#this was almost entirely different in the beginning

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

You would hit BELIEVE how happy I am that you’re writing fics for Declan O’Hara he’s my new DILF obsession!!! Also it was so well-written and in-character, oh my goodness!

I was wondering if I could request a fic where Declan and female!reader are having an affair, and she’s super nervous because she’s Taggie’s best friend. She meets Declan one night in his car, and he calms her down and, obviously, they have car sex.

Ending this with a huge I LOVE YOUR WORK

Shut Up and Drive.

It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The one person who riles you up the most is also the only person that can calm you down.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. age gap. cheating. declan and his dirty mouth. one use of the c word. overuse of the nickname sweetheart.

word count - 3k

authors note - the minute he put that baby blue t shirt on… I was suddenly on my knees. funny how that happens. can’t and won’t stop with the fics for this man. I am riding the rivals train to the ends of the earth, baby. thanks for being so sweet, anon <3

masterlist. inbox.

The phone is shaking in your trembling hand, cord all tangled where you keep twisting it around your finger nervously.

“Hello?”

You almost drop the receiver at the sound of that familiar Irish accent, despite the fact that you were the one that rang him. It has your stomach churning, in a different way than usual.

“H-hi,” you barely whisper, before clearing your throat and trying again. “Hi. It’s me.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” he breathes, as if it’s the first time he’s taken a lungful of air all day.

“I, um… I’m sorry to call you on the house phone. I know it’s not how we do things usually.”

“It’s alright. What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I just, uh… I called to say that I can’t do this anymore.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I would have told you in person, but I didn’t know when I was going to see you next, so.”

“Can we-” he begins, before lowering his voice so as not to be overheard, “-can we talk about this properly? Please?”

“We can’t. I can’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Sweetheart, I’m beggin’ ya. One conversation. You’re not ending this in a quick phone call on a Wednesday night, you hear me?”

You inhale deeply, biting at your lips. There’s pure anxiety radiating through your body, prickly and unrelenting.

“I hear you,” you murmur down the receiver. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he sighs in relief. “I’m gonna come and get ya - we’ll go for a drive, alright?”

“Sorry you have to lie,” you whisper, guilt colouring your tone.

“I’d lie for you a thousand times over.”

His words shouldn’t make you feel as giddy as they do, but alas. Here you are.

“I’ll put some shoes on.”

“And a coat. It’s cold as fuck tonight.”

You half laugh, half snort at him down the phone, dreamily imagining the grin he most likely has painted on his face listening to you.

“Yes sir,” you tease, giggling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll drive up without my headlights on. Look out for me, yeah?”

“I will.”

I always do, you think to yourself. I always do.

The line goes dead abruptly, the buzzing vibrating straight into your temples. You slip your shoes on, quickly fixing your hair and touching up your makeup in the mirror in the hallway while you’re there. You shrug your arms into your coat at Declan’s orders, knowing he’d tell you off if you turned up without it on.

You’ve almost forgotten the entire reason you called in the first place was to break things off with him.

Almost.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

True to his word, Declan drives up your road without his headlights on, slowly and with practised precision.

You’re waiting at the window for him, patiently anticipating the sight of that stupid yellow car. You’re out of the door in seconds as soon as you see him, bounding towards the passenger side and slipping in before anyone notices. He drives off quickly, not taking any time to say hello before he’s taking off out of the town and towards the rolling countryside.

You drive for a good fifteen minutes, to a spot the two of you frequent on your drives. It’s a dirt track, leading to nothing but fields for miles on end. Declan pulls the car around the bend and out of sight from the busier road, knowing that it has more than enough privacy. You’ve never been caught here before, and you don’t plan to start.

Finally turning off the engine, he turns to face you, taking in how the moonlight illuminates your features in the lowlight of the car.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi.”

You’re refusing to look at him, knowing that if you do, you’ll surge over and kiss him until you’re both dizzy. You can feel his gaze on you, though, intense and unwavering. As it always is.

His thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, forcing you to stare straight into his determined brown eyes. You’re willing yourself not to crumble, but you can feel your resolve starting to slip already.

“I missed you,” he whispers, careful not to spook you.

“I missed you too,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Shit.”

He chuckles, and the low timbre of it settles right in the pit of your stomach.

“What’s all this about then, hmm? The phone call?”

“What did you tell Taggie? Where did you say you were going?”

It’s your least favourite part about all of this, the lying. Lying to Taggie, to Patrick, to Caitlin, to Rupert, to your friends, to your family. Coming up with excuses has become second nature - something you hate about yourself now. You hate how it comes so naturally to both of you these days.

“Told her I was going to meet someone about some potential research for a show. She had evening plans anyway, she’s off out to Lizzie’s.”

You’re fiddling with your fingers, picking at your nails in a nervous habit as you chew your bottom lip. If anxiety was personified, it’d be you.

“You avoided my question. We need to talk about what you said on the phone, sweetheart.”

Taking a deep breath, you turn in your seat to face him properly, going over the speech you’ve practised in your head dozens of times.

“Okay. I’m… I’m not sure we should do this anymore. I- I just… I feel guilty. For lying to Taggie, mainly. And because you’re technically still married, but mainly for lying to Tag. She’s the closest friend I have, and I’m sleeping with her father. It makes me a terrible person, Declan. I have to put a stop to it.”

He processes your words for a moment, looking at you intently.

“Do ya want to?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to? Put a stop to things? Or do you just feel like you should? For other people.”

You want to lie, tell him exactly what you had planned out, feed him what you know will work. But you can’t. You can lie to everyone… except Declan.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper. “But I should. We should.”

“Why now? Did something happen? Did someone say something?”

“No, no. I just… Taggie said something really sweet the other day about how she was glad that she had me, because making friends here hasn’t been easy for her. And it should have made me happy, and instead, it broke my heart.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Declan cradles your face in his rough hands, resting his forehead against yours. It’s like the whole world melts away for a moment, leaving just the two of you in the tiny yellow car.

“I’m a horrible person,” you mumble. “And a horrible friend.”

“You’re speaking as if it’s just you. And it’s not, you know. There’s two of us in this affair - I’m just as guilty as you are.”

“Fine then. We’re both horrible people.”

He chuckles, breath tickling your face, and you can’t help the giggle that escapes you. His lips are brushing yours every time he speaks, meaning you can practically taste the cigarette smoke and spearmint on his tongue.

“I never claimed otherwise,” he retorts, still smiling.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit as his thumbs sweep back and forth across your cheekbones. “It’s weighing down my conscience, and I don’t want to hurt Tag. But… I can’t give you up, Declan. I need you. I need you more than anything.”

“You make me crazy. God, I think about you night and day, sweetheart. My thoughts revolve around if I’ve seen you and when I’m going to see you next.”

“So what do we do? I can’t quit this. I can’t quit you, I can’t quit us. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. I wish I had the answers… I wish I could make all your worries go away. But I can’t.”

“I don’t expect you to. I just… I thought that I could do it in one clean sweep. Get it out the way, you know? Call you, end things, be done. And then the minute I heard your voice over the phone… I knew I couldn’t do it. Because deep down, I didn’t want to.”

He leans in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, desperate to be close to you.

“Declan.”

“If I could fix it all for you, I would,” he murmurs against your skin. “You know I would.”

You pull back to put some distance in between you, watching him carefully for his reaction to what you say next.

“You should break things off.”

He flinches as if you’ve punched him in the stomach.

“What?”

“You should. I clearly can’t, so you have to be the one to do it. Do it, Declan. End things with me right here, right now. Please.”

Your tone is weak and unconvincing, as if you can’t even bring yourself to say the words with any conviction.

“I can’t,” he confesses, voice breaking on the last word. “I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling it slowly as if he’s buying himself some time. You wait patiently for him to continue, nerves frayed at the edges.

“Because I love you.”

Now it’s your turn to flinch, his admission smacking you across the face violently.

“You-”

“Yes. I love you, sweetheart. It’s taken me a while to figure all of this out, but I know it now. That’s why I’ve never been able to end this. Because it’s not just incredible sex… it’s something more. Something real.”

There are tears welling in your eyes as you look at him, watching the way he lays his heart on his sleeve in the moonlight just for you.

“I’m scared,” you confess. “I love you too and it scares me.”

You don’t miss the way his face lights up as you say it, but he’s trying to keep a careful lid on his emotions for now.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to ya. You know that.”

All you can do is nod in response, digesting everything that has happened in the last five minutes. You do know that. He’s proven time and time again that you’re not just some fleeting fling to him.

“Declan?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Now he grins like an idiot, eyes alive with adrenaline and hope.

“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard ya say.”

You tuck some hair behind his ear before leaning in to gently press your lips to his, wanting to seal the moment. He kisses you back sweetly at first, before taking control with more force, slipping his tongue into your mouth cheekily. You happily let him take the lead, sighing in contentment as you melt into him.

“C’mere.”

Climbing over onto his lap, you hinge your legs on either side of his in the drivers seat, straddling his hips. You try to straighten up but end up hitting your head on the roof of the car, which makes you both wheeze with laughter.

“This car is too fucking small,” you grumble, rubbing the spot that you smacked.

“Y’alright? Want me to kiss it better?”

You hate the way the teasing tone in his voice shoots right to your core, shaking your head in defiance.

“Fuck off,” you mumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Patronising bastard.”

“I like it when you get your claws out,” he chuckles, tracing patterns on your thighs over your jeans. “S’hot.”

You kiss him again to shut him up, biting at his bottom lip in punishment. He groans all low and slow, which makes you grind your hips into his, despite the multiple layers of clothing separating you.

“Backseat,” he whispers, pushing you off of him gently. “More room.”

You splay yourself across the wide back seat, opening your legs so Declan can slot in between them.

“You’ve got too many clothes on,” he prompts as he shrugs off his own jacket and undoes his belt.

You can’t help but chuckle at his impatience, happily taking off your coat and jumper and unbuttoning your jeans. Your breath catches in your throat when you look back up at him - he’s wearing the Venturer t shirt that hugs his biceps just right, accentuating every delicious muscle he has to offer you.

“Wore it for you,” he mutters against your lips. “Know you like me in a t shirt.”

You roll your eyes but kiss him with determination anyway, all teeth and tongue and clashing bodies. You’re clawing at his clothed shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist to buck your hips into his.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he mumbles into the skin of your neck, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “Lying awake at night thinking about your thighs, your tits, your cunt.”

All you can do is sigh, fingers digging into his biceps in desperation.

“Wish I could take my time with you like you deserve. These quick fucks just aren’t the same.”

He sounds almost upset about it, voice staying deep and low.

“Remember that time I stayed the night? And you couldn’t walk in the morning?”

You laugh breathily, thinking back fondly to that night a few months ago. You’d both orchestrated it so carefully, crafting cautious lies and fabricated stories to snatch a good sixteen hours of time together.

“Need that again soon. Might have to start sneaking ya into my house in the dark, make you climb the gutters like we’re in a film. Although, it is a bit hard to keep you quiet.”

You try valiantly to ignore the heat that flushes across your chest as he teases you, knowing that he’s right.

“Declan?”

“Yeah, baby?”

You grab his hand and shove it down your underwear, jeans trapped around your thighs. There’s very minimal room in this tiny car, but you’re both determined to make it work. He groans when he feels how wet you are, swiping through your core.

“Fuck me. Have you been like this the entire time?”

“Since this afternoon,” you whimper, trying to grind down onto his fingers. “Couldn’t stop thinking about when you ate me out on my kitchen worktop last week. My legs were shaking for two days afterwards.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, slipping a finger into you as he drops his head onto your shoulder. “I got myself off thinking about that yesterday. I swear if I concentrate, I can still taste you on my tongue.”

All you can do is whimper, desperate to have him in any way you can. The fact that you have the same effect on him that he does on you makes your head spin, dizzy with want.

“Don’t make me wait,” you beg, cradling his face so he has to look you in the eye. “Fuck me, please. Please, Declan.”

“Okay, pretty girl. I’ll give ya anything you want. Anything.”

He shuffles around so he’s sat back on his knees, pushing his jeans and underwear down just enough to free himself. You spread your legs as wide as you can, trying to give him as much room as possible. It’s not the first time you’ve found yourself in this position in this car with him - and it won’t be the last.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss you, licking across your teeth with his tongue. “Most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.”

