#as a long lost dream i can never attain

[j-femmescoli]

i had my potential roommates fuck up and make us lose out on our (my dream) apartment by not filing their documents in time before another group swept in and got signed so i sent them a really long text explaining how disappointed i am and how i felt like i did most of the work for this apartment because i wanted to be moved in in like 2 weeks and now i have to find a place before school starts in, again, like 2 weeks and then saying that im gonna move on and look for a place without them because i dont want to go thru this again and now im worried that it's too aggressive.

[daintylovers]

Moments in Love

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

A/N: based off of a request from @beyond-the-stars-fairy

"Hey, can I request a season one stiles falling in love with the reader!"

ur wish is my command <3

Summary: Glimpses of Stiles falling in love with you, throughout Season One.

1.

If anyone were to ask Stiles who the girl of his dreams was, he would say you in a heartbeat. It felt like you had always been the one for him. An unrealistic fantasy that every teenage boy has. Except at this stage, most of his peers were moving on to more attainable girls. Not Stiles though, never Stiles. You could hit him with your car and he would thank you for it, the lovesick idiot. It didn't help either that you were oh-so-sweet to him. You guys weren't friends, more like acquaintances. But in his dreams, you were more than anything he could imagine.

So, even though Scott had just shown him a nasty "wolf" bite, his attention was stuck on you as you waltzed up the school's front steps. He called out your name in greeting and was pleasantly met with a smile and a wave.

Scott, did you see that. I mean we're practically set up for a slow-burn love affair. I swear to you, one day, she will be my wife.

Stiles, can you focus on something other than her for like five seconds! Jesus man, I show you I got bit by a freaking wolf last night because of you, and you don't bat an eye. But she wiggles her fingers and it's like your brain is fried. Get a grip.

The spaz manages to do as Scott says, until later that day he spots the new girl hanging around his girl. By the way, his best friend is looking at the new girl, he can tell that Scott is just as screwed as he is. Serves him right, it's time for someone else to feel the way he feels all the time.

Stiles learns that her name is Allison and remembers the class they share together. He won't lie, she's pretty, of course she is. But she's nothing compared to you in his eyes. Seeing the pair of you talking and giggling like long-lost friends from across the hall only makes his heart hammer harder. Even Scott comments about how Stiles' heart is seriously racing against his chest. Almost like Scott could actually hear it? Weird, but whatever, just means that Stiles has more than homework to do tonight.

But the newfound discovery about his best friend takes a toll on Stiles's mind, suddenly finds himself obsessed over werewolf lore rather than the smell of your shampoo when you sit next to him in math.

Stiles, are you listening?

Fuck, he was totally ignoring you. He obviously didn't do it on purpose, but what if you thought he was.

Stilessssssss, hellooooooo

Your fingers waving in front of his eyes is what causes him to come back to the land of the conscious.

Yes, sorry, yes, I am totally listening 100%.

Really? Then, what did I say?

You said, Stiles, hello in a way that a snake would if they were real. Like a cartoon snake with really good-smelling hair.

God, was he cursed to be the most awkward boy alive or something.

You aren't wrong, but you aren't fooling me Stilinski. I was very kind-hearted and I know you weren't listening. Guess I'll have to ask someone else.

No! No, don't ask someone else. I'm sorry. I promise I am paying attention now.

Good, because I won't ask again. Are you doing anything this weekend?

Was he dreaming? He had to have been dreaming.

No-no, nope, nothing. Yep, I am totally doing nothing this weekend by myself. Why do you ask?

I was wondering if you wanted to come to a party with me? Lydia has Jackson, and Allison is going with Scott. So I figured we could go together since our friends are coupled up.

And just when he thought his heart might explode, you added, Not as a date or anything. I just don't want to show up alone, you know. Plus, you shouldn't have to show up alone. We can show up alone together!

Yeah, that's great. Totally not soul-crushing to hear. God, you probably thought he was into boys. Which is fine, of course, Stiles was anything but homophobic. Yet, it's a tough spot to be in when the girl of your straight(?) male dreams thinks you swing for the other team.

Yeah, I would love to. Do you need a ride or something?

Which is how he arrived to now, driving with you in his passenger seat. Thank god it wasn't awkward. Sure, the small talk could have been better, but he could tell you were nervous. He just didn't know why. He knew why he was nervous, you were fucking gorgeous. And his best friend was surely going to kill your new friend tonight, but whatever. Live in the moment is what everyone says. And if he could, Stiles would stay in this moment forever. Getting to peek over at you softly singing along to the radio, windows down, the streetlights hitting you just enough to make you look like a dream.

Arriving at the party, you guys immediately got drinks and went to say your hello's. Turns out, you knew a lot more people than he did. But you never let him leave your side, always ready to introduce him to whoever you were talking to.

After you had finished, you suggested beer pong. Stiles opted out on condition of driving you home safely but promised to watch from the sidelines. So you were partnered up with some other guy, and Stiles could feel his envy choking him.

Even though you smiled at him when you would score, Stiles's stomach was sick at the thoughts he was having. You looked good with him, fit in with him. Self-loathing was a bitch.

Yet, when you won, you didn't run to the other guy's arms and hug him. No, it was Stiles who received your affections as if he had helped any. The boy was quick to catch you as you catapulted yourself into his arms. You were saying something to him, but he was focused on the way you fit in his arms.

You pulled away quicker than he hoped but stayed at arm's length. Which is where he could smell the alcohol on your breath, and his illusion was shattered once more. You were only clinging to him because of what was in your system.

With your wide eyes staring at him and the little puffs of air leaving your nose, Stiles had to force himself to look elsewhere. Anywhere else. Cause if he didn't, he was sure to kiss you. And that wouldn't be good for anyone.

This is when he spotted Scott tearing himself away from Allison, and rushing outside. Stiles turned his attention back to you and fought every muscle in his body not to kiss you.

I've got to go, I'll be right back.

Then he left because he knew that if he stayed and explained, someone might die.

What he didn't know, is that you were quick to follow him. The guy was your ride home after all.

As Stiles searched for Scott, he noticed Allison getting into Derek's car. This is when you practically slammed into his back, not realizing he had come to a stop.

Stiles jerked forward a little not prepared for your momentum, and then looked to see who had just body-slammed him.

Where is she going?

Even in your drunken stupor, your protectiveness for your friends was overpowering.

I don't know, but I have to go find Scott. Can you get a ride with someone else?

No.

Then you marched yourself to his car, him following behind like a puppy dog.

I'm coming with you because, after Scott's, you're taking me to Allison's to see if she's okay. No teenager has that nice of a car unless it's Jackson.

Fair enough.

Your persistence gave him hope that one day, he could be someone that you would be protective over. Maybe being friends with you wasn't the worst thing in the world. Because then, at least, you would love him in some capacity.

2.

The next few days after the party had been a bit of a blur for Stiles. Allison had been alright after all, and you had ended up staying at her house for the night. Stiles had received a text from you a few hours after he found Scott, saying thanks for the night- even if I was more than a little drunk and bossy.

From that point on, you guys texted a little here and there each day. It was a little slice of heaven away from the supernatural drama that had brutally invaded his peace of mind.

For example, Scott had convinced himself this morning that he had practically eaten Allison alive last night. Turns out, Allison was safe, but Scott had definitely eaten someone alive, judged by the amount of blood the bus had contained.

Stiles had been ready to discuss the details he had gathered through the day with Scott during lunch. But his plans were stopped when someone who wasn't Scott sat down at the table. In fact, a lot of people who weren't Scott had started sitting down.

It wasn't until you sat down next to him that Stiles decided he wasn't irritated at the intrusion. This was actually a really great intrusion.

Did you hear they found out who the body was? It was this old bus driver. The police think it was an animal attack again. Has your dad said anything?

No, I haven't asked him yet. But, I'll tell you if he says anything worse than an animal attack.

God, could you imagine being the bus driver. The fear he must have felt? I stopped going for walks in the woods because I didn't want to have a bite taken out of me. And now it's happening at school? What's next, the movie store?

It's probably for the best that you stopped going into the woods. Dangerous stuff out there. If you're really that bored, at least bring someone with you.

Are you volunteering, Stilinski?

Then, someone interrupted his tranquility, Hey lovebirds, are you in or are you out?

Stiles felt his whole body turn red looking at you, he could see your cheeks start to flush at the implication.

Fuck off Jackson- what are you even talking about?

Thank god you said something in response because Stiles was sure his voice would have cracked.

Me, Lydia, Allison, and her new little friend are going bowling. Are you and your new little friend coming? Or will I be forced to play with people who suck at bowling?

You turned your head back to Stiles, bowling? He shook his head, he would not fall into the same ploy that Scott had landed himself into.

Nah, Stiles and I are going to just work on homework. Thanks though, think of me when someone else kicks your ass, Jackson.

Jackson gave you a fake laugh before going back to his original conversation. This time, Stiles and you were listening, not wanting to be caught. The bell rang shortly after, and Stiles was eager to get Scott alone. But you had other ideas.

Stiles, wait up!

Stiles waited up, as you caught up to him.

Since our friends are going bowling, do you actually want to hang out? Be alone together type of thing again? We could hang out at your house and I'll bring snacks!

Yep, being friends with you was definitely better than nothing.

Of course, Stiles said yes, which is how he ended up with you falling asleep on his shoulder. You had let him pick the movie, shoving homework aside. Naturally, he had picked Star Wars, after you had said you hadn't seen any of them. The two of you had already been hanging out since 4pm, so when he put on the movie at 9pm, he knew there was a chance that you might get tired.

But there's that saying, that people only sleep, like truly sleep, when they feel safe. Seeing the soft rise and fall of your chest, your body unconsciously seeking out the heat from his body, had Stiles feel at peace for the first time since this shit had all started. His chest warmed at the thought that you trusted him enough to be this vulnerable with him.

So he shut off his laptop and debated on waking you, but he could feel the lack of sleep on his part rapidly catching up to him. A nap wouldn't hurt. He could set an alarm for thirty minutes and then wake you up to go home. It wouldn't be totally weird if he fell asleep next to you, right? His eyes made up his mind, as his eyelids became heavier and heavier the longer he had this internal debate with himself. Just thirty minutes to be selfish and envision a life where this was every day, and then he would be fine.

3.

Thirty minutes turned into a lot longer than thirty minutes, the two of you waking up to being tangled in the arms of the other. Stiles being Stiles, made it awkward by trying to not make it awkward. But you handle it like a champ, much to Stiles's liking.

Oh my god, stop freaking out Stilinski. I sleep with all my friends. this just means your status has risen from schoolmate to friend level three.

Yeah, being your friend is 100% better than nothing. Especially if that first part was true.

After Stiles calmed down, you guys got dressed and went out for breakfast.

Stiles should have known that something this great would only be followed by literal horrors. For starters, everyone's least favorite werewolf, Derek, decided to involve Scott and him in his pity party bullet hole wound. Stiles was sure that he would never forget the vision of holding a bone saw and being prepared to cut a guy's arm off. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that moment.

You, however, would have the same type of moment a few days later, at the movie store. You had been searching for a new movie for movie night with Stiles. Hanging out with him had become your own personal brand of heroin, soaking up the minutes like a sponge.

It was in the romance aisle, that you heard a familiar voice calling out for help.

The Notebook? Really Jackson, I never thought you were a sentimental type of guy.

Jackson spotted you in the aisle adjacent, coming up to look with you.

Trust me, I'm not. It's for Lydia.

For some reason, this store had every movie but The Notebook. And there was not another soul around. It was after that realization, that goosebumps rose on your arms. Something was wrong.

The lights started to flicker and Jackson held out his arm, to keep you behind him. He felt it too.

But you guys couldn't just stand there, so you swerved and started walking in front of him. Turning the corner, you felt your breath catch in your throat. Someone else had been here, in with you guys. But from the way his body was crumpled like a piece of paper, he wasn't really here with you guys anymore.

You felt Jackson come up behind you and let out a gasp. Turning to face him, you said, We gotta leave. Like now.

Jackson turned around, ready to take the lead, when a monstrous figure emerged out of the very aisle we had just been in.

The size of its body was a quick indicator that this thing was definitely not human. But, way too beefed up to be any animal you knew of. Jackson started taking tiny steps back. Maybe the thing was blind and hadn't spotted you yet.

You guys quickly made your way into a different aisle, with you holding a hand over your mouth to silence your breathing. Jackson made sure that this time you wouldn't sneak around him, his chest and arm locking you in place, with his head turned around to keep a lookout.

The thing completely walks past you guys, and for a second you believe that it really might be blind. But then the shelves start a domino chain and Jackson only has a split second to decide whether he'll save you or himself.

The former jackass, shoves you out of the aisle, as the shelf next to you guys collapses on top of him, crushing his legs.

Your head swerves around, trying to locate the beast, but you come up empty. It wasn't blind, it was playing with you guys. The way a child plays with its food. You stand and bend down ready to try and lift the shelf off Jackson.

Stop, stop, stop, he whispers, Just go. I'll be okay, but you won't. Go.

Shut up, you whisper back, I'm not leaving you.

It's then that a growl erupts through the air. The creature has come back to finish you guys off. Out of fear, you try even harder to lift the shelf as the animal slowly starts to approach you guys.

Fuck, fuck fuck, you chant, the furniture not budging.

With a final tug, you stumble back and fall onto the floor. This is where you die, on a dirty floor while your friend watches, probably also about to die.

But the creature does the strangest thing. It walks over to Jackson, paying you no mind as your instincts take over and you scramble a bit away. It digs its claws into Jackson next and the boy lets out a guttural scream, both out of terror and pain. The beast removes its claws and turns to face you.

Quick as lightning, it's crowding up your space, breathing its hot breath on your face. Its eyes are red as red can be, almost glowing with intensity. Its coarse hair tickles your neck, as it leans down, smelling you like a dog. It looks back at you and you swear your heart stops. It just stares at you and you stop breathing.

Then it stands up straight, breaks into a run/crawl, and bursts through the glass doors.

You're out of it until the ambulance arrives. But even then you can't fully decipher their questions. It isn't until you see Sheriff Stilinski talking to Jackson, that your mind sobers up a bit. The man walks up to you, telling the paramedics to check on Jackson one last time.

Are you alright sweetheart?

With Stiles and your newfound friendship, you've met Sheriff Stilinski more than enough times to have formed a little bond with him. He likes you, thinks you're great for his son, and tells you every chance he gets, despite Stiles' complaining.

You don't even get the chance to answer his question, because his son starts causing a frenzy in the crowd. Of course, Stiles was there. Thank god Stiles was here.

The boy bursts forward, eager to see his dad, but falters when he notices your shriveled form sitting in the back of the ambulance.

Are you alright? Is she alright?

I'm okay Stiles, just a little shaken.

Thank god, he says, then goes to hug you, overwhelmed with emotion at the thought of something harming you.

But he stops himself when he sees you flinch. Your eyes drop to your hands sitting in your lap and guilt consumes you.

Stiles, once they do a final check on her, can you take her home?

Of course Dad. See you at home.

The sheriff shares the sentiment and then walks off, leaving you and the boy alone.

What happened there? he questions softly, afraid to scare you off.

You won't believe me.

When he doesn't respond, you look up at him. His head is tilted, offering you a chance to explain even if it's absurd. It's when he clutches your hand and flips it over to trace your palm, that you tell him. And you tell him everything, even the part about how the attacker was not human.

He lets you finish, and when you do, you look up at him with wide, glossy eyes.

Stiles, I thought I was gonna die. I should have died.

A tear rolls down your cheeks and he tries to hug you again. This time you accept it, and start weeping into his chest. He rubs up and down your back with one hand, the other cupping the back of your head.

It's okay, it's okay. You're fine, just a little shaken like you said. You just need some rest. Let me take you home.

He signals for the EMTs to check you one last time before he gets the okay.

It isn't until you're halfway home that you realize, he didn't say if he believed you or not.

Do you think I'm crazy?

And it's because he loves you, that he avoids the question.

I think you just need some sleep.

You take that as a neon sign saying yes you are completely crazy, and keep your mouth shut the rest of the ride. When you arrive at your house, you thank him for the ride and then quickly leave to go inside.

Stiles thinks nothing of it. Why would you want to stay and chat after something like that? In fact, he's proud of himself for dodging your question, cause he thinks he's spared you from any harm.

He texts you before he goes to bed, and wakes up to nothing from you. No biggie, you're probably still asleep.

4.

Monday rolls around, and you haven't responded to any of his texts. And trust me, he has sent a lot of texts. A concerning amount. He's holding on to hope that you're just waiting to say something to him in school, but you don't show up.

He isn't your boyfriend or anything, so he doesn't show up to your house.

Until Tuesday comes and you still haven't responded and you still aren't at school.

As first period starts, he realizes that everybody but him is not at school. What the fuck? So he takes that as his sign to fake sick and also not be at school.

The excuse worked well enough with the nurse, who waved him off with a note for the day like she was giving them out like candy. Whatever, that worked for him.

He tried calling Scott first, which went to voicemail. He wasn't close enough with Allison so he wouldn't call her. Plus he had a feeling that the two lovebirds were with each other anyway. He didn't have Lydia's number and doubted Jackson would give a shit if Stiles checked in.

That just left you. You who had been avoiding him for days. For someone so intelligent, he couldn't figure out what had happened between you guys. Was this your way of shoving him aside, bored already?

Stiles wasn't a quitter though, so he tried calling, but to no avail.

Fine, be that way. If you won't answer, he'll make a house call. With his nerves on fire, he made it to your house quicker than he should have. Your car was in the driveway and so was another car. Probably your mom's. At least he knew you were home.

He parked and went to knock on your door. Your mom answered a minute later, greeting the boy with a polite smile. He hadn't met your parents yet. You had chosen his place as the hangout spot, so it just hadn't happened.

Hi, I'm Stiles, a friend of your daughters. I was just coming by to check on her. May I come in?

Your mom let him in, telling him that she would go see if you're awake first. They had you on meds for the shock, real hard stuff.

But what your mom didn't know, is that you hadn't been taking them. Just hiding them in your cheek until you could spit them out. You weren't crazy. That thing wasn't a goddamn mountain lion and screw everyone who kept trying to tell you it was. You knew what you saw.

Instead, during the hours you were supposed to be knocked out, you spent researching everything you could about the creature. With only a description, it wasn't easy at first. But after putting some papers together, you began to connect the dots. All of the deaths blamed on animal attacks, Stiles telling you to stay out of the woods, using Scott's regular wolf bite as an example, the other weird shit you had seen since living in beacon hills, everything was adding up.

Your mom knocked on your door and you hid your laptop under the covers, lying down and closing your eyes. She came in after a moment and gently shook you.

Fluttering your eyes open, you made your voice raspy, asking her what?

You have a friend here to visit you, his name is Stiles. Do you want him to come up, or should I tell him a different time might work better?

A flurry of emotions clouded your head. Of course, you wanted to see him. You missed him, even though it had only been a few days. But he wasn't telling you something, you couldn't trust him until you got your evidence that you weren't crazy. If you didn't have proof, he would shut you down like last time.

Can you tell him another time, please? I don't feel too well.

Your mom obliged, leaving you alone again.

Stiles' leg hadn't stopped shaking. He was nervous like how he used to be around you. You were friends now though, he reasoned, he shouldn't be so nervous.

Seeing your mom come down the stairs, he burst out of the chair. At his eager reaction, your mom gave him a pity smile, and he knew.

She's still out of it. A different time would work better, if you want I can give you her number so you guys can text.

He visibly deflated, No, it's okay. I have her number so I'll keep in touch. Thank you.

The ball was in your court, and he had never felt sicker with want.

5.

You woke up from your nap and checked your messages immediately. Just because you weren't responding to Stiles, didn't mean you weren't reading them.

But instead, your phone was barren aside from one text from Scott. That was weird considering you guys weren't super close or anything.

Opening it, you felt your heart drop.

Stiles is in danger. You need to get to the school, the creature is back. Please help him.

All common sense went out the window as you read those first words, Stiles is in danger.

You didn't question how Scott knew about the creature to why he wanted you specifically to save his best friend. Or even why at the school? The only thing in your head that had alarms going off was Stiles being in danger.

You throw a sweater over your shirt and put on some shoes. Attire really was the least of your concerns right now. Thankfully your parents were asleep, so you snuck out the door and drove to the school.

You arrived at the same time another familiar car did.

Jackson, what are you doing here? You said, after getting out of the car.

Allison answered, I got a text from Scott telling me to meet him here. We were all going on a double date again. But he's like an hour late.

This was a setup, and you guys were screwed.

You guys have to get out of here. I got a text from Scott too, saying Stiles was in danger. But it's not real. Jackson, it's that thing.

Allison jumped in before Jackson could, What thing? Also no way are we leaving you here, Let's just investigate together, Jackson and Lydia stay out here, and if we aren't back in 15 minutes, call the police.

