#In Marisa's voice no less

[shadowcatgirl09]

Aleks Le just made my day. He did the voice over for Luke when you give him Red Elevator 8, it was perfect.

[tragicotps]

Excerpt from The amber spyglass: chapter 16: The intention craft

[jujutsustraycats]

WHY ARE YOU TALKING LIKE SEL

Nami I am quite literally wilting because of Karasu brainrot please send help

he says, like it can be helped.

[flowerandblood]

My Best Friend (4)

[modern! club owner • Aemond x fem!reader]  

[warnings: kissing, fluff, mention of stalking, swearing]

[description: Aemond has his own club and often does business at the home of one of his business associates. There he often meets his younger sister, with whom he develops a deeper relationship through shared secrets. This is slow burn love story.]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist  

_____

Y/N, as previously agreed, sat at the table next to Aemond and Criston. In addition to them, there were a few more of their friends sitting around, whom Y/N knew more or less. 

Of all the girls, Y/N liked Marisa the most. She was quite a cool person and at first glance unpleasant in her attitude, but after getting to know her for a while, she turned out to be incredibly nice and funny. 

This time also with her interesting stories, Marisa managed to dissuade Y/N from unpleasant thoughts and from Albert, who occasionally leered at them, standing at the bar and talking to "colleagues in the industry". Suddenly, Y/N was approached by her father.

"I would like to speak with you. Now." He said briefly. Y/N nodded quickly, not daring to argue. 

"When did you want to tell me, that some juvenile punk is pestering you with messages and photos? Is he here among the guests now?" He asked immediately, enraged, as soon as they moved a bit aside. Y/N sighed.

“Yes, but please, understand, that the situation is very complicated. If I could, I would have reported him to the police a long time ago, but he's got Klaus in his grip." She spoke quickly, trying to explain the situation as best she could.

"Got Klaus in his grip? Because he couldn't read the contract, and it turns out my firstborn son isn't as smart as I hoped?"

Y/N frowned at those words.

“No. Because of the illegal business that, if I remember correctly, you introduced him to, saying that if he did it right, he would lose nothing. But you didn't foresee that, did you?" She asked, nodding towards the bar, where Albert was standing. Her father stroked his beard, fury and fierceness in his eyes.

"You will come back to us, to our family home. You'll be safe there."

"No." She replied right away. "I'm staying with Klaus. Here is my University, my friends. My home." She said finally. 

She could see, that her words hurt him. He and their mother were always the most focused on work - they, as children, were an extra. Klaus and Y/N formed a strong bond, and when Klaus left for college, Y/N couldn't find herself place. 

As soon as she reached the age of majority, she moved in to him. Only when she was with him, she had a real home again - one, where someone was waiting for her.

Y/N turned around and went back to her table. Aemond watched their conversation from a distance and saw, that they were arguing. He was tempted to ask for details, but he figured, that since she respected his privacy, he shouldn't pressure her to reveal herself to him either.

"Criston, please, I need another drink" She said, holding out her empty glass to him. Criston happened to be the closest person to booze. 

The party went off without any major problems, apart from a few drunken excesses. Aemond hadn't said a word most of the evening, deep in thought, but when he saw Y/N getting ready to make herself a fifth drink, he lightly grabbed her wrist under the table, stopping her movement. She looked at him questioningly.

"You do not exaggerate?" He asked, a note of concern in his voice. He had never seen her drink so much. In fact, it was very rare for him to witness her having more than two drinks at a party. Y/N frowned at his question.

"I'm having a good drinking day today. I'm not doing anything wrong." She said with some resentment. She waved her hand for him to let go, but he didn't. His face hardened.

"I wish I could go home knowing, that you're sober enough to understand what's going on around you, so I can sleep peacefully." He said with emphasis, his fingers holding her steady. It didn't hurt her, but it wasn't comfortable. 

Still, his words struck her slightly foggy mind even more, than they usually would, if she had controlled herself. Her eyes widened, as she stared at him silently. She lowered her gaze and hand. 

He stood up for her and tried to help her. He was genuinely worried about her.

She nodded. He let out a grunt of satisfaction and let her go.

They both jumped up, when they heard noises and shouts from the area around the mini-bar. It was Klaus and Albert, writhing on the ground and pounding their fists. They seemed to be explaining the situation.

"Klaus!" Y/N screamed and jumped up, Aemond and Criston followed her. 

People in the crowd, headed by their father, separated Klaus and Albert from each other, both panting and looking at each other with hatred.

"Get the fuck out of here, you bastard. You will never set foot in my house again." Klaus said, spitting blood on the grass. 

Albert laughed, but he was unsteady on his feet and very drunk himself. He started to mutter something and thrash about, but his friends took him by the arm and led him towards the exit. 

"Party's over" Klaus alerted, his eyes cloudy as he leaned against the bar, Criston holding him up on the other side.

After half an hour the garden was almost completely empty. Their father still seemed offended and decided, that he'd rather think things through alone, in the hotel. They didn't stop him. 

Later Y/N said goodbye to Marisa, who was returning with Criston and two other girls by Uber.

Together, Aemond and Y/N led Klaus to his bedroom. Y/N took off his shoes and covered him with the blanket. They hadn't even left the room, when her brother started snoring.

 There was silence as they walked out into the hallway. Y/N leaned against the wall, her eyes heavy. She glanced at Aemond, who was also looking at her. She realized, she didn't want him to go.

"Stay." She said softly, smiling broadly. Alcohol gave her courage. Her smile was full of cordiality and warmth, her eyebrows expressed a sincere request. 

"It will soon be four o'clock. Sleep on the couch, tomorrow I'll make us breakfast like the last time." She said with conviction.

Aemond stared at her and fought with himself. He had drank much, though he'd been much more careful today, than he had been a week ago. Still, he felt oddly energized. 

He watched her as she stood a few steps away from him, leaning against the wall, her hands clasped behind her back. He looked at her dress, at her long legs, at her hair, at her happy, bright eyes. 

"I'm afraid, you won't be able to get up early enough, to make us breakfast tomorrow." He said, looking her up and down. She laughed heartily at his words, completely relaxed. He wondered, how she could trust him so easily. She had no idea, what he was capable of.

"I'll set my alarm clock." She shrugged, a smile not leaving her face. 

Suddenly her eyes widened, as if she remembered something. She burst out laughing, but covered her mouth, to keep from making too loud noises. She took a few steps towards him and took his hand. 

"Do you want to see my childhood photos? I have a whole gem album. You've never been in my room, have you?" She asked lightly, pulling him behind her. Normally, he would have refused her, but now, he couldn't stand up to her.

She opened the door to her bedroom and turned on the light. The walls of her room were a very light, lilac color. There were posters, prints and illustrations everywhere. Her shelves were full of books, records, boxes, and assorted drawing and painting supplies. 

Aemond looked up in surprise. In his opinion, her room was a small workshop. Taking advantage of him looking around, Y/N reached for the album, that she mentioned. She was excited. 

She sat down on the carpet, leaning her back against the side of her bed, and patted the space next to her. He sat down next to her, their arms and legs touching. For some reason, he felt he needed her physical contact. Like this evening in the kitchen, when he kissed her hair. He felt something pleasant back then, light, care and tenderness. He had allowed himself to feel those feelings for her for some reason, and he wanted to feel them again.

"Look!" She said, barely holding back a laugh. 

Aemond glanced and shook his head, sighing, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from curling up. In the photo she was pointing to, Klaus and Y/N were standing. Klaus was probably 10 years old and Y/N was 6. Y/N was dressed up as Piglet and Klaus was dressed up as Winnie the Pooh. They were holding hands. Klaus's face expressed hopelessness and Y/N's immeasurable joy. 

Y/N clutched her stomach. It turned out, that their parents dressed them up every year for the carnival ball, each time thematically. Looking at it, Aemond felt a stab of jealousy again at the thought, of how close she was to her brother. The thought of Aegon made him sick.

"You have siblings, don't you?” She asked curiously, flipping through the pages of the album. Aemond took a moment to answer.

"Yes, I have. But we don't have a relationship as good as you and Klaus." He said dispassionately. Y/N stopped scrolling and glanced at him.

"Why? If, of course, you want to tell me." She added immediately, not wanting to test his patience. Aemond sighed and shrugged.

"What do you want to hear? It's hard to get on with my brother, whom I always have to drive home from brothels and justify him in front of my mother.” He laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh—it was more of disappointment and bitterness. He looked at her and met her gaze. Their faces were inches apart.

He felt the atmosphere change instantly. He knew, he should look away, move on, tell her to keep showing the photos, but he couldn't. His dull mind roamed her face, from her eyes to her nose, to her eyebrows, soft, slightly red cheeks, long lashes, pleasantly full lips.

 He stopped on them and felt warmth in his stomach. He squeezed his eye shut, trying with what little free will he had left, to divert his thoughts from the direction, that they were heading. He could smell her shampoo, the same one he had smelled before.

He looked into her eyes again and saw that she, too, was following his face with her gaze. When their eyes met, he saw, that she blushed and took a deep breath. Their shoulders and thighs touched tightly, the tension between them almost tangible. 

