#( onto a new chapter )

[sainz100]

2024 Hungarian GP | x (edited)

[just-a-little-kreature]

MDZS/Link Click fans how we feeling after this??

[seventh-district]

Dying Star

In the back of your mind, you recall something you once heard, something about light, and time, and distance. Space. Something about... how you can still see a star that's already burnt out, because its light hasn't reached earth yet. The ghost of a star that's already died. Only still perceptible thanks to time, and distance.

You remember Sam's words, once whispered to you on this very roof.

"Whatever your choice is... I'm not gonna live forever. I made that decision a long time ago."

You think about dead stars.

You think about time.

- - - - - - -

Sam’s words have been weighing heavy on your mind ever since you discussed your shared future and the various forms it could take. You didn’t realize just how heavy they were until it all came spilling out of your tired mind on a late night spent together beneath the stars.

Pairing: Sam x Darlin' / Reader

Word Count: 4,053

Contains: [angst] [a dash of humor] [a hint of chubby!Sam bc i like 'em strong and soft] [crying] [cuddling (dub-con cuddles with Quinn in the past & consensual ones with Sam in the present)] [emotional hurt/comfort] [implied/referenced dub-con sex (nothing graphic) (in the past between Darlin' and Quinn to be specific) (refer to my Ao3 notes for further explanation)] [mentioned Quinn] [not quite Dissociation i guess but Darlin' does zone-out/get lost in thought more than once] [pet names (Darlin' (obvs.) and honey)] [Reader is Darlin'] [Sam wears a cowboy hat bc i said so] [some passive suicidality from Sam if you squint (hell, maybe you don't even have to squint)]

A/Ns: Well, well, well, here I am, the person who said they wouldn't write any Redactedverse fanfic. I recently felt a mighty need to expand upon the blurb I wrote in this post, and I'm braving my fandom anxiety by sharing it here. pls be nice 2 me abt it

Timeline-wise, this fic takes place sometime after the ‘Talking About the Future With Your Vampire Mate’ audio but sometime before their presumed eventual departure from the house that William gave Sam, given that they've already had the 'turning' discussion but are still on the same roof in this fic.

This is a songfic, inspired by and quoting verses from 3 songs. Those being:

‘Dying Star’ by Ashnikko feat. Ethel Cain

‘Fix What You Didn’t Break’ by Nate Smith

‘No Plan’ by Hozier

The roof of Sam’s house is far from a ‘cushy’ place to relax. But as you lie here next to him under the stars, a knowledge settles within you that you wouldn’t trade the rough shingles beneath you for the softest mattress in the world. Not if it meant there’d be anyone other than him lying next to you.

Some people might counter that it’s an easy thing for you to say, given the number of nights you’ve thrown a balled-up shirt onto one end of a worn-out couch and called it a bed. But some people don’t know you as well as they think they do.

You’ve known luxury. Quinn might’ve been just as content taking his fill on a seedy motel bed as he was wrapped in silks at a Hilton, but he knew how to play up the luxe when it served him to do so. And in the early days as he worked to lure you in, it did. Plush sheets and expensive drinks helped to soften the preordained blows and dull the imminent pain that your nights with him held.

Once you’d latched onto the bait though, he let the act drop one piece at a time, like props collapsing on a stage. After all, what was the point in all of those frivolities when you both knew what you really came to him for? It wasn’t to be wined and dined, it wasn’t to be dressed up and shown off, and it wasn’t even to be slowly stripped of it all, laid out across the rolling clouds of a pillowy mattress.

It was to be used. Tranced. Restrained. Bitten. Drank from. Choked. Hit. Edged. Denied. Made to writhe and whine and bleed and plead. Plead for more, for less, for nothing, for anything. Anything to quiet your mind and fill the ever-expanding void inside you where you suspect love was supposed to live.

That’s what you both really wanted.

At least, that’s what you told him you wanted.

That’s what you told yourself.

You only got what you asked for.

To your right, Sam stirs, stretching gently with a yawn. The soft noise he releases as he does so reminds you of where you are, and you trace back through your thoughts to find how you got so lost.

…Right. Luxury.

While your relationship with Quinn certainly changed over time, you never forgot what it felt like in the beginning. 

You remember nights laid next to him, body sore, mind quiet. Quinn’s idea of aftercare was lacking to say the least, but you had nothing better to compare it to at the time, and you’d take what you could get. At least your head felt empty, and the bed was soft. Exhaustion would pull you under soon enough.

The mattress, sheets, and pillows enveloping you were likely worth more than you even made that past month. ...Or several. You found that display of luxury hard to be impressed by though, when it wasn’t the type of comfort you’d been seeking.

As Quinn shifted in his presumed sleep, pulling you in tighter, you didn’t fight it. You found yourself unwilling to fight anything he did, like his mere presence was enough to drain the fight right out of you. You told yourself that you were okay with that. Because you wanted it.

