just. . .do y'all remember when Polin actually loved each other in our fandom? do you remember when our posts were about how sweet they were together? when it was about how they were on one another's teams? when it was story after story and post after post of polin against the world? of 'I like you' 'I like you too'? of 'Is life meant to be this happy?' 'I think so'? Do you remember when we were all about how much Colin loved Penelope and Penelope loved Colin? When the biggest narrative was that they saw one another, made one another brave, brought out the best in each other? When the mirror was more than just a sex scene and was also a metaphor for what they saw in each other and how they reflected one another? When they were kind to each other? When we were kind to them as characters? When they were encouraging? When they were affectionate and loving and tenderhearted and messy and silly and loving with one another? When Penelope chose Colin at every turn and Colin chose her?
Where is it? Where is the love for our couple? Be honest, wanting Colin to grovel and suffer isn't for Polin fans. It's for Pen stans. Because us Colin fans are shown time and time and time again that it's okay to call a character we love an idiot, want him egregiously punished or humiliated, to see nothing good in his character at all. So who else is it meant for? I miss when we cared about them. I miss when there was a place we could go that was about their romance and tenderness. I miss when it wasn't just straight up hating on him, or us obsessed with Penelope getting with other characters, or thinking he's less than.
We have one of the *best* Male Love Leads in the entire series. And if you don't think that way. . .I just don't understand why you claim to ship this ship. We have an amazing pairing. A wonderful couple. A couple who cares about each other, a couple who builds one another up, a couple that are friends, a couple that has passion and happiness and so much potential.
Do you remember our gifsets gushing about how much he cared for her? Do you remember our metas about how they could bloom and flourish around one another? When we looked at how Colin was hypervisible but ultimately unheard and how Penelope was invisible but the loudest voice in the ton and sighed about how they fit so well with one another? Do you remember when Penelope was proud to have Colin as a partner and he showed her off at every turn? Do you remember when it wasn't a scorecard? When it wasn't about suffering and was about tenderness? Do you remember when they LOVED each other in our fandom? Do you remember when we loved them?
I remember.
And I miss it. I miss it so much.
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ANDDD piarles + 45 for the soulmatism 😘
45: Vampire and Hunter
Charles can smell him across the room. Or—he can smell what’s on him, anyway. There’s a scar from where his crucifix had burned him the last time that aches a little at the smell of the gold-plated iron: a perfect mark between his shoulderblades, deep enough that it’d actually left an indent in Charles’ skin he’d only noticed after, crawling into his coffin for the night. The scent of it had burned his nostrils the whole day through, but he’d paid it no mind.
No one fucks him like Pierre does, hunter or otherwise.
“Charles,” his voice calls, sounding strained from where he must be perched. “Are you here?”
“Yes,” Charles answers back immediately, and regrets it for a moment when he realizes just how desperate he sounds. His brothers keep telling him he has to cut Pierre off if he’s not going to feed on him, for a multitude of reasons Charles chooses to ignore, but it’s little moments of self-awareness like this that make him recall the warnings. It is unhealthy to be so attached to a human, Arthur had offered. Also, he is a hunter!
Two good points. Charles should not be so fond of a human, let alone a hunter of all things—he is a vampire, and has been a vampire for hundreds of years. There have been many beautiful human beings that have crossed his path, his bed.
None of them are like Pierre, though. Pierre, whose footsteps come stumbling forward unevenly, weight off-balance. The moonlight pouring through the window of the abandoned barn they always meet in is almost like a spotlight, the way it illuminates his forbidden lover from almost total darkness. For a fleeting second, Charles wishes he could see him in the sun.
“Charles,” Pierre says again. His voice has gotten softer with proximity, but is just as strained. A few more steps and Charles can tell that he’s drunk. Hence the stumbling. “Charles, my Charlo, my love—” he lurches forward and grabs hold of Charles, burrowing his face in the cold crook of his neck as he takes a shuddering breath.
“Pierrot,” Charles murmurs in reply, closing his arms around Pierre’s now-trembling body in an embrace he hopes can at least seem warm. “What has gotten into you? Are you okay?”
With a low groan, Pierre extracts himself from the embrace and instead presses his warm, alive hand to Charles’ cold, bloodless cheek. “My love,” he repeats, voice impossibly softer, “they know.”
“Who knows? What do they know?” But even asking the question feels ridiculous, because from the despair in Pierre’s voice, there’s only one answer. He hopes to whatever higher power that created his species that that isn’t true.
Pierre chokes on a broken little sound. “My brothers,” he whispers. “I don’t know how, Charles, but they—they know.” He takes another big, shaky breath. “About you and me.”
Charles has been running from vampire hunters for centuries. There is nothing he has not done to survive. He’s loved and he’s lost, he’s torn humans limb-from-limb, he’s sucked the life out of all things great and small. But here, in Pierre’s devastated arms, fear strikes him in his beatless heart for the very first time, like he’s being staked here and now. It’s not just any hunters that know of his existence. They are Pierre’s brothers. His brothers. Charles has brothers, and he’s been harboring a fantasy for too long that he’ll get to introduce them to Pierre someday: that maybe they’ll welcome him into the fold, that they’ll understand why Charles is in love with him and keeps him by his side, why he’s never once drank from him no matter how sweet he smells.
But that can never happen. It can never happen because his brothers are too old-fashioned to accept a human into their lives. It can never happen because Pierre is a hunter, and even though Charles knows he’d never kill a member of his family, the rest of his coven do not.
And now, it can never happen because Pierre Gasly’s family of vampire hunters now are aware of his existence, and for as boundlessly as he loves the man standing before him, he cannot extend that love to people who pose an unspeakable threat to his own family’s safety.
“Oh, Pierrot.” It’s all Charles can say. His brain will kick in, eventually: there will be a plan to turn him, even with his hunter blood, and there will be a plan to run away with him, and there may even be a plan to leave him behind the way he’s left so many other lovers through his life. But as Pierre collapses back into his arms, crushing his warm, blood-hot face against his ice-cold cheek, Charles can’t think of a thing right now but this: the thrum of Pierre’s pulse in his ears, the surprising strength of his human body, the memory of where they’d been only a few nights ago.
(Here. They’d been here, in this barn, buried in the old, dry hay as Pierre made the sweetest love to him that he’d felt in over two hundred years.)
“I am so sorry, mon ange,” he whispers defeatedly, hot tears spilling down his cheeks.
Charles swallows thickly. “I am too, my love. I am too.”
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