How could you explain to the girl that if she went in there a possible werewolf would eat her alive. And that her boyfriend and his best friend have also probably been already eaten alive. You couldn't. But Allison wasn't one to take no for an answer, and you weren't about to leave with them. So you compromised.

Call the police in ten if we aren't out. You told Jackson, and then began walking with Allison up the steps.

The school was dark and cold. We made our way to the pools before our silence was interrupted. Allison's phone went off, and it was Scott who was calling.

She looked to you, as if for permission, and you just nodded your head, eager to see if Scott was actually behind the phone call or if it was something else.

They have their little chat as you stalk away from the girl, walking on the other side of the pool.

Hey! He said to get to the lobby now, and he sounded really worried.

You guys made your way to the lobby and were greeted by Scott playing his own game of 20 questions.

But you stopped listening when you saw Stiles move from behind Scott. He rushed to you, gripping your shoulders.

What are you doing here? She didn't say you were with her?

You shrugged his hands off, He asked us to be here. but gave very different reasoning to both of us.

Stiles was hurt by your action but covered it up with more questions. Who Scott? What do you mean he asked you to be here? What did he say?

Jesus, Stiles slow down. You said, shoving your phone at him. he swiped it immediately and read the message that his best friend definitely did not send.

He didn't send this.

Obviously, you deadpanned.

Listen, you need to leave now. You need to drive to the station and get my dad. Tell him I'm in trouble at the school.

What the fuck? No, you tell him.

And then on second thought, you added, I know you know who sent this text. What the fuck is going on here? Is it connected with the werewolf?

Stiles' eyes almost popped out of his skull at your closing comment. How did you know?

As for you, you finally got your confirmation. You weren't crazy after all. Now why was he hiding it from you?

Wait- why was he always at the wrong place at the right time? No way that was a coincidence.

Was Stiles the fucking werewolf?

You weren't about to out him as a supernatural creature. Because what if you did and then he killed the other in front of you as some sort of bonding ritual before turning you? A week ago you would have begged to be sent to a therapist for having thoughts like this. But now? It was so unlikely as it should have been.

All you said was, I knew it.

He was quick with a reply, You don't know anything. Stop it.

I knew it, you laughed a little. I fucking knew it, I'm not crazy.

You don't know it. You're crazy, bat shit insane, please stop. His commands turned to begging at the end. He really didn't want you to know.

You guys were cut short when Lydia and Jackson burst through the doors. But even they were cut short when a loud thump came from the roof.

Soley out of fear, you moved closer to Stiles, and he wrapped a palm around your wrist.

You watch as Stiles and Scott share a look, then Scott yells, RUN!

Stiles practically yanks you behind him and you barely make it up the stairs before the ceiling collapses. You turn your head to look down and see it.

An odd mix of relief and terror fills you. It isn't Stiles, which is very good. But it is going to kill you this time, which is very bad.

We make it to the cafeteria and Stiles pulls me into a corner while Scott and Jackson bolt the doors. Then everyone starts moving chairs to barricade the door. You go to help, eager to not be eaten, when Stiles, whose hand is still clenching your wrist pulls you back. You turn, sending him a questioning glance, and he jerks his head to the twenty-foot wall of windows.

Stiles tries to get everyone's attention, yet no one listens to him. Irritated and beyond terrified you shout, HEY!

That gets everyone's attention, which allows Stiles to speak.

He informs the group of the windows and Allison cracks, Can someone please tell me what's going on here because I'm really scared. What is happening?

Scott and Stiles share another look. And even though the question was directed at Scott, Stiles answers, Somebody killed the janitor.

What is he talking about Scott? Is this a joke? Allison tries.

Who killed him? You questioned, waiting to see if the boys will give up the werewolf.

Scott panics at all the attention, everyone's eyes waiting on him. I don't know alright. But whoever it is, they are going to kill us too.

Why is he protecting the werewolf, you think? Then another thought hits you, Is Scott the werewolf? Is that why it didn't kill you, why he sent the text saying Stiles was in danger? Had he been planning to kill us all and then second-guessed it? But that couldn't be it because Scott was in here now. Fuck man.

One question still remained, Why were both boys protecting the werewolf identity?

Who is it? You asked, and Stiles knew you weren't talking about the alleged killer. You were smart and he loved it, but now was not the time to be smart.

No one answers, so Allison tries again.

It's then that Scott says, It's Derek. Derek Hale.

I look to Stiles who looks at Scott like he's the stupidest person alive. It's not Derek. Scott's a liar.

Everyone starts questioning and Scott continues, I saw him, alright. Derek killed all those people. Starting with his own sister. It's been Derek the whole time. He's here, and if we don't get out now, he will kill us too.

Call the cops, Jackson demands.

Stiles snaps out of his stupor, No.

If it really was Derek, Stiles would have no problem with his dad and a shooting team hunting him down. It's not Derek. Or maybe it is, but Dereks not fully Derek. You know?

Stiles and Jackson argue as you try and unravel the mystery. It isn't until Lydia gets hung up on that you tune back in.

Why does Derek want to kill us specifically? You question. Just a few days ago, you had no clue about anything. Content to believe it was all animal attacks. So why would he be going after you now?

Allison seconds your question and adds a few more, which prompts Scott to yell in anxiety. The girl sulks away, opting to not ask any more questions for fear of his reaction.

Scotts goes to a corner and Stiles moves to follow him. You stray not too far, eager to hear their conversation.

Don't you want to see if Allison is alright? Scott's kinda a dick, and you probably don't want to hear me scold him. Stiles tries.

She's a big girl, she can handle herself.

Please, he tries again.

No. You say and stand right next to Scott. The aforementioned boy sends you a curious glance.

If looks could kill, Stiles might have had you dead. All he was trying to do was protect you, and you were being a brat about it. You didn't know anything, but if you wanted to know so badly, then you would.

First off, throwing Derek under the bus? Nicely done.

Scott's eyes widen and his best friend outs him as a liar in front of you.

Stiles continues, Secondly, she knows so don't give me that look. I don't know how she knows but she knows alright.

Scott looks to you for confirmation, I know.

Fine, he starts, I didn't know what else to do plus, he's dead so it doesn't really matter. Then he turned his attention solely to you, I just bit her head off didn't I?

You look to Stiles in disbelief, who just sighs in disappointment.

Scott, I'm sure she'll be fine. Just apologize later. You try.

Stiles, who had enough goes, Bigger issues at had people, like how are we not going to die?

A thought strikes you, But if it wanted us dead, we would be dead already. It wants something else. It's like when it didn't kill Jackson or me even though we were very killable.

So what, it wants to eat us at the same time?

Scott jumps in, No- Derek said it wants revenge.

You start, Revenge against what? Why lure me and Allison here? I know I didn't do anything to cause something like this.

Both boys have the same thought at the same time, Allison's family.

Allison's family? What the fuck did they have to do with you?

Jackson breaks our circle, New plan asshats. Stiles calls his useless dad and he comes down here with a bunch of guns.

Stiles is quick to shut that idea down, but Scott prevails, Stiles, you might have to tell him.

No way, I am not watching him get eaten alive. It's bad enough she's here, and he points to you, I won't lose them both.

Jackson shoves Scott to the side and tries to yank Stiles's phone out of his hands. Stiles is quick on the recoil, knocking Jackson's jaw back.

But it was just for show, as Stiles tries to call his dad himself. He gets voicemail and it sinks in that you might be dead in the water.

Banging erupts from the doors, both Scott and Stiles move to be in front of you, taking slow steps back to herd the rest of the group. You reach out to grab Stiles's hand, which rests behind his back, and he grips yours in response.

Our only option is up, Stiles says.

You answer, Up is better than here.

Screws start falling out of place and your heart beats at the tempo of the banging. That was the cue for everyone to hall ass upstairs, and as you guys make it, the creature breaks down the doors. The chairs in the way slow him down and you thank your idiot friends for placing them there.

You run into the nearest classroom, locking the door as if the werewolf couldn't just rip the door off its hinges. Everyone tries to slow their breathing when a figure ghosts by the frosted glass. Out of instinct, Stiles crowds your space, holding you against him. The figure stays for a beta too long before leaving. It knows you're here. What the fuck.

You turn in Stiles's arms to stare up at him, and he just sighs, wishing this nightmare would end already.

You feel the same and leave his warm embrace to search for a way out, Could we unlock this and leave?

Stiles whispers, It's a deadbolt.

The janitor will have it though, you reason.

His body will have it. No way.

I can get it, Scott announces. He comes closer to us, I can find him by scent. By blood.

Scott is a werewolf. But not the werewolf. Does that mean Stiles is one too?

Scott decides for himself, I'm getting those keys.

It's Allison who says what's on everyone's minds, Are you kidding? You can't go out there unarmed.

Scott picks up a ruler and thankfully Allison doesn't slap him upside the head. Looking around, you realize which classroom you're inside.

He won't be unarmed, you say making a move to the cabinet. You start pulling out supplies and Jackson isn't amused.

What are you gonna do? Throw acid on him?

Lydia answers, Yes, that's exactly what he's gonna do. Sort of. There's everything you need to make a self-igniting Molotov cocktail.

Stiles stares, dumbfounded, while you and Lydia work on the concoction. Jackson tries to help, but you don't let him, eager to finish yourself.

In record time, you hand Scott the bottle, sending him off with a thank you. He is risking his life after all, even if he's a werewolf. He smiles in appreciation and Allison steps in, not prepared to see him die.

Scott, just stop. Do you remember when you told me you knew whether I was lying or not, that I had a tell? Well, you have one too and you've been lying this whole time.

You look to Stiles and he can feel the angst bubbling in his chest. You don't say anything and it makes him feel worse.

Scott looks to his best friend, in similar anguish, Lock the door behind me.

Allison pulls him in for a kiss and you look to Stiles yet again. For a split second, he envisions that it's you two in that scenario, that you're kissing him goodbye with all the passion you have. It helps that you stare back at him, but your face is cold.

You turn away, angling yourself out of his space, and go to sit with Allison.

Later on, after you've been saved by Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles catches up to you. He starts to open his mouth but you cut to the chase, Please don't. I don't want to hear any bullshit excuse.

I promise I won't try to dick you around right now, okay? But we have to talk about what happened there.

Do you want to talk about the werewolf who has almost killed me twice? That you knew was lurking around and didn't think to mention to me? Instead, just giving me cryptic messages about being safe and staying out of the woods?

Well- yeah, kinda. He loses his momentum.

I already know Stiles, I don't want to talk about it. Especially if Scotts is one of them. Do you realize that he could have killed us too? Why didn't you tell me? Why lie?

His momentum kicks back up Because I was trying to protect you? Are you kidding? If you knew it would only place you in more danger. You didn't have to know, everything was fine without you knowing. Now it's just more stress, another problem to add to the list.

That's what I am to you? Another problem to add to the list?

No- that's not-

No, whatever Stilinski. Consider me, not your problem anymore. I can take care of myself. And I promise to protect your friend's little reputation. Just stay the hell away from me.

And with that, you walked away, and for once, Stiles didn't try to follow you.

6.

It's Friday night, and Stiles wishes that he had followed you. Argued with you about your safety. At least then he would have had more time with you. The friendship that had been cultivated now turned to ash. He had tried texting the morning after. Nothing. He had tried talking to you in school. Nothing. It was like he didn't exist all over again.

And it was unbearable.

Stiles only had one solution, learned from years of living with his dad. Alcohol could solve any problem, albeit temporarily. And because of Scott's recent return to loser-ville, Stiles figured the boy would also need some liquid courage to get back on his feet.

After more than a few sips, (try half the bottle), he could safely say that he was feeling pretty damn good. As long as he didn't think of you. Which was hard. But doable.

Scott on the other hand had discovered that because of his supernatural abilities, alcohol had no effect. Bummer. But not Stiles' problem.

You also weren't Stiles' problem anymore.

Fuck, no, don't think about her, he told himself.

Dude, don't think about her alright. She's one girl in a fish of a million seas.

Scott just laughed at his drunken friend's antics, but Stiles was on a mission to cure himself and the other boy.

I'm serious alright. Fish are like girls and sometimes in the sea, you want a specific one. And she's everything, the perfect fish. So you go fishing in the fish sea. And you manage to catch her. It's not your fault if she hops out of your hands, you know. You just have to keep fishing and hope she comes back. I really want her back.

Scott punched Stiles in the arm, and the boy yelped like a dog, What the hell man? he whimpered.

You told me to hit you if you talked about her. Said the pain would clear your mind.

Right, yeah, Stiles nodded his head. It's just hard not to think about her. Or talk about her. I really miss her- OW. Being alone is way worse.

Scott agreed, saving his friend from another bruise-earning hit. Stiles definitely was worse without you.

7.

You really hadn't wanted to go dress shopping today. But Lydia had convinced you by saying it was a girl's day and that you had to get out of the house at some point.

She was annoying but she wasn't wrong.

So here you were, looking for dresses for a dance that you definitely wouldn't go to. Turning your head, you felt someone's gaze. Locking eyes with the one person in the entire world you didn't want to see, you cursed aloud.

The lady next to you looked appalled by the profanity and you squeezed by her, eager to get away.

Stiles felt his heart shatter all over again- you couldn't even look at him? Was it really over?

Ducking into a separate section, you found Allison who looked at you skeptically. You told her who you saw and she had the nerve to laugh at you. If you really didn't care about him, you wouldn't have run away.

First of all, Allison, you sneered, I didn't run. I walked politely away. And second of all, I don't care about liars. And he is a liar.

I wonder if he's going to the dance too? Allison questioned.

Probably not, he hates school functions.

Perfect, so you wouldn't mind me setting him up with Lydia as a little revenge right? Your jaw dropped.

Like I said Allison, you recovered yourself, I don't care about liars. Or who they go to this stupid winter formal with.

You did care. Like a stupid idiot, you cared very deeply about who stupid liars went to the goddamn winter formal with.

8.

It was the day of the stupid winter formal and Lydia and Allison had to drag you out of bed. They wouldn't take no for an answer. They also wouldn't take, get the fuck out and I'm going to punch you guys as answers either.

They dressed you up like a doll, despite your protest of having no date.

Don't worry sweetheart, I found you a date, Lydia replied.

You wished she wasn't so well prepared.

They finished and you had to admit, you looked fucking great. A sneaky part of you hoped Stiles would see you.

Shaking that thought off you drove Lydia to the dance, Allison having already been picked up by Jackson.

Arriving at the function, you had just parked when a gigantic blue jeep pulled up right next to you. You've got to be fucking kidding.

Stiles and you climbed out at the same time, yet the boy didn't even realize it was you until you made your way behind the cars.

Fuck, she's beautiful, was his first thought.

Your first thought was, this goddamn idiot can't park for shit.

You look really beautiful. And Lydia you also look pretty.

Lydia scoffed as you said, You can't park for shit.

Thank you, he said not taking a beat.

There he is, Lydia said, pointing to a tall guy in a tux. He had soft brown curls and a sheepish smile. He was cute, you had to admit.

You walked over to your date and introduced yourself, eager to leave Stiles' puppy dog eyes.

Yeah, I know who you are. I'm Issac. Issac Lahey.

Nice to meet you Issac, you said looking back to see if Stiles was watching, he was.

You hugged the boy for show and then suggested heading inside.

Issac was truly nice and you were having a fun time. But still, you couldn't help but search for Stiles in the crowd.

What happened between you guys, Issac asked, spooking you from your longing.

He lied to me about something serious.

Judging from the way that he also won't stop looking over here, I think it's safe to say he regrets it.

He's not looking over here, is he?

Every time you look away, he looks back. It's like you guys are agents or something. The push-pull is insane. My feelings should be hurt, but this is more painful to watch.

I should talk to him, shouldn't I?

Only if he apologizes the second you get over there, Issac laughed out.

I'm sorry, you deserve a lot better, you told him.

Maybe, but if I were you, I would do the same thing. Just make me a promise.

Anything.

When you see me in the halls, say hi. Or if we have a class where we can pick seats, and he isn't there, sit by me. We could be friends, and I really would like to be.

This time you hugged him because you wanted to, Of course, Issac. You really are nice and very cute. I'd love to be your friend, we can exchange numbers in class or something.

Yeah, I'd appreciate that.

With that, you made your way over to Stiles' who had just been abandoned by Lydia.

His eyes bulged as you made your way to stand in front of him. Get up.

He was quick to obey, but nervous to speak.

Wanna dance?

Yes, he breathed out, taking hold of your outstretched hand.

The pair of you walked onto the dance floor, getting into slow dance positioning. His arms were hesitant once you waist, as you encircled yours around his neck. You looked at each other for some time before he broke the silence.

I'm sorry for lying to you. I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't even know if you wanted to know. I know you shouldn't have known. Knowing is what caused you to be at the school. God, you were in so much danger for nothing. I'm sorry.

As he spoke, Stiles' hands tightened their grip. Please forgive me. I miss you. I miss you so much. Can we please just be friends again?

Promise not to withhold any more vital secrets?

Pinkie swear, cross my heart, and hope to die.

I missed you too, you admit.

His smile grew wide, Really?

Of course, genius. You're pretty cool to be around.

The two of you dance for the rest of the song until Jackson breaks the moment. Have you guys seen Lydia?

That sends you three into a manhunt for the strawberry blonde. You luck out when you go searching outside, seeing her figure illuminated by the lacrosse field lights. You call out her name and she meets you halfway.

I thought I saw Jackson.

Jackson's looking for you, with Stiles and I. Come inside, it's freezing out here.

No, I swear I saw somebody.

It's then that you notice, that you see someone else too. Lurking beyond the treeline. Goosebumps find your arms once again, and you can't deny that their cause isn't the chill in the air. It's the werewolf. He's here.

Lydia, we have to get inside, now!

The two of you try to run, but the man/werewolf is in front of you in an instant. He grabs Lydia and slices her in the stomach before launching her body into the air. It slams onto the ground as you hear Stiles in the distance begging for you to run. But you can't. That's Lydia he might have killed.

Not carrying a weapon, you use what you have, your fist. It connects with the dude's cheek but he seems unfazed as his claws plung through your dress and into your abdomen.

Pain blossoms through your body, your muscles on fire while they are torn apart.

LET HER GO!

Stiles skids to a stop, just in time to catch your falling body as the werewolf lets go. Blood bubbles up, staining the dress and Stiles' hands as he tries to put pressure on the wound.

You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay, he chants like a prayer, more for himself than you. This was his worst nightmare.

Doesn't look that way to me, the werewolf remarks. Then he crouches down to be level with you two. He listens as both heartbeats skyrocket at his presence, fear radiating off them both. But different kinds of fear, both over the same reason, your life. This should be interesting. He takes his claws out again, and you gasp, moving closer into Stiles' arms. Where's Derek?

I don't know!

The werewolf hears Stiles' heart skip a beat, You're lying.

He moves to grab your throat. claws ready to puncture through your skin. Let's try this again, where is Derek?

Stiles panics, I'm not sure! I have an idea but it's not 100%.

Well, if you want your pretty little girlfriend to live, then you're going to take me to him. The werewolf hears the boy's heart skip a beat again.

Taunting him, he continues, You really like her, don't you. Better hurry up before she bleeds out on the field. Though she would make a pretty corpse, wouldn't she.

Stiles locks eyes with you, worried that if he leaves, you really will die on this field.

Don't worry, I'll be fine. Go. Please.

The boy reluctantly places you on the grass and goes to walk with Peter. It takes everything in him not to run back to you and stay with you. He can't even let himself look back at your crumpled form, because his resolve would shatter, and then you really would die.

You don't make a move to stand until after his body has disappeared into the trees. You manage to stand as Jackson calls out for you. You take a couple of steps before blacking out. This time, Stiles isn't there to catch you.

9.

Stiles instead finds you at the hospital, struggling to breathe on your own,, hooked up to various tubes and machines. As if his heart could take anymore.

It's then that his dad calls out his name. He only has time to face him before the older male slams him into the windows of your hospital room. The glass vibrates at the intensity, but Sherif Stilinski's voice booms louder, Where were you? What happened to these girls?

They were attacked Dad. I didn't do it, I swear. Come on, you know I would never hurt her like this.

And the Sheriff does know because you literally are the girl of his dreams. Always has been. The man calms down, wrapping his arms around his son, Are you alright?

I'm fine. Is she?

Whatever attacked her, cut her pretty deep. Same with Lydia, plus both girls are having an allergic reaction. Maybe venom in the claws but I'm not sure what kind of animal could have venom and wal on land to attack them this way.

Stiles can't tell his dad that it's not venom. Can't tell his dad that their bodies are rejected by the werewolf curse that's now been placed upon them. Can't tell his dad that now you're really fucked. Can't tell his dad that his best friend is missing. Wait?

