#River Teeth quotes

[expectiations]

Pond Family Moments

Amy: Why don't you talk to River?

The Doctor, sarcastically: Oh. Yeah, sure.

Amy: What? So you go tell her she's cute, what's the worst that could happen?

The Doctor: She could hear me.

Rory, casually flicking his eyes to the sword prominently (and on purpose) displayed in the living room:

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Max Leiva.

* * * *

"the life you lead is a midnight thing, always a hair's breadth from the witching hour; it is volatile, it is threadbare; it is carefree in the true sense of that term; it is light, losable like a key or a hair clip. And it is lethargy: why not sit all morning, all day, all year, under the same cypress tree drawing the figure eight in the dust? More than that, it is disaster, it is chaos: why not overthrow a government on a whim, why not blind the man you hate, why not go mad, go gibbering through the town like a loon, waving your hands, tearing your hair? There's nothing to stop you - or rather anything could stop you, any hour, any minute." - Zadie Smith White Teeth [thanks Whiskey River]

[desdasiwrites]

Hero let themself smile as they sat across from Houndstooth and began studying the map. This would be more fun than retirement.

– Sarah Gailey, American Hippo

[jpitha]

Logistics

Yes, when the humans arrived in the Coalition they brought themselves, and their ships, and their weapons. Those were all very impressive. They showed up with positively gigantic starships - easily two to four times larger than anyone else. When asked, the humans just looked at them, then back to us and said "why not make them big? Don't they look great?"

We could think of a few reasons, but they didn't seem to care about those.

But that's not what I want to talk about. Do you know what was the most amazing, galaxy changing paradigm they brought with them?

Containerization.

I'm serious! The first time I saw them field a colony ship my feathers ruffled and I turned my head in confusion. I was aboard the human ambassador's yacht with a few other Coalition administrators. We had come at the human's behest so they could demonstrate that they were taking our rules about colonizing seriously. Honestly, we probably wouldn't have cared. All they were interested in were planets Class F and lower. The ones with multiple biomes, the ones with heavy gravity, the ones with weather. We let them license the worlds for colonization cheap - ancestors, I think we even let them have the one with storms for free.

Anyway, they asked us to come and observe, and so we sent a few people out, me among them. I was a mid level clerk for the Innari embassy at the main Coalition station, so I was 'volunteered' to attend. It was boring, but it wasn't bad. Good food, a break from paperwork, and a chance to take it easy for a week.

On the second day, the colony ship arrived. It had Flashed in quote close to the planet, entered orbit, and had spent an hour setting itself up. One of the Sefigans looked at the human who was guiding us and asked what we were looking at, if we were just going to see a shuttle go back and forth for a week from the ship.

"A shuttle? Heavens, no. Just watch." and he did that cryptic smile without showing his teeth that they do when they realize they're about to show off.

Just then, while we were watching, the colony ship... flew apart. It wasn't destroyed, or rather it was, but it wasn't destructive. It had turned out that the entire colony ship was thousands upon thousands of boxes. The assembled crowd made surprised noises as the ship quickly disappeared into rectangles all the same shape and size. They disconnected from each other and fell through the atmosphere to the planet's surface. Within a tenth of a cycle, they were all down, and had begun unfolding.

Some were buildings, some contained supplies, and some even had vehicles. As we watched through remote cameras and entire city had sprung into being, where once there was only a joining of two rivers. The colony ship was completely gone - the box that was the command module had set itself up in the center of the city and we watched as the overlay changed from "Ship Command" to "City Command" as it touched down.

Before our surprise could be properly registered it happened again. Another colony ship flashed in and flew apart and landed. And again. And again. In the space of one solar day, three full cities were set up and automated construction vehicles - also the size of the containers - had begun trundling between the cities, setting up utilities and roads. By the time the humans arrived in thirty solar days, there would be places to live, work, and entertain for fifty thousand beings.

Honestly, if that's all they used it for, it would be impressive. But they made everything able to fit into those boxes. When they ordered supplies from human manufactories they ordered them by the container. During the next resupply one of the containers would detach and be delivered, and sure enough, packed floor to ceiling would be the widgets they ordered.

They built reactors that fit the container, so that no matter where they went or what they were doing, it was simple to have more power than one needed.

They even built weapons that fit into the containers. I'm not talking about hand and small arms, but full anti starship missile batteries. They would take one of their boxes, stick it to the side of a ship or a station - it didn't even have to be human made - and out would fold a missile battery, loaded and ready. Next to it they'd plop a reactor container and a matter printer container and in the time it took you to decide what to eat for their midday meal - lunch - they would be able to defend against an attack of nearly any kind.

When called on to aid during disasters, they brought them too. They would bring a modified version of their colony package, tuned for what kind of disaster had happened. Extra hospitals, extra living space, extra power, it didn't matter, because it all fit into those damned boxes.

The other Coalition peoples had to adopt the humans containers, it was too foolish not to. Human ships would only haul containers. They didn't list the ships capacity by hauling weight, they listed them by the number of containers they could haul. If you wanted to sell to humans, you had to fit your wares into a container.

Some other peoples - the Sefigans specifically, but a few others as well - attempted to introduce their own container specifications, but they were almost never adopted. The humans had the infrastructure to haul their own containers, and unless the others fit into the system they just rejected them outright. "Too complex to add" they said. "Just use ours; here have a few for free." They gave away containers like they were atmosphere. When items were shipped from human manufactories they told the recipient to just keep the container "in case you need to ship anything else."

Before too long, all the Coalition was using human containers. The Sefigans complained that they were too large, the Gren complained they were too small, and we Innari looked at the containers with an eye towards economy. We felt they were far overbuilt. We tried to make our own, out of much lighter materials but whenever they were added to a human system, they would be immediately ejected - usually with large dents or bends in them. "Stick to the specs" they'd say. "Our system requires them all to be the same."

Without firing a shot, the humans took over one of the most important and overlooked parts of our entire system. Everyone uses their containers now, it's just impossible to find a shipper to move material without them.

[starbluekindo]

LOML (part 3)

synopsis: you and victoria are destined to meet, not to be together.

cw: victoria neuman × fem!reader, angust, traumatic past (quoted), red river (quoted), reader is a supe with necromancy, childhood love, character death, mentions of depression?, smut, nsfw…

part!1 part!2

a/n: this was longer than it should have been ;-;

english is not my first language and i don't have much experience writing, so it may contain errors.

you haven't had good experiences with your powers. being a five-year-old child and seeing all the dead people in a room and even more so talking to them, feeling them, was not a cool experience.

you spent years being haunted by the dead who seemed to haunt you every step you took, they seemed to take some kind of twisted pleasure in tormenting a child. that's what you thought for years until you discovered that most of the ghosts that haunted you just wanted the chance to tell their story, the chance to say goodbye.

and you stopped being afraid of them, after all they couldn't hurt you if you ignored them.

it wasn't an easy path to have the level of control you have today. pretending not to see the desperate child in the corner of your room begging for help or the woman in the mirror with sad eyes was painful for you and when you arrived at the red river... all those poor souls tormented you as you cried and begged them to shut up the fucking mouth.

but then you met victoria and it was like the whole world fell silent for the first time for you. she was your lighthouse, guiding you without even knowing it through the sea of ​​souls that insisted on drowning you every day. losing her was like losing yourself, but having her back gave you life.

the following months were the best you could have in your entire life.

you had victoria by your side after years of waiting. years of forced separation, finally ending in happy moments with her. you and her went to bars, restaurants, museums and every art exhibition you could find, every moment unique and special with her.

it was an understatement to say you were happy, you were radiant.

“oh come on, she’s just a teenager, baby… she’s not going to kill you” victoria said in a carefree manner as she cut some vegetables for your dinner.

“vicky, we’re talking about your daughter” you were on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. for some reason you didn’t know, meeting victoria’s daughter terrified you. “what if she hates me and decides i’m not good enough for her mother? what if I mess up? and if-”

you didn't have time to finish your self-deprecating litany, not when victoria's lips were in contact with yours again, her body pinning you against the kitchen counter. her hands held your waist, pushing you onto the cold material of the counter.

“shh… what do you say we skip dinner and I feast on you?” she bit your earlobe, her hands moving to your thighs, playing with the fabric of your shorts.

“fuck…” you sighed and leaned your forehead against hers, closing your eyes as a small smile formed on your lips “i can’t let dinner burn again, vicky”

“we can always eat out, pretty girl” her lips find the skin of your neck, kissing, biting and sucking, each action designed to draw a desperate moan from your lips. her hands move to the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing the fabric up. touching you, as if touching something fragile.

“such a beautiful girl” she whispers against your skin. fingers gripping the hem of your shirt and she pushes the fabric up, away from your body.

her tongue circles the bud of your breast before leaving a bite on the spot making you shudder, moving her lips to suck a bruise on the skin of your breast “good?” victoria's lips move to her other breast, her teeth lightly nibbling at the flesh, molding it into her mouth as she alternates between one and the other, her free hand making its way through the thin fabric of her shorts, her fingers slipping inside her panties to meet the wet heat of your sex.

the feeling of her fingers inside you, coupled with the way her mouth works on your breasts, is enough to make you squirm on the counter, your moans a sweet symphony that she is more than happy to lead.

“do you like this, love?” she purrs, her voice a seductive rasp. she removes her fingers, coated with your wetness, and brings them to her mouth, licking them clean, "so ready for me, aren't you?" you can barely speak, the sight of her being enough to make you moan again. she easily rips off her shorts in a simple and practical movement, throwing the rest of the fabric to the floor.

she pushes your panties to the side, her fingers replacing them, sliding in and out of you, her thumb rubbing your clit in a slow, sensual rhythm. her lips leave your breasts, leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach, your body trembling with each touch.

“you’re my sweet girl,” she says, her voice low and possessive, as her mouth finds your sex, her tongue parting your folds to taste you. “you always have been and you always will be”

“so fucking good” you mumble and close your eyes as you throw your head back, biting your bottom lip to keep from screaming (and getting another complaint from your property manager). one of your hands finds its way between the silky strands of victoria's hair, encouraging the brunette to go deeper and your other hand rests on the edge of the counter, squeezing tightly.

her tongue works wonders on you, taking you to heaven with each lick, her fingers filling you in the way you needed her most. you squeezed victoria's scalp, her eyes fixed on you as her moans grew louder. “please vicky” you whimper and open your eyes looking for her, pupils dilated and pleading.

victoria smiles, her eyes fixed on yours, as she takes you into her mouth, sucking and licking you with a fervor that shows she is starving for you. her fingers continue their rhythm, her pace increasing as she feels your body contracting, your moans getting louder.

she knows that look in your eyes, the way you're begging for release, and she's more than happy to oblige. her tongue flicks over your clit, her fingers pushing deep inside you, the pressure building inside you like a storm.

“come for me, pretty girl,” she orders, her voice low and commanding, “let go”

and you do. you come undone, your body shuddering, your moans turning into screams as you reach that peak. victoria sucks and licks you, milking every last drop of pleasure from you, her own body trembling with satisfaction as she witnesses your release.

she pulls away, her lips and chin wet with your essence, a smile playing on her mouth as she watches your chest rise and fall with each ragged breath.

“good girl” she runs her tongue between her lips before approaching you and engulfing you in a passionate kiss letting you taste yourself in her.

you finally had it all again

until there's nothing left

things weren't supposed to happen like this, victoria didn't plan for it to happen, but hey... no one can control everything - not even neuman.

you blamed homelander for fucking up the perfect life you were having after years of fighting, that bastard had fucked up everything.

It was already the fifth call you made to victoria that she refused and it was driving you crazy. you felt like the red river again when she left. not even the traffic was cooperating with you, leaving you unable to leave the car.

you felt scared, you felt scared as hell about everything that could happen. you hated that bitter feeling in your mouth, you hated feeling like a child again. as soon as the light changed again you finally managed to leave the place, passing all possible red lights and at the exact moment you looked at the car's rear view mirror you saw her.

the woman with the sad eyes who haunted you during your childhood.

something really bad was going to happen, you knew it, she told you that.

as soon as you entered victoria's house it was like a part of you was broken, seeing her in such an emotional state made your stomach hurt and the only thing you could do was bend down to hug her, feeling the tears of her to wet your shirt.

even the strongest of soldiers could be shot down.

“you shouldn’t be here…it’s not safe to be with me anymore” her words left you in disbelief, but no real effort was made to take you away from her.

“where else would I be but here?” ‘safely’ victoria thought and bit her tongue to respond, hiding her face in her shirt.

you waited until she was a little calmer and listened to her carefully, you saw her completely lost and with little hope - something you weren't used to seeing in the brunette.

“we can leave the country, hide somewhere safe for a while… just until things get a little better” you suggested as you stroked her scalp, keeping her in your arms to convey warmth and security to her.

“i can't do this to zoe, i can't do this to you” she murmured and closed her eyes. she had the feeling that her body was heavier than normal. “i would be putting you both in danger and i wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you or her.”

“nothing will happen” you both knew that was a lie, deep down you both already expected the worst. lying to yourself was the best way to stay confident - and at the moment it was all you needed.

