#Also hi yes I'm alive. scarcely

[tigorrrr]

Johnny, looking at Rai: Wait so- if you're intersex HOW does it work? The- how did YOU got pregnant??

Cappy, snappy: Have you ever heard of privacy?

Johnny: Have you ever heard of Johnny Cage, ma'am?

Cappy:

Cappy, loads gun:

Rai: No- honey! Don't! I haven't got my autograph yet!!

[amphiptere-art]

This is Dim.

And they are so pretty.

I have never been happier to actually see this character. To actually be able to visualize Dim. My first sort of OC.

Do they look like blue moon but color swapped? Totally. Yes. I don't give a damn. Dim became Blue Moon through the design process by accident. I don't think it's terrible and that Dim takes some of his design back. I'm just happy to see him.

I created them in the era when everything was just something I imagined in my head. If I couldn't get a design through line art, there was no way it was going to come on page. Color wasn't a thing I used. And yet that was the whole prospect of Dim. This colorful character propped with the colors of the setting or rising Sun. Stark colors of blue and yellow marking out his duty. It was just something I couldn't do in line art. There is no way in all hell I could express that.

And yet now I do. Have colors! Something I scarcely used on paper. It always took too much time, was too much of a worry, I didn't have the right shade. Now at the click of a couple buttons and a quick Google search I can have all the colors I ever want. Dim can be alive in every aspect that I ever wanted him to be.

Dim's design on paper is boring. Even now if I remove the color it looks silly. It's a bunch of stripes on a standard DCA with a couple of unique ribbon and ray orientations. It's not that surprising and contrasting.

But it works so well with color. Just the stark difference between the stripes and their main body hues. Blue Moon took Dim's design because it just didn't work with line art. Either looked too stagnant or too exciting. My philosophy has always been to make the line art poppy, because that's what I've always had. But it also removes the splendor from characters that probably would have looked better with the color. Always scribbled dark areas to just express it because it wouldn't work else wise.

I am very happy with Dim's design. I have never been happier to see this character I devoted an entire section of my little story making mind too. This little security drone. Plugged into a body that don't know how to move with. Thrown into a consciousness they never had to correlate with. Able to interact with a humans on a level they've never had beyond the screen. Able to understand music.

Say hello to Dim. The little AI that loves the sound like a dance.

[plethora-of-imagines]

Cardinal Copia's Costume Curator

AN: This is in tribute to the wonderful beloved @how-masterful for her birthday! (Who introduced me to the band's lore which made me finally listen to the songs, and well..... I'm now very obsessed)

It's the first thing I have written an a long while... oops! But I got into a very competitive health program so I am very busy actively fighting the gods to survive being back in school.

Which means this is only loosely edited, and probably very out of character but I had fun writing it! (In the dreams of my head where I actually do have time this would have been a slow burn multi chapter, but I've never managed to do one of those soooo oneshot it is)

I hope you had the best of days beloved and enjoy your (our) blorbo story

Word Count: 4402

Ao3 Link: Here

Warning: smut/lemon, nudity, blowjob, semi public sexual contact

Description: A collection of moments between the new costumer for the tour and her Cardinal.

Knocking on the door of the dressing room she spared a quick glance back at the ghoulette who had helped guide her. A cute little thumbs up and a smile of an alarming amount of teeth greeted her. She tried to push past her general anxiousness to recognize it for the reassurance it was.

“Ah, hi, hello,” the uncertain greeting from the Cardinal as he opened the door made her turn back to face him so fast she feared she gave herself whiplash.

“Hello Cardinal,” she began in a hurry, sheepishly introducing herself. “I’m umm- your new costume curator?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he gestured for her to enter the room. Charmingly grabbing her hand to kiss before awkwardly trying to rub off the black stain his Cardinal paints left on her bare skin. Smudging it just enough to make the single lip stain scarcely recognizable. “Sister told me you were joining our little touring family. But uh she did not say why. So good to know that you will be helping with costumes in some way then.”

“She figured you needed me after the video about the belt got back to her.”

He seemed to deflate into the uncomfortable leather chair that came with this touring spot’s dressing room.

“That uh got back to her and all the siblings then, si?”

“Yes Cardinal.”

“Good, great.”

It certainly did not sound like he found it good at all. The silence made her nervous so she rushed to fill it with an explanation that it seemed Sister Imperator had failed to give him.

“She actually seemed to think you handled Sister Maria’s mistake well? Or at least she was more upset with learning from the Siblings here that Sister Maria was more focused on indulging in sin instead of her job?”

“Sister who?”

“Sister Maria?” Did she remember her predecessor’s name incorrectly? “The previous sibling in charge of your and the ghouls’ costumes?”

Rubbing the back of his head, making a mess of his already ruffled hair he admitted something that would have had Sister Imperator flaying your predecessor alive.

“I ,uh, did not know we had someone in charge of costumes. Me and my ghoulies have been taking care of them ourselves.”

“Yourselves,” she screeched. Rushing to explain herself, “not that they seem to be in poor condition, they looked decently taken care of if not a little disorganized. But uh none of you were taught how to take care of these beyond the basics! Who has been checking for any issues with seams? Or keeping track of the spare costume pieces?”

“Eh heh,” gently scratching at his face as he spoke up. “I did use a bit of the Google when the tour started to figure out how to spot clean them after a little incident with the ghouls.”

It was endearing how proud he was of himself, even she couldn’t bring herself to be upset about the possible damage to the garments. She had already looked them over and on the surface they were fine enough. There was even more work to be done than she feared with her initial evaluation of them.

“But it will be a welcome change to have you taking good care of our uniforms, Sister.” He sheepishly looked into her eyes. “Would it also be possible to have you assist backstage with my quick changes. I’ve always made it but it has been cut rather close before...”

“I almost don’t feel bad for Sister Maria when Sister Imperator gets her hands on her. Almost,” she joked before working to reassure him that she would be dutiful in her job. It was an honor to be allowed to join the tour when not a long term or high level Sibling.  She was eager to prove her worth. “Cardinal, you should have had someone assisting you this whole time, it's part of the job! I know we encourage sin but I think Sister Maria was too indulgent with practicing sloth when it came to her job.”

“Si, if I had known who she was and that she was supposed to be doing all these things I would have had a conversation with her before something made its way back to Sister.”

Clapping, he stood up, lending her a hand to guide her up from her seat.

“Now let me introduce you to the rest of my ghouls. Sister said that you are to join us on our bus so that you can work if needed while we travel, which now I know means if we have any costume malfunctions that need your guiding hands.”

***

Nervously she straightened the hanging costumes again for the millionth time. It was almost time for the first costume change with everything that need to be done to get things in order they hadn’t had a chance to practice how she would help. Changing the Cardinal from his cassock into one of the skin tight suits that he admitted were tricky for him to get on alone with how much they clung to his skin. Eager to be helpful, fearful that she would in truth be a hindrance to him.

“You look as if you have seen a ghost, Sister. And not one of the ones on stage,” the Cardinal teased as he stepped into the makeshift changing room that she had set up with spare curtains.

Lightening her mood by gently plopping his biretta onto her head. 

“This is already much better than when I was doing this alone-”

“Because you can use me as a glorified hat stand,” she teased.

“Ah, I was going to say because I have some privacy and am not just rushing off to a dark corner to undress, but yes that too.”

Growing more comfortable, her hands worked to help free him from his clothes efficiently, undoing the buttons down to his navel so that he would be able to simply step out of the garment. Catching a glance of his bare chest while turning to properly hang up the belt he had handed off to her.

“At least they didn’t decide to mirror the whole thirty three buttons for Jesus’s life thing when they copied the idea. Can you imagine if they had decided to make that thing have six hundred and sixty six buttons? We would never get you out of it!”

“Si, and what a hindrance to the sin of lust that would be. A frustrating new form of chastity belt for the clergy.”

Mentally planning the best way to help, she grabbed the skin tight pants. If they took him the longest to get on, then that is where she should start. He could put on the shirt while she started to pull on the pants. Quickly gathering the length of each pant leg and condensing it so that he could slide into them. Moving to kneel on the floor before him. Looking up to tell him to step into them.

Instead of her eyes meeting his, they met his cock. His completely uncovered cock.

Freezing, eyes locked on the monstrosity of a cock that hung before her. The hair neatly trimmed, balls symmetrical, and cock tip a pretty shade of pink. Oh Satan. She couldn’t help but continue to stare without a thought in her head beyond, “pretty”. It was the most beautiful cock she had seen outside of porn- not that she was terribly well versed, but she had seen a fairshare in her time in the church.

Her burning face felt like it was glowing as she turned back into reality. He had been speaking to her.

“Huh?”

“I’m so sorry Sister. I should have warned you that I cannot wear anything underneath, since the lines show with those pants. You didn’t consent to this.”

Struggling to find the words as her lips stumbled around them, “it’s fine. I don’t mind, just a little surprised. Not that there is anything little about that surprise.”

Could someone come drag her into hell early? Why did her brain decide the proper response in that situation was to actually say that!

“Please step into these pants before I further embarrass myself,” begging as she refused to look at his eyes or his cock anymore.

The two of them worked together to force him into those pants. Even with her distraction at his firm thighs and well defined bulge that she did not need to use imagination to remember what was underneath, they finished well before his que. 

“Thank you Sister,” he blew a kiss her way as he pushed past the curtains again.

Still braindead from lust she waved goodbye to him like a fool. Slamming her head against the wall the moment he was out of sight.

Oh Satan, they had to do that several more times. And the worst part is she wouldn’t get any privacy on the bus later to do anything to mimic what she wanted that cock to do to her.

***

“Mountain! Where are your shoes?”

She timidly approached the tall ghoul. Their height differences further accentuated by her eyes being glued to his sock covered feet. Feet lacking the shoes that should be on them.

“If there is something wrong with them I could try to fix them?”

Glancing up into the blank mask. Nervously shifting while waiting for some sort of response.

“They’re fine,” he answered in a deep rumble of a voice, so quiet it almost couldn't be heard. At her wide eyed questioning look he elaborated, “interfere with feeling the beat.”

Oh, so that’s why he didn’t wear them. She nodded, subconsciously fiddling with her grucifix in an anxious habit she was unaware of but that the ghouls had all picked up on.

“You do wear them outside though... right?” Her panic grew with Mountain’s continued silence. “Mountain, there is broken glass everywhere outside the venues!”

The stoick ghoul tilted his head to the side like a curious cat, tail flicking in interest at her words.

“You could get hurt!”

“Cute,” his words were followed by two light pats to the tip of her head. “Don’t need to worry about me.”

Turning to wander off again while she squeaked out his name in shock.

***

“Sister, a word- privately,” the Cardinal softened his words the moment her eyes met his. Striking white eye filled with silent care. “If that’s all okie dokie with you.”

“Of course, Cardinal.”

Gentle hands corralled her from her seat at the built in dinner booth where she had been losing steadily at cards against the ghouls. Door softly clicking shut behind them, enclosing them in the small private room at the back of the bus that was seldom used.

“What can I do for you Cardinal?”

“It’s more what I can do for you, Sister.”

Her confused, “huh” had barely left her lips before he continued on. Rushing as if the words would get caught if he did not push them out all in one breath.

“You have been traveling with us for a while, si?” He left no room for a response. “But um not once have you confessed your sins?”

Remaining silent she avoided his glance. Not wanting to admit that the reason she had failed to confess were her sinful thoughts of the man she needed to confess to.

“I just wanted to know if I had done something wrong? To make you, not want to confess, to me?”

Rubbing his fingers together, looking so concerned for her, so downtrodden.

“No,” she rushed to reassure him. “You’ve done so much to make sure I am comfortable here Cardinal! I just- don't have a lot to confess to...”

“Ah, good- that I have not made you uncomfortable! Not that you have felt unable to freely sin in honor of our Lord Lucifer!”

Taking a seat on the couch shoved into the corner of the room. The Cardinal patting the cushion next to him in invitation. Carefully making her way over to his side, trying not to trip over the corner of the bed also squished into the small space. Gingerly sitting down with as much grace as she could manage in the tight space.

“Eek,” she squealed when firm hands pulled her upper body against his, arm pinning her in place. Taking the only option available to her, hiding her face against his shoulder. Soft red velour tickling her face.

“Now that you have at least an illusion of privacy. Pretend you are back in the comfort of confessional back in the abby, piccola.”

Her mind went blank of any sins she could confess to beyond her obsession while in the limited privacy of the tour bus with thinking of the Cardinal’s perfect cock and how it would feel in her aching, empty pussy. Of grinding her throbbing clit against his firm, supple thighs. Hng.

“Oh, ummm vindicate my envy of...”

Small circular motions were rubbed against her back.

“No sin is too small, too indulgent, or embarrassing to confess. Let it out, Sister.”

“My envy of the little plushies that the ghouls are getting from fans, my pride of how my work is ensuring you all look hella good on stage, and hmm... My greedy hoarding of the extra blankets that Dewdrop kicked off his bunk.” 

“Ah I will keep that last one very much a secret from our dear Dewdrop, otherwise you will find him sneaking into your bunk in revenge,” he teased. “Your sins are vindicated, and may your envy be rewarded at our next stop.”

Pulling away from him as she thanked him, pushing down the urge to confess to her attraction to him, “Thank you, Cardinal. I actually do feel better having had my sins vindicated.”

“I will give you any soft plushies I am thrown, Sister. Had I known you were wanting for one I would not have given them away at the end of the show.”

Giggling at his words as a beautiful thought entered her mind of what type of plushie she could be receiving.

“I offer to give you what you yearn for and I am laughed at, so cruel to me Sister.”

Melodramatically clutching his chest in anguish, the sweet little drama queen he pretended to be.

“I can’t wait to own my own little Plushia, Cardinal.”

“Nevermind, I would not dare give you such a cursed object, Sister!”

“They’re not cursed, they’re cute!” She insisted.

“Maybe to someone blind,” he protested with a smile as her laughter grew infectious.

***

Rushing onto the tour bus in a small panic, she looked for the Cardinal. Everything had been taken care of and put back into its proper place except for the pair of black pants that went with one of his infamous tailcoat suits. She had checked all the dressing rooms, backstage, and the racks of costumes- twice. It had been misplaced- she refused to say lost until there was no hope of finding it.

“Cardinal! I need you-”

The ghouls and Cardinal turned to look at her dramatic entrance. Freezing for a moment in intimidation from the brightly demonic eyes of all those already settled on the bus. In mere moments the Cardinal seemed to recognize her distress. Embarrassed at her surely sorry state she tried to settle her wild hair as he stood and rushed to her.

“Sister, are you okie dokie?”

His concern was sweet, but unfortunately made her spiral again.

“I can’t find it!” Not thinking in her panic to explain what she was even looking for, only able to press on with her worry. “I looked everywhere I could think of, even under the fucking couch in the dressing room which I am certain now is covered in bodily fluids that I don’t want to even think about.”

“Sister, you need to relax! Tell your Cardinal what you are looking for.”

“Your tight black pants are missing! Sister is going to kill me, summon me back from hell and then kill me again!” She cried out in anguish.

Losing this job would hurt, she loved it. The fun and excitement of touring. Getting to know her Cardinal and spending more time with him than would have been possible at the ministry.

“Oh Sister, I am so sorry. Satan and more importantly you forgive me!”

Heart dropping to the floor. They were ruined, or somehow they spontaneously combusted. Whatever he was going to tell her happened to them would ruin her life, certainly.

“I have them here,” he gestured to the built in diner style booth the rest of the band was sitting at.

“What?” Clearing her throat after the painfully croaked up whisper she let out.

“I may have um, popped a seam on them,” the Cardinal shyly admitted.

“That’s not the only thing that popped off due to those pants tonight,” someone teased.

“Oh, oh thank Satan I can fix that!”

“I am sorry I did not think to tell you I was taking them back to the bus, Sister.”

Hand pressed against her racing heart as it slowed down to a normal speed, coming down from the stratosphere.

“That’s okay Cardinal, only a minor heart attack was had,” she reassured the poor guilt stricken man. “We can go back into the other room for some privacy when you change back into it for me to fix it.”