He slides into you with ease, both of you gasping at the familiar sensation. Your nails are digging into his shoulders as he holds your hips in a bruising grip, pads of his fingertips biting into your flesh.

Declan doesn’t waste any time, setting a relentless pace that has you bouncing across the seat. The car is shaking like crazy, all the windows fogged up - anyone who passes will know exactly what’s happening inside.

The man above you can read you like a book and play you like a fiddle. He knows the exact angles of his hips that’ll have you keening, the certain spots to focus on that’ll have you seeing stars. He knows you better than anyone, in more ways than one.

“That’s it,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Atta girl. Taking it like you were made for me.”

“Maybe I was,” you breathe, tipping your head back to give him access to your neck. “Just for you.”

He groans all melted and golden like molten honey, the vibrato of it rumbling through your bones. You’re holding onto him for dear life, as if he’s the only thing tethering you to this reality. When his thumb finds your clit to rub firm, slow circles, you’re convinced you’re floating on another plane of existence.

The only word you can seem to formulate is Declan, which only pushes him closer to the finish line. He’s determined to get you there first, angling his hips upward to hit that one spot that has you gasping. When he moves one hand to your throat and gently squeezes, you fall apart instantly, taking him with you.

“I love you,” he breathes as he comes, forehead resting on yours. “My girl.”

You’re shuddering and shaking as you lie underneath him, panting like you’ve just ran ten miles. Declan collapses on top of you, laying his head on your chest comfortably. Your fingers rake through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp like you’ve done so many times before.

You both allow yourselves to close your eyes for a minute, recovering and attempting to catch your breath. You’re convinced, for a moment, that you’ll never feel more peaceful than you do right now. You breathe each other in, satiated and content.

You finally open your eyes, expecting to see nothing but fogged windows and starlit darkness. Instead, you see a man bending down, looking straight at you. Arguably the worst possible person that could see the two of you in the position you’re in.

Rupert Campbell Black.

He’s grinning like an idiot, shaking his head in disbelief.

You’re about to warn the man in your arms when Rupert opens the car door, slipping himself into the drivers seat and spinning so he’s facing you. Declan has jumped out of his skin, jolting upwards to cover you as best he can.

Rupert smirks all dirty and knowing, eyes dancing over your half naked forms.

“Well, well, well. Secrets out, lovers.”

@graceflorence @dionysus-drabbles

as aaaaaaaalways… reblogs are golden!! they’re the currency of tumblr, my loves. you reblog, and your favourite writers will write you more fics. simple as that. mwah. <3

[suksatoru]

flawed and flawless 𝜗𝜚₊˚⊹♡ dabi x you

You never thought Dabi could be insecure.

Dabi, who walked over people like they held the same worth as the dirt beneath his boots. He was so confident—in himself and his abilities, so you could've never expected him to be insecure about anything at all.

Dabi knows his scars aren't appealing. He knows the appearance of charred flesh held together by staples isn't attractive, by any means. He never cared about it before, never even bothered to think about what other people thought of his looks.

The first time he kissed you, Dabi wasn't thinking about how you perceived his scars. He was too swept up in the moment to even consider how you might feel kissing him, too enamored by your taste and glossy eyes as he deflowered you with a tenderness inside him he didn't know he had

Dabi's kissed you many times now. So he doesn't know why it's this particular moment where he's suddenly hesitant to

You're tracing the staples on his chest gently, laying on top of him with your legs intertwined since his mattress wasn't big enough for the two of you to lay beside each other. He's listening quietly to your words, playing with the hem of your shirt before he gently pushes the fabric aside, moving his palm under and inside the garment

Your stomach is so soft. He rubs the mounds of plush skin with his rough fingertips, loving the way you felt beneath him.

He thinks about how different your skin is from the texture of his arms and face. The flesh on him was marred and tainted, and yours is so pure. Something untouched by the cruel world, flawless compared to his flawed one.

He suddenly pulls his hand away from you

Did you like the feeling of his sharp and cold staples rubbing against your skin? He imagined it would be an alarming feeling—the metal wasn't warm and inviting in his eyes. He curls his fist and hesitantly rests it against your clothed back instead. You're still telling him something as he does this, but you quickly realize he was distracted after calling his name and being met with no reply.

He peers down when you stop talking. but then he realizes you're moving to kiss his jaw

And he moves out of the way, effectively dodging your kiss.

He winces when he sees the look on your face, the pout that quickly forms as he begins to panic about how he was supposed to explain why he didn't let you kiss him just now

"Dabi? Why're you making that face?" You mumble, gently cradling his face as he stiffens under your touch. You see the shift in his mood, and gently move your hands away to rest on his chest instead as he sighs

"Nothing. What were you saying?" He mumbles tiredly as you squint up at him, entirely unconvinced by his words.

"It's not important. Tell me what's wrong." You frown, not moving your hands to comfort him as you realized he wasn't reciprocating your touch for some reason

Dabi stares at you. You stare back. He thinks he's the luckiest man in the world to have you love him. You just...understand. He didn't think he deserved to know you, let alone love you. But here you were, patiently loving him.

"Do you like touching me? I mean, is it not fucking uncomfortable for these baby fingers?" He chuckles dryly, grabbing hold of you as he feels your palm in his. Carefully, he intertwines his fingers with yours. He almost cringes at the contrast of the feeling of his wrist resting against yours as he sighs, before pulling away.

He's staring at the ceiling, not meeting your eyes as you're quite literally stunned into silence. The fan hums quietly, filling the silence as you stare up at him. You suddenly realize what he was trying to say, and your soft voice snaps Dabi out of his train of unwelcomed thoughts

"Dabi."

He looks down, but he has to physically swallow the lump in his throat when he sees your face. He can't respond because he knows his voice will come out shaky and tremble no matter how hard he tries not to let it

"I love you, okay? I don't...I never thought you were hard to touch. You're perfect. There isn't a single thing I'd change about you."

He doesn't know why he feels like crying. His throat feels like its closed, and his eyes burn as his hand returns back to your stomach. He runs his hands all over your body, desperately trying to pull you infinitely closer to him as he lets out a shuddering breath

"I love you too, sweetheart. So damn much." He croaks, his voice strained with so much raw emotion that you can't help but lean into his touch and swipe at the stray blood that trickles down his cheek from his eye

"You should sleep. I'm right here, kay? And when you wake up, we can make those pancakes...the ones with faces on them." You muse, pressing a gentle kiss onto his lips that he desperately reciprocates

He nods his head before tucking it into the space between your shoulder and neck, murmuring your name before his breathing slowly begins to even out

Dabi falls asleep before you. At least, you thought he had fallen asleep. That's the only reason you started to gently kiss across his jaw, just to try and soothe him as he slept. He once told you he loved when you kissed his jaw, saying something about how the feeling was a nice one

His grip on you tightens just the slightest bit. Normally, his heart beat would increase whenever you kissed him. Sometimes it sped up at the mere thought of you—but these kisses didn't have that effect on him. Mainly because they were slowing his heart, instead. Calming him. Grounding him.

He fell asleep with your skin pressed against his, both of you content. He wanted to feel you closer, so he pressed his cheek against yours without fear that his staples or scars would be uncomfortable for you. He knew they wouldn't—knew they couldn't with how you yourself leaned into him the same way he leaned into you, like a flower dipping towards the sun for warmth.

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

To Love An Emperor: Part 3

Just fluff for now,I may do some more smut later if the people want it

Part: 2

Sunlight broke through the large stained glass window of the room, decorating yours and Caracalla's naked skin with a beautiful mix of colours. It was the first night you had shared truly together, previously you would lay with him and return to your own quarters, last night he wanted you with him, to feel your soft delicate skin against his own, told hold you close in his arms as if you would melt away if he let go.

You felt yourself stir and wake slowly, awoken by the rough bristle of the stubble of the emperors face upon your skin. Caracalla was nuzzling against you, wanting to feel the sensation of your skin upon his own, to prove that you were real and beside him this time, a dream he had longed for.

The pair of you laid entwined together, not knowing where one body began and the other ended, enjoying the warmth of eachothers embrace. Today was to be the first day of the Gladiator games to honour a respected General, one who's name you needn't remember, all your duties were towards your betrothed emperor and no other.

The soft skin of Caracalla's hands stroked over your body, his fingertips dancing along your skin as he wondered how such a beauty came to lay beside him. The morning was filled with silence and stolen glances, though you had lain together many times this was different, this was more intimate and real, something was begining to blossom between the two of you now.

You turned to face Caracalla, you were now at eye contact level with him, drinking in his beautiful blue eyes. They were like sparkling sapphires or deep blue ocean pools, they were dangerous to you as you knew you could get lost in them. Caracalla was always overlooked against his brother Geta, the public had always favoured him and deemed him the strong and attractive one. It pained you to watch Caracalla wrestle with his own insecurities, thinking he would never live up to Geta, you wanted to express how happy you were the day you were chosen for him and not Geta but you could never find the words.

You pulled Caracalla in for a deep and meaningful kiss, it wasn't one to suggest any further intimacy, it was one to show how you cared for him and what he meant to you. It almost felt like a tear ran down your cheek as you kissed him but you brushed the thought away, you did not want to bring anything up and ruin the loving embrace you were both now in together.

The door to the room swung open, causing you to cower under the bedsheets to cover your modesty, Caracalla laid there unbothered by his nakedness, he was an emperor and such imodesty did not concern him. Geta burst forth to shout before he saw you, the look in his eyes changed, from one of anger to annoyance. Caracalla should have been ready to leave for the new Gladiator games by now het he was laid here with you, his soon to be wife. Geta shot a lot of expletives and insults towards Caracalla, it wasn't until Geta called you a whore that Caracalla finally snapped. You saw the vase fly past you, aimed at Geta, it missed it's target but the message from it was well recieved.

The entire situation was unhinged, once the vase was broken they stood face to face to argue, you were scared that one would kill the other. After a few tense moments they agreed that we would attend the Games shortly and we were not to divulge any memory of this situation.

Geta left in a strop and Caracalla flopped back onto your naked body, kissing your collar bone and neck "he's right we do need to go, I just want to kiss you once more time" his lips were sloppy and desperate upon your skin, dancing over the marks had left upon you the night prior.

You giggled slightly and embraced his kisses, enjoying his lips, feeling the softness against your neck. It was not long before you both were dressed, acceptable for the day, Caracalla sent a servant away to fetch you suitable clothes, though he admitted you looked beautiful as you were, naked in his bed, it being a crime to cover your body.

You dressed swiftly once the clothes arrivedbwoth the servants, steeling yourself for the day ahead, knowing you were to make your debut as Caracalla's betrothed at the games, it would be an interesting one for all.

Your hands were entwined, feeling Caracalla squeeze your own. There was a glint in his eye that you had not seen up close, a glint of bloodlust and excitement. The emperors were known for their enjoyment of the games and now you were ready to see it first hand. The gaze of the soft and heartbroken emperor now replaced with wrath, a look that had now begun to stir something more inside you.

[coryndoll]

lover of mine

drew starkey x actress!reader au

— in which drew and y/n, secretly exes, must fake date in order to keep the peace at a mutual friend’s wedding, but the forced proximity makes them question whether they ever truly moved on.

warnings: rly small scenes tbh, main focus on drew n y/ns progresssss 🤗 theyre so cuteness (i need him so bad)

prev next

authors note: i didnt rly wna focus on the ‘day with the group’ idea bc i just wanted more reader x drew content tbh. if u still arent part of the tag list, feel free to lmk thru replies, dms, anons, or reblogs !!

there’s still a week left until the wedding, but the tension has been building like crazy. you can feel it in every interaction between leila and theo—the quiet murmurs, the shared looks, the way one of them constantly pulls out the ipad to check something, asking the other if they’ve handled this or that.

every day, it seems like there’s another task or decision weighing them down, and it’s starting to get to everyone. the carefree, beachy vibe that should have been surrounding this pre-wedding stay feels more like a weight pressing down on the entire group the longer you’re there.

the morning after, as you step into the kitchen, you find leila already there, sitting at the counter with her phone in one hand, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair with the other. she looks up at you with tired eyes, offering a small, forced smile that doesn’t quite reach her face.