Lying there with your head on his bare chest, you took a deep breath and told yourself that you liked the stench of cheap cologne, poorly masking the cigarettes and alcohol on his breath. You silently told yourself that you liked everything. You liked the pain that he chased with hints of pleasure. You liked the loss of power, the way you couldn’t fight back if you wanted to once he looked you in the eyes. You liked all the things he said, no matter how much the truth might hurt.

He was right, you supposed. Your desires, the things you craved, the depravity that you so enjoyed, wasn’t normal. It was uncommon, unusual, and in the eyes of some, unfathomable. To possess such dark desires, there must be something truly broken inside you.

How lucky you were, to have found someone willing to indulge you. Someone that could give you everything you wanted, and be so kind as to keep it a secret too. He promised that word of the things he did to you, the things you let him do, would never get out. You remember the way he held your hand as he told you, falling for the guise of sincerity in his eyes. You remember his warm smile, and his razor sharp teeth.

You remember seeing that exact same smile on his face through one-way glass as he sat across from Sam and told him everything.

You stood in that room and thought back to those nights of luxury. To the feeling of his nails ghosting over the freshly healed punctures in your neck. To the way he held you against him. You remember laying there, lifeless, feeling like prey playing dead. Afraid to move, afraid to disturb him. But why? He hadn’t threatened you. He never told you that you had to stay. He never said that you couldn’t move, or pull away. So why did you feel that way?

As you stood, helplessly witnessing hours of his slander in that interrogation room, you understood. Your rose-tinted glasses had long since shattered, and you saw that smile for what it was. It was the smile of a man playing a dangerous game, brimming with satisfaction, thinking he’d won.

The radio near you begins to crackle, static obscuring the hosts voice as they announce the upcoming song. Sam doesn’t even open his eyes, just raises a hand and reaches out, blindly adjusting the antenna of the old device.

You’ve teased him for holding onto it for so long, as he is wont to do with damn near all of his possessions. But as you watch him deftly extend and angle the antenna with practiced care, the response he once gave you proves itself true once again.

“I don’t wanna replace it, Darlin’. It’s not broken. It just needs someone who knows how to make it sing again.”

The static clears, and music flows through the radio’s old speakers once more.

You watch Sam return his hand to its prior position beneath his head, acting as a makeshift pillow of his own. The way he’s lying has his hat pushed forward, and it’d be doing a damn good job of shielding his face from the sun if it weren’t somewhere around midnight at the moment. Still, it suits him somehow, despite its lack of any practicality. All he’s missing is a stalk of wheat between his teeth and a tree to lean against and he’d be the spitting image of the cowboy he swears he isn’t.

His other hand rests on the soft curve of his stomach, rising and falling again as he breathes. He’s the image of peace in moments like these, and you’re drawn to it like a moth to flame. Maybe one of these days you’ll find some of your own, but for now you’re more than content to bask in his.

As you admire him, he takes a slow, deep breath and you mirror it on instinct. The grounding practice helps you leave your mind and return to your body, if just for a moment. In doing so, you realize just how tense your ruminations have made you.

You relax your hands, releasing the blanket beneath you from your iron grip. You brush your palms over it, worried that you’ve torn the fabric once you realize that your nails had halfway shifted to claws. You don’t fret much over damage to your own possessions, but this blanket is Sam’s and you’d hate to ruin it. Though, you suppose he doesn’t prize it too much or he wouldn’t have laid it out here across the roof in the first place.

“If I buy somethin’ it’s because I wanna use it. Now quit frettin’ and get over here.” You recall what he told you earlier as he patted the blanket next to him in invitation, and you smile.

Doing a small stretch of your own, you release the tension in your shoulders, turning your attention back to the stars above you. For a while, you let the soft music wash over your tired mind.

“I asked him not to kill me politely. He drained my magic core, bottled up at the source. I washed up on the sea glass shores. I’m nobody's captive.”

In spite of your best efforts to relax, you’re still subconsciously futzing with the loose threads of the old blanket beneath you.

You’re made aware of it when Sam reaches a hand down, gently laying it over yours and effectively stilling your anxious motion.

“Burning like a dying star, invasive weeds rooted in my heart, set in a crooked trajectory. The journey here was hard, I was almost pulled apart. Trying to leave his orbit took what’s left of me.”

You flip your hand over beneath his so you can hold it properly, lacing your fingers together.

For reasons beyond your understanding, emotion tightens your throat, the threat of tears pooling in your eyes.

…You must be more tired than you thought.

As minutes pass and one song fades into another, your gaze dances across the blurry, scattered points of light in the dark sky.

“You were the star in the pitch black, shine the way on the way back. Out of nowhere, answered all my prayers.”

Sam’s always been so much better at identifying stars and finding constellations. But as the music plays, you begin to see one of your own.

“Picked up the towel that I threw in, took in a heart that was ruined. Showed me the past ain’t a tattoo, loved me even when you didn’t have to.”

“Sam.” You squeeze his hand to get his attention.