“Ah, could it not be fixed while I am not wearing it Sister?”

“It could, but without knowing how much tension the seam should have based on where it broke it’s likely to have issues again. Best to let me see and do an invisible stitch on it.”

“Get it Cardinal,” one of the ghouls whooped.

“Now, Dewdrop no need to be crude. The nice Sister does not need harassment from you over doing her job,” wagging his finger to playfully scold the ghoul.

She really needed to learn how to tell them apart without their instruments when they were all still masked.

“So, I will um see you back there.”

Escaping from the situation by rushing back into the private area at the back of the tour bus, she busied herself with preparing supplies to fix the ripped seam. Distantly hearing something about a booty call followed by laughter from all the ghouls and even the ghoulettes who normally didn’t laugh at more vulgar teasing. It didn’t take long for the Cardinal to join you with a small fond sigh.

“I think they will be making fun of me for a while with this Sister.”

“What did you do, or rather where is this seam Cardinal?”

WIth how the ghouls were carrying on it was likely a crotch seam, but if that had been the case she was sure she would have seen videos by now of the wardrobe malfunction. Along with a dreaded voicemail from Sister Imperator. 

With a flourish to try and hide his flustered cheeks he revealed the pants from how he had folded them. Squinting at them she struggled at first to see the issue, until she finally found it. A small opening of just about two inches. Right in the center of where his ass was.

“Small mercies that the tails cover that up, si Sister?” He laughed at himself. “Too much cake Dewdrop and Swiss teased, even though they know I have not had any cake since the party at the start of the tour.”

Smiling at him as he took initiative to get himself dressed for her to get to work. Doing her best to ignore his nudity and not sneak a glance. Something she failed at many times during those quick changes.

“It’s slang, Cardinal. They were saying you have a nice round ass,” pushing herself to voice the thought and live up to her name as a Sister of Sin.

Something that she would seldom do in front of anyone due to how flustered saying such things made her.

He squeaked at her explanation, playfully giving her a scandalized look. 

“Sister you can’t say such things before you will be feeling up my ass or we will have a very different seam to start worrying about!”

The two of them broke into giggles together.

“Now turn around and let me see what you managed to do to those sinfully frustrating pants.”

***

The Cardinal wasn’t in the little corner of backstage that had been fashioned into a small dressing room of sorts. Frowning, she strained to listen for anything unusual happening on stage, peaking out of the privacy curtain again for the sixth time. Finally catching sight of a flash of pure white slowly moving towards her. Playfully pulling the curtain back and gesturing him in with a flourish that normally would make him laugh.

He didn’t give even a small giggle. Shoulders slumped as he refused to look at her. What had happened on stage?

“Cardinal?” She slowly asked for an explanation.

“I um, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a moment Sister... alone.”

Hands drifting up to start to gesture with his words before his face flushed a bright red, rapidly shoving them back down to cover his crotch. His, very well endowed and very clearly excited crotch.

“Oh!”

Now her face matched his in being as hot as hell surely was.

“Just got a bit too into it with the thrusting, you know how it is,” he tried to deflect. “Or well you probably don’t, you uh don’t really have the anatomy that would make this an issue. Oh Satan, I need to stop talking now. Um, shutting my mouth now.”

During his rambling she realized the issue with letting him “take care” of his not so little issue on his own.

“Cardinal, you can’t jerk yourself off.”

Sending you a look of disbelief, “Sister, I have enough time before I’m needed back on stage and no one comes over here other than us, si?”

“You’ll get the costumes messy with your seamen and it will dry before I can clean it. It would never come out of the fabric,” she began to explain. “Even if you did manage to not get the costumes dirty your hands would be a mess and the sound crew would kill you for getting come on the microphone.”

“Shit,” his head was thrown back as he accepted the unfortunate truth you were giving him. “I don’t know how we will get me into that next suit, Sister. It’s just as tight as this one, though at least it will give me some more modesty. I swear this white one is made to be see-through on purpose!”

Begrudgingly he moved his hands away to start removing his top, while she got up close and personal with the source of both of their frustrations. The Cardinal wasn’t wrong. She could see more than just the outline of his thick, heavy cock pressing into the well tailored pants. The light blush pink of his cock tip was just visible to her when only a few inches away from it.

Hands stumbling at first- like the first time she had to help him undress, knowing now that he wore nothing underneath. The moment she yanked his pants down enough his cock sprung from its confinement. Hitting against his stomach. Swallowing the saliva pooling at the sight of such a pretty cock. Butterflies of the best kind taking up residency in her stomach at this soft moan he was muffling with his leather gloves shoved against his mouth. The sensation of the fabric moving across his cock stimulating him further.

“I think you’re right that you will not be fitting that back into pants without some help, Cardinal... I could help,” she tentatively offered.

“Please Sister, do not torture me like this. I cannot take it.”

“I don’t plan to tease, Cardinal. Not enough time for that tonight.”

Trailing a finger tip softly down the length, watching his thighs twitch while he squeaked.

“I sound like one of my rats squeaking for attention,” he whined.

Giving a playful lick to the tip while fishing for an answer, “I need consent from those pretty painted lips before mine get to work.”

She had never been so bold. Yet the pull of lust built up over the weeks made it easy to fall into this confidant role she was playing.

“Please,” he was more breathless than he ever was at the end of the show.

Capturing his cock with her lips, sliding down until she could take no more into her mouth. Sucking in more of him with each moan and whine he ruined his voice with. Hands resting against her hair, so considerate of her comfort that he took no control of her.  Choosing instead to help keep her hair from getting in her eyes, letting her work his cock at her own pace.

The sound of the ghoul’s musical dueling creating the perfect rhythm to follow. Humming along lowly to parts to make her Cardinal let out the prettiest of sounds. Making sure to repeat the movements that got her the best reactions. They didn’t have much time. His foot moving to press the tips of his shoes against her clit, just resting with a light pressure that felt so good.

Moving her hands to take advantage of the situation to feel up his ass. So soft, just a perfect ass that she envied. She wanted to use it as a stress ball, indulging in some light squeezes as she forced his cock to tickle her throat. Swallowing down her saliva with his cock. She couldn’t afford to get saliva on the pants pooled around his ankles.

It didn’t take long to solve his “problematic” erection. A few bobs to tickle her throat while looking up at him with watery, pleading eyes made him come undone. Both whining as she attempted to swallow the burst of come flooding her mouth.

Lightly thrusting against his shoes with a small cry of need.

“Shit, so good Sister. Fuck! I need to get back onstage.”

Trying to control her pout was hard as they both rushed to finish dressing him in his next suit. Her consolation prize was him guiding her to lower her head for a soft kiss to the top of her skull.

“Later Sister I promise to live between your glorious thighs all night long like the ghouls have been teasing me for daydreaming about. Give you a little somethin’ something, yeah?”

[zykamiliah]

i don't think we talk enough about the two most mysterious characters in the whole novel:

the author and the reader, airplane shooting towards the sky and shen yuan.

yes, we know a lot about Airplane and Shen Yuan's lives post-transmigration, and we got a few details of their first lives, but those details are so scarce that to this day we still theorize about what was going on with them. we don't even know Airplane's birth name.

what we know is how different their economic and family situations were: shen yuan had a loving family and enjoyed the life of a rich second-gen, while airplane's parents divorced, he was unloved and neglected and struggled to make a living.

airplane lived off his novel, and shen yuan lived to consume it.

and i think that this happens because this two characters hide themselves behind The Story. Author and Reader use the Story to forget about themselves; or at least the version of themselves that they suppress, because there's a lot of underprocessed and internalized trauma and pain associated to it.

this is much more obvious in shen yuan, as his emotional repression has been talked about a lot already. even after the extras there are a lot of things that he'll simply shove into a mental box to never touch them again, but the same goes for airplane. I'd argue his case is worse, because his two lives have been so difficult.

airplane submerged himself in the world of his novel while he was writing, and then literally when he was forced to live in it.

escaping into the novel, first figuratively and then literally, was necessary for airplane to keep himself alive. his novel allowed him to live and gave him a goal, something to live for and be proud of. he made a story that was wildly popular and that had lots of people talking about it. pidw was such a big hit it inspired more novels that followed on its steps. he was so drunk on the attention, enjoyed it and craved it so much, he'd go to read what his fans talked about in the forums.

this is the way the author escaped into the story, because the story gave him money and a twisted form of adoration and attention, the only he could aspire for.

there's a very good meta by @/inefectualdemon about how PIDW could be seen as a reflection of Airplane's traumas, personality and worldview, and how you can infer a lot about how he portrays this characters and their relationships with each other.

shen yuan too participated in this form of escapism, just from the other side of the equation; it's not normal to read a novel in 20 days and get so obsessed with you die ragging about it. why is a guy who seems to have everything he needs, a loving family and a stable life, losing himself into the world of a novel he claims to hate?

i'm of the opinion that shen yuan's issues have to do with his lack of purpose in life, but i'd also argue that they may be related to his blatant sexual repression that derives the extreme compulsive heterosexuality and homophobia we see reflected in his narration. he's obsessed with sex, but with "straight" sex, so it's okay to read about it. it's okay to think about dick if it's in the context of heterosexual sex. it's okay to think about the protagonist's attractiveness and beauty if he immediately tags it with a "that's why women fall for him".

so, going back to the main point. i think that, just as the world of pidw reflects airplane's inner world, the way shen yuan relates to it and projects himself into it and its characters, says a lot about his elusive inner world.

(it's getting long, so continue under the cut)

at the end of the novel, shen yuan thinks that pidw, with all its plotholes filled and backstories revealed, is just tragedy after tragedy; for airplane, this is just how the world works from his point of view. there's no end to the tragedy, there's no happiness simply because he himself has never experienced it.

shen yuan's solution to the tragedy and cruelness of the world is kindness and understanding; airplane's is apathy.

another example: shen yuan admires yue qingyuan for his dedication, reliability and kindness; he sees him as good old brother, subconsciously projecting and relating to him in the same way he did with his real older brothers. this is not to say his feelings are not genuine; they are, but they arise from his own need to have that type of siblings relationship again. that's why he's so invested in cang qiong, among other things.

but how does airplane view yue qingyuan? a kind fool, someone who's easy to take advantage of. yue qi is the boy that failed to save his most important person (for a good reason, apparently) and yue qingyuan is the adult that allows disciples to be abused to assuage his own guilt.

the way shen yuan treats kids and teenagers, the way he perceives the women as aesthetically beautiful, and distant from himself, unless they fall in the category of family. the way he makes a point to comment on the appearance of every man he meets, specially the ones that reflect his own repressed tastes.

shen yuan care a lot about everything, from the plants to the monster to the people in pidw; he struggles trying to force himself to believe they are not real, that this are just novel characters, and fails every time (well, except when it came to binghe's agency, ironically). airplane is the complete opposite. almost everything in pidw was his own creation, and he can live through the tragedy and death unperturbed (well, with a couple of exceptions), unless this one character he got attached to gets in danger, in which case he'll do everything to save them. mobei-jun is the character that cracks airplane's shell of apathy. he cares so much about him it almost gave him a heart attack.

pre-transmigration, airplane escaped into his novel out of need; post-transmigration, he's apathetic, sometimes even resentful of his fate, but mostly doesn't care unless it's related to his own survival.

pre-transmigration, shen yuan view everyone as characters that served a purpose in the story; tropes and archetypes. but post-transmigration, as early as the demon invasion, he is incapable of viewing the characters as fictional, and is deeply affected by what happens to them.

we joke about svsss being fanfiction of pidw, but if we look deeper into it, isn't fanfiction a reflection and projection of the fic writer, a way to reinvent the story in a way that resonates with you? don't we sometimes have a love-hate relationship with a popular media that inspires both admiration and criticism in us?

this was a very long-winded way of saying how intrigued i am by airplane and shen yuan's lives pre-transmigration, the things that made them into Airplane and Peerless Cucumber, the way both Author and Reader escape and project themselves into the story, and how this is a reflection of who they are.

if you read until the end, thank you! :D and let me know what you think.

[tjerra14]

I just had a thought.. what if Ikrie had joined Aloy, Ourea and Aratak on their expedition into Thunder's Drum/Firebreak? Mostly pondering this Blue Orb because it would mean that she'd get to see the origins of at least some part of the Derangement.

Ohhhhhhh yes, that's an excellent idea, I would've LOVED that! Just imagine the potential for all that added nuance--of course, we get two Banuk perspectives for the quest(s) as it is, but Ourea is (understandably) focused entirely on CYAN (who is a friend, but also a spirit, so placed rather high within the Banuk belief system), Aratak is preoccupied with keeping his sister alive and safe (which is very interesting in itself, considering the balance the Chieftain/Shaman system evidently offers for a werak--as Burgrend suggests, the shamans focus on spiritual matters, and in doing so, protecting the scarce resources around them, while the chieftains see to the physical needs of their people, making sure that both the werak and the environment that sustains it will survive in the long term. They're both prime examples of that, with a personal spin), and Aloy is along for the ride out of curiosity, wanting to see what makes these machines different from their counterparts. Now Ikrie isn't anything like that. She's not there to save a friend, or protect a sibling, or satisfy a thirst for knowledge that respects no tradition or bounds. She might've put her spear beside Aloy's for this quest, or followed a Daemonic Scorcher that has been killing hunters on their way to Snowchants back towards the Cauldron, and ended up meeting Ourea, Aratak and Aloy in the power plant/idk what that Behemoth chamber with all the geothermal stuff and the Incident Report data point is actually called anymore this is terrible and offered her assistance. no, I haven't thought about this in a potential AU context at all And well. She might not agree with Banuk culture and beliefs on everything, but from what she says during her quest and beyond, there's nothing to suggest that she doesn't believe, in some capacity, that the machines have a place in the world, their own lives and needs that have to be respected, and quite possibly, in the Blue Light as well (in one manner or another). So I feel her seeing that those daemonic machines that have been causing so much trouble for her tribe have been deliberately twisted, crazed, altered to attack and fight no matter the consequences, would be absolutely horrifying for her to witness. CYAN's imprisonment, but on a simultaneously smaller and larger scale. The stories and songs of her tribe that she knows well enough to easily recite them to a stranger, proven to be somewhat true: there is a blue light, a harmonious spirit, but its influence is fading, and worse, there is an entity responsible for it. (So that technically makes HEPH the Big Bad of Banuk culture??)

An entity, at that, Aloy attempts to control but fails, meaning it escapes to wreak havoc somewhere else. Which would be prime motivation to chase HEPH down together with her, into the Forbidden West if need be, to slow down or even stop the Derangement that's harming machines/their spirits and her people alike. (And well. You know I'm very fond of that particular idea.)

Idk. Really love this idea, and all the potential it holds. Thank you so much for sharing!

[ros3mari3]

From Shadows to Light

Part One.

Part 2

Part 3

Carl Grimes x reader.

For the sake of this imagine I'm not exactly following the right ages. So Carl isn't 12 when they're at the prison, he's about 15 and so is the reader.

The world had ended long ago, but the struggles for survival continued. You joined the group a few months after they found relative safety in an old, abandoned prison. The high fences and strong walls provided a semblance of security against the undead outside, but inside, tensions ran high. Resources were scarce, and tempers often flared.

You were a fighter, always had been. Your survival instincts and independence kept you alive, but they also made it hard for you to integrate into the group. You respected Rick and his leadership, but you often clashed with his son, Carl. He was a around the same age as you, and his intense blue eyes held a depth of experience and pain that matched your own.

“Hey, we’re going out for a supply run. You in?” Glenn asked, poking his head into the small cell you had claimed as your own.

“Sure,” you replied, standing up and grabbing your knife. “Anything to get out of here for a while.”

As you walked to the yard, you spotted Carl loading his gun. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and you could already see the annoyance there.

“You’re coming?” he asked, barely hiding his disdain.

“Yes, Carl, I’m coming,” you replied, your tone matching his. “Try not to sound so excited.”