Her head bent slightly, her eyes closed as she pressed her nose to his cheek. Aemond exhaled louder at the sudden closeness of their faces, but he didn't pull away. He felt his hands tighten on his knees. He ran his nose across her cheek and received a soft sigh, that made him instantly aroused. He squeezed his eye shut, inhaling the scent of her hair.

He knew, that they were both drunk, but he couldn't find the strength to pull away. Her closeness was so gentle, effortless, and he felt, like he could melt. He felt her lips place a gentle kiss on his cheek, and he, without thinking long, reciprocated. They both sighed. 

Her small, slender hand reached for his other cheek. She touched him with her fingertips to where his scars were, not looking at them, still pressed against his cheek on the other side. The movement of her fingers was gentle and unhurried, sending shivers of pleasure through him. 

He let out a low hum and felt her smile on his face, crowned with another touch of her lips to his cheek. He didn't know, how it was possible, that just a few kisses from her and the touch of her hand was enough, to make him so hard. 

He didn't want to spoil the moment, he didn't want it to be like everything else he'd experienced so far. He wanted her tenderness, complete and unfathomable. His hand clenched, his trembling fingers found her hair and tangled in it, much to her approval. 

He rubbed the back of her head with his thumb, running his nose along her cheek and occasionally placing a long, tender kiss there. He involuntarily turned his face to be closer to her mouth, but from her movements he felt, that she timidly did the same. 

As their lips touched, they froze for a moment and pulled away an inch, as if they both gave each other a moment to pause. They quickly leaned in again and again, sighing into each other's mouths, literally massaging each other's lips, as if they were trying to communicate something, to soothe each other. 

Their hands held their faces close together, their breaths were ragged, their kisses getting stickier and hotter. They broke apart to catch their breath. They stared at each other, their eyes dark with lust. Aemond closed his eye.

"I should go to sleep. Down on my couch." He finally said, though his whole body was screaming for him to stay with her, in her bed, to kiss her everywhere, to fuck her mercilessly. Y/N swallowed, her thumb brushing his cheek. A shudder went through him.

"I know." She said finally. 

She pursed her lips as he kissed her forehead and began to get up. The bulge in his pants didn't escape her notice. The realization, that she had such an effect on him, made her blush even more. 

She herself felt an insatiable pressure between her thighs, and as much as she wanted to keep him in her room, she knew, that they were both in a state, that would make them regret it later. After what that woman had done to him, Y/N didn't want to be the one, who couldn't stop herself. The one who will hurt him.

Aemond opened her bedroom door and looked at her.

"Good night." He said, his gaze expressing, that he was leaving her room with the last of his willpower.

"Good night." She replied.

[lolathestoryteller]

Marisa’s pov: s1 ep8 ‘Betrayal’

Although the temperature up north is beyond agreeable, and even further below zero, Marisa finds herself feeling much more comfortable here than she ever had back in London.

Perhaps it is the reminder of her childhood, of living close to the french alps, where more often than not, it would be so cold that even the furs couldn’t keep one warm for long.

Or perhaps it is something else entirely; her desire for freedom, which only ever seems satisfied up north, where the land stretches too wide for human eyes to see even a fraction of its entirety. Where she feels utterly alone, and in such, utterly wonderful.

Here, where there need be no false smiles, no sickly sweet compliments forced off her tongue for nothing less than the simple chance to talk at a table with scholars of the same educacional level as her, the only difference being one single chromosome.

Men, most of which cannot even comprehend half of what she is saying.

How she despises herself in moments like those; when her voice doesn’t sound like her own, her lashes heavy and alluring and her cheeks straining to maintain that smile which she’d practiced many times in the mirror.

All of it to maintain the interest of the very people she now walks away from.

How marvelously cruel it is, that after all these years of biting her lip, letting herself be judged time and time again, enduring the discrimination of trying to succeed; of being a woman in a man’s world, she is now left to run away from her own success.

Would anybody have told her as much, just two months ago, she would have deemed them entirely ridiculous. Whatever could be a good enough reason for her to willingly turn her back on not only the Magisterium, but also her years of dedication to her own projects?

Whatever could? Well, perhaps it would be better to ask whoever.

Marisa would prefer to answer that nobody could.

Nobody held such power over her. And for a long time, almost twelve years to be precise, she truly believed that.

In the entirety of her adult life, not a single person had ever held more power over her than she did over them. She’d made abundantly sure of that. Although she’d come close once, too close, at the age of twenty two, after meeting a young Lord who’d so unexpectedly won her heart.

With Asriel, she’d almost let herself fall once, almost. And swore to never take the risk again.

Under no circumstances.

Such incredible feelings simply weren’t meant for her. As much as she wasn’t meant to harbor them.

Which is why, but a year after their encounter, Marisa refused to hold, or even look at the screeching child after the exhausting hours of labour.

She’d sworn she wouldn’t fall a second time.

She couldn’t.

Because however harsh she’d molded the innocent child she’d once been into the steely adult she was today, she’d feared that if there was ever one person who could rip at the well fastened chains on her heart, it would be the girl— her daughter.

Yes, Lyra wasn’t anything like she’d expected. She wasn’t sweet and lovely as perhaps a young girl her age should have been, nor was she well mannered, not at all in fact.

She’d met Lyra at Jordan college two months ago as a very strong-willed and rather wild child. With barely any regard to etiquette, she’d been all that Marisa herself can’t stand.

An easy way to finally quench that insistent curiosity she’d tried and failed to stifle in the years they’d been apart. Or so it should have been, for all things considered, Lyra was nothing like her.

But that is a feeble lie. One which even Marisa cannot make believable.

Lyra was everything like her. Restless, stubborn, intelligent and curious beyond what was deemed acceptable. She had enough of Asriel too, to instantly remind her of him; not merely in looks, which were rather undeniable with her ash blond hair and distinctively sharp jawline, but in character as well.

That wild, untamed little thing, which under any other circumstances would have been just another child, at best a successful participant in her latest project, captured her heart that very moment Marisa’s sat down next to her at dinner.

Her daughter had not simply proven her fear to be true, but had somehow revived a part of her she’d long forgotten had ever existed. All without even trying to do so.

And now, here, atop this frozen mountain in the middle of nowhere, she finds herself alone and yearning for only one thing; Lyra.

[devouring-hive]

31, Marisa

It's not often that you get to see someone like that. Even in this world where sizes are getting increasingly swollen, breadths increasingly dramatic, watching someone waddle by who's not merely wider than she is tall, but wider by a factor of two- Maybe even three- Sizes is... Almost harrowing.

As a symptom of a wider epidemic Marisa Kirisame is a particularly curious case, she had always been fat in some measure or another throughout the many years she's made a public figure of herself, and throughout all of those years she's made no secret of her pride in her size- And in particular the assets that it brought with. With years into this incident now crawling by though, her weight has skyrocketed surely into the half-ton range by now, and left the confidence in it behind on earth as it shot into the stars.

Really, that is what's more harrowing than anything, to see a Marisa who doesn't walk- Or rather waddle nowadays, with her near trademark bravado down streets and across lanes like she doesn't just own what she's got, but what you've got as well. It's near frightening watching someone with such a powerful presence to her now shuffling along at snails' pace towards a stall with her hammy arms tucked in towards her flabby pancake-chest like she's afraid to be seen making her presence known.

No one that size, no one like her could ever hide though. Although it was something she took pride in once, now it seems like it's proving to be more of a spectacle than she can handle as she struggles her way up onto a quartet of stools magically pulled together into a makeshift bench and set far, far away from from the stall's desk. You're not sure what it is that she orders once she's sat and, relatively speaking, stable- The creak and grind of sturdy wood made flimsy beneath her immense girth drowns out any word she says at the distance you're observing from, but the chef at least seems to understand her...

Much to his apparent chagrin, the way you catch him grimacing.

As you watch Marisa lean forward toward the stall-desk to await her meal, you end up nearly as shocked as she is when her elbows land nowhere near the surface, and were it not for the bulky swell of double-terraced tum would have caused her to topple forward and straight into the undeserving stall like a golden-blonde wrecking ball. You're not sure whether it's fortunate or not that Marisa recovered quickly though, because as she straightens back out again the two of you lock eyes hard amidst her panicked cross-checking side to side.

She's crimson, nearly beet-red in the face, but the moment the two of you enter that battle of gazes something in her seems to click well into place- As a far-more familiar visage greets you rather suddenly to the tune of a tipped witches' hat and a wide, bright grin that lies smoothly about her previously-blatant embarrassment.

Marisa ushers you over with a pudgy hand beckoning sweetly, and her traditionally husky voice sounding just a little huskier than usual. "Well Ah'll be damned if it weren't just who ah was lookin' fer!" You know for a fact she doesn't know you, you only know her because she's famously hard to miss for a number of reasons. Still, she continues on like the two of you are long-time friends, and in doing so you can see clearly why even at her advanced size she's managed to score so often.

"Darlin' yer just in time, see, ah could use some'n ta' help me out here wit' a~... Special project'a sorts." You don't need to be a genius to get the idea that she's hoping you'll feed her, she's set herself up much too far away from the counter to actually reach the food she's ordered and you can only begin to imagine how difficult it's got to be for her to shift all of that flab around on its own- Much less when also levitating several objects at the same time.