“what’s the plan for today?” you ask casually, though your mind is already racing with alternatives.

leila sighs deeply, scrolling through her phone for a moment before responding, “another beach day. at least that’s what’s on the list.”

you can see the exhaustion written all over her face, and just hearing the words beach day makes you cringe. it’s the last thing anyone needs right now. without missing a beat, you scrunch your nose, shaking your head as you push off the counter.

“yeah, we’re not doing that,” you say firmly, already turning away before leila can question you.

she raises her eyebrows, confused, but you don’t offer any further explanation. you’re on a mission now, a plan forming rapidly in your mind as you stride out of the kitchen and head toward the backyard.

if anyone needs a change of pace, it’s all of you. and if anyone can pull it off, it’s going to be you and your partner in crime.

outside, the boys are lounging around, laughing and joking about something you don’t quite catch. drew is among them, sitting on the edge of a chair, his head thrown back in laughter at whatever ridiculous story oscar is telling. but you don’t have time for the details—you need to get him on board with your plan.

drew notices you the second you step outside. his eyes flicker from the conversation with the guys to you, and without even thinking, you raise your hand, giving him a small motion to come over.

there’s no hesitation in his response—he stands up, leaving roman mid-sentence on the couch as he quietly makes his way over to you. there’s something different in the way he walks toward you now, something softer.

ever since you two made up last night, there’s been this shift—almost shy, like he’s tiptoeing around you, unsure but sweet in a way that makes your heart melt just a little.

when he reaches you, he leans forward slightly, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "what’s goin’ on?" he asks, his eyes searching yours with that same gentleness, as if he's still figuring out how to be around you again. the shyness is adorable, and it makes your chest warm just looking at him.

“so, listen,” you begin, your tone shifting into something more determined, “leila and theo are getting way too stressed with everything. and she had another beach day planned today? no thanks. we need to do something else. something fun, and i was thinking . . . i don’t know. ziplining?”

drew freezes and stares at you like you’ve just sprouted a second head. “ziplining?”

“yeah,” you say, nodding enthusiastically now that the idea is out there. “something different, you know? something adventurous to shake everyone up and loosen them up.”

he blinks, leans forward, and crosses his arms across his chest. “ziplining,” he repeats slowly, dragging out the word like he’s trying to fully process it. “you’re insane.”

“no, i’m not!” you protest, crossing your arms. “think about it. when’s the last time any of us did something that wasn’t, like, lying around the house or stressing about wedding details?”

he shrugs, smirking. “the beach was fun. volleyball wasn’t bad.”

you roll your eyes. “the beach doesn’t count. it’s safe, predictable. this—” you gesture with your hands like you’re painting the image in the air “—this is exciting, unexpected. people will have to face their fears, step out of their comfort zones, and actually have fun.”

drew leans back, eyeing you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “and you think ziplining is the way to do that?”

“yes,” you say firmly. then, softer, “come on, star. you can’t tell me it wouldn’t be fun. imagine leila screaming her head off halfway down the line, theo pretending he’s brave but secretly terrified, libby and oscar bickering the whole time, roman threatening to cut the rope somehow that we all genuinely get scared, i mean, it’ll be a memory!”

he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “you’re crazy. but . . .” he pauses, meeting your gaze, “. . . you’re also kinda right. it would be fun.”

you grin, victorious. “so, you’ll help me?”

he sighs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “fine. but if someone has a panic attack or refuses to go, i’m blaming you.”

“deal,” you say, reaching for your phone. “okay, we need to find a place that can take a group our size on short notice. preferably this afternoon so we can bribe everyone with dinner afterward.”

“bribe?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“yes, bribe,” you reply matter-of-factly. “they’ll whine less if there’s food involved.”

drew seems to mull it over for a second, glancing back at the guys, who are still in their own conversation. then he turns back to you, a playful glint in his eye now. “okay, but . . . with what money?” he teases, quirking an eyebrow, clearly just messing with you.

you don’t realize it at first so you shoot him a look, half-amused, half-annoyed, and without missing a beat, you say, “i’m paying.”

he lets out a light laugh, shaking his head. “i was joking, i got it.” there’s this soft edge to his voice, like he’s trying to show you that he’s here, that he’s all in, no matter how small the gesture.

then, as if to seal the deal, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of your head, something that feels so natural but makes your breath catch anyway.

for the next hour, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through options, debating logistics, and sharing quiet laughs when you come across reviews like, ‘this was fun, but i cried the entire time’. you’re so caught up in the planning that you don’t even realize how close you’re leaning into him until his arm brushes against yours.

when the booking is finally confirmed, you both let out a shared sigh of relief.

“we’re really doing this,” he says, looking over at you with a small, crooked smile.

“we are,” you reply, matching his grin. his eyes flicker to yours, and for a moment, there’s this feeling bubbling up inside you as you think about it—enjoying each other’s company, letting loose, and having fun. the kind of fun you’ve been craving, the kind that would remind everyone why they’re all here together in the first place.

you know it’s going to be exactly what the group needs.

you’re suddenly jolted from your daydream by something soft hitting your leg. “ow,” you hiss, even though it doesn’t hurt at all. you glance down and see a pillow lying at your feet, and you reach down to pick it up.

when you straighten up, you and drew find the boys sitting there, grinning like they’ve just pulled off the greatest prank of all time. their laughter fills the space between you, and you immediately know who the culprit is. roman, sitting back with that mischievous look on his face, the slight arch of his brow giving him away.

you narrow your eyes at him, muttering, “dick,” under your breath before tossing the pillow back onto the chair.

with a shake of your head and a half-smile, you turn and head back inside the house, leaving their laughter and drews behind. you can still feel the energy of their playful teasing lingering in the air, but it doesn't bother you.

after all, you’ve got bigger plans in mind.

the group is gathered in the living room eventually, all of them looking at you and drew like you’ve lost your minds. you stand at the front of the room, arms crossed confidently, while drew leans casually against the wall, throwing in the occasional thumbs up.

“ziplining,” leila says, her voice flat. “you want us to go ziplining?”

“yes,” you reply, smiling brightly.

“you’re insane,” theo says, echoing drew from an hour ago. “like, are you serious?” he asks, leaning forward.

“completely serious,” you say, nodding. “drew and i planned it today. we’ve got a reservation this afternoon, and afterward, dinner’s on us.”

drew, standing beside you, throws up two thumbs and adds, “it’s gonna be fun. trust us.”

gia looks hesitant. “i don’t know . . . i mean, heights? we don’t go well together. neither do me and helmets. they’re so unflattering.”

“yeah, but exactly. it’s different. it’s exciting. it’s—” you pause, looking at everyone. “—something none of us would normally do. and that’s the point. come on, libby, you’re always saying we should push ourselves, pride ourselves to go extreme. think of it as . . . wedding prep stress relief.”

she glances at oscar, who shrugs with a small smile. “what do you think?”

“i think we should do it,” oscar says. “and, c’mon, if they’re paying for dinner, how can we say no?”

gia perks up at the mention. “and you’re paying for everything?”

“everything,” drew confirms, smirking.

slowly, the group comes around to the idea, though roman continues to grumble about it as everyone heads to change into comfortable clothes. you and drew share a quick glance, both of you grinning like you’ve just pulled off the biggest surprise.

“this is gonna be great,” you whisper to him.

“you sure about that?” he teases.

“completely,” you say, and for the first time in a while, you actually feel it.

the drive to the ziplining park is filled with nervous energy. leila and libby are exchanging anxious laughs in the back seat, while theo tries to lighten the mood by joking about who’s most likely to chicken out. drew is driving, his hand resting on the center console near yours, and every now and then, he gives you a little reassuring squeeze.

when you arrive, the towering platforms and crisscrossing zip lines above are enough to make everyone pause. the guide meets your group at the entrance, going over the safety procedures and handing out harnesses. you’re already buzzing with adrenaline as you step into your gear, tightening the straps and adjusting the helmet.

“you okay?” drew asks, leaning in close as he helps you with one of the buckles.

“yeah,” you say, though your heart is pounding. “are you?”

he grins. “i was born for this.”

once everyone is suited up, the guide leads you to the first platform. it’s a steep climb, and by the time you reach the top, the nerves are palpable. gia is clutching the railing, and oscar is muttering something about how this is definitely not in his comfort zone.

“remember,” you say, turning to face the group. “this is supposed to be fun.”

“easy for you to say,” oscar mutters, earning a laugh from drew.

one by one, the guide hooks everyone up to the zip line. theo volunteers to go first, his bravado earning him cheers from leila as he zips across the line with a whoop of excitement. next is leila, who screams the entire way but laughs as soon as she lands on the other side.

when it’s your turn, drew steps up beside you. “ready?” he asks, his voice low and steady. “i’ll go right after you.”

you nod, taking a deep breath. “ready.”

the moment you step off the platform, the wind rushes past you, and the world blurs into a mix of treetops and sky. it’s exhilarating, freeing, and everything you hoped it would be. when you land on the next platform, your laughter is contagious, and drew’s whoop of excitement as he follows only adds to the thrill.

by the end of the course, everyone is buzzing with adrenaline and smiling like they haven’t in days. leila and theo are holding hands, their earlier tension forgotten, and even the others admit they had fun, though claim they’re never doing it again.

the night air is cool but not biting, the kind of perfect that makes you want to stay outside forever. the moon hangs low, casting silver streaks across the dark waves, and the stars scatter across the sky like confetti.

the whole day feels like a dream—ziplining, laughing with everyone, and the kind of dinner where no one holds back, plates piling high until you're all practically bursting at the seams. it’s a memory already cemented in the back of your mind, glowing and golden.

you and drew step out of the house hand in hand, the muffled sounds of snores and low murmurs drifting behind you. everyone else is sprawled out in food comas, barely able to move after the feast. but not you. not drew.

“leila really said we should host more,” you laugh, your voice soft but laced with pride. “can you believe that?”

drew chuckles, shaking his head. “honestly? kinda shocked she’d trust us again. but i’ll take it. today was so good.”

“better than good,” you correct, squeezing his hand. “it was perfect.”

you both step onto the sand, the grains cool beneath your feet. the horizon glows faintly, the deep blue skies blending into the inky black sea, and for a moment, neither of you says anything, just soaking in the peace.

then, you stop. you let go of drew’s hand and start slipping off your shoes.

he notices immediately. “what’re you doing now?”

you don’t answer, kicking your shoes to the side and unbuttoning your shirt, then you toss your shirt onto the sand and start unzipping your jeans. you’re already smiling to yourself, feeling a little mischievous as the cool night breeze brushes against your skin.

“are you— are you seriously—?” drew stammers, his voice pitching higher.

now fully bare, you take a slow step into the water, the chill shocking at first but refreshing as it climbs up your legs. your toes sink into the soft, wet sand, and you keep walking until the water reaches your hips.

drew stands frozen behind you, hands by his sides, his jaw slack as he watches you sway gently with the rhythm of the waves. he looks like he’s trying to figure out whether to laugh, yell, or just give up entirely.

finally, you glance over your shoulder, your hair falling loose and wild around your face. “are you coming in or what?” you ask, holding out your hand toward him.

his eyes dart from your face to your outstretched hand, and something shifts in his expression. for a second, it’s like the rest of the world disappears—the waves, the sky, the house behind him. all he can see is you, standing there in the moonlit water, your hand reaching out for him.

it hits him like a punch to the chest. he knows that he’d follow you anywhere.

he exhales a soft, shaky laugh, tugging off his shirt and stepping out of his jeans with an ease that makes you grin. the hesitation he had just moments ago evaporates as he walks toward you, the water lapping at his legs.

when he reaches you, you pull him closer, your hands sliding up around his torso as you lean in and kiss him. it’s quick, almost playful, but the smile you press into it lingers. drew’s hands find your waist, steadying you against the soft push of the waves.

“we need to do this more often,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“and we will,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

he lets out a soft chuckle, pulling you closer until your bodies are pressed together, his warmth cutting through the cool water. your chin rests on his chest as you look down at the water swirling around you both, the light from the moon catching on the tiny ripples.

you tilt your head up, resting your chin against his chest, the soft thrum of his heartbeat steady beneath your skin.