“Just don’t slow us down,” he muttered, turning away.

You rolled your eyes but bit back a retort. The last thing you needed was another argument, especially before a run. For kids, the two of you were surprisingly hostile, but I guess the world going to shit would do that to a kid.

The drive into town was tense. Glenn, Maggie, and Michonne tried to make small talk, but you and Carl remained silent, staring out opposite windows. The truck bumped along the road, the silence between you two heavy with unresolved tension.

When you reached the outskirts of a small, deserted town, Glenn pulled the truck over. “Alright, we’re looking for food, medical supplies, and any ammo we can find. Stay sharp.”

You nodded, following the group as they spread out. You ended up in a small convenience store with Carl. The silence between you was deafening as you picked through the remnants of what had once been a thriving business. Whilst picking through random objects, you had found a handful of pretty lip-glosses, all a variety of colors. But in a world like this, no one can have pretty things. You sighed and walked away, not realizing Carl was observing you quietly.

“You think we’ll find anything useful?” Carl asked, breaking the silence.

“Doubt it,” you replied, not looking up.

“Great,” he muttered. “Another waste of time.”

You snapped your head up, glaring at him. “If you have a problem with me being here, just say it, Carl.”

He met your gaze, his eyes cold. “I don’t have a problem with you. I just don’t trust you.”

You felt a pang of hurt but masked it with anger. “Fine. Trust is earned, not given. And I don’t trust you either.”

He scoffed, turning away. “Whatever.”

The rest of the run was uneventful, the silence between you and Carl thick with unspoken words. When you returned to the prison, you handed over the supplies you’d found and retreated to your cell, exhaustion washing over you.

The days turned into weeks, and despite the ongoing tension, you and Carl found yourselves paired together more often than not. Rick insisted it was good for both of you, that working together would help build trust. You weren’t so sure, but you didn’t argue.

One hot afternoon, you and Carl were out scavenging in the woods near the prison. You had snuck out, not realizing Carl had followed you until it was to late.

"Why are you following me, Carl?"

"Because I don't trust you. You could betray us, or something." his voice didn't sound accusing.

You scoffed, "Right."

The sun beat down, and the air was thick with humidity. You wiped sweat from your brow, glancing over at Carl. You opened your mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything to say.

As you pushed through the underbrush, you heard a rustling noise behind you. You turned just in time to see a walker stumbling toward Carl, who was preoccupied with something on the ground.

“Carl, look out!” you shouted, running towards him.

He spun around, eyes wide, and raised his gun. But you were closer, and before he could fire, you lunged at the walker, driving your knife into its skull. The walker crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Carl stared at you, shock and something else—maybe gratitude—in his eyes. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, a little breathless. “Just pay more attention next time.”

He rolled his eyes but nodded, the tension between you easing slightly. “Yeah, I will.”

For the first time, you felt a small spark of something other than animosity. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for you two after all.

Over the next few weeks, the encounters between you and Carl became less hostile. You started to notice things about him you hadn’t before—the way he always looked out for the younger kids in the group, the quiet strength he showed even in the toughest situations.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, you found yourself sitting on the steps outside the prison, staring at the sunset. Carl came out and sat beside you, neither of you speaking for a long time.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m sorry, you know. For being such a jerk when you first joined us.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “It’s fine. We all have our issues.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands. “I just… I’ve lost so many people. It’s hard to trust anyone new.”

You felt a pang of sympathy, your own losses flashing through your mind. “I get it. I’ve lost people too.”

He looked up at you, his eyes softening. “Maybe we can try to be… I don’t know, friends?”

You smiled, a genuine smile that felt foreign after so long. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[eolewyn1010]

Charité, season 4 - episode 4

I'm here to spoiler, and don't say I didn't warn you!

"Two more Paleobacterium deaths" - not Maral's very first patient tho! He will conveniently stay alive until the very end.

Does anyone else think it'll be a depressing blow to Julia to come home and find that, when Maral finally puts in an effort into unpacking boxes to furnish their new home, all she unpacks is her work stuff?

"Extreme heat wave continues" - but we won't show our protagonists sweating! They have to look like models.

It's not that actress' fault, but her facial structure reminds me uncomfortably of season 2's Magda Goebbels. Plus, she's 1st, dressed like she has too much money (and she probably has if she can afford 4 in vitro treatments), and 2nd, remarkably unscathed for someone who has recently been in a car accident that ended fatally for another participant.

Julia. This woman is pregnant and very freshly widowed. Refer her to grief counseling?

Nurse Kachel is only around to literally open doors and talk some platitudes in Berlin dialect, huh?

Nice of Maral to give away a ticket for an event she planned to go visit with her wife. Oughta be good for the marriage.

Also, what do you mean "men's team or women's"? Does that mean sports are still segregated in a way that makes them inaccessible to nonbinary people?

Dylan, just report her. At this point, her trying to treat a patient is illegal. She should not even be in the tract.

With the background that Ferhat probably attempted suicide at some point, it feels hypocritical of him to be opposed to his patient choosing death over a living situation he deems unbearable.

Wait a minute. She's 16 weeks into pregnancy and already knows her baby is gonna be a boy. But Julia's test was the first that turned up the microplastic poisoning? How quickly does that develop / how incompetent was her previous doctor?

Come on, Julia, you can't be surprised that she's desperate to keep the baby.

I'm not entirely sure why they have to plant the child back in at all. If they have artificial (and completely disease-free) wombs at their disposal, wouldn't it be the safest course to keep the fetus in there until maturity?

It's very rude to develop a revolutionary kind of surgery and then not haste to train others to do it when it treats an issue that a ton of people worldwide are likely to have. 1st season at least had a reason for not many doctors knowing a certain kind of surgery - modern medicine was in its baby shoes and worldwide networking was scarce and slow. But with all that technology? Get teaching!

If you're suicidal, try romance! It solves all depressions! ...Honestly, fuck Ferhat. For someone who also gets to do psychotherapeutic treatment, he's so bad at human emotions.

Marlene is one of very few characters this season I give a damn about, and she's being stood up by this dumbass Ferhat. Ugh.

Maral. Wine is not a balanced diet.

"You wanna talk about your work? No, I get to complain about my work now!" Maral, you suck as a wife.

And then, literally just after that, she has the absolute GALL to accuse Julia of not listening to her about her problems! What the actual fuck. Maral, you suck as a wife!

You also have no right to deny Julia information about her son.

"From my perspective, yes." Have you ever talked to your wife in the past weeks, even once? Sheesh.

That telling-off was so overdue. So obviously, the next thing Maral does? Get drunk, be a workaholic, and go to extremes to prove a point! Woo! It's feminism when it's women who make the bad choices! I hope she knows she's on one level with Robert Koch now. And that is so not a compliment.

Discount Daniel Sträßer would seem even shadier if I he weren't surrounded by bad CGI.

Thanks, Nils, for calling Maral the asshole that she is.

Emilia, if you think Charité has to protect its precious reputation, you go and solve the medical mysteries yourself.

Wow. Wow, Ferhat. This episode is titled "Courage", not "Violation Of Your Patient's Bodily Autonomy". wtf, why is this guy a doctor.

Dylan, you should have Maral arrested. She's a walking (ok, lying-down) breach of infection protection law.

Way to go, Julia! And please change your gloves before you operate any further. That's fucking disgusting.

Does anyone else find it sus that Dylan, Maral's declared but male rival at the hospital whom she keeps trashtalking and tyrannizing at work, gets to look so much more affectionate with her than her actual wife?

Thoughts on this season's questionable queer rep aside - my problem is that Maral's behavior doesn't feel as though she wants to save lives. It feels like she wants to prove at any cost that she is right. That is an unsympathetic feature in everyone and a potentially catastrophic one in a doctor. And Ferhat isn't far behind. Are these supposed to be protagonists?

[freuleinanna]

trials (and errors)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | AO3

Chapter 5: Bonds

The afterthought. Of cold creatures, scarce friends, and inevitability that comes with it.

Welp....... As you might have noticed, I suck at consistent writing. I wouldn't blame you if you have no idea what was happening in the fic before :D Maybe it's even a plus. I struggled with this chapter so much, because I think it's kind of abundant, and then it kept growing longer and longer, and I'm sorry in advance if it's over-explaining or simply not good. I like parts of it, though, so I'm posting it to have it all there. Let's have the last look at Marisa - and see the aftermath of a bloodbath that was love.

Asriel walks out of the court that day stripped of all status, lands, and money, yet still somehow a free man.

She walks out a widow and a pariah with her husband’s estate still hers, with her money untouched, and a gnawing feeling of being flung into oblivion.

The car is moving, but she sits immobile: shell-shocked in a way, staring out of the window and not really seeing a thing behind the glass. Inside her, something spreads. What Marisa initially thought to be an exhaustive after-wave of tension, accumulated up to a breaking point and then suddenly released, continues to grip her in a far less decipherable manner. Head tilted in curiosity, she’s tracking an unfamiliar presence. Come to think of it, it’s been there the whole time. The presence appears alive, conscious even, and cold – cold enough to raise concerns with little icy snakes slithering through her limbs. So much so, it makes her frown and collect herself for confrontation.

She never does confront. In a similar way, victims of a shipwreck know it’s over when the last crumbs of their warmth succumb to the glacial sea. A tragedy, yes, but also a salvation. As the same coldness crawls between Marisa’s ribs and over the devastated lands beneath, a sigh escapes her, for at that moment she starts to feel preciously,

mercifully,

less.

Parts of her resist, fighting to keep the pain. Her daemon becomes restless. There’s turning and chattering, and looking around, and clawing at air as though he senses some vague threat but cannot locate it precisely. When his little paw brushes against Marisa’s elbow, she almost cries out, so hot it gets in her chest. She thinks of volcano eruptions: mountains of earth convulsing lava out of their smoldering depths, wailing in pain. No wonder it happens so rarely. It must be terror for volcanoes to erupt.

Marisa Coulter, née Delamare, cannot afford terror.

With her bankrupt nerve, she can hardly afford anything anymore, so she invites the freezing touch further in. The monkey zings away from her. It feels like discovering breathing for the first time. No one discovers breathing and then gives it up.

Questions of right or wrong do not entice her while busy streets outside grow emptier and wider, dissolving into landscapes. Her womb still aches, and her heart does too, and she is, simply put, tired of things constantly aching. She wishes for a relief.

Then, of course, the house. The car door opens, inviting the raindrops to draw a haphazard pattern on Marisa’s dress. She hesitates, locked in her metamorphosis. Funny, how colors get darker with water. Blue grows dim, as if across her knees miniature bottomless trenches appear, like those on a sea floor. Something’s coming from them. It is rising,

flowing,

entering her,

filling her to the brim.

Water is licking embers off the ground.

And then – it spills.

‘Madam?’

‘Yes.’

Snapping out of it, Marisa draws cool air.

She steps out with flooded lungs.

Raising its mighty roof into the drizzling skies, the house looks a living creature, a nightmarish one. It opens the hungry gates to swallow her, and rearranges the corridors, and prepares for a long, long digestion. A few lit windows could pass for unevenly placed eyes, the gravel – for the voice. Exile, exile, it whispers in the rain. What the house doesn’t notice, however, is the change occurred in Marisa, for a creature that came forth within her is strong, stronger than masonry walls, and much more twisted in its nature than their elaborate floral moldings. When she walks in, a spark of indigo against the muted shadows, she’s not afraid of being consumed.

She may be stuck with the house, but the house is just as much stuck with her.

From there, it’s fast.

Whatever isolated hermit life she was leading is rushing at her from every corner. Sinking into it was gradual, but sinking back after having got out is a plunge. A dive. A jump into abyss, now dreadfully deeper if Marisa cared to feel dread.

Instead, she–

Well.

She spends her days locked up in countless rooms with a maid that hates her and acid burning her insides. She drinks, and goes insane for a while. She wears the most extravagant dresses and demands dinners to be served in the dining hall. She tortures the help into submission. Whether it’s a part of her defense or something she was born with, Marisa doesn’t bother herself with contemplations. She contemplates very little at all, but enjoys contempt in Hilda’s eyes. At least it’s a feeling, a mark of her existence. Marisa struggles to feel properly alive. At the same time, she undeniably is.

That vicious mind of hers sits right between her eyebrows day and night, always hateful, always painfully alert. She drags it around like an anvil. Perhaps, it is the tragedy of brilliant people: their mind never truly sleeps. It studies everything with a probing interest, assessing and categorizing, analyzing and synthesizing, seeing in perfect clarity all the vulnerable spots to attack, everyone a subject, including the carrier.

So Marisa wanders, and watches, and keeps silent except to wound with words. Then wanders some more. Always an enthusiast for shadows, now she downright rejects having sunlight seep through heavy drapes. Oftentimes, she forgets to eat, or eats a pick or two out of whatever feast she makes the kitchen staff come up with, so she grows thinner, scrawnier. Maternal roundness slips off of her, no more missed than food leftovers she doesn’t think twice about. It gives her a girlish look. It gives her a girlish look in a sense of there being multitudes of girls who burn their woman’s grief like fuel to keep running.

Time is stealing around without causing too much disturbance to still waters.

There’s one particular day when Marisa spends hours staring at her reflection. Not for vane reasons, and not for philosophical ones – she merely stumbles across the mirror and feels drawn to it, exploring herself as a scientist would. To her genuine pleasure, she discovers that, when she makes a little effort to hide the monsters, she still looks extremely attractive, with the kind of allure that can easily be used as a weapon.

‘Why, yes, Your Excellency, I’ll gladly resume my work,’ she laughs, training the dry cracking out of her voice. ‘It truly takes extraordinary people like yourself to look beyond the old ways and welcome the scientific potential.’

Sounds flow lighter than a melody, equal parts fluttery and charm. Marisa tries a few more phrases. They all come out just as perfect – silver bells chiming in the wind, waiting for a listener to enchant. She winces in anger, at once losing her appeal. Words are just words until she has something substantial to offer, an actual line of research, because empty-handed beggars, however pretty, receive nothing.

Her mirror self returns a heavy look. She has a weary face now. That’s unpleasant. Around her mouth the lines have deepened, etched into her skin, adding elle-ne-sait-quoi to the appearance. Something monkey-ish, it feels. Animalistic in the worst form. Marisa stands miming violence at the mirror, conjuring the most horrible expressions in complete silence, biting air, so close to the glass that her reflection all but disappears under the foggy trails of breath she leaves on the surface.

Her daemon sits nearby, engrossed in picking at a loose thread of a curtain. In his crafty fingers it slowly, but inevitably, comes out, sometimes tearing the cloth when he tugs too hard. A hole appears then, and some growling is heard. The thread is golden, shiny. Beautiful. He undoes it for however high he can reach from the floor, then jumps on the table to continue.

To Marisa, he doesn’t pay attention. An unforgiving daemon he is and a proud one, and rejected things are prouder than any. When Marisa hisses him away, the monkey chatters aggressively over his shoulder before fleeing to the other side of the room. She throws a comb at where he sat. The ivory thing bumps against the drape and falls hanging on gleaming zigzags caught helplessly in its teeth.

Where there was a crack, now is a canyon. They never speak, yet he never resists another digging into his fur: the pain is excruciating, outweighed only by its intimacy.

Marisa thinks they still look impressive side by side, which is enough for whatever purpose she might pursue – a perfect mask to hide the holes and loose threads barely keeping them together.

She thinks she’d like another daemon.

She thinks no other daemon could match her.

She thinks, sometimes, that it is yet a question to be answered: whether it’s her who flooded him with darkness, or the other way around.

She thinks – she thinks. The process never stops.

She thinks of Asriel, too. The more time passes, the more within Marisa grows dissatisfaction, vague at first, then fully-fledged and poisonous. More and more she finds herself haunted, revisiting that day in court in her memory and boiling over her own stupid generosity. Generosity – for lack of a better word, although dozens of better words crowd her mouth, she’s just too embarrassed to even spit them. That brewing keeps her awake at nights, making her grunt into the pillow thinking: Asriel got it easy. His life wasn’t shattered, he hasn’t truly lost anything.