You also don't need to be convinced.

Your step grows a little bit faster, a little bit more fevered, as you walk up to her to help her with her 'special project'- But that's when an idea comes to your mind, a particularly devious, pleasant one that if she was anything like the other girls around she might have thought about herself. As far as you're aware though, when you lean up to whisper into her ear your demands, the deep blush that takes her cheeks and nose ought to be fully expected.

Marisa looks away from you, away from everyone that she can who watch the two of you now like hawks, but there's always more people around during the dinner rush- Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, and no way to get the food she's apparently actually paid for, for once, without acquiescing to your demands. Inevitably, as you figured it would, Marisa's stomach rumbles before she can come to a conclusion on her own, and her decision is made for her.

"Y-yeah, a'ight, ah kin' do that. Heh," Her voice resumes that bravado you now know fully well to be almost pathetically fake as she prattles on; "-I should'a figured ya'd be smitten when ah first saw ya takin' peeps, luck you that'cha pulled yer confidence t'gether eh? Ain't many folk that do!" How... Ironic, coming from her now that you know the truth. Marisa pats at one of her monstrous hips with a pudgy palm chipperly, grinning at you yet again as the nearly horrifically-oversized leg it's attached to ripples like a still pool.

"Pop on up darlin', you know there's more'n enough room here on th' ol' Kirisame Couch!~" Her confidence is infectious even if it is fake, you clamber on up her surely-immeasurable breadth and girth, using nearly-fluid folds and rolls of flab across the flank of her belly as handles, to aid your ascent up her mountainous mass of blubber. It takes you a minute even so, but once you're up and on top of her lap- So massive that her gut will never be able to overtake it all- You lean back into the pillowy plushness of her tum and tits to the tune of an "Oofh!" -and the screaming creaks of wooden stools beneath the two of you.

Just in time too, because between the time it took you to talk it out and the time it took you to climb up Marisa's near-blob of a body, the food she'd ordered for herself has made an appearance! -Stacked high in numerous separate bowls, plates and glasses, the witch's average meal dwarfs everything around it like others' meals are mere planets orbiting a caloric star. Although Marisa can't see it all past you sitting in her lap, she can smell it, and the back of your neck gets the slightly unpleasant sensation of drool dribbling down it in silent reply, silent demand.

You figure it wouldn't do well to keep the lady waiting, so settling further back into the cushiony wall of tub that now serves as your seat and backboard alike, you start to feed- Beginning with the richest, weightiest stuff first.

. . .

"Uuurrrghpph... Oorhp- Rrfh... Hhrrfhh..." Despite everything you did to sabotage her, starting with the big stuff first, leaving her alcohol to last, laying increasingly heavily back on her equally-increasingly hardening guts, there was nothing that you could do to break her spirit... If that can really be called 'spirit' at all. Marisa's dress, typically poofy, grew slick and taut against her body as sweat overtook her and made the doughy plush of her frame seem somehow only softer with a better idea of just the extent to which her spongey flab has all but exploded across her figure in recent years.

Towards the latter end of the meal, it was just too much for you to resist. There was only a little bit of dessert left remaining anyways, and something in you told you that the triple-chinned magician could afford to wait on her fourth flan for a minute or two while you enjoyed your flan. Getting her dress up to expose that monster tum was impossible for you, that thing was no doubt at least thirty pounds before it was dampened with sweat and you have no idea how heavy it is now, only that you can't lift it off her steaming blob of a body- and that even if you could, you probably wouldn't want to, for the smell of sweat might just be too much for you to resist.

Not that you can really resist anyways. Even stuffed stupid to the point of being unable to speak, much less move, Marisa's gut can be pressed in on by nearly tens of inches before you hit the hard wall of her overtaxed stomach and draw out a long moan from the beached whale of a witch. With that in mind, you know exactly how far you can push her without making her too uncomfortable to finish her meal by the end of it all, and in so doing begin to lightly bounce atop her lap and tum, watching with a hazy-eyed glee as her entire body ripples and bounces with damp-sounding plopping.

You hardly even notice the tortured shrieking of the wooden stools beneath the two of you as your now sweat-slicked hands reach up to grab at bare handfuls of cheek and chinflab that're softer than marshmallows and wobblier than jell-o to begin kneading and pinching amid your efforts to make one of Gensokyo's saviors look like little more than an overpumped bouncy castle in desperate need of deflating before it pops...

Perhaps you ought to have though; Because for all your reverie, squeezing, pinching bouncing and generally toying with Marisa's long-overfed frame you receive the reward of a loud crack, a shared look of awe between you, and a swift plummet to the muddy ground below, courtesy of a sextet of stools taken past their brink and splintered beneath the impossible weight they bore valiantly up 'til now- Then by a hoarse shriek much too late to stop your now-shared fate.

You bounce hard, and roll off of Marisa in a heap, Marisawho dizzily and nauseously moans like a child overindulgent in their favourite sweets; Clutching at her roiling tum as though it's about to split at the seams and burst like a piñata cracked at in just the right way-... Perhaps, again, to both of your surprise though, what bursts open isn't her gut but rather the long-suffering dress that keeps it. Rolling pale hills of rippling belly blubber slop oozingly out further onto her lap with a meaty 'thwop' as her stuffed guts settle into their deserved place.

Marisa groans in her nausea, kept at check through willpower alone.

You groan in your pain, fully expressed after the shock wears away.

The chef groans in his frustration, no doubt about to ask you to pay for the stools in addition to the expansive meal, too.

Before he can, though, Marisa's glazed eyes lazily glide over to where you lay crumpled in your muddy heap and-... She smiles, broadly, with a minxish wink.

"That's- Urgkh... Usually why ya save aftercare fer after th' fun's over... Heh- Hehehuurhph!- Guhh- Good-... Good effort, though!~"

Perhaps, just maybe, her swaggering bravado hasn't faded after all.

[cookiethebirdthing]

i have strong or fairly strong ideas of what 50 of the Touhou characters sound like, if i counted correctly. these mostly came about from reading fanfics and manga with comfy and rping as characters for random bits, so not a lot of thought went into them. but they have more or less cemented themselves in my head as how they sound. i have some vague ideas for many others

so it makes sense comfy and i have the same voices for all of these characters and its rare that im on a voice call with someone else and it comes up. so then when it does i am reminded that everyone has their own voices for the characters and none of them have official voices and of course theyd be completely different when my own voices for them were just by vibes anyways. silly autistic brain

none of the voices are quite my normal voice. reimu is like my voice when im tired/not thinking about it at all. ruma sounds like a much more tired reimu (and she kinda is). lunardial picked ruukoto's voice. solardial picked sakuya's. sakuya, yukari, koishi, alice, marisa, and futo just chose the voices we all already thought the characters sounded like. seija picked ryūko matoi's english dub voice

[pupkinpumpkin]

My Rook: Carlota De Riva

(this is just for me, and this is just the lore stuff, I'm probably going to make another big post that's just for fun facts I've thought up about her)

(Also her skin tone and nose are prone to changing because I hate myself)

- Her mother Marisa was an elven Tevinter slave, given to King Fulgeno II as a gift for her voice and beauty

- King Fulgeno II freed her, made her his songstress, and eventually slept with her bc the man can't keep it in his pants

- Marisa stays in Verdant Isle while they're together, and he gives her two houses. One luxurious mansion in Antiva City with servants galore, and the other, at her insistence, a small but still gorgeous house next to the Treviso marketplace, with no staff, once again, at Marisa's insistence

- He promises to give Carlota the same deal he gives all his bastards once they come of age: Being completely provided for, but living in exile, or joining the Antivan Crows

- Carlota is born, Marisa takes care of her, but the king demands she comes back to work, so instead of Marisa taking care of Carlota herself, a group of nurses and maids watch over her

- Marisa takes care of Carlota when the king doesn't demand her attention, and the nurses are nice enough, but Carlota is lonely and she doesn't understand why her mom is gone so often, so she often visits the mainland (with supervision)

- At night, she'll sneak out of her room and swim, explore the grounds, or use the gondola to go around the island. Of course, because she's a kid, she can't use it for very long, getting tired quickly, so there would be some nights where she was too exhausted to go back to the docks and have to be brought back by the gondolier, who used a second gondola to get to her

- When Carlotta is 10, Marisa gets a bit sick, and Fulgeno dotes on her, giving her flowers and candies and jewelry that could buy castles, but then Marisa stays sick, not recovering even after 2 months fly by

- Fulgeno tells her to go to her mansion in Antiva City and stay there until she recovers, but Marisa decides to stay at the home in Treviso instead, wanting peace and quiet for her and Carlota

- Marisa takes care of Carlota and teaches her to cook, clean, sing, but she starts to get weaker and weaker, having coughing fits, losing hair, experiencing terrible migraines, and having trouble walking until she becomes completely bedridden by the time Carlota is 15

- Royal staff check on Marisa once every month, but the longer she stays sick, the more the king loses interest, and the less the staff start coming to see if she's gotten better

- Carlota takes it upon herself to care for her mother and becomes increasingly angry and frustrated by these visits, because she knows her dad, whoever he is (her mom won't tell her, so she assumes it's some annoying noble) doesn't care about her anymore and is just sending in staff to pretend to check up on her. The staff stop giving Marisa medicine in year 3 and start waiting for her to just die.