“i don’t even wanna leave,” you mumble, the words slipping out without much thought, your voice quiet but heavy with feeling.

drew's hand moves up to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, smoothing it down like he’s trying to calm not just you, but the whole world around you. “i know,” he says softly, and there’s something so steady, so sure, in the way he says it that it makes your throat tighten.

it’s not just the water, or the waves, or even drew’s warmth grounding you—it’s the wine in your system, maybe, or the weight of these last few days. how good it’s all been. how good he’s been. compared to the storm you left outside of this trip, this feels like something you could stay in forever.

a tear slips out before you can stop it, and when you look up at drew, his face comes into focus in a way that makes your chest ache.

“hey,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “i’m glad we did this. all of it. the plan, the trip— just . . . us.”

he blinks down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile, but there’s concern laced in his laughter. “stop, are you crying?” he teases gently, his hand cupping your cheek. his thumb brushes under your eye, and you feel him swipe at the streak of mascara smudging there.

you pull back a little, suddenly self-conscious, your fingers brushing over your cheeks. “oh my god, is my makeup coming off?”

you consider dunking your whole body into the water—just to rid yourself of the smudged makeup, the makeup that’s probably ruining this intimate moment. but before you can, you hear him hum a soft, “mm-mm,” his voice quiet and soothing.

he pulls you gently back toward him, his hands cupping your face with tender care. you look up at him, his eyes soft, and for a second, everything else disappears for you. his touch is like a promise that you’ll always have someone to turn to. he rubs his thumb gently beneath your eyes, sweeping away the mascara with a careful, loving gesture.

“you’re perfect,” he murmurs, the words almost like a secret shared only between the two of you, like it’s a fact he’s known forever.

your breath hitches, and for a second, the world stills.

then you lean up, and he meets you halfway, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that feels slow and endless. his hands hold you steady, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as your arms loop tighter around his waist, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you.

you stare at your reflection in the mirror just hours later, when you’ve managed to sober up some, and you’re brushing your teeth vigorously. the bathroom door swings open. drew steps in without knocking, already knowing you’ve been in here, and immediately begins preparing for his shower.

“you look pretty,” he murmurs as he moves past you, earning a faint smile from your lips.

you pull the toothbrush from your mouth and fill it up with water, swishing it around before spitting it out, finally managing to say, “by the way, thanks for helping me today, star.”

he shrugs, his smile softening. “it’s no problem. i care about our friends just as much as you do. leila and theo are my friends too.” he steps away, turning the water on in the shower and letting it warm up while you finish. “plus that food we had tonight, thank god they picked a good place. i’m still so stuffed.”

he rests a hand to his stomach and it makes you grin. but what catches your eye is your phone lighting up on the counter, and you eagerly check the notification. leaning against the counter, you sigh when you see it isn’t from the person you’ve hoped for. drew notices the shift in your demeanor, his brow furrowing slightly.

“okay,” he says, his tone shifting to one of concern as he walks toward you and presses his hand to the edge of the counter, watching you intently. “so something is definitely bothering you.”

and you realize you haven’t told him a single time since you’ve been talking to him again.

“it’s, um . . .” you trail off, your voice faltering as you feel the weight of your disappointment settle in. “i’ve been sending in audition tapes for the past few months and doing callbacks for in-person auditions, but i still haven’t heard back on anything yet.”

you can feel the frustration bubbling beneath the surface, and it takes all your strength not to let it spill over.

drew winces, a sympathetic look crossing his face. “that sucks,” he says, his voice low. “i know how that feels. it can be brutal.”

you nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. “i just thought this time would be different. i thought i was good enough to get at least something by now,” you say.

his hand rubs up and down your back. “it’ll come to you when the time is right,” he says softly, trying to offer comfort.

your expression drops at his sudden change in trying to be some philosopher as you put your phone back down on the counter. “that’s so full of bull,” you mutter, heading for the door to leave but drew furrows his eyebrows at the abrupt switch.

“c’mere,” he says as he reaches for your hand and tugs you back into his chest, pressing your lips to his.

you’re happily returning the kiss as his hands running down to your backside. you missed this. the kisses, the fire that grows inside you when it happens. it’s still a familiar feeling. he grips firmly, pressing you against his hips, and his kisses are passionate, his breathing heavy as he walks you backward into the sink.

he breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your neck, and into the sensitive spot beneath your ear. although you’re enjoying this, you manage to break out of your high and whisper in his ear, “you’re getting hard.”

the kisses stop there.

and he detaches himself from you, heading for the shower. “shut up,” he mutters under his breath, though there’s a slight curve of his lips as he smiles. he’s turning red. “it’s the . . . water,” he says to excuse his rosy cheeks, knowing you’ll say something about it.

you tilt your head, watching as he finishes stripping and steps into the shower, “the water’s causing that when you’ve been out here?”

“it’s the condensation, asshole.”

tags: @rubixgsworld @itgirlbrina @thepopcultureaddict @icaqttt @samsmelodrama @kissfinalgirl @iissza @lotuslovers @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @mattyskies @willowpains @toterry @wearemadeofstardust0 @cl4uus @maybankslover @itneverendshere @httpsdrewstarkey @ilyrafe @sunny1616 @pillowprincess4him @yootvi @l4venderia @chenslucy @darkreymbow @congratsloserr @skyslowalking @ivy-34 @behindviolettwrites @allthoughtsmindfull @lovelylupin04 @ecstqzy @dasguccier

a/n: if i missed u or u changed ur user, lmk to add u next time !! <3

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Hello! I am quite enjoying your writing!

May I please request some Adar fluff? Maybe Yule is approaching in Middle Earth and Reader has organized some small treat for the Uruk children. As the end of the evening Adar offers to escort Reader back to their quarters, when it starts to snow. Reader is delighted, and Adar uses this as pretext to wrap his arm and cloak around them. Then perhaps a goodnight kiss?

Thanks!

This was so sweet I almost cried!! Sweet Adar and his poor Uruks!

Yuletide Joy

The cold in the air signals the turn of the season, crisp and biting, yet it feels softer here among the mountains. The world outside the fortress is blanketed in frost, the ground hard underfoot, but you’ve come to find a kind of peace in the harshness. The Uruks move through the camp with the same steady determination as always, indifferent to the encroaching chill. They are practical creatures, efficient and blunt, and their lives are not built around the sentimentality you once knew in other places.

Still, the approaching season stirs something in you. Yule draws near—a time of warmth, of light in the dark, of remembering what is good even when the world feels cold and unyielding. You have lived through many Yules, some filled with joy, others with sorrow, but never without the sense of something shared, something meaningful.

As you walk through the camp, your breath clouding in the frigid air, you pass a cluster of Uruk children gathered around a low fire. They speak in rough voices, exchanging half-teasing jabs, and though their bodies are young, their faces bear the same hard lines of survival you see in their elders. The fire’s light dances in their eyes, but there is no laughter, no sense of anticipation for the season to come. Something feels… empty.

Later, in the quiet of the hall, you bring your curiosity to one who might answer. Adar sits near the great hearth, his dark eyes reflecting the fire’s glow, his presence both commanding and oddly still. He looks up as you approach, and though his expression remains unreadable, there is a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze.

“May I ask you something?” you begin, hesitant yet determined.

He inclines his head slightly, inviting you to continue.

“Do the Uruks celebrate Yule?” The question feels strange on your tongue, an echo of the life you once knew—before this. “Or… anything like it?”

For a moment, Adar says nothing. The fire crackles between you, filling the silence. Then he leans back, his gaze thoughtful, distant. “No,” he says at last, his voice low and measured. “They have never known such things. Their lives have been forged in darkness, in hardship. There has been little room for celebration.”

The words strike you harder than you expected. You knew, of course, of their suffering—how they were shaped by cruelty, by war—but to imagine a life devoid of even the smallest joy, even the brief warmth of a shared moment, is something else entirely.

“They have known no kindness,” he continues, his tone softening slightly. “And kindness was never taught to them.”

A silence stretches between you, heavy with understanding. You glance toward the fire, watching the embers pulse like faint, dying stars. “Then… perhaps it is time they learned,” you say quietly, the idea taking root in your mind before you can question it.

Adar watches you for a long moment, his dark gaze unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns back to the fire, as if to say he will not stop you—but he will not help, either.

It is a challenge, unspoken but clear. If you wish to teach them Yule, you must do so yourself.

You leave the hall with a strange warmth blooming in your chest, despite the cold outside. For the first time in years, you feel the season stirring in you—not as a memory, but as a possibility. And as you step into the chill night, you find yourself smiling.

This Yule, the Uruks will know something different. Something new.

. The decision you made the night before settles firmly in your mind: this Yule, the Uruks will feel something other than the weight of survival. There will be warmth, gifts, and something resembling joy.

The first step is understanding what they might appreciate—and that means asking questions.

You find Rakha near the camp’s edge, her shoulders broad and scarred, her expression as always, sharp and skeptical. She is one of the few who does not outright avoid conversation with you. Perhaps she even tolerates it. Her eyes narrow slightly as you approach, her hands busy sharpening a blade that has seen years of battle.

“Elf,” she greets with a rough voice, the name more observation than insult.

“Rakha,” you reply, your tone light. “I need your advice.”

She gives a short, barking laugh. “Advice? From me?” She raises a brow, clearly amused. “What mischief are you up to?”

You smile, undeterred. “Not mischief—something more… festive. If you were a child,” you say carefully, “what would make you happy? What do the young ones enjoy?”

Her sharpening pauses, and she frowns in thought. “The children enjoy games, though they play rough. Not like your kind.”

“I’m not asking for my kind,” you reply softly, watching her face. “I want to know what would bring them joy.”

She considers this, her dark eyes narrowing. “A good hunt. A game of strength, something with competition.” She taps the blade thoughtfully. “And perhaps food. Something sweet—if you can manage it.”

Sweet. That will be a challenge, but not impossible. You thank Rakha and make your way through the camp, gathering scraps of knowledge from the Uruks willing to speak. You hear suggestions for rough-hewn games, tales of contests they enjoyed as whelps, and ideas for food that might please even their hardened palates.

By mid-afternoon, your mind is full of plans. You’ll need supplies for a feast��perhaps roasted meat, root vegetables, and something sweet, even if it’s simple. You will craft small gifts from what little is available, carving trinkets from wood, perhaps stitching small pouches of dried herbs and spices. It’s not much, but it will be something.

You throw yourself into the preparations with a quiet determination, keeping your work discreet. The Uruks eye you curiously, though few ask questions. They’ve learned not to expect answers from you unless you offer them willingly.

But Adar is not so easily deterred.

He finds you late in the evening, standing near the great hearth, sorting through a pile of worn fabrics and dried herbs. His steps are soft, his presence unmistakable. You don’t look up as he approaches, focusing instead on your work.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice calm, but with a hint of curiosity. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing important,” you reply too quickly, too lightly. “Just something to pass the time.”

Adar tilts his head, and you can feel his gaze on you, sharp and knowing. “You are lying.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes briefly, trying to muster an air of nonchalance. “It’s nothing,” you insist with a faint smile. “I have everything under control.”

He watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally giving the smallest of nods. “Very well,” he says, though his tone betrays that he knows more than he lets on. “I will leave you to your… nothing.”

As he turns to leave, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He knows. Of course he knows. But for some reason, he is letting you have this—letting you work in secret, pretending he does not see.

A small, pleased smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Whatever he thinks, the Uruks will have their Yule, and you will make sure of it.

Even if Adar lets you think it is all your idea.

The halls are alive with the smell of roasting meat and spices, the rich aroma blending with the faint, sharp scent of evergreens you’ve woven through the space. The fire roars high in the great hearth, casting flickering light across the worn stone walls. For the first time since you arrived, the fortress feels less like a bastion of war and more like a home—at least for one night.

You step back to survey the scene. The long tables, usually bare and utilitarian, are lined with simple but hearty food: roasted meats dripping with juices, stewed roots seasoned with herbs, and in the center, a collection of small, honeyed pastries you worked tirelessly to prepare. It was no easy feat to find the ingredients, let alone bake them without notice, but you managed—and the golden treats gleam temptingly in the firelight.