He continues his research, Marisa learns from the Institute’s monthly print, timely delivered to her a few weeks after the trial. She reads every word about harnessing Aurora energy and shrieks like a furious cat, because didn’t they both use to agree that that kind of research lacks zest? That it’s laughable at best, below their pride? Yet here Asriel is, obsessing over scientific expansion, resource control, wilderness, witches, and, somehow, spreading the holy teachings – all at once – still managing to make sense of it. She knows that kind of writing. That kind of writing attracts serious money, grants. He’s after the sponsorship, and he knows exactly what to promise to the high and powerful to become irresistible.

Pages are flicked through until they bulge in the middle of a thin print. Marisa has to burn them to stop reading.

Her own research article, the one she fought for getting published under her name, gets mysteriously pulled the last minute. It is a minor thing, considering. Still, the unfairness is driving her mad.

She could have crushed him. She should have. Even her daemon couldn’t pick this obsession loose.

So Marisa chooses the next-best thing. She grows colder still. Where this cold was used for mere bone-structure, it now thickens. Where it sent little snakes across her veins, she now feels rivers, oceans. No temperature is too low. No depths hold little enough life.

Every day, bit by bit, the swirling pool of scorching, messy emotions inside her starts to solidify under a crust, much like a pond in winter. Frostbites spread from the edges to the center. Waters become heavier to stir. Drowning in them, everything Marisa wants to rid herself of: the longings, the painful recollections. Nothing breaks into emptiness, she learns. There are always shards to graze and cut your fingers on, and she’s a walking bag of them – so out, out with everything that hurts. North has nothing on ice settling in her blood. Radical, youth is. Never thinks about what’s going to happen, when that numbing pool is drained, and emotions, shivering, half-forgotten, claw their way back into the chest. For now, Marisa finds not feeling to be quite liberating.

Thus, on her own will, she keeps sinking.

Further.

And further.

Yielding as much of herself as possible.

Excited for someone else to take over. Someone whose rage has cooled down into calculation and pain become productive, allowing her to wait and play the necessary part.

Roaming the empty halls in the shadows, Marisa is listening to the steps. To each of her own, there is another. The sea creature is following her closely, and very soon the little pauses between their steps disappear. She and Mrs. Coulter walk as one, talk as one, feel as one, until finally, at the very end of ends, become one.

Time keeps flowing.

***

Survival, scientists agree, is an instinct. All living beings have it. There is, however, a regrettably thin line between taking drastic measures for the purpose of self-preservation and repeating them beyond reason to keep up the illusion of salvation. In simpler words, a wounded animal gnaws through its own leg to escape the trap. A wounded person, already out of the snare, continues gnawing through the remaining limbs to recreate the feeling of escaping. No research is needed to say who stands a better chance at surviving.

It could have gone very wrong for Marisa at the time. She almost reaches the coldness incompatible with any life, her own included. Her predator mind almost starves on insufficient prey. It almost eats through itself, chained to the prison walls and slowly getting used to it.

What saves her, peculiarly, is Hilda – for none other reason than her being, thank heavens, human and petty, and fed up to her neck with Marisa.

‘A visitor for you,’ the maid announces shortly, voice no softer than a stale cracker fallen on the kitchen floor and forgotten there for days.

Marisa chooses to ignore her. A rather early morning escapes her worldview. Her sleeping habits have deteriorated so, it’s a wonder she still has any internal understanding of the time passage. Nights spent reading, or sometimes staring at the pages for hours without turning them, melt into mornings of withdrawal when the help starts clanking around the house with the usual noise of steps, chores, and rare conversations. Marisa prefers to avoid them altogether.

A thud comes – the monkey lands on the back of a sofa across from her. Behind him, bookshelves tower. Anbaric lights are gleaming off two black voids where nothing reflects but vicious animosity. Instantly, the house cat daemon bristles up. Ears twitch, flattened. The monkey leans forward: his tail rises straight to the ceiling and hooks a little over his head, long fangs silently bared. He hates that fucking cat.

Marisa feels his hatred as a deformed clump in her side. It moves, pushing at her insides like an unborn child. She grimaces at the sensation.

Her daemon, the purest, physical part of her soul, a faithful friend and companion, a confidant, a keeper, screeches like a common animal. Even Hilda is unsettled. Her eyes dart to the golden creature as she takes a step sideways to protect the cat. The monkey paws at the upholstery, scrutinizing them both. He doesn’t sound like a daemon. He doesn’t even look like one with his lustrous fur dusty and dimmed to a mere memory of gilt.

He appears a wildling with no consciousness.

A deformed clump, somehow forever attached to her.

Enough!

The book is slammed shut. Around the four of them, air sizzles – or, perhaps, it’s just the humming of the lamps making itself audible. Without saying a word, Marisa looks up.

Enough. Go.

The monkey is staring at her. She knows that stare very well. The feeling of it, rather: a tingling at the back of her neck following her around the library. A rustle of careful steps overhead. Beady eyes shining in the dark. Like a twisted game of hide-and-seek all children play with their daemons, only he’s the one both hiding from her – and seeking. Oh, how he seeks her.

Her things go missing at times: a ring, a bracelet. A hairbrush with a few hairs still stuck in it. There must be a pile of treasures somewhere in the house. Sometimes Marisa wonders if her daemon sleeps among them, and if so, if he’s doing it for comfort or bites on an old earring of hers, pretending to sink teeth into her flesh.

As if catching on to her thoughts, the monkey squeals a shredding sound, then quickly turns, and the next moment he’s gone. A spot of dirty-gold flashes on top of the bookshelves, and the dusty kingdom of neglect regains its ruler.

Marisa opens the book again. A different page, not that she’s noticed. The humming continues.

Has it always been this loud?

Symbols cluster in unpredictable ways, mocking her with gibberish. She might as well be reading in a made-up language, but she’d rather die than show it. Scanning line after line of outdated research – and badly composed at that – takes a considerable willpower on her side, yet Marisa feigns utmost concentration. Something about Hilda discovering that her pastime has been reduced to staring into space feels especially humiliating. Marisa couldn’t say exactly how it happened. There’s plenty of literature to go around, she’s just lost… interest. Prospects. Purpose. Whichever makes more sense.

Every seven lines or so, the lower humming switches to a high-pitched one that continues for another one or two lines of text. By the end of the second page, that’s all Marisa can focus on.

‘Did you want something?’ she snaps finally.

The hovering figure by the door scoffs, earning itself a hostile glance.

‘Well?’

‘As I said, Madam,’ if only politeness could kill. ‘There is a visitor to see you, waiting in the East Room.’

‘I don’t accept visitors.’

‘I am well aware.’

Oh, are you.

It is a pattern they have, admittedly, fallen into. Competing species in conditions of forced coexistence always do. When the mood is right, it even entertains Marisa to poke at the maid’s patience and see what insults her bitter mouth can produce. She is a fighter, that one. Never runs out of things to say.

Tell the staff to keep quiet, Hilda, they’re giving me a migraine.

Everything is, Madam, comes the response.

Or even: That would be the brandy.

Now is no such time.

‘Send them away,’ she waves a dismissive hand.

That’s usually enough to get the situations resolved. They tend to disappear when Marisa stops looking – a useful trick she’s applying to the world. Her mind wanders to having a half-glass of something and sliding into bed. Maybe sleep will come. Maybe, sleep will last. There’s hoping.

‘I had, on five different occasions, which is neither my responsibility nor a way matters are handled in respectable houses.’ An arrogant tight-bunned head is sitting so proudly on Hilda’s shoulders, there’s no denying how little of that respect pertains to Marisa personally. ‘If you want him gone, Madam, you can tell him yourself.’

It takes some restraining to not hiss an attack. Not hiss, in general.

What a rotten inheritance Edward left her.

‘Him?’

Marisa moves in the armchair. The eyes opposite of her are steel-colored and steel-hard. She, too, can be steel-hard. Her wrists limp in perfect arches over the armrests, whereas the features of her face sharpen. It’s almost a muscle memory at this point. A grimace she learned in front of the mirror – to warn, to scare.

Yet she forgets.

‘Don’t flatter yourself. His daemon is no snow leopard.’

She forgets that her bleak, unforgiving inheritance knows her too well to be afraid.

Meteors fall. A series of steady hits, one for each word, ruptures the surface. As loud and terrifying as it is, that’s not the worst. Stones keep sinking, driven by sheer combination of mass and catastrophic speed. Then: a series of quakes. An underwater impact. A shock wave of such magnitude, it pierces through miles of breathless, half-frozen space in a matter of seconds, exploding the sea outwards. Causing hands to shake with anger.

‘You are forgetting yourself, Hilda, darling.’

Marisa presses palms together. Tsunami almost breaks her fingers. There isn’t one imperfect note in her chiming.

From the library darkness, laying an undertone to it, a distant snarling comes. The cat daemon looks up. As does Hilda, for a moment. She steps from one foot to the other, clearly cautious of the malicious creature lurking nearby. And yet it only adds to her spite.

‘I suggest you hurry,’ she nods. ‘He did mention he’d be leaving shortly.’

‘Do you have any idea what I could do to you?’

Snarling is creeping closer. This time, the old maid doesn’t bat an eye. She pulls her apron down, demonstrating a remarkable resilience. The cat arches his back at her feet.

‘The East Room, Madam. If you can’t navigate the house in daylight, just ask the help for directions.’

On that, she leaves. Well-oiled hinges purr.

Humming, humming, humming.

Marisa imagines herself throwing a book at the lamps. Then going after Hilda with a pistol from Edward’s study. Both options feel unnecessarily dramatic, although the latter amuses her– but no, no. She’d have to stand another trial. The thought rips a laugh out of her lungs. It sounds sick. She feels exhausted.

It’s pleasantly dark when her forehead touches the smooth silk of the robe, and her hair streams down. Fingers are digging softly into the ribs. Marisa presses. Bones are right there, somehow unshattered by the rippling. The other thing is there too: that un-dissect-able part she drowns, and freezes, and can never fully extinguish. It flames underwater. In a palpable, scientific reality, it takes aluminum and something else to flame underwater. Finely powdered, set afire at the highest temperatures. What was the other thing?

Smoldering pieces fly out and continue burning brighter than day.

Did she see that somewhere? She couldn’t have, not in the Magisterium. Before Marisa’s eyes, a dozen of suns are exploding at the bottom of – what, tank? She must have seen it.

Well. She doesn’t want to see it now.

Dim lights attack her eyes. Reality is slowly fleshing itself back. A visitor in the East Room. Couldn’t be Hugh, could it? She ignored enough of his letters to earn a house call, but in no scenario would he have let an old hag to turn him around. People like him don’t. Not once, certainly not five times.

Actually, none of the people she knows would. Certainly not… but it isn’t a snow leopard. The snow leopard one (don’t flatter yourself) wouldn’t come.

The sensation of being watched tickles her skin, and as soon as Marisa notices it, she also realizes it’s been present for some time. From beneath the ceiling, her daemon is peering at her. They exchange a long look. The monkey doesn’t move. He resembles a statuette, an alarming little monstrosity placed on top of the bookshelf as a practical joke on those whose eyes drift up – and then forgotten, left to gather dust. His gold barely shimmers through it.

Just minutes ago, he was a wildling. Now some clarity has settled over him, knotting Marisa’s stomach. Her soul; unkempt, unloved. She would have preferred him an unintelligent beast. Unintelligent beasts are easier. They aren’t attached to people by umbilical cords, drawn to emotions like parasites, shining consciousness from their eyes until the chest boils. Marisa jerks a shoulder. The monkey shows teeth. At least, that part hasn’t changed.

I dare you.

He blinks. Two glimmering sparks hover in the dark.

Then they disappear.

Marisa hears herself exhaling. Proper ladies in proper dresses shouldn’t look for excuses to torture themselves, but she isn’t a proper lady. She’s not even a properly dressed one, which brings her back a little. She winces.

Right.

The visitor.

Marisa rises from her chair, half-suspicious that is she waits any longer, Hilda will bring him right to the library and lock the door from the outside.

The hallway light is way more irritating to the eyes. Daylight, that is, not the flickering lamps. Somewhere in the house heavy drapes are open, the air brings sounds of the help going about their daily routine. Marisa makes it exactly till the second door on the right and has a split second of pride to enjoy, when punishment comes. A brutal tug. She sways, clawing at the doorknob. In the library, her other part presses itself against the wall and growls in pain, scratching at the wooden panels. Ancient instincts yank their hearts back to the safety of blissful togetherness, but ancient instincts have never fought Marisa Coulter and her daemon before: each angry and stubborn, each pulls in their own direction.

The next few steps are a nightmare. Her chest feels raw. Every breath swishes right through, cold as a blizzard on the open wound. Nausea comes in waves. The damned monkey resists. Without seeing him, Marisa knows exactly how heavy the risings of his chest are, how sweaty the forehead; how clenched the teeth, threatening to crush from the force. How terrified, and pained, and longing he is. She’s all that too, but someone has to be stronger.

She has to physically drag herself forward until finally, there’s a release. Threads fall loose again, stopping the horrible stretch. A squeal in the back of Marisa’s mind mixes with the rattling in the air ducts. She smirks, panting. The little demon never wins. In equal measures he can’t stand seeing her – and being apart from her, so he’s taken a habit of following Marisa around through the ceilings. A smart solution, save for the dust. Most of the time, she can’t stand seeing him either.

Her dress of choice is jade-green. The color is as sharp as she needs to be, and, by coincidence, only a shade darker than splashes of Aurora lights.

When she leaves the room, her daemon is already glooming in the corridor. He’s evidently cleaned himself. Patches of old web have disappeared. His fur breaks scarce sunlight into a ripple of glints across the wall. He is beautiful, audience-ready, except when Marisa looks, the golden elegance crumbles to reveal the same dirt-coated creature, always hissing and snarling around. They walk down the corridor together. The care placed in keeping the distance might have reminded somebody with a keen eye of a crowded room where every soul treads just as carefully, stepping and flying around paws, hands, tails and shoulders, avoiding the forbidden contact to the best of their ability. Between two beings joined since birth, it looks oddly repugnant. Unnatural, one might say.

Marisa would put it differently. She’d recall coming back to their floral-molded prison. The burning feeling she got from her daemon’s touch, the piteous cry of him recoiling when coldness sprouted. She’d call it self-preservation.

One of the hallways she walks twice. Not that Hilda could pry it out of her, that stuck-up old if-you-can’t-navigate-the-house-in-daylight witch.

The East Room welcomes them with a closed door.

Marisa pushes it, and goes blind.

The light.

Winter sun is flooding the space. There are no drapes here, no peaceful twilight. Everything is hard, bright, and aggressive. Two nocturnal creatures withdraw, seeking shadows. Something golden is flitting around the space: floor – the fireplace – windows – floor again. Something green is standing frozen, tearing up against the cold shining. The hasty getting-up and the turning of another figure escape Marisa, taking away her chance to prepare.

‘Madam,’ a voice rises to her ears. What a curious voice it is. A male one, for sure, marked with slight roughness of age. There’s a quality to it that makes Marisa hesitate. An unexpected care, almost… respect. She got unaccustomed to hearing genuine respect.

Light keeps pouring in. As does her uncertainty.

‘Allow me,’ the man says.

Promptly, and with nimbleness of step that betrays years of excellent training, he walks to the window. Sunlight seems to collect around him for a moment, as if he was the source. Then a drape slides over, cutting the flow in half. Marisa blinks the blindness away.

Her daemon stops pacing around and settles beside her. Even before the man turns, they recognize the bolding head, and a winter coat, and the sleek black fur of a pinscher daemon.

‘Madam,’ Thorold repeats with a slight bow.

His pinscher follows the example. Marisa can’t answer. Her lungs get overcome with the urge to cough up ribbons of air, thickened and shredded by at least a dozen of invisible knives. The monkey crawls forward. His golden tail is rising in a warning. There’s a flash of surprise on Thorold’s face, one he is quick to hide, but not quick enough for Marisa to miss.