He squeezes back in acknowledgment. “Hm?”

“I want you to look at something.” You swallow back the emotion that tries to seep into your voice, but it catches his attention all the same.

He leans up and lifts his hat from his head, setting it aside near the radio. He then reaches to turn a dial back, lowering the music’s volume to give you his full attention.

You release his hand, raising yours up as he turns back to face you. You don’t say anything at first, nearly too lost in your own mind to realize you need to actually voice your developing thoughts.

"What—what're you pointin' at Darlin'?"

Your hazy focus is trained on the brightest star visible in your line of sight, arm stretched out to the sky above you. "That really bright one, to the... to the left."

Sam does his best to follow your less-than-specific directions of 'to the left', your pointed finger doing little to help given the difference in perspective. Luckily, after all these years, he knows this stretch of night sky like the back of his hand, so it isn't hard to locate the brightest one. Ghosting his fingers up along your exposed wrist where your sleeve had slipped back, he takes your hand in his again and brings it back down to earth. "Okay, yeah, I see it now. What about it though?"

"That's you." You say, matter-of-factly.

"That's me?" He questions, humor in his tone.

"Mhm." You nod with finality, blinking slow.

Sam considers the odd statement for a moment before gently correcting you. "I'm uh, I'm pretty sure that's Sirius, actually."

You scoff. "I am being serious."

Sam stifles a laugh. "No—no I mean—like... what's another name for it... Oh, it's also called the Dog Star."

"C'mon Sam, at least call it the Wolf Star if you're trying to turn this around on me..."

He shakes his head and readies himself to explain further, but you cut him off before he can start. "But no. No, this isn't about me. That's you."

He decides to play along, finding something endearing in your overtired nonsense. "Okay... then would'ja be so kind as to explain to this confused old man just how, or why that star is me?"

Your frown is audible in your voice as you latch onto the wrong part of his sentence. "You're not old, Sam. ...Do I need to tell Asher to kick the jokes down a notch?"

He smiles at your over-protectivity. "There'll be no need for that, now. Was just a joke, honey, I promise."

You huff, but begrudgingly shift focus back to the prior topic. "It's... I dunno. It's just you, Sam. It's... bright. Light. Something warm, out there in the cold dark. Standing out amongst all the rest. Calling to me, stealing my attention.”

Sam’s brow furrows as you continue to explain, realization setting in that you really are being serious.

“I... I didn't come out here looking for it, but there it is. ...And there you were. In the dark. The only bright thing I'd seen in... fuck, in years. Years of chasing fleeting warmth, tripping over myself in the pitch black, falling into... places and people that I shouldn't have. You were the light in that darkness. Even there, at Wonderworld, surrounded by the ghost of him. Your warmth, your presence, your aura—even with all of your walls up, you outshone it. Your warmth didn't hurt. I didn't have to squint when I looked at you. You weren't the blinding sun. You were the brightest star I'd ever seen. You guided me home."

In the back of your mind, you recall something you once heard, something about light, and time, and distance. Space. Something about... how you can still see a star that's already burnt out, because its light hasn't reached earth yet. The ghost of a star that's already died. Only still perceptible thanks to time, and distance.

You remember Sam's words, once whispered to you on this very roof.

"Whatever your choice is... I'm not gonna live forever. I made that decision a long time ago."

You think about dead stars.

You think about time.

"...-lin'? Darlin'?" Sam's calloused hand squeezes yours tight, his urgent tone pulling you out of your thoughts. "There you are. Think I lost ya' for a minute there... you good?"

You look up at Sam, concern creasing his features, faint shadows cast across his face from the light of the dying stars above him.

You reach out, pulling him down into you. He falters for a moment at the sudden proximity, but quickly embraces you in turn. Burying your face into his collar, Sam's concern grows when he feels it saturate with tears. A human might struggle to hear your words, muffled against the thick flannel, but his hearing catches them just fine.

"Don't burn out too quickly. Please. I still need you here. I don't—I don't wanna be left in the dark again. Please, please Sam. Don't leave me here. I'm not selfish enough to ask you for forever, but please. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet."

The words feel like a weight being lifted from your shoulders, but with it comes a flood of emotion they’d been holding back. You cry harder into him, and as much as it pains Sam to witness, he lets you feel it, for as long as you need.

Your fear of losing him manifests itself physically, nails curling and sharpening again. When he feels them prick his skin through the fabric of his shirt, he calls your name but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans further down into you, letting his weight ground you. “Darlin’, I am right here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

As you eventually cry yourself out, enough wherewithal returns to you to realize that you should probably release the poor man from your grasp, and the awkward position you pulled him into. When he pulls away enough to see your face, you notice a string of snot running from your nose to his shirt collar. Quickly batting it away out of embarrassment, you cringe, voice thick as you apologize. “Eugh, gross. Uh… sorry. About that.”

He shakes his head, laughing good-naturedly as you wipe at your nose with your jacket sleeve. “It’s completely fine, honey. After all, I’ve been covered in plenty of your, uh… various fluids before. When you come from my line of work, this is child’s play.”

