#we bash toxic parents!

[shih-coulda-had-it]

What if Nao and Nana got to meet :(

Acceptable mother-in-law & daughter-in-law friendship. In Nana Lives!AU, Nao likes Nana more than her parents do; Nana has girlbossed her way to the top of the pro-hero industry, married her husband (Sorahiko) late and didn't even have biological kids with him, and she keeps Kotarou on his toes instead of expecting him to 'keep order' of his household. She's a role model.

Nana likes Nao; she's sweet, kind, gentle... Nana considers Nao to be a better mom than she was, but really, it's just that Nao's parenting style gets to work in a peaceful suburban setting. Nao can afford to be a stay-at-home mom because Kotarou is (1) alive and (2) dedicated to bringing home that bread. She does think the traditionalist mindset Nao's parents have is restrictive, though.

[ichorai]

button ; coriolanus snow. (m)

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; what did make him pause, however, was the very top button of your shirt. misshaped. odd. not matching the rest of your buttons. his gift to you. “you’re wearing it,” coriolanus whispered. his voice sounded strained.

words ; 3.4k

themes ; fluff, mild angst, smut

warnings / includes ; unprotected sex (not very explicit), possessiveness, themes of classism, we meet reader's rich parents !! and grandma'am and tigris appear, coryo's paranoia, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could </3

a/n ; there will be a third part loosely following the events of the movie (obv tweaked for the fic!)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Your home was the very definition of old money—wealth and grace and high status carved into the marble floors, hung up in the large oil paintings, found within the fibers of the expensive carpets leading into grand halls. Snow had to consciously remind himself to appear unphased. He had this sort of life, too, as far as you were concerned.

It was only expected, especially considering your parents’ high positions: with your father being the top admiral of the navy, and your mother a renowned physicist with several awards under her belt. Dozens of rows of medals and framed certifications from both your parents were more than enough for Snow to gauge the mass of their importance.

He shifted the weight of his feet in his too-tight shoes. Anxious. He wore his dress shirt again, though not before asking Tigris to try and rework the buttons. The buttons hewn from his bathroom tiles. Make them look the same, he had told her. They’re uneven. Snow turned away before he could see her mildly crestfallen expression.

It was a special occasion, hence his dressed-up attire. There was a rose pinned to his waistcoat, a deep shade of red, from his Grandma’am’s rooftop garden. Your father had come home today, after months of military work in the districts. And to celebrate such a momentous evening, you invited him to dinner. 

To meet your parents. How utterly fraught.

Though, now that the two of you were officially together (albeit only recently—Sejanus asked if the two of you were a thing and Coryo replied with an instinctive, possessive yes, much to both of your surprise), Coriolanus supposed there was no use in delaying the inevitable.

“Don’t be nervous,” you told him, arm looped around his. The white rose he’d given you upon his arrival was tucked neatly behind your ear, a lovely contrast to your all-black garb. In a light-hearted tone, you added, “Father would be able to smell it on you. The fear.”

Coriolanus shot you an exasperated glance, to which you only smiled. You landed a soft, reassuring kiss onto his cheek, hand sliding down from his elbow to lace with his. 

“You look… breathtaking,” he said, lifting your conjoined palms to brush his lips over your knuckles. Of the many lies that he told you, this certainly wasn’t one of them. 

Your eyes gleamed with the light from the chandelier hanging above you.

“And you look handsome as ever.” A pause. You seemed bashful all of a sudden, averting your gaze to the gold patterns on the marble floors. “I know this is all very new, so I apologize in advance, if my father asks about our, uhm… our future… He’s a very forward man.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he slotted his free hand beneath your chin, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly over the side of your throat, forcing you to look back at him. “I have no intention of letting you go, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You smiled again, all sunlight and warmth, and Coriolanus couldn’t help but steal it away with one last kiss. 

“Ready?” you asked, jerking your head in the direction of the dining room. 

Snow swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

Dinner was quite a pleasant affair. The food was better than anything the academy ever served—Coriolanus wondered how you could willingly go from eating such delicacies at home to basic, run-of-the-mill meals the cafeteria provided. There were courses, tender peppered steaks (his very favorite), rich mushroom soups, iced lemon cakes, and several sorts of breads and butters were offered all throughout.

Your mother was a delight, enchanting him with stories of laboratory mishaps and her dangerous adventures with radioactive material. You looked a lot like her, he realized.

Your father, on the other hand, was pressing at first, grilling Coriolanus with dozens of personal questions. If you hadn’t warned him beforehand that he was a military leader, he most definitely would’ve worked it out for himself then. There were times where you politely but forcefully snapped at him, telling him to lay off the invasive interrogation and to let the poor man eat. But Coriolanus really didn’t mind��he’d spent hours upon hours preparing himself for this. He answered all of the questions with effortless ease.

By the third course, your father was satisfied. Reluctant, but satisfied. By the fourth, he was already asking about marriage, much to your mortification. Coriolanus smiled down at his plate, and quietly listened to you lecture your father about privacy and civility.

Yes, dinner was quite enjoyable. Several containers of food from unseen servants were wrapped up for him to take home, at your request, despite his polite protests. It wasn’t a common thing to do in the capitol, but your parents hadn’t batted an eye. 

He was safe. They didn’t know. It was an ongoing mantra the entire night.

He was shown out the door by your father, who clapped a large hand on his shoulder and told him to take care of you, especially while he was gone. Your mother kissed him once on each cheek as farewell, and you did the same, though your kisses strayed far closer to his lips. He caught the mischievous gleam in your eyes. 

The door shut behind him once he strode into the expansive courtyard in front of your mansion of a home. He glanced down at the rose pinned to his coat, wondering if you were still wearing yours behind your ear. A minute later, he jumped out of his reverie when the entrance creaked open once more. You peeked your head back out, eyes alight, pleased to see that he was still there. 

You slid out from the entryway and made your way to him with quick strides, wasting no time to rest your hands upon his chest. To his delight, you were still wearing the rose. “Father and mother left to watch television in the estate’s Northern wing. Didn’t want to kiss you in front of them.”

There were wings to your house? Coriolanus blinked at you, accidentally letting his indifferent mask slip for a few seconds. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything about it, leaning forward to kiss him sweetly. It took him another moment to gather his wits, before winding his arms about your waist and deepening the kiss, nearly bending you backwards with his vigor.

He could never tire of this, he thought, fingers curling so his nails dug into the expensive black fabric of your top. Kissing you, touching you, entertaining the notion that you were his, and only his. 

When you pulled away, your lips were wonderfully kiss-swollen and your pupils were blown wide, to his amusement. Were his eyes just the same?

“Thank you for being here today,” you mumbled, that smile-frown he was so fond of gracing your features once more. “I’m sorry if my parents were too—”

“They were wonderful. You’re wonderful,” he interrupted, tone soft. His hand lifted from your waist to cup your face. Cold fingers against flushed skin. “I’ll see you at the academy?”

A nod, a grin, and a relieved sigh. “Sleep well, Coryo.”

“You, too.” He pulled away, reluctant, allowing his hands to fall back to his sides. “You look good with it, you know. The rose.” With a final nod, he turned on his heel and walked away from your estate, back to his own cold penthouse, where he had to burn newspaper scraps to keep warm.

The months drew by like a lazy stream of water, gliding over a bed of stones, languid and pleasant. Your time with Coriolanus was nothing short of utter bliss. He was a sweet lover, despite his possessive streaks, always making sure you were alright with what he was doing. The two of you went slow and steady, always asking, always gentle. He kissed you as if you were made of sugar glass, and you held onto him as if he was a fragile ceramic vase.

Exams were drawing nearer with each passing day, and the two of you found yourself studying and cramming more than anything. He would often tell you that there was no need for you to study so hard, especially when you were already at the very top, likely to claim the Plinth prize for yourself, but you always waved him away with a modest laugh. If the two of you weren’t at the library pouring over dozens upon dozens of books, you were finding ways to sneak him into your home: kissing behind stone statues in the gardens, hiding behind velvet curtains, pulling him onto your massive, four-poster bed.

It was only a matter of time until you asked.

His arm was draped over your bare midriff, drawing mindless shapes into your hip. Your head rested back against his chest, mildly sweaty from the lovemaking session the two of you were still dwindling down from. You stared out your window, watching the sun slowly bleed the sky a hazy clementine hue, teeth sinking down into the flesh of your bottom lip in thought.

“Why haven’t we ever studied at your home, Coryo?” you asked. “I’ve yet to meet your cousin. You talk about her a lot… she seems wonderful.”

You felt a cold breath billow over the back of your neck. It sent pleasant chills spider down your spinal column. And you could’ve imagined it, but his fingers seemed to flex over your bare flesh. Twitch. Almost antsy. Did your question make him uncomfortable?

Shifting in his grasp, you turned within his arms so you could face him. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you, or anything. I just… just know that I’d never judge you.”

His expression was near unreadable, the blue of his eyes even paler than usual with the sunset’s light casting a honey-glow over both of your sprawled-out forms. He kissed you again, hungrily, almost as if to distract you. You let him.

Kiss you, touch you, bruise you. Any of it, all of it.

A low groan barreled within his chest when you fisted a handful of his soft blonde waves at the base of his neck, gently tugging. 

“Nothing you could show me would make me love you any less,” you muttered against his lips, nose nudging against his. “Nothing, Coryo.”

And he, in a moment of love-addled weakness, let himself believe you.

Come the next afternoon, you were at the door of the Snows’ penthouse, a basketed batch of warm cookies held in one hand, the other holding a heavy bag full of all your textbooks to study. If the two of you were going to study at all today. Your mother was aghast that you were about to visit his home without some sort of gift, and abruptly shoved the basket of goodies into your arms out of seemingly nowhere, as if materialized out of thin air.

“Coriolanus loves the chocolate chip ones,” she harrumphed whilst ushering you out the door. “Honestly, showing up to someone else’s home empty-handed? Who raised you?”

The irony was not lost on either of you, and you barked out a laugh before kissing her farewell and setting off to visit him. 

You rang the rusted doorbell once—curiously regarding the little button once you realized that it was broken. Then, you knocked the door twice, then another two times for good measure. There was a muffled scuffling behind the door, a woman’s voice echoing from behind.

And when it swung open, you were met with an elderly woman, shrouded in a too-large, black tunic with embroidered flowers on the sleeves, the threads loose and pulled, the once-vibrant colors faded. She wore a turban, covering most of her white hair save for the few thin tendrils framing the sides of her face. 

“Hello, I’m Coriolanus’ classmate,” you greeted, in an ever-so-capitol-esque manner. “You must be his… Grandma’am?”

She appeared confused for a moment, before slow sparks of recognition fired across her blue eyes. Coriolanus had the same eyes, you noted.

“Oh!” she crooned. “Oh, dear me! Coriolanus! It’s your lovely friend!” 

There was a bit of commotion down the hall. The brief moment of pause allowed you to finally take in why Coriolanus hadn’t wanted you to come to his home all this time. The penthouse was still quite lavish, as the Snow estate was one of the most expensive properties in the capitol, but it was clear that the space was diminishing with the weight of its upkeep—flickering lights, dusty floors, tears in the wallpapers, mold on the countertops…

Your attention was drawn away from the view when Tigris and Coryo emerged from the same room, and you couldn’t help the smile that threatened to break across your features. His cousin was fretting over his lopsided curls, and he discreetly tried to duck out of her way to get to you.

“My, you are just as gorgeous as he said you were!” Grandma’am said in a pitching tone, wrangling your attention back to her. She lifted her hands to lightly pinch at your cheeks. “Yes, you’ll do just fine.” Her fingers fell away and she scuttled off, murmuring something about the Capitol’s First Partner—

Coriolanus breathed out your name and his hand was on your shoulder, apologizing once, twice, three times (what was he even apologizing for?), before Tigris popped up by his side, bumping him out of the way so she could shake your hand vigorously.

“Hi! I’m Tigris—it’s so nice to finally meet you!”

You shook the blonde woman’s hand, smile seeming to grow impossibly wider. “It’s nice to meet you, too! I love your dress.”

Her mouth dropped open in a flustered manner and a lovely rose shade dusted over her cheekbones. “Oh, this old thing?” She absentmindedly smoothed a hand down the frills of her pink dress. “Yeah, I… oh, it’s nothing, really, I just made it myself.”

“That’s incredibly impressive! You must be a really talented seamstress.”

A sharp clear of his throat made your eyes snap back to Coriolanus. 

“Coryo,” you greeted warmly. “I brought you cookies. Chocolate chip. Mother sends her regards.”

The two Snows in front of you eyed the basket with large eyes. 

“Thank you,” he croaked, accepting the basket from your extended hands and handing it over to his cousin. “Tigris, if you’d excuse us—we’ve got some studying to do.”

Coriolanus began to tug you down the hall, and you waved back to Tigris, telling her that you’d love to see any of her other dresses later. She’d already reached into the basket and had a cookie halfway to her mouth as she nodded at you with a toothy grin.