“i need you to promise me that you will take care of zoe if something really bad happens”

“vicky, nothing-”

“i need it” her voice was more serious now, her eyes were still filled with tears and she was looking at you in a way that left you no choice “please… we both know that you are the best between the two of us who can keep a promise”

"i promise”

her lips met yours in a desperate kiss, as if it were a silent goodbye between you. you reciprocated without even thinking, your hands holding her face to pull her closer, not wanting that moment to end.

“i have to go” victoria whispered as she separated her lips from yours, her forehead touching yours “i have to try to do the right thing at least one last time”

she barely lets you protest, giving you another goodbye kiss, taking longer than last time to pull away “just wait for me”

and it was with those words that you lost her again. It was as if the entire world came to a standstill when the news announced that the vice president-elect had been assassinated just hours after being revealed to the world as a super.

your pain is like a choked scream in your chest. each shared memory turns into an open wound, and absence spreads like a cold shadow, enveloping everything around it. knowing that you could, in theory, bring back your girlfriend, but at the same time being aware of the horror that would entail, is a torment that tears you apart inside.

you didn't even have access to the body.

the rage that consumes you is devastating. you not only feel the impact of the loss, but also an unrelenting rage against the world around you. everything you fought to build with victoria was brutally ripped away. your indignation against the forces that caused this separation is overwhelming, but the anger is also directed at yourself, for what she considers to be her own powerlessness. as a necromancer, the power to manipulate life and death is in your hands, but you are unable to change what matters most.

you find yourself in a months-long spiral of pain and suffering. the depression that invades you is as heavy as the darkness your power summons. at every turn, you are haunted by the vision of victoria, not as she was, but as a distorted memory that your power allows you to see, reanimating her in moments of despair. it consumes you in such a way that the line between grief and obsession begins to blur. the world loses all meaning, and you find yourself adrift, in a place where the shadows seem to constantly whisper, offering the temptation to bring victoria back, even though you know it would only be a cruel parody of what she was.

you couldn't cheat death, no matter how smart you were.

but you remember the promise you made and feel obliged to fulfill it. you finally left the house after being away from the sunlight for so long and drove to the damn place you swore you would never set foot in again, finding yourself facing your worst nightmare.

everything in that place makes you want to vomit, the same old ghosts that tormented you as a child were still there, with a smile that was almost too cruel for you. the sound of your heels hitting the wooden floor echoed through the hallway as you followed red river's new director to the wing where the children usually stayed.

and when you saw her isolated in the corner, away from the other children, it was like going back to the past again. you forced yourself to hold back the tears when you saw zoe's resemblance to victoria and she was... perfect.

you didn't say another word to the woman next to you and walked towards the girl, bending down in front of her and getting a suspicious look from zoe.

“you’re just like her…” you whispered and placed a hand on the girl’s cheek, her eyes watering to the point where a tear escaped “i’m going to take you home”

you would keep your word, you would keep zoe safe and you would hunt even in hell the person responsible who took victoria from you two.

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

Yan Wushi and Shen Qiao Comparison

The author of Thousand Autumns, Meng Xi Shi, wrote in the Foreword, "The two leads have extreme personalities that are diametric opposites: one finds joy in helping people, while the other resolutely believes that human nature is evil. But because both are them are incredibly strong, they cannot convince each other. And so when they meet, they’re destined to clash in a blaze of intense sparks." While I reread the series, I collected a few of my favorite quotes that described Yan Wushi and Shen Qiao's personalities and world views so I could compare them side by side. It is amazing how two characters who are polar opposites can complement each other so well.

Shen Qiao: “When it comes to worth, every heart weighs it differently. Grudges have a source, and debts a debtor, but involving innocent people should never be commended. When you don’t save the people you could have, when you don’t take action when you could have, a shadow lodges in your heart forever. Whether other people know about it—whether they’ll feel grateful—that’s their business.”

Yan Wushi: As always, whenever Yan Wushi opened his mouth, sarcastic comments streamed out. Hearing them was enough to make any listener grit their teeth. But with the way he stood upon the cliff face, hands clasped behind his back and robes dancing, the assembled spectators simply had to look up to him as well. His achievements and martial arts, his incredible strength—many understood that they’d never reach such heights. It was human nature to admire those of great strength, and if anyone claimed they felt no trace of admiration for the egotistical Huanyue Sect Leader—who had the power to warrant such an ego—they’d be lying.

Shen Qiao: Even when he’d fallen into the mire, when he was smeared with dust and grime and was at anyone’s mercy, still he struggled back to his feet and walked onward, step by step. His comrades’ betrayal, his kindness being repaid with enmity—it was as if he’d taken none of it to heart.

Yan Wushi: But Yan Wushi was the kind of man who reserved even his egotism and conceit for those on his level. The mediocre remainder weren’t worth his attention, so he couldn’t care less what they said or thought.

Shen Qiao: “During our time in this world, everyone has to make their own choices. Some will choose to preserve their lives at all costs, and some will choose to give up their lives for their reputation or to demonstrate their innocence. In all cases, there is nothing to criticize. Only during the darkest hour will one’s true self emerge.

Yan Wushi: This Huanyue Sect Leader’s character was just as the rumors painted him: mercurial and unpredictable. Even after they’d spent so much time together, Shen Qiao still dared not say that he completely understood him.

Shen Qiao: “There are many people in this world. Some of them good, some of them bad. But even more can’t be categorized as simply ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Their thoughts may be different from yours, and the paths they choose may also be different... You mustn’t reject others just because they’re different from you. As a person, you have to be like an ocean that embraces the hundred rivers: tolerant and broad-minded. The same holds true as a martial artist. The narrow-minded are limited in what they can achieve. Even if they reach the summit, they won’t be able to stand there for long.”

Yan Wushi: In Yan Wushi’s eyes, the incompetent would never be worthy of his attention. Counting decades into the past, there’d been one exception in Shen Qiao, but there was only one Shen Qiao. No one else deserved any extra concern from him, even if they were his disciples. He’d already taught his disciples his skills; if they needed his protection in everything, why bother wandering the jianghu? They might as well bash open their heads and die.

Shen Qiao: He was happy to treat others with kindness, and he didn’t care how much he gained or lost in exchange. But when other people returned him a similar kindness, to the point that they were willing to die for him, it was far harder for him than simply receiving nothing in the first place.

Yan Wushi: Shen Qiao shook his head. “He’s not cruelhearted—he never had a heart in the first place. He treats everyone in the world with the same callousness, and he’ll never be particularly gentle toward anyone...”

Shen Qiao: In this world there are many, many situations where giving someone something doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll receive anything in return. When you choose to give, you must remember this, or else the only one hurt will be you.”

Yan Wushi: In Shen Qiao's opinion, Yan Wushi had no reason to bring trouble down on himself like this. But ultimately, Yan Wushi was Yan Wushi. If he moved according to other people’s expectations, he wouldn’t be Yan Wushi anymore.

Shen Qiao: “From the great Dao springs forth many thousand paths,” said Shen Qiao. “Some are fast, some slow, but none are better than any other.”

Yan Wushi: He adored Shen Qiao to a ridiculous degree, but this kind of adoration was usually expressed through teasing and bullying.

And what they think of each other by the end of the series:

Just as Shen Qiao was thinking this, he heard Yan Wushi say, “A-Qiao, do you know?” “Mm?” Shen Qiao returned to himself. “In the past, I classified all humans into two categories.” “Mm,” said Shen Qiao. He knew this. “They were either your opponents or insects.” Opponents were those who could stand on equal footing with him. Insects were the ones not worth his attention. In the past, Shen Qiao had been an insect in his eyes. “But now,” Yan Wushi said leisurely, “I’ve changed my way of thinking. A-Qiao, you’re different from most people in the world. You have compassion for all mankind carved into your bones, to the point that you’re willing to give yourself up for others without asking for anything in return. In the past, I thought you were the same as everyone else: you might start out good and innocent, but the world is fickle, and in the end it’d teach you to change as well. But you went completely beyond my expectations. Human affairs are like a stream, yet you are a rock. No matter how the stream flows, you will never shift.” Shen Qiao gave a brief laugh. “It’s rare to hear Sect Leader Yan praise me. How remarkable! This humble Daoist is greatly honored.” “Do you still hold a grudge against me in your heart?” Shen Qiao shook his head. “No, it’s the exact opposite. I admire you greatly. There aren’t many people in this world who can live so willfully, but Sect Leader Yan is one of them. Before I left the mountain, the only world and jianghu I knew was the tiny little space that my late master had told me about. I’d never seen it with my own eyes. If not for Yan Wushi’s instruction, I wouldn’t be alive listening to you say these things now.”

[fairy-writes]

THE STORY OF US

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Bungou Stray Dogs

Pairing(s): Dazai Osamu x Reader

Word Count: 4k (PLS READ, I’M BEGGING YOU)

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Pretty Heavy AU (idk what to call it tho), Female!Reader, Time Traveler!Reader, Time Traveler!Dazai, Reader is shorter than Dazai

Taglist: @underthetree845 | @nezuko-kamado-cute-demon

Notes: I don’t know what I’m doing

VERY HEAVILY RIVER SONG INSPIRED (find my quotes lol)

I might write part two from the Reader’s POV (don’t get your hopes up tho, I’m notoriously bad with writing part two to things, but if I get requests I’m more likely to do it!)

I just now realized that the title is also a Taylor Swift song, but I don’t wanna change it

Also, I’m just saying this now, this is not every scene I had in mind. A lot of scenes got cut for my sanity. 

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Osamu first discovered he could time jump when he was eleven. 

It had been an accident, really. Well, maybe not a complete accident. Osamu wanted to escape everything—his parents' arguing, their fights. But, of course, he had nowhere to go. As an eleven-year-old boy, there wasn’t anywhere that would hire him. He had no other family that wasn’t across the other side of the world. 

He was completely and utterly alone. 

The shouting was reaching its peak. Osamu shoved his pillow further over his head as if trying to suffocate himself as his mother screamed something at his father. Something about his lies. 

Ha. If only she knew how much Osamu lied. 

Lied about his day at school. (Anything to get her off his back.)

Lied about having friends. (Anything to make them not suspicious.)

Lied about everything. 

The screaming grated on his ears through the pillow, and he ground his teeth until his mouth hurt. 

Couldn’t they just shut up? 

Couldn’t they just go away?

Suddenly, something was different. Osamu felt a tugging in his stomach. It was as if someone wrapped a string around his middle and yanked. Almost like he was being squeezed out of a tube of toothpaste.

And then he could hear… water? The sounds of a river that should not be audible even through the open window. Did they even live near a river?

Osamu peeked out from the pillow over his head and was blinded by sunlight. He sat up and realized his pajamas were covered in scalding hot sand. Golden sand stretched for miles and miles, a long twisting river just visible in the distance. On the horizon, he saw pyramids being erected high into the sky. 

What the hell?

And the rest was quite literally history.

December 31st, 1925

New York City

The air was cold. Snow fell in flakes as Osamu watched the snow fall outside the bar, nursing a whiskey on the rocks as he paid no mind to anyone around him. He had aged since his first trip through time. Though he could never remember how old he was. He looked to be in his early twenties, but everyone looked so different in different time periods, so he could’ve been thirty, and that would’ve made sense. 

“Mind if I sit?” Comes a sweet voice. He looks to his left and sees you. 

You’re dressed to the nines in a silver slip flapper dress with black beads decorating the length of the gown. Your hair was cut in a neat bob, a feather headband decorating the up-do. The kohl around your eyes only accentuates the pretty color. 

Osamu plasters a grin across his features, and you shift. He gestures grandly to the stool beside him, 

“I could do with a gorgeous woman’s company.” He quips, and you laugh good-naturedly before sliding onto the stool beside him. He can feel your warmth through the woolen fabric of his suit coat, and he takes a sip of liquid courage, suddenly feeling somewhat hesitant to talk to you.

There was something about you. Like you knew all Osamu’s secrets already. 

You lean your cheek on the palm of your hand, smiling with ruby-red lips and brilliant teeth that were ahead of their time. 

That should’ve been his first clue. 

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Where are we at now?” You muse, and he frowns as he sips at his whiskey. This was one of the only bars that still sold alcohol through the prohibition. 

“Sorry, I’ve never seen you before in my life.” He says, and you cock your head, eyebrow raised, as you pick at the seams of your silken gloves. You abruptly stop picking and reach into your clutch purse that rested in your lap, pulling out a worn notebook he didn’t recognize. It was well-loved, with pictures stuffed in between the pages. 

“So we haven’t done France yet?”

“France?” You lean back giddily and hold your notebook to your chest.

“What a night that was! Dancing in front of the Eiffel Tower? That ring a bell?” Osamu shakes his head. 

He had yet to go to France. In all his time jumping, he hadn’t seen the point in going to France,  much less the City of Love. 

Now it was your turn to frown, flipping through your little notebook, and he spies neat handwriting in various languages. English. Japanese. German. Latin. And were those Egyptian hieroglyphs? All throughout the pages, he spies his picture scattered across the ink.

Just who were you?

And why do you have all those pictures and drawings of him?

“What about picnicking at Versailles?” 

Another shake. Another page turned.

“The Titanic? What a messy time that was!”

“What is that?” He eventually asks, and you quickly flip it shut before he can actually read anything. 