Good, then. That’s settled.

She makes an effort to miss sorrow in that surprise.

‘What does he want?’ A demand, not a question.

Thorold looks up. His shoulders shrink a little, even though a minute ago he was demonstrating the perfect posture. He’s obvious in searching for words but his own thoughts, apparently, are giving him a battle too. A mixture of indecision and half-concealed sadness boils into a real suffering across his face.

‘Have you completely forgotten speech?’

A beat of pause.

‘No, Madam, I have not.’

‘Be useful, then. He must have sent you for something.’

The pinscher daemon brushes against the man’s leg. The simple comfort of the gesture frustrates Marisa. It could be jealousy. Could be disappointment, because at least with Hilda, she always knows when cruelty hits. Counterstrikes never leave her guessing.

‘I’ve come on my own behalf,’ Thorold manages at last.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

Well, a man of few words and fewer answers. Her expression darkens. She would have understood Asriel sending his servant: reasons may differ and still remain plausible – but that? She hardly knows what to make of it.

And the way he says ‘Madam’. Like he’s asking a storm not to rage, soothing waters into clarity. Despite herself, Marisa catches a shiver. People who haven’t received a lot of compassion cannot abide the warmth it brings, thinning the numbness of detachment where their hearts plunge to heal. Survival is an instinct. All human beings have it.

‘Then what do you want?’ Anger clangs inelegantly in her voice.

‘To return something of yours. If I may?’

He hesitates for permission. Marisa, frowning, just nods. She watches Thorold approach a set of sofas: there, on a chair next to them, sits a leather bag she’s seen countless times before. Its worn-out patterns haven’t changed, still keeping in themselves a mystery. A reminder of home, perhaps. Half-illegible words of a half-forgotten language breathe northern air. On the side, a flock of birds, always just about to fly off the leather on spirit-borne wings. Marisa used to admire the birds. They never flew anywhere, but they looked free.

She moves closer, her steps drowning in a ridiculously thick carpet. The golden shadow follows in a distance. His observant presence tugs at Marisa’s side. She wishes for him to disappear in the air ducts again. It is a passing feeling, but the precise thing is, she doesn’t want to feel. It gets harder when her soul is wondering around.

Thorold turns.

‘Here it is, Madam.’

He hands her a book of sorts. A smallish one, and the first thing Marisa registers is that something’s wrong about it. Her frown deepens. She takes it with caution: not exactly alarmed, just confused. Thorold lets go – there’s a glimpse of his fingers with white calloused tips. Then his palm disappears, and the mystery of the book holds no longer.

It’s badly burned, that’s what’s wrong about it. The cover’s all bulgy, melted in random places. Patches of coal-black mix with the remaining tints of color but there’s no logic in it, no structure. Just a hardened, deformed leather flesh, curled from the heat. The bottom corner is the worst. Something burned through the cover there, leaving a crescent-shaped edge with brown contours. Pages underneath are burned in the same exact fashion.

The other side is nearly intact, save for a few spots blooming here and there. It’s been burned the front side down. Besides that, the examination offers very little.

Marisa has never owned anything of the sort. She almost says as much. Then it occurs to her to look inside. She sits down, book on her knees for convenience, and tries to open the smoldered brick. Pages refuse to give in: their fire-licked edges stick to one another. It takes Marisa a minute to part them. When she does, however, realization comes at once. She’d recognize her own handwriting anywhere. Line after line is filled with it, neatly arranged statements bursting in cascades of notes on the margins. Beginnings of phrases on one side and endings on the other have disappeared in flames, but it doesn’t stop Marisa from reading a whole paragraph, tracking her own ideas and filling the gaps with words that have once been written.

She recognizes now not a book, but a research journal she kept at Asriel’s house. Sea depths heave. A sharp sensation knots her stomach. Marisa blames it on her daemon approaching, taming an overwhelming urge to kick him away. Her mouth is aching with words she can’t spill.

‘Why?’ she croaks.

Thorold takes a seat, too. His plain wooden chair can’t be too comfortable, but it allows him a space next to Marisa without the inappropriateness of sharing a sofa.

‘I thought you might need your work back,’ he simply says.

She shakes her head impatiently.

‘No, why come five times just to return this?’

‘Madam?’

The old man looks so sincere. His daemon is tilting her head in attention. Marisa catches her eyes: brown they are, but nothing close to burned paper. More like almonds, or sunlight dancing on fresh earth. Brown kissed with gold. She never knew golden things can be warm. Somehow, right now, it’s Thorold’s fault, too.

‘You could have left it with my maid.’

‘She seems a good woman,’ he nods respectfully.

‘A treasure,’ Marisa sneers.

The journal rests on her knee. Thorold glances at it, appearing again to be choosing his words. He doesn’t resemble someone to whom the trick of conversations comes naturally, least of all with Marisa, but the effort brings out a heartfelt sympathy in his eyes.

‘If you pardon my saying… Madam,’ he adds, like he wanted to address her differently but didn’t allow himself the right, ‘I thought you may want to talk with someone.’

‘Talk?’

‘Ask questions, is what I mean.’

‘Questions.’

‘If you wish to… to know of…’

He struggles finishing the phrase without letting the ghosts in. Fails, too. Unnamed hauntings surround them, as if woven out of light. The pinscher flaps her ears and yelps quietly. Daemons are intuitive like that.

From the shadows, the monkey is prowling forward, his little face twisted in a grimace of pure hate. Marisa smiles. The scent of heated metal hangs in the air. It’s going to betray her emotions for years. She’s going to think everyone can notice. In fact, there’s only going to be one person who will, probably because mothers and daughters have a connection that, in human measures, is just as sacred as the one with their daemons.

Lyra will always associate metallic scent with menace, but will never learn to understand that it comes not from steel, of which her mother, an masterful self-deceiver, deems herself made, but of fires flaming underwater, where it’s the darkest and the coldest. Where human feelings shouldn’t survive at all.

Extinguishing those fires is something Marisa will never be able to do.

‘No, Thorold,’ she objects softly, softness honed to a sharp edge. ‘I don’t wish to know. Spare me your old man sentiments. If you thought we’d be shedding tears over your stories, you’re an even bigger fool I took you for, and you never learned a thing about me.’

See? Self-deception.

That is easily the moment when Marisa finally combines both sides of the mirror: the loud, perceptible beauty mixed generously with ferocious instincts of an animal hiding in deepened lines. It will cause her few allies and all of the enemies to address her respectfully as Mrs. Coulter even in her absence, barely restraining the urge to look behind their backs in case she’s there – or worse, her spying daemon is. High Magisterium officials and children will both learn the danger of pretty gleams dancing in those wonderfully blue eyes that make you think of frostbite. Marisa is quite happy with the image. It’s got enough claws to keep her safe.

She sees a change in Thorold’s expression as he’s watching her. The pictures must not be aligning: he’s searching Marisa’s face as one does when trying to uncover familiar features, match them with something from memory, but cannot. The pinscher nuzzles against his hand. The man hardly notices. A look of regret settles over him. He’s watching, and watching, and then his shoulders sink a little, and the kindest sorrow spills all over his wrinkles.

‘Oh, child,’ he says. ‘So very young.’

Just that – just that.

And suddenly, the pool is drained.

‘Copper?’ she asks, somewhat disgruntled by the eagerness, with which a golden lightning zings around the laboratory, fetching equipment for Asriel.

Asriel glances over, so incredibly smug she wants to both kick him and watch him forever. His investment in this stupid experiment is driving Marisa insane. It’s not even science, just a… well, a party trick, at best. His beloved professors at Jordan must be showing it to a bunch of 10-year-olds to gain their attention.

He just laughs, mixing a brown-red powder to the aluminum one. When he laughs like that, new universes spring into existence.

‘Watch.’

A strip of something white goes in. Magnesium burns silver, then – then everything is bright orange, and the little ceramic pot is submerged into a tank, and the fire is flaming all hells underwater. Resilient, absolutely magnificent.

Oxygen, Marisa realizes. An oxide, that is. Next to her, Asriel, a world-class scientist in the making, is looking incredibly proud of himself for that silly amusement. He’s always doing that, showing her something she missed out on. The same is true about their whole relationship.

‘Iron oxide,’ she exhales. Then nods, ‘Beautiful.’

Asriel chuckles. He looks at the blinding, raging fire shooting pieces of molten iron to the bottom. A corner of his lips curls up, but the eyes remain serious, full of furious admiration. The one Marisa often notices directed at her.

‘There’s beauty in corrosion, don’t you think?’ he says.

Iron oxide. Corrosion.

Rust.

The second part of that volcanic combination that keeps igniting the living day out of itself until the flames eat through. No wonder her fires keep burning.

She’s made of rust.

A steel carcass inside Marisa shudders and gives way. Down below, in the pool drained of mercifully numbing waters, the longings and feelings she pushed in have re-emerged. Shards sharper than glass and pain sharper still – she can see it all rusted, layered so thick with corrosion, the blazing is going to persist for years.

A barely audible whimper catches her off-guard. Marisa turns before realizing: the monkey is standing beside her. There’s not a single wretched line on his face. His hand hovers mid-air, reaching out. In his eyes, a plea for consolation. An offer of one, too. The brainless thing doesn’t seem to understand what he’s offering.

It is terror for volcanoes to erupt. Her chest, where the damage of connection grows, pulsates with it.

Making a conscious effort, Marisa twists her heart, watching her daemon flinch. He resists for only a second, and then drops to all fours, backing away from her slowly. The further he gets, he more hunted his expression becomes, until familiar sparks stare at Marisa, and it’s the same wild, ill-tempered creature that hides behind the sofa. She wonders if he would have touched her hand. She wonders if he wonders how badly her cold would have burned him.

She wonders how people breathe without pushing away their soul. Aren’t they choking on it?

‘I am… truly sorry, Madam.’

A voice holds her in embrace. Marisa does her best to reject it. Her teeth clench. Facing kindness feels unnecessarily cruel, so she avoids looking at Thorold, staring at the journal instead. Her fingers slide across mountains and valleys of disfigured leather, tracing the non-existent patterns. Every peak is whispering its own story, and yet none of them has sufficient answers.

She imagines Asriel. Was it morning, day, night? What was he wearing? What was he thinking? Did Stelmaria try to talk him out of it? Or was throwing the damned thing away simply not enough for his hatred?

‘Why would he burn it?’ Marisa whispers.

Her eyes stay low. She’s not waiting for a reply, but when it comes treading the air, her whole body listens.

‘I don’t think…’ Thorold pauses, starts again. ‘I think he was trying to do something else, Madam.’

‘What, then?’

‘Well…’

‘Well?’

Despite herself, Marisa glances. Sharp winter sunlight falls onto the old man’s shoulders. Where it touches his coat, light seems to lose its cutting quality. Gentle streams of gold float around.

Thorold sighs. His palms open, as though he’s trying not to grip the words too hard, afraid of saying anything too much, too certain.

‘I can’t speak for him, Madam. His thinking is of heights I could never follow, but I suppose… The way I see it, he was breaking a bond.’

Words are laid carefully on the air. Elusive to the grasp as they are, their shadows are heavy and fall into Marisa deeper than she can recognize at the moment. Another pinch of rust and aluminum to burn later. She just nods, not trusting herself with speaking. There’s nothing left to say anyway – or ask, or confess. Even coarse leather stops singing under her fingers.

Was it singing under Thorold’s? His hands are still open, fingertips calloused and hard. Mostly on the right hand, Marisa realizes. The placement is so uneven, it doesn’t look like callouses at all. Pinker streaks run from under patches of thick, pale skin. Like scar tissue. Like old burns. Those permanent kisses from burning coals and melting leather, pressed to the naked skin of hands that were hurrying to salvage something they cared about.

Palms curl, hiding the injury. Marisa looks up. Thorold is looking back with an apologetic smile which only makes his eyes sadder and warmer. He doesn’t say a word. There’s nothing left to say – or ask, or confess. It’s all there, between an old man, whose heart has softened for the sea, and a young woman with sea in her name. Both of them understand it is the care she cannot afford to accept. Both of them grieve it a little.

Any reasonable timing has now passed to continue the conversation. Marisa draws a long breath. She’s never been the one to avoid the inevitable.

‘Go now, Thorold,’ she says quietly. Thorold has no idea of knowing it, but that moment makes him the last person to ever hear Marisa’s actual voice – at least, for the next twelve years. There’s no silvery smoothness in it. Just cracks all over.

‘Madam.’

He gets up, takes his bag. A flock of northern birds flies in front of Marisa’s face. Buttons of a winter coat take Thorold’s attention for a few moments as he meddles with them. Just then, Marisa remembers what Hilda said: he’d be leaving shortly. She wonders, where. Is Asriel’s research finally taking them north? She concludes so. She also concludes that Asriel must have left earlier to set up, leaving his servant to oversee the last preparations here in Oxford. Otherwise, Thorold wouldn’t have come looking for her. A strange fondness moves in her.

He stands now, pinscher daemon by his side. Two heads bow courtly. With the last exchanged look, their shared grief stings a little, knowing it’s probably a farewell. Marisa just nods. When Thorold leaves the room, the light leaves with him.

At least, it feels that way to Marisa.

She wipes the sudden tears away. The gesture is nervous, angry. Embarassed. Her breathing sounds incredibly lonely in the emptiness of surrounding space.

‘Get away,’ she hisses, sensing the clump in her side twitch as it always does when her daemon approaches.

A golden shadow stops on the floor in the corner of Marisa’s vision. Thoughts and feelings, awakened so inconveniently, are buzzing worse than a beehive. His presence amplifies them. Flooding fires with water won’t make a difference now because he who is responsible for this madness is too close.

Leave me alone.

No movement. Marisa raises her eyes. She sees the hideous creature swing his tail. A hypnotic stare is burrowing into her, reaching where threads are caught in their warlike endurance of each other. He won’t go. There’s no place for him to be except between her ribs, leeched onto humiliation that is her feelings. The truer they are, the more powerful, and the harder he’s drawn. The closer he wanders, searing Marisa from the inside by simply drawing breath. She wishes desperately to cut whatever’s sewn them together.

She throws a cushion, and doesn’t look where it lands. She senses her soul clear enough to know it’s not as harmed as she’d want it to be. Maybe then he’d learn.

The monkey only growls, when she refuses to acknowledge his attempts at connection and opens the journal again. As far as choices go, hatred is a preferable one. Better hatred than constant self-pity. Pondering over half-eaten lines, Marisa recalls that thing Thorold said, about Asriel breaking the bond. Asriel, it stings her suddenly, seems to have succeeded. In fact, while she spent months sleep-walking through wall-papered corridors, Asriel kept himself busy.

Blood rushes to her head, throbbing in such an agony, her temples all but explode. Masses thick and hot come breaking against the eardrums. They seem possessed to pound their way out, tearing the thin veins. Asriel would have laughed at her.

She bites on a nail. A stupid habit.

Another habit is cold-ing herself down as soon as she hears paws coming nearer. Her daemon hesitates. Then turns. Marisa sits peering into space, gnawing on her lip until it swells. She doesn’t want to sleep. Not anymore.

The thing is, predators are not designed for prolonged sleep. They wake up hungry. Quite newly to herself, Marisa feels hunger for something to do.

Pages crust as she’s flicking through them slowly. Hard edges cut her fingertips, hardly even shifting her attention.

She thinks.

She thinks.

The process has never stopped.

‘Breaking the bond,’ her whisper ripples the air. It tastes like something. The golden silhouette jumps on the sofa across from its human in crisping, snow-fresh Aurora color. Sunlight remembers of there being winter. Chilly coolness spreads. ‘Breaking the bond.’

Something’s stirring in her mind, though what it is, Marisa cannot fully formulate yet. The idea, however, is strangely fascinating. Her eyes lay on the daemon heavily.

She’s made of bonds. One with Asriel, another with their child – she may resist it, but it’s handwritten all over her body, and the handwriting it hers. A bond with her own soul, too. The one she hasn’t yet succeeded in dissecting in order to understand and control. Cutting it should feel miraculous.