His room was in around the same state as the rest of the home. Furniture was old, torn, frayed, or simply broken. There were several boarded-up holes in his dresser. There was a box of rat poison below his desk, which was full with all sorts of papers and stacks of yellowing books. You skittered in and dropped your heavy bag down by his bed, allowing him to close the door behind you. You just barely registered the click of a lock.

“So?” he asked, voice sounding much louder in such a confined space. He seemed tense, as if bracing himself for the worst. “Are you disgusted yet?”

“What do you take me for?” you replied easily, having already gathered why he was so afraid of bringing you here in the first place. “I’m not a leech, nor am I vain, Coriolanus. I don’t want more money, and I’m not here to offer you charity to flaunt my wealth. I thought you’d know that by now.”

He stalked closer, observing you like a wolf would its prey. “What is it you want, then?”

When you took a step back closer to his small, rather wiry bed, he would take two longer strides, crowding you back against it. He dipped forward so that his lips were only a hair’s breadth from yours, but just barely not touching.

“You know, I’m sure.”

“I do.” Coriolanus knew that you wanted him just for him, and nothing gave him more pleasure than that simple fact. His nose brushed yours. 

“Would it make me a fool to stay?” you asked, the question fanning over his mouth. Inviting, ever so tantalizing. “You’re not planning on chopping me up and selling my organs for some cash, are you?”

He didn’t laugh at your little joke. Instead, he dove forward, one hand yanking your hips to his, the other winding over to the back of your head. He kissed you desperately, all teeth and tongue, hardened lips and his knee slotting between your thighs. 

“No,” he susurrated thickly, as if he’d swallowed honey and soil, pressing you down until you were fully laid down over his rickety bed, back arched. “You’d be mine. All of you, just mine.”

He swallowed any sort of gasp and moan that fell from your mouth. Greedy, lustful, determined to make you pliable. His kisses didn’t slow down whatsoever when he tore himself away from your lips, freckling them down your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your collarbones. 

What did make him pause, however, was the very top button of your shirt. 

Misshaped. Odd. Not matching the rest of your buttons. His gift to you.

“You’re wearing it,” Coriolanus whispered. His voice sounded strained.

“Mmh?” You glanced down at the button. “Oh. Of course, I am. I like how it looks.”

His face hovered above yours once more. His stare was so intense you began to shy away, staring at a moldy patch on the ceiling. The silence felt suffocating as you waited for him to do something. Anything.

“I love you,” he breathed out, finally. Upfront and abrupt. It wasn’t often that he said it. Maybe once or twice before, since you said it more than enough for the both of you. 

You laughed then—your wonderful, wind-chime laughter. It was more out of shock than anything. He kissed you soft and sweet, momentarily quelling your chuckling. But as the afternoon of so-called ‘studying’ drew on, the laughter melded into sighs of pleasure when clothes were shed, shifting towards wanton moans of desperation when heated flesh slid against one another. 

You nearly choked when his length breached your entrance, scratching faint red lines down the expanse of his back as he pushed in, pulled out. Rhythmic. Again and again and again—you couldn’t seem to get enough of him on top of you, inside of you, all around you. Your chest was pressed up against his; could he hear your heart beating through your ribs, yearning to feel his? The coil within your lower abdomen tightened. He read your every microexpression just perfectly.

He’d unbuttoned your entire shirt save for the oddly-shaped one, hands groping all over your bare skin, teeth biting down onto the patch of skin just above the button as he rocked himself into a climax, roping you down into the abyss with him. Ragged groans and broken sighs. 

Coriolanus dragged his tongue up your chest and your neck, leaving a cold trail in his wake, and he sucked in a deep breath. When he pulled back to stare at you—flushed, hair mussed, sweat beaded along your hairline, his pearlescent spend between your thighs, your eyes half-lidded… chest only barely covered by his one button…

“Thank you,” he croaked, kissing the space beside your left eye. “For not running.”

“Don’t make me a fool for it,” you replied, looping your arms over Coriolanus’ neck so he could kiss you properly.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

When you said that Catherine is stronger and smarter than what people give her credit for, what do you mean by that?

Her inner strength and mental fortitude.

She took back her boyfriend despite how much peaceful her life was without him in it. She was willing to put up with paparazzi, reporters hacking her phone calls and voicemails, and everyone being in her private business because she loved him that much.

She married him knowing that she'd have to live her hardest days out in public. She married him knowing that everyone would critique and have opinions on her body, her clothes, her hair, her voice, her work. She married him knowing that she'd have to share her children with complete strangers, that the press would be all up in her hoo-ha when she was pregant with said children, and that random strangers would be critiquing her parenting and mothering. She married him knowing that people would never see her as (or let her be) her own person.

A magazine published photos that a paparazzo took of her from 2 miles away while she was on a private holiday in a private home and had removed her top to sunbathe. She still appeared in public the very next day as if nothing had happened.

Her brother-in-law's wife called her a racist after three years of bashing her and bullying her daughter. She still appeared in public the very next day as if nothing had happened and she wasn't upset.

She was very sick and ill through three pregnancies but still showed up with a smile on her face to do her job. Her brother had severe depression and possibly thoughts of self-harm and she was attending therapy sessions to support and help him; she still showed up with a smile on her face to do her job. Photographers stalked her and her young son, to the point of hiding out in their car at a children's playground, and she still let us in to watch her son grow up.

She announced she was going through a severe and significant health crisis, published a family photo of her strength and stay, and people roasted her for making the kind of edits we all make, and she still continues to give us her family photos. She announced her health crisis was so much worse than initially expected, and people began openly speculating on her marriage and whether she was even alive.

She had every right to go with her husband to a beloved family member's bedside while they were dying but she stayed home so the brother-in-law's toxic wife couldn't go anywhere near the grieving family. When all she wanted was to stay home, cuddle their children to help them understand the finality of death, and cry over the loss of someone who meant so dearly and so personally to her, she put on a nice outfit, did her hair and makeup, and went out to greet the public to comfort them on their loss, not once, not twice, but five times.

To have the inner strength and the mental fortitude to keep showing up to a thankless press, a critical public, and the eye of history -- that takes a lot. Not all of us can do that. It's a rare and special kind of person who can.

And that's Kate.

[love-belle]

'cause summers go so fast !!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in which her only goal for the summer was to make it through the season without bashing someone's head in and have fun; not introduce more than half of her colleagues to her family and certainly not showing them around her hometown. but, universe always did fuck with her.

or

for when you realise that you don't have to be sorry for doing it all on your own. ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

real life // f1 grid x fem!reader // lewis hamilton x fem!reader

warnings - language. unhealthy and toxic familial relationships. daddy issues. mommy issues. issues. a lot of self projection in this one so !!

author's note - hi hi hi :) this is a series that im truly excited for and i know that i have like two series in progress but yeah !! this is gonna be me self projecting my feelings onto the reader so beware and don't make fun of me <3 i love you so much!!

chapter i ⋆·˚ ༘ *

❝if i wanted to watch a man and woman scream at each other, i would just go and have dinner with my parents — can i leave?❞

chapter ii ⋆·˚ ༘ *

❝are you okay? i mean, i did watch you fall down the stairs and lay on the ground for about ten minutes saying that you deserved this.❞

chapter iii ⋆·˚ ༘ *

❝oh my god, i shouldn't even have to say this but please, do not bite my cat. her name is coochie — STOP LAUGHING!❞

chapter iv ⋆·˚ ༘ *

❝look — i'll speak on behalf of everyone, we think you're cool and the only reason we didn't really hang out with you is because you intimidate us. a lot.❞

chapter v ⋆·˚ ༘ *

❝charles is a decent driver and we can make a run for it. go inside, tell them to fuck off, throw water at their face, scream at them and then we're getting the fuck out of here.❞

...more !!!

[sugarandspicewriting]

The World We Knew (Over and Over)

Summary: You are a musician serving the royal family in the golden kingdom. You follow thistle as he descends into madness.

Warnings: 1.6k words. Thistle gets a little toxic as the fic progresses. Mentions of Thistle's self harm tendencies. Angst ending :(

A/N: You've heard of enemies to lovers now get ready for lovers to not really enemies but the vibes are off now. I don't actually know if Thistle had to leave the castle to learn magic I but for the sake of the fic he did.

It all began with giggles trailing after you through the palace halls.

Your acceptance into the King's court had been unceremonious; your parents had served the royal family as musicians, and from a young age, it had been your dream to join them in performing. Prince Delgal took a particular liking to your music, often calling for your performances. Yet, it seemed someone else was more eager to hear you play.

"What do you want to hear from her, Thistle?" Delgal teased, his eyes twinkling mischievously as they landed on the elf always by his side. Thistle would invariably blush, stammering in response, "You called her! I can’t tell her what to do!"

You were familiar with Thistle, often spotting him in the prince's company. Sometimes, he would even smile and wave at you before retreating, dragging a laughing Delgal along with him.

And so, the persistent snickers of the prince and his elfin companion became a soundtrack to your days within the castle.

—--------------------

When Thistle finds a rare moment to slip away, he often visits your room at night. Despite the openness of your feelings for each other, he remains bashful and reserved. He twists his braid nervously until you understand he wants you to undo it for him.

 While you brush his hair, you observe the pieces of him that have found their way to your space. His lyre, propped up in a corner, a silent witness to the melodies he plays for you. Spare hair ties scattered around, remnants of his occasional absent-minded gestures. The bandages you bought were placed on the dresser for when he bites his thumb too hard in his worry for the Prince. His upcoming wedding seems to weigh heavily on his mind. Sometimes you wish he would ease his worries, if only for a moment.

But in this quiet moment, he’s slumped in your lap, and you take the chance to place his hair on one side of his head and brush your lips to his ear. He doesn’t respond but you see both his ears turn crimson, and you stifle a laugh. Better to not make him grumpy.

—-----------------

The wedding is tomorrow and Thistle can’t seem to find any peace. 

You could tell by the way he’s been darting around all day, obsessing over every detail. Still, it surprises you when he appears at your door in the dead of night, a trembling candle in his hand. The flickering flame casts shadows on his anxious face. You watch the flame sway in the air for a moment before looking at his face. 

Without a word, you draw him inside and envelop him in your arms. He murmurs something about security concerns into the curve of your neck, and you stroke his hair soothingly, hushing his worries.

Gently, you take the candle from him and put it on the nightstand, then drag him over to your bed and help him down on the mattress. He flopped down and you crawled over him to get to the other side of the bed. 

“You can stay here tonight. I love you.” you say softly.

As usual, he didn't say it back, but you were willing to wait. 

You blow out the candle, casting the room back into darkness.

Barely a minute passes ,and you feel him crawl over to you and wrap his arms around you and bury his face in your hair. It’s a rare display of vulnerability from him, a testament to the weight of his concerns.

You place your hands over his, gently rubbing your thumb over his skin. “I love you too,” he whispers into the quiet darkness.

—--------------------------------

Things are different now.

Prince Delgal ascends to the throne after his father's tragic death, and he insists that Thistle learn magic to protect him. 

The only reason you got to wish him goodbye is because you walked in his room to find him 

"You're leaving already?" you ask quietly, unable to mask the concern in your voice.

"The sooner I leave, the better. When I return, I'll be able to keep Delgal safe," Thistle replies, his tone strained with determination.

"And you. You too," he adds after a pause, as though remembering your presence.

You feel like an afterthought, overshadowed by the weight of the recent events and the king's legacy. Uncertain of what to say, you watch silently as Thistle finishes packing.

When he grabs his bag and heads towards the castle exit, he doesn't invite you to follow. But you do, driven by an unspoken need to be near him, to understand what he's going through.

Before he leaves you manage to get one last hug from him. It’s the first time he’s touched you in weeks.

“You’ll write to me?” You ask. Mercifully he loosely wraps his arm around your waist.

“Of course.” Thistle replies, though his voice lacks its usual warmth.

He parts with you and his farewell to Delgal is filled with concern and lingering goodbyes. You pretend not to notice the underlying tension, the unraveling edges of his composure.

—----------------------------

Everything is different when he comes back. 

He smiles more than he was but something is strange about it.You get to see him more, but nights that were once filled with soft touches and words are filled with one sided conversation about magic and the dungeon under the kingdom. He fidgets incessantly, unable to sit still long enough for you to even brush his hair. His words about power and protection wash over you, their meaning lost, but the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver down your spine. 

Still, he's here. He cares enough to share his thoughts, not just about the King's safety, but about everything that consumes his mind. Despite the concerned glances exchanged between you and Delgal at the dinner table, despite the moments when his grip on your arms tightens uncomfortably during his rants, you smile and nod, supportive of his ideas.

When he eventually leaves your side, you find yourself tracing the crescent-shaped marks on your skin left by his fingers. You remember the days when he would look away before summoning the courage to hold your hand.

—------------------------

You could leave the room if you really wanted to; no one would stop you. But the fear in Yaad’s eyes would always draw you back.