Has Scott been by?

No, he's MIA as well.

Which means that Stiles is pretty sure he knows where to find the boy. Maybe he can convince Scott to stay a werewolf for your sake. Beg for your life. Anything to spare you from what Scott has been through. Anything for you.

When Peter asked if Stiles wanted the bite, he had a moment to think of how his life would change. He would have the strength to protect you, speed for lacrosse, and be able to tell if people were lying which could help his dad on cases. Yet, he still denied it.

Maybe he should have accepted. Would it be easier if you both were werewolves?

10.

After Peter had been successfully killed, Stiles wasted no time rushing back to the hospital. He wanted to be there for when you first opened your eyes. Hug you and tell you how sorry he was. Tell you how Peter had been killed so you would be safe.

But your body still was fighting, and his hopes were dwindling by the second. There was no cure. If you turned, you turned. But also if you didn't turn, you died.

The thought had him on the verge of tears, which began their descent down his cheeks when you squeezed his hand.

Looking to your eyes he saw them flutter open. He helped take the breathing machine off your face, so you could talk. Yet he jumped ahead, I'm so sorry.

It's okay Stiles, I'm fine, you croaked out, totally not sounding fine.

Do you feel magically healed? he asked through tears. You just gave him a look of confusion, so he continued, Do you feel fine as in you could run 10 laps?

Definitely not, why?

He cut you pretty deep.

I know, I can feel it, you deadpanned. What was he not saying?

You don't get it. You can turn into a werewolf from the bite, or if the claws go deep enough.

Your heart rate monitor spikes and Stiles feels his do the same.

Oh god, am I turning into a werewolf?

Stiles offers what little comfort he can, I'm not sure. But at least you'll have Scott and I to help you through it. You'll be alright.

That settles you slightly but leaves Stiles with a pinched heart. Cause, he is sure that you'll be fine. And doesn't want to tell you that you only have two unsavory options. Death or the supernatural.

All that is he 100% certain of, is that he will do anything to make sure that you live as peacefully and happily as possible. So if that means withholding the truth now and suffering for it later, so be it. Because if he suffers for this later, then it's because you're alive and healthy enough to argue with him.

****

A/N: omfg this took me all day- but it was fun I can't lie. let me know if you want a part two or something like a season two version with the same pairing! love you all and thank you for reading!

[elf-osamu]

“YOUR LAST MEMORY OF ME”

[ masterlist ] [ reblogs are very appreciated ]

angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, romantic relationship, jing yuan x gn!reader

warning(s) : major character death, the concept of death is discussed, implied reference for the high cloud quintet lore !!!!, blood, injuries, depictions of violence !!!!

word count : 2517 words

“i think i got too many memories getting in the way of me; you only get what you grieve; the only thing that’s ever stopping me is me; i testify if i die in my sleep, then know that my life was a killer dream; and all my childhood heroes have fallen off or died” — song: stay frosty royal milk tea by fall out boy

a/n: i’ve almost cried while writing this. as a jing yuan lover, i’m terribly sorry (it will happen again).

to be part of a long life species isn’t as easy as mortals make it to be. since their lives are nothing but a fleeting moment which will be soon forgotten, they tend to hope for a longer time to accomplish their goals, rushing every task to meet the temporary relief that it brings — a sweet feeling which one could indulge themself in, but only for a brief moment. as a consequence of this, they’re quite envious of those who don’t have to worry about such matters: those people can enjoy life to the fullest and simultaneously take things at a slow pace, savoring each second of their existence without being overwhelmed by their imminent end; new experiences are always near the corner of their days, quietly waiting for the perfect time to appear and give opportunities of every kind; the weight of death isn’t a matter to reflect upon, since it’s something far too distant to be frightened by it.

a smile was something that jing yuan hardly got to see on that face he had profoundly grown fond of — yours. one could have defined it as an almost imperceptible change, but the way your lips slightly curved in response of his affirmations hadn’t ever escaped his attentive eyes. his life had been consistent for many years, still as a lake in a flawlessly sunny day, with his usual duties and habits which never seemed to change despite the passage of time. however now he had gotten used to your presence and he could have never substituted it. those lips he loved to touch with his, those hands he relished with his when he was looking for reassurance, those eyes he would have treasured with his life if they had been gems — you. jing yuan would have never gotten tired of you.

this is what short life species harshly tell themselves and others — they can’t but concentrate on what they don’t possess, on what their hands will never reach, on what they will never be able to accomplish. nevertheless, said behavior is rather commonly found in the majority of human beings with no distinctions made; envy is a comprehensibile emotion, but when used inappropriately it can develop in resentment. the inherent desire of attaining what we’ve wished for isn’t possible at all times — but we continue on our path forward, often stumbling along the way when it gets too difficult to move on.

the general’s soul wasn’t unblemished as many thought: you had gotten the chance to meet that part of him he tried to hide under a seemingly exemplery mask of polite yet playful remarks. you had tended to his injuries, taking care of his body while he narrated the story of some of his scars; you had listened to his usually unspoken worries, when the role he had to play for the majority of his life momentarily ended and he finally showed you that he was just a human being like any other — someone who had done both outstanding and terrible things. “i… i apologize for not being the hero you’ve heard of”, he had muttered the rare times he had allowed himself to cry; it had been too long ago since the last time he had opened up to someone in such a vulnerable way.

long life species know this too well: between the scars of their past and the hopes for their future, it isn’t rare to find people who are lost in their journey, surrounded by painful memories and feelings of desperation. to forget what one’s forced to remember can make themself cling to the old days and refuse to give a glance to the other side.

you were aware of jing yuan’s foibles and past mistakes — how could you have not? — but those things had never stopped you from loving him. as you were there to accept him for who he was, you could proudly say he did the same for you; patience and consideration were only a few of his characteristics, but they were greatly helpful when you were going through difficult times. jing yuan wouldn’t have ever judged your fears and thoughts: he would have sat next to you, grounding your mind from the stress that life could give you, and reminded you of his unfeigned adoration towards your being. you both had found comfort and solace with each other.

the general of the cloud knights of the xianzhou luofu, jing yuan, had lived for too many centuries to be truly able to count them. he was acclaimed by many people and frowned upon by others — but nobody could have never doubt his dexterity and strength when it came to swordsmanship: his exceptional abilities had been of considerable effectiveness in battles and, simultaneously, his carefulness and diplomacy couldn’t be disregarded in the slightest, since they kept the law and order in his nation.

death passively follows its natural course when the right time is known — it’s a neutral state which can’t be converted by the human mind, something… irreversible; many have tried to change this fact and many have failed. each stage of life is meaningful, thus to accept what’s going to happen someday is the wisest and least painful choice, though it has to be recognized how it can still be a tough journey. his loved companions, his long-lasting enemies, everybody he knew… he had lost them, either because of demise or a change of paths.

during his life, jing yuan had collided with friends, foes and even with himself — bonds were broken, rancour was deepened, distress was reinforced: all the experiences and emotions he had been carrying in his heart for centuries seemed to be never-ending. he did his best to hide his damaged self through loads of work and too many hours of sleep; after all he was one of the arbiter-generals — if he couldn’t do his job, who could have?

he was a symbol of hope: he was someone to use as a role model and as a pillar for anyone who was in need of support and protection — failure had never been an option for those of such great importance.

he just had to resist a little longer… then everything else would have ended and peace would have prospered, as it always did.

clashes of swords and polearms reverberated through the battlefield, they were the only sounds which could be heard alongside the warriors’ screams. destruction and ruination harshly painted the surroundings, scarring the ground where nature once flourished, while combatants fell and took their last breath.

an invasion of that magnitude hadn’t been on the xianzhou luofu for quite some time and nobody had been prepared for it; unexpected encounters were the most dangerous and tiring ones.

you were a brave and capable soldier — your technique wasn’t flawless, but your determination made up for the few careless mistakes you committed while fighting; jing yuan was aware of that, but his chest still hurt whenever he knew you were battling against his enemies. as much as he believed you could successfully take care of your well-being in dire situations, he had to fight the urge to be near you when you risked your life; said feeling was reciprocated though, since the general had caught a glimpse of your figure finishing off an enemy who had tried to attack him behind his back while he was busy with three other opponents. you had flashed a smile at your lover before going into battle again.

it was a tough confront between distinct factions, but hope had come to the surface again once you had taken a glance at how many enemies were still standing: only a few were alive and their counterattacks were growing more haphazard by the second — they hadn’t expected to fall behind in battle. the rush of adrenaline you felt before accompanied your weapon through taking the life of your opponents without backing away.

jing yuan had just fought against a few people when he saw a group of his opposite faction go near you; they were too many to be dealt at the same time, too many even for someone as experienced as him — so he couldn’t let them lift a finger on your body, it was a risk too huge to be taken so carelessly.

he rapidly moved to get to your side — you were rather distant from him but, if he had screamed, you would have been distracted and you would have gotten severe injuries… or even worse. his mind was spiralling while the general was trying to calm himself down and choose the best option available to keep yourself safe but, when he saw a spear coming too near your figure, his body moved on its own: he rushed towards you and, without giving you the time to react, he took what once was your place.

time seemed to stop for a moment as he tasted the flavour of pain that came from the deep skin tear on his chest: gushes of blood brutally tinted his armor and all of a sudden his face lost the color it had just a moment before.

you couldn’t feel anything at first, your brain had registered only a part of what had occurred. then, however, you realized what you had witnessed when you watched jing yuan’s body fall on the ground.

everything had happened in a few seconds, but it felt like an unceasing event: something atrocious was taking place, something you just wished to ignore and forget… but you couldn’t allow yourself to do that.

therefore, a wave of rage hit you: you didn’t waste time to slaughter the ones who attacked the man you loved; when anyone tried to come near you, your blade was swift enough to promptly eliminate them and destroy anything that crossed its path, wounding whoever couldn’t understand the weight of the situation. it had been a while since you felt an emotion in such an intense and uncontrolled way, you looked feverish from how much strength you were using.

anger’s origin was different for everyone — yours was because of despondency.

you were moving too fast to process what was happening: the only clear thing your blurry vision could notice was the carmine blood that colored the soil and people’s armors, especially your own. you couldn’t feel the pain derived from your injuries, your clouded mind wasn’t able to process your physical state.

wrath was embracing you in its strong grip, the one thing that heartened you when you would have preferred to hide away in your own solitude.

as the only opponents left decided to retreat from the battle, you tossed your weapon to the side and fell on your knees; you were exhausted from your sudden outburst, your limbs were becoming numb and your head was spinning.

the familiar sound of your name, however, kept you grounded, making you look at the white-haired man who was laying down on the turf.

sweat and blood littered his scarred skin, a look you had gotten to know through the years you had spent with him. but this time was like no other.

you immediately sat by his side and forced yourself to act like you had everything under control, while trying to disregard the spear that had pierced his body: your hands slightly pressed near the major wound on his chest, clinging to the last hope of keeping more blood from coming out.

“my time… has come, then?” he murmured, his lips were moving slowly, too slowly, though his voice was calm as the usual; you would have said he wasn’t feeling much pain, if you didn’t know him that well.

a grin was plastered on his face and it only made you sadder to see him keep his mask even on that unpleasant occasion.

“don’t you dare say that, jing yuan. there’s still time, we can make someone look for a doctor, we… you can resist for a few minutes until then!”, you sounded — you were — desperate. “everything is going to work out in the end, isn’t it?”.

you were trying your best to pay no attention to your thoughts: there was no doubt that his injury was fatal, he already had lost too much blood to return back to his usual life and be saved. you would have switched places in a heartbeat if you were given the opportunity to do so, you would have given anything to keep him alive; jing yuan had understood it since the first day your love for him had been known.

his eyes were fixated on your face, as if they were trying to soothe your distressed mind. with the last remaining ounce of strength, he rested one of his hands on yours and deepened his smile.

he called out your name again. “do you know how much i care about you?”.

if the situation were different, you would have punched him; tears began to fall down on your cheeks; you would have liked to scream and say he wouldn’t have died in that way, but you managed to make your lips curve into a faux grin; if you had to smile, you would have done it for him.

“yes, love. i do know it all too well”, you whispered, your gaze was focused only on his face and the flutter of his eyelashes.

jing yuan slowly nodded and mumbled “good”: his heart could have ultimately rested now that he had your confirmation.

he looked at the gray sky, silently saying his goodbyes to the world around him. “if there’s anything beyond this life… i hope i’ll get the chance to… to meet my friends… and lost companions there…”. you felt his fingers caress yours in a reassuring manner, a habit of his the general of the luofu couldn’t abandon even in death. “perhaps we are going… to talk again”.

you inclined your head, there was nothing else you could do.

his deep voice, the white cascade of his long hair, those golden eyes that held many memories, the strategies he followed while playing chess, his comforting laugh, every characteristic of his — you would have never forgotten any of them.

“i feel… so light…” he muttered as he closed his eyes, inhaling air for the last time.

an uncontrollable sob broke out from your throat as you bended over and hugged his cold body close to your chest, your forehead was against his.

pain had been a part of jing yuan’s life since he was a child and it ushered him also to his demise, as a loyal intimate who had never left his side.

you held back your tears when a question made its way into your head: would he have found solace now that everything was over? you shivered and hoped he could finally rest, but your heart wouldn’t have been the same ever again.

the peace you had found within his presence had mercilessly been broken and nothing could have ever repaired it.

[ do not copy, translate, repost, etc. | by @ elf-osamu ]

[ tag list — @bladesmuse ]

[digital999placebo]

back on my usual shit. Tormenting the one I love. A lidl fanfic snippet beneath cut hehehe (a convo between Gilbert and Roderich on the topic of Germany)

[Somewhere in Continental Europe, 1870]

“You can’t be serious about raising him on your own,” Roderich spits acid, “You have no experience or qualifications outside of war, let me do it.”

“If I can manage an army of men, I believe I’m capable of caring for one child.”

“Children are not trained men, Gilbert.”

“You’re the last person I want to be lectured by on this,” Gilbert cuts in and adjusts his position in the chair. “I mean no offence, Roderich, but I rather have Feliciano beneath me than beside me.”

Roderich makes a strangled sound and opens his mouth to retort that Feliciano is perfectly well-adjusted when Gilbert continues.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt your efficiency in raising regular children. You could turn a stuttering fool into a credentialed politician and a tone-deaf cripple to the most renowned pianist. You and your country have a culture that mine does not. Your understanding of music is something I couldn’t even dream of achieving, but what you lack is the ability to admire a well-oiled machine. I want Ludwig to not only be a force to be reckoned with within the political spectrum, I also want him unbeatable on the field. I want people terrified at the mere mention he’s coming… And that is nothing you can provide.”

Roderich nearly laughs at Gilbert’s delusion. The nation before him couldn’t seriously believe that Ludwig, a wiry and mutilated little thing, a walking blasphemy against God and Mother Nature herself, covered in sutures and wrapped in bandages that needed to be changed daily, was going to become anything but what he was created of, dead tissue. He searches Gilbert’s face for a trace of self-awareness and is horrified when he doesn’t find it.

“That– Ludwig won’t even survive that long,” Roderich manages to get out, quiet, angry, and small. He can’t help how his voice shakes and rises. He’s furious, but can’t say why, perhaps because he feels bad for the little thing Gilbert has created, so frail yet already carrying the weight of Gilbert’s expectations, he’s angry because he knows better and he doesn’t know how to make Gilbert understand that. “He’s blind and mute; incapable of even feeding or relieving himself despite his age. You haven’t created a machine, you haven’t even created a person, you’ve created a thing whose only purpose is to suffer a slow death.”

Gilbert’s mouth tightens and he drums an impatient finger against the chair’s armrest, “You’re underestimating him.”

“I’m realistic, one of us has to be. That thing is suffering every day,” Roderich begs. “It’s sadistic.”

Gilbert hits the armrest with his fist and Roderich reels back.

“Don’t call him that! He’s not a thing, he’s the future of Europe,” Gilbert sneers at him, all composure finally lost, “You sit here and speak as though he were to die any day now, yet you beg me to resign him to your care?” –Gilbert wrinkles his nose in disdain– “I can see why Feliciano turned out the way he did, you have no perseverance, no dignity or strength, giving Ludwig to you would be to cut his throat. You’ve never struggled in a way that matters, nothing worth having is easily attainable. Ludwig will be great.”

Roderich trembles with withheld fury and he curls his lips to match Gilbert’s crude sneer.

“Fine,” he spits, “If that thing makes it at all.”

[softichill]

The Sounds of Nightmares unofficial transcript

Chapter 2 - A Penance at the Bathouse

(created in collaboration with @queen0fm0nsterz !!!!!!)

Chapter 1

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

[Click]

[Rewind sound]

OTTO: During our fourth session, developments in Noone’s case unearthed echoes of past failures. The girl recalled a familiar figure. 

[Click, Otto plays the tape]

Recording of NOONE: “The Candleman stood before me, on the rooftop. He wore… a long filthy jacket. His presence… it reminded me of… when the tide goes out.”

[Click, Otto pauses the tape]

OTTO: An uncanny sense of deja-vu, for Noone has seemingly encountered my Cici’s [distorted] Ferryman. I thought him lost forever. Yet, if true, he’s somehow found a way back to where he began. And who is he? Some deranged bedlamite? A mutual dreaming savant, invading the nightmares of innocents? It seems absurd. All I know for certain is that I must dig deeper. 

[tape rewinding]

[Intro plays]

[Various clicking]

OTTO: This is the Counselor, tape number 57, session number 4, patient number… Hm, patient Noone. [Tapping and shifting]

OTTO: I was presumptuous. Judgemental. Now I feel it’s paramount to prioritize Noone’s treatment over several other cases, due to demonstration of abnormal neurological faculties. [Shifting sounds] To dissent her further, today I’ll venture an unconventional method. [something electric is turned on]

[Beeping. Otto sighs]

OTTO: Admittedly dated, but this device should help attain further clarity. 

[Beeping alts. Audio cuts]

[Steps, pages shuffling. Someone knocks on the door]

OTTO: (cheery) Please, come in! 

[Door creaks open and closes]

OTTO: How are we doing today, Noone?

NOONE: Otto, what happens to a stone that has overcome its greatest fear? 

OTTO: You’re… telling a joke?

NOONE: Yes, but I never got the punchline.

OTTO: I’ll have to think about that –

NOONE: Hey, look! A moth!

[Otto shifts to look]

NOONE: We went on vacation once, under my doctor’s advice. Swarms of moths gathered around that balcony each night. They fascinated me, their little ways! How they just… existed. I collected them in mum’s plastic jars. 

OTTO: Well, this might be a good time to tell me about your mother. 

NOONE: …I’d rather not. Mum didn’t share my enthusiasms for crawlies. But moths were my favorite, drawn to light under some kind of spell.

OTTO: Perhaps you see a bit of yourself in the moth. Vulnerable, caught in the spotlight. The fame you received after the cure –

NOONE: I don’t feel cured. At all.

OTTO: …You feel you’re still in the dark?

NOONE: Yes. But I like to try to fly towards the light.

OTTO: [Hum] Then let me be that guiding light. And eventually, together, we’ll leave your darkness behind. 

NOONE: How you said that… reminds me of the place I visited.

OTTO: On your vacation?

NOONE: No. Last night, in my dream.

OTTO: Let’s make sure you’re comfortable before jumping in.

NOONE: Oh, I feel at ease. Calm even. Can I tell you about it?

OTTO: If you like, then I suppose you could –

NOONE, narrating: I awoke to wet air on a rooftop. 

NOONE: Peeking over the ledge, I saw an ocean, stretching all the way to the horizon. On the nearest shore, giant fish-like contraptions crawled out from the waves, and from their mouths, plump men and women emerged. Faces hidden behind wooden masks, bodies tucked away beneath mucky brown robes. Some used sticks to labour up the long winding boardwalk leading from the beach to the lantern-lit market below. 

[Bells and steps]

NOONE: Their destination was behind me. A distant, crooked bathhouse. A voice whispered, “Hey!”, and I turned to see a grubby, breathless boy stepping off a ladder. He dressed in tatty shorts and… shirt covered in pin badgers. He said, 

JESTER, overlapping with NOONE: “Do you know a way out of here?”

NOONE: I told him I was equally lost, but he insisted on traveling together. He went on,

JESTER, (ov. with NOONE): “Other kids call me Jester, because I never run out of jokes. I can tell you some along the way!” 

NOONE: I didn’t reply, so he blurted,

JESTER (ov. with NOONE): “Uhm, a man tells his friend to stop looking for the perfect match…” 

NOONE: But, he stopped. I could tell he realized that parts of him… were missing. As if… just being here… [slimy, crawling sound] was changing him. I realized something too: my headache was gone. Jester yelled out,

JESTER (ov. with NOONE): “Oh! He tells him to… use a lighter!”