“Spoilers.” You say quickly, and when he arches an eyebrow, you sigh, call the bartender over, and order a glass of champagne. The two of you wait in silence until you get your drink. Eventually, you speak after you’ve downed half of your champagne flute. “It’s all of our adventures. Time travel gets complicated, doesn’t it?”

As soon as he connects the dots, Osamu is floored. 

Another time traveler? He thought he was the only one!

It’s clear you pick up on what he is thinking because your face falls. You look heartbroken. As if he just ripped your heart out of your chest and smashed it into a million pieces. As if you were a lonesome star falling from the sky and drowning in the sea.

“You truly don’t have any idea who I am, do you?” Osamu shrugs, 

“Who are you?”

Osamu didn’t know it was possible, but you looked even more upset. Tears welled up in your waterline and smudged your kohl as it dripped down your cheeks. You swallow thickly and sniffle, pulling a handkerchief from your clutch to dab at your watery eyes and ruined makeup.

For whatever reason, Osamu feels his heart ache. 

“I suppose this was bound to happen sometime.” You say eventually, and he looks over at you from where he had just downed the last of his whiskey. You’re leaning both of your arms on the counter, running a finger around the rim of your champagne glass.

“What do you mean?” He asks, and you huff, look at him out of the corner of your eye, and your finger stops

“We always meet out of order. Hence, the diary. But… I just never expected it to hurt this much.” You sniffle again, and Osamu realizes he wants to make it better. He realizes he doesn’t like to see you cry. 

But he doesn’t even know you!

Why should he care if you cried or not?

“If it’s any consolation… I’m sorry…” He says quietly, and you bark out a laugh,

“There’s nothing to be sorry for! I suppose this is just a chance for me to get to know the younger you.” You sniffle, but that bright smile that makes his heart race lights up your face once again. You seem to think something over before standing and offering Osamu a hand.

“Care to walk with me?” You tease him with a flirty wink, and he finds himself unable to say no. 

So, as the clock chimes closer and closer to midnight, the two of you leave the bar, with you each paying for your respective drinks. Osamu offered to buy yours as an added apology, but you just patted his shoulder with a knowing smile and said, “I know you’re awful with money.”

Which… You weren’t wrong. 

Just how much did you know about him?

How much had he told you in the future?

You walk next to him, bundled up in a trench coat not unlike his own and with your hands stuffed in your pockets. Osamu pulls his own (matching) trench coat over his suit coat and slacks and follows you out into the sprinkling snow. You both walk side by side in a surprisingly comfortable silence. At least until you hear people counting down in the streets.

10…

You blink and turn to look at him.

“What day is it again?” You ask, and he looks up at the snow.

“December 31st, 1925.” He replies, and you gape in surprise.

9…

“Y’know, I’ve never celebrated New Year's with time travel and all. Never even had a New Year's kiss.” You muse, watching couples get together on the streets.

8…

“Would you like one?” Osamu blurts, and you nearly trip in surprise. Osamu almost follows suit when you stop abruptly to look at him with wide eyes.

7…

“But you don’t even know me.” You say hesitantly, but you turn to face him nonetheless. He finds himself smiling, a soft, genuine sort of smile.

When was the last time he smiled like this?

6…

“I’m giving my future self the benefit of the doubt and trusting his judgment.” He teases, and you relax, hanging your head with a soft giggle. But you don’t pull away when he slowly pulls you in close to him.

5…

Your coat flaps open, and he sees his father’s initials stitched on the side and realizes you don’t just have matching coats—you have the exact same coat.

When did he give that to you? He swore he’d never give it up to remind himself to never return home!

4…

Your soft arms around his neck catch his attention, and you’re suddenly much closer, standing on your tiptoes in your kitten heels.

3…

His arms pull you close by your hips, and he leans down.

2…

Your noses brush.

1…

The kiss is like the fireworks going off above him. His eyes flutter close, and he pulls you impossibly closer. Your lips are soft with the lipstick, and he doesn’t care that it’s likely stained on his mouth.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The kiss deepens, and you soak up his affection greedily. Like you had been waiting for this forever. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close oh so tenderly. 

Like a puzzle piece being fit into place, his heart sang like a choir in a church.

Were you what he was missing all this time?

Could he finally have this?

Could he—

BANG! BANG! BANG!!

You jolt and fall to the ground as a car screeches around a corner and out of sight.

What?

What happened?

Osamu looks down and feels his heart stop.

You’re crumpled against the cement, blood seeping out of bullet holes in your abdomen. Your dress is ruined. But that doesn’t matter.

Osamu falls to his knees, not caring about the cold, wet concrete soaking his slacks. He pulls your upper half into his lap and applies pressure. You cry out and push his hands away.

“I need to put pressure on your injury. Hold still for me, love.” He whispers to you and turns to where people are still celebrating. “AMBULANCE! SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE!” He cries, but they’re so wrapped up in their excitement that they don’t hear him.

Your hand touches his face, and he looks down to see you giving him a bloody smile. Crimson leaks from your mouth, and he can tell that you don’t have long.

“Hold on—Hold on, I’ll get a doctor—I’ll—” He stammers in an attempt to calm you (himself) down, and you just spit up blood in a choked laugh.

“We both know I’m not going to survive this.” You wheeze, and he can see the color draining from your face as you lose blood and warmth.

“Then I’ll jump back in time! Time can be rewritten!” You cut him off abruptly with more strength than he thought you had.

“Not those times. Not one line. Don’t you dare.” You say, hand falling to grip his hand as tightly as you could muster.

“But you’re dying.” He says, unable to explain why his heart is breaking to pieces inside his chest. You cough once more and smile that brilliant smile that he finds that he loves so much.

“It’s not over for you. You’ll see me again. You’ve got all of that to come.” You slur your words at this point, and he grits his teeth. Your hand goes weak in his, and he holds it even tighter. 

“You and me. All those adventures all over time. You watch us run!” You whisper, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead just as you close your eyes.

117 AD

Rome, Italy

The crowd roars louder than Osamu has ever heard it. Bored, he watches as gladiators fight in the ring. The arena is bathed in blood, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He hasn’t cared about much since you died. 

He wasn’t even sure why. He barely knew you. But he keeps thinking back to the kiss you shared on New Year’s. He thinks of your words. 

“You watch us run!”

“Is this seat taken?” A voice yells over the crowd, and his heart stutters to a halt. He turns, eyes wide to see you. 

Oh, how cruel this life was.

You’re dressed in a fashionable, long tunic that goes down to your ankles with a shawl of sorts around your shoulders. Your hair is longer than Osamu remembered. It is no longer a bob but instead curled at the front and with a braided crown in the back. You hold that journal under your arm and smile brightly before scurrying over and sitting beside him. 

“Where are we at now?” You ask excitedly, pleased to see him. 

But all he can see is your dead body in his arms. 

Was there some god up above watching this cruel exchange with glee?

What had he done to deserve this? 

“‘samu? Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” 

‘samu? 

The last person to call him that was his mother. Before she and his father began to fight. Back before he could time jump.

Back when things were simple. 

Your hand on his arm has Osamu flinching away, causing you to cringe back as well. You look worried, panicked even, and all for him. 

So you didn’t know yet. You didn’t know you were going to die. 

So, he doesn’t tell you. 

“Sorry, my love, I thought you were a monster here to gobble me up!” He chirps, and your panic melts away quickly. You lean back into his side, and he takes the chance to wrap a bandaged arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. You giggle and open your book. 

“Where are we now?” You repeat, and he shrugs, 

“You tell me.” He says, keeping his eyes off your book out of respect and on the gladiator games below. 

“France?”

“Not yet.”

“The Wild West? That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Nope.” 

You two go back and forth for a moment before you ultimately sigh and clap your book shut. 

“It’s very early for you, isn’t it?” You say, mildly exasperated. Osamu nods silently, heart twisting when you set your book down and lean heavily into his side. He trickles his fingers along your neck, feeling goosebumps rise along the skin, and you shiver. 

The games end, and you shuffle out of the Colosseum and through the streets of Rome. You boldly take ahold of Osamu’s hand as if this was regular for you. He can’t bring himself to let go, so he instead makes you laugh by swinging your arms between you, occasionally twirling you in a circle. His chilton feels suffocating despite it being made of linen. 

But he can’t bring himself to time jump away. To leave you alone to spare his own feelings. 

Perhaps it’s the overwhelming guilt he feels?

Perhaps it’s because he finds himself enjoying your company. 

Either way, he allows you to pull him around the ancient cobblestone streets of Rome. Enjoying the markets and public museums that were beginning to pop up all over the city. 

The entire time, he doesn’t let go of your hand. 

August 8th, 1912

The Wild West

It’s hot. 

Almost overwhelmingly so. 

Osamu peels off one of his gloves and fans his face with it as he climbs the steps to the little cabin he had been staying at. His bandages itch with the heat, and he has a sneaking suspicion that they’re slowly soaking with sweat underneath his borrowed button-down, vest, trousers, and chaps. 

Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he liked this place sans the heat. The people in this little settled town were kind, barely batting an eye when he suddenly appeared in their home. The people he was currently staying with, an older couple named Buck and Bonnie, welcomed him with open arms. They claimed it was because he reminded them of their son, who was out settling the rest of the West. 

“Osamu? Are you done already?” Bonnie asks where she’s putting a pie on the windowsill to cool. Apple, by the smell of it, and utterly delicious. 

“Just taking a break, Bonnie. Buck works me to the bone!” He says and collapses on the couch, his spurs jingling as he kicks his feet up over the edge of the sofa and leans his head back, tipping his hat down over his face. He hears Bonnie say something, but he’s already halfway to dreamland. 

Despite only intending to sleep for a few minutes, Osamu naps for the better part of an hour. He only wakes up when he hears the whinny of an unfamiliar horse and quick steps up to the cabin door. Then, an excited set of knocks. 

“Can you get that, Osamu? I’m busy with supper!” Bonnie calls from the kitchen, and he calls back, saying that he would. 

Only to come face to face with you. 

It had been ages since he saw you. He had yet to see you at any significant historical events that he time jumped to. The Titanic, the moon landing. Hell, he hadn’t even seen you during World War Two when he was accidentally drafted!

“You!” He jabs a finger, and you grin adoringly, stepping under his arm and skipping to the kitchen. 

“It’s me, Granny!” You chirp, and he hears a delighted squeal. 

“Dearest! It’s been ages!” 

So you’ve been here before. 

Several times by how familiar Bonnie seemed with you. 

Osamu meanders his way into the kitchen, where Bonnie is wiping her hands on her apron. She grins at the sight of him,

“This is Osamu! He’s been helping Buck around the farm for the last few weeks!” She says, and Osamu tips his hat with a wink. 

“We’ve met before.” He says, and you jump up from where you had been sitting at the dining table and throw your arms around his neck in a tight hug.

“‘samu!” You cheer, and he returns any affection greedily, pressing a kiss to your cheek. He’s still unable to get the sight of your corpse out of his mind. But he vowed that if he ever saw you again, he’d accept any love you’d give him. 

You’re dressed the part of a cowgirl. A long calico skirt and long-sleeved button-down. Your hair is longer than he remembered, tied back in a braid, and a bandana around your neck to protect you from the harsh sun above. Your hat sits on the table, and so do your gloves. 

Your skin is just as soft as he remembers. 

It isn’t long before Buck is called in for dinner, and the four of you eat together. You sit to Osamu’s right, with Bonnie to his left and Buck across from him. You chat happily with the couple, and Osamu is content with just sitting and watching. You tell an obviously edited version of your adventures, with grand sweeping gestures and voices to accompany your tales.

Long after Bonnie and Buck go to bed, Osamu finds you on the swinging bench on the front porch. You’re writing in your journal, about halfway full, and sketching a picture of him.

It’s an incredible likeness to his face and rather impressive to look at. You even got his cowboy hat right.

“Mind if I sit?” He asks, and you jump, slamming your journal shut and looking up with wide eyes. But you realize it’s him, relax, your shoulders sagging, and nod with a smile. The wood creaks as he sits at your side. His arm stretches along the back like it belongs there, and you lean into his side. He relished in your warmth.

“Have we done Rome yet?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I was thinking of going there next, though!” You say, and he nods, leaning his head against yours.

“How come you never go to big events?” He asks next, and you hum with a shrug,

“I like the little days. I like seeing how people live their day-to-day lives.” You say, and he can’t help but laugh. 

You were truly the exact opposite of him. 

You swat his chest, 

“Don’t laugh at me!” You cry with mock anger, but a smile curls the corners of your mouth. Like you liked hearing him laugh. You give him pause when you lean up and press a kiss to his nose. He freezes, blinks several times, and stares down at you. 

“I love your laugh.” You say, and his smile falters just the slightest bit.

No one liked hearing him laugh.

Not since he left home, at least.

But you were his home now. 

October 31st, 2012

Yokohama, Japan

Fog rolls through the streets of Yokohama. Osamu strolls the streets, hands in his pockets. He was alone. At least for the time being. At least until you showed up again. 

If you showed up again. 

No… You would… Osamu had faith. You usually did on the small days. 

Whenever his nightmares got particularly bad, he’d time jump to a place he thought you’d like. This time, it was Yokohama, Japan. Notably, it was Halloween. Nothing ever happened on Halloween. Well… except for that one time… 

Oh, whatever. 