It had been ages since Thistle’s last visit, taking a momentary break on his fruitless search for Delgal. No one expected you to remain locked within the castle for eternity. In his absence, you were granted momentary freedom around the kingdom. Yet, straying from his expectations risked unsettling him. Not being where he would expect you to be when he came back could prove disastrous.

You picked at the Minotaur meat brought to your room, a gesture more habitual than necessary. Like the kingdom’s residents, you no longer needed sustenance. Yaad had arranged this meal at the request of recent visitors, hopeful they might end the reign of the Mad Mage.

The Mad Mage hardly sounded like a fitting name for the Thistle you once knew. Yet, time had woven madness into his every thought and action.When he had locked you all in the dungeon and cursed you with immortality you hardly recognized him The same eyes that once captivated you with warmth now held a terror you couldn’t bear to face. Thistle was the Lord of the dungeon, and he would forever keep you trapped in his perfect kingdom like rats in a cage. 

He would visit as he did in youth—sitting in your lap, requesting hair fixes, strumming his lyre in fleeting moments of joy, or sobbing in your embrace, tormented by Delgal’s absence. 

The villagers never got to see this side of him- the emotional side. It was never a side he was keen on sharing with most people. It used to make you feel special.

A familiar bell chimed, a gift from Thistle before he resumed his search for Delgal—a bell signaling his return to the realm.

As the bell on the wall rang, its faint chime echoing through the cold stone chamber, Thistle's return stirred a mix of emotions in you. You watched the heavy door creak open, revealing his figure silhouetted against the dim torchlight of the corridor beyond. 

"Thistle," you greeted softly, the name tasting bitter on your tongue yet wrapped in the sweetness of memories long past.

"I've returned," he murmured, his voice a fragile thread of the man he once was.

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. His touch, when he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face, was gentle yet tinged with an unsettling intensity. In that moment, you saw glimpses of the Thistle you had loved, a soul now lost in the labyrinth of his own making.

"I've missed you," he whispered, his voice cracking with a raw vulnerability that pierced through the shadows of the room.

And though the weight of his madness bore down upon your heart, you found solace in the fragments of his former self that still lingered. You reached out, hesitantly at first, and took his hand in yours. It was cold and trembling, a stark reminder of all that had been lost between you.

As the bell's echo faded into the silence, you knew that despite the darkness that had consumed him, a part of Thistle remained tethered to you. Locked in this eternal dance of captivity and fleeting connection, you found a fragile kind of peace in the depths of his broken mind.

[littlechaoticwitch]

Things I want to happen in Dead Boy Detectives Season 2

-Edwin and Crystal bonding over their grief about Niko's “death”. Both blame themselves for what happened and still have nightmares of Niko's body, so they turn to each other for comfort and a beautiful new bond is built between them. They're still catty and bitchy to each other, but in a more loving and playful way

-Maybe an unpopular opinion but I really don't want Payneland to get together in this season, purely from a narrative perspective. I would much prefer for Charles to slowly put the pieces together and realize he has been in love since that night in 1989, but confused those feelings for a strong friendship due to the rampant homophobia of the AIDS crisis and his own father being an asshole. It would make any future intimate moments with Edwin feel more special and carry so much more weight, especially since he KNOWS that Edwin is in love with him back, he just has to figure out what these feelings mean. Plus, the idea of him being all bashful and excited of being loved by TWO amazing people is good therapy for all the bullshit he had to deal with when he was alive, let my boy have that.

-Please please please let Charles get some closure on his past. As in he gets to haunt his murderers for an episode or stand up to his father, but that’s me wanting him to get some well-deserved revenge

-PLEASE give Crystal her own closure too! Personally, I would love to see her stand up to her parents and eventually cut them out of her life, but that's just me loving the narrative of cutting toxic parents out of your life. Also let her find a way to kill David because being buried underneath that damn tree isn't good enough for me

-Honestly we would to see an exploration of Edwin's family and the fact he was alive when the first world war happened. There could be a lot of unpacked trauma there (whether it's from the religious views of the time, societal expectations/pressures, or from his own parents) and how it shaped Edwin into the person we know now

-NIKO NEEDS TO RETURN (idk if she's a ghost or a demon or whatever now but she needs to come back and still be her bubbly self, I love her too much). My theory is that the Principal is her ancestor and her coming back could somehow link back to her father's death

-FLASHBACKS TO OLD CASES

-GALA EPISODE! No, listen, this only serves the purpose of getting to see them dressed up and the episode itself being pure shipping fuel

-More low-stake episodes, at least in the beginning

-More monsters-involved cases, such as vampires or dragons or werewolves. As someone with an unhealthy obsession with monsters, this would be a delight

-St Hilarion's being fucking burned to the ground (Crystal needs to do it, I will accept no other way)

-Esther Finch was such a fun antagonist for the first season, but I would want the next antagonist (regardless if they’re introduced in the second season or later on) to be a little more threatening. Still campy as fuck but maybe someone who has more of an active role in being an asshole. A demon would be a huge leap from a small-town witch who sacrificed young girls to stay youthful, so maybe a formerly-possessed psychic (which would parallel Crystal’s storyline) could work.

-And finally, the agency adopts a not-so-normal dog. While a ghost dog would make sense, it would be funnier if it was a hellhound or some kind of mythical creature they just picked up on a case. Niko wanted it so they could be more like Mystery Inc.

[punkeropercyjackson]

It really annoys me how few people are willing to aknowledge Luke's treatment of Percy was child abuse.We talk about how Luke did bad things but only a small faction of the fandom names it for what it was-child abuse.Y'all aren't even willing to admit Luke groomed all those poor kids because grooming isn't only about dating and even if it was,he'd still be a groomer since he was romantically/sexually involved with underaged girls exclusively as an adult man.It wasn't just Annabeth,he flirted with Silena and slept with Kelli and had a crush on 15 year old Thalia as a 20something and even pre-corruption she was 2 years younger than him which feels like ironic unintentional foreshadowing.Groomers don't out and announce they're kiddy fiddlers as grooming is an unspoken manipulation and gaslighting tactic and he did it to Percy too-What else would you call tricking her into trusting him and preying on her vulnerability as an isolated and traumatized 12 year old with almost no friends and while completely cut-off from her parents to use her for his own gain and try to kill her so she wouldn't tell on him?Plus Percy being too scared afterwards to say what happened to her,what LUKE did to her?It borderline plays like a csa metaphor and the followups of Luke stalking and talking down to and mocking Percy do NOT help and neither does him constantly trying to beat her by fighting her in deliberately unequal settings organized by him.He hated her so much,he really did,and he was obsessed with hurting her and he DID hurt her and the only reason he couldn't as much as he wanted to is Percy is way stronger and smarter than him so she was able to defend herself too well for him to

None of that makes her not a victim-So she fought back?So what?That dosen't make them equal,she was 12,13,14,15 and 16.He was 19 and died at 23.Percy was a child,Luke was an adult and Luke abused Percy so Luke's treatment of Percy was child abuse.Concrete,fullstop,no other name for it except synonyms.And Percy was only one of the kid's he abused-He GROOMED an entire army's worth of younger demigods into literally fighting his battles for him and did zero nurturing or anything else positive for them.We're given no indication Luke was their caretaker and every indication he only saw them as soldiers and not his family and mistreated them.Luke wasn't right,Percy was right,she knew the gods weren't shit from the start and she took action against them from the start too and neither of those apply to Luke and neither does the title of 'The Gods' Martyr'.That's also Percy's and the gods did nothing to Luke that wasn't half as bad as what they put her or what Luke put her through.Luke was the very thing he claimed to hate,a god,an older seemingly unkillable abusive authority figure with unearned powers he stole in entitlement and he wasn't 'a bad victim',he was a victim and an abuser and Percy is a bad victim and a good person WITH her flaws,not inspite of them and she broke cycles Luke tried to keep going and entierly unconnected ones.Luke was all talk,Percy talked at the same time she walked the walk

While i'm a Percabeth anti and neutral on Book!Annabeth at best,it confuses me when i see Luke/Percy shippers bashing Annabeth and Percabeth because Annabeth is abusive to Percy.........As if Luke didn't also abuse Percy and even more than her while knowing better but didn't literally raise her.Where do you think she learned all her toxicity from?Not Athena and Fredrick very obviously,Athena was a deadbeat and she hadn't seen Fredrick in 5 years by the time we meet her.If the gods are responsible for how shitty Luke is and that means he's sympathetic and worthy of redemption,then Luke is responsible for how shitty Annabeth is and she also deserves sympathy and a redemption arc to improve as a person.I can't help but see a gender bias combined with the commoness of also shipping Percy with the male gods/male titans and easy scott-free forgiveness of Poseidon yet not sparing the goddesses/female titans and Sally the same attention and writing.There's the claims Luke is 'gay-coded' in his relathionship with Percy and this feels racist to me as a black man with the fact Luke treats moc like shit in mind-He targeted Chris over The Stolls even though he was closer to them,he's mean asf to Ethan and he straight up killed Beckendorf after lying to Beckendorf's girlfriend about how he was gonna keep him safe.Luke as a person even feels misogynistic and racist himself imo since stuff like this dosen't exist in a vacuum.And neither does his treatment of Percy,who's heavily coded as transfem and/or black-latino but was intended as a white man and not at all coincidentally the only one Luke saw as something of an equal.....Even though he was abusing her when she was growing up and he was an adult for the entierty of it but abusers often come up with that type of excuse for themselves

(Oh and shut up about Percy describing Luke as conventionally attractive as proof 'he' had a crush on him.Bi people shouldn't have to crush on every person they ever meet to be considered valid bis and Percy's canon queer relathionship is her platonic one with Nico,an actual gay character,with how the way his crush on her was written adds to her transfem-coding and her calling her treatment of him maternal and their middle brother/eldest daughter dynamics and my friend who's literally a lesbian said she describes men the same way Percy does to cite how ridicilous the Luke liker allegations are.So there)

[911countdowntochristmas]

911 Countdown to Christmas

What is 911 countdown to Christmas?

A 9-1-1 focused event in which we countdown to Christmas with fanworks. This can be fics, edits, art, playlists, poems, or anything else you can think of. If you choose the 24-days option, you post one prompt a day. If you choose the 12-days option, you can choose between two dates to post a prompt. Fanworks can be focused on relationships, friendships, or a singular character.

Why this account?

I did a poll on @911buddieweek and though the option to host this on there won, I felt like it could get confusing to host it on there since this is not a Buddie-only event, which is why I made this separate account.

This way people who don't want to participate or follow Buddie Week can keep updated on this event, and updates for events will be separated

Do I have to post every day?

Nah, you can do whatever you want! If only 3 of these speak to you, you can only post those 3 days. It's entirely up to you!

Are there rules?

Tag accordingly - this event is open to all ages. Smut is allowed, but make sure it's tagged as such! Also tag trigger warnings.

No character bashing (though toxic parents don't count... bash away). Let's stay positive in this event. It's open for everyone in the 911 fandom...

...EXCEPT if you're gonna write pedophilia fics please stay away. Adult/minor fics will be removed.

The use of AI is NOT allowed.

Where can I post?

Anywhere you want! I will be making a collection on AO3 once December nears. You can post on here, on insta, twitter, any other place I can't think of at the moment.

Is this time limited?

It's okay if you miss a day, or post 12 fics on the same day. While the purpose is to count down, you can post whenever you want. Heck, if you're from the future and living in 2026, you can still post too! The ao3 collection will stay open.

Do I have to sign up?

Nope, you can just join. Though I'd love to know if you reply/reblog saying if you're participating!

I have a different question

You can send me a DM on here, on @911buddieweek or on my main @smilingbuckley. Asks for this account should be open (my main has them closed). If contact via Tumblr freaks you out, you can also DM me on Instagram (smilingbuckley).

[gryficowa]

Many people in the fandom suspect that Chloe has ASD

It may sound crazy at first, but when we analyze Chloe's actions individually (including the way she cuddles with her teddy bear), it makes sense and what Thomas has done to her (And the Twitter fandom) makes it even worse than before, but she's white and rich, so ASD isn't an argument, right, ableists in the fandom?

Many people with ASD have trouble understanding what is morally acceptable (Which may explain her racism in certain episodes, but Thomas fucked it up, so yeah), and because of having the mother and father she has (Who is known to have been victim, isn't it, Thomas?), plus many things that "Defenders of Justice" do not consider violence, from the perspective of someone with ASD, that's what it is, and it's terrible

Yes, I am a person on the autism spectrum and the standards in the fandom piss me off, we are supposed to love Marinette because she is neurodivergent, but we are supposed to bash Chloe because she is neurodiverse

But if Thomas and the assholes on Twitter said something, it must be true, right?