The Uruk children are the first to arrive, creeping in hesitantly, their wary gazes darting around the room. They eye the decorations with suspicion, unused to such offerings, but the warmth of the fire and the enticing scent of the feast lure them closer.

One small Uruk, barely more than a whelp, edges toward the table, his eyes wide as he stares at the pastries. He glances back at you, suspicion still lingering in his gaze. “What is this?” he asks, his voice rough but curious.

You crouch to his level, smiling. “They’re sweets,” you explain gently, picking up one of the small pastries and holding it out to him. “Try it.”

He sniffs the treat, his distrust warring with curiosity, but eventually, hunger wins. He takes a tentative bite, and his eyes widen in shock and delight. He chews slowly, savoring the unexpected sweetness, before letting out a low grunt of approval.

Soon, the other children follow, cautiously at first, then with more confidence. They dart toward the table, grabbing treats and food, their faces lighting up with something that might almost be joy.

The room fills with noise—laughter, the clatter of plates, the delighted cries of the children as they realize that this night is theirs to enjoy. One of the older Uruks, Rakha, appears in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression. She steps forward, grabs a sweet pastry, and takes a large bite.

Her eyes narrow, as if trying to maintain her usual gruff demeanor, but the way she devours the rest of the treat gives her away. “Sweet,” she mutters, chewing thoughtfully. “Didn’t think I’d like it.”

You grin, leaning against the edge of the table. “Seems you have a sweet tooth after all.”

She snorts but doesn’t deny it, reaching for another. Around the room, other Uruks begin to filter in—adults drawn by the warmth and scent of the feast. They take their seats hesitantly at first, watching the children with quiet curiosity, but it doesn’t take long for the tension to melt. Soon, the room is filled with the sound of conversation and laughter, rough and unfamiliar, but genuine.

The children play games near the fire, shouting and chasing each other through the hall, their sharp-edged voices echoing with unexpected joy. One of the younger ones topples, only to be scooped up by an older Uruk, who chuckles as he sets the child back on his feet.

You watch it all unfold, the sight filling your heart with warmth. They are fierce, scarred, and hardened by life, but tonight, they are something else: a family, if only for a moment.

At the center of it all, the fire crackles and roars, casting golden light over the gathered Uruks. Some sit close together, sharing food and stories, while others lounge near the edges, their expressions relaxed, their usual wariness softened. The sound of laughter, rough and raw, fills the room like music.

As the night deepens, you feel a presence behind you, and you don’t need to turn to know it’s Adar. His footsteps are soft, but the air seems to change when he enters, a stillness settling over the moment.

“You’ve done well,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, just loud enough for you to hear.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not nothing,” you reply, teasing, recalling your earlier evasion.

Adar’s dark eyes glimmer in the firelight, and though his expression remains unreadable, there is a softness there, a hint of approval. “No,” he agrees. “It is not nothing.”

Together, you watch the Uruks—your Uruks now, in some small way—as they revel in this unexpected celebration. For once, there is no war, no fear, no pain. Only warmth, joy, and the fleeting magic of Yule.

The hall is finally quiet, save for the crackling of the fire, its embers glowing faintly in the hearth. The Uruks, full and content, have begun to drift away—some lingering near the warmth, others guiding the children back to their sleeping quarters. The scattered remnants of the feast remain: half-empty plates, crumbs from the pastries, and overturned wooden cups.

You sit at the edge of one of the long tables, exhaustion settling into your bones like a deep ache. Yet, despite your weariness, there is a glow in your chest, a kind of satisfaction that makes the fatigue feel lighter. You move to gather a few plates, intent on helping with the cleanup.

“You’ve done enough.”

Adar’s voice, smooth and low, cuts through the quiet, and you turn to see him standing at the edge of the hall, his dark eyes unreadable but soft in the firelight. He crosses the room, his steps slow and deliberate. “Let the others take care of it,” he says, his gaze locking with yours. “You deserve rest.”

You hesitate, glancing at the mess still left to be cleaned, but the warmth in his voice and the weight of your own exhaustion finally convince you. “Perhaps,” you admit with a small smile, “I could use some rest.”

“Come,” Adar offers, extending his arm in a subtle but unmistakable gesture. “I will walk you back.”

Surprised but grateful, you nod and rise, taking his offer. His presence is steady beside you, and as you step out into the cold night air, the sharp chill is softened by the nearness of his warmth.

The snow has started to fall, soft flakes drifting down like stars shaken loose from the sky. The quiet is profound, the sounds of the camp fading behind you as you walk together, boots crunching in the fresh powder.

“You’ve done something remarkable tonight,” Adar says after a moment of silence. His voice is quiet, but there is something weighty in it, a rare gentleness. “They laughed. Truly laughed. It has been many years since I heard such a sound.”

You smile, watching the snow gather in the dark locks of his hair. “It wasn’t just me,” you reply. “They were ready for joy, even if they didn’t know it.”

He glances at you, the faintest curve of his lips betraying something like amusement. “You underestimate what you’ve done.”

You walk a little farther, the night air crisp and still. The conversation turns to the night’s success, and as you speak, a thought strikes you like a sharp pang. You halt mid-step, realization blooming in your mind.

“I forgot something.”

Adar stops, his brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”

You exhale, a soft puff of white in the cold air, and laugh at yourself. “I forgot to make you a gift. With everything else, I… I didn’t prepare anything for you.”

He tilts his head, studying you with that patient, enigmatic expression. “You think I require a gift?”

You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling foolish. “It’s Yule. I should have made something, given something—”

Adar steps closer, close enough that the cold air seems to vanish between you. His hand reaches out, barely brushing your arm. “You gave me something,” he says softly, his voice like the distant roll of thunder, “something no gift could surpass.”

You blink, caught by the intensity in his gaze. “What?”

He smiles, a small, rare thing, and the firelight from the hall catches in his eyes. “The sound of my children laughing,” he says. “Of them living, not merely surviving.” He pauses, and the weight of his words lingers in the air like the falling snow. “That is more than I could have asked for.”

At his words, warmth blooms in your chest, fierce and unexpected, and you realize there is nothing else you could have given him that would mean more.

As you stand at the threshold of your chambers, the snow falling in gentle silence around you, Adar steps forward, his gaze heavy with unspoken meaning.

Adar leans in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand moves from your arm to cup your cheek, his palm rough but his touch achingly gentle.

“If there is one gift I desire,” he murmurs, his voice low, “it is this moment.”

Before you can speak, his lips brush yours, soft and deliberate. The kiss is warm, unhurried, and tender, his confidence steady where yours trembles. For a heartbeat, you freeze, uncertainty swirling in your chest—but then the warmth of him draws you in, and you melt into it, your hands rising to rest lightly against his chest.

The kiss lingers, sweet and fragile, until he pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. His thumb brushes your cheek, a soft, lingering touch.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, his voice a soft caress.

You manage a shaky smile, your heart still fluttering. “Goodnight, Adar.”

He steps back, his cloak brushing the snow as he turns and walks away, the snow falling around him in a silent curtain. You stand at your door, the warmth of the kiss lingering long after he is gone, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.

[makiitabaki]

Finally answering this:

Thank you, @saintjustitude for asking me to rant—I adore doing just that :]

(First of all, thank you to everyone for waiting. I know I took a lot of time to write this, but I had only around an hour free every day, and I usually spent it searching for sources. My knowledge is limited; the play isn't available. I rely on memoirs, interviews, and reviews. 

My inbox is always open, and if anyone has any Wojtek questions, I'd be absolutely delighted to answer them. And I mean it. It can be anything. 

 Every quote was translated by me. All my sources are listed.

Unfortunately a part of it wasn't saved, and I don't have access to some info anymore but this post will probably serve as the beginning of a longer thread.)

And now: “Sprawa Dantona” (1975).

1. How did it all come to be? Why was ‘The Danton Case’ and not any other play?

When I say ‘Danton’ directed by Wajda, most probably think of the 1983 version, a political metaphor: Comsal representing the Polish government, Dantonist representing Solidarity. Was it like that originally? Was Wajda just calling for a fight with the government, transforming Przybyszewska's work to fit his own narrative?

In short: No! (At least if we're referring to the 1975 version, the film is completely another story; I'll gladly make another post about it.).

Zygmunt Hübner (I have mentioned him already in this post) chose Wajda to direct the play even though the latter was a relatively young director; something was telling Hübner that giving the play to him would be absolutely necessary. Pszoniak later referred to that event as Wajda being cast in it as much as he himself was.

The play was simply a way to introduce the artistic team Hübner created. There was none of some “noble patriotism’ or 'anti communism'. (None of what Wajda described as the purpose of the later film.)

Why was that play in particular chosen? That is unknown.

“The idea [of exhibiting that play] came from the fact that Hübner was looking for a play (…) that would present his artistic team as a whole, which he assembled with great imagination and intuition.”

At first, Pszoniak laughed into Hübner's face when offered the role. He thought it fine, intruiging, but the character of Robespierre was so foreign to him that he couldn't give anything from his own person or his own experiences to his Maximilien.

He asked for the role of Danton; that role seemed to fit him way better with "his [Danton's] sensuality, his dynamic physiognomy, and his balls."

Wajda and Hübner were quite insistent and more or less forced Pszoniak into the role.

“Hübner and Wajda were so stubborn that they did not take my objection into account. Nothing there [in the role] suited me; there was no starting point for the role. I had no right to play it. But they convinced me for so long that the whole situation with ‘The Danton Case’ became a dead end.”

The transformation from simply a good play to something entirely political in Wajda's eyes was very slow but steady. On that a little later.

2. Pszoniak wasn't ready to play Robespierre? How did he prepare for the role then?

It's very important to note that it was not bad will that made Pszoniak initially refuse the role, but the theater typecast he was put into and which he almost got used to. All of his power and stage presence were connected to his own physicality, to this sort of mobility and expression that he had to (presumably at Wajda's request) abandon while playing Robespierre.

Wojtekspierre getting his hair cut from a man with surprisingly modern glasses

Whether he was in a tragedy or comedy, it was the unique liveliness that made him so different. Suddenly he was offered the role of Robespierre, a man he only knew from unfavorable history books, portrayed a certain way by Przybyszewska, and he's made to stand before the expanse of that character's personality in a try to make him someone physical.

While it might seem quite shocking, when preparing for the role, Pszoniak didn't even read any Robespierre biography. Why? According to him:

“I didn’t think at all about a historical figure, and besides, you can’t play any historical figure. I put aside the books on the French Revolution. I read them much later, when, years later, in Paris. (…) I didn't want to portray a historical figure, so I didn't judge or evaluate him. I simply tried to get closer to him, to understand him as a person. Przybyszewska herself made it easier for me. The text of the play clearly indicated that she was fascinated by him. (...) Przybyszewska constructed this character in an unusual, enigmatic way. I clung to this fascination, it was a reason for treating Robespierre with empathy. This is a necessary condition for creating a character, without empathy you will never be able to get closer to the man you are to become on stage. Wandering through the labyrinth of his emotions, motives for action, opinions he expresses, I became so strongly attached to him, he took over me so much, that as a result I became Robespierre-Pszoniak.”

Pszoniak admitted he didn't want to play a politician [but, of course, as we all know, he was later forced to in ‘Danton’ (1983)].

The preparations took time and patience (especially from his wife - Barbara). Pszoniak tends to describe it as a painful process. Robespierre's physical expression was compared to being bound tightly by his own flesh, almost imprisoned by it, but freed by his mind. Pszoniak realized that all of the power in portraying Robespierre could only be gained from a deeper reflection. How to show a mind on stage?

That Pszoniak didn't know, and so he made the decision to show Robespierre's determination and faith instead of simply a calculated brain. To show a path, an objective. That's why the last scene was so hard to play (conversation between Robespierre and Saint-Just after Danton's death); he even asked Wajda for a white cloth as a makeshift shroud. To Pszoniak, that scene meant the symbolic death of his character. Robespierre (described by Pszoniak as a “very intelligent man") feels that inevitable peril awaits in the near future. The actor often described a feeling of mourning something or someone after the performance.