He had been here for a few months, finding himself at peace in modern-day Japan. He discovered his parent’s graves and realized he was home. 

At least… when he wasn’t with you.

Until he saw you crossing the street. 

You looked younger than he had ever seen you before. Another young girl walked beside you, both of you dressed in Halloween costumes and laughing amongst yourselves. 

But the longer he watched you, the longer he realized something. 

You wouldn’t know who he was. No, no, no, it was much too early for that. He had never seen you so young before. Not even in pictures when you had shown him at Versailles. 

Was this before you began to time jump? 

Suddenly, a hand smacked the back of his head, and he flinched, turning to see his newest acquaintance, Kunikida Doppo. He was shouting something. Something about being a bandage-wasting machine. Something about being a lowlife. He didn’t bother listening. 

Instead, he looked back to see you looking at him. There isn’t the faintest glimpse of recognition in your eyes. Nary a clue of who he is. 

You genuinely don’t know who he is at this point in time. 

You lift a hand and wave with a friendly smile, unknowingly making his heart crack in two. 

So, he turns, walks past Kunikida without a word, and heads back the way he came. 

“Dazai!” Kunikida’s voice, and he hears his acquaintance (He doesn’t have friends. He’s utterly alone in this world.) running up behind him. 

“What is it, Kunikida.” His voice sounds oddly monotone, and he knows he has to get you out of his head before he breaks down. He can’t ever come back here, not without causing a paradox and ripping Yokohama apart. 

And that would mean he would never see you, ever. 

“Are you okay?” Kunikida’s voice makes him stop. He spins with a plastic smile on his face and his heart threading to pieces. 

“Of course I’m okay! What makes you think otherwise?” He titters with an all too fake-sounding laugh. Kunikida looks uncharacteristically solemn. 

“Well… For instance, you’re crying.” He says, concern seeping into his tone. 

Osamu reaches up and touches his cheek, finding that it is indeed wet and glistening with tears. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 5: I Should Have Kissed You]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, bodily injury, sloths, public indecency, another important conversation on a balcony, angst!

Selected Chapter Quote: “I’m sorry about what happened tonight.”

Word count: 8k (+1 meme).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ ​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

There’s turbulence over the Indian Ocean as the jet staggers towards Singapore, pitching and reeling, dark clouds churning beyond the windows like the malevolent brew of a caldron. Each time the plane plummets fifty or a hundred feet, you clutch reflexively at your armrests and try not to think of Cast Away. No one else seems bothered by it; that’s what years spent on international flights will do to people, you suppose. It dulls their instincts, tames them, sands down vestiges of primeval survivalism like a file taken to canine teeth. Cregan is ostensibly napping beneath his sunglasses, Daeron is propelling Mario through a maze of toxic fumes, Luke is watching The Crown on his laptop with Rhaena and Baela, Jace is applying shimmering, gelatinous, golden under-eye masks with great care, Criston is answering emails, Aegon is being forced by the label to click through online substance abuse education modules and sighs dramatically and often. And Aemond…

The jet loses a dozen meters of altitude and your stomach drops. You stifle a yelp with one hand as tears—unwanted and unforeseen—prickle into your eyes. You peek across the aisle to see Aemond watching you with his gaze of two blues: one like a clear cool river, the other an otherworldly maelstrom like the atmosphere on Neptune, beautiful yet barren. His expression is intense and searching, his brow low. You try to ignore him. You try to collect yourself.

“Honeybunch?” Shelby croons. Yes, she calls him honeybunch, freaking honeybunch, and occasionally Honey Bunches of Oats. It’s almost as nauseating as the turbulence. He turns to her after the briefest of hesitations. Shelby is crouched by a table, her project for the past hour: artfully arranged red roses, glass bowls of fruit that she spritzes with a spray bottle of water—like you’d use to discipline a cat—to keep it glistening, and bubbling flutes of pink champagne. When the careening of the jet sends anything sliding precariously towards the edge of the table, she casually pushes it back into place. Shelby is no stranger to flying either. She is an angel, born with wings.

“Yeah?” Aemond says distractedly.

“Can you come over here for a sec?”

The jet shutters; ripples quake through your ginger ale. You swallow down a pathetic mewing like a wounded animal’s, swiping a tear from your cheek. You nestle against the window so no one will notice. “Sure,” Aemond tells Shelby, casting you another glance as he stands. He goes to her—gripping the backs of chairs to keep his balance—and, after looking back at you one last time, swipes one gleaming strawberry from a bowl.

“Don’t!” Shelby whines, knowing that now she’ll have to rearrange things.

If Aemond heard her, he gives no indication. He chucks the strawberry as hard as he can at Aegon; it hits the side of his head with a wet thump. Tiny black seeds pop free. Juice like blood stains his blond hair.

Aegon rips out his earbuds and spins around in his seat. “Okay, what the fuck?”

“Whoops,” Aemond says dully.

“How does someone do that by accident?! How does that even happen?!” Rubbing his head with one hand, Aegon stretches and peers around the jet. His eyes—not a blue like clear water, but a deep murky cobalt, a difference you cannot help but notice again and again like the stinging of a papercut—catch on you. “Aww, Stargirl, what’s up?” He drags himself over, knocked to his knees once by the swerving of the jet, and plops down into the chair beside you. “You okay? Don’t worry. I’m a good swimmer. I’d drag you to shore.”

You laugh, pressing a napkin to your eyes. It comes away shriveled and damp. “I’m sorry. We get tornadoes back home sometimes, I can’t stop picturing wreckage.”

“You should have seen this flight we took last year over the Pacific. The jet was practically sideways. Jace threw up like ten times.”

“Three times,” Jace says, peeling off his under-eye masks like little gold jellyfish with his feet kicked up on an ottoman.

“Ten times?” Aegon replies innocently. “Ten, you said?”

“Three, you idiot.”

“Ten?”

“Three.”

“Ten!” Aegon confirms merrily.

Jace holds up an under-eye mask and jiggles it in the air, soft and wiggling and shapeless. “Hey guys! This is what Aegon looks like naked.”

“I don’t want him getting any of the money from my donut merch!” Aegon shouts. “Criston? You hear that? Criston? Hey Criston? Criston?!”

“Do your modules,” Criston replies without looking away from his emails.

“Fine,” Aegon huffs. The jet is gliding over the ocean more smoothly now. Still, he says to you after smacking a single sloppy kiss against your temple: “Follow me. You can help.”

You accompany Aegon back to his seat and laptop, a neon green MacBook Air. Shelby is snapping photos to post on Instagram, recording clips for TikTok: the meticulously arranged table, her long fingernails decorated with palm trees and Merlions and the flag of Singapore, selfies of her and Aemond…always taken to show his good side, of course. Your guts twist with hostility, mistrust, envy, wrath.

As you pass Jace, he holds out his discarded under-eye masks. “Wanna touch?” Jace invites you, leering. You peel one gluey under-eye mask from his open palm and examine it. As you massage the pool of viscous gold, Jace ogles, dangerously close to drooling.

“So soft,” you admire. “So smooth. Not a single wrinkle.” Then you fling it back at Jace. The adhesive side sticks to his forehead. “Just like your brain.”

Everyone howls, even Cregan—not asleep after all—and Criston; he tries to choke it down until his face floods red. Aemond is staring at the floor, but he is beaming. Shelby recaptures his attention and begins posing his hand around a glass of champagne, readjusting fingers like a physical therapist stretching and flexing half-healed limbs. She gets to touch him. She gets to speak to him.

“You’re always so mean,” Jace tells you as he pries the under-eye mask off his skin, unfazed, simpering, flirtatious. “You might have to make it up to me one day.”

“Unlikely.”

“We’ll see.”

“We certainly won’t.”

Aegon shows you the quiz that has popped up in his modules. “Okay, Stargirl. Time to prove yourself. Does coke make someone’s pupils bigger or smaller?”

All you can hear is Shelby’s high, sing-songy voice; all you can picture are her exquisite fingernails skimming their way down the ridge of Aemond’s spine. “I honestly can’t recall at the moment. Go snort some and we’ll find out.”

Aegon grins. “Don’t tempt me.”

Fifty minutes later and under blessedly clear skies, the jet touches down at Changi Airport: 88 degrees Fahrenheit, 80% humidity. Aegon groans as he trots down the airstair, slides on his aviator sunglasses, and wipes away sweat—already beading on his pink forehead and wetting the hair at the nape of his neck—with the back of one hand.

“Jesus Christ, I need a Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino.”

“Do you really?” Jace jabs, and you don’t have to scold him this time. Baela gets there first, hissing something to him that is brief and fearsome. You’re only half paying attention. Once Comet Donati makes it through security, there may be paparazzi waiting for them inside the airport. Everyone knows this; it’s the same in every city and on every continent. And as Shelby strolls across the tarmac with one arm looped through Aemond’s, you cannot help but see—you cannot help but absorb like nicotine through the capillary beds of a lung—that she reaches out with those beautiful yet claw-like fingernails and taps the front pocket of his button-up shirt, black with white lilies, until he pulls out a pair of sunglasses and shields himself from the pitying eyes of the world with them.

And you think with puncturing clarity like a shard of glass through flesh: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Pan Pacific Orchard Hotel is brand new. You can’t breathe without inhaling fresh paint, glass walls, the bakery, the greenery that climbs steel like a trellis, the roomy emptiness of starting over. You wake up tangled in a nest of white sheets that your body has heated into an inferno. You don’t remember your dream, only that Aemond was there. It was the opening of the door that woke you. Aegon stands in the slanting early-afternoon sunlight, vivid red swim trunks and matching Crocs, his sunglasses knotted in his hair.

You yawn and peer blearily at him. “Aegon? What are you doing?”

“Every day I wake up hoping you’re still here,” he says. And then: “We’re all headed down to the pool. You wanna join?”

You smile; you can smell him in the air, Axe body spray, Tiger Beer, sunscreen that he never seems to apply often enough to stop his skin from burning. You haven’t been with him—not in that way—since that day in Paris. But time never feels quite linear with Aegon. He swings wide and then comes in close again, and when he does it’s like he never left. He’s with you always, and never, and sometimes, and forever. “Yeah. Give me ten minutes.”

“Cool.” He turns and studies himself in the full-length mirror that hangs on your bedroom wall. His eyes wander down to his bare chest and belly. He frowns, pensive, far-away, critical. It is an expression that looks entirely unnatural on him.

“Hey.”

He spins back around, running a hand self-consciously down the front of his torso. “Hm?”

“I think you’re perfect exactly the way you are. I am wildly, helplessly, pathetically attracted to you. I would fight off twenty fangirls with my bare hands for you. I think you’re one of the most ludicrously gorgeous men I’ve ever met in my life. ”

He grins, radiant again. “One of them, huh?” And he winks at you as he clops towards the door in his Crocs. “Maybe it runs in the family.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So. College applications season will be here in a few months.”

Baela looks at you, started. You’re in a whirlpool with her, Rhaena, Luke, and Aegon, sipping pina coladas and kicking feet idly beneath water misty with bubbles. “Okay?” Baela says. Her swimsuit is an elegant white one-piece that—unintentionally you think, unconsciously, and yet truthfully—closely resembles a ballet leotard.

“Elaborate?” Luke says, then slurps noisily on his pina colada.

Aegon already knows where you’re going. He chuckles into one closed fist; you can see yourself reflected in his sunglasses. In the massive main pool punctuated by an arcing bridge and a miniature island, Cregan is lounging on a float shaped like a pineapple and eating his way through a heaping plate of juicy slivers: papaya, mango, starfruit, banana, lychee, rose apple, dragon fruit. Criston is sitting under an umbrella and reading a New Yorker profile of shipping tycoon Viserys Targaryen—a Greek by birth and a Brit by choice—with narrowed, vexed eyes. Jace and Daeron are attempting to do a TikTok dance for Shelby to post on her account and repeatedly screwing up, laughing hysterically and pushing each other into the pool. She always wears eye-catching patterns, leopard prints and retro geometric shapes and plaids and Swarovski crystals and tassels. Currently, she is dressed in a scarlet bikini and a sheer coverup of tropical flowers. Her blond hair flows down her back and swings like a horse’s tail when she leans in to direct her cast, pointing and waving. You see her like this, not in whole but in pieces: long beachy waves, nimble ankles and wrists, lip gloss, veneers, sugary perfume, tall like Aemond. Shelby has no idea why you’re here. She made a few tentative inquiries—So who introduced you to the band? So how did you and Aegon meet?—before being discouraged by the ensuing stilted silence. Aemond rarely acknowledges you. Presently, he is wading in the pool up to his chest, occasionally talking to Cregan but otherwise content to be left to his own…reverie? Observations? Machinating? Brooding? With his sunglasses on, it’s difficult to tell.

Back in the whirlpool, you ask Baela: “What if you applied to a few ballet programs?”

“What?”

“Just to see what happens. Just to have options.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” She says this so quickly it’s clear that it’s a reflex: something she does not think about, something she’s trained herself not to.

“Sure you could. You click a few buttons and it’s done.”

“I’d have to send in video clips and stuff.”

“Okay. Rhaena and I will help record you.”