- She develops a deep anger towards people who have the power to fix things or help others, but choose not to because of this

- Carlota learns to make herbs, salves, potions, cook and clean, and her mother is always hiding how bad her condition is with humor or deflection, but in the later years, she just starts to apologize constantly for putting all of this on Carlota at such a young age. Her mother tries to help whenever she can, but most of the time she can't get one foot out of bed without becoming exhausted

- Anytime Carlota gets too stressed from the load, her mother will hug her and sing to her until she stops crying or falls asleep

- On Carlota's 18th birthday, Marisa passes away and a few hours later, the king's men come to tell her "Hi! You're the daughter of the king!" And give her the option of a paid life anywhere that isn't Antiva or join the Antivan Crows

- She doesn't want to owe Fulgeno anything and sees no point in her life anymore with her mother dead, so she decides to join the Crows. Worst case scenario, she dies, no big deal, best case scenario, she becomes strong enough to kill Fulgeno! Win win!

- She gets there, Viago learns a second Fulgeno bastard has hit the tower and honestly he doesn't know how to feel about it

- He kinda watches her at first, just to see what she's like, and eventually he feels a need to take care of her since she was put into the same spot he was when he was younger, so he's like "ya that one's mine. I pick that one" and takes her under his wing, making her an official De Riva

- She doesn't learn they're related till one of the other fledglings brings up how Viago must've picked her to be in his house out of nepotism

- As per Veilguard lore, she receives the best training from the De Riva house and has a natural talent for murder

- Carlota sells her mother's mansion, any gifts the king sent, and really anything that reminds her of Fulgeno. She keeps her mother's most worn jewelry. She never wears it herself, but she keeps it in a jewelry box in her room.

- Carlota also reluctantly keeps the portrait Fulgeno commissioned of her mother, if only to remember her face.

- She kinda tries to find her 'thing' for awhile. Like, Teia and Illario seduce and charm, Viago has poison, Lucanis is a mage killer, so she feels like she needs something. She tries seducing. She's good at it, it's a bit fun, she learns a LOT about herself that way, but it's not her. She tries poisons. It's a lot more enjoyable, and she already learned her to make potions and stuff from taking care of her mom, so it's easy, but it's more Viago's thing. She ends up focusing a bit more on influencers/drugs than poisons. Serums that mess with your mind, make your muscles numb, have you seeing double, that kind of stuff. It makes for a quick and easy kill when your target thinks they've known you all their life and leave their back open

- Carlota gains a sense of family from the Crows, and once she learns that Viago and her are related, she really sees him as an older brother and not just a caretaker like the ones who raised her when she was little

- She does confront him about not telling her they're half-siblings, but they become a lot closer afterwards

- She's half elf (and not per Veilguard, that means she has slightly pointy ears), half Antivan, half Tevinter, half royal bastard, so she has always felt that she doesn't really belong anywhere, and with her mother dead, she lost her sense of purpose, which is why being in the Antivan Crows means so much to her. Carlotta really grows a sense of purpose with the Crows and has a lot of people she sees as family, which makes it hurt all the more when they essentially kick her out after she saves those captives from the Antaam. She had to do something and she doesn't understand why she's punished for helping people in need

- It genuinely sends her spiralling a bit, but Varric really helps her out and they bond together

(Aight I'm gonna make another big post that's just fun stuff about her)

[dustedmagazine]

Jennifer Kelly’s 2023 in Review: Still Human FWIW

I finally saw Sun Ra Arkestra

I first heard about Chat GPT in January this year, and it sounded bad from the start. I make most of my living writing things for big faceless corporations who view me as a cost. Cut that cost to zero and I’m out of a job. But for the first five months of 2024, I continued to be busy and I thought, well maybe it’s nothing. Then in May, like a light switch, everything stopped. I had one regular client who continued to pay a monthly retainer. Nothing else. And the usual mailings, pleadings with old clients, etc. had no effect. I’m close to retirement age. This summer, I thought I had arrived early.

Things have picked up since then, and right now, I’m in a good place. People are starting to notice Chat GPT’s ignorance of anything post 2021, its refusal to factcheck or footnote and its relentless blandness. Clients are coming back, but the floor doesn’t feel very solid under my feet. It could all go away at any time. (This is the lesson we all learned from COVID-19…that you could fall into the pit any time.)

The one thing that didn’t stop was Dusted, and for that I am very grateful. As I’ll explain to anyone who asks, there’s never been any money in Dusted, so there can’t be any less. We are more or less immune to economic pressures. And as long as we’re here, there is lots and lots of good music to write about.

My year started with two records that blew me away in January (and maybe December 2022) and held #1 and #2 slots all year. They were Meg Baird’s Furling and Robert Forster’s the Candle and the Flame. Next, came an email from Rob from Sunburned with a link to Stella Kola’s extraordinary debut, and then gosh, Sub Pop still sends me promos and here’s one from Mudhoney! Every time 2024 succeeded in getting me down, I’d get music from someone.

Live music was another solace. Shows that made me happy this year included Warp Trio, Sunburned Hand of the Man, Dear Nora, Vieux Farka Toure, Bridget St. John with Stella Kola, Sun Ra Arkestra, Kid Millions with Sarah Bernstein, Faun Fables, Sweeping Promises, Daniel Higgs, Constant Smiles, Baba Commandant (RIP), Xylouris White, Joseph Allred with Ruth Garbus and Ryan Davis with his Roadhouse band. Special mention goes to the always astonishing Thing in the Spring with Editrix, Rough Francis, Thus Love, Gorilla Toss, Equipment Pointed Ankh. Susan Alcorn, Marisa Anderson and Jim White and Bill Callahan.

The best show of the year, however, came late in the summer with William Tyler and the Impossible Truth band, an unbelievably talented, seasoned crew with Luke Schneider on pedal steel, Third Man mainstay Jack Lawrence on bass and Brian Kotzgur on drums. The way they opened up and fired up Tyler’s songs was a revelation, even to someone, like me, who’s been a fan since Behold the Spirit. Garcia Peoples opened, and they were great, too.

I should mention that we have recently been blessed with a bunch of excellent music venues nearby—Nova Arts in Keene and Epsilon Spires and the Stone Church in Brattleboro. Going to music used to always mean driving back from at least Northampton, sometimes further, late at night, and, as I get older and my night vision fades, it has been really nice not to have to do that. (Also, to all my Dusted-reader-musician-friends, if you play one of these venues, thank you, and let me know when you’re coming.)

With that, it’s time to talk about 2023 favorites. I’ll write about the first ten and then just list the rest.

Meg Baird — Furling (Drag City)

Meg Baird’s gorgeous solo album alternates between ghostly, inward-looking piano songs and bright swirls of 1960s psychedelia. Her extraordinary voice, high, pure, and unearthly, joins lush, burnished guitar grooves. Sometimes I think I like the swaggering bounce of “Will You Follow Me Home,” the best, but other times, the disembodied otherness of “Ashes, Ashes” is the prettiest thing I know.

Robert Forster — The Candle and the Flame (Tapete) 

Forster’s solo records are always good, wry and funny and stuttering with strummy punk energy, but this one, recorded with family while his wife battled cancer, is his best yet. “She’s a Fighter,” a group sing-along is prickly and defiant, the only song specifically written about Karin’s illness, but threads of enduring, life-long love run all through this album. “Tender Years” is especially moving, as Forster sings, “I’m in a story with her, I know I can’t live without her, I can’t imagine why,” in a voice cracked with sincerity and feeling. Very few albums make me cry, but this one does.

Anohni and the Johnsons—My Back Was a Bridge for You to Cross (Secretly Canadian)

The sound on Anohni’s fifth album with the Johnsons smolders in the pocket, its textures a nod to Marvin Gaye’s classic What’s Going On? It’s velvety smooth but taut with urgency, as the artist contemplates climate disaster and personal struggles. “It Must Change,” trills with the coolest falsetto, while “Sliver of Ice” reverberates with a low, hushed passion. Every song lands a punch, soft when it happens but ringing for days in your ears.

The Drin — Today My Friend You Drunk the Venom (Feel It)

“Venom” lurches and blurts, bass thumping, drums clashing, monotone vocals drenched in menace. It’s a punk song distilled to essence, a world in itself, a short, brutal blast that is also somehow psychedelically expansive. The Fall, the Swell Maps and Adrian Sherwood haunt this disc in various places, but the Drin is its own mysterious thing.

Wreckless Eric — Leisureland (Tapete)

“Get yourself a one-way ticket for the merry-go-round,” sings the Bard of Hull on the last and most exhilarating song from his ninth full-length. That’s “Drag Time,” with its indelible hook, its enveloping harmonies, its hint of Amy Rigby in the chorus. Let’s just go way out on a limb here and say it’s as good, maybe better, than “Whole Wide World.”  

En Attendant Ana — Principia (Trouble in Mind)

Good lord, was Trouble in Mind on a roll this year or what? I could put Melanas or Tubs here, with FACS not far behind, but instead, let us contemplate the light-and-dark wonder of “Black Morning,” with its giddy counterpoints, its bright, sustaining trumpet, its boppy beat and its underpinning, somehow, of shadowy melancholy. Or the skanky bass that kicks off “Same Old Story,” in a prickly way, the lone element of dissonance that gives a daydream teeth.