The challenge of creating the role, in the words of Wojciech Pszoniak:

“I started to control all my reflexes morning till night; from waking up to falling asleep, I was destroying myself. In everyday life, even the smallest activity, I slowed down; I was reducing and cleaning up [every one of] my habits. Torment, the absolute torment of controlling yourself, of managing yourself. Zero spontaneity, the phone rings, my first reaction—run to answer it—I stop myself calmly, in control of every slowed-down gesture. I imitated Zygmunt Hübner's focused gait; I noticed how he placed his feet. And I started walking like that myself. That's how I set a different, more controlled way of moving. After that, I turned to gestures, head movements, the way of getting up, and gesticulation. I felt that I was different. Acquaintances and friends both asked where this change came from. I suppressed the dynamic, extraverted myself.”

And

“I was pushing the boundaries of supervision [over myself], checking how I would behave after drinking a larger amount of vodka. One day I went out with Basia [wife] and friends (...) After a few bottles, at four in the morning, they were amused, cheered up, asking if I was sick because I was behaving like a machine. After three weeks of suffering, I reached ground zero. This happened during the rehearsals. A conversation about Robespierre and Danton. I joined the discussion, exclaiming, 'I disagree!’ - and suddenly I saw that my hand was no longer my hand, that it was not the hand of that Pszoniak that I am, but that it was already a hand—the beginning of someone else.”

3. What of Danton?

Here the problem with the play began. The man cast as Danton, Bronisław Pawlik, was just... terrible.

He was a good actor in general, definitely, but in short (explanation for the anglophones), it was like casting Danny DeVito as Danton.

He was short of stature, weak of voice, much older than Pszoniak, and simply unfit for the role.

He didn't have a stage presence; his voice was silenced by the other people on stage, and Pszoniak kept acting as if there was some great, dangerous opponent when there wasn't—the audience seemed to notice it.

It all added to a kind of feeling of resentment after preparing so long for the role of Robespierre.

Danton (Bronisław Pawlik), Camille (Olgierd Łukaszewicz) and Westermann (Franciszek Pieczka) celebrating

Pawlik was more concerned with the position of the props or the costume instead of conversing and shaping their roles. To Pszoniak it was the role of a lifetime, to Pawlik it wasn't.

“The audience was sitting on the stage because the entire theater had been transformed into the Revolutionary Tribunal. Here, a powerful voice and a [kind of] broad gesture were needed... Pawlik's charm disappeared in the feverish crowd. What consequences did this have for the play? Enormous, Danton was deprived of the strength [for both the audience and actors] to believe that he posed a deadly serious threat to the revolution. And this lack bothered me terribly...”

4. How did it become political then?

As I have previously mentioned, it was a slow, steady process. Even Wajda himself didn't think much of the play; it was the audience that began the change. 

As the first example, Pszoniak recalls a scene when Eleonore comes in with tea but not sugar—in the audience at first only a few laughing, but gradually along with the many performances it turned into the whole audience cackling. The play was exhibited just when a time of increasing problems with sugar supplies began in Poland (food stamps for sugar were introduced).

Pszoniak admitted that the cast would often laugh along with the audience. It seemed almost absurd—a tragic play blending with the real world. 

When it comes to Pszoniak himself in that time, the more he played the role, the more it felt like “punching the air.” Instead of having a genuine conflict, he had no support, no reference point in Pawlik as Danton or the audience. For the role to have meaning, to be something, it all had to be a matter of life and death. His co-actor was slipping into comedic grotesque while playing the second main role. 

"The success of the play was huge, but the audience was eager to read the play [only] in the context of political allusions. (…) The audience felt that something was happening [on and off stage], (…) the tension grew."

The audience's reaction seemed to be a direct answer to the Danton shown on stage. Instead of a political opponent, there stood a sad, tired victim of the committee who seems completely and utterly innocent, all his words said with a kind of saddened charm (doesn't that remind you of a certain film Wajda made later?).

5. What of the other actors?

Here is where I have the least information. If anyone has any more sources of information, actor memoirs, etc., feel free to reblog this post with additional info or simply contact me about it so I could make Part 2. :]

The cast.

I have to tell you something shocking... Wajda is capable of giving actual, normal characterization to secondary characters (gasp, thunderstrike, wolf howling).

Or perhaps that was just the actor/Zygmunt Hübner (I guess we'll never know).

The most information I could gather was about Saint-Just (played by the excellent Władysław Kowalski).

Based off the limited amount of reviews I could gather, he was a positive character in general. Described as “a man gifted with exceptional warmth and [someone] unconditionally devoted to his cause” or “full of raw passion."

AND HE GIVES MAXIME FLOWERS IN THIS VERSION AS WELL, EXCEPT IN THIS ONE ROBESPIERRE (KIND OF) SMILES!

I couldn't find much on Eleonore, Louise, or Lucille, though I've searched and searched for a few days. All I could find is that the actresses were excellent—that is, unfortunately, no source of any relevant information. Frankly speaking, since Wajda, in kind words, doesn't excel at writing women, I don't have much faith in their characterization on the director's part.

Camille played Łukaszewicz is usually called a “complicated youth"—that is, of course, an opinion—or “spontaneous in reflexes"—that's a bit better of a description. As you can see, I am limited by the fact the play isn't available, and I must depend on biased or subjective sources.

Worried Camille Desmoulins (Olgierd Łukaszewicz) - I do think this Camille looks quite nice.

6. And did the critics like it? Was it well directed?

In short, it was a very, very liked play by both the critics and the audience. It ran for 5 years; it ended around 1980, when many of the actors simply left Poland.

About critics and reviews written by them: What surprised me immensely is the fact that most available reviews (written before the release of the film ‘Danton’) of the play weren't anti-Robespierre. The play is often described as something of a moral discussion, something for the viewer to assess, a work that doesn't suggest one solution to understand the conflict, or revolution (in other words, a great play).

A thing I've noticed is that along with time, the descriptions of the main characters seem to change. Danton—in earliest reviews described as “absolutely repulsive," then later as a tragic man, someone who adores life. Robespierre—in earliest reviews described as an absolute “marble statue," an idealist, someone pure, then in later reviews as just a fanatic.

 

7. What about Wajda? Did he change the text much? What about the scenography?

I was surprised to learn that Wajda absolutely could make a good, Przybyszewska-accurate play.

 

From all I could find, there is not much I can accuse Wajda of when it comes to ‘The Danton Case’ stage adaptations. It was made very well. What most likely contributed to the later change in people's mentality when met with the play is the fact that the audience was sort of a part of the performance. How? Like this:

“It [the play] takes place on a stage placed in front of the audience; on the actual stage and in the rest of the audience sit in rows of chairs rising upwards. Everything encompassed by the scenography is one theater. This played out brilliantly in the second parts, in the beautifully composed group scenes, where the audience not only looks at the stage but is drawn into it as an extra audience at the hearings of the revolutionary tribunal.”

And

“Wajda made "The Danton Case" as if against himself—against his previous self: he gave up on visual effects, music, and symbolism. He built a spectacle—a spectacle indeed!—raw and beautiful. (…) During the (…) presentation of "The Danton Case," seats for viewers were also installed on the stage, which was fortunately spacious, the audience surrounds the actors, the actors are among the audience, on the balcony, in the passages.”

If Danton or Robespierre were so close to the audience, I think it really did influence the people's opinion of it later on. Pawlik was terrified, jumping like a fish out of water from one audience member to the other, and there was Pszoniak, white and still under his shroud just a few meters away. That did certainly change the performance's reception.

8. Where can I watch this?!

As I have mentioned here: the play isn't available online, but most certainly is somewhere in the archives (confirmed by Pszoniak), when it was supposed to have a TV debut the martial law was introduced, and a few years later everyone seemed to have forgotten about it.

So, erm… Who's raiding the archives with me? (By the way, fragments of the play exist online, but only 10-20 minute excerpts, so if I find the time, I'll try to track them down.).

Sources:

Books:

Aktor. Wojciech Pszoniak w rozmowie z Michałem Komarem, Wydawnictwo Literackie 2009;

Maciej Karpiński, Pszoniak, Wydawnictwa Artystyczne i Filmowe Warszawa 1976;

Małgorzata Terlecka-Reksnis, Pszoniak. Fragmenty, Wydawnictwo Poznańskie 2024

Photos used and play reviews (pardon the rhyme):

http://encyklopediateatru.pl

[fishysaltine]

Honestly I’ve always seen Bloodbath (or the kill Zara quest) as Illario’s final desperate attempt to be swayed form his plan. It kind of reminds me of Solas and Varric’s note of him in the beginning of the game “he just needs someone to give him a different option”

Like Illario is genuinely upset about this whole thing. He thought Lucanis was dead, and we see that he was such a chronically depressed alcoholic yapper after Lucanis’ death that even though he did give the hit, he at least regretted it or it didn’t sit well with him. (I have no doubt Zara manipulated him to some extent into it, since she has her eyes on Lucanis after the Wigmaker job anyway, but neither Zara or Illario are actually explored in game). But when Illario is taking us to the boat, he makes note of saying Catarina didn’t tell him because “I would have tried to save him.” The way he says that line is in a COMPLETELY different tone than anything else he says. It’s stern and to the point, not condescending like after Illario takes out Zara and talks down on Lucanis, telling him he’s a danger and liability.

If Illario knew Lucanis was actually alive, he probably would have killed Zara earlier. And Zara obviously KNEW THIS because she didn’t tell Illario Lucanis was ALIVE for that very reason. Illario never knew about Spite. He never planned for the Ossuary. He never meant for that to happen! Zara knew that whatever Illario and she had going on would never even be close to the bond Lucanis and Illario have, and Illario would put that over power every single time.

Almost every single time.

Because he knows what he did, and he still goes out for coffee with Lucanis and the weirdo rando that saved him. And then he tries to convince Lucanis to stay away from Zara, because he knows that Zara is capable of and how not only she can, but has hurt Lucanis. (She turned his big brother into an abomination!)

WAIT A MINUTE WHO ELSE DOES THAT? Lucanis does! Except Lucanis is more direct about it. Says that Zara might come after him. Illario tries to convince Lucanis she’s in fuckass land, get him out of the situation ENTIRELY involving Antiva, the Anntam, First Talon. Yeah, there’s probably a selfish motivation, but in Wigmaker Illario is so fucking scared Lucanis is going to essentially fling himself off a cliff, there’s a genuine “heyy can you take a holiday? Can you stop being passively suicidal for me, your little cousin? Can we stop with the ‘death is my calling’ shit?”

Of course Illario can’t just go “uhh I’ll take care of it dw bro” because to Lucanis the beef with Illario and Zara isn’t merely as personal as he (and Spites) beef with her. They really just want to protect one another and get their dues.

Illario killing Zara wasn’t so much for him. I mean she kind of played him, but whatever, it didn’t necessarily affect Illario in anyway, it was for Lucanis. A way to try and appease the guilt of something that he never intended to happen to his older brother. That’s why Illario wants to be there during Bloodbath. “It’s Crow business” aka ‘WHY ARE YOU TAKING WEIRDO RANDO 1 & 2 OVER ME? I deserve to be at your side, I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth and back, why won’t you let me anymore?’

So Illario meets Lucanis and his rando friends on the rooftop. Lucanis asks him what he’s doing there- and Illario says he wants to go. He’s so desperate to go, to prove his alliance to his big brother cousin. But that’s not all. Lucanis has been gone for a year, and then left immediately. Killing and missions, being Crow’s is one of the main ways Lucanis and Illario bond.

Illario has never felt good enough. For his grandmother, for Lucanis, for anyone. That’s why he started this mess. Zara tells him Lucanis doesn’t think he’s good enough, he never will be, until he does the most Crow thing ever and cuts him out of the family line. Then finally, maybe, when his cousin’s eyes are glassy and corpse empty, will they be filled with approval.

But Lucanis is right here (with two randos)! And Illario asks him to involve him, just looking for that smidge of approval. And Lucanis says no. Ok. Cool! Maybe he just wants you safe. Fine, whatever. But you’re capable- at least you think you are.

So you ask the damning question. “You think I’m not good enough?”