“Absolutely,” Rhaena agrees right away. She drinks her pina colada with large, skittish eyes, watching you like you’re poking a tiger, a viper, and dragon. She’s tried to have this conversation before. She knows how it usually goes.

“I’m really not in shape right now,” Baela protests.

“You still have time to work on that. It’s only July.”

“And who says I want to work on it?” Baela snaps. “Have I ever mentioned ballet school? Have I ever said that I want to go?”

“But you do,” you say simply.

She frowns as she casts her gaze across the pool. Beefy men dressed in black—security guards, some employed by the band, some by Shelby—mill around aimlessly like ants when you lift a rock.

“I think you should apply,” you tell Baela.

“I can’t,” she replies, pained.

“Why not?”

“Because.” She’s flustered, cross. Rhaena and Luke look between the two of you anxiously. Aegon just smiles and gnaws on the hunk of pineapple that came perched on the rim of his pina colada. “Am I supposed to send Rhaena off into the world without me? Nothing against you, Luke, I like you, I trust you, but when you’re on stage or in an interview you can’t watch out for her. What if something happens to Rhaena? Or what if I go back to school and I’m a failure? What if I humiliate myself? What if I’ve lost whatever talent I once had? What if I couldn’t keep up with my classmates? What if I get injured and have to drop out? What if I’m too old, or too out of practice, or what if I don’t even enjoy dancing anymore? What would I do about the band? What would I do about Jace?”

“Those are all valid concerns,” you say. “But they’re also concerns for after you’ve applied to schools. If you get acceptances, that doesn’t mean you have to go. But it does give you options. And options are always good.”

Baela shrugs. She catches handfuls of bubbles in one cupped palm, preoccupied. “It just seems like a waste of time.”

Aegon snickers as he tosses the pineapple rind over his shoulder. One of the security guys snatches it up off the concrete and throws it in a trashcan. “Baela, please babygirl, don’t give up on your dreams for freaking Jace.”

“And who the fuck solicited your life advice, blond Nikki Sixx? If I want to know what Narcan feels like, I’ll ask you.”

Aegon sighs, rubbing one eyebrow. “You are never going to let that go.”

“I bet you’d get in,” Luke tells Baela. “To at least one school. You’re too good not to, even with the time off. Rhaena’s shown me old recital clips. You were fantastic.”

“Were,” Baela mutters. “Past tense. Very distant past tense.”

“If you don’t get in, then you know it’s off the table,” you say. “And you’re in the exact same spot you are now. But if you do get in, you have time to figure out what to do with that information. You have nothing to lose except application fees, and I don’t think those are much of a barrier for you, oh great connoisseur of Gucci and Hermès.”

“I’ll think about it,” Baela replies, and her intent to end the conversation is clear. A few awkward moments creep by like afternoon shadows stretching across pavement. “So, what are we doing for dinner?”

“Something quick, right?” Luke says. “Takeout? We have a meet-and-greet in two hours.”

“Jollibee!” Rhaena exclaims, clapping her hands. “They have coconut pineapple pie!”

“Chicken Up,” Aegon says.

Luke laughs. “What the hell is a Chicken Up?”

“A chicken restaurant.”

“Groundbreaking” Baela quips.

“I’ve been to one in Seoul. Great wings.”

“But…but…Jollibee!” Rhaena pleads. “I need a coconut pineapple pie!”

“You’re literally drinking a coconut pineapple smoothie right now. When am I supposed to get my wings?!”

“Out of loyalty, I will have to vote for Jollibee,” Luke informs Aegon apologetically.

“I saw a Five Guys when we were driving here from the airport,” Baela suggests.

“Oh, I love Five Guys!” you say…and then you realize how it sounds. All of you giggle so loudly that Aemond looks over at the whirlpool, a little intrigued, a little miserable. He sinks down into the transparent blue water, Godzilla retreating from his wreckage.

Baela teases you: “Like, all at the same time, or…?”

“No, definitely one after the other. I don’t want an audience.”

Aegon chuckles, low and devious. He sets his empty pina colada glass on the rim of the whirlpool. Then, unprompted, he takes off his aviator sunglasses and puts them on you instead. Strange.

Rhaena is saying: “Okay, but seriously, I cannot overstate the merits of Jollibee…”

Beneath the water, obscured by riotous bubbles, Aegon settles a hand on your thigh. You glance over at him. He glances back, so subtly that the others don’t notice; they are deeply entrenched in their dinner debate. Now Baela is pitching MOS Burger.

Aegon arches an eyebrow. Okay? he’s asking. In reply—and after a moment’s hesitation—you open your thighs a little wider for him. His lips curl into a furtive smile. His palm skates excruciatingly slowly over your skin, taunting, electrifying, fingerprints dragging lightly. He’s still carrying on a conversation with the others, gesturing with his free hand. You sip your pina colada and try to act just as casual.

“Look,” Aegon is saying. “I’m not gonna eat someplace where they serve spaghetti with hotdogs in the meat sauce. It’s unnatural.”

His fingers slip beneath your swimsuit bottoms. You gasp before you can stop yourself.

“You okay?” Baela asks with concern.

You nod, blood rushing in your cheeks, blood rushing everywhere. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I saw a bug.”

Luke says: “Man, the insects here are insane, some giant buzzing black-and-gold thing flew into my face earlier today and I almost cried.”

“A cicada,” you murmur. You grip the rim of the whirlpool and try to keep still, fixing your gaze on the palm trees that surround the pool, waving lazily in a hot humid breeze. “We have them in Missouri too. But ours are green.”

Rhaena is saying: “Apparently Singapore is famous for some super-rare beetle that’s been around for like 50 million years…”

Aegon’s expert fingers are circling, applying pressure, experimenting with different rhythms. He knows he’s found the right one when you suck in a breath and almost drop your pina colada; his smile is filling up his face, he’s fighting a grin. That feeling—a heat, a glowing, an unfurling like an opened letter—builds until it hits a blissful yet constraining plateau. It’s a ceiling, it’s a landing with no more steps. You stare at the swaying palm trees and try to relax, grateful for Aegon’s aviator sunglasses to hide behind. He’s half-watching you as he chats nonchalantly, wondering what more you need from him.

The conversation that whirls around you has revolved back to dinner: Shake Shack, Yoshinoya, Nene Chicken, Marrybrown, Wingstop.

“We should go somewhere that has vegan options,” you say shakily.

“What? Why?” Rhaena asks; she has forgotten, but you never do.

“For Aemond.”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond over in the main pool and see him taking a piece of starfruit off Cregan’s plate. Aemond bites into it—those pristine, glistening, golden angles—and wipes juice from his lips with the back of one hand. Then he looks over at you: two people pretending they don’t see the other, two pairs of sunglasses meant to render certain things invisible. And immediately, without planning to, you are thinking about Aemond touching you. You are thinking about his lips and his fingers, his shoulders, his throat, his eye devouring parts of you he’s never seen. You are thinking about where you would both be now if Reykjavik had never happened. And as Aegon’s hand works beneath the veil of bubbles, you are close, so close, agonizingly close. You are incapable of following the conversation. It takes everything in you not to moan and reach down into the roiling water to press him even more forcefully against you. His fingers glide through folds that are slick and achingly ravenous. Your pina colada is melting.

Someone makes a restaurant suggestion; you can’t register it. Aegon holds up the index finger on his free hand. “One moment. Allow me to consult my associate.” He leans into you, his hair brushing against your face, smelling like beer and sunscreen and pina coladas and Axe body spray. And he whispers as he pushes two fingers inside you and strokes you insistently with them: “Come for me, pretty girl. Right now.”

And while these words are in Aegon’s voice, for a split second you image them as Aemond’s; and then your climax shudders through you, silent by necessity but mind-numbing, a reset button, a deleted message, an echo chamber of nothing, nothing, nothing. For a moment, there’s no past and no future, no Kansas City, no Rome, no Reykjavik, no Singapore, no shame and no guilt and no desire for anything. And then slowly, like drops of rain, the world begins to fill back in again.

Aegon turns your face towards him so your lips are to his ear. You have to say something. “You’re unbelievable,” you exhale, so softly no one else will hear. “You can’t be real.”

He tells the others: “She says she votes for Chicken Up.”

When Aegon leaves the whirlpool, you follow after him a few minutes later, just long enough of a gap not to arouse any suspicions. You find him alone in the band’s private cabana and talking to someone on his iPhone. You kneel down beside his lounge chair and bend over his neon red swim trunks, palming him through the fabric—almost immediately, he is hard—and untangling the knot of the drawstring.

“Okay. Sounds good. I gotta go. Emma? Hey, Emma? I gotta go now. Yeah. See you soon. Uh huh. Bye.” Aegon hangs up and sets his phone down. Then he hooks a finger beneath your chin and lifts it. “What are you doing?” he asks, amused yet kind.

“Taking care of you.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

Your hands go still; your face is lined with wounded bewilderment. “You don’t want me to?”

“Well obviously I want you to,” Aegon says. “But only if you’re really into it. Not just because you see it as a debt to be paid. This isn’t about reimbursement. This isn’t an ATM transaction. And, you know…” He shrugs, rueful. “I can tell you’re kinda going through it. And you’re the one who needs to be taken care of right now. That’s cool. That’s not a problem.”

You sit back on your ankles, feeling guilty but undeniably relieved. “It seems unfair to you.”

“Stargirl, I don’t mean this in a braggy way, but at all times I have a line out the door of women begging to take care of me. I think I’ll survive.”

“Okay.” You smile up at him. “Okay, Aegon. I get it. Thank you.”

His sunburned brow crinkles. He is confused. “For what?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Comet Donati is scheduled to play three nights at the National Stadium. On the afternoon of the second show, Luke and Rhaena go to Fort Canning Park to explore the archaeological excavation site, Jace and Baela depart to procure his tattoo to commemorate Singapore (a Merlion on his left pec), and you, Aegon, Cregan, Criston, Daeron, Aemond, and Shelby receive a private tour of the Mandai Wildlife Reserve to promote the conservation of endangered Southeast Asian species. There are conversations with the staff and generous gift baskets and photo ops—which each time you quietly step out of the frame for, while Shelby steps in—but what snags in your mind, what you will remember forever about this day is Aemond. Because when he holds the animals, he lights up like you haven’t seen since those YouTube videos of Comet performances before the accident in Tokyo; he becomes at peace, he becomes whole again. He lets a blue tarantula creep across his palm and forearm, he feeds pumpkin slices to Asian elephants rescued from circuses, he walks around with Bunny the sloth draped over his chest like a napping toddler. And he smiles wistfully the whole ride back to the hotel…even when Aegon makes Criston stop the Escalade at Starbucks so he can get a venti-sized Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino.

Shelby likes to be in the front row with you, Baela, and Rhaena, but she spends less time dancing and cheering than she does taking selfies and recording video clips. During your now least-favorite song, A Girl Named After A Car, you spend a few minutes covertly scrolling through Shelby’s latest Instagram posts. She’s been sharing Stories relentlessly, but her last photo is from the private jet: her beaming smile, Aemond’s more reticent one (and only his good side, his smooth cheek and clear river-blue eye), a meticulously-arranged bouquet of flowers clutched to her chest like a gift. The comments are a waterfall of praise worthy of a saint. I was praying you two would get back together! You have such a kind and selfless heart, Shelby! You are so good for him! You are so brave! Thank you for showing the world that beauty is only skin-deep! Like she’s goddamn Mother Teresa. Like she deserves an Olympic medal for finding the strength to love him.

And you think once again, not for the first time and not the last: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

After the concert is a ritual, like drawing a pentagram or burning sage. People converge in Jace’s suite to mingle and drink and smoke and find someone to fuck if that vacancy isn’t already filled. You loiter by the bar even after you are handed your Bramble, a drink that should be poisoned by the fact that Aemond introduced it to you; but you can’t stop craving it. Criston is pacing and trying to make a call out on the balcony; from the look of his expression, the person isn’t answering. Cregan is in a velvet lounge chair with three models on his lap; they are taking turns feeding him the dripping cherries that bob in their cocktails. The rest of the band is sitting nearby and discussing their plans for next year once the tour has ended. You overhear Rhaena saying that she wants to visit the Mammoth Site in South Dakota. Luke wants to finish writing a new album. Aemond is conspicuously quiet.

Security guys float through the room between currents of musicians, label executives, friends, acquaintances, assistants. Shelby has her own detail that follows her everywhere; approximately every eight hours they switch out and new faces show up. Sometimes you recognize them from a prior shift, sometimes not. They look through you like you don’t exist at all.

A seat is waiting for you between Aegon and Baela, but you are in no hurry to sit opposite of Shelby and be forced to bask in the radiance of her flowing zebra-print dress, red-lipped, California-sun perfection. As you procrastinate with your Bramble, you listen to Daeron ask her about the Met Gala next May.

“Yeah, I finally made it onto the planning committee!” she gushes.

“Yay!” Baela trills, palpably sarcastic.

“Make it donut themed,” Aegon slurs. He has had a lot of Tiger Beers.

“I was thinking a masquerade ball, actually,” Shelby says, then looks at Aemond and settles a hand on his thigh. “We can go together, honeybunch! The timing never worked out before, but I’ve always wanted to attend with you.”

Luke asks: “And what’s the inspiration for the masquerade ball…?”

“Well, you know.” Shelby gestures vaguely. “Aemond won’t have to feel bad.”