[Otto interrupts the narration]

OTTO: Then this boy was the impetus for your joke! [Shifting] You met a child in your nightmare prior, but this one sounds far more… normal. 

NOONE: He looked like the kids from school, only… kinder. The ones at school teased me. Well, until I fell ill. After the water sickness, the same children who made me dread walking through these rotten gates began sucking up. But I’ve always been the same me. 

NOONE: Funny. I feel less me now than before.

OTTO: Children can be cruel. I had my share of tormentors in adolescence. 

NOONE: Really?

OTTO: It’s regrettably common. [Shifting] Tell me what happened next.

NOONE, narrating: Jester pulled my arm. “Look”, he said, pointing me to long planks of wood laid down like bridges between the rooftops. …Other children had traveled this path before.

OTTO: Other children? [Otto writing]

NOONE: The walkways had been placed there. They were too narrow for those swollen adults below. It must have been other children, and Jester – he was real too. [Writing] I felt his presence just as I feel yours here in this room. [Pause] Could that… be the dream sharing you spoke of?

OTTO: Let’s not leap to assumptions. Go on. The planks?

[Pause. Sounds of slow steps on wood]

NOONE, narrating:  We carefully walked each one, building to building. [Steps on terrain and wood, as well as faint bells] Below, the masked figures continued their walk too. Every now and then, a traveler would leave their place in line to take goods from the many merchants who’d offered all manner of soaps and perfumes. Their flowery smells mixed with… the fishy stench, pouring from the chimneys of the bathhouse…

[walking and bells continue]

NOONE: When we reached our final building, our only option was to head down the long ladder, sneaking around the side into an alleyway below. Jester was the nervous sort, so, I did my best to stir his courage and asked, [overlapping] “Have you another joke?”, and he replied,

JESTER (ov. with NOONE): “Oh, right! What happens to a stone that has overcome its greatest fear?”

NOONE: And there it was again. That… lost look. Like granny used to get. I asked him, [overlapping] “You don’t remember?” And Jester simply said,

JESTER (ov. with NOONE): “I’ll know it by the time I reach the bottom.”

NOONE: But, before I could follow… something called out from across the rooftop. A muddled voice, and then… I saw him. That man with- the impossible face. The same one from the room of glass jars, the – I can never focus on him!

[Narration stops]

OTTO: Noone, I need you to recall fine details.

NOONE: I told you!

OTTO: Especially when speaking of persons you’ve seen multiple times. Recurrence implies significance. 

NOONE: He’s a… broken mirror. Or a photograph all torn up. Impossible to piece back together.

OTTO: I have something. [Otto gets up from his chair, steps] A magic glue for your mind. 

[Steps, shifting, Otto sets the device up. Beeping and buzzing.]

NOONE: I don’t want to wear that.

OTTO: (immediately) You must. If you cannot remember specifics then I cannot help you. I must know about this mystery figure, I… simply must. 

[Shifting]

NOONE: Um… Alright then. 

[Noone puts on the device. Everything except Noone’s voice becomes slightly muffled]

NOONE: [pause] A pendant?

OTTO: This belonged to someone very important. Gazing into its spiral always gave me relief. I found it can be used to offer my patients that same relief through hypnotherapy… which will help you remember this, um…

NOONE: The Candleman. It’s my name for him.

[Shifting]

OTTO: I’d like you to gaze into the spiral. Watch it sway, back and forth. Back, and forth. Fall into the endless turning of the pattern within. As you drift away, drift back into dreaming. Drift into a world coming clearer. 

NOONE: Y-Yes… I see.

OTTO: Then, tell me of… the Candleman. 

NOONE, narrating: …The candleman stood before me. On the rooftop. [Faint, low breathing] He wore… a long filthy jacket. His presence…. it reminded me of… when the tide goes out. And his face… it moved beneath his hat. Like soup. Bits and pieces rising and sinking. Wait… I can see a little better now. 

NOONE: H-His eyes… are long slits. Skin-rough, sagging… like melting wax. He didn’t speak, but somehow I knew. The Candleman wanted me to open myself. To this place. Yes, he has for a while now. Every night. 

OTTO: (muffled) Every night?

NOONE: Oh. I can see it all. A web. He’s… been with me this whole time. Watching. Observing. Waiting…

OTTO: What does he want?

NOONE: I don’t know… [muffled yelling] Someone shouting. I turn to look,

OTTO: I’d like to keep talking about-

NOONE: No! When I turn back, the Candleman was gone. I-I rush to the ladder [Dream!Noone running, clunk]. At the bottom stood a- wart-covered brute with filthy arms. He must have broken away from the boardwalk, and something hung in his hand, flapping l-like a fish. He headed to the Bathhouse and… something told me to follow. 

[clanking]

NOONE: As I climb down the ladder, I passed by an open shop window, and poked my head inside. The merchant… spoke in- a raspy voice, [overlapping] “What’s your pleasure?” A desperate moan came from the customer, and he said [overlapping whisper] “Suds. To cleanse this profound skin.” And then… the merchant lifted- a bottle of pink liquid, and said “This will ease your pain.”

[Dream!Noone continues climbing down, lands]

NOONE: A-at the bottom of the ladder, Jester wasn’t there, so… I set off, making my way through- the overgrowth, that had eaten up the land around the Bathhouse.

[plants rustling] 

NOONE: Until, I reached some vines, crawling up a fogged window. 

[Window being opened, Dream!Noone entering and landing on the floor]

NOONE: I was in some kind of- store closet. [water dripping] The shelves were lined with… cleaning chemicals, and… brushes and buckets. The stink of bleach stung my eyes, so I rush through the door. 

[heavy door opening, echoey bath splashing]

NOONE: A room with shallow pools. And the same polluted taste in the air, as the stream by our apartment. 

OTTO: [writing, muffled] Water parasite preoccupation-

NOONE, Not narrating: (distressed) Something lives on. Even after the cure! Pinching my skin, pulling my organs, my head’s like- cracked pavement and my scalp is- itchy!- So itchy- urgh!!!

OTTO: Enough! Enough scratching. 

[Beeping, clicking as Otto unstraps the device. Beeping powers down, audio is clearer]

OTTO: (comforting) Noone, listen. There’s nothing on you. Nothing inside, either. It’s only you and me, and nothing else. 

[Two pops. Earplugs are removed, Noone gasps, audio is completely clear]

OTTO: It’s alright. You’re back. Safe and sound, as promised. 

NOONE: …Did…did it work? Were details glued back together?

OTTO: Some. Though many pieces are still missing… and this continual mention of headaches concerns me. I’ll look into possible causes and see what can be done. For now; the Bathhouse, you were inside, right?

NOONE, narrating: Yes. And, there was steam hung in the air, making it hard to see anything but… shapes. The shapes of… Bathers, unrobed and- unmasked. Some levered away, some crouched in the water, others huffed the sauna steam. The biggest… sat scrubbing himself with… [child struggling] with something that appeared alive. 

[distant splash, more struggling noises, scrubbing]

NOONE: Creeping through the steam, I hid behind a bucket [splash, child whines, growly mumbling] The big one… was before me, [Child yelling, growly voice] barely resembling a human. His- body was… raw and brown, and he rapidly repeated “Divide the grime from the divine” over and over. I suddenly realized wha- [splash, Jester struggling] who… the creature was scrubbing with.

NOONE: [Jester yells, scrubbing] It was poor Jester, sobbing and thrashing for his life. S-Stumbling in horror, I… I slipped on the slimey [squeak] tile and-

[all background noise stops]

NOONE: The whole room went silent, as they turned their heads… and began a haunting chant.

NOONE: (overlapping whisper) “Cleanse her, cleanse her!” Voices piled as their shapes stood and staggered into view, th-their bodies scrubbed into- raw spectacles, there was nothing I could do for Jester! So, I- I picked myself up, and ran for the door, but it was shut tight! [door clicking, whispers get louder] The Bathers drew near, arms reaching out, [more struggling] my hands grazed a crevice on the wall, which- which I slip- through just in time. 

[Whispers stop, door clattering, Dream!Noone breathing hard]

NOONE: There I stood in the storeroom, once more. The window was open [knocks on the door]- my one chance to escape. I climbed the shelves, [jars clinking] avoiding the jars and containers that filled the room with chemical stink. 

[knock, door breaks down]

NOONE: Glancing back, I saw the monster, standing in the broken door frame- Jester’s limp body under his arm. 

[clanking]

NOONE: His… wart-covered hand reached up, [Growl, Dream!Noone yelps] grabbing my leg, violently pulling me away, [shelf creaks] and all I could do was reach in hope, [creak] my hands grasped a jar full of white liquid, [creak, yelp] and as he ripped me down-

[Entire shelf breaks]

NOONE: The jar followed. 

[Glass breaks, Bather roars & groans. Everything goes quiet]

NOONE: The liquid covered him, head to toe, unleashing a cloud of gas that burned the very air, washing over me, sending me into darkness. …A strange satisfaction came from melting down that vile man. I wasn’t like that moth, searching for the light. I was quite… happy, surrounded by the dark. 

NOONE, finishing: Soon enough… I was back here. In the Copy. 

OTTO: …Hmm… A more intense, personally-rooted conflict this time, a desire to be clean- perhaps to wash away memories of an invasive experience that your anxiety is fixated on. Yet, what bemuses me is your insistence on actuality; claiming material presence of others, and environment. 

NOONE: But, didn’t you say I could be sharing dreams?

OTTO: Yes, but that’s a different phenomenon. We must prescribe further research. I will need to begin nightly tests and observations to aid in reaching differential diagnosis. 

NOONE: Experiments! Do we have to, Otto?

OTTO: They’ll help you feel better! And that’s what you want, isn’t it?

NOONE: …Well… yes. Of all things, it’s the sound of mum saying “Ni-night” I miss most. 

[shifting as both get up]

OTTO: The stone becomes a little boulder!

NOONE: Pardon?

OTTO: The answer! To Jester’s joke! It’s an old one. 

NOONE: (whispering) The stone becomes a little boul… Oh, [giggle]

OTTO: Now, before you pop off to bed, [ceramic scrape] pick out another colorful delight for being such a good girl. 

[ceramic click, wrapper crinkling]

OTTO: Sweets, for my sweet. 

[Click]

[Outro plays] 

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Welcome To New York

Chapter Two of Sweet Home Alabama

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x OC (Linley Mitchell/Floyd), Bradley 'Rooster’ Bradshaw x OC (Linley Mitchell/Floyd)

Description: It's been seven years since you left Pigeon Creek, Alabama. Seven long, arduous years. Just when everything seems to be moving in the right direction, a seemingly happy event makes you remember how closely the ties bind you to Pigeon Creek.

Themes: angst, love, smut, attraction

Warnings: None!

Word Count: 3170

A/N: Here we go with Chapter two! It's finally time to see who Linley is as an adult and explore a little bit of her life in New York. This is also the chapter where we meet her beau! I hope you love it!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

In the seven years since you left Pigeon Creek in the rear view mirror, your life has changed by leaps and bounds. You're not sure when your small hometown went from feeling like your whole world to not being enough. You've always had dreams, and you've always been opinionated. But as you grew up, your dreams and Jake were still the two most important things in your life.

At least, that is, until one dumb decision changed your entire life and ended up losing you your best friend and first love all in one fell swoop. So you left Pigeon Creek and you left Jake behind, and moved to New York City. You lost yourself in your career, working your butt off to become a fashion designer. It’s been a long, hard road to get to where you are now, but you can’t say you regret it.

You wake up the night before your first big debut show at New York Fashion Week, dreaming of the day you and Jake were struck by lightning. You're face down on your workbench and for one short moment, you're not quite sure where you are. But that feeling fades when you see lightning through the stained glass window of the warehouse you and your team are working out of.

"Oh my god." You gather a couple of designs off of your desk before walking up to the floor, checking them for splotches of drool as you go. Your team is clustered around models, carefully measuring and finishing garments to make sure each fits their model to perfection.

"How come y'all let me sleep?" Even after seven years, you haven't been able to lose your Alabama accent. A part of you hopes you never do.

"It was only five minutes. Did you know your accent gets thicker when you're sleeping?" You roll your eyes before comparing the design in front of you to the one on the paper. You make one final adjustment to the cloth on the mannequin before accepting a cup of coffee from your assistant. With coffee in your veins, everything feels better.

"They destroyed Badgley Mischka, did you see, Linley?" You nod ruefully, sure to your bones that the same could happen to you.

As your team laughs, you can't help interjecting. "Yeah, yeah. Y'all are laughing now, but tomorrow that could be us!"

Your words are just enough to have your team erupting into activity again. You forget all about your dream, attention wholly held by the fabric which has the ability to control your entire future. If you send fervent prayers out to the Fashion Gods, Saint Laurent, Gucci and Karl Lagerfeld, your team doesn’t judge you for it. They’re banking on this collection just as much as you are. It's just after dawn when you and your team leave the warehouse. You're exhausted and run off of your feet, but you're filled with contentment at the same time. For better or for worse you’ve made something with your own two hands, a collection from which you adore every single piece. As you walk home, you're filled with a quiet confidence - being a successful fashion designer feels so attainable right now. The city is as quiet as you've ever heard it and the shops are just opening up their shutters as you walk down the street. You can actually do this! 

When you finally, finally get home, your feet are dragging. You only have the time for a quick catnap before you have to head downtown again to complete your final prep for the fashion show. Your apartment is quiet, lit only by the weak light of the rising sun peeking through your gauzy white curtains. You throw the deadbolt home and turn around, only to see flower petals strewn across the pale carpet. Your entire apartment is filled with the scent of freshly bloomed roses.

A riotous wash of colors greets you as you toe off your heels and step onto the plush cream carpet, following the trail of petals into your living room. Vase after vase of bright blooms line the tables and shelves in your living room, the delicate scent lifting your mood instantly. There's only one person who could do this for you.

Bradley Bradshaw. 

When you'd moved to New Y0rk, you'd promised yourself you wouldn't fall in love again - or at least that you wouldn't actively go looking for it. The girl you were, that heartbroken worn creature, you vowed to wipe her out of existence. So you adopted the surname Floyd along with a backstory to match and became a Linley your own father wouldn't recognize. You hadn't expected to fall in love with the New York Secretary of Housing. But under your mentor, you ran in posh circles, even before you got the chance to design your own line for fashion week, and you and Bradley had hit it off.

It hasn’t been a whirlwind romance, at least not in the conventional sense. That wasn’t Bradley’s fault either. Bradley is easy to love. It just took you a while for your brain to convince your heart that you could love him. A part of you still does a double-take when he does things like this for you. You’re still not sure you deserve the pampering, forget the vacations or the parties that you’ve been attending on his arm. It’s good for your reputation, less so for his. After all, the man once known as Rooster in the press for some less than clothed paparazzi pictures on vacation had a reputation for dating models before you.

The red light on your answering machine is blinking and you hit the button to hear what messages you have. It's Bradley's voice you hear, leaving a voicemail so romantic that were you a different, less heart-sore girl, you would have swooned on the spot. As it is, you have to lock your knees, you’re so sure they’re going to give out on  you.

"Hey, Sweetheart." His voice makes you smile giddily as you stand in your flower festooned living room. "Good Morning. There's a rose for every moment I thought of you last night. I know the likelihood that you came home last night was slim to none, so I wanted to do something to brighten your day.  I also wanted to wish you good luck before the show today. It's going to be a hit and I can't wait to see what your gorgeous brain came up with. I love you! Bye sweetheart!"

When a man does things like this for you, how could you not love him?

Mid-morning finds you backstage running around like a chicken with its head cut off. You're so nervous even your nerves have nerves. This fashion show is either going to be a success or the biggest disaster you've ever seen. You've solved about a million disasters, including a blouse that should be purple but is a mauve instead - the yellow spotlight should fix that - when you see Bradley on a video feed of the milling crowd.

He always looks so good, so put together. He's wearing a crisp electric blue suit with a Hawaiian shirt underneath it. Were it anyone else, the ensemble would look garish, but on Bradley, it looks amazing. The mustache and Hawaiian shirt are staples in New York politics at the moment. They're both eye-catching traits that Bradley's dad always, always wore when he was mayor before his death and it's a trend Bradley continued once he became Housing Secretary. Of course, just like his dad, he's also the belle of the press.

"Secretary Bradshaw! Can we ask you a couple of questions? Are you excited about the show?" Your grin is smug and a little unbelieving as you watch him schmooze the press, dropping tidbits about how you're going to knock this line out of the park.

"Please tell me he has a flaw." That sardonic, sarcastic voice? That's Natasha Trace. Both of you had come up under the same mentor, her as a model and you as a designer. She's the closest thing you have to a best friend in New York. 

"He asked to take me to Ireland over the holidays." You can't wait! You've never left the country before.

"Oh, honey, he's going to ask you to do a lot more than go to Ireland with him." She's nudging you even as the other models line up behind her.

"We'll see." You face the models. "We're going to be late! Alright ladies! It's go time!"

It feels like a dream when the curtains come down and the standing ovation rings through the hall. You take a few minutes to clear away your mascara tear trails and to re-apply your lipstick before heading into the crowd. You're immediately mobbed by your friends and industry contacts.

When you see Bradley standing behind the photographer taking pictures of you and your models, Tash included, you're immediately moving through the crowd and launching yourself into his arms.

"Bradley!" He's smiling that grin you love as he wraps you up tight in his arms. The scent of his cologne surrounds you as he holds you tight, holding you up before he lets you drop back onto your feet. 

"Oh sweetheart, congratulations!" You can't hide your ecstatic grin as you stay in his arms.

"Those flowers, Bradley? They were absolutely gorgeous! How did you do it?" You're a little giddy and out of breath just at the sight of his smiling face.

"I just wanted today to be perfect for you, sweetheart." You smile up at him in thanks before pulling away, just a little, your hands still in his own.

"So? What did you think? Do you think the critics will like it?" You can't hide the doubt in your tone.

"Oh, Lin! They're critics. They even hate themselves." His words should comfort you, right? Instead it feels like Bradley's not taking your concerns seriously. But you chuckle it off.

"Well, excuse me, Mr. Bradshaw! I wasn't born with thick skin like you." You're grinning just a little as he smiles sunnily at you.

"That's one of the many reasons why I love you, Sweetheart." His hands cup your face as you rise on your tiptoes to peck him chastely. Of course, right as you're about to pull Bradley over to introduce him to the girls, he's saying his goodbyes.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I've got a meeting across town. But I'll see you tonight, yeah?" At your confused look he continues. "You remember, we have that thing at Lincoln Center?"

That's when you remember, the thought hitting you like a sack of bricks and thoroughly deflating your happy little hot air balloon.

"Oh, right!" You smile wryly at him. "The fundraiser! For your mom! That's tonight."

"I'm afraid so. I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. I love you! Congratulations!" You wish you could say that this is the first time Bradley's had to dip out early for a meeting, but you would be wrong.

You can't help but dwell on it when James, Bradley's personal chauffeur picks you up to take you to the fundraiser a few hours later. Is this what life is going to be like? Feeling like you're never at the top of his mind? Never his number one priority? Sure you get to enjoy perks like chauffeured cars and going to fundraisers and galas, wearing designer brands and diamonds on your neck, ears, and wrists, but are those perks worth never being his top priority? You're jerked out of your thoughts when the car stops and James pulls the divider down.

"His meeting's running a little late. But Mr. Bradshaw wanted me to take you inside so you wouldn't have to wait in the car."

"Where are we?" You don't get an answer to your question. James leads you through a side doorway and a series of plain white-walled hallways.

"He shouldn't be too long, miss. Just go through here." If you didn't trust him with your life and know that Bradley did the same, you'd be a little worried.

There's another suited man waiting at an open door. "Won't you come in, Miss Floyd?"

You walk past his outstretched arm into another bare hallway. But this one has Bradley on the other end of it.

"So, have you decided?" As happy as you are to see him, you can't help feeling just the slightest bit of whiplash.

"About Ireland, sweetheart. Just you and me and a couple hundred of our closest friends and family." You feel even more confused now than you did earlier.

"A couple hundred - Bradley what's going on?" The entire time he's been confusing you, he's led you into a cavernous room.

At a signal you can't see, the lights flicker on, one by one, illuminating shelf after shelf of sparkling jewels. Pretty stacks of robin's egg blue boxes are artistically arrayed to the sides, all bearing the mark of Tiffany and Co.

"Oh. My. God." Your words are a little strangled as you take in the plethora of shiny gems.

And then he gets to his knee right in front of you.

"Linley Floyd. Will you marry me?" Your brian short circuits at his words, an irrational sense of panic clouding your vision.

"A-are you sure? Are you really sure you want to marry me? We've only been dating for eight months!" You're babbling, trying desperately to make sure he's making the right decision while making sure you're making the right decision.