He leans to his right, reaching back and pulling—of all things—a handkerchief from his jeans’ left back pocket. You laugh at his words, and at the sight, but with how congested you are it turns into more of a hacking cough than anything. Accepting his offering, you blow your nose into the black patterned fabric.

As soon as you can speak somewhat clearly, you can’t stop the teasing remark that slips out of you, gesturing with the wad of fabric in your hand. “You know, you really aren’t beating the cowboy allegations with stuff like this.”

He rolls his eyes but his soft smile remains. “It’s a practical thing to have on me, ‘allegations’ be damned.”

You shake your head with a smile of your own, but don’t disagree. As you’re visibly unsure what to do with the dirtied fabric, he takes it from you, setting it aside. “I’ll toss it in the wash when we go back inside. Along with my shirt, and…” He eyes you for a moment. “…that jacket of yours too, given how long you’ve probably been wearin’ it.”

Normally you’d argue that it hasn’t been that long, but come to think of it, you actually can’t recall when you last washed the thing.

Reaching up and rubbing your temples, you already regret your crying fit as a headache begins to set in. “Fuck, Sam... I’m sorry for… whatever that just was. I don’t know what came over me.”

His expression falls into something serious again. “You never need to apologize for feeling. And it certainly seems like… you needed to feel that.”

You nod quietly, but don’t elaborate, prompting him to question you gently. “Darlin’. What was that about? The—the askin’ me not to leave. Are you… afraid that I’m gonna leave you?”

You close your eyes, weighing out your response. “…Not in the sense that you’ll break up with me or something, no.”

His gaze narrows and his head tilts as he rolls your answer over in his mind. “If it ain’t that, then—” He remembers how you mentioned ‘forever’ and cuts himself off as the puzzle pieces start coming together. “Oh. …Oh, Darlin’, no.”

You open your eyes to watch as he shifts from leaning next to you, moving to sit up beside you. “Is this about what I told you, when we sat up here and had our uh… turning discussion?”

You hate to admit it, but you nod in confirmation. “…It’s your choice, Sam, and I never want to take that away from you. I shouldn’t have said what I just did, I—I don’t want to make you feel guilty, or like you have to stick around for my sake. But I’d be lying to you if I said it hasn’t been playing on my mind. The thought of you… leaving. Like that.”

He reaches up, running a hand through his hair. “I… think I maybe should’ve been a bit more clear, when I said that. Because I wasn’t talking about any time soon. I didn’t want to give you the false impression that I plan on sticking around for centuries, but… I also wasn’t trying to imply that I’ve got plans to do it next week either.”

You bolt upright, voice cracking. “Next week?! I sure as shit hope not!” You grab your head, pain flaring and suddenly dizzy from the quick shift in position.

He places a hand on your shoulder to steady you. “I’m not, honey, I’m not. Did you catch the rest of my sentence? I’ve got no plans to leave this world any time soon. I promise.”

You groan, head pounding. “I heard you, I did, I just—fuck, I don’t even wanna think about you leaving so soon. Here I am, stressing, thinking I’ve only got—I don’t know—some odd years left with you, and…” You sigh, trailing off.

Sam stays quiet for a minute, letting the crickets sing.

Eventually, he interrupts their chorus. “…Can I get closer to you?”

You nod. “…Please.”

He closes the gap between you, carefully wrapping a strong arm around your curled shoulders. “You’ve got way more than a couple years. I promise you that.” Your tension begins to ease a bit as he clarifies. “You… you’ve helped me find a life that I actually feel like livin’ again, for the first time in a long time. And I want to experience it with you for as long as I can.”

“…Really?” Your voice sounds so small, so unsure, so… unlike you when you question him that he wants to kick himself in his own ass for the role he unintentionally played in making you feel this way.

“Yes. Really. I mean—” His voice takes on an edge of humor. “If you decide to set your sights on the year 3,000…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know about that. But as far as the 21st century is concerned? …I think I’d like to see it through. For as long as you’re there to see it with me.”

His words cause fresh tears to well up in your eyes, and you sniff in an attempt to hold them back. The sound catches his attention, and he leans forward, thumbing across your warm cheek. “…I’m makin’ you cry again…”

You shake your head, clearing your throat. “No—No, it’s okay. It’s good. They’re… they’re good. It’s… relief.”

He breathes out a relieved sigh of his own. “Yeah?”

You nod, leaning into him. “Yeah.”

As you rest against each other, breathing in the cool night air, you nudge him with your shoulder. “Can we… lay back? For a bit?”

He squeezes your arm in gentle confirmation. “Of course.”

He twists and reaches back to straighten the wrinkled blanket beneath you, before laying out across it himself. The radio crackles as he turns the volume back up a bit. Watching him with tired eyes, you smile at the sight of him patting his chest in habitual invitation.