Stella Kola—S-T (Self-Release)

Everybody who’s anybody in W. Mass alt.folk does a turn on this magical LP—centered around Beverly Ketch and Rob Thomas but including PG Six, Wednesday Knudson, Jeremy Pisani, Willy Lane and Jen Gelineau. Despite the expansiveness of the ensemble, these songs are feather light and lucid, like Pentangle sprinkled with magic dust.

Mudhoney — Plastic Eternity (Sub Pop)

Psychedelic overload meets raw punk and potty humor in this 12th album from the grunge godfathers. I like the sheer rush and swirl of cuts like “Almost Everything” and “Souvenir of my Trip” best, but bare, belligerent “Flush the Fascists” is grade-A too, and how can anyone resist Mark Arm paying tribute to his best bud on “Little Dogs.”

Beirut — Hadsel (Pompeii)

Hadsel is surprisingly cheery for an album recorded on a remote Norwegian island in the dead of winter, with swoony harmonies and counterpoints, intricate synthesized beats and blares of an antique pipe organ. “We had so many plans,” Zach Condon sings, both mourning and subtly sending up his cohort’s response to the COVID pandemic, but this remarkably pretty album seems more like a happy accident.

The Feelies—Some Kinda Love (Bar None)

What a total pleasure it is when one jangly, drone-y, indie rock phenomenon pays tribute to the wellspring. In this case, it’s the Feelies covering many of the Velvet Underground’s best known songs at a live show in 2018 where everyone had a blast. Now you can, too.

More albums that I loved in the order that I thought of them.

Iron & Wine—Who Can See Forever Soundtrack (Sub Pop)

Melanas—Ahora (Trouble in Mind)

Sleaford Mods — UK Grim (Domino)

The Tubs — Dead Meat (Trouble in Mind)

Sky Furrows—Reflect and Oppose (Feeding Tube/Cardinal Fuzz)

Lonnie Holley — Oh Me Oh My (Jagjaguwar)

Yo La Tengo—This Stupid World (Matador)

The Toads—In the Wilderness (Upset the Rhythm)

Dan Melchior—Welcome to Redacted City (Midnight Cruiser)

James and the Giants—S-T (Kill Rock Stars)

Ben Chasny and Rick Tomlinson—Waves (VOIX)

Bonnie Prince Billy—Keeping Secrets Will Destroy You (Drag City)

CLASS—If You’ve Got Nothing (Feel It)

The Clientele—I’m Not There Anymore (Merge)

Devendra Banhart—Flying Wig (Mexican Summer)

Kristin Hersh—Clear Pond Road (FIRE)

Sally Anne Morgan—Carrying (Thrill Jockey)

FACS—Still Life in Decay (Trouble in Mind)

Setting—Shone a Rainbow Light On (Paradise of Bachelors)

Airto Moreira & Flora Purim—A Celebration (BBE)

Sweeping Promises—Good Living Is Coming For You (Feel It)

James Waudby—On the Ballast Miles (East Riding Acoustic)

Emergency Group—Venal Twin (Centripetal Force)

Ryan Davis and the Roadhouse Band—Sing Dancing on the Edge (Sophomore Lounge)

Tyvek—Overground (Gingko)

Wurld Series—The Giant’s Lawn (Melted Ice Cream)

Various Artists—STOP MVP (War Hen)

[freuleinanna]

three-sentence fics: the jump-scare return!

Request from AO3: Masriel (specifically Asriel) + grieving over Lyra when they think she's dead

I bet you thought you'd seen the last of those! I have a totally lovely req sitting in my asks here and I'm waiting to be alive enough to write something sweet, but in the meantime why not have some drama :)

His body is blood, muscles, and bones unromanticized, so he should be escaped completely by the poetry of Marisa being the one to deliver the news, first of life, thirteen years ago, and now of death; he should be, but he isn't.

Lyra is dead; Lyra is dead,

though how she could be is beyond his comprehension, for grief comes difficult to those who resist, and Asriel does: he is working (a girl on the roof), planning (his own eyes looking up at him), warring ('Uncle?') and scheming (snow-kissed and admiring, so proud, so proud of him) – and keeps staring at a child's face on every page of his journals until formulas blur and cry.

'I don't know what to do,' he finally admits, dry-eyed and crushed to the bone, muscle, and his last drop of blood, because admitting it to Marisa somehow feels less terrifying than to himself alone, but he actually means Are we even parents still, when our child is dead?; and she just says 'You do what you intended to', in a voice cracked with echoes of what could have been, when she actually means, Of course we are; of course we are.

[rustybottlecap]

I was surprised to learn that Marisa from Street Fighter 6 and Naomi from Goodbye Volcano High share the same voice actress: Allegra Clark. She's got range.

Though it became a little less shocking after seeing one of Naomi's earlier designs:

She wakes up every morning and chooses pacifism... for now.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Masriel + kissing AND biting to stay quiet

Affair-era, vaguely NSFW, also on ao3.

Damn him. Damn him and his pretty words and his electric touches and-

Marisa is well aware that screwing someone who is not her husband in a space that is not quite private is the kind of dangerous decision that could easily ruin her life. She is also aware, in this moment, that she does not care.

She knows the rules of such liaisons, how the nature of her body makes it automatically more of a risk for her than for her lover. Whatever impulsive streak she may or may not have does not apply to physical collision, to the voice in the back of her mind screaming that this is all a terrible idea, to-

She is aware of the situational risks. The man she is currently pinning to a wall, she’s starting to suspect, may not be.

A better self – the face that Marisa presents to the world, at this point in time, perhaps – would’ve stopped this a month ago. Once should’ve been enough. Just once, like everyone else she’s let have her, this too-common bad habit of fierce women who marry far too young. One taste of the forbidden should’ve put her off it. Instead…

“Fuck, how is that even comfortable?”

Her lover’s fingertips are on the clasp of her bra – a formality, she’d say if she was a little less distracted, just like undoing her blouse was a formality, just like everything more than pushing her skirt down past her hips is a formality. Every bit of maneuvering is another detail she will have to fix after the encounter, and she has no interest in undoing him on the same level and he won’t do it without her prompting, she’ll barely even see his prick before her body envelops it, she’ll-

If he has the slightest idea how much effort goes into her appearance… that’s a fight for later, for when they become the sort of couple who have fights, for-

“Do something useful with your mouth,” she says instead, because they are new and they are not there yet.

She knows what she is doing, what she has become, how every detail of her will linger in his mind for decades after whenever she refuses to slip away and oh who knows how long this will even last. Could become her recurrent outlet for all she knows, could be nice to have something predictable, could be-

He kisses her with the desperation she likes, deep kisses as his hands go lower, as hers do as well. She’s pinning him, she will emphasize this detail however she must, but she is not necessarily leading; this is, damn her, as close as she suspects she will ever come to having an equal. This blurring of lines, desire justifying what it will, this is a goddamned terrible idea, this is everything she’s ever wanted, this is-

One of his hands slips between her thighs at the same moment they separate for breath and Marisa sees that dangerous look in his eyes and oh she does not need whatever comment on the tip of his tongue about how wet she is and she decides that the only way of averting it is to reach up, undo exactly one button of his shirt, and bite his collarbone right on the line of what could easily be hidden. For this she gets a low growl, but at least that’s quieter and that’s what she wants, at least-

At least there is silence in their collision, as she pushes him down just enough for this to happen. Perfect silence as she feels already familiar sensations, a perfect little snowglobe moment. Years after they end, this is what she will remember. Bright eyes in awe of her, solid hands on her hips, the mutual feeling of being understood like no one else could ever do.

They end tragic. She knows this, even now. She is too young – they are both too young, really – and too heart-driven to the extent she even has that fragile part, and nothing she does now will stay in her favor. Same as everything else, really. Take everything she can before the bubble bursts.

But those are rational concerns for later, not for this moment. For when she is readjusting her clothes in a few minutes, not for when she is overcome with lust.

Take what she can while she can, and she does.

[sorakazeno]

Sera Myu Music Festival 2022 Blu-Ray

Event was held at the Shinagawa Prince Hotel Stellar Ball in Tokyo from November 17th – 20th, 2022.

I missed it by less than two weeks since I wasn't in Japan until December of that year. I doubt I would have stood a chance getting tickets.

Can we also talk about how excited I am to have Japanese Blu-Rays being the same region where I live? Makes it so much easier!!!

Back cover of jacket.

Performance booklet and musical performance dice.

Disc set. The performance on Disc 1. Bonus features on Disc 2. I love how all of them are also huge fans of Sailor Moon. Soundtrack for musical on CD 1. Special performances for the different guests on CD 2.

I haven't see a Sera Myu in a while so a lot of the music was new to me even if it had been out for a few years.

 Sailor Moon: Riko Tanaka

 Sailor Chibi Moon: Chise Niitsu

Riko Tanaka has a great voice.

Sailor Mercury: Kaon Maekawa

Sailor Mars: Rei Kobayashi

I can't be the only amused that the actress' first name is Rei, right?