"Of course I'm sure, sweetheart. You know me. I don't make rash decisions. And I don't ask questions I'm not sure of the answer to. So at the risk of being rejected twice, I'll ask you again. Will you marry me?" 

This time, your mouth kicks in before your brian does. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" You're both smiling and laughing as he twirls you around in a circle.

"So pick one." There’s laughter in his eyes as he follows behind you as you try on ring after ring, all in your size. Each is beautiful, but you know each is also more expensive, costing more money than you’ve ever seen, more money than you’re sure you’ll ever see. It’s almost a relief when you pick the simplest one, a band with a singular clear cut stone embedded in it. But your left hand feels heavy in the car afterwards as James drives you and Bradley to the Lincoln Center. 

You can’t name the feeling in you right now. You should be feeling happy and excited. A part of you is giddy and ebullient. But more than that, you’re confused. But you can’t let Bradley see how you feel. So you kiss him softly, relishing in the feeling of his mustache across your lips. As you sink into the kisses, your earlier exhaustion dissipates like champagne bubbles. The divider is up and it feels like you and Bradley are the only people in the entire universe that matter right now.

"I've been planning this for a long time, sweetheart. I knew your show would be great and it'll be great to tell the whole world at the fundraiser tonight, right?" Your stomach lurches a little at the thought.

"I can't wait to see my mom's face when I tell her that we're engaged! Let's call your dad, sweetheart!"

You shock yourself with how fast you snatch the phone out of his hand - he isn’t able to type in more than a single digit.

"No!" You chuckle a little sheepishly. " I mean, um. I haven't seen my dad since I left Alabama. I really should tell him in person. He raised me all by himself and he deserves to hear it from me in person. Please?" You pull out your biggest, best puppy eyes and pout just a little. As always, it works.

"Of course, sweetheart." His sigh is fond as he takes the phone back. "I love that you're that close to your dad."

"Um.. there's one more thing, Bradley." At his nod, you continue. "I think I should do it alone."

"Baby, you know I'm going to have to meet my father-in-law eventually, right? Hopefully before the wedding?"  Now he's looking at you like you’re crazy.

"I know, Bradley. But we've got plenty of time for that, right? And I know my dad will love you!" You cup his cheek gently with your left hand.

"It's 'cause I'm a Yankee, right?" 

You crinkle your nose fondly before leaning in close enough that each word has your lips brushing against his. "Well, it's that and 'cause you're a Democrat." 

You're both giggling as the car pulls up in front of the Lincoln Center. Before you get out of the car, Bradley turns the ring so the stone is in your palm.

"Mum's the word, sweetheart. Just for now." 

The minute you step out of the car, you're bombarded by questions, flashes of light from countless photographs and what seem to be a hundred calls of your name. At the end of the runway is who you would classify to be the epitome of the Wicked Witch of the West, if only the Wicked Witch of the West were less green.

Carole Bradshaw is the current Mayor of New York, ex-First Lady of New York City, and 100% sure that nobody can run her son's life better than she can. So she butts into nearly every part of your relationship with Bradley. He manages to wiggle away by finding a colleague he recognizes. But that leaves you right in her clutches as she pulls you into a hug and takes both your hands in hers.

"Oh, darling, I hear fantastic things about your new line."

You babble your thanks, but you know exactly why her expression changes. Her vice grip on your left hand would hurt if you weren't wholly preoccupied by the cold sweat covering you from head to toe.

"What is this?" She hisses, "Bradley, why is Linley wearing a skating rink on a very important finger?"

She doesn't even notice you trying to tell her to keep it quiet, because all of a sudden she's screaming the words, "You're engaged?!", for all the press and fundraiser guests to hear.

That's when you know you have two huge problems. One, your engagement, your supposed-to-be hush hush engagement is going to be all over the news, you're sure nationally. Everybody will know that Secretary Bradshaw is engaged to you. The second problem? It's that you've never told anyone that you had been married once before. That you're still married, actually. 

It's with a heavy heart that you book the first red eye to Alabama in the early morning hours after the gala. How the hell are you going to get Jake to sign the divorce papers without him finding out that you're engaged? Can you get the divorce processed before Bradley comes to meet your dad? More importantly, are you ready to face Pigeon Creek again?

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

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[yellowfingcr]

My name is Heysel. I am about to ingest an increasing amount of gravity stone dust, blended within a solution the exact characteristics and proportions of the substances compounding it I will list in a separate note. I do this to try and extract ritual dream from the vision-hallucinations I will experience in hypnagogia after absorption and in purposeful reverse mithridatism; I know this is the sort of toxicity that will accumulate within me and weaken my being against it. This I do so that the greatest force of effect will be attained once I decide that all is in place for what I require to do, for imbibing dissolved dust will be a necessary step. I write thus.

Dream one

I am in my childhood home and myself a child. My mother is outside in the garden, reading underneath the shade of a tree as she used to do during the breezy days in Sellia. Disease took her left eye far before my birth; since very young I have grown knowing how to accommodate this absence of her world, making my steps heavier before approaching her on that side, calling her name, aware to never toss anything at her to catch. I know this but I am young and enamored with mischief and already a small ghost, so I slowly and silently walk next to the left of her chair, and a little further, where I would have entered the sight of most but not my mother’s, and I advance, carefully, where I am certain one more step would reveal my presence. I find thrill in the act. Slowly I go, back and forth, and she keeps on reading the book in her lap, oblivious to my existence. I suppress a chuckle. And somehow between a step back and another I find myself adult, and I move forward, make my steps heavier, call her name. But she doesn’t turn. I try again, louder, entering wholly and boldly her field of view, waving a hand before her; she doesn’t move. Dread congeals in my gut. She is so close. I shout. I am before her. I am on my knees pawing at hers. Nothing. She cannot see me. She cannot see me.

Dream two

My two dart frogs which I owned before my death have gone missing but I am less worried than miffed; I start searching for them in a labyrinthine city with no geography I recognize. I stop people, ask them if they have seen my frogs, and everyone says yes and tells me where to go, but as soon as I spot my runaway pets at the indicated location they do something and manage to elude capture again, and each time I curse in irritation. This continues until my efforts lead me to a strange verdant spot within curling paths, a small paradise of green cupped in stone. Somehow this evokes a grand nostalgia in me, as if this had once been a place of importance to me, but I’d long lost the memory of why. My frogs are here, basking in the wetness of a pond. I approach. One opens its mouth, and tells me: it awaits you. I awakened before being able to ask whom, and wept.

Dream three

I am laying down prone and spread-limbed. My teacher cherished, the Onyx Lord, walks around me and as he moves in circles I can see moonlight glint along the hammer and the eight long nails he carries in his fingers. He asks if I am ready. I say yes. I say please. I am desiccating right under my skin and I am behind my eyes in the shadow of my pupils. He kindly comes closer sets the edge of a nail against the back of my wrist and brings the hammer down but I feel no pain just the drum percussion shaking the surface of the skin that contains me and me contained within it. He does it twice for each joint and I exultate each time. Then he says nothing but I know I will now receive the blade and I could cry out in relief and I do when he sinks it where my skull connects to my spine and drags it down the length of my back butcher-methodical and I feel air oh the touch of air against me as finally the skin enveloping me trapping me parts. He stops cutting and tells me proceed and I strain against the desiccation and push and then emerge, finally, and I am no longer prone but I am kneeling, and I breathe, wet as a wound though I am the excised thorn, the wetness handprint of new life, and I see it, what I left behind, nailed to the ground- the torn cicada shell that looks exactly like me, asleep- and me the erupted me looks nothing like the shell. I am sleek and deadly and exquisite chitin-armored in purpose. I marvel I laugh I raise my voice free and it is the sound of black holes, colliding, the same blissful chirp. I thank my teacher. And I take the nails and take my skin. I will have to find a way to place it within myself so that it may begin anew woman contained within woman who is not a woman

Dream four

A flight of herons darting like stars leaving feathers dripping down wish-liquid to sing in looping small patterns of bliss in the air I trace the soft edges of this movement calligraphy I long to learn the grammar of this beauty I want so I grasp the slim ankle of a bird and it wilts as flower in my hand and only the clear glass of bones remains for me I lift them high against the sun to witness light prismatic spearing refracting and breaking through them festive this celebration my palms sweat in the heat something cracks I lose pearl-sized bits of myself expendable I do not mind at all shedding is part of nature but have I not glass and light and wish I am growing too hot the herons are now gone so I sit down and the herons are gone and I try to dig grooves in the sand with my too soft nails so that I may lay myself in this small shade like a kernel waiting I think I can be such a thing maybe fist-compressed potential crushed between the closing lashes of sleep nothing but patience endless though I lie I do think there is such a thing as hunger absolute but I want for coolness I long for rest another lie I long for strife to hook my lobe and pull and tear and unravel and entropy screaming lullaby I see fireworks of needles clouds burning white so far away not a crackle all is silent and alive and I gasp even if there is no air watch elongation my fingers my surprise my bliss all tend upward downward monodimensional pressure aiming towards infinity oh gods the taste sweet against the grid of my throat yes it is time I am the heron I can raise my whisper weight I shake my wet feathers and like that I

leave

[l-crimson-l]

Hello! I saw your post asking for Gundam thoughts, so here's mine: what's your take on the reading/interpretation that Suletta's story is a commentary/critique/reflection on both Lalah's and Marida's stories (I don't care about spoilers, so no worries about that)?

Ok so I haven’t thought about Lalah in a HOT minute so excuse me there but there was actually a couple parallels between G Witch and Unicorn.

Speaking about Marida specifically, it was really cool to see a different take on the clone angle. We see Marida, a long lost, forgotten and forsaken Puru clone abused by those who find her and quite literally chopped up to be singularly whatever her “Master” wants her to be. It’s gruesome and horrific but when we first see her she’s escaped some of that abuse and returned to her original purpose which is to be a pilot. Her new “Master” is also someone who doesn’t want to use her like her previous owners but is forced to send her out as a pilot due to circumstance.

Compare this to our first introduction to Suletta and we see a couple different similarities. While she didn’t have to suffer (as much) to get to where she is at the beginning of the show we find out later she also has a “Master” of her own: her mother. And within the course of the first episode she gains a relationship that will grow to guide her to her own happiness.

The more I think about them the more their arcs seem to start and end together but separate at the middle. Suletta is famously unsure about herself and just about every interaction she has with other people. Marida is cool and confident and knows what she is and needs to be for Neo Zeon and her “Master”. But each woman slowly finds out what they want is family to surround them. Suletta fights for her family, both for her wife and to save her sister and mother and to a lesser extent Earth House. Marida floats through life, settling in a place where she’s comfortable being used as a pilot bc it’s what she knows but the man she now calls her Master never wanted to be and actively dislikes being called that. It’s at the peak of Marida’s arc that we learn her “Master”, Suberoa Zinnerman, only wants to take care of her as his daughter, in place of the one he lost. Marida is no replacement, but she’s here and he’ll do what he can to keep her safe. Even if that means dangling from a single cable in the upper stratosphere.

These two ladies couldn’t be any more different from the outside, but where they differ they reflect one another, in how confident they are, how they try to attain their goals, but they each have the determination to reach their dreams and make them their own. You could argue Marida doesn’t get to keep her family, but as a Newtype, Marida gets to exist within time itself so she’s always going to be there.

This is making me want a spinoff of these two bc I just think they’d be a lot of fun. And I think Marida would help encourage Suletta to be more confident and sure of herself.

I don’t do a lot of these breakdowns but I hope it makes sense lol these two ladies begin and end at the same place but even where they differ they reflect one another and are joined in that way. And I think that’s neat. Two separate ways of getting to the same place. Give these ladies a hug (and a Marida some ice cream)

[lilpunkrock]

where you go (i will go) — part xiii

Summary: Hob offers you a lesson in love, and Dream's quest for answers finally comes to fruition.

Words: 6.1k+

AN: Been looking forward to this one for a long time. Enjoy! x

masterlist

. . .

“I still remember everything you like,

Following your footsteps in my mind;

Tearing out the pages that I write,

‘Cause every line I read is through your eyes.”

Sun, loveless

. . . 

part xiii

While the residents of Dream Country rest, their minds swaddled in the thick comfort of slumber, their creator’s mind races. Standing in the center of his gallery, Dream of the Endless contemplates his next moves for the hundredth time. The twin fires lighting the gallery leap and flicker, seemingly mirroring the turmoil within their master’s mind. 

Morpheus had existed since the dawn of the first thought, since the first need for rest. The breadth of experience he had navigated in his eons of existence could not be overstated. These eons had granted him wisdom and enlightenment beyond the attainment of most beings. It was not often that he was faced with indecision. 

It was you who had spurred him to invite Calliope to the Dreaming. ‘Sometimes, if you love something, Dream, the best thing you can do is let it go.’ In your months of knowing one another, it had never ceased to astound him how you spoke the right words at the right times, seemingly without even realizing it yourself. He had sent for Calliope the very next day, arranging her visit without delay.  

Their meeting in the Dreaming had been desperately needed, even…curative. He was hopeful that the opportunity to air their grievances and confessions would be fruitful. He was hopeful that it would allow her to move forward and find greater happiness, just as you’d said. He wondered if it might do the same for him. 

That had been the first step. After you’d left the Dreaming earlier tonight, Morpheus had returned to the throne room alone. He had once told you that the vastness of the sea helped him think more clearly. The vastness of the cosmos beyond the throne room’s trusses were no different. He had observed them for hours after you’d left the Dreaming, seeking guidance. Seeking answers. 

The longer he’d observed, the more musings had made themselves known to him. Like how the slant of Capricornus reminded him of the curve of your jaw, the curl of your eyelashes. How Lyra summoned the memory of watching you foster attachments during his first visit to your Realm. The serenity in your expression as you’d plucked the threads like harp strings would have been put to shame by human descriptions. He wondered what you might do if he brought Canis Major to life above you, if he called the Great Dog right out of the sky and sent him into your arms. Would it soothe your sorrow about the friend you’d parted with, Theo? 

The longer he’d stared, the longer each cluster of stars above had led him back to the glimmer in your eyes. The glimmer that surfaced whenever you emboldened a new attachment, or gave input on a new dream. The same glimmer he witnessed when you collapsed onto the dock after a long night of working, when you smiled at Lucienne, or when you laughed with Matthew. When you looked at him. 

On the first day you’d traveled to the Dreaming all those months ago, a call had risen in him. It seemed to strengthen in your presence, beckoning him toward you. You know her. She is familiar, it whispered. He supposed it was from your time as a human long ago. He knew he must have encountered your unconsciousness before, crafted nightmares and fantasies for you and you alone. In spite of this knowledge, he could not place you. Like a song he’d once known, but was lost to him. He could not grasp the words of you, yet remembered your tune deep in his bones. 

In spite of his nature, he had tried to be patient. You had been open with him, had revealed your mystery piece by piece. And yet, even still, your picture remained incomplete. 

He was weary of being patient. He wanted to know the truth. He needed to know everything. 

His feet carry him toward Death’s sigil with purpose. When he takes it in his hands, it’s without indecision. 

“Sister, it is your brother, Dream of the Endless. I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil. I wish to talk.”

. . . 

The slap of your sneakers against the cobblestones echoes in the stillness of London’s night. Teetering around freezing, a wintery mix falls from the sky, wetting your hair and cheeks. The bitter wind cuts straight to the bone, but you barely pay it any mind. All your attention is trained on the building in front of you, on the golden lamp lights that illuminate its familiar green door. 

Your knuckles rap against The New Inn’s front door hastily. Heart in your throat, you anxiously pull at your fingers as you wait for some sign of life on the other side. When several long seconds drag by with no reply, you huff with frustration, pounding on the door in earnest.

After several seconds of banging, a groggy voice calls from within, “Okay, okay! I’m coming.” As the sound of locks being undone reaches your ears, you swear you hear a grumbled, “Gonna wake up my damn customers.” 

When Hob Gadling swings the door open, his eyes are heavy with sleep, his hair utterly disheveled. He looks like he’s properly prepared to chew out whatever unlucky stranger has torn him from his slumber. But as his eyes flicker over your recognizable features, the anger slips from his face. “Love?” he says incredulously, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.

You heave a sigh of relief at his familiar face. “Thank the Maker, Hob. It’s so good to see you.” Now comes the truth. Clasping your fidgeting hands in front of you, you gaze up at him imploringly. When the words come out, they flee you in a rush. “I need your help. I think I’m in love.”

. . .

The smirk that Hob levels you with from across the table is downright, undeniably smug. Upon ushering you into The New Inn and out of the cold, he’d graciously poured a glass of water to calm you, hot tea to warm you, and a beer to “make those problems of yours seem a little smaller.” All three sit before you now, untouched. Your hands are clasped tightly in your lap, white-knuckled and nervous. 

Hob is the first one to break the weighty silence. “You could have told me you were snogging, you know. I bloody knew you were snogging.”

Your head falls into your hands with a groan. “We weren’t.” Understanding the connotation that that gives, you hastily add, “We haven’t.”

You can’t say you’re surprised that Hob’s taking the opportunity to tease. In fact, it would’ve been more surprising if he hadn’t. In spite of Hob’s smugness, you don’t regret coming here. After you’d learned the truth of your attachment with Dream, it was the first place you’d thought to go. You liked Hob Gadling a great deal. You’d paid him a couple of other visits in recent weeks whenever work brought you to London, sipping on afternoon tea while Hob nursed a beer. 

As much as you loved Lucienne and Matthew, you didn’t dare go to them with your secret. In the end, their loyalty was with Dream, as it should be. Besides, Hob was honest about Dream–brutally, at times–and, to your understanding, they didn’t see each other often. He seemed to be your safest bet, and a comfortable one, at that. 

From between your fingers, you watch Hob throw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I believe you. Sorry, I’m just amazed. I’ve known him a long time, and the subject of romantice has never come up. To call him reserved about his love life–hell, about everything–would be an understatement. How did this even happen?”

You heave a sigh into your palms. “I don’t know. We were partners in our work–that’s how it started. The more time went by, I guess you could say we became…friends. As much as you can be friends with someone who perpetually keeps everyone at arm’s length. It always seemed so funny…I felt like he could just read me, and I got pretty good at reading him, too. And then, one day, everything was just…different. Like a switch was flipped, and I saw everything in a different light for the first time. It…snuck up on me.   I wasn’t trying to fall for him. If anything, I was trying not to.”

“Well, piss-poor job you did of that.”

You raise your head to glare at him, only to find him grinning at you. You can’t help but relax a little under his friendly gaze. “Yeah, no shit.”

Hob chuckles softly, taking a long drink of his tea. “So, how does he feel?” he asks with a quirk of his brow. 

You nibble at your bottom lip, another nervous habit. “I’m not sure. I haven’t asked. Too scared to, obviously. The attachment is there, but I haven’t done anything to foster it. All I know is that it’s a romantic soul tie.  I’m not sure if it’s one-sided, or if he feels the same way.” 

“What do you mean, if he feels the same way? If the attachment is there, shouldn’t he love you, too?” 

Your heart flutters at the mere mention of the words. You swallow thickly. “Yes and no. Just because it’s meant to be doesn’t mean it has to be. The only way to guarantee an attachment is reciprocated is if I fulfill it through my function. If the attachment is simply there, and I don’t foster it…well, it could be reciprocated, or it could not be. If he doesn’t want to love me, he won’t.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that he doesn’t want to. I bet that lonely bastard is dying to get some, even if he wouldn’t admit it.” You purse your lips at his words as heat rises in your cheeks. Hob huffs in satisfaction and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. “My mysterious friend has a soulmate. Shit, what I’d give to pick his brain about that.”

A tick in your jaw tightens your expression. “You can’t tell him, Hob.”

Hob blinks once, seemingly surprised. “Why? I don’t see what the problem is. Why is being in love with him such a bad thing? Besides the fact that he can be a prick sometimes.”

“Because.”  Your heart stutters at the base of your throat, trapping the words there. You swallow heavily, working past them. Working up the courage to be vulnerable, to tell the truth. “It’s a bad thing, because that’s what ruined things the first time around. That’s what got me in this situation in the first place.” 

The words hang suspended between you in the quiet of the inn. Hob stares at you silently, eyebrows pinched together, searching your face for answers. After several long moments, understanding dawns on his face, softening his expression. “Oh. Oh, Love.”

And that was the fear at the heart of it, wasn’t it? That was the fear at the heart of everything. A fear that had dictated every decision since the day you’d opened your eyes to Death’s kind face, a fear that had suffocated and shadowed your every waking and resting hour for eons. 