Yes, people with ASD can do a lot of nasty things (Because when parents are nasty, like in this case, it's unfortunate, but for children with ASD it's an abstraction to understand a different perspective, Chloe needs help, not what the toxic fandom would like and this is terrifying because they want the suffering of a person with ASD for their own satisfaction)

The fact that Chloe has ASD may explain her stubbornness, because people with ASD are often stubborn and when you tell them to do something, they don't always do it (Rebelliousness is in the blood)

However, people with ASD can be submissive, this can be seen when Chloe interacts with her mother, unfortunately, close people are more terrifying because you have some bond with them

So congratulations fandom for championing one neurodivergent character at the expense of another neurodiverse character, you don't look ableist at all, no, not at all

[fanfiction-blep]

I don’t know if your request are open

But I would need some really overprotective/fluffy/slightly smutty boyfriend Quaritch with a fem!so how about she’s Lyle’s sister (don’t ask but I really like him I think he would be the fun friend you do all the pranks with😂) and he walks in on them doing something

Also I really like how you write your awesome and incredible I hope you have a good day❤️🫶🏻

Thank you so much! I am really so grateful to have so many kind anons who enjoy my work so much! I hope this is everything that you wanted! Lots of love have the best day anon 😘❤️

Brothers best friend~ Na'vi Miles Quaritch x Wainfleet Fem/Reader

Warnings: Fluffy, over protective boyfriend, possessiveness, slight smut.

So I will write this as ambiguous as possible and by that I mean, I won't clarify too much whether you are Na'vi or human.

So being Lyle's sister you are assigned to the blue team to ease transition to their new bodies and your own

The familiarity comforting to all involved.

Now Quairtch had a crush you as a human, but he never had the balls to speak up, the whole dying thing? Yeah that kinda pushed him to confess. You are either alone working on weapons or training or evening hanging out one on one.

His hand would stroke the back of his neck and he would be super nervous, he wasn't sure what it was, the new body? but whatever it was had him feeling all bashful and teenage like. He was genuinely nervous and he didn't like the power you held over him. Especially because he knew you didn't realise it.

You don't tell anyone at first, but it is soooo obvious to everyone around you. Quaritch is so protective, keeping you within arms reach at all times.

If you are out on a mission and he thinks for a second there is danger he'll push you behind him. Not because he doesn't think you are capable he just can't stand the idea of you getting hurt. If you bend down around him he will place his hand over any sharp edges so that you won't hurt your head. He will reach for things you cannot to prevent you from straining or injuring yourself trying to climb the surfaces trying to reach it yourself.

And then to make him crack Lyle pays one of the other recoms to hit on you in front of Quaritch, he just walks over arms crossed pissed as fuck. "Yeah we ain't doing this no more." He'll lean his arm over your shoulders capturing your lips in a deep quick kiss. "Don't ever hit on my girl again, understood?" The other man would nod a satisfied smirk on his face as Lyle slaps a couple 20s in his hand.

"So how long you been dating my sister Colonel?" Lyle would quizz. "Didn't realise I needed your permission?" He would smirk baiting him. "You don't- Just don't do that in front of me again" He gestured disgust painted over his face.

The first time you tried covering up your hickeys quaritch came over and removed whatever item was covering them, Lyle staring at the two of you. "When did this become a whore house!" He would throw his hands up in defeat. Quaritch would wrap his arms around your shoulders leaning in. "Ya ain't a whore princess, my lil cock slut. But ya no whore" You would blush and giggle into his chest.

He is so possessive. If he sees another man talking to you he will waltz right over "What we talkin' 'bout?" forcing a smile on his face.

Best believe you will have lots of jealous sex. It's not in a toxic or unhealthy way its in the hot, 'your mine' "no one else can fuck ya like this huh?" way

If you get sick he will take the day off to take care of you, asking Lyle if your parents made any kind of soups for you growing up and then making them himself. Laying in bed with you, his naturally cool skin helping you through your fever.

He always wants to be touching you, whether its his tail wrapping around your legs. His hands on the small of your back or even leaning his chin against the top of your head.

FOR HEAD KISSES.

If he is in a rush and can't really spare a minuet he will brush past you placing a firm kiss on your forehead. "Catch ya later sweetheart!"

This man melts when you reach for his hand, especially if you are in public, he likes people knowing you belong to him and he belongs to you.

Lyle has defiantly walked in on you two having sex, and he actually threw up a little. Then he walks in the room and scolds you. "You are banned, never again, NOPE!"

"It's ya own fault for not knocking" Quaritch would shrug. "Ya get enough ass let us be" You would just stand there and watch the other men bicker.

The first time you got injured on a mission he could carry you to the infirmary. "Mile's its a mild gash, I'll just need a few stitches. PUT ME DOWN"

"Mild my ass, I ain't letting you out of my sight again"

King of praise in the bedroom. "Ya doin' so good for me princess, take my cock so well" "Look at that pretty lil face, you so beautiful" "Ya gonna cum for me? be a good girl and cum for daddy common I know ya have it in ya... one more" "Thaaaat's it, just like that"

Uses his mouth for everything, if he hasn't marked you, fucked you or kissed you he hasn't done his job in his eyes. If you have a bad day he will defiantly give you a massage. "Ya so tense, let me help with that"

PRANKS. Oh my god. Quaritch had this grand idea to fake prepose to you in front of Lyle and mans lost his shit.

"YOU DIDN'T ASK ME TO DATE HER AND NOW YOU CAN'T EVEN ASK ME TO MARRY HER" He's so mad and upset it takes you two a day to convince him it was fake.

Then came the pregnancy scare prank. "How ya feeling today the tike giving ya problems again?" "The human kid?" "Nah the one i put in her..." Yeah he got a black eye for that one...

Then you just start messing with his room and belongings, putting hair dye in his shampoo. Flour bombs in his wardrobe, even staining his uniform. You've been pulling this pranks for years but having a partner means you can fain innocence.

Eventually he catches on but knows if he retaliates the Colonel will ramp up the war and Lyle has just given up with you two.

[jisungsdaydreamer]

[11:10 PM]

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»

SYNOPSIS Your father would end you before allowing you to see him, but you’d spin in your highest heels and risk everything if it meant every night could be like this.

Pairing: Seungmin x fem!reader Genre: forbidden romance, fluff, angst Warnings: implications of arranged marriage, toxic parents Word Count: 1k

P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡

“Want to get out of here?”

Words uttered only a few minutes ago, and yet, it feels like hours have passed since you and Seungmin decided to ditch the cocktail party you were forced to attend. The conversation got tedious quickly, because all these one-percenters can talk about is horseback riding, trips to the Hamptons, and the latest family to get embroiled in a scandal.

Across the dimly lit room, Seungmin had spotted you standing against the wall, downing your third flute of champagne. He’d discreetly made his way over to you, leaning down to whisper those devilish words into your ear. At his signal, you both finally slipped out of the event room, giggling while running through the venue halls like you were children again.

“What do we do now?” You gasp breathlessly once you are outside, surrounded by the thick rose bushes at the entrance of the building. 

Seungmin says nothing, just looking down at where your hand clasps his, from when you grabbed it during your grand escape. In bashful realization, you try to retract your arm, but he maintains a firm grasp, meeting your eyes. Your face heats up as you try not to melt under the gaze of the son of your father’s worst enemy. 

What started as a business rivalry had blossomed into a ferocious enmity, and your father had sworn that he would end anyone who tried to fraternize with the other side, including his only daughter. But how could you stay away from Seungmin, who seemed to invade every part of your life at the top university that you both attended? How could you avoid his witty charm every time he debated with you in front of everyone in class? How could you forget those hushed moments when he cornered you in the rose gardens, eyes sparkling with trouble?

“I’ll do anything, as long as I’m by your side,” Seungmin finally answers, earnesty written all over his expression. He looks vulnerable, like a little boy scared of rejection. You’re scared too, for the time when you’re both inevitably caught, because you can’t keep going like this.

But tonight is what you currently have ahead of you. You bring Seungmin’s hand up to your lips, softly kissing it, before you grab his arm and pull him along with you. You chase each other with no destination in mind, exchanging teasing laughter like you have no worries at all. 

The thin high heel of your sandal inevitably catches onto a cobblestone, nearly making you spin and fall over onto your face, but Seungmin swiftly catches your waist, pulling you back up. As always, he takes care of you without asking for anything in return. Before him, you thought that you had to earn the right to be loved. You never knew that there was a beautiful man who would give his heart to you without even thinking if you would accept it.

So even when the raindrops come pelting down, your smile doesn’t cease. You simply hitch up the heavy material of your dress in your arms, and Seungmin immediately takes off his suit jacket, holding it over your head so you don’t catch a cold. 

“I’ll be fine, you know.” You roll your eyes playfully. “It’s just a light drizzle.”

“Your father will murder me if something happens to you,” Seungmin says without thinking.

You glance at him, the lighthearted mood finally fading away. “He can’t know.”

Seungmin looks over at you. “I know.”

That familiar bout of sadness rises in you for the millionth time, and you have to avert your gaze because if you stare into Seungmin’s eyes a second longer, you fear you may lose it. Whatever is going on between you both, you know it won’t last forever. When your father decides it’s time, he will most likely force you to marry the son of some rich man to secure a partnership. Your life is in the hands of your father, who would rather prioritize his business needs over your happiness. And losing Seungmin would make it unbearable.

“Sometimes, I kind of wish we never even met.” You kick a pebble as the rain begins to slow down. “Then I would never have live in a painful memory when it’s over.”

“You would never be a painful memory for me.” Seungmin shakes his head adamantly. “I know that no matter what, I will never, ever regret meeting you.”

You swallow, your eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want to think of a future without you.”

Seungmin says nothing for a moment, concentrating on the foggy road in front of you. By now, your father and his men are probably looking for you, so it’s fortunate that you both reach a small convenience store, ducking inside of it for a temporary reprieve.

 “So don’t.”

“What are you saying?”

He meets your eyes once more, and you notice something in him that you’ve never seen before. Defiance. “Run away with me.”

You nearly laugh out loud in disbelief. “Yeah. And then we can go to the moon.”

Seungmin grasps your hands. “I’m serious. There’s a cargo bus that leaves the city tonight, and it belongs to Hyunjin. Your father isn’t stupid enough to mess with the mayor’s son.”

“Even so, there’s nowhere we can go where my father can’t find us.”

Seungmin’s excited smile deflates, and he sighs. “We’ll figure out a way, I promise.”

You just gaze at his crestfallen expression, before reaching your palms up to cup his cheeks. “I know we will.”

For the first time, something not unlike hope blossoms in your chest. Even the possibility of getting out of this hellhole and living somewhere alone and undisturbed with the love of your life makes you dream. Maybe you really will get to have what you truly desire more than anything.

“You know I love you, right?” Seungmin loops his arms around your waist and pulls you closer, kissing you right in the middle of the frozen food section.

“I know.”

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»

TAGLIST @hamburgers101 @chansburgah @ajxreads @hash2013 @pixigreen @ana-marais98 @ohish @chizumiyoshi @lilydaisyyy @jetblackbelle @143hyunes

Network: @kflixnet

©jisungsdaydreamer 2023 | All rights reserved. I do not condone translations or transfers of my work onto other platforms such as Wattpad, AO3, etc. Tumblr is my only platform. Acts of plagiarism are strictly prohibited.

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Ineffable Bloom

Pairings: Azul/Siren MC

Summary: Despite your status as siren, there are not many words that reach those around you anymore, voice now muted and marred from the surgeries you have endured to remove the carnations that once suffocated your throat. But you don't mind it, serving quietly as the gardener of Night Raven College, making do with a notepad and pen when necessary. You are pleased to find your childhood friend, Azul, now attends the school, who spontaneously hires you for the flower arrangements he decides to decorate in his lounge with. There's little hope you bear with the silent poetry you weave with each meticulously placed flower, only an ache which tumbles over you like the ceaseless seas. However, Azul is not deaf to this song you have sealed in your bouquets, having cherished the morsels of sweetness in your childhoods where you shared the silent language of each flower.

Notes: Sorry this took ages lmao. Been in a “creating anything is obsolete” phase my/spring allergies are starting so I am. Dying. Part of the twst myth series, here is the post with some basics. I just reached 1000 likes on tumblr which might not be much to some but wowwww thank you guys for your support!!

GN terms for MC

CW: Emotional abuse and toxic parenting when we get into MC’s backstory

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

——————————————————

“Would you like to add a ribbon to this? I’ll add it for free since I have some extra?” You placed the last slender stalk of green hydrangea into the bouquet and move your hands in practiced shapes and swerves, forming each phrase with careful deliberation.

Jack struggles a bit in forming as keen language with his hands, but you appreciate that he has taken the time to respond in your vernacular. Writing does get a little tiring after a bit. “If you wouldn’t mind. I think Trey would appreciate that.” He pauses, looking to Ruggie, who sways around the room with his hands behind his head in boredom, dipping his gaze to the lilies standing tall in a bucket on the ground. “Right, Ruggie?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever is fine.”

The wolf huffs a bit before crossing his arms. “You know, you should be grateful (Name) is doing this so last minute since you forgot to place the order a week ago like we all agreed on.”