And your cousin, your big brother, simply says: “Are you?”

While surely a good natured jab from Lucanis as siblings do, had Lucanis’ answer been anything even close to praise or more concern, I think Illario would’ve been fine to step out of the way. ALL he needed was Lucanis’ mild assurance/approval. Just a ‘oh no, you’re good enough. I just don’t want you getting hurt is all’

But he doesn’t say that. He simply feeds into the very insecurity that sent Illario to selling him out, the very one that Zara told him but he never quite believed until the words came from Lucanis’ mouth. ‘You’re not good enough to stand by my side anymore.’ And potentially ‘I’ve replaced you with rando 1 & 2, I don’t need you anymore’

So then he doubles down. No more playing nice cousin or big brother little brother. If Lucanis doesn’t want Illario by his side anymore- fuck it, Illario doesn’t need him. Lucanis saying Illario isn’t good enough isn’t just a blow to his ego, or self confidence/self esteem, it’s a flat out rejection. So he takes the kill from Lucanis, and essentially tells him to get the fuck out of dodge or else, and then tries to strong arm first Talon.

Lucanis never quite gives Illario “the different option.” Illario throws their bond away not because he necessarily wants to, but because he thinks Lucanis’ threw it away first, and that he’s just folding onto a frayed rope (not even mentioning how Illario crosses out Lucanis’ name in the family line, showing how he just… almost doesn’t exist. He’s gone to Illario. Illario’s so hurt by everything he just wants Lucanis gone at this point, come hell or high water.)

Lucanis quite literally says that the only way Catarina would be proud of Illario is if he kills her, and if that extends to Lucanis, so be it.

[call-me-copycat]

BNHA Spoilers:

(Also this is just a complaint post, I'm not very good at explaining my thoughts so please don't try to argue :⁠-⁠( Feel free to add on thoughts but I can't argue )

I have to say I'm not too happy with the leaks, which is hard for someone like me to admit!

As an AceAro person, I was thrilled with the original ending and the fact that no ships were confirmed nor denied, because it left enough for the fans to work with while not shutting anyone down outright

I'm not really a fan of ships, I'll be honest, and I don't really like romance in anime (hard to avoid! I know!), but I never really saw anything wrong with people and their ships and whatnot, and I never minded analyzing some of them for some friends - it was all in good fun after all!

The pairs in the leaks felt like something out of character almost, it didn't feel very... Horikoshi Style I suppose

I do enjoy getting extra MHA content, I always always will, but it isn't a good feeling to me seeing these characters in this anime that focuses on motivation and inspiration and becoming Heroes eventually getting together and dating - I'm not sure, I guess it's the unfitting themes? Something about it unnerves me

I don't know, I've always been adverse to romance my whole life, I always preferred plot and writing instead of two characters getting together (if the plot and writing lead up to two characters getting together? I'm fine with that)

I've seen people saying Uraraka and Deku are canon and I have to say... I don't really feel comfortable with that

I can see it as cute, yes! But I feel that he didn't have as deep a relationship to her as he did with Bakugo (they're always themed around each other, and I found whatever relationship they have with each other very profound, as it ran very deep for a very long time)

Same goes with Toga and Uraraka - it happened over the course of the series, I got to see them learn and struggle together, I got to see them talk about their problems and desires and it felt overwhelmingly different than when it's Deku and Uraraka

I may be biased in the end, I have friends who ship Deku and Bakugo and I have friends who ship Uraraka and Toga, but I've seen some very informative takes that explain it a lot better than me why I think they're such good parallels to each other

I like that Deku and Uraraka are good motivators to each other, Uraraka inspired him in the beginning when he really needed it and he returned it to her as well - but I can't really see it as romantic? Then again, ignore that because I can't see anything in MHA as romantic

I dunno, I feel the romance really overtook the whole plot away from the ending and I'm devastated - that's all what everyone's talking about right now, no?

Deku and Uraraka

Denki and Jiro

The rumor of Bakugo being married (?)

Kinoko and Kuroiro are dating

That's not even all, there could be more that I easily missed

It feels very unsatisfactory, it makes it seem like Love was the entire meaning of the series My Hero Academia when it was not! I'm a big full-circle person, I would have adored a call-back! Something that alludes to the beginning of the series, like what they did with the cover

I want to see how Hero Society is, I want to see Deku and how he coped with the loss of OFA, I want to see Aizawa, I want to see Present Mic! How is he doing, I want to know if he's okay? Is Nezu still the principal? There are less demand for heroes since there aren't as many villains, I want to see that change and its effects! I want to hear more about Vigilante Heroes, and I want to see other Underground Heroes, I want to know more about the Quirk Doomsday Theory, and more about what the world was like when quirks first formed, and I would like to see Hisashi Midoriya! There's so much, see? I would rather talk about that and more over who's dating who ( ･᷄ὢ･᷅ )

It has its good moments, I will always love seeing the (former) class interact with each other, and I really liked seeing the new Hero Rankings, especially with some of the aged up designs for the characters - I can feel how much love Horikoshi has for these characters no matter what's going on in the series

I don't know, don't take me too seriously because I am a biased person after all - I've dropped one of my favorite book series as a kid because my favorite (the most competent) character died, and then every person in the book had gotten together with another person - it was a similar disappointment because it ignored the plot (it was a post-zombie apocalypse series) in favor of looking towards romance once more

Fairy Tail recently came out with their 100 Years Quest, and I know I dropped the anime early on as a kid (in favor of MHA ironically), but coming back to it only to see almost (if not) all characters together in a relationship, some with kids? I know, don't go near anime if you don't like the tropes, I've been told that before - I'm just complaining a little because I didn't expect to see it in MHA so I'm a little shocked

Nevertheless, I'm still looking forward to seeing the rest of the epilogue, I'm always a fan of Horikoshi even if I don't like some things (⁠；⁠^⁠ω⁠^⁠）. It's still a treat for me to get more MHA content, I love the art and I love being a part of the fandom -

I'm sure some time in the future I'll even miss the shipping wars that went on lol

[a-hughes22]

Eras Tour (Nico's Version)

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Swiftie!Reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Some sweet little headcanons of what it would be like to go to the Eras Tour with Nico! I can’t believe it’s almost over :(

Word count: 448 words (unedited)

Since you began dating, Nico has gotten to know your love for Taylor Swift.

He’s heard a few of her hit songs before, but he wouldn’t consider himself a fan. But he doesn’t complain when you play her music for him and might just secretly enjoy it! He ends up adding a few songs to his many different playlists.

You also show him clips of the Eras Tour, telling him how much you wish you guys could go. But the tickets are expensive, and almost always sold out.

Nico understands how much it would mean to you if you guys went, so he works really hard to find tickets for one of her last shows. Thankfully, he manages to snatch up a pair for Taylor’s final show in Vancouver!

To prepare for the show, the two of you create friendship bracelets to hand out. He also listens to the official set list to familiarize himself more with the songs.

By December 8th he’s memorized most of the songs!

The two of you wear a matching outfit: you’re wearing a sparkly pink set to represent Lover, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that says “KARMA”.

You guys take lots of pictures, trade friendship bracelets, and talk with the people around you. Before the show’s even started both of your arms are stacked with colorful bracelets!

When the countdown ends and Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince begins to play, he feels just as excited as you.

He proudly screams the Cruel Summer bridge and the two of you share a dance during Lover.

He manages to sing pretty much every word in the All Too Well 10-minute version.

Like you, he cries during Marjorie.

The surprise songs that Taylor has chosen tonight are Daylight/Today Was A Fairytale and Timeless/ New Year’s Day.

When the Midnights era begins, he feels sad that it’s almost over.

He turns so red during the choreography of Vigilante Shit, and you tease him about it for the rest of the night.

Once Karma finishes, Taylor disappears from the stage. The stage turns black, and she doesn’t reappear. On the screen, a snake and a date appear. It’s the announcement of Reputation (Taylor’s Version)!

She finally returns on the stage wearing a brand-new outfit: a dress that displays all of her eras. She begins a speech thanking everyone for this journey and performs Long Live as the closing song of the entire tour.

Nico tells you that this was one of the most magical nights of his life, and that maybe, just maybe, he’s a certified Swiftie now.

[reactor-stress-is-a-resource]

[VIDEO FEED BEGINS]

Video opens to Pyroclast in the hold of her ship. The feed shakes as she sets the camera down on an object in the corner, waving a paw in front of it and snapping a few times for the camera to focus.

The feed is angled from a corner into the hold, with Pyroclast's Tokugawa 'Flashpoint' center frame. A Nelson's Perpetual Momentum Drive, or something that once was a Drive, is suspended beside the frame on chains. It has clearly been tampered with, and a great number of tubes wires and clamps run from the device to the Tokugawa's back.

Pyroclast beams, gesturing triumphantly to the slapdash assembly with both arms outstretched.

"Here it is! Draft one of the Perpetual Heat Battery! Up there I've got a PMD off a Nelson, jury-rigged with help from the Albatross- I'll have to tag them when I put this video up. Anyways! The actual backpack mount's next, I just wanna make sure the system's worked out okay."

She rushes off-screen for a moment, and a loud metal scraping sound is audible as she drags a waist-high crate between her and the Tokugawa.

"There we go! Safety second. Now then!"

She produces something that looks like a detonator from her pocket, crouching down behind the crate as Volta fades in over her shoulder to look at Flashpoint alongside her. The frame powers up, plates over the chest cavity splitting apart and retracting to reveal a cannon of some kind. It begins to glow, layers within the barrel starting to light up and spin, faster and faster.

"Okay, reactor's hot! Thermal demolition system up, Flashpoint's alive. Now let's start the PHB..."

She turns a dial on the detonator, at which point the Perpetual Momentum Drive hums to life. Its glow is different than a normal Drive's, and a faint heat mirage is visible in the air around it.

"Good, good, okay."

She turns to the camera, giving it a thumbs-up.

"Perpetual Heat Battery, version one! Hot and ready! Firing in THREE! TWO! ONE! FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

Her paw clenches around the detonator with a click. The Drive's humming reaches a crescendo, and then suddenly stops as the cannon in the Tokugawa's chest cavity emits a blinding white cone of heat and flame, crossing almost the entire hold. Then it's over.

Pyroclast shoots to her feet, arms raised triumphantly in a flash, spinning around to face the camera as she pumps her fists in the air.

"It works! It works! Fuck yeah, it works! Okay, next step is to make the-"

Suddenly, there's a metallic ping from the Drive, and a fist-sized chunk of metal goes flying past Pyroclast's face. Then, without warning, the camera is knocked to the ground as a thundrous explosion shakes the entire hold. Alarms start to blare, and the rush of depressurizing air giving way to hard vacuum takes over the remaining audio.

"Fire suppression systems engaged. Venting hold."

All audio is lost as the last of the air leaves. The feed cuts as Pyroclast picks up the camera and turns it off, a frazzled expression on her face.

[VIDEO FEED ENDS]

>> Welp, here's how it went.

>> The Winterhalter's all fixed up now, but. Well. That's what happened.

>> @albatross-lancer

[Pyroclast]

[townofcadence]

bloodlustiing:

"Ohh there you go, isn't that sweet? Just like old times. Though I admit, it was more fun when you had all the room in the world to scream until you lost your voice, and nobody could hear you. Such a shame you went and destroyed my home, isn't it?" He squeezes down on a handful of intestines as he says the word home. Enough to cause pain, but not enough to rupture. It was a very delicate balance. "But don't worry, you will be rebuilding it in due time." His hand relinquishes its grip on Artair's intestines, but don't leave his body cavity. No, instead it continues and travels upwards inside, claws scraping across organs and tissue alike. Almost as if he's just playing with his insides, causing as much pain as he thinks he can get away with. At one point he even leans to reach farther up and in, careful to nudge things out of his way very tenderly so he can nudge at Artair's heart a few times-- just to make it spasm a little bit. But he doesn't linger there for long. In fact he's fairly quick to return to Artair's intestines and begin to pull them loose and even out of his body. Intestines were quite the fascinating things after all, capable of doing all this with sometimes only the barest of trauma. But Ares is intending a different sort of trauma with them. He takes the handfuls of guts and places them on Artair's chest, so that he may take hold of them soon. "Hm. It's really not as fun when you can't do much, is it? Tell you what…" His eyes flash, and he raises his finger to lick some of the blood off of its tip. He's released his holds on his toy. "Run. Try to get away."