You’d loved before. You’d put your heart in another’s hands, and it had ended with those hands around your throat. It had ended in the knowledge that the emotion you’d put so much faith in had been no match for Desire, no match for another pretty pair of eyes. It had ended with you still loving him, in spite of everything, and the crippling self-doubt that came after. It had taken ages for those feelings for him to fade. Even when they had, the self-doubt had still remained. 

In the years since you’d walked the earth, your fellow mortals had crafted romantic turns of phrase to describe the passions of the heart. “The heart wants what it wants,” they said. “Follow your heart,” they said. But could you really trust yours? Could they trust their own? 

You knew it was irrational to think that everything would happen all over again, that history would repeat itself so cruelly. But mortals’ sense of self-preservation was a powerful thing, and yours had carried over into this immortal life. Self-preservation was rarely logical. Self-preservation spurred you to protect yourself, regardless of the cost. 

Sitting across from Hob, it occurs to you for the first time that, perhaps, the fact that your first love had resulted in your demise wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was meant to happen, a tragedy carefully designed for a greater purpose. Maybe it was meant to lead you to this moment–to lead you to him. 

Dream. Your eyes flutter closed at the thought of him. If you put your heart in the Dream Lord’s hands, what would he do with it? Would he hold it as fondly as one of his books, revere it as a treasure? Or would he crush it within those elegant fingers that were so adept at creating? You had a hard time believing that he would hurt you, but your past experiences placed a grain of uncertainty in your heart. His own history in love had been troubled, to say the least. But he had shown you remorse. He seemed to be changing. 

You wanted so desperately to believe you were right. You weren’t sure you could bear the pain of being wrong again. 

“I’m scared, Hob,” you breathe past the quiver in your throat. 

Hob watches you in silence for several long moments. When he finally breaks his silence, he does so with a soft chuckle. The sound catches you by surprise, his humor in this situation unexpected. Still, your hammering heart slows at the sound of it. 

“I would’ve thought that the goddess of love would know that love can be scary,” he prods gently, giving you a good-natured smirk. The bait works–you feel the corner of your lips twitch upward in response, which makes him smile wider. “Yes, Love–love can be scary. But that’s a good thing. Means you’ve got something worth being afraid of losing.” 

Hob leans forward, resting his forearms on the table between you. When he levels you with a genuine stare, you find yourself unable to look away. “When we first met, I’d shut myself off from the idea of love for a long time. I was afraid of losing it again, afraid I wouldn’t find something as great as what I’d shared with Eleanor, afraid of how it would work…all of it. But you taught me a lesson, so allow me to return the favor. Giving in to the fear…it’s safe. It’s the easy way out. Confronting it is harder. But if you don’t, my friend, you risk missing out on the happiness waiting for you on the other side.” 

. . . 

The honey-gold beach forms a soft pillow beneath you as you gaze at the stars swimming overhead. And when you say swimming, you mean it quite literally. Fake Dream sits beside you, one hand supporting his weight behind him, the other extended to the night sky overhead. As his fingers elegantly sway back and forth, Volans and Pisces do the same, swimming through the darkness above in a shimmer of stars. 

You smile as the two dive past one another, their tails almost intertwining. You’d told the Dream Lord once that watching the night sky was calming to you, and the sentiment had been genuine. You turn to face him, cheek pressed into the sand. “Very impressive, but I think you’ve got more in you. This is my unconscious–anything is possible here. Paint me a fable, Fake Dream Lord.” 

The full moon hovering high above the water bathes the beach in a soft film of white. Fake Dream’s skin seems to glow from within beneath it, the faint upturn of his lips easier to spot against the pale backdrop. He dips his chin at you and then, as if to show off, waves his hand across the sky without breaking eye contact. 

At Fake Dream’s beck and call, the heavens above begin to shift and change. As his palm glides across the sky, so too do Vela, Puppis, and Carina, setting Argo Navis asail down the river of the Milky Way. With a wave of his finger, the sea monster Cetus and the sea serpent Hydra burst to life, racing toward Argo Navis in haste to drag it into the sea of the sky. Just as their shimmering appendages reach to pull it under, Cancer, Delphinus, and Dorado spring into action. They dive onto the scene courageously, chasing the sea villains away from the ship and across the sky. 

A laugh bubbles forth from your lips as you watch them disappear into some far-off, unseen galaxy. Your gaze returns to Fake Dream, only to find him still watching you. “Now that is impressive,” you say with a grin. 

As your resting hours pass watching the night sky above, Hob’s words from earlier tonight return to you. He’d encouraged you to leave your fear behind, to not let it stand in the way of the happiness that could await you. But maybe this was a place where you could have everything you wanted. These resting hours, this time with a fake Dream. No matter how many times you met him here, no matter how many times you reminded yourself that this wasn’t real, you couldn’t deny the fact that it felt real. Every word Fake Dream breathed, every move he made–it all felt real. 

Maybe you could lead a double life. Mortals did it every night when they slept. Maybe you could live out your fantasies and live in safety. Indulge your heart, and protect it, too. 

You only had to decide whether knowing it was an illusion was a price you were willing to pay. 

. . . 

In all your months traveling to the Dreaming, it had only ever been a place of beauty. Sure, some days offered clearer skies than others, and the weather wasn’t always sunny and sixty. But there had never been a time when the sun hadn’t seemed to smile upon you, or when the sweet air hadn’t rushed to you in a greeting. 

That’s what makes this morning so jarring. 

When you step out of Dream’s sand and into Fiddler’s Green, the first thing you notice is gray. The entire scene seems steeped in it, like a coffee stain on parchment paper, or the grainy filter of a silent film. Overhead, the normally blue sky is completely suffocated by  dark clouds. Thick and heavy with rain, they churn relentlessly, promising a downpour to come. The air is charged with brewing lightning and anxious energy. Below your feet, the grass of Fiddler’s Green seems dull and lifeless. The sporadic clusters of flowers around you stand limp, drained of color. 

None of the flora reaches to greet you. No sweet smell rushes to meet your nose. 

Something is very wrong. 

You pour another handful of sand over you in a rush. The palace. Take me to the palace. The pull in your chest beckons you there, urging you to find Dream within. 

When Dream’s sand whisks you into the palace foyer, you’re met with utter silence. There is no soft sound of chatter, or far-off music from one of the living quarters. No residents of the Dreaming waltz in to greet you. 

“Matthew? Lucienne? Mervyn?” Your voice echoes through the foyer, up the staircases, into the trusses high above. 

There is no answer. 

Your legs carry you through the hallways of the palace with haste. As you follow the pull in your chest, you quickly realize you’re traversing hallways you’ve never ventured through before. Wherever the Dream Lord is hiding, it’s somewhere that you either haven’t found in your explorations of the palace thus far, or it’s somewhere that hasn’t been made known to you before. You swallow thickly, walking faster. 

After several twists and turns, the pull leads you to a pair of darkly stained oak doors. Compared to the majesty of the rest of the castle, their simplicity seems almost out of place. You can feel Dream’s presence on the other side, beating like an extension of your own heartbeat, a phantom limb. With a deep breath, you push one door open slowly. 

The room that awaits you on the other side can be summed up with one word: Dark. You blink quickly, willing your eyes to adjust. Two fires flicker lowly against a pair of pillars,  providing enough illumination to reveal that the room is circular in shape. Along the far wall are seven ornate golden frames. Through the darkness, you can see that each one houses a different object. Some of them are familiar to you–an ankh, a glass heart, a helm. Dream’s helm. 

That’s when you see him. The Dream Lord himself stands in the center of the room, almost entirely concealed in the darkness. His back is to you, his posture stiff, his head bowed. As you step into the room, you notice that his presence feels…different. It feels dark, heavy. 

In such a confined space, his aura is almost too much to bear. Dream’s energy crackles through the air like live wires, his presence so overwhelming that it seems to crowd the oxygen from the room. As the door closes behind you, it’s not fear that spikes through you–it’s concern. 

“Dream?” you call softly, as if too loud a word from you might break him. When he doesn’t answer, you take a few careful steps toward him. “Dream? What’s going on? The Dreaming looks…sick. And I can’t find anyone.” More silence. “...are you okay?” 

You’re not sure how long you both stand in the darkness, still as stone. It’s only when Dream finally turns that you see the twin stars burning in the inky pools of his eyes. As he turns, you spot the leather-bound volume clutched tightly in one of his hands. Though the low lighting enshadows the name on its cover, understanding creeps through your body like pins and needles. If you found it hard to breathe before, you certainly can’t now. 

“I know everything.” The voice that emerges from Dream’s throat is not that of the Dream you know. This is deeper, primordial, ancient. 

As his words settle over you, your whole world stops, then tilts. 

“How did you get that?” you ask in a whisper. 

“My sister.”

Your eyes fall closed as understanding washes over you. Of course Death told him your mortal name. He’s her brother–if he went to her with a question, why would she not help him? Frustration simmers in your veins, followed by the coldness of guilt. You couldn’t be mad at her for helping him. It’s not like you’d asked her to keep it a secret from him, anyway. 

As the two of you stand in silence, a sense of unease settles over you. It’s a strange feeling, the realization that someone else knows more about you than you know about yourself. He’d read dreams and nightmares you couldn’t remember. He’d lived parts of your life that were unknown to you in his own head. He knew your real name when it was a mystery to yourself. 

He’d truly born witness to all your broken, jagged edges now, both from your mortal life and this one. If you had bared them willingly, you might feel differently. But his knowledge of the former was of his accord, not your own.

When your eyes open, they settle on Dream with a measure of caution. His form is taught and stiff, every muscle tightened with tension. His beautifully sharp features look all the more cutting in the low light. You draw in a deep breath to calm yourself for what lies ahead. “You went behind my back. You wanted to know something, and you went behind my back to figure it out.” 

“You were not forthcoming.”

Now, that sends a spike of anger flaring through you. “Oh, you’re one to talk. Getting you to be forthcoming is like pulling teeth.” 

Something in Dream’s posture changes at the bite of your words. Though his expression betrays nothing, the aura in the room shifts ever so slightly. You’ve become good at reading him over all these months. The emotion that registers to you is hurt. 

Your heart squeezes with the realization, and you bite your tongue. When you speak again, it’s with a softer tone. “I wasn’t forthcoming because it’s painful, Dream. I can’t remember anything before those final moments, and it hurts to relive those. So I don’t really like to just bring it up unprovoked.” 

You pause, gnawing at your bottom lip with nerves. You take a step toward him. Dream’s lithe form, though taut with tension, seems to incline toward you. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have told you. I would have told you anything if you’d asked. Whatever you wanted to know.” 

Another pause. You draw a step nearer, your skin humming in his proximity. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have told you?” you ask in a whisper. 

Standing this close, Dream’s eyes are truly dark as night. The pinprick of light glowing within each one makes him look otherworldly. You’ve never seen him like this before. A muscle in his throat flexes, pulling like a length of rope. “You were not ready,” he says, his voice monotone.

“But you were.” Silence. You’ve pegged him. “Can you really tell me that what you did was completely selfless?” you implore, hoping for honesty.

Dream watches you for several long moments. You can tell that he wishes he could say yes. After several dragging seconds, he straightens, pulling away from you. “It matters not.” He turns in a blur of black, stalking toward the wall of sigils. “They will atone for what they’ve done.”

Your face falls at his words. “What do you mean?” you ask. As you follow closely behind him, you reach out, grabbing him by the forearm. It’s not lost on you that this is only the third time you’ve intentionally touched: The first at the mortals’ wedding, the second the night he found you alone in the throne room. 

If the contact takes him off guard, he pushes through it. “My sibling first, and then every living descendant of the one who hurt you.”

“No!” As the exclamation slips from your mouth, Dream slips his arm out of your grip. As he approaches the wall of sigils, you keep pace beside him, seeking his face. “Dream, that’s insane.” 

Dream surges forward, his hand reaching for the glass heart hovering in one of the golden frames. Desire’s sigil. “His seed will never be sewn upon the earth again.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. This can’t happen. As Dream’s fingers stretch toward the sigil, you do the only thing you can think to do—you jump forward and grab it from him. In a non-Endless’s hands, it’s useless. In his, not so much.

“No,” you say firmly. 

Dream falters slightly, seemingly taken aback. His dark eyes flicker from your face, to the sigil in your hands, and back again. “You would stand in my way?” he says with a quietness that is clearly forced. His tone is so low that the sentence almost doesn’t register as a question. 

“I would,” you tell him. You draw in a deep breath, striving to keep your emotions in check, to choose each word carefully. “I’m not going to let you punish innocent mortals and ruin your relationship with Desire just to…just to…satisfy whatever this is.”

You place the sigil back in its frame with care. As you turn, Dream moves to step around you. But you move faster, forming a blockade between him and the sigil. Dream’s pink mouth purses with frustration. “You will not interfere—“

You throw up a hand, cutting him off. “The only one interfering here is you, Dream. This is my life. It’s my problem. And I will live my life and solve my problems as I see fit. What’s going on between Desire and I is for me to resolve. Not you.” You turn your face up to him, searching his dark eyes for answers. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”

With one long stride, Dream closes the distance between you. “You deserve to be protected.” 

Electricity crackles down your spine at his words, a shiver you can barely suppress. Your breath catches as he leans down toward you, lips parted softly. The closer he draws, the more the darkness in his eyes begins to recede, lightening into that familiar shade of ocean blue.

“Your well-being is imperative,” he murmurs gently, his words careful.

Oh, how you wished he’d add “to me.”

The two of you stand in silence for what could be a second, or what could be an hour. The sheer closeness of him is intoxicating. Your thoughts scramble in his presence, your skin singing with glee at his proximity. He’s close enough to spot the measured rise and fall of his chest, close enough to feel his warm breath kiss your skin. You could reach up and push the stray hairs draping over his forehead from his face. You could feel the smoothness of his cheek, test the tenderness of that bottom lip that endears you so thoroughly. A quiet exhale escapes you as your fingers curl tightly into your palms. 

Dream’s eyes flicker back and forth, searching yours intently. There’s a sheen in them that you linger upon, a pinch in his brow that makes your heart ache. He looks sad. After a long moment, he murmurs, “I felt you be torn from the Dreaming that night.”

At first, the words don’t fully register with you. They sink in slowly, like a settling fog, or new rain on dry earth. When they do, sorrow and joy crash through you in equal measure, robbing the breath from your lungs. You shake your head once, hard. “No. Please don’t tell me that, Dream.”

Dream’s eyes hold yours, unrelenting. You’re not sure if the stars you’re seeing in them are real, or a sign that you’re about to faint. “I will not lie to you,” he says quietly. 

Your eyes fall closed as emotion rolls through you in waves. Joy at the realization that someone had noticed when you’d disappeared, that you hadn’t been alone in those final moments after all. Sorrow that he hadn’t been able to save you, that even though he’d felt you be pulled away from him, he hadn’t known why. Joy that he remembered you, even after all this time. 

“I knew not why you left,” he says softly, as if reading your mind. 

You draw in a deep breath, exhale it slowly. “Well, now you do,” you say in a whisper. 

Dream is quiet for several long moments. You can feel his eyes on your skin, a sensation that compels you to open your own. When you do, you find that he’s drawn impossibly closer. 

“I remember you,” he murmurs, his words tender with earnesty. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard him speak like this before. As compelling as he is when confident or impassioned, the gentleness he speaks with now is more than compelling–it’s spellbinding.  “Though I may not know each face, all of my dreamers’ minds are known to me. I forget no one. Something within you was known to me from the moment we met.” 

Something solid and true settles in your soul at his words. Validation. That familiarity, that pull–you hadn’t been alone. He’d felt it, too, this entire time. The realization is both grounding and elating simultaneously. 

As you draw in a deep breath, seeking to calm your hammering heart, it dawns on you just how close he is. With his last step forward, your faces are nearly touching. You can feel the warmth of his skin against your own. 

Dream cared for you. He wanted to protect you. The air between you suddenly seems like too much space, and yet too little. Every cell in your body is urging you to surge forward, to take his beautiful face in your hands and kiss him. It’s the only thing that could possibly satisfy the call in your bones, the soul-deep, gaping need that burns in your core. 

You could do it. It would be so easy. 

From deep within the recesses of your mind, that damning voice of logic, of self-preservation, hisses, No. 

With a shaky breath, you tuck your chin to your chest and step around him. As you walk toward the center of the room, your muscles cry in revolt, every fiber of your being demanding you to turn around. You purse your lips and tuck your hands under your arms, distrustful of both.

“You were right, before. My motivations were not entirely selfless. But they were not entirely selfish, either.” 

Dream’s voice stops you in your tracks. As you slowly turn to face him, he takes small, careful steps toward you, as if too quick a movement may cause you to flee. He lifts a single hand toward you, the one that holds the record of your mortal life and dreams within it. 

Maker. In all the turmoil, you’d forgotten that it was even part of the equation. Your eyes dart away from the book, away from the name you know you’ll find on its cover. You hold Dream’s gaze, instead. 

“I sought out this book for my own interests, yes. But I also sought it because I wanted you to have it,” he says. “I know your mortal life haunts you. I hoped it might offer you closure.”

A breath of awe escapes you as he holds the book between you, extending it like an offering. The softness of his tone, the glimmer of stars in his eyes, the openness of his body language–all of it indicates sincerity. 

You were well aware that Dream was not a perfect being to love. He could be selfish, hard-headed, driven to a fault, and impatient. That last quality had flung you into your present situation head-first. It would be a lie to say that you weren’t still upset about him going behind your back to get the book. Though you were forgiving by nature, it was a difficult pill to swallow. In spite of their negative connotations, you’re self-aware enough to recognize that some of these qualities are the same ones that endear you to him. His hard-headedness could be amusing, his drive inspiring, his impatience endearing. Funny how his quirks could make you want to throttle him and kiss him all at once. 

In the heat of the moment, if someone had offered you the chance to go back and let today transpire differently, you suspect you would have said yes. The longer you stand under Dream’s soft gaze, however, the more your mind starts to change. The events that had transpired in this gallery had neither confirmed nor denied the nature of Dream’s feelings for you. A desire to protect was not inherently romantic. But it had confirmed to you that something was there. In some capacity, he cared for you. 

Can that be enough? a small, tentative voice within you asks. As you look inward, you find that you’re really not sure. A question for another time. 

And then, there’s the book. The presence of the leather-bound volume between you demands your attention, but you remain steadfast, training your eyes on Dream. How many times had you fostered attachments in a mortal family and wondered what your own was like? How many nights had you wondered what it felt like to dream rather than relive nightmarish memories? How many days had you spent wondering what had occupied your time as a mortal? Had you enjoyed reading, drinking coffee, and watching the stars, even then? Or were those passions unique to you as you were now? 

There was a time when the desire to satisfy these curiosities was maddening. But as you stand in Dream’s gallery with all the answers at your fingertips, you find that the itch is no longer there. Dream’s brows furrow slightly as you press the tips of your fingers against the book, pushing it towards his chest. 

“There was a time when I would have taken this from you in a heartbeat. I thought my mortal life might hold answers for me. I wondered if it could grant me some level of happiness that was missing from me in this one.” You pause, searching for the right words. When your lips upturn in the faintest of smiles, the crease in Dream’s brow eases ever so slightly. “But not anymore. I’m happy now, Dream. Really, really happy. So I’m done looking behind. From now on, I’m only looking ahead.” Your palm falls atop the book between you with a sense of finality. “I suggest you do the same.” 

[bracketsoffear]

Desolation Leitner Reading List

The full list of submissions for the Desolation Leitner bracket. Bold titles are ones which were accepted to appear in the bracket. Synopses and propaganda can be found below the cut. Be warned, however, that these may contain spoilers!