 Sailor Jupiter: Kisara Matsumura

Sailor Venus: Marin Makino

Sailor Uranus: Shinjyu Terada

Sailor Neptune: Ayana Kinoshita

Sailor Pluto: Chisato Minami

Sailor Saturn: Yuzu Ide

Tuxedo Mask: Riona Tatemichi

Princess Snow Kaguya: Sayaka Okamura

Luna: Yune Sakurai

Human Luna: MARISA

I was fortunate to see Riona Tatemichi perform as part of the America Tour for the Super Live in 2019. I really loved seeing the bonus section with the senshi that were also on tour.

Guest Performances varied by date and time:

November 17 Show 1: Akiko Kosaka, ANZA

November 17 Show 2: Akiko Kosaka, ANZA, Toshino Akamine, Misako Iwana, Emi Kuriyama, Akiko Miyazawa

The original Sera Myu cast performed La Solider on the first night. Loved it!

November 18 Show 1: Tomomi Kasai, Cocona, Yui Hasegawa, Takae Obana, Hoshinami

November 18 Show 2: Shu Shiotsuki, Sayaka Fujioka

November 19 Show 1: Reona Hayashi, Samejima, Yui, Kyoko Ninomiya, Mayuka Ida, Yuko Nakanishi

November 19 Show 2: Yume Takeuchi, Karen Kobayashi, Kaede, Satomomo Hasegawa

November 20 Show 1: Satomi Okubo, Hyakuyo Koyama

November 20 Show 2: Satomi Okubo, Meiku Harukawa, Saki Matsuda

Lyrics

[filmforager]

Back to Black: Review

Chasing Amy 

With her signature look and soulful vocals, Amy Winehouse left an indelible mark on music and pop culture before her untimely death. But that’s why a film about her life presents such a challenge to film-makers. Is there any way of telling the story of the singer’s life - so often exploited in the tabloids - without simply retreading the tragic story that we already know? Thankfully, Back to Black just about pulls it off.

No stranger to a musician biopic with John Lennon film Nowhere Boy, Sam Taylor-Johnson has framed Back to Black as a way of giving Amy’s story back to her. Following Amy (Industry’s Marisa Abela) as she chafes against the limelight of her first album, it’s clearly more concerned with the key relationships that fuelled her greatest songs. But at the outset, Matt Greenhalgh’s script seems content to follow the rise-and-fall blueprint of every other biopic, running through key moments with the nuance of a Wikipedia entry. Yes, that means scenes where studio execs try and sculpt Amy in their image, and obvious set-up scenes that exist to explain the inspiration behind Amy’s songs. 

Where Back to Black works best is in its portrayal of the doomed love story between Winehouse and on-and off boyfriend and drug addict Blake (Jack O’Connell). Played with swaggering blokey charm by O’Connell, you can completely believe the way Amy falls under his spell, their chemistry soaring over a game of pool in the back of a pub (it’s more romantic than it sounds). Their tumultuous relationship feels like the most authentic part of the film, and lays out the context for Amy’s issues with addiction. 

Playing such a huge character, the film pretty much hinges on the lead performance. But what Marisa Abela lacks in physical resemblance, she more than makes up for in capturing the spirit of who Amy was - boisterous and playful, but a fragile girl beneath the surface. More impressive still is her ability to capture one of the most distinctive voices in music. While her North London accent wavers at times, her renditions of Amy’s songs will make it tough for you to separate the original from the cover.

Less successful is the way the film handles Amy’s relationship with her dad Mitch (Eddie Marsan) - which is to say, it doesn’t really handle it at all. In fact, there’s not a lot unearthed here that Amy enthusiasts won’t already know - people looking for more insight into Amy’s life are probably better off watching Asif Kapadia’s terrific documentary Amy. But if you want a reminder of the downsides of fame, packed with great songs and strong performances, Back to Black does exactly what it says on the tin.

While it lacks the soul and depth of some of Winehouse’s hit songs, Back to Black keeps you invested with captivating performances from Abela and O’Connell. 

★★★

[vullcanica]

@viciousgold // ❛ I need danger, a hunt, a challenge. ❜ for Vera

"Ah, a hunt. I see." Amusement rings in Vanya's voice like a bell, jarringly cherubic in the sterile, vantablack-silence of the mortuary. There's nary a living soul to be found in the vicinity, she knows, the end of a work week underpinned by a marked standstill. There is only Marisa, fascinating Marisa, in all her straight-backed, regal glory and her terribly loud heartbeat ricochetting off the lime wash walls like a distant calling drum.

She's been careful to toe the line of professionalism until now, far be it from the from her first time entertaining a guest in her little white box, but the lazy river of conversation's flowed into uncharted waters. As rule of thumb the vampire tries to put less levity on matters of business than of pleasure. Yet the line's been toed. She slips her rubber gloves off daintily, wondering, idle, if she should cross it. Why do people always say such things as if into the universe or to some idle god... Never an outright invitation, always a plea to the world at large. Perhaps Marisa's need isn't hers to fulfill. But there are no idle gods here. There's just her.

"Ok, I will bite. You want a hunt," Vanya says, curiously, into the bleached, acrid air. "...and in this, do you seek to be the hunter or the hunted?"

[freuleinanna]

trials (and errors)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 AO3

Chapter 3: Lovers

Love is not a static force. It needs a vector, and god help lovers whose vector is rage.

Masriel reunion (derogatory)!

Also, am I going to push my Marisa and Father MegaFail being besties (worsties) agenda? Yes, yes I am.

The crowd parts before the sinner.

No, to correct that: the crowd parts before a man of church who, in his turn, is followed by the sinner.

Either way, Marisa walks past lawmen and clerics hardly recognizing ones from the others in their black attires. The comfort of isolation has now scaled off of her entirely: after roaming endless stuffy rooms, the air feels too fresh to swallow, too brisk against the skin. Not unlike tiny cold burns. Her dress – the only moving spot of color – cuts through the pool of black drawing unreserved attention from all angles. Makes for an easy target. Whispers and looks hit it equally.

Oh, the prudes. A year back they'd stare even worse. Of course, a year back she was still a respectable, well-married lady they didn't mind eyeing occasionally as an indulgence, not a whore dragged out of exile. Maybe not the exact words she'll hear today, but surely the prevailing sentiment.

Marisa keeps her face neutral and wishes them all dead.

Another corridor, less packed with people.

'You'd profit from looking more sorry,' her guide mutters, finally slowing his step to walk side by side. 'Repentance will go a long way.'

He seems a bit nervous, but then he always does, that's the most Hugh MacPhail trait Marisa could think of. Heaven forbid people notice them frivolously conversing, today of all days. He throws lots of quick, alert glances around. The lizard daemon on his shoulder scans the space and gives him a little tap whenever someone gets too close – a note to drop his voice, or pause.

Marisa's tone, when she leans closer to reply, is a heartless mockery of his hushes.

'I think you underestimate how sick I am of acting sorry.'

Without fail, a frowning look follows. He recoils from her touch, but in a manner that speaks of habit rather than resentment: Father MacPhail, always so diligent in his priestly ways. On some level, Marisa applauds him for not falling victim to her beguiling nature. On all others, she knows that statement lacks a great big ‘yet’. She scoffs, bemused.

'This is serious,' MacPhail snarks, clearly misinterpreting the sound.

Doesn't she know.

'I'm not sure... Yes, Father Jamison,' a shoulder tap – Hugh greets another cleric with a nod and waits until he's far enough behind them before continuing. 'I'm not sure you see how serious it is, Marisa.'

He appears genuinely concerned. There’s evidently an affection, except the why of it remains as elusive to Marisa as his goals. She’s twenty-three, Hugh is bearing on his forties. She would have understood physical desire, what woman of her looks wouldn’t, but it’s not all there is.

Hugh encourages her ambition. When she’s denied academic growth, Hugh suggests she takes advantage of her husband’s status, along with his access to the sacred libraries of the Magisterium, and puts her brain back to work. Hugh even writes to the Saint Sophia’s board and inquires about a place for a prominent young scholar to give her grounds.

It’s not exactly a patronage. She’s not exactly his protégé. Should the concept of friendship be more familiar to Marisa, she’d probably recognize the similarities, but the thought never visits her. Fits of spite do, though. Spending weeks locked up in a house, wallowing in rage and a mind-numbing lack of anything to do, certainly didn’t help her moods, but it wasn’t when it started. She’s always pushed away, and one time she didn’t, look what happened.

'What do I care if I’m done for anyway,' she hisses.

'Stupid girl,' MacPhail hisses back–

–and shoves her into a narrow passageway, making a sharp swerve. It would be wonderful to break his neck for calling her stupid, but she ambles angrily along in her heels until Hugh grabs her ‘round.

His eyes are transparent-green and heavy. Perhaps, the best precaution against sin: Marisa can't imagine them offering compassion. Better not sin at all than confess to those eyes.

'Now listen to me.' The lizard slides down his sleeve to the crook of the elbow and peers at the golden monkey, him staring up with a scowl. Hugh’s hands are crushing Marisa’s shoulders. 'They want to hear from Asriel – oh, don't make that face. They want to hear from him, and they will. But it's to determine his fate, or the child's. Yours is pretty much decided.'