“Sit in and watch the sunlight fade. Honey, enjoy, it’s gettin’ late. There’s no plan. There’s no hand on the reign. As Mack explained, there will be darkness again.”

Curling up against his side and laying your head on his chest, you release a heavy sigh when his hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. As his fingers press rhythmically into the tense muscle beneath them, you breathe in his scent. Black coffee and wildflower honey… he smells like home.

“Your secret is safe with me, and if secrets were like seeds, when I’m lyin’ under marble, marvel at flowers you’ll have made.”

You reach your hand out across his broad chest, slipping beneath his open flannel and sliding down to rest on his waist. He sighs, relaxing further beneath your touch.

“My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand. That’s how I know now that you understand.”

Yeah, you’ll take this over ‘luxury’ any damn day.

“There’s no plan. There’s no race to be run.”

Laying there with him, listening to the low hum of the radio, the moment grows so comfortable that you almost hesitate to break it.

“The harder the pain, honey, the sweeter the song.”

“…Sam?” You whisper into the night.

His hand sweeps across your back before returning to your shoulder. “I’m here, Darlin’.”

“There’s no plan. There’s no kingdom to come.”

You smile. “I… I’d like to be there, to be here, to see it through with you, too.”

It takes him a moment to recall exactly what you’re referring to, but when it hits him he hums a low understanding tone, clearly pleased. “Then let’s see where it takes us, yeah?”

“But I’ll be your man if you got love to get done.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “We’ve got plenty a’ time.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. You can find my extensive notes and commentary on this fic right here on Ao3. My Sam & Darlin' Playlist My Sam Playlist My Darlin' Playlist My Sam & Darlin' Moodboard My Sam Moodboard My Darlin' Moodboard Header Image Credit: Gage Smith on Unsplash

[altschmerzes]

i would love to see the wip word count spreadsheet 👁️👁️

WIP WORDCOUNT SPREADSHEET TIIIIIIME

every time i look at this i just mutter a little "jesus dude"

i was right btw i managed to hit 50k on history rhymes before going back to work tomorrow

[mechazushi]

Kafka Hibino

Kafka Hibino.... with visible salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka HIbino.... in that black turtleneck and a dark brown leather jacket and also wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing that outfit and is an Animal Biology Professor in an College Au.

Kafka Hibino..... asking out Hoshina who is an Advanced Mathematics Professor working at the same college, to have an after-work drink with him.

Slightly DRUNK Kafka Hibino... becoming very forward with an also slightly drunk Hoshina

Slightly Drunk Hoshina... immediately matching Kafka's freak tenfold and Kafka is very much fine with this.

[cupids-fiction]

was writing my armaniel fic when “worn skin” autocorrected to “worm skin”

i always knew there was something fishy about him.

[aashiyancha]

After many many moons, I have finished rf5's act 2 plot summary ( totally canon ;])

If you haven't had the chance yet (or just down to read it again) here's the link to the act 1 summary

[perilegs]

hardest part about fe birtright is deciding which people i want as s or a+ supports. bc i was doing kaze/rinkah but it feels like all their support conversations are going to be about sweets so i don't care about that anymore. i want to prioritize good compability story/character wise instead of stats. there are some combos im already set on doing and some i kinda want to. and i don't want to do more than maybe 1-2 per character. my s chart looks like this rn, highlighted are the ones i want to do and the question mark is. possibly.

and for a+ i only have hana/setsuna so far

[zelda-a-new-age]

Origins 4, pg 1, & 2

Origins 3 <<Previous Next >> (coming eventually) THE END OF THE FIRST CHAPTER HELL YEAH!!!

Big thanks to my friend @icanuntanglewool who kept asking me about "how's your comic going". i love you, man!

i'm slowly getting better at this whole "comic drawing" thing. though, i do still struggle with it not looking really how i want it to. also, between updates would you guys like to see more sneak-peaks or would you like extras (screenshots of panels vs silly stuff) ? i feel like i don't put out enough stuff.

[ddlcpoly]

CW: Bleeding mentioned

Yuri: Why is your nose bandaged?

Monika: Cuz Natsuki bit on it too hard.

Natsuki: YOU NEVER SAID STOP! I TOLD YOU TO TELL ME WHEN YOU FELT PAIN!

Monika: It didn’t FEEL painful at the moment.

Sayori: Ah, to be so in love you can’t feel the pain of your lovers teeth sinking into your skin.

[llamagoddessofficial]

A little Leaena update. Toldja this fic is still going ;) I'm just working at an absolutely glacial speed lol

[sonickedtrowel]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Doctor Who (1963) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: The Doctor/River Song, Twelfth Doctor/River Song, Eighth Doctor/River Song Characters: Twelfth Doctor, River Song, Eighth Doctor (Doctor Who), Nardole (Doctor Who), Other Character Tags to Be Added Additional Tags: Episode Rewrite: 2015 Xmas The Husbands of River Song, this has been MANY YEARS IN THE MAKING but only theoretically really it was just like january Summary: “...mPLETEly ridiculous.”