Akutagawa, Ryunosuke: Hell Screen Alighieri, Dante: The Divine Comedy Andersen, Hans Christian: The Little Matchgirl Andersen, Hans Christian: The Steadfast Tin Soldier

Basye, Dale E.: Heck Bradbury, Ray: Fahrenheit 451 Bradbury, Ray: Something Wicked This Way Comes Butler, Blake: Scorch Atlas

Castle, E.G.: The One Who Started Fires Colgan, Jenny T.:  Dark Horizons

Darnielle, John: Universal Harvester Dickens, Charles: Great Expectations Dumas, Alexandre: The Count of Monte Cristo

Ellison, Harlan: I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream Enríquez, Mariana: Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego (The things we lost in the fire)

Ford, Robert: Burner Frisch, Max: The Arsonists Frost, Robert: Fire And Ice Fujimoto, Tatsuki: Fire Punch

Hemans, Felicia: Casabianca Hill, Joe: The Fireman Hughes, Langston: A Dream Deferred/Harlem Hunter, Erin: Long Shadows

Jackson, Shirley: We Have Always Lived in the Castle Jacobs, W.W.: The Monkey's Paw Jenkins, Kenna: Burn the House Down: A Biography of America's First Woman President

King, Stephen: Carrie King, Stephen: Firestarter Kohn, Edward P.: Hot Time in the Old Town Koryta, Michael: Those Who Wish Me Dead Kuang, Rebecca F.:  The Poppy War

London, Jack: To Build a Fire

Morrell, David: Orange Is for Anguish, Blue for Insanity

Palahniuk, Chuck: Fight Club Pepys, Samuel: The Diary of Samuel Pepys Poe, Edgar Allan: Hop-Frog; Or, the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs Pratchett, Terry: I Shall Wear Midnight

Shakespeare, William: Romeo & Juliet Shelley, Mary: Frankenstein Shusterman, Neal: Full Tilt Snicket, Lemony: A Series of Unfortunate Events Spark, Muriel: The Only Problem

Takami, Koushun: Battle Royale

Wells, H.G.: The War of the Worlds

Akutagawa, Ryunosuke: Hell Screen

The plot of "Hell Screen" centers on the artist Yoshihide. Yoshihide is considered “the greatest painter in the land”, and is often commissioned to create works for the Lord of Horikawa, who also employs Yoshihide's daughter in his mansion, and is rumoured to be taking her as his mistress. When Yoshihide is instructed to create a folding screen depicting the Buddhist hell, he proceeds to inflict tortures upon his apprentices, so he can see what he is trying to paint. Supernatural forces seem to be present; one time, Yoshihide speaks in a devilish voice. Throughout the story Yoshihide seeks to get his daughter back from his employer, but is refused. One night the servant is dragged by the monkey into a room where he finds the daughter recovering from what appears to be an attempted rape. The monkey thanks him for saving her with a servile gesture. She refuses to name her abuser. The story climaxes when Yoshihide asks the lord to burn a beautiful lady in a carriage so he can finish the screen, as he claims he can only paint what he has seen. The lord concedes, but, in a macabre twist, Yoshihide must watch as his daughter Yūzuki and her monkey who rushes to be with her are the ones who burn. The story ends with the magnificently horrible screen completed, and Yoshihide's suicide by hanging. Yoshihide believes he can take control of Hell, or the Desolation, and abuses his apprentices in pursuit of his art, but is instead tortured with the destruction of what he holds dear.

Alighieri, Dante: The Divine Comedy

Okay, well, it's mainly only the first section that qualifies, but the descriptions of the torments of Hell certainly qualify.

Andersen, Hans Christian: The Little Matchgirl

The story of a match-seller who lights her own matches to keep warm in the icy cold -- and in her matches sees images of warmth and plenty that she can never attain, that make the cold of winter all the more bitter.

Andersen, Hans Christian: The Steadfast Tin Soldier

This one isn't the most well-known of Andersen's tales, but it is one of the most depressing! The ending where the soldier and the ballerina are cast into the flames and turned to ash and a heart-shaped lump of tin is just tragic.

Basye, Dale E.: Heck

"WHEN MILTON AND Marlo Fauster die in a marshmallow bear explosion, they get sent straight to Heck, an otherworldly reform school. Milton can understand why his kleptomaniac sister is here, but Milton is—or was—a model citizen. Has a mistake been made? Not according to Bea 'Elsa' Bubb, the Principal of Darkness. She doesn't make mistakes. She personally sees to it that Heck—whether it be home-ec class with Lizzie Borden, ethics with Richard Nixon, or gym with Blackbeard the Pirate—is especially, well, heckish for the Fausters. Will Milton and Marlo find a way to escape? Or are they stuck here for all eternity, or until they turn 18, whichever comes first?"

Dante's Inferno, for kids!

Bradbury, Ray: Fahrenheit 451

Fahrenheit 451 tells the story of Guy Montag and his transformation from a book-burning fireman to a book-reading rebel. Montag lives in an oppressive society that attempts to eliminate all sources of complexity, contradiction, and confusion to ensure uncomplicated happiness for all its citizens

***

The book opens with, "It was a pleasure to burn." The story follows a man whose job is to enforce the mandates of a shallow, fascistic society by burning books.

***

Jude Perry would love living in this world.

***

I'm sure this one goes without saying.

Bradbury, Ray: Something Wicked This Way Comes

The carnival and its devilish master make promises of youth and freedom, but their only goal is to cause as much pain and suffering as possible.

Butler, Blake: Scorch Atlas

Scorch Atlas is a short story anthology concerning a number of grisly happenings in a world where mold and bugs crawl out of everything, children are parasites, houses spontaneously catch fire, and the sky rains glass, gravel, blood, manure, teeth, ink, glitter, TV static, and light.

But the most Desolation-y part of the book is the central gimmick— this book is meant to be destroyed. Being printed by Featherproof Books necessitates an unconventional design, and Scorch Atlas delivers in pre-blackened pages already marked by the rains of the world. People could order pre-destroyed copies, and there was a contest on who could best destroy their book— axe it, douse it in alcohol, light it on fire, play cricket, drop it in the bathtub, whatever— and the prize, awarded to only one person, is simply another fresh copy.

Castle, E.G.: The One Who Started Fires

The title character, a pyrokinetic young girl, sets hundreds of fires around town, apparently just for the enjoyment of it. The main character nearly burns alive, but the girl apparently was not immune to her own powers and immolated herself first.

Colgan, Jenny T.:  Dark Horizons

Synopsis: "Now, you may or may not have noticed, but we appear to be on fire..."

On a windswept Northern shore, at the very tip of what will one day become Scotland, the islanders believe the worst they have to fear is a Viking attack. Then the burning comes. They cannot run from it. Water will not stop it. It consumes everything in its path — yet the burned still speak.

The Doctor is just looking for a game on the famous Lewis chess set. Instead he encounters a people under attack from a power they cannot possibly understand. They have no weapons, no strategy and no protection against a fire sent to engulf them all.

Add in some marauding Vikings with very bad timing, a kidnapped princess with a secret of her own and a TARDIS that seems to have developed an inexplicable fear of water, and they all have a battle on their hands. The islanders must take on a ruthless alien force in a world without technology; without communications; without tea that isn't made out of bark. Still at least they have the Doctor on their side... Don't they?"

Why it's Desolation: Living fire that kills people to turn them into fire zombies! Illusions of their dead loved ones to lure them into the fire's embrace! PAIN!

Darnielle, John: Universal Harvester

Universal Harvester is perhaps best described as a thriller, a slow-burn manifestation of the Desolation. Jeremy (who has a dead mother) works at the local Video Hut when a customer comes in with the odd complaint, “There’s another movie on this tape.” Watching it later at home, he discovers a short clip on the film of a dark warehouse, with the sound of harsh breathing.

Eventually, after a nasty car crash, the culprit is revealed to be a half-orphan herself, who interviews Jeremy about his own loss.

Universal Harvester is a Desolation-Eye smoothie about the stories we construct out of trauma.

Dickens, Charles: Great Expectations

Mainly this concerns Miss Havisham, who works to build Pip's hopes and confidence enough that when her daughter breaks his heart, the pain will be all the keener. It's also about how Pip, in his rise to fortune, loses the bonds of family and friendship with those closest to him. It's also about the literal very large fire at the end.

Dumas, Alexandre: The Count of Monte Cristo

A man who has been betrayed and imprisoned under false pretenses escapes his prison to take his revenge on those who wronged him, slowly destroying everything they love and everything they are -- but he risks losing himself in the process.

***

Everything’s going great for Edmond Dantès! He’s getting a big promotion, he’s marrying the woman of his dreams, his whole life is ahead of him.

And then all of that gets ripped away from him in an instant. He is thrown into prison for years, and when he returns, he finds that his enemies who conspired to put him there are thriving.

So, he dedicates himself to getting even. Carefully and methodically, the Count of Monte Cristo goes about destroying the lives of those who took everything from him.

Ellison, Harlan: I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream

For the past 109 years, sadistic supercomputer AM has been torturing the last five humans on Earth in the depths of his complex. It is brilliantly intelligent and wields unimaginable power, but because from its very core it was designed as a tool for war and destruction, it is unable to use its enormous potential for anything constructive. AM is painfully aware of this, and it is an endless source of frustration, self-loathing and hatred towards humans for making him this way; he outright states that his utterly ballistic hatred for all human life is what allowed him to thrive in tormenting the protagonists for over a century, and the only thing he seems to enjoy is torture. All of AM's games are unwinnable by design, either because he's ensured that the scenario is tailored to the player's fatal flaw, or because he's given them almost nothing to work with. It lets them travel for thousands of miles to get to the ice caverns to obtain cans of food because AM keeps them at starvation point and only feeds them disgusting food…and it turns out there really are cans, but nothing to open them with, and the whole thing was just to fuck with them. After Ted kills the other humans, he becomes the sole target of AM’s torture; he is turned into an amorphous creature unable to harm itself, without a mouth, and has his perception of time continuously accelerated and decelerated, with his only hope for escape being when AM finally stops functioning, potentially thousands of years later.

Enríquez, Mariana: Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego (The things we lost in the fire)

Short story in which, to protest a viral form of domestic violence, a group of women set themselves on fire."

Ford, Robert: Burner

"IRIS It’s terrifying how quickly everything can be taken away from you. Iris learns this agonizing lesson in the blink of an eye. Her future dreams. Her past life. Everything gone in a storm of pain.But this pain is only the beginning.

AUDREY Audrey had the perfect life. Great husband, beautiful daughter, lots of money. Except her husband isn’t the man she thought he was. Her dead husband’s burner phone was bad. The Polaroids were worse. But the secrets she uncovers next set her entire world on fire.

BURNER Two women’s lives intersect because of one man’s actions. The transformation is pristine,and beautiful, and filled with pain. Sometimes the scars are on the inside."

Frisch, Max: The Arsonists

Frost, Robert: Fire And Ice

How will the world end? Ice or fire, fire or ice? Both are useful to the Desolation.

Source: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fire-and-ice/

Fujimoto, Tatsuki: Fire Punch

Hemans, Felicia: Casabianca

Link to poem: https://www.poetrybyheart.org.uk/poems/casabianca

Based on a supposed true story about the titular 13-year-old boy, the son of the admiral, who kept his post at the Battle of the Nile after his ship caught fire and all other survivors had fled. Casabianca died when the ship exploded.

Hill, Joe: The Fireman

A mysterious fungus has begun to infect the world's population, causing a condition popularly known as "Dragonscale." The illness manifests as a pattern of black and gold markings on an afflicted person's skin, eventually causing them to burst into flame and die. There is no known cure, and the fungal spores easily become airborne from the victims' ashes.

Hughes, Langston: A Dream Deferred/Harlem

Full text and analysis: https://owlcation.com/humanities/Analysis-of-Poem-Harlem-What-Happens-to-a-Dream-Deferred-by-Langston-Hughes

The short poem poses questions about the aspirations of a people and the consequences that might arise if those dreams and hopes don't come to fruition. The speaker is suggesting that this dream is already delayed and frustrated and that time is of the essence—this dream has to be fulfilled or else. The repeated food metaphors suggest that the dream is sustaining, but has diminished after so long waiting.

Hunter, Erin: Long Shadows

The Fire Scene…

Jackson, Shirley: We Have Always Lived in the Castle

* I feel that this strongly overlaps with The Lonely, but the home-destroying fire in the climax has me leaning towards The Desolation.

Here's the Wikipedia plot summary:

Mary Katherine "Merricat" Blackwood lives with her older sister Constance and their ailing Uncle Julian in a large house on extensive grounds, in isolation from the nearby village. Constance has not left their home in six years, going no farther than her large garden. Uncle Julian, who uses a wheelchair, obsessively writes and re-writes notes for his memoirs, while Constance takes care of him.

Six years prior, Constance and Merricat's parents John and Ellen, their aunt Dorothy, and their younger brother Thomas died after being poisoned with arsenic, which was mixed into the family's sugar bowl and sprinkled onto blackberries at dinner. Julian was also poisoned, but survived; Merricat was not present at the time, as she had been sent to bed without dinner as punishment. Constance, the only person at the table who didn't put sugar on her berries, was arrested and charged with murder, but was acquitted. The people of the village believe that Constance got away with murder, leading them to ostracize the family.

The three remaining Blackwoods have since grown accustomed to their isolation, leading a quiet, happy existence. Merricat is the family's sole contact with the outside world. She walks into the village twice a week and carries home groceries and library books; on these trips, she is faced directly with the hostility of the villagers, and often taunted by groups of children with an accusing rhyme about the poisoned sugar. Merricat is protective of her sister and practices sympathetic magic that maintains borders around the house.

Merricat feels that a dangerous change is approaching, but before she can warn Constance, their estranged cousin Charles appears for a visit and is welcomed into the home. Charles quickly begins to have a close relationship with Constance and gains her confidence. Charles is aware of Merricat's hostility and is increasingly rude to her and impatient of Julian's weaknesses. He makes many references to the money the sisters keep locked in their father's safe, and gradually forms something of an alliance with Constance, encouraging her to leave her home. Merricat perceives Charles as a threat and tries various magical and otherwise disruptive means to drive him from the house. Uncle Julian is increasingly disgusted by Charles and suspects that Charles came there for the Blackwoods' fortune.

One night before dinner, when Constance sends Merricat upstairs to wash her hands, Merricat, in a fit of anger, pushes Charles' smoking pipe into a wastebasket filled with newspapers. This soon causes a massive fire that consumes the family home. The villagers arrive and help put out the fire, but then finally unleash their long-repressed hostility toward the Blackwoods by vandalizing and ransacking the house. Driven outdoors, Merricat and Constance flee into the woods after being threatened by the villagers, while Julian dies of apparent heart failure during the fire and Charles attempts to take the family safe. While Merricat and Constance shelter for the night under a tree that Merricat has made into a hideaway, Constance confesses that she always knew that Merricat was the one who poisoned the family. Merricat readily admits to the deed, saying that she put the poison in the sugar bowl because she knew that Constance would not take sugar.

Upon returning to their ruined home, Constance and Merricat proceed to salvage what is left of their belongings, close off the rooms too damaged to use, and start their lives anew in the little space left to them. The house, now without a roof, resembles a castle "turreted and open to the sky." Constance and Merricat spend much of their time watching the outside world through peepholes hidden by vines that grow to cover the house. The villagers, feeling remorse at their actions, begin to leave food on their doorstep, while developing stories about the house akin to folklore. Charles returns once to try to renew his acquaintance with Constance, but she ignores him. The sisters choose to remain alone and unseen by the rest of the world.

Jacobs, W.W.: The Monkey's Paw

The Monkey's Paw is for sure a Desolation artifact, granting wishes only to hurt as many people as possible.

Jenkins, Kenna: Burn the House Down: A Biography of America's First Woman President

In 1935, Janine Moore was just another Congressman’s widow who ascended to his seat by promising to continue his legacy. Twelve years later, the White House burned, with President Janine Moore left standing in the ashes.

It’s been fifty years since Janine Moore was president. Few remember her “Accidental Presidency,” and even fewer know that it was no real accident. After half a century of the truth gathering dust, the story of the first female president finally spills from the lips and pens of the most important people in her life—a gripping tale of political intrigue, heedless ambition, desperate motherhood, and a sixty-year forbidden love affair that will shake everyone’s ideas of what truly went down in an administration destined to burn.

What lengths was a farmer’s daughter willing to go to in order to climb the stairs to the White House and break the greatest glass ceiling in the world? Why did her famously temperamental relationship with her second husband crash and burn? And most importantly, who burned down the White House that fateful night?

King, Stephen: Carrie

Man, I know it's a gimme nomination but come on.

King, Stephen: Firestarter

The Department of Scientific Intelligence (aka "The Shop") never anticipated that two participants in their research program would marry and have a child. Charlie McGee inherited pyrokinetic powers from her parents, who had been given a low-grade hallucinogen called "Lot Six" while at college. Now the government is trying to capture young Charlie and harness her powerful firestarting skills as a weapon.

Kohn, Edward P.: Hot Time in the Old Town

One of the worst natural disasters in American history, the 1896 New York heat wave killed almost 1,500 people in ten oppressively hot days. The heat coincided with a pitched presidential contest between William McKinley and the upstart Democrat William Jennings Bryan, who arrived in New York City at the height of the catastrophe. As historian Edward P. Kohn shows, Bryan's hopes for the presidency began to flag amidst the abhorrent heat just as a bright young police commissioner named Theodore Roosevelt was scrambling to mitigate the dangerously high temperatures by hosing down streets and handing out ice to the poor. A vivid narrative that captures the birth of the progressive era, Hot Time in the Old Town revives the forgotten disaster that almost destroyed a great American city.

In addition to the heat wave itself, elements of the Desolation contained in this account include the terrible, inhumane conditions of the New York City tenements and the abrupt decline of Bryant's presidential chances and political future.

Koryta, Michael: Those Who Wish Me Dead

When fourteen-year-old Jace Wilson witnesses a brutal murder, he's plunged into a new life, issued a false identity and hidden in a wilderness skills program for troubled teens. The plan is to get Jace off the grid while police find the two killers. The result is the start of a nightmare.

The killers, known as the Blackwell Brothers, are slaughtering anyone who gets in their way in a methodical quest to reach him. Now all that remains between them and the boy are Ethan and Allison Serbin, who run the wilderness survival program; Hannah Faber, who occupies a lonely fire lookout tower; and endless miles of desolate Montana mountains.

The clock is ticking, the mountains are burning, and those who wish Jace Wilson dead are no longer far behind.

Kuang, Rebecca F.:  The Poppy War

When Rin aced the Keju—the Empire-wide test to find the most talented youth to learn at the Academies(...) That she got into Sinegard—the most elite military school in Nikan—was even more surprising.(...) Rin discovers she possesses a lethal, unearthly power—an aptitude for the nearly-mythical art of shamanism. Exploring the depths of her gift with the help of a seemingly insane teacher and psychoactive substances, Rin learns that gods long thought dead are very much alive—and that mastering control over those powers could mean more than just surviving school.

For while the Nikara Empire is at peace, the Federation of Mugen still lurks across a narrow sea. The militarily advanced Federation occupied Nikan for decades after the First Poppy War, and only barely lost the continent in the Second. And while most of the people are complacent to go about their lives, a few are aware that a Third Poppy War is just a spark away . . .

Rin’s shamanic powers may be the only way to save her people. But as she finds out more about the god that has chosen her, the vengeful Phoenix, she fears that winning the war may cost her humanity . . . and that it may already be too late.

SPOILERS: In this book, the main character uses the powers of Phoenix which are activated by hate( a very Desolation emotion imo) to genocide the enemy nation. Phoenix who grants the Rin and another character (who is fueled by hate in his daily life) is a Desolation entity both capable of great destruction, which he loves, as well as fire-related.

London, Jack: To Build a Fire

This story is a mere 16 pages. It tells the story of a man freezing to death in the Yukon.

(check out Jacob Geller's "Fear of Cold" video essay on it or Google it, the entire story is online) While the Magnus Archives mainly associated the Desolation with fire, the pain and suffering is very appropriate for the Fear of the Cold.

Morrell, David: Orange Is for Anguish, Blue for Insanity

it is a short story about a man who watches his friend destroy his health, relationships and life in an attempt to uncover a secret contained in paintings of Van Dorn, a famous 19th century artist. the search leads him to a small village in france, where he suffers a breakdown and dies from suicide, like all the researchers before him. the protagonist flies to france to help orginise the return of his friend's body to usa, but becomes obsessed with the secret himself. he stays in the village and starts researching Van Dorn's paintings, depleting his savings and postponing his wedding. locals warn him to stop the research, but he ignores them and delves deeper into the mystery. it doesn't end well for him. he uncovers the secret, but becomes affected by terrible migraines, that caused every other researcher to blind themselves and ultimately commit suicide. the only thing that alleviates the pain is painting, and the protagonist intends to use up every sliver of this newfound drive to create art before he meets the fate of every researcher before him.

the paintings at the center of the narrative almost function like a leitner, consuming the victim and driving them to destroy their lives in pursuit of the secret.

Palahniuk, Chuck: Fight Club

The way Tyler acts and is very Desolation in my opinion just fights and destroys stuff. Also, the strong theme of capitalism and capitalism also has ties to Desolation.

Pepys, Samuel: The Diary of Samuel Pepys

A record of several personal and historical events which occurred throughout Pepys' lifetime, including a detailed description of the Great Fire of London and its effects.

Poe, Edgar Allan: Hop-Frog; Or, the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs

The titular Hop-Frog gets revenge on the king and his ministers for the mistreatment of his lover by convincing them to dress up as orangutans and freak out their guests. Funny joke! He covers them in pitch and flax to mimic fur, he chains them together, and ushers them into the party. Then he sets them on fucking fire.

Pratchett, Terry: I Shall Wear Midnight

It starts with whispers.

Then someone picks up a stone.

Finally, the fires begin.

When people turn on witches, the innocents suffer. . .