“Ugh get of my back‒ Leona had me running around more than usual last week…” His eyebrows raise a bit when he brings his attention to the dandelions drying above him, a slight movement you take notice to when wrapping the bouquet in its final layer. “Besides, who cares about all the details of each flower, it’s not like whoever is receiving them is looking into all the deep meanings of each blade of grass.”

You finish tightening the bow around the bouquet, assuring with your trained hands that it is secured tightly onto the broom, before handing it off to Jack. “Just like you mentioned in the interview‒ green color scheme, with symbols of loyalty, prosperity, and patience. Here is a card that has all of the flower languages on them.” You sign, which the man responds with a smile, and a clumsy thank you with his hands.

Ruggie has drifted over to the dandelion heads soaking in a bowl of water, being prepared for the dandelion honey you sell at Sam’s shop while his junior admires the bouquet in reverence. “You like dandelions?” You write on a notepad, poking Ruggie with it. He looks over lazily, shrugs.

“I guess.”

“They symbolize ‘an oracle of love’, resilience, and even sorrowful goodbyes. The name Dandelion comes from the word dent-de-lion, meaning the ‘jaws of a lion’- fierce, is it not?” Ruggie hums in curiosity in response, glancing at the flowers again to imagine it with a growing smile on his face. “Flowers and plants all have their silent poetry. It’s good to tip your ears to them once in a while, they may have something to say to you.”

“You hear that Jack‒ ‘jaws of a lion’..." The hyena says with his hand on his hips, a bashful finger grazing his nose.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get going, we have a lot of prep to do for Trey's celebration." Jack turns to you before he leaves "Oh, you should stop by if you have time‒ everyone was curious during my birthday who had arranged my broomquet. I'm sure the other students would be thrilled to see the face of our new‒ well, I guess not so new anymore‒ gardener."

You furiously shook your head, scurrying your hands across the air in a flurry. "I wouldn't want to intrude…my work is nothing worth fussing over…"

"Anyone with a pair of working eyes can see otherwise‒ your talent is unmatched, you nearly performed a miracle reviving my half dead cacti." Jack smiles, remembering fondly of the times he had come in, asking you for advice on his growing horticulture collection. "Besides, it's nice for the students and staff to get familiarized."

"And free cake." Ruggie adds.

You raised your eyebrows at that, quelling the swirling anxiety in your stomach. "…okay, I'll try to make it. Just have to finish a few things here and I should be good to head out."

"We'll see you then, (Name)."

——————————————————

You brush your apron, relieving the weariness of a day's work in the breath that swelled from the bottom of your stomach and escaped as an audible huff that loosened the tension of your shoulders. However when you glance at your phone, anxiety shot through you as you realize time had passed a lot quicker, and it was about half an hour past the time Jack had told you to come. In racing footsteps, you gathered your items, throwing your apron on the hook near the front door before slamming it.

By the time you arrive, everyone is singing happy birthday, gathering in a circle around who you assumed was Trey, who bore a bashful smile on his face with the broomquet in his hands. You catch the eye of Jack across the room, who lights up when you wave nervously at him. The room erupts in applause and bright laughter as Trey blows out the candles of his cake‒ a volume you take a mental note of to judge just how many people were at this celebration. Quite a lot, especially now as the students disperse, preparing plates and cutlery to cut the delicious looking strawberry shortcake.

"Hey~ what are you doing here?"

There’s a surge of anxiety when those words are pointed at you, which you respond with a pressed smile as you swerve your head to the voice. To your surprise, you recognize the face which greets you, though it is a bit unnatural seeing them without a bluish tint to their skin, or scales. You suppose it’s a surprise for them as well, seeing you out of the water for the first time in about eight years.

“I thought I recognized that face. Hello, (Name), it has been a while.”

You hands move automatically to the pen and paper stuffed inside your pocket. “Jade? Floyd? It’s been a while. What are you doing here?”

“Eh? What's with the notepad little siren?”

The anxiety returned with Floyd's words. Even with the Leech family’s connections and the chattiness of your hometown, it was hard for rumors to form with the eight years you had spent apart from your home‒ your friends. You were thankful a bit for the amnesty it brought you on rare occasions like this, but explaining the whole situation was difficult for you‒ making up a believable excuse even more so considering the one memorable thing your species was known for. Sirens‒ their voice famed to plunge sea farers into maddening passion, the talents of which even the great Sea Witch openly admired in historical record. Perhaps you had been an example of this once, training your throat to squeeze and burn itself to strike impossible notes, whirling an unmatched vibrancy when you perfected each lyric, each score, each tendon to stand straight, expand your lungs, smile, and sing. Even if you had such talents in the past, it was negated with every pinch and pull of your mother’s craft‒ that memory now clandestine, numbed from the surgery.

Or that’s what you told yourself, as your calloused fingers graze the satin ribbon around your neck, the scars marring it aching slightly as you adjusted the fabric in a slight nervous tick. They’re been healed from quite some time‒ or you believe they are from the years you had observed every winding crack slowly dull against time‒ but the mountainous fossils carved onto your flesh would grow tender like this, pushed then retraced piercingly like the jagged shores far from your homelands, leaving snowy, bursting seafoam prickling against your skin. You suppose all you could do is tighten a smile against your mute lips, maneuvering past it as best you could.

“I’ll explain later. What are you guys doing at NRC?”

“We’re students, see~?” Floyd flashes a crooked smile, turning to the side to show off his dorm uniform. “Jade here is even the vice dorm leader. Boring if you ask me.”

“What are you doing here, (Name)? I don’t think I’ve seen you in my classes.”

“My aunt just retired as the gardener here, she's back at her shop in the Shaftlands. So I've come to officially take her place."

"We'll have our quartet back in no time now‒ you should visit the Monstero Lounge sometime so we can catch up~" Floyd wraps an arm around your shoulder, hanging lazily off it while his twin smiles.

"I agree with Floyd. Azul would be more than happy to see you too." At Jade's words, you brighten, and quickly scribble onto your notepad.

"Azul here too? Is he here today?"

Jade nods. "He's our dorm leader, actually. And yes, I think he just went outside to get some fresh air" his smile widens "you know how he is."

You do. Surely he was tired of the noise and pleasantries of birthday celebration. "Azul the dorm leader huh."

"You won't believe how much he’s changed unless you see for yourself." Floyd switches his weight to his other foot, landing on his brother's shoulder while gesturing to the veranda doors. You swerve your head towards it, trying to make out a figure against the bright blue skies and roses reaching towards the mild sun. There's a slight silhouette, but you can barely make out its features with the glare of the glass.

"You should go to him. He talks about you sometimes, you know." Before you could turn around and question the twins, their backs are turned from you, melting back into the bustling crowd. Despite your initial excitement, your feet move in idle footsteps, weighed by the heaviness which emerges from your wrapped throat, plummeting to the soles of your feet sticking densely onto the ground. The notepad in your hand is gripped through your sweaty palm‒ there was only so much space in each sliver of parchment you could fill with your words, the rest of your language lost to the silence which cages your throat. Even if you could rasp through your disfigurement with a language people would lend an ear to, you were sure that your thoughts, refined through your mother's distant voice, would drive you back into forlorn silence‒ your hands clawing and reopening your wounds wide and fresh enough to assure not even a breath could be heard from it. Flowers always came to you with such ease in comparison, eyes turned away from your secret adoration for something far more beautiful in perfectly placed petals, inventing no hope that you could cling to that would turn your throat raw with desire.

Even if these givings were seen, spoken of , or heard‒ you armor yourself by repenting‒ these gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Forgive me, for there is fear that one day that life will ripen within it‒ something as grotesque as myself, a venerable mirror to my slumbering desires to be swaddled and held. You arrive at the handle of the door too fast for your liking, hovering your hand over it with a heavy heart and tongue before grasping it quietly, hoping a little that your soundless footsteps would turn you into a phantom.

But when you are faced with a familiar image‒ his weaving dusty mauve hair, and the arctic clarity of his blue eyes, you can't help but to pause your prayers for a moment, met with the blinding joy his face brings you. Dear, dear friend.

You're so used to his name springing from your throat that you nearly tear the fragile nerves of your lesions with a rasp threatening to boil over by the warmth in your stomach. But you clench that tension in your hand as you scribble his name in hurried, crude strokes across the entire page.

"Azul?" You turned the paper pad over with clumsy, shaking hands. He looks just as surprised as you, but he nods slowly.

"(Name)?"

You nod your head vigorously to your name, decorated sweetly with his voice. His entire body is facing you now, taking you in with the gulp of his gaze. You do the same, noticing that, actually, not quite a lot has changed. Sure, the soft little octopus had grown tall and slender during the eight years you didn’t see him‒ but still, there is that mole dotted prettily on his face you remember quite well, and the softness of his eyes when they meet yours is one of your fondest, most tender memories, unraveled whenever you saw the sea blue glow of freshly fallen snow, or the velvety reflection of the skies in gentle spring creeks. But now they were here, gazing back at you, there were no words that appeared in your mind, or which you could communicate with the likeness of flowers. It's so sweet again when you hear his voice.

"What's happening? Why are you writ‒ never mind that." He shakes the thought away. "How…How have you been? Last I heard from mother you had moved with your aunt somewhere on land."

Azul does not question how, or why you stood in front of him after eight years, but rather simply‒ how are you? The smile that blooms at that realization hurts your cheeks. Azul mirrors your sentiments silently, relieved that there were no comments on his appearance of how he's "changed so much". Dear, dear friend. He missed this. Missed you too.

"I'm well. Been working as a gardener here, I enjoy it. How have you been? I’m guessing busy, I heard you're a dorm leader from the twins."

"Ah, you've already met them I see. I just hope they haven’t said anything…unnecessary." His smile widens, you trace the movement of his mole which stretches against the curve of his lips. "I've been…alright. Land life has been a lot to adjust to, but I think I have the hang of it now."

"Haha. It was a lot for me when I first came on shore too. Pillows are so weird, aren't they?"

The dormhead chuckles as you approach him near the railing, situating yourself beside him to face the white roses dotting the garden. One meant mercy, purity, the breath of love; two‒ "I deserve you"; three‒ adoration; 99 white roses, and this would be an Eden of eternal love. But you're too enraptured by his laughter to count, caught in the waves of his lightness.

"They are. But I think it's nice now, might even be a hit at the reef if we sell them during spring break. You mentioned you're a gardener?"

"Yes. I just maintain the horticulture on campus, and I do bouquets from time to time like Trey's broomquet today." You write fast, wanting to answer Azul quickly, fill the time with as much of him as you could. He leans over, watching you as you scribble, relishing silently in the smell of fresh cut lilies and seaside rosemary tangled in a salty sweet ocean breeze.

"An impressive feat, considering the size of our campus. If you're willing‒ I may actually need your help with the twin's birthdays coming soon."

“I'd be happy to help! We would need to set an interview up like I do with most of my clients‒ just so I know their preferences more. But it'll be easier since I already know Jade and Floyd." Truthfully, you were already putting together the perfect bouquet for the twins, violet roses here, silver ragwort there, and a sprinkle of beauty berry should bring the composition together in a delicate balance. The meeting was just an excuse to assure another conversation with Azul again, a thought which churned a feeling of shame within you, rolling you smooth with its ragged tongue that sanded down the rough joy jutting out from you like an unfinished pearl. When Azul nods on confirmation, this sensation becomes slightly eased, but your muscles churn inside you like the dark, deep seas.

"I agree. Nonetheless, us four should meet at the mostero lounge soon to catch up. I could use a talent like yours to freshen up the look of the lounge a bit‒ perhaps we could work a contract of some sort out."

"I'm not that good, I'm not so sure I can hold up to your expectations, dormleader."

"Please‒ Jade's tastes aren't so bad but Floyd's sense of interior design is abysmal. His idea of interior design is a bunch of half finished snacks decorating the shelf beside his bed. Any help would be wonderful."

A silent laugh shakes your shoulders. "I'll think about it."

The patio door opens again‒ revealing Jack, who waves a hand towards you, and speaks with clumsy hands. "They're cutting the cake (Name)- Azul, you too‒ it's gonna be gone if you stay out here for too long."

"Be right there." You sign, lifting your body from the deck railing.

"Is that sign language? I've never seen it in person." Azul holds the door open for you, allowing you to scurry in with a bow of your head.

You nod. "Writing gets tiring at times. But I'm happy either way people speak to me." There’s a twitch in Azul’s eyes that you catch at your statement, regret tingling at your fingertips making your skin feel raw against your flesh. You squeeze the meat of your palm to ignore it.

"We saved you two some cake~" Floyd summons the two of you with a wave, gesturing to two neighboring seats across from them.

Jade smiles, scooping a part of his cake with a fork. "It's nice that we're back together like this. It seems forever ago that you left the reef (Name)."

"But eight years fly by, don't they? You're going to have to catch me up on all the embarrassing stories of each other."