River’s voice.  Muted, distant.  Cross.  It was the first thing to sink into the Doctor’s muddled mind as he slowly emerged from the clinging, treacly-thick depths of unconsciousness.  

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong With Dale - Part Seven and a Half*

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself. 

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

*Please note this is a bonus/missing scene

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] Part Seven.5 [Part Eight] [Part Nine][Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You hold still as the tailoress and her assistants draw their measuring tapes around you. 

After selecting your fabrics, the vendors needed to take down those displays to make way for various accessories and embellishments they also hope will be purchased. Some of the drapers sold those as well, but some independent milliners had also been invited to display their wares. 

While that change was happening, both you and Dale had been whisked off to let the clothing-makers take new measurements, in your case, or updated measurements, in Dale’s. Grandmother went with Dale, saying she needed to ensure they knew that Dale would be recovering from the dip in weight caused by illness and she’d not have them forget take that into account, leaving you to manage on your own.

Your maid helps you out of your current dress, a light green one, and into the undergarments which you expect to be wed in. The chemise is a gift from your sister, with beautiful maroon ribbon throughout it, finer than any other such garment you usually wear. Then came a pair of white stays and your newer underskirts—corded to give your skirt the right amount of fullness for the current fashion trend.

The tailoress is efficient as she takes your measurements, keeping up a steady stream of chatter to her apprentice and letting you know ahead of time how she wanted you to move or if she was going to reposition you herself. 

The curtains around this area make it easy to forget that on the other side of the room, Dale is also in some state of undress, but the thought is never far from your mind for whatever reason. You don't know why such a thought won’t leave your be–they certainly never bothered you before, either with regards to Dale or regarding other students at your school. 

Instead, you try to distract yourself with the fashion plates Grandmother passed to you before she went with Dale. For all you are sure Dale shall choose a very fine suit pattern, the truth is there is less variety to men’s suits these days. He is likely to choose some fine embellishments and you’re sure his waistcoat will have high quality and elaborate embroidery, but the actual cut of the suit is unlikely to be a difficult decision.

Even for your own dress, the primary decision with the fabric chosen is the neckline, sleeves, and waistline. Even your options are not hugely disparate. Despite the tailoress working around you, with your maid’s help, you are able to study each plate and rank your top choices for Dale and Grandmother’s approval with relative ease. Between the efficiency of the tailoring process and the quiet, you are able to recenter yourself from how overwhelmed you had abruptly felt earlier and rejoin the Northridges’ in a more settled mindset.

You spot Dale, who has already finished with his fitting, inspecting some boots. When you join him, you frown in confusion at them–not sure what they have to do with wedding clothing accessories. Dale must read the confusion on your face as he says, “There is a fashion in the capital to have new boots fashioned for a wedding, in addition to the other clothing. Can you not tell these are specifically designed wedding boots?”

You stifle a smile behind a carefully raised hand, now able to tell when Dale is having fun. Beyond the fact that the shelf of boots, while of high quality leather, are indistinguishable from normal boots to your eyes, his eyes twinkle as he smiles down at you. His playful mood is infectious. “Of course, my Lord. How could they be anything but for such a specific and important occasion? Nothing like ordinary, everyday boots at all.”

“Alas, I do believe this will not be a fashion trend my Grandmother will entertain as anything more than an admirable attempt of the cobblers to wring some additional coin from our wallets.” He holds out his arm for you to take. “I must turn away from this display before I grow heartsick over what I cannot have.”

You barely resist the urge to shake your head at his dramatic playacting, but take his free arm without hesitation. “And what shall you distract yourself with instead?”

“Aside from my lovely bride’s presence?” You duck your head, not able to even look at him at such a tease–the original Dale would never say such a thing unless ironically, but it did not seem so with this Dale. But was there another meaning? Why did he express such sentiments? To flatter you? To what end? “Surely there are other decorations here which can catch our interest. Does any table in particular stand out to you?”

You scan the room, noting many milliners have quite different displays. Were they all told to focus on one accessory? Evidently not all, so you head for the table with the greatest variety of accessories. Everything from parasols to lace trimmings to bonnets are arranged for your viewing. You examine a shawl, wondering if, given the weather, one was necessary or if perhaps you should be reviewing the parasols instead. It would not due to be burned from the sun on such an auspicious day.

Dale wanders over to the table next to this one as something catches his attention while you continue to slowly circle the original table. While fashion these days requires many accessories, people varied in what they purchased new for a wedding. Many only polished up what they had or wore their best, the older or richer the noble family, the more was bespoke for the occasion. Northridge was not particularly wealthy, but they were an old house.

The cost for a wedding was also something that varied, often unspoken to those not involved unless one family wanted to show off their wealth or culture. Your parents had been very clear about the finances of your betrothal. You had a larger dowry than was typical for a youngest daughter of little distinction–nominally in the interest of seeing you well settled. Unofficially it was to see you settled quickly, with minimal digging into your past health issues.