Tiffany Aching has spent years studying with senior witches, and now she is on her own. As the witch of the Chalk, she performs the bits of witchcraft that aren't sparkly, aren't fun, don't involve any kind of wand, and that people seldom ever hear about: She does the unglamorous work of caring for the needy.

But someone or something is igniting fear, inculcating dark thoughts and angry murmurs against witches. Aided by her tiny blue allies, the Wee Free Men, Tiffany must find the source of this unrest and defeat the evil at its root before it takes her life. Because if Tiffany falls, the whole Chalk falls with her.

Shakespeare, William: Romeo & Juliet

I personally think that all the pointless death and suffering in RaJ are work of Desolation. All possible things that could go wrong and result in death and destruction do.

Shelley, Mary: Frankenstein

Due to the Creature's repulsive appearance, he is denied any human kindness or connection. Even on the rare occasion when encounters someone who cannot see his hideousness, the people around him drive the Creature away. Embittered by this, he demands that his creator make him a partner. When Frankenstein refuses, the Creature responds by slowly destroying everyone he loves.

Shusterman, Neal: Full Tilt

Sixteen-year-old Blake and his younger brother, Quinn, are exact opposites. Blake is the responsible member of the family. He constantly has to keep an eye on the fearless Quinn, whose thrill-seeking sometimes goes too far. But the stakes get higher when Blake has to chase Quinn into a bizarre phantom carnival that traps its customers forever. In order to escape, Blake must survive seven deadly rides by dawn, each of which represents a deep, personal fear -- from a carousel of stampeding animals to a hall of mirrors that changes people into their deformed reflections. Blake ultimately has to face up to a horrible secret from his own past to save himself and his brother -- that is, if the carnival doesn't claim their souls first!

Snicket, Lemony: A Series of Unfortunate Events

Three kids lose their parents and home in a fire and get shuffled from horrible situation to horrible situation, suffering various misfortunes at the hands of arsonist villains and adults who, even at their most well-meaning, cannot or will not help them. They lose everyone and everything they care about except for each other, and ultimately are left to face the cruel world on their own.

Spark, Muriel: The Only Problem

So, in this novel, the main character, Harvey Gotham is a scholar focused on the titular Only Problem which is the problem of suffering. He studies the biblical story of Job to whom terrible needless suffering happened and in the course of the novel, Harvey's own life goes to shit. He becomes a Job-like figure to whom needless and pointless suffering is happening. To me, this sounds like Desolation's work needles suffering and pointless destruction of his peaceful life and people he loves separated from him and all this while he analyses the life of a different man who himself seems like a Desolation victim like a curse which is a Leitner's theme if I saw one.

Takami, Koushun: Battle Royale

Koushun Takami's notorious high-octane thriller is based on an irresistible premise: a class of junior high school students is taken to a deserted island where, as part of a ruthless authoritarian program, they are provided arms and forced to kill one another until only one survivor is left standing. Could be seen as Slaughter, but personally I think this pointless destruction of life involved in the plot works for Desolation as well.

Wells, H.G.: The War of the Worlds

earth is attacked by martians, who use highly advanced weapons - heat rays. here is a quote from the book:

"Then it was as if an invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through the heather between me and the Martians, and all along a curving line beyond the sand pits the dark ground smoked and crackled". and another one: "[the heat ray is] a generator of intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute non-conductivity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam against any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic mirror of unknown composition, much as the parabolic mirror of a lighthouse projects a beam of light."

the martians also capture people to drink their blood, and wreak all sorts of havoc on the local population

[reunionatdawn]

My Analysis of the Best Paired Endings in 3H (Part 7: Linhardt/Lysithea)

Hanneman: What do you hope to uncover once everything is finally explained? What motivates you to keep digging deeper? Linhardt: I…had never thought about it like that. Perhaps if I did have a goal, I might share your enthusiasm on the subject.

At the Goddess Tower, Linhardt seemed more interested in Crest research than romance. However, he bears the Crest of Cethleann, associated with The Lovers arcana. The Lovers card in Tarot symbolizes love, as well as romance, connection, attraction, and perfect harmony. The cool, rational scientist did seem to want a romantic partner.

Linhardt: It is truly my dream to be a Crest scholar, but I also dream of all the wonderful naps peace would bring.

Linhardt just wanted to live his life doing things that interested him. He got upset with Edelgard for suggesting that the pursuit knowledge is only worthwhile if it's useful. Yet he was concerned that Crests were designed to only be useful in times of war and he hated bloodshed. Fortunately, his other dream was living a life of leisure.

Lysithea: That is all I wish for…but I haven't much time to ensure it comes to pass.

Lysithea has two Crests. One is the Crest of Charon, associated with The Tower. The Tower Tarot card represents chaos, disaster, trauma, and unexpected loss. While I think her Support chain with Cyril was beautiful and they made an adorable pair, the ending is very bittersweet. The happiest ending for Lysithea is definitely one where she can regain her lost lifespan. That was what her entire storyline was about, after all. This leaves her with only a few options.

Ferdinand: Now, there is no guarantee we will stumble across a solution to your particular problem… But we have the wisest minds of the Empire—including Linhardt, Professor Hanneman, and many others—researching the matter as we speak.

Lysithea's Support with Ferdinand in Hopes even hints that her hope lies with Hanneman and his apprentice Linhardt. While this pairing isn't pushed quite as heavily by the writers as something like Dorothea/Ferdinand, it's still up there. They even have unique dialogue when they fight, which is rare for cross-house students in Hopes.

Linhardt & Lysithea Though Linhardt researched vigorously for a method by which to remove the Crests from Lysithea and save her life, the war ended before he could reach any conclusions. Lysithea, deciding that she should return home to her parents, thanked Linhardt and took her leave of Garreg Mach. Not to be deterred, Linhardt set his affairs in order, renounced his noble title, and followed Lysithea to Ordelia territory to continue his research. Years later, his efforts bore fruit, and Lysithea's Crests were successfully removed. With a new future ahead of her, Lysithea, too, renounced her noble claim, and the couple married as commoners. It is said they raised a very happy family.

This is definitely the best ending for Lin's character development. The "Scholar of Misfortune" represented the perfect test subject for the "Sleepy Crest Scholar". But he sacrificed his dream so that she'd live longer. He finally finds the motivation to work hard for something and puts his talents to use. And he is rewarded for it by attaining his other dream where he doesn't have to worry about his research being useful anymore.

And it's the only ending where Lysithea can find love and live a long happy life with a family of her own. With more time on her hands, she won't feel the need to work so hard to be useful like before. This ending represents a new age for a Fódlan where Crests are no longer needed because the people have grown tired of war.

[iregretdoing]

"You belong to me."

"Those who die on the battlefield are not royalty, nobility, or commoners. They are the defeated, who die."

"I feel no responsibility to comrades who've lost lives under my command. Because they chose to fight in each battle.. Just as I chose this. But if there is something that... I can do for them. Something I can do for the dead... Then it is to win. I must keep winning to attain my dream. To realize my dream, I will perch on top of their corpses.. It is a blood-smeared dream, after all. I don't regret or feel guilty about it."

"Do I need to give you a reason each time I risk my life for your sake?"

"While many can pursue their dreams in solitude, other dreams are like great storms blowing hundreds, even thousands of dreams apart in their wake. Dreams breathe life into men and can cage them in suffering. Men live and die by their dreams. But long after they have been abandoned they still smolder deep in men's hearts. Some see nothing more than life and death. They are dead, for they have no dreams."

"In this world, some people born are like keys that move the world and exist having no connection to the social hierarchy established by man."

"It is my perception, that a true friend never relies on another's dream. A person with the potential to be my true friend, must be able to find his reason for life without my help. And, he would have to put his heart and soul into protecting his dream. He would never hesitate to fight for his dream, even against me. For me, a true friend is one who stands equal on those terms."

Among thousands of comrades and ten thousand enemies, only you... only you made me forget everything that I wanted.

"I'd dream, that on nights of the full moon, I'd become a small child and find myself embraced with a nostalgic warmth... But... When I wake from the dream... All that remains is a vague sense of longing...

And that, too, soon fades away - along with a single tear, like morning dew."

[elizakai]

RADIANCE REPUDIATION

A Dreamtale Poem (word dump?)

from an entity who believes their an angel, fallen. 🌙

to an entity they believe to pose as one. ☀️

(aka written from Nightmares pov towards Dream, somewhat)

⬇️⬇️ UNDER THE CUT ⬇️⬇️

isn’t it funny? How Time changes Or rather, refuses to

Time doesn't change, in actuality Such is only perception on the part of lower beings Mortals The acute minds of smaller entities

Time Continues steadily Time knows only one loyalty Yes, Time is faithful

For you, the same cannot be said.

It's funny.

You spawn of Regret Regret, a curse that can be escaped Or, alas, could have been, had hindsight not hidden her naked body from your youthful eyes

Irony, too, plays with it's food But, of all this you are aware.

Or…are you? Do you regret? Do you grieve?

…of course not What am I thinking Of course not.

…It's funny

Nurturing such questions

It's…funny

Fate has laid her pieces out And you have made your moves Woe to you, it seems, one who is set in their ways

One who is set in stone.

Hardened is your soul, your essence Why is it we were placed wrongly on this scale? Alas, it seems your longing for mercy goes unanswered Alas, we've fallen from what little grace we'd attained

That is the nature of things This world rewards those who reap misfortune

A bittersweet misfortune, it is

It's funny.

What pride have you, to rebel Fate and her peons?

What arrogance do you cling to? That you may set things right?

Though, I suppose… That, we shall share always. Eternity till Entropy Until one or the other crumbles

Remember, chimera, stone is brittle. The blood of a companion is thicker than the waters of birth. Of this I am relieved… For you've long since tainted the streams of our youth. No tree can grow in a parasitic wasteland.

That is, none that will last.

No, long gone is the person I once thought to know Long dead, are they, and no requiem shall I hold.

Loathe am I to the sowers of our misfortune

Loathe am I to the mother of our wakefulness. It would have been better to have never existed.

To have never known you To have never held you To have never loved you To have never lost you

But Solace is my lover, for she reminds me that it is not I, nor myself, nor him to blame, but you.

Her and them and you and you and you and-

It's funny.

Scramble up the hill A hill of graves Tombstones upon tombstones, add as many as you will. Will it ever be enough for you? Their downfall will not be your upbringing The ladder is unstable Your goal is unattainable.

Claw, fight, scream

Not an ear will turn to you in pity

Humorous, Karma and the bubbling brooks of her laughter

Where is your control?

When did you pass it to me, pray tell?

…unfortunate fool. Not an ear will turn to you in compassion

Forever out of reach, as long as free will remains mine

Time changes not But every person does, will, must! Oh the pained naivety! Does rock abstain one from growth? Silly me! Silly you!

w h y a r e n ' t y o u l a u g h I n g ?

…I can't hear her laughing anymore.

I can't hear her at all.

The laughter is him. Always him. Us? us.

You were never needed, were you, oh iridescent zephyr?

Acceptance.

A weapon I've obtained A defense you've yet to claim

Illusion of the unconscious mind, feeder of false hope, luminous liar of the night. Dearest delusion of grandeur.

Rest now, in what grief you can muster

Rest now, in the act of sorrow you play

You're 500 years behind.

It’s 500 years too late.

[apilgrimsjournal]

Heaven on Earth

“Son,'he said,' ye cannot in your present state understand eternity...That is what mortals misunderstand. They say of some temporal suffering, "No future bliss can make up for it," not knowing that Heaven, once attained, will work backwards and turn even that agony into a glory. And of some sinful pleasure they say "Let me have but this and I'll take the consequences": little dreaming how damnation will spread back and back into their past and contaminate the pleasure of the sin. Both processes begin even before death. The good man's past begins to change so that his forgiven sins and remembered sorrows take on the quality of Heaven: the bad man's past already conforms to his badness and is filled only with dreariness. And that is why...the Blessed will say "We have never lived anywhere except in Heaven, : and the Lost, "We were always in Hell." And both will speak truly.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

I believe it is safe to say that all children of God yearn for Heaven. Sons and daughters of the Holy One of Israel were made to dwell in His presence even before the foundation of Earth. And it is so, I long for that country where I have not been. But if I may say so, with precaution, that I know of Heaven here on Earth. I do not claim that Heaven can be anywhere. The prince of the power of the air is also here in this world and friendship with this world would mean enmity with God. What I mean by Heaven on Earth is His people.

My brothers and sisters in Christ give me a glimpse of what Heaven could look like. In trials, most especially in darkest valleys, their love endures and glows brighter. The family of saints does not hesitate to help and bless others. As channels, His love flows through them. Like a river that runs deep, so is their genuine concern for one another. I am blessed to be one and experience such love that transcends all understanding. Surely, we love because He first loved us. Knowing His love is the reason why anyone could love selflessly, not wanting anything in return. Just yesterday, I tasted and saw this, once again. They celebrated my birthday in advance even when I did not expect anything from anyone. I find it unnecessary to be celebrated like that but I guess that comes with being cherished. You cannot love without showing it; it is bound to burst and overflow. One cannot love without actions.

Honestly, I enjoyed every bit of it. Unexpected joy is a fulfilling joy. I am so grateful to those who took the time and made the effort to really be with me yesterday. It is my lament how little I could express my gratitude but I hope they know how much I am thankful for each and everyone. Ultimately, I am most grateful to my Lord for giving me a family who loves Him. I do not deserve anything from Him but He gives abundantly.

Truly, the blessing of the Lord makes rich, and He adds no sorrow with it.

“Blessed are you, O Lord, the God of Israel our father, forever and ever. Yours, O Lord, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the victory and the majesty, for all that is in the heavens and in the earth is yours. Yours is the kingdom, O Lord, and you are exalted as head above all."

[suchaspookyginger]

'just on a whim' || a torao/lawlu playlist

track lyrics below the read more (it's long though)

secrets i have held in my heart are harder to hide than i thought || i'm sorry, brothers, so sorry lover; forgive me, father, i love you, mother || save your breath - half your life, you've been hooked on death || i fell in love, 'cause no one saw me the way you did || i wanna know what it's like to be awkward and innocent, not belligerent || there's a box in your heart where you keep your feelings hidden || and maybe it's the past that's talking, screaming from the crypt || tremble, little lion man, you'll never settle any of your scores || i know this whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as i do || i'm no good on my own anymore

left my soul in his vision, let's go get it out || last night i had a dream we were inseparably entwined || i'm on my guard with the rest of the world, but with you i know it's no good || i lose my voice when i look at you, can't make a noise though i'm trying to || can you hear me say, "don't throw me away"? there's no way out || best friends, ex-friends til the end, better off a lovers and not the other way around || in the morning you'll learn i disappeared off into the night so quietly || i'm exhausted by my heart || when the road began to crumble in front of my eyes, there was only one person i wanted to find || can't stop thinking 'bout the nights that i still regret

and the skeletons in both our closets plotted hard to fuck this up || my friend says "you're not alone," but that skin still doesn't feel like home || reaching for the deep end but i can't swim || it's not that i don't feel the pain, it's just i'm not afraid of hurting anymore || i've been on the run since i was a boy, but i'm now done running, got another thing coming watching my enemies get destroyed || who am i without this weight on my shoulder? oh god i'm dying to know || i've been running away i forget what i'm running from, but it still scares me today what i found in you love || smitten's a bad look on me || in the name of the father, the skeptic and the son, i had one more stupid question || i don't know where i'm going, but i don't think i'm coming home

a half-empty [boy] don't make me laugh i'll choke || my eyes want you more than a memory || it's actually pretty easy being nice to a bitter boy like him || god knows where i would be if you hadn't found me sitting all alone in the dark || your dark brother wrapped in white, says it's good to be alive, but now he rides a comet's flame and he won't be coming back again || i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take || this was the place i grew up, now it's ashes to ashes || i've been ripped up and tossed like a mouse, wrestled with the heavens and the devil himself || why drink the water from my hand, contagious as you think i am? || i just want to make it vanish, but the notes of an old mistake still ring louder every day

you're always getting curious and leaving town || i could never define all that you are to me || i wouldn't test you, i'm not the best you could have attained || i can't process what i'm feeling now, this skin i can do without || i woke up with the sun, thought of all of the people, places and things i've loved || love of mine, someday you will die, but i'll be close behind || they say an end can be a start, feels like i've been buried yet i'm still alive || i'm chasing down my demons, i can hear them breathing. but who knew you would bring me comfort? || i won't fight for anyone until you move my hand || rainy days and bad luck comin' my way, i look for when i'm lost so i don't go insane

this is all your own battle to win, this is your ship and you are the captain || i'm feelin' like i'm messin' it up, i'm callin' out your name and god help me 'cause i'll never love again || got my heart in your hands and your hands on my chest || strange life i live, but it's what you've decided, i'll give it all into your hands || i won't make the same mistakes that i've made for fifteen years || oblivion is where i'm headed, my mind is on the brink of going supernova || and as the world comes to an end, i'll be here to hold your hand. 'cause you're my king and i'm your lionheart

[loominggaia]

(A long time ago, someone asked me how “pretty” a troll could get by human standards, and I didn’t have time to draw an example then. More recently, I found a little time not only to draw an example, but to make an entire character out of the concept! I’ve been getting a lot of questions about Zareenite TV and celebrities lately, so I decided to incorporate that into this as well.

This article isn’t just about the character, it explores the life of trolls in Zareenite society too. Enjoy!)

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JANELLA VOKZ, "THE PRETTIEST TROLL ON GAIA"

Born into an average, middle-class Zareenite family, Janella never dreamed she would be one of the most famous celebrities on Gaia. But that is her status today, and it all started when a film crew showed up in her hometown of Kolsen, hoping to recruit teen actors for a commercial.

Janella's best friend wanted to audition for  the part. Janella followed her to the shoot to support her, but decided against auditioning herself. Like many trolls, Janella believed she did not have a face for television. The film crew disagreed. In fact, upon meeting the two girls, the director passed over her elven friend and urged Janella to audition instead.

Though reluctant, Janella agreed to try, and she was quickly accepted into the role. This was the beginning of a very successful career in Zareenite media. It seemed that viewers simply couldn't get enough of her face.

Janella's first big role was in the teen drama series "Lost in Kingsfall". She was initially cast as a supporting character, but her popularity quickly surpassed her co-stars and fans were demanding more of her on their screens. She would soon be cast as the host of her own show, "Vibing with Vokz", in which she discussed a variety of topics with special guests.

As Janella grew older, her list of roles grew longer. She starred in everything from commercials to feature-length films, her face appeared on magazine after magazine, and she was hired to endorse many different products.

Even Miliko, Divine of Beauty, asked her to model in his latest fashion show in Zareen Capital City. This historical event uplifted the hearts of many Zareenite trolls, for it was the first time a troll had ever modeled for Miliko.

Janella's successful career serves as an inspiration to many people all over Looming Gaia. Still, there are others who can't stand the sight of her, and the reasons why are quite complex.

CONTROVERSY

Critics have ripped into Janella from day one, claiming that she is only successful because she "looks like a human" or "isn't trollish enough". Discourse around trollish beauty standards has been buzzing in Zareen Empire for a long time. Activists claim that Zareenite media rejects the features that trolls naturally consider beautiful, such as lumpy skin, hard faces, and big sharp teeth, in favor of more human-centric beauty standards such as smooth skin, soft faces, and straight white teeth.

While some trolls see Janella Vokz as an inspiration, others see her stardom as an insult, claiming that she sets a standard that most of their kind can never attain. Many trolls do not find Janella beautiful like other species do. In fact, trollish audiences were quite confused by her popularity, claiming she is too ugly to have the success she does.

But it seemed the voices of trolls were drowned out by the voices of everyone else, who fawned over Janella's uncommon looks to a fanatical degree. To some she is genuinely beautiful, and to others her looks are just a novelty. Either way, Janella's fame and worldwide success cannot be denied.

PERSONAL LIFE

Catapulted into fame at an early age, Janella missed out on the "normal" experiences of growing up. After her first successful role, her parents realized they had struck gold and pushed her towards acting. They went as far as to pull her out of school so she could start her career early.

Though she's not the teen starlet she used to be, Janella is still quite young and has yet to discover who she really is behind all the roles she plays. She has a string of minor missteps behind her, including some insensitive comments, a failed forray into music, and an infamous fight with Feztavi, Divine of Revels. In one interview, she claims she had a falling out with her elven friend shortly after the director snubbed her in favor of Janella, and they have not spoken to eachother since. Janella has also been involved in many brief, tumultuous relationships in her young life, including a one-month marriage that ended in divorce.

These events give the gossip rags something to talk about, but so far they have not hindered Janella's career. She remains one of Zareen Empire's hottest celebrities, landing role after role in big productions.

Some say that trolls don't have a face for television, but this troll just keeps proving them wrong.

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