Perhaps, if she were still a child, she muses. She’d give anything to go back and nick those annoying threads that got handed to her as a given. She remembers questioning why they existed at all – not in words, certainly not in scientific terms, but he knew she thought about it. Always digging deeper than children do in glorious self-understanding. There seemed to be the answer there. Why she was so restless all the time. Why her behavior never satisfied anyone. Why she was doing every wrong thing, why she loved Asriel, why she needed Lyra. The answer might still be there, only there’s no way of harvesting it now –   

But a child. A child could answer those questions in all their childlike innocence. Marisa could learn the answer. She could steal it.

She could learn how, where, and when to cut.

The air is freezing now. The monkey is anxious. Marisa sits very-very still, like predators do. Much like an image, her fate comes to its fullest, cleanest form. It’s not a grand, heroic fate, and there’s no description to it yet, only anticipation. It is, however, going to be more befitting one for a woman, young with the cruelest of youth, with punches and heartbreak and blood on beautiful hands from hitting a wall, than anyone could have imagined.

She will spend her short life trying to break the three most powerful bonds she’s ever formed – and fail, miserably.

Marisa Coulter, née Delamare, walking to her late husband’s study with full intention of making it her own, is a long way from knowing it yet. The irony will unveil itself twelve years and a war later as she leaps off the edge of an abyss. Those three sacred bonds she could break however hard she tried, they will all weave together to save what she cherishes most. For now, she’s too enthralled by a monstrosity that will eventually lead to the silver cages, and lacks serendipity.

Youth, people say, is arrogant. It’s wrong emotions at the wrong time, it’s thinking that love can be left trampled to the ground. That love can be examined, prepared, dissected and understood. That it hides logic.

That it ceases to be if you just deny it enough.

As Marisa ravages through Edward’s old papers, three things occupy her mind. One, is that rattling air-ducts are a small price to pay for a chance to function productively instead of being crippled by emotions.

Two, is that she’s going to need a place somewhere else, perhaps in London, because these walls are making her sick.

And three, she hopes she succeeds.

After all, breaking a bond shouldn’t be that hard.

Just a simple process of trials and errors.

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Angsty GOS thoughts I had.

While Kakashi was mortal, was there no one else who could make it rain? Not even a little? Imagine the devestation the world might be in 32 years (adding conception. So 31 + 9 months),and not one drop of rain around the globe.

Yamato must be struggling to stay alive with no rain for his forests.

Rivers, lakes, ponds must be depleting/ almost dried up everywhere.

Whole continents are threatening to turn to deserts.

The air must be so incredibly dry all the time.

Are the clouds above super condensed and heavy, due to them never raining. Or are they nearly unexistent, drying in the atmosphere beneath the hot sun.

All the while I'm sure gods are trying to find any way they can to moisturize/ wash the earth. And its taking a lot of combined efforts to cover Kakashi's job... but all the while, Sakumo is fighting for his son's mortal happiness, he loves him more than the world. He's doing everything to ensure Kakashi gets to live as long as possible.

Which made me wonder...was it an really a random mugger that cut down Kakashi one day? Or did someone take matters into their own hands...

And then I wondered... what if it was Obito who decided to kill his own brother, in order to save the world.

Obito, a god of Death. He who could get around his father by making him think he would side with him. Obito who knew of Kakashi's bond with Gai and how meaningful this relationship must be to both of them...

But Obito who also knows how responsible Kakashi is. How dutiful. How he cares about others above himself. Who would never forgive himself if Yamato were to perish, who must be feeling all sorts of wrong in a world without his storms.

And so, with a cloak, a dagger and a human disguise, Obito takes matters into his own hands. Causes a scene in a way he KNOWS Kakashi would try and stop...and takes his brother's human life, in order to bring about the rain and save the world.

And he hates himself for doing it. And he's not sure if Kakashi will ever forgive him, he hates the devestation this causes his father, Kakashi's human, elderly parents, and Gai, who through so many life cycles and reincarnations, was someone he considered a friend. Maybe he even did it at a time Kakashi and Gai were discussing expanding their family. And he knew he HAD to stop that, just on the basis of stopping Kakashi from seeing his mortal children eventually grow old and die like his lover... his now husband.

Obito knew he had to do it for the greater good...but it kills him inside, to have done so. And he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to wash his brother's mortal blood off his hands.

He's not sure he wants to be forgiven.

Hey hey HEY THAT HURT!!!! My heart, it is wounded! *lays down to cry*

Ok, so to clarify

Yes by the time Kakashi is 31 in his mortal life, things are really bad. At first the world continued moving. Water evaporated and rained back down. The biggest thing is that Kakashi controlled when it rained, but without him clouds continue to gather until there’s just a huge dump of water, at which point they would have moved on Temari’s wind. Thus they gathered water in one area and dumped somewhere completely different.

This cycle doesn’t continue forever though and without Kakashi there to keep the rain replenished, the available water began to dwindle.

It’s not just Tenzo suffering at this point. Nakano’s river’s are almost empty and if they dry up completly she dies.

The world is suffering major droughts and people are beginning to fight over water. Greed is becoming rampant even before Kakuzu returns, but with Water as such a scarce resource it continues to be rampent.

So i think Obito would take that task on himself.

He would see Kakashi’s precious people, gods and mortals alike, suffering and know that Kakashi would not want this.

He would not want to live to be 100 with Gai at his side if it cost him Tenzo and Nakano.

He would not want people to suffer for what he would preceive as his own greed, which is exactly what he was fighting against when him and Kakuzu killed each other.

And that’s how Obito knows his brother will never blame him.

Kakashi never thinks of himself first. He never hordes greedy thoughts, and is actively the complete opposite of greed. He will give every piece of himself away to ensure other’s are alright and that is why him and Kakuzu clash so bad.

Kakashi represents duty and sacrifice

Kakuzu represents greed

They can never get along.

So as much as Obito knows this will hurt Kakashi, and as angry as he knows Sakumo will be about it, he does this not just for the world but also in a way for Kakashi.

So Kakashi won’t come back to a world without his precious pup in it, or his adorable Kohai.

So Kakashi won’t live the rest of eternity with the guilt that his personal desires were considered over the needs of others.

Obito will wear his brother’s blood on his hands for all of eternity so that Kakashi doesn’t have to wear the blood of countless others

[mimi-cee-hq]

Do you sometimes feel God’s voice tell you not to do something, and then you go do it for the 5 billionth time? And then afterwards, you feel awful and feel as though you failed God and yourself, again.

And yes, this whole situation is me. I feel awful and I don’t know what to do to make me feel whole again with God.

thanks in advance! :’)

Oh anon. I most certainly can relate to this and I think all Christians can. Psalm 51, I find, eloquently expresses those feelings. (Seriously, I encourage you to read it.) I'm going to share some passages in Scripture to let the Word of God speak to you instead of what "Mimi says."

*****

Isaiah 53:4‭-‬6 ESV

Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned—every one—to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

Ephesians 2:1‭-‬10 ESV

And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience— among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved— and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.

For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.

Romans 5:6‭-‬11 ESV

For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die— but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Since, therefore, we have now been justified by his blood, much more shall we be saved by him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, now that we are reconciled, shall we be saved by his life. More than that, we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

*****

I encourage you to think about these passages, reread them, learn what the words mean if any are unfamiliar to you, and meditate on them. And keep asking the Lord to help you through this.

Also, try your best to find a good local church if you already don't go to one. God wants us to be in community with other believers to teach and encourage each other about things like this. And (like what I usually say) I also want to encourage you to study the Bible for yourself to understand what it says.

I'm praying for you!

[yerbamansa]

A little tealoranges apocalypse fic snippet for WIP Wednesday? I'm maybe halfway through drafting the first chapter of I hope three. Oluwande POV.

“That bad, huh?” they said.

His head whipped up to look at them, catching sight of familiar scars on their chest. He didn’t have any himself, but he knew some people who did, once. “Hmm?”

They smirked, and Oluwande felt curiously relieved. “The ankle,” they clarified.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. Yes. Very bad.” He grimaced. “Quite purple, isn’t it?”

“Eh, I’ve had worse,” they said. “Probably gonna be a while before I’m scaling any walls again, though.”

“Right,” he agreed, then squinted at them. “What–what’s the deal with all that, anyway?”

“Told you,” they said, tone gone a bit flat. “Looking for oranges.”

“Sure, it’s just,” he started. “It’s just, well, surely there’s easier ways to get oranges?”

“Not these oranges,” they said quietly.

Oluwande frowned. “Nothing special about our orange tree. Other than it being alive, and all, despite, y’know. Everything.”

“You’ve taken good care of it,” they said. The haze around them vibrated softly. It wasn’t just a comment on his family’s gardening prowess. He had so many questions, but this…

“What’s that mean? What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” they said, snapping back to their composed self. Nevermind they were sitting in a stranger’s bathroom, fully nude, leaning on a crutch like it gave their favorite person’s hugs. He wondered who their favorite person was.

He stood up, cleared his throat, and grabbed a clean cloth from the cupboard. “Do you want help with the washing, or are you good?” he asked. “Because I need to go outside, and I won’t hear if you call for me.”

“Think I can manage,” they said. Oluwande’s brain had the gall to think, too bad. He nodded and left before any further confusion could bubble up between them.

That night, blocks away, someone set off fireworks. When Oluwande was very young, he’d seen fireworks displays on major holidays, but also the damage from fires started by careless hobbyists. They’d been banned for so long—not to mention scarce, even on the illicit market—that it was almost shocking to see them. The flashing lights, piercing shrieks, and loud pops barreled through the otherwise calm night air. It did not go not unnoticed.

Beyond the unintelligible complaints from bedroom windows and a few barking dogs, there was a voice coming from the back door of Oluwande’s house, within clear earshot of his watch post. It was Jim, propped up on a crutch, shirt whipping gently in the night breeze. They looked right up at him, and he didn’t need to read their aura to understand the urgency behind their words.

“They’re coming.”

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

Trying to fix as a person means that to some extent I have to accept that my good, loving, wonderful parents aren't perfect.

They had eight of us - eight children when mum never worked after marriage and dad quit his job when I was a kid. They still had eight of us in the house for a few years at least after neither was working. It must have been stressful for them; mum nearly died with the complications surrounding my birth. They never complained. Sometimes mum wonders how she did it. The answer was she just did, and nobody quite knows how.

Being in an eight child family, and being the youngest, is wonderful and I wouldn't have it any different, unless it was to have more kids after me. But also it has to be considered that they were dealing with eight kids plus being active in church and preaching and helping others.

My brother and I were discussing this recently, and we determined that probably most of my siblings (and myself) could get diagnoses for different mental health/neurodivergencies. (There's definitely ADHD, autism, depression and anxiety at diagnosable levels in various family members, as well as other things.) Which isn't a bad thing! It just makes me wonder how on earth my parents managed with eight children, hardly any of whom (if any) are actually neurotypical; only one has been diagnosed with anything as yet, but at least two of us are pursuing diagnoses at present.

But mum and dad aren't like me, and don't understand a bunch of things. Dad is surprisingly understanding as regards anorexia, but from the opposite end (he apparently feels hungry all the time, which I cannot understand). And yet he says that ultimately 'you just have to say no' (or in my case, yes). It makes me feel weak and failing to hear that sort of thing, even though yes, he has a great deal of sympathy, understands that it's hard, et cetera. Mum just gets quietly worried, and scarcely talks about it, though she plies me with food (in a nice, considerate way).

There are ways in which my parents have contributed to things in my life, and ways in which they've helped enormously. Overall - well, I'm still alive, ain't so? And yet even though I love them, I have to accept that maybe, at times, they say the wrong things, and that I should ignore those specific things they say. I dunno. Maybe I'm just wayward and rebellious. I hope not.

[mindajane-blog]

Christmas in August

Today I feel it. It's August 5'th, I know it's MONTHS til Christmas. I just feel it inside: love.

I am SO so grateful for life! I'm SO grateful for how God provides for me and looks after me. I am so grateful for this day!

The trees were clapping their leaves lightly in the breeze high up against the bright blue sky. It felt like they were just so grateful, too!

Crazy, too, because these trees are deciduous and soon will lose all their leaves to the cooler weather.

Jesus provides. He looks after us. He LOVES us SO MUCH! He looks after us.

That love BLOWS my mind!

That GOD would first take on a human form to live a human life. I mean come on, if you were not limited by a human body and were not bound by anything why would you CHOOSE to be SO limited by a human body? That is TOTALLY mind boggling!!

Then He purposely allows himself to be tortured and killed-- for US, for YOU, for ME!

Romans 5:6-8 "For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person--though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die-- but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us."

And you might be like, but... life isn't good for me, look at this situation or that situation. Life here on earth, unfortunately is far from Heaven, it's far from perfect. It's far from what God wants for us. He is preparing Heaven which is SO much better, best, beyond comprehension to our limited human minds. Heaven has no sin/death. SIN is the separation from Jesus. If we don't accept Jesus' offer to save us from heaven we are ALL headed the same place- ALL sin separates us from Jesus. Pride or murder, both separate us from Jesus. Both are imperfect. God is perfect.

Perfect CANNOT be mixed with even a tiny bit of imperfection without also becoming imperfect.

Let's add a wee metaphor: you're washing dirty dishes by hand and there are two dish sinks. One has clear hot water for rinsing and the other has soapy water to wash. If you put the dirty dish (i'm picturing some sort of sauce and maybe bones, maybe rice remnants, maybe ketchup...) into the clear hot water and then want to still rinse other clean dishes in it after they've gone through the scrubbing and soapy water. Will all the dishes be clean after going through the wash water and rinsed in the clear hot water that had one dirty dish rinsed off in it? Will that clear hot water still be clean to use for rinsing?

It doesn't matter if we want to be "nice" to accept imperfect. We can definitely be friends with fellow sinners and we're not becoming imperfect for it, because we ARE imperfect, but God IS perfect and He CANNOT change. (and I know not changing is something we don't really grasp because everything we know changes). He did ALL that He could to allow us to come to Him and be in relation with Him. He came HERE to earth and He let Himself be tortured and killed so we could reach Him again. Only a wholly perfect sacrifice and shedding of blood would do.

You might read or skim this and think-- well, that doesn't even matter or there she goes again on that topic. I'm alive and I have a great life. Perhaps you do, but are you more than your body? Is there more after this life here? If there's not you're dandy... but if there is more. You're betting your WHOLE life here (for sure) and potentially even eternity that there isn't more. What if there IS more?

I believe with all of me that there IS more. How I have seen God provide for me and my family. I look at my life presently. I look back on my childhood. How He's loved me. Yes, bad things, horrible things happen here on earth. In those times, I've never been alone. He gives me peace and comfort. He listens to me. He answers my prayers-- even when it's not what I want. I feel that LOVE, HIS love within me and around me. He is with me always. I'm SO grateful. And, as it's now less than half a year until Christmas again- I'm here today with Christmas songs in my head all about how Jesus came down to earth for us!

Matthew 28:20b And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.

[apocalypseornaw]

Too Late to Save Me

Inspired by the song "Saving Amy" by Brantley Gilbert

Set post Dean dying in 15 x 20

Yall know I normally say fuck Canon and if I ever get around to writing the remaining seasons out in Always be Yours verse there will be a diff ending but that being said this angst and pain demanded to be written.

Warnings: Character death, depression, cursing, more character death

You never should've went after the two boys. It was an instinct even in the middle of a fight when Dean hollered "He's going after the kids!" You ran out the door after the vampire without thinking.

You never would've thought that last glance over your shoulder would be the last time you saw Dean alive.

"What do you mean I can check on her?" Dean had been sitting on the porch of the Roadhouse talking to Bobby. He missed you so damn much. He'd tried to hold on until you got back to his side, you never even got the chance to say goodbye and to make matters worse he'd just proposed to you at the pie fest.

Bobby nodded "One of Jack's changes. We can keep an eye on those we left behind. Just remember time moves a different up here. It's been weeks since she lost you" Dean felt his stomach twist thinking about the pain you were in "How do I do it?"