Your mother had implied that they would see you dressed well, but no more than what was appropriate. That your dowry was already more than generous. You thought there had been a compliment mixed in with these instructions, when Mother said you were not one for frivolous adornment as it was and so should not find it hard to resist. Mostly having to be judicious with your wedding clothes had seemed like another thing you could not have. She had said if the Northridges’ wished for anything more well-to-do, they could cover the cost or take it from your dowry themselves. 

So you knew precisely how much you had to contribute to your wedding clothing and it was for the dress alone, with perhaps one new accessory. You think through your clothing in your mind, trying to determine what you have that will do and therefore what item you should purchase to cover what you lacked.

“What do you think?” Dale has walked back over to show you some lace cuffs that are very finely worked. They might be the most expensive lace cuffs you’ve seen. Well, aside from your schoolmate’s, heir-apparent to the Jasika duchy, who loved lace above all else, including her considerable allowance. You resist your immediate response regarding how much they must cost and focus on their appearance alone.

“They are exquisite,” you say truthfully as you let him usher you over to the lace table he has been perusing. “They will go well with your suit.”

“I think so as well. Which do you think will go best with your dress?” Dale sets aside his own lace to look over the gauzier style usually attached to the ends of gown sleeves. “How long were you anticipating the sleeves to be?”

You blink. “Pardon? I was not going to. Not on my dress. Truly, I do not need the extra embellishment.”

Dale pouts. “But it is our wedding. If that is not the occasion for embellishment, what is?”

You struggle to find the right words to say that, as your dowry would go directly to Dale at the wedding itself, you did not control how it was spent, with only enough for the dress alone at the moment. The Northridges had acquiesced to that deal with no counters. That had been Grandmother and Grandfather, not Dale–did he not know that you could not afford such adornment?

“With the silk brocade for my fabric, I do not believe I require additional decorations,” you settle on, hoping he will understand.

He does not, frowning. 

“What is that, dear?” Grandmother has rejoined the two of you. “Are you not preferential to lace? It is of the highest quality and locally produced. I had hoped you would consent to wearing a collar mantle of it as well, to match. I have seen that you prefer plainer dress–which speaks well to your modesty and sensibility. However, I should think this was an instance where such restraint was not required.” 

Her words echo Dale’s own from earlier and you find yourself similarly unable to form an intelligent response. “Oh, no-that’s not it at all. I, I simply…” You wring your hands together as you try to find the words. How do one remind someone else they hold one’s pursestrings? 

“Is this about the manner in which your parents divided your dowry?” Grandmother leans in close to say, “That is of no consequence. I assure you there is no better use for one’s dowry than on the wedding.” 

Grandmother’s voice drops even lower, so none of the vendors can hear, “Pay no mind to the cost our enterprising entrepreneurs have listed. I will not have them overcharge us, however, a wedding is known to be a veritable catalyst to the local businesses and we intend for this one to be so as well.” She leans away and says in a clearer voice, “Indulge an old woman in spoiling her grandchild and his bride, will you not?”

Grandmother pulls away completely before you can respond, turning back to the table. “Some lace fringe for your sleeve caps would be lovely. Unless you wished for full length sleeves?”

“I,” you start to say before giving a slight shake of your head, trying to rally your thoughts. “No, as it will only be further into summer by the wedding. I had believed capped, shorter sleeves would be best.”

“As I anticipated,” Grandmother says, triumphant. “These are all suitable, which do you prefer?” She has selected four specific lace trims. You're still trying to catch up to the idea that Grandmother wishes to have you so fully outfitted for the wedding. In the end, you realize you’re waiting for Dale’s protest–that he would not want to waste your dowry that will be his on such trinkets for you.

Instead, he’s bent over the trims before he looks up at you. “I like the first and third, but of course the choice is yours, my Lady.”

You look down at the fine lace. Truthfully they are all very pretty and you have no preference. Reaching out, you pick up the first with one hand and the third in the other. Grandmother leans closer to see the details more clearly. She taps your left hand. 

You nod. “Yes, I believe the third would be lovely with the brocade.”

“Wonderful,” Grandmother says, putting them over with Dale’s chosen cuffs. “Now, I am aware it is no longer an aspect of high society to wear gloves, but I am afraid I shall have to insist for the wedding.” Grandmother strokes her own light blue gloves. 

Dale doesn’t appear to mind, merely walking over to the other side of the table to inspect the gloves available. When you start to follow, Grandmother steers you over to another table. “Missus Glass is where I purchase my own gloves and they are the superior ladies choice, I assure you. The softest and most comfortable by far.” 

When you lean down to take a closer look at the options, Grandmother tuts, “It is not enough to look at these, you must try them on. Go on, dear. You shall be the one wearing them.”

She waits patiently, sharing stories about her other children’s weddings as you try on a variety of gloves for her benefit, eventually settling on a light cotton pair of gloves. After receiving Grandmother’s approval, with only minimal tutting at the open weave before she admits they were more than acceptable for summer, she goes over to where Dale was examining some canes. 