'And what did I just say,' she breathes out, barely unclenching her teeth.

'They can easily make it worse.'

'Oh, I doubt that.'

'Want to try them?' Hard stones bump against the back. Why does everyone insist on shaking her today? 'Go ahead. See if you like being sent to a convent for the rest of your days.'

It’s so easy to dismiss. For the longest beautiful moment, threats are just threats and words are just words, mere noises they exchange. Silly, even. Marisa opens her mouth to say exactly that, venom already rising to soak up the tongue and every word it forms, when it hits her. It hits her good.

Raw, animal fear.

'No.'

'Oh, yes.'

Splashing all over, on her face, in her guts. Inches away, Hugh is being needlessly cruel, hammering in the point that’s already reached her with sternness one can only expect from a man of god.

'Maybe you'll get to Saint Sophia's still. I hear they offer a place for women in your position, setting them back on the path of righteousness. Repentance and prayers, all day, every day.'

'No!'

This time literally, Marisa pushes away with all her strength. Hugh takes a hard step back, the green of his eyes sparks up with fury. It only takes him a heartbeat to charge at Marisa again but as soon as he does, a painful grimace twists his face – his daemon falls from the sleeve. Kneeling hastily, distracted, he stretches an arm to the floor. The lizard climbs up quicker that the monkey can reach her, leaving black paws to crush air between them.

The four of them freeze, riled up and panting. Someone once said that tragedies caught mid-action always make for the most comic statues, and well, they weren’t wrong.

Marisa breaks first.

She groans in disgust, feeling ill. Serene hallways and dull clothes, never a spark of hope, or a new idea, or an interesting conversation, forever and ever, until she's dead. She'll go mad. She’s half there already.

'I will kill myself. I will kill myself if they do that, Hugh.'

And she means it.

Hugh straightens up, smoothing his clothes, his daemon once again on his shoulder.

'Then don't tease them,' he reasons sharply.

Then, perhaps seeing her distraught face, a little kinder, 'You're very young, Marisa. Think of the future. Don't dig yourself a grave.'

Marisa’s mind scatters, as wild as it was this morning, fingers fumbling with the dress in search of something to torture. Tugging at her consciousness, her daemon's presence. He is raging because she is. He is scared because she is. As if they haven't been horrible to each other all day (and many, many exiled days before that), he's offering support. Marisa cannot bear that any more than the horrid idea of a convent.

Her feelings are too big; that’s the issue, always has been. Swelling up beyond control, they’re threatening to crush this wormhole of a corridor – and they are not for the audience. She’ll feel them later, she decides, analyzing the way her skin stretches, as thin and unreliable as the membrane of a soap bubble; she’ll feel them when she has the space, or power to withstand them. Despite the deal tasting like bile at the back of her throat, making it for the hundredth time comes slightly easier. If only her soul would quit pushing her into emotional pits, always hanging about, always wanting to connect when she can bear it the least – if only he would just quit.

Weakling.

With a sharp headshake, Marisa folds her arms for composure and walks past him, ignoring the way his beautiful gilded tail falls and twitches, tucked between the legs. One day, she’ll walk far enough.

Hugh follows her, resuming the role of a silent guide.

It takes them a few more passages, each narrower than the other, to untangle themselves from a poorly lit cobweb and reach a more familiar part of the building. There are once again people in the corridors, so whispers and looks make their return. Hugh must have taken a longer route to avoid those, for her sake. For what it’s worth, it’s a gesture.

The path ends, as all merciful things do, far too quickly.

'You can wait here. They'll summon you.'

'Will you be there?'

A pause.

'No.'

To think, she had actually hoped.

Hugh leaves.

Anxiety doesn't.

The monkey almost gets jammed by the door because Marisa doesn't care enough to hold it. She hears a loud chatter, rushed steps – and fails to be touched. A golden lightning zings around as she presses her palms tightly to her ribs and takes a few hard, shuddering breaths. Her lungs are spasming. She’d very much like to throw something at her daemon to keep him fucking quiet because it’s all too much. All around, it’s all too much, it’s all…

'I thought you'd wear black.'

Ripping through her, a familiar voice.

Of course, now the monkey shuts up. The only sound bombarding the room is her own gasping for air. Marisa cuts it immediately, then breathes again, quieter, and opens her eyes. Invisible hooks are already pulling at her flesh in multiple directions – what's another one.

Asriel is standing a bit away, as sure as a death sentence: half-turned, cradling a glass at his chest. She doesn’t have it in her to be surprised. Whatever monstrosity they’ve committed together on a cosmic level must have been grander than murder and adultery combined because it’s bound them, pulling at the threads at the worst possible moments. Inside, a morbid feeling rises, about as gentle as a flood that breaks the dam: they won’t ever leave each other alone. She could climb the highest mountain of the farthest north, and he’d still be there.

Marisa gropes for the door handle, fully set on leaving; then doesn’t. Her eyes, for some reason, fixate on that drink Asriel's holding: something pleasantly amber, warm, leaving trails when swirled. A thirst that’s been tormenting her since the morning parts her lips – alcoholics have more will, for heaven’s sake. Marisa can't move. She doesn’t even blink, just holds herself perfectly still. Prey always does.

Asriel chuckles, noticing.

'Need a drink?'

She could kill him. She’s an open wound in indigo, and despises Asriel for seeing it. For mocking it, too. It takes an actual, physical effort to move her eyes up to his face, but finally – there he is, the bastard. Hard jaw and a five-day stubble. She also despises herself for knowing what his five-day stubble looks like.

He nods an invitation: a bottle on the table, some empty glasses.

'Don’t drink alone. Never ends well, especially for women.'

Every word – a taunt. Between the grown hair and the shirt sleeves he, for once, didn’t roll up, it is the same man Marisa knew, yet as soon as the haunting spreads, the image falters. Something fundamental in him has changed, sending a sting of sharp loss right to the heart. It’s not in the stance, or in the voice, or the clothes; more subtle than the line of his cheekbones, less obvious than a grey streak falling on his forehead. His eyes are different, she thinks. The way Asriel is laughing, it only makes them darker with hard, grim triumph. Like he’s playing a game that he knows to inevitably end in a massacre.

Still, it is him.

It is him.

Marisa tries out different phrases in her mind. I hate you. How are you. Are you well.

She says none of it.

Out of nowhere, a long silvery shadow moves across the floor, causing her daemon to perk up in what feels like acidic burns in her lungs. Stelmaria brushes past Asriel’s knees, and for a moment, Marisa loses her god-given, natural ability to breathe. It feels murderous, hope. Whoever invented it must have been a sick brute.

The monkey glances over for permission he knows he won’t have, but the sadness in him. Sadness and excitement, beating somewhere so deep in her own heart she's choking on it. Marisa clenches her fists, pushes it down, and glares a warning. It isn’t a conversation, those have withered between them like flowers on a fighting arena until nothing remained but orders: chisels and scalpels, to carve, to mold. With the same woeful expression, her soul ignores her. Never been mellow, this one, yet now he turns away, treading a few careful steps to sit before the leopard, quiet and mesmerized.

It’s so different from the way he sat this morning, aiming for a strike across Marisa's face. He's looking. He's admiring.

Stelmaria lowers her big head. A touch more–

At the same time, Marisa and Asriel jerk their chins, and the daemons instantly return, yanked back, looking ashamed and scolded. Just before Stelmaria hides behind the table again, she finds Marisa’s eyes. Fresh burns sizzle with guilt. It shouldn’t be possible to hate one part of the same soul, yet love the other.

Asriel seems shaken, too. Conflicted even – he who has always been as one with his daemon. Get used to it, Marisa wants to say but locks her lips for fear of saying something else entirely.

'Well.' He rubs his eyes.

'Well,' she echoes.

Well, first words poorly spent. Should have been something eloquent and scathing.

'She speaks,' Asriel smirks from across the room and just like that, he’s back at it. That first glimpse of a man he’ll become, unparalleled in strength and coldness, goes unnoticed by Marisa at the moment, but will scratch her memory for years to come.

He waits for a reply. With every second, his face falls a little, until finally he just shrugs and starts walking around the table. Wanders mindlessly, deeper into the room. It's someone's study, must be. A giant desk is set on a podium at the far wall. Asriel sips from the glass going shamelessly through the papers lying around, so uninterested in her presence it fires Marisa's insides right up. Oh, she speaks. She will maim you with words as soon as she decides what to say.

Fists and hair, she marches up to him. Asriel doesn’t even fully turn, just looks at her sideways: walls and walls and walls behind storm-cloud eyes. She forgot he was tall. Beginnings of a rough beard make him older in appearance, but that’s the thing. That’s the thing. He is young, and so is she, and youth is violent.

'You have ruined everything.'

Asriel raises his eyebrows, dully unintrigued.

'Exactly what?'

Her emotions are a swarm of foul bugs rubbing wings. Exactly what, he asks. How to even formulate it.

Being thrown back so far, the road she'd taken seems but a vague thread near horizon, completely out of her reach.

Exactly what.

Every door that's now closed, every victory clawed out in battles turned to ashes. All scarcely accumulated freedom, taken.