You were curled up on your side in the middle of the bed you once shared with Dean. You heard Sam call your name softly but refused to answer. He was hurting also and it wasn't fair that you were drowning in your own pain and unable to help him. You felt so damn selfish.

You played with the ring on your finger blinking back a fresh wave of tears.

You laughed when Sam smeared the slice of pie down Dean's face. He cut his eyes at you with a smirk "Think that's cute sweetheart?" You didn't miss a beat in leaning closer to him to lick the pie off his face. "Look at you Dean. Sexy and tasty"

You relished in the fact that after being with him for this long you could still make Dean blush. He shook his head almost shyly "In that case maybe we should keep some pie for later" "I think I shouldn't hear anyone. I'm gonna grab us some drinks" Sam laughed making himself scarce while you finished helping Dean clean his face off with paper towels from a nearby picnic table.

You were almost done when he grabbed your wrist. "Dean! Let me finish" you laughed but the look in his eyes held you in place "I love you so damn much Y/N" You smiled "I love you too Dean" he let your wrist go and once you finished he stood up in front of the bench you were sitting on "What are you doing?" You asked before he went down to one knee.

Your heart felt like it would spring out of your chest when he said "Darling, nothing about our relationship has been normal. From the way we met to our daily lives. This though? You deserve at least one normal thing" he pulled a small box out of his pocket "It's nothing flashy but Y/N will you marry me?"

You didn't even look at the ring before launching yourself into his arms, nearly knocking you both down "Yes, yes I'll marry you Dean"

The door of the room creaked open just enough for light to filter in from the hall "Y/N you need to eat" you barely glanced towards Sam before saying "I'm fine Sam"

He nodded "If you need anything just holler ok?" "You too" you whispered burrowing further into Dean's pillow. You heard Miracle whine but told him "Go with Sammy Miracle" and heard his nails clicking on the tiles as he followed Sam away from the room.

"Sam's taking care of her" Dean had to keep telling himself that. You had Sam, Eileen, the Sioux Falls girls and Garth. You were strong, you knew how much he loved you. You knew he'd be waiting patiently for you... You'd be ok right?

A year passed and the pain you felt hadn't dampened any.

Sam had decided to leave the bunker, it would serve other hunters so he handed the key over to Garth. You supported him in the decision. Everywhere either of you looked in that place you saw Dean.

Sam offered baby to you but you knew she belonged with Sam. You had your car and Garth had given you full access to one of Bobby's old cabin about thirty miles from Sioux Falls.

Some days were better than others. The few photos of Dean you had were huddled on your nightstand, framed so that was the first thing you saw each morning and the last each night. His ring hadn't left your finger since the day he slipped it on.

------

You slowly pushed yourself into sitting up. You were sore from a hunt you'd gone on with Claire as a favor to Jody. They'd offered you to stay with them a few days but your nightmares were still bad enough you didn't want to risk it.

Eileen had texted a few days before asking if you wanted to come see her and Sam. You would eventually but deep down you knew seeing you would make Sam think of Dean and seeing Sam would make you think of Dean. You just prayed the youngest Winchester was doing better than you.

You stood up, stretching as you walked across the floor to the kitchen. You needed coffee.

------

You stood at the sink staring through the small window as you waited for the coffee to brew. At times it was like you could close your eyes and feel his arms around you, hear his voice in your ear.

"You promised me. You promised that it would always be me and you" You whispered to the empty cabin. Anger mixing in with your sorrow. You spun smashing your mug against the wall before sinking down to the floor "Dean you fucking promised me. You left me alone and I don't know how to keep going. I wanna keep fighting, I wanna make you proud but more than anything I want you to walk through that door and save me from the nightmare I've been living in"

"NO YOU DON'T SEEM TO GET IT JACK. SHE'S GOING THROUGH HELL" leave it to Dean Winchester to not only depower one God but but argue with the next.

"How can I help her Dean?" Jack asked, unsure himself how to help you "I don't know but I get you couldn't save me. I was already too far gone but she can still be saved. The world needs her. She needs to heal, to move forward. I can't be what breaks her, please" he felt his voice crack on the end but didn't care. Your latest bad day broke every piece of his heart "I'll do what I can"

You needed help, fuck you couldn't do this anymore.

You managed to force your legs to move. You walked across the floor to where your phone lay and picked it up before hitting Jody's number "I need help Jody. I can't live like this. I don't want to be alone anymore. I can't,I feel like I'm losing my mind. I know he'd never want this for me so please can you help me?"

You could hear her truck cranking up before you ever finished talking "I'm on my way"

Three years has passed since losing him. You still felt empty in a part of your soul but you were doing better. You'd moved in with Donna, saw Sam and Eileen regularly and formed a routine.

The days had shifted to more good ones than bad. Not to mention the fact of having a beautiful little nephew who needed to hear stories of how amazing his namesake, his uncle Dean was.

-------

Laughter was once again part of your day. You danced around the kitchen in Sam and Eileen's house with baby Dean on your hip singing softly to him as you checked the food you were cooking.

"Is that Metallica?" Sam asked from the doorway and you turned with a grin "Someone has to educate him" he laughed "Glad he has you aunt Y/N. Dean would be horrified if he didn't know enter sandman before his abcs"

You laughed looking down at baby Dean "We'll make it through the important bands first then we'll head into abcs and colors" as if he knew what you were saying he giggled, fingers fumbling in your hair You glanced back at Sam "See? We have a gameplan"

Dean wasn't surprised you'd never moved on. Hell you wore his ring every day of your life,only removing it when you went to the water park with Claire, Kaia, Patience and Alex.

What mattered to him was you lived. You did everything you ever dreamed of doing, from visiting the hills of Ireland with Eileen, Sam and Little Dean all the way to starting a housing and education unit for the next generation of hunters who'd been dragged into the life.

-------

You woke with a start, a deep breath of air flooding into your chest. What had happened?

The wreck flashed through your mind, being in the hospital. Telling Sam and Eileen you loved them before the surgery. You hadn't made it.

You looked around before realizing where you were seemed vaguely familiar. It struck you why when you turned around to see the Roadhouse not thirty feet away. You were in heaven.

The door of the Roadhouse opened and you'd didn't have to think before you were running. Dean met you halfway picking you up easily. "I've missed you so much" you sobbed into his chest. "I've missed you too. I am so sorry I couldn't hold on, that we didn't say goodbye. I tried..." You shushed him with a finger to his lips "Doesn't matter now Dean. I'm here"

He smiled against your finger before kissing it lightly. When you moved it he pulled you into a kiss. Having his lips against yours after this many years? Nothing heaven had to offer could compare to simply being in his arms. When he pulled back he smiled down at you "We finally have our forever darling" you smiled "Just took a while to get here"

"I love you Mrs Winchester" he spoke softly, fingers tracing the ring that Jack knew you'd want even there. Your smile simply grew "I love you more Mr Winchester"

[sameheart-sameblood]

What Comes After

(gif credit: @bobafettdaily )

pairing: boba fett x reader

summary: several weeks into your captivity by the tusken raiders, you meet their newest prisoner, boba fett. your friendship keeps you alive but the complicated feelings that you develop for him leave you with long lasting scars

words: 4.4 k

warnings: angst, longing, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, captivity, a medical setting, age difference, me not knowing how sand people things really work

a/n: honestly i forgot that i wrote this around week 2 of tbobf. im not really sure what it is or if i like it anymore. but there is at least a part 2 planned haha. posting it now because i miss boba and i'm sad the show is ending :( also! a huge thank you to @padawansubscription for being my indulgent beta reader!

read on ao3!

You thought the worst thing that could happen to you was being taken captive by the Sand People. You'd never crossed paths with them before, only seeing evidence of their existence in the aftermaths of raids and skirmishes. The stories of their supposed cruelty and wickedness had been ingrained in your upbringing, making you fear the vast openness of the desert sea. Of course, the people in your town had shown the Raiders just as much barbarity and brutishness. You'd lived your whole life hearing only one side of the story. And yes, your captivity almost broke you. But it was nothing compared to meeting, and losing, him.

******

You'd been in the Tusken camp for weeks, on the receiving end of “tests” that anyone but the Raiders would call torture. Later, you realized the Sand People were rooting, in their own way, for you to pass these trials. Their numbers scarce thanks to the colonizers of the planet, they needed new blood and if you were lucky - or unlucky depending on how you looked at it - you’d be the newest member of their clan.

But the last few days of your imprisonment had proven too much. You were delirious from lack of food and water. Your skin was burnt and peeled terribly. You were sure you didn’t look quite human anymore. That was the only thing you were certain of, though, constantly shifting between delusions and nightmares.

One day, you opened your sand specked eyes and were greeted by the sight of two new prisoners. One a Rodian and the other a bald and badly scarred man. You still had enough sense to pity them. At least you were close to death. But them? They had weeks of nothing but fear and pain to look forward to.

Before you passed out again, you saw the scarred man looking at you, his eyes sad. Almost like he wanted to help you. That couldn’t be right though. Tatooine was a harsh planet and kind, helpful eyes were as scarce as water. As your eyes drooped, you swore he called out to you. But you were too far gone, ready for oblivion. Maybe if the Force was real, you’d dream of him.

******

Over the next several days your body started to get a bit stronger. Or was it weeks? It was hard to tell when the landscape never changed but was constantly shifting. You weren't sure what could be helping at first. Then, one morning, when the twin suns were just starting to peek over the horizon, you’d seen a shadow approaching you. At first, you thought it was the end, a Raider coming to put an end to you after you'd proven useless.

But as the figure got closer, the rising suns’ first light shone on your savior’s scarred face. He saw seen the terror in your eyes and softly shushed you. He was still in his bonds but had enough lead on his tether to amble over to you. Kneeling at your side, he stroked the hair out of your face and put a black melon to your lips. You gratefully drank, the sour nectar soothing your throat and tasting like heaven. He murmured to you as you had your fill. “That’s better, hmm? You’re a fighter, ad’ika. Try to hold on a little longer.”

******

He wasn’t just kind, he also proved to be someone the Tuskens admired. Not long after that night he’d shown you such compassion, you woke to shouts and cheers. A small Tusken child excitedly yelled at their elders, running around with the monstrous head of…some creature you’d never encountered before. The scarred man walked behind the kid, unchained and wearing a look of restrained amusement. Whatever had happened, the tribe seemed pleased and had welcomed him into the fold.

******

With the Rodian now gone, the Raiders re-focus their efforts on you. Their trials resume in full force. After a particularly grueling session, you’re left on a mat in the corner of one of their huts, muscles screaming and nerves on fire. The flap of the tent opens and the man walks in, carrying several items under his arms.

You close your eyes, willing him to go away. Your pride doesn’t want him to see you like this, all of your dignity stripped from you. He stops next to you for a moment, waiting for you to yell at him to leave. When you don’t, he sits down, groaning as he settles into place.

Tears start to run down your face but you still refuse to open your eyes. The man sighs, cupping your chin. “I know, girl. But you’re safe now.” For how long, though? You both are thinking it but neither says it. Instead, he takes a damp cloth and begins cleaning the dust, sand and blood from your face.

Eyes still closed, you speak your first words to him. “Why are you doing this?” The sound of your voice is foreign to you, scratchy and hoarse with disuse. You hear him rinse the rag and continue his task.

“I suppose I hope someone would do the same for me if I needed it. Hasn’t happened yet though…” The end of his sentence trails off, almost as if he hadn’t meant to say it. Your eyes finally open, staring up at him. His soft brown ones avoid yours for a moment, also not used to being met with kindness.

It takes all your strength but you reach out for his hand. He stops his work and your eyes meet. Someday, you hope you can properly thank him for this gesture but for the moment, the look on your face has to be enough.

You stare at each other until a noise outside breaks your trance. He clears his throat and continues, dabbing at your split lip next. “I’m Boba.” You smile at the name, which makes your lip crack more. You wince and he grimaces in solidarity, continuing when you give him a curt nod.

When he finishes, he moves on to check the bruises on your legs.

“I’ve never met a ‘Boba’ before. You must have very interesting parents.” He stiffens slightly, smiling sadly.

“You could say that.”

Did you cross some line? You aren’t sure, so you just decide to keep quiet. Instead of speaking, you observe his face, scratches and deep scars running every which way. He looks like he’s been on the receiving end of a Rancor attack. You want to ask him to tell you his story but your shyness creeps over you, not wanting to lose the one, newly acquired, friend you have.

You introduce yourself instead and he nods at the information. He dabs at a gouge on your arm, applying an antiseptic to it. You squirm and try keep from whimpering. “We’ll need to keep an eye on that. Don’t want it to turn nasty on us.”

“Are you a doctor?”

He chuckles at that, his face lighting up. You can’t help but notice how handsome he is despite his own injuries. “No, can’t say that I am. But the line of business I’m in makes it imperative to know how to clean yourself up after a fight.”

You want to ask more but his ministrations are calming and lulling you to the brink of sleep. He sees your eyes fighting to stay open and finishes up his bandaging. Before succumbing, you get out one last question. “Won’t you get in trouble for helping me?”

He pulls your threadbare blanket under your chin with a softness that threatens to make you cry again. “Don’t worry about that. Just sleep.” And you do, falling into one of the soundest slumbers you’ve had in…well you can’t even remember.

******

Boba becomes the one, pleasant constant in your life. He’s there late at night to clean your wounds and offer some soft words of encouragement. The Tuskens have seemingly taken him into their confidence. Not that you’re surprised. He has an air of courage and authority that would impress anyone. Their trust in him becomes apparent when he tells you of his latest plan.

“I have to stop the train.” He thinks on it for a moment and then realizes what he’s said. “We have to stop it.” From what you’ve managed to learn about his life, it sounds like he’s been used to working alone. Having the Tuskens as his new allies is still a concept he’s getting used to.

You had heard the commotion during the initial attack. The sounds of guns and Tuskens screaming. In your state, you’d thought it was a nightmare at first. The only sign it was real was when Boba had come rushing in to your tent, tense and eyes wild. He wanted to make sure you were alright. You, who had never been in any real danger from the attack. It only made sense that a man who was that worried about a near stranger like you would be insistent in helping the people who had initially captured him.

His soul was too good and it made you worry for him. Talking him out of his plan proved pointless. You thought you’d give it one last try though.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Boba sits next to you, cleaning his cycler revolver. He stops, looking down at you kindly.

“If we don’t stop the train, those animals will keep coming back. Them having free rein over the desert puts us all in danger.”

He speaks the truth but it doesn’t make his words easier to accept. You push yourself up, waving your hand to stop him from trying to push you back down on to your bed. “You don’t owe the Tuskens anything. Why don’t you just leave? I’m sure the leader would let you go. They respect you.”

He sighs and you can see just how tired he looks now. But it’s not a tiredness from a bad night’s sleep. Your friend looks world-weary, as if he’s been carrying the weight of his problems along with everyone else’s for too long.

“I must do what’s right.”

That’s why you’ve grown to care for him. You haven’t pried into his past but the few details you’ve gleaned have pointed to a man who’s done some things he’s not proud of. It seems Boba is trying to live a life without regret now, trying his best to atone for what he did in his younger days.

But you’re selfish. You don’t want to lose him. It’s not just that he takes care of you. It’s that when you speak, he actually listens. When you cry, he’s there with a comforting hand on your shoulder and a wise word. And when you smile, he grins along with you, eyes crinkling sweetly.

In another world, you might muster all your courage and ask him to go with you to the cantina or to go to a holodrama with you. In another world, neither of you would have been captured. That world may not exist but this one still does and you’ll be damned if you let him go without saying your piece.

“There will always be someone to fight. If you stop the train, then someone else will just come along and try and lay claim to this land. It’ll never stop.”

Boba has no answer for this. You try softening your approach, reaching out for his hand.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I can’t have anything bad happen to you.”

He’s not looking at you, instead, gazing into the small fire he’s built to keep you warm in the harsh desert night. As you watch his face, though, you can see the glimmer of what look to be tears in the corner of his eyes. When he speaks, his voice wavers a fraction.