You find yourself heading back over to the dress forms of Dale’s parents' clothing. Dale was to use his father’s handkerchief, but you are supposed to figure out some way to augment your own outfit with something from them as well. The obvious choice is some part of Dale’s mother’s silver, but that’s also the most delicate and well constructed part of the outfit. Anything you might take seems like a black mark against the way it is now, the whole it has managed to remain these years.

You slowly circle the form, trying to see how it is specifically put together and what seems the most easily removed without damage. You wonder what your parents might send in response to the letter you promised Grandmother you’d write. While aiding in your sister’s wedding, you heard all manner of comment about how weddings had changed, but your mother had never said anything about what became of her actual dress. Most likely she will provide jewelry of some sort, you think and so do not touch the jewelry on a pedestal nearby.

Perhaps…you move closer to inspect the round hat and its connected veil. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dale walk over to join you, obviously in a far better mood from these days as opposed to yesterday's endless discussion.

“I was thinking that perhaps your mother’s veil would be the best way to incorporate some of her clothing into mine,” you say, gesturing to it pinned to the mannequin’s neck.

“A good idea,” Dale agrees, already reaching out to unfasten it. “The silver will go very well with your hair.”

You blush at the compliment, barely resisting the urge to reach a hand up and make sure he’s seeing the same plain hair on your head as you see. “The rest of the dress is so finely put together, I fear any other alteration could never live up to it.”

Dale nods absently as he takes the hat and veil from the form’s head. He turns you to a nearby mirror with confident hands on your shoulders. More quickly than you expect, he slips behind you to arrange the hat and veil onto your head. You freeze, not wanting to damage such an artifact. You feel Dale delicately arrange the veil and your hair, adjusting some braids so it sits better on your head. 

“What a lovely idea,” Grandmother coos before she leans closer for a more critical look. “I don’t believe the hat suits you though—and it's not the fashion anymore.” You agree, it makes your hair an odd shape and the black would not go with your dress. “We shall have that piece detached from the silver train. The decrease in length shouldn’t be a problem since you’re shorter than Qiana as it is.”

“Are you certain? I wouldn’t want to damage it.” Remaking these items is what Grandmother spoke of, but it's such fine, delicate work.

“Nonsense, it is meant to be worn–not kept in a crate somewhere in the dark. Dale,” she asks imperiously, “fetch one of those little caps so we can see how the veil would look with it. We shall ensure your bride is the finest in years.”

You stare at your reflection, which thankfully does not look as bewildered as you feel. Everything is coming together so quickly and easily, it's as surprising as it is rather wonderful.

Dale smiles to you in the mirror and goes to do as he is bid.

[Part Eight]

[miminmimikyu]

Superbia is such an interesting notion!!! He completely breaks with the pattern we’ve seen with the previous deadly notions

He’s the only one based on a magical boy

2. He’s been awake for much longer than the others. Rui met Oya as a child so ~10ish years at the absolute minimum if all the Ainos and the ANRC blinked into existence at the same time OR 2023 years if he’s been watching over the world since the notion sky came into existence. The others woke up only after Tsubame woke up Ira

3. It doesn’t seem like there was any overlap between the other anti-war magical girls. Except I KNOW ALL. He was already there when Fubuki Hana died and before Shiro was recruited. (Either he wasn't transformed here or he wasn't a magical boy yet)

4. His magic is off the scale. Avaritia's copy ability was one thing, we didn't really get to see Gula and Luxuria's abilities but Superbia being able to create people and a pocket dimension??

5. His effect on the blue sky wasn’t a heart shaped-notion but black fragments

6. Colour is so deliberate and holds so much information in this manga but he’s the only Deadly Notion whose viral absorption mechanism (heart arrow through the head) does not correspond with whatever effect he has on the sky: he’s sky blue just like the Ainos!!!

Before the manga revealed that Superbia’s magic was in those black sections of sky I thought that the final thing to break would be the sky itself. Idk I still think it's far too big a coincidence that he and the Ainos are sky blue, but the lower half of his magical boy design is pitch black and Superbia is also consistently linked with darkness, not only in his magic but also in his appearances and when he speaks so hmm!

7. Maybe not such a surprise because he's able to mimic other people but he's the only one whose costume is different as a magical boy versus as a notion: sometimes he still has the coat (without the embellishments/crown though), but the other clothes he had on his upper body and his shoes are gone and he's wearing different trousers (not black!! edit: after reading ch 39 I guess that's just a stylistic choice, because he's wearing the greyish trousers + no shirt in the flashback too)

I can't wait to find out what makes him so different from the others and how that ties into the story!

[cockamamieschemes]

We at 25 pages now for Chapter Two Script !

[ipsen]

tg 119 and re 63

"eto growing out her hair and dyeing it so she doesn't have to look at a face she'll never know" goes hard btw