Him offering her marriage without even realizing how that would be the last shovel of dirt into her grave of public acceptance, and then acting so offended about her refusal.

Exactly fucking what.

The crippling, boiling fear of living out her life among brainless clucks interested only in talking of sin and salvation, because one damned reckless man fired a pistol and did not have a decency to miss, blowing it all out of proportion.

'You killed Edward.'

'Ah,' Asriel exhales throwing his head back, and Marisa feels deranged enough to go for the jugular with nothing but her teeth. Then he looks down again. 'You must have loved him so.'

Massacre.

…massacre.

A slap rings through the air. Immediately, Marisa’s palm stings, stunned from the impact, Asriel's sharp inhale lingering on the skin. His posture, if only for a second, changes to resemble that of an animal ready to chase its prey. Marisa half-wishes he did, because the alternative is watching him slowly straighten his shoulders and sneer in a way that drops the temperature in the whole room.

She hears Stelmaria growl behind him. That, for some reason, feels like an even bigger betrayal because she's never growled at Marisa before.

Asriel touches his cheek. Nods pensively as his eyes wander to the table. Something long and silvery finds its way into his hand – a letter opener, with a thin blade and a richly incrusted handle. A piece of value, it seems. Asriel keeps turning it in his fingers.

'That's right,' he says at last. There's nothing right about that. 'That is exactly why we're here. Let's cut each other's throats and be done with it.'

He doesn't mean, of course, literally – although Marisa wouldn't exclude it. When he looks up, it's like stepping under the waterfall, except instead of water, there's resentment hurling its rushing weight off the cliff. It breaks Marisa's bones a little, just so she can barely stand, but not much else. She wonders where her fear went. As she explores every last corner of herself, she only finds white-hot rage.

Marisa doesn't mean it either, of course, even when she forces his hand out of spite. A silver blade – not too sharp, but sharp enough – presses against her neck: move it sideways, and it will leave a cut. Asriel's palm is wrapped around the handle, warm in her grip.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

They're standing so close you’d think them lovers. Swallowing, Marisa feels the metal scrape her skin with intimacy only sharp edges possess. Asriel stares at the motion with a truly horrible expression. On his face, hunger is bleeding into hatred and contempt has a tinge of admiration to it, all feelings rooting so deep in each other it’s like excavating ancient history from ice. Ice cuts your hands, parting with secrets.

His chest rises, Marisa can feel it with her own.

'You're insufferable,' says he, a man who made her a widow in her twenties when she had plans for life.

Way behind, the monkey lets out a loud hiss – always closer at their worst. Up dart Asriel’s eyes, above Marisa’s shoulder, and she suspects her own eyes looked about the same when she saw Stelmaria. Full of longing. There’s a lot about connecting with someone’s daemon: for one, it doesn’t often happen. For all else, and that’s a nuisance if you come to hate the person, the connection doesn’t break.

No, that’s not it. Connection leaves room for all kinds of things twisted into it, when in reality, you’re specifically unable not to love.

She wakes disoriented, dizzy from the gentlest aching in her heart, only to find Asriel asleep with a ball of golden fur curled comfortably under his arm, the memory flashes and fades in a second. She’d never felt weaker. She’d never felt happier. She’s holding a knife to her own throat and doesn't know how to tell Asriel that she wants to crawl inside his chest. Slither between the ribs, and nestle against his giant pulsating heart, and stay there for a while before returning to her normal size and ripping him up from the inside. A payback for every good thing she still remembers.

'I hate you.'

Asriel blinks. Looks at her again. His hand is very steady, tangled in vines of Marisa's fingers.

'I've taken the child,' he says a little hoarsely, 'just so you know.'

Oh, that is low. And somehow even worse than I hate you, too.

That one time, when they were fighting, Asriel asked, 'Would you rather I’d let your goddamn husband kill our child?' Well, not asked; he was shouting like a madman. Doesn't matter. 'WOULD YOU RATHER I’D LET YOUR GODDAMN HUSBAND KILL OUR CHILD?!' And Marisa thought, yes. Yes, you idiot. Children are replaceable. You know what isn't? Reputation.

Her reasoning hasn't changed much over the days of isolation. Ignoring every reason, her body keeps exploding with the need of a child she doesn't want. There’s not a chance Asriel could have guessed, but pushing random buttons seems to be just as efficient as inflicting pain on purpose.

Another hard swallow.

'Is she safe?' Marisa strikes the perfect dry, pragmatic tone despite the most vicious yearning building underneath.

'From you? Yes.'

'Good.'

It is good. She doesn't know what her body could enslave her to do if there existed the slightest chance of getting near that child. It is very, very good that Asriel hates her enough to spare her the turmoil. She’s almost grateful.

'I'll fight you to death.' It’s not a warning, not a threat, he simply states the fact. They say all the wrong words. Come to think of it, they're both really bad at saying the right ones.

'Mine on yours?'

Oh.

Right there, it slips away from her: yours, with a trill, throat slightly vibrating against the blade. She blinks. That unexpected soft rolling from the language Marisa only spoke in childhood, and still it creeps into her voice whenever her heart is turbulent enough. Maybe it's stuck. Maybe she's stuck. Just an emotional child who's used to mumbling excuses in French, drowning in chamomile.

But she isn't excusing herself now.

Asriel's eyes narrow – of course, he knows that little thing about her, that little sign of her weakness. What an inconvenient thing for lovers to share everything. He'll wander off to the world holding that knowledge above her head like a sword, and Marisa couldn't torture it out of him if she tried. There are parts in her that to Asriel, by Asriel, will never be un-known. The thought is dooming.

Asriel is watching her, their hands entwined over the handle of a knife pressed to her neck. That's probably the best description of what he is to her.

'Have courage, Marisa Delamare,' he says finally, butchering her maiden name into a vague pronunciation of its meaning: de la mer – of the sea. Thorold, for some reason, was ecstatic to learn it, and Asriel...

You're a sea creature through and through.

He never called her anything but Delamare in private.

I love you, sea creature.

'Have courage to hate me.'

He hugs Marisa then. She fights back on instinct, only there's no space between his arm pulling her close and the blade that the bastard doesn't even lower. She reaches for Asriel’s shoulders to push him away. She ends up clinging to him. Nothing about it makes sense, except that her heart is slowly shredding itself to pieces with longing and hatred. That makes perfect damn sense. As they stand in this monstrous embrace, Marisa thinks that if it's always going to be like this, them meeting by chance and instantly wanting to be whole, she'd rather just step forward and slit her throat now.

She also plans on never forgiving him for kissing her hair: after all, she is young, and youth is full of always' and nevers, among other things that rarely stand the test of time.

Asriel's hand is unresisting when she takes the knife from it; silver clanks back on the wooden table, and then it’s quiet. Still close, they stop holding each other.

'Right,' Marisa exhales, taking a step back before meeting his eyes again: storm-blue and sapphire-blue, on the same spectrum, yet irreconcilably different. 'So, let's go kill each other. It'll make a great show.'

She turns to leave. Asriel grabs her wrist.

'I won't spare you, Marisa.'

'I don't need you to.'

His lips are dry and angry, then wet from hers. No fight this time. Resistance takes a coherent line of thought from the impulse to the action, and Marisa is not in possession of such a treasure anymore. Her impulses and actions are all over the place mixing, overlapping, clashing to the point of disaster. It’s all too much.

Somewhere close, their daemons are grumbling in the softest voices. Opening her mouth to Asriel’s tongue, she imagines them playing: gleams of silver and gold, small hands curled around a thick neck, caressing the spotted fur. Noses pressed together; slightly out of breath, because they are. Kind, kind. The sheer need for the same kindness twists Marisa’s insides, leaving her vulnerable, malleable like a piece of clay in Asriel’s arms when all he’s giving her is rough. Not at all like a lover saying farewell, just rough – merciless even, scratching her with a beard, grabbing her, squeezing so hard that her hips are already anticipating the bruises, and soft like bruised skin, she takes it.

Her daemon whimpers in pain in Stelmaria’s claws, and only then, mid-kiss, Marisa chokes on understanding. They’re not lovers, and they aren’t saying farewell. Whatever she’s doing is her fault entirely because Asriel is sealing a deal they made, a deal to crush each other, stealing her breath and lips to sign on the horrors. Only forward with it now.

He leaves abruptly without giving Marisa a second look, just a slight push as he lets go of her, the slightness of it delivering the worst insult. Stelmaria shadows his step across the room – the leopard’s head hangs low, but it’s not enough to matter, let alone change anything – and out of the door.

There's nothing else.

Except – the monkey racing around.

Except – Marisa's own hot gasps and the furious tears she blinks away. That’s what you get for remembering good things, that vile feeling of being killed in a very precise, specific way. She should have stuck with rage. She should have put another promise into her kisses, a violent one. The regret of giving away tenderness slashes at her stomach with full ferocity of a too-late realization.

She tries to rub Asriel's hands off. She rubs, then rubs more: her palms fire up immediately from the dress, but the handprints persist. At least in the process she disturbs a sore spot from when the maid pinched her this morning. It's better to focus on that. Focusing on honest physical pain, Marisa finds, mostly helps.

She allows herself one sip from Asriel's forgotten glass.

Then downs it.