“It’s been a long time since anyone cared about what happens to me.”

“Oh, Boba.”

You reach for his face, gently turning it to you. He meets your gaze and the two of you look into each other’s eyes. Boba leans towards you and you think, and hope, that he might kiss you. But he falters, seemingly deciding that path would be fool-hearty to travel, especially since he might not be returning.

Instead, he brings your forehead to his. You stay there for some time, breathing each other in. He hums a song you’ve never heard but breaks your heart nonetheless. With all the effort he can muster, he pulls himself away.

“If I don’t come back, just know that you’ve made an old man very happy.”

******

Boba does come back and this time, you let your tears of relief fall freely. He holds you to him, rocking you in his arms. After you calm down, he tells you every detail of what happened. You’re so proud of him but hope that the next time his honor compels him to do something so dangerous, you’ll be by his side.

The incident with the train elevates his status even more in the tribe. His sway with the Tuskens helps you a bit. They still continue their tests but they don’t stop him from tending to you afterwards. You appreciate his help but can’t help snapping at him one day after a particularly grueling session with the Raiders.

“Why do you help me? You’re just prolonging my death with your kindness.” He continues to patch you up, as if not hearing you. You grab his hands to stop him, pleading with him. “Please, Boba. Just let me go. I’m so tired.”

He looks at your wounds, most raised and scarred over. The one on your arm still festers though and the newly acquired ones are deep and dangerous. Boba must know there’s only so much your body can take.

“Don’t ask me to do that, ad’ika.”

You sit up, even as he protests. “What do you even need me for? You’re part of the tribe now.”

Boba stiffens. “You could be too.” He says it softly, trying to gauge how you’ll react.

“I don’t want to be. I know this is all a test. Maybe this is the life for you. But I can’t. I’m not strong enough.”

To prove your point, you arms give out and you fall back on your bed, grimacing from the movement. He has no retort. Instead, he finishes patching you up, even while knowing you resent him for it.

“We’ll figure this out. They’ll start training you soon. You’re stronger than you think.”

******

Boba truly believes in you but when the wound on your arm continues to fester and the infection spreads. You become too weak to even get up, the fever coursing through you too much to bear. Boba is there by your side as much as his new family will allow. During the first days of the sickness you babble incoherently while Boba acts as nurse, holding a cool rag to your forehead. He knows it’s bad when you stop talking altogether.

The Tuskens tell Boba they are going to put you out of your misery. They had high hopes for you but you have disappointed them, letting your body get the better of you. It’s a kindness they wouldn’t offer to just anyone. You’ve held out longer than most captives and them giving you an honorable death is the most you could ask for.

Boba resists, knowing you’d have a fighting chance with some meds. Even a little bacta could bring you back from the brink. He knows you don’t have long without proper medical intervention. But the Chief says no. Boba is a member of this tribe now. He needs to do what’s best for the many and not focus on just one. And so, Boba makes up his mind that he’ll spirit you away, with or without the tribe’s permission.

When night falls, he comes in to your tent and shakes you. It’s futile, he knows. Your fever has made you delirious. But still, he tries. “You have to wake up now. I’m going to get you out of here.”

You slowly open your eyes but can’t seem to form any words. Instead, you smile up at him, bringing a shaking hand to the side of his face. It’s a rare moment of lucidity you haven’t had in days. He’s never seen anyone look at him that way, with such love and relief at just the sight of him. No, that’s no true. His father looked at him like that…

Using all your strength, you caress his face. He hears you whispering something and leans in closer. “Thank you, Boba. I -”. But the effort proves too much and your hand falls, eyes closing as you convulse. Boba picks you up, your body feeling so frail in his arms.

He makes a beeline for the new speeder he’s brought to the Tuskens. He tries to load you on but you’ve gone limp. A noise behind him makes him jump. He turns to see his first Tusken friend, the child he saved from the sand monster, peeking at him from around a tent.

Boba waits for them to sound the alarm but instead, they scurry over. The child hold the speeder steady while Boba climbs on and gets you settled against his chest. Boba signs a ‘thank you’ to the kid, who nods and watches as the two of you speed away.

The trip to Mos Eisley is a long one and difficult in the dead of night. Every so often, Boba risks a look down at you. The feeling in his chest is something that’s been developing ever since that first evening when he went, against his better judgement, to give you the melon nectar.

He grew to admire and trust the Tuskens but he never felt like they truly saw him as much more than a warrior to grow their numbers. The time spent with you made him feel needed, yes, but it also reminded him of his humanity. The bounty hunter was used to people needing him but only to inflict pain and suffering.

With you, he had a higher purpose. He was fixing something for once instead of breaking it into a million pieces. And the way you looked at him? It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was as if you were actually seeing him, even the parts of himself he didn’t trust most people to observe.

Boba had his fair share of conquests in his time, but they were only ever for a night or two and there were never any deep feelings involved. But he hadn’t even had the chance to kiss you and he was willing to risk his life for yours. It was strange and made him feel weak and powerful all at the same time.

It made that funny ache in his chest hurt even more to think that he might never see you again. The greedy part of him wanted to wait alongside you in town until you got better. Then he could whisk you away. If not back to the Tuskens, then to start a new life together somewhere. Anywhere.

But even though you didn’t know him as a bounty hunter, that life would never leave him behind. It would only be a matter of time until his enemies found out he was alive. They’d never stop hunting him and you might get hurt in the crossfire. You deserved better than a life always looking over your shoulder.

No, he would drop you off, make sure you were in good hands and then leave. He’d become no more than a memory for you. He couldn’t fathom the fact that you might miss him. In his mind, everyone forgot about him eventually, once he’d served his purpose.

But still, he had to talk himself out of slowing the speeder down to spend just a few more moments with you. Your wellbeing came before his selfish wants.

And so, as the lights of Mos Eisley grew brighter in front of him, Boba held you closer to him and imagined a life you might have spent together if your fates had been woven together more kindly.

******

You knew something was different before you even opened your eyes. For weeks you’d grown accustomed to the scratchy, worn blanket used as your bedding. So why now did the sheets feel thick and soft? Maybe I’ve died and this is Heaven. If the sheets feel like this then I’m not complaining.

Opening your eyes, you quickly realize that this is no paradise. You’re in some kind of hospital room, machines whirring, bacta pod in the corner, but no nurses or doctors to be seen. You sit up and find that your body is sore but nowhere near what it used to be. Inspecting yourself, you see that most of your scrapes and bruises are healed. The deeper cuts that haven't healed over are held together by butterfly bandages.

Most of the physical proof of your captivity is now gone. Now all that remains are the mental scars. No amount of bacta will be able to heal those, unfortunately. But you’ll worry about that later. For now, you want answers. You want Boba.

But the man who comes through the door is very much not Boba. A young doctor with wide eyes stops in the doorway, beaming at you. “Oh good! You’re awake.” When you offer him no response, he doesn’t seem perturbed. He checks your vitals and as he continues, “How are you feeling this morning?”

You eye him suspiciously. Of course he doesn’t work for the Tuskens but that doesn’t mean you should let your guard down. “Where am I?”

He checks your heart rate and nods in approval. “Mos Eisley. You were brought in with a nasty infection. Fever nearly killed you. A few more hours and you wouldn't have made it.”

“But how did I get here?”

The doctor stiffens. “Your… friend. At least, he said he was your friend.” He can see your discomfort too at the mention of Boba and misinterprets it as fear. “Is he the one who hurt you?”

You can see how he might have made that assumption. Boba looks intimidating. He also wouldn’t have mentioned the Tuskens’ involvement to the doctor. “No! He is my friend. I just…had an accident.”

The lie sounds lame, even to you. But you stick to it, even when the doctor gives you a look of doubt. When it becomes clear that you’re not going to give him anymore to go on, he finishes checking you.

“Everything is looking good. You had quite the accident, but I think we should be good to discharge you in a few days.”

He turns to leave and you call after him. “Is my friend still here? Did he say when he’d be coming back?”

You know that answer before he even turns to look at you. Heart breaking at the realization that hits you like a runaway speeder. The doctor shakes his head. “Didn’t seem like he planned on coming back. He dropped you off and then stayed until it seemed like you were stable. He left you something though.”

The doctor points to your bedside table, a nondescript piece of paper folded and tucked under your few belongings. You grab for it and almost yank your IV out in the process. Tisking in disapproval, the doctor makes as if to come back over and help you. You hold up a hand, halting him. He means well but you feel like your whole world is crashing down on top of you. You don’t need to read the letter to guess what’s inside.

As you begin to open the paper, the doctor senses this is something you’d like to be alone for. He slips out of the room and softly closes the door behind him. With your heart racing, you begin to read

Ad’ika,

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. It’s better this way. I should have brought you here a long time ago but I was too selfish. I wanted you to keep you with me a little longer. My carelessness almost killed you. I can’t have that happen again. That’s why I don’t want you to come looking for me. After what you’ve been through, you deserve nothing but goodness. I can only promise you pain and fear. Please forget the old man you met out in the desert.

Remember, you are stronger than you think, ner cyare.

Live well.

Your hand falls limp at your side, the letter still clutched in its grasp. Boba’s words float around your spinning head. He doesn’t want to see you again? No, he can’t mean it. You can’t accept that.

The Tuskens took much from you, but they could never take your stubbornness. Boba doesn’t know what he really wants. I need to find him and he’ll see that we’re good for each other. But maybe your bullheadedness has been beaten out of you. Because the thought seems ill-conceived from the get-go.

You trust Boba. If he thinks you’re better off without him, then it must be true. It still doesn’t take the sting away from your decision. You can feel your heart breaking. It’s a foreign feeling. You’ve never been one to let anyone get too close. But somehow, in just a few weeks, Boba has cemented his place in your soul more than anyone else has in your entire life.

You don’t know what this life has in store for you. You’ve been given a fresh start, a chance to take things in stock and figure out what you really want. That should excite you, the possibilities as endless as the deserts of your home planet. But what are you to do when you already know exactly what you want? Who you want.

You’re not sure what path in life you’ll take now that you’re free but you know that whatever you do will feel dull knowing that Boba is out there and you can never see him again. You thought the worst thing that could happen to you was the Tuskens taking you captive. But really, the worst of it is everything that comes after. What can life possibly offer you without Boba in it?

[dreamwritesimagines]

I love AU hcs where Elias is too caught up in his angst and love over Cecily to realize Anthony and Cherié are falling in love. My brother in Christ, these are the two people you are closest to. You're either with one or with the other and they are too rich to be subtle about anything. Wdym you were too busy with your feelings for Cece, Cece is literally her best friend, she also sees her all the time???

Just imagine, they all grew up together and he knows all about his beautiful sister's yearning for love and how Anthony, his dashing friend, literally will always stop to talk to her or asks how she is, sometimes he even ignores Elias (yk the one person in Avon House who it's not inappropriate for him to see) to do it

but will that stop Elias from being a fucking idiot? No.

"Did you see that Frenchman dancing with your sister? Twice! The gall- Are you alright?"

"Anthony...I think I just fell in love."

"Grand. I didn't catch his name but she told me he inquired about her presence in the Opera House..."

Or

"..and she is the most beautiful, most enchanting creatur I have ever met...not that it will matter, the ton will eat her alive if I-"

"Oh we will overcome this, Eli, I'm sure. True love will always prevail. Say... what is the name of the Lady Anthony is talking to?"

"Huh? Cherié, I'm in distress!"

"Yes and that's quite alright. Christ her dress is so outdated-"

And

"Honestly, Eli. You and your father must do something about the amount of gentlemen seeking to court her, at the club, I heard them making wagers! Wagers! Over who would marry the diamond of the season, I swear-"

"Why don't you court her?"

"...what?"

"Yes. For this season, of course. I hardly think any man here is worthy of my sister, and I'm sure all this nonsense will halt by the next. You as my close friend will make the others lose their fighting spirit and I trust you to be a perfect gentleman in your task to ward away suitors from her."

"...right. yes, of course that's what you meant... do you think she'll have an issue with this plan of yours?"

"I think she'll be furious but she'll see it's for her own good. There's scarcely any good men in London this season and you are like a brother to her, you'd be looking after her in a way I cannot."

"...did she say that? Call me that? Brother-"

"What? Who cares? I think I saw Cecily promenading with Lord William, Anthony. Walk faster!"

Darling oh my God! OMG I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS-

I’m totally gonna fangirl over you and your writing, so I’m putting it under read more😂

I am literally grinning at my screen rn, this is hilarious and SO GOOD! ❤😍

My brother in Christ, these are the two people you are closest to. You're either with one or with the other and they are too rich to be subtle about anything. Wdym you were too busy with your feelings for Cece, Cece is literally her best friend, she also sees her all the time??? Elias being totally blind to anyone and anything else but Cece will never stop being funny😂 ALSO, “TOO RICH TO BE SUBTLE”, HELP-

Anthony ignoring Elias to talk to Cherie at their own house when he’s supposedly there for Elias meanwhile Elias is “I wonder what Cece is doing right now” 😂

but will that stop Elias from being a fucking idiot? No. I can actually hear this 😂

Your writing is so good I am dying at these! 😍😍😍

"Anthony...I think I just fell in love."

"Grand. I didn't catch his name but she told me he inquired about her presence in the Opera House..."NEITHER OF THEM IS LISTENING TO THE OTHER😂 Anthony would be badmouthing Pierre nonstop meanwhile Elias is basically having hearts spinning around his head, going like,

“Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming, there is no way such a beauty walks among us mortals.”

“Are you going to do something about this or shall I?”

“You mean I should ask her for a dance? I don’t even think she’d look my way.”

“He cannot ask her for a dance twice, it will give the wrong impression not to mention-“

“What are you talking about?”

“What? That man dancing with your sister, what are you talking about?”

“My sister can dance with whoever she wants Anthony— do you know that lady’s name? Over there?”

“Yeah that’s Cecily Trenlove— I’m sure she didn’t want to dance with him twice Elias, go intimidate him!”

And Cherie being just as jealous as Anthony when he spares so much as a glance at someone else 😂

"Yes and that's quite alright. Christ her dress is so outdated-"

Cherie 🤝 Anthony

Not listening to Elias at all while the other is paying attention to someone else 😂

She would be grumbling nonstop throughout Anthony’s dance with that lady while Elias is like;

“I wish I could just dance with her the whole night.”

“Honestly, who picked her dress? Her grandmother from her grave?”

“Do you think I could ask her for a dance for the second time? The ton would talk but-“

“The ton does nothing but talk, go ask her for a dance after you tell me about that lady.”

“Lady Charlotte?”

“Yes, who is she?”

“Oh she’s a duke’s daughter, she has a lot of suitors. A lot of men find her beautiful, not even close to my only love of course but-“

“Does Anthony?”

“Hm?”

“Does Anthony find her beautiful?”

“I don’t know, I guess? He is dancing with her after all.”

“You must go and tell Anthony her dress is outdated.”

“….Yes I’m sure he will care a lot about that.”

OMG Cherie as the diamond awwww! ❤ And that dialogue, it’s genius! 😍😱

"I think she'll be furious but she'll see it's for her own good. There's scarcely any good men in London this season and you are like a brother to her, you'd be looking after her in a way I cannot."

"...did she say that? Call me that? Brother-" Anthony’s brain just made a record scratch sound the moment he heard that lollll😂

He would be walking beside Elias and go like,

“But she didn’t say that, right?”

“What?”

“She didn’t say that she sees me like a brother?”

“I mean no but I’d say she does. She should, at least.”

“No no, she shouldn’t—”

“We all grew up together and you’re the only man I trust in the ton for the task. I mean I know for a fact that you would never entertain the idea of courting her for real and those lords will stop, so everyone wins.”

“Right. But I mean, would she?”

“Hm?”

“Entertain the idea that I would court her?”

“….Pfft, good joke Anthony. I almost fell for it, you can be hilarious when you want to—now make haste, I want to see whether Cecily likes Lord William’s companionship.”

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR WRITING HONEY! 😍❤❤ Thank you so much for this! ❤❤❤