at the office, still their progress on the contracts could best be described as somewhere between “a minuscule amount” and “none at all”.

“We had planned to sign on Saturday,” Crocodile said, half to the pink menace, half to the notes in front of him.

“You told me to find out what bank was calculating their equity, so I did. Marie Geoise, right here in our very city. One phone call from you can stop that loan, and we can be signed by dinner tomorrow.” His long arm pushed the phone across the table.

One phone call. Another business acquired, his next payday secured with just a few buttons and the sound of his voice.

I don’t like your business practices, you know.

Unacceptable, the River in his mind pleaded, as recently as last night, when his frown twisted with disgust that couldn’t be explained by a stale cigarette, and all that followed Crocodile’s offer was silence. Like it might have been a gift if it came from anyone else.

No one had been allowed to look at him with such pity since he left his parents estate. He supposed it was his fault for reaching across their boundary, for surrendering to emotions beyond mirth and ecstasy.

The phone was in his hand before he could finish scolding himself, the ringing in his ear accompanied by Doflamingo’s cruel giggles.

“Let’s go out to celebrate after. Fuck it, bring that hooker you’ve gotten your dick stuck in, who cares?”

Chapter 10