Because everyone will be wearing masks. There is a long lull as people piece together what she means. Jaws drop open. Eyes grow large and then blink at her, incredulous, appalled.

Finally, Jace chuckles awkwardly. “Oh fuck, did you really just say that?” He looks around at everyone else. “Did she really just say that?! I mean, I wouldn’t even have said that!”

“It’s fine,” Aemond says, getting up off the couch.

Shelby reaches for him. “Honeybunch, wait, you know I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he repeats roughly. He takes his Bramble with him as he escapes to the balcony. Criston returns inside just as Aemond goes out.

“What’s his problem?” Criston inquires. Nobody answers.

Shelby sighs and—as furious blood swirls hot in your veins—approaches the bar. “Can I get a gin and tonic?” She takes out her phone, scrolls for a while, sighs again. You are glaring murderously at her. Shelby doesn’t even notice. The bartender slides her a tall glass full of clear carbonated liquid, ice, cucumber slices. She takes a picture of it before she plucks out the straw, lays it on the counter, and swallows a single, ladylike sip straight from the glass. She says to the bartender: “Drinking out of straws gives you wrinkles, you know.”

You say to her suddenly: “What is wrong with you?”

Shelby turns to you, startled. “Excuse me?”

You take a step closer, your pinkish Bramble still clasped in your hand. “I’ll ask again: what the fuck is wrong with you?”

She’s backing away, jumpy, clicking in her black heels. “What are you talking about?!”

“How dare you say something like that about him. In front of him.”

“Oh, so now I’m a bitch?” Shelby snaps. “Because I want him to have a good time at the Met Gala? Because I don’t want him to be humiliated?”

“No, because you think there’s anything humiliating about him at all, that’s what makes you a bitch—”

She shoves you backwards, only a few steps. You throw your Bramble in her face. She screams like you’ve stabbed her; it’s a scream that says I don’t know what it’s like to be hurt. And instantaneously, one of her security guards has his monstrous hand around your wrist.

You hear the pop before you feel it: bubbles bursting, tethers snapping. Then the pain explodes into your consciousness like a flashbang grenade. You’re shrieking, and suddenly there are voices all around you and people tugging in every direction. The security guy still has a grip on your wrist; each time he moves, he yanks you along with him, igniting fresh flairs of agony, impossibly red Morse code.

“No no no no no!” Aegon is shouting, pawing at the security guy. “She’s with us, she’s with us—!”

“Let her go!” Criston booms. Rhaena is crying. Baela is punching the security guy in the kidneys. Comet’s security guards clash with Shelby’s security guards, a miniature civil war. Within seconds the misunderstanding is resolved and you are freed. You are engulfed by Aegon and Criston, who try to examine your wrist; you are holding it gingerly to your chest, not even aware that you are sobbing. Baela is berating the rogue security guard. Rhaena, Luke, Jace, Daeron, Cregan, and Cregan’s soon-to-be one night stands are gaping at the scene. Shelby is being comforted by several fellow influencers; they coo sympathetically and give her napkins to mop the Bramble from her face.

Aegon, drunk but not far-gone, coaxes your wounded arm from your chest. “Shh, shh, you’re okay, let me see it…”

“Broken,” Criston pronounces. “Or dislocated. Time to go.”

“I can’t go home,” you say, petrified. Your thoughts are muddled by shock and pain.

Criston shakes his head. “No, not home. To the hospital.”

“I can take her,” Aegon volunteers, lurching as he grabs a barstool to keep his balance.

“No!” you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, Jace, Daeron, and Cregan burst out simultaneously.

“I’ll take her,” Criston says. “But you can come along, if you behave yourself and don’t try to steal morphine or anything. Bartender, I need ice…”

There is a commotion as Aemond bolts in from the balcony, moments too late. He looks at your swelling wrist, Shelby dripping with a Bramble, Baela taking a cloth full of ice cubes from the bartender and passing it to Criston. “What happened?!”

Aegon seethes as he pushes him aside: “Ask your fucking girlfriend.”

And Aemond watches, thunderstruck and horrified, as Criston escorts you out of the suite with Aegon and Baela following like shadows. When you glance back at him, he is growing smaller and smaller, like an object fading away in the reflection of a rearview mirror.

Under bright white lights, a gentle and mild-mannered Singaporean doctor maneuvers your bones back into place. It feels like you’re dying; Aegon tries to distract you with stories of shenanigans from tours long past, Baela finally begins to talk about ballet schools, which programs she likes and which she doesn’t and what exactly she’ll have to show in her audition tapes. The doctor informs you that you have a mild dislocation, no surgery needed, no cast, only a splint. He tells you to rest it and try to keep it elevated. He gives you pain medication that doesn’t do enough.

“That is an interesting saying,” the doctor says when he glimpses your tattoo, black ink between the straps of your pale pink dress, like the color of a healthy lung or brain: I’ll come back for you if it kills me, Comets clip by again after eons and so can I. You try not to think about these words. You don’t know what to make of them anymore. “Is it from a poem? Or a movie?”

“From a song,” you reply, studying the tiles of the floor. “One I used to love.”

Criston goes to pay the bill. Baela goes to get you a soda from the vending machine. “I’m sorry,” Aegon says miserably when the two of you are alone in the hospital room. Beer and remorse sweats out of his pores. “I’m sorry I fucked everything up in Reykjavik.”

“I know, Aegon. I’m not mad at you.”

“I shouldn’t have said it. I had way too much Icelandic beer, that was my bad. But it was supposed to be a compliment.”

“It was kinda sweet. In an unhinged, debaucherous sort of way. An Aegon way.”

And he burrows his head against your chest, and you comb your fingers through his messy blond hair with your uninjured hand, and you wish you understood why the coincidences of the world had brought you together if it was only a blip, an error, a momentary crossing of orbits before you returned to your designated places on opposite ends of the universe.

In the elevator, as the four of you zoom up to the top floor where the band’s suites are, you check your phone to discover that in addition to well-wishes from Luke, Rhaena, Daeron, and Cregan, Jace has sent you a WhatsApp message: A meme to make you feel better…

“Ugh,” you groan, and toss your phone back into your purse. You try to ignore the fact that there is nothing from Aemond, not a single word, not a missed call, nothing.

“You good?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah. The drugs the hospital gave me aren’t quite cutting it.” That’s very true, although that’s not the whole problem.

“You want some Vicodin?”

“No thank you, Aegon.”

“Oxy? Percocet? Klonopin? Codeine? Demerol? Coke? Speedball? Valium? Weed gummies?”

You blink at him as Criston and Baela stare at the elevator walls, trying not to listen in. “I think I’ll just go to sleep now.”

“Okay, Stargirl. Sure. Whatever you want.” He grabs your face, lands a kiss on your forehead, staggers off to his suite when the elevator doors ding and open. You walk in the opposite direction to yours after thanking Criston and Baela. As you pass Aemond’s suite, you can hear people arguing inside, heavy footsteps and sharp words.

“You need to get better control over your people,” Aemond is saying.

“Who even is she?! I know she’s not Aegon’s girlfriend. Aegon doesn’t have girlfriends.”

There is a gap of silence, and you wonder what Aemond will tell Shelby. She’s a fan, she’s an employee, she’s a groupie, she’s a slut. At last he says, drained: “She’s a therapist.”

“Oh, for you?”

And you can hear Aemond sigh through the door, perpetually a broken thing now, forever someone in need of being stitched back together; they got the flesh back in December, but the soul is still unmended.

You go to your suite, wash the night off of you, and pull on your Cookie Monster pajama pants and an oversized One Direction t-shirt. You can’t sleep yet; the pain in your wrist is too bad, the chaos in your mind is too loud. You take another pill from the bottle the doctor gave you and go out onto your balcony and sit in the sounds of Singapore past midnight: sparce traffic, buzzing cicadas, the ocean, the wind rocking the palm trees. When you hear the sliding glass door open, you aren’t sure who to expect: Aegon, Baela, Criston, Cregan, Jace. It is none of these people. It is Aemond. He stands there rigidly, like he hadn’t planned to get this far. He is in black—as usual—but he wears no sunglasses.

“Criston really needs to start keeping a closer eye on those extra room keys,” you say.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight.”

“You don’t need to pretend to be worried about me. It’s fine, just leave.”

“I feel responsible.”

“I’m not someone you consider worthy of concern,” you say. “You want me to be honest with you? You want to keep a running list of my sins in your little black-paged notebook? Alright, sure. I’ve been hooking up with Aegon. Only after Reykjavik, and not…like…all the time or exclusively or anything. But occasionally. And I know exactly what you think of me and how I’ve chosen to live my life. So don’t come out here acting like you care when you clearly don’t.”

“I know what you told Shelby. I don’t…” He stares at you, a little mystified, a little grateful. “I don’t understand why you keep defending me after what I said.”

Because I believe you deserve better. And I care about you. And I can’t stop. And honestly it fucking sucks and so if you could just leave, that would be great. “That’s just what I do.”

You expect Aemond to go. Instead, he sits down in the other chair, lights one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes, takes a drag and exhales smoke in a long, slow breath like a hushed confession. “I once asked what made you want to be a therapist.”

“And I didn’t tell you.”

“No.”

Your eyes list to him like a ship in a storm, groggy, clawing for purchase. “Do you still want to know?”

“I do.”

The night sounds like wind in clattering wet leaves, car horns and rolling tires, ocean waves, indistinct echoes of laughter like a memory. Aemond waits for you, patient, eternal, or at least so long-lived it’s practically the same thing. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you like this. You wonder why you can’t outrun what you feel for him, a curse or a spell or both tangled up together like veins beneath skin. “I had a boyfriend when I was in high school,” you say. “And I took pictures for him. Because he asked me to, yes, but also because I wanted to, because it made me feel desirable, and powerful, and like I was choosing to share something special with him. No one talked me into it, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. And when we broke up, he sent those pictures to his friends. And they sent them to their friends, and they sent them to their friends, and I’m sure you can do the math from there.”

Aemond doesn’t look disgusted or horrified or pitying. He looks furious, and not at you. “That’s illegal, right?”

“In some places, sure. In Missouri? Ten years ago?” You smirk cynically, shaking your head. “The only person anyone was condemning was me. And it wasn’t just the students. They said things, obviously. They wrote notes and they whispered. But it was the teachers too, and the parents, and the administrators. It was everyone. Staring at me. Talking about me like they understood who I was.” You meet Aemond’s eye. “And you called me a slut.”

He voice is hoarse. “I didn’t know.”

“But you still said it.”

“What I said…” he sighs shakily, rubbing his face with one hand. He crushes the end of his cigarette beneath his Adidas sneakers and then lights another. “What I said wasn’t a reflection on you or what you did with Aegon. That’s not what it was about. It was about me, it was about how I interpreted things, and…I mean, you get that, right? You know that. You’re a professional. I took what Aegon told everyone and I bounced it off a few mirrors and ran it through my filter of how I’ve been taught to believe the world operates, and that’s why I said what I did in Reykjavik. It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t true. And I could never express to you how sorry I am.”

Tell me the whole story, you think, you plead, watching him like parched earth looks for rain. That you were afraid my feelings for you weren’t real. That you wanted me then and you still want me now. That you’ve never wanted anything the way you want me. But that’s not what Aemond says.

“What happened next?” he asks gently.

“What do you think? I had to be homeschooled. I lost every friend I’d ever had. I was terrified to leave the farm and go anywhere…to Walmart, to McDonald’s, to 7-Eleven, anywhere. And my parents…they’re Southern Baptists, okay? They tried to be supportive. They really did. They didn’t shame me, and that alone was a huge leap for them, and I’m very grateful. But they had no idea how to talk to me about what had happened. What they did do was find someone else for me to talk to. She was a therapist, and she saved my life. And when I got into UChicago, I decided that the only thing I wanted to do was help people in the same way.”

“Why didn’t you stay in Chicago?” Aemond says, bewildered. “I mean, why would you go back to Kansas City after the way people treated you there? So fucking closed-minded and hypocritical and…and…and evil? You were a kid. You were a goddamn kid and they tried to destroy you. Why would you go back there? You could have gone anywhere else. You still can.”

“I considered it,” you admit. “But my family has lived in Missouri for almost 200 years. It was once a place of opportunity, somewhere for people who had nothing to carve out a piece of the world and make it their own. Why should I let anyone banish me without my permission? And besides, I think Missouri could use more people like me. I can make a difference there. Someone like me in Chicago or London or Los Angeles or New York or Miami? I’m a dime a dozen. In Missouri, I’m part of the change. In Missouri, I can save people like I was once saved.”

“Hmm,” Aemond says. And then he smiles at you, kind and tender. “Pretentious.”

“Oh shut up,” you laugh, shoving him with your uninjured hand: his deep, warm, rolling chuckle, his broad shoulders that barely give beneath your palm.

His eye flicks down to your One Direction t-shirt. “And a traitor.”

Want me to take it off? you almost say. Instead: “As if you don’t idolize them. As if you wouldn’t deign to have a favorite One Direction song.”

“I couldn’t divulge information as sensitive as that.”

“Aegon tells me you spend a lot of time brooding to The Script.”

Aemond groans, but good-naturedly. You got me, his face says, surrendering. “True.”