"Hhhh-hhh-hhhhh....." Artair can't answer, not that he would if he could. But he does make a strangled noise as he feels hands inside, scraping and squeezing and doing all these things that hands shouldn't do inside a body, that his head can hardly fathom being done. He is still crying and he chokes, again and again as Ares hollows him out with his hands like he is a glorified pumpkin he's gutting.

There is a threat in what he says, but he hardly pays attention, except to the spike of pain that punctuates his words with the authority Ares desires. The sound he lets out is soft, but the whole of his body shows how much he feels it, as he all but splits in two by the spine with each tug, pull, squeeze, and scrape. He chokes when Ares' fingers press against his thundering heart, gasping and on the mismatched rhythm he forces.

He doesn't fully comprehend the situation, when his guts are freed and laid over him in handfuls. He certainly doesn't know how to respond when they are placed in loops that go in and out of him on his heaving chest. Ares says something, and his body goes entirely limp. His hand moves of its own volition. He can't focus.

"Wh---- -what...-?" He squeezes out the word, and it's louder than a whisper, by the barest degree. His eyes on Ares are wide.

That tells him all he needs to know. He grabs what Ares has spooled out of him and shakily pushes it back in through the horrific gash, rushing because Ares has never had much patience when he wants something. He rolls, and his single arm braces the ground before he tries to stand.

His legs bend wrong, they don't abide his desperation and he collapses back to the dirt in agony. His breath leaves him in a gust and pain burns in serrations at his knees. With a groan, Artair curls, hand splayed over the open wound in his stomach. All of him is pain right now. That's all that exists, each erratic pulse of his heart pulling it through all his veins and spilling it in his blood and tears.

But that's what he was made for.

And then his hand moves forward, taking a clump of damp grass. Rain pelts him and Ares and slakes the ground with mud, but even through that, Artair tries to crawl. His hips takes his weight and so does his shoulder and his arm grabs the earth to pull himself further along. How he even moves, he doesn't know. But it is something. He has to survive. He doesn't know how it is possible, but he has to.

[blade-that-was-broken]

Wrath and Ruin

Reunions Part 1

With the fear for his family and the loan sharks previously on his tail, Floyd runs back to the Troll Kingdoms, entering from the far side of Pop territory and he eventually makes it to Pop Village. They aren’t quite as loud as in canon, and have a tendency to hide more but the forest is protective of them and Floyd. When he makes it to Pop Village, Floyd is reunited with Clay. 

Floyd is relieved to see a brother. Since it is the middle of the day when he finds Clay, he thinks Branch might be in school so they talk. They have a reunion and Clay talks about what happened and the escape, careful about the news about Branch. Floyd tells him of his old bandmates and the letter he received about the destruction of the pop trolls and the war. He doesn’t tell him everything about his history. 

Clay actually doesn’t know about the war itself. Eventually, he is forced to confess about Rosiepuff and Branch. Floyd is floored to the point that he goes gray and gets into a depressive state for weeks. Clay takes care of him and as months go by, Floyd gets better but the blame nearly crushes him. Don’t know whose idea it is but the brothers decide they need to tell Spruce. Floyd had traveled a bit with him. With the route they take, it leads them near the troll tree where they find Bergentown entirely abandoned and in ruins. The tree is decimated. 

They are stunned and freaked out. It is here they meet a Funk Troll and he speaks of the tale of the Rock attack and how everyone believes nearly all pop trolls are dead. He inquires about other pop trolls but Clay keeps a little quiet on it. He’s paranoid. 

“Are there any other survivors?” Floyd asked with a frown. 

“A couple. One, at least,” the funk troll frowned. “But not really, sorry, no.” 

As they talk, Floyd falls into a hole that is kind of hidden which ends up being a tunnel. It goes the opposite way of the escape tunnels so they think perhaps there are more survivors. All three of them decide to follow it. The tunnel is long and the Brozone bros don’t know what made it. The funk troll tells them it was probably an armadillo bus but the boys don’t know that is. So during the travels, Floyd and Clay learn a bit more about the war - the initial start and how Rock eventually got the upper hand. They come to a collapsed end and things start to rumble. They think it is a dangerous armadillo bus and panics. The funk troll gets them out and to the surface with a gadget he has. “It’s not what it’s made for but it works, I guess.” 

Since getting out of the hole, they are out of Pop territory and for a while, don’t know where they are. They eventually find a town and go inside but then are almost arrested by Rock Trolls that control the town on suspicion of being pop trolls, however they are beforehand found by Spruce, who manages to hide them away in the home he has made for himself. 

Spruce looks a bit different, having painted and possibly tattooed himself a bit to appear more similar to those who has adopted the subgenre of. Spruce - Bruce - has been living under the guise of a subgenre for well over a year because pop trolls are hunted. He’s still learning about how things are working in this new world and regime. He knows a bit about what happened to the tree. The reunion is sweet and joyful once they get to safety and there are plenty of hugs. 

He gets to explain what happened to him - about Vacay Island and then how Brandy saved him when Rock trolls thought he was a pop troll. And here, he has been living for quite some time, trying to keep under the radar. He talks a bit about how a war seemed to be kind of starting up but they live kind of out of the way, so it takes time for information and communication to get to them. Spruce says he also knows about what is said to have happened to the Pop trolls and the tree. 

Floyd tells him that he saw what was left of the tree. Although considering the news about how Pop trolls seem to be hunted, Clay and Floyd don’t say anything about the other pop trolls in the hidden village (they’d probably tell Bruce later, in confidence). However, they do tell of their grandmother’s fate… as well as Branch. 

And that night, they mourn together. 

In the morning, over breakfast with Floyd and Clay’s funk troll friend as well as Brandy, the brothers start speaking of their oldest brother and what to do about trying to find him. No one knows where any other pop trolls are. He could be hiding like Bruce or maybe he was hiding alone in the mountains - after all, he wanted to go to the Neverglades. But the moment they mention John Dory’s name, they are given crazed looks. 

The funk troll is shocked into silence. Brandy spins around and shushes them immediately. The brothers are confused as she tells them to quiet down. “You don’t speak that name!” 

“Why not?”

Brandy explains that one can be arrested for even mentioning that, specific, name, on suspicion of collaboration. They ask why, of course. Before she can try to explain her side, the Funk troll says he’s a criminal, probably the most wanted troll in the Kingdom. You think Rock Trolls are terrible? John Dory is far worse. “He’s a criminal,” the funk troll stated, flatly. “You think Rock trolls do terrible things? John Dory is worse. He finds you? You’re never seen again.” 

He continues to insinuate John is a murderer but Brandy refutes it and tells them John is bringing back the war - rebellion. The brothers are still confused but Brandy tells them a story of one of the most well known soldiers from the start of the war - a near feral pop troll. Some of it is fake, of course, and some rumor. She tells them he has become a dagger in Thrash’s ribs, destroying convoys, guerrilla tactics and rescuing prisoners. 

Although the funk troll tries to reiterate that anyone who comes across him is never seen again and probably dead, Brandy insists they are taken to a safe haven. A place of peace where people can live in peace and sing their own songs without worry of becoming zombies. 

“Do you know how we can find him?” 

“You can’t find him.” 

“Why not?” 

“You can’t find him. No one can/No one can find him - he finds you.” 

And the brothers are just… so confused, understandably so, although relieved that John is alive. And then, the door is bust down - the Rock Trolls discovered the ruse.

Next Up: Journey

[benevolenterrancy]

("Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this." -- paraphrased from The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket)

[skunkes]

[ghost-bard]

feeling unwell about solavellan

[wonder-worker]

During [the spring and summer of 1141], a number of contemporary narrative sources agreed that Matilda’s sudden and unexpected success went straight to her head. Matilda’s most renowned modern biographer has suggested that “conduct acceptable in a powerful king . . . was not acceptable in a ‘Lady of the English’. This line of reasoning can be taken quite a bit further. It is clear that contemporaries expected Matilda to emulate the behavior of those women who had previously held the rank of regina, and act like a queen consort while performing the office of king. Most queens consort, however, did not have to consolidate recognition of their position as Matilda was constrained to do. Nearly all the chroniclers who had marveled at her assumption of power turned on her immediately. Not surprisingly, the Gesta Stephani took the greatest exception:

She at once put on an extremely arrogant demeanor instead of the modest gait and bearing proper to the gentle sex, began to walk and speak and do all things more stiffly and more haughtily than she had been wont.

But other more sympathetic chroniclers also joined this chorus of disapproval: Henry of Huntington described her as “elated with insufferable pride” while the Worcester chronicler noted her “hard heart” as she strove to consolidate her position. Had she been a man, Matilda’s decidedly authoritarian style might have passed for a regal show of strength. Indeed, Matilda probably felt that if she was to hold on to her newly acquired status, she needed to behave like a king. Thus, Matilda’s forward movement from recognition of her status to the execution of her office was fraught with gendered difficulties concerning how a woman ought to conduct herself.

...As she anticipated her crowning, Matilda strove to consolidate her dynastic claims and establish her authority. It seems reasonable to suppose that Matilda looked to her father and her first husband for examples of successful kingship as she did for representational purposes. Both Emperor Henry V and King Henry I were suspicious, uncompromising, relentless, and ruthless in the pursuit of their aims. Probably both would have advised Matilda to follow their example. This was exactly what St. Bernard told Queen Melisende of Jerusalem following the death of her husband: “show the man in the woman; order all things . . . so that those who see you will judge your works to be those of a king rather than a queen.” Much of Matilda’s behavior during the spring and summer of 1141 can be explained as the emulation of male gendered kingship. But kings had the built-in advantage of female consorts to soften the more hardboiled aspects of their rule; Matilda had played that very role herself for her first husband. Nevertheless, in 1141, Matilda eschewed the feminine aspects of queenship completely, in effect negating what could have been useful symbolism to bolster the construction of her authority. But for Matilda to be perceived as a soft, forgiving, and gentle woman at the one moment she needed to consolidate her position at the top of a male dominant political society would not have been practical.

But by constructing herself as a female feudal lord, and emulating male gendered kingship, Matilda annoyed contemporary observers. The chroniclers’ hostility may have been due to the fact that Matilda was claiming kingly sovereignty for herself alone, and not in association with either her husband or her eldest son. The Gesta Stephani described Matilda as not only arrogant, but also spurning the advice of her chief advisors, the earl of Gloucester, her uncle King David of Scotland, and the “kingmaker” himself, the Bishop of Winchester. The Gesta implied that if Matilda had behaved as a deferential woman, and heeded the counsel of her male advisors, she could have devised a means to permanently depose Stephen, and be crowned and anointed in his place. The Gesta placed Matilda’s ultimate failure at her own door, blaming it on her arrogant reliance on her inferior, womanly intellect and emotions.

Matilda’s hard-line stance, acceptable in a male king, bothered the authors of the Worcester chronicle and the Gesta, suggesting that contemporaries were confused by what they wanted the “Lady of the English” to do, indicating that, as a woman and a domina, she should behave gently like a queen rather than forcefully like a king. Combined, all the chroniclers, with the exception of Malmesbury, suggested that Matilda should have used the intercessory powers of queenship to set Stephen free, moderated the harsher aspects of her father’s rule, and excused the Londoners from financial support. Although a more diplomatic approach might have helped, freeing Stephen at that moment in time would have realistically served no practical purpose in establishing Matilda’s authority. And, in denying Eustace his inheritance, Matilda was only imitating the efforts of her father, Henry I, who also dealt harshly with challengers to his throne. Henry I kept his elder brother Robert Curthose in prison until he died, and prevented his nephew, William Clito, Curthose’s heir, from gaining any aspect of the Anglo-Norman inheritance. Matilda wished to convince her contemporaries that she was quite capable of being a king, but their reactions betrayed hostility toward her as a woman presuming to establish kingly authority.

-Charles Beem, "Empress Matilda and Female Lordship", The Lioness Roared: The Problems of Female Rule in English History"