"Only if you let us in on some blackmail about you (Name)." Floyd reveals his sharp teeth with a wide grin, licking the icing off his fork.

"I will." You write, hoping you can fill their heads enough with the happier moments at your aunt's flower shop and time so far as the NRC gardener, rather than deliberate the disease which flowered in your lungs, the sickness that came with it‒ the surgery, the scarring, the healing‒ your departure from your mother, from your home, from them. The ribbon feels tight on your throat, your smile grows tense on your lips. You try your best to quell the swelling waves of anxiety, eased a bit with the laughter of your friends that rang in your presence once more.

——————————————————

You meet them again at the VIP section of their lounge just a few days later, having planned a date to meet before you went home after the birthday celebration. Though conversation was a bit stiff at first, energy begins to swell in the room as you reminisce the events of your childhood, and the years of adolescence you missed in the 8 years of absence from your hometown. The conversation slowly progresses towards how the three would be able to see you more, shifting back to Azul's proposal to have you come to set up flower arrangements in the lounge.

"How about roses?" Floyd suggests. "Classic. Everyone likes them."

A shrug. "Hm. They're a nice touch‒ but a bit basic. I can add them in, but I wouldn't make them the focal point since there's just better flowers out there."

"What do you suggest?" Azul asks.

You think, flipping through the catalog of flowers in your mind. "Especially for the color scheme of your dorm, I think hydrangeas would be nice. Blue poppies, perhaps some rosemary in there as well. Maybe purple carnation‒” you scribble that last thought away as quickly and vigorously as it came, your throat tightening in remembrance at that thought.

“Those sound great‒ but I want something more elegant looking, the carnations you mentioned would be fitting‒ ah‒ remember those flowers from that story you always talked about? The one about the poetry being written on the petals?”

You were glad he moved from carnations. Besides, purple carnations signified grief and death in some cultures, far removed from the emblem of prayer they were in your culture. “Hyacinths?”

“Precisely. What do the white ones mean?” What about this one? What does this say? How about this, this, and this? You remember the way he pointed to each flower in your encyclopedia lent by your aunt, his small fingers fluttering across the page like a busy little cuttlefish at your riveting explanations. This is this, this and this. There was always a hurry to your words when you spoke to others‒ particularly your mother‒ rushing to seize the brief opportunity allowed for you to speak, but no matter how much you had stumbled over your words in clumsy delight, Azul listened with a smile on his face, making notes on paper for his experiments, words rushing to his hands like a school of fish.

“White ones mean a ‘quiet love’, or ‘love that is quelled’. If you want something with a happier meaning though, I would go with white wisteria, it means sweet nostalgic memories or drunken love; cornflowers‒ delicacy and elegance; or salvia‒ veneration and wisdom. Purple chrysanthemum would be splendid too‒ meaning your wish will come true."

You remember when your mother was kinder, tucking your small, innocent body into her soft arms‒ hushing your cries with a tender whisper. It was without that rattle in your throat she pointed towards you like a knife when you grew from that chaste form, sullied and filled with her disappointment. Your body was tall and flushed with it, but not quite tall enough, not quite curved and plump the way she liked‒ needed you to be to carve her desired image into you. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror‒ mother and child, mother and child. Her words lashing as the waves cracking against the jagged rocks, shaping you into a memorial of her pains, her aching hunger.

But you returned to that far-flung memory of her maternal care, remembering the legend she told you about purple chrysanthemums‒ placing one dearly to your hair, chirping her bright song with a story that was passed from the throat of her mother, to the her ears as a child, blood through blood. This was one of the only memories you remember of her singing not to an audience or a stage‒ but to you, flesh of her womb, skin and bones lovingly mirrored in babbling purity. You trace her unusually soft words with your hand, gliding across the page with the exact pitch of her voice swimming in your mind.

"There's a legend among our kind, of the purple chrysanthemum. We decorate our most treasured people with it, and wear it as a sign of someone watching over you to make a dream come true‒ whether it is a benevolent god, or another person." You pause your writing, the three looking over you to watch you write. "It symbolizes the victory of love‒ its power which pulls the best from you to achieve something as distant as a dream."

Your pen stills. "But‒ I should retract my suggestion. People of other cultures use it to commemorate death, I wouldn't want to offend someone."

Azul is brightened by the way you talk about flowers again, the fragrant morsels on his mind blooming, coloring him vividly in your dazzling artistry. This is this, this, and this. The way you forge lustrous, silent poetry with each careful placement of a blossom amazes him each time, finding your words lingering and echoing in the cove of his mind. "No." His mouth races somewhat brash, he tries again, clearing his throat. "No‒ I trust your initial judgment." He smiles. You trace that mole on his face. "I like it."

"Then it's decided."

Floyd yawns, draping his arms dramatically against the couch, and lulling his head upwards with a sigh. “Ugh. Enough with the flower talk‒ let’s talk about something more interesting.” He flashes a toothy smirk. “(Name), you wanna hear about the time Azul cried so hard he threw up?”

His twin clasps his hands with a similar expression. “Oh, that’s definitely a good one.”

Azul’s eyes blow wide open. “That is absolutely a violation of our contract‒”

“I don’t believe that includes (Name) actually.” Jade muses with a sly grin.

"Why was he crying so hard he threw up??"

The dormleader groans, dropping his hands into hands.

The twins exchange a look before Jade answers. "You, of course."

"Me?" You point to yourself in disbelief.

Floyd chuckles. "He sipped a little wine at the restaurant on accident. Then he starts blubbering about how 'oh I miss them', 'oh remember when they did this', and 'oh‒"

"I think they get the point, brother."

While Floyd ignores his twin in favor of continuing the story, Azul continues to hide his slowly darkening face behind his hands, while you sit, pen hovering over the paper.

“Why?”

The twins blink with a confused expression on their face, while Floyd speaks with a baffled tone. “Ha? Why? What do you mean why?” From the corner of your eye, you see Azul lift his head from his hands to look you, with what expression, you can’t tell‒ training your eyes on the paper with hardened brows, blood tinging on you tongue from the flesh drawn between your teeth.

The pen in your hand hovers above the paper with a soft tremble. Why? Why me? When you left that reef years ago, you left any notion that your presence would be something that would be worth lingering over‒ much more grieving about‒ a thought that was confirmed by the way your mother hurriedly dumped you at your aunt’s flower shop near the somber shores, her frosty gaze and distanced followed by years of inveterated silence as incurable and everlong as the one wrapped around your throat. Like the winter storms on the beach where your aunt's shop sat upon, that silence from your mother, and everyone else for that matter, was as thrashing and unforgiving to your empty ears and throat. There was nothing left for you down there, just memories that would make that scraped dryly against your throat and make you long for something your body was not mended properly for. So the proposition that Azul had felt something towards you‒ so much so that he had shed actual tears for you‒ threatened to bring the nausea deep in your darkened stomach frothing at the surface. You pushed through it, hand gliding clumsily across the paper.

“Never mind, sorry. I should get going soon‒ I’m behind on some duties in at the Botanical Gardens.”

Azul sighs in slight relief, and stands as you gather your things. "I'll see you off." You bid goodbye to the twins, who flash a pointed smile at you while Azul holds open the lounge doors to leave.

“Come back again so we can embarrass Azul more with our stories.” You smile at Jade's words.

Before you pass through the portal, Azul taps your shoulder. He lays his hand flat against his lips, sweeping it towards you. You're taken a bit by surprise, but soon your cheeks ache from the warmth squeezed into them by your curved lips, turning the nausea reaching from your stomach to your chest into something, you think, extraordinary.

You held that feeling in your chest as much as the rupturing threaded into yourself would‒ drinking in the ease of passing clouds and the clemency of rippling seawater tickling the bottom of you feet‒ much too quick, too light, too wonderful to be bound by the chthonic gods. Your heart races with the swiftness of sprightly, sun drunken waves. There was a rising ache‒ knowing your fractured body would splinter before you could swallow this feeling in its entirety, filling you body brilliantly like a blooming chrysanthemum‒ unfurling its divine petals towards all cardinal directions in a form which flared itself every which way. Victory of love. You knew it would not triumph against your fragmentation‒ but despite it all, you smiled stupidly, weaving your florid fingers against his to show him the correct placement of the word.

"Like this." You instruct‒ on his chin, near that dotted mark, then towards you in one motion. The word is practiced twice so you can linger your hands on his own. "Thank you, thank you." You mouth.

The heat of your fingers burns this motion into him, even as you let go. He practices it again, hoping to retrieve your sensation onto his skin with the repeated motion. “Thank you.”

You take your pointed and middle finger to your eye, then glide it towards the tip of your chin with a circle made with your pointer and thumb.

“See you soon.”

——————————————————

Carnations are always a favorite among your customers. The flower of love, of adoration‒ of the gods. They have been woven into hair to commemorate new beginnings, have been rumored to sprout from a devoted mother’s tears faced with her child’s death. Their name comes from carnis, or flesh, from the myth of innocent bloodshed, a shepherd who had his eyes gouged out from a goddess of the hunt, who was displeased by his flute playing which caused the animals of her hunting grounds to be spooked. From his empty flesh, carnations grew, white petals emerging, stained with blood. White carnations typically signify the mourning of lost lives, pure love, unrequited love, loyalty, faithfulness, a mother’s love.

But most of all, it whispers, my love for you is alive. It felt that way when they flourished in your lungs, choking the song in your throat in just a few months after they sowed into your meat. Alive and red and beating so vibrantly against your flesh‒ filthy with the darkened red of your aching insides. They came as impossible heaps from your mouth, emptying quietly as you could in the corner of your room so as not to bother your sleeping mother in the room over. You remember furling your body inward, praying it to become smaller, smaller, smaller‒ quieting your agony, erasing your swaying footsteps to the medicine cabinet, slicing your body up and down into manageable pieces. It was a dance in your eyes you carried everywhere with you that classified every variation of footsteps, the slightest inflection in tone, a twitch of the lungs before it even came‒ so you could shape yourself flat against the sharpened teeth of any who bothered to bite down on your brittle, bitter form, flaying and cleaving your meat carefully to its shape. Your eyes remembered these wounds, reopened and festering against your clumsy stitches to take into account next test‒ next time, next interaction, next opportunity to prove‒ I’ll be better, I’ll prove I am worthy enough to live.

‘You’re so sensitive‒ you would be good with flowers’, your aunt says. Thank you, you gulp in the ache of your disfigurement with pride‒ a medallion passed from your mother, passed from her mother, passed from her own‒ blood through blood it was gifted, and split from your strangled throat. It felt like your body rejected it, but oh, that was the best part of it all‒ more pain, more, more, more‒ something to wear on your skin as a testament to how you’ve been such a good child, to mutilate yourself against anyone’s maws. Something to show, mother, love me for all of these marks prove it, prove that I can cut open myself deep enough to mirror the perfected version of yourself.

Carnations are a symbol of that. People give them as a trophy of love that is agony, love that is alive, love which slaughters. It is a mother's love. They're popular in those early months during the spring, where the flowers devour the corpses mulled over by autumn and winter, chewing and spitting it out with a drunken splendor. As such you had many on hand during these colder months, surrounded by consecrations of this love, thrashing, bursting inside you like sea-brine churned into frothing bubbles, the waves breaking against it swelling them over the edge of the shore. You could feel the eyes of the flowers leering towards you, tightening the ribbon around your neck.

The hand in your pocket reaches towards the heads, your fingers brush against their cold petals. They are worn, withered from the days they have slept stagnant and untouched in their watery casket. You are quick to take them from their bucket, shoving in a bag to be thrown away in the compost, back into the earth to nourish the next generation.

“(Name)?”

Was it already that time already? You had promised him you would meet with him to plan the twins' broomquet after you closed, but the day had waded through you so quickly.

His name, as always, almost makes it out of your throat. But you held the silence in your mouth like your muffled heartbeat, quietly turning to him with weary eyes. He immediately drinks their lorn gaze, before he takes out a small leather bound pocketbook from his inner pocket, flipping through a few pages, returning it to his coat when he finishes reading the contents of the page. With clumsy hands, he signs. “Do you need help?”

You look him up and down, pausing your hands shoved deep inside the bag of wilted carnations. “You know sign language?”

“I learned.” He says sheepishly. “Apologies‒ clearly I haven't gotten too far with it. I don't know some words yet.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

He points to his head, then towards you. For. You. I learned for you.

A smile curves on his lips, but you avert your eyes from it. You’re afraid to measure that tinted color on his cheeks, the shape of his softened eyes, the length of his smile the wrong way‒ to take something without anything worthy from yourself to give in compensation, so you take his words instead, knowing you could at least repay them with something much more beautiful, whole. Flowers. You don't look at him. “I could use some help.”

He rolls his sleeves up, takes the carnations in his hands and brings them inside the bag. “What is the meaning of carnations?”

“Love, adoration, ‘my love for you is alive’.”

“Easy to capitalize on. I see why it is so popular.” He takes one between his fingers, twirls it with a sly smile. "I like it."