“What’s your go-to crying on the floor song? Breakeven? Nothing?”

“The Man Who Can’t Be Moved. But now you have to give me one in return.”

“If You Ever Come Back. A certified tragic bop.”

He nods, thoughtful. He slides his phone out of his pocket to check it.

“Sexts from Shelby?” you ask with undisguisable vitriol.

“No. Favorite Coldplay song?”

You remember that night with him in Rome: the concert, the motorcycle, the lingering in the hotel room doorway as you waited for him to ask to stay. “Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. What’s yours? You strike me as a The Scientist stan.”

“Viva La Vida,” he counters.

Of course. “I used to rule the world,” you quote.

“Now the old king is dead, long live the king.” He looks out into the city, streetlights and ocean and wind, sounds of the planet you call home. Again, you think of Rome. “I should have kissed you,” he says softly.

Your heart stops like a car against a brick wall, glorious euphoric shattering. “What?”

“My favorite One Direction song. I Should Have Kissed You.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah, that’s great.”

“Yours?”

You have to think about this. At last you decide: “Through The Dark.”

“Ah. A deep cut.” Aemond checks his phone again. “Look up,” he tells you.

“Why…?”

“Right now. At the sky. Look up.”

You go to the balcony railing and peer up into the sea of darkness and moon and stars. And at first you don’t see anything extraordinary…but then you do. There’s a thin flash like white ink on black paper, tracing its way along the arc of the Earth. There’s a visitor, there’s a time traveler. “What is it?” you ask Aemond, entranced.

He gets up to stand alongside you. “The Perseids. A meteor shower that happens every summer. They’re difficult to spot from a city. Too bright, too much light pollution. There are hundreds, but here we’re lucky to glimpse one or two.”

“But they’re always there,” you muse, remembering what he told you in Rome about the comet that gave the band its name. “Whether we see them or not.”

Aemond points up at the faint silvery glimmer in the indigo night. “The Perseids are from a comet too. They’re debris left by Swift-Tuttle.”

“Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like Donati, does it? And no potential for cute donut merch.”

Aemond smiles. “Comet Swift-Tuttle is the largest object to cross Earth’s orbit so closely. Very, very closely. Luckly, it only swings by us every 133 years. It’s been called the single most dangerous object known to humanity.”

“I thought that was Jace.”

He bursts out laughing, gazing over at you with a face that in this moment he is unashamed of. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“I’m a universe away from Shelby, that’s for sure.”

Aemond’s smile dies. He clears his throat and puts out his cigarette. “I guess I should get going.”

“Yeah, I need to go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He hesitates, he acts like he’s going to say more, he leaves you on the balcony as he retreats back to his own suite, his own life, his own past and future and secrets.

And before you crawl into your empty bed, you look up at the Perseids one last time as they hurtle through space and time and gravity, through a landscape of constellations that Aemond could tell you the names of, through the dark.

[rainbowmothed]

a collection of angsty quotes that reminded me of vaggie. inspired by @ lookinginsidemymind on tiktok.

“i think i was born to sting,”

but i don't mean to.”

“im not a violent dog. i dont know why i bite”

“how the absence of someone can feel like the absence of myself.”

“wish you were here. you could tell me what to do.”

“i am angry, i am unlovable. i am mostly afraid those things are true.”

“please stop yelling at me please scratch my back please stick up for me in a conversation i am listening to from the top of the stairs. you are my girlfriend, act like it”

“i wear the army's anger like a hand-me-down. the hotel says it does not look good on me”

“i do not know how to love something without sinking my teeth into it”

“i am the girl screaming. i am also the girl begging to not be screamed at.”

“what if i become angry like my past self. what if i already have?”

“i would do anything to become someone worth keeping around”

“why are you running away?”

“i must search every corner of the world to search for the girl i once was. to get rid of her, once and for all”

“i am so adam's top girl it hurts. can you tell?”

“i love you.”

“sometimes, i think love and violence are the same”

“if my past was a tooth, id tie a string around it and slam the door on those memories.”

“but it is not. i cannot.”

“i am flying way too close to the sun and id like to say the heat burning my skin makes me feel alive but i really just want the blisters to prove ive been hurt”

“i am messy. everything i let go of has claw marks. i am stubborn. i have never met a hill i wouldn't die on”

“i've been holding onto this grief so long it feels as familiar as the turns into my neighborhood when i've fallen asleep in the car.”

“i want to wake up now. i want to let it go”

“how could i forget? does the tree forget the axe?”

“i stuffed myself into this cocoon. now i beg for transformation”

“thank you for putting flowers in my messy room im sorry for making you mad at me i didn't mean to but unfortunately there's something wrong with me”

“im trying my best im trying my best that's all i can do”

“sometimes this girl's best is judging everyone else to distract herself from the fact that she hates herself more than she could ever hate anything else”

“i love like a dog. not in the cute, fluffy way; in the discarded, disgusting mutt way. i whine for any scraps of affection i am given”

“sometimes, you are so accustomed to hate you cannot fathom love. you reject it.”

“i don't think my creator knows my favorite color. or my birthday.”

“i wish i could look at myself in the mirror without crying”

“i love you with what in me is unfinished; i love you with what in me is still changing”

“someday i will sail away from the shame i carry. for now, i am merely a passenger”

“you're holding onto something that doesn't exist anymore”

“unclench your fists.”

“this grief isnt tangible but oh god how i can feel it”

“this is an automated message, please don't reply. we are calling in regard to your father”

“we mean your creator. we mean the man that raised you. we mean the man that said he raised you.”

“sorry, we dont know what we mean, because you don't know what we mean”

“we apologize for any miswording. we apologize the way they will never apologize. when will you accept that?”

“sometimes i dont want to get better just to show you how bad it was”

“i am afraid that if i open myself i will not be able to stop pouring. why do i fear becoming a river? what mountain gave me such shame?”

“you keep asking if i would die for you. i keep asking why you want me dead”

“good enough to grab. they always put me back, though. 🐟”

“im sorry for saying sorry”

[xo-zozo]

my favorite parts of shatter me (except i rated it 1 star)

oh. 😭 top tier writing? 😨

GINGERBREAD MAN. 💀 DONT EVEN WITH ME RIGHT NOW.

wow. aaron is sooooo book boyfriend

guys… guys… am i the only one who finds this PSYCHOTIC BEHAVIOR

GIRL WHAT. clouds??? heartbeats?? how is this poetic 😭 “i am a raindrop.” IM SO LOST

random quotes

“i crumble to the floor, folding into myself like a flimsy crepe”

GIRL BYE 💀 THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A SERIOUS SCENE WHY AM I LAUGHING SO HARD

“i realize im paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs.”

AGAIN. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN. WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

“my lips are too pink. my teeth are unusually straight”

oh no poor girl 😕

“he leans back against the couch. runs a free hand over his face. seasons change. stars explode. someone is walking on the moon”

this has nothing to do with the moon WHAT.

“james and adam glance back at me and i melt into pink play dough.”

how does she know about play dough. could she not just melt? or was that not quirky and different enough for her?

”my stomach is a flimsy crepe, my heart is a raging woodpecker, my blood is a river of anxiety”

what’s with the flimsy crepe??? idk but she loves it

“my jaw is dangling from my shoelace.”

mhm okay if you say so

so yeah that’s all… shatter me sucked and i’m sorry if yall like it but it is literally the worst book i’ve ever read

byeee 🤗🤗🤗

[demolitonlcvers]

what happened to the ten billion?

I just finished another reread of Nona and there were a few lines that I missed the first two times that I picked up on this time– namely, about the rest of the ten billion people John killed during the Resurrection. The simplified version of the theory is: I think the rest of the ten billion went through the stoma into hell, and I think the thing that possessed Colum Asht at the end of Gideon, as well as the things that were in Drearburh at the end of Nona and that Kiriona talks about fighting on Antioch are the ten billion. I also think that the first act of Alecto, which is titled “Harrow in Hell,” is going to be Harrow descending into hell and setting all of those souls free. I also think they have something to do with the Tower, but since we know so little about the Tower my evidence on that is shaky at best, and the Tower could also be something of John’s. If you want my full in-depth explanation with quotes and everything, it’ll be below the cut: 

Someone has probably already figured out that whatever took control of Colum Asht’s body in Gideon (+ the things that were in Drearburh + the things the Cohort are fighting on Antioch) comes from the stoma, but it was something I just put together myself today and I’m very excited about it. The first piece of evidence is the fact that they have a similar appearance– the bodies possessed by these revenants’ eyes turn into mouths, with teeth and tongues, and the tongue they’re supposed to have in their regular mouth gets bigger. The stoma described at the end of Harrow has teeth and a bunch of tongues (also this is off-topic but the appearance of the stoma resembles the sea monster Charybdis from Greek mythology to me, I wonder if that’s intentional). All of this I’m like 95% sure I’ve seen in a post on here before, but I also found this quote in Harrow, spoken by Augustine to Mercymorn– “You never did take the stoma seriously, which is why your whole damned house sucks at it like a grotesque teat…” (htn 340). Weird gross description aside, this is what cemented this theory for me– the Eighth clearly worships the stoma in some way, probably because of their soul siphoning practices, which can let something from the stoma into the body of the cavalier if they are siphoned too much. Also, close to the end of ntn, Kiriona is explaining these things to Paul and says John calls them “devils:” “They shouldn’t be here. We would have gotten word if they were back in the home system. they’re confined to Antioch— he said they’d only be on Antioch… (Paul asks where they’ve seen this before) Silas Octakiseron’s poor bastard cavalier… I didn't understand then… we call them devils. I mean, Dad calls them devils… they can't be here. He said they couldn’t travel” (ntn 448). Devils = from hell, et cetera et cetera. More on the fact that the devils “shouldn’t be in the home system” later.

But what do the revenants from the stoma have to do with the ten billion? I have a few pieces of evidence for this, but two of them are from Varun possessing Judith to speak to Nona, so they don’t make a lot of sense. The first quote is from the scene where Nona and Varun-in-Judith are talking on top of the trucks: “They are coming out of their tower, salt thing. There is a hole at the bottom of their tower. I will pull their teeth. I will make it blank for you” (ntn 393). I’m not even going to try to figure out what “I will pull their teeth, I will make it blank for you” means, other than the fact that the stoma has teeth so maybe that has something to do with it? I was very confused over what “they” were until I got to the second quote, from the scene when they’re driving in the River and see the Tower for the first time: “He left them too long— you left them too long, my salt thing” (ntn 440). The ten billion, if they are in hell, have certainly been there for too long, long enough for them to turn into the revenants they are now. What complicates this is the fact that Kiriona and Ianthe are called the “Tower Princes–” why would John name them after the Tower if it has something to do with the ten billion people he killed, who he’s now presumably losing a war against on Antioch? Unfortunately, I don’t really have an answer for that other than “this whole theory could be totally wrong and Tamsyn Muir will completely contradict everything I’ve said up to this point in Alecto.”

The last piece of evidence that pulls it all together for me, though, is Harrow. In the last John chapter in Nona, she says to him– ““I want to understand the mathematics, now that I have seen them for myself. I want to know how many of the Resurrection are left, and how many you began with, and what the discrepancies are. I want to know where you put them. They didn’t go in the River” (ntn 435). Right after this, she walks into the River towards the Tower. To add to this, it’s confirmed that the first act of Alecto will be titled “Harrow in Hell,” and Tamsyn has said before that Harrow’s name is specifically a reference to the Harrowing of Hell. The Harrowing of Hell is the period of time between Christ’s death and his resurrection, during which he descended into hell and freed all of the souls who had been trapped there since the beginning of time. I think what’s going to happen in the first act of Alecto, presumably in between when Harrow walks into the River in Nona and when she comes back to her body in the epilogue (it’s been established that time works differently in the River, and probably underneath the River, too), is she’s going to go into hell and set the ten billion free (and also maybe Augustine and Ulysses, both Lyctors who were trapped down there, but I could be being too hopeful). Also, as an extra note, the harrowing of hell has a name as a subject in Christian art: Anastasis, which is Greek for “resurrection.” And another note that I don’t know where else to put: Anastasia’s cavalier being named Samael may end up being important, what with all this discussion of hell and devils. 

My last point has to do with how the devils ended up in Drearburh. This part of the theory is very tentative, but I don’t really see any other way it would be possible from the information we have now: at the beginning of Harrow, in a scene I forgot about the first two times I read it, John sends some of the ancient dead to the Ninth House:

“Oh my God,” you said, forgetting that the deity in question was right there. “The ancient dead. You’ve committed resurrection.” 

He said, “No. I haven't truly resurrected anyone in ten thousand years. But all that time… I set many aside, for safety… and I've often felt bad about just keeping them as insurance. They’ve been asleep all this myriad, Harrow, and it’s frankly a relief to my mind to wake them up.” (htn pg 36)

I think this is, somehow, how the devils ended up on the Ninth. However, it clearly isn’t something that happened to every single resurrected person sent to the Ninth– at the end of Nona, she mentions seeing people of all ages in Drearburh, something they definitely didn’t have at the beginning of the series. I also want to point out how insane and fucked up it is that John’s been keeping a bunch of resurrected people from ten thousand years ago in his basement “for insurance.”