You return it best you could. “They’re a bit grotesque, don’t you think? The petals are quite unfinished, like they’ve been cut jagged.”

“You don’t like them?”

You remember the day after the surgery, your lungs emptied not only from the lack of carnations taking seed inside of it, but sapped from anything you had felt for your mother. You realized, that day, oh.

It was her all along.

You had searched far and wide for what the cause of your sickness was‒ you had given too much yourself to too many people to pinpoint who you had such feelings for. Your nerves felt exposed to all, to everything all the time, pricked and pinched at any abstruse movement, washing over you like a bloody crusade everytime.

There was nothing written about in the dozens of books, articles, and lyrics you dug up that had said anything about familial love specifically, so it never struck you that it was even a possibility‒ besides‒ your mother loved you, didn't she?

But of course, the carnations‒ of course. Your love for her may have been alive, but so were these flowers, once. Before they were picked from your tendons and emptied from you as rubbish.

The absence of your piteous devotion to her plummeted your heart deep into the ocean abyss, your flesh weighted as a museum of that dance, the butchering of your body, marked up and down with lines which traced the shapes of jaws with surgical precision. If you could not be loved by the flesh which founded your own, surely, it would be a ludicrous dream to wish for any other being to love you at all, to take the weeping, patchwork meat of your body and consume it.

You want to get rid of all these carnations, give them all away at once. Take them, take them all. Yes, your mother would love these‒ yes or course they're a sign of eternal love, pure love‒ anything and everything that is alive, they would be a wonderful gift. You offer them as extras to people, suggest them instead of those beautiful roses or lilacs or lilies. These gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Take them, take it all. Take everything from me.

You smile, squeeze your eyes to mimic candor.

"No, I hate them."

His expression is like sand, shifting in a thousand ways. You try to inspect each grain of lustrous sand to feel how they shape around your words, but always, the waves. Wait here, you tell him, to go toss the flowers back into the decomposing earth to become the blood and body their children will sprout from. 

You set some lavender tea and dandelion honey cakes on the table‒ the bareness of the table is odious to you, sways you with abhorrence. Even with it filled, you sign. "I'm sorry, I wish I had more to offer you."

"This is plenty." He signs. You avert your eyes from that soft smile, but the warmth that bubbles in your chest knows the angle of its curve, the way his mole stretches across his chin, the world in his eyes.

"So, what exactly are you looking for in the twins’ bouquet?”

He thinks, you know he folds his arms to do this. “I trust your tastes. You were always better at reading people than I was.”

“I…” You pause. Yes, the dance‒ breathing in the world raw. But part of it is remaining silent to that ripening wound. “I guess.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I think blue star would be great. Perhaps some ragwort, and I believe I have some dried sea lavender left from my aunt’s shop. Salvia would be great too, and some Zion, beauty berry as well.”

“What do they all mean?”

“Blue star and salvia mean trust‒ something they are bound by. Zion flowers signify that someone is thinking of you, even if they are far. And sea lavender lets someone know they are thinking of you. Beautyberry means a deep understanding. I can of course fill up the space with roses, some chrysanthemums, of course.”

Azul writes in his small pocketbook, scribbling your words across a page, then another, then another. He was always like this when you talked‒ recording the medicinal properties of plants, committing your sensitives to flowers with a fervor. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d say he was excited by your words, but you didn’t.

“Is it alright if I came and watched?”

“Watched?”

“Yes, if I came and watched you work on the twins’ bouquet.”

“It’s boring work, you would fall‒“

You feel your hands in his, your words quickly swallowed by the warmth of his palms. He speaks with softness which reaches deep within your ears, tingles the back of your neck.

“I think it’s quite brilliant, the way you work.”

You want to clasp your ears shut, squeeze your eyes until you see stars‒ knees tucked into your body, forming an embryo to protect yourself from those words. Your tongue shakes in your mouth. You want to scream at him. However to realize this rejection through your trembling fingers would be to deny him something, even if it was the mangled scraps which make your bundle of flesh. You'd keep this revolution plunged deep inside the heart of your whirling sea, a war raging at your marrow to keep the shores lush with anything he'd wish to take. Take it, take it all.

You're still for a moment. "Have it your way, then."

He smiles, but this time, you can't look away.

——————————————————

When he comes a few days later, he brings tupperwares full of food.

"What's all this? A feast?" You see various dishes from the nights your mother brought you to perform at the Ashengrotto’s restaurant‒ fragrant steamed fish that falls off the bone, crunchy seaweed salad, steaming bowls of fish-broth soup, bursting with flavor.

“My mother’s recipes. Your favorite, at least from back then.” He remembers fondly of the times you would finish performing, joining him at the seat right beside him. You’d point to the aquatic plants, bring him to the magic and wonders of their chemistry, their mythos, your sensitivities to them, the world. He's shaped his shores against the curve of your gentle waves, your words always returning to his sandy beaches to leave a million gifts from the sea. This is this, this, and this. He'd hold each sparkling grain of sand, each seashell nymph like an exquisite pearl, cupping his ears to every single one to catch the whispers of eternity bundled in each of them. No matter how you would run yourself raw against jagged beaches and the maws of dark coves‒ he would remain a mirror to your sun faced sanctuaries, hoping that in this lifetime, you would realize that it was you‒ you all along‒ that he'd chased, parodying your brilliance to finally become himself.

His words almost bring you to tears. You gulp it down with the nausea that rises on your tongue, cindering the muscle with its heat.

"Why are you‒" your hands spit out these words in a fervor. "Why are you so fucking nice to me? What is all this?"

You hate the way his expression softens, the infinite arctic blue which melts against your image, the elation in your chest upon devouring such delectable things. It’s revolting.

"Because…" He begins out loud. There’s breath that swells his shoulders, before he gathers his fingers to a shaking fist, locking it under his chin.

Precious.

You swing your head left and right mutely, wrapping a hand around your neck as if to choke any sound that could be ripped from it. Still, it comes out like dried leaves, a strangled rasp, a whimper which rattles in your tightened throat. You hate how he pulls your trembling fingers from your skin, you hate it. But you let him.

His warmth comes as a cosmic storm stirring the oceans into inescapable waves. You were a fool to even try to shelter yourself from it‒ his tenderness beat against your form so loudly it hurt. You can’t pull away, your body does not let you.

Azul sees the fear that bruises your eyes, the way your chest lurches, in heaving, shuddering, controlled breaths to mathematically contain that terror inside of you. There’s a moment where he suspects himself to be the culprit, the distaste of his form, the vile nature of his weaknesses. But you had always consumed all of him, everything‒ his unsightly body, his awful shortcomings, all of the best and worst parts of himself with what surely was heavenly grace. Everything but his adoration for you, a mirror to your givings to the world, and most of all‒ him. This was something within.

He brings you to a seat, a cup of water to your hands. He lets you take time, sipping the moment in small gulps like the drink he sets in your hands. Silence, even with the lack of words exchanged between you two, was never something which was present when you were beside him. His mind always rushed with thoughts about you‒ all the more louder in the eight years you had been absent from his side. Even then, your likeness was always carved in the back of his mind, coming and going like a haunting oceanfront.

“Do you remember the first day we met?”

You remember. “Tell me.” You sign.

“You saved me from those awful kids, remember? I still got so scared of them I got ink everywhere. You were in such wonderful garments I didn’t want you to get dirty, so I told you to back off.”

His smile makes your own. He continues. “I was such a brat back then‒ even after you fended those kids off I told you to get away from me‒ ‘don’t come crying if I spoil your garments!’” A stiff chuckle escapes your nose as you remember the expression on his face. It was much like your own‒ frightened. “But you told me‒“

“Stain them, I don’t care.” Of course you remember. The surprise on his face, the stutter of his hands as you held them.

“Yes. We spent the whole day together. You took me to the shores for the first time, facing the field of‒ what was it?”

“Memorial roses.”

“Memorial roses. You told me they meant love for the honest form." He drags his gaze from his hands, and into your eyes. "I didn't even see the sun set when you talked about flowers the way you do. All my current knowledge of horticulture comes from you, you know.”

"Surely not all of it."

He shakes his head. "No, all of it. I've inscribed every word you've said to me in my mind and I've carried you with me all those years I spent toiling away in my octopot." The hand he rests on your own warms your fingers. "I have you written all over me."

You grip the heat of your throat, hands heavy as you raise them to retaliate, again. "No. Why would you want‒ ."

"I'm not. Why do you think so?" That softness, again, his eyes. Revolting.

You threw the words from your hands in frustration. Didn't he understand? "Why would you want someone like me to‒ to poison you?"

"I could say the same for myself. Why did you defend me that day?"

You remember the look in his eyes, the way he crouched low to the ocean floor in shame. "I saw myself in you. I couldn't‒"

"You couldn't bare it." He finishes.

"Yes, but you're different. With me, I'm not‒ I wasn't‒ "

"But you aren't different." There's a growing lump in his throat, frustration, heat‒ it rises with the volume of his voice, erupting raw at the back of his tongue. "Why won't you let me show you that you're worthy of the same treatment you give to the world?"

“How could I let you?" Your legs ascend from beneath you, your hands feel hot in the air as you flare them out from yourself, hurling them for Azul to see. "Look."

"Look at me." He would see, finally.

The nail of your thumb digs on your chin as your splayed hand sharply juts from your skin. It says, "My own mother".

You slip the ribbon from your throat, unraveling yourself in front of him. Azul sucks a tense breath in‒ you revel in it, your venerable mirror‒ it breaks against your old stitches, bringing you an ineffable bloom inside your chest. You don’t know if it's pleasure or pain which tightens it, but you feel as living, as chemical, as whole as a flourishing chrysanthemum‒ blazing your florid petals every which way, splitting the bud in a thousand directions. Here is proof. You lay yourself out, to him, flay your fragmentation against his eyes. The wounds burn fresh the air. This was your wish, wasn’t it? Still, the seafoam bursting against your skin, the ache, in waves. You hold the emptiness in your hand triumphantly, or, you try to.

He looks when you tell him to, of course, but the softness in his eyes tightens your chest. He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Aright." Finally, he speaks.

"Will you make a contract with me?"

"...what?"

"A contract. Will you make one with me?"

Your knees fall from you when you lean towards the table in support, seating you in the chair across from him. You open your arms, facing your palms towards him, empty, silent.

"I don't have anything I could trade you."

He reaches towards your emptiness, filling it with his warmth. "Then give me this. If you have nothing, grant me you."

You bring his heat near your face, hoping to harbor‒ at least‒ next to it. You won't take it, you couldn't. The fear laps upon you like stormy waves, it's force tearing your fingers from his. "I don't have enough of myself to give you."

"This." He replenishes the absence in your hands again. "This is more than enough‒ it will always be enough." It's a firm grip, it quells the tremble in your body slightly.

"So, will you make a contract with me?"

Hesitantly, you nod.

He guides you towards the shop window where the flowers swill in the moonlight, violet chrysanthemums shining pearly, plump with their honeyed sap. He slips one between his fingers, holds it between the two of you. "I lied when I said I only liked these. When you tell me of promises of success, of love‒ I feel like I can crack open this world with my bare hands. I don’t just like it‒ everything that comes from from you soars my soul."

He continues, bashfully. You feel filled with his words. "You're my ocean, the waters that shape my shores. You've always been where I belong, and what comes back to me to mold me to what I am even after your physical absence." The heat of his hands feel like fire on your skin as he pulls it towards his own. "This is a contract, a promise. Will you let love victor over you?"

You trace that spot on his face as he smiles, you find the small way that it curves mirrored on your own lips. You drink in his smile, returning it with your own; you breathe his scent in, exhale with the breath in your lungs that stirs his and yours‒ you mold yourself against him like you've done so many times against gnashing teeth and jagged seaside cliffs, but this time, your rolling waves kiss warmly against his sun faced sanctuaries, melding together to refract the light in your joint tenderness. The feeling begins as a seed he implants in your chest, pressed firmly against your heart, and you feel it slowly burst open when it is showered in his gaze, his touch, all of him against all that you can muster‒ an ineffable thing, a bloom which you could never put into words, even with the language of whispering flowers and the spectacular earth. It comes in heaping waves like the tears that draw flushed lines on your face. He takes all which falls from you in his hands, staining his hands with the salty fragrance.

"Stop that. I'll get your hands all dirty."

"Stain them, I don't care."

You sob, you smile harder. The tears make it impossible to neurotically measure the twinge of his muscles, the shape of his expression. But you don't think of this, filled with the knowledge of his tenderness, the precise shape of his smile, the softness of his seaborne eyes that fossilize deep within you. "You know I'll be difficult. I always am."

"And you know this about me to, don't you? But this feeling for you comes as easy as water to me."

It's true what he says, you feel like you're floating‒ weightless in the mild seas, drinking in the sunlight which trickles from the skies. Waves upon waves of this brilliance that tilts the light a thousand ways for you to admire. The chrysanthamum petals seem to widen with his warmth, the same unraveling comes bursting, flowering forward in your chest. Victory of love. It comes not as a whisper this time, but loudly as the beat of your blood. You feel it within you, that victory. At last you hold it in your hands, and it shines and lusters like a brilliant peal seeped into each of its petals, blooming forward with all of its love. You allow yourself place the flower in his hair, decorating his face with your love, your victory.

——————————————————

Notes:

All sign language is based off of American Sign Language

Part of the reason why I wanted to use hanakotoba (Japanese flower language) rather than western meanings for flowers was not only because I was more familiar with it, but because the twins I believe are Asian coded. The Octavinelle dorm is seen as the "yakuza" one (Japanese controlled crime syndicate), since they demand those Azul signs contracts with to pay the price, whether through general intimidation, or just straight up physical violence. Tweels also unfortunately sort of fit into the 'Asian twins' stereotype seen in Disney media (Siamese cats in Artisocats), but their overall design (ie eye shape and bristle-y, straight hair) fit into a pseudo Asian look. You know, as much as the fictional land of twisted wonderland will allow. But either way, I think it would be cool to see different species of seafolk have different cultures, and I think sirens in particular would have their own beliefs, systems, and traditions connected to verbal storytelling.

Not entirely sure if this is the case in the western world, but the east is very sensitive about numerology‒ so “bad” numbers are usually avoided when picking out the number of flowers to give to someone.

Chthonic gods are gods connected to the underworld

Carnations were used in coronation garlands for the Romans

Christians believed that it was the flower that sprouted from Mary's tears after the crucifixion of Jesus

Also associated with Artemis, who gouged a shepherd's eyes out because she blamed his flute playing for the lack of game that day. Therefore, they are a symbol of innocent bloodshed

Carnis, the word which is speculated the word carnation comes from, also means flesh. The genus name Dianthus comes from Zeus, connecting it to his daughter Artemis' story

Memorial Rose (ノイバラ) : In the western world, it is often a symbol of wisdom or talent, used often on literary and musical symbolism by writers such as Goethe. But in Japan, it symbolizes "love for the raw/honest form", as it is usually a wild flower that grows in the plains. Modest, but lovely. In Japan it is also called the ノイバラ or "thorn of the plains", so this modest but definitely still packs a punch. Just like Azul lol

Also often grows in the coasts

Omg I just noticed all of the fics I have written has had a toxic maternal parental figure don’t worry I’ll even it out soon lol

[coffinbrotherr]

Istg I keep seeing videos in my recommend that have either Andrew or Ashley sprites in the thumbnail and it's always in the lines of "shock storytelling is BAD" or "this needs to STOP" (I'm not providing examples as to not install a witchhunt but if youve seen them, you know EXACTLY who im talking about.) and I dont...I don't get why? Like, ok genuinely I'm having an actual hard time understanding why because being disturbed and being made uncomfortable is quite literally the definition of horror, so why is it a problem now.

To I guess throw my hat into the ring, I'd like to explain why i personally think incest integral to Tcoaal not only because I'm just fucking tired of seeing people not like the game just because of that aspect and I'm not knocking those people because of it because people can not like things for specific reasons, for example I am not one for horror involving teeth or the mouth so I tend to ignore horror media that prominently use those as setpieces. I'm mainly talking about people that bash it without actually playing it and people that see it at surface level and just make a Baseless assumption because to me and obviously a lot of other people as it still has great reviews, Tcoaal is wonderfully written and that IS thanks to its incest themes.

We see that throughout the game, Ashley obviously loves her brother, not only in the romantic sense but also in the power dynamic. While some aspects have yet to be revealed about thier relationship as we still only have two chapters, Ashley obviously manipulates Andrew and has since they were little as evident by the hide and seek flashback. It's incredibly obvious that Ashley likes control over people and since she doesn't really have anyone else that's closer to her, she uses Andrew exclusively as he's always been there with her figuratively and literally. While this behavior definitely comes from a sense of loneliness and fear of losing the one person that tolerates her as not even thier own parents wanted to stay around them let alone her, I think it also comes down to enjoying the control. Genuinely think about the story of the game for a sec, could you imagine being in that exact situation we see the siblings in. The closest thing we can even relate it to is covid, and we could at least still leave the house to an extent and have things sent to us that we wanted. Imagine going through all that not being able to leave, literally having the bare minimum of food being dropped off to you and being FORCED to stay inside not with a slap on the wrist but with active threats of death even though you know other people get to freely live outside peacefully. Not only is that terrifying but it gives a lot more insight to Ashley's character as she's literally stuck in a place she cannot control in an unfounded situation that is positively awful, but she does have one thing she can control, she has one person she can make exclusively hers and make him do whatever she wants through manipulation and the connection with love. The same goes for Andrew as we know Andrew was at least a bit more popular with people to the point where he even had a girlfriend (Julia) and to have literally all that stripped away from him is tragic, however for him there's one more person he can interact with, one person that cares about him and truly does love him in a way only they can share. It's a beautifully horrific way of telling a story because on the outside, it just looks like "oh hah hah, that's the incest cannibalism game" but if you actually played it you would see not only is the writing genuinely funny but also incredibly smart with its subtle meaning and player interpretation. It's NOT glorifying incest, it is actively showing an incredibly toxic relationship that was made through the circumstances and actions taken with both characters and to say it's just "shock storytelling" or "it's just trying to glorify incest" is just wrong, it's using the incest to further the narrative and that's why I personally find this game to be my favorite work of horror.

But that was just my interpretation, I'd love to hear your guy's views on it because I'd love to further the discussion and potentially add to my analysis as this was just something I wrote at 12:30 AM in bed. I could go on and on about my personal analysis but a lot of it would just be me being genuinely pretty annoyed with the games detractors and overall just make for a poor reading experience.

[aweirdofangirl]

Attempting to corral myself cause we are watching theirs stories inverted (or maybe reversed?). Erik was Mathias, and Mathias was Erik, and it took Mathias time (and Erik getting jumped) to actually stand on business when it came to defending Erik. I can also acknowledge that group think and peer pressure are powerful tools, and toxic masculinity is horrible and oppressive and all that.

But then I think about the rest of what Mathias goes through this season, and I get mad all over again. 9 more episodes of Felix straight bashing him cause he won't stop, he never does. He maybe gets outed to his parents, and his ex best friend and new best friend sleep together.

[love-toxin]

Curious question: How would Bully!Eddie treat their kid? Would it he be nice and sweet for their daughter? Would he be a bad influence on their son (kind a passing the torch to bully a girl he likes just like he did with reader)?

/evil dances

(cws: bully!eddie, mentions of violence (not domestic), cursing, overprotective eddie, a lot of parenting talk.)

bully!Eddie's daughter is absolutely spoiled. he falls in love with her the first second he holds her, he buckles when he hears those gurgles and his heart shatters when he sees her face scrunching up just before she cries. it's kinda like falling in love with you all over again, (by then it's obvious he's completely head over heels) because she looks just like you, her smile and her skin and her laugh, and Eddie has this deep urge to just protect both of you. he knows exactly how brutal the world can get, hell, he's seen that fear in your eyes when he tormented you throughout school. so his little princess not only gets whatever she damn pleases that he can afford (and so do you, cause holy fuck that epidural was huge and pushing that baby out was fucking metal) but he's also overprotective to the max, keeping his girls close at all times and often making threats to anyone that wants to hurt you that he'll bash their fucking skull in with a wrench if they step foot in your direction.

with his son, however, the mistakes Eddie's gonna make have worse consequences than if he turns his daughter into a spoiled daddy's girl. Eddie's got a loooot of that toxic masculinity ingrained in him, and even when he's conscious of it, there's a lot of passive toxicity that he doesn't even notice he's spreading until it slaps him in the face. Wayne gets called much more for advice when he has a son, because Eddie knows that he's a good guy unlike himself, and his uncle can usually steer him in the right direction or correct his behavior or language so he doesn't teach it to his son. he's gotta be a lot more careful with how treats you, too--obviously he still babies you like a princess just as he would after you birthed him a daughter, cause he's still in awe that you went through that whole pregnancy and delivery and you can still manage to smile at him. if it were him, he'd probably be throttling himself in his sleep.

and he'll be pretty proud of himself--he's way better than his dad, and he's certain he's on the right path to showing his son how to defend himself and stand up for himself, while also showing respect and being kind. seeing his mini-him rise where he fell, and not having to work so hard towards being a decent human being when he's older. but there'll come a day where you're serving dinner, and your son will be fussy with eating his vegetables, and with little fists clenched in frustration at being told to eat what's on his plate, the five-year-old will stand up on his seat and tell you you're a bitch.

and you'll be shocked to hear that word from his mouth, upset at how angry he sounds, and terrified that this is all gonna be the end. that Eddie's gonna lose his cool for the first time in years now, or he's gonna let it slide and tell you to get over it, or somehow encourage it. you're not even half a sob into crying, though, when Eddie puts his hands on your son--not to teach him a lesson like he was with a belt, but to pick him up and carry him to the chair in the corner.

"we do not use that language in this house, and you will not speak to your mother that way. I never want to hear you say that to a girl ever again."

he growls through gritted teeth, ignoring the kicking and screaming of a tantrum as he walks away, and only gives him a lick of attention if he gets up, in which Eddie swiftly picks him up and sits him back in the time-out chair. but in the meantime, he walks over to you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, and takes you into his arms to hold you as you cry. and it all defuses pretty quickly after that--cause your son isn't a bad kid at all, he's a bleeding heart if anything, and soon he's crying and saying sorry when he calms down enough to hear you crying. it's a little cathartic for Eddie, though. the conversation he has with his little man once everything's cooled off--how he spells out why he got in trouble, why it's not okay to lash out when we're angry, and that we have to protect the ones we love especially the women in our life--Eddie really gets a good grasp on his own behavior once that's done, and probably decides to drop one of those nasty habits he still has; smoking, or drinking, or cussing. cause he doesn't wanna raise his son the wrong way and have to protect you from him one day--and all the same, he doesn't want his sweet boy to grow up and have to protect you from Eddie, not anymore. you deserve a lot better than that, and so does your sweet, kind mama's boy, who he hopefully can give a sister to when you're ready to make your family a little bigger.

[koolkat9]

That is honestly the perfect way to describe Ludwig lmao

Thank you. I've was thinking about it all day yesterday actually. And before I begin, I do not want people to take this as ger//ita bashing. I'm not really into the ship but I do think at least Ludwig was in love with Feli at some point and I love exploring the toxic side of their potential romance.

Anyway. Perhaps this toxic mindset about love and taking acts of service too far was rooted in him from a young age. A kind of generational trauma if you will passed down from Gilbert due to his time as a religious order. This is getting into projection territory, but that's how I come up with good ideas lol. I sometimes wonder if I am such a people pleaser, unable to speak up for myself and/or say no because I was religious and because they promote a degree of unselfishness that can become unhealthy. Being "Christ-like" requires some form of sacrifice after all. Put those around you before your self for that is how you serve God and get into Heaven. Even though I don't think Ludwig was ever that religious (and that Gil started deconstructing his religion when Lud popped up so it only indirectly influenced his parenting) the idea of love requiring sacrifice and love and care being shown by putting others above yourself always still got rooted in him.

Then you got Feli. Though a bit of a ditz and oblivious, I am a firm believer he isn't as stupid as he presents himself to be. After all, we see him be quite capable, specifically when he was a child. I always loved the headcanon that Feli has abandonment and attachment issues so he acts completely helpless in a attempt to not be left behind again.

With both these trauma responses put together probably won't result in the healthiest relationship. Ludwig give give giving and Feli take take taking because neither knows better and do it to protect themselves. Going a long this line it probably causes issues in their friendship but I think it reaches its climax if they get into a romantic relationship and thus get even more involved in each other's lives. It eventually leads to them breaking up and distancing themselves from each other for a bit.

It is this break that makes them reconsider a lot of things. Ludwig allows himself to explore other romantic options. He had many crushes alongside his crush on Feli, but he had been holding out, hoping Feli felt the same way. By exploring a new relationship or two, he starts to realize that maybe he was giving too much. Thinking too much about Feli and not enough about himself. He learns to love in a more healthy way like that post that tag is from said.

Feli also realizes that maybe the whole helpless act went a little too far. He did what he always did to keep people close and yet Ludwig still left him. One of the people he loved most left him. He spends weeks in reflection. Maybe spends some time with Kiku who puts things in perspective for him since he was an outsider looking in to Feli and Lud's relationship. As an itapan shipper maybe it leads to itapan with Kiku being a grounding force for Feli, but doesn't let him get away with shit. But also Feli may need a bit of a break from serious romances until he finishes processing his trauma. Choose your own ending there.

As much as I don't care for ger//ita as a wholesome end game romance, I do love their friendship every much. So once both heal a bit, Feli and Lud come back together with a friendship stronger than ever, supporting each other in their healing journey and new relationships.