Again, all of this is very very tentative and I'm sure when Alecto comes out I will have predicted maybe 2 things correctly

[desdasiwrites]

[jumpywhumpywriter]

The Wolf... and Death - "Death is Beautiful, and Death is Kind"

Warning: very sad and detailed death of a wolf (from old age), encounter with death as a person, the transition from life to death (It might make some people cry so beware!)

Another ‘moral of the story’ snippet I wrote with more of Wise Wolf’s wisdom. I wrote this one to describe the value of life and how meaningful it is, how much we should appreciate the scarce time we are given. “Death is beautiful, and Death is kind.” – quote by me

-------------------------------------------------------

Wolf had lived a long life, far longer than most of his kind. But silver hairs now streaked through his once jet-black pelt as he padded though the lush forest he called home. Spring was such a beautiful season, signifying the beginning of new growth.

Time was a permanent form of currency, once spent it would never be gotten back again. It was like a river that never stopped flowing, as old and ancient as the earth itself. Life is born, to die, and somewhere else, another life is born anew. The cycle of nature's precious balance.

Wolf's majestic head hung low as he trekked through the forest, pollen from trees dusting his fur, the sun chasing away the cold of fall. There was a weariness aching deep in his bones and muscles, a tiredness that constantly tugged at him with every pawstep.

But he kept going. He knew his life was nearing its end, he had already prepared for it. And there was a special place he wanted the magical moment of transitioning to take place.

He pushed his way through bushes and brambles that snagged at his thinning fall coat. The trail didn't seem this long last time he'd traveled it, but he'd also been young and spry back then. The sound of water running over rocks reached his sensitive ears, and they pricked up hopefully. Soon enough, he left the tangle of bushes and reached the edge of a wide, babbling brook.

It was fed by a natural spring, and Wolf crouched at its edge, drinking long and deep from the crisp, cold water. His joints creaked with the movement, but he sated his thirst, lapping greedily and letting the blessed coolness slide down his throat.

Then Wolf stretched stiffly with a wide yawn, showcasing worn-down teeth, before he laid down on his side in the lush grass to rest, right next to the brook. He was cold, despite the sun shining down on him with all its welcoming warmth.

The sweet smell of spring flowers wafted over him, and a light breeze ruffled his fur. His matted fur. Shaggy pelt. Unkempt and ruffled with age. It was peaceful here, the lovely song of birds echoing through the forest, weaving into the murmuring of the water.

Wolf's side rose and fell with shallow, wheezing breaths as he laid limply, enjoying all the beauty and flourishing life around him. How strange it was that life was so fleeting, so precious, but only for a heartbeat before it would be gone. Wolf had lived for decades, but it was only a millisecond in time compared to eternity. And the world would keep turning long after he was gone.

Wolf had grown weak and frail after a life of power and strength, his hide stretched thinly over bones. He remembered how he used to run through open meadows, reveling in how his lithe muscles moved and propelled him forward. The sheer unbridled freedom of his existence. It all seemed... so far away now.

Wolf's dull amber eyes cracked open to watch a butterfly land on his snout, like a final kiss from nature before it fluttered off in a burst of bright color. He could feel the weariness taking over, he was just... so.. tired. It wouldn't be long now.

Wolf's ears flicked back attentively at the sound of footsteps coming closer, and he weakly shifted his head to look behind him.

Emerging from the treeline, was a tall woman with dark skin, wearing a black hooded cloak as dark as the night sky that looked like it was speckled with a million stars, sweeping elegantly behind her as she stepped into the field Wolf was laying in. She crossed through the flower-filled meadow to where Wolf was with enviable grace in her fluid movements, coming to sit down in the grass at his side.

"Oh my dear Wolf, you picked such a beautiful place to rest." Her voice was light and melodic, pleasant to listen to.

Wolf parted his jaws to speak, his rumbling voice coming out raspy. "You are..."

"Death. Yes," the woman finished. "I come to those who need me and make sure they are not alone when they leave this world, and will never be alone again. The pack you once ran with awaits you in my realm, they howl in joy for you."

Wolf's lip pulled back into some semblance of a faint smile, as much as a wolf could achieve. He had cheated Death many times before, but this time he was ready for her. Welcomed her. He used to picture Death as a cruel, ugly creature that sapped the lives of those around them, but now that Death was here with him, all he saw was the beauty in it. Death was beautiful, and Death was kind.

Wolf shivered with the cold that was slowly seeping into him, and he felt a gentle hand pass over his shoulder soothingly, running through his fur.

"Death... if I may have a dying wish...?" Wolf's voice was no more than a whisper on a breath of air.

The woman's face was soft and knowing as she gazed down at him with crystal blue eyes. "Of course, Wolf."

"May I... stay here a bit longer before I go?" Wolf asked quietly. "The flowers... are just so perfect..."

Death smiled angelically. "You don't have much longer, but I will allow you a few more minutes. Would you like me to leave you to pass in peace?"

"No..." Wolf murmured. "Please stay... until the end. I... don't want to be alone."

"As you wish, Wolf. I will remain here. I won't leave you." Death stroked his head with a tender hand, and Wolf let out a tired breath, taking in the scent of the flowers and the water, the musky aroma of fallen leaves on the forest floor. His cloudy golden eyes lifted to the darkening sky that turned shades of orange, red, and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Stars became visible, stars like the ones in Death's cloak as darkness closed in and swallowed the light. Crickets started to chirp, a peaceful white noise in the background.

"Wolf... it is time for you to let go," Death said softly.

"...I know," Wolf answered faintly. He was ready now.

Death leaned over Wolf and kissed his furry cheek softly. Wolf let out a final shuddering sigh, and stilled, eyes slipping closed. A peaceful wave of cold washed over him, and when his eyes opened again, the aching pain was gone, the weariness that had so often plagued him.

Wolf got to his paws and took a few steps forward, before looking back over his shoulder. He saw the mound of matted black fur lying amidst the flowers, unmoving. Death pulled away from it, gracefully rising to her feet to come stand at Wolf's side.

Wolf glanced at himself in the reflection of the water in the brook. His own coat was thick and luscious again like in the years of his youth, speckled with starlight, though faded in appearance. He felt weightless and timeless in this new form.

"Am I... truly gone?" Wolf breathed.

Death nodded. "It is time for you to come home, my dear Wolf. You don't live here anymore. There is a place waiting for you, where you can run free with your pack again for the rest of eternity."

Wolf dipped his noble head. "Thank you, Death... for taking my pain away."

Death smiled, a beautiful smile framed by dark skin, and gestured beckoningly to him and she started walking away. Wolf followed with his tail and head held high, happiness filling his chest.

Life becomes more meaningful when you realize the simple fact that you will never get the same moment twice... so Wolf had made the most of every second he'd been given. He had no regrets, and rejoiced at the thought of being reunited with family. He didn't look back at the body he was leaving behind, for it mattered no more. A bright eternity awaited.

Masterlist

This is part of a series of stories with moral impactful endings just like this one. The others are "The Wolf and The Human" and The Wolf and The House Dog"

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal

[brightlotusmoon]

Quoting my friend who lived in NYC in the early 2000s.

_

All I remember thinking: I can’t believe this is happening. All I remember thinking…

This year my grief tastes different. Like ashes, always, but like an apology. It’s been so long. My cells have died and been reborn 3 times. Some people I know have gone a lifetime without knowing this down deep. Or they were far, oceans and cities and miles and years. They chose to forget. They were able to forget. Shit, I spent almost two decades getting drunk only to get by. I have a lot of compassion for that girl.

Feeling it is like….

Well.

I lived in a burning city. For months. I know things that I want to scream in people’s faces but what good could that do? Throwing horror at people’s feet won’t make me feel better and it won’t make them understand.

“Ask me where I have been

and I'll tell you: “Things keep on happening.”

I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones;

of the river’s duration, destroying itself;

I know only the things that the birds have abandoned,

or the ocean behind me, or my sorrowing sister.

Why the distinctions of place? Why should day

follow day? Why must the blackness

of nighttime collect in our mouths? Why the dead?”

I don’t know what story to tell you. I don’t know what thing that I know that no one should ever know will help either of us, me to say it or you to hear it.

I lived in a burning city and the ashes of the dead were everywhere. I breathed them, I ate them. I’m haunted by the spirits that are literally a part of my body. I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know what to say.

I’m underwater, numb, absorbent as a brown paper towel. Tell me anything, tell me you hate me, tell me how much it will cost to fix my face, fill my ears and my hands with horrors. They can’t reach me. I’m too full of my own.

“Went into the kids bedroom, touched their sleeping faces. Wondered how i could protect them. Wondered how to protect them…”

“But let’s not go deeper than these teeth

Nor bite into the rind growing over the silence

Because I don’t know what to say:

There are so many dead

And so many piers the red sun used to split

And so many heads that the boats used to hit

And so many fists that have closed around kisses

And so many things that I want to forget.”

(Pablo Neruda)

_

[shiveringfrogspawn]

“That might be the most idiotic thing Regulus has ever known his brother to do, and this is Sirius he's talking about, so that's saying a lot. Sirius once flipped a cigarette in the air and tried to catch it with his mouth while it was lit, and kept doing it until he could actually consistently manage it, no matter how much it burned him. Though, in fairness, he can still do that trick to this day.“

“Regulus, you emotionally-constipated little shit, he thinks.”

“James' eyebrows are throwing a fucking party at the top of his forehead.”

“He's even treated to the sight of Regulus' waist and hips gleaming in the sunlight with water droplets, and it's ridiculous how he wants to walk over and just fucking bite. Not a playful bite, no, James wants to sink his teeth into Regulus and leave the deep imprints of his teeth from one jutting hip bone to the other.”

"It'll be an interesting scar, at least," James muses, and when Regulus shoots him a look, he snorts weakly. "What? Scars are sexy. Aren't I just so sexy, love? Tell me how sexy I am." 

Regulus rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch, because honestly? He's so grateful James seems a bit better—not fully alright, but trying to be. "You are unfortunately…not horrible to look at. Does that suffice?" 

"I'll take it," James announces decisively, clearly pleased. "I do recall you telling me that I'm… what was it? Unholy." 

"The devil," Regulus says dryly. James grins at him. 

"Well, you know what they say. The devil doesn't come to you with horns and a pitchfork, but rather in the form of everything you want. So, if that's what I am to you, I am not complaining." 

"I take it back immediately," Regulus tells him. 

"Too late," James teases. He leans forward slightly, his eyes sparkling. "Do I tempt you, Regulus?" 

"To kill you? Absolutely," Regulus shoots back.

Part 15/? of Crimson Rivers quotes

[villainsidestep]

your brother thinks you're a pushover.

which is wrong, and you know it's wrong, and you tell him it's wrong, but he doesn't listen, because of course he doesn't listen, because god forbid river becker ever listens to anything that anyone else ever tells him, even if it's done with the goal of keeping him happy or safe or alive or-

“I’m not a pushover,” you say again. “it’s called loyalty.”

smile. show a little teeth. enough that it looks more like a snarl. no heat behind it yet - you won’t do anything to him (not after what just happened, not when tensions are already this high) and he knows it, but it’s a warning nonetheless. one that he refuses to listen to.

“more like obedience,” he scoffs.

“if you think they’re the same,” you continue on, ignoring the way your sickly-sweet tone drags an angry tidal wave from him through the connection, “I guess that explains why you don’t know anything about either of them.”

it’s a low blow, and the both of you know it.

“fuck you, fawn.”

it’s immediate. dismissive. angry. angrier than you’ve heard him get with you in years. it hurts a bit, and you’re sure it’ll hurt more later, after this argument is over and you’re replaying it in your mind, but for now it just helps to fuel your own anger. to prove your point. to make you feel less guilty about pushing him back, the same way one would on a bruise, hoping it hurts. you want it to hurt. you want him to hurt. you don’t know why.

“why’re you mad?” you ask, widening your eyes in faux innocence. the smile-snarl tips back to friendly, even if it’s too large and full of teeth to genuinely come across that way. which is fine, considering its dishonesty. “all three of us know that julia’s the only “family” you care about.”

she’s not here to take it personally (or defend herself), but you watch river’s expression harden that much more at just the mention of her name. you always suspected he knew the root of your distance from her - as much distance as anyone with the last name ortega would allow, anyway - but this confirms it. he’s known this entire time that you had an issue with his “sister,” and he’s ignored it.

“she left you.” you enunciate each word clearly, continuing to treat him like an unruly child just to watch his rage spike. you want him to hit you, a passing thought hisses. you dare him to. to show himself that he’s not any better than cyrus, but you love him anyway. because he’s your brother. your brother, not hers.

“she abandoned you. they all abandoned us! they saw us go out the window, and then they fucking left us to the farm’s so-called “medical care”-” the air quotes are unnecessary, but they give you something to do with your hands that isn’t yanking at your hair, “-and the first thing you do is forgive her?! just take her back in like nothing happened?!”

“and you have the nerve-” they end up in your hair anyway, twisted in your bangs and pulling the same way you’re pushing against him, eager for the pain of it all, “-the nerve, to say I shouldn’t do the same for cyrus?!”

or you? hangs heavily in the air.

he abandoned you. he replaced you. but you forgive him. you’ll always forgive him. both of them. because